by Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER XXXI.
SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.—THE STRANGE CONFERENCE.
Sir Francis Varney is in what he calls his own apartment. It is night, and a dim and uncertain light from a candle which has been long neglected, only serves to render obscurity more perplexing. The room is a costly one. One replete with all the appliances of refinement and luxury which the spirit and the genius of the age could possibly supply him with, but there is upon his brow the marks of corroding care, and little does that most mysterious being seem to care for all the rich furnishing of that apartment in which he sits.
His cadaverous-looking face is even paler and more death-like-looking than usual; and, if it can be conceived possible that such an one can feel largely interested in human affairs, to look at him, we could well suppose that some interest of no common magnitude was at stake.
Occasionally, too, he muttered some unconnected words, no doubt mentally filling up the gaps, which rendered the sentences incomplete, and being unconscious, perhaps, that he was giving audible utterance to any of his dark and secret meditations.
At length he rose, and with an anxious expression of countenance, he went to the window, and looked out into the darkness of the night. All was still, and not an object was visible. It was that pitchy darkness without, which, for some hours, when the moon is late in lending her reflected beams, comes over the earth’s surface.
“It is near the hour,” he muttered. “It is now very near the hour; surely he will come, and yet I know not why I should fear him, although I seem to tremble at the thought of his approach. He will surely come. Once a year—only once does he visit me, and then ’tis but to take the price which he has compelled me to pay for that existence, which but for him had been long since terminated. Sometimes I devoutly wish it were.”
With a shudder he returned to the seat he had so recently left, and there for some time he appeared to meditate in silence.
Suddenly now, a clock, which was in the hall of that mansion he had purchased, sounded the hour loudly.
“The time has come,” said Sir Francis. “The time has come. He will surely soon be here. Hark! hark!”
Slowly and distinctly he counted the strokes of the clock, and, when they had ceased, he exclaimed, with sudden surprise—
“Eleven! But eleven! How have I been deceived. I thought the hour of midnight was at hand.”
He hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found, that whatever he had been looking forward to with dread for some time past, as certain to ensue, at or about twelve o clock, had yet another hour in which to prey upon his imagination.
“How could I have made so grievous an error?” he exclaimed. “Another hour of suspense and wonder as to whether that man be among the living or the dead. I have thought of raising my hand against his life, but some strange mysterious feeling has always staid me; and I have let him come and go freely, while an opportunity might well have served me to put such a design into execution. He is old, too—very old, and yet he keeps death at a distance. He looked pale, but far from unwell or failing, when last I saw him. Alas! a whole hour yet to wait. I would that this interview were over.”
That extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets, now began, indeed, to torment Sir Francis Varney. He could not sit—he could not walk, and, somehow or another, he never once seemed to imagine that from the wine cup he should experience any relief, although, upon a side table, there stood refreshments of that character. And thus some more time passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinking of a variety of subjects; but as the fates would have it, there seemed not one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicable man, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory the more uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. A shuddering nervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, be sat as if he were upon the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, he shook this off, and then placing before him the watch, which now indicated about the quarter past eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to wait the coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would really be a great terror, since the very thought beforehand produced so much hesitation and apparent dismay.
In order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too painful consideration of those terrors, which in due time the reader will be acquainted with the cause of, he took up a book, and plunging at random into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with the following brief narrative:—
The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden and furious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence upon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat.
It was an ancient looking place, very large, end capable of containing a number of guests. Several were present.
An aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. They were the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young maidens of surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar, and yet there was a slight likeness, but of totally different complexions.
The one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were all of the same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her complexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smile played around her lips. The glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill through the whole soul.
The other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether fairer—her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were shaded by long brown eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up her countenance. She was the younger of the two.
The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of the aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments before.
There were several other persons present, and at some little distance were many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth and rest in the presence of their master.
These were not the times, when, if servants sat down, they were deemed idle; but the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the fire-side.
“The wind howls and moans,” said an aged domestic, “in an awful manner. I never heard the like.”
“It seems as though same imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose that had been denied on earth,” said the old lady as she shifted her seat and gazed steadily on the fire.
“Ay,” said her aged companion, “it is a windy night, and there will be a storm before long, or I’m mistaken.”
“It was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home,” said Mrs. Bradley, “just such another—only it had the addition of sleet and rain.”
The old man sighed at the mention of his son’s name, a tear stood in the eyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed to exchange glances.
“I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home in the cold remorseless grave.”
“Mother,” said the fairest of the two maidens, “do not talk thus, let us hope that we yet may have many years of happiness together.”
“Many, Emma?”
“Yes, mamma, many.”
“Do you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what I have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal to thirty years added to my life.”
“You may have deceived yourself, aunt,” said the other maiden; “at all events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as often live in peace and happiness.”
“But I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is not here; besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again.”
“It is now two years since he was here last,” said the old man. “This night two years was the night
on which he left.”
“This night two years?”
“Yes.”
“It was this night two years,” said one of the servant men, “because old Dame Poutlet had twins on that night.”
“A memorable circumstance.”
“And one died at a twelvemonth old,” said the man; “and she had a dream which foretold the event.”
“Ay, ay.”
“Yes, and moreover she’s had the same dream again last Wednesday was a week,” said the man.
“And lost the other twin?”
“Yes sir, this morning.”
“Omens multiply,” said the aged man; “I would that it would seem to indicate the return of Henry to his home.”
“I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this time; probably he may not be in the land of the living.”
“Poor Henry,” said Emma.
“Alas, poor boy! We may never see him again—it was a mistaken act of his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father’s displeasure.”
“Say no more—say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it. God knows I know quite enough,” said Mr. Bradley; “I knew not he would have taken my words so to heart as he did.”
“Why,” said the old woman, “he thought you meant what you said.”
There was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire, seemingly wrapt in their own meditation.
Henry Bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that day two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood? wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this?
He had dared to love without his father’s leave, and had refused the offer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen for him, but whom he could not love.
It was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son should refuse, as it was to the son that his father should contemplate such a match.
“Henry,” said the father, “you have been thought of by me, I have made proposals for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbour, Sir Arthur Onslow.”
“Indeed, father!”
“Yes; I wish you to go there with me to see the young lady.”
“In the character of a suitor?”
“Yes,” replied the father, “certainly; it’s high time you were settled.”
“Indeed, I would rather not go, father; I have no intention of marrying just yet. I do not desire to do so.”
This was an opposition that Mr. Bradley had not expected from his son, and which his imperious temper could ill brook, and with a darkened brow he said—
“It is not much, Henry, that I trespass upon your obedience; but when I do so, I expect that you will obey me.”
“But, father, this matter affects me for my whole life.”
“That is why I have deliberated so long and carefully over it.”
“But it is not unreasonable that I should have a voice in the affair, father, since it may render me miserable.”
“You shall have a voice.”
“Then I say no to the whole regulation,” said Henry, decisively.
“If you do so you forfeit my protection, much more favour; but you had better consider over what you have said. Forget it, and come with me.”
“I cannot.”
“You will not?”
“No, father; I cannot do as you wish me; my mind is fully made up upon that matter.”
“And so is mine. You either do as I would have you, or you leave the house, and seek your own living, and you are a beggar.”
“I should prefer being such,” said Henry, “than to marry any young lady, and be unable to love her.”
“That is not required.”
“No! I am astonished! Not necessary to love the woman you marry!”
“Not at all; if you act justly towards her she ought to be grateful; and it is all that is requisite in the marriage state. Gratitude will beget love, and love in one begets love in the other.”
“I will not argue with you, father, upon the matter. You are a better judge than I; you have had more experience.”
“I have.”
“And it would be useless to speak upon the subject; but of this I can speak—my own resolve—that I will not marry the lady in question.”
The son had all the stern resolve of the father, but he had also very good reasons for what he did. He loved, and was beloved in return; and hence he would not break his faith with her whom he loved.
To have explained this to his father would have been to gain nothing except an accession of anger, and he would have made a new demand upon his (the son’s) obedience, by ordering him to discard from his bosom the image that was there indelibly engraven.
“You will not marry her whom I have chosen for your bride?”
“I cannot.”
“Do not talk to me of can and can’t, when I speak of will and wont. It Is useless to disguise the fact. You have your free will in the matter. I shall take no answer but yes or no.”
“Then, no, father.”
“Good, sir; and now we are strangers.”
With that Mr. Bradley turned abruptly from his son, and left him to himself.
It was the first time they had any words or difference together, and it was sudden and soon terminated.
Henry Bradley was indignant at what had happened; he did not think his father would have acted as he had done in this instance; but he was too much interested in the fate of another to hesitate for a moment. Then came the consideration as to what he should do, now that he had arrived at such a climax.
His first thoughts turned to his mother and sister. He could not leave the house without bidding them good-bye. He determined to see his mother, for his father had left the Hall upon a visit.
Mrs. Bradley and Emma were alone when he entered their apartment, and to them he related all that had passed between himself and father.
They besought him to stay, to remain there, or at least in the neighbourhood; but he was resolved to quit the place altogether for a time, as he could do nothing there, and he might chance to do something elsewhere.
Upon this, they got together all the money and such jewels as they could spare, which in all amounted to a considerable sum; then taking an affectionate leave of his mother and sister, Henry left the Hall—not before he had taken a long and affectionate farewell of one other who lived within those walls.
This was no other than the raven-eyed maiden who sat by the fire side, and listened attentively to the conversation that was going on. She was his love—she, a poor cousin. For her sake he had braved all his father’s anger, and attempted to seek his fortune abroad.
This done, he quietly left the Hall, without giving any one any intimation of where he was going.
Old Mr. Bradley, when he had said so much to his son, was highly incensed at what he deemed his obstinacy; and he thought the threat hanging over him would have had a good effect; but he was amazed when he discovered that Henry had indeed left the Hall, and he knew not whither.
For some time he comforted himself with the assurance that he would, he must return, but, alas! he came not, and this was the second anniversary of that melancholy day, which no one more repented of and grieved for, than did poor Mr. Bradley.
“Surely, surely he will return, or let us know where he is,” he said; “he cannot be in need, else he would have written to us for aid.”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Bradley; “it is, I fear, because he has not written, that he is in want; he would never write if he was in poverty, lest he should cause us unhappiness at his fate. Were he doing well, we should hear of it, for he would be proud of the result of his own unaided exertions.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Bradley, “I can say no more; if I was hasty, so was he; but it is passed.
I would forgive all the past, if I could but see him once again—once again!”
“How the wind howls,” added the aged man; “and it’s getting worse and worse.”
“Yes, and the snow is coming down now in style,” said one of the servants, who brought in some fresh logs which were piled up on the fire, and he shook the white flakes off his clothes.
“It will be a heavy fall before morning,” said one of the men.
“Yes, it has been gathering for some days; it will be much warmer than it has been when it is all down.”
“So it will—so it will.”
At that moment there was a knocking at the gate, and the dogs burst into a dreadful uproar from their kennels.
“Go, Robert,” said Mr. Bradley, “and see who it is that knocks such a night as this; it is not fit or safe that a dog should be out in it.”
The man went out, and shortly returned, saying—
“So please you, sir, there is a traveller that has missed his way, and desires to know if he can obtain shelter here, or if any one can be found to guide him to the nearest inn.”
“Bid him come in; we shall lose no warmth because there is one more before the fire.”
The stranger entered, and said—“I have missed my way, and the snow comes down so thick and fast, and is whirled in such eddies, that I fear, by myself, I should fall into some drift, and perish before morning.”
“Do not speak of it, sir,” said Mr. Bradley; “such a night as this is a sufficient apology for the request you make, and an inducement to me to grant it most willingly.”
“Thanks,” replied the stranger; “the welcome is most seasonable.”
“Be seated, sir; take your seat by the ingle; it is warm.”
The stranger seated himself, and seemed lost in reflection, as he gazed intently on the blazing logs. He was a robust man, with great whiskers and beard, and, to judge from his outward habiliments, he was a stout man.
“Have you travelled far?”
“I have, sir.”
“You appear to belong to the army, if I mistake not?”