Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 180
There was not much in this little speech, but it was spoken in a low, sweet voice; and Rachel looked down on the ferns before her feet, as they walked on side by side, not with a smile, but with a blush, and that beautiful look of gratification so becoming and indescribable. Happy that moment — that enchanted moment of oblivion and illusion! But the fitful evening breeze came up through Redman’s Dell, with a gentle sweep over the autumnal foliage. Sudden as a sigh, and cold; in her ear it sounded like a whisper or a shudder, and she lifted up her eyes and saw the darkening dell before her; and with a pang, the dreadful sense of reality returned. She stopped, with something almost wild in her look. But with an effort she smiled, and said, with a little shiver, ‘The air has grown quite chill, and the sun nearly set; we loitered, Stanley and I, a great deal too long in the park, but I am now at home, and I fear I have brought you much too far out of your way already; goodbye.’ And she extended her hand.
‘You must not dismiss your escort here. I must see you through the enchanted dell — it is only a step — and then I shall return with a good conscience, like a worthy knight, having done my devoir honestly.’
She looked down the dell, with a dark and painful glance, and then she said a few words of hesitating apology and acquiescence, and in a few minutes more they parted at the little wicket of Redman’s Farm. They shook hands. He had a few pleasant, lingering words to say. She paused as he spoke at the other side of that little garden door. She seemed to like those lingering sentences — and hung upon them — and even smiled but in her eyes there was a vague and melancholy pleading — a wandering and unfathomable look that pained him.
They shook hands again — it was the third time — and then she walked up the little gravel walk, hardly a dozen steps, and disappeared within the door of Redman’s Farm, without turning another parting look on Lord Chelford, who remained at the little paling — expecting one, I think — to lift his hat and say one more parting word.
She turned into the little drawingroom at the left, and, herself unseen, did take that last look, and saw him go up the road again towards Brandon. The shadows and mists of Redman’s Dell anticipated night, and it was already deep twilight there.
On the table there lay a letter which Margery had brought from the postoffice. So Rachel lighted her candles and read it with very little interest, for it concerned a world towards which she had few yearnings. There was just one sentence which startled her attention: it said, ‘We shall soon be at Knowlton — for Christmas, I suppose. It is growing too wintry for mamma near the sea, though I like it better in a high wind than in a calm; and a gale is such fun — such a romp. The Dulhamptons have arrived: the old Marchioness never appears till three o’clock, and only out in the carriage twice since they came. I can’t say I very much admire Lady Constance, though she is to be Chelford’s wife. She has fine eyes — and I think no other good point — much too dark for my taste — but they say clever;’ and not another word was there on this subject.
‘Lady Constance! arranged, I suppose, by Lady Chelford — no great dot — and an unamiable family — an odious family — nothing to recommend her but her rank.’
So ruminated Rachel Lake as she looked out on her shadowy garden, and tapped a little feverish tattoo with her finger on the window pane; and she meditated a great while, trying to bring back distinctly her recollection of Lady Constance, and also vaguely conjecturing who had arranged the marriage, and how it had come about.
‘Chelford cannot like her. It is all Lady Chelford’s doing. Can I have mistaken the name?’
But no. Nothing could be more perfectly distinct than ‘Chelford,’ traced in her fair correspondent’s very legible hand.
‘He treats the young lady very coolly,’ thought Rachel, forgetting, perhaps, that his special relations to Dorcas Brandon had compelled his stay in that part of the world.
Mingled with this criticism, was a feeling quite unavowed even to herself — a sore feeling that Lord Chelford had been — and this she never admitted to herself before — more particular — no, not exactly that — but more something or other — not exactly expressible in words, in his approaches to her, than was consistent with his situation. But then she had been very guarded; not stiff or prudish, indeed, but frank and cold enough with him, and that was comforting.
Still there was a sense of wonder — a great blank, and something of pain in the discovery — yes, pain — though she smiled a faint blushing smile — alone as she was; and then came a deep sigh; and then a sort of start.
‘Rachel, Rachel, is it possible?’ murmured the young lady, with the same dubious smile, looking down upon the ground, and shaking her head. ‘Yes, I do really think you had begun to like Lord Chelford — only begun, the least little insidious bit; but thank you, wild Bessie Frankleyn, you have quite opened my eyes. Rachel, Rachel, girl! what a fool you were near becoming!’
She looked like her old pleasant self during this little speech — arch and fresh, and still smiling — she looked up and sighed, and then her dark look returned, and she said dismally,
‘What utter madness!’
And leaned for a while with her fingers upon the window sash; and when she turned to old Tamar, who brought in her tiny tea equipage, it seemed as if the shadow of the dell, into which she had been vacantly gazing, still rested on her face.
‘Not here, Tamar; I’ll drink tea in my room; and you must bring your tea-cup, too, and we’ll take it together. I am — I think I am — a little nervous, darling, and you won’t leave me?’
So they sat down together in her chamber. It was a cheery little bedroom, when the shutters were closed, and the fire burning brightly in the grate.
‘My good Tamar will read her chapters aloud. I wish I could enjoy them like you. I can only wish. You must pray for me, Tamar. There is a dreadful image — and I sometimes think a dreadful being always near me. Though the words you read are sad and awful, they are also sweet, like funeral music a long way off, and they tranquillise me without making me better, as the harping of David did the troubled and forsaken King Saul.’
So the old nurse mounted her spectacles, glad of the invitation, and began to read. Her reading was very, slow, and had other faults too, being in that sing-song style to which some people inexplicably like to read Holy Writ; but it was reverent and distinct, and I have heard worse even in the reading desk.
‘Stop,’ said Rachel suddenly, as she reached about the middle of the chapter.
The old woman looked up, with her watery eyes wide open, and there was a short pause.
‘I beg your pardon, dear Tamar, but you must first tell me that story you used to tell me long ago of Lady Ringdove, that lived in Epping Forest, to whom the ghost came and told something she was never to reveal, and who slowly died of the secret, growing all the time more and more like the spectre; and besought the priest when she was dying, that he would have her laid in the abbey vault, with her mouth open, and her eyes and ears sealed, in token that her term of slavery was over, that her lips might now be open, and that her eyes were to see no more the dreadful sight, nor her ears to hear the frightful words that used to scare them in her lifetime; and then, you remember, whenever afterwards they opened the door of the vault, the wind entering in, made such moanings in her hollow mouth, and declared things so horrible that they built up the door of the vault, and entered it no more. Let me have the entire story, just as you used to tell it.’
So old Tamar, who knew it was no use disputing a fancy of her young mistress, although on Sunday night she would have preferred other talk, recounted her old tale of wonder.
‘Yes, it is true — a true allegory, I mean, Tamar. Death will close the eyes and ears against the sights and sounds of earth; but even the tomb secures no secrecy. The dead themselves declare their dreadful secrets, open-mouthed, to the winds. Oh, Tamar! turn over the pages, and try to find some part which says where safety and peace may be found at any price; for sometimes I think I am almost bereft of — reason.’
CHAPTER XXXII.
MR. LARKIN AND THE VICAR.
The good vicar was not only dismayed but endangered by his brother’s protracted absence. It was now the first week in November. Bleak and wintry that ungenial month set in at Gylingden; and in accord with the tempestuous and dismal weather the fortunes of the Rev. William Wylder were darkened and agitated.
This morning a letter came at breakfast, by post, and when he had read it, the poor vicar grew a little white, and he folded it very quietly and put it in his waistcoat pocket, and patted little Fairy on the head. Little Fairy was asking him a question all this time, very vehemently, ‘How long was Jack’s sword that he killed the giants with?’ and several times to this distinct question he received only the unsatisfactory reply, ‘Yes, my darling;’ and at last, when little Fairy mounted his knee, and hugging the abstracted vicar round the neck, urged his question with kisses and lamentations, the parson answered with a look of great perplexity, and only half recalled, said, ‘Indeed, little man, I don’t know. How long, you say, was Jack’s sword? Well, I dare say it was as long as the umbrella.’ He got up, with the same perplexed and absent look, as he said this, and threw an anxious glance about the room, as if looking for something he had mislaid.
‘You are not going to write now, Willie, dear?’ expostulated his good little wife, ‘you have not tasted your tea yet.’
‘I have, indeed, dear; haven’t I? Well, I will.’
And, standing, he drank nearly half the cup she had poured out for him, and set it down, and felt in his pocket, she thought, for his keys.
‘Are you looking for anything, Willie, darling? Your keys are in my basket.’
‘No, darling; no, darling — nothing. I have everything I want. I think I must go to the Lodge and see Mr. Larkin, for a moment.’
‘But you have eaten nothing,’ remonstrated his partner; ‘you must not go until you have eaten something.’
‘Time enough, darling; I can’t wait — I sha’n’t be away twenty minutes — time enough when I come back.’
‘Have you heard anything of Mark, darling?’ she enquired eagerly.
‘Of Mark? Oh, no! — nothing of Mark.’ And he added with a deep sigh, ‘Oh, dear! I wonder he does not write — no, nothing of Mark.’
She followed him into the hall.
‘Now, Willie darling, you must not go till you have had your breakfast — you will make yourself ill — indeed you will — do come back, just to please me, and eat a little first.’
‘No, darling; no, my love — I can’t, indeed. I’ll be back immediately; but I must catch Mr. Larkin before he goes out. It is only a little matter — I want to ask his opinion — and — oh! here is my stick — and I’ll return immediately.’
‘And I’ll go with you,’ cried little Fairy.
‘No, no, little man; I can’t take you — no, it is business — stay with mamma, and I’ll be back again in a few minutes.’
So, spite of Fairy’s clamours and the remonstrances of his fond, clinging little wife, with a hurried kiss or two, away he went alone, at a very quick pace, through the high street of Gylingden, and was soon in the audience chamber of the serious, gentleman attorney.
The attorney rose with a gaunt and sad smile of welcome — begged Mr. Wylder, with a wave of his long hand, to be seated — and then seating himself and crossing one long thigh over the other, he threw his arm over the back of his chair, and leaning back with what he conceived to be a graceful and gentlemanly negligence — with his visitor full in the light of the window and his own countenance in shadow, the light coming from behind — a diplomatic arrangement which he affected — he fixed his small, pink eyes observantly upon him, and asked if he could do anything for Mr. William Wylder.
‘Have you heard anything since, Mr. Larkin? Can you conjecture where his address may now be?’ asked the vicar, a little abruptly.
‘Oh! Mr. Mark Wylder, perhaps, you refer to?’
‘Yes; my brother, Mark.’
Mr. Larkin smiled a sad and simple smile, and shook his head.
‘No, indeed — not a word — it is very sad, and involves quite a world of trouble — and utterly inexplicable; for I need not tell you, in my position, it can’t be pleasant to be denied all access to the client who has appointed me to act for him, nor conducive to the apprehension of his wishes upon many points, which I should much prefer not being left to my discretion. It is really, as I say, inexplicable, for Mr. Mark Wylder must thoroughly see all this: he is endowed with eminent talents for business, and must perfectly appreciate the embarrassment in which the mystery with which he surrounds the place of his abode must involve those whom he has appointed to conduct his business.’
‘I have heard from him this morning,’ resumed the lawyer; ‘he was pleased to direct a power of attorney to me to receive his rents and sign receipts; and he proposes making Lord Viscount Chelford and Captain Lake trustees, to fund his money or otherwise invest it for his use, and’ —
‘Has he — I beg pardon — but did he mention a little matter in which I am deeply — indeed, vitally interested?’ The vicar paused.
‘I don’t quite apprehend; perhaps if you were to frame your question a little differently, I might possibly — a — you were saying’ —
‘I mean a matter of very deep interest to me,’ said the poor vicar, colouring a little, ‘though no very considerable sum, viewed absolutely; but, under my unfortunate circumstances, of the most urgent importance — a loan of three hundred pounds — did he mention it?’
Again Mr. Larkin shook his head, with the same sad smile.
‘But, though we do not know how to find him, he knows very well where to find us — and, as you are aware, we hear from him constantly — and no doubt he recollects his promise, and will transmit the necessary directions all in good time.’
‘I earnestly hope he may,’ and the poor cleric lifted up his eyes unconsciously and threw his hope into the form of a prayer. ‘For, to speak frankly, Mr. Larkin, my circumstances are very pressing. I have just heard from Cambridge, and find that my good friend, Mr. Mountain, the bookseller, has been dead two months, and his wife — he was a widower when I knew him, but it would seem has married since — is his sole executrix, and has sold the business, and directed two gentlemen — attorneys — to call in all the debts due to him — peremptorily — and they say I must pay before the 15th; and I have, absolutely, but five pounds in the world, until March, when my half-year will be paid. And indeed, only that the tradespeople here are so very kind, we should often find it very difficult to manage.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mr. Larkin, blandly, ‘you would permit me to look at the letter you mention having received from the solicitors at Cambridge?’
‘Oh, thank you, certainly; here it is,’ said William Wylder, eagerly, and he gazed with his kind, truthful eyes upon the attorney’s countenance as he glanced over it, trying to read something of futurity therein.
‘Foukes and Mauley,’ said Mr. Larkin. ‘I have never had but one transaction with them; they are not always pleasant people to deal with. Mind, I don’t say anything affecting their integrity — Heaven forbid; but they certainly did take rather what I would call a short turn with us on the occasion to which I refer. You must be cautious; indeed, my dear Sir, very cautious. The fifteenth — just ten clear days. Well, you know you have till then to look about you; and you know we may any day hear from your brother, directing the loan to be paid over to you. And now, my dear and reverend friend, you know me, I hope,’ continued Mr. Larkin, very kindly, as he handed back the letter; ‘and you won’t attribute what I say to impertinent curiosity; but your brother’s intended advance of three hundred pounds can hardly have had relation only to this trifling claim upon you. There are, no doubt — pardon me — several little matters to be arranged; and considerable circumspection will be needed, pending your brother’s absence, in dealing with the persons who are in a position to press their claims unpleasantly. You must not trifle with these things. And let me recommend you seeing your legal adviser, whoever he is, immediately.’
‘You mean,’ said the vicar, who was by this time very much flushed, ‘a gentleman of your profession, Mr. Larkin. Do you really think — well, it has frequently crossed my mind — but the expense, you know; and although my affairs are in a most unpleasant and complicated state, I am sure that everything would be perfectly smooth if only I had received the loan my kind brother intends, and which, to be sure, as you say, any day I may receive.’
‘But, my dear Sir, do you really mean to say that you would pay claims from various quarters — how old is this, for instance? — without examination!’
The vicar looked very blank.
‘I — this — well, this I certainly do owe; it has increased a little with interest, though good Mr. Mountain never charged more than six per cent. It was, I think, about fifteen pounds — books — I am ashamed to say how long ago; about a work which I began then, and laid aside — on Eusebius; but which is now complete, and will, I hope, eventually repay me.’
‘Were you of age, my dear Sir, when he gave you these books on credit?
Were you twenty-one years of age?’
‘Oh! no; not twenty; but then I owe it, and I could not, as s a Christian man, you know, evade my debts.’
‘Of course; but you can’t pay it at present, and it may be highly important to enable you to treat this as a debt of honour, you perceive. Suppose, my dear Sir, they should proceed to arrest you, or to sequestrate the revenue of your vicarage. Now, see, my dear Sir, I am, I humbly hope, a Christian man; but you will meet with men in every profession — and mine is no exception — disposed to extract the last farthing which the law by its extremest process will give them. And I really must tell you, frankly, that if you dream of escaping the most serious consequences, you must at once place yourself and your affairs in the hands of a competent man of business. It will probably be found that you do not in reality owe sixty pounds of every hundred claimed against you.’
