After Dark

by Wilkie Collins

  PROLOGUE TO THE FOURTH STORY.

  My practice in the art of portrait-painting, if it has done nothingelse, has at least fitted me to turn my talents (such as they are) toa great variety of uses. I have not only taken the likenesses of men,women, and children, but have also extended the range of my brush, understress of circumstances, to horses, dogs, houses, and in one case evento a bull--the terror and glory of his parish, and the most truculentsitter I ever had. The beast was appropriately named "Thunder andLightning," and was the property of a gentleman-farmer named Garthwaite,a distant connection of my wife's family.

  How it was that I escaped being gored to death before I had finished mypicture is more than I can explain to this day. "Thunder and Lightning"resented the very sight of me and my color-box, as if he viewed thetaking of his likeness in the light of a personal insult. It requiredtwo men to coax him, while a third held him by a ring in his nostrils,before I could venture on beginning to work. Even then he always lashedhis tail, and jerked his huge head, and rolled his fiery eyes with adevouring anxiety to have me on his horns for daring to sit down quietlyand look at him. Never, I can honestly say, did I feel more heartilygrateful for the blessings of soundness of limb and wholeness of skin,than when I had completed the picture of the bull!

  One morning, when I had but little more than half done my unwelcometask, my friend and I were met on our way to the bull's stable by thefarm bailiff, who informed us gravely that "Thunder and Lightning" wasjust then in such an especially surly state of temper as to render itquite unsafe for me to think of painting him. I looked inquiringly atMr. Garthwaite, who smiled with an air of comic resignation, and said,"Very well, then, we have nothing for it but to wait till to-morrow.What do you say to a morning's fishing, Mr. Kerby, now that my bull'sbad temper has given us a holiday?"

  I replied, with perfect truth, that I knew nothing about fishing. ButMr. Garthwaite, who was as ardent an angler in his way as Izaak Waltonhimself, was not to be appeased even by the best of excuses. "It isnever too late to learn," cried he. "I will make a fisherman of you inno time, if you will only attend to my directions." It was impossiblefor me to make any more apologies, without the risk of appealingdiscourteous. So I thanked my host for his friendly intentions, and,with some secret misgivings, accepted the first fishing-rod that he putinto my hands.

  "We shall soon get there," said Mr. Garthwaite. "I am taking you to thebest mill-stream in the neighborhood." It was all one to me whether wegot there soon or late and whether the stream was good or bad. However,I did my best to conceal my unsportsman-like apathy; and tried to lookquite happy and very impatient to begin, as we drew near to the mill,and heard louder and louder the gushing of many waters all round it.

  Leading the way immediately to a place beneath the falling stream, wherethere was a deep, eddying pool, Mr. Garthwaite baited and threw inhis line before I had fixed the joints of my fishing-rod. This firstdifficulty overcome, I involuntarily plunged into some excellent, butrather embarrassing, sport with my line and hook. I caught every oneof my garments, from head to foot; I angled for my own clothes withthe dexterity and success of Izaak Walton himself. I caught my hat, myjacket, my waistcoat, my trousers, my fingers, and my thumbs--some devilpossessed my hook; some more than eel-like vitality twirled and twistedin every inch of my line. By the time my host arrived to assist me,I had attached myself to my fishing-rod, apparently for life. Alldifficulties yielded, however, to his patience and skill; my hook wasbaited for me, and thrown in; my rod was put into my hand; my friendwent back to his place; and we began at last to angle in earnest.

  We certainly caught a few fish (in _my_ case, I mean, of course, thatthe fish caught themselves); but they were scanty in number and lightin weight. Whether it was the presence of the miller's foreman--agloomy personage, who stood staring disastrously upon us from a littleflower-garden on the opposite bank--that cast adverse influence over oursport; or whether my want of faith and earnestness as an angler actedretributively on my companion as well as myself, I know not; but it iscertain that he got almost as little reward for his skill as I got formy patience. After nearly two hours of intense expectation on my part,and intense angling on his, Mr. Garthwaite jerked his line out of thewater in a rage, and bade me follow him to another place, declaring thatthe stream must have been netted by poachers in the night, who had takenall the large fish away with them, and had thrown in the small onesto grow until their next visit. We moved away, further down the bank,leaving the imperturbable foreman still in the flower-garden, staring atus speechlessly on our departure, exactly as he had already stared at uson our approach.

  "Stop a minute," said Mr. Garthwaite suddenly, after we had walked somedistance in silence by the side of the stream, "I have an idea. Now weare out for a day's angling, we won't be balked. Instead of tryingthe water here again, we will go where I know, by experience, that thefishing is excellent. And what is more, you shall be introduced to alady whose appearance is sure to interest you, and whose history, I cantell you beforehand, is a very remarkable one."

  "Indeed," I said. "May I ask in what way?"

  "She is connected," answered Mr. Garthwaite, "with an extraordinarystory, which relates to a family once settled in an old house in thisneighborhood. Her name is Miss Welwyn; but she is less formally knownan among the poor people about here, who love her dearly, and honor heralmost superstitiously, as the Lady of Glenwith Grange. Wait till youhave seen her before you ask me to say anything more. She lives in thestrictest retirement; I am almost the only visitor who is admitted.Don't say you had rather not go in. Any friend of mine will be welcomeat the Grange (the scene of the story, remember), for my sake--the moreespecially because I have never abused my privilege of introduction. Theplace is not above two miles from here, and the stream (which we call,in our county dialect, Glenwith Beck) runs through the ground."

  As we walked on, Mr. Garthwaite's manner altered. He became unusuallysilent and thoughtful. The mention of Miss Welwyn's name had evidentlycalled up some recollections which were not in harmony with hisevery-day mood. Feeling that to talk to him on any indifferent subjectwould be only to interrupt his thoughts to no purpose, I walked by hisside in perfect silence, looking out already with some curiosity andimpatience for a first view of Glenwith Grange. We stopped at last closeby an old church, standing on the outskirts of a pretty village. The lowwall of the churchyard was bounded on one side by a plantation, and wasjoined by a park paling, in which I noticed a small wicket-gate. Mr.Garthwaite opened it, and led me along a shrubbery path, which conductedus circuitously to the dwelling-house.

  We had evidently entered by a private way, for we approached thebuilding by the back. I looked up at it curiously, and saw standing atone of the windows on the lower floor a little girl watching us as weadvanced. She seemed to be about nine or ten years old. I could not helpstopping a moment to look up at her, her clear complexion and herlong dark hair were so beautiful. And yet there was something in herexpression--a dimness and vacancy in her large eyes--a changeless,unmeaning smile on her parted lips--which seemed to jar with all thatwas naturally attractive in her face; which perplexed, disappointed, andeven shocked me, though I hardy knew why. Mr. Garthwaite, who had beenwalking along thoughtfully, with his eyes on the ground, turned backwhen he found me lingering behind him; looked up where I was looking;started a little, I thought; then took my arm, whispered ratherimpatiently, "Don't say anything about having seen that poor child whenyou are introduced to Miss Welwyn; I'll tell you why afterward," and ledme round hastily to the front of the building.

  It was a very dreary old house, with a lawn in front thickly sprinkledwith flower-beds, and creepers of all sorts climbing in profusion aboutthe heavy stone porch and the mullions of the lower windows. In spiteof these prettiest of all ornaments clustering brightly round thebuilding--in spite of the perfect repair in which it was kept from topto bottom--there was something repellent to me in the aspect of thewhole place: a deathly stillness hung over it, which fell oppressivelyo
n my spirits. When my companion rang the loud, deep-toned bell, thesound startled me as if we had been committing a crime in disturbing thesilence. And when the door was opened by an old female servant (whilethe hollow echo of the bell was still vibrating in the air), I couldhardly imagine it possible that we should be let in. We were admitted,however, without the slightest demur. I remarked that there was thesame atmosphere of dreary repose inside the house which I had alreadyobserved, or rather felt, outside it. No dogs barked at our approach--nodoors banged in the servants' offices--no heads peeped over thebanisters--not one of the ordinary domestic consequences of anunexpected visit in the country met either eye or ear. The largeshadowy apartment, half library, half breakfast-room, into which we wereushered, was as solitary as the hall of entrance; unless I except suchdrowsy evidences of life as were here presented to us in the shape ofan Angola cat and a gray parrot--the first lying asleep in a chair, thesecond sitting ancient, solemn, and voiceless, in a large cage.

  Mr. Garthwaite walked to the window when we entered, without saying aword. Determining to let his taciturn humor have its way, I asked him noquestions, but looked around the room to see what information it wouldgive me (and rooms often do give such information) about the characterand habits of the owner of the house.

  Two tables covered with books were the first objects that attracted me.On approaching them, I was surprised to find that the all-influencingperiodical literature of the present day--whose sphere is already almostwithout limit; whose readers, even in our time, may be numbered bymillions--was entirely unrepresented on Miss Welwyn's table. Nothingmodern, nothing contemporary, in the world of books, presented itself.Of all the volumes beneath my hand, not one bore the badge of thecirculating library, or wore the flaring modern livery of gilt cloth.Every work that I took up had been written at least fifteen or twentyyears since. The prints hanging round the walls (toward which I nextlooked) were all engraved from devotional subjects by the old masters;the music-stand contained no music of later date than the compositionsof Haydn and Mozart. Whatever I examined besides, told me, with the sameconsistency, the same strange tale. The owner of these possessionslived in the by-gone time; lived among old recollections and oldassociations--a voluntary recluse from all that was connected with thepassing day. In Miss Welwyn's house, the stir, the tumult, the "idlebusiness" of the world evidently appealed in vain to sympathies whichgrew no longer with the growing hour.

  As these thoughts were passing through my mind, the door opened and thelady herself appeared.

  She looked certainly past the prime of life; longer past it, as Iafterward discovered, than she really was. But I never remember, in anyother face, to have seen so much of the better part of the beauty ofearly womanhood still remaining, as I saw in hers. Sorrow had evidentlypassed over the fair, calm countenance before me, but had leftresignation there as its only trace. Her expression was stillyouthful--youthful in its kindness and its candor especially. It wasonly when I looked at her hair, that was now growing gray--at herwan, thin hands--at the faint lines marked round her mouth--at the sadserenity of her eyes, that I fairly detected the mark of age; and, morethan that, the token of some great grief, which had been conquered, butnot banished. Even from her voice alone--from the peculiar uncertaintyof its low, calm tones when she spoke--it was easy to conjecture thatshe must have passed through sufferings, at some time of her life, whichhad tried to the quick the noble nature that they could not subdue.

  Mr. Garthwaite and she met each other almost like brother and sister; itwas plain that the friendly intimacy between them had been of very longduration. Our visit was a short one. The conversation never advancedbeyond the commonplace topics suited to the occasion. It was, therefore,from what I saw, and not from what I heard, that I was enabled to formmy judgment of Miss Welwyn. Deeply as she had interested me--far moredeeply than I at all know how to explain in fitting words--I cannotsay that I was unwilling to depart when we rose to take leave. Thoughnothing could be more courteous and more kind than her manner toward meduring the whole interview, I could still perceive that it cost her someeffort to repress in my presence the shades of sadness and reserve whichseemed often ready to steal over her. And I must confess that when Ionce or twice heard the half-sigh stifled, and saw the momentaryrelapse into thoughtfulness suddenly restrained, I felt an indefinableawkwardness in my position which made me ill at ease; which set medoubting whether, as a perfect stranger, I had done right in sufferingmyself to be introduced where no new faces could awaken either interestor curiosity; where no new sympathies could ever be felt, no newfriendships ever be formed.

  As soon as we had taken leave of Miss Welwyn, and were on our way tothe stream in her grounds, I more than satisfied Mr. Garthwaite thatthe impression the lady had produced on me was of no transitory kind,by overwhelming him with questions about her--not omitting one or twoincidental inquiries on the subject of the little girl whom I had seenat the back window. He only rejoined that his story would answer all myquestions; and that he would begin to tell it as soon as we had arrivedat Glenwith Beck, and were comfortably settled to fishing.

  Five minutes more of walking brought us to the bank of the stream, andshowed us the water running smoothly and slowly, tinged with the softestgreen luster from the reflections of trees which almost entirely archedit over. Leaving me to admire the view at my ease, Mr. Garthwaiteoccupied himself with the necessary preparations for angling, baiting myhook as well as his own. Then, desiring me to sit near him on the bank,he at last satisfied my curiosity by beginning his story. I shall relateit in his own manner, and, as nearly as possible, in his own words.