My lady of Cleeve

by Percy John Hartley

I snatched the lantern from the steward’s hand and saw that the sergeant had spoken the truth. There was turf beneath our feet. A sudden suspicion of our guide crossed my brain. What if he should lead us once more to the brink of the cliff, and, true in his loyalty to the house he served, should cause us to perish, though the act should involve his own destruction. Such things had been done, I knew, and he had proved himself to be a stubborn man. I threw the light upon his face.

“What is this?” I said harshly. “Are you playing us false, man?”

“No,” he answered sullenly. “There should be a fountain here.”

I bade the troopers keep behind me, and throwing the light upon the ground, moved slowly forwards, half expecting at each step to see some horrible abyss yawning at my feet. But nothing appeared until some fifty feet further I came once more to a gravel path, in the centre of which a white marble fountain loomed ghost-like through the fog. At a short distance from this stood a stone seat, its surface strewn with the petals of withered roses. I thrust the light back into the steward’s hand, and he struck off into a broader walk than any we had as yet traversed and which ascended, by means of three or four stone steps, in a succession of terraces, until, when we had travelled fully a quarter of a mile from where we started, we came at last to a little stone bridge spanning a narrow moat. I held the lantern over this and the light shone upon the dark surface below, covered, for the most part, with a thick growth of water-weed. The bridge gave entrance to a broader terrace beyond, across which loomed the dark outline of the house. I bade them now put out the lantern; and we crossed the terrace and stood beneath the walk of the building. To left and right of where we were standing the house stretched into the fog, dark and silent. There was something almost sinister in its gloomy aspect, matching well with the black night without.

Stay; a little to our right I thought that I could see a shaft of light, and it was towards this that the steward directed his steps. It came from a heavily curtained window and lay a mere slit upon the gravel surface of the terrace. At the top the curtains had fallen somewhat apart, disclosing nothing to our view, however, beyond a glimpse of the brightly illumined ceiling of the room. I halted and put my lips to the steward’s ear. “What room is that?” I said softly.

“It is the dining hall,” he whispered in reply. “The man you seek is there.”

I noticed that the window was such as I had seen in France. It reached to the ground and opened upon the terrace. I left two troopers therefore to guard it, impressing them with the necessity of using the utmost vigilance. They took up their station one on either side, and we continued our way until the steward stopped at length before an arched doorway in the wall. I halted then, and waiting till a lull in the gale, raised my voice and gave the signal I had agreed upon with Cornet Graham. The melancholy cry went pealing into the night, and we stood in the darkness, straining our ears for a reply. But no answering cry came back to them, no sound from the silent house, save the patter of the rain upon the ivy-covered wall and the sobbing of the wind in its eaves and gables.

I waited no longer, therefore, but inserted the key in the lock before me. It was a massive door, nail-studded, and it opened with a sullen creak as we quickly entered, carrying with us a breath of the fog and a shower of raindrops. We closed it quietly behind us, and so thick was its massive timber that the noise of the wind without came to our ears but faintly as from a distance. We stood in a narrow passage, giving place to a square, dimly lit hall, from which five or six doors opened. So far we had seen no one, but from a corridor on the right came the sound of voices with now and again a snatch of song.

I looked inquiringly at the steward.

“The servants’ quarters,” he whispered in return.