The literary remains of Althea are coffined in sheepskin on the topmost

shelf of the bookcase. The Swarthmoors have a strenuous objection

to the opening of this volume, for the episode of their seven times

great-aunt is supposed to reflect no honour on the family. However,

a few specimens of her fantastic letters, culled at random, can harm

neither them nor the reader.

ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR TO DR. MARSTON.

THE HOUSE WITH ELEVEN STAIRCASES,

_19th May 1709_.

Do not fear, good Doctor, that I shall ever lose the remembrance

of those tender words you spoke in the maze t’other evening. It

is not necessary to copy them down for me; for they seem part of

some rich painting, whereof the hanging moon and the stars form the

background--such a picture as shall ever remain before my view. Yet

I thank you for your kind proffer, and, whilst I forbid you, entreat

you to know that I am depriving myself of what would be a most valued

souvenir. Commend me to madam your wife; and understand that I am most

cordially your ever faithful friend to serve you.

DR. MARSTON TO ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR[1]

BALTCOMB IN LANCASHIRE,

_20th May 1709_.

Honoured Madam,--I was writing my discourse for the Sunday when the

messenger brought your most gracious epistle. Truly a great happiness

hath fallen to me! When I declared myself as one whom the power of

your presence and the fascination of your glances conquered, I felt

the same spirit as is described by the lover in the Canticles--_Turn

away thine eyes, for they have overcome me_. In the pulpit I shall

next hold forth on the Shulamite and her would-be spouse. A fig for

those who fondly believe the Church is meant! ’Tis an idyllic cry of

passion betwixt real man and real woman; the preparative for as rich

a marriage song as the world ever imagined. Yet, madam, to you alone

dare I acknowledge this idea. We are both freed (in mind) from the

conventional; but the world is apt to be censorious with those who have

strength to think apart from the multitude. Therefore my treatment of

the old love-song must be in the usual veil of supposed prophecy. How

rarely does it befall a man to have such a friend (if I dare think you

my friend) as you! Let me see you soon: I have a thousand thoughts to

elaborate--a thousand religious fears to overcome. My poor wife is

at present sunning herself among the herbs; she is again threatened

with a plethora.--I am, with the truest sense of gratitude and respect

possible, your most humble, most obedient and most obliged servant.

[1] This letter is the only one preserved.

ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR TO DR. MARSTON.

THE HOUSE WITH ELEVEN STAIRCASES,

_30th July 1709._

Were it not that I had promised to write whene’er I had leisure, I

might, perchance, choose rather to loiter about the pleasaunce with

my brother’s children, and to sit by the water basins, watching the

goldfish, and paddling my fingers. But the strange impatience that has

held me of late forces me to take pen in hand, and to write the wild

thoughts that flee through my brain. If only the sound of thy voice

came, the mid-day heat would disappear and I should be refreshed as by

fountains.

Tell me of Love, not in the few words that almost make me swoon with

their power, but in one long, uninterrupted recital. Fear not the

censure of other folk (for the speech shall sink secret into my bosom)

but drag it out of thy very heart--one drop of blood for each word.

Thy miniature lies on my table; alas! my Bible hath grown dusty with

neglect. May we not meet to talk of Passion and of Death, and how they

oft walk hand in hand together?--Your most loyal and ever devoted

ALTHEA.

THE SAME TO THE SAME.

_5th August 1709._

A trifle I have written I enclose. One at dinner chid me for never

having loved. The verses were born of fevered heat during a restless

night. I have named them ‘The Secret Priestess of the Amorous Deities’

Nymphs and Shepherds forthwith sing

To Dan Cupid, Friend and King,

Gamester with our wavering hearts,

Giver both of joys and smarts:

Hail to Cupid! Hail!

Hail to Venus! Mother Queen,

Who, with eyes of glist’ning sheen,

Sports him on, our souls to cheat,

Laughs and sings at every feat:

Hail to Venus! Hail!

But the Love, which dwelt inside

My heart’s core, had leifer died,

Than be praised and sung aloud,

For ’twas secret, wild, and proud.

THE SAME TO THE SAME.

_September 20th, 1809._

That we should truly admire what you were good enough to praise gives

me pure joy. In my girlhood I had dreams of helping another by throwing

my whole life into his. Am I really of service to you? Assure me that

you did not flatter. Doubting is delicious only when one is certain

that the doubts must be resolved. Another walk in the coppice, now

that the nights are so sweet and so misty. Another of those fatal,

delicious hours, wherein Love comes at the flood. Dear Marston, best

and noblest of friends, believe me ever to be your devoted and very

attached servant.

A MANUSCRIPT OF ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR, SUGGESTED BY SOME DREAD.

(Written about January 1710.)

There is nothing in the world more sad than a Love that’s dying.

Profoundest melancholy comes when the gaudily-hued leaves drop from the

parent boughs in Autumn, and leave the trunk gaunt, bare, and unlovely.

Those trees are beautifullest whose fruit hangs bright and cheering

through the Winter, but alack! they are rare indeed.

How the groaning branches weep when they see their offspring, yellow,

crimson, and death-colour, lying beneath them, or carried off, dancing

blithely, by every little breeze, to shrivel and decay as Nature

demands, on some alien soil! The fairest lineaments of Devotion depart

thus from us, and though we grasp a withered tenderness with such a

palsied hold as an age-worn oak clutches its leaves, the unwilling

thing passes away, floats through the thin air, and leaves us tearful.

We force ourselves to exact those little attentions given by the

beloved one, and take an unhealthy gratification in such, believing, or

striving to believe, that there is no gold and nought but baser metal

in the world. But this cannot last. The Passions of some are destined

to die quickly. To warm a corse on the hearth brings back no life. Bury

the dead deeply, water its grave with streaming eyes, and in springtide

pluck a withered violet or some other sweet-scented blossom from the

green sod. Whilst cherishing the token in thy bosom, laugh and be merry

in the knowledge that there is no attendant Spirit from the pined

creature hovering near.

First desire is ever immature, and worthless in comparison with that

which comes in after-life. It is not true that the nature understood to

be the largest is capable of the grandest thoughts, for often the most

selfish soul is lifted to the highest ecstasy. The strength given by

powerful Love is Divine;--the sun warms and ripens Life; Earth is no

longer Earth. Existence is a glorious gift.

Love that’s true lasts for ever. Death _cannot_ end it. My certain

hope, nay belief, is that, whether the Afterwards be cast in a

wondrous, lovely country or an arid desert, an arm will clasp my waist

and feet pace beside mine, whose owner will share all my joy and all my

pain.

ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR TO DR. MARSTON.

_1st February 1710._

Day after day of wearisome snow! Interminable workings with my needle

and discoursings on my sister’s spinet! No interview in private to

make me forget the staleness of life. When you come here I must needs

sit with hands folded, to listen to the mouldy apophthegms my brother

repeats, and admire the quiet courtesy wherewith you reply. A woman

must think of nought but her still-room, her table, and the fashions.

Even as it is they look upon me as a hawk amongst sparrows.

Ah me, to live with a squire who knows nought but Bacon, and knows him,

alas! insufficiently; and a lady whose highest inspiration is to work

tent-stitch better than her neighbours at Thundercliffe! Lord, how the

children are bred! Barbary, who is twenty, sits demure, and fancies she

was brought out of a parsley-plot!

Send me those writings of yours, that speak so curiously of happiness.

Also those volumes of Suckling and Rochester you mentioned.

‘Pigmalion’s Image’ I read with delight: it is a picture of such vivid,

fruit-like loveliness as no modern poet could invent. Almost the reader

believes in its truth--for me, my breath came quick and my cheeks grew

hot as the Sculptor’s desire was granted. Is there no other poem told

in so sweet fashion? Have you not quoted one ‘Hero and Leander’ by Kit

Marlowe; the story of a lover who swam the sea? Pray, if thou canst

procure it, do so, for I am enamoured of verse.

To-morrow night we go to the Assembly Ball. I have prepared a surprise

for you. Such a gown as you swore would become me most has been

devised, and you will see me in light green, with laces of dead-leaf

colour. Let not scruples hinder your coming.

Lastly, for I was fain to finish with the taste of this, I am sending

you a cravat, wrought by my own hands, of admirable point, of the kind

Antonio Moro loved to paint. It has all been done in my chamber, and

none knows of it save myself. Honour me by wearing it to-morrow, and

understand me, as ever, your loving friend.

THE SAME TO THE SAME.

_24th June 1710._

Since your removal to Bath, life here has been trebly stagnant. I trust

the waters are improving the health of madam your wife, to whom pray

commend me.

My godmother, Lady Comber, is staying near you. She wrote the other

day to bid me come over, but--I cannot. You would be less _for_ me, I

less _to_ you in the midst of a crowd of intellectual and fashionable

folk. So I must endure the sweltering summer at home, but truly beg for

all possible alleviation of the dulness by what letters your kindness

may prompt you to send. As you ask, I have writ no more poetry. In a

sardonic mood, such as I suffer at present, I am inclined to think all

my past work neither rhyme nor reason.

This day I have been over all the walks we affected plucking flowers

for our favourite seat, and kissing the lavender tree that grows at

the lake-vista. It was a solemn pleasure to revisit these places; a

pleasure illumined with the glad certainty that erelong you will be my

companion again. Write to me soon, and tell me a thousand things of

yourself.

Have you met the great wits? Have you played and won, or--God

forbid--lost? What said you in your sermon before the Prince? BUT ABOVE

ALL, HAVE YOU MISSED ME?

Last night I could not sleep. The heat was great, my imagination

tortured. Ever and anon I fancied you were near, so rising from my bed

at last I sat looking down the terrace, each moment anticipating your

approach. By some miracle you were to arrive and to tell me that the

strength of my affection had drawn you.

Dawn tore the East to tatters, Phœbus shook himself and leaped out

golden. One by one the birds awoke. Yet my dream did not die until

Hieronimo (for so I have named the young peacock) shrieked harshly

beneath my window. Only then did I understand that you were still at

Bath; and with the knowledge of the eightscore miles of separating hill

and plain came the bitterest of tears--those from a lonely woman’s eyes.

So, genius and divine, wipe out their remembrance with the tenderest,

lovingest letter you ever wrote, and earn the everlasting gratitude of

thy Bedeswoman

ALTHEA.

THE SAME TO THE SAME.

_Sept. 1st, 1710._

Since you chide me for my melancholy, dear, good Marston, tell me how

I may avoid it. Stay, do not write. Your protracted absence will soon

be over--’tis but a week to your return; a week of leaden hours whose

passing I shall count one by one, and enjoy them in the same way that

we enjoy crab-apples before a feast. The rapture of seeing you again,

of hearing your voice, ay, of breathing the same air, must come in one

overpowering excess. Because you love me I am crowned amongst women!

What glorious, mad words were those ending your last letter: ‘There may

be no real happiness for us in this sphere, but in the next, whate’er

betide, all my joy shall be with you.’

O fools that we be, not to dare to pluck the good which lies in our

power!

Forgive me now, for I am a coward and need assuring. Art thou sure

that after death thou wilt be mine? Nay, I could not live here under

suspicion of having yielded to the sweetest temptation. Rest content

then, dear heart. There is a particular Paradise for those denied joy

on earth. _Addio_, I have kissed the spot of my signature.

FRAGMENT OF A DIDACTIC SERMON BY THE ESTIMABLE DR. MARSTON.

Conquer then, I say, conquer the lusts of the flesh; trample them

beneath the feet; crush them as men crush venomous reptiles. Live

loftily and purely, admit no evil thought; do what good thou canst, and

thou shalt inherit God’s Kingdom. To the righteous evil desires never

come, and the most lovely career is that which like the sun swerves

not in its path and sinks to rest amidst the peaks of the country of

Beulah. The only perfect man is he whose life is calm and passionless,

etc. etc.

ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR TO DR. MARSTON.

_15th November 1710._

It is harder than I dreamed to live without you, in the now uncertain

hope of a meeting after this world. Yet when you ask me to meet you

again in the fir-wood for a long and sweet discourse such as we were

wont to have, I cannot but say nay; for my brother’s eyes have oft

been set upon me lately, and he has questioned me in strange fashion

concerning my abstraction and frequent absences. Dearest, I lied to

him, and said, with all the blood of my body rushing to my heart, that

I was much engaged in meditation and writing. I dare not meet you

to-night, but if you rise betimes in the morning I will be in the Long

Spinney. Till sunbreak then, yours,

ALTHEA.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

_16th November 1710._

Let it be now, my lover, let us not wait until age or disease brings us

together. To die in the full expectation of joy, without one thought of

the gloomy past, with its lurid clouds and too-scorching light--to die

in the strongest appreciation, uncaring for men’s calumny--is my hope

and heart’s desire. And even if there be no future but eternal sleep,

’tis eternal sleep at thy side. What more can a tired, loving woman

wish for than rest by the man she adores? But there is another country,

of that I am assured. So we will brave it together, seize Death at the

height of Life, and enter, with unwarped souls, a new existence.

I have been to gaze upon our old trysting places for the last time.

Shall we be permitted to visit them when, existing for each other, we

pass hand in hand through the air?

At midnight Althea Swarthmoor will be counted amongst the Dead. She

calls thee--she bids thee welcome.

* * * * *

Tradition is silent as to the precise manner of the lady’s end. Suffice

it to say that she died violently at the appointed time. Dr. Marston

survived her by forty years; becoming in turn Dean of Barnchester and

Bishop of Norbarry. Besides twelve volumes of sermons, he wrote a

‘Dissertation on the Human Feelings,’ which is still notorious for its

triteness.

THE RETURN

Five minutes ago I drew the window curtain aside and let the mellow

sunset light contend with the glare from the girandoles. Below lay the

orchard of Vernon Garth, rich in heavily flowered fruit-trees--yonder

a medlar, here a pear, next a quince. As my eyes, unaccustomed to the

day, blinked rapidly, the recollection came of a scene forty-five years

past, and once more beneath the oldest tree stood the girl I loved,

mischievously plucking yarrow, and, despite its evil omen, twining the

snowy clusters in her black hair. Again her coquettish words rang in

my ears: ‘Make me thy lady! Make me the richest woman in England, and

I promise thee, Brian, we shall be the happiest of God’s creatures.’

And I remembered how the mad thirst for gold filled me: how I trusted

in her fidelity, and without reasoning or even telling her that I would

conquer fortune for her sake, I kissed her sadly and passed into the

world. Then followed a complete silence until the _Star of Europe_,

the greatest diamond discovered in modern times, lay in my hand,--a

rough unpolished stone not unlike the lumps of spar I had often seen

lying on the sandy lanes of my native county. This should be Rose’s

own, and all the others that clanked so melodiously in their leather

bulse should go towards fulfilling her ambition. Rich and happy I

should be soon, and should I not marry an untitled gentlewoman, sweet

in her prime? The twenty years’ interval of work and sleep was like a

fading dream, for I was going home. The knowledge thrilled me so that

my nerves were strung tight as iron ropes and I laughed like a young

boy. And it was all because my home was to be in Rose Pascal’s arms.

I crossed the sea and posted straight for Halkton village. The old

hostelry was crowded. Jane Hopgarth, whom I remembered a ruddy-faced

child, stood on the box-edged terrace, courtesying in matronly fashion

to the departing mail-coach. A change in the sign-board drew my eye:

the white lilies had been painted over with a mitre, and the name

changed from the Pascal Arms to the Lord Bishop. Angrily aghast at this

disloyalty, I cross-questioned the ostlers, who hurried to and fro, but

failing to obtain any coherent reply I was fain to content myself with

a mental denunciation of the times.

At last I saw Bow-Legged Jeffries, now bent double with age, sunning

himself at his favourite place, the side of the horse-trough. As of old

he was chewing a straw. No sign of recognition came over his face as he

gazed at me, and I was shocked, because I wished to impart some of my

gladness to a fellow-creature. I went to him, and after trying in vain

to make him speak, held forth a gold coin. He rose instantly, grasped

it with palsied fingers, and, muttering that the hounds were starting,

hurried from my presence. Feeling half sad I crossed to the churchyard

and gazed through the grated window of the Pascal burial chapel at the

recumbent and undisturbed effigies of Geoffrey Pascal, gentleman, of

Bretton Hall; and Margot Maltrevor his wife, with their quaint epitaph

about a perfect marriage enduring for ever. Then, after noting the

rankness of the docks and nettles, I crossed the worn stile and with

footsteps surprising fleet passed towards the stretch of moorland at

whose further end stands Bretton Hall.

Twilight had fallen ere I reached the cottage at the entrance of the

park. This was in a ruinous condition: here and there sheaves in the

thatched roof had parted and formed crevices through which smoke

filtered. Some of the tiny windows had been walled up, and even where

the glass remained snake-like ivy hindered any light from falling into

their thick recesses.

The door stood open, although the evening was chill. As I approached,

the heavy autumnal dew shook down from the firs and fell upon my

shoulders. A bat, swooping in an undulation, struck between my eyes and

fell to the grass, moaning querulously. I entered. A withered woman sat

beside the peat fire. She held a pair of steel knitting-needles which

she moved without cessation. There was no thread upon them, and when

they clicked her lips twitched as if she had counted. Some time passed

before I recognised Rose’s foster-mother, Elizabeth Carless. The russet

colour of her cheeks had faded and left a sickly grey: those sunken,

dimmed eyes were utterly unlike the bright black orbs that had danced

so mirthfully. Her stature, too, had shrunk. I was struck with wonder.

Elizabeth could not be more than fifty-six years old. I had been

away twenty years; Rose was fifteen when I left her, and I had heard

Elizabeth say that she was only twenty-one at the time of her darling’s

weaning. But what a change! She had such an air of weary grief that my

heart grew sick.

Advancing to her side I touched her arm. She turned, but neither

spoke nor seemed aware of my presence. Soon, however, she rose, and

helping herself along by grasping the scanty furniture, tottered to a

window and peered out. Her right hand crept to her throat; she untied

the string of her gown and took from her bosom a pomander set in a

battered silver case. I cried out; Rose had loved that toy in her

childhood; thousands of times had we played ball with it.... Elizabeth

held it to her mouth and mumbled it, as if it were a baby’s hand.

Maddened with impatience, I caught her shoulder and roughly bade her

say where I should find Rose. But something awoke in her eyes, and

she shrank away to the other side of the house-place: I followed; she

cowered on the floor, looking at me with a strange horror. Her lips

began to move, but they made no sound. Only when I crossed to the

threshold did she rise; and then her head moved wildly from side to

side, and her hands pressed close to her breast, as if the pain there

were too great to endure.

I ran from the place, not daring to look back. In a few minutes I

reached the balustraded wall of the Hall garden. The vegetation

there was wonderfully luxuriant. As of old, the great blue and

white Canterbury bells grew thickly, and those curious flowers to

which tradition has given the name of ‘Marie’s Heart’ still spread

their creamy tendrils and blood-coloured bloom on every hand. But

‘Pascal’s Dribble,’ the tiny spring whose water pulsed so fiercely

as it emerged from the earth, had long since burst its bounds, and

converted the winter garden into a swamp, where a miniature forest of

queen-of-the-meadow filled the air with melancholy sweetness. The house

looked as if no careful hand had touched it for years. The elements had

played havoc with its oriels, and many of the latticed frames hung on

single hinges. The curtain of the blue parlour hung outside, draggled

and faded, and half hidden by a thick growth of bindweed.

With an almost savage force I raised my arm high above my head and

brought my fist down upon the central panel of the door. There was no

need for such violence, for the decayed fastenings made no resistance,

and some of the rotten boards fell to the ground. As I entered the hall

and saw the ancient furniture, once so fondly kept, now mildewed and

crumbling to dust, quick sobs burst from my throat. Rose’s spinet stood

beside the door of the withdrawing-room. How many carols had we sung to

its music! As I passed my foot struck one of the legs and the rickety

structure groaned as if it were coming to pieces. I thrust out my hand

to steady it, but at my touch the velvet covering of the lid came off

and the tiny gilt ornaments rattled downwards. The moon was just rising

and only half her disc was visible over the distant edge of the Hell

Garden. The light in the room was very uncertain, yet I could see that

the keys of the instrument were stained brown, and bound together with

thick cobwebs.

Whilst I stood beside it I felt an overpowering desire to play a

country ballad with an over-word of ‘Willow browbound.’ The words in

strict accordance with the melody are merry and sad by turns: at one

time filled with light happiness, at another bitter as the voice of

one bereaved for ever of joy. So I cleared off the spiders and began

to strike the keys with my forefinger. Many were dumb, and when I

struck them gave forth no sound save a peculiar sigh; but still the

melody rhythmed as distinctly as if a low voice crooned it out of the

darkness. Wearied with the bitterness, I turned away.

By now the full moonlight pierced the window and quivered on the floor.

As I gazed on the tremulous pattern it changed into quaint devices

of hearts, daggers, rings, and a thousand tokens more. All suddenly

another object glided amongst them so quickly that I wondered whether

my eyes had been at fault,--a tiny satin shoe, stained crimson across

the lappets. A revulsion of feeling came to my soul and drove away

all my fear. I had seen that selfsame shoe white and unsoiled twenty

years before, when vain, vain Rose danced amongst her reapers at the

harvest-home. And my voice cried out in ecstasy, ‘Rose, heart of mine!

Delight of all the world’s delights!’

She stood before me, wondering, amazed. Alas, so changed! The

red-and-yellow silk shawl still covered her shoulders; her hair still

hung in those eldritch curls. But the beautiful face had grown wan and

tired, and across the forehead lines were drawn like silver threads.

She threw her arms round my neck and, pressing her bosom heavily on

mine, sobbed so piteously that I grew afraid for her, and drew back

the long masses of hair which had fallen forward, and kissed again and

again those lips that were too lovely for simile. Never came a word of

chiding from them. ‘Love,’ she said, when she had regained her breath,

‘the past struggle was sharp and torturing--the future struggle will be

crueller still. What a great love yours was, to wait and trust for so

long! Would that mine had been as powerful! Poor, weak heart that could

not endure!’

The tones of a wild fear throbbed through all her speech, strongly,

yet with insufficient power to prevent her feeling the tenderness of

those moments. Often, timorously raising her head from my shoulder,

she looked about and then turned with a soft, inarticulate, and glad

murmur to hide her face on my bosom. I spoke fervently; told of the

years spent away from her; how, when working in the diamond-fields she

had ever been present in my fancy; how at night her name had fallen

from my lips in my only prayer; how I had dreamed of her amongst the

greatest in the land,--the richest, and, I dare swear, the loveliest

woman in the world. I grew warmer still: all the gladness which had

been constrained for so long now burst wildly from my lips: a myriad

of rich ideas resolved into words, which, being spoken, wove one long

and delicious fit of passion. As we stood together, the moon brightened

and filled the chamber with a light like the day’s. The ridges of the

surrounding moorland stood out in sharp relief.

Rose drank in my declarations thirstily, but soon interrupted me with

a heavy sigh. ‘Come away,’ she said softly. ‘I no longer live in this

house. You must stay with me to-night. This place is so wretched now;

for time, that in you and me has only strengthened love, has wrought

much ruin here.’

Half leaning on me, she led me from the precincts of Bretton Hall.

We walked in silence over the waste that crowns the valley of the

Whitelands and, being near the verge of the rocks, saw the great

pinewood sloping downwards, lighted near us by the moon, but soon

lost in density. Along the mysterious line where the light changed

into gloom, intricate shadows of withered summer bracken struck and

receded in a mimic battle. Before us lay the Priests’ Cliff. The

moon was veiled by a grove of elms, whose ever-swaying branches

alternately increased and lessened her brightness. This was a place of

notoriety--a veritable Golgotha--a haunt fit only for demons. Murder

and theft had been punished here; and to this day fireside stories are

told of evil women dancing round that Druids’ circle, carrying hearts

plucked from gibbeted bodies.

‘Rose,’ I whispered, ‘why have you brought me here?’

She made no reply, but pressed her head more closely to my shoulder.

Scarce had my lips closed ere a sound like the hiss of a half-strangled

snake vibrated amongst the trees. It grew louder and louder. A

monstrous shadow hovered above.

Rose from my bosom murmured. ‘Love is strong as Death! Love is strong

as Death!’

I locked her in my arms, so tightly that she grew breathless. ‘Hold

me,’ she panted. ‘You are strong.’

A cold hand touched our foreheads so that, benumbed, we sank together

to the ground, to fall instantly into a dreamless slumber.

When I awoke the clear grey light of the early morning had spread

over the country. Beyond the Hell Garden the sun was just bursting

through the clouds, and had already spread a long golden haze along the

horizon. The babbling of the streamlet that runs down to Halkton was

so distinct that it seemed almost at my side. How sweetly the wild

thyme smelt! Filled with the tender recollections of the night, without

turning, I called Rose Pascal from her sleep.

‘Sweetheart, sweetheart, waken! waken! waken! See how glad the world

looks--see the omens of a happy future.’

No answer came. I sat up, and looking round me saw that I was alone.

A square stone lay near. When the sun was high I crept to read the

inscription carved thereon:--‘_Here, at four cross-paths, lieth, with a

stake through the bosom, the body of Rose Pascal, who in her sixteenth

year wilfully cast away the life God gave._’

THE BASILISK

Marina gave no sign that she heard my protestation. The embroidery

of Venus’s hands in her silk picture of The Judgment of Paris was

seemingly of greater import to her than the love which almost tore

my soul and body asunder. In absolute despair I sat until she had

replenished her needle seven times. Then impassioned nature cried

aloud:--

‘You do not love me!’

She looked up somewhat wearily, as one debarred from rest. ‘Listen,’

she said. ‘There is a creature called a Basilisk, which turns men and

women into stone. In my girlhood I saw the Basilisk--I am stone!’

And, rising from her chair, she departed the room, leaving me in amazed

doubt as to whether I had heard aright. I had always known of some

curious secret in her life: a secret which permitted her to speak of

and to understand things to which no other woman had dared to lift

her thoughts. But alas! it was a secret whose influence ever thrust

her back from the attaining of happiness. She would warm, then freeze

instantly; discuss the purest wisdom, then cease with contemptuous lips

and eyes. Doubtless this strangeness had been the first thing to awaken

my passion. Her beauty was not of the kind that smites men with sudden

craving: it was pale and reposeful, the loveliness of a marble image.

Yet, as time went on, so wondrous became her fascination that even

the murmur of her swaying garments sickened me with longing. Not more

than a year had passed since our first meeting, when I had found her

laden with flaming tendrils in the thinned woods of my heritage. A very

Dryad, robed in grass colour, she was chanting to the sylvan deities.

The invisible web took me, and I became her slave.

Her house lay two leagues from mine. It was a low-built mansion lying

in a concave park. The thatch was gaudy with stonecrop and lichen.

Amongst the central chimneys a foreign bird sat on a nest of twigs.

The long windows blazed with heraldic devices; and paintings of kings

and queens and nobles hung in the dim chambers. Here she dwelt with

a retinue of aged servants, fantastic women and men half imbecile,

who salaamed before her with eastern humility and yet addressed her

in such terms as gossips use. Had she given them life they could not

have obeyed with more reverence. Quaint things the women wrought for

her--pomanders and cushions of thistledown; and the men were never

happier than when they could tell her of the first thrush’s egg in

the thornbush or the sege of bitterns that haunted the marsh. She was

their goddess and their daughter. Each day had its own routine. In the

morning she rode and sang and played; at noon she read in the dusty

library, drinking to the full of the dramatists and the platonists.

Her own life was such a tragedy as an Elizabethan would have adored.

None save her people knew her history, but there were wonderful stories

of how she had bowed to tradition, and concentrated in herself the

characteristics of a thousand wizard fathers. In the blossom of her

youth she had sought strange knowledge, and had tasted thereof, and

rued.

The morning after my declaration she rode across her park to the

meditating walk I always paced till noon. She was alone, dressed

in a habit of white lutestring with a loose girdle of blue. As her

mare reached the yew hedge, she dismounted, and came to me with more

lightness than I had ever beheld in her. At her waist hung a black

glass mirror, and her half-bare arms were adorned with cabalistic

jewels.

When I knelt to kiss her hand, she sighed heavily. ‘Ask me nothing,’

she said. ‘Life itself is too joyless to be more embittered by

explanations. Let all rest between us as now. I will love coldly, you

warmly, with no nearer approaching.’ Her voice rang full of a wistful

expectancy: as if she knew that I should combat her half-explained

decision. She read me well, for almost ere she had done I cried out

loudly against it:--‘It can never be so--I cannot breathe--I shall die?’

She sank to the low moss-covered wall. ‘Must the sacrifice be made?’

she asked, half to herself. ‘Must I tell him all?’ Silence prevailed

a while, then turning away her face she said: ‘From the first I loved

you, but last night in the darkness, when I could not sleep for

thinking of your words, love sprang into desire.’

I was forbidden to speak.

‘And desire seemed to burst the cords that bound me. In that moment’s

strength I felt that I could give all for the joy of being once utterly

yours.’

I longed to clasp her to my heart. But her eyes were stern, and a frown

crossed her brow.

‘At morning light,’ she said, ‘desire died, but in my ecstasy I had

sworn to give what must be given for that short bliss, and to lie in

your arms and pant against you before another midnight. So I have come

to bid you fare with me to the place where the spell may be loosed, and

happiness bought.’

She called the mare: it came whinnying, and pawed the ground until

she had stroked its neck. She mounted, setting in my hand a tiny,

satin-shod foot that seemed rather child’s than woman’s. ‘Let us go

together to my house,’ she said. ‘I have orders to give and duties to

fulfil. I will not keep you there long, for we must start soon on our

errand.’ I walked exultantly at her side, but, the grange in view,

I entreated her to speak explicitly of our mysterious journey. She

stooped and patted my head. ‘’Tis but a matter of buying and selling,’

she answered.

When she had arranged her household affairs, she came to the library

and bade me follow her. Then, with the mirror still swinging against

her knees, she led me through the garden and the wilderness down to

a misty wood. It being autumn, the trees were tinted gloriously in

dusky bars of colouring. The rowan, with his amber leaves and scarlet

berries, stood before the brown black-spotted sycamore; the silver

beech flaunted his golden coins against my poverty; firs, green and

fawn-hued, slumbered in hazy gossamer. No bird carolled, although the

sun was hot. Marina noted the absence of sound, and without prelude

of any kind began to sing from the ballad of the Witch Mother: about

the nine enchanted knots, and the trouble-comb in the lady’s knotted

hair, and the master-kid that ran beneath her couch. Every drop of my

blood froze in dread, for whilst she sang her face took on the majesty

of one who traffics with infernal powers. As the shade of the trees

fell over her, and we passed intermittently out of the light, I saw

that her eyes glittered like rings of sapphires. Believing now that the

ordeal she must undergo would be too frightful, I begged her to return.

Supplicating on my knees--‘Let me face the evil alone!’ I said, ‘I

will entreat the loosening of the bonds. I will compel and accept any

penalty.’ She grew calm. ‘Nay,’ she said, very gently, ‘if aught can

conquer, it is my love alone. In the fervour of my last wish I can dare

everything.’

By now, at the end of a sloping alley, we had reached the shores of a

vast marsh. Some unknown quality in the sparkling water had stained its

whole bed a bright yellow. Green leaves, of such a sour brightness as

almost poisoned to behold, floated on the surface of the rush-girdled

pools. Weeds like tempting veils of mossy velvet grew beneath in vivid

contrast with the soil. Alders and willows hung over the margin. From

where we stood a half-submerged path of rough stones, threaded by deep

swift channels, crossed to the very centre. Marina put her foot upon

the first step. ‘I must go first,’ she said. ‘Only once before have I

gone this way, yet I know its pitfalls better than any living creature.’

Before I could hinder her she was leaping from stone to stone like

a hunted animal. I followed hastily, seeking, but vainly, to lessen

the space between us. She was gasping for breath, and her heart-beats

sounded like the ticking of a clock. When we reached a great pool,

itself almost a lake, that was covered with lavender scum, the path

turned abruptly to the right, where stood an isolated grove of wasted

elms. As Marina beheld this, her pace slackened, and she paused in

momentary indecision; but, at my first word of pleading that she should

go no further, she went on, dragging her silken mud-bespattered skirts.

We climbed the slippery shores of the island (for island it was, being

raised much above the level of the marsh), and Marina led the way over

lush grass to an open glade. A great marble tank lay there, supported

on two thick pillars. Decayed boughs rested on the crust of stagnancy

within, and divers frogs, bloated and almost blue, rolled off at our

approach. To the left stood the columns of a temple, a round, domed

building, with a closed door of bronze. Wild vines had grown athwart

the portal; rank, clinging herbs had sprung from the overteeming soil;

astrological figures were enchiselled on the broad stairs.

Here Marina stopped. ‘I shall blindfold you,’ she said, taking off her

loose sash, ‘and you must vow obedience to all I tell you. The least

error will betray us.’ I promised, and submitted to the bandage. With

a pressure of the hand, and bidding me neither move nor speak, she

left me and went to the door of the temple. Thrice her hand struck the

dull metal. At the last stroke a hissing shriek came from within, and

the massive hinges creaked loudly. A breath like an icy tongue leaped

out and touched me, and in the terror my hand sprang to the kerchief.

Marina’s voice, filled with agony, gave me instant pause. ‘_Oh, why am

I thus torn between the man and the fiend? The mesh that holds life in

will be ripped from end to end! Is there no mercy?_’

My hand fell impotent. Every muscle shrank. I felt myself turn to

stone. After a while came a sweet scent of smouldering wood: such an

Oriental fragrance as is offered to Indian gods. Then the door swung

to, and I heard Marina’s voice, dim and wordless, but raised in wild

deprecation. Hour after hour passed so, and still I waited. Not until

the sash grew crimson with the rays of the sinking sun did the door

open.

‘Come to me!’ Marina whispered. ‘Do not unblindfold. Quick--we must not

stay here long. He is glutted with my sacrifice.’

Newborn joy rang in her tones. I stumbled across and was caught in

her arms. Shafts of delight pierced my heart at the first contact with

her warm breasts. She turned me round, and bidding me look straight in

front, with one swift touch untied the knot. The first thing my dazed

eyes fell upon was the mirror of black glass which had hung from her

waist. She held it so that I might gaze into its depths. And there,

with a cry of amazement and fear, _I saw the shadow of the Basilisk_.

The Thing was lying prone on the floor, the presentment of a sleeping

horror. Vivid scarlet and sable feathers covered its gold-crowned

cock’s-head, and its leathern dragon-wings were folded. Its sinuous

tail, capped with a snake’s eyes and mouth, was curved in luxurious and

delighted satiety. A prodigious evil leaped in its atmosphere. But even

as I looked a mist crowded over the surface of the mirror: the shadow

faded, leaving only an indistinct and wavering shape. Marina breathed

upon it, and, as I peered and pored, the gloom went off the plate and

left, where the Chimera had lain, the prostrate figure of a man. He

was young and stalwart, a dark outline with a white face, and short

black curls that fell in tangles over a shapely forehead, and eyelids

languorous and red. His aspect was that of a wearied demon-god.

When Marina looked sideways and saw my wonderment, she laughed

delightedly in one rippling running tune that should have quickened

the dead entrails of the marsh. ‘I have conquered!’ she cried. ‘I have

purchased the fulness of joy!’ And with one outstretched arm she closed

the door before I could turn to look; with the other she encircled my

neck, and, bringing down my head, pressed my mouth to hers. The mirror

fell from her hand, and with her foot she crushed its shards into the

dank mould.

The sun had sunk behind the trees now, and glittered through the

intricate leafage like a charcoal-burner’s fire. All the nymphs of

the pools arose and danced, grey and cold, exulting at the absence of

the divine light. So thickly gathered the vapours that the path grew

perilous. ‘Stay, love,’ I said. ‘Let me take you in my arms and carry

you. It is no longer safe for you to walk alone.’ She made no reply,

but, a flush arising to her pale cheeks, she stood and let me lift her

to my bosom. She rested a hand on either shoulder, and gave no sign of

fear as I bounded from stone to stone. The way lengthened deliciously,

and by the time we reached the plantation the moon was rising over the

further hills. Hope and fear fought in my heart: soon both were set at

rest. When I set her on the dry ground she stood a-tiptoe, and murmured

with exquisite shame: ‘To-night, then, dearest. My home is yours now.’

So, in a rapture too subtle for words, we walked together,

arm-enfolded, to her house. Preparations for a banquet were going

on within: the windows were ablaze, and figures passed behind them

bowed with heavy dishes. At the threshold of the hall we were met by

a triumphant crash of melody. In the musician’s gallery bald-pated

veterans stood to it with flute and harp and viol-de-gamba. In two long

rows the antic retainers stood, and bowed, and cried merrily: ‘Joy

and health to the bride and groom!’ And they kissed Marina’s hands

and mine, and, with the players sending forth that half-forgotten

tenderness which threads through ancient song-books, we passed to

the feast, seating ourselves on the daïs, whilst the servants filled

the tables below. But we made little feint of appetite. As the last

dish of confections was removing, a weird pageant swept across the

further end of the banqueting-room: Oberon and Titania with Robin

Goodfellow and the rest, attired in silks and satins gorgeous of hue,

and bedizened with such late flowers as were still with us. I leaned

forward to commend, and saw that each face was brown and wizened

and thin-haired: so that their motions and their epithalamy felt

goblin and discomforting; nor could I smile till they departed by the

further door. Then the tables were cleared away, and Marina, taking my

finger-tips in hers, opened a stately dance. The servants followed,

and in the second maze a shrill and joyful laughter proclaimed that the

bride had sought her chamber....

Ere the dawn I wakened from a troubled sleep. My dream had been of

despair: I had been persecuted by a host of devils, thieves of a

priceless jewel. So I leaned over the pillow for Marina’s consolation;

my lips sought hers, my hand crept beneath her head. My heart gave one

mad bound--then stopped.

DAME INOWSLAD

Sycamores and beeches surrounded the inn; elders, still green-flowered,

leaned over the grass-grown roads. The belt of sward was white with

lady-smocks, but in the damp hollows marsh-marigolds radiated essential

sunlight. The blackbirds sang, and loudly, yet without the true strain

of mirth: sang like blackbirds that must sing, but of rifled nests.

Even the grasshoppers had some trouble: never had they chirped so

pathetically before.

On the green the gilded figure of a bull hung from two uprights; it

swung from side to side in the light breeze. The copper bell on a

twisted pole hard by was green with mould: a-swing from it was a rusty

chain; it had been used in the old posting days, and many a yeoman had

haled himself into his saddle from the worn mounting-block beside it.

For the inn itself, it was vast and rambling, dwarfed by the towering

trees. For miles in every direction lay the old forest of Gardomwood,

a relic of primeval woodland, rich in glades and brakes, in streamlets

and mizzies: hazy in the clearings, where sheer-legs, like the trivets

of witches’ caldrons, and tents and blue-smoking heaps told of

charcoal-burners and their ever-shifting trade.

The Golden Bull with its beautiful precincts took me back to that

fading Arcady whose shepherdesses and swains felt the end of the

joy-time coming. It was utterly sad; but I was caught in the meshes of

its melancholy, and for the while could not escape. Twilight fell, and

I ceased from exploring, and went indoors. In the parlour was a great

square piano. Its music, while acidly discordant, was yet plaintive

with the curious speech such old things often own. I played a few

Robin Hood ballads--of the Outlaw and Little John, of the Bishop of

Hereford and Robin’s pleasing escape. Then the hostess entered with a

great Nottingham jar full of white lilac. She set this down between the

fire-dogs, and stood leaning one hand on a chair-back and listening to

the music. When I stopped she sighed heavily: I left the piano, and

offered her a chair. She was middle-aged and deformed; her shoulders

were humped, her face was shrivelled, but she had large grey eyes and a

wistful smile.

‘I thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘’Twas the music drew me in. Nobody’s

played since last summer, when Sir Jake Inowslad stayed here. His taste

was sonatas and fugues--things pretty enow, but only pleasing at the

time. Give me a melody that I can catch--almost grasp in my hand so to

speak.’

‘Do you play?’ I asked, half-hoping to hear some air she had loved in

her youth.

‘No, I cannot play. I was still-room maid at Melbrook Abbey, so I never

had opportunity.’

As she spoke, a girl came in with the snuffer-tray and candles. She was

pale and tall and of a tempting shape. Beautiful she was not, yet the

sad strangeness of her face impressed me more than great beauty would

have done. Her eyes were like the other woman’s, but clearer and more

expressive; her lips were quaintly arched; long yellow hair hung down

her back. She seemed, although she walked erect, to be recovering from

some violent illness. When she had gone the hostess spoke again. ‘My

niece is not strong,’ she said, laying an unnecessary emphasis on the

word _niece_. ‘The air does not suit her.’

‘Was not she bred in the country?’ I inquired.

‘Ah, no! She is not without money--her father endowed her well. Until

two years back she was at the convent of the Sisters of Saint Vincent

de Paul for her education. ’Tis in the hill-country, and I think that

coming to the flatness of Gardomwood has done her harm.’

The girl came in again: this time I noted her grace of movement; it had

something of the wearied goddess. ‘Aunt,’ she said quietly, ‘I wish to

go into the woods--you can spare me? All I had to do is done; the women

are sewing in the kitchen.’ She went to the further end of the room,

where a cloak of rose-coloured silk hung, ermine-lined, from a nail in

the panelling. She donned it at her leisure; her long and narrow hands

were of a perfect colour. She tied the broad ribands of the collar; she

lighted two candles that hung before a tarnished mirror, and gazed at

her shadow; then, her lips moving silently, she left the room.

‘Ever the same,’ the elder woman said. ‘Night after night does she

leave the house and travel about like an aimless thing. Come back,

Dinah,’ she called, ‘come back.’ But the thin voice went wavering

through the empty passages unanswered. So the hostess rose and with a

half-apologetic ‘Good-night,’ left me alone. I sat down in the deep

recess of the window behind a heavy curtain. A copy of Denis Diderot’s

_Religieuse_ lay on the little table. I took it up, and was soon

engrossed in it: for of all books this is the most fascinating, the

most disappointing, the most grim. A light came glimmering at the

end of the vista before me: it grew and grew, and the moon uplifted

herself waist-high above the trees. And when I had watched her thus

far, I returned to my nun and reached page twenty-two of the second

volume, where I read the following sentence: ‘After a few flourishes

she played some things, foolish, wild, and incoherent as her own ideas,

but through all the defects of her execution I saw she had a touch

infinitely superior to mine.’ Then in the shaded window-seat I fell

asleep....

The striking of a tall clock near the hearth awakened me: I had slept

till midnight. The candles had been removed from the table to the

piano; those in the girandole had guttered out or been extinguished.

A young man sat at the piano on the embroidered stool. His back was

towards me; I saw nothing but high, narrow shoulders and a dome-shaped

head of dishevelled black hair plentifully besprinkled with grey.

From the road outside came a noise of horses whinnying and plunging.

I looked out, and there was a lumbering coach drawn by four stallions

which, black in daylight, shone now like burnished steel.

The would-be musician turned and showed me a long painful face with

glistening eyes and a brow ridged upward like a ruined stair. It was

a face of intense eagerness: the eagerness of a man experimenting and

praying for a result whereon his life depends. Without any prelude he

played a dance of ghosts in an old ball-room: ghosts of men and women

that moved in lavoltas and sarabands; ghosts that laughed at Susanna

in the tapestry; ghosts that loved and hated. When the last chord

had sent them crowding to their graves he turned and listened for a

footstep. None came. He lifted a leather case from the side of the

stool and, unfastening its clasps, took out a necklace which glistened

in the candlelight like a fairy shower of rain and snow. ’Twas of table

diamonds and margarites, the gems as big as filberts. He spread it

across the wires, and after an instant’s reflection began to play. The

carcanet rattled and jangled as he went: it was as an advancing host of

cymbal-women. When he listened again, great tears oozed from his eyes.

He took up the jewel and played a melody vapid at first, but so subtle

in its repetitions that none might doubt its meaning: thus and not

otherwise would sound a lyke-wake sung in a worn voice after a night

of singing. And whilst he played, the door opened silently, and I saw

Dinah, there in her nightgown, holding the posts with her hands. She

took one swift glance, then disappeared again in the darkness, and came

back carrying in her arms a bundle swathed in pure linen and strongly

redolent of aromatic herbs. Holding this to her breast, she approached

the man. Her shadow fell across the keys, and he lifted his head. From

both came a long murmur: his of love and joy and protection, hers of

agony. He rose and would have clasped her, but she drew back and placed

her burden in his outstretched hands.

‘It is the child,’ she said. ‘Three months ago I gave birth to her,

none knew save myself.... She was all that remained of you: all that I

had, and I dared not part with her.... But now--now that I have seen

you again--take her away--leave me--leave me in peace.’

‘Dinah,’ he said proudly, ‘listen to me.’

‘Nay,’ she whispered, ‘not again. If I listen I may forget your

wickedness; I might be weak again. Leave me, Jake.’

‘Dinah, you must hear me. Why, out of all the love you held and hold

for me, can you condemn? When I left you I fell mad; for the year I

have been mad, and only yesterday did they set me loose. See, I have

brought you all the diamonds; to-morrow you will be Dame Inowslad.’ And

he laid the dead thing on a table, and caught the mother to his bosom.

Her figure was shaken with sobs.

‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘it has been hard; but my trial has brought the true

guerdon of happiness. Only once have I missed seeing the place where

you promised to meet me--the place where you said you loved me; and

that was on the night of my lonely travailing.’

Outside the horses plunged and snorted: a shrunken postillion swaying

at the neck of the off-leader. In the hollows of the road lay sheets

of mist, and the moonlight turned them into floods. A long train of

startled owls left the hollow sycamores and passed hooting ... hooting

... down the glade.

‘Let us go,’ Sir Jake said; ‘by morning light we shall be in sight of

Cammere, where Heaven grant us a happy time;--a year of joy for each

week of pain. Do not wait to dress; rich robes and linen are inside the

coach; I have brought many of my mother’s gowns.’

Dinah extricated herself from his embrace, and went to find her cloak.

During her absence a strange and terrible look came into Inowslad’s

face and he smote his forehead. He smiled at her re-appearing. ‘Dinah,’

he said, looking downwards, so that she might not see his eyes, ‘Dinah,

I am so happy that I can scarce see. Lead me from the house.’

He took up the dead little one in his right arm, and carried it as

believers carry relics. The outer door closed softly; they descended

the mossgrown steps, and entered the coach. The horses leaped forward,

half drowning the sound of a chuckle. A glint of the moon pierced the

coach windows, and I saw a brown hand, convulsed and violent, griping a

long white throat.

EXCERPTS FROM WITHERTON’S JOURNAL: ALSO A LETTER OF CRYSTALLA’S

The principal events of Pliny Witherton’s life are written at length in

Goodwin’s _Records of English Painters_, a volume published by Dodsley

in 1752. He is described therein as one whose genius went beyond his

achievement; who suffered ecstatic pain in conception, yet brought

forth little worthy of remembrance.

Personally he was small and ill-formed: of that sallow countenance and

red skein-like hair wherewith tradition has gifted Judas Iscariot. His

gait was felinely nimble, his voice harsh. Notwithstanding his great

defects, he was a favourite with women.

He died at his zenith. His celebrity was ephemeral; for, possessed of

a curious medium, the secret of whose preparation he refused to share

with any contemporary, he used it with such fatal effect that his

works, which were strangely rich at first, became almost colourless

after the lapse of a few decades. The only picture still existent is

at Hambleton; where is also preserved the journal whence the following

extracts are taken. It is a ‘Boadicea,’ faded to a sober brown.

* * * * *

_Jan. 12, 1700._--This morning my uncle chose the story of Jacob

wrestling with the Angel. I know not how I bore his tedious droning.

He pictured the dullest scene, put into their mouths the dullest

words. And there came something that thrust a hand through my breast

and caught about my heart, and forced tears down my cheeks. Oh to have

shown them what I beheld!

Little Anne saw me through the broken panel of the Earl’s pew, and put

her fingers to my knee to feel the thrilling. But I thrust them away,

for the child is a bastard and as ugly as a toad--yet not so ugly

neither, but foreign (her mother came of the Rouvigny’s) and pale and

quiet. She is downtrodden by madam the Countess. May be I was hard upon

her.

The lass blenched, for had she not but yesternight slyly given me her

father’s present--a golden guinea--to buy colours for my work? What if

she give me no more! Alack! So after the _Amen_ was mumbled I stole

with her to the pools amongst the groove-hillocks, and showed her

rush-tips covered with hoar above the ice. As we stood she put her arm

about my neck and said: ‘We are both lonely, none loves us.’ And I fell

angry again and struck her face. ‘I am not lonely, I shall be famous,’

I cried; ‘but you, Mistress Craven-spirit, are fit for naught but

nursing madam’s brats.’

_May 1, 1703._--Too terrible Fortune, prisoning me in an iron cage;

from between whose bars I see thy wheel turning, turning, turning!

To-day is my twentieth birthday, and I have done no work for all these

years. Creations enow have stirred my brain. I see heroes in jewelled

harness; ruddy-hued and beautiful dames. They play their parts, yet

when I take the crayon, ’tis to depict a crowd of malkins. God, never

was being so ill-fated!

Anne brought me a purse woven of her own coarse hair; it held eight

crowns and a posy-ring. Yesterday I had threatened to leave this

accursed house and never send word. She hath now sold all her trinkets.

The office of secretary to such a dotard as the Earl I loathe; and the

continual buzzing of my hummer-bee-uncle frets my very soul.

I walked with Anne on Danman’s Moor, and the strong wind blew a colour

into her hollow cheeks. Moreover, her eyes looked very big and

lustrous. But she wore such a faded gown as any village alewife would

have scorned; and the looseness made her shoulders seem huckled. Withal

on her lips was such a smile as I shall give Christ’s Mother in my

masterpiece. As I gazed the rosiness deepened, and she murmured in a

voice half-moan, ‘Is there aught worthy there?’ So, being malicious of

humour, I praised that smile, and saw her bosom rise and fall like a

wild beast’s panting apart from the hunters.

_Jan. 9, 1704._--At last I have left Hambleton. There was no money

there, and my lord strove to repress my ambition with his eternal ‘Thy

uncle on his death-bed wished it so. For, leaving thee not a penny,

he commended thee to my care. The chaplainship shall be thine, an’ I

need no secretary-work save what thou canst do at odd times. Alas! nine

daughters have I to dower!’ And Anne had given me all, so I rolled my

pictures in a bundle and am come to seek the patronage of our great

men, who, as I have learnt, are ever ready to help on struggling Wits.

_July 27, 1704._--O Heaven, that this world should be so cruel! Flouted

in rich fools’ antechambers; turned roughly from door after door! Shame

devours me to-day; for though poverty no longer pricks me I have sold

my honour. Twenty golden pieces earned with bloody sweat lie on the

table. The signs were delivered scarce two hours since. The first I

wrought had some solace, for the Angel was a careful presentment of

Lucy, as sweet a maid as England holds. But twelve years old, and yet

with the wit and loveliness of Sheba’s queen, how she shrivels her

base-born half-sister! A hundred times since I came to this town has

her proud excellence disquieted my slumbers. The beauty that daunts a

man’s the beauty for me.

Accursed be this vile place where art and genius crouch together in the

alleys!

_Septr. 30, 1704._--The last page I may write in this poor journal

shall contain naught of anger. Once I read that he conquers who strives

with circumstance. No greater fallacy was ever writ. The last coin is

spent; utter ruin in store. The certainty of my gift hinders me from

pandering again to the vulgar. Life and I nearly parted at the great

humiliation. Those terrible pictures, to whose doing desperation forced

me, haunt me like ghosts. I dared not pace the streets lest I should

see my handiwork swinging over the causey. It is better for me to die.

To Anne I bequeath all good and tender wishes, for she alone would aid

me in my early strugglings. In this my last hour I fully acknowledge

her kindness....

_Oct. 1, 1704._--Dolt that I was to lose courage! At last the goddess

hath smoothed her frown. When I rose at the sound of knocking ’twas to

find a cloaked and hooded woman at my door. The domino fell open and

discovered Anne’s face, haggard and stained with tears. In her hands

she carried a heavy bag. ‘My Aunt Rouvigny is dead,’ she cried, ‘and

since she might leave me naught by will this she gave me in private.

None knows of it save myself. It is yours--all lies before you now.

Take the road to Fame.’ And though we had not met for so long, she

waited for no word.

Dear heart, to resign that fortune for my sake! When I have seen all

that Europe boasts, and studied the works of the dark masters, I will

return and make her my wife. Here is a copy of what I writ to her at

Hambleton:--

‘Mistress, I entreat you would be pleased to receive my very great

thanks for the largeness of your generosity. I have warmer dreams of my

work than ever, and with travel and the instruction of Italian artists

I hope to do wondrous pictures. You have been my staff, and when the

day comes that I already foresee, I shall cast myself a willing slave

at your feet.--I am your humble Servant,

PLINY WITHERTON.’

* * * * *

[The journal contains an accurate narrative of adventures on the

Continent. Anne’s gift was a thousand guineas. The relation of

Witherton’s amours in France and Italy is worthy of Smollett. Anne’s

constancy is noted at intervals. Her father and the tyrannical Countess

had died, and left her guardian of their nine children, and she spent

the years at Hambleton fostering the estate.

Witherton suffered anguish before the Titians at Venice, and swooned

in the Sistine Chapel. English art being what it was, his work won him

some notice in Rome. Success strengthened his imagination, and his

creations became more virile.

At the Russian Court, whither he travelled from Italy, he was made

painter-in-chief, and found his emoluments so large, and his position

so vastly improved, that at the end of the fifth year he returned to

England, with the intention of fulfilling his promise to Anne.]

* * * * *

_Jan. 1, 1710._--’Tis no longer the Hambleton of my boyhood; ’tis a

centre of wretchedness and parsimony! Then all was lavishness--open

house--the whole world welcome. Even whilst the leather hung rotting

from the walls, came tuns of wine and rare fruits for each season. Now

a new order ruleth;--to the deuce with such cheeseparing! ‘Mistress

orders the fish from our own ponds; mistress orders the gorcocks to be

killed on Danman’s Moor.’ The meanness of habit that sickened me in

earlier times has now reached head.

And yesternight I made her understand. In the days before the

_cognoscenti_ acknowledged my genius, we had been wont to watch the New

Year in from the windows of the Grecian temple that lies a quoit’s-cast

from the hill-walk.

When we had supped together she rose from the table, and courtesied

with an old maid’s awkwardness.

‘You play hoodman-blind when I am by,’ she said. ‘Do you not see my

gown? From Firenze you wrote that purple becomes pale faces best.’

But one at table had worn damassin of pale green, woven with gold and

silver arabesks--Lady Lucy, a debonair maid, rosy-lipped and eyed like

Venus--and I had sight for no other.

Mistress drew me to the bay, and pointed to the clearing beyond the

pines where seven squares of light fell on the frosty grass.

‘In your honour, O painter mine, a fire has burned there all week, and

now five hundred candles are lighted! When we went before ’twas as

downtrodden children. To-night let us sit and watch and listen to the

bells.’

She laid her hand on my arm, and drawing over her shoulders the rich

furs I had brought as a spousal gift, passed with me from the house.

When we reached the temple steps, she ran forward and flung the valves

open, so that, even ere we entered, we were bathed in the glow. Inside

much reparation had been done: the walls shone in white and gold, and

the ceiling-fresco of ‘Aurora pursuing Night’ was newly cleaned and

restored. The chamber was warm and sweet with burning logs. We closed

the door and sat on the pigskin stools by the fire, the length of the

hearth lying betwixt.

Drifting against the glass came the noise of Edale Bells. The lads were

drunk as ever, lashing out the old tempestuous jangle.

‘We are crowned,’ she said. ‘We have ever fought side by side, and now

we are victors.’

I looked at her, and saw that the frost had pinched her face and

reddened her eyes. Then I gazed at Aurora, juicy and fresh. On the

hearth lay a withered leaf that had tapped in after us: on the table a

great yellow rose. And I was moved by these things to speak the truth.

‘Anne, let it be all over between us. We have grown apart; life

together would be miserable.... I have my art, and you would bind me to

earth. From this night we will be cordial friends; lovers we have never

been.... I cannot love you.’

After a while she turned her eyes from mine and bowed her head. ‘Better

so,’ she murmured. ‘I am not worthy.’

For an hour she sat in silence, flushing and twining her hands....

CRYSTALLA’S LETTER TO THE _Spectator_.

_Jan. 19, 1712._

_Mr._ Spectator,

As I have dwelt in these wilds since my birth, and, though an Earl’s

daughter, have never been permitted to show myself in London, a

description of my face and figure must needs give you pleasure. ’Tis

not my own, but that of Pictor, read to me from this Journal.

‘Of a full, ripe beauty, such as none but Virgins of high birth

possess. A face neither round nor oval, but something between, touched

with the softness of an apricock’s sunside. Eyes lupin-coloured; in

sober moments half-hid behind velvet lashes, but when roused sparkling

azure fire. Lips such as a god might pasture on. Shoulders pure and

white and smoothly dimpled; and a waist of most admirable shape. A foot

so arched that Philip, her pet sparrow, cowers ’neath the instep.’

Methinks, sir, if you but saw me, spite of your melancholy, you also

would fall in love. Though I be modest, I protest that the picture is

nowise over-coloured. The simple country folk are so enamoured of my

person that the louts line the way to church, and swear when ’tis fine,

‘’Tis Crystalla’s weather.’

That your humble servant may receive advice concerning the disposal of

her person, she begs to lay her case before you. For two years she has

been courted by an aged nobleman, who offers her a position of highest

rank, and such wealth as only pertains to princes. There are many

stains on his character, but he is old and not like to live long.

And now Pictor himself comes forward and sighs at my feet. He is

a man of great fame, and, moreover, one attached by old kindness

to my family. He is strangely ugly, being livid-skinned and

orange-tawny-haired; but, notwithstanding, it has never fallen to me to

meet a man of so many attractions. Maybe his stealthiness charms me,

for he is like a cat treading softly and creeping from all manner of

places; and I vow I would rather wed him than the handsomest man made

since Adam.

He hath had love passages with a poor relation of mine, whom my

parents, in return for fancied services, made guardian of my sisters

and myself. She is a vixen and a shrew, who fancies to keep us within

bounds; but I’ll have none of her! Pictor, coming from a foreign land,

brought her many gifts, utterly forgetting your handmaid, but their

meeting was the quaintest and coldest thing (on his side) that I have

yet beheld.

When he saw me his humour changed, and he put himself forward to

delight, and his witless creature wept for very joy. With time,

however, I saw his distaste grow and grow, till I could scarce forbear

twitting both.

Now I see her going quietly about her work, but sighing in odd corners

as if her heart would break.

So, dear Mr. Spectator, I desire you to inform me whether, being an

Earl’s daughter, it would be great folly in me to choose the painter

and flout the duke. The one holds me in chains of fascination; the

other, though I don’t hate him, wakens no tender feeling.

I am, Sir, your dutiful and obedient servant and admirer,

CRYSTALLA.

_P.S.--I entreat you let me know soon._

MY FRIEND

They have just told me that I cannot live beyond midnight. But this is

no confession of guilt. Knowing that I was soon to see an unknown land,

and that the friend I had won (the first and the last) loved me so

dearly that he would be unhappy unless his hand were clasping mine--did

I sin in my desire that he should go forth, and be waiting for me?

A fortnight ago I met him in the street. His head was hanging, his

gait dejected, he was talking to himself. I stood watching him. As

he approached, long before he really saw me, a change came over him:

his figure grew erect, his face sharpened, his lips closed. He smiled

strangely as our eyes met, and I felt exultant in the knowledge that

such spontaneous gladness should never degenerate. I took his hand, and

held it so long that the townsfolk looked and laughed.

‘Gabriel,’ I said, ‘I have been dreaming of you again. I thought we had

gone together to spend Sunday on the Naze of Blakelow.’ A warm flush of

pleasure spread over his face. ‘Yes,’ I went on, ‘and you said in my

dream that it was the last of the vignettes’ (he had a way of calling

our short holidays ‘vignettes’), ‘and I replied that this was on a

grander scale.’ He laughed, though I am sure he did not understand.

‘If only you _would_ go,’ he made answer, ‘I feel that I should be so

much better for the mountain air. I am out of tune with all the world

but you. I can start soon--in two hours, if you will.’ So we met later.

I looked on his dark face, and my heart leaped out to him. I forgot

the acrimony of living with those whose only feeling for me was one of

relationship; forgot the Dead Sea apples of my past, and felt joyful

beyond expression: often pressing my hand to my heart, where the toy I

carried nestled in its scarlet sheath.

Something in his face told me that he was sad. ‘You are not happy now?’

I said. ‘I am not,’ he replied. ‘I am envious of you. Your life is so

free: you have no business affairs to drag you to earth. But I shall

be happy soon; it is good to be with you.’ As for myself, I never was

happier. My spirits rose quickly; from the far recesses of my brain I

brought the wildest thoughts to lay before him. Flashes of inspiration

that only showed in his presence (sparks of divine fire, perhaps) spun

themselves into one glittering string for his sake.

We were to sleep at the Eagle, a hostelry whose prosperity began

dwindling with the decline of coaching. It lies eighteen miles from

our town, midway between the hamlets Ashstraw and Glosboro. Neither of

us had been there before; but the guide-book was explicit. The weather

was dull; but it took no hold on me. We left the precincts of the town

and reached the great moorland with its bridle-path. When the dense

smoke of the furnaces had given place to fresh, heather-scented air, I

essayed a question.

‘Are you still depressed?’

‘No,’ he cried, with his brown eyes full of mirth.

‘Then you are perfectly happy?’ said I. (It was always gratifying to be

assured of this.)

‘I cannot be otherwise when I have left the town with you,’ he said.

And at this I took his arm, for it was always less painful to

myself when I walked close to him. We began to talk of our dreams.

Circumstances had bound him to a profession that chafed his very core;

but Nature had given him aspirations, and miraged him a future as great

(if as worthless) as my own.

How daring I grew! Farther and farther I had ventured down the

heretical abyss. Gabriel’s face gleamed with amazement: he drank it

all in greedily. Was it not curious that I, who knew how fast the end

was nearing, should have dared to relax my hold upon those snatches of

hope which are as straws to the drowning man? After a time I turned the

discussion--if you may call a monologue discussion--to my favourite

theme, which is death. I had grown so morbid that I could pile horror

upon horror. I gloated on the orthodox eternity: I drew brave pictures

of my childhood’s Satan in his environment of fire and gloom. But after

the sunset rain came down in torrents. In five minutes we were wet to

the skin. My clothes were old, my shoes let water; I had no umbrella,

but walked under Gabriel’s. Just before twilight the path left the

heath, and descended abruptly to the grass-grown coach-road that runs

along the side of the hill they call the Silver Patines. Evening fell.

The rain hissed on the heather, and the wind, catching the few gnarled

thorns, drew from them a dull, sonorous cry. The river, somewhat in

flood, rushed over jagged stones; a few moorland sheep were sheltering

under the rocks that lined his banks. Owls, so unfamiliar with man that

they rattled their wings well-nigh in our faces, went whirring through

the air. They started a train of abstract reasoning in me as to the

doctrine of transmigration.

‘Ah, Pythagoras’s metempsychosis!’ I said to myself. I am certain that

my tongue was silent; yet Gabriel smiled. I was slightly hurt, and,

drawing my arm away, walked to the other side of the road, refusing to

shelter beneath the umbrella. Soon came the knowledge that his smile

contained no touch of contempt, but was only a glad movement for that

he knew himself in such sympathy with me as to apprehend my unvoiced

fancy. I hastened to his side, and begged him to forgive. But the

charm was broken for a time. My thoughts had withered, my words were

grown unpregnant. So his happiness fled, there came a sequence of

those drossy moments when silence is loathsome, yet must be. We felt

them keenly. My head grew hot with grief: I it was who had snapped the

golden cord. We had not walked much further before Gabriel stopped and

leaned his cheek on the wet stones of the wall. ‘I wish that I were

dead,’ he murmured. ‘I am tired.’

‘Then shall we go back?’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would be best. We are both

wet through: the inn may be uncomfortable--the rooms damp.’

He turned and gave me his hand. ‘Go back?’ he gasped: ‘go back? Why--I

wish--that I might pass--all my life thus!’

‘With the shadows and the rain and the wind’s howling,’ I added

laughingly, ‘and no home, but inn after inn, strange bed after strange

bed?’

‘No home, and you with me!’ he cried. ‘Ah! I could forget everything if

you were with me.’

By now we could see nothing afar from us. At intervals a sound as of

heavy hoofs a-splash on the road warned us to go warily. Ever and

anon we waded tiny gullies. Thrice blasts of warm air, from the airt

in which we were going, fluttered about my cheek and my hands. I

fancied, and said, that these were disembodied souls hustled by the

storm. Gabriel could not feel them; and when I said that another and

yet another had touched me, held out his hands without avail. The wind

piped with a shriller sound, changing its tone to one that mystified

me, for we had passed the region of trees. Long-drawn sighs came first,

then chords of broken melody, then whisperings as it were in a foreign

tongue. Why, we were nearing some Druid stones! Ten yards to the right

they stood, in a perfect circle, stately and tall, their bases hid in

ling.

Again a change in the wind’s song: a thousand shrieks as though men

were being tortured with sharp knives. I turned to Gabriel, and spoke;

it seemed as if my voice leaped with the storm. ‘Gabriel,’ I cried.

‘What is it?’ His wan face came near to mine. ‘I hear nothing,’ he

said. ‘Come, let us hurry; it is getting late--they may not let us in.’

And a change had come into his voice too; a troubled note, as if a

dread had swept over him. ‘You are not afraid?’ I said lightly. He made

no reply.

Suddenly, as I listened, the heavens were rent from end to end, and a

flash of lightning leaped out: to laugh and dance and gambol on the

hill-tops, and then skip hissing across the river.

A sacrificial hymn was beginning at the Circle--a naked and bleeding

victim was bound to the altar--fire and water were there--the

long-bearded priests shook their white robes--the sharp knife

glittered--and my own stiletto waxed heavy, as it strove to draw me

downwards. I lifted my hand: just to touch the smooth pearl handle!

Again the skies opened, but with only a momentary gleam; one glance of

the Almighty Eye. But it was not so swift as to prevent me from seeing

the face of the Sacrifice. ‘They have taken him away,’ I faltered. ‘He

was at my side an instant ago.’ Gabriel drew me away.

He was shivering. For the first time that night I thought of his

health. ‘Let us run,’ I said. ‘Give me your hand.’ He lowered his

umbrella (it was of small use now, for the wind had risen--risen!)

and then, hand in hand like young children, we ran together. It was

delightful; but we were tired. So our feet were soon stayed, and,

standing at an abrupt turn of the valley, we were aware of a lonely

light agleam in the darkness--the light of the first house we had

remarked since our nightmare town. It disappeared ere we reached the

threshold. A sign-board flapped uneasily, and we found that our

journey was done. It was a vision of gables, with dormers and oriels;

immense beams here and there upheld a sodden thatch; the chimney

stacks, huddled and incongruously set, gave forth no friendly smoke.

With a mad desire to harangue, I ascended the perron-staircase,

and grasping its scrolled balustrade, began:--‘Friend Gabriel, who

listenest with the night bats and the darkness--what is the soul?’

(Heedless of the pelting rain and Gabriel’s tender lungs: brute that I

was!) ‘Nay,’ I continued, ‘rather what is the body? That I can define:

husks--husks--a frippery of flesh!’ The light came again, this time at

an upper window. I struck the door with my fist; but nobody heeded.

A few nights before Gabriel and I had seen a strolling company play

_Cymbeline_: so I began to mimic the stentorian voice of the Imogen.

The keyhole, which was hard to find, was covered with a stiff and rusty

scutcheon, which I had some difficulty in moving. At last, though, I

could press my lips to the void, and ‘What, ho, Pisanio!’ I cried.

Gabriel was too tired to smile; but footsteps came along the passage,

and after a wearisome time the bolts were all undrawn, and the door

opened as wide as the chain would run. A harsh and feeble voice came

forth upon the night: ‘What do you want?’ ‘Supper and a room,’ I

said. Another minute, and we stood in a yellow-washed hall, hung at

even distances with dusty stags’-heads. A few paintings of scriptural

scenes, done in Guercino’s style and framed in black, were fixed

between queer oak carvings, the subjects taken from the superstitions

of Holy Church, for in the first I saw Christ, crowned with a great

golden aureole, descending a ladder into flames that coiled snake-like

about the bottom rungs.

I showed it to Gabriel; but he scarce seemed to heed. His eyes and

mind were fixed on the woman who stood looking at us, the candle held

above her head. To tell the truth, I never saw a stranger creature. She

wore a long gown of amber cloth, padded voluminously, but unbuttoned

at the bosom and showing her brown, wrinkled throat. Her feet were

shoeless, and were covered with grey stockings. Her face was profoundly

unhallowed. There were remains of marvellous beauty; unparalleled

eyes, pure and light blue and unfathomably deep, under white, knotted,

bushy brows. No other feature did I note, save loose, prehensile lips

and rippling flaxen hair that fell, like a young girl’s, in great

locks over her shoulders. In truth, she had sinned monstrously; and

in punishment thereof Nature had gifted the most alluring of her

sweetnesses with a perenneity of youth: so making her a frightful

anomaly--a terrifying Death-and-Life. She stood bowed; her mouth

twisting, her eyes falling with inquiry on me. Gabriel she scarce

observed; and I know not what in myself attracted her. I was excited,

and could scarce repress my mirth. Yet, when I think of it, how oddly

laughter would have rung along that mildewed passage! How Sara in the

painting of the Angel’s Visit would have smiled a grimmer smile!

After a while, sighing heavily, she turned and led the way to a great

room. Here she lighted two candles on the central table and, bidding

us wait for a little, disappeared. We could hear her movements grow

more and more distant. I sat on a tiny settee--(bah, how cold it

was!)--whilst Gabriel wandered about, lifting the candle at times to

the Italian landscapes painted on the panelling. ‘The Colosseum!’ he

cried suddenly--‘and not ruined, but in its full pride. See, I can’t

understand this!’ He drew me towards the picture (poor Gabriel was

always a lover of art),--I looked, and was amazed to see the building

I had so often dreamed of glistening in the moonlight. But my gaze was

not so deeply interested as his, and, leaving the picture, it fell

upon the miniature of a young girl above the mantelpiece. A host of

memories came, my eyes grew dim, my chin trembled. Surely--surely--the

likeness was familiar? Yet it could not be. The woman with the web of

flaxen hair, Lenore whom I had lost, but never loved, Lenore whom I had

forgotten years ago. Lenore with a rose--a lust-flower--a flower of

volupty--warming the iciness of the breasts it glowed between! _Lenore!

Lenore! Lenore!_

I could not show it to Gabriel. It was not Lenore. How should the

portrait of the holy witch, who slept so peacefully, encounter me here

of all places? Fie! An instant, and I had fallen to speculating as the

jack-o’-lanthorn of my folly bade, when the hostess came back. She bore

a pan of live coals and a bundle of fagots; these she threw on the

hearth, so that a bright flame was soon leaping giddily up the chimney.

‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘your chamber is making ready. Supper shall be

laid anon.’

Gabriel and I went to the fireside now, and stood in the heat. He

was silent but not unhappy: indeed the gleaming of his sunken eyes

went far towards dispelling the passion awakened by the miniature.

Again the woman entered, this time with a laden tray. She drew the

table nearer the fire, and, having spread the cloth and arranged the

quaint china, produced from a large press dishes of old-fashioned

confections--rose-petals, clusterberries, and almond comfits. Also,

there were birds dressed in a way that I had never seen before. We

grew very hungry at the sight. A sense of possession came over me: I

was the host, Gabriel the guest. I assumed the honours. ‘Pray, make

yourself comfortable!’ I said, and we both laughed until the lamplight

fluttered. He could laugh best--with the most singleheartedness.

Outside the wind cried like a beaten child, and the gusts in the

corridors were as mournful as the last breaths of a dying man. As no

rain beat upon the windows, I surmised that the weather was fair, and I

drew one of the sombre curtains. But I could see nothing but blackness:

so with a shudder and a joyful thanksgiving that we were indoors, I

went back to the table.

The collation done, I rang for the dishes to be removed. When, after a

long time, the woman came, her suspicious curiosity was gone, and she

moved in apathy. As she left us for the last time, after placing two

logs across the andirons, she courtesied foolishly. ‘Gentlemen,’ she

said, ‘the door of your chamber opens on the first landing. A fire is

burning there: you will see the reflection when you wish to retire.’

Beside the hearth were two great leathern arm-chairs, shaped like

sedans. Gabriel took one, I the other. They were padded deep, and

exquisitely comfortable. I leaned back, gazing dreamily on my friend’s

face; for I wanted his features burned into my brain. He enjoyed the

examination, but soon distracted me by speech.

‘It seems a hundred years since we left the town,’ he said; ‘we are in

quite another world--in a realm full of romance----’

‘Gabriel,’ I interrupted, as if I had not heard his remark, ‘will you

tell me the perfect truth if I ask you something?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I promise seriously.’ I covered my forehead with my

handkerchief. I was fain to hide my look. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘it is this:

_Do you really care for my friendship?_’

‘My dear fellow,’ he cried impetuously, ‘why do you ask? I thought

you knew before now. There is nobody else on earth for whom I care a

thousandth part as much.’

‘Have I been of any use to you?’ I asked: unnecessarily, for I knew

what his reply would be. He reiterated my words.

‘Any use to me--any use to me? Why I had sunk into a dreadful slough

before I knew you. It had been a sleep of years and years, and you

helped me out of it all, and made me human again. You have brought me

ideal happiness in our friendship.’

I was silent a moment, then I said tentatively: ‘Suppose that I had

to take a long journey--one with no chance of returning? What of your

friendship then?’

His face grew very white. ‘If you take such a journey,’ he said, ‘I go

with you.’

A stillness followed, so profound that I was afraid lest the beating

of my heart should attain to him and stir his sympathy. The gleaming

logs on the hearth were as quiet as if the lapping flames were magical;

and a dull, subtle perfume spread from the wisps of azure smoke that

came winnowing down the chimney. The mantel was wonderfully wrought--a

masterpiece in carven oak. Lilith, the wife of Adam, stood to the

left; the Queen of Sheba, her feet on Solomon’s Mirror, to the right;

on the transome, clustering and grotesque, were angels and fiends. It

was in accordance with my imagination--wild and fantastic, and with no

unity. I bent towards Gabriel to point it out, but seeing that, drowsy

with the heat, he had let his head fall back to the cushion, and was

already well-nigh asleep, I strangled my remark, and began conning his

face once more. What a curious forehead! It was high: not narrow, but

oddly misshapen, particularly above the eyes, where the great black

brows, bristling on penthouses, gave a fiercely kind look. His nose was

good, his moustache coarse and with bitten ends; his lips were full and

unequal; his chin was square. Here was nothing fascinating, save the

fact that it was the face of my only friend.

Soon, impatient that he should sleep when I was wide awake, I rose

from my chair and began walking about the room. Not daring to look at

the miniature again, I turned to the opposite wall. A cry of delight

burst from me, for standing there was a satin-wood spinet with open

lid. I read the label of Johannes Pohlman, and the date, 1781. I had

cherished from my earliest childhood the desire of playing on such an

instrument, and I drew out the needleworked stool, and ran my fingers

lightly over the keys in an attempt to harmonise my thoughts. To my

surprise the tone was neither discordant nor decayed, but echoed with

a charming tinkling. In a minor, on a numbed undercurrent of bass, a

melody like a thin gold wire began its incantation. I lost myself: I

was the Spirit of the Music--not the fragile fool whose life should be

required of him so soon! But the vein was soon exhausted, and I turned

to Gabriel to find him awake and looking at me. ‘What are you playing?’

he said eagerly. ‘I was dreaming unpleasantly, and the sound brought me

to myself. I never heard anything like it’ (he passed his hand over his

forehead as if perplexed): ‘it reminds me of twilight vapours in June,

wind-borne across a marshy pool to die among foxgloves and wild aniseed

on the farther shore.’

‘You are right,’ I replied. ‘It is a requiem.’

Looking at my watch, I saw that it was now midnight, so I took up

a candle and, lighting it at the fire, suggested sleepily that we

should go to bed. Gabriel rose, and ascended the staircase at my side.

The fagots in the bedroom had burnt low: only a dim red gleam was

mirrored on the panelling of the landing and on the glossy door of a

clock, above whose dial a curious arrangement showed the waxing and

waning of the moon. Our chamber was large, and apparently was over

the supper-room. No carpet covered the worm-eaten floor; but a few

discoloured skin rugs, irregularly shapen, lay about, chiefly round the

cedar bedstead in the middle, whereon a volant angel, blowing a gilt

bugle, leaned from the top of every post. I threw logs on the hearth,

and while Gabriel undressed I lay on a couch from one of the recesses

in the wall. As I rested, hot tears ran down my cheeks.

Gabriel drew aside the bed-curtains. I sprang to his side and took his

hands. ‘Stay,’ I said gravely; ‘you have not said your prayers.’

He laughed blithely. ‘I never say them,’ he replied. I did not relax my

hold.

‘For God’s sake,’ I muttered, ‘say them to-night of all nights.’

His mirth died quickly: ‘If you will sleep better with the knowledge, I

will say them;’ and he began to pray with a surprising beauty. I said

_Amen_ when all was done. In less than ten minutes he was fast asleep.

For me, I sat listening to the deathwatch sound in the region of my

heart; the nearly silent drip-dropping of blood from the vessel,

now well-nigh exhausted, whose emptiness means freedom. Its ticking

alternated with the clock’s, and each one brought a separate vision to

my fancy--visions that I had thought ripped from my heart years ago.

Visions of Lenore! O damned miniature! But Gabriel’s breathing soothed

me. Once he murmured: ‘Friend!’

The gleaming of the hangings startled me. Some dull metal was

interwoven with the wool, so that, as the light rose and fell, figures

sprang from the folds and leaped down chasms, eyes gleamed and dimmed,

arms were uplifted and struck. Soon, in my curiosity, I began to

consider the chief subject, and was amazed to find it that scene in

_Tamburlane_, where Bajazeth and Zabina lie with their brains dashed

out. It was wrought on the side nearest the fire, and on the other

(which I saw by candlelight) was an uncouth picture of the tent of

Heber the Kenite, with Jael in act to use the lethal hammer. Suicide

and murder, each grimly figured--suicide and murder: here were strange

subjects for a temple of rest! Yet Gabriel’s dreams were happy. Often

during my vigil I drew the curtain, and laid my hand tenderly on his

forehead, and watched the lines of care fade out and away. As the night

passed, he seemed to realise my presence: so, not wishing to break his

rest, I was content to listen to the rise and fall of his breath.

The wind lulled before dawn. I looked from the window, and high above

(for the opposite hill walled out all but a narrow slit) was the

sky, dark blue and nebulous. On the sill a thin-voiced bird chirped a

few odd notes. Another light began contending with the gleam from the

fire. A solemn grey took the place of the gloom outside--a grey that

brightened and brightened.

... ‘Gabriel,’ I said aloud. ‘Let us see the sunrise together. Come,

dress yourself! We will go to the crest of the Naze.’

He sat up in bed yawning.

‘Nay,’ he answered. ‘I am too lazy to walk far before breakfast. It is

not time to get up yet. I am sleepy.’

But, seeing me fully dressed, he sprang to the floor with a bound that

made things shake, and, clamouring that he was no sluggard, began to

put on his clothes.

The sun rose; a long ruddy haze trembled above the hill. All the stars

faded, and the glitter began to creep down the side of the valley.

Streamlets were leaping in the tiny cloughs, and spreading before they

reached the melancholy river into brown and white mare’s tails. Only

that one bird, with the same acid piping! When we descended, breakfast

had just been laid. There was nobody to wait at table; but everything

you needed was there. ’Twas a still stranger meal than that of the

night before. The food was impregnated with a strong flavouring, as

of cinnamon; the coffee smelled deliciously; but a dish of scarlet

poppies, with hearts like fingers, effused a close and sleepy perfume.

We ate in silence; and, having sat a while, I rang for the reckoning.

The woman came, as evil-looking as ever; still wearing the amber gown.

Moreover, the interest she had in me was greatly heightened, for she

stood a minute gazing open-mouthed at my face, and her words were

mystical. ‘I trust that you have slept well here,’ she said dreamily,

‘for he who sleeps here needs no more sleep on earth. But this is not

your last visit!’ Had she seen anything in my eyes? Was she a witch?

I turned to Gabriel, my heart panting. Thank God, he had not heard!

But when I had paid her she plucked my sleeve, and led me to a great

mirror between the windows. There she pointed to the reflection of my

face, which I had never seen so impassive before. I turned half-angrily

away, aghast but not surprised at her familiarity (for I knew her now),

and she cackled drily, with a sound that better suggested wickedness

than the most insidious speech. Even Gabriel was startled, and walked

quickly to the door. As we stood on the threshold, to which she

followed to speed us with courtesyings, I asked the nearest way to the

village of Esperance, whose church, with its priest’s chamber and its

bells, I wished to see.

‘’Tis fourteen miles from here, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Pass for a

good step along the river; cross at the leppings, where the water

lies broadest; and when you reach the hill-top eight miles of barren

moorland lie before you. The path is a Roman road, swarded and wide.

Turn at the pillar with the snake-rings. Go straight through the clough

to the right, and there is Esperance, with the Featherbed Moss betwixt.’

She closed the door with a loud bang, and left us standing in amaze.

The guide-book showed me that the village was at most some seven miles

off, and that by a straight road. But the sound of drawing bolts

prevented us from asking any more: so we started for the river-side.

Suddenly Gabriel turned to look at the quaint cluster of buildings.

A cry burst from his lips: ‘By Jove, we’ve come to the wrong place!

This is not the Eagle--just look at the sign!’ We returned. It was a

long swinging hatchment, a lozenge with proper supporters, whereon

was painted an ungainly mythical creature, half dog and half bird.

An inscription--_Ye Gabbleratch Inne_--in faded gilt letters gleamed

below. But that was not all; for through a small mullioned window to

the left the old woman was peering at us, and looking over her shoulder

was the face of the handsomest man I have ever seen: youthful, white,

and with auburn hair: but so sinister withal that his gaze seemed as

petrifying as a cockatrice’s.

We turned and fled, breathless almost, but with a fleetness I should

not have believed attainable to one in my condition. Ere long we turned

the foot of a crag, and to our common relief passed out of sight of the

inn.

‘The Devil and his Dam!’ quoth Gabriel, half in earnest.

The river broadened until it filled the bottom of the valley, whose

walls grew more and more precipitous. Moss-covered stones, that bore

the marks of ancient carving, met the path soon; and, though in places

they were somewhat under water, they were distinct enough to make

crossing safe. They ended at the entrance to a gorge, along whose side

a path, built of clamped flags, rose sharply to a level platform. When

we reached the top there lay a prospect of utter barrenness: an immense

plain with an horizon of jagged peaks; a few scant patches of heather

relieving the sameness of the red earth; the Roman road, with its

green, velvety turf, stretching, like a stagnant canal, from where we

stood to the furthest crevice in the sky-line.

A queer memory awoke in me. ‘Gabriel,’ I said, ‘do you know the secret

of this earth?’ He did not: so I told him of a place, something akin to

this, where, in my own childhood, the body of a girl, murdered in the

first year of Queen Anne, was discovered perfectly intact and supple.

The tale pleased him. ‘This is just the place I should like to be

buried in,’ he remarked. His words excited me. At that instant I could

have done it--painfully. But I wished above all things to spare him

pain.

Once I paused; between myself and the sun a hawk was grappling with a

smaller bird, whose feathers floated down like snow-flakes. My tongue

formed the word ‘metempsychosis’ again, and Gabriel understood once

more. A taint of sorrow came at the thought of our brief parting. And

then I was possessed of an unutterable joy.

* * * * *

At mid-day he lay sleeping beside me on the moor. With my own hands

I made his bed: with my own hands smoothed the sheet. Evening had

fallen, when, alone and pensive, I heard the sweet bells of Saint Anne

of Esperance, and saw the dim valleys of Braithwage and Camsdell with

their serpentine streams.

ROXANA RUNS LUNATICK

Amongst the May poetry in the ninety-first volume of the _British

Review_ is the following composition by Lady Penwhile, whose Roxana had

shaken the town for a whole season.

‘Placed in the hand of the Satyr who guards the Puzzle-Pegs at N----,

with a tress of hair for Hyperion.’

_If so be that Hyperion visit thy stately lawn on the anniversary of

our parting, O Satyr, wilt thou tell him that R---- hath often sigh’d

for him there, and that, tho’ she has worn green Hellebore, such as

he gave her a year agone--when he vow’d an early return--her hopes

grow ever fainter and fainter. Say to him that she is bound in golden

chains, but that her heart sings when she thinks of him--(ay, her heart

is ever singing)--whisper that she loves him more as every moment

passes. And when thou hast done all this, bid Pan trill from his pipes,

whilst thou chantest this ditty._

Five halting verses follow, wherein ’tis told that the lovers had

parted, that Roxana had wedded an old man, that she felt incapable of

expressing in words the vehemency of her passion. But dear, pleasing

ghosts haunted her chambers day and night.

My lord’s cast-off doxy sent the journal, with a venomous letter

bidding him rub his forehead, for fear of the cuckoo. So he pondered in

his book-room, his half-blinded eyes fixed upon the logs; and, after

many struggles with his better nature, he devised a plot worthy of

Satan himself.

For Roxana was a prize worth keeping. She was pale, exquisitely pale.

One forgot her eyes, but remembered that somewhere in her face was seen

the sudden starting of a timid woman’s soul.... Hast ever watched the

heart of a palm-catkin when a wanton hand has fired it? Lurking under

the outer blackness are red and yellow intermixed. Such was the colour

of her hair that fell from nape to heel. Hands that alone might have

quenched lawless desires: of a subtle pink, like the ivory that comes

from Africk.

Few women could have given such devotion as she gave my lord. By

some stratagem, some wild persuasion in her moment of wavering, he

had gained possession. Compassion weakens distaste, and he had posed

long as one broken-hearted. How daintily did she acknowledge his

requirements, how sweet her service had become! When he had decided

concerning Hyperion, his punctilio was greater than ever: the house

rang with shrill commands for madam’s comfort, and he sat hour after

hour listening to her tenderest songs. She was a lutanist too, and

great in the Italian masters.

On Oak Day, when men and maids bore the garland through the park, a

country fellow came to mistress and delivered her a note. My lord was

not present, but she grew faint and chill, and had much ado to applaud

the pageant. With unseemly haste she withdrew to her chamber and read

there----

‘Many days have passed ere I could summon courage. At twilight

to-morrow we will meet; I have discovered the place. What manner of

love was mine erstwhile that thou wert false?’

In her cabinet were many choice silks. She made a bag of the richest,

and put the folded sheet inside, and spread ambergris upon it, then

hung it between her breasts. That night as she slept her fingers

relaxed, and my lord took thence the token, and read it, gnashing his

teeth. He put it back: so that in the morning flush, when her hand

sought the thing, it seemed untouched.

That day passed so wearily! In her spouse’s company she was gay and

brilliant; all her paleness had disappeared, and a feverish red pulsed

in her cheeks. And he was brimful of paradox and of jesting, but

sometimes she trembled because of the fearsome coldness of his looks.

Once, when she fawned upon him he put her away, not untenderly.

‘Sweetheart,’ he said towards sunset, ‘an’ if thou wert false!’

‘Ay, me,’ she faltered, for the repetition of Hyperion’s words struck

her with terror. ‘False! false!’

It was growing dusk; he peered close to the clock-face. ‘More than two

months have passed since we came here,’ he noted, breaking the ominous

silence. ‘And yet this place is strange to you. Let us visit the old

house--see, here are the keys! Dearest, lean on my arm.’

They passed through the garden to the porch and so to the mildewed

avenues of the pre-Elizabethan part where all the lumber was stored. My

lord saw Roxana’s bodice swell as if the threads would burst. Soon they

reached a great hall lighted with green windows, whose dimness scarce

revealed the many sacks of too long-garnered grain, where the mice

ran in and out. There, near the foot of a staircase that led to the

gallery, he left her, and she heard the clicking of a lock.

My lord went to an upper chamber whence he could see the outlet of

the maze. The belling of his red-eyed dogs as they strutted in their

leash tickled his ears: he laughed and rubbed his forehead. The moon

rose, and he could hear Roxana clamouring in the hall. After a while

he descended by another way, and took out his death-hounds, and went

towards the trysting-place.

Roxana could not know what happened in the darkness. The agony of the

man whose every vestige of clothes was torn away, and whose white flesh

gaped bloodily, was hidden from her by the seven feet of masonry that

parted them as he leaped madly into the courtyard. Nor could she hear

his worn, querulous cry--such a cry as the peewit makes before dawn.

Yet, withal, her hands began to drum in her lap.

When the darkness was intense my lord came back. He felt for Roxana in

the place where he had left her. She was not there: an hour before she

had climbed to the gallery. He groped painfully round the walls.

In one corner soft delicious things like nets of gossamer fell on his

fingers. He stooped to the floor, and touched more of them. Above was

a sound of tearing, but no panting nor indrawing of breath. Another

web fluttered past his face; his lips began to quiver. It was Roxana’s

hair.

THE PAGEANT OF GHOSTS

A late twilight in June. A wood-lark rippling in mid-air.

Drowsy-scented ladies’ bed-straw in a marsh that was once a garden. On

the terrace wall, beside the cedar, a stone urn with a lambent flame.

The casement hung open, and the excess of beauty and perfume drugged

me: so that, with a sigh, I sank back into a moth-eaten sedan that

had borne four generations to Court. Dried dust of lavender and rue

filtered through the brocade lining, and grew into a mist, wherethrough

the bird’s song waxed fainter and fainter. Indeed, I was just closing

my eyes when the tuning of fifes and viols roused me with a start.

A shrill titter from the further end of the ball-room drew me from my

seat. At the outer extremity of the oriel hung a curtain of Philimot

velvet, lined inwardly with pale green silk: behind this I stole, and,

parting the draperies from the wall, gazed towards the musicians’

gallery. Five men, dressed in styles that ranged from the trunk-hose

and collared mantle of Elizabeth’s day to the pantaloons and muslin

cravats of the third George, were arranging yellow music-sheets on the

table. The youngest forced a harsh note from his viol, then struck

another’s bald pate, and set all a-laughing. A grave silence followed.

Then began just such a curious melody as the wind makes in a wood of

half-blighted firs.

All the sconces were lighted of a sudden, and the martlets and serpents

in the alt-relief above the panelling sprang into a weird life. Resting

between the fire-dogs on the open hearth were three logs, one of pine,

another of oak, and a third of sycamore. The grey flame licked them

hungrily, and the sap hissed and bubbled. The carved work of the walls

was distinct: Potiphar’s wife wrapped her bed-gown about Joseph, Judith

triumphed with the bloody head aloft, and in the centre Lot’s daughters

paddled with his withered jowls.

I felt but little wonder at the change from stillness to life. As the

last of my race, treasurer of a vast hoard of traditions, why should I

be disturbed by this return of the creatures of old? I dragged forth

the creaking sedan, and sat waiting.

A rusty, half-unstrung zither that hung near quivered and gave one

faint note to the melody. Ere its vibration had ceased, Mistress Lenore

entered through the arched doorway. Hour after hour had she plucked

those wires that cried out in welcome.

Her fox-coloured tresses were wrought into a fantastic web; each

separate hair twisted and coiled. A pink flush painted her cheeks,

and her lustrous blue eyes were mirthful. She wore opals (unfortunate

stones for such as love), and hanging from a black riband below her

throat was the golden cross Prince Charles had sent her from Rome.

The legends of her character came in floods. Wantonly capricious at

one moment, earnest and devout as a nun’s at another, her expression

changed a thousand times as I beheld. Now she was racking her soul with

jealousy; now pleading--as she alone could plead--for pardon; now,

when pardon was won, laughingly swearing that her repentance was only

feigned. As she neared my heart beat furiously, and I cried ‘_Lenore!

Lenore!_’ My voice was low and broken (the music gave a loud burst

then), but she passed without a word, her ivory-like hands almost

hidden beneath jewels and lace. The further door stood open, and she

disappeared.

Nowell the Platonist followed; a haggard middle-aged man in a long

cloak of sable-edged black velvet. Forgetful of all save desire, he

bore a scroll of parchment, whereon was written in great letters _To

Parthenia_. This was the only outcome of his one passion. At the second

window he paused, with a wry mouth, to gaze on that statue of Europa

from whose arm he had hanged himself. Then his hands were uplifted to

his head to force away the agony of despair; for hurrying towards him

came the Mad Maid, who could not love him, being devoted to the memory

of one wrecked at sea.

‘Why art thou in anguish?’ she said. ‘See my joy; laugh with me, dance

with me. He returns to-morrow--the boat’s coming in. Ah, darling! ah,

heart’s delight!’ And she held up her arms to a girandole whose candles

fluttered; but her face grew long, and thin, and pale, and she rested

on a settee and drew from her pocket a dusky lace veil, which, being

unfolded, discovered a ring with a burning topaz and a heart of silver.

She leaned forward, resting her brow in her hands, and talked to the

toys in her lap as if they understood.

To the veil she said, ‘No bride’s joy-blushes shalt thou conceal!’

To the ring, ‘Thou last gift of him who died and left me!’

To the heart, ‘O heart, thou hast endured! Thou art not broken!’

After a few tears she refolded all, and unbuttoning her bodice took

from the bosom a miniature framed with pearls; but, as if afraid lest

it should grow cold, she replaced it hurriedly, and seeing that Nowell

beckoned towards her, glided on, sighing, and with downcast looks.

Then passed a cavalier in azure silk and snowy ruffled cravat and

long-plumed cap of estate. He was whistling a song that threw all

bachelors into humorous ecstasy. Who he was I know not: unless the

courtier who had fought a duel with my Lord Brandreth, and had died in

the wood near St. Giles’s Well, pressing convulsively in his right hand

a dainty glove of Spanish kid. A merry fellow, quoth the legend, who

loved the world and all in it, but who was over fond of his own jest.

Fidessa, the singer, entered next. She had brought her little

gilt harp, and her lips were parted to join harmonies of voice

and instrument. Bright yellow hair plaited in bands that formed

a filigrain-bound coronet; eyes half-veiled, with sleepy lashes,

hands fragile as sea-shells. It was the _Verdi Prati_, Mr. Handel’s

celebrated song, that she adored most, and on the morrow she would sing

it at Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields Theatre. At least she purposed to sing it

then and there. Fate, however, had otherwise ordained: the to-morrow

would never come, and the sweetheart at the upland grange might well

write on her letters, ‘Darkness hath overcome me.’

Thin and pale Margot, her wanness heightened by dishevelled black

curls, came forward in her scarlet cloak. Silent reproach was in her

every feature; her eyes were stern and long-suffering. The prophecy

that bound up her life with that of her dying twin was rapidly

approaching consummation. Another moment and the direst pain filled

her; for a loud cry from an outer chamber told her he was dead.

As she disappeared in the gloom, Nabob Darrington, himself in life

the lover of a ghost, paced slowly along. A beau of the last century,

wearing a satin flowered waistcoat and a coat and breeches of

plum-coloured kerseymere, between his finger and thumb he held the

diamond which he had brought from the East as a spousal gift for the

woman who, unknown to him, had died of waiting. He was anticipating the

meeting with her, and his brown cheeks flushed blood-red at the sound

of a light footstep. He turned, saw one with violet eyes and tragic

forehead; and with one joyous murmur they enfolded each other and

passed.

Althea approached; a massive creature gowned in white and gold. In one

hand she held a tangle of sops-in-wine, in the other, as symbolical

kings hold globes, a bejewelled missal. The contention between the two

lovers--the old, who had tyrannised until her life was of the saddest,

and the new, who filled her with such wild happiness--was troubling

her, and she was pondering as to which should gain the victory. She was

just beginning to understand that to wait in passive indecision is to

be torn with dragon’s teeth.

Barbara, with eyes like moon-pierced amethysts, followed, singing Ben

Jonson’s _Robin Goodfellow_ in a sweet quaver that was only just heard

above the music. How strangely her looks changed--from maiden innocence

to the awakening of love! from the height of passion to the abyss of

despair!

But as she went the horizon was ripped from end to end, and a golden

arrow leaped into the ball-room. Dawn had broken. The scent of the

ladies’ bed-straw was trebly strong; the tired wood-lark sank lower and

lower.

The room was empty--the pageant passed and done.

THE END.

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty,

at the Edinburgh University Press.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.