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CHAPTER IV.
"You were born, I believe, in our county," he said; "perhaps,
therefore, you may have heard at some time of a curious old
prophecy about our family, which is still preserved among the
traditions of Wincot Abbey?"
"I have heard of such a prophecy," I answered, "but I never knew
in what terms it was expressed. It professed to predict the
extinction of your family, or something of that sort, did it
not?"
"No inquiries," he went on, "have traced back that prophecy to
the time when it was first made; none of our family records tell
us anything of its origin. Old servants and old tenants of ours
remember to have heard it from their fathers and grandfathers.
The monks, whom we succeeded in the Abbey in Henry the Eighth's
time, got knowledge of it in some way, for I myself discovered
the rhymes, in which we know the prophecy to have been preserved
from a very remote period, written on a blank leaf of one of the
Abbey manuscripts. These are the verses, if verses they deserve
to be called:
When in Wincot vault a place Waits for one of Monkton's race--
When that one forlorn shall lie Graveless under open sky,
Beggared of six feet of earth, Though lord of acres from his
birth-- That shall be a certain sign Of the end of Monkton's
line. Dwindling ever faster, faster, Dwindling to the last-left
master; From mortal ken, from light of day, Monkton's race shall
pass away."
"The prediction seems almost vague enough to have been uttered by
an ancient oracle," said I, observing that he waited, after
repeating the verses, as if expecting me to say something.
"Vague or not, it is being accomplished," he returned. "I am now
the 'last-left master'--the last of that elder line of our family
at which the prediction points; and the corpse of Stephen Monkton
is not in the vaults of Wincot Abbey. Wait before you exclaim
against me. I have more to say about this. Long before the Abbey
was ours, when we lived in the ancient manor-house near it (the
very ruins of which have long since disappeared), the family
burying-place was in the vault under the Abbey chapel. Whether in
those remote times the prediction against us was known and
dreaded or not, this much is certain: every one of the Monktons
(whether living at the Abbey or on the smaller estate in
Scotland) was buried in Wincot vault, no matter at what risk or
what sacrifice. In the fierce fighting days of the olden time,
the bodies of my ancestors who fell in foreign places were
recovered and brought back to Wincot, though it often cost not
heavy ransom only, but desperate bloodshed as well, to obtain
them. This superstition, if you please to call it so, has never
died out of the family from that time to the present day; for
centuries the succession of the dead in the vault at the Abbey
has been unbroken--absolutely unbroken--until now. The place
mentioned in the prediction as waiting to be filled is Stephen
Monkton's place; the voice that cries vainly to the earth for
shelter is the spirit-voice of the dead. As surely as if I saw
it, I know that they have left him unburied on the ground where
he fell!"
He stopped me before I could utter a word in remonstrance by
slowly rising to his feet, and pointing in the same direction
toward which his eyes had wandered a short time since.
"I can guess what you want to ask me," he exclaimed, sternly and
loudly; "you want to ask me how I can be mad enough to believe in
a doggerel prophecy uttered in an age of superstition to awe the
most ignorant hearers. I answer" (at those words his voice sank
suddenly to a whisper), "I answer, because Stephen Monkton
himself stands there at this moment confirming me in my belief."
Whether it was the awe and horror that looked out ghastly from
his face as he confronted me, whether it was that I had never
hitherto fairly believed in the reports about his madness, and
that the conviction of their truth now forced itself upon me on a
sudden, I know not, but I felt my blood curdling as he spoke, and
I knew in my own heart, as I sat there speechless, that I dare
not turn round and look where he was still pointing close at my
side.
"I see there," he went on, in the same whispering voice, "the
figure of a dark-complexioned man standing up with his head
uncovered. One of his hands, still clutching a pistol, has fallen
to his side; the other presses a bloody handkerchief over his
mouth. The spasm of mortal agony convulses his features; but I
know them for the features of a swarthy man who twice frightened
me by taking me up in his arms when I was a child at Wincot
Abbey. I asked the nurses at the time who that man was, and they
told me it was my uncle, Stephen Monkton. Plainly, as if he stood
there living, I see him now at your side, with the death-glare in
his great black eyes; and so have I ever seen him, since the
moment when he was shot; at home and abroad, waking or sleeping,
day and night, we are always together, wherever I go!"
His whispering tones sank into almost inaudible murmuring as he
pronounced these last words. From the direction and expression of
his eyes, I suspected that he was speaking to the apparition. If
I had beheld it myself at that moment, it would have been, I
think, a less horrible sight to witness than to see him, as I saw
him now, muttering inarticulately at vacancy. My own nerves were
more shaken than I could have thought possible by what had
passed. A vague dread of being near him in his present mood came
over me, and I moved back a step or two.
He noticed the action instantly.
"Don't go! pray--pray don't go! Have I alarmed you? Don't you
believe me? Do the lights make your eyes ache? I only asked you
to sit in the glare of the candles because I could not bear to
see the light that always shines from the phantom there at dusk
shining over you as you sat in the shadow. Don't go--don't leave
me yet!"
There was an utter forlornness, an unspeakable misery in his face
as he spoke these words, which gave me back my self-possession by
the simple process of first moving me to pity. I resumed my
chair, and said that I would stay with him as long as he wished.
"Thank you a thousand times. You are patience and kindness
itself," he said, going back to his former place and resuming his former gentleness of manner. "Now that I have
got over my first confession of the misery that follows me in
secret wherever I go, I think I can tell you calmly all that
remains to be told. You see, as I said, my Uncle Stephen" he
turned away his head quickly, and looked down at the table as the
name passed his lips--"my Uncle Stephen came twice to Wincot
while I was a child, and on both occasions frightened me
dreadfully. He only took me up in his arms and spoke to me--very
kindly, as I afterward heard, for _him_--but he terrified me,
nevertheless. Perhaps I was frightened at his great stature, his
swarthy complexion, and his thick black hair and mustache, as
other children might have been; perhaps the mere sight of him had
some strange influence on me which I could not then understand
and cannot now explain. However it was, I used to dream of him
long after he had gone away, and to fancy that he was stealing on
me to catch me up in his arms whenever I was left in the dark.
The servants who took care of me found this out, and used to
threaten me with my Uncle Stephen whenever I was perverse and
difficult to manage. As I grew up, I still retained my vague
dread and abhorrence of our absent relative. I always listened
intently, yet without knowing why, whenever his name was
mentioned by my father or my mother--listened with an
unaccountable presentiment that something terrible had happened
to him, or was about to happen to me. This feeling only changed
when I was left alone in the Abbey; and then it seemed to merge
into the eager curiosity which had begun to grow on me, rather
before that time, about the origin of the ancient prophecy
predicting the extinction of our race. Are you following me?"
"I follow every word with the closest attention."
"You must know, then, that I had first found out some fragments
of the old rhyme in which the prophecy occurs quoted as a
curiosity in an antiquarian book in the library. On the page
opposite this quotation had been pasted a rude old wood-cut,
representing a dark-haired man, whose face was so strangely like
what I remembered of my Uncle Stephen that the portrait
absolutely startled me. When I asked my father about this--it was
then just before his death--he either knew, or pretended to know,
nothing of it; and when I afterward mentioned the prediction he
fretfully changed the subject. It was just the same with our
chaplain when I spoke to him. He said the portrait had been done
centuries before my uncle was born, and called the prophecy
doggerel and nonsense. I used to argue with him on the latter
point, asking why we Catholics, who believed that the gift of
working miracles had never departed from certain favored persons,
might not just as well believe that the gift of prophecy had
never departed, either? He would not dispute with me; he would
only say that I must not waste time in thinking of such trifles;
that I had more imagination than was good for me, and must
suppress instead of exciting it. Such advice as this only
irritated my curiosity. I determined secretly to search
throughout the oldest uninhabited part of the Abbey, and to try
if I could not find out from forgotten family records what the
portrait was, and when the prophecy had been first written or
uttered. Did you ever pass a day alone in the long-deserted
chambers of an ancient house?"
"Never! such solitude as that is not at all to my taste."
"Ah! what a life it was when I began my search. I should like to
live it over again. Such tempting suspense, such strange
discoveries, such wild fancies, such inthralling terrors, all
belonged to that life. Only think of breaking open the door of a
room which no living soul had entered before you for nearly a
hundred years; think of the first step forward into a region of
airless, awful stillness, where the light falls faint and sickly
through closed windows and rotting curtains; think of the ghostly
creaking of the old floor that cries out on you for treading on
it, step as softly as you will; think of arms, helmets, weird
tapestries of by-gone days, that seem to be moving out on you
from the walls as you first walk up to them in the dim light;
think of prying into great cabinets and iron-clasped chests, not
knowing what horrors may appear when you tear them open; of
poring over their contents till twilight stole on you and
darkness grew terrible in the lonely place; of trying to leave
it, and not being able to go, as if something held you; of wind
wailing at you outside; of shadows darkening round you, and
closing you up in obscurity within--only think of these things,
and you may imagine the fascination of suspense and terror in
such a life as mine was in those past days."
(I shrank from imagining that life: it was bad enough to see its
results, as I saw them before me now.)
"Well, my search lasted months and months; then it was suspended
a little; then resumed. In whatever direction I pursued it I
always found something to lure me on. Terrible confessions of
past crimes, shocking proofs of secret wickedness that had been
hidden securely from all eyes but mine, came to light. Sometimes
these discoveries were associated with particular parts of the
Abbey, which have had a horrible interest of their own for me
ever since; sometimes with certain old portraits in the
picture-gallery, which I actually dreaded to look at after what I
had found out. There were periods when the results of this search
of mine so horrified me that I determined to give it up entirely;
but I never could persevere in my resolution; the temptation to
go on seemed at certain intervals to get too strong for me, and
then I yielded to it again and again. At last I found the book
that had belonged to the monks with the whole of the prophecy
written in the blank leaf. This first success encouraged me to
get back further yet in the family records. I had discovered
nothing hitherto of the identity of the mysterious portrait; but
the same intuitive conviction which had assured me of its
extraordinary resemblance to my Uncle Stephen seemed also to
assure me that he must be more closely connected with the
prophecy, and must know more of it than any one else. I had no
means of holding any communication with him, no means of
satisfying myself whether this strange idea of mine were right or
wrong, until the day when my doubts were settled forever by the
same terrible proof which is now present to me in this very
room."
He paused for a moment, and looked at me intently and
suspiciously; then asked if I believed all he had said to me so
far. My instant reply in the affirmative seemed to satisfy his
doubts, and he went on.
"On a fine evening in February I was standing alone in one of the
deserted rooms of the western turret at the Abbey, looking at the
sunset. Just before the sun went down I felt a sensation stealing
over me which it is impossible to explain. I saw nothing, heard
nothing, knew nothing. This utter self-oblivion came suddenly; it
was not fainting, for I did not fall to the ground, did not move
an inch from my place. If such a thing could be, I should say it
was the temporary separation of soul and body without death; but
all description of my situation at that time is impossible. Call
my state what you will, trance or catalepsy, I know that I
remained standing by the window utterly unconscious--dead, mind
and body--until the sun had set. Then I came to my senses again;
and then, when I opened my eyes, there was the apparition of
Stephen Monkton standing opposite to me, faintly luminous, just
as it stands opposite me at this very moment by your side."
Was this before the news of the duel reached England?" I asked.
"_Two weeks before_ the news of it reached us at Wincot. And even
when we heard of the duel, we did not hear of the day on which it
was fought. I only found that out when the document which you
have read was published in the French newspaper. The date of that
document, you will remember, is February 22d, and it is stated
that the duel was fought two days afterward. I wrote down in my
pocketbook, on the evening when I saw the phantom, the day of the
month on which it first appeared to me . That day was the 24th of
February.
He paused again, as if expecting me to say something. After the
words he had just spoken, what could I say? what could I think?
"Even in the first horror of first seeing the apparition," he
went on, "the prophecy against our house came to my mind, and
with it the conviction that I beheld before me, in that spectral
presence, the warning of my own doom. As soon as I recovered a
little, I determined, nevertheless, to test the reality of what I
saw; to find out whether I was the dupe of my own diseased fancy
or not. I left the turret; the phantom left it with me. I made an
excuse to have the drawing-room at the Abbey brilliantly lighted
up; the figure was still opposite me. I walked out into the park;
it was there in the clear starlight. I went away from home, and
traveled many miles to the sea-side; still the tall dark man in
his death agony was with me. After this I strove against the
fatality no more. I returned to the Abbey, and tried to resign
myself to my misery. But this was not to be. I had a hope that
was dearer to me than my own life; I had one treasure belonging
to me that I shuddered at the prospect of losing; and when the
phantom presence stood a warning obstacle between me and this one
treasure, this dearest hope, then my misery grew heavier than I
could bear. You must know what I am alluding to; you must have
heard often that I was engaged to be married?"
"Yes, often. I have some acquaintance myself with Miss Elmslie."
"You never can know all that she has sacrificed for me--never can
imagine what I have felt for years and years past"--his voice
trembled, and the tears came into his eyes--"but I dare not trust
myself to speak of that; the thought of the old happy days in the
Abbey almost breaks my heart now. Let me get back to the other
subject. I must tell you that I kept the frightful vision which
pursued me, at all times and in all places, a secret from
everybody, knowing the vile reports about my having inherited
madness from my family, and fearing that an unfair advantage
would be taken of any confession that I might make. Though the
phantom always stood opposite to me, and therefore always
appeared either before or by the side of any person to whom I
spoke, I soon schooled myself to hide from others that I was
looking at it except on rare occasions, when I have perhaps
betrayed myself to you. But my self-possession availed me nothing
with Ada. The day of our marriage was approaching."
He stopped and shuddered. I waited in silence till he had
controlled himself.
"Think," he went on, "think of what I must have suffered at
looking always on that hideous vision whenever I looked on my
betrothed wife! Think of my taking her hand, and seeming to take
it through the figure of the apparition! Think of the calm
angel-face and the tortured specter-face being always together
whenever my eyes met hers! Think of this, and you will not wonder
that I betrayed my secret to her. She eagerly entreated to know
the worst--nay, more, she insisted on knowing it. At her bidding
I told all, and then left her free to break our engagement. The
thought of death was in my heart as I spoke the parting
words--death by my own act, if life still held out after our
separation. She suspected that thought; she knew it, and never
left me till her good influence had destroyed it forever. But for
her I should not have been alive now; but for her I should never
have attempted the project which has brought me here."
"Do you mean that it was at Miss Elmslie's suggestion that you
came to Naples?" I asked, in amazement.
"I mean that what she said suggested the design which has brought
me to Naples," he answered. "While I believed that the phantom
had appeared to me as the fatal messenger of death, there was no
comfort--there was misery, rather, in hearing her say that no
power on earth should make her desert me, and that she would live
for me, and for me only, through every trial. But it was far
different when we afterward reasoned together about the purpose
which the apparition had come to fulfill--far different when she
showed me that its mission might be for good instead of for evil,
and that the warning it was sent to give might be to my profit
instead of to my loss. At those words, the new idea which gave
the new hope of life came to me in an instant. I believed then,
what I believe now, that I have a supernatural warrant for my
errand here. In that faith I live; without it I should die. She
never ridiculed it, never scorned it as insanity. Mark what I
say! The spirit that appeared to me in the Abbey--that has never
left me since--that stands there now by your side, warns me to
escape from the fatality which hangs over our race, and commands
me, if I would avoid it, to bury the unburied dead. Mortal loves
and mortal interests must bow to that awful bidding. The
specter-presence will never leave me till I have sheltered the
corpse that cries to the earth to cover it! I dare not return--I
dare not marry till I have filled the place that is empty in
Wincot vault."
His eyes flashed and dilated--his voice deepened--a fanatic
ecstasy shone in his expression as he uttered these words.
Shocked and grieved as I was, I made no attempt to remonstrate or
to reason with him. It would have been useless to have referred
to any of the usual commonplaces about optical delusions or
diseased imaginations--worse than useless to have attempted to
account by natural causes for any of the extraordinary
coincidences and events of which he had spoken. Briefly as he had
referred to Miss Elmslie, he had said enough to show me that the
only hope of the poor girl who loved him best and had known him
longest of any one was in humoring his delusions to the last. How
faithfully she still clung to the belief that she could restore
him! How resolutely was she sacrificing herself to his morbid
fancies, in the hope of a happy future that might never come!
Little as I knew of Miss Elmslie, the mere thought of her
situation, as I now reflected on it, made me feel sick at heart.
"They call me Mad Monkton!" he exclaimed, suddenly breaking the
silence between us during the last few minutes, "Here and in
England everybody believes I am out of my senses except Ada and
you. She has been my salvation, and you will be my salvation too.
Something told me that when I first met you walking in the Villa
Peale. I struggled against the strong desire that was in me to
trust my secret to you, but I could resist it no longer when I
saw you to-night at the ball; the phantom seemed to draw me on to
you as you stood alone in the quiet room. Tell me more of that
idea of yours about finding the place where the duel was fought.
If I set out to-morrow to seek for it myself, where must I go to
first? where?" He stopped; his strength was evidently becoming
exhausted, and his mind was growing confused. "What am I to do? I
can't remember. You know everything--will you not help me? My
misery has made me unable to help myself."
He stopped, murmured something about failing if he went to the
frontier alone, and spoke confusedly of delays that might be
fatal, then tried to utter the name of "Ada"; but, in pronouncing
the first letter, his voice faltered, and, turning abruptly from
me, he burst into tears.
My pity for him got the better of my prudence at that moment, and
without thinking of responsibilities, I promised at once to do
for him whatever he asked. The wild triumph in his expression as
he started up and seized my hand showed me that I had better have
been more cautious; but it was too late now to retract what I had
said. The next best thing to do was to try if I could not induce
him to compose himself a little, and then to go away and think
coolly over the whole affair by myself.
"Yes, yes," he rejoined, in answer to the few words I now spoke
to try and calm him, "don't be afraid about me. After what you
have said, I'll answer for my own coolness and composure under
all emergencies. I have been so long used to the apparition that
I hardly feel its presence at all except on rare occasions.
Besides, I have here in this little packet of letters the
medicine for every m alady of the sick heart. They are Ada's
letters; I read them to calm me whenever my misfortune seems to
get the better of my endurance. I wanted that half hour to read
them in to-night before you came, to make myself fit to see you,
and I shall go through them again after you are gone; so, once
more, don't be afraid about me. I know I shall succeed with your
help, and Ada shall thank you as you deserve to be thanked when
we get back to England. If you hear the fools at Naples talk
about my being mad, don't trouble yourself to contradict them;
the scandal is so contemptible that it must end by contradicting
itself."
I left him, promising to return early the next day.
When I got back to my hotel, I felt that any idea of sleeping
after all that I had seen and heard was out of the question; so I
lit my pipe, and, sitting by the window--how it refreshed my mind
just then to look at the calm moonlight!--tried to think what it
would be best to do. In the first place, any appeal to doctors or
to Alfred's friends in England was out of the question. I could
not persuade myself that his intellect was sufficiently
disordered to justify me, under existing circumstances, in
disclosing the secret which he had intrusted to my keeping. In
the second place, all attempts on my part to induce him to
abandon the idea of searching out his uncle's remains would be
utterly useless after what I had incautiously said to him. Having
settled these two conclusions, the only really great difficulty
which remained to perplex me was whether I was justified in
aiding him to execute his extraordinary purpose.
Supposing that, with my help, he found Mr. Monkton's body, and
took it back with him to England, was it right in me thus to lend
myself to promoting the marriage which would most likely follow
these events--a marriage which it might be the duty of every one
to prevent at all hazards? This set me thinking about the extent
of his madness, or to speak more mildly and more correctly, of
his delusion. Sane he certainly was on all ordinary subjects;
nay, in all the narrative parts of what he had said to me on this
very evening he had spoken clearly and connectedly. As for the
story of the apparition, other men, with intellects as clear as
the intellects of their neighbors had fancied themselves pursued
by a phantom, and had even written about it in a high strain of
philosophical speculation. It was plain that the real
hallucination in the case now before me lay in Monkton's
conviction of the truth of the old prophecy, and in his idea that
the fancied apparition was a supernatural warning to him to evade
its denunciations; and it was equally clear that both delusions
had been produced, in the first instance, by the lonely life he
had led acting on a naturally excitable temperament, which was
rendered further liable to moral disease by an hereditary taint
of insanity.
Was this curable? Miss Elmslie, who knew him far better than I
did, seemed by her conduct to think so. Had I any reason or right
to determine offhand that she was mistaken? Supposing I refused
to go to the frontier with him, he would then most certainly
depart by himself, to commit all sorts of errors, and perhaps to
meet with all sorts of accidents; while I, an idle man, with my
time entirely at my own disposal, was stopping at Naples, and
leaving him to his fate after I had suggested the plan of his
expedition, and had encouraged him to confide in me. In this way
I kept turning the subject over and over again in my mind, being
quite free, let me add, from looking at it in any other than a
practical point of view. I firmly believed, as a derider of all
ghost stories, that Alfred was deceiving himself in fancying that
he had seen the apparition of his uncle before the news of Mr.
Monkton's death reached England, and I was on this account,
therefore, uninfluenced by the slightest infection of my unhappy
friend's delusions when I at last fairly decided to accompany him
in his extraordinary search. Possibly my harum-scarum fondness
for excitement at that time biased me a little in forming my
resolution; but I must add, in common justice to myself, that I
also acted from motives of real sympathy for Monkton, and from a
sincere wish to allay, if I could, the anxiety of the poor girl
who was still so faithfully waiting and hoping for him far away
in England.
Certain arrangements preliminary to our departure, which I found
myself obliged to make after a second interview with Alfred,
betrayed the object of our journey to most of our Neapolitan
friends. The astonishment of everybody was of course unbounded,
and the nearly universal suspicion that I must be as mad in my
way as Monkton himself showed itself pretty plainly in my
presence. Some people actually tried to combat my resolution by
telling me what a shameless profligate Stephen Monkton had
been--as if I had a strong personal interest in hunting out his
remains! Ridicule moved me as little as any arguments of this
sort; my mind was made up, and I was as obstinate then as I am
now.
In two days' time I had got everything ready, and had ordered the
traveling carriage to the door some hours earlier than we had
originally settled. We were jovially threatened with "a parting
cheer" by all our English acquaintances, and I thought it
desirable to avoid this on my friend's account; for he had been
more excited, as it was, by the preparations for the journey than
I at all liked. Accordingly, soon after sunrise, without a soul
in the street to stare at us, we privately left Naples.
Nobody will wonder, I think, that I experienced some difficulty
in realizing my own position, and shrank instinctively from
looking forward a single day into the future, when I now found
myself starting, in company with "Mad Monkton," to hunt for the
body of a dead duelist all along the frontier line of the Roman
States!
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