Mr. Blount stood up and said, laying his hand upon his forehead, “I am grieved — I am shocked — I am profoundly grieved.”
Mr. Marston was strongly tempted to tell Mr. Blount what he thought of him. Jarlcot and he, no doubt, understood one another, and had intended making a nice thing of it.
He could not smile, nor even sneer, just then, but Mr. Marston fixed on Lemuel Blount a sidelong look of the sternest contempt.
“There is, then,” said Mr. Blount, collecting himself, “no will.”
“That seems pretty clear,” said Mr. Marston, with, in spite of himself, a cold scorn in his tone. “I think so; and I rather fancy you think so too.”
“Except this,” continued Mr. Blount, producing a paper from his pocket, at which he had been fumbling. “Mr. Jarlcot will hand you a copy. I urged him, God knows how earnestly, to revoke it. It was made at the period of his greatest displeasure with you; it leaves everything to Miss Ethel Ware, and gives you, I grieve to say, but an annuity of four hundred a year. It appoints me guardian to the young lady, in the same terms that the latter will would have done, and leaves me, besides, an annuity of five hundred a year, half of which I shall, if you don’t object, make over to you.”
“Oh! oh! a will! That’s all right,” said Marston, trying to smile with lips that had grown white; “I, of course, you — we all wish nothing but what is right and fair.”
Mr. Jarlcot handed him a new neatly-folded paper, endorsed “Copy of the Will of the late Sir Harry Rokestone, Bart.” Richard Marston took it with a hand that trembled, a hand that had not often trembled before.
“Then, I suppose, Mr. Blount, you will look in on me, by-and-by, to arrange about the steps to be taken about proving it,” said Mr. Jarlcot.
“It’s all right, I dare say,” said Mr. Marston, vaguely, looking from man to man uncertainly. “I expected a will, of course: I don’t suppose I have a friend among you, gentlemen, why should I? I am sure I have some enemies. I don’t know what country attorneys, and nincompoops, and Golden Friars’ bumpkins may think of it, but I know what the world will think, that I’m swindled by d — d conspiracy, and that that old man, who’s in his grave, has behaved like a villain.”
“Oh, Mr. Marston, your dead uncle!” said the good vicar, lifting his hand in deprecation, with gentle horror. “You wouldn’t, you can’t!”
“What the devil is it to you, sir?” cried Marston, with a look as if he could have struck him. “I say it’s all influence, and d — d juggling — I’m not such a simpleton. No one expected, of course, that opportunities like those should not have been improved. The thing’s transparent. I wish you joy, Mr. Blount, of your five hundred a year, and you, Mr. Jarlcot, of your approaching management of the estates and the money. If you fancy a will like that, turning his own nephew adrift on the world in favour of methodists and attorneys, and a girl he never saw till the other day, is to pass unchallenged, you’re very much mistaken; it’s just the thing that always happens when an old man like that dies — there’s a will of course — every one understands it. I’ll have you all where you won’t like.”
Mrs. Shackleton, with her mouth pursed, her nose high in the air, and her brows knit over a vivid pair of eyes, was the only one of the group who seemed ready to explode in reply; Mr. Blount looked simply shocked and confounded; the vicar maintained his bewildered and appealing stare; Mr. Spaight’s eyebrows were elevated above his spectacles, and his mouth opened, as he leaned forward his long nose; Mr. Jarlcot’s brow looked thunderous, and his chops a little flushed; all were staring for some seconds in silence on Mr. Marston, whose concluding sentences had risen almost to a shriek, with a laugh running through it.
“I think, Mr. Marston,” said Jarlcot, after a couple of efforts, “you would do well to — to consider, a little, the bearing of your language; I don’t think you can quite see its force.”
“I wish you could — I mean it; and I’m d — d but you shall feel it too! You shall hear of me sooner than you all think. I’m not a fellow to be pigeoned so simply.”
With these words, he walked into the hall, and a few moments after they heard the door shut with a violent clang.
A solemn silence reigned in the room for a little time; these peaceable people seemed stunned by the explosion.
“Evasit, erupit,” murmured the vicar, sadly, raising his hands, and shaking his head. “How very painful!”
“I don’t wonder — I make great allowances,” said Mr. Blount, “I have been very unhappy myself, ever since it was ascertained that he had not executed the new will. I am afraid the young man will never consent to accept a part of my annuity — he is so spirited.”
“Don’t be uneasy on that point,” said Mr. Jarlcot; “if you lodge it, he’ll draw it; not — but I think — you might do — better — with your money.”
There was something in the tone, undefinable, that prompted a dark curiosity.
Mr. Blount turned on him a quick look of inquiry. Mr. Jarlcot lowered his eyes, and then turned them to the window, with the remark that the summer was making a long stay this year.
Mr. Blount looked down and slowly rubbed his forehead, thinking, and sighing deeply, as he said, “It’s a wonderful world, this — may the Lord have mercy on us all!”
CHAPTER LXXI.
A WOMAN’S HEART.
Two or three notices, which, Mr. Jarlcot said, would not cost five pounds, were served on behalf of Mr. Marston, and with these the faint echo of his thunders subsided. There was, in fact, no material for litigation.
“The notices,” Mr. Jarlcot said, “came from Marshall and Whitaker, the solicitors who had years before submitted the cases for him, upon his uncle’s title, and upon the question of his own position as nearest of kin and heir-at-law. He was very carefully advised as to how exactly he should stand in the event of his uncle’s dying intestate.”
I was stunned when I heard of my enormous fortune, involving, as it did, his ruin. I would at once have taken measures to deal as generously with him as the other will, of which I then knew no more than that Sir Harry must have contemplated, at one time, the possibility at least of signing it.
When I left Golden Friars I did so with an unalterable resolution never to see Richard Marston again. But this was compatible with the spirit of my intention to provide more suitably for him. I took Mr. Blount into council; but I was disappointed. The will had been made during my father’s lifetime, and in evident apprehension of his influence over me, and deprived me of the power of making any charge upon the property, whether land or money. I could do nothing but make him a yearly present of a part of my income, and even that was embarrassed by many ingenious conditions and difficulties.
It was about this time that a letter reached me from Richard Marston, the most extraordinary I had ever read — a mad letter in parts, and wicked — a letter, also, full of penitence and self-upbraiding. “I am a fiend. I have been all cruelty and falsehood, you all mercy and truth,” it said. “I have heard of your noble wishes — I know how vain they are. You can do nothing that I would accept. I am well enough. Think no more of the wretch. I have found, too late, I cannot live without you. You shall hear of me no more; only forgive me.”
There are parts of this strange letter that I never understood, that may bear many interpretations, no one distinctly.
When Mr. Blount spoke of him he never gave me his conclusions, and it was always in the sad form “Let us hope;” he never said exactly what he suspected. Mr. Jarlcot plainly had but one opinion of him, and that the worst.
I agreed, I think, with neither. I relied on instinct, which no one can analyse or define — the wild inspiration of nature — the saddest, and often the truest guide. Let me not condemn, then, lest I be condemned.
The good here are not without wickedness, nor the wicked without goodness. With death begins the defection. Each character will be sifted as wheat. The eternal Judge will reduce each, by the irresistible chemistry of his power and truth, to its basis, f
or neither hell nor heaven can receive a mixed character.
I did hear of Richard Marston again once more — it was about five months later, when the news of his death by fever, at Marseilles, reached Mr. Blount.
Since then my life has been a retrospect. Two years I passed in India with my beloved friend, Laura. But my melancholy grew deeper; the shadows lengthened — and an irrepressible yearning to revisit Golden Friars and Malory seized me. I returned to England.
I am possessed of fortune. I thank God for its immunities — I well know how great they are. For its pleasures, I have long ceased to care. To the poor, I try to make it useful — but I am quite conscious that in this there is no merit. I have no pleasure in money. I think I have none in flattery. I need deny myself nothing, and yet be in the eyes of those who measure charity arithmetically a princely Christian benefactress. I wish I were quite sure of having ever given a cup of cold water in the spirit that my Maker commends.
A few weeks after my return, Mr. Blount showed me a letter. The signature startled me. It was from Monsieur Droqville, and a very short one. It was chiefly upon some trifling business, and it said, near the end:
“You sometimes see Miss Ware, I believe; she will be sorry to hear that her old friend, Mr. Carmel, died last summer at his missionary post in South America. A truer soldier of Christ never fell in the field of his labours. Requiescat!”
There was a tremble at my heart, and a swelling. I held the sentence before my eyes till they filled with tears.
My faithful, noble friend! At my side in every trouble. The one of all mortals I have met who strove with his whole heart to win me, according to his lights, to God. May God receive and for ever bless you for it, patient, gentle Edwyn Carmel! His griefs are over. To me there seems an angelic light around him — the pale enthusiast in the robe of his purity stands saint-like before me. I remember all your tender care. I better understand, too, the wide differences that separated us, now, than in my careless girlhood — but these do not dismay me. I know that “in my father’s house are many mansions,” and I hope that when the clouds that darken this life are passed, we may yet meet and thank and bless you, my noblehearted friend, where, in one love and light, the redeemed shall walk for evermore.
At Golden Friars I lived again for a short time. But the associations of Dorracleugh were too new and harrowing. I left that place to the care of good Mr. Blount, who loves it better than any other. He pays me two or three visits every year at Malory, and advises me in all matters of business.
I do not affect the airs of an anchorite. But my life is, most people would think, intolerably monotonous and lonely. To me it is not only endurable, but the sweetest that, in my peculiar state of mind, I could have chosen.
With the flight of my years, and the slow approach of the hour when dust will return to dust, the love of solitude steals on me, and no regrets for the days I have lost, as my friends insist, and no yearnings for a return to an insincere and tawdry world, have ever troubled me. In girlhood I contracted my love of this simple rural solitude, and my premature experience of all that is disappointing and deplorable in life confirms it. But the spell of its power is in its recollections. It is a place, unlike Dorracleugh, sunny and cheerful, as well as beautiful, and this tones the melancholy of its visions, and prevents their sadness from becoming overpowering.
I wonder how many people are living, like me, altogether in the past, and in hourly communion with visionary companions?
Richard Marston, does awaking hour ever pass without, at some moment, recalling your image? I do not mistake you; I have used no measured language in describing you. I know you for the evil, fascinating, reckless man you were. Such a man as, had I never seen you, and only known the sum of his character, I ought to have hated. A man who, being such as he was, meditated against me a measureless wrong. I look into my heart, is there vengeance there against you? Is there judgment? Is there even alienation?
Oh! how is it that reason, justice, virtue, all cannot move you from a secret place in my inmost heart? Can any man who has once been an idol, such as you were, ever perish utterly in that mysterious shrine — a woman’s heart? In solitary hours, as I, unseen, look along the sea, my cheeks are wet with tears; in the wide silence of the night my lonely sobs are heard. Is my grief for you mere madness? Why is it that man so differs from man? Why does he often so differ from the noble creature he might have been, and sometimes almost was?
Over an image partly dreamed and partly real, shivered utterly, but still in memory visible, I pour out the vainest of all sorrows.
In the wonderful working that subdues all things to itself — in all the changes of spirit, or the spaces of eternity, is there, shall there never be, from the first failure, evolved the nobler thing that might have been? I care for no other. I can love no other; and were I to live and keep my youth through eternity, I think I never could be interested or won again. Solitude has become dear to me, because he is in it. Am I giving this infinite true love in vain? I comfort myself with one vague hope. I cannot think that nature is so cynical. Does the loved phantom represent nothing? And is the fidelity that nature claims, but an infatuation and a waste?
THE END
The Shorter Fi
ction
Trinity College, Dublin, where Le Fanu studied Law
THE PURCELL PAPERS
WITH A MEMOIR BY ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
This classic short story collection was published posthumously in three volumes in 1880. However, all of the stories had originally been published in the Dublin University Magazine and date from before the major phase of Le Fanu’s career as a novelist. Indeed, ‘The Ghost and the Bone Setter’ was Le Fanu’s first published short story. As such they mostly retain the Irish setting ubiquitous in Le Fanu’s early work. The first twelve stories are presented as a collection of documents from the papers of the Catholic Priest, Rev. Francis Purcell of Drumcoolagh. These date from 1838-40. The stories are usually reprinted without this framing device, but this is the form in which they had originally appeared in the Magazine. The final tale, written in 1850, stands alone.
Almost all of the stories could be described as falling within the Gothic genre, with many containing a strong supernatural element. ‘Passages in the Secret History of an Irish Countess’ and ‘A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family’ were later expanded into novels (Uncle Silas and The Wyvern Mystery, respectively), while themes and ideas from ‘The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh’ were reused in Le Fanu’s later novella The Haunted Baronet. As well as being the source for a later novel of Le Fanu’s, ‘History of a Tyrone Family’ has also been put forward (by E.F. Benson and others) as a possible inspiration for Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre (1847).
Whilst numerous tales enact a commentary on the state of the Irish gentry by purporting to be documents on the history of that class, some intriguing formal narrative devices are also employed to further the humour and ambiguity of some of the tales and of the ghost story and folklore tradition itself. A good example of this is the aforementioned ‘Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh’, which first related as a typical example of the Gothic folktale (complete with Faustian pact, Byronic anti-hero and a picturesque castle) that the story has become, before being undercut by a more objective telling of the ‘original facts’ of which the folkloric version is a patent exaggeration.
‘Strange Event in the Life of Schalken the Painter’ is probably the best known of all of the tales and is still widely anthologised and read today, but the collection contains many little-known gems and is well-worth rediscovering.
Title page of the first edition
CONTENTS
THE GHOST AND THE BONE SETTER.
THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGH.
THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE CONNOR.
THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM.
PASSAGE IN THE SECRET HISTORY OF AN IRISH COUNTESS.
THE BRIDAL OF CARRIGVARAH.
STRANGE EVENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHALKEN THE PAINTER.
SCRAPS OF HIBERNIAN BALLADS.
JIM SULIVAN’S ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT SNOW.
A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY
AN ADVENTURE OF HARDRESS FITZGERALD, A ROYALIST CAPTAIN.
THE QUARE GANDER.
BILLY MALOWNEY’S TASTE OF LOVE AND GLORY.
Le Fanu, c. 1842
THE GHOST AND THE BONE SETTER.
In looking over the papers of my late valued and respected friend, Francis Purcell, who for nearly fifty years discharged the arduous duties of a parish priest in the south of Ireland, I met with the following document. It is one of many such; for he was a curious and industrious collector of old local traditions — a commodity in which the quarter where he resided mightily abounded. The collection and arrangement of such legends was, as long as I can remember him, his hobby; but I had never learned that his love of the marvellous and whimsical had carried him so far as to prompt him to commit the results of his inquiries to writing, until, in the character of residuary legatee, his will put me in possession of all his manuscript papers. To such as may think the composing of such productions as these inconsistent with the character and habits of a country priest, it is necessary to observe, that there did exist a race of priests — those of the old school, a race now nearly extinct — whose education abroad tended to produce in them tastes more literary than have yet been evinced by the alumni of Maynooth.
It is perhaps necessary to add that the superstition illustrated by the following story, namely, that the corpse last buried is obliged, during his juniority of interment, to supply his brother tenants of the churchyard in which he lies, with fresh water to allay the burning thirst of purgatory, is prevalent throughout the south of Ireland.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 656