Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Pooh, pooh! you foolish boy,” ejaculated the old bachelor, with considerable energy, in reply to O’Connor’s gloomy and passionate language; “nonsense, sir, and folly, and absurdity — you’ll give me the vapours if you go on this way — what the devil do you want of foreign service and foreign graves — do you think, booby, it was for that I came over here — tilly vally, tilly vally — I know as well as you, or any other jackanapes, what love is. I tell you, sirrah, I have been in love, and I have been jilted — jilted, sir! and when I was jilted, I thought the jilting itself quite enough, without improving the matter by getting myself buried, dead or alive.” Here the little gentleman knocked the table recklessly with his knuckles, buried his hands in his breeches pockets, and rising from his chair, paced the room with an impressive tread. “Had you ever seen Letty Bodkin you might, indeed, have known what love is” — he continued, breathing very hard— “Letty Bodkin jilted me, and I got over it. I did not ask for razors, or cannon balls, or foreign interment, sir; but I vented my indignation like a man of business, in totting up the books, and running up a heavy arrear in the office accounts — yes, sir, I did more good in the way of arithmetic and book-keeping during that three weeks of love-sick agony, than an ordinary man, without the stimulus, would do in a year” — there was another pause here, and he resumed in a softened tone— “but Letty Bodkin was no ordinary woman. Oh! you scoundrel, had you seen her, you’d have been neither to hold nor to bind — there was nothing she could not do — she embroidered a waistcoat for me — heigho! scarlet geraniums and parsley sprigs — and she danced like — like a — a spring board — she’d sail through a minuet like a duck in a pond, and hop and bounce through ‘Sir Roger de Coverley’ like a hot chestnut on a griddle; — and then she sang — oh, her singing! — I’ve heard turtle-doves and thrushes, and, in fact, most kind of fowls of all sorts and sizes; but no nightingale ever came up to her in ‘The Captain endearing and tall,’ and ‘The Shepherdess dying for love’ — there never lived a man” — continued he, with increasing vehemence— “I don’t care when or where, who could have stood, sate, or walked in her company for half-an-hour, without making an old fool of himself — she was just my age, perhaps a year or two more — I wonder whether she is much changed — heigho!”

  Having thus delivered himself, Mr. Audley lapsed into meditation, and thence into a faint and rather painful attempt to vocalize his remembrance of “The Captain endearing and tall,” engaged in which desperate operation of memory, O’Connor left the old gentleman, and returned to his temporary abode to pass a sleepless night of vain remembrances, regrets, and despair.

  On the morning subsequent to the somewhat disorderly scene which we have described as having occurred in the theatre, Mary Ashwoode, as usual, sate silent and melancholy, in the dressing-room of her father, Sir Richard. The baronet was not yet sufficiently recovered to venture downstairs to breakfast, which in those days was a very early meal indeed. After an unusually prolonged silence, the old man, turning suddenly to his daughter, abruptly said, “Mary, you have now had some days to study Lord Aspenly — how do you like him?”

  The girl raised her eyes, not a little surprised at the question, and doubtful whether she had heard it aright.

  “I say,” resumed he, “you ought to have been able by this time to arrive at a fair judgment as to Lord Aspenly’s merits — what do you think of him — do you like him?”

  “Indeed, father,” replied she, “I have observed him very little — he may be a very estimable man, but I have not seen enough of him to form any opinion; and indeed, if I had, my opinion must needs be a matter of the merest indifference to him and everyone else.”

  “Your opinion upon this point,” replied Sir Richard, tartly, “happens not to be a matter of indifference.”

  A considerable pause again ensued, during which Mary Ashwoode had ample time to reflect upon the very unpleasant doubts which this brief speech, and the tone in which it was uttered, were calculated to inspire.

  “Lord Aspenly’s manners are very agreeable, very,” continued Sir Richard, meditatively— “I may say, indeed, fascinating — very — do you think so?” he added sharply, turning towards his daughter.

  This was rather a puzzling question. The girl had never thought about him except as a frivolous old beau; yet it was plain she could not say so without vexing her father; she therefore adopted the simplest expedient under such perplexing circumstances, and preserved an embarrassed silence.

  “The fact is,” said Sir Richard, raising himself a little, so as to look full in his daughter’s face, at the same time speaking slowly and sternly, “the fact is, I had better be explicit on this subject. I am anxious that you should think well of Lord Aspenly; it is, in short, my wish and pleasure that you should like him; you understand me — you had better understand me.” This was said with an emphasis not to be mistaken, and another pause ensued. “For the present,” continued he, “run down and amuse yourself — and — stay — offer to show his lordship the old terrace garden — do you mind? Now, once more, run away.”

  So saying, the old gentleman turned coolly from her, and rang his hand-bell vehemently. Scarcely knowing what she did, such was her astonishment at all that had passed, Mary Ashwoode left the room without any very clear notion as to whither she was going, or what to do; nor was her confusion much relieved when, on entering the hall, the first object which encountered her was Lord Aspenly himself, with his triangular hat under his arm, while he adjusted his deep lace ruffles — he had never looked so ugly before. As he stood beneath her while she descended the broad staircase, smiling from ear to ear, and bowing with the most chivalric profundity, his skinny, lemon-coloured face, and cold, glittering little eyes raised toward her — she thought that it was impossible for the human shape so nearly to assume the outward semblance of a squat, emaciated toad.

  “Miss Ashwoode, as I live!” exclaimed the noble peer, with his most gracious and fascinating smile. “On what mission of love and mercy does she move? Shall I hope that her first act of pity may be exercised in favour of the most devoted of her slaves? I have been looking in vain for a guide through the intricacies of Sir Richard’s yew hedges and leaden statues; may I hope that my presiding angel has sent me one in you?”

  Lord Aspenly paused, and grinned wider and wider, but receiving no answer, he resumed, —

  “I understand, Miss Ashwoode, that the pleasure-grounds, which surround us, abound in samples of your exquisite taste; as a votary of Flora, may I ask, if the request be not too bold, that you will vouchsafe to lead a bewildered pilgrim to the object of his search? There is — is there not? — shrined in the centre of these rustic labyrinths, a small flower-garden which owes its sweet existence to your creative genius; if it be not too remote, and if you can afford so much leisure, allow me to implore your guidance.”

  As he thus spoke, with a graceful flourish, the little gentleman extended his hand, and courteously taking hers by the extreme points of the fingers, he led her forward in a manner, as he thought, so engaging as to put resistance out of the question. Mary Ashwoode felt far too little interest in anything but the one ever-present grief which weighed upon her heart, to deny the old fop his trifling request; shrouding her graceful limbs, therefore, in a short cloak, and drawing the hood over her head, she walked forth, with slow steps and an aching heart, among the trim hedges which fenced the oldfashioned pleasure walks.

  “Beauty,” exclaimed the nobleman, as he walked with an air of romantic gallantry by her side, and glancing as he spoke at the flowers which adorned the border of the path— “beauty is nowhere seen to greater advantage than in spots like this; where nature has amassed whatever is most beautiful in the inanimate creation, only to prove how unutterably more exquisite are the charms of living loveliness: these walks, but this moment to me a wilderness, are now so many paths of magic pleasure — how can I enough thank the kind enchantress to whom I owe the transformation?” Here the little gentleman looked unutterable
things, and a silence of some minutes ensued, during which he effected some dozen very wheezy sighs. Emboldened by Miss Ashwoode’s silence, which he interpreted as a very unequivocal proof of conscious tenderness, he resolved to put an end to the skirmishing with which he had opened his attack, and to commence the action in downright earnestness. “This place breathes an atmosphere of romance; it is a spot consecrated to the worship of love; it is — it is the shrine of passion, and I — I am a votary — a worshipper.”

  Miss Ashwoode paused in mingled surprise and displeasure, for his vehemence had become so excessive as, in conjunction with his asthma, to threaten to choke his lordship outright. When Mary Ashwoode stopped short, Lord Aspenly took it for granted that the crisis had arrived, and that the moment for the decisive onset was now come; he therefore ejaculated with a rapturous croak, —

  “And you — you are my divinity!” and at the same moment he descended stiffly upon his two knees, caught her hand in his, and began to mumble it with unmistakable devotion.

  “My lord — Lord Aspenly! — surely your lordship cannot mean — have done, my lord,” exclaimed the astonished girl, withdrawing her hand indignantly from his grasp. “Rise, my lord; you cannot mean otherwise than to mock me by such extravagance. My lord — my lord, you surprise and shock me beyond expression.”

  “Angel of beauty! most exquisite — most perfect of your sex,” gasped his lordship, “I love you — yes, to distraction. Answer me, if you would not have me expire at your feet — ugh — ugh — tell me that I may hope — ugh — that I am not indifferent to you — ugh, ugh, ugh, — that — that you can love me?” Here his lordship was seized with so violent a fit of coughing, that Miss Ashwoode began to fear that he would expire at her feet in downright earnest. During the paroxysm, in which, with one hand pressed upon his side, he supported himself by leaning with the other upon the ground, Mary had ample time to collect her thoughts, so that when at length he had recovered his breath, she addressed him with composure and decision.

  “My lord,” she said, “I am grateful for your preference of me; although, when I consider the shortness of my acquaintance with you, and how few have been your opportunities of knowing me, I cannot but wonder very much at its vehemence. For me, your lordship cannot feel more than an idle fancy, which will, no doubt, pass away just as lightly as it came; and as for my feelings, I have only to say, that it is wholly impossible for you ever to establish in them any interest of the kind you look for. Indeed, indeed, my lord, I hope I have not given you pain — nothing can be further from my wish than to do so; but it is my duty to tell you plainly and at once my real feelings. I should otherwise but trifle with your kindness, for which, although I cannot return it as you desire, I shall ever be grateful.”

  Having thus spoken, she turned from her noble suitor, and began to retrace her steps rapidly towards the house.

  “Stay, Miss Ashwoode — remain here for a moment — you must hear me!” exclaimed Lord Aspenly, in a tone so altered, that she involuntarily paused, while his lordship, with some difficulty, raised himself again to his feet, and with a flushed and haggard face, in which still lingered the ghastly phantom of his habitual smile, he hobbled to her side. “Miss Ashwoode,” he exclaimed, in a tone tremulous with emotions very different from love, “I — I — I am not used to be treated cavalierly — I — I will not brook it: I am not to be trifled with — jilted — madam, jilted, and taken in. You have accepted and encouraged my attentions — attentions which you cannot have mistaken; and now, madam, when I make you an offer — such as your ambition, your most presumptuous ambition, dared not have anticipated — the offer of my hand — and — and a coronet, you coolly tell me you never cared for me. Why, what on earth do you look for or expect? — a foreign prince or potentate, an emperor, ha — ha — he — he — ugh — ugh — ugh! I tell you plainly, Miss Ashwoode, that my feelings must be considered. I have long made my passion known to you; it has been encouraged; and I have obtained Sir Richard’s — your father’s — sanction and approval. You had better reconsider what you have said. I shall give you an hour; at the end of that time, unless you see the propriety of avowing feelings which, you must pardon me when I say it, your encouragement of my advances has long virtually acknowledged, I must lay the whole case, including all the painful details of my own ill-usage, before Sir Richard Ashwoode, and trust to his powers of persuasion to induce you to act reasonably, and, I will add, honourably.”

  Here his lordship took several extraordinarily copious pinches of snuff, after which he bowed very low, conjured up an unusually hideous smile, in which spite, fury, and triumph were eagerly mingled, and hobbled away before the astonished girl had time to muster her spirits sufficiently to answer him.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  WHO APPEARED TO MARY ASHWOODE AS SHE SATE UNDER THE TREES — THE CHAMPION.

  With flashing eyes and a swelling heart, struck dumb with unutterable indignation, the beautiful girl stood fixed in the attitude in which his last words had reached her, while the enraged and unmanly old fop hobbled away, with the ease and grace with which a crippled ape might move over a hot griddle. He had disappeared for some minutes before she had recovered herself sufficiently to think or speak.

  “If he were by my side,” she said, “this noble lord dared not have used me thus. Edmond would have died a thousand deaths first. But oh! God look upon me, for his love is gone from me, and I am now a poor, grieved, desolate creature, with none to help me.”

  Thus saying, she sate herself down upon the grass bank, beneath the tall and antique trees, and wept with all the bitter and devoted abandonment of hopeless sorrow. From this unrestrained transport of grief she was at length aroused by the pressure of a hand, gently and kindly laid upon her shoulder.

  “What vexes you, Mary, my little girl?” inquired Major O’Leary, for he it was that stood by her. “Come, darling, don’t fret, but tell your old uncle the whole business, and twenty to one, he has wit enough in his old noddle yet to set matters to rights. So, so, my darling, dry your pretty eyes — wipe the tears away; why should they wet your young cheeks, my poor little doat, that you always were. It is too early yet for sorrow to come on you. Wouldn’t I throw myself between my little pet and all grief and danger? Then trust to me, darling; wipe away the tears, or by —— I’ll begin to cry myself. Dry your eyes, and see if I can’t help you one way or another.”

  The mellow brogue of the old major had never fallen before with such a tender pathos upon the ear of his beautiful niece, as now that its rich current bore full upon her heart the unlooked-for words of kindness and comfort.

  “Were not you always my pet,” continued he, with the same tenderness and pity in his tone, “from the time I first took you upon my knee, my poor little Mary? And were not you fond of your old rascally uncle O’Leary? Usedn’t I always to take your part, right or wrong; and do you think I’ll desert you now? Then tell it all to me — ain’t I your poor old uncle, the same as ever? Come, then, dry the tears — there’s a darling — wipe them away.”

  While thus speaking, the warm-hearted old man took her hand, with a touching mixture of gallantry, pity, and affection, and kissed it again and again, with a thousand accompanying expressions of endearment, such as in the days of her childhood he had been wont to lavish upon his little favourite. The poor girl, touched by the kindness of her early friend, whose goodnatured sympathy was not to be mistaken, gradually recovered her composure, and yielding to the urgencies of the major, who clearly perceived that something extraordinarily distressing must have occurred to account for her extreme agitation, she at length told him the immediate cause of her grief and excitement. The major listened to the narrative with growing indignation, and when it had ended, he inquired, in a tone, about whose unnatural calmness there was something infinitely more formidable than in the noisiest clamour of fury, —

  “Which way, darling, did his lordship go when he left you?”

  The girl looked in his face, and saw his deadly p
urpose there.

  “Uncle, my own dear uncle,” she cried distractedly, “for God’s sake do not follow him — for God’s sake — I conjure you, I implore— “ She would have cast herself at his feet, but the major caught her in his arms.

  “Well, well, my darling.” he exclaimed, “I’ll not kill him, well as he deserves it — I’ll not: you have saved his life. I pledge you my honour, as a gentleman and a soldier, I’ll not harm him for what he has said or done this day — are you satisfied?”

  “I am, I am! Thank God, thank God!” exclaimed the poor girl, eagerly.

  “But, Mary, I must see him,” rejoined the major; “he has threatened to set Sir Richard upon you — I must see him; you don’t object to that, under the promise I have made? I want to — to reason with him. He shall not get you into trouble with the baronet; for though Richard and I came of the same mother, we are not of the same marriage, nor of the same mould — I would not for a cool hundred that he told his story to your father.”

  “Indeed, indeed, dear uncle,” replied the girl, “I fear me there is little hope of escape or ease for me. My father must know what has passed; he will learn it inevitably, and then it needs no colouring or misrepresentation to call down upon me his heaviest displeasure; his anger I must endure as best I may. God help me. But neither threats nor violence shall make me retract the answer I have given to Lord Aspenly, nor ever yield consent to marry him — nor any other now.”

  “Well, well, little Mary,” rejoined the major, “I like your spirit. Stand to that, and you’ll never be sorry for it. In the meantime, I’ll venture to exercise his lordship’s conversational powers in a brief conference of a few minutes, and if I find him as reasonable as I expect, you’ll have no cause to regret my interposition. Don’t look so frightened — haven’t I promised, on the honour of a gentleman, that I will not pink him for anything said or done in his conference with you? To send a small sword through a bolster or a bailiff,” he continued, meditatively, “is an indifferent action; but to spit such a poisonous, crawling toad as the respectable old gentleman in question, would be nothing short of meritorious — it is an act that ‘ud tickle the fancy of every saint in heaven, and, if there’s justice on earth, would canonize myself. But never mind, I’ll let it alone — the little thing shall escape, since you wish it — Major O’Leary has said it, so let no doubt disturb you. Goodbye, my little darling, dry your eyes, and let me see you, before an hour, as merry as in the merriest days that are gone.”