The Doom of the GriffithsGaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn
General
The Doom of the Griffiths
Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn
England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Horror tales, English
The storm had abated, and watery sunbeams were gilding the bay, as Owen
descended from the window, and, stealing along in the broad afternoon
shadows, made his way to the little plateau of green turf in the garden
at the top of a steep precipitous rock, down the abrupt face of which he
had often dropped, by means of a well-secured rope, into the small
sailing-boat (his father’s present, alas! in days gone by) which lay
moored in the deep sea-water below. He had always kept his boat there,
because it was the nearest available spot to the house; but before he
could reach the place—unless, indeed, he crossed a broad sun-lighted
piece of ground in full view of the windows on that side of the house,
and without the shadow of a single sheltering tree or shrub—he had to
skirt round a rude semicircle of underwood, which would have been
considered as a shrubbery had any one taken pains with it. Step by step
he stealthily moved along—hearing voices now, again seeing his father and
stepmother in no distant walk, the Squire evidently caressing and
consoling his wife, who seemed to be urging some point with great
vehemence, again forced to crouch down to avoid being seen by the cook,
returning from the rude kitchen-garden with a handful of herbs. This was
the way the doomed heir of Bodowen left his ancestral house for ever, and
hoped to leave behind him his doom. At length he reached the plateau—he
breathed more freely. He stooped to discover the hidden coil of rope,
kept safe and dry in a hole under a great round flat piece of rock: his
head was bent down; he did not see his father approach, nor did he hear
his footstep for the rush of blood to his head in the stooping effort of
lifting the stone; the Squire had grappled with him before he rose up
again, before he fully knew whose hands detained him, now, when his
liberty of person and action seemed secure. He made a vigorous struggle
to free himself; he wrestled with his father for a moment—he pushed him
hard, and drove him on to the great displaced stone, all unsteady in its
balance.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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