Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  ‘Excellent girl! dutiful ward and niece!’ murmured the oracle; ‘heaven reward you — your frank dealing is your own safety and my peace. Sit you down, and say who is this Captain Oakley, when you made his acquaintance, what his age, fortune, and expectations, and who the aunt he mentions.’

  Upon all these points I satisfied him as fully as I was able.

  ‘Wyat — the white drops,’ he called, in a thin, stern tone. ‘I’ll write a line presently. I can’t see visitors, and, of course, you can’t receive young captains before you’ve come out. Farewell! God bless you, dear.’

  Wyat was dropping the ‘white’ restorative into a wine-glass and the room was redolent of ether. I was glad to escape. The figures and whole mise en scène were unearthly.

  ‘Well, Milly,’ I said, as I met her in the hall, ‘your papa is going to write to him.’

  I sometimes wonder whether Milly was right, and how I should have acted a few months earlier.

  Next day whom should we meet in the Windmill Wood but Captain Oakley. The spot where this interesting rencontre occurred was near that ruinous bridge on my sketch of which I had received so many compliments. It was so great a surprise that I had not time to recollect my indignation, and, having received him very affably, I found it impossible, during our brief interview, to recover my lost altitude.

  After our greetings were over, and some compliments neatly made, he said —

  ‘I had such a curious note from Mr. Silas Ruthyn. I am sure he thinks me a very impertinent fellow, for it was really anything but inviting — extremely rude, in fact. But I could not quite see that because he does not want me to invade his bedroom — an incursion I never dreamed of — I was not to present myself to you, who had already honoured me with your acquaintance, with the sanction of those who were most interested in your welfare, and who were just as well qualified as he, I fancy, to say who were qualified for such an honour.’

  ‘My uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, you are aware, is my guardian; and this is my cousin, his daughter.’

  This was an opportunity of becoming a little lofty, and I improved it. He raised his hat and bowed to Milly.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve been very rude and stupid. Mr. Ruthyn, of course, has a perfect right to — to — in fact, I was not the least aware that I had the honour of so near a relation’s — a — a — and what exquisite scenery you have! I think this country round Feltram particularly fine; and this Bartram-Haugh is, I venture to say, about the very most beautiful spot in this beautiful region. I do assure you I am tempted beyond measure to make Feltram and the Hall Hotel my headquarters for at least a week. I only regret the foliage; but your trees show wonderfully, even in winter, so many of them have got that ivy about them. They say it spoils trees, but it certainly beautifies them. I have just ten days’ leave unexpired; I wish I could induce you to advise me how to apply them. What shall I do, Miss Ruthyn?’

  ‘I am the worst person in the world to make plans, even for myself, I find it so troublesome. What do you say? Suppose you try Wales or Scotland, and climb up some of those fine mountains that look so well in winter?’

  ‘I should much prefer Feltram. I so wish you would recommend it. What is this pretty plant?’

  ‘We call that Maud’s myrtle. She planted it, and it’s very pretty when it’s full in blow,’ said Milly.

  Our visit to Elverston had been of immense use to us both.

  ‘Oh! planted by you?’ he said, very softly, with a momentary corresponding glance. ‘May I — ever so little — just a leaf?’

  And without waiting for permission, he held a sprig of it next his waistcoat.

  ‘Yes, it goes very prettily with those buttons. They are very pretty buttons; are not they, Milly? A present, a souvenir, I dare say?’

  This was a terrible hit at the button-maker, and I thought he looked a little oddly at me, but my countenance was so ‘bewitchingly simple’ that I suppose his suspicions were allayed.

  Now, it was very odd of me, I must confess, to talk in this way, and to receive all those tender allusions from a gentleman about whom I had spoken and felt so sharply only the evening before. But Bartram was abominably lonely. A civilised person was a valuable waif or stray in that region of the picturesque and the brutal; and to my lady reader especially, because she will probably be hardest upon me, I put it — can you not recollect any such folly in your own past life? Can you not in as many minutes call to mind at least six similar inconsistencies of your own practising? For my part, I really can’t see the advantage of being the weaker sex if we are always to be as strong as our masculine neighbours.

  There was, indeed, no revival of the little sentiment which I had once experienced. When these things once expire, I do believe they are as hard to revive as our dead lapdogs, guinea-pigs, and parrots. It was my perfect coolness which enabled me to chat, I flatter myself, so agreeably with the refined Captain, who plainly thought me his captive, and was probably now and then thinking what was to be done to utilise that little bit of Bartram, or to beautify some other, when he should see fit to become its master, as we rambled over these wild but beautiful grounds.

  It was just about then that Milly nudged me rather vehemently, and whispered ‘Look there!’

  I followed with mine the direction of her eyes, and saw my odious cousin, Dudley, in a flagrant pair of cross-barred peg-tops, and what Milly before her reformation used to call other ‘slops’ of corresponding atrocity, approaching our refined little party with great strides. I really think that Milly was very nearly ashamed of him. I certainly was. I had no apprehension, however, of the scene which was imminent.

  The charming Captain mistook him probably for some rustic servant of the place, for he continued his agreeable remarks up to the very moment when Dudley, whose face was pale with anger, and whose rapid advance had not served to cool him, without recollecting to salute either Milly or me, accosted our elegant companion as follows: —

  ‘By your leave, master, baint you summat in the wrong box here, don’t you think?’

  He had planted himself directly in his front, and looked unmistakably menacing.

  ‘May I speak to him? Will you excuse me?’ said the Captain blandly.

  ‘Ow — ay, they’ll excuse ye ready enough, I dessay; you’re to deal wi’ me though. Baint ye in the wrong box now?’

  ‘I’m not conscious, sir, of being in a box at all,’ replied the Captain, with severe disdain. ‘It strikes me you are disposed to get up a row. Let us, if you please, get a little apart from the ladies if that is your purpose.’

  ‘I mean to turn you out o’ this the way ye came. If you make a row, so much the wuss for you, for I’ll lick ye to fits.’

  ‘Tell him not to fight,’ whispered Milly; ‘he’ll a no chance wi’ Dudley.’

  I saw Dickon Hawkes grinning over the paling on which he leaned.

  ‘Mr. Hawkes,’ I said, drawing Milly with me toward that unpromising mediator, ‘pray prevent unpleasantness and go between them.’

  ‘An’ git licked o’ both sides? Rather not, Miss, thank ye,’ grinned Dickon, tranquilly.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ demanded our romantic acquaintance, with military sternness.

  ‘I’ll tell you who you are — you’re Oakley, as stops at the Hall, that Governor wrote, overnight, not to dare show your nose inside the grounds. You’re a half-starved cappen, come down here to look for a wife, and — — ‘

  Before Dudley could finish his sentence, Captain Oakley, than whose face no regimentals could possibly have been more scarlet, at that moment, struck with his switch at Dudley’s handsome features.

  I don’t know how it was done — by some ‘devilish cantrip slight.’ A smack was heard, and the Captain lay on his back on the ground, with his mouth full of blood.

  ‘How do ye like the taste o’ that?’ roared Dickon, from his post of observation.

  In an instant Captain Oakley was on his feet again, hatless, looking quite frantic, and striking out at Dudley, who was du
cking and dipping quite coolly, and again the same horrid sound, only this time it was double, like a quick postman’s knock, and Captain Oakley was on the grass again.

  ‘Tapped his smeller, by — !’ thundered Dickon, with a roar of laughter.

  ‘Come away, Milly — I’m growing ill,’ said I.

  ‘Drop it, Dudley, I tell ye; you’ll kill him,’ screamed Milly.

  But the devoted Captain, whose nose, and mouth, and shirt-front formed now but one great patch of blood, and who was bleeding beside over one eye, dashed at him again.

  I turned away. I felt quite faint, and on the point of crying, with mere horror.

  ‘Hammer away at his knocker,’ bellowed Dickon, in a frenzy of delight.

  ‘He’ll break it now, if it ain’t already,’ cried Milly, alluding, as I afterwards understood, to the Captain’s Grecian nose.

  ‘Brayvo, little un!’ The Captain was considerably the taller.

  Another smack, and, I suppose, Captain Oakley fell once more.

  ‘Hooray! the dinner-service again, by —— ,’ roared Dickon. ‘Stick to that. Over the same ground — subsoil, I say. He han’t enough yet.’

  In a perfect tremor of disgust, I was making as quick a retreat as I could, and as I did, I heard Captain Oakley shriek hoarsely —

  ‘You’re a d —— prizefighter; I can’t box you.’

  ‘I told ye I’d lick ye to fits,’ hooted Dudley.

  ‘But you’re the son of a gentleman, and by —— you shall fight me as a gentleman.’

  A yell of hooting laughter from Dudley and Dickon followed this sally.

  ‘Gi’e my love to the Colonel, and think o’ me when ye look in the glass — won’t ye? An’ so you’re goin’ arter all; well, follow what’s left o’ yer nose. Ye forgot some o’ yer ivories, didn’t ye, on th’ grass?’

  These and many similar jibes followed the mangled Captain in his retreat.

  CHAPTER XLVII

  DOCTOR BRYERLY REAPPEARS

  No one who has not experienced it can imagine the nervous disgust and horror which such a spectacle as we had been forced in part to witness leaves upon the mind of a young person of my peculiar temperament.

  It affected ever after my involuntary estimate of the principal actors in it. An exhibition of such thorough inferiority, accompanied by such a shock to the feminine sense of elegance, is not forgotten by any woman. Captain Oakley had been severely beaten by a smaller man. It was pitiable, but also undignified; and Milly’s anxieties about his teeth and nose, though in a certain sense horrible, had also a painful suspicion of the absurd.

  People say, on the other hand, that superior prowess, even in such barbarous contests, inspires in our sex an interest akin to admiration. I can positively say in my case it was quite the reverse. Dudley Ruthyn stood lower than ever in my estimation; for though I feared him more, it was by reason of these brutal and cold-blooded associations.

  After this I lived in constant apprehension of being summoned to my uncle’s room, and being called on for an explanation of my meeting with Captain Oakley, which, notwithstanding my perfect innocence, looked suspicious, but no such inquisition resulted. Perhaps he did not suspect me; or, perhaps, he thought, not in his haste, all women are liars, and did not care to hear what I might say. I rather lean to the latter interpretation.

  The exchequer just now, I suppose, by some means, was replenished, for next morning Dudley set off upon one of his fashionable excursions, as poor Milly thought them, to Wolverhampton. And the same day Dr. Bryerly arrived.

  Milly and I, from my room window, saw him step from his vehicle to the courtyard.

  A lean man, with sandy hair and whiskers, was in the chaise with him. Dr. Bryerly descended in the unchangeable black suit that always looked new and never fitted him.

  The Doctor looked careworn, and older, I thought, by several years, than when I last saw him. He was not shown up to my uncle’s room; on the contrary, Milly, who was more actively curious than I, ascertained that our tremulous butler informed him that my uncle was not sufficiently well for an interview. Whereupon Dr. Bryerly had pencilled a note, the reply to which was a message from Uncle Silas, saying that he would be happy to see him in five minutes.

  As Milly and I were conjecturing what it might mean, and before the five minutes had expired, Mary Quince entered.

  ‘Wyat bid me tell you, Miss, your uncle wants you this minute.’

  When I entered his room, Uncle Silas was seated at the table, with his desk before him. He looked up. Could anything be more dignified, suffering, and venerable?

  ‘I sent for you, dear,’ he said very gently, extending his thin, white hand, and taking mine, which he held affectionately while he spoke, ‘because I desire to have no secrets, and wish you thoroughly to know all that concerns your own interests while subject to my guardianship; and I am happy to think, my beloved niece, that you requite my candour. Oh, here is the gentleman. Sit down, dear.’

  Doctor Bryerly was advancing, as it seemed, to shake hands with Uncle Silas, who, however, rose with a severe and haughty air, not the least overacted, and made him a slow, ceremonious bow. I wondered how the homely Doctor could confront so tranquilly that astounding statue of hauteur.

  A faint and weary smile, rather sad than comtemptuous, was the only sign he showed of feeling his repulse.

  ‘How do you do, Miss?’ he said, extending his hand, and greeting me after his ungallant fashion, as if it were an afterthought.

  ‘I think I may as well take a chair, sir,’ said Doctor Bryerly, sitting down serenely, near the table, and crossing his ungainly legs.

  My uncle bowed.

  ‘You understand the nature of the business, sir. Do you wish Miss Ruthyn to remain?’ asked Doctor Bryerly.

  ‘I sent for her, sir,’ replied my uncle, in a very gentle and sarcastic tone, a smile on his thin lips, and his strangely-contorted eyebrows raised for a moment contemptuously. ‘This gentleman, my dear Maud, thinks proper to insinuate that I am robbing you. It surprises me a little, and, no doubt, you — I’ve nothing to conceal, and wished you to be present while he favours me more particularly with his views. I’m right, I think, in describing it as robbery, sir?’

  ‘Why,’ said Doctor Bryerly thoughtfully, for he was treating the matter as one of right, and not of feeling, ‘it would be, certainly, taking that which does not belong to you, and converting it to your own use; but, at the worst, it would more resemble thieving, I think, than robbery.’

  I saw Uncle Silas’s lip, eyelid, and thin cheek quiver and shrink, as if with a thrill of tic-douloureux, as Doctor Bryerly spoke this unconsciously insulting answer. My uncle had, however, the self-command which is learned at the gaming-table. He shrugged, with a chilly, sarcastic, little laugh, and a glance at me.

  ‘Your note says waste, I think, sir?’

  ‘Yes, waste — the felling and sale of timber in the Windmill Wood, the selling of oak bark and burning of charcoal, as I’m informed,’ said Bryerly, as sadly and quietly as a man might relate a piece of intelligence from the newspaper.

  ‘Detectives? or private spies of your own — or, perhaps, my servants, bribed with my poor brother’s money? A very high-minded procedure.’

  ‘Nothing of the kind, sir.’

  My uncle sneered.

  ‘I mean, sir, there has been no undue canvass for evidence, and the question is simply one of right; and it is our duty to see that this inexperienced young lady is not defrauded.’

  ‘By her own uncle?’

  ‘By anyone,’ said Doctor Bryerly, with a natural impenetrability that excited my admiration.

  ‘Of course you come armed with an opinion?’ said my smiling uncle, insinuatingly.

  ‘The case is before Mr. Serjeant Grinders. These bigwigs don’t return their cases sometimes so quickly as we could wish.’

  ‘Then you have no opinion?’ smiled my uncle.

  ‘My solicitor is quite clear upon it; and it seems to me there can be no question rai
sed, but for form’s sake.’

  ‘Yes, for form’s sake you take one, and in the meantime, upon a nice question of law, the surmises of a thick-headed attorney and of an ingenious apoth — I beg pardon, physician — are sufficient warrant for telling my niece and ward, in my presence, that I am defrauding her!’

  My uncle leaned back in his chair, and smiled with a contemptuous patience over Doctor Bryerly’s head, as he spoke.

  ‘I don’t know whether I used that expression, sir, but I am speaking merely in a technical sense. I mean to say, that, whether by mistake or otherwise, you are exercising a power which you don’t lawfully possess, and that the effect of that is to impoverish the estate, and, by so much as it benefits you, to wrong this young lady.’

  ‘I’m a technical defrauder, I see, and your manner conveys the rest. I thank my God, sir, I am a very different man from what I once was.’ Uncle Silas was speaking in a low tone, and with extraordinary deliberation. ‘I remember when I should have certainly knocked you down, sir, or tried it, at least, for a great deal less.’

  ‘But seriously, sir, what do you propose?’ asked Doctor Bryerly, sternly and a little flushed, for I think the old man was stirred within him; and though he did not raise his voice, his manner was excited.

  ‘I propose to defend my rights, sir,’ murmured Uncle Silas, very grim. ‘I’m not without an opinion, though you are.’

  You seem to think, sir, that I have a pleasure in annoying you; you are quite wrong. I hate annoying anyone — constitutionally — I hate it; but don’t you see, sir, the position I’m placed in? I wish I could please everyone, and do my duty.’

  Uncle Silas bowed and smiled.

  ‘I’ve brought with me the Scotch steward from Tolkingden, your estate, Miss, and if you let us we will visit the spot and make a note of what we observe, that is, assuming that you admit waste, and merely question our law.’