“And I,” retorted Julia with asperity, for her aunt’s words had stung her—“I, for my part, do not give him a thought.”
She had hardly spoken the words before a chill wind began to pass round her. She drew the Barège shawl that was over her bare shoulders closer about her, and said—“Auntie! is the glass down on your side?”
“No, Julia; why do you ask?”
“There is such a draught.”
“Draught!—I do not feel one; perhaps the window on your side hitches.”
“Indeed, that is all right. It is blowing harder and is deadly cold. Can one of the front panes be broken?”
“No. Rogers would have told me had that been the case. Besides, I can see that they are sound.”
The wind of which Julia complained swirled and whistled about her. It increased in force; it plucked at her shawl and slewed it about her throat; it tore at the lace on her dress. It snatched at her hair, it wrenched it away from the pins, the combs that held it in place; one long tress was lashed across the face of Miss Flemming. Then the hair, completely released, eddied up above the girl’s head, and next moment was carried as a drift before her, blinding her. Then—a sudden explosion, as though a gun had been fired into her ear; and with a scream of terror she sank back among the cushions. Miss Flemming, in great alarm, pulled the check-string, and the carriage stopped. The footman descended from the box and came to the side. The old lady drew down the window and said: “Oh! Phillips, bring the lamp. Something has happened to Miss Demant.”
The man obeyed, and sent a flood of light into the carriage. Julia was lying back, white and senseless. Her hair was scattered over her face, neck, and shoulders; the flowers that had been stuck in it, the pins that had fastened it in place, the pads that had given shape to the convolutions lay strewn, some on her lap, some in the rug at the bottom of the carriage.
“Phillips!” ordered the old lady in great agitation, “tell Rogers to turn the horses and drive home at once; and do you run as fast as you can for Dr. Crate.”
A few minutes after the carriage was again in motion, Julia revived. Her aunt was chafing her hand.
“Oh, aunt!” she said, “are all the glasses broken?”
“Broken—what glasses?”
“Those of the carriage—with the explosion.”
“Explosion, my dear!”
“Yes. That gun which was discharged. It stunned me. Were you hurt?”
“I heard no gun—no explosion.”
“But I did. It was as though a bullet had been discharged into my brain. I wonder that I escaped. Who can have fired at us?”
“My dear, no one fired. I heard nothing. I know what it was. I had the same experience many years ago. I slept in a damp bed, and awoke stone deaf in my right ear. I remained so for three weeks. But one night when I was at a ball and was dancing, all at once I heard a report as of a pistol in my right ear, and immediately heard quite clearly again. It was wax.”
“But, Aunt Elizabeth, I have not been deaf.”
“You have not noticed that you were deaf.”
“Oh! but look at my hair; it was that wind that blew it about.”
“You are labouring under a delusion, Julia. There was no wind.”
“But look—feel how my hair is down.”
“That has been done by the motion of the carriage. There are many ruts in the road.”
They reached home, and Julia, feeling sick, frightened, and bewildered, retired to bed. Dr. Crate arrived, said that she was hysterical, and ordered something to soothe her nerves. Julia was not convinced. The explanation offered by Miss Flemming did not satisfy her. That she was a victim to hysteria she did not in the least believe. Neither her aunt, nor the coachman, nor Phillips had heard the discharge of a gun. As to the rushing wind, Julia was satisfied that she had experienced it. The lace was ripped, as by a hand, from her dress, and the shawl was twisted about her throat; besides, her hair had not been so slightly arranged that the jolting of the carnage would completely disarrange it. She was vastly perplexed over what she had undergone. She thought and thought, but could get no nearer to a solution of the mystery.
Next day, as she was almost herself again, she rose and went about as usual.
In the afternoon the Hon. James Lawlor called and asked after Miss Flemming. The butler replied that his mistress was out making calls, but that Miss Demant was at home, and he believed was on the terrace. Mr. Lawlor at once asked to see her.
He did not find Julia in the parlour or on the terrace, but in a lower garden to which she had descended to feed the goldfish in the pond.
“Oh! Miss Demant,” said he, “I was so disappointed not to see you at the ball last night.”
“I was very unwell; I had a fainting fit and could not go.”
“It threw a damp on our spirits—that is to say, on mine. I had you booked for several dances.”
“You were able to give them to others.”
“But that was not the same to me. I did an act of charity and self-denial. I danced instead with the ugly Miss Burgons and with Miss Pounding, and that was like dragging about a sack of potatoes. I believe it would have been a jolly evening, but for that shocking affair of young Hattersley which kept some of the better sort away. I mean those who know the Hattersleys. Of course, for me that did not matter, we were not acquainted. I never even spoke with the fellow. You knew him, I believe? I heard some people say so, and that you had not come because of him. The supper, for a subscription ball, was not atrociously bad.”
“What did they say of me?”
“Oh!—if you will know—that you did not attend the ball because you liked him very much, and were awfully cut up.”
“I—I! What a shame that people should talk! I never cared a rush for him. He was nice enough in his way, not a bounder, but tolerable as young men go.”
Mr. Lawlor laughed. “I should not relish to have such a qualified estimate made of me.”
“Nor need you. You are interesting. He became so only when he had shot himself. It will be by this alone that he will be remembered.”
“But there is no smoke without fire. Did he like you—much?”
“Dear Mr. Lawlor, I am not a clairvoyante, and never was able to see into the brains or hearts of people—least of all of young men. Perhaps it is fortunate for me that I cannot.”
“One lady told me that he had proposed to you.”
“Who was that? The potato-sack?”
“I will not give her name. Is there any truth in it? Did he?”
“No.”
At the moment she spoke there sounded in her ear a whistle of wind, and she felt a current like a cord of ice creep round her throat, increasing in force and compression, her hat was blown off, and next instant a detonation rang through her head as though a gun had been fired into her ear. She uttered a cry and sank upon the ground.
Her hat was blown off, and next instant a detonation rang through her head as though a gun had been fired into her ear.
James Lawlor was bewildered. His first impulse was to run to the house for assistance; then he considered that he could not leave her lying on the wet soil, and he stooped to raise her in his arms and to carry her within. In novels young men perform such a feat without difficulty; but in fact they are not able to do it, especially when the girl is tall and big-boned. Moreover, one in a faint is a dead weight. Lawlor staggered under his burden to the steps. It was as much as he could perform to carry her up to the terrace, and there he placed her on a seat. Panting, and with his muscles quivering after the strain, he hastened to the drawing-room, rang the bell, and when the butler appeared, he gasped: “Miss Demant has fainted; you and I and the footman must carry her within.”
“She fainted last night in the carriage,” said the butler.
When Julia came to her senses, she was in bed attended by the housekeeper and her maid. A few moments later Miss Flemming arrived.
“Oh, aunt! I have heard it again.”
“Heard what,
dear?”
“The discharge of a gun.”
“It is nothing but wax,” said the old lady. “I will drop a little sweet-oil into your ear, and then have it syringed with warm water.”
“I want to tell you something—in private.”
Miss Flemming signed to the servants to withdraw.
“Aunt,” said the girl, “I must say something. This is the second time that this has happened. I am sure it is significant. James Lawlor was with me in the sunken garden, and he began to speak about James Hattersley. You know it was when we were talking about him last night that I heard that awful noise. It was precisely as if a gun had been discharged into my ear. I felt as if all the nerves and tissues of my head were being torn, and all the bones of my skull shattered—just what Mr. Hattersley must have undergone when he pulled the trigger. It was an agony for a moment perhaps, but it felt as if it lasted an hour. Mr. Lawlor had asked me point blank if James Hattersley had proposed to me, and I said, ‘No.’
“I was perfectly justified in so answering, because he had no right to ask me such a question. It was an impertinence on his part, and I answered him shortly and sharply with a negative. But actually James Hattersley proposed twice to me. He would not accept a first refusal, but came next day bothering me again, and I was pretty curt with him. He made some remarks that were rude about how I had treated him, and which I will not repeat, and as he left, in a state of great agitation, he said, ‘Julia, I vow that you shall not forget this, and you shall belong to no one but me, alive or dead.’ I considered this great nonsense, and did not accord it another thought. But, really, these terrible annoyances, this wind and the bursts of noise, do seem to me to come from him. It is just as though he felt a malignant delight in distressing me, now that he is dead. I should like to defy him, and I will do it if I can, but I cannot bear more of these experiences—they will kill me.”
Several days elapsed.
Mr. Lawlor called repeatedly to inquire, but a week passed before Julia was sufficiently recovered to receive him, and then the visit was one of courtesy and of sympathy, and the conversation turned upon her health, and on indifferent themes.
But some few days later it was otherwise. She was in the conservatory alone, pretty much herself again, when Mr. Lawlor was announced.
Physically she had recovered, or believed that she had, but her nerves had actually received a severe shock. She had made up her mind that the phenomena of the circling wind and the explosion were in some mysterious manner connected with Hattersley.
She bitterly resented this, but she was in mortal terror of a recurrence; and she felt no compunction for her treatment of the unfortunate young man, but rather a sense of deep resentment against him. If he were dead, why did he not lie quiet and cease from vexing her?
To be a martyr was to her no gratification, for hers was not a martyrdom that provoked sympathy, and which could make her interesting.
She had hitherto supposed that when a man died there was an end of him; his condition was determined for good or for ill. But that a disembodied spirit should hover about and make itself a nuisance to the living, had never entered into her calculations.
“Julia—if I may be allowed so to call you”—began Mr. Lawlor, “I have brought you a bouquet of flowers. Will you accept them?”
“Oh!” she said, as he handed the bunch to her, “how kind of you. At this time of the year they are so rare, and aunt’s gardener is so miserly that he will spare me none for my room but some miserable bits of geranium. It is too bad of you wasting your money like this upon me.”
“It is no waste, if it afford you pleasure.”
“It is a pleasure. I dearly love flowers.”
“To give you pleasure,” said Mr. Lawlor, “is the great object of my life. If I could assure you happiness—if you would allow me to hope—to seize this opportunity, now that we are alone together——”
He drew near and caught her hand. His features were agitated, his lips trembled, there was earnestness in his eyes. At once a cold blast touched Julia and began to circle about her and to flutter her hair. She trembled and drew back. That paralysing experience was about to be renewed. She turned deadly white, and put her hand to her right ear.
“Oh, James! James!” she gasped. “Do not, pray do not speak what you want to say, or I shall faint. It is coming on. I am not yet well enough to hear it. Write to me and I will answer. For pity’s sake do not speak it.” Then she sank upon a seat—and at that moment her aunt entered the conservatory.
On the following day a note was put into her hand, containing a formal proposal from the Hon. James Lawlor; and by return of post Julia answered with an acceptance.
There was no reason whatever why the engagement should be long; and the only alternative mooted was whether the wedding should take place before Lent or after Easter. Finally, it was settled that it should be celebrated on Shrove Tuesday. This left a short time for the necessary preparations. Miss Flemming would have to go to town with her niece concerning a trousseau, and a trousseau is not turned out rapidly any more than an armed cruiser.
There is usually a certain period allowed to young people who have become engaged, to see much of each other, to get better acquainted with one another, to build their castles in the air, and to indulge in little passages of affection, vulgarly called “spooning.” But in this case the spooning had to be curtailed and postponed.
At the outset, when alone with James, Julia was nervous. She feared a recurrence of those phenomena that so affected her. But, although every now and then the wind curled and soughed about her, it was not violent, nor was it chilling; and she came to regard it as a wail of discomfiture. Moreover, there was no recurrence of the detonation, and she fondly hoped that with her marriage the vexation would completely cease.
In her heart was deep down a sense of exultation. She was defying James Hattersley and setting his prediction at naught. She was not in love with Mr. Lawlor; she liked him, in her cold manner, and was not insensible to the social advantage that would be hers when she became the Honourable Mrs. Lawlor.
The day of the wedding arrived. Happily it was fine.
“Blessed is the bride the sun shines on,” said the cheery Miss Flemming; “an omen, I trust, of a bright and unruffled life in your new condition.”
All the neighbourhood was present at the church. Miss Flemming had many friends. Mr. Lawlor had fewer present, as he belonged to a distant county. The church path had been laid with red cloth, the church decorated with flowers, and a choir was present to twitter “The voice that breathed o’er Eden.”
The rector stood by the altar, and two cushions had been laid at the chancel step. The rector was to be assisted by an uncle of the bridegroom who was in Holy Orders; the rector, being old-fashioned, had drawn on pale grey kid gloves.
First arrived the bridegroom with his best man, and stood in a nervous condition balancing himself first on one foot, then on the other, waiting, observed by all eyes.
Next entered the procession of the bride, attended by her maids, to the “Wedding March” in Lohengrin, on a wheezy organ. Then Julia and her intended took their places at the chancel step for the performance of the first portion of the ceremony, and the two clergy descended to them from the altar.
“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?”
“I will.”
“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband?”
“I will.”
“I, James, take thee, Julia, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold——” and so on.
As the words were being spoken, a cold rush of air passed over the clasped hands, numbing them, and began to creep round the bride, and to flutter her veil. She set her lips and knitted her brows. In a few minutes she would be beyond the reach of these manifestations.
When it came to her turn to speak, she began firmly: “I, Julia, take thee, James——” but as she proceeded the wind became fierce; it raged about her, it caught her veil on one side and b
uffeted her cheek; it switched the veil about her throat, as though strangling her with a drift of snow contracting into ice. But she persevered to the end.
Then James Lawlor produced the ring, and was about to place it on her finger with the prescribed words: “With this ring I thee wed——” when a report rang in her ear, followed by a heaving of her skull, as though the bones were being burst asunder, and she sank unconscious on the chancel step.
In the midst of profound commotion, she was raised and conveyed to the vestry, followed by James Lawlor, trembling and pale. He had slipped the ring back into his waistcoat pocket. Dr. Crate, who was present, hastened to offer his professional assistance.
In the vestry Julia rested in a Glastonbury chair, white and still, with her hands resting in her lap. And to the amazement of those present, it was seen that on the third finger of her left hand was a leaden ring, rude and solid as though fashioned out of a bullet. Restoratives were applied, but full a quarter of an hour elapsed before Julia opened her eyes, and a little colour returned to her lips and cheek. But, as she raised her hands to her brow to wipe away the damps that had formed on it, her eye caught sight of the leaden ring, and with a cry of horror she sank again into insensibility.
The congregation slowly left the church, awestruck, whispering, asking questions, receiving no satisfactory answers, forming surmises all incorrect.
“I am very much afraid, Mr. Lawlor,” said the rector, “that it will be impossible to proceed with the service today; it must be postponed till Miss Demant is in a condition to conclude her part, and to sign the register. I do not see how it can be gone on with today. She is quite unequal to the effort.”
The carriage which was to have conveyed the couple to Miss Flemming’s house, and then, later, to have taken them to the station for their honeymoon, the horses decorated with white rosettes, the whip adorned with a white bow, had now to convey Julia, hardly conscious, supported by her aunt, to her home.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould Page 17