Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  CHAPTER LXIX.

  WILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDON.

  VIOLET DARKWELL’S stay in London lengthened. Saxton was growing intolerable. William began to despond. He ran up to town, and stayed there a few weeks. He eat his dinner in Lincoln’s Inn Hall for two terms, and dined every Sunday, and twice beside, at the Darkwells’.

  The sergeant was so busy that, on these occasions, he appeared like a guest — an unexpected presence, and was still evidently haunted by briefs — fatigued and thoughtful; but very kind to William. In their short after-dinner sittings I do not think that William ever opened the subject that was nearest his heart. He had, I think, and with a great deal better reason than poor Vane Trevor of Revington, whose pale phantom sometimes flitted warningly before his imagination — horrible qualms about his money qualification.

  After one of these Sunday dinners William and Sergeant Darkwell tête-à-tête, the barrister, in his quiet cheery way, had been counselling the student on some points, and relating bar stories, always pleasant to hear when told by bright and accurate men like him; and said he, as they rose, “and the first term you make a hundred pounds I give you leave to marry,”

  William looked hard at his host. But his countenance was thoughtful, he had wandered away already to some other matter. In fact he looked quite innocent, and I believe he was, of thought of Violet.

  “I give you leave to marry.” Of course it was quite out of the question that he could have meant what the young man fancied he might mean. Still he thought he might lay down this general rule, and leave it to him to make the particular inference.

  “I see,” said William, in conference with himself as he trudged home that night, dejectedly. “He wishes me to understand that I shan’t have his consent till then. A hundred pounds in a term! He had been seven years called before he made that. Could William hope to succeed so well? Not quite, he rather thought.” And then grasping his stick hard he swore it was like Jacob’s service for Rachel — a seven years’ business; and all for a Rachel, who had no thought of waiting.

  On all these occasions he saw Violet. But was there not a change, a sense of distance, and above all, was there not that awful old “she-cousin” (to borrow Sam Papy’s convenient phrase), of Sergeant Darkwell, silent, vigilant, in stiff silk, whose thin face smiled not, and whose cold gray eyes followed him steadily everywhere, and who exercised an authority over Violet more than aunt-like?

  William called again and again, but never saw pretty Violet without this prudent and dreadful old lady. Her indeed he twice saw alone. In a tête-à-tête she was not more agreeable. She listened to what few things, with a piteous ransacking of his invention and his memory he could bring up, and looked upon him with a silent suspicion and secret aversion under which his spirit gradually despaired and died within him. Glimpses of Violet, under the condition of this presence, were tantalising, even agonising sometimes. The liberty of speech so dear to Englishmen was denied him, life was gliding away in this speechless dream, the spell of that lean and silent old lady was upon him. How he yearned for the easy country life with its kindly chaperons and endless opportunities. Love, as we all know, is a madness, and it is the property of madmen to imagine conspiracies, and William began to think that there was an understanding between Sergeant Darkwell and the “she-cousin,” and that she was there to prevent his ever having an opportunity of saying one confidential word in Violet’s ear. It seemed to him, moreover, that this was unspeakably worse, that Violet was quite happy in this state of things. He began to suspect that he had been a fool, that his egotism had made him, in a measure, mad, and that it was time for him to awake and look the sad truth in the face.

  William left London. He wavered in his allegiance to the bar. He doubted his fitness for it. Had he not money enough for all his wants? Why should he live a town life, and grieve his soul over contingent remainders, and follow after leading cases in objectless pursuit, and lose himself in Bacon’s interminable Abridgment, all for nothing?

  He returned to keep his next term, and suffer a like penance. It seemed to him there was a kind of coldness and reserve in Violet that was hardly tangible, and yet it was half breaking his heart She was further away than ever, and he could not win her back. He sate there under the eye of silent Miss Janet Smedley — the inexorable she-cousin. There was no whispering in her presence. She was so silent you might hear a pin drop. Not a syllable escaped her observant ear. There was no speaking in her presence, and that presence never failed — though Violet’s sometimes did. The situation was insupportable. Away went William again — and this time he made a portion of that charming tour of Brown, Jones, and Robinson, which for any comfort it gave his spirit, he might as well or better have made within the covers of Mr. Doyle’s famous quarto.

  Back to England with the home sickness of love came William. He had still a week before his term commenced.

  “I can’t stand it any longer,” said he, as he paced the platform of the “railway” by which he had taken not an “up” but a “down” ticket “I know I’m right. I must go down and see Miss Wagget. I’d rather talk to her than to the doctor. I know very well she sees how it is, and she’ll tell me what she thinks, and if she advises I’ll speak to the sergeant when I go to town, and so I shall soon know one way or other,” and he sighed profoundly, and with a yearning look townwards he took his place, and flew away toward Gilroyd

  CHAPTER LXX.

  VIOLET DARKWELL TELLS MISS WAGGET THAT QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD.

  THE sun was near the western horizon, and sky and clouds were already flooded with the sunset glow, as William Maubray drove up to the high and formal piers of Gilroyd, with their tall urns at top — decorations which belong to old-world fancy — a little formal, like the stately dress of by-gone beauties and beaux, but with a sentiment and a prettiness of their own. Sad looked to him the smile of the old building and lordly trees in the fading sunlight; the windows sparkled redly in it, the ivy rustled in the light air, and the sparrows twittered and fluttered up and down among its glittering leaves — the time, the sights, and sounds recalling many an arrival at the same pleasant hour, and many a welcome look and tone — gone now — faint and far away in memory, and ever to grow more and more distant The hall door was opened — in went William without a summons — and in the hall he heard voices issuing from the drawingroom. Old Miss Wagget’s kindly and cheering tones were distinctly audible, and Winnie Dobbs was making answer as he entered. From the two old women. as he stepped in, there was a simultaneous ejaculation, and Winnie’s two hands were lifted in amaze, and she beamed on him with a ruddy smile of welcome, crying aloud, “Well, law. ’Tis him, sure enough!” and “ There you are; what a charming surprise!” exclaimed Miss Wagget, trotting up to him with her hands extended, and shaking both his with a jolly little laugh.

  “We walked over to pay our respects to good Winnie Dobbs here, little expecting to meet the lord of the castle. Ha, ha, ha! why we thought you were at Hamburg, and lo and behold! Here we have you! And I ventured to bring a friend, will you allow me to introduce?”

  But Violet Darkwell — for she was the friend — not waiting for Miss Wagget’s mock ceremony, came a step or two to meet him, and again, in Gilroyd, he held that prettiest of slender hands in his.

  “Oh! pretty Vi, who could forget you? How I wish you liked me ever so little! Oh! that you were the mistress of Gilroyd!” These were his thoughts as with a smile and a quiet word or two of greeting he took her hand.

  “Did you come through London?” asked Miss Wagget.

  “No; direct here,” he answered.

  “Surprised to find us, I dare say?” and she glanced at Violet. “Our friend here — like a good little creature, as she is — came down to keep me company for a week, and as much longer as I can make her stay, while my brother is at Westthorpe, and you must come over with us to tea.”

  William acquiesced.

  “And, Winnie Dobbs, you must tell me all you know of that Tummins family at the mill �
� are the)’ really tie-serving people? — there was a rumour, you know — young people, do you go out and take a ramble in the lawn, and I’ll join you. Winnie and I must talk for a minute or two.”

  So Violet and William did go out, and stood for a minute in the old familiar porch.

  “How pretty it looks — always — in the setting sun — it’s the light that suits Gilroyd. There’s something a little melancholy in this place, though cheery along with it — I don’t know how,” said William.

  “So do I — I always thought that — like those minuets I used to play, that dear old grannie liked so well — something brilliant and oldfashioned, and plaintive,” replied the sweet voice of Violet Darkwell.

  “Come out into the sunlight,” said William. “Oh! how pretty! isn’t it?”

  Violet looked round with a sad smile that was beautiful on her girlish face.

  “And the chestnut trees — I wonder how old they are,” said William. “I must see you once more, Violet, among the chestnut trees;” and he led her towards them, she going willingly, with a little laugh that sounded low and sadly.

  Among their stems, he stopped before that of a solitary beech tree.

  “Do you remember that tree?” said William, speaking very low.

  “I do indeed,” said Violet, with the faintest little laugh in the world.

  “It’s more than three years ago — it’s four years ago — since I carved them.” He was pointing to two lines of letters, already beginning to spread and close in as such memorials on the living bark will do — but still legible enough. They were —

  Vi Darkwell.

  William Maubray.

  “These are going,” he said with a sigh, “like the old inscriptions in Saxton Churchyard; I believe it is impossible to make any lasting memorial; even memory fails as we grow old; God only remembers always; and this little carving here seems to me like an epitaph, times are so changed, and we — Vi Darkwell — William Maubray” — (he read slowly). “Little Vi is gone — dead and buried — and William Maubray — he did not know a great many things that he has found out since. He is dead and gone too, and I am here. He did not know himself; he thought the old things were to go on always; he did not know, Vi, how much he loved you — how desperately he loved you. You don’t know it — you can’t know it — or how much rather I’d die than lose you.”

  She was looking down, the point of her little foot was smoothing this way and that the moss on the old roots that overlaced the ground.

  “If I thought you could like me! Oh! Violet, can you — ever so little?” He took her hand in both his, and his handsome young face was as that of a man in some dreadful hour pleading for his life. There were the glow of hope, the rapture of entreaty, the lines of agony.

  “I like you, William. I do like you,” she said, so low that no other ears but his, I think, could have heard it, and the little wood anemones nodded their pretty heads, and the groups of wood-sorrel round trembled, it seemed with joy; and William said, in a wild whisper —

  “My darling — oh! Vi — my darling. My only love — dearer and dearer, every year. Oh! darling, my love is everlasting!” and he kissed her hand again and again, and he kissed her lips, and the leaves and flowers were hushed, nature was listening, pleased, and, I think, the angels looking down smiled on those fair young mortals, and those blessed moments that come with the glory of paradise, and being gone are remembered for ever.

  “Why, young people, what has become of you?” cried the well known voice of Miss Wagget “Ho! here you are. I guessed I should find you among the trees; grand old timber, Mr. Maubray.” The guilty pair approached Miss Wagget side by side, looking as unconcerned as they could, and she talked on. “I sometimes think, Mr. Maubray, that Gilroyd must be a much older place than most people fancy. That house, now, what style is it in? My brother says there were such houses built in Charles the Second’s time, but the timber you know is — particularly the oaks down there — the trees are enormously old, and there are traces of a moat. I don’t understand these things, but my brother says, at the side of the house toward the road,” and so on kind Miss Wagget laboured, little assisted by William, upon topics about which none of them were thinking.

  That evening Miss Wagget was seized with a sort of musical frenzy, and sat down and played through ever so many old books of such pieces as were current in her youth, and very odd and quaint they sound now — more changed the fashion of our music even than of our language.

  I’m afraid that the young people were not so attentive as they might, and William whispered incessantly, sitting beside Violet on the sofa.

  It was rather late when that little musical party broke up.

  To Gilroyd, William walked in a dream, in the air, all the world at his feet, a demigod. And that night when Vi, throwing her arms about Miss Wagget’s neck, confided in her ear the momentous secret, the old lady exclaimed gaily —

  “Thank you for nothing! a pinch for stale news! Why I knew it the moment I saw your face under the trees there, and I’m very happy. I’m delighted. I’ve been planning it, and hoping for it this ever so long — and poor fellow! He was so miserable.”

  CHAPTER LXXI.

  THE CHIMES OF SAXTON.

  NEXT morning Miss Wagget was busy, in a great fuss, writing the news to her brother and the sergeant, and for the benefit of the latter she drew such a picture of William Maubray’s virtues and perfections in general as must have made that sagacious man long to possess such a son-in-law. The good lady enclosed a dutiful little note to him from Violet, and wound up with an eloquent lecture, in which she demonstrated that if the sergeant were to oppose this palpable adjustment of Providence, he should be found to fight against Heaven, the consequences of which enter prise she left him to conjecture.

  William also spent the entire forenoon over a letter to the same supreme authority; and the letters despatched, there intervened a few days of suspense and wonderful happiness, notwithstanding.

  William was waiting in the little postoffice of Saxton when the answering letters came. Mrs. Beggs having sorted the contents of the mail with an anxious eye, delivered his letters, and at his desire, those for the Rectory, to William. There was a letter from the sergeant for him. There was no mistaking the tall and peculiar hand. There were two others addressed severally to the ladies at the Rectory. William did not care to read his in Mrs. Beggs’s little parlour, so he took his leave cheerfully, even gaily, with an awful load at his heart.

  In his pocket lay his fate sealed. Hardly a soul was stirring in the drowsy little street. Here and there a listless pair of eyes peeped through the miniature panes of a shop window. He could not read the letter where any eye could see him. He hurried round the corner of Garden Row, got on the road leading to Gilroyd, crossed the style that places you upon the path to the Rectory,. “ and in the pretty field, with only half a dozen quiet cows for witnesses, opened and read his London letter.

  It told him how well Mr. Sergeant Darkwell liked him, that he believed wedded happiness depended a great deal more on affection, honour, and kindness, than upon wealth. It said that he had aptitudes for the bar, and would no doubt do very well with exertion. It then mentioned what the sergeant could do for his daughter, which William thought quite splendid, and was more, Miss Wagget afterwards said, than she had reckoned upon.

  For some years at least they were to live with the sergeant, “putting by your income, my dears, and funding at least five or six hundred a year,” interposed Miss Wagget, who was in a wonderful fuss. “You’ll be rich before you know where you are — you will, indeed! He’s an admirable man — your father’s an admirable man, my dear! I don’t know such a man, except my brother, who’s a man by himself, you know. But next after him your papa, my dear, is the very best man I ever heard of.

  And you’ll be married here, at Saxton — you shall, indeed.

  You must remain with us, and be married from this, and I wonder my brother stays so long away, he’ll be as glad as I
. The sergeant shall come down to us for the wedding, and give you away at Saxton, and there’s that beautiful spot Wyndel Abbey, so romantic and charming, the very place for a honeymoon, and only fifteen miles away.”

  And so, on and on, ran good Miss Wagget, arranging everything for the young people, and as it were, counting the turnpikes, and packing their trunks for the happy excursionists, and making them comfortable in the pretty little inn at Wyndel Abbey, where she had once spent a week.

  Well would it be for castle-builders in general if their dreams proved all as true as those of fanciful and kindly Miss Wagget did, on this occasion.

  It was agreed it was to be a very quiet wedding. At secluded Saxton, indeed, it would not have been easy to make it anything else. Sergeant Darkwell of course gave pretty Violet away.

  Honest Dr. Drake was there, in an unprofessional blue coat and buff waistcoat, and with a bouquet in his buttonhole, in which not a single camomile flower figured. Miss Drake, too, in a lavender silk; and wishing the gay couple every good from her heart, notwithstanding her surprise that Sergeant Darkwell should have permitted his child to marry at so early an age as eighteen — nineteen? Well, one year here or there doesn’t signify a great deal, she fancied. Good old Winnie Dobbs, too, in a purple silk and new bonnet, which must have been quite in the fashion, for all Saxton admired it honestly. A little way from the communion rails, behind the gentlefolks, she stood or kneeled, edified, only half credulous, smiling sometimes, and crying a great deal — thinking, I am sure, of kind old Aunt Dinah, who was not to see that hour Winnie, I mention parenthetically, is still housekeeper at Gilroyd, and very happy, with nothing but a little rheumatism to trouble her.