Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  ‘Has she got your mistress’s directions?’

  ‘Miss Brandon is not called up, my lord, and Mrs. Esterbroke is unwillin’ to halarm her; so she thought it better I should come for orders to your lordship; which she thinks also the poor young gentleman is certainly a-dying.’

  ‘Is there any vacant bedroom near where you have placed him? What does

  Mrs. —— the housekeeper, say?’

  ‘She thinks, my lord, the room hopposit, where Mr. Sledd, the architeck, slep, when ‘ere, would answer very nice. It is roomy and hairy, and no steps. Major Jackson, who is gone to the town to fetch the doctor, my lord, says Mr. Lake won’t a-bear carriage; and so the room on the level, my lord, would, perhaps, be more convenient.’

  ‘Certainly; tell her so. I will speak to Miss Brandon when she comes down. How soon will the doctor be here?’

  ‘From a quarter to half an hour, my lord.’

  ‘Then tell the housekeeper to arrange as she proposes, and don’t remove his clothes until the doctor comes. Everyone must assist. I know, St. Ange, you’ll like to assist.’

  So Larcom withdrew ceremoniously, and Lord Chelford hastened his toilet, and was down stairs, and in the room assigned by the housekeeper to the ill-starred Captain Lake, before Doctor Buddle had arrived.

  It had already the dismal character of a sick chamber. Its light was darkened; its talk was in whispers; and its to-ings and froings on tip-toe. An obsolete chambermaid had been already installed as nurse. Little Mrs. Esterbroke, the housekeeper, was fussing hither and thither about the room noiselessly.

  So this gay, astute man of fashion had fallen into the dungeon of sudden darkness, and the custody of old women; and lay helpless in the stocks, awaiting the judgment of Buddle. Ridiculous little pudgy Buddle — how awful on a sudden are you grown — the interpreter of death in this very case. ‘My case,’ thought that seemingly listless figure on the bed; ‘my case — I suppose it is fatal — I am to go out of this room in a long cloth-covered box. I am going to try, alone and for ever, the value of those theories of futurity and the unseen which I have quietly scouted all my days. Oh, that the prophet Buddle were here, to end my tremendous suspense, and to announce a reprieve from Heaven.’

  While the wounded captain lay on the bed, with his clothes on, and the coverlet over him, and that clay-coloured apathetic face, with closed eyes, upon the pillow, without sigh or motion, not a whispered word escaped him; but his brain was appalled, and his heart died within him in the unspeakable horror of death.

  Lord Chelford, too, having looked on Lake with silent, but awful misgivings, longed for the arrival of the doctor; and was listening and silent when Buddle’s short step and short respiration were heard in the passage. So Larcom came to the door to announce the doctor in a whisper, and Buddle fussed into the room, and made his bow to Lord Chelford, and his brief compliments and condolences.

  ‘Not asleep?’ he enquired, standing by the bed.

  The captain’s lips moved a disclaimer, I suppose, but no sound came.

  So the doctor threw open the window-shutters, and clipped Stanley Lake’s exquisite coat ruthlessly through with his scissors, and having cleared the room of all useless hands, he made his examination.

  It was a long visit. Buddle in the hall afterwards declined breakfast — he had a board to attend. He told Lord Chelford that the case was ‘a very nasty one.’

  In fact, the chances were against the captain, and he, Buddle, would wish a consultation with a London surgeon — whoever Lord Chelford lead most confidence in — Sir Francis Seddley, he thought, would be very desirable — but, of course, it was for the family to decide. If the messenger caught the quarter to eleven up train at Dollington, he would be in London at six, and could return with the doctor by the down mail train, and so reach Dollington at ten minutes past four next morning, which would answer, as he would not operate sooner.

  As the doctor toddled towards Gylingden, with sympathetic Major Tackson by his side, before they entered the town they were passed by one of the Brandon men riding at a hard canter for Dollington.

  ‘London?’ shouted the doctor, as the man touched his hat in passing.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Glad o’ that,’ said the major, looking after him.

  ‘So am I,’ said the learned Buddle. ‘I don’t see how we’re to get the bullet out of him, without mischief. Poor devil, I’m afraid he’ll do no good.’

  The ladies that morning had tea in their rooms. It was near twelve o’clock when Lord Chelford saw Miss Brandon. She was in the conservatory amongst her flowers, and on seeing him stepped into the drawingroom.

  ‘I hope, Dorcas, you are not angry with me. I’ve been, I’m afraid, very impertinent; but I was called on to decide for you, in your absence, and they all thought poor Lake could not be moved on to Gylingden without danger.’

  ‘You did quite rightly, Chelford, and I thank you,’ said Miss Brandon, coldly; and she seated herself, and continued —

  ‘Pray, what does the doctor really say?’

  ‘He speaks very seriously.’

  ‘Does he think there is danger?’

  ‘Very great danger.’

  Miss Brandon looked down, and then, with a pale gaze suddenly in

  Chelford’s face —

  ‘He thinks he may die?’ said she.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lord Chelford, in a very low tone, returning her gaze solemnly.

  ‘And nobody to advise but that village doctor, Buddle — that’s hardly credible, I think.’

  ‘Pardon me. At his suggestion I have sent for Sir Francis Seddley, from town, and I hope he may arrive early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why, Stanley Lake may die to-day.’

  ‘He does not apprehend that. But it is necessary to remove the bullet, and the operation will be critical, and it is for that specially that Sir Francis is coming down.’

  ‘It is to take place tomorrow, and he’ll die in that operation. You know he’ll die,’ said Dorcas, pale and fierce.

  ‘I assure you, Dorcas, I have been perfectly frank. He looks upon poor

  Lake as in very great danger — but that is all.’

  ‘What brutes you men are!’ said Dorcas, with a wild scorn in her look and accent, and her cheeks flushed with passion. ‘You knew quite well last night there was to be this wicked duel in the morning — and you — a magistrate — a lord-lieutenant — what are you? — you connived at this bloody conspiracy — and he — your own cousin, Chelford — your cousin!’

  Chelford looked at her, very much amazed.

  ‘Yes; you are worse than Sir Harry Bracton — for you’re no fool; and worse than that wicked old man. Major Jackson — who shall never enter these doors again — for he was employed — trusted in their brutal plans; but you had no excuse and every opportunity — and you have allowed your Cousin Stanley to be murdered.’

  ‘You do me great injustice, Dorcas. I did not know, or even suspect that a hostile meeting between poor Lake and Bracton was thought of. I merely heard that there had been some trifling altercation in the supper-room; and when, intending to make peace between them, I alluded to it, just before we left, and Bracton said it was really nothing — quite blown over — and that he could not recollect what either had said. I was entirely deceived — you know I speak truth — quite deceived. They think it fair, you know, to dupe other people in such affairs; and I will also say,’ he continued, a little haughtily, ‘that you might have spared your censure until at least you had heard what I had to say.’

  ‘I do believe you, Chelford; you are not vexed with me. Won’t you shake hands?’

  He took her hand with a smile.

  ‘And now,’ said she, ‘Chelford, ought not we to send for poor Rachel: her only brother? Is not it sad?’

  ‘Certainly; shall I ask my mother, or will you write?’

  ‘I will write,’ she said.

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  IN WHICH MISS RACHEL LAKE COMES TO BRANDON, AND DOCTOR B
UDDLE CALLS AGAIN.

  In about an hour afterwards, Rachel Lake arrived in the carriage which had been despatched for her with Dorcas’s note.

  She was a good deal muffled up, and looked very pale, and asked whether Miss Brandon was in her room, whither she glided rapidly up stairs. It was a sort of boudoir or dressing-room, with a few pretty old portraits and miniatures, and a number of Louis Quatorze looking-glasses hung round, and such pretty quaint cabriole gilt and pale green furniture.

  Dorcas met her at the door, and they kissed silently.

  ‘How is he, Dorcas?’

  ‘Very ill, dear, I’m afraid — sit down, darling.’

  Rachel was relieved, for in her panic she almost feared to ask if he were living.

  ‘Is there immediate danger?’

  ‘The doctor says not, but he is very much alarmed for tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh! Dorcas, darling, he’ll die; I know it. Oh! merciful Heaven! how tremendous.’

  ‘You will not be so frightened in a little time. You have only just heard it, Rachel dearest, and you are startled. I was so myself.’

  ‘I’d like to see him, Dorcas.’

  ‘Sit here a little and rest, dear. The doctor will make his visit immediately, and then we can ask him. He’s a goodnatured little creature — poor old Buddle — and I am certain if it can safely be, he won’t prevent it.’

  ‘Where is he, darling — where is Stanley?’

  So Dorcas described as well as she could.

  ‘Oh, poor Stanley. Oh, Stanley — poor Stanley,’ gasped Rachel, with white lips. ‘You have no idea, Dorcas — no one can — how terrific it is. Oh, poor Stanley — poor Stanley.’

  ‘Drink this water, darling; you must not be so excited.’

  ‘Dorcas, say what the doctor may, see him I must.’

  ‘There is time to think of that, darling.’

  ‘Has he spoken to anyone?’

  ‘Very little, I believe. He whispers a few words now and then — that is all.’

  ‘Nothing to Chelford — nothing particular, I mean?’

  ‘No — nothing — at least that I have heard of.’

  ‘Did he wish to see no one?’

  ‘No one, dear.’

  ‘Not poor William Wylder?’

  ‘No, dear. I don’t suppose he cares more for a clergyman than for any other man; none of his family ever did, when they came to lie on a bed of sickness, or of death either.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Rachel, wildly; ‘I did not mean to pray. I was not thinking of that; but William Wylder was different; and he did not mention me either?’

  Dorcas shook her head.

  ‘I knew it,’ continued Rachel, with a kind of shudder. ‘And tell me,

  Dorcas, does he know that he is in danger — such imminent danger?’

  ‘That I cannot say, Rachel, dear. I don’t believe doctors like to tell their patients so.’

  There was a silence of some minutes, and Rachel, clasping her hands in an agony, said —

  ‘Oh, yes — he’s gone — he’s certainly gone; and I remain alone under that dreadful burden.’

  ‘Please, Miss Brandon, the doctor’s down stairs with Captain Lake,’ said the maid, opening the door.

  ‘Is Lord Chelford with him?’

  ‘Yes, Miss, please.’

  ‘Then tell him I will be so obliged if he will come here for a moment, when the doctor is gone; and ask the doctor now, from me, how he thinks Captain Lake.’

  In a little while the maid returned. Captain Lake was not so low, and rather better than this morning, the doctor said; and Rachel raised her eyes, and whispered an agitated thanksgiving. ‘Was Lord Chelford coming?’

  ‘His lordship had left the room when she returned, and Mr. Larcom said he was with Lawyer Larkin in the library.’

  ‘Mr. Larkin can wait. Tell Lord Chelford I wish very much to see him here.’

  So away went the maid again. A message in that great house was a journey; and there was a little space before they heard a knock at the door of Dorcas’s pretty room, and Lord Chelford, duly invited, came in.

  Lord Chelford was surprised to see Rachel, and held her hand, while he congratulated her on the more favourable opinion of the physician this afternoon; and then he gave them, as fully and exactly as he could, all the lights emitted by Dr. Buddle, and endeavoured to give his narrative as cheerful and confident an air as he could. Then, at length, he recollected that Mr. Larkin was waiting in the study.

  ‘I quite forgot Mr. Larkin,’ said he; ‘I left him in the library, and I am so very glad we have had a pleasanter report upon poor Lake this evening; and I am sure we shall all feel more comfortable on seeing Sir Francis Seddley. He is such an admirable surgeon; and I feel sure he’ll strike out something for our poor patient. I’ve known him hit upon such original expedients, and make such wonderful successes.’

  So with a kind smile he left the room.

  Then there was a long pause.

  ‘Does he really think that Stanley will recover?’ said Rachel.

  ‘I don’t know; I suppose he hopes it. I don’t know, Rachel, what to think of anyone or anything. What wild beasts they are. How “swift to shed blood,” as poor William Wylder said last Sunday. Have you any idea what they quarrelled about?’

  ‘None in the world. It was that odious Sir Harry Bracton — was not it?’

  ‘Why so odious, Rachel? How can you tell which was in the wrong? I only know he seems to be a better marksman than your poor brother.’

  Rachel looked at her with something of haughty and surprised displeasure, but said nothing.

  ‘You look at me, Radie, as if I were a monster — or monstress, I should say — whereas I am only a Brandon. Don’t you remember how our great ancestor, who fought for the House of York, changed suddenly to Lancaster, and how Sir Richard left the King and took part with Cromwell, not for any particular advantage, I believe, or for any particular reason even, but for wickedness and wounded pride, perhaps.’

  ‘I don’t quite see your meaning, Dorcas. I can’t understand how your pride has been hurt; but if Stanley had any, I can well imagine what torture it must have endured; wretched, wicked, punished fool!’

  ‘You suspect what they fought about, Radie!’

  Rachel made no answer.

  ‘You do, Radie, and why do you dissemble with me?’

  ‘I don’t dissemble; I don’t care to speak; but if you will have me say so, I do suspect — I think it must have originated in jealousy of you.’

  ‘You look, Radie, as if you thought I had managed it — whereas I really did not care.’

  ‘I do not understand you, Dorcas; but you appear to me very cruel, and you smile, as I say so.’

  ‘I smile, because I sometimes think so myself.’

  With a fixed and wrathful stare Rachel returned the enigmatical gaze of her beautiful cousin.

  ‘If Stanley dies, Dorcas, Sir Harry Bracton shall hear of it. I’ll lose my life, but he shall pay the forfeit of his crime.’

  So saying, Rachel left the room, and gliding through passages, and down stairs, she knocked at Stanley’s door. The old woman opened it.

  ‘Ah, Dorothy! I’m so glad to see you here!’ and she put a present in her hard, crumpled hand.

  So, noiselessly, Rachel Lake, without more parley, stepped into the room, and closed the door. She was alone with Stanley With a beating heart, and a kind of chill stealing over her, by her brother’s bed.

  The room was not so dark that she could not see distinctly enough.

  There lay her brother, such as he was — still her brother, on the bleak, neutral ground between life and death. His features, peaked and earthy, and that look, so new and peculiar, which does not savour of life upon them. He did not move, but his strange eyes gazed cold and earnest from their deep sockets upon her face in awful silence. Perhaps he thought he saw a phantom.

  ‘Are you better, dear?’ whispered Rachel.

  His lips stirred and his throat, but he did not
speak until a second effort brought utterance, and he murmured,

  ‘Is that you, Radie?’

  ‘Yes, dear. Are you better?’

  ‘No. I’m shot. I shall die tonight. Is it night yet?’

  ‘Don’t despair, Stanley, dear. The great London doctor, Sir Francis Seddley, will be with you early in the morning, and Chelford has great confidence in him. I’m sure he will relieve you.’

  ‘This is Brandon?’ murmured Lake.

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  She thought he was going to say more, but he remained silent, and she recollected that he ought not to speak, and also that she had that to say which must be said.

  Sharp, dark, and strange lay that familiar face upon the white pillow. The faintest indication of something like a peevish sneer; it might be only the lines of pain and fatigue; still it had that unpleasant character remaining fixed on its features.

  ‘Oh, Stanley! you say you think you are dying. Won’t you send for William

  Wylder and Chelford, and tell all you know of Mark?’

  She saw he was about to say something, and she leaned her head near his lips, and she heard him whisper, —

  ‘It won’t serve Mark.’

  ‘I’m thinking of you, Stanley — I’m thinking of you.’

  To which he said either ‘Yes’ or ‘So.’ She could not distinguish.

  ‘I view it now quite differently. You said, you know, in the park, you would tell Chelford; and I resisted, I believe, but I don’t now. I had rather you did. Yes, Stanley, I conjure you to tell it all.’

  The cold lips, with a livid halo round them, murmured, ‘Thank you.’

  It was a sneer, very shocking just then, perhaps; but unquestionably a sneer.

  ‘Poor Stanley!’ she murmured, with a kind of agony, looking down upon that changed face. ‘One word more, Stanley. Remember, it’s I, the only one on earth who stands near you in kindred, your sister, Stanley, who implores of you to take this step before it is too late; at least, to consider.’

  He said something. She thought it was ‘I’ll think;’ and then he closed his eyes. It was the only motion she had observed, his face lay just as it had done on the pillow. He had not stirred all the time she was there; and now that his eyelids closed, it seemed to say, our interview is over — the curtain has dropped; and so understanding it, with that one awful look that may be the last, she glided from the bedside, told old Dorothy that he seemed disposed to sleep, and left the room.