DEMON LOVERS V1.0 Page 3

  This lighting up of the great chamber of the Bell Tower grew at last to be of frequent and almost continual recurrence. It was, there, long ago, in times of trouble and danger, that the De Lacys of those evil days used to sit in feudal judgment upon captive adversaries, and, as tradition alleged, often gave them no more time for shrift and prayer, than it needed to mount to the battlement of the turret overhead, from which they were forthwith hung by the necks, for a caveat and admonition to all evil disposed persons viewing the same from the country beneath.

  Old Laurence observed these mysterious glimmerings with an evil and an anxious eye, and many and various were the stratagems he tried, but in vain, to surprise the audacious intruders. It is, however, I believe, a fact that no phenomenon, no matter how startling at first, if prosecuted with tolerable regularity, and unattended with any new circumstances of terror, will very long continue to excite alarm or even wonder.

  So the, family came to acquiesce in this mysterious light. No harm accompanied it. Old Laurence, as he smoked his lonely pipe in the grass-grown courtyard, would cast a disturbed glance at it, as it softly glowed out through the darkening aperture, and mutter a prayer or an oath. But he had given over the chase as a hopeless business. And Peggy Sullivan, the old dame of all work, when, by chance, for she never willingly looked toward the haunted quarter, she caught the. faint reflection of its dull effulgence with the corner of her eye, would sign herself with the cross or fumble at her beads, and deeper furrows would gather in her forehead, and her face grow ashen and perturbed. And this was not mended by the levity with which the young ladies, with whom the spectre had lost his influence, familiarity, as usual, breeding contempt, had come to talk, and even to jest, about it

  V

  The Man with the Claret-Mark

  But As The Former Excitement flagged, old Peggy Sullivan produced a new one; for she solemnly avowed that she had seen a thin-faced man, with an ugly red mark all over the side of his cheek, looking out of the same window, just at sunset before the young ladies returned from their evening walk.

  This sounded in their ears like an old woman’s dream, but still it was an excitement, jocular in the morning, and just, perhaps, a little fearful as night overspread the vast and desolate building, but still, not wholly unpleasant. This little flicker of credulity suddenly, however, blazed up into the full light of conviction.

  Old Laurence, who was not given to dreaming, and had a cool, hard head, and an eye like a hawk, saw the same figure, just about the same hour, when the last level gleam of sunset was tinting the summits of the towers and the tops of the tall trees that surrounded them.

  He had just entered the court from the great gate, when he heard all at once the hard peculiar twitter of alarm which sparrows made when a cat or a hawk invades their safety, rising all round from the thick ivy that over-climbed the wall on his left, and raising his eyes listlessly, he saw, with a sort of shock, a thin, ungainly man, standing with his legs crossed, in the recess of the window from which the light was wont to issue, leaning with his elbows on the stone mullion, and looking down with a sort of sickly sneer, his hollow yellow cheeks being deep stained on one side with what is called a “claret mark.”

  “I have you at last, you villain!” cried Larry, in a strange rage and panic: “Drop down out of that on the grass here, and give yourself up, or I’ll shoot you.”

  The threat was backed with an oath, and he drew from his coat pocket the long holster pistol he was wont to carry, and covered his man cleverly.

  “I give you while I count ten—one-two-three-four. If you draw back, I’ll fire, mind; five-six—you’d better be lively— seven-eight-nine—one chance more; will you come down? Then take it—ten!”

  Bang went the pistol. The sinister stranger was hardly fifteen feet removed from him, and Larry was a dead shot. But this time he made a scandalous miss, for the shot knocked a little white dust from the stone wall a full yard at one side; and the fellow never shifted his negligent posture or qualified his sardonic smile during the procedure.

  Larry was mortified and angry.

  “You’ll not get off this time, my tulip!” he said with a grin, exchanging the smoking weapon for the loaded pistol in reserve.

  “What are you pistolling, Larry?” said a familiar voice close by his elbow, and he saw his master, accompanied by a handsome young man in a cloak.

  “That villain, your honour, in the window, there.”

  “Why there’s nobody there, Larry,” said De Lacy, with a laugh, though that was no common indulgence with him.

  As Larry gazed, the figure somehow dissolved and broke up without receding. A hanging tuft of yellow and red ivy nodded queerly in place of the face, some broken and discoloured masonry in perspective took up the outline and colouring of the arms and figure, and two imperfect red and yellow lichen streaks carried on the curved tracing of the long spindle shanks. Larry blessed himself, and drew his hand across his damp forehead, over his bewildered eyes, and could not speak for a minute. It was all some devilish trick; he could take his oath he saw every feature in the fellow’s face, the face and buttons of his cloak and doublet, and even his long finger nails and thin yellow fingers that overhung the cross-shaft of the window, where there was now nothing but a rusty stain left.

  The young gentleman who had arrived with De Lacy, staid that night and shared with great apparent relish the homely fare of the family. He was a gay and gallant Frenchman, and the beauty of the younger lady, and her pleasantry and spirit, seemed to make his hours pass but too swiftly, and the moment of parting sad.

  When he had departed early in the morning, Ultor De Lacy had a long talk with his elder daughter, while the younger was busy with her early dairy task, for among their retainers this proles generosa reckoned a “kind” little Kerry cow.

  He told her that he had visited France since he had been last at Cappercullen, and how good and gracious their sovereign had been, and how he had arranged a noble alliance for her sister Una. The young gentleman was of high blood, and though not rich, had, nevertheless, his acres and his nom de terre, besides a captain’s rank in the army. He was, in short, the very gentleman with whom they had parted only that morning. On what special business he was now in Ireland there was no necessity that he should speak; but being here he had brought him hither to present him to his daughter, and found that the impression she had made was quite what was desirable.

  “You, you know, dear Alice, are promised to a conventual life. Had it been otherwise—”

  He hesitated for a moment.

  “You are right, dear father,” she said, kissing his hand, “I am so promised, and no earthly tie or allurement has power to draw me from that holy engagement.”

  “Well,” he said, returning her caress, “I do not mean to urge you upon that point. It must not, however, be until Una’s marriage has taken place. That cannot be, for many good reasons, sooner than this time twelve months; we shall then exchange this strange and barbarous abode for Paris, where are many eligible convents, in which are entertained as sisters some of the noblest ladies of France; and there, too, in Una’s marriage will be continued, though not the name, at all events the blood, the lineage, and the title which, so sure as justice ultimately governs the course of human events, will be again established, powerful and honoured in this country, the scene of their ancient glory and transitory misfortunes. Meanwhile, we must not mention this engagement to Una. Here she runs no risk of being sought or won; but the mere knowledge that her hand was absolutely pledged, might excite a capricious opposition and repining such as neither I nor you would like to see; therefore be secret.”

  The same evening he took Alice with him for a ramble round the castle wall, while they talked of grave matters, and he as usual allowed her a dim and doubtful view of some of those cloud-built castles in which he habitually dwelt, and among which his jaded hopes revived.

  They were walking upon a pleasant short sward of darkest green, on one side overhung by the gray
castle walls, and on the other by the forest trees that here- and there closely approached it, when precisely as they turned the angle of the Bell Tower, they were encountered by a person walking directly towards them. The sight of a stranger, with the exception of the one visitor introduced by her father, was in this place so absolutely unprecedented, that Alice was amazed and affrighted to such a degree that for a moment she stood stock-still.

  But there was more in this apparition to excite unpleasant emotions, than the mere circumstance of its unexpectedness. The figure was very strange, being that of a tall, lean ungainly man, dressed in a dingy suit, somewhat of a Spanish fashion, with a brown laced cloak, and faded red stockings. He had long lank legs, long arms, hands, and fingers, and a very long sickly face, with a drooping nose, and a sly sarcastic leer, and a great purplish stain over-spreading more than half of one cheek.

  As he strode past, he touched his cap with his thin, discoloured fingers and an ugly side glance, and disappeared round the comer. The eyes of father and daughter followed him in silence.

  Ultor De Lacy seemed first absolutely terror-stricken, and then suddenly inflamed with ungovernable fury. He dropped his cane on the ground, drew his rapier, and, without wasting a thought on his daughter, pursued.

  He just had a glimpse of the retreating figure as it disappeared round the far angle. The plume, and the lank hair, the point of the rapier-scabbard, the flutter of the skirt of the cloak, and one red stocking and heel; and this was the last he saw of him.

  When Alice reached his side, his drawn sword still in his hand, be was in a state of abject agitation.

  “Thank Heaven, he’s gone!” she exclaimed.

  “He’s gone,” echoed Ultor, with a strange glare.

  “And you are safe,” she added, clasping his hand.

  He sighed a great sigh.

  “And you don’t think he’s coming back?”

  “Hel—Who?”

  “The stranger who passed us but now. Do you know him, father?”

  “Yes—and—no, child—I know him not—and yet I know him too well. Would to heaven we could leave this accursed haunt tonight. Cursed be the stupid malice that first provoked this horrible feud, which no sacrifice and misery can appease, and no exorcism can quell or even suspend. The wretch has come from afar with a sure instinct to devour my last hope—to dog us into our last retreat—and to blast with his triumph the very dust and ruins of our house. What ails that stupid priest that he has given over his visits? Are my children to be left without mass or confession—the sacraments which guard as well as save—because he once loses his way in a mist, or mistakes a streak of foam in the brook for a dead man’s face? D—n him!”

  “See, Alice, if he won’t come,” he resumed, “you must only write your confession to him in full—you and Una. Laurence is trusty, and will carry it—and we’ll get the bishop’s—or, if need be, the Pope’s leave for him to give you absolution. I’ll move heaven and earth, but you shall have the sacraments, poor children!—and see him. I’ve been a wild fellow in my youth, and never pretended to sanctity; but I know there’s but one safe way—and—and—keep you each a bit of this—(he opened a small silver box)—about you while you stay here—fold and sew it up reverently in a bit of the old psaltery parchment and wear it next your hearts—’tis a fragment of the consecrated wafer—and will help you with the saints’ protection, to guard you from harm—and be strict in fasts, and constant in prayer—I can do nothing—nor devise any help. The curse has fallen, indeed, on me and mine.”

  And Alice, saw, in silence, the tears of despair roll down his pale and agitated face.

  This adventure was also a secret, and Una was to hear nothing of it

  VI

  Voices

  Now Una, nobody knew why, began to lose spirit, and to grow pale. Her fun and frolic were quite gone! Even her songs ceased. She was silent with her sister, and loved solitude better. She said she was well, and quite happy, and could in no wise be got to account for the lamentable change that had stolen over her. She had grown odd too, and obstinate in trifles; and strangely reserved and cold.

  Alice was very unhappy in consequence. What was the cause of this estrangement—had she offended her, and how? But Una had never before borne resentment for an hour. What could have altered her entire nature so? Could it be the shadow and chill of coming insanity?

  Once or twice, when her sister urged her with tears and entreaties .to disclose the secret of her changed spirits and demeanour, she seemed to listen with a sort of silent wonder and suspicion, and then she looked for a moment full upon her, and seemed on the very point of revealing all. But the earnest dilated gaze stole downward to the floor, and subsided into an odd wily smile, and she began to whisper to herself, and the smile and the whisper were both a mystery to Alice.

  She and Alice slept in the same bedroom—a chamber in a projecting tower—which on their arrival, when poor Una was so merry, they had hung round with old tapestry and decorated fantastically according to their skill and frolic. One night, as they went to bed, Una said, as if speaking to herself—

  “ Tis my last night in this room—I shall sleep no more with Alice.”

  “And what has poor Alice done, Una, to deserve your strange unkindness?”

  Una looked on her curiously, and half frightened, and then the odd smile stole over her face like a gleam of moonlight.

  “My poor Alice, what have you to do with it?” she whispered.

  “And why do you talk of sleeping no more with me?” said Alice.

  “Why? Alice dear—no why—no reason—only a knowledge that it must be so, or Una will die.”

  “Die, Una darling!—what can you mean?”

  “Yes, sweet Alice, die, indeed. We must all die some time, you know, or—or undergo a change; and my time is near— very near—unless I sleep apart from you.”

  “Indeed, Una, sweetheart, I think you are ill, but not near death.”

  “Una knows what you think, wise Alice—but she’s not mad—on the contrary, she’s wiser than other folks.”

  “She’s sadder and stranger too,” said Alice, tenderly. “Knowledge is sorrow,” answered Una, and she looked across the room through her golden hair which she was combing—and through the window, beyond which lay the tops of the great trees, and the still foliage of the glen in the misty moonlight

  “Tis enough, Alice dear; it must be so. The bed must move hence, or Una’s bed will be low enough ere long. See, it shan’t be far though, only into that small room.”

  She pointed to an inner room or closet opening from that in which they lay. The walls of the building were hugely thick, and there were double doors of oak between the chambers, and Alice thought, with a sigh, how completely separated they were going to be.

  However she offered no opposition. The change was made, and the girls for the first time since childhood lay in separate chambers. A few nights afterwards, Alice awoke late in the night from a dreadful dream, in which the sinister figure which she and her father had encountered in their ramble round the castle walls, bore a principal part.

  When she awoke there were still in her ears the sounds which had mingled in her dream. They were notes of a deep, ringing, bass voice rising from the glen beneath the castle walls—something between humming and singing—listlessly unequal and intermittent, like the melody of a man whiling away the hours over his work. While she was wondering at this unwonted minstrelsy, there came a silence, and—could she believe her ears?—it certainly was Una’s dear low contralto—softly singing a bar or two from the window. Then once more silence—and then again the strange manly voice, faintly chaunting from the leafy abyss.

  With a strange wild feeling of suspicion and terror, Alice glided to the window. The moon who sees so many things, and keeps all secrets, with her cold impenetrable smile, was high in the sky. But Alice saw the red flicker of a candle from Una’s window, and, she thought the shadow of her head against the deep side of wall of its recess. Then this
was gone, and there were no more sights or sounds that night.

  As they sat at breakfast, the small birds were singing merrily from among the sun-tipped foliage.

  “I love this music,” said Alice, unusually pale and sad; “it comes with the pleasant light of morning. I remember, Una, when you used to sing, like those gay birds, in the fresh beams of the morning; that was in the old time, when Una kept no secret from poor Alice.”

  “And Una knows what her sage Alice means; but there are other birds, silent all day long, and, they say, the sweetest too, that love to sing by night alone.”

  So things went on—the elder girl pained and melancholy—the younger silent, changed, and unaccountable.

  A little while after this, very late one night, on awaking, Alice heard a conversation being carried on in her sister’s room. There seemed to be no disguise about it. She could not distinguish the words, indeed, the walls being some six feet thick, and two great oak doors intercepting. But Una’s dear voice, and the deep bell-like tones of the unknown, made up the dialogue.

  Alice sprung from her bed, threw her clothes about her, and tried to enter her sister’s room; but the inner door was bolted. They ceased to speak as she knocked, and Una opened it, and stood before her in her night-dress, candle in hand.

  “Una—Una, darling, as you hope for peace, tell me who is here?” cried frightened Alice, with her trembling arms about her neck.

  Una drew back, with her large innocent blue eyes fixed full upon her.