‘Nay, you’ll spoil my pretty mischievous plot,’ she whispered in
return. ‘Be your old self, Sir Michael,’ she cried. ‘Steve hath no inkling of who you are, or how we loved - and still love!’
‘Ay,’ he said.
‘I vow,’ she continued, ‘that you’re as goodly to look upon as you were eight years ago. Many and many a night have I awoke in my bed, thinking that no comelier man was ever created since the days of Adam. We were made for each other - there’s conceit for you . . . Can you say in earnest that I am still as beautiful as in those days when you called me your little wife, and we broke asunder a silver ring?’
‘Lovelier,’ said Warmsworth, with an enthusiasm that was not pretended, ‘infinitely lovelier.’
Her cheek was pressed against his, her breath stirred the tiny curls on his temples.
‘Had I known that time would work no change in your affections,’ she said, ‘I’d ne’er have harkened to Steve’s protestations. But he swore to kill himself if I said him nay - he followed me like a spaniel -battered at my door till in very hopelessness I let him enter. And you were flaunting abroad with your tutor, loving the maids of Italy and France and Allemagne, whilst I had naught of you save a broken bit of silver.’
She drew hereby to her full height and stood apart, casting a mischievous look at the further doorway. Warmsworth rose from his knees and confronted her; his eyes bright as hers and as vivid a colour in his cheeks.
‘Steve is far away,’ she said, ‘working off his fury in a flight over the moor. He has never learned - shall never learn - what is hidden in the trinket I keep warm against my heart’ (her fingers began to toy with the laces of her bosom), ‘for I kept it sacred to you and swore no other man should e’er open it.’
Warmsworth no longer remembered his injunction to say naught but ‘ay’. He moved nearer; she retreated a step. ‘Let me see it!’ he cried.
The coquette laughed for the last time, and thrust out her arms, as if to fend his touch. ‘Nay,’ she said. ‘Of my own will, I’ll ne’er show it.’ She plucked from her bodice a loop of sky-blue ribbon. ‘You shall not make me do what I would not!’
He came nearer still and clutching the ribbon strove to draw the locket from its nest. Of a sudden she grew white and faint, reeling back against her chair.
‘The comedy is played,’ she faltered.
Marlowe strode forward, tearing the tapestry from its hooks. So fearful was he to behold that Warmsworth shrank aside, as if in grim earnest the man was possessed with a demon. Sophia strove to regain her composure, and grasping one of his clenched fists essayed to relax its tension.
‘My dearest,’ she stammered, piteously, 4 ’twas but a piece of acting; I ne’er saw the man before tonight, and I knew that you were present all the time. I saw the curtain shake; I heard you gasp and groan.’
Then she quailed in silence before the madness she had evoked. Warmsworth laid his hand on the lappet of Marlowe’s coat.
‘The lady speaks the truth, man!’ he cried.
But Marlowe, paying no heed to his words, pointed to the door by which they had entered, and his wife crept from the chamber, with him following stealthily in her wake. The door slammed, and Warmsworth heard the turning of a key. He beat upon the panels, but nobody came; he hastened to the other door, to find it barred with an invisible spring. Beyond the heavily-mullioned oriel window a faint ray of moonlight showed him two mist-cloaked figures - one in pursuit of the other - scurrying over the snow-covered garden . . .
He began to pace restlessly to and fro, ever and anon striking the door and the floor, in the vain hope of summoning some serv ant.
At last, wearied with over-excitement, he flung himself in a chair by the sinking fire, and fell into an uneasy slumber, from which, after curious dreams of mingled joy and horror, he was awakened by the creaking of rusty hinges.
His eyes were dull and heavy; some moments passed before he recognised old Barton, the keeper, who stood at his side. Instead of the panelled walls of Marlowe’s dining-parlour, he saw piled clods, with chinks that admitted a dim daylight.
‘How did I come here?’ he inquired in a voice that sounded peculiarly rasping.
‘Lord hev’ mercy, sir,’ said the relieved gaffer, ‘yo’ve been lost on th’ moor, on a neeght when no folk o’ these parts’d dare to venture aat. Et’s ten o’clock - at dawn I tuk th’ cob an’ started a-seekin’ yo’. Yo’ be grey as death!’
‘Have you a flask?’ said Warmsworth. ‘I feel cramped and sick.’
He drank and rose from the bracken. At the door stood a grey pony, which Barton helped him to mount. Neither spoke as they moved slowly through the rain, until they came to some rough piles of stone, where Barton, who was a good Catholic, crossed himself devoutly.
‘Theere’s Offerton Owd Hall,’ he remarked in a low voice. ‘At least theer et stood. Et’s been i’ ruins for more nor a hunnerd year -sin’ Mr Marlowe draaned hes lady i’ th’ marsh, through jealousy.’
The Pageant Of Ghosts
A late twilight in June. A woodlark rippling in mid-air. Drowsy-scented ladies’ bed-straw in a marsh that was once a garden. On the terrace wall, beside the cedar, a stone urn with a lambent flame.
The casement hung open, and the excess of beauty and perfume drugged me: so that, with a sigh, I sank back into a moth-eaten sedan that had borne four generations to Court. Dried dust of lavender and rue filtered through the brocade lining, and grew into a mist, wherethrough the bird’s song waxed fainter and fainter. Indeed, I was just closing my eyes when the tuning of fifes and viols roused me with a start.
A shrill titter from the further end of the ballroom drew me from my seat. At the outer extremity of the oriel hung a curtain of Philimot velvet, lined inwardly with pale green silk: behind this I stole, and, parting the draperies from the wall, gazed towards the musicians’ gallery. Five men, dressed in styles that ranged from the trunk-hose and collared mantle of Elizabeth’s day to the pantaloons and muslin cravats of the third George, were arranging yellow music-sheets on the table. The youngest forced a harsh note from his viol, then struck another’s bald pate, and set all a-laughing. A grave silence followed. Then began just such a curious melody as the wind makes in a wood of half-blighted firs.
All the sconces were lighted of a sudden, and the martlets and serpents in the alt-relief above the panelling sprang into a weird life. Resting between the fire-dogs on the open hearth were three logs, one of pine, another of oak, and a third of sycamore. The grey flame licked them hungrily, and the sap hissed and bubbled. The carved work of the walls was distinct: Potiphar’s wife wrapped her bed-gown about Joseph, Judith triumphed with the bloody head aloft, and in the centre Lot’s daughters paddled with his withered jowls.
I felt but little wonder at the change from stillness to life. As the last of my race, treasurer of a vast hoard of traditions, why should I be disturbed by this return of the creatures of old? I dragged forth the creaking sedan, and sat waiting.
A rusty, half-unstrung zither that hung near quivered and gave one faint note to the melody. Ere its vibration had ceased, Mistress Lenore entered through the arched doorway. Hour after hour had she plucked those wires that cried out in welcome.
Her fox-coloured tresses were wrought into a fantastic web; each separate hair twisted and coiled. A pink flush painted her cheeks, and her lustrous blue eyes were mirthful. She wore opals (unfortunate stones for such as love), and hanging from a black riband below her throat was the golden cross Prince Charles had sent her from Rome.
The legends of her character came in floods. Wantonly capricious at one moment, earnest and devout as a nun’s at another, her expression changed a thousand times as I beheld. Now she was racking her soul with jealousy; now pleading—as she alone could plead—for pardon; now, when pardon was won, laughingly swearing that her repentance was only feigned. As she neared my heart beat furiously, and I cried ‘Lenore! Lenore!’ My voice was low and broken (the music gave a loud burst
then), but she passed without a word, her ivory-like hands almost hidden beneath jewels and lace. The further door stood open, and she disappeared.
Nowell the Platonist followed; a haggard middle-aged man in a long cloak of sable-edged black velvet. Forgetful of all save desire, he bore a scroll of parchment, whereon was written in great letters To Parthenia. This was the only outcome of his one passion. At the second window he paused, with a wry mouth, to gaze on that statue of Europa from whose arm he had hanged himself. Then his hands were uplifted to his head to force away the agony of despair; for hurrying towards him came the Mad Maid, who could not love him, being devoted to the memory of one wrecked at sea.
‘Why art thou in anguish?’ she said. ‘See my joy; laugh with me, dance with me. He returns to-morrow—the boat’s coming in. Ah, darling! ah, heart’s delight!’ And she held up her arms to a girandole whose candles fluttered; but her face grew long, and thin, and pale, and she rested on a settee and drew from her pocket a dusky lace veil, which, being unfolded, discovered a ring with a burning topaz and a heart of silver. She leaned forward, resting her brow in her hands, and talked to the toys in her lap as if they understood.
To the veil she said, ‘No bride’s joy-blushes shalt thou conceal!’
To the ring, ‘Thou last gift of him who died and left me!’
To the heart, ‘O heart, thou hast endured! Thou art not broken!’
After a few tears she refolded all, and unbuttoning her bodice took from the bosom a miniature framed with pearls; but, as if afraid lest it should grow cold, she replaced it hurriedly, and seeing that Nowell beckoned towards her, glided on, sighing, and with downcast looks.
Then passed a cavalier in azure silk and snowy ruffled cravat and long-plumed cap of estate. He was whistling a song that threw all bachelors into humorous ecstasy. Who he was I know not: unless the courtier who had fought a duel with my Lord Brandreth, and had died in the wood near St. Giles’s Well, pressing convulsively in his right hand a dainty glove of Spanish kid. A merry fellow, quoth the legend, who loved the world and all in it, but who was over fond of his own jest.
Fidessa, the singer, entered next. She had brought her little gilt harp, and her lips were parted to join harmonies of voice and instrument. Bright yellow hair plaited in bands that formed a filigrain-bound coronet; eyes half-veiled, with sleepy lashes, hands fragile as sea-shells. It was the Verdi Prati, Mr. Handel’s celebrated song, that she adored most, and on the morrow she would sing it at Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields Theatre. At least she purposed to sing it then and there. Fate, however, had otherwise ordained: the to-morrow would never come, and the sweetheart at the upland grange might well write on her letters, ‘Darkness hath overcome me.’
Thin and pale Margot, her wanness heightened by dishevelled black curls, came forward in her scarlet cloak. Silent reproach was in her every feature; her eyes were stern and long-suffering. The prophecy that bound up her life with that of her dying twin was rapidly approaching consummation. Another moment and the direst pain filled her; for a loud cry from an outer chamber told her he was dead.
As she disappeared in the gloom, Nabob Darrington, himself in life the lover of a ghost, paced slowly along. A beau of the last century, wearing a satin flowered waistcoat and a coat and breeches of plum-coloured kerseymere, between his finger and thumb he held the diamond which he had brought from the East as a spousal gift for the woman who, unknown to him, had died of waiting. He was anticipating the meeting with her, and his brown cheeks flushed blood-red at the sound of a light footstep. He turned, saw one with violet eyes and tragic forehead; and with one joyous murmur they enfolded each other and passed.
Althea approached; a massive creature gowned in white and gold. In one hand she held a tangle of sops-in-wine, in the other, as symbolical kings hold globes, a bejewelled missal. The contention between the two lovers—the old, who had tyrannised until her life was of the saddest, and the new, who filled her with such wild happiness—was troubling her, and she was pondering as to which should gain the victory. She was just beginning to understand that to wait in passive indecision is to be torn with dragon’s teeth.
Barbara, with eyes like moon-pierced amethysts, followed, singing Ben Jonson’s Robin Goodfellow in a sweet quaver that was only just heard above the music. How strangely her looks changed—from maiden innocence to the awakening of love! from the height of passion to the abyss of despair!
But as she went the horizon was ripped from end to end, and a golden arrow leaped into the ball-room. Dawn had broken. The scent of the ladies’ bed-straw was trebly strong; the tired woodlark sank lower and lower.
The room was empty—the pageant passed and done.
Appendix
The Panicle
The farmhouse parlour faced the north, and the cold light, made dimmer by the bubbles of green glass in the heavy lattice, gave the place a grotto-like aspect. The floor, raddled round the sides, and covered in the middle with a knitted carpet of yellow and black cloth, was made of uneven flags; as much of the walls as was visible between the rows of memorial cards and samplers, and the engraved portraits of eminent divines, from John Wesley to James Caughey, nauseated the unaccustomed beholder with a monstrous design of livid roses, festooned with ribands of pea-green.
At the door Mrs Ollerenshaw paused and gazed inward with the devotion of one who prepares to enter a temple. She stooped and held her head sideways to discover if any dust had settled on the highly-polished, gate-legged table. Its cleanliness proving satisfactory, she folded her checked duster into the smallest compass and replaced it in the beaded bag that hung at her side, and went to the harmonium that stood between the two windows.
She was a fine, middle-aged woman, with prominent teeth, a hooked nose, and a pallid complexion. This evening she wore her most imposing gown of steel-grey poplin. As she sat on the high music stool, her back view was like that of a well-developed girl, and her dull, crimped hair seemed as luxurious as in the days when, as the Methodist local preacher’s young daughter, she had caught the fancy of the wealthiest farmer of the countryside.
She played the tune of ‘Miles Lane’, and began to sing in a voice which, despite its Peakland accent and great unpliability, was sweet and clear and strong, a doggerel hymn written by her father in denunciation of all creeds save his own.
A maid clattered along the passage and stood waiting until Mrs Ollerenshaw had finished the second verse, which condemned superstitious fools and Unitarian and Roman Catholic fiends with equal bitterness.
‘Theer’s Mester Bateman Middleton coom, mam.’
Her mistress rose and closed the lid of the harmonium. ‘Yo’ can bring him here, Libby,’ she said. ‘Be sure an’ see as he wipes his feet well.’
Then she sat composedly in the leather-covered armchair with the big legs. She had just straightened her skirt when Bateman appeared. He was a tall, well-proportioned lad, with a broad, tanned face. He had donned for the occasion his fawn-coloured holiday suit and his brightest necktie. Mrs Ollerenshaw shook his hand and made him take the chair at the other end of the hearthrug. After they had discussed the weather and the seed-crops, she came suddenly to the point.
‘Emma towd me as yo’ were coomin’ up to ask leave to coort,’ she said, ‘an’ so I thowt et‘d be best for her to be aat o’ the road. Hoo’s ridden ower to her uncle Pursglove’s, and hoo’s none cornin’ beck till morn.’
The young man’s face saddened; he had hoped for a pleasant family scene, of the kind he had read about in the novels of Mrs Sherwood’s day, which are still in vogue in the Peak country. He was not uncertain of the mother’s favour. There was no complaint to be urged against his position; the farm of The Hallowes was his own property, and his brood mares had won three consecutive year’s prizes at the Noe Valley Show. Emma was his first love, and he foresaw no disappointment.
‘Et’s a faith-trial as I’m goin’ to test yo’ by,’ Mrs Ollerenshaw explained. ‘My feyther tried et on my husband, an’ his answer were satisfyin’
, an’ ef yor’s es - then yo’ve my consent off-hand.’
‘I’m willin’,’ the lover replied, feebly. ‘Em said et’d be no use aar walkin’ together onless yo’ gev leave.’ His tone became more conciliatory. ‘Hoo’s a good dowter, an’ hoo’ll be guided by yo’r will.’
‘Well, then, et’s this,’ said the widow. ‘Theer were a farmer as used to coom to aar haase when I were a wench, an’ he said as it happed to his wife ere they wedded. I wunna gie my opinion o’ et: soom b’lieves et an’ soom doesna .. .
‘Et fell abaat this way. Th’ young woman were goin’ to Tidsa Market wi’ butter, an’ her road lay ’cross Middleton Moor. Et were a hot forenoon i’ hay-time, an’ hoo were dry as a cricket, an’ theer werena ony quick wayter to slake wi’. Well, hoo went on an’ on, till
at last hoo couldna beer et ony longer, an’ hoo set daan her basket an’ looked abaat. Th’ Deep Rake’s up theer, where fowk used to dig for lead i’ ancient times, an’ all th’ pit-whoals are full o’ green wayter covered wi’ scum. Et were filthy, but hoo couldna forebeer, an’ hoo just stooped her daan an’ supped an’ supped like a cawf till hoo were full. Then hoo got up, tuk her basket, an’ started on again, but afore hoo’d walked ten steps summat stirred abaat i’ her stomach . . . Th’ owd man said as et twisted inside like a live horsehair! Th’ long an’ th’ short o’ et were as hoo didna go to Tidsa Market that day, nay, nor for long enaa afterwards. Hoo grew white an’ flabby, an’ i’ less nor a month were that bad as hoo couldna leave whoam!’
Bateman’s mouth opened. ‘Eh dear!’ he exclaimed. Mrs Olleren-shaw sighed when she saw his consternation.
‘Doctors could do nowt for her,’ she continued; ‘an’ her fowk ’gan to think hoo were deein’. At last someone suggested as th’ wise man as lived Whetstone-way might be o’ sooin service. So they sent for him, an’ he cem, an’ said et were a panicle hoo’d swallowed. Kpanicle, but yo’ll find et i’ no book! An’ next day at th’ edge o’ dark he med ’em build up th’ brewhasse fire wi’ fir baughs, an’ then he tuk th’ lass an’ fas’ned her i’ a chair wi’ ropes, an’ tied her hair to th’ back-bars an’ turned all aat, an’ locked th’ door. He kep’ her afront th’ fire till hoo were well-nigh roasted. Th’ owd man reckoned he were lis’ning aatside an’ her moans were summat fearful!
A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread Page 22
