MARQUISE OF LOSSIE'S ADVENTURES: Malcolm & The Marquis's Secret. George MacDonald

      CHAPTER XXVII:

       LORD GERNON

       Table of Contents

      When his housekeeper returned from church, Lord Lossie sent for her.

      "Sit down, Mrs Courthope," he said; "I want to ask you about a story I have a vague recollection of hearing when I spent a summer at this house some twenty years ago. It had to do with a room in the house that was never opened."

      "There is such a story, my lord," answered the housekeeper. "The late marquis, I remember well, used to laugh at it, and threaten now and then to dare the prophecy; but old Eppie persuaded him not—or at least fancied she did."

      "Who is old Eppie?"

      "She's gone now, my lord. She was over a hundred then. She was born and brought up in the house, lived all her days in it, and died in it; so she knew more about the place than any one else."

      "Is ever likely to know," said the marquis, superadding a close to her sentence. "And why wouldn't she have the room opened?" he asked.

      "Because of the ancient prophecy, my lord."

      "I can't recall a single point of the story."

      "I wish old Eppie were alive to tell it," said Mrs Courthope.

      "Don't you know it then?"

      "Yes, pretty well; but my English tongue can't tell it properly. It doesn't sound right out of my mouth. I've heard it a good many times too, for I had often to take a visitor to her room to hear it, and the old woman liked nothing better than telling it. But I couldn't help remarking that it had grown a good bit even in my time. The story was like a tree: it got bigger every year."

      "That's the way with a good many stories," said the marquis. "But tell me the prophecy at least."

      "That is the only part I can give just as she gave it. It's in rhyme. I hardly understand it, but I'm sure of the words."

      "Let us have them then, if you please."

      Mrs Courthope reflected for a moment, and then repeated the following lines:

      "The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o' cauld airn, The ayr quha wad kythe a bastard and carena, The mayd quha wad tyne her man and her bairn, Lift the neck, and enter, and fearna."

      "That's it, my lord," she said, in conclusion. "And there's one thing to be observed," she added, "—that that door is the only one in all the passage that has a sneck, as they call it."

      "What is a sneck?" asked his lordship, who was not much of a scholar in his country's tongue.

      "What we call a latch in England, my lord. I took pains to learn the Scotch correctly, and I've repeated it to your lordship, word for word."

      "I don't doubt it," returned Lord Lossie, "but for the sense, I can make nothing of it.—And you think my brother believed the story?"

      "He always laughed at it, my lord, but pretended at least to give in to old Eppie's entreaties."

      "You mean that he was more near believing it than he liked to confess?"

      "That's not what I mean, my lord."

      "Why do you say pretended then?"

      "Because when the news of his death came, some people about the place would have it that he must have opened the door some time or other."

      "How did they make that out?"

      "From the first line of the prophecy."

      "Repeat it again."

      "The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o' cauld airn," said Mrs Courthope with emphasis, adding, "The three she always said was a figure 3."

      "That implies it was written somewhere!"

      "She said it was legible on the door in her day—as if burnt with a red hot iron."

      "And what does the line mean?"

      "Eppie said it meant that the lord of the place who opened that door, would die by a sword wound. Three inches of cold iron, it means, my lord."

      The marquis grew thoughtful; his brother had died in a sword duel. For a few moments he was silent.

      "Tell me the whole story," he said at length.

      Mrs Courthope again reflected, and began. I will tell the story, however, in my own words, reminding my reader that if he regards it as an unwelcome interruption, he can easily enough avoid this bend of the river of my narrative by taking a short cut across to the next chapter.

      In an ancient time there was a lord of Lossie who practised unholy works. Although he had other estates, he lived almost entirely at the House of Lossie—that is, after his return from the East, where he had spent his youth and early manhood. But he paid no attention to his affairs: a steward managed everything for him, and Lord Gernon (for that was the outlandish name he brought from England, where he was born while his father was prisoner to Edward Longshanks) trusted him for a great while without making the least inquiry into his accounts, apparently contented with receiving money enough to carry on the various vile experiments which seemed his sole pleasure in life. There was no doubt in the minds of the people of the town—the old town that is, which was then much larger, and clustered about the gates of the House—that he had dealings with Satan, from whom he had gained authority over the powers of nature; that he was able to rouse and lay the winds, to bring down rain, to call forth the lightnings and set the thunders roaring over town and sea; nay, that he could even draw vessels ashore on the rocks, with the certainty that not one on board would be left alive to betray the pillage of the wreck: this and many other deeds of dire note were laid to his charge in secret. The town cowered at the foot of the House in terror of what its lord might bring down upon it—as a brood of chickens might cower if they had been hatched by a kite, and saw, instead of the matronly head and beak of the hen of their instinct, those of the bird of prey projected over them. Scarce one of them dared even look from the door when the thunder was rolling over their heads, the lightnings flashing about the roofs and turrets of the House, the wind raving in fits between as if it would rave its last, and the rain falling in sheets—not so much from fear of the elements, as for horror of the far more terrible things that might be spied careering in the storm. And indeed Lord Gernon himself was avoided in like fashion, although rarely had any one the evil chance of seeing him, so seldom did he go out of doors. There was but one in the whole community —and that was a young girl, the daughter of his steward—who declared she had no fear of him: she went so far as to uphold that Lord Gernon meant harm to nobody, and was in consequence regarded by the neighbours as unrighteously bold.

      He worked in a certain lofty apartment on the ground floor—with cellars underneath, reserved, it was believed, for frightfullest conjurations and interviews; where, although no one was permitted to enter, they knew from the smoke that he had a furnace, and from the evil smells which wandered out, that he dealt with things altogether devilish in their natures and powers. They said he always washed there—in water medicated with distilments to prolong life and produce invulnerability; but of this they could of course know nothing. Strange to say, however, he always slept in the garret, as far removed from his laboratory as the limits of the house would permit; whence people said he dared not sleep in the neighbourhood of his deeds, but sought shelter for his unconscious hours in the spiritual shadow of the chapel, which was in the same wing as his chamber. His household saw nearly as little of him as his retainers: when his tread was heard, beating dull on the stone turnpike, or thundering along the upper corridors in the neighbourhood of his chamber or of the library—the only other part of the house he visited, man or maid would dart aside into the next way of escape—all believing that the nearer he came to finding himself the sole inhabitant of his house, the better he was pleased. Nor would he allow man or woman to enter his chamber any more than his laboratory. When they found sheets or garments