A Night on the Moor and Other Tales of Dread Page 6

  When we had conversed for a while on the matters of playwriting—he himself was one of those discontented characters who aspire to everything, and he would ask much of me concerning the general make and conduct of a drama—the mute came forward, after sundry signs of impatience, and speaking as it were with his fingers, imparted some news to his master. From a motion of his head I understood that he was telling of my encounter with Lady Millicent; and my fears proved too well-founded; for Campion turned to me with a suspicious face, and, immediately, though with courteous words, he brought our interview to a conclusion, pleading that an important experiment would be destroyed if it were not viewed at once. He expressed no desire to see me again, whereat I was sorry; for my meeting with the woman whose memory I had cherished so long had filled me with a hope of many exquisite hours. But I went back to my house, and that same day gave Arbel Strype, my mistress, a small farm in Dorsetshire, and liberty to marry: then dismissed her, glad that it had lain in my power to make her becoming provision.

  In the evening I went again to the play, and, as before, I saw Sir Humphreville Campion in attendance on the royal party. I saluted him; but to my surprise had no acknowledgment. It seemed either that he had forgotten me altogether, or that some jealous fear had so blinded him that he could not force himself to be courteous. Next day the illness of my mother, who was living on her dower at Amnest, called me to her bedside, where I remained until the end, which took place a se’nnight afterwards. The arrangements for her obsequies and the winding up of her affairs so engaged me that I had little time to think of other matters: indeed, I had half resolved to withdraw altogether from town life when news came that Sir Humphreville Campion had been despatched on a secret mission to the Court of Spain, and in the hope of meeting his lady I repaired to my house in Gracious Street. Here, to my amaze, I found an epistle, with the Campion crest of a dragon on the seal. It was from Lady Millicent herself.

  ‘Sir,’ it read, ‘if it be true there are reasons why you should not visit me, I pray you explain them. I am alone here: Campion at this moment is in Madrid. I have little to tell except that every available word of your writing I have perused, and won great pleasure therefrom; that I would willingly play student to your better intelligence: there are many things I would choose to learn from you. Write to me on your return from the country, and tell me that we may meet, and that shortly. All my old friends are alienated: you alone are left to remind me of an innocent past. But of this no more.—Millicent Campion.’

  I went: she received me in state. The old Dowager-Countess of Dorel, blind and deaf by reason of her years, sat with us through the interview, and we talked to our hearts’ content. A pretty fable Lady Millicent told me; called by herself The New Andromeda, which she had writ for a fancy of her own. ’Twas of a young child tied to a rock for a warlock to devour—another Dragon of Wantley, forsooth. The babe, innocent of her fate, plays and frolics; Perseus—or More of More Hall, or what you will—comes by,—is too innocent to understand the danger—and little mistress is left for the warlock. I could see that she meant her own history: I was the useless hero—she, the victim. Old madam nodded in her chair the while. When the time came to depart Millicent said she was leaving London on the morrow by Sir Humphreville’s command, to retire to a country seat in the Yorkshire fells until her master’s return. Byland Grange was the place: if I would honour it with a visit, she would herself show me the riches of the hills and valleys. That there was little of the really happy in the world she made no doubt: let each choose his own joy. When I took her hand she said, ‘’Tis the same ring I wore at Dorel’s: as years passed it chafed and was enlarged: now it chafes again.’

  Three days afterwards I started to follow her, half in hopes to come up with her equipage, but it seemed she had the advantage and ever kept a day in front. I rode the two hundred and forty miles in four days, and it was on a Sunday afternoon when I led my horse into the yard of the Campion Arms, and bespoke a chamber. My man followed by post with mails; but I did not wait for ceremony, and having eaten in haste, I passed through the stately gates of the park. A spacious wilderness lay before me, netted with undergrowth green in the spring’s triumph. Rivulets leaped across the clean stoned path, and crags frowned, their feet laved in clear pools, where strange waterfowl swam, their sides almost hidden beneath mosses and tangles of dove’s-foot. Here and there belvideres watched down vistas, terminated by fish-ponds or stairlike ranges of peaks.

  So great was the loveliness that I paused: in my most lively dreams I had never imagined aught like so perfect. As I stood I heard the cry of cuckoo, then from the distance the laughing mockery of a voice. Years rolled away like a mist, I was a boy again, she a girl; vice and dishonesty and sadness had all disappeared, and life was fresh and sweet as in those days of old. I ran clapping my hands to a coppice of firs, which, as firs are used, had caught about its trunks a golden mist, and there I found Millicent, knee-deep in bracken.

  There is a certain tremulous joy whose remembrance pains me almost too much to describe. When I said before that we were boy and girl again I spoke rashly, though children we were in a sense. But we were weaker because of our age: children love for very joy of heart and innocence, men and women love for love’s sake. There was no reticence in either, we gave ourselves to each other with freedom and without shame. Neither had lived so long as to be unconscious that true love—true passion—is the completion of existence. She loitered at my side through the open park, where stands a ruined abbey, and along glades to the terrace of the house. Byland Grange is one of the strangest mansions in our country, standing against an abruptly rising cliff which mountain ashes and silver birches cover with greenery. The building is of red brick, with two wings and a court garden, and so covered with ivy that from the distance it seems like a cluster of rare trees with ruddy trunks and branches. The sun had taken the windows, and the whole front was chequered with glittering lights.

  The great door stood open: we went into a hall where stood wooden knights in complete panoply. At the end were two flights of stairs, which joined to a corridor that pierced the house: in niches fountains fell with pleasing music from satyrs’ heads and dolphins’ mouths. In a chamber of faded colours we sat together on the same settee, silently, heedless of the hours. Through the window we saw the moon disentangle herself from the tree-tops, the stars twinkle out one by one. Not until candles were brought did I take my leave, and then I entreated my mistress to meet me early on the morrow.

  At parting she looked at me long and earnestly. ‘We are carried away by some hidden current,’ she said. ‘Passion has entrapped us; we must be happy and we must suffer! Thus!’ And she stood tip-toe and kissed me; her warm sweet tresses falling on my shoulder. At my inn I tossed all night awake—a battlefield of hopes and fears; so that when I arose in the morning I was haggard and languid. Of that I took no heed; but hastily donning my clothes, I ate, and hurried to the meeting-place. I had not waited a minute before she swept down, tired-looking and big-eyed. She wore a royal gown, somewhat like one I had read of in a description of the Princess Elizabeth’s wardrobe. It was of a pure satin, in colour betwixt apple green and rose; once it shone the one, again the other; and the skirt was embroidered with eyes of amethyst and seed pearls.

  In our talk we made no mention of Campion: ’twas as if each were in a little world some genius forbade him to enter. But as time passed we grew less and less masters of ourselves. This day our tongues were loosened, but neither rhyme nor reason came, and we babbled like hoyden and hobble-de-hoy. In a little arbour near the abbey she had ordered a collation of fruit and wine to be placed, and at noon we ate and drank together; then strolled on amongst the giant beeches. The heat of the sun overpowered us, and we sat to rest; she unlaced her bodice to breathe the freer, and, like me, weary for lack of sleep, let her head sink back to the green grass. With the movement the kerchief fell loosely from her throat, and showed me, lying upon her breast, a curious miniature of myself, wrought by some
unknown hand and framed in rubies. My hand caught hers; I grew drowsier and drowsier until we slept. We lay thus for three hours, when both were awakened rudely by the sound of a thunder-clap. We sat up and beheld the skies of a uniform blackness. Heavy drops of rain began to fall; almost ere we had reached the open we felt water on our skin. But the sight of the storm was so terrible and tragical that we took no care for ourselves. My mistress was not frightened: the gods were holding a chariot race, she said, and indeed the rumbling sounded as if it were so.

  The forks leaped across the fells: when they passed over water, it seemed to hiss; avenues of flame opened from one end of the park to another. The strong wind caught the trees and made them kiss the ground; the evening was pregnant with inquietude. We sheltered in an archway of the abbey: in mortal peril there, for stones that steamed with the uncooled heat were cast about our heads. It was well-nigh dark before there came a lull; and Millicent was so outworn with the strife of the elements that she could scarce move. So I took her in my arms and stumbled across the wilderness to the Grange. There the servants, who were old and careless, had not so much as taken note of their lady’s absence.

  She hastened to her chamber, and sent dry clothes to me; some grandsire’s garments taken from an ancient press and heavy with the odour of musk. I donned them, and saw myself a courtier of Henry’s time in doublet and hose of slashed velvet. The storm did not abate; and when I descended from the place where I had shifted to a parlour on the ground floor, I had given to me a hasty note. ‘I am tired,’ it ran, ‘to-night I cannot see you; a bedchamber is prepared; honour me by spending the night here.’

  My heart sank now at the thought of times apart from her; but I strove to wile the hours with a lute I found; and I made verses on my lady’s beauty, which I wrote on some tablets that lay in the window-seat. At midnight I retired to bed, where, being still exhausted, I fell asleep immediately—to dream that terrible and most sweet day all over again. I woke in an hour. Outside the wind shrieked and howled: it shook the mullions; strange things rattled across the panes. My candle, which I had forgotten to blow out, was guttering in the socket.

  Suddenly I heard a woman’s cry—it was repeated—it rang above the noise of tempest: ‘Francis, O Francis, help me! they are killing me!—they are killing me!’

  I sprang from bed and ran into the corridor, my feet clapping loudly on the plaster floor. At the further end was an open door, with a brilliant gleam. All indoors was quiet: on the threshold I paused, seeing a golden bedstead, hung with curtains of tissue, and the shape of a woman beneath the covering.

  Again came that frightful cry—fainter and fainter, ‘Francis, my Francis, help me!—help me!’

  Then I went to the bedside and tore aside the fabric; to behold my mistress’s face all contorted as with fear and pain. Forgetful of all save my desire to drive away her torturing fancies (for I saw that she rode the wild mare), I leaped upon the pillow and caught her head to my lap, where the grey eyes opened in wonderment, and a flush spread over the cheeks. She gave one laughing sigh—a woman’s whinny; then thrust out her arms and clasped my waist. . . . .

  At that moment came the sounds of bolts undrawn and doors banging; then followed a loud tumult in the hall below—then a quavering of voices hushed by one sharp and loud. I would have drawn away for her sake; but her hands were locked.

  ‘It is he,’ she whispered. ‘How he comes I know not. Stay with me to the end.’

  The clamping of shoes, the clinking of spurs moved along the gallery; then Sir Humphreville and the mute came through the open door. Jealous hatred flashed on us from the knight’s eyes; he held his sword before him; I could see him tremble.

  ‘Adulteress!’ He spoke no more than the one word.

  Lady Millicent smiled—still from my lap. ‘Think you so?’ she said.

  At a motion from him the Saracen came forward, holding a knife. The garments of both dropped water on the floor. The mute pricked those white fingers till they unclasped, then dragged me away. I flung myself upon him, naked as I was, but his long arms held me like serpents, so that hardly might I breathe. Then Campion tore down one of the curtains and bound me to a chair. He seemed to meditate. Millicent his wife gave no sign of fear, but lay watching from her disordered pillow. At last he locked the door and stood between us.

  ‘In all things I chose refinement,’ he said. ‘If I were a boor, both of you should die—both be sent into lasting damnation together. But as I hold that those who love meet in the next world, one of you shall go, the other be left, so that such joy you may not have. For my own easement, and the better that I may attend to my particular work, I think best that you, Madam Whore, should be the one to bleed.’

  She stepped from the bed. ‘Wonderful man, wonderful genius,’ she said scornfully, ‘I am ready.’

  Campion tore off her lawn smock, so that she stood before us in naked beauty. ‘Fie upon you!’ she said, ‘to treat a woman thus.’

  He drew her towards a large silver bath that lay in an alcove, there he forced her to lie in the water. I began to struggle, but the gelding tied a kerchief round my neck, and offered the point of his knife at my heart. I tried to press forward on it, but he broke the skin, and then withdrew it. Again and again I strove, ever without success.

  Then Sir Humphreville took from his breast an emerald pencil, which, being opened, revealed a tiny lancet. He knelt where Millicent lay, and breathed a vein in her lovely arm. A fountain of blood pulsed out, discolouring first the water around her shoulders, then circling in clouds to her feet.

  She turned and brought her eyes to mine, they were laughing still.

  ‘When we come together again, Frank,’ she said faintly, ‘’twill be in God’s sight.’

  Dimness overcame my eyes, and for a while I could scarce see, but on my brain was printing the form of a naked woman lying on a mattress of blood and silver. . . .

  ‘How we met boy and girl! how I loved you in my heart of hearts! Speak to me, Frank. Shall we . . . shall we be young again some day?’

  I sought to answer, but my tongue forsook its office; at my side the mute made his horrid attempt at speech. Sir Humphreville drew himself upright and folded his arms waiting for the end. From the bath a steam began to rise, the smell of blood filled the room.

  She made effort to turn on her side, but she could not. From her lips came the word cuckoo—just as she had mocked the bird at Dorel’s . . . . Campion knelt again and clapped his hand over her mouth, thinking haply she was jeering him in death. Moan came after moan: such a sound as a weeping angel might make. There was a faint splashing, then silence.

  . . . . It is all told.

  What spells and charms were worked on me, I cannot tell. When six months after I found myself at Amnest, brought by means I knew nothing of, all desire of vengeance as of life had gone. It seemed to me, while Sir Humphreville lived, I could not publish this history to the world: for—perhaps by some enchantment learned in his pursuit of hidden knowledge—he had gained a great power over me. No will was left: I was doomed to feebleness both of mind and body.

  Yet this scripture must be done, for traduction hath been at work with a most noble lady, and before I go to her I would fain have the world to understand.

  Midsummer Madness

  PART I: The Marriage Eve

  She had never looked fairer, for the full moonlight fell on her bosom and arms, and threw into her sweet face a statuesque quietness. For a while the curious question of whether the garden were or not a fitting background for her beauty puzzled me; but soon, with a self-pitying smile, I gave my attention again to her whose inspirations governed mine. She was leaning against a great vase, from whose margin toad’s flax and creeping violets—flowers she loved—hung in clusters, with odours floating about in almost tangible clouds.

  We were to be married on the morrow, and I was excited and was scarce myself. I dared not think of my courtship; for the knowledge that her affection was too great a gift—that I was indeed unwo
rthy to approach that white, delicious creature whose subtle potency forced me against my will to love her—this knowledge, I say, confounded me beyond belief.

  Fate had thrown us together, ironically matching a woman whose story was irredeemably sad with a man wounded in a thousand struggles, who bore no other trophy to lay at her feet than a dead youth. She had stooped with more than human tenderness, and had raised me to her breast, and pressed my head there until the heated brow had cooled, and the temple-throbbings ceased.

  As time passed I essayed a question. Had it not been desecration I would have leaned forward and pressed that bare shoulder with my lips. As it was, the purity hindered me: I could as soon have kissed the heavens.

  ‘Once more, Phyllida, for the last time in our unwedded life,’ I said, ‘tell me, with all your heart, if you love me?’

  I looked for her simple assurance, accompanied by the fond chiding that maddened me; and waited tremulously for answering. None such came, and looking into her face I saw a strange air of abstraction. Wounded by her indifference, I repeated my question.

  She turned wearily. ‘Why do you ask?’ she said. ‘I have often said that I love you. Let me be silent for awhile—not alone, (seeing that I was hurt, and that I moved away)—‘your presence is enough for me: to know that you are here, and that I may touch you when I will.’

  Vainly enough, jealous perhaps of her thoughts, I now strove to compare Phyllida with the splendour of her surroundings; and pained by her apathetic humour, I fancied as my eyes glanced over the landscape that her beauty suffered in comparison. Behind us lay the half-ruined gables of Colmer Hall. Hebe’s urn in the terrace fountain was brimful of clear water, and the mantle of scarlet moss that time had spread over the statue seemed trebly luxuriant in the clare-obscure of the moonlight. The windows of the morning parlour were thrown open, and the lamplight showed those quaint thread-embroideries of fabulous beast and fowl and fish; one outcome of the over-exuberant fancy of Phyllida’s ancestress, Margot Colmer.