THE INVISIBLE HANDS
All through my life there have come to me moments never to be forgotten.
Often the incidents that so deeply impressed me were utterly trivial in
themselves, still they were sacramental, inasmuch as they proved to me,
absolutely and conclusively, the immortality of the soul, and the power
possessed by the soul after so-called death to concern itself with
terrestrial happenings. Such moments are sacramental, in the sense that
Nature is sacramental, in its showing forth of God's glory, and the
manifestation of His handiwork.
* * * * *
I was sitting near the library window, reading, in the fading light of a
quiet November afternoon. It was one of those utterly still, mournful
days, with a gray, brooding sky, save where, in the west, a pale
primrose sunset was bathing the horizon in light. I was reading "Man and
the Universe," by Sir Oliver Lodge, and had arrived at page 137, which
ends Chapter VI.
In those days, the year was 1908, I always tried to arrange at least one
week of perfect quiet for the study of a new book which I had just
ordered. I would calculate on which day the post would bring it to my
country home, and I would arrange my life accordingly. This may sound
rather ridiculous, but the truth is that a book like "Man and the
Universe" is such a pure intellectual treat to me, that I like to gloat
over it, to taste it slowly, and imbibe it gradually. I try to spin out
the joy of it as long as possible by reading slowly, and thinking over
the problems presented.
At last I put the book down on a table by my side. I was in no hurry. It
lay on its back, open, the pages uppermost; just where I had stopped
reading. I fell to wondering on the words I had just read.
"A reformer must not be in haste. The kingdom cometh not by observation,
but by secret working as of leaven. Nor must he advocate any compromise
repugnant to an enlightened conscience. Bigotry must die, but it must
die a natural, not a violent death. Would that the leaders in Church and
State had always been able to receive an impatient enthusiast in the
spirit of the lines--
"Dreamer of dreams! no taunt is in our sadness,
What e'er our fears our hearts are with your cause,
God's mills grind slow; and thoughtless haste were madness,
To gain Heaven's ends we dare not break Heaven's laws."
I must have sat thinking for quite ten minutes when my attention was
suddenly attracted by a sound. The sound of paper leaves being rustled.
The room was so dead still that the faintest sound would have called my
attention, but this sound was by no means faint. I turned my head and
looked at the book I had been reading, because, from it, unmistakably
the noise proceeded.
I beheld a most enthralling phenomenon. Unseen hands were turning over
the pages.
A thrill of intense excitement ran through me, and I stared at the book
in breathless interest. The hands seemed to be searching for some
particular passage. The number of the page upon which the passage was
printed was not, apparently, known to the searcher. I will try to
describe what actually happened.
Several leaves of the book were turned over rather rapidly, each leaf
making the usual sound which accompanies such an ordinary physical
action. Then, as if fearing that the passage required had been
overlooked or passed by, several leaves were turned back again.
This manifestation continued for at least ten minutes, and I could see
nothing but the pages of the book being turned quite methodically, as by
a human hand.
At moments there was rather a long pause in the search, and at the first
pause I thought the demonstration might be over, but once again the
invisible entity resumed the search, and I found myself saying, "He
found something there that interested him. That is why he stopped." For
no reason I can give I felt certain my visitor was a male spirit.
On the second pause in the search occurring I had no doubt that again he
had found something that interested him. The whole manifestation was
very leisurely and wonderfully human. As I sat watching the book being
manipulated by unseen fingers, every smallest action suggested design.
One could not doubt as to what was taking place. At length there came a
pause longer than usual. The book lay flat on its back wide open. There
was now no quiver of the leaves. The invisible entity had found what he
wanted and gone.
I curbed my curiosity for five minutes more, then feeling convinced
that I was again alone I stretched out my hand, took the book and,
rising, carried it close to the window.
There was still enough light to read by, and the leaves were open at
pages 172-173.
I had only read as far as page 137.
I scanned them eagerly, and at once discovered that a mark had been made
on the margin of page 172. A long cross had been placed against a
paragraph. The mark was such as might have been made by a sharp
finger-nail. The words marked were--
"I want to make the distinct assertion that a really existing thing
never perishes, but only changes its form."
To-day the mark is as clearly visible on the page as on the day it was
made. I can form no conjecture as to who the entity was, but he
certainly knew the contents of the book. No one watching the search
could doubt that, or that he was desirous of impressing upon the readers
of the book a certain fact stated therein, which must have previously
attracted his attention.
In the year 1900 we took a house for the winter months in the West End
of London.
It was a small house though joined on either side by great mansions, and
once upon a time it had actually been a farmhouse standing amid smiling
fields.
It retained many relics of its ancient origin in fine oak paneling and
quaint nooks and corners, and had been for many of its latter years the
town residence of a man whose type had practically died out, the perfect
type of our old English aristocracy.
The bedroom I occupied was exceedingly comfortable and warm. The bed,
placed against the wall, was exactly opposite to the fireplace, so that
lying on my right side I looked straight at the fire and could see the
whole room.
I was constantly on the alert, as I knew how full of history such a
house must be, but for several weeks I neither saw nor heard anything in
the least unusual.
One night, quite unexpectedly, a change occurred. I no longer had the
room to myself. A stranger occupied it with me.
It was a cold, snowy night, and I was lying in bed facing the fire and
courting sleep, when I heard a sudden noise which was totally different
to the sounds made by the dying fire. Take a large sheet of stiff
writing paper in your hand and crush it up between your fingers and you
will hear the sound I heard. Quite a loud and distinct noise if you
happen to be in a very quiet room, at an hour when all the household has
retired to bed.
Naturally, I instantly opened my eyes and looked out into the room,
which was lit brightly enough by the fire to make all the objects it
contained quite distinct.
An armchair was drawn up close to the fire; half an hour before I had
been seated in it warming my toes before getting into bed; now it was
again filled.
In it sat a man turned sideways towards me. He was lying back with his
legs stretched straight out in front of him towards the fire. One of his
arms hung over the arm of the chair, and in his clenched hand was a
large piece of paper or parchment.
His finely cut profile was clearly outlined, he was clean shaven, and he
stared into the fire, his chin sunk in a high black stock.
His hair was powdered and tied behind by a large black bow, and he wore
bright blue cloth knee breeches, white stockings, silver buckled shoes,
and many gold buttons on his blue coat. I did not take in all those
details at once; I had ample leisure to do so later. For, I suppose, a
full two minutes, I stared very hard at him, and lay very still, knowing
full well I was looking at a ghost. Then very cautiously I drew the
bedclothes over my head, and shut out the startling vision. I was
invaded by wild panic.
I have never been one of those timid women who are frightened by their
own shadows. I require to be face to face with a tangible danger before
I put faith in its existence, yet, I confess that at that moment I knew
what actual fear meant. My heart beat thickly, then seemed to stop, and
I was instantly bathed in cold perspiration. I knew that the servants
were all in bed two flights of stairs below me, and my husband was out
of London, so no calling for help was any use. I therefore forced a sort
of spurious desperate courage, and began to be angry with myself for
being thus afraid when no cause for fear existed. I treated myself to a
scornful lecture. "You who profess to know all about ghosts, you who
have actually seen several ghosts, you coward to quail before this one!
Don't you know perfectly well that he won't hurt you, that he has a
perfect right to sit in that chair, and that it is your duty to speak to
him should he show any desire for conversation?"
"I am so terribly alone," pleaded my other self in feeble self-defense.
"Well, what of it? If the whole household was in the room what could
they do? You are not a child. Uncover your head and look the specter
boldly in the face."
The stillness and hush of deep night, at the hour when sleepers slumber
soundest, was upon the house. The traffic of London was muffled in a
heavy fall of snow. I could hear nothing but the feeble crackling of the
expiring fire in the grate, but gradually I rallied my courage and
faculties and peeped stealthily out.
There sat that dark form between me and the fire; there he lay in an
attitude of moody carelessness, watching the cooling embers as they
faded from scarlet to pink, from pink to yellow, and then fell tinkling
into heaps of white ashes. No statue was ever stiller. He did not move
in the least, but sat more like an effigy of a man carved out of stone
than a creature of flesh and blood.
I closed my eyes and re-opened them, to test the fact whether I was
awake or asleep and dreaming. No, I was broad wake and the room was
still fairly well lit, and there sat the phantom before the fire, the
proud, well-set head with its powdered curls distinctly visible in the
red glow of the firelight. I should think an hour must have passed thus,
whilst I gazed at the figure before me, taking in every detail. There
was no indication that he knew or cared for my presence. The figure sat
like a stone.
I came to the conclusion that the phantom was about thirty years of age,
and a sailor who had lived in the days of Nelson, judging by his clothes
and the pictures I had seen. I noticed particularly his hand clenched on
the paper. A white hand, with strong cruel-looking fingers. There is so
much character in hands. The face may be drilled into a mere mask, but
hands tell tales of their owners. I could imagine the hand that had
crushed the paper closing murderously on the throat of an adversary, or
gripped hard on the hilt of a dagger.
There were moments when the awful inertia of the figure began to play
havoc with my nerves, when I would have given anything to make that
impassive form move from out its dreary attitude of sullen brooding;
anything to cause the profile of the face, with all its gloom and pride,
to turn and front me, so that I might know the worst. But the figure
never turned, never stirred, but sat with stately head bowed under a
weight of thought.
Now and again a little flame would spurt up and glitter on his shoe
buckles, his brass buttons, but the fire was dying now, and gradually
the figure became more and more indistinct.
Then I slept. I had been feeling drowsy for some time, and fought
against it. I had violently resisted sleep, feeling a great repugnance
to losing consciousness whilst the specter still sat there, but the
blank force of sleep at length overpowered me. When I awoke the cold
gray morning light was stealing feebly in through the window. The chair
was empty. The figure was gone.
The next night I went to bed full of courage, but I was left alone. If
the sailor returned it was not until after I had gone to sleep.
A week later he came back. One moment the chair was empty, the next
moment with one wild heart throb I opened my eyes at the sound of
crackling paper, and the chair was filled. There he sat in his brooding
sullen attitude and continued so to sit till slumber vanquished me.
After that I saw him at constant intervals.
By this time I had entirely rid myself of all fear. I did not even
desire to change my room which would have been very inconvenient, and I
dreaded alarming the household and being left alone to conduct the
domestic duties. But though no longer afraid those constant visits began
to get on my nerves, and I consulted a Catholic friend who was always
sympathetic to the occult side of life.
She said at once that this spirit should be exorcised and set free from
the bondage of earth, and that she had an old friend, a Franciscan monk,
who was known to be a powerful exorcist. She offered to arrange the
matter, and I gladly accepted her suggestion.
It was on an early spring afternoon that Father Reginald Buckler came to
the house. In his white habit, sandaled feet and shorn crown, he looked
an incongruous figure in that fashionable locality already beginning its
social entertainments in view of the season's approach. He was a
charming, courteous old man, who took his mission very seriously. After
a few words of explanation we mounted to the bedroom floor.
There were four doors opening on to the little landing, and without
asking which of the doors led to the haunted chamber, he turned the
handle of the right one and entered. Still he put no question, but at
once proceeded with the Service of Exorcism.
Sprinkling the four corners of the room with Holy Water, he bade me
kneel down in the middle. Then he raised his Crucifix and offered up
prayers for the repose of the earth-bound soul, that he might be loosed
and set free.
For five weeks longer we remained in the house, but I never saw the
sailor again.