The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

  “Give him the letter in your stead!” Ronan ejaculated. “Why, I may never see him—indeed, the odds are a thousand to one I never shall. I’m in a hurry, too. I can’t stay hanging around here all night. Besides, how should I know him?”

  “He’s dressed as a jester,” the woman answered, “and if the wind is not blowing too strong you’ll hear the sound of his bells. He’s sure to be coming by very soon. Oh, sir, do me this favour, I pray you.”

  As she spoke the rain ceased and the moon, suddenly appearing from behind a bank of clouds, revealed her face. It was startlingly white, and in a strange, elfish kind of way, beautiful. Ronan gazed at it in astonishment, it was altogether so different from the face he had pictured from the voice, and as he stared down into the big, black eyes raised pleadingly to his, he felt curiously fascinated, and all idea of resistance at once departed.

  “All right,” he said slowly, “I will do as you wish. A man in Court-jester’s costume, with jingling bells, answering to the name of Robert Dunloe. Hand me the letter, and I will wait in the road till he passes.”

  She obeyed, and, taking from her bosom an envelope, handed it to him.

  “Oh, sir,” she said softly, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. It is most kind of you—most chivalrous, and I am sure you will one day be rewarded. Hark! footsteps. A number of them. It must be some of the revellers. I must remain here till they pass, for I would not for the world have them see me; they are rude, boisterous fellows, and have little respect for a maiden when they meet her alone on the highway. There have been some dreadful doings of late around here.”

  She laid one of her little white hands on Ronan’s arm as she spoke, and, with the forefinger of the other placed on her lips, enjoined silence. Then as the footsteps and voices, which had been drawing nearer and nearer, passed close to them and died gradually away in the distance, she hurriedly bade Ronan farewell, and darted nimbly away in the darkness.

  Ronan stood for some minutes where she had left him, half expecting she would reappear, but at last, convinced that she had really taken her departure, he climbed the wall, back again into the road, and waited. Had it not been for the envelope, which certainly felt material enough, Ronan would have been inclined to attribute it all to some curious kind of hallucination—the girl was so different—albeit so subtly and inexplicably different—from anyone he had ever seen before. But that envelope with the name “Robert Dunloe, Esquire,” so clearly and beautifully superscribed on it, was a proof of her reality, and, as he stood fingering the missive and pondering the subject over in his mind, he once again heard the sound of footsteps. This time they were the footsteps of one person only, and, as he had been led to expect, they were accompanied by the faint jingle, jingle of bells.

  The moon, now quite free from clouds, rendered every object so clearly visible that Ronan, looking in the direction from which the sounds came, soon detected a tall, oddly attired figure, whilst still a long way off, advancing towards him with big, swinging strides. Had he not been prepared for someone in fancy costume, Ronan might have felt somewhat alarmed, for a Scotch moor in the dead of winter is hardly the place where one would expect to encounter a masquerader in jester’s costume.

  Moreover, though the magnifying action of the moon’s rays were probably accountable for it, there seemed to be something singularly bizarre about the figure, apart from its clothes; its head seemed abnormally round and small, its limbs abnormally long and emaciated, and its movements remarkably automatic and at the same time spiderlike.

  Ronan gripped the envelope in his hand—it was solid enough; therefore, the queer, fantastic-looking thing, stalking so grotesquely towards him, must be solid too—a mere man—and Ronan forced a laugh. Another moment, and he had stepped out from under cover of the wall.

  “Are you Mr Robert Dunloe?” he asked, “because, if so, I have a letter for you.”

  The figure halted, and the white, parchment-like face with two very light green, cat-like eyes, bent down and favoured Ronan with a half-frightened, but penetrating gaze.

  “Yes,” came the reply, “I am Mr Dunloe. But how came you with a letter for me? Give it to me at once.” And before Ronan could prevent him, he had snatched the envelope from his grasp, and, having broken open the seal, was reading the contents.

  “Ah!” he ejaculated. “What a fool! I might have known so all along, but it’s not too late.” Then he folded the letter in his hand and stood holding it, apparently buried in thought.

  Ronan, whose hot Irish temper had been roused by the rude manner in which the stranger had obtained possession of the missive, would have moved on and left him, had he not felt restrained by the same peculiar fascination he had experienced when talking to the girl.

  “I trust,” he at length remarked, “that your letter contains no ill news. The lady who requested me to give it you mentioned the fact that a relative of hers had been taken very ill.”

  “When and where did you see her?” the stranger queried, his eyes once again seeking Ronan’s face with the same fixed, penetrating stare.

  “In that shelter over there,” Ronan answered, pointing to it. “We were strangers to one another, and I was sheltering from the storm. I explained to her that I was on my way to Lockerbie, and in no little hurry to get there, but she begged me so earnestly to await your arrival, so that I might hand you the letter, that she might be free to return home at once, that I consented. That is all that passed between us.”

  “She went?”

  “Yes, she slipped away suddenly in the darkness, where I don’t know.”

  The stranger mused for a few moments, stroking his chin with long, lean fingers. Then he suddenly seemed to wake up, and spoke again, but this time in a far more courteous fashion.

  “Young man,” he said, “I believe you. You have a candid expression in your eyes, and an honest ring in your voice. Men that speak in such tones seldom lie. You are kind-hearted, too, and I am going to ask of you a favour. Yesterday morning, in Annan, two of the leading townsfolk laid me a wager that I would not attend a ball to-night at the Spelkin Towers, and, attired as a Court jester, walk all the way to and fro, no matter how inclement the weather. I accepted the challenge, and now, having progressed so far, I should aim at completing my task, but for this letter, which fully corroborates what the young lady told you, and informs me that a very old and dear friend of mine is dying, and would at all costs see me at once, as she has an important statement to make for my ears only. Now, sir, I cannot possibly go to her in these outlandish clothes, lest the shock of seeing me so attired should prove too much for her in her present serious condition. Can I prevail upon your charity and chivalry—for once again it is on behalf of a woman—and good Christian spirit—for I doubt not, from your demeanour, that you have been brought up in a truly God-fearing and pious manner—to persuade you to change costumes with me over yonder in that shed. I would then be able to appear before my poor, dying friend in suitable, sober garments, whilst you would be free to go to the ball, and, by posing as Mr Robert Dunloe, share the proceeds of my wager with me.”

  Then, noting the expression that came over Ronan’s face, he added quickly:

  “You will incur no risks. I am a comparative stranger in these parts—none of the revellers know me by sight. All you will have to do on your arrival at the Towers will be to explain to your host, Sir Hector McBlane, the nature of the wager, and ask him to give you some record of your attendance that I can subsequently show to my two friends. Remember, sir, that it is not only for the sake of gratifying a dying woman’s wish that I am asking this favour of you, but it is also to make sure that the young lady who gave you the letter shall not be jeopardised.”

  Ronan hesitated. Had such a mystifying proposition been made to him on any other occasion he would, perhaps, have rejected it at once as the sheerest lunacy; but there was something about this nigh
t—the wild grandeur of the silent moonlit scenery, the intoxicating sweetness of the subtly scented air, to say nothing of the maiden whose elfish appearance had seemed in such absolute harmony both with the soft, silvery starlight and the black granite boulders—that was wholly different from anything Ronan had ever experienced before, and his deeply emotional and easily excited temperament, rising in hot rebellion against his reason, urged him to embark upon what he persuaded himself might prove a vastly entertaining adventure. He consequently agreed to do as the stranger suggested, and, accompanying him into the shelter, he exchanged clothes with him.

  After arranging to meet in the same spot at four o’clock in the morning, the two men parted, the stranger making off across the moors, and Ronan continuing along the high road.

  Nothing of moment occurred again till Ronan caught sight of the clump of pines, from the centre of which rose the Spelkin Towers, and a few yards farther on perceived the white wooden gate that the elfish maiden had described to him. On his approach, several figures, in fancy dress and wearing dominoes, advanced to meet him, and one, with a low bow, inquired if he had the honour of addressing Mr Robert Dunloe.

  “Why, yes,” Ronan responded, with some astonishment, “but I did not think anyone knew I was coming here to-night saving our host, Sir Hector McBlane.”

  “That is because you are so modest,” was the reply. “I can assure you, Mr Dunloe, your fame has preceded you, and everyone present here to-night will be eagerly looking forward to the moment of your arrival. Let me introduce you to my friends. Sir Frederick Clanstradie, Sir Austin Maltravers, Lord Henry Baxter, Mr Leslie de Vaux.”

  Each of the guests bowed in turn as their names were pronounced, and then, at a signal from the spokesman, who informed Ronan he was Sir Philip McBlane, cousin to their host, they proceeded in a body to the queerly constructed mansion.

  Inside Ronan could see no sign whatever of any festivity, but on being told that Sir Hector was awaiting him in the ball-room, he allowed himself to be conducted along a bare, gloomy passage and down a narrow flight of steep stone steps into a large dungeon-like chamber, piled up in places with strange-looking lumber, and in one corner of which he perceived a tall figure, draped from head to foot in the hideous black garments of a Spanish inquisitor, standing in the immediate vicinity of a heap of loose bricks and freshly made mortar, and bending over a cauldron full of what looked like simmering tar. The whole aspect of the room was indeed so grim and forbidding, that Ronan drew back in dismay and turned to Sir Philip and his comrades for an explanation.

  Before, however, anyone could speak, the figure in the inquisitorial robes advanced, and, bidding Ronan welcome, declared that he considered it both an honour and a privilege to entertain so illustrious a guest.

  Not knowing how to reply to a greeting that seemed so absurdly exaggerated, Ronan merely mumbled out something to the effect that he was delighted to come, and then lapsed into an awkward and embarrassed silence, during which he could feel the eyes of everyone fixed on him with an expression he could not for the life of him make out.

  Finally, the inquisitor, whom Ronan now divined was Sir Hector McBlane, after expressing a hope that the ladies would soon make their appearance, invited the gentlemen to partake of some refreshments.

  Bottles scattered in untidy profusion upon a plain deal table were then uncorked, and the sinisterly clad host proposed they should all drink a toast of welcome to their distinguished guest, Mr Robert Dunloe.

  Up to the present Ronan had only been conscious of what seemed to him courtesy and cordiality in the voices of his fellow-guests, but now, as one and all clinked glasses and shouted in unison, “For he’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us,” he fancied he could detect something rather different; what it was he could not say, but it gave him the same feeling of doubt and uncertainty as had the expression in their faces immediately after his introduction to Sir Hector.

  Again there was an embarrassed silence, which was eventually broken by Ronan, who, perceiving that something was expected from him, at length stood up and responded to the toast.

  His speech was of very short duration, but it was hardly over, before a loud rapping of high-heeled shoes sounded on the stone steps, and a number of women, dressed in every conceivable fashion, from the quaintly picturesque costume of the Middle Ages to the still fondly remembered and popular Empire gown, came trooping into the room. Their curiously clumsy movements caused Ronan to scrutinise them somewhat closely, but it was not until, in response to a wild outburst on wheezy flutes and derelict bagpipes, the assembly commenced dancing, that he awoke to the fact which now seemed obvious enough, that these weird-looking women were not women at all, but merely men mummers.

  For the next few minutes the noise and confusion were such that Ronan, whose temples had been set on fire by the wine, hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his feet. First one of the pretended women, and then another, solicited the honour of dancing with him, until at last, through sheer fatigue and giddiness, he was constrained to stop and lean for support against the walls of the building.

  He was still in this attitude, when the music, if such one could style it, suddenly ceased, and the whole company, as if by a preconcerted signal, suddenly stood at attention, as still and silent as statues.

  Sir Hector McBlane then approached Ronan with a bow, and informing him that his bride awaited him in the bridal chamber, declared that the time had now arrived for his introduction to her.

  This announcement was so unexpected and extraordinary that Ronan lost all power of speech, and, before he could realise what was taking place, he found himself being conducted by his host to a dimly lighted corner of the room, where he perceived, for the first time, a recess or kind of cell, measuring not more than four feet in depth, and three feet across, but reaching upwards to the same height as the ceiling. Exactly in the centre of it was a tall figure, absolutely stiff and motionless, and clad in long, flowing, white garments.

  Still too bewildered and astonished to protest or remonstrate, Ronan permitted himself to be led right up to the figure, which a sudden flare from a torch held by one of the revellers, enabled him to perceive was merely a huge rag doll, decked out in sham jewellery, with a painted, leering face and a mass of tow hair, a clever but ridiculous caricature of a woman. He was about to demand an angry explanation of the foolery, when he was pushed violently forward, and, before he could recover his equilibrium, a rope was wound several times round his body, and he was strapped tightly to the doll, which was securely attached to an iron stake fixed perpendicularly in the ground.

  Loud shouts of laughter now echoed from one end of the chamber to the other, the merriment being further increased when Sir Hector, with an assumed gravity, presented his humblest respects to the bride and bridegroom, and hoped that they would enjoy a long and very happy honeymoon.

  Ronan, whose indignation was by this time raised to boiling pitch, furiously demanded to be released, but the more angry he became, the more his tormentors mocked, until at length even walls, floor, and ceiling seemed to become infected and to shake with an uncontrollable and devilish mirth. Finally, however, when things had gone on in this fashion for some time, Sir Hector again spoke, and this time announced in loud tones that, as he was quite sure the bride and bridegroom must now be wishing for nothing better than to be left to themselves, he and his guests would now proceed to seal up the bridal chamber.

  A general bustle and subsequent clinking of metal on the stone floor, immediately following this speech, left Ronan in no doubt whatever as to what was happening. He was, of course, being bricked up. Now although he felt assured that it was all a joke, he also felt it was a joke that had gone on quite long enough. It was only too clear to him that, for some reason or another, Mr Robert Dunloe was very far from popular with these masqueraders, and he began to wonder if Mr Dunloe’s explanation of his desire
to exchange clothes was the correct one, whether, in fact, Mr Dunloe had not got an inkling of what was going to happen to him from the elfish girl’s letter, and whether he had not merely trumped up the story of the sick woman and the wager for the occasion.

  In any case Ronan felt that he had been let down badly, and since he did not see why he should still pretend to be the man who had taken such advantage of him, he called out:

  “Look here, I’ve a confession to make. You think I’m Mr Robert Dunloe, but I’m not. My name is Ronan Malachy. I’m staying with my uncle, Mr Hugh Malachy, near Birkenhead, and anyone there would confirm my identity. I was bound to-night for Lockerbie, when I met a girl who begged me to wait in the road and deliver a letter for her to an individual dressed as a Court jester, and styling himself Robert Dunloe, who would presently pass by. Not liking to refuse a lady, I agreed, and when I had given the man the letter, and he had read it, he told me that it was a summons to attend the death-bed of a very dear friend and urged me to exchange clothes with him, in order that he might go suitably attired. To this I naturally assented, and he then begged me to impersonate him here, as he had laid a big wager that he would be present at this ball and would walk all the way from Annan in this costume.”

  Ronan was about to add more, when Sir Hector McBlane approached the mound of bricks, which was already breast high, and, looking straight at him, exclaimed:

  “Robert Dunloe, it is useless to try and hoodwink us. We know all about you. We know that you were once arrested for highway robbery and murder, but got off through turning King’s evidence against your mate, ‘Hal of the seventeen strings,’ who was hanged at Lancaster; that you then, took up Government spying as a trade, and got a score of the best fellows who ever breathed life sentences at Morecombe for smuggling a few casks of brandy. A month ago we heard that you were coming to Annan to try and place a rope round some of our necks for the same so-called felony, and we determined that we would be first in the field and teach you a lesson. We are now going to seal you up and leave you to soliloquise over the rope which is round you, and which is, doubtless, of the same hue and texture as that which has hanged the many that have been sentenced through your treachery. Adieu.”