Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  The squabble, the innocent surprise, the regrets, the other hypocrisies, and finally the compromise over, away we went to take our places in the quadrille. I was glad it was not a round dance. I wanted to hear him talk a little. How strange it seemed to me, standing beside him in this artificial atmosphere of waxlight and music! Each affecting the air of an acquaintance made then and there; each perfectly recognising the other, as we stood side by side talking of the new primo tenore, the play, the Aztecs, and I know not what besides!

  This young man’s manner was different from what I had been accustomed to in ball-rooms. There was none of the trifling, and no sign of the admiration which the conversation and looks of others seemed to imply. His tone, perfectly gentlemanlike, was merely friendly, and he seemed to take an interest in me, much as I fancied an unknown relation might. We talked of things of no particular interest, until he happened to ask something of my occasional wanderings in the country. It was my opportunity, and I seized it like a general.

  “I like the country,” I said. “I enjoy it thoroughly; I’ve lived nearly all my life in the country, in a place I am so fond of, called Malory. I think all about there so beautiful! It is close to Cardyllion — have you ever seen Cardyllion?”

  “Yes, I’ve been to Cardyllion once — only once, I think. I did not see a great deal of it. But you, now, see a great deal more of the country — you have been to the lakes?”

  “Oh! yes; but I want to ask how you liked Cardyllion. How long is it since you were there?”

  “About two years, or a little more, perhaps,” he answered.

  “Oh! that’s just about the time the Conway Castle was wrecked — how awful that was! I had a companion then, my dearest friend — Laura Grey was her name; she left us so suddenly, when I was away from Malory, and I have never seen her since. I have been longing so to meet any one who could tell me anything about her. You don’t happen to know any one, do you, who knows a young lady of that name? I make it a rule to ask every one I can; and I’m sure I shall make her out at last.”

  “Nothing like perseverance,” said he. “I shall be most happy to be enlisted; and if I should light upon a lady of that name, I may tell her that Miss Ware is very well, and happy?”

  “No, not happy — at least, not quite happy, until she writes to tell me where she is, or comes to see me; and tell her I could not have believed she would have been so unkind.”

  Conversations are as suddenly cut short in ball-rooms as they are in a beleaguered city, where the head of one of the interlocutors is carried off by a round-shot. Our dialogue ended with the sudden arrival of the illused man, whom I could no longer postpone, and who carried me off, very much vexed, as you may suppose, and scarcely giving my companion time to make a bow.

  Never was “fast dance” so slow as this! At length it was over, and wherever I went my eyes wandered hither and thither in search of the tall young man with whom I had danced. The man who had figured in a scene which had so often returned to my imagination was now gone; I saw him neither in the dancing-rooms nor in any others. By this time there was a constant double current to and from the supper-room, up and down the stairs. As I went down, immediately before me was Monsieur Droqville. He did not follow the stream, but passed into the hall.

  *

  Monsieur Droqville put on his loose black wrapper, and wound a shawl about his throat, and glanced, from habit, with his shrewd, hard eyes at the servants as he passed through them in the hall. He jumped into a cab, told the driver where to stop, lighted a cigar, and smoked.

  He got out at the corner of a fashionable but rather dingy street not very far away. Then he dismissed his vehicle, walked up the pavement smoking, passed into a still quieter street, also fashionable, that opens from it at an obtuse angle. Here he walked slowly, and, as it were, softly. The faint echo of his own steps was the only sound that met him as he entered it. He crossed, threw his head back, and shrewdly scanned the upper windows, blowing out a thin stream of tobacco-smoke as he looked.

  “Not flown yet, animula, vagula blandula? Still on the perch,” he said, as he crossed the street again.

  His cigar was just out, and he threw it away as he reached the steps. He did not need to knock or ring; he admitted himself with a latchkey. A bedroom candlestick in the hall had a candle still burning in it. He took it and walked quietly up. The boards of the stairs and lobbies were bare, and a little dust lay on the wall and bannister, indicating the neglected state of a house abandoned by its tenants for a journey or a very long stay in the country. He opened the back drawingroom door and put his head in. A pair of candles lighted the room. A thin elderly lady, in an odd costume, was the only person there. She wore a white, quilted headcloth, a black robe, and her beads and cross were at her side. She was reading, with spectacles on, a small book which she held open in both hands, as he peeped in. With a slight start she rose. There was a little crucifix on the table, and a coloured print of the Madonna hung on the wall, on the nail from which a Watteau had been temporarily removed.

  “Has your patient been anointed yet?” said Monsieur Droqville, in his short nasal tones.

  “Not yet, reverend father,” she answered. They were both speaking French.

  “Has she been since nearly in articulo?”

  “At about eleven o’clock, reverend father, her soul seemed at her very lips.”

  “In this complaint so it will often be. Is Sister Cecilia upstairs?”

  “Yes, reverend father.”

  “Father Edwyn here?”

  “Yes, reverend father.”

  He withdrew his head, closed the door, and walked upstairs. He tapped gently at the door of the front bedroom.

  A French nun, in a habit precisely similar to that of the lady downstairs, stood noiselessly at the door. She was comparatively young, wore no spectacles, and had a kind and rather sad countenance. He whispered a word to her, heard her answer softly, and then he entered the room with a soundless step — it was thickly carpeted, and furnished luxuriously — and stood at the side of a huge four-post bed, with stately curtains of silk, within which a miserable shrunken old woman, with a face brown as clay, sunk and flaccid, and staring feebly with wide glassy eyes, with her back coiled into a curve, and laden with shawls, was set up, among pillows, breathing, or rather gasping, with difficulty.

  Here she was, bent, we may say, in the grip of two murderers, heart complaint and cancer. The irresistible chemistry of death had set in; the return of “earth to earth” was going on. Who could have recognised, in this breathing effigy of death, poor Lady Lorrimer? But disease now and then makes short work of such transformations.

  The good nurse here, like the other downstairs, had her little picture against the wall, and had been curtseying and crossing herself before it, in honest prayer for the dying old lady, to whom Monsieur Droqville whispered something, and then leaned his ear close to her lips. He felt her pulse, and said, “Madame has some time still to meditate and pray.”

  Again his ear was to her lips. “Doubt it not, madame. Every consolation.”

  She whispered something more; it lasted longer, and was more earnest this time. Her head was nodding on her shoulders, and her eyes were turned up to his dark energetic face, imploringly.

  “You can’t do that, madame — it is not yours — you have given it to God.”

  The woman turned her eyes on him with a piteous look.

  “No, madame,” he said, sharply; “it is too late to withhold a part. This, madame, is temptation — a weakness of earth; the promises are to her that overcometh.”

  Her only answer was an hysterical whimper and imperfect sobbing.

  “Be calm,” he resumed. “It is meritorious. Discharge your mind of it, and the memory of your sacrifice will be sweeter, and its promise more glorious the nearer you draw to your darkest hour on earth.”

  She had another word to say; her fingers were creeping on the coverlet to his hand.

  “No, madame, there won’t be any struggle
— you will faint, that is all, and waken, we trust among the blest. I’m sorry I can’t stay just now. But Father Edwyn is here, and Dr. Garnet.”

  Again she turned her wavering head towards him, and lifted her eyes, as if to speak.

  “No, no, you must not exert yourself — husband your strength — you’ll want it, madame.”

  It was plain, however, she would have one last word more, and a little sourly he stooped his ear again.

  “Pardon me, madame, I never said or supposed that after you signed it you were still at liberty to deal with any part; if you have courage to take it back, it is another matter. I won’t send you before the Judge Eternal with a sacrilege in your right hand.”

  He spoke quietly, but very sternly, raising his finger upward, with his eyes fixed upon her, while his dark face looked pale.

  She answered only with the same helpless whimper. He beckoned to the nun.

  “Let me see that book.”

  He looked through its pages.

  “Read aloud to madame the four first elevations; agony is near.”

  As he passed from the room, he beckoned the lady in the religious habit again, and whispered in her ear in the lobby:

  “Lock this door, and admit none but those you know.”

  He went down this time to the front drawingroom, and entered it suddenly. Mr. Carmel was seated there, with candles beside him, reading. Down went his book instantly, and he rose.

  “Our good friend upstairs won’t last beyond three or four hours — possibly five,” began Monsieur Droqville. “Garnet will be here in a few minutes; keep the doors bolted! people might come in and disturb the old lady. You need not mind now. I locked the hall-door as I came in. Why don’t you make more way with Miss Ware? Her mother is no obstacle — favourable rather. Her father is a mere pagan, and never at home; and the girl likes you.”

  Mr. Carmel stared.

  “Yes, you are blind; but I have my eyes. Why don’t you read your Montaigne? ‘Les agaceries des femmes sont des declarations d’amour.’ You interest her, and yet you profit nothing by your advantage. There she is, romantic, passionate, Quixotic, and makes, without knowing it, a hero of you. You are not what I thought you.”

  Mr. Carmel’s colour flushed to his very temples; he looked pained and agitated; his eyes were lowered before his superior.

  “Why need you look like a fool? Understand me,” continued Monsieur Droqville, in his grim, harsh nasals. “The weaknesses of human nature are Heaven’s opportunities. The godly man knows how to use them with purity. She is not conscious of the position she gives you; but you should understand its powers. You can illuminate, elevate, save her.”

  He paused for a moment; Mr. Carmel stood before him with his eyes lowered.

  “What account am I to give of you?” he resumed. “Remember, you have no business to be afraid. You must use all influences to save a soul, and serve the Church. A good soldier fights with every weapon he has — sword, pistol, bayonet, fist — in the cause of his king. What shall I say of you? A loyal soldier, but wanting head, wanting action, wanting presence of mind. A theorist, a scholar, a deliberator. But not a man for the field; no coup d’oeil, no promptitude, no perception of a great law, where it is opposed by a small quibble, no power of deciding between a trifle and an enormity, between seeing your king robbed or breaking the thief’s fingers. Why, can’t you see that the power that commands is also the power that absolves? I thought you had tact — I thought you had insinuation. Have I been mistaken? If so, we must cut out other work for you. Have you anything to say?”

  He paused only for a second, and in that second Mr. Carmel raised his head to speak; but with a slight downward motion of his hand, and a frown, Droqville silenced him, and proceeded:

  “True, I told you not to precipitate matters. But you need not let the fire go out, because I told you not to set the chimney in a blaze. There is Mrs. Ware; her most useful position is where she is, in equilibrio. She can serve no one by declaring herself a Catholic; the eclat of such a thing would spoil the other mission, that must be conducted with judgment and patience. The old man I told you of is a Puritan, and must see or suspect nothing. While he lives there can be no avowal. But up to that point all must now proceed. Ha! there goes a carriage — that’s the third I have heard — Lady Mardykes’s party breaking up. The Wares don’t return this way. I’ll see you again tomorrow. Tonight you accomplish your duty here. The old woman upstairs will scarcely last till dawn.”

  He nodded and left the room as suddenly as he had entered it.

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  A LAST LOOK.

  At about eleven o’clock next morning, mamma came to my bedside, having thrown her dressing-gown on, and holding a note in her hand. I was awakened by her calling me by my name; and the extraordinary exertion of getting out of her bed at such an hour, the morning after a ball, even if there had not been consternation in her looks, would have satisfied me that something unusual had happened. I sat up staring at her.

  “Oh, dear Ethel, here’s a note from Doctor Droqville; I’m so shocked — poor, dear Aunt Lorrimer is dead.” And mamma burst into tears, and, sobbing, told me to read the note, which, so soon as I had a little collected myself, I did. It said:

  “Dear Mrs. Ware, — I could not, of course, last night tell you the sad news about Lady Lorrimer. She arrived, it seems, on Tuesday last, to die in England. On leaving Lady Mardykes’s last night, I went to her house to make inquiries; she was good enough to wish to see me. I found her in a most alarming state, and quite conscious of her danger. She was sinking rapidly. I was, therefore, by no means surprised, on calling about half an hour ago, to learn that she was no more. I lose no time in communicating the sad intelligence. It will be consolatory to you to learn that the nurses, who were present during her last moments, tell me that she died without any pain or struggle. I shall call to morrow, as near twelve as I can, to learn whether there is anything in which you think my poor services can be made available. — I remain, dear Mrs. Ware, Ever yours sincerely,

  P. Droqville.”

  I was very sorry. I even shed some tears, a thing oftener written about than done.

  Mamma cried for a long time. She had now no near kinswoman left. When we are “pretty well on,” and the thinned ranks of one generation only stand between us and death, the disappearance of the old over the verge is a serious matter. Between mamma and Lady Lorrimer, too, there were early recollections and sympathies in common, and the chasm was not so wide.

  But for the young, and I was then young, the old seem at best a sort of benevolent ghosts, whose presence, more or less, chills and awes, and whose home is not properly with the younger generation. Their memories are busy with a phantom world that passed away before we were born. They are puckered masks and glassy eyes, peeping from behind the door of the sepulchre that stands ajar, closing little by little to shut them in for ever. I am now but little past forty, yet I feel this isolation stealing upon me. I acquiesce in the law of nature, though it seems a cynical one. I know I am no longer of the young; I grow shy of them; there is a real separation between us.

  The world is for the young — it belongs to them, and time makes us ugly, and despised, and solitary, and prepares for our unregretted removal, for nature has ordained that death shall trouble the pleasure and economy of the vigorous, high-spirited world as little as may be.

  Mamma was more grieved, a great deal, than I at all expected. I am writing now in solitude, and from my interior convictions, under a sort of obligation to tell, not only nothing but the truth, but the whole truth also; and I confess that mamma was selfish, and, in a degree, exacting. The education of her whole married life had tended to form those habits; but she was also affectionate, and her grief was vehement, and did not subside, as I thought it would, after its first outburst. The only practical result of her grief was a determination to visit the house, and see the remains of the poor lady.

  I never could understand the comfort that some people s
eem to derive from contemplating such a spectacle! To me the sight is simply shocking. Mamma made it a point, however, that I should accompany her. She could not make up her mind to go that day. The next day Doctor Droqville called. Mamma saw him. After they had talked for a little, mamma declared her intention of seeing poor Lady Lorrimer as she lay in her bed.

  “Allow me to advise you, as a physician, to do no such thing,” said Droqville. “You’ll inflict a great deal of pain on yourself, and do nobody any good.”

  “But unless I see her once more I shall be miserable,” pleaded mamma.

  “You have not nerve for such scenes,” he replied; “you’d not be yourself again for a month after.”

  I joined my entreaties to Doctor Droqville’s representations, and I thought we had finally prevailed over mamma’s facile will.

  He gave us a brief account of Lady Lorrimer’s illness and last moments, and then talked on other subjects; finally he said, “You told me you wished me to return a bracelet that does not answer, to St. Aumand, when I pass again through Paris. I find I shall be there in a few days — can you let me have it now?”

  Mamma’s maid was out, so she went to get it herself, and, while she was away, Doctor Droqville said to me, with rather a stern look:

  “Don’t you allow her to go; your mamma has a form of the same affection of the heart. We can’t tell her that; but quiet nerves are essential to her. She touches the spring of the mischief, and puts it in action at any moment by agitating herself.”

  “I think she has given up that intention,” I answered; “but for Heaven’s sake, Doctor Droqville, tell me, is mamma in any danger?”

  “No, if she will only keep quiet. She may live for many years to come; but every woman, of course, who has a weakness of the kind, may kill herself easily and quickly; but — I hear her — don’t allow her to go.”