interior than from its outward appearance he had been led to expect;
but he had little leisure or inclination for the survey of its effects,
for his senses and imagination were immediately and entirely occupied
by the scene which presented itself on his entrance. In the centre
of the room into which he had been so readily admitted stood, on its
trestles, an open coffin; lights were at its head and foot, and on each
side sat many persons of both sexes, who appeared to be engaged in the
customary ceremony of watching the corpse previous to its interment
in the morning. There were many who appeared to the stranger to be
watchers, but there were but two who, in his eye, bore the appearance
of mourners, and they had faces of grief which spoke too plainly of the
anguish that was reigning within. At the foot of the coffin was a pale
youth just blooming into manhood, who covered his eyes with trembling
fingers that ill-concealed the tears which trickled down his wan
cheeks; the other--but why should we again describe that still unbowed
and lofty form? The awful marble brow upon which the stranger gazed was
that of Ruth Tudor.
There was much whispering and quiet talk among the people while
refreshments were handed to them; and so little curiosity was excited
by the appearance of the traveller that he naturally concluded that it
must be no common loss that could deaden a feeling usually so intense
in the bosoms of Welsh peasants. He was even checked from an attempt to
question; but one man--he who had given him admittance, and seemed to
possess authority in the circle--informed the traveller that he would
answer his questions when the guests should depart, but till then he
must keep silence. The traveller endeavoured to obey, and sat down in
quiet contemplation of the figure who most interested his attention,
and who sat at the coffin’s head. Ruth Tudor spoke nothing, nor did
she appear to heed aught of the business that was passing around her.
Absorbed by reflection, her eyes were generally cast to the ground; but
when they were raised, the traveller looked in vain for that expression
of grief which had struck him so forcibly on his entrance; there was
something wonderfully strange in the character of her perfect features.
Could he have found words for his thoughts, and might have been
permitted the expression, he would have called it triumphant despair,
so deeply agonised, so proudly stern, looked the mourner who sat by the
dead.
The interest which the traveller took in the scene became more intense
the longer he gazed upon its action; unable to resist the anxiety
which had begun to prey upon his spirit, he arose and walked towards
the coffin, with the purpose of contemplating its occupant. A sad
explanation was given, by its appearance, of the grief and the anguish
he had witnessed. A beautiful girl was reposing in the narrow box, with
a face as calm and lovely as if she was sleeping a deep and refreshing
sleep, and the morning sun would again smile upon her awakening; salt,
the emblem of an immortal soul, was placed upon her breast; and in her
pale and perishing fingers a branch of living flowers were struggling
for life in the grasp of death, and diffusing their sweet and gracious
fragrance over the cold odour of mortality. These images, so opposite,
yet so alike, affected the spirit of the gazer, and he almost wept as
he continued looking upon them, till he was aroused from his trance by
the strange conduct of Ruth Tudor, who had caught a glimpse of his face
as he bent in sorrow over the coffin. She sprang up from her seat, and,
darting at him a terrible glance of recognition, pointed down to the
corpse, and then, with a hollow burst of frantic laughter, shouted:
‘Behold, you double-dyed liar!’
The startled stranger was relieved from the necessity of speaking by
someone taking his arm and gently leading him to the farther end of
the cottage. The eyes of Ruth followed him, and it was not till he had
done violence to himself in turning from her to his conductor that he
could escape their singular fascination. When he did so, he beheld a
venerable man, the pastor of a distant village, who had come that night
to speak comfort to the mourners, and perform the last sad duty to the
dead on the morrow.
‘Be not alarmed at what you have witnessed, my young friend,’ said he;
‘these ravings are not uncommon. This unhappy woman, at an early period
of her life, gave ear to the miserable superstitions of her country,
and a wretched pretender to wisdom predicted that she should become a
shedder of blood. Madness has been the inevitable consequence in an
ardent spirit, and in its ravings she dreams she has committed one sin,
and is still tempted to add to it another.’
‘You may say what you please, parson,’ said the old man who had given
admittance to the stranger, and who now, after dismissing all the
guests save the youth, joined the talkers, and seated himself on the
settle by their side. ‘You may say what you please about madness
and superstition, but I know Ruth Tudor was a fated woman, and the
deed that was to be I believe she has done. Aye, aye, her madness is
conscience; and if the deep sea and the jagged rocks could speak, they
might tell us a tale of other things than that. But she is judged
now; her only child is gone--her pretty Rachel. Poor Evan! he was her
suitor. Ah! he little thought two months ago, when he was preparing
for a gay bridal, that her slight sickness would end thus. He does
not deserve it; but for her--God forgive me if I do her wrong, but I
think it is the hand of God, and it lies heavy, as it should.’ And the
grey-haired old man hobbled away, satisfied that in thus thinking he
was showing his zeal for virtue.
‘Alas! that so white a head should acknowledge so hard a heart!’
said the pastor. ‘Ruth is condemned, according to his system, for
committing that which a mightier hand compelled her to do. How harsh
and misjudging is age! But we must not speak so loud,’ continued he;
‘for see, the youth Evan is retiring for the night, and the miserable
mother has thrown herself on the floor to sleep. The sole domestic
is rocking on her stool, and therefore I will do the honours of this
poor cottage to you. There is a chamber above this containing the only
bed in the hut; thither you may go and rest, for otherwise it will
certainly be vacant to-night. I shall find a bed in the village, and
Evan sleeps near you with some of the guests in the barn. But, before I
go, if my question be not unwelcome and intrusive, tell me who you are,
and whither you are bound.’
‘I was ever somewhat of a subscriber to the old man’s creed of
fatalism,’ said the stranger, smiling, ‘and I believe I am more
confirmed in it by the singular events of this day. My father was of
a certain rank in society, but of selfish and disorderly habits. A
course of extravagance and idleness was succeeded by difficulties and
distress. Instead of exertion, he had recourse to flight, and left
us to face the difficulties from which he shrunk. He was absent for
years, while his family toiled and struggled with success. Suddenly
we heard that he was concealed in this part of the coast. The cause
which made that concealment necessary I forbear to mention; but he
suddenly disappeared from the eyes of men, though we never could trace
him beyond this part of the country. I have always believed that I
should one day find my father, and have lately, though with difficulty,
prevailed upon my mother to allow me to make my residence in this
neighbourhood. But my search is at an end to-day. I believe that I have
found my father. Roaming along the beach, I penetrated into several
of those dark caverns. Through the fissures of one I discovered, in
the interior, a light. Surprised, I penetrated to its concealment,
and discovered a man sleeping on the ground. I advanced to awake him,
and found but a fleshless skeleton, cased in tattered and decaying
garments. He had probably met his death by accident, for exactly over
the corpse I observed, at a great height, the daylight, as if streaming
down from an aperture above. Thus the wretched man must have fallen,
but how long since, or who had discovered his body, and left the light
which I beheld, I knew not, though I cannot help cherishing a strong
conviction that it was the body of William Morgan that I saw.’
‘Who talks of William Morgan?’ demanded a stern voice near the coffin,
‘and of the cave where the outcast rots?’ They turned quickly at the
sound, and beheld Ruth Tudor standing up, as if she had been intently
listening to the story.
‘It was I who spoke,’ said the stranger, gently, ‘and I spoke of my
father--of William Morgan. I am Owen, his son.’
‘Son! Owen Morgan!’ said the bewildered Ruth, passing her hand over
her forehead, as if to enable her to recover the combination of these
names. ‘Why speak you of living things as pertaining to the dead?
Father! He is father to nought save sin, and murder is his only
begotten!’
She advanced to the traveller as she spoke, and again caught a view of
his face. Again he saw the wild look of recognition, and an unearthly
shriek followed the convulsive horror of her face. ‘There! there!’ she
said, ‘I knew it must be. Once before to-night have I beheld you. Yet
what can your coming bode? Back with you, ruffian, for is not your dark
work done!’
‘Let us leave her,’ said the good pastor, ‘to the care of her
attendant. Do not continue to meet her gaze. Your presence may
increase, but cannot allay her malady. Go up to your bed and rest.’
He retired as he spoke, and Owen, in compliance with his wish, ascended
the rickety stair which led to his chamber, after he had beheld Ruth
Tudor quietly place herself in her seat at the open coffin’s head. The
room to which he mounted was not of the most cheering aspect, yet he
felt he had often slept soundly in a worse. It was a gloomy, unfinished
chamber, and the wind was whistling coldly and drearily through the
uncovered rafters above his head. Like many of the cottages in that
part of the country, it appeared to have grown old and ruinous before
it had been finished, for the flooring was so crazy as scarcely to
support the huge wooden bedstead, and in many instances the boards were
entirely separated from each other; and in the centre, time, or the
rot, had so completely devoured the larger half of one that through the
gaping aperture Owen had an entire command of the room and the party
below, looking down immediately above the coffin. Ruth was in the same
attitude as when he left her. Owen threw himself upon his hard couch,
and endeavoured to compose himself to rest for the night. His thoughts,
however, still wandered to the events of the day, and he felt there was
some strange connection between the scene he had just witnessed and
the darker one of the secret cave. He grew restless, and watched, and
amidst the tossings of impatient anxiety fatigue overpowered him, and
he sunk into a perturbed and heated sleep. His slumber was broken by
dreams that might well be the shadows of his waking reveries. He was
alone--as in reality--upon his humble bed, when imagination brought to
his ear the sound of many voices again singing the slow and monotonous
psalm. It was interrupted by the outcries of some unseen things who
attempted to enter his chamber, and, amid yells of fear and execrations
of anger, bade him ‘Arise, and come forth, and aid.’ Then the coffined
form which slept so quietly below stood by his side, and, in beseeching
accents, bade him ‘Arise and save her.’ In his sleep he attempted to
spring up, but a horrid fear restrained him, a fear that he should be
too late. Then he crouched like a coward beneath his coverings, to
hide from the reproaches of the spectre, while shouts of laughter and
shrieks of agony were poured like a tempest around him. He sprung from
his bed, and awoke.
It was some moments before he could recover himself, or shake off the
horror which had seized upon his soul. He listened, and with infinite
satisfaction observed an unbroken silence throughout the house. He
smiled at his own terrors, attributed them to the events of the day or
the presence of the corpse, and determined not to look down into the
lower room till he should be summoned thither in the morning. He walked
to the casement, and peered through at the night. The clouds were many,
black, and lowering, and the face of the sky looked angry, while the
wind moaned with a strange and eerie sound. He turned from the window,
with the intention of again trying to sleep, but the light from below
attracted his eye, and he could not pass the aperture without taking
one glance at the coffin and its lonely watcher.
Ruth was earnestly gazing at the lower end of the room upon something
without the sight of Owen. His attention was next fixed upon the
corpse, and he thought he had never seen any living thing so lovely;
and so calm was the aspect of her repose that it more resembled a
temporary suspension of the faculties than the eternal stupor of death.
Her features were pale, but not distorted, and there was none of the
livid hue of death in her beautiful mouth and lips; but the flowers
in her hand gave stronger demonstration of the presence of the power
before whose potency their little strength was fading--drooping with a
mortal sickness, they bowed down their heads in submission, as one by
one they dropped from her pale and perishing fingers. Owen gazed till
he thought he saw the grasp of her hand relapse, and a convulsive smile
pass over her cold and rigid features. He looked again. The eyelids
shook and vibrated like the string of some fine-strung instrument; the
hair rose, and the head cloth moved. He started up ashamed.
‘Does the madness of this woman affect all who would sleep beneath her
roof?’ he thought. ‘What is this that disturbs me, or am I yet in a
dream? Hark!’ he muttered aloud, ‘What is that?’
It was the voice of Ruth. She had risen from her seat, and was standing
near the coffin, apparently addressing someone who stood at the lower
end of the room.
‘To what purpose is your coming now?’ she asked in a low and melancholy
voice, ‘and at what do you laugh and gibe? Lo! behold. She is here, and
the sin you know of cannot be. How can I take the life which another
has already withdrawn? Go, go, hence, to your cave of night, for this
is no place of safety for you.’ Her thoughts now took another turn.
She seemed as if trying to hide someone from the pursuit of others.
‘Lie still! Lie still!’ she whispered. ‘Put out your light! So, so,
they pass by, and do not see you. You are safe; good-night, good-night.
Now will I home to sleep,’ and she seated herself in her chair, as if
composing her senses to rest.
Owen was again bewildered in the chaos of thought, but for the time
he determined to subdue his imagination, and, throwing himself upon
his bed, again gave himself up to sleep. But the images of his former
dreams still haunted him, and their hideous phantasms were more
powerfully renewed. Again he heard the solemn psalm of death, but
unsung by mortals. It was pealed through earth up to the high heaven by
myriads of the viewless and the mighty. Again he heard the execrations
of millions for some unremembered sin, and the wrath and hatred of a
world was rushing upon him.
‘Come forth! Come forth!’ was the cry, and amid yells and howls they
were darting upon him, when the pale form of the beautiful dead arose
between them and shielded him from their malice. But he heard her say
aloud:
‘It is for this that thou wilt not save me. Arise, arise, and help!’
He sprang up as he was commanded. Sleeping or waking he never knew,
but he started from his bed to look down into the chamber, as he heard
the voice of Ruth loud in terrific denunciation. He looked. She was
standing, uttering yells of madness and rage, and close to her was a
well-known form of appalling recollection--his father, as he had seen
him last. He darted to the door.
‘I am mad!’ said he. ‘I am surely mad, or this is still a continuation
of my dream.’
Some strange and unholy fascination drew him back again to the
aperture, and he looked down once more. Ruth was still there, though
alone.
But though no visible form stood by the maniac, some fiend had entered
her soul and mastered her spirit. She had armed herself with an axe,
and, shouting:
‘Liar! liar! hence!’ pursued an imaginary foe to the darker side of
the cottage. Owen strove hard to trace her motions, but as she had
retreated to the space occupied by his bed he could no longer see her,
and his eyes involuntarily fastened themselves upon the coffin. There
a new horror met them. The corpse had risen, and with wild and glaring
eyes was watching the scene before her. Owen distrusted his senses till
he heard the terrific voice of Ruth, as she marked the miracle he had
witnessed.
‘The fiend, the robber!’ she yelled, ‘it is he who hath entered the
pure body of my child. Back to your cave of blood, you lost one! Back
to your own dark hell!’
Owen flew to the door. It was too late. He heard the shriek, the blow.
He rushed into the room, but only in time to hear the second blow, and
see the cleft head of the hapless Rachel fall back upon its bloody
pillow. His terrible cries brought in the sleepers from the barn,
headed by the wretched Evan, and for a time the roar of the storm
was drowned in the clamorous grief of those present. No one dared to
approach the miserable Ruth, who now, in utter frenzy, strode round
the room, brandishing, with diabolical laughter, the bloody axe. Then
she broke into a wild song of triumph and fierce joy. All fell back,
appalled with horror, and the wild screeching of the wind was like the
exultant cry of the damned. Then an extraordinary thing happened--a
blinding flash of lightning, as if the heavens themselves had burst
into flame, illuminated every nook and cranny, and imparted an awful,
ghastly, and weird effect to the dramatic scene. In a few seconds the
lightning was followed by a terrific peal of thunder. The house seemed
to rock to its foundations. The inmates were blinded and stunned, and,
moved by some strange impulse, they all fell upon their knees and
murmured a prayer. Presently, as their self-possession returned, they
rose one by one, and then a feeling of unutterable horror held them
spell bound. Ruth Tudor lay stretched upon the floor, half of her body
under the coffin, her face distorted and horrible, while hanging half
out of the coffin was the now dead body of her resuscitated daughter,
a stream of hot blood flowing from an awful wound in the skull. Ruth
Tudor was also stone dead, and in her hand she still grasped the axe
with which she had battered out the life of her child, who had awakened
from a trance to meet death at the hands of her maniac mother.
The predictions of William Morgan had been literally fulfilled.
XI
A NIGHT OF HORROR
‘Bleak Hill Castle.
‘MY DEAR OLD CHUM,--Before you leave England for the East I claim the
redemption of a promise you made to me some time ago that you would
give me the pleasure of a week or two of your company. Besides, as you
may have already guessed, I have given up the folly of my bachelor
days, and have taken unto myself the sweetest, dearest little woman
that ever walked the face of the earth. We have been married just six
months, and are as happy as the day is long. And then, this place
is entirely after your own heart. It will excite all your artistic
faculties, and appeal with irresistible force to your romantic nature.
To call the building a castle is somewhat pretentious, but I believe
it has been known as the Castle ever since it was built, more than
two hundred years ago. Hester--need I say that Hester is my better
half!--is just delighted with it, and if either of us was in the least
degree superstitious, we might see or hear ghosts every hour of the
day. Of course, as becomes a castle, we have a haunted room, though
my own impression is that it is haunted by nothing more fearsome than
rats. Anyway, it is such a picturesque, curious sort of chamber that
if it hasn’t a ghost it ought to have. But I have no doubt, old chap,
that you will make one of us, for, as I remember, you have always had
a love for the eerie and creepy, and you cannot forget how angry you
used to get with me sometimes for chaffing you about your avowed belief
in the occult and supernatural, and what you were pleased to term
the “unexplainable phenomena of psychomancy.” However, it is possible
you have got over some of the errors of your youth; but whether or
not, come down, dear boy, and rest assured that you will meet with the
heartiest of welcomes.
‘Your old pal,
‘DICK DIRCKMAN.’
* * * * *
The above letter was from my old friend and college chum, who, having
inherited a substantial fortune, and being passionately fond of the
country and country pursuits, had thus the means of gratifying his
tastes to their fullest bent. Although Dick and I were very differently
constituted, we had always been greatly attached to each other. In the
best sense of the term he was what is generally called a hard-headed,
practical man. He was fond of saying he never believed in anything he
couldn’t see, and even that which he could see he was not prepared to
accept as truth without due investigation. In short, Dick was neither
romantic, poetical, nor, I am afraid, artistic, in the literal sense.
He preferred facts to fancies, and was possessed of what the world
generally calls ‘an unimpressionable nature.’ For nearly four years I
had lost sight of my friend, as I had been wandering about Europe as
tutor and companion to a delicate young nobleman. His death had set
me free; but I had no sooner returned to England than I was offered
and accepted a lucrative appointment in the service of his Highness
the Nyzam of Chundlepore, in Northern India, and there was every
probability of my being absent for a number of years.
On returning home I had written to Dick to the chambers he had formerly
occupied, telling him of my appointment, and expressing a fear that
unless we could snatch a day or two in town I might not be able to see
him, as I had so many things to do. It was true I had promised that
when opportunity occurred I should do myself the pleasure of accepting
his oft-proffered hospitality, which I knew to be lavish and generous.
I had not heard of his marriage; his letter gave me the first
intimation of that fact, and I confess that when I got his missive I
experienced some curiosity to know the kind of lady he had succeeded
in captivating. I had always had an idea that Dick was cut out for a
bachelor, for there was nothing of the ladies’ man about him, and he
used at one time to speak of the gentler sex with a certain levity and
brusqueness of manner that by no means found favour with the majority
of his friends. And now Dick was actually married, and living in a
remote region, where most town-bred people would die of ennui.
It will be gathered from the foregoing remarks that I did not hesitate
about accepting Dick’s cordial invitation. I determined to spare a few
days at least of my somewhat limited time, and duly notified Dick to
that effect, giving him the date of my departure from London, and the
hour at which I should arrive at the station nearest to his residence.
Bleak Hill Castle was situated in one of the most picturesque parts of
Wales; consequently, on the day appointed I found myself comfortably
ensconsed in a smoking carriage of a London and North-Western train.
And towards the close of the day--the time of the year was May--I was
the sole passenger to alight at the wayside station, where Dick awaited
me with a smart dog-cart. His greeting was hearty and robust, and when
his man had packed in my traps he gave the handsome little mare that
drew the cart the reins, and we spanked along the country roads in rare
style. Dick always prided himself on his knowledge of horseflesh, and
with a sense of keen satisfaction he drew my attention to the points of
the skittish little mare which bowled along as if we had been merely
featherweights.
A drive of eight miles through the bracing Welsh air so sharpened our
appetites that the smell of dinner was peculiarly welcome; and telling
me to make a hurried toilet, as his cook would not risk her reputation
by keeping a dinner waiting, Dick handed me over to the guidance of a
natty chambermaid. As it was dark when we arrived I had no opportunity
of observing the external characteristics of Bleak Hill Castle; but
there was nothing in the interior that suggested bleakness. Warmth,
comfort, light, held forth promise of carnal delights.