“Upon my soul, that’s being rather cool!”
Mrs. Shadwell looked rather frightened at his angry face.
“I hope I haven’t done wrong, Mark,” she began.
“You have sent Miss Marlyn with her, of course?”
“.No; Miss Marlyn is here.”
“Oh! and wasn’t she asked?”
“Yes, dear Mark, at first, but that was changed afterwards.”
“Changed, was it? So she has gone off without her governess,” he said.
“But her governess couldn’t be of the least use to her there, and you know you said you thought Miss Marlyn was unnecessary; and she’s going away,” pleaded she.
He stared, at her very angrily, the more so, that he was a little puzzled by her very obvious rejoinder.
“Upon my honour! you’re growing quite a debater, that’s a vastly clever answer, only it don’t quite demonstrate the wisdom of sending Rachel off alone, among such a set of muffs, to ‘meet that fellow, Mordant; and I don’t see what business you had to send my daughter away on such a visit without acquainting me with it.”
“But, Mark, dear, don’t you remember that you told me that I might always send Rachel there without troubling you about it?”
“I say, having asked Miss Marlyn, as the proper person, to accompany her, it was insufferingly impertinent withdrawing that invitation; it strikes me, if she is good enough company for you and Rachel, that Mr. Roger Temple, and Charles Mordant, and old Miss Barbara might venture to sit in the same room with her. Have you heard anything against her? I should be glad to know the pretext on which we are to be treated with that kind of insult. And recollect the effect such a snub, from such a quarter, must have upon the position of that young lady, in whom you professed to take an interest, and whom, I think, we are bound to protect, not only from common wants and dangers, while she stays here, but from damned impertinence and slander.”
He thundered the last words, actually pale with anger.
“But, Mark, dear,” she faltered, “there has not been a word said.”
“Yes, that’s the odious cowardice of the thing, don’t you see; there’s always a risk of being exposed and punished if one does say lies of people; and don’t you perceive that the work is just as effectually done, and far more safely, by letting the world know that the vicar and his family won’t let a given young lady into their house, and decline to sit in the same room with her? Do you think it fair to Miss Marlyn that we should allow that? I don’t, I can tell you, and I’ll write to give them my opinion of it, and Rachel shall come home tonight.” And with these ominous words he rose, lowering, and stalked from the room, shutting the door, with more emphasis than beseemed the chamber of an invalid.
There are two doors to Mrs. Shadwell’s morning-room: one through which Mark had come and gone, opening on the great gallery; the other from a small anteroom, which communicates with a back gallery.
As Mrs. Shadwell sat there stunned and frightened, this latter door opened, and Miss Marlyn, with a book in her hand, entered. Mrs. Shadwell was in tears. Miss Marlyn’s smile vanished — she stood still.
“Pray, come here, Miss Marlyn, and sit down,” sobbed Mrs. Shadwell, vehemently, forgetting the coldness and reserve of the last week, in her agitation. “Now, I ask you, Miss Marlyn, have I slandered you — have I? Have I ever slandered you, or permitted any one to slander you?”
“Oh, dear Mrs. Shadwell! I could not imagine such a thing!” exclaimed that beautiful young lady, much shocked, apparently. “Slander me — slander any one! Utterly impossible!”
“Mr. Shadwell has been here, so amazed about that little visit to the Temples, and your not having gone with Rachel.”
“Oh, dear Mrs. Shadwell! How very provoking. You have no idea how much I prefer being here, and you know I should have only been in the way there, and I should not have liked it at all; and I know they have not much room, for Mr. Mordant is staying there.”
“And Mr. Shadwell is so vexed, and he is going to write, and to send for Rachel tonight; and so, I suppose, we shall lose the only friends that are left to us.”
“But if you were to ask Mr. Shadwell not to write, surely he would not.”
“Mr. Shadwell is very kind, so kind, you have no idea; but he is very firm, and when he thinks a thing right to be done, nothing ever moves him, he always does it, and I am very sorry— “
And Mrs. Shadwell broke down again, and when she looked up Miss Marlyn was gone.
In less than ten minutes more Agnes Marlyn returned, flushed, radiant, and so beautiful! She had prevailed with Mr. Shadwell, the letter would not be written, nor Rachel sent for, nor the arrangement with the Temples disturbed.
It was running so rapidly up the stairs that made the rise and fall of her dress show her quickened breathing, and that called that brilliant colour to her cheeks, which seemed to give a fiery softness to her eyes. Her words and tones were very humble; those eyes were cast down. There was the modest gratification of having done her benefactress a little service: a very timid pleasure and an indescribable pleasing sadness in her tones and attitude. And along with all this — imperceptible by all but that marvellous organ, the eye of a wife — was there not the baleful light of an insufferable triumph?
Ten-million-fold rather at that moment would poor Amy have accepted all the vexation that threatened than been so rescued. She recognised the extraordinary beauty of that girl. She felt, with a deep-seated agony, how facile had been her influence where she, even in better days, had failed to persuade. Like other foolish wives she worshipped the beauty and fascinations of a husband whom other people saw as he was, and she thought him irresistible.
“In black mourn I,
All fears scorn I.
Lore hath forlorn me,
Living in thrall.
Heart is bleeding,
All help needing,
Oh, cruel speeding!
Fraughted with gall.”
With a heart wounded and resentful, she yet contrived to smile and thank her. She praised her reading, the meaning of which never reached her wandering thoughts, and heard the cadences of that sweet voice that stirred her heart with the anguish of jealousy.
When Agnes Marlyn had bade her goodnight, and departed, she looked in the glass with a pang, her retina still glowing with the radiant beauty that had just left the room. There met her the plaintive, faded little face, whose glory was over, and the large eyes, still beautiful, and to which, as she looked, the tears sprang. “Amy! Amy!” she murmured, slowly and sadly, with a mournful little shake of her head. All at once the change of years came up before her — the sense of the flight of her power — and the wild uncertainty of future times.
CHAPTER VI.
CARMEL SHERLOCK IN HIS NEW ABODE.
THAT evening, so unhappy at Raby, was passing very pleasantly for Rachel at the Vicarage.
Barbara Temple had made, as she supposed, two people very happy. But, alas! — there were two others. Poor Roger was now, six o’clock P.M., expected momentarily, and disappointment awaited him.
Miss Barbara grew silent and nervous as the hour approached, and when Roger’s fly drew up at the door, she actually grew pale, as she ran out to the hall to meet him.
“Oh! Bonnie, darling, I’m so glad, and you’re looking so beautiful — such a colour!”
“Now, Babie, you rogue, you’re at your old tricks — trying to make me conceited,” panted Bonnie, with a laugh of fond gratification.
“But I do say, Bonnie, your colour is just what it was when you were nine years old — quite beautiful!” repeated Babie, in a rapture, and still out of breath from the hug she had bestowed on him.
“I’m glad I’m looking so young — or — so well, I mean,” said Roger, in an undertone, smiling delighted. “It’s just the little breeze — the air; and — and, hadn’t I better run up and get off these things?” he added; and she knew, by the wandering of his honest little blue eyes towards the drawingroom door, whom he was t
hinking of, and with a pang she suddenly recollected.
“Oh! Bonnie, dear! I forgot — how shall I tell you?” she exclaimed, suddenly looking in his face quite woebegone.
“Good gracious! She isn’t ill — is she?” he exclaimed.
“Oh! no — not ill; but she’s not here,” said Babie, looking in his face as if she expected him to burst into tears.
“Oh! — and they haven’t come, after all?” murmured Bonnie, in a dismal tone of disappointment.
“Only Rachel, dear: Mrs. Shadwell couldn’t come, and Miss Marlyn remained with her at Raby,” said Babie with a little indirectness.
She saw that Bonnie was in despair, though his faded smile still lingered.
“Well, Babie; another time,” he said, with a dismal hopefulness.
“Oh! yes — let us hope — let us hope!” exclaimed kind Barbara, evasively.
Honest Roger made a tedious toilet, and sat long over his fire. When he entered the pleasant, oldfashioned, little drawingroom, his brother Stour had come in, and Doctor Sprigge, who was of their little dinner-party; and he and the vicar were chatting with Miss Barbara quite cozily by the fire.
With that affinity which acts so irresistibly, Roger’s eye instantly found Rachel, associated as she was with the absent Agnes Marlyn, and he drew near and greeted pretty Miss Shadwell, and turned away, with a melancholy yearning, to shake hands with the doctor and the vicar; and then to take Barbara’s hand and pat it, and look sadly into her eyes; and, with a little sigh, he told her how very cold the wind was over Higmore Heath this evening.
“Ay, that’s the place to catch it,” said the doctor, overhearing him. “That moor’s worth fifty pounds a year to me, in bronchitis and cases of that kind. Anything of an east wind comes down through the break in the mountains, — like a funnel — and sweeps Higmore. I never felt anything like it. You’re all right here?”
And the doctor touched Roger’s ample chest with a privileged poke with the top of his finger.
“All right there?” repeated Roger, whose attention had been wandering. “Ah! ha! — you rogue!” he murmured, with a sad smile and a shake of the head which the doctor did not understand.
“Roger,” said Miss Barbara, getting up hastily, “I forgot to show you — come to the window — you must do something to the poor Persian lilac; the best branch was broken last night in the storm. See, Bonnie — isn’t it a pity?”
Bonnie gazed.
“Yes, indeed; so it is,” he answered, and a sigh followed.
“Why do ‘ you look so sad, Bonnie, darling?” she whispered.
“Sad? No; I was only thinking what a lucky fellow Charlie Mordant is!”
“Yes, Bonnie, dear, but other people will be lucky too — and happy; all that’s wanted is just a little patience.”
“Do you think — do you think she’ll come tomorrow?” whispered Roger, holding Barbara’s hand.
“I can’t say, dear. I’m afraid not.”
“She wasn’t ill — you’re sure?”
“Oh, no! quite well; and she seemed delighted at the idea of coming — I assure you she did. She looked so — so beautiful, and pleased.”
“Did she — did she, really? Babie, you’re a darling; you always see everything.”
“And, I’m sure, she was much more disappointed than you are. I’m certain she’s looking out from the window over Wynderfel Wood, in this direction, at this moment. I can picture her to myself — looking and sighing,” said romantic Barbara.
“Ah! I’m afraid not, Babie, dear. No — no! I dare say she does not care — she doesn’t care much, at least. Do you really think she does?” sighed Roger, and pressed her hand again.
And Babie patted the back of his sunburnt paw with tender compassion, and a great misgiving at her heart, which she dared not tell him. And Babie would have gone on romancing, and Roger listening to her delightful dreams, heaven knows for how long, had not the maid just at that moment popped in at the door, to tell them that dinner was ready; so, with another great sigh, and a grateful pressure of Babie’s hand, Roger in haste took his place and followed in the wake of more important people, besides Charles Mordant, whom, as they went, he patted gently on the shoulder, saying— “Glad to see you again, old fellow!”
For all but my good friend Roger, that quiet evening glided very pleasantly into the past. There was talking — old recollections and new stories. There was the merry, and sometimes plaintive jingle of the old piano. There were songs, and one duet, which Miss Barbara encored — remarking, in a pleased aside to Stour, how charmingly their voices went together; so Rachel and Mordant sang it over again, and were much applauded, even by Roger, who remembered Miss Marlyn’s voice in that duet, beside the same piano, and who for her sake sighed also an encore.
“Poor Stour!” exclaimed Miss Barbara, next morning at breakfast. “Not content with his own work, which, I do assure you, is nearly killing him, he has promised Mr. Clarke, who is in such affliction, you know, to visit for him, two days in the week, at Applebury prison; and so he’s gone off, with an early breakfast, and we sha’n’t see him now, I suppose, till dinner-time, or perhaps later.”
And so it was. Stour was by this time visiting the “spirits in prison,” so few of whom care to be preached to — in a prison not of common locks and masonry only — spirits imprisoned in the iron cage of evil education and habits, and screwed down, as Andersen says, each “under the coffin-lid of his connections.”
“The prisoner named Carmel Sherlock,” said Stour to the prison officer, when he had made the round of the wards, “not a convict — only committed for trial — who, you tell me, has refused to see the chaplain, would, I think, see me. I’ve known him for a long time, and take a deep interest in the unhappy man; and I would be so glad to see him, if he would admit my visit. Will you ask him?”
The man returned — Sherlock would be glad to see him. So the vicar walked down the flagged corridor and entered the small square room, where the thin figure of Carmel Sherlock met him.
Sherlock looked thinner, and his black hair was longer, but his pale face showed no change in expression, and no altered lines of suffering.
“I am glad, Mr. Sherlock, you have admitted me; I could not leave this place without asking whether you would see me,” said the vicar.
“Thanks, yes; and how are the family at Raby?” said Sherlock, fixing his earnest eyes on him.
“All quite well,” answered the vicar.
“Mr. Shadwell?” the prisoner inquired.
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Shadwell?”
“Always an invalid, you know; but not worse than she has been for some time.”
“And Miss Rachel?”
“Quite well.”
“Quite well,” he echoed, mournfully; “and happy — ay, happy?”
“I am here, you know,” said the vicar, after a pause, “as a clergyman — doing duty for the chaplain.”
“Ah! yes, as a clergyman — and no doubt making many people happier — but that is not for me. You see God in your printed Bible, Mr. Temple, and I, in the pictured pages of His Creation; and my ideas and yours are different.”
“My dear Mr. Sherlock, all this trouble has not, I hope, befallen you in vain. Surely you reflect on your present situation.”
“That, sir, is all fair — yes, sir: the bitter for the sweet; the darkness for the light; a balanced account, with small profit or loss to any, when it is closed. When you come into a family you must accept their rules; and being born in the world, you are the ‘oikstes’ of the great house, and taste of its good cheer and also of its horribile flagellum. So it is, sir, I am here. You think it just; and if killing be always murder, it is just. And there is the weakness of the Bible. It makes you, don’t you see, the slave of a few generalities; but I discriminate. Which is more spiritual? You call all the immortal sights and voices that are about us, fancies proceeding from our own perishable brains; but I perceive, and consider them, as belonging to God
’s outer household of immortal spirits.”
The vicar answered nothing. He was looking down, disappointed. He ought to have remembered, he thought, how mad this wretched man was. He was but throwing good seed into the deep and barren sea.
“Sir Roke Wycherly, what was he? Ay, he came at the behest of others. Why should that hoary old goat haunt the house when there was so short an exorcism? Your evangelists and apostles were wiser than you, Mr. Temple. They knew the unclean spirits by the sense that was given them. They believed in demons, because ‘they knew the signs of their tenancy, and saw that they fought murderously against expulsion — yes — with some of them, anything for a body — the tenement of clay, the mechanism of sense. They did it with a spell: ‘Thou unclean spirit, come out of him.’ I was told to cast him out another way.”
“Pray,” said the vicar, peremptorily, “say nothing to me that may commit you upon the question of your innocence. I must not be made partaker in any secret which I ought not to keep.”
Carmel Sherlock’s dark eyes glared askance on him a look of suspicion, and then dropped to the floor. In silence he ruminated, and with a sigh, he looked up and said:
“To a man who has always liked solitude, this kind of thing,” and he waved his fingers slightly toward the wall, “has nothing formidable; and to one who has lost all but life, death looks friendly. I miss the picture, now and then, once in an hour; once in a day, once in a night. Sometimes I would look from my window — I miss “Wynderfel — enchanted ground — and the black tarn, in Feltram Glen — Lake Avemus. The spirits! Haunted ground — friendly spirits. They came to know the solitary man who did not fear them — who trusted them; and they sometimes told him thoughts. A star like that the wise men saw, I followed; but mine went out. I miss the Straduarius. It followed my memory in all its windings, with its own storm and lamentation. You have showed me kindness, now and always, sir, in the same way. Your religion is comfortable to you, and you have wished to make me a partaker in it. No small kindness; and, I never forget a kindness, so I have left you the Straduarius. Mr. Shadwell will have all the rest — the books, the creese, and the other things. But to you, for you have music,” — he was looking dreamily at Stour Temple’s head, as he might on a phrenologic cast— “that wonderful creation, the Straduarius!”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 426