Miss H. listened for a moment or so longer and then said: ‘No, I was mistaken, but I certainly thought I heard someone walking quickly and rather uncertainly along the passage, and for a second the idea that it was Captain X. came into my head. I cannot think why I should have thought it was him, I fancied I had forgotten him. Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I was quite wrong because evidently there was nobody at all and I must have been dreaming.’
Saying this, she picked up her book and Lady H. resumed her letters and thought no more about the occurrence.
Two days later Lady H. when looking through the list of Killed in Action in The Times noticed the name of Captain X. She did not associate this event in any way with the recent occurrence in the drawing-room, which she had completely forgotten, neither did she mention the notice to ber daughter. The latter probably saw it herself, however, although she did not speak of it to Lady H. Both mother and daughter appeared anxious to avoid any allusion to the dead man of whom neither had any pleasant recollection.
About a week after the notice in the paper, Lady H. began to observe a change in her daughter’s usual placid and cheerful manner. She had begun to grow nervous and wore an uneasy look. She made no complaints and at first eluded her mother’s efforts to penetrate into what was wrong, but at last a mother’s love and anxiety prevailed and Miss H. confessed that at intervals, in fact ever since the afternoon in the drawing-room, she had had an impression of the sound of approaching footsteps. These footsteps, she said, occurred at irregular intervals and at any time and place. They might be heard as she sat with her mother, or when she was out of doors or alone in her room. They always began some way off, approached hastily and, at first especially, rather irregularly and they always ceased at some little distance from her. What agitated her most was that the steps resembled those of the late Captain X. of whose memory she now felt a sickening fear and horror. Lady H., a practical, matter-of-fact woman, with no belief in what she called ghost humbug, was somewhat puzzled over her daughter’s story, but on consideration put it down to fancy and a disturbed digestion, both of which she proceeded to treat, the former with advice and remonstrance, the latter with various simple remedies.
Miss H. grew no better under this treatment and Lady H. presently called in the services of their local doctor, a man of neither greater nor less ability than the mass of country practitioners. This gentleman also ascribed Miss H.’s trials to the purely physical causes of indigestion and followed in Lady H.’s footsteps in the matter of remedies with as little success as had attended her efforts. Miss H. grew worse and more nervous, and ultimately the local doctor, confessing his inability to deal properly with the case, recommended that the advice of a nerve specialist be asked and gave Lady H. the name and address of the well-known physician in London, who may now be left to tell the remainder of the story in his own words.
‘On a certain date, which I need not more particularly specify, I received a letter from Dr B. of Atherfield, Hampshire, saying that he had requested Lady H. to bring her daughter to me for advice. Dr B.’s letter was not very clearly worded, but I gathered from it that Miss H. believed herself to be suffering from some form of haunting, a belief which Dr B. did not wholly share. His country medical experience had not afforded him opportunities of studying the numerous subtle varieties of psychic affections, or I might say afflictions, which torment sensitive and receptive minds. While, therefore, he attributed Miss H.’s trouble to physical causes primarily, which causes might affect the mental and nervous system, I was prepared from the first to consider that this was far more likely to be a case of mental disturbance reacting on the body.
‘Well, in due course Lady H. wrote for an appointment for herself and her daughter, and presented herself and the young lady in my consulting room on the prescribed date. On a first inspection I was not seriously disturbed by Miss H.’s appearance. She looked in good health and her various organs were in good working order. I listened to her and her mother’s stories and came to the conclusion that the probabilities pointed to the first sound of footsteps being genuinely clairaudient, that the late Captain X. had at the moment of his death, which I gathered was instantaneous, been deeply absorbed in the thought of Miss H., and that under laws which are known to exist, although by no means understood, had been transported spiritually to her neighbourhood and had become manifest by chair-audience to her during his approach. There are too many well-authenticated cases of apparitions at the point of death for us any longer to disbelieve in their possibility, but the continuance of such manifestations for any length of time after bodily extinction are, as has been shown by Mr Myers, of much more rare and less well-evidenced occurrence.
‘Accordingly, whilst prepared to admit that in the first instance Miss H. had been the percipient of a genuine manifestation, I was inclined to believe that the subsequent recurrence of the footsteps was due to an unconscious agitation of her subconscious self and that they were genuine hallucinations, having no real existence. To remove those impressions it appeared to me desirable to prescribe a course of hypnotic suggestion; but I had no sooner hinted at this form of treatment than I found myself strongly opposed by Lady H., who emphatically declared her entire disbelief in and religious revolt from any such proceeding. Obliged to abandon the treatment, owing to this opposition, I fell back upon prescribing a tonic and a complete change of scene, and I advised Lady H. to take her daughter to the sea for a three weeks’ stay and to let me know on her return how the patient did.
‘The ladies promised to follow my directions and left me, after which I allowed the whole case to fade from my mind.
‘Exactly three weeks later it was revived by the receipt of a letter from Lady H. written from her London house and asking me to call and see Miss H. as soon as possible, as they had returned from the sea with the trouble not only unabated but greatly increased.
‘At the time I was very busy, but I managed to get round to — Street fairly early on the following morning. After a brief interview with Lady H., who was extremely agitated, I was shown up alone to Miss H.’s sitting-room, a pleasant apartment at the back of the house and approached by a short, oilcloth-covered passage.
‘I was greatly shocked by the change in the young lady’s appearance. Physically she had deteriorated greatly, as was apparent at the first glance, but mentally her condition was even more alarming. She had apparently lost all control over herself, trembled violently for no ostensible reason, and appeared to be constantly keenly listening for some dreaded sound. She greeted me eagerly and instantly began: “Oh, doctor, can you not help me? I know you thought when I saw you before you could do something, if only Mother would have allowed it; and now I will insist on doing anything you tell me, anything, if only I can be relieved from him.”
‘ “Tell me more of your trouble,” I said. “Are you still haunted by the sound of footsteps?”
‘ “Haunted,” she said. “Haunted, yes, that is just the word. You know I told you I was troubled by footsteps coming from a distance and stopping well away from me. They did not come often then, but they do now; they come all the time,” she went on, “and come clearer and louder and they come nearer. Nearer, nearer, they come close to me and, oh God, one day he will reach and touch me and then – ”
She stopped for a moment and I was thinking what I could say to reassure her when she suddenly caught hold of my arm.
‘ “There they are now,” she cried. “Listen, they are coming down the passage. Listen, listen.”
‘Her distress and agitation were so extreme that I could not control myself for a moment and we both sat in dead silence listening. I am not a nervous or imaginative man and in my cool moments I am sure I was mistaken; but at that instant I could have sworn that I heard a footfall on the oilcloth outside.
‘ “Do you hear him?” she cried again. “He is coming, oh, help me.”
‘I took her hands in mine and looked her steadily in the face. “Control yourself,” I said. “You are safe, you c
annot be harmed.”
‘As I spoke her look of [agitation vanished and] she said: “He has stopped; he has gone again – but he will come back. He will never really go away till he can take me too.”
‘I did my best to reassure her and presently she grew calmer and promised me that she would certainly not listen for the recurrence of the steps, and would endeavour to surround herself with a form of protective envelope, evolved out of her own inner thoughts and will power, so as to ward them off. I was, however, determined at once to commence a course of hypnotic suggestion; with the consent of Lady H. if possible, if not, without. Accordingly I went downstairs and after an earnest conversation with her at last I carried my point. I was then obliged to leave the house to attend to other pressing duties, but I settled to return that afternoon and commence the treatment. In the meantime I arranged with Lady H. that, pending my return, either she or some trusty servant should remain constantly with Miss H.
‘That afternoon, in accordance with my promise, I returned to — Street to find the house in sad trouble, the butler, who opened the door, informing me that Miss H. had died suddenly a short time before. While talking to him about the event, I saw Dr K., a family physician of my acquaintance, descending the stairs. He greeted me and, telling me that he was the London medical attendant of the H. family, took me into a room on the ground floor to tell me what details he could of the tragedy.
‘It appeared that after my visit Miss H. had grown more cheerful and confident of herself. She had been quickly joined by her mother, and the two ladies had remained together till after luncheon, when they went into the drawing-room. A short time after this Lady H. was called to the telephone and, knowing that her absence would be short and thinking Miss H. might, in her happier frame of mind, be left for this brief space of time, she went downstairs to the instrument, leaving Miss H. lying on a sofa alone in the drawing-room. Lady H. had just finished her conversation and was hanging up the receiver when she was startled by hearing a loud scream for help. She rushed upstairs to find Miss H. stretched on the floor in a corner of the room some distance from her sofa, dead.
‘After a few questions had been asked and answered, I asked Dr K. for his opinion as to the cause of death, and he replied: “Heart failure, undoubtedly caused in my opinion by a shock; but I can form no opinion as to its nature,as there was nothing in Miss H.’s surroundings in the drawing-room of an unusual or alarming character.”
‘He presently offered to allow me to inspect the body, and I can only say that I have never seen on any living or dead face such an agonised look of fear and horror as on that of the dead girl.’
The Young Lady in Black
The following story is one of actual experience, and while not a tale of horror and woe, like the typical ghost story, still is interesting as opening up for consideration the question whether, after the death of the body, the spirit is able to carry on and bring to a more or less satisfactory conclusion some task commenced in the flesh. While it is certainly very much open to doubt whether for indefinite ages the spirit revisits the scenes of its earthly career and repeats over and over again, frequently for no apparent reason, certain episodes in that career; yet, to those who believe that the body is a mere cloak or garment covering the real man within, it may appear highly credible that the spirit of a human being who has suddenly been cut off in the midst of some special earthly task may be able to revisit this earth, and complete his work.
In a story such as this, it is not opportune to discuss the relations between soul and body, but instances of second sight or the apparition of some person at the moment of his decease to some distant friend are so numerous, and are frequently so well authenticated that it is almost impossible not to believe them.
The following story was told to the present writer in sober earnestness by a man whose integrity is indubitable. That the narrator may have been mistaken is quite possible, but that he firmly believed what he narrated is without question, and if he really is correct in his story, and did not unconsciously add to its marvellous features, after he had learned the truth, it would seem that it is a piece of strong evidence that occasionally the dead, to accomplish some particular end, are permitted to revisit the earth and become visible to some at least of its living inhabitants. Here is the story.
One afternoon I was busily engaged in my studio in London, working at a picture I was very anxious to finish. I had not suffered myself to be disturbed all day and now was feeling rather tired, but very pleased at the rapid progress I was making.
Presently I heard a ring at the door-bell, and after the lapse of a few moments my servant entered. I was annoyed at being disturbed and asked the man rather sharply what he wanted.
‘Sir,’ he replied. ‘There is a lady in the drawing-room who is very anxious to see you. I told her you were engaged, but she would take no excuse and said she must see you.’
‘What is her name, and what does she want?’ I asked. ‘Tell her I am sorry, but I cannot be disturbed without good reason.’
He went away, and in a few minutes returned. ‘The lady won’t give her name, sir,’ he said. ‘As for her business, she says it’s very important, and that you will be glad enough to see her.’
‘Well, show her up.’
The servant again departed, and in a few moments ushered the lady into the studio. I looked at her and saw a woman somewhat over medium height, with small hands and feet, and of a ladylike demeanour. She was dressed entirely in black and wore a heavy black veil, which completely concealed her face. I judged from her general appearance, however, that she was a lady, and a total stranger. I motioned her to a seat and stood waiting for her to speak, which she at once began to do.
‘You are very kind, Mr M., to give me a few moments, I see you are very busy, but I won’t detain you long,’ she said, in a soft, well-modulated voice. ‘I am come to ask you to undertake the painting of a portrait.’
I bowed, but said nothing.
‘Your reputation,’ the lady continued ‘is widespread, and that is one of the principal reasons why I have applied to you, for the portrait will be rather a difficult one to paint.’
I murmured something in acquiescence, and she went on: ‘The person I want you to portray is myself. I am willing and able to agree to any pecuniary terms you may name, but I wish the portrait to be very carefully and expeditiously done.’
I named my terms, and added: ‘Will you kindly allow me to see your face, madam, I shall then be able to judge better whether I can undertake the task.’
‘Certainly,’ she replied, and threw back her veil disclosing a very striking face. It was that of a woman of apparently about thirty years of age of a noble bearing, tempered, however, with an appearance of constant suffering. In the deep, dark eyes there was a fixed expression of trouble, hopeless and endless; on the lofty brow there were the tokens of pride hardly yet subdued by grief. Round the mouth played a strange smile, indescribable almost, an expression of deep sorrow and unavailing regret. She looked like one who had passed through the valley of the shadow of death and knew the full mysteries of that awful vale.
For an instant I shrank back with a sort of shudder, not that the face was repulsive, but that there was in it an unearthly something impossible to describe. However, ardour for my art soon got the better of my former feeling, and I answered: ‘Madam, I shall be very glad to undertake your portrait, though you have so unusual an expression that it will be a hard one to paint. Still I will do my best. When and where do you want to sit?’
She smiled slightly, and said: ‘Mr M., perhaps you will decline at once, when I must try elsewhere, but I will tell you now frankly that I am not able to give you any sittings at all.’
‘What?’ I cried. ‘Why, I cannot paint you without your sitting to me.’
‘Well,’ she answered, ‘that cannot be done. All I can do is to sit here now for half an hour or so and let you look at me and sketch me, and then leave this little portrait of myself with you.’
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br /> She took from her pocket a little watercolour of herself, which had apparently been torn from some book. It had been taken when she was about eighteen, and before the strange expression had come into her face; it was, however, very like her, only the colouring was fresh and rosy.
‘Well,’ I said as I took it, ‘I will see what I can do in so short a time, though I am afraid I shall make a poor job of it.’
So saying, I sat down and sketched her as carefully and as rapidly as possible though I found great difficulty in catching the various expressions of her face.
In about half an hour she rose, saying: ‘I must go now, Mr M., many thanks for your kindness, here is the price you named for the picture. You see I can trust you, and will pay in advance.’ With these words she counted out a sum of money in banknotes on the table, and gave me an address to which she wished the picture to be sent. ‘Now,’ she added, ‘I know I have asked you to undertake a very difficult piece of work, but I am not mistress of my own movements. If at any time I find myself able to give you another sitting I will certainly do so; if not,’ she went on pleadingly, ‘I beg you will do your best to try and make a likeness of me; it is important, most important. Goodbye.’
And before I could move or speak she was out of the room. I rang for the servant to show her out, but on his arrival he said he had not seen the lady, and supposed that she must have left the house in a hurry. I put the two sketches away intending to commence work on them as soon as I had leisure, but, an important commission coming in next day, they slipped my memory entirely for some little time.
About three months after the above events, I found a note awaiting me on the breakfast table one morning from my old friend Arthur Van C. inviting me to come and visit him and his wife at their house about twenty miles from Ipswich. As I had no pressing work to do at that time, and felt that I needed a rest, I decided to accept their invitation, more especially as the Van C.’s had only recently returned from a five years’ sojourn in India, and I was anxious to see him again.
In Ghostly Company (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) Page 9
