Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  ‘So do we, Sir; thank you for the information,’ said Lake, who nevertheless appeared strangely uneasy.

  ‘He has had a great tour to make. It is nearly accomplished now; when it is done, he will be like me, humano major. He has seen the places which you are yet to see.’

  ‘Nothing I should like better; particularly Italy,’ said Lake.

  ‘Yes,’ said Uncle Lorne, lifting up slowly a different finger at each name in his catalogue. ‘First, Lucus Mortis; then Terra Tenebrosa; next, Tartarus; after that, Terra Oblivionis; then Herebus; then Barathrum; then Gehenna, and then Stagium Ignis.’

  ‘Of course,’ acquiesced Lake, with an ugly sneer, and a mock bow.

  ‘And to think that all the white citizens were once men and women!’ murmured Uncle Lorne, with a scowl.

  ‘Quite so,’ whispered Lake.

  ‘I know where he is,’ resumed the old man, with his finger on his long chin, and looking down upon the carpet.

  ‘It would be very convenient if you would favour us with his address,’ said Stanley, with a gracious sneer.

  ‘I know what became of him,’ continued the oracle.

  ‘You are more in his confidence than we are,’ said Lake.

  ‘Don’t be frightened — but he’s alive; I think they’ll make him mad. It is a frightful plight. Two angels buried him alive in Vallombrosa by night; I saw it, standing among the lotus and hemlock. A negro came to me, a black clergyman with white eyes, and remained beside me; and the angels imprisoned Mark; they put him on duty forty days and forty nights, with his ear to the river listening for voices; and when it was over we blessed them; and the clergyman walked with me a long while, to-and-fro, to-and-fro upon the earth, telling me the wonders of the abyss.’

  ‘And is it from the abyss, Sir, he writes his letters?’ enquired the Town

  Clerk, with a wink at Lake.

  ‘Yes, yes, very diligent; it behoves him; and his hair is always standing straight on his head for fear. But he’ll be sent up again, at last, a thousand, a hundred, ten and one, black marble steps, and then it will be the other one’s turn. So it was prophesied by the black magician.’

  ‘I thought, Sir, you mentioned just now he was a clergyman,’ suggested

  Mr. Wealdon, who evidently enjoyed this wonderful yarn.

  ‘Clergyman and magician both, and the chief of the lying prophets with thick lips. He’ll come here some night and see you,’ said Uncle Lorne, looking with a cadaverous apathy on Lake, who was gazing at him in return, with a sinister smile.

  ‘Maybe it was a vision, Sir,’ suggested the Town Clerk.

  ‘Yes, Sir; a vision, maybe,’ echoed the cavernous tones of the old man; ‘but in the flesh or out of the flesh, I saw it.’

  ‘You have had revelations, Sir, I’ve heard,’ said Stanley’s mocking voice.

  ‘Many,’ said the seer; ‘but a prophet is never honoured. We live in solitude and privations — the world hates us — they stone us — they cut us asunder, even when we are dead. Feel me — I’m cold and white all over — I died too soon — I’d have had wings now only for that pistol. I’m as white as Gehazi, except on my head, when that blood comes.’

  Saying which, he rose abruptly, and with long jerking steps limped to the door, at which, I saw, in the shade, the face of a dark-featured man, looking gloomily in.

  When he reached the door Uncle Lorne suddenly stopped and faced us, with a countenance of wrath and fear, and threw up his arms in an attitude of denunciation, but said nothing. I thought for a moment the gigantic spectre was about to rush upon us in an access of frenzy; but whatever the impulse, it subsided — or was diverted by some new idea; his countenance changed, and he beckoned as if to some one in the corner of the room behind us, and smiled his dreadful smile, and so left the apartment.

  ‘That d — d old madman is madder than ever,’ said Lake, in his fellest tones, looking steadfastly with his peculiar gaze upon the closed door. ‘Jermyn is with him, but he’ll burn the house or murder some one yet. It’s all d — d nonsense keeping him here — did you see him at the door? — he was on the point of assailing some of us. He ought to be in a madhouse.’

  ‘He used to be very quiet,’ said the Town Clerk, who knew all about him.

  ‘Oh! very quiet — yes, of course, very quiet, and quite harmless to people who don’t live in the house with him, and see him but once in half-a-dozen years; but you can’t persuade me it is quite so pleasant for those who happen to live under the same roof, and are liable to be intruded upon as we have been tonight every hour of their existence.’

  ‘Well, certainly it is not pleasant, especially for ladies,’ admitted the

  Town Clerk.

  ‘No, not pleasant — and I’ve quite made up my mind it sha’n’t go on. It is too absurd, really, that such a monstrous thing should be enforced; I’ll get a private Act, next Session, and regulate those absurd conditions in the will. The old fellow ought to be under restraint; and I rather think it would be better for himself that he were.’

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked, speaking for the first time.

  ‘I thought you had seen him before now,’ said Lake.

  ‘So I have, but quite alone, and without ever learning who he was,’ I answered.

  ‘Oh! He is the gentleman, Julius, for whom in the will, under which we take, those very odd provisions are made — such as I believe no one but a Wylder or a Brandon would have dreamed of. It is an odd state of things to hold one’s estate under condition of letting a madman wander about your house and place, making everybody in it uncomfortable and insecure and exposing him to the imminent risk of making away with himself, either by accident or design. I happen to know what Mark Wylder would have done — for he spoke very fiercely on the subject — perhaps he consulted you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? well, he intended locking him quietly into the suite of three apartments, you know, at the far end of the old gallery, and giving him full command of the mulberry garden by the little private stair, and putting a good iron door to it; so that “my beloved brother, Julius, at present afflicted in mind” (Lake quoted the words of the will, with an unpleasant sneer), should have had his apartments and his pleasure grounds quite to himself.’

  ‘And would that arrangement of Mr. Wylder’s have satisfied the conditions of the will?’ said the Town Clerk.

  ‘I rather think, with proper precautions, it would. Mark Wylder was very shrewd, and would not have run himself into a fix,’ answered Lake. ‘I don’t know any man shrewder; he is, certainly.’

  And Lake looked at us, as he added these last words, in turn, with a quick, suspicious glance, as if he had said something rash, and doubted whether we had observed it.

  After a little more talk, Lake and the Town Clerk resumed their electioneering conference, and the lists of electors were passed under their scrutiny, name by name, like slides under the miscroscope.

  There is a great deal in nature, physical and moral, that had as well not be ascertained. It is better to take things on trust, with something of distance and indistinctness. What we gain in knowledge by scrutiny is sometimes paid for in a ghastly sort of disgust. It is marvellous in a small constituency of 300 average souls, what a queer moral result one of these businesslike and narrow investigations which precede an election will furnish. How you find them rated and classified — what odd notes you make to them in the margin; and after the trenchant and rapid vivisection, what sinister scars and seams remain, and how gaunt and repulsive old acquaintances stand up from it.

  The Town Clerk knew the constituency of Dollington at his fingers’ ends; and Stanley Lake quietly enjoyed, as certain minds will, the nefarious and shabby metamorphosis which every now and then some familiar and respectable burgess underwent, in the spell of half-a-dozen dry sentences whispered in his ear; and all this minute information is trustworthy and quite without malice.

  I went to my bedroom, and secured the door, lest Uncle Lorne, or Julius, should make me another
midnight visit. So that mystery was cleared up. Neither ghost nor spectral illusion, but flesh and blood — though in my mind there has always been a horror of a madman akin to the ghostly or demoniac.

  I do not know how late Tom Wealdon and Stanley Lake sat up over their lists; but I dare say they were in no hurry to leave them, for a dissolution was just then expected, and no time was to be lost.

  When I saw Tom Wealdon alone next day in the street of Gylingden, he walked a little way with me, and, said Tom, with a grave wink —

  ‘Don’t let the captain up there be hard on the poor old gentleman. He’s quite harmless — he would not hurt a fly. I know all about him; for Jack Ford and I spent five weeks in the Hall, about twelve years ago, when the family were away and thought the keeper was not kind to him. He’s quite gentle, and sometimes he’d make you die o’ laughing. He fancies, you know, he’s a prophet; and says he’s that old Sir Lorne Brandon that shot himself in his bedroom. Well, he is a rum one; and we used to draw him out — poor Jack and me. I never laughed so much, I don’t think, in the same time, before or since. But he’s as innocent as a child — and you know them directions in the will is very strong; and they say Jos. Larkin does not like the captain a bit too well — and he has the will off, every word of it; and I think, if Captain Lake does not take care, he may get into trouble; and maybe it would not be amiss if you gave him a hint.’

  Tom Wealdon, indeed, was a goodnatured fellow: and if he had had his way, I think the world would have gone smoothly enough with most people.

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  LARCOM, THE BUTLER, VISITS THE ATTORNEY.

  Now I may as well mention here an occurrence which, seeming very insignificant, has yet a bearing upon the current of this tale, and it is this. About four days after the receipt of the despatches to which the conference of Captain Lake and the attorney referred, there came a letter from the same prolific correspondent, dated 20th March, from Genoa, which altogether puzzled Mr. Larkin. It commenced thus: —

  ‘Genoa: 20th march.

  ‘DEAR LARKIN, — I hope you did the three commissions all right. Wealdon won’t refuse, I reckon — but don’t let Lake guess what the 150l. is for. Pay Martin for the job when finished; it is under 60l.. mind; and get it looked at first.’

  There was a great deal more, but these were the passages which perplexed Larkin. He unlocked the iron safe, and took out the sheaf of Wylder’s letters, and conned the last one over very carefully.

  ‘Why,’ said he, holding the text before his eyes in one hand and with the fingers of the other touching the top of his bald forehead, ‘Tom Wealdon is not once mentioned in this, nor in any of them; and this palpably refers to some direction. And 150l.? — no such sum has been mentioned. And what is this job of Martin’s? Is it Martin of the China Kilns, or Martin of the bank? That, too, plainly refers to a former letter — not a word of the sort. This is very odd indeed.’

  Larkin’s fingertips descended over his eyebrow, and scratched in a miniature way there for a few seconds, and then his large long hand descended further to his chin, and his underlip was, as usual in deep thought, fondled and pinched between his finger and thumb.

  ‘There has plainly been a letter lost, manifestly. I never knew anything wrong in this Gylingden office. Driver has been always correct; but it is hard to know any man for certain in this world. I don’t think the captain would venture anything so awfully hazardous. I really can’t suspect so monstrous a thing; but, unquestionably, a letter has been lost — and who’s to take it?’

  Larkin made a fuller endorsement than usual on this particular letter, and ruminated over the correspondence a good while, with his lip between his finger and thumb, and a shadow on his face, before he replaced it in its iron drawer.

  ‘It is not a thing to be passed over,’ murmured the attorney, who had come to a decision as to the first step to be taken, and he thought with a qualm of the effect of one of Wylder’s confidential notes getting into Captain Lake’s hands.

  While he was buttoning his walking boots, with his foot on the chair before the fire, a tap at his study door surprised him. A hurried glance on the table satisfying him that no secret paper or despatch lay there, he called —

  ‘Come in.’

  And Mr. Larcom, the grave butler of Brandon, wearing outside his portly person a black garment then known as a ‘zephyr,’ a white choker, and black trousers, and well polished, but rather splay shoes, and, on the whole, his fat and serious aspect considered, being capable of being mistaken for a church dignitary, or at least for an eminent undertaker, entered the room with a solemn and gentlemanlike reverence.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Larcom! a message, or business?’ said Mr. Larkin, urbanely.

  ‘Not a message, Sir; only an enquiry about them few shares,’ answered Mr. Larcom, with another serene reverence, and remaining standing, hat in hand, at the door.

  ‘Oh, yes; and how do you do, Mr. Larcom? Quite well, I trust. Yes — about the Naunton Junction. Well, I’m happy to tell you — but pray take a chair — that I have succeeded, and the directors have allotted you five shares; and it’s your own fault if you don’t make two ten-and-six a share. The Chowsleys are up to six and a-half, I see here,’ and he pointed to the ‘Times.’ Mr. Larcom’s fat face smiled, in spite of his endeavour to keep it under. It was part of his business to look always grave, and he coughed, and recovered his gravity.

  ‘I’m very thankful, Sir,’ said Mr. Larcom, ‘very.’

  ‘But do sit down, Mr. Larcom — pray do,’ said the attorney, who was very gracious to Larcom. ‘You’ll get the scrip, you know, on executing, but the shares are allotted. They sent the notice for you here. And — and how are the family at Brandon — all well, I trust?’

  Mr. Larcom blew his nose.

  ‘All, Sir, well.’

  ‘And — and let me give you a glass of sherry, Mr. Larcom, after your walk. I can’t compete with the Brandon sherry, Mr. Larcom. Wonderful fine wine that! — but still I’m told this is not a bad wine notwithstanding.’

  Larcom received it with grave gratitude, and sipped it, and spoke respectfully of it.

  ‘And — and any news in that quarter of Mr. Mark Wylder — any — any surmise? I — you know — I’m interested for all parties.’

  ‘Well, Sir, of Mr. Wylder, I can’t say as I know no more than he’s been a subjek of much unpleasant feelin’, which I should say there has been a great deal of angry talk since I last saw you, Sir, between Miss Lake and the capting.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you mentioned something of the kind; and your own impression, that Captain Lake, which I trust may turn out to be so, knows where Mr. Mark Wylder is at present staying.’

  ‘I much misdoubt, Sir, it won’t turn out to be no good story for no one,’ said Mr. Larcom, in a low and sad tone, and with a long shake of his head.

  ‘No good story — hey? How do you mean, Larcom?’

  ‘Well, Sir, I know you won’t mention me, Mr. Larkin.’

  ‘Certainly not — go on.’

  ‘When people gets hot a-talking they won’t mind a body comin’ in; and that’s how the capting and Miss Rachel Lake they carried on their dispute like, though me coming into the room.’

  ‘Just so; and what do you found your opinion about Mr. Mark Wylder on?’

  ‘Well, Sir, I could not hear more than a word now and a sentince again; and pickin’ what meaning I could out of what Miss Lake said, and the capting could not deny, I do suspeck, Sir, most serious, as how they have put Mr. Mark Wylder into a madhouse; and that’s how I think it’s gone with him; an’ you’ll never see him out again if the capting has his will.’

  ‘Do you mean to say you actually think he’s shut up in a madhouse at this moment?’ demanded the attorney; his little pink eyes opened quite round, and his lank cheeks and tall forehead flushed, at the rush of wild ideas that whirred round him, like a covey of birds at the startling suggestion.

  The butler nodded gloomily. Larkin continued to stare on him in silence,
with his round eyes, for some seconds after.

  ‘In a mad-house! Pooh, pooh! incredible! Pooh! impossible — quite impossible. Did either Miss Lake or the captain use the word madhouse?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  Or any other word — lunatic asylum, or a — bedlam, or — or any other word meaning the same thing?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say, Sir, as I remember; but I rayther think not. I only know for certain, I took it so; and I do believe as how Mr. Mark Wylder is confined in a madhouse, and the captain knows all about it, and won’t do nothing to get him out.’

  ‘H’m — very odd — very strange; but it is only from the general tenor of what passed, by a sort of guess work, you have arrived at that conclusion?’

  Larcom assented.

  ‘Well, Mr. Larcom, I think you have been led into an erroneous conclusion. Indeed, I may mention I have reason to think so — in fact, to know that such is the case. What you mention to me, you know, as a friend of the family, and holding, as I do, a confidential position — in fact, a very confidential one — alike in relation to Mr. Wylder and to the family of Brandon Hall, is of course sacred; and anything that comes from you, Mr. Larcom, is never heard in connection with your name beyond these walls. And let me add, it strikes me as highly important, both in the interests of the leading individuals in this unpleasant business, and also as pertaining to your own comfort and security, that you should carefully avoid communicating what you have just mentioned to any other party. You understand?’

  Larcom did understand perfectly, and so this little visit ended.

  Mr. Larkin took a turn or two up and down the room thinking. He stopped, with his fingertips to his eyebrow, and thought more. Then he took another turn, and stopped again, and threw back his head, and gazed for a while on the ceiling, and then he stood for a time at the window, with his lip between his finger and thumb.

  No, it was a mistake; it could not be. It was Mark Wylder’s penmanship — he could swear to it. There was no trace of madness in his letters, nor of restraint. It was not possible even that he was wandering from place to place under the coercion of a couple of keepers. No; Wylder was an energetic and somewhat violent person, with high animal courage, and would be sure to blow up and break through any such machination. No, no; with Mark Wylder it was quite out of the question — altogether visionary and impracticable. Persons like Larcom do make such absurd blunders, and so misapprehend the conversation of educated people.