He laughed, a little bitterly.
“There are very few men glad to meet death when it comes,” said Doctor Mervyn. “Some think they are fit to die, and some know they are not. You know best, sir, what reason you have to be thankful.”
“I’m nothing but bruises and aches all over my body. I’m by no means well, and I’ve lost all my luggage, and papers, and money, since one o’clock yesterday, when I was flourishing. Two or three such reasons for thankfulness would inevitably finish me.”
“All except you were drowned, sir,” said the doctor, who was known in Cardyllion as a serious-minded man, a little severely.
“Like so many rats in a trap, poor devils,” acquiesced the stranger. “They were hatched down. I was the only passenger on deck. I must have been drowned if I had been among them.”
“All those poor fellow-passengers of yours,” said Doctor Mervyn, in disgust, “had souls, sir, to be saved.”
“I suppose so; but I never saw such an assemblage of snobs in my life. I really think that, except poor Haworth — he insisted it would be ever so much pleasanter than the railway; I did not find it so; he’s drowned of course — I assure you, except ourselves, there was not a gentleman among them. And Sparks, he’s drowned too, and I’ve lost the best servant I ever had in my life. But I beg your pardon, I’m wasting your time. Do you think I’m ill?”
He extended his wrist, languidly, to enable the doctor to feel his pulse. The physician suppressed his rising answer with an effort, and made his examination.
“Well, sir, you have had a shock.”
“By Jove! I should not wonder,” acquiesced the young man, with a sneer.
“And you are a good deal upset, and your contusions are more serious than you seem to fancy. I’ll make up a liniment here, and I’ll send you down something else that will prevent any tendency to fever; and I suppose you would like to be supplied from the ‘Verney Arms.’ You must not take any wine stronger than claret for the present, and a light dinner, and if you give me a line, or tell me what name — — “
“Oh, they know me there, thanks. I got these boxes from there this morning, and they are to send me everything I require.”
The doctor wanted his name. The town of Cardyllion, which was in a ferment, wanted it. Of course he must have the name; a medical practitioner who kept a ledger and sent out accounts, it was part of his business to know his patients’ names. How could he stand before the wags of the news-room, if he did not know the name of his own patients — of this one, of all others.
“Oh! put me down as R. M. simply,” said the young man.
“But wouldn’t it be more — more usual, if you had no objections — a little more at length?” insinuated the doctor.
“Well, yes; put it down a little more at length — say R. R. M. Three letters instead of two.”
The doctor, with his head inclined, laughed patiently, and the stranger, seeing him about to return to the attack, said a little petulantly: “You see, doctor, I’m not going to give my very insignificant name here to any one. If your book-keeper had it, every one in the town would know it; and Cardyllion is a place at which idle people turn up, and I have no wish to have my stray friends come up to this place to bother me for the two or three days I must stay here. You may suppose me an escaped convict, or anything else you please that will amuse the good people; but I’m hanged if I give my name, thank you!”
After this little interruption, the strictly professional conversation was resumed, and the doctor ended by directing him to stay quiet that day, and not to walk out out until he had seen him again next morning.
The doctor then began to mix the ingredients of his liniment. The young man in the silk dressing-gown limped to the window, and leaned his arm upon the sash, looking out, and the doctor observed him, in his ruminations, smiling darkly on the ivy that nodded from the opposite wall, as if he saw a confederate eyeing him from its shadow.
“He didn’t think I was looking at him,” said the doctor; “but I have great faith in a man’s smile when he thinks he is all to himself; and that smile I did not like; it was, in my mind, enough to damn him.”
All this, when his interview was over, the doctor came round and told us. He was by no means pleased with his patient, and being a religious man, of a quick temper, would very likely have declined the office of physician in this particular case, if he had not thought, judging by his “properties,” which were in a certain style that impressed Doctor Mervyn, and his air, and his refined features, and a sort of indescribable superiority which both irritated and awed the doctor, that he might be a “swell.”
He went the length, notwithstanding, of calling him, in his conversation with us, an “inhuman puppy,” but he remarked that there were certain duties which no Christian could shirk, among which that of visiting the sick held, of course, in the doctor’s mind, due rank.
CHAPTER XIII.
MEETING IN THE GARDEN.
I was a little shy, as country misses are; and, curious as I was, rather relieved when I heard that the shipwrecked stranger had been ordered to keep his quarters strictly, for that day at least. So, by-and-by, as Laura Grey had a letter to write, I put on my hat, and not caring to walk towards the town, and not daring to take the Penruthyn Road, I ran out to the garden. The garden of Malory is one of those monastic enclosures whose fruit-trees have long grown into venerable timber; whose walls are stained by time, and mantled in some places with ivy; where everything has been allowed, time out of mind, to have its own way; where walks are grass-grown, and weeds choke the intervals between old standard pear, and cherry, and apple-trees, and only a little plot of ground is kept in cultivation by a dawdling, desultory man, who carries in his daily basket of vegetables to the cook. There was a really good Ribston-pippin or two in this untidy, but not unpicturesque garden; and these trees were, I need scarcely tell you, a favourite resort of ours.
The gale had nearly stripped the trees of their ruddy honours, and thrifty Thomas Jones had, no doubt, carried the spoil away to store them in the apple-closet. One pippin only dangled still within reach, and I was whacking at this particularly good-looking apple with a long stick, but as yet in vain, when I suddenly perceived that a young man, whom I recognised as the very hero of the shipwreck, was approaching. He walked slowly and a little lame, and was leaning on a stick. He was smiling, and, detected in my undignified and rather greedy exercise — I had been jumping from the ground — I was ready to sink into the earth with shame. Perhaps, if I had been endowed with presence of mind, I should have walked away. But I was not, on that occasion at least; and I stood my ground, stick in hand, affecting not to see his slow advance.
It was a soft sunny day. He had come out without a hat; he had sent to Cardyllion to procure one, and had not yet got it, as he afterwards told me, with an apology for seeming to make himself so very much at home. How he introduced himself I forget; I was embarrassed and disconcerted; I know that he thanked me very much for my “hospitality,” called me his “hostess,” smiling, and told me that, although he did not know my father, he yet saw him everywhere during the season. Then he talked of the wreck; he described his own adventures very interestingly, and spoke of the whole thing in terms very different from those reported by Doctor Mervyn, and with a great deal of feeling. He asked me if I had seen anything of it from our house; and then it became my turn to speak. I very soon got over my shyness; he was so perfectly well-bred that it was impossible, even for a rustic such as I was, not to feel very soon quite at her ease in his company.
So I talked away, becoming more animated; and he smiled, looking at me, I thought, with a great deal of sympathy, and very much pleased. I thought him very handsome. He had one point of resemblance to Mr. Carmel. His face was pale, but, unlike his, as dark as a gipsy’s. Its tint showed the white of his eyes and his teeth with fierce effect. What was the character of the face I saw now? Very different from the deathlike phantom that had crossed my sight the night before. It was a face of
passion and daring. A broad, low forehead, and resolute mouth, with that pronounced underjaw which indicates sternness and decision. I contrasted him secretly with Mr. Carmel. But in his finely-cut features, and dark, fierce eyes, the ascetic and noble interest of the sadder face was wanting; but there was, for so young a person as I, a different and a more powerful fascination in the beauty of this young man of the world.
Before we parted I allowed him to knock down the apple I had been trying at, and this rustic service improved our acquaintance.
I began to think, however, that our interview had lasted quite long enough; so I took my leave, and I am certain he would have accompanied me to the house, had I not taken advantage of his lameness, and walked away very quickly.
As I let myself out at the garden-door, in turning I was able, unsuspected, to steal a parting look, and I saw him watching me intently as he leaned against the stem of a gigantic old pear-tree. It was rather pleasant to my vanity to think that I had made a favourable impression upon the interesting stranger.
Next day our guest met me again, near the gate of the avenue, as I was returning to the house.
“I had a call this morning from your clergyman,” he said. “He seems a very kind old gentleman, the rector of Cardyllion; and the day is so beautiful, he proposed a sail upon the estuary, and if you were satisfied with him, by way of escort, and my steering — I’m an old sailor — I’m sure you’d find it just the day to enjoy a little boating.”
He looked at me, smiling eagerly.
Laura Grey and I had agreed that nothing would tempt us to go upon the water, until all risk of lighting upon one of those horrible discoveries from the wreck, that were now beginning to come to the surface from hour to hour, was quite over. So I made our excuses as best I could, and told him that since the storm we had a horror of sailing. He looked vexed and gloomy. He walked beside me.
“Oh! I understand — Miss Grey? I was not aware — I ought, of course, to have included her. Perhaps your friend would change her mind and induce you to reconsider your decision. It is such a charming day.”
I thanked him again, but our going was quite out of the question. He smiled and bowed a little, but looked very much chagrined. I fancied that he thought I meant to snub him, for proposing any such thing on so very slight an acquaintance. I daresay if I had I should have been quite right; but you must remember how young I was, and how unlearned in the world’s ways. Nothing, in fact, was further from my intention. To soften matters a little, I said:
“I am very sorry we can’t go. We should have liked it, I am sure, so much; but it is quite impossible.”
He walked all the way to the hall-door with me; and then he asked if I did not intend continuing my walk a little. I bid him goodbye, however, and went in, very full of the agreeable idea that I had made a conquest.
Laura Grey and I, walking to Cardyllion, met Doctor Mervyn, who stopped to tell us that he had just seen his Malory patient, “R. R. M.,” steering Williams’s boat, with the old vicar on board.
“By Jove! one would have fancied he had got enough of the water for some time to come,” remarked the doctor, in conclusion. “That is the most restless creature I ever encountered in all my professional experience! If he had kept himself quiet yesterday and to-day, he’d have been pretty nearly right by tomorrow; but if he goes on like this I should not wonder if he worked himself into a fever.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE INTRUDER.
Next morning, at about nine o’clock, whom do I see but the restless stranger, to my surprise, again upon the avenue as I return towards the house. I had run down to the gate before breakfast to meet our messenger, and learn whether any letters had come by the post. He, like myself, has come out before his breakfast. He turns on meeting me, and walks towards the house at my side. Never was man more persistent. He had got Williams’s boat again, and not only the vicar, but the vicar’s wife, was coming for a sail; surely I would venture with her? I was to remember, besides, that they were to sail to the side of the estuary furthest from the wreck; there could be no possible danger there of what I feared — and thus he continued to argue and entreat.
I really wished to go. I said, however, that I must ask Miss Grey, whom, upon some excuse which I now forget, he regretted very much he could not invite to come also. I had given him a conditional promise by the time we parted at the hall-door, and Laura saw no objection to my keeping it, provided old Mrs. Jermyn, the vicar’s wife, were there to chaperon me. We were to embark from the Malory jetty, and she was to call for me at about three o’clock.
The shipwrecked stranger left me, evidently very well pleased. When he got into his quarters in the steward’s house and found himself all alone, I dare say his dark face gleamed with the smile of which Doctor Mervyn had formed so ill an opinion. I had not yet seen that smile. Heaven help me! I have had reason to remember it.
Laura and I were sitting together, when who should enter the room but Mr. Carmel. I stood up and shook hands. I felt very strangely. I was glad the room was a dark one. I was less observed, and therefore less embarrassed.
It was not till he had been in the room some time that I observed how agitated he looked. He seemed also very much dejected, and from time to time sighed heavily. I saw that something had gone strangely wrong. It was a vague suspense. I was secretly very much frightened.
He would not sit down. He said he had not a moment to stay; and yet he lingered on, I fancied, debating something within himself. He was distrait, and, I thought, irresolute.
After a little talk he said:
“I came just to look in on my old quarters and see my old friends for a few minutes, and then I must disappear again for more than a month, and I find a gentleman in possession.”
We hastened to assure him that we had not expected him home for some time, and that the stranger was admitted but for a few days. We told him, each contributing something to the narrative, all about the shipwreck, and the reception of the forlorn survivor in the steward’s house.
He listened without a word of comment, almost without breathing, and with his eyes fixed in deep attention on the floor.
“Has he made your acquaintance?” he asked, raising them to me.
“He introduced himself to me,” I answered, “but Miss Grey has not seen him.”
Something seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind.
“What is your father’s present address?” he asked.
I told him, and he made a note of it in his pocketbook. He stood up now, and did at length take his leave.
“I am going to ask you to do a very kind thing. You have heard of sealed orders, not to be opened till a certain point has been reached in a voyage or a march? Will you promise, until I shall have left you fully five minutes, not to open this letter?”
I almost thought he was jesting, but I perceived very quickly that he was perfectly serious. Laura Grey looked at him curiously, and gave him the desired promise as she received the note. His carriage was at the door, and in another minute he was driving rapidly down the avenue. What had led to these odd precautions? — and what had they to do with the shipwrecked stranger?
At about eleven o’clock — that is to say, about ten minutes before Mr. Carmel’s visit to us — the stranger had been lying on a sofa in his quarters, with two ancient and battered novels from Austin’s Library in Cardyllion, when the door opened unceremoniously, and Mr. Carmel, in travelling costume, stepped into the room. The hall-door was standing open, and Mr. Carmel, on alighting from his conveyance, had walked straight in without encountering any one in the hall. On seeing an intruder in possession he stopped short; the gentleman on the sofa, interrupted, turned towards the door. Thus confronted, each stared at the other.
“Ha! Marston,” exclaimed the ecclesiastic, with a startled frown, and an almost incredulous stare.
“Edwyn! by Jove!” responded the stranger, with a rather anxious smile, which faded, however, in a moment.
“What on earth brings y
ou here?” said Mr. Carmel, sternly, after a silence of some seconds.
“What the devil brings you here?” inquired the stranger, almost at the same moment. “Who sent you? What is the meaning of it?”
Mr. Carmel did not approach him. He stood where he had first seen him, and his looks darkened.
“You are the last man living I should have looked for here,” said he.
“I suppose we shall find out what we mean by-and-by,” said Marston, cynically; “at present I can only tell you that when I saw you I honestly thought a certain old gentleman, I don’t mean the devil, had sent you in search of me.”
Carmel looked hard at him. “I’ve grown a very dull man since I last saw you, and I don’t understand a joke as well as I once did,” said he; “but if you are serious you cannot have learnt that this house has been lent to me by Mr. Ware, its owner, for some months at least; and these, I suppose, are your things? There is not room to put you up here.”
“I didn’t want to come. I am the famous man you may have read of in the papers — quite unique — the man who escaped alive from the Conway Castle. No Christian refuses shelter to the shipwrecked; and you are a Christian, though an odd one.”
Edwyn Carmel looked at him for some seconds in silence.
“I am still puzzled,” he said. “I don’t know whether you are serious; but, in any case, there’s a good hotel in the town — you can go there.”
“Thank you — without a shilling,” laughed the young man, a little wickedly.
“A word from me will secure you credit there.”
“But I’m in the doctor’s hands, don’t you see?”
“It is nothing very bad,” answered Mr. Carmel; “and you will be nearer the doctor there.”
The stranger, sitting up straight, replied:
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 623