Whereat she made her mocking curtsey and withdrew, and anon I began the first air, and the floor swayed under mad caprioles. And in the pause I looked downward again, and saw that each face save Daphne’s had grown wan and pregnant with unutterable wickedness. But the maid was blushing, as if the breeze of April clipped her cheeks. She had stolen apart from the rest, and, bride though she was, all were so intent upon their performance that she passed unobserved.
Methought, as dance followed dance, a thin sulphury vapour rose and wrapped about these revellers, so that their bodies grew vague, and little was to be seen but their lustful blinking eyes . . . Still Daphne stood alone and neglected, toying with the rose at her girdle.
The voice of the virginals swelled so that all other sound was hidden; the mist grew ever thicker and thicker. Ere the playing of ‘The Priest’s Pavan’, it seemed as if horny wings had risen from the shoulders of each dancer, and the skin of each had swarthened under the powder.
Then, to the first notes were made the magic twists and down-turnings of the thumbs; and of a sudden, with one accord, the dancers ceased all movement and my hands fell numbed; for the tapestry of the eastern wall was drawn aside, and one clothed as a priest in shining vestments entered through an arched doorway, and moved to the place where Daphne waited. A hallowed light emanated from his face and hands, so that none might see; as he approached the maid, this radiance wound about her in tender embrace. She showed no sign of blenching; but sank before him as the Magdalene sank before Christ. He raised her with infinite gentleness, and put his arm about her waist, and led her to the place whence he had come.
There followed no murmur of anger or surprise; but, as I gazed, smoke and tongues of fire leaped from every crevice of the floor; and, in another minute, there came the noise of iron chains snapping, then, as flames leaped to lick the roof, one hoarse wail of agony.
A Night on the Moor
The sun had set in a dull red glow, and twilight fell with odd swiftness. Although the sparse thorns of the moor, all inclining from west to east, in obedience to the prevalent winds, were scarce tinged with the bright hues of autumn, a few thin flakes of snow were falling gently.
Lindsay Warmsworth, who had rented the shooting from Squire Greenleaf, buttoned his coat, and finally discharging his gun, prepared to return to the Lodge. That afternoon, since his friends had passed on to other places and a new party was not to arrive until the following day, he had been obliged to tramp alone. Barton, the old keeper, had complained mysteriously of rheumatism in his shaky knees, and after begging him on no account to be benighted, had tottered homeward when they reached the confines of the park. The bag which was slung over Warmsworth’s shoulder was heavy with slaughtered grouse; a brace of woodcock, too rare a prize to be carried in such plebeian company, bulged in his right-hand pocket.
This great stretch of tableland in the very heart of the Peak country, was covered chiefly with ling and sphagnum. Here and there, round beds of rushes, wet and blood-coloured, disclosed the existence of treacherous marsh. Warmsworth, after passing a Druid’s Circle, found an ancient bridle-path of hollowed slabs, which he had never seen before, and surmising that it passed in the direction of his resting-place, he began to hurry, thankful to be relieved from the necessity of carefully picking his way over the sodden ground. As far as he could understand, he had more than three miles to cover before reaching comfortable shelter; but being young and hotblooded, he felt no tremors, and lifting a powerful voice in a popular hunting song, he shaped the rhythm to the muffled sound of his footsteps.
After a while, however, so intense grew the blackness and so heavy the snowfall that he stopped short in his elegy of ‘John Peel’, and with a sudden uneasiness drew out his compass, struck a match, and strove to discover if he were on the right track. A gust blew out the light immediately, but not before he had seen that the needle had fallen from its pivot; without further delay he continued to proceed, trusting to a keen sense of locality which he had never known to fail.
After he had proceeded for at least an hour, and now not yet reached the sloping dough at whose lower end stood the Lodge, he found that he had left the path and was straying knee-deep in heather, whose branches were so tough that no firing could have been done for years. The snow was still falling, and the wind rose in low soughs. He began, unwillingly, to realise that he was lost, and, in spite of Barton’s deprecations, in all probability must remain on the moor until daybreak. Fortunately, just as he had resigned hope of finding any shelter, his outstretched left hand touched a stout wooden door, and after a brief struggle with the latch he entered a shepherd’s hut, mud-walled and thatched with turves. On striking another match, he discovered, to his great relief, that the place was waterproof, and that, in readiness for the winter, a huge faggot of fir-boughs lay in a comer, beside a great stone, above which rose a narrow chimney. To set light to a few twigs was the work of a moment; soon a brave fire was crackling lustily. A bed of dried bracken was spread on trestled boards; he sat down, drew out his pipe, and thanked the gods for a harbour of refuge. The resinous sap of the fir wood diffused a fragrant odour that overpowered the fumes of the tobacco, and the flames cast dancing shadows on the dark brown walls.
Ere long the heat of the place made him drowsy; he lay full length on the bracken, and with his face turned towards the glow, fell fast asleep. He was awakened very soon, however, by the distant barking of a dog, and in the belief that someone was searching for him, he sprang to his feet and threw open the door. Outside the blackness was denser than ever; the firelight struck against a barrier of mist. The downfall had ceased, there was no longer any moaning of the wind. Half-convinced that the noise had existed only in his own fancy, he placed his fingers again on the latch, when it was repeated, and peering in the direction whence it came he saw, nearby, the greenish light of a lantern. In another moment a young woman glided forward and stood, like a gorgeous shadow, on the threshold. The lantern swung from one hand, the other held a gauzy handkerchief, slipped through the collar of a timid white fawn; in the background crouched a huge old mastiff, whose eyes gleamed sullenly.
The lady’s beauty, coupled with the quaintness of her attire, numbed Warmsworth’s faculty of speech; he did naught but gaze stupidly on the strange picture. Her skin was very fair, touched with a faint pink in the cheeks; her eyes were deep blue and lustrous, her mouth archly curved. On either temple hung a cluster of black curls, connected across the smooth forehead with a jewelled trellis-work; above rose a turban of gold gauze (one fringed end of which fell to her neck), surmounted with the plumage of a bird of Paradise. Her gown, of carmine velvet, was not of the present fashion; the bodice tight to the waist and heart-shaped at the bosom, the skirt swelled over a great hoop. This was nearly covered with a long white satin-lined mantle of beet-red with vast sleeves; a collar and cape of sable lay lightly on her polished shoulders, unclasped so that a brilliant necklace was visible. There were no signs of travel in her costume; her bronze sandals were not even damped with the snow.
‘La!’ she cried, in dismay. ‘I had hoped to find shepherd Nawe here, to beg him to shelter my poor fawn. Marlowe turned her out on the moor, hoping, perchance, she’d die before daybreak. He hates all gifts that others offer me. I took Lightfoot and went a-seeking her. Not a long task, the wretch lay under my chamber window!’ Warmsworth was still tongue-tied; the stranger shrugged and pouted. ‘Lord, what an outlandish costume!’ she cried. ‘Prythee, good gentleman, art come from the shores of Greenland?’
He flushed and found his speech. ‘No, madam, but from Calton Lodge,’ he said. ‘I am belated here, after a day’s shooting; I have kindled a fire to rest by till morning.’
‘A monsieur!' she exclaimed, with a merry laugh. ‘No Englishman spoke with such an accent. But you are wrong, sir, in meditating a night spent here. My own house of Offerton lies not half a mile away, and Marlowe, my husband, shall play host at my bidding. So - no demur, I entreat - come with me now; we’ll leave Crystall
a, the fawn, in your stead, and you shall bring life to a deadly dull place.’
There was something so fascinating in the beauty’s aspect that Warmsworth had no thought of declining. The mode of her garments perplexed him somewhat; never before had he seen a woman gowned so strangely. Yet there was no doubt that what she wore became her vastly. In some odd way she reminded him of an eighteenth-century painting of a belle of the Georgian Court. A brief glance at her hands showed him that they were daintily kept and extremely small; she displayed a fine ring upon each finger.
‘I shall be very grateful,’ he replied. ‘I had no knowledge of a house so near the Lodge - ’
‘Why,’ she said, ‘if ’tis Calton Lodge you speak of - you are full seven miles from ’t! I am taking you to Offerton Hall, in Barley Clough - surely you’ve heard of the place. My husband, Stephen Marlowe - the last of the Marlowes - compels me to live in this barren Peakland.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Warmsworth, ‘but I am almost a stranger here, I know naught of this country. This season I rented Squire Greenleaf s shooting for a whim - ’
‘Heavens!’ interrupted the lady. ‘Will Greenleafs shooting! And I saw him but yesterday, and he said not a word oft. But he was ever a sly, cunning lad! His eyes tell me that - when he seems to be looking at the wall, Lord! he’s noting everything that passes! Now, sir, I beg of you, let us go on to Offerton; I’m warm by nature, but this night’s enow to strike one dead.’
The white fawn (it was evidently accustomed to the shelter of a roof) lay before the hearth; Warmsworth closed the door, and the lady, who refused to relinquish the lantern, walked a few paces in front, with the dog at her side.
‘I must tell you that Steve is a man of odd fancies,’ she observed. ‘As jealous a rogue as was e’er begotten - he cannot bear those whom he loves to give word or look to another! But you, an outlandish stranger, benighted, he won’t fail to offer you a hearty welcome.’
There was a shade of doubt in her voice; she paused, as if reflection told her that she had been better advised to leave Warmsworth in the shepherd’s hut. She sighed lightly because of her fleeting cowardice, then hurried on again.
‘Tonight he had a whimsy for turning my Crystalla loose. I doted on her too much, said he, and ’twas because my lord the Earl of Newburgh bred her. If I had not unchained Lightfoot and donned my cloak and ran out, the poor angel would have frozen stark. I’ll send her back to my lord tomorrow, if I can find in my heart to part with her. Yet Steve’s a good soul, though there’s black blood in his veins. Sometimes, I protest, he makes me tremble like to an aspen leaf. He was in one of his wildest humours an hour ago, but I ne’er show that I’m daunted, and I gave him word for word -told him naught should hinder me from having my own way. Yet, though I prattle on with other men, in my heart his roots twine everywhere.’
Her fantastic excitement and tantalising confidences wrought Warmsworth to great curiosity; but he dared ask no questions. At a gateway in a lofty arch of limestone, she fitted her master-key in the lock.
‘ ,Tis the nearest way,’ she said, ‘though there is no boundary betwixt the garden and the moor on the eastern side. Were it not night-time, and over-cold, we would loiter here and you should tell me of life in town. Ay, me, Steve has not let me leave this prison for two dreary twelvemonths! None but country joskins to talk folly with - the overflow of my love to fall on such silly creatures as Crystalla and old Lightfoot.’
Ere they had passed halfway up the broad path the valves of a great door swung inward, and a man appeared on the topmost stone of a staircase that descended to a terrace. To Warmsworth’s bewilderment, he was attired as quaintly as the lady, in black satin coat and knee-breeches, and vest of embroidered green. A white-periwig covered his head, in peculiar contrast with the jetty curved eyebrows. His sparkling eyes were of a hue to match; the comers of his mouth were drawn upward, uncovering small white teeth. Despite the malevolence of his expression, it was impossible to deny that his beauty was equal to the lady’s.
She caught Warmsworth’s sleeve and drew him forward. ‘Steve,’ she said, in a voice that quavered perceptibly, ‘in my journey for the fawn’s safety, I came across a wayfarer, poor gentleman, who had taken shelter in Nawe’s hut, and knowing that you delight in showing hospitality to all, I brought him here.’
Her husband lifted his forefinger to his brow, as if to smooth out a gathering frown, then giving Warmsworth a cordial welcome, led the way to the hearth of a dining parlour.
‘I am vastly wearied of the folk I know,’ he said, ‘and ’tis indeed a pleasure to see a stranger in this house. For my wife’s sake’ (the lady gave a little cry of surprise) ‘I live here and make the best oft. This is her inheritance, remote from the world of gaiety; I warrant Sophia loves the seclusion.’
‘Bah!’ she exclaimed. ‘I do not love it - I shall never love a gaol-house, although I may love my keeper.’
She flung off her mantle and glided across the room to an opened spinet; still standing, she used her right hand to draw out a few chords, then sang the first words of ‘Phyllida flouts me’:
Oh, what a plague is love! I cannot bear it;
She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it.
Warmsworth, glancing at his host, saw in his countenance a look of agonising pain, that changed instantly into an agreeable smile. The wife left her spinet and went to an oaken buffet that bore, amongst bright pewterware, a stone flask and a silver loving-cup. She drew out the stopper of the former, filled the vessel to the brim, then drank lightly.
‘Here’s to a happy meeting!’ she said. ‘Here’s to a joyful break in our dullness!’
She passed it to Warmsworth, touching meaningly that part of the edge which her lips had pressed. Stephen Marlowe’s back was turned for the nonce, and the young man, unaware that he faced a mirror, nodded and drank, ending with an audible kiss, at sound of which the husband swung round suddenly upon his heel. Sophia thereupon made a demure curtsey, her hands clasped over her bosom, where the velvet met the frilled muslin of her chemisette.
‘ “Alack and well-a-day,” she sang. “She loves me to gainsay - ” ’
Stephen strode forward and caught her by the wrist. ‘Damn you!’ he muttered huskily; ‘you have met this man before!’
‘And if I have, what then?’ she responded. ‘Surely I met men before I met you. At the Court, indeed, I knew gentlemen, ere I was fool enough to listen to your prayers. I command you to release my hand! I have no liking for purple bracelets made by your iron fingers!’
‘My God!’ he groaned, as he thrust her roughly aside, ‘you go too far, Sophy - to speak thus in a stranger’s presence!’
Then, without waiting for her reply, he averted his face and abruptly left the chamber. She sighed wearily, motioned Warmsworth to rest by the fire, and putting down her rebellious hoop she sank into the recesses of a heavy gilt-framed brocade-covered armchair.
‘Alas!’ she said, almost whimpering, ‘ ’tis very hard to live with such a housemate. Had I known that Marlowe’d use me thus, I’d have stopped my ears with wax - as Ulysses did when the Siren chanted. A belle - the most famous toast of three years agone, to be kept barred in a cage - to be slighted afront a foreigner! See, his violence hath already marked my poor skin - there’s five scarlet spots growing darker every instant.’
She held out her hand; Warmsworth knelt and drew it nearer the firelight. Curiously enough the quaintness of their manners reflected itself upon him, he began unconsciously to mimic demeanour and speech.
‘Prythee, Mistress Sophia,’ he said, ‘do not blame me, though I be the cause - ’
Her merry laugh rang out again! Perhaps that was why the tapestry curtain of another doorway, opposite to that by which they had entered, fluttered convulsively.
‘Not Mistress!’ she cried. ‘Lady Sophia - Sophy to my friends and to my jealous husband. A marquis’s daughter, wedded to a commoner! . . . Ah, I do not blame you, sir; I ask but a penance -each stain to be kissed. A k
iss is the best salve in the world.’
A low moan came from behind the tremulous curtain as the young man’s lips touched the warm satiny skin. Doubtless Lady Sophia heard it, for the light in her eyes danced very fantastically, and she stooped until her face was very near his own.
‘Hist,’ she whispered, ‘let you and me play a comedy, such as Mr Wycherley wrote ages ago. I’ll do the talking - your part is but to smile and languish and say “Ay” every time I pause. Now for’t - the curtain rises!’ Her voice rose, she began to speak in tones brimful of feigned tenderness and delight.
‘La! Sir Michael, to think that tonight we should meet so unexpectedly, when tomorrow, by assignation at the Druid’s Circle, which I described in my summons, you were to wait my coming, whilst Steve was a-hunting the fox. He never knew of your existence. By Gemini! he never shall know what passed between us. There’s an infinitely keener joy in stolen kisses - such as you wot of in Nawe’s hut.’
‘Ay,’ said Warmsworth, ‘Ay.’
‘Dost remember at my aunt’s ball, the Bath Assembly Rooms the place - after young Mr Beckford had led me through the minuet, you fumed and fretted (foolish boy!) and swore that you would spit him on your rapier. There was budding down on your upper lip then, and your skin was fair as mine. And to appease you, dearest, I promised to wed you some day, but sure I was not in earnest. Why, heart o’ me, I was scarce sixteen at the time, and you were but three months older! When your folk sent you on the Grand Tour, we both wept like bantlings!’
She linked her arm around his neck, hollowed her palm to support his chin, and turned his face upwards. A rebellious fever heated his veins; he would have given much for her words to have been sober truth.
‘Why play comedy any longer?’ he murmured, hoarsely.
A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread Page 21
