The Return of Sir Jasper Frome

ONG and bitter had been the feud between the houses of Digby and Frome—blood had been shed much and often on both sides, concerning which dark tales were told of stealthy meetings in lonely places, and fierce encounters upon the highway—so that to "hate like a Digby and revenge like a Frome" had become a by-word in the country-side.

As the time passed on the feud had been carried into Court, with a small matter of a few acres of scrubby land as pretext, until, towards the close of the year 1760, Sir John Frome had waked one morning to find himself a bankrupt, and taking to his bed had died soon after, leaving his son Jasper—a beggar.

And now was the heart of old Sir Ralph Digby filled with rejoicing, and he would sit in his great elbow chair, his wine beside him, chuckling gleefully over his enemy's ruin. And this pleasure was with him always, so that as he hobbled upon his terrace of an evening to catch a glimpse of the smokeless chimneys of Frome above the tree-tops, he was fain to fall a-carolling for very joy, leaning upon his daughter's shoulder, and seeing nothing of the silent anguish of her quivering lips, nor how her eyes would fill with sudden tears.

Howbeit, chancing against his custom to walk in his orchard upon a certain fair afternoon, he found her with young Jasper; they were standing by an old sundial; her hands were upon Sir Jasper's shoulders, and she was speaking in a voice low and earnest.

The old man stood leaning heavily upon his stick, his head craned forward, his grizzled brows twitching above his bloodshot eyes, his mouth working with the fury of his anger. As he watched, he saw her hands clasp about Sir Jasper's neck—saw him bend his head to meet her kiss—and at the sight a sudden, inarticulate cry broke from him.

At the sound the lady sprang back, and her cheeks went white as she faced the little, shrivelled, fierce old man, who crept towards them leaning on his stick, with the skinny fingers of his right hand fumbling and groping for the hilt of his small sword.

"Father!" cried the girl, and she laid a timid hand upon his arm—but he struck at her feebly with his stick, cursing her, and pouring out upon her a stream of the foulest invective; yet he never once looked at her—his gaze turned ever to where stood young Sir Jasper—tall and strong, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his riding-coat, and his lips hard set.

"Sir Ralph," he began, "I have long sought speech with you. Sir," he continued, unheeding the old man's passionate gesture, "hath not this accursed feud lasted long enough betwixt us—hath it not brought each of us sufficient misery—hath not blood enough been shed?"

"Ay, ay," broke in the old man, "the feud hath been long and bloody, fifteen of our house have I seen go one by one—gallant gentlemen all—fifteen in the last sixty years—a goodly list, young sir, a fair account! How say you? Art not proud of thy kinsmen? And yet, methinks, those fifteen gentleman did not die unavenged," he pursued, an evil smile twisting his mouth; "not altogether unavenged, young sir; for tell me, where are those kinsmen of yours, those same hard-riding, strong-wristed, devil-may-care kinsmen of yours?"

"Oh, sir," exclaimed the young man, his lips trembling, "you should know well enough."

"Ay, ay," again Sir Ralph broke in, "I know, I know. Do you mind them finding your father's brother upon the Tonbridge road, young sir? 'Twas this very sword that killed him," and as he spoke he drew it with a trembling hand, and held it so that the sun could play upon its long, keen blade. "Then there was your Cousin Nevile, who died at Bath ten years agone; and, again, there was your elder brother, found dead at St. Omer; and—and—but i'Faith, young sir, the catalogue is long, and my old memory grows somewhat blunt; yet, last of all, there was your father!" Sir Jasper's head drooped, and his hands clenched themselves in his pockets; yet, his eyes falling upon the girlish figure crouching with hidden face against the sun-dial, he checked himself, so that his voice was calm when he answered:

"True, sir—there was my father—you killed him as surely as if the point of your rapier had pierced his heart; yet ere he died he charged me to seek you, and tell you that his prayer was that the feud might die with him! So I am come to ask you to let there be peace betwixt us—to forget the past—and, sir"

"Ay, ay," broke in the old man again, in the same quiet voice; "and you are the last of your house—you are alone in the world—and a beggar—is it not so?"

The young man was silent, and Sir Ralph continued with a chuckle:

"And this beggar, look you, must needs make love to this pale-faced chit—this—this daughter of mine—oh, most prudent young sir! And yet I will tell you, here and now, that not a penny-piece, not a farthing, will ever be hers."

"Sir!" cried Sir Jasper, the blood leaping to his cheeks and his eyes frowning, "you wrong me wilfully and deliberately. I love the lady Kate, ay, more than you could know. She is more to me than my life; wherefore, sir, I beseech you banish this demon of hate, and give us your blessing; so shall a new life begin for us all wherein the past shall be naught but an evil dream!"

As he ended Sir Ralph Digby's lips curled in a smile that showed his yellow teeth.

"And what of my oath, most excellent young sir—what of the oath I have sworn, to rest only when your accursed house is utterly destroyed? Would you have me forswear myself? Nay, I tell you, I will not hold my hand till you—the last of them—are lying with your kinsmen!"

Sir Jasper's eyes grew fierce; he took a step towards the little, evil old man, whose glance ever sought his full of a half-veiled, mocking hate; but ere he could speak a soft hand was slipped within his, and at the touch his anger cooled, as he caught the cold fingers to his lips.

"So it may not be, this dream of ours, my Kate," he said softly; "I must leave thee, yet though the waiting may be long—a year—three—five years, I shall come back to thee; I shall return; and until that golden day, keep thy heart and thoughts towards me; and so farewell!"

Again he lifted the little trembling fingers to his lips; yet as he did so, Sir Ralph cried out sudden and sharp, and, stiffening his sword-arm, ran in upon him. But he stumbled; the sword flew from his grasp, and Sir Jasper caught him in his arms. Yet even then the old man spurned him feebly away, his foam-flecked lips working convulsively.

"Go! prithee, prithee, go!" cried the girl; and as she spoke, with a swift gesture she detached the locket at her neck, and pressed it into her lover's hand, and with a last lingering clasp, he turned and left her.

They carried the old man to his bed, and for weeks he lay, with small show of life in him, until one day, opening his eyes, he learned that Sir Jasper had taken ship with an expedition to one of the Madras Settlements, and from that moment he grew stronger.

And now it seemed that all his hate was centred in his pale-faced daughter; he would not have her near him; and did she steal on light foot to watch him as he slept, he, waking, would drive her from him, with fierce imprecations and curses.

With the summer, it became his custom to hobble out upon his terrace again, leaning on the arm of Cowley the steward, for with his returning strength his hate for his daughter seemed but to increase.

He was sitting one evening, an evil-looking thing in the sunshine, muttering and mumbling to himself, when he espied a horseman, who galloped up the broad avenue from Frome village. Obedient to Sir Ralph's imperious gesture, the man reigned [sic] in before him.

"I would see the Lady Kate," he said.

The old man nodded, and rubbed his hands together with a cunning smile.

"You have a packet for her, doubtless?" he said in his old cracked voice. "Yes, a packet now—a letter, perchance?"

The man nodded. "Yes, a letter—for the Lady Kate Digby."

"Give it to me!" cried old Sir Ralph; "give it me, I say! I am her father, Sir Ralph Digby; give it me, give it me!"

The man hesitated a moment, then, meeting those fiery eyes, obeyed.

With trembling fingers the old man adjusted a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses. "Two years," he muttered, "'tis not long, two years; yet 'tis an evil country, I have heard—an evil country, yes, yes, and 'tis not his hand," he mumbled, breaking the seal—"not his cursed hand!"

As he unfolded the paper, something fell at his feet; it was his daughter Kate's locket and miniature. With twitching brows he scanned the hastily-written message; then he let it slip from his hand, and leaning back, wagged his skinny forefinger towards the smokeless chimneys of Frome House and laughed till he choked.

"Dead!" he gasped. "Dead—the last of them! So ends the accursed house of Frome! and 'tis I—I, old as I am and feeble, who have lived to see it! Dead! God, I thank thee—I thank thee!" And still laughing and muttering, he wrapped the locket and letter together, and, taking his stick, with no thought of his weakness, he walked to the house, and, coming to his daughter's chamber, entered.

The Lady Kate sat at a window with a mass of needlework upon her knee, but her hands were idle, and her eyes were fixed where the battlements and chimneys of Frome stood grey beyond the green of the trees. At the sound of the opening door she started guiltily, and her cheeks flushed, but paled again instantly as she saw her father standing before her, leaning upon his stick, and regarding her under his thick brows. And meeting those winking, twinkling eyes, and seeing the smile that drew the thin, shrivelled lips, a numb terror crept into her heart. She rose hastily.

"Father," she murmured.

Sir Ralph eyed her for a while with the same evil smile, then approached slowly, and touched the white, soft cheek with a bony finger.

"Kate—my bonny Kate," he said softly, "art very pale. Whither are thy roses fled? 'Tis like thy mother: her cheeks grew pale as thine 'ere she left me. 'Tis the air of the place, methinks—Digby Hall is not good for such. Come, ladybird, kiss thy old father, for I have brought thee a present—ay, and such an one—such a present. Come, kiss me, Kate, kiss me!"

Trembling, she obeyed, and her breath came short as he thrust one palsied hand into his pocket.

"Prithee, hold out thy hand, Kate. Ah," he cried, as she obeyed, "'tis white and small, and something thin; yet my gift is not so great but you may clutch it tight enough, see!" and as he spoke he laid the locket in her open palm.

For a moment the girl remained gazing transfixed at the tiny case; presently it slid to the floor, yet she made no effort to take it up, but stood rigidly staring down at it. Old Sir Ralph leaned upon his stick, watching her beneath his flickering brows.

"Why," she said, speaking in a strained voice such as he had never heard from her lips before; "why, 'tis my poor little locket, and come back after such long, long days; and yet 'twas but two years—and 'tis come back to me—why, then," she continued in the same dull, slow way, "he is dead—dead!"

The old man laughed a short, exultant laugh. "Dead! ay," he cried, "the last of them—the last! 'Tis the end of the accursed house of Frome. He is dead."

At the sound of her father's voice the numbed look passed away, and a wild anguish crept into her eyes.

"Dead!" she cried. "My God, it is not true—no, no, it cannot be—Jasper! Jasper!" and with the words she reeled and fell, with her head at the old man's feet, so that her hair swept over them. For a while Sir Ralph let her lie; but at length he laboriously lifted the heavy head, and then he saw that the blood was flowing from a cut half-hidden in the dark hair. When at last her eyes opened, there was in them something that chilled even his cold heart. He ran to the bell-rope and tugged wildly.

All that night Sir Ralph was closeted with Cowley and his wife, and from that very hour the Lady Kate vanished. Few there were to miss her save the servants, for of late years Digby Hall had grown a dreary place, and seldom welcomed a guest; yet, despite that, strange rumours and stories grew concerning her, until one day it was learned that she was dead. Then Gossip shook its head, and sighed over her fair youth cut short, and in time forgot her. And of an evening Sir Ralph would sit as of old upon the terrace, sipping his wine, and mumbling and talking to himself, until one day, coming at the usual hour to aid him to the house, they found him dead in his chair, with a smile twisting his mouth, and wide eyes that yet gazed in malignant triumph towards the desolate house of Frome.

was a night of wild, howling tempest—of a great blackness whose density was rendered yet more profound by an occasional jagged lightning-flash; a night wherein the rain beat and drove, hissing in every blast; a night of dreariness and desolation, wherein objects loomed vast and weirdly contorted.

Ten years had come and gone since Sir Jasper Frome had sailed from England, and now as he battled with the storm, bending low in the saddle against its fury, he halted more than once to look about him, and then, as if reassured of his whereabouts, went splashing forwards again. Presently, out of the storm before him rose a pair of battered iron gates, that creaked and swung dismally on their hinges at every gust. Once more he paused» peering under his hand into the desolation beyond. Then, as the gates swung open, he shrugged his shoulders and rode through Suddenly, a flash of lightning zig-zagged across the blackness above, and he saw he was riding in what had once been a magnificent avenue, for he caught a momentary glimpse of tree-stumps stretching away on either hand, glistening with wet, and beyond a great, gaunt house rose for a moment spectral and ghostly, and the next was swallowed up in the blackness once more. It was but a glimpse, but he had time to notice the ruin of crumbling wall, battered chimney, and broken window. He rode forward, and stiffly dismounting, climbed a flight of steps, and beat upon the door with his whip. No light appeared in response, and he heard nothing save the whistle and beat of the storm, and the rattle of the crazy casements. Time and again he repeated the summons, and was upon the point of seeking some outhouse as a temporary shelter, when he heard the rattle of a chain, followed by the scream of rusty bolts; and the door, opening a few inches, sent a shaft of yellow light into the. darkness—light which was immediately obscured by a head so swathed and wrapped up that at first it appeared like nothing but a shapeless bundle.

"I have lost my way in the storm," said Sir Jasper. "Will you give me and my horse shelter until the morning?"

The woman shook her head slowly, and attempted to close the door, but Sir Jasper thrust in his foot: "You shall be well paid," he said.

At this the door opened further, and a skinny arm pointed to a tumble-down out-building.

"Stables," she cried, in a shrill, cracked voice.

Sir Jasper led his mare towards it, and having made her as comfortable as possible, he hurried to where the old woman stood in the porch, a crooked, ghoulish figure against the light. A flickering candle standing upon a chair served but to fill the wide hall with strange shadows that danced, and vanished, and came again, with here a passing glimpse of faded upholstery and there playing for a moment on some portrait, dim and dusty, or the ghostly horns of some hunting trophy. The old woman busied herself at the door, murmuring and mumbling to herself as she shot bolt after bolt. When she turned, Sir Jasper was standing bare-headed, shaking the rain from his hat, so that the feeble rays of the candle fell full upon him. Glancing up, he started to find that his companion had crept up close beside him, her jaw had fallen, disclosing a solitary yellow fang, and she was blinking up at him beneath her hand.

"Nay, nay, good woman," he exclaimed; "have no fear of me; I am no footpad. Give me food and a bed, and you shall be well paid, I promise you."

The old woman slowly removed her gaze, and mumbling something about "faces," took up the candle, and led the way across the hall, and down a passage to a small room which showed signs of daily use. Sir Jasper removed his cloak and sat down before the smouldering fire, while the woman busied herself over his meal; yet whenever he chanced to turn his head he would meet her sunken red-rimmed eyes fixed upon him in the same disturbing scrutiny. And afterwards as he ate it was the same, not a movement of his passed unnoticed.

"What do you call this place?" he asked, breaking the silence with an effort. The old crone sat huddled beside the fire, and blinked at him without answering.

"What is the name of this place?" he repeated, leaning towards her. She opened her lips and then shut them again.

"No name," she said at last, shaking her head—"no name—none, none."

"Did you ever hear tell of Sir Ralph Digby in these parts?" pursued Sir Jasper.

"No name," she repeated, as if to herself; "none, oh, no." And turning her gaze upon the fire, sat silent until Sir Jasper, having finished his meal, rose to his feet.

"Come," said he, "show me to my chamber," and he touched her upon the shoulder.

"Digby!" she exclaimed, starting up, "Sir Ralph Digby! Ah—h—h!" and catching up the candle, tottered before him, up creaking stairways, and along dark, twisting passages, where were sudden black recesses, in some of which yet stood effigies in rusty armour, grimly mysterious in the flickering light.

Presently she paused before a door, and pushing it open, ushered him into a large chamber. It had at one time been handsome enough, but like the rest of the house, a blight of desolation seemed to have enveloped it, for the gay colours of the furniture were faded, the mirrors were cracked, and the cornices and gilding were tarnished. In a corner furthest removed from the door stood a great four-post bed, but the canopy and curtains were gone, and the four bare posts rose to the ceiling, grisly and naked. The old woman stood with the candle held high, and Sir Jasper, turning toward her, found her regarding him with the same strange intensity.

"Why do you look at me so?" he asked abruptly.

She mumbled something unintelligible, and setting the candle down upon a carved oak chest, moved toward the door.

Outside the storm seemed growing in violence, for the wind roared round the house in sudden fierce gusts which seemed to shake the very walls, between which came the rumble of distant thunder and the ceaseless patter of rain.

"A wild night—a wild night!" cried the old woman from the doorway. "Hark to it—hark to the wind and the rain!

So saying, she turned away, and he heard her footsteps creak slowly down the stairs and die in the distance.

The wind lulled for a moment, and in the silence he heard the faint scratching of a rat behind the wainscot; the next, the storm came down again, screaming at lattices and booming in chimneys, fiercer than ever, with the roll of the thunder beneath it all.

Taking up the candle, Sir Jasper approached the bed, which seemed to him like some misshapen monster, with its bare twisted posts rising like skeleton arms to crush its victim in their embrace.

And now it was that he espied for the first time a picture sunk into the panelling at the bed-head—a long, dark portrait, blurred and indistinct, half of which was hidden behind the carved head-board.

A sudden unaccountable desire came upon him to see the face, and holding up the light, he peered closer. At first he could make out nothing, save a pair of eyes staring down at him from beneath a close-fitting white wig; but gradually the features resolved themselves, until the whole face stood out clear and plain. Then it was that Sir Jasper Frome uttered an exclamation and recoiled, for the face, with its pale cheeks, its piercing eyes, and malignant, smiling mouth, was the face of Sir Ralph Digby. He felt a strange chill pass over him as his eyes rested upon the portrait. What should bring it to this desolate place? And standing there, he heard again the scraping, scratching sound, but louder now and more distinct, seemingly from behind the very panel itself. Despite his laugh, Sir Jasper shivered as, turning from the evil face, he set down the candle, and drawing off his heavy riding boots and throwing aside his coat, he laid his sword and pistols upon a chair close by and, partially dressed as he was, lay down and blew out the light.

Hereupon a thousand intangible shapes of fear and dread seemed to creep out upon him from the darkness, pressing upon his brain. Dim tales of horrors long since forgotten recurred to him with a devilish persistency, so that, lying there wide-eyed, he could almost fancy that evil face leaning out of the picture above to smile down at him with all its old malignity.

The very house seemed full of weird groans and sighs as the fierce wind-gusts struck it, now rattling its crazy casements, now sinking to a deep-toned wail, while the rain hissed and pattered, the lightning leaped, and the thunder rolled slow and heavy in the distance. Yet above and beyond it all, he was conscious of that scraping, scratching sound, soft and regular—now pausing, now going on once more—monotonous, maddening. Presently his wearied eyes closed, the wind and the rain and the thunder seemed merged into a distant drone, and Sir Jasper fell asleep. But not for long, for of a sudden he sat up with the sound of a mighty crash in his ears. The storm was at its height, flash followed flash in rapid succession, so that the wide casement seemed a yawning square filled with the blue brilliance of the lightning, and the raindrops stood out upon the panes like little points of vivid fire. Then, even as he looked with dazed eyes, casement and panes and flaming raindrops were swallowed in a void of blackness; the thunder roared and crashed above him, and then silence came, filled in with the soft tapping of the rain.

He lay there for awhile in the sudden stillness, with a strange expectancy of coming evil, and, scarce breathing, with his ears on the stretch, there came to him a sound—a faint sound as of something brushing the wall near by, and straining his eyes, he fancied more than once that he saw an intangible something that flitted to and fro above him. Then, as he remembered the picture, and whose face it was that looked down at him even then, that blind, unreasoning fear again took possession of him. The lightning blazed out again, and then he saw that the picture had no face—that in the place of those baleful features that had smiled grimly down at him not an hour ago was a jagged, black hole. Even as he gazed, spellbound, something crept through, something black and loathsome, that groped and fumbled its way blindly along the wall towards him, and then, darting swiftly downwards, seized him by the hair, and at the moment the lightning passed and darkness closed in upon him again. He felt the clutch tighten and tighten—felt sharp claws dig into his scalp as it began to drag him slowly upward. Then a hideous, nauseating horror came upon him, and with a hoarse cry Sir Jasper Frome leapt from the bed. By chance his hand lighted on his sword; in an instant he had drawn it from the scabbard and was cutting and slashing wildly at the picture. Once there came a low, whining moan like the cry of an animal in pain, and at the sound his terror left him; he searched for and found his tinder-box, and lit the candle. Above him the picture hung in strips, and the panelling behind it was cut and hacked by the fury of his blows. He knelt upon the bed, and lifting the candle, peered through the hole, and then, with a swift gesture, he drew back his arm and thrust fiercely at something half-seen in the shadow beyond. Sir Jasper felt his point go home, and at the same moment there rose a long-drawn-out, wailing cry.

He was yet standing with the candle in one hand and his reddened sword in the other when his glance became fixed by that which lay half hid beneath the tumbled pillow—that which drove the blood in one wild surge back to his heart—a newly-severed human hand. A small, well-shaped hand it was, but very thin, and black with grime and filth, with nails thick and curved like the talons of a bird, and beside it lay a little battered gold locket that glittered in the candle-light. Sir Jasper's breath caught in his throat; he bent lower, the candle-stick trembling in his grasp. And what he saw sent him running from the room, shouting wildly as he ran. Along passages and down stairways he sped, seeing naught, hearing naught, until at last a light shone before his eyes, and the old woman hobbled towards him. Without a word he caught her by the wrist and began dragging her back the way he had come. She screamed and struggled feebly in his grasp, but he heeded not nor paused until he reached the chamber.

"Look!" he cried, and lifting the candle high, pointed to the bed. The old woman crept forward a few paces, and stopped, trembling.

"Lord God!" she moaned, and covered her eyes.

"Who is it?" asked Sir Jasper, in a strange, low voice; but she was mumbling meaningless words from behind her wrinkled hand.

"Who is it?" he repeated.

"Nay, nay," wailed the old woman; "how should I know?"

"Who is it behind there?" he said, shaking her roughly by the shoulder. The old woman sank upon the floor, and grovelled at his feet

"Oh, Sir Jasper," she moaned; "oh, Sir Jasper Frome, be merciful! Lord God! how may I tell it!"

Sir Jasper was trembling, and his eyes were wild. "Go on," he cried, "tell me all—everything!"

The old woman clung about his knees. "'Twas his doing—Sir Ralph's doing—I swear it! He told her you were dead, and she fell in a fit."

Sir Jasper clasped his hand tight upon his eyes. "The Lady Kate?" he asked.

"The Lady Kate; yes, yes," she answered feverishly. "The news drove her mad, and he locked her up there, and gave out that she was dead. And then one day he died, and after him my husband, Joshua Cowley. And often and often in the dark nights I have lain and heard her scratching, scratching there behind the panelling; and yet I have fed her regularly, and been kind to her—I swear it upon my knees," she wailed; for Sir Jasper had freed himself from her clinging arms. "Nay, Sir Jasper, do not kill me; 'twas his doing, I swear it."

For a moment he stared down at her with unseeing eyes; then with a sudden gesture, wild and frantic, he raised his clenched hands above his head, and shook them fiercely.

"God," he cried, "why am I alive? Why did I not die ten years ago? Cursed be the hour I first saw the light!" So saying, he turned and strode from the room, and the old woman, lying there upon the floor, heard his heavy step descend the stairs; heard the great door crash to behind him; heard the furious beat of his horse-hoofs upon the wet gravel, until they died away, drowned by the moan of the wind.

Thus, then, did Sir Jasper Frome return after ten years, and thus he departed; nor was he ever heard of more.