CHAPTER XIV

I GO ON WITH THE HISTORY OF MY LIFE, AND NARRATE A GHOSTLY HAPPENING IN LIVERPOOL

I gave up acting directly I became engaged to be married. I had no alternative, as my fiancée’s parents strongly disapproved of the Stage, and so long as I was on it, they would, I knew, never consent to my union with their daughter. But it was rather a wrench, for I really liked acting, and, with the exception of the Sunday travelling, the life suited me well. What other occupation to choose was a poser. All the difficulties that had faced me on my return from the States once again presented themselves, and were aggravated by the fact that I was many years older. I was racking my brain to know what to do for the best, when I received a letter from an old friend in Cornwall, who suggested that I should go down there and open up a small Preparatory Boys’ School. It was Hobson’s choice, and in due course of time I found myself once again engaged in the profession I loathed. I started with four or five pupils, and had worked up my connection till I had nearly thirty, when someone, with more money than I, set up on a much bigger scale, and my numbers gradually decreased.

I was never an orthodox pedagogue; very much the reverse. I aimed rather at making my pupils manly than at cramming their heads with book work, and, I think, I succeeded. There were exceptions, of course, but my pupils as a whole developed a fondness for games, both cricket and football, that bore subsequent fruit when they left me and went on the public schools. The out-of-door occupation that formed part of my life now was delightful, but the dry and dull monotony of the schoolroom, and the eternal interference of certain of the parents of my pupils, who wanted everything for nothing, for my fees were ridiculously small, took it out of me so much, that I simply longed to throw up the whole thing and get back to my dearly-beloved stage or writing.

It was while I was in Cornwall that I got my first book, “For Satan’s Sake,” taken. Mr. Ranger Gull, who was at that time reader for Mr. Arthur Greening’s publishing house, read the MS., and was so pleased with it, that he recommended it strongly for publication. It was accepted, but did not appear in print for fully a year.

“The Unknown Depths,” which I had written in St. James’ Road, Brixton, followed; then “Jennie Barlowe,” which I wrote between school hours in Cornwall in the Spring of 1906; then “Dinevah the Beautiful,” the last of my efforts in Brixton. The latter appeared in 1907.

In the winter of 1908 my wife was ill, and in the evenings, when my harassing duties in the schoolroom were over, I used to sit by her bedside evolving fresh plots. It was then that I first conceived the idea of writing a ghost book.

In my holidays, which I usually spent in London or the Midlands, never in Cornwall—I always flew away from the precincts of the schoolroom the moment we broke up—I had often gone ghost-hunting, and I now determined to make use of my experiences. Consequently, I mapped out a synopsis of a work on haunted houses, which was at once accepted by Mr. Eveleigh Nash, who commissioned me to write a book on those lines. I did this in the Summer of 1908, and the book, which appeared in the Autumn of that year and was entitled “Some Haunted Houses of England and Wales,” created something of a sensation. It was not only extensively reviewed by the London papers, but by many of the American and Colonial ones as well. From that time onward my pen has rarely been idle, and, apart from compiling some dozen or so works on the Superphysical, I have written innumerable short stories and articles. Indeed, so associated has my name become with everything appertaining to the psychic, that publishers are inclined to the idea that I cannot write upon any other subject. In this, however, I venture to think they are mistaken; for my two works, “The Reminiscences of Mrs. E. M. Ward” and “The Irish Abroad,” both published by Sir Isaac Pitman & Co., have been very favourably received by both the Press and public.

It was, however, the success of this first work of mine on ghostly phenomena that made me realise that what I had long hoped for had at last come within measurable distance of attainment. I could give up teaching and devote my time once again, wholly and solely to writing. Never shall I forget with what joy—with what unbounded and infinite joy—I hailed the prospect of leaving for ever behind me all those weary, dreary hours in the schoolroom, where I had been forced to display a patience I never had, and where I had been forced to assume a virtue I never really possessed, namely, a love of teaching.

I made public my intention of giving up the school in the summer of 1908, and the following winter saw me snugly ensconced in a little house in Upper Norwood, where I have been ever since.

Several writers, one of whom I had the pleasure of meeting in London quite recently (his brilliant character studies of young and charming girls figure monthly in certain of the popular magazines), have been credited with introducing to the public, none too favourably, this Cornish Colony amongst whom I lived. If they have done so, I can certainly endorse their sentiments. In no other town that I have been in have I ever met people who laid themselves open to such unfavourable criticism. I lived there nearly eight years, and during that time I received the bare minimum of hospitality. I found the greater number of the inhabitants bigoted and pharisaical and the townfolk and labouring people not only extremely ignorant, but very unforgiving and vindictive. That they were still—that is to say, at the time I am writing of—in a tribal state was proved by their puerile attitude of hostility to strangers, whom they used frequently to insult and annoy. I signed two petitions relative to the throwing of stones at visitors, which petitions were forwarded to the Home Secretary. The result was nil. The local authorities, in dealing with such cases, displayed the most woeful apathy, and apparently this state of affairs was irremediable, since the magistrates, with few exceptions, were related to half the people in the town.

With the Art Colony I had very little to do. The few artists I knew at all intimately I liked. I found them congenial and generally sympathetic, though displaying an avidity in criticising authors, which, considering their touchiness with regard to any criticism of their own work, was distinctly amusing; all the same, apart from this and one other harmless peculiarity, namely, an exaggerated and unblushing deference to titles, I found them very good fellows, and nearly all the hospitality I received in the town I received from them.

I think I am right in saying there was never a very friendly feeling between the townspeople and the artists. The townspeople looked upon the artists as intruders, “foreigners,” whose ways and habits were diametrically opposite to theirs, especially with regard to the treatment of the Sabbath; whilst the artists showed a none too well concealed contempt for the townspeople, whom they seemed to regard not only as hopelessly inartistic, but of an utterly inferior breed.

In most small towns there is a good deal of unkind gossip and scandal, but I really think that in this respect the town I refer to was unrivalled. It seemed to me that the people were never so happy as when saying malicious things about each other, and they meanly victimised those whose limited means would not permit of their taking legal action against them.

I have often wondered what made these people so peculiarly unkind.

As soon as I had settled down in Norwood, I wrote “Ghostly Phenomena,” which was reviewed at length by Andrew Lang in the “Morning Post.” About that time I had the great pleasure of meeting Mrs. E. M. Ward. The rencontre happened thus. The Misses Enid and Beatrice Ward, Mrs. Ward’s youngest daughters, were getting up some theatricals, and, being short of a man, asked a lady, with whom I was acquainted, if she knew of anyone who would help them out of the difficulty. She wrote to me, with the result that I took part in the play, and thus had the good fortune to meet the Wards, with whom, I am happy to say, I have kept in touch ever since.

A year or so afterwards I edited Mrs. Ward’s reminiscences, which was, almost without exception, well received by the Press. Some papers, “Vanity Fair” and the “Weekly Graphic,” for instance—the “Graphic” has always been very kind and fair to me,—giving the book several lengthy and highly eulogistic notices. Mrs. Ward is a believer in ghosts, and in her reminiscences there is a very interesting first-hand experience of hers with the Superphysical. Mrs. Ward’s children, apart from the fact that they inherit talent from their mother and father, and grandfather, their great-grandfather, James Ward, R.A., and their great-great-uncle, George Morland, R.A., are very interesting in themselves and possess exceptional personal attractions.

A year after I first visited their house, I was commissioned by the Editor of “The Weekly Despatch,” Mr. Beuley, to write a series of ghostly experiences for that paper. In order to do this I made pilgrimages to all parts of the country, and in my zeal to find ghosts occasionally encountered objects of a very different nature. On one occasion, in Brighton, I had taken advantage of a slightly open window to enter a tiny house I had been told was very badly haunted. It was a very dark night, and being unable to find my matches, I had to grope my way about. I was in a room with apparently never ending walls—they seemed to go round and round without any outlet at all. At last, however, I managed to discover a doorway, and, passing through it, I felt my way to a staircase, which I climbed up, till I came to what I judged to be a landing. There all further speculations were brought to an abrupt end by my suddenly falling over some large, soft object on the floor. In an instant, there was a loud yell, and I found myself rolling over and over clawing and clutching at some foul and unsavoury mass, that seemed to have fastened itself on to me with the intention of first probing out my eyes, and then throttling me. The small flask of whiskey that I happened to have on me undoubtedly saved me from total annihilation. The moment the claw-like hands touched the flask, I was free.

I staggered to my feet, searched again, and, this time, fortunately found the match-box and struck a light.

Crouching on the floor in front of me was a long, thin, scraggy creature with an absolutely bloodless face and two big, round, protruding black eyes. Its hair was matted like a mop and tossed about anywhere; its clothes, or rather rags, were buttonless, and only held together, here and there, by pieces of filthy string. A more disgusting, and at the same time pitiable, spectacle could not be imagined.

It was fortunate for me that I had had previous experience of such sights in the parks and commons of London, otherwise I should have been terrified out of my wits. As it was, I only just managed to pull myself together, and realising that what I saw before me was not a ghost, but a material and now, as far as I was concerned, harmless being, I spoke to it.

“Well,” I said, “at any rate you seem to like my whiskey. How long have you been here?”

The flask was gradually lowered, and a voice, which I decided was that of a woman—for up to the present I hadn’t been able to decipher its sex—gurgled, “I sleep here every night. This is my house.”

“Then the enigma is solved,” I said. “You are the ghost!”

“I soon shall be,” the creature replied, “for I’ve eaten nothing for more than two days.”

“Well, I’m afraid I cannot give you any more than this,” I said, “for it’s all I have with me.” And I handed her some biscuits and bread and cheese.

Never shall I forget the savage joy with which she snatched the food from my hand and crammed it into her big, gaping, fleshless jaws. No animal in the Zoo was half so voracious. When she had finished it all, and drained the last drop of whiskey, she drew her lean and dirty, albeit well-shaped, fingers across her mouth, and cursed me.

“Get you gone,” she snarled, “and leave me here. I tell you this is my house. I’ve as much right to it as you or anyone else. Get you gone, or I’ll spit at you.” And not wishing to be spat upon, I picked up my flask and departed.

I encountered another ghost of this order three nights later in a house in Manchester. The house was furnished, but was untenanted, as the owner, a rich and eccentric old lady, believed it to be haunted. She wrote to me, _àpropos_ of my book, “Ghostly Phenomena,” and suggested I should try and exorcise the ghost. Now I do not altogether believe in exorcism. There are occasions upon which it has been practised with success, mostly in cases of haunting by phantasms of the sane dead, but there are also many cases, within my own experience, in which it has been practised with no result whatever.

At all events, with my elastic views regarding denominational religion, I did not feel disposed to try it, and so I wrote and told her. She replied, “Come in any case, and give me your opinion as to the nature and cause of the phenomena.”

I went. The house was in a quiet, sleepy thoroughfare, not three minutes walk from the Whalley Road. It was big and roomy, and would have been attractive but for the walls, the papers of which had obviously been chosen by someone who did not possess even the most elementary conception of what is pleasing in colour and design. As it was, my artistic susceptibilities were so grossly outraged, that I could well have imagined, the place haunted by neutrarians of the most undesirable order.

I visited the house in the early evening, and the subdued light from the fast-fading sunshine, filtering through the drawn Venetian blinds, produced a singularly sad, and, at the same time, ghostly effect. I had come unaccompanied, for nothing on earth would persuade the old lady or any of her domestics to set a foot in the house, and as I wandered through room after room, the intense hush began at length to tell on my nerves. When I was on the staircase leading to the top storey, I fancied I heard a slight noise, and a sudden faintness coming over me, I had to clutch hold of the banisters to prevent myself falling. I went on, however, and opening a door at the top of the stairs, found myself in a large room communicating with two other rooms by means of doors, both of which stood slightly ajar. I had passed through the first, and was half across the floor of the second, when I suddenly felt one of my ankles caught hold of. The shock was so great that all the blood in my body seemed suddenly to dry up, and again I all but fainted. Forcing myself to look down, however, I perceived a skinny hand and arm protruding from under the dressing-table, and assured by the appearance of it that it belonged to nothing ghostly, I struck at it with my stick, kicking out vigorously at the same time.

With terrible howlings there now crawled from under the table a long and lanky idiot boy. It transpired that he was the son of one of the old lady’s servants, and that he was enjoying a nice, comfortable home at her expense. His mother used to visit him every evening, and this evening he had hidden under the table with the intention of frightening her. Unfortunately for them both, however, he had frightened me instead. The servant, of course, lost her post, and the old lady, assured that there was no longer any fear of ghosts, came back to the house, and, at my suggestion, had all the walls re-papered.

The following week I had another rather strange experience in Liverpool. I was getting dozens of letters weekly at that time, as the first of my series of ghost stories had appeared in the “Weekly Despatch,” and my fame as a spook hunter had spread far and wide in consequence. A lady in Liverpool wrote to me, saying that her daughter, Emily, was tormented by a man coming into her bedroom every night at the same time and walking off with her bedclothes. He said nothing, merely opened her door, and, approaching the bed on tip-toe, caught hold of the clothes and hurriedly retreated with them. Spirit lights, my correspondent added, were constantly seen in the room, and at times figures like angels, and she would be glad if I would visit the house, and discover for her, if possible, some explanation of the occurrences. The nature of the manifestations being somewhat extraordinary, I thought it discreet to take a friend. The house was in a crescent, close to Clayton Square. We were shown into the drawing-room, where all the family were assembled, and we were at once regaled with detailed accounts of all that was alleged to happen. Then we were taken to the bedroom that was haunted, and the young lady whose bed the ghost stripped, at our request, sat there with us. As soon as the electric light was switched off, she began to see spirit lights. We saw nothing. No man appeared, and, on taking our departure, we both agreed that the phenomena were subjective, and that it was simply a case of hallucination. Accordingly, I advised her mother to consult a good general practitioner, as, in all probability, her daughter needed a tonic and change of air. I strongly warned her against consulting any professional Spiritualist.

Well, I returned to London, and thought no more of the matter till the following Christmas, when, quite by chance, I ran against a young doctor, to whom I had mentioned the incident. Evidently eager to communicate something, he remarked, “You remember that Liverpool case you told me about—the case of the young lady whose bedclothes used to disappear, and which you thought was hallucination? Well, you were mistaken. Since I saw you, I have become acquainted with the doctor who attends her, and he told me that, whilst he was there one day, the bedroom door opened and in walked a young man. He says the girl immediately exclaimed, ‘Here is the man who haunts my room at night. For goodness sake, Doctor, do something!’ Whereupon, the man, muttering some words in German, abruptly left the room. My doctor friend immediately ran after him, but he was nowhere to be seen, and although the house was at once searched, no traces of him could be found. Now, what do you think of the case?”

“It is certainly a very unusual one,” I replied, “and, as you say, this sequel quite upsets my theory of hallucination. It may be a case of projection. Someone who knows the girl and wishes to torment her is experimenting in visiting her in his immaterial ego. I have heard of similar cases.”

“But she knows no one like him,” my friend responded.

“Probably not,” I said. “The image she sees may be, and very likely is, merely an assumed one. Does she know any Indians, or anyone who is an earnest student of the occult? Find out if you can.”

I have not yet heard from my friend, but I still incline to the idea that the ghost in this case was a phantasm of the living, rather than a phantasm of the dead.