“You don’t object, Sir John, to my making this a little more-more— “and he bolted the door. “I usually do. I don’t care to be surprised in my — ha! ha! hai-déshabille by the waiters and people of the house.
“You’re very good, sir — very kind. I shan’t detain you long. I — this thing reached me, Mr. Burton, and I don’t mind it — not much — but I thought I might as well show it to you.”
And he handed him the letter from “Felix Friendly,” and Mr. Burton took it, and using his spectacles like an eyeglass, applied a lens to his extant eye, and read the paper through, his lips pursing and working as he did so, and Sir John watching these indications from the seat of vision. The living eye was turned away from him, and nothing but the sunken crater to speculate upon.
When he had finished the letter, lowering the hand which held it to the table with a little emphasis, and directing a vivid glance which showed a good deal of the white eyeball across the bridge of his nose, upon Sir John, he said, a little sternly —
“And who the — who on earth can this person be, who takes the liberty of mixing my name up in a local affair of this nature? But no, I shan’t allow myself to be ruffled by it. Naturally a hot-tempered man, Sir John, I am thankful that I have learned to watch over and to resist my impulses.”
He returned the letter with a slight bow. Sir John took it, but did not put it up.
“But, Mr. Burton, you know, sir-don’t you see? I can’t let it rest so. I came here, sir, in consequence of it. I came to ask, is it so? I want to know, Mr. Burton, whether the letter says fact or no?”
Sir John was excited, red, and a little confused; but still his one idea filled his head with great stolidity.
“Sir John, you are a man of the world, too sensitive of ridicule, and if you will, contempt. Why not imitate me? My personal infirmities, wherever discovered, have been laughed at. It has troubled me little, my thoughts are elsewhere. Your view is directed too much upon the level of earth. Why not, Sir John, look a little more on and up-on and up?”
“But, a-aw, that’s all very well about a fellow’s religion, or his soul; but this, don’t you see, is about my person; and, zounds-I beg you pardon, but really, it is, you know, a sort of thing a fellow can’t afford to — to — to — and, in short, I have a right to know— “
“Dear me! how unfortunate! Don’t you see, my dear Sir John, how likely such a thing is to produce ill-feeling? Why should you ask me?”
“Why — whaw — haw — aw — eh, don’t you see? Because — you happen to know, and I don’t see why you should be ashamed or afraid to say the truth.”
“The truth? Ha, yes, you have me there, Sir John. Ay, you have. Dear, dear, dear! I do so wish I had my dear friend Marvel here, he always takes so clear, simple, and decided a view of duty. He is such a guide; but I think I know what he would say. He’d say, as he always does, ‘Truth first, consequences afterward’; especially where, as here, worse consequences would probably follow upon silence. But-oh, shame that such things should be!”
“Whaw-aw — what things?” demanded the baronet.
“Anonymous informers-spies — traitors. Sir, you must kindly pi omise that you will not mention my name, should you ever speak upon this subject to any one.”
“Certainly not, Mr. Burton — not the least occasion. But is that — that tissue “ — and he knocked the back of his disengaged fingers upon the letter, with a reddening face— “that — that, is it true, sir — is it true, Mr. Burton?”
“Well, Sir John, as you put it to me that way — and most distressing it is — I’ll tell you. It is true — the statement is true, but it was most unjustifiable, and it must have come from some extremely low person; and great allowances are to be made for a young man so much in love and so much alarmed at rivalry, and so anxious to enlist the young lady’s feeling of elegance and sense of ridicule in his favour. They all do it. Pray, let there be no more said about it.”
The baronet was staring at him with very goggle eyes and a purpling face, and before he could speak, seemed to swallow down a big bit of hot bread.
He cleared his voice, and said —
“Thank you, thank you very much. It’s all plain sailing now.”
“And it is a foolish affair,” said Mr. Burton. “You’ll not think of it-I may tell him so?”
“You may tell him, with my compliments, he’s a blackguard and a liar!”
“Sir!”
“That is, of course, I mean any one may tell him, and I shall be very much obliged.”
“But, dear Sir John Mardykes, surely you’ll modify these dreadful terms, which include everything? You will withdraw them, I am very sure?” pleaded Mr. Burton.
“I think he’s all that, sir. Mr. Burton, I hold to it! and I think he’s a coward, sir, beside — a nasty dog, sir — a sneak and a coward, Mr. Burton, and — and I shouldn’t the least wonder if he had prejudiced me.”
“Oh, you’ll sleep on it, Sir John. Do you stay here?”
“No, sir; I’m going home.”
“You’ll look in at the vicar’s house?”
“Straight home — certainly not. I’m going home, sir. I-l — know what I think. Good night, Mr. Burton,” he added, stopping suddenly at the door-he had nearly omitted that courtesy. “I may have a talk with the vicar tomorrow — a shabby scoundrel! I’m off, Mr. Burton. Good night, sir.”
“And you kindly don’t mention my name, Sir John?”
“Certainly not. Farewell, Mr. Bui ton.”
“Heaven bless you!” said Mr. Burton, very kindly. And bolting his door again, he swallowed what remained of the brandy he had been sipping, and looked from his window and saw the baronet drive away at a very hard pace back again towards Mardykes.
CHAPTER XIX.
MR. BURTON MEDIATES.
IN five minutes more, good Mr. Burton having quite recovered his eye and his teeth, and looking very much as usual, only a little more florid, was walking in the moonlight by the margin of the lake, smiling in a luxury of contemplation across its luminous surface, toward those sublime headlands that rise like phantoms, built up of aerial shadow and light, into the sky.
He paused now and then, with his hands raised a little in a sort of silent worship.
The vicar’s windows were open, and from the drawingroom faintly came voices and laughter pleasant to hear.
The edge of the lake is not many yards away from the road that passes the front of the vicar’s house, and from the window the vicar’s voice called to him, and the maid came running down with a message asking him to join their little tea-party.
Mr. Burton complied. Candles were lighted there, and the moon shone in at the open windows, through which the glorious prospect showed like the unsubstantial scenery of an enchanted land.
Quaint and clumsy as was this old stone house, the drawingroom looked positively elegant; such is the effect of a profusion of flowers, and the presence of so beautiful a girl as Laura Mildmay, who sat in the window, oddly lighted in part by the moon, in part by the candles-a study for the painter. Charles Shirley was there, chatting very gaily, and supremely happy. Mrs. Jenner was not yet in the drawingroom. She was better, and old Mrs. Twiss was paying her a visit in her bedroom.
The conversation was, I suppose, about as clever as other conversations in like circumstances, and I never heard more of it than this, that Mr. Burton said-
“To-day, Miss Mildmay, walking on that ridge that you see in that direction, I discovered several specimens of the beautiful little flower” — and he named its name, which I forget— “that you so wished to light upon; and I, old as I am, climbed a little critical bit and got one, which, however, was afterwards spoiled in my hand as I got over the fence. I intended it for your book; but you are such an enthusiastic botanist, and know what the mountains are so well, that perhaps you would like to make that your tomorrow’s ramble, and permit an old fellow, but a good pedestrian, to act as your guide. It is very rare, as you know. I have not found six sp
ecimens in all my mountain rambles in England.”
Miss Laura’s pretty face lighted up so at the news, that the sight was more than sufficient reward for Mr. Burton’s little gallantry.
Certainly she would go-delighted, and so very much obliged.
Handsome Charles Shirley looked at the vicar. That good man, but prudent, knew what was in his mind; but, like a wise man, the vicar leaned to Sir John Mardykes, who could not be old, of course, for did not the vicar remember him in short frocks, and trousers made of pea-green jean-a hideous costume, which had impressed his memory-and in all other respects was he not immensely to be preferred? The vicar, therefore, looked a little sternly at the mountain at the other side of the lake, and Charles knew that there would be danger in his proposing to be of the party.
“No one treads a mountain path as you do,” said the old gentleman gallantly to the pretty girl. “It is a beautiful accomplishment, that of walking with grace. The Spanish ladies have it-the gipsies often have it-Taglioni had it. But our English women, as a rule, they don’t walk-they stump. When one’s eye has become accustomed to the true nymph-like tread, it is positively shocking to see the other thing. I involuntarily contract my foot as one of them pounds by.
“My wife walks a hillside very gracefully,” said the good vicar.
I wish kind Mrs. Jenner could have heard his little interpolation. She would have remembered it a long time, and often thought of it, and often, mayhap, as she did with other little admiring sentences, asked the beloved vicar, with a smile, if he remembered having said one evening, so-and-so. And, indeed, it is well to speak out these honest little compliments that are so sweet to remember. Don’t let them die untold in the love where they sound like music, never forgotten, and the heart they have made to tremble with an exquisite and untold delight, will soon enough be cold. These little sayings are treasured and found again, long after, among the pages of the past, like a violet given by a beloved hand, when the book is opened.
“No doubt,” said Mr. Burton, “Miss Mildmay is a relation, you told me, and nothing is more characteristic of a family than their mode of walking. There is something indescribably delighttul in walking the heights of mountains,” he continued, modifying his theme a little. “When I was young I never lost an opportunity, and, on a grander scale, once, for I was one of the few young Englishmen who, as they say, made the ascent of Mont Blanc. But I am an old fellow, now. I can’t do much; still I find myself strong enough for these fells, as we call them here.”
“In that case, Mr. Burton, you are strong enough for anything,” said the vicar.
Mr. Burton laughed and shook his head.
“No, no; I speak of fair walking upon the heather; but when I remember what I used to do in the Highlands long ago, and look at the things that pull me up, now, I see the difference.
I can’t climb anything. I’m no longer a mountaineer. I’m just a good up-hill pedestrian for a fellow of my years. But I dare no more follow Miss Mildmay’s lead upon those hills now, than she could have followed mine five-and-twenty years ago on the Alps.”
The conversation then turned on something else; we need not follow it.
And now the hour had come for “prayers,” and the worthy man assembled his little household, and opened the ponderous Bible and the little book of “family prayer.” Mr. Burton closed his lids devoutly, over his live eye and his glass one, of which latter no soul at Golden Friars suspected anything, except Sir John Mardykes, who had by chance seen the ugly chasm behind it.
And when they had risen, the benignant, florid old man smiled till his teeth, that Sir John had seen in the tumbler, glimmered in the moonlight as he arranged an hour with Miss Mildmay for their next day’s floral ramble; and then he prayed “Heaven bless her,” and kindly shook the vicar’s hand, and smiled round the room, and begged to be remembered to Mrs. Jenner, “though that is a little unreasonable, I fear, as I have not yet had the honour of being introduced,” he added.
He and Charles Shirley passed down the steps together, and paused for a moment at the piers of the outer gate, looking at the sublime picture before them, and each thinking of something totally different.
The young man stole a glance over his shoulder at the house he was leaving. His heart was heavy with an untold care, and the vagueness and darkness of the future made him sigh.
“Too early for you to sigh, and so deeply, my young friend,” said the old man gently, with an old man’s privilege. “I had something on my mind — shall we walk this way?-but I hesitated to say it. Somehow, that sigh has decided me. It is only a word of caution. May I speak it?”
Charles Shirley looked in his face, doubtful whether he had heard him aright. He had scarcely an acquaintance with Mr. Burton. It seemed odd his proposing to make a warning confidence.
“Certainly, very much obliged,” said the young man.
“You are going to be put in a very disagreeable position, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Burton.
“May I ask how, sir?” inquired Charles Shirley.
“You have incurred the displeasure of a gentleman who, I’m afraid, means to call you to account,” said Mr. Burton.
“I! I have not an idea. Do you mean a hostile message?” inquired Charles smiling.
“I should not wonder,” said the old gentleman in a low tone, “come a little this way, please. You have drawn down upon you the resentment of Sir John Mardykes.”
“I don’t mean, sir, to take any step to conciliate Sir John Mardykes”; said Mr. Shirley. “I don’t understand what he can possibly mean; and I don’t care a farthing.”
“It seems to me, however, if you allow me to say so, that you ought. Let us get a little nearer to the lake: how beautiful it is!-you ought to apologise to Sir John Mardykes-you ought indeed.”
“Apologise! I don’t see what you mean,” said Charles, with a start, a little sharply.
“What I mean is to prevent unpleasantness.”
“There is none whatever, sir,” said the young man.
“Believe me it is coming, though, unless you do as I say.”
“This is certainly something new,” said Charles, with a slight uncomfortable laugh.
They were walking now very slowly on the margin of the lake, over which the moonlight was trembling.
“You have enemies in this part of the world, I’m afraid, Mr. Shirley. Some mischievous person overheard, and has reported to Sir John Mardykes, some inconsiderate expressions you employed one evening when you and I and Miss Mildmay were sitting at the drawingroom window up there; and there were some fellows, I quite forget who, talking to Mr. Jenner — a clerk and some one else, and two servants bringing in tea and things. I remember, for I ventured once or twice to talk about something else; but unfortunately, as it now seems, you went on — some fun about his dyeing his whiskers, and I don’t know what else; and his informant was good enough to refer him to me for confirmation of his story — the whole thing is so low and disgusting! But he put it on me as a matter of truth — and, in fact, he got me into a comer, for I found that my silence was confirming him in the belief that every syllable he had recounted had been literally uttered by you, while in reality what you said was comparatively harmless. So as he was extremely angry, I thought it best to be frank. I could not help admitting what was true; but the greater part of his information, I assured him, was utterly false.”
“I’m sure I’m very much obliged, and very sorry you should have had any trouble on my account. But I’ll tell you frankly, I don’t care one farthing what Sir John Mardykes thinks about me; and I should not myself have walked from this to the lake there to undeceive him. I think him a stupid old ridiculous fool. I really forget what I said of him, but I’ll say that, and everything else I believe of him, with pleasure, and fifty’times more, so that he need not employ spies to listen, if he wants to hear all I think of him.”
“Come, come, my dear Mr. Shirley, surely you can’t think this either wise or Christian. Oh! my dear young friend, let me e
ntreat — don’t you know to what a situation you may be reduced? Sir John can look back thirty years, to his early manhood; in those days I can tell you gentlemen were only too ready to appeal to the pistol, and I never saw a man more angry. I assure you the language he used is still painfully ringing in my ears.”
“He spoke of me, did he?”
“Why, to be sure he did.”
“Not in a very complimentary way, I suppose.”
Mr. Burton shrugged, and then sighed with a “heigh-ho!” as if he were tired of the world.
“I suppose he said I did not speak truth?” said Charles.
“I should have no hesitation in telling you what he said, because it would show you how very threatening it is, and on what uncomfortable ground you stand; but I should insist on your giving me your word of honour that my name should not be mentioned in the matter, nor any allusion to the circumstance.”
“Oh, sir, I should not dream of such a thing.”
“Well, sir, he did say something to that effect, and a great deal more that it pained me to hear, and which I mention only to show you that the matter is becoming serious, and to support my entreaty that you will, just like a frank Christian gentleman, beg his pardon, for he has termed you, among other things, a liar, a blackguard, and a fool — from which you will gather how transported he is with anger, and how likely this miserable misunderstanding is to be carried into consequences that are direful and sinful; and I may add that he is likely to repeat those phrases, or their equivalents, where you would least like to have them heard. Now do, I implore, my dear young friend, do humble your proud heart a little; ask his forgiveness, and allow me to enjoy the happiness and the blessing of the peacemaker.”
“Did he ask you to tell me all that?” said the young man.
“I can’t say that he did; but I may tell you that I think he would wish you to know exactly how he feels.”
“I see,” said the young man, with a little laugh, and throwing a pebble that was in his fingers a yard or two into the water. “Thank you very much. I think I must get home. Shall I walk with you to your hotel?”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 746