The Demon Of The Oak

Once a fortress and a mansion, but now, unfortunately, little more
than a noble ruin, Hoghton Tower stands on one of the most commanding
sites in Lancashire. From the fine old entrance-gate a beautiful
expanse of highly-cultivated land slopes down and stretches away to
the distant sea, glimmering like a strip of molten silver; and on
either hand there are beautiful woods, in the old times 'so full of
tymber that a man passing through could scarce have seen the sun shine
in the middle of the day.' At the foot of these wooded heights a
little river ripples through a wild ravine, and meanders through the
rich meadows to the proud Ribble. From the building itself, however,
the glory has departed. Over the noble gateway, with its embattled
towers, and in one of the fast-decaying wainscots, the old family
arms, with the motto, _Mal Gre le Tort_, still remain; but these
things, and a few mouldering portraits, are all that are left there to
tell of the stately women who, from the time of Elizabeth down to
comparatively modern days, pensively watched the setting sun gild the
waters of the far-off Irish Sea, and dreamed of lovers away in the
wars--trifling things to be the only unwritten records of the noble
men who buckled on their weapons, and climbed into the turrets to gaze
over the road along which would come the expected besieging parties.
Gone are the gallants and their ladies, the roystering Cavalier and
the patient but none the less brave Puritan, for, as Isaac Ambrose has
recorded, during the troublous times of the Restoration, the place,
with its grand banqueting chamber, its fine old staircases, and quaint
little windows, was 'a colledge for religion.' The old Tower resounds
no more with the gay song of the one or the solemn hymn of the other,

'Men may come, and men may go,'

and an old tradition outlives them all.

To this once charming mansion there came, long ago, a young man,
named Edgar Astley. His sable garments told that he mourned the loss
of a relative or friend; and he had not been long at the Tower before
it began to be whispered in the servants'-hall that 'the trappings and
the suits of woe' were worn in memory of a girl who had been false to
him, and who had died soon after her marriage to his rival. This story
in itself was sufficient to throw a halo of romance around the young
visitor; but when it was rumoured that domestics, who had been
returning to the Tower late at night, had seen strange-coloured lights
burning in Edgar's room, and that, even at daybreak, the early risers
had seen the lights still unextinguished, and the shadow of the
watcher pass across the curtains, an element of fear mingled with the
feelings with which he was regarded.

There was much in the visitor calculated to deepen the impressions by
which the superstitious domestics were influenced, for, surrounded by
an atmosphere of gloom, out of which he seemed to start when any of
them addressed him, and appearing studiously to shun all the society
which it was possible for him to avoid, he spent most of his time
alone, seated beneath the spreading branches of the giant oak tree at
the end of the garden, reading black-letter volumes, and plunged in
meditation. Not that he was in any way rude to his hosts; on the
contrary, he was almost chivalrous in his attention to the younger
members of the family and to the ladies of the house, who, in their
turn, regarded him with affectionate pity, and did their utmost to
wean him from his lonely pursuits. Yet, although he would willingly
accompany them through the woods, or to the distant town, the approach
of the gloaming invariably found him in his usual place beneath the
shadow of the gnarled old boughs, either poring over his favourite
books, or, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, lost in a reverie.

Time would, the kind people thought, bring balm to his wounds, and in
the meanwhile they were glad to have their grief-stricken friend with
them; and fully appreciating their sympathy, Edgar came and went about
the place and grounds just as the whim of the moment took him. This
absence of curiosity on the part of the members of the family was,
however, amply compensated for by the open wonder with which many of
the domestics regarded the young stranger; and before he had been many
months in the house his nightly vigils were the theme of many a
serious conversation in the kitchen, where, in front of a cosy fire,
the gossips gathered to compare notes.

Unable to repress their vulgar curiosity, or to gratify it in any more
honourable or less dangerous manner, it was determined that one of the
domestics should, at the hour of twelve, creep to the door of the
visitor's chamber, and endeavour to discover what was the nature of
those pursuits which rendered lights necessary during the whole of the
night. The selection was soon made, and after a little demur the
chosen one agreed to perform the unpleasant task.

At midnight, therefore, the trembling ambassador made his way to the
distant door, and after a little hesitation, natural enough under the
circumstances, he stooped, and gazed through a hole in the dried oak
whence a knot had fallen. Edgar Astley was seated at a little table,
an old black-looking book with huge clasps open before him. With one
hand he shaded his eyes from the light which fell upon his face from
the flames of many colours dancing in a tall brazen cup. Suddenly,
however, he turned from his book, and put a few pinches of a
bright-looking powder to the burning matter in the stand. A searching
and sickly odour immediately filled the room, and the quivering flames
blazed upwards with increased life and vigour as the student turned
once more to the ponderous tome, and, after hastily glancing down its
pages, muttered: 'Strange that I cannot yet work the spell. All things
named here have I sought for and found, even blood of bat, dead man's
hand, venom of viper, root of gallows mandrake, and flesh of
unbaptized and strangled babe. Am I, then, not to succeed until I try
the charm of charms at the risk of life itself? And yet,' said he,
unconscious of the presence of the terrified listener, 'what should I
fear? So far have I gone uninjured, and now will I proceed to the
triumphant or the bitter end. Once I would have given the future
happiness of my soul to have called her by my name, and now what is
this paltry life to me that I should hesitate to risk it in this
quest, and perhaps win one glimpse of her face?'

There was a moment of silence as the student bent his head over the
book, but though no other person was visible, the listener, to his
horror, quickly heard a sharp hissing voice ask, 'And wouldst thou not
even yet give thy soul in exchange for speech with thy once
betrothed?' The student hastily stood erect, and rapidly cried: 'Let
me not be deceived! Whatever thou art, if thou canst bring her to me
my soul shall be thine now and for ever!'

There was a dead hush for a minute or two, during which the lout at
the door heard the beating of his own heart, and then the invisible
being again spoke: 'Be it so. Thou hast but one spell left untried.
When that has been done thou shalt have thy reward. Beneath the oak at
midnight she shall be brought to thee. Darest thou first behold me?'

'I have no fear,' calmly replied the student, but such was not the
state of the petrified listener, for no sooner had the lights
commenced to burn a weird blue than he sank fainting against the door.

When he came to consciousness he was within the awful room, the
student having dragged him in when he fell.

'What art thou, wherefore dost thou watch me at this hour, and what
hast thou seen?' sternly demanded Edgar, addressing the terrified
boor, and in few and trembling words the unhappy domestic briefly
answered the queries; but the student did not permit him to leave the
chamber, through the little window of which the dawn was streaming,
before he had sworn that not a word as to anything he had seen or
heard should pass his lips. The solemnity of the vow was deepened by
the mysterious and awful threats with which it was accompanied, and
the servant, therefore, loudly protested to his fellows that he had
not seen or heard anything, but that, overcome by his patient
watching, he had fallen asleep at the door; and many were the
congratulations which followed when it was imagined what the
consequences would have been had he been discovered in his strange
resting-place.

The day following that of the adventure passed over without anything
remarkable beyond the absence of Edgar from his usual seat under the
shade of the giant oak, but the night set in stormily, dark clouds
scudded before the wind, which swept up from the distant sea, and
moaned around the old tower, whirling the fallen leaves in fantastic
dances about the garden and the green, and shaking in its rage even
the iron boughs of the oak. The household had retired early, and at
eleven o'clock only Edgar and another were awake. In the student's
chamber the little lamp was burning and the book lay open as usual,
and Edgar pored over the pages, but at times he glanced impatiently at
the quaint clock. At length, with a sigh of relief, he said, sternly
and sadly, 'The time draws nigh, and once more we shall meet!' He then
gathered together a few articles from different corners of the room
and stepped out upon the broad landing, passed down the noble old
staircase, and out from the hall. Here he was met by a cold blast of
wind, which shrieked round him, as though rejoicing over its prey; and
as Edgar was battling with it, a man emerged from a recess and joined
him.

The night was quite dark, not a star or a rift in the sky visible, and
the two men could hardly pick their way along the well-known path.
They reached the oak tree, however, and Edgar placed the materials at
its foot, and at once, with a short wand, drew a large circle around
the domestic and himself. This done, he placed a little cauldron on
the grass, and filled it with a red powder, which, although the wind
was roaring through the branches above, immediately blazed up with a
steady flame.

The old mastiffs chained under the gateway began to howl dismally;
but, regardless of the omen,{32} Edgar struck the ground three times
with his hazel stick, and cried in a loud voice: 'Spirit of my love, I
conjure thee obey my words, and verily and truly come to me this
night!'

Hardly had he spoken when a shadowy figure of a beautiful child
appeared, as though floating around the magic ring. The servant sank
upon his knees, but the student regarded it not, and it vanished, and
the terrified listener again heard Edgar's voice as he uttered another
conjuration. No sooner had he begun this than terrible claps of
thunder were heard, lightning flashed round the tree, flocks of birds
flew across the garden and dashed themselves against the window of the
student's chamber, where a light still flickered; and, loud above the
noises of the storm, cocks could be heard shrilly crowing, and owls
uttering their mournful cries. In the midst of this hubbub the
necromancer calmly went on with his incantation, concluding with the
dread words: 'Spirit of my love, I conjure thee to fulfil my will
without deceit or tarrying, and without power over my soul or body
earthly or ghostly! If thou comest not, then let the shadow and the
darkness of death be upon thee for ever and ever!'

As the last word left his lips the storm abated its violence, and
comparative silence followed. Suddenly the little flame in the
cauldron flared up some yards in height, and sweet voices chanting
melodiously could be heard. 'Art thou prepared to behold the dead?'
asked an invisible being.

'I am!' undauntedly answered Edgar.

An appearance as of a thick mist gathered opposite him, and slowly, in
the midst of it, the outlines of a beautiful human face, with mournful
eyes, in which earthly love still lingered, could be discerned.

Clad in the garments of the grave, the betrothed of Edgar Astley
appeared before him.

For some time the young man gazed upon her as though entranced, but at
length he slowly extended his arms as though to embrace the beautiful
phantom. The domestic fell upon his face like one stricken by death,
the spectre vanished, and again the pealing thunder broke forth.

'Thou art for ever mine,' cried a hissing voice; but as the words
broke upon the ears of the two men, the door of the mansion was flung
open, and the old baronet and a number of the servants, who had been
disturbed by the violence of the storm, the howling of the dogs, and
the shrill cries of the birds, rushed forth.

'Come not near me if ye would save yourselves,' cried the necromancer.

'We would save thee,' shouted the old man, still advancing. '_In
nomine Patris_,' said he, solemnly, as he neared the magic circle; and
no sooner had the words left his lips than sudden stillness fell upon
the scene; the lightning no longer flashed round the oak; and, as the
flame in the cauldron sank down, the moon broke through a cloud, and
threw her soft light over the old garden.

Edgar was leaning against the oak tree, his eyes fixed in the
direction where the image of his betrothed had appeared; and when they
led him away, it was as one leads a trusting child, for the light of
reason had left him. The unfortunate domestic, being less sensitive,
retained his faculties; but he ever afterwards bore upon his wrist, as
if deeply burned into the flesh, the marks of a broad thumb and
fingers. This strange appearance he was wont to explain to stray
visitors, by saying that when, terrified almost out of his wits, he
fell to the ground, his hand was outside the magic circle, and
'summat' seized him; which lucid explanation was generally followed up
by an old and privileged servitor, who remarked, 'Tha'll t'hev mooar
marks nor thuse on tha' next toime as _He_ grabs tha', mi lad.'