Haunted Castles by Ray Russell Read Free Book Online

had marked them in our own English castles—and though I stood near neither room nor door of any kind, I could hear Maude speaking in a distressed tone. I was standing at an open window which overlooked a kind of courtyard. Across this court, a window was likewise open. I took this to be the window of Maude’s room; her voice was in some way being amplified and transported by the circumstantial shape of the courtyard and the positions of the two windows. By listening very attentively, I could make out most of her words.
    She was saying, “I shan’t. You must not ask me. It is unseemly.” And then the voice of her husband replied: “You shall and will, madam. In my castle, it is I who decide what is seemly or unseemly. Not you.” I was embarrassed at overhearing this private discussion on what was obviously a painful subject, so I made to draw away from the window that I might hear no more, but was restrained by the sound of my own name on Maude’s lips. “I have treated Sir Robert with courtesy,” she said. “You must treat him with more than courtesy,” Mr. Sardonicus responded. “You must treat him with warmth. You must rekindle in his breast those affections he felt for you in other days . . .”
    I could listen no longer. The exchange was vile. I drew away from the window. What manner of creature was this Sardonicus who threw his wife into the arms of other men? As a practitioner of medicine, a man dedicated to healing the ills of humankind, I had brought myself to learn many things about the minds of men, as well as about their bodies. I fully believed that, in some future time, physicians would heal the body by way of the mind, for it is in that
terra incognita
that all secrets lie hidden. I knew that love has many masks; masks of submission and of oppression; and even more terrible masks that make Nature a stranger to herself and “turn the truth of God into a lie,” as St. Paul wrote. There is even a kind of love, it if can be elevated by that name, that derives its keenest pleasure from the sight of the beloved in the arms of another. These are unpleasant observations, which may one day be codified and studied by healers, but which, until then, may not be thought on for too long, lest the mind grow morbid and stagger under its load of repugnance.
    With a heavy heart, I sought out a servant and asked to be taken to the dining hall. It was some distance away, and by the time I arrived there, Sardonicus and his lady were already at table, awaiting me. He arose, and with that revolting smile, indicated a chair; she also arose, and took my arm, addressing me as “Dear Sir Robert” and leading me to my place. Her touch, which at any previous time would have gladdened me, I now found distinctly not to my liking.
    A hollow joviality hung over the dinner table throughout the meal. Maude’s laughter struck me as giddy and false; Sardonicus drank too much wine and his speech became even more indistinct. I contrived to talk on trivial subjects, repeating some anecdotes about the London theatre which I had hitherto related to Maude, and describing Mr. Macready’s interpretation of Macbeth.
    â€œSome actors,” said Sardonicus, “interpret the Scottish chieftain as a creature compounded of pure evil, unmingled with good qualities of any kind. Such interpretations are often criticized by those who feel no human being can be so unremittingly evil. Do you agree, Sir Robert?”
    â€œNo,” I said, evenly; then, looking Sardonicus full in the face, I added, “I believe it is entirely possible for a man to possess not a single one of the virtues, to be a demon in human flesh.” Quickly, I embarked upon a discussion of the character of Iago, who took ghoulish delight in tormenting his fellow man.
    The dinner was, I suppose, first rate, and the wine an honourable vintage, but I confess to tasting little of what was placed before