A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread

by R. Murray Gilchrist

  Her bizarre conversation related much to the object of my visit. The peculiarity of the circumstances she took little heed of, and having at the first moment leaped into the familiarity of an old friend, she tacitly refused to vacate the position.

  ‘How delightful it is,’ she remarked as we passed through the Headless Cross wood, ‘to meet a man who knows something of the outer world! O the stupidity of our country gentlemen, whose noblest aspiration is to dine well; whose noblest possibility is to hide the mark of the ploughman and the lout! How definitely you refresh me, Rafe! Your presence here has already done me a world of good. If you only knew how stagnant—how wearisome life is! Bah! but you don’t sympathise!’

  This last observation was made because I had not replied, but to tell the truth I did not wish my voice to break the musical echo hers had left in my ears. I expressed a hope that she would not regard me as laconic, but rather as overwhelmed by the gladness of reunion.

  Whilst I spoke the turrets of Furnivaux, just touched by the purple rays of the setting sun, gleamed above a cluster of gnarled elms. The mists from the sloping woods had ascended to the parapet of the roof and given it the aspect of a terrace in the clouds. A gaily-coloured flag fluttered in the Giant’s Tower, and I could distinctly see the crest wrought in flagrant contradiction to the laws of blazonry.

  ‘ ’Twas I who did it,’ Rachel said, ‘in your honour. Mary wanted to embroider the pelican, but it was all my own idea, and I would not let her. However, she prevailed on me concerning the motto—see—you can just catch a glimpse of her Nourrit par son sang, in azure letters.’

  The carriage stopped in front of the portico, and Stephen opened the door. My cousin laid her hand on my arm, and we entered the great hall together. As I paused to look up at the domed roof, with its pargeting of wyverns and cockleshells, a feeling of chilliness made me shiver.

  ‘My dear Rafe,’ Rachel said, ‘the change of climate tries you. Had I imagined that the place would be so cold I would have ordered a fire to be lighted. This is the way to the dining-room. I wonder where my sister is;—ah, you are there, Mary.’

  One dressed in the plainest of white muslins stood in an open doorway. She shrank visibly at the sight of my outstretched hand, and it was only by an effort that she placed her own in it; to lie there for too brief a space. Her figure was slight and insignificant, and she had not a feature worthy of comparison with her brilliant sister’s. Rachel had taken away all the awkwardness of my involuntary visit; Mary had forced it back again, and I mentally accused her of inhospitality.

  Rachel, seeing that I was hurt, turned with the intention of diverting my thoughts.

  ‘Pray do not change your clothes this evening,’ she said. ‘We are very unconventional here, and it is nearly dinner-time. I will show you the state bedroom—it is at your disposal.’

  So saying she led me to an immense upper chamber, with a gilt bedstead hung with watchet blue. Grotesque lacquered cabinets lined the walls, and in each corner stood a dark-green monster from Nankin. Here I made a few hasty alterations in my toilet, and after slipping a spray of honeysuckle from a bowl on the dressing-table into my button-hole I hurried down to the drawing-room. Mary sat within; her knees covered by a long piece of lawn which she was embroidering. It fell to the floor and she turned very pale as I entered.

  ‘Cousin Mary,’ I said reproachfully, ‘why do you treat me so coldly? Have I offended you?’

  Her eyes were slowly lifted to mine, and I beheld in them, despite her timidity, a look of the keenest pleasure. She held out her hand tentatively, and seemed relieved when I grasped it.

  ‘I am sorry that you should have misunderstood me,’ she murmured. ‘The anticipation of this meeting has been so painful. I am not as strong as Rachel, and anything disconcerts me.’

  Rachel’s entrance prevented any further remarks. She had taken advantage of the short time to doff her yellow gown for one of pale green gauze, of the same hue as the sea where the sunlight falls over shallows. A pair of fancifully worked gloves were fastened to her girdle: they were made of a claret-coloured, semi-transparent skin. With a laughing reminder of the ceremony we had used as boy and girl at our first meeting, she accompanied me to the table, where the meal passed in delicious interchange of thought, during which, although Mary neither spoke nor seemed to listen I could well understand that she was appreciative.

  When I returned to the drawing-room Rachel’s look was mischievous: Mary had evidently been reproving her.

  ‘You shall judge me, Rafe,’ she cried, holding up her hands so that I might see what she had done. The gloves she had worn at her belt covered them now. They were awkwardly made, and on the back of each was worked a silk picture of a dagger and a vial.

  ‘They are tragic accompaniments,’ she said. ‘Mary has been scolding me for wearing them—she declares that they will bring me ill luck. Do you believe in such nonsense?’

  She did not wait for my reply, but continued: ‘They were made of the skin of a murderess gibbeted in these parts a hundred and twenty years ago. Old Barnard Verelst insisted on having a piece: he wanted to cover a book with it, but his wife, whom tradition reports as a real she-devil, insisted on having these gloves instead. Between ourselves, the result was that she poisoned her lord, but as he was very old, nobody was much the worse.’

  And mirthfully arching her mouth, she passed the gloves into my hand. A strong repugnance to touch them made me immediately drop them on a side table. Rachel’s originality carried her into strange humours. I was not sorry when the lamps were brought. They were of curious Venetian make, with round shades of silver lattice work filled in with cubes of gold-coloured glass. Their soft and pleasant light enhanced Rachel’s personal charm.

  She went to the piano soon, and calling me to her side, began to play. Never had I heard such wild and fantastical music as the first three melodies. They were Russian; savage, rough airs, which fretted me to unhealthy excess of inquietude. After the third, by which the soul is wrought to such a pitch that it is hard to refrain from shrieking, she began a plaintive air with a grotesque rhythm.

  ‘This is the tune the gnomes dance to on the hillside,’ she said. ‘Here they emphasise the step; now they float round and round in rings; now the king is performing alone and they are all watching. My favourite is that one with the white slashed doublet and crooked face, with a moustache so long that it pricks the others. Ah, well! (with hands brought down dashingly) they must all creep through the bronze door. So!’ Then, playing another unfamiliar melody, she began to sing Shelley’s ‘Love’s Philosophy.’ I scarcely dare attempt to describe her voice. Poets have dreamed of its likes (heard them I may swear never); it was almost unearthly in its pathos, and tears were streaming from my eyes ere the first verse was ended. How she could sing so purely I cannot tell, but it seemed as if to the accompaniment of music all the dross were purged from her spiritual nature, and an innocence left, unsullied as that of our first mother ere she sinned.

  As the song went on a fuller harmony sustained her, and looking around, I saw that Mary’s hands swept delicately over the strings of a harp that stood in shadow. I leaned back, delivered to perfect delight, but just as my head pressed the cushion a sob came from Rachel’s lips, and rising hastily, she pressed her hands over her face and hurried from the room.

  Mary followed her, but returned almost immediately. ‘Cousin Rafe,’ she said nervously, ‘forget that Rachel has broken down—her singing often overpowers her—she feels everything too acutely. She begs you to pardon her absence for the rest of the evening. Recent events—my aunt’s illness and sudden death amongst them—have unnerved her; you must remember what great store they set on each other.’

  The revulsion was very distressing. I had begun to regard Rachel as a woman of iron will, endowed with an intellect nothing could quail. This sign of weakness, coming so unexpectedly, surprised and pained me. Had I been more closely connected with her, I would have sought her chamber and drawn her head to my
breast.

  As I sat, the moon began to rise over the further hills. The rays slanted into the Italian garden, where, seven years before, Mary and I had played like young children. She had returned to her harp and was drawing forth soft chords. The night, however, became so beautiful that I felt I must breathe the outer air.

  ‘Let us walk together,’ I said. ‘Show me the dragon and the maze where we ran, and the lilies and flowing rushes. The heat of the room oppresses me.’

  She led me silently down the broad stone stairs. The dragon was unchanged.

  ‘We will sit here,’ she said; ‘and you can tell me everything that has happened in the last few years. I have nothing to give in return, for my life has been placid from the very beginning, and the only great excitement I ever had was when you visited Furnivaux before. Rachel says that I have a small soul; it must be so, for the quiet content of this place suits me well. I suppose that I am one of those weeds that root themselves firmly anywhere. Each thing about here I love as if it were a part of me. Now, forgive me for my tediousness, and tell me everything!’

  Thus bidden, I began the story of how I had spent the intervening time. There was little worth telling. It was a brief and simple record of dormant faculties and aspirations, when my highest desire had been for undisturbed sleep. Mary listened in silence, and when I had finished, looked up.

  ‘But the awakening has come now,’ she said very gently. ‘A new future is thrust upon you:—your life will no longer be as it was.’

  Somehow as she spoke my head moved nearer hers, and before she could draw back my lips had pressed her cheek. She rose, gasping, then turning on me a look of surprise and wonder, she hurried away. Perhaps some reminiscence of our former racing came to her, for I heard her laugh, light and long and silvery, as her gown glimmered through the yews.

  When I retired to my room, it was not to sleep. A conflict was raging in heart and brain. Rachel was undeniably the more beautiful: indeed she was by far the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and her wit and power of fascination were incomparably superior to Mary’s. She evidently believed that I must choose her, and so I had fully intended to do until a tone in Mary’s voice and a quick responsive beating of my own heart told me that it could not be. Mary had never imagined that I should take her in preference, but I knew now that whatever love lay in my nature must be placed in her keeping. I had discovered that I wanted no mental stronghold to surround me, but a wife, tender, loving, and dependent.

  Uncertain whether a declaration would or not be premature, I decided to leave the castle early next morning, and to reflect for at least a month on my decision. Rachel had acquired a strong influence over me, and I dared not venture to free myself from her bonds without tightening my armour. So, rising almost before daybreak, I set out in secret, from the village inn despatching a short note:—

  ‘My dear Rachel,—Do not attempt to fathom the motive which compels me to leave Furnivaux. Impute it, if you will, to flightiness. I was always fond of doing strange things. I shall return in a month—a month to-day.—Ralph Eyre.’

  My meditating place was Northen Hall, a small manor-house situated about two hundred miles away. I had inherited it from my mother. It stands in a little park, outside an antiquated market town. I had installed Jeffreys, my father’s old friend, and he was living out the remainder of his years in ease and solitude.

  He was standing in the walled rose-garden when I reached the place. Half his time since my father’s death had been spent with me in Italy; but the climate had proved unsuited to him, and he had been compelled to return to England. The affection he greeted me with was very touching. Although I had always been very tiresome, I have no doubt that he loved me deeply.

  A suite of rooms had been kept in readiness for me, and I was soon made comfortable therein. I had much writing to do, and for some days worked hard, so that I might drive away the thought of my dilemma. But after awhile, when I was idle again, the remembrance of Mary’s timid loveliness haunted me from morning to night, and I began to long for the time of my return.

  The momentous day came at last. Rachel Verelst, like another Fiammetta, clad in a gown of dull dark green, with scarlet lilies at the neck, met me on the terrace. There was a slightly puzzled look in her eyes, when I did not give her the warm greeting she evidently expected; but she slipped her arm into mine with as much graceful ease as if she were already my wife.

  There was no sign of Mary, and when I inquired for her Rachel replied evasively. Not until I went to the drawing-room after dinner did I see her. She was alone, sitting near a window, with a book in her hands.

  She gave a sudden start when she saw me. ‘O Rafe,’ she cried, ‘when did you come? I did not know you were here: Rachel would not tell me anything about you, either where you were or why you went, and I have only just come in from riding to watch the sunset.’

  Before she had done speaking I had clasped her in my arms and was showering kisses on her lips.

  ‘Mary,’ I whispered, ‘I have come back for you!’

  She began to extricate herself, but before I had released her the door opened, and Rachel herself entered.

  Chapter III

  She gave but little sign that she had seen the embrace. The bunch of white roses she held in her right hand were raised slowly, as if she wished to inhale their perfume, and beneath their shade her lips were convulsed for just one moment. Then with even more than the old grace she came near. Her skirt caught the gilded legs of a chair and drew it for a short distance, but she took no heed. She began to smile winningly.

  ‘Has Mary told you of the naughty trick I played?’ she said. ‘I wanted to keep all the gratification to myself: it was so great a pleasure to know something of you that nobody else knew. Of course I was selfish! Now, my cousin, as you gave her a guerdon for waiting so patiently, do not forget that I also waited. Not with patience, for I have chafed terribly—but still, every awakening has been fraught with the knowledge that a day nearer our meeting had come.’

  And she held up her mouth, sweet and ruddy as the lilies on her breast. I kissed her. Seeing that I made no motion to encircle her with my arms as I had done to Mary, she clasped her hands at the back of my neck, and again brought her lips to mine.

  ‘There is nothing wrong in my kissing you?’ she murmured inquiringly. ‘When women kiss it is mere passionless duty and affection; but when I kiss you . . . O Rafe, Rafe, Rafe! I cannot say it!’

  I saw Mary’s reflection in a mirror. She was standing wan and wretched-looking by the window. When she knew that I was watching her she moved quietly from the room. Rachel laughed nervously as the door closed.

  ‘It is well to be alone, Rafe! I never thought that I should feel the presence of a third person such a restraint, but so it is! I cannot breathe freely with you unless I have you entirely to myself. Now, I wish to know what you have been doing away from me, or rather (for, of course, I do know all about it), I am dying to hear the words you have to say to me.’

  Not divining her meaning, I hesitated. ‘I do not understand you,’ I said.

  She laughed again, this time very sadly. Somehow I felt that she was murdering her scruples. She raised her fan and struck me lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Dear Rafe,’ she said, ‘I know well that you are overcome with a kind of reluctance to declare yourself. Why then should we temporise? You have not known me for so short a time as not to see that—that—I love you with my whole heart and soul.’

  The last words came in a hoarse undertone. Then with her flushed face downcast she left me, turning once at the door, to see if I followed. But, being almost petrified with amazement, I did not move. I had never thought sufficiently highly of myself as to believe that Rachel would really love me. I knew that she might marry me to retain the estates, but not for one instant had I imagined that I could stir her passion.

  The knowledge filled me with dread. Although she charmed, nay, almost magnetised me, my pulse beat none the quicker because of her pres
ence, and I felt blinded with excess of light. A desire came for the soothing Mary’s voice alone could give, and I too left the room.

  Old Stephen, stiff as the mailed figures in the hall, was pacing outside the door. His eighty years of service had given him the freedom of the house. He divined my intention. ‘Miss Mary is in the garden,’ he said.

  I went to the Stone Dragon, convinced that I should find her there. I was not deceived: she was sitting on the sward beside the monster; her head resting on his scaly back. At my approach her face lighted up, and she rose to meet me.

  ‘Forgive me for being so weak,’ she murmured coyly. ‘I could not bear to see you kissing Rachel. I am foolishly jealous and—it followed so quickly after——’

  ‘Dear Mary,’ I said, ‘let us forget it all. To-night I would leave the precincts of the house. Let us walk together to the moor. There is a British camp somewhere near: it will be just the place for a solemn vowing. Show me the way!’

  She led me through the intricate maze to a door in a moss-covered wall, which opened on a barren path. This crossed a mile of park, and then reached a broad and hilly stretch of moorland. Here the track was sunken between gravelly banks. At some distance rose a mound, on whose top stood three cromlechs.

  When we stood against the largest, I took her right hand.

  ‘I, Ralph Eyre, swear solemnly that all my life shall be devoted to your happiness.’

  Mary’s voice, soft and trembling, followed. ‘I, Mary Verelst, swear solemnly that all my life shall be devoted——’

  A harsh cry interrupted her. Turning sharply we saw Rachel herself, covered with a long grey cloak, whose hood had fallen back. How she had followed so silently I never knew: it may have been that she had unwittingly chosen this as a night walk, but whether or no, her presence here was the work of some evil genius. She was haggard, and as the moonlight fell on her distorted face I saw that her eyes had contracted so much as to be almost invisible. One hand was tearing the flowers from her throat, the other moved automatically in front.