Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  It was not very far from sunset, and the small birds were already singing among the boughs, and the deep shadow — the antique and neglected air and the silence of the place — gave it in his romantic eyes, a character of monastic mystery and enchantment.

  As he gazed straight up the dark walk towards the house, suddenly a man turned the corner of the yew hedge that met the bridge’s parapet close to him, and walking straight up to the door, with a gruff look at the little boy, shut and locked the wooden door in his face.

  So all was gone for the present. He knew there was no good in looking through the keyhole, for envious fortune had hung a spray of sweetbriar so as effectually to intercept the view, and nothing remained but the dingy chocolate-coloured planks before him, and the foliage and roses trembling over the old wall.

  Many a time again he passed and repassed the door without a like good hap.

  At length, however, one evening he found the envious wooden door once more open, and the view again disclosed through the iron bars.

  A very pretty little girl, with golden hair, was standing on tiptoe near, and with all her soul was striving to reach an apple with a stick which she held in her tiny fingers.

  Seeing him she fixed her large eyes on him, and said, with an air of command —

  “Come, and climb up the tree and get me that apple.”

  His heart beat quick — there was nothing he liked better.

  “But I can’t get in,” he said, blushing; “the door is locked.”

  “Oh! I’ll call mamma — she’ll let you in. Don’t you know mamma?”

  “No, I never saw her,” answered the boy.

  “Wait there, and I’ll fetch her.”

  And so she was gone.

  The first flutter of his excitement was hardly over when he heard steps and voices near, and the little girl returned, holding the hand of a slight, pale lady, with a very pretty face, dressed all in black. She had the key in her hand, and smiled gently on the little boy as she approached. Her face was kind, and at once he trusted her.

  “Oh! he has left the inner door open again,” she said, and with a little nod and smile of welcome she opened the door, and the boy entered the garden.

  Both doors were now shut.

  “Look up, little boy,” said the lady in black, with a very sweet voice.

  She liked his face. He was a very handsome little fellow, and with an expression earnest, shy, and bright, and the indescribable character of refinement too in his face. She smiled more kindly still, and placing just the tip of her finger under his chin she said —

  “You are a gentleman’s son, and you are nicely dressed. What is your name?”

  “My papa’s name is Mr. Henry,” he answered.

  “And where do you go to school?”

  “I don’t go to school. I say lessons to Mr. Wharton — about half a mile from this.”

  “It is great fun, I suppose, playing with the little boys — cricket, and all that?”

  “I’m not allowed to play with the little boys.”

  “Who forbids you?”

  “My friends won’t allow me.”

  “Who are your friends?”

  “I never saw them.”

  “Really! and don’t you live with your papa?”

  “No, I live with Marjory.”

  “Do you mean with your mamma?”

  “Oh, no. She died a long time ago.”

  “And is your papa rich — why aren’t you with him?”

  “He was rich, granny says, but he grew poor.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m to go to school,” he said, acquiring confidence the more he looked in that sweet face. “My friends will send me, in three years, granny says.”

  “You are a very nice little boy, and I’m sure a good little fellow. We’ll have tea in a few minutes — you must stay and drink tea with us.”

  The little fellow held his straw hat in his hand, and was looking up in the face of the lady, whose slender fingers were laid almost caressingly on his rich brown hair as she looked down smiling, with eyes in which “the water stood.” Perhaps these forlorn childhoods had a peculiar interest for her.

  “And it is very polite of you taking off your hat to a lady, but put it on again, for I’m not a bit better than you; and I’ll go and tell them to get tea now. Dulcibella,” she called. “Dulcibella, this little friend is coming to drink tea with us, and Amy and he will play here till it comes, and don’t mind getting up, sit quiet and rest yourself.”

  And she signed with her hand, smiling, to repress her attempt to rise.

  “Well, darling, play in sight o’ me, till your mamma comes back,” said the rheumatic old woman, addressing the little girl; “and ye mustn’t be pulling at that great rolling-stone; ye can’t move it, and ye may break your pretty back trying.”

  With these and similar injunctions the children were abandoned to their play.

  He found this pretty young lady imperious, but it was pleasant to be so commanded, and the little boy climbed trees to gather her favourite apples, and climbed the garden wall to pluck a bit of wallflower, and at last she said —

  “Now, we’ll play ninepins. There’s the box, set them up on the walk. Yes, that’s right; you have played; who taught you?”

  “Granny.”

  “Has Granny ninepins?”

  “Yes, ever so much bigger than these.”

  “Really! So Granny is rich, then?”

  “I think so.”

  “As rich as mamma?”

  “Her garden isn’t so big.”

  “Begin, do you; ah, ha! you’ve hit one, and who plays best?”

  “Tom Orange does; does your mamma know Tom Orange?”

  “I dare say she does. Dulcibella, does mamma know Tom Orange?”

  “No, my dear.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” echoed the little girl, “who is he?”

  What, not know Tom Orange! How could that be? So he narrated on that brilliant theme.

  “Tom Orange must come to tea with mamma, I’ll tell her to ask him,” decided the young lady.

  So these little wiseacres pursued their game, and then had their tea, and in about an hour the little boy found himself trudging home, with a sudden misgiving, for the first time, as to the propriety of his having made these acquaintances without Granny’s leave.

  The kind voice, the beloved smile of Granny received him before the cottage door.

  “Welcome, darlin’, and where was my darlin’, and what kept him from his old Granny?”

  So they hugged and kissed, and then he related all that had happened, and asked “was it any harm, Granny?”

  “Not a bit, darlin’, that’s a good lady, and a grand lady, and a fit companion for ye, and see how she knew the gentle blood in your pretty face; and ye may go, as she has asked you, tomorrow evening again, and as often as she asks ye; for it was only the little fellows that’s going about without edication or manners, that your friends, and who can blame them, doesn’t like ye to keep company with — and who’d blame them, seeing they’re seldom out of mischief, and that’s the beginning o’ wickedness, and you’re going, but oh! darlin’, not for three long years, thank God, to a grand school where there’s none but the best.”

  So this chance acquaintance grew, and the lady seemed to take every week a deeper interest in the fine little boy, so sensitive, generous, and intelligent, and he very often drank tea with his new friends.

  CHAPTER XV.

  AN OLD FRIEND.

  I am going now to describe the occurrences of a particular evening on which my young friend drank tea at Stanlake Farm, which was the name of the house with the old garden to which I have introduced the reader.

  A light shower had driven the party in from the garden, and so the boy and Amy were at their ninepins in the great hall, when, the door being open, a gentleman rode up and dismounted, placing the bridle in the hand of a groom who accompanied him.

  A tall
man he was, with whiskers and hair dashed with white, and a slight stoop. He strode into the hall, his hat on, and a whip still in his hand.

  “Hollo! So there you are — and how is your ladyship?” said he. “Skittles, by the law! Brayvo! Two down, by Jove! I’d rather that young man took you in hand than I. And tell me — where’s Ally?”

  “Mamma’s in the drawingroom,” said the young lady, scarcely regarding his presence. “Now play, it’s your turn,” she said, addressing her companion.

  The new arrival looked at the boy and paused till he threw the ball.

  “That’s devilish good too,” said the stranger— “very near the nine. Eh? But a miss is as good as a mile; and I don’t think he’s quite as good as you — and she’s in the drawingroom; which is the drawingroom?”

  “Don’t you know the drawingroom! Well, there it is,” and the young lady indicated it with her finger. “My turn now.”

  And while the game was pursued in the hall, the visitor pushed open the drawingroom door and entered.

  “And how is Miss Ally?”

  “Oh, Harry! Really!”

  “Myself as large as life. You don’t look half pleased, Ally. But I have nout but good news for you to-day. You’re something richer this week than you were last.”

  “What is it, Harry? Tell me what you mean?”

  “So I will. You know that charge on Carwell — a hundred and forty pounds a year — well, that’s dropped in. That old witch is dead — ye might ‘a seen it in the newspaper, if you take in one — Bertha Velderkaust. No love lost between ye. Eh?”

  “Oh, Harry! Harry! don’t,” said poor Alice, pale, and looking intensely pained.

  “Well, I won’t then; I didn’t think ‘twould vex you. Only you know what a head devil that was — and she’s dead in the old place, Hoxton. I read the inquest in the Times. She was always drinkin’. I think she was a bit mad. She and the people in the back room were always quarrelling; and the father’s up for that and forgery. But ’twasn’t clear how it came about. Some swore she was out of her mind with drink, and pitched herself out ‘o the window; and some thought it might ‘a bin that chap as went in to rob her, thinkin’ she was stupid; and so there was a tussle for’t — she was main strong, ye know — and he chucked her out. Anyhow she got it awful, for she fell across the spikes of the area-rails, and she hung on them with three lodged in her side — the mad dog-fox, she was!”

  “Oh, Harry! How shocking! Oh! pray don’t!” exclaimed Alice, who looked as if she was going to faint.

  “Well, she lay there, without breath enough to screech, twistin’ like a worm — for three hours, it’s thought.”

  “Oh! Harry — pray don’t describe it; don’t, I implore. I feel so ill.”

  “Well, I won’t, if you say so, only she’s smashed, and cold in her wooden surtout; and her charge is reverted to you, now; and I thought I’d tell ye.”

  “Thank you, Harry,” she said very faintly.

  “And when did you come here? I only heard this morning,” asked Harry.

  “Five weeks ago.”

  “Do you like it; ain’t it plaguy lonesome?”

  “I like the quiet — at least for a time,” she answered.

  “And I’m thinkin’ o’ gettin’ married — upon my soul I am. What do you think o’ that?”

  “Really!”

  “Sure as you’re there, but it won’t be none o’ your love-matches.

  ‘Bring something, lass, along wi’ thee, If thou intend to live with me.’

  That’s my motto. Sweetheart and honey-bird keeps no house, I’ve heard say. I like a body that can look after things, and that would rather fund fifty pounds than spend a hundred.

  ‘A nice wife and a back door Hath made many a rich, man poor,’

  as they say; and besides, I’m not a young fellow no longer. I’m pushin’ sixty, and I should be wise. And who’s the little chap that’s playin’ skittles wi’ Amy in the hall?”

  “Oh, that’s such a nice little boy. His father’s name is Henry, and his mother has been dead a long time. He lives with a good old woman named Marjory Trevellian. What’s the matter, Harry?”

  “Nothing. I beg your pardon. I was thinkin’ o’ something else, and I didn’t hear. Tell me now, and I’ll listen.”

  So she repeated her information, and Harry yawned and stretched his arms.

  “‘For want o’ company, Welcome trumpery,’

  and I must be goin’ now. I wouldn’t mind drinkin’ a glass o’ sherry, as you’re so pressing, for I’ve had a stiff ride, and dust’s drouthy.”

  So Harry, having completed his visit characteristically, took his leave, and mounted his nag and rode away.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  TOM ORANGE.

  Little Miss Amy had a slight cold, and the next tea-party was put off for a day. On the evening following Harry’s visit at Stanlake Farm, Marjory Trevellian being at that time absent in the village to make some frugal purchases, who should suddenly appear before the little boy’s eyes, as he lifted them from his fleet upon the pond, but his friend, Tom Orange, as usual in high and delightful spirits.

  Need I say how welcome Tom was? He asked in a minute or two for Marjory, and took her temporary absence with great goodhumour. Tom affected chilliness, and indeed the evening was a little sharp, and proposed that they should retire to the cottage, and sit down there.

  “How soon do you suppose, youngster, the old hen will come home.”

  “Who?”

  “Marjory Daw, down the chimney.”

  “Oh, Granny?”

  This nickname was the only pleasantry of Mr. Orange which did not quite please the boy.

  Tom Orange here interpolated his performance of the jackdaw, with his eyelids turned inside out and the pupils quivering, which, although it may possibly have resembled the jackdaw of heraldry, was not an exact portraiture of the bird familiar to us in natural history; and when this was over he asked again— “How soon will she be home?”

  “She walked down to the town, and I think she can’t be more than about halfway back again.”

  “That’s a mile, and three miles an hour is the best of her paces if she was runnin’ for a pound o’ sausages and a new cap. Heigh ho! and alas and alack-a-day. No one at home but the maid, and the maid’s gone to church! I wrote her a letter the day before yesterday, and I must read it again before she comes back. Where does she keep her letters?”

  “In her work-box on the shelf.”

  “This will be it, the wery identical fiddle!” said Tom Orange, playfully, setting it down upon the little deal table, and, opening it, he took out the little sheaf of letters from the end, and took them one by one to the window, where he took the liberty of reading them.

  I think he was disappointed, for he pitched them back again into their nook in the little trunk-shaped box contemptuously.

  The boy regarded Tom Orange as a friend of the family so confidential, and as a man in all respects so admirable and virtuous, that nothing appeared more desirable and natural than that excellent person’s giving his attention to the domestic correspondence.

  He popped the box back again in its berth. Then he treated the young gentleman to Lingo’s song with the rag-tag-merry-derry perrywig and hatband, &c., and at the conclusion of the performance admitted that he was “dry,” and with a pleasant wink, and the tip of his finger pushing the end of his nose a good deal to the left, he asked him whether he could tell him where Mrs. Trevellian, who would be deeply grieved if she thought that Tom was detained for a drink till her return, kept her liquor.

  “Yes, I can show you,” said the boy.

  “Wait a minute, my guide, my comforter, and friend,” said Tom Orange; and he ascertained from the door-stone that no one was inconveniently near.

  The boy was getting a tea-cup off the shelf.

  “Never mind sugar, my hero, I’ll sweeten it with a thought of Marjory Daw.”

  The boy explained, and led him into the dark nook by the h
all door. Tom Orange, well pleased, moved almost on tiptoe, and looked curiously and spoke under his breath, as he groped in this twilight.

  “Here it is,” said the boy, frankly.

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “This!” said Tom, for his friend had uncovered a crock of water.

  Tom Orange glared at him and at the water with grotesque surprise, and the bona fides of the boy and the simplicity of the situation struck Tom comically, and, exploding goodhumouredly, he sat down in Marjory’s chair and laughed hilariously.

  Having satisfied himself by a confidential dialogue that Marjory Daw had no private bottle of comfort anywhere, this agreeable fellow so far forgot his thirst, that he did not mind drawing water from the crock, and talked on a variety of subjects to the young gentleman. In the course of this conversation he asked him two topographical questions. One was —

  “Did you ever hear of a place called Carwell Grange?”

  And the other resembled it.

  “Did you ever hear of a place called Wyvern?”

  “No.”

  “Think, lad. Did you never hear Mrs. Trevellian speak of Wyvern? Or of Carwell Grange?”

  “No.”

  “Because there is the tallest mushroom you ever saw in your life growing there, and it is grown to that degree that it blocks the door so that the Squire can’t get into his own house, and the mushroom is counted one of the wonders of the world, upon my little word of honour as a gentleman! And

  ‘Since there’s neither drink nor victuals, Suppose, my lord, we play at skittles?’

  And if she’s not back by the end of the game, tell her I had to go on to the bridge to see lame Bill Withershins, and I’ll be back again this evening, I think, or in the morning at latest.”

  The game was played, but Marjory did not appear, and Tom Orange, entertaining his young friend with a ludicrous imitation of Bill Withershins’ knock-knees, took his departure, leaving his delighted companion in the state which Moore describes as being usual