Tales of terror
a hurried gladness, gave her consent, and a blessing to her child; and
it was remarked that she received her daughter more kindly and detained
her longer at the cottage when Evan was by her side than when she went
to the gloomy heath alone. Rachel herself soon made this observation,
and as she could depend upon the honesty and prudence of him she loved,
she felt less fear at his being a frequent witness of her mother’s
terrific ravings. Thus all that human consolation was capable to afford
was offered to the sufferer by her sympathising children.
But the delirium of Ruth Tudor appeared to increase with every nightly
visit to the secret cave of blood; some hideous shadow seemed to follow
her steps in the darkness and sit by her side in the light. Sometimes
she held strange parley with this creation of her frenzy, and at
others smiled upon it in scornful silence; now her language was in the
tones of entreaty, pity, and forgiveness; anon it was the burst of
execration, curses, and scorn. To the gentle listeners her words were
blasphemy; and, shuddering at her boldness, they deemed, in the simple
holiness of their own hearts, that the Evil One was besetting her, and
that religion alone could banish him. Possessed by this idea, Evan one
day suddenly interrupted her tremendous denunciations upon her fate
and him who, she said, stood over her to fulfil it, with imploring her
to open the book which he held in his hand, and seek consolation from
its words and its promises. She listened, and grew calm in a moment;
with an awful smile she bade him open and read at the first place which
should meet his eye: ‘From that, the word of truth, as thou sayest, I
shall know my fate; what is there written I will believe.’ He opened
the book and read:
‘“Whither shall I go from Thy spirit, or whither shall I flee from Thy
presence? If I go up into heaven, Thou art there; if I make my bed in
hell, Thou art there; if I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in
the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall Thy hand lead me, and
Thy right hand shall hold me.”’
Ruth laid her hand upon the book. ‘It is enough; its words are truth;
it has said there is no hope, and I find comfort in my despair. I have
already spoken thus in the secrecy of my heart, and I know that He will
be obeyed; the unnamed sin must be----’
Evan knew not how to comfort, so he shut up his Bible and retired;
and Rachel kissed the cheek of her mother as she bade her a tender
good-night. Another month, and she was to be the bride of Evan, and she
passed over the heath with a light step, for the thought of her bridal
seemed to give joy to her mother. ‘We shall all be happy then,’ said
the smiling girl, as the youth of her heart parted from her hand for
the night; ‘and heaven kindly grant that happiness may last.’
The time appointed for the marriage of Rachel Tudor and Evan Edwards
had long passed away, and winter had set in with unusual sternness,
even on that stormy coast, when, during a land tempest, on a dark
November afternoon, a stranger to the country, journeying on foot, lost
his way in endeavouring to find a short route to his destination, over
stubble fields and meadow lands, by following the footmarks of those
who had preceded him. The stranger was a young man, of a bright eye
and a hardy look, and he went on buffeting the elements, and buffeted
by them, without a thought of weariness or a single expression of
impatience. Night descended upon him as he walked, and the snowstorm
came down with unusual violence, as if to try the temper of his mind,
a mind cultivated and enlightened, though cased in a frame accustomed
to hardships, and veiled by a plain, almost rustic exterior. The
storm roared loudly above him, the wind blowing tremendously, raising
the new-fallen snow from the earth, which mingling with that which
fell, raised a shroud about his head which bewildered and blinded the
traveller, who, finding himself near some leafless brambles and a few
clustered bushes of the mountain broom, took shelter under them to
recover his senses and reconnoitre his position. ‘This storm cannot
last long,’ he mused, ‘and when it slackens I shall hope to find my
way to shelter and comfort.’ In this hope he was not mistaken. The
tempest abated, and, starting once more on his journey, he saw some
distance ahead what looked like a white-washed cottage, standing
solitary and alone on the miserable heath which he was now traversing.
Full of hope of a shelter from the storm, and lit onwards by a light
that gleamed like a beacon from the cottage window, the stranger trod
cheerily forwards, and in less than half an hour arrived at the white
cottage, which, from the low wall of loose lime-stones by which it was
surrounded, he judged to be, as he had already imagined, the humble
residence of some poor tenant of the manor. He opened the little
gate, and was proceeding to knock at the door, when his steps were
arrested by a singular and unexpected sound. It was a choral burst of
many voices, singing slowly and solemnly that magnificent dirge of the
Church of England, the 104th Psalm. The stranger loved music, and the
touching melody of that beautiful air had an instant effect upon his
feelings. He lingered in solemn and silent admiration till the strains
had ceased; he then knocked gently at the door, which was instantly and
courteously opened to his inquiry.
On entering, he found himself in a cottage of a more respectable
interior than from its outward appearance he had been led to expect;
but he had little leisure or inclination for the survey of its effects,
for his senses and imagination were immediately and entirely occupied
by the scene which presented itself on his entrance. In the centre
of the room into which he had been so readily admitted stood, on its
trestles, an open coffin; lights were at its head and foot, and on each
side sat many persons of both sexes, who appeared to be engaged in the
customary ceremony of watching the corpse previous to its interment
in the morning. There were many who appeared to the stranger to be
watchers, but there were but two who, in his eye, bore the appearance
of mourners, and they had faces of grief which spoke too plainly of the
anguish that was reigning within. At the foot of the coffin was a pale
youth just blooming into manhood, who covered his eyes with trembling
fingers that ill-concealed the tears which trickled down his wan
cheeks; the other--but why should we again describe that still unbowed
and lofty form? The awful marble brow upon which the stranger gazed was
that of Ruth Tudor.
There was much whispering and quiet talk among the people while
refreshments were handed to them; and so little curiosity was excited
by the appearance of the traveller that he naturally concluded that it
must be no common loss that could deaden a feeling usually so intense
in the bosoms of Welsh peasants. He was even checked from an attempt to
question; but one man--he who had given him admittance, and seemed to
possess authority in the circle--informed the traveller that he would
answer his questions when the guests should depart, but till then he
must keep silence. The traveller endeavoured to obey, and sat down in
quiet contemplation of the figure who most interested his attention,
and who sat at the coffin’s head. Ruth Tudor spoke nothing, nor did
she appear to heed aught of the business that was passing around her.
Absorbed by reflection, her eyes were generally cast to the ground; but
when they were raised, the traveller looked in vain for that expression
of grief which had struck him so forcibly on his entrance; there was
something wonderfully strange in the character of her perfect features.
Could he have found words for his thoughts, and might have been
permitted the expression, he would have called it triumphant despair,
so deeply agonised, so proudly stern, looked the mourner who sat by the
dead.
The interest which the traveller took in the scene became more intense
the longer he gazed upon its action; unable to resist the anxiety
which had begun to prey upon his spirit, he arose and walked towards
the coffin, with the purpose of contemplating its occupant. A sad
explanation was given, by its appearance, of the grief and the anguish
he had witnessed. A beautiful girl was reposing in the narrow box, with
a face as calm and lovely as if she was sleeping a deep and refreshing
sleep, and the morning sun would again smile upon her awakening; salt,
the emblem of an immortal soul, was placed upon her breast; and in her
pale and perishing fingers a branch of living flowers were struggling
for life in the grasp of death, and diffusing their sweet and gracious
fragrance over the cold odour of mortality. These images, so opposite,
yet so alike, affected the spirit of the gazer, and he almost wept as
he continued looking upon them, till he was aroused from his trance by
the strange conduct of Ruth Tudor, who had caught a glimpse of his face
as he bent in sorrow over the coffin. She sprang up from her seat, and,
darting at him a terrible glance of recognition, pointed down to the
corpse, and then, with a hollow burst of frantic laughter, shouted:
‘Behold, you double-dyed liar!’
The startled stranger was relieved from the necessity of speaking by
someone taking his arm and gently leading him to the farther end of
the cottage. The eyes of Ruth followed him, and it was not till he had
done violence to himself in turning from her to his conductor that he
could escape their singular fascination. When he did so, he beheld a
venerable man, the pastor of a distant village, who had come that night
to speak comfort to the mourners, and perform the last sad duty to the
dead on the morrow.
‘Be not alarmed at what you have witnessed, my young friend,’ said he;
‘these ravings are not uncommon. This unhappy woman, at an early period
of her life, gave ear to the miserable superstitions of her country,
and a wretched pretender to wisdom predicted that she should become a
shedder of blood. Madness has been the inevitable consequence in an
ardent spirit, and in its ravings she dreams she has committed one sin,
and is still tempted to add to it another.’
‘You may say what you please, parson,’ said the old man who had given
admittance to the stranger, and who now, after dismissing all the
guests save the youth, joined the talkers, and seated himself on the
settle by their side. ‘You may say what you please about madness
and superstition, but I know Ruth Tudor was a fated woman, and the
deed that was to be I believe she has done. Aye, aye, her madness is
conscience; and if the deep sea and the jagged rocks could speak, they
might tell us a tale of other things than that. But she is judged
now; her only child is gone--her pretty Rachel. Poor Evan! he was her
suitor. Ah! he little thought two months ago, when he was preparing
for a gay bridal, that her slight sickness would end thus. He does
not deserve it; but for her--God forgive me if I do her wrong, but I
think it is the hand of God, and it lies heavy, as it should.’ And the
grey-haired old man hobbled away, satisfied that in thus thinking he
was showing his zeal for virtue.
‘Alas! that so white a head should acknowledge so hard a heart!’
said the pastor. ‘Ruth is condemned, according to his system, for
committing that which a mightier hand compelled her to do. How harsh
and misjudging is age! But we must not speak so loud,’ continued he;
‘for see, the youth Evan is retiring for the night, and the miserable
mother has thrown herself on the floor to sleep. The sole domestic
is rocking on her stool, and therefore I will do the honours of this
poor cottage to you. There is a chamber above this containing the only
bed in the hut; thither you may go and rest, for otherwise it will