Let me write down, as calmly as I can, exactly what has taken place.
Yesterday, after that little scene, I carried my swooning-wife up to her room, placed her on the bed, and sent her maid to attend to her. Then I walked off to my den, to have my dark hour alone; for I was thoroughly miserable. So far, I felt, I had been beaten with my own weapons. Ellen was going to pose as a Christian martyr, and I had committed the indiscretion of showing the full extent of my jealousy. It would have been far better, on the whole, if, instead of storming and grumbling, I had quietly kicked the clergyman out of my house; but then, I could hardly deal in that way with a man who had simply, on the face of it, performed an act of common civility. The time for kicking had gone past; I had stupidly let it slip. If, when I caught him in the act of trying to embrace my Ellen, and of addressing her softly by her Christian name, I had calmly and decisively thrashed him, he could hardly have accused me of impoliteness; nor would he have been able, without exposing his own fatuity, to noise the affair about.
Now, I was not only angry with my wife for her indiscretion, I was in a rage with myself for having behaved with so much brutality. The picture of her pale, suffering face followed me to my den, and haunted me reproachfully. She had really met with an accident, and was in sharp physical pain; and I, who at another time would have cut off my right hand to prevent her little finger from aching, had chosen the time of her suffering to come upon her like a woman-eating tiger. Just the husband’s luck again—always at a disadvantage; for precisely to the degree in which she felt herself treated unkindly and ungently by me, would rise her sympathy for the man who had been so zealous and so tender. Damn him, again!
The night passed wretchedly enough.
I sat up working till nearly daybreak. When I went upstairs, and entered my dressing-room, I felt guilty and ashamed, yet angry still. But she was asleep—I could hear her soft breathing from the adjoining bedchamber. Lamp in hand, I crept in. Yes, there she lay, soundly slumbering, her eyes red with weeping, her dark hair falling wildly around her pallid face, her neck and throat bare, her arms outside the coverlid, which rose and fell with her breathing. As I bent over her, my shadow crossed her soul in sleep, and she moaned and stirred. Poor child! I longed to kiss her, but I was ashamed.
I think we men, the strongest and coldest of us even, are weak as water, where a woman is concerned. I used to fancy once that, if a wife of mine failed in faith, or fell away from me in sin, I could strike her dead without pity; or if I suffered her to live, pass an eternity with no thought but loathing and detestation. But as I bent over that sad bed, I seemed to understand how it was that husbands, in the fulness of time, had pardoned even that, the foulest and deadliest of infidelities; how, with a love stronger than sin, and a hope stronger than death, they had welcomed back the penitent, in forgiveness, sorrow, and despair—even as a father would take back an erring child, part of the very blood and life within his veins. Weakness, I know; but weak as water, in virtue of its very strength, is Love.
It was horrible, horrible, this falling away from each other. I wished, just then, that I had had religion; perhaps then we might have been happier together. Women love a sort of matrimonial Village Blacksmith, who asks no questions, works hard all the week, and goes three times to church, in an irreproachably white shirt, on Sunday. They cannot bear revolt in any shape. They were the last to cling to the old gods, and they will be last to cling to the dead Christ. Does the law which works for righteousness, somehow or other, justify them? Was my dear wife’s alienation a curse upon me for dealing in occult scientific mysteries, like an old necromancer, and forgetting, if I ever learned, the sweet religion of the heart? Somehow, last night, I felt as if it were so. There she lay, white as snow. I knew she had prayed to God before sleeping; and I—I could not pray. I was an outcast, an unbeliever; “atheist! atheist!” said the preacher.
I crept away to my own solitary bed, feeling more sad and lonely than I had ever done in all my life.
Till midday to-day, she kept her room; but after lunch, she managed to get downstairs. I had returned to my den, and we did not meet; nor was I in the mood for meeting, for the gentle impulses of overnight had passed away, and the morning had found me gloomy, quarrelsome, and atrabilious. She did not send for me, though I secretly hoped that she might do so. I learned from Baptisto that she was stretched upon the drawing-room sofa, which was drawn close to the window, and was reading some religious book.
Restless and wretched, I took my hat and walked out into the snow. The great fir trees, loaded with the leaden whiteness, were ranged like grim sentinels on each side of the dreary avenue, and beyond these the leafless woods stretched white and cold. The sun had gone in, and the air was full of a heavy lowering sadness—a sort of darkness visible. It was cheerless weather; and as I thought of my domestic misery, and of the clouded world, with all its sins and sorrows, I was more miserable than ever.
Nevertheless, I walked on rapidly, till I came out among the frozen fields of the open country. How desolate looked the snowy meadows, with broad patches of green, thaw-like mildew, and the fallow fields, with snow thick in the furrows and wretched low-lying hedges on every side! Here and there a few miserable small birds were fluttering, starved robins for the most part; and a kestrel was hunting the furrow, hovering in a slow, dejected way, as if field-mice were scarce, and his whole occupation, like the weather, cruelly forlorn.
Before four o’clock it was quite dark.
Through the windy darkness I made my way back to the Manor. By that time I had thought it all over. Conquered by the utter desolation within and without me, I had said to myself, “Life like this is worse than death. I will try one way more; I will go to her, I will take her to my heart, I will beg her to love and trust me, and to accept my tender forgiveness. Perhaps I have been too hard, too taciturn and sullen. She has mistaken my sorrow for coldness, my pride for cruelty and pertinacity. There shall be an end to this. She shall understand the full tenderness of my love, once and for ever.” With these thoughts struggling wildly within me, I hastened home.
Then, as the devil would have it, I saw Baptisto, waiting on the threshold of my den. The moment I appeared he crept up to me, and clutched my arm.
“Senor, senor! where have you been? I have been waiting for you.”
“What is it, man?” I asked, startled by his manner.
“Come and see!”
He led me towards the house. I walked a few steps, then paused nervously.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“Nothing, senor; but the clergyman is here again, with my lady.”
That was enough. It turned my tenderness into anger, my lethargy into passion. Shaking off the fellow’s touch, I hastened to the house. As I went I saw lights in the drawing-room; and, instead of entering the house door, I ascended the flight of iron steps which leads to the terrace. Then, with the cunning of jealousy, cold enough to subdue the fever of rage, I crept along the terrace till I reached the folding doors of the drawing-room. The doors were closed, the curtains and blinds were drawn, but there was one small space through which I could see into the room.
I looked in.
For a moment my eyes, clouded by the darkness, were dazzled by the light of the room within; but despite the loud crying of the wind around me, I heard a murmur of voices. Then I distinguished the form of my wife on a sofa drawn up before the fire, and, bending over her, the form of the minister. Her back was turned to me, but I saw his face, noticed the burning eyes fixed eagerly on hers.
What were they saying—doing? I strained my eyes, my ears. At last I caught a sound. “Go now!” she was saying; “go now, I beseech you!”
Even as she spoke, he flung himself wildly on his knees, placing his arms around her.
“Oh, you are mad, mad!” she cried.
“Not mad, but desperate,” he answered. “I have thought it all over; I have struggled and struggled, but it is in vain. Ellen, have pity! There is no peace or happiness for me, in this world or the next, without your love. My darling! my angel!”
“Silence, for God’s sake! Oh, if you should be heard——”
“I do not care who hears me. I am beyond fear. As for that man, your husband, he is busy, no doubt, with his blasphemous books, his sinful investigations. Oh, my darling, that you should be linked to such a man! A man without religion—a man without God! It was that which first made me pity you, and pity is akin to love. You owe him no duty. He is a heretic—an atheist, as you know.”
As he clung to her and embraced her, she struggled nervously. Carried beyond himself, he covered her hands-with kisses, and would have kissed her lips, but she drew back.
“Go, go!” she moaned. “Hark! I hear footsteps. If you do not go now, I will never speak to you again.”
He rose to his feet, hot, flushed, and trembling like a leaf.
“I will go, since you wish it,” he said. “Good night, my darling!”
He stooped over, and—kissed her? Yes, I was sure he kissed her, though I think she shrunk away, with her face nervously turned to the door, dreading a surprise. Then I saw his shadow cross the room, and vanish through the door, which was closed behind him.
I was about to force open the French windows and enter, when a curious impulse possessed me to delay a little, and see what she would do when left alone. So I watched her. She sat trembling on her seat; then, reaching to the table, took a flask of eau-de-cologne, poured some upon her handkerchief, and bathed her face. Then, with momentary glances at the door, she smoothed down her straggling hair, and adjusted the bosom of her dress. Finally, she contrived, though not without pain, to rise to her feet, and, leaning on the marble mantelpiece, to look at her face in the mirror. I could see her face reflected, all flushed and warm, and her eyes gleaming with unusual brightness. After again smoothing her hair, she got back to the sofa, posed herself prettily, and, not without another glance at the door, took up a book and pretended to read.
By this time I was diabolically cool; so cool that I could have killed her just then in cold blood. Entering into the spirit of her hypocrisy, I refrained from entering by the terrace, but, passing round to the hall door, entered there. A few minutes afterwards, I entered the drawing-room, with as unconcerned an air as I could possibly command.
There she sat, quite calm and self-possessed, her robe arranged decently over her feet, her face pale, her hair smoothed down Madonna-like over her temples, her eyes fixed upon a book.
As I entered, she looked up with a sweet smile, just as if there had never been any quarrel between us.
“Well, dear? You see, I have got down.”
I nodded, and sank into a chair.
“You don’t ask me if my ankle is better? Well, it is nearly all right. But, George, I hope you are not angry with me still for what occurred yesterday. Do forgive me, dear!”
“Oh, I’m not angry,” I replied; “only——”
“Only we both lost our tempers; I with my stupid sprained ankle, you with your stupid books. I was so sorry you let Mr. Santley see you were annoyed. He must have thought it so odd.”
How light and free of heart she seemed! how bright and languishing her eyes were! She could laugh, too, and she was not much given to laughter, I looked at her with amazement, so little did I, or do I, understand women. There seemed to be an ugliness, a guiltiness, about her tender coquetry that evening, coming so close upon what I had seen.
“By the way,” she continued, after a few minutes’ pause, “I hope you will not scold me again, but I think I ought to tell you—that Mr. Santley has just called. There, now you are angry; but I thought it right to tell you.”
“Thank you,” I said drily. “I was aware that he had called. What brought him, pray?”
“He wished to ascertain if I had recovered from the effects of my fall,” she replied, with a little more nervousness than before.
“Oh, a mere visit of politeness!
“Yes,” she answered, faltering.
I rose quietly, and stood on the hearthrug, looking down upon her.
“Would it surprise you to hear,” I asked grimly, “that I know exactly what took place between you?”
Her face flushed scarlet, the book fell from her hands.
“Oh, George! what do you mean?” she murmured somewhat irrelevantly.
“Precisely what I say. He made hot love to you—embraced you—kissed you, madam. He informed you that your husband was a heretic, and that to make him a cuckold would be a certain way of getting an express pass right through to paradise. Very polite indeed, you will agree!”
She saw that I knew everything, and wrung her hands in protestation and despair.
“George, if you know so much—and some one has been playing the spy—you know that it was all against my will; you know that I tried to silence him, to thrust him from me, but, being ill and helpless, sick, and in pain——”
Here her self-pity, coming sharp upon her consternation, quite conquered her, and she fell into hysterical tears.
“O God! God!” she sobbed.
What kaleidoscopes are women! From light to shade, from brightness to dimness, and back again to brightness; from one colour to another, from the tints of the thunder-cloud to the hues of the rainbow, how suddenly they can flit and change! Ellen, who had just before been so gay and smiling, seemed now liked a broken woman. I watched her gloomily, almost despairingly. I knew that ten minutes afterwards, she might change again, scattering away her tears as the sunshine scatters the drops of dew.
Midnight.—I have just left my wife’s bedside. Ellen has promised me, if I spare the man and avoid any scandal, that she will never speak to him again, or even enter his church. Can I trust her? I believe not. However, we shall see.
Christmas Eve.—My mind is now made up. To-day I intercepted a letter from Santley to Ellen, left as usual at the lodge gate. It ran as follows:—
“To-morrow is Christmas Day, and I have not a moment to spare. I will call, however, next day, on the business about which we spoke yesterday. Pray for me till then, as I pray for you.—C. S.”
The italics are the satyr’s own.
This letter, then, has decided me. My scheme of revenge is now perfectly complete, and I shall no longer hesitate to carry it out. To make all certain, I shall send a verbal message by Baptisto to-morrow to the effect that Mrs. Haldane “will be glad to see Mr. Santley as arranged, the day after Christmas Day.” In the mean time I shall make my preparations. All the servants but two have been given a holiday for that day—I have taken care of that; and as they purpose going into the neighbouring town, they will not return till very late. The two remaining are the kitchen-maid, who is an idiot and notices nothing; and Baptisto, who is for once to combine two functions—that of cook (he cooks like an angel) and waiter at table. Ellen is quite satisfied with this arrangement. She knows nothing of Santley’s letter.
We see little or nothing of each other, and a shadow as of death hangs over the entire house.
Christmas Day.—I astonished Ellen very much this morning, by expressing my intention of accompanying her to church; but, instead of rejoicing, as she would have done a little time ago, she seemed rather frightened and startled. We drove over to the old church at Hamleigh, seven miles off, and heard a drowsy sermon by the drowsiest of octogenarians—the right sort of preacher, in my opinion, for a creed so worn out, mildewy, and old-fashioned. Ellen did not seem to share my appreciation of the old fellow’s antiquated twaddle. She sat like a marble woman. We drove home without a word.
A pretty Christmas! But, never mind, I am going to have my revenge.
Everything lends itself to my purpose. To begin with, Foxglove Manor is miles away from any other habitation; and no one ever comes near the “uncanny” place, except on special business. All the servants, but the idiot of a kitchen-maid, leave early for their holiday. For a day at least I can do as I please; and my intentions are simply murderous. In the course of twelve hours a human creature may be disposed of, and buried out of sight, if necessary, in these grounds. Baptisto knows my terrible purpose, and approves it, with his usual bloodthirstiness, to the full.
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and tomorrow!”
Come, then, my satyr, my wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I shall be ready for you—=
```“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
````The way to dusty Death!”
On the morning after Christmas Day, 18—, the Rev. Charles Santley, vicar of Omberley, rose early from that sweet slumber which only the righteous enjoy, and from those nightly visions of celestial bliss which only the pure of heart are suffered to behold. Although, infant-like, he had been “talking with angels in his sleep” all night, he looked pale, careworn, and anxious. He dressed himself with unusual care, surveyed himself again and again in the mirror, sighed softly, and descended to the sitting-room, where his sister was already awaiting him at the breakfast-table.
To his surprise, she looked unusually agitated, and addressed him eagerly the moment he appeared.
“I am so glad you are come down. Rachel has just been here from the cottage, where they are in a terrible state of alarm.”
Rachel was the name of Miss Russell’s maidservant.
“But what is the matter?”
“Edith went out early yesterday evening, and she has not returned. They cannot guess what has become of her. Oh, Charles, go over at once! If anything has happened to her!”
The clergyman listened in no little agitation.
“Did she leave no message?” he asked.
“None. She is such a strange girl; and lately, I am afraid, she has been, unhappy. I am going down to the station to make inquiries, and they fancy she may have taken the train to London.”
“It is very strange!”
“Strange? It is horrible! Oh, Charles, she has never been quite the same since her cousin came down here visiting. I thought that you were her choice, and I hoped you would some day marry her; but since young Hetherington was here——”
Santley, who had broken a little bread and drunk a cup of tea, rose impatiently.
“You women think of nothing but marrying and giving in marriage,” he said. “Well, I will go over and speak to Miss Russell. I cannot think that any harm has happened to Edith.”
“I hope and pray not. But to be-away all night—it is unaccountable.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Santley, more troubled than he cared to show, “she has gone to London.”
“But why go without a word?”
“I really cannot tell. Young ladies-take strange fancies; and if, as you suggest, there is anything between young Hetherington and herself——”
“I did not suggest anything of the kind.”
“Excuse me, Mary, you did.”
“I am sure she cares nothing for her cousin,” returned Miss Santley.
Her brother shrugged his shoulders, and, putting on his hat and overcoat, walked out of the Vicarage. On reaching the open air, where all looked dark and cold, he trembled like a leaf. What could it mean? What last freak had come over the infatuated girl? Could it be possible that she had carried out her wild threat to leave the place, and take her secret with her—perhaps to some nameless grave? He remembered their last conversation, when she had first told him of her condition, and beseeched him at once to make her his wife. He remembered how wild she had seemed, how despairing, and of how little avail, to calm her, his words had been. If any harm had come to her, the evil lay at his door. It was horrible to think of! Although another woman had come between them, although he no longer loved her with that wild frenzy which had first urged him to evil, he had still a conscience, and he could not bear to think that any harm had come to her. Then, again, he shuddered at the thought of any exposure. He had meant to marry her, sooner or later; and he had already made arrangements to’ hide from the world, any knowledge of her condition. She was to have gone away to a secret place; and then, when her travail was over, he had meant to act honourably by her. And now, by some act of madness, she had perhaps put it out of his power! Surely, if she had gone away in accordance with the plan they had made together, she would have sent him some intimation of her purpose. It was extraordinary, altogether.
On reaching the cottage, he found Miss Russell in violent grief, and quite bewildered what to do. He tried to console her, pointing out that perhaps some little lover’s quarrel with her cousin had taken her niece up to town; and the old lady listened eagerly, hoping against hope.
‘“Of late she has been so strange,” sobbed the old lady, “so unlike herself. Often, listening at her door o’ nights, I have heard her crying as if her heart was like to break; and she would never tell me what was the matter. Do you think—do you really think, sir, it was her cousin Walter?”
“I am almost certain of it,” said the good shepherd. “Did they correspond?”
“I think so—sometimes; but latterly they were estranged. Oh dear! Oh dear!”
“Depend upon it, she has gone to London to see him. You will no doubt have a letter from her in the course of the day. Keep up your spirits! Miss Dove is a good young lady, and I am sure God will protect her. Is there anything more that I can do for you?”
“It was so kind of you to come,” said the poor soul. “Your words are indeed a comfort.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. Your dear niece was always a favourite of mine.”
“Oh, sir, I know that; and sometimes I thought—— But there, it’s no time to talk of that now. If she had only gone to you for advice, you would have guided her for her good, and this would never have happened. She was always pious-minded, but latterly, I’m afraid, she didn’t go to church as often as she ought.”
“Don’t say that, Miss Russell. She was most regular in her religious duties—a pattern, indeed, to all my flock. There, there! I feel satisfied there is no cause for alarm. I will go myself and make every inquiry.”
“Oh, sir, you are an angel!” cried the old lady, looking at him in admiration. And she really meant what she said.
“Alas! no,” he answered, shaking his head solemnly—“only a poor miserable sinner. We are all miserable sinners. Good morning. Put your trust in God.”
“I do indeed, sir. But, sir, before you go, may I ask you a favour?”
“Certainly.”
“If you would kindly kneel down with me a moment, and say a prayer for my poor girl, I think it might help to bring her back. The Lord hears the prayers of the righteous, Mr. Santley.”
Thus entreated, Santley could not refuse. To do him justice, he felt no little moral nausea at the proposal; but he was helpless under the circumstances. So they knelt down in the parlour together, and the good man extemporized a short but eloquent prayer for the occasion, entreating the Lord to bring back the stray lamb to the fold, and beseeching a blessing then and for ever on all that house. Miss Russell wept profusely. His words were so beautiful, his voice so musical, his manner so seraphic. At last he rose to his feet, looking pale and almost scared at a proceeding which (to his own conscience) looked something like blasphemy; and then, amidst profuse blessings from the distracted old lady, he respectfully took his leave.
While on his way to make inquiries in the village, he met his sister returning. She had discovered nothing, save that several persons had gone on to London by the midnight train the previous night, and that one of them was a lady who might have been Miss Dove. There was nothing for it but to wait out the day, and see if any communication came. In the mean time Miss Santley said she would hasten up to the cottage, to condole and consult with Mrs. Dove.
“Shall you be in to lunch?” she asked, as they parted on the roadside.
“No; not till evening. I think I shall walk over to Lewstone, to see about some books. I will make inquiries on the way, in case Edith has gone in that direction.”
Lewstone was a small county town, seven miles off, where there was a library, a newspaper, and a great brewery. The way to it lay past Foxglove Manor. Santley did not care to tell his sister that he had an appointment with Mrs. Haldane for that morning. He knew that Miss Santley regarded with some anxiety her brother’s relations with the handsome lady of the Manor. Much as she admired him, and great as was her faith in his spiritual purity, she knew him sufficiently well to be aware that his weak point was his admiration for beauty in the opposite sex. Not for a moment did she dream—indeed, she would have supposed the idea as almost blasphemous—that that admiration was not perfectly harmless and honourable; but it led him, she thought, to take delight in feminine society generally, and to overlook the attractions of the woman she wanted him to marry. He would marry some day—it was inevitable; and she had made up her mind that he was to marry Edith, who was her friend, and would doubtless allow her to keep her place at the Vicarage, whereas another woman a stranger, might take possession of him and resent all sisterly interference.
“Shall you call at the Manor as you pass?” she inquired.
“I think so; I am not quite sure.”
“Perhaps it will be better,” she said, thoughtfully. “They may know something about Edith.”
The sun was now high up in the heavens, but deeply veiled in wintry cloud. It was a dark, dismal day-darkness in the sky and whiteness on the ground. The road which led to the Manor was unusually cheerless and dismal, and few people were abroad. Before long Santley came into the shadow of the Manor woods, which skirted one side of the highway for several miles. It was a gloomy walk.
Nevertheless, Santley soon forgot his anxiety, in the prospect of a meeting with Ellen Haldane. He had been greatly troubled the previous Christmas Day, by the fact that she had not put in an appearance at church; but her message, making the appointment, which had been duly conveyed to him by Baptisto had filled him with eager expectation. It was the first time she had actually desired him to come to her, and his hopes rose high. Perhaps his devotion had at last moved her heart; perhaps she had at last discovered that true happiness was only to be found, not with her heretic husband, but with the man whom she had loved when a girl. In the eyes of the world, there might be wickedness in tempting her from her wifely duty; but surely, in the eyes of heaven, there was no great sin. By living on with an unbeliever, she was in danger of losing her soul alive. The man was admittedly an atheist, an enemy of the Church, and she was wretched in his society, without sympathy, without conservation, without religion. And on one point the clergyman’s mind was now made up. If Ellen was willing, he would take her with him to some foreign land, where he might labour in some way useful to the Lord, and forget all the petty humiliations of an English village. There might be, there would be, a scandal; but what need they care, when they were far away? In any case, scandal was likely to come, now that Edith Dove was in so sad a predicament. No; after all, he would not marry Edith. She was a foolish girl, and would soon find a more suitable husband; and whether or not, he had long ago discovered that they were not at all suited to each other.
Thus musing, Santley drew nearer and nearer to the Manor gates.
From the glimpse we have given of his thoughts, it may be gathered that the man’s moral deterioration was at last complete. What had been at first a mere religious amorousness, a soft sensuous delight in female sympathy and female beauty, much the same as that which filled him when the organ played, and the scented incense rose, and the dainty congregation fluttered and flushed beneath him, had gradually developed, through self-indulgence, into a determined and uncontrollable sensuality. The devil, with a bait of warm nakedness, had hooked him fast. And already, in his own heart, he knew that he was lost; and so long as he reached the summit of his desires, he did not care. One sign of his degeneration was unmistakable: he had lost for ever his old faith in the chastity and purity of women. He could remember the time, not long past, when a beautiful woman was to him a spiritual thing, something sanctified, to be approached with awe—such as fills the worshipper who gazes on the Madonna of some great painter. Now he often found himself gazing on the Madonnas in his own study, with a satyr’s delight in their plumpness, their naked arms, their swelling breasts. His nature was subdued to what it worked in, like the dyer’s hand. His easy conquest over Edith Dove, whose sin was in loving so madly and so much, had degraded his whole nature. Once having snapped the chain of conventional morality, which is the only band to bind such men as this, he was reckless and exultant; and to possess Ellen Haldane, in her superb beauty and glowing womanhood, was his daily thought and his nightly dream.
This is speaking plainly, but it is a simple statement of the fact. As for the ultimate consequence of his acts, he was quite unable to realize them, having lost the power of reason and self-control.
He approached the lodge. How cold and chill it looked, in the darkness of the overhanging, snow-clad boughs! He put on his stereotyped smile, expecting to see little Mrs. Feme step out, as was her custom, and drop him a country curtsey. But the lodge seemed empty that morning.
He passed through the side gate, which was unfastened, and stepped into the avenue—the long, dreary colonnade of trees, a mile long, winding up to the steps of the Manor house. Glancing up it, he fancied he saw in the distance the figure of a man, looking his way; but in another moment it was gone.
Bleak, lonely, and inexpressibly dismal looked the avenue, with its white road of snow between the dark trees, and the one dark figure of the clergyman slowly advancing. The gloom of the place seemed to settle upon his spirit, and to dispel it he quickened his footsteps.
Suddenly, he heard from the distance a low, deep sound, like the tolling of a church bell.
He started, listening, and at first he could not believe the evidence of his ears. There was no church near, and the sound seemed unaccountable and strangely ominous. After a pause, slow as the drawing of a deep, long breath, it was repeated.
Toll! toll!
Santley was by nature a superstitious man, and, though no coward, he was terrified. What could it mean? It was like a funeral bell, tolling for the dead. Listening attentively, he found that the sound came down the avenue, and that at every step he took it was more plainly heard. He hastened on, with increasing wonder and alarm.
Toll! toll! toll!
Yes, there could be no mistake—it was the tolling of a bell. Hollow and faint, yet filling the dark silence, it fell upon the wintry air. There was no stir in the shrouded woods, which closed dismally on every side; no answer from the dull, leaden, brooding sky—only the dull, dreadful, dreary peal, like a chime from the very gates of the tomb.
It was horrible.
He advanced, coming ever nearer to the sound, and at last, to his amazement, he discovered from whence it came. At a turning of the avenue, he came in full view of the ruined chapel, and, looking up to the naked belfry, he saw the old bell slowly swinging, while giving forth that solemn, melancholy peal.
Toll! toll! toll! with measured intervals, just as those which are counted when the bell rings for the dead.
Shocked and surprised, Santley hurried up to the chapel door, and looked in. Standing in the doorway was Baptisto, dressed from head to foot in solemn black, holding the rope, and with face turned upward, leisurely ringing the bell.
Toll! toll! toll! toll! toll!
Heard from just underneath, the sound was hideous; for the bell was rusty and old, and jangled with dull vibrations long after each peal had ceased. The minister looked and listened with horror. Knowing as he did that the place had been turned to unholy uses, and retained none of its sacred character, he felt the whole proceeding to be diabolic.
He called to Baptisto, but the Spaniard, still keeping his sallow face turned upward, and monotonously continuing his work, did not seem to hear.
Toil! toll! toll! toll!—a sound to set the soul, as well as the teeth, on edge; a peal worthy of Satan himself.
All at once it ceased, with a last quivering jangle of moribund moaning notes.
Baptisto released the rope, took off his hat, and taking out his handkerchief, quietly wiped his brow; then, turning his dark eyes as if by accident towards the door, he perceived the minister.
He did not seem at all surprised, but sighed heavily, and turned up the whites of his eyes; then with a bow of profound respect, he advanced. In his suit of deep black, bound up with crape, and his high hat, crape-bound also, he looked like a highly respectable English undertaker. The resemblance was complete when he put his snow-white handkerchief to his mouth, and coughed solemnly behind it.
“In Heaven’s name, man, what are you about?” cried Santley, aghast.
Baptisto sighed again, turned up his eyes, and shook his head dismally.
“Senor,” he replied in a low voice, “I was ringing the chapel bell.”
“So I heard. But why?” the clergyman demanded.
“Hush! not so loud, senor,” he said, sinking his voice still lower. “Respect our sorrow!”
Santley’s astonishment increased, and he gazed wildly at Baptisto.
“Have you gone mad?” he returned, unconsciously obeying the request and sinking his voice. “Your sorrow? What sorrow? Be good enough to explain this mystery.”
“Will you step into the house, senor, and speak to my master. He will explain to you, I do not doubt; oh yes, he will explain.”
And Baptisto sighed again.
“He is at home, then?”
“Yes, senor!”
“And Mrs. Haldane?”
Baptisto groaned, and shook his head’ from side to side.
“You know I have an appointment with your mistress to-day?”
“Yes, senor, I know that,” answered Baptisto; then, as if greatly affected he turned away and put his handkerchief to his eyes.
“In the name of God,” cried Santley, “what does it all mean?”
Baptisto turned, and fixed his great black eyes on those of the clergyman. “Senor, what do they say in your own church? ‘In the midst of life, we are in death!’”
As he spoke, he pointed upward solemnly. Santley started as if stabbed. Then for the first time he began to understand. The dreary bell, the servant’s suit of black, the man’s unaccountably solemn and mysterious manner, all seemed to point to some horrible fatality.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Is any one dead? Who is it? Speak—tell me——”
Baptisto paused, still fixing his eyes on Santley, and preparing to watch the full effect of his words.
“Alas, senor, my mistress! my poor mistress!”
Santley staggered back, and his face, which had before been very pale, became livid.
“Not dead! no, no!” he moaned.
“Senor,” replied the Spaniard, “it is true. She died last night.”
Alas, the blackness of the wintry sky! That dreary darkness of the earth, the snow-wrapt woods! Before that woeful message, delivered so sadly yet so impressively by the Spaniard, the last brightness of the light seemed to fade away! Though the bell had ceased to toll, its dull vibration seemed still to ring on the air! The clergyman staggered back, his heart stopped; for a moment he seemed about to faint, and he had to clutch the doorway of the chapel for support. Baptisto saw the movement, but made no sign; even if the other had been falling to the earth, indeed, he would have offered him no assistance.
With one hand upon his heart, as if some sharp pain was there, the clergyman struggled for speech. At last it came.
“It is a lie,” he panted; “it must be a lie. No, no! She is not dead; it is impossible. Speak, man! If you have any mercy, say it is a lie! She lives!”
The Spaniard, who with a very ugly expression had heard himself accused of falsehood, and whose black eyes had gleamed very balefully, almost smiled—the faint, wicked, inner smile peculiar to him.
“Yes, you are right, senor; she lives!”
Santley drew a quick breath of relief, and, coming closer, clutched the Spaniard’s arm.
“I knew it—I was sure of it. What did you mean by telling me that falsehood?”
Quietly, but firmly, Baptisto took the other’s hand and displaced it from his arm. His air of cold respect did not change, but the expression of his eyes and mouth was malignant.
“I did not lie, senor.”
“What! and yet you said——”
“I said my lady lived, senor, and it is true. We Spaniards do not lie. She lives indeed—not here, but yonder, senor, among the angels of the sky. Ah yes, she is there! Her body is at rest; her soul, senor, lives still for ever.”
“Dead! O God!... When did she die?”
“Last night, senor, as I said.”
It was true, then, though so inconceivable. There was no mistaking the words, the manner of the man; and yet beneath them both, there was a sinister appearance of horrible satisfaction. The grief seemed simulated, the solemnity strangely false and treacherous. The cruel black eyes, which shone so balefully, seemed to express a malignant pleasure in the torture the tongue was inflicting. And yet, all the while, Baptisto’s manner was perfectly polite—the manner of a servant to a superior, stately in the manner of his race, but characteristically calm and respectful.
“Since you doubt me, senor,” continued the Spaniard, “speak to my master. He himself will tell you of his sorrow, and you will know from him that, after all, I do not lie.”
As the man spoke, he fixed his eyes on something beyond the doorway, and bowed profoundly. Santley turned, and saw, standing close to him, the master of Foxglove Manor.