Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  I searched in vain for her before breakfast. At that meal, however, we met, but in the presence of Uncle Silas, who, though silent and apathetic, was formidable; and we, sitting at a table disproportionably large, under the cold, strange gaze of my guardian, talked only what was inevitable, and that in low tones; for whenever Milly for a moment raised her voice, Uncle Silas would wince, place his thin white fingers quickly over his ear, and look as if a pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug and smile piteously into vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, was not in the talking vein himself — and that was not often — you may suppose there was very little spoken in his presence.

  When Milly, across the table, saw the ring upon my finger, she, drawing in her breath, said, ‘Oh!’ and, with round eyes and mouth, she looked so delighted; and she made a little motion, as if she was on the point of jumping up; and then her poor face quivered, and she bit her lip; and staring imploringly at me, her eyes filled fast with tears, which rolled down her round penitential cheeks.

  I am sure I felt more penitent than she. I know I was crying and smiling, and longing to kiss her. I suppose we were very absurd; but it is well that small matters can stir the affections so profoundly at a time of life when great troubles seldom approach us.

  When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of the wrestling ring as poor Milly bestowed on me, swaying me this way and that, and burying her face in my dress, and blubbering —

  ‘I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and I such a devil; and I’ll never call you a name, but Maud — my darling Maud.’

  ‘You must, Milly — Mrs. Bustle. I’ll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like. You must.’ I was blubbering like Milly, and hugging my best; and, indeed, I wonder how we kept our feet.

  So Milly and I were better friends than ever.

  Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights, and long fireside gossipings at Bartram-Haugh. I was frightened at the frequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject. I did not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Milly’s way of talking about them.

  But one day, while in one of his ‘queerish’ states, he called for me, and I saw him, and was unspeakably scared.

  In a white wrapper, he lay coiled in a great easy chair. I should have thought him dead, had I not been accompanied by old L’Amour, who knew every gradation and symptom of these strange affections.

  She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, and whispered —

  ‘Don’t make no noise, miss, till he talks; he’ll come to for a bit, anon.’

  Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like that of an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions.

  There was a frown and smirk like that of idiotcy, and a strip of white eyeball was also disclosed.

  Suddenly, with a kind of chilly shudder, he opened his eyes wide, and screwed his lips together, and blinked and stared on me with a fatuised uncertainty, that gradually broke into a feeble smile.

  ‘Ah! the girl — Austin’s child. Well, dear, I’m hardly able — I’ll speak tomorrow — next day — it is tic — neuralgia, or something — torture — tell her.’

  So, huddling himself together, he lay again in his great chair, with the same inexpressible helplessness in his attitude, and gradually his face resumed its dreadful cast.

  ‘Come away, miss: he’s changed his mind; he’ll not be fit to talk to you noways all day, maybe,’ said the old woman, again in a whisper.

  So forth we stole from the room, I unspeakably shocked. In fact, he looked as if he were dying, and so, in my agitation, I told the crone, who, forgetting the ceremony with which she usually treated me, chuckled out derisively,

  ‘A-dying is he? Well, he be like Saint Paul — he’s bin a-dying daily this many a day.’

  I looked at her with a chill of horror. She did not care, I suppose, what sort of feelings she might excite, for she went on mumbling sarcastically to herself. I had paused, and overcame my reluctance to speak to her again, for I was really very much frightened.

  ‘Do you think he is in danger? Shall we send for a doctor?’ I whispered.

  ‘Law bless ye, the doctor knows all about it, miss.’ The old woman’s face had a gleam of that derision which is so shocking in the features of feebleness and age.

  ‘But it is a fit, it is paralytic, or something horrible — it can’t be safe to leave him to chance or nature to get through these terrible attacks.’

  ‘There’s no fear of him, ’tisn’t no fits at all, he’s nout the worse o’t. Jest silly a bit now and again. It’s been the same a dozen year and more; and the doctor knows all about it,’ answered the old woman sturdily. ‘And ye’ll find he’ll be as mad as bedlam if ye make any stir about it.’

  That night I talked the matter over with Mary Quince.

  ‘They’re very dark, miss; but I think he takes a deal too much laudlum,’ said Mary.

  To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures. I have often spoken to medical men about them, since, but never could learn that excessive use of opium could altogether account for them. It was, I believe, certain, however, that he did use that drug in startling quantities. It was, indeed, sometimes a topic of complaint with him that his neuralgia imposed this sad necessity upon him.

  The image of Uncle Silas, as I had seen him that day, troubled and affrighted my imagination, as I lay in my bed; I had slept very well since my arrival at Bartram. So much of the day was passed in the open air, and in active exercise, that this was but natural. But that night I was nervous and wakeful, and it was past two o’clock when I fancied I heard the sound of horses and carriage-wheels on the avenue.

  Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to get up and peep from the window. My heart beat fast as I saw a postchaise approach the courtyard. A front window was let down, and the postilion pulled up for a few seconds.

  In consequence of some directions received by him, I fancied he resumed his route at a walk, and so drew up at the hall-door, on the steps of which a figure awaited his arrival. I think it was old L’Amour, but I could not be quite certain. There was a lantern on the top of the balustrade, close by the door. The chaise-lamps were lighted, for the night was rather dark.

  A bag and valise, as well as I could see, were pulled from the interior by the postboy, and a box from the top of the vehicle, and these were carried into the hall.

  I was obliged to keep my cheek against the window-pane to command a view of the point of debarkation, and my breath upon the glass, which dimmed it again almost as fast as I wiped it away, helped to obscure my vision. But I saw a tall figure, in a cloak, get down and swiftly enter the house, but whether male or female I could not discern.

  My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My uncle was worse — was, in fact, dying; and this was the physician, too late summoned to his bedside.

  I listened for the ascent of the doctor, and his entrance at my uncle’s door, which, in the stillness of the night, I thought I might easily hear, but no sound reached me. I listened so for fully five minutes, but without result. I returned to the window, but the carriage and horses had disappeared.

  I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince, and take counsel with her, and persuade her to undertake a reconnoissance. The fact is, I was persuaded that my uncle was in extremity, and I was quite wild to know the doctor’s opinion. But, after all, it would be cruel to summon the good soul from her refreshing nap. So, as I began to feel very cold, I returned to my bed, where I continued to listen and conjecture until I fell asleep.

  In the morning, as was usual, before I was dressed, in came Milly.

  ‘How is Uncle Silas?’ I eagerly enquired.

  ‘Old L’Amour says he’s queerish still; but he’s not so dull as yesterday,’ answered she.

  ‘Was not the doctor sent for?’ I asked.

  ‘Was he? Well, that’s odd; and she sai
d never a word o’t to me,’ answered she.

  ‘I’m asking only,’ said I.

  ‘I don’t know whether he came or no,’ she replied; ‘but what makes you take that in your head?’

  ‘A chaise arrived here between two and three o’clock last night.’

  ‘Hey! and who told you?’ Milly seemed all on a sudden highly interested.

  ‘I saw it, Milly; and some one, I fancy the doctor, came from it into the house.’

  ‘Fudge, lass! who’d send for the doctor? ’Twasn’t he, I tell you. What was he like?’ said Milly.

  ‘I could only see clearly that he, or she, was tall, and wore a cloak,’ I replied.

  ‘Then ’twasn’t him nor t’other I was thinking on, neither; and I’ll be hanged but I think it will be Cormoran,’ cried Milly, with a thoughtful rap with her knuckle on the table.

  Precisely at this juncture a tapping came to the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said I.

  And old L’Amour entered the room, with a courtesy.

  ‘I came to tell Miss Quince her breakfast’s ready,’ said the old lady.

  ‘Who came in the chaise, L’Amour?’ demanded Milly.

  ‘What chaise?’ spluttered the beldame tartly.

  ‘The chaise that came last night, past two o’clock,’ said Milly.

  ‘That’s a lie, and a damn lie!’ cried the beldame. ‘There worn’t no chaise at the door since Miss Maud there come from Knowl.’

  I stared at the audacious old menial who could utter such language.

  ‘Yes, there was a chaise, and Cormoran, as I think, be come in it,’ said Milly, who seemed accustomed to L’Amour’s daring address.

  ‘And there’s another damn lie, as big as the t’other,’ said the crone, her haggard and withered face flushing orange all over.

  ‘I beg you will not use such language in my room,’ I replied, very angrily. ‘I saw the chaise at the door; your untruth signifies very little, but your impertinence here I will not permit. Should it be repeated, I will assuredly complain to my uncle.’

  The old woman flushed more fiercely as I spoke, and fixed her bleared glare on me, with a compression of her mouth that amounted to a wicked grimace. She resisted her angry impulse, however, and only chuckled a little spitefully, saying,

  ‘No offence, miss: it be a way we has in Derbyshire o’ speaking our minds. No offence, miss, were meant, and none took, as I hopes,’ and she made me another courtesy.

  ‘And I forgot to tell you, Miss Milly, the master wants you this minute.’

  So Milly, in mute haste, withdrew, followed closely by L’Amour.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  DOCTOR BRYERLY EMERGES

  When Milly joined me at breakfast, her eyes were red and swollen. She was still sniffing with that little sobbing hiccough, which betrays, even were there no other signs, recent violent weeping. She sat down quite silent.

  ‘Is he worse, Milly?’ I enquired, anxiously.

  ‘No, nothing’s wrong wi’ him; he’s right well,’ said Milly, fiercely.

  ‘What’s the matter then, Milly dear?’

  ‘The poisonous old witch! ’Twas just to tell the Gov’nor how I’d said ’twas Cormoran that came by the po’shay last night.’

  ‘And who is Cormoran?’ I enquired.

  ‘Ay, there it is; I’d like to tell, and you want to hear — and I just daren’t, for he’ll send me off right to a French school — hang it — hang them all! — if I do.’

  ‘And why should Uncle Silas care?’ said I, a good deal surprised.

  ‘They’re a-tellin’ lies.’

  ‘Who?’ said I.

  ‘L’Amour — that’s who. So soon as she made her complaint of me, the Gov’nor asked her, sharp enough, did anyone come last night, or a po’shay; and she was ready to swear there was no one. Are ye quite sure, Maud, you really did see aught, or ‘appen ’twas all a dream?’

  ‘It was no dream, Milly; so sure as you are there, I saw exactly what I told you,’ I replied.

  ‘Gov’nor won’t believe it anyhow; and he’s right mad wi’ me; and he threatens me he’ll have me off to France; I wish ’twas under the sea. I hate France — I do — like the devil. Don’t you? They’re always a-threatening me wi’ France, if I dare say a word more about the po’shay, or — or anyone.’

  I really was curious about Cormoran; but Cormoran was not to be defined to me by Milly; nor did she, in reality, know more than I respecting the arrival of the night before.

  One day I was surprised to see Doctor Bryerly on the stairs. I was standing in a dark gallery as he walked across the floor of the lobby to my uncle’s door, his hat on, and some papers in his hand.

  He did not see me; and when he had entered Uncle Silas’s door, I went down and found Milly awaiting me in the hall.

  ‘So Doctor Bryerly is here,’ I said.

  ‘That’s the thin fellow, wi’ the sharp look, and the shiny black coat, that went up just now?’ asked Milly.

  ‘Yes, he’s gone into your papa’s room,’ said I.

  ‘‘Appen ’twas he come ‘tother night. He may be staying here, though we see him seldom, for it’s a barrack of a house — it is.’

  The same thought had struck me for a moment, but was dismissed immediately. It certainly was not Doctor Bryerly’s figure which I had seen.

  So, without any new light gathered from this apparition, we went on our way, and made our little sketch of the ruined bridge. We found the gate locked as before; and, as Milly could not persuade me to climb it, we got round the paling by the river’s bank.

  While at our drawing, we saw the swarthy face, sooty locks, and old weather-stained red coat of Zamiel, who was glowering malignly at us from among the trunks of the forest trees, and standing motionless as a monumental figure in the side aisle of a cathedral. When we looked again he was gone.

  Although it was a fine mild day for the wintry season, we yet, cloaked as we were, could not pursue so still an occupation as sketching for more than ten or fifteen minutes. As we returned, in passing a clump of trees, we heard a sudden outbreak of voices, angry and expostulatory; and saw, under the trees, the savage old Zamiel strike his daughter with his stick two great blows, one of which was across the head. ‘Beauty’ ran only a short distance away, while the swart old wood-demon stumped lustily after her, cursing and brandishing his cudgel.

  My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could not speak; but in a moment more I screamed —

  ‘You brute! How dare you strike the poor girl?’

  She had only run a few steps, and turned about confronting him and us, her eyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering to suppress a burst of weeping. Two little rivulets of blood were trickling over her temple.

  ‘I say, fayther, look at that,’ she said, with a strange tremulous smile, lifting her hand, which was smeared with blood.

  Perhaps he was ashamed, and the more enraged on that account, for he growled another curse, and started afresh to reach her, whirling his stick in the air. Our voices, however, arrested him.

  ‘My uncle shall hear of your brutality. The poor girl!’

  ‘Strike him, Meg, if he does it again; and pitch his leg into the river tonight, when he’s asleep.’

  ‘I’d serve you the same;’ and out came an oath. ‘You’d have her lick her fayther, would ye? Look out!’

  And he wagged his head with a scowl at Milly, and a flourish of his cudgel.

  ‘Be quiet, Milly,’ I whispered, for Milly was preparing for battle; and I again addressed him with the assurance that, on reaching home, I would tell my uncle how he had treated the poor girl.

  ‘’Tis you she may thank for’t, a wheedling o’ her to open that gate,’ he snarled.

  ‘That’s a lie; we went round by the brook,’ cried Milly.

  I did not think proper to discuss the matter with him; and looking very angry, and, I thought, a little put out, he jerked and swayed himself out of sight. I merely repeated my promise of inform
ing my uncle as he went, to which, over his shoulder, he bawled —

  ‘Silas won’t mind ye that;’ snapping his horny finger and thumb.

  The girl remained where she had stood, wiping the blood off roughly with the palm of her hand, and looking at it before she rubbed it on her apron.

  ‘My poor girl,’ I said, ‘you must not cry. I’ll speak to my uncle about you.’

  But she was not crying. She raised her head, and looked at us a little askance, with a sullen contempt, I thought.

  ‘And you must have these apples — won’t you?’ We had brought in our basket two or three of those splendid apples for which Bartram was famous.

  I hesitated to go near her, these Hawkeses, Beauty and Pegtop, were such savages. So I rolled the apples gently along the ground to her feet.

  She continued to look doggedly at us with the same expression, and kicked away the apples sullenly that approached her feet. Then, wiping her temple and forehead in her apron, without a word, she turned and walked slowly away.

  ‘Poor thing! I’m afraid she leads a hard life. What strange, repulsive people they are!’

  When we reached home, at the head of the great staircase old L’Amour was awaiting me; and with a courtesy, and very respectfully, she informed me that the Master would be happy to see me.

  Could it be about my evidence as to the arrival of the mysterious chaise that he summoned me to this interview? Gentle as were his ways, there was something undefinable about Uncle Silas which inspired fear; and I should have liked few things less than meeting his gaze in the character of a culprit.

  There was an uncertainty, too, as to the state in which I might find him, and a positive horror of beholding him again in the condition in which I had last seen him.