"My son-in-law has a striking case in his own recent experience.He actually knows a man who was going to sail on the Lusitania, and his greatest friend on earth, a soldier who fell on the Maine, appeared to him and advised him not to do so.Tom's acquaintance could not say that he heard words uttered, but he certainly recognized his dead friend as he stood by his bedside, and he received into his mind a clear warning before the vision disappeared.Is that so, Tom?""Exactly so, sir.And Jack Thwaites - that was the name of the man in New York - told four others about it, and three took his tip and didn't sail.The fourth went; but he wasn't drowned.He came out all right.""The departed are certainly proved to appear in their own ghostly persons - nay, they often have been seen to do so," admitted Travers."But I will never believe they are at our beck and call, to bang tambourines or move furniture.We cannot ring up the dead as we ring up the living on a telephone.The idea is insufferable and indecent.Neither can anybody be used as a mouth-piece in that way, or tell us the present position or occupation and interests of a dead man - or what he smokes, or how his liquor tastes.Such ideas degrade our impressions of life beyond the grave.They are, if I may say so, disgustingly anthropomorphic.How can we even take it for granted that our spirits will retain a human form and human attributes after death?""It would be both weak - minded and irreligious to attempt to get at these things, no doubt," declared Colonel Vane.
"And they make confusion worse confounded by saying that evil spirits pretend sometimes to hoodwink us by posing as good spirits.Now, that's going too far," said Henry Lennox.
"But your own ghost, Sir Walter?" asked Fayre-Michell."It is a curious fact that most really ancient houses have some such addition.Is it a family spectre? Is it fairly well authenticated? Does it reign in a particular spot of house or garden? I ask from no idle curiosity.It is a very interesting subject if approached in a proper spirit, as the Psychical Research Society, of which I am a member, does approach it.""I am unprepared to admit that we have a ghost at all," repeated SirWalter."Ancient houses, as you say, often get some legend tacked on to them, and here a garden walk, or there a room, or passage, is associated with something uncanny and contrary to experience.This is an old Tudor place, and has been tinkered and altered in successive generations.We have one room at the eastern end of the great corridor which always suffered from a bad reputation.Nobody has ever seen anything in our time, and neither my father nor grandfather ever handed down any story of a personal experience.It is a bedroom, which you shall see, if you care to do so.One very unfortunate and melancholy thing happened in it.That was some twelve years ago, when Mary was still a child - two years after my dear wife died.""Tell us nothing that can cause you any pain, Walter," said Ernest Travers.
"It caused me very acute pain at the time.Now it is old history and mercifully one can look back with nothing but regret.One must, however, mention an incident in my father's time, though it has nothing to do with my own painful experience.However, that is part of the story - if story it can be called.A death occurred in the Grey Room when I was a child.Owing to the general vague feeling entertained against it, we never put guests there, and so long ago as my father's day it was relegated to a store place and lumber-store.But one Christmas, when we were very full, there came quite unexpectedly on Christmas Eve an aunt of my father - an extraordinary old character who never did anything that might be foreseen.She had never come to the family reunion before, yet appeared on this occasion, and declared that, as this was going to be her last Christmas on earth, she had felt it right to join the clan - my father being the head of the family.Her sudden advent strained our resources, I suppose, but she herself reminded us of the Grey Room, and, on hearing that it was empty, insisted on occupying it.The place is a bedroom, and my father, who personally entertained no dislike or dread of it, raised not the least objection to the strong - minded old lady's proposal.She retired, and was found dead on Christmas morning.She had not gone to bed, but was just about to do so, apparently, when she had fallen down and died.She was eighty-eight, had undergone a lengthy coach journey from Exeter,and had eaten a remarkably good dinner before going to bed.Her maid was not suspected, and the doctor held her end in no way unusual.It was certainly never associated with anything but natural causes.Indeed, only events of much later date served to remind me of the matter.Then one remembered the spoiled Christmas festivities and the callous and selfish anger of myself and various other young people that our rejoicings should be spoiled and Christmas shorn of all its usual delights.
