It was the exact kind of abode that I had been looking after for
weeks, for I was in that condition of mind when absolute renunciation of
society was a necessity. I had become diffident of myself, and wearied
of my kind. A strange unrest was in my blood; a barren dearth in my brains.
Familiar objects and faces had grown distasteful to me. I wanted to be alone.
This is the mood which comes upon every sensitive and artistic mind
when the possessor has been overworked or living too long in one groove.
It is Nature's hint for him to seek pastures new; the sign that a retreat
has become needful.
If he does not yield, he breaks down and becomes whimsical and
hypochondriacal, as well as hypercritical. It is always a bad sign when
a man becomes over-critical and censorious about his own or other
people's work, for it means that he is losing the vital portions of work,
freshness and enthusiasm.
Before I arrived at the dismal stage of criticism I hastily packed
up my knapsack, and taking the train to Westmorland, I began my tramp in
search of solitude, bracing air and romantic surroundings.
Many places I came upon during that early summer wandering that
appeared to have almost the required conditions, yet some petty drawback
prevented me from deciding. Sometimes it was the scenery that I did not
take kindly to. At other places I took sudden antipathies to the landlady
or landlord, and felt I would abhor them before a week was spent under
their charge. Other places which might have suited me I could not have,
as they did not want a lodger. Fate was driving me to this Cottage on
the Moor, and no one can resist destiny.
One day I found myself on a wide and pathless moor near the sea. I
had slept the night before at a small hamlet, but that was already eight
miles in my rear, and since I had turned my back upon it I had not seen
any signs of humanity; I was alone with a fair sky above me, a balmy
ozone-filled wind blowing over the stony and heather-clad mounds, and
nothing to disturb my meditations.
How far the moor stretched I had no knowledge; I only knew that by
keeping in a straight line I would come to the ocean cliffs, then perhaps
after a time arrive at some fishing village.
I had provisions in my knapsack, and being young did not fear a
night under the stars. I was inhaling the delicious summer air and once
more getting back the vigour and happiness I had lost; my city-dried
brains were again becoming juicy.
Thus hour after hour slid past me, with the paces, until I had
covered about fifteen miles since morning, when I saw before me in the
distance a solitary stone-built cottage with roughly slated roof. 'I'll
camp there if possible,' I said to myself as I quickened my steps towards
it.
To one in search of a quiet, free life, nothing could have possibly
been more suitable than this cottage. It stood on the edge of lofty
cliffs, with its front door facing the moor and the back-yard wall
overlooking the ocean. The sound of the dancing waves struck upon my
ears like a lullaby as I drew near; how they would thunder when the
autumn gales came on and the seabirds fled shrieking to the shelter of
the sedges.
A small garden spread in front, surrounded by a dry-stone wall just
high enough for one to lean lazily upon when inclined. This garden was a
flame of colour, scarlet predominating, with those other soft shades that
cultivated poppies take on in their blooming, for this was all that the
garden grew.
As I approached, taking notice of this singular assortment of
poppies, and the orderly cleanness of the windows, the front door opened
and a woman appeared who impressed me at once favourably as she leisurely
came along the pathway to the gate, and drew it back as if to welcome me.
She was of middle age, and when young must have been remarkably
good-looking. She was tall and still shapely, with smooth clear skin,
regular features and a calm expression that at once gave me a sensation
of rest.
To my inquiries she said that she could give me both a sitting and
bedroom, and invited me inside to see them. As I looked at her smooth
black hair, and cool brown eyes, I felt that I would not be too
particular about the accomodation. With such a landlady, I was sure to
find what I was after here.
The rooms surpassed my expectation, dainty white curtains and
bedding with the perfume of lavender about them, a sitting-room homely
yet cosy without being crowded. With a sigh of infinite relief I flung
down my knapsack and clinched the bargain.
She was a widow with one daughter, whom I did not see the first day,
as she was unwell and confined to her own room, but on the next day she
was somewhat better, and then we met.
The fare was simple, yet it suited me exactly for the time,
delicious milk and butter with home-made scones, fresh eggs and bacon;
after a hearty tea I went early to bed in a condition of perfect content
with my quarters.
Yet happy and tired out as I was I had by no means a comfortable
night. This I put down to the strange bed. I slept certainly, but my
sleep was filled with dreams so that I woke late and unrefreshed; a good
walk on the moor, however, restored me, and I returned with a fine
appetite for breakfast.
Certain conditions of mind, with aggravating circumstances, are
required before even a young man can fall in love at first sight, as
Shakespeare has shown in his Romeo and Juliet. In the city, where many
fair faces passed me every hour, I had remained like a stoic, yet no
sooner did I enter the cottage after that morning walk than I succumbed
instantly before the weird charms of my landlady's daughter, Ariadne
Brunnell.
She was somewhat better this morning and able to meet me at
breakfast, for we had our meals together while I was their lodger.
Ariadne was not beautiful in the strictly classical sense, her complexion
being too lividly white and her expression too set to be quite pleasant
at first sight; yet, as her mother had informed me, she had been ill for
some time, which accounted for that defect. Her features were not
regular, her hair and eyes seemed too black with that strangely white
skin, and her lips too red for any except the decadent harmonies of an
Aubrey Beardsley.
Yet my fantastic dreams of the preceding night, with my morning
walk, had prepared me to be enthralled by this modern poster-like
invalid.
The loneliness of the moor,w ith the singing of the ocean, had
gripped my heart with a wistful longing. The incongruity of those
flaunting and evanescent poppy flowers, dashing the giddy tints in the
face of that sober heath, touched me with a shiver as I approached the
cottage, and lastly that weird embodiment of startling contrasts
completed my subjugation.
She rose from her chair as her mother introduced her, and smiled
while she held out her hand. I clasped that soft snowflake, and as I did
so a faint thrill tingled over me and rested on my heart, stopping for
the moment its beating.
This contact seemed also to have affected her as it did me; a clear
flush, like a white flame, lighted up her face, so that it glowed as if
an alabaster lamp had been lit; her black eyes became softer and more
humid as our glances crossed, and her scarlet lips grew moist. She was a
living woman now, while before she had seemed half a corpse.
She permitted her white slender hand to remain in mine longer than
most people do at an introduction, and then she slowly withdrew it, still
regarding me with steadfast eyes for a second or two afterwards.
Fathomless velvety eyes these were, yet before they were shifted
from mine they appeared to have absorbed all my willpower and made me her
abject slave. They looked like deep dark pools of clear water, yet they
filled me with fire and deprived me of strength. I sank into my chair
almost as languidly as I had risen from my bed that morning.
Yet I made a good breakfast, and although she hardly tasted
anything, this strange girl rose much refreshed and with a slight glow of
colour on her cheeks, which improved her so greatly that she appeared
younger and almost beautiful.
I had come here seeking solitude, but since I had seen Ariadne it
seemed as if I had come for her only. She was not very lively; indeed,
thinking back, I cannot recall any spontaneous remark of hers; she
answered my questions by monosyllables and left me to lead in words; yet
she was insinuating and appeared to lead my thoughts in her direction and
speak to me with her eyes. I cannot describe her minutely, I only know
that from the first glance and touch she gave me I was bewitched and
could think of nothing else.
It was a rapid, distracting, and devouring infatuation that
possessed me; all day long I followed her about like a dog, every night I
dreamed of that white glowing face, those steadfast black eyes, those
moist scarlet lips, and each morning I rose more languid than I had been
the day before. Sometimes I dreamt that she was kissing me with those
red lips, while I shivered at the contact of her silky black tresses as
they covered my throat; sometimes that we were floating in the air, her
arms about me and her long hair enveloping us both like an inky cloud,
while I lay supine and helpless.
She went with me after breakfast on that first day to the moor, and
before we came back I had spoken my love and received her assent. I held
her in my arms and had taken her kisses in answer to mine, nor did I
think it strange that all this had happened so quickly. She was mine, or
rather I was hers, without a pause. I told her it was fate that had sent
me to her, for I had no doubts about my love, and she replied that I had
restored her to life.
Acting upon Ariadne's advice, and also from a natural shyness, I did
not inform her mother how quickly matters had progressed between us, yet
although we both acted as circumspectly as possible, I had no doubt Mrs
Brunnell could see how engrossed we were in each other. Lovers are not
unlike ostriches in their modes of concealment. I was not afraid of
asking Mrs Brunnell for her daughter, for she already showed her
partiality towards me, and had bestowed upon me some confidences
regarding her own position in life, and I therefore knew that, so far as
social position was concerned, there could be no real objection to our
marriage. They lived in this lonely spot for the sake of their health,
and kept no servant because they could not get any to take service so far
away from other humanity. My coming had been opportune and welcome to
both mother and daughter.
For the sake of decorum, however, I resolved to delay my confession
for a week or two and trust to some favourable opportunity of doing it
discreetly.
Meantime Ariadne and I passed our time in a thoroughly idle and
lotus-eating style. Each night I retired to bed meditating starting work
next day, each morning I rose languid from those disturbing dreams with
no thought for anything outside my love. She grew stronger every day,
while I appeared to be taking her place as the invalid, yet I was more
frantically in love than ever, and only happy when with her. She was my
lone-star, my only joy - my life.
We did not go great distances, for I liked best to lie on the dry
heath and watch her glowing face and intsense eyes while I listened to
the surging of the distant waves. It was love made me lazy, I thought,
for unless a man has all he longs for beside him, he is apt to copy the
domestic cat and bask in the sunshine.
I had been enchanted quickly. My disenchantment came as rapidly,
although it was long before the poison left my blood.
One night, about a couple of weeks after my coming to the cottage, I
had returned after a delicious moonlight walk with Ariadne. The night
was warm and the moon at the full, therefore I left my bedroom window
open to let in what little air there was.
I was more than usually fagged out, so that I had only strength
enough to remove my boots and coat before I flung myself wearily on the
coverlet and fell almost instantly asleep without tasting the nightcap
draught that was constantly placed on the table, and which I had always
drained thirstily.
I had a ghastly dream this night. I thought I saw a monster bat,
with the face and tresses of Ariadne, fly into the open window and fasten
its white teeth and scarlet lips on my arm. I tried to beat the horror
away, but could not, for I seemed chained down and thralled also with
drowsy delight as the beast sucked my blood with a gruesome rapture.
I looked out dreamily and saw a line of dead bodies of young men
lying on the floor, each with a red mark on their arms, on the same part
where the vampire was then sucking me, and I remembered having seen and
wondered at such a mark on my own arm for the past fortnight. In a flash
I understood the reason for my strange weakness, and at the same moment a
sudden prick of pain roused me from my dreamy pleasure.
The vampire in her eagerness had bitten a little too deeply that
night, unaware that I had not tasted the drugged draught. As I woke I
saw her fully revealed by the midnight moon, with her black tresses
flowing loosely, and with her red lips glued to my arm. With a shriek of
horror I dashed her backwards, getting one last glimpse of her savage
eyes, glowing white face and blood-stained red lips; then I rushed out to
the night, moved on by my fear and hatred, nor did I pause in my mad
flight until I had left miles between me and that accursed Cottage on the
Moor.
The History of DeMarquis Castle
The Belltower The Black Cat The Premature Burial Dracula's Guest The Ghost Green Tea Little Snow White A Haunted House The Lady's Maid It Came From the Lake Lost Souls A Descent into the Maelstrom The Mask of The Red Death The Mortal Immortal The Outsider The Pit and the Pendulum The Room in the Tower The Secret Chamber Snow, Glass, Apples Snowblind Faith The Tapestried Chamber The Tell Tale Heart The Boarded Window The Raven The Fall of the House of Usher
by Melville
by Poe
by Poe
by Stoker
by Sexton
by Le Fanu
(A Grimms Fairy Tale)
by Woolf
by Wharton
by Smith
by Barker
by Poe
by Poe
by Shelley
by Lovecraft
by Poe
by Benson
by Oliphant
by Gaiman
by Platt and Dixit
by Scott
by Poe
by Bierce
by Poe
by Poe