Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 645
“Then we part, you and I, wiser men than we met. You write me no more letters, and I’ll pay you no more visits.”
With another cynical grin, he turned on his heel, and walked slowly down the stairs, leaving Mr. Forrester more ruffled than he had been for many a day.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE OLD LOVE.
The hour had now arrived at which our room looked really becoming. It had been a particularly fine autumn; and I have mentioned the effect of a warm sunset streaming through the deep windows upon the oak panelling. This light had begun to fade, and its melancholy serenity had made us silent. I had heard the sound of wheels near our door, but that was nothing unusual, for carts often passed close by, carrying away the rubbish that had accumulated in the old houses now taken down.
Annie Owen, our Malory maid, peeped in at the door — came in, looking frightened and important, and closed it before she spoke. She was turning something about in her fingers.
“What is it, Anne?” I asked.
“Please, miss, there’s an old gentleman downstairs; and he wants to know, ma’am,” she continued, now addressing mamma, “whether you’ll be pleased to see him.”
Mamma raised herself, and looked at the girl with anxious, startled eyes.
“What is that you have got in your hand?” I asked.
“Oh! I beg your pardon, ma’am; he told me to give you this, please.” And she handed a card to mamma. She looked at it and grew very pale. She stood up with a flurried air.
“Are you sure?” she said.
“Please, ma’am?” inquired the girl in perplexity.
“No matter. Ethel, dear, it is he. Yes, I’ll see him,” she said to the girl, in an agitated way; “show him up. Ethel, it’s Harry Rokestone — don’t go; he is so stern — I know how he’ll speak to me — but I ought not to refuse to see him.”
I was angry at my mother’s precipitation. If it had rested with me, what an answer the savage old man should have had! I was silent. By this time the girl was again at the hall-door. The first moment of indignation over, I was thunderstruck. I could not believe that anything so portentous was on the eve of happening.
The moments of suspense were not many. My eyes were fixed on the door as if an executioner were about to enter by it. It opened, and I saw — need I tell you? — the very same tall, handsome old man I had seen in the chapel of Cardyllion Castle.
“Oh! Mabel,” he said, and stopped. It was the most melancholy, broken voice I had ever heard. “My darling!”
My mother stood with her hand stretched vaguely towards him, trembling.
“Oh! Mabel, it is you, and we’ve met at last!”
He took her hand in one of his, and laid the other suddenly across his eyes and sobbed. There was silence for a good while, and then he spoke again.
“My pretty Mabel! I lost ye; I tried to hate ye, Mabel; but all would not do, for I love ye still. I was mad and broken-hearted — I tried to hate ye, but I couldn’t; I’d a’ given my life for you all the time, and you shall have Malory — it’s your own — I’ve bought it — ye’ll not be too proud to take a gift from the old man, my only darling! The spring and summer are over, it’s winter now wi’ the old fellow, and he’ll soon lie under the grass o’ the kirk-garth, and what does it all matter then? And you, bonny Mabel, there’s wonderful little change wi’ you!”
He was silent again, and tears coursed one another down his rugged cheeks.
“I saw you sometimes a long way off, when you didn’t think I was looking, and the sight o’ ye wrung my heart, that I didn’t hold up my head for a week after. A lonely man I’ve been for your sake, Mabel; and down to Gouden Friars, and among the fells, and through the lonnins of old Clusted Forest, and sailin’ on the mere, where we two often were, thinkin’ I saw ye in the shaddas, and your voice in my ear as far away as the call o’ the wind — dreams, dreams — and now I’ve met ye.”
He was holding mamma’s hand in his, and she was crying bitterly.
“I knew nothing of all this till to-day — I got all Forrester’s letters together. I was on the Continent — and you’ve been complaining, Mabel; but you’re looking so young and bonny! It was care, care was the matter, care and trouble; but that’s all over, and you shall never know anxiety more — you’ll be well again — you shall live at Malory, if you like it, or Gouden Friars — Mardykes is to let. I’ve a right to help you, Mabel, and you have none to refuse my help, for I’m the only living kinsman you have. I don’t count that blackguard lord for anything. You shall never know care again. For twenty years and more an angry man and dow I’ve been, caring for no one, love or likin, when I had lost yours. But now it is past and over, and the days are sped.”
A few melancholy and broken words more, and he was gone, promising to return next day at twelve, having seen Mr. Forrester in the meantime at his house in Piccadilly, and had a talk with him.
He was gone. He had not spoken a word to me — had not even appeared conscious that I was present. I daresay he was not. It was a little mortifying. To me he appeared a mixture, such as I never saw before, of brutality and tenderness. The scene had moved me.
Mamma was now talking excitedly. It had been an agitating meeting, and, till he had disclosed his real feelings, full of uncertainty. To prevent her from exerting herself too much, I took my turn in the conversation, and, looking from the window, still in the direction in which his cab had disappeared, I descanted with immense delight on the likelihood of his forthwith arranging that Malory should become our residence.
As I spoke, I turned about to listen for the answer I expected from mamma. I was shocked to see her look so very ill. I was by her side in a moment. She said a few words scarcely audible, and ceased speaking before she had ended her sentence. Her lips moved, and she made an eager gesture with her hand; but her voice failed. She made an effort, I thought, to rise, but her strength forsook her, and she fainted.
CHAPTER XLIX.
ALONE IN THE WORLD.
Sir Harry did not find Mr. Forrester at home; the solicitor was at a consultation in the Temple. Thither drove the baronet, who was impetuous in most things, and intolerant of delay where an object lay near his heart. Up to the counsel’s chambers in the Temple mounted Sir Harry Rokestone. He hammered his double knock at the door as peremptorily as he would have done at his own hall door.
Mr. Forrester afforded him just half a minute; and they parted good friends, having made an appointment for the purpose of talking over poor mamma’s affairs, and considering what was best to be done.
Sir Harry strode with the careless step of a mountaineer, along the front of the buildings, till he reached the entrance to which, in answer to a sudden inquiry, Mr. Forrester had directed him. Up the stairs he marched, and stopped at the door of the chambers occupied by Mr. Carmel. There he knocked again as stoutly as before. The door was opened by Edwyn Carmel himself.
“Is Mr. Carmel here?” inquired the old man.
“I am Mr. Carmel,” answered he.
“And I am Sir Harry Rokestone,” said the baronet. “I found a letter from you this morning; it had been lying at my house unopened for some time,” said the baronet.
Mr. Carmel invited him to come in. There were candles lighted, for it was by this time nearly dark; he placed a chair for his visitor: they were alone.
Sir Harry Rokestone seated himself, and began:
“There was no need, sir, of apology for your letter; intervention on behalf of two helpless and suffering ladies was honourable to you; but I had also heard some particulars from their own professional man of business; that, however, you could not have known. I have called to tell you that I quite understand the case. So much for your letter. But, sir, I have been informed that you are a Jesuit.”
“I am a Catholic priest, sir.”
“Well, sir, I won’t press the point; but the ruin of that family has been brought about, so far as I can learn, by gentlemen of that order. They got about that poor foolish creature, Lady Lorrimer; and, by cajoleries and terror, they got hold of every sixpence of her fortune, which, according to all that’s right and kind in nature, should have gone to her nearest kindred.”
Sir Harry’s eyes were fixed on him, as if he expected an answer.
“Lady Lorrimer did, I suppose, what pleased her best in her will,” said the young man, coldly; “Mrs. Ware had expectations, I believe, which have been, you say, disappointed.”
“And do you mean to tell me that you don’t know that fact for certain?” said the old gentleman, growing hot.
“I’m not certain of anything of which I have no proof, Sir Harry,” answered Mr. Carmel. “If I were a Jesuit, and your statement were a just one, still I should know no more about the facts than I do now; for it would not be competent for me to inquire into the proceedings of my superiors in the order. It is enough for me to say that I know nothing of any such influence exerted by any human being upon Lady Lorrimer; and I need scarcely add that I have never, by word or act, endeavoured ever so slightly to influence Lady Lorrimer’s dealings with her property! Your ear, sir, has been abused by slander.”
“By Jea! Here’s modesty!” said Sir Harry, exploding in a gruff laugh of scorn, and standing up. “What a pack o’ gaumless gannets you must take us for! Look-ye now, young sir. I have my own opinion about all that. And tell your superiors, as you call them, they’ll never get a plack of old Harry Rokestone’s money, while hand and seal can bind, and law’s law; and if I catch a priest in my house, ye may swear he’ll get out of it quicker than he came in. I’d thank you more for your letter, sir, if I was a little more sure of the motive; and now I’ve said my say, and I wish ye good evening.”
With a fierce smile, the old man looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and then turning abruptly, left the room and shut the door, with a firm clap, after him.
That was, to me, an anxious night. Mamma continued ill; I had written rather a wild note for our doctor; but he did not come for many hours. He did not say much; he wrote a prescription, and gave some directions; he was serious and reserved, which, in a physician, means alarm. In answer to my flurried inquiries, as I went downstairs by his side, he said:
“I told you, you recollect, that it is a capricious kind of thing; I hope she may be better when I look in in the morning; the nature of it is that it may end at any time, with very little warning; but with caution she may live a year, or possibly two years. I’ve known cases, as discouraging as hers, where life has been prolonged for three years.”
Next morning came, and I thought mamma much better. I told her all that was cheery in the doctor’s opinion, and amused her with plans for our future. But the hour was drawing near when doctors’ opinions, and friends’ hopes and flatteries, and the kindly illusions of plans looking pleasantly into an indefinite future, were to be swallowed in the tremendous event.
About half an hour before our kind doctor’s call, mamma’s faintness returned. I now began, and not an hour too soon, to despair. The medicine he had ordered the day before, to support her in those paroxysms, had lost its power. Mamma had been for a time in the drawingroom, but having had a long fainting-fit there, I persuaded her, so soon as she was a little recovered, to return to her bed.
I find it difficult, I may say, indeed, impossible, to reduce the occurrences of this day to order. The picture is not, indeed, so chaotic as my recollection of the times and events that attended my darling Nelly’s death. The shock, in that case, had affected my mind. But I do not believe that any one retains a perfectly arranged recollection of the flurried and startling scenes that wind up our hopes in the dread catastrophe. I never met a person yet who could have told the story of such a day with perfect accuracy and order.
I don’t know what o’clock it was when the doctor came. There is something of the character of sternness in the brief questions, the low tone, and the silent inspection that mark his last visit to the sick-room. What is more terrible than the avowed helplessness that follows, and his evident acquiescence in the inevitable?
“Don’t go. Oh, don’t go yet; wait till I come back, only a few minutes; there might be a change, and something might be done.”
I entreated; I was going up to mamma’s room; I had come down with him to the drawingroom.
“Well, my dear, I’ll wait.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll remain with you for ten minutes.”
I suppose I looked very miserable, for I saw a great compassion in his face. He was very goodnatured, and he added, placing his hand upon my arm, and looking gently in my face, “But, my poor child, you must not flatter yourself with hopes, for I have none — there are none.”
But what so headstrong and so persistent as hope? Terrible must be that place where it never comes.
I had scarcely left the drawingroom, when Sir Harry Rokestone, of the kindly change in whom I had spoken to our good doctor, knocked at the hall-door. Our rustic maid, Anne Owen, who was crying, let him in, and told him the sudden news; he laid his hand against the doorpost and grew pale. He did not say a word for as long as you might count twenty, then he asked:
“Is the doctor here?”
The girl led the way to the drawingroom.
“Bad news, doctor?” said the tall old man, in an agitated voice, as he entered, with his eyes fixed on Sir Jacob Lake. “My name is Rokestone — Sir Harry Rokestone. Tell me, is it so bad as the servant says? You have not given her up?”
The doctor shook his head; he advanced slowly a step or two to meet Sir Harry, and said, in a low tone:
“Mrs. Ware is dying — sinking very fast.”
Sir Harry walked to the mantelpiece, laid his hand on it, and stood there without moving. After a little he turned again, and came to Sir Jacob Lake.
“You London doctors — you’re so hurried,” he said, a little wildly, “from place to place. I think — I think — look, doctor; save her! save her, man!” — he caught the doctor’s wrist in his hand— “and I’ll make your fortune. Ye need never do an hour’s work more. Man was never so rewarded, not for a queen.”
The doctor looked very much offended; but, coarse as the speech was, it was delivered with a pathetic and simple vehemence that disarmed him.
“You mistake me, sir,” he said. “I take a very deep interest in this case. I have known Mrs. Ware from the time when she came to live in London. I hope I do my duty in every case, but in this I have been particularly anxious, and I do assure you, if —— What’s that?”
It was, as Shakespeare says, “a cry of women,” the sudden shrilly clamour of female voices heard through distant doors.
The doctor opened the door, and stood at the foot of the stairs.
“Ay, that’s it,” he said, shaking his head a little. “It’s all over.”
CHAPTER L.
A PROTECTOR.
I was in mamma’s room; I was holding up her head; old Rebecca and Anne Owen were at the bedside. My terrified eyes saw the doctor drawing near softly in the darkened room. I asked him some wild questions, and he answered gently, “No, dear; no, no.”
The doctor took his stand at the bedside, and, with his hands behind his back, looked down at her face sadly. Then he leaned over. He laid his hand gently on mamma’s, put his fingers to her wrist, felt, also, for the beating of her heart, looked again at her face, and rose from his stooping posture with a little shake of the head and a sigh, looked in the still face once more for a few seconds, and turning to me, said tenderly:
“You had better come away, dear; there’s nothing more to be done. You must not distress yourself.”
That last look of the physician at his patient, when he stands up, and becomes on a sudden no more than any other spectator, his office over, his command ended, is terrifying.
For two or three minutes I scarcely knew who was going or coming. The doctor, who had just gone downstairs, returned with an earnest request from Sir Harry Rokestone that in an hour or so he might be permitted to come back and take a last look of mamma. He did come back, but his heart failed him. He could not bear to see her now. He went into the drawingroom, and, a few minutes later, Rebecca Torkill came into my room, where, by this time, I was crying alone, and said:
“Ye mustn’t take on so, my darling; rouse yourself a bit. That old man, Sir Harry Rokestone, is down in the drawingroom in a bit of a taking, and he says he must see you before he goes.”
“I can’t see him, Rebecca,” I said.
“But what am I to say to him?” said she.
“Simply that. Do tell him I can’t go down to see anybody.”
“But ain’t it as well to go and have it over, miss? — for see you he will, I am sure of that; and I can’t manage him.”
“Does be seem angry?” I said, “or only in grief? I daresay he is angry. Yesterday, when he was here, he never spoke one word to me — he took no notice of me whatever.”
At another time an interview with Sir Harry Rokestone might have inspired many more nervous misgivings; as it was, I had only this: I knew that he had hated papa, and I, as my father’s child, might well “stand within his danger,” as the old phrase was. And the eccentric and violent old man, I thought, might, in the moment and agony of having lost for ever the object of an affection which my father had crossed, have sent for me, his child, simply to tell me that with my father’s blood I had inherited his curse.
“I can’t say, miss, indeed. He was talking to himself, and stamping with his thick shoes on the floor a bit as he walked. But ain’t it best to have done with him at once, if he ain’t friendly, and not keep him here, coming and going? — for see you he will, sooner or later.”
“I don’t very much care. Perhaps you are right. Yes, I will go down and see him,” I said. “Go you down, Rebecca, and tell him that I am coming.”
I had been lying on my bed, and required to adjust my hair, and dress a little.
As I came downstairs a few minutes later, I passed poor mamma’s door; the key turned in it. Was I walking in a dream? Mamma dead, and Sir Harry Rokestone waiting in the drawingroom to see me! I leaned against the wall, feeling faint for a minute.
