Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  CHAPTER V.

  AGNES MARLYN.

  “Pretty Flowers! All yes! and sweet!” said Amy Shadwell, with a smile. “Charming! a thousand thanks, kind creature!” and she touched Agnes Marlyn’s pretty hand caressingly as she placed them in the little glass that stood beside her.

  Agnes answered only with the same smile, looking all the time down upon the flowers which she was adjusting.

  “And where have you and Rachel been? Aren’t you a little late?” asked pale Mrs. Shadwell, but with her gentle smile.

  “Late? oh! very late, Mrs. Shadwell. I am so sorry. My watch, I think, went quite wrong. I was so afraid you would have been anxious and vexed, only you are so good. We were at Hazelden, so far away in the park, and the son was nearly set when we came to that pretty ruin, Wynderfel — is not that the name? and so we came so fast — so fast — and were late, notwithstanding; and I am so sorry.”

  Miss Agnes Marlyn spoke in a particularly sweet low voice, with a slight foreign accent, and a little slowly; altogether the singularity was very pretty. But although she had passed many years of her life at a French school, which she had left only a few months ago to come to Raby, she seldom spoke a French idiom, and then I think it sounded interesting.

  “And where is my other truant? You’re not tired, I hope?” asked Mrs. Shadwell.

  “Rachel? Oh! Rachel’s in her room, coming immediately. I don’t think she was; she said she wasn’t tired,” said Agnes.

  “And you?”

  “I? — oh! never tired of the beautiful country — never tired walking. To wander always among the trees, to feel the blowing air and the grass and flowers — so charming under the foot — is my paradise, I think,” said Miss Agnes Marlyn, in her low sweet tones, looking with a happy flush as if she could see her beloved woodlands, flowers and dingles, through and beyond the oak panels.

  “But I’m so afraid you find it very dull, my poor Agnes — your pension, your companions, the pretty French town and gardens— “

  “Ah, madame, never was I so happy! The lonely country to me is sweetest. I never have cared for noise and gaiety. I have lost my father and my dear mamma early, when I was still a little girl, as you know. I never was anywhere so happy since then, because I never was with one so kind — never with any one I so much loved as you; but — pardon, madame — I am, I have been, too audacious — I have for a moment forgotten myself.”

  “Forgotten your foolish shyness, I hope,” replied Mrs. Shadwell, smiling on the affectionate and grateful girl. “Yes, Agnes, you must trust in me more than you have done. I think you like me; I know I like you. I should like to make you another dear child of mine.”

  The beautiful girl rose up with a flush of subdued rapture, her arms extended in a glad surprise; and with a smile of welcome the pretty and fragile mistress of Raby also rose, and, in the effusion of the moment, gently folded her young dependent in her arms.

  Beautiful Agnes Marlyn! Lithe, tall, ineffably graceful! With a kind of sigh she gave herself to that embrace, and lay in it a second or so longer than she need, perhaps.

  In fairy lore we read of wondrous transmutations and disguises. How evil spirits have come in the fairest and saddest forms; how fell and shrewd-eyed witches have waited in forest glades by night, in shapes of the loveliest nymphs. So, for a dreamlike moment, one might see, under the wondrous beauty of the girl, in that spell of momentary joy, a face that was apathetic and wicked.

  Amy Shadwell did not see it. As the girl drew gratefully back, with downcast look, there was nothing in that sensitive and splendid beauty but the light of a tremulous happiness.

  “Oh! madame — Mrs. Shadwell — I cannot say — how can I? — half what gratitude I feel for all your goodness. I hope I may please you, and do my duty by your dear child, as I pray I may. My fate has been so solitary, even among many companions; no one to care for me — no one ever to love me. Contempt follows poverty like its shadow: amidst seeming equality, I was despised; amidst a crowd, I was alone.”

  Miss Agnes Marlyn here hastily brushed her handkerchief to her beautiful eyes, and Mrs. Shadwell again spoke words of consolation; and again the young lady’s gratitude was eloquent.

  “Do I not hear the piano? I think Rachel is playing. Shall I go, Madame? it is her hour for practising.”

  So, kindly, Agnes Marlyn was dismissed.

  As she passed through the hall, Agnes paused at the table where the letters lay, about a dozen, littered together, as Mark Shadwell left them. She glanced over her shoulder, and listened for a moment; many doors opened on the hall — and, all being still, she ran her fingertips rapidly among them, and turned them over and about. There was one addressed to her, written in a constrained, it might be a disguised, hand. Quickly, with a handsome smile — a smile a little cruel — she hid it away in her breast. Again she glanced and listened, and then with a rapid eye examined the others. There was not another that interested her. And in a moment more she entered the room where Rachel was at the piano.

  Ten minutes later Mark Shadwell passed the same table, and suddenly recollected the letters. There were two for his wife, one for Rachel, and — wasn’t there? — there certainly was one addressed to Miss Agnes Marlyn, in a peculiar hand, and with the London postmark. Where was that letter? It had, somehow, a little interested Mark Shadwell; although that interest had been instantaneously suspended by the sight of Roke Wycherley’s note.

  Mark Shadwell now, in his turn, looked sharply round. Who had been meddling? Well — time enough. Meanwhile he would see his wife, and let her have hers.

  He had been a man of fashion in his day, and, though the vase was broken, “the scent of the roses” hung round it still. There were handsome features, though the light of youth was gone, and a distinguished air; and poor little Mrs. Shadwell still believed that his beauty and fascinations were unrivalled.

  He had been a man of fashion, and something more — a rake, a gamester, a prodigal. There were much worse men, I dare say, but he was bad enough.

  She smiled her timid welcome as he entered now. He did not choose to see it. Is any pleading sadder than an unanswered smile?

  “Two letters,” said he, drily. “If they’re half as pleasant as mine, they’ll help to make your evening agreeable.”

  “One is from old Mrs. Danvers, and the other from my cousin, Sophy Mordaunt,” said Amy, as she glanced on the envelopes.

  “Oh, indeed! then no doubt they’ll turn out quite as amusing as I expected. I’ve had a very charming one, also — and from a particularly charming person.”

  And having sneered thus far, in his dreary way, he paused, and said: “Guess who — there, you may as well give it up — you never could — it is your old admirer, and my old creditor, Roke Wycherly. He tells me he has been suffering — no doubt miserably, with twenty thousand a year, and all Europe, and its pleasures, of which, poor devil, he avails himself in turn — suffering most cruelly — ha, ha! — and he’s coming here; no doubt because we are so entertaining, and so fond of him — and the shooting so good — and he likes rabbits so excessively — and. — Upon my life, if these aren’t his reasons, I can’t guess at any other — only I’m quite sure he means me no good, and I think he can do me a mischief, which he probably intends; and, therefore, we must make him as welcome and as comfortable as we can, and, no doubt, he’ll pass a charming week. And pray tell the people to get his room ready; and his man is coming.”

  “How soon, dear, does he come?” she asked, with a rather dismal look.

  “I suppose in a week, or a fortnight — perhaps the day after tomorrow; I dare say he does not know himself — whenever he likes, in short — and that’s my news.”

  And, with these words, he turned and left the room.

  CHAPTER VI.

  SOME MUSIC.

  HE walked into the room in which Rachel was playing, her governess sitting by her in the attitude of one reading the music over her shoulder, but with a look that passed through the page far away, and w
as dark and dreamy. Hearing the step, they both looked round.

  “Pray, go on — I’ve come to listen. I don’t interrupt, Miss Marlyn, I hope?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Shadwell, certainly not!” said Miss Agnes Marlyn, smiling and embarrassed, and in her low tones.

  “I’m very glad. I like music and young people, and should be sorry to be turned out. Go on, Rachel.”

  So the music proceeded; and Mark Shadwell, throwing himself carelessly on a sofa, looked on Miss Marlyn with a secret interest.

  Though she seemed to be looking altogether on the music, and he could see but the up-curled edge of her long eyelash, she felt his gaze, and was secretly flattered, perhaps amused.

  “That will do, Rachel, for a moment,” said he, after a time. “The piano’s very well, but, Miss Marlyn, don’t you sing? I’m sure you do — I can’t be mistaken — the formation of the throat — you need not look down, I assure you it’s very beautiful; but I can’t be mistaken. Do sing a little — sola, duet, anything you like — pray do.”

  “Very happy, sir,” said she with a modest awe. “But I had only a very few lessons when I left Darmonville, and I — I hardly dare sing before you.”

  Sing, however, on a little encouragement, she did, very prettily, a little French song; and Mr. Shadwell applauded with both hands, and thanked her, and said:

  “Quite a charming voice! I had no idea — or, rather, I had an idea, and a very correct one, as it turns out; but I never heard you sing a note before. How strange! such a voice! and yet, to say nothing of us, you can deny yourself, and live in silence! Candles under bushels — I’ve no patience with that cruel sort of modesty — cruel nightingale! And, by Jove, what a blessing music is! I don’t mean, of course, that noisy, formal, heartless business, that young ladies sit down to at the piano, but music — be it art or nature — the thing that stirs our feelings. I do assure you, King Saul was never so much under the shadow of his demon as I was when I came in here; and David’s harp was nothing to that song. I do assure you, quite seriously, I am very much obliged.”

  Now there really was some savour of truth in this — Mark Shadwell did feel more cheerful; but I don’t know that it was all the music, or very much, although he liked dropping in there and listening.

  “You came to us in April, wasn’t it, Miss Marlyn?” he asked. “You’ve been our guest six months; and my wife says you’ll be sure to grow tired of us before long. She hopes not, you know, and so do I; but I am afraid it is a slow place — isn’t it, rather?” and he laughed in his sardonic way once more.

  “I told Mrs. Shadwell tonight, what is really true,” said Miss Marlyn, gravely, “how much I like the quiet of this place, sir; I do indeed.”

  “Well, I’m sure I’m very glad; it’s more than I do,” he replied, peevishly.

  “Oh, dear, Rachel, that is nine o’clock!” exclaimed Agnes Marlyn, as the clock in the hall struck the hour, and glancing at her watch for confirmation. “Yes, indeed! Rachel, dear, we must go. Your mamma will expect us in her room; and the books are in the schoolroom. Good night, Mr. Shadwell.”

  “Good night — good night,” said he. “Oh, by-the-bye, I forgot — there’s a letter — just one word — Rachel, you can run and get those books; don’t be a minute.” And Rachel, accustomed to obey, did as she was bid. “You know, you do think this place nearly intolerable. It must be insufferably dull.”

  “I have told you the truth, sir,” said Miss Marlyn, with just the least indication of being offended.

  “Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Shadwell, in an under key.

  “It is very well, sir, for the great or the wealthy to enjoy the world; but for such as I, what can it give? The same routine — the same solitude — and a thousand mortifications. If I did not like this place very dearly, I need not stay. I have told you the truth.” And saying this, those clouded eyes of hers dropped to the carpet, and Mark Shadwell thought her colour was a little heightened.

  He looked on her for a moment with a sombre sort of puzzle.

  “And,” he said, resuming, “there was a letter addressed to you — it came by this evening’s post; I laid it down in the hall with the rest, and, by Jove, I can’t find it.”

  He was looking still very steadily at her as he said this.

  “Oh, thanks! — I took it,” said she, raising her eyes and looking full on him.

  “Ho! I had no idea,” he said, fibbing, with an air of innocent surprise. “I’m so glad it’s safe.”

  “Yes, it was from a very kind old friend. As I came into the hall, it and two others were on the ground, and I picked them up, and saw one addressed to me; I hope it was not wrong, but I took it. I am very sorry — I ought to have asked first; but, indeed, Mr.

  Shadwell, I intended to have told you the moment I saw you, and most stupidly, I forgot. I am very sorry; pray forgive me — won’t you, sir?” She was fibbing, too; but wasn’t it pleasant to be asked, in such low and sweet tones, to forgive so very beautiful a creature?

  “Oh! to be sure — no harm — none in the world. You were quite right, perfectly; I only wished to — to tell you; but it was your own, and I hope it may turn out pleasanter than mine do. When I was as young as you, I used to get some very pleasant letters indeed. You know quite well the sort of thing I mean — you all do; and I think you are a bit of a rogue — you all are.” He spoke in very low tones, and looking full upon her, and smiling, showed his set of small, even teeth, that looked a little wicked, and seemed to like prolonging this little talk.

  “I never tell a lie, Mr. Shadwell,” said Miss Agnes Marlyn, with a proud humility, and downcast eyes.

  “More than I can say; more than any other girl can say, that is not a literal saint. Are you? I hope not, I’m sure; they’re so disagreeable and censorious; but you must not be vexed, you know. We are good friends, Miss Marlyn, aren’t we?”

  And he laid his fingers on her arm, which hung by her side, and they glided down her wrist to her hand, which he took.

  “You’ll shake hands? — there, now — we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  There was something almost tender in this friendliness, and Miss Marlyn, raising her beautiful eyes with a look of timid wonder, which seemed preparing for one of recoil, withdrew her hand, and said:

  “There was no quarrel, I hope, sir. I hope I have said nothing of disrespect; I should be very sorry of it.”

  “No — nonsense! Disrespect, indeed! what do you look so surprised at?” said he.

  “I — I thought — you never spoke to me so much before at a time, Mr. Shadwell, and — I thought — we are all a little afraid, sir, of you; I thought you were proud, sir, and severe — and — pray do not be offended.”

  There was a kind of reproof in this, Shadwell thought; he looked gloomily in her face, without quite understanding her, and then he laughed.

  “Proud and severe!” he repeated, reflectively, with an odd smile, like a man looking on his own miniature; “that’s not so bad. Well, perhaps I am; yes, I am — where I’m crossed, that is; ay, by Jove! proud and severe as the fiend himself. Come along, Rachel — what have you been about?” he called, raising his voice as he heard her step coming. “Good night, child; good night, Miss Marlyn,” and he threw himself back on the sofa, with a gloomy countenance, and without a glance after either.

  CHAPTER VII.

  IN AMY SHADWELL’S ROOM.

  When Rachel ran into her mamma’s room to bid her good night, she found her busy with old Dorothy Wyndle, the housekeeper. A guest of any importance at Raby was seldom heard of, and such an arrival produced a sensation. Here was a consultation as to where to place Sir Roke, which interested Rachel, whose curiosity was all alive.

  “Hey! ma’am, it’s thirty-six years since he was here; my blue-eyed beauty I called him then. He was a very pretty boy, golden hair, dearie me! and them blue eyes, and his pretty pink cheeks; nice slim little figure, a tidy-made little fellow. His poor mamma came here that time; a nice creature she was, and I hear he grew u
p very tall at college. Him and Master Mark here, they used to ride out on their little rough ponies to see the hounds at cover, like yesterday, and sometimes they’d quarrel a bit; nothin’ very bad, though. Shall I fill you out a cup o’ tea, ma’am?”

  “Thanks, Dolly,” said pretty Mrs. Shadwell, smiling. Old Dorothy’s prattle amused her, as she leaned back in her cushioned chair.

  “They boxed one night, they did, poor little fellows, him and Master Mark, and I threatened I’d complain; but they made it up — ha, ha, ha! Oh! he was noways spiteful, was Master Roke; a nice little fellow!”

  “How old was he then?” asked Miss Rachel.

  “Well, dear, he wasn’t much; about eleven, or twelve, or thirteen, I’d say, but it’s a good bit agone; it’s thirty odd years — thirty-six, or thirty-seven, I think. Thirty-seven and thirteen. He’ll be past forty now! Aye, dear, dear!”

  And she uttered these ejaculations in a prolonged note, which implied the wonder and regret of a discovery, and which a man might have conveyed by an equivalent whistle.

  “Ay, ay! it will be — forty odd — you’re good at figures, Miss Rachel. Hey, dear! that’s too old for you, miss; ay, it would not do! I was thinkin’, when I heard of him comin’, and he so pretty, it was, maybe, after Miss Rachel he’d be lookin’; but she’s very young, and forty — I don’t know! What do you think, ma’am?”

  “Why, Dolly, you foolish old thing! I believe he was in love with mamma!”

  Her mamma laughing, shook her head, and old Dolly said generously:

  “Well, Miss Rachel, you know, it’s as you like, not as he, and you may like him well enough when you see him, who knows? and forty-six or fifty’s nothing. Hoo! tut! nothing at all, if you knew.”

  And thus encouraged, Rachel threw back her pretty locks, and laughed heartily as she dropped into a chair.