Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Dinner, Tom, this minute,” said she to old Tom, who, grinning, spoke his hearty word of welcome in the hall, “Master William is very hungry — he has come ever so far — tell Mrs. Podgers — come Willie — are you cold?”

  So before the bright fire, which was pleasant that clear red, frosty evening, they sat — and looking fondly on him, her hand on his, she said —

  “A little thin — certainly a little thin — have you been quite well, Willie — quite well?”

  “Yes, quite well — all right — and how have you been?” he answered and asked.

  “Very well — that is, pretty well — indeed I can’t say I have — I’ve not been well — but time enough about that And tell me — and tell me about this news — about Miss Kincton Knox — is it true — is there really an engagement?”

  “I’ve left them — I came from Cambridge. Engagement! by Jove! I — I don’t know exactly what you mean.”

  So said William, who was struck by something more in Aunt Dinah’s look and tone than could possibly arise from the contemplation merely of that engagement he had been fulfilling at Kincton.

  “I — I heard — I thought — was not there — isn’t there” — Aunt Dinah paused, gazing dubiously on William— “I mean — something of — of — she’s very handsome — I’m told.”

  “Going to be married to Miss Kincton Knox! — I assure you, if you knew her, such an idea would strike you as the most absurdly incredible thing the people who invented it could possibly have told you” — and William actually laughed.

  “Ha!” exclaimed she, rather dismally— “that’s very odd — that is really very odd — it must have been a mistake — people do make such mistakes — it must — and you have heard of — Vi — it seems so odd — little Vi! There’s no mistake there, for Mr. Trevor has had a long conversation with me, and has written to her father, and we both approve highly. But — but about Miss Kincton Knox — it was an odd mistake, though I can’t say I’m sorry, because — but it does not signify now; you would never have waited, and so sure as you sit there, if you had not, you’d have regretted your precipitation all the days of your life.”

  And thrice she nodded darkly on William, in such a way as to assure him that Henbane had been looking after his interests.

  After dinner she ordered Tom to call Winnie Dobbs, who had already had her chat with William.

  “Winnie,” said she, producing a large key from her bag, “you must go to the store-room and fetch one of the three bottles on the shelf.”

  “We dust them every week, old Winnie and I,” said she as soon as Dobbs had gone. “They have been there fifteen years — Frontignac — the doctor ordered it — sillabubs in the morning, when I was recovering, and I don’t think they did me a bit of good; and we must open one of them now.”

  William protested in vain.

  “Yes, it’s the kind of wine young people like — they like it — sweet wine — you must. I hear her coming. What are you dawdling there for, Winnie? Come in — bring it in — why don’t you?”

  So, sitting side by side, her hand on his, and looking often in his face as they talked, they sipped their wine; and old Winnie, standing by, had her glass, and drank their healths, and declared it was “a beautiful sight to see them.” And Aunt Dinah sent Tom to Saxton for some muffins for tea. Mr. William liked muffins— “Be quiet — you know you do.”

  “I’m so sorry Violet should have been out, drinking tea at the Rectory; but you’re to stay tonight; you say you’ll be in time at Mr. Cleaver’s chambers at five tomorrow evening; and you have a London up train at halfpast eleven at our station; and you must sleep at Gilroyd; it would not be like the old times if you didn’t.”

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  “AFTER DEATH MY GHOST SHALL HAUNT YOU.”

  IT was a clear, frosty, moonlight night, and the stars blinking and staring fiercely in the dark sky, as William Maubray peeped between the drawing room shutters, and listened in vain for the ring of the wheels of the promised brougham; and Aunt Dinah returned just as he let the curtains fall together, having in her hand a little cardboard box tied round with a little blue ribbon.

  “Blue, you see, for loyalty — not to princes, but to right — I tied it with blue ribbon,” said Aunt Dinah, sitting down beside him, and untying the knot, and taking out the silver box, with embossed windmills, trees, dogs, and Dutchmen upon it. “Here it is — the tobacco-box; it is yours, mind, and your eldest boy’s to have it — an heirloom,” said she, with a gentle smile, looking into that dim but sunny vista, and among the golden-haired and blue-eyed group, painted in fancy, where she would have no place; “and it’s never to go out of the family, and who knows what it may inspire. It was a brave man’s tobacco-box — my hero. The courtiers, I believe, did not smoke, and he did not like tobacco; indeed I can’t abide the smell, except in snuff — the kind you know you bring me sometimes; but he would not be different from the other officers about him, and so he did smoke; though, my dear father told me, always sparingly; and so, dear William, here it is, and I have had your name placed underneath, and you can take it with you.”

  Hereupon the tea and muffins entered, and after a time the conversation took another turn.

  “And I’m not sorry, William, about that Kincton Knox business; indeed I’m very glad; I never knew before — I never knew intimations — and you know I implicitly believe in them — so peremptory upon any point as on that; and you’re not to marry — mind, you shall promise me you will not — till after the expiration of five years.”

  “I think I might promise you safely enough, I’ll never marry,” said William, with a little laugh.

  “Don’t be rash — no — don’t promise more than I ask; but that you must? replied the old lady.

  “You’ll not ask me to make promises, I’m sure?” said William; “I hate them so.”

  “For five years,” said Miss Perfect, holding up her head a little sternly.

  “For five years, dear aunt?” replied William, with a smile, and shaking his head.

  “It is not much,” said Aunt Dinah, looking sadly down on her muffin, and chopping it lightly with the edge of her knife, as if she cut off the head of a miniature argument at every stroke. “I don’t think it’s very much for a person, that is, who says he’ll never marry.”

  “I’ll never marry — I’m sure I shall never marry — and yet I can’t promise anything. I hate vows; they are sure to make you do the very thing you promise not to do,” said William, half provoked, half laughing, “and if I were to promise, I really can’t tell what the consequence might be.”

  “Ha!” said Miss Perfect ‘‘Well! It is odd!” and up she got and stood very erect and grim on the hearthrug.

  “Now, don’t, dear aunt, don’t be vexed with me; but I assure you I could not. I can’t make vows about the future; but I really and honestly think I shall never be a married man; it’s all — all — odious.”

  “Well,” said she with an effort, “I won’t quarrel. It was not much — five years.” A little pause here she allowed for William to reflect upon its reasonableness, but he made no sign. “Not a great deal; but I won’t quarrel — there — I won’t,” and she extended her hand to him in amity, and he clasped it very affectionately.

  “But I’ll speak to you seriously. I’m not fanciful, I think; I don’t believe things without evidence, and I don’t much care what very young, or very prejudiced people may think about me; that which I know I declare, and I don’t shrink an atom — no, not at the stake.”

  William looked at her with respectful amazement.

  “No — truth first — truth always — in the face of ridicule and bigotry. Never abandon the truth. I say I know perfectly well we are surrounded by spirits — disprove it if you can — and unequivocally have they declared themselves to me, and from that one among them, who is always near me, who is present at this moment, a friendly spirit — Henbane! Why should I hesitate to name him? — I have learned the condition, I m
ay say, of your fate, and I won’t hide it, nor suffer you, if I can help it, to disregard it. Marry for five years you shan’t. If I be alive I’ll leave no stone unturned to prevent it; and if I’m dead, there’s nothing that spirit can do, if you so much as harbour the thought, I’ll not do to prevent it. I’ll be about you; be I good or evil, or mocking, I’ll trouble you, I’ll torment you, I’ll pick her eyes out, but I won’t suffer you to ruin yourself.”

  Preposterous as was this harangue, Aunt Dinah delivered it like a Pythoness, with a vehemence that half awed her nephew.

  “I’ll speak of this no more,” she said, more like herself, after two or three minutes’ silence. “I’ll not mention it — I’ll let it rest in your mind — it’s nothing to me, but for your sake, my mind’s made up though, and if I’ve power in this world or the next, you’ll hear of me, remember that, William Maubray.”

  William was bound to listen to this flighty rigmarole with respect as coming from his aunt, but her spiritual thunders rather amused than alarmed him, and of Henbane he entertained. I must confess, the meanest possible opinion.

  Connected with all this diablerie, indeed, there was but one phenomenon which had unpleasantly fastened upon his imagination, and that was the mysterious adventure which had befallen him in this old house of Gilroyd; when in his bed, his wrist was seized and held fast in the grasp of an unseen hand, and the intensely disagreeable sensations of that night recurred to his memory oftener than he would have cared to admit.

  “I wonder you have so little curiosity, sometimes,” said Aunt Dinah, speaking now, though gravely, much more in her usual way; “you young people think you are so far away from the world of spirits, material and sceptical. You’ve never once cared to ask me for Elihu Bung. I’ll lend it to you with pleasure, while you are here. But that portion of the Almighty’s empire has no interest — is dead — for you.”

  There was abundant truth in this reproach, for William indeed could not without great offence have told his aunt what rubbish he thought it all. But said he:

  “I dare say it is very curious.”

  “Not a bit curious; that’s not the word; it is serious and it’s certain; bread and butter is not very curious; your foot is not very curious, nor your hat; but there they are, facts! that’s all. I’m glad you say you have no present intention of marrying; in fact, dear William, the idea has caused me the most extreme anxiety, having the warning I have; as for me, however, my course is taken. I expect to be what we call a mocking spirit — yes, a mocking spirit — and I’ll play you such tricks as will make you think twice, if such an idea should be in your head. Mind, I told you, though I be dead you shan’t escape me,” and she smiled oddly, and nodded her head, and then frowned a little bit.

  “But I dare say it won’t happen. Now that this Kincton Knox business has turned out a mistake — thank God — a canard. There’s no hurry; you are too young. Remember it was on the 28th of September the warning came, five years, and you count from that; but goodness knows you have time enough. I think I hear the brougham.”

  William was already at the window and the gate-bell ringing.

  “And William, remember, not a word to Violet about Mr. Trevor — not a hint.”

  “Oh! certainly,” cried he, and he was at the hall door in time to open the carriage door, and take little Violet’s hand.

  “Oh! you come?” said she smiling, and descending lightly with a bouquet of old Miss Wagget’s best flowers in her fingers. “I had not an idea — only just come, I suppose?”

  “Yes, this evening: and you quite well, Violet?”

  “Quite well, flourishing. Grannie is in the drawing room? And I’m glad you’ve come to Gilroyd; poor old grannie, I think she has been in very low spirits; let us go to her.”

  CHAPTER L.

  VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWINGROOM.

  VIOLET seemed merry and goodnatured, William thought, but somewhat cold. No one else would have perceived it; but this little chill, hardly measurable by the moral thermometer, was for him an Icelandic frost, in which his very heart ached.

  This pretty girl kissed Aunt Dinah, and put off her bonnet, and out gushed her beautiful dark brown hair, but kept her other mufflers on, and said smilingly towards William, —

  “I was so surprised to see him at the door, I could scarcely believe my eyes.”

  “And looking very well — a little thin perhaps, but very well,” added Aunt Dinah.

  “And how is Mr. Wagget?” asked William, who did not care to come formally under critical discussion.

  “Oh, very well, and Miss Wagget too; but I don’t know that you’ve made her acquaintance. She’s quite charming, and I doubt very much whether so susceptible a person as you would do wisely in putting himself in her way.”

  “She has been hearing that nonsense about Miss Kincton Knox,” thought William, and he said rather drily, —

  “I’m not a bit susceptible. How did I ever show it?

  I’d like to know who I ever was in love with in my life Susceptible, by Jove! but I see you’re laughing.”

  Miss Vi looked curiously at him for a moment, and then she said, —

  “We heard quite another account of him, didn’t we, grannie?”

  “It was all a mistake though, it seems,” said Aunt Dinah.

  “I should like to know who the kind person is who cares enough about me to invent all these lies.”

  “The ladies there liked you extremely, we have the best authority for believing that,” said Miss Perfect.

  “I don’t know; I’m sure they detest me now, and I really don’t know any reason they ever had for doing either.”

  “Detest you, my dear!” exclaimed Aunt Dinah.

  “Mrs. Kincton Knox is awfully offended with me, I don’t know for what. I’ve nothing on earth to charge myself with, and I really don’t care two pence, and I hate to think about them,” said William testily; “and I’d rather talk about anything else.”

  Miss Vi looked at William, and glanced at Aunt Dinah, and then laughed, with a pleasant little silvery cadence.

  “Dear me! Grannie, what a disappointment. We simple people in this part of the world have been lost for weeks in wonder and respect — we heard such stories of your prowess, and here comes the lady-killer home, harmless William Maubray, as he went.”

  “Just so,” said he. “Not William the Conqueror — nothing of the kind; and I don’t think it likely I shall ever try to kill a lady, nor a lady ever kill me. Weapons of iron won’t do nowadays, and a knight-errant of that sort must arm himself with the precious metals, and know how to talk the modern euphuism, and be a much finer man than ever I can hope to be; and even so, when all’s done, it’s a poor profession enough. By Jove! I don’t envy them their adventures, and their exploits, and their drubbings, and their Dulcineas — the best among them is often laid on his back; and I’m not ashamed to say I have more of Sancho Panza than of the Don in my nature.”

  “He rails like a wounded knight — doesn’t he, grannie?” laughed Violet.

  “I’d like to know who wounded me,” said he.

  “We’ll take your own account, William,” said Aunt Dinah, who saw that he was vexed and sore, “and whoever is to blame, I’m very glad. Oh! prayers,” and the little household of Gilroyd trooped solemnly into the room, and the family devotions were performed, William officiating in his old capacity.

  “William leaves us early tomorrow,” said Aunt Dinah, glancing regretfully at him.

  “Oh?” said Miss Violet.

  “Yes, to London; and from London perhaps to Paris, there to remain for some time,” said William, spiritedly.

  “Charming excursion,” exclaimed the young lady.

  “Why London is not particularly lively at this moment, and I hope to be pretty hard worked in Paris. There’s nothing very charming about it, but I’m glad to go;” and thinking this a little strong, he added, “because it is time I should begin, if ever I am to do any good for myself or anyone else.”
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br />   “He’s like the good boy in a storybook, he makes such wise reflections; and I’m certain he’ll grow rich and prosper,” said Miss Vi to Aunt Dinah. “My only wise saw is ‘Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.’ I learned it from Winnie, and I’m going to act on it now. Goodnight, dear old grannie,” and she kissed her in a fond little embrace. “All this wise talk makes one sleepy, I think; and I’ve been walking about with Miss Wagget all day. Goodnight” This was to William, with a smile.

  “Goodnight,” he answered quietly, and a little bitterly, as without smiling he took her hand. Then he lighted her candle, and gave it to her, and stood at the door while she ran up the broad stair, humming an air.

  He came back, looking sulky, and sat down with his hands in his pocket, looking at the fire-irons that rested on the fender.

  “How do you think she’s looking?” asked Aunt Dinah.

  “Very well; much as usual,” said William, with a dreary carelessness.

  “I think she’s looking particularly beautiful,” said Miss Perfect.

  “Perhaps so — very likely; but I’ve plenty of work before me, thank God, the sort of work I like; and I’m in no admiring mood, like Trevor and other fellows who have nothing better to do. I like work. ‘Man delights not me, nor woman neither.’ And, dear Aunt, I’m a little bit sleepy, too; but I’ll see you early, shan’t I?”

  And William yawned dismally.

  “Goodnight, dear, it is better,” said Aunt Dinah; a but I don’t know, it strikes me that you and Vi are not as friendly together as you used to be, and I think it is a pity.”

  “Not so friendly,” exclaimed William. “Ha, ha! That did not strike me; but I assure you there’s no change, at least that I know of — none on my part, I’m sure. I suppose it’s just that our heads are full of other things; we have each got our business to think of — don’t you see? — and hers, you know, is very serious,” and William Maubray laughed again a little bitterly.