Speaker 1: The Return by Robert Murray Gilchrist five minutes ago. I
drew the window curtain aside, and let the mellow sunset
light contend with the glare from the girandols. Below lay
the orchard of Vernon Garth, rich and heavily flowered fruit trees.
Yonder a meddler, here a pair, next a quince. As
my eyes, unaccustomed to the day, blinked rapidly, the recollection
came of a scene forty five years past, And once more,
beneath the oldest tree stood the girl I loved, mischievously
plucking yarrow, and, despite its evil omen twining the snowy
clusters in her black hair. Again, her coquettish words rang
in my ears. Make me thy lady, make me the
richest woman in England, And I promise thee Brian we
shall be the happiest of God's creatures. And I remembered
how the mad thirst for gold filled me, how I
trusted in her fidelity, and without reasoning or even telling
her that I would conquer fortune for her sake, I
kissed her sadly and passed into the world. Then followed
a complete silence until the star of Europe the greatest
diamond discovered in modern times lay in my hand, a rough,
unpolished stone, not unlike the lumps of spar I had
often seen lying on the sandy lanes of my native county.
This should be Rose's own, and all the others that
clanked so melodiously in their leather bulse should go towards
fulfilling her ambition. Rich and happy, I should be soon,
and should I not marry an untitled gentlewoman sweet in
her prime. The twenty years interval of work and sleep
was like a fading dream, for I was going home.
The knowledge thrilled me so that my nerves were strung
tight as iron ropes, and I laughed like a young boy.
And it was all because my home was to be
in Rose Pascal's arms. I crossed the sea and posted
straight for Halkton Village. The old hostelry was crowded. Jane Hopgarth,
whom I remembered a ruddy faced child, stood on the
box edged terrace courtesying in matronly fashion to the departing
mail coach. A change in the sign board drew my eye.
The white lilies had been painted over with a miter,
and the name changed from the Pascal arms to the
Lord Bishop. Angrily, aghast at this disloyalty, I cross questioned
the ostlers, who hurried to and fro, but failing to
obtain any coherent reply, I was fain to content myself
with a mental denunciation of the times. At last I
saw bow legged Jeffreys, now bent double with age, sunning
himself at his favorite place, the side of the horse trough.
As of old, he was chewing a straw. No sign
of recognition came over his face as he gazed at me,
and I was shocked. Because I wished to impart some
of my gladness to a fellow creature. I went to him, and,
after trying in vain to make him speak, held forth
a gold coin. He rose instantly, grasped it with palsied fingers,
and muttering that the hounds were starting. Hurried from my presence.
Feeling half sad, I crossed to the churchyard and gazed
through the grated window of the Pascal burial chapel at
the recumbent and undisturbed effigies of Geoffrey Pascal, gentlemen of
Breton Hall, and Margot Maltravero, his wife, with their quaint
epitaph about a perfect marriage enduring forever. Then, after noting
the rankness of the docks and nettles, I crossed the
worn stile, and with footsteps surprising fleet, passed towards the
stretch of moorland, at whose further end stands Breton Hall.
Twilight had fallen. Ere I reached the cottage at the
entrance of the park. This was in a ruinous condition.
Here and there sheaves in the thatched roof had parted
and formed crevices through which smoke filtered. Some of the
tiny windows had been walled up, and even where the
glass remained, snake like ivy hindered any light from falling
into their thick recesses. The door stood open, although the
evening was chill. As I approached, the heavy autumnal dew
shook down from the furs and fell upon my shoulders.
A bat, swooping in an undulation, struck between my eyes
and fell to the grass, moaning querulously. I entered. A
withered woman sat beside the peat fire. She held a
pair of steel knitting needles, which she moved without cessation.
There was no thread upon them, and when they clicked
her lips twitched as if she had counted. Some time
passed before I recognized Rose's foster mother, Elizabeth Carloss. The
russet color of her cheeks had faded and left a
sickly gray. Those sunken, dimmed eyes were utterly unlike the
bright black orbs that had danced so mirthfully. Her stature
too had shrunk. I was struck with wonder. Elizabeth could
not be more than fifty six years old. I had
been away twenty years. Rose was fifteen when I left her,
and I had heard Elizabeth say that she was only
twenty one at the time of her darling's weening. But
what a change. She had, such an air of weary
grief that my heart grew sick. Advancing to her side,
I touched her arm. She turned, but neither spoke nor
seemed aware of my presence. Soon, however, she rose, and,
helping herself along by grasping the scanty furniture, tottered to
a window and peered out. Her right hand crept to
her throat. She untied the string of her gown and
took from her bosom a pamanda set in a battered
silver care I cried out. Rose had loved that toy
in her childhood. Thousands of times had we played ball
with it. Elizabeth held it to her mouth and mumbled
it as if it were a baby's hand. Maddened with impatience,
I caught her shoulder and roughly bade her say where
I should find rose. But something awoke in her eyes,
and she shrank away to the other side of the
house place I followed. She cowered on the floor, looking
at me with a strange horror. Her lips began to move,
but they made no sound. Only when I crossed to
the threshold did she rise, And then her head moved
wildly from side to side, and her hands pressed close
to her breast, as if the pain there were too
great to endure. I ran from the place, not daring
to look back. In a few minutes I reached the
balustraded wall of the whole garden. The vegetation there was
wonderfully luxuriant as of old. The great blue and white
Canterbury bells grew thickly, and those curious flowers to which
tradition has given the name of Marie's Heart still spread
their creamy tendrils and blood colored bloom on every hand.
But Pascal's dribble. The tiny spring, whose water pulsed so
fiercely as it emerged from the earth, had long since
burst its bounds and converted the winter garden into a swamp,
where a miniature forest of Queen of the Meadow filled
the air with melancholy sweetness. The house looked as if
no careful hand had touched it for years. The elements
had played havoc with its orioles, and many of the
latticed frames hung on single hinges. The curtain of the
blue blue parlor hung outside, draggled and faded, and half
hidden by a thick growth of bindweed. With an almost
savage force, I raised my arm high above my head
and brought my fist down upon the central panel of
the door. There was no need for such violence, for
the decayed fastenings made no resistance, and some of the
rotten boards fell to the ground. As I entered the
hall and saw the ancient furniture, once so fondly kept,
now mildewed and crumbling to dust, quick sobs burst from
my throat. Rose's spinnet stood beside the door of the
withdrawing room. How many carols had we sung to its music.
As I passed, my foot struck one of the legs,
and the rickety structure groaned as if it were coming
to pieces. I thrust out my hand to steady it,
but at my touch the velvet covering of the lid
came off, and the tiny gilt ornaments rattled downwards. The
moon was just rising, and only half her disc was
visible over the distant edge of the hell garden. The
light in the room was very uncertain, yet I could
see that the keys of the instrument were stained brown
and bound together with thick cobwebs. While I stood beside it,
I felt an overpowering desire to play a country ballad
with an overword of willow brow bound. The woods, in
strict accordance with the melody, are merry and sad by turns,
at one time filled with light happiness, at another bitter,
as the voice of one bereaved forever of joy. So
I cleared off the spiders and began to strike the
keys with my forefinger. Many were dumb, and when I
struck them, gave forth no sound save a peculiar sigh.
But still the melody rhythmed as distinctly as if a
low voice crooned it out of the darkness. Wearied with
the bitterness, I turned away. By now the full moonlight
pierced the window and quivered on the floor. As I
gazed on the tremulous pattern, it changed into quaint devices
of hearts, daggers, rings, and a thousand tokens more all
Suddenly another object glided amongst them, so quickly that I
wondered whether my eyes had been at fault. A tiny
satin shoe stained crimson across the lappets. A revulsion of
feeling came to my soul and drove away all my fear.
I had seen that self same shoe, white and unsoiled,
twenty years before, when rain Rose danced amongst her reapers
at the harvest home, and my voice cried out in ecstasy. Rose,
Heart of mine, delight of all the world's delights. She
stood before me, wondering, amazed, alas so changed. The red
and yellow silk shawl still covered her shoulders, her hair
still hung in those eldritch curls, but the beautiful face
had grown wan and tired, and across the forehead lines
were drawn like silver threads. She threw her arms around
my neck and pressing her bosom heavily on mine, sobbed
so piteously that I grew afraid for her, and drew
back the long masses of hair which had fallen forward,
and kissed again and again those lips that were too
lovely for simile. Never came a word of chiding from them, love,
she said, when she had regained her breath. The past
struggle was sharp and torturing. The future struggle will be
crueler still, What a great love yours was to wait
and trust for so long? Would that mine had been
as powerful, poor weak heart that could not endure the
tones of a wild fear. Throbbed through all her speech, strongly,
yet with insufficient power to prevent her feeling the tenderness
of those moments. Often timorously raising her head from my shoulder,
she looked about, and then turned with a soft, inarticulate
and glad murmur, to hide her face on my bosom.
I spoke fervently, told of the years spent away from her,
How when working in the diamond fields she had ever
been present in my fancy, How at night her name
had fallen from my lips in my only prayer, how
I had dreamed of her amongst the greatest in the land,
the richest, and I dareswear the loveliest woman in the world.
I grew warmer still. All the gladness which had been
constrained for so long now burst wildly from my lips.
A myriad of rich ideas resolved into words, which, being spoken,
wove one long and delicious fit of passion. As we
stood together, the moon brightened and filled the chamber with
a light like the days. The ridges of the surrounding
moorland stood out in sharp relief. Rose drank in my
declarations thirstily, but soon interrupted me with a heavy sigh.
Come away, she said softly, I no longer live in
this house. You must stay with me to night. This
place is so wretched now, for time that in you
and me has only strength and love has wrought much
ruin here. Half leaning on me, she led me from
the precincts of Breton Hall. We walked in silence over
the waste that crowns the valley of the Whitelands, and,
being near the verge of the rocks, saw the great
pine wood sloping downwards, lighted near us by the moon,
but soon lost in density along the mysterious line where
the light changed into gloom. Intricate shadows of withered summer
bracken struck and receded in a mimic battle. Before us
lay the priest's cliff, the moon was veiled by a
grove of elms, whose ever swaying branches alternately increased and
lessened her brightness. This was a place of notoriety, a
veritable golgatha, a haunt fit only for demons. Murder and
theft had been punished here, and to this day, fireside
stories are told of evil women dancing round that druid circle,
carrying hearts plucked from gibbeted bodies. Rose, I whispered, why
have you brought me here? She made no reply, but
pressed her head more closely to my shoulder. Scarce had
my lips closed. Ere A sound like the hiss of
a half strangled snake vibrated amongst the trees. It grew
louder and louder. A monstrous shadow hovered above. Rose from
my bosom, murmured, Love is strong as death, Love is
strong as death. I locked her in my arms so
tightly that she grew breathless. Hold me, she panted, you
are strong. A cold hand touched our foreheads, so that benumbed,
we sank together to the ground, to fall instantly into
a dreamless slumber. When I awoke, the clear gray light
of the early morning had spread over the country beyond
the hell Garden. The sun was just bursting through the clouds,
and had already spread a long golden haze along the horizon.
The babbling of the streamlet that runs down to Holkton
was so distinct that it seemed almost at my side.
How sweetly the wild thyme smelt phil with the tender
recollections of the night. Without turning, I called Rose Pascal
from her sleep. Sweetheart, sweetheart, waken, Waken, Waken, See how
glad the world looks, see the omens of a happy future.
No answer came. I sat up, and looking round me,
saw that I was alone. A square stone lay near.
When the sun was high, I crept to read the
inscription carved thereon. Here at four cross paths lieth with
a stake through the bosom, the body of Rose Pascal, who,
in her sixteenth year wilfully cast away the life God gave.
End of the Return by Robert Murray Gilchrist