HOW FOUR OF US CAME TO BE UNDER THE SHADOW OF CLOOMBER
I trust that my readers will not set me down as an inquisitive busybody
when I say that as the days and weeks went by I found my attention and
my thoughts more and more attracted to General Heatherstone and the
mystery which surrounded him.
It was in vain that I endeavoured by hard work and a strict attention to
the laird's affairs to direct my mind into some more healthy channel.
Do what I would, on land or on the water, I would still find myself
puzzling over this one question, until it obtained such a hold upon me
that I felt it was useless for me to attempt to apply myself to anything
until I had come to some satisfactory solution of it.
I could never pass the dark line of five-foot fencing, and the great
iron gate, with its massive lock, without pausing and racking my brain
as to what the secret might be which was shut in by that inscrutable
barrier. Yet, with all my conjectures and all my observations, I could
never come to any conclusion which could for a moment be accepted as an
explanation of the facts.
My sister had been out for a stroll one night, visiting a sick peasant
or performing some other of the numerous acts of charity by which she
had made herself beloved by the whole countryside.
“John,” she said when she returned, “have you seen Cloomber Hall at
night?”
“No,” I answered, laying down the book which I was reading. “Not since
that memorable evening when the general and Mr. McNeil came over to make
an inspection.”
“Well, John, will you put your hat on and come a little walk with me?”
I could see by her manner that something had agitated or frightened her.
“Why, bless the girl!” cried I boisterously, “what is the matter? The
old Hall is not on fire, surely? You look as grave as if all Wigtown
were in a blaze.”
“Not quite so bad as that,” she said, smiling. “But do come out, Jack. I
should very much like you to see it.”
I had always refrained from saying anything which might alarm my sister,
so that she knew nothing of the interest which our neighbours' doings
had for me. At her request I took my hat and followed her out into the
darkness. She led the way along a little footpath over the moor, which
brought us to some rising ground, from which we could look down upon the
Hall without our view being obstructed by any of the fir-trees which had
been planted round it.
“Look at that!” said my sister, pausing at the summit of this little
eminence.
Cloomber lay beneath us in a blaze of light. In the lower floors the
shutters obscured the illumination, but above, from the broad windows
of the second storey to the thin slits at the summit of the tower, there
was not a chink or an aperture which did not send forth a stream of
radiance. So dazzling was the effect that for a moment I was persuaded
that the house was on fire, but the steadiness and clearness of the
light soon freed me from that apprehension. It was clearly the result of
many lamps placed systematically all over the building.
It added to the strange effect that all these brilliantly illuminated
rooms were apparently untenanted, and some of them, so far as we could
judge, were not even furnished. Through the whole great house there was
no sign of movement or of life--nothing but the clear, unwinking flood
of yellow light.
I was still lost in wonder at the sight when I heard a short, quick sob
at my side.
“What is it, Esther, dear?” I asked, looking down at my companion.
“I feel so frightened. Oh, John, John, take me home, I feel so
frightened!”
She clung to my arm, and pulled at my coat in a perfect frenzy of fear.
“It's all safe, darling,” I said soothingly. “There is nothing to fear.
What has upset you so?”
“I am afraid of them, John; I am afraid of the Heatherstones. Why is
their house lit up like this every night? I have heard from others that
it is always so. And why does the old man run like a frightened hare if
any one comes upon him. There is something wrong about it, John, and it
frightens me.”
I pacified her as well as I could, and led her home with me, where I
took care that she should have some hot port negus before going to bed.
I avoided the subject of the Heatherstones for fear of exciting her,
and she did not recur to it of her own accord. I was convinced, however,
from what I had heard from her, that she had for some time back been
making her own observations upon our neighbours, and that in doing so
she had put a considerable strain upon her nerves.
I could see that the mere fact of the Hall being illuminated at night
was not enough to account for her extreme agitation, and that it must
have derived its importance in her eyes from being one in a chain of
incidents, all of which had left a weird or unpleasant impression upon
her mind.
That was the conclusion which I came to at the time, and I have reason
to know now that I was right, and that my sister had even more cause
than I had myself for believing that there was something uncanny about
the tenants of Cloomber.
Our interest in the matter may have arisen at first from nothing higher
than curiosity, but events soon took a turn which associated us more
closely with the fortunes of the Heatherstone family.
Mordaunt had taken advantage of my invitation to come down to the
laird's house, and on several occasions he brought with him his
beautiful sister. The four of us would wander over the moors together,
or perhaps if the day were fine set sail upon our little skiff and stand
off into the Irish Sea.
On such excursions the brother and sister would be as merry and as happy
as two children. It was a keen pleasure to them to escape from their
dull fortress, and to see, if only for a few hours, friendly and
sympathetic faces round them.
There could be but one result when four young people were brought
together in sweet, forbidden intercourse. Acquaintance-ship warmed into
friendship, and friendship flamed suddenly into love.
Gabriel sits beside me now as I write, and she agrees with me that, dear
as is the subject to ourselves, the whole story of our mutual affection
is of too personal a nature to be more than touched upon in this
statement. Suffice it to say that, within a few weeks of our first
meeting Mordaunt Heatherstone had won the heart of my dear sister, and
Gabriel had given me that pledge which death itself will not be able to
break.
I have alluded in this brief way to the double tie which sprang up
between the two families, because I have no wish that this narrative
should degenerate into anything approaching to romance, or that I should
lose the thread of the facts which I have set myself to chronicle. These
are connected with General Heatherstone, and only indirectly with my own
personal history.
It is enough if I say that after our engagement the visits to Branksome
became more frequent, and that our friends were able sometimes to spend
a whole day with us when business had called the general to Wigtown, or
when his gout confined him to his room.
As to our good father, he was ever ready to greet us with many small
jests and tags of Oriental poems appropriate to the occasion, for we had
no secrets from him, and he already looked upon us all as his children.
There were times when on account of some peculiarly dark or restless fit
of the general's it was impossible for weeks on end for either Gabriel
or Mordaunt to get away from the grounds. The old man would even stand
on guard, a gloomy and silent sentinel, at the avenue gate, or pace up
and down the drive as though he suspected that attempts had been made to
penetrate his seclusion.
Passing of an evening I have seen his dark, grim figure flitting about
in the shadow of the trees, or caught a glimpse of his hard, angular,
swarthy face peering out suspiciously at me from behind the bars.
My heart would often sadden for him as I noticed his uncouth, nervous
movements, his furtive glances and twitching features. Who would have
believed that this slinking, cowering creature had once been a dashing
officer, who had fought the battles of his country and had won the palm
of bravery among the host of brave men around him?
In spite of the old soldier's vigilance, we managed to hold
communication with our friends.
Immediately behind the Hall there was a spot where the fencing had been
so carelessly erected that two of the rails could be removed without
difficulty, leaving a broad gap, which gave us the opportunity for
many a stolen interview, though they were necessarily short, for the
general's movements were erratic, and no part of the grounds was secure
from his visitations.
How vividly one of these hurried meetings rises before me! It stands out
clear, peaceful, and distinct amid the wild, mysterious incidents which
were destined to lead up to the terrible catastrophe which has cast a
shade over our lives.
I can remember that as I walked through the fields the grass was damp
with the rain of the morning, and the air was heavy with the smell of
the fresh-turned earth. Gabriel was waiting for me under the hawthorn
tree outside the gap, and we stood hand-in-hand looking down at the long
sweep of moorland and at the broad blue channel which encircled it with
its fringe of foam.
Far away in the north-west the sun glinted upon the high peak of Mount
Throston. From where we stood we could see the smoke of the steamers as
they ploughed along the busy water-way which leads to Belfast.
“Is it not magnificent?” Gabriel cried, clasping her hands round my arm.
“Ah, John, why are we not free to sail away over these waves together,
and leave all our troubles behind us on the shore?”
“And what are the troubles which you would leave behind you, dear one?”
I asked. “May I not know them, and help you to bear them?”
“I have no secrets from you, John,” she answered. “Our chief trouble is,
as you may guess, our poor father's strange behaviour. Is it not a sad
thing for all of us that a man who has played such a distinguished part
in the world should skulk from one obscure corner of the country to
another, and should defend himself with locks and barriers as though he
were a common thief flying from justice? This is a trouble, John, which
it is out of your power to alleviate.”
“But why does he do it, Gabriel?” I asked.
“I cannot tell,” she answered frankly. “I only know that he imagines
some deadly danger to be hanging over his head, and that this danger was
incurred by him during his stay in India. What its nature may be I have
no more idea than you have.”
“Then your brother has,” I remarked. “I am sure from the way in which he
spoke to me about it one day that he knows what it is, and that he looks
upon it as real.”
“Yes, he knows, and so does my mother,” she answered, “but they have
always kept it secret from me. My poor father is very excited at
present. Day and night he is in an agony of apprehension, but it will
soon be the fifth of October, and after that he will be at peace.”
“How do you know that?” I asked in surprise.
“By experience,” she answered gravely. “On the fifth of October these
fears of his come to a crisis. For years back he has been in the habit
of locking Mordaunt and myself up in our rooms on that date, so that we
have no idea what occurs, but we have always found that he has been
much relieved afterwards, and has continued to be comparatively in peace
until that day begins to draw round again.”
“Then you have only ten days or so to wait,” I remarked, for September
was drawing to a close. “By the way, dearest, why is it that you light
up all your rooms at night?”
“You have noticed it, then?” she said. “It comes also from my father's
fears. He does not like to have one dark corner in the whole house.
He walks about a good deal at night, and inspects everything, from the
attics right down to the cellars. He has large lamps in every room and
corridor, even the empty ones, and he orders the servants to light them
all at dusk.”
“I am rather surprised that you manage to keep your servants,” I said,
laughing. “The maids in these parts are a superstitious class, and
their imaginations are easily excited by anything which they don't
understand.”
“The cook and both housemaids are from London, and are used to our
ways. We pay them on a very high scale to make up for any inconvenience to
which they may be put. Israel Stakes, the coachman, is the only one who
comes from this part of the country, and he seems to be a stolid, honest
fellow, who is not easily scared.”
“Poor little girl,” I exclaimed, looking down at the slim, graceful
figure by my side. “This is no atmosphere for you to live in. Why will
you not let me rescue you from it? Why won't you allow me to go straight
and ask the general for your hand? At the worst he could only refuse.”
She turned quite haggard and pale at the very thought.
“For Heaven's sake, John,” she cried earnestly, “do nothing of the kind.
He would whip us all away in the dead of the night, and within a week
we should be settling down again in some wilderness where we might never
have a chance of seeing or hearing from you again. Besides, he never
would forgive us for venturing out of the grounds.”
“I don't think that he is a hard-hearted man,” I remarked. “I have seen
a kindly look in his eyes, for all his stern face.”
“He can be the kindest of fathers,” she answered. “But he is terrible
when opposed or thwarted. You have never seen him so, and I trust you
never will. It was that strength of will and impatience of opposition
which made him such a splendid officer. I assure you that in India every
one thought a great deal of him. The soldiers were afraid of him, but
they would have followed him anywhere.”
“And had he these nervous attacks then?”
“Occasionally, but not nearly so acutely. He seems to think that the
danger--whatever it may be--becomes more imminent every year. Oh, John,
it is terrible to be waiting like this with a sword over our heads--and
all the more terrible to me since I have no idea where the blow is to
come from.”
“Dear Gabriel,” I said, taking her hand and drawing her to my side,
“look over all this pleasant countryside and the broad blue sea. Is it
not all peaceful and beautiful? In these cottages, with their red-tiled
roofs peeping out from the grey moor, there live none but simple,
God-fearing men, who toil hard at their crafts and bear enmity to no
man. Within seven miles of us is a large town, with every civilised
appliance for the preservation of order. Ten miles farther there is
a garrison quartered, and a telegram would at any time bring down a
company of soldiers. Now, I ask you, dear, in the name of common-sense,
what conceivable danger could threaten you in this secluded
neighbourhood, with the means of help so near? You assure me that the
peril is not connected with your father's health?”
“No, I am sure of that. It is true that Dr. Easterling, of Stranraer,
has been over to see him once or twice, but that was merely for some
small indisposition. I can assure you that the danger is not to be
looked for in that direction.”
“Then I can assure you,” said I, laughing, “that there is no danger
at all. It must be some strange monomania or hallucination. No other
hypothesis will cover the facts.”
“Would my father's monomania account for the fact of my brother's hair
turning grey and my mother wasting away to a mere shadow?”
“Undoubtedly,” I answered. “The long continued worry of the general's
restlessness and irritability would produce those effects on sensitive
natures.”
“No, no!” said she, shaking her head sadly, “I have been exposed to his
restlessness and irritability, but they have had no such effect upon
me. The difference between us lies in the fact that they know this awful
secret and I do not.”
“My dear girl,” said I, “the days of family apparitions and that kind
of thing are gone. Nobody is haunted nowadays, so we can put that
supposition out of the question. Having done so, what remains? There is
absolutely no other theory which could even be suggested. Believe me,
the whole mystery is that the heat of India has been too much for your
poor father's brain.”
What she would have answered I cannot tell, for at that moment she gave
a start as if some sound had fallen upon her ear. As she looked round
apprehensively, I suddenly saw her features become rigid and her eyes
fixed and dilated.
Following the direction of her gaze, I felt a sudden thrill of fear pass
through me as I perceived a human face surveying us from behind one of
the trees--a man's face, every feature of which was distorted by the
most malignant hatred and anger. Finding himself observed, he stepped
out and advanced towards us, when I saw that it was none other than the
general himself. His beard was all a-bristle with fury, and his deepset
eyes glowed from under their heavily veined lids with a most sinister
and demoniacal brightness.