THE GHOST OF BROUGHTON HALL
I was about six years old when my family moved to a brand new house in
Claremont Crescent, that had just been erected on the outskirts of
Edinburgh. There were still some green fields unbuilt upon, and some
fine old trees left standing close to us, and those were still included
in a triangular group of three grand old Manors--Broughton Hall, Powder
Hall, and Logie Green. All three had the reputation of being badly
haunted. The first named stood almost within a stone's throw of our end
of the Crescent, and was occupied by an ancient family named Walker, who
had held the property for generations. They still existed as a very
charming relic of Scotch antiquity, and they had always been friends of
our family.
The house from the outside was very grim and forbidding-looking. It was
hidden from the eyes of the curious behind very high walls, and was
entered upon by two huge gates, always kept closed.
Inside, the house was most interesting and attractive. There were many
closed rooms and winding staircases, and odd steps in long, dark
corridors, but the rooms that were lived in were beautiful of their
kind. There were desks with secret drawers, wonderful pieces of
Chippendale, tenderly cared for, quantities of rare old china and cut
glass, and on the walls hung glorious Romneys and Hoppners, which
fetched huge prices at Christie's when the household was finally broken
up by death.
The family consisted of three sisters, Fanny, Hope, and Kitty, the
latter a widow, named Mrs. Chew. There were two brothers, Adam and John.
The former lived with his sisters. John was a minister, and only paid
visits. There was a nephew, the heir, William Stephens, who also paid
long visits to the Hall. Though, at the date of which I speak, about
1870, he must have been at least sixty, he was always referred to as
"the Laddie."
The three sisters occupied distinct positions in the house. Mrs. Chew
acted as cook, though servants were kept, and she always sat in the
kitchen, only coming "through" to the dining-room for her meals. Miss
Hope was the worldly member of the family. She had been to London Town,
and could not be relied upon to stop at home. She looked after the
polishing of the furniture, the old glass and china. Miss Fanny was the
lady of the family. She always sat in the best parlor. Every one waited
on her, and she was never permitted to do anything for herself.
She dressed for the part in thick, black satin, with, in winter, a white
silk embroidered Chinese shawl, and, in summer, old Brussels lace.
Across her forehead was a band of black velvet, with a pear-shaped pearl
depending between the eyebrows. Over her snow-white hair was flung a
piece of old lace surmounting a wreath of artificial flowers. Her
claw-like hands were covered by lace mittens and many rings. I saw her
constantly, and she was always idle. I never saw her read, or sew, or
knit, and often I wondered what she thought about, as she sat there
always in the same chair, year in year out, and with no companion but a
large gray parrot. True, her surroundings were delightful. From her
chair near the fire she could look out on the quaint old garden, always
full of flowers, and she could glance around her at the many beautiful
objects the room contained.
I especially admired one Hoppner. The subject was a beautiful woman,
with a mass of powdered hair, seated by an open window. Her cheek was
supported in her hand, and at her elbow was a quaint little wicker cage
containing a bird. I think the artist meant to suggest that both were
captives. Though quite well in health, Miss Fanny never left the house,
even to walk in the garden.
My father and I went very often to call upon those curious old people,
who were so utterly out of touch with modern life, backward though life
was then in the Northern Capital. We arrived at all sorts of hours, but
refreshments were always produced. An amazingly rich cake, and fruity
old port, served in large quarter-pint cut-glass rummers. It was not
considered polite to refuse those offerings, which were always kept in a
corner cupboard, and served by Mrs. Chew, who emerged from the kitchen,
or Miss Hope, who left her housework to greet us.
Though Broughton Hall was commonly reputed to be haunted, no one seemed
to know what form the ghost took. I was great friends with Mr. Adam, a
majestic, clean-shaven old man, who carried his chin very high above an
enormous black silk stock, and often I tried to draw him on the subject
of the ghost, but without success. He took it very seriously, and warned
me that "I wouldn't be any the better for having seen it. Besides," he
always concluded, "it's a family affair." The sisters were even more
uncommunicative.
My father and I were profoundly interested in this ghost. There was
something about the whole establishment that was extremely promising,
from the ghost-hunter point of view. The consequence of this was that we
were always on the prowl. Nothing discouraged us, and we spared neither
time nor trouble. There is no research which requires such infinite
patience as psychic research. Several years passed before the great
moment arrived, and when it did arrive it was all over in about four
minutes.
My father had a way of suddenly looking up from his work and saying,
"Let's go to Broughton Hall." I would at once rise, and together we
would pass out into the night, without either hats or coats. Very
eccentric, it may be said, but then we frankly were very eccentric. We
would steal away together around the Crescent, and down the road till we
reached the great gates. Very softly we opened and closed them, and
keeping well in the shadow of the trees and bushes we would creep round
the silent house.
I cannot describe the thrill of those nocturnal adventures. It was all
so eerie, so full of vague, terrifying possibilities. I don't know what
we expected to see, and we were generally back again in our own house in
half an hour; but one night our patience really was rewarded.
It was November, dry, but wild and bitterly cold. Billowy white snow
clouds scudding before a brisk north wind threw us alternately into
light and darkness, as they covered and uncovered the face of the full
moon. We had emerged from our house about half-past nine, and had
reached the back of Broughton Hall. The house was shrouded in darkness
and dead silence, every blind was close drawn, and the suggestion was
one of utter emptiness. My father and I were walking apart, I being
right under the shadow of the walls, whilst he was in the middle of the
paved court, which had neither hedge nor walls, but met the edge of the
field running up to it.
Suddenly I heard him whisper "Hush!" though we never did utter a word
whilst close to the house. His arm was pointing in front of him. I
stared ahead, and then I saw, clearly lit by the moon, a woman who had
apparently just rounded the corner of the house. She was running hard,
straight towards us, and her feet made no sound on the round cobble
stones.
Terror suddenly seized me, and I darted across to my father, and got
well behind him, seizing him firmly round the waist. The woman came on,
rushing wildly. She had nearly reached us, and I was almost thrown over
as my father faced her, and backed to allow her to pass. I peeped round
him, and saw a woman, ghastly pale, and distraught-looking, clad in a
white nightdress. Two long strands of black hair streamed out behind
her, and her bare arms were outstretched in front. In a flash she had
passed, and absolutely silently, and I found myself lying on the ground
alone, and my father vanishing in hot pursuit.
Needless to say I very quickly picked myself up again, and joined the
chase. Terror lent me wings, and in a minute or two I came up with him,
standing breathless by the gate.
"Vanished into thin air just as I reached her. That's always the way.
You can't catch them," he said.
We made a little detour before going home, in order to discuss the
great event. We had no doubt that we had seen a genuine apparition. We
knew all the occupants of the Hall, and the woman had vanished in the
open, and in full flight, just as my father had come up alongside her.
He cautioned me against mentioning our adventure to any one, and I kept
silence until years after, when Broughton Hall was pulled down and its
inmates were all dead.
Before going on to our next ghostly adventure I will say a few words
about my father, Robert Chambers, who in those days was something of a
celebrity, and a very remarkable man.
In appearance he was very handsome, extremely tall and well built, and
with features that were well-nigh perfect. It was the fashion in his
time to wear the hair rather long, and his was dark and very curly. He
always dressed well, in the style of the country gentleman, rather than
as a town dweller.
In character he was extremely independent, and was utterly indifferent
to two things--money and public opinion. His intellect was
extraordinary, and it was commonly said that he knew a great deal about
most things, and something about all things.
In Scotland, in those days, it was not considered necessary to trouble
about the education of girls. No one ever tried to educate me,
consequently at a very early age I was absolutely free to devote myself
entirely to my father, and we were inseparable. Our intercourse was not
that of father and daughter. It was that of confidential friends of an
equal age. At that period my mother was more or less of an invalid, and
had her own attendants.
My father and I went every morning at ten o'clock to the old business
house of W. and R. Chambers, in the High Street of Edinburgh, and
remained there till half-past two, when we walked home together,
sometimes paying a call or two on the way. Though a mere uneducated
child I helped him in his literary work, and at odd hours committed to
memory many poets. We returned to four o'clock dinner, the correct hour
in those days, and at six o'clock a porter arrived with my father's bag,
containing manuscripts to be read and selected for _Chambers' Journal_.
From six p. m. till midnight he worked at reading manuscript, not typed
then, and proof correcting.
Twice a week we went to the theater--there was only one in Edinburgh
then. It was managed by a hard working couple, Mr. and Mrs. Howard, who
sometimes filled up a week by acting themselves. I am bound to say we
spent most of our time in the Green Room, and I knew every turn and
twist behind the curtain. This turned out to be lucky for us.
One night we went to a performance given by the Arthur Sullivan Company,
and about halfway through a cry of "Fire" was raised. Great masses of
burning stuff began to drop from the ceiling down into the auditorium.
Instantly there was a panic, and a terrible stampede, and my father and
I leaned forward, protecting our heads behind the backs of the stalls in
front, whilst the mad rush climbed over us. When all was clear in front
of us we made our way to the back of the stage, and escaped quite
easily. I looked behind me, and I can see now the dense mass of
struggling humanity wedged in the doorway.
I remained safely with Mrs. Howard whilst my father ran around to the
front and helped to extricate the dead. The theater was burned to the
ground, but was very rapidly built up again.
My first literary effort must here be recorded. I collaborated with
Professor Andrew Wilson in writing the pantomime of "Ali Baba and the
Forty Thieves."
Andrew Wilson was Professor of Natural Science, and an extremely
versatile person--a passionate love of the drama was added to his many
scientific attainments. We wrote the dialogue together, in one long
revelry of laughter, and I was responsible for the words of the songs.
As a literary effort I can only describe it as appalling. The pantomime
was, however, a great success. The audacity of our utter incompetence
proved highly successful, and the critics justly described it as "The
funniest Pantomime in Scotland." No wonder the audience laughed from
start to finish.
My father always called at once upon any celebrity who happened to be
passing through the city, and thus I became acquainted with many
interesting and amusing people. Henry Irving was amongst the number. We
always called upon him on our way to business, a little before ten. If
he was playing for a week we called on him every morning, and often
looked into the Green Room at night. He and my father were great
friends, and at the hour of our visit he was always propped up in bed
having breakfast. I used to perch on the bed whilst the two men talked.
Irving's nightshirt interested me (pyjamas had not come in then). It was
white cambric with two enormous double frills down the front, and quite
a pierrot ruffle round his neck. He was profoundly interested in the
occult, and told me that a ghost he had once seen had suggested to him a
particular action of his whilst playing in "The Bells." At the moment
when he parted the curtains, and looked wildly out, shouting hoarsely,
"The Bells, the Bells."
Through Irving we came to know the Baroness Burdett Coutts, his ardent
admirer. She was very kind to me, and presented me with a green silk
dress, but I always thought her a very melancholy woman, even when
entertaining many interesting people in her celebrated corner house in
Piccadilly, with its white china parrot swinging in the window. She was
much attached to my father, and treated him with a humble and touching
deference.
Robert Chambers was a very keen sportsman, who fortunately did not
require much practice to keep up his game. He held championships in golf
and bowling. He was too ardent a naturalist and ornithologist to care
for shooting, but he was an expert angler. He was also a born actor and
mimic, and used to keep a Green Room in roars by "taking off" any of
"the profession" called for, and I never heard a better ventriloquist.
He adored music, and played the flute well. As a platform speaker he was
extremely fluent and perfectly at ease.
His indifference to money resulted in his never having a penny in his
pocket at night, no matter how much he took with him in the morning, and
one of my tasks was to prevent his being fleeced by those who lay in
wait for him. He took any amount of trouble over impecunious and
incompetent authors, and constantly re-wrote their work for them in
order to make it fit for publication. He was a unique editor, and his
labors in the cause of charity were strenuous, secret, and, I fear,
rather indiscriminate.
During this period of my life, the head of the house, William Chambers,
was still living, with his quaint old wife, in the West End of
Edinburgh. William, who had survived his more versatile brother, Robert
(my grandfather), was a little shriveled-up old man, with a dry and
severe manner. Most people were afraid of him, few liked him, but I got
on with him famously. I have always been extremely proud of the fact
that he rose from nothing to great wealth. There must be something fine
in a man, who, as a lad, rose at four a. m. to read classics to an
intelligent baker, whilst the batch of bread was being baked, and who
gladly accepted as payment a copper or a roll.
William and Robert Chambers had left their widowed mother to fend for
themselves. The family was at the lowest financial ebb. Much money had
been spent on the French refugees who flocked into Scotland in 1810, and
there was nothing to spare now. We were originally French, like so very
many of the old Scotch families. The first of us in history is recorded
as Guillaume de la Chaumbre, who, as the most prominent man in Peebles,
signed the Ragman Roll in 1296. My people had always lived in the dales
of the Tweed, so very appropriately I married a man called Tweedale.
Towards the end of his life William Chambers amused himself by spending
many thousands on the restoration of St. Giles' Cathedral, an historic
church which had fallen into great disrepair. This was a time of great
interest for me, and I used to spend hours helping the workmen to gather
up the thousands of human skulls that paved the church to a good depth.
There were tombs laid bare of many celebrated people of the long ago,
and these had to be identified, and carefully kept intact, until finally
given a safer resting-place.
William Chambers had been offered a baronetcy some years previously, but
he refused it. He told me he did not consider it a dignified thing for a
man of letters to bear any other honor than that accorded to brain power
by a benefited world. He and his brother Robert were the pioneers of
cheap and good educational literature for the laboring man, and the
avidity with which this literature, "Chambers' Information for the
People," was consumed, appeared to be a fitting reward. In those days it
was an unheard-of thing for a publisher to be honored by a title. Now,
however, on the eve of the re-opening of St. Giles' Cathedral, Her
Majesty, Queen Victoria, commanded William Chambers to accept a
baronetcy. The old couple were much agitated, but had to submit, and the
Queen announced her intention of performing the opening ceremony.
When the day arrived William Chambers lay dead in his house, and my
father and I took the place of the old couple. The Queen was indisposed,
and Lord Aberdeen took her place.
After the ceremony both Lord Aberdeen and Lord Rosebery urged upon my
father to take up the baronetcy, more especially as he was his uncle's
heir, but this he utterly refused to do.
Old Lady Chambers, the widow, discarded her title immediately and
remained Mrs. Chambers till the day of her death.
It must have been at least a month after William Chambers' death that he
visited me in a very vivid dream. I dreamed that he was standing beside
my bed, and suddenly he bent over me and whispered in my ear, "I've left
you all my money." On waking I had totally forgotten the dream, but
later in the day an old servant of ours said to me, "I saw the wraith
of your Uncle William last night, but he had nothing to say to me."
Then my dream flashed back to me. A day or two afterwards I said
suddenly to the old family lawyer, "Was there ever a question of Uncle
William leaving his money to me?"
The dry answer was, "Yes! at one time there was a question of that." I
could never extract anything further from him on the subject.
Though now possessed of considerable wealth my father made no difference
in his mode of life, and he continued to work just as hard as ever, and
to give away large sums of money. He never wanted anything for himself,
but was always ready to give to others. He had a great love of precious
stones, and always carried about little packets of diamonds, which
looked like packets of chemists' powders. Had I desired I could have
loaded myself with jewels. He never denied me anything and we continued
our close companionship, the only difference now being we took some
holidays in the form of afternoons off.
On one of these occasions we saw our second ghost.
We went to pay a visit to a very old woman, whose name I cannot
remember. She lived alone with one servant in an ancient dwelling in
Inveresk. The house was a large one, and was enclosed by very high
walls, which entirely isolated it from the busy streets that surrounded
it. The original old garden remained, in all its beauty, and the rooms
were full of quaint heirlooms.
We were always made very welcome, and the servant at once produced a
delicious tea, consisting of fresh baked scones, butter made of real
cream--margarine being not then invented--home-made strawberry jam, and
home-laid eggs. Russian eggs were not then imported.
I must here interpose that deliciously innocent telegram sent by an
Aberdeen merchant in the first days of the Great War, and which set all
England and Scotland mad to see the fur and snow-clad Russian troops
passing through to the Front. The telegram ran as follows:--
"Twenty thousand Russians arrived."
The twenty thousand Muscovites were only twenty thousand stale eggs, but
Lord Kitchener's order was, "Let it stand."
To return to my story.
One glorious late spring evening we were seated at tea, and the window
was thrown wide to the perfumed garden, where lilacs, and wallflowers,
and lilies of the valley rioted gloriously. The birds were in full song
in this peaceful sanctuary, which might have been a hundred miles away
from a town. My father had put his invariable question to the old woman,
"Have you seen her again?" Sometimes the answer was Yes, sometimes No. I
gathered that this question referred to the old woman's dead daughter,
her only child. This daughter had been violently insane for many years
and had remained under her mother's protection. She had died some years
previously, at the age of fifty-five, having endured a terribly long
martyrdom.
Suddenly my father broke off the conversation.
"My God! there she is!" He half rose from his chair and stared through
the open window. I looked in the same direction. A woman was strolling
aimlessly along the path just outside. There was a curious uncertainty
about her movements. She walked like a blind person, who has neither
stick nor arm to guide her. Strangely enough I never thought of
connecting this woman with the ghost of the mad daughter. She looked so
natural, so commonplace. Her hollow face was quite gray, and her dark
hair was drawn tightly back from it, and rolled in an ugly knob behind.
Her dress was of some dark material, her boots were of cloth, and her
hands and arms were rolled up in a stuff apron she wore.
There she was, vacantly wandering in the garden, in the lovely spring
evening, with the blackbirds and thrushes singing their hearts out all
around her, and I did not comprehend why such an ordinary, unattractive
looking person should so deeply interest my father.
I turned round to say something to the old woman, then I instantly
understood. She had gone down on her knees, and had hidden herself by
throwing the end of the tablecloth over her head.
Then I turned my eyes back to the apparition. I don't suppose she was
visible for more than four minutes. I remember my father uttering
consoling words to the effect that "she's gone," and helping the old
woman into her chair again, when we resumed our tea and conversation, as
if nothing unusual had occurred.
Looking back upon these incidents I contrast the infinite trouble we
took in our hunt for ghosts, with present-day psychical research. I
think of the innumerable half hours we spent at Broughton Hall, and only
once were we rewarded by seeing anything. We visited the old woman at
Inveresk whenever we found time. There was nothing in the least
inspiring or interesting in her conversation, yet to us there was an
unspeakable charm about her outward circumstances.
There was the spiritual charm of the silent old house, with its
vibrating memories of the long departed. The charm of the cloistered
peace, amidst which the woman lived and dreamed, shut away from the
world by the high walls. It was a retreat in which to meditate, and that
always appealed to me. A dwelling with a beautiful view has a great
charm, but it draws the thoughts always outward to the external. Still,
when I pass a quiet old homestead, hidden away in its own flowery old
garden from the eyes of the world, it attracts me far more than the
far-flung grandeur of many a stately English mansion.
Only in such retreats of ancient peace can the thoughts be turned
continuously inward, to their true bourne--the temple of the living God.
I seem to have been born with an ingrained belief in the enormous virtue
of renunciation. Self-sacrifice, I am certain, is the foundation stone
upon which is built the moral progress of man. I had occasion to prove
this for myself at a comparatively early age. My mother suddenly became
much more ailing than usual, and began to suffer a great deal of pain. A
consultation of doctors was called by our own family physician, and two
of the greatest surgeons in Edinburgh arrived one morning at our house.
After about an hour they came into the room in which I awaited them.
Their faces were very grave. They informed me, as kindly as they could,
that they had arrived at the unanimous opinion that my mother was
suffering from internal cancer, and that she might possibly live another
six months. Our own doctor confessed that he had long suspected this,
and the two surgeons corroborated his opinion. There was no doubt in
their minds, as the disease had openly declared itself.
I took this shock in perfect silence for a minute or two, then I decided
upon my first course of action. I asked them in the meanwhile to keep
this matter secret from every one, even from my father.
To this they rather demurred, saying that it was only right that he
should know the truth, and that he would certainly question them. I then
urged that our family doctor had known of this, and had hidden his
knowledge up to to-day. It would be easy enough for him to go on hiding
the truth for a short time longer.
The doctors sought to know my reason for this secrecy; it would do no
good, the truth would have to come out. I could give no reason. I had no
reason, only a very strong instinct, and I wanted time. I asked for a
fortnight, after which I would myself inform my father of the nature of
my mother's malady.
They agreed to this, doubtless much relieved that so unpleasant a task
was removed to other shoulders, and they went away.
That night I did not sleep. I had too much to think out. My mother must
not die. I had to form some plan to save her, if it were humanly
possible. She was absolutely necessary, I considered, to the younger
children. She would be required for some years yet. My life was wholly
given up to my father, I had become necessary to him, and this left me
no time to mother the young ones. His health was not of the best. A
curious tendency to hemorrhage kept him constantly weak. If he had a
tooth drawn bleeding would continue for days after. He needed all my
attention.
At that particular time I possessed something--never mind what--that
meant more to me than anything else in the whole wide world. It was the
greatest thing I had in life. I decided before morning that with this,
my one great possession, I would strike a bargain with the Almighty. I
would give Him a fortnight to consider it. I would offer Him the
greatest thing in my life in exchange for my mother's life.
Quite conceivably He might refuse to consider the proposition, in which
case I stood to lose everything. I could never again recover what I
proposed to risk, but I came to the deliberate conclusion that it was
worth it. The case demanded a desperate remedy.
Having made up my mind, I went about the business in the crudest and
most practical manner. I set aside certain odd half hours during the
coming fortnight, in which I would state my case. I wanted God to have
every opportunity of considering my suggestion on its simple merits.
I began by pointing out to Him why it was so necessary that my mother
should live, and then I went on to say that He might be sure I asked
nothing for myself. I proposed to give in exchange for my mother's life
the greatest thing I possessed on earth, a thing that doubtless was of
little interest to Him, but nevertheless meant a very great deal to
me--in fact, my all. I really had nothing else of any value to offer.
Now, in thus addressing the Almighty, I was not acting as a primitive
savage, for I had considered the subject of Deity for several years, and
had studied most of the great theologians. I addressed Him thus as a
Spirit of too supreme a potency, of too extraneous a mentality and
majesty, to be addressed in any other terms but plain downright
reasoning. Elaborate and propitiatory words were good enough for earthly
princelets, but ridiculous when offered up to the Supreme Creative
Power. That was my way of looking at it, and I began at once to carry
out my plan. There was no time to lose. Meanwhile, no living soul, save
the doctors, knew of my secret.
At the end of the second day my mother was free from pain. At the end of
the first week she was recovering rapidly. The family doctor was
intensely puzzled, but still adhered to his original conviction. On the
eighth day I ceased my half-hourly reasoning with God. I merely thanked
Him for concluding the bargain. He had accepted my sacrifice, the
greatest I could make, and there that matter ended. I felt, without the
smallest irreverence, that we were quits.
At the end of the month the two great surgeons returned, at our own
doctor's request. I awaited them with perfect assurance and
tranquillity. When they came in to me they still looked perturbed. They
told me that they had examined my mother, and found all traces of the
malady had disappeared. They could not account for it, they reiterated
their former diagnosis, dwelling upon certain facts, in very natural
self-justification. They expressed, in the very kindest manner, their
deep regret for all the suffering and anxiety they must have caused me,
and said how very lucky it was that no one had been made aware of their
original convictions, save myself. The case was extraordinary, abnormal,
there was nothing more to say. Then they went away for the last time.
My father was greatly puzzled at their refusing to accept any fee, and
to the day of his death our own doctor, whenever he found me alone,
referred to the case as the most marvelous he had ever come across. My
mother quite regained her health, and died many years after from lung
trouble.
One other great sacrifice I had to make a year or two after. My father
was entirely confined to bed with a severe attack of internal
hemorrhage, and at the same time my youngest sister was threatened with
consumption. She was ordered to go to the South of France immediately.
It was decided that I must go with her, as she could not be trusted to
strangers. My mother, absolutely restored to health, would be left with
my father, who had also a good nurse valet.
My father and I bade each other farewell one early morning in February,
1888. We knew we would not meet again on earth.
Only one other curious incident do I remember in connection with that
town house we lived in. On the night of the 28th December we were all
assembled in the library, most of us were reading, and a violent wind
storm was howling round the house. Suddenly my father laid down the
proof sheets he was correcting, and took out his watch. Then he turned
to us and said: "At this moment, seven fifteen, on Sunday the 28th of
December, 1879, something terrible has happened. I think a bridge must
be down."
The next day we learned that the Tay Bridge had been blown down at that
very hour, and the train and its occupants hurled to death in the waters
below.