by Graeme Davis
“Granny, did you know why your friend ventured so fearlessly into the ghost’s territories?” inquired my cousin.
“I am not come to that,” was the reply; “and you are one saucy little maid to ask what I do not choose to tell. Amelie certainly entertained no fear of the spirit; ‘La Femme Noir’ could have had no angry feeling towards her, for my friend would wander in the ruins, taking no note of daylight, or moonlight, or even darkness. The peasants declared their young lady must have walked over crossed bones, or drunk water out of a raven’s skull, or passed nine times round the spectre’s glass on Midsummer eve. She must have done all this, if not more: there could be little doubt that the ‘Femme Noir’ had initiated her into certain mysteries; for they heard at times voices in low, whispering converse, and saw the shadows of two persons cross the old roofless chapel, when ‘Mamselle’ had passed the footbridge alone. Monsieur gloried in this fearlessness on the part of his gentle niece; and more than once, when he had revellers in the castle, he sent her forth at midnight to bring him a bough from a tree that only grew beside the altar of the old ehapel; and she did his bidding always as willingly, though not as rapidly, as he could desire.
“But certainly Amelie’s courage brought no calmness. She became pale; her pillow was often moistened by her tears; her music was neglected; she took no pleasure in the chase; and her chamois not receiving its usual attention, went off into the mountains. She avoided me—her friend! who would have died for her; she left me alone; she made no reply to my prayers, and did not heed my entreaties. One morning, when her eyes were fixed upon a book she did not read, and I sat at my embroidery a little apart, watching the tears stray over her cheek until I was blinded by my own, I heard Monsieur’s heavy tramp approaching through the long gallery; some boots creak—but the boots of Monsieur!—they growled!
“‘Save me, oh save me!’ she exclaimed wildly. Before I could reply, her uncle crashed open the door, and stood before us like an embodied thunderbolt. He held an open letter in his hand—his eyes glared—his nostrils were distended—he trembled so with rage, that the cabinets and old china shook again.
“‘Do you,’ he said, ‘know Charles le Maitre?’
“Amelie replied, ‘She did.’
“‘How did you make acquaintance with the son of my deadliest foe?’
“There was no answer. The question was repeated. Amelie said she had met him, and at last confessed it was in the ruined portion of the castle! She threw herself at her uncle’s feet—she clung to his knees: love taught her eloquence. She told him how deeply Charles regretted the long-standing feud; how earnest, and true, and good, he was. Bending low, until her tresses were heaped upon the floor, she confessed, modestly but firmly, that she loved this young man; that she would rather sacrifice the wealth of the whole world, than forget him.
“Monsieur seemed suffocating; he tore off his lace cravat, and scattered its fragments on the floor—still she clung to him. At last he flung her from him; he reproached her with the bread she had eaten, and heaped odium upon her mother’s memory! But though Amelie’s nature was tender and affectionate, the old spirit of the old race roused within her; the slight girl arose, and stood erect before the man of storms.
“‘Did you think,’ she said, ‘because I bent to you that I am feeble? because I bore with you, have I no thoughts? You gave food to this frame, but you fed not my heart; you gave me nor love, nor tenderness, nor sympathy; you showed me to your friends, as you would your horse. If you had by kindness sown the seeds of love within my bosom; if you had been a father to me in tenderness, I would have been to you—a child. I never knew the time when I did not tremble at your footstep; but I will do so no more. I would gladly have loved you, trusted you, cherished you; but I feared to let you know I had a heart, lest you should tear and insult it. Oh, sir, those who expect love where they give none, and confidence where there is no trust, blast the fair time of youth, and lay up for themselves an unhonoured old age.’
The scene terminated by Monsieur’s falling down in a fit, and Amelie’s being conveyed fainting to her chamber.
“That night the castle was enveloped by storms; they came from all points of the compass—thunder, lightning, hail, and rain! The master lay in his stately bed, and was troubled; he could hardly believe that Amelie spoke the words he had heard: cold-hearted and selfish as he was, he was also a clear-seeing man, and it was their truth that struck him. But still his heart was hardened; he had commanded Amelie to be locked into her chamber, and her lover seized and imprisoned when he came to his usual tryste. Monsieur, I have said, lay in his stately bed, the lightning, at intervals, illumining his dark chamber. I had cast myself on the floor outside her door, but could not hear her weep, though I knew that she was overcome of sorrow. As I sat, my head resting against the lintel of the door, a form passed through the solid oak from her chamber, without the bolts being withdrawn. I saw it as plainly as I see your faces now, under the influence of various emotions; nothing opened, but it passed through—a shadowy form, dark and vapoury, but perfectly distinct. I knew it was ‘La Femme Noir,’ and I trembled, for she never came from caprice, but always for a purpose. I did not fear for Amelie, for ‘La Femme Noir’ never warred with the high-minded or virtuous. She passed slowly, more slowly than I am speaking, along the corridor, growing taller and taller as she went on, until she entered Monsieur’s chamber by the door exactly opposite where I stood. She paused at the foot of the plumed bed, and the lightning, no longer fitful, by its broad flashes kept up a continual illumination. She stood for some time perfectly motionless, though in a loud tone the master demanded whence she came, and what she wanted. At last, during a pause in the storm, she told him that all the power he possessed should not prevent the union of Amelie and Charles. I heard her voice myself; it sounded like the night-wind among fir-trees—cold and shrill, chilling both ear and heart. I turned my eyes away while she spoke, and when I looked again, she was gone! The storm continued to increase in violence, and the master’s rage kept pace with the war of elements. The servants were trembling with undefined terror; they feared they knew not what: the dogs added to their apprehension by howling fearfully, and then barking in the highest possible key; the master paced about his chamber, calling in vain on his domestics, stamping and swearing like a maniac. At last, amid flashes of lightning, he made his way to the head of the great staircase, and presently the clang of the alarm-bell mingled with the thunder and the roar of the mountain torrents: this hastened the servants to his presence, though they seemed hardly capable of understanding his words—he insisted on Charles being brought before him. We all trembled, for he was mad and livid with rage. The warden, in whose care the young man was, dared not enter the hall that echoed his loud words and heavy footsteps, for when he went to seek his prisoner, he found every bolt and bar withdrawn, and the iron door wide open: he was gone. Monsieur seemed to find relief by his energies being called into action: he ordered instant pursuit, and mounted his favourite charger, despite the storm, despite the fury of the elements. Although the great gates rocked, and the castle shook like an aspen-leaf, he set forth, his path illumined by the lightning: bold and brave as was his horse, he found it almost impossible to get it forward; he dug his spurs deep into the flanks of the noble animal, until the red blood mingled with the rain. At last, it rushed madly down the path to the bridge the young man must cross; and when they reached it, the master discerned the floating cloak of the pursued, a few yards in advance. Again the horse rebelled against his will, the lightning flashed in his eyes, and the torrent seemed a mass of red fire; no sound could be heard but of its roaring waters; the attendants clung as they advanced to the hand-rail of the bridge. The youth, unconscious of the pursuit, proceeded rapidly: and again roused, the horse plunged forward. On the instant, the form of ‘La Femme Noir’ passed with the blast that rushed down the ravine; the torrent followed in her track, and more than half the bridge was swept away for ever. As the master reined back the horse h
e had so urged forward, he saw the youth kneeling with outstretched arms on the opposite bank—kneeling in gratitude for his deliverance from this double peril. All were struck with the piety of the youth, and earnestly rejoiced at his deliverance; though they did not presume to say so, or look as if they thought it. I never saw so changed a person as the master when he reentered the castle gate: his cheek was blanched—his eye quelled; his fierce plume hung broken over his shoulder—his step was unequal, and in the voice of a feeble girl he said—‘Bring me a cup of wine.’ I was his cupbearer, and for the first time in his life he thanked me graciously, and in the warmth of his gratitude tapped my shoulder; the caress nearly hurled me across the hall. What passed in his retiring-room, I know not. Some said, the ‘Femme Noir’ visited him again: I cannot tell, I did not see her; I speak of what I saw, not of what I heard. The storm passed away with a clap of thunder, to which the former sounds were but as the rattling of pebbles beneath the swell of a summer wave. The next morning Monsieur sent for the Pasteur. The good man seemed terror-stricken as he entered the hall; but Monsieur filled him a quart of gold coins out of a leathern bag, to repair his church, and that quickly; and grasping his hand as he departed, looked him steadily in the face. As he did so, large drops stood like beads upon his brow; his stern, coarse features were strangely moved while he gazed upon the calm, pale minister of peace and love. ‘You,’ he said, ‘bid God bless the poorest peasant that passes you on the mountain; have you no blessing to give the master of Rohean?’
“‘My son,’ answered the good man, ‘I give you the blessing I may give:—May God bless you, and may your heart be opened to give and to receive.’’
“‘I know I can give,’ replied the proud man; ‘but what can I receive?’
“‘Love,’ he replied. ‘All your wealth has not brought you happiness, because you are unloving and unloved!’
“The demon returned to his brow, but it did not remain there.
“‘You shall give me lessons in this thing,’ he said; and so the good man went his way.
“Amelie continued a close prisoner; but a change came over Monsieur. At first he shut himself up in his chamber, and no one was suffered to enter his presence; he took his food with his own hand from the only attendant who ventured to approach his door. He was heard walking up and down the room, day and night. When we were going to sleep, we heard his heavy tramp; at daybreak, there it was again: and those of the household, who awoke at intervals during the night, said it was unceasing.
“Monsieur could read. Ah, you may smile; but in those days, and in those mountains, such men as ‘the master’ did not trouble themselves or others with knowledge; but the master of Rohean read both Latin and Greek, and commanded THE BOOK he had never opened since his childhood to be brought him. It was taken out of its velvet case, and carried in forthwith; and we saw his shadow from without, like the shadow of a giant, bending over THE BOOK; and he read in it for some days; and we greatly hoped it would soften and change his nature—and though I cannot say much for the softening, it certainly effected a great change; he no longer stalked moodily along the corridors, and banged the doors, and swore at the servants; he the rather seemed possessed of a merry devil, roaring out an old song—
‘Aux bastions de Geneve, nos cannons
Sont branquex;
S’il y a quelque attaque nous les feront ronfler,
Viva! les cannoniers!’
and then he would pause, and clang his hands together like a pair of cymbals, and laugh. And once, as I was passing along, he pounced out upon me, and whirled me round in a waltz, roaring at me when he let me down, to practice that and break my embroidery frame. He formed a band of horns and trumpets, and insisted on the goatherds and shepherds sounding reveilles in the mountains, and the village children beating drums: his only idea of joy and happiness was noise. He set all the canton to work to mend the bridge, paying the workmen double wages; and he, who never entered a church before, would go to see how the labourers were getting on nearly every day. He talked and laughed a great deal to himself; and in his gaiety of heart would set the mastiffs fighting, and make excursions from home—we knowing not where he went. At last, Amelie was summoned to his presence, and he shook her and shouted, then kissed her; and hoping she would be a good girl, told her he had provided a husband for her. Amelie wept and prayed; and the master capered and sung. At last she fainted; and taking advantage of her unconsciousness, he conveyed her to the chapel; and there beside the altar stood the bridegroom—no other than Charles Le Maitre.
“They lived many happy years together; and when Monsieur was in every respect a better, though still a strange, man, ‘the Femme Noir’ appeared again to him—once. She did so with a placid air, on a summer night, with her arm extended towards the heavens.
“The next day the muffled bell told the valley that the stormy, proud old master of Rohean had ceased to live.”
MORTON HALL
by Elizabeth Gaskell
1853
Like Mary Shelley, Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson never knew her mother, who died when she was a little over a year old. Unlike Mary, though, her upbringing was quite conventional. Like an Austen heroine, she was shipped off to an aunt and grew up with no wealth of her own and no guarantee of a permanent home. She received a typical education for a young lady of the time, focused on the arts, classics, and etiquette. In her free time, she wandered in the woods and glades around her aunt’s house, collecting wildflowers and watching the birds. At the age of twenty-one she married a local Unitarian minister by the name of William Gaskell: their first child was stillborn and the second died in infancy, but three other daughters survived.
Elizabeth’s writing career seems to have begun in 1835, with a diary documenting the development of her daughter Marianne; she went on to explore parenthood and write about her other children. The following year, she and William co-authored a series of poems, “Sketches Among the Poor,” which was published in Blackwood’s Magazine the following January. Her first solo work, “Clopton Hall,” was published in 1840 in a collection titled Visits to Remarkable Places and attributed only to “A Lady.” Over the next eight years, she published various short stories under the masculine pseudonym “Cotton Mather Mills”—a name no doubt inspired by her Unitarian faith.
“Morton Hall” is one of her less frequently anthologized stories. Less overtly Gothic than Mary Shelley’s work, it nonetheless incorporates a number of tropes that were popular in the Gothic and sensational fiction of the day: the crumbling hall, the unsuitable marriage, and the curse or prophecy fulfilled at last. Many of these elements are also found, more famously, in The Hound of the Baskervilles, which Conan Doyle began as a straightforward horror tale before deciding to introduce Sherlock Holmes, risen again by public demand after his apparent death eight years earlier in The Final Problem.
“Morton Hall” was first published in Household Words, a weekly magazine edited by Charles Dickens from 1850 to 1859.
CHAPTER I
Our old Hall is to be pulled down, and they are going to build streets on the site. I said to my sister, “Ethelinda! if they really pull down Morton Hall, it will be a worse piece of work than the Repeal of the Corn Laws.” And, after some consideration, she replied, that if she must speak what was on her mind, she would own that she thought the Papists had something to do with it; that they had never forgiven the Morton who had been with Lord Monteagle when he discovered the Gunpowder Plot; for we knew that, somewhere in Rome, there was a book kept, and which had been kept for generations, giving an account of the secret private history of every English family of note, and registering the names of those to whom the Papists owed either grudges or gratitude.
We were silent for some time; but I am sure the same thought was in both our minds; our ancestor, a Sidebotham, had been a follower of the Morton of that day; it had always been said in the family that he had been with his master when he went with the Lord Monteagle, and found Guy Fawkes and his dark lante
rn under the Parliament House; and the question flashed across our minds, were the Sidebothams marked with a black mark in that terrible mysterious book which was kept under lock and key by the Pope and the Cardinals in Rome? It was terrible, yet, somehow, rather pleasant to think of. So many of the misfortunes which had happened to us through life, and which we had called ‘mysterious dispensations,’ but which some of our neighbours had attributed to our want of prudence and foresight, were accounted for at once, if we were objects of the deadly hatred of such a powerful order as the Jesuits, of whom we had lived in dread ever since we had read the Female Jesuit. Whether this last idea suggested what my sister said next I can’t tell; we did know the female Jesuit’s second cousin, so might be said to have literary connections, and from that the startling thought might spring up in my sister’s mind, for, said she, “Biddy!” (my name is Bridget, and no one but my sister calls me Biddy) “suppose you write some account of Morton Hall; we have known much in our time of the Mortons, and it will be a shame if they pass away completely from men’s memories while we can speak or write.” I was pleased with the notion, I confess; but I felt ashamed to agree to it all at once, though even, as I objected for modesty’s sake, it came into my mind how much I had heard of the old place in its former days, and how it was, perhaps, all I could now do for the Mortons, under whom our ancestors had lived as tenants for more than three hundred years. So at last I agreed; and, for fear of mistakes, I showed it to Mr. Swinton, our young curate, who has put it quite in order for me.