Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Jones, do you know where mamma is?” Maud asked.

  “Her ladyship went down more than an hour ago to the library, and I think she is there still, for it is only about ten minutes since she sent for Mr. Penrhyn to go to her there.”

  “I’m so afraid of meeting her. I should rather put off seeing her as long as I can. Did Latimer say anything of her having been vexed with me last night?”

  “Not a word, miss; I dare say you are making too much of it.”

  “Not a bit, Jones; but we’ll not talk about that. I wish I were sure that she would allow me to go to Lady Mardykes’. You would have great fun there, Jones.”

  “Well, indeed, miss, a bit o’ fun would not hurt neither of us. Her ladyship does keep things awful dull here.”

  At this moment came a knock at the door.

  Miss Vernon looked at Jones, and Jones at Miss Vernon, and there was a rather alarmed silence, during which the knock was repeated.

  “Who is there?” asked Maud, after another pause.

  It was Latimer.

  “Come in, Latimer. Are you looking for me?” said the young lady.

  “Please, miss, her ladyship wishes to see you in the library,” said Latimer, in her dry way.

  “Immediately?” asked Maud, changing colour.

  “So she desired me to say, miss.”

  “Oh, very well, Latimer. Tell mamma, please, that I’ll follow you in a moment.”

  Latimer was gone, and the door shut.

  “I wish it was over,” said the young lady, very pale. “Stay here, Jones, till I come back.”

  “I will, miss,” said Jones, whose heart misgave her now, respecting the visit to Carsbrook. “And you won’t mind me saying, miss, ‘twill be best you should not contradict her ladyship in nothing.”

  “I don’t think she’ll keep me very long. When I come back I’ll tell you whether we are going or not.”

  And with these words Miss Vernon left the room, and proceeded along the gallery, and down the stairs, at a much more sedate pace than usual.

  It was a very unpleasant excitement, and she felt for a moment almost a little faint as she approached the well-known door.

  She hesitated before it. She wondered whether any one was with her mother, and with something nearly amounting to the sinking of panic, anticipated the coming scene.

  With an effort of resolution she knocked.

  “Come in,” said the sweet, cold, commanding voice she knew so well.

  Maud entered the room, and drew near with the embarrassment of one who knows not what reception may be awaiting her.

  Her large eyes, fixed on Lady Vernon, saw nothing unusual in the serene and cold expression of her handsome face. She heard nothing unusual in her clear, harmonious tones. Her manner was perfectly unembarrassed. Judging by external signs, Maud might have concluded that no recollection of their fiery encounter of the night before remained in her mother’s mind.

  “There has come a note from Maximilla Medwyn, to-day, telling me that Lady Mardykes wishes you to go to Carsbrook on Monday next. There is nothing to prevent your telling her that you will go.”

  Maud was afraid to say how delighted and relieved she was. She could not say what untoward caprice too strong an expression of her feeling might excite; but a flush of pleasure glowed brilliantly in her cheeks.

  “It is too late to-day for the Roydon post; you can write tomorrow. I have written to Maximilla to say what your answer will be,” said Lady Vernon. “Some people are coming to dine here to-day, and I don’t think we are likely to be alone while you remain at home. I only wished to mention that; and you had better tell Jones, as she is to go with you; there’s nothing more.”

  “I hope that you are pretty well now, mamma?”

  “Quite well, thanks,” said Lady Vernon, cutting short any possible prolongation of these civilities. “You remember the story of — Talleyrand, was it? I forget — a Frenchman of the world, who, being bored at every posting-house, through half the journey to Paris, with messages from a gentleman who was travelling the same road, to inquire particularly how he was, requested the messenger at last to say to the gentleman who was so good as to make so many inquiries, that he was very well all the way to Paris. So we’ll take that hint, I think, and save one another some trouble, and I’ll say I’m very well all the way to Monday afternoon. And now, dear Maud, I’m busy, and I think I’ll say goodbye.”

  And with this gracious speech, accompanied by a cold little laugh that was indescribably insulting, she turned to her papers once more, leaving Maud to make her exit with a very full and angry heart.

  “Always sorry when I try to show her the least sign of affection. Well, while I remain here, I’ll not be such a fool again.”

  So, with flashing eyes, Maud resolved, as she passed from the library through the suite of rooms beyond it.

  CHAPTER LI.

  DOCTOR MALKIN CONFERS.

  About two hours later, Maud was walking beyond the avenue, in that part of the grounds in which, some weeks before, Miss Max and old Mr. Dawe had taken a little ramble together.

  Suddenly she lighted on Doctor Malkin, who was walking up the wooded path from the village. Maud saw that the quick eye of the doctor had seen her at the same moment that she saw him. He happened to be in a part of the path which makes its way through a very shadowy bit of wood, and possibly the doctor thought that he might have been unobserved, for he hesitated for a second, and she fancied was about to evade the meeting by stepping quickly among the trees. But it was only a momentary thought, for he would not of course allow the young lady to suppose that he shrank from a recognition. So, pretending to look up for a moment among the boughs of the tree under which he stood, in search of a bird or a squirrel, or some other animated illustration of that natural history which was one of his studies, he resumed his walk toward her, affecting not to see her until he had approached more nearly; then raising his hat, with a surprised smile and a deferential inclination, he quickened his pace, and, as he reached her, observed on the weather and the beauty of the tints beginning to discolour the summer foliage, and then mentioned that he fancied he saw a kite, whose scientific name he also mentioned, among the boughs of a very dark tree, a little way off, but he was not quite sure. She was taking a rather solitary walk, he observed; how very much she must miss her companion in so many pleasant rambles — Miss Medwyn. What a charming old lady she is, so agreeable, and such exhilarating spirits!

  There was a sort of effort and embarrassment in all this that was indefinable and unpleasant. If he had been half detected in a poaching expedition to snare the rabbits, or on any other lawless design, he could scarcely have looked more really disconcerted, and more anxious to appear at his ease.

  The doctor appeared to be made up for a journey; he had a rug and a muffler for the night air, still five or six hours away, across his arm, and carried his thin umbrella, in its black shining case, in his hand, as well as a small black leather bag. A fly was to meet him at the back gate of Roydon, and wherever he was going he wished to have a word with Lady Vernon before setting out on his travels.

  “Lady Vernon was a little uneasy,” he said, “lest that attack of the young woman at the gatehouse should turn out to be diphtheria, and I promised to see her and report, and I’m glad to say it is nothing of the kind. So, as I shan’t be home till tomorrow, I thought it best to look in to-day to set Lady Vernon’s mind at ease. Goodbye, Miss Vernon.”

  The doctor took his leave, as I have said; and Maud saw the shower of dotted sunlight as he strode on the path toward the Hall flying through the interstices of the leaves across the glazed black bag he carried, or, more softly, mottling his rug and his hat. She could not account for the slight awkwardness that seemed to affect everything he said or did during those two or three minutes, and she observed that the pale gentleman with the long upper lip and short chin, smooth and blue, smiled more than was necessary, and that the obliquity that spoiled his really fine eyes was a good deal m
ore marked than usual.

  The doctor was soon quite beyond her ken, and pursued his way at a brisk pace to the house, where he was instantly admitted to the library.

  He had thrown down his rugs and other property in the hall, and had merely his hat in his hand as he entered.

  Lady Vernon got up and took his hand, and smiled faintly and wearily, and, with a little sigh, said:

  “I did not think the time had arrived. I have had, as usual, some letters to write; but you are punctual.”

  She glanced at the old buhl French clock over the chimneypiece.

  “Sit down, Doctor Malkin; I have been thinking over what I said, and I don’t recollect that I have anything very particular to add. There are only two things that occur to me to say: the first is, that I have quite made up my mind upon the main point; and the second is, that it must take place immediately.”

  The doctor bowed, and his eyes remained fixed on the table for a minute. The lady did not speak. She was also looking down, but with a little frown, and affected to be diligently arranging her letters one over the other.

  Doctor Malkin felt the obligation upon him to say something.

  “It is as well often — generally — I don’t see any difficulty; in fact, I know there can’t be, unless it should exist here,” he said, in a low tone, speaking by fits and starts.

  “There is none,” said Lady Vernon, with a little irritation in her look and tone. Perhaps she did not understand Doctor Malkin’s affectation of embarrassment. “I have made a note of the day I now wish to appoint, and of my reason for greater promptitude; I thought it would be more satisfactory to you to have it in that form.”

  “Thanks; it is so considerate,” said Doctor Malkin, taking the note she dropped before him. “I’ll just, if you allow me, run my eye over it.”

  He opened it. It was not a very long memorandum.

  “Perfectly clear,” he said, when he had read it through; “and I must say, your reason appears to me a very powerful one — very.”

  “Mr. Pembroke Damian is a very admirable man,” said the lady, after an interval of silence. “He was one of the most eloquent preachers I ever heard, and a man whose life was more eloquent still than his preaching, and he is so able, so wise. I look upon him, taken for all in all, as one of the worthies of England.”

  Lady Vernon had raised her dark, cold eyes, and was looking, not indeed at the doctor, but straight before her, to the wall, as she spoke this high moral testimony.

  “He certainly is a most remarkable man,” said Doctor Malkin.

  “He is a benefactor to the human race,” said the lady. “When I think of all the suffering he has alleviated, and the despair to which he has been the instrument of admitting comfort and peace, I am justified in regarding him, as I do, as the minister and angel of heaven. I have boundless confidence in that good and able man.”

  Doctor Malkin acquiesced.

  “And I thank Heaven there is such a person living, and in his peculiar position,” continued Lady Vernon. “Will you be so good as to give him this note.”

  Doctor Malkin deferentially took the letter she handed him.

  “It is a very happy reflection that my confidence, inevitable as it is, should be placed in so sagacious and pious a man,” she added.

  “He has certainly been a useful man,” said the doctor, still looking down on the envelope, with the address, the “Rev. Pembroke Damian, M.A.,” &c., in the clear and graceful hand of Lady Vernon, “and a most conscientious person — a truly religious man. You, Lady Vernon, can speak with much more authority than I upon that point; and, certainly, I will say, his ideas have been in advance of his time; his has been a most influential mind, and in some points has led the opinion of his age.”

  “I would trust my life, as I am ready to trust that which, you will say, ought to be dearer still to me, in his hands,” said Lady Vernon.

  “He does not quite take the leading part he did, you know,” said Doctor Malkin. “For the last two or three years he has not done a very great deal.”

  “That is a rather unpleasant piece of information, you must suppose, for me,” Lady Vernon said, with an angry flush. “If I did not suppose it a little exaggerated, I think I should almost hesitate.”

  Doctor Malkin knew that the lady wished him to understand that he had made a stupid speech. He had put his foot in it. He said hastily:

  “You know he is most ably seconded. There is not a more brilliant man, perhaps, living, as I have explained to you, and — and, of course, I don’t mean that Mr. Damian has abdicated, or anything of the kind. Of course he takes a very essential part, and is, in so far as your interests and feelings are personally concerned, everything he ever was.”

  “I have always assumed that to be so,” said Lady Vernon, severely, “and I should be obliged to you, Doctor Malkin, if you would report to me any such dereliction of duty on the part of Mr. Damian, should you find anything the least like it, which, I must tell you frankly, I can’t suppose. I can’t credit it, because I know so much of him; his character is so perfectly upright, and he is in all respects so consistent a Christian. I relied upon this, and upon his principal and actual responsibility.”

  The lady’s eyes still flashed, and she spoke sharply. Doctor Malkin was therefore still uncomfortable. He saw, too late, that she possibly construed his words as casting an undesirable responsibility upon her. He hastened, therefore, to reply.

  “But I am afraid, Lady Vernon, I must have failed to convey myself. My meaning was, I assure you, very far from that. On the contrary, I believe Mr. Damian was never more vigorous in mind, or active in his habits. You may make your mind perfectly easy upon that point. He deputes nothing — nothing, in fact, involving a responsibility. I’m afraid I must have expressed myself very clumsily indeed.”

  Lady Vernon did not care to discuss the point further.

  “I need not tell you how much I have suffered,” she said. “It may come, very soon, all right again. Let us hope the best. I hope, at least, it may not be very protracted. You will return tomorrow?”

  “Yes, certainly; and if you please, Lady Vernon, I can call here at any hour that suits you best, after I come back, and tell you what I have done. And I don’t anticipate the slightest trouble.”

  “It is better to come as early as you can, thank you. And there will be some trifling arrangements still to complete, which we can then talk over. You set out, I suppose, immediately on leaving this?”

  “Immediately,” said he. “I have a good way to go. I think I have very full instructions now. Do you recollect anything more?”

  “No. The rest had better wait till tomorrow, and it is time, Doctor Malkin, I quite agree with you, that you were on your way. So I will say goodbye.”

  Lady Vernon gave her hand to Doctor Malkin, without a smile, and he was more than usually deferential and solemn as he took it.

  At the room door, Doctor Malkin recollected his accidental meeting with Miss Vernon, and returned for a moment to mention the circumstance to Lady Vernon, as it had obliged him to allege a pretext for his visit to Roydon Hall.

  “Well,” said the lady, growing a little red, “I should have preferred saying nothing. But it can’t be helped now. Where did you meet her?”

  He told her.

  She looked down in momentary misgiving — thoughtful. But she had learned that Captain Vivian, who had undoubtedly driven through the town of Roydon the evening before, had left again for the station, and had gone away by train, and she was sure to hear more particularly in the morning about his movements from Mr. Dawe, to whom she had written a very agitated letter of inquiry and alarm.

  She would take her, if possible, to the Tinterns next day, and somewhere else the day following, and keep her, should any uncertainty arise, out of the way of any further meeting with that perverse gentleman.

  So Lady Vernon, recollecting that the silence had been rather long, said suddenly:

  “I was thinking, I may tell you, as I have
taken you so unreservedly into council, whether, under all circumstances, the grounds here are quite a suitable place for Maud to take these solitary walks in.”

  “Well, as you say Lady Mardykes’ invitation was for Monday, she will be leaving this so soon, it is scarcely — — “

  “Well, yes; we can talk of that tomorrow, when we meet,” interrupted Lady Vernon. “For the present, goodbye, Doctor Malkin.”

  So again giving him her hand, she and the doctor, who was not himself looking very well or very merry, made a second leavetaking, and he took his departure.

  His allusion to Maud’s departure on the Monday following was in the tone of her own very decided feeling.

  Lady Vernon was glad that Lady Mardykes had fixed so early a day for her daughter’s visit to Carsbrook.

  CHAPTER LII.

  MERCY CRESWELL.

  Next day an humble but unlooked-for visitor appeared at Roydon Hall.

  Miss Vernon, on returning in the afternoon from her short walk to inquire at the gatehouse for the sick girl, encountered the slim, dark figure of Latimer, her mother’s maid, in the hall.

  Latimer had evidently been looking for her, for the demure angular figure which had been crossing the hall toward the drawingroom as she entered, turned sharp to the left, and approached her with a quick step, and making a little inclination before Maud, Lady Vernon’s maid said, in her low, dry tones:

  “Please, miss, my lady desires me to say that Mercy Creswell, which you recollect her, perhaps, in the nursery long ago, being niece of old Mrs. Creswell, that died here when you was but a child, miss, has come here to see her ladyship and you, also, if you please.”

  “I do remember her very well. I must have been a very little thing, Latimer, when she went away.”

  “About six years old you was, miss, when she left. Where will you please to see her?” replied Latimer.

  “Where is she now?”

  “In my lady’s morning room, please, miss. But you can see her, my lady says, anywhere you please,” answered Latimer.