CHAPTER V.
On the fifth anniversary of my father's death, when I was fifteen yearsof age, I went to visit (as I always did upon that day) the fatal room.Although this chamber had been so long unused, the furniture was allowedto remain; and I insisted passionately that it should be my charge.What had seemed the petulance of a child was now the strong will of athoughtful girl.
I took the key from my bosom, where I always kept it, and turned it inthe lock. No mortal had entered that door since I passed it in my lastparoxysm, three weeks and a day before. I saw a cobweb reaching fromthe black finger-plate to the third mould of the beading. The weatherhad been damp, and the door stuck fast to the jamb, then yielded with acrack. Though I was bold that day, and in a mood of triumph, some awefell on me as I entered. There hung the heavy curtain, last drawn bythe murderer's hand; there lay the bed-clothes, raised for the blow, andreplaced on death; and there was the pillow where sleep had been soprolonged. All these I saw with a forced and fearful glance, and mybreath stood still as the wind in a grave.
Presently a light cloud floated off the sun, and a white glare from thesnow of the morning burst across the room. My sight was not so dimmedwith tears as it generally was when I stood there, for I had just readthe history of a long-hidden crime detected, and my eyes were full offierce hope. But stricken soon to the wonted depth of sadness, with thethrobs of my heart falling like the avenger's step, I went minutelythrough my death-inspection. I felt all round the dusty wainscot,opened the wardrobes and cupboards, raised the lids of the deep-bayedwindow-seats, peered shuddering down the dark closet, where I believedthe assassin had lurked, started and stared at myself in the mirror, tosee how lone and wan I looked, and then approached the bed, to finish mysearch in the usual place, by lying and sobbing where my father died. Ihad glanced beneath it and round the pillars, and clutched the curtainas if to squeeze out the truth, and was just about to throw myself onthe coverlet and indulge the fit so bitterly held at bay, when somethingon the hangings above the head-board stopped me suddenly. There I saw anarrow line of deep and glowing red. It grew so vivid on the fadeddamask, and in the white glare of the level sun, that I thought it wason fire. Hastily setting a chair by the pillar, for I would not treadon that bed, I leaped up, and closely examined the crimson vein.
Without thinking, I knew what it was--the heart-blood of my father.There were three distinct and several marks, traced by the reekingdagger. The first on the left, which had caught my glance, was thebroadest and clearest to read. Two lines, meeting at a right angle,rudely formed a Roman L. Rudely I say, for the poniard had been toorich in red ink, which had clotted where the two strokes met. Thesecond letter was a Roman D, formed also by two bold strokes, theupright very distinct, the curve less easily traced at the top, but thelower part deep and clear. The third letter was not so plain. Itlooked like C at first, but upon further examination I felt convincedthat it was meant for an O, left incomplete through the want of morewriting fluid; or was it then that my mother had seized the dark authorby the hair, as he stooped to incline his pen that the last drop mighttrickle down?
Deciphering thus with fingers and eyes, I traced these letters of blood,one by one, over and over again, till they danced in my gaze like thenorthern lights. I stood upon tiptoe and kissed them; I cared not whatI was doing: it was my own father's blood, and I thought of the heart itcame from, not of the hand which shed it. When I turned away, thesurprise, for which till then I had found no time, broke full upon me.How could these letters, in spite of all my vigilance, so long haveremained unseen? Why did the murderer peril his life yet more bystaying to write the record, and seal perhaps the conviction of hisdeed? And what did these characters mean? Of these three questions,the first was readily solved. The other two remained to me as newshadows of wonder. Several causes had conspired to defer so long thisdiscovery. In the first place, the damask had been of rich lilac, shotwith a pile of carmine, which, in the waving play of light, glossed atonce and obscured the crimson stain, until the fading hues of art leftin strong contrast nature's abiding paint. Secondly, my rapid growth andthe clearness of my eyes that day lessened the distance and favouredperception. Again--and this was perhaps the paramount cause--the wintersun, with rays unabsorbed by the snow, threw his sheer dint upon thatvery spot, keen, level, and uncoloured--a thing which could happen onfew days in the year, and for few minutes each day, and which never hadhappened during my previous search. Perhaps there was also somechemical action of the rays of light which evoked as well as showed thecolour; but of this I do not know enough to speak. Suffice it that theletters were there, at first a great shock and terror, but soon a strongencouragement to me.
My course was at once to perpetuate the marks and speculate upon them atleisure, for I knew not how fleeting they might be. I hurrieddownstairs, and speaking to no one procured some clear tissue paper.Applying this to the damask, and holding a card behind, I carefullytraced with a pencil so much of the letters as could be perceivedthrough the medium, and completed the sketch by copying most carefullythe rest; It was, however, beyond my power to keep my hand fromtrembling. A shade flitted over my drawing--oh, how my heart leaped!
When I had finished the pencil-sketch, and before it was inked over (forI could not bring myself to paint it red), I knelt where my father diedand thanked God for this guidance to me. By the time I had dried myeyes the sun was passed and the lines of blood were gone, even though Iknew where to seek them, having left a pin in the damask. By measuringI found that the letters were just three feet and a quarter above thespot where my father's head had been. The largest of them, the L, wasthree inches long and an eighth of an inch in width; the others werenearly as long, but nothing like so wide.
Trembling now, for the rush of passion which stills the body was past,and stepping silently on the long silent floor, I went to the deepdark-mullioned window and tried to look forth. After all my lonetumult, perhaps I wanted to see the world. But my jaded eyes and brainshowed only the same three letters burning on the snow and sky.Evening, a winter evening, was fluttering down. The sun was spent andstopped by a grey mist, and the landscape full of dreariness and cold.For miles, the earth lay white and wan, with nothing to part life fromdeath. No step was on the snow, no wind among the trees; fences,shrubs, and hillocks were as wrinkles in a winding-sheet, and everystark branch had like me its own cold load to carry.
But on the left, just in sight from the gable-window, was a spot, blackas midnight, in the billowy snow. It was the spring which had storedfor me the footprints. Perhaps I was superstitious then; the omen wasaccepted. Suddenly a last gleam from the dauntless sun came through theancient glass, and flung a crimson spot upon my breast. It was the redheart, centre of our shield, won with Coeur de Lion.
Oh scutcheons, blazonments, and other gewgaws, by which men think toennoble daylight murders, how long shall fools account it honour to betattooed with you? Mercy, fellow-feeling, truth, humility, virtues thatnever flap their wings, but shrink lest they should know they stoop,what have these won? Gaze sinister, and their crest a pillory.
With that red pride upon my breast, and that black heart within, and myyoung form stately with revenge, I was a true descendant of Crusaders.