Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  “Well, I think ye’d a-bin frightened yourself if ye’d a sid such a sight. I couldn’t let go the curtain, nor move an inch, nor take my eyes off her; my very heart stood still. And in an instant she opens her eyes, and up she sits, and spins herself round, and down wi’ her, wi’ a clack on her two tall heels on the floor, facin’ me, ogglin’ in my face wi’ her two great glassy eyes, and a wicked simper wi’ her old wrinkled lips, and lang fause teeth.

  “Well, a corpse is a natural thing; but this was the dreadfullest sight I ever sid. She had her fingers straight out pointin’ at me, and her back was crooked, round again wi’ age. Says she:

  “‘Ye little limb! what for did ye say I killed the boy? I’ll tickle ye till ye’re stiff!’

  “If I’d a thought an instant, I’d a turned about and run. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I backed from her as soon as I could; and she came clatterin’ after like a thing on wires, with her fingers pointing to my throat, and she makin’ all the time a sound with her tongue like zizz-zizz-zizz.

  “I kept backin’ and backin’ as quick as I could, and her fingers was only a few inches away from my throat, and I felt I’d lose my wits if she touched me.

  “I went back this way, right into the corner, and I gev a yellock, ye’d think saul and body was partin’, and that minute my aunt, from the door, calls out wi’ a blare, and the aid lady turns round on her, and I turns about, and ran through my room, and down the stairs, as hard as my legs could carry me.

  “I cried hearty, I can tell you, when I got down to the housekeeper’s room. Mrs. Wyvern laughed a deal when I told her what happened. But she changed her key when she heared the ale lady’s words.

  “‘Say them again,’ says she.

  “So I told her.

  “‘Ye little limb! What for did ye say I killed the boy? I’ll tickle ye till ye’re stiff.’

  “‘And did ye say she killed a boy?’ says she.

  “‘Not I, ma’am,’ says I.

  “Judith was always up with me, after that, when the two older women was away from her. I would a jumped out at winda, rather than stay alone in the same room wi’ her.

  “It was about a week after, as well as I can remember, Mrs. Wyvern, one day when me and her was alone, told me a thing about Madam Crowl that I did not know before.

  “She being young, and a great beauty, full seventy year before, hed married Squire Crowl, of Applewale. But he was a widower, and had a son about nine years old.

  “There never was tale or tidings of this boy after one momin’. No one could say where he went to. He was allowed too much liberty, and used to be off in the morning, one day, to the keeper’s cottage and breakfast wi’ him, and away to the warren, and not home, mayhap, till evening; and another time down to the lake, and bathe there, and spend the day fishin’ there, or paddlin’ about in the boat. Well, no one could say what was gone wi’ him; only this, that his hat was found by the lake, under a haathom that grows thar to this day, and ’twas thought he was drowned bathin’. And the squire’s son, by his second marriage, with this Madam Crowl that lived sa dreadful lang, came in far the estates. It was his son, the aid lady’s grandson, Squire Chevenix Crowl, that owned the estates at the time I came to Applewale.

  “There was a deal o’ talk lang before my aunt’s time about it; and ’twas said the stepmother knew more than she was like to let out. And she managed her husband, the aid squire, wi’ her whiteheft and flatteries. And as the boy was never seen more, in course of time the thing died out of fowks’ minds.

  “I’m going to tell ye noo about what I sid wi’ my own een.

  “I was not there six months, and it was winter time, when the aid lady took her last sickness.

  “The doctor was afeard she might a took a fit o’ madness, as she did fifteen years befoore, and was bucked up, many a time, in a strait-waistcoat, which was the very leathern jerkin I sid in the closet, off my aunt’s room.

  “Well, she didn’t. She pined, and windered, and went off, torflin’, torflin’, quite enough, till a day or two before her flittin’, and then she took to rabblin’, and sometimes skirlin’ in the bed, ye’d think a robber had a knife to her throat, and she used to work out o’ the bed, and not being strong enough, then, to walk or stand, she’d fall on the flure, wi’ her aid wizened hands stretched before her face, and skirlin’ still for mercy.

  “Ye may guess I didn’t go into the room, and I used to be shiverin’ in my bed wi’ fear, at her skirlin’ and scraffiin’ on the flure, and blarin’ out words that id make your skin turn blue.

  “My aunt, and Mrs. Wyvern, and Judith Squailes, and a woman from Lexhoe, was always about her. At last she took fits, and they wore her out.

  “T’ sir was there, and prayed for her; but she was past praying with. I suppose it was right, but none could think there was much good in it, and sa at lang last she made her flittin’, and a’ was over, and old Dame Crowl was shrouded and coffined, and Squire Chevenix was wrote for. But he was away in France, and the delay was sa lang, that t’ sir and doctor both agreed it would not du to keep her langer out o’ her place, and no one cared but just them two, and my aunt and the rest o’ us, from Applewale, to go to the buryin’. So the old lady of Applewale was laid in the vault under Lexhoe Church; and we lived up at the great house till such time as the squire should come to tell his will about us, and pay off such as he chose to discharge.

  “I was put into another room, two doors away from what was Dame Crowl’s chamber, after her death, and this thing happened the night before Squire Chevenix came to Applewale.

  “The room I was in now was a large square chamber, covered wi’ yak pennels, but unfurnished except for my bed, which had no curtains to it, and a chair and a table, or so that looked nothing at all in such a big room. And the big looking-glass, that the old lady used to keek into and admire herself from head to heel, now that there was na muir o’ that wark, was put out of the way, and stood against the wall in my room, for there was shiftin’ o’ many things in her chamber ye may suppose, when she came to be coffined.

  “The news had come that day that the squire was to be down next morning at Applewale; and not sorry was I, for I thought I was sure to be sent home again to my mother. And right glad was I, and I was thinkin’ of a’ at hame, and my sister Janet, and the kitten and the pymag, and Trimmer the tike, and all the rest, and I got sa fidgetty, I couldn’t sleep, and the clock struck twelve, and me wide awake, and the room as dark as pick. My back was turned to the door, and my eyes toward the wall opposite.

  “Well, it could na be a full quarter past twelve, when I sees a lightin’ on the wall befoore me, as if something took fire behind, and the shadas o’ the bed, and the chair, and my gown, that was hangin’ from the wall, was dancin’ up and down on the ceilin’ beams and the yak pannels; and I turns my head ower my shoulther quick, thinkin’ something must a gone a’ fire.

  “And what sud I see, by Jen! but the likeness o’ the aid beldame, bedizened out in her satins and velvets, on her dead body, simperin’, wi’ her eyes as wide as saucers, and her face like the fiend himself. ’Twas a red light that rose about her in a fuffin low, as if her dress round her feet was blazin’. She was drivin’ on right for me, wi’ her aid shrivelled hands crooked as if she was goin’ to claw me. I could not stir, but she passed me straight by, wi’ a blast o’ cald air, and I sid her, at the wall, in the alcove as my aunt used to call it, which was a recess where the state bed used to stand in aid times, wi’ a door open wide, and her hands gropin’ in at somethin’ was there. I never sid that door befoore. And she turned round to me, like a thing on a pivot, flyrin’, and I standin’ at the far side o’ the bed; I don’t know how I got there, and I found my tongue at last, and if I did na blare a yellock, rennin’ down the gallery and almost pulled Mrs. Wyvern’s door off t’ hooks, and frighted her half out o’ wits.

  “Ye may guess I did na sleep that night; and wi’ the first light, down wi’ me to my aunt, as fast as my two legs cud
carry me.

  “Well, my aunt did na frump or flite me, as I thought, she would, but she held me by the hand, and looked hard in my face all the time. And she telt me not to be feared; and says she:

  “‘Hed the appearance a key in its hand?’

  “‘Yes,’ says I, bringin’ it to mind, ‘a big key in a queer brass handle.’

  “‘Stop a bit,’ says she, lettin’ go ma hand, and openin’ the cupboard-door. ‘Was it like this?’ says she, takin’ one out in her fingers, and showing it to me, with a dark look in my face.

  “‘That was it,’ says I, quick enough.

  “‘Are ye sure?’ she says, turnin’ it round.

  “‘Sart,’ says I, and felt like I was gain’ to faint when I sid it. “‘Well, that will do, child,’ says she, saftly thinkin’, and she locked it up again.

  “‘The squire himself will be here to-day, before twelve o’clock, and ye must tell him all about it,’ says she, thinkin’, ‘and I suppose I’ll be leavin’ soon, and so the best thing for the present is, that ye should go home this afternoon, and I’ll look out another place for you when I can.’

  “Fain was I, ye may guess at that word.

  “My aunt packed up my things for me, and the three pounds that was due to me, to bring home, and Squire Crowl himself came down to Applewale that day, a handsome man, about thirty years aid. It was the second time I sid him. But this was the first time he spoke to me.

  “My aunt talked wi’ him in the housekeeper’s room, and I don’t know what they said. I was a bit feared on the squire, he bein’ a great gentleman down in Lexhoe, and I dam’t go near till I was called. And says he, smilin’:

  “‘What’s a’ this ye a sen, child? it mun be a dream, for ye know there’s na sic a thing as a be or a freet in a’ the world. But whatever it was, ma little maid, sit ye doyvn and tell all about it from first to last.’

  “Well, so soon as I med an end, he thought a bit, and says he to my aunt:

  “‘I mind the place well. In old Sir Olivur’s time lame Wyndel told me there was a door in that recess, to the left, where the lassie dreamed she saw my grandmother open it. He was past eighty when he telt me that, and I but a boy. It’s twenty year sen. The plate and jewels used to be kept there, long ago, before the iron closet was made in the arras chamber, and he told me the key had a brass handle, and this ye say was found in the bottom o’ the kist where she kept her old fans. Now, would not it be a queer thing if we found some spoons or diamonds forgot there? Ye mun come up wi’ us, lassie, and point to the very spot.’

  “Loth was I, and my heart in my mouth, and fast I held by my aunt’s hand as I stept into that awsome room, and showed them both how she came and passed me by, and the spot where she stood, and where the door seemed to open.

  “There was an aid empty press against the wall then, and shoving it aside, sure enough there was the tracing of a door in the wainscot, and a keyhole stopped with wood, and planed across as smooth as the rest, and the joining of the door all stopped wi’ putty the colour o’ yak, and, but for the hinges that showed, a bit when the press was shoved aside, ye would not consayt there was a door there at all.

  “‘Ha!’ says he, wi’ a queer smile, ‘this looks like it.’

  “It took some minutes wi’ a small chisel and hammer to pick the bit o’ wood out o’ the keyhole. The key fitted, sure enough, and, wi’ a strang twist and a lang shreak, the boult went back and he pulled the door open.

  “There was another door inside, stranger than the first, but the lacks was gone, and it opened easy. Inside was a narrow floor and walls and vault o’ brick; we could not see what was in it, for ’twas dark as pick.

  “When my aunt had lighted the candle, the squire held it up and stept in.

  “My aunt stood on tiptoe tryin’ to look over his shouther, and I did na see nout.

  “‘Ha! ha!’ says the squire, steppin’ backward. ‘What’s that? Gi’ ma the poker-quick!’ says he to my aunt. And as she went to the hearth I peeps beside his arm, and I sid squat down in the far corner a monkey or a flayin’ on the chest, or else the maist shrivelled up, wizzened aid wife that ever was sen on yearth.

  “‘By Jen!’ says my aunt, as, puttin’ the poker in his hand, she keeked by his shouther, and sid the ill-favoured thing, ‘hae a care, sir, what ye’re doin’. Back wi’ ye, and shut to the door!’

  “But in place o’ that he steps in saftly, wi’ the poker pointed like a swoord, and he gies it a poke, and down it a’ tumbles together, head and a’, in a heap o’ bayans and dust, little meyar an’ a hatful.

  “’Twas the bayans o’ a child; a’ the rest went to dust at a touch. They said nout for a while, but he turns round the skull, as it lay on the floor.

  “Young as I was, I consayted I knew well enough what they was thinkin’ on.

  “‘A dead cat!’ says he, pushin’ back and blowin’ out the can’le, and shuttin’ to the door. ‘We’ll come back, you and me, Mrs. Shutters, and look on the shelves by-and-bye. I’ve other matters first to speak to ye about; and this little girl’s goin’ hame, ye say. She has her wages, and I mun mak’ her a present,’ says he, pattin’ my shouther wi’ his hand.

  “And he did gimma a goud pound, and I went off to Lexhoe about an hour after, and sa hame by the stagecoach, and fain was I to be at hame again; and I niver sid Dame Crowl o’ Apple» wale, God be thanked, either in appearance or in dream, at-efter. But when I was grown to be a woman, my aunt spent a day and night wi’ me at Littleham, and she telt me there was na doubt it was the poor little boy that was missing sa lang sen, that was shut up to die thar in the dark by that wicked beldame, whar his skirls, or his prayers, or his thumpin’ cud na be heard, and his hat was left by the water’s edge, whoever did it, to mak’ belief he was drowned. The clothes, at the first touch, a’ ran into a snuff o’ dust in the cell whar the bayans was found. But there was a handful o’ jet buttons, and a knife with a green heft, together wi’ a couple o’ pennies the poor little fella had in his pocket, I suppose, when he was decoyed in thar, and sid his last o’ the light. And there was, amang the squire’s papers, a copy o’ the notice that was prented after he was lost, when the aid squire thought he might ‘a run away, or bin took by gipsies, and it said he had a green-hefted knife wi’ him, and that his buttons were o’ cut jet. Sa that is a’ I hev to say consamin’ aid Dame Crowl, o’ Applewale House.”

  CHAPTER XXI.

  THE MEETING.

  NEVER did morning dawn more glorious. There was just cloud enough in the still sky here and there to dapple the steep sides of the towering mountains, and to give to the face of some bold projection a character of gloom and menace.

  At the appointed time Mr. Burton stood at the outer gate, raised his hat from his snow-white hair, and smiled at the young lady in the drawingroom window, who, smiling in return, ran down to join him.

  “It is so kind of you, Mr. Burton,” she said, as she came down the steps, “to take all this trouble; and the walk will be, I’m afraid, so tiresome to you who took it only on Saturday. It’s too goodnatured of you.”

  “If I were a younger man I should now make ever so many pretty speeches,” said Mr. Burton; “I shall only answer, however, that it is to me an ever new delight scaling those magnificent hills. I never could tire of them, and I can honestly say, beside, that your society will greatly add to the charm of the walk. Richard Wyke’s boat is waiting, and once at the other side, the distance is really nothing. By-the-bye, have you got your little tin case to put the flowers in?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you, everything.”

  So they went on their way chatting together very cheerfully, for she felt quite at ease in the society of this kind, communicative, and accomplished old man.

  The row across the lake was delightful, and the village of Golden Friars from this point of view, diminished but distinct in the distance, with its new background of mountain, and the lake in front, and its dark elms standing in groups or singly about the oldfashioned gables, p
resents a singularly picturesque feature in the landscape.

  And now, chatting pleasantly, the old man with his stick in his hand, and the young lady listening to his stories about foreign flowers, and Alpine, Pyrenean, and Himalayan wonders, ascended the foot of the mountain that rises from the very margin of the lake, and they crossed the little shingle road-as old, possibly, as the days of the Picts-that coils its way over the hills; and by its side they walked on, and though, ascending, still pretty nearly parallel to the margin of the lake. The mountain grows steeper from that base as they proceed.

  Thus, in good Mr. Burton’s phrase of the evening before, ‘on and upward’ they proceeded at a gentle pace, ascending above the sounds of life — its sights, also, growing perceptibly more remote, as they entered a lighter and breezier air. The bold mountain side rose steep at their right, and with a gentler declivity slanted down to the water.

  The old man laughed at himself and shook his head, but he confessed that for the first time since his arrival at Golden Friars he began to feel the mountains a little too much for him, and now and then, asking Laura Mildmay’s leave, he sat down for a minute or two on the roadside bank to rest.