The Man with the Claret Mark
But as the former excitement flagged, old Peggy Sullivan produced a new
one; for she solemnly avowed that she had seen a thin-faced man, with an
ugly red mark all over the side of his cheek, looking out of the same
window, just at sunset, before the young ladies returned from their
evening walk.
This sounded in their ears like an old woman's dream, but still it was
an excitement, jocular in the morning, and just, perhaps, a little
fearful as night overspread the vast and desolate building, but still,
not wholly unpleasant. This little flicker of credulity suddenly,
however, blazed up into the full light of conviction.
Old Laurence, who was not given to dreaming, and had a cool, hard head,
and an eye like a hawk, saw the same figure, just about the same hour,
when the last level gleam of sunset was tinting the summits of the
towers and the tops of the tall trees that surrounded them.
He had just entered the court from the great gate, when he heard all at
once the hard peculiar twitter of alarm which sparrows make when a cat
or a hawk invades their safety, rising all round from the thick ivy that
overclimbed the wall on his left, and raising his eyes listlessly, he
saw, with a sort of shock, a thin, ungainly man, standing with his legs
crossed, in the recess of the window from which the light was wont to
issue, leaning with his elbows on the stone mullion, and looking down
with a sort of sickly sneer, his hollow yellow cheeks being deeply
stained on one side with what is called a "claret-mark."
"I have you at last, you villain!" cried Larry, in a strange rage and
panic: "drop down out of that on the grass here, and give yourself up,
or I'll shoot you."
The threat was backed with an oath, and he drew from his coat pocket the
long holster pistol he was wont to carry, and covered his man cleverly.
"I give you while I count ten--one-two-three-four. If you draw back,
I'll fire, mind; five-six--you'd better be lively--seven-eight-nine--one
chance more; will you come down? Then take it--ten!"
Bang went the pistol. The sinister stranger was hardly fifteen feet
removed from him, and Larry was a dead shot. But this time he made a
scandalous miss, for the shot knocked a little white dust from the stone
wall a full yard at one side; and the fellow never shifted his negligent
posture or qualified his sardonic smile during the procedure.
Larry was mortified and angry.
"You'll not get off this time, my tulip!" he said with a grin,
exchanging the smoking weapon for the loaded pistol in reserve.
"What are you pistolling, Larry?" said a familiar voice close by his
elbow, and he saw his master, accompanied by a handsome young man in a
cloak.
"That villain, your honour, in the window, there."
"Why there's nobody there, Larry," said De Lacy, with a laugh, though
that was no common indulgence with him.
As Larry gazed, the figure somehow dissolved and broke up without
receding. A hanging tuft of yellow and red ivy nodded queerly in place
of the face, some broken and discoloured masonry in perspective took up
the outline and colouring of the arms and figure, and two imperfect red
and yellow lichen streaks carried on the curved tracing of the long
spindle shanks. Larry blessed himself, and drew his hand across his damp
forehead, over his bewildered eyes, and could not speak for a minute.
It was all some devilish trick; he could take his oath he saw every
feature in the fellow's face, the lace and buttons of his cloak and
doublet, and even his long finger nails and thin yellow fingers that
overhung the cross-shaft of the window, where there was now nothing but
a rusty stain left.
The young gentleman who had arrived with De Lacy, stayed that night and
shared with great apparent relish the homely fare of the family. He was
a gay and gallant Frenchman, and the beauty of the younger lady, and her
pleasantry and spirit, seemed to make his hours pass but too swiftly,
and the moment of parting sad.
When he had departed early in the morning, Ultor De Lacy had a long talk
with his elder daughter, while the younger was busy with her early dairy
task, for among their retainers this _proles generosa_ reckoned a "kind"
little Kerry cow.
He told her that he had visited France since he had been last at
Cappercullen, and how good and gracious their sovereign had been, and
how he had arranged a noble alliance for her sister Una. The young
gentleman was of high blood, and though not rich, had, nevertheless, his
acres and his _nom de terre_, besides a captain's rank in the army. He
was, in short, the very gentleman with whom they had parted only that
morning. On what special business he was now in Ireland there was no
necessity that he should speak; but being here he had brought him hither
to present him to his daughter, and found that the impression she had
made was quite what was desirable.
"You, you know, dear Alice, are promised to a conventual life. Had it
been otherwise--"
He hesitated for a moment.
"You are right, dear father," she said, kissing his hand, "I _am_ so
promised, and no earthly tie or allurement has power to draw me from
that holy engagement."
"Well," he said, returning her caress, "I do not mean to urge you upon
that point. It must not, however, be until Una's marriage has taken
place. That cannot be, for many good reasons, sooner than this time
twelve months; we shall then exchange this strange and barbarous abode
for Paris, where are many eligible convents, in which are entertained as
sisters some of the noblest ladies of France; and there, too, in Una's
marriage will be continued, though not the name, at all events the
blood, the lineage, and the title which, so sure as justice ultimately
governs the course of human events, will be again established, powerful
and honoured in this country, the scene of their ancient glory and
transitory misfortunes. Meanwhile, we must not mention this engagement
to Una. Here she runs no risk of being sought or won; but the mere
knowledge that her hand was absolutely pledged, might excite a
capricious opposition and repining such as neither I nor you would like
to see; therefore be secret."
The same evening he took Alice with him for a ramble round the castle
wall, while they talked of grave matters, and he as usual allowed her a
dim and doubtful view of some of those cloud-built castles in which he
habitually dwelt, and among which his jaded hopes revived.
They were walking upon a pleasant short sward of darkest green, on one
side overhung by the gray castle walls, and on the other by the forest
trees that here and there closely approached it, when precisely as they
turned the angle of the Bell Tower, they were encountered by a person
walking directly towards them. The sight of a stranger, with the
exception of the one visitor introduced by her father, was in this place
so absolutely unprecedented, that Alice was amazed and affrighted to
such a degree that for a moment she stood stock-still.
But there was more in this apparition to excite unpleasant emotions,
than the mere circumstance of its unexpectedness. The figure was very
strange, being that of a tall, lean, ungainly man, dressed in a dingy
suit, somewhat of a Spanish fashion, with a brown laced cloak, and faded
red stockings. He had long lank legs, long arms, hands, and fingers, and
a very long sickly face, with a drooping nose, and a sly, sarcastic
leer, and a great purplish stain over-spreading more than half of one
cheek.
As he strode past, he touched his cap with his thin, discoloured
fingers, and an ugly side glance, and disappeared round the corner. The
eyes of father and daughter followed him in silence.
Ultor De Lacy seemed first absolutely terror-stricken, and then suddenly
inflamed with ungovernable fury. He dropped his cane on the ground, drew
his rapier, and, without wasting a thought on his daughter, pursued.
He just had a glimpse of the retreating figure as it disappeared round
the far angle. The plume, and the lank hair, the point of the
rapier-scabbard, the flutter of the skirt of the cloak, and one red
stocking and heel; and this was the last he saw of him.
When Alice reached his side, his drawn sword still in his hand, he was
in a state of abject agitation.
"Thank Heaven, he's gone!" she exclaimed.
"He's gone," echoed Ultor, with a strange glare.
"And you are safe," she added, clasping his hand.
He sighed a great sigh.
"And you don't think he's coming back?"
"He!--who?"
"The stranger who passed us but now. Do you know him, father?"
"Yes--and--no, child--I know him not--and yet I know him too well. Would
to heaven we could leave this accursed haunt tonight. Cursed be the
stupid malice that first provoked this horrible feud, which no sacrifice
and misery can appease, and no exorcism can quell or even suspend. The
wretch has come from afar with a sure instinct to devour my last
hope--to dog us into our last retreat--and to blast with his triumph the
very dust and ruins of our house. What ails that stupid priest that he
has given over his visits? Are _my_ children to be left without mass or
confession--the sacraments which _guard_ as well as save--because he
once loses his way in a mist, or mistakes a streak of foam in the brook
for a dead man's face? D--n him!"
"See, Alice, if he won't come," he resumed, "you must only _write_ your
confession to him in full--you and Una. Laurence is trusty, and will
carry it--and we'll get the bishop's--or, if need be, the Pope's leave
for him to give you absolution. I'll move heaven and earth, but you
_shall_ have the sacraments, poor children!--and see him. I've been a
wild fellow in my youth, and never pretended to sanctity; but I know
there's but one safe way--and--and--keep you each a bit of this--(he
opened a small silver box)--about you while you stay here--fold and sew
it up reverently in a bit of the old psaltery parchment and wear it next
your hearts--'tis a fragment of the consecrated wafer--and will help,
with the saints' protection, to guard you from harm--and be strict in
fasts, and constant in prayer--_I_ can do nothing--nor devise any help.
The curse has fallen, indeed, on me and mine."
And Alice, saw, in silence, the tears of despair roll down his pale and
agitated face.
This adventure was also a secret, and Una was to hear nothing of it.