I Am Stone: The Gothic Weird Tales of R. Murray Gilchrist by R. Murray Gilchrist

Author:R. Murray Gilchrist [Gilchrist, R. Murray]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: folk horror, peak district, decadent, early weird fiction, vampire literature, Gothic romance, regional ghost stories
Publisher: British Library Publishing
Published: 2021-08-18T20:00:00+00:00

‌Dryas and Lady Greenleaf

Lady Greenleaf crooked her arm through the handle of a shallow wicker basket, and fluttered from the still-room to the garden. Noel was sitting there on the grass beside the statue of Ceres—a Renaissance monstrosity begirt with impossible fruits and flowers. When his wife appeared, the clerkly old man rose, closed his volume of ‘Hakluyt,’ and pushed back his gold-rimmed spectacles. Although they had been wedded two years, he still found something irresistibly tempting in her childishness; and as the morning air was brisk and full of sunshine, his sluggish blood moved less slowly than usual.

‘Let us race together?’ he said, drawing out his shagreen-covered repeater. ‘To the bowling-green—I will give you two minutes in advance.’

She shrugged her shoulders, pursed a mouth quaintly beautiful. ‘I’ll not race today, little one,’ she said laughingly; ‘but, if you wish you may help me to gather roses. I need this basket brimful.’

He sauntered beside her, past the knots of herbs to the court where the water-roses grew. These flowers were very big and heavy, although each had only five petals. No thorns rose from the plump stems—velvety to the touch as her own smooth fingers. The fragrance spread about like the breath of a perfumed brazier; of late Lady Greenleaf had perused the ‘Eastern Tales,’ and this sweetness reminded her of the joyous life of that sultana (the mother of White Hassan) who held sole dominion over a stalwart spouse’s love. And so intent was she upon the moving pictures, that when Noel’s hand toyed with the laces at her throat she forgot even to pout.

When the basket was filled, she lifted it to a balustrade, and drawing back her loose sleeves, buried white arms in that fragrant bed, and moved them fantastically, so that it seemed as though two Cupids struggled there. Noel watched her intently, his pale grey eyes alight with pleasure. Ere the marriage, which he had made after a life spent in intrigue and mild devilry, he had known many fair women, and heretofore had thought with gentle lightness of her beauty; but as she stood there smiling, ivory-skinned, flushed, small-breasted—a semblance of ripening fruit, for the first time he acknowledged her perfection. Her prune silk gown hung in loose folds, the skirt uplifted so that her little feet in their green shoes and stockings with silver clocks were discovered; her lawn chemisette scarce veiled the warmness of her neck and bosom.

Of a sudden it seemed to him that the plump arms curling amongst the roses were young babes that she had borne.

‘Ah, if ’twere God’s truth!’ he murmured.

She understood, and withdrew her arms sharply, as if a snake had lain amongst the flowers.

‘I do not wish for children!’ she cried. ‘You are my little one. Sure you are happy?’

‘Ay, child, a thousand times more happy than I deserve. You are the paragon of wives!’

Again his hand plucked her laces; this time she drew away.

‘Carry the roses for me, little one,’ she said.

On the way back

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