A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread Page 2

  Before two years had passed, however, I found myself, by a curious trick of fortune, in the vicinity of Furnivaux Castle. I had suffered from an acute attack of brain fever, and when convalescent had been ordered by the doctor to taste the air of Marlbrok-over-Sands, a quaint watering-place at the mouth of the Lamber estuary. My father was engaged at the time in preparing for the press his volume of Philosophical Discussions, and, although he would willingly have accompanied me, I chose rather to take Jeffreys, a man who had been his valet in former times, but who held now the posts of confidant, secretary and checker of the domestic accounts—a faithful old servant of a type unknown to the present generation.

  At first my father was averse to my visiting Marlbrok. He had suggested Nice or Mentone, fancying that the bustle of foreign life would act as a tonic; but as he heard of the marvellous strengthening virtues which, according to Doctor Pulteney, belonged to the Lamber water, he consented, and after strictly enjoining me not to go within at least a mile of Furnivaux, travelled with me, and left me with Jeffreys at an ancient inn.

  On the fourth evening of my stay I strolled with Jeffreys to a large hill whose seaward side is perfectly precipitous, but which is easily climbed landward by a winding sheep-path. When I had reached the summit I threw myself on the grass and rested for a while, gazing at the misty outline of Man; then when my dimmed eyes had cleared I turned and saw high on the side of a far-distant inland hill an enormous building, which at first sight appeared on fire, for the westering sun struck full on the great square windows. A grove of majestic trees gloomed to the left, and a park besprinkled with herds of deer sloped downward to the furthermost recess of the estuary.

  A shepherd was training a dog near the place where I sat: regardless of Jeffrey’s deprecations, I called to him, and inquired the name of the house.

  ‘Furnivaux Castle, young sir. Lady Barbara Verelst’s place,’ he replied.

  ‘What?’ I cried. ‘Tell me all about it. Have you ever been there? What is it like?’

  Before he could answer Jeffreys interposed. ‘Come, Master Ralph, it is growing chill; we shall have Doctor Pulteney here if you take cold.’

  But I took no heed of him, and despite his attempted hindrance obtained all the necessary information concerning the way. An evil desire to disobey my father filled me: it seemed as if the glamour of the house had cast a spell over me, and as I was hurried away by Jeffreys, I resolved to take advantage of him in the early morning, and to visit Lady Barbara.

  I slept little that night, but lay watching the dawn creep over the sea, and listening to the plaintive chirping of birds. As the cracked bell of Marlbrok-St.-Mary’s struck six I sprang from my bed, dressed hurriedly, and after a quiet laugh at the thought of what Jeffreys’ consternation would be when he discovered my absence, I slipped from the house, and followed the path the shepherd had described.

  It led through a long wood of small trees, matted with bracken and sedge, and crossed by many rivulets that ran down to the sea. There was much honeysuckle—so sweet that life grew absolutely perfect: I gathered a large bunch, wherein lay many bees; and chanting extempore rhymes I hurried onward.

  When I reached the terrace of Furnivaux it was nearly breakfast-time. The hall door, half open, revealed a vista of ancient pictures. As I knocked there timidly, an ancient serving-man in fawn livery appeared. Something, perhaps my resemblance to my father, amazed him, and he bade me enter at once.

  ‘I wish to see Lady Barbara Verelst,’ I said.

  He ushered me into a small, white-panelled room. ‘Her ladyship will be with you very soon,’ he replied.

  Meanwhile I arranged the honeysuckle in a large china dish. As I was doing this a slight noise disturbed me, and looking up I saw a white-frocked little girl eyeing me very intently. A black Persian cat lay in her arms, rubbing its head on her shoulder.

  ‘Cousin Mary!’ I cried.

  The child dropped the cat and ran forward to bring her tiny mouth to mine. But even as she kissed footsteps came, and she drew back alarmed. I took the honeysuckle and flung it all into her apron, and she, as if fearing to be seen, made for another door and disappeared.

  Then Lady Barbara entered. There was nothing of the patrician in her appearance. Clad in a plain brown dress with a narrow collar of lace, she might well have passed for a housekeeper who had no liking for bright colour. Her face was round and russet, with a broad low forehead that was covered with an intricate network of wrinkles. Her eyes were small and sherry-coloured, and her teeth, which (as I heard afterwards) were natural, glistened like regular pieces of ivory. Altogether she struck me as a sharp bargain-driving countrywoman, with a good deal of craft, and an underlying vein of sarcastic humour. As she saw me she courtesied very low.

  ‘So you are Ralph, or Rafe, as I love best to say it,’ she said. ‘Well, you are very welcome here, though your father and I got across at our last meeting. But I suppose he has thought better of my proposal, and sent you now.’ Here she looked at her watch, a massive gold and crystal globe that swung from her girdle. ‘The girl is a long time!’ she exclaimed.

  Before I could open my mouth to declare the truth about my father, a rustling of silks came, and a girl swept through the doorway. She was about fifteen years old, but might well have passed for twenty. Tall and slender in figure, and with a face so perfectly, so strangely lovely, it compelled me to make a simile of a flame resolving at the lambent crest into a star. She moved towards me, and with no assumption of modesty, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. I have no idea how she was dressed, but as I write comes a recollection of the flower called ‘crown imperial,’ lying on a web of red golden hair.

  Lady Barbara shrieked in affected dismay. ‘My dear Rachel!’ she cried, ‘you are forgetting yourself; Rafe is not a little boy—he’s seventeen—he’s a man!’

  Rachel Verelst turned to her, uplifting luminous eyes: ‘O aunt,’ she said, with a sigh of relief, ‘it is most delicious to see a man. I am Miranda—he Ferdinand. Cousin (mincingly), you’re the first man I’ve seen for two years, except of course the servants, and they don’t count with such people as your lowly handmaid.’

  Something about her—perhaps the fact that her manner was so opposed to that with which I had endowed my ideal woman—fascinated me at once. Never before had I seen such radiant beauty: never before had I known a woman lay herself out so coquettishly to attract attention. She was unlike anything I had ever dreamed of, and even as I stood I felt myself become enthralled. There was such admiration, too, in her glance—admiration of the most flattering kind. All suddenly I sprang high in self-esteem.

  ‘A handsome couple,’ the old woman said pointedly. ‘One fair as day: the other, as Shakespeare says somewhere, black as night. Yes, day and night! Now pray let me see you walk together to the breakfast-room. I will waive etiquette for once, and you shall take precedence. Ah, yes, sir, your arm was given gracefully; I am quite satisfied with your manner. You are a Verelst, though your name is Eyre.’

  With many comments upon the picture we made, she followed us to a small parlour hung with red velvet, embossed with earl’s coronets in gilt. A light meal was spread. The aroma of coffee filled the air, and after the footman had brought in the hot dishes, a gust of fresher sweetness came as Mary, shyly bedecked with honeysuckle, entered and sat at my side. Lady Barbara took no heed of her appearance, so bent was she on her own plans.

  ‘So your father has really conquered his prejudices,’ she remarked. ‘I knew all the time that they meant nothing (poor Alston, he was always feather-brained!), and I did not believe that he would have held out so long. Well, forgive and forget. It does my heart good to see you and Rachel at table together; I am almost inclined to sing Nunc Dimittis at once!’

  Something in the exultancy of her voice suppressed my avowal that, overpowered by curiosity and attraction, I had come clandestinely. It was not from kindness that my tongue refused its office, but rather of a dread of how she might act.

  ‘Di
d he send any message, any writings?’ she inquired sharply.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Ah, the rogue!’ she said. ‘He’s proud of you; he knows that your presence is enough to explain all. Ay, and a very good recommendation to my favour! Alston had ever a little of the diplomatist. Again let me assure you that nobody could be more welcome.’

  So the meal passed. Often Rachel turned to me with proudly sweeping eyes, and brought her face so near mine that I could see my reflection in each apple. For one so young her wit was brilliant and sharp-edged, but the vivid outlines of her colouring prevented me from seeing anything unmaidenly in her demeanour. There was depth mingled with unstableness in her character; and although against my will I was allured, I could not help feeling a sort of oppression, as if the air were becoming too heavily perfumed. Two centuries ago she might have shone as a king’s mistress. When I looked at her sister, timid, frail, and shrinking, it was as if a draught of cool air rippled across my temples.

  Once the child essayed to speak. ‘Cousin Rafe,’ she said softly, ‘will you tell me after breakfast what the world is like. I don’t mean the country or the little market towns, but those places that one reads about. Is Venice like Mrs. Radcliffe paints it in the Mysteries of Udolpho?’

  Lady Barbara began to laugh rather coarsely. ‘What is the girl raving about?’ she said, turning contemptuously to Rachel. ‘Does she think that at my age I’ve nothing better to do than to listen to puerile descriptions. My dear Rafe, do not trouble with her. Rachel, I wonder you permit his attention to be distracted.’

  Great tears rolled down Mary’s cheeks. I was angered. ‘I like to hear her talk,’ I said chivalrously.

  At this my great-aunt laughed again, but Rachel, with wonderful tact rose and embraced her sister. If she had not done so I believe that I should have hated her. Even Lady Barbara was pleased.

  ‘You are a good girl, Rachel,’ she said, patting her shoulder. ‘Now, Mary, you must forgive my querulousness.’

  She took Rachel’s hand and drew her from the table. As she reached the door she paused.

  ‘Rafe,’ she said, ‘can you amuse yourself till noon? Rachel writes my letters and manages everything for me, so I must take her away. Mary, make your cousin’s stay here as pleasant as you can: show him all over the house and gardens—or anywhere so long as he’s entertained. If you care to ride order the ponies.’

  But Mary, as soon as we were alone, led me to the open window. A flight of stairs descended from here to an old garden where busts and urns surmounted columns of fluted marble. A spring, prattling over many-hued stones, crossed the middle of this and deepened into shallow pools that were edged with irises and flowering rushes.

  ‘Let us sit beside the dragon at the well-head,’ she said; ‘it is my favourite dreaming-place, and I will ask you all I want to know. I am not tiresome to you, Cousin Rafe?’ she added, with downcast eyes.

  Our spirits rose. Ere long I was chasing her up and down the maze, quite forgetful of the gravity of seventeen, and attempting at each corner to grasp her flying skirts, but ever failing intentionally, out of compliment to her lightness of foot. Her paleness had quite disappeared, and as she laughed at me through the legs of the yew peacocks, she looked like a young nymph. She began to sing hurriedly, in a silvery voice, in imitation of some gaffer:—

  ‘When first I went a-waggonin’, a-waggonin’ did go,

  I filled my pairients’ hearts full of sorra’, grief, an’ woe;

  And many are the hardships that I ha’ since gone thro’.

  So sing wo, my lads, sing wo. Drive on, my lads, Yo-ho!

  For ye canna drive a waggon when the horses wunna go.’

  Every word came clear and distinct. Scarcely, however, had she begun the second verse than the sound of an approaching vehicle silenced her. We looked down the avenue, and beheld a trap drawn by a bony white horse.

  It drew up near us. A familiar voice accosted me: ‘Master Ralph.’

  To my surprise it was old Jeffreys, very haggard, and with eyes more sad than reproachful.

  ‘O Master Ralph,’ he said, ‘come back at once, for God’s sake! There’s just time enough to catch the boat, if you don’t linger a moment. Word came this morning that my poor master was dying.’

  His voice broke into sobs. Turning hastily to the child who stood aghast at my side, I gave her one quick kiss, and then sprang up to the seat, forgetful of all save the great catastrophe.

  Chapter II

  When I reached home it was to find my father dead. Had I arrived an hour sooner I should have had the gratification of holding his hand in mine during the parting moments, and have heard his last words. But my act of disobedience had prevented this, and by my secret visit to Furnivaux I had lost what would have been one of the dearest recollections of my life. He had died thinking of me, and as the last struggle began had stammered out that I was to yield myself entirely to the written instructions contained in the secret drawer of his writing-desk, and intended for my eyes alone.

  Therein I found myself directed to spend the years intervening before my coming of age at a tiny estate in northern Italy. He had purchased it several months before his death, and having such use for it in view, had furnished the house comfortably and revived the faded glories of the library. Bound by a solemn command I was to live retired from the world, and not to present myself at Furnivaux whilst Lady Barbara Verelst lived.

  The manuscript concluded mystically: ‘I have known that in your youth she will cross your path; an unscrupulous woman who cares for nought so long as her heart’s desire is fulfilled. The stars declare it. Perhaps, even as I write, she may be weaving the fatal web that is to destroy life and happiness. But the line of Fate runs on straightway. I cannot tell (for the evil destiny may overpower you) what to advise, but let justice and love ever sway you, and remember that earth’s joy is nought in comparison with that which follows. Beware, Ralph, of her I write of, wherever she be.’

  Overpowered with grief, my first impulse was a petulant and unreasonable fury against those with whom I had passed that delicious summer morning. So angry was I with the cause of my disobedience that I did not even write to Lady Barbara, and after my father’s funeral I started at once for the home he had chosen.

  Here I passed seven years of irresolute work. The management of the estate was entirely in my own hands, and I worked in a desultory fashion amongst my people, earning their affection, and being as happy as any man who has no aim in life. I had always my ideals and my recollections to think of, and I never felt a desire for stronger interests.

  At last came a time when all this ceased, and I became terribly depressed. Who can trust presentiments? I have had so many—so many true and so many false, that I have alternately believed and disbelieved in the supernatural powers in which foolish people place such absolute trust. We spend many hours in mourning over catastrophes that never occur, whilst at the time that the greatest possible disasters are affecting our fortunes, we are plunged into the lightest ecstasy.

  Yet I must confess that, when I received word from the Verelst’s lawyer that on the opening of my great-aunt’s will he had discovered a new codicil by which I was compelled to marry either Rachel or Mary, or to suffer the estates to pass entirely from our branch of the family, a long vista of ills opened before me, and I complained bitterly, because of the craftiness and self-will of the old woman, who would not believe that ought but worldly interest was necessary for marriage.

  At first I determined not to go, but as the knowledge came that, unless I did so my cousins would be plunged into poverty, I gave instructions for my trunk to be packed, and left everything in the hands of a steward. It was with considerable trepidation that I pondered over our meeting; and as I looked farewell on the gardens of my house, on the vineyards and the river, I execrated the memory of the old make-plot.

  In four days I was on the platform at Carlrhys station, watching with a sort of amazement the train that had brought me disappeari
ng at the curve, and wondering whether the letter I had written from Dover had forewarned the ladies, when a withered groom advanced and touched his hat in antiquated style.

  ‘Be ye Mr. Rafe?’ he said. ‘Why, God bless me, what am I sayin’—as if I couldn’t tell him from his likeness to Mr. Alston!’

  ‘Yes,’ I responded laughingly. ‘I am Rafe Eyre. You are from Furnivaux Castle?’ He wore the old fawn livery with pelicans wrought on the buttons, and a high white crape stock was tied around his neck. ‘You are surely not Stephen, whom my father spoke of so often?’

  ‘That I be!’ he cried.

  I remembered him perfectly now, from my father’s description. In my boyhood, I had been told that he was at least ninety; yet he was still straight as a staff.

  ‘Miss Rachel’s waiting outside in the carriage, sir,’ he said. ‘Train’s nigh upon an hour late!’

  With this gentle hint that his mistress might be growing impatient, he seized my luggage and led me to the gate, where stood a large green chariot.

  A woman’s voice accosted me. ‘I bid you welcome, cousin.’ And before I could speak I felt my hand taken and held. The sunlight was gleaming so fiercely, that I could scarcely distinguish the features that smiled beneath the crown of red-golden hair; but when I did so it was with a start of astonishment, for Rachel Verelst’s beauty had become transcendent.

  She leaned back against the soft olive velvet cushions, and after insisting on my sitting at her side, she gave the order, and we were driven through the stretches of woodland and moor, and over the miles of park road that lead to Furnivaux. Half bewildered I continually turned to look at my companion. Strange to say she did not wear mourning, but a gown of yellow tulle, worked in high relief with golden flowers, and the outline of her splendidly proportioned figure was visible through the gauzy folds.

  Whether it was that my arrival had excited her, or that it was her ordinary motion, I could not tell, but her heart was beating wildly beneath its coverings, and floods of a rich colour sped to and from her cheeks.