Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Surely you can’t pretend there is anything wrong in it?” she said, fiercely.

  “I did not say there was. Extreme imprudence; reckless imprudence.”

  “You always said everything I did was reckless and imprudent.”

  “Not everything. Some things extremely. And what you propose, considering that you are no longer young, and know what the world is, appears to me a positively inexcusable folly.”

  “It is possible to prescribe limits and impose conditions upon oneself,” she said, with an effort; “and if so, there need be no rashness in the matter, not the slightest.”

  “Possible? We know it’s not possible with some people.”

  “You always hated me, sir.”

  “Tut, tut!”

  “You never liked me.”

  “Pooh, pooh!”

  “You have always thought ill of me.”

  “I have always wished you well, Barbara, and accident, I think, enabled me to understand you better than others. You have great faults, immense faults.”

  “All faults and no virtues, of course,” she said, with a bitter little laugh.

  “You are capable of strong and enduring attachments.”

  “Even that is something,” she said, with an agitated smile, and burst into tears.

  “This is very painful, Barbara,” said the little man in the black wig, while a shadow of positive displeasure darkened his furrowed face. “I believe my first impression was right, and yours too. I begin to think I had no business coming to Roydon.”

  Lady Vernon got up, and walked toward the window, and then turned, and walked to the further end of the room, standing before a picture.

  He could see that her handkerchief was busy drying her eyes.

  With a womanly weakness she walked to the mirror close by, and looked into it, and perhaps was satisfied that the traces of this agitation were not very striking.

  She returned to her place.

  “I have been a fool. My saying so will perhaps save you the trouble. I want to put you in funds again.”

  “When you please,” said the old man. “Any time will answer. I have the figures here.” His pocketbook was still in his hand. “But he has money enough of his own. He must think me a fool, paying all these expenses for him. And I think, Barbara, your doing so is a mischievous infatuation.”

  “And you would deny me this one pleasure!” she said.

  “Enough, enough,” he answers. “It was not about that I came here; that we could have settled by a letter. But I knew you would have fifty questions to ask. He has made up his mind to try change of air. I’m ignorant in such matters, and he has not made up his mind where to go.”

  “I have quite made up my mind upon that point,” she answered.

  “Well; and where?”

  “Here,” said Lady Vernon, once more in her cold, quiet way. “I’ll ask him here.”

  “H’m!” said Mr. Dawe.

  “Here,” she repeated, with her old calm peremptoriness. “Here, at Roydon Hall. I’ll receive him here, and he can’t be quieter or better anywhere else, and you shall come with him.”

  It was now Mr. Dawe’s turn to get up, which he did with a kind of jerk, and, checking some impulse, walked slowly round his chair, looking down on the carpet, and with a pretty wide circuit he came behind it, and resting his hands on its high back, and leaning over, he said, with a little pause, and a wag of his head to each word:

  “Is there the least use in my arguing the point?”

  “None.”

  “H’m!”

  Mr. Dawe looked to the far corner of the room, with eyes askance, ruminating, and took a pinch of snuff, some of which shed a brown snow upon the cut pattern of the Utrecht velvet on the back of the chair.

  “I can’t say it is anything to me; nothing. I should be officious were I to say any more to dissuade you from it. Only remember, I have no share in the responsibility of this, excuse me, most strange step. As I suppose he will be brought here, one way or other, in any case, I think I had better come with him, and stay a day or two. It will excite less observation, so — — “

  “Thank you so very much, Mr. Dawe,” said Lady Vernon, extending her hand, with an odd, eager gratitude in tone and countenance. “That is like yourself.”

  Mr. Dawe’s usual “H’m!” responded to this little effusion, and with an ominous countenance he took her proffered hand in his dry grasp, and let it go almost in a moment.

  Looking down on the carpet, he walked to the window, with his hands behind his back, and as, with furrowed jaws and pursed mouth, and a roll of his prominent eyes, he stood close to the pane of glass, down which the rain was no longer streaming, Lady Vernon opened her desk, and wrote a cheque for two hundred pounds, and coming to his side, she said:

  “He does not suspect that he has a friend concealed?”

  “Certainly not — certainly not,” said Mr. Dawe, sharply.

  “Will you apply this for me, and we can account another time? And you think me very ungrateful, Mr. Dawe, but indeed I am not. I only wish an opportunity may occur, if you could only point out some way. But you are so rich, and so happy. Well, some day, notwithstanding, I may be able to show you how I thank you. Let us return to the drawingroom.”

  As she passed the mirror, the lady surveyed her face again, and was satisfied.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Dawe, recurring to the matter of business, “I’ll do that, and with respect to coming here, I say no more. Under protest, mind, I do it. Only let me have a line to say when you can receive us.”

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  THE NUN’S WELL.

  Maud was found by her elders, on their return, nestled in a low chair, in one of those lazy moods in which one not only does nothing, but thinks of nothing.

  They were talking as they entered, and Maud turned her eyes merely in their direction, being far enough away to feel herself very little observed.

  “You will surely stay tonight, Mr. Dawe?” said Lady Vernon.

  “No, certainly; thank you very much. I have made up my mind,” replied Mr. Dawe, dryly.

  Miss Maud was observing this little man in the wig with increased interest. There was in his manner, looks, and voice something of the familiarity of an old friend, she thought, without much of the liking.

  Whatever the business which they discussed in the library, her mamma, she thought, was perfectly unruffled; but there were traces of displeasure in the old gentleman’s demeanour.

  “I ought to have told you that my cousin, Maximilla Medwyn, is staying here.”

  “She has returned, mamma; she will be down in a few minutes,” said Maud.

  “Oh! and we shall certainly have her here for some days. Will that tempt you to stay?”

  “I like her well — very well, but I shall be off notwithstanding,” said the old gentleman, with a rigid countenance.

  The sound of the gong announced luncheon.

  “We are a very small party,” she said, smiling. “I’m glad you are here to luncheon, at all events.”

  “I’ve had a biscuit and a glass of sherry.”

  “But that is not luncheon, you know,” said Lady Vernon.

  Maud wondered more and more why her mamma should take such unusual pains to conciliate this odd, grim old man. For her part, she did not know what to make of him. Ungainly, preposterous, obsolete as he was, she could not assign him a place outside the line that encircles gentlemen. There was not a trace of vulgarity in the reserved and saturnine inflexibility of his face. There was something that commanded her respect, in the obvious contrast it presented to the vulgar simper and sycophancy of the people who generally sought “audiences” of her mother.

  And Maud fancied when he looked at her, that there was something of kindly interest dimly visible through his dark and solemn lineaments.

  “Luncheon and dinner,” he said, “are with me incompatible; and I prefer my dinner. My train, I think, is due at six-twenty p.m. I suppose your servant can find a Bradsha
w, and I’ll consult it while you are at luncheon. Go, Barbara. Go, pray; you make me uncomfortable.”

  The little old man sat himself down in an armchair, took out his pocketbook, and seemed to forget everything but the figures over which he began to pore.

  Miss Max joined the ladies at luncheon.

  “Well, we shall find him in the drawingroom,” she said, reconciling herself to her disappointment. “It is a long time since I saw him. But I dare say he’s not much changed. Wigs wear wonderfully.”

  “So do ugly men,” added Lady Vernon, carelessly.

  So luncheon proceeded. And when it was over, the three ladies came to the drawingroom, and, looking round, discovered that Mr. Dawe was gone.

  A minute after, Maud saw him walking under the trees of the avenue, with his broadleafed, low-crowned hat on, and a slow, stiff tread, and his silk umbrella in his hand doing the office of a walking-stick. It was pleasant sunshine now.

  The blue sky was clear and brilliant, and only a few white clouds near the horizon accounted for the rain-drops that still glittered on the blades of grass. Stepping carefully in the centre of the path, little Mr. Dawe, now and then shouldering his umbrella, and turning and looking about him, like a man reviving old recollections and scanning alterations, disappeared slowly from view, over the stile, leaving Miss Maud very curious.

  “I’ll put on my things, and try to find him,” said Miss Max, in a fuss, and was speedily seen emerging from the hall-door in pursuit.

  His walk being slow and meditative, his active pursuer did succeed in overtaking him. She knew very well that he was glad to see her, though his rigid features gave no sign, and he shook hands very kindly.

  When these greetings were over, he answered her question by saying briefly:

  “No, I shan’t dine. I’m off.”

  “Without bidding Barbara goodbye!” exclaimed Miss Medwyn, drawing herself up in amazement.

  “I’ve left my farewell in the hall. The footman will find it.”

  “A note, I suppose?”

  “H’m,” acquiesced the little gentleman. “My carriage will take me up in the village;” and he nodded gravely to the distant tower of Roydon Church, which happily did not return that salutation, though he continued to stare solemnly at it for some seconds, as if he thought it might, and ended by a second slighter nod.

  “That is not a pretty compliment to me,” she said. “I think you might have stayed till tomorrow.”

  “H’m,” he remarked, and silence followed.

  “Well, I see you won’t.”

  Another pause, and a more impatient “H’m,” and a quick shake of the head.

  “So as that can’t be,” she resumed, “and as all things are so uncertain in this life,that we may possibly never meet again, I’ll walk a little way with you towards the village.”

  Mr. Dawe uttered his usual note of acquiescence.

  “And now you must tell me,” she said,as they walked at a leisurely pace along the path which winds gently among the old timber, “what on earth brought you here? Has anything wonderful happened; is anything wonderful going to happen?”

  “A word or two with Barbara,” he said.

  “You don’t mean to tell me it is a secret?” said she.

  “If it be, it is none of mine,” he replied.

  “Well but you can tell me generally, what it is about,” she insisted.

  “H’m! Ask Barbara,” he answered.

  “You mean, it is a secret, and you won’t tell it?” she said.

  Mr. Dawe left this inference unanswered.

  “You found Barbara very little altered?” said Miss Max.

  “As self-willed and unwise as ever,” he replied.

  “Ho! Then she wants to do something foolish?”

  “She can do that when she pleases,” he remarked. “Do you know the Tinterns, who live near?”

  “Yes, pretty well,” she answered, rather curious to know why he should ask.

  “What do you think of them?”

  “I rather dislike Mr. Tintern, I neither like nor dislike his wife, and I like his daughter very much indeed. His son I don’t know; he is with his regiment in India,” she answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “You are as inquisitive as ever, Maximilla,” he said.

  “I’ve just satisfied your curiosity about the Tinterns, and you can’t complain fairly of my question. I think your business with Barbara had something to do with them.”

  “You are sagacious,” he observed; but whether he spoke in good faith or in irony his countenance helped her nothing to discover.

  “Come, you must tell me. Are the Tinterns involved in the foolish thing she is going to do?” the lady insisted.

  “She is going to do a foolish thing, and you, probably, will never know what makes it so particularly foolish; that is, unless she carries out her folly to its climax.”

  “I may possibly guess more than you suppose,” Miss Medwyn said.

  But this remark led to nothing. “You don’t know young Tintern, you say, but you like his sister. Why?” asked Mr. Dawe.

  “I like her because she is really nice — one of the very nicest girls I ever knew.”

  “Ha! Then, I hope she doesn’t depend altogether on her father, for they say he has lost money?” said Mr. Dawe.

  “She is not well provided for, although her mother was an heiress, you know; but there is something trifling settled on her.”

  “Well for her she doesn’t depend altogether on Tintern. I’m told he is a distressed man, or likely soon to be so,” he said.

  “But, to come back to Barbara,” resumed Maximilla: “I think you ought to exercise your influence to prevent her from taking any foolish step, particularly one which may affect others.”

  “I have none.”

  “If you haven’t, who has?

  “No one ever had, for her good.”

  “For my part, I never knew what to think of her,” said Miss Medwyn.

  “I did,” said Mr. Dawe.

  He stopped short, and looked straight at her, being about her own height, which, even for a woman, was nothing very remarkable. His dark face looked darker, and his prominent brown eyes were inflexibly fixed on her, as he spoke a rather longer harangue than usual.

  “She is a great dissembler,” said Mr. Dawe. “She is proud. She has the appearance of coldness, and she is secretly passionate and violent. She is vindictive. All that is concealed. She has a strong will. People know that; but it is not inflexibility founded on fixed data. It is simply irresistible impulse. There is nothing fixed in her but a few likings and hatreds. Principles in the high sense, that is, involving the submission of a life to maxims of duty, she has none; and she thinks herself a paragon.”

  Maximilla laughed, and they resumed their walk, when Mr. Dawe had ended his speech.

  “That seems rather a severe delineation, Mr. Dawe,” said Maximilla Medwyn, with another little laugh and a shrug.

  “It is true. I would repeat it to herself, if it could do her any good.”

  They followed the path, Miss Medwyn chatting, after her manner, gaily, until they nearly reached the stile at the village road.

  “So here we part, Mr. Dawe.”

  Mr. Dawe gave her one of his oracular looks, and took her hand in his hard fingers.

  “And it is very ill-natured of you not telling me what I asked you,” she called after him.

  Bestriding the stile, he looked back with the same solemnity, raised his broadleafed hat, and disappeared on the other side, and Maximilla could not help laughing a little at the awful gravity and silence of the apparition which went down behind the wall.

  The day was now brilliant, and Miss Medwyn was tempted to walk home by a path still prettier, though a little circuitous.

  It was a favourite walk of hers long ago. Perhaps it was the visit of Mr. Dawe, with whom in old times she had often walked these out-of-the-way paths, that suggested this little ramble.

  The lofty trees close about
the path that she had now chosen, and gradually beset and overhang it in the densest shadow. Walking in the open air, on a sunny day, you could not fancy so deep a darkness anywhere. This is, of course, in the leafy days, when the tall elms, whose boughs cross and mix above, are laden with their thick dark foliage.

  The darkness and silence of this narrow path are here so curiously deep, that it is worth going a mile or two out of one’s way to visit it; and fancy will play a nervous wayfarer as many tricks in this strange solitude as in a lonely night walk.

  At the side of this path, nearly in its darkest part, is a well, under an arch. It is more properly a spring, rising at this point, and overflowing its stone basin, and escapes, in a gush, through a groove cut in the flag that encloses it, in front. Two iron cups, hanging by chains, invite the passenger to drink of the icy water that with ceaseless plash and gurgle descends from the opening.

  With a slow step on the light mossy turf she draws near this remembered point of interest. Her eyes have grown accustomed to the clear shadow. Two steps lead down to the level at which one can take the iron cup, and drink from this pleasant well.

  If outside all is shadowy, you may suppose how obscure it is within this low arch.

  As she looks, she sees something rise within it. It is the figure of a man, who has just been stooping for a draught from the spring. His back is turned toward her.

  We do not know how habitually we rely upon the protection of the upright among our fellow-men, until accident isolates us, and we confront a possible villain in a lonely place. There was no reason to suspect this man above other strangers. But a sense of her helplessness frightened her.

  She stepped back, as most old ladies, with presence of mind, would have done under the circumstances. And very still, from her place of comparative concealment, she sees this faint shadow emerge, in shade less deep, and she discerns the long neck, lank jaws, and white eyeball of Elihu Lizard.

  The lady pursed her mouth and frowned, as she might at a paragraph in the newspaper describing a horror; and she drew a little further back, and as much behind the huge trunk of the tree at the edge of the path as she could with the power of still peeping at Mr. Lizard.