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THE
PURCELL PAPERS.
BY THE LATE
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF ‘UNCLE SILAS.’
With a Memoir by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
—-
PASSAGE IN THE SECRET HISTORY OF AN IRISH COUNTESS THE BRIDAL OF CARRIGVARAH
STRANGE EVENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHALKEN THE PAINTER SCRAPS OF HIBERNIAN BALLADS
THE PURCELL PAPERS.
PASSAGE IN THE
SECRET HISTORY OF AN IRISH
COUNTESS.
Being a Fifth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.
The following paper is written in a
female hand, and was no doubt
communicated to my much-regretted
friend by the lady whose early
history it serves to illustrate, the Countess D—-. She is no more–she long since
died, a childless and a widowed wife, and, as her letter sadly predicts, none survive to whom the publication of this narrative can prove ‘injurious, or even painful.’
Strange! two powerful and wealthy
families, that in which she was born, and that into which she had married,
have ceased to be–they are utterly extinct.
To those who know anything of the
history of Irish families, as they were less than a century ago, the facts which immediately follow will at once suggest
THE NAMES of the principal actors; and to others their publication would be useless– to us, possibly, if not probably, injurious. I have, therefore, altered such of the
names as might, if stated, get us into difficulty; others, belonging to minor
characters in the strange story, I have left untouched.
My dear friend,–You have asked me to furnish you with a detail of the strange events which marked my early history,
and I have, without hesitation, applied myself to the task, knowing that, while I live, a kind consideration for my feelings will prevent your giving publicity to the statement; and conscious that, when I am no more, there will not survive one to
whom the narrative can prove injurious, or even painful.
My mother died when I was quite an
infant, and of her I have no recollection, even the faintest. By her death, my
education and habits were left solely to the guidance of my surviving parent; and, as far as a stern attention to my religious instruction, and an active anxiety evinced by his procuring for me the best masters to perfect me in those accomplishments
which my station and wealth might seem to require, could avail, he amply discharged the task.
My father was what is called an oddity, and his treatment of me, though uniformly kind, flowed less from affection and
tenderness than from a sense of obligation and duty. Indeed, I seldom even spoke
to him except at meal-times, and then his manner was silent and abrupt; his
leisure hours, which were many, were passed either in his study or in solitary walks; in short, he seemed to take no
further interest in my happiness or improvement than a conscientious regard to the discharge of his own duty would seem to claim.
Shortly before my birth a circumstance had occurred which had contributed much
to form and to confirm my father’s
secluded habits–it was the fact that a suspicion of MURDER had fallen upon his
younger brother, though not sufficiently definite to lead to an indictment, yet
strong enough to ruin him in public opinion.
This disgraceful and dreadful doubt cast upon the family name, my father felt
deeply and bitterly, and not the less so that he himself was thoroughly convinced of his brother’s innocence. The sincerity and strength of this impression he shortly afterwards proved in a manner which
produced the dark events which follow. Before, however, I enter upon the
statement of them, I ought to relate the circumstances which had awakened the
suspicion; inasmuch as they are in themselves somewhat curious, and, in their
effects, most intimately connected with my after-history.
My uncle, Sir Arthur T—-n, was a gay and extravagant man, and, among other
vices, was ruinously addicted to gaming; this unfortunate propensity, even after his fortune had suffered so severely as to
render inevitable a reduction in his expenses by no means inconsiderable,
nevertheless continued to actuate him, nearly to the exclusion of all other pursuits; he was, however, a proud, or rather a vain
man, and could not bear to make the diminution of his income a matter of
gratulation and triumph to those with whom he had hitherto competed, and the
consequence was, that he frequented no longer the expensive haunts of dissipation, and retired from the gay world, leaving
his coterie to discover his reasons as best they might.
He did not, however, forego his
favourite vice, for, though he could not worship his great divinity in the costly temples where it was formerly his wont to take his stand, yet he found it very
possible to bring about him a sufficient number of the votaries of chance to
answer all his ends. The consequence was, that Carrickleigh, which was the
name of my uncle’s residence, was never without one or more of such visitors as I have described.
It happened that upon one occasion he was visited by one Hugh Tisdall, a gentleman of loose habits, but of considerable
wealth, and who had, in early youth, travelled with my uncle upon the Con-
tinent; the period of his visit was winter, and, consequently, the house was nearly
deserted excepting by its regular inmates; it was therefore highly acceptable,
particularly as my uncle was aware that his visitor’s tastes accorded exactly with his own.
Both parties seemed determined to
avail themselves of their suitability during the brief stay which Mr. Tisdall had
promised; the consequence was, that they shut themselves up in Sir Arthur’s private room for nearly all the day and the
greater part of the night, during the space of nearly a week, at the end of
which the servant having one morning, as usual, knocked at Mr. Tisdall’s bed-
room door repeatedly, received no answer, and, upon attempting to enter, found that it was locked; this appeared suspicious, and, the inmates of the house having been alarmed, the door was forced open, and,
on proceeding to the bed, they found the body of its occupant perfectly lifeless, and hanging half-way out, the head downwards, and near the floor. One deep
wound had been inflicted upon the temple, apparently with some blunt instrument
which had penetrated the brain; and another blow, less effective, probably the first aimed, had grazed the head, removing some of the scalp, but leaving the skull untouched. The door had been double-
locked upon the INSIDE, in evidence of which the key still lay where it had been placed in the lock.
The window, though not secured on the interior, was closed–a circumstance not a little puzzling, as it afforded the only other mode of escape from the room; it looked
out, too, upon a kind of courtyard, round which the old buildings stood, formerly
accessible by a narrow doorway and passage lying in the oldest side of the quadrangle, but which had since been built up,
so as to preclude all ingress or egress; the room was also upon the second story, and the height of the window considerable.
Near the bed were found a pair of razors belonging to the murdered man, one of
them upon the ground, and both of them open. The weapon which had inflicted
the mortal wound was not to be found in the room, nor were any footsteps or other traces of the murderer discoverable.
At the suggestion of Sir Arthur
himself, a coroner was instantly summoned to attend, and an inquest was held; nothing, however, in any degree conclusive was
elicited; the walls, ceiling, and floor of the room were carefully examined, in order to ascertain whether they contained a trap- door or other concealed mode of entrance –but no such thing appeared.
Such was the minuteness of investigation employed, that, although the grate
had contained a large fire during the night, they proceeded to examine even the very
chimney, in order to discover whether escape by it were possible; but this
attempt, too, was fruitless, for the chimney, built in the old fashion, rose in a perfectly perpendicular line from the hearth to a
height of nearly fourteen feet above the roof, affording in its interior scarcely the possibility of ascent, the flue being
smoothly plastered, and sloping towards the top like an inverted funnel, promising, too, even if the summit were attained,
owing to its great height, but a precarious descent upon the sharp and steep-ridged
roof; the ashes, too, which lay in the grate, and the soot, as far as it could be seen, were undisturbed, a circumstance
almost conclusive of the question.
Sir Arthur was of course examined; his evidence was given with clearness and
unreserve, which seemed calculated to silence all suspicion. He stated that, up to the day and night immediately preceding the
catastrophe, he had lost to a heavy amount, but that, at their last sitting, he had not only won back his original loss, but upwards of four thousand pounds in
addition; in evidence of which he produced an acknowledgment of debt to that
amount in the handwriting of the deceased, and bearing the date of the fatal night. He had mentioned the circumstance to his lady, and in presence of some of the
domestics; which statement was
supported by THEIR respective evidence.
One of the jury shrewdly observed, that the circumstance of Mr. Tisdall’s having sustained so heavy a loss might have
suggested to some ill-minded persons accidentally hearing it, the plan of robbing him, after having murdered him in such a manner as might make it appear that he
had committed suicide; a supposition which was strongly supported by the
razors having been found thus displaced, and removed from their case. Two persons had probably been engaged in the
attempt, one watching by the sleeping man, and ready to strike him in case of
his awakening suddenly, while the other was procuring the razors and employed in inflicting the fatal gash, so as to make it appear to have been the act of the
murdered man himself. It was said that while the juror was making this suggestion Sir Arthur changed colour.
Nothing, however, like legal evidence appeared against him, and the consequence was that the verdict was found against a person or persons unknown; and for some
time the matter was suffered to rest, until, after about five months, my father
received a letter from a person signing himself Andrew Collis, and representing
himself to be the cousin of the deceased. This letter stated that Sir Arthur was likely to incur not merely suspicion, but personal risk, unless he could account for certain circumstances connected with the recent
murder, and contained a copy of a letter written by the deceased, and bearing date, the day of the week, and of the month,
upon the night of which the deed of blood had been perpetrated. Tisdall’s note ran as follows:
‘DEAR COLLIS,
‘I have had sharp work with Sir Arthur; he tried some of his stale tricks, but soon found that _I_ was Yorkshire too: it would not do–you understand me. We
went to the work like good ones, head, heart and soul; and, in fact, since I came here, I have lost no time. I am rather
fagged, but I am sure to be well paid for my hardship; I never want sleep so long
as I can have the music of a dice-box, and wherewithal to pay the piper. As I told
you, he tried some of his queer turns, but I foiled him like a man, and, in return, gave him more than he could relish of the genuine DEAD KNOWLEDGE.
‘In short, I have plucked the old
baronet as never baronet was plucked before; I have scarce left him the stump of
a quill; I have got promissory notes in his hand to the amount of–if you like round numbers, say, thirty thousand pounds,
safely deposited in my portable strong- box, alias double-clasped pocket-book. I leave this ruinous old rat-hole early on to- morrow, for two reasons–first, I do not want to play with Sir Arthur deeper than I think his security, that is, his money, or his money’s worth, would warrant; and,
secondly, because I am safer a hundred miles from Sir Arthur than in the house
with him. Look you, my worthy, I tell you this between ourselves–I may be
wrong, but, by G–, I am as sure as that I am now living, that Sir A—- attempted
to poison me last night; so much for old friendship on both sides.
‘When I won the last stake, a heavy one enough, my friend leant his forehead upon his hands, and you’ll laugh when I tell
you that his head literally smoked like a hot dumpling. I do not know whether his
agitation was produced by the plan which he had against me, or by his having lost so heavily–though it must be allowed that he had reason to be a little funked, whichever way his thoughts went; but he pulled the bell, and ordered two bottles of
champagne. While the fellow was bringing them he drew out a promissory note to the full amount, which he signed, and, as the man came in with the bottles and glasses, he desired him to be off; he filled out a glass for me, and, while he thought my
eyes were off, for I was putting up his note at the time, he dropped something slyly
into it, no doubt to sweeten it; but I saw it all, and, when he handed it to me, I
said, with an emphasis which he might or might not understand:
‘ “There is some sediment in this; I’ll not drink it.”
‘ “Is there?” said he, and at the same time snatched it from my hand and threw
it into the fire. What do you think of that? have I not a tender chicken to
manage? Win or lose, I will not play beyond five thousand to-night, and to-
morrow sees me safe out of the reach of Sir Arthur’s champagne. So, all things
considered, I think you must allow that you are not the last who have found a
knowing boy in
‘Yours to command,
‘HUGH TISDALL.’
Of the authenticity of this document I never heard my father express a doubt;
and I am satisfied that, owing to his strong conviction in favour of his brother, he would not have admitted it without
sufficient inquiry, inasmuch as it tended to confirm the suspicions which already
existed to his prejudice.
Now, the only point in this letter which made strongly against my uncle, was the
mention of the ‘double-clasped pocket- book’ as the receptacle of the papers
likely to involve him, for this pocket-book was not forthcoming, nor anywhere to be
found, nor had any papers referring to his gaming transactions been found upon the
dead man. However, whatever might have been the original intention of this Collis, neither my uncle nor my father ever heard more of him; but he published the letter in Faulkner’s newspaper, which was shortly afterwards made the vehicle of a much
more mysterious attack. The passage in that periodical to which I allude, occurred about four years afterwards, and while the fatal occurrence was still fresh in public recollection. It commenced by a rambling preface, stating that ‘a CERTAIN PERSON
whom CERTAIN persons thought to be dead, was not so, but living, and in full possession of his memory, and moreover ready
and able to make GREAT delinquents
tremble.’ It then went on to describe the murder, without, however, mentioning
names; and in doing so, it entered into minute and circumstantial particulars of which none but an EYE-WITNESS could have been possessed, and by implications almost too unequivocal to be regarded in the light of insinuation, to involve the ‘TITLED
GAMBLER’ in the guilt of the transaction.
My father at once urged Sir Arthur to proceed against the paper in an action of libel; but he would not hear of it, nor
consent to my father’s taking any legal steps whatever in the matter. My father, however, wrote in a threatening tone to
Faulkner, demanding a surrender of the author of the obnoxious article. The
answer to this application is still in my possession, and is penned in an apologetic tone: it states that the manuscript had
been handed in, paid for, and inserted as an advertisement, without sufficient
inquiry, or any knowledge as to whom it referred.
No step, however, was taken to clear
my uncle’s character in the judgment of the public; and as he immediately sold a small property, the application of the
proceeds of which was known to none, he was said to have disposed of it to enable himself to buy off the threatened information. However the truth might have been,
it is certain that no charges respecting the mysterious murder were afterwards publicly made against my uncle, and, as far as
external disturbances were concerned, he enjoyed henceforward perfect security and quiet.
A deep and lasting impression, however, had been made upon the public mind, and
Sir Arthur T—-n was no longer visited or noticed by the gentry and aristocracy of the county, whose attention and courtesies he had hitherto received. He accordingly affected to despise these enjoyments which he could not procure, and shunned even
that society which he might have commanded.
This is all that I need recapitulate of my uncle’s history, and I now recur to my own. Although my father had never, within my
recollection, visited, or been visited by, my uncle, each being of sedentary, procrastinating, and secluded habits, and their respective residences being very far apart–
the one lying in the county of Galway, the other in that of Cork–he was strongly
attached to his brother, and evinced his affection by an active correspondence, and by deeply and proudly resenting that
neglect which had marked Sir Arthur as unfit to mix in society.
When I was about eighteen years of
age, my father, whose health had been gradually declining, died, leaving me in heart wretched and desolate, and, owing to his previous seclusion, with few acquaintances, and almost no friends.
The provisions of his will were curious, and when I had sufficiently come to myself to listen to or comprehend them,
surprised me not a little: all his vast property was left to me, and to the heirs of my
body, for ever; and, in default of such heirs, it was to go after my death to my uncle, Sir Arthur, without any entail.
At the same time, the will appointed
him my guardian, desiring that I might be received within his house, and reside with his family, and under his care, during the term of my minority; and in consideration of the increased expense consequent upon such an arrangement, a handsome annuity
was allotted to him during the term of my proposed residence.
The object of this last provision I at once understood: my father desired, by
making it the direct, apparent interest of Sir Arthur that I should die without
issue, while at the same time he placed me wholly in his power, to prove to the world how great and unshaken was his
confidence in his brother’s innocence and honour, and also to afford him an
opportunity of showing that this mark of confidence was not unworthily bestowed.
It was a strange, perhaps an idle
scheme; but as I had been always brought up in the habit of considering my uncle as a deeply-injured man, and had been taught, almost as a part of my religion, to regard him as the very soul of honour, I felt no further uneasiness respecting the arrangement than that likely to result to a timid
girl, of secluded habits, from the immediate prospect of taking up her abode for the
first time in her life among total strangers. Previous to leaving my home, which I felt I should do with a heavy heart, I re-
ceived a most tender and affectionate letter from my uncle, calculated, if anything
could do so, to remove the bitterness of parting from scenes familiar and dear from my earliest childhood, and in some degree to reconcile me to the measure.
It was during a fine autumn that I
approached the old domain of Carrickleigh. I shall not soon forget the impression of sadness and of gloom which all that I saw produced upon my mind; the sunbeams
were falling with a rich and melancholy tint upon the fine old trees, which stood in lordly groups, casting their long, sweeping shadows over rock and sward. There was
an air of neglect and decay about the spot, which amounted almost to desolation; the symptoms of this increased in number as
we approached the building itself, near which the ground had been originally more artificially and carefully cultivated than elsewhere, and whose neglect consequently more immediately and strikingly betrayed itself.
As we proceeded, the road wound near
the beds of what had been formally two fish-ponds, which were now nothing more
than stagnant swamps, overgrown with rank weeds, and here and there encroached upon by the straggling underwood; the
avenue itself was much broken, and in many places the stones were almost
concealed by grass and nettles; the loose stone walls which had here and there
intersected the broad park were, in many places, broken down, so as no longer to
answer their original purpose as fences; piers were now and then to be seen, but
the gates were gone; and, to add to the general air of dilapidation, some huge
trunks were lying scattered through the venerable old trees, either the work of the winter storms, or perhaps the victims of some extensive but desultory scheme of
denudation, which the projector had not capital or perseverance to carry into full effect.
After the carriage had travelled a mile of this avenue, we reached the summit of rather an abrupt eminence, one of the
many which added to the picturesqueness, if not to the convenience of this rude
passage. From the top of this ridge the grey walls of Carrickleigh were visible, rising at a small distance in front, and darkened by the hoary wood which
crowded around them. It was a quadrangular building of considerable extent,
and the front which lay towards us, and in which the great entrance was placed,
bore unequivocal marks of antiquity; the time-worn, solemn aspect of the old building, the ruinous and deserted appearance
of the whole place, and the associations which connected it with a dark page in the history of my family, combined to depress spirits already predisposed for the reception of sombre and dejecting impressions.
When the carriage drew up in the grass- grown court yard before the hall-door, two lazy-looking men, whose appearance well
accorded with that of the place which they tenanted, alarmed by the obstreperous
barking of a great chained dog, ran out from some half-ruinous out-houses, and
took charge of the horses; the hall-door stood open, and I entered a gloomy and
imperfectly lighted apartment, and found no one within. However, I had not long
to wait in this awkward predicament, for before my luggage had been deposited in
the house, indeed, before I had well removed my cloak and other wraps, so as
to enable me to look around, a young girl ran lightly into the hall, and kissing me heartily, and somewhat boisterously,
exclaimed:
‘My dear cousin, my dear Margaret–
I am so delighted–so out of breath. We did not expect you till ten o’clock; my
father is somewhere about the place, he must be close at hand. James–Corney
–run out and tell your master–my
brother is seldom at home, at least at any reasonable hour–you must be so tired–so fatigued–let me show you to your room– see that Lady Margaret’s luggage is all
brought up–you must lie down and rest yourself–Deborah, bring some coffee–up these stairs; we are so delighted to see you–you cannot think how lonely I have
been–how steep these stairs are, are not they? I am so glad you are come–I
could hardly bring myself to believe that you were really coming–how good of you, dear Lady Margaret.’
There was real good-nature and delight in my cousin’s greeting, and a kind of
constitutional confidence of manner which placed me at once at ease, and made me
feel immediately upon terms of intimacy with her. The room into which she
ushered me, although partaking in the general air of decay which pervaded the
mansion and all about it, had nevertheless been fitted up with evident attention to comfort, and even with some dingy attempt at luxury; but what pleased me most was
that it opened, by a second door, upon a lobby which communicated with my fair
cousin’s apartment; a circumstance which divested the room, in my eyes, of the air of solitude and sadness which would otherwise have characterised it, to a degree
almost painful to one so dejected in spirits as I was.
After such arrangements as I found
necessary were completed, we both went down to the parlour, a large wainscoted
room, hung round with grim old portraits, and, as I was not sorry to see, containing in its ample grate a large and cheerful
fire. Here my cousin had leisure to talk more at her ease; and from her I learned something of the manners and the habits
of the two remaining members of her family, whom I had not yet seen.
On my arrival I had known nothing of
the family among whom I was come to reside, except that it consisted of three individuals, my uncle, and his son and
daughter, Lady T—-n having been long dead. In addition to this very scanty stock of information, I shortly learned from my communicative companion that my uncle
was, as I had suspected, completely retired in his habits, and besides that, having been so far back as she could well recollect, always rather strict, as reformed rakes
frequently become, he had latterly been growing more gloomily and sternly
religious than heretofore.
Her account of her brother was far less favourable, though she did not say anything directly to his disadvantage. From all
that I could gather from her, I was led to suppose that he was a specimen of the idle, coarse-mannered, profligate, low-minded
‘squirearchy’–a result which might naturally have flowed from the circum-
stance of his being, as it were, outlawed from society, and driven for companionship to grades below his own–enjoying,
too, the dangerous prerogative of spending much money.
However, you may easily suppose that
I found nothing in my cousin’s communication fully to bear me out in so very
decided a conclusion.
I awaited the arrival of my uncle,
which was every moment to be expected, with feelings half of alarm, half of
curiosity–a sensation which I have often since experienced, though to a less degree, when upon the point of standing for the
first time in the presence of one of whom I have long been in the habit of hearing or thinking with interest.
It was, therefore, with some little
perturbation that I heard, first a slight bustle at the outer door, then a slow step traverse the hall, and finally witnessed the door open, and my uncle enter the room.
He was a striking-looking man; from peculiarities both of person and of garb, the whole effect of his appearance amounted
to extreme singularity. He was tall, and when young his figure must have been
strikingly elegant; as it was, however, its effect was marred by a very decided stoop. His dress was of a sober colour, and in
fashion anterior to anything which I could remember. It was, however, handsome,
and by no means carelessly put on; but what completed the singularity of his
appearance was his uncut, white hair, which hung in long, but not at all
neglected curls, even so far as his shoulders, and which combined with his regularly
classic features, and fine dark eyes, to bestow upon him an air of venerable
dignity and pride, which I have never seen equalled elsewhere. I rose as he entered, and met him about the middle of the
room; he kissed my cheek and both my hands, saying:
‘You are most welcome, dear child, as welcome as the command of this poor
place and all that it contains can make you. I am most rejoiced to see you–
truly rejoiced. I trust that you are not much fatigued–pray be seated again.’
He led me to my chair, and continued: ‘I am glad to perceive you have made
acquaintance with Emily already; I see, in your being thus brought together, the foundation of a lasting friendship. You
are both innocent, and both young. God bless you–God bless you, and make you
all that I could wish.’
He raised his eyes, and remained for a few moments silent, as if in secret prayer. I felt that it was impossible that this man, with feelings so quick, so warm, so tender, could be the wretch that public opinion
had represented him to be. I was more than ever convinced of his innocence.
His manner was, or appeared to me,
most fascinating; there was a mingled kindness and courtesy in it which seemed to speak benevolence itself. It was a
manner which I felt cold art could never have taught; it owed most of its charm to its appearing to emanate directly from the heart; it must be a genuine index of the owner’s mind. So I thought.
My uncle having given me fully to
understand that I was most welcome, and might command whatever was his own,
pressed me to take some refreshment; and on my refusing, he observed that previously to bidding me good-night, he had one duty further to perform, one in whose observance he was convinced I would cheerfully
acquiesce.
He then proceeded to read a chapter
from the Bible; after which he took his leave with the same affectionate kindness with which he had greeted me, having
repeated his desire that I should consider everything in his house as altogether at my disposal. It is needless to say that I was much pleased with my uncle–it was
impossible to avoid being so; and I could not help saying to myself, if such a man as this is not safe from the assaults of slander, who is? I felt much happier than I had done since my father’s death, and
enjoyed that night the first refreshing sleep which had visited me since that event.
My curiosity respecting my male cousin did not long remain unsatisfied–he
appeared the next day at dinner. His manners, though not so coarse as I had
expected, were exceedingly disagreeable; there was an assurance and a forwardness for which I was not prepared; there
was less of the vulgarity of manner, and almost more of that of the mind, than I
had anticipated. I felt quite uncomfortable in his presence; there was just that
confidence in his look and tone which would read encouragement even in mere
toleration; and I felt more disgusted and annoyed at the coarse and extravagant
compliments which he was pleased from time to time to pay me, than perhaps the extent of the atrocity might fully have
warranted. It was, however, one consolation that he did not often appear, being
much engrossed by pursuits about which I neither knew nor cared anything; but
when he did appear, his attentions, either with a view to his amusement or to some
more serious advantage, were so obviously and perseveringly directed to me, that
young and inexperienced as I was, even _I_ could not be ignorant of his preference. I felt more provoked by this odious persecution than I can express, and discouraged
him with so much vigour, that I employed even rudeness to convince him that his
assiduities were unwelcome; but all in vain.
This had gone on for nearly a twelve- month, to my infinite annoyance, when one day as I was sitting at some needle-work with my companion Emily, as was my
habit, in the parlour, the door opened, and my cousin Edward entered the room.
There was something, I thought, odd in his manner–a kind of struggle between
shame and impudence–a kind of flurry and ambiguity which made him appear,
if possible, more than ordinarily disagreeable.
‘Your servant, ladies,’ he said, seating himself at the same time; ‘sorry to spoil your tete-a-tete, but never mind, I’ll only take Emily’s place for a minute or two;
and then we part for a while, fair cousin. Emily, my father wants you in the corner turret. No shilly-shally; he’s in a hurry.’ She hesitated. ‘Be off–tramp, march!’
he exclaimed, in a tone which the poor girl dared not disobey.
She left the room, and Edward followed her to the door. He stood there for a
minute or two, as if reflecting what he should say, perhaps satisfying himself
that no one was within hearing in the hall.
At length he turned about, having closed the door, as if carelessly, with his foot; and advancing slowly, as if in deep thought, he took his seat at the side of the table
opposite to mine.
There was a brief interval of silence, after which he said:
‘I imagine that you have a shrewd
suspicion of the object of my early visit; but I suppose I must go into particulars.
Must I?’
‘I have no conception,’ I replied, ‘what your object may be.’
‘Well, well,’ said he, becoming more at his ease as he proceeded, ‘it may be told in a few words. You know that it is totally impossible–quite out of the question–
that an offhand young fellow like me, and a good-looking girl like yourself, could meet continually, as you and I have done, without an attachment–a liking growing
up on one side or other; in short, I think I have let you know as plain as if I spoke it, that I have been in love with you
almost from the first time I saw
you.’
He paused; but I was too much horrified to speak. He interpreted my silence
favourably.
‘I can tell you,’ he continued, ‘I’m
reckoned rather hard to please, and very hard to HIT. I can’t say when I was taken with a girl before; so you see fortune
reserved me—-‘
Here the odious wretch wound his arm
round my waist. The action at once
restored me to utterance, and with the most indignant vehemence I released myself
from his hold, and at the same time said:
‘I have not been insensible, sir, of your most disagreeable attentions–they have
long been a source of much annoyance to me; and you must be aware that I have
marked my disapprobation–my disgust– as unequivocally as I possibly could, without actual indelicacy.’
I paused, almost out of breath from the rapidity with which I had spoken; and
without giving him time to renew the conversation, I hastily quitted the room, leaving him in a paroxysm of rage and
mortification. As I ascended the stairs, I heard him open the parlour-door with
violence, and take two or three rapid strides in the direction in which I was moving. I was now much frightened, and ran the
whole way until I reached my room; and having locked the door, I listened breathlessly, but heard no sound. This relieved
me for the present; but so much had I been overcome by the agitation and annoyance attendant upon the scene which I had
just gone through, that when my cousin Emily knocked at my door, I was weeping
in strong hysterics.
You will readily conceive my distress, when you reflect upon my strong dislike to my cousin Edward, combined with my
youth and extreme inexperience. Any proposal of such a nature must have
agitated me; but that it should have come from the man whom of all others I most
loathed and abhorred, and to whom I had, as clearly as manner could do it, expressed the state of my feelings, was almost too overwhelming to be borne. It was a calamity, too, in which I could not claim the sym- pathy of my cousin Emily, which had
always been extended to me in my minor grievances. Still I hoped that it might
not be unattended with good; for I
thought that one inevitable and most welcome consequence would result from
this painful eclaircissment, in the discontinuance of my cousin’s odious
persecution.
When I arose next morning, it was with the fervent hope that I might never again behold the face, or even hear the name, of my cousin Edward; but such a consummation, though devoutly to be wished, was
hardly likely to occur. The painful impressions of yesterday were too vivid to be at once erased; and I could not help
feeling some dim foreboding of coming annoyance and evil.
To expect on my cousin’s part anything like delicacy or consideration for me, was out of the question. I saw that he had
set his heart upon my property, and that he was not likely easily to forego such an acquisition–possessing what might have
been considered opportunities and facilities almost to compel my compliance.
I now keenly felt the unreasonableness of my father’s conduct in placing me to
reside with a family of all whose members, with one exception, he was wholly
ignorant, and I bitterly felt the helplessness of my situation. I determined, however,
in case of my cousin’s persevering in his addresses, to lay all the particulars before my uncle, although he had never in kindness or intimacy gone a step beyond
our first interview, and to throw myself upon his hospitality and his sense of honour for protection against a repetition of such scenes.
My cousin’s conduct may appear to have been an inadequate cause for such serious uneasiness; but my alarm was caused
neither by his acts nor words, but entirely by his manner, which was strange and even intimidating to excess. At the beginning of the yesterday’s interview there was a sort of bullying swagger in his air, which towards the end gave place to the brutal vehemence of an undisguised ruffian–a
transition which had tempted me into a belief that he might seek even forcibly to extort from me a consent to his wishes, or by
means still more horrible, of which I scarcely dared to trust myself to think, to possess himself of my property.
I was early next day summoned to attend my uncle in his private room, which lay in a corner turret of the old building; and thither I accordingly went, wondering all the way what this unusual measure might
prelude. When I entered the room, he did not rise in his usual courteous way to greet me, but simply pointed to a chair
opposite to his own. This boded nothing agreeable. I sat down, however, silently waiting until he should open the conversation.
‘Lady Margaret,’ at length he said, in a tone of greater sternness than I thought him capable of using, ‘I have hitherto
spoken to you as a friend, but I have not forgotten that I am also your guardian,
and that my authority as such gives me a right to control your conduct. I shall
put a question to you, and I expect and will demand a plain, direct answer. Have I rightly been informed that you have con- temptuously rejected the suit and hand of my son Edward?’
I stammered forth with a good deal of trepidation:
‘I believe–that is, I have, sir, rejected my cousin’s proposals; and my coldness
and discouragement might have
convinced him that I had determined to do so.’
‘Madam,’ replied he, with suppressed, but, as it appeared to me, intense anger, ‘I have lived long enough to know that
COLDNESS and discouragement, and such terms, form the common cant of a worthless coquette. You know to the full, as
well as I, that COLDNESS AND DISCOURAGEMENT may be so exhibited as to convince
their object that he is neither distasteful or indifferent to the person who wears this manner. You know, too, none better, that an affected neglect, when skilfully managed, is amongst the most formidable of the
engines which artful beauty can employ. I tell you, madam, that having, without
one word spoken in discouragement,
permitted my son’s most marked attentions for a twelvemonth or more, you have no
right to dismiss him with no further explanation than demurely telling him that you had always looked coldly upon him;
and neither your wealth nor your LADYSHIP’ (there was an emphasis of scorn on the
word, which would have become Sir
Giles Overreach himself) ‘can warrant you in treating with contempt the affectionate regard of an honest heart.’
I was too much shocked at this undisguised attempt to bully me into an acquiescence in the interested and unprincipled
plan for their own aggrandisement, which I now perceived my uncle and his son to
have deliberately entered into, at once to find strength or collectedness to frame an answer to what he had said. At length I
replied, with some firmness:
‘In all that you have just now said, sir, you have grossly misstated my conduct and motives. Your information must have been most incorrect as far as it regards my
conduct towards my cousin; my manner towards him could have conveyed nothing
but dislike; and if anything could have added to the strong aversion which I
have long felt towards him, it would be his attempting thus to trick and frighten me into a marriage which he knows to be
revolting to me, and which is sought by him only as a means for securing to
himself whatever property is mine.’
As I said this, I fixed my eyes upon
those of my uncle, but he was too old in the world’s ways to falter beneath the
gaze of more searching eyes than mine; he simply said:
‘Are you acquainted with the provisions of your father’s will?’
I answered in the affirmative; and he continued:
‘Then you must be aware that if my
son Edward were–which God forbid–the unprincipled, reckless man you pretend to think him’–(here he spoke very slowly,
as if he intended that every word which escaped him should be registered in my
memory, while at the same time the
expression of his countenance underwent a gradual but horrible change, and the eyes which he fixed upon me became so darkly
vivid, that I almost lost sight of everything else)–‘if he were what you have
described him, think you, girl, he could find no briefer means than wedding
contracts to gain his ends? ’twas but to gripe your slender neck until the breath had
stopped, and lands, and lakes, and all were his.’
I stood staring at him for many minutes after he had ceased to speak, fascinated by the terrible serpent-like gaze, until he continued with a welcome change of countenance:
‘I will not speak again to you upon this –topic until one month has passed. You
shall have time to consider the relative advantages of the two courses which are
open to you. I should be sorry to hurry you to a decision. I am satisfied with
having stated my feelings upon the subject, and pointed out to you the path of duty. Remember this day month–not one word
sooner.’
He then rose, and I left the room, much agitated and exhausted.
This interview, all the circumstances attending it, but most particularly the
formidable expression of my uncle’s countenance while he talked, though hypothetically, of murder, combined to arouse all
my worst suspicions of him. I dreaded to look upon the face that had so recently
worn the appalling livery of guilt and malignity. I regarded it with the
mingled fear and loathing with which one looks upon an object which has tortured
them in a nightmare.
In a few days after the interview, the particulars of which I have just related, I found a note upon my toilet-table, and on opening it I read as follows:
‘MY DEAR LADY MARGARET,
‘You will be perhaps surprised to see a strange face in your room to-day. I have dismissed your Irish maid, and
secured a French one to wait upon you–a step rendered necessary by my proposing
shortly to visit the Continent, with all my family.
‘Your faithful guardian,
‘ARTHUR T—-N.’
On inquiry, I found that my faithful
attendant was actually gone, and far on her way to the town of Galway; and in
her stead there appeared a tall, raw-boned, ill-looking, elderly Frenchwoman, whose
sullen and presuming manners seemed to imply that her vocation had never before been that of a lady’s-maid. I could not
help regarding her as a creature of my uncle’s, and therefore to be dreaded,
even had she been in no other way suspicious.
Days and weeks passed away without
any, even a momentary doubt upon my part, as to the course to be pursued by me. The allotted period had at length elapsed; the day arrived on which I was to
communicate my decision to my uncle. Although my resolution had never for a
moment wavered, I could not shake of the dread of the approaching colloquy;
and my heart sunk within me as I heard the expected summons.
I had not seen my cousin Edward since the occurrence of the grand eclaircissment; he must have studiously avoided
me–I suppose from policy, it could not have been from delicacy. I was prepared
for a terrific burst of fury from my uncle, as soon as I should make known my
determination; and I not unreasonably feared that some act of violence or of
intimidation would next be resorted to.
Filled with these dreary forebodings, I fearfully opened the study door, and the next minute I stood in my uncle’s
presence. He received me with a politeness which I dreaded, as arguing a favourable anticipation respecting the answer
which I was to give; and after some slight delay, he began by saying:
‘It will be a relief to both of us, I believe, to bring this conversation as soon as possible to an issue. You will excuse me, then, my dear niece, for speaking with an abruptness which, under other
circumstances, would be unpardonable. You have, I am certain, given the subject of our last interview fair and serious con- sideration; and I trust that you are now prepared with candour to lay your answer before me. A few words will suffice–we
perfectly understand one another.’
He paused, and I, though feeling that I stood upon a mine which might in an
instant explode, nevertheless answered with perfect composure:
‘I must now, sir, make the same reply which I did upon the last occasion, and I reiterate the declaration which I then
made, that I never can nor will, while life and reason remain, consent to a union with my cousin Edward.’
This announcement wrought no apparent change in Sir Arthur, except that he
became deadly, almost lividly pale. He seemed lost in dark thought for a minute, and then with a slight effort said:
‘You have answered me honestly and
directly; and you say your resolution is unchangeable. Well, would it had been
otherwise–would it had been otherwise– but be it as it is–I am satisfied.’
He gave me his hand–it was cold and
damp as death; under an assumed calmness, it was evident that he was fearfully
agitated. He continued to hold my hand with an almost painful pressure, while, as if unconsciously, seeming to forget my
presence, he muttered:
‘Strange, strange, strange, indeed!
fatuity, helpless fatuity!’ there was here a long pause. ‘Madness INDEED to strain a
cable that is rotten to the very heart–it must break–and then–all goes.’
There was again a pause of some
minutes, after which, suddenly changing his voice and manner to one of wakeful
alacrity, he exclaimed:
‘Margaret, my son Edward shall plague you no more. He leaves this country on
to-morrow for France–he shall speak no more upon this subject–never, never
more–whatever events depended upon your answer must now take their own
course; but, as for this fruitless proposal, it has been tried enough; it can be repeated no more.’
At these words he coldly suffered my
hand to drop, as if to express his total abandonment of all his projected schemes of alliance; and certainly the action, with the accompanying words, produced upon
my mind a more solemn and depressing effect than I believed possible to have
been caused by the course which I had determined to pursue; it struck upon my
heart with an awe and heaviness which WILL accompany the accomplishment of an
important and irrevocable act, even though no doubt or scruple remains to make it
possible that the agent should wish it undone.
‘Well,’ said my uncle, after a little time, ‘we now cease to speak upon this topic,
never to resume it again. Remember you shall have no farther uneasiness from
Edward; he leaves Ireland for France on to-morrow; this will be a relief to you. May I depend upon your HONOUR that no
word touching the subject of this interview shall ever escape you?’
I gave him the desired assurance; he
said:
‘It is well–I am satisfied–we have
nothing more, I believe, to say upon either side, and my presence must be a
restraint upon you, I shall therefore bid you farewell.’
I then left the apartment, scarcely
knowing what to think of the strange interview which had just taken place.
On the next day my uncle took occasion to tell me that Edward had actually
sailed, if his intention had not been interfered with by adverse circumstances; and two days subsequently he actually produced a letter from his son, written, as it
said, ON BOARD, and despatched while the ship was getting under weigh. This was
a great satisfaction to me, and as being likely to prove so, it was no doubt
communicated to me by Sir Arthur.
During all this trying period, I had
found infinite consolation in the society and sympathy of my dear cousin Emily.
I never in after-life formed a friendship so close, so fervent, and upon which, in all its progress, I could look back with feelings of such unalloyed pleasure, upon whose
termination I must ever dwell with so deep, yet so unembittered regret. In
cheerful converse with her I soon
recovered my spirits considerably, and passed my time agreeably enough,
although still in the strictest seclusion.
Matters went on sufficiently smooth,
although I could not help sometimes feeling a momentary, but horrible
uncertainty respecting my uncle’s character; which was not altogether unwarranted by
the circumstances of the two trying interviews whose particulars I have just detailed. The unpleasant impression which these conferences were calculated to leave upon my mind, was fast wearing away,
when there occurred a circumstance, slight indeed in itself, but calculated irresistibly to awaken all my worst suspicions, and to overwhelm me again with anxiety and
terror.
I had one day left the house with my
cousin Emily, in order to take a ramble of considerable length, for the purpose of
sketching some favourite views, and we had walked about half a mile when I
perceived that we had forgotten our drawing materials, the absence of which would have defeated the object of our walk. Laughing at our own thoughtlessness, we returned
to the house, and leaving Emily without, I ran upstairs to procure the drawing-books and pencils, which lay in my bedroom.
As I ran up the stairs I was met by the tall, ill-looking Frenchwoman, evidently a good deal flurried.
‘Que veut, madame?’ said she, with a
more decided effort to be polite than I had ever known her make before.
‘No, no–no matter,’ said I, hastily
running by her in the direction of my room.
‘Madame,’ cried she, in a high key,
‘restez ici, s’il vous plait; votre chambre n’est pas faite–your room is not ready
for your reception yet.’
I continued to move on without heeding her. She was some way behind me, and
feeling that she could not otherwise prevent my entrance, for I was now upon the
very lobby, she made a desperate attempt to seize hold of my person: she succeeded in grasping the end of my shawl, which
she drew from my shoulders; but slipping at the same time upon the polished oak floor, she fell at full length upon the boards.
A little frightened as well as angry at the rudeness of this strange woman, I
hastily pushed open the door of my room, at which I now stood, in order to escape from her; but great was my amazement
on entering to find the apartment preoccupied.
The window was open, and beside it
stood two male figures; they appeared to be examining the fastenings of the casement, and their backs were turned towards
the door. One of them was my uncle; they both turned on my entrance, as if
startled. The stranger was booted and cloaked, and wore a heavy broad-leafed hat over his brows. He turned but for a moment, and averted his face; but I had seen
enough to convince me that he was no other than my cousin Edward. My uncle
had some iron instrument in his hand, which he hastily concealed behind his back; and coming towards me, said something as if in an explanatory tone; but I was too much shocked and confounded to understand what it might be. He said something
about ‘REPAIRS–window–frames–
cold, and safety.’
I did not wait, however, to ask or to receive explanations, but hastily left the room. As I went down the stairs I
thought I heard the voice of the Frenchwoman in all the shrill volubility of excuse,
which was met, however, by suppressed but vehement imprecations, or what
seemed to me to be such, in which the voice of my cousin Edward distinctly
mingled.
I joined my cousin Emily quite out of breath. I need not say that my head was
too full of other things to think much of drawing for that day. I imparted to her
frankly the cause of my alarms, but at the same time as gently as I could; and with tears she promised vigilance, and devotion, and love. I never had reason for a
moment to repent the unreserved confidence which I then reposed in her. She was no
less surprised than I at the unexpected appearance of Edward, whose departure
for France neither of us had for a moment doubted, but which was now proved by his actual presence to be nothing more than
an imposture, practised, I feared, for no good end.
The situation in which I had found my uncle had removed completely all my
doubts as to his designs. I magnified suspicions into certainties, and dreaded night after night that I should be murdered in my bed. The nervousness produced by
sleepless nights and days of anxious fears increased the horrors of my situation to such a degree, that I at length wrote a
letter to a Mr. Jefferies, an old and faithful friend of my father’s, and perfectly
acquainted with all his affairs, praying him, for God’s sake, to relieve me from my
present terrible situation, and communicating without reserve the nature and
grounds of my suspicions.
This letter I kept sealed and directed for two or three days always about my
person, for discovery would have been ruinous, in expectation of an opportunity which might be safely trusted, whereby to have it placed in the post-office. As neither Emily nor I were permitted to pass beyond the precincts of the demesne itself,
which was surrounded by high walls
formed of dry stone, the difficulty of procuring such an opportunity was greatly enhanced.
At this time Emily had a short conver- sation with her father, which she reported to me instantly.
After some indifferent matter, he had asked her whether she and I were upon
good terms, and whether I was unreserved in my disposition. She answered in the
affirmative; and he then inquired whether I had been much surprised to find him in my chamber on the other day. She
answered that I had been both surprised and amused.
‘And what did she think of George
Wilson’s appearance?’
‘Who?’ inquired she.
‘Oh, the architect,’ he answered, ‘who is to contract for the repairs of the house; he is accounted a handsome fellow.’
‘She could not see his face,’ said Emily, ‘and she was in such a hurry to escape
that she scarcely noticed him.’
Sir Arthur appeared satisfied, and the conversation ended.
This slight conversation, repeated
accurately to me by Emily, had the effect of confirming, if indeed anything was required to do so, all that I had before believed as to Edward’s actual presence; and I naturally became, if possible, more anxious
than ever to despatch the letter to Mr. Jefferies. An opportunity at length occurred.
As Emily and I were walking one day
near the gate of the demesne, a lad from the village happened to be passing down
the avenue from the house; the spot was secluded, and as this person was not
connected by service with those whose observation I dreaded, I committed the letter to his keeping, with strict injunctions that he should put it without delay into the
receiver of the town post-office; at the same time I added a suitable gratuity, and the man having made many protestations
of punctuality, was soon out of sight.
He was hardly gone when I began to
doubt my discretion in having trusted this person; but I had no better or safer means of despatching the letter, and I was not warranted in suspecting him of such
wanton dishonesty as an inclination to tamper with it; but I could not be quite satisfied of its safety until I had received an answer, which could not arrive for a
few days. Before I did, however, an event occurred which a little surprised me.
I was sitting in my bedroom early in the day, reading by myself, when I heard a
knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ said I; and my uncle entered the room.
‘Will you excuse me?’ said he. ‘I
sought you in the parlour, and thence I have come here. I desired to say a word
with you. I trust that you have hitherto found my conduct to you such as that of a guardian towards his ward should be.’
I dared not withhold my consent.
‘And,’ he continued, ‘I trust that you have not found me harsh or unjust, and
that you have perceived, my dear niece, that I have sought to make this poor place as agreeable to you as may be.’
I assented again; and he put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew a folded
paper, and dashing it upon the table with startling emphasis, he said:
‘Did you write that letter?’
The sudden and tearful alteration of his voice, manner, and face, but, more than all, the unexpected production of my letter to Mr. Jefferies, which I at once recognised, so confounded and terrified me, that I felt almost choking.
I could not utter a word.
‘Did you write that letter?’ he repeated with slow and intense emphasis.’ You
did, liar and hypocrite! You dared to write this foul and infamous libel; but it shall be your last. Men will universally believe you mad, if I choose to call for an inquiry. I can make you appear so. The
suspicions expressed in this letter are the hallucinations and alarms of moping lunacy. I have defeated your first attempt, madam; and by the holy God, if ever you make
another, chains, straw, darkness, and the keeper’s whip shall be your lasting portion!’
With these astounding words he left the room, leaving me almost fainting.
I was now almost reduced to despair;
my last cast had failed; I had no course left but that of eloping secretly from the castle, and placing myself under the
protection of the nearest magistrate. I felt if this were not done, and speedily, that I should be MURDERED.
No one, from mere description, can have an idea of the unmitigated horror of my
situation–a helpless, weak, inexperienced girl, placed under the power and wholly
at the mercy of evil men, and feeling that she had it not in her power to escape for a moment from the malignant influences
under which she was probably fated to fall; and with a consciousness that if violence, if murder were designed, her dying shriek would be lost in void space; no human
being would be near to aid her, no human interposition could deliver her.
I had seen Edward but once during his visit, and as I did not meet with him
again, I began to think that he must have taken his departure–a conviction which
was to a certain degree satisfactory, as I regarded his absence as indicating the
removal of immediate danger.
Emily also arrived circuitously at the same conclusion, and not without good
grounds, for she managed indirectly to learn that Edward’s black horse had actually been for a day and part of a night in
the castle stables, just at the time of her brother’s supposed visit. The horse had
gone, and, as she argued, the rider must have departed with it.
This point being so far settled, I felt a little less uncomfortable: when being one day alone in my bedroom, I happened to
look out from the window, and, to my un- utterable horror, I beheld, peering through an opposite casement, my cousin Edward’s face. Had I seen the evil one himself in bodily shape, I could not have experienced a more sickening revulsion.
I was too much appalled to move at
once from the window, but I did so soon enough to avoid his eye. He was looking
fixedly into the narrow quadrangle upon which the window opened. I shrank back
unperceived, to pass the rest of the day in terror and despair. I went to my room early that night, but I was too miserable to sleep.
At about twelve o’clock, feeling very nervous, I determined to call my cousin
Emily, who slept, you will remember, in the next room, which communicated with
mine by a second door. By this private entrance I found my way into her chamber, and without difficulty persuaded her to
return to my room and sleep with me. We accordingly lay down together, she
undressed, and I with my clothes on, for I was every moment walking up and down
the room, and felt too nervous and miserable to think of rest or comfort.
Emily was soon fast asleep, and I lay awake, fervently longing for the first pale gleam of morning, reckoning every stroke of the old clock with an impatience which made every hour appear like six.
It must have been about one o’clock
when I thought I heard a slight noise at the partition-door between Emily’s room
and mine, as if caused by somebody’s turning the key in the lock. I held my
breath, and the same sound was repeated at the second door of my room–that which opened upon the lobby–the sound was
here distinctly caused by the revolution of the bolt in the lock, and it was followed by a slight pressure upon the door itself, as if to ascertain the security of the lock.
The person, whoever it might be, was
probably satisfied, for I heard the old boards of the lobby creak and strain, as if under the weight of somebody moving
cautiously over them. My sense of hearing became unnaturally, almost painfully
acute. I suppose the imagination added distinctness to sounds vague in themselves. I thought that I could actually hear the breathing of the person who was slowly
returning down the lobby. At the head of the staircase there appeared to occur a
pause; and I could distinctly hear two or three sentences hastily whispered; the
steps then descended the stairs with apparently less caution. I now ventured to walk quickly and lightly to the lobby-door, and attempted to open it; it was indeed
fast locked upon the outside, as was also the other.
I now felt that the dreadful hour was come; but one desperate expedient
remained–it was to awaken Emily, and by our united strength to attempt to force
the partition-door, which was slighter than the other, and through this to pass to the lower part of the house, whence it might be possible to escape to the grounds, and forth to the village.
I returned to the bedside and shook
Emily, but in vain. Nothing that I could do availed to produce from her more than a few incoherent words–it was a death-
like sleep. She had certainly drank of some narcotic, as had I probably also, spite of all the caution with which I had
examined everything presented to us to eat or drink.
I now attempted, with as little noise as possible, to force first one door, then the other–but all in vain. I believe no
strength could have effected my object, for both doors opened inwards. I therefore
collected whatever movables I could carry thither, and piled them against the doors, so as to assist me in whatever attempts I should make to resist the entrance of those without. I then returned to the bed and
endeavoured again, but fruitlessly, to awaken my cousin. It was not sleep, it
was torpor, lethargy, death. I knelt down and prayed with an agony of earnestness; and then seating myself upon the bed, I
awaited my fate with a kind of terrible tranquillity.
I heard a faint clanking sound from the narrow court which I have already
mentioned, as if caused by the scraping of some iron instrument against stones or
rubbish. I at first determined not to disturb the calmness which I now felt, by uselessly watching the proceedings of those who sought my life; but as the sounds
continued, the horrible curiosity which I felt overcame every other emotion, and I determined, at all hazards, to gratify it. I therefore crawled upon my knees to
the window, so as to let the smallest portion of my head appear above the
sill.
The moon was shining with an uncertain radiance upon the antique grey buildings, and obliquely upon the narrow court
beneath, one side of which was therefore clearly illuminated, while the other was lost in obscurity, the sharp outlines of the old gables, with their nodding clusters of ivy, being at first alone visible.
Whoever or whatever occasioned the
noise which had excited my curiosity, was concealed under the shadow of the dark
side of the quadrangle. I placed my hand over my eyes to shade them from the
moonlight, which was so bright as to be almost dazzling, and, peering into the
darkness, I first dimly, but afterwards gradually, almost with full distinctness, beheld the form of a man engaged in digging what
appeared to be a rude hole close under the wall. Some implements, probably a shovel and pickaxe, lay beside him, and to these he every now and then applied himself as the nature of the ground required. He
pursued his task rapidly, and with as little noise as possible.
‘So,’ thought I, as, shovelful after shovel- ful, the dislodged rubbish mounted into a heap, ‘they are digging the grave in which, before two hours pass, I must lie, a cold, mangled corpse. I am THEIRS–I cannot
escape.’
I felt as if my reason was leaving me. I started to my feet, and in mere despair I applied myself again to each of the two
doors alternately. I strained every nerve and sinew, but I might as well have
attempted, with my single strength, to force the building itself from its foundation. I threw myself madly upon the ground, and
clasped my hands over my eyes as if to shut out the horrible images which crowded upon me.
The paroxysm passed away. I prayed
once more, with the bitter, agonised fervour of one who feels that the hour of death is present and inevitable. When I arose, I
went once more to the window and looked out, just in time to see a shadowy figure glide stealthily along the wall. The task was finished. The catastrophe of the
tragedy must soon be accomplished.
I determined now to defend my life to the last; and that I might be able to do so with some effect, I searched the room for something which might serve as a
weapon; but either through accident, or from an anticipation of such a possibility, everything which might have been made
available for such a purpose had been carefully removed. I must then die tamely
and without an effort to defend myself.
A thought suddenly struck me–might
it not be possible to escape through the door, which the assassin must open in
order to enter the room? I resolved to make the attempt. I felt assured that the door through which ingress to the room
would be effected, was that which opened upon the lobby. It was the more direct
way, besides being, for obvious reasons, less liable to interruption than the other. I resolved, then, to place myself behind a projection of the wall, whose shadow would serve fully to conceal me, and when the
door should be opened, and before they should have discovered the identity of the occupant of the bed, to creep noiselessly from the room, and then to trust to
Providence for escape.
In order to facilitate this scheme, I removed all the lumber which I had heaped against the door; and I had nearly completed my arrangements, when I perceived
the room suddenly darkened by the close approach of some shadowy object to the
window. On turning my eyes in that
direction, I observed at the top of the casement, as if suspended from above, first the feet, then the legs, then the body, and at length the whole figure of a man present himself. It was Edward T—-n.
He appeared to be guiding his descent so as to bring his feet upon the centre of the stone block which occupied the lower part of the window; and, having secured
his footing upon this, he kneeled down and began to gaze into the room. As the
moon was gleaming into the chamber, and the bed-curtains were drawn, he was able to distinguish the bed itself and its
contents. He appeared satisfied with his scrutiny, for he looked up and made a sign with his hand, upon which the rope by
which his descent had been effected was slackened from above, and he proceeded to disengage it from his waist; this accom- plished, he applied his hands to the
window-frame, which must have been
ingeniously contrived for the purpose, for, with apparently no resistance, the whole frame, containing casement and all, slipped from its position in the wall, and was by him lowered into the room.
The cold night wind waved the bed-
curtains, and he paused for a moment–all was still again–and he stepped in upon
the floor of the room. He held in his hand what appeared to be a steel instrument, shaped something like a hammer,
but larger and sharper at the extremities. This he held rather behind him, while, with three long, tip-toe strides, he brought
himself to the bedside.
I felt that the discovery must now be made, and held my breath in momentary
expectation of the execration in which he would vent his surprise and disappointment. I closed my eyes–there was a
pause, but it was a short one. I heard two dull blows, given in rapid succession: a quivering sigh, and the long-drawn,
heavy breathing of the sleeper was for ever suspended. I unclosed my eyes, and
saw the murderer fling the quilt across the head of his victim: he then, with the
instrument of death still in his hand, proceeded to the lobby-door, upon which he tapped sharply twice or thrice. A quick
step was then heard approaching, and a voice whispered something from without.
Edward answered, with a kind of chuckle, ‘Her ladyship is past complaining; unlock the door, in the devil’s name, unless you’re afraid to come in, and help me to lift the body out of the window.’
The key was turned in the lock–the
door opened–and my uncle entered the room.
I have told you already that I had
placed myself under the shade of a
projection of the wall, close to the door. I had instinctively shrunk down, cowering
towards the ground on the entrance of Edward through the window. When my
uncle entered the room he and his son both stood so very close to me that his
hand was every moment upon the point of touching my face. I held my breath, and
remained motionless as death.
‘You had no interruption from the next