He drew back and joined Miss Grey.
I had been thinking but little, for many weeks, of our many conversations. Incipient convictions had paled in the absence of the sophist or the sage — I knew not which. When he talked on this theme, his voice became cold and stern; his gentleness seemed to me to partake of an awful apathy; he looked like a man who had witnessed a revelation full of horror; my fancy, I am sure, contributed something to the transformation; but it did overawe me. I never was so impressed as by him. The secret was not in his words. It was his peculiar earnestness. He spoke like an eye-witness, and seemed under unutterable fear himself. He had the preacher’s master-gift of alarming.
When Mr. Carmel had taken his leave for the night, I told Laura Grey my adventure in the wood of Plas Ylwd. I don’t think I told it quite as frankly as I have just described it to you. The story made Miss Grey very grave for a time.
She broke the silence that followed by saying, “I am rather glad, Ethel, that we are leaving this. I think you will be better in town; I know I shall be more comfortable about you. You have no idea, and I earnestly hope you never may have, how much annoyance may arise from an acquaintance with that plausible, wicked man. He won’t venture to force his acquaintance upon you in town. Here it is different, of course.”
We sat up very late together, chatting this night in my room. I did not quite know how I felt about the impending change. My approaching journey to London was, to me, as great an event as her drive to the ball in her pumpkin-coach was to Cinderella. Of course there was something dazzling and delightful in the prospect. But the excitement and joy were like that of the happy bride who yet weeps because she is looking her last on the old homely life, that will always be dear and dearer as the irrevocable separation goes on. So, though she is sure she is passing into paradise, it is a final farewell to the beloved past. I felt the conflict; I loved Malory better than I could ever love a place again. But youth is the season of enterprise. God has ordained it. We go like the younger son in the parable, selfish, sanguine, adventurous; but the affections revive and turn homeward, and from a changed heart sometimes breaks on the solitude a cry, unheard by living ear, of yearning and grief, that would open the far-off doors, if that were possible, and return.
Next day arrangements took a definite form. All was fuss and preparation. I was to go the day following; Mr. Carmel was to take charge of me on the journey, and place me safely in the hands of Mrs. Beauchamp, our town housekeeper. Laura Grey, having wound up and settled all things at Malory, was to follow to town in less than a week; and, at about the same time, mamma and papa were to arrive.
A drive of ten miles or so brought us to the station; then came a long journey by rail. London was not new to me; but London with my present anticipations was. I was in high spirits, and Mr. Carmel made a very agreeable companion, though I fancied he was a little out of spirits.
I was tired enough that night when I at length took leave of Mr. Carmel at the door of our house in —— Street. The street lamps were already lighted. Mrs. Beauchamp, in a black silk dress, received me with a great deal of quiet respect, and rustled upstairs before me to show me my room. Her grave and regulated politeness contrasted chillily with the hearty, and sometimes even boisterous welcome of old Rebecca Torkill. Mamma and papa were to be home, she told me, in a few days — she could not say exactly the day. I was, after an hour or so, a great deal lonelier than I had expected to be. I wrote a long letter to Laura, of whom I had taken leave only that morning (what a long time it seemed already!), and told her how much I already wished myself back again in Malory, and urged her to come sooner than she had planned her journey.
CHAPTER XXIV.
ARRIVALS.
Laura had not waited any longer than I for a special justification of a letter. She had nothing to say, and she said it in a letter as long as my own, which reached me at breakfast next morning.
Sitting in a spacious room, looking out into a quiet fashionable street, in a house all of whose decorations and arrangements had an air of cold elegance and newness, the letter, with the friendly Cardyllion postmark on it, seemed to bring with it something of the clear air, and homely comfort, and free life of Malory, and made me yearn all the more for the kind faces, the old house, and beloved scenery I had left behind. It was insufferably dull here, and I soon found myself in that state which is described as not knowing what to do with oneself. For two days no further letter from Laura reached me. On the third, I saw her well-known handwriting on the letter that awaited me on the breakfast-table. As I looked, as people will, at the direction before opening the envelope, I was struck by the postmark “Liverpool,” and turning it over and over, I nowhere saw Cardyllion.
I began to grow too uncomfortable to wait longer; I opened the letter with misgivings. At the top of the note there was nothing written but the day of the week. It said —
“My Dearest Ethel, — A sudden and total change in my unhappy circumstances separates me from you. It is impossible that I should go to London now; and it is possible that I may not see you again for a long time, if ever. I write to say farewell; and in doing so to solemnly repeat my warning against permitting the person who obtained a few days’ shelter in the steward’s house, after the shipwreck, to maintain even the slightest correspondence or acquaintance with you. Pray, dearest Ethel, trust me in this. I implore of you to follow my advice. You may hear from me again. In the meantime, I am sure you will be glad to know that your poor governess is happy — happier than she ever desired, or ever hoped to be. My fond love is always yours, and my thoughts are hourly with you. — Ever your loving
Laura Grey.”
“May God for ever bless you, darling! Goodbye.”
I don’t think I could easily exaggerate the effect of this letter. I will not weary you with that most tiresome of all relations, an account of another person’s grief.
Mamma and papa arrived that evening. If I had lived less at Malory, and more with mamma, I should not, in some points, have appreciated her so highly. When I saw her, for the first time, after a short absence, I was always struck by her beauty and her elegance, and it seemed to me that she was taller than I recollected her. She was looking very well, and so young! I saw papa but for a moment. He went to his room immediately to dress, and then went off to his club. Mamma took me to her room, where we had tea. She said I had grown, and was very much pleased with my looks. Then she told me all her plans about me. I was to have masters, and I was not to come out till April.
She then got me to relate all the circumstances of Nelly’s death, and cried a good deal. Then she had in her maid Lexley, and they held a council together over me on the subject of dress. My Malory wardrobe, from which I had brought up to town with me what I considered an unexceptionable selection, was not laughed at, was not even discussed — it was simply treated as non-extant. It gave me a profound sense of the barbarism in which I had lived.
Laura Grey’s letter lay heavy at my heart, but I had not yet mentioned it to mamma. There was no need, however, to screw my courage to that point. Among the letters brought up to her was one from Laura. When she read it she was angry in her querulous way. She threw herself into a chair in a pet. She had confidence in Laura Grey, and foresaw a good deal of trouble to herself in this desertion. “I am so particularly unfortunate!” she began— “everything that can possibly go wrong! everything that never happens to any one else! I could have got her to take you to Monsieur Pontet’s, and your drives, and to shop — and — she must be a most unprincipled person. She had no right to go away as she has done. It is too bad! Your papa allows every one of that kind to treat me exactly as they please, and really, when I am at home, my life is one continual misery! What am I to do now? I don’t believe any one else was ever so entirely at the mercy of her servants. I don’t know, my dear, how I can possibly do all that is to be done for you without assistance — and there was a person I thought I could depend upon. A total stranger I should not like, and really, for anything I
can see at present, I think you must go back again to Malory, and do the best you can. I am not a strong person. I was not made for all this, and I really feel I could just go to my bed, and cry till morning.”
My heart had been very full, and I was relieved by this opportunity of crying.
“I wonder at your crying about so good-for-nothing a person,” exclaimed mamma, impatiently. “If she had cared the least about you, she could not have left you as she has done. A satisfactory person, certainly, that young lady has turned out!”
Notwithstanding all this, mamma got over her troubles, and engaged a dull and even-tempered lady, named Anna Maria Pounden, whose manners were quiet and unexceptionable, and whose years were about fifty. She was not much of a companion for me, you may suppose. She answered, however, very well for all purposes intended by mamma. She was ladylike and kind, and seemed made for keeping keys, arranging drawers, packing boxes, and taking care of people when they were ill. She spoke French, besides, fluently, and with a good accent, and mamma insisted that she and I should always talk in that language. All the more persistently for this change, my thoughts were with my beloved friend, Laura Grey.
From Malory, Rebecca Torkill told me, in a rather incoherent letter, the particulars of Laura Grey’s departure from Malory. She had gone out for a walk, leaving her things half packed, for she was to go from Malory next day. She did not return; but a note reached Mrs. Torkill, next morning, telling her simply she could not return; and that she would write to mamma and to me in London the same day. Mrs. Torkill’s note, like mine, had the Liverpool postmark; and her conjecture was thus expressed: “I don’t think, miss, she had no notions to leave that way when she went out. It must have bin something sudding. She went fest, I do sepose to Olyhed, and thens to Liverpule in one of them pakkats. Mr. Williams, the town-clerk, and the vicar and his lady, and Doctor Mervyn, is all certing sure it could be no other wise.”
Mamma did not often come down to breakfast, during her short stay at this unseasonable time of year in town. On one of those rare occasions, however, something took place that I must describe.
Mamma was in a pretty morning negligé as we used to call such careless dresses then, looking as delicately pretty as the old china teacups before her. Papa was looking almost as perplexingly young as she, and I made up the little party to the number of the Graces. Mamma must have been forty, and I really don’t think she looked more than two-and-thirty. Papa looked about five-and-thirty; and I think he must have been at least ten years older than he looked. That kind of life that is supposed to wear people out, seemed for them to have had an influence like the elixir vitæ; and I certainly have seen rustics, in the full enjoyment of mountain breezes, simple fare, and early hours, look many a day older than their years. The old rule, so harped upon, that “early to bed and early to rise” is the secret of perpetual youth, I don’t dispute; but then, if it be early to go to bed at sunset in winter, say four in the evening, and to rise at four in the morning, is it not still earlier to anticipate that hour, and go to bed at four in the morning, and get up at one in the afternoon? At all events, I know that this mode of life seemed to agree with papa and mamma. I don’t think, indeed, that either suffered much from the cares that poison enjoyment, and break down strength. Mamma threw all hers unexamined upon papa; who threw all his with equal nonchalance upon Mr. Norman, a kind of factotum, secretary, comptroller, diplomatist, financier, and every other thing that comes within the words “making oneself generally useful.”
I never knew exactly what papa had a year to live upon. Mamma had money also. But they were utterly unfit to manage their own affairs, and I don’t think they ever tried. Papa had his worries now and then; but they seldom seemed to last more than a day, or at most a week or two. There were a number of what he thought small sums, varying from two to five thousand pounds, which under old settlements dropped in opportunely, and extricated him. These sums ought to have been treated, not as income, but as capital, as I heard a moneyed man of business say long ago; but papa had not the talent of growing rich, or even of continuing rich, if a good fairy had gifted him with fortune.
Papa was in a reverie, leaning back in his chair; mamma yawned over a letter she was reading; I was drumming some dance music with my fingers on my knee under the tablecloth, when suddenly he said to mamma:
“You don’t love your aunt Lorrimer very much?”
“No, I don’t love her — I never said I did, did I?”
“No, but I mean, you don’t like her, you don’t care about her?”
“No,” said mamma, languidly, and looking wonderingly at him with her large pretty eyes. “I don’t very much — I don’t quite know — I have an affection for her.”
“You don’t love her, and you don’t even like her, but you have an affection for her,” laughed papa.
“You are so teasing. I did not say that; what I mean is, she has a great many faults and oddities, and I don’t like them — but I have an affection for her. Why should it seem so odd to you that one should care for one’s relations? I do feel that for her, and there let it rest.”
“Well, but it ought not to rest there — as you do like her.”
“Why, dear — have you heard anything of her?”
“No; but there is one thing I should not object to hear about her just now.”
“One thing? What do you mean, dear?”
“That she had died, and left us her money. I know what a brute I am, and how shocked you are; but I assure you we rather want it at this moment. You write to her, don’t you?”
“N-not very often. Once since we saw her at Naples.”
“Well, that certainly is not very often,” he laughed. “But she writes to you. You thought she seemed rather to like us — I mean you?”
“Yes.”
“She has no one else to care about that I know of. I don’t pretend to care about her — I think her an old fool.”
“She isn’t that, dear,” said mamma, quietly.
“I wish we knew where she is now. Seriously, you ought to write to her a little oftener, dear; I wish you would.”
“I’ll write to her, certainly, as soon as I am a little more myself. I could not do it just to-day; I have not been very well, you know.”
“Oh! my darling, I did not mean to hurry you. Of course, not till you feel perfectly well; don’t suppose I could be such a monster. But — I don’t want, of course, to pursue her — but there is a middle course between that and having to drop her. She really has no one else, poor old thing! to care about, or to care about her. Not that I care about her, but you’re her kinswoman, and I don’t see why — — “
At this moment the door opened, and there entered, with the air of an assumed intimacy and a certain welcome, a person whom I little expected to see there. I saw him with a shock. It was the man with the fine eyes and great forehead, the energetic gait and narrow shoulders. The grim, mean-looking, intelligent, agreeable man of fifty, Mr. Droqville.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE DOCTOR’S NEWS.
“Oh! how do you do, Doctor Droqville?” said mamma, with a very real welcome in looks and accent.
“How d’ye do, Droqville?” said my father, a little dryly, I fancied.
“Have you had your breakfast?” asked mamma.
“Two hours ago.”
“We are very late here,” said papa.
“I should prefer thinking I am very early, in my primitive quarters,” answered Mr. Droqville.
“I had not an idea we should have found you in town, just now.”
“In season or out of season, a physician should always be at his post. I’m beginning to learn rather late there’s some truth in that old proverb about moss, you know, and rolling stones, and it costs even a bachelor something to keep body and soul together in this mercenary, tailoring, cutlet-eating world.” At this moment he saw me, and made me a bow. “Miss Ware?” he said, a little inquiringly to mamma. “Yes, I knew perfectly it was the young lady I had seen
at Malory. Some faces are not easily forgotten,” he added, gallantly, with a glance at me. “I threatened to run away with her, but she was firm as fate,” he smiled and went on; “and I paid a visit to our friend Carmel, you know.”
“And how did you think he was?” she asked; and I listened with interest for the answer.
“He’s consumptive. He’s at this side of the Styx, it is true; but his foot is in the water, and Charon’s obolus is always between his finger and thumb. He’ll die young. He may live five years, it is true; but he is not likely to live two. And if he happens to take cold and begins to cough, he might not last four months.”
“My wife has been complaining,” said papa; “I wish you could do something for her. You still believe in Doctor Droqville? I think she half believes you have taken a degree in divinity as well as in medicine; if so, a miracle, now and then, would be quite in your way.”
“But I assure you, Doctor Droqville, I never said any such thing. It was you who thought,” she said to my father, “that Doctor Droqville was in orders.”
Droqville laughed.
“But, Doctor Droqville, I think,” said mamma, “you would have made a very good priest.”
“There are good priests, madame, of various types; Madame de Genlis, for instance, commends an abbé of her acquaintance; he was a most respectable man, she says, and never ridiculed revealed religion but with moderation.”
Papa laughed, but I could see that he did not like Doctor Droqville. There was something dry, and a little suspicious in his manner, so slight that you could hardly define it, but which contrasted strikingly with the decision and insouciance of Doctor Droqville’s talk.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 629