The Macabre Megapack. Lafcadio Hearn

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      The terrible catastrophe was too clearly understood. The madness of the ill-fated Mary on one theme which had only slumbered, was aroused in full force by the sight of death, but with the cunning peculiar to monomania, she had concealed her purpose until she was unwatched, then with her own desperate hand, she had seized a brand from the chimney and like a second Mynha, fired her own funeral pyre. Her first, last, and strongest wish was awfully granted, for her no grave was dug—no earth closed over her mortal clay—the woe-worn spirit passed in madness to its maker and its earthly tenement found a burial by fire.

      THE VAMPYRE, by Elizabeth Ellet

      (1849)

      About a century ago, there might have been seen, in a remote part of Scotland, the ruins of a castle, which once belonged to the baronial race Davenat. It stood on a hill of no considerable elevation: but the massive and ancient trees that had escaped the sacrilegious axe, and the clinging ivy, which protected the roofless walls, gave it a venerable aspect. The peasantry told wild stories of the ancient lords of that domain—the family had long been extinct—and of their heroic deeds at home and abroad. When the ruins themselves were levelled to make way for a modern edifice, the superstitious tales connected therewith were gradually dropped, and at length passed from the minds of men; yet one may not be deemed unworthy of preservation.

      On a beautiful afternoon in spring, two figures might have been seen on the terrace that overlooked the smooth, sloping lawn in front of the castle. The one was an elderly man, in deep mourning—no other, in short, than the lord of the mansion, Sir Aubrey Davenat, who, since the death of his wife many years before, had worn the sombre dress which was but an emblem of the gloom in his heart.

      The Baron was highly respected by his neighbors and acquaintances—few of whom enjoyed his intimacy. He was brave, and generous almost to a fault; and so scrupulous was his regard for truth—so rigidly was his word kept, even when the fulfillment of a promise involved pain or trouble to himself—that his simple assertion was more implicitly relied on than the oath of another. Withal, there was a sternness about him, amounting, at times, to severity. He showed little indulgence towards faults of which he himself was incapable, and those who knew him best stood most in awe of him.

      Although Sir Aubrey manifested, by his uniform melancholy, how fondly he clung to the memory of his departed wife, he never made the least allusion to her in conversation. Yet, that his heart was not dead to affection, appeared from his devoted love for his only child—Malvine—the living image of her lost mother.

      The other person on the terrace was this cherished daughter. She had just completed her seventeenth year, and was celebrated through all the adjoining districts for her rare and luxuriant beauty. Unconscious of the admiration she commanded, Malvine loved best to cheer the solitude of her only surviving parent, and seemed to feel interest in none but him.

      Yes—there was one other with whom she had grown from childhood, whom she loved as a brother, and who was, in truth, of blood kindred to her own, though not of close consanguinity. Edgar was the orphan son of a cousin—twice removed—of Sir Aubrey. Left destitute by the death of both of his parents, he had been taken into his kinsman’s house, and brought up with the same care and tenderness he would have bestowed upon his own son.

      Three years before, Edgar had been sent to the continent on his travels, by his kind foster-father. His return was now expected—it had been announced—and it was in the hope of greeting the young cavalier that the father and daughter stood waiting for so long, looking down the broad road that swept around the hill at the foot of the castle.

      A light cloud of dust floated above the tall old oaks on the roadside, and the plume of a horseman might be seen at intervals through the foliage.

      “He comes!” cried Malvine, turning, with a happy smile, to her father, on whose face was a cheerful expression rarely seen.

      The traveller skirted and ascended the hill: the bell at the castle gate sounded, and in a few moments Edgar was folded in the embrace of his noble kinsman.

      Less impetuous was the greeting exchanged between the young man and the fair girl, whom he left a child and found now in the bloom of blushing womanhood. The luxuriance of blond hair, that once floated free, was confined by the ribbon worn by Scottish maidens of that day, save one light, neglected ringlet, that fell down her neck almost to the waist; the deep blue eyes that had formerly the wild, unshrinking, though soft boldness of the young fawn, now shot timid glances from their veil of shadowy lashes, or were bent modestly to the ground; the fair cheeks wore an added tint of rose, and the lips a smile that had less of sportiveness, and more of feeling. The charm of gracious youth encircled her as with a sacred spell, forbidding familiar approach.

      But as Edgar, with a new-born respect, clasped the hand of his fair cousin, the feeling that sprung to life in his bosom was far warmer than the affection of his boyhood. Admiration—called forth by her surpassing loveliness—was ripening quickly into love.

      It was not long ere the secret of his heart was revealed to him; and the rapturous thought came also, that the beautiful girl did not regard him with indifference, and might soon learn to love him. Who else had she, but himself, as companion in her walks, her studies, her gentle tastes? Who else could accompany her as she played the harp, and sang the wild songs of her country? Who else would ride by her side through the forest and bring her flowers, and train her hawks, and read to her tales of ancient lore?

      “But whither trends all this?” was the stern question asked by the young man’s conscience. “Shall I lift my eyes to the daughter and sole heir of Davenat? Shall I aspire to her hand?—I, who can cal nothing mine own?—who owe even my sword to her father’s bounty?”

      Painfully did the youth brood over these queries; and he answered them as became a man of truth and honor. He resolved to ask permission of his foster-father to go forth again into the world.

      This resolution was immediately acted upon. Sir Aubrey listened in surprise to the request, looked earnestly on his young protégé, and asked with mild gravity—what had happened to make him to escape so soon from the house and company of his kinsman.

      This inquiry implied a suspicion of ingratitude, or weariness of so lonely a home; and the thought pierced Edgar’s heart. It was better to disclose all his feelings. Better that Sir Aubrey should know and condemn his presumption, than believe him capable of a base forgetfulness of the benefits he had received.

      The tale was soon told. The Baron said, at its conclusion—

      “Thou know’st, Edgar, I have always loved thee as a son; and were it not that my word is pledged elsewhere, I would myself place my daughter’s hand in thine. Thy lineage is unstained and noble as my own; and thy poverty would not render thee unworthy of Malvine. Thou know’st how long and obstinate has been the feud between our race and the Lords of Marsden, whose domain borders on mine. Lord George—the proudest of all the descendants of that haughty line—sent on his deathbed to entreat my presence. I went—I entered his castle as a foe, deeming that he wished to see me on some matter of business. He offered me his hand and spoke words of reconciliation. He besought me to bestow my daughter on his younger brother, Ruthven, the last representative of the family. Thus the name would be preserved from extinction—for his brother had sworn he would wed no other—and our possessions would be united.

      “I had heard naught but good of young Ruthven, who shortly before had set out on his travels. The Marsdens were of a proud, powerful and renowned race. I pledged the hand of Malvine; and from that day she has considered herself the betrothed of the young lord. I learned but the other day from the castellan, that he is expected soon to return home. He will then wed my daughter.”

      Edgar СКАЧАТЬ