The Red Star by Fergus Hume

“The Red Star” is taken from Hume’s anthology The Dancer In Red and Other Stories, first published in 1906.

 

About Fergus Hume

Ferguson Wright Hume was a prolific British author of novels and short stories. He published more than 130 novels, along with several story anthologies. Although Hume is best known  as a writer of thrillers, mysteries, and detective stories, he also wrote a number of ghost stories.

Hume was born in the village of Powick in Worcester, England. While he was still pr-school age, his family moved to New Zealand, where he studied law. Shortly after graduating from the University of Otago, Hume moved to Melbourne, Australia, accepted a position as a barrister’s clerk, and began writing plays in his spare time, but his attempts to place his plays with local theaters were unsuccessful.

In 1886, after publishers refused to consider his novel Mystery of a Hansom Cab, Hume published it himself. The book quickly became an international best seller. However, he sold the English and American rights to some Autralian bussinessmen for $50, so failed to cash-in on his works, phenomenal success. Often classed as the first modern mystery thriller, Mystery of a Hansom Cab is believed to have inspired Arthur Conan Doyle to write his first Sherlock Holmes story—A Study in Scarlet.

In 1888, Hume returned to England. After a few years living in London, he relocated to Thundersley, Essex. He died on 12 July 1932, and is buried in an unmarked grave in the local churchyard.

 

The Ghost in Brocade

By Fergus Hume

(Online Text)

There are some memories so terrible, that when they recur to the unthinking brain, they have the power to make one retrace its steps, and return once more to the moment when the events of which they are the tragic shadows took place.

They are portions of a man’s life, and when he least suspects their presence, they suddenly display themselves to his shuddering gaze.

Every son of Adam, be his life ever so blameless, has, in his time, visited Hell, and brought from thence a memory which, filling the visionary scope of his mind’s eye, haunts him for evermore. He shrinks back appalled, he would fain shut out the horrible phantom; but look he must, for by his side it remains, mocking his futile efforts to exorcise its ghastly being. At times it fades into the unseen, only to return at some untoward moment with troublous persistence.

My haunting memory is of a red star,—nay, no planetary splendour do I indicate by such a term, neither Mars nor Aldebaran, nor fiery Sirius, but an earth-begotten star which nightly burned from the topmost window of a tall tower. Behind, a clear evening sky; in front, a sombre mass of turret, and gable and battlement, clustering round the base of a lean minaret, which from its height gave forth a crimson gleam of angry seeming.

On the black waters of the morass [1] encircling the building it flared with baleful savagery, piercing the sullen darkness of the night. Seated at the window of the inn, I could mark it dominating the whole scene with its malign influence. I saw it then, I see it now, and under its malevolence a man lying prone on the quaking surface of the marsh, gazing palid-faced wild-eyed at the ebon pool, on whose breast float traitor bubbles, telling of horror and of death.

The window of a chemist’s shop, the commonplace signals of a great railway station, or the starboard lights of a channel steamer, each brings to my mind the memory of that red star. Then do I turn cold with fear. Then do I seek in theatre, in dance, in travel, a forgetfulness of that tall tower with its scarlet eye. In vain my quest for oblivion; for the horror thrusts itself unannounced before my mental gaze. I leave the present, I return to the past, there to find the red star burning like an unquenchable witch-light.

This bizarre episode of my life occurred some years since, when I was on a walking tour in Essex. An artist by profession I combined business with pleasure by sketching a great deal during my desultory wanderings, so when I arrived at the little village of E—I was rejoiced that I had a good record to show to Hadrian.

He was an author. One whose pen (more graphic than my pencil) had brought him fame. I was delighted when he proposed that we should, in partnership, write and illustrate a small book of English strollings. Hitherto my ambition had been confined to mere dilettantism [2], but now the offer of Hadrian inspired me with the desire for a certain notoriety (scarcely to be called fame), and I impatiently awaited his arrival at our appointed meeting-place, the Golden Plover Inn.

Business had detained him in town, else had we journeyed in company; but as it was, I sauntered for a whole fortnight through the pleasant English counties, in the hope that he would join me ere I reached E—. No such overtaking occurred, and at The Golden Plover I awaited his coming.

The landlord was an oddity, with a twist of originality in his character, and showed himself, notwithstanding a certain stateliness of demeanour, disposed to be companionable. At the conclusion of my supper I sat by the casement of the parlour with a consoling pipe, while the host—John Ruth was his name—stalked stiff as Malvolio [3] about the room. This hinting at sociability being at the moment much to my taste, I invited him to crack a bottle of port in my company. Nothing loth he accepted the invitation. Thus having mutually arranged for a pleasant evening Ruth went off to his cellar, and I, in a pleasing state of weariness, begotten by a long day on my legs, viewed the landscape from the parlour window.

A prospect more wild, dreary and eloquent of desolation, could scarcely be conceived. In the uncertain light—for it was now the twilight hour—it took on an unwholesome look which struck a chill into my being. The village was not far from the sea, and the uncanny seeming of the outlook was the more accentuated by the hollow boom of unseen waves. I could hear but could not see these complaining breakers, and this hidden presence, betraying itself only by dreary moanings, seemed a fitting type of the intangible horror which environed The Grange.

The inn being at the end of the village, there was no dwelling beyond save this cumbrous mass rising portentously against the luminous sky. Past my window ran the hard line of the high road, beyond this a stretch of sullen marsh spreading like a witch garden in front of the mansion. On a slight rise it bulked disproportionately in the landscape, and from its blackness a tall, lean tower shot upward, as though the house were lifting a warning finger. As is the case with some faces, a history is suggested by some houses, and I felt sure that a gruesome story was attached to this sullen mansion lying betwixt marsh and sea. The dull roar of the waves might have told the story, or I might have gained some legendary fragments from the sighing wind, but unversed in nature’s voices I could translate neither boom nor sigh, and was therefore compelled to apply for information to the landlord. At this period of my reflections he entered the room, with the port and candles, much to my relief, for the influence of that lonely house was depressing in the extreme.

“What is the name of the place?” I asked abruptly, as he set down his burden on the table.

“That, sir,” replied Ruth with stately slowness, “is called The Grange, where Lady Selwyn dwells.”

“What! Is anyone bold enough to live in that tomb?”

“It is a tomb!” assented the landlord with a certain apprehension. “I only trust it is nothing worse.”

“What do you mean?”

Ruth shook his head significantly, poured out two glasses of wine, and pushed one towards my end of the table.

“It is a God-forsaken place, sir, and they do say haunted. I am not superstitious myself, Mr. Faloise, but I feel the horror of that house. Something in that house,” he added earnestly, “cries bitterly at night. It is neither of earth nor of heaven, and it moans — moans in the darkness like a lost spirit.”

His words chilled me with a feeling of vague horror. I would have spoken but that he reflectively sipped his wine and pursued his speech.

“Why should a rich and beautiful lady shut herself up in that dreary house? Why should she live in solitude and only come out at night-time? She is young, she is beautiful; but long years of horror have aged her face and cursed her soul. What is the Thing that moans in the darkness? I have asked her when she has come here but she has made no reply. Yet, Mr. Faloise, at every visit I can see a fresh mark of hell on the beauty of her face.”

“She comes out at night, you say?”

“Only at night! When the red star shines!”

“The red star?”

“Look!” he cried, clutching my arm with one hand, and pointing through the window with the other.

I felt a certain qualm of horror, and mechanically turned my eyes towards the Grange. There, from the height of the tower, burned a fierce red light, which in the gathering darkness did indeed look like an evil star.

“Every night it shines,” resumed Ruth, wiping his brow. “Every night the Thing moans. No one lives there, save Lady Selwyn and her old servant, yet when they come to this place the red star shines, the Thing cries. Hark!”

A faint wailing cry swept past the house and died away in the distance. We looked at one another in silent dread, and once more Ruth wiped his brow.

“It goes on like that,” he said, hastily finishing his wine, “constantly. For two years it has been going on. I will never get used to it, Mr. Faloise. I wish the whole of that accursed house would sink deep in the morass.”

“The morass?”

“Ay! Facing the mansion is no firm land, but merely a quaking bog, the crossing of which means death to the unwary. Behind is the sea, in front is the marsh; so you see, Mr. Faloise, those who dwell in that house are well defended.”

“Defended!” I echoed, puzzled, at the strangely chosen word. “Why should the house be defended?”

“You now know as much as I do,” replied Ruth obstinately; “you have seen the red star, you have heard the Thing crying. There is some hellish secret about The Grange, Mr. Faloise, but no one can reveal it save Lady Selwyn—”

“Ah! what is that?” I cried, with a thrill of fear, as a dark figure flitted past the window, followed by the dancing light of a swinging lantern.

“It is Lady Selwyn and her servant,” said the landlord, laying aside his pipe; “they come nightly for provisions—wine and such like. Excuse me for a moment, Mr. Faloise.”

With this he vanished, and I was left alone to ruminate over the strange history he had told me—no history either, but rather a suggestion of mystery, of infinite dread. I looked at the menacing tower, at the red star flaring in the windy night. This hinting of nameless horrors was too much for my nerves. Suddenly, overcome by an overwhelming curiosity I left the window, I left the room, and sought the keeper of the secret—Lady Selwyn.

Draped in a long black cloak, she was standing in the porch with the lantern bearer, an old woman who I guessed was her servant. The yellow light of the candle held by the landlord struck full on her face. Beautiful exceedingly was that countenance, but on the lovely face and in the eyes lurked the apprehensive look of a hunted beast. Ruth hearing my steps, turned suddenly, thereby throwing the light on to my features. The next instant, with a strange cry, Lady Selwyn darted forward like a madwoman. Laying her thin hands on my shoulders, she devoured my face with her eyes. I felt her shaking through the whole length of her body, but so thunderstruck was I that the Medusa beauty of her face turned me, as it were, to stone.

“Who are you?” she asked, in a low, fierce voice, pressing hardly on my shoulders.

“Hugh Faloise—an artist,” I stammered, thinking it best to humour her caprice. “I am here on a walking tour.”

“Go away at once,” hissed Lady Selwyn, shaking me like a reed. “Do you hear me? Go away.”

On uttering these words she faced round abruptly as to depart, then snatching the light from Ruth held it to my face.

“His hair! his eyes! his mouth!” she muttered eagerly. “So like him once. Heavens! to think what he is now.”

A convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot. Dropping the candle, she drew the hood of her cloak over her face and fled away into the night, followed by the woman with the lantern. We were left in darkness (for the candle had been extinguished), thunderstruck at the episode. Then past the house floated that moaning cry, and with one accord we dashed back into the parlour.

“I shan’t stay here another week,” said Ruth with an oath; “it’s killing work.”

The whole affair was so weird, that I could not blame him for his fear. Indeed I also was trembling, and it took two glasses of wine to restore my courage.

On recovering my nerve I pulled out my sketchbook.

“What are you going to do, sir?” asked Ruth, observing my action curiously.

“Draw Lady Selwyn’s face from memory.” While I did so, he looked over my shoulder, seemingly disinclined to leave my company. Two years had not reconciled him to the evil atmosphere of the place. I did not wonder at that, but I did wonder how it was he was not in a lunatic asylum. Two days would have been enough for me, not to speak of two years. I have no relish for devildom. Lady Selwyn’s eccentric conduct had upset me thoroughly. I could hardly draw the portrait; not that I had forgotten the face, but because my hand was shaking. This sort of thing in a lone inn slackens a man’s nerve and renders him incapable of doing justice to his profession. Mine was that of an artist, but no one would have thought so had they seen the portrait, drawn from memory, of Lady Selwyn. When I say no one I mean no cultured person, for Ruth said it was a speaking likeness. But then he was not an artist and I was; whereby I saw the faults and he did not. However, horrors considering, it was passable and pleased me mightily.

“Ruth,” said I, signing my name to the drawing “I am going to stay here and investigate.”

“Investigate what, sir?”

“This mystery. Light, voice, and woman. A most unholy trinity.”

“You’ll find nothing, sir,” said the landlord, emphatically. “I have tried for a year and failed.”

“Oh! well, I will try for a year also and shall not fail.”

Ruth pointed towards the red star.

“It is like a danger signal,” he said, solemnly. “Better leave it alone, sir.”

I wish I had taken his advice—now.

* * *

I made a discovery that night; one which surprised me largely. When a man has reached the age of thirty years without knowing the inner meaning of the word “love” he has a right to feel surprised on acquiring that knowledge without study. I did not seek love, on the contrary love—in the person of Lady Selwyn—hunted me out: consequently I was not a free agent in the matter. At the time I hardly analysed the affair in this fashion for the discovery was somewhat overwhelming. I tossed on an uneasy pillow all night wondering what disease had seized me, and matters were hardly improved by my lighting the candle at intervals to look at the picture. All the horror of red star and wailing voice was forgotten by me, my brain being fully occupied by the thought that Lady Selwyn was a beautiful woman whom I adored. I offer no opinion on this matter, but simply set down the existing facts.

Being in this dazed condition I was naturally anxious to confide my troubles to someone. Ruth was scarcely an inviting repository. I knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and self-communion was unsatisfactory; therefore the most obvious course was to await the coming of Hadrian. Somewhere about noon he duly arrived, without any apologies for his tardiness; but this omission on his part I waived, being only too thankful to see his dour countenance.

By dour I do not mean exactly ill-natured, for Hadrian had some geniality in his disposition, though it did not show itself in his face. Fortunately I knew that this index to his mind was a bad one, else I had not made him my confidant. As it turned out, he did not receive my story so well as I had expected, but this I put down to his jealousy in the matter of friendship.

Hadrian was a good physiognomist, and anxious for his unbiased opinion I said nothing about Lady Selwyn, but slipped the portrait in with the rest of the sketches. In a few minutes Hadrian, as I expected he would, asked to see what work I had done, so I placed the whole lot before him and waited the result in silence. He went to work in his usual ungracious manner, making remarks complimentary and otherwise—mostly otherwise. In due course he came across the portrait and to my astonishment shewed an unexpected acquaintance with the original.

“Why Faloise,” he said, turning towards me, sketch in hand, “where have you seen Lady Selwyn?”

“Do you know her, Hadrian?”

“Excellently well! She was the heroine of that queer story of two seasons ago.”

“What queer story?”

“Oh, I forgot. You were in India at the time,” said Hadrian, replacing the sketch in the portfolio. “However, I can tell you the whole history— but first let me hear how you came to make her acquaintance.”

I would rather have heard the London history first, and then narrated the sequel; but Hadrian, as I knew of old, was as obstinate as a mule. Unless I gratified his curiosity he certainly would not gratify mine, so with quick dispatch I told him all that had taken place on the previous night. The important detail of my falling in love I withheld for the present. I might as well have told it at once, for I saw Hadrian guessed the truth from my tell-tale cheeks. However, he made no sign of such knowledge, but, when I had finished the story, looked out at the Grange intently through the window.

Naturally I expected to be directly addressed, but in place of this Hadrian began a monologue as though he were alone. At first I felt indignant, but as his soliloquy seemed pertinent to the subject, I listened.

“Apparently,” observed Hadrian, to himself, “she saw the likeness between Varst and Faloise. That accounts for her emotion. She loved Varst deeply, and when he died buried herself in this tomb. Now a ghost in the person of Faloise has revived that love given to a dead man; so it is not unlikely she will transfer her affections to the living. Faloise resembles the non-existing Varst greatly. Doubtless she will love him. The question is—will Faloise love her?”

“Faloise does love her,” I broke in impetuously, whereupon Hadrian, contrary to his usual gravity, burst out laughing.

“So! I have caught you in a trap, Faloise. Yes, I am aware that you love this woman. Your cheeks, your eyes were eloquent Now your tongue betrays you. Faloise,” he added, touching my breast with an emphatic forefinger, “had I not tricked you into this confession you would have held your peace.”

“Indeed, you are wrong. I intended to tell you as soon as you arrived.”

Hadrian, taking out his watch, glanced at the dial with a mocking smile. “I have been with you close on an hour and you have told me—nothing. So much for your intention. You love this woman?”

“Yes, I do!”

“And you would marry her?”

“If she would have me!”

“You talk like a child!” said Hadrian, roughly, “marry a woman of whom you know nothing,—whose face you have hardly seen! A woman who, as you can see for yourself, conceals some shameful secret in that house. Don’t be a fool, Faloise!”

“Calling me names will not alter my determination!” I rejoined, a trifle nettled; “tell me what you know about her and I will judge for myself.”

Hadrian bit his fingers—a trick with him when annoyed—then, without further preamble, burst out into the story of Lady Selwyn.

“She is a young widow!” he began with a jerk of his head, by which I knew how angry he was. “A young widow not without attractions, as you know, nor without money, as you don’t know. More than two years ago—I may say three—when I was in town, and you were in the East, she buried her first husband and fell in love with Paul Varst, artist. It was said she had been in love with him before she married Sir Peter Selwyn’s title and fortune, but at all events, no sooner was the old man buried than she became engaged to Varst. He resembled you greatly, and like you, was an artist, which I think you must admit is a curious coincidence. During Lady Selwyn’s period of mourning he went to the East as you did. Unlike you —and this is the first point of difference between you —he returned from thence afflicted with some disease.

I don’t know the name of the disease, but it killed him, and may be said to have killed her, seeing how she has shut herself up in yonder tomb to mourn him. You, my friend, are very like Varst, so I should not feel surprised if she fell in love with you. In her eyes, remember, you are Varst redivivus. My advice to you is to escape her snares by immediate flight. As to your red star, I cannot divine its meaning, nor do I think it worth troubling about. All I know for certain is that Lady Selwyn loved Varst, and as you resemble Varst she will assuredly love you. So there you have the story. Sufficiently common-place, is it not?”

“Yes! and sufficiently reputable also,” I interrupted hotly. “I see nothing to condemn in her conduct and much to praise. She must be a loving woman to mourn so truly for the dead. By your own showing, my resemblance to Varst gives me a chance of success, and as I love her, I see no reason why I should not become her husband.”

“I trust you will not be so foolish, Faloise.”

“Pray do not argue further. My mind is made up.”

“And so is mine,” he rejoined, angrily springing from his chair. “If you intend to make a fool of yourself, I wash my hands of the whole business. Give up this idea, Faloise, or I leave you for ever.”

“As you please,” I answered, cutting short the discussion, and with that left the room.

When I returned Ruth informed me that Hadrian had gone.

Presumably it was jealousy which caused him to act in this foolish way. He could not bear to think that a woman should come between us; but as a woman had done so, he considered himself affronted, and departed in anger. It would be useless to deny that I was sorry for this breach between us. I do not make friends easily, and Hadrian was my closest companion. Notwithstanding my regret, I was too much in love to brood long over this severance, and dismissing Hadrian’s folly from my mind, addressed myself to the task of solving the red star mystery.

I wonder if there is a perverse fate who ever makes things go contrary to what we wish. In my case I was inclined to take this view of Providence, for I wanted Lady Selwyn to visit the Golden Plover as usual, but she never made her appearance. The old woman came for such necessaries as were required, but Lady Selwyn remained in seclusion, I spent my days in walking up and down the high road in front of the morass and my nights in the parlour waiting for her coming, but neither by day nor by night did I see her. Ruth informed me that before my arrival she nightly paid a visit to the inn. Seeing that she did so no longer I was forced to blame either that suppositious fate, or my likeness to Paul Varst, deceased.

Each day I haunted the high road, watching that detestable house, each night I sat in the parlour eyeing that red star and listening to the Thing wailing. I got used to both in the end, showing that even horrors can become stale. Ruth usually kept me company, and we talked of many things—of Lady Selwyn among others—but I learned no more than I had been told on the first night. And all this time I was in a perfect fever of excitement

This unsatisfactory life went on for about a week. At the end of that time the old woman brought a letter in which Lady Selwyn implored me to go away. I took no notice of this, but haunted the high road as usual, whereupon the next night brought me another letter ordering me to depart. I heeded the command as little as I had done the entreaty. Then there ensued a perfect deluge of notes, imploring, ordering, requesting, beseeching. Lady Selwyn ran through the whole gamut of a woman’s arts in wheedling a man to do her bidding.

It was all of no avail. I was as obstinate in staying, as she was in hiding. Neither of us would give in. At last she did. Towards the end of the second week she unexpectedly made her appearance in the parlour, ordered John Ruth out of the room, and gave me a warm quarter of an hour.

“If you are a gentleman, Mr. Faloise, you will leave this place,” she said indignantly. “I have written you at least a dozen letters, of none of which you have taken any notice.”

“Really, Lady Selwyn, I do not see why I should leave this place,” I answered mildly. “Is it reasonable to expect me to do so?”

“You are driving me mad.”

“How so?”

For answer she covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. I advanced to soothe her, but on touching her shoulder she sprang up with a terrified gesture.

“No! No! Do not touch me. I cannot bear it. Oh! if you only knew my story!”

“I do know your story. That you loved Paul Varst, who is dead, and that I resemble Paul Varst.”

“Who told you this?” she asked with a quick intake of the breath.

“I learned it inadvertently. Is it because I resemble Paul Varst that you wish me to go?”

“Yes! yes! You are so like him. You have his eyes, his voice. To me you are as a spectre. Paul Varst was like you, and now—”

“He is dead, and you mourn his loss in that dreary mansion. Surely you have suffered enough and can forget the past.”

She shivered, spreading out her hands with a gesture of despair.

“No! I can never forget the past.”

“Let me teach you to do so?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Faloise?” she cried, shrinking back from my outstretched arms.

“That I love you.”

“For God’s sake say no more.”

I caught her to my breast before she could avoid me.

“I must speak, Lady Selwyn. I love you! I love you! The moment I beheld your face in the porch yonder I loved you. I drew your picture from memory—from the memory of my heart. I resemble Paul Varst. Love me for his sake if not for my own.”

She thrust me back with such violence that I reeled against the wall.

“How dare you insult me!” she panted, clenching her hands. “You are a stranger. I know nothing of you and yet—and yet you dare to speak of love to me —to me,” striking her breast with closed fist, “who am vowed to the dead.”

“I cannot help myself. I am a coward, acting as I do; but blame the lover, not the man. I should go away when you bid me! I cannot! I dare not! The sight of your face has ruined my life! If I leave you I die! You are killing me—yes, killing me. Can you not see how I suffer?”

The angry light in her eyes softened to the mild radiance of pity. Crossing the room she laid her hand on my bowed head.

“Poor fellow! You suffer. I also suffer. But we must both suffer in silence. I am under the ban of hell.

“What do you mean? That house—”

“I dare tell you no more. The red light warns me to hold my peace.”

“What does it mean?” I said, again grasping her poor thin hands.

“It means the tortures of hell,” she whispered with slow terror. “I have seen a soul writhing in the grip of fiends. Pray to God you may never look upon such sights as sear my eyes. We must meet no more, Mr. Faloise. Let me bear my curse alone.”

“Nay, I will help you to bear it.”

“You cannot. It is too horrible! Let me go, Mr. Faloise. I cannot! I dare not love you!”

“Then, you do love me?”

Without a word she bent forward and kissed my cheek. At that moment we heard the wailing of the accursed thing, whereupon, with a burst of hysterical laughter, she fled from the room. I followed with speed, but she had already vanished in the darkness, nor could my implorings call her back to my arms.

The next night she failed to appear, but the old woman brought me another letter. “Pity my weakness, and go,” were the contents, and the paper was stained with tears. Those tears decided my course. Nothing now would induce me to leave the place without soothing this sorrow. I swore to enter the Grange, to enter that room from whence shone the red light, to discover what it was that wailed so horribly. I sacrificed my soul to keep that oath, but I kept it.

After a haggard night I walked up the road at dawn to examine the morass. If possible I desired to cross it and enter the Grange, but as I stood hesitating on the verge of the unsteady ground a woman cried aloud. On looking up I saw Lady Selwyn balanced above the black water, and in less than a minute she was by my side.

“Go away, Mr. Faloise,” she panted, pushing me backward. “What do you wish?”

“To enter the Grange.”

“Impossible. It is death to enter.”

“Nevertheless I will enter.”

“For what reason?”

I whispered my reply in her ear, as though it were too awesome to be spoken aloud.

“I wish to marry you. That house holds some horrible secret, which is blighting your life. Let me in. Tell me what it is, and I will free you from its influence.”

“There is no secret,” she denied, with downcast eyes.

“There is! I am determined to find out its mystery. Why does that red star shine from the tower at dusk? What is it that moans in the darkness?”

“You are killing me,” she gasped, pressing her hand to her side. “Go away, I implore you, Mr. Faloise. I dare not tell you anything.” Then, with sudden defiance, “I shall not tell you anything, nor will I see you again.”

I would have folded her in my arms, but with a sudden spring she placed a portion of the morass between us.

“You will sink!” I cried, sick with horror, as the ground quivered under her light weight.

“No; I guide myself by the white stones!” she called back. “Good-bye, Mr. Faloise. Do not come here again. It means death to you and to me.”

With this she vanished into the house, and daunted by that horrible marsh I dared not follow her. Slowly I returned to the inn. The east was red with the dawn, but redder than the east burned the star from the tall tower.

* * *

I determined to force my way into the Grange that night. Devoured alike by love and curiosity, my state of mind was favourable to the enterprise. That it was a desperate one I gathered from the hints thrown out by Lady Selwyn. The half hysterical life of the past two weeks, in place of destroying my nerve, had screwed up my courage to a point of reckless daring. I knew that such artificiality would sooner or later collapse, but before the collapse came I swore to discover the secret of the red star. Of such resolve I told no one, not even Ruth, but making some trivial excuse for talking a walk, strolled up to that morass which formed so effective a defence to the Grange.

In the soft June twilight the sullen marsh spread its sliminess before me. The inky pools of black water, the unhealthy green of the vegetation, the grave-yard richness of the mould, all filled me with repugnance. It was like a grave, and for aught I knew might be mine, seeing that I was ignorant of the secret crossing. Lady Selwyn had guided her course by the white stones, so for such land marks I looked. They dotted the blackness irregularly, but by following their eccentric curvings I made sure to arrive safely on the other side. I am not religious, but as I shivered on the edge of that possible grave, and noted the evil gleam of the red star, I put up a hurried prayer for protection. Then I set a cautious foot on the spot indicated by the first stone.

The treacherous ground quivered like a jelly as the black bog water oozed sluggishly round my feet. Prudently trying every resting-place in advance with my stick, I sprang from one stone to another, ever feeling the quaking of the quagmire. There was no sign of life about the house, and though I half expected Lady Selwyn to issue forth with warning cries, she did not make her appearance. Several times my heart was in my mouth as I slipped on the spongy soil; but in the end I was safely across, and found myself on firm ground. I now stood fairly committed to the adventure, for the morass was my rubicon, yet for the moment I felt qualmish. My body counselled retreat but my soul inclined to pushing forward in the teeth of danger. Urged on by this desire, I marched boldly towards the low brick wall of the house.

It ran the whole length of the facade, and the rusty iron gate in the centre was closely barred. By looking through the narrow railings I could catch a glimpse of the front door. It stood wide open, as though Lady Selwyn deemed the morass a sufficient protection from the outside world; so seeing that there was but one obstacle to overcome, I plucked up heart. One portion of the dilapidated wall afforded perilous foothold. Of this I took advantage, and not without some abrasions of the knees, managed to clamber over. I then found myself directly under the red eye of the tower. It seemed to my distempered fancy to follow my movements in a stealthy manner, but undaunted by the bogey of superstition, I hurried forward to the open door.

Within was a mighty hall, with a wide staircase ascending into upper glooms, and so ghostly did it look that for the moment my spirit quailed. [4] On recollecting, however, that the house was but tenanted by two weak women, I felt ashamed of my momentary panic, and stole to the foot of the staircase. I did not know in which portion of this vast place Lady Selwyn resided, but judging that she would live above the unwholesome miasma of the morass, I decided to seek her on the first floor.

Just as I placed my foot on the stair, I heard the noise of descending feet and had barely time to draw back into the shadow, when a woman appeared on the landing. It was not Lady Selwyn, but her servant, going, as I judged from the basket on her arm, to the inn for provisions. She glided past me like a ghost, and having unlocked the iron gate, crossed the morass with an air of confidence which showed her to be thoroughly conversant with the dangerous way. The gate was left wide open; so here, if I chose to take it, was my chance of retreat; but I was bent on accomplishing my desire, and, giving myself no time for coward reflection, rapidly mounted the stairs.

Through the dingy windows filtered the doubtful light, creating within an atmosphere rather less luminous than was without. Still when my eyes became accustomed to the semi-gloom I managed to get about with considerable ease, but where I went I do not know to this day. My sole idea was to find Lady Selwyn; therefore I took no stock of my surroundings, but hunted blindly through room and echoing corridor. I descended stairs here, I went up others there, down long passages I ran, and hesitated in rooms bare of furniture, but I saw nothing. Up to this period of my life I had never felt the horror of loneliness, having been always within hail of my fellow creatures. I felt it now. Seated, through weariness, on the floor of an empty apartment, I was seized with a deadly feeling to which I can put no name. It made me shiver and turn sick. I felt myself environed by empty space. Methought there was no man in the world save I.

Then the Thing came. I can put no name to that either. It did not show itself visibly, but there it was, not at any particular spot but all round me. A faint sickly odour corrupted the atmosphere. My mouth was parched with nervous heat, and the perspiration rolled down my back. The twilight had condensed into a thick darkness, and I in the midst thereof was seated forlorn, forgotten of God and man. I could see nothing, I could hear nothing, but it was there, whatever it was, on all sides. I clutched my knees and shivered, while it moved invisibly around. Then I knew the sufferings of lost souls.

How long I was under this malign influence I cannot tell, but it seemed to me that I sat for hours shivering in the clinging darkness. The climax came when it began to whimper. I felt my flesh creep. At the second whimper I shrieked with horror.

Scarcely had my voice died away when I heard the sound of someone approaching, and Lady Selwyn entered the room bearing a lighted candle. The nerve of the woman was astonishing. Schooled, I suppose, by the horrors constantly surrounding her, she showed no fear, but moved swiftly towards me. I looked up, shaking like a leaf, and the light revealed my face.

“Mr. Faloise!” she cried, falling back a pace. “In God’s name how did you enter?”

Paying no attention to her question, I clutched her dress in a paroxysm of fear.

“What is it that cries in the darkness? Hark!”

Again I heard that indescribable sound, and she heard it also, for her white face blanched still whiter.

“Go! go!” she whispered, dragging me to my feet. “Ask nothing. Go!”

“I will know your secret!”

The sound again, but this time in angry tone, like the snarl of a dog.

“If you don’t go I cannot protect you,” she cried in alarm, and seizing my arm hurried me from the room.

In her presence I recovered my courage, and would have spoken, but she shook her head for me to keep silent. Leading me through the lonely passages, she made no pause until we found ourselves in the entrance hall. It did not follow us, for when we arrived at the foot of the staircase I felt a certain sense of relief, as though the invisible presence had departed.

“The door and the gate are both open,” said Lady Selwyn rapidly, “go at once and re-cross the marsh by the white stones.”

“Tell me what it all means!”

“Since you know so much, you may as well know all, Mr. Faloise, but you will regret your curiosity to your dying day.”

“It is too late now for regrets. Tell me all!”

“When I do, swear that you will leave this village at once and keep silence.”

“I swear!”

“So much for your love,” she said bitterly. “I see your curiosity has overpowered that feeling.”

“Lady Selwyn—”

“Hush! speak no more on that subject. What is the matter?”

“Heaven’s!” I whispered, looking apprehensively around: “it is here again!”

“I know that,” she replied composedly, “but you will not see it.”

“What is the thing that cries?”

“Paul Varst!” said Lady Selwyn, putting her hand to her breast.

“But he is dead!”

“No, he is not dead. He lives here. Shut out from the world for ever. The living dead.”

“What is the reason?”

She put her lips to my ear and whispered one word. It curdled my blood with horror and I cried out.

Again I heard the Thing moan, but this time its moaning shaped itself into human speech.

“Paul Varst! Paul Varst!” It wailed pitifully. “Once he was like you. Pray God you may never become like him. A leper! A leper! An outcast! Oh, my punishment! My punishment!”

The voice died away in a heart-breaking sigh. Fear staying my speech, I interrogated Lady Selwyn with a look.

“Now you know the truth,” she said, weeping bitterly. “He was my lover, but contracted this frightful disease in the East. On his return to England it manifested itself. I loved him too well to leave him. Spreading a report of his death I brought him secretly to this place and condemned myself to share his living death.”

“But the red star?”

“He cannot bear the light of heaven to reveal his deformity, even to himself. The windows of his room are of red glass, through which the lamplight shines at night.”

“Oh, my punishment! My punishment!” moaned the invisible thing. “I suffer in life what others suffer after death. Away! away! or you will become even as that which was once Paul Varst.”

I clutched Lady Selwyn’s arm, and tried to drag her to the open door. “Come away! come away from this accursed house.”

The thing whimpered angrily, and a look of alarm overspread her face.

“I cannot! I dare not! Go! Go! There is danger.”

“Leave that living corpse, I beg of you. It is accursed.”

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” moaned the voice, “do not leave me—do not leave me. You loved me once—do not leave me.”

The horror beat against the wall, and fearing lest it should reveal itself I dragged Lady Selwyn nearer the door by main force.

“Never mind it. Come away! Quick! Quick!”

“I dare not,” she gasped, hanging back. “I dare not. He would kill me, and I loved him.”

“Once, but not now. Paul Varst is dead. You love Hugh Faloise!”

The thing overheard my remark, and its voice arose in a howl of fury. With a cry of fear Lady Selwyn fell half fainting into my arms. In another moment I was out of the gate with my burden, trying to cross the morass.

I heard the whimpering of the Thing in pursuit but dared not turn my head. The cool air revived Lady Selwyn, and midway in the marsh she began to struggle.

“Let me go! Let me go! He wants me. Paul! Paul!”

It answered with the roar of a wild animal, and before I knew of its proximity Lady Selwyn was wrenched from my arms. She made a horrible noise, scarcely human, and I turned. Its face was looking straight at me.

“Oh, Heavens!” I screamed, and fell face downward on the quaking earth.

I must have fainted, but as my head had fallen partially into the water, I speedily recovered. All was still. A few bubbles on the near pool showed where it had sunk with its living burden. Wrapped in each other’s arms the dead and the living had gone down into that loathsome quagmire.

I looked up with an ashen face. The Red Star was shining over their grave.

Ferguson Hume (1859 – 1932)

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1. The word morass can be used in several ways. In the context of the story, it indicates a marshland or swampy area.

2. The word dilettantism has several meanings. In the case of the character in the story, it indicates he was someone who dabbled with arts, rather than applying himself and trying to make his art a serious profession. Dilettantism can also be used to indicate a lover of fine arts.

3. Malvolio is a fictional character in William Shakespeare’s comedy Twelfth Night, who, among other things, is marked by his pompousness, arrogance.

4. The word quailed has several meanings. In the context of the story it indicates the character recoiled due to his dread or terror.