| It
was a clear day in late September. In response to a
summons from a small place called Jasper, I had landed
from the train, and was wheeling rapidly in a dog-cart
toward a country house called Simon Towers, which was
somewhere in the neighbourhood. The road was good, but
the country was flat, and the fields, shorn of their
crops, lay in barrenness, save here and there one which
was dotted with the rich orange globes of the pumpkins
grown amongst the corn which was stacked in tent-like
masses.
My driver was a small
man of a sad countenance and very reticent. I could
not get him to talk, and even to my ordinary question
as to the whereabouts of Simon Towers, he did not utter
a monosyllable, but raised his whip and pointed to the
north with a movement which included the greater sweep
of the horizon. There are men who have tongues but who
will not use them, and my companion certainly belonged
to the class. But he knew how to drive, and he did not
need to speak to his lively beast with the whip which
he reserved like his tongue.
We had driven for an
hour, and the sun was setting when we turned into a
lane, and the driver drew the horse to a walk, as if
in expectation of meeting someone. In a few moments
I descried a young man seated by the roadside who rose
as we neared him. He approached the cart and hailed
me: “Are you Mr. Greenlaw? Mr. John Greenlaw?”
I acknowledged my name.
“I am
Basil Mannix.”
I recognized
the name of the person who had requested my presence
at Simon Towers.
“We are
now two miles from the house, and as I wished to see
you before you arrived here, I have met you. If it would
not too greatly fatigue you we will walk the distance;
I should be glad of your company.”
I readily acquiesced,
as I had been longing for an opportunity of resting
and refreshing myself by a brisk walk, and I jumped
to the ground. [Page 81] “David,”
he said, “you may drive on slowly and wait for
us at the Spring Cross.”
As the distance
was increasing between us and the vehicle, my companion
was silent, and I had a chance to glance observantly
at him. He was tall and slight, and his figure and the
pose of his head belonged to a sprightly young man,
but there was an air of abstraction surrounding him.
He seemed careless and unhappy. His features were bright
and exceedingly attractive, but there were new lines
of dejection in his face, and I could discern the traces
of worry and sleepless nights, which had not yet hardened
into the ruts which are worn by years of care and melancholy.
A lock of brown hair fell across his forehead. His manner
was listless, but when he spoke, his words came eagerly,
impulsively, and I had to be alert and attentive to
follow him.
“I wanted your
advice. I know how clever you are, and I could not be
alone any longer. No, any day I thought something might
happen, and I have been full of suspicions. It was getting
unbearable, and I have not slept for—well, for
a long time; not really rested. We are going to Simon
Towers, my uncle’s place. I say ‘my uncle,’
but he was really no relation to me. My father and he
were friends, and when my father died he took me. He
had no children. He is dead now—last spring.”
Here he turned with
a quick movement of the head and looked at me full in
the face, and as quickly he looked away upon the ground
as before.
“He was a father
to me; he taught me everything I know. There was only
one thing which ever came between us, and that I will
tell you of by-and-bye. My uncle was married when I
came to him; why he ever married the woman he did I
could never explain, unless it was for her beauty, and
you will soon judge whether she is a beautiful woman.
But she is ignorant. I mean ignorant: she cannot
read or write, and she was too indolent to learn, although
my uncle, I remember, used to try to teach her; but
at last he gave it up in despair.”
Here he came to a dead
stop and we walked some distance in silence. I did not
urge him to resume, and at last he said abruptly, as
if he were continuing out loud a course of reflection:
“That was the trouble—the trouble. About
three miles from our place at Selby Farm a family called
Westbrook live. I met Harriet Westbrook long before
my uncle knew it, and I soon loved her; when he discovered
that I knew her he was angry; when he forbade me to
see her I told him I loved her, and he was very passionate
and lost his temper and struck me. He was mighty sorry
for that afterwards, and ashamed, for he loved me aside
from everything else. But I would not give [Page
82] way to him on this point. I saw Harriet
as often as I could, and we often planned to meet.”
Here he paused again for a while.
“Once my uncle
met us. It was last fall—just a year ago. He ordered
me roughly to the house, and I went, as I feared to
see him break into a temper again, and I knew he feared
it also. After that he kept such a close watch over
me that I could hardly stir without him. It was in the
spring that he died. The winter had been very severe
and he had caught a cold which prostrated him. One evening
after dinner he failed suddenly—his heart—
and he was gone. I heard him say, ‘Basil,
remember.’ I knew the last thing he had
thought of was his hatred of my love for Harriet.”
Here he stopped short
in his walk. “There are the Towers,” he
said. On the ridge above us was the bulk of a low wide-spreading
house, dark against the sunset.
There was no sign of
towers: I remarked upon that. “No,” he said,
“there are no towers.”
So far he had not told
me anything of great interest, and if it had not been
for his distraught manner and tragic air, I should have
wondered at the insufficiency of his story. But these
made me trust that something was behind which would
soon be apparent. I was not wrong.
“You are my guest,
remember; you have come down for the shooting; we have
plover here and snipe, and you are to stay as long as
is necessary.”
In a moment we had
met David and we drove up to the Towers.
At dinner,
I saw Mrs. Mannix for the first time. She was indeed
a beautiful woman, the most beautiful I have ever seen.
She was like a picture richly colored, and her manner
was so composed that you could fancy you were gazing
at an original Velasquez. She spoke very little and
slowly. After dinner my host offered me a cigar, and
to smoke we went into the clear evening and walked upon
the broad veranda, which ran the whole length of the
house.
“What
do you think of her?” he asked laconically.
“You
were right about her beauty.”
“Yes;
and I fancy you will find me right about many another
thing. I want you to watch her and disarm my suspicion
if you can.” He said this with an inflection which
let me see how deep into misery he had sunk.
Well, as this
was my duty, I watched Mrs. Mannix for a week, and she
remained as beautiful as ever. There was in this time
absolutely no change in her. She seemed empty of any
spiritual life, incapable of any emotion. At the end
of this week Basil said to me: “This afternoon
I am going to meet Miss Westbrook.” After he had
gone, I noticed a change in Mrs. Mannix; she became
restless, walking about the house and looking anxiously
[Page 83] from the veranda, although,
as it was a misty day, she could not see far. Then she
came to me where I sat, and spoke rapidly, asking me
often where Basil had gone. I tried to lead her to converse
about something else, but I could not succeed. Her talk
was inconsequent, and she said much about Adrian, her
husband, which I could not comprehend. Her disquietude
increased, until at last she put on her cloak and hat,
and would have gone out, but Basil appeared. Then she
seemed to relapse into her usual apathetic state.
I had not opportunity
of speaking to Basil before dinner, and at that meal
something untoward happened. There had been a lull in
our conversation, when some impulse led me to glance
at Mrs. Mannix. She was leaning back in her chair transfixed;
there was no sign of life about her. Basil started up
and was approaching her, when her lips moved. She said
very distinctly: “Basil, remember!”
Her maid was called, and as she did not at once recover,
she was taken to her room. Basil was too much distressd
to resume dinner, and we went into the library together.
“Well!”
he sighed wearily, “you have seen at last. This
afternoon I saw Harriet, as I told you I would, and
what occurred when I was away?” I told him that
Mrs. Mannix was restless and perturbed, and often asked
where he had gone.
“And
to-night,” he said, “you observed what happened:
she had one of her trances; and do you recollect what
she said?”
“Yes,”
I replied, “she said ‘Basil, remember.’”
“True,
the very words my uncle breathed into my ear as I laid
him back dead. What do you think of that?”
I reflected
a moment. I had to deal with a youth whose whole mind
was overwrought, and I wished if possible to calm him.
“I would
not lay too much stress upon an incident which must
be a coincidence merely.”
“And
if it had happened three times, and only after I had
seen Harriet, what would you say?”
“Then
this is not the first time that this has occurred?”
He ignored my question, but began to pace slowly to
and fro with his hands buried in his hair. At length
he broke out:
“She
is possessed; ever since my uncle’s death, this
power has been growing and growing. Before he died he
had a strange influence over her; now he seems to animate
her in some occult way, and the feeling is coming over
me that the outcome will be disaster for me and in some
way trouble for my dear girl.” [Page 84]
“Now,
my dear sir, you are allowing an idle fancy to obtain
possession of you. I insist that you listen to me and
be advised.” He looked at me curiously, making
me feel that I had used no argument with him.
“You
have already seen something which you cannot explain,
and all that I ask is that you wait and watch and protect
me against myself and against her.”
Another uneventful
week passed. I observed Mrs. Mannix closely, and she
seemed to have regained her picturesque tranquility.
So far as I could discern, she did absolutely nothing.
She seemed to be fond of riding, but she was more fond
of indolently gazing from the window at the landscape,
whose vivid lines were now blending into the ashen greys
of late October. I had given the curious theory of my
young friend—for so I had begun to regard him—every
consideration, yet I could not find sufficient force
in it to lead me to adopt it. I am loath to this day
to place a supernatural interpretation upon the facts
which I vouch for, but the facts I must state, and the
riddle will be read. To tell the truth, I was beginning
to tire of inaction, when in a single day something
occurred to give me further food for reflection.
One evening,
Basil and I were conversing before the genial fire in
the library, when I asked him if he knew what reason
his uncle had for opposing so ardently his love for
Miss Westbrook. By his expression I saw I had touched
a wound; but he spoke out like a true lad that he was.
“I do
not know, but the people here have a story; my man David
blurted it out to me one day—you have noticed
the scar over his eyebrow?—that this girl, the
girl I love, was disgraced in some way—that my
uncle’s wife was her mother, and that my uncle
knew all the bitterness of it, and hated my own Harriet,
who is as pure as light. He longed for children, and
his wife had only brought him this disgrace. This made
him love me all the more, I suppose, and he must have
despised and hated her.”
I gazed at
him in admiration, as his eye filled with light and
his color mounted and burned. Suddenly he rose and went
to a cabinet. “I will show you her portrait,”
he said. He unlocked the cabinet and took from a compartment
a miniature, set in a jewelled frame. As he did so,
he gave a slight exclamation which he did not explain
until I had returned him the portrait, which was that
of a very lovely young girl with an animated face. I
looked for resemblances to her mother, as the gossips
had it, and I saw them surely. I held the portrait,
studying it for some moments, and when I returned it
to Basil, he was absorbed in examining a drawer in the
cabinet.
“This,”
he said[,] “is very strange. I never knew of the
existence of this drawer; the portrait as I drew it
out must have touched some secret spring, [Page
85] and there is a letter with my initials
upon it, sealed with my uncle’s seal. What am
I to do?”
He seemed strangely
agitated. “Open it,” I said. He did so mechanically.
When he had read it, he handed it to me, and then he
sank into his chair, drawing his shoulders together
and shuddering slightly. The color was ebbing from his
face. I read the following words:
Dear Basil:
—You may not read this for years, but you may
perhaps read it before long. Whatever your wishes
may be, I warn you that any attempt to possess that
girl will be headed off with disaster. Do not mistake;
I will find means you can neither understand nor combat.
“This
is terrible, terrible,” he cried; “he is
following me up—his hatred.” He snatched
the note impulsively and threw it into the fire. As
it fell away into a charred mass it opened slowly, and
we saw every word of the writing outlined in burning
gold on the dark substance of the cindered paper. Basil
struck through it with the poker and ground it into
nothingness. “To-morrow,” he said, with
a sort of elevation, “I will see Harriet, and
we will leave this place, if need be for ever, but nothing
will part us; nothing in heaven or earth, or the waters
under the earth.”
I spent the
greater part of the night with him, as his imagination
was so overwrought that I could not think it right to
leave him alone, and it was nearly morning before he
fell into a sleep, oppressed with visions which muttered
at his lips.
In
the afternoon he set out for the rendezvous with something
of a tragic determination in his manner, leaving me
to watch, and, if necessary, to control Mrs. Mannix.
Thinking
she was in her room, I did not at first lay any stress
upon her absence, but when I saw her maid going about
as if she were free of the care of her mistress, I asked
where she was, and received the answer that she had
left the house an hour before, riding in the direction
of Selby Farm. This made me uneasy, and I walked as
rapidly as I could in the same direction. I did not
know where Basil had expected to meet his lovely sweetheart,
and as I walked carelessly to the edge of an elevation
overlooking a stream which spread and trickled through
marshy fields, I was arrested in one instant by a sight
which made my heart turn within me.
Upon
the other side of this stream, kneeling in a shallow,
marshy pool bordered with dead reeds, was Mrs. Mannix,
pressing something into the water and holding it there
with arms straight and rigid. Rushing toward her through
the shallow water was Basil; his face like the face
of one stricken with horror. He threw himself upon her,
hurling her to one side. I reached [Page 86]
him before I could think, and out of the disturbed water
rose the face I had seen in the portrait, as pale as
a star from clouds, with the sweet spirit all gone out
and deadened. Basil, moaning out his tortured love,
clasped her in his arms, and together we bore her to
the bank. Here we endeavored to restore consciousness.
We were successful. When we sought a means of taking
her home, I observed the horse which Mrs. Mannix had
left standing by the stream’s side. She seemed
to have forgotten him entirely, for she was climbing
the bank with averted face, trailing a short crimson
cloak, which she had before worn, upon the ground.
Basil
mounted the horse, and I lifted Miss Westbrook into
his arms. Then I took the bridle, and led the way to
Selby Farm. Basil would not for an instant leave, and
I returned alone to Simon Towers. There I found Mrs.
Mannix, as tranquil as if nothing had happened; as calm
as if she had not narrowly escaped being the murderess
of, shall I say, her own daughter?
She
seemed to be completely unconscious of the occurrence,
and I was overcome with horror at the sight of a human
being moved and directed by a malign power over which
she had not the slightest control, for I found that,
unconsciously, I had adopted Basil’s interpretation
of her strange conduct.
His continued
absence began to cause her uneasiness, and all her symptoms
of unrest were again manifested. At length, after dinner,
she went into the library and sat down at the writing
table. I sat in an arm chair before the fire and watched
her. Suddenly, to my extreme surprise, she lifted a
pen and began to use it. Now, I knew from Basil that
she could not write, and I watched her with astonishment.
It may have been after five minutes that her hand dropped
at her side, and I could tell by the slope of her shoulders
that she was overcome by one of her trances. I rang
the bell for the maid, and secured the paper upon which
she had traced some words.
As
soon as I could I went to my room and read what she
had written:
“Dear
Basil: —You may not read this for years, but
you may perhaps read it before long. Whatever your
wishes may be, I warn you that any attempt to possess
that girl will be headed off with disaster. Do not
mistake; I will find means you can neither understand
nor combat.”
As
I read these words—the words of the letter which
Basil had, only a few nights before, burned before my
eyes, written by a woman who could not sign her own
name, a terror that I could not master commenced to
creep upon my limbs. At last I was able to say, “This
is all nonsense; there is here some palpable trick.”
But, turning the sheet, upon the other side I saw the
[Page 87] words of a note which I had
commenced in the morning and left unfinished.
At
two o’clock in the morning I was awakened by a
knock at my door. It was David. I read a note which
he had brought from Basil. It warned me to keep a strict
watch upon Mrs. Mannix. Miss Westbrook could not, in
the opinion of the physician, survive the terrible shock
to her nervous system. If she passed away before dawn,
he had arranged to show a light in the highest window
of Selby Farm, which could be seen from Simon Towers:
if after sunrise, the flag was to be raised halfway
upon the staff. Upon the sight of either of these signals
I was to take charge of Mrs. Mannix.
I
watched and waited. I began to notice the inflowing
of the steely lustre which precedes sunrise. Suddenly
in the distant window of Selby Farm a light sprang out
and burned steady as a star when the cloud is withdrawn.
My
chamber was distant from the apartments of Mrs. Mannix,
which opened off a large square room, or hall, lit by
two large windows having the same outlook as mine, toward
Selby Farm. I went at once to this hall with the design
to await the appearance of the murderess, for so I was
now bound to consider her. When I entered it, I was
conscious of someone sitting near one of the windows.
The figure was clothed in white and was immovable. As
I moved slowly forward I saw that it was Mrs. Mannix.
She was leaning forward with her face thrown back, and
gazing in the direction of Selby Farm. One arm was raised,
and the hand hung limp, like a lily withered upon its
stalk. Suddenly she began to sway; a long sound, like
something sighing in a weary dream, came from her lips.
Then swiftly, just as I reached her, she fell forward
into my arms and shuddered out her last breath.
•
• •
When
I left Simon Towers I went with a feeling of regret
that was mingled with a large sadness. Here had happened
the most curious experience of my life, and here I left
a friend who had been through the fire and had come
forth unscathed.
I
often think of him as he parted with me where we had
first met. “Love,” he said, “is eternal,
but it is rooted here in time; so I cling to life to
cherish a memory, with a faith in what is beyond me
which I cannot see or understand.” [Page
88]
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