Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  “No, dear, it is not; I don’t think he even knows him. But isn’t it time for us to have our tea? Will you not make it, while I put our books up in the other room?”

  So I undertook this office, and was alone.

  The window was raised, the evening was warm, and the sun by this time setting. It was the pensive hour when solitude is pleasant; when grief is mellowed, and even a thoughtless mind, like mine, is tinged with melancholy. I was thinking now of our recluse neighbour. I had seen him pass, as Miss Grey and I were talking. He still despatched those little notes about the inmates of Malory; for mamma always mentioned, when she wrote to me, in her wanderings on the Continent, that she had heard from Mr. Carmel that I was well, and was out every day with my governess, and so on. I wondered why he had quite given up those little weekly visits, and whether I could have unwittingly offended him.

  These speculations would recur oftener than perhaps was quite consistent with the disdain I affected on the subject. But people who live in cities have no idea how large a space in one’s thoughts, in a solitude like Malory, a neighbour at all agreeable must occupy.

  I was ruminating in a great armchair, with my hand supporting my head, and my eyes fixed on my foot, which was tapping the carpet, when I heard the cold, clear voice of Mr. Carmel at the window. I looked up, and my eyes met his.

  CHAPTER V.

  THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK.

  Our eyes met, I said; they remained fixed for a moment, and then mine dropped. I had been, as it were, detected, while meditating upon this capricious person. I daresay I even blushed; I certainly was embarrassed. He was repeating his salutation, “How d’ye do, Miss Ware?”

  “Oh, I’m very well, thanks, Mr. Carmel,” I answered, looking up; “and — and I heard from mamma on Thursday. They are very well; they are at Genoa now. They think of going to Florence in about three weeks.”

  “I know; yes. And you have no thoughts of joining them?”

  “Oh! none. I should not like to leave this. They have not said a word about it lately.”

  “It is such a time, Miss Ethel, since I had the pleasure of seeing you — I don’t mean, of course, at a distance, but near enough to ask you how you are. I dared not ask to see you too soon, and I thought — I fancied — you wished your walks uninterrupted.”

  I saw that he had observed my strategy; I was not sorry.

  “I have often wished to thank you, Mr. Carmel; you were so very kind.”

  “I had no opportunity, Miss Ethel,” he answered, with more feeling than before. “My profession obliges me to be kind — but I had no opportunity — Miss Grey is quite well?”

  “She is very well, thanks.”

  With a softened glory, in level lines, the beams of the setting sun broke, scattered, through the trunks of the old elms, and one touched the head of the pale young man, as he stood at the window, looking in; his delicate and melancholy features were in the shade, and the golden light, through his thick, brown hair, shone softly, like the glory of a saint. As, standing thus, he looked down in a momentary reverie, Laura Grey came in, and paused, in manifest surprise, on seeing Mr. Carmel at the window.

  I smiled, in spite of my efforts to look grave, and the governess, advancing, asked the young ecclesiastic how he was? Thus recalled, by a new voice, he smiled and talked with us for a few minutes. I think he saw our tea-equipage, and fancied that he might be, possibly, in the way; for he was taking his leave when I said, “Mr. Carmel, you must take tea before you go.”

  “Tea! — I find it very hard to resist. Will you allow me to take it, like a beggarman, at the window? I shall feel less as if I were disturbing you; for you have only to shut the window down, when I grow prosy.”

  So, laughing, Laura Grey gave him a cup of tea, which he placed on the window-stone, and seating himself a little sideways on the bench that stands outside the window, he leaned in, with his hat off, and sipped his tea and chatted; and sitting as Miss Grey and I did, near the window, we made a very sociable little party of three.

  I had quite given up the idea of renewing our speaking acquaintance with Mr. Carmel, and here we were, talking away, on more affable terms than ever! It seemed to me like a dream.

  I don’t say that Mr. Carmel was chatting with the insouciance and gaiety of a French abbé. There was, on the contrary, something very peculiar, both in his countenance and manner, something that suggested the life and sufferings of an ascetic. Something also, not easily defined, of command; I think it was partly in the severe though gentle gravity with which he spoke anything like advice or opinion.

  I felt a little awed in his presence, I could not exactly tell why; and yet I was more glad than I would have confessed that we were good friends again. He sipped his cup of tea slowly, as he talked, and was easily persuaded to take another.

  “I see, Miss Ethel, you are looking at my book with curious eyes.”

  It was true; the book was a very thick and short volume, bound in black shagreen, with silver clasps, and lay on the window-stone, beside his cup. He took it up in slender fingers, smiling as he looked at me.

  “You wish to know what it is; but you are too ceremonious to ask me. I should be curious myself, if I saw it for the first time. I have often picked out a book from a library, simply for its characteristic binding. Some books look interesting. Now what do you take this to be?”

  “Haven’t you books called breviaries? I think this is one,” said I.

  “That is your guess; it is not a bad one — but no, it is not a breviary. What do you say, Miss Grey?”

  “Well, I say it is a book of the offices of the Church.”

  “Not a bad guess, either. But it is no such thing. I think I must tell you — it is what you would call a storybook.”

  “Really!” I exclaimed, and Miss Grey and I simultaneously conceived a longing to borrow it.

  “The book is two hundred and seventy years old, and written in very old French. You would call them stories,” he said, smiling on the back of the book; “but you must not laugh at them; for I believe them all implicitly. They are legends.”

  “Legends?” said I, eagerly— “I should so like to hear one. Do, pray, tell one of them.”

  “I’ll read one, if you command me, into English. They are told here as shortly as it is possible to relate them. Here, for instance, is a legend of John of Parma. I think I can read it in about two minutes.”

  “I’m sorry it is so short; do, pray, begin,” I said.

  Accordingly, there being still light enough to read by, he translated the legend as follows: —

  “John of Parma, general of the order of Friars Minors, travelling one winter’s night, with some brothers of the order, the party went astray in a dense forest, where they wandered about for several hours, unable to find the right path. Wearied with their fruitless efforts, they at length knelt down, and having commended themselves to the protection of the mother of God, and of their patron, Saint Francis, began to recite the first nocturn of the Office of the Blessed Virgin. They had not been long so engaged, when they heard a bell in the distance, and rising at once, and following the direction whence the sound proceeded, soon came to an extensive abbey, at the gate of which they knocked for admittance. The doors were instantly thrown open, and within they beheld a number of monks evidently awaiting their arrival, who, the moment they appeared, led them to a fire, washed their feet, and then seated them at a table, where supper stood ready; and having attended them during their meal, they conducted them to their beds. Wearied with their toilsome journey, the other travellers slept soundly; but John, rising in the night to pray, as was his custom, heard the bell ring for matins, and quitting his cell, followed the monks of the abbey to the chapel, to join with them in reciting the divine office.

  “Arrived there, one of the monks began with this verse of the Thirty-fifth Psalm, ‘Ibi ceciderunt qui operantur iniquitatem;’ to which the choir responded, ‘Expulsi sunt nec potuerunt stare.’ Startled by the strange despairing tone in which
the words were intoned, as well as by the fact that this is not the manner in which matins are usually commenced, John’s suspicions were aroused, and addressing the monks, he commanded them, in the name of the Saviour, to tell him who and what they were. Thus adjured, he who appeared an abbot replied, that they were all angels of darkness, who, at the prayer of the Blessed Virgin, and of Saint Francis, had been sent to serve him and his brethren in their need. As he spoke, all disappeared; and the next moment John found himself and his companions in a grotto, where they remained, absorbed in prayer and singing the praises of God, until the return of day enabled them to resume their journey.”

  “How picturesque that is!” I said, as he closed the little book.

  He smiled, and answered:

  “So it is. Dryden would have transmuted such a legend into noble verse; painters might find great pictures in it — but, to the faithful, it is more. To me, these legends are sweet and holy readings, telling how the goodness, vigilance, and wisdom of God work by miracles for his children, and how these celestial manifestations have never ceased throughout the history of his Church on earth. To you they are, as I said, but stories; as such you may wish to look into them. I believe, Miss Grey, you may read them without danger.” He smiled gently, as he looked at the governess.

  “Oh! certainly, Laura,” cried I. “I am so much obliged.”

  “It is very kind of you,” said Miss Grey. “They are, I am sure, very interesting; but does this little book contain anything more?”

  “Nothing, I am afraid, that could possibly interest you: nothing, in fact, but a few litanies, and what we call elevations — you will see in a moment. There is nothing controversial. I am no proselytiser, Miss Grey,” — he laughed a little— “my duty is quite of a different kind. I am collecting authorities, making extracts and precis, and preparing a work, not of my own, for the press, under a greater than I.”

  “Recollect, Laura, it is lent to me — isn’t it, Mr. Carmel?” I pleaded, as I took the little volume and turned over its pages.

  “Very well — certainly,” he acquiesced, smiling.

  He stood up now. The twilight was deepening; he laid his hand on the window sash, and leaned his forehead upon it, as he looked in, and continued to chat for a few minutes longer; and then, with a slight adieu, he left us.

  When he was gone, we talked him over a little.

  “I wonder what he is? — a priest only or a Jesuit,” said I; “or, perhaps, a member of some other order. I should like so much to know.”

  “You’d not be a bit wiser if you did,” said Laura.

  “Oh, you mean because I know nothing of these orders; but I could easily make out. I think he would have told us tonight in the twilight, if we had asked him.”

  “I don’t think he would have told us anything he had not determined beforehand to tell. He has told us nothing about himself we did not know already. We know he is a Roman Catholic, and an ecclesiastic — his tonsure proclaims that; and your mamma told you that he is writing a book, so that is no revelation either. I think he is profoundly reserved, cautious, and resolute; and with a kind of exterior gentleness, he seems to me to be really inflexible and imperious.”

  “I like that unconscious air of command, but I don’t perceive those signs of cunning and reserve. He seemed to grow more communicative the longer he stayed.” I answered.

  “The darker it grew,” she replied. “He is one of those persons who become more confident the more effectually their countenances are concealed. There ceases to be any danger of a conflict between looks and language — a danger that embarrasses some people.”

  “You are suspicious this evening,” I said. “I don’t think you like him.”

  “I don’t know him; but I fancy that, talk as he may to us, neither you nor I have for one moment a peep into his real mind. His world may be perfectly celestial and serene, or it may be an ambitious, dark, and bad one; but it is an invisible world for us.”

  The candles were by this time lighted, and Miss Grey was closing the window, when the glitter of the silver clasp of the little book caught her eye.

  “Have you found anything?” said I.

  “Only the book — I forgot all about it. I am almost sorry we allowed him to lend it.”

  “We borrowed it; I don’t think he wanted to lend it,” said I; “but, however it was, I’m very glad we have got it. One would fancy you had lighted on a scorpion. I’m not afraid of it; I know it can’t do any one the least harm, for they are only stories.”

  “Oh, I think so. I don’t see myself that they can do any harm; but I am almost sorry we have got into that sort of relation with him.”

  “What relation, Laura?”

  “Borrowing books and discussing them.”

  “But we need not discuss them; I won’t — and you are so well up in the controversy with your two books of theology, that I think he’s in more danger of being converted than you. Give me the book, and I’ll find out something to read to you.”

  CHAPTER VI.

  A STRANGER APPEARS.

  Next day Miss Grey and I were walking on the lonely road towards Penruthyn Priory. The sea lies beneath it on the right, and on the left is an old grass-grown bank, shaggy with brambles. Round a clump of ancient trees that stand at a bend of this green rampart, about a hundred steps before us, came, on a sudden, Mr. Carmel, and a man dressed also in black, slight, but not so tall as he. They were walking at a brisk pace, and the stranger was talking incessantly to his companion.

  That did not prevent his observing us, for I saw him slightly touch Mr. Carmel’s arm with his elbow as he looked at us. Mr. Carmel evidently answered a question, and, as he did so, glanced at us; and immediately the stranger resumed his conversation. They were quickly up to us, and stopped. Mr. Carmel raised his hat, and asked leave to introduce his friend. We bowed, so did the stranger; but Mr. Carmel did not repeat his name very distinctly.

  This friend was far from prepossessing. He was of middle height, and narrow-shouldered, what they call “putty-faced,” and closely shorn, the region of the beard and whisker being defined in smooth dark blue. He looked about fifty. His movements were short and quick, and restless; he rather stooped, and his face and forehead inclined as if he were looking on the ground. But his eyes were not upon the ground; they were very fierce, but seldom rested for more than a moment on any one object. As he made his bow, raising his hat from his massive forehead, first to me, and afterwards to Miss Grey, his eyes, compressed with those wrinkles with which near-sighted people assist their vision, scrutinised us each with a piercing glance under his black eyebrows. It was a face at once intellectual, mean, and intimidating.

  “Walking; nothing like walking, in moderation. You have boating here also, and you drive, of course; which do you like best, Miss Ware?” The stranger spoke with a slightly foreign accent, and, though he smiled, with a harsh and rapid utterance.

  I forget how I answered this, his first question — rather an odd one. He turned and walked a little way with us.

  “Charming country. Heavenly weather. But you must find it rather lonely, living down here. How you must both long for a week in London!”

  “For my part, I like this better,” I answered. “I don’t like London in summer, even in winter I prefer this.”

  “You have lived here with people you like, I dare say, and for their sakes you love the place?” he mused.

  We walked on a little in silence. His words recalled darling Nelly. This was our favourite walk long ago; it led to what we called the blackberry wilderness, rich in its proper fruits in the late autumn, and in May with banks all covered with cowslips and primroses. A sudden thought, that finds simple associations near, is affecting, and my eyes filled with tears. But with an effort I restrained them. The presence of a stranger, the sense of publicity, seals those fountains. How seldom people cry at the funerals of their beloved! They go through the public rite like an execution, pale and collected, and return home to break their hearts a
lone.

  “You have been here some months, Miss Grey. You find Miss Ware a very amenable pupil, I venture to believe. I think I know something of physiognomy, and I may congratulate you on a very sweet and docile pupil, eh?”

  Laura Grey, governess as she was, looked a little haughtily at this officious gentleman, who, as he put the question, glanced sharply for a moment at her, and then as rapidly at me, as if to see how it told.

  “I think — I hope we are very happy together,” said Miss Grey. “I can answer for myself.”

  “Precisely what I expected,” said the stranger, taking a pinch of snuff. “I ought to mention that I am a very particular acquaintance, friend I may say, of Mrs. Ware, and am, therefore, privileged.”

  Mr. Carmel was walking beside his friend in silence, with his eyes apparently lowered to the ground all this time.

  My blood was boiling with indignation at being treated as a mere child by this brusque and impertinent old man. He turned to me.

  “I see, by your countenance, young lady, that you respect authority. I think your governess is very fortunate; a dull pupil is a bad bargain, and you are not dull. But a contumacious pupil is utterly intolerable; you are not that, either; you are sweetness and submission itself, eh?”

  I felt my cheeks flushing, and I directed on him a glance which, if the fire of ladies’ eyes be not altogether a fable, ought at least to have scorched him.

  “I have no need of submission, sir. Miss Grey does not think of exercising authority over me. I shall be eighteen my next birthday. I shall be coming out, papa says, in less than a year. I am not treated like a child any longer, sir. I think, Laura, we have walked far enough. Hadn’t we better go home? We can take a walk another time — any time would be pleasanter than now.”