The Macabre Megapack. Lafcadio Hearn
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no more to his breast! He went to Rome, where he entered a convent of the strictest order, and in a few years was released by death from the melancholy that had made life a burden.
Malvine mourned sincerely for her friend and cousins’ suffering, and wished also to become the inmate of a cloister; but the entreaties of her father prevailed with her to relinquish the thought of thus retiring from the world. After some time she was induced to listen to the suit of the real Lord of Marsden, who had arrived at his castle shortly after the tragic occurrences related. She had never cause to regret her marriage with him.
THE SLEEPLESS WOMAN, by William Jerdan
(1831)
Chapter I
“Blessed be he that invented sleep, for it covers a man all over like a mantle.”
Sanch Panza, passim.
Heavily set in massive brass, whose rich and ingenious carving was tarnished and dull, a ponderous lamp swung from a ceiling blackened by its smoke. Everything in the room spoke of time, but of time that had known no change. Knights, whose armor was, at the latest, of two centuries back—ladies, in dresses from which their descendants started in dismay—looked out from the discolored tapestry; and the floor, dark with age, added to the gloom. Beside the hearth, whose fire, from the rain beating down the huge chimney, burned every moment dimmer, sat two old domestics. The man in a scarlet gown, and a belt, from which hung a heavy bunch of keys, was the seneschal; and opposite was his wife, in a brown silk dress, and a string of ebony beads, which she was busily employed in counting. Between them was a small antique oak table, where a flask and two bell-mouthed glasses appeared temptations which, it must be owned, somewhat interrupted the telling of the beads. In the centre of the chamber stood an immense hearse-like bed; the purple velvet curtains swept to the ground, and at each corner dropped a large plume of black ostrich-feathers. On this bed lay a withered old man, apparently in the last extremity of age, and very close upon the border of death. His spare form was hidden in an ample black robe, fastened round the waist with a white girdle, on which were graved strange characters in red; and on his breast was a white square, covered with stars and signs wrought in gold. The old man’s face was ghastly pale, and rendered yet paler by the contrast of his black skull-cap, which was drawn down even to his gray and shagged eyebrows. But the features were restless; and the small keen eyes, though fast losing their brightness, were full of anxiety. The wind shook the tall narrow windows, and howled in the old trees of the avenue; at every fresh gust the baron’s impatience seemed to increase—for what we are telling relates to the Baron de Launaye.
“’Tis a rough night,” muttered he; “but Adolphe is as rough a rider—and a dangerous road; but I am the first De Launaye who ever drew bridle for that. And then my summons—it was sure to reach him; ay, though alone, in the midnight bower of the mistress whose name and his suspicion had never coupled together even in a dream—even though consciousness were drowned in the crimson flowing of the wine—though sleeping as men sleep after battle, pillowed on the body of their deadliest enemy—, or that of their nearest and dearest friend—my summons would be borne on his inmost soul. But will he come, at the bidding of his dying uncle?—will Adolphe, he, the only human being whom I ever loved—will he or will he not come?”
The question was answered even at the moment it was breathed. The horn of the castle-gate was blown impatiently—the fall of the drawbridge was heard—a moment’s pause; and a light foot sprang up the oaken staircase with all the speed of haste and youth. The door opened and in rushed a young cavalier. The white plumes of his cap were drenched with wet—the diamond clasp that fastened them was dim with damp—but his bright auburn hair glistened with the raindrops. Hastily flinging his riding-cloak, heavy with moisture, to the ground, the stranger sprang to the bedside. A gleam of human love, of human joy, passed over the old man’s face, as tenderly and gently his nephew asked for his tidings, and expressed such hopes as affection hopes when hope there is none.
“Child of my love,” murmured the dying baron, “for whose sake only have I ever given one thought to the things of this earth, bear yet a moment with the feeble wretch who but a brief while will stand between you and the title of your ancestors and wealth. Many a prince of your mother’s house would think his kingdom overpaid if purchased by its half. You are young—I never was—my heart, even in boyhood, was old with premature knowledge. You have that beauty the want of which has made my life a curse—you have that strength of body the want of which has paralyzed my strength of mind. I have doubted if happiness dwells on this evil earth—I will not doubt when I hope for yours. You will hear me called necromancer: out on the base fools who malign that which they understand not, and would bring down the lofty aim of science, the glorious dream of virtue, to their own level! You will hear me called miser: Adolphe, have you ever found me so?”
“My father—my more than father!” passionately exclaimed the young man, hiding his face on the pillow, as if ashamed of the violence of mortal grief, in the presence of one so soon to be immortal.
“Adolphe,” continued his uncle, “you have heard, though not from me—for I sought not to weigh down your ardent mind with all that has pressed upon me with the burden of hopelessness, and long has the knowledge been mine—that the fetters of clay are too heavy for the spirit. Your young hand was fitter for the lance than the crucible; and the bridle-rein would have been ill-exchanged for the lettered scroll. But something I know of that future, into which even the sage can look but dimly. Adolphe, the only question I asked was for thee! Alas! The vanity of such wisdom! It has told of danger that menaces, but not of the skill that avoids. My child, evil came into the world with woman, and in her is bound up the evil of your destiny. Vain as the glance they throw on the polished steel of their mirror—false as the vow they make for the pleasure of breaking—inconstant as the wind, which changes from point to point, and for whose change no philosophy hath ever discovered a cause: shun them, Adolphe, as you would disloyalty to your king, flight from your enemy, or falsehood to your friend.”
The old man’s voice became inaudible, and his head sank on Adolphe’s shoulder:—“Margharita, water—or, Jacques, give me the wine.” The youth tried to pour a few drops into the baron’s mouth. The dying man motioned back the glass, and looking in the cavalier’s face with a strong expression of affection and anxiety, muttered something of “woman” and “danger”—“bright,” “eyes,” “bright,” “beware”—these were his last broken words. He expired.
Chapter II
Contrary to the charitable expectations of his neighbors, the Baron de Launaye was buried with all the rites of the church; the holy water was sprinkled on the corpse, and the holy psalm was sung over the coffin. A marble tablet marked his grave; and there the moonlight slept as lovingly as it ever did on the sinless tomb of saint or martyr. The new Baron de Launaye lamented his uncle’s death in a very singular manner, for he was his heir—and the young and the rich have not much time for regret. But Adolphe (he was remarkable from a child for his memory) could not forget the kindness—and more than kindness—the love that his uncle had lavished on the little orphan, who, noble and penniless at the age of five years, was left dependent on his bounty. However, sorrow cannot—indeed nothing in this world can—last forever. Adolphe’s grief became first only sad; next, melancholy; thirdly, calm; and fourthly, settled down into a respectful remembrance, and a resolve to bear his uncle’s last words in mind. Indeed, the muttered, vague, and uncertain prediction quite haunted him.
“I am sure,” said he, in one of his many pondering moods, “I am sure my past experience confirms his words. I never got into a scrape but a woman was the cause. I had been in my outset at court, page to the Duke Forte d’Imhault, and gone with him on that splendid embassy to Russia, had he not been displeased with my awkwardness in fastening the duchess’s sandal.”
And he laughed as he said this: who in the world could ever guess why the loss of his appointment should make the young baron laugh!
“And then, who caused the duel between me and my Pylades, the Marquis de Lusignan, but that little jilt Mdll. Laure? However, my sword only grazed his arm: he wore an exquisite blue silk scarf, and we were better friends than ever. Oh, my uncle was right: women were born to be our torment.”