Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  “You go-you drive-ha, ha!-drive towards the place you came from.”

  And he pulled up the window, and leaned back, and stared wickedly in the faces of the people who were looking there. And Captain Torquil sped away, leaving wild and sinister impressions of himself, and no material memento of his visit except a piece of wrenched iron and his hat on the nursery floor.

  Captain Torquil drove away at a great pace-it was to be supposed, in hot haste to accomplish some scheme. Of course, a man with his ear tingling from a blow, and with such a case as regarded the child, and in the state of intense exasperation in which he was, and with his hat impounded in the vicar’s nursery, could hardly have gone away with threats so fierce against all parties without very resolute intentions.

  But when the vicar returned after sunset to his hysterical household, the captain had not reappeared.

  The vicar, like a wise governor, took prompt measures in this state of affairs. He sealed up Captain Torquil’s hat in a bandbox, lest there should be litigation with respect to that property. He caused Tom Shackles to make a note of the captain’s sayings and doings. He locked up the twisted iron which attested his violence, and he retained Tom as a garrison, keeping up through the night a sharp look-out in the moonlight, lest the enemy should return and attempt a surprise.

  But that night passed over quietly. And the next day came and went without tidings of or from the captain, and a week or more, without even a letter from a London attorney.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  AGITATIONS

  THERE came an odd letter from Mrs. Torquil, to her cousin Mrs. Jenner.

  It dwelt in an affectionate strain upon old recollections, and deplored the unhappy occurrences in which the name of her dear cousin at Golden Friars was involved, and which had placed her own dear husband in an attitude of, she feared, very determined antagonism to hers.

  Her husband could not in the least conceive what motive actuated Mr. Jenner in sanctioning the conduct of that flagitious servant, Hileria Pullen, and in disputing his (Captain Torquil’s) right to the custody of the child. That right does not rest upon the language of the will, but upon the earnest entreaty of poor Alice, conveyed, not in conversation only, but in repeated letters of a conclusive and unmistakeable kind. These, of course, would be put in evidence at the proper time. To her, nothing could have occurred more painful than that their husbands should stand mutually in such relations, especially as it had been her cherished hope and project to come down to Golden Friars, and to make it their headquarters; and so coon as the dear child had been with them a sufficient time to satisfy the solemn promises under which they were both bound to poor Alice, to endeavour to induce her (Mrs. Jenner) to undertake the care of the dear infant, which she felt would severely task her own strength.

  All this, to her inexpressible grief, had been frustrated by the wickedness of one artful servant. Her husband was supported by a wealthy relation in the expensive-and, to Mr. Jenner she feared, the ruinous — litigation into which they were about to plunge. Her husband, Captain Torquil, was very angry; and all she implored of her dear cousin was charitably to dissociate her from the oppressive litigation which the captain was about to direct against the Reverend Hugh Jenner. She hoped to hear from her to say that she would view these miserable proceedings in the same charitable way.

  This letter, somehow, produced an unpleasant effect even upon the vicar. It was so very plausible — even so alarming. He went down with it in his pocket to Mr. Tarlcot, who, with the suspicion of his craft, treated it simply as a piece of cajolery and brag — the concoction of a cunning terrorist.

  “It never was she who wrote that letter, Mr. Jenner. It’s not a lady’s letter. That letter, sir, was written by Captain Torquil, and copied by his wife; and it satisfies me that he has no notion of going on; he has not means for such a thing. I happen to know of an execution against him for four hundred and eighteen pounds. He’s in no position to throw away money; and he knew all along he had not a leg to stand on. Suppose we go down and ask Mrs. Pullen what she thinks of it?”

  “But — but — don’t you see, we really know nothing about this Mrs. Pullen,” said the vicar.

  “Don’t be influenced by that letter, my dear sir. That woman is as straight as an arrow. I wish I had such a witness in Hazel and Wrangham. She’s as honest as the sun.”

  “You understand such people better than I. I confess I thought her a most respectable person; and I’m quite sure it was this letter that made me hesitate. Let us go to the George and see her.”

  Mrs. Pullen was a great deal better, and sitting up, and about to set out on her travels next day.

  “Well, Mrs. Pullen, what do you think of that letter?” inquired the attorney, so soon as the vicar, having read it aloud, replaced it in his pocket. “Mrs. Torquil must like writing letters, else she’d hardly write so long a one.”

  “Bless you, sir,” said Hileria Pullen disdainfully, “the poor lady has never wrote a line of that letter. Allow me to see, sir, please, whether it is even in her handwriting. Well, yes, I know her writing,” she resumed after inspection. “I think it is. But that was wrote for her — every word. She daren’t write a line of any such thing of her own will — she dursn’t-oh, no, no!” And she shook her head slowly with a melancholy scorn. “Why, sir, she never writes a line if she can help it; and that she dursn’t write. Why, if you knewed, sir, she’d as ready put her hand in the fire as write a line of that, without she was, I may say, ordered to do it by master.”

  So the attorney looked and nodded gravely to the vicar, who said, returning his nod-

  “Yes, I dare say you are right.”

  And the vicar walked away with a sense of relief — very delightful relief — in thinking that he was in no serious danger of being involved in the tremendous eddy of litigation.

  Even Tom Shackles had suffered mentally under apprehensions of a similar sort, being a responsible man, and clerk of Golden Friars, and conscious of that box on the ear which he had dealt the desperate captain.

  Kitty Bell, too, had given him what she called a bang on his black, curly pate, and cried serious tears at the chaff with which Dick Wykes threatened her with transportation for “walin’” a soger.

  The relief was therefore general when, a fortnight having passed, nothing had occurred to corroborate the captain’s threats uttered when, in Kitty Bell’s phrase, “he banged out o’ t’dure, and we saa na meyar on him.”

  But these holloing folk were not quite out of the wood yet, for, like a brief, stem clap of thunder, that made his ears ring, there came an attorney’s letter from a firm in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, to the vicar, demanding to be put in communication with his “solicitor.”

  Still Mr. Tarlcot was sceptical. He communicated, and so did the vicar by return.

  CHAPTER XV.

  LAURA MILDMAY.

  So the field was clear, and battle coming.

  Here was the peace of tranquil Golden Friars broken, and the world again by the ears, all by the supreme influence and waywardness of women; old Hileria Pullen’s wild escapade,” and good Mrs. Jenner’s fancy for adopting other people’s progeny; the baby itself being of the same unlucky sex.

  But notwithstanding these alarms, the sceptical attorney of Golden Friars was right — nothing followed.

  With the great and distant metropolis was, indeed, thus spun the one fine thread of interest that connected it with the isolation of Golden Friars, and henceforward any bit of news respecting the movements of Captain Torquil was discussed with good appetite in the drawingroom and nursery of the vicar’s house, in the snuggery of Tom Shackles, in the humble dwelling of jolly Dick Wykes, and in the office of shrewd old Tarlcot from whose London correspondents, who had themselves had some unpleasant dealings with the captain, these little bits of news were derived.

  I am making a little chronicle, and shall jot down all I ever heard of this captain, while in due chronological order noting, also, such occurrences as illustrate Gold
en Friars during the brief period of my story.

  In the first place, then, without any show of opposition, the good vicar was appointed to take care of this little ward of Chancery, by the decree of that High Court. And now, cedant arma togoe. The vicar might snap his fingers at the captain.

  He was, like some others I have heard of, a married gentleman, who, without pretending to be single, lives like a bachelor, and puts his incumbrance quite out of view, like a by-gone indiscretion and sin of his youth.

  He was an Eton man, a member of good clubs, and had started well enough. His patrimony was gone, but he did not trouble any one with maunderings about that misfortune, and nobody ever asked after it. He paid his debts of honour lightly, and was one of the best dressed men about town. He lived, I dare say, on his luck and — skill.

  I don’t know exactly what it was, but Torquil grew to be not quite so well liked, and some men were a little shy of him, and his temper at Guildford was tremendous.

  The fact is that Captain Torquil was fast caught in that vice, the winch of which is twisted tighter and tighter hourly, and whose metallic bite whitens with hell-fire. He was in the torture of debt, and, worse, of the frightful shifts into which that agony drives some minds.

  He was in that selfish agony, quivering on the edge of despair, with just one devil’s throw for it; and he threw, as we know, and lost it.

  And now, in the dust and crash of a hideous ruin, Captain Torquil had vanished. After a time he turned up in Spain, where two royal pretenders were at that time campaigning and enlisting free lances.

  Then Captain Torquil was wounded; a very bad wound, for it knocked his eye out.

  “He was, as you know, such a handsome fellow,” said the writer of the letter, “and now you never beheld such an object. A glass eye the doctor says he can’t use, and I assure you it is a perfect chasm. I suppose they will stick a patch or something over it, but, so far as appearance goes, he is done for.”

  Shortly after came a letter to the vicar, saying that Captain Torquil’s friends were, in his present forlorn state, making up a little purse for him, and trusted that, being connected with his family, he would be so good as to contribute something. The good vicar sent five pounds, and Mr. Tarlcot said that a fool and his money are soon parted.

  Then it was stated that a legacy had been left him by an aunt of his, but no one seemed to know how much.

  About five years after that, a letter reached the vicar’s wife from Mrs. Torquil; not very long, but extremely plaintive, in which occurred this passage: “Since the death of my unhappy husband, Captain Torquil, I have suffered much distress of mind and body, if you thought your good husband who was so kind to mine, could,” &c. &c.

  And so it appeared, that with that fierce and selfish spirit, “life’s fitful fever” was over.

  Poor Mrs. Torquil, not very long after, embraced the Roman Catholic faith, and was received into a charitable institution. This event was, perhaps, the saving of her life, for she could now no longer procure alcohol.

  Years had now passed, and the delights of good Mrs. Jenner’s vicarious maternity seemed always increasing.

  How had this little child-so windered, as Kitty Bell had said, with the blea, or, in more familiar phrase, the plae, livid complexion, the suspected gloo, or squint, and whose little figure was held, by the same authority, to be all a-cracked, or, as we say, crooked — how had this poor misthriven, blasted flower lived through this time? and what did it look like now?

  “Well,” said Kitty Bell, now, after the flight of eighteen years, a little less light of foot, with streaks of grey in her brown hair, and lines traced deep enough across her once smooth forehead, and others etched about her kindly eyes-”well, who’d a thought the night she came here, when I held the can’le by her poor little pined face-an ill-favvert bab it was; poisoned, the doctor said— ‘twould ever a chirp’d up sooa? The weeny thing we used to see snoozlin’ in the weeny bed — lookin’ just like as if it was going to dee — who’d a thought ‘twould ever a spired up and stiffened like that? She’s t’ bonniest and t’ cantiest lass that ever set foot in Golden Friars — and the kindest.”

  She was now a beautiful girl, lithe and slender, with rich brown hair, and large, long-lashed eyes of blue, and lips so crimson, and cheeks so clear, and such a pretty oval formed her face, that Laura Mildmay was really one of the prettiest creatures that ever lover dreamed of.

  A little shy-with something wild and fiery in those dark eyes, proud and often sad, and sometimes merry — if you had seen her walking those mountain paths with a step like the deer’s, you might have taken her for the genius of those beautiful solitudes. I am going to tell you something of this young lady, who has risen from her temporary death to this beautiful shape, to be the late-found heroine of this little tale.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  SUITORS APPEAR.

  IT is not to be supposed that a heroine like Laura Mildmay, even in this sublime solitude, was quite without adorers.

  There were no doubt many who, for obvious reasons, never told their love. But two there were who in their different degrees were quite eligible; and in watching the movements of these rivals, good Mrs. Jenner discovered a new delight, and a perfectly novel exercise of the maternal instinct.

  What good woman is there without that sort of active benevolence which the coarse world calls matchmaking? I put the question to any good lady with enough experience to answer it — is not the fact so with regard to her neighbours? And as regards herself, I inquire, is there any other construction of castles in the air so entirely absorbing, preposterous, and enchanting?

  Allow me to tell in half a dozen lines something of the situation and the persons. I could easily make a volume of them, for they talked and felt, and had features and clothes, and there was a good deal of love, and some jealousy. And good Mrs. Jenner saw both sides of the question, on each of which much was to be said; and being of a nature that overflowed, with compassion her heart bled alternately for each, as the fortune of war favoured this or that pretender. Her romance was with the younger man, but the elder paid her more court, and had other points in his favour.

  Among the persons who prayed every Sunday in the variegated light of the stained glass eastern windows of the church at Golden Friars, and listened to — or at least heard — Doctor Jenner’s sermons, were to be seen middle-aged Sir John Mardykes and young Mr. Charles Shirley.

  Sir John is a bachelor of some fifty years. There is nothing hideous about him. His height hardly attains the average of mankind, and his figure is gently oval, being plump, and the effect assisted by a cutaway coat; the outline is of the pear or peg-top form. His face is plump and oblong. He is not yet grey, and curls his small whiskers with great punctuality. His hair is close and smooth, and at top decidedly thin. He carries himself very erect, and if not elegant, is at least dapper. He is grave, but very polite to ladies, and not being quick at the interpretation of puzzles, jokes, and the like deep sayings, he is reserved, not to say suspicious, in general society, and a man of few words, as well as of few ideas.

  Sir John’s place, about five miles away upon the lake, is beautiful, and his rental is five thousand a year, and something more; and his ancestors can be traced about the same covers and sheepwalks for five hundred years and upwards.

  Sir John’s father is buried in the church, which is within ten minutes’ walk of his gate. His state pew is there, and the walls are eloquent with the virtues and dignities of his ancestors. But he drives away four miles and attends the church at Golden Friars every Sunday.

  Charles Shirley is quite a young fellow, not five-and-twenty, certainly handsome, tall and lithe, very goodnatured, very merry, and with always a great deal to say for himself. The Shirleys are just as old a family as the Mardykes, but the young man’s rental is but a quarter of the worthy baronet’s.

  The young lady was, on a moderate scale, an heiress. During her minority her revenues had improved, and had now reached more than a thousand a
year. The great estates of her family had, however, passed in the male line to a remote kinsman.

  Stated in a gross, commercial way, the facts and figures are thus:

  Miss Laura Mildmay — annual value, £1,300.

  Sir John Mardykes-annual value, £5,600.

  Charles Shirley — annual value, £1,400.

  The young lady was still a ward of Chancery. Doctor Jenner was not sure that the sort of flirtation that was attempted might not be of the nature of a contempt. The lady, he assumed, still walked the beautiful paths of this grand solitude in maiden meditation fancy free, and he insisted on holding the suitors, during her minority, at arm’s length.

  The minority had now so nearly expired, that the vicar, who was punctual and orderly in all things, directed his London attorney (for our serious friend, Luke Tarlcot, was by this time sleeping soundly in Golden Friars churchyard, with a mural tablet over the family pew, containing a very handsome certificate of his virtues, the feelings of his sorrowing friends, and his own general importance) to take the best opinion procurable upon certain queries which he thought the will of her deceased mother, Mrs. Mildmay of Queen’s Snedley, suggested. He also asked him to request Mrs. Torquil’s attorney to submit a case on her behalf to counsel, as there was no doubt that she was by the will to succeed absolutely to the property in the event of Laura Mildmay dying unmarried before the age of thirty.

  Mrs. Torquil, of whose being still alive the vicar had some doubts, years having passed without any sign from her, turned out to be alive, and a great deal better and more active than she had been twenty years before, and she seemed to have a very keen sense indeed of the value of her reversion.