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?