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CASE IV
JANE OF GEORGE STREET, EDINBURGH
“The news that, for
several years at any rate, George Street, Edinburgh, was haunted wrote a
correspondent of mine some short time ago, might cause no little
surprise to many of its inhabitants/’ And my friend proceeded to relate
his experience of the haunting, which I will reproduce as nearly as
possible in his own words. I quote from memory, having foolishly
destroyed the letter.
I was walking in a leisurely way along George Street the other day,
towards Strunalls, where I get my cigars, and had arrived opposite No.
—y when I suddenly noticed, just ahead of me, a tall lady of remarkably
graceful figure, clad in a costume which, even to an ignoramus in
fashions like myself, seemed extraordinarily out of date. In my
untechnical language it consisted of a dark blue coat and skirt, trimmed
with black braid. The coat had a very high collar, turned over to show a
facing of blue velvet, its sleeves were very full at the shoulders, and
a band of blue velvet drew it tightly in at the waist. Moreover, unlike
every other lady I saw, she wore a small hat, which I subsequently
learned was a toque, with one white and one blue plume placed moderately
high at the side. The only other conspicuous items of her dress, the
effect of which was, on the whole, quiet, were white glace gloves,—over
which dangled gold curb bracelets with innumerable pendants,—shoes,
which were of patent leather with silver buckles and rather high Louis
heels, and fine, blue silk openwork stockings. So much for her dress.
Now for her herself. She was a strikingly fair woman with very pale
yellow hair and a startlingly white complexion; and this latter
peculiarity so impressed me that I hastened my steps, determining to get
a full view of her. Passing her with rapid strides, I looked back, and
as I did so a cold chill ran through me,—what I looked at was—the face
of the dead. I slowed down and allowed her to take the lead.
I now observed that, startling as she was, no one else seemed to notice
her. One or two people obviously, though probably unconsciously,
possessing the germs of psychism, shivered when they passed her, but as
they neither slackened their pace nor turned to steal a second look, I
concluded they had not seen her. Without glancing either to the right or
left, she moved steadily on, past Molton’s the confectioner’s, past
Perrin’s the hatter’s. Once, I thought she was coming to a halt, and
that she intended crossing the road, but no—on, on, on, till we came to
D- Street. There we were preparing to cross over, when an elderly
gentleman walked deliberately into her. I half expected to hear him
apologise, but naturally nothing of the sort happened ; she was only too
obviously a phantom, and, in accordance with the nature of a phantom,
she passed right through him. A few yards farther on, she came to an
abrupt pause, and then, with a slight inclination of her head as if
meaning me to follow, she glided into a chemist’s shop. She was
certainly not more than six feet ahead of me when she passed through the
door, and I was even nearer than that to her when she suddenly
disappeared as she stood before the counter. I asked the chemist if he
could tell me anything about the lady who had just entered his shop, but
he merely turned away and laughed.
“Lady!” he said; “what are you talking about? You’re a bit out of your
reckoning. This isn’t the first of April. Come, what do you want?”
I bought a bottle of formamints, and reluctantly and regretfully turned
away. That night I dreamed I again saw the ghost. I followed her up
George Street just as I had done in reality; but when she came to the
chemist’s shop, she turned swiftly round. “I’m Jane!” she said in a
hollow voice. “Jane! Only Jane!” and with that name ringing in my ears I
awoke.
Some days elapsed before I was in George Street again. The weather had
in the meanwhile undergone one of those sudden and violent changes, so
characteristic of the Scottish climate. The lock-gates of heaven had
been opened and the rain was descending in cataracts. The few
pedestrians I encountered were enveloped in mackintoshes, and carried
huge umbrellas, through which the rain was soaking, and pouring off from
every point. Everything was wet—everywhere was mud. The water, splashing
upwards, saturated the tops of my boots and converted my trousers into
sodden sacks. Some weather isn’t fit for dogs, but this weather wasn’t
good enough for tadpoles—even fish would have kicked at it and kept in
their holes. Imagine, then, the anomaly! Amidst all this aqueous
inferno, this slippery-sloppery, filth-bespattering inferno, a
spotlessly clean apparition in blue without either waterproof or
umbrella. I refer to Jane. She suddenly appeared, as I was passing The
Ladies’ Tea Association Rooms, walking in front of me. She looked just
the same as when I last saw her—spick and span, and—dry. I repeat the
word—dry —for that is what attracted my attention most. Despite the
deluge, not a single raindrop touched her—the plumes on her toque were
splendidly erect and curly, her shoe-buckles sparkled, her patent
leathers were spotless, whilst the cloth of her coat and skirt looked as
sheeny as if they had but just come from Keeley’s.
Anxious to get another look at her face, I quickened my pace, and,
darting past her, gazed straight into her countenance. The result was a
severe shock. The terror of what I saw—the ghastly horror of her dead
white face—sent me reeling across the pavement. I let her pass me, and,
impelled by a sickly fascination, followed in her wake.
Outside a jeweller’s stood a hansom— quite a curiosity in these days of
motors —and, as Jane glided past, the horse shied. I have never seen an
animal so terrified. We went on, and at the next crossing halted. A
policeman had his hand up checking the traffic. His glance fell on Jane
— the effect was electrical. His eyes bulged, his cheeks whitened, his
chest heaved, his hand dropped, and he would undoubtedly have fallen had
not a good Samaritan, in the guise of a non - psychical public - house
loafer, held him up. Jane was now close to the chemist’s, and it was
with a sigh of relief that I saw her glide in and disappear.
Had there been any doubt at all, after my first encounter with Jane, as
to her being superphysical, there was certainly none now. The
policeman’s paroxysm of fear and the horse’s fit of shying were facts.
What had produced them ? I alone knew—and I knew for certain—it was
Jane. Both man and animal saw what I saw. Hence the phantom was not
subjective; it was not illusionary; it was a bona fide spirit
manifestation—a visitant from the other world—the world of earth-bound
souls. Jane fascinated me. I made endless researches in connection with
her, and, in answer to one of my inquiries, I was informed that eighteen
years ago—that is to say, about the time Jane’s dress was in fashion—the
chemist’s shop had been occupied by a dressmaker of the name of
Bosworth. I hunted up Miss Bosworth’s address and called on her. She had
retired from business and was living in St. Michael’s Road, Bournemouth.
I came to the point straight.
“Can you give me any information,” I asked, “about a lady whose
Christian name was Jane? ”
“That sounds vague!” Miss Bosworth said. “I've met a good many Janes in
my time.
“But not Janes with pale
yellow hair, and white eyebrows and eyelashes!” And I described her in
detail.
“How do you come to know about her?” Miss Bosworth said, after a long
pause.
“Because,” I replied with a certain slowness and deliberation
characteristic of me, “because I've seen her ghost! ”
Of course I knew Miss Bosworth was no sceptic—the moment my eyes rested
on her I saw she was psychic, and that the superphysical was often at
her elbow. Accordingly, I was not in the least surprised at her look of
horror.
“What!” she exclaimed, “is she still there? I thought she would surely
be at rest now!”
“Who was she? I inquired. “Come —you need not be afraid of me. I
have come here solely because the occult has always interested me. Who
was Jane, and why should her ghost haunt George Street?”
“It happened a good many years ago,” Miss Bosworth replied, “in 1892. In
answer to an advertisement I saw in one of the daily papers, I called on
a Miss Jane Vernelt—Mademoiselle Vernelt she called herself—who ran a
costumier's business in George Street, in the very building, in fact,
now occupied by the chemist you have mentioned. The business was for
sale, and Miss Vernelt wanted a big sum for it. However, as her books
showed a very satisfactory annual increase in receipts and her clientele
included a duchess and other society leaders, I considered the bargain a
tolerably safe one, and we came to terms. Within a week I was running
the business, and, exactly a month after I had taken it over, I was
greatly astonished to receive a visit from Miss Vernelt. She came into
the shop quite beside herself with agitation. It's all a mistake! ' she
screamed. 41 didn't want to sell it. I can't do anything with my
capital. Let me buy it back.' I listened to her politely, and then
informed her that as I had gone to all the trouble of taking over the
business and had already succeeded in extending it, I most certainly had
no intention of selling it—at least not for some time. Well, she behaved
like a 5 lunatic, and in the end created such a disturbance that I had
to summon my assistants and actually turn her out. After that I had no
peace for six weeks. She came every day, at any and all times, and I was
at last obliged to take legal proceedings. I then discovered that her
mind was really unhinged, and that she nad been suffering from softening
of the brain for many months. Her medical advisers had, it appeared,
warned her to give up business and place herself in the hands of
trustworthy friends or relations, who would see that her money was
properly invested, but she had delayed doing so; and when, at last, she
did make up her mind to retire, the excitement, resulting from so great
a change in her mode of living, accelerated the disease, and, exactly
three weeks after the sale of her business, she became a victim to the
delusion that she was ruined. This delusion grew more and more
pronounced as her malady increased, and amidst her wildest ravings she
clamoured to be taken back to George Street. The hauntings, indeed,
began before she died ; and I frequently saw her— when I knew her
material body to be under restraint—just as you describe, gliding in and
out the show-rooms.
“For several weeks after her death, the manifestations continued—they
then ceased, and I have never heard of her again until now.”
I remember tightly the account of the George Street ghost here
terminated; but my friend referred to it again at the close of his
letter.
“Since my return to Scotland,” he wrote, “I have frequently visited
George Street, almost daily, but I have not seen Jane, I only hope that
her poor distracted spirit has at last found rest.” And with this kindly
sentiment my correspondent concluded. |
