Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Don’t a great many older women than Lady Lorrimer go out a great deal?” I asked.

  “Yes,” answered mamma, “but they have young people to take out very often.”

  “But papa mentioned some this morning, who are everywhere, and never chaperon any one.”

  “I suppose they enjoy it, as they can’t live without it. Pull up that window, dear.”

  “I wonder very much she doesn’t go out; she’s so handsome, really beautiful, considering her years, I think; and so very agreeable.”

  “I suppose she doesn’t care,” she answered, a little drily.

  “But she complained of being lonely,” I resumed, “and I thought she sighed when she spoke of my coming out, as if she would like a look at the gay world again.”

  “My dear, you bore me; I suppose Lady Lorrimer will do, with respect to that, as she does about everything else — precisely what pleases her best.”

  These words mamma spoke in a way that very plainly expressed: “Now you have heard, once for all, everything I mean to say on this subject; and you will be good enough to talk and think of something quite different.”

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  WHAT CAN SHE MEAN?

  We had promised to go and see Lady Lorrimer again next day at the same hour. My head was still full of her. Mamma did not come down to breakfast; so I interrupted papa at his newspaper to sound him, very much as I had sounded her.

  “Why doesn’t she stay at home, and go out?” he repeated, smiling faintly as he did so. “I suppose she understands her own business; I can’t say — but you mustn’t say anything of that kind before her. She has done some foolish things, and got herself talked about; and you’ll hear it all, I daresay, time enough. She’s not a bit worse than other people, but a much greater fool; so don’t ask people those questions, it would vex your mamma, and do nobody any good, do you see?”

  Shortly after this, Miss Pounden came down to tell me that we were not going to see Lady Lorrimer that day. I was horribly disappointed, and ran up to the drawingroom, where mamma then was, to learn the cause of our visit being put off.

  “Here, dear, is my aunt’s note,” she said, handing it to me, and scarcely interrupting her consultation with her maid about the millinery they were discussing. It was open, and I read these words:

  “My dear Mabel, — I must say goodbye a little earlier than I had intended. My plans are upset. I find my native air insupportable, and fly northward for my life! I am thinking at present of Buxton for a few days; the weather is so genial here, that my doctor tells me I may find it still endurable in that cold region. It grieves me not to see your dear faces before I go. Do not let your pretty daughter forget me. I may, it is just possible, return through London — so we may meet soon again. I shall have left Mivart’s and begun my journey before this note reaches you. God bless you, my dear Mabel! — Your affectionate

  Aunt.”

  So she was actually gone! What a dull day it would be! Well, there was no good in railing at fate. But was I ever to see that charming lady more?

  In my drive that day with Miss Pounden, thinking it was just possible that Lady Lorrimer, whimsical as she was said to be, might have once more changed her mind, I called at Mivart’s to inquire. She was no longer there. She had left with bag and baggage, and all her servants, that morning at nine o’clock. I had called with very little hope of finding that her journey had been delayed, and I drove away with even that small hope extinguished. She was my Mary, Queen of Scots. She had done something too rash and generous for the epicurean, sarcastic, and specious society of London. From the little that papa had said, I conjectured that Lady Lorrimer’s secession from society was not quite voluntary; but she interested me all the more. In my dull life the loss of my new acquaintance so soon was a real blow. Mamma was not much of a companion to me. She liked to talk of people she knew, and to people who knew them. Except what concerned my dress and accomplishments, we had as yet no topics in common.

  Dear Laura Grey, how I missed you now! The resentment I had felt at first was long since quite lost in my real sorrow, and there remained nothing but affectionate regrets.

  I take up the thread of my personal narrative where I dropped it on the day of my ineffectual visit at Lady Lorrimer’s hotel. In the afternoon Doctor Droqville came to see mamma. He had been to see Lady Lorrimer that morning, just before she set out on her journey.

  “She was going direct to Buxton, as she hinted to you,” said Doctor Droqville, “and I advised her to make a week’s stay there. When she leaves it, she says she is going on to Westmoreland, and to stay for a fortnight or three weeks at Golden Friars. She’s fanciful; there was gout in her family, and she is full of gouty whims and horrors. She is as well as a woman of her years need be, if she would only believe it.”

  “Have you heard lately from Mr. Carmel?” asked mamma.

  I listened with a great deal of interest for the answer.

  “Yes, I heard this morning,” he replied. “He’s in Wales.”

  “Not at Malory?” said mamma.

  “No, not at Malory; a good way from Malory.”

  I should have liked to ask how long he had been in Wales, for I had been secretly offended at his apparent neglect of me; but I could not muster courage for the question.

  Next morning I took it into my head that I should like a walk; and with mamma’s leave, Miss Pounden and I set out, of course keeping among the quiet streets in the neighbourhood. While, as we walked, I was in high chat with Miss Pounden, who was chiefly a listener, and sometimes, I must admit, a rather absent one, I raised my eyes and could scarcely believe their report. Not ten yards away, walking up the flagged way towards us, were two figures. One was Lady Lorrimer I was certain. She was dressed in a very full velvet cloak, and had a small book in her hand. At her left, at a distance of more than a yard, walked a woman in a peculiar costume. This woman looked surly, and stumped beside her with a limp, as if one leg were shorter than the other. They approached at a measured pace, looking straight before them, and in total silence.

  My eyes were fixed on Lady Lorrimer with a smile, which I every moment expected would be answered by one of recognition from her. But no such thing. She must have seen me; but nearer and nearer they came. They never deviated from their line of march. Lady Lorrimer continued to look straight before her. It was the sternest possible “cut,” insomuch that I felt actually incredulous, and began to question my first identification. Her velvet actually brushed my dress as I stood next the railings. She passed me with her head high, and the same stony look.

  “Shall we go on, dear?” asked Miss Pounden, who did not understand why we had come to a standstill.

  I moved on in silence; but the street being a very quiet one, I turned about for a last look. I saw them ascend the steps of a house, and at the same moment the door opened, and Mr. Carmel came out, with his hat in his hand, and followed the two ladies in. The door was then shut. We resumed our walk homeward. We had a good many streets to go through, and I did not know my way. I was confounded, and walked on in utter silence, looking down in confused rumination on the flags under my feet.

  Till we got home I did not say a word; and then I sat down in my room, and meditated on that odd occurrence, as well as my perturbation would let me. It was a strange mixture of surprise, doubt, and intense mortification. It was very stupid of me not to have ascertained at the time the name of the street which was the scene of this incident. Miss Pounden had never seen either Lady Lorrimer or Mr. Carmel; and the occurrence had not made the least impression upon her. She could not therefore help me, ever so little, next day, to recover the name of the street in which I had stood still for a few seconds, looking at she knew not what. There was just a film of doubt, derived from the inexplicable behaviour of the supposed Lady Lorrimer. When I told mamma, she at first insisted it was quite impossible. But, as I persisted, and went into detail, she said it was very odd. She was thoughtful for a little time, and sighed. Then she made me repe
at all I had told her, and seemed very uncomfortable, but did not comment upon it. At length she said:

  “You must promise me, Ethel, not to say a word about it to your papa. It would only lead to vexation. I have good reasons for thinking so. Speak of it to no one. Let the matter rest. I don’t think I shall ever understand some people. But let us talk about it no more.”

  And with this charge the subject dropped.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  A SEMI-QUARREL.

  Mamma did not remain long in town. Bleak as the weather now was, she and papa went to Brighton for a fortnight. They then went, for a few days, to Malory; and from that, northward, to Golden Friars. I dare say papa would have liked to find Lady Lorrimer there. I don’t know that he did.

  I, meanwhile, was left in the care of Miss Pounden, who made a very staid and careful chaperon. I danced every day, and pounded a piano, and sang a little, and spoke French incessantly to Miss Pounden. My spirits were sustained by the consciousness that I was very soon to come out. I was not entirely abandoned to Miss Pounden’s agreeable society. Mr. Carmel reappeared. Three times a week he came in and read, and spoke Italian with me for an hour, Miss Pounden sitting by — at least, she was supposed to be sitting there on guard — but she really was as often out of the room as in it. One day I said to him:

  “You know Lady Lorrimer, my aunt?”

  “Yes,” he answered, carelessly.

  “Did you know she was my aunt?”

  “Your great-aunt, yes.”

  “I wonder, then, why you never mentioned her to me,” said I.

  “There is nothing to wonder at,” he replied, with a smile. “Respecting her, I have no curiosity, and nothing to tell.”

  “Oh! But you must know something about her — ever so little — and I really know nothing. Why does she lead so melancholy a life?”

  “She has sickened of gaiety, I have been told.”

  “There’s something more than that,” I insisted.

  “She’s not young, you know, and society is a laborious calling.”

  “There’s some reason; none of you will tell me,” I said. “I used to tell every one everything, until I found that no one told me anything; now I say, ‘Ethel, seal your lips, and open your ears; don’t you be the only fool in this listening, sly, suspicious world.’ But, if you’ll tell nothing else, at least you’ll tell me this. What were you all about when you opened the door of a house, in some street not far from this, to Lady Lorrimer, and an odd-looking woman who was walking beside her, on the day after she had written to mamma to say she had actually left London. What was the meaning of that deception?”

  “I don’t know whether Lady Lorrimer outstayed the time of her intended departure or not,” he answered; “she would write what she pleased, and to whom she pleased, without telling me. And now I must tell you, if Lady Lorrimer had confided a harmless secret to me, I should not betray it by answering either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to any questions. Therefore, should you question me upon any such subject, you must not be offended if I am silent.”

  I was vexed.

  “One thing you must tell me,” I persisted. “I have been puzzling myself over her very odd looks that day; and also over the odd manner and disagreeable countenance of the woman who was walking at her side. Is Lady Lorrimer, at times, a little out of her mind?”

  “Who suggested that question?” he asked, fixing his eyes suddenly on me.

  “Who suggested it?” I repeated. “No one. People, I suppose, can ask their own questions.”

  I was surprised and annoyed, and I suppose looked so. I continued: “That woman looked like a keeper, I fancied, and Lady Lorrimer — I don’t know what it was — but there was something so unaccountable about her.”

  “I don’t know a great deal of Lady Lorrimer, but I am grateful to her for, at least, one great kindness, that of having introduced me to your family,” he said; “and I can certainly testify that there is no clearer mind anywhere. No suspicion of that kind can approach her; she is said to be one of the cleverest, shrewdest intellects, and the most cultivated, you can imagine. But people say she is an esprit fort, and believes in nothing. It does not prevent her doing a kind office for a person such as I. She has more charity than many persons who make loud professions of faith.”

  I had felt a little angry at this short dialogue. He was practising reserve, and he looked at one time a little stern, and unlike himself.

  “But I want to ask you a question — only one more,” I said, for I wished to clear up my doubts.

  “Certainly,” he said, more like himself.

  “About my meeting Lady Lorrimer that day, and seeing you, as I told you.” I paused, and he simply sat listening. “My question,” I continued, “is this — I may as well tell you; the whole thing appeared to me so unaccountable that I have been ever since doubting the reality of what I saw; and I want you simply to tell me whether it did happen as I have described?”

  At this renewed attack, Mr. Carmel’s countenance underwent no change, even the slightest, that could lead me to an inference; he said, with a smile:

  “It might, perhaps, be the easiest thing in the world for me to answer distinctly, ‘no;’ but I remember that Dean Swift, when asked a certain question, said that Lord Somers had once told him never to give a negative answer, although truth would warrant it, to a question of that kind; because, if he made that his habit, when he could give a denial, whenever he declined to do so, would amount to an admission. I think that a wise rule, and all such questions I omit to answer.”

  “That is an evasion,” I replied, in high indignation.

  “Forgive me, it is no evasion — it is simply silence.”

  “You know it is cowardly, and indirect, and — characteristic,” I persisted, in growing wrath.

  He was provokingly serene.

  “Well, let me give you another reason for silence respecting Lady Lorrimer. Your mamma has specially requested me to keep silence on the subject; and in your case, Miss Ethel, her daughter, can I consider that request otherwise than as a command?”

  “Not comprehending casuistry, I don’t quite see how your promise to papa, to observe silence respecting the differences of the two Churches, is less binding than your promise to mamma of silence respecting Lady Lorrimer.”

  “Will you allow me to answer that sarcasm?” he asked, flushing a little.

  “How I hate hypocrisy and prevarication!” I repeated, rising even above my old level of scorn.

  “I have been perfectly direct,” he said, “upon that subject; for the reason I have mentioned, I can’t and won’t speak.”

  “Then for the present, I think, we shall talk upon no other,” I said, getting up, going out of the room, and treating him at the door to a haughty little bow.

  So we parted for that day.

  I understood Mr. Carmel, however; I knew that he had acted as he always did when he refused to do what other people wished, from a reason that was not to be overcome; and I don’t recollect that I ever renewed my attack. We were on our old terms in a day or two. Between the stanzas of Tasso, often for ten minutes unobserved, he talked upon the old themes — eternity, faith, the Church, the saints, the Blessed Virgin. He supplied me with books; but this borrowing and lending was secret as the stolen correspondence of lovers.

  I have thought over that strange period of my life: the little books that wrought such wonders, the spell of whose power is broken now; the tone of mind induced by them, by my solitude, my agitations, the haunting affections of the dead; and all these influences reacting again upon the cold and supernatural character of Mr. Carmel’s talk. My exterior life had been going on, the rural monotony of Malory, its walks, its boating, its little drives; and now the dawning ambitions of a more vulgar scene, the town life, the excitement of a new world were opening. But among these realities, ever recurring, and dominating all, there seemed to be ever present a stupendous vision!

  So it seemed to me my life was divided between frivolous
realities and a gigantic trance. Into this I receded every now and then, alone and unwatched. The immense perspective of a towering cathedral aisle seemed to rise before me, shafts and ribbed stone, lost in smoke of incense floating high in air; mitres and gorgeous robes, and golden furniture of the altar, and chains of censers and jewelled shrines, glimmering far off in the tapers’ starlight, and the inspired painting of the stupendous Sacrifice reared above the altar in dim reality. I fancied I could hear human voices, plaintive and sublime as the aërial choirs heard high over dying saints and martyrs by faithful ears; and the mellow thunder of the organ rolling through unseen arches above. Sometimes, less dimly, I could see the bowed heads of myriads of worshippers, “a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and peoples, and tongues.” It was, to my visionary senses, the symbol of the Church. Always the selfsame stupendous building, the same sounds and sights, the same high-priest and satellite bishops; but seen in varying lights — now in solemn beams, striking down and crossing the shadow in mighty bars of yellow, crimson, green, and purple through the stained windows, and now in the dull red gleam of the tapers.

  Was I more under the influence of religion in this state? I don’t believe I was. My imagination was exalted, my anxiety was a little excited, and the subject generally made me more uncomfortable than it did before. Some of the forces were in action which might have pushed me, under other circumstances, into a decided course. One thing, which logically had certainly no bearing upon the question, did affect me, I now know, powerfully. There was a change in Mr. Carmel’s manner which wounded me, and piqued my pride. I used to think he took an interest in Ethel Ware. He seemed now to feel none, except in the discharge of his own missionary duties, and I fancied that, if it had not been for his anxiety to acquit himself of a task imposed by others, and exacted by his conscience, I should have seen no more of Mr. Carmel.