Before I could hinder her she was leaping from stone to stone like a hunted animal. I followed hastily, seeking, but vainly, to lessen the space between us. She was gasping for breath, and her heart-beats sounded like the ticking of a clock. When we reached a great pool, itself almost a lake, that was covered with lavender scum, the path turned abruptly to the right, where stood an isolated grove of wasted elms. As Marina beheld this, her pace slackened, and she paused in momentary indecision; but, at my first word of pleading that she should go no further, she went on, dragging her silken mud-bespattered skirts. We climbed the slippery shores of the island (for island it was, being raised much above the level of the marsh), and Marina led the way over lush grass to an open glade. A great marble tank lay there, supported on two thick pillars. Decayed boughs rested on the crust of stagnancy within, and divers frogs, bloated and almost blue, rolled off at our approach. To the left stood the columns of a temple, a round, domed building, with a closed door of bronze. Wild vines had grown athwart the portal; rank, clinging herbs had sprung from the overteeming soil; astrological figures were enchiselled on the broad stairs.
Here Marina stopped. ‘I shall blindfold you,’ she said, taking off her loose sash, ‘and you must vow obedience to all I tell you. The least error will betray us.’ I promised, and submitted to the bandage. With a pressure of the hand, and bidding me neither move nor speak, she left me and went to the door of the temple. Thrice her hand struck the dull metal. At the last stroke a hissing shriek came from within, and the massive hinges creaked loudly. A breath like an icy tongue leaped out and touched me, and in the terror my hand sprang to the kerchief. Marina’s voice, filled with agony, gave me instant pause. ‘Oh, why am I thus torn between the man and the fiend? The mesh that holds life in will be ripped from end to end! Is there no mercy?’
My hand fell impotent. Every muscle shrank. I felt myself turn to stone. After a while came a sweet scent of smouldering wood: such an Oriental fragrance as is offered to Indian gods. Then the door swung to, and I heard Marina’s voice, dim and wordless, but raised in wild deprecation. Hour after hour passed so, and still I waited. Not until the sash grew crimson with the rays of the sinking sun did the door open.
‘Come to me!’ Marina whispered. ‘Do not unblindfold. Quick—we must not stay here long. He is glutted with my sacrifice.’
Newborn joy rang in her tones. I stumbled across and was caught in her arms. Shafts of delight pierced my heart at the first contact with her warm breasts. She turned me round, and bidding me look straight in front, with one swift touch untied the knot. The first thing my dazed eyes fell upon was the mirror of black glass which had hung from her waist. She held it so that I might gaze into its depths. And there, with a cry of amazement and fear, I saw the shadow of the Basilisk.
The Thing was lying prone on the floor, the presentment of a sleeping horror. Vivid scarlet and sable feathers covered its gold-crowned cock’s-head, and its leathern dragon-wings were folded. Its sinuous tail, capped with a snake’s eyes and mouth, was curved in luxurious and delighted satiety. A prodigious evil leaped in its atmosphere. But even as I looked a mist crowded over the surface of the mirror: the shadow faded, leaving only an indistinct and wavering shape. Marina breathed upon it, and, as I peered and pored, the gloom went off the plate and left, where the Chimera had lain, the prostrate figure of a man. He was young and stalwart, a dark outline with a white face, and short black curls that fell in tangles over a shapely forehead, and eyelids languorous and red. His aspect was that of a wearied demon-god.
When Marina looked sideways and saw my wonderment, she laughed delightedly in one rippling running tune that should have quickened the dead entrails of the marsh. ‘I have conquered!’ she cried. ‘I have purchased the fulness of joy!’ And with one outstretched arm she closed the door before I could turn to look; with the other she encircled my neck, and, bringing down my head, pressed my mouth to hers. The mirror fell from her hand, and with her foot she crushed its shards into the dank mould.
The sun had sunk behind the trees now, and glittered through the intricate leafage like a charcoal-burner’s fire. All the nymphs of the pools arose and danced, grey and cold, exulting at the absence of the divine light. So thickly gathered the vapours that the path grew perilous. ‘Stay, love,’ I said. ‘Let me take you in my arms and carry you. It is no longer safe for you to walk alone.’ She made no reply, but, a flush arising to her pale cheeks, she stood and let me lift her to my bosom. She rested a hand on either shoulder, and gave no sign of fear as I bounded from stone to stone. The way lengthened deliciously, and by the time we reached the plantation the moon was rising over the further hills. Hope and fear fought in my heart: soon both were set at rest. When I set her on the dry ground she stood a-tiptoe, and murmured with exquisite shame: ‘To-night, then, dearest. My home is yours now.’
So, in a rapture too subtle for words, we walked together, arm-enfolded, to her house. Preparations for a banquet were going on within: the windows were ablaze, and figures passed behind them bowed with heavy dishes. At the threshold of the hall we were met by a triumphant crash of melody. In the musician’s gallery bald-pated veterans stood to it with flute and harp and viol-de-gamba. In two long rows the antic retainers stood, and bowed, and cried merrily: ‘Joy and health to the bride and groom!’ And they kissed Marina’s hands and mine, and, with the players sending forth that half-forgotten tenderness which threads through ancient song-books, we passed to the feast, seating ourselves on the daïs, whilst the servants filled the tables below. But we made little feint of appetite. As the last dish of confections was removing, a weird pageant swept across the further end of the banqueting-room: Oberon and Titania with Robin Goodfellow and the rest, attired in silks and satins gorgeous of hue, and bedizened with such late flowers as were still with us. I leaned forward to commend, and saw that each face was brown and wizened and thin-haired: so that their motions and their epithalamy felt goblin and discomforting; nor could I smile till they departed by the further door. Then the tables were cleared away, and Marina, taking my finger-tips in hers, opened a stately dance. The servants followed, and in the second maze a shrill and joyful laughter proclaimed that the bride had sought her chamber. . . .
Ere the dawn I wakened from a troubled sleep. My dream had been of despair: I had been persecuted by a host of devils, thieves of a priceless jewel. So I leaned over the pillow for Marina’s consolation; my lips sought hers, my hand crept beneath her head.
My heart gave one mad bound—then stopped.
The Noble Courtesan
The Apology of the Noble Courtesan was fresh from the printers; the smell of ink filled the antechamber. The volume was bound in white parchment, richly gilt; on the front board was a scarlet shield graven with a familiar coat-of-arms. Frambant turned the leaves hastily, and found on the dedication page the following address:—
‘To the Right Honourable Michael,
Lord Frambant, Baron of Britton
‘My Lord,—It is not from desire of pandering to your position as one who has served his country wisely and well that I presume to dedicate to you the following Apology. A name so honoured, a character so perfect, need no illuming. ’Tis as a Woman whose heart you have stirred, into whose life you are bound to enter. For know, My Lord, that women are paramount in this world. In the after-sphere we may be Apes, but here we are the Controllers of Men’s fates, and so, in the character of one whom you have stricken with love, I profess myself, my Lord, your Lordship’s Most Obliged and Most Obedient Humble Servant,
The Noble Courtesan.’
Frambant flung the book angrily across the room. What trull was this who dared approach him so familiarly? His brows contracted; his grey eyes shot fire; a warm dash of blood drove the wanness from his cheeks. The very thought of strange women was hateful: it was scarce a year since the wife he had won after so much striving had yielded up life in childbed, and he had sworn to remain alone for the rest of his days. Catching sight of his reflection in a m
irror, he saw resentment and disgust there.
But when he looked again at the book he found that a note had been forced from its cover. Curiosity overcame, and he stooped and took it in his hand. Like the dedication it was addressed to himself: he unfolded it with some degree of fear.
‘You will infinitely oblige a distressed Lover,’ he read, ‘if you meet her at Madam Horneck’s bagnio. Midnight’s the time. She will wear a domino of green gauze, a white satin robe braided with golden serpents.—Constantia.’
This communication fascinated him, and sitting down by the window he began to read the wildest book that ever was written. It was a fantastic history of the four intrigues of a fantastic woman. Her first lover had been a foreign churchman (an avowed ascetic) who had withstood her sieging for nearly a twelvemonth; her second, a poet who had addressed a sequence of amorous sonnets to her under the name of Amaryllis; her third a prince, or rather a king’s bastard; and her fourth a simple country squire. Some years had elapsed between each infatuation, and madam had utilised them in the study of the politer arts. The volume teemed with quotations from the more elegant classic writers, and the literature of the period was not ignored. The ending ran thus:—
‘It has ever been my belief that love, nay, life itself, should terminate at the moment of excess of bliss. I hold Secrets, use of which teaches me that after a certain time passion may be tasted with the same keen joy as when maidenhood is resigned. But, as the lively L’Estrange declares, “the itch of knowing Secrets is naturally accompanied with another itch of telling them,” I fling aside my pen in fear.’
As he finished reading his brother Villiers entered the room. He was ten years Frambant’s junior, and resembled him only in stature and profile. His skin was olive, his eyes nut-brown, his forehead still free from lines. He leaned over the chair and put a strong arm round his brother’s neck.
‘What is this wondrous book, so quaintly bound?’ he said. ‘By Venus, queen of love, a wagtail’s song!’
Frambant flushed again, and raising the Apology flung it on the fire, where it screamed aloud.
‘It is the work of an impudent woman,’ he replied. ‘To-morrow all town will ring with it. She has dedicated it to me.’
‘Surely a sin to burn such a treasure! Let me recover it.’
Villiers took the tongs and strove to draw the swollen thing from the flame, but it collapsed into a heap of blackness. The note, however, which Frambant had replaced, lay uncurled in the hearth, and the lad read its message.
At that moment one came with word that Sir Benjamin Mast, an old country baronet whom Frambant held in high esteem, lay at the point of death. ‘The water crept higher and higher, and my lady thought you might choose to be with him at the last. The coach waited.’ Frambant hurried downstairs, and was soon with the dying man. Sir Benjamin’s hydropsy had swollen him to an immense size, but his uncowed soul permitted him to laugh and jest with heart till the end. His wife, a pious resigned woman of sixty, shared the vigil.
Darkness fell, and the chamber was lighted. Forgetful of all save his friend’s departure he never remarked the passage of time, and not until after midnight when Mast’s eyes were closed in death did his thoughts recur to the Apology. He took his seat in the coach with a grim feeling of satisfaction at the imaginary picture of the wanton waiting, and waiting in vain.
After a time, being wearied with excitement and lulled by the motion of the vehicle as it passed slowly along the narrow streets, he let his head sink back on the cushion, and fell asleep almost instantly. Five minutes could not have passed before he woke; but in the interval a curious idea had entered his brain. He remembered Constantia’s account of her lovers, and her belief that life should wither at the moment of love’s height, and simultaneously there came upon him the recollection of four tragedies which had stricken the land with horror. So overwhelming was the connection that he could no longer endure the tediousness of the journey, but dismissed his coach and walked down the Strand.
The first case was that of the Cardinal of Castellamare, who had been exiled from Italy, and who, after attending a court ball and mixing freely with the dancers, had been found dead on his couch; his fingers clutching the pearl handle of a stiletto, whose point was in his heart. Then, in the same conditions, Meadowes the laureate, the Count de Dijon, and Brooke Gurdom the Derbyshire landowner, had all been found dead. No trace of the culprit had been found, but in every case was the rumour of a woman’s visit.
He reached the old road where stood his house, and stumbled against a weird sedan that waited in a recess by his gateway. An arching horn-beam hid it from the moonlight. Two men stood beside it attired in outlandish clothes. Frambant stopped to examine the equipage, and at the same moment a link-boy approached. He called for the light, and to his wonderment found that the bearers were blackamoors with smooth-shaven heads and staring eyes.
The sedan was of green cypress embellished with silver; a perfume of oriental herbs spread from its open windows. Frambant asked the owner’s name, but the men with one accord began to jangle in so harsh a tongue that he was fain to leave them and go indoors.
In the antechamber a great reluctance to pass further came upon him, and he halloed for a serving-man. Frambant was merciful to his underlings, keeping little show of state. Rowley, the butler, came soon, half-dressed and sleepy. On his master’s inquiry if any visitor had entered the house, he protested that he knew of none, though he had waited in the hall till past midnight. So, at the word of dismissal, he retired, leaving Frambant to enter his chamber alone.
He took a candle and went to the place where hung the portrait of his wife. There he paused to gaze on the unearthly loveliness of face and figure. His eyes dimmed, and he turned away and began to undress; but he was wearied and troubled because of his friend’s death, and when his vest was doffed he threw himself upon a settle.
Presently the ripple of a long sigh ran through the sleeping house. Frambant sprang to his feet and went to the antechamber. There he heard the sound again: it came from the west wing, which for the last year had been reserved for Villiers’s use. He caught up the candle and hurried along the cold passages. At his brother’s door he paused, for through the chinks and keyhole came soft broken lights.
A woman was speaking in a voice full of agony:—
‘Infamous, cruel deceiver! I have loved another, and given myself to thee!’
Again came that long sigh. Well-nigh petrified with fear, he fumbled at the latch until the door swung open. A terrible sight met his eyes.
Villiers lay stark on the bed, a red stain spreading over his linen. On the pillow was a mask that had been rent in twain. Beside him stood a tall, shapely woman, covered from shoulder to foot with a loose web of diaphanous silk. Her long hair (of a withered-bracken colour) hung far below her knees; a veil of green gauze covered the upper part of her face. She was swaying to and fro, as if in pain.
‘Dastard,’ she wailed. ‘Thou hast attained the promised bliss unjustly. In my arms all innocently I slew thee, praying for thy soul to pass to my own heaven.’
Frambant’s lips moved. ‘My brother! my brother!’
The woman turned, glided towards him, and sank to her knees. She laughed, with the silver laughter of a child who after much lamentation has found the lost toy.
‘It is thou,’ she murmured. ‘Let us forget the evil he hath wrought against us—let us forget and—love.’
She put out her hand to grasp his, he lifted his arm and thrust her away.
‘Touch me not!’ he cried.
She rose and faced him, supporting herself by grasping the bedpost.
‘He has wronged us foully,’ she said. ‘The last love—the flower of my life—he would have cheated me of it!’
‘Murderess! murderess!’
Her breath came very quickly; its sweetness pierced her veil and touched his cheek.
‘What evil thing have I done?’ she asked. ‘’Tis my creed to love and to destroy.’
F
rambant went to the further side of the bed, and felt at his brother’s heart. It was still, the flesh was growing cold. He flung his arm over the dead breast and wept, and Constantia stole nearer and knelt at his side.
‘God,’ she prayed, holding her hands above her head, ‘pervert all my former entreaties, let all the punishments of hell fall upon the dead man! Sustain the strength that has never failed, that I may conquer him who lives.’
Frambant staggered away; she locked her arms about his knees.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I loved thee from the first moment. . . . When we met at the bagnio, he was disguised—not until I had killed him and looked on his brow did I know the truth.’
He made no reply, but considered the corpse in stony horror. So she released her hold and stood before him again.
‘O cold and sluggish man! Why should I faint now? Cleopatra bought as hard a lover’s passion.’
With a sudden movement she undid her robe at the neck, so that it whispered and slipped down, showing a form so beautiful that a mist rose and cloaked it from his eyes,—such perfection being beyond nature.
He moved towards the door, but she interrupted him. ‘Is not this enough?’ she cried. And she tore away the green veil and showed him a face fit to match the rest. Only once before had he seen its wondrous loveliness.
Again his eyes were drawn to Villiers. How he had loved the lad! Very strange it was: but at the instant his mind went back to boy-hood, when he had made him hobby-horses.
‘You have killed my brother! you have killed my brother!’
Constantia laughed wearily. ‘Enough of that mixture of iron and clay. What is the penalty?’
A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread Page 12
