Two or three hours saw me complete my arrangements in London, and found me landed at the Liverpool Street terminus, seeking in that vast labyrinth the express for Ipswich. I found my train at length, and ensconced myself in an empty first-class carriage which, with the aid of a couple of shillings, I proposed to keep to myself all the way down. But I was doomed to disappointment. Just before the train started, the door of my carriage was opened, a porter’s voice said ‘Here, y’are, ma’am,’ and a tall lady dressed in deep mourning entered the compartment. There was something about her which appeared familiar to me, but I did not recognise her till, soon after the train had left the station, she raised her veil, and disclosed my fair visitor of three months before. I was at first startled, and then a feeling of shame rushed over me. I had taken this lady’s money and promised to paint her picture at once, and here at the expiration of three months not a brush had been laid to canvas. I did not know what to say, but finally bowed and murmured a greeting. She responded, and promptly asked: ‘Well, Mr M., when will you finish my picture?’
This completely disconcerted me; I inwardly vowed I would work incessantly on that portrait till it was finished, while aloud I said: ‘My dear madam, I have been so busy that really I have had but little time.’
‘I feared as much,’ she interrupted me, ‘but I do beg, Mr M., that you will take the matter up in earnest when you return to town. You don’t know, you can’t guess, what a weight will be off my mind when that picture is finished.’
‘I promise you,’ I replied, ‘that I will have it done very quickly. I will give it precedence over all other work.’
‘I hope you will,’ she said, and then added, ‘I am glad to have this opportunity afforded me to let you look at my face and gather some ideas for the picture.’
I replied that I also was pleased to have the chance, and added: ‘And also to have the pleasure of travelling down with you into Suffolk.’ She smiled, and we had a pleasant conversation during our journey to Ipswich, though I found that my companion’s part in it was at all times tinged with a certain sadness. At Ipswich station I lost sight of her in the confusion incidental on changing trains, and it was not till I was seated in the little branch railway that I bethought myself that I had forgotten to ask her name or ascertain her destination.
However, I dismissed the subject, and on my arrival at Pocklington, the station nearest Van C.’s house, I found myself so busy hunting up luggage and a conveyance that I completely forgot my fellow traveller. After a drive of some three miles, I arrived about half-past seven at Van C.’s house, and on the door being opened was greeted by the butler, who said: ‘Dinner will soon be ready, Mr M. The family is upstairs dressing. I will show you to your room at once, sir, if you please.’
I went up, therefore, immediately, and with the assistance of the butler rapidly unpacked and dressed for dinner. I mention these comparatively trivial circumstances to show what good ground for surprise I had at what next befell me. Upon descending to the library, where I expected to find my host and hostess, I saw, standing with her back towards me, a tall lady dressed in a black evening gown. On hearing me enter she turned round, and for an instant I was struck dumb with amazement, for she was none other than my late travelling companion. I had never seen Mrs Van C. and I at once concluded that this must be she, but how in the name of wonder had she got here, and why had she not introduced herself to me in the train?
‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs Van C.,’ I exclaimed. ‘I never dreamed it was my future hostess I was talking to this afternoon.’
‘I am not Mrs Van C.,’ she answered.
But before she had time to say more the door opened, and Van C., accompanied by a lady, came in. He shook hands with me heartily, and introduced the lady with him as his wife, but I was a little surprised to notice that neither of them spoke to my companion. However, I at once concluded that she was some governess or lady companion of Mrs Van C. and seeing that they ignored her presence I decided it might be proper for me to do so also. At this moment dinner was announced, and Van C. asked his wife if she expected Mr Brixham, to which she replied that she had had a place set for him but did not know if he would come.
‘At any rate,’ she concluded, ‘we won’t wait. Will you take me in, Mr M?’ And as we went in to dinner she explained to me that Mr Brixham was the clergyman of the parish, and had a standing invitation to dine with them.
We entered the dining-room, and I saw the table was set for four persons. I led Mrs Van C. to the head of the table, and while seating herself she dropped her handkerchief; I stooped to pick it up, and by the time I regained my seat saw Van C. and the lady of the train in their respective places, Van. C. opposite his wife, and the mysterious lady opposite to myself. In the centre of the table was a large vase supporting a basket of flowers, and decked with hanging garlands, which effectually shut off my view of all but the top of the head of my opposite neighbour. Dinner commenced, and I found Van C., as he had always been, one of the most jovial and talkative of men, whilst his wife, also, was by no means lacking in conversational powers. Van C. kept me pretty busy all through dinner talking about old times, and though I could not help noticing that neither he nor his wife ever spoke to the strange lady, yet I did not have an opportunity of addressing myself directly to her. I am not much of an observer and, as I say, my attention was pretty constantly taken up, yet it was my impression that my opposite neighbour partook of the good things set before her, and I became at last firmly impressed with the idea that she must be Mrs Van C.’s companion.
At the end of dinner Van C. opened the door to the retiring ladies, and as soon as he had resumed his seat I determined to satisfy my curiosity as to my fair client, and said: ‘By the way, Van C., I wish you would introduce me to that lady who has just gone out. I travelled part of the way from London with her today, and have engaged myself to paint her portrait also.’
I shall never be able to paint such surprise as overspread Van C.’s face. ‘What?’ he said. ‘You travelled from London today with my wife, and are going to paint her picture?’
‘No, no,’ I said, ‘not your wife, I mean the other lady, the one who sat opposite to me.’
‘The one who sat opposite to you?’ Van C. repeated. ‘Why, my dear fellow, the seat opposite to you was empty.’
‘Empty?’ I cried. ‘Are you blind, Van C., or are you joking? I tell you I mean the seat on the opposite side of the table to myself that was occupied by that striking-looking woman in black.’
‘You are mad,’ retorted Van C. ‘No one sat opposite to you. There was a seat there for Mr Brixham, but he didn’t come, and there was no one in the room all through dinner except ourselves, my wife, and the servants.’
‘But I saw her,’ I persisted.
‘You can’t have seen her,’ he said, ‘because she wasn’t there. Come into the drawing-room and we’ll ask my wife, if you don’t believe me.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘here is some extraordinary mistake. Let’s go and ask Mrs Van C. to decide it.’ So to the drawing-room we adjourned, and on entering it I saw that Mrs Van C. was alone.
‘Now, Emily,’ cried her husband, ‘M. and I have had a dispute and we are going to leave it to you to decide. Was there or was there not a handsome lady dressed in black sitting opposite M. at dinner tonight?’
‘No,’ answered Mrs Van C. in surprise, ‘there was nothing but Mr Brixham’s vacant place.’
‘There, I told you so,’ cried Van C. ‘Now if you like we’ll have the servants up and ask them.’
‘I wish you would, Van. C.,’ I answered, ‘there’s some strange mystery here which I should like to have cleared up.’
So the servants were summoned, and Van C. told me to ask what questions I liked.
‘Was there,’ I began, ‘any lady at table tonight besides Mrs Van C.?’
The butler and footman stared at me in great astonishment, and then said, ‘No, sir.’
‘And there was no one at all
opposite to me?’ I continued.
And the answer again came, ‘No, sir.’
‘There was a place set?’ I queried.
‘Yes, sir, for Mr Brixham, but he didn’t come, so we took it down,’ replied the butler.
I thanked the men and let them go. I asked Mr and Mrs Van C. if a person such as I described had lived in the house at any time, but though I gave a lengthy and I am sure an accurate description, they utterly failed to recognise her. Finding therefore that I had evidently been the subject of some strange hallucination, I determined to endeavour to think no more of it. I decided to paint the picture of the mysterious lady at once and send it to the address in Ipswich she had given me, accompanying it by a note begging her to favour me with some explanation as to how and why she had caused, if she indeed knew the reason, an image of herself to appear to me.
The chief point of difficulty I met with, in my endeavours to solve the mystery, was the impossibility of deciding when the hallucination commenced. Was the whole affair a hallucination, or did the deception begin in the railway train or not until I arrived at Van C.’s house? And another point was, why had the deception been practised at all? Finally I came to the conclusion that I had really travelled with the lady from London, principally because I heard and saw the porter usher her into the train in London, and that during the journey her figure and face had impressed itself so strongly upon me, as indeed she must have wished it to do, that I had imagined the scene at dinner. Curiously enough, I was not during the whole of this time in the least degree alarmed, but only looked forward to another meeting with my friend, intending to wring some sort of explanation from her.
Full of this determination I fell asleep, and passed a perfectly uneventful night. In the morning the Van C.’s rallied me a good deal about my friend of the night before, and when I explained to them my theories listened to me with evident incredulity.
My visit to the Van C.’s passed off very pleasantly, and I was heartily sorry to return to London. I was not again visited by my strange acquaintance’s eidolon, and in fact began to believe she had lost her power to appear to me.
On the day of my return to London, I somehow missed the connecting train at Ipswich, and found myself with several hours to spare in that not particularly interesting town. But determined to make the best use I could of my time, I took my portfolio of sketches, and with a few pencils strolled forth from the station in quest of some object of interest. These, however, were rare, and I quickly found myself in great danger of boredom when I suddenly remembered that an old friend, whom I had lost sight of for many, many years, lived in Ipswich, and I at once determined to look him up. I enquired for Mr J.’s house, to which I was directed, and soon found myself knocking at the door. It was opened by a young and rather pretty girl, whose face I somehow seemed to know though I had never seen her to my knowledge. I enquired for Mr J. and mentioned my name.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I will go and see my father and find out if he will see you. He has been very strange ever since my sister’s death about four months ago, and doesn’t like visitors.’
I was pleased with her sweet face and, besides having nothing to do, really wanted to see her father, so I entered and sat down in a pretty little parlour while she went upstairs. In a few minutes she reappeared, saying: ‘Father is coming down. He wouldn’t do so at first, but when he heard who you were said he would. I think,’ she added, ‘he is going to ask you for something, so please don’t be angry.’
‘Angry?’ I said. ‘Why should I be angry?’
‘Well,’ she answered, ‘Father has been very queer since my sister Rose died, and always wanting to have something to remind him of her, a picture most particularly. He once said he was going to write and ask you to paint one, but, oh dear, the little sketch that we used to have has been lost, and that,’ she added plaintively, ‘was the only likeness we had of her.’
As she finished speaking her father – my old friend J. – entered the room. He shook me warmly by the hand, but I noticed at once in his manner something strange and unsettled. He sat down, and for a minute or two we spoke of indifferent subjects, but all at once he broke out: ‘Oh, M., my good friend, you can help me, and you only. Cannot you paint her, just a little picture, only a little one.’
‘I would like to, J.,’ I answered, ‘but it is pretty difficult unless you have some photograph to give me. Your daughter here has been telling me that you want a picture of your eldest child, but says you have lost the only sketch you had.’
‘Yes, yes,’ murmured J. ‘And I shall never see her again.’
I pitied his distress, and more to soothe him than anything said: ‘Cannot you describe your daughter, J.? Perhaps I could do something from your description.’
‘Yes,’ he cried eagerly, ‘perhaps you could. Oh, she was so pretty, so sweet: dark brown eyes, and such black hair, never had anyone hair like Rose.’
I cannot tell what prompted me, some strange, unseen influence it certainly must have been, for taking my portfolio I unbuckled it, and producing the sketch given me by my strange visitor the first time she came to my studio I handed it to J. saying: ‘Did she resemble this sketch, J.?’
For a few moments J. and his daughter gazed at the sketch with the blankest amazement; at last J. managed to articulate: ‘Where did you get this?’
‘A lady gave it to me about three or four months ago,’ I answered, ‘she came to my studio to ask me to paint her, and as she was unable to give me any sittings left me this sketch to work from. I saw her again a few days ago, and she begged me to hasten on with my work. Here are one or two sketches I have taken of her.’
‘This is my daughter’s portrait,’ cried J. as he glanced at the sketches. ‘In God’s name when did you see her?’
‘I saw her first in my studio just about fourteen weeks ago,’ I replied, ‘when she gave me an order to paint her picture and send it to – Great Heaven! why, it was this address, 14 Colchester Street, she gave me at the time she handed me this little sketch of herself.’
‘When did you miss the picture, Alice?’ cried her father.
‘Just fourteen weeks ago today,’ answered Miss J. ‘I was looking through the portfolio and found it was not there.’
‘Great are God’s ways,’ said J. after a few moments’ silence. ‘My daughter Rose died just four months ago; she had long been failing, and it was my special wish that she should have her picture taken. She kept on delaying it till it was too late.’
My story is now ended, and I will close it as I commenced it, by asking whether there is any returning for a specified purpose? Perhaps there may be, perhaps, as in the quaint, weird story of old Lady Mary there may be a returning, a returning of the loved one to wander in silence and unperceived amongst us, bearing as his punishment for some unexpiated fault the bitter grief of seeing those he has loved suffering under unmerited wrong. Perhaps even as this is written and this is read the spirits of the departed are hovering silent and unseen near the writer and the reader, perhaps guiding the hand to write, and the eye to read, perhaps, unhappy that they be, only conscious of the griefs to fall on the mortals before them and unable to avert the impending calamities. These things can never be known. Suffice it now to say that the narrator of the above story believed it to be true, and that he actually painted the portrait of the dead Rose J., partly from the little sketch and partly from the remembrance of her face as he saw it. Herself he never saw more: the mission for which she had been permitted to revisit the earth was accomplished, the fault she had committed in neglecting her father’s wishes had doubtless been expiated, and her troubled soul rested in peace.
Two last pieces of evidence as to the truth of this strange story may be adduced in the testimony of the porter at Liverpool Street railway station, who distinctly remembered that the part of the platform where he had been standing was empty, and that suddenly he heard a lady’s voice say: ‘Porter, in this carriage please,’ and turning, had seen a lady in black poin
ting to M.’s carriage.
The servant also at Mr M.’s remembered admitting her to the studio.
The Downs
I am venturing to set down the following personal experience, inconclusive as it is, as I feel that it may interest those who have the patience to study the phenomena of the unseen world around us. It was my first experience of a psychical happening and its events are accordingly indelibly imprinted on my memory.
The date was, alas, a good many years ago, when I was still a young man and at the time was engaged in reading hard for a certain examination. My friend J. was in similar plight to myself and together we decided to abjure home and London life and seek a quiet country spot, where we might devote ourselves to our work amidst pleasant and congenial surroundings.
J. knew of such a place: a farm belonging to a Mr Harkness, who was a distant connection of his own by marriage. Mr Harkness was a childless widower and lived much to himself at Branksome Farm, attended to only by an elderly housekeeper and one or two servants. Although he called himself a farmer and did in fact farm fairly extensively, he was a man of cultivated and even learned tastes, widely read and deeply versed in the history and folklore of his neighbourhood. At the same time, although good-natured, he was the most reserved and tactiturn man I ever met, and appeared to have a positive horror of communicating his very considerable fund of local knowledge to outsiders like ourselves. However, he was glad to welcome us as paying guests for the sake of his relationship to J., and he and his housekeeper certainly took great care to make us comfortable and happy.
Branksome Farm is a large old-fashioned house, surrounded by the usual farm buildings and situated in a valley winding its way among the Downs. The situation is beautiful and remote, and it would astonish many of our City dwellers to know that within two or three hours’ railway journey from London there still are vast stretches of open downland on which one may walk for hours without sight of a human being, and traversed only by winding roads which run from one small town or hamlet to another, linking a few lonely cottages or farms to civilisation on their route. Behind the house Branksome Down, the highest in the neighbourhood, rises steeply, and beyond it at a distance of about three miles is Willingbury, the nearest town, whence the railway runs to London.
In Ghostly Company (Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural) Page 10
