Part 29 (2/2)

”Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me: _Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me._” I could say the first part of it quite easily, but some fiendish enemy seemed bent upon preventing my saying the last sentence, and in my terrible dream, rescue and safety depended upon my getting to the end of the text. I tried again and again, always to be driven back in despair before the crucial words were uttered. At last, with a desperate effort, I seemed to shake off the incubus which was weighing me down, and I finished the words triumphantly, and so loud that I had positively wakened myself up _by shouting them out_. With returning memory I knew this had happened, and hearing a door open and shut on the half landing below my room, I thought for the moment that someone must have heard me, and must be coming to see what was the matter. I looked at my watch--just two-thirty A.M. No one appeared; and to my relief I remembered that this was just the hour when either Miss Hunter or my friend went round to the invalids, giving them milk or bovril, in the night.

I had no inclination to seek out either of these ladies. The horror was past, and no one could undo what I had endured; so I lay quiet, and in course of time managed to go to sleep again, not waking until the servant came into my room to light the fire at seven-thirty A.M.

It happened to be a certain _Minnie_ on this occasion, a very respectable young woman, who had accompanied Miss Hunter when she gave up the matrons.h.i.+p of a well-known hospital, and who had therefore been with her since this establishment had been started.

My night's experience convinced me so absolutely that, in spite of all that had been said, the gentleman patient _had_ died in this room, and that I had just gone through his death agonies, that instead of asking any question about it, I said very quietly to Minnie, as she was on her knees lighting my fire: ”The poor gentleman who died here last summer _died in this room, I find_.”

”Yes, ma'am,” she said quietly, not knowing, as it turned out, that any mystery had been made about the fact.

My personal friend was guiltless of any deceit, for she had been told the story about Laura Pearce's room, but the young girls confessed when I went down to breakfast that they had been specially warned not to let me know the true facts.

Miss Hunter did not appear at breakfast, as she was suffering from a chill, so I went to her bedroom to say good-bye before going up to London.

Feeling naturally annoyed and rather shaken by my night's experience, I said to her rather drily:

”You need not have taken the trouble to deceive me about my room, Miss Hunter, nor to warn the girls to do the same. I know that gentleman died there, for I have just gone through his experiences.” And then I told her about my terrible night.

Although forced to admit the facts, Miss Hunter fought every inch of the ground, so far as the _painful_ experiences were concerned.

”Such an excellent man! so interested in everything--a _clergyman_, my dear Miss Bates, and so _good!_ How could there be anything painful connected with his death?” etc. etc.

I suggested that, as Christians, we had the most overwhelming proof that holiness of life does not always preclude even mental suffering at death; but she would not hear of this argument, and doubtless considered it blasphemous.

By dint of questioning, however, I made two discoveries--first, that the death was quite unexpected. The man had only been a fortnight in the house, and when I expressed surprise that he should have been moved there so late in a fatal illness, she said unguardedly:

”_Oh, but he was very slightly ill when he came--it was more a preventive measure. None of us had any idea that he was a dying man, the symptoms developed so suddenly._”

I also elicited another fact--_i.e._ that this delightfully interesting personality ”so intellectual--so full of interest in everything” (to quote Miss Hunter's words), had died at the age of forty, in the very prime of life. No wonder, under the circ.u.mstances of so short an illness, in the very zenith of life and enjoyment, that body and soul should have been loath to separate, and thus free the imprisoned spirit!

But Miss Hunter was adamant, and would admit nothing.

Just before leaving her, it struck me that I had not yet told her about the text, so I repeated that episode, and then, for the first time, a startled look came into her eyes. She was taken by surprise, and said hastily: ”That _is_ extraordinary! I was with him when he died in the night, and he kept on asking for that text. That is not so remarkable, many might have asked for that text, but I stopped once or twice after the first sentence, and he kept on urging me: ”_Say it to the end, Miss Hunter! Say it to the end!_”

Later the good lady even consented to write out the evidential points in this story, which I sent at once to my friend Dr Richard Hodgson.

Immediately upon my return to London on this occasion, I was attacked quite suddenly by a very acute form of rheumatism, which laid me on my back--perfectly helpless--for several days.

When the doctor arrived, his first question was: ”Have you had any special shock lately? This particular form of rheumatism does not generally come on with so little warning _unless there has been a previous shock_.”

I was about to deny this, thinking he referred to unexpected news, but with the memory of my Devons.h.i.+re experience so keen and clear, I felt bound to tell him that I had certainly had a shock to my nerves twenty-four hours previously.

Soon after this sudden and sharp attack of illness I found myself in Portugal for the first time in my life.

I had gone there with an English friend--Mrs Frampton--in order to be near connections who had lived in the country for many years.

A cousin and I spent a delightful afternoon in that Cintra paradise of _Monserrat_, with General and Mrs Sartorius, who were living there at the time of my visit to Portugal. I have heard that even this charming house could tell strange tales if only walls could speak. It is easy to imagine that any spirits--carnate or discarnate--might deem it a privilege to haunt so exquisite a spot. Personally, I can only testify to the hospitality of our kind host and hostess and the excellence of the spirit of ”Robur,” which refreshed our weary bodies, and made the walk back to the Cintra Hotel, through the lovely woodland paths, a ”thing of beauty and a joy for ever.”

To return to Lisbon. My friend Mrs Frampton had never been present at any sort of psychic phenomena, so we planned a little sitting for her during one of these Lisbon evenings.

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