He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his
bride. He conversed in a low tone that could not be overheard--for the
language of love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that
it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled
tenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful
effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went as she listened with
deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his
eye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic
countenance and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident
that the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were
deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had
fallen in love with each other at first sight.
The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all
blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses and
mountain air. The baron told his best and longest stories, and never had
he told them so well, or with such great effect. If there was anything
marvelous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if anything
facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The
baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any
joke but a dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of
excellent Hockheimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served
up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by
poorer and keener wits that would not bear repeating, except on similar
occasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that almost
convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared out by
a poor, but merry and broad-faced cousin of the baron that absolutely
made the maiden aunts hold up their fans.
Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most singular
and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of
dejection as the evening advanced; and, strange as it may appear, even
the baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At
times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and
restless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His
conversations with the bride became more and more earnest and
mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her
brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame.
All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was
chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits were
infected; whispers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs
and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and
less frequent; there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were
at length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal
story produced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly
frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the
goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora; a dreadful story
which has since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed
by all the world.
The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He kept
his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close,
began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until,
in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant.
The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh and took a
solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The baron was
perfectly thunder-struck.
"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything was
prepared for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to
retire."
The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; "I must lay my
head in a different chamber to-night!"
There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was uttered,
that made the baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied his forces and
repeated his hospitable entreaties.
The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer;
and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall.
The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified--the bride hung her head, and
a tear stole to her eye.
The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where
the black charger stood pawing the earth and snorting with impatience.
When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted
by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow
tone of voice which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral.
"Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to you the reason of my
going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement----"
"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send someone in your place?"
"It admits of no substitute--I must attend it in person--I must away to
Wurtzburg cathedral----"
"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until
to-morrow--to-morrow you shall take your bride there."
"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my engagement
is with no bride--the worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man--I
have been slain by robbers--my body lies at Wurtzburg--at midnight I am
to be buried--the grave is waiting for me--I must keep my appointment!"
He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and the
clattering of his horses' hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night
blast.
The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and related
what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at the
idea of having banqueted with a specter. It was the opinion of some,
that this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some
talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural
beings, with which the good people of Germany have been so grievously
harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to
suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier,
and that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so
melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of
the whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him as
little better than an infidel; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy
as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers.
But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely
put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular missives confirming
the intelligence of the young count's murder, and his interment in
Wurtzburg cathedral.
The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut himself up
in his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could not
think of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts,
or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging
their shoulders at the troubles of so good a man; and sat longer than
ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of
keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the
most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced
him--and such a husband! if the very specter could be so gracious and
noble, what must have been the living man! She filled the house with
lamentations.
On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to her
chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts who insisted on sleeping with
her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all
Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen
asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked a
small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising
moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the
lattice. The castle-clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain
of music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, and
stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of
the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the
countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the Specter Bridegroom! A loud
shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been
awakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the window, fell
into her arms. When she looked again, the specter had disappeared.
Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she was
perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, there was
something, even in the specter of her lover, that seemed endearing.
There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow of
a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick
girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is consoling.
The aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again; the
niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would
sleep in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that she had to
sleep in it alone: but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate
the story of the specter, lest she should be denied the only melancholy
pleasure left her on earth--that of inhabiting the chamber over which
the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.
How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is
uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvelous, and there is a
triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however,
still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance of female
secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was
suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence, brought
to the breakfast table one morning, that the young lady was not to be
found. Her room was empty--the bed had not been slept in--the window was
open, and the bird had flown!
The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was received,
can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the
mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations
paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher, when
the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and
shrieked out, "The goblin! the goblin! She's carried away by the
goblin!"
In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and
concluded that the specter must have carried off his bride. Two of the
domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of
a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that
it was the specter on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb.
All present were struck with the direful probability; for events of the
kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated
histories bear witness.
What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What a
heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great
family of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt away
to the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and,
perchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely
bewildered and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take
horse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron
himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was
about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he
was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching
the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback.
She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the
baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her
companion--the Specter Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. He looked at
his daughter, then at the specter, and almost doubted the evidence of
his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance
since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set
off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and
melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and
joy rioted in his large dark eye.
The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in truth, as you must
have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir
Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the young count.
He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome
tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in
every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had
completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had
tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely
perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin
stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal
hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth--had
haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window--had wooed--had
won--had borne away in triumph--and, in a word, had wedded the fair.
Under any other circumstances the baron would have been inflexible, for
he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in all
family feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he
rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a
hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was
something, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his
notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him
of his being a dead man; but several old friends present, who had served
in the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and
that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately
served as a trooper.
Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the young
couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor
relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving
kindness; he was so gallant, so generous--and so rich. The aunts, it is
true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion
and passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it
all to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them
was particularly mortified at having her marvelous story marred, and
that the only specter she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit;
but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial
flesh and blood--and so the story ends.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will
perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss
by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at
Paris.
[3] _I. e._, CAT'S-ELBOW. The name of a family of those parts very
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in
compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine
arm.
THE SPECTER OF TAPPINGTON
COMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM
The Specter of Tappington
From _The Ingoldsby Legends_
COMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM
"It is very odd, though; what can have become of them?" said Charles
Seaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an old-fashioned bedstead,
in an old-fashioned apartment of a still more old-fashioned manor-house;
"'tis confoundedly odd, and I can't make it out at all. Why, Barney,
where are they?--and where the d----l are you?"
No answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieutenant, who was, in
the main, a reasonable person--at least as reasonable a person as any
young gentleman of twenty-two in "the service" can fairly be expected to
be--cooled when he reflected that his servant could scarcely reply
extempore to a summons which it was impossible he should hear.
An application to the bell was the considerate result; and the footsteps
of as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to belt sounded along the
gallery.
"Come in!" said his master. An ineffectual attempt upon the door
reminded Mr. Seaforth that he had locked himself in. "By Heaven! this
is the oddest thing of all," said he, as he turned the key and admitted
Mr. Maguire into his dormitory.
"Barney, where are my pantaloons?"
"Is it the breeches?" asked the valet, casting an inquiring eye round
the apartment;--"is it the breeches, sir?"
"Yes, what have you done with them?"
"Sure then your honor had them on when you went to bed, and it's
hereabouts they'll be, I'll be bail"; and Barney lifted a fashionable
tunic from a cane-backed arm-chair, proceeding in his examination. But
the search was vain; there was the tunic aforesaid, there was a
smart-looking kerseymere waistcoat; but the most important article of
all in a gentleman's wardrobe was still wanting.
"Where _can_ they be?" asked the master, with a strong accent on the
auxiliary verb.
"Sorrow a know I knows," said the man.
"It _must_ have been the devil, then, after all, who has been here and
carried them off!" cried Seaforth, staring full into Barney's face.
Mr. Maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his countrymen, still
he looked as if he did not quite subscribe to the _sequitur_.
His master read incredulity in his countenance. "Why, I tell you,
Barney, I put them there, on that arm-chair, when I got into bed; and,
by Heaven! I distinctly saw the ghost of the old fellow they told me
of, come in at midnight, put on my pantaloons, and walk away with them."
"May be so," was the cautious reply.
"I thought, of course, it was a dream; but then--where the d----l are
the breeches?"
The question was more easily asked than answered. Barney renewed his
search, while the lieutenant folded his arms, and, leaning against the
toilet, sunk into a reverie.
"After all, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving cousins," said
Seaforth.
"Ah! then, the ladies!" chimed in Mr. Maguire, though the observation
was not addressed to him; "and will it be Miss Caroline or Miss Fanny,
that's stole your honor's things?"
"I hardly know what to think of it," pursued the bereaved lieutenant,
still speaking in soliloquy, with his eye resting dubiously on the
chamber-door. "I locked myself in, that's certain; and--but there must
be some other entrance to the room--pooh! I remember--the private
staircase; how could I be such a fool?" and he crossed the chamber to
where a low oaken doorcase was dimly visible in a distant corner. He
paused before it. Nothing now interfered to screen it from observation;
but it bore tokens of having been at some earlier period concealed by
tapestry, remains of which yet clothed the walls on either side the
portal.
"This way they must have come," said Seaforth; "I wish with all my heart
I had caught them!"
"Och! the kittens!" sighed Mr. Barney Maguire.
But the mystery was yet as far from being solved as before. True, there
_was_ the "other door"; but then that, too, on examination, was even
more firmly secured than the one which opened on the gallery--two heavy
bolts on the inside effectually prevented any _coup de main_ on the
lieutenant's _bivouac_ from that quarter. He was more puzzled than ever;
nor did the minutest inspection of the walls and floor throw any light
upon the subject: one thing only was clear--the breeches were gone! "It
is _very_ singular," said the lieutenant.
* * * * *
Tappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is an antiquated but
commodious manor-house in the eastern division of the county of Kent. A
former proprietor had been high-sheriff in the days of Elizabeth, and
many a dark and dismal tradition was yet extant of the licentiousness of
his life, and the enormity of his offenses. The Glen, which the keeper's
daughter was seen to enter, but never known to quit, still frowns darkly
as of yore; while an ineradicable blood-stain on the oaken stair yet
bids defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it is with
one particular apartment that a deed of more especial atrocity is said
to be connected. A stranger guest--so runs the legend--arrived
unexpectedly at the mansion of the "Bad Sir Giles." They met in
apparent friendship; but the ill-concealed scowl on their master's brow
told the domestics that the visit was not a welcome one; the banquet,
however, was not spared; the wine-cup circulated freely--too freely,
perhaps--for sounds of discord at length reached the ears of even the
excluded serving-men, as they were doing their best to imitate their
betters in the lower hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach
the parlor, one, an old and favored retainer of the house, went so far
as to break in upon his master's privacy. Sir Giles, already high in
oath, fiercely enjoined his absence, and he retired; not, however,
before he had distinctly heard from the stranger's lips a menace that
"there was that within his pocket which could disprove the knight's
right to issue that or any other command within the walls of Tapton."
The intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have produced a beneficial
effect; the voices of the disputants fell, and the conversation was
carried on thenceforth in a more subdued tone, till, as evening closed
in, the domestics, when summoned to attend with lights, found not only
cordiality restored, but that a still deeper carouse was meditated.
Fresh stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced; nor was it till
at a late, or rather early hour, that the revelers sought their
chambers.
The one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of the
eastern angle of the building, and had once been the favorite apartment
of Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed this preference to the facility
which a private staircase, communicating with the grounds, had afforded
him, in the old knight's time, of following his wicked courses unchecked
by parental observation; a consideration which ceased to be of weight
when the death of his father left him uncontrolled master of his estate
and actions. From that period Sir Giles had established himself in what
were called the "state apartments," and the "oaken chamber" was rarely
tenanted, save on occasions of extraordinary festivity, or when the yule
log drew an unusually large accession of guests around the Christmas
hearth.
On this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown visitor, who
sought his couch heated and inflamed from his midnight orgies, and in
the morning was found in his bed a swollen and blackened corpse. No
marks of violence appeared upon the body; but the livid hue of the lips,
and certain dark-colored spots visible on the skin, aroused suspicions
which those who entertained them were too timid to express. Apoplexy,
induced by the excesses of the preceding night, Sir Giles's confidential
leech pronounced to be the cause of his sudden dissolution. The body was
buried in peace; and though some shook their heads as they witnessed the
haste with which the funeral rites were hurried on, none ventured to
murmur. Other events arose to distract the attention of the retainers;
men's minds became occupied by the stirring politics of the day; while
the near approach of that formidable armada, so vainly arrogating itself
a title which the very elements joined with human valor to disprove,
soon interfered to weaken, if not obliterate, all remembrance of the
nameless stranger who had died within the walls of Tapton Everard.