The vicar, remembering the strange sounds emitted by this same violin, as he stood with Mark Shadwell on the steps at Raby one melancholy night, was very near smiling.
The impulse was but transitory, and with decent gravity he thanked Carmel Sherlock, and hoped that it would be very long before his bequest took effect.
“You are kind, sir, but I sha’n’t leave this new home of mine — this home of stone and iron — alive. This lamp will not be broken — it will go out.”
The vicar already regretted his visit. In Carmel Sherlock’s enigmatical speeches were hinted revelations which he ought not hear without divulging.
“I don’t quite see your meaning,” said Stour Temple, and hesitated. He suspected a covert threat of suicide.
“No, sir,” said Sherlock, reading his suspicion with a strange penetration. “I mean that I shall die — die, as you would say, a natural death.”
“You are not ill, I hope?”
“Ill? Oh, no! There’s no man in England better: an elastic life that adapts itself to all forms of pain, which will bear sudden transition from the hermitage to the camp, and from the camp to the prison, and never feel it. If a man could sell such things, sir, there are men who would give a sack of gold for it. But money has its hour like every other thing; and for me it would come too late. Life in one hand, gold in the other, I would drop both into the abyss for one moment’s certainty of a thing which never was — never can be — sir; and might have been a curse if it came. Haven’t you seen celestial faces that changed when you came near? Every one knows what horror is — these transformations. Therefore, sir, it is better to wait for the spiritual world, when the essence of things will appear, and into that world I go smiling, bidding my eternal farewell to the illusions of mortality. I go, sir, as I say, serene; at peace, Mr. Temple, with all the world and with myself; reconciled to the wonderful conditions of life, and expecting confidently those which are sublime!”
The vicar listened to what in his ears sounded like audacious impieties, with eyes cast down and a look of pain; and, shaking his head, he replied:
“Ah! Mr. Sherlock, your faith must repose on something more solid than your own wild theories, and you must have some more satisfactory convictions than the dark retrospect of a life and mind so fancifully preoccupied can offer to justify] the confidence on which you may reasonably rest.”
“Confidence and — curiosity, sir,” said Sherlock.
“Well, Mr. Sherlock, you have said things to-day which have made me very anxious. You will not, from curiosity, make a jump, like Empedocles, into the crater?” And the vicar looked on Sherlock as he spoke.
Sherlock smiled, and repeated —
“‘Relictâ non bene parmulâ;’
No, sir. If I know myself, I sha’n’t do that.”
“If I had found you in a mood, Mr. Sherlock, as you say, from curiosity, if from no other motive, to talk on the one subject which can never lose its interest — I mean the lamp of truth, which is the Bible, which alone can light us through the valley of the shadow of death, to safety — it would have been a great happiness to me.”
He paused; but Carmel Sherlock, listening respectfully, with downcast eyes, said nothing.
“You are very good, sir, you are wonderfully good, to care for such a man as I. I can’t understand it; I can only thank you from my heart. I was on the point to-day of telling you some things which, as yet, no one knows but myself, and when you checked me, I resolved to postpone. I shall perhaps tell my benefactor, Mr. Shadwell, instead, when he comes. I’m sure he’ll come to see me, sir! He’ll surely come! and for the rest, sir, — time — time. I have got some old books; you would think them of no value, but they have many deep meanings hidden one under the other, like the wisdom of Brutus or of Hamlet under a mad exterior.”
“Then another time, perhaps, you will talk with me more as I could wish?” said Temple.
“Not now — not to-day, sir; perhaps never. But I am very grateful; and, will you show me another great kindness — knowing not in what shape, nor how soon, death may arrive — for I hear his steps in the air — if it should be with short notice — will you come and see me? There is something which I want to tell Mr. Shadwell — he will be glad to hear it — about the death of Sir Roke Wycherly, and if I can’t write, and that you hear I am dying, will you come?”
“Certainly; you may rely upon me,” answered Temple.
“That is all, sir. I hear the man at the door,” said Carmel Sherlock.
Not without extracting a promise, in return, that Sherlock would read a little book which he would send him, ‘did the good vicar take his leave.
“Solitude!” said Sherlock, with a smile, when he found himself alone, casting his Latin folio on the table. “With living comrades like you, with memory, with dreams that come through the golden gate, listeners are never alone. It is your talkers who are lonely. This romance is ended — so let us go and begin another.”
CHAPTER VII.
ROGER TEMPLE LOOKS IN.
WHILE Miss Barbara, with Rachel and Charles Mordant, drove to visit the ruins of Elverston. Castle, my forlorn friend, Roger Temple, sauntered towards Wynderfel. From the heights beyond the ruined hall, he gazed sadly at the woods and chimneys of Raby, till, unable to resist the yearnings of his love, he trudged slowly on towards the sombre scene of his own romance.
As he approached the house, he began to regret that he had not asked Barbara to give him a message to excuse his visit. He would not go in, however; he would merely inquire at the door, and try his chance. Barbara would, of course, wish to know how Mrs. Shadwell was; and so he would inquire in her name; ay, and if he encountered Mark, he would say that she sent him. Very slowly he walked by the windows of the house, but no sign of life met his eye. Round the comer, along the side of the mansion, he proceeded quite solitarily, and so to the front. The hall-door was half open. He hesitated. He heard the well-known sound of the piano accompanying a rich clear voice.
Honest Roger was on the point of walking into the schoolroom, whence the music proceeded, unannounced. He recollected himself, however, and rang the bell, while his heart throbbed faster than was comfortable.
The old butler arrived at his leisure, and Roger greeted him in a very friendly way, and told him he had come to give a very particular message for Mrs. Shadwell, which his sister had specially directed him to give to no one but Miss Marlyn.
Roger was now fibbing away quite unscrupulously, which shows how dangerous, even in intention, is the slightest departure from the narrow path of truth. “I think I hear Miss Marlyn at her music?” he said. “Will you try and let me know whether she can see me for a moment?”
“Yes, that she would,” said the servant; and without asking Miss Marlyn’s leave introduced Roger Temple, nothing loath, to her presence.
Miss Marlyn stood up from her music very much surprised, it seemed. Five minutes before, she had not been playing or singing. She was in one of her reveries, talking perhaps with her little black cat, when she saw the top of honest Roger’s wideawake glide by, and, peeping, saw the worthy fellow himself. Thus it happened that the schoolroom door was opened a very little, and thus it came that the ring of music escaped from the schoolroom, and was quite audible on the steps of the hall-door.
“My sister sent me — a little message — and I am so sorry to have interrupted that really heavenly music — quite heavenly!” (a pause and an expressive look occurred here), “and I am so fortunate — so very fortunate, Miss Marlyn, in having found you at home — so very happy.”
“I think you said there was a message?” suggested Miss Marlyn, for another pause had occurred, and Roger seemed to have forgotten everything but those happy sensations which he described.
“Oh! oh, yes — to ask you particularly how Mrs. Shadwell is this morning?”
“Mrs. Shadwell is just as usual. Shall I run up to give her your message?”
“Oh, dear, no! pray, don’t think of it — pray, don’t
— merely when you do see her, to “be so good as to mention that I called. I heard the delightful music from the steps; I knew very well who the musician must be. No other music affects me, Miss Marlyn, like yours — none, upon my honour!”
“It is very good of you to say so, Mr. Temple. You kind people in this part of the world are all so very good to me. I don’t know how I shall bear to leave Raby.”
“Oh, Miss Marlyn, you must not leave us.”
“I think I shall leave Raby about this day week. I like Raby. I had grown so fond of it. I think I was formed for a country life,” said Miss Marlyn, with a sad little smile that moved honest Roger extremely.
“I am sure, Miss Marlyn, you have not an idea how some of us will miss you — how awfully — how really awfully!”
Miss Marlyn laughed prettily.
“There’s one, at least, Miss Marlyn — there’s some one — one I could name; there is, indeed, and I don’t know what he should do — what would become of him— “
Here there was a pause, and poor Roger looked unspeakable things. He ought to have considered that he was making a rather awkward silence for Miss Marlyn.
“You left Miss “Temple quite well, I hope, and Rachel?” she said.
“Yes, quite, thanks — quite well. They went to see Elverston Castle; but I couldn’t — I couldn’t, indeed. I couldn’t come anywhere but in this direction — I was so low — so very unhappy. It was such a disappointment your not coming yesterday, — and my sister admires and likes you so much — you have no idea — we all do, and — and — oh! I wish I could tell you half what I feel. I wish, Miss Marlyn, I dare. I — I think you so beautiful, and — and so glorious — an angel of beauty and of goodness!” he rhapsodized, quoting a phrase unconsciously from one of the old novels in Miss Barbara’s bookcase. “I can’t tell you half — only, I can think of no one else — of nothing else. I quite worship you. There’s nothing on earth I would not give just to hear you say you could ever like me. I — I have talked it all over a hundred times with dear Babie, and — and she would be so delighted, and we could live with them so pleasantly. I have four hundred a year of my own; and — and — you like the country so; and oh, dear! how happy we should be, and — and — for God’s sake, don’t say, ‘No!’”
Perhaps it struck Miss Marlyn at the moment, that, all things considered, the thing was worth weighing. If for a clever, friendless, beautiful girl like her, there were some brilliant prizes, there were also dismal blanks. But she was ambitious and enterprising, and for such a spirit mere safety has no very distinct attractions.
While some vague calculations were rolling in her mind, my friend Roger, in his rapture of entreaty, had seized her hand in both his, and was pressing it, and pressed it, even, tremblingly, two or three times to his lips. I suppose there was some little decent show of withdrawal! Miss Marlyn was standing with her back toward the door, and toward it also and toward her, honest Roger’s bald head was presented as he made his harried adorations. It was a very marked change in the expression of his face as he raised it, that caused her to look round as she withdrew her hand quickly.
They both saw Mark Shadwell standing there. There was an awkward pause for a moment, during which Miss Marlyn glided from the room.
“I just came in,” he said, “Miss Marlyn, to say that my wife, I think, wishes to say a word to you, — how do you do, Temple? — but I suppose there’s no great hurry. — You’ve had a walk across by Wynderfel, I suppose, or did you ride?”
“Oh! I — I walked,” said Roger, not quite clear for a moment how he had come there. “I — yes; I walked. It is so beautiful; so — so very pretty.”
“Yes, very pretty,” acquiesced Mark, with a slight sarcasm.
“It is, indeed — sometimes, I think, quite irresistible,” floundered poor Roger.
Mark smiled cynically.
“All your people quite well at the Vicarage, I hope?” said Mark.
“Oh! perfectly; thanks — thanks.”
“Won’t you come to the drawingroom, you’ll be more comfortable?”
“No — well, no — I believe not,” said Roger. There was a short silence and Mark inquired abruptly:— “Can I do anything for you?”
“Anything for me — anything? Oh, no! many thanks. There’s nothing — only, merely — nothing, in fact, but my sister, who wished me to inquire how Mrs. Shadwell is to-day.”
“Very kind of her. She’s pretty much as usual,” said Mark.
“Oh! yes, thanks — I’ve heard; and now they’ll be looking for me back again. What splendid timber you have got here, to be sure! and the walk over Wynderfel — one’s led on.”
“Yes, one’s led on,” repeated Mark.
“One never perceives the distance,” and Roger coughed a little. “ I’m detaining you.”
“Only too glad to see you,” said Mark, affecting his ordinary manner on a sudden, though he felt very odd and very sore. “Any news of that poor fellow, Sherlock?”
“No, nothing since, except that he is quite well,” said Roger, trying to recover himself; “that little hurt was not of any consequence; and — and — that’s all; and I think I must be off, they’ll wonder what has become of me,” and flushed and nervous, Roger took his leave on the doorsteps, and whistled for his dog, and remembered he had not brought him with him, and took leave again.
With a sour and rather malicious smile, Mark stood for a time on the steps, and turned briskly and walked into the house, whistling. He stopped in the hall —
“Where’s Miss Marlyn?” he inquired, rather sharply of the old butler.
“Haven’t seen her, sir.”
“Well, have her made out, and tell her I’d thank her very much to bring me to the library Mr. Smithwick’s letter which she said she would be so good as to copy the other day.”
And Mark walked into his room, and shut the door with a sharp emphasis.
CHAPTER VIII.
MISS MARLYN EXPLAINS.
A TAP came to that door speedily, and in obedience to his call, Miss Marlyn entered. She had some papers in her hand.
“Oh! thanks. This is the letter — Mr. Smithwick’s — that you were so good as to say you’d copy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A thousand thanks!”
He took the papers to the window, pretending to read them. Miss Marlyn’s glance read his countenance, and she was pleased.
“So very nicely copied, I ought to be very grateful, indeed,” he said, laying the papers down. “By-the-bye, I ought to apologize, shouldn’t I, for having disturbed you just now, at a very interesting moment?”
Miss Marlyn made no reply.
“My handsome friend, Roger Temple, has withdrawn. I almost pitied him, not for his agitation; but getting over that hill at Wynderfel will blow him so; poor fellow, he was so hot! and this is anything but a hot day. He ought to make his excursions in a palanquin — don’t you think?”
“Is there anything more for me to copy?” asked Miss Marlyn.
“Oh! you are very good — too good — but is it quite fair to Temple, to ask you to take all this trouble for me? He may think it a great impertinence; and it is rather dangerous, doctors say, putting a fat fellow of a certain age in a passion.”
Miss Marlyn here appeared a little offended. “If there is anything more, Mr. Shadwell, perhaps you will send it to the schoolroom?”
“Oh! I’m not going to let you off so — don’t go just for a moment; no, pray don’t.” Miss Marlyn stopped.
“You know how I am placed here. I think I ought to know what passes,” said Mark Shadwell, with a cold sort of decision, and at the same time, perhaps, a little embarrassed. He closed the door, and then added; “What was that fellow saying?”
Miss Marlyn looked down upon the ground in a beautiful confusion, embarrassed for words to begin. She seemed on the point of speaking, but failed.
“Does he want to marry you? there’s nothing to hide. It may be ridiculous, but you’ll not be laughed
at,” persisted Mark. “Come, you know I ought to hear. Did he ask you to marry him?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marlyn, faintly, “he did.” There was a short silence. Mark Shadwell felt very oddly; but he did not show it in his looks.
“And, I suppose, he has had an answer?”
“No, sir.”
“Indeed — I’m afraid I came in, as I said, at an unlucky moment; but there’s pen and ink, and you may write your answer now, if you like,” said Shadwell. “Don’t you think it’s a sort of question that requires an answer?” He paused with his open hand indicating the table on which lay paper, pens, and envelopes.
“Oh! Mr. Shadwell, what shall I say?”
“Really, Miss Marlyn, you are the best judge of that,” said he, drily.
“I mean how shall I express it.”
“I don’t think young ladies usually have much difficulty in finding words,” he said, with a sour smile. “Of course you have made up your mind?”
“How?” said the young lady, raising her deep dark eyes suddenly to his and dropping them again.
“How can I tell? I can’t say the least. Only it’s a case for ‘yes’ or ‘no and, I suppose, you know which you mean to say.”
“I shall never marry,” she said, still looking down.
“Come, come, you don’t mean that,” said he. “Yes, Mr. Shadwell, I shall never marry,” she repeated, very low.
“Well,” said he, oddly relieved, “I’m not surprised at your being a little difficile; if you were not, considering all you are, you would be the most foolish girl in the world.”
“I shall never marry, sir. I’ve quite made up my mind.”
“Made up your mind, have you? And for how long, you wise little woman, have you been of that way of thinking?”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 427