Part 18 (2/2)

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 _bona 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 pa.s.sed 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 embarra.s.sment.

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_.”

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