VI.

"There was an intermarriage between the Burleighs and the Calbots four

or five generations ago," said he; "I found the record of it in our

family papers, shortly before Miss Burleigh and I were engaged; but it

appears not to have turned out well. I don't know whether the husband

and wife quarrelled, or whether their troubles came from some outside

interference; but they had not been long married before a separation

took place--not a regular divorce, but the wife went quietly back to her

fathers house, and my ancestor is supposed to have gone abroad. But this

was not the end of it, Drayton; for, some years later, the husband

returned, and he and his wife lived together again."

"Was there any further estrangement between them, afterwards?"

"It is an ugly story," said Calbot, gloomily, getting up from his chair,

and taking his old place before the fire. "No; they lived together--as

long as they did live! But it was about the era of the witchcraft

mania--or delusion, if you choose to call it so--and it is strongly

hinted in some of the documents in my possession that the Calbots

were--not witches--but victims of witchcraft. They accused no one, but

they seemed to have been shunned by everybody like persons under the

shadow of a curse. Well--it wasn't a great while before Mrs. Calbot

died, and her husband went mad soon afterwards. There were two children.

One of them, the son, was born before the first separation. The other, a

daughter, came into the world after the reunion, and she was an idiot!"

"An ugly story, sure enough," said I, shrugging my shoulders with a

chilly sensation; "but what has it to do with your business?"

"Perhaps nothing; but there is one thing which would go for nothing in

the way of legal evidence, but which has impressed me, nevertheless. The

date of the second coming-together of my ancestor and his wife was

1698."

"Well?"

"If you look at that paper I gave you you'll see the date of Armstrong's

death is also 1698."

"Still I don't see the point."

"It's simply this: the--Thing I saw was the condemned soul of that

Archibald Armstrong. Who he may have been I don't know; but I can't help

believing that my ancestor knew him when he was still in the flesh. They

had a feud, perhaps--maybe about this very marriage--of course you

understand I'm only supposing a case. Well, Calbot gets the better of

his rival, and is married. Then Armstrong exerts his malignant ingenuity

to set them at odds with each other. He may have played on the

superstitious fancies which they probably shared with others of that

age, and at last we may suppose he accomplished their separation."

"An ingenious idea," I admitted, "but what about your date?"

"Why, on hearing of his death, they would naturally suppose all danger

over, and that they might live together unmolested. And from this point

you may differ with me or not, as you choose. I believe that it was only

after Armstrong was dead that his power for evil became commensurate

with his will. I believe, Drayton," said Calbot, drawing himself up to

his full height, and emphasising his words with the slow gesture of his

right arm, "that the soul of that dead man haunted that wretched couple

from the day of his death until the whole tragedy was consummated--until

the woman died and the man went mad. And I believe that his devilish

malignity has lived on to this day, and wreaked itself, a second time,

on Miss Burleigh and myself."

There was a short pause, during which my poor friend stood tapping one

foot on the hearth-rug, his eyes bent downwards in sombre abstraction.

"Look here, my dear John," I said at length, speaking with an effort,

for there was a sensation of heavy oppression on my chest; "listen

to me, old fellow. You've had time to cool down and bethink yourself:

so far as I can judge you appear, as you say, neither crazy nor

intoxicated. Now I wish you, remembering that we are sensible,

enlightened men, living in London in this year 1875, to tell me honestly

whether I am to understand you as deliberately asserting a belief in

visitations from the other world. Because, really, you know, that

is what anyone would infer from the way you have been talking this

evening."

"I see there would be little use, Drayton, in my answering your question

directly; but I will give you a deliberate and honest account of my

personal experiences during these last two days: there will be no

danger of your mistaking my meaning then. You won't mind my walking up

and down the room while I'm speaking, will you? The subject is a painful

one, and motion seems to make it easier, somehow."

I did mind it very much, it made me as nervous as a water-beetle; but,

of course, I forbore to say so, and Calbot went on:

"I said I found out all this ancestral trouble some time before I was

engaged; and, as you may imagine, I kept silence about it to Miss

Burleigh. I think now it was a mistake to do so; but my ideas on many

subjects have undergone modification of late. I believe I had forgotten

all about the discovery by the time I had made up my mind to risk an

avowal: at any rate, I had no misgivings about it; and when I came out

from my interview with her--the happiest man in England!--ah Drayton, it

seemed to me then that there could be no more pains nor shadows in life

for me thence-forward for ever!"

I devoutly wished, not for the first time that evening, that Calbot

would not be so painfully in earnest. In his normal state it was

difficult to get a serious word out of him; he was brimming over with

quaint humour and fun; but, as he himself had remarked, he was another

man to-day. After walking backwards and forwards once or twice in

silence, he continued:

"You know how happy I was those first few days. I daresay you wished me

and my happiness in Jericho, when I insisted on deluging you with an

account of it. Think! Drayton, that was hardly a week ago. Well, as soon

as I had got a little bit used to the feeling of being engaged, I began

to think what I should give her--Edna, you know--for a betrothal gift. A

ring, of course, is the usual thing; but I couldn't be satisfied with a

ring: I wanted my gift to be something rare--unique; in short, something

different from what any other fellow could give his mistress; for I

loved her more than any woman was ever loved before. After a good deal

of fruitless bother, I suddenly bethought myself of a jewel-box which

had belonged to my mother--God bless her!--and which she had bequeathed

to me, intending, very likely, that I should use it for the very purpose

I was now thinking of. I got out the box, and overhauled it. There was a

lot of curious old trinkets in it; but the thing which at once took my

eye was a delicately wrought gold necklace, that looked as though it had

been made expressly for Edna's throat. There was a locket attached to

it, which I at first meant to take off; but on examining it closely,

I found it was quite worthy of the chain--was an exquisite work of

art, indeed. It was made of a dark yellow or brownish sort of stone,

semi-transparent, and was engraven with a very finely-wrought

bas-relief."

"Calbot!" exclaimed I, starting upright in my chair, "what sort of a

stone did you say that locket was made of?"

"What is the matter?" returned he, stopping short in his walk and facing

me with a glance partly apprehensive, partly expectant. "I never saw

exactly such a stone before--but why?"

"Oh, nothing," said I, after a moment's excited thought; "it certainly

is very strange! But, never mind, go on," I added, throwing a glance at

the old manuscript which lay open on the table; "go on. I'll tell you

afterwards; I must turn it over in my mind a bit."

"The reason I described it so minutely," remarked Calbot, "was that I

got a notion into my head that it had something to do with what happened

afterwards, and the reason of that notion is, that almost from the

very moment that Edna took the necklace--I clasped it round her neck

myself--the strange awful influence--visitation--call it what you

like--began to be apparent.

"Oh Drayton, you can never know how lovely, how divine she looked that

evening. She had on what they call, I believe, a demi-toilette; open

at the throat, you know, and half the arm showing. No woman could have

looked more beautiful than she, before I put on the chain and locket;

yet when they were on, she looked as handsome again. It was really

wonderful--the effect they had. Her eyes deepened, and an indescribable

change or modulation--imperceptible, very likely, to anyone beside

myself, her lover--came over her face. I think it was a shade of

sadness--of mystery--no, I can only repeat, that it was indescribable;

but it gave her beauty just the touch that made it, humanly speaking,

perfect. I daresay this is all very tiresome to you, Drayton, but I

can't help it!"

"Oh, go on, my dear fellow," said I warmly; for, indeed, I was moved as

well as excited. "Won't you sit down? Here, take my chair!"

But he would not.

"As I fastened the clasp, I said: 'You are fettered for ever now, Edna!'

and she said, with her eyes sparkling: 'Yes, I am the thrall of the

locket; the giver may lead me in triumph where he will!' Just as the

words passed her lips, Drayton, I felt a sensation of coldness and

depression; I gave an involuntary shudder, and looking quickly in

Edna's eyes, I saw there the very reflection of my own feeling! We were

alone, and yet there seemed to be a third person present--cold, hateful,

malevolent. He seemed to be between us--to be pressing us irresistibly

apart; and I felt powerless to contend against the insidious influence;

and so was she. For an instant or two we gazed fearfully and strangely

at each other; then she said faintly: 'Come to me--take me!' and half

held out her arms, her face and lips all pale. Drayton, I cannot tell

you what a desperate struggle I had with myself then! My whole soul

leapt out towards her with a passion such as I had never known before;

and yet my body seemed paralysed. I had felt something similar to it in

dreams before then; but the dream pain was nothing to the real pain. A

cold dead hand was on my heart, dragging it backward, deadening it; and

another at my throat, stifling me. But I fought against it--it seemed

to me I sweated drops of blood--but I overcame. I put my arm round her

waist--I kissed her; and yet, though I seemed to hold her--though our

lips seemed to meet--still that Thing was between us--we did not really

touch each other! With all our love, we were like lifeless clay to one

another's caress. It was a mockery--our souls could meet no more." Here

Calbot covered his eyes with his hand for a short time. "It was the last

time I ever kissed her," said he.

I said nothing; my sympathy with my hapless friend was keen. Yet I must

confess to a secret sensation of relief that there was to be no more

kissing. It was natural, under the circumstances, that Calbot--poor

fellow!--should speak recklessly; but I am a bachelor, a confirmed

bachelor, and such descriptions distress me; they make me restless,

wakeful, and unhappy. Yes, I was glad we had had the last of them.

"It all passed very quickly, and a third person would perhaps have seen

no change in us; probably the change was more inward than outward, after

all. It was peculiar that we, both of us, by a tacit understanding,

forbore to speak to each other of this dismal mystery that had so

suddenly grown up between us. It was too real, and at the same time too

hopeless; but to have acknowledged it would have been to pronounce it

hopeless indeed. We would not do that yet. We sat apart, quietly and

conventionally making observations on ordinary topics, as though we had

been newly introduced. And yet my betrothal gift was round her neck,

moving as she breathed; and we loved each other, and our hearts were

breaking. Oh, it is cruel!"

In exclaiming thus, my friend (being at the farther end of the room at

the time) struck his foot sharp against the leg of a small antique table

which stood against the wall. Like many other valuable things, the

table was fragile, and the leg broke. The table tipped over, and a vase

(the ancestral vase, containing the elixir of life), fell off to the

floor.

Calbot--I think it was much to his credit--found room amidst his proper

anguish to be sincerely distressed at this accident. On picking up the

vase, however, he immediately exclaimed that it was unbroken. This was

fortunate: the table could be mended, but the vase, not to speak of its

contents, would have been irreplaceable. Calbot put it carefully on the

study table, beside the MS.; set the invalid table in a corner; and

then, to my great satisfaction, drew up a chair to the fire, and

continued his sad story in a civilised posture.