Tenebrae: a novel

Front matter

renebrae BY ERNEST Q. HENHAM Crown Svo, cloth. Price 6s. Third Edition MENOTAH a thrilling Sale os tbe Canadian mortb=101est IRebellfon OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ' Menotah is an uncommonly fine creation — impressive in her supreme beauty and other charms. The incidents are intensely dramatic and pathetic. . . . Mr Henham has made a close study of the country, the people, and the events of which he writes.' — Scotsman. ' The story is replete with action, and the life of the Canadian North-West, with its rough and sombre grandeur, its primeval forests, its rugged steppes, and its hard and bare existence. The close is well and powerfully described, and is inexpressibly grand.' — Whitehall Review, ' Mr Henham describes the scenery and customs of the far North-West with a pictorial power based on intimate knowledge.'— Literature. ' Menotah's vengeance and death are powerfully told, and the book is full of fire and passion.' — Literary World. 1 Bright, clever and brilliant.

" Menotah " is one of the best stories of North American-Indian life that has appeared for ten years. Those who love picturesque detail, vivid word-painting, and flowing dialogue, will do well to read " Menotah.'" — North Star. ' A study of character and incident of an exciting kind. . . . Fine scenes and stirring episodes make the book worth reading . . . good descriptions of the " noble savage," wild life and grand scenery.' — Athenæum. ' Brim full of passion and incident. This admirable story will bear reading more than once.' — Manchester Courier. ' A highly coloured story of adventure and romance.' — Standard. 'Weird, fantastic, yet singularly attractive and lovable is the creation of the beautiful Indian girl Menotah. . . . Mr Henham has presented some stirring scenes of an eventful period, and his character-painting is in many instances power fully conceived.' — Birmingham Daily Gazette. ' A vigorous and dramatic story.' — Weekly Sun. 'To the author's imagination we owe this beautiful figure of Menotah.' Morning Post. ' The book is a very able one.' — Court Circular. ' Excellent is the account of M'Auliffe, the factor of the Hudson Bay Company with his appalling good humour, whether fighting, thrashing or drinking.'— GlasroTu Herald.

SKEFFINGTON & SON, PICCADILLY TENEBRAE a movei EY ERNEST G. HENHAM AUTHOR OF ' MENOTAH,' ETC. LONDON SKEFFINGTON & SON, PICCADILLY Ipublfabers to Ib.ilD. Ube ©ueen ana to Ib.lsi.'ff). 'ffbe ©vince of TOales 1898 .411 Rights reserved V CONTENTS

Part I

TEbe jforesba&owittQ CHAP. PAGE I. PEACE i II. AFFECTION " III. LOVE .... - - 22 IV. ALTERATION - - - • - - 33 V. MISGIVING 43 VI. DISCOVERY 54 VII. MADNESS? - - - - 67 VIII. DECEIT 82 IX. CHOICE 98 X. DEATH - i°9 XI. REACTION I24 XII. REMORSE . - - - VI +§ Consents

Part II

Ubc "Cln&ersSbaoow CHAP. PAGE I. ON DRIFTING CLOUDS - - - - 147 II. THE WARNING - - - 163 III. THE WINNING .... 173 IV. MARRIED LIFE - - 186 V. THE COMING OF SETH - - - 207 VI. THE STIRRING OF SETH - - - - 223 VII. SILENT WATERS ... - 236 VIII. AVE, TENEBRAE ! - - 251 IX. THE RETURNING OF SETH - - - 270 X. THE SETTLING OF SHADOW - - 280 XI. IMMORTALITY AND TWO MORTALS 291 XII. TENEBRAE ... - ■ 309 CONCLUSION 3i9

PART I

£(,e TENEBRAE

Chapter I Peace

The meek-eyed Peace ; With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing. Milton. Thursday morning, ioth April. SONG birds rejoiced in every tree, as each sought a mate ; upon the odorous earth, scented blossoms were glorious, while the bushes were lined with the fresh green of spring. Beyond rolled small pink clouds, tender as the red lips of early love, marking the eastern spot where the sun had arisen. Peace ! The perfect serenity of a heart unmarked by guilt. What gifts may the world offer in com parison with such ? Peace ! Peace ! The word rings with the fantastic sound of some soft evening bell over smiling waters — yet dies away in a lingering echo that suggests the death knell. A Jtenefirae I leant from my window, inhaling the breath of morning. I noted the slow formation of tiny leaflets upon the grey strands of the creepers, and felt the balm-laden waves of air rolling and rippling upon my features.

Suddenly there arose shuffling move ments from the garden beneath, while a weird voice cried, in shrill accents of strange anger, — ' What ! What ! You won't take the fly ? You won't eat the breakfast that I have provided for you ? I can see you. Yes, there are your black legs show ing under the rose leaves. I'm going to kill you. Do you hear that ? You're going to die.' This was merely my uncle, an old man, who suffered from the fearful malady he had brought upon himself by continual abuse of his body. Formerly he had been a nameless adventurer and wanderer over many lands. Then he had drifted back to me, a human derelict, that contained only a single germ of life. He had destroyed his powers in the gloomy west by internal use of arsenic and laudanum, by external application of morphia ; in the bright east he had slept the long opium dream, and had revelled in the mad fever of alcoholism.

Now he clung feebly to life, with the old lust still within him, beneath a con stant horror that was induced by his insanity. He was engaged in an occupation which came more as a duty to him than a pastime. He called himself the king of insects, so upon each fine day he might have been seen in the gardens, either (peace fa capturing flies, or hurrying to some bush in search of a particular subject of his strange kingdom. With a fly between finger and thumb, he would pause before the web of one of those most detestable objects of created life — the spider. Deliberately he would insert his capture between the meshes of the sticky web, and wait for the grim insect to pounce down upon its hapless prey. Then he would stand upon the gravel path, laughing fearfully, and knot ting his strange fingers together, while the fly buzzed in its last agony, and the horrid spider glutted its lust upon the victim's life.

Sometimes he would release the fly at that last moment ; at other times he would introduce one spider into the home of another, and watch them fighting to the death. Should one endeavour to run away, he killed it for its cowardice. On this occasion I knew that the spider refused to stir from its lair, and thus had aroused the anger of its would-be benefactor. He cursed at it, then knocked it from its nest with his stick. He watched it as it lay curled up at his feet, then squeezed its pulpy body maliciously with the toe of his boot. ' You will try to deceive me, will you ? You have disobeyed me, and now you would feign death. Ah, ah, we shall see. I will punish you. I'm going to torture you ; then I shall kill you.' The insect moved away, but he followed and squashed it slowly beneath his foot.

Then I heard *§ Zene&vae other footsteps, and presently my old nurse ap peared in sight. ' Eh, sir, and what are you after now ? Plaguing those poor flies and spiders as usual, I'll be bound.' The old man looked up with a weird chuckle. ' I have killed him. See the dead body lying near that stone. It was a disobedient subject, so I have punished him. It is not murder. No, no. This is justice. It will be a warning to the others.' ' Come away in, sir. Your breakfast is waiting. Leave the poor things alone.' But he went along, and hung over a rhododendron bush. ' I have not finished yet. I must go round and see my subjects.' She followed and pulled at his arm. ' Now come along with me. There's your nice breakfast spoiling, and all for nothing.' He replied only by a cry of fear. ' Look where you're treading !

He's my enemy, for he kills and eats my insects. Come away from the horrid creature.' She started. 'What is it? One of your nasty creatures crawling over me ? ' ' No, no. The big toad. Look at his red eyes and great speckled mouth. Take care ! You will tread upon him.' Then she understood, and did not step aside, Don't be afraid, sir. It's gone away now.' There was something of interest he had discovered eace fa within the rhododendron bush, which was covered thickly with light green buds. ' Look ! look ! ' he cried, thrusting his spare body forward. ' See ! Here is a wonderful subject' Then he glanced up and saw me at the window. ' Ah, nephew ! Come down here. He is worth looking at.' ' What is it, uncle ? ' I called. ' He is all in silver and brown,' cried the old man, bending over more closely. ' He lies right in the centre of the web, without moving — ah, no, I can see his black jaws stirring, and his eyes — he has fine eyes, nephew.' Though the morning was warm, I shuddered. ' Don't touch it, uncle.' The words fell from my lips involuntarily. ' He would not hurt me.

He wouldn't bite me.' ' Come away inside, sir,' repeated the old woman more impatiently. ' Nephew ! This is a good Christian. This is a pious spider. There is a silver cross upon his body. Come down and see.' Again my fear swept over me. I had noticed this often, for nobody in the world knew more about these insects than I. Always had I wondered and trembled at the dread significance of that sign. Why should this foul and hellish insect be invested for its brief life with the symbol of man's redemption ? What was the meaning in it? What the object? ' Ah, ah. I will bring you down to see this wonder *>§ ZeneQtae presently, nephew. He is the largest I have seen for a long time. His great body is covered thickly with long hairs. Then there is the cross. You cannot help seeing it. It is a white cross, and very distinct.' He began to grow excited.

Presently I saw him led away, muttering incoherent remarks to invisible occupants in every bush he passed. The morning seemed brighter when he had gone, but my peace of mind had been terribly disturbed. I went to my breakfast, and afterwards walked out in company with my reflections. I passed along the wide extent of garden, until I came to a rustic seat, around which blossomed pale yellow aconites, with many another of the season's flowers. Here I seated myself. I was a young man — standing only upon the threshold of the thirtieth year. When a man of that age seeks isolation in the heart of Nature, finds rapture in the murmuring of the trees and soft song of the birds, it is generally because he finds himself overwhelmed by the subtle passion of love. I was happy on that spring morning, I say.

Happy ! The trivial word has no weight in diagnosing the rapture at my heart. Joy formed a glorious environ ment, which bathed my body in its pure golden waves of feeling. For I loved, and knew myself to be loved. When a man may make such a pure confession to the confidence of his soul, he has lived and known the pleasure of life. Then lies nothing beyond in the years to come, but the mere shadow of that bliss. (peace fa Yet what a fury is that inexplicable power ! How it thrills its fiery course through the veins ! How the heart burns, how the brain throbs with the de light of life ! Yet, withal, what a grim monster of jealousy is there ! Such is an old story, time-worn as the grey earth itself, yet ever young in the minds of all. I loved, and what did it matter that thousands were placed even as I ?

That millions of dead witnessed to the fleeting nature of this transitory passion? That eternity hovered behind, with its selfish message of salvation ? I loved. That sufficed for me. Others might go their way, and sway this mighty world with their discoveries of Nature's hidden secrets. But such had no affinity with me. All I sought for was peace — and the realisation of my heart's desire. And she, whom I had endowed with the poor gift of myself, she who was photographed in both my eyes, was indeed fair. Only the painter may inade quately delineate beauty with his dim eloquence of silence ; the art is withheld from him who guides the pen. Description of a graceful curve, a wondrous colouring, is impossible. Imagination flies from the lifeless touch of words. Only the lover may describe the perfections of his particular mistress, and then only to his own heart.

So let it suffice to say that she was a woman, and I loved her. From selfish consideration, I turned to thoughts of others. There were three, who had enwrapped them- *? geneBrae selves round my life, three strangely dissimilar in every way, apart from a single common characteristic — their affection for me, the master of the house. Surely, in the matter of love, Fortune had blessed me with singular favour. Above all stood my brother, who was in age but a year my junior. Here was one who possessed for me all that wealth of devotion which Jonathan of old showered upon David. Here was a man who loved his brother as he did himself, who had, moreover, no thought apart from that brother's happiness. He was a man with a great heart, and he loved — my God ! what has come over my eyes ? The ink turns red upon the paper.

The pen is dripping blood. Blood, I say. God ! My brain is in flames. There it is again. The horror surges up before my eyes. Ah ! leave me — leave me. Peace. I was forgetting. I am calm again now. I am curiously liable to such fits when I think of my brother. For he is dead now. Ages have rolled away since we buried him. His was a strange, a mysterious sinking into death. Many wondered why he departed so suddenly, and abandoned the brother he loved. But the world is full of greater mysteries. Of what account is the life or death of one unknown man from the myriads that walk upon the earth ? Nothing — nothing at all. Then there came the memory of my old nurse, a faithful woman who had been for years in the family of which I was now the head. She had (peace fa led up my brother and myself from infancy, with that loving attention which is so often wanting in the mother.

Now she was the general guardian of all my domestic affairs. And lastly, I thought of my uncle, whom I pitied. These, then, were the three of the home circle with whom my life was bound up — the loving brother, the faithful housekeeper, the drivelling uncle. A curious family, perhaps, yet peaceful and happy. My God ! how peaceful and happy ! I remained upon the rustic seat, in peace with my own mind, until I became suddenly disturbed. Over my head was rough woodwork, where ivy twisted and fell in graceful festoons of shining green. The sun rays pierced the tree branches and struck full upon my face, causing me to move slightly to one side. But as I did so, without warning, without the least sound, a horrible creature dropped from the tangled mesh above, swung upon a glistening silver strand, with hideous legs working through the air, then dropped in grim silence upon the seat.

It would have fallen upon my hand, had I not withdrawn it with a shock of sickening terror. The creature was a black spider, bloated and ungainly. For some seconds repugnance at this grim visitant impaired each sense. My eyes were fixed upon the hairy body, which swayed slowly from side to side. There was no cross there, but I noticed *>§ ZeneQrae other markings upon that dark skin, yellow lines and tracings, which seemed to me — I may have been in error, for my imagination was fevered — to represent the ghastly form of a human skull, that symbol of all things solemn, and of death. Then the creature drew itself round upon the seat, faced me, and deliberately commenced to move in my direction. Every line of its horrid body rippled with the fiendish action that lay beneath. With a fearful shudder I took a long stick and swept the creature from the seat.

It dropped from the woodwork, swinging upon a single strand. This I broke, and it fell to the ground. I placed an end of the stick above that spot where the creature was feigning death. I closed my eyes, and dug the point well into the soil. Then, without glancing at the result of my work, I hurried away, with an unaccountable feeling of nausea.

Chapter II Affection

Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. 2 Samuel i. 26. 4 o'clock p.m. MANY might have imagined that my house was set in the midst of extremely dreary surroundings. They might even have applied to it such terms as gloomy and desolate. Before the grounds stretched a grass-grown road, little frequented and always silent. This might have borne a dreary aspect in the rainy autumn, when the long sedges and solemn bushes stood dripping with moisture, and mud lay piled on either side. Also, there were many decayed trees dotted along the ragged hedgerows, and these often showed ghastly on moonlight nights. In a south-westerly direction ran the jagged line of the cliff, beneath which the sea moaned and sobbed, in the sorrow of calm or the anger of storm. Running back from the sheer edge spread a wood *$ t-eneQrae of pines, terminating at the grass road before mentioned.

This was a part of my large property, as was also the desolate moor, which ran for a great distance almost direct north on the opposite side. It was a pathless reach of broken ground, with occasional blasted oaks that uplifted gaunt, crooked arms to the sky, and a melancholy patch of ink black water lying stagnant near the centre. The house itself, erected in the days when romance and imagination happily controlled the genius of the architect, was unmistakably stern in its gradual de cay. There were many creepers clinging to the aged brickwork, which showed frequently in discoloured patches, but most of these shared in the antiquity of the materials to which they adhered. In many places the woodwork had rotted considerably, and was almost entirely overspread by a minute yellow fungus, which at a short distance bore an unnatural appearance of grotesque colouring.

Each window bore a certain vacant and search ing appearance, an unconscious freak on the part of the long dead architect, yet one which pleased me greatly. These windows — I would allow no white curtains to detract from their grimness — seemed to follow any frequenter of the grounds with the ques tioning gaze that lurks in the eyes of a well-painted portrait. Some there were which forgotten ancestors had deemed it advisable, or necessary, to close up, and which now peered blankly through the cling ing ivy, striking into the spectator's mind a latent Affection fa suggestion of guarded horrors lying concealed behind, of rooms possessing no door, nor any means of entry from within. All this, however, was pleasing to my naturally morbid imagination. With all speed I hurried from the house towards the road beyond, for I had an appointment to keep.

I stepped from the path, where a few half-dead poplars shook mournful heads, and left behind me the gates of rusted iron. The next moment I found myself face to face with my brother. (Before I write further, I must strive to quiet the wild revulsion at my heart. The agonising afflic tion presses upon me, an awful passion is consuming me. The time is short now. The horror of the end is inevitable. But peace — peace as at present. For the time I am free.) Perhaps we were strange brothers, with our extraordinary affection for each other. As children we lay in the same bed ; we played through boyhood's happy days without a quarrel ; together we were influenced and corrected. So we had reached man's estate, joined together by the great unspoken love which controlled our every action. We shared, as it were, the same heart, the same mind, equal portions of the same soul.

Only the law of Nature compelled us to pass through life beneath the identity of separate bodies. We formed the last representatives of an ancient family, proud of its history and its name. Upon the early death of father and mother, the large *§ &ene6vae estate fell to me, the eldest by a year. In com parison with me, my brother was poor, but that mattered little, for the understanding between us was complete. My property was his. We shared in all things alike. All understood our positions. They knew me to be the rich owner, my brother the poor dependant. So we met together on that spring afternoon, at the iron gates which led to the lonely road. He was breathing hard, as though heated with running. Yet he was the first to speak. ' I am glad it is you. I was afraid I should miss you.' His manner seemed to me strange.

It was as though he feared his tongue might convict him of wrong-doing. His glance had something of sus picion, while the eyes shifted aside when they met mine. I had come upon him unexpectedly, when he was unprepared to meet me. ' Why ? ' I asked merely. ' I think I know where you are going. To the road at the back of the wood — ' ' Of course,' I cried. ' And I must not stop here any longer. I am due there already.' I was about to step away over the fresh grass, when he put out his arm and stopped me. ' Wait a moment. I hurried on to tell you,' he said. ' What ? ' I cried in fear. ' Nothing has happened to her ? ' ' I met her by an accident, as I came up from Affection fa the shore, and walked with her. She had a sudden faintness, and was compelled to return home. I hurried on to catch you in time.' I was alarmed at his information. ' It is nothing serious ?

You are sure of it ? ' ' Quite,' he replied, with conviction. Then he added, ' She would not even allow me to accompany her home.' This placed the matter beyond question. ' Did she not send me a message?' I cried. He bit his lips, and I almost thought it was in anger. Then I saw he was thinking. ' Yes,' he said slowly ; ' to-morrow afternoon — ' ' At the same place ? ' I interrupted. ' At the same place,' he repeated, with the same slow emphasis. ' The same time ? ' He seemed actually afraid to trust his voice. He merely nodded, then made as though he would have passed me. I placed my hand upon his arm. 'You are not going to leave me,' I said. ' Let us take a walk together.' He came with me, though I had the thought that he obeyed unwillingly, and we paced along the grass-grown road in silence for a time.

This was nothing unusual. We understood each other so well that speech was often unnecessary. So we passed together from the grass - grown road, and commenced to wind a devious track among the *>S &ene%xae rugged stones which lay everywhere scattered over the surface of the moor. Though the prospect ahead was clearly lighted by afternoon sunshine, save for a white line of fog which hung heavily across the eastern horizon, at the first glimpse of this lonely moor an unaccountable feeling of de pression, a distinct sense of gloom permeated my mind. Why, I cannot imagine, for at the time I was entirely happy. That strange superstition for the unseen, which had ever exerted a powerful influence over my career, rose in a strong im petus of feeling, and sent a shudder through my entire frame, when I glanced upon the worn, wind swept rocks, the blasted trees of grotesque and melancholy shapes, and the occasional patches of long grey grass whispering drearily beneath a rising breeze.

A coldness crept into my body, an unmistak able sense of loss tormented my mind. There was no pleasure in life. There was nothing between maturity and dissolution, but a mad striving after the unattainable. Should any dim delight present itself, enjoyment was banished by physical afflic tion, or the unhealthy fancy of imagination ; should success arrive, appreciation became at once over shadowed blackly by the gaunt apparition of death. There was nothing in life, beyond this appalling fear of death; there was nothing in that recession to the unknown which was not entirely horrible. bisection fa- Such in brief were some of my thoughts, as I stepped out with my brother upon the lonely moor. I brushed aside the sedges with careless tread, until we stood upon a sodden grass patch, and looked down upon the black waters of the small lake which blotted the centre of this melan choly land.

Presently I spoke. The attractions of that spot had a morbid tendency. ' It is said that there exists a race of uncivilised people who fear stagnant water. They believe that the spirit of evil inhabits its dark depths.' My brother turned to me. ' They may well think so. Anything might lie beneath such a sur face as this, and remain invisible.' Its shape would necessarily be strange,' I con tinued. ' It may stretch itself along the slimy bottom, waiting to seize upon any who enter its domains. The traveller, passing by night, might slip and fall. He would be drawn down into these dark waters, choked in the monster's vile embrace, and meet a fearful end. There is a mystery in water.' He made no reply, and I continued, ' How many of the world's secrets lie concealed beneath the dark water ! There is nothing like it for hiding away the damning evidence of guilt — the body of a murdered victim, shall we say ? ' He gave an exclamation of horror.

A great bubble mounted upward from unknown depths, and burst *•$ t-ene&rae upon the sluggish surface at our feet. The greasy water became animated with small ripples, while a sickly odour of marsh gas beat upon our nostrils. ' That was like the breath of created life,' I muttered. ' It is nothing,' he said. ' Only mud, rotting vege tation, with perhaps the carcase of some animal.' ' Or human being,' I added, my eyes gloating upon the ink-like surface. He shuddered. Physically and mentally my brother was far weaker than myself. ' This is not a human grave,' he said. I laughed. ' These dark pools preserve their sombre secrets. What can you or I know of the passions that may have raged over this very spot ? Perhaps some gloomy life chapter has found its conclusion here. This grass may once have been spotted with blood.

Two, who had loved once, may here have shrieked a last farewell, one to return to the world, the other — ' I pointed to the sullen pit below. ' It is possible,' he said slowly. ' There would have been one great cry, then a splash, and after that — silence. The world would go on laughing and sinning as before, while another creature would walk the earth beneath the curse of Cain. How terrible it must be to know yourself, no longer as a man, but as — a murderer ! ' He looked at me, and I saw that his hands were trembling. ' Why do you speak on such things ? ' ' The thoughts are not our own. There are those bisection fa of good and those of evil ; there are thoughts happy and others morbid. These suit themselves to the environment of the body.' I waved my hand towards the bleak expanse of water, with the inverted images of decayed tree trunks and scraggy bush. ' In such a spot, the thoughts turn into a morbid groove.

This place is suggestive of a burying ground, its features might well stand for memorial tablets of the dead. We are induced to consider such things by the knowledge of our common end.' ' Yet it is not for us to reflect upon unwholesome fancies. You were never cast in the murderer's mould. You know that the criminal is born for the gallows, not led up to it by a series of life's mischances.' I groaned to myself and violently clenched my left hand. The palm was throbbing as he spoke, while two lines of liquid fire played across the flesh. I jealously concealed from all eyes that fatal com mingling of the two vital lines of head and life on that hand. The ominous cutting of these fantastic markings is commonly known as the Scaffold Sign. Deliberately he continued, 'The murderer is usually a man of limited education, who has not the power to cloak feeling, and who acts always under the quick impulse of the moment.