The Strange Experiences of Tina Malone/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII.
THE ROSARY.
One day I had a rosary given me.
I don't know what suggested it. She had always taken an interest in me—an affectionate interest I might say—the little nun who looked after the door and the telephone at the convent where I worked.
Her religion was her one thought. On the table in front of her where she sat during the day was a little coloured figure of St. Joseph.
Here she sat all day. It was called Mother Joseph's corner, and here it was she knelt at mid-day when the convent bells rang the Angelus.
She was very devout and I loved to let her talk to me of her religion. She had such faith in prayer, in purgatory, and hell fires. But she believed that by prayer we could assuage the suffering.
I was a protestant. She knew it, for each time as she talked, by some little word or way, I let her see that nothing would make me forsake the faith my mother's family and ours had been brought up in. But she still persisted and on fete days she took me always to see the convent chapel.
I loved to go but always with a feeling which I took trouble to convey that I loved the lights and flowers and quiet of the place as one who would love it in any church and not as she did.
I had seen it many times and it never failed to throw a feeling of holiness and quiet peace over me as I stood at the door, or, as she eagerly bade me, knelt for a moment on one of the prie-dieux.
There were the days when the white altar was all aglow with its candles ranged in different heights and flowers of pale pink and blue in the vases. There was the little red light hanging before the altar—the little red light which stood for the "Sacred Heart of Jesus." There was the organ, breaking the peaceful silence with chords and quiet melodies. There were the times of the "forty hours watch" with the quiet kneeling figures—one nun each side of the aisle and one girl at each side, kneeling at her prie-dieu with bent veiled head, chosen to take her share in relieving—Then there was the hour of Benediction, when the whole school walked silently in in steady order and took their places, the nuns behind them in the back rows, and the officiating priest, with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the coloured windows and resting on his head, as, with his back turned to us, he muttered through his prayers, his face upturned to the altar. There were the hymns with the voices of the children and nuns rising pure and sweet—so sweet that the tears would rush to my eyes. All this with the quiet calming atmosphere of the convent which met me as I entered it, seemed to sort out and smooth away all the worries I brought in, sending me away with a feeling of sanity, which made me love the place.
There was the day when, as I arrived, I saw little white-robed figures flitting about the garden.
"The little Communicants," said Mother Joseph, in answer to my question! "Five of the little ones made their First Communion to-day. Would you like to see their room? They have made their little confessions." She laughed kindly as she spoke. "They hardly know what their little sins are. Come with me."
We went together along the convent pasages to the room set aside for the little Communicants for the day. They were as important as five little brides in their white frocks, white shoes and wreaths and veils. So sweet they looked, and each came bounding forward to show me her own particular little rosary given to her and specially blessed for the occasion. They had each a little altar for the day, decked out with little pictures of the saints—presents from the older girls, little posies from their gardens and little images of "Our Blessed Lady," or the "Child Jesus." They flitted about innocently happy, the elder girls wandering in as they wished to admire the little altars and make much of the children.
It was their Day.
"See my Rosary," said one to me. "Look at my altar," said another. "Millie had no prayer-book so I lent her mine," said a last-year's Communicant who had come in to inspect.
They were kept there all day—a holiday to them, of course, with little intervals of prayers and serious talks.
Those little girls at the convent were so precious. There was an unwritten law there always that they were to be protected by their elders. From the window sometimes I watched them at lunch-time as they went to the playing-field. First one class would line up on each side of the door, all mushroom-hatted alike, and wait for the signal. Then, as the mistress in attendance came out and gave it, with a bound off they would go, unaffected and unconscious of the supervision which was always there. Another class would follow and the same thing would happen. But the tiniest girls were kept back to go hand-in-hand with only the very tallest—their special charge for the day—a charge well-kept and loved.
One day after my lunch I wandered about to find a room where a class was not to be held at once, for they were always arranged by the monitresses ready for use.
It was the "Little Ones" room I found myself in. Something in the atmosphere of it brought a feeling of love and holiness into my heart. There was the little figure of the Child Jesus on a little shrine at the end of the room with flowers picked by the children themselves from their own little gardens and put lovingly and proudly in the vases. And there in another niche was a model of Lourdes, made with grey paper rocks, the chapel on the heights and down below the wonderful pool where the Miracles took place. On the window-sill were glass preserving-bottles filled with sawdust in which beans had been placed and watched with interest as they burst their shells and gradually shot up into green leaf above. There were wonderful things in that room. Even a shelf of dolls—the babies of these babies whose childhood was kept sweet and sheltered.
"I love little Marie," I said to Sister Bridget one day, "She's a little mischief I know, but she looks so sweet."
"She's full of life," said Sister. "It's wonderful though, how that child's improved. She was naughty! but you know it's better that the naughtiness should come out of them while they're little. You feel it's there and it's got to come out sometime and if they show it when they're little they've got rid of it once and for all."
And there sat Marie with her rose-bud mouth screwed into a little demure line and her blue eyes under their straight fringe doing their best not to twinkle with mischief.
Then, one day, I don't know why, the little nun said she wanted to give me a rosary. I protested, laughing and saying "It's no use you know. Nothing would ever make me turn."
I shook my head at her but she brought forward the little string of metal beads, laughing too, but persistent.
"I will give you a little book to read that will tell you all about it," she said.
She was so persistent and I knew her heart was so much in religion that I took it.
"It has two beads short, but that will not matter. It has many indulgences—oh, many indulgences."
I took it not in the least understanding what "indulgences" might mean, protesting again "Now you know it's no use."
But she said, "It's on my conscience—you know Miss Burston is a convert."
I went home with my little rosary not meaning to make use of it in the way she thought and wished, but pleased to have it—I can hardly tell why—some sort of feeling of a child with a new toy—a feeling I smiled at in myself. I used to hold it up and look at the two little rows of beads with its hanging cross and let the light play on it and the thoughts come. It suggested convents and churches and prayers and brought peace to my soul. But I never took it seriously.
One night, obeying a whim, I put it under my pillow.
That night for the first time I dreamt of my mother who shook her fist at me. She was the daughter of a clergyman and had always refused even to go inside a Catholic church.
I took the dream laughingly, not believing in omens.
Not long after this I had a most extraordinary experience.
I had been out to afternoon tea and came back lonely and tired and hungry to my empty rooms. There was a feeling that haunted me every now and then that the rest of the family were upstairs—the family that were all married and in homes of their own and the last only so lately passed away.
The feeling came every now and then hauntingly, leaving me to reality and the desolation of my lonely room.
I suppose I was run down or low-spirited because I was cold and had had no tea for I could not keep the tears back and sent a cry out through the window and up to the sky to God or Heaven to send me something to make life worth living.
I wondered, as I had done many times why Naomi had quarrelled, and thought of the many times I had watched for her to come to make up, quite expecting her to come.
That night, as I lay in bed I found a most extraordinary thing happening. My limbs began to move as if automatically—certainly not of my own volition.
I was interested and watched proceedings as if I were detached.
The movements went on for a little while but I was sleepy and, I suppose, fell asleep wondering a little, but not much. But next night, when I went to bed, I happened to be on my back and no sooner was I still than I found my feet drawn into position, my legs straightened so that I lay in one straight line on the bed. Then my arms were moved until they lay across my breast, the hands straightened out flat on my breast, side by side.
Then the exercises began. I watched with interest making myself passive and allowing my limbs to move as directed by some unseen force.
It seemed to me that the whole of my inside was being gradually massaged leaving me afterwards with a comfortable feeling as if it was all of velvet. The next day I felt particularly well. I lay there passive, struck with wonder at what was going on, and took note of it all.
Night after night these continued for I am not quite sure how long. Each night a different part of my body was exercised. One night my head was made to move first as if nodding and it was continued about twenty times, then moved from side to side—then the soles of my feet were caused to massage each other. Another night I was caused to do deep breathing. I used to get into bed with a feeling of wonder as to what form they would take each night. I was always pulled into position in a wonderfully exact, precise manner, first heels together, limbs straightened and arms sometimes straightened into line with my body, sometimes moved into the position described above, side by side on my breast.
All this was done beautifully and as if by some unseen person standing at the foot of my bed.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He seemed to laugh and did not answer.
"But tell me who are you? Is it you, Tony?"
"Oh, Tony, is it?" the shadow answered and he laughed.
"Come over here and touch my hand," I said, "I'll know then whether you're Tony or not."
I felt that he laughed and my right hand was made to touch my left.
Could it be Tony? Could it be possible that he had taken it into his head to give me exercises from a distance? He was always getting ideas into his head that I was tired and needed something to give me strength, and I always knew he was possessed of some wonderful power and I had a beautiful feeling of being "protected" when I stood anywhere near him. Perhaps he, who was always astonishing me, was sending his strength through to me this way.
Someone was there in his astral body. They do this, I believe—occultists of the cleverest type—leave their own bodies and visit people in their astral forms. I had never really believed it, but it seemed like it now.
"Is it you, Tony? Tell me," I said again.
He laughed again.
"Well, tell me who you are, then, if you're not he," I said. "Are you living or dead? Are you living?"
"No."
"Dead?"
"Yes, I died last July."
"Did I ever know you?"
"No."
"Then why did you come to me?"
"Because you were lonely."
"But how did you know where to find me?"
He laughed.
"Oh, I knew."
"Have I ever seen you?"
"You may have."
"What are you like—are you tall?"
"Medium height."
"Fair?"
"No—grizzled."
"Brown eyes?"
"No."
"Blue?"
"Grey."
"Clean shaven?"
"No."
"Moustache?"
He laughed.
"Yes."
"How old were you when you died?"
"Fifty-five."
"Oh," I said.
"Would you like to know my name?" I asked presently.
"Yes."
"I'm Tina Malone."
"Are you now?" he said putting on a slight brogue.
"Yes, I am," I answered, at once catching the touch of Irish.
"Are you glad to see me Tina?"
"Sure I am that," I said.
"Were you lonely, then, girl?"
"I was."
"You'll not be lonely any more."
I can't remember how many nights passed—it may have been that Tuesday or the following one—when what I term the "operation" took place.
As the exercises progressed I noticed that my visitor seemed concerned about one part of me and always hesitated and paused for some time over one part of me, while I lay still. Then I found my eyes caused to blink hard. I looked towards the foot of the bed where I supposed him to be standing and said:
"You're not to hypnotise me. I will not be hypnotised, do you hear? I will not—I will not—I will not."
I closed my eyes and turned my head to one side. I closed my eyes naturally then, but afterwards they shut tight suddenly.
I lay there talking to my visitor who seemed intent on his work and did not reply—and my arms were then lying by my sides—Soon I found myself giving little whimpers, my forehead puckered. I felt no pain—but my hands began to clutch at the bed-clothes and presently, I thrust my fists into my mouth and began to bite them as people do when they are in great pain, and as if with them stifling a scream.
Then I lost consciousness. My heart seemed to stop and when I came round again—or rather as I had the feeling I have had before on coming out of a faint—a cruelly painful feeling as of life coming back with difficulty—found myself thinking—
"So this is death! I'm dead now."
Then as I tossed my arms to and fro in painful weakness, grunting weakly and whimpering, I said: "You've killed me now—Just see what you've done! You've killed me! Do you hear? Very well I don't care—I don't mind dying—I'm not afraid of death—Now you see what you've done. Why did you do it? I don't care—I'm not fond of life—I never wanted to live—I don't care if I die—Bring me round, you brute—Bring me round, do you hear?"
He seemed to stop and be in great trouble and I, conscious of him crouching against a corner of the wall as if terrified of what he had done.
Then I called Tony's name, begging him to come to my aid.
Whether he came in spirit or not I don't know but I felt my fingers begin to move as if playing finger-exercises as I lay with my arms outstretched beyond the bed, palms upward and then my left arm was made to rub the inside of my right arm between the wrist and the elbow.
I went on talking all the time weakly and furiously saying that I was all alone, that I could not get up to get some water, that I was dying (and indeed I felt I was). Then suddenly I seemed to feel that he came to my side and was crying bitterly as if unstrung and my feeling turned from fury to pity.
I imagined him as kneeling at the bedside and I, still weak and hardly able to move, placed my arm round his neck telling him not to mind.
"Never mind," I said. "Don't cry—don't cry—Poor boy—don't cry—it's all right now—It's all right," and I patted his head but he still knelt on, his head in his arms and his hands thrown over me as if for pardon.
And then, as he knelt there and I gradually found my strength coming back, my eyes were drawn to one spot in the room where I fancied I saw a tiny soft light like a "Will-o-the-Wisp" and I knew it was my mother's spirit.
I felt my eyes drawn from one side to the other and following it, somehow knew it was my mother. And sometimes I felt my eyes drawn to a spot just over my head as if she were bending over me—and I was made to smile.
The next morning I felt weak and serious but I went to my work as usual. But my astral friend stayed by me all day. I was conscious of him there, I felt a sudden straightening of my spine and found myself taking a long breath, and knew that he was there. Then I felt a pressure of my hand.
I began mentally to ask him questions to which he answered "yes" or "no" by one or other movements of my hand.
It was curious that feeling of having been operated on. I had known nothing of a surgeon's knife and had been most healthy all my life, though I was highly-strung and nervous and fainted at the thought of pain or the sight of blood.
All that day I felt weak and serious. I was at my work and the old feeling of sanity and peace came over me. My astral friend never left my side. I felt that he was sorry and would not let me out of his care.
One evening, soon after this, I felt myself being made to turn round three times from right to left and then to walk into the next room.
I allowed myself to become passive, anxious to see what was going to happen.
I seemed to have taken on another's personality.
I felt myself walking slowly back into my bedroom and, seating myself in the armchair, sat and looked towards the bed.
And then a curious thing happened.
I found myself as if I were watching an operation being performed on the bed.
I looked intently at the pillow where a face would lie, then looked with horror at another seeing him bending over it. I glanced from that face to the foot of the bed and looked sadly into the face on the pillow. I then watched the shadow of an operation performed. Up and down—from the face to the poor body I looked, till suddenly, as if unable to bear more I flung myself across the body with my face against hers and sobbed.
What it was and what it meant I can't think, but that is what happened.
Then one day I felt myself turned round again in the same manner and, letting myself become limp so that I could find out what was going to happen, I found myself guided into the next room and towards the book-case—caused to take something up—I even shut my eyes—It was Tony's photograph.
I made myself quite passive, just allowing things to happen and was quite conscoius that it was not I who was doing it.
I found myself walking into my bedroom and towards the bed with the photograph in my hand.
Quietly and quite firmly I reached the bed and, allowing myself to be guided by this Presence, slowly put my arm across the bed and laid the picture on it at his dictation.
I was mentally watching this performance with great interest even while my body was doing it and, just to see what would happen, took the picture back again to its old place on my bookshelf.
"Well," I said, addressing the unseen person who was making me do these extraordinary things. "I'd like to know what you're going to make me do next. Who are you anyway? Tell me who you are, and what you are here for? I know you're not Tony. What's your name?"
But no, he would not tell me his name and so I called him "Patrick."