Best Horror Novels

Part 1 The Old Nurse's Story-4

Miss Maude won the day and carried off the prize, such as it

was; and he and she were married, all unknown to any one; and

before he made his next yearly visit, she had been confined of a

little girl at a farm-house on the Moors, while her father and Miss

Grace thought she was away at Doncaster Races. But though she was a

wife and a mother, she was not a bit softened, but as haughty and

as passionate as ever; and perhaps more so, for she was jealous of

Miss Grace, to whom her foreign husband paid a deal of court — by

way of blinding her — as he told his wife. But Miss Grace triumphed

over Miss Maude, and Miss Maude grew fiercer and fiercer, both with

her husband and with her sister; and the former — who could easily

shake off what was disagreeable, and hide himself in foreign

countries — went away a month before his usual time that summer,

and half-threatened that he would never come back again. Meanwhile,

the little girl was left at the farm-house, and her mother used to

have her horse saddled and gallop wildly over the hills to see her

once every week, at the very least; for where she loved she loved,

and where she hated she hated. And the old lord went on playing —

playing on his organ; and the servants thought the sweet music he

made had soothed down his awful temper, of which (Dorothy said)

some terrible tales could be told. He grew infirm too, and had to

walk with a crutch; and his son — that was the present Lord

Furnivall's father — was with the army in America, and the other

son at sea; so Miss Maude had it pretty much her own way, and she

and Miss Grace grew colder and bitterer to each other every day;

till at last they hardly ever spoke, except when the old lord was

by. The foreign musician came again the next summer, but it was for

the last time; for they led him such a life with their jealousy and

their passions, that he grew weary, and went away, and never was

heard of again. And Miss Maude, who had always meant to have her

marriage acknowledged when her father should be dead, was left now

a deserted wife, whom nobody knew to have been married, with a

child that she dared not own, although she loved it to distraction;

living with a father whom she feared, and a sister whom she hated.

When the next summer passed over, and the dark foreigner never

came, both Miss Maude and Miss Grace grew gloomy and sad; they had

a haggard look about them, though they looked handsome as ever.

But, by-and-by, Maude brightened; for her father grew more and more

infirm, and more than ever carried away by his music; and she and

Miss Grace lived almost entirely apart, having separate rooms, the

one on the west side, Miss Maude on the east — those very rooms

which were now shut up. So she thought she might have her little

girl with her, and no one need ever know except those who dared not

speak about it, and were bound to believe that it was, as she said,

a cottager's child she had taken a fancy to. All this, Dorothy

said, was pretty well known; but what came afterwards no one knew,

except Miss Grace and Mrs. Stark, who was even then her maid, and

much more of a friend to her than ever her sister had been. But the

servants supposed, from words that were dropped, that Miss Maude

had triumphed over Miss Grace, and told her that all the time the

dark foreigner had been mocking her with pretended love — he was

her own husband. The colour left Miss Grace's cheek and lips that

very day for ever, and she was heard to say many a time that sooner

or later she would have her revenge; and Mrs. Stark was for ever

spying about the east rooms.

One fearful night, just after the New Year had come in, when the

snow was lying thick and deep; and the flakes were still falling —

fast enough to blind any one who might be out and abroad — there

was a great and violent noise heard, and the old lord's voice above

all, cursing and swearing awfully, and the cries of a little child,

and the proud defiance of a fierce woman, and the sound of a blow,

and a dead stillness, and moans and wailings dying away on the

hill-side! Then the old lord summoned all his servants, and told

them, with terrible oaths, and words more terrible, that his

daughter had disgraced herself, and that he had turned her out of

doors — her, and her child — and that if ever they gave her help,

or food, or shelter, he prayed that they might never enter heaven.

And, all the while, Miss Grace stood by him, white and still as any

stone; and, when he had ended, she heaved a great sigh, as much as

to say her work was done, and her end was accomplished. But the old

lord never touched his organ again, and died within the year; and

no wonder! for, on the morrow of that wild and fearful night, the

shepherds, coming down the Fell side, found Miss Maude sitting, all

crazy and smiling, under the holly-trees, nursing a dead child,

with a terrible mark on its right shoulder. 'But that was not what

killed it,' said Dorothy: 'it was the frost and the cold. Every

wild creature was in its hole, and every beast in its fold, while

the child and its mother were turned out to wander on the Fells!

And now you know all! and I wonder if you are less frightened

now?'

I was more frightened than ever; but I said I was not. I wished

Miss Rosamond and myself well out of that dreadful house for ever;

but I would not leave her, and I dared not take her away. But oh,

how I watched her, and guarded her! We bolted the doors, and shut

the window-shutters fast, an hour or more before dark, rather than

leave them open five minutes too late. But my little lady still

heard the weird child crying and mourning; and not all we could do

or say could keep her from wanting to go to her, and let her in

from the cruel wind and the snow. All this time I kept away from

Miss Furnivall and Mrs. Stark, as much as ever I could; for I

feared them — I knew no good could be about them, with their grey,

hard faces, and their dreamy eyes, looking back into the ghastly

years that were gone. But, even in my fear, I had a kind of pity

for Miss Furnivall, at least. Those gone down to the pit can hardly

have a more hopeless look than that which was ever on her face. At

last I even got so sorry for her — who never said a word but what

was quite forced from her — that I prayed for her; and I taught

Miss Rosamond to pray for one who had done a deadly sin; but often

when she came to those words, she would listen, and start up from

her knees, and say, 'I hear my little girl plaining and crying very

sad — oh, let her in, or she will die!'

One night — just after New Year's Day had come at last, and the

long winter had taken a turn, as I hoped — I heard the west

drawing-room bell ring three times, which was the signal for me. I

would not leave Miss Rosamond alone, for all she was asleep — for

the old lord had been playing wilder than ever — and I feared lest

my darling should waken to hear the spectre child; see her, I knew

she could not. I had fastened the windows too well for that. So I

took her out of her bed, and wrapped her up in such outer clothes

as were most handy, and carried her down to the drawing-room, where

the old ladies sat at their tapestry-work as usual. They looked up

when I came in, and Mrs. Stark asked, quite astounded, 'Why did I

bring Miss Rosamond there, out of her warm bed?' I had begun to

whisper, 'Because I was afraid of her being tempted out while I was

away, by the wild child in the snow,' when she stopped me short

(with a glance at Miss Furnivall), and said Miss Furnivall wanted

me to undo some work she had done wrong, and which neither of them

could see to unpick. So I laid my pretty dear on the sofa, and sat

down on a stool by them, and hardened my heart against them, as I

heard the wind rising and howling.

Miss Rosamond slept on sound, for all the wind blew so Miss

Furnivall said never a word, nor looked round when the gusts shook

the windows. All at once she started up to her full height, and put

up one hand, as if to bid us to listen.

'I hear voices!' said she. 'I hear terrible screams — I hear my

father's voice!'

Just at that moment my darling wakened with a sudden start: 'My

little girl is crying, oh, how she is crying!' and she tried to get

up and go to her, but she got her feet entangled in the blanket,

and I caught her up; for my flesh had begun to creep at these

noises, which they heard while we could catch no sound. In a minute

or two the noises came, and gathered fast, and filled our ears; we,

too, heard voices and screams, and no longer heard the winter's

wind that raged abroad. Mrs. Stark looked at me, and I at her, but

we dared not speak. Suddenly Miss Furnivall went towards the door,

out into the ante-room, through the west lobby, and opened the door

into the great hall. Mrs. Stark followed, and I durst not be left,

though my heart almost stopped beating for fear. I wrapped my

darling tight in my arms, and went out with them. In the hall the

screams were louder than ever; they seemed to come from the east

wing — nearer and nearer — close on the other side of the locked-up

doors — close behind them. Then I noticed that the great bronze

chandelier seemed all alight, though the hall was dim, and that a

fire was blazing in the vast hearth-place, though it gave no heat;

and I shuddered up with terror, and folded my darling closer to me.

But as I did so the east door shook, and she, suddenly struggling

to get free from me, cried, 'Hester! I must go. My little girl is

there! I hear her; she is coming! Hester, I must go!'

I held her tight with all my strength; with a set will, I held

her. If I had died, my hands would have grasped her still, I was so

resolved in my mind. Miss Furnivall stood listening, and paid no

regard to my darling, who had got down to the ground, and whom I,

upon my knees now, was holding with both my arms clasped round her

neck; she still striving and crying to get free.

All at once, the east door gave way with a thundering crash, as

if torn open in a violent passion, and there came into that broad

and mysterious light, the figure of a tall old man, with grey hair

and gleaming eyes. He drove before him, with many a relentless

gesture of abhorrence, a stern and beautiful woman, with a little

child clinging to her dress.

'Oh, Hester! Hester!' cried Miss Rosamond; 'it's the lady! the

lady below the holly-trees; and my little girl is with her. Hester!

Hester! let me go to her; they are drawing me to them. I feel them

— I feel them. I must go!'

Again she was almost convulsed by her efforts to get away; but I

held her tighter and tighter, till I feared I should do her a hurt;

but rather that than let her go towards those terrible phantoms.

They passed along towards the great hall-door, where the winds

howled and ravened for their prey; but before they reached that,

the lady turned; and I could see that she defied the old man with a

fierce and proud defiance; but then she quailed — and then she

threw up her arms wildly and piteously to save her child — her

little child — from a blow from his uplifted crutch.

And Miss Rosamond was torn as by a power stronger than mine and

writhed in my arms, and sobbed (for by this time the poor darling

was growing faint).

'They want me to go with them on to the Fells — they are drawing

me to them. Oh, my little girl! I would come, but cruel, wicked

Hester holds me very tight.' But when she saw the uplifted crutch,

she swooned away, and I thanked God for it. Just at this moment —

when the tall old man, his hair streaming as in the blast of a

furnace, was going to strike the little shrinking child — Miss

Furnivall, the old woman by my side, cried out, 'Oh father! father!

spare the little innocent child!' But just then I saw — we all saw

— another phantom shape itself, and grow clear out of the blue and

misty light that filled the hall; we had not seen her till now, for

it was another lady who stood by the old man, with a look of

relentless hate and triumphant scorn. That figure was very

beautiful to look upon, with a soft, white hat drawn down over the

proud brows, and a red and curling lip. It was dressed in an open

robe of blue satin. I had seen that figure before. It was the

likeness of Miss Furnivall in her youth; and the terrible phantoms

moved on, regardless of old Miss Furnivall's wild entreaty, — and

the uplifted crutch fell on the right shoulder of the little child,

and the younger sister looked on, stony, and deadly serene. But at

that moment, the dim lights, and the fire that gave no heat, went

out of themselves, and Miss Furnivall lay at our feet stricken down

by the palsy — death-stricken.

Yes! she was carried to her bed that night never to rise again.

She lay with her face to the wall, muttering low, but muttering

always: 'Alas! alas! what is done in youth can never be undone in

age! What is done in youth can never be undone in age!'

Part 2

The Poor Clare