CHAPTER I
Cold, cold, unutterably cold and silent. The woods were still, the frosty air so still that not a leaf stirred. The moon shone white and glorious; scarcely one shimmering cloud marred its strength; and the stars tingled and gleamed and danced. White hung a silver robe of sparsest snow over all the land, like a net of interwoven diamonds. Away up north ran the Cumbrian Mountains, standing like giants against the blue-black sky. There rose Helvellyn with its mighty hump, like a headless criminal burdened high with woe: there the “Old Man”—he who looks o’er Coniston—his beard and head quite white and blazoned by the moon. Then stretching away from these, down to the coast and southward, the barren Peat Moss—nothing but marsh and bush and scanty tree—and bordering this on the land-side a range of hills, alternate wood or grass, terminating in Ellerside and How-barrow.
There is a glorious view from these two hilly peaks: the one a barren rock-strewn height, bare and uncompromising, the other, in its very name, breathing its loveliness. “Ellerside Breast”—sweetest and purest name—most beautiful of visions.
The rugged mountains, the lonely Mosses, grand in their desolation, the wide expanse of woodland, the gentle fields, the green park with its herd of deer and well-planned trees, the glorious sea and bay, untarnished yet by aught but lonely cottages and farms along its shores, the large Hall with its towers and stately cupolas, all make the country round a dream of loveliness. But on this December night, in its calm and purity, it has grown to grandeur. The heavy woods with their black shadows look weird, their stillness frightens. No twitter of bird or hum of insect, till suddenly the shrill tu-hoot of an owl breaks forth and is repeated.
And suddenly, as if by the magic of it, you and I are transported to that wooded Breast. We see a narrow path leading through the trees up to a simple wooden seat, a narrower, more rugged one leading down from it, a short, rocky space in front, and then a sheer declivity down through the steep wood to the borders of the park. The quiet little hamlet, never noisy, is now still with the silence of sleep. Nothing but the owl cries out the reign of night.
And now having come with me thus far—stay—and cavil not, if for a little time instead of flesh and blood I give you Spirits; Spirits who in their intensity, their grandeur, and even in theirlittleness, do far outvie our flesh-imprisoned selves.
There are two, and at first glance there is a similarity about them so striking that you are compelled to look again.
One was a little above medium height. Every limb was sinewy, with a lithe suppleness and gracefulness which glossed over the real strength beneath. He stood out dark in bold relief against the moonshine—like serpentine coiling smoke of clearest blackness. A face magnificent in profile—though framed on delicate lines—and eyes deep, hard, dark, far-seeing, far-reaching, unfathomable and cold. The other, at first sight, bore a marked resemblance. But there were strong differences, which showed themselves more strongly at every after-glance. He was of about the same height, with the same perfect cast of features, and there the likeness ended. White and pure and cold, he too was vividly distinct, with a simple strength and purpose, and the grace, if grace it can be called, born of these. In his eyes there shone simplicity and pureness, and something stern too. He was standing on the extreme rocky point of the peaked woodland, scanning the horizon, land, and sea, and sky, and ever and anon his eyes travelled to one of the millions of bright stars shining overhead. To this star the eyes of his companion also wandered in contemplation. He sat upon the rustic seat, bending his arm gracefully over the back and leaning there, his head upon his hand. His left hand hung motionless by his side, and on its middle finger shone a ring. A glorious belt of blood-red stones with a brilliant one of remarkable beauty in the centre. It was the only relief from darkness round about him, and though but a small thing, it gleamed with magical effect.
Another “tu-hoot.” A slight wind rustled and parted the leaves, and there between the two in the open space another figure stood, a spirit of animation, beauty, strength and vigour. Slightly taller than the other two, he moved with easy step and sat down by the opposite arm of the seat. Then he looked up and revealed a face on which sat some discontent and perhaps annoyance.
“Thank God to get away for a time,” said he.
“Contact with mortals makes you unmindful of manners.” The dark spirit had spoken, gazing at him, laughingly.
“Yes, Plucritus. One cannot stay in an old farm-house for several hours in the society of an over-fed midwife and not get slightly tarnished.”
“But what are you doing there?” said he who answered to the name of Plucritus. “Over-fed midwives? What shocking bad taste.”
“Well, so it may be. But there I’ve been and there I’ll have to stay.”
“But why?”
“Destiny, I suppose—or perhaps ill-luck.”
“A girl or a boy?”
“A girl—worse luck still.” And he said it with such contempt that the other’s laugh was perhaps excusable.
“You’re in for it and no mistake. If I am any judge you won’t get on very well.” And the spirit Virginius alone saw the steady, penetrating, sidelong glance that accompanied Plucritus’s idle words.
“No,” rejoined Genius.
“It’s ridiculous. You have made a mistake.”
“I never make mistakes,” replied the other, drily.
The blood-red ring gleamed scarlet.
“Never? Did you say never?”
“Yes. What a beastly night. That moon looks as sickly as the baby.”
“It is a glorious night.” Virginius spoke for the first time.
“You there, Virginius? I had not seen you.”
“Yes, Genius, I am here,” he answered slowly, but his face was turned toward the mountains.
“Virginius is always there,” continued the dark spirit. “But tell us how you come to be here. I saw the star, but scarcely reckoned it was yours.”
“Well, the story is long and uninteresting. But to be brief and enclose much in a nutshell, I have come to remove a curse.”
“Pooh! An impossibility. Bah! An idle dream.”
“That is exactly my own opinion. I am no good at removing curses. Besides, the family is particularly unlucky.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. It has a descent, I am told, from the coming of the first Pretender, and is part Scotch, part Irish, and part English.”
“And in what does its ill-luck consist?” Plucritus had changed his position. He was leaning forward, apparently examining and playing with his ring.
“A few uninteresting sins, I believe. Debts contracted by ancestors descended upon children. You know it, the Catechism explains it.”
“Heigh! Virginius! what is it?” And Plucritus threw back his head, laughing indolently. But as he received no answer he quoted it himself:—
“‘For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, and visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate Me, and shew mercy unto thousands in them that love Me and keep My commandments.’”
“What profanity!” said Genius, idly. “Do you know, Plucritus, I have been often struck by your astounding knowledge of Scripture?”
And Plucritus, looking up, met the eyes of Virginius. It was but the glance of an instant, but even the moonshine paled beneath the gleam of steel against steel, flash for flash, quivering in the frosty light.
“I have to keep myself in touch with mankind,” he answered lightly. “And that latter half of the second Commandment has always appealed to me. But continue your story. I am interested. Tell me of this ill-luck.”
“There is really nothing to tell. The usual debts, you know, contracted by those who willingly lend themselves to the devil. Gambling, drinking, adultery, self-indulgence, self-centring. All these things, when practised by successive generations, bring their accompaniments of mental or physical weakness, sometimes both.”
“And in all cases moral decay,” remarked Plucritus, thoughtfully.
“In all cases,” said Genius.
“And so what you call ill-luck is simply just punishment,” Plucritus continued.
“Maybe,” said Genius, carelessly, “maybe not. I do not concern myself much about it. I am neither philosopher nor philanthropist, and I can assure you I take this task upon me grudgingly. I have no wish to become guardian angel to little girls.”
“You need not fear that. Virginius belongs to the jealous God, and will look after his position jealously. Besides, after a time, you will learn to like her.” And again he gave the sidelong, piercing glance.
“Not I. Before I arrived some malign fairy godmother had stepped in and bestowed a bundle of infirmities; I suppose from other years.” Here Plucritus laughed right out, and his laugh was very clear and low.
“Alas! poor Genius! you have been forestalled. A man afflicted that way is bitter enough and bad enough—but a woman!”
“Yes. It has put me out considerably. For of all things I love the beauty of proportion. And I am not able to find out who has done it.”
“Virginius,” said Plucritus, gaily, “it is to be the scourge and rod wherewith He chasteneth. Now, had I arrived there first I should have gifted her with rarest beauty—as a snare, you know.”
“Well, I am going now,” Plucritus went on. “The removal of a paltry curse is but a paltry affair, scarcely worthy of my notice. But for all that, before I go I will lay you a wager, Genius, that you will not be able to perform your task.”
“And what is the bet?”
“Why, it will grow with time. At present it is nondescript and vague. Say that ring upon your finger. But to show you that I bear no ill-will let us shake hands for old comradeship.”
And so these two clasped hands and parted, and Virginius and Genius were left alone.
Then Genius removed from the middle finger of his left hand a ring, and held it in the moonlight.
It was a perfect round of opals, designed on exactly the same plan as that worn by Plucritus, with a wonderful stone in the centre.
“Look at this ring,” he said thoughtfully. “Every tint of the rainbow is blended in it, and sparkles at every turn, and yet running round from stone to stone, and centring in the largest like one pure drop, there is to-night a streak of blood, a streak of red, I should say, and that means pain. Now I know the meaning of that. It means failure and disappointment—two things that I detest more than any other.”
Virginius then likewise removed from the middle finger of his left hand a ring of similar construction, but of diamonds, pure and flashing bright.
“Look at this ring,” he said. “Every flash of dazzling light is imprisoned in it. To-night it has shone with marvellous brilliancy. Look at this centre stone; it is glorious. This means success.”
“To you, perhaps. But your reckoning of success is somewhat strange”; and Genius looked at the dazzling purity with interest, for it was marvellously bright. Presently he added: “And yet had we compared rings with Plucritus I doubt not that he would have been able to express an opinion too. I noticed the scarlet bloodstones were expressly bright to-night.”
“Even so,” replied the other spirit.