“The Stone Chamber” by H. B. Marriott Watson, published in 1899, is a gothic tale that delves into the supernatural with an air of creeping dread. The story centers on an old, secluded mansion that houses a mysterious stone chamber, long sealed and shrouded in dark legends. The protagonist, drawn by curiosity and a sense of adventure, decides to uncover the secrets of the chamber, only to unleash a malevolent presence that had been trapped for centuries.
The Stone Chamber by H. B. Marriott Watson (1899)
It was not until early summer that Warrington took possession of Marvyn Abbey. He had bought the property in the preceding autumn, but the place had so fallen into decay through the disorders of time that more than six months elapsed ere it was inhabitable. The delay, however, fell out conveniently for Warrington; for the Bosanquets spent the winter abroad, and nothing must suit but he must spend it with them. There was never a man who pursued his passion with such ardour. He was ever at Miss Bosanquet’s skirts, and bade fair to make her as steadfast a husband as he was attached a lover. Thus it was not until after his return from that prolonged exile that he had the opportunity of inspecting the repairs discharged by his architect. He was nothing out of the common in character, but was full of kindly impulses and a fellow of impetuous blood. When he called upon me in my chambers he spoke with some excitement of his Abbey, as also of his approaching marriage; and finally, breaking into an exhibition of genuine affection, declared that we had been so long and so continuously intimate that I, and none other, must help him warm his house and marry his bride. It had indeed been always understood between us that I should serve him at the ceremony, but now it appeared that I must start my duties even earlier. The prospect of a summer holiday in Utterbourne pleased me. It was a charming village, set upon the slope of a wooded hill and within call of the sea. I had a slight knowledge of the district from a riding excursion taken through that part of Devonshire; and years before, and ere Warrington had come into his money, had viewed the Abbey ruins from a distance with the polite curiosity of a passing tourist.
I examined them now with new eyes as we drove up the avenue. The face which the ancient building presented to the valley was of magnificent design, but now much worn and battered.
Part of it, the right wing, I judged to be long past the uses of a dwelling, for the walls had crumbled away, huge gaps opened in the foundations, and the roof was quite dismantled.
Warrington had very wisely left this portion to its own sinister decay; it was the left wing which had been restored, and which we were to inhabit. The entrance, I will confess, was a little mean, for the large doorway had been bricked up and an ordinary modern door gave upon the spacious terrace and the winding gardens. But apart from this, the work of restoration had been undertaken with skill and piety, and the interior had retained its native dignity, while resuming an air of proper comfort. The old oak had been repaired congruous with the original designs, and the great rooms had been as little altered as was requisite to adapt them for daily use.
Warrington passed quickly from chamber to chamber in evident delight, directing my attention upon this and upon that, and eagerly requiring my congratulations and approval. My comments must have satisfied him, for the place attracted me vastly. The only criticism I ventured was to remark upon the size of the rooms and to question if they might dwarf the insignificant human figures they were to entertain.
He laughed. “Not a bit,” said he. “Roaring fires in winter in those fine old fireplaces; and as for summer, the more space the better. We shall be jolly.”
I followed him along the noble hall, and we stopped before a small door of very black oak.
“The bedrooms,” he explained, as he turned the key, “are all upstairs, but mine is not ready yet.
“And besides, I am reserving it; I won’t sleep in it till–you understand,” he concluded, with a smiling suggestion of embarrassment.
I understood very well. He threw the door open.
“I am going to use this in the meantime,” he continued. “Queer little room, isn’t it? It used to be a sort of library. How do you think it looks?”
We had entered as he spoke, and stood, distributing our glances in that vague and general way in which a room is surveyed. It was a chamber of much smaller proportions than the rest, and was dimly lighted by two long narrow windows sunk in the great walls. The bed and the modern fittings looked strangely out of keeping with its ancient privacy. The walls were rudely distempered with barbaric frescos, dating, I conjectured, from the fourteenth century; and the floor was of stone, worn into grooves and hollows with the feet of many generations. As I was taking in these facts, there came over me a sudden curiosity as to those dead Marvyns who had held the Abbey for so long. This silent chamber seemed to suggest questions of their history; it spoke eloquently of past ages and past deeds, fallen now into oblivion. Here, within these thick walls, no echo from the outer world might carry, no sound would ring within its solitary seclusion. Even the silence seemed to confer with one upon the ancient transactions of that extinct House.
Warrington stirred, and turned suddenly to me. “I hope it’s not damp,” said he, with a slight shiver. “It looks rather solemn. I thought furniture would brighten it up.”
“I should think it would be very comfortable,” said I. “You will never be disturbed by any sounds at any rate.”
“No,” he answered, hesitatingly; and then, quickly, on one of his impulses: “Hang it, Heywood, there’s too much silence here for me.” Then he laughed. “Oh, I shall do very well for a month or two.” And with that appeared to return to his former placid cheerfulness.
The train of thought started in that sombre chamber served to entertain me several times that day. I questioned Warrington at dinner, which we took in one of the smaller rooms, commanding a lovely prospect of dale and sea. He shook his head. Archæological lore, as indeed anything else out of the borders of actual life, held very little interest for him.
“The Marvyns died out in 1714, I believe,” he said, indifferently; “someone told me that–the man I bought it from, I think. They might just as well have kept the place up since; but I think it has been only occupied twice between then and now, and the last time was forty years ago. It would have rotted to pieces if I hadn’t taken it. Perhaps Mrs Batty could tell you. She’s lived in these parts almost all her life.”
To humour me, and affected, I doubt not, by a certain pride in his new possession, he put the query to his housekeeper upon her appearance subsequently; but it seemed that her knowledge was little fuller than his own, though she had gathered some vague traditions of the countryside.
The Marvyns had not left a reputable name, if rumour spoke truly; theirs was a family to which black deeds had been credited. They were ill-starred also in their fortunes, and had become extinct suddenly; but for the rest, the events had fallen too many generations ago to be current now between the memories of the village.
Warrington, who was more eager to discuss the future than to recall the past, was vastly excited by his anticipations. St Pharamond, Sir William Bosanquet’s house, lay across the valley, barely five miles away; and as the family had now returned, it was easy to forgive Warrington’s elation.
“What do you think?” he said, late that evening; and clapping me upon the shoulder, “You have seen Marion; here is the house. Am I not lucky? Damn it, Heywood, I’m not pious, but I am disposed to thank God! I’m not a bad fellow, but I’m no saint; it’s fortunate that it’s not only the virtuous that are rewarded. In fact, it’s usually contrariwise. I owe this to–Lord, I don’t know what I owe it to. Is it my money? Of course, Marion doesn’t care a rap for that; but then, you see, I mightn’t have known her without it. Of course, there’s the house, too. I’m thankful I have money. At any rate, here’s my new life. Just look about and take it in, old fellow. If you knew how a man may be ashamed of himself! But there, I’ve done. You know I’m decent at heart—you must count my life from today.” And with this outbreak he lifted the glass between fingers that trembled with the warmth of his emotions, and tossed off his wine.
He did himself but justice when he claimed to be a good fellow; and, in truth, I was myself somewhat moved by his obvious feeling. I remember that we shook hands very affectionately, and my sympathy was the prelude to a long and confidential talk, which lasted until quite a late hour.
At the foot of the staircase, where we parted, he detained me.
“This is the last of my wayward days,” he said, with a smile. “Late hours–liquor–all go. You shall see. Goodnight. You know your room. I shall be up long before you.” And with that he vanished briskly into the darkness that hung about the lower parts of the passage.
I watched him go, and it struck me quite vaguely what a slight impression his candle made upon that channel of opaque gloom. It seemed merely as a thread of light that illumined nothing.
Warrington himself was rapt into the prevalent blackness; but long afterwards, and even when his footsteps had died away upon the heavy carpet, the tiny beam was visible, advancing and flickering in the distance.
My window, which was modern, opened upon a little balcony, where, as the night was warm and I was indisposed for sleep, I spent half an hour enjoying the air. I was in a sentimental mood, and my thoughts turned upon the suggestions which Warrington’s conversation had induced. It was not until I was in bed, and had blown out the light, that they settled upon the square, dark chamber in which my host was to pass the night. As I have said, I was wakeful, owing, no doubt, to the high pitch of the emotions which we had encouraged; but presently my fancies became inarticulate and incoherent, and then I was overtaken by profound sleep.
Warrington was up before me, as he had predicted, and met me in the breakfast-room.
“What a beggar you are to sleep!” he said, with a smile. “I’ve hammered at your door for half an hour.”
I apologized for myself, alleging the rich country air in my defence, and mentioned that I had had some difficulty in getting to sleep.
“So had I,” he remarked, as we sat down to the table. “We got very excited, I suppose. Just see what you have there, Heywood. Eggs? Oh, damn it, one can have too much of eggs!” He frowned, and lifted a third cover. “Why in the name of common sense can’t Mrs Batty give us more variety?” he asked, impatiently.
I deprecated his displeasure, suggesting that we should do very well; indeed, his discontent seemed to me quite unnecessary. But I supposed Warrington had been rather spoiled by many years of club life.
He settled himself without replying, and began to pick over his plate in a gingerly manner.
“There’s one thing I will have here, Heywood,” he observed. “I will have things well appointed.”
“I’m not going to let life in the country mean an uncomfortable life. A man can’t change the habits of a lifetime.”
In contrast with his exhilarated professions of the previous evening, this struck me with a sense of amusement at the moment; and the incongruity may have occurred to him, for he went on:
“Marion’s not over strong, you know, and must have things comme il faut. She shan’t decline upon a lower level. The worst of these rustics is that they have no imagination.” He held up a piece of bacon on his fork, and surveyed it with disgust. “Now, look at that! Why the devil don’t they take tips from civilized people like the French?”
It was so unlike him to exhibit this petulance that I put it down to a bad night, and without discovering the connection of my thoughts, asked him how he liked his bedroom.
“Oh, pretty well, pretty well,” he said, indifferently. “It’s not so cold as I thought. But I slept badly. I always do in a strange bed;” and pushing aside his plate, he lit a cigarette. “When you’ve finished that garbage, Heywood, we’ll have a stroll round the Abbey,” he said.
His good temper returned during our walk, and he indicated to me various improvements which he contemplated, with something of his old ardour. The left wing of the house, as I have said, was entire, but a little apart were the ruins of a chapel. Surrounded by a low moss-grown wall, it was full of picturesque charm; the roofless chancel was spread with ivy, but the aisles were intact. Grass grew between the stones and the floor, and many creepers had strayed through chinks in the wall into those sacred precincts. The solemn quietude of the ruin, maintained under the spell of death, awed me a little, but upon Warrington apparently it made no impression. He was only zealous that I should properly appreciate the distinction of such a property. I stooped and drew the weeds away from one of the slabs in the aisle, and was able to trace upon it the relics of lettering, well-nigh obliterated under the corrosion of time.
“There are tombs,” said I.
“Oh, yes,” he answered, with a certain relish. “I understand the Marvyns used it as a mausoleum. They are all buried here. Some good brasses, I am told.”
The associations of the place engaged me; the aspect of the Abbey faced the past; it seemed to refuse communion with the present; and somehow the thought of those two decent humdrum lives which should be spent within its shelter savoured of the incongruous. The white-capped maids and the emblazoned butlers that should tread these halls offered a ridiculous appearance beside my fancies of the ancient building. For all that, I envied Warrington his home, and so I told him, with a humorous hint that I was fitter to appreciate its glories than himself.
He laughed. “Oh, I don’t know,” said he. “I like the old-world look as much as you do. I have always had a notion of something venerable. It seems to serve you for ancestors.” And he was undoubtedly delighted with my enthusiasm.
But at lunch again he chopped round to his previous irritation, only now quite another matter provoked his anger. He had received a letter by the second post from Miss Bosanquet, which, if I may judge from his perplexity, must have been unusually confused. He read and re-read it, his brow lowering.
“What the deuce does she mean?” he asked, testily. “She first makes an arrangement for us to ride over today, and now I can’t make out whether we are to go to St Pharamond, or they are coming to us. Just look at it, will you, Heywood?”
I glanced through the note, but could offer no final solution, whereupon he broke out again:
“That’s just like women–they never can say anything straightforwardly. Why, in the name of goodness, couldn’t she leave things as they were? You see,” he observed, rather in answer, as I fancied, to my silence, “we don’t know what to do now; if we stay here they mayn’t come, and if we go probably we shall cross them.” And he snapped his fingers in annoyance.
I was cheerful enough, perhaps because the responsibility was not mine, and ventured to suggest that we might ride over, and return if we missed them. But he dismissed the subject sharply by saying:
“No, I’ll stay. I’m not going on a fool’s errand,” and drew my attention to some point in the decoration of the room.
The Bosanquets did not arrive during the afternoon, and Warrington’s ill-humour increased.
His love-sick state pleaded in excuse of him, but he was certainly not a pleasant companion. He was sour and snappish, and one could introduce no statement to which he would not find a contradiction. So unamiable did he grow that at last I discovered a pretext to leave him, and rambled to the back of the Abbey into the precincts of the old chapel. The day was falling, and the summer sun flared through the western windows upon the bare aisle. The creepers rustled upon the gaping walls, and the tall grasses waved in shadows over the bodies of the forgotten dead. As I stood contemplating the effect, and meditating greatly upon the anterior fortunes of the Abbey, my attention fell upon a huge slab of marble, upon which the yellow light struck sharply. The faded lettering rose into greater definition before my eyes and I read slowly:
“Here lyeth the body of Sir Rupert Marvyn.”
Beyond a date, very difficult to decipher, there was nothing more; of eulogy, of style, of record, of pious considerations such as were usual to the period, not a word. I read the numerals variously as 1723 and 1745; but however they ran it was probable that the stone covered the resting-place of the last Marvyn. The history of this futile house interested me not a little, partly for Warrington’s sake, and in part from a natural bent towards ancient records; and I made a mental note of the name and date.
When I returned Warrington’s surliness had entirely vanished, and had given place to an effusion of boisterous spirits. He apologized jovially for his bad temper.
“It was the disappointment of not seeing Marion,” he said. “You will understand that some day, old fellow. But, anyhow, we’ll go over tomorrow,” and forthwith proceeded to enliven the dinner with an ostentation of good-fellowship I had seldom witnessed in him. I began to suspect that he had heard again from St Pharamond, though he chose to conceal the fact from me. The wine was admirable; though Warrington himself was no great judge, he had entrusted the selection to a good palate. We had a merry meal, drank a little more than was prudent, and smoked our cigars upon the terrace in the fresh air. Warrington was restless. He pushed his glass from him. “I’ll tell you what, old chap,” he broke out, “I’ll give you a game of billiards. I’ve got a decent table.”
I demurred. The air was too delicious, and I was in no humour for a sharp use of my wits. He laughed, though he seemed rather disappointed.
“It’s almost sacrilege to play billiards in an Abbey,” I said, whimsically. “What would the ghosts of the old Marvyns think?”
“Oh, hang the Marvyns!” he rejoined, crossly. “You’re always talking of them.”
He rose and entered the house, returning presently with a flagon of whisky and some glasses.
“Try this,” he said. “We’ve had no liqueurs,” and pouring out some spirit he swallowed it raw.
I stared, for Warrington rarely took spirits, being more of a wine drinker; moreover, he must have taken nearly the quarter of a tumbler. But he did not notice my surprise, and, seating himself, lit another cigar.
“I don’t mean to have things quiet here,” he observed, reflectively. “I don’t believe in your stagnant rustic life. What I intend to do is to keep the place warm–plenty of house parties, things going on all the year. I shall expect you down for the shooting, Ned. The coverts promise well this year.”
I assented willingly enough, and he rambled on again.
“I don’t know that I shall use the Abbey so much. I think I’ll live in town a good deal. It’s brighter there. I don’t know though. I like the place. Hang it, it’s a rattling good shop, there’s no mistake about it. Look here,” he broke off, abruptly, “bring your glass in, and I’ll show you something.”
I was little inclined to move, but he was so peremptory that I followed him with a sigh. We entered one of the smaller rooms which overlooked the terrace, and had been diverted into a comfortable library. He flung back the windows.
“There’s air for you,” he cried. “Now, sit down,” and walking to a cupboard produced a second flagon of whisky. “Irish!” he ejaculated, clumping it on the table. “Take your choice,” and turning again to the cupboard, presently sat down with his hands under the table. “Now, then, Ned,” he said, with a short laugh. “Fill up, and we’ll have some fun,” with which he suddenly threw a pack of cards upon the board.
I opened my eyes, for I do not suppose Warrington had touched cards since his college days; but, interpreting my look in his own way, he cried:
“Oh, I’m not married yet. Warrington’s his own man still. Poker? Eh?”
“Anything you like,” said I, with resignation.
A peculiar expression of delight gleamed in his eyes, and he shuffled the cards feverishly.
“Cut,” said he, and helped himself to more whisky.
It was shameful to be playing there with that beautiful night without, but there seemed no help for it. Warrington had a run of luck, though he played with little skill; and his excitement grew as he won.
“Let us make it ten shillings,” he suggested.
I shook my head. “You forget I’m not a millionaire,” I replied. “Bah!” he cried. “I like a game worth the victory. Well, fire away.” His eyes gloated upon the cards, and he fingered them with unctuous affection. The behaviour of the man amazed me. I began to win.
Warrington’s face slowly assumed a dull, lowering expression; he played eagerly, avariciously; he disputed my points, and was querulous.
“Oh, we’ve had enough!” I cried in distaste.
“By Jove, you don’t!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “You’re the winner, Heywood, and I’ll see you damned before I let you off my revenge!”
The words startled me no less than the fury which rang in his accents. I gazed at him in stupefaction. The whites of his eyes showed wildly, and a sullen, angry look determined his face.
Suddenly I was arrested by the suspicion of something upon his neck.
“What’s that?” I asked. “You’ve cut yourself.”
He put his hand to his face. “Nonsense,” he replied, in a surly fashion.
I looked closer, and then I saw my mistake. It was a round, faint red mark, the size of a florin, upon the column of his throat, and I set it down to the accidental pressure of some button.
“Come on!” he insisted, impatiently.
“Bah! Warrington,” I said, for I imagined that he had been overexcited by the whisky he had taken. “It’s only a matter of a few pounds. Why make a fuss? Tomorrow will serve.”
After a moment his eyes fell, and he gave an awkward laugh. “Oh, well, that’ll do,” said he.
“But I got so infernally excited.”
“Whisky,” said I, sententiously.
He glanced at the bottle. “How many glasses have I had?” and he whistled. “By Jove, Ned, this won’t do! I must turn over a new leaf. Come on; let’s look at the night.”
I was only too glad to get away from the table, and we were soon upon the terrace again.
Warrington was silent, and his gaze went constantly across the valley, where the moon was rising, and in the direction in which, as he had indicated to me, St Pharamond lay. When he said goodnight he was still pre-occupied.
“I hope you will sleep better,” he said.
“And you, too,” I added.
He smiled. “I don’t suppose I shall wake the whole night through,” he said; and then, as I was turning to go, he caught me quickly by the arm.
“Ned,” he said, impulsively and very earnestly, “don’t let me make a fool of myself again. I know it’s the excitement of everything. But I want to be as good as I can for her.”
I pressed his hand. “All right, old fellow,” I said; and we parted.
I think I have never enjoyed sounder slumber than that night. The first thing I was aware of was the singing of thrushes outside my window. I rose and looked forth, and the sun was hanging high in the eastern sky, the grass and the young green of the trees were shining with dew. With an uncomfortable feeling that I was very late I hastily dressed and went downstairs. Warrington was waiting for me in the breakfast-room, as upon the previous morning, and when he turned from the window at my approach, the sight of his face startled me. It was drawn and haggard, and his eyes were shot with blood; it was a face broken and savage with dissipation. He made no answer to my questioning, but seated himself with a morose air.
“Now you have come,” he said, sullenly, “we may as well begin. But it’s not my fault if the coffee’s cold.”
I examined him critically, and passed some comment upon his appearance.
“You don’t look up to much,” I said. “Another bad night?”
“No; I slept well enough,” he responded, ungraciously; and then, after a pause: “I’ll tell you what, Heywood. You shall give me my revenge after breakfast.”
“Nonsense,” I said, after a momentary silence. “You’re going over to St Pharamond.”
“Hang it!” was his retort, “one can’t be always bothering about women. You seem mightily indisposed to meet me again.”
“I certainly won’t this morning,” I answered, rather sharply, for the man’s manner grated upon me. “This evening, if you like; and then the silly business shall end.”
He said something in an undertone of grumble, and the rest of the meal passed in silence. But I entertained an uneasy suspicion of him, and after all he was my friend, with whom I was under obligations not to quarrel; and so when we rose, I approached him.
“Look here, Warrington,” I said. “What’s the matter with you? Have you been drinking?
“Remember what you asked me last night.”
“Hold your damned row!” was all the answer he vouchsafed, as he whirled away from me, but with an embarrassed display of shame.
But I was not to be put off in that way, and I spoke somewhat more sharply.
“We’re going to have this out, Warrington,” I said. “If you are ill, let us understand that; but I’m not going to stay here with you in this cantankerous spirit.”
“I’m not ill,” he replied testily.
“Look at yourself,” I cried, and turned him about to the mirror over the mantelpiece.
He started a little, and a frown of perplexity gathered on his forehead.
“Good Lord! I’m not like that, Ned,” he said, in a different voice. “I must have been drunk last night.” And with a sort of groan, he directed a piteous look at me.
“Come,” I was constrained to answer, “pull yourself together. The ride will do you good. And no more whisky.”
“No, by Heaven, no!” he cried vehemently, and seemed to shiver; but then, suddenly taking my arm, he walked out of the room.
The morning lay still and golden. Warrington’s eyes went forth across the valley.
“Come round to the stables, Ned,” he said, impulsively. “You shall choose you own nag.”
I shook my head. “I’ll choose yours,” said I, “but I am not going with you.” He looked surprised.
“No, ride by yourself. You don’t want a companion on such an errand. I’ll stay here, and pursue my investigations into the Marvyns.”
A scowl crossed his face, but only for an instant, and then he answered: “All right, old chap; do as you like. Anyway, I’m off at once.” And presently, when his horse was brought, he was laughing merrily.
“You’ll have a dull day, Ned; but it’s your own fault, you duffer. You’ll have to lunch by yourself, as I shan’t be back till late.” And, gaily flourishing his whip, he trotted down the drive.
It was some relief to me to be rid of him, for, in truth, his moods had worn my nerves, and I had not looked for a holiday of this disquieting nature. When he returned, I had no doubt it would be with quite another face, and meanwhile I was excellent company for myself. After lunch I amused myself for half an hour with idle tricks upon the billiard-table, and, tiring of my pastime, fell upon the housekeeper as I returned along the corridor. She was a woman nearer to sixty than fifty, with a comfortable, portly figure, and an amiable expression. Her eyes invited me ever so respectfully to conversation, and stopping, I entered into talk. She inquired if I liked my room and how I slept.
“‘Tis a nice look-out you have, Sir,” said she. “That was where old Lady Martin slept.”
It appeared that she had served as kitchen-maid to the previous tenants of the Abbey, nearly fifty years before.
“Oh, I know the old house in and out,” she asserted; “and I arranged the rooms with Mr Warrington.”
We were standing opposite the low doorway which gave entrance to Warrington’s bedroom, and my eyes unconsciously shot in that direction. Mrs Batty followed my glance.
“I didn’t want him to have that,” she said; “but he was set upon it. It’s smallish for a bedroom, and in my opinion isn’t fit for more than a lumber-room. That’s what Sir William used it for.”
I pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold, and the housekeeper followed me.
“No,” she said, glancing round; “and it’s in my mind that it’s damp, Sir.”
Again I had a curious feeling that the silence was speaking in my ear; the atmosphere was thick and heavy, and a musty smell, as of faded draperies, penetrated my nostrils. The whole room looked indescribably dingy, despite the new hangings. I went over to the narrow window and peered through the diamond panes. Outside, but seen dimly through that ancient and discoloured glass, the ruins of the chapel confronted me, bare and stark, in the yellow sunlight. I turned.
“There are no ghosts in the Abbey, I suppose, Mrs Batty?” I asked, whimsically.
But she took my inquiry very gravely. “I have never heard tell of one, Sir,” she protested; “and if there was such a thing I should have known it.”
As I was rejoining her a strange low whirring was audible, and looking up I saw in a corner of the high-arched roof a horrible face watching me out of black narrow eyes. I confess that I was very much startled at the apparition, but the next moment realized what it was. The creature hung with its ugly fleshy wings extended over a grotesque stone head that leered down upon me, its evil-looking snout projecting into the room; it lay perfectly still, returning me glance for glance, until moved by the repulsion of its presence I clapped my hands, and cried loudly; then, slowly flitting in a circle round the roof, it vanished with a flapping of wings into some darker corner of the rafters. Mrs Batty was astounded, and expressed surprise that it had managed to conceal itself for so long.
“Oh, bats live in holes,” I answered. “Probably there is some small access through the masonry.” But the incident had sent an uncomfortable shiver through me all the same.
Later that day I began to recognize that, short of an abrupt return to town, my time was not likely to be spent very pleasantly. But it was the personal problem so far as it concerned Warrington himself that distressed me even more. He came back from St Pharamond in a morose and ugly temper, quite alien to his kindly nature. It seems that he had quarrelled bitterly with Miss Bosanquet, but upon what I could not determine, nor did I press him for an explanation. But the fumes of his anger were still rising when we met, and our dinner was a most depressing meal.
He was in a degree of irritation which rendered it impossible to address him, and I soon withdrew into my thoughts. I saw, however, that he was drinking far too much, as, indeed, was plain subsequently when he invited me into the library. Once more he produced the hateful cards, and I was compelled to play, as he reminded me somewhat churlishly that I had promised him his revenge.
“Understand, Warrington,” I said, firmly, “I play tonight, but never again, whatever the result In fact, I am in half the mind to return to town tomorrow.”
He gave me a look as he sat down, but said nothing, and the game began. He lost heavily from the first, and as nothing would content him but we must constantly raise the stakes, in a shore time I had won several hundred pounds. He bore the reverses very ill, breaking out from time to time into some angry exclamation, now petulantly questioning my playing, and muttering oaths under his breath. But I was resolved that he should have no cause of complaint against me for this one night, and disregarding his insane fits of temper, I played steadily and silently. As the tally of my gains mounted he changed colour slowly, his face assuming a ghastly expression, and his eyes suspiciously denoting my actions. At length he rose, and throwing himself quickly across the table, seized my hand ferociously as I dealt a couple of cards.
“Damn you! I see your tricks,” he cried, in frenzied passion. “Drop that hand, do you hear?”
“Drop that hand, or by–“
But he got no further, for, rising myself, I wrenched my hand from his grasp, and turned upon him, in almost as great a passion as himself. But suddenly, and even as I opened my mouth to speak, I stopped short with a cry of horror. His face was livid to the lips, his eyes were cast with blood, and upon the dirty white of his flesh, right in the centre of his throat, the round red scar, flaming and ugly as a wound, stared upon me.
“Warrington” I cried, “what is this? What have you?–” And I pointed in alarm to the spot.
“Mind your own business,” he said, with a sneer. “It is well to try and draw off attention from your knavery. But that trick won’t answer with me.”
Without another word I flung the IOU’s upon the table, and turning on my heel, left the room. I was furious with him, and fully resolved to leave the Abbey in the morning. I made my way upstairs to my room, and then, seating myself upon the balcony, endeavoured to recover my self-possession.
The more I considered, the more unaccountable was Warrington’s behaviour. He had always been a perfectly courteous man, with a great lump of kindness in his nature; whereas these last few days he had been nothing other than a savage. It seemed certain that he must be ill or going mad; and as I reflected upon this the conjecture struck me with a sense of pity. If it was that he was losing his senses, how horrible was the tragedy in face of the new and lovely prospects opening in his life. Stimulated by this growing conviction, I resolved to go down and see him, more particularly as I now recalled his pleading voice that I should help him, on the previous evening. Was it not possible that this pathetic appeal derived from the instinct of the insane to protect themselves?
I found him still in the library; his head had fallen upon the table, and the state of the whisky bottle by his arm showed only too clearly his condition. I shook him vigorously, and he opened his eyes.
“Warrington, you must go to bed,” I said.
He smiled, and greeted me quite affectionately. Obviously he was not so drunk as I had supposed.
“What is the time, Ned?” he asked.
I told him it was one o’clock, at which he rose briskly.
“Lord, I’ve been asleep,” he said. “Help me, Ned. I don’t think I’m sober. Where have you been?”
I assisted him to his room, and he undressed slowly, and with an effort. Somehow, as I stood watching him, I yielded to an unknown impulse and said, suddenly:
“Warrington, don’t sleep here. Come and share my room.”
“My dear fellow,” he replied, with a foolish laugh, “yours is not the only room in the house. I can use half-a-dozen if I like.”
“Well, use one of them,” I answered.
He shook his head. “I’m going to sleep here,” he returned, obstinately.
I made no further effort to influence him, for, after all, now that the words were out, I had absolutely no reason to give him or myself for my proposition. And so I left him. When I had closed the door, and was turning to go along the passage, I heard very clearly, as it seemed to me, a plaintive cry, muffled and faint, but very disturbing, which sounded from the room.
Instantly I opened the door again. Warrington was in bed, and the heavy sound of his breathing told me that he was asleep. It was impossible that he could have uttered the cry. A night-light was burning by his bedside, shedding a strong illumination over the immediate vicinity, and throwing antic shadows on the walls. As I turned to go, there was a whirring of wings, a brief flap behind me, and the room was plunged in darkness. The obscene creature that lived in the recesses of the roof must have knocked out the tiny light with its wings. Then Warrington’s breathing ceased, and there was no sound at all. And then once more the silence seemed to gather round me slowly and heavily, and whisper to me. I had a vague sense of being prevailed upon, of being enticed and lured by something in the surrounding air; a sort of horror circumscribed me, and I broke from the invisible ring and rushed from the room. The door clanged behind me, and as I hastened along the hail, once more there seemed to ring in my ears the faint and melancholy cry.
I awoke, in the sombre twilight that precedes the dawn, from a sleep troubled and encumbered with evil dreams. The birds had not yet begun their day, and a vast silence brooded over the Abbey gardens. Looking out of my window, I caught sight of a dark figure stealing cautiously round the corner of the ruined chapel. The furtive gait, as well as the appearance of a man at that early hour, struck me with surprise; and hastily throwing on some clothes, I ran downstairs, and, opening the hall-door, went out. When I reached the porch which gave entrance to the aisle I stopped suddenly, for there before me, with his head to the ground, and peering among the tall grasses, was the object of my pursuit. Then I stepped quickly forward and laid a hand upon his shoulder. It was Warrington.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He turned and looked at me in bewilderment. His eyes wore a dazed expression, and he blinked in perplexity before he replied.
“It’s you, is it?” he said weakly. “I thought–” and then paused. “What is it?” he asked.
“I followed you here,” I explained. “I only saw your figure, and thought it might be some intruder.”
He avoided my eyes. “I thought I heard a cry out here,” he answered.
“Warrington,” I said, with some earnestness, “come back to bed.”
He made no answer, and slipping my arm in his, I led him away. On the doorstep he stopped, and lifted his face to me.
“Do you think it’s possible–” he began, as if to inquire of me, and then again paused. With a slight shiver he proceeded to his room, while I followed him. He sat down upon his bed, and his eyes strayed to the barred window absently. The black shadow of the chapel was visible through the panes.
“Don’t say anything about this,” he said, suddenly. “Don’t let Marion know.”
I laughed, but it was an awkward laugh.
“Why, that you were alarmed by a cry for help, and went in search like a gentleman?” I asked, jestingly.
“You heard it, then?” he said, eagerly.
I shook my head, for I was not going to encourage his fancies. “You had better go to sleep,” I replied, “and get rid of these nightmares.”
He sighed and lay back upon his pillow, dressed as he was. Ere I left him he had fallen into a profound slumber.
If I had expected a surly mood in him at breakfast I was much mistaken. There was not a trace of his nocturnal dissipations; he did not seem even to remember them, and he made no allusion whatever to our adventure in the dawn. He perused a letter carefully, and threw it over to me with a grin.
“Lor, what queer sheep women are!” he exclaimed, with rather a coarse laugh.
I glanced at the letter without thinking, but ere I had read half of it I put it aside. It was certainly not meant for my eyes, and I marvelled at Warrington’s indelicacy in making public, as it were, that very private matter. The note was from Miss Bosanquet, and was clearly designed for his own heart, couched as it was in the terms of warm and fond affection. No man should see such letters save he for whom they are written.
“You see, they’re coming over to dine,” he remarked, carelessly. “Trust a girl to make it up if you let her alone long enough.”
I made no answer; but though Warrington’s grossness irritated me, I reflected with satisfaction upon his return to good humour, which I attributed to the reconciliation.
When I moved out upon the terrace the maid had entered to remove the breakfast things. I was conscious of a slight exclamation behind me, and Warrington joined me presently, with a loud guffaw.
“That’s a damned pretty girl!” he said, with unction. “I’m glad Mrs Batty got her. I like to have good-looking servants.”
I suddenly interpreted the incident, and shrugged my shoulders.
“You’re a perfect boor this morning, Warrington,” I exclaimed, irritably.
He only laughed. “You’re a dull dog of a saint, Heywood,” he retorted. “Come along,” and dragged me out in no amiable spirit.
I had forgotten how perfect a host Warrington could be, but that evening he was displayed at his best. The Bosanquets arrived early. Sir William was an easy-going man, fond of books and of wine, and I now guessed at the taste which had decided Warrington’s cellar. Miss Bosanquet was as charming as I remembered her to be; and if any objection might be taken to Warrington himself by my anxious eyes it was merely that he seemed a trifle excited, a fault which, in the circumstances, I was able to condone. Sir William hung about the table, sipping his wine.
Warrington, who had been very abstemious, grew restless, and, finally apologizing in his graceful way, left me to keep the baronet company. I was the less disinclined to do so as I was anxious not to intrude upon the lovers, and Sir William was discussing the history of the Abbey.
He had an old volume somewhere in his library which related to it, and, seeing that I was interested, invited me to look it up.
We sat long, and it was not until later that the horrible affair which I must narrate occurred.
The evening was close and oppressive, owing to the thunder, which already rumbled far away in the south. When we rose we found that Warrington and Miss Bosanquet were in the garden, and thither we followed. As at first we did not find them, Sir William, who had noted the approaching storm with some uneasiness, left me to make arrangements for his return; and I strolled along the paths by myself, enjoying a cigarette. I had reached the shrubbery upon the further side of the chapel, when I heard the sound of voices–a man’s rough and rasping, a woman’s pleading and informed with fear. A sharp cry ensued, and without hesitation I plunged through the thicket in the direction of the speakers. The sight that met me appalled me for the moment. Darkness was falling, lit with ominous flashes; and the two figures stood out distinctly in the bushes, in an attitude of struggle. I could not mistake the voices now. I heard Warrington’s, brusque with anger, and almost savage in its tones, crying, “You shall!” and there followed a murmur from the girl, a little sob, and then a piercing cry. I sprang forward and seized Warrington by the arm; when, to my horror, I perceived that he had taken her wrist in both hands and was roughly twisting it, after the cruel habit of schoolboys. The malevolent cruelty of the action so astounded me that for an instant I remained motionless; I almost heard the bones in the frail wrist cracking; and then, in a second, I had seized Warrington’s hands in a grip of iron, and flung him violently to the ground. The girl fell with him, and as I picked her up he rose too, and, clenching his fists, made as though to come at me, but instead turned and went sullenly, and with a ferocious look of hate upon his face, out of the thicket.
Miss Bosanquet came to very shortly, and though the agony of the pain must have been considerable to a delicate girl, I believe it was rather the incredible horror of the act under which she swooned. For my part I had nothing to say: not one word relative to the incident dared pass my lips. I inquired if she was better, and then, putting her arm in mine, led her gently towards the house. Her heart beat hard against me, and she breathed heavily, leaning on me for support. At the chapel I stopped, feeling suddenly that I dare not let her be seen in this condition, and bewildered greatly by the whole atrocious business.
“Come and rest in here,” I suggested, and we entered the chapel.
I set her on a slab of marble, and stood waiting by her side. I talked fluently about anything; for lack of a subject, upon the state of the chapel and the curious tomb I had discovered. Recovering a little, she joined presently in my remarks. It was plain that she was putting a severe restraint upon herself. I moved aside the grasses, and read aloud the inscription on Sir Rupert’s grave-piece, and turning to the next, which was rankly overgrown, feigned to search further. As I was bending there, suddenly, and by what thread of thought I know not, I identified the spot with that upon which I had found Warrington stooping that morning. With a sweep of my hand I brushed back the weeds, uprooting some with my fingers, and kneeling in the twilight, pored over the monument. Suddenly a wild flare of light streamed down the sky, and a great crash of thunder followed. Miss Bosanquet started to her feet and I to mine. The heaven was lit up, as it were, with sunlight, and, as I turned, my eyes fell upon the now uncovered stone. Plainly the lettering flashed in my eyes:
“Priscilla, Lady Marvyn.”
Then the clouds opened, and the rain fell in spouts, shouting and dancing upon the ancient roof overhead.
We were under a very precarious shelter, and I was uneasy that Miss Bosanquet should run the risk of that flimsy, ravaged edifice; and so in a momentary lull I managed to get her to the house.
I found Sir William in a restless state of nerves. He was a timorous man, and the thunder had upset him, more particularly as he and his daughter were now storm-bound for some time. There was no possibility of venturing into those rude elements for an hour or more. Warrington was not inside, and no one had seen him. In the light Miss Bosanquet’s face frightened me; her eyes were large and scared, and her colour very dead white. Clearly she was very near a breakdown. I found Mrs Batty, and told her that the young lady had been severely shaken by the storm, suggesting that she had better lie down for a little. Returning with me, the housekeeper led off the unfortunate girl, and Sir William and I were left together. He paced the room impatiently, and constantly inquired if there were any signs of improvement in the weather. He also asked for Warrington, irritably. The burden of the whole dreadful night seemed fallen upon me. Passing through the hall I met Mrs Batty again. Her usually placid features were disturbed and aghast.
“What is the matter?” I asked. “Is Miss Bosanquet–“
“No, Sir; I think she’s sleeping,” she replied. “She’s in–she is in Mr Warrington’s room.”
I started. “Are there no other rooms?” I asked, abruptly.
“There are none ready, Sir, except yours,” she answered, “and I thought–“
“You should have taken her there,” I said, sharply. The woman looked at me and opened her mouth. “Good heavens!” I said, irritably, “what is the matter? Everyone is mad tonight.”
“Alice is gone, Sir,” she blurted forth.
Alice, I remembered, was the name of one of her maids.
“What do you mean?” I asked, for her air of panic betokened something graver than her words.
The thunder broke over the house and drowned her voice.
“She can’t be out in this storm–she must have taken refuge somewhere,” I said.
At that the strings of her tongue loosened, and she burst forth with her tale. It was an abominable narrative.
“Where is Mr Warrington?” I asked; but she shook her head.
There was a moment’s silence between us, and we eyed each other aghast. “She will be all right,” I said at last, as if dismissing the subject.
The housekeeper wrung her hands. “I never would have thought it!” she repeated, dismally. “I never would have thought it!”
“There is some mistake,” I said; but, somehow, I knew better. Indeed, I felt now that I had almost been prepared for it.
“She ran towards the village,” whispered Mrs Batty. “God knows where she was going! The river lies that way.”
“Pooh!” I exclaimed. “Don’t talk nonsense. It is all a mistake. Come, have you any brandy?” Brought back to the material round of her duties she bustled away with a sort of briskness, and returned with a flagon and glasses. I took a strong nip, and went back to Sir William. He was feverish, and declaimed against the weather unceasingly. I had to listen to the string of misfortunes which he recounted in the season’s crops. It seemed all so futile, with his daughter involved in her horrid tragedy in a neighbouring room. He was better after some brandy, and grew more cheerful, but assiduously wondered about Warrington.
“Oh, he’s been caught in the storm and taken refuge somewhere,” I explained, vainly. I wondered if the next day would ever dawn.
By degrees that thunder rolled slowly into the northern parts of the sky, and only fitful flashes seamed the heavens. It had lasted now more than two hours. Sir William declared his intention of starting, and asked for his daughter. I rang for Mrs Batty, and sent her to rouse Miss Bosanquet.
Almost immediately there was a knock upon the door, and the housekeeper was in the doorway, with an agitated expression, demanding to see me. Sir William was looking out of the window, and fortunately did not see her.
“Please come to Miss Bosanquet, Sir,” she cried, very scared. “Please come at once.”
In alarm I hastily ran down the corridor and entered Warrington’s room. The girl was lying upon the bed, her hair flowing upon the pillow; her eyes, wide open and filled with terror, stared at the ceiling, and her hands clutched and twined in the coverlet as if in an agony of pain. A gasping sound issued from her, as though she were struggling for breath under suffocation. Her whole appearance was as of one in the murderous grasp of an assailant.
I bent over. “Throw the light, quick,” I called to Mrs Batty; and as I put my hand on her shoulder to lift her, the creature that lived in the chamber rose suddenly from the shadow upon the further side of the bed, and sailed with a flapping noise up to the cornice. With an exclamation of horror I pulled the girl’s head forward, and the candle-light glowed on her pallid face. Upon the soft flesh of the slender throat was a round red mark, the size of a florin.
At the sight I almost let her fall upon the pillow again; but, commanding my nerves, I put my arms round her, and, lifting her bodily from the bed, carried her from the room. Mrs Batty followed.
“What shall we do?” she asked, in a low voice.
“Take her away from this damned chamber!” I cried. “Anywhere–the hall, the kitchen rather.”
I laid my burden upon a sofa in the dining-room, and despatching Mrs Batty for the brandy, gave Miss Bosanquet a draught. Slowly the horror faded from her eyes; they closed, and then she looked at me.
“What have you?–where am I?” she asked.
“You have been unwell,” I said. “Pray don’t disturb yourself yet.”
She shuddered, and closed her eyes again.
Very little more was said. Sir William pressed for his horses, and as the sky was clearing I made no attempt to detain him, more particularly as the sooner Miss Bosanquet left the Abbey the better for herself. In half an hour she recovered sufficiently to go, and I helped her into the carriage. She never referred to her seizure, but thanked me for my kindness. That was all. No one asked after Warrington–not even Sir William. He had forgotten everything, save his anxiety to get back. As the carriage turned from the steps I saw the mark upon the girl’s throat, now grown fainter.
I waited up till late into the morning, but there was no sign of Warrington when I went to bed.
Nor had he made his appearance when I descended to breakfast. A letter in his handwriting, however, and with the London postmark, awaited me. It was a pitiful scrawl, in the very penmanship of which one might trace the desperate emotions by which he was torn. He implored my forgiveness. “Am I a devil?” he asked. “Am I mad? It was not I! It was not I!” he repeated, underlining the sentence with impetuous dashes. “You know,” he wrote; “and you know, therefore, that everything is at an end for me. I am going abroad today. I shall never see the Abbey again.”
It was well that he had gone, as I hardly think that I could have faced him; and yet I was loth myself to leave the matter in this horrible tangle. I felt that it was enjoined upon me to meet the problems, and I endeavoured to do so as best I might. Mrs Batty gave me news of the girl Alice.
It was bad enough, though not so bad as both of us had feared. I was able to make arrangements on the instant, which I hoped might bury that lamentable affair for the time. There remained Miss Bosanquet; but that difficulty seemed beyond me. I could see no avenue out of the tragedy. I heard nothing save that she was ill–an illness attributed upon all hands to the shock of exposure to the thunderstorm. Only I knew better, and a vague disinclination to fly from the responsibilities of the position kept me hanging on at Utterbourne.
It was in those days before my visit to St Pharamond that I turned my attention more particularly to the thing which had forced itself relentlessly upon me. I was never a superstitious man; the gossip of old wives interested me merely as a curious and unsympathetic observer. And yet I was vaguely discomfited by the transaction in the Abbey, and it was with some reluctance that I decided to make a further test of Warrington’s bedroom. Mrs Batty received my determination to change my room easily enough, but with a protest as to the dampness of the Stone Chamber. It was plain that her suspicions had not marched with mine. On the second night after Warrington’s departure I occupied the room for the first time.
I lay awake for a couple of hours, with a reading lamp by my bed, and a volume of travels in my hand, and then, feeling very tired, put out the light and went to sleep. Nothing distracted me that night; indeed, I slept more soundly and peaceably than before in that house. I rose, too, experiencing quite an exhilaration, and it was not until I was dressing before the glass that I remembered the circumstances of my mission; but then I was at once pulled up, startled swiftly out of my cheerful temper. Faintly visible upon my throat was the same round mark which I had already seen stamped upon Warrington and Miss Bosanquet. With that, all my former doubts returned in force, augmented and militant. My mind recurred to the bat, and tales of bloodsucking by those evil creatures revived in my memory. But when I had remembered that these were of foreign beasts, and that I was in England, I dismissed them lightly enough. Still, the impress of that mark remained, and alarmed me. It could not come by accident; to suppose so manifold a coincidence was absurd. The puzzle dwelt with me, unsolved, and the fingers of dread slowly crept over me.
Yet I slept again in the room. Having but myself for company, and being somewhat bored and dull, I fear I took more spirit than was my custom, and the result was that I again slept profoundly. I awoke about three in the morning, and was surprised to find the lamp still burning.
I had forgotten it in my stupid state of somnolence. As I turned to put it out, the bat swept by me and circled for an instant above my head. So overpowered with torpor was I that I scarcely noticed it, and my head was no sooner at rest than I was once more unconscious. The red mark was stronger next morning, though, as on the previous day, it wore off with the fall of evening.
But I merely observed the fact without any concern; indeed, now the matter of my investigation seemed to have drawn very remote. I was growing indifferent, I supposed, through familiarity.
But the solitude was palling upon me, and I spent a very restless day. A sharp ride I took in the afternoon was the one agreeable experience of the day. I reflected that if this burden were to continue I must hasten up to town. I had no desire to tie myself to Warrington’s apron, in his interest. So dreary was the evening, that after I had strolled round the grounds and into the chapel by moonlight, I returned to the library and endeavoured to pass the time with Warrington’s cards.
But it was poor fun with no antagonist to pit myself against; and I was throwing down the pack in disgust when one of the manservants entered with the whisky.
It was not until long afterwards that I fully realized the course of my action; but even at the time I was aware of a curious sub-feeling of shamefacedness. I am sure that the thing fell naturally, and that there was no awkwardness in my approaching him. Nor, after the first surprise, did he offer any objection. Later he was hardly expected to do so, seeing that he was winning very quickly. The reason of that I guessed afterwards, but during the play I was amazed to note at intervals how strangely my irritation was aroused. Finally, I swept the cards to the floor, and rose, the man, with a smile in which triumph blended with uneasiness, rose also.
“Damn you, get away!” I said, angrily.
True to his traditions to the close, he answered me with respect, and obeyed; and I sat staring at the table. With a sudden flush, the grotesque folly of the night’s business came to me, and my eyes fell on the whisky bottle. It was nearly empty. Then I went to bed.
Voices cried all night in that chamber–soft, pleading voices. There was nothing to alarm in them; they seemed in a manner to coo me to sleep. But presently a sharper cry roused me from my semi-slumber; and getting up, I flung open the window. The wind rushed round the Abbey, sweeping with noises against the corners and gables. The black chapel lay still in the moonlight, and drew my eyes. But, resisting a strange, unaccountable impulse to go further, I went back to bed.
The events of the following day are better related without comment.
At breakfast I found a letter from Sir William Bosanquet, inviting me to come over to St Pharamond. I was at once conscious of an eager desire to do so: it seemed somehow as though I had been waiting for this. The visit assumed preposterous proportions, and I was impatient for the afternoon.
Sir William was polite, but not, as I thought, cordial. He never alluded to Warrington, from which I guessed that he had been informed of the breach, and I conjectured also that the invitation extended to me was rather an act of courtesy to a solitary stranger than due to a desire for my company. Nevertheless, when he presently suggested that I should stay to dinner, I accepted promptly. For, to say the truth, I had not yet seen Miss Bosanquet, and I experienced a strange curiosity to do so. When at last she made her appearance, I was struck, almost for the first time, by her beauty. She was certainly a handsome girl, though she had a delicate air of ill-health.
After dinner Sir William remembered by accident the book on the Abbey which he had promised to show me, and after a brief hunt in the library we found it. Shortly afterwards he was called away, and with an apology left me. With a curious eagerness I turned the pages of the volume and settled down to read.
It was published early in the century, and purported to relate the history of the Abbey and its owners. But it was one chapter which specially drew my interest–that which recounted the fate of the last Marvyn. The family had become extinct through a bloody tragedy; that fact held me.
The bare narrative, long since passed from the memory of tradition, was here set forth in the baldest statements. The names of Sir Rupert Marvyn and Priscilla, Lady Marvyn, shook me strangely, but particularly the latter. Some links of connection with those gravestones lying in the Abbey chapel constrained me intimately. The history of that evil race was stained and discoloured with blood, and the end was in fitting harmony–a lurid holocaust of crime. There had been two brothers, but it was hard to choose between the foulness of their lives. If either, the younger, William, was the worse; so at least the narrative would have it. The details of his excesses had not survived, but it was abundantly plain that they were both notorious gamblers.
The story of their deaths was wrapt in doubt, the theme of conjecture only, and probability; for none was by to observe save the three veritable actors–who were at once involved together in a bloody dissolution. Priscilla, the wife of Sir Rupert, was suspected of an intrigue with her brother-in-law. She would seem to have been tainted with the corruption of the family into which she had married. But according to a second rumour, chronicled by the author, there was some doubt if the woman were not the worst of the three. Nothing was known of her parentage; she had returned with the passionate Sir Rupert to the Abbey after one of his prolonged absences, and was accepted as his legal wife. This was the woman whose infamous beauty had brought a terrible sin between the brothers.
Upon the night which witnessed the extinction of this miserable family, the two brothers had been gambling together. It was known from the high voices that they had quarrelled, and it is supposed that, heated with wine and with the lust of play, the younger had thrown some taunt at Sir Rupert in respect to his wife. Whereupon–but this is all conjecture–the elder stabbed him to death. At least, it was understood that at this point the sounds of a struggle were heard, and a bitter cry. The report of the servants ran that upon this noise Lady Marvyn rushed into the room and locked the door behind her. Fright was busy with those servants, long used to the savage manners of the house. According to witnesses, no further sound was heard subsequently to Lady Marvyn’s entrance; yet when the doors were at last broken open by the authorities, the three bodies were discovered upon the floor.
How Sir Rupert and his wife met their deaths there was no record. “This tragedy,” proceeded the scribe, “took place in the Stone Chamber underneath the stairway.”
I had got so far when the entrance of Miss Bosanquet disturbed me. I remember rising in a dazed condition–the room swung about me. A conviction, hitherto resisted and stealthily entertained upon compulsion, now overpowered me.
“I thought my father was here,” explained Miss Bosanquet, with a quick glance round the room.
I explained the circumstances, and she hesitated in my neighbourhood with a slight air of embarrassment.
“I have not thanked you properly, Mr Heywood,” she said presently, in a low voice, scarcely articulate. “You have been very considerate and kind. Let me thank you now.” And ended with a tiny spasmodic sob.
Somehow, an impulse overmastered my tongue. Fresh from the perusal of that chapter, queer possibilities crowded in my mind, odd considerations urged me.
“Miss Bosanquet,” said I, abruptly, “let me speak of that a little. I will not touch on details.”
“Please,” she cried, with a shrinking notion as of one that would retreat in very alarm.
“Nay,” said I, eagerly; “hear me. It is no wantonness that would press the memory upon you.”
“You have been a witness to distressful acts; you have seen a man under the influence of temporary madness. Nay, even yourself, you have been a victim to the same unaccountable phenomena.”
“What do you mean?” she cried, tensely.
“I will say no more,” said I. “I should incur your laughter. No, you would not laugh, but my dim suspicions would leave you still incredulous. But if this were so, and if these were the phenomena of a brief madness, surely you would make your memory a grave to bury the past.”
“I cannot do that,” said she, in low tones.
“What!” I asked. “Would you turn from your lover, aye, even from a friend, because he was smitten with disease? Consider; if your dearest upon earth tossed in a fever upon his bed, and denied you in his ravings, using you despitefully, it would not be he that entreated you so. When he was quit of his madness and returned to his proper person, would you not forget–would you not rather recall his insanity with the pity of affection?”
“I do not understand you,” she whispered.
“You read your Bible,” said I. “You have wondered at the evil spirits that possessed poor victims. Why should you decide that these things have ceased? We are too dogmatic in our modern world. Who can say under what malign influence a soul may pass, and out of its own custody?”
She looked at me earnestly, searching my eyes.
“You hint at strange things,” said she, very low.
But somehow, even as I met her eyes, the spirit of my mission failed me. My gaze, I felt, devoured her ruthlessly. The light shone on her pale and comely features; they burned me with an irresistible attraction. I put forth my hand and took hers gently. It was passive to my touch, as though in acknowledgment of my kindly offices. All the while I experienced a sense of fierce elation. In my blood ran, as it had been fire, a horrible incentive, and I knew that I was holding her hand very tightly. She herself seemed to grow conscious of this, for she made an effort to withdraw her fingers, at which, the passion rushing through my body, I clutched them closer, laughing aloud. I saw a wondering look dawn in her eyes, and her bosom thinly veiled, heaved with a tiny tremor. I was aware that I was drawing her steadily to me. Suddenly her bewildered eyes, dropping from my face, lit with a flare of terror, and, wrenching her hand away, she fell back with a cry, her gaze riveted upon my throat.
“That accursed mark! What is it? What is it?–” she cried, shivering from head to foot.
In an instant, the wild blood singing in my head, I sprang towards her. What would have followed I know not, but at that moment the door opened and Sir William returned. He regarded us with consternation; but Miss Bosanquet had fainted, and the next moment he was at her side. I stood near, watching her come to with a certain nameless fury, as of a beast cheated of its prey.
Sir William turned to me, and in his most courteous manner begged me to excuse the untoward scene. His daughter, he said, was not at all strong, and he ended by suggesting that I should leave them for a time.
Reluctantly I obeyed, but when I was out of the house, I took a sudden panic. The demoniac possession lifted, and in a craven state of trembling I saddled my horse, and rode for the Abbey as if my life depended upon my speed.
I arrived at about ten o’clock, and immediately gave orders to have my bed prepared in my old room. In my shaken condition the sinister influences of that stone chamber terrified me; and it was not until I had drunk deeply that I regained my composure.
But I was destined to get little sleep. I had steadily resolved to keep my thoughts off the matter until the morning, but the spell of the chamber was strong upon me. I awoke after midnight with an irresistible feeling drawing me to the room. I was conscious of the impulse, and combated it, but in the end succumbed; and throwing on my clothes, took a light and went downstairs. I flung wide the door of the room and peered in, listening, as though for some voice of welcome. It was as silent as a sepulchre; but directly I crossed the threshold voices seemed to surround and coax me. I stood wavering, with a curious fascination upon me. I knew I could not return to my own room, and I now had no desire to do so. As I stood, my candle flaring solemnly against the darkness, I noticed upon the floor in an alcove bare of carpet, a large black mark, which appeared to be a stain. Bending down, I examined it, passing my fingers over the stone. It moved to my touch. Setting the candle upon the floor, I put my fingertips to the edges, and pulled hard. As I did so the sounds that were ringing in my ears died instantaneously; the next moment the slab turned with a crash, and discovered a gaping hole of impenetrable blackness.
The patch of chasm thus opened to my eyes was near a yard square. The candle held to it shed a dim light upon a stone step a foot or two below, and it was clear to me that a stairway communicated with the depths. Whether it had been used as a cellar in times gone by I could not divine, but I was soon to determine this doubt; for, stirred by a strange eagerness, I slipped my legs through the hole, and let myself cautiously down with the light in my hand. There were a dozen steps to descend ere I reached the floor and what turned out to be a narrow passage. The vault ran forward straight as an arrow before my eyes, and slowly I moved on. Dank and chill was the air in those close confines, and the sound of my feet returned from those walls dull and sullen. But I kept on, and, with infinite care, must have penetrated quite a hundred yards along that musty corridor ere I came out upon an ampler chamber. Here the air was freer, and I could perceive with the aid of my light that the dimensions of the place were lofty. Above, a solitary ray of moonlight, sliding through a crack, informed me that I was not far from the level of the earth. It fell upon a block of stone, which rose in the middle of the vault, and which I now inspected with interest. As the candle threw its flickering beams upon this I realized where I was.
I scarcely needed the rude lettering upon the coffins to acquaint me that here was the family vault of the Marvyns. And now I began to perceive upon all sides whereon my feeble light fell the crumbling relics of the forgotten dead–coffins fallen into decay, bones and grinning skulls resting in corners, disposed by the hand of chance and time. This formidable array of the mortal remains of that poor family moved me to a shudder. I turned from those ugly memorials once more to the central altar where the two coffins rested in this sombre silence. The lid had fallen from the one, disclosing to my sight the grisly skeleton of a man, that mocked and leered at me.
It seemed in a manner to my fascinated eyes to challenge my mortality, inviting me too to the rude and grotesque sleep of death. I knew, as by an instinct, that I was standing by the bones of Sir Rupert Marvyn, the protagonist in that terrible crime which had locked three souls in eternal ruin. The consideration of this miserable spectacle held me motionless for some moments, and then I moved a step closer and cast my light upon the second coffin.
As I did so I was aware of a change within myself. The grave and melancholy thoughts which I had entertained, the sober bent of my solemn reflections, gave place instantly to a strange exultation, an unholy sense of elation. My pulse swung feverishly, and, while my eyes were riveted upon the tarnished silver of the plate, I stretched forth a tremulously eager hand and touched the lid. It rattled gently under my fingers. Disturbed by the noise, I hastily withdrew them; but whether it was the impetus offered by my touch, or through some horrible and nameless circumstance–God knows–slowly and softly a gap opened between the lid and the body of the coffin! Before my startled eyes the awful thing happened, and yet I was conscious of no terror, merely of surprise and–it seems terrible to admit–of a feeling of eager expectancy.
The lid rose slowly on the one side, and as it lifted the dark space between it and the coffin grew gently charged with light. At that moment my feeble candle, which had been gradually diminishing, guttered and flickered. I seemed to catch a glimpse of something, as it were, of white and shining raiment inside the coffin; and then came a rush of wings and a whirring sound within the vault. I gave a cry, and stepping back missed my foothold; the guttering candle was jerked from my grasp, and I fell prone to the floor in darkness. The next moment a sheet of flame flashed in the chamber and lit up the grotesque skeletons about me; and at the same time a piercing cry rang forth. Jumping to my feet, I gave a dazed glance at the conflagration. The whole vault was in flames. Dazed and horror-struck, I rushed blindly to the entrance; but as I did so the horrible cry pierced my ears again, and I saw the bat swoop round and circle swiftly into the flames. Then, finding the exit, I dashed with all the speed of terror down the passage, groping my way along the walls, and striking myself a dozen times in my terrified flight.
Arrived in my room, I pushed over the stone and listened. Not a sound was audible. With a white face and a body torn and bleeding I rushed from the room, and locking the door behind me, made my way upstairs to my bedroom. Here I poured myself out a stiff glass of brandy.
It was six months later ere Warrington returned. In the meantime he had sold the Abbey. It was inevitable that he should do so; and yet the new owner, I believe, has found no drawback in his property, and the Stone Chamber is still used for a bedroom upon occasions, being considered very old-fashioned. But there are some facts against which no appeal is possible, and so it was in his case. In my relation of the tragedy I have made no attempt at explanation, hardly even to myself; and it appears now for the first time in print, of course with suppositious names.
THE END
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