LORD GERNON.
When his housekeeper returned from church, Lord Lossie sent for
her.
“Sit down, Mrs Courthope,” he said; “I want to ask you about a
story I have a vague recollection of hearing when I spent a summer
at this house some twenty years ago. It had to do with a room in
the house that was never opened.”
“There is such a story, my lord,” answered the housekeeper. “The
late marquis, I remember well, used to laugh at it, and threaten
now and then to dare the prophecy; but old Eppie persuaded him not
--or at least fancied she did.”
“Who is old Eppie?”
“She’s gone now, my lord. She was over a hundred then. She was born
and brought up in the house, lived all her days in it, and died in
it; so she knew more about the place than any one else.”
“Is ever likely to know,” said the marquis, superadding a close to
her sentence. “And why wouldn’t she have the room opened?” he asked.
“Because of the ancient prophecy, my lord.”
“I can’t recall a single point of the story.”
“I wish old Eppie were alive to tell it,” said Mrs Courthope.
“Don’t _you_ know it then?”
“Yes, pretty well; but my English tongue can’t tell it properly.
It doesn’t sound right out of my mouth. I’ve heard it a good many
times too, for I had often to take a visitor to her room to hear
it, and the old woman liked nothing better than telling it. But
I couldn’t help remarking that it had grown a good bit even in my
time. The story was like a tree: it got bigger every year.”
“That’s the way with a good many stories,” said the marquis. “But
tell me the prophecy at least.”
“That is the only part I can give just as she gave it. It’s in
rhyme. I hardly understand it, but I’m sure of the words.”
“Let us have them then, if you please.”
Mrs Courthope reflected for a moment, and then repeated the following
lines:
“The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o’ cauld airn,
The ayr quha wad kythe a bastard and carena,
The mayd quha wad tyne her man and her bairn,
Lift the sneck, and enter, and fearna.”
“That’s it, my lord,” she said, in conclusion. “And there’s one
thing to be observed,” she added, “--that that door is the only
one in all the passage that has a sneck, as they call it.”
“What is a sneck?” asked his lordship, who was not much of a scholar
in his country’s tongue.
“What we call a latch in England, my lord. I took pains to learn
the Scotch correctly, and I’ve repeated it to your lordship, word
for word.”
“I don’t doubt it,” returned Lord Lossie, “but for the sense, I can
make nothing of it.--And you think my brother believed the story?”
“He always laughed at it, my lord, but pretended at least to give
in to old Eppie’s entreaties.”
“You mean that he was more near believing it than he liked to
confess?”
“That’s not what I mean, my lord.”
“Why do you say _pretended_ then?”
“Because when the news of his death came, some people about the
place would have it that he must have opened the door some time or
other.”
“How did they make that out?”
“From the first line of the prophecy.”
“Repeat it again.”
“The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o’ cauld airn,” said Mrs
Courthope with emphasis, adding, “The _three_ she always said was a
figure 3.”
“That implies it was written somewhere!”
“She said it was legible on the door in her day--as if burnt with
a red-hot iron.”
“And what does the line mean?”
“Eppie said it meant that the lord of the place who opened that
door, would die by a sword-wound. Three inches of cold iron, it
means, my lord.”
The marquis grew thoughtful; his brother had died in a sword duel.
For a few moments he was silent.
“Tell me the whole story,” he said at length.
Mrs Courthope again reflected, and began. I will tell the story,
however, in my own words, reminding my reader that if he regards
it as an unwelcome interruption, he can easily enough avoid this
bend of the river of my narrative by taking a short cut across to
the next chapter.
In an ancient time there was a lord of Lossie who practised unholy
works. Although he had other estates, he lived almost entirely at
the House of Lossie--that is, after his return from the East,
where he had spent his youth and early manhood. But he paid no
attention to his affairs: a steward managed everything for him,
and Lord Gernon (for that was the outlandish name he brought from
England, where he was born while his father was prisoner to Edward
Longshanks) trusted him for a great while without making the least
inquiry into his accounts, apparently contented with receiving
money enough to carry on the various vile experiments which seemed
his sole pleasure in life. There was no doubt in the minds of the
people of the town--the old town that is, which was then much
larger, and clustered about the gates of the House--that he had
dealings with Satan, from whom he had gained authority over the
powers of nature; that he was able to rouse and lay the winds, to
bring down rain, to call forth the lightnings and set the thunders
roaring over town and sea; nay, that he could even draw vessels
ashore on the rocks, with the certainty that not one on board would
be left alive to betray the pillage of the wreck: this and many
other deeds of dire note were laid to his charge in secret. The
town cowered at the foot of the House in terror of what its lord
might bring down upon it--as a brood of chickens might cower if
they had been hatched by a kite, and saw, instead of the matronly
head and beak of the hen of their instinct, those of the bird of
prey projected over them. Scarce one of them dared even look from the
door when the thunder was rolling over their heads, the lightnings
flashing about the roofs and turrets of the House, the wind raving
in fits between as if it would rave its last, and the rain falling
in sheets--not so much from fear of the elements, as for horror
of the far more terrible things that might be spied careering in the
storm. And indeed Lord Gernon himself was avoided in like fashion,
although rarely had any one the evil chance of seeing him, so seldom
did he go out of doors. There was but one in the whole community
--and that was a young girl, the daughter of his steward--who
declared she had no fear of him: she went so far as to uphold that
Lord Gernon meant harm to nobody, and was in consequence regarded
by the neighbours as unrighteously bold.
He worked in a certain lofty apartment on the ground floor--with
cellars underneath, reserved, it was believed, for frightfullest
conjurations and interviews; where, although no one was permitted
to enter, they knew from the smoke that he had a furnace, and
from the evil smells which wandered out, that he dealt with things
altogether devilish in their natures and powers. They said he always
washed there--in water medicated with distilments to prolong life
and produce invulnerability; but of this they could of course know
nothing. Strange to say, however, he always slept in the garret,
as far removed from his laboratory as the limits of the house would
permit; whence people said he dared not sleep in the neighbourhood
of his deeds, but sought shelter for his unconscious hours in the
spiritual shadow of the chapel, which was in the same wing as his
chamber. His household saw nearly as little of him as his retainers:
when his tread was heard, beating dull on the stone turnpike, or
thundering along the upper corridors in the neighbourhood of his
chamber or of the library--the only other part of the house he
visited, man or maid would dart aside into the next way of escape
--all believing that the nearer he came to finding himself the sole
inhabitant of his house, the better he was pleased. Nor would he
allow man or woman to enter his chamber any more than his laboratory.
When they found sheets or garments outside his door, they removed
them with fear and trembling, and put others in their place.
At length, by means of his enchantments, he discovered that the
man whom he had trusted had been robbing him for many years: all
the time he had been searching for the philosopher’s stone, the
gold already his had been tumbling into the bags of his steward.
But what enraged him far more was, that the fellow had constantly
pretended difficulty in providing the means necessary for the
prosecution of his idolized studies: even if the feudal lord could
have accepted the loss and forgiven the crime, here was a mockery
which the man of science could not pardon. He summoned his steward
to his presence, and accused him of his dishonesty. The man denied
it energetically, but a few mysterious waftures of the hand of his
lord, set him trembling, and after a few more, his lips, moving by
a secret compulsion, and finding no power in their owner to check
their utterance, confessed all the truth, whereupon his master
ordered him to go and bring his accounts. He departed all but
bereft of his senses, and staggered home as if in a dream. There he
begged his daughter to go and plead for him with his lord, hoping
she might be able to move him to mercy; for she was a lovely girl,
and supposed by the neighbours, judging from what they considered
her foolhardiness, to have received from him tokens of something
at least less than aversion.
She obeyed, and from that hour disappeared. The people of the house
averred afterwards that the next day, and for days following, they
heard, at intervals, moans and cries from the wizard’s chamber, or
some where in its neighbourhood--certainly not from the laboratory;
but as they had seen no one visit their master, they had paid them
little attention, classing them with the other and hellish noises
they were but too much accustomed to hear.
The steward’s love for his daughter, though it could not embolden
him to seek her in the tyrant’s den, drove him, at length, to
appeal to the justice of his country for what redress might yet
be possible: he sought the court of the great Bruce, and laid his
complaint before him. That righteous monarch immediately despatched
a few of his trustiest men-at-arms, under the protection of a monk
whom he believed a match for any wizard under the sun, to arrest
Lord Gernon and release the girl. When they arrived at Lossie House,
they found it silent as the grave. The domestics had vanished; but
by following the minute directions of the steward, whom no persuasion
could bring to set foot across the threshold, they succeeded in
finding their way to the parts of the house indicated by him. Having
forced the laboratory and found it forsaken, they ascended, in the
gathering dusk of a winter afternoon, to the upper regions of the
house. Before they reached the top of the stair that led to the
wizard’s chamber, they began to hear inexplicable sounds, which
grew plainer, though not much louder, as they drew nearer to the
door. They were mostly like the grunting of some small animal of the
hog-kind, with an occasional one like the yelling roar of a distant
lion; but with these were now and then mingled cries of suffering,
so fell and strange that their souls recoiled as if they would
break loose from their bodies to get out of hearing of them. The
monk himself started back when first they invaded his ear, and it
was no wonder then that the men-at-arms should hesitate to approach
the room; and as they stood irresolute, they saw a faint light
go flickering across the upper part of the door, which naturally
strengthened their disinclination to go nearer.
“If it weren’t for the girl,” said one of them in a scared whisper
to his neighbour, “I would leave the wizard to the devil and his
dam.”
Scarcely had the words left his mouth, when the door opened, and
out came a form--whether phantom or living woman none could tell.
Pale, forlorn, lost, and purposeless, it came straight towards them,
with wide unseeing eyes. They parted in terror from its path. It
went on, looking to neither hand, and sank down the stair. The moment
it was beyond their sight, they came to themselves and rushed after
it; but although they searched the whole house, they could find
no creature in it, except a cat of questionable appearance and
behaviour, which they wisely let alone. Returning, they took up a
position whence they could watch the door of the chamber day and
night.
For three weeks they watched it, but neither cry nor other sound
reached them. For three weeks more they watched it, and then
an evil odour began to assail them, which grew and grew, until at
length they were satisfied that the wizard was dead. They returned
therefore to the king and made their report, whereupon Lord Gernon
was decreed dead, and his heir was enfeoffed. But for many years
he was said to be still alive; and indeed whether he had ever died
in the ordinary sense of the word, was to old Eppie doubtful; for
at various times there had arisen whispers of peculiar sounds, even
strange cries, having been heard issue from that room--whispers
which had revived in the house in Mrs Courthope’s own time. No one
had slept in that part of the roof within the memory of old Eppie:
no one, she believed, had ever slept there since the events of her
tale; certainly no one had in Mrs Courthope’s time. It was said
also, that, invariably, sooner or later after such cries were
heard, some evil befell either the Lord of Lossie, or some one of
his family.
“Show me the room, Mrs Courthope,” said the marquis, rising, as
soon as she had ended.
The housekeeper looked at him with some dismay.
“What!” said his lordship, “you an Englishwoman and superstitious!”
“I am cautious, my lord, though not a Scotchwoman,” returned Mrs
Courthope. “All I would presume to say is--Don’t do it without
first taking time to think over it.”
“I will not. But I want to know which room it is.”
Mrs Courthope led the way, and his lordship followed her to the
very door, as he had expected, with which Malcolm had spied Mrs
Catanach tampering. He examined it well, and on the upper part of
it found what might be the remnants of a sunk inscription, so far
obliterated as to convey no assurance of what it was. He professed
himself satisfied, and they went down the stairs together again.