(I made no comment, but I could well understand that in his new matrimonial venture Tom would prefer a contrast.)
“—but I thought I had a very good chance of happiness with her; and I grew fond of her: very fond of her indeed. Her people were of the hospitable sort, and they encouraged me to go to The Leasowes, dropping in when I felt inclined: it did not seem as if they would be likely to put obstacles in our way. Matters progressed, and I made up my mind one evening to walk over there and declare myself. I had been up to town the day before, and came back with a ring in my pocket: rather a fanciful design of double hearts, but I thought Lucy would think it pretty, and would let me put it on her finger. I went up to change into dinner things, making myself as spruce as possible, and coming to the conclusion before the glass that I was not such a bad figure of a man after all, and that there was not much grey in my hair. Ay, Dick, you may smile: it is a good bit greyer now.
“I had taken out a clean handkerchief, and thrown the one carried through the day crumpled on the floor. I don't know what made me turn to look there, but, once it caught my eye, I stood staring at it as if spellbound. The handkerchief was moving—Dick, I swear it—rapidly altering in shape, puffing up here and there as if blown by wind, spreading and moulding itself into the features of a face. And what face should it be but the death-mask of Gloriana, which I had covered in the coffin eleven months before.
“To say I was horror-stricken conveys little of the feeling that possessed me. I snatched up the rag of cambric and flung it on the fire, and it was nothing but a rag in my hand, and in another moment no more than blackened tinder on the bar of the grate. There was no face below.”
“Of course not,” I said. “It was a mere hallucination. You were cheated by an excited fancy.”
“You may be sure I told myself all that, and more; and I went downstairs and tried to pull myself together with a dram. But I was curiously upset, and, for that night at least, I found it impossible to play the wooer. The recollection of the death-mask was too vivid; it would have come between me and Lucy's lips.
“The effect wore off, however. In a day or two I was bold again, and as much disposed to smile at my folly as you are at this moment. I proposed, and Lucy accepted me; and I put on the ring. Ashcroft père was graciously pleased to approve of the settlements I offered, and Ashcroft mère promised to regard me as a son. And during the first forty-eight hours of our engagement, there was not a cloud to mar the blue.
“I proposed on a Monday, and on Wednesday I went again to dine and spend the evening with just their family party. Lucy and I found our way afterwards into the back drawing-room, which seemed to be made over to us by tacit understanding. Anyway, we had it to ourselves; and as Lucy sat on the settee, busy with her work, I was privileged to sit beside her, close enough to watch the careful stitches she was setting, under which the pattern grew.
“She was embroidering a square of fine linen to serve as a tea-cloth, and it was intended for a present to a friend; she was anxious, she told me, to finish it in the next few days, ready for despatch. But I was somewhat impatient of her engrossment in the work; I wanted her to look at me while we talked, and to be permitted to hold her hand. I was making plans for a tour we would take together after Easter; arguing that eight weeks spent in preparation was enough for any reasonable bride. Lucy was easily entreated; she laid aside the linen square on the table at her elbow. I held her fingers captive, but her eyes wandered from my face, as she was still deliciously shy.
“All at once she exclaimed. Her work was moving, there was growing to be a face in it: did I not see?
“I saw, indeed. It was the Gloriana death-mask, forming there as it had formed in my handkerchief at home: the marked nose and chin, the severe mouth, the mould of forehead, almost complete. I snatched it up and dropped it over the back of the couch. ‘It did look like a face,’ I allowed. ‘But never mind it, darling; I want you to attend to me.’ Something of this sort I said, I hardly know what, for my blood was running cold. Lucy pouted; she wanted to dwell on the marvel, and my impatient action had displeased her. I went on talking wildly, being afraid of pauses, but the psychological moment had gone by. I felt I did not carry her with me as before: she hesitated over my persuasions; the forecast of a Sicilian honeymoon had ceased to charm. By-and-by she suggested that Mrs Ashcroft would expect us to rejoin the circle in the other room. And perhaps I would pick up her work for her—still with a slight air of offence.
“I walked round the settee to recover the luckless piece of linen; but she turned also, looking over the back, so at the same instant we both saw.
“There again was the Face, rigid and severe; and now the corners of the cloth were tucked under, completing the form of the head. And that was not all. Some white drapery had been improvised and extended beyond it on the floor, presenting the complete figure laid out straight and stiff, ready for the grave. Lucy's alarm was excusable. She shrieked aloud, shriek upon shriek, and immediately an indignant family of Ashcrofts rushed in through the half-drawn portières which divided the two rooms, demanding the cause of her distress.
“Meanwhile I had fallen upon the puffed-out form, and destroyed it. Lucy's embroidery composed the head; the figure was ingeniously contrived out of a large Turkish bath-sheet, brought in from one of the bedrooms, no-one knew how or when. I held up the things protesting their innocence, while the family were stabbing me through and through with looks of indignation, and Lucy was sobbing in her mother's arms. She might have been foolish, she allowed; it did seem ridiculous now she saw what it was. But at the moment it was too dreadful: it looked so like—so like! And here a fresh sob choked her into silence.
“Peace was restored at last, but plainly the Ashcrofts doubted me. The genial father stiffened, and Mrs Ashcroft administered indirect reproofs. She hated practical joking, so she informed me; she might be wrong, and no doubt she was old-fashioned, but she had been brought up to consider it in the highest degree ill-bred. And perhaps I had not considered how sensitive Lucy was, and how easily alarmed. She hoped I would take warning for the future, and that nothing of this kind would occur again.
“Practical joking—oh, ye gods! As if it was likely that I, alone with the girl of my heart, would waste the precious hour in building up effigies of sham corpses on the floor! And Lucy ought to have known that the accusation was absurd, as I had never for a moment left her side. She did take my part when more composed; but the mystery remained, beyond explanation of hers or mine.
“As for the future, I could not think of that without a failing heart. If the Power arrayed against us were in truth what superstition feared, I might as well give up hope at once, for I knew there would be no relenting. I could see the whole absurdity of the thing as well as you do now; but, if you put yourself in my place, Dick, you will be forced to confess that it was tragic too.
“I did not see Lucy the next day, as I was bound to go again to town; but we had planned to meet and ride together on the Friday morning. I was to be at The Leasowes at a certain hour, and you may be sure I was punctual. Her horse had already been brought round, and the groom was leading it up and down. I had hardly dismounted when she came down the steps of the porch; and I noticed at once a new look on her face, a harder set about that red mouth of hers which was so soft and kissable. But she let me put her up on the saddle and settle her foot in the stirrup, and she was the bearer of a gracious message from her mother. I was expected to return to lunch, and Mrs Ashcroft begged us to be punctual, as a friend who had stayed the night with them, would be leaving immediately after. “‘You will be pleased to meet her, I think,’ said Lucy, leaning forward to pat her horse. ‘I find she knows you very well. It is Miss Kingsworthy.’
“Now Miss Kingsworthy was a school friend of Gloriana's, who used now and then to visit us here. I was not aware that she and the Ashcrofts were acquainted; but, as I have said, they had only recently come into the neighbourhood as tenants of The Leasowes. I had no opportunity to expres
s pleasure or the reverse, for Lucy was riding on; and putting her horse to a brisk pace. It was some time before she drew rein, and again admitted conversation. We were descending a steep hill, and the groom was following at a discreet distance behind, far enough to be out of earshot.
“Lucy looked very pretty on horseback; but this is by the way. The mannish hat suited her, and so did the habit fitting closely to her shape.
“‘Tom,’ she said; and again I noticed that new hardness in her face. ‘Tom, Miss Kingsworthy tells me your wife did not wish you to marry again, and she made you promise her that you would not. Miss Kingsworthy was quite astonished to hear that you and I were engaged. Is this true?’
“I was able to tell her it was not; that my wife had never asked, and I had never given her, any such pledge. I allowed she disliked second marriages—in certain cases, and perhaps she had made some remark to that effect to Miss Kingsworthy; it was not unlikely. And then I appealed to her. Surely she would not let a mischief-maker's tittle-tattle come between her and me?
“I thought her profile looked less obdurate, but she would not let her eyes meet mine as she answered: ‘Of course not, if that was all. And I doubt if I would have heeded it, only that it seemed to fit in with—something else. Tom, it was very horrible, what we saw on Wednesday evening. And—and—don't be angry, but I asked Miss Kingsworthy what your wife was like. I did not tell her why I wanted to know.’
“‘What has that to do with it?’ I demanded—stoutly enough; but, alas! I was too well aware.
“‘She told me Mrs Enderby was handsome, but she had not very marked features, and was severe-looking when she did not smile. A high forehead, a Roman nose, and a decided chin. Tom, the face in the cloth was just like that. Did you not see?’
“Of course I protested. ‘My darling, what nonsense! I saw it looked a little like a face but I pulled it to pieces at once because you were frightened. Why, Lucy, I shall have you turning into a spiritualist if you take up these fancies.’
“‘No,’ she said, ‘I do not want to be anything foolish. I have thought it over, and if it happens only once I have made up my mind to believe it a mistake and to forget. But if it comes again—if it goes on coming!’ Here she shuddered and turned white. ‘Oh Tom, I could not—I could not!’
“That was the ultimatum. She liked me as much as ever; she even owned to a warmer feeling; but she was not going to marry a haunted man. Well, I suppose I cannot blame her. I might have given the same advice in another fellow's case, though in my own I felt it hard.
“I am close to the end now, so I shall need to tax your patience very little longer. A single chance remained. Gloriana's power, whatever its nature and however derived, might have been so spent in the previous efforts that she could effect no more. I clung to this shred of hope, and did my best to play the part of the light-hearted lover, the sort of companion Lucy expected, who would shape himself to her mood; but I was conscious that I played it ill.
“The ride was a lengthy business. Lucy's horse cast a shoe, and it was impossible to change the saddle on to the groom's hack or my own mare, as neither of them had been trained to the habit. We were bound to return at a foot-pace, and did not reach The Leasowes until two o’clock. Lunch was over: Mrs Ashcroft had set out for the station driving Miss Kingsworthy; but some cutlets were keeping hot for us, so we were informed, and could be served immediately.
“We went at once into the dining-room, as Lucy was hungry; and she took off her hat and laid it on a side-table: she said the close fit of it made her head ache. The cutlets had been misrepresented: they were lukewarm; but Lucy made a good meal off them and the fruit-tart which followed, very much at her leisure. Heaven knows I would not have grudged her so much as a mouthful; but that luncheon was an ordeal I cannot readily forget.
“The servant absented himself, having seen us served; and then my troubles began. The tablecloth seemed alive at the corner which was between us; it rose in waves as if puffed up by wind, though the window was fast shut against any wandering airs. I tried to seem unconscious; tried to talk as if no horror of apprehension was filling all my mind, while I was flattening out the bewitched damask with a grasp I hardly dared relax. Lucy rose at last, saying she must change her dress. Occupied with the cloth, it had not occurred to me to look round, or keep watch on what might be going on in another part of the room. The hat on the side-table had been tilted over sideways, and in that position it was made to crown another presentation of the Face. What it was made of this time I cannot say; probably a serviette, as several lay about. The linen material, of whatever sort, was again moulded into the perfect form; but this time the mouth showed humour, and appeared to relax in a grim smile.
“Lucy shrieked, and dropped into my arms in a swoon: a real genuine fainting-fit, out of which she was brought round with difficulty, after I had summoned the help of doctors.
“I hung about miserably till her safety was assured, and then went as miserably home. Next morning I received a cutting little note from my mother-in-law elect, in which she returned the ring, and informed me the engagement must be considered at an end.
“Well, Dick, you know now why I do not marry. And what have you to say?”
Lost Keep
LA Lewis
Peter Hunt was barely seventeen when news reached him of his Aunt Kate's death in a North London Hospital, and, knowing that she was almost penniless, he entertained no expectation of benefits as her only surviving relative. It was with some surprise, therefore, that he read in the Matron's letter of the despatch of a small, locked box, recently brought from a safe-deposit to her bedside, to which she had evidently attached great importance. By the same post there also arrived a package from his Aunt herself addressed in the weak, spidery calligraphy of extreme age, enclosed a key and a brief note which read: “To my nephew, Peter Hunt. Open the box and make what use Fate wills of its contents.”
The box arrived by delivery van in the evening of the same day, and was carried upstarts by Peter himself to his mean back bedroom in a Tilbury lodging-house. It was not very heavy, and any hope of hoarded coin vanished as soon as he lifted it, though there remained, of course, the slender chance of banknotes or bearer bonds. He cut the cords with which its lock had been reinforced and, taking the key from his pocket, opened it. It contained three objects only—a small-scale model of a stone fortress mounted on a pedestal shaped to resemble a rocky hill, a folded sheet of paper, and something which looked like a silver-framed magnifying glass, except that its lens was opaque—almost black, in fact—and nearly impervious to light.
Peter drew the miniature towards him—it was not more than three inches high—and examined it as closely as the poor light from the dirty window would allow. It was too early to use the gas. The meter was always ravenous for his pennies.
Even to his untutored eyes the workmanship of the model was exquisite, the degree of finish seeming to represent a lifetime's labour. Every single stone block—and there were thousands—in the structure of the building had been faithfully reproduced, and even such details as patches of lichen had not been overlooked. With luck the thing should be worth several pounds as a curiosity. Perhaps he would have it valued by Christie's; it wouldn't do to trust “Uncle” Abe at the corner shop. He pushed it aside and reached for the folded paper, recognising his father's characteristic handwriting as he smoothed it out. It related to the contents of the box, and read as follows—
“I, Vernon John Hunt, having been given by the doctors three months to live, have determined to put in writing what is known of ‘Lost Keep’ of which this scale model has been handed down from parent to child for many generations.
“Tradition has it that the miniature was made under pain of death by an Italian craftsman condemned by an early ancestor to imprisonment in the original stronghold until such time as he should complete the task. That he did complete it the miniature itself testifies, but history does not relate whether his release followed or whether, with the callo
usness of Feudal days, he was left to rot in his prison. There is, I regret to say, some ground for the latter supposition, for he is credited in the Latin manuscript, now destroyed, with having laid some kind of curse on this piece of craftsmanship. A peculiarity of the whole matter is that there have been so many female heirs that the name of the original title-holders is forgotten, the heirloom having passed haphazard from male to female issue and so transferred itself to various different families. Even the locality of the original site is unrecorded— hence its name of ‘Lost Keep’—and the curse of the modeller is concerned with this fact. The old fortress, if it still stands, may be in Iceland, Scandinavia, Russia, or, for that matter, any part of the world; but, translating from the Latin script, it is supposed to be rediscoverable by any one who has ‘the wit or fortune to combine glass and facsimile with understanding.’ Whoever solves the riddle, however, is threatened with ‘greater temptations of the Devil than have beset any other of Adam's descendants,’ and, if he succumbs, will find ‘death in the home of his fathers at the hand of his son.’ Doubtless each successive holder of the heirloom has attacked the problem, though there is no rumoured instance of its solution. I in my turn have wasted hours in speculation as to the purpose of the dark glass shaped so like a lens, yet so obviously useless as such, and have examined every point of the model's surface with a normal reading-glass for signs of engraved lettering, but have learned no more than to marvel at the delicacy of the work. On the latter count the model would probably be of considerable value among collectors, but its secret, if it really possesses one, is well hidden.
“So, being under sentence of death, I entrust this sole heirloom of a family whose fortunes are at ebb to my sister Kate, requesting her to hold it for my son Peter until her death or his majority.”
There Is a Graveyard That Dwells in Man Page 4