Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  The ladies now floated away like summer clouds, many-tinted, golden, through the door, which Doocey held gracefully open; and the mere mortals of the party, the men, stood up in conventional adoration, while the divinities were translated, as it were, before their eyes, and hovered out of sight and hearing into the resplendent regions of candelabra and mirrors, nectar and ambrosia, tea and plumcake, and clouds of silken tapestry, and the musical tinkling of their own celestial small-talk.

  * * *

  CHAPTER X.

  Inquiries have been made by Messrs, Pelter and Crowe.

  Before repairing to bed, such fellows, young or old, as liked a talk and a cigar, and some sherry — or, by’r lady, brandy and water — were always invited to accompany Sir Jekyl to what he termed the back settlement, where he bivouacked among deal chairs and tables, with a little camp-bed, and plenty of wax candles and a brilliant little fire.

  Here, as the Baronet smoked in his homely little “hut,” as he termed it, after his guests had dispersed to their bedrooms, the Rev. Dives Marlowe that night knocked at the door, crying, “May I come in, Jekyl?”

  “Certainly, dear Dives.”

  “You really mean it?”

  “Never was parson so welcome.”

  “By Jove!” said the Rector, “it’s later than I thought — you’re sure I don’t bore you.”

  “Not sure, but you may, Dives,” said Sir Jekyl, observing his countenance, which was not quite pleasant. “Come in, and say your say. Have a weed, old boy?”

  “Well, well — a — we’re alone. I don’t mind — I don’t generally — not that there’s any harm; but some people, very good people, object — the weaker brethren, you know.”

  “Consummate asses, we call them; but weaker brethren, as you say, does as well.”

  The Rector was choosing and sniffing out a cigar to his heart’s content.

  “Milk for babes, you know,” said the Rector, making his preparations. “Strong meats— “

  “And strong cigars; but you’ll find these as mild as you please. Here’s a match.”

  The Rector sat down, with one foot on the fender, and puffed away steadily, looking into the fire; and his brother, at the opposite angle of the fender, employed himself similarly.

  “Fine old soldier, General Lennox,” said the cleric, at last. “What stay does he make with you?”

  “As long as he pleases. Why?” said Sir Jekyl.

  “Only he said something tonight in the drawingroom about having to go up to town to attend a Board of the East India Directors,” answered the parson.

  “Oh, did he?”

  “And I think he said the day after tomorrow. I thought he told you, perhaps.”

  “Upon my life I can’t say — perhaps he did,” said Sir Jekyl, carelessly. “Lennox is a wonderful fine old fellow, as you say, but a little bit slow, you know; and his going or staying would not make very much difference to me.”

  “I thought he told his story pretty well at dinner — that haunted room and the cobra, you remember,” said the Rector.

  The Baronet grunted an assent, and nodded, without removing his cigar. The brothers conducted their conversation, not looking on one another, but each steadily into the grate.

  “And, apropos of haunted rooms, Lady Jane mentioned they are in the green chamber,” continued the Rector.

  “Did she? I forgot — so they are, I think,” answered the Baronet.

  Here they puffed away in silence for some time.

  “You know, Jekyl, about that room? Poor Amy, when she was dying, made you promise — and you did promise, you know — and she got me to promise to remind you to shut it up; and then, you know, my father wished the same,” said the Rector.

  “Come, Dives, my boy, somebody has been poking you up about this. You have been hearing from my old motherin-law, or talking to her, the goosey old shrew!”

  “Upon my honour!” said the Rector, solemnly resting the wrist of his cigar-hand upon the black silk vest, and motioning his cheroot impressively, “you are quite mistaken. One syllable I have not heard from Lady Alice upon the subject, nor, indeed, upon any other, for two months or more.”

  “Come, come, Dives, old fellow, you’ll not come the inspired preacher over me. Somebody’s been at you, and if it was not poor old Lady Alice it was stupid old Gwynn. You need not deny it — ha! ha! ha! your speaking countenance proclaims it, my dear boy.”

  “I’m not thinking of denying it. Old Donica Gwynn did write to me,” said the pastor.

  “Let me see her note?” said Sir Jekyl.

  “I threw it in the fire; but I assure you there was nothing in it that would or could have vexed you. Nothing, in fact, but an appeal to me to urge you to carry out the request of poor Amy, and not particularly well spelt or written, and certainly not the sort of thing I should have liked anyone to see but ourselves, so I destroyed it as soon as I had read it.”

  “I’d like to have known what the plague could make you come here two days — of course I’m glad to see you — two days before you intended, and what’s running in your mind.”

  “Nothing in particular — nothing, I assure you, but this. I’m certain it will be talked about — it will — the women will talk. You’ll find there will be something very unpleasant; take my advice, my dear Jekyl, and just do as you promised. My poor father wished it, too — in fact, directed it, and — and it ought to be done — you know it ought.”

  “Upon my soul I know no such thing. I’m to pull down my house, I suppose, for a sentiment? What the plague harm does the room to anybody? It doesn’t hurt me, nor you.”

  “It may hurt you very much, Jekyl.”

  “I can’t see it; but if it does, that’s my affair,” said Sir Jekyl, sulkily.

  “But, my dear Jekyl, surely you ought to consider your promise.”

  “Come, Dives, no preaching. It’s a very good trade, I know, and I’ll do all I can for you in it; but I’m no more to be humbugged by a sermon than you are. Come! How does the dog I sent you get on? Have you bottled the pipe of port yet, and how is old Moulders, as I asked you at dinner? Talk of shooting, eating and drinking, and making merry, and getting up in your profession — by-the-bye, the Bishop is to be here in a fortnight, so manage to stay and meet him. Talk of the port, and the old parson’s death, and the tithes small and great, and I’ll hear you with respect, for I shall know you are speaking of things you understand, and take a real interest in; but pray don’t talk any more about that stupid old room, and the stuff and nonsense these women connect with it; and, once for all, believe me when I say I have no notion of making a fool of myself by shutting up or pulling down a room which we want to use — I’ll do no such thing,” and Sir Jekyl clenched the declaration with an oath, and chucking the stump of his cigar into the fire, stood up with his back to it, and looked down on his clerical Mentor, the very impersonation of ungodly obstinacy.

  “I had some more to say, Jekyl, but I fancy you don’t care to hear it.”

  “Not a word of it,” replied the Baronet.

  “That’s enough for me,” said the parson, with a wave of his hand, like a man who has acquitted himself of a duty.

  “And how soon do you say the Bishop is to be here?” he inquired, after a pause.

  “About ten days, or less — egad! I forget,” answered Sir Jekyl, still a good deal ruffled.

  The Rector stood up also, and hummed something like “Rule Britannia” for a while. I am afraid he was thinking altogether of himself by this time, and suddenly recollecting that he was not in his own room, he wished his brother goodnight, and departed.

  Sir Jekyl was vexed. There are few things so annoying, when one has made up his mind to a certain course, as to have the unavowed misgivings and evil auguries of one’s own soul aggravated by the vain but ominous dissuasions of others.

  “I wish they’d keep their advice to themselves. What hurry need there be? Do they want me to blow up the room with old Lennox and his wife in it? I don’t care
twopence about it. It’s a gloomy place.” Sir Jekyl was charging the accidental state of his own spirits upon the aspect of the place, which was really handsome and cheerful, though antique.

  “They’re all in a story, the fools! What is it to me? I don’t care if I never saw it again. They may pull it down after Christmas, if they like, for me. And Dives, too, the scamp, talking pulpit. He thinks of nothing but side-dishes and money. As worldly a dog as there is in England!”

  Jekyl Marlowe could get angry enough on occasion, but he was not prone to sour tempers and peevish humours. There was, however, just now, something to render him uncomfortable and irritable, and that was that his expected guests, Mr. Guy Strangways and M. Varbarriere had not kept tryste. The day appointed for their visit had come and gone, and no appearance made. In an ordinary case a hundred and fifty accidents might account for such a miscarriage; but there was in this the unavowed specialty which excited and sickened his mind, and haunted his steps and his bed with suspicions; and he fancied he could understand a little how Herod felt when he was mocked of the wise men.

  Next morning’s postbag brought Sir Jekyl two letters, one of which relieved, and the other rather vexed him, though not very profoundly. This latter was from his motherin-law, Lady Alice, in reply to his civil note, and much to his surprise, accepting his invitation to Marlowe.

  “Cross-grained old woman! She’s coming, for no reason on earth but to vex me. It shan’t though. I’ll make her most damnably welcome. We’ll amuse her till she has not a leg to stand on; we’ll take her an excursion every second day, and bivouac on the side of a mountain, or in the bottom of a wet valley. We’ll put the young ponies to the phaeton, and Dutton shall run them away with her. I’ll get up theatricals, and balls, and concerts; and I’ll have breakfast at nine instead of ten. I’ll entertain her with a vengeance, egad! We’ll see who’ll stand it longest.”

  A glance at the foot of the next letter, which was a large document, on a bluish sheet of letter-paper, showed him what he expected, the official autograph of Messrs. Pelter and Crowe; it was thus expressed —

  “My dear Sir Jekyl Marlowe, —

  “Pursuant to yours of the — th, and in accordance with the instructions therein contained, we have made inquiries, as therein directed, in all available quarters, and have received answers to our letters, and trust that the copies thereof, and the general summary of the correspondence, which we hope to forward by this evening’s post, will prove satisfactory to you. The result seems to us clearly to indicate that your information has not been well founded, and that there has been no movement in the quarter to which your favour refers, and that no member — at all events no prominent member — of that family is at present in England. In further execution of your instructions, as conveyed in your favour as above, we have, through a reliable channel, learned that Messrs. Smith, Rumsey, and Snagg, have nothing in the matter of Deverell at present in their office. Nor has there been, we are assured, any correspondence from or on the part of any of those clients for the last five terms or more. Notwithstanding, therefore, the coincidence of the date of your letter with the period to which, on a former occasion, we invited your attention, as indicated by the deed of 1809— “

  “What the plague is that?” interpolated Sir Jekyl. “They want me to write and ask, and pop it down in the costs;” and after a vain endeavour to recall it, he read the passage over again with deliberate emphasis.

  “Notwithstanding, therefore, the coincidence of the date of your letter with the period to which, on a former occasion, we invited your attention, as indicated by the deed of 1809, we are clear upon the evidence of the letters, copies of which will be before you as above by next post, that there is no ground for supposing any unusual activity on the part or behalf of the party or parties to whom you have referred.

  “Awaiting your further directions,

  “I have the honour to remain,

  “My dear Sir Jekyl Marlowe,

  “Your obedient servant,

  “N. Crowe.

  “For Pelter and Crowe.

  “Sir Jekyl Marlowe, Bart.

  “Marlowe, Old Swayton.”

  When Sir Jekyl read this he felt all on a sudden a dozen years younger. He snapped his fingers, and smiled, in spite of himself. He could hardly bring himself to acknowledge, even in soliloquy, how immensely he was relieved. The sun shone delightfully: and his spirits returned quite brightly. He would have liked to cricket, to ride a steeplechase — anything that would have breathed and worked him well, and given him a fair occasion for shouting and cheering.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI.

  Old Gryston Bridge.

  Very merry was the Baronet at the social breakfast-table, and the whole party very gay, except those few whose natures were sedate or melancholic.

  “A tremendous agreeable man, Sir Jekyl — don’t you think so, Jennie?” said General Lennox to his wife, as he walked her slowly along the terrace at the side of the house.

  “I think him intolerably noisy, and sometimes absolutely vulgar,” answered Lady Jane, with a languid disdain, which conveyed alike her estimate of her husband’s discernment and of Sir Jekyl’s merits.

  “Well, I thought he was agreeable. Some of his jokes I think, indeed, had not much sense in them. But sometimes I don’t see a witty thing as quick as cleverer fellows do, and they were all laughing, except you; and I don’t think you like him, Jennie.”

  “I don’t dislike him. I dare say he’s a very worthy soul; but he gives me a headache.”

  “He is a little bit noisy, maybe. Yes, he certainly is,” acquiesced the honest General, who in questions of taste and nice criticism, was diffident of his own judgment, and leaned to his wife’s. “But I thought he was rather a pleasant fellow. I’m no great judge; but I like to see fellows laughing, and that sort of thing. It looks goodhumoured, don’t you think?”

  “I hate goodhumour,” said Lady Jane.

  The General, not knowing exactly what to say next, marched by her side in silence, till Lady Jane let go his arm, and sat down on the rustic seat which commands so fine a view, and, leaning back, eyed the landscape with a dreamy indolence, as if she was going to “cut” it.

  The General scanned it with a military eye, and his reconnoitering glance discerned, coming up the broad walk at his right, their host, with pretty Mrs. Maberly on his arm, doing the honours plainly very agreeably.

  On seeing the General and Lady Jane, he smiled, quickened his pace, and raised his hat.

  “So glad we have found you,” said he. “Charming weather, isn’t it? You must determine, Lady Jane, what’s to be done to-day. There are two things you really ought to see — Gryston Bridge and Hazelden Castle. I assure you the great London artists visit both for studies. We’ll take our luncheon there, it’s such a warm, bright day — that is, if you like the plan — and, which do you say?”

  “My husband always votes for me. What does Mrs. Maberly say?” and Lady Jane looked in her face with one of her winning smiles.

  “Yes, what does Mrs. Maberly say?” echoed the General, gallantly.

  “So you won’t advise?” said the Baronet, leaning toward Lady Jane, a little reproachfully.

  “I won’t advise,” she echoed, in her indolent way.

  “Which is the best?” inquired Mrs. Maberly, gleefully. “What a charming idea!”

  “For my part, I have a headache, you know, Arthur — I told you, dear; and I shall hardly venture a long excursion, I think. What do you advise to-day?”

  “Well, I think it might do you good — hey? What do you say, Sir Jekyl?”

  “So very sorry to hear Lady Jane is suffering; but I really think your advice, General Lennox — it’s so very fine and mild — and I think it might amuse Lady Jane;” and he glanced at the lady, who, however, wearing her bewitching smile, was conversing with Mrs. Maberly about a sweet little white dog, with long ears and a blue ribbon, which had accompanied her walk from the house.

  “Well,
dear, Sir Jekyl wants to know. What do you say?” inquired the General.

  “Oh, pray arrange as you please. I dare say I can go. It’s all the same,” answered Lady Jane, without raising her eyes from silvery little Bijou, on whom she bestowed her unwonted smiles and caresses.

  “You belong to Beatrix, you charming little fairy — I’m sure you do; and is not it very wicked to go out with other people without leave, you naughty little truant?”

  “You must not attack her so. She really loves Beatrix; and though she has come out just to take the air with me, I don’t think she cares twopence about me; and I know I don’t about her.”

  “What a cruel speech!” cried pretty Mrs. Maberly, with a laugh that showed her exquisite little teeth.

  “The fact is cruel — if you will — not the speech — for she can’t hear it,” said Sir Jekyl, patting Bijou.

  “So they act love to your face, poor little dog, and say what they please of you behind your back,” murmured Lady Jane, soothingly, to little Bijou, who wagged his tail and wriggled to her feet. “Yes, they do, poor little dog!”

  “Well, I shall venture — may I? I’ll order the carriages at one. And we’ll say Gryston Bridge,” said Sir Jekyl, hesitating notwithstanding, inquiry plainly in his countenance.

  “Sir Jekyl’s waiting, dear,” said General Lennox, a little imperiously.

  “I really don’t care. Yes, then,” she said, and, getting up, she took the General’s arm and walked away, leaving Mrs. Maberly and her host to their tête-à-tête.

  Gryston Bridge is one of the prettiest scenes in that picturesque part of the country. A river slowly winds its silvery way through the level base of a beautifully irregular valley. No enclosure breaks the dimpling and undulating sward — for it is the common of Gryston — which rises in soft pastoral slopes at either side, forming the gentle barriers of the valley, which is closed in at the further end by a bold and Alpine hill, with a base rising purple and domelike from the plain; and in this perspective the vale of Gryston diverges, and the two streams, which at its head unite to form the slow-flowing current of the Greet, are lost to sight. Trees of nature’s planting here and there overhang its stream, and others, solitarily or in groups, stud the hillsides and the soft green plain. A strange row of tall, gray stones, Druidic or monumental, of a bygone Cyclopean age, stand up, timeworn and mysterious, on a gentle slope, with a few bending thorn and birch trees beside them, in the near distance; and in the foreground, the steep, Gothic bridge of Gretford, or Gryston, spans the river, with five tall arches, and a loopholed gatehouse, which once guarded the pass, now roofless and ruined.