“Come, Carmel, don’t be unreasonable; you know very well I can be of use to you.”
“You can be of none,” answered Carmel, a little startled; “and if you could, I would not have you. Leave my room, sir.”
“You can exorcise some evil spirits, but not me, till I’ve said my say,” answered Marston, with a smile that looked grim and cynical in the moonlight. “I say I can be of use to you.”
“It’s enough; I won’t have it; go,” said Carmel, with a sterner emphasis.
Marston smiled again, and looked at him.
“Well, I can be of use,” he said, “and I don’t want particularly to be of use to you; but you can do me a kindness, and it is better to do it quietly than upon compulsion. Will you be of use to me? I’ll show you how?”
“God forbid!” said Carmel, quickly. “It is nothing good, I’m sure.”
Marston looked at him with an evil eye; it was a sneer of intense anger.
After some seconds he said, his eyes still fixed askance on Mr. Carmel:
“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive, et cæa — eh? I suppose you sometimes pray your paternoster? A pretty time you have kept up that old grudge against me — haven’t you — about Ginevra?”
He kept his eyes on Carmel, as if he enjoyed the spectacle of the torture he applied, and liked to see the wince and quiver that accompanied its first thrill.
At the word, Edwyn Carmel’s eyes started up from the floor, to which they had been lowered, with a flash to the face of his visitor. His forehead flushed; he remained speechless for some seconds. Marston did not smile; his features were fixed, but there was a secret, cruel smile in his eyes as he watched these evidences of agitation.
“Well, I should not have said the name; I should not have alluded to it; I did wrong,” he said, after some seconds; “but I was going, before you riled me, to say how really I blame myself, now, for all that deplorable business. I do, upon my soul! What more can a fellow say, when reparation is impossible, than that he is sorry? Is not repentance all that a man like me can offer? I saw you were thinking of it; you vexed me; I was angry, and I could not help saying what I did. Now do let that miserable subject drop; and hear me, on quite another, without excitement. It is not asking a great deal.”
Carmel placed his hand to his head, as if he had not heard what he said, and then groaned.
“Why don’t you leave me?” he said, piteously, turning again towards Marston; “don’t you see that nothing but pain and reproach can result from your staying here?”
“Let me first say a word,” said Marston; “you can assist me in a very harmless and perfectly unobjectionable matter. Every fellow who wants to turn over a new leaf marries. The lady is poor — there is that proof, at least, that it is not sordid; you know her, you can influence her — — “
“Perhaps I do know her; perhaps I know who she is — I may as well say, at once, I do. I have no influence; and if I had, I would not use it for you. I think I know your reasons, also; I think I can see them.”
“Well, suppose there are reasons, it’s not the worse for that,” said Marston, growing again angry. “I thought I would just come and try whether you chose to be on friendly terms. I’m willing; but if you won’t, I can’t help you. I’ll make use of you all the same. You had better think again. I’m pleasanter as a friend than an enemy.”
“I don’t fear you as an enemy, and I do fear you as a friend. I will aid you in nothing; I have long made up my mind,” answered Carmel, savagely.
“I think, through Monsieur Droqville, I’ll manage that. Oh, yes, you will give me a lift.”
“Why should Monsieur Droqville control my conduct?” asked Mr. Carmel sharply.
“It was he who made you a Catholic; and I suspect he has a fast hold on your conscience and obedience. If he chooses to promote the matter, I rather think you must.”
“You may think as you please,” said Carmel.
“That’s a great deal from your Church,” sneered Marston; and, changing his tone again, he said: “Look here, Carmel, once more; where’s the good in our quarrelling? I won’t press that other point, if you don’t like; but you must do this, the most trifling thing in the world — you must tell me where Mrs. Ware lives. No one knows since old Ware made a fool of himself, poor devil! But I think you’ll allow that, with my feelings, I may, at least, speak to the young lady’s mother? Do tell me where they are. You know, of course?”
“If I did know, I should not tell you; so it does not matter,” answered Carmel.
Marston looked very angry, and a little silence followed.
“I suppose you have now said everything,” resumed Carmel; “and again I desire that you will leave me.”
“I mean to do so,” said Marston, putting on his hat with a kind of emphasis, “though it’s hard to leave such romantic, light, and brilliant company. You might have had peace, and you prefer war. I think there are things you have at heart that I could forward, if all went right with me.” He paused, but Carmel made no sign. “Well, you take your own way now, not mine; and, by-and-by, I think you’ll have reason to regret it.”
Marston left the room, with no other farewell. The clap with which he shut the door, as he went, had hardly ceased to ring round the walls, when Carmel saw him emerge in the court below, and walk away with a careless air, humming a tune in the moonlight.
Why is it that there are men upon earth whose secret thoughts are always such as to justify fear; and nearly all whose plans, if not through malice, from some other secret obliquity, involve evil to others? We have most of us known something of some such man; a man whom we are disposed to watch in silence; who, smile as he may, brings with him a sense of insecurity, and whose departure is a real relief. Such a man seems to me a stranger on earth; his confidences to be with unseen companions; his mental enjoyments not human; and his mission here cruel and mysterious. I look back with wonder and with thankfulness. Fearful is the strait of any one who, in the presence of such an influence, under such a fascination, loses the sense of danger.
CHAPTER XLVI.
AFTER OFFICE HOURS.
Next day our doctor called. He was very kind. He had made mamma many visits, and attended me through my tedious fever, and would never take a fee after the first one. I daresay that other great London physicians, whom the world reputes worldly, often do similar charities by stealth. My own experience is that affliction like ours does not lower the sufferer’s estimate of human nature. It is a great discriminator of character, and sifts men like wheat. Those among our friends who are all chaff it blows away altogether; those who have noble attributes, it leaves all noble. There is no more petulance, no more hurry or carelessness; we meet, in after-contact with them, be it much or little, only the finer attributes, gentleness, tenderness, respect, patience.
I do not remember one of those who had known us in better days, among the very few who now knew where to find us, who did not show us even more kindness than they could have had opportunity of showing if we had been in our former position. Who could be kinder than Mr. Forrester? Who more thoughtful than Mr. Carmel, to whom at length we had traced the flowers, and the books, and the piano, that were such a resource to me; and who had, during my illness, come every day to see mamma?
In his necessarily brief visits, Sir Jacob Lake was energetic and cheery; there was in his manner that which inspired confidence; but I fancied this day, as he was taking his leave of mamma, that I observed something like a shadow on his face, a transitory melancholy, that alarmed me. I accompanied him downstairs, and he stopped for a moment in the lobby outside the drawingroom.
“Has there been anything done since about that place — Malory, I think you call it?” he asked.
“No,” I answered; “there is not the least chance. Sir Harry Rokestone is going to sell it, Mr. Jarlcot says; just through hatred of us, he thinks. He’s an old enemy of ours; he says he hates our very name; and he won’t write; he hasn’t answered a single letter of Mr. Forrester�
�s.”
“I was only going to say that it wouldn’t do; she could not bear so long a journey just now. I think she had better make no effort; she must not leave this at present.”
“I’m afraid you think her very ill,” I said, feeling myself grow pale.
“She is ill; and she will never be much better; but she may be spared to you for a long time yet. This kind of thing, however, is always uncertain; and it may end earlier than we think — I don’t say it is likely, only possible. You must send for me whenever you want me; and I’ll look in now and then, and see that all goes on satisfactorily.”
I began to thank him earnestly, but he stopped me very goodnaturedly. He could spare me little more than a minute; I walked with him to the hall-door, and although he said but little, and that little very cautiously, he left me convinced that I might lose my darling mother any day or hour. He had implied this very vaguely, but I was sure of it. People who have suffered great blows like mine, regard the future as an adversary, and believe its threatenings.
In flurry and terror I returned to the drawingroom, and shut the door; then, with the instinct that prevails, I went to mamma’s room and sat down beside her.
I suppose every one has felt as I have felt. How magically the society of the patient, if not actually suffering, reassures us! The mere contiguity, the voice, the interest she takes in the common topics of our daily life, the cheerful and easy tone, even the little peevishness about the details of the sick-room, soon throw death again into perspective, and the instinct of life prevails against all facts and logic.
The form of heart-complaint from which my mother suffered had in it nothing revolting. I think I never remember her so pretty. The tint of her lips, and the colour of her cheeks, always lovely, were now more delicately brilliant than ever; and the lustre of her eyes, thus enhanced, was quite beautiful. The white tints a little paler, and her face and figure slightly thinner, but not unbecomingly, brought back a picture so girlish that I wondered while I looked; and when I went away the pretty face haunted me as the saddest and gentlest I had ever seen.
So many people have said that the approach of death induces a change of character, that I almost accept it for a general law of nature. I saw it, I know, in mamma. Not exactly an actual change, perhaps, but, rather, a subsidence of whatever was less lovely in her nature, and a proportionate predominance of all its sweetness and gentleness. There came also a serenity very different from the state of mind in which she had been from papa’s death up to the time of my illness. I do not know whether she was conscious of her imminent danger. If she suspected it, she certainly did not speak of it to me or to Rebecca Torkill. But death is a subject on which some people, I believe, practise as many reserves as others do in love.
Next day mamma was much better, and sat in our drawingroom, and I read and talked to her, and amused her with my music. She sat in slippers and dressing-gown in an easy-chair, and we talked over a hundred plans which seemed to interest her. The effort to cheer mamma did me good, and I think we were both happier that day than we had been since ruin had so tragically overtaken us.
While we were thus employed at home, events connected with us and our history were not standing still in other places.
Mr. Forrester’s business was very large; he had the assistance of two partners; but all three were hard worked. The offices of the firm occupied two houses in one of the streets which run down from the Strand to the river, at no great distance from Temple Bar. I saw these offices but once in my life; I suppose there was little to distinguish them and their arrangements from those of other well-frequented chambers; but I remember being struck with their air of business and regularity, and by the complicated topography of two houses fused into one.
Mr. Forrester, in his private office, had locked up his desk. He was thinking of taking his leave of business for the day. It was now past four, and he had looked into the office where the collective firm did their business, and where his colleagues were giving audience to a deputation about a complicated winding-up. This momentary delay cost him more time than he intended, for a clerk came in and whispered in his ear:
“A gentleman wants to see you, sir.”
“Why, hang it! I’ve left the office,” said Mr. Forrester, tartly— “don’t you see? Here’s my hat in my hand! Go and look for me in my office, and you’ll see I’m not there.”
Very deferentially, notwithstanding this explosion, the messenger added:
“I thought, sir, before sending him away, you might like to see him; he seemed to think he was doing us a favour in looking in, and he has been hearing from you, and would not take the trouble to write; and he won’t call again.”
“What’s his name?” asked Mr. Forrester, vacillating a little.
“Sir Harry Rokestone,” he said.
“Sir Harry Rokestone? Oh! Well, I suppose I must see him. Yes, I’ll see him; bring him up to my private room.”
Mr. Forrester had hardly got back, laid aside his hat and umbrella, and placed himself in his chair of state behind his desk, when his aide-de-camp returned and introduced “Sir Harry Rokestone.”
Mr. Forrester rose, and received him with a bow. He saw a tall man, with something grand and simple in his gait and erect bearing, with a brown handsome face, and a lofty forehead, noble and stern as if it had caught something of the gloomy character of the mountain scenery among which his home was. He was dressed in the rustic and careless garb of an oldfashioned country gentleman, with gaiters up to his knees, as if he were going to stride out upon the heather with his gun on his shoulder and his dogs at his heel.
Mr. Forrester placed a chair for this gentleman, who, with hardly a nod, and without a word, sat down. The door closed, and they were alone.
CHAPTER XLVII.
SIR HARRY SPEAKS.
“You’re Mr. Forrester?” said Sir Harry, in a deep, clear voice, quite in character with his appearance, and with a stern eye fixed on the solicitor.
That gentleman made a slight inclination of assent.
“I got all your letters, sir — every one,” said the rustic baronet.
Mr. Forrester bowed.
“I did not answer one of them.”
Mr. Forrester bowed again.
“Did it strike you, as a man of business, sir, that it was rather an odd omission your not mentioning where the ladies representing the late Mr. Ware’s interests — if he had any remaining, which I don’t believe — are residing?”
“I had actually written — — “ answered Mr. Forrester, turning the key in his desk, and slipping his hand under the cover, and making a momentary search. He had hesitated on the question of sending the letter or not; but, having considered whether there could be any possible risk in letting him know, and having come to the conclusion that there was none, he now handed this letter, a little obsolete as it was, to Sir Harry Rokestone.
“What’s this?” said Sir Harry, breaking the seal and looking at the contents of the note, and thrusting it, thinking as it seemed all the time of something different, into his coatpocket.
“The present address of Mrs. and Miss Ware, which I understood you just now to express a wish for,” answered Mr. Forrester.
“Express a wish, sir, for their address!” exclaimed Sir Harry, with a scoff. “Dall me if I did, though! What the deaul, man, should I want o’ their address, as ye call it? They may live where they like for me. And so Ware’s dead — died a worse death than the hangman’s; and died not worth a plack, as I always knew he would. And what made you write all those foolish letters to me? Why did you go on plaguing me, when you saw I never gave you an answer to one of them? You that should be a man of head, how could ye be such a mafflin?” His northern accent became broader as he became more excited.
The audacity and singularity of this old man disconcerted Mr. Forrester. He did not afterwards understand why he had not turned him out of his room.
“I think, Sir Harry, you will find my reasons for writing very distinctly stated in
my letters, if you are good enough to look into them.”
“Ay, so I did; and I don’t understand them, nor you neither.”
It was not clear whether he intended that the reasons or the attorney were beyond his comprehension. Mr. Forrester selected the first interpretation, and, I daresay, rightly, as being the least offensive.
“Pardon me, Sir Harry Rokestone,” said he, with a little dry dignity; “I have not leisure to throw away upon writing nonsense; I am one of those men who are weak enough to believe that there are rights besides those defined by statute or common law, and duties, consequently, you’ll excuse me for saying, even more obligatory — Christian duties, which, in this particular case, plainly devolve upon you.”
“Christian flam! Humbug! and you an attorney!”
“I’m not accustomed, sir, to be talked to in that way,” said Mr. Forrester, who felt that his visitor was becoming insupportable.
“Of course you’re not; living in this town you never hear a word of honest truth,” said Sir Harry; “but I’m not so much in the dark; I understand you pretty well, now; and I think you a precious impudent fellow.”
Both gentlemen had risen by this time, and Mr. Forrester, with a flush in his cheeks, replied, raising his head as he stooped over his desk while turning the key in the lock:
“And I beg to say, sir, that I, also, have formed my own very distinct opinion of you!”
Mr. Forrester flushed more decidedly, for he felt, a little too late, that he had perhaps made a rather rash speech, considering that his visitor seemed to have so little control over his temper, and also that he was gigantic.
The herculean baronet, however, who could have lifted him up by the collar, and flung him out of the window, only smiled sardonically, and said:
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 644