The Emerald Ring

by R. G. Frasks

THE PHANTASM OF A DISORDERED BRAIN. 

Content Warning # 3 (explanation)

Three or four years ago, while pedestrianising along the west coast of Ireland, I found myself, one evening, at the edge of a rocky promontory which juts out boldly into the sea opposite the island of Achill. The sun nearly an hour before had sunk in a blaze of fiery glory behind the broad Atlantic; dark ominous clouds were gathering in the sky; the short autumn twilight was fading in the darkness of approaching night, and heavy drops of rain began to fall from the dark masses of driving clouds overhead.

Instinctively I looked around for shelter, and to my delight at last perceived through the increasing darkness the gleam of a light shining dimly but steadily from the summit of the rocky promontory above me.

After half an hour of hard climbing, I reached the top of the cliff, and, guided by the light, at length found myself standing in what appeared to be the dilapidated remains of a flower garden, in front of an old stone-mullioned window. The casement was open, and the lamp, standing upon an antique table of massive bog-oak, black as ebony, shed a dim light over the huge, empty room.

I had half entered the chamber, and was standing irresolute by the window, when a door, at the other side of the room, opened, and a tall figure slowly advanced toward the table.

"Verschoyle!" I exclaimed, recognising all at once, in the pale, worn features, the face of an old acquaintance, who had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from society some years before. "But how is it, Verschoyle, that I find you; whom I remember as the gayest and most reckless of guardsmen, living alone in a half-ruined castle, in this uninhabited, uncivilized region?" I inquired, an hour later, as we sat smoking over the roaring wood fire.

A shudder passed over his pale face as he replied quietly:

"Well, I'll tell you, Marston. It is a strange story, and I don't often speak of that time; but I think—at least I hope—the end is not far off now."

"It was the morning before the battle of Idsfelt," he began, after a pause of a few moments; "I had, as you may remember, joined the Danish Guards on the outbreak of the Schleswig-Holstein war, and had arrived upon the field of battle with my regiment at the moment the action commenced. Our first duty was to dislodge a regiment of Prussian sharpshooters, who were posted upon the opposite hills, and we were marching rapidly across the valley, under the cover of our guns, when a funeral procession suddenly emerged from the wood on our left, and slowly filed along the road in front of me, apparently oblivious of the battle which had even then commenced.

"Startled by such an unusual occurrence, I mechanically gave the order to halt, and we stood, watching the solemn procession in silent amazement as it passed by.

"In the excitement of the battle which followed, the incident was soon forgotten—as, indeed was everything else, in hour or two later, when, struck on the head by a half-spent bullet, I can just remember a leap into the air, a heavy fall, and all suddenly becoming a blank.

"When I opened my eyes I was lying upon a soft couch, in a large, old-fashioned room. The evening air, laden with perfume, stole in through the open window, and played with delicious coolness upon my burning temples.

"A faint sigh arrested my attention, and, turning my eyes from the direction in which it came, a vision of surpassing beauty met my astonished gaze.

"Bending over the table at my side stood a female figure—

"'Apparelled in the loveliness which beams 
On faces seen in dreams.' 

"The soft lamplight fell lovingly upon her long, unfastened tresses, falling, like a cataract of burnished, shimmering gold, over her white neck and exquisite shoulders. Her face wore an expression of unearthly loveliness, which it is vain for me to attempt to describe; and her large, lustrous eyes, as they met mine, seemed to pierce to the depths of my soul.

"She was dressed in a flowing robe of pure, spotless white, half-hiding half-displaying the graceful contour of her exquisite figure.

"In a moment she was by my side, bathing my temples, and moistening my lips with cool, delicious wine. Hours must have passed, but still I lay on the soft couch, my head pillowed upon her shoulder, and my eyes fixed upon her lovely face in a delirium of bliss. As I raised her hand to my lips, I noticed that there gleamed upon her slender finger an emerald of wonderful brilliancy; then everything in the room became gradually indistinct, my head fell back upon her shoulder, and I remember no more.

"When I awoke, it was broad daylight. I was lying upon the damp grass, my head resting upon a new-made grave, my sword still in my hand, surrounded by the dying and the dead. Gradually the events of the preceding night flashed across my mind, and it was with a feeling of awe that I raised my hand, and perceived, in place of the opal I usually wore, the emerald I noticed upon the hand of the lovely incognita.

"Was it all a dream, or was I dreaming now? I pressed my hand to my forehead and attempted to rise, but in vain. I fell back, fainting and exhausted, upon the grave. When next I opened my eyes, an old gentleman, dressed like a clergyman, was bending over me, his eyes fixed as if by a spell upon the emerald which flashed upon my finger.

"'Villain! You have violated her grave!' he exclaimed passionately, seizing my hand as I vainly attempted to move.

"In a few words I explained to him how I became possessed of the ring, and a chill sweat beaded his forehead as he listened to my recital.

"Marston, the angel—she could be none else—who had bathed my burning temples and moistened my feverish lips, the night before, was the old man's only daughter, whose funeral procession had so strangely stopped our march in the morning.

"By the time I recovered my strength, the war was virtually at an end, and I returned to England, but not alone! Never, since that night, has my spirit-love left me. I have wandered over half the globe since then; but in vain, her unseen presence ever haunts me! Even now, at this moment, I can feel her hand upon mine.

"With such a spell upon my life, such a shadow ever following me, society soon became perfectly unbearable; and, finding no relief in travel, I fixed upon this spot, where I hope to end this life of misery in something approaching to peace. Oh, that the end would come!

It was past midnight when I entered my bedroom, and I had been perhaps an hour asleep when the report of a pistol rang through the stillness of the night. Instinctively I rushed to my friend's room, and there lay Clinton Verschoyle dead in his bed, a bullet in his brain, and the emerald gleaming, like an evil eye, upon the hand which still grasped the pistol.

Warragul Guardian, Thursday 20 October 1881, supplement page 2.