The procession made its way across the churchyard towards the tower. As it wound among the graves an owl hooted. All at once Maisie remembered the lines that had so chilled her a few short hours before in the drawing-room—
“The glow-worm o’er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing,
‘Welcome, proud lady!’”
But, marvellous to relate, they no longer alarmed her. She felt rather that a friend was welcoming her home; she clung to Yolande’s hand with a gentle pressure.
As they passed in front of the porch, with its ancient yew-tree, a stealthy figure glided out like a ghost from the darkling shadow. It was a woman, bent and bowed, with quivering limbs that shook half palsied. Maisie recognised old Bessie. “I knew she would come!” the old hag muttered between her toothless jaws. “I knew Wolverden Tower would yet be duly fasted!”
She put herself, as of right, at the head of the procession. They moved on to the tower, rather gliding than walking. Old Bessie drew a rusty key from her pocket, and fitted it with a twist into the brand-new lock. “What turned the old will turn the new,” she murmured, looking round and grinning. Maisie shrank from her as she shrank from not one of the Dead; but she followed on still into the ringers’ room at the base of the tower.
Thence a staircase in the corner led up to the summit. The High Priest mounted the stair, chanting a mystic refrain, whose runic sounds were no longer intelligible to Maisie. As she reached the outer air, the Tongue of the Dead seemed to have become a mere blank of mingled odours and murmurs to her. It was like a summer breeze, sighing through warm and resinous pinewoods. But Yolande and Hedda spoke to her yet, to cheer her, in the language of the living. She recognised that as #revenants they were still in touch with the upper air and the world of the embodied.
They tempted her up the stair with encouraging fingers. Maisie followed them like a child, in implicit confidence. The steps wound round and round, spirally, and the staircase was dim; but a supernatural light seemed to fill the tower, diffused from the bodies or souls of its occupants. At the head of all, the High Priest still chanted as he went his unearthly litany; magic sounds of chimes seemed to swim in unison with his tune as they mounted. Were those floating notes material or spiritual? They passed the belfry; no tongue of metal wagged; but the rims of the great bells resounded and reverberated to the ghostly symphony with sympathetic music. Still they passed on and on, upward and upward. They reached the ladder that alone gave access to the final story. Dust and cobwebs already clung to it. Once more Maisie drew back. It was dark overhead and the luminous haze began to fail them. Her friends held her hands with the same kindly persuasive touch as ever. “I cannot!” she cried, shrinking away from the tall, steep ladder. “Oh, Yolande, I cannot!”
“Yes, dear,” Yolande whispered in a soothing voice. “You can. It is but ten steps, and I will hold your hand tight. Be brave and mount them!”
The sweet voice encouraged her. It was like heavenly music. She knew not why she should submit, or, rather, consent; but none the less she consented. Some spell seemed cast over her. With tremulous feet, scarcely realising what she did, she mounted the ladder and went up four steps of it.
Then she turned and looked down again. Old Bessie’s wrinkled face met her frightened eyes. It was smiling horribly. She shrank back once more, terrified. “I can’t do it,” she cried, “if that woman comes up! I’m not afraid of you, dear”—she pressed Yolande’s hand—“but she, she is too terrible!”
Hedda looked back and raised a warning finger. “Let the woman stop below,” she said; “she savours too much of the evil world. We must do nothing to frighten the willing victim.”
The High Priest by this time, with his ghostly fingers, had opened the trap-door that gave access to the summit. A ray of moonlight slanted through the aperture. The breeze blew down with it. Once more Maisie felt the stimulating and reviving effect of the open air. Vivified by its freshness, she struggled up to the top, passed out through the trap, and found herself standing on the open platform at the summit of the tower.
The moon had not yet quite set. The light on the snow shone pale green and mysterious. For miles and miles around she could just make out, by its aid, the dim contour of the downs, with their thin white mantle, in the solemn silence. Range behind range rose faintly shimmering. The chant had now ceased; the High Priest and his acolytes were mingling strange herbs in a mazar-bowl or chalice. Stray perfumes of myrrh and of cardamoms were wafted towards her. The men in leopards’ skins burnt smouldering sticks of spikenard. Then Yolande led the postulant forward again, and placed her close up to the new white parapet. Stone heads of virgins smiled on her from the angles. “She must front the east,” Hedda said in a tone of authority: and Yolande turned her face towards the rising sun accordingly. Then she opened her lips and spoke in a very solemn voice. “From this new-built tower you fling yourself,” she said, or rather intoned, “that you may serve mankind, and all the powers that be, as its guardian spirit against thunder and lightning. Judged a virgin, pure and unsullied in deed and word and thought, of royal race and ancient lineage—a Cymry of the Cymry—you are found worthy to be intrusted with this charge and this honour. Take care that never shall dart or thunderbolt assault this tower, as She that is below you takes care to preserve it from earthquake and ruin, and She that is midway takes care to preserve it from battle and tempest. This is your charge. See well that you keep it.”
She took her by both hands. “Mary Llewelyn,” she said, “you willing victim, step on to the battlement.”
Maisie knew not why, but with very little shrinking she stepped as she was told, by the aid of a wooden footstool, on to the eastward-looking parapet. There, in her loose white robe, with her arms spread abroad, and her hair flying free, she poised herself for a second, as if about to shake out some unseen wings and throw herself on the air like a swift or a swallow.
“Mary Llewelyn,” Yolande said once more, in a still deeper tone, with ineffable earnestness, “cast yourself down, a willing sacrifice, for the service of man, and the security of this tower against thunderbolt and lightning.”
Maisie stretched her arms wider, and leaned forward in act to leap, from the edge of the parapet, on to the snow-clad churchyard.
V
One second more and the sacrifice would have been complete. But before she could launch herself from the tower, she felt suddenly a hand laid upon her shoulder from behind to restrain her. Even in her existing state of nervous exaltation she was aware at once that it was the hand of a living and solid mortal, not that of a soul or guardian spirit. It lay heavier upon her than Hedda’s or Yolande’s. It seemed to clog and burden her. With a violent effort she strove to shake herself free, and carry out her now fixed intention of self-immolation, for the safety of the tower. But the hand was too strong for her. She could not shake it off. It gripped and held her.
She yielded, and, reeling, fell back with a gasp on to the platform of the tower. At the selfsame moment a strange terror and commotion seemed to seize all at once on the assembled spirits. A weird cry rang voiceless through the shadowy company. Maisie heard it as in a dream, very dim and distant. It was thin as a bat’s note; almost inaudible to the ear, yet perceived by the brain or at least by the spirit. It was a cry of alarm, of fright, of warning. With one accord, all the host of phantoms rushed hurriedly forward to the battlements and pinnacles. The ghostly High Priest went first, with his wand held downward; the men in leopards’ skins and other assistants followed in confusion. Theirs was a reckless rout. They flung themselves from the top, like fugitives from a cliff, and floated fast through the air on invisible pinions. Hedda and Yolande, ambassadresses and intermediaries with the upper air, were the last to fly from the living presence. They clasped her hand silently, and looked deep into her eyes. There was something in that calm yet regretful look that seemed to say, “Farewell! We have tried in vain to save you, sister, from the terr
ors of living.”
The horde of spirits floated away on the air, as in a witches’ Sabbath, to the vault whence it issued. The doors swung on their rusty hinges, and closed behind them. Maisie stood alone with the hand that grasped her on the tower.
The shock of the grasp, and the sudden departure of the ghostly band in such wild dismay, threw Maisie for a while into a state of semi-unconsciousness. Her head reeled round; her brain swam faintly. She clutched for support at the parapet of the tower. But the hand that held her sustained her still. She felt herself gently drawn down with quiet mastery, and laid on the stone floor close by the trap-door that led to the ladder.
The next thing of which she could feel sure was the voice of the Oxford undergraduate. He was distinctly frightened and not a little tremulous. “I think,” he said very softly, laying her head on his lap, “you had better rest a while, Miss Llewelyn, before you try to get down again. I hope I didn’t catch you and disturb you too hastily. But one step more, and you would have been over the edge. I really couldn’t help it.”
“Let me go,” Maisie moaned, trying to raise herself again, but feeling too faint and ill to make the necessary effort to recover the power of motion. “I want to go with them! I want to join them!”
“Some of the others will be up before long,” the undergraduate said, supporting her head in his hands; “and they’ll help me to get you down again. Mr. Yates is in the belfry. Meanwhile, if I were you, I’d lie quite still, and take a drop or two of this brandy.”
He held it to her lips. Maisie drank a mouthful, hardly knowing what she did. Then she lay quiet where he placed her for some minutes. How they lifted her down and conveyed her to her bed she scarcely knew. She was dazed and terrified. She could only remember afterward that three or four gentlemen in roughly huddled clothes had carried or handed her down the ladder between them. The spiral stair and all the rest were a blank to her.
VI
When she next awoke she was lying in her bed in the same room at the Hall, with Mrs. West by her side, leaning over her tenderly.
Maisie looked up through her closed eyes and just saw the motherly face and grey hair bending above her. Then voices came to her from the mist, vaguely: “Yesterday was so hot for the time of year, you see!” “Very unusual weather, of course, for Christmas.” “But a thunderstorm! So strange! I put it down to that. The electrical disturbance must have affected the poor child’s head.” Then it dawned upon her that the conversation she heard was passing between Mrs. West and a doctor.
She raised herself suddenly and wildly on her arms. The bed faced the windows. She looked out and beheld—the tower of Wolverden church, rent from top to bottom with a mighty rent, while half its height lay tossed in fragments on the ground in the churchyard.
“What is it?” she cried wildly, with a flush as of shame.
“Hush, hush!” the doctor said. “Don’t trouble! Don’t look at it!”
“Was it—after I came down?” Maisie moaned in vague terror.
The doctor nodded. “An hour after you were brought down,” he said, “a thunderstorm broke over it. The lightning struck and shattered the tower. They had not yet put up the lightning-conductor. It was to have been done on Boxing Day.”
A weird remorse possessed Maisie’s soul. “My fault!” she cried, starting up. “My fault, my fault! I have neglected my duty!”
“Don’t talk,” the doctor answered, looking hard at her. “It is always dangerous to be too suddenly aroused from these curious overwrought sleeps and trances.”
“And old Bessie?” Maisie exclaimed, trembling with an eerie presentiment.
The doctor glanced at Mrs. West. “How did she know?” he whispered. Then he turned to Maisie. “You may as well be told the truth as suspect it,” he said slowly. “Old Bessie must have been watching there. She was crushed and half buried beneath the falling tower.”
“One more question, Mrs. West,” Maisie murmured, growing faint with an access of supernatural fear. “Those two nice girls who sat on the chairs at each side of me through the tableaux—are they hurt? Were they in it?”
Mrs. West soothed her hand. “My dear child,” she said gravely, with quiet emphasis, “there were no other girls. This is mere hallucination. You sat alone by yourself through the whole of the evening.”
THE MAGIC PHIAL, by J. Y. Ayerman
or, An Evening at Delft
“Now,” said the portly Peter Van Voorst, as he buttoned up his money in the pockets of his capacious breeches—“Now I’ll home to my farm, and tomorrow I’ll buy neighbour Jan Hagen’s two cows, which are the best in Holland.”
He crossed the market-place of Delft as he spoke, with an elated and swaggering air, and turned down one of the streets which led out of the city, when a goodly tavern met his eye. Thinking a dram would be beneficial in counter-acting the effects of a fog which was just rising, he entered, and called for a glass of Schiedam. This was brought, and drank by Peter, who liked the flavour so much, that he resolved to try the liquor diluted. Accordingly, a glass of a capacious size was set before him. After a few sips of the pleasing spirit, our farmer took a view of the apartment in which he was sitting, and, for the first time, perceived that the only person in the room, besides himself, was a young man of melancholy aspect, who sat near the fire-place, apparently half asleep. Now, Peter was of a loquacious turn, and nothing rendered a room more disagreeable to him than the absence of company. He therefore took the first opportunity of engaging the stranger in conversation.
“A dull evening, Mynheer,” said the farmer.
“Yaw,” replied the stranger, stretching himself, and yawning loudly, “very foggy, I take it;” and he rose, and looked into the street.
Peter perceived that his companion wore a dress of dark brown, of the cut of the last century. A thick row of brass buttons ornamented his doublet; so thickly, indeed, were they placed, that they appeared one stripe of metal. His shoes were high-heeled and square-toed, like those worn by a company of maskers, represented in a picture which hung in Peter’s parlour at Voorbooch. The stranger was of a spare figure, and his countenance was, as before stated, pale; but there was a wild brightness in his eye, which inspired the farmer with a feeling of awe.
After taking a few turns up and down the apartment, the stranger drew a chair near to Peter, and sat down.
“Are you a burgher of Delft?” he inquired.
“No,” was the reply; “I am a small farmer, and live in the village of Voorbooch.”
“Umph!” said the stranger, “you have a dull road to travel. See, your glass is out. How like ye mine host’s Schiedam?”
“’Tis right excellent.”
“You say truly,” rejoined the stranger, with a smile, which the farmer thought greatly improved his countenance; “but here is a liquor which no burgomaster in Holland can procure. ’Tis fit for a prince.”
He drew forth a phial from the breast of his doublet, and, mixing a small quantity of the red liquid it contained, with some water that stood on the table, he poured it into Peter’s empty glass. The farmer tasted it, and found it to excel every liquid he had ever drank. Its effect was soon visible: he pressed the hand of the stranger with great warmth, and swore he would not leave Delft that night.
“You are perfectly right,” said his companion, “these fogs are unusually heavy: they are trying, even to the constitution of a Hollander. As for me, I am nearly choked with them. How different is the sunny clime of Spain, which I have just left.”
“You have travelled, then?” said Peter, inquiringly.
“Travelled! Aye, to the remotest corner of the Indies, amongst Turks, Jews, and Tartars.”
“Eh, but does it please ye to travel always in that garb, Mynheer?”
“Even so,” replied the stranger; “it has descended from father to son, through more than three generations. See you this hole on the left breast of my doublet?”
The farmer stretched out his neck, and by the dim light, perceived a small
perforation on the breast of the stranger’s doublet, who continued:
“Ah! the bullet that passed through it lodged in the heart of my great-graridsire, at the sack of Zutphen.”
“I have heard of the bloody doings at that place from my grandfather, Heaven rest his soul!”
Peter was startled on perceiving the unearthly smile which played over the countenance of the stranger, on his hearing this pious ejaculation. He muttered to himself, in an inaudible tone, the word Duyvel! but was interrupted by the loud laugh of his companion, who slapped him on the shoulder, and cried— “Come, come, Mynheer, you look sad; does not my liquor sit well on your stomach?”
“’Tis excellent!” replied Peter, ashamed to think that the stranger had observed his confusion: “will you sell me your phial?”
“I had it from a dear friend, who has been long since dead,” replied the stranger; “he strictly enjoined me never to sell it, for, d’ye see, no sooner is it emptied, than, at the wish of the possessor, it is immediately re-filled: but, harkee, as you seem a man of spirit, it shall be left to chance to decide who shall possess it.” He took from his bosom a bale of dice: “I will stake it against a guilder.”
“Good,” said Peter, “but I fear there is some devilry in the phial.”
“Pshaw!” cried his companion, with a bitter smile, “those who have travelled understand these things better. Devilry, forsooth!”
“I crave your pardon,” said Peter, “I will throw for it;” and he placed a guilder on the table.
The farmer met with ill luck, and lost. He took a draught of his companion’s liquor, and determined to stake another guilder; but he lost that also! Much enraged at his want of success, he drew forth the canvass bag which contained the produce of the sale of his corn, and resolved either to win the phial (the contents of which had gone far to fuddle his senses,) or lose all. He threw again with better luck; but, elated at this, he played with less caution, and in a few minutes was left pennyless. The stranger gathered up the money, and placed it in his pocket.
The Third Macabre Megapack Page 27