“She fixed his gaze with her fearful spell,
And the book from his failing fingers fell;
While her low voice hissed in his shuddering ear,
‘We’ve met at last, slave! Dost thou fear?’”
A few years only have elapsed since the public mind was electrified by the discovery of a strange tissue of crimes, through which had perished within the space of twelve months every member of a noble family, and in which was implicated the honor of one of England’s haughtiest peers and the life of one of her loveliest daughters, and finally, which added a recent and thrilling domestic drama to those ancient histories and ghostly traditions that have long rendered Allworth Abbey the resort of the curious, and the terror of the ignorant and the superstitious.
The principal circumstances were made sufficiently public at the time of the discovery; some at least of the guilty parties were brought to justice, and the effigy of the chief criminal may even now be seen in a certain celebrated “Room of Horrors.” But much also remained enveloped in mystery, for, underlying the bare facts that were openly proved, there was a secret history, stranger, more atrocious and more appalling, even, than those ruthless crimes for which the convicted felons suffered.
The knowledge of this secret history came to me in a singular manner; and with the purpose of showing over what fatal pitfalls the most innocent feet may sometimes stray, I proceed to relate the story, entreating my readers to remember, amidst its strangest revelations, that “nothing is so strange as reality,” and nothing more incredible than truth:—
Allworth Abbey, the scene of these events, is one of the most ancient monuments of monastic history left standing in the United Kingdom. The precise date of its foundation is lost in the dimness of far-distant ages, and remains to this day a disputed point among learned antiquarians.
It is a vast and gloomy pile of Gothic architecture, situated at the bottom of a deep and thickly-wooded glen, surrounded by high hills, that even at noonday cast a sombre shadow over the whole scene, which is one of the wildest, loneliest, and most picturesque to be found on the northwest coast of England. The surrounding country may be called mountainous, from the imposing height of the hills, and the profound depth of the vales.
Nothing can be more secluded, solitary, and sombre than the aspect of this place. The grim old Abbey, lurking at the bottom of its deep dell, reflected dimly in its dark lake, overshadowed by its tall trees, and closely shut in by high hills, is just the object to depress and awe the beholder, even though he never may have heard the fearful stories connected with the place.