Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Then, without any tragic pause, he turned to other things lightly, and never looked towards me to discover what effect his words were producing; but he talked on, and now very pleasantly. We loitered a little at the hall-door. I did not want him to come into the drawingroom, and establish himself there. Here were the open door, the hall, the courtyard, the windows, all manner of possibilities for listeners, and I felt I was protected from any embarrassment that an impetuous companion might please to inflict if favoured by a tête-à-tête.

  “I must, however, do him justice: he seemed very anxious not to offend — very careful so to mask any disclosure of his feelings as to leave me quite free to ‘ignore’ it, and, as it seemed to me, on the watch to catch any evidence of my impatience.

  “He is certainly very agreeable and odd; and the time passed very pleasantly while we loitered in the courtyard.

  “Mr. Blount soon came up, and after a word or two I left them, and ran up to my room.”

  CHAPTER LV.

  MR. CARMEL TAKES HIS LEAVE.

  About this time there was a sort of fête at Golden Friars. Three very pretty fountains were built by Sir Richard Mardykes and Sir Harry, at the upper end of the town, in which they both have property; and the opening of these was a sort of gala.

  I did not care to go. Sir Harry Rokestone and Mr. Blount, were, of course, there; Mr. Marston went, instead, to his farm, at the other side; and I took a whim to go out on the lake, in a row-boat, in the direction of Golden Friars. My boatmen rowed me near enough to hear the music, which was very pretty; but we remained sufficiently far out, to prevent becoming mixed up with the other boats which lay near the shore.

  It was a pleasant, clear day, with no wind stirring, and although we were now fairly in winter, the air was not too sharp, and with just a rug about one’s feet, the weather was very pleasant. My journal speaks of this evening as follows:

  “It was, I think, near four o’clock, when I told the men to row towards Dorracleugh. Before we reached it, the filmy haze of a winter’s evening began to steal over the landscape, and a red sunset streamed through the break in the fells above the town with so lovely an effect that I told the men to slacken their speed. So we moved, with only a dip of the oar, now and then; and I looked up the mere, enjoying the magical effect.

  “A boat had been coming, a little in our wake, along the shore. I had observed it, but without the slightest curiosity; not even with a conjecture that Sir Harry and Mr. Blount might be returning in it, for I knew that it was arranged that they were to come back together in the carriage.

  “Voices from this boat caught my ear; and one suddenly that startled me, just as it neared us. It glided up. I fancy about thirty yards were between the sides of the two boats; and the men, like those in my boat, had been ordered merely to dip their oars, and were now moving abreast of ours; the drips from their oars sparkled like drops of molten metal. What I heard — the only thing I now heard — was the harsh nasal voice of Monsieur Droqville.

  “There he was, in his black dress, standing in the stern of the boat, looking round on the landscape, from point to point. The light, as he looked this way and that, touched his energetic bronzed features, the folds of his dress, and the wet planks of the boat, with a fire that contrasted with the grey shadows behind and about.

  “I heard him say, pointing with his outstretched arm, ‘And is that Dorracleugh?’ To which, one of the people in the boat made him an answer.

  “I can’t think of that question without terror. What has brought that man down here? What interest can he have in seeking out Dorracleugh, except that it happens to be my present place of abode?

  “I am sure he did not see me. When he looked in my direction, the sun was in his eyes, and my face in shadow; I don’t think he can have seen me. But that matters nothing if he has come down for any purpose connected with me.”

  A sure instinct told me that Monsieur Droqville would be directed inflexibly by the interests of his order, to consult which, at all times, unawed by consequences to himself or others, was his stern and narrow duty.

  Here, in this beautiful and sequestered corner of the world, how far, after all, I had been from quiet. Well might I cry with Campbell’s exile —

  “Ah! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me

  In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me?”

  My terrors hung upon a secret I dared not disclose. There was no one to help me; for I could consult no one.

  The next day I was really ill. I remained in my room. I thought Monsieur Droqville would come to claim an interview; and perhaps would seek, by the power he possessed, to force me to become an instrument in forwarding some of his plans, affecting either the faith or the property of others. I was in an agony of suspense and fear.

  Days passed; a week; and no sign of Monsieur Droqville. I began to breathe. He was not a man, I knew, to waste weeks, or even days, in search of the picturesque, in a semi-barbarous region like Golden Friars.

  At length I summoned courage to speak to Rebecca Torkill. I told her I had seen Monsieur Droqville, and that I wanted her, without telling the servants at Dorracleugh, to make inquiry at the “George and Dragon,” whether a person answering that description had been there. No such person was there. So I might assume he was gone. He had come with Sir Richard Mardykes, I conjectured, from Carsbrook, where he often was. But such a man was not likely to make even a pleasure excursion without an eye to business. He had, I supposed, made inquiries; possibly, he had set a watch upon me. Under the eye of such a master of strategy as Monsieur Droqville I could not feel quite at ease.

  Nevertheless, in a little time, such serenity as I had enjoyed at Dorracleugh gradually returned; and I enjoyed a routine life, the dulness of which would have been in another state of my spirits insupportable, with very real pleasure.

  We were now deep in winter, and in its snowy shroud how beautiful the landscape looked! Cold, but stimulating and pleasant was the clear, dry air; and our frost-bound world sparkled in the wintry sun.

  Old Sir Harry Rokestone, a keen sportsman, proof as granite against cold, was out by moonlight on the grey down with his oldfashioned duck-guns, and, when the lake was not frozen over, with two hardy men manoeuvring his boat for him. Town-bred, Mr. Blount contented himself with his brisk walk, stick in hand, and a couple of the dogs for companions to the town; and Mr. Marston was away upon some mission, on which his uncle had sent him, Mr. Blount said, to try whether he was “capable of business and steady.”

  One night, at this time, as I sat alone in the drawingroom, I was a little surprised to see old Rebecca Torkill come in with her bonnet and cloak on, looking mysterious and important. Shutting the door, she peeped cautiously round.

  “What do you think, miss? Wait — listen,” she all but whispered, with her hand raised as she trotted up to my side. “Who do you think I saw, not three minutes ago, at the lime-trees, near the lake?”

  I was staring in her face, filled with shapeless alarms.

  “I was coming home from Farmer Shenstone’s, where I went with some tea for that poor little boy that’s ailing, and just as I got over the stile, who should I see, as plain as I see you now, but Mr. Carmel, just that minute got out of his boat, and making as if he was going to walk up to the house. He knew me the minute he saw me — it is a very bright moon — and he asked me how I was; and then how you were, most particular; and he said he was only for a few hours in Golden Friars, and took a boat on the chance of seeing you for a minute, but that he did not know whether you would like it, and he begged of me to find out and bring him word. If you do, he’s waiting down there, Miss Ethel, and what shall I say?”

  “Come with me,” I said, getting up quickly; and, putting on in a moment my sealskin jacket and my hat, without another thought or word, much to Rebecca’s amazement, I sallied out into the still night air. Turning the corner of the old building, at the end of the courtyard, I found myself treading with rapid steps the crisp grass, under a dazzling m
oon, and before me the view of the distant fells, throwing their snowy speaks high into the air, with the solemn darkness of the lake, and its silvery gleams below, and the shadowy gorge and great lime-trees in the foreground. Down the gentle slope I walked swiftly, leaving Rebecca Torkill a long way behind.

  I was now under the towering lime-trees. I paused: with a throbbing heart I held my breath. I heard hollow steps coming up on the other side of the file of gigantic stems. I passed between, and saw Mr. Carmel walking slowly towards me. In a moment he was close to me, and took my hand in his old kindly way.

  “This is very kind; how can I thank you, Miss Ware? I had hardly hoped to be allowed to call at the house; I am going a long journey, and have not been quite so well as I used to be, and I thought that if I lost this opportunity, in this uncertain world, I might never see my pupil again. I could hardly bear that, without just saying goodbye.”

  “And you are going?” I said, wringing his hand.

  “Yes, indeed; the ocean will be between us soon, and half the world, and I am not to return.”

  All his kindness rose up before me — his thoughtful goodness, his fidelity — and I felt for a moment on the point of crying.

  He was muffled in furs, and was looking thin and ill, and in the light of the moon the lines of his handsome face were marked as if carved in ivory.

  “You and your old tutor have had a great many quarrels, and always made it up again; and now at last we part, I am sure, good friends.”

  “You are going, and you’re ill,” was all I could say; but I was conscious there was something of that wild tone that real sorrow gives in my voice.

  “How often I have thought of you, Miss Ethel — how often I shall think of you, be my days many or few. How often!”

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Carmel — so awfully sorry!” I repeated. I had not unclasped my hand; I was looking in his thin, pale, smiling face with the saddest augury.

  “I want you to remember me; it is folly, I know, but it is a harmless folly; all human nature shares in it, and” — there was a little tremble, and a momentary interruption— “and your old tutor, the sage who lectured you so wisely, is, after all, no less a fool than the rest. Will you keep this little cross? It belonged to my mother, and is, by permission of my superiors, my own, so you may accept it with a clear conscience.” He smiled. “If you wear it, or even let it lie on your table, it will sometimes” — the same momentary interruption occurred again— “it may perhaps remind you of one who took a deep interest in you.”

  It was a beautiful little gold cross, with five brilliants in it.

  “And oh, Ethel! let me look at you once again.”

  He led me — it was only a step or two — out of the shadow of the tree into the bright moonlight, and, still holding my hand, looked at me intently for a little time with a smile, to me, the saddest that ever mortal face wore.

  “And now, here she stands, my wayward, generous, clever Ethel! How proud I was of my pupil! The heart knoweth its own bitterness,” he said gently. “And oh! in the day when our Redeemer makes up his jewels, may you be precious among them! I have seen you; farewell!”

  Suddenly he raised my hand, and kissed it gently, twice. Then he turned, and walked rapidly down to the water’s edge, and stepped into the boat. The men dipped their oars, and the water rose like diamonds from the touch. I saw his dark figure standing, with arm extended, for a moment, in the stern, in his black cloak, pointing towards Golden Friars. The boat was now three lengths away; twenty — fifty; out on the bosom of the stirless water. The tears that I had restrained burst forth, and sobbing as if my heart would break I ran down to the margin of the lake, and stood upon the broad, flat stone, and waved my hand wildly and unseen towards my friend, whom I knew I was never to see again.

  I stood there watching, till the shape of the boat and the sound of the oars were quite lost in the grey distance.

  CHAPTER LVI.

  “LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME.”

  Weeks glided by, and still the same clear, bright frost, and low, cold, cheerful suns. The dogs so wild with spirits, the distant sounds travelling so sharp to the ear — ruddy sunsets — early darkness — and the roaring fires at home.

  Sir Harry Rokestone’s voice, clear and kindly, often heard through the house, calls me from the hall; he wants to know whether “little Ethel” will come out for a ride; or, if she would like a drive with him into the town to see the skaters, for in the shallower parts the mere is frozen.

  One day I came into Sir Harry’s room, on some errand, I forget what. Mr. Blount was standing, leaning on the mantelpiece, and Sir Harry was withdrawing a large key from the door of an iron safe, which seemed to be built into the wall. Each paused in the attitude in which I had found him, with his eyes fixed on me, in silence. I saw that I was in their way, and said, a little flurried:

  “I’ll come again; it was nothing of any consequence,” and I was drawing back, when Sir Harry said, beckoning to me with his finger:

  “Stay, little Ethel — stay a minute — I see no reason, Blount, why we should not tell the lassie.”

  Mr. Blount nodded acquiescence.

  “Come here, my bonny Ethel,” said Sir Harry, and turning the key again in the lock, he pulled the door open. “Look in; ye see that shelf? Well, mind that’s where I’ll leave auld Harry Rokestone’s will — ye’ll remember where it lies?”

  Then he drew me very kindly to him, smoothed my hair gently with his hand, and said:

  “God bless you, my bonny lass!” and kissed me on the forehead.

  Then locking the door again, he said:

  “Ye’ll mind, it’s this iron box, that’s next the picture. That’s all, lassie.”

  And thus dismissed, I took my departure.

  In this retreat, time was stealing on with silent steps. Christmas was past. Mr. Marston had returned; he lived, at this season, more at our side of the lake, and the house was more cheerful.

  Can I describe Mr. Marston with fidelity? Can I rely even upon my own recollection of him? What had I become? A dreamer of dreams — a dupe of magic. Everything had grown strangely interesting — the lonely place was lonely no more — the old castle of Dorracleugh was radiant with unearthly light. Unconsciously, I had become the captive of a magician. I had passed under a sweet and subtle mania, and was no longer myself. Little by little, hour by hour, it grew, until I was transformed. Well, behold me now, wildly in love with Richard Marston.

  Looking back now on that period of my history, I see plainly enough that it was my inevitable fate. So much together, and surrounded by a solitude, we were the only young people in the little group which formed our society. Handsome and fascinating — wayward, and even wicked he might have been, but that I might hope was past — he was energetic, clever, passionate; and of his admiration he never allowed me to be doubtful.

  My infatuation had been stealing upon me, but it was not until we had reached the month of May that it culminated in a scene that returns again and again in my solitary reveries, and always with the same tumult of sweet and bitter feelings.

  One day before that explanation took place, my diary, from which I have often quoted, says thus:

  “May 9th. — There was no letter, I am sure, by the early post from Mr. Marston; Sir Harry or Mr. Blount would have been sure to talk of it at breakfast. It is treating his uncle, I think, a little cavalierly.

  “Sailed across the lake to-day, alone, to Clusted, and walked about a quarter of a mile up the forest road. How beautiful everything is looking, but how melancholy! When last I saw this haunted wood, Sir Harry Rokestone and Mr. Marston were with me.

  “It seems odd that Mr. Marston stays away so long, and hard to believe that if he tried he might not have returned sooner. He went on the 28th of April, and Mr. Blount thought he would be back again in a week: that would have been on the 5th of this month. I dare say he is glad to get away for a little time — I cannot blame him; I dare say he finds it often very dull, say what he wil
l. I wonder what he meant, the other day, when he said he was ‘born to be liked least where he loved most’? He seems very melancholy. I wonder whether there has been some old love and parting? Why, unless he liked some one else, should he have quarrelled with Sir Harry, rather than marry as he wished him? Sir Harry would not have chosen any one for him who was not young and good-looking. I heard him say something one morning that showed his opinion upon that point; and young men, who don’t like any one in particular, are easily persuaded to marry. Well, perhaps his constancy will be rewarded; it is not likely that the young lady should have given him up.

  “May 10th. — How shall I begin? What have I done? Heaven forgive me if I have done wrong! Oh! kind, true friend, Sir Harry, how have I requited you? It is too late now — the past is past. And yet, in spite of this, how happy I am!

  “Let me collect my thoughts, and write down as briefly as I can an outline of the events of this happy, agitating day. No lovelier May day was ever seen. I was enjoying a lonely saunter, about one o’clock, under the boughs of Lynder Wood, here and there catching the gleam of the waters through the trees, and listening from time to time to the call of the cuckoo from the hollows of the forest. In that lonely region there is no more lonely path than this.

  “On a sudden, I heard a step approaching fast from behind me on the path, and, looking back, I saw Mr. Marston coming on, with a very glad smile, to overtake me. I stopped; I felt myself blushing. He was speaking as he approached: I was confused, and do not recollect what he said; but hardly a moment passed till he was at my side. He was smiling, but very pale. I suppose he had made up his mind to speak. He did not immediately talk of the point on which hung so much; he spoke of other things — I can recollect nothing of them.