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Title: Tales of terror

Author: Dick Donovan

Release date: June 10, 2025 [eBook #76261]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Chatto & Windus, 1899

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF
TERROR ***

DICK DONOVAN’S DETECTIVE
STORIES.
Post 8vo. illustrated boards, 2s. each; cloth, 2s. 6d. each.
THE MAN-HUNTER.
CAUGHT AT LAST!
TRACKED AND TAKEN.
A DETECTIVE’S TRIUMPHS.
WHO POISONED HETTY DUNCAN?
IN THE GRIP OF THE LAW.
WANTED!
LINK BY LINK.
FROM INFORMATION RECEIVED.
SUSPICION AROUSED
DARK DEEDS.
RIDDLES READ.
Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each; post 8vo. illustrated boards,
2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each.
TRACKED TO DOOM. With 6 Illustrations by Gordon
Browne.
THE MAN FROM MANCHESTER. With 23 Illustrations
by J. H. Russell.
THE MYSTERY OF JAMAICA TERRACE.
THE CHRONICLES OF MICHAEL DANEVITCH.
Crown 8vo. cloth, 3s. 6d. each.
THE RECORDS OF VINCENT TRILL.
TALES OF TERROR.

London: CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 St. Martin’s Lane, W.C.

TALES OF TERROR

PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON

TALES OF TERROR
BY

DICK DONOVAN
AUTHOR OF

‘A DETECTIVE’S TRIUMPHS’ ‘THE RECORDS OF VINCENT TRILL’

ETC.

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1899

CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE WOMAN WITH THE ‘OILY EYES’ 1
II. THE STORY OF ANNETTE: BEING THE SEQUEL TO
THE WOMAN WITH THE ‘OILY EYES’ 41
III. THE CORPSE LIGHT 51
IV. THE RED LILY 66
V. THE PIRATE’S TREASURE 95
VI. THE LEGEND OF WOLFSPRING 117
VII. THE WHITE RAVEN 131
VIII. WITH FIRE AND DEATH 144
IX. THE SPECTRE OF RISLIP ABBEY 168
X. THE CAVE OF BLOOD 180
XI. A NIGHT OF HORROR 207
XII. THE ASTROLOGER 225
XIII. THE DANCE OF THE DEAD 243
XIV. THE MYSTIC SPELL 256
XV. THE DOOMED MAN 291

TALES OF TERROR

I
THE WOMAN WITH THE ‘OILY EYES’
THE STORY AS TOLD BY DR. PETER HASLAR, F.R.C.S.LOND.
Although often urged to put into print the remarkable story which follows I
have always strenuously refused to do so, partly on account of personal
reasons and partly out of respect for the feelings of the relatives of those
concerned. But after much consideration I have come to the conclusion that
my original objections can no longer be urged. The principal actors are
dead. I myself am well stricken in years, and before very long must pay the
debt of nature which is exacted from everything that lives.
Although so long a time has elapsed since the grim tragedy I am about to
record, I cannot think of it even now without a shudder. The story of the life
of every man and woman is probably more or less a tragedy, but nothing I
have ever heard of can compare in ghastly, weird horror with all the
peculiar circumstances of the case in point. Most certainly I would never
have put pen to paper to record it had it not been from a sense of duty. Long
years ago certain garbled versions crept into the public journals, and though
at the time I did not consider it desirable to contradict them, I do think now
that the moment has come when I, the only living being fully acquainted
with the facts, should make them known, otherwise lies will become
history, and posterity will accept it as truth. But there is still another reason
I may venture to advance for breaking the silence of years. I think in the
interest of science the case should be recorded. I have not always held this
view, but when a man bends under the weight of years, and he sniffs the
mould of his grave, his ideas undergo a complete change, and the opinions
of his youth are not the opinions of his old age. There may be exceptions to
this, but I fancy they must be very few. With these preliminary remarks I
will plunge at once into my story.

It was the end of August 1857 that I acted as best man at the wedding of my
friend Jack Redcar, C.E. It was a memorable year, for our hold on our
magnificent Indian Empire had nearly been shaken loose by a mutiny which
had threatened to spread throughout the whole of India. At the beginning of
1856 I had returned home from India after a three years’ spell. I had gone
out as a young medico in the service of the H.E.I.C., but my health broke
down and I was compelled to resign my appointment. A year later my friend
Redcar, who had also been in the Company’s service as a civil engineer,
came back to England, as his father had recently died and left him a modest
fortune. Jack was not only my senior in years, but I had always considered
him my superior in every respect. We were at a public school together, and
both went up to Oxford, though not together, for he was finishing his final
year when I was a freshman.
Although erratic and a bit wild he was a brilliant fellow; and while I was
considered dull and plodding, and found some difficulty in mastering my
subjects, there was nothing he tackled that he failed to succeed in, and come
out with flying colours. In the early stage of our acquaintance he made me
his fag, and patronised me, but that did not last long. A friendship sprang
up. He took a great liking to me, why I know not; but it was reciprocated,
and when he got his Indian appointment I resolved to follow, and by dint of
hard work, and having a friend at court, I succeeded in obtaining my
commission in John Company’s service. Jack married Maude Vane
Tremlett, as sweet a woman as ever drew God’s breath of life. If I attempted
to describe her in detail I am afraid it might be considered that I was
exaggerating, but briefly I may say she was the perfection of physical
beauty. Jack himself was an exceptionally fine fellow. A brawny giant with
a singularly handsome face. At the time of his wedding he was thirty or
thereabouts, while Maude was in her twenty-fifth year. There was a
universal opinion that a better matched couple had never been brought
together. He had a masterful nature; nevertheless was kind, gentle, and
manly to a degree.
It may be thought that I speak with some bias and prejudice in Jack’s
favour, but I can honestly say that at the time I refer to, he was as fine a
fellow as ever figured as hero in song or story. He was the pink of honour,
and few who really knew him but would have trusted him with their honour,
their fortunes, their lives. This may be strong, but I declare it’s true, and I

am the more anxious to emphasise it because his after-life was in such
marked contrast, and he presents a study in psychology that is not only
deeply interesting, but extraordinary.
The wedding was a really brilliant affair, for Jack had troops of friends, who
vied with each other in marking the event in a becoming manner, while his
bride was idolised by a doting household. Father and mother, sisters and
brothers, worshipped her. She was exceedingly well connected. Her father
held an important Government appointment, and her mother came from the
somewhat celebrated Yorkshire family of the Kingscotes. Students of
history will remember that a Colonel Kingscote figured prominently and
honourably as a royalist during the reign of the unfortunate Charles I.
No one who was present on that brilliant August morning of 1857, when
Jack Redcar was united in the bonds of wedlock to beautiful Maude
Tremlett, would have believed it possible that such grim and tragic events
would so speedily follow. The newly-married pair left in the course of the
day for the Continent, and during their honeymoon I received several
charming letters from Jack, who was not only a diligent correspondent, but
he possessed a power of description and a literary style that made his letters
delightful reading. Another thing that marked this particular correspondence
was the unstinted—I may almost say florid—praise he bestowed upon his
wife. To illustrate what I mean, here is a passage from one of his letters:—
‘I wish I had command of language sufficiently eloquent to
speak of my darling Maude as she should be spoken of. She has
a perfectly angelic nature; and though it may be true that never a
human being was yet born without faults, for the life of me I can
find none in my sweet wife. Of course you will say, old chap,
that this is honeymoon gush, but, upon my soul, it isn’t. I am
only doing scant justice to the dear woman who has linked her
fate with mine. I have sometimes wondered what I have done
that the gods should have blest me in such a manner. For my
own part, I don’t think I was deserving of so much happiness,
and I assure you I am happy—perfectly, deliciously happy. Will
it last? Yes, I am sure it will. Maude will always be to me what
she is now, a flawless woman; a woman with all the virtues that
turn women into angels, and without one of the weaknesses or
one of the vices which too often mar an otherwise perfect

feminine character. I hope, old boy, that if ever you marry, the
woman you choose will be only half as good as mine.’
Had such language been used by anyone else I might have been disposed to
add a good deal more than the proverbial pinch of salt before swallowing it.
But, as a matter of fact, Jack was not a mere gusher. He had a thoroughly
practical, as distinguished from a sentimental, mind, and he was endowed
with exceptionally keen powers of observation. And so, making all the
allowances for the honeymoon romance, I was prepared to accept my
friend’s statement as to the merits of his wife without a quibble. Indeed, I
knew her to be a most charming lady, endowed with many of the qualities
which give the feminine nature its charm. But I would even go a step farther
than that, and declare that Mrs. Redcar was a woman in ten thousand. At
that time I hadn’t a doubt that the young couple were splendidly matched,
and it seemed to me probable that the future that stretched before them was
not likely to be disturbed by any of the commonplace incidents which seem
inseparable from most lives. I regarded Jack as a man of such high moral
worth that his wife’s happiness was safe in his keeping. I pictured them
leading an ideal, poetical life—a life freed from all the vulgar details which
blight the careers of so many people—a life which would prove a blessing
to themselves as well as a joy to all with whom they had to deal.
When they started on their tour Mr. and Mrs. Redcar anticipated being
absent from England for five or six weeks only, but for several reasons they
were induced to prolong their travels, and thus it chanced I was away when
they returned shortly before Christmas of the year of their marriage. My
own private affairs took me to America. As a matter of fact a relative had
died leaving me a small property in that country, which required my
personal attention; the consequence was I remained out of England for
nearly three years.
For the first year or so Jack Redcar wrote to me with commendable
regularity. I was duly apprised of the birth of a son and heir. This event
seemed to put the crown upon their happiness; but three months later came
the first note of sorrow. The baby died, and the doting parents were
distracted. Jack wrote:—
‘My poor little woman is absolutely prostrated, but I tell her we
were getting too happy, and this blow has been dealt to remind

us that human existence must be chequered in order that we may
appreciate more fully the supreme joy of that after-life which we
are told we may gain for the striving. This, of course, is a pretty
sentiment, but the loss of the baby mite has hit me hard. Still,
Maude is left to me, and she is such a splendid woman, that I
ought to feel I am more than blest.’
This was the last letter I ever received from Jack, but his wife wrote at odd
times. Hers were merely gossipy little chronicles of passing events, and
singularly enough she never alluded to her husband, although she wrote in a
light, happy vein. This set me wondering, and when I answered her I never
failed to inquire about her husband. I continued to receive letters from her,
though at long intervals, down to the month of my departure from America,
two years later.
I arrived in London in the winter, and an awful winter it was. London was
indeed a city of dreadful night. Gloom and fog were everywhere.
Everybody one met looked miserable and despondent. Into the public
houses and gin palaces such of the poor as could scratch a few pence
together crowded for the sake of the warmth and light. But in the streets
sights were to be seen which made one doubt if civilisation is the blessing
we are asked to believe it. Starving men, women and children, soaked and
sodden with the soot-laden fog, prowled about in the vain hope of finding
food and shelter. But the well-to-do passed them with indifference, too
intent on their own affairs, and too wrapped in self-interests to bestow
thought upon the great city’s pariahs.
Immediately after my arrival I penned a brief note to Jack Redcar, giving
him my address, and saying I would take an early opportunity of calling, as
I was longing to feel once more the hearty, honest grip of his handshake. A
week later a note was put into my hand as I was in the very act of going out
to keep an appointment in the city. Recognising Mrs. Redcar’s handwriting
I tore open the envelope, and read, with what feelings may be best
imagined, the following lines:—
‘For God’s sake come and see me at once. I am heartbroken and
am going mad. You are the only friend in the world to whom I
feel I can appeal. Come to me, in the name of pity.
‘Maude Redcar.’

I absolutely staggered as I read these brief lines, which were so pregnant
with mystery, sorrow, and hopelessness. What did it all mean? To me it was
like a burst of thunder from a cloudless summer sky. Something was wrong,
that was certain; what that something was I could only vaguely guess at.
But I resolved not to remain long in suspense. I put off my engagement,
important as it was, and hailing a hansom directed the driver to go to
Hampstead, where the Redcars had their residence.
The house was detached and stood in about two acres of ground, and I
could imagine it being a little Paradise in brilliant summer weather; but it
seemed now in the winter murk, as if a heavy pall of sorrow and anguish
enveloped it.
I was shown into an exquisitely furnished drawing-room by an old and ill-
favoured woman, who answered my knock at the door. She gave me the
impression that she was a sullen, deceptive creature, and I was at a loss to
understand how such a woman could have found service with my friends—
the bright and happy friends of three years ago. When I handed her my card
to convey to Mrs. Redcar she impertinently turned it over, and scrutinised
it, and fixed her cold bleared grey eyes on me, so that I was induced to say
peremptorily, ‘Will you be good enough to go to your mistress at once and
announce my arrival?’
‘I ain’t got no mistress,’ she growled. ‘I’ve got a master’; and with this
cryptic utterance she left the room.
I waited a quarter of an hour, then the door was abruptly opened, and there
stood before me Mrs. Redcar, but not the bright, sweet, radiant little woman
of old. A look of premature age was in her face. Her eyes were red with
weeping, and had a frightened, hunted expression. I was so astounded that I
stood for a moment like one dumbfounded; but as Mrs. Redcar seized my
hand and shook it, she gasped in a nervous, spasmodic way:
‘Thank God, you have come! My last hope is in you.’
Then, completely overcome by emotion, she burst into hysterical sobbing,
and covered her face with her handkerchief.
My astonishment was still so great, the unexpected had so completely
paralysed me for the moment, that I seemed incapable of action. But of
course this spell quickly passed, and I regained my self-possession.

‘How is it I find this change?’ I asked. It was a natural question, and the
first my brain shaped.
‘It’s the work of a malignant fiend,’ she sobbed.
This answer only deepened the mystery, and I began to think that perhaps
she was literally mad. Then suddenly, as if she divined my thoughts, she
drew her handkerchief from her face, motioned me to be seated, and
literally flung herself on to a couch.
‘It’s an awful story,’ she said, in a hoarse, hollow voice, ‘and I look to you,
and appeal to you, and pray to you to help me.’
‘You can rely upon my doing anything that lies in my power,’ I answered.
‘But tell me your trouble. How is Jack? Where is he?’
‘In her arms, probably,’ she exclaimed between her teeth; and she twisted
her handkerchief up rope-wise and dragged it backward and forward
through her hand with an excess of desperate, nervous energy. Her answer
gave me a keynote. She had become a jealous and embittered woman. Jack
had swerved from the path of honour, and allowed himself to be charmed
by other eyes to the neglect of this woman whom he had described to me as
being angelic. Although her beauty was now a little marred by tears and
sorrow, she was still very beautiful and attractive, and had she been so
disposed she might have taken an army of men captive. She saw by the
expression on my face that her remark was not an enigma to me, and she
added quickly: ‘Oh, yes, it’s true, and I look to you, doctor, to help me. It is
an awful, dreadful story, but, mind you, I don’t blame Jack so much; he is
not master of himself. This diabolical creature has enslaved him. She is like
the creatures of old that one reads about. She is in possession of some
devilish power which enables her to destroy men body and soul.’
‘Good God! this is awful,’ I involuntarily ejaculated; for I was aghast and
horror-stricken at the revelation. Could it be possible that my brilliant
friend, who had won golden opinions from all sorts and conditions of men,
had fallen from his pedestal to wallow in the mire of sinfulness and
deception.
‘It is awful,’ answered Mrs. Redcar. ‘I tell you, doctor, there is something
uncanny about the whole business. The woman is an unnatural woman. She
is a she-devil. And from my heart I pity and sorrow for my poor boy.’

‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘In Paris with her.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Since a few weeks after our marriage.’
‘Good heavens, you don’t say so!’
‘You may well look surprised, but it’s true. Three weeks after our marriage
Jack and I were at Wiesbaden. As we were going downstairs to dinner one
evening, we met this woman coming up. A shudder of horror came over me
as I looked at her, for she had the most extraordinary eyes I have ever seen.
I clung to my husband in sheer fright, and I noted that he turned and looked
at her, and she also turned and looked at him.
‘“What a remarkable woman,” he muttered strangely, so strangely that it
was as if some other voice was using his lips. Then he broke into a laugh,
and, passing his arm round my waist, said: “Why, my dear little woman, I
believe you are frightened.”
‘“I am,” I said; “that dreadful creature has startled me more than an Indian
cobra would have done.”
‘“Well, upon my word,” said Jack, “I must confess she is a strange-looking
being. Did ever you see such eyes? Why, they make one think of the fairy-
books and the mythical beings who flit through their pages.”
‘During the whole of the dinner-time that woman’s face haunted me. It was
a strong, hard-featured, almost masculine face, every line of which
indicated a nature that was base, cruel, and treacherous. The thin lips, the
drawn nostrils, the retreating chin, could never be associated with anything
that was soft, gentle, or womanly. But it was the eyes that were the
wonderful feature—they absolutely seemed to exercise some magic
influence; they were oily eyes that gleamed and glistened, and they seemed
to have in them that sinister light which is peculiar to the cobra, and other
poisonous snakes. You may imagine the spell and influence they exerted
over me when, on the following day, I urged my husband to leave
Wiesbaden at once, notwithstanding that the place was glorious in its early
autumn dress, and was filled with a fashionable and light-hearted crowd.
But my lightest wish then was law to Jack, so that very afternoon we were

on our way to Homburg, and it was only when Wiesbaden was miles behind
me that I began to breathe freely again.
‘We had been in Homburg a fortnight, and the incident of Wiesbaden had
passed from my mind, when one morning, as Jack and I were on our way
from the Springs, we came face to face with the woman with the oily eyes. I
nearly fainted, but she smiled a hideous, cunning, cruel smile, inclined her
head slightly in token of recognition, and passed on. I looked at my
husband. It seemed to me that he was unusually pale, and I was surprised to
see him turn and gaze after her, and she had also turned and was gazing at
us. Not a word was uttered by either of us, but I pressed my husband’s arm
and we walked rapidly away to our apartments.
‘“It’s strange,” I remarked to Jack as we sat at breakfast, “that we should
meet that awful woman again.”
‘“Oh, not at all,” he laughed. “You know at this time of the year people
move about from place to place, and it’s wonderful how you keep rubbing
shoulders with the same set.”
‘It was quite true what Jack said, nevertheless, I could not help the feeling
that the woman with the oily eyes had followed us to Homburg. If I had
mentioned this then it would have been considered ridiculous, for we had
only met her once, and had never spoken a word to her. What earthly
interest, therefore, could she possibly take in us who were utter strangers to
her. But, looked at by the light of after events, my surmise was true. The
creature had marked Jack for her victim from the moment we unhappily
met on the stairs at Wiesbaden. I tell you, doctor, that that woman is a
human ghoul, a vampire, who lives not only by sucking the blood of men,
but by destroying their souls.’
Mrs. Redcar broke down again at this stage of her narrative, and I
endeavoured to comfort her; but she quickly mastered her feelings
sufficiently to continue her remarkable story.
‘Some days later my husband and I moved along with the throng that
drifted up and down the promenade listening to the band, when we met a
lady whom I had known as a neighbour when I was at home with my
parents. We stopped and chatted with her for some time, until Jack asked us

to excuse him while he went to purchase some matches at a kiosk; he said
he would be by the fountain in ten minutes, and I was to wait for him.
‘My lady friend and I moved along and chatted as women will, and then she
bade me good-night as she had to rejoin her friends. I at once hurried to the
rendezvous at the fountain, but Jack wasn’t there. I waited some time, but
still he came not. I walked about impatiently and half frightened, and when
nearly three-quarters of an hour had passed I felt sure Jack had gone home,
so with all haste I went to our apartments close by, but he was not in, and
had not been in. Half distracted, I flew back to the promenade. It was nearly
deserted, for the band had gone. As I hurried along, not knowing where to
go to, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I was attracted by a laugh—
a laugh I knew. It was Jack’s, and proceeding a few yards further I found
him sitting on a seat under a linden tree with the woman with the oily eyes.
‘“Why, my dear Maude,” he exclaimed, “wherever have you been to? I’ve
hunted everywhere for you.”
‘A great lump came in my throat, for I felt that Jack was lying to me. I
really don’t know what I said or what I did, but I am conscious in a vague
way that he introduced me to the woman, but the only name I caught was
that of Annette. It burnt itself into my brain; it has haunted me ever since.
‘Annette put out her white hand veiled by a silk net glove through which
diamond rings sparkled. I believe I did touch the proffered fingers, and I
shuddered, and I heard her say in a silvery voice that was quite out of
keeping with her appearance:
‘“If I were your husband I should take you to task. Beauty like yours, you
know, ought not to go unattended in a place like this.”
‘Perhaps she thought this was funny, for she laughed, and then patted me on
the shoulder with her fan. But I hated her from that moment—hated her
with a hatred I did not deem myself capable of.
‘We continued to sit there, how long I don’t know. It seemed to me a very
long time, but perhaps it wasn’t long. When we rose to go the promenade
was nearly deserted, only two or three couples remained. The moon was
shining brilliantly; the night wind sighed pleasantly in the trees; but the
beauty of the night was lost upon me. I felt ill at ease, and, for the first time
in my life, unhappy. Annette walked with us nearly to our door. When the

moment for parting came she again offered me the tips of her fingers, but I
merely bowed frigidly, and shrank from her as I saw her oily eyes fixed
upon me.
‘“Ta, ta!” she said in her fatal silvery voice; “keep a watchful guard over
your husband, my dear; and you, sir, don’t let your beautiful little lady stray
from you again, or there will be grief between you.”
‘Those wicked words, every one of which was meant to have its effect, was
like the poison of asps to me; you may imagine how they stung me when I
tell you I was seized with an almost irresistible desire to hurl the full weight
of my body at her, and, having thrown her down, trample upon her. She had
aroused in me such a feeling of horror that very little more would have
begotten in me the desperation of madness, and I might have committed
some act which I should have regretted all my life. But bestowing another
glance of her basilisk eyes upon me she moved off, and I felt relieved;
though, when I reached my room, I burst into hysterical weeping. Jack took
me in his arms, and kissed and comforted me, and all my love for him was
strong again; as I lay with my head pillowed on his breast I felt once more
supremely happy.
‘The next day, on thinking the matter over, I came to the conclusion that my
suspicions were unjust, my fears groundless, my jealousy stupid, and that
my conduct had been rude in the extreme. I resolved, therefore, to be more
amiable and polite to Annette when I again met her. But, strangely enough,
though we remained in Homburg a fortnight longer we did not meet; but I
know now my husband saw her several times.
‘Of course, if it had not been for subsequent events, it would have been said
that I was a victim of strong hysteria on that memorable night. Men are so
ready to accuse women of hysteria because they are more sensitive, and see
deeper than men do themselves. But my aversion to Annette from the
instant I set eyes upon her, and the inferences I drew, were not due to
hysteria, but to that eighth sense possessed by women, which has no name,
and of which men know nothing. At least, I mean to say that they cannot
understand it.’
Again Mrs. Redcar broke off in her narrative, for emotion had got the better
of her. I deemed it advisable to wait. Her remarkable story had aroused all

my interest, and I was anxious not to lose any connecting link of it, for from
the psychological point of view it was a study.
‘Of course, as I have begun the story I must finish it to its bitter end,’ she
went on. ‘As I have told you, I did not see Annette again in Homburg, and
when we left all my confidence in Jack was restored, and my love for him
was stronger than ever if that were possible. Happiness came back to me.
Oh! I was so happy, and thinking I had done a cruel, bitter wrong to Jack in
even supposing for a moment that he would be unfaithful to me. I tried by
every little artifice a woman is capable of to prove my devotion to him.
‘Well, to make a long story short, we continued to travel about for some
time, and finally returned home, and my baby was born. It seemed to me
then as if God was really too good to me. I had everything in the world that
a human being can reasonably want. An angel baby, a brave, handsome
husband, ample means, hosts of friends. I was supremely happy. I thanked
my Maker for it all every hour of my life. But suddenly amongst the roses
the hiss of the serpent sounded. One day a carriage drove up to our door. It
brought a lady visitor. She was shown into our drawing-room, and when
asked for her name made some excuse to the servant. Of course, I hurried
down to see who my caller was, and imagine my horror when on entering
the room I beheld Annette.
‘“My dear Mrs. Redcar,” she gushingly exclaimed, emphasising every
word, “I am so delighted to see you again. Being in London, I could not
resist the temptation to call and renew acquaintances.”
‘The voice was as silvery as ever, and her awful eyes seemed more oily. In
my confusion and astonishment I did not inquire how she had got our
address; but I know that I refused her proffered hand, and by my manner
gave her unmistakably to understand that I did not regard her as a welcome
visitor. But she seemed perfectly indifferent. She talked gaily, flippantly.
She threw her fatal spell about me. She fascinated me, so that when she
asked to see my baby I mechanically rang the bell, and as mechanically told
the servant to send the nurse and baby in. When she came, the damnable
woman took the child from the nurse and danced him, but he suddenly
broke into a scream of terror, so that I rushed forward; but the silvery voice
said:

‘“Oh, you silly little mother. The baby is all right. Look how quiet he is
now.”
‘She was holding him at arm’s length, and gazing at him with her basilisk
eyes, and he was silent. Then she hugged him, and fondled him, and kissed
him, and all the while I felt as if my brain was on fire, but I could neither
speak nor move a hand to save my precious little baby.
‘At last she returned him to his nurse, who at once left the room by my
orders, and then Annette kept up a cackle of conversation. Although it did
not strike me then as peculiar, for I was too confused to have any clear
thought about anything—it did afterwards—she never once inquired about
Jack. It happened that he was out. He had gone away early that morning to
the city on some important business in which he was engaged.
‘At last Annette took herself off, to my intense relief. She said nothing
about calling again; she gave no address, and made no request for me to call
on her. Even had she done so I should not have called. I was only too
thankful she had gone, and I fervently hoped I should never see her again.
‘As soon as she had departed I rushed upstairs, for baby was screaming
violently. I found him in the nurse’s arms, and she was doing her utmost to
comfort him. But he refused to be comforted, and I took him and put him to
my breast, but he still fought, and struggled, and screamed, and his baby
eyes seemed to me to be bulging with horror. From that moment the darling
little creature began to sicken. He gradually pined and wasted, and in a few
weeks was lying like a beautiful waxen doll in a bed of flowers. He was
stiff, and cold, and dead.
‘When Jack came home in the evening of the day of Annette’s call, and I
told him she had been, he did not seem in the least surprised, but merely
remarked:
‘“I hope you were hospitable to her.”
‘I did not answer him, for I had been anything but hospitable. I had not even
invited her to partake of the conventional cup of tea.
‘As our baby boy faded day by day, Jack seemed to change, and the child’s
death overwhelmed him. He was never absolutely unkind to me at that
period, but he seemed to have entirely altered. He became sullen, silent,
even morose, and he spent the whole of his days away from me. When I

gently chided him, he replied that his work absorbed all his attention. And
so things went on until another thunderbolt fell at my feet.
‘One afternoon Jack returned home and brought Annette. He told me that he
had invited her to spend a few days with us. When I urged an objection he
was angry with me for the first time in our married life. I was at once
silenced, for his influence over me was still great, and I thought I would try
and overcome my prejudice for Annette. At any rate, as Jack’s wife I
resolved to be hospitable, and play the hostess with grace. But I soon found
that I was regarded as of very little consequence. Annette ruled Jack, she
ruled me, she ruled the household.
‘You will perhaps ask why I did not rise up in wrath, and, asserting my
position and dignity, drive the wicked creature out of my home. But I tell
you, doctor, I was utterly powerless. She worked some devil’s spell upon
me, and I was entirely under the influence of her will.
‘Her visit stretched into weeks. Our well-tried and faithful servants left.
Others came, but their stay was brief; and at last the old woman who
opened the door to you was installed. She is a creature of Annette’s, and is a
spy upon my movements.
‘All this time Jack was under the spell of the charmer, as I was. Over and
over again I resolved to go to my friends, appeal to them, tell them
everything, and ask them to protect me; but my will failed, and I bore and
suffered in silence. And my husband neglected me; he seemed to find
pleasure only in Annette’s company. Oh, how I fretted and gnawed my
heart, and yet I could not break away from the awful life. I tell you, doctor,
that that woman possessed some strange, devilish, supernatural power over
me and Jack. When she looked at me I shrivelled up. When she spoke, her
silvery voice seemed to sting every nerve and fibre in my body, and he was
like wax in her hands. To me he became positively brutal, and he told me
over and over again that I was spoiling his life. But, though she was a
repulsive, mysterious, crafty, cruel woman, he seemed to find his happiness
in her company.
‘One morning, after a restless, horrible, feverish night, I arose, feeling
strangely ill, and as if I were going mad. I worked myself up almost to a
pitch of frenzy, and, spurred by desperation, I rushed into the drawing-
room, where my husband and Annette were together, and exclaimed to her:

‘“Woman, do you not see that you are killing me? Why have you come
here? Why do you persecute me with your devilish wiles? You must know
you are not welcome. You must feel you are an intruder.”
‘Overcome by the effort this had cost me, I sank down on the floor on my
knees, and wept passionately. Then I heard the silvery voice say, in tones of
surprise and injured innocence:
‘“Well, upon my word, Mrs. Redcar, this is an extraordinary way to treat
your husband’s guest. I really thought I was a welcome visitor instead of an
intruder; but, since I am mistaken, I will go at once.”
‘I looked at her through a blinding mist of tears. I met the gaze of her oily
eyes, but only for a moment, as I cowered before her, shrank within myself,
and felt powerless again. I glanced at my husband. He was standing with his
head bowed, and, as it seemed to me, in a pose of shame and humiliation.
But suddenly he darted at me, and I heard him say: “What do you mean by
creating such a scene as this? You must understand I am master here.” Then
he struck me a violent blow on the head, and there was a long blank.
‘When I came to my senses I was in bed, and the hideous old hag who
opened the door to you was bending over me. It was some little time before
I could realise what had occurred. When I did, I asked the woman where
Mr. Redcar was, and she answered sullenly:
‘“Gone.”
‘“And the —— Annette; where is she?” I asked.
‘“Gone, too,” was the answer.
‘Another blank ensued. I fell very ill, and when my brain was capable of
coherent thought again I learnt that I had passed through a crisis, and my
life had been in jeopardy. A doctor had been attending me, and there was a
professional nurse in the house; but she was a hard, dry, unsympathetic
woman, and I came to the conclusion—wrongly so, probably—she, too,
was one of Annette’s creatures.
‘I was naturally puzzled to understand why none of my relatives and friends
had been to see me, but I was to learn later that many had called, but had
been informed I was abroad with my husband, who had been summoned
away suddenly in connection with some professional matters. And I also

know now that all letters coming for me were at once forwarded to him, and
that any requiring answers he answered.
‘As I grew stronger I made up my mind to keep my own counsel, and not
let any of my friends know of what I had gone through and suffered; for I
still loved my husband, and looked upon him as a victim to be pitied and
rescued from the infernal wiles of the she-demon. When I heard of your
arrival in England, I felt you were the one person in the wide world I could
appeal to with safety, for you can understand how anxious I am to avoid a
scandal. Will you help me? Will you save your old friend Jack? Restore him
to sanity, doctor, and bring him back to my arms again, which will be wide
open to receive him.’
I listened to poor Mrs. Redcar’s story patiently, and at first was disposed to
look upon it as a too common tale of human weakness. Jack Redcar had
fallen into the power of an adventuress, and had been unable to resist her
influence. Such things had happened before, such things will happen again,
I argued with myself. There are certain women who seem capable of
making men mad for a brief space; but under proper treatment they come to
their senses quickly, and blush with shame as they think of their
foolishness. At any rate, for the sake of my old friend, and for the sake of
his poor suffering little wife, I was prepared to do anything in reason to
bring back the erring husband to his right senses.
I told Mrs. Redcar this. I told her I would redress her wrongs if I could, and
fight her battle to the death. She almost threw herself at my feet in her
gratitude. But when I suggested that I should acquaint her family with the
facts, she begged of me passionately not to do so. Her one great anxiety was
to screen her husband. One thing, however, I insisted upon. That was, the
old woman should be sent away, the house shut up, and that Mrs. Redcar
should take apartments in an hotel, so that I might be in touch with her. She
demurred to this at first, but ultimately yielded to my persuasion.
Next I went to the old woman. She was a German Suisse—her name was
Grebert. I told her to pack up her things and clear out at once. She laughed
in my face, and impertinently told me to mind my own business. I took out
my watch and said, ‘I give you half an hour. If you are not off the premises
then, I will call in the police and have you turned out. Any claim you have
on Mrs. Redcar, who is the mistress here—shall be settled at once.’

She replied that she did not recognise my authority, that she had been
placed there by Mr. Redcar, who was her master, and unless he told her to
go she should remain. I made it plain to her that I was determined and
would stand no nonsense. Mr. Redcar had taken himself off, I said; Mrs.
Redcar was his lawful wife, and I was acting for her and on her behalf.
My arguments prevailed, and after some wrangling the hag came to the
conclusion that discretion was the better part of valour, and consented to go
providing we paid her twenty pounds. This we decided to do rather than
have a scene, but three hours passed before we saw the last of the creature.
Mrs. Redcar had already packed up such things as she required, and when I
had seen the house securely fastened up I procured a cab, and conveyed the
poor little lady to a quiet West-end hotel, close to my own residence, so that
I could keep a watchful eye upon her.
Of course, this was only the beginning of the task I had set myself, which
was to woo back the erring husband, if possible, to his wife’s side, and to
restore him to the position of happiness, honour, and dignity from which he
had fallen. I thought this might be comparatively easy, and little dreamed of
the grim events that were to follow my interference.
Three weeks later I was in Paris, and proceeded to the Hotel de l’Univers,
where Mrs. Redcar had ascertained through his bankers her husband was
staying. But to my chagrin, I found he had departed with his companion,
and the address he had given for his letters at the post-office was Potes, in
Spain. As I had taken up the running I had no alternative but to face the
long, dreary journey in pursuit of the fugitives, or confess defeat at the start.
It is not necessary for me to dwell upon that awful journey in the winter
time. Suffice to say I reached my destination in due course.
Potes, it is necessary to explain, is a small town magnificently situated in
the Liebana Valley, in the Asturian Pyrenees, under the shadow of Picos de
Europa. Now, what struck me as peculiar was the fugitives coming to such a
place at that time of the year. Snow lay heavily everywhere. The cold was
intense. For what reason had such a spot been chosen? It was a mystery I
could not hope to solve just then. There was only one small hotel in the
village, and there Annette and Redcar were staying. My first impulse was
not to let them know of my presence, but to keep them under observation
for a time. I dismissed that thought as soon as formed, for I was not a

detective, and did not like the idea of playing the spy. But even had I been
so disposed, there would have been a difficulty about finding
accommodation. Moreover, it was a small place, and the presence of a
foreigner at that time of year must necessarily have caused a good deal of
gossip. The result was I went boldly to the hotel, engaged a room, and then
inquired for Redcar. I was directed to a private room, where I found him
alone. My unexpected appearance startled him, and when he realised who I
was, he swore at me, and demanded to know my business.
He had altered so much that in a crowd I really might have had some
difficulty in recognising him. His face wore a drawn, anxious, nervous look,
and his eyes had acquired a restless, shifty motion, while his hair was
already streaked with grey.
I began to reason with him. I reminded him of our old friendship, and I
drew a harrowing picture of the sufferings of his dear, devoted, beautiful
little wife.
At first he seemed callous; but presently he grew interested, and when I
referred to his wife he burst into tears. Then suddenly he grasped my wrist
with a powerful grip, and said:
‘Hush! Annette mustn’t know this—mustn’t hear. I tell you, Peter, she is a
ghoul. She sucks my blood. She has woven a mighty spell about me, and I
am powerless. Take me away; take me to dear little Maude.’
I looked at him for some moments with a keen professional scrutiny, for his
manner and strange words were not those of sanity. I determined to take
him at his word, and, if possible, remove him from the influence of the
wicked syren who had so fatally lured him.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we will go without a moment’s unnecessary delay. I will see if
a carriage and post-horses are to be had, so that we can drive to the nearest
railway station.’
He assented languidly to this, and I rose with the intention of making
inquiries of the hotel people; but simultaneously with my action the door
opened and Annette appeared. Up to that moment I thought that Mrs.
Redcar had exaggerated in describing her, therefore I was hardly prepared
to find that so far from the description being an exaggeration, it had fallen
short of the fact.

Annette was slightly above the medium height, with a well-developed
figure, but a face that to me was absolutely repellent. There was not a single
line of beauty nor a trace of womanliness in it. It was hard, coarse, cruel,
with thin lips drawn tightly over even white teeth. And the eyes were the
most wonderful eyes I have ever seen in a human being. Maude was right
when she spoke of them as ‘oily eyes.’ They literally shone with a strange,
greasy lustre, and were capable of such a marvellous expression that I felt
myself falling under their peculiar fascination. I am honest and frank
enough to say that, had it been her pleasure, I believe she could have lured
me to destruction as she had lured my poor friend. But I was forearmed,
because forewarned. Moreover, I fancy I had a much stronger will than
Redcar. Anyway, I braced myself up to conquer and crush this human
serpent, for such I felt her to be.
Before I could speak, her melodious voice rang out with the query,
addressed to Jack:
‘Who is this gentleman? Is he a friend of yours?’
‘Yes, yes,’ gasped Jack, like one who spoke under the influence of a
nightmare.
She bowed and smiled, revealing all her white teeth, and she held forth her
hand to me, a delicately shaped hand, with clear, transparent skin, and her
long lithe fingers were bejewelled with diamonds.
I drew myself up, as one does when a desperate effort is needed, and,
refusing the proffered hand, I said:
‘Madame, hypocrisy and deceit are useless. I am a medical man, my name
is Peter Haslar, and Mr. Redcar and I have been friends from youth. I’ve
come here to separate him from your baneful influence and carry him back
to his broken-hearted wife. That is my mission. I hope I have made it clear
to you?’
She showed not the slightest sign of being disturbed, but smiled on me
again, and bowed gracefully and with the most perfect self-possession. And
speaking in a soft gentle manner, which was in such startling contrast to the
woman’s appearance, she said:
‘Oh, yes; thank you. But, like the majority of your countrymen, you display
a tendency to arrogate too much to yourself. I am a Spaniard myself, by

birth, but cosmopolitan by inclination, and, believe me, I do not speak with
any prejudice against your nationality, but I have yet to learn, sir, that you
have any right to constitute yourself Mr. Redcar’s keeper.’
Her English was perfect, though she pronounced it with just a slight foreign
accent. There was no anger in her tones, no defiance. She spoke softly,
silvery, persuasively.
‘I do not pretend to be his keeper, madame; I am his sincere friend,’ I
answered. ‘And surely I need not remind you that he owes a duty to his
lawful wife.’
During this short conversation Jack had sat motionless on the edge of a
couch, his chin resting on his hands, and apparently absorbed with some
conflicting thoughts. But Annette turned to him, and, still smiling, said:
‘I think Mr. Redcar is quite capable of answering for himself. Stand up,
Jack, and speak your thoughts like a man.’
Although she spoke in her oily, insidious way, her request was a peremptory
command. I realised that at once, and I saw as Jack rose he gazed at her, and
her lustrous eyes fixed him. Then he turned upon me with a furious gesture
and exclaimed, with a violence of expression that startled me:
‘Yes, Annette is right. I am my own master. What the devil do you mean by
following me, like the sneak and cur that you are? Go back to Maude, and
tell her that I loathe her. Go; relieve me of your presence, or I may forget
myself and injure you.’
Annette, still smiling and still perfectly self-possessed, said:
‘You hear what your friend says, doctor. Need I say that if you are a
gentleman you will respect his wishes?’
I could no longer control myself. Her calm, defiant, icy manner maddened
me, and her silvery voice seemed to cut down on to my most sensitive
nerves, for it was so suggestive of the devilish nature of the creature. It was
so incongruous when contrasted with her harsh, horribly cruel face. I placed
myself between Jack and her, and meeting her weird gaze, I said, hotly:
‘Leave this room. You are an outrage on your sex; a shame and a disgrace to
the very name of woman. Go, and leave me with my friend, whose reason
you have stolen away.’

She still smiled and was still unmoved, and suddenly I felt myself gripped
in a grip of iron, and with terrific force I was hurled into a corner of the
room, where, huddled up in a heap, I lay stunned for some moments. But as
my senses returned I saw the awful woman smiling still, and she was
waving her long white bejewelled hand before the infuriated Jack, as if she
were mesmerising him; and I saw him sink on to the sofa subdued and
calmed. Then addressing me she said:
‘That is a curious way for your friend to display his friendship. I may be
wrong, but perhaps as a medical man you will recognise that your presence
has an irritating effect on Mr. Redcar, and if I may suggest it, I think it
desirable that you should depart at once and see him no more.’
‘Devil!’ I shouted at her. ‘You have bewitched him, and made him forgetful
of his honour and of what he owes to those who are dear to him. But I will
defeat you yet.’
She merely bowed and smiled, but deigned no reply; and holding her arm to
Jack, he took it, and they passed out of the room. She was elegantly attired.
Her raven hair was fascinatingly dressed in wavy bands. There was
something regal in her carriage, and gracefulness in her every movement;
and yet she filled me with a sense of indefinable horror; a dread to which I
should have been ashamed to own to a little while ago.
I tried to spring up and go after them, but my body seemed a mass of pain,
and my left arm hung limp and powerless. It was fractured below the elbow.
There was no bell in the room, and I limped out in search of assistance. I
made my way painfully along a gloomy corridor, and hearing a male voice
speaking Spanish, I knocked at a door, which was opened by the landlord. I
addressed him, but he shook his head and gave me to understand that he
spoke no English. Unhappily I spoke no Spanish. Then he smiled as some
idea flitted through his mind, and bowing me into the room he motioned me
to be seated, and hurried away. He returned in about five minutes
accompanied by Annette, whom he had brought to act as interpreter. I was
almost tempted to fly at her and strangle her where she stood. She was
undisturbed, calm, and still smiled. She spoke to the man in Spanish, then
she explained to me that she had told him I had slipped on the polished
floor, and falling over a chair had injured myself, and she had requested him
to summon the village surgeon if need be.

Without waiting for me to reply she swept gracefully out of the room.
Indeed, I could not reply, for I felt as if I were choking with suppressed
rage. The landlord rendered me physical assistance and took me to my
bedroom, where I lay down on the bed, feeling mortified, ill, and crushed.
Half an hour later a queer-looking old man, with long hair twisted into
ringlets, was ushered into my room, and I soon gathered that he was the
village surgeon. He spoke no English, but I explained my injury by signs,
and he went away, returning in a little while with the necessary bandages
and splints, and he proceeded rather clumsily to bandage my broken arm. I
passed a cruel and wretched night. My physical pain was great, but my
mental pain was greater. The thought forced itself upon me that I had been
defeated, and that the fiendish, cunning woman was too much for me. I felt
no resentment against Jack. His act of violence was the act of a madman,
and I pitied him. For hours I lay revolving all sorts of schemes to try and get
him away from the diabolical influence of Annette. But though I could hit
upon nothing, I firmly resolved that while my life lasted I would make
every effort to save my old friend, and if possible restore him to the bosom
of his distracted wife.
The case altogether was a very remarkable one, and the question naturally
arose, why did a man so highly gifted and so intelligent as Jack Redcar
desert his charming, devoted, and beautiful wife, to follow an adventuress
who entirely lacked physical beauty. Theories without number might have
been suggested to account for the phenomenon, but not one would have
been correct. The true answer is, Annette was not a natural being. In the
ordinary way she might be described as a woman of perverted moral
character, or as a physiological freak, but that would have been rather a
misleading way of putting it. She was, in short, a human monstrosity. By
that I do not mean to say her body was contorted, twisted, or deformed. But
into her human composition had entered a strain of the fiend; and I might
go even further than this and say she was more animal than human. Though
in whatever way she may be described, it is certain she was an anomaly—a
human riddle.
The morning following the outrage upon me found me prostrated and ill. A
night of racking pain and mental distress had told even upon my good
constitution. The situation in which I found myself was a singularly
unfortunate one. I was a foreigner in an out-of-the-way place, and my want

of knowledge of Spanish, of course, placed me at a tremendous
disadvantage.
The landlord came to me and brought his wife, and between them they
attended to my wants, and did what they could for my comfort. But they
were ignorant, uncultivated people, only one remove from the peasant class,
and I realised that they could be of little use to me. Now the nearest
important town to this Alpine village was Santander, but that was nearly a
hundred miles away. As everyone knows who has been in Spain, a hundred
miles, even on a railway, is a considerable journey; but there was no railway
between Santander and Potes. An old ramshackle vehicle, called a
diligence, ran between the two places every day in the summer and twice a
week in the winter, and it took fourteen hours to do the journey. Even a
well-appointed carriage and pair could not cover the distance under eight
hours, as the road was infamous, and in parts was little better than a mule
track. I knew that there was a British consul in Santander, and I was hopeful
that if I could communicate with him he might be able to render me some
assistance. In the meantime I had to devise some scheme for holding
Annette in check and saving my friend. But in my crippled and prostrate
condition I could not do much. While lying in my bed, and thus revolving
all these things in my mind, the door gently opened and Annette glided in
—‘glided’ best expresses her movement, for she seemed to put forth no
effort. She sat down beside the bed and laid her hand on mine.
‘You are ill this morning,’ she said softly. ‘This is regrettable, but you have
only yourself to blame. It is dangerous to interfere in matters in which you
have no concern. My business is mine, Mr. Redcar’s is his, and yours is
your own, but the three won’t amalgamate. Jack and I came here for the
sake of the peace and quietness of these solitudes; unhappily you intrude
yourself and disaster follows.’
Her voice was as silvery as ever. The same calm self-possessed air
characterised her; but in her oily eyes was a peculiar light, and I had to turn
away, for they exerted a sort of mesmeric influence over me, and I am
convinced that had I not exerted all my will power I should have thrown
myself into the creature’s arms. This is a fact which I have no hesitation in
stating, as it serves better than any other illustration to show what a
wonderful power of fascination the remarkable woman possessed. Naturally
I felt disgusted and enraged, but I fully recognised that I could not fight the

woman openly; I must to some extent meet her with her own weapons. She
was cunning, artful, insidious, pitiless, and the basilisk-like power she
possessed not only gave her a great advantage but made her a very
dangerous opponent. At any rate, having regard to all the circumstances and
my crippled condition, I saw that my only chance was in temporising with
her. So I tried to reason with her, and I pointed out that Redcar had been
guilty of baseness in leaving his wife, who was devoted to him.
At this point of my argument Annette interrupted me, and for the first time
she displayed something like passion, and her voice became hard and
raucous.
‘His wife,’ she said with a sneer of supreme contempt. ‘A poor fool, a
fleshly doll. At the precise instant I set my eyes upon her for the first time I
felt that I should like to destroy her, because she is a type of woman who
makes the world common-place and reduce all men to a common level. She
hated me from the first and I hated her. She would have crushed me if she
could, but she was too insignificant a worm to do that, and I crushed her.’
This cold, brutal callousness enraged me; I turned fiercely upon her and
exclaimed:
‘Leave me, you are a more infamous and heartless wretch than I believed
you to be. You are absolutely unworthy the name of woman, and if you
irritate me much more I may even forget that you have a woman’s shape.’
She spoke again. All trace of passion had disappeared. She smiled the
wicked insidious smile which made her so dangerous, and her voice
resumed its liquid, silvery tones:
‘You are very violent,’ she said gently, ‘and it will do you harm in your
condition. But you see violence can be met with violence. The gentleman
you are pleased to call your friend afforded you painful evidence last night
that he knows how to resent unjustifiable interference, and to take care of
himself. I am under his protection, and there is no doubt he will protect me.’
‘For God’s sake, leave me!’ I cried, tortured beyond endurance by her
hypocrisy and wickedness.
‘Oh, certainly, if you desire it,’ she answered, as she rose from her seat.
‘But I thought I might be of use. It is useless your trying to influence Mr.
Redcar—absolutely useless. His destiny is linked with mine, and the human

being doesn’t exist who can sunder us. With this knowledge, you will do
well to retrace your steps; and, if you like, I will arrange to have you
comfortably conveyed to Santander, where you can get a vessel. Anyway,
you will waste your time and retard your recovery by remaining here.’
‘I intend to remain here, nevertheless,’ I said, with set teeth. ‘And, what is
more, madame, when I go my friend Redcar will accompany me.’
She laughed. She patted my head as a mother might pat the head of her
child. She spoke in her most insidious, silvery tones.
‘We shall see, mon cher—we shall see. You will be better to-morrow.
Adieu!’
That was all she said, and she was gone. She glided out of the room as she
had glided in.
I felt irritated almost into madness for some little time; but as I reflected, it
was forced upon me that I had to deal with a monster of iniquity, who had
so subdued the will of her victim, Redcar, that he was a mere wooden
puppet in her hand. Force in such a case was worse than useless. What I had
to do was to try and circumvent her, and I tried to think out some plan of
action.
All that day I was compelled to keep my bed, and, owing to the clumsy way
in which my arm had been bandaged, I suffered intolerable pain, and had to
send for the old surgeon again to come and help me to reset the fracture. I
got some ease after that, and a dose of chloral sent me to sleep, which
continued for many hours. When I awoke I managed to summon the
landlord, and he brought me food, and a lantern containing a candle so that
I might have light. And, in compliance with my request, he made me a large
jug of lemonade, in order that I could have a drink in the night, for I was
feverish, and my throat was parched. He had no sooner left the room than
Annette entered to inquire if she could do anything for me. I told her that I
had made the landlord understand all that I desired, and he would look after
me, so she wished me good-night and left. Knowing as I did that sleep was
very essential in my case, I swallowed another, though smaller, dose of
chloral, and then there was a blank.
How long I slept I really don’t know; but suddenly, in a dazed sort of way, I
saw a strange sight. The room I occupied was a long, somewhat meagrely

furnished, one. The entrance door was at the extreme end, opposite the bed.
Over the doorway hung a faded curtain of green velvet. By the feeble light
of the candle lantern I saw this curtain slowly pulled on one side by a white
hand; then a face peered in; next Annette entered. Her long hair was
hanging down her back, and she wore a nightdress of soft, clinging
substance, which outlined her figure. With never a sound she moved lightly
towards the bed, and waved her hand two or three times over my face. I
tried to move, to utter a sound, but couldn’t; and yet what I am describing
was no dream, but a reality. Slightly bending over me, she poured from a
tiny phial she carried in the palm of her hand a few drops of a slightly acrid,
burning liquid right into my mouth, and at that instant, as I believe, it
seemed to me as if a thick, heavy pall fell over my eyes, for all was
darkness.
I awoke hours later. The winter sun was shining brightly into my room. I
felt strangely languid, and had a hot, stinging sensation in my throat. I felt
my pulse, and found it was only beating at the rate of fifty-eight beats in the
minute. Then I recalled the extraordinary incident of the previous night,
which, had it not been for my sensations, I might have regarded as a bad
dream, the outcome of a disturbed state of the brain. But as it was, I hadn’t
a doubt that Annette had administered some subtle and slow poison to me.
My medical knowledge enabled me to diagnose my own case so far, that I
was convinced I was suffering from the effects of a potent poisonous drug,
the action of which was to lower the action of the vital forces and weaken
the heart. Being probably cumulative, a few doses more or less, according
to the strength of the subject, and the action of the heart would be so
impeded that the organ would cease to beat. Although all this passed
through my brain, I felt so weak and languid that I had neither energy nor
strength to arouse myself, and when the landlord brought me in some food I
took no notice of him. I knew that this symptom of languor and indifference
was very characteristic of certain vegetable poisons, though what it was
Annette had administered to me I could not determine.
Throughout that day I lay in a drowsy, dreamy state. At times my brain was
clear enough, and I was able to think and reason; but there were blanks,
marked, no doubt, by periods of sleep.
When night came I felt a little better, and I found that the heart’s action had
improved. It was steadier, firmer, and the pulse indicated sixty-two beats.

Now I had no doubt that if it was Annette’s intention to bring about my
death slowly she would come again that night, and arousing myself as well
as I could, and summoning all my will power, I resolved to be on the watch.
During the afternoon I had drunk milk freely, regarding it as an antidote,
and when the landlord visited me for the last time that evening I made him
understand that I wanted a large jug of milk fresh from the cow, if he could
get it. He kept cows of his own; they were confined in a chalet on the
mountain side, not far from his house, so that he was able to comply with
my request. I took a long draught of this hot milk, which revived my
energies wonderfully, and then I waited for developments. I had allowed my
watch to run down, consequently I had no means of knowing the time. It
was a weary vigil, lying there lonely and ill, and struggling against the
desire for sleep.
By-and-by I saw the white hand lift the curtain again, and Annette entered,
clad as she was on the previous night. When she came within reach of me I
sprang up in the bed and seized her wrist.
‘What do you want here?’ I demanded angrily. ‘Do you mean to murder
me?’
Her imperturbability was exasperating. She neither winced nor cried out,
nor displayed the slightest sign of surprise. She merely remarked in her soft
cooing voice, her white teeth showing as her thin lips parted in a smile:
‘You are evidently restless and excited to-night, and it is hardly generous of
you to treat my kindly interest in such a way.’
‘Kindly interest!’ I echoed with a sneer, as, releasing her wrist, I fell back
on the bed.
‘Yes; you haven’t treated me well, and you are an intruder here.
Nevertheless, as you are a stranger amongst strangers, and cannot speak the
language of the country, I would be of service to you if I could. I have come
to see if you have everything you require for the night.’
‘And you did the same last night,’ I cried in hot anger, for, knowing her
infamy and wickedness, I could not keep my temper.
‘Certainly,’ she answered coolly; ‘and I found you calmly dozing, so left
you.’

‘Yes—after you had poured poison down my throat,’ I replied.
She broke into a laugh—a rippling laugh, with the tinkle of silver in it—and
she seemed hugely amused.
‘Well, well,’ she said; ‘it is obvious, sir, you are not in a fit state to be left
alone. Your nerves are evidently unstrung, and you are either the victim of a
bad dream or some strange delusion. But there, there; I will pardon you.
You are not responsible just at present for your language.’
As she spoke she passed her soft white hand over my forehead. There was
magic in her touch, and it seemed as if all my will had left me, and there
stole over me a delightful sense of dreamy languor. I looked at her, and I
saw her strange eyes change colour. They became illumined, as it were, by a
violet light that fascinated me so that I could not turn from her. Indeed, I
was absolutely subdued to her will now. Everything in the room faded, and
I saw nothing but those marvellous eyes glowing with violet light which
seemed to fill me with a feeling of ecstasy. I have a vague idea that she kept
passing her hand over my face and forehead; that she breathed upon my
face; then that she pressed her face to mine, and I felt her hot breath in my
neck.
Perhaps it will be said that I dreamed all this. I don’t believe it was a dream.
I firmly and honestly believe that every word I have written is true.
Hours afterwards my dulled brain began to awake to things mundane. The
morning sun was flooding the room, and I was conscious that somebody
stood over me, and soon I recognised the old surgeon, who had come to see
that the splints and bandages had not shifted. I felt extraordinarily weak,
and I found that my pulse was beating very slowly and feebly. Again I had
the burning feeling in the throat and a strange and absolutely indescribable
sensation at the side of the neck. The old doctor must have recognised that I
was unusually feeble, for he went to the landlord, and returned presently
with some cognac which he made me swallow, and it picked me up
considerably.
After his departure I lay for some time, and tried to give definite shape to
vague and dreadful thoughts that haunted me, and filled me with a shrinking
horror. That Annette was a monster in human form I hadn’t a doubt, and I
felt equally certain that she had designs upon my life. That she had now

administered poison to me on two occasions seemed to me beyond
question, but I hesitated to believe that she was guilty of the unspeakable
crime which my sensations suggested.
At last, unable longer to endure the tumult in my brain, I sprang out of bed,
rushed to the looking-glass, and examined my neck. I literally staggered
back, and fell prostrate on the bed, overcome by the hideous discovery I had
made. It had the effect, however, of calling me back to life and energy, and I
made a mental resolution that I would, at all hazards, save my friend,
though I clearly recognised how powerless I was to cope with the awful
creature single-handed.
I managed to dress myself, not without some difficulty; then I summoned
the landlord, and made him understand that I must go immediately to
Santander at any cost. My intention was to invoke the aid of the consul
there. But the more I insisted, the more the old landlord shook his head. At
length, in desperation, I rushed from the house, hoping to find somebody
who understood French or English. As I almost ran up the village street I
came face to face with a priest. I asked him in English if he spoke my
language, but he shook his head. Then I tried him with French, and to my
joy he answered me that he understood a little French. I told him of my
desire to start for Santander that very day, but he said that it was impossible,
as, owing to the unusual hot sun in the daytime there had been a great
melting of snow, with the result that a flooded river had destroyed a portion
of the road; and though a gang of men had been set to repair it, it would be
two or three days before it was passable.
‘But is there no other way of going?’ I asked.
‘Only by a very hazardous route over the mountains,’ he answered. And he
added that the risk was so great it was doubtful if anyone could be found
who would act as guide. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘you seem very ill and
weak. Even a strong man might fail, but you would be certain to perish
from exhaustion and exposure.’
I was bound to recognise the force of his argument. It was a maddening
disappointment, but there was no help for it. Then it occurred to me to take
the old priest into my confidence and invoke his aid. Though, on second
thoughts, I hesitated, for was it not possible—nay, highly probable—that if
I told the horrible story he and others would think I was mad. Annette was a

Spanish woman, and it was feasible to suppose she would secure the ear of
those ignorant villagers sooner than I should. No, I would keep the ghastly
business to myself for the present at any rate, and wait with such patience as
I could command until I could make the journey to Santander. The priest
promised me that on the morrow he would let me know if the road was
passable, and, if so, he would procure me a carriage and make all the
preparations for the journey. So, thanking him for his kindly services, I
turned towards the hotel again. As I neared the house I observed two
persons on the mountain path that went up among the pine trees. The sun
was shining brilliantly; the sky was cloudless, the air crisp and keen. The
two persons were Annette and Redcar. I watched them for some minutes
until they were lost to sight amongst the trees.
Suddenly an irresistible impulse to follow them seized me. Why I know not.
Indeed, had I paused to reason with myself it would have seemed to me
then a mad act, and that I was risking my life to no purpose. But I did not
reason. I yielded to the impulse, though first of all I went to my room, put
on a thicker pair of boots, and armed myself with a revolver which I had
brought with me. During my extensive travelling about America a revolver
was a necessity, and by force of habit I put it up with my clothes when
packing my things in London for my Continental journey.
Holding the weapon between my knees, I put a cartridge in each barrel, and,
providing myself with a stick in addition, I went forth again and began to
climb the mountain path. I was by no means a sanguinary man; even my
pugnacity could only be aroused after much irritation. Nevertheless, I knew
how to defend myself, and in this instance, knowing that I had to deal with
a woman who was capable of any crime, and who, I felt sure, would not
hesitate to take my life if she got the chance, I deemed it advisable to be on
my guard against any emergency that might arise. As regards Redcar, he
had already given me forcible and painful evidence that he could be
dangerous; but I did not hold him responsible for his actions. I regarded him
as being temporarily insane owing to the infernal influence the awful
woman exercised over him. Therefore it would only have been in the very
last extremity that I should have resorted to lethal weapons as a defence
against him. My one sole aim, hope, desire, prayer, was to rescue him from
the spell that held him in thrall and restore him to his wife, his honour, his
sanity. With respect to Annette, it was different. She was a blot on nature, a

disgrace to humankind, and, rather than let her gain complete ascendency
over me and my friend, I would have shot her if I had reason to believe she
contemplated taking my life. It might have involved me in serious trouble
with the authorities at first, for in Spain the foreigner can hope but for little
justice. I was convinced, however, that ultimately I should be exonerated.
Such were the thoughts that filled my mind as I painfully made my way up
the steep mountain side. My fractured arm was exceedingly painful. Every
limb in my body ached, and I was so languid, so weak that it was with
difficulty I dragged myself along. But worse than all this was an all but
irresistible desire to sleep, the result, I was certain, of the poison that had
been administered to me. But it would have been fatal to have slept. I knew
that, and so I fought against the inclination with all my might and main, and
allowed my thoughts to dwell on poor little Maude Redcar, waiting desolate
and heartbroken in London for news. This supplied me with the necessary
spur and kept me going.
The trees were nearly all entirely bare of snow. It had, I was informed, been
an unusually mild season, and at that time the sun’s rays were very
powerful. The path I was pursuing was nothing more than a rough track
worn by the peasants passing between the valley and their hay chalets
dotted about the mountain. Snow lay on the path where it was screened
from the sun by the trees. I heard no sound, saw no sign of those I was
seeking save here and there footprints in the snow. I frequently paused and
listened, but the stillness was unbroken save for the subdued murmur of
falling water afar off.
In my weakened condition the exertion I had endured had greatly distressed
me; my heart beat tumultuously, my pulses throbbed violently, and my
breathing was stertorous. I was compelled at last to sit down and rest. I was
far above the valley now, and the pine trees were straggling and sparse. The
track had become very indistinct, but I still detected the footsteps of the
people I was following. Above the trees I could discern the snow-capped
Picos de Europa glittering in the brilliant sun. It was a perfect Alpine scene,
which, under other circumstances, I might have revelled in. But I felt
strangely ill, weak, and miserable, and drowsiness began to steal upon me,
so that I made a sudden effort of will and sprang up again, and resumed the
ascent.

In a little time the forest ended, and before me stretched a sloping plateau
which, owing to its being exposed to the full glare of the sun, as well as to
all the winds that blew, was bare of snow. The plateau sloped down for
probably four hundred feet, then ended abruptly at the edge of a precipice.
How far the precipice descended I could not tell from where I was, but far
far below I could see a stream meandering through a thickly wooded gorge.
I took the details of the scene in with a sudden glance of the eye, for another
sight attracted and riveted my attention, and froze me with horror to the
spot. Beneath a huge boulder which had fallen from the mountain above,
and lodged on the slope, were Annette and Redcar. He was lying on his
back, she was stretched out beside him, and her face was buried in his neck.
Even from where I stood I could see that he was ghastly pale, his features
drawn and pinched, his eyes closed. Incredible as it may seem, horrible as it
sounds, it is nevertheless true that that hellish woman was sucking away his
life blood. She was a human vampire, and my worst fears were confirmed.
I am aware that an astounding statement of this kind should not be made
lightly by a man in my position. But I take all the responsibility of it, and I
declare solemnly that it is true. Moreover, the sequel which I am able to
give to this story more than corroborates me, and proves Annette to have
been one of those human problems which, happily for the world, are very
rare, but of which there are several well authenticated cases.
As soon as I fully realised what was happening I drew my revolver from the
side pocket of my jacket and fired, not at Annette, but in the air; my object
being to startle her so that she would release her victim. It had the desired
effect. She sprang up, livid with rage. Blood—his blood—was oozing from
the sides of her mouth. Her extraordinary eyes had assumed that strange
violet appearance which I had seen once before. Her whole aspect was
repulsive, revolting, horrible beyond words. Rooted to the spot I stood and
gazed at her, fascinated by the weird, ghastly sight. In my hand I still held
the smoking revolver, levelled at her now, and resolved if she rushed
towards me to shoot her, for I felt that the world would be well rid of such a
hideous monster. But suddenly she stooped, seized her unfortunate victim in
her arms, and tore down the slope, and when the edge of the precipice was
reached they both disappeared into space.
The whole of this remarkable scene was enacted in the course of a few
seconds. It was to me a maddening nightmare. I fell where I stood, and

remembered no more until, hours afterwards, I found myself lying in bed at
the hotel, and the old surgeon and the priest sitting beside me. Gradually I
learnt that the sound of the shot from the revolver, echoing and re-echoing
in that Alpine region, had been heard in the village, and some peasants had
set off for the mountain to ascertain the cause of the firing. They found me
lying on the ground still grasping the weapon, and thinking I had shot
myself they carried me down to the hotel.
Naturally I was asked for explanations when I was able to talk, and I
recounted the whole of the ghastly story. At first my listeners, the priest and
the doctor, seemed to think I was raving in delirium, as well they might, but
I persisted in my statements, and I urged the sending out of a party to search
for the bodies. If they were found my story would be corroborated.
In a short time a party of peasants started for the gorge, which was a wild,
almost inaccessible, ravine through which flowed a mountain torrent
amongst the débris and boulders that from time to time had fallen from the
rocky heights. After some hours of searching the party discovered the
crushed remains of Jack Redcar. His head had been battered to pieces
against the rocks as he fell, and every bone in his body was broken. The
precipice over which he had fallen was a jagged, scarred, and irregular wall
of rock at least four thousand feet in height. The search for Annette’s body
was continued until darkness compelled the searchers to return to the
village, which they did bringing with them my poor friend’s remains. Next
day the search was resumed, and the day after, and for many days, but with
no result. The woman’s corpse was never found. The theory was that
somewhere on that frightful rock face she had been caught by a projecting
pinnacle, or had got jammed in a crevice, where her unhallowed remains
would moulder into dust. It was a fitting end for so frightful a life.
Of course an official inquiry was held—and officialism in Spain is
appalling. It was weeks and weeks before the inevitable conclusion of the
tribunal was arrived at, and I was exonerated from all blame. In the
meantime Redcar’s remains were committed to their eternal rest in the
picturesque little Alpine village churchyard, and for all time Potes will be
associated with that grim and awful tragedy. Why Annette took her victim
to that out-of-the-way spot can only be guessed at. She knew that the death
of her victim was only a question of weeks, and in that primitive and
secluded hamlet it would arouse no suspicion, she being a native of Spain.

It would be easy for her to say that she had taken her invalid husband there
for the benefit of his health, but unhappily the splendid and bracing air had
failed to save his life. In this instance, as in many others, her fiendish
cunning would have enabled her to score another triumph had not destiny
made me its instrument to encompass her destruction.
For long after my return to England I was very ill. The fearful ordeal I had
gone through, coupled with the poison which Annette had administered to
me, shattered my health; but the unremitting care and attention bestowed
upon me by my old friend’s widow pulled me through. And when at last I
was restored to strength and vigour, beautiful Maude Redcar became my
wife.
Note by the Author.—The foregoing story was suggested by a
tradition current in the Pyrenees, where a belief in ghouls and
vampires is still common. The same belief is no less common
throughout Styria, in some parts of Turkey, in Russia, and in
India. Sir Richard Burton deals with the subject in his ‘Vikram
and the Vampire.’ Years ago, when the author was in India, a
poor woman was beaten to death one night in the village by a
number of young men armed with cudgels. Their excuse for the
crime was that the woman was a vampire, and had sucked the
blood of many of their companions, whom she had first lured to
her by depriving them of their will power by mesmeric
influence.

II
SEQUEL TO THE WOMAN WITH THE ‘OILY
EYES’
THE STORY OF ANNETTE
FROM OFFICIAL RECORDS
At the time the inquiry was held into the circumstances of Jack Redcar’s
death, the authorities deemed it their duty to find out something of
Annette’s past history. In this they were aided by certain documents
discovered amongst her belongings, and, by dint of astute and patient
investigation, they elicited the following remarkable facts. Her real name
was Isabella Ribera, and she was born in a little village in the Sierra
Nevada, of Andalusia. Her mother was a highly respectable peasantwoman,
of a peculiarly romantic disposition, and fond of listening to and reading
weird and supernatural stories. Her father was also a peasant, but
intellectual beyond his class. By dint of hard work, he acquired a
considerable amount of land and large numbers of cattle, and ultimately
became the mayor of his village.
There were two peculiarities noticed about Isabella Ribera when she was
born. She had an extraordinary amount of back hair, and the lids of her eyes
remained fast sealed until she was a year old. An operation was at first
talked about, but the child was examined by a doctor of some repute in the
nearest town, and he advised against the operation, saying that it was better
to let nature take her course. When the girl was in her thirteenth month she
one day suddenly opened her eyes, and those who saw them were
frightened. Some people said that they were seal’s eyes, others that they
were the eyes of a snake, and others, again, that ‘the devil looked through
them.’ The superstitious people in the village urged the parents to consult
the priest, and this was done, with the result that the infant was subjected to
a religious ceremony, with a view to exorcising the demon which was
supposed to have taken possession of her.

As the girl grew she displayed amazing precocity. When she was only four
she was more like a grown woman in her acts and ways than a child, and
the intuitive knowledge she exhibited only served to increase the
superstitious dread with which she inspired people. One day, when she was
nearly five, her father had a pig killed. The girl witnessed the operation, and
seemed to go almost mad with delight. And suddenly, to the horror and
consternation of those looking on, she threw herself on the dying animal
and began to drink the blood that flowed from the cut throat. Somebody
snatched her up and ran screaming with her to her mother, who was
distracted when she heard the story.
The incident, of course, soon became known all over the village, and indeed
far beyond it, and a fierce hatred of the child seized upon the people. The
consequence was, the parents had to keep a very watchful eye over her.
They were seriously advised to have the girl strangled, and her body burnt
to ashes with wood that had been blessed and consecrated by the priests.
Fearing that an attempt would be made upon her life by the villagers,
Isabella’s parents secretly conveyed her away and took her to Cordova,
where she was placed in the care of the mother superior of a convent.
At this place she was carefully trained and taught, but was regarded as an
unnatural child. She seemed to be without heart, feeling, or sentiment. Her
aptitude for learning was looked upon as miraculous, and a tale of horror or
bloodshed afforded her an infinite amount of enjoyment.
When she was a little more than twelve she escaped from her guardians and
disappeared.
For a long time no trace of her was forthcoming, then it became known that
she had joined a band of gipsies, and gained such a dominating influence
and power over them, that she was made a queen and married a young man
of the tribe. A month afterwards he was found dead one morning in his tent.
The cause of his death remained a mystery, but it was noticed that there was
a peculiar blue mark at the side of his neck, from which a drop or two of
blood still oozed.
A few weeks after her husband’s death, Isabella, queen of the gipsies,
announced to her tribe that she was going to sever herself from them for a
time and travel all over Europe. Where she went to during the succeeding
two years will never be known; but she was next heard of in Paris, where

she was put upon her trial, charged with having caused the death of a man
whom she alleged was her husband. She was then known as Madame
Ducoudert. The husband had died in a very mysterious manner. He seemed
to grow bloodless, and gradually faded away. And after his death certain
signs suggested poison. An autopsy, however, failed to reveal any
indications of recognised poisons. Nevertheless madame was tried, but no
evidence was forthcoming to convict her, and she was acquitted.
Almost immediately afterwards she quitted Paris with plenty of money, her
husband, who was well off, having left her all his property. The Paris police,
through their agents and spies, ascertained that she proceeded direct to
Bordeaux, where, in a very short time, she united herself to a handsome
young man, the only son of an exceedingly wealthy Bordeaux wine-
merchant. She had changed her name at this stage to Marie Tailleux. She
had a well-developed figure, an enormous quantity of jet black hair, and
perfect teeth. In other respects she was considered to be ugly, by some even
repulsive. And yet she exercised a fatal fascination over men, though
women feared and hated her.
She went from Bordeaux to London with the wine-merchant’s son, and six
months later the English people were treated to a sensation. ‘Madame and
Monsieur Tailleux’ travelled extensively about England and Scotland.
Monsieur fell ill, soon after arriving, of some nameless disease. His illness
was characterised by prostration, languor, bloodlessness. He consulted
several doctors, who prescribed for him without effect.
The pair at last took up their residence at a very well-known metropolitan
hotel, where they lived in great style, spent money lavishly, and were
supposed to be people of note. But one morning monsieur was found dead
in bed, and as no doctor had been treating him for some time, and the cause
of death could not be certified, an inquest was ordered and a post-mortem
became necessary. Those who made the examination had their suspicions
aroused. They believed there had been foul play—at any rate, the man had
died of poison. The police were communicated with: result, the arrest of
madame, and columns and columns of sensational reports in the papers.
Amongst madame’s belongings was found a little carved ebony box
containing twelve receptacles for twelve tiny phials. Some of these phials
were empty, others full of liquid that varied in colour; that is, in one phial it

was yellow, in another red, in another green, in another blue, and yet
another held what seemed to be clear water.
The chemical analysis of the contents of the stomach quite failed to justify
the suspicions of poison. But the blood had a peculiar, watery appearance;
the heart was flabby and weak. Madame accounted for possession of the
phials by saying they contained gipsy medicine of great efficacy in certain
diseases. There was such a small quantity in each phial as to make analysis
practically impossible; certain animals, however, were treated with some of
the contents, and seemed actually to improve under the treatment. Under the
circumstances, of course, there was nothing for it but to release madame, as
the magistrate said there was no case to go before a jury.
It is worth while to quote the following description of the woman at this
time. It appeared in a report in the Times.
‘The prisoner is a most extraordinary looking woman, and appears to be
possessed of some wonderful magnetic power, which half fascinates one. It
is difficult to say wherein this power lies, unless it be in her eyes. They are
certainly remarkable eyes, that have a peculiar, glistening appearance like
oil. Then her voice is a revelation. Until she speaks one would be disposed
to say the voice of such a harsh-featured woman would be hard, raucous,
and raspy. But its tones are those of a silver bell, or a sweet-toned flute. Her
self-possession is also marvellous, and she smiles sweetly and fascinatingly.
Somehow or another she gives one the impression that she has some of the
attributes of the sirens of old, who were said to lure men to their
destruction. Possibly this is doing the woman an injustice; but it is difficult
to resist the idea. Her hands, too, are in striking contrast to her general
physique. They are long, thin, lithe, and white. Taken altogether, she cannot
certainly be described as an ordinary type of woman, and we should be
disposed to say that, allied to great intelligence, was a subtle cunning and a
cruelty of disposition that might make her dangerous.’
This description was written during the time the woman was a prisoner. The
writer showed that he had a keen insight, and had he but known some of her
past history he would probably have written in a much more pronounced
way.
‘Madame Tailleux’ was discharged for the want of legal evidence, and
Madame Tailleux soon afterwards left England and went to America, where

she became ‘Miss Anna Clarkson’; and though nobody knew anything at all
about her, she had no difficulty in making her way into so-called Society;
but not as an associate and companion of women, who shunned and hated
her as she hated them; but men followed her, as men are alleged to have
followed Circe. Indeed, in some respects, the classical description of Circe
with her magic and potions might apply to Isabella Ribera, with the many
aliases.
In a very little while Phineas Miller fell a victim to her potent spells.
Phineas was a young man, a stockbroker, and rich. The twain journeyed to
Florida, from whence Phineas wrote to an intimate friend that he was
strangely ill, and he believed the climate was affecting him. He looked like
a corpse, he said. He was languid. He took no interest in anything. He
suffered from a peculiar prostration, and found a difficulty in moving about.
Yet he experienced no pain, and at times sank into a dreamy state that was
pleasant. He thought, however, as soon as he left that part of the country he
would be all right.
He was doomed, however, never to leave that part of the country. He went
out one day with Miss Anna Clarkson, and an old negro, to shoot in the
swamps. They had a boat which was in charge of the negro. That evening,
Miss Clarkson returned alone. She was drenched and covered with slime
and mud. There had been an accident. The boat had capsized by striking
against a sunken tree. They were all thrown into the water. She managed to
cling to the boat, and ultimately to right it, but her companions disappeared.
The negro, she thought, was taken by a crocodile.
A search-party went out to try and recover the bodies. The negro was never
found, Miller was. He presented an extraordinary appearance, and those
who examined him said he had not died by drowning. This theory, however,
found no favour. Men were often drowned in the swamps, which swarmed
with alligators and crocodiles, huge snakes, and other repulsive things.
When a man once got into the water he had no chance. It was a perfect
miracle how Miss Clarkson escaped. ‘Poor thing, she must have had an
awful time of it.’
It is true that crocodiles, alligators, and snakes did swarm in the swamps,
and the remarkable thing was that Miller’s body was recovered. Much

sympathy was shown for Miss Clarkson; Miller was duly buried and
forgotten in a week.
Amongst the lady’s most pronounced sympathisers was a Mr. Lambert
Lennox, an Englishman engaged in fruit-farming. He was about forty-five,
a widower with two daughters and a son. It was generally agreed that he
was one of the finest men in Florida. He was an athlete. He stood six feet
two in his stockings. His health was perfect. It was his boast that he had
never been laid up a day with illness.
Mr. Lennox had some business to transact in Jamaica, West Indies, and
sailed for that island in one of the trading vessels. In the same vessel went
‘poor’ Miss Clarkson. A month or two later Mr. Lennox, Jun., received from
Mr. Lennox, Sen., a letter dated from Jamaica, in the West Indies. Amongst
much other news the writer told his son that he had not been well. He had a
strange anæmic appearance, felt weak and languid, had no energy, suffered
from unquenchable thirst, and was constantly falling asleep suddenly, often
at the most inopportune moments. He had consulted a doctor, who was of
opinion that the climate of Jamaica didn’t suit him, and he advised him to
get away as soon as possible. ‘I shall therefore be home in about six weeks,’
Mr. Lennox added. But in the meantime he departed for his long home. Mr.
Lambert Lennox died somewhat suddenly one morning, and was buried in
the evening. The doctor who had been attending him certified that he had
succumbed to low fever. The next mail that went out bore the sad
intelligence to his family, and people marvelled much when they heard that
handsome Lambert Lennox, the man with the iron constitution, had slipped
away so quickly, more particularly as long residence in Florida had inured
him to a hot climate and miasma.
It was found difficult to trace Miss Clarkson’s movements during the next
two or three years, but there were grounds for believing that she travelled
extensively, and amongst other places visited India, and in this connection
there was a somewhat vague and legendary story told. At a hill station a
strange and mysterious woman put in an appearance. She was thought to be
either a Spaniard or a Portuguese. She was known as Mademoiselle
Sassetti, though why ‘Mademoiselle,’ if Spanish or Portuguese, was not
explained. But that is a detail.

This mysterious lady claimed to have occult powers. She could read
anyone’s future. She could perform miracles. The women kept away from
her because they were afraid of her, though there was no definite statement
as to how this fear arose. But the men showed no fear, as became them, and
amongst others who consulted her was a handsome, much beloved young
military officer. His frequent visits to the sorceress caused a good deal of
talk, as it was bound to do in an Indian hill station. Grey-bearded men
shook their heads sadly, and wise and virtuous women turned up their noses
and muttered mysterious interjections such as ‘Ah!’ ‘Oh!’ ‘Umph.’
One day the station was startled by a report that the young officer had been
found dead in a jungle in one of the valleys. He had been bitten by a cobra,
so the report said, for there was a peculiar little blue mark at the side of his
neck.
If the virtuous ones didn’t actually say it served him right, they thought it;
and the grey beards looked more knowing than ever, and mumbled that the
young officer had been dining somewhere not wisely but too well, and had
mistaken the jungle for his bedroom, and gone to sleep, otherwise how did
the cobra manage to bite him in the neck.
It seemed a plausible theory. Anyway it got over a difficulty, and it brought
an unpleasant little scandal to a tragic and abrupt end. So the virtuous ones
went about their many occupations again, and the atmosphere was purer
when it was known that the sorceress had disappeared as mysteriously as
she had come.
The next direct evidence we got was that under the name of Isabella Rodino
the adventuress turned up in Rome, where she rented a small but expensive
villa in the fashionable Via Porta Pia. Everyone who knows Rome knows
how exclusive society is, but while Isabella Rodino made no attempt to be
received by Roman society she attracted to her villa some of the male
representatives of the best families in the city. Amongst these gentlemen
was the scion of one of the oldest Roman houses.
Now it may be said boldly here, and that without any reflections, that the
young gentlemen of Rome, as of most other continental cities, are allowed a
good deal more latitude than would be accorded to the same class in, say,
cold-blooded, unromantic, prosaic, and commonplace London, whose soot
and grime, somehow, seem to grind their way into people’s brains and

hearts. Anyway the young gentleman referred to, whose baptismal name
was Basta, did not at first provoke any very severe criticism, but he was
destined ultimately to give the Romans a sensation to talk about for the
proverbial nine days, for one Sunday morning a humble fisherman, having
some business on the Tiber, fished out of that classic river the stark body of
the scion. Over Rome flew the news, and those who loved him, and looked
to him to uphold the honour and dignity of his family, were horror-stricken.
Now, it’s a very curious thing that his distracted relatives firmly believed
that the young prodigal had in a moment of remorse, after a night’s
debauch, flung himself into eternity via the Tiber, and so mighty was their
pride that they used their wealth, their influence, and their power to stifle
inquiry, and caused a report to be circulated that Basta had met his end
through accident. It is no less curious that the family doctor who examined
the body was of opinion that there was something mysterious about the
lad’s death, for he certainly had not died by drowning, and on one side of
the neck was a peculiar little bluish puncture. But as the family persisted in
their view, the doctor, not wishing to lose their influential patronage,
observed a discreet silence.
A week later, however, an agent of the police called on Isabella Rodino, and
did something more than hint that it was desirable that within twenty-four
hours she should leave Rome as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. The
result of this functionary’s call was that Isabella Rodino journeyed to
Florence by that night’s mail train. It was known that she only sojourned
two days in the fair city on the Arno.
After that there is another hiatus of something like two years in her known
career, and it is not easy to fill it up. And this brings us to that fatal night at
Wiesbaden, when ill-starred Jack Redcar met the enchantress on the hotel
stairs. From that point to the moment when, her rôle being finished, she
disappeared for ever from the ken of men, the reader of the story can fill in
for himself. She played out her last act under the name of Annette. In
selecting her many names she seemed actuated by a fine sense of poetic
euphony, and in selecting her victims she was guided by a ‘damnable’
discrimination.
‘Annette,’ as we will now call her, was a human riddle, and she illustrates
for the millionth time the trite adage that ‘Truth is stranger than Fiction,’

besides which she presents the world with an object lesson in the study of
the occult.

III
THE CORPSE LIGHT
My name is John Patmore Lindsay. By profession I am a medical man, and
a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, and Member of the Royal
College of Physicians, London. I am also the author of numerous medical
works, the best known, perhaps, being ‘How to Keep in Good Health and
Live Long.’ I was educated at one of the large public schools, and took my
degree at Oxford. I have generally been regarded as ‘a hard-headed man,’
and sceptical about all phenomena that were not capable of being explained
by rational and known laws. Mysticism, occultism, spiritualism, and the
like only served to excite my ridicule; and I entertained anything but a
flattering opinion of those people who professed belief in such things. I was
pleased to think it argued a weakness of mind.
I have referred to the few foregoing facts about myself because I wish to
make it clear that I do not belong to that class of nervous and excitable
people who fall a prey to their own fancies; conjure up shapes and scenes
out of their imaginings, and then vow and declare that they have been
confronted with stern realities. What I am about to relate is so marvellous,
so weird and startling, that I am fain to begin my story in a half apologetic
way; and even now, as I dwell upon it all, I wonder why I of all men should
have been subjected to the unnatural and unearthly influence. But so it is,
and though in a sense I am only half convinced, I no longer scoff when
somebody reminds me that there is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt
of in our philosophy.
But to my story, and when it is told the reader can judge for himself how
powerful must have been the effect of what I witnessed, when it could
induce a man of my mental fibre to commit to paper so astounding a
narrative as the one I now pen. It is about twenty years ago that I took up a
practice in the old-fashioned and picturesque little town of Brinton-on-sea.
At that time there was no railway into Brinton, the nearest station being
some seven or eight miles away. The result was, the town still retained a
delightful old-time air, while the people were as primitive and old-fashioned

as their town. Nevertheless, Brinton was far ahead of its neighbours, and,
though in a purely agricultural district, was enterprising and business-like,
while its weekly Tuesday market brought an enormous influx of the
population of the district for miles around, and very large sums of money
changed hands. Being the chief town of the parish, and boasting of a very
curious and ancient church, and a still more ancient market cross, to say
nothing of several delightful old hostelries, and a small though excellent
museum of local curiosities, consisting principally of Roman remains and
fossils, for which the district was renowned, it attracted not only the
antiquary and the gourmand, but artists, tourists, and lovers of the
picturesque, as well as those in search of quietude and repose. The nearest
village was High Lea, about three miles away. Between the two places was
a wide sweep of magnificent rolling down, delightful at all times, but
especially so in the summer. Many an ancient farmhouse was dotted about,
with here and there a windmill. The down on the seaside terminated in a
high headland, from which a splendid lighthouse sent forth its warning
beams over the fierce North Sea. Second only in conspicuousness to this
lighthouse was an old and half-ruined windmill, known all over the country
side as ‘The Haunted Mill.’
When I first went to live in Brinton this mill early attracted my attention,
for it was one of the most picturesque old places of its kind I had ever seen;
and as I had some artistic instincts, and could sketch with, as my too
flattering friends said, ‘no mean ability,’ the haunted mill appealed to me. It
stood on rising ground, close to the high-road that ran between Brinton and
High Lea. I gathered that there had been some dispute about the ownership,
and, as is usually the case, the suckers of the harpies of the law had fastened
upon it, so to speak, and drained all its vitality away after the manner of
lawyers generally. The old-fashioned, legal luminaries of the country were a
slow-going set, and for over a quarter of a century that disputed claim had
remained unsettled; and during that long period the old mill had been
gradually falling into ruin. The foundations had from some cause sunk,
throwing the main building out of the perpendicular. Part of the roof had
fallen in, and the fierce gales of a quarter of a century had battered the sails
pretty well to match-wood. A long flight of wooden steps led up to the
principal door, but these steps had rotted away in places, and the door itself
had partly fallen inwards. Needless to say, this mill had become the home of
bats and owls, and, according to the yokels, of something more fearsome

than either. It was a forlorn and mournful-looking place, anyway, even in
the full blaze of sunshine; but seen in moonlight its appearance was
singularly weird, and well calculated to beget in the rustic mind a feeling of
horror, and to produce a creepy and uncanny sensation in anyone
susceptible to the influence of outre appearances. To me it did not appeal in
any of these aspects. I saw in it only subject matter for an exceedingly
effective picture, and yet I am bound to confess that even when transferred
to board or canvas there was a certain grim suggestiveness of things
uncanny, and I easily understood how the superstitious and unreasoning
rustic mind was awed into a belief that this mouldering old mill was
haunted by something more creepy and harrowing than bats and owls.
Anyway, I heard wonderful tales, at which I laughed, and when I learned
that the country people generally gave the mill a wide berth at night, I
blamed them for their stupidity. But it was a fact that worthy, and in other
respects intelligent, farmers and market folk coming or going between
Brinton and High Lea after dark preferred the much longer and dangerous
route by the sea cliffs, even in the wildest weather.
I have dwelt thus long on the ‘Haunted Mill’ because it bulks largely in my
story, as will presently be seen, and I came in time to regard it with scarcely
less awe than the rustics did.
It was during the second year of my residence in Brinton that a young man
named Charles Royce came home after having been absent at sea for three
years. Royce’s people occupied Gorse Hill Farm, about two miles to the
south of Brinton. Young Charley, a fine, handsome, but rather wild
youngster, had, it appears, fallen desperately in love with Hannah Trowzell,
who was a domestic in the employ of the Rector of the parish. But
Charley’s people did not approve of his choice, and, thinking to cure him,
packed him off to sea, and after an absence of three years and a month the
young fellow, bronzed, hearty, more rollicking and handsome than ever,
returned to his native village. I had known nothing of Charles Royce or his
history up to the day of his return; but it chanced on that very day I had to
pay a professional visit to the Rectory, and the Rector pressed me to lunch
with him. Greatly interested in all his parishioners, and knowing something
of the private history of most of the families in his district, the rev.
gentleman very naturally fell to talking about young Royce, and he told me
the story, adding, ‘Hannah is a good girl, and I think it’s rather a pity

Charley’s people objected to his courting her. I believe she would have
made him a capital wife.’
‘Has she given him up entirely?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, and is engaged to Silas Hartrop, whose father owns the fishing
smack the “North Sea Beauty.” I’ve never had a very high opinion of Silas.
I’m afraid he is a little too fond of skittles and beer. However, Hannah
seems determined to have him in spite of anything I can say, so she must
take her course. But I hope she will be able to reform him, and that the
marriage will be a happy one. I really shouldn’t be a bit surprised, however,
if the girl took up with her old lover again, for I have reason to know she
was much attached to him, and I fancy Charley, if he were so minded, could
easily influence her to throw Silas overboard.’
This little story of love and disappointment naturally interested me, for in a
country town the affairs of one’s neighbours are matter of greater moment
than is the case in a big city.
So it came to pass that a few weeks after Charley’s return it was pretty
generally known that, even as the Rector had suggested it might be, young
Royce and pretty Hannah Trowzell were spooning again, and Silas had
virtually been told to go about his business. It was further known that Silas
had taken his dismissal so much to heart that he had been seeking
consolation in the beer-pot. Of course, folk talked a good deal, and most of
them sympathised with Silas, and blamed Hannah. Very soon it began to be
bruited about that Royce’s people no longer opposed any objections to the
wooing, and that in consequence Hannah and Charley were to become
husband and wife at Christmas, that was in about seven weeks’ time. A
month of the time had passed, and the ‘askings’ were up in the parish
church, when one day there went forth a rumour that Charles Royce was
missing. Rumour took a more definite shape a few hours later when it was
positively stated that two nights previously Charles had left his father’s
house in high spirits and the best of health to visit Hannah, and walk with
her, as she was going into the town to make some purchases. On his way he
called at the ‘Two Waggoners,’ a wayside inn, where he had a pint of beer
and purchased an ounce of tobacco. From the time he left the inn, all trace
of him was lost, and he was seen no more. Hannah waited his coming until
long past the appointed hour, and when he failed to put in an appearance,

she became angry and went off to the town by herself. Next day her anger
gave place to anxiety when she learnt that he had left his home to visit her,
and had not since returned; and anxiety became alarm when two and three
days slipped by without bringing any tidings of the truant. On the night that
he left his home, the weather was very tempestuous, and it had been wild
and stormy since. It was therefore suggested that on leaving the ‘Two
Waggoners’ he might have got confused when he reached the common,
which he had to cross to get to the Rectory; and as there were several pools
and treacherous hollows on the common, it was thought he had come to
grief, but the most diligent search failed to justify the surmise.
Such an event as this was well calculated to cause a sensation, not only in
Brinton and its neighbourhood, but throughout the county. Indeed, for many
days it was a common topic of conversation, and at the Brinton weekly
market the farmers and the rustics dwelt upon it to the exclusion of other
things; and, of course, everybody, or nearly everybody, had some wonderful
theory of his or her own to account for the missing man’s disappearance.
One old lady, who every week for twenty years had trudged in from a
village five miles off with poultry and eggs for the Brinton market, declared
her belief that young Royce had been spirited away, and she recommended
an appeal to a wondrous wise woman, locally known as ‘Cracked Moll,’ but
whose reputation for solving mysteries and discovering lost persons and
things was very great. Ultimately Royce’s people did call in the services of
this ancient fraud, but without any result. And despite wide publicity and
every effort on the part of the rural and county police, to say nothing of a
hundred and one amateur detectives, the mystery remained unsolved.
Charles Royce had apparently disappeared from off the face of the earth,
leaving not a trace behind.
In the process of time the nine days’ wonder gave place to something else,
and excepting by those directly interested in him, Charles Royce was
forgotten. Hannah took the matter very seriously to heart, and for a while
lay dangerously ill. Silas Hartrop, who was much affected by his
disappointment with regard to Hannah, went to the dogs, as the saying is,
and drank so heavily that it ended in an attack of delirium tremens. I was
called in to attend him, and had hard work to pull him through. On his
recovery his father sent him to an uncle at Yarmouth, who was in the fishing
trade, and soon afterwards news came that young Hartrop had been

drowned at sea. He was out in the North Sea in his uncle’s fishing smack,
and, though nobody saw him go, it was supposed that he fell overboard in
the night. This set the local tongues wagging again for a time, but even the
affairs of Brinton could not stand still because the ne’er-do-weel Silas
Hartrop was drowned. So sympathy was expressed with his people, and
then the affair was dismissed.
About two years later I received an urgent message late one afternoon to
hasten with all speed to High Lea, to attend to the Squire there, who had
been taken suddenly and, as report said, seriously ill. I had had rather a
heavy day of it, as there had been a good deal of sickness about for some
time past, and it had taken me several hours to get through my list of
patients. I had just refreshed myself with a cup of tea and was about to
enjoy a cigar when the messenger came. Telling him to ride back as quickly
as possible and say that I was coming, I busied myself with a few important
matters which had to be attended to, as I might be absent for some hours,
and then I ordered my favourite mare, Princess, to be saddled.
I set off from Brinton soon after seven. It was a November night, bitterly
cold, dark as Erebus, while every now and then violent squalls swept the
land from seaward. Princess knew the road well, so I gave the mare her
head, and she went splendidly until we reached the ruined mill, when
suddenly she wheeled round with such abruptness that, though I was a good
horseman, I was nearly pitched from the saddle. At the same moment I was
struck in the face by something that seemed cold and clammy. I thought at
first it was a bat, but remembered that bats do not fly in November; an owl,
but an owl would not have felt cold and clammy. However, I had little time
for thought, as my attention had to be given to the mare. She seemed
disposed to bolt, and was trembling with fear. Then, to my intense
astonishment, I noticed what seemed to be a large luminous body lying on
the roadway. It had the appearance of a corpse illuminated in some
wonderful and mysterious manner. Had it not been for the fright of my mare
I should have thought I was the victim of some optical delusion; but
Princess evidently saw the weird object, and refused to pass it. So
impressed was I with the idea that a real and substantial body was lying on
the road, notwithstanding the strange unearthly light, that I slipped from the
saddle, intending to investigate the matter, when suddenly it disappeared,
and the cold and clammy something again struck me in the face.

I confess that for the first time in my life I felt a strange, nervous,
unaccountable fear. I say ‘unaccountable’ because it would have been
difficult for me to have given any explanation of my fear. Why and of what
was I afraid? Now, whatever the phenomenon was, there was the hard, stern
fact to face that my horse had seen what I had seen, and was terrified. There
was something strangely uncanny about the whole business, and when a
terrific squall, bringing with it sleet and rain, came howling from the sea, it
seemed to emphasise the uncanniness, and the ruined mill, looming gaunt
and grim in the darkness, caused me to shake with an involuntary shudder.
The next moment I was trying to laugh myself out of my nervousness.
‘Princess and I,’ I mentally argued, ‘have been the victims of some
atmospheric delusion.’ That was all very well, but the something cold and
clammy that struck me in the face, and which may have struck the mare in
the face also, was no atmospheric delusion. With an alacrity I did not often
display, I sprang into the saddle, spoke some encouraging words to the
mare, for she was still trembling, and when she bounded forward, and the
haunted mill was behind me, I experienced a positive sense of relief.
I found my patient at High Lea in a very bad way. He was suffering from an
attack of apoplexy, and though I used all my skill on his behalf he passed
away towards midnight. His wife very kindly offered me a bed for the
night, but as I had important matters to attend to early in the morning I
declined the hospitality, though I was thankful for a glass or two of
generous port wine and some sandwiches. It was half-past twelve when I
left the house on my return journey. The incident by the haunted mill had
been put out of my head by the case I had been called upon to attend, but as
I mounted my mare the groom, who had brought her round from the stable,
said, ‘It be a bad night, doctor, for riding; the kind o’ night when dead
things come out o’ their graves.’
I laughed, and replied:
‘Tom, lad, I am surprised to hear you talk such rubbish. I thought you had
more sense than that.’
‘Well, I tell ’ee what, doctor; if I had to ride to Brinton to-night I’d go by
the cliffs and chance being drowned, rather than pass yon old mill.’
These words for the moment unnerved me, and I honestly confess that I
resolved to go by the cliffs, dangerous as the road was in the dark.

Nevertheless, I laughed at Tom’s fears, and ridiculed him, though when I
left the squire’s grounds I turned the mare’s head towards the cliffs. In a few
minutes I was ridiculing myself.
‘John Patmore Lindsay,’ I mentally exclaimed, ‘you are a fool. All your life
you have been ridiculing stories of the supernatural, and now, at your time
of life, are you going to allow yourself to be frightened by a bogey? Shame
on you.’
I bucked up, grew bold, and thereupon altered my course, and got into the
high-road again.
There had been a slight improvement in the weather. It had ceased to rain,
but the wind had settled down into a steady gale, and screeched and
screamed over the moorland with a demoniacal fury. The darkness,
however, was not so intense as it was, and a star here and there was visible
through the torn clouds. But it was an eerie sort of night, and I was
strangely impressed with a sense of my loneliness. It was absolutely
unusual for me to feel like this, and I suggested to myself that my nerves
were a little unstrung by overwork and the anxiety the squire’s illness had
caused me. And so I rode on, bowing my head to the storm, while the mare
stepped out well, and I anticipated that in little more than half an hour I
should be snug in bed. As we got abreast of the haunted mill the mare once
more gibbed, and all but threw me, and again I was struck in the face by the
cold clammy something.
I have generally prided myself on being a bold man, but my boldness had
evaporated now, and I almost think my hair rose on end as I observed that
the illuminated corpse was lying in the roadway again; but now it appeared
to be surrounded by a lake of blood. It was the most horrible, weird,
marrow-curdling sight that ever human eyes looked upon. I tried to urge
Princess forward, but she was stricken with terror, and, wheeling right
round, was setting off towards High Lea again. But once more I was struck
in the face by the invisible something, and its coldness and clamminess
made me shudder, while there in front of us lay the corpse in the pool of
blood. The mare reared and plunged, but I got her head round, determining
to make a wild gallop for Brinton and leave the horrors of the haunted mill
behind. But the corpse was again in front of us, and I shrank back almost
appalled as the something once more touched my face.

I cannot hope to describe what my feelings were at this supreme moment. I
don’t believe anything human could have daunted me; but I was confronted
by a supernatural mystery that not only terrified me but the mare I was
riding. Whichever way I turned, that awful, ghastly object confronted me,
and the blow in the face was repeated again and again.
How long I endured the unutterable horrors of the situation I really don’t
know. Possibly the time was measured by brief minutes. It seemed to me
hours. At last my presence of mind returned. I dismounted, and reasoned
with myself that, whatever the apparition was, it had some import. I soothed
the mare by patting her neck and talking to her, and I determined then to try
and find a solution of the mystery. But now a more wonderful thing
happened. The corpse, which was still made visible by the unearthly light,
rose straight up, and as it did so the blood seemed to flow away from it in
great, gurgling streams, for I solemnly declare that I distinctly heard
gurgling sounds. The figure glided past me, and a sense of extraordinary
coldness made me shiver. Slowly and gracefully the shining corpse glided
up the rotting steps of the old mill, and disappeared through the doorway.
No sooner had it gone than the mill itself seemed to glow with
phosphorescent light, and to become transparent, and I beheld a sight that
took my breath away. I am disposed to think that for some moments my
brain became so numbed that insensibility ensued, for I am conscious of a
blank. When the power of thought returned, I was still holding the bridle of
the mare, and she was cropping the grass at her feet. The mill loomed
blackly against the night sky. It had resumed its normal appearance again.
The wind shrieked about it. The ragged scud raced through the heavens, and
the air was filled with the sounds of the raging wind. At first I was inclined
to doubt the evidence of my own senses. I tried to reason myself into a
belief that my imagination had played me a trick; but I didn’t succeed,
although the mystery was too profound for my fathoming. So I mounted the
mare, urged her to her fastest pace, galloped into Brinton, and entered my
house with a feeling of intense relief.
Thoroughly exhausted by the prolonged physical and mental strain I had
endured, I speedily sank into a deep though troubled slumber as soon as I
got into bed. I was unusually late in rising the next day. I found that I had
no appetite for breakfast. Indeed, I felt ill and out of sorts; and, though I
busied myself with my professional duties, I was haunted by the strange

incidents of the preceding night. Never before in the whole course of my
career had I been so impressed, so unnerved, and so dispirited. I wanted to
believe that I was still as sceptical as ever, but it was no use. What I had
seen might have been unearthly; but I had seen it, and it was no use trying
to argue myself out of that fact. The result was, in the course of the
afternoon I called on my old friend, Mr. Goodyear, who was chief of the
county constabulary. He was a strong-minded man, and, like myself, a
hardened sceptic about all things that smacked of the supernatural.
‘Goodyear,’ I said, ‘I’m out of sorts, and I want you to humour a strange
fancy I have. Bring one of your best men, and come with me to the haunted
mill. But first let me exact from you a pledge of honour that, if our journey
should result in nothing, you will keep the matter secret, as I am very
sensitive to ridicule.’
He looked at me in amazement, and then, as he burst into a hearty laugh,
exclaimed:
‘I say, my friend, you are over-working yourself. It’s time you got a locum
tenens, and took a holiday.’
I told him that I agreed with him; nevertheless, I begged him to humour me,
and accompany me to the mill. At last he reluctantly consented to do so, and
an hour later we drove out of the town in my dog-cart. There were four of
us, as I took Peter, my groom, with me. We had provided ourselves with
lanterns, but Goodyear’s man and Peter knew nothing of the object of our
journey.
When we got abreast of the mill I drew up, and giving the reins to Peter, I
alighted, and Goodyear did the same. Taking him on one side, I said, ‘I have
had a vision, and unless I am the victim of incipient madness we shall find a
dead body in the mill.’
The light of the dog-cart was shining full on his face, and I saw the
expression of alarm that my words brought.
‘Look here, old chap,’ he said in a cheery, kindly way, as he put his arm
through mine, ‘you are not going into that mill, but straight home again.
Come, now, get into the cart, and don’t let’s have any more of this
nonsense.’

I felt disposed to yield to him, and had actually placed my foot on the step
to mount, when I staggered back and exclaimed—
‘My God! am I going mad, or is this a reality?’
Once again I had been struck in the face by the cold clammy something;
and I saw Goodyear suddenly clap his hand to his face as he cried out
—‘Hullo, what the deuce is that?’
‘Aha,’ I exclaimed exultantly, for I no longer thought my brain was giving
way, ‘you have felt it too?’
‘Well, something cold and nasty-like struck me in the face. A bat, I expect.
Confound ’em.
‘Bats don’t fly at this time of the year,’ I replied.
‘By Jove, no more they do.’
I approached him, and said in a low tone—
‘Goodyear, this is a mystery beyond our solving. I am resolved to go into
that mill.’
He was a brave man, though for a moment or two he hesitated; but on my
insisting he consented to humour me, and so we lit the lantern, and leaving
the groom in charge of the horse and trap, I, Goodyear, and his man made
our way with difficulty up the rotting steps, which were slimy and sodden
with wet. As we entered the mill an extraordinary scene of desolation and
ruin met our gaze as we flashed the light of the lantern about. In places the
floor had broken away, leaving yawning chasms of blackness. From the
mouldering rafters huge festoons of cobwebs hung. The accumulated dust
and dampness of years had given them the appearance of cords. And oh,
how the wind moaned eerily through the rifts and crannies and broken
windows! If ever there was a place on this earth where evil spirits might
dwell it was surely that ghoul-haunted old mill. The startling aspect of the
place impressed us all, perhaps me more than the other two. We advanced
gingerly, for the floor was so rotten we were afraid it would crumble
beneath our feet.
My companions were a little bewildered, I think, and were evidently at a
loss to know what we had come there for. But some strange feeling
impelled me to seek for something; though if I had been asked to define that

something, for the life of me I could not have done it. Forward I went,
however, taking the lead, and holding the lantern above my head so that its
rays might fall afar. But they revealed nothing save the rotting floor and
slimy walls. A ladder led to the upper storey, and I expressed my intention
of mounting it. Goodyear tried to dissuade me, but I was resolute, and led
the way. The ladder was so creaky and fragile that it was not safe for more
than one to be on it at a time. When I reached the second floor and drew
myself up through the trap, I am absolutely certain I heard a sigh. You may
say it was the wind. I swear it was not. The wind was moaning drearily
enough, but the sigh was a distinctive note, and unmistakable. As I turned
the lantern round so that its light might sweep every hole and corner of the
place, I noticed what seemed to be a sack full of something lying in a
corner. I approached and touched it with my foot, and drew back in alarm,
for touch and sound told me it contained neither corn nor chaff. I waited
until my companions had joined me. Then I said to Goodyear, ‘Unless I am
mistaken there is something dreadful in that sack.’
He stooped and placed his hand on the sack, and I saw him start back. In
another moment he recovered himself, and whipping out his knife cut the
string which fastened up the mouth of the sack, and revealed a human skull
with the hair and shrivelled mummified flesh still adhering to it.
‘Great heavens!’ he exclaimed, ‘here is a human body.’
We held a hurried conversation, and decided to leave the ghastly thing
undisturbed until the morrow. So we scuttled down as fast as we could, and
went home. I did not return to the mill again myself. My part had been
played. Investigation made it absolutely certain that the mouldering remains
were those of poor Charley Royce, and it was no less absolutely certain that
he had been foully murdered. For not only was there a bullet-hole in the
skull, and a bullet inside, but his throat had been cut. It was murder horrible
and damnable. The verdict of the coroner’s jury pronounced it murder, but
there was no evidence to prove who had done the deed. Circumstances,
however, pointed to Charley’s rival, Silas Hartrop. Was it a guilty
conscience that drove him to drink? And did the Furies who avenge such
deeds impel him on that dark and stormy night in the North Sea to end the
torture of his accursed earthly life? Who can tell? The sea holds its secrets,
and not a scrap of legal evidence could be obtained. But though the law
declined the responsibility of fixing the guilt of the dark deed on Silas, there

was a consensus of opinion that he was the guilty party. It was a mystery,
but the greatest mystery of all was that I, the sceptic, should have been
selected by some supernatural power to be the instrument for bringing the
foul crime to light. For myself, I attempt no explanation. I have told a true
story. Let those who can explain it. I admit now that ‘there are more things
in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.’

IV
‘RED LILY’
On one of the wildest nights for which the Bay of Biscay is notorious, the
sailing ship ‘Sirocco’ was ploughing her way under close-reefed topsails
across that stormy sea. The ‘Sirocco’ was a large, full-rigged vessel, bound
from Bombay towards England, her destination being London. She had a
mixed cargo, though a large percentage of it was composed of jute. Four
months had passed since she cleared from her port of lading, and was towed
out of the beautiful harbour of Bombay in a dead calm. For many days after
the tug left her the ‘Sirocco’ did nothing but drift with the current. She was
as ‘a painted ship upon a painted ocean.’ No breath came out of the sultry
heavens to waft her towards her haven in far-away England. It was a bad
beginning to the voyage. The time was about the middle of August, and all
on board were anxiously looking forward to reaching their destination in
time to spend Christmas at home. But as August wore out and September
came in, and still the horrid calms continued, pleasant anticipations gave
place to despair, for many a thousand leagues of watery wastes had to be
sailed before the white cliffs of Albion would gladden the eyes of the
wanderers.
The crew of the vessel numbered sixty hands all told, and in addition there
were twenty saloon passengers. With two of these passengers we have now
to deal. The one is a fair young girl, slender, tall, and delicate. She is
exceedingly pretty. Her features are regular and delicately chiselled. Her
hair is a soft, wavy, golden brown, and her brown eyes are as liquid and
gentle as a fawn’s. The pure whiteness of her neck and temples is contrasted
by the most exquisite tinge of rose colour in the cheeks, which puts, as it
were, a finish upon a perfect picture. The whiteness of her skin, the delicate
flush in the face, the brown, flossy hair, the tall, slender, graceful figure
were all so suggestive of the purest of flowers that her friends for many
years had called her ‘Red Lily.’ Her name was Lily Hetherington, and she
yet wanted some months to the completion of her twenty-first birthday. Lily
was the daughter of an officer of the Hon. East India Company’s Service—

his only daughter, and by him worshipped. For many years he had been
stationed in India, and at last, seeing no chance of returning to his wife and
family, which consisted of two sons in addition to the girl, he requested
them to join him in the East. This request was quickly and gladly complied
with, and Mrs. Hetherington and her children started on their journey. Mr.
Hetherington at that time was well off, for he had invested all his savings in
the Agra and Masterman Bank, and held shares to a large amount in the
concern, the stability of which, at that period, no one would have dared to
have doubted. Indian officers throughout India swore by it, and they
congratulated themselves, as they entrusted their hard won money to the
Bank, that they were making splendid provision for their wives and children
when those wives and children should become widows and orphans.
As Mr. Hetherington possessed considerable influence he had no difficulty
in quickly procuring his sons suitable appointments. Fond as he was of his
lads, who were aged respectively twenty-two and twenty-four, his love for
them was as nothing when compared with that he bore for his beautiful
daughter, his ‘Bonnie Red Lily,’ as he called her. Nor was Lily less fond of
her father. She was a mere child when he left England, but she had never
forgotten him, and never a mail left but it bore from Lily a long and loving
epistle to the lonely officer, who was bravely doing his duty in the distant
eastern land.
One day, soon after her arrival, Mr. Hetherington said to his daughter as
they sat in the verandah of the bungalow, ‘Lily, my pet, I have got a little
surprise for you.’
‘Have you, pa dear; and pray what is it?’ she answered. ‘You are such a
dear, good kind papa that you are always giving me pleasant surprises.’
‘Well, yes, of course, I like to give you pleasant surprises, but this one is
different from any of the others,’ he returned with a smile, at the same time
stroking her soft brown hair, and looking proudly into her beautiful face.
‘Oh, do tell me what it is,’ she exclaimed, as he paused in a tantalising way;
‘do you hear, pa? Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Restrain that woman’s curiosity of yours, my darling, and don’t be
impatient.’

‘I declare you are awfully wicked, papa,’ she returned, with a pretty pout of
her red lips. ‘Tell me instantly what it is. I demand to know.’
‘And so you shall,’ he answered, as he kissed her fondly and patted her
head. ‘To-morrow, then, I have a visitor coming to stay with us for a week
or two.’
‘Indeed. Is it a lady or gentleman?’
‘A gentleman.’
‘Oh, do tell me what he’s like.’
‘Well, well, you are a little Miss Curious,’ Mr. Hetherington laughed
heartily as he blew a cloud of blue smoke from his cigar into the stagnant
air. ‘Not to keep you in suspense any longer, then, the name of my visitor is
Dick Fenton, Richard Cronmire Joyce Fenton, to give him his full name. He
is a year or two your senior, and a fine, handsome, manly young fellow to
boot.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Lily, thoughtfully, as she fancied that her father’s words
had a hidden meaning.
‘Yes. His father was a very old friend of mine, and we saw long service
together. He died some four or five years ago, but before dying he made me
promise I would look after his boy, who was an only child and motherless.
Of course, I gladly gave this promise, and have sacredly carried it out.’
‘Ah, what a good, kind, generous man you are,’ Lily said, as she nestled
closer to him, and tightened her little white fingers round his brown, hairy
hand.
‘I saw there was stuff in the lad, and I took to him almost as if he had been
my own son. Unfortunately, my good friend Fenton died poor, and was only
enabled to leave three thousand pounds, for which he had insured his life,
for his son’s education. I succeeded in getting Dick into one of the
Company’s training establishments, and the marked ability he displayed
very soon pushed him forward, and having gone through his cadetship with
honour and credit, he was appointed a year ago to what in time will be a
most lucrative post. I have watched the lad closely, and seen with pride the
many noble qualities he possesses, and I have no doubt at all he will
distinguish himself. During the years that he has been my protégé I have

constantly said to myself, “If my Lily should like Dick, and Dick should
like my Lily, they shall be man and wife.”’
‘Oh, papa!’ exclaimed Lily, as the beautiful tinge in her face deepened to
scarlet, that spread to her neck and temples.
‘Why, my darling, why do you blush so? It is surely every honest woman’s
desire to become a wife, and I am very anxious to see you comfortably
married before I die. Men go off very suddenly in this treacherous country,
and I am well worn with service, and cannot hope to last much longer. But,
understand me, Lily, pet, your own will and womanly instincts must guide
you in this matter. I shall not seek to influence you in any way, and if you
have already given your heart to another, if he is an honest and worthy man,
even though he be poor as a church mouse, I shall not offer the slightest
opposition to your wishes. It is your future happiness I study, and I am not
selfish enough to attempt to coerce you into an objectionable union.’
Lily rose and twined her arms round her father’s neck, and pressing her
soft, white face to his bronzed cheeks, said:
‘My dear, dear father, I have not given my heart to anyone, and your wishes
are mine.’
On the morrow Fenton duly arrived at Mr. Hetherington’s bungalow. He
had travelled by dawk from a station near Calcutta; and when he had
refreshed himself with a bath, and made himself presentable, Hetherington
took him on one side, and said:
‘Dick, lad, I have repeatedly spoken to you about my daughter, and before I
introduce you to her, let me say that I shall be proud to have you as a son-
in-law, providing that there is the most perfect reciprocal feeling between
you and my Lily. I am not a man of many words, and I will content myself
with remarking that your father was the very soul of honour. Never disgrace
him, and never betray the confidence I repose in you.’
‘Do not doubt me, sir,’ said Dick. ‘I am indebted to you for everything, and
I should be base if I did anything that could inflict pain upon you or yours.’
‘Bravely said, my boy. God prosper you. Win Lily if you can; but win her
as a man should.’

Hetherington had previously made known his wishes to his wife, and she
had readily acquiesced in them.
Fenton was, as his guardian had described him, a fine, manly, handsome
young fellow. His frank, open bearing was well calculated to find favour
with women, even if he had not been possessed of good looks.
Hetherington and his wife watched the young people narrowly, and they
soon saw that a mutual liking for each other was springing up, and before
Dick’s leave of two months had expired he and Lily were betrothed, while
the bond between them was that of the most perfect love.
Dick returned to his station, and Mr. and Mrs. Hetherington congratulated
themselves on having, so far as they were able, provided for their
daughter’s future, a future that seemed likely to be one of unclouded
happiness. ‘L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose,’ says the French proverb,
and never was the proverb more fully borne out than in this case. Within six
months of Dick’s return to his duties, all civilised India was shocked to its
inmost heart by a terrific commercial convulsion—for so only can it be
described. Through the length and breadth of the land, the fearful rumour
spread on the wings of the wind that the great bank of Agra and Masterman
had broken. Men stood aghast, and women paled with fright, for, to
hundreds and thousands of households in all parts of the world, it meant
utter ruin, as many and many a one at the present day knows to his bitter
cost. Many a widow living in poverty now might have reposed in the lap of
luxury, and many a young man and woman, now in ignorance and want,
might have been otherwise but for this cruel collapse of the great banking
firm. It was so essentially an Indian bank, a depository for the earnings of
Indian servants of the Company, that it affected a class of people who for
the most part had been tenderly nurtured and led to believe that they
occupied, and were destined to occupy so long as they might live, a good
position in life, and to take their stand among the great middle class of
society.
At first men doubted the rumour, but soon the awful truth became too
apparent to be longer questioned, and those who had grown grey and feeble
beneath the burning Indian sun saw now that their few remaining days must
be passed in poverty and misery. It was bitter, very bitter, but it was fate,
and could not be averted.

Amongst the greatest sufferers was Mr. Hetherington. He had invested, one
way and another, nearly one hundred thousand pounds in that bank, and
now every penny piece was gone. The shock came upon him with great
severity. His health had long been failing, and he had looked forward with
great eagerness to retiring from the service in another year and ‘going
home’ with his family. But that was never to be now. For a time he was
stunned. He tried to bear up against the blow, but he was only human; his
brain gave way, and in a moment of temporary aberration he shot himself.
This new grief almost crushed the unhappy widow and her family.
Fortunately ‘the boys’ had good appointments that held out every promise
of improvement, but their incomes at that time were scarcely sufficient for
their own needs, though they generously curtailed their expenses in every
way in order to contribute towards the support of their sister and mother.
The shock of her father’s death threw Lily into a dangerous illness, and for
some time her life was threatened; but there was one who never lost an
opportunity of cheering her with his love, and that was Dick Fenton.
When she was convalescent she one day said to him:
‘Dick, I have something to say to you.’
‘Nothing very serious, darling,’ he answered, laughingly.
‘Yes, very serious. When I was first engaged to you my father was
considered to be a wealthy man, and I understand that he promised you that
my dowry should be something handsome. That is all changed now. We are
ruined, and my dear father is in his grave. Under these circumstances I can
no longer hold you to your engagement, and therefore release you from
every promise. You must give me up and seek for someone better suited for
you than I am.’
She fairly broke down here, and burst into violent weeping. Dick’s arm
stole around her waist, he pressed her head to his breast, and, whispering
softly to her said, with deep earnestness:
‘Lily, there is one thing, and only one thing, that shall break our
engagement.’
‘What is that?’ she stammered between her sobs.
‘The death of one of us!’ he answered, with strong emphasis.

She needed no further assurance. There was that in his manner and tone that
convinced more than words could possibly have done. And so, save for the
shadow which hung over the little household, she would have been
perfectly happy.
A year went by and Mrs. Hetherington still lingered in India, for she did not
like to leave her sons; but failing health at length rendered it necessary that
she should return to England. At this time Dick had just been granted two
years’ leave of absence, and he urged Lily to become his wife before they
left India, as he too was going home. She had asked him, however, to
postpone the event, and made a solemn promise that the wedding should
take place on Christmas Day, adding:
‘It is not long to wait, dear. It is now the middle of July, and, as we sail in a
fortnight, the vessel is sure to be home by that time. Besides, I am so fond
of Christmas. It is so full of solemn and purifying associations, and a fitting
season for a man and woman to take upon themselves the responsibility of
the marriage state. A wedding on Christmas Day brings good luck. Of
course you will say this is stupid superstition. So it may be, but I am a
woman, and you must let me have my way.’
Pressing his lips to hers, he made answer:
‘And so you shall, my own Red Lily; but, remember, come what may,
you’ll be my wife on Christmas Day.’
‘Come what may, I will be your wife on Christmas Day,’ she returned
solemnly.
August arrived, and Dick, Lily, and Mrs. Hetherington were passengers on
board the good ship ‘Sirocco.’ Their fellow-passengers were a
miscellaneous lot, and included several Indian officers, a planter or two, a
clergyman, and some merchants, who, having amassed fortunes, were going
home to end their days.
The second officer of the ‘Sirocco’ was a young man, of about eight or
nine-and-twenty, Alfred Cornell. He was a wild, reckless, daring fellow,
with a splendid physique. His hair was almost black, his eyes the very
darkest shade of brown, and small, keen, and piercing as a hawk’s. In those
eyes the character of the man was written. For somehow they seemed to
suggest a vain, heartless, selfish, vindictive nature, and the firm lips told of

an iron will. He was every inch a sailor, bold as a lion, and a magnificent
swimmer. The crew, however, hated him, for he was the hardest of task-
masters, but was an especial favourite with the captain, as such men
generally are, for he was perfect in every department of his profession, and
the sailors under his control were kept to their duties with an iron hand.
About this man—Alfred Cornell—there was something that amounted
almost to weirdness. The strange, keen eyes exercised a sort of fascination
over some people. This was especially the case with women. In fact, he
made a boast that he had never yet seen the woman he could not subdue.
From the moment that he and Dick Fenton stood face to face a mutual
dislike sprang up in their hearts for each other. Dick could not exactly tell
why he did not take to the man, but he had an instinctive dislike for him.
The fact was there, the cause was not easy to determine, but instincts are
seldom wrong. The moment that Alfred Cornell and Lily Hetherington met
each other a shadow fell upon her, and a devil came into his heart. She had
an instinctive dread of him, and yet felt fascinated. He thought to himself:
‘By heavens, that’s a splendid girl, and I’ll win her if I die for it.’
For the first week or two he paid her no more than the most ordinary
attentions, and the dread she at first felt for him began to wear off; she
could not help admitting to herself that he was certainly handsome and
attractive. The pet name by which she was known amongst her family—the
Red Lily—soon leaked out on board, as such things will, and the passengers
with whom she was most intimate frequently addressed her in this style by
way of compliment, for she was a favourite with them all, and her beauty
was a theme of admiration amongst the men, even the ladies could not help
but admit that she was ‘good-looking,’ though they said spiteful things
about her, as women will say of each other. Alfred Cornell had never
addressed her in any other way but as ‘Miss Hetherington’; but one
morning, when the ship was in the tropics, she had gone on deck very early
to see the sun rise. The heat in the cabins was so great that she could not
sleep, and as the sailors had just finished holy-stoning and washing down
she had thrown a loose robe over her shoulders and gone quietly on to the
poop. It was Cornell’s watch, but in all probability she did not know that at
the time. It was a very long poop, and save for the man at the wheel not a
soul was to be seen. The sea was oily in its calmness, and the sky was
aflame with the most gorgeous colours, such colours as can be nowhere

seen save in the tropics, and only then when the sun with regal pomp and
splendour commences to rise. The sails hung in heavy folds against the
masts, and there was a rhythmical kind of motion in the ship as she rose and
fell ever so gently to the light swell which even in the calmest ocean is
never absent. Lily leaned pensively against the mizzen rigging, gazing
thoughtfully across the sleeping sea to where the gold, and amethyst, and
purples, and scarlets were blended together in one blaze of dazzling colour.
Suddenly she was startled by a voice speaking in a subdued tone close to
her ear, and which said:
‘The Red Lily is up early this morning.’
She recognised the voice as that of Cornell, and turning quickly round said,
with much dignity:
‘Excuse me, sir, I am Miss Hetherington to you.’
‘Miss Hetherington,’ he answered, strongly emphasising the words. ‘I beg
your pardon, but the pretty name so fits you that I made bold to use it. I
trust I have not offended you.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, as she averted her gaze from his piercing eyes, for she
felt like a bird before the fabled basilisk. She would have rushed away, but
was spellbound. The strange man held her in a thrall.
‘How charming you look this morning,’ he remarked. ‘Why, you put even
the glory of the sunrise to shame.’
‘Really, Mr. Cornell,’ she exclaimed indignantly, and blushing to the very
roots of her hair, ‘you insult me by such extravagant and stupid
compliments. I don’t like men who talk nonsense, and think that all a girl
wants is to be flattered. Of course plenty of empty headed girls do, but I’m
not one of them.’
‘Don’t be angry with me, please; I am sincere. Can the wretched moth that
flutters into the flame of the candle help itself? Not a bit of it. You would
pity the moth; why not pity me?’
‘This is audacity, Mr. Cornell, and I will complain to the captain about you,’
she exclaimed as she made a movement to go. But ever so lightly, and
without any effort, he touched her hand. What was the fearful magic of that
touch that she should thrill so? What was the power in his voice that held

her in a spell? She did not go, but stood there. Her left hand resting on one
of the rattlings of the rigging, her right hanging down by her side, his large
powerful fingers touching hers, her head averted, for she felt as if she dare
not look at him.
‘It is not in your nature to be cruel, Miss Hetherington’—he spoke low, so
that there should be no possibility of the man at the wheel catching his
words, though he was so far off there was not much fear of that—‘why,
then, should you be cruel with me?’
‘I am not cruel, but you are rude, very rude,’ she answered with a voice that
trembled from suppressed emotion.
‘I am not rude, and you are cruel,’ he returned, dwelling deliberately on
every word. ‘You are a beautiful young woman, and I am a man. Surely I
should be less than a man if I failed to admire you? Do you not admire the
beauty of the sky there? why, then, should I do less than you, though in
your face I find more to admire than in those glowing colours.’
‘If you do not instantly leave me I will call out for assistance,’ she said. She
felt faint and powerless, and as though she would certainly fall down on the
deck if she let go her hold of the rigging.
‘No, you must not do that,’ he answered, coolly. ‘How can I possibly help
feeling for you what I do feel. I am not a stone statue, but a man with a
heart, and though a bolt from heaven should strike me into the sea for
speaking the words, I tell you now, though I never utter another syllable to
you, that I love you.’
He had never taken his fingers from hers, and now he pressed her hand. The
sea seemed to be going round and round before her eyes. The wonderful
colours in the sky were all blended in one confused mass. The ship
appeared to be sinking beneath her feet, and yet she managed to murmur in
a low, weak voice:
‘For God’s sake leave me!’
Without another word he walked away, and then she seemed to breathe
more freely, and in a few minutes had quite recovered herself. She turned
and went towards the companion-way, and as she did so she saw Cornell
talking to the captain, who had just come on deck. The captain bade her

good-morning, but Cornell was as immovable and impassive as a piece of
sculpture.
Oh! what a sense of relief she experienced when she got down to her cabin.
The spell seemed to be lifted at last, and, closing the door, she threw herself
into the bunk and wept passionately. When the hysterical fit had passed she
was relieved, and she determined to tell her mother what had happened, but
this determination only lasted for a few minutes, as on reflection she
thought that it could but lead to unpleasantness, and in a little floating world
such as a ship is the slightest things are looked upon as legitimate food for
scandal to batten upon. Therefore, her second thoughts were to keep the
matter to herself. Still she was very unhappy, and Dick noticed it. He
naturally asked her the cause, but she made an excuse by saying that she
was a little out of sorts. She was strongly tempted to tell him all, but was
restrained by a fear that it might lead to a quarrel between him and the
second mate.
For several days after the unpleasant incident with Cornell she studiously
avoided going on deck alone for fear of meeting him, but whenever he had
occasion to pass her she would shudder, for his strange eyes seemed to
exercise a power over her which was simply marvellous. She felt, in fact,
when he was looking at her that she could grovel at his feet at his mere
bidding. It was a dreadful feeling, and her health naturally suffered. Her
mother and lover were both concerned about her, but she endeavoured to
remove any anxiety they might have had by saying that her indisposition
was of a very trivial character. One evening she had been sitting on the
poop with Fenton. The weather was fine, but a strong breeze was blowing,
and the vessel was tearing through the water. The daylight had almost faded
out, and it was impossible to distinguish people who were standing or
sitting only a few yards away. Fenton left her for a few minutes to go down
to his cabin for some cigars, and scarcely had he disappeared when she was
startled by the sudden appearance of Cornell. It seemed almost as though he
had risen up out of the deck. She was seated on a camp stool, and he bent
his head low until she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. He whispered
to her in a voice that could not possibly have been heard by anyone else,
however near they might have been; but she heard every word, every
syllable, as it was poured into her ear, and it seemed to burn into her brain.

‘Lily, you are cruel,’ he said; ‘I love you madly, and yet you avoid me. You
must give me some encouragement, or I will drown myself; and if you
breathe a word of what I have said to you to any living soul, I tell you in
God’s name that I will throw myself overboard, and my death will lie at
your door. Remember what I say. I am a determined man, and nothing on
earth will stop me carrying out my will.’
Once again his fingers touched her hand; then in a moment he was gone as
suddenly as he had appeared. He seemed to fade away into the darkness like
a spectre, but almost immediately afterwards she heard him bawling some
orders in stentorian tones to the watch.
When Fenton came back she was trembling and faint, and though she
struggled hard to conceal from him that she was agitated, he could not fail
to observe it, and in a tone of alarm asked the cause.
‘Oh, nothing, dear—nothing,’ she answered; ‘at least, nothing of any
consequence. A slight feeling of faintness has come over me; but really it is
not worth bothering about.’
Oh, how she longed to tell him all; but the words of the strange man who
was exercising such a powerful influence over her were still ringing in her
ears, and she was silent.
Fenton did not make any further remark then on the subject, but he felt
uneasy. He was convinced that there was some mystery, but what it was he
could not for the life of him determine. The thought did flash through his
brain that she was deceiving him, but instantly he put it away as unworthy
of him. It seemed so preposterous to associate deceit with the Red Lily, who
was as pure as the beautiful flower after which she was called.
When he escorted her down to the cabin a little later, he said:
‘Darling, I am uneasy about you. Something is wrong, I am sure, but your
gentle heart prompts you to keep it from me for fear of giving me pain. Do
be good to yourself for my sake. Why don’t you take your mother into your
confidence, and tell her if you have any trouble, since you do not apparently
care to confide it to me.’
‘Do not be uneasy,’ she answered. ‘Believe me, oh, do believe me, when I
say that my indisposition is of a very trifling character. I have nothing to tell

my mother, and you know perfectly well, Dick, you have my full
confidence.’
She felt a little guilty as she said this, for she knew that she ought to have
told him at once of Cornell’s conduct. But, firstly, the strange fascination he
exercised over her kept her silent; and, secondly, she was really afraid of
causing a scene between the two men. Besides, she comforted herself with
the thought that the voyage would soon be over, and once clear of the ship it
would be good-bye to Cornell for ever. She regarded him as a vain,
presumptuous fellow, who imagined that every girl he looked at must be in
love with him.
As soon as her lover had left her, and she had been to wish her mother
good-night, the Red Lily once again gave unrestrained vent to her feelings,
and wept passionately. She could not help it. She felt almost as if she would
die if she did not weep, and weep she did bitterly until she fretted herself to
sleep.
The following morning she was weak and pale, and did not put in an
appearance at breakfast. The beautiful pink had faded from her face, and
she had the look of one who was jaded and unhappy. Mrs. Hetherington
visited her daughter, and naturally felt alarmed. There was a doctor on
board, and Mrs. Hetherington expressed a determination to consult him; but
Lily pleaded with such earnestness, and at last expressed such a strong
determination not to see him, that her mother yielded, and Lily kept in her
cabin all that day.
On the following day she was better. Cornell’s influence had passed away,
and she had to a considerable extent regained her spirits.
The weather was now very chilly, and unfortunately the wind was
unfavourable, so that the ship had to sail on long and short tacks. It was
worse than tantalising to those who had looked forward so eagerly to
spending Christmas with their friends in the dear old country. The hope of
doing that was now past, for the distance was too great to cover in the time
that intervened between them and the great Christian Festival. Well
wrapped in rugs, Lily was once more seated on deck in company with Dick.
She had been doing some fancy needlework, and he had been sketching a
large vessel that had been in company with them two or three days.

Presently he laid down his sketching block on the deck, and looking up into
the fair face of his companion, he said:
‘Lily, pet, do you remember the promise you made to me before we left
India?’
‘What was that, Dick?’ she asked.
‘That you would become my wife on Christmas Day.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly, and with some slight agitation; ‘but we shall not
be home by that time.’
‘That is true; but it need not affect your promise.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ she answered.
‘You are surely aware, Lily, that a marriage on board of a ship is perfectly
legal. Even a captain has the power to marry people; but it fortunately
happens, as you know, that we have a Church of England clergyman
amongst us, and therefore I claim the fulfilment of your promise.’
‘Oh, Dick, it cannot be.’
‘Cannot be!’ he echoed in some astonishment. ‘Were your words, then, only
words after all?’
‘Ah, love, do not be harsh with me. I should so much prefer that our
wedding took place in the regular way on shore, and it is to be hoped that
we shall arrive in England by the New Year.’
‘I am far from being harsh with you, Lily,’ answered Dick, a little sadly;
‘but you yourself expressed a wish to be married on the Christmas morning,
even saying that you were superstitious about it. Although there is every
prospect now that we shall be at sea on that day, there is no reason at all
why we should not be married on board; and if you like we will go through
the ceremony again when we reach England. The mere circumstance of
being married in or out of a church cannot possibly affect our union, and I
am sure you have too much good sense to be influenced by the stupid idea
which possesses some small-brained people—that a marriage performed out
of a church cannot be sanctified.’
‘I have no such idea,’ she said. ‘I should be ashamed of myself if I had.’

‘Very well, then, Lily, say that you will be my wife on Christmas morning,
even though we are at sea.’
‘How long does it want to Christmas, Dick?’
‘Three weeks exactly.’
‘Then I promise you that if mamma offers no objection I will gratify your
wish.’
‘I am perfectly satisfied that your mother will willingly let us have our own
way, so on Christmas Day we will become man and wife, if we are both
living.’
‘On Christmas Day we will become man and wife if we are both living,’ she
repeated solemnly, but the words had scarcely left her lips when she almost
uttered a scream, for close beside her stood Cornell. He had his sextant in
his hand, and had come up the companion-way (near which Dick and Lily
were sitting) with the captain to take the sun.
‘Make eight bells,’ said the captain, ‘we shall get no sun to-day.’
‘Eight bells,’ roared out Cornell.
‘Come, dear, let us go down to luncheon,’ said Dick as he rose, gathered up
the wraps, and offered his arm to his fiancée.
She had to pass Cornell to reach the companion-way, and she saw his hawk-
like eyes fixed upon her, although he pretended to be examining the figures
on his sextant. Those eyes burned into her soul, as it were, and the strange
hysterical feeling came back again so that she felt as if she must weep, but
by a powerful effort she controlled herself, and Dick did not notice how she
was affected.
The question of the marriage being put to Mrs. Hetherington, that lady said
that she should offer no objection to the wishes of the young people.
Consequently it was soon understood that the monotony of the voyage
would be relieved by a wedding on Christmas morning. In which case there
would be a double occasion for rejoicing and festivities.
Christmas at sea is always a festive time, but this particular one on board
the ‘Sirocco’ promised to be unusually lively. The captain gave orders to the
steward that he was to reserve a good supply of his best champagne for the

occasion, and the cook was ordered to make plenty of cakes and fancy
things; while the butcher was instructed to kill the fattest geese of the few
that remained, and the last pig was to be slaughtered in order to add to the
feast. The lady and gentlemen passengers rummaged amongst their boxes to
try and fish out suitable little presents to give to the young couple, and there
was much fun and laughter as all sorts of odd suggestions were made; while
the ladies further busied themselves in improvising suitable decorations for
the saloon. In fact, this coming marriage was looked upon as a blessing
almost, for the voyage had been so long and tedious, that the little
excitement caused by the prospective union of the Red Lily and Dick
Fenton was most welcome.
As the second mate seemed to purposely avoid Lily now, she recovered her
spirits; in fact, several days passed without her seeing him, and she began to
laugh at her stupidity in allowing him to have such an influence over her.
Dick could not fail to notice the change, and, attributing it to the pleasure
she anticipated at the near prospect of their union, he was delighted also.
Christmas Day was now anxiously looked forward to by all the passengers,
and as it only wanted eight days to the time great preparations were going
on, and ladies busied themselves in stoning raisins and performing other
incidental necessaries in connection with the concoction of those mysteries
—Christmas puddings. The gentlemen found occupation in dressing the
saloon with flags, and decorations ingeniously constructed by the fair sex
out of the most likely and unlikely things. No one who has not been on a
long voyage in a passenger ship can imagine with what avidity every little
incident calculated to relieve the monotony of life at sea—if it can
truthfully be said to be monotonous—is seized upon. Therefore, Christmas
tide and a marriage in the bargain were such important events, that the little
floating world which the ‘Sirocco’ represented was agitated to its very
centre, and the excitement rose to fever heat.
Life at sea, however, is influenced by laws which do not affect it on land.
Changes in the weather; changes from calm to rough weather have a
marked effect on a floating community, and a few hours often produce the
most extraordinary transformations. An oily sea may become raging
mountains of water, and the steadiness of a ship is turned into violent
pitching and tossing that renders walking to all but the most experienced a
matter of great difficulty. At such times soup plates will perform

somersaults into your lap, and joints of meat evince a decided objection to
remain in their proper positions. While, as for poultry, wine bottles, &c.,
they suddenly acquire an agility for flying through the air, so that what with
dodging these missiles, and holding on like grim death to the table or the
back of the settee, one’s life at meal time on board of a ship in stormy
weather is by no means as comfortable as it might be in a well-appointed
dining-room on shore.
Within a week of Christmas it became manifest that the ‘Sirocco’ was
destined to encounter some bad weather. There had been sullen calms
succeeded by fitful bursts of storm, but the good ship had crept on and on
until she had reached the verge of the Bay of Biscay. The bay, although it
bears such a bad character, is suggestive of nearing home to those who
come from afar, and consequently the passengers were high-spirited,
notwithstanding that it was pretty certain that a good deal of knocking about
was in store for them.
One night during the middle watch a furious squall suddenly burst upon the
vessel, and as she had all sail set she heeled over almost on to her beam
ends. Several sails were rent to fragments by the force of the wind, and the
long strips flying out in the tempest made a tremendous cracking like the
cracking of stock whips. ‘All hands’ were called on deck, and there were all
the noise, and shouting, and uproar incidental to a sudden squall in the dead
of night. To the timid and the inexperienced this is particularly alarming, for
as the ship flies along on her side the waters hiss in a strange manner, the
shouting and tramp of the sailors, the orders given hastily and in stentorian
tones, the cracker-like reports of the torn sails, the groaning and creaking of
the rudder chains, the indescribable howling of the wind, and the extreme
angle of the vessel, are sufficiently alarming to produce nervousness even in
those whose acquaintance with the sea is not of recent date. And this is
more particularly the case when such a squall occurs at night; then the sky
is inky in its blackness, and nothing can be seen save the spectral-like
outlines of the rigging and the masts, and such objects as are immediately
near the spectator. When this particular squall struck the ship it happened
that the Red Lily’s cabin was on the weather side, and so suddenly did the
ship heel over that Lily narrowly escaped being thrown from her bunk.
Although this was not her first experience of a squall at night she felt

unusually alarmed, for the vessel was lying over at such an unusual angle,
and there was so much noise on deck.
Hastily throwing on a few articles of clothing, and covering them with a
dressing-gown, she encased her feet in slippers, and rushed over to her
mother’s cabin, which was on the lee side. Undisturbed by the shock Mrs.
Hetherington was sleeping soundly, and so, not wishing to wake her, the
first impression of alarm having passed away, Lily closed the cabin door
gently, and then went up the companion-way and peeped out into the
darkness. The white waters were flying past, and the vessel was lying over
almost to her lee scuppers. Lily stepped on to the deck, holding on to the
handle of the companion-way door. There was a babel of mingled sounds,
and the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane. She had stood there but a
few minutes when suddenly she became aware that Cornell was standing
beside her. He was superintending the stowing of the mizzen to’gallant sail.
He was evidently surprised to see her there. She was about to descend
again, for his presence brought back all her old fears, when he caught her
arm, and with gentle force restrained her.
‘This is fortunate,’ he said. ‘The opportunity I have longed for this squall
has at last given me.’
‘Let me go,’ she exclaimed, ‘or I will scream.’ She was trembling with fear
and excitement, but he still held her.
‘You dare not,’ he answered in a strange tone. Then, after a pause, he added,
‘You have been cruel to me, but you must be so no longer or I shall die. I
cannot live without you.’
‘Are you mad?’ she said with a shudder.
‘Perhaps I am. If I am you have made me so.’ He passed his arm round her
waist and held her closely.
She struggled to free herself, but she was powerless in his strong grasp. The
mysterious influence he exercised over her now kept her tongue tied so that
she could not scream, could not cry out. He bent low and pressed his lips to
hers, and yet that did not break the spell which bound her.
‘You are to be married on Christmas Day,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I hope
before then he or I will be dead. If I live you shall become my wife. Do you
hear? my wife. You may think I am talking mere words, but you will see.’

He released her and she found herself in her cabin. How she got down she
did not know. She was burning with indignation and shame. His polluting
lips had touched hers, and she shivered as she thought of it. She rubbed her
lips with her handkerchief as though he had left some stain which she was
trying to wipe away. She yearned to go at once to Fenton’s cabin and tell
him all, but a deadly fear of Cornell withheld her, the spell of his
extraordinary power was upon her, and she felt that she dare not open her
mouth to tell aught of what had occurred. The man’s influence, whatever it
was, was paramount. She feared and hated him, and yet dare not denounce
him. Of course she was weak, but then he was no ordinary man. His
strength of will was enormous, and subdued her.
During the rest of the night she could not sleep, and she longed for
Christmas Day to come, so that, as Dick’s wife, she might be free from the
persecutions of the mysterious Cornell.
When the morning broke the storm had died away, leaving a gentle wind
that wafted the ship along at about eight knots an hour.
‘We shall have steady weather now,’ the captain observed at breakfast time,
as he examined the barometer that swung over the cabin table.
His prognostication proved correct. The wind increased day by day until it
was blowing a strong gale, but as it was favourable a large spread of canvas
was carried upon the ship.
The day preceding Christmas Day arrived; the ‘Sirocco’ was in the Bay of
Biscay, off the inhospitable Cape Finisterre. By Christmas Eve the wind had
increased very much, so that the ship was ‘snugged down.’ Extra lookouts
were kept, for a great number of outward and homeward bound vessels
were in the Bay. The night promised to be a very ‘dirty one,’ but there was
merriment on board, and many a toast to ‘Sweethearts and Wives’ was
drunk, both in the cabin and in the forecastle, for a liberal allowance of grog
had been served out to the crew.
The preparations for the wedding were all complete. The saloon was gaily
decorated, and it was arranged that the marriage ceremony was to be
performed at eleven o’clock in the morning. But before eleven o’clock
strange things were to happen.

The night waned, and as eight bells sounded Dick Fenton went on deck to
smoke a cigar before turning in. The ladies had all retired, and only a single
night lamp burned in the saloon. The wind had drawn ahead a good deal,
and the vessel could only carry close-reefed main-topsail and fore-topsail,
so that she was making very little way, simply ‘forging,’ as sailors say, at
the rate of about two knots an hour. A favourite seat with Dick when he
went on deck to smoke his cigar was on the rail near the mizzen shrouds.
There he was under the shelter of the captain’s gig, which was slung outside
on davits, and his feet rested on a hencoop that ran along the poop. Sitting
there now pensively dreaming of his Red Lily, and the happiness that
awaited him on the morrow when she would become his wife, he had no
thought of danger. There was music in the rush of the wild waters and the
screaming sweep of the wind. The vessel had that short, jerky motion which
a ship has in a rough sea when under reefed topsails.
Suddenly there rose up before Dick’s vision the dark figure of a man.
‘Hallo! is that you, captain?’ exclaimed Dick.
‘No,’ was the answer, and in the gruff voice Dick recognised the second
mate.
‘Oh, it’s you, Cornell,’ he said. ‘This is a wild night. Do you think the wind
will free at all before the morning?’
‘It may, and may not,’ was the somewhat surly answer, and in the husky
tones Cornell betrayed that he was the worse for liquor. ‘I suppose you were
thinking of the Red Lily,’ he remarked.
‘Really, Mr. Cornell, you are a little familiar,’ Dick said, not unkindly, for
he was willing to make every allowance at such a time.
‘Bah, why am I familiar?’ sneered the second mate. ‘I suppose the night
before his marriage every man thinks of the woman who is to be his wife.’
‘I suppose he does,’ Dick answered curtly, for he was not anxious to
prolong the conversation seeing the strange humour Cornell was in.
‘You have quite made up your mind that she is to be your wife?’ asked
Cornell.
‘Well, please God that nothing happens between now and the morning,
Miss Hetherington will certainly become Mrs. Fenton.’

‘But it is destined that something shall happen,’ Cornell exclaimed, ‘and
you will never see the morrow.’
The words were spoken rapidly, and with a lightning-like movement he
threw the whole weight of his body against Dick, who, unprepared for such
an assault, was pressed backwards, and falling between the boat and the
side of the vessel was lost in the dark, hissing waters.
‘A man overboard!’ cried the second mate with all the power of his lusty
lungs, and instantly the dreadful cry was taken up, and the watch came
rushing aft. The captain, who was in his cabin, tore on deck, and in a
moment all was confusion.
‘Who is it, who is it?’ exclaimed the captain.
‘Mr. Fenton, I think, for I saw him sitting on the rail a few minutes before,’
said Cornell.
‘Clear away the boat, men, quick!’ cried the captain. Then he and Cornell
cut away lifebuoys and cast them into the sea.
‘I will try and save him, sir,’ said Cornell, as he divested himself of his
heavy sea boots and his oil skins.
Divining his motives the captain laid hold of his arm and said:
‘Are you mad, man? It is enough that one life should be sacrificed.’ But
Cornell, making no reply, shook himself free, mounted the rail, and dived
headlong into the black waters.
The excitement was now intense. Everyone on board knew what had
happened, but everyone did not know that it was Dick who had gone. The
Red Lily was in this state of blissful ignorance, though she with the other
ladies crowded up the companion-way, and waited in breathless and painful
anxiety.
The boat was manned and lowered. Lamps were brought and held up so as
to throw a light as far as possible over the sea. The boat was away about an
hour. It was a fearful agony of suspense that hour. The ship was hove to,
and everything done that could be done. The searchers returned at last,
bringing with them the second mate in an exhausted condition, but not
Dick; he had gone, and as nothing more could be done, sail was again set,
and the ‘Sirocco’ went upon her way with one soul less.

Christmas morning dawned. The gaiety was changed to sorrow, and the
marriage decorations were taken down and signs of mourning appeared.
Tenderly and gently the sad news was broken to the Red Lily, and those
who told her did not fail to tell how ‘nobly’ the second mate had risked his
life to try and save that of her lover. Tenderly as the news was broken, the
shock stunned her, and for days she lay in a state of partial coma. But there
were loving hands to tend, and loving voices to soothe, and gradually she
came round. All the sunshine, however, seemed to have gone out of her
nature, and she was a crushed woman.
For the first time for many days she went on deck, and was propped with
pillows in a sofa-chair, and for the first time since that terrible night she saw
Cornell. All her feeling of revulsion for him had changed, and, stretching
forth her white hand to him, she said in her loving, sweet voice:
‘Mr. Cornell, I have been unjust to you. You must forgive me. You are a
brave and generous man.’
He took her hand and answered:
‘I grieve with you, Miss Hetherington. I did my best to save him, but it was
not to be. No man can prevent his fate. It is not for me to say why, at such a
moment, your lover should have met his doom. It was Destiny; but, though
I battled with the waves and the darkness of the night, it was not my destiny
to drown.’
Lily shuddered. The man spoke so strangely. There was such a weird
appearance about him, and his influence over her was as strong as ever. And
yet a fearful thought came to her. Was it not probable that Cornell had
hurled her lover into the sea, and then, seized with sudden remorse, had
dived after him?
Oh, how that dreadful thought troubled and pained her! She struggled with
it for days, and wept and wept and wept again. At one moment she resolved
to take her mother into her confidence, and tell her all. But whenever this
feeling came upon her the mysterious Cornell seemed to be at her side, and
then all her will power went again. She felt that she hated him one moment,
but the next she could and would have grovelled at his feet, overcome by a
curious fascination, mingled with a sort of admiration, for the daring,
reckless, wicked, iron-willed fellow.

A week later the ship was in the London docks.
Lily and her mother went on shore at Gravesend. The poor girl was bowed
with sorrow, and she felt as though she would never again hold up her head.
Before she left the ship Cornell begged hard to be allowed to call upon her.
She wanted to refuse him, but could not, and, with the consent of her
mother, she gave him permission to do so, for the mother felt she was
indebted to him.
Lily and Mrs. Hetherington went to reside in the west-end of London, and
Cornell, availing himself of their permission, was almost a daily visitor. He
announced his intention of not going to sea again for some time, and the old
fascination he had exercised over Lily was exerted now to a greater degree;
and though she was sure she possessed no love for him, she felt drawn
towards him in a strange manner. One day, four months after their arrival
home, he pressed her to become his wife, and she reluctantly gave her
consent. She would have said ‘No’ if she could, but she was powerless; and
believing that she had previously misjudged him and done him a wrong, she
said:
‘I will be a dutiful and faithful wife to you, but you must never hope to win
my love. That is buried in the cruel sea.’
It was arranged that the wedding was to take place in a few months’ time.
He objected to the delay, but she was firm on the point, for she felt that it
would not be respectful to her dead love to marry so soon after the calamity.
Many a girl who knew Lily and her lover envied her. Cornell was so
‘handsome,’ so ‘fascinating,’ so ‘manly,’ ‘such a splendid type of a sailor’;
but when her friends congratulated her she only sighed. She felt as if she
were sacrificing herself; but then her affianced husband had so nobly risked
his life for her lover’s sake, notwithstanding his previous strange conduct,
and on that account alone she was going to give him her hand. She little
dreamed that his jumping overboard was only part of his diabolical plan,
and was meant to avert suspicion—which it did most effectually. So far as
the risk to himself was concerned, it was reduced to a minimum, for he was
a magnificent and powerful swimmer, and before he took the leap he was

careful to see that plenty of lifebuoys had been dropped over, and that the
boat was all ready for lowering.
In the course of the next few months Mrs. Hetherington and her daughter
removed to the village of Bowness, on the banks of Windermere, as they
had friends living there; and it was arranged that the marriage should take
place in the parish church of that place.
The wedding day came. It was a glorious summer’s morning, and the air
was filled with the music of birds and the scent of flowers. The wedding
was to be very quiet, and but few guests had been invited. Those who knew
Lily well said that the ‘Red Lily had drooped.’ All the brightness was out of
her life, for she felt that her heart was beneath the waves of the Bay of
Biscay.
The wedding party had assembled in the church, and the ceremony had
commenced. When the grey-haired clergyman asked if anyone knew any
just cause or impediment why the man and woman should not be joined
together in the bonds of holy matrimony, there rose up a man in the body of
the church, and in a loud and steady voice exclaimed:
‘I forbid this marriage.’
Had a thunderbolt fallen through the roof the consternation and confusion
could not have been greater. With a great cry the Red Lily threw up her
arms, and then fell forward on her face in a swoon. For a few moments
Cornell stood as if petrified. His face was ghastly pale. By this time the man
had come forward to the altar rails, and then Cornell found tongue.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘is it possible that the dead can come to life?’
‘No; but the living can thwart the machinations of a villain, and I am here to
do that,’ said Dick Fenton, for he it was. ‘This man,’ continued Dick,
addressing the astonished spectators, ‘attempted to murder me.’
No one moved. They were dumb with amazement, for they naturally
thought a madman was amongst them. Dick himself stooped and lifted up
the inanimate form of the Lily, and bore her into the vestry. Taking
advantage of the confusion—for everyone seemed bewildered—Cornell
stole from the church, got clear away, and was never heard of more.

It was some time before Lily recovered consciousness. It is better to leave
the reunion of the lovers to the imagination of the reader, for words always
fail to convey anything like an adequate notion of such a scene. The news
of the affair had rapidly spread over the village; an enormous crowd had
gathered about the church, and the uproar was immense. The wedding party
had to wait a considerable time before they could get back to their homes;
then explanations were given.
On that dreadful night in the Bay of Biscay Dick had escaped death almost
by a miracle, as it were. He was a good swimmer, but was a little stunned
by striking his head against the side of the vessel in his descent. He had a
recollection, however, of making a powerful effort to swim, and in a little
while he felt something touch his hand, and found it was a lifebuoy. On this
he supported himself for a long time—it seemed to him two or three hours.
Then he saw the outlines of a vessel, which he took to be the ‘Sirocco,’ and
he shouted with all his might, and presently had the satisfaction to hear the
plash of oars. He had only a faint recollection of hearing a human voice,
and feeling the grasp of hands about him. Then ensued a blank. When next
he opened his eyes he found himself in a comfortable cabin, and he soon
learnt that it was not the ‘Sirocco’ that had picked him up, but an outward
bound ship, called the ‘Golden Fleece.’ She was bound for the Cape, and so
Dick was mortified to find that he must accompany her there, unless a
homeward bounder should be fallen in with, and he could get on board.
This chance did not occur, and so to the Cape he went, but the vessel made
a long voyage. As soon after arrival as possible he took ship for England,
and on reaching there he soon discovered to his amazement that the Red
Lily was on the eve of being married to Cornell. He hurried down to the
Lake district, and was there a whole week determining not to declare
himself until the last moment, so that the discomfiture of his enemy might
be the more complete.
For some months after this strange and startling incident Lily remained in
such delicate health that grave fears were at one time entertained. Sudden
joy is almost as bad as great sorrow at times, and the unexpected return of
her lost lover had been too great a shock. Care, attention, and change of air,
however, gradually restored her, and again she made preparations for her
marriage, which was to take place on Christmas Day, twelve months after
the terrible scene in the Bay of Biscay, when Dick was hurled into the sea.

The day came at last—cold, crisp, and bright. The earth was wrapped in a
robe of spotless white, and the church was decorated with holly and winter
flowers. As the bells pealed forth merrily, and the winter sun shone out from
the dull sky, Dick Fenton led his bride down the pathway to the carriage
that waited them at the gate, and the crowd of villagers that had gathered in
the old churchyard declared that no bonnier bride had ever been seen than
the Red Lily.

V
THE PIRATE’S TREASURE
A TRUE AND DRAMATIC STORY OF THE SEA
At the time the startling events I am about to relate occurred, I had but
recently passed my final examination in medicine, after what I may
modestly say was a successful course of study in Glasgow, of which city I
am a native. For some time I had been anxiously expecting my diploma,
which would give me the right to practice my profession, and I was trying
to obtain an appointment as surgeon on board a splendid East Indiaman,
known as the ‘Clydesdale.’ Singularly enough, on the very day that I
received the intimation that my application had been favourably considered,
I was placed in possession of a letter from a dear friend in London, asking
me if I would proceed on his behalf with all possible speed to Surinam, on a
very delicate and important mission. For an hour or two I was exercised in
my mind as to the proper course I ought to pursue in my own interests; that
is, whether I should accept the ‘Clydesdale’ appointment, or undertake my
friend’s commission. Something prompted me to choose the latter, and I
immediately communicated my decision to London. In a post or two I
received my instructions, with a bank draft for my expenses, and I was told
to secure a berth in a vessel if possible proceeding direct to the place where
my business was to be transacted. I therefore lost no time in making
inquiries about a ship, and at last heard of one called the ‘Ariadne.’ She had
been chartered by a Glasgow company, and was then loading up at the West
Quay, and was to sail in a few days. I at once secured a passage in her, and
went down to see the vessel for the first time the very day she was to leave.
Little did I dream then how strangely my destiny was to be affected by the
fact of my having undertaken my friend’s commission. While I stood
examining her from the pier, two sailors, who seemed to be roaming idly
about, stopped and began to converse by my side.
‘Has the “Ariadne” shipped all her hands, Jack?’ asked the one; ‘I see she
has the Blue Peter flying. Somebody told me she has been sold to a Dutch
firm now. How would you like to sail in her?’

‘Not me, mate,’ replied the other; ‘I know too much about her. I made a
voyage in her four years ago, and a cleaner or livelier craft is not on the sea!
But there is a limb of the devil in her as skipper that is enough to cause her
to sink to the bottom. It was in my voyage that he did for Bill Burnet with
the pump-sounding rod, because the little fellow snivelled a bit, and was not
handy to jump when he was ordered aloft to set the fore-royal. It was his
first voyage, and the boy was mortal afraid to venture; but the captain swore
he would make him, and in his passion hit him a rap with the iron rod and
killed him. When he saw what he had done he lifted the body while it was
still quivering and hove it over the side; and many a long day the men
wondered what had become of little Bill, for they were all below at dinner,
and none but myself saw the bloody deed. It was needless for me to
complain and get him overhauled, as there were no witnesses; but I left the
ship, and berths would be scarce before I would sail with him again or put
my foot on the deck of his ship. I tell you, mate, there’s a curse on her, and
them as sails in her will come to grief.’
Knowing what tyrants shipmasters are in general, and how much their
passengers’ comfort depends on them, I was somewhat startled by this piece
of information respecting the temper of the man I purposed to sail with. But
necessity has no law! The circumstance was probably much misrepresented,
I thought, and, from a simple act of discipline, exaggerated to an act of
wanton cruelty. But be that as it might—my affairs were urgent. There was
no other vessel for the same port—I must either take my passage or run the
risk of being superseded. The thing was not to be thought of, so I went and
secured my berth. As my preparations were few and trifling, I had
everything arranged and on board just as the vessel was unmooring from
the quay. During the night we got down to the Clock Lighthouse, and stood
off and on, waiting for the captain, who had remained behind to get the ship
cleared out at the Custom House. Soon afterwards he joined us, and, the
pilot leaving us in the return-boat, we stood down the Forth under all our
canvas. Her beloved Majesty Queen Victoria had not long been on the
throne, and piracy on the high seas was still a lucrative pursuit. Every
merchantman, therefore, generally carried a fair amount of armament, and
our vessel was no exception, although I, for one, certainly never anticipated
any adventure.

For four weeks we had a quick and pleasant passage. The ‘Ariadne’ was a
good sailer; for, being American-built, and originally intended for a
privateer, she sailed uncommonly fast, generally running at the rate of
twelve knots an hour in a good wind.
As I expected, Captain Mahone, an Irishman by birth, proved to be, in point
of acquirements, not at all above the common run of skippers in command
of sailing ships at that period. He was haughty and overbearing, and
domineered over the crew with a high hand; in return for which he was
evidently feared and detested by them all. He had been many years in the
West Indies, and during most of that time had commanded a local trader,
and had, between the fervid suns of such high latitudes and the copious use
of grog, become of a rich mahogany colour, or something between
vermilion and the tint of a sheet of new copper. He was a middle-sized man,
square built, with a powerful and muscular frame. His aspect, naturally
harsh and forbidding, was rendered more so by the sinister expression of his
left eye, which had been nearly forced out by some accident, and the
lineaments of his countenance expressed plainly that he was passionate and
furious in the extreme. In consequence of this I kept rather distant and
aloof; and, except at meals, we seldom exchanged more than ordinary
civilities.
By our reckoning, our ship had now got into the latitude of the Bermudas,
when one evening at sunset the wind, which had hitherto been favourable,
fell at once into a dead calm. The day had been clear and bright; but now
huge masses of dark and conical-shaped clouds began to tower over each
other in the western horizon, which, being tinged with the rays of the sun,
displayed that lurid and deep brassy tint so well known to mariners as the
token of an approaching storm. All the sailors were of opinion that we
should have a coarse night, and every precaution that good seamanship
could suggest was taken to make the vessel snug before the gale came on.
The oldest boys were sent up to hand and send down the royal and top-
gallant sails and strike the yards, while the topsails and staysails were close-
reefed. These preparations were hardly accomplished when the wind
shifted, and took us aback with such violence as nearly to capsize the
vessel. The ship was put round as soon as possible, and lay to, while all
hands remained on deck in case of any emergency. About ten, in the interval
of a squall, we heard a gun fired as a signal of distress. The night was as

black as pitch, but the flash showed us that the stranger was not far to
leeward; so, to avoid drifting on the wreck during the darkness, the main-
topsail was braced round and filled, and the ship hauled to windward. In
this manner we kept alternately beating or heaving-to as the gale rose or fell
till the morning broke, when, through the haze, we perceived a small vessel
with her masts carried away. As the wind had dropped, the captain had gone
to bed; so it was the mate’s watch on deck. The steersman, an old grey-
headed seaman, named James Gemmel, proposed to bear down and save the
people, saying he had been twice wrecked himself, and knew what it was to
be in such a situation. Owing to the captain being below, the mate was
irresolute what to do, being aware that the success of the speculation
depended on their getting to Surinam with all possible speed; however, he
was at length persuaded—the helm was put up, and the ship bore away.
As we neared the wreck, and were standing by the mizzen shrouds with our
glasses, the captain came up from the cabin. He looked up with
astonishment to the sails and the direction of the vessel’s head, and in a
voice of suppressed passion said, as he turned to the mate, ‘What is the
meaning of this, Mr. Wyllie? Who has dared to alter the ship’s course
without my leave, when you knew very well that we shall hardly be in time
for the market, use what expedition we may?’ The young man was confused
by this unexpected challenge, and stammered out something about Gemmel
having persuaded him. ‘It was me, sir,’ respectfully answered the old sailor,
wishing to avert the storm from the mate; ‘I thought you wouldn’t have the
heart to leave the wreck, and these people to perish, without lending a hand
to save them! We should be neither Christians nor true seamen to desert her,
and——’
‘Damn you and the wreck, you old canting rascal! Do you dare to stand
there and preach to me?’ thundered the captain, his fury breaking out. ‘I’ll
teach you to disobey my orders! I’ll give you something to think of!’ and
seizing a capstan-bar which lay near him he hurled it at the steersman with
all his might. The blow was effectual—one end of it struck him across the
head with such force as to sweep him in an instant from his station at the
wheel, and to dash him with violence against the lee-bulwarks, where he lay
bleeding and motionless. ‘Take that, and be damned to you!’ exclaimed the
wretch, as he seized the helm and sang out to the men: ‘Stand by sheets and
braces—hard a-lee—let go!’ In a twinkling the yards were braced round,

and the ship, laid between six points to the wind, was flying through the
water.
Meanwhile Gemmel was lying without anyone daring to assist him, for the
crew were so confounded that they seemed quite undetermined how to act. I
stepped to him, therefore, and the mate following my example, we lifted
him up. As there was no appearance of respiration, I placed my hand to his
heart, but pulsation had entirely ceased—the old man was dead! The bar
had struck him directly on the temporal bone, and had completely fractured
that part of the skull.
‘He is a murdered man, Captain Mahone!’ said I, laying down the body,
‘murdered without cause or provocation.’
‘None of your remarks, sir!’ he retorted; ‘what the devil have you to do with
it? Do you mean to stir up my men to mutiny? Or do you call disobeying
my orders no provocation? I’ll answer it to those who have a right to ask;
but till then, let me see the man who dare open his mouth to me in this
ship.’
‘I promise you,’ returned I, ‘that though you rule and tyrannise here at
present, your power shall have a termination, and you shall be called to
account for your conduct in this day’s work. Rest assured that this blood
shall be required at your hands, though you have hitherto escaped
punishment for what has stained them already.’ This allusion to the murder
of little Bill Burnet seemed to stagger him considerably; he stopped short
before me, and, while his face grew black with suppressed wrath and fury,
whispered:
‘I warn you again, young man, to busy yourself with your own matters.
Meddle not with what does not concern you; and belay your slack jaw, or,
by——! Rink Mahone will find a way to make it fast for you!’ He then
turned round, and walked forward to the forecastle.
During this incident no attention had been paid to the wreck, though the
crew had set up a yell of despair on seeing us leave them. Signals and
shouts were still repeated, and a voice, louder in agony than the rest,
implored our help for the love of the blessed Virgin, and offered riches and
absolution to the whole ship’s company if they would but come back. The
captain was pacing fore and aft without appearing to mind them, when, as if

struck with some sudden thought, he lifted his glass to his eye—seemed to
hesitate—walked on—and then, all at once changing his mind, he ordered
the vessel again before the wind.
On speaking the wreck, she proved to be a Spanish felucca from the island
of Cuba, bound for Curaçoa, on the coast of the Curaccas. As all the boats
had been lost in the storm, the people could not leave their vessel, which
had sprung a leak badly and was sinking fast; so our captain lowered and
manned our jolly-boat, and went off to them.
After an absence of a couple of hours he returned with the passengers,
consisting of an elderly person in the garb of a Catholic priest, a sick
gentleman, a young lady, apparently daughter of the latter, and a female
servant. With the utmost difficulty, and writhing under some excruciating
pain, the invalid was got on board, and carried down to the cabin, where he
was laid on a bed on the floor. To the tender of my professional services the
suffering man returned his thanks, and would have declined them,
expressing his conviction of being past human aid, but the young lady,
eagerly catching at even a remote hope of success, implored him with tears
to accept my offer. On examination I found his fears were but too well
grounded. In his endeavours to assist the crew during the gale he had been
standing near the mast, part of which, or the rigging, having fallen on him,
had dislocated several of his ribs and injured his spine beyond remedy. All
that could now be done was to afford a little temporary relief from pain,
which I did; and, leaving him to the care of the young lady and the priest, I
left the cabin.
On deck I found all bustle and confusion. The ship was still lying-to, and
the boats employed in bringing the goods out of the felucca, both of which
were the property of the wounded gentleman. The body of the old man,
Gemmel, had been removed somewhere out of sight; no trace of blood was
visible, and Captain Mahone seemed desirous to banish all recollections
both of our quarrel and its origin.
As the invalid was lying in the cabin, and my state-room occupied by the
lady and her female attendant, I got a temporary berth in the steerage made
up for myself for the night. I had not long thrown myself down on the cot,
which was only divided from the main cabin by a bulkhead, when I was
awakened by the deep groans of the Spaniard. The violence of his pain had

again returned, and between the spasms I heard the weeping and gentle
voice of the lady soothing his agony, and trying to impart hope—prospects
to him which her own hysterical sobs told plainly she did not herself feel.
The priest also frequently joined, and urged him to confess. To this advice
he remained silent for a while, but at length he addressed the lady:
‘The Padre says true, Isabella. Time wears apace, and I feel that I shall soon
be beyond its limits and above its concerns. But ere I go I would say that
which it would impart peace to my mind to disclose—I would seek to leave
you at least one human being to befriend and protect you in your utter
helplessness. Alas! that Diego di Montaldo’s daughter should ever be thus
destitute! Go, my love! I would be alone a little while with the father.’
An agony of tears and sobs was the only return made by the poor girl, while
the priest with gentle violence led her into the state-room.
‘Now,’ continued the dying man, ‘listen to me while I have strength. You
have only known me as a merchant in Cuba; but such I have not always
been. Mine is an ancient and noble family in Catalonia; though I unhappily
disgraced it, and have been estranged from it long. I had the misfortune to
have weak and indulgent parents, who idolised me as the heir of their
house, and did not possess resolution enough to thwart me in any of my
wishes or desires, however unreasonable. My boyhood being thus spoiled, it
is no matter of wonder that my youth should have proved wild and
dissolute. My companions were as dissolute as myself, and much of my
time was spent in gambling and other extravagances. One evening at play I
quarrelled with a young nobleman of high rank and influence. We were both
of us hot and passionate, so we drew on the spot and fought, and I had the
misfortune to run him through the heart, and leave him dead. Not daring to
remain longer at home, I fled in disguise to Barcelona, where I procured a
passage in a vessel for the Spanish Main. On our voyage we were captured
by Moorish pirates; and the roving and adventurous mode of life of these
bold and daring men suiting both my inclinations and finances, I agreed to
make one of their number. For many months we were successful in our
enterprises; we ranged the whole of these seas, and made a number of
prizes, some of which were rich ships of our own colonies. In course of
time we amassed such a quantity of specie as to make us unwilling to
venture it in one bottom; so we agreed to hide it ashore, and divide it on our
return from our next expedition. But our good fortune forsook us this time.

During a calm the boats of the Guarda-costa came on us, overpowered the
ship, and made all the crew, except myself and two others, prisoners. We
escaped with our boat, and succeeded in gaining the island of Cuba, where
both of my comrades died of fever. Subsequent events induced me to settle
at St. Juan de Buenavista, where I married, and as a merchant prospered and
became a rich man. But my happiness lasted not! My wife caught the
yellow fever and died, leaving me only this one child. I now loathed the
scene of my departed happiness, and felt all the longings of an exile to
revisit my native country. For this purpose I converted all my effects into
money, and am thus far on my way to the hidden treasure with which I
intended to return to Spain. But the green hills of Catalonia will never more
gladden mine eyes! My hopes and wishes were only for my poor girl. Holy
father! you know not a parent’s feelings—its anxiety and its fears. The
thoughts of leaving my child to the mercy of strangers—or, it may be, to
their barbarities—is far more dreadful than the anguish of my personal
sufferings. With you rests my only hope. Promise me your protection for
her, and the half of all my wealth is yours.’
‘Earthly treasures,’ replied the priest, ‘avail not with one whose desires are
fixed beyond the little handful of dust which perisheth. My life is devoted
to the service of my Creator, and the conversion of ignorant men—men who
have never heard of His salvation. I was bound on an errand of mercy, and
if the heathen receive the light of truth, how much more a daughter of our
most holy Church? I, therefore, on behalf of our community, accept of your
offer, and swear on this blessed emblem to fulfil all your wishes to the best
of my poor abilities.’
‘Enough; enough!’ said Montaldo. ‘I am satisfied. Among that archipelago
of desert islands, known by the name of the Roccas, situated on the coast of
the province of Venezuela, in New Grenada, there is one called the Wolf
Rock; it is the longest and most northern of the group, and lies the most to
seaward. At the eastern point, which runs a little way into the sea, there
stands an old vanilla tree, blasted and withered, and retaining but a single
solitary branch. On the eve of the Festival of St. Jago the moon will be at
her full in the west. At twenty minutes past midnight she will attain to her
highest altitude in the heavens, and then the shadow of the tree will be
thrown due east. Watch till the branch and stem of the tree unite and form
only one line of shade. Mark its extremity; for there, ten feet below the

surface, the cask containing the gold is buried. The gold, father, was
sinfully got; but fasts and penances have been done, masses without number
have been said, and I trust that the blessed Virgin has interceded for the
forgiveness of that great wickedness! I have now confessed all, and confide
in your promise; and as you perform your oath, so will the blessing or curse
of a dying man abide with you. I feel faint—dying. Oh! let me clasp my
child once more to my heart before I——’
Here the rest of the sentence became indistinct from the death-rattle in his
throat. I leaped off my cot and sprang up the hatchway, and had my foot on
the top of the companion ladder when a piercing shriek from below making
me quicken my steps I missed my hold, and fell against some person
crouching on the outside of the cabin door. It was pitch dark, so that I could
not see. ‘Who is that?’ I demanded, but there was no answer, and the person
with whom I had collided rose and, without uttering a single word, softly
ascended the companion-way ladder; but as he emerged into the faint light
which still lingered in the horizon I fancied that I could distinguish him to
be the captain.
On my entering the cabin I found the Spaniard dead, and his daughter lying
in a state of insensibility by his side; while the black servant was howling
and tearing her hair like one in a frenzy. The priest was entirely absorbed in
his devotions, so, without disturbing him, I lifted the lady and bore her into
the state-room. The greater part of the night was passed in trying to restore
her to sensation. Fit after fit followed each other in such quick succession
that I began to have fears for the result; but at length the hysterical
paroxysm subsided, and tears coming to her relief she grew somewhat
composed, when I left her in charge of her attendant.
The next day was spent in taking out the remainder of the felucca’s cargo.
There seemed now no anxiety on the captain’s part to proceed on his
voyage. He appeared to have forgotten the necessity, expressed on a former
occasion, of being in port within a limited time. During the days that
followed he was often in a state of inebriety, for the wine and spirits of the
Spaniards were lavishly served out to the whole ship’s company, with
whom he also mixed more, and he changed that haughtiness of bearing
which had marked his conduct hitherto.

Yielding to the passionate entreaties of Isabella, the old Spaniard’s body
was kept for several days, but at last she grew reconciled to her father’s
remains being committed to the deep, and one evening as the sun was
setting the body was brought on deck swathed in canvas, and the priest
conducted a mass, and solemnly intoned the following prayer:—‘May the
angels conduct thee into Paradise; may the martyrs receive thee at thy
coming; and mayst thou have eternal rest with Lazarus, who was formerly
poor!’ He then sprinkled the body with holy water, and continued:—‘As it
hath pleased God to take the soul of our dear brother here departed unto
Himself, we therefore commit his body to the deep, in the sure and certain
hope of a joyful resurrection on that day when the sea shall give up its dead.
Let him rest in peace!’ The Spaniards present responded ‘Amen!’ and the
priest repeating ‘May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen!’ he made the sign of the
Cross, the end of the grating was gently elevated, and the corpse heavily
plunged into the water. The waves parted, heaving and foaming round the
body as it disappeared, when, to our horror and astonishment, we beheld it
the next minute slowly return to the surface deprived of the canvas covering
in which it had been sewed. The dead man came up as he had gone down, in
an upright position, and floated a little time with his back to the vessel, but
the motion of the water turned him round by degrees till we distinctly saw
his face. The head was thrown back, and the eyes wide open, and under the
strong stream of light poured on them from the setting sun they seemed to
glare ghastly and fearfully upwards. His grey hair, long and dishevelled,
floated about his face, at times partially obscuring it; and one arm, stretched
forth and agitated by the action of the waves, appeared as if in the act of
threatening us. When the first burst of horror had subsided, I caught hold of
Isabella to prevent her seeing the body, and was leading her off when some
of our sailors whispered that it was the murdered man, old James Gemmel.
The captain had been hitherto looking on with the rest without having
apparently recognised him, but when the name struck his ear he shrank back
and involuntarily exclaimed, ‘It’s a lie! It’s an infamous lie! Who dares to
say he was murdered? But don’t let him come on board; for God’s sake
keep him down, or he’ll take us with him to the bottom! Will nobody keep
him down? Will nobody shove him off? Helm a-lee!’ he bawled out, waving
his hand to the man at the wheel; but the man had deserted his post, eager to
see what was going on; the skipper, therefore, ran to the wheel himself, and

again issued his commands, ‘Let go the main-topsail weather-braces, and
bring round the yard! Let them go, I say!’ His orders were speedily
executed. The vessel gathered way, and we quickly shot past the body of the
old man.
For several days after this we pursued our course with a favourable wind,
which drove us swiftly forward on our voyage. The captain now kept
himself constantly intoxicated, seldom made his appearance in the cabin,
but left us altogether to the care of the steward. All subordination was now
at an end; his whole time was spent among the seamen, with whom he
mixed familiarly, and was addressed by them without the slightest portion
of that respect or deference commonly paid to the captain of a vessel. The
appearance of the men also was much altered. From the careless mirth and
gaiety, and the characteristic good humour of sailors, there was now a
sullenness and gloom only visible. A constant whispering, a constant
caballing was going on, a perpetual discussion, as if some design of
moment was in agitation, or some step of deep importance was about to be
taken. All sociality and confidence towards each other were banished. In
place of conversing together in a body as formerly, they now walked about
in detached parties, and among them the boatswain and carpenter seemed to
take an active lead. Yet, in the midst of all this disorder, a few of the crew
kept themselves separate, taking no share in the general consultation, but
from the anxiety expressed in their countenances, as well as in that of the
mate, I foresaw some storm was brewing, and about to burst on our heads.
Since Montaldo’s death Isabella had been in the habit of leaving her cabin
after sunset to enjoy the coolness of the evening breeze, and in this she was
sometimes joined by the priest, but more frequently was only attended by
her woman. One evening she came up as usual, and after walking backward
and forward on deck with me till the dews began to fall, she turned to go
below, but just as she approached the companion-way one of the sailors,
whom we had rescued from the felucca, who now, in the absence of all
discipline, lounged about the quarter-deck without rebuke, shut down the
head, and throwing himself on it, declared that none should make him rise
without the reward of a kiss. This piece of insolence was received with an
encouraging laugh by his fellows, and several slang expressions of wit were
uttered, which were loudly applauded by those around. Without a word of
remonstrance, Isabella timidly stooped, and would have attempted getting

down the ladder without disturbing the men, when, burning with
indignation, I seized the rascal by the collar, and pitched him head foremost
along the deck. In an instant he got on his legs, and pulling a long clasp-
knife out of his pocket, with a loud imprecation made towards me. All the
other sailors likewise made a motion to assist him, and I expected to be
assailed on all hands, when the mate interfered, and laying hold of the
marline-spike which I had caught up wherewith to defend myself, pushed
me back as he whispered:
‘Are you mad that you interfere? For heaven’s sake keep quiet, for I have
no authority over the crew now!’ And he spoke the truth, for the negro,
brandishing his knife, and supported by his comrades, was again advancing,
when the hoarse voice of the boatswain, as he ran to the scene of the action,
arrested his progress.
‘Hollo! you there; what’s the squall for? Avast! avast! Mingo. Off hands is
fair play. Ship that blade of yours, or I’ll send my fist through your ribs, and
make daylight shine through them in a minute.’
I related the behaviour of the fellow, and was requesting him to order the
others forward, when I was cut short by his exclaiming, to my
astonishment:
‘We shall do as we like here, young man! We are all alike free in a British
ship. But damn his eyes for an insolent son of a sea cook. He wants to kiss
this pretty lady! I’ll let him know she belongs to his betters! The black
wench is good enough for him any day. Come, my dear!’ he continued,
turning to Isabella; ‘give me the same fee, and I’ll undertake to clear the
way for you myself.’
He made as if he meant to approach her, when, careless of what the
consequences might be to myself, I hastily stepped forward, and, lifting up
the head of the companion, allowed Isabella to run below.
‘This lady is no fit subject for either wit or insolence,’ said I, shutting the
doors, ‘and he is less than man who would insult an unprotected female.’
For a little while he stood eyeing me, as if hesitating whether he should
resent my interference or remain passive. At length he turned slowly and
doggedly away, as he uttered:

‘You ruffle big, and crow with a brisk note, sir. But I’ve seen me do as
wonderful a thing as twist your windpipe, and send you over the side to
cool yourself a bit; and so I would serve you in the turning of a wave, if it
wasn’t that we may have use for you yet! I see in what quarter the wind
sets; but mind your eye! for sink me if I don’t keep a sharp look-out ahead
over you.’
I now saw that things had come to a crisis—that the crew meant to turn
pirates, and I was going to be detained among them for the sake of my
professional services. I could not without a shudder reflect on what must be
the fate of Isabella among such a gang of reckless villains; but I firmly
resolved that, come what might, my protection and care over her should
cease but with my life.
To be prepared for the worst, I immediately went below, loaded two pistols
which I had brought on board with me, and concealed them in my breast,
securing at the same time all my money and papers about my person. While
thus employed, one of the cabin boys came down for a telescope, saying
that a sail had hove in sight to windward. Upon this I followed him up, and
found the crew collected together in a clamorous consultation as to the
course they should follow. Some were for laying to till she came near
enough, and seizing her if a merchantman; and if not, they could easily
sheer off. But this motion was overruled by the majority, who judged it best
to keep clear for fear of accidents. Accordingly, all the spare canvas was set,
and we were soon gaining large before the wind. But the ‘Ariadne,’ though
reckoned the fastest vessel that ever left the Clyde when close hauled on a
wind, was by no means so fleet when squared and going free. She had now
met with her match, for the stranger was evidently gaining rapidly on us,
and in two hours we saw it was impossible for us to escape. The priest and I
were ordered down, with a threat of instant death if we offered to come on
deck, or made any attempt to attract observation.
I now communicated to Isabella my apprehensions with respect to the crew,
along with my resolution to leave the vessel if the other proved a man-of-
war, and earnestly advised both her and the priest to take advantage of it
also. She thanked me with a look and a smile that told me how sensible she
was of the interest I took in her welfare, and expressed her willingness to be
guided by me in whatever way I thought best.

Shortly after this we heard a gun fired to bring us to, and the ‘Ariadne’
hailed and questioned as to her port and destination. The answers, it
appeared, were thought evasive and unsatisfactory, for we were ordered to
come close under the lee quarter of her Majesty’s sloop-of-war ‘Tartar,’
while an officer was sent to examine our papers, for it appeared the ‘Tartar’
had been specially detailed to keep a look-out in those waters for a
notorious pirate, who had committed some extraordinary deeds of daring
while flying the English flag, and pretending to be a peaceful trader. This
was now our only chance, and I resolved that if the officer did not come
below I would force the companion door, and claim his protection. But I
was not put to this alternative. As soon as he arrived, I heard him desire the
hatches to be taken off, so that he could examine the hold. The inspection
did not satisfy him, for he hailed the sloop, and reported that there were
Spanish goods on board, which did not appear in the manifest.
‘Then remain on board, and keep stern lights burning all night, and take
charge of the ship,’ was the reply. In a state of irksome suspense we
remained nearly two hours, expecting every moment to hear the officer
descending. At length, to our relief, the companion doors were unlocked,
and a young man, attended by our captain, entered the cabin. He looked
surprised on seeing us, and, bowing to Isabella, apologised for intruding at
such an unseasonable hour.
‘But I was not given to understand,’ he added, ‘that there were passengers
in the ship—prisoners I should rather pronounce it, Captain Mahone, for
you seem to have had them under lock and key, which is rather an unusual
mode of treating ladies, at least in a vessel supposed to be bound on a
trading voyage. No wine, sir,’ he continued, motioning away the bottle
which the captain was hastily placing on the table, ‘no wine, but be pleased
to show me your register and bill of lading.’
He had not been long seated to inspect them when a shuffling and hurried
sound of feet was heard overhead, and a voice calling on ‘Mr. Wright’ for
assistance showed that some scuffle had taken place above. Instantaneously
we all started to our feet, and the lieutenant was in the act of drawing his
sword, when, accidentally looking round, I observed Mahone presenting a
pistol behind. With a cry of warning, I threw myself forward, and had just
time to strike the weapon slightly aside, when it went off. The ball narrowly
missed the head of Wright, for whom it had been aimed, but struck the

priest over the right eye, and the unfortunate man, making one desperate
and convulsive leap as high as the ceiling, sunk down dead, and before the
captain could fire again I discharged the contents of my pistol into his
breast. We then rushed up on deck, but it was only to find that the boat’s
crew had been mastered, and to behold the last of the men tumbled
overboard. The pirates then dispersed, and exerted themselves to get the
ship speedily under way, while the boatswain sang out to extinguish the
stern lights that the ‘Tartar’ might not be guided by them.
‘It is all over with us!’ exclaimed my companion, ‘but follow me; we have
one chance for our lives yet. Our boat is still towing astern. You throw
yourself overboard and swim till I slide down the painter, and cut her adrift.
Come, bear a hand, and jump. Don’t you see them hastening aft?’ and in an
instant he pitched himself off the taffrail, slid down the rope which held the
boat, and cast her loose. But this advice, however judicious, it was
impossible for me to follow, for at that moment repeated shrieks from
Isabella put to flight all thoughts for my own individual safety. I, therefore,
hurried back to the cabin, determined that if I could not rescue her along
with myself, to remain and protect her with my life. And in the nick of time
I arrived. The candles were still burning on the table, and through the
smoke of the pistols, which still filled the cabin, I beheld her struggling in
the arms of a Spanish sailor—the identical fellow who had displayed such
insolence in the early part of the evening. With one stroke of the butt end of
my pistol I fractured the cursed villain’s skull, caught up Isabella in my
arms, ran up the ladder, and had nearly gained the side when the boatswain,
attracted by her white garments, left the helm to intercept me, and I saw the
gleam of a dagger or knife of some sort on the point of descending, when he
was suddenly struck down by some person from behind. I did not stop to
discover who had done me this good office, but hailing Wright, and
clasping Isabella firmly in my arms, I plunged into the water, followed by,
at that moment, an unknown ally. With the aid of my companion, whom I
now found to be John Wyllie, the mate, we easily managed to support our
charge till the boat reached us, when we found that the greater part of the
‘Tartar’s’ men, who also jumped overboard, had been rescued in a similar
manner.
When the morning dawned we perceived the ‘Ariadne,’ like a speck in the
horizon, and the sloop-of-war in close chase. Our attention was next turned

to our own situation, which was by no means enviable. We had escaped, it
is true, with our lives, for the present, but without a morsel of food, or a
single drop of fresh water with us in the boat. We could at best only expect
to protract existence for a few days longer, and then yield them up
ultimately in horror and misery. By an observation taken the day before, on
board the ‘Tartar,’ Mr. Wright informed us we were to the north-east of the
Bahamas, and distant about one hundred and seventy miles from Walling’s
Island, which was the nearest land. This was a long distance, but as despair
never enters the breast of a British sailor, even in situations of the utmost
extremity, we cheered up each other, and, as no other resource was left us,
we manned our oars, and pulled away with life, trusting to the chance of
meeting with some vessel, of which there was a strong probability, as this
was the common course of our leeward traders. And our hopes were not
disappointed, for next day we fortunately fell in with a brig from the
Azores, bound for Porto Rico, on board of which we were received with
much kindness, and in five days we found ourselves safely moored in
Porto-Real harbour.
My first step on landing was to inquire for a boarding-house for Isabella,
and I had the good luck to be directed to one kept by a respectable English
family in Orange Terrace, and to this I conducted her. My next transaction
was to charter a small cutter, and to communicate to Wright the secret of the
hidden treasure, at the same time asking him to adventure himself and his
men on its recovery. I also gave him to understand the probability of a
rencontre with the pirates, in the event of their having escaped the sloop, for
I was aware that Mahone had overheard the whole confession from my
finding him listening at the cabin door. Without hesitation the lieutenant at
once agreed to accompany me, and engaging some hands out of a vessel
newly arrived, we soon mustered a party of fourteen men, and we hired a
cutter. As it wanted only six days to the Festival of St. Jago, and the
distance across the Caribbean Sea was great enough to require all our
exertions to be there in time, we embarked and sailed that very night.
Our cutter proved a very fast vessel, and though the winds were light and
variable we made the Roccas on the evening of the sixth day. As the
Spaniard had foretold, the moon was climbing the western sky, and pouring
the fulness of her splendour with a mild and beautiful effulgence on the
untroubled deep as we slowly drifted with the current between the Wolf

Rock and the adjacent isle. All was silent and calm over the whole desert
archipelago and the vast surrounding waters, save now and then the flight of
a sea fowl awakening from its slumbers as we passed, or the occasional roar
of the jaguar faintly wafted from the mainland. We ran the cutter into a deep
and narrow creek, moored her safe, and proceeded, well-armed, to the
eastern extremity. There we found the projecting point of land, and the old
vanilla tree exactly in the situation described—its huge, twisted trunk was
still entire, and from the end of its solitary branch, which was graced by a
few scattered leaves, the body of a man in the garb of a sailor hung
suspended in irons. The clothes had preserved the body from the birds of
prey, but the head was picked clean and bare, leaving the eyeless and
bleached skull to glitter white in the moonlight. In perfect silence, and with
something of awe on our spirits, impressed by the solitude and dreariness of
the scene, we seated ourselves on the rocks, and, with my watch in my
hand, I began to mark the progress of the shadow. For nearly three hours we
watched in this manner, listening attentively for the slightest sound from
seaward; but everything continued hushed and still, except the creaking of
the chain as the dead man swung to and fro in the breeze. Midnight was
now drawing near, the moon, radiant and full, was careering high through
the deep blue of heaven, and the shadows of the branch and stem were
approaching each other, and towards the desired point. At length the hand of
my watch pointed to within one minute of the time. It passed over. The
branch and stem now merged into one, and threw their shadow due east,
and the first spadeful of earth had been thrown out when the man who had
been stationed to keep a look-out came running to inform us that a boat was
rapidly approaching from the east. We immediately concluded that they
must be some of the ‘Ariadne’s’ crew; and their long and vigorous strokes,
as they stretched out to the full extent of their oars, showed that they knew
the importance of every minute that elapsed. Our implements for digging
were hastily laid aside, and we concealed ourselves among the rocks till the
pirates came within reach. In a short time the boat was run ashore, and eight
armed men came forward, partly Spaniards and partly the ship’s crew,
among whom I recognised the boatswain, and, to my surprise, Mahone,
whom I had shot and left for dead in the cabin. Without giving them time to
prepare for the assault we quitted our shelter, and sprung among them at
once, laying about with the short swords we had provided ourselves with.
For a little space the skirmish was toughly and hotly contested, for the

pirates were resolute and reckless, and fought with the desperation of men
who knew that the only chance for their lives lay in their own exertions. In
the confusion of the fray I had lost sight of Wright, and was closely engaged
with one of the Spaniards, when the voice of the boatswain, shouting forth a
horrible imprecation, sounded immediately behind me. I turned round, and
sprang aside from the sweep of his cutlass, and, as my pistols were both
empty, retreated, acting upon the defensive, when he pulled out his, fired,
and hurled the weapon at my head. The shot passed without injuring me,
but the pistol, aimed with better effect, struck me full on the forehead. A
thousand sparks of light flashed from my eyes, I felt myself reeling, and on
the point of falling, when a cut across the shoulder stretched me at once on
the ground. When I recovered from my stupor and opened my eyes, the
morning was far advanced, the sun was shining bright overhead, and I
found myself at sea, lying on the deck of the cutter, and Wright busily
engaged in examining my wounds. From him I learned that the pirates had
been mastered after a severe conflict, in which four had been slain and left
on the island, two had escaped unobserved during the fight, and made off
with their boat, and two had been wounded, and were prisoners on board,
one of whom was Mahone. On our arrival at Porto Rico we delivered them
over to the civil power, and soon afterwards Mahone was tried for the
murder of the priest, when he was convicted on our evidence, condemned,
and executed.
Under good nursing and care I gradually recovered, and by the fall of the
season, without any further adventures, I once more landed safe in
Scotland.
Isabella is not now that destitute and unprotected orphan whom I first saw
on the middle of the western ocean, but the happy mistress of a happy
home, diffusing life and gladness on all around her. My friend Wright has
lately been placed on the list of post-captains, and is anxiously waiting for
more bustling times, when there will be more knocking about and more
hard blows and quicker promotion than can be hoped for in piping times of
peace. John Wyllie, too, has had advancement in his line, being now master
of one of the finest ships sailing out of the Clyde, and I have the additional
satisfaction of knowing that none of the crew of the cutter have had reason
to regret their having jeopardised their lives in fighting for the ‘Pirate’s
Treasure,’ which proved to be of far greater value than the confession of the

dying Spaniard had led me to believe. Altogether that voyage was an
extraordinary one, and at this period I can look back and feel the truths of
the saying that ‘Some men are born to strange destinies.’
In this present day we have become more prosaic, and true romances of the
sea such as I have described will soon be things of the past.

VI
THE LEGEND OF WOLFSPRING
A STORY OF THE BLACK FOREST
Wolfspring Castle stood in the very heart of the Black Forest, and for
centuries had been in possession of the Barons of Wolfspring, one of the
most powerful German families of the Middle Ages, and who, even at the
present day, although living on the wreck of their former greatness only,
still keep up a semblance of dignity.
The seat of these territorial lords was a castellated Gothic mansion built for
strength and defence. It was a massive and imposing pile, gloomy and
forbidding as to its external aspects, but designed internally with an eye to
the comfort and luxury of its occupants. Nevertheless, there were many
dark, tortuous corridors and vaulted tapestry rooms, in which there were
ghostly echoes. There were also secret stairways, concealed spring doors,
and deep down in the basement a number of gloomy dungeons, in which
many a ghastly tragedy had been enacted.
A dark grove of pine and mountain ash encompassed the castle on every
side, and threw an aspect of weirdness around the scene, and even shut out
the sunshine, which failed to penetrate to that part of the forest’s dark
depths.
The extraordinary and astounding events that are now about to be related
occurred long ago, but incredible as they may seem to the modern sceptic,
are still vouched for by those who have their homes in the Black Forest at
the present time.
At the period referred to the then Baron of Wolfspring had an only daughter,
whose ravishing beauty had caused her to become the talk of Germany, and
suitors from all parts had sought her hand. As she was the apple of her
father’s eye, however, he had carefully guarded her, in the hope that she
would remain with him, as he could not bear the idea of her parting from
him. Nevertheless, he surrounded her with nearly everything she desired,
and was constantly devising new plans for her amusement. On reaching her

twenty-first year her father made it the occasion for a fête, such as was
rarely seen even in Germany, and preparations were made for it months
before the time. Invitations were sent out lavishly, and it was calculated that
the Black Forest would witness a gathering of beauty and bravery which
would pass down to posterity as an historical event. The lady’s birthday fell
in the winter time, but that did not prevent the invited guests from
assembling in great numbers.
The castle bells rang out a merry peal at the approach of a winter twilight,
and the warder was stationed with his retinue on the battlements, to
announce the arrival of the company who were invited to share the
amusements that reigned within the walls. The Lady Marguerite, the baron’s
only daughter, never looked more ravishing than on this occasion. The large
vaulted apartments were thrown open for the reception of the numerous
guests, and by midnight the castle was a scene of gaiety and brilliancy, and
the greatest good humour prevailed.
Suddenly it was noted that amongst the guests in the ballroom was a very
remarkable-looking man, who had not been noticed before, and who was an
utter stranger to everyone present. He attracted attention by his dignified
bearing, his handsome features, and the magnificence of his dress. The
baron was appealed to, but had to confess that he did not know the stranger,
who, on being asked for his name and rank, politely asked that he might be
allowed to remain incognito, but he hinted that his lineage was perhaps
superior to any else present, and his wishing to remain unknown for a time
was a mere whim; but, for convenience sake, he requested that he might be
addressed as the count. As may be supposed this mysterious stranger
aroused no little curiosity, and his boast of superiority engendered some
amount of ill-feeling. It would have been contrary to all traditions of
Wolfspring hospitality for the baron to request his strange guest to retire,
especially on such an occasion, and although he had come without retinue
or following of any kind, and not one of the retainers could give any
information as to when or how he arrived, he was treated by the host with
every consideration and respect.
It soon became only too obvious, however, that the stranger’s presence was
likely to be productive of much heart-burning, if not of actual mischief, for
he bestowed all his attentions on the beautiful Marguerite, and quite ignored
the other ladies. This would probably have led to a speedy open rupture, as

some or other of the jealous men would have been sure to have insulted
him, and in that age insult was quickly followed by blows and bloodshed.
But somehow or other it began to be whispered that the proud and uninvited
guest was none other than the king’s brother, who for certain family reasons
had long lived abroad, but his wealth, power, and possible succession to the
throne had caused him to be a very-much-talked-of personage in Germany,
although no one seemed to know anything about him. But there had been
stories of his handsome appearance and his eccentricity. As may be
supposed the mere suggestion that the unbidden guest was the mysterious
brother of the king at once silenced criticism, and there was a general desire
to pay him homage and treat him with respect.
All these flattering attentions he acknowledged with lofty dignity, and it
was obvious that he was bent on winning the good opinion of the host’s fair
daughter, and equally obvious that she was fascinated by his brilliancy and
wit; and when he casually remarked, with a sigh, that in another half-hour
he must tear himself from her, and leave the fair scene to ride forth again on
his journey, she flew to her father and begged of him to press the count to
prolong his stay for a few days. Not wishing to deny his daughter anything,
the baron approached the count, who, however, did not seem disposed to
yield, until beautiful Marguerite herself added her persuasions to those of
her father, and then, with a gracious bow, the count expressed his intention
of accepting the invitation.
The festivities were prolonged far into the night. Outside the elements
waged war, for a terrific gale swept through the forest, bringing with it the
heaviest fall of snow that had been experienced for many years. But the
storm did not interfere with the comfort of the revellers, who began to
disperse to their respective rooms as the castle bell tolled the hour of five.
The day had far advanced when the guests reassembled for the morning
meal. Then experiences were exchanged, and strange stories told. One
averred that he had been the victim of remarkable phenomena in his room,
another that he had heard the flapping of wings at his window, and when,
out of a kindly feeling, he arose and opened the window, thinking that some
poor storm-beaten bird was in distress, he was greeted with eldritch
laughter and shrill screams that pealed through the forest. Others, again,
said that they had heard heavenly music; but several, who occupied
apartments near those in which the count had been placed, affirmed that

they were startled by awful and unearthly sounds proceeding from his
room, and yet they were unable to define those sounds. The more level-
headed guests smiled as they heard these fantastic stories, and were
disposed to attribute them to the figments of wine-heated brains. The
mysterious count was almost the last to put in an appearance at the
breakfast table, and when he gathered the subject of the conversation a dark
smile of unutterable meaning played round his saturnine features, which
then relapsed into an expression of the deepest melancholy. He addressed
his conversation principally to Marguerite, and talked enthusiastically of the
different climes he had visited, of the sunny regions of Italy, where the very
air breathes the fragrance of flowers, and the summer breeze sighs over a
land of sweets. When he spoke to her of those delicious countries where the
smile of the day sinks into the softer beauty of the night, and the loveliness
of heaven is never for an instant obscured, he drew sighs of regret from the
bosom of his fair auditor, and for the first time in her life she longed to
leave her home and wander in the lands of delight of which the count drew
such graphic pictures.
It soon became evident that the count was bent upon making an impression
upon the heart of Marguerite, and when a week had elapsed he still lingered
at the castle, although most of the guests had departed, but he begged his
host’s permission to be allowed to prolong his stay, as he had never before
experienced so much happiness. As the baron had now quite come to
believe he was entertaining the king’s brother, and the probable future king,
he was nothing loth that the stranger should stay, and he even began to think
that he could now reconcile himself to the loss of his daughter, so long as
there was a prospect of her becoming a queen. For that high honour he was
prepared to sacrifice even his own feelings.
Days rolled on, and every moment increased the fervour of the
inexpressible sentiments with which the stranger had inspired Marguerite.
He never discoursed of love, but he looked it in his language, in his manner,
in the insinuating tones of his voice, and in the slumbering softness of his
smile; and when he found that he had succeeded in impressing her, a sneer
of the most diabolical meaning spoke for an instant, and died again on his
dark-featured countenance. When he met her in the company of her father
he was at once respectful and submissive, and it was only when alone with

her, in her rambles through the forest with her favourite hounds, that he
assumed the guise of the more impassioned admirer.
As he was sitting one evening with the baron in a wainscoted apartment of
the library, the conversation happened to turn upon supernatural agency.
The stranger remained reserved and mysterious during the discussion, but
when the baron in a sneering manner denied the existence of spirits, and
satirically invoked their appearance, if there was any truth in the many
stories he had heard, the count’s eyes seemed to glow with unearthly lustre,
and his form to dilate to more than its natural dimensions. When the
conversation had ceased, to the astonishment of everyone a chorus of
celestial harmony was heard pealing through the dark forest glade. The
stranger was disturbed and gloomy; he looked at his noble host with
compassion, and something like a tear swam in his dark eyes. After the
lapse of a few seconds the music died gently in the distance, and all was
hushed as before. The baron soon after quitted the apartment, and was
followed almost immediately by the stranger. He had not long been absent
from the room when harrowing groans were heard, as if some person was
suffering the agonies of an unusually painful death, and when the attendants
and others rushed out to ascertain the cause the baron was discovered
stretched dead in the corridor. His countenance was convulsed with pain,
and the grip of a human hand was clearly visible on his blackened throat.
The alarm was instantly given, the castle searched in every direction, and,
to the alarm and consternation of everyone, it was found that the count had
disappeared. Guests and servants alike mounted their horses and scoured
the forest in every direction, but not a trace of the stranger could be
discovered, and it was noted that the many paths diverging from the castle
were covered with the unsullied and untrodden snow. There was no sign of
either man or horse having passed. How, then, had the count gone away?
The mystery was profound, and a strange fear fell upon the assembly.
In due course the body of the baron was committed to the earth with all the
pomp and ceremony befitting the burial of a person of his high rank, and
then those who had remained behind to pay their last respects to the dead
host dispersed to their homes, and the remembrance of the dreadful
transaction was recalled but as a thing that should be spoken of with bated
breath. Men shuddered as they referred to it, and women became hysterical.
What was the awful mystery? Would it ever be cleared up? Who was the

strange count, and how had he disappeared? He had gone as he came; no
one knew how.
After the disappearance of the stranger who had fascinated her and won her
love, the spirits of the gentle Marguerite declined. The loss of her lover and
the awfully mysterious death of her father threw the girl into a profound
melancholy, and she refused to be comforted. She would walk early and late
in the walks that he had once frequented so that she might recall his last
words, dwell on his honeyed smile, and wander to the spot where she had
once discoursed with him of love. She avoided all society, and when alone
in the solitude of her chamber she gave vent to her affliction in tears, and
the love that the pride of maiden modesty concealed in public burst forth in
the hours of privacy. So beauteous, yet so resigned, was the fair mourner
that she seemed already an angel freed from the trammels of the world and
prepared to take her flight to heaven.
The winter slowly passed. It lingered unusually long that year, but at length
the snow melted under the warm rays of the spring sunshine, and in a little
while thereafter summer burst in all its glory, and the great forest was
resonant with a thousand glad voices of revivified nature. Marguerite had
had a seat erected in a spot commanding a magnificent view which had
more than once called forth the admiration of the count, although he had
only seen it under its winter aspects. Here one summer day she sat wrapped
in thought, when she was suddenly startled by someone approaching. She
turned round quickly, and to her infinite surprise beheld the count, looking
even handsomer and more fascinating than when she last beheld him. He
stepped gaily to her side, and commenced an animated conversation.
‘You left me,’ exclaimed the delighted girl, ‘and I thought all happiness was
fled from me for ever; but you return, and shall we not be happy?’
‘Happy,’ replied the stranger with a scornful burst of derision, ‘can I ever be
happy again? Can the—but excuse the agitation, my love, and impute it to
the pleasure I experience at our meeting. Oh! I have many things to tell you;
aye! and many kind words to receive. Is it not so, sweet one? Come, tell me
truly, have you been happy during my absence? No! I see in that sunken
eye, in that pallid cheek, that the poor wanderer has at least gained some
slight interest in the heart of his beloved. I have roamed to other climes, I
have seen other nations, I have met with other women, beautiful and

accomplished, but I have met with but one angel, and she is here before me.
Accept this simple offering of my affection, dearest,’ continued the stranger,
plucking a heath-rose from its stem; ‘it is beautiful as yourself, and sweet as
is the love I bear thee.’
‘It is sweet, indeed,’ replied Marguerite, ‘but its sweetness must wither ere
night closes around. It is beautiful, but its beauty is shortlived, as the love
evinced by man. Let not this, then, be the type of your attachment. Bring
me the delicate evergreen, the sweet flower that blossoms throughout the
year, and I will say, as I wreathe it in my hair, “The violets have bloomed
and died, the roses have flourished and decayed, but the evergreen is still
young, and so is the love of my wanderer.” Ah, don’t think me immodest if
I confess my love for you. You taught me love, why then should I conceal
my feelings? You will not—cannot desert me again. I live but in you; you
are my hope, my thoughts, my existence itself, and if I lose you I lose my
all. I was but a solitary wild flower in the wilderness of nature, and can you
now break the fond heart you first taught to glow with passion?’
‘Speak not thus,’ returned the stranger, suddenly changing his manner; ‘it
rends my very soul to hear you. Leave me, forget me, avoid me for ever, or
your eternal ruin must ensue. I am a thing abandoned of God and man, and
did you but see the seared heart that scarcely beats within this moving mass
of deformity you would flee me as you would an adder in your path. Here is
my heart, love, feel how cold it is. There is no pulse that betrays its
emotion, for all is chilled and dead as the friends I once knew.’
Marguerite was alarmed. ‘You are unhappy, love,’ she exclaimed; ‘but do
not think I am capable of abandoning you in your misfortunes. No! I will
wander with you through the wide world, and be your servant, your slave, if
you will have it so. I will be true to you, and though the cold world may
scorn you, though friends fall off and associates wither in the grave, there
shall be one fond heart who will love you better in your misfortune, and
cherish you, bless you still.’
She ceased, and her blue eyes swam in tears as she turned them glistening
with affection towards the stranger. He averted his head from her gaze, and
a scornful sneer of the darkest, the deadliest malice passed over his fine
countenance. In an instant the expression subsided, his fixed glassy eye
resumed its unearthly chillness, and he turned once again to his companion.

‘It is the hour of sunset,’ he exclaimed; ‘the soft, the beauteous hour, when
the hearts of lovers are happy, and Nature smiles in unison with their
feelings; but to me it will smile no longer. Ere the morrow dawns I shall be
far, very far, from the house of my beloved, from the scenes where my heart
is enshrined, as in a sepulchre. Must I leave you, sweetest flower of the
wilderness, to be the sport of the whirlwind, the prey of the mountain
blast?’
‘No, we will not part,’ replied the impassioned girl: ‘where thou goest will I
go; thy home shall be my home, and thy God shall be my God.’
‘Swear it, swear it,’ resumed the stranger, wildly grasping her by the hand;
‘swear to the oath I shall dictate.’ He then desired her to kneel, and holding
his right hand in a menacing attitude towards heaven, and throwing back his
dark raven locks, he exclaimed with the ghastly smile of an incarnate fiend,
‘May the curses of an offended God haunt you, cling to you for ever, in the
tempest and in the calm, in the day and in the night, in sickness and in
sorrow, in life and in death, should you swerve from the promise you have
made to be mine. May the dark spirits of the damned howl in your ears the
accursed chorus of fiends; may despair rack your bosom with the
quenchless flames of hell! May your soul be as the lazar-house of
corruption, where the ghost of departed pleasure sits enshrined, as in a
grave, where the hundred-headed worm never dies, where the fire is never
extinguished. May a spirit of evil lord it over your brow, and proclaim as
you pass by, “This is the abandoned of God and man”; may fearful spectres
haunt you in the night season; may your dearest friends drop day by day
into the grave, and curse you with their dying breath; may all that is most
horrible in human nature, more solemn than language can frame or lips can
utter, may this, and more than this, be your eternal portion should you
violate the oath you have taken.’ He ceased, and hardly knowing what she
did, the terrified girl acceded to the awful adjuration, and promised eternal
fidelity to him who was henceforth to be her lord.
‘Spirits of the damned, I thank you for your assistance,’ exclaimed the
count, as if he had become suddenly frenzied. ‘I have wooed my fair bride
bravely. She is mine—mine for ever. Aye, body and soul, both mine; mine
in life, and mine in death. What, in tears, my sweet one, ere yet the
honeymoon is past? Why! indeed, you have cause for weeping; but when
next we meet we shall meet to sign the nuptial bond.’ He then imprinted a

cold salute on the cheek of his young bride, and softening down the
unutterable horrors of his countenance, requested her to meet him at eight
o’clock on the ensuing evening in the chapel adjoining the castle of
Wolfspring. She turned round to him with a passionate cry of pain, and as if
to implore him to release her from her rash vow, but he had gone—
disappeared as suddenly as if the earth had opened and swallowed him.
Marguerite arose with a sense of unutterable horror weighing her down. On
entering the castle she was observed to be weeping, and her relations vainly
endeavoured to ascertain the cause of her uneasiness; but the tremendous
oath she had sworn completely paralysed her faculties, and she was fearful
of betraying herself by even the slightest intonation of her voice or the least
variable expression of her countenance. When the evening was concluded
the family retired to rest; but Marguerite, who was unable to sleep, owing to
the troubled state of her mind, requested to be allowed to remain alone in
the library that adjoined her apartment.
Midnight came; every domestic had long since retired to rest, and the only
sound that could be distinguished was the sullen howl of the ban-dog as he
bayed the waning moon. Marguerite remained in the library in an attitude of
deep meditation. The lamp that burnt on the table where she sat was dying
away, and the lower end of the apartment was already more than half
obscured. The clock from the northern angle of the castle tolled out the hour
of twelve, and the sound echoed dismally in the solemn stillness of the
night. Suddenly the oaken door at the farther end of the room was gently
lifted on its latch, and a bloodless figure, apparelled in the habiliments of
the grave, advanced slowly up the apartment. No sound heralded its
approach, as it moved with noiseless steps to the table where the lady was
stationed. She did not at first perceive it, till she felt a death-cold hand fast
grasped in her own, and heard a solemn voice whisper in her ear,
‘Marguerite.’ She looked up; a dark figure was standing beside her. She
endeavoured to scream, but her voice was unequal to the exertion; her eyes
were fixed, as if by magic, on the form, which slowly removed the garb that
concealed its countenance, and disclosed the livid eyes and skeleton shape
of her father. It seemed to gaze on her with pity and regret, and mournfully
exclaimed, ‘Marguerite, the dresses and the servants are ready, the church
bell has tolled, and the priest is at the altar, but where is the affianced bride?
There is room for her in the grave, and to-morrow shall she be with me.’

‘To-morrow?’ faltered out the distracted girl.
‘The spirits of hell shall have registered it,’ answered the spirit, ‘and to-
morrow must the bond be cancelled.’ The figure ceased, slowly retired, and
disappeared.
The morning—evening—arrived; and already, as the clock struck eight,
Marguerite was on her road to the chapel. It was a dark, gloomy night; thick
masses of dun clouds sailed across the firmament; and the roar of the winter
wind echoed awfully through the forest trees. She reached the appointed
place; a figure was in waiting for her; it advanced, and disclosed the
features of the count. ‘Why! this is well, my bride,’ he exclaimed, with a
sneer; ‘and well will I repay your fondness. Follow me.’ They proceeded
together in silence through the winding avenues of the chapel, until they
reached the adjoining cemetery. Here they paused for an instant; and the
count, in a softened tone, said, ‘But one hour more, and the struggle will be
over. And yet this heart of incarnate malice can feel when it devotes so
young, so pure a spirit to the grave. But it must—it must be,’ he proceeded,
as the memory of her love for him rushed through his mind; ‘for the fiend
whom I obey has so willed it. Poor girl, I am leading you indeed to our
nuptials; but the priest will be death, thy parents the mouldering skeletons
that rot in heaps around, and the witnesses of our union the lazy worms that
revel on the rotting bones of the dead. Come, my young bride, the priest is
impatient for his victim.’ As they proceeded a dim blue light moved swiftly
before them, and displayed at the extremity of the churchyard the portals of
a vault. It was open, and they entered it in silence. The hollow wind came
rushing through the gloomy abode of the dead; and on every side were piled
the mouldering remnants of coffins, which dropped piece by piece upon the
damp earth. Every step they took was on a dead body, and the bleached
bones rattled horribly beneath their feet. In the centre of the vault rose a
heap of unburied skeletons, whereon was seated a figure too awful even for
the darkest imagination to conceive. As they approached it the hollow vault
rung with a hellish peal of laughter; and every mouldering corpse seemed
endued with unearthly life. The count paused, and as he grasped his victim
in one hand, one sigh burst from his heart—one tear glistened in his eye. It
was but for an instant; the figure frowned awfully at his vacillation, and
waved his gaunt hand.

The count advanced; he made certain mystic circles in the air, uttered
unearthly words, and paused in excess of terror. On a sudden he raised his
voice, and wildly exclaimed, ‘Spouse of the spirit of darkness, a few
moments are yet yours; you may know to whom you have consigned
yourself. I am the undying spirit of the wretch who cursed his Saviour on
the Cross. He looked at me in the closing hour of His existence, and that
look has not yet passed away, for I am cursed above all on earth. I am
eternally condemned to hell, and must cater for my master’s taste till the
world is parched as is a scroll, and the heavens and the earth have passed
away. I am he of whom you may have read, and of whose feats you may
have heard. A million souls has my master condemned me to ensnare, and
then my penance is accomplished, and I may know the repose of the grave.
You are the thousandth soul that I have damned. I saw you in your hour of
purity, and I marked you at once for my own. Your father I killed for his
temerity, and permitted him to warn you of your fate; and yourself have I
beguiled for your simplicity. Ha! the spell works bravely, and you shall
soon see, my sweet one, to whom you have linked your undying fortunes,
for as long as the seasons shall move on their course of nature—as long as
the lightning shall flash, and the thunders roll—your penance shall be
eternal. Look below and see to what you are destined.’
She looked, with a sense of unutterable horror freezing the very blood in
her veins. The vault split in a thousand different directions; the earth
yawned asunder; and the roar of mighty waters was heard. A living ocean of
molten fire glowed in the abyss beneath her, and blending with the shrieks
of the damned and the triumphant shouts of the fiends, rendered horror
more horrible than imagination. Ten millions of souls were writhing in the
fiery flames, and as the boiling billows dashed them against the blackened
rocks of adamant, they cursed with the blasphemies of despair, and each
curse echoed in thunder across the wave. The count rushed towards his
victim. For an instant he held her over the burning lake, looked fondly in
her face, and wept as if he were a child. This was but the impulse of a
moment; again he grasped her in his arms, strained her to his bosom
passionately, as if some finer emotion had overcome him; then, with a wild
and sudden movement, he dashed her from him to the ground, and as she
fell, paralysed and dying at his feet, he exclaimed fiercely, ‘Not mine is the
crime, but the religion you profess; for is it not said in that religion that
there is a fire of eternity prepared for the souls of the wicked, and have you

not deserved its torments? Had you spurned me at the first hour we met,
when I sought your destruction, you would have been saved. But you were
weak, and though good men and true sought to woo you, you would not
listen to them, but threw yourself into my arms, stranger though I was.’
Stooping with these words he raised her insensible form as easily as if she
had been a child, poised her for an instant above his head, and then, with an
awful imprecation, he hurled her from him. Her delicate form bounded from
rock to rock, and the chorus of a thousand voices seemed to shake the very
earth in a fierce exultant cry. Then the tomb closed. A darkness as of death
fell, and a strange silence followed. For a few minutes the count stood like a
statue, a pale blue lambent flame playing about him, until suddenly he
turned, the light faded, he drew his cloak about him, and went forth into the
darkness, and was seen no more.
From that day the inhabitants of Wolfspring fled in horror from the accursed
spot, and the castle gradually crumbled into ruins. Nothing now remains but
a heap of grass-grown stones, where in summer time the forest adder glides.
The peasant passes the place with a shudder; and around the wood fires on a
winter night the humble forest folk will recall the story, current for
generations, of the Fair Maid of Wolfspring and the Mysterious Count.

VII
THE WHITE RAVEN
THE STORY AS TOLD BY LYDIA STAINSBY.
It was generally said of my father—who was a son of the late Sir John
Mark Stainsby—that he was somewhat of an oddity. He certainly had
original ideas, and it was a favourite remark of his that he did not care to
baa, because the great family of human sheep baaed in chorus. It was due,
no doubt, to this faculty of originality that he became the owner of
Moorland Grange, which was situated on the edge of wild Dartmoor. My
father was a widower; I was his only daughter, but I had four brothers, and I
doubt if any girl’s brothers were more devoted to her than mine were to me.
We were a very united family, and had for many years resided in London,
and as my father had ample means we found life very enjoyable. I was
considered to be an exceedingly fortunate young woman. My friends all too
flatteringly told me I was beautiful, and I know that when I looked into my
mirror the reflection that met my gaze was certainly not one to make me
shudder. Of course this was vanity, but then that is a woman’s especial
privilege, and so I don’t intend to make any apology for the remark, for I
am quite sure that I never was a plain-looking girl.
When my father purchased Moorland Grange I was just turned twenty years
of age, and was looking forward with eager pleasure—what girl does not?
—to my marriage with one of the dearest and most devoted of men. His
name was Herbert Wilton. By profession he was a civil engineer, and for
some time he had been in the Brazils, surveying for a new line of railroad
which an English company had undertaken to construct. Herbert’s
engagement had nearly expired, and we were to be married on the New
Year’s Day following his return.
My father had some relatives in Devonshire; he was exceedingly fond of
that part of the country. And on one occasion, after having been on a visit
there, he said:
‘Lydia, how would you like to go and live in Devonshire?’

I told him that hardly anything could give me greater pleasure, and then he
astonished me by telling me that he had bought one of the ‘queerest,
tumble-down, romantic, ghost-haunted old houses imaginable.’ It was
known as ‘Moorland Grange,’ and he had got it for, as he said, ‘an old
song,’ as it had been without a tenant for twenty-five years. The cause of
this was, as I learnt, mainly attributable to an evil reputation it had acquired,
owing to a remarkable murder that had been committed in the house at
some remote period. That at least was the current legend, and it certainly
affected the interests of the owners of the property. It was another instance
of the truth of the adage about giving a dog a bad name. This house had got
a bad name, and people shunned it as they might have shunned a leper. For
some time the estate had been in Chancery, and as no purchaser could be
found for it, my father had been able to secure it at a ridiculously low
figure, and he intended—as he told me cheerfully—to purge it of its evil
reputation.
At this time only my two younger brothers—who were mere boys—were at
home, the others being in India; and so they, my father and I, with three
servants, started for Moorland Grange, so as to get it in order, as we
intended to reside there permanently.
The time of year was April, and the nearest station to the Grange was
Tavistock, where we arrived about five in the afternoon, on as wild, bleak,
and windy a day as our fickle and varying climate is capable of giving us
even in tearful April. From the station we had a drive of over three miles.
My father had deputed an old man named Jack Bewdley to meet us with a
trap. Jack had been promised work on our new estate as handy man,
woodcutter, or anything else in which he could be useful. He had nearly
reached the allotted span, and was gnarled and twisted like an ancient oak.
Born and bred in the neighbourhood of Dartmoor, he had never been fifty
miles away from his native place in his life. He was a blunt, rugged, honest
rustic, very superstitious and very simple: and as soon as he saw me he
exclaimed, as he opened his bleared old eyes to their fullest capacity:
‘By goom, miss, but you be powerful handsome! I hope as how you won’t
be a seeing of the White Raven in th’ owd Grange.’
This compliment made me blush, and I asked him what the White Raven
was, whereupon he looked very melancholy, and answered:

‘Ah, I woan’t be the chap to make your pretty face white wi’ fright, so
doan’t ye ask me, please.’
As I was in no way a nervous or superstitious girl, I was amused rather than
otherwise at old Jack’s mysterious air, and I did not question him further
then, as I felt pretty sure when we had become better acquainted he would
be more communicative. We reached the Grange after a very cold and
windy drive. The day was done, but there was just light enough lingering in
the angry sky to outline the place in ghostly silhouette. It was a house of
many gables, with all sorts of angles and projecting eaves, and a grotesque
gothic porch that was approached by a flight of steps with stone balustrades.
The whole building was covered with a mantling of dense ivy, which
obscured the windows and hung down in ragged streamers, that swayed and
rasped mournfully in the chill wind. All around were gloomy woods, and
the garden was a forlorn wilderness of rank weeds. Old Jack’s wife had got
a few of the rooms cleaned out for our immediate use, and some furniture
had been sent in, so that we were enabled to make ourselves tolerably
comfortable on this the first night in our strange abode.
The next day I set to work with my brothers to explore the house, and soon
I was quite able to endorse my father’s opinion that it was the queerest,
oddest, most romantic and ghostly place imaginable. I have already said
that I was neither nervous nor superstitious, but I honestly confess that the
rambling, draughty, echoing building quite depressed me. The Grange was
said to be over 400 years old, though in some respects it had been
modernised; nevertheless it was full of surprises in the shape of nooks and
corners, deep, dark recesses, strange angles, dimly-lighted passages,
winding staircases, and wainscoted and raftered rooms. One of these rooms
was long and narrow, tapering away at one end almost to a point. The walls
were wainscoted right to the ceiling, and the ceiling itself panelled with
oak. There was a wide open fireplace, and a very massive carved mantel.
Two diamond-paned windows lighted the room, one of the windows being
filled in with blue and red glass. But at this time the windows were so
obscured by the hanging ivy that we had to cut it away to let in the light. I
became greatly interested in this antique chamber, and in a spirit of fun and
ridicule I at once dubbed it ‘the haunted chamber,’ and declared I would use
it as my bedroom. Afterwards, when talking about it to my father, I said
laughingly:

‘If that room, pa, hasn’t got a ghost, it will have to have one, and we must
invent one for it.’
‘Oh,’ he added, ‘according to old Jack Bewdley that’s the room where the
White Raven shows itself.’
A little later I went to Jack, who was busy trying to clear some of the weeds
away from the long-neglected grounds, and I said to him:
‘Look here, Bewdley, what’s this story about the White Raven? Come, now,
you must tell me.’
He paused in his work, leaned his grizzled chin on the handle of his spade,
and as a scared look spread itself over his shrivelled face, he answered me
thus:
‘There be zum foak in these parts, miss, as vow they’ve seen th’ White
Raven, and they doa say as how them as sees it dies within th’ week. But I
doan’t know if them as said they’ve seen it died or not.’
‘Have you seen it, Jack,’ I asked, trying to look very serious, though I could
scarcely keep from laughing.
‘Noa, noa, thank God, noa!’ he exclaimed with startling earnestness, and
mopping his bald head with his red handkerchief, although the weather was
cold, while his tanned and weather-beaten cheeks seemed to me to become
pale. Then he asked, ‘Have you been in what we foak call the oak
chamber?’
Guessing what room he referred to I told him that I had, and he at once said
that it was in that chamber that the mysterious White Raven always showed
itself to the doomed person.
Of course I was incredulous, and ridiculed the whole idea; nor can I say I
was more deeply impressed when on a subsequent and more critical
examination of the chamber I found the following doggerel carved in old
English on one of the panels—
The stranger who beneath this roof shall lie,
And sees the White Raven is sure to die;
For a curse rests on the unhallowed place,
And the blood that was shed you here may trace.
So, stranger, beware, sleep not in the room,

Lest you should meet with a terrible doom.
From people in the neighbouring villages I learned that in this very room,
which I had been prompted to call the haunted chamber, tradition said that
at some distant period a very beautiful lady had been brutally done to death
by a jealous and dissipated husband, who gave out that she had eloped. He
allowed her body to fester and moulder away in the room, and many years
afterwards her skeleton was found, and that since then she had haunted the
place in the shape of a white raven, while to anyone to whom she appeared
it was a fatal sign. But why that should have been so nobody attempted to
explain.
Now I will honestly confess that the gruesomeness of the story—which,
however, I did not believe in its entirety—so far affected me that I changed
my mind about occupying the room myself, and my father said he would
take it for his own bedroom. But he also, for some reason or other, did not
occupy it, although it was made into a most luxurious sleeping apartment.
In the course of a few weeks the Grange began to present a very different
appearance, and where gloom and melancholy had reigned, cheerfulness
and light spread themselves. Under the fostering care of three or four
gardeners the gardens blazed with flowers; some of the timber that
encroached too much on the house was cut away, and the windows of the
building were cleared of the ivy. I came at last to love the old place, for it
was so bizarre, so unlike anything else I had ever seen: and in spite of all
the predictions and croakings of the ignorant peasantry round about, who
declared that sooner or later the curse which had affected everyone who had
ever lived there since the poor lady was murdered would affect us, we were
very comfortable and very happy. The summer lingered long that year, but
the autumn was short, and winter set in with quite startling suddenness; by
the end of the first week in December snow began to fall, and it continued
snowing more or less for several days until the country round about was
buried.
During all the year I had been pining for my love, who came not, although I
knew that he was on his way home. But he had remained in Brazil longer
than he intended, owing to the death from yellow fever of one of the
surveying party, so that Herbert had been induced to renew his engagement
for another six months, to do the dead man’s work. With painful suspense
and anxiety I had for days been scanning the papers for a report of the

vessel which was bearing him to me, for she was overdue, but the weather
at sea had been fearful, and old seamen said that vessels making for the
Channel would have a hard time of it. As she was to call at Plymouth I
persuaded my father to take me there in order that we might welcome
Herbert as soon as ever he touched English soil again. As papa denied me
nothing, he readily consented to this, but it was not until three days before
Christmas that the welcome news came to me that the vessel had entered
the Sound.
Need I dwell upon the joy I experienced when, after our long separation, I
felt Herbert’s dear arms around me once more. How handsome and manly
he looked! The sun had tanned him brown, the fine sea voyage home had
braced him up after the enervating Brazilian climate, and he declared that
he had never been in better health in his life. He was possessed of a
wonderful constitution, and during the whole time he had been in Brazil had
never had a day’s illness.
Of course I told him that, selfish as it seemed, I was going to keep him for
Christmas Day, and on New Year’s Day I was to become his bride,
according to the long prior arrangement. He said that it was necessary for
him to go to London to see his friends and to make some preparations, but
he promised that he would be with me again on Christmas Eve. And so I
parted from him, and as we were to meet again so soon, and in less than a
fortnight he was to be my husband, I was verily at that moment one of the
happiest girls alive.
As my father was thoroughly imbued with the spirit of old-fashioned
English hospitality he generally kept open house at Christmas time, and this
being our first Christmas at the Grange we had a large number of visitors,
so that the house was quite full. In order that Herbert, when he came, might
be fittingly bestowed as the bridegroom-elect, we decided that he should
occupy the haunted chamber, for it certainly was the best sleeping room in
the house; and though some silly and unusual nervousness—as I believed
then—had prevented my occupying it as I intended, neither I nor my father
attached the slightest importance to the supernatural stories current in the
district. With my own hands I arranged the room for Herbert, filling it with
nick-nacks and odds and ends, and everything I could think of that was
likely to give him pleasure or add to his comfort.

Christmas Eve of that year was marked by a snowstorm such as, the country
people said, had not been known for forty years. The train that brought my
love from London was very late, and I had become quite anxious, but all
anxiety was forgotten when I helped him to divest himself of his snow-
laden topcoat in the hall, and taking me in his arms he kissed me in his
hearty, cheery way. We were a very jovial party, and that night was a happy,
gladsome night, the memory of which will never leave me. Nor shall I ever
forget dear Herbert’s words, as he kissed me good-night on the stairs as the
great hall clock struck one.
‘Darling little woman,’ he whispered, ‘what joy, what happiness, what
ecstasy, to think that in a week’s time you will belong to me!’
I had no words. I could only sigh in token of the supreme happiness that
filled my heart to overflowing.
Christmas morning broke bright, clear, and beautiful. The snow had ceased
to fall, and a hard frost had set in. It was veritable Canadian weather—crisp,
crystalline, and invigorating. As soon as breakfast was over Herbert took
me on one side and said:
‘You know, Lydia, I am about one of the most practical men that you could
find in a day’s march, and hitherto I have been without, as I believe, a scrap
of superstition in my composition. But, by Jove! after last night’s
experience I’ll be hanged if I don’t believe with Shakespeare that there are
more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.’
At these words I turned deadly pale. I scarcely knew why, but such was the
case, and I gasped out:
‘What—what do you mean?’
‘Well,’ he answered, with a laugh that wasn’t sincere, for it was obviously
forced, ‘I believe that room in which I slept is positively haunted.’
Now, I may state here that not a word of any kind had been mentioned to
Herbert about the stories that were current with regard to the house. Both
my father and I had resolved that the subject should be strictly avoided, so
that none of our lady guests might be alarmed. As he spoke, I looked up into
his brown face, and I saw that it was filled with a puzzled and troubled
expression, while his splendid eyes had an unusual expression in them.

‘Tell me,’ I said quickly, ‘what did you see or hear?’
‘Oh, don’t let us talk about it,’ he answered lightly. ‘Perhaps, after all, I
have simply been dreaming.’
‘Yes, yes—tell me—you must tell me, Herbert,’ I exclaimed. ‘You know
that I am strong-nerved.’
He seemed to hesitate; but laughing again, though it was the same forced
laugh, he said:
‘Well, the fact is, if ever I saw a raven in my life, I saw one last night, only
it was white.’
At this I almost fainted, and he caught me by the arm. I made a desperate
effort, however, and recovered myself.
‘Go on; tell me all about it,’ I said peremptorily.
And the sum and substance of what he told me was this. He had seen a
white raven, or what appeared to be a white raven, flying round and round
the room. It made no noise, which amazed him and, as he confessed,
startled him. He tried to catch this mysterious and noiseless bird, but it had
no substantiality—it was an airy phantom; but once or twice, when he
appeared to grasp it, a deep groan and sigh broke upon his ears.
Although a strange fear seemed to turn my heart cold, I endeavoured not to
show it, nor could I bring myself to tell my lover of the tradition so
common all over the country side about the murdered lady and the White
Raven.
If the extraordinary apparition had any real effect on Herbert, he soon shook
it off, and his hearty ringing laughter made music in the house, and his eyes
were filled again with the old look of love with which they always greeted
me. It had been arranged that the gentlemen were to form a shooting party,
to go out on to the moor and try and bag some wild ducks. At first I was
disposed to dissuade Herbert from going—ah, would that I had done so!—
but it seemed to me weak and foolish. Moreover, he was so anxious to go
for the novelty of the thing, and so I whispered in his ear as he was standing
on the steps:
‘Take care of yourself, love, for my sake.’

‘Of course I will, darling; and you do the same,’ he answered cheerily.
I watched his manly form until he was hidden from my sight by the trees.
He looked splendid in his perfect health, and his magnificent physique was
set off to every possible advantage by the superb coat of Russian sable that
he wore. How proud I felt of him! for truly he was a man to be proud of.
Three hours later the party returned, minus Herbert. They said he had got
separated from them in some way, and they quite thought he had come
back. Although a sense of something being wrong overcame me for the
moment, I tried to think that it was simply nervousness. Of course, the
gentlemen at once hurried back to the moor, and when they came again they
brought my lover mangled and shattered, and, as it seemed then, in the
agony of death. Oh, my God! how awful it was! I thought I should have
gone raving mad. It appears that Herbert had been found in a hollow,
whither he had fallen by the breaking away of the snow under his feet. In
his fall he had not only fractured an arm and some of his ribs, but his gun
had gone off full in his face, and, besides disfiguring him frightfully, had
destroyed both his eyes.
It can be imagined what a terrible shock it was to the household, and how
the joy and mirth were turned to lamentations and moaning. Doctors were
procured, but they pronounced the sufferer’s condition as critical; they left
us no room to hope that the sight would be restored under any
circumstances.
Ah, what a fearful dark Christmas that became to me! I think in my agony
of mind I cursed my fate, my God; and how I hated the house, and
shuddered as I thought of the horrible room where my beloved had seen the
strange apparition of the White Raven.
Up to a short time previously, it would have been difficult to have found a
girl more sceptical than I was about anything that savoured of superstition;
but now I was filled with a strange dread, and feared my own shadow.
When I saw old Jack for the first time after the accident, he said to me:
‘Is it true, miss, that Meester Wilton’s been asleeping in the haunted room?’
‘Yes, Jack; it is,’ I answered, in heartbroken tones.
‘Then, maybe, he’s seen the White Raven?’

‘He has,’ I replied; whereupon I thought the old man would have fallen
down in a fit, so scared did he seem; and he mumbled out:
‘God bless us and preserve us all! I wouldn’t sleep in that room, miss, not if
Queen Victoriey was to give me her golden crown. That there room, miss,
ought to be shut up, and no one ever allowed to go anigh it agen.’
The shadow that had so suddenly and cruelly fallen upon us rendered the
Christmas festivities out of the question, and most of the guests sorrowfully
departed the following day. Many long weeks ensued—dark, torturing
weeks to me, for my loved one was suspended, as it were, by a single hair
over that profound abyss into which all living atoms finally fall, and from
which no sound ever comes to break the mystery. But if they were dark
weeks to me, how much, how infinitely, how unspeakably darker to him
who, in the pride of his manhood, had been deprived of the power of ever
again beholding the wonders of God’s creation. And yet he murmured not,
nor uttered complaint nor groan. To me the one consolation I had in this
hideous calamity was being near him, being able to tend him, and hear his
voice, which had lost none of its old cheerfulness. Slowly, very slowly, as
the summer drifted by, he began to regain some of his lost strength, and we
led him out beneath the trees and into the sunlight, though it was ever, ever
night to him, for not a glimmer of vision remained. And as I looked at his
sightless orbs and his maimed and torn face, from which no human power
could banish the cruel and ghastly scars, I hated the Grange with a hate that
hath no words.
One day he asked to be taken to where my father was, and, putting his arm
in mine, we entered my father’s presence.
‘Mr. Stainsby,’ he began, with an attempt at a smile, ‘I am not quite the
same man I was when I came here last Christmas. But in my misfortune an
angel has watched over me in the person of your daughter, who, but for this
mishap, would now have been my wife. She has brought me out of the
shadow of the grave, and I owe a duty to her no less than to you. That duty
is to release her from all promises and vows, and leave her perfectly free to
bestow her heart on someone who is whole and sound. I am now but a
battered wreck, and all I can hope for is to break up soon and drift away
into the great and mysterious ocean of eternal silence. But let me ask you,
sir, to see to it that the man upon whom you bestow your daughter is as near

perfection as a man may come; for no more perfect woman than she is
walks the world. I have nothing more to add further than, in such poor
words as well up from my stricken heart, to thank you for your hospitality.’
He had tried so hard to be strong and collected, and show no sign of the
awful despair that was crushing him. But is the man born who could go
through such an ordeal unmoved? His lips quivered, his voice grew weak,
and something like a spasm caught his breath.
My own eyes were filled with blinding, scalding tears, and my heart
fluttered like the wing of a bird in pain. Gliding over to where he stood, I
placed my arms about his neck, and laying my cheek against his scarred
face, I found voice to say to my father, who was also deeply affected and
moved:
‘Father, the man whom Herbert would have you choose for me need be
sought no further than this room. He is here. My heart beats to his heart; my
face is pressed to his.’
My father came to us. He laid one hand on Herbert’s shoulder, and the other
on my head; and thus he spoke:
‘A woman’s love that clings not to a man when calamity overtakes him is
worthless. Freely do I bestow her upon you, Herbert, if it is her wish and
your wish that you should be united.’
‘My husband,’ I murmured, as I clung closer to him, and it was my only
answer.
Herbert tried to persuade me that it was to my happiness and my interest to
abandon him; but he might as well have tried to convince the winds of
heaven that they should not blow. Externally the Herbert as I had first
known him had changed. His handsome face was handsome no longer, and
his wondrous eyes were sightless for ever. But his heart was the same. What
could change that—the bravest, truest, tenderest that ever beat in man’s
breast? And so ere the next Christmas had dawned I was Herbert’s wife, and
soon after that my father abandoned the accursed Grange to the gloom and
the silence and the melancholy from which he had reclaimed it, and a little
later it was burned to the ground. We never knew how the fire originated;
but it was generally supposed that some of the superstitious people in the
neighbourhood wilfully set it alight, under the impression that a place that

was accursed by the spilling of human blood should no longer be allowed to
encumber the earth. When I heard of its destruction I confess that I rejoiced,
and I said to myself:
‘Never again will the White Raven bring calamity to a household as it has
brought to ours.’
For five years I walked with my husband in his darkness, and let him see
the world through my eyes. Two children blessed—literally blessed—our
union, a girl and a boy. But my beloved husband never fully recovered from
the shock of the awful accident on that dark and memorable Christmas Day;
and, though he uttered no moan, his blindness preyed upon his mind, and a
short, brief illness took him from me.
For long years the grass has waved over his grave. Other men have praised
my face and sought my hand; but to all I have turned a deaf ear, for my love
was buried in Herbert’s grave. But in my son the father lives again, and
when I gaze upon his handsome face and splendid figure, I feel that God is
very good, and that He chastens us to make us more perfect in His sight.

VIII
WITH FIRE AND DEATH
A STORY OF A GREAT DEED.
What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; th’ unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield.
The scene of this story is Meerut, the time May Day, 1857, a year in which
England’s hold on India was well nigh shaken off. Meerut is situated on a
plain, and lies forty miles or so to the north and east of Delhi. It is bounded
on the east by the Ganges and on the west by the Jumna, and covers an area
of, roughly speaking, about five miles in circumference. In the fateful ’57 it
was one of the most important military stations, and the largest cantonment
in British India. A great wall, or esplanade, which in its turn was cut in two
by a deep nullah, divided the town into two separate parallelograms, one of
which was occupied by the European force, the other by the natives.
The hot day—and Meerut is hot—had closed, and the short Indian twilight
had given place to a night of exceeding beauty. A refreshing breeze was
blowing from the east, and the moon burnished with a sheen that was
almost dazzling the domes of the numerous mosques, and threw into
silhouette relief the palms and cocoa trees, and the masses of native huts.
The majority of the European population were taking their airing as was
customary after the sun had set, and the ‘Park Road’ was a scene of gaiety.
Strings of vehicles, numberless horsemen, and crowds of natives moved to
and fro. The air was filled with the murmur of many voices; the laughter of
women, the sweet prattle of children, and wafted on the breeze came the
monotonous sounds of tom-toms, and the wail-like singing of groups of
natives as they prepared their suppers over the open braziers of charcoal
that scented the atmosphere with its fumes. Abutting on the Park Road, and
commanding a wide and extensive view, was a handsome bungalow
surrounded with a well kept garden. On the verandah were a party of ladies
and gentlemen. The men were military men, and the ladies were their

relatives, and playing about on the verandah, under the care of an old ayah,
was a sweet English child, fragile, and white of face, as most English
children are who are born in India, but of an exquisite beauty that promised
a magnificent womanhood. But though well and hearty then, that dear child
was in a few days to be lying dead, gashed and hacked almost beyond
recognition. From the roof of the verandah a swinging lamp threw a soft
light over the little group seated in a semicircle, with small tables before
them, on which were glasses and the inevitable brandy pawnee. Two silent
khitmurgars stood like dusky statues ready to obey the slightest order given
by their master or mistress.
This bungalow was the home of an officer whom it is only necessary to
refer to as the colonel. The sweet child playing there was his only daughter,
and one of the ladies, whose beautiful face was clouded with an expression
that might be described as half fear, half anxiety, was his wife. All the
colonel’s male companions were officers, one of them being Lieutenant
George Willoughby, of the Ordnance Commissariat Department. He was a
young man, but was the officer in charge of the great Delhi magazine. He
looked every inch a soldier, and his face expressed determination and force
of character. Lounging there in a large chair, toying with a fragrant cigar,
and apparently deeply interested in watching the little volumes of smoke
curl upward as he puffed them from under his moustache, his legs crossed,
his head thrown back, and one arm hanging listlessly over the rail of the
chair, he was the picture of a quiet, unobtrusive English gentleman. But a
slight study of the face would have convinced anyone that beneath that
calm exterior lay a tremendous latent power that once aroused could be
terrible and deadly to his enemies, and that this was really the case was
soon to be amply proved.
Another of the group was a still younger man, handsome as Apollo, and
with a frame that seemed to be knit with steel. Although younger his
military rank was equal to Willoughby’s, for he too was a lieutenant of the
Bengal Artillery, and was also stationed at Delhi. His name was Richard
Shelton, and, like his friend and colleague, he had a pronounced soldierly
bearing, and his fine bright blue eyes, of the true English type, and his clear
cut features and firm mouth, spoke of a frank, open, loyal, and brave nature.
These two officers and friends had ridden over that afternoon from Delhi on
a visit to their friend, the colonel, with the object of discussing the

portentous signs of the times, for the air was filled with rumours, and
mutiny had displayed itself. Discontent was rampant in the native
regiments, and the question was to what extent would it go? If there were
those amongst the British who read the handwriting on the wall with ill-
concealed alarm, it is none the less true that the majority of the officers in
Upper India were rather disposed to laugh these fears to scorn. For with the
almost fatuous self-reliance peculiar to the English, they believed they were
powerful enough to hold their own against any number of natives. With one
exception, perhaps, all the gentlemen there belonged to the first category.
The exception was Richard Shelton. He was young, and had but recently
received his promotion, and not only was he endowed with an unusual share
of animal spirits, but he was of a sanguine, almost enthusiastic
temperament, and moreover he was in love. On the first blush that may
seem a reason why he should have been more anxious, but love is ever
hopeful, and indisposed to look on the gloomy side of things. At any rate,
being full of the fire of youth, and not having yet acquired the staid wisdom
of his elders, young Shelton did not trouble himself much about what the
morrow or the next week might bring forth. Very likely, if somebody had
said to him—
‘I say, Shelton, old fellow, if the natives were to rise what would you do?’
This answer would have come with a ringing laugh—‘Why, go for them,
and smash them. What else would you have me do?’
The young lady with whom Shelton was in love was the colonel’s niece,
Blanche Merton, an orphan girl of great beauty, and the colonel’s ward. She
had only come out to India a year before as governess to her cousin—the
colonel’s daughter. Blanche had been born and had spent most of her life in
one of the sweetest and breeziest of Hampshire villages, and she had not
resided long enough in India to become jaded and enervated by the climate,
which, in course of time, insidiously undermines the constitutions of white
women. A handsomer couple, and a couple more suited to each other than
Lieutenant Shelton and Blanche Merton, could not have been found in the
whole of British India. They had known each other eight months, and been
desperately in love nearly the whole time. The conversation of the little
party had flagged somewhat, but suddenly Willoughby asked in a
preoccupied way:
‘What is going to be the upshot of matters, colonel, do you think?’

This question had reference to the mutinous spirit that had shown itself.
There had been a parade on the 24th of April, when eighty-five out of
ninety men had mutinied, and that very week, beginning with the 1st of
May, they were to be tried, and the cantonment was accordingly greatly
excited.
‘Well,’ answered the colonel, thoughtfully, as he stroked his moustache and
twirled his cigar between his long white fingers, ‘the prisoners will be
convicted on the clearest of evidence, and exemplary punishment meted out
to them.’
‘And what after that?’ asked Willoughby, significantly.
‘Ah, that remains to be seen. I think and hope we are strong enough to hold
our own, but if there was a general rising, that is about all we could do, and
might succumb unless succour was speedily sent to us.’
This remark had rather a depressing effect, and there was silence again; but
Blanche had gone into the house for something, and Shelton, thinking only
of her, and how entrancingly beautiful she looked in her white gauze dress,
and with the bunch of Indian roses in her dark hair, had slipped away after
her.
Presently Willoughby said: ‘Yes, we might hold our own for a time—a short
time, but it’s no use blinking the fact, we are weak in numbers.’
‘It seems to me,’ returned the colonel, with the same thoughtful air, ‘that
you in Delhi are worse off than we are.’
‘True,’ said Willoughby, with a bitter little laugh, ‘for the first thing the
mutineers would do if they got the upper hand would be to endeavour to
loot the magazine to obtain the vast supplies of the munitions of war that
we’ve got there.’
‘It would be a terrible thing if they should succeed in doing that,’ put in the
colonel’s wife, and shuddering as she spoke.
‘It would,’ answered Willoughby, quietly.
‘And there are such a few of you to guard the magazine,’ added the lady.
‘Very few,’ said Willoughby in the same quiet way. Then, after a pause, he
continued with a significant emphasis, ‘But, nevertheless, I don’t think if all

the regiments here and in Delhi were to mutiny they would obtain
possession of the magazine while I am in charge.’
‘Why not?’ asked the colonel’s wife.
‘Because I would blow it up if I found that I couldn’t hold the place,’ was
the quiet but impressively emphatic answer.
‘Well, well,’ said the colonel, wishing to change the subject, for he saw that
it was affecting the ladies, ‘it won’t come to that. We may have a little
trouble, but we shall get over it. Any mutinous spirit will be put down with
an iron hand. Besides, I really don’t think the natives generally have any
bad feeling for us.’
Backwards and forwards along the road went a continuous stream of natives
—Hindoos and Brahmins, high caste and low caste—mingling freely with
the Europeans. And could the colonel at that moment have read the hearts
that beat beneath those dusky skins he would have seen how grievously in
error he was, for the hatred and loathing for the Feringhees were all but
universal. And, though ‘white-robed peace’ seemed to smile on all that fair
scene, there was beneath a seething mass of discontent, only wanting a tiny
vent as a beginning, when the whole mine might explode and spread
desolation and ruin throughout India. But little did any of those ladies and
gentlemen sitting on that verandah that hot May night dream of the volcano
beneath their feet, and least of all did Shelton and Blanche trouble
themselves with the portents in the air. These two young people, so full of
life and health and hope, were building castles in the air and dreaming of
the day that should see them united.
There was a considerable pause again in the conversation, and then
Willoughby, in that quiet, emphatic way of his which was well calculated to
carry conviction, remarked in answer to what the colonel had just said:
‘I don’t altogether agree with you, colonel. My impression is the natives
hate us heartily, and if they can but get the chance will sweep us out of the
land.’
‘Ah, yes, if they can but get the chance,’ replied his host. ‘But there’s the
point. They will not get the chance.’
In a few minutes a khitmurgar came to announce that tea was served, and
the ladies and gentlemen went into the house, but the child still played

about, and the ayah remained. She was squatted down in one corner of the
verandah enjoying a few draws of a hubble-bubble. The khitmurgars who
had been waiting on the colonel and his party commenced to clear the tables
of the glasses and bottles; and one of the men, a stern, sullen-looking
fellow, said to the other:
‘Heard you, Jewan, what these Feringhee dogs said?’
‘Some of it, Meerza,’ returned the man addressed. ‘But I understand not so
much of their hateful language as you.’
‘Well, the colonel sahib says we don’t hate his countrymen.’
Here the two men broke into a scornful laugh, and Jewan remarked:
‘Poor fool. Ere the moon has waned he may have learnt differently. If all
goes well, the blood of all the white devils in Meerut shall dye the streets,
and even the Gunga over there shall run red with it. Shiva the Destroyer has
willed it, and it will be as I say.’
‘What is that you say, Jewan?’ asked the little girl, who had been arrested in
her play by the words that fell from the man’s lips. Her question caused him
to turn upon her with a look so wild and so full of fierce hatred that she
screamed and rushed towards her nurse. The ayah sprang up and caught her
in her arms, saying soothingly:
‘What is it, Missy Baba? What has frightened the pet lamb?’
‘Oh! ayah, Jewan looks so dreadful he has frightened me.’
Alarmed by the scream of the child the colonel ran from the house, asking
excitedly what was the matter.
‘Oh, papa, papa!’ exclaimed his daughter, as she flew to him, ‘I heard
Jewan say such dreadful things; and when I asked him what it was he had
said, he frightened me by the way he glared at me.’
‘What does this mean, you rascal?’ demanded the colonel, angrily, and
speaking in Hindostanee. ‘I am tempted to horsewhip your hide, you black
dog.’
The man drew himself up to every inch of his height. He was a tall,
commanding-looking man with a mobile face, and eyes that seemed to burn
like glowing coals.

‘Sahib,’ he said, proudly and scornfully, ‘I am no dog.’
Then, without another word, he marched down the steps of the verandah
into the garden and disappeared into the darkness.
The colonel was much distressed. It was another sign of the times. A few
months before no servant would have dared to have answered his master in
such a way.
The other ladies and gentlemen had by this time appeared on the scene, and
many were the anxious inquiries as to the cause of the disturbance. But for
the sake of the ladies the colonel gave an evasive answer, and, re-entering
the house, leading his daughter by the hand, the others followed all but two
—Shelton and Blanche. They lingered. With the artfulness of a lover he
detained her by saying, ‘Oh, I say, Blanche, isn’t this a splendid night? How
brilliant the moon is.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, linking her hands in his arm, and turning her own
beautiful face up to his. ‘But I wish, dear, we were under an English sky
instead of this Indian one.’
‘Why?’
‘I—I hardly know. I don’t like this country. If the fears that I have heard
expressed that the natives may rise are realised how dreadful it will be.’
‘Tut—little woman,’ answered the brave lad cheerily. ‘Don’t let any gloomy
forebodings trouble you. There is discontent, it is true, but we shall calm it
down.’
‘I hope so—I hope so,’ said Blanche, with an unusually thoughtful air.
‘It will be so, my pet. But come, let us go in, for I heard the colonel suggest
cards.’
‘But shall I not have you to myself for a few minutes again this evening?
Remember that as you leave so early in the morning I shall not see you
before you go.’
‘Of course, darling, we shall have another spoon to-night,’ he said in his
hearty manner, and letting his lips come into contact with hers, to which she
made no objection. ‘You see Willoughby and I must report ourselves in
Delhi by eight o’clock, but I intend to come over next Sunday and see you.’

‘Oh, you love,’ she murmured, allowing him to embrace her still more
closely, until they were suddenly startled by the voice of the colonel, who,
coming on to the verandah, said:
‘I say, you young people, we want you, you know. You can surely manage
to tear yourselves from each other’s arms for a little while.’
‘Certainly, certainly, colonel,’ answered Shelton in an embarrassed way.
‘But I was just drawing Blanche’s attention to that group of stars, and——’
‘Ah, how very funny,’ interrupted the colonel with a laugh. ‘It seemed to me
you were trying to smother her, and I wasn’t sure which was your head and
which was hers. But come now, get in. We want to make up some whist
parties.’
A little later on Blanche did manage to get another few minutes alone with
her lover, and with many warm embraces they separated—not for ever, for
they were to meet again, but under circumstances that neither dreamed of
then. His promise to see her again on the Sunday remained unfulfilled. Not
from any fault of his, but for reasons that were not explained an order was
issued of a peremptory character which prevented any officer or private
going outside of Delhi.
On the following Saturday, that is on May 9, there was enacted in Meerut
an extraordinarily dramatic scene, that was the prelude, though the white
people knew it not, of a ghastly drama such as India had never before
witnessed during the rule of the British.
In the interval between the 1st and the 9th the mutineers had been tried by a
court-martial composed of native and British officers, and sentenced to ten
years’ hard labour. The first part of the sentence—that of stripping them of
their uniform in the presence of all the regiment—was to be carried out, and
on that eventful Saturday morning, under a strong guard of rifles and
carabineers, the disgraced eighty-five were marched to the parade-ground to
be still further disgraced.
It was a stirring scene, for when the reveille had sounded long lines of
troops, mounted and on foot, marched towards the plain that for ever
afterwards was to be historic ground. The clattering of horses’ hoofs and the
rumbling of artillery added to the general commotion, and soon the plain
was swarming with armed men. It was no dress or drill parade, but a

terribly stern display of authority and power, that it was firmly believed
would overawe the mutinous spirit. Heavily shotted field guns were placed
in position, while the drawn sabres of the dragoons flashed blindingly in the
blazing sunlight. On three sides of the plain were bodies of troops armed
with the new grooved rifle, and were ready, should the signal be given, to
belch forth fire and send their rotary messengers of death into the surging
masses of natives.
The mutineers belonged to the 3rd Native Cavalry, and their commanding
officer was Colonel Carmichael Smyth. All being ready, he stepped
forward, and in a loud, clear voice, that was not altogether free from
emotion, however, he read the sentence of the court-martial. That formality
ended, the accoutrements were taken from the mutineers, and their uniforms
stripped from their backs. Then came the armourers and smiths with their
shackles and tools, and, in the presence of that great concourse of
spectators, civilian and military, the disgraced men were made to wear the
chains of felons. They raised their arms and cried aloud to their general to
save them from such ignominy, but the fiat had gone forth. They were
doomed. There was not a Sepoy or native civilian present but gasped for
breath as he felt the rising indignation in his throat. But what could they do
in the presence of those stern white soldiers, those shotted guns, those
grooved rifles, and the drawn sabres? Yes, they could do something—they
could endure and wait.
When, after some hours, the ceremony was completed, the manacled felons
were consigned to the gaol, and over them was placed a native guard only.
Oh, fatuous act of folly! Who was responsible for it? History is silent, and
he or they who made the blunder have long since mouldered to the dust
from whence they sprang.
The anxious and eventful day ended. The Europeans took their airing as
usual, and met each other at the dinner tables hopeful and cheerful. They
had struck such terror into the hearts of the natives, by the stern and terrible
act, that all fear of a rising had passed. Such was the general feeling
amongst the whites, but during the hours of the short Indian night there was
an unusual movement amongst the natives. In the lines of the native
soldiery, through the surrounding villages and amongst the crowded
bazaars, a fatal sign was passing. Fleet-footed natives sped from place to
place and put into the hands of the principal men a small cake. It was a

chupatty, and by prearrangement was the signal for a rising. The broiling
sun rose on the Sunday morning, and the Europeans, having no thought of
coming danger, wended their way to the station church. Amongst them were
the colonel and his family, including his sweet little daughter and her pretty
governess Blanche, who looked prettier than ever, and was radiant with a
sense of happiness that found no expression in words, but showed itself in
her beaming eyes and flushed cheeks. And the cause of this was a letter
from her lover in Delhi, brought to her that morning by a coolie. In it
Shelton expressed his joy that the great ‘disarming and felon-marking act’
of the day before had passed off so quietly; and he expressed a belief that
the lesson thus taught to the natives would be lasting, and there would be no
more mutinous conduct. But what had excited in Blanche such a sense of
joy was this line: ‘And now, sweetest of women, to-morrow I shall hold you
in my arms again, for I have got two days’ leave, and am going to spend
them in Meerut. You may look for me about tiffin time.’
Full of the expectation that this great joy would be realised, how eagerly did
she look forward to the morrow. But, had she been gifted with the power of
prescience, and could have foreseen the events that were to happen in a few
hours, she would have shrunk with curdling horror, and have cried aloud to
God for protection.
Divine service ended, and homeward the people returned again, laughing
and chatting and hand-shaking as friends met friends. And tiffin was
partaken of, and the siesta indulged in without a single thought of
insecurity.
Alas, what fatal blindness! Was it not a cruel fate that dulled the senses of
every white man in the cantonment on that awful Sunday! Had someone
only suspected and been able to arouse the officers to a sense of their
danger, in all human probability history would never have been called upon
to record the ghastly horrors of the Indian Mutiny. While the white people
slept through the sweltering heat of that May afternoon there was unusual
stir in the native lines and in the bazaars, and down the Ganges, as well as
down the Jumna, a budgerow slowly drifted, and at intervals of about five
minutes on board of that budgerow there were sounded three distinct and
emphasised strokes on a large tom-tom. That beating of the tom-tom was a
signal to the villagers and fishermen who dwelt on the banks of the rivers to
repair with all speed to the city in readiness for the great event.

Still the white men slept! A fatuous belief in their might had lulled them to a
fatal slumber. Shiva, the Destroyer—the God of the natives—had spoken,
but the God of the Christians gave no sign.
The white men slept!
The afternoon waned. The evening breeze set in, and the Christians rose and
prepared for evening worship; and as they wended their way to church they
saw for the first time sights and sounds that paled the faces of the women,
and begot anxiety in the men. Columns of illuminated smoke were rising to
the darkening sky; and from afar off came the sound of bugles calling to
arms, and mingling with it was the roll of musketry. Service in the church
did not take place, and the scared people hurried back; for now from lip to
lip flew the news—‘The native soldiers have risen!’ It had a dreadful sound,
for under any circumstances it meant a tremendous struggle, and many a
brave man would bite the dust ere the insurrection was quelled.
That confusion ensued amongst the whites goes without saying, for none
knew exactly where the danger lay. Firm in his belief in his dark-skinned
comrades the white-haired colonel mounted his horse and rode boldly into
the midst of his regiment, which was assembled on the plain. He tried to
harangue the men, but ere he had spoken many words there was a report,
and a bullet shattered his arm. In a few seconds he fell from his horse
riddled with bullets. It was the first blood. Then throwing off all reserve the
black soldiers seemed to suddenly transform themselves to fiends. With
hideous cries and shouts, and followed by a yelling rabble thirsting for the
white men’s lives, they rushed towards the town bent on slaughter.
And almost at the same moment a young and beautiful woman, mounted on
a magnificent horse, her form concealed by a military cloak, crossed the
plain, and, urging the animal to its wildest gallop, sped towards Delhi.
To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late,
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his gods.

When the eighty-five condemned men were consigned to the gaol they were
placed under the care of a native guard only, and the prisoners exclaimed to
their guard: ‘Are you countrymen of ours that you can calmly see us thus
treated and disgraced by these accursed Feringhees?’ And the taunt was
taken up and carried from man to man, and it ran like wildfire through the
native regiments, and through the bazaars, and through the villages. And it
was borne down the rivers and up the rivers, and over the dusty plain to
Delhi men sped with the cry on their lips. And when the sinking sun was
reddening the rolling waters of the Ganges, native eyes in Delhi were
turning anxiously towards Meerut for the flaming signal in the sky, that
should announce to them that fire and sword were doing their deadly work
on the European residents in the great cantonment.
While the white men were sleeping the natives were acting. They surged to
the prison, civilians and soldiers alike. Some of the latter were in uniform,
some in their stable dress. Some were fully accoutred, and bestrode their
chargers all ready for war. Others rode their steeds with only watering-rein
and horse-cloth; but every soldier was armed with sabre and pistol, and
hundreds of the rabble had pistols and guns of some sort. They met with no
opposition at the prison. If the guard did not help they looked on passively.
The cells were forced open, the prisoners brought forth, and native smiths
were at hand to strike off the shackles. Then the erstwhile prisoners
mounted behind their comrades and rode to the lines for more horses and
arms, and Hindoos and Mohammedans, high caste and low caste, women
and children, joined in one mighty shout, ‘Death to the
Feringhees!’—‘Deen, deen!’ which means ‘Death’—and was to become
their rallying cry throughout the great struggle. Forth they rushed like a
destroying whirlwind. Wherever a white soldier was met he was mercilessly
slaughtered. Such Europeans as were driving or riding were shot down,
men, women, and children, without mercy, without pity. And from the dens
of infamy, and the slums, and the bazaars, poured a stream of human beings
pitiless as the fabled ghouls, and all bent on plundering and burning. As the
moon rose it looked on an appallingly weird scene of horror and cruelty.
The blazing bungalows of the English officers roared and hissed, and
English women and English children, gashed and mutilated out of all
recognition, lay dead in the streets. One of the first bungalows to be
attacked was that of the colonel as he rode out to harangue his men. His
wife fell, shot through the heart, as she tried to shield her child. Faithful to

her trust, the old ayah endeavoured to carry the child off from its dead
mother and place it in a place of safety, if there was such a place. But she
was cut down with a sabre, and she and the sweet little girl were slashed to
pieces. Then the house was looted and given to the flames.
Blanche Merton would have fallen a victim at that first outbreak of fury.
But fearing the worst, she had not waited for the house to be attacked. She
was moved by an impulse to die with her lover no less than to warn him and
his comrades in Delhi, and, being a superb horsewoman, she rushed to the
stables, having first seized the colonel’s military cloak, which was hanging
in the hall. With her own hands she saddled his favourite riding-horse, and,
concealing her face with a black veil, she rode towards the river undetected,
and having gained the highway beyond the Goomtee, she gave her horse the
rein.
That night was a night of horror in Meerut, the parallel for which could
hardly be found in history. The whole town seemed to be a swirling furnace
of many-coloured flames. The air was sultry. There was not a breath of
wind, and the stupendous column of smoke spread itself out over the
doomed town like a funeral pall. The shrieks of horses and cattle as they
were burned in their stables mingled with the gloating cries of the infuriated
natives; while the roar of the musketry made itself heard above all, and
proclaimed the carnage that was going on. Women and children and non-
combatants cried to God for pity, and endeavoured to find shelter in the
gardens, outhouses, stables, under the trees, but all without avail. The black
demons searched them out, and shot them or hacked them to pieces. The
streets were deluged with blood; the river ran red.
Many a heroic deed that has gone unrecorded was done that night by white
men; and many a half-maddened mother, with a prayer on her lips, threw
away her life in her fruitless endeavours to save the lives of her little ones.
But the scene of the story must shift. When the hellish work in Meerut had
been finished the mutineers sped away to Delhi. But before they reached it
the brave Blanche Merton had arrived. At such a pace had she ridden that
her horse died soon after she had dismounted at Lieutenant Shelton’s
quarters, and she was so excited and so exhausted that she could scarcely
speak. As soon as she got her voice she told them that mutiny had broken
out in Meerut, and the English were being massacred. There was

corroboration of her report in the flame-coloured sky away to the north-east
where the bungalows were burning, but otherwise Shelton was disposed to
think that her fears had led her to exaggerate the extent of the revolt. Glad
he was to see her, and as he kissed her fondly he said:
‘You are safe here, anyway, my darling, and I do not think there is any
danger of the tide of mutiny flowing thus far.’
He was hopeful and sanguine, but it was different with others to whom the
news was speedily communicated. They knew how weak the little force was
in Delhi, and that they could offer but small resistance if the mutineers
should get the upper hand in Meerut and attack Delhi.
The great magazine and fort, with its tremendous stores of war material,
was no great distance from the palace; that superb home of the Moghul
kings that lifted its proud domes and turrets above the Jumna. The entire
place was under the charge of Willoughby, and he had with him two other
lieutenants—officers of the Bengal Artillery, and six European conductors
and commissariat sergeants, one of them being an Irishman named Scully.
There were nine in all. Nine only to defend their precious charge! To us
now it seems inconceivable that the authorities could have been so fatuous
as to leave so important a place as Delhi unguarded. But so it was, save by a
mere handful of men. Lieutenant Willoughby, however, was of the stuff that
makes all Englishmen proud. Calling his little band together, he told them
the news, and said that it was certain the mutineers would attempt a dash for
the magazine, for they could do little without ammunition. But he added:
‘We will hold the place, boys, against a host. The black devils may have a
brief triumph in Meerut, and come here; but the garrison of Meerut, which
is a strong one, will soon recover, and will send us succour; though, should
the worst come to the worst, comrades, not a shell, not a gun, nor an ounce
of powder, if we can help it, shall fall into the hands of the rebels, for we
will blow the whole place into ruins, and find our graves beneath them.’
A tremendous cheer was the answer he received, and then the gallant band
set to work to be prepared for whatever might happen. The outer gate was
closed, and strongly barricaded. Guns were brought out and loaded with
double charges of grape and canister, and placed in such a position that they
commanded the approaches.

While these preparations were developing Shelton received orders to do all
in his power to hold a house which had been used as a Government depôt,
and contained accoutrements and other stores, besides a number of rifles.
He procured an ample supply of ammunition from the magazine, and he had
with him a sergeant and a corporal. Blanche would have refused to have left
him, even supposing he had wished it, but he knew there was nowhere he
could send her to where she was likely to be safer than there. And so she
insisted on being furnished with a revolver—which she had learned to use
since her arrival in India—and she vowed that she would stand by his side
to the death.
The morning sun was rising in a glory of crimson splendour when the
mutineers, stained with blood and dust and grimed with powder, swarmed
over the Jumna and clattered into Delhi. Under the windows of the palace
they surged, and called for the king—that white-haired, treacherous old
villain, who believed that his hour of triumph had struck, and that the house
of Moghul would be restored to its ancient splendour. The rebels were
admitted by the Mohammedan guard, and then they almost shook the wall
with a thunderous shout of ‘Glory to the Padishah and death to the
Feringhees!’
Swelled now by their comrades of the palace they swarmed into the town,
cutting down every European they met, and a detachment rushed for the
house held by Shelton and his sweetheart and his two other companions.
The lower doors and windows had been barricaded; and from the upper
windows a well-delivered fire checked for a moment the onrush of the
mutineers. But it was only for a moment. Some of their number had gone
down into the dust, but that only served to still further madden the
survivors, who stormed the house, to be beaten back, however, once more
by the defenders’ fire. Recovering themselves, they fired a volley at the
windows, and one of the bullets struck the corporal dead.
Shelton saw now that it would be impossible to hold the place for many
minutes, and he turned with anxious gaze to the beloved woman at his side.
Her face was pale as death, but she was calm, and in her hand she still
grasped the smoking revolver. Every barrel was empty, and she had sent at
least four of the rabble to their account.

‘My beloved,’ he exclaimed in a tone of despair, ‘I fear that hope of saving
you has passed.’
‘Yes, darling,’ she said, quietly. ‘Hope for us in this world has gone; but we
shall be united in the next. Load the revolver again.’
He quickly thrust a cartridge into each barrel, and returned it to her, and at
the same moment he saw his brave and only remaining soldier companion
go down, shot through the head. Then he kicked in the head of a barrel of
powder he had taken the precaution to have brought up, and passing his arm
round Blanche’s waist he was about to fire his revolver into the powder,
when he suddenly changed his mind, and said hurriedly:
‘Darling, I believe we can escape and find safety in the fort.’
‘Where you go, I will go,’ she answered.
Hurriedly fixing a few feet of slow match to the powder barrel he lighted
the loose end; then taking Blanche’s hand they hurried down the stairs,
revolvers in hand. They gained the back door, which led into the garden,
and by almost superhuman effort they removed the barricading of the door
and rushed out and cleared the garden before their escape was discovered.
But at that moment there was a tremendous explosion, and the house they
had just left crumbled to ruins. For some minutes the mutineers were
scattered by the shock, and it seemed as if the brave Shelton and the equally
brave Blanche would gain shelter. But they were seen, and a swarm of
mounted soldiers sped after them. Placing Blanche against a wall Shelton
stood in front of her, and emptied his revolver at the advancing horsemen,
and two of their number pitched from their saddles, but the next moment
the faithful lovers fell, clasped in each other’s arms, and riddled with
bullets. In life they had loved and hoped, and in death they were not
divided; their hopes would become fruition in a better and a brighter world.
In the meantime how fared it with the brave defenders of the fort?
Baffled in their attempt to obtain possession of the house the mutineers
rushed to the magazine with their rallying cry of ‘Deen, deen!’ Willoughby
and his noble band were prepared for them. They had concentrated their
nine-pounder guns, and behind them had piled up as much ammunition as
they had had time to procure. A few yards away was a heap of powder, and
a train carried from it into the magazine itself, where the heads had been

knocked out of many of the barrels and the powder scattered, with loaded
shells placed in it. There were tons of powder, shells, and explosives of all
kinds; and when further defence was found to be impossible the train was to
be fired.
While the howling troopers on horse and foot were speeding to the fort,
mounted messengers were sent from the king to demand from Willoughby
the surrender of the place.
‘Back to your royal master, slaves,’ was the haughty and defiant answer,
‘and tell him to come himself and we will surrender the ruins, together with
our corpses, to him.’
The messenger made known this defiant answer to the mutineers, who were
now clamouring round in a surging, jostling mass, and a determined rush
was made for the gate. But they fell back as a withering storm of grape shot
tore through them. That storm was most destructive in its effects; but the
soldiers and the rabble that had joined them from the slums and dens of the
city were too strongly bent on slaying the Feringhees to allow themselves to
be defeated by the slaughter of some of their number. So gathering
themselves together again, they howled ‘Deen, deen!’ and made another
rush, but once more they were hurled back by the blast of fire and shot.
Seldom in the annals of warfare has there been a more stubborn, more
heroic, defence made by a handful of men against a host of trained soldiers
than was made by Willoughby and his comrades; for, be it remembered that
they were fighting regiments of soldiers who had been trained and drilled in
the art of warfare by the English themselves, and, as often proved before
and since, the Sepoy makes almost as good a fighting-man as his white
brother, although he perhaps lacks in that stubbornness and unconquerable
determination which are peculiarly characteristic of the Englishman. But in
the case we are dealing with the Sepoys were stubborn enough. They knew,
indeed, that it was death or victory with them. And they quite believed that
if they could but obtain the immense accumulation of ammunition stored in
the Delhi arsenal, not only could they hold the city of the Moghuls against
all the armies of England, but that they could actually conquer India. For it
was big guns and shot and shell they wanted, and from nowhere else could
they obtain them save Delhi. It was, therefore, their only hope, and it may
safely be asserted that not one amongst them deemed it possible that the

stores would not fall into their hands, as it was well known that only nine
men held the fort. But what they did not know was that those nine men
were unconquerable.
It is no disparagement of the rest to say that Willoughby, by his magnificent
example, inspired the others to greater deeds of valour. When on the
evening of the 1st of May, as he sat on the verandah of the colonel’s
bungalow at Meerut, he had stated that he would blow the magazine up
rather than surrender it, he made no idle boast. But his belief was, as he and
his noble companions worked the guns and kept the howling foe at bay, that
the necessity to destroy the magazine would not arise, since they would be
able to hold out till succour reached them from Meerut. For not knowing
the extent of the disaster which had overwhelmed that station, he naturally
expected some portion of its strong garrison would immediately be
despatched to Delhi’s relief. But, alas! when the hoofs of the mutinous
troopers’ horses rung upon the bridge that spanned the Jumna before Delhi,
they sounded the death-knell of every British resident in the city, with some
three or four exceptions.
There is an expressive Hindostanee word, lachar, which means helpless and
something more; and at this awful crisis in our Indian rule the English were
certainly lachar. They might slay many of their foes, but they could not save
their lives or property. Such as were soldiers knew that it was one of the
risks attending their profession of arms that they might be called upon at
any moment to fight for and lay down their lives. But it was hard, it was
pitiable, it was maddening, that the dear women and sweet children should
fall a prey to the brutal and tiger-like ferocity of the revolted soldiers, and
there is no doubt that the thought of their loved ones nerved many an arm to
fight with the heroism of desperate despair.
For five long hours did Willoughby keep the host at bay; and often and
often during those dreadful hours did he rush to the bastion on the river face
and turn his gaze in the direction of Meerut, hoping to see the succour he
expected coming in the shape of a regiment of English soldiers speeding on
with all the speed their chargers were capable of. But the plain was misty
with dust and heat; and not a living thing was in sight beyond the river save
some vultures that hovered lazily in the heated air as if waiting patiently for
the feast they knew would soon be theirs.

And during those five hours the mutineers charged again and again at the
gate which was so ably defended, but each time they recoiled, leaving a
heap of their dead. No accurate record has come to us of the number of their
slain on that awful day, but it has been computed at thousands, for mingling
with the soldiers was an immense gathering of civilians who had armed
themselves with all sorts of weapons, and poured forth to assist in
massacring the English. But still the enormous number of their dead did not
deter them. Indeed, the sight only served to frenzy them still more. Horses
and men—soldiers and civilians—encumbered the ground, victims to the
grape and canister belched forth by the nine-pounders. And the constantly
accumulating heaps made it difficult for the living to reach the gate which
they hoped to batter in. At last, however, they bethought themselves of
ladders. The marvel is that they had not thought of them before. Scores of
ladders were soon procured when once they had been suggested, and then
with shouts and cries that rent the very air the mutineers began to swarm up
the walls.
And now brave Willoughby felt that the supreme moment had come at last.
Never had soldier more nobly, more devotedly, and more heroically done
his duty. But he saw, alas! that his efforts were useless. For the last time he
rushed to the bastion. One more look—a long, anxious look—over that
great plain that was all a quiver with the fierce heat of the unchecked sun.
But not a sign was there of the hoped-for succour. Meerut had failed them,
and there was nothing left now but to die. Then the splendid hero went back
to his guns.
‘Comrades,’ he said, ‘we are abandoned to our fate. Meerut has not sent,
perhaps could not send, us help. But though we are defeated we are not
conquered. We have as soldiers done our duty, and defended to the last the
stores committed to our care. Further defence is impossible, and there is but
one more thing to do, and that is to die.’
He raised his sword as the prearranged sign, word was then passed by one
of his lieutenants to Scully, who stood ready. Scully lit his match and fired
the train.
There was an awful pause. The minarets and domes of the wonderful city
glittered in the sunlight, and the face of heaven was without a cloud. Nature
was peaceful and at rest; but men were striving to tear their fellow men to

pieces, and there was a Babel of fierce, discordant cries. The walls of the
fort were black with hundreds of soldiers and civilians who were struggling
with each other as to who should be first to cut down the Englishmen.
Between the sweltering crowds on the walls and the thousands below the
scaling ladders formed a connecting link, and they were black, too, with the
writhing masses of men trying to work their way up. Beyond the closely-
wedged crowd that extended from the walls outwards for something like
fifty yards was a fringe of rabble; the scouring of the gaols and the
contributions of the places of infamy with which the city abounded. And in
this fringe was a large percentage of women and young people of both
sexes; though there wasn’t one there but was athirst for the Feringhees’
blood. And when it was seen that the rebel Sepoys had gained the summit of
the surrounding walls of the fort there arose from thousands of lips an
exultant roar, for it seemed that the Englishmen were at last in the power of
the mob. But suddenly that roar ceased with a quick and paralysing
accession of fear that struck the human mass dumb, for something had
happened—a convulsion of nature, as it seemed. The sun was darkened; the
firm earth rocked, and shook, and rose and fell, and concurrent with these
things was a compact, sullen, solid boom, that expanded and stretched out
as it were until it became a mighty and stupendous volume of sound. Where
a few seconds before the walls had stood black with hundreds of fierce men
on murder intent was a heap of ruins; and all around not hundreds but
thousands of human beings were hurled to the ground maimed, shattered,
and slain. And of those who had presence of mind to turn and flee, some
were overtaken and stricken senseless with flying masonry, masses of iron,
or baulks of timbers; while others fell dead from fright, and others again
went raving mad; and some rushed to the river and threw themselves in,
desperate with despair, for it seemed as if their own god Shiva had turned
upon his votaries and was bent on wiping them off the face of the earth. The
effects of this great explosion were remarkable. The whole city was shaken.
Ponderous houses reeled and tottered, and buildings miles away were rent
and split. Every tree within a radius of a couple of hundred yards was
blasted and withered. Huge masses of masonry were hurled high into the
air. Heavy guns were tossed away as if they had been toys caught by a
strong wind. The six-feet walls of solid masonry were shattered to
crumbling ruins, burying many hundreds of natives, while hundreds more
were blown up into the air like wisps of straw. The destruction of the war

material was complete. Not a pound of powder, not a shell, not a gun,
remained for the natives to use against the white men. To that fact probably
we owe our ultimate success over the rebels. For if all that ammunition and
all those guns had fallen into the hands of the mutineers at that moment,
there is no telling what they might have accomplished.
Willoughby had indeed nobly done his duty. To their disgrace, however, be
it said, there were those at home—the fireside politicians, the little
Englander and carpet-slipper travellers—who censured him for the act. But
Englishmen at heart admire courage and devotion to duty. Generations yet
unborn, when they read the pathetic story of Shelton and Blanche Merton,
will draw a sigh of pity, while around the memory of Lieutenant George
Willoughby will ever shine a halo of glory, and Englishmen will refer to
him with a sense of swelling pride as the Hero of Delhi, who with fire and
death helped to save India.
Note.—Curiously enough Willoughby and a comrade, Lieutenant Forrest,
escaped from the fiery blast that scattered such ruin and death around.
Willoughby, however, was much burnt, and Forrest was severely wounded,
having been shot in the arm. The brave Scully who fired the train must have
been blown to atoms. It was estimated that 2,000 mutineers at least were
killed by the explosion, and as many perhaps had been previously shot
down by grape and canister which the heroic little garrison poured forth
with such deadly effect.

IX
THE SPECTRE OF RISLIP ABBEY
[The particulars of this story have been supplied by a well-
known member of Parliament from his own experience. The
story is told almost in his own words. He is the owner of a
broad and fair estate in central England, and has gained an
enviable reputation for his high intelligence, his
administrative ability—which on more than one occasion
has been of great advantage to his party—as well as for his
princely hospitality.]
Up to about twenty years ago I was a comparatively poor man, and had to
supplement my income by literary work, which, being of a scientific
character, had not a very wide market. However, at that time, I succeeded to
a snug patrimony, which freed my mind at once from all anxiety about the
future. I had been married for seventeen years, and had two daughters,
Cynthia and Phyllis, aged thirteen and fifteen respectively. My wife was an
invalid, and our medical attendant had frequently told me that her
restoration to health depended to a large extent on her living in the country,
and indulging in country pursuits. But want of adequate means had
prevented our giving effect to this advice, for circumstances rendered it
important that I should reside in London, and my wife resolutely refused to
leave me. Consequently, we had been living in a modest flat, and made the
best we could of its inconveniences and drawbacks.
It was not surprising, therefore, that one of my first cares as soon as I was in
possession of my fortune was to seek for some suitable country residence.
We were all fond of the country, and my tastes inclined to the life of a
gentleman farmer. I therefore called one morning on my friend, the late Mr.
George R——, the well-known West-End auctioneer and estate agent. He
had a connection all over Great Britain, and I knew that if anyone could
find me the place I wanted he could. After we had chatted for some time,
and I had made known my requirements, he began to discuss the pros and
cons of several estates he had on his books, but against all there was some

objection to urge as far as I was concerned, until at last he exclaimed with a
chuckle:
‘By Jove, I have it. Rislip Abbey, that’s the place for you.’ Then, calling his
head clerk, he desired him to bring the printed particulars of Rislip, which
were read out as follows:—
‘Rislip.—Containing about three thousand acres arable land, five hundred
acres pasture, one thousand timber (mostly oak and beech), the rest park
and ornamental grounds. The house is a quaint, old-fashioned, turreted
mansion, believed to have been built about the end of the reign of Henry
VIII. The place is without any historical interest. Most of the land lies well.
The house stands high, and commands splendid views, but is in a
dilapidated condition, not having had a tenant for the last thirty years. The
property has been the subject of litigation, but the rightful ownership has
now been determined.’
The foregoing were the crude particulars, so to speak, in outline, and having
listened to them I questioned my friend further, and asked him if he had
personally surveyed the property.
‘I have,’ he answered.
‘And what is your opinion about it?’
‘Well, at present it is a wilderness, and the house is well nigh a ruin.
Chancery, as you know, is like a blight and a curse—it ruins every property
it has anything to do with, as well as breaks the hearts of men and women.
Of course, the lawyers have done well while Rislip has been going to decay,
and now the owners are too poor to spend any money on it, nor can they sell
any portion of it for the next twenty-five years. But they would grant you a
lease for that period for a merely nominal rent, and give you the option of
purchase. It would want a good deal of money laid out on it in the first
instance, but my opinion is you could soon bring the land under cultivation,
and make it profitable. Anyway, go down and see the property. I’ll go with
you, if you like. You will soon see if it is likely to suit you, and, of course,
you can get the ghost and all thrown in.’
‘Ghost!’ I exclaimed, with a laugh.
‘Oh, yes. I understand there is a real, genuine ghost, according to local
tradition. The yokels swear that the place is haunted. But I should say the

only spirits you will find there are bats and owls.’
I laughed at the ghost idea. I was pleased to think myself a hard-headed
man, and my disposition was to view most things from a severely critical
and scientific point of view; while as for spiritualism, I had nothing but
contempt for those who professed to believe in it.
Now, the result of my interview with my friend the auctioneer was that a
week later we journeyed down to Rislip together, and spent three or four
days in examining the estate. It was certainly not an exaggeration to call it a
wilderness, while the house itself was crumbling to decay; but I saw at once
the potentialities of the place, and as the situation of the house would have
been hard to beat, while the rental asked was little more than nominal, I
secured the refusal of the property for a fortnight. During that time I
consulted my lawyers, took my wife and daughter down to Rislip, and as
they confessed themselves charmed, and I found I could secure it almost on
my own terms, I lost no time in closing, and at once proceeded to get
estimates for putting the house in habitable condition.
As may be imagined, I was very busy for the next three months, and by
means of a liberal expenditure and ample labour, a very different aspect was
imparted to the erstwhile wilderness, and the house was ready for
occupation by the early part of November. Though the prospect of moving
at such a period wasn’t very pleasant, we faced it boldly, and by the end of
the month were comfortably installed in our new quarters. In carrying out
the repairs and alterations in the house I had been careful not to interfere in
any way with its structural arrangements, as its quaintness and rambling
character appealed very forcibly to my antiquarian instincts. One of the
features of the house was most certainly the dining-room. It was a room of
really noble proportions, unusually lofty for a building of that date, with
three straight windows on one side, and at one end a very deep bay, from
which there was a view second to none in the country.
The floor, which had been laid with oak, was as level as a billiard table, and
in a perfect state of preservation. The walls were all wainscoted from floor
to ceiling, and as some of this had decayed, it had been found necessary to
restore it during the process of renovating the house. In the course of this
work the men discovered a sliding door so artfully let in as a panel that
anyone unacquainted with its existence would never have found it out.

Behind the sliding panel was a narrow passage, leading to a flight of stone
steps that descended to a second passage, closed by a door. This door gave
access to a short tunnel that had its exit in the grounds, near a lake of
considerable dimensions.
Romantic no doubt as all this may seem, there was really nothing very
remarkable in it, as very few country houses were built in Henry VIII.’s
time, and, indeed, for long after his reign, without a secret passage, the
object being to afford the occupants a means of escape in case of need. The
contractor who carried out the work for me suggested that the passage
should be blocked up, to this I would not give my consent, but insisted on
its being left in its original state, and in this decision I was supported by my
wife and daughters. I ought to add that running parallel with the dining-
room, and communicating by a doorway, was another room of smaller
dimensions, but so conveniently situated and well lighted that I at once
appropriated it as a library, as I had a valuable collection of books.
By the middle of December we had quite settled down, and all felt charmed
with our new home, then we began to send out invitations very freely to our
friends and relatives for Christmas, as we were desirous of having a good
house-warming.
Of course, during the short time I had been in possession I had heard much
gossip and gathered a good many interesting anecdotes about the property.
The fact of its having at last changed hands aroused a great deal of interest
and curiosity over a very extended area, for the history of Rislip was pretty
well known, and the story of the Chancery suit and the ruin it had brought
about had caused general regret, as it was regarded as a shame that so good
a property should be allowed to run to waste. I found that there was a very
curious belief that Rislip had its familiar spirit—in other words, that it was
haunted. I tried to find out the foundation for this belief, but, as is usually
the case, I was met with the reply—
‘Oh, I’ve never seen anything myself, but I’ve heard of people who have.’
When I tried to find out these people who, by common account, had had
occular demonstration of the existence of disturbed spirits, I need scarcely
say I failed. It is always so. Neither my wife nor I attached the slightest
serious importance to the current stories. We were amused by them, and
possibly there was just a tendency on our part to regard people who

expressed belief in the supernatural as being far from what is generally
termed ‘strong-minded,’ to use a mild term.
But now, to come to the strangest part of my narrative. I had been dining
one night with my family, and we had had a neighbouring gentleman and
his wife as guests. They had departed, and my wife and the girls had retired.
I had remained to indulge in a final cigar, and enjoy the comfort of the
brightly burning fire and the warm room. Outside the weather was murky,
cold, and dismal. My butler had been to inquire if I wished for anything
more, and my wants having been attended to, he bade me good-night and
went to his room. After that I fell into a reverie. Possibly I may have dozed.
Anyway, I was aroused to a sense of things mundane by a cold draught of
air blowing upon me, and glancing round I saw, to my amazement, that the
secret door or panel in the wall to which I have already alluded was wide
open. Then I was still further amazed—I might almost say dumfounded—
by seeing a hand, only a hand, slowly draw the panel into its place again.
It is almost impossible for me to describe the extraordinary sensation that
crept over me. There was something so uncanny in the whole proceeding.
Now, I have already said I was not a superstitious man, and I think I may
also assert that I was by no means lacking in courage. Nevertheless, for the
moment I was the prey to a feeling of absolute funk. Then suddenly I
thought that a trick was being tried upon me, and anger got the better of my
funk. I seized the poker from the fireplace, rushed to the panel, got it open
with some little difficulty, and peered into the darkness, but saw nothing;
listened intently, but heard nothing. Next I snatched a candle from the table
and proceeded down the passage, but found no living thing, and the doors
were properly fastened. Returning to the dining-room, I sat down to think,
and came to the conclusion that I had been the victim of a trick of the brain,
and laughed at my own folly. But when a quarter of an hour later I went
upstairs to my bedroom I experienced an unaccountable and absolutely
unusual feeling of nervousness. The next day my first impulse was to tell
my wife of the remarkable incident of the night previous; my second to do
nothing of the sort, but keep it a locked secret in my own breast. A week
later my daughter Phyllis had been with me in the library. She was a clever
shorthand writer, and had been taking some important letters down from my
dictation. As the clock on the mantelpiece chimed out midnight I told her to
cease work and go to her bed. She wished me good-night, and trotted off.

A few minutes passed, then the door of the library was flung violently open,
and Phyllis, half fainting, looking ghastly pale, and with a ‘scared-to-death’
appearance of face, rushed in and clung wildly to me.
‘What’s the matter, child; what’s the matter?’ I cried in alarm; but she
remained speechless. Moments, perhaps minutes, slipped by, during which I
kept urging her to speak. She found her voice at last sufficient to jerk out in
a breathless way:
‘Oh, pa, I’ve had such a fright. When I got up to the first landing such a
strange-looking man was standing there. I was about to ask him what he
was doing, when he raised his hand in a sort of warning way and
disappeared.’
I laughed, but it wasn’t a genuine laugh, and I pretended to speak lightly, as
I said:
‘My dear child, I’ve been over-working you and your poor tired brain has
seen visions. Come, let me take you upstairs to your room. You must try
and get a good night’s rest. You will be all right to-morrow.’
She gave me a look that was full of meaning. She said with her eyes as
plainly as possible, ‘Don’t try to turn it off in that way. I have seen what I
have seen.’ She had mastered her feelings by this time, and though she
spoke no words, she went upstairs with me until we reached the first
landing, which was lighted in the daytime by a long stained-glass window.
Edging a little closer to me, she whispered, ‘This was where I saw him.’
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ I answered, though I was far from believing it was
nonsense, but I wanted to reassure her. I escorted her to her door, saw that
her lamp was burning, then kissed her good-night and descended, and as I
went down the last flight of stairs I turned suddenly, for I was sure I heard
footsteps. And close behind me was a weird-looking man dressed in the
costume of a gentleman of Charles II.’s reign. He appeared to be about
sixty-five years of age. Long, grey, ringleted hair hung about his shoulders.
His face wore an expression of awful anguish.
For a moment I experienced a shock, but I quickly recovered myself and
tried to grasp him, but he was as unsubstantial as the air, and the
uncanniness of the whole business made me involuntarily shrink back. Then
he raised his hands, and drawing down the large lace collar from his neck,

he bared his throat, showing me a tremendous gash that had severed the
windpipe, and from which the blood seemed to pour in a stream. It was a
fearsome sight, I must confess, and I had never before in the whole course
of my existence experienced such an utterly ‘gone’ and helpless feeling as I
did in the presence of that supernatural visitant, and before I had pulled
myself together, as the saying is, the weird spectre raised his hand, pointed
upward with an extended finger, and in an instant had disappeared.
I returned to my library and flung myself into a chair, and I asked myself
seriously whether the incidents of the last quarter of an hour were not the
result of some morbid condition of my own brain. That is to say, I was
disposed to doubt whether my daughter had really rushed pale and fainting
into the room, as I have described, or whether it wasn’t a figment of my
own imagination. But here let me say that I had always been regarded as an
unimaginative person, with, as I have before said, a scientific mind, which
required hard, stern facts to convince it. How was it then I had come to see
visions?
I asked myself this question, and mentally argued the whole thing out,
trying to explain away the vision; but, firstly, there were the mysterious
hand and the sliding panel, and now here was a man of a bygone age who
had horrified me by showing me his throat gashed, and rent, and bleeding.
I don’t know really how long I sat revolving the problem in my brain, but I
do know that I crept up to bed at last feeling terribly fagged mentally and
physically.
I slept far beyond my usual hour the following morning. My family had
already breakfasted, but Phyllis came and sat with me, and recounted her
previous night’s experiences. There was an unwonted paleness in her pretty
face and a scared look in her eyes. I felt it wise not to say anything to her
about what I myself had seen; but, moved by a sudden impulse, I said I was
going up to London by the next train and would take her with me.
It was no unusual thing for me to be called away from home at a moment’s
notice, so that my wife was not surprised. Phyllis expressed her delight at
going, and two hours later we were seated in the up express. On arriving at
our destination, I quartered Phyllis at the house of my sister, while I went to
an hotel where I was in the habit of staying when in town. The following
day I called on an old and esteemed medical friend—a man not only

eminent as a physician, but famous as an author of several erudite works
dealing with all forms of mental disease. I detailed the experiences of
myself and daughter to him, and he looked very grave and puzzled, but
before venturing to express any opinion he said he would like to see Phyllis.
So I drove off at once to my sister’s, and took Phyllis back with me, and
without entering into any particulars I simply remarked that I wanted the
doctor to see her. She expressed surprise by her face, but remained silent.
On arriving at the doctor’s house I requested her to tell him what she had
seen, which she did in a plain, intelligent way. My friend appeared more
than ever puzzled, and, having sent Phyllis out of the room, he delivered
himself somewhat as follows:
‘Well, now, my dear fellow, the facts of the case are these. Both you and
Phyllis are more impressionable than you imagine, and you have gone
through a great deal of excitement lately in connection with your new
quarters. Last night you overtaxed the girl’s brain, and what she thought she
saw was a pure fancy. Her sudden appearance in your room in a state of
nervous agitation, her story, her manner, made a great impression on you,
and what she told you she had seen suggested the same thing to you.’
‘But how about the hand and the sliding panel?’ I asked.
‘The result also of a morbid condition of the mind,’ he answered. ‘Fancy,
fancy, all fancy, my dear sir. Now you and Phyllis go and make a little
journey somewhere. A trip to the South of France, a month at Monte Carlo,
will do you all the good in the world.’
I left my friend’s house far from satisfied. I knew he was sincere in his
belief, but he was wrong in his diagnosis. Nevertheless, I began to think of
carrying out his suggestion and visiting the Riviera. No doubt I should have
done that if it hadn’t been for the fact that three days later I received a
telegram from home, summoning me back at once, as my wife had been
taken ill.
I began to fear now that Rislip was to prove a curse instead of a blessing to
me; and, depressed by an anxiety I had never known before, I caught the
next train out. Phyllis, of course, accompanied me, and we reached Rislip
about ten o’clock at night. I learnt that my wife had had a fit. The cause
nobody knew, but she told me. She had been sitting in the dining-room
alone, when she felt a draught as I had done. Then to her horror she saw a

deathly-white hand sliding the panel back. Suddenly a quaintly-dressed
man, with a haggard, anguished face, appeared before her, and, baring his
throat, displayed it gashed and bleeding as he had done to me. She was
conscious of uttering a loud, shrill scream of terror. Then all was blank until
she awoke to find a doctor attending her.
As she finished telling me her story, she expressed great anxiety lest her
brain was giving way, and she only grew calm when I assured her that I had
seen what she had seen, and that Phyllis had also met the ghostly man on
the stairs. My medical friend’s theory would not now hold water, because
my wife had been ignorant of my own and Phyllis’s experiences, so that she
was not influenced by a recital which might have set up a morbid set of
conditions in her own brain.
Up to this time I had always regarded spiritualism so-called as abominable
quackery, and it always made me angry when I heard of the antics and silly
pranks which the spirits called up at the séances the professional humbugs
indulged in. But now I myself had seen a spirit, my daughter had also seen
it, and my wife had seen it. We all three claimed to be people of common
sense, free from morbid taint, and not given to conjuring up bogeys out of
every shadow that came in our path. And yet it seemed to me that the spirit
that had made itself manifest unto us had behaved in a very idiotic way, for
if it had a grievance why did it try to frighten us all to death. Of course, the
matter was too serious to be pooh-poohed with a scornful laugh and a
sceptical toss of the head. The statement of three persons, not quite fools,
could not be ignored. I began to feel deeply interested in the psychological
problem that was suggested to me, and after much cogitation I mentally
asked myself whether the ghostly visitor had any particular reason for
pointing upward. Anyway, I was prompted to try and find out, and made my
way to the top of the house, where there was a range of garrets. Here I
began to pry about in a very inquisitive way, and after long and patient
searching for I knew not what, I chanced to strike a portion of the wall in a
back garret with a stick I carried, and was rather astonished to find that it
gave out a hollow sound. I rapped it again. The same sound; but a yard on
either side and there was solidity.
I lost no time in getting the assistance of two of my men servants. I simply
told them that I had accidentally discovered what I believed to be a door,
and, prompted now more by curiosity than anything else, I, with their help,

tore off the paper, then a lining of canvas, then more paper, till we got to
some wood that had once been painted. Close examination revealed that it
was a door, and not without considerable trouble we got it open, disclosing
a deep recess. Lights were procured, and from out the recess we dragged a
heavy mass of dusty and time-stained metal. It was apparently a bundle of
lead rolled up. We unrolled it, and brought to light a quantity of human
bones, including a singularly well preserved skull, to which a mass of hair
still adhered.
What my feelings were I will not attempt to describe. Of course the servants
were amazed. I sent them to their duties, again cautioning them to say
nothing at present of our find. My next step was to lodge information with
the county police, and in due course the inevitable coroner’s inquiry was
held, but elicited nothing beyond the medical opinion that the bones must
have been where they were found for generations. Whose bones they were
no one could even conjecture. Why they had been wrapped in lead, and
hidden in the secret cupboard was no less inscrutable. The coroner’s jury
could return but one verdict. The remains were those of some person
unknown, and how he had met his death it was impossible to say. The bones
were ordered to be buried in consecrated ground, and with Christian burial,
and that was done. At my own expense I placed a slab over the grave,
bearing this line:
‘Sacred to the memory of a stranger. Date of birth and death unknown.’
With the finding and burial of those bones the spectre of Rislip Abbey
departed, and troubled us no more.
Now, the story I have told you is a true one. There is the independent
testimony of my wife and daughter to corroborate mine. My theory is that
in some far-off time a brutal crime had been committed, and the murdered
man’s body had been rolled in a sheet of lead and thrust in the secret closet;
but while the murderers could confine his body they could not confine his
spirit. Though why, after so many generations had passed, I should have
been selected to bring the matter to light I know not, and cannot even
possibly suggest a theory, nor can the mystery of the crime be cleared up.
Who the murdered man was, and why he was murdered, will never be
known until the secrets of all hearts are revealed in the burning light of the
Judgment Day.

X
THE CAVE OF BLOOD
THE STORY OF A DOUBLE CRIME
On the south-west coast of the Principality of Wales stands a romantic little
village, inhabited chiefly by the poorer class of people, consisting of small
farmers and oyster dredgers, whose estates are the wide ocean, and whose
ploughs are the small craft in which they glide over its interminable fields
in search of the treasures which they wring from its bosom. It is built on the
very top of a hill, commanding on one side a view of an immense bay, and
on the other of the peaceful green fields and valleys, cultivated by the
greater number of its quiet inhabitants. At the period of this story
distinctions were unknown in the village—every man was the equal of his
neighbour.
But though rank and its unpolished distinctions were strange in the village,
the superiority of talent was felt and acknowledged almost without a pause
or a murmur. There was one who was as a king amongst them, by the mere
force of a mightier spirit than those with whom he sojourned had been
accustomed to feel among them. He was a dark and moody man—a stranger
—evidently of a higher order than those around him, who had but a few
months before, without any apparent object, settled among them. Where he
came from no one knew. He was a mystery, and evidently knew how to
keep his secrets to himself. He was not rich, but followed no occupation. He
lived frugally, but quite alone, and his sole employments were to read
during the day and wander out, unaccompanied, into the fields or by the
beach during the night. He was a strange, silent, fearsome sort of man, with
a certain uncanniness in his appearance that commanded respect no less
than fear. It soon became a common belief that this man possessed
miraculous powers, not only as a healer of human ailments, but as a
prophet. It was, therefore, not to be wondered at that in that little
community of simple fisher-folk he was looked up to as a superior being,
who not only held the power of life and death in his hands, but was able to
draw aside the veil that screened the future.

Sometimes he would relieve a suffering child or rheumatic old man by
medicinal herbs, reprove idleness and drunkenness in the youth, and predict
to all the good and evil consequences of their conduct. And in his success in
some cases, his foresight in others, and his wisdom in all, won for him a
high reputation among the cottagers, to which his taciturn habits contributed
not a little, for, with the vulgar as with the educated, no talker was ever
seriously taken for a magician, though a silent man is often decided to be a
wise one.
There was but one person at all disposed to rebel against the despotic
sovereignty which John Morgan—such was the name he chose to be known
by—was silently establishing over the quiet village, and that was precisely
the person most likely to effect a revolution. She was a beautiful young
woman, the glory and boast of the village, who had been the favourite of,
and to a certain degree educated by, the late lady of the manor; but the lady
had died, and her protégée, with a full consciousness of her intellectual
superiority, had returned to her native village, where she determined to have
an empire of her own which no rival should dispute. She laughed at the girls
and women folk who listened to the predictions of Morgan, and she refused
her smiles to the young men who consulted him upon their affairs and their
prospects; and as the beautiful Ruth was generally beloved, the silent
Morgan was soon in danger of being abandoned by all save doting men and
paralytic women, and feeling himself an outcast in the village.
But it was soon made clear that Morgan had no intention of allowing pretty
Ruth to oust him from his position. He had essayed to rule the village, and
he was resolved to retain his hold over the people. He knew, too, that from
another point of view this ascendency was necessary to his purposes, and as
he had failed to establish it by wisdom and benevolence, he determined to
try the effect of fear. The character of the people with whom he sojourned
was admirably calculated to assist his projects. His predictions were now
uttered more clearly, and his threats denounced in sterner tones and stronger
and plainer words, and when he predicted that old William Williams, who
had been stricken with the palsy, would die at the turn of the tide, three days
from that on which he spoke, and that the light little boat of gay Griffy
Morris, which sailed from the Bay on a bright winter’s morning, would
never again make the shore—the man died, and the storm arose, even as he
said—men’s hearts died within them, and they bowed down before his

words, as if he had been their general fate and the individual destiny of
each.
Ruth’s beautiful face grew pale for a moment as she heard of these things;
in the next her spirit returned, and she told some friend that she was going
to Morgan to have her fortune told, and she would prove to everyone that he
was an impostor. She had no difficulty in getting up a party of young men
and women to accompany her, and she set off for Morgan’s house with the
avowed intention of ‘unmasking and humiliating him.’ It was rather
remarkable, seeing that the man had never done her any harm, that she
should have taken such a prejudice against him. When they reached his
residence they made it very evident that they intended to insult him. They
made jests at his expense, and rudely and satirically alluded to his professed
powers of prophecy. Had Ruth been more observant and less self-conscious,
she could not have failed to note that Morgan was far removed above the
common-place, and was possessed of mental powers far above anyone else
in the village. He was greatly annoyed by her insulting manner and
intentional rudeness, but he concealed his feelings, though he silently
resolved to humble her pride. ‘I will make him tell my fortune,’ she said.
His credit was at stake; he must daunt his enemy, or surrender to her power;
he foretold sorrows and joys to the listening throng, and he made one of the
young men present and Ruth herself feel exceedingly uncomfortable by
revealing a secret which they themselves thought no human soul knew
beside themselves. Then for the first time Ruth began to think she had made
a mistake, and had underrated her opponent. Nevertheless, her self-
possession did not desert her, and in an easy, flippant manner, in which
there was a challenge as well as a sneer, she bade him read her future.
Morgan remained silent for some moments, and steadily gazed at her. He
had a large book before him, which he opened, shut, opened again, and
again looked sadly and fearfully upon her; she tried to smile, but felt
startled—she knew not why; the bright, inquiring glance of her dark eye
could not change Morgan’s manner. Her smile could not melt, nor even
temper, the hardness of his deep-seated malice; he again looked sternly, and
then coldly uttered these slow, soul-withering words, ‘Woman, you are
doomed to be a murderess!’ At first she sneered at his prediction, and then
laughed at him; but with greater solemnity, and speaking as if he were
inspired, he exclaimed, ‘I tell you, Ruth, you will become a murderess! I

see blood upon your hands and blood upon your face, and the black stain of
awful guilt upon your immortal soul.’
Her arrogance was subdued, her haughty spirit overcome, and with
something liked a groan she hurried away. But from that day she found that
she was a marked woman. The superstitious villagers shunned her, and she
became, as it were, an outcast.
Abhorring Morgan, she yet felt drawn towards him, and while she sat by his
side felt as if he alone could avert the evil destiny which he himself had
foretold. With him only was she seen to smile; elsewhere, sad, silent, stern;
it seemed as if she were ever occupied in nerving her mind for that which
she had to do, and she grew melancholy and morbid.
But there were moments when her naturally strong spirit, not yet wholly
subdued, struggled against her conviction, and endeavoured to find modes
of averting her fate; it was in one of these, perhaps, that she gave her hand
to a wooer, from a distant part of the country, a mariner, who either had not
heard or did not regard the prediction, upon condition that he should
remove her far from her native village to the home of his family and
friends, for she sometimes felt as if the decree which had gone forth against
her could not be fulfilled except upon the spot where she had heard it, and
that her heart would be lighter if men’s eyes would again look upon her in
kindliness and she no longer sat beneath the glare of those that knew so
well the secret of her soul. Thus thinking, she quitted the village with her
husband; and the tormentor, who had poisoned her repose, soon after her
departure, left the village as secretly and as suddenly as he had entered it.
But, though Ruth could depart from his corporeal presence, and look upon
his cruel visage no more, yet the eye of her soul was fixed upon his shadow,
and his airy form, the creation of her sorrow, still sat by her side; the blight
that he had breathed upon her peace had withered her heart, and it was in
vain that she sought to forget or banish the recollection from her brain. Men
and women smiled upon her as before in the days of her joy, the friends of
her husband welcomed her to their bosoms, but they could give no peace to
her heart; she shrunk from their friendship, she shivered equally at their
neglect, she dreaded any cause that might lead to that which, it had been
said, she must do; nightly she sat alone and thought, she dwelt upon the
characters of those around her, and shuddered that in some she saw violence

and selfishness enough to cause injury, which she might be supposed to
resent to blood. Against the use of actual violence she had disabled herself;
she had never struck a blow—her small hand would have suffered injury in
the attempt; she did not understand the use of firearms, she was ignorant of
what were poisons, and a knife she never allowed herself, even for the most
necessary purposes. How, then, could she slay? At times she took comfort
from thoughts like these, and at others she was plunged in the darkness of
despair.
Her husband went forth to and returned from the voyages which made up
the avocation and felicity of his life, without noticing the deep-rooted
sorrow of his wife. He was a common man, and of a common mind; his eye
had not seen the awful beauty of her whom he had chosen; his spirit had not
felt her power; and, if he had marked, he would not have understood her
grief; so she ministered to him as a duty. She was a silent and obedient wife,
but she saw him come home without joy, and witnessed his departure
without regret; he neither added to nor diminished her sorrow. But destiny
had one solitary blessing in store for the victim of its decrees—a child was
born to the hapless Ruth, a lovely little girl soon slept upon her bosom, and,
coming as it did, the one lone and lovely rosebud in her desolate garden,
she welcomed it with a kindlier hope.
A few years went by unsoiled by the wretchedness which had marked the
preceding; the joy of the mother softened the anguish of the condemned,
and sometimes when she looked upon her daughter she ceased to despair;
but destiny had not forgotten its claim, and soon its hand pressed heavily
upon its victim; the giant ocean rolled over the body of her husband,
poverty visited the cottage of the widow, and famine’s gaunt figure was
visible in the distance. Oppression came with these, arrears of rent were
demanded, and the landlord was brutal in his anger and harsh in his
language to the sufferer.
Thus goaded, she saw but one thing that could save her—she fled from her
persecutor to the home of her youth, and, leading her little Rachel by the
hand, threw herself into the arms of her people. They received her with
distant kindness, and assured her that she should not want. In this they kept
their promise, but it was all they did for Ruth and her daughter. A miserable
subsistence was given to them, and that was embittered by distrust, and the
knowledge that it was yielded unwillingly.

Among the villagers, although she was no longer shunned as formerly, her
story was not forgotten. If it had been, her strange beauty, her sorrow-
stamped face, the flashing of her eyes, her majestic stature and solemn
movements, would have recalled it to their recollections. She was a marked
being, and all believed (though each would have pitied her, had they not
been afraid) that her evil destiny was not to be averted. They declared that
she looked like one fated to do some dreadful deed. They saw she was not
one of them, and though they did not directly avoid her, yet they never
threw themselves in her way, and thus the hapless Ruth had ample leisure to
contemplate and grieve over her fate. One night she sat alone in her little
hovel, and, with many bitter ruminations, was watching the happy sleep of
her child, who slumbered tranquilly on their only bed. Midnight had long
passed, yet Ruth was not disposed to rest. She trimmed her dull light, and
said mentally, ‘Were I not poor such a temptation might not assail me,
riches would procure me deference; but poverty, or the wrongs it brings,
may drive me to this evil. Were I above want it would be less likely to be.
Oh, my child, for your sake would I avoid this doom more than for mine
own, for if it should bring death to me, what will it not bring to you?—
infamy, agony, scorn.’
She wept aloud as she spoke, and scarcely seemed to notice the singularity
(at that late hour) of someone without attempting to open the door. She
heard, but the circumstance made little impression. She knew that as yet her
doom was unfulfilled, and that, therefore, no danger could reach her. She
was no coward at any time, but now despair had made her brave. She flung
the door open, a stranger entered, without either alarming or disturbing her,
and it was not till he had stood face to face with Ruth, and she discovered
his features to be those of William Morgan, that she sprung up from her seat
and gazed wildly and earnestly upon him. He gave her no time to question.
‘Ruth Tudor,’ said he, ‘behold I come to sue for your pity and mercy. I have
embittered your existence, and doomed you to a terrible lot. What first was
dictated by vengeance and malice became truth as I uttered it, for what I
spoke I believed. Yet, take comfort, some of my predictions have failed, and
why may not this one be false? In my own fate I have ever been deceived;
perhaps I may be equally so in yours. In the meantime have pity upon him
who was your enemy, but who, when his vengeance was uttered, instantly
became your friend. I was poor, and your scorn might have robbed me of

subsistence in danger, and your contempt might have given me up.
Beggared by some disastrous events, hunted by creditors, I fled from my
wife and son because I could no longer bear to contemplate their suffering. I
have sought fortune in many ways since we parted, and always has she
eluded my grasp till last night, when she rather tempted than smiled upon
me. At an idle fair I met the steward of this estate drunk and stupid, but
loaded with gold. He travelled towards home alone. I could not, did not,
wrestle with the fiend that possessed me, but hastened to overtake him in
his lonely ride. Start not! No hair of his head was harmed by me. Of his
gold I robbed him, but not of his life, though, had I been the greater villain,
I should now be in less danger, since he saw and marked my person. Three
hundred pounds is the result of my deed, but I must keep it now or die.
Ruth, you, too, are poor and forsaken, but you are faithful and kind, and
will not betray me to justice. Save me, and I will not enjoy my riches alone.
You know all the caves in the rocks, those hideous hiding places, where no
foot, save yours, has dared to tread. Conceal me in one of these till the
pursuit be passed, and I will give you one half my wealth, and return with
the other to gladden my wife and son.’
The hand of Ruth was already opened, and in imagination she grasped the
wealth he promised. Oppression and poverty had somewhat clouded the
nobleness, but not the fierceness of her spirit. She saw that riches would
save her from wrath, perhaps from blood, and as the means to escape from
so mighty an evil she was not unscrupulous respecting a lesser.
Independently of this, she felt a great interest in the safety of Morgan. Her
own fate seemed to hang upon his. She hid the ruffian in a cave which she
had known from her youth, and supplied him with light and food.
There was a happiness now in the heart of Ruth, a joy in her thoughts as she
sat all the long day upon the deserted settle of her wretched fireside, to
which they had, for many years, been strangers. Many times during the past
years of her sorrow she had thought of Morgan, and longed to look upon his
face, and sit under his shadow, as one whose presence could preserve her
from the evil fate which he himself had predicted. She had long since
forgiven him his prophecy. She believed he had spoken truth, and this gave
her a wild confidence in his power—a confidence that sometimes thought,
‘If he can foreknow, can he not also avert?’

And she thought she would deserve his confidence, and support him in his
suffering. She had concealed him in a deep dark cave, hewn far in the rock,
to which she alone knew the entrance from the beach. There was another (if
a huge aperture in the top of the rock might be so called) which, far from
attempting to descend, the peasants and seekers for the culprit had scarcely
dared to look into, so perpendicular, dark, and uncertain was the hideous
descent into what justly appeared to them a bottomless abyss. They passed
over his head in their search through the fields above, and before the mouth
of his den upon the beach below, yet they left him in safety, though
incertitude and fear.
It was less wonderful, the suspicionless conduct of the villagers towards
Ruth, than the calm prudence with which she conducted all the details
relating to her secret. Her poverty was well known, yet she daily procured a
double portion of food, which was won by double labour. She toiled in the
fields for the meed of oaken cake and potatoes, or she dashed out in a crazy
boat on the wide ocean, to win with the dredgers the spoils of the oyster
beds that lie on its bosom. The daintier fare was for the unhappy guest, and
daily did she wander among the rocks, when the tides were retiring, for the
shellfish which they had flung among the fissures in their retreat, which she
bore, exhausted with fatigue, to her home, and which her lovely child, now
rising into womanhood, prepared for the luxurious meal. It was wonderful,
too, the settled prudence of the young girl, who made no comment about the
food with which she was daily supplied. If she suspected the secret of her
mother she respected it too much to allow others to discover that she did so.
Many sad hours did Ruth pass in that dark cave, where the man who had
blighted her life lay in hiding; and many times, by conversing with him
upon the subject of her destiny, did she seek to alleviate the pangs its
recollection gave her. But the result of such discussions were by no means
favourable to her hopes. Morgan had acknowledged that his threat had
originated in malice, and that he intended to alarm and subdue, but not to
the extent that he had effected. ‘I know well,’ said he, ‘that disgrace alone
would operate upon you as I wished, for I foresaw you would glory in the
thought of nobly sustaining misfortune. I meant to degrade you with the
lowest. I meant to attribute to you what I now painfully experience to be the
vilest of vices. I intended to tell you you were destined to be a thief, but I
could not utter the words I had intended, and I was struck with horror at

those I heard involuntarily proceeding from my lips. I would have recalled
them, but I could not. I would have said, “Ruth, I did but jest,” but there
was something which seemed to withhold my speech and press upon my
soul, and a dumb voice whispered in my ears, “As thou hast said shall this
thing be.” But take comfort, Ruth. My own fortunes have ever deceived me,
and doubtlessly ever will, for I feel as if I should one day return to this
cave, and make it my final home.’
He spoke solemnly, and wept; but his companion was unmoved as she
looked on in wonder and contempt at his grief. ‘You know not how to
endure,’ said she to him, ‘and as soon as night shall again fall upon our
mountains I will lead you forth to freedom. The danger of pursuit is now
past. At midnight be ready for the journey, leave the cave, and ascend the
rocks by the path I showed you, to the field in which its mouth is situated.
Wait me there a few moments, and I will bring you a fleet horse, ready
saddled for the journey, for which you must pay, since I must declare to the
owner that I have sold it at a distance, and for more than its rated value.’
Midnight came, and Morgan waited with trembling anxiety for the welcome
step of Ruth. At length he saw her, and hastily speaking as she descended
the rock:
‘You must be speedy in your movements,’ said she. ‘When you leave me
your horse waits on the other side of this field, and I would have you
hasten, lest something should betray your purpose. But, before you depart,
there is an account to be settled between us. I have dared danger and
privation for you, that the temptations of the poor may not assail me. Give
me my reward, and go.’
Morgan pressed his leather bag containing his gold to his bosom, but
answered nothing. He seemed to be studying some evasion, for he looked
upon the ground, and there was trouble in the working of his lip. At length
he said cautiously, ‘I have it not with me. I buried it, lest it should betray
me, in a field some miles distant. When I leave here I will dig it up, for I
know the exact spot, and send you your portion as soon as I reach a place of
safety.’
Ruth gave him a glance of scorn. She had detected his meanness, and
smiled at his incapacity to deceive. ‘What do you press to your bosom so
earnestly,’ she demanded. ‘Surely you are not the wise man I deemed you,

thus to defraud me. Your friend alone you might cheat, and safely; but I
have been made wretched by you, guilty by you, and your life is in my
power. I could, as you know, easily raise the village, and win half your
wealth by giving you up to justice. But I prefer reward. Give me my due,
therefore, and be gone.’
But Morgan knew too well the value of the metal of sin to yield one half of
it to Ruth. He tried many miserable shifts and lies, and at last, baffled by the
calm penetration of his antagonist, boldly avowed his intention of keeping
all the spoil he had won with so much hazard. Ruth looked at him with
withering contempt. ‘Keep your gold,’ she said. ‘If it can thus harden hearts,
I covet not its possession; but there is one thing you must do, and that
before you move a foot. I have supported you with hard-earned industry—
that I give you; more proud, it would seem, in bestowing than I could be in
receiving from such as you. But the horse that is to bear you hence to-night
I borrowed for a distant journey. I must return with it, or its value. Open
your bag, pay me for it, and go.’
But Morgan seemed afraid to open his bag in the presence of her he had
wronged. Ruth understood his fears; but, scorning vindication of her
principles, contented herself with entreating him to be honest. ‘Be more just
to yourself and me,’ she persisted, ‘the debt of gratitude I pardon; but, I
beseech you, leave me not to encounter the consequence of having stolen
from my friend the animal which is his only means of subsistence. I pray
you not to condemn me to scorn.’
It was of no avail that Ruth humbled herself to entreaties. Morgan answered
not, and while she was yet speaking cast side-long looks towards the spot
where the horse was waiting, and seemed meditating whether he should not
dart from Ruth and escape her entreaties and demands by dint of speed. Her
stern eye detected this purpose, and, indignant at his baseness, and ashamed
of her own degradation, she sprung suddenly towards him, made a
desperate clutch at the leathern bag, and tore it from his grasp. He made an
attempt to recover it, and a fierce struggle ensued, which drove them both
back towards the yawning mouth of the cave from which he had just
ascended to the world. On its very verge, on its very extreme edge, the
demon who had so long ruled his spirit, now instigated him to mischief, and
abandoned him to his natural brutality. He struck the unhappy Ruth a
revengeful and tremendous blow. At that moment a horrible thought

glanced like lightning through her soul. He was to her no longer what he
had been. He was a robber, ruffian, liar—one whom to destroy was justice,
and perhaps it was he——
‘Villain!’ she cried, ‘you predicted that I was doomed to be a murderess; are
you destined to be my victim?’ She flung him from her with terrific force,
as he stood close to the abyss, and the next instant heard him dash against
its sides, as he was whirled headlong into the darkness.
It was an awful feeling, the next that passed over the soul of Ruth Tudor, as
she stood alone in the pale, sorrowful moonlight, endeavouring to
remember what had chanced. She gazed on the purse, on the chasm, wiped
the drops of agony from her heated brow, and then, with a sudden pang of
recollection, rushed down to the cavern. The light was still burning, as
Morgan had left it, and served to show her the wretch extended helpless
beneath the chasm. Though his body was crushed, the bones splintered, and
his blood was on the cavern’s sides, he was yet living, and raised his head to
look upon her as she darkened the narrow entrance in her passage. He
glared upon her with the visage of a demon, and spoke like a fiend in pain.
‘You have murdered me!’ he said, ‘but I shall be avenged in all your life to
come. Deem not that your doom is fulfilled, that the deed to which you are
fated is done. In my dying hour I know, I feel, what is to come upon you.
You are yet again to do a deed of blood!’
‘Liar!’ shrieked the infuriated victim.
‘I tell you,’ he gasped, ‘your destiny is not yet fulfilled. You will yet commit
another deed of horror. You will slay your own daughter. You are yet
doomed to be a double murderess!’
She rushed to him, but he was dead.
Ruth Tudor stood for a moment by the corpse, blind, stupefied, deaf, and
dumb. In the next she laughed aloud, till the cavern rang with her ghastly
mirth, and many voices mingled with and answered it. But the voices scared
her, and in an instant she became stolidly grave. She threw back her dark
locks with an air of offended dignity, and walked forth majestically from
the cave. She took the horse by his rein, and led him back to the stable.
With the same unvarying calmness she entered her cottage, and listened to
the quiet breathings of her sleeping daughter. She longed to approach her

nearer, but some new and horrid fear restrained her, and held her in check.
Suddenly, remembrance and reason returned, and she uttered a shriek so
loud and shrill that her daughter sprung from her bed, and threw herself into
her arms.
It was in vain that the gentle Rachel supplicated her mother to find rest in
sleep.
‘Not here,’ she muttered, ‘it must not be here; the deep cave and the hard
rock, these shall be my resting-place; and the bed-fellow, lo! now he awaits
my coming.’ Then she would cry aloud, clasp her Rachel to her beating
heart, and as suddenly, in horror, thrust her from it.
The next midnight beheld Ruth Tudor in the cave, seated upon a point of
rock, at the head of the corpse, her chin resting upon her hands, gazing
earnestly upon the distorted face. Decay had already begun its work, and
Ruth sat there watching the progress of mortality, as if she intended that her
stern eye should quicken and facilitate its operation. The next night also
beheld her there, but the current of her thoughts had changed, and the
dismal interval which had passed appeared to be forgotten. She stood with
her basket of food.
‘Will you not eat!’ she demanded; ‘arise, strengthen yourself for your
journey; eat, eat, sleeper; will you never awaken? Look, here is the meat
you love’; and as she raised his head and put the food to his lips the frail
remnant of mortality remained dumb and rigid, and again she knew that he
was dead.
It was evident to all that a shadow and a change was over the senses of
Ruth; till this period she had been only wretched, but now madness was
mingled with her grief. It was in no instance more apparent than in her
conduct towards her beloved child; indulgent to all her wishes, ministering
to all her wants with a liberal hand, till men wondered from whence she
derived the means of indulgence, she yet seized every opportunity to send
her from her presence. The gentle-hearted Rachel wept at her conduct, yet
did not complain, for she believed it the effect of the disease that had for so
many years been preying upon her soul. Ruth’s nights were passed in
roaming abroad, her days in the solitude of her hut; and even this became
painful when the step of her child broke upon it. At length she signified that
a relative of her husband had died and left her wealth, and that it would

enable her to dispose of herself as she had long wished; so, leaving Rachel
with her relatives, she retired to a hut upon a lonely heath, where she was
less wretched, because there were none to observe her awful grief.
In many of her ravings she had frequently spoken darkly of her crime, and
her nightly visits to the cave; and more frequently still she addressed some
unseen thing, which she asserted was for ever at her side. But few heard
these horrors, and those who did called to mind the early prophecy and
deemed them the workings of insanity in a fierce and imaginative mind. So
thought also the beloved Rachel, who hastened daily to visit her mother, but
not now alone, as formerly. A youth of the village was her companion and
protector, one who had offered her worth and love, and whose gentle offers
were not rejected. Ruth, with a hurried gladness, gave her consent, and a
blessing to her child; and it was remarked that she received her daughter
more kindly and detained her longer at the cottage when Evan was by her
side than when she went to the gloomy heath alone. Rachel herself soon
made this observation, and as she could depend upon the honesty and
prudence of him she loved, she felt less fear at his being a frequent witness
of her mother’s terrific ravings. Thus all that human consolation was
capable to afford was offered to the sufferer by her sympathising children.
But the delirium of Ruth Tudor appeared to increase with every nightly visit
to the secret cave of blood; some hideous shadow seemed to follow her
steps in the darkness and sit by her side in the light. Sometimes she held
strange parley with this creation of her frenzy, and at others smiled upon it
in scornful silence; now her language was in the tones of entreaty, pity, and
forgiveness; anon it was the burst of execration, curses, and scorn. To the
gentle listeners her words were blasphemy; and, shuddering at her boldness,
they deemed, in the simple holiness of their own hearts, that the Evil One
was besetting her, and that religion alone could banish him. Possessed by
this idea, Evan one day suddenly interrupted her tremendous denunciations
upon her fate and him who, she said, stood over her to fulfil it, with
imploring her to open the book which he held in his hand, and seek
consolation from its words and its promises. She listened, and grew calm in
a moment; with an awful smile she bade him open and read at the first place
which should meet his eye: ‘From that, the word of truth, as thou sayest, I
shall know my fate; what is there written I will believe.’ He opened the
book and read:

‘“Whither shall I go from Thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from Thy
presence? If I go up into heaven, Thou art there; if I make my bed in hell,
Thou art there; if I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the
uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right
hand shall hold me.”’
Ruth laid her hand upon the book. ‘It is enough; its words are truth; it has
said there is no hope, and I find comfort in my despair. I have already
spoken thus in the secrecy of my heart, and I know that He will be obeyed;
the unnamed sin must be——’
Evan knew not how to comfort, so he shut up his Bible and retired; and
Rachel kissed the cheek of her mother as she bade her a tender good-night.
Another month, and she was to be the bride of Evan, and she passed over
the heath with a light step, for the thought of her bridal seemed to give joy
to her mother. ‘We shall all be happy then,’ said the smiling girl, as the
youth of her heart parted from her hand for the night; ‘and heaven kindly
grant that happiness may last.’
The time appointed for the marriage of Rachel Tudor and Evan Edwards
had long passed away, and winter had set in with unusual sternness, even on
that stormy coast, when, during a land tempest, on a dark November
afternoon, a stranger to the country, journeying on foot, lost his way in
endeavouring to find a short route to his destination, over stubble fields and
meadow lands, by following the footmarks of those who had preceded him.
The stranger was a young man, of a bright eye and a hardy look, and he
went on buffeting the elements, and buffeted by them, without a thought of
weariness or a single expression of impatience. Night descended upon him
as he walked, and the snowstorm came down with unusual violence, as if to
try the temper of his mind, a mind cultivated and enlightened, though cased
in a frame accustomed to hardships, and veiled by a plain, almost rustic
exterior. The storm roared loudly above him, the wind blowing
tremendously, raising the new-fallen snow from the earth, which mingling
with that which fell, raised a shroud about his head which bewildered and
blinded the traveller, who, finding himself near some leafless brambles and
a few clustered bushes of the mountain broom, took shelter under them to
recover his senses and reconnoitre his position. ‘This storm cannot last
long,’ he mused, ‘and when it slackens I shall hope to find my way to
shelter and comfort.’ In this hope he was not mistaken. The tempest abated,

and, starting once more on his journey, he saw some distance ahead what
looked like a white-washed cottage, standing solitary and alone on the
miserable heath which he was now traversing. Full of hope of a shelter from
the storm, and lit onwards by a light that gleamed like a beacon from the
cottage window, the stranger trod cheerily forwards, and in less than half an
hour arrived at the white cottage, which, from the low wall of loose lime-
stones by which it was surrounded, he judged to be, as he had already
imagined, the humble residence of some poor tenant of the manor. He
opened the little gate, and was proceeding to knock at the door, when his
steps were arrested by a singular and unexpected sound. It was a choral
burst of many voices, singing slowly and solemnly that magnificent dirge of
the Church of England, the 104th Psalm. The stranger loved music, and the
touching melody of that beautiful air had an instant effect upon his feelings.
He lingered in solemn and silent admiration till the strains had ceased; he
then knocked gently at the door, which was instantly and courteously
opened to his inquiry.
On entering, he found himself in a cottage of a more respectable interior
than from its outward appearance he had been led to expect; but he had
little leisure or inclination for the survey of its effects, for his senses and
imagination were immediately and entirely occupied by the scene which
presented itself on his entrance. In the centre of the room into which he had
been so readily admitted stood, on its trestles, an open coffin; lights were at
its head and foot, and on each side sat many persons of both sexes, who
appeared to be engaged in the customary ceremony of watching the corpse
previous to its interment in the morning. There were many who appeared to
the stranger to be watchers, but there were but two who, in his eye, bore the
appearance of mourners, and they had faces of grief which spoke too
plainly of the anguish that was reigning within. At the foot of the coffin was
a pale youth just blooming into manhood, who covered his eyes with
trembling fingers that ill-concealed the tears which trickled down his wan
cheeks; the other—but why should we again describe that still unbowed and
lofty form? The awful marble brow upon which the stranger gazed was that
of Ruth Tudor.
There was much whispering and quiet talk among the people while
refreshments were handed to them; and so little curiosity was excited by the
appearance of the traveller that he naturally concluded that it must be no

common loss that could deaden a feeling usually so intense in the bosoms
of Welsh peasants. He was even checked from an attempt to question; but
one man—he who had given him admittance, and seemed to possess
authority in the circle—informed the traveller that he would answer his
questions when the guests should depart, but till then he must keep silence.
The traveller endeavoured to obey, and sat down in quiet contemplation of
the figure who most interested his attention, and who sat at the coffin’s
head. Ruth Tudor spoke nothing, nor did she appear to heed aught of the
business that was passing around her. Absorbed by reflection, her eyes were
generally cast to the ground; but when they were raised, the traveller looked
in vain for that expression of grief which had struck him so forcibly on his
entrance; there was something wonderfully strange in the character of her
perfect features. Could he have found words for his thoughts, and might
have been permitted the expression, he would have called it triumphant
despair, so deeply agonised, so proudly stern, looked the mourner who sat
by the dead.
The interest which the traveller took in the scene became more intense the
longer he gazed upon its action; unable to resist the anxiety which had
begun to prey upon his spirit, he arose and walked towards the coffin, with
the purpose of contemplating its occupant. A sad explanation was given, by
its appearance, of the grief and the anguish he had witnessed. A beautiful
girl was reposing in the narrow box, with a face as calm and lovely as if she
was sleeping a deep and refreshing sleep, and the morning sun would again
smile upon her awakening; salt, the emblem of an immortal soul, was
placed upon her breast; and in her pale and perishing fingers a branch of
living flowers were struggling for life in the grasp of death, and diffusing
their sweet and gracious fragrance over the cold odour of mortality. These
images, so opposite, yet so alike, affected the spirit of the gazer, and he
almost wept as he continued looking upon them, till he was aroused from
his trance by the strange conduct of Ruth Tudor, who had caught a glimpse
of his face as he bent in sorrow over the coffin. She sprang up from her seat,
and, darting at him a terrible glance of recognition, pointed down to the
corpse, and then, with a hollow burst of frantic laughter, shouted:
‘Behold, you double-dyed liar!’
The startled stranger was relieved from the necessity of speaking by
someone taking his arm and gently leading him to the farther end of the

cottage. The eyes of Ruth followed him, and it was not till he had done
violence to himself in turning from her to his conductor that he could
escape their singular fascination. When he did so, he beheld a venerable
man, the pastor of a distant village, who had come that night to speak
comfort to the mourners, and perform the last sad duty to the dead on the
morrow.
‘Be not alarmed at what you have witnessed, my young friend,’ said he;
‘these ravings are not uncommon. This unhappy woman, at an early period
of her life, gave ear to the miserable superstitions of her country, and a
wretched pretender to wisdom predicted that she should become a shedder
of blood. Madness has been the inevitable consequence in an ardent spirit,
and in its ravings she dreams she has committed one sin, and is still tempted
to add to it another.’
‘You may say what you please, parson,’ said the old man who had given
admittance to the stranger, and who now, after dismissing all the guests save
the youth, joined the talkers, and seated himself on the settle by their side.
‘You may say what you please about madness and superstition, but I know
Ruth Tudor was a fated woman, and the deed that was to be I believe she
has done. Aye, aye, her madness is conscience; and if the deep sea and the
jagged rocks could speak, they might tell us a tale of other things than that.
But she is judged now; her only child is gone—her pretty Rachel. Poor
Evan! he was her suitor. Ah! he little thought two months ago, when he was
preparing for a gay bridal, that her slight sickness would end thus. He does
not deserve it; but for her—God forgive me if I do her wrong, but I think it
is the hand of God, and it lies heavy, as it should.’ And the grey-haired old
man hobbled away, satisfied that in thus thinking he was showing his zeal
for virtue.
‘Alas! that so white a head should acknowledge so hard a heart!’ said the
pastor. ‘Ruth is condemned, according to his system, for committing that
which a mightier hand compelled her to do. How harsh and misjudging is
age! But we must not speak so loud,’ continued he; ‘for see, the youth Evan
is retiring for the night, and the miserable mother has thrown herself on the
floor to sleep. The sole domestic is rocking on her stool, and therefore I will
do the honours of this poor cottage to you. There is a chamber above this
containing the only bed in the hut; thither you may go and rest, for
otherwise it will certainly be vacant to-night. I shall find a bed in the

village, and Evan sleeps near you with some of the guests in the barn. But,
before I go, if my question be not unwelcome and intrusive, tell me who
you are, and whither you are bound.’
‘I was ever somewhat of a subscriber to the old man’s creed of fatalism,’
said the stranger, smiling, ‘and I believe I am more confirmed in it by the
singular events of this day. My father was of a certain rank in society, but of
selfish and disorderly habits. A course of extravagance and idleness was
succeeded by difficulties and distress. Instead of exertion, he had recourse
to flight, and left us to face the difficulties from which he shrunk. He was
absent for years, while his family toiled and struggled with success.
Suddenly we heard that he was concealed in this part of the coast. The
cause which made that concealment necessary I forbear to mention; but he
suddenly disappeared from the eyes of men, though we never could trace
him beyond this part of the country. I have always believed that I should
one day find my father, and have lately, though with difficulty, prevailed
upon my mother to allow me to make my residence in this neighbourhood.
But my search is at an end to-day. I believe that I have found my father.
Roaming along the beach, I penetrated into several of those dark caverns.
Through the fissures of one I discovered, in the interior, a light. Surprised, I
penetrated to its concealment, and discovered a man sleeping on the ground.
I advanced to awake him, and found but a fleshless skeleton, cased in
tattered and decaying garments. He had probably met his death by accident,
for exactly over the corpse I observed, at a great height, the daylight, as if
streaming down from an aperture above. Thus the wretched man must have
fallen, but how long since, or who had discovered his body, and left the
light which I beheld, I knew not, though I cannot help cherishing a strong
conviction that it was the body of William Morgan that I saw.’
‘Who talks of William Morgan?’ demanded a stern voice near the coffin,
‘and of the cave where the outcast rots?’ They turned quickly at the sound,
and beheld Ruth Tudor standing up, as if she had been intently listening to
the story.
‘It was I who spoke,’ said the stranger, gently, ‘and I spoke of my father—
of William Morgan. I am Owen, his son.’
‘Son! Owen Morgan!’ said the bewildered Ruth, passing her hand over her
forehead, as if to enable her to recover the combination of these names.

‘Why speak you of living things as pertaining to the dead? Father! He is
father to nought save sin, and murder is his only begotten!’
She advanced to the traveller as she spoke, and again caught a view of his
face. Again he saw the wild look of recognition, and an unearthly shriek
followed the convulsive horror of her face. ‘There! there!’ she said, ‘I knew
it must be. Once before to-night have I beheld you. Yet what can your
coming bode? Back with you, ruffian, for is not your dark work done!’
‘Let us leave her,’ said the good pastor, ‘to the care of her attendant. Do not
continue to meet her gaze. Your presence may increase, but cannot allay her
malady. Go up to your bed and rest.’
He retired as he spoke, and Owen, in compliance with his wish, ascended
the rickety stair which led to his chamber, after he had beheld Ruth Tudor
quietly place herself in her seat at the open coffin’s head. The room to
which he mounted was not of the most cheering aspect, yet he felt he had
often slept soundly in a worse. It was a gloomy, unfinished chamber, and
the wind was whistling coldly and drearily through the uncovered rafters
above his head. Like many of the cottages in that part of the country, it
appeared to have grown old and ruinous before it had been finished, for the
flooring was so crazy as scarcely to support the huge wooden bedstead, and
in many instances the boards were entirely separated from each other; and
in the centre, time, or the rot, had so completely devoured the larger half of
one that through the gaping aperture Owen had an entire command of the
room and the party below, looking down immediately above the coffin.
Ruth was in the same attitude as when he left her. Owen threw himself upon
his hard couch, and endeavoured to compose himself to rest for the night.
His thoughts, however, still wandered to the events of the day, and he felt
there was some strange connection between the scene he had just witnessed
and the darker one of the secret cave. He grew restless, and watched, and
amidst the tossings of impatient anxiety fatigue overpowered him, and he
sunk into a perturbed and heated sleep. His slumber was broken by dreams
that might well be the shadows of his waking reveries. He was alone—as in
reality—upon his humble bed, when imagination brought to his ear the
sound of many voices again singing the slow and monotonous psalm. It was
interrupted by the outcries of some unseen things who attempted to enter
his chamber, and, amid yells of fear and execrations of anger, bade him
‘Arise, and come forth, and aid.’ Then the coffined form which slept so

quietly below stood by his side, and, in beseeching accents, bade him ‘Arise
and save her.’ In his sleep he attempted to spring up, but a horrid fear
restrained him, a fear that he should be too late. Then he crouched like a
coward beneath his coverings, to hide from the reproaches of the spectre,
while shouts of laughter and shrieks of agony were poured like a tempest
around him. He sprung from his bed, and awoke.
It was some moments before he could recover himself, or shake off the
horror which had seized upon his soul. He listened, and with infinite
satisfaction observed an unbroken silence throughout the house. He smiled
at his own terrors, attributed them to the events of the day or the presence of
the corpse, and determined not to look down into the lower room till he
should be summoned thither in the morning. He walked to the casement,
and peered through at the night. The clouds were many, black, and
lowering, and the face of the sky looked angry, while the wind moaned with
a strange and eerie sound. He turned from the window, with the intention of
again trying to sleep, but the light from below attracted his eye, and he
could not pass the aperture without taking one glance at the coffin and its
lonely watcher.
Ruth was earnestly gazing at the lower end of the room upon something
without the sight of Owen. His attention was next fixed upon the corpse,
and he thought he had never seen any living thing so lovely; and so calm
was the aspect of her repose that it more resembled a temporary suspension
of the faculties than the eternal stupor of death. Her features were pale, but
not distorted, and there was none of the livid hue of death in her beautiful
mouth and lips; but the flowers in her hand gave stronger demonstration of
the presence of the power before whose potency their little strength was
fading—drooping with a mortal sickness, they bowed down their heads in
submission, as one by one they dropped from her pale and perishing
fingers. Owen gazed till he thought he saw the grasp of her hand relapse,
and a convulsive smile pass over her cold and rigid features. He looked
again. The eyelids shook and vibrated like the string of some fine-strung
instrument; the hair rose, and the head cloth moved. He started up ashamed.
‘Does the madness of this woman affect all who would sleep beneath her
roof?’ he thought. ‘What is this that disturbs me, or am I yet in a dream?
Hark!’ he muttered aloud, ‘What is that?’

It was the voice of Ruth. She had risen from her seat, and was standing near
the coffin, apparently addressing someone who stood at the lower end of the
room.
‘To what purpose is your coming now?’ she asked in a low and melancholy
voice, ‘and at what do you laugh and gibe? Lo! behold. She is here, and the
sin you know of cannot be. How can I take the life which another has
already withdrawn? Go, go, hence, to your cave of night, for this is no place
of safety for you.’ Her thoughts now took another turn. She seemed as if
trying to hide someone from the pursuit of others. ‘Lie still! Lie still!’ she
whispered. ‘Put out your light! So, so, they pass by, and do not see you. You
are safe; good-night, good-night. Now will I home to sleep,’ and she seated
herself in her chair, as if composing her senses to rest.
Owen was again bewildered in the chaos of thought, but for the time he
determined to subdue his imagination, and, throwing himself upon his bed,
again gave himself up to sleep. But the images of his former dreams still
haunted him, and their hideous phantasms were more powerfully renewed.
Again he heard the solemn psalm of death, but unsung by mortals. It was
pealed through earth up to the high heaven by myriads of the viewless and
the mighty. Again he heard the execrations of millions for some
unremembered sin, and the wrath and hatred of a world was rushing upon
him.
‘Come forth! Come forth!’ was the cry, and amid yells and howls they were
darting upon him, when the pale form of the beautiful dead arose between
them and shielded him from their malice. But he heard her say aloud:
‘It is for this that thou wilt not save me. Arise, arise, and help!’
He sprang up as he was commanded. Sleeping or waking he never knew,
but he started from his bed to look down into the chamber, as he heard the
voice of Ruth loud in terrific denunciation. He looked. She was standing,
uttering yells of madness and rage, and close to her was a well-known form
of appalling recollection—his father, as he had seen him last. He darted to
the door.
‘I am mad!’ said he. ‘I am surely mad, or this is still a continuation of my
dream.’

Some strange and unholy fascination drew him back again to the aperture,
and he looked down once more. Ruth was still there, though alone.
But though no visible form stood by the maniac, some fiend had entered her
soul and mastered her spirit. She had armed herself with an axe, and,
shouting:
‘Liar! liar! hence!’ pursued an imaginary foe to the darker side of the
cottage. Owen strove hard to trace her motions, but as she had retreated to
the space occupied by his bed he could no longer see her, and his eyes
involuntarily fastened themselves upon the coffin. There a new horror met
them. The corpse had risen, and with wild and glaring eyes was watching
the scene before her. Owen distrusted his senses till he heard the terrific
voice of Ruth, as she marked the miracle he had witnessed.
‘The fiend, the robber!’ she yelled, ‘it is he who hath entered the pure body
of my child. Back to your cave of blood, you lost one! Back to your own
dark hell!’
Owen flew to the door. It was too late. He heard the shriek, the blow. He
rushed into the room, but only in time to hear the second blow, and see the
cleft head of the hapless Rachel fall back upon its bloody pillow. His
terrible cries brought in the sleepers from the barn, headed by the wretched
Evan, and for a time the roar of the storm was drowned in the clamorous
grief of those present. No one dared to approach the miserable Ruth, who
now, in utter frenzy, strode round the room, brandishing, with diabolical
laughter, the bloody axe. Then she broke into a wild song of triumph and
fierce joy. All fell back, appalled with horror, and the wild screeching of the
wind was like the exultant cry of the damned. Then an extraordinary thing
happened—a blinding flash of lightning, as if the heavens themselves had
burst into flame, illuminated every nook and cranny, and imparted an awful,
ghastly, and weird effect to the dramatic scene. In a few seconds the
lightning was followed by a terrific peal of thunder. The house seemed to
rock to its foundations. The inmates were blinded and stunned, and, moved
by some strange impulse, they all fell upon their knees and murmured a
prayer. Presently, as their self-possession returned, they rose one by one,
and then a feeling of unutterable horror held them spell bound. Ruth Tudor
lay stretched upon the floor, half of her body under the coffin, her face
distorted and horrible, while hanging half out of the coffin was the now

dead body of her resuscitated daughter, a stream of hot blood flowing from
an awful wound in the skull. Ruth Tudor was also stone dead, and in her
hand she still grasped the axe with which she had battered out the life of her
child, who had awakened from a trance to meet death at the hands of her
maniac mother.
The predictions of William Morgan had been literally fulfilled.

XI
A NIGHT OF HORROR
‘Bleak Hill Castle.
‘My dear old Chum,—Before you leave England for the East I
claim the redemption of a promise you made to me some time
ago that you would give me the pleasure of a week or two of
your company. Besides, as you may have already guessed, I
have given up the folly of my bachelor days, and have taken
unto myself the sweetest, dearest little woman that ever walked
the face of the earth. We have been married just six months, and
are as happy as the day is long. And then, this place is entirely
after your own heart. It will excite all your artistic faculties, and
appeal with irresistible force to your romantic nature. To call the
building a castle is somewhat pretentious, but I believe it has
been known as the Castle ever since it was built, more than two
hundred years ago. Hester—need I say that Hester is my better
half!—is just delighted with it, and if either of us was in the
least degree superstitious, we might see or hear ghosts every
hour of the day. Of course, as becomes a castle, we have a
haunted room, though my own impression is that it is haunted
by nothing more fearsome than rats. Anyway, it is such a
picturesque, curious sort of chamber that if it hasn’t a ghost it
ought to have. But I have no doubt, old chap, that you will make
one of us, for, as I remember, you have always had a love for the
eerie and creepy, and you cannot forget how angry you used to
get with me sometimes for chaffing you about your avowed
belief in the occult and supernatural, and what you were pleased
to term the “unexplainable phenomena of psychomancy.”
However, it is possible you have got over some of the errors of
your youth; but whether or not, come down, dear boy, and rest
assured that you will meet with the heartiest of welcomes.

‘Your old pal,
‘Dick Dirckman.’

The above letter was from my old friend and college chum, who, having
inherited a substantial fortune, and being passionately fond of the country
and country pursuits, had thus the means of gratifying his tastes to their
fullest bent. Although Dick and I were very differently constituted, we had
always been greatly attached to each other. In the best sense of the term he
was what is generally called a hard-headed, practical man. He was fond of
saying he never believed in anything he couldn’t see, and even that which
he could see he was not prepared to accept as truth without due
investigation. In short, Dick was neither romantic, poetical, nor, I am afraid,
artistic, in the literal sense. He preferred facts to fancies, and was possessed
of what the world generally calls ‘an unimpressionable nature.’ For nearly
four years I had lost sight of my friend, as I had been wandering about
Europe as tutor and companion to a delicate young nobleman. His death had
set me free; but I had no sooner returned to England than I was offered and
accepted a lucrative appointment in the service of his Highness the Nyzam
of Chundlepore, in Northern India, and there was every probability of my
being absent for a number of years.
On returning home I had written to Dick to the chambers he had formerly
occupied, telling him of my appointment, and expressing a fear that unless
we could snatch a day or two in town I might not be able to see him, as I
had so many things to do. It was true I had promised that when opportunity
occurred I should do myself the pleasure of accepting his oft-proffered
hospitality, which I knew to be lavish and generous. I had not heard of his
marriage; his letter gave me the first intimation of that fact, and I confess
that when I got his missive I experienced some curiosity to know the kind
of lady he had succeeded in captivating. I had always had an idea that Dick
was cut out for a bachelor, for there was nothing of the ladies’ man about
him, and he used at one time to speak of the gentler sex with a certain levity
and brusqueness of manner that by no means found favour with the
majority of his friends. And now Dick was actually married, and living in a
remote region, where most town-bred people would die of ennui.

It will be gathered from the foregoing remarks that I did not hesitate about
accepting Dick’s cordial invitation. I determined to spare a few days at least
of my somewhat limited time, and duly notified Dick to that effect, giving
him the date of my departure from London, and the hour at which I should
arrive at the station nearest to his residence.
Bleak Hill Castle was situated in one of the most picturesque parts of
Wales; consequently, on the day appointed I found myself comfortably
ensconsed in a smoking carriage of a London and North-Western train. And
towards the close of the day—the time of the year was May—I was the sole
passenger to alight at the wayside station, where Dick awaited me with a
smart dog-cart. His greeting was hearty and robust, and when his man had
packed in my traps he gave the handsome little mare that drew the cart the
reins, and we spanked along the country roads in rare style. Dick always
prided himself on his knowledge of horseflesh, and with a sense of keen
satisfaction he drew my attention to the points of the skittish little mare
which bowled along as if we had been merely featherweights.
A drive of eight miles through the bracing Welsh air so sharpened our
appetites that the smell of dinner was peculiarly welcome; and telling me to
make a hurried toilet, as his cook would not risk her reputation by keeping a
dinner waiting, Dick handed me over to the guidance of a natty
chambermaid. As it was dark when we arrived I had no opportunity of
observing the external characteristics of Bleak Hill Castle; but there was
nothing in the interior that suggested bleakness. Warmth, comfort, light,
held forth promise of carnal delights.
Following my guide up a broad flight of stairs, and along a lofty and
echoing corridor, I found myself in a large and comfortably-furnished
bedroom. A bright wood fire burned upon the hearthstone, for although it
was May the temperature was still very low on the Welsh hills. Hastily
changing my clothes, I made my way to the dining-room, where Mrs.
Dirckman emphasised the welcome her husband had already given me. She
was an exceedingly pretty and rather delicate-looking little woman, in
striking contrast to her great, bluff, burly husband. A few neighbours had
been gathered together to meet me, and we sat down, a dozen all told, to a
dinner that from a gastronomic point of view left nothing to be desired. The
viands were appetising, the wines perfect, and all the appointments were in
perfect consonance with the good things that were placed before us.

It was perhaps natural, when the coffee and cigar stage had arrived, that
conversation should turn upon our host’s residence, by way of affording me
—a stranger to the district—some information. Of course, the information
was conveyed to me in a scrappy way, but I gathered in substance that
Bleak Hill Castle had originally belonged to a Welsh family, which was
chiefly distinguished by the extravagance and gambling propensities of its
male members. It had gone through some exciting times, and numerous
strange and startling stories had come to centre round it. There were stories
of wrong, and shame, and death, and more than a suggestion of dark crimes.
One of these stories turned upon the mysterious disappearance of the wife
and daughter of a young scion of the house, whose career had been
somewhat shady. His wife was considerably older than he, and it was
generally supposed that he had married her for money. His daughter, a girl
of about twelve, was an epileptic patient, while the husband and father was
a gloomy, disappointed man. Suddenly the wife and daughter disappeared.
At first no surprise was felt; but, then, some curiosity was expressed to
know where they had gone to; and curiosity led to wonderment, and
wonderment to rumour—for people will gossip, especially in a country
district. Of course, Mr. Greeta Jones, the husband, had to submit to much
questioning as to where his wife and child were staying. But being sullen
and morose of temperament he contented himself by brusquely and tersely
saying, ‘They had gone to London.’ But as no one had seen them go, and no
one had heard of their going, the statement was accepted as a perversion of
fact. Nevertheless, incredible as it may seem, no one thought it worth his
while to insist upon an investigation, and a few weeks later Mr. Greeta
Jones himself went away—and to London, as was placed beyond doubt. For
a long time Bleak Hill Castle was shut up, and throughout the country side
it began to be whispered that sights and sounds had been seen and heard at
the castle which were suggestive of things unnatural, and soon it became a
crystallised belief in men’s minds that the place was haunted.
On the principle of giving a dog a bad name you have only to couple ghosts
with the name of an old country residence like this castle for it to fall into
disfavour, and to be generally shunned. As might have been expected in
such a region the castle was shunned; no tenant could be found for it. It was
allowed to go to ruin, and for a long time was the haunt of smugglers. They
were cleared out in the process of time, and at last hard-headed, practical
Dick Dirckman heard of the place through a London agent, went down to

see it, took a fancy to it, bought it for an old song, and, having taste and
money, he soon converted the half-ruined building into a country
gentleman’s home, and thither he carried his bride.
Such was the history of Bleak Hill Castle as I gathered it in outline during
the post-prandial chat on that memorable evening.
On the following day I found the place all that my host had described it in
his letter to me. Its situation was beautiful in the extreme; and there wasn’t
one of its windows that didn’t command a magnificent view of landscape
and sea. He and I rambled about the house, he evinced a keen delight in
showing me every nook and corner, in expatiating on the beauties of the
locality generally, and of the advantages of his dwelling-place in particular.
Why he reserved taking me to the so-called haunted chamber until the last I
never have known; but so it was; and as he threw open the heavy door and
ushered me into the apartment he smiled ironically and remarked:
‘Well, old man, this is the ghost’s den; and as I consider that a country
mansion of this kind should, in the interests of all tradition and of fiction
writers, who, under the guise of truth, lie like Ananias, have its haunted
room, I have let this place go untouched, except that I have made it a sort of
lumber closet for some antique and mouldering old furniture which I picked
up a bargain in Wardour Street, London. But I needn’t tell you that I regard
the ghost stories as rot.’
I did not reply to my friend at once, for the room absorbed my attention. It
was unquestionably the largest of the bedrooms in the house, and, while in
keeping with the rest of the house, had characteristics of its own. The walls
were panelled with dark oak, the floor was oak, polished. There was a deep
V-shaped bay, formed by an angle of the castle, and in each side of the bay
was a diamond-paned window, and under each window an oak seat, which
was also a chest with an ancient iron lock. A large wooden bedstead with
massive hangings stood in one corner, and the rest of the furniture was of a
very nondescript character, and calls for no special mention. In a word, the
room was picturesque, and to me it at once suggested the mise-en-scène for
all sorts of dramatic situations of a weird and eerie character. I ought to add
that there was a very large fireplace with a most capacious hearthstone, on
which stood a pair of ponderous and rusty steel dogs. Finally, the window
commanded superb views, and altogether my fancy was pleased, and my

artistic susceptibilities appealed to in an irresistible manner, so that I replied
to my friend thus:
‘I like this room, Dick, awfully. Let me occupy it, will you?’
He laughed.
‘Well, upon my word, you are an eccentric fellow to want to give up the
comfortable den which I have assigned to you for this mouldy, draughty,
dingy old lumber room. However’—here he shrugged his shoulders—‘there
is no accounting for tastes, and as this is liberty hall, my friends do as they
like; so I’ll tell the servants to put the bed in order, light a fire, and cart your
traps from the other room.’
I was glad I had carried my point, for I frankly confess to having romantic
tendencies. I was fond of old things, old stories and legends, old furniture,
and anything that was removed above the dull level of commonplaceness.
This room, in a certain sense, was unique, and I was charmed with it.
When pretty little Mrs. Dirckman heard of the arrangements she said, with a
laugh that did not conceal a certain nervousness, ‘I am sorry you are going
to sleep in that wretched room. It always makes me shudder, for it seems so
uncomfortable. Besides, you know, although Dick laughs at me and calls
me a little goose, I am inclined to believe there may be some foundation for
the current stories. Anyway, I wouldn’t sleep in the room for a crown of
gold. I do hope you will be comfortable, and not be frightened to death or
into insanity by gruesome apparitions.’
I hastened to assure my hostess that I should be comfortable enough, while
as for apparitions, I was not likely to be frightened by them.
The rest of the day was spent in exploring the country round about, and
after a recherché dinner Dick and I played billiards until one o’clock, and
then, having drained a final ‘peg,’ I retired to rest. When I reached the
haunted chamber I found that much had been done to give an air of
cheerfulness and comfort to the place. Some rugs had been laid about the
floor, a modern chair or two introduced, a wood fire blazed on the hearth.
On a little ‘occasional table’ that stood near the fire was a silver jug, filled
with hot water, and an antique decanter containing spirits, together with
lemon and sugar, in case I wanted a final brew. I could not but feel grateful
for my host and hostess’s thoughtfulness, and, having donned my dressing-

gown and slippers, I drew a chair within the radius of the wood fire’s glow,
and proceeded to fill my pipe for a few whiffs previous to tumbling into
bed. This was a habit of mine—a habit of years and years of growth, and,
while perhaps an objectionable one in some respects, it afforded me solace
and conduced to restful sleep. So I lit my pipe, and fell to pondering and
trying to see if I could draw any suggestiveness as to my future from the
glowing embers. Suddenly a remarkable thing happened. My pipe was
drawn gently from my lips and laid upon the table, and at the same moment
I heard what seemed to me to be a sigh. For a moment or two I felt
confused, and wondered whether I was awake or dreaming. But there was
the pipe on the table, and I could have taken the most solemn oath that to
the best of my belief it had been placed there by unseen hands.
My feelings, as may be imagined, were peculiar. It was the first time in my
life that I had ever been the subject of a phenomenon which was capable of
being attributed to supernatural agency. After a little reflection, and some
reasoning with myself, however, I tried to believe that my own senses had
made a fool of me, and that in a half-somnolent and dreamy condition I had
removed the pipe myself, and placed it on the table. Having come to this
conclusion I divested myself of my clothing, extinguished the two tall
candles, and jumped into bed. Although usually a good sleeper, I did not go
to sleep at once, as was my wont, but lay thinking of many things, and
mingling with my changing thoughts was a low, monotonous undertone—
nature’s symphony—of booming sea on the distant beach, and a bass piping
—rising occasionally to a shrill and weird upper note—of the wind. From
its situation the house was exposed to every wind that blew, hence its name
‘Bleak Hill Castle,’ and probably a south-east gale would have made itself
felt to an uncomfortable degree in this room, which was in the south-east
angle of the building. But now the booming sea and wind had a lullaby
effect, and my nerves sinking into restful repose I fell asleep. How long I
slept I do not know, and never shall know; but I awoke suddenly, and with a
start, for it seemed as if a stream of ice-cold water was pouring over my
face. With an impulse of indefinable alarm I sprang up in bed, and then a
strange, awful, ghastly sight met my view.
I don’t know that I could be described as a nervous man in any sense of the
word. Indeed, I think I may claim to be freer from nerves than the average
man, nor would my worst enemy, if he had a regard for truth, accuse me of

lacking courage. And yet I confess here, frankly, that the sight I gazed upon
appalled me. Yet was I fascinated with a horrible fascination, that rendered
it impossible for me to turn my eyes away. I seemed bound by some strange
weird spell. My limbs appeared to have grown rigid; there was a sense of
burning in my eyes; my mouth was parched and dry; my tongue swollen, so
it seemed. Of course, these were mere sensations, but they were sensations I
never wish to experience again. They were sensations that tested my sanity.
And the sight that held me in the thrall was truly calculated to test the
nerves of the strongest.
There, in mid-air, between floor and ceiling, surrounded or made visible by
a trembling, nebulous light, that was weird beyond the power of any words
to describe, was the head and bust of a woman. The face was paralysed into
an unutterably awful expression of stony horror; the long black hair was
tangled and dishevelled, and the eyes appeared to be bulging from the head.
But this was not all. Two ghostly hands were visible. The fingers of one
were twined savagely in the black hair, and the other grasped a long-bladed
knife, and with it hacked, and gashed, and tore, and stabbed at the bare
white throat of the woman, and the blood gushed forth from the jagged
wounds, reddening the spectre hand and flowing in one continuous stream
to the oak floor, where I heard it drip, drip, drip until my brain seemed as if
it would burst, and I felt as if I was going raving mad. Then I saw with my
strained eyes the unmistakable sign of death pass over the woman’s face;
and next, the devilish hands flung the mangled remnants away, and I heard
a low chuckle of satisfaction—heard, I say, and swear it, as plainly as I have
ever heard anything in this world. The light had faded; the vision of crime
and death had gone, and yet the spell held me. Although the night was cold,
I believe I was bathed in perspiration. I think I tried to cry out—nay, I am
sure I did—but no sound came from my burning, parched lips; my tongue
refused utterance; it clove to the roof of my mouth. Could I have moved so
much as a joint of my little finger, I could have broken the spell; at least,
such was the idea that occupied my half-stunned brain. It was a nightmare
of waking horror, and I shudder now, and shrink within myself as I recall it
all. But the revelation—for revelation it was—had not yet reached its final
stage. Out of the darkness was once more evolved a faint, phosphorescent
glow, and in the midst of it appeared the dead body of a beautiful girl with
the throat all gashed and bleeding, the red blood flowing in a crimson flood
over her night-robe, which only partially concealed her young limbs; and

the cruel, spectral hands, dyed with her blood, appeared again, and grasped
her, and lifted her, and bore her along. Then that vision faded, and a third
appeared. This time I seemed to be looking into a gloomy, damp, arched
cave or cellar, and the horror that froze me was intensified as I saw the
hands busy preparing a hole in the wall at one end of the cave; and
presently they lifted two bodies—the body of the woman, and the body of
the young girl—all gory and besmirched; and the hands crushed them into
the hole in the wall, and then proceeded to brick them up.
All these things I saw as I have described them, and this I solemnly swear
to be the truth as I hope for mercy at the Supreme Judgment.
It was a vision of crime; a vision of merciless, pitiless, damnable murder.
How long it all lasted I don’t know. Science has told us that dreams which
seem to embrace a long series of years, last but seconds; and in the few
moments of consciousness that remain to the drowning man his life’s scroll
is unrolled before his eyes. This vision of mine, therefore, may only have
lasted seconds, but it seemed to me hours, years, nay, an eternity. With that
final stage in the ghostly drama of blood and death, the spell was broken,
and flinging my arms wildly about, I know that I uttered a great cry as I
sprang up in bed.
‘Have I been in the throes of a ghastly nightmare?’ I asked myself.
Every detail of the horrific vision I recalled, and yet somehow it seemed to
me that I had been the victim of a hideous nightmare. I felt ill; strangely ill.
I was wet and clammy with perspiration, and nervous to a degree that I had
never before experienced in my existence. Nevertheless, I noted everything
distinctly. On the hearthstone there was still a mass of glowing red embers.
I heard the distant booming of the sea, and round the house the wind
moaned with a peculiar, eerie, creepy sound.
Suddenly I sprang from the bed, impelled thereto by an impulse I was
bound to obey, and by the same impulse I was drawn towards the door. I
laid my hand on the handle. I turned it, opened the door, and gazed into the
long dark corridor. A sigh fell upon my ears. An unmistakable human sigh,
in which was expressed an intensity of suffering and sorrow that thrilled me
to the heart. I shrank back, and was about to close the door, when out of the
darkness was evolved the glowing figure of a woman clad in blood-stained
garments and with dishevelled hair. She turned her white corpse-like face

towards me, and her eyes pleaded with a pleading that was irresistible,
while she pointed the index finger of her left hand downwards, and then
beckoned me. Then I followed whither she led. I could no more resist than
the unrestrained needle can resist the attracting magnet. Clad only in my
night apparel, and with bare feet and legs, I followed the spectre along the
corridor, down the broad oak stairs, traversing another passage to the rear of
the building until I found myself standing before a heavy barred door. At
that moment the spectre vanished, and I retraced my steps like one who
walked in a dream. I got back to my bedroom, but how I don’t quite know;
nor have I any recollection of getting into bed. Hours afterwards I awoke. It
was broad daylight. The horror of the night came back to me with
overwhelming force, and made me faint and ill. I managed, however, to
struggle through with my toilet, and hurried from that haunted room. It was
a beautifully fine morning. The sun was shining brightly, and the birds
carolled blithely in every tree and bush. I strolled out on to the lawn, and
paced up and down. I was strangely agitated, and asked myself over and
over again if what I had seen or dreamed about had any significance.
Presently my host came out. He visibly started as he saw me.
‘Hullo, old chap. What’s the matter with you?’ he exclaimed. ‘You look
jolly queer; as though you had been having a bad night of it.’
‘I have had a bad night.’
His manner became more serious and grave.
‘What—seen anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘The deuce! You don’t mean it, really!’
‘Indeed I do. I have gone through a night of horror such as I could not live
through again. But let us have breakfast first, and then I will try and make
you understand what I have suffered, and you shall judge for yourself
whether any significance is to be attached to my dream, or whatever you
like to call it.’
We walked, without speaking, into the breakfast room, where my charming
hostess greeted me cordially; but she, like her husband, noticed my changed
appearance, and expressed alarm and anxiety. I reassured her by saying I

had had a rather restless night, and didn’t feel particularly well, but that it
was a mere passing ailment. I was unable to partake of much breakfast, and
both my good friend and his wife again showed some anxiety, and pressed
me to state the cause of my distress. As I could not see any good cause that
was to be gained by concealment, and even at the risk of being laughed at
by my host, I recounted the experience I had gone through during the night
of terror.
So far from my host showing any disposition to ridicule me, as I quite
expected he would have done, he became unusually thoughtful, and
presently said:
‘Either this is a wild phantasy of your own brain, or there is something in it.
The door that the ghost of the woman led you to is situated on the top of a
flight of stone steps, leading to a vault below the building, which I have
never used, and have never even had the curiosity to enter, though I did
once go to the bottom of the steps; but the place was so exceedingly
suggestive of a tomb that I mentally exclaimed, “I’ve no use for this
dungeon,” and so I shut it up, bolted and barred the door, and have never
opened it since.’
I answered that the time had come when he must once more descend into
that cellar or vault, whatever it was. He asked me if I would accompany
him, and, of course, I said I would. So he summoned his head gardener, and
after much searching about, the key of the door was found; but even then
the door was only opened with difficulty, as lock and key alike were foul
with rust.
As we descended the slimy, slippery stone steps, each of us carrying a
candle, a rank, mouldy smell greeted us, and a cold noisome atmosphere
pervaded the place. The steps led into a huge vault, that apparently extended
under the greater part of the building. The roof was arched, and was
supported by brick pillars. The floor was the natural earth, and was soft and
oozy. The miasma was almost overpowering, notwithstanding that there
were ventilating slits in the wall in various places.
We proceeded to explore this vast cellar, and found that there was an air
shaft which apparently communicated with the roof of the house; but it was
choked with rubbish, old boxes, and the like. The gardener cleared this
away, and then, looking up, we could see the blue sky overhead.

Continuing our exploration, we noted that in a recess formed by the angle
of the walls was a quantity of bricks and mortar. Under other circumstances
this would not, perhaps, have aroused our curiosity or suspicions. But in
this instance it did; and we examined the wall thereabouts with painful
interest, until the conviction was forced upon us that a space of over a yard
in width, and extending from floor to roof, had recently been filled in. I was
drawn towards the new brickwork by some subtle magic, some weird
fascination. I examined it with an eager, critical, curious interest, and the
thoughts that passed through my brain were reflected in the faces of my
companions. We looked at each other, and each knew by some
unexplainable instinct what was passing in his fellow’s mind.
‘It seems to me we are face to face with some mystery,’ remarked Dick,
solemnly. Indeed, throughout all the years I had known him I had never
before seen him so serious. Usually his expression was that of good-
humoured cynicism, but now he might have been a judge about to
pronounce the doom of death on a red-handed sinner.
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘there is a mystery, unless I have been tricked by my own
fancy.’
‘Umph! it is strange,’ muttered Dick to himself.
‘Well, sir,’ chimed in the gardener, ‘you know there have been some
precious queer stories going about for a long time. And before you come
and took the place plenty of folks round about used to say they’d seen some
uncanny sights. I never had no faith in them stories myself; but, after all,
maybe there’s truth in ’em.’
Dick picked up half a brick and began to tap the wall with it where the new
work was, and the taps gave forth a hollow sound, quite different from the
sound produced when the other parts of the wall were struck.
‘I say, old chap,’ exclaimed my host, with a sorry attempt at a smile, ‘upon
my word, I begin to experience a sort of uncanny kind of feeling. I’ll be
hanged if I am not getting as superstitious as you are.’
‘You may call me superstitious if you like, but either I have seen what I
have seen, or my senses have played the fool with me. Anyway, let us put it
to the test.’
‘How?’

‘By breaking away some of that new brickwork.’
Dick laughed a laugh that wasn’t a laugh, as he asked:
‘What do you expect to find?’ I hesitated what to say, and he added the
answer himself—‘Mouldering bones, if your ghostly visitor hasn’t deceived
you.’
‘Mouldering bones!’ I echoed involuntarily.
‘Gardener, have you got a crowbar amongst your tools?’ Dick asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go up and get it.’
The man obeyed the command.
‘This is a strange sort of business altogether,’ Dick continued, after glancing
round the vast and gloomy cellar. ‘But, upon my word, to tell you the truth,
I’m half ashamed of myself for yielding to anything like superstition. It
strikes me that you’ll find you are the victim of a trick of the imagination,
and that these bogey fancies of yours have placed us in rather a ridiculous
position.’
In answer to this I could not possibly resist reminding Dick that even
scientists admitted that there were certain phenomena—they called them
‘natural phenomena’—that could not be accounted for by ordinary laws.
Dick shrugged his shoulders and remarked with assumed indifference:
‘Perhaps—perhaps it is so.’ He proceeded to fill his pipe with tobacco, and
having lit it he smoked with a nervous energy quite unusual with him.
The gardener was only away about ten minutes, but it seemed infinitely
longer. He brought both a pickaxe and a crowbar with him, and in
obedience to his master’s orders he commenced to hack at the wall. A brick
was soon dislodged. Then the crowbar was inserted in the hole, and a mass
prized out. From the opening came forth a sickening odour, so that we all
drew back instinctively, and I am sure we all shuddered, and I saw the pipe
fall from Dick’s lips; but he snatched it up quickly and puffed at it
vigorously until a cloud of smoke hung in the fœtid and stagnant air. Then,
picking up a candle from the ground, where it had been placed, he
approached the hole, holding the candle in such a position that its rays were

thrown into the opening. In a few moments he started back with an
exclamation:
‘My God! the ghost hasn’t lied,’ he said, and I noticed that his face paled. I
peered into the hole and so did the gardener, and we both drew back with a
start, for sure enough in that recess were decaying human remains.
‘This awful business must be investigated,’ said Dick. ‘Come, let us go.’
We needed no second bidding. We were only too glad to quit that place of
horror, and get into the fresh air and bright sunlight. We verily felt that we
had come up out of a tomb, and we knew that once more the adage,
‘Murder will out,’ had proved true.
Half an hour later Dick and I were driving to the nearest town to lay
information of the awful discovery we had made, and the subsequent search
carried out by the police brought two skeletons to light. Critical medical
examination left not the shadow of a doubt that they were the remains of a
woman and a girl, and each had been brutally murdered. Of course it
became necessary to hold an inquest, and the police set to work to collect
evidence as to the identity of the bodies hidden in the recess in the wall.
Naturally all the stories which had been current for so many years
throughout the country were revived, and the gossips were busy in retailing
all they had heard, with many additions of their own, of course. But the
chief topic was that of the strange disappearance of the wife and daughter of
the once owner of the castle, Greeta Jones. This story had been touched
upon the previous night, during the after-dinner chat in my host’s smoking
room. Morgan, as was remembered, had gambled his fortune away, and
married a lady much older than himself, who bore him a daughter who was
subject to epileptic fits. When this girl was about twelve she and her mother
disappeared from the neighbourhood, and, according to the husband’s
account, they had gone to London.
Then he left, and people troubled themselves no more about him and his
belongings.
A quarter of a century had passed since that period, and Bleak Hill Castle
had gone through many vicissitudes until it fell into the hands of my friend
Dick Dirckman. The more the history of Greeta Jones was gone into the
more it was made clear that the remains which had been bricked up in the

cellar were those of his wife and daughter. That the unfortunate girl and
woman had been brutally and barbarously murdered there wasn’t a doubt.
The question was, who murdered them? After leaving Wales Greeta Jones—
as was brought to light—led a wild life in London. One night, while in a
state of intoxication, he was knocked down by a cab, and so seriously
injured that he died while being carried to the hospital; and with him his
secret, for could there be any reasonable doubt that, even if he was not the
actual murderer, he had connived at the crime. But there was reason to
believe that he killed his wife and child with his own hand, and that with
the aid of a navvy, whose services he bought, he bricked the bodies up in
the cellar. It was remembered that a navvy named Howell Williams had
been in the habit of going to the castle frequently, and that suddenly he
became possessed of what was, for him, a considerable sum of money. For
several weeks he drank hard; then, being a single man, he packed up his
few belongings and gave out that he was going to California, and all efforts
to trace him failed.
So much for this ghastly crime. As to the circumstances that led to its
discovery, it was curious that I should have been selected as the medium for
bringing it to light. Why it should have been so I cannot and do not pretend
to explain. I have recorded facts as they occurred; I leave others to solve the
mystery.
It was not a matter for surprise that Mrs. Dirckman should have been deeply
affected by the terrible discovery, and she declared to her husband that if
she were to remain at the castle she would either go mad or die. And so
poor Dick, who was devoted to his charming little wife, got out as soon as
he could, and once more Bleak Hill Castle fell into neglect and ultimate
ruin, until at last it was razed to the ground and modern buildings reared on
its site. As for myself, that night of horror I endured under Dick’s roof
affected me to such an extent that my hair became prematurely grey, and
even now, when I think of the agony I endured, I shudder with an
indefinable sense of fear.

XII
THE ASTROLOGER
The Black Forest is rich in story and tradition of a weird and thrilling kind,
but nothing can excel in ghastly horror that which is told of the sole heir of
the once illustrious family of Di Venoni. For generations this family had
held tyrannical sway over the district. Their power was tremendous; their
word was law; they ruled with a hand of iron, and the peasants were their
slaves. They were exceedingly wealthy. Their men were said to be brave,
their women beautiful. But, as seems to be the fate of all powerful families
sooner or later, they began to decay. The fatuous habit of intermarrying
produced the usual result, and the curse of insanity fell upon them. Many
were the tragedies that this led to; and the time came at last when there was
but one sole remaining male representative. This was a youth, handsome
and well proportioned, but of eccentric habits, and occasionally displaying
those fatal signs which were only too well known. Nevertheless, it was
believed that Reginald Di Venoni might escape the curse. The best medical
advice was sought, and the opinion was that the chances were strongly in
his favour, and he would escape.
Reginald was brought up under the care of his mother, who had been left a
widow for some years. She was a haughty, austere, proud, and disdainful
lady, who guarded her son with peculiar jealousy; for on him, as she knew,
depended the existence of her house. If he failed, then indeed the power of
the Di Venonis would be gone, and the family would crumble to decay.
The lady and her son lived in a large castle, which for generations had been
the Di Venonis’ stronghold, and had withstood and repelled many a
determined attack. It was a gloomy pile, distinguished for its strength rather
than its beauty, although internally much had been done for the comfort of
the occupants. The castle was situated in Suabia, just on the borders of the
forest. It stood on elevated ground, and anyone standing on the turrets
commanded an immense panorama of great beauty.
At some little distance rose the ruins of the once powerful castle of
Rudstein. This had originally been the home of the Di Venonis; but an evil

genius seemed to enter into it, and for two or three generations such ill-luck
attended the family that they decided to desert their ancestral home. It was
unroofed, and left to wind and weather and the evil things that haunt the
great forest. One tower was left standing only, as a sort of landmark. In the
meantime the new castle had risen, and here the family installed
themselves. Here many of them paid the debt of nature, and here the last
male representative was born. Here in lonely grandeur the widowed mother
lived, surrounded by a retinue of servants and retainers, and having for
companion her one sister—a much younger woman, of great beauty and
lively disposition. She was known as the Lady Hilda, and it was said that
she and her sister were by no means always in accord. She protested against
the gloomy surroundings in which the scion of the noble house was being
brought up, and she urged Madame Di Venoni to keep more company, and
relieve the castle, if possible, of the air of brooding melancholy which
seemed to envelope it. But madame had her own notions. She wanted to
mould her son after her own fashion. She was afraid of exposing him to evil
influences. She would not depart from the traditions of her race.
One day, when Reginald was about six years of age, a traveller came to the
castle and begged for hospitality. It had been a terrible day—wild, stormy,
and wet. The traveller was a mysterious looking man, who seemed to have
travelled far on foot, and was weary, wet, and hungry. He was a foreigner,
and spoke but little German. He was invited into the servants’ great hall,
where food and drink were set before him, and as night approached he was
conducted to a chamber situated on the top of a tower. That night a very
violent storm, which had been threatening all day, burst over the country
and did enormous damage. The thunder was terrific; the lightning incessant;
the rain descended in a deluge. During the time that the storm was at its
height a female servant, happening to glance from her window, which
commanded a full view of the tower where the traveller was lodged, averred
that she saw him walking about on the flat roof of the tower, and exposed to
the full fury of the storm. She declared that he had more the appearance of a
fiend than a man; that occasionally he broke into wild eldritch laughter, and
ever and anon raised his hands aloft, as if daring the heavens and defying
the lightning.
Frightened almost into a fit, and yet fascinated, the woman watched him for
some time, and at last saw him conversing with the arch enemy of man

himself. The following morning the servant hurried to her mistress, and told
her this silly story, the outcome of ignorance, superstition, and fear; and she
insisted that the traveller who had been entertained and lodged in the castle
was an evil being, who held converse with the devil, and that unless he
were put to death some terrible calamity would result from his visit.
The lady, who was only a degree or two less superstitious than the menial,
was much impressed, for she lived in a district where superstition was very
rife. People travelled very little in those days, and credence was given to the
wildest and most outrageous stories; while a belief in the power of certain
persons to hold communication with Satan was very common, especially in
the Black Forest district. Indeed, even at the present day, when railways and
telegraphs encircle the globe, natives of some of the remote districts in the
forest still cling to this belief, and have all sorts of charms to protect
themselves against the malignant influences of witches, warlocks, and
forest demons.
Madame Di Venoni, having listened to the wild and weird story of the
servant, summoned her major domo, and bade him bring the stranger to her.
This was done, and when the stranger was ushered into her presence he
bowed low and reverentially to the mistress of the castle, who, however,
regarded him with something like awe, for truly enough he was a striking
and remarkable man, and calculated to unfavourably impress anyone who
was superstitious. He had a dark, swarthy face. His eyes were intensely
black and piercing, his hair like jet.
‘Whence come you?’ demanded the lady, imperiously.
‘From Rhenish Prussia,’ answered the man proudly, and drawing himself up
as if by gesture he would resent the manner in which she addressed him.
‘And whither go you?’
‘To Russia.’
‘With what object?’
‘In search of knowledge.’
Madame was incensed by his proud air, and eyeing him suspiciously, said:
‘Unless I am mistaken, you are a man of evil nature, and in communication
with the enemies of the human race.’

The man laughed.
‘No, madame,’ he answered, ‘unless the stars that shine so gloriously in the
heavens above are enemies of the human race, for it is from the stars I
derive my knowledge.’
This apparently mysterious answer appalled the lady, for she felt no doubt
now that the man was a fiend, and she was about to summon her attendants
and have him expelled when her little son burst into the room, followed by
his aunt. The child was laughing merrily, and had come to show his mother
some grotesque heads he had been drawing on a sheet of paper. But,
catching sight of the stranger, he was instantly silenced and clung to his
aunt’s skirts, while the Lady Hilda regarded the man with intense interest.
‘Is that your son?’ he asked.
‘No,’ answered Lady Hilda, ‘I am a single woman. He is the son of my
sister there, the Lady Di Venoni.’
The man turned to madame, and speaking in a strange, far-away voice, and
as if inspired by some strange prophetic instinct, he said:
‘That boy is the hope and prop of your race. But have a care, have a care,
for a curse is upon him. Take him from this gloomy dwelling. Show him the
bright and fair scenes of the earth. Teach him charity and tolerance.
Strengthen his body and broaden his mind, and watch his footsteps lest he
stray. His life hangs by a thread only.’
Madame was horrified. She no longer doubted that this audacious stranger
was an evil thing whose death would be a benefit to all men. As she caught
her son up in her arms she screamed, and when her attendants rushed in she
ordered them to beat the stranger and set the dogs upon him. Folding his
arms he stood like a rock, and gazed at her with scorn and defiance. But he
was dragged from the apartment and roughly hurried down the great stairs
to the courtyard, where a call was made to let the dogs loose, but at that
instant the Lady Hilda appeared upon the scene, and interposed to save the
stranger from the fury and violence of the menials. She peremptorily
ordered them to release him, and when that was done she bade him depart at
once, saying:
‘Your safety, your life, depends upon the speed with which you leave this
castle behind you. You have spoken well and truly, and your advice is the

advice of a wise man; but ignorance and tradition are powerful factors; they
are difficult to counteract.’
The man bent his knee, and taking Lady Hilda’s hand, kissed it gracefully,
saying:
‘I thank you, lady, and do not doubt that this generous act of yours will go
unrewarded; but, I pray you let me have a word with you out of earshot of
these human wolves, who seem panting to rend me to pieces.’
Unmindful of the angry looks darted at her, and the menacing attitude of the
menials, she retired for a moment or two to a corner of the courtyard with
the stranger, who, availing himself of the opportunity, said:
‘Have you the courage to meet me alone in the forest, in order that I may
give you some information?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Meet me, then, to-night at the tower of the ruins of Rudstein, as the
moon rises. No harm shall befall you, but good will come out of it.’
She pledged herself to meet him. Then she ordered the gates to be thrown
open, and the man departed, followed by the jeers and taunts of the people.
Lady Hilda turned furiously upon them and upbraided them for their
cowardice in attacking a defenceless man. She was not a favourite with
them, but she had power, and they were silenced.
That night, as the moon was rising, Lady Hilda slipped out of the castle by a
secret door, and hastily made her way to the ruins of Rudstein, where the
stranger was waiting for her. For two hours they talked together, and, loving
her nephew as she did, she anxiously inquired about his future.
‘His hope lies in separating him from his mother,’ said the stranger. ‘It may
seem unnatural and cruel, but she is too strongly influenced in the traditions
of her race to see that the boy’s welfare depends on every means being
taken to save him from the curse of his ancestors.’
‘But how know you all this?’ she answered, somewhat awed, and yet
recognising the soundness of his advice.
‘I read it in the stars,’ he answered mysteriously. ‘They are wondrous books
in which the past and the future of men can be read for those who have eyes

to see.’
Many more questions were asked and answered, and Lady Hilda returned to
the castle deeply impressed by the strange man’s manner. Again and again
she visited him, and his influence over her became all-powerful. Of course,
these visits were secret ones, and she kept her own counsel. The stranger
took up his abode in the tower, where there was no fear of his being
disturbed, for people had a dread of the ruins, as they said they were
haunted. Lady Hilda procured him books and other things that he said he
wanted, and she kept him supplied with food and money. During the time
that this was taking place she was urging her sister to quit the castle, retire
to the capital, and there bring up her son in the shadow of the court. But this
the mother strenuously refused to do, while the ill-feeling between her and
her sister increased. At last Lady Hilda disappeared, and with her her
nephew. She was ultimately traced to Cologne after some months’ absence,
and she and the boy were brought back. Within a week of her return she
was found dead in her bed. She had been poisoned.
The burial of a dead Di Venoni was invariably an imposing sight, and there
was no exception in Lady Hilda’s case. None of the mummery and pomp
and ceremony were omitted, and for three days the body lay in state in the
great entrance hall, and those who were entrusted with watching the corpse
at night averred that one night as the great bell of the castle was tolling the
solemn midnight hour a peculiar dark-eyed man suddenly appeared. There
was something so weird and strange in his appearance that they were
dumbfounded with horror, and their horror was increased when they saw
him lift the shrouded corpse from its coffin, press it to his breast, fondle it
and kiss it, and lavish upon it all the manifestations of extreme love and
affection. At last he replaced the body and disappeared as mysteriously as
he came. This wonderful story soon spread from lip to lip, with additions
and exaggerations, and great was the consternation when, as the unhappy
lady was being borne to the burial vault of the Di Venoni in the
neighbouring church, the remarkable stranger was recognised amongst the
crowd. He seemed bowed in sorrow, but when an attempt was made to seize
him he avoided it, and, as everyone declared, made himself invisible.
Years passed away. Reginald Di Venoni grew into manhood. He had
become a self-willed, passionate, gloomy man, who avoided his mother—
now an old and decrepid woman—and made no secret of the fact that he

disliked her. For a long time he had abandoned himself to the pleasures of
the chase, and he tried to give some colour and tone to his gloomy and
monotonous life by riotous living.
One evening he had been out hunting, and having got separated from his
followers, he was returning alone when, on reaching the ruins of Rudstein,
his horse shied, and Reginald beheld a weird-looking old man standing
amidst the ruins. His hair was white, and he had a long, grey beard.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Reginald boldly, for he was courageous and
daring to recklessness at times.
‘One who has watched you from childhood, and who would now speak into
your ear words of wisdom. Make your horse fast to that tree and follow
me.’
Curiosity, no less than some spell which he seemed incapable of resisting,
prompted him to do the bidding of the stranger, who led the way up the
mouldering stairs of the tower. On arriving at the top he threw open a door
and revealed an apartment, the floor of which was strewn with books
written in strange characters. In one corner stood a large vase engraved with
the signs of the Zodiac, and encircled by mysterious letters. A huge
telescope was placed in the centre of the room, and pointed through a small
aperture in the ceiling. As the old man entered he took up an ebony wand
from a table near and with it drew circles in the air, then, turning to
Reginald, said in a solemn and warning voice:
‘Man of ill-starred fortune, you were born under an unlucky planet, and
your future is involved in darkness. But for the sake of her whom I loved,
your aunt, the Lady Hilda, I would save you from your doom.’
Reginald laughed somewhat scornfully. Although he was not without
superstition he placed little faith in the wild stories which he had heard from
his childhood, and he was in the habit of saying that there was little that was
called supernatural that could not be explained by natural laws.
‘Ah, now I remember you,’ he exclaimed. ‘Years ago, when I was a child,
you came to my mother’s castle. You frightened me then, and strangely
impressed me.’
‘And yet why should that have been?’ asked the stranger. ‘I was a simple
student of the occult, and was travelling the world in quest of knowledge. I

had heard something of your family. I knew the curse that rested upon your
house, and even then I would have tried to avert it; but your mother would
have set her dogs upon me as she set her menials. To your aunt I owed my
life, and my love for her grew. By my advice she took you away to the
capital, but that act cost her her life. For her sake I would now save you.
Since her death I have made long journeys into different countries, but have
always been drawn back here by some influence I could not resist. My days,
nay, my hours are numbered now; but before I join the sweet Lady Hilda I
would render you a service.’
Reginald was far from impressed, and laughed again, saying:
‘It is kind of you, but suppose I decline your good offices. Indeed, I am
capable of taking care of myself and my fortunes; and, frankly, do not
desire any service at the hands of a half-witted imposter, as I believe you to
be. For myself, I have no belief either in God or Devil, therefore am not
likely to be frightened by anything you can tell me or anything you can do.’
The old man’s face assumed a look of sorrow and distress, and, speaking in
a voice that betrayed his emotion, he said:
‘Sad indeed it is that you should lack reverence. But have a care, have a
care! I warn you against infidelity, and against those sins which, if indulged
in, will bring you to ruin. Listen, I say, and take heed. The star of your
destiny already wanes in the heavens, and the fortunes of the proud family
of Venoni must decline with it. When the stars shine to-night look to the
west, and you will see your planet, distinguishable by its unusual brilliancy.
Look to it, I say, and let your thoughts wander from it to the God who rules
the universe, and to Him put up a prayer of repentance and a cry for light
and guidance. But should you see a dull red meteor shoot across the face of
your star of nativity, it will be a sign that a deed of blood will be done, and
you will perpetrate it.’
For a moment or two Reginald was really impressed by the awe-inspiring
tone and manner of the old man. But once more he broke into a scornful
laugh, and said:
‘If this is all you have brought me here for, you do but waste my time, and I
will depart.’

‘Go!’ answered the old man. ‘You pronounce your doom. But let me exact a
promise from you. On the night of the third day from now return to this
apartment, and, if you find me dead, give my body Christian burial.’
‘Yes; you shall have burial, as one of my dogs should,’ Reginald replied.
‘But since you are an unwelcome tenant in this ruined tower, which is part
of my property, I shall give instructions to have you driven away. However,
as you confess to having liked my aunt, whom I loved better than I loved
my mother, I will see that you do not want. You shall be furnished with
means sufficiently ample to enable you to live where your inclinations
prompt, only you must quit the tower.’
‘This is my living place, as it is to be my death place,’ exclaimed the old
man. ‘And again I charge you, return here in three days, or fail at your
peril.’
Reginald was exasperated. His temper was aroused now, as he thought the
old man was defying him, and he strode hastily from the room, hurried
down the stairs, and, flinging himself on his horse, galloped to the castle,
with the intention of giving orders to eject the strange old man from the
tower at once. But by the time he reached the courtyard he had changed his
mind, and he could not help confessing to himself that some indefinable
sense of fear restrained him. At any rate, he would let the old fellow remain
where he was for a few days longer.
Three days passed away, and the night came. Then Reginald remembered
the man’s request; at first he had no intention of returning to the ruins. As
the evening wore on, however, he felt impelled by a feeling of
overmastering curiosity to pay another visit to the wizard, if wizard he was.
So, without making known his intention to anyone, he armed himself with a
formidable spear used in boar hunting, and, calling his faithful boarhound
‘Wanga’ to his side, he set off for the tower.
The night was beautifully fine. The air was still, the sky was cloudless, the
stars shone with extraordinary brilliancy. As Reginald pursued his way he
looked to the west, and saw an unusually bright star, and knew, according to
what the old man had told him, that it was the star of his nativity. He
reached the ruins in about half an hour’s rapid walking. A weird silence
seemed to pervade the place. No light was visible. There wasn’t a sign of
the old man’s existence. Reginald told ‘Wanga’ to precede him up the

mouldering stairs, but the great hound whined and drew back and crouched
at his master’s feet, and remained unmoved even by the vigorous kick
which his master gave him. So, with a muttered oath, Reginald mounted the
stairs alone. He pushed open the door and peered in. The window of the
chamber was screened by a curtain, on a shelf burned a small lamp, at the
table sat the old man. He was dressed in a suit of black velvet embroidered
with gold, while round his waist was a massive belt of silver. He wore a
skull-cap on his head, in his thin white hand he grasped the ebony rod,
while the index finger of the right hand was fixed on a passage in an open
book that lay on the table before him.
Reginald spoke to him. There was no answer, no movement. For the first
time he felt a sense of fear. He spoke again, but still no answer came. He
advanced a few steps into the room.
‘Do you not see I am here?’ he exclaimed.
The old man rose up, not as a living being, but like a mechanical figure. The
face was the face of a corpse. The eyes were dull and glazed, but for an
instant they lighted up as they turned upon the speaker, though the light
faded immediately, and without a sound the old man sank to the floor, dead.
The situation was so weird, so ghastly, so dramatic, that Reginald’s fears
were now fully aroused, and with a suppressed moan of horror he turned
and fled. The dog was still crouching at the foot of the stairs, but rose with a
cry of joy as his master appeared. As Reginald left the ruins he glanced at
the west. His star of nativity was burning brilliantly, but suddenly a dull red
meteor shot across it, and remembering then the old man’s prophecy, he
was so overcome that he dropped senseless to the ground in a faint. In a few
minutes, finding that something was wrong, the faithful hound rushed back
to the castle, and by his howling and barking attracted attention. When the
servants hurried to the great gateway he indicated that something was
wrong; so torches were procured and the dog was followed to where his
master still lay insensible on the ground. He was raised up and carried back,
but when he came to his senses he was in a raging fever. He frequently
became delirious, and in the hour of his lunacy was accustomed to talk of
an evil spirit that had visited him in his slumbers. His mother was shocked
at such evident symptoms of derangement. She remembered the fate of her
husband, and implored Reginald, as the last descendant of a great house, to

recruit his health and raise his spirits by travel. Only with great difficulty
was he induced to quit the home of his infancy. The expostulations of his
mother, however, at last prevailed, and he left the Castle di Venoni for the
sunny land of Italy.
Months passed, and a constant succession of novelty had produced so
beneficial an effect, that scarcely any traces remained of the mysterious
malady which had so suddenly overtaken him. Occasionally, however, his
mind was disturbed and gloomy, but a perpetual recurrence of amusement
diverted the influence of past recollection, and rendered him at least as
tranquil as it was in the power of his nature to permit. He continued for
years abroad, during which time he wrote frequently to his mother, who still
continued at the Castle di Venoni, and at last announced his intention of
settling at Venice. He had remained but a few months in the city, when, at
the gay period of the Carnival, he was introduced, as a foreign nobleman, to
the beautiful daughter of the Doge. She was amiable, accomplished, and
endowed with every requisite to ensure permanent felicity. Reginald was
charmed with her beauty, and infatuated with the excelling qualities of her
mind. After a time he confessed his attachment, and was informed with a
blush that the affection was mutual. Nothing, therefore, remained but
application to the Doge, who was instantly addressed on the subject, and
implored to consummate the felicity of the young couple. The request was
attended with success, and the happiness of the lovers was complete.
On the day fixed for the wedding, a brilliant assemblage of beauty thronged
the ducal palace of St. Mark. All Venice crowded to the festival, and, in the
presence of the gayest noblemen of Italy, Reginald Count di Venoni
received the hand of Marcelia, the envied daughter of the Doge. In the
evening, a masqued festival was given at the palace; but the young couple,
anxious to be alone, escaped from the scene of revelry, and hurried in a
gondola to the old palace that had been prepared for their reception on the
grand canal.
It was a fine moonlight night. The stars were reflected in the silver bosom
of the Adriatic. The sounds of music and sweet voices singing, mellowed
and softened by distance, were wafted to them on the gentle breeze. Venice
seemed to glitter with tens of thousands of lamps, and the gondoliers, as
they passed and repassed, uttered their peculiar cries.

The young couple felt supremely happy, and they directed their boatman to
propel the boat leisurely along, that they might enjoy the enrapturing beauty
of the scene; for Venice—the sea set jewel—had never looked more
beautiful, and the languid air of the summer night begot a delicious sense of
dreaminess and a forgetfulness of the pain and misery of the world.
As Reginald lay back with his head pillowed in the lap of his bride he
happened to turn his eyes to the west, and there beheld his star of nativity as
brilliant as ever. Instantly his mind reverted to that awful night when the old
wizard died, and he remembered the dull red meteor, and the weird
prophecy. He became so agitated that his wife was alarmed, and inquired
the reason of it; but he only laughed, said it was merely a passing memory
that disturbed him, and soon her kisses and caresses restored him to
serenity.
The succeeding six months were uninterrupted by a single untoward
incident. He passionately loved Marcelia, and was beloved in return. His
rough, uncouth nature had been smoothed down and refined by his wife and
the society in which he moved. He felt supremely happy, and though at
times a remembrance of the awful night in the ruins of Rudstein disturbed
him, he managed to shake off the influence, and find a soothing balm in the
caresses of his young bride.
One day, however, there came to him an urgent message to repair to his
birthplace without delay, as his mother lay at the point of death. Although
he had never borne her any very strong affection, he felt it was his duty to
obey the summons, and so in company with his wife he journeyed with all
speed to the Black Forest.
On reaching the castle he found that his mother was already in the throes of
death, and delirious; as soon as he entered her presence she rose up in her
bed, without seeming to recognise him, and cursed him for being an
unnatural and unfilial son. It was an awful scene, and affected Reginald in
an appalling manner. Without recanting a word, or, indeed, noticing him in
any way, she fell back on her pillow and expired.
For some days Reginald was prostrated, and when his gentle and loving
wife tried to soothe and comfort him he repulsed her furiously, until she
was broken-hearted. But when he recovered his senses he lavished caresses
upon her, and gave every manifestation that he loved her devotedly. A few

days later, however, he was wandering with Marcelia through a very
picturesque and beautiful part of the forest, when they seated themselves on
a bank overlooking a stream. For some little time Reginald remained
absorbed in thought, then he began to pick up handfuls of earth and scatter
them in the water, and, with a wild glare in his eyes, he mumbled:
‘This is a hateful world. All is dust and vanity. Nothing brings joy, or
contentment, or peace. I am the last of my race. Why seek longer to support
a rotten fabric. My kindred have squandered their substance, and destroyed
the vitality of the family. Let us follow my mother through the gates of
death. Come, give me your hand, Marcelia, and we will die together.’
His wife was horribly alarmed, and used every endeavour to soothe him;
presently he grew calmer, and rose and allowed her to lead him away. They
continued to wander further afield, at his request, until night closed, and the
stars were burning. Brilliant above all the rest shone the fatal western
planet, the star of Reginald’s nativity. He gazed at it for some time with
horror, and pointed it out to the notice of Marcelia.
‘The hand of heaven is in it!’ he mentally exclaimed, ‘and the proud
fortunes of Venoni hasten to a close.’ At this instant the ruined tower of
Rudstein appeared in sight, with the moon shining fully upon it. ‘It is the
place,’ resumed the maniac, ‘where a deed of blood must be done, and I am
fated to perpetrate it! But fear not, my poor girl,’ he added, in a milder tone,
while the tears sprang to his eyes, ‘your husband cannot harm you; he may
be wretched, but he never shall be guilty!’ Although Marcelia was
dreadfully alarmed she concealed her feelings as much as possible, and
induced him to hurry back. When he reached the castle he looked ghastly
ill, and, going to bed, sank into a sort of coma.
Night waned, morning dawned on the upland hills of the scenery, and with
it came a renewal of Reginald’s disorder. The day was stormy, and in unison
with the troubled feeling of his mind. He rose with the dawn, and, without a
word to anyone, went off into the forest, nor did he return until the evening.
Distressed beyond measure at his absence, she waited in dread suspense for
his return, and sat at her casement gazing across the vast expanse of forest,
which the westering sun was now flooding with a crimson light. Suddenly
her door flew open, and Reginald made his appearance. His eyes were red

and seemed to blaze with the light of madness, while his whole frame was
convulsed as if he suffered from agonising spasms of pain.
‘It was not a dream,’ he exclaimed, ‘I have seen her, and she has beckoned
us to follow.’
‘Seen her, seen who?’ asked Marcelia, alarmed at his frenzy.
‘My mother,’ replied the maniac. ‘Listen while I tell you the strange story. I
thought, as I was wandering in the forest, a sylph of heaven approached,
and revealed the countenance of my mother. I flew to join her, but was
withheld by a wizard, who pointed to the western star. On a sudden loud
shrieks were heard, and the sylph assumed the guise of a demon. Her figure
towered to an awful height, and she pointed in scornful derision to you; yes,
to you, my wife. With rage she drew you towards me. I seized—I murdered
you, and strange cries and groans filled the air. I heard the voice of the
fiendish astrologer shouting as from a charnel house, “Your destiny is
accomplished, and the victim may retire with honour.” Then, I thought, the
fair front of heaven was obscured, and thick gouts of clotted clammy blood
showered down in torrents from the blackened clouds of the west. The star
shot through the air, and—the phantom of my mother again beckoned me to
follow.’
The maniac ceased, and rushed in agony from the apartment. Marcelia
followed, and discovered him leaning in a trance against the wainscot of the
library. With gentlest motion she drew his hand in hers, and led him into the
open air. They rambled on, heedless of the gathering storm, until they
discovered themselves at the base of the tower of Rudstein. Suddenly the
maniac paused. A horrid thought seemed flashing across his brain, as with
giant grasp he seized Marcelia in his arms, and bore her to the fatal
apartment. In vain she shrieked for help, for pity. ‘Dear Reginald, it is
Marcelia who speaks, you cannot surely harm her.’ He heard—he heeded
not, nor once staid his steps till he reached the room of death. On a sudden
his countenance lost its wildness, and assumed a more fearful, but
composed look of determined madness. He advanced to the window,
dragged away the rotting curtain, and gazed on the stormy face of heaven.
Dark clouds flitted across the horizon, and thunder echoed in the distance.
To the west the fatal star was still visible, but shone with sickly lustre. At
this instant a flash of lightning illumined the whole apartment, and threw a

broad red glare upon a skeleton that mouldered upon the floor. Reginald
observed it with affright, and remembered the unburied astrologer. He
advanced to Marcelia, and, pointing to the rising moon, ‘A dark cloud is
sailing by,’ he shudderingly exclaimed, ‘but ere the full orb again shines
forth you shall die; I will accompany you in death, and hand in hand will
we pass into the presence of our people.’
The poor girl shrieked for pity, but her voice was lost in the angry ravings
of the storm.
The cloud in the meantime sailed on—it approached—the moon was
dimmed, darkened, and finally buried in its gloom. The maniac marked the
hour, and rushed with a fearful cry towards his victim. With murderous
resolution he grasped her throat, while the helpless hand and half-strangled
articulation implored his compassion. After one final struggle the hollow
death-rattle announced that life was extinct, and that the murderer held a
corpse in his arms. An interval of reason now occurred, and on the partial
restoration of his mind Reginald discovered himself the unconscious
murderer of Marcelia. Madness—deepest madness again took possession of
his faculties. He laughed—he shouted aloud with the unearthly yellings of a
fiend, and in the raging violence of his delirium he rushed out, climbed to
the summit of the tower, and hurled himself headlong from it.
In the morning the bodies of the young couple were discovered, and buried
in the same tomb. The fatal ruin of Rudstein still exists, but is now
commonly avoided as the residence of the spirits of the departed. Day by
day it slowly crumbles to earth, and affords a shelter for the night raven or
the wild things of the forests. Superstition has consecrated it to herself, and
the tradition of the country has invested it with all the awful appendages of
a charnel house. The wanderer who passes at nightfall shudders while he
surveys its utter desolation, and exclaims as he travels on:
‘Surely this is a spot where guilt may thrive in safety, or bigotry weave a
spell to enthral her misguided votaries.’

XIII
THE DANCE OF THE DEAD
FOUNDED ON A WELL-KNOWN GERMAN LEGEND
Neisse is a small town in Silesia. At the period of this story it lay somewhat
out of the beaten track, and its inhabitants led a simple, primitive sort of
life, although bickerings and wranglings, cheating and knavery were not
altogether unknown among them. On the whole, however, they were a fairly
virtuous people, and the town earned an enviable reputation for hospitality,
in spite of the fact that the mayor was far from being hospitable himself, but
he did not hesitate to dispense hospitality with a lavish hand when he could
do so out of the town funds.
This mayor, whose name was Hertzstein, was an exceedingly proud and
ambitious man. He had been born in very humble circumstances indeed, his
father having been a charcoal burner; but Rupert Hertzstein was endowed
with more than average intelligence, though even as a lad he displayed a
grasping, covetous disposition that made him many youthful enemies. As he
grew in years he by no means changed, but he managed to make his way.
Before he was fifteen he went to Saxony and apprenticed himself to a
worker in precious metals, and showed so much intelligence that before he
had completed the term of his apprenticeship he was master of his trade.
He was twenty-two when he returned to his native town, with a little money
and a young wife. A daughter was born to him, and grew to be the most
beautiful girl in Neisse. Her father prospered, made money, and became
mayor. Indeed, he was a little king in his own way, but was tyrannical and
exacting, and while everybody adored Brunhelda, his pretty daughter, he
was far from being respected. When any of the young men of the village
tried to win his favour in the hope of gaining the daughter’s hand, he
ordered them off with a peremptoriness that left no doubt about his
determination.
‘My girl,’ he used to boast, ‘shall marry a lord. My father was a charcoal
burner, and in my youth I knew the curse of poverty. Now I am going to be

the founder of a family, and rather than let Brunhelda marry a humble
person I would carry her to her grave.’
Although he expressed himself thus forcibly and emphatically, he did not
explain how he hoped to get a lord as a son-in-law, but that was a detail;
and, being a deep, designing, and crafty man, he probably had some
matured plan in his own mind.
Now it chanced that when Brunhelda was two-and-twenty a young artist
came to Neisse, which was famed for a very ancient church and for
marvellous views, which were to be obtained from different parts of the
town, for it stood on an eminence in a very beautiful and fertile country. It
was, therefore, no uncommon thing for artists to visit the place. This
particular one became known as Robert Kuno, and he took up his quarters
at the village inn. One day he was in the ancient church sketching a very
picturesque archway, when Brunhelda entered with a number of other girls,
laden with flowers, as they were going to decorate the church in honour of
some festival.
Robert was at once attracted by Brunhelda’s beauty, and, getting into
conversation with her, he begged that she would pose for him while he
made a drawing. She was by no means loth to do this. Indeed, she felt
flattered, for she knew she was good-looking, and she would have been a
strange woman if she had had no vanity. Robert placed her in the position
he wanted near the archway, and produced a sketch, which he promised to
turn into a painting, and he asked her to favour him again on the morrow,
which she did, and the next day, and the day after that, and as a natural
result the young artist began to talk to her in a way which by no means
displeased her, although she knew that her father would be furious if he
came to hear of it. And sure enough he did hear of it. Some envious jade
went to him, and told him that Brunhelda was going day after day to the
church to meet the artist.
The day following the mayor repaired to the church, and screened himself
behind a pillar and witnessed the flirtation between Brunhelda and the
artist, until at length, losing his self-control, he suddenly presented himself
before them, and there was a scene. He used some very harsh terms to the
young man, and, seizing the sketch he had been making of the girl, he
stamped on it, and vowed if Robert did not leave Neisse within twelve

hours he would have him arrested as a vagabond and confined in the stocks.
Then he took his daughter home and lectured her on the monstrous
wickedness of her conduct in allowing a ‘vulgar, common artist fellow’ to
talk love to her.
As Robert failed to comply with the order to clear off, the mayor, true to his
word, had him arrested as a vagabond, having no visible means of
subsistence, and he was placed in the stocks which stood on the green
opposite the mayor’s house. The tyrannical magistrate thought that when
his daughter saw her admirer in such an undignified position she would be
disgusted, and think no more of him. But herein he was mistaken, for he
caught her kissing her hand to him from her window, and manifesting every
sign of sympathy. So Robert was at once set at liberty, on condition that he
immediately left the place, which he consented to do, much to the joy and
comfort of the mayor.
It was nearly a year after that an old bag-piper one day entered the town of
Neisse. He was a strange, weird-looking old man, with great masses of
white hair hanging about his shoulders, and heavy, beetling eyebrows
screening his keen, grey eyes. His pipes, which seemed older than himself,
were unlike any that had been seen before, and when the old piper tuned
them up he awoke the most marvellous melody. Whence he came and
whither he was going no one knew, and being by no means communicative,
they were left in ignorance. But one thing he made clear—he did not lack
money, and as there happened to be a very pretty little cottage to let, whose
owner had recently died, the piper bargained for it and bought it, and soon
after a young man came to live with him, and rumour soon had it that this
young man was the strange piper’s foster-son. Apparently the son was
nearly blind, for he wore large blue goggle glasses, and always went about
with a stick.
The son was very reserved and would not mix with the people, but the old
piper became such a favourite owing to the sweet music he was able to
discourse, that he was invited every evening, when the weather was fine, to
repair to the village green, where the people were wont to dance. He was so
wonderfully well-informed, too, and seemed to have travelled so
extensively, that the old citizens invited him to their dinners, and he was
petted and flattered. He played his pipes at christenings and wedding feasts,

as well as pathetic and solemn airs when the dead were committed to the
earth.
One marvellous tune that he played was known as ‘Grandfather’s Dance,’
and so inspiriting was this, such a wild, mad, rhythmical jingle, that even
the oldest of men and women who could move their limbs at all could not
resist its strains, and fell to dancing. Indeed, the strains, it was averred,
restored youth to the old, and even the paralytic and the rheumatic threw
away their crutches when they heard them.
Now, strangely enough, the effect of the old man’s art on his foster-son was
nil. He remained silent and mournful at the most mirth-inspiring tunes the
piper played to him; and at the balls, to which he was often invited, he
rarely mingled with the gay, but would retire into a corner, and fix his eyes
on the loveliest fair one that graced the room, neither daring to address, nor
to offer her his hand. This one was Brunhelda, and occasionally he managed
to get speech with her, and it was noted that she was by no means averse to
talk to him. And at such times she easily read in his brightening face the
eloquent gratitude of his heart; and although she turned blushingly away,
the fire on her cheeks, and the sparkling in her eyes, kindled new flames of
love and hope in her lover’s bosom, for this young man was none other than
the artist who had resorted to this stratagem to woo her. And he was neither
blind nor near sighted, but the goggles afforded him a disguise.
Willibald, such was the name of the piper, had for a long time promised to
assist the love-sick youth in obtaining his soul’s dearest object. Sometimes
he intended, like the wizards of yore, to torment the mayor with an
enchanted dance, and compel him by exhaustion to grant everything;
sometimes, like a second Orpheus, he proposed to carry away, by the power
of his harmony, the sweet bride from the Tartarian abode of her father. But
Robert always had objections: he never would allow the parent of his fair
one to be harmed by the slightest offence, and hoped to win him by
perseverance and complacency.
Willibald said to him one day, ‘You are an idiot, if you hope to win, by an
open and honourable sentiment, the approbation of a rich and proud old
fool. He will not surrender without some of the plagues of Egypt are put in
force against him. When once Brunhelda is yours, and he no more can
change what has happened, then you will find him friendly and kind. He

will bow to the inevitable. I blame myself for having promised to do
nothing against your will, but death acquits every death, and still I shall
help you in my own way.’
Poor Robert was not the only one on the path of whose life the mayor
strewed thorns and briars. The whole town had very little affection for their
chief, and delighted to oppose him at every opportunity; for he was harsh
and cruel, and punished severely the citizens for trifling and innocent mirth,
unless they purchased pardon by the means of heavy penalties and bribes.
After the yearly wine-fair in the month of January he was in the habit of
obliging them to pay all their earnings into his treasury, to make amends for
their past merriments. One day the tyrant of Neisse had put their patience to
too hard a trial, and broken the last tie of obedience from his oppressed
townsmen. The malcontents had created a riot, and filled their persecutor
with deadly fear; for they threatened nothing less than to set fire to his
house, and to burn him, together with all the riches he had gathered by
oppressing them.
At this critical moment, Robert went to Willibald, and said to him, ‘Now,
my old friend, is the time when you may help me with your art, as you
frequently have offered to do. If your music be really so powerful as you
say it is, go then and deliver the mayor by softening the enraged mob. As a
reward he certainly will grant you anything you may request. Speak then a
word for me and my love, and demand my beloved Brunhelda as the price
of your assistance.’
The bag-piper laughed at this speech, and replied:
‘We must satisfy the follies of children in order to prevent them crying.’
And so he took his bag-pipe and walked slowly down to the town-house
square, where the rioters, armed with pikes, lances, and lighted torches,
were laying waste the mansion of the worshipful head of the town.
Willibald placed himself near a pillar, and began to play his ‘Grandfather’s
Dance.’ Scarcely were the first notes of this favourite tune heard, when the
rage-distorted countenances became smiling and cheerful, the frowning
brows lost their dark expression, pikes and torches fell out of the
threatening fists, and the enraged assailants moved about marking with their
steps the measure of the music. At last, the whole multitude began to dance,
and the square, that was lately the scene of riot and confusion, bore now the

appearance of a gay dancing assembly. The piper, with his magic bag-pipe,
led on through the streets, all the people danced behind him, and each
citizen returned jumping to his home, which shortly before he had left with
very different feelings.
The mayor, saved from this imminent danger, knew not how to express his
gratitude; he promised to Willibald everything he might demand, even were
it half his property. But the bag-piper replied, smiling, saying his
expectations were not so lofty, and that for himself he wanted no temporal
goods whatever; but since his lordship, the mayor, had pledged his word to
grant to him everything he might demand, so he beseeched him, with due
respect, to grant fair Brunhelda’s hand for his foster-son.
The haughty mayor was highly displeased at this proposal. He made every
possible excuse; and as Willibald repeatedly reminded him of his promise,
he did what the despots of those dark times were in the habit of doing, and
which those of our enlightened days still practise, he declared his dignity
offended, pronounced Willibald to be a disturber of the peace, an enemy of
the public security, and allowed him to forget in a prison the promises of his
lord, the mayor. Not satisfied herewith, he accused him of witchcraft,
caused him to be tried by pretending he was the very bag-piper and rat-
catcher of Hameln, who was, at that time, and is still in so bad a repute in
the German provinces, for having carried off by his infernal art all the
children of that ill-fated town.
‘The only difference,’ said the wise mayor, between the two cases was, that
at Hameln only the children had been made to dance to his pipe, but here
young and old seemed under the same magical influence. By such artful
delusions, the mayor turned every merciful heart from the prisoner. The
dread of necromancy, and the example of the children of Hameln, worked
so strongly, that sheriffs and clerks were writing day and night. The
secretary calculated already the expense of the funeral pile, for
necromancers, witches and wizards were burnt in those days; the sexton
petitioned for a new rope to toll the dead-bell for the poor sinner; the
carpenters prepared scaffolds for the spectators of the expected execution;
and the judges rehearsed the grand scene, which they prepared to play at the
condemnation of the famous bag-piper. But although justice was sharp,
Willibald was still sharper; for as he laughed very heartily over the

important preparations for his end, he now laid himself down upon his
straw and died!
Shortly before his death, he sent for his beloved Robert, and addressed him
for the last time.
‘Young man,’ said he, ‘you seest that in your way of viewing mankind and
the world I can render you no assistance. I am tired of the whims your folly
has obliged me to perform. You have now acquired experience enough fully
to comprehend that nobody should calculate, or at least ground, his designs
on the goodness of human nature, even if he himself should be too good to
lose entirely his belief in the goodness of others. I, for my own part, would
not rely upon the fulfilment of my last request to you, if your own interest
would not induce you to its performance. When I am dead, be careful to see
that my old bag-pipe is buried with me. To detain it would be of no use to
you, but it may be the cause of your happiness, if it is laid under ground
with me.’
Robert promised to observe strictly the last commands of his old friend,
who shortly after closed his eyes. Scarcely had the report of Willibald’s
sudden death spread, when old and young came to ascertain the truth. The
mayor was more pleased with this turn of the affair than any other; for the
indifference with which the prisoner had received the news of his
approaching promotion to the funeral pile, induced his worship to suppose
the old bag-piper might some fine day be found invisible in his prison, or
rather be found not there at all; or the cunning wizard, being at the stake,
might have caused a wisp of straw to burn instead of his person, to the
eternal shame of the court of Neisse. He therefore ordered the corpse to be
buried as speedily as possible, as no sentence to burn the body had yet been
pronounced. An unhallowed corner of the churchyard, close to the wall, was
the place assigned for poor Willibald’s resting-place. The jailor, as the
lawful heir of the deceased prisoner, having examined his property, asked
what should become of the bag-pipe, as a corpus delicti.
Robert, who was present, was on the point to make his request, when the
mayor, full of zeal, thus pronounced his sentence:
‘To avoid every possible mischief, this wicked, worthless tool shall be
buried together with its master.’ So they put it into the coffin at the side of

the corpse, and early in the morning pipe and piper were carried away and
buried.
But strange things happened in the following night. The watchmen on the
tower were looking out, according to the custom of the age, to give the
alarm in case of fire in the surrounding country, when about midnight they
saw, by the light of the moon, Willibald rising out of his tomb near the
churchyard wall. He held his bag-pipe under his arm, and leaning against a
high tombstone upon which the moon shed her brightest rays he began to
blow, and fingered the pipes just as he was accustomed to do when he was
alive.
While the watchmen, astonished at this sight, gazed wisely on one another,
many other graves opened; their skeleton-inhabitants peeped out with their
bare skulls, looked about, nodded to the measure, rose afterwards wholly
out of their coffins, and moved their rattling limbs into a nimble dance. At
the church windows, and the grates of the vaults, other empty eye-holes
stared on the dancing place: the withered arms began to shake the iron
gates, till locks and bolts sprung off, and out came the skeletons, eager to
mingle in the dance of the dead. Now the light dancers stilted about, over
the hillocks and tombstones, and whirled around in a merry waltz, that the
shrouds waved in the wind about the fleshless limbs, until the church clock
struck twelve, when all the dancers, great and small, returned to their
narrow cells; the player took his bag-pipe under his arm, and likewise
returned to his vacant coffin.
Long before the dawn of the day, the watchmen awoke the mayor, and made
to him, with trembling lips and knocking knees, the awful report of the
horrid night scene. He enjoined strict secrecy on them, and promised to
watch with them the following night on the tower. Nevertheless, the news
soon spread through the town, and at the close of the evening, all the
surrounding windows and roofs were lined with virtuosi and cognoscenti of
the dark fine arts, who all beforehand were engaged in discussions on the
possibility or impossibility of the events they expected to witness before
midnight.
The bag-piper was not behind his time. At the first sound of the bell
announcing the eleventh hour, he rose slowly, leaned against the tombstone,
and began his tune. The ball guests seemed to have been waiting for the

music, for at the very first notes they rushed forth out of the graves and
vaults, through grass hills and heavy stones. Corpses and skeletons
shrouded and bare, tall and small, men and women, all running to and fro,
dancing and turning, wheedling and whirling round the player, quicker or
more slowly according to the measure he played, till the clock tolled the
hour of midnight. Then dancers and piper withdrew again to rest.
The living spectators, at their windows and on their roofs, now confessed
that ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our
philosophy.’ The mayor had no sooner retired from the tower, than he
ordered Robert to be cast into prison that very night, hoping to learn from
his examination, or perhaps by putting him to the torture, how the magic
nuisance of his foster-father might be removed.
Robert did not fail to remind the mayor of his ingratitude towards Willibald,
and maintained that the deceased troubled the town, bereft the dead of their
rest and the living of their sleep, only because he had received, instead of
the promised reward for the liberation of the mayor, a scornful refusal, and
moreover had been thrown into prison most unjustly, and buried in a
degrading manner. This speech made a very deep impression upon the
minds of the magistrates; they instantly ordered the body of Willibald to be
taken out of his tomb, and laid in a more respectable place.
The sexton, to show his penetration on the occasion, took the bag-pipe out
of the coffin, and hung it over his bed. For he reasoned thus: if the
enchanting or enchanted musician could not help following his profession
even in the tomb, he at least would not be able to play to the dancers
without his instrument.
But at night, after the clock had struck eleven, he heard distinctly a knock at
his door; and when he opened it, with the expectation of some deadly and
lucrative accident requiring his skill, he beheld the buried Willibald in
propriâ persona.
‘My bag-pipe,’ said he, very composedly, and passing by the trembling
sexton, he took it from the wall where it was hung up; then he returned to
his tombstone, and began to blow. The guests, invited by the tune, came like
the preceding night, and were preparing for their midnight dance in the
churchyard. But this time the musician began to march forward, and
proceeded with his numerous and ghastly suite through the gate of the

churchyard to the town, and led his nightly parade through all the streets,
till the clock struck twelve, when all returned again to their dark abodes.
The inhabitants of Neisse now began to fear lest the awful night wanderers
might shortly enter their own houses. Some of the chief magistrates
earnestly entreated the mayor to lay the charm by making good his word to
the bag-piper. But the mayor would not listen to it; he even pretended that
Robert shared in the infernal arts of the old piper, and added, ‘The son
deserves rather the funeral pile than the bridal bed.’
But in the following night the dancing spectres came again into the town,
and although no music was heard, yet it was easily seen by their motions
that the dancers went through the figure of the ‘Grandfather’s Dance.’ This
night they behaved much worse than before, for they stopped at the house
wherein a betrothed damsel lived, and here they turned in a wild whirling
dance round a shadow, which resembled perfectly the spinster in whose
honour they moved the nightly bridal dance. Next day the whole town was
filled with mourning, for all the damsels whose shadows were seen dancing
with the spectres had died suddenly. The same thing happened again the
following night. The dancing skeletons turned before the houses, and
wherever they had been, there was, next morning, a dead bride lying on the
bier.
The citizens were determined no longer to expose their daughters and
mistresses to such an imminent danger. They threatened the mayor to carry
Brunhelda away by force and to lead her to Robert, unless the mayor would
permit their union to be celebrated before the beginning of the night. The
choice was a difficult one, for the mayor disliked the one just as much as
the other, but as he found himself in the uncommon situation where a man
may choose with perfect freedom, he, as a free being, declared freely his
daughter to be Robert’s bride.
Long before the spectre hour the guests sat at the wedding table. The first
stroke of the bell sounded, and immediately the favourite tune of the well-
known bridal dance was heard. The guests, frightened to death, and fearing
the spell might still continue to work, hastened to the windows, and beheld
the bag-piper, followed by a long row of figures in white shrouds, moving
to the wedding-house. He remained at the door and played, but the
procession went on slowly, and proceeded even to the festive hall. Here the

strange pale guests rubbed their eyes, and looked about them full of
astonishment, like sleep walkers just awakened. The wedding guests fled
behind the chairs and tables; but soon the cheeks of the phantoms began to
colour, their white lips became blooming like young rosebuds; they gazed at
each other full of wonder and joy, and well-known voices called friendly
names. They were soon known as revived corpses, now blooming in all the
brightness of youth and health: and who should they be but the brides
whose sudden death had filled the whole town with mourning, and who,
now recovered from their enchanted slumber, had been led by Willibald
with his magic pipe out of their graves to the merry wedding feast. The
wonderful old man blew a last and cheerful farewell tune, and disappeared.
He was never seen again.
Robert was of opinion, the bag-piper was no other than the famous Spirit of
the Silesian Mountains.[1] The young painter had originally met him once
when he travelled through the hills, and acquired his goodwill by rendering
him some service, for the old man was, or pretended to be, in great distress,
and Robert gave him wine and food, and housed him for many days. Then
suddenly the strange piper disappeared, but shortly returned and promised
the youth he would grant him anything he wished if he could, and he
declared that with his magic pipes he could subdue anyone to his will. Then
it was that Robert beseeched him to help him to win the consent of the
Mayor of Neisse to wed his daughter. Willibald promised the youth to assist
him in his love-suit, and he kept his word, although after his own jesting
fashion.
Robert remained all his lifetime a favourite with the Spirit of the
Mountains. He grew rich, and became celebrated. His dear wife brought
him every year a handsome child, his pictures were sought after even in
Italy and England; and the ‘Dance of the Dead,’ of which Basil, Antwerp,
Dresden, Lubeck, and many other places boast, are only copies or
imitations of Robert’s original painting, which he had executed in memory
of the real ‘Dance of the Dead at Neisse!’ But, alas! this picture is lost, and
no collector of paintings has yet been able to discover it, for the
gratification of the cognoscenti, and the benefit of the history of the art.
[1] The Spirit of the Silesian Mountains plays a great part in the
German Popular Tales. He always appears full of mirth and whims.
The people know him best by his nickname Rubezahl, the turnip

counter. The accident which gave rise to this nickname has been
related in a masterly manner in Musäus’s German Popular Tales.

XIV
THE MYSTIC SPELL
A Weird Story of Brazil
TOLD BY SIGNOR DON ALONZO RODERICK, SPANISH CONSUL AT
RIO DE JANEIRO.
Rio and its neighbourhood is perhaps one of the most beautiful spots on the
face of the globe. Indeed, I am not sure but what it may claim to be
absolutely without a rival, for it has features that are unique. Nature would
almost seem to have exhausted her efforts to build up a scene which lacks
no single detail necessary for imposing pictorial effect, though, as most
people know, hidden beneath all this entrancing beauty death lurks in a
hundred forms; and he who is not wary and ever on his guard is liable to be
struck down with appalling suddenness.
My predecessor had suffered much in his health, and succumbed at last to
the scourge of yellow fever. When I arrived to take up his work I found
everything in such confusion that I had to labour very hard to reduce chaos
to order and put the consular business shipshape. It thus came about that for
many months I was unable to leave my post in Rio, and as a consequence
my health began to suffer. Soon after my arrival I made the acquaintance of
a Portuguese gentleman named Azevedo Souza, a merchant of high
standing in Rio. His business was of a very mixed character, and amongst
other things he was an orchid exporter. In this branch of his trading he had
been exceptionally successful. Through his instrumentality collectors had
had brought under their notice some wonderful and hitherto unknown
specimens of these marvels of nature. His collecting station was far up
north in the interior. He spoke of it enthusiastically as an earthly paradise,
and gave me many pressing invitations to be his guest, when he paid his
periodical visits to look after his affairs in that region.
Senhor Souza was an estimable gentleman, and very highly respected. He
had a charming family, amongst them being a daughter, Juliette by name,
and one of the sweetest young ladies I have ever had the pleasure of

associating with. At this period Juliette was about seven-and-twenty, and as
the apple of his eye to her father. She was invaluable to him in his business,
at any rate to the orchid branch of it; for not only had she an all-round
cleverness, but probably she knew more about orchids than any living
woman. She herself was the means of introducing to the scientific world an
entirely new orchid, the flower of which was of such transcendent beauty
that the Brazilians, used as they are to floral glories, said that this particular
bloom must have been ‘specially cultivated in God’s own garden.’ Juliette
made a most arduous and hazardous journey into the depths of virgin forests
in search of this plant, and narrowly escaped losing her life.
Perhaps, when I say that I was a bachelor the reader will readily guess that
my acquaintance with Juliette aroused in me an admiration which I
devoutly hoped would find its consummation in a happy union, for she was
by no means indifferent to my attentions. Not only was she highly
cultivated, but had astonishing linguistic powers, and spoke many
languages fluently. She was perfectly acquainted with Spanish, and had
read the beautiful literature of Spain extensively. Senhor Souza encouraged
my suit, and at last the time came when I was emboldened to tell Juliette
she was the one woman in the world who could make me happy. Ah, I shall
never forget that night until the grave closes over me. We were seated in the
veranda of Senhor Souza’s splendid villa, situated just on the outskirts of
the town, and commanding an enchanting view of the bay of Rio, with its
remarkable Sugar Loaf Mountain and the marvellous range beyond it. And
what a night it was! The glory of the stars, shining as they can only shine in
the tropics; the sparkling moonlit sea; the soft, flower-perfumed breeze that
stirred the foliage to a languorous susurrus; the fireflies that like living
jewels filled the air, begot in one a feeling of reverence, and strengthened
one’s faith in the Great God who created such a world of beauty. Those who
have never experienced such a night under a tropical sky know nothing of
what the true poetry of nature means. It stirs one with a ravishing, ecstatic
feeling of delight which is a foretaste of the joys of heaven.
I had been sitting for some time with Juliette’s hand in mine. We were
silent, being deeply impressed with the magical beauty of the night, for we
both had poetical instincts; indeed, Juliette’s was a highly strung romantic
temperament, and she was able to express her thoughts in language that
could stir the pulses and move to tears.