Produced by Suzanne Shell, Jacqueline Jeremy and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES
[Illustration: A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES]
A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES
OR
WEIRD TALES
BY
J. SHERIDAN LE FANU
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE SILAS," "HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD,"
SIR CHARLES YOUNG, BART.
AND OTHERS
Illustrated
NEW YORK NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
156 FIFTH AVENUE
1896
Copyright, 1896,
by
NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
DICKON THE DEVIL, 9
A DEBT OF HONOR, 27
DEVEREUX'S DREAM, 59
CATHERINE'S QUEST, 89
HAUNTED, 115
PICHON AND SONS, OF THE CROIX ROUSSE, 135
THE PHANTOM FOURTH, 163
THE SPIRIT'S WHISPER, 185
DR. FEVERSHAM'S STORY, 209
THE SECRET OF THE TWO PLASTER CASTS, 229
WHAT WAS IT? 241
DICKON THE DEVIL.
About thirty years ago I was selected by two rich old maids to visit a
property in that part of Lancashire which lies near the famous forest of
Pendle, with which Mr. Ainsworth's "Lancashire Witches" has made us so
pleasantly familiar. My business was to make partition of a small
property, including a house and demesne to which they had, a long time
before, succeeded as coheiresses.
The last forty miles of my journey I was obliged to post, chiefly by
cross-roads, little known, and less frequented, and presenting scenery
often extremely interesting and pretty. The picturesqueness of the
landscape was enhanced by the season, the beginning of September, at
which I was travelling.
I had never been in this part of the world before; I am told it is now a
great deal less wild, and, consequently, less beautiful.
At the inn where I had stopped for a relay of horses and some
dinner--for it was then past five o'clock--I found the host, a hale old
fellow of five-and-sixty, as he told me, a man of easy and garrulous
benevolence, willing to accommodate his guests with any amount of talk,
which the slightest tap sufficed to set flowing, on any subject you
pleased.
I was curious to learn something about Barwyke, which was the name of
the demesne and house I was going to. As there was no inn within some
miles of it, I had written to the steward to put me up there, the best
way he could, for a night.
The host of the "Three Nuns," which was the sign under which he
entertained wayfarers, had not a great deal to tell. It was twenty
years, or more, since old Squire Bowes died, and no one had lived in the
Hall ever since, except the gardener and his wife.
"Tom Wyndsour will be as old a man as myself; but he's a bit taller, and
not so much in flesh, quite," said the fat innkeeper.
"But there were stories about the house," I repeated, "that, they said,
prevented tenants from coming into it?"
"Old wives' tales; many years ago, that will be, sir; I forget 'em; I
forget 'em all. Oh yes, there always will be, when a house is left so;
foolish folk will always be talkin'; but I han't heard a word about it
this twenty year."
It was vain trying to pump him; the old landlord of the "Three Nuns,"
for some reason, did not choose to tell tales of Barwyke Hall, if he
really did, as I suspected, remember them.
I paid my reckoning, and resumed my journey, well pleased with the good
cheer of that old-world inn, but a little disappointed.
We had been driving for more than an hour, when we began to cross a wild
common; and I knew that, this passed, a quarter of an hour would bring
me to the door of Barwyke Hall.
The peat and furze were pretty soon left behind; we were again in the
wooded scenery that I enjoyed so much, so entirely natural and pretty,
and so little disturbed by traffic of any kind. I was looking from the
chaise-window, and soon detected the object of which, for some time, my
eye had been in search. Barwyke Hall was a large, quaint house, of that
cage-work fashion known as "black-and-white," in which the bars and
angles of an oak framework contrast, black as ebony, with the white
plaster that overspreads the masonry built into its interstices. This
steep-roofed Elizabethan house stood in the midst of park-like grounds
of no great extent, but rendered imposing by the noble stature of the
old trees that now cast their lengthening shadows eastward over the
sward, from the declining sun.
The park-wall was gray with age, and in many places laden with ivy. In
deep gray shadow, that contrasted with the dim fires of evening
reflected on the foliage above it, in a gentle hollow, stretched a lake
that looked cold and black, and seemed, as it were, to skulk from
observation with a guilty knowledge.
I had forgot that there was a lake at Barwyke; but the moment this
caught my eye, like the cold polish of a snake in the shadow, my
instinct seemed to recognize something dangerous, and I knew that the
lake was connected, I could not remember how, with the story I had heard
of this place in my boyhood.
I drove up a grass-grown avenue, under the boughs of these noble trees,
whose foliage, dyed in autumnal red and yellow, returned the beams of
the western sun gorgeously.
We drew up at the door. I got out, and had a good look at the front of
the house; it was a large and melancholy mansion, with signs of long
neglect upon it; great wooden shutters, in the old fashion, were barred,
outside, across the windows; grass, and even nettles, were growing thick
on the courtyard, and a thin moss streaked the timber beams; the plaster
was discolored by time and weather, and bore great russet and yellow
stains. The gloom was increased by several grand old trees that crowded
close about the house.
I mounted the steps, and looked round; the dark lake lay near me now, a
little to the left. It was not large; it may have covered some ten or
twelve acres; but it added to the melancholy of the scene. Near the
centre of it was a small island, with two old ash-trees, leaning toward
each other, their pensive images reflected in the stirless water. The
only cheery influence of this scene of antiquity, solitude, and neglect
was that the house and landscape were warmed with the ruddy western
beams. I knocked, and my summons resounded hollow and ungenial in my
ear; and the bell, from far away, returned a deep-mouthed and surly
ring, as if it resented being roused from a score years' slumber.
A light-limbed, jolly-looking old fellow, in a barracan jacket and
gaiters, with a smirk of welcome, and a very sharp, red nose, that
seemed to promise good cheer, opened the door with a promptitude that
indicated a hospitable expectation of my arrival.
There was but little light in the hall, and that little lost itself in
darkness in the background. It was very spacious and lofty, with a
gallery running round it, which, when the door was open, was visible at
two or three points. Almost in the dark my new acquaintance led me
across this wide hall into the room destined for my reception. It was
spacious, and wainscoted up to the ceiling. The furniture of this
capacious chamber was old-fashioned and clumsy. There were curtains
still to the windows, and a piece of Turkey carpet lay upon the floor;
those windows were two in number, looking out, through the trunks of the
trees close to the house, upon the lake. It needed all the fire, and all
the pleasant associations of my entertainer's red nose, to light up this
melancholy chamber. A door at its farther end admitted to the room that
was prepared for my sleeping apartment. It was wainscoted, like the
other. It had a four-post bed, with heavy tapestry curtains, and in
other respects was furnished in the same old-world and ponderous style
as the other room. Its window, like those of that apartment, looked out
upon the lake.
Sombre and sad as these rooms were, they were yet scrupulously clean. I
had nothing to complain of; but the effect was rather dispiriting.
Having given some directions about supper--a pleasant incident to look
forward to--and made a rapid toilet, I called on my friend with the
gaiters and red nose (Tom Wyndsour), whose occupation was that of a
"bailiff," or under-steward, of the property, to accompany me, as we had
still an hour or so of sun and twilight, in a walk over the grounds.
It was a sweet autumn evening, and my guide, a hardy old fellow, strode
at a pace that tasked me to keep up with.
Among clumps of trees at the northern boundary of the demesne we lighted
upon the little antique parish church. I was looking down upon it, from
an eminence, and the park-wall interposed; but a little way down was a
stile affording access to the road, and by this we approached the iron
gate of the churchyard. I saw the church door open; the sexton was
replacing his pick, shovel, and spade, with which he had just been
digging a grave in the churchyard, in their little repository under the
stone stair of the tower. He was a polite, shrewd little hunchback, who
was very happy to show me over the church. Among the monuments was one
that interested me; it was erected to commemorate the very Squire Bowes
from whom my two old maids had inherited the house and estate of
Barwyke. It spoke of him in terms of grandiloquent eulogy, and informed
the Christian reader that he had died, in the bosom of the Church of
England, at the age of seventy-one.
I read this inscription by the parting beams of the setting sun, which
disappeared behind the horizon just as we passed out from under the
porch.
"Twenty years since the Squire died," said I, reflecting, as I loitered
still in the churchyard.
"Ay, sir; 'twill be twenty year the ninth o' last month."
"And a very good old gentleman?"
"Good-natured enough, and an easy gentleman he was, sir; I don't think
while he lived he ever hurt a fly," acquiesced Tom Wyndsour. "It ain't
always easy sayin' what's in 'em, though, and what they may take or turn
to afterward; and some o' them sort, I think, goes mad."
"You don't think he was out of his mind?" I asked.
"He? La! no; not he, sir; a bit lazy, mayhap, like other old fellows;
but a knew devilish well what he was about."
Tom Wyndsour's account was a little enigmatical; but, like old Squire
Bowes, I was "a bit lazy" that evening, and asked no more questions
about him.
We got over the stile upon the narrow road that skirts the churchyard.
It is overhung by elms more than a hundred years old, and in the
twilight, which now prevailed, was growing very dark. As side-by-side we
walked along this road, hemmed in by two loose stone-like walls,
something running toward us in a zig-zag line passed us at a wild pace,
with a sound like a frightened laugh or a shudder, and I saw, as it
passed, that it was a human figure. I may confess, now, that I was a
little startled. The dress of this figure was, in part, white: I know I
mistook it at first for a white horse coming down the road at a gallop.
Tom Wyndsour turned about and looked after the retreating figure.
"He'll be on his travels to-night," he said, in a low tone. "Easy served
with a bed, _that_ lad be; six foot o' dry peat or heath, or a nook in a
dry ditch. That lad hasn't slept once in a house this twenty year, and
never will while grass grows."
"Is he mad?" I asked.
"Something that way, sir; he's an idiot, an awpy; we call him 'Dickon
the devil,' because the devil's almost the only word that's ever in his
mouth."
It struck me that this idiot was in some way connected with the story of
old Squire Bowes.
"Queer things are told of him, I dare say?" I suggested.
"More or less, sir; more or less. Queer stories, some."
"Twenty years since he slept in a house? That's about the time the
Squire died," I continued.
"So it will be, sir; not very long after."
"You must tell me all about that, Tom, to-night, when I can hear it
comfortably, after supper."
Tom did not seem to like my invitation; and looking straight before him
as we trudged on, he said:
"You see, sir, the house has been quiet, and nout's been troubling folk
inside the walls or out, all round the woods of Barwyke, this ten year,
or more; and my old woman, down there, is clear against talking about
such matters, and thinks it best--and so do I--to let sleepin' dogs be."
He dropped his voice toward the close of the sentence, and nodded
significantly.
We soon reached a point where he unlocked a wicket in the park wall, by
which we entered the grounds of Barwyke once more.
The twilight deepening over the landscape, the huge and solemn trees,
and the distant outline of the haunted house, exercised a sombre
influence on me, which, together with the fatigue of a day of travel,
and the brisk walk we had had, disinclined me to interrupt the silence
in which my companion now indulged.
A certain air of comparative comfort, on our arrival, in great measure
dissipated the gloom that was stealing over me. Although it was by no
means a cold night, I was very glad to see some wood blazing in the
grate; and a pair of candles aiding the light of the fire, made the room
look cheerful. A small table, with a very white cloth, and preparations
for supper, was also a very agreeable object.
I should have liked very well, under these influences, to have listened
to Tom Wyndsour's story; but after supper I grew too sleepy to attempt
to lead him to the subject; and after yawning for a time, I found there
was no use in contending against my drowsiness, so I betook myself to my
bedroom, and by ten o'clock was fast asleep.
What interruption I experienced that night I shall tell you presently.
It was not much, but it was very odd.
By next night I had completed my work at Barwyke. From early morning
till then I was so incessantly occupied and hard-worked, that I had no
time to think over the singular occurrence to which I have just
referred. Behold me, however, at length once more seated at my little
supper-table, having ended a comfortable meal. It had been a sultry day,
and I had thrown one of the large windows up as high as it would go. I
was sitting near it, with my brandy and water at my elbow, looking out
into the dark. There was no moon, and the trees that are grouped about
the house make the darkness round it supernaturally profound on such
nights.
"Tom," said I, so soon as the jug of hot punch I had supplied him with
began to exercise its genial and communicative influence; "you must tell
me who beside your wife and you and myself slept in the house last
night."
Tom, sitting near the door, set down his tumbler, and looked at me
askance, while you might count seven, without speaking a word.
"Who else slept in the house?" he repeated, very deliberately. "Not a
living soul, sir;" and he looked hard at me, still evidently expecting
something more.
"That _is_ very odd," I said, returning his stare, and feeling really a
little odd. "You are sure _you_ were not in my room last night?"
"Not till I came to call you, sir, this morning; I can make oath of
that."
"Well," said I, "there was some one there, _I_ can make oath of that. I
was so tired I could not make up my mind to get up; but I was waked by a
sound that I thought was some one flinging down the two tin boxes in
which my papers were locked up violently on the floor. I heard a slow
step on the ground, and there was light in the room, although I
remembered having put out my candle. I thought it must have been you,
who had come in for my clothes, and upset the boxes by accident. Whoever
it was, he went out, and the light with him. I was about to settle
again, when, the curtain being a little open at the foot of the bed, I
saw a light on the wall opposite; such as a candle from outside would
cast if the door were very cautiously opening. I started up in the bed,
drew the side curtain, and saw that the door _was_ opening, and
admitting light from outside. It is close, you know, to the head of the
bed. A hand was holding on the edge of the door and pushing it open; not
a bit like yours; a very singular hand. Let me look at yours."
He extended it for my inspection.
"Oh no; there's nothing wrong with your hand. This was differently
shaped; fatter; and the middle finger was stunted, and shorter than the
rest, looking as if it had once been broken, and the nail was crooked
like a claw. I called out, "Who's there?" and the light and the hand
were withdrawn, and I saw and heard no more of my visitor."
"So sure as you're a living man, that was him!" exclaimed Tom Wyndsour,
his very nose growing pale, and his eyes almost starting out of his
head.
"Who?" I asked.
"Old Squire Bowes; 'twas _his_ hand you saw; the Lord a' mercy on us!"
answered Tom. "The broken finger, and the nail bent like a hoop. Well
for you, sir, he didn't come back when you called, that time. You came
here about them Miss Dymock's business, and he never meant they should
have a foot o' ground in Barwyke; and he was making a will to give it
away quite different, when death took him short. He never was uncivil to
no one; but he couldn't abide them ladies. My mind misgave me when I
heard 'twas about their business you were coming; and now you see how it
is; he'll be at his old tricks again!"
With some pressure, and a little more punch, I induced Tom Wyndsour to
explain his mysterious allusions by recounting the occurrences which
followed the old Squire's death.
"Squire Bowes, of Barwyke, died without making a will, as you know,"
said Tom. "And all the folk round were sorry; that is to say, sir, as
sorry as folk will be for an old man that has seen a long tale of years,
and has no right to grumble that death has knocked an hour too soon at
his door. The Squire was well liked; he was never in a passion, or said
a hard word; and he would not hurt a fly; and that made what happened
after his decease the more surprising.
"The first thing these ladies did, when they got the property, was to
buy stock for the park.
"It was not wise, in any case, to graze the land on their own account.
But they little knew all they had to contend with.
"Before long something went wrong with the cattle; first one, and then
another, took sick and died, and so on, till the loss began to grow
heavy. Then, queer stories, little by little, began to be told. It was
said, first by one, then by another, that Squire Bowes was seen, about
evening time, walking, just as he used to do when he was alive, among
the old trees, leaning on his stick; and, sometimes, when he came up
with the cattle, he would stop and lay his hand kindly like on the back
of one of them; and that one was sure to fall sick next day, and die
soon after.
"No one ever met him in the park, or in the woods, or ever saw him,
except a good distance off. But they knew his gait and his figure well,
and the clothes he used to wear; and they could tell the beast he laid
his hand on by its color--white, dun, or black; and that beast was sure
to sicken and die. The neighbors grew shy of taking the path over the
park; and no one liked to walk in the woods, or come inside the bounds
of Barwyke; and the cattle went on sickening and dying, as before.
"At that time there was one Thomas Pyke; he had been a groom to the old
Squire; and he was in care of the place, and was the only one that used
to sleep in the house.
"Tom was vexed, hearing these stories; which he did not believe the half
on 'em; and more especial as he could not get man or boy to herd the
cattle; all being afeared. So he wrote to Matlock, in Derbyshire, for
his brother, Richard Pyke, a clever lad, and one that knew nout o' the
story of the old Squire walking.
"Dick came; and the cattle was better; folk said they could still see
the old Squire, sometimes, walking, as before, in openings of the wood,
with his stick in his hand; but he was shy of coming nigh the cattle,
whatever his reason might be, since Dickon Pyke came; and he used to
stand a long bit off, looking at them, with no more stir in him than a
trunk o' one of the old trees, for an hour at a time, till the shape
melted away, little by little, like the smoke of a fire that burns out.
"Tom Pyke and his brother Dickon, being the only living souls in the
house, lay in the big bed in the servants' room, the house being fast
barred and locked, one night in November.
"Tom was lying next the wall, and, he told me, as wide awake as ever he
was at noonday. His brother Dickon lay outside, and was sound asleep.
"Well, as Tom lay thinking, with his eyes turned toward the door, it
opens slowly, and who should come in but old Squire Bowes, his face
lookin' as dead as he was in his coffin.
"Tom's very breath left his body; he could not take his eyes off him;
and he felt the hair rising up on his head.
"The Squire came to the side of the bed, and put his arms under Dickon,
and lifted the boy--in a dead sleep all the time--and carried him out
so, at the door.
"Such was the appearance, to Tom Pyke's eyes, and he was ready to swear
to it, anywhere.
"When this happened, the light, wherever it came from, all on a sudden
went out, and Tom could not see his own hand before him.
"More dead than alive, he lay till daylight.
"Sure enough his brother Dickon was gone. No sign of him could he
discover about the house; and with some trouble he got a couple of the
neighbors to help him to search the woods and grounds. Not a sign of him
anywhere.
"At last one of them thought of the island in the lake; the little boat
was moored to the old post at the water's edge. In they got, though with
small hope of finding him there. Find him, nevertheless, they did,
sitting under the big ash-tree, quite out of his wits; and to all their
questions he answered nothing but one cry--'Bowes, the devil! See him;
see him; Bowes, the devil!' An idiot they found him; and so he will be
till God sets all things right. No one could ever get him to sleep under
roof-tree more. He wanders from house to house while daylight lasts; and
no one cares to lock the harmless creature in the workhouse. And folk
would rather not meet him after nightfall, for they think where he is
there may be worse things near."
A silence followed Tom's story. He and I were alone in that large room;
I was sitting near the open window, looking into the dark night air. I
fancied I saw something white move across it; and I heard a sound like
low talking, that swelled into a discordant shriek--"Hoo-oo-oo! Bowes,
the devil! Over your shoulder. Hoo-oo-oo! ha! ha! ha!" I started up, and
saw, by the light of the candle with which Tom strode to the window, the
wild eyes and blighted face of the idiot, as, with a sudden change of
mood, he drew off, whispering and tittering to himself, and holding up
his long fingers, and looking at them as if they were lighted at the
tips like a "hand of glory."
Tom pulled down the window. The story and its epilogue were over. I
confessed I was rather glad when I heard the sound of the horses' hoofs
on the courtyard, a few minutes later; and still gladder when, having
bidden Tom a kind farewell, I had left the neglected house of Barwyke a
mile behind me.
A DEBT OF HONOR.
A GHOST STORY.
Hush! what was that cry, so low but yet so piercing, so strange but yet
so sorrowful? It was not the marmot upon the side of the Righi--it was
not the heron down by the lake; no, it was distinctively human. Hush!
there it is again--from the churchyard which I have just left!
Not ten minutes have elapsed since I was sitting on the low wall of the
churchyard of Weggis, watching the calm glories of the moonlight
illuminating with silver splendor the lake of Lucerne; and I am certain
there was no one within the inclosure but myself.
I am mistaken, surely. What a silence there is upon the night! Not a
breath of air now to break up into a thousand brilliant ripples the long
reflection of the August moon, or to stir the foliage of the chestnuts;
not a voice in the village; no splash of oar upon the lake. All life
seems at perfect rest, and the solemn stillness that reigns about the
topmost glaciers of S. Gothard has spread its mantle over the warmer
world below.
I must not linger; as it is, I shall have to wake up the porter to let
me into the hotel. I hurry on.
Not ten paces, though. Again I hear the cry. This time it sounds to me
like the long, sad sob of a wearied and broken heart. Without staying to
reason with myself, I quickly retrace my steps.
I stumble about among the iron crosses and the graves, and displace in
my confusion wreaths of immortelles and fresher flowers. A huge
mausoleum stands between me and the wall upon which I had been sitting
not a quarter of an hour ago. The mausoleum casts a deep shadow upon the
side nearest to me. Ah! something is stirring there. I strain my
eyes--the figure of a man passes slowly out of the shade, and silently
occupies my place upon the wall. It must have been his lips that gave
out that miserable sound.
What shall I do? Compassion and curiosity are strong. The man whose
heart can be rent so sorely ought not to be allowed to linger here with
his despair. He is gazing, as I did, upon the lake. I mark his
profile--clear-cut and symmetrical; I catch the lustre of large eyes.
The face, as I can see it, seems very still and placid. I may be
mistaken; he may merely be a wanderer like myself; perhaps he heard the
three strange cries, and has also come to seek the cause. I feel
impelled to speak to him.
I pass from the path by the church to the east side of the mausoleum,
and so come toward him, the moon full upon his features. Great heaven!
how pale his face is!
"Good-evening, sir. I thought myself alone here, and wondered that no
other travellers had found their way to this lovely spot. Charming, is
it not?"
For a moment he says nothing, but his eyes are full upon me. At last he
replies:
"It is charming, as you say, Mr. Reginald Westcar."
"You know me?" I exclaim, in astonishment.
"Pardon me, I can scarcely claim a personal acquaintance. But yours is
the only English name entered to-day in the Livre des Etrangers."
"You are staying at the Hotel de la Concorde, then?"
An inclination of the head is all the answer vouchsafed.
"May I ask," I continue, "whether you heard just now a very strange cry
repeated three times?"
A pause. The lustrous eyes seem to search me through and through--I can
hardly bear their gaze. Then he replies.
"I fancy I heard the echoes of some such sounds as you describe."
The _echoes_! Is this, then, the man who gave utterance to those cries
of woe! is it possible? The face seems so passionless; but the pallor of
those features bears witness to some terrible agony within.
"I thought some one must be in distress," I rejoin, hastily; "and I
hurried back to see if I could be of any service."
"Very good of you," he answers, coldly; "but surely such a place as this
is not unaccustomed to the voice of sorrow."
"No doubt. My impulse was a mistaken one."
"But kindly meant. You will not sleep less soundly for acting on that
impulse, Reginald Westcar."
He rises as he speaks. He throws his cloak round him, and stands
motionless. I take the hint. My mysterious countryman wishes to be
alone. Some one that he has loved and lost lies buried here.
"Good-night, sir," I say, as I move in the direction of the little
chapel at the gate. "Neither of us will sleep the less soundly for
thinking of the perfect repose that reigns around this place."
"What do you mean?" he asks.
"The dead," I reply, as I stretch my hand toward the graves. "Do you not
remember the lines in 'King Lear'?
"'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.'"
"But _you_ have never died, Reginald Westcar. You know nothing of the
sleep of death."
For the third time he speaks my name almost familiarly, and--I know not
why--a shudder passes through me. I have no time, in my turn, to ask him
what he means; for he strides silently away into the shadow of the
church, and I, with a strange sense of oppression upon me, returned to
my hotel.
* * * * *
The events which I have just related passed in vivid recollection
through my mind as I travelled northward one cold November day in the
year 185--. About six months previously I had taken my degree at Oxford,
and had since been enjoying a trip upon the continent; and on my return
to London I found a letter awaiting me from my lawyers, informing me
somewhat to my astonishment, that I had succeeded to a small estate in
Cumberland. I must tell you exactly how this came about. My mother was a
Miss Ringwood, and she was the youngest of three children: the eldest
was Aldina, the second was Geoffrey, and the third (my mother) Alice.
Their mother (who had been a widow since my mother's birth) lived at
this little place in Cumberland, and which was known as The Shallows;
she died shortly after my mother's marriage with my father, Captain
Westcar. My aunt Aldina and my uncle Geoffrey--the one at that time aged
twenty-eight, and the other twenty-six--continued to reside at The
Shallows. My father and mother had to go to India, where I was born, and
where, when quite a child, I was left an orphan. A few months after my
mother's marriage my aunt disappeared; a few weeks after that event, and
my uncle Geoffrey dropped down dead, as he was playing at cards with Mr.
Maryon, the proprietor of a neighboring mansion known as The Mere. A
fortnight after my uncle's death, my aunt Aldina returned to The
Shallows, and never left it again till she was carried out in her coffin
to her grave in the churchyard. Ever since her return from her
mysterious disappearance she maintained an impenetrable reserve. As a
schoolboy I visited her twice or thrice, but these visits depressed my
youthful spirits to such an extent, that as I grew older I excused
myself from accepting my aunt's not very pressing invitations; and at
the time I am now speaking of I had not seen her for eight or ten years.
I was rather surprised, therefore, when she bequeathed me The Shallows,
which, as the surviving child, she inherited under her mother's
marriage settlement.
But The Shallows had always exercised a grim influence over me, and the
knowledge that I was now going to it as my home oppressed me. The road
seemed unusually dark, cold, and lonely. At last I passed the lodge, and
two hundred yards more brought me to the porch. Very soon the door was
opened by an elderly female, whom I well remembered as having been my
aunt's housekeeper and cook. I had pleasant recollections of her, and
was glad to see her. To tell the truth, I had not anticipated my visit
to my newly acquired property with any great degree of enthusiasm; but a
very tolerable dinner had an inspiriting effect, and I was pleased to
learn that there was a bin of old Madeira in the cellar. Naturally I
soon grew cheerful, and consequently talkative; and summoned Mrs. Balk
for a little gossip. The substance of what I gathered from her rather
diffusive conversation was as follows:
My aunt had resided at The Shallows ever since the death of my uncle
Geoffrey, but she had maintained a silent and reserved habit; and Mrs.
Balk was of opinion that she had had some great misfortune. She had
persistently refused all intercourse with the people at The Mere. Squire
Maryon, himself a cold and taciturn man, had once or twice showed a
disposition to be friendly, but she had sternly repulsed all such
overtures. Mrs. Balk was of opinion that Miss Ringwood was not "quite
right," as she expressed it, on some topics; especially did she seem
impressed with the idea that The Mere ought to belong to her. It
appeared that the Ringwoods and Maryons were distant connections; that
The Mere belonged in former times to a certain Sir Henry Benet; that he
was a bachelor, and that Squire Maryon's father and old Mr. Ringwood
were cousins of his, and that there was some doubt as to which was the
real heir; that Sir Henry, who disliked old Maryon, had frequently said
he had set any chance of dispute at rest, by bequeathing the Mere
property by will to Mr. Ringwood, my mother's father; that, on his
death, no such will could be found; and the family lawyers agreed that
Mr. Maryon was the legal inheritor, and my uncle Geoffrey and his
sisters must be content to take the Shallows, or nothing at all. Mr.
Maryon was comparatively rich, and the Ringwoods poor, consequently they
were advised not to enter upon a costly lawsuit. My aunt Aldina
maintained to the last that Sir Henry had made a will, and that Mr.
Maryon knew it, but had destroyed or suppressed the document. I did not
gather from Mrs. Balk's narrative that Miss Ringwood had any foundation
for her belief, and I dismissed the notion at once as baseless.
"And my uncle Geoffrey died of apoplexy, you say, Mrs. Balk?"
"_I_ don't say so, sir, no more did Miss Ringwood; but _they_ said so."
"Whom do you mean by _they_?"
"The people at The Mere--the young doctor, a friend of Squire Maryon's,
who was brought over from York, and the rest; he fell heavily from his
chair, and his head struck against the fender."
"Playing at cards with Mr. Maryon, I think you said."
"Yes, sir; he was too fond of cards, I believe, was Mr. Geoffrey."
"Is Mr. Maryon seen much in the county--is he hospitable?"
"Well, sir, he goes up to London a good deal, and has some friends down
from town occasionally; but he does not seem to care much about the
people in the neighborhood."
"He has some children, Mrs. Balk?"
"Only one daughter, sir; a sweet pretty thing she is. Her mother died
when Miss Agnes was born."
"You have no idea, Mrs. Balk, what my aunt Aldina's great misfortune
was?"
"Well, sir, I can't help thinking it must have been a love affair. She
always hated men so much."
"Then why did she leave The Shallows to me, Mrs. Balk?"
"Ah, you are laughing, sir. No doubt she considered that The Mere ought
to belong to you, as the heir of the Ringwoods, and she placed you here,
as near as might be to the place."
"In hopes that I might marry Miss Maryon, eh, Mrs. Balk?"
"You are laughing again, sir. I don't imagine she thought so much of
that, as of the possibility of your discovering something about the
missing will."
I bade the communicative Mrs. Balk good night and retired to my
bedroom--a low, wide, sombre, oak-panelled chamber. I must confess that
family stories had no great interest for me, living apart from them at
school and college as I had done; and as I undressed I thought more of
the probabilities of sport the eight hundred acres of wild shooting
belonging to The Shallows would afford me, than of the supposed will my
poor aunt had evidently worried herself about so much. Thoroughly tired
after my long journey, I soon fell fast asleep amid the deep shadows of
the huge four-poster I mentally resolved to chop up into firewood at an
early date, and substitute for it a more modern iron bedstead.
How long I had been asleep I do not know, but I suddenly started up, the
echo of a long, sad cry ringing in my ears.
I listened eagerly--sensitive to the slightest sound--painfully
sensitive as one is only in the deep silence of the night.
I heard the old-fashioned clock I had noticed on the stairs strike
three. The reverberation seemed to last a long time, then all was silent
again. "A dream," I muttered to myself, as I lay down upon the pillow;
"Madeira is a heating wine. But what can I have been dreaming of?"
Sleep seemed to have gone altogether, and the busy mind wandered among
the continental scenes I had lately visited. By and by I found myself in
memory once more within the Weggis churchyard. I was satisfied; I had
traced my dream to the cries that I had heard there. I turned round to
sleep again. Perhaps I fell into a doze--I cannot say; but again I
started up at the repetition, as it seemed outside my window, of that
cry of sadness and despair. I hastily drew aside the heavy curtains of
my bed--at that moment the room seemed to be illuminated with a dim,
unearthly light--and I saw, gradually growing into human shape, the
figure of a woman. I recognized in it my aunt, Miss Ringwood.
Horror-struck, I gazed at the apparition; it advanced a little--the lips
moved--I heard it distinctly say:
"_Reginald Westcar, The Mere belongs to you. Compel John Maryon to pay
the debt of honor!_"
I fell back senseless.
When next I returned to consciousness, it was when I was called in the
morning; the shutters were opened, and I saw the red light of the
dawning winter sun.
* * * * *
There is a strange sympathy between the night and the mind. All one's
troubles represent themselves as increased a hundredfold if one wakes in
the night, and begins to think about them. A muscular pain becomes the
certainty of an incurable internal disease; and a headache suggests
incipient softening of the brain. But all these horrors are dissipated
with the morning light, and the after-glow of a cold bath turns them
into jokes. So it was with me on the morning after my arrival at The
Shallows. I accounted most satisfactorily for all that had occurred, or
seemed to have occurred, during the night; and resolved that, though the
old Madeira was uncommonly good, I must be careful in future not to
drink more than a couple of glasses after dinner. I need scarcely say
that I said nothing to Mrs. Balk of my bad dreams, and shortly after
breakfast I took my gun, and went out in search of such game as I might
chance to meet with. At three o'clock I sent the keeper home, as his
capacious pockets were pretty well filled, telling him that I thought I
knew the country, and should stroll back leisurely. The gray gloom of
the November evening was spreading over the sky as I came upon a small
plantation which I believed belonged to me. I struck straight across it;
emerging from its shadows, I found myself by a small stream and some
marshy land; on the other side another small plantation. A snipe got up,
I fired, and tailored it. I marked the bird into this other plantation,
and followed. Up got a covey of partridges--bang, bang--one down by the
side of an oak. I was about to enter this covert, when a lady and
gentleman emerged, and, struck with the unpleasant thought that I was
possibly trespassing, I at once went forward to apologize.
Before I could say a word, the gentleman addressed me.
"May I ask, sir, if I have given you permission to shoot over my
preserves?"
"I beg to express my great regret, sir," I replied, as I lifted my hat
in acknowledgment of the lady's presence, "that I should have trespassed
upon your land. I can only plead, as my excuse, that I fully believed I
was still upon the manor belonging to The Shallows."
"Gentlemen who go out shooting ought to know the limits of their
estates," he answered harshly; "the boundaries of The Shallows are well
defined, nor is the area they contain so very extensive. You have no
right upon this side the stream, sir; oblige me by returning."
I merely bowed, for I was nettled by his tone, and as I turned away I
noticed that the young lady whispered to him.
"One moment, sir," he said, "my daughter suggests the possibility of
your being the new owner of The Shallows. May I ask if this is so?"
It had not occurred to me before, but I understood in a moment to whom I
had been speaking, and I replied:
"Yes, Mr. Maryon--my name is Westcar."
Such was my introduction to Mr. and Miss Maryon. The proprietor of The
Mere appeared to be a gentleman, but his manners were cold and reserved,
and a careful observer might have remarked a perpetual restlessness in
the eyes, as if they were physically incapable of regarding the same
object for more than a moment. He was about sixty years of age,
apparently; and though he now and again made an effort to carry himself
upright, the head and shoulders soon drooped again, as if the weight of
years, and, it might be, the memory of the past, were a heavy load to
carry. Of Miss Maryon it is sufficient to say that she was nineteen or
twenty, and it did not need a second glance to satisfy me that her
beauty was of no ordinary kind.
I must hurry over the records of the next few weeks. I became a frequent
visitor at The Mere. Mr. Maryon's manner never became cordial, but he
did not seem displeased to see me; and as to Agnes,--well, she certainly
was not displeased either.
I think it was on Christmas Day that I suddenly discovered that I was
desperately in love. Miss Maryon had been for two or three days confined
to her room by a bad cold, and I found myself in a great state of
anxiety to see her again. I am sorry to say that my thoughts wandered a
good deal when I was at church upon that festival, and I could not help
thinking what ample room there was for a bridal procession up the
spacious aisle. Suddenly my eyes rested upon a mural tablet, inscribed,
"To the memory of Aldina Ringwood." Then with a cold thrill there came
back upon me what I had almost forgotten, the dream, or whatever it was,
that had occurred on that first night at The Shallows; and those strange
words--"The Mere belongs to you. Compel John Maryon to pay the debt of
honor!" Nothing but the remembrance of Agnes' sweet face availed for the
time to banish the vision, the statement, and the bidding.
Miss Maryon was soon down-stairs again. Did I flatter myself too much in
thinking that she was as glad to see me as I was to see her? No--I felt
sure that I did not. Then I began to reflect seriously upon my position.
My fortune was small, quite enough for me, but not enough for two; and
as she was heiress of The Mere and a comfortable rent-roll of some six
or eight thousand a year, was it not natural that Mr. Maryon expected
her to make what is called a "good match"? Still, I could not conceal
from myself the fact, that he evinced no objection whatever to my
frequent visits at his house, nor to my taking walks with his daughter
when he was unable to accompany us.
One bright, frosty day I had been down to the lake with Miss Maryon, and
had enjoyed the privilege of teaching her to skate; and on returning to
the house, we met Mr. Maryon upon the terrace, He walked with us to the
conservatory; we went in to examine the plants, and he remained outside,
pacing up and down the terrace. Both Agnes and myself were strangely
silent; perhaps my tongue had found an eloquence upon the ice which was
well met by a shy thoughtfulness upon her part. But there was a lovely
color upon her cheeks, and I experienced a very considerable and unusual
fluttering about my heart. It happened as we were standing at the door
of the conservatory, both of us silently looking away from the flowers
upon the frosty view, that our eyes lighted at the same time upon Mr.
Maryon. He, too, was apparently regarding the prospect, when suddenly he
paused and staggered back, as if something unexpected met his gaze.
"Oh, poor papa! I hope he is not going to have one of his fits!"
exclaimed Agnes.
"Fits! Is he subject to such attacks?" I inquired.
"Not ordinary fits," she answered hurriedly; "I hardly know how to
explain them. They come upon him occasionally, and generally at this
period of the year."
"Shall we go to him?" I suggested.
"No; you cannot help him; and he cannot bear that they should be
noticed."
We both watched him. His arms were stretched up above his head, and
again he recoiled a step or two. I sought for an explanation in Agnes'
face.
"A stranger!" she exclaimed. "Who can it be?"
I looked toward Mr. Maryon. A tall figure of a man had come from the
farther side of the house; he wore a large, loose coat and a kind of
military cap upon his head.
"Doubtless you are surprised to see me, John," we heard the new-comer
say, in a confident voice, "but I am not the devil, man, that you should
greet me with such a peculiar attitude." He held out his hand, and
continued, "Come, don't let the warmth of old fellowship be all on one
side, this wintry day."
We could see that Mr. Maryon took the proffered right hand with his left
for an instant, then seemed to shrink away, but exchanged no word of
this greeting.
"I don't understand this," said Agnes, and we both hurried forward. The
stranger, seeing Agnes approach, lifted his cap.
"Ah, your daughter, John, no doubt. I see the likeness to her lamented
mother. Pray introduce me."
Mr. Maryon's usually pallid features had assumed a still paler hue, and
he said in a low voice:
"Colonel Bludyer--my daughter." Agnes barely bowed.
"Charmed to renew your acquaintance, Miss Maryon. When last I saw you,
you were quite a baby; but your father and I are very old friends--are
we not, John?"
Mr. Maryon vaguely nodded his head.
"Well, John, you have often pressed your hospitality upon me, but till
now I have never had an opportunity of availing myself of your kind
offers; so I have brought my bag, and intend at last to give you the
pleasure of my company for a few days."
I certainly should have thought that a man of Mr. Maryon's disposition
would have resented such conduct as this, or, at all events, have given
this self-invited guest a chilling welcome. Mr. Maryon, however, in a
confused and somewhat stammering tone, said that he was glad Colonel
Bludyer had come at last, and bade his daughter go and make the
necessary arrangements. Agnes, in silent astonishment, entered the
house, and then Mr. Maryon turned to me hastily and bade me good-by. In
a by no means comfortable frame of mind I returned to The Shallows.
The sudden advent of this miscellaneous colonel was naturally somewhat
irritating to me. Not only did I regard the man as an intolerable bore,
but I could not help fancying that he was something more than an old
friend of Mr. Maryon's; in fact, I was led to judge, by Mr. Maryon's
strange conduct, that this Bludyer had some power over him which might
be exercised to the detriment of the Maryon family, and I was convinced
there was some mystery it was my business to penetrate.
The following day I went up to The Mere to see if Miss Maryon was
desirous of renewing her skating lesson. I found the party in the
billiard-room, Agnes marking for her father and the Colonel. Mr. Maryon,
whom I knew to be an exceptionally good player, seemed incapable of
making a decent stroke; the Colonel, on the other hand, could evidently
give a professional fifteen, and beat him easily. We all went down to
the lake together. I had no chance of any quiet conversation with Agnes;
the Colonel was perpetually beside us.
I returned home disgusted. For two whole days I did not go near The
Mere. On the third day I went up, hoping that the horrid Colonel would
be gone. It was beginning to snow when I left The Shallows at about two
o'clock in the afternoon, and Mrs. Balk foretold a heavy storm, and bade
me not be late returning.
The black winter darkness in the sky deepened as I approached The Mere.
I was ushered again into the billiard-room. Agnes was marking, as upon
the previous occasion, but two days had worked a sad difference in her
face. Mr. Maryon hardly noticed my entrance; he was flushed, and playing
eagerly; the Colonel was boisterous, declaring that John had never
played better twenty years ago. I relieved Agnes of the duty of marking.
The snow fell in a thick layer upon the skylight, and the Colonel became
seriously anxious about my return home. As I did not think he was the
proper person to give me hints, I resolutely remained where I was,
encouraged in my behavior by the few words I gained from Agnes, and by
the looks of entreaty she gave me. I had always considered Mr. Maryon to
be an abstemious man, but he drank a good deal of brandy and soda during
the long game of seven hundred up, and when he succeeded in beating the
Colonel by forty-three, he was in roaring spirits, and insisted upon my
staying to dinner. Need I say that I accepted the invitation?
I made such toilet as I could in a most unattainable chamber that was
allotted to me, and hurried back to the drawing-room in the hope that I
might get a few private words with Agnes. I was not disappointed. She,
too, had hurried down, and in a few words I learned that this
abominable Bludyer was paying her his coarse attentions, and with,
apparently, the full consent of Mr. Maryon. My indignation was
unbounded. Was it possible that Mr. Maryon intended to sacrifice this
fair creature to that repulsive man?
Mr. Maryon had appeared in excellent spirits when dinner began, and the
first glass or two of champagne made him merrier than I thought it
possible for him to be. But by the time the dessert was on the table he
had grown silent and thoughtful; nor did he respond to the warm
eulogiums the Colonel passed upon the magnum of claret which was set
before us.
After dinner we sat in the library. The Colonel left the room to fetch
some cigars he had been loudly extolling. Then Agnes had an opportunity
of whispering to me.
"Look at papa--see how strangely he sits--his hands clenching the arms
of the chair, his eyes fixed upon the blazing coals! How old he seems to
be to-night! His terrible fits are coming on--he is always like this
toward the end of January!" The Colonel's return put an end to any
further confidential talk.