Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  ‘I dreamed, Ma’am, the night before he came, a great fellow was at the hall-door.’

  ‘What! here?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am, this hall-door. So muffled up I could not see his face; and he pulls out a letter all over red.’

  ‘Red?’

  ‘Aye, Miss; a red letter.’

  ‘Red ink?’

  ‘No, Miss, red paper, written with black, and directed for you.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘And so, Miss, in my dream, I gave it you in the drawingroom; and you opened it, and leaned your hand upon your head, sick-like, reading it. I never saw you read a letter so serious-like before. And says you to me, Miss, “It’s all about Master Stanley; he is coming.” And sure enough, here he was quite unexpected, next morning.’

  ‘And was there no more?’ asked Miss Lake.

  ‘No more, Miss. I awoke just then.’

  ‘It is odd,’ said Miss Lake, with a little laugh. ‘Had you been thinking of him lately?’

  ‘Not a bit, Ma’am. I don’t know when.’

  ‘Well, it certainly is very odd.’

  At all events, it had glanced upon a sensitive recollection unexpectedly. The kitchen was only a kitchen now; and the young lady, on a sudden, looked thoughtful — perhaps a little sad. She rose; and old Tamar got up before her, with her scared, secret look, clothed in white — the witch, whose word had changed all, and summoned round her those shapes, which threw their indistinct shadows on the walls and faces around.

  ‘Light the candles in the drawingroom, Margery, and then, child, go to your bed,’ said the young lady, awakening from an abstraction. ‘I don’t mind dreams, Tamar, nor fortunetellers — I’ve dreamed so many good dreams, and no good ever came of them. But talking of Stanley reminds me of trouble and follies that I can’t help, or prevent. He has left the army, Tamar, and I don’t know what his plans are.’

  ‘Ah! poor child; he was always foolish and changeable, and a deal too innocent for them wicked officer-gentlemen; and I’m glad he’s not among them any longer to learn bad ways — I am.’

  So, the drawingroom being prepared, Rachel bid Tamar and little Margery goodnight, and the sleepy little handmaid stumped off to her bed; and white old Tamar, who had not spoken so much for a month before, put on her solemn round spectacles, and by her dipt candle read her chapter in the ponderous Bible she had thumbed so well, and her white lips told over the words as she read them in silence.

  Old Tamar, I always thought, had seen many untold things in her day, and some of her recollections troubled her, I dare say; and she held her tongue, and knitted her white worsteds when she could sit quiet — which was most hours of the day; and now and then when evil remembrances, maybe, gathered round her solitude, she warned them off with that book of power — so that my recollection of her is always the same white-clad, cadaverous old woman, with a pair of barnacles on her nose, and her look of secrecy and suffering turned on the large print of that worn volume, or else on the fumbling-points of her knitting-needles.

  It was a small house, this Redman’s Farm, but very silent, for all that, when the day’s work was over; and very solemn, too, the look-out from the window among the colonnades of tall old trees, on the overshadowed earth, and through them into deepest darkness; the complaining of the lonely stream far down is the only sound in the air.

  There was but one imperfect vista, looking down the glen, and this afforded no distant view — only a downward slant in the near woodland, and a denser background of forest rising at the other side, and tonight mistily gilded by the yellow moonbeams, the moon herself unseen.

  Rachel had opened her window-shutters, as was her wont when the moon was up, and with her small white hands on the window-sash, looked into the wooded solitudes, lost in haunted darkness in every direction but one, and there massed in vaporous and discoloured foliage, hardly more distinct, or less solemn.

  ‘Poor old Tamar says her prayers, and reads her Bible; I wish I could. How often I wish it. That good, simple vicar — how unlike his brother — is wiser, perhaps, than all the shrewd people that smile at him. He used to talk to me; but I’ve lost that — yes — I let him understand I did not care for it, and so that good influence is gone from me — graceless creature. No one seemed to care, except poor old Tamar, whether I ever said a prayer, or heard any good thing; and when I was no more than ten years old, I refused to say my prayers for her. My poor father. Well, Heaven help us all.’

  So she stood in the same sad attitude, looking out upon the shadowy scene, in a forlorn reverie.

  Her interview with Dorcas remained on her memory like an odd, clear, half-horrible dream. What a dazzling prospect it opened for Stanley; what a dreadful one might it not prepare for Dorcas. What might not arise from such a situation between Stanley and Mark Wylder, each in his way a worthy representative of the ill-conditioned and terrible race whose blood he inherited? Was this doomed house of Brandon never to know repose or fraternity?

  Was it credible? Had it actually occurred, that strange confession of Dorcas Brandon’s? Could anything be imagined so mad — so unaccountable? She reviewed Stanley in her mind’s eye. She was better acquainted, perhaps, with his defects than his fascinations, and too familiar with both to appreciate at all their effect upon a stranger.

  ‘What can she see in him? There’s nothing remarkable in Stanley, poor fellow, except his faults. There are much handsomer men than he, and many as amusing — and he with no estate.’

  She had heard of charms and philtres. How could she account for this desperate hallucination?

  Rachel was troubled by a sort of fear tonight, and the low fever of an undefined expectation was upon her. She turned from the window, intending to write two letters, which she had owed too long — young ladies’ letters — for Miss Lake, like many of her sex, as I am told, had several little correspondences on her hands; and as she turned, with a start, she saw old Tamar standing in the doorway, looking at her.

  ‘Tamar!’

  ‘Yes, Miss Rachel.’

  ‘Why do you come so softly, Tamar? Do you know, you frightened me?’

  ‘I thought I’d look in, Miss, before I went to bed, just to see if you wanted anything.’

  ‘No — nothing, thank you, dear Tamar.’

  ‘And I don’t think, Miss Rachel, you are quite well tonight, though you are so gay — you’re pale, dear; and there’s something on your mind. Don’t be thinking about Master Stanley; he’s out of the army now, and I’m thankful for it; and make your mind easy about him; and would not it be better, dear, you went to your bed, you rise so early.’

  ‘Very true, good old Tamar, but tonight I must write a letter — not a long one, though — and I assure you, I’m quite well. Goodnight, Tamar.’

  Tamar stood for a moment with her odd weird look upon her, and then bidding her goodnight, glided stiffly away, shutting the door.

  So Rachel sat down to her desk and began to write; but she could not get into the spirit of her letter; on the contrary, her mind wandered away, and she found herself listening, every now and then, and at last she fancied that old Tamar, about whom that dream, and her unexpected appearance at the door, had given her a sort of spectral feeling that night, was up and watching her; and the idea of this white sentinel outside her door excited her so unpleasantly, that she opened it, but found no Tamar there; and then she revisited the kitchen, but that was empty too, and the fire taken down. And, finally, she passed into the old woman’s bedchamber, whom she saw, her white head upon her pillow, dreaming again, perhaps. And so, softly closing her door, she left her to her queer visions and deathlike slumber.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  RACHEL LAKE SEES WONDERFUL THINGS BY MOONLIGHT FROM HER WINDOW.

  Though Rachel was unfit for letter-writing, she was still more unfit for slumber. She leaned her temple on her hand, and her rich light hair half covered her fingers, and her amazing interview with Dorcas was again present with her, and the same feeling of bewilderment. The sudde
nness and the nature of the disclosures were dreamlike and unreal, and the image of Dorcas remained impressed upon her sight; not like Dorcas, though the same, but something ghastly, wan, glittering, and terrible, like a priestess at a solitary sacrifice.

  It was late now, not far from one o’clock, and around her the terrible silence of a still night. All those small sounds lost in the hum of midday life now came into relief — a ticking in the wainscot, a crack now and then in the joining of the furniture, and occasionally the tap of a moth against the window pane from outside, sounds sharp and odd, which made her wish the stillness of the night were not so intense.

  As from her little table she looked listlessly through the window, she saw against the faint glow of the moonlight, the figure of a man who seized the paling and vaulted into the flower garden, and with a few swift, stumbling strides over the flowerbeds, reached the window, and placing his pale face close to the glass, she saw his eyes glittering through it; he tapped — or rather beat on the pane with his fingers — and at the same time he said, repeatedly: ‘Let me in; let me in.’

  Her first impression, when she saw this person cross the little fence at the roadside was, that Mark Wylder was the man. But she was mistaken; the face and figure were Stanley Lake’s.

  She would have screamed in the extremity of her terror, but that her voice for some seconds totally failed her; and recognising her brother, though like Rhoda, in Holy Writ, she doubted whether it was not his angel, she rose up, and with an awful ejaculation, she approached the window.

  ‘Let me in, Radie; d — you, let me in,’ he repeated, drumming incessantly on the glass. There was no trace now of his sleepy jeering way. Rachel saw that something was very wrong, and beckoned him toward the porch in silence, and having removed the slender fastenings of the door, it opened, and he entered in a rush of damp night air. She took him by the hand, and he shook hers mechanically, like a man rescued from shipwreck, and plainly not recollecting himself well.

  ‘Stanley, dear, what’s the matter, in Heaven’s name?’ she whispered, so soon as she had got him into her little drawingroom.

  ‘He has done it; d — him, he has done it,’ gasped Stanley Lake.

  He looked in her face with a glazed and ashy stare. His hat remained on his head, overshadowing his face; and his boots were soiled with clay, and his wrapping coat marked, here and there, with the green of the stems and branches of trees, through which he had made his way.

  ‘I see, Stanley, you’ve had a scene with Mark Wylder; I warned you of your danger — you have had the worst of it.’

  ‘I spoke to him. He took a course I did not expect. I’m not well.’

  ‘You’ve broken your promise. I see you have used me. How base; how stupid!’

  ‘How could I tell he was such a fiend?’

  ‘I told you how it would be. He has frightened you,’ said Rachel, herself frightened.

  ‘D — him; I wish I had done as you said. I wish I had never come here.

  Give me a glass of wine. He has ruined me.’

  ‘You cruel, wretched creature!’ said Rachel, now convinced that he had compromised her as he threatened.

  ‘Yes, I was wrong; I’m sorry; things have turned out different. Who’s that?’ said Lake, grasping her wrist.

  ‘Who — where — Mark Wylder?’

  ‘No; it’s nothing, I believe.’

  ‘Where is he? Where have you left him?’

  ‘Up there, at the pathway, near the stone steps.’

  ‘Waiting there?’

  ‘Well, yes; and I don’t think I’ll go back, Radie.’

  ‘You shall go back, Sir, and carry my message; or, no, I could not trust you. I’ll go with you and see him, and disabuse him. How could you — how could you, Stanley?’

  ‘It was a mistake, altogether; I’m sorry, but I could not tell there was such a devil on the earth.’

  ‘Yes, I told you so. He has frightened you’ said Rachel.

  ‘He has, maybe. At any rate, I was a fool, and I think I’m ruined; and I’m afraid, Rachel, you’ll be inconvenienced too.’

  ‘Yes, you have made him savage and brutal; and between you, I shall be called in question, you wretched fool!’

  Stanley was taking these hard terms very meekly for a savage young coxcomb like him. Perhaps they bore no very distinct meaning just then to his mind. Perhaps it was preoccupied with more exciting ideas; or, it may be, his agitation and fear cried ‘amen’ to the reproach; at all events, he only said, in a pettish but deprecatory sort of way —

  ‘Well, where’s the good of scolding? how can I help it now?’

  ‘What’s your quarrel? why does he wait for you there? why has he sent you here? It must concern me, Sir, and I insist on hearing it all.’

  ‘So you shall, Radie; only have patience just a minute — and give me a little wine or water — anything.’

  ‘There is the key. There’s some wine in the press, I think.’

  He tried to open it, but his hand shook. He saw his sister look at him, and he flung the keys on the table rather savagely, with, I dare say, a curse between his teeth.

  There was running all this time in Rachel’s mind, and had been almost since the first menacing mention of Wylder’s name by her brother, an indistinct remembrance of something unpleasant or horrible. It may have been mere fancy, or it may have referred to something long ago imperfectly heard. It was a spectre of mist, that evaporated before she could fix her eyes on it, but was always near her elbow.

  Rachel took the key with a faint gleam of scorn on her face and brought out the wine in silence.

  He took a tall-stemmed Venetian glass that stood upon the cabinet, an antique decoration, and filled it with sherry — a strange revival of old service! How long was it since lips had touched its brim before, and whose? Lovers’, maybe, and how. How long since that cold crystal had glowed with the ripples of wine? This, at all events, was its last service. It is an old legend of the Venetian glass — its shivering at touch of poison; and there are those of whom it is said, ‘the poison of asps is under their lips.’

  ‘What’s that?’ ejaculated Rachel, with a sudden shriek — that whispered shriek, so expressive and ghastly, that you, perhaps, have once heard in your life — and her very lips grew white.

  ‘Hollo!’ cried Lake. He was standing with his back to the window, and sprang forward, as pale as she, and grasped her, with a white leer that she never forgot, over his shoulder, and the Venice glass was shivered on the ground.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he whispered.

  And Rachel, in a whisper, ejaculated the awful name that must not be taken in vain.

  She sat down. She was looking at him with a wild, stern stare, straight in the face, and he still holding her arm, and close to her.

  ‘I see it all now,’ she whispered.

  ‘Who — what — what is it?’ said he.

  ‘I could not have fancied that,’ she whispered with a gasp.

  Stanley looked round him with pale and sharpened features.

  ‘What the devil is it! If that scoundrel had come to kill us you could not cry out louder,’ he whispered, with an oath. ‘Do you want to wake your people up?’

  ‘Oh! Stanley,’ she repeated, in a changed and horror-stricken way. ‘What a fool I’ve been. I see it at last; I see it all now,’ and she waved her white hands together very slowly towards him, as mesmerisers move theirs.

  There was a silence of some seconds, and his yellow ferine gaze met hers strangely.

  ‘You were always a sharp girl, Radie, and I think you do see it,’ he said at last, very quietly.

  ‘The witness — the witness — the dreadful witness!’ she repeated.

  ‘I’ll show you, though, it’s not so bad as you fancy. I’m sorry I did not take your advice; but how, I say, could I know he was such a devil? I must go back to him. I only came down to tell you, because Radie, you know you proposed it yourself; you must come, too — you must, Radie.’

  ‘Oh, Stanle
y, Stanley, Stanley!’

  ‘Why, d — it, it can’t be helped now; can it?’ said he, with a peevish malignity. But she was right; there was something of the poltroon in him, and he was trembling.

  ‘Why could you not leave me in peace, Stanley?’

  ‘I can’t go without you, Rachel. I won’t; and if we don’t we’re both ruined,’ he said, with a bleak oath.

  ‘Yes, Stanley, I knew you were a coward,’ she replied, fiercely and wildly.

  ‘You’re always calling names, d — you; do as you like. I care less than you think how it goes.’

  ‘No, Stanley; you know me too well. Ah! No, you sha’n’t be lost if I can help it.’ Rachel shook her head as she spoke, with a bitter smile and a dreadful sigh.

  Then they whispered together for three or four minutes, and Rachel clasped her jewelled fingers tight across her forehead, quite wildly, for a minute.

  ‘You’ll come then?’ said Stanley.

  She made no answer, and he repeated the question.

  By this time she was standing; and without answering, she began mechanically to get on her cloak and hat.

  ‘You must drink some wine first; he may frighten you, perhaps. You must take it, Rachel, or I’ll not go.’

  Stanley Lake was swearing, in his low tones, like a swell-mobsman tonight.

  Rachel seemed to have made up her mind to submit passively to whatever he required. Perhaps, indeed, she thought there was wisdom in his advice. At all events she drank some wine.

  Rachel Lake was one of those women who never lose their presence of mind, even under violent agitation, for long, and who generally, even when highly excited, see, and do instinctively, and with decision, what is best to be done; and now, with dilated eyes and white face, she walked noiselessly into the kitchen, listened there for a moment, then stole lightly to the servants’ sleeping-room, and listened there at the door, and lastly looked in, and satisfied herself that both were still sleeping. Then as cautiously and swiftly she returned to her drawingroom, and closed the window-shutters and drew the curtain, and signalling to her brother they went stealthily forth into the night air, closing the hall-door, and through the little garden, at the outer gate of which they paused.