She promised loquacity; but Peregrine, mindful of his wife, bade her goodnight, and returned to the chamber, where he slept soundly until the valley was warm with morning sunlight.
The greater part of that day the young folk spent in Mrs Tryphena’s company, rambling through the house, and wondering at the many curious portraits of long-since dead men and women. Sir Agabus’ wife proved most to Lady Mary’s liking; for the painter had depicted to perfection her exquisite pride of countenance and bearing. There was a marked resemblance between the two women - both had the dainty colour and long tapering fingers of patrician inheritance; but the living wife was lacking in a peculiar aloofness of the eyes, which in the other suggested that the mind dwelt overmuch upon something vague and distant. A picture of earlier date hung beside - that of a comely youth with a Roman nose and a pouting red mouth, whose right hand held a rose, whilst the other toyed carelessly with the diamond buttons of a white waistcoat embellished with fantastical needlework.
‘How strange ’tis,’ observed Lady Mary pensively; ‘here are two full of life, and yet gone for ever, with scarce a trace left of aught they did!’
Just then one came with word that the bailiff desired an interview; so Peregrine left his wife and went to the gun-room, where he was soon deep in discussion concerning a suitable breed of cattle wherewith to stock the park. Lady Mary and Mrs Tryphena left the house and loitered through the garden, pausing at last before the grotto at the end of the yew-alley, where the girl told the odd experience of the preceding evening.
Mrs Tryphena declared herself a believer in ghosts. ‘Surely ’twas some restless spirit - a bachelor, perhaps, whom love of you hath driven to the shades!’
Lady Mary shook her head. ‘The only suitor I ever had opportunity of denying was corpulent and elderly,’ she said. ‘My Lord Wollaston still lives in the flesh - he gave me the wedding gift of Indian diamonds . . . This is the place where the gentleman disappeared -see the shells over yonder are wrought in the motto: “Love once, love ever!” ’
After a while she began to examine the barrier of stone that formed the inner wall, and touching one of the topmost, caused it to fall, leaving a hole as big as a child’s head. Thereupon Mrs Tryphena, being of a curious nature, peeped through, then fell back with affected dismay.
‘La!’ she cried. ‘I could have sworn that a man stood there! One with a face as white as death itself!’
Lady Mary, all eagerness, pressed her own face to the opening; but saw nothing but a dim avenue of grey stalactites, lighted by reflections of sunlight from the stream, that came through the chinks of the loose masonry.
‘ ’Tis like to a cathedral aisle!’ she said. ‘I’ll bid Peregrine order the removal of these boulders, and this shall be my own retiring place. What if the passage goes into the very entrails of the earth!’
But Mrs Tryphena laid a hand upon her sleeve. ‘I could have sworn that someone laughed as you were speaking,’ she whispered. ‘Come back into the garden, my pretty - ’
Lady Mary drew aside almost petulantly. ‘Dear aunt,’ she said, ‘I dote upon the place. There’s the posy, which’ll always remind me of Peregrine, and the air’s cool and fresh and sweet - ’
At that moment her husband appeared; and telling him of the vista that lay beyond the stones, she won from him a promise to have the cave reopened ere another day had gone by, and to explore it in her company - with clues and torches, if need be.
So, on the morrow, the barrier being removed, they went there together, and for more than two hours were lost to the upper world, thridding the countless galleries of a marvellous lusus naturae, where the floors were of fine dry sand, and the walls of limestone smooth as ivory. The place was so full of windings that at last both wearily declared that a month might be passed ere its winders were exhausted.
In the following week the weather grew extraordinarily hot and sultry; and since Peregrine was much occupied with necessary business, Lady Mary found herself at liberty to spend many hours in her grotto, which in truth was the only cool place in the valley. Her embroidery frame was carried there, and at first she worked laboriously upon a cravat for her spouse’s wearing. Mrs Tryphena, whom both had entreated to stay permanently at Ravensdale, was assiduously occupied in examining and repairing the contents of the great linen-presses, or supervising the conservation of fruits; whilst Law, in consideration of her faithful services in Sir Agabus’ day, still retained nominally the post of housekeeper.
One morning, in the still-room, the old woman found herself constrained to speak of her former mistress’s strange ending.
‘I like not her ladyship’s going so oft to yon cave,’ she remarked; ‘since ’twas there Sir Agabus’ lady used to go, whilst she peaked and pined away almost to an anatomy!’
Until now she had been reticent concerning the lady’s tragedy; but today, as if stirred with dread lest a like misfortune should overtake the young wife, she waxed very confidential, and told Mrs Tryphena the oddest story ... It had the effect of sending the spinster hotfoot to the grotto, where she found her niece fast asleep by the embroidery frame, her upturned face smiling mysteriously, as if she dreamed of matters pleasant beyond human ken. She touched her somewhat roughly on the shoulder.
‘You are unwise to sleep here,’ she said - ’the air’s cold enough to strike a chill to your bones. Come out into the sun, my dear - why, you have lost all your colour!’
Lady Mary rose, passing her hand drowsily over her eyes. ‘You cannot let ine be!’ she said, with a new querulousness. ‘Is there something wrong in my dreams, that you must spy upon me day after day?’
Mrs Tryphena stared in wonderment.4 ’Tis I, Mary,’ she said - ’I, your aunt - you know that I have never spied - ’
The girl began to laugh confusedly. ‘My head’s all bewildered,’ she said. ‘I thought - I thought ’twas Peregrine himself! And I was far away from here - in a world of my own - a wonderful world, all full of romance.’
After they had returned to the Lodge, Mrs Tryphena contrived a private conversation with the husband.
‘I beg of you,’ she said, ‘to forbid your wife to frequent the grotto. The place is ill-omened - ’twas there that the lady of Sir Agabus lost her strength - her life; indeed, there’s something - I know not what -of the unfortunate - ’
He dismissed her objections lightly. ‘How could I cross one whom I love so well?’ he said. ‘Forbiddances shall never come from me, whose sole desire is to make her happy. Nay, good aunt, listen to no more old-wives’ tales - ’
‘Ay,’ interrupted Mrs Tryphena; ‘but sure you have not forgotten how on the night you came here, you saw an unknown gentleman?’
‘ ’Twas some hapless fellow with a greeting he was too shy to make, or perhaps some Scotch rebel, making his way across country to the Border. Our sympathies are with such.’
So Mrs Tryphena went away very discontented, resolved to neglect the household duties that she had taken upon herself, and to accompany her niece whenever she went to the grotto. This, however, met with Lady Mary’s disapproval, and ere long the officious spinster found the place entirely deserted save for herself; and with a satisfied mind returned to the thousand avocations of the great house.
But Lady Mary went there privately, and day by day her beautiful colour faded, and she grew more and more listless. The wise elderly folk wrongly attributed this to a natural cause; more than once speech was made to Mrs Tryphena of the day when Ravensdale Park would echo with feux-de-joie, and the distant bells of Hassage Church would chime in blithe announcement to the countryside of the birth of Peregrine’s heir.
It was not until autumn was far advanced that the great tragedy occurred. One night, when the air was very still, and the skies covered with a black cloud, Peregrine woke to find himself alone, and after hastily donning his clothes made a fruitless search through the wing devoted to their use, then hurried to Mrs Tryphena’s bedchamber.
‘Mary is gone!’ he stammered. ‘I can find her no
where!’
The aunt rose from her canopied bed, and huddled on a wrapper.
‘She cannot have left the house,’ she said, incredulously; ‘she must be restless ... I will come with you - prythee, do not rouse the servants.’
They passed through many other chambers, calling faintly; but found no clue until they came to the hall, where, to the amazement of both, the door hung ajar.
‘If she be not indoors,’ faltered Mrs Tryphena, ‘there’s but one place where she would go on such a night - ’
A lantern stood here upon a table; she lighted its candle and led the way through the garden to the grotto. And in the yew-alley their hearts grew very cold and heavy; for they heard the sound of voices speaking softly.
Peregrine stumbled against Mrs Tryphena. ‘She is here, and not alone!’ he muttered. ‘My God! what does it mean?’
The spinster trembled so that she could scarce stand. ‘ ’Tis no living man who’s with her,’ she said bravely; ‘I’ll not believe such wickedness - ’
But still the voices murmured; one sweet and low and bewitching; the other a faint and incoherent echo of the wife’s. The words of both were indistinguishable; but the tones were laden with burning passion. Peregrine caught the lantern from Mrs Tryphena’s hand, and staggered forward into the blackness; then fell back at sight of Lady Mary sitting on the ground beside the stream, her head bowed to her bosom.
A sharp, bitter cry came from the inner recesses of the place -’twas a woman’s voice raised in agony - then a dimness came into Peregrine’s eyes, so that he saw his wife no longer.
He leaped forward; two figures hurried ever before him - one cruelly familiar, t’other that of a tall dark man, who laughed and laughed and laughed.
They sped along passages where hitherto no human foot had ever trod; they climbed the steep sides of monstrous caverns; they slipped through narrow apertures, bending almost double where the roof hung low - until at last they reached a vast vault filled with the noise of falling water. There they stopped short where the sandy floor broke, on the verge of a pit, into which a cataract fell from the lip of a jagged rock overhead.
Peregrine put out his hand to grasp the loose sleeve of the woman’s gown; ere his fingers closed she turned, discovering a countenance fretted with an unendurable grief. The man stood with face averted, an arm firmly encircling her waist.
‘Ah, do not leave me!’ cried the husband. ‘Come back - come back - ’
The ashen lips moved in silence; one hand strove feebly to remove the imprisoning arm. But her companion drew her closer still, and sprang into the utter blackness of the pit, and Peregrine was left alone.
Hours passed ere Peregrine left the place; hours in which he heard naught save the roaring of the water. The candle guttered - the last spark died as he reached the grotto at the cave’s mouth. The sun had risen; all the east was rich with purple and amber clouds. A heavy mist hung over the park; cattle were lowing for milking-time.
Mrs Tryphena sat on the pebbles beside her niece, whose cheek rested against her shoulder. The old lady did not observe him until his foot touched her skirt.
‘Thank God!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘ ’twas but a nightmare - the cruellest nightmare man ever knew! I believed that she had gone for ever!’
He knelt at their side; Mrs Tryphena held him back with a trembling hand. ‘Oh, I am worn with waiting!’ she moaned. ‘How could you leave me?’
‘I have been tricked - some devilry forced me to see ... Ah, speak to me, wife!’
‘Hush!’ faltered Mrs Tryphena. ‘She has never stirred - she will never stir!’
Excerpts From Witherton’s Journal; Also A Letter Of Crystalla’s
The principal events of Pliny Witherton’s life are written at length in Goodwin’s Records of English Painters, a volume published by Dodsley in 1758. He is described therein as one whose genius went beyond his achievement; who suffered ecstatic pain in conception, yet brought forth little worthy of remembrance.
Personally he was small and ill-formed: of that sallow countenance and red skein-like hair wherewith tradition has gifted Judas Iscariot. His gait was felinely nimble, his voice harsh. Notwithstanding his great defects, he was a favourite with women.
He died at his zenith. His celebrity was ephemeral; for, possessed of a curious medium, the secret of whose preparation he refused to share with any contemporary, he used it with such fatal effect that his works, which were strangely rich at first, became almost colourless after the lapse of a few decades. The only picture still existent is at Hambleton; where is also preserved the journal whence the following extracts are taken. It is a ‘Boadicea,’ faded to a sober brown.
* * * *
Jan. 12, 1700.—This morning my uncle chose the story of Jacob wrestling with the Angel. I know not how I bore his tedious droning. He pictured the dullest scene, put into their mouths the dullest words. And there came something that thrust a hand through my breast and caught about my heart, and forced tears down my cheeks. Oh to have shown them what I beheld!
Little Anne saw me through the broken panel of the Earl’s pew, and put her fingers to my knee to feel the thrilling. But I thrust them away, for the child is a bastard and as ugly as a toad—yet not so ugly neither, but foreign (her mother came of the Rouvigny’s) and pale and quiet. She is downtrodden by madam the Countess. May be I was hard upon her.
The lass blenched, for had she not but yesternight slyly given me her father’s present—a golden guinea—to buy colours for my work? What if she give me no more! Alack! So after the Amen was mumbled I stole with her to the pools amongst the groove-hillocks, and showed her rush-tips covered with hoar above the ice. As we stood she put her arm about my neck and said: ‘We are both lonely, none loves us.’ And I fell angry again and struck her face. ‘I am not lonely, I shall be famous,’ I cried; ‘but you, Mistress Craven-spirit, are fit for naught but nursing madam’s brats.’
May 1, 1703.—Too terrible Fortune, prisoning me in an iron cage; from between whose bars I see thy wheel turning, turning, turning! To-day is my twentieth birthday, and I have done no work for all these years. Creations enow have stirred my brain. I see heroes in jewelled harness; ruddy-hued and beautiful dames. They play their parts, yet when I take the crayon, ’tis to depict a crowd of malkins. God, never was being so ill-fated!
Anne brought me a purse woven of her own coarse hair; it held eight crowns and a posy-ring. Yesterday I had threatened to leave this accursed house and never send word. She hath now sold all her trinkets. The office of secretary to such a dotard as the Earl I loathe; and the continual buzzing of my hummer-bee-uncle frets my very soul.
I walked with Anne on Danman’s Moor, and the strong wind blew a colour into her hollow cheeks. Moreover, her eyes looked very big and lustrous. But she wore such a faded gown as any village alewife would have scorned; and the looseness made her shoulders seem huckled. Withal on her lips was such a smile as I shall give Christ’s Mother in my masterpiece. As I gazed the rosiness deepened, and she murmured in a voice half-moan, ‘Is there aught worthy there?’ So, being malicious of humour, I praised that smile, and saw her bosom rise and fall like a wild beast’s panting apart from the hunters.
Jan. 9, 1704.—At last I have left Hambleton. There was no money there, and my lord strove to repress my ambition with his eternal ‘Thy uncle on his death-bed wished it so. For, leaving thee not a penny, he commended thee to my care. The chaplainship shall be thine, an’ I need no secretary-work save what thou canst do at odd times. Alas! nine daughters have I to dower!’ And Anne had given me all, so I rolled my pictures in a bundle and am come to seek the patronage of our great men, who, as I have learnt, are ever ready to help on struggling Wits.
July 27, 1704.—O Heaven, that this world should be so cruel! Flouted in rich fools’ antechambers; turned roughly from door after door! Shame devours me to-day; for though poverty no longer pricks me I have sold my honour. Twenty golden pieces earned with bloody sweat lie on the table. The signs were del
ivered scarce two hours since. The first I wrought had some solace, for the Angel was a careful presentment of Lucy, as sweet a maid as England holds. But twelve years old, and yet with the wit and loveliness of Sheba’s queen, how she shrivels her base-born half-sister! A hundred times since I came to this town has her proud excellence disquieted my slumbers. The beauty that daunts a man’s the beauty for me.
Accursed be this vile place where art and genius crouch together in the alleys!
Septr. 30, 1704.—The last page I may write in this poor journal shall contain naught of anger. Once I read that he conquers who strives with circumstance. No greater fallacy was ever writ. The last coin is spent; utter ruin in store. The certainty of my gift hinders me from pandering again to the vulgar. Life and I nearly parted at the great humiliation. Those terrible pictures, to whose doing desperation forced me, haunt me like ghosts. I dared not pace the streets lest I should see my handiwork swinging over the causey. It is better for me to die.
To Anne I bequeath all good and tender wishes, for she alone would aid me in my early strugglings. In this my last hour I fully acknowledge her kindness. . . .
Oct. 1, 1704.—Dolt that I was to lose courage! At last the goddess hath smoothed her frown. When I rose at the sound of knocking ’twas to find a cloaked and hooded woman at my door. The domino fell open and discovered Anne’s face, haggard and stained with tears. In her hands she carried a heavy bag. ‘My Aunt Rouvigny is dead,’ she cried, ‘and since she might leave me naught by will this she gave me in private. None knows of it save myself. It is yours—all lies before you now. Take the road to Fame.’ And though we had not met for so long, she waited for no word.
Dear heart, to resign that fortune for my sake! When I have seen all that Europe boasts, and studied the works of the dark masters, I will return and make her my wife. Here is a copy of what I writ to her at Hambleton:—
A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread Page 15
