Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  By this time Lord Chelford and Wylder returned; and, disgusted rather with myself, I ruminated on my want of generalship.

  In the meantime, Miss Lake, with her hand on her brother’s arm, was walking swiftly under the trees of the back avenue towards that footpath which, through wild copse and broken clumps near the park, emerges upon the still darker road which passes along the wooded glen by the mills, and skirts the little paling of the recluse lady’s garden.

  They had not walked far, when Lake suddenly said —

  ‘What do you think of all this, Radie — this particular version, I mean, of marriage, à-la-mode, they are preparing up there?’ and he made a little dip of his cane towards Brandon Hall, over his shoulder. ‘I really don’t think Wylder cares twopence about her, or she about him,’ and Stanley Lake laughed gently and sleepily.

  ‘I don’t think they pretend to like one another. It is quite understood. It was all, you know, old Lady Chelford’s arrangement: and Dorcas is so supine, I believe she would allow herself to be given away by anyone, and to anyone, rather than be at the least trouble. She provokes me.’

  ‘But I thought she liked Sir Harry Bracton: he’s a good-looking fellow; and Queen’s Bracton is a very nice thing, you know.’

  ‘Yes, so they said; but that would, I think, have been worse. Something may be made of Mark Wylder. He has some sense and caution, has not he? — but Sir Harry is wickedness itself!’

  ‘Why — what has Sir Harry done? That is the way you women run away with things! If a fellow’s been a little bit wild, he’s Beelzebub at once. Bracton’s a very good fellow, I can assure you.’

  The fact is, Captain Lake, an accomplished player, made a pretty little revenue of Sir Harry’s billiards, which were wild and noisy; and liking his money, thought he liked himself — a confusion not uncommon.

  ‘I don’t know, and can’t say, how you fine gentlemen define wickedness: only, as an obscure female, I speak according to my lights: and he is generally thought the wickedest man in this county.’

  ‘Well, you know, Radie, women like wicked fellows: it is contrast, I suppose, but they do; and I’m sure, from what Bracton has said to me — I know him intimately — that Dorcas likes him, and I can’t conceive why they are not married.’

  ‘It is very happy, for her at least, they are not,’ said Rachel, and a long silence ensued.

  Their walk continued silent for the greater part, neither was quite satisfied with the other. But Rachel at last said —

  ‘Stanley, you meditate some injury to Mark Wylder.’

  ‘I, Radie?’ he answered quietly, ‘why on earth should you think so?’

  ‘I saw you twice watch him when you thought no one observed you — and I know your face too well, Stanley, to mistake.’

  ‘Now that’s impossible, Radie; for I really don’t think I once thought of him all this evening — except just while we were talking.’

  ‘You keep your secret as usual, Stanley,’ said the young lady.

  ‘Really, Radie, you’re quite mistaken. I assure you, upon my honour, I’ve no secret. You’re a very odd girl — why won’t you believe me?’

  Miss Rachel only glanced across her mufflers on his face. There was a bright moonlight, broken by the shadows of overhanging boughs and withered leaves; and the mottled lights and shadows glided oddly across his pale features. But she saw that he was smiling his sly, sleepy smile, and she said quietly —

  ‘Well, Stanley, I ask no more — but you don’t deceive me.’

  ‘I don’t try to. If your feelings indeed had been different, and that you had not made such a point — you know— ‘

  ‘Don’t insult me, Stanley, by talking again as you did this morning. What I say is altogether on your own account. Mark my words, you’ll find him too strong for you; aye, and too deep. I see very plainly that he suspects you as I do. You saw it, too, for nothing of that kind escapes you. Whatever you meditate, he probably anticipates it — you know best — and you will find him prepared. You have given him time enough. You were always the same, close, dark, and crooked, and wise in your own conceit. I am very uneasy about it, whatever it is. I can’t help it. It will happen — and most ominously I feel that you are courting a dreadful retaliation, and that you will bring on yourself a great misfortune; but it is quite vain, I know, speaking to you.’

  ‘Really, Radie, you’re enough to frighten a poor fellow; you won’t mind a word I say, and go on predicting all manner of mischief between me and Wylder, the very nature of which I can’t surmise. Would you dislike my smoking a cigar, Radie?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ answered the young lady, with a little laugh and a heavy sigh, for she knew it meant silence, and her dark auguries grew darker.

  To my mind there has always been something inexpressibly awful in family feuds. Mortal hatred seems to deepen and dilate into something diabolical in these perverted animosities. The mystery of their origin — their capacity for evolving latent faculties of crime — and the steady vitality with which they survive the hearse, and speak their deep-mouthed malignities in every new-born generation, have associated them somehow in my mind with a spell of life exceeding and distinct from human and a special Satanic action.

  My chamber, as I have mentioned, was upon the third storey. It was one of many, opening upon the long gallery, which had been the scene, four generations back, of that unnatural and bloody midnight duel which had laid one scion of this ancient house in his shroud, and driven another a fugitive to the moral solitudes of a continental banishment.

  Much of the day, as I told you, had been passed among the grisly records of these old family crimes and hatreds. They had been an ill-conditioned and not a happy race. When I heard the servant’s step traversing that long gallery, as it seemed to the in haste to be gone, and when all grew quite silent, I began to feel a dismal sort of sensation, and lighted the pair of wax candles which I found upon the small writing table. How wonderful and mysterious is the influence of light! What sort of beings must those be who hate it?

  The floor, more than anything else, showed the great age of the room. It was warped and arched all along by the wall between the door and the window. The portion of it which the carpet did not cover showed it to be oak, dark and rugged. My bed was unexceptionably comfortable, but, in my then mood, I could have wished it a great deal more modern. Its four posts were, like the rest of it, oak, wellnigh black, fantastically turned and carved, with a great urn-like capital and base, and shaped midway, like a gigantic lance-handle. Its curtains were of thick and faded tapestry. I was always a lover of such antiquities, but I confess at that moment I would have vastly preferred a sprightly modern chintz and a trumpery little French bed in a corner of the Brandon Arms. There was a great lowering press of oak, and some shelves, with withered green and gold leather borders. All the furniture belonged to other times.

  I would have been glad to hear a step stirring, or a cough even, or the gabble of servants at a distance. But there was a silence and desertion in this part of the mansion which, somehow, made me feel that I was myself a solitary intruder on this level of the vast old house.

  I shan’t trouble you about my train of thoughts or fancies; but I began to feel very like a gentleman in a ghost story, watching experimentally in a haunted chamber. My cigar case was a resource. I was not a bit afraid of being found out. I did not even take the precaution of smoking up the chimney. I boldly lighted my cheroot. I peeped through the dense window curtain there were no shutters. A cold, bright moon was shining with clear sharp lights and shadows. Everything looked strangely cold and motionless outside. The sombre old trees, like gigantic hearse plumes, black and awful. The chapel lay full in view, where so many of the, strange and equivocal race, under whose ancient roof-tree I then stood, were lying under their tombstones.

  Somehow, I had grown nervous. A little bit of plaster tumbled down the chimney, and startled me confoundedly. Then some time after, I fancied I heard a creaking step on the lobby outside, and, candle
in hand, opened the door, and looked out with an odd sort of expectation, and a rather agreeable disappointment, upon vacancy.

  CHAPTER XII.

  IN WHICH UNCLE LORNE TROUBLES ME.

  I was growing most uncomfortably like one of Mrs. Anne Radcliffe’s heroes — a nervous race of demigods.

  I walked like a sentinel up and down my chamber, puffing leisurely the solemn incense, and trying to think of the Opera and my essay on ‘Paradise Lost,’ and other pleasant subjects. But it would not do. Every now and then, as I turned towards the door, I fancied I saw it softly close. I can’t the least say whether it was altogether fancy. It was with the corner, or as the Italians have it, the ‘tail’ of my eye that I saw, or imagined that I saw, this trifling but unpleasant movement.

  I called out once or twice sharply— ‘Come in!’ ‘Who’s there?’ ‘Who’s that?’ and so forth, without any sort of effect, except that unpleasant reaction upon the nerves which follows the sound of one’s own voice in a solitude of this kind.

  The fact is I did not myself believe in that stealthy motion of my door, and set it down to one of those illusions which I have sometimes succeeded in analysing — a half-seen combination of objects which, rightly placed in the due relations of perspective, have no mutual connection whatever.

  So I ceased to challenge the unearthly inquisitor, and allowed him, after a while, serenely enough, to peep as I turned my back, or to withdraw again as I made my regular right-about face.

  I had now got halfway in my second cheroot, and the clock clanged ‘one.’ It was a very still night, and the prolonged boom vibrated strangely in my excited ears and brain. I had never been quite such an ass before; but I do assure you I was now in an extremely unpleasant state. One o’clock was better, however, than twelve. Although, by Jove! the bell was ‘beating one,’ as I remember, precisely as that king of ghosts, old Hamlet, revisited the glimpses of the moon, upon the famous platform of Elsinore.

  I had pondered too long over the lore of this Satanic family, and drunk very strong tea, I suppose. I could not get my nerves into a comfortable state, and cheerful thoughts refused to inhabit the darkened chamber of my brain. As I stood in a sort of reverie, looking straight upon the door, I saw — and this time there could be no mistake whatsoever — the handle — the only modern thing about it — slowly turned, and the door itself as slowly pushed about a quarter open.

  I do not know what exclamation I made. The door was shut instantly, and I found myself standing at it, and looking out upon the lobby, with a candle in my hand, and actually freezing with foolish horror.

  I was looking towards the stairhead. The passage was empty and ended in utter darkness. I glanced the other way, and thought I saw — though not distinctly — in the distance a white figure, not gliding in the conventional way, but limping off, with a sort of jerky motion, and, in a second or two, quite lost in darkness.

  I got into my room again, and shut the door with a clap that sounded loudly and unnaturally through the dismal quiet that surrounded me, and stood with my hand on the handle, with the instinct of resistance.

  I felt uncomfortable; and I would have secured the door, but there was no sort of fastening within. So I paused. I did not mind looking out again. To tell you the plain truth, I was just a little bit afraid. Then I grew angry at having been put into such remote, and, possibly, suspected quarters, and then my comfortable scepticism supervened. I was yet to learn a great deal about this visitation.

  So, in due course having smoked my cheroot, I jerked the stump into the fire. Of course I could not think of depriving myself of candlelight; and being already of a thoughtful, old-bachelor temperament, and averse from burning houses, I placed one of my tall waxlights in a basin on the table by my bed — in which I soon effected a lodgment, and lay with a comparative sense of security.

  Then I heard two o’clock strike; but shortly after, as I suppose, sleep overtook me, and I have no distinct idea for how long my slumber lasted. The fire was very low when I awoke, and saw a figure — and a very odd one — seated by the embers, and stooping over the grate, with a pair of long hands expanded, as it seemed, to catch the warmth of the sinking fire.

  It was that of a very tall old man, entirely dressed in white flannel — a very long spencer, and some sort of white swathing about his head. His back was toward me; and he stooped without the slightest motion over the fireplace, in the attitude I have described.

  As I looked, he suddenly turned toward me, and fixed upon me a cold, and as it seemed, a wrathful gaze, over his shoulder. It was a bleached and a long-chinned face — the countenance of Lorne’s portrait — only more faded, sinister, and apathetic. And having, as it were, secured its awful command over me by a protracted gaze, he rose, supernaturally lean and tall, and drew near the side of my bed.

  I continued to stare upon this apparition with the most dreadful fascination I ever experienced in my life. For two or three seconds I literally could not move. When I did, I am not ashamed to confess, it was to plunge my head under the bedclothes, with the childish instinct of terror; and there I lay breathless, for what seemed to me not far from ten minutes, during which there was no sound, nor other symptom of its presence.

  On a sudden the bedclothes were gently lifted at my feet, and I sprang backwards, sitting upright against the back of the bed, and once more under the gaze of that long-chinned old man.

  A voice, as peculiar as the appearance of the figure, said: —

  ‘You are in my bed — I died in it a great many years ago. I am Uncle Lorne; and when I am not here, a devil goes up and down in the room. See! he had his face to your ear when I came in. I came from Dorcas Brandon’s bedchamber door, where her evil angel told me a thing; — and Mark Wylder must not seek to marry her, for he will be buried alive if he does, and he will, maybe, never get up again. Say your prayers when I go out, and come here no more.’

  He paused, as if these incredible words were to sink into my memory; and then, in the same tone, and with the same countenance, he asked —

  ‘Is the blood on my forehead?’

  I don’t know whether I answered.

  ‘So soon as a calamity is within twelve hours, the blood comes upon my forehead, as they found me in the morning — it is a sign.’

  The old man then drew back slowly, and disappeared behind the curtains at the foot of the bed, and I saw no more of him during the rest of that odious night.

  So long as this apparition remained before me, I never doubted its being supernatural. I don’t think mortal ever suffered horror more intense. My very hair was dripping with a cold moisture. For some seconds I hardly knew where I was. But soon a reaction came, and I felt convinced that the apparition was a living man. It was no process of reason or philosophy, but simply I became persuaded of it, and something like rage overcame my terrors.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  THE PONY CARRIAGE

  So soon as daylight came, I made a swift cold water toilet, and got out into the open air, with a solemn resolution to see the hated interior of that bedroom no more. When I met Lord Chelford in his early walk that morning, I’m sure I looked myself like a ghost — at all events, very wild and seedy — for he asked me, more seriously than usual, how I was; and I think I would have told him the story of my adventure, despite the secret ridicule with which, I fancied, he would receive it, had it not been for a certain insurmountable disgust and horror which held me tongue-tied upon the affair.

  I told him, however, that I had dreamed dreams, and was restless and uncomfortable in my present berth, and begged his interest with the housekeeper to have my quarters changed to the lower storey — quite resolved to remove to the ‘Brandon Arms,’ rather than encounter another such night as I had passed.

  Stanley Lake did not appear that day; Wylder was glowering and abstracted — worse company than usual; and Rachel seemed to have quite passed from his recollection.

  While Rachel Lake was, as usual, busy in her little garden that day, Lord Chelf
ord, on his way to the town, by the pretty mill-road, took off his hat to her with a smiling salutation, and leaning on the paling, he said —

  ‘I often wonder how you make your flowers grow here — you have so little sun among the trees — and yet, it is so pretty and flowery; it remains in my memory as if the sun were always shining specially on this little garden.’

  Miss Lake laughed.

  ‘I am very proud of it. They try not to blow, but I never let them alone till they do. See all my watering-pots, and pruning-scissors, my sticks, and bass-mat, and glass covers. Skill and industry conquer churlish nature — and this is my Versailles.’

  ‘I don’t believe in those sticks, and scissors, and watering-pots. You won’t tell your secret; but I’m sure it’s an influence — you smile and whisper to them.’

  She smiled — without raising her eyes — on the flower she was tying up; and, indeed, it was such a smile as must have made it happy — and she said, gaily —

  ‘You forget that Lord Chelford passes this way sometimes, and shines upon them, too.’

  ‘No, he’s a dull, earthly dog; and if he shines here, it is only in reflected light’

  ‘Margery, child, fetch me the scissors.’

  And a hobble-de-hoy of a girl, with round eyes, and a long white-apron, and bare arms, came down the little walk, and — eyeing the peer with an awful curiosity — presented the shears to the charming Atropos, who clipped off the withered blossoms that had bloomed their hour, and were to cumber the stalk no more.

  ‘Now, you see what art may do; how passée this creature was till I made her toilet, and how wonderfully the poor old beauty looks now,’ and she glanced complacently at the plant she had just trimmed.

  ‘Well, it is young again and beautiful; but no — I have no faith in the scissors; I still believe in the influence — from the tips of your fingers, your looks, and tones. Flowers, like fairies, have their favourites, whom they smile on and obey; and I think this is a haunted glen — trees, flowers, all have an intelligence and a feeling — and I am sure you see wonderful things, by moonlight, from your window.’