On the fifth anniversary of my father's death, when I was fifteen years
of age, I went to visit (as I always did upon that day) the fatal room.
Although this chamber had been so long unused, the furniture was allowed
to remain; and I insisted passionately that it should be my charge.
What had seemed the petulance of a child was now the strong will of a
thoughtful girl.
I took the key from my bosom, where I always kept it, and turned it in
the lock. No mortal had entered that door since I passed it in my last
paroxysm, three weeks and a day before. I saw a cobweb reaching from
the black finger-plate to the third mould of the beading. The weather
had been damp, and the door stuck fast to the jamb, then yielded with a
crack. Though I was bold that day, and in a mood of triumph, some awe
fell on me as I entered. There hung the heavy curtain, last drawn by
the murderer's hand; there lay the bed-clothes, raised for the blow, and
replaced on death; and there was the pillow where sleep had been so
prolonged. All these I saw with a forced and fearful glance, and my
breath stood still as the wind in a grave.
Presently a light cloud floated off the sun, and a white glare from the
snow of the morning burst across the room. My sight was not so dimmed
with tears as it generally was when I stood there, for I had just read
the history of a long-hidden crime detected, and my eyes were full of
fierce hope. But stricken soon to the wonted depth of sadness, with the
throbs of my heart falling like the avenger's step, I went minutely
through my death-inspection. I felt all round the dusty wainscot,
opened the wardrobes and cupboards, raised the lids of the deep-bayed
window-seats, peered shuddering down the dark closet, where I believed
the assassin had lurked, started and stared at myself in the mirror, to
see how lone and wan I looked, and then approached the bed, to finish my
search in the usual place, by lying and sobbing where my father died. I
had glanced beneath it and round the pillars, and clutched the curtain
as if to squeeze out the truth, and was just about to throw myself on
the coverlet and indulge the fit so bitterly held at bay, when something
on the hangings above the head-board stopped me suddenly. There I saw a
narrow line of deep and glowing red. It grew so vivid on the faded
damask, and in the white glare of the level sun, that I thought it was
on fire. Hastily setting a chair by the pillar, for I would not tread
on that bed, I leaped up, and closely examined the crimson vein.
Without thinking, I knew what it was--the heart-blood of my father.
There were three distinct and several marks, traced by the reeking
dagger. The first on the left, which had caught my glance, was the
broadest and clearest to read. Two lines, meeting at a right angle,
rudely formed a Roman L. Rudely I say, for the poniard had been too
rich in red ink, which had clotted where the two strokes met. The
second letter was a Roman D, formed also by two bold strokes, the
upright very distinct, the curve less easily traced at the top, but the
lower part deep and clear. The third letter was not so plain. It
looked like C at first, but upon further examination I felt convinced
that it was meant for an O, left incomplete through the want of more
writing fluid; or was it then that my mother had seized the dark author
by the hair, as he stooped to incline his pen that the last drop might
trickle down?
Deciphering thus with fingers and eyes, I traced these letters of blood,
one by one, over and over again, till they danced in my gaze like the
northern lights. I stood upon tiptoe and kissed them; I cared not what
I was doing: it was my own father's blood, and I thought of the heart it
came from, not of the hand which shed it. When I turned away, the
surprise, for which till then I had found no time, broke full upon me.
How could these letters, in spite of all my vigilance, so long have
remained unseen? Why did the murderer peril his life yet more by
staying to write the record, and seal perhaps the conviction of his
deed? And what did these characters mean? Of these three questions,
the first was readily solved. The other two remained to me as new
shadows of wonder. Several causes had conspired to defer so long this
discovery. In the first place, the damask had been of rich lilac, shot
with a pile of carmine, which, in the waving play of light, glossed at
once and obscured the crimson stain, until the fading hues of art left
in strong contrast nature's abiding paint. Secondly, my rapid growth and
the clearness of my eyes that day lessened the distance and favoured
perception. Again--and this was perhaps the paramount cause--the winter
sun, with rays unabsorbed by the snow, threw his sheer dint upon that
very spot, keen, level, and uncoloured--a thing which could happen on
few days in the year, and for few minutes each day, and which never had
happened during my previous search. Perhaps there was also some
chemical action of the rays of light which evoked as well as showed the
colour; but of this I do not know enough to speak. Suffice it that the
letters were there, at first a great shock and terror, but soon a strong
encouragement to me.
My course was at once to perpetuate the marks and speculate upon them at
leisure, for I knew not how fleeting they might be. I hurried
downstairs, and speaking to no one procured some clear tissue paper.
Applying this to the damask, and holding a card behind, I carefully
traced with a pencil so much of the letters as could be perceived
through the medium, and completed the sketch by copying most carefully
the rest; It was, however, beyond my power to keep my hand from
trembling. A shade flitted over my drawing--oh, how my heart leaped!
When I had finished the pencil-sketch, and before it was inked over (for
I could not bring myself to paint it red), I knelt where my father died
and thanked God for this guidance to me. By the time I had dried my
eyes the sun was passed and the lines of blood were gone, even though I
knew where to seek them, having left a pin in the damask. By measuring
I found that the letters were just three feet and a quarter above the
spot where my father's head had been. The largest of them, the L, was
three inches long and an eighth of an inch in width; the others were
nearly as long, but nothing like so wide.
Trembling now, for the rush of passion which stills the body was past,
and stepping silently on the long silent floor, I went to the deep
dark-mullioned window and tried to look forth. After all my lone
tumult, perhaps I wanted to see the world. But my jaded eyes and brain
showed only the same three letters burning on the snow and sky.
Evening, a winter evening, was fluttering down. The sun was spent and
stopped by a grey mist, and the landscape full of dreariness and cold.
For miles, the earth lay white and wan, with nothing to part life from
death. No step was on the snow, no wind among the trees; fences,
shrubs, and hillocks were as wrinkles in a winding-sheet, and every
stark branch had like me its own cold load to carry.
But on the left, just in sight from the gable-window, was a spot, black
as midnight, in the billowy snow. It was the spring which had stored
for me the footprints. Perhaps I was superstitious then; the omen was
accepted. Suddenly a last gleam from the dauntless sun came through the
ancient glass, and flung a crimson spot upon my breast. It was the red
heart, centre of our shield, won with Coeur de Lion.
Oh scutcheons, blazonments, and other gewgaws, by which men think to
ennoble daylight murders, how long shall fools account it honour to be
tattooed with you? Mercy, fellow-feeling, truth, humility, virtues that
never flap their wings, but shrink lest they should know they stoop,
what have these won? Gaze sinister, and their crest a pillory.
With that red pride upon my breast, and that black heart within, and my
young form stately with revenge, I was a true descendant of Crusaders.