Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “To think of that d — d old satyr — old in health, in strength, and in brain — whatever he may be in years — coming down here upon such an errand! He always hated me, I think; and I’m sure I always hated him — with reason. He never had a kind thought in all his days, or a sympathy, or a human feeling; his heart — a cold lump of stone — always the same. A boy — what a d — d boy he was! I’m glad I gave him that licking at Scarbrook. I gave him one good licking — ha, ha! — thank God! I wish old Weals had not come between us; I think I’d have killed him then. It was a good one. Every one was glad. I hope to God he remembers every blow. The devil, they say, haunts Wynderfel. Does he? If there be one, I shouldn’t wonder. I wish he’d pay Raby a visit, and take away what belongs to him.”

  He glanced through the distant opening in the wood, down which was visible a glimpse of the grey walls of Wynderfel, a grass-tufted chimney, and a mullioned window, through which the sky of sunset dimly glowed.

  The rustle of withered leaves in the fitful air, and the evening song of the birds, accompanied incongruously the long and bitter denunciation with which Mark Shadwell amused or scared the wandering spirits of the wood.

  And that girl — the idea! — can she possibly fancy that Roke Wycherly could seriously think of marrying her? Roke Wycherly marry her! Is the minx mad? Roke Wycherly, the hardest screw in England, sacrifice himself to the ambition of a little adventuress!”

  This unjust man, Mark Shadwell, cruel to some, almost loving to others at times, on the great voyage, every knot of which is irrevocable, without helm or compass, in which a mistake is worse than running on the shore of the Cyclops, had no misgivings about his missing chart and empty binnacle, but drove on in the dark, before wind and sea, with the confidence of madness.

  I have thought of Mark Shadwell as of one altogether worthless, because his name calls up always a rueful image of an adoring little wife — faded, neglected, despised. Perhaps, in some measure, I have wronged him, and condemned him too sweepingly. There remained a residuum of compassion; at moments the remembrance of his early feelings returned, and sometimes a qualm of compunction visited him. His daughter Rachel, I believe, he loved, although he usually spoke to her but little; and a stranger would have fancied, from his looks and taciturnity, that she was in perpetual disgrace. His sullen demeanour was, however, but the expression of his pain — of a profound and angry ulcer. Had he been in reality the character which he affected — a philosopher — and cheerfully made up his mind to seize the opportunities of happiness that lay neglected about his path, he might easily have been, not only a merrier, but a better man.

  Sometimes, considering the sort of education he received, and how inflexibly species are formed by circumstances, I almost wonder that he was not a worse man than we find him. The more I marvel at his delusions, the more I admire his moderation. Considering how preposterous was his estimate of his powers, I am amazed at the modesty of his demeanour. Considering how much ruin he fancied his marriage had involved him in, I wonder, selfish as he was, at his toleration of his wife. Much that was odious there was in him, but vestiges and rudiments also of good.

  If it had not been for his angry pride, always on the watch, and ingenious in imagining insult, he might have lived on terms with his neighbours. As it was, he had surrounded himself with quarrels and antipathies, and lived in a haughty isolation in which he yearly grew more morbid and embittered.

  The sun by this time had gone down behind the crest of the distant wood, and Mark Shadwell, who had meditated a long and solitary ramble, and had not meant to see Roke Wycherly, or, if he could, any other human face again that night, sat rapt in his gloomy visions; in Swift’s phrase, “rolling resentments and framing revenges.”

  The crows had glided from the burning west, across the yellow and sea-green sky of evening, home to their leafy roostings in the forest of Wynderfel, from whence their cawings sounded now faintly like the roar of a distant sea.

  Mark Shadwell sat looking on the sod between his feet staring in a wicked dream. You would have said he was looking into an unseen grave, upon the face of the man whom he hated. “When he looked up, upon the saddened sky of evening, his thoughts for a while were toned with a corresponding melancholy, and then on a sudden came a ghastly despair.

  “Why did that d — d girl’s image take possession of me? Yes, she has — she has; while I was cheating myself with dreams of superiority and indifference, I was becoming the slave of a creature whom I understand and despise, and hate, and yet whom I love. My God! it is true; I could shoot her dead at my feet this moment, and then myself. To think of that d — d, sneaking, sickly, smirking villain! A plan — a scheme — in league, both, to use and cheat me. Away she goes! How she’ll stare when I bid her begone! I’ll do it coldly too — give her no reason.”

  Up he got, and paced down the slope of the wood in the direction of Wynderfel, and found himself at last, in the twilight, by the ruined chapel of the old manorhouse, among the halfobliterated graves and tombstones.

  How beautiful the silvery glimmer of the moon shows in the grey twilight sky! How thin and airy looked the tall walls and gables of old Wynderfel in that deceptive light! Through the old graveyard Mark Shadwell sauntered, dim as an evil spirit, and entered the silent courtyard of the ruined manor, and looked about him in a dream.

  Of the different forms of temptation, those ascribed distinctively to the world, the flesh, and the devil — the latter, which deal with the malignities of human nature, are awfully exaggerated by solitude. In many ways, it is not good that man should be alone. Human society is perhaps the ordained prophylactic against the horrors and cajoleries of that unseen society that broods and pines in desert places. Undisturbed in solitude, the corrosive action of these murderous passions bites deep. The evil spirits who lust for possession, there way-lay and overpower their prey; any companionship is better than that. Better that the mind should be ruffled and rippled by the breezes, and even lashed by the storms of life, than lie dead and smooth to reflect the starless sky.

  As the twilight deepened, the angry thoughts in Mark’s mind grew more vivid; so that at last he was almost scared at their intensity.

  “Ten years ago I should have done it, had he so insulted me, but no one fights now; let that thought away, then — let it away. I like it too well — do I? He’s not worth it; let it go, or let it come, if it will.”

  And with this invitation a figure appeared through the opposite archway, so opportunely as to make him start. It paused, and Carmel Sherlock spoke:

  “Mr. Shadwell! Here, sir? and I thinking of you.”

  “I ought to have known you,” answered Shadwell, gruffly; “you’re always in out-of-the-way places. I’ve been here but once before this year, and you met me from under that very doorway.”

  “When I come to Wynderfel, I always pass under that same archway, sir; I feel that I should violate fate if I entered Wynderfel by any other way but that. Some day or other I shall see something there, or hear something, or meet it there — good or ill — essential to my destiny.”

  “But, I say, what the devil brings you here?” interrupted Shadwell, savagely; “if you want me, I’m in no mood for nonsense, and can’t talk now.”

  “Nor I — tomorrow,” moaned Carmel.

  “Well, do speak, and have done.”

  “I’m glad, sir, for I wanted to say a word.”

  “Out with it, then, I say, and have done with it — or, keep it to yourself, if another time will do,” said Shadwell, turning away impatiently.

  “Where the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together,” said Carmel, following by his side.

  “Yes, I know that’s in the Bible,” sneered Mark; “but I don’t exactly see the application.”

  “There’s an idea that lies dead in the brain, sir, and round and over it bloody thoughts keep wheeling,” said Carmel Sherlock.

  “What the devil’s that to you?” said Mark Shadwell, stopping short, with a furious t
urn.

  “I did not say — I hope, nothing, sir, nothing; but eagles — vultures, rather. What a bird a vulture is! Prometheus chained, I think, and the vultures come; I can fancy him shake his head at them in his agony, and spit at them, and strive to fright them off with yells, but they keep circling lower and nearer — he’s partly dead and partly in hell — did you never feel the death of hope and the hell of jealousy?”

  Mark looked at him for a moment in the imperfect light. “Neither the one nor the other, thank you; had not you better get home, and eat your dinner?”

  “I was going to say farewell,” said Carmel.

  “Farewell,” said Shadwell.

  “I shall leave Raby,” said Carmel.

  “Well, now, pray do, just go and eat your dinner, and you’ll be ever so much better; and we can talk about your going tomorrow morning. No,” repeated Shadwell, silencing Carmel Sherlock’s incipient speech, imperiously; “you sha’n’t say another word on that subject till tomorrow morning; I say no, I won’t hear it.”

  And so saying, Mark Shadwell turned from him suddenly, resolved to shake him off, and strode away through the ruins.

  CHAPTER VI.

  MISS MARLYN IN AN ODD MOOD.

  “What does that d — d fellow mean by his talk about jealousy, and all that stuff?” thought Shadwell, in a rage. “What can he be poking about? he’s not a spy, nor a traitor, nor a witch neither; I venture to say he has not a notion what he means himself!” Still a suspicion was in his mind that Carmel had divined something of the truth, and he was angry with him, angry with himself, and his wounded pride lay writhing under a sense of exposure.

  Mark Shadwell had no care in his present temper, for the decencies of hospitality, and had his solitary mood continued upon him, Sir Roke might have looked in vain at dinner for his host.

  On a sudden, however, the image of Agnes Marlyn was before his imagination, and an impulse determined him irresistibly homeward. He would see her — in what mood, his passions and thoughts were too confused to resolve. So, skirting the now darkened forest, he walked sullenly towards the house of Raby.

  About the same hour, Miss Marlyn and Rachel were walking under the rows of grand old timber that flank the avenue, towards the house. Agnes has been laughing and talking in unusual spirits. It was not gaiety, however; it was excitement.

  “I wish, Agnes, dear, you were always so merry.”

  “I wish I were,” answered Agnes, with a sudden change. “Though just now my laughter sounds in my ears like an idiot’s. Why should I laugh? life is simply terrible for me. What would have befallen the bird who found no rest for the sole of her foot, if there had remained no ark for her to return to? It is different for you — you have a home — but I! Come, we won’t think.”

  “And you have a home, dear Agnes, while I have one; you know very well that we all like you, and I love” you, although I don’t know quite whether you like me.”

  “That’s all romance, my dear little girl, and very pretty; but it’s not true — don’t start — I’m sure you think it’s true, but it isn’t. Sentiment and liking are all very fine, but they are subject to mutation, and are transitory. It’s very nasty, I know, but quite true; there is nothing solid but property — ha, ha! and I have little more than my thimble; and life is a rough, and a wide, and a cold sea to cross, and I’m no witch, and I can’t sail in a sieve — and — what do you advise me to do? Isn’t it a pity there are no Protestant nunneries, where girls who must become old maids, and perhaps tenants of the workhouse, as things are, might dedicate themselves to comfort and seclusion, and escape the mortification of public celibacy and penury?”

  “I never know, Agnes, when you are jesting; but I am serious — I mean, indeed I do, every word I have said.”

  “So do I, Rachel, dear, every word. I feel this evening — what shall I say? — enterprising. I think I should like to masquerade in male attire, as other girls have done, and enlist — or go to sea. You read the other day an Irish story, about a man sitting on a stone that was sinking in the middle of a bog, and who gratefully accepted the offer of an eagle to fly him out of his dilemma. Now, my dear, this Raby is all very well. It’s pretty, and pastoral, and romantic, and what not? I like staying here, but how is it to end? You will be marrying and running away; I shall be growing old, and finally, I shall be left alone to sink in the bog. Yes, this Raby is the stone, and I feel it already sinking under me, and I should be obliged, I think, to any fowl or monster, a pegasus or a goose, willing and strong enough, to fly me out of it.”

  “You certainly speak plainly, dear Agnes, though I think you might speak a little more kindly,” said Rachel, who was hurt.

  “Come, come, ma chère, we must take care of ourselves. There’s nothing unkind in being honest. There’s not a creature on earth who cares for me, and therefore I must the more particularly care for myself.”

  Miss Agnes laughed, Rachel thought, a little more bitterly than she need, as she said this.

  “I told you that I like you; Agnes.”

  “But you don’t, dear.”

  Rachel stared.

  “No,” laughed Agnes, “you can’t; how can you like a person you don’t know, and me you can’t know. There are things about me I don’t know myself, and what I do know, you don’t. Come, be honest, Miss Rachel, don’t we mystify one another all we can? do I know you quite? and how can you know me?”

  “Well, you know best,” said Rachel; “I suppose we are all hypocrites.”

  “More or less,” said Agnes, quietly; “you talk of liking me! No one likes another, unless they love them through all their follies, tempers, and crimes. None of these have I shown. But how can we tell that your liking would stand that strain? Suppose I were to leave Raby tonight, and you never hear more of me, would you still like me? Mr. Sherlock, you know, you mentioned is going, no one knows why or whither; I don’t mean to elope with him, but I don’t think that sort of flitting a bad idea.”

  “I hope he is not going; I don’t believe he is; I am so fond of poor old Carmel Sherlock,” said Rachel.

  “Not so old,” interposed Agnes, disagreeably.

  “You are determined to laugh at everything tonight,” said Rachel, “but the place would not be like itself if he were gone, and I can’t think he will go, he’s so kind and affectionate.”

  “Not like me, who am odious enough to think sometimes of myself,” said Miss Marlyn, in her odd bitter mood. “Well, if he goes, we have still a resource in that charming vicar,” Miss Marlyn added, with an irony that was not playful.

  “Mr. Temple, you mean?”

  “The Reverend Sour, or Stour Temple; yes, what an agreeable man — what a gentleman — how pretty!” and she laughed.

  “Mamma likes him very much.”

  “He admired your mamma very much, I believe, once on a time.”

  “I dare say — every one did who saw her when she was young, and I think her quite beautiful still — but I don’t see what that has to do with what I’m saying. Mamma thinks him a very good and useful clergyman, and so do I, and so does papa, although they sometimes disagree about things.”

  “And oh! that funny old bald foozle, that fancies himself a lover,” said Miss Marlyn, with a sudden recollection and a laugh.

  “Who?” asked Rachel.

  “Bonnie — who but our charming friend, Bonnie? She should have called him Bauldie, if it must be Scotch, after the young man in the ‘Gentle Shepherd,’ that stupid book; I’m so glad we have done it.”

  “Oh, Pucelle! you must not laugh at Roger Temple,” pleaded Rachel.

  “I must laugh at Roger Temple! at everything! I should die in this place else, and why should not he be laughed at like the rest? Preposterous old fool!”

  Somehow there was a desecration here in Rachel’s mind. She was shocked, and a little disgusted; but, after all, Roger Temple was a difficult case to fight, for she could not conceal it from herself that he was preposterous.

  “Take care,” s
aid she, “he is in love with you.”

  “Well?” said Miss Marlyn, with an odd smile, that showed the glittering edge of her even teeth.

  “You may marry him yet.”

  “And suppose I do, does that make any difference? I shall love, honour, and laugh at him — selon les règles — still.”

  By this time they were crossing the hall, now nearly dark, and entered the room where they were accustomed to read together, and here the faint glow still reflected from the western clouds afforded them an imperfect and melancholy light, through the still open window.

  “There is this comfort in having no one to care for you, that you have no one to control you. There is not a person on earth who has a right to command or even to question me, and so, child, I’m perfectly free and — perfectly miserable. It will cost me a pang, many a pang, to leave Raby, as leave it I soon shall, but fate, and pride, and despair, ordain it. I hate myself for going — I’m different from you, Rachel; you can’t understand me, if you could you would hate me also. No, don’t kiss me, it is folly, you shall never kiss me more. I suppose you think me mad; for the last four hours I have been walking and talking in a dream, and yet I am not mad, and it is all a reality, only I have taken a resolution that has nearly broken my heart — don’t ask me, I’m talking because I must talk, but it is not confidence, and I’m no worse, not an atom, and no better than you, than all others, who act according to their circumstances, and opportunities, and necessities, and I’ll never talk of it to you more. A beautiful sunset it must have been! how it glows! There were sunsets like it two thousand years ago, and will be again two thousand years hence; and my story is an old one, and will turn up with a different heroine — generation after generation there is nothing new, and things are no better and no worse than they were, and than they will be always.”

  Agnes spoke wildly, though quietly; and Rachel was startled by her manner, which was resolute, and defiant, and excited. Curious as Rachel was, and even alarmed, she instinctively felt that, at least just then, it would have been vain to ask for an explanation. So, at the window, as Agnes gazed upon the dying flush that still glowed in the west, Rachel looked in her face. The lurid light fell across her great mysterious eyes like a glowing bar. Rachel long saw that beautiful face — touched with an upward light — looking sinister and blinded, and she said: