Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  He extended his hand; she advanced with a beautiful but strange confusion, and timidly placed her fingers in it. He held them for some moments, looking at her half-averted features, as if he was on the point of speaking. But he did not. He opened his hand, and hers was liberated, and she instantly left the room.

  About the same time at the Vicarage, leaning back in his chair, with the slight pallor and listlessness in his face that betokens fatigue, the Rev. Stour Temple, his feet on the fender, was sipping that second glass of sherry which was the measure of his after-dinner wine.

  Miss Barbara had come in to chat with him, as she always did when he came in late and tired to his dinner.

  “I paid poor Amy a little visit to-day,” she said.

  “And found her pretty well, I hope?” he asked.

  “Not very well; and she could talk of almost nothing but that dreadful business, you know. You must take another glass of sherry, Stour, darling; you look so tired — you sha’n’t refuse.”

  “Hadn’t I better take this first?” he said with a smile. “Impetuous darling — my ministering spirit,” he said, patting the back of her thin hand with a very caressing gentleness.

  “You don’t take care of yourself, Stour, and you know if you overwork yourself, and won’t take nourishment, you must simply be worn out.”

  “Well, darling, we’ll see when I have done this; and tell me, has anything more been heard of the wretched man who is in prison — Carmel Sherlock?”

  “Nothing; and you remember our little plan, two months ago, before all these horrors were dreamed of?”

  “What was it?” asked Stour.

  “To ask Mrs. Shadwell, and Rachel, and Miss Marlyn here for a week,” said she.

  “Oh!” said the vicar; “and have you?”

  “Yes,” she said, and paused, a little surprised at his manner, and at the grave look which he was directing, over his knees, into the fire.

  “And have they refused?”

  “Amy can’t come, but Rachel and Agnes Marlyn are coming tomorrow.”

  She saw as she said this, in the vicar’s dark face, the slight contraction which marks a sudden annoyance. Still looking into the grate, the vicar swallowed the wine that remained in his glass, and held it out towards his sister, who, glad to be relieved of debate upon this point by his momentary abstraction, replenished it instantly, and that with so honest a bumper that her brother, still ruminating deeply, was obliged to sip a little cautiously before setting it down.

  “You are sure they said they were coming, Barbara?”

  “Oh, yes; quite certain! Amy said they should; but what is the difficulty, dear?”

  “It is very unpleasant; but I could not possibly have Miss Marlyn here,” said he.

  “Why, my dear Stour, you surprise me!” said Miss Babie, with eyes wide open, and ears also, for she was not deficient in curiosity.

  “No, indeed, Barbara, she must not come,” he said, very gently, but in that firm tone which experience had taught her there was no gainsaying.

  “Not come here, Miss Marlyn, my dear Stour? Why, she has been here fifty times.”

  “I know all that, dear Babie.”

  He got up uneasily, and stood with his back to the fire, looking towards the window-curtains, and thinking uncomfortably.

  “No, darling, it would not do,” he repeated, nodding twice or thrice.

  “Do you seriously mean, my dear Stour, that we can’t have Miss Agnes Marlyn at the Vicarage?”

  “Quite seriously.”

  “And what on earth, Stour, can be the reason?” said Babie, also standing up, and expanding her hands in remonstrance.

  “You must not mention it to any one. I don’t want to prejudice her — you promise, Babie?”

  “Yes, certainly,” she answered, with the air of one about to hear a secret. But nothing followed.

  ‘What is it I’m not to tell?” she inquired at last, a little impatiently.

  “You are not to tell any one, except those who must know, that I said we could not have her here. I have written to make inquiry, and I may hear more favourably than I at present hope; but in the meantime we must not run a risk of injuring a person whom I only suspect.”

  “I thought you were going to tell me all about it, Stour?” she complained.

  “If I can I will, dear, by-and-bye; but don’t ask me at present.”

  “I really think you ought to tell me — I do. What on earth am I to say to her, or to Mrs. Shadwell?”

  “It is very awkward, I know, dear Babie; but it is not my fault, and I don’t see that my telling you more, just now, would mend the matter.”

  “And what am I to say? I don’t want to know, except for that. I should not like to seem rude, you know, and it certainly would seem worse, quite brutal, my giving no reason.”

  “Yes, indeed, darling, the whole thing is very awkward. I ought to have told, you before, not to mind asking Miss Marlyn here, but I forgot. I think I will tell you all about it tomorrow or next day. You may not think it so serious; but I mentioned it to Mark Shadwell, with very strong advice as to how he should act, and our asking her here, and making her an inmate, would be at best an inconsistency, and a very glaring one he would think it.”

  Miss Barbara looked up at the drapery of the window-curtain, and then down on the carpet near her foot, a little anxiously. She thought that Stour had penetrated Roger’s little romance, and did not approve. So she raised her kind grey eyes, and looking in his face earnestly, said, —

  “You must tell me one thing.”

  “What is it, Babie?”

  “You must tell me, dear Stour, has your reason anything to do with Bonnie?”

  “With Bonnie? No, certainly,” said the vicar, in unaffected surprise, followed by an involuntary little laugh. “No, darling, upon my honour! Roger has neither act nor part in the mystery.”

  Barbara was relieved.

  “I wish I knew all about it” — here was a little pause— “I might very possibly be of use in clearing it up if I did” — here was another;— “but, as you tell me, I shall by-and-bye” — she concluded, having failed to elicit anything more from the vicar, “I only want your help for the present, dear Stour, to tell me, what am I to say?”

  “The simple truth, darling; as, I think, you always do. I don’t think you need write to Miss Marlyn, if you don’t wish to do so; but just say — put it all upon me — that I see an insurmountable difficulty in the way of Miss Marlyn’s coming here at present. Mrs. Shadwell may either say so in so many words, or she may keep Miss Marlyn at home on her own authority, without explanation. Of course, you tell Mrs. Shadwell that I, the most impracticable and secret of curmudgeons, refuse you a single gleam of light into the mystery.” In consequence of this little conversation, there went a note that evening, in Barbara Temple’s hand, to Raby, which startled Amy Shadwell. There had been afloat in her mind just enough of that unpleasant misgiving which does not amount to suspicion, to give to this enigmatical note a force and augury which made poor Amy’s heart sink, and kept it in a dismal flutter all night.

  It was not much to have to say to Miss Marlyn that, on second thoughts, she would ask her to stay at Raby. There were fifty natural reasons to account for such a change of plan.

  She had a vague terror, however, of its leading to a scene, and she felt that she had neither ability nor spirits for an encounter with that clever young lady, whom she did not quite understand — whom she had liked so much at first, and began now to fear, like one of those persons in a dream who undergo in its progress a gradual transformation, and end by holding us in the spell of a nightmare.

  CHAPTER V.

  MISS MARLYN TALKS WITH HER BLACK CAT.

  MRS. SHADWELL would gladly have got out of this unpleasant task; but one way or other it must be got through; and it was better to despatch it, than to let it continue to hang over her till next morning.

  So she did see Miss Marlyn — who stood, though invited to sit, and listened
submissively, in silence, during the few minutes occupied by the little conference. A brighter glow for a moment flushed her cheeks, on hearing that, for some reason which Mrs. Shadwell could not explain, which she approached and went away from, without touching, Miss Agnes Marlyn was not to accompany Rachel to the Vicarage next day.

  At this point Agnes looked with a keen, steady glance for a moment at the lady, who instinctively averted her eyes. Miss Marlyn, however, evinced absolutely no emotion, except in those very trifling evidences.

  “Is there anything more?” asked Miss Marlyn, in her lowest tone, and with the faintest light of a sad smile.

  “No — nothing,” said Mrs. Shadwell, who was embarrassed in the presence of the young lady who stood before her, smiling, patient, and so gracefully submissive, that her heart smote her, and she almost wished that Agnes Marlyn had been angry and violent.

  It was a relief, however, that this little unpleasantness was over, and without giving pain, or exciting an angry thought.

  But was this so?

  Miss Marlyn ran downstairs lightly to the drawingroom, where she had left Rachel in the middle of a duet.

  “Well, Pucelle, what was it?” she asked.

  “Nothing, dear, only that I’m not to go with you tomorrow to the Vicarage,” said Miss Marlyn, quietly sitting down beside her, and striking a chord.

  “And why arn’t you coming?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care — I forget where we stopped; here, I think.”

  “Wait, Pucelle — don’t mind that tiresome duet — and tell me, are you really not coming r “Oh, my dear, don’t you know I’m not coming?” said Miss Marlyn, with a smile a little sarcastic and incredulous.

  “No — I had not an idea that anything could happen to prevent it; and you mustn’t suppose anything so treacherous as my hiding it, if I had known.”

  “Did I fancy any such thing? — Why should I, dear? What an odd, fanciful, huffy little creature it is! But, really, it is not worth talking about. I should not care to sojourn in that wearisome little place, and be so be-Bonnied as I was when we last drank tea there; nothing but its comicality makes it endurable, and the fun of the best joke wears out, you know, by repetition; and, in fact, nothing but the hope of being of some little use as a daisy-picker, could have prevented its being absolutely insufferable. I can’t admire even the scenery there. I think it the only uninteresting spot in the country. To be sure, there is an object that does make the landscape interesting — I mean Mr. Charles Mordant, doesn’t he?” and she laughed, and played half-a-dozen bars, and added: “What a beautiful blush, my dear. I wish he were here to see it.”

  “Pucelle, you talk like a fool!”

  “And I such a rogue?”

  “No — but I mean to say, that I can’t conceive any girl caring the least for any man who has not first shown that he likes her better than any one else.”

  “And doesn’t he show it? Come, I never ask anyone to confess anything in this hypocritical world, but you know he does; and you know you like him — and now let us play this other overture.”

  And she began to play so brilliantly, and loud, all the time saying: “No — no — I won’t hear; I’ll listen to nothing but music that Rachel, half provoked, though she could not help laughing, did sit down and play the treble.

  “You’re not vexed, Pucelle; but I am — very much disappointed — and I sha n’t half enjoy my visit without you. Are you vexed, Pucelle?”

  “I’m never vexed, dear — I’m not even curious — for I know perfectly how this little change of plan came about,” said Agnes Marlyn, leaning back in her chair, and looking listlessly upward.

  “No, dear, it is too long a story; I’ll tell it tonight to my little black cat, who sits on the end of my pillow, and hears my complaint whenever I have one to make, and sometimes gives me a tiny bit of advice.”

  This black cat of Miss Marlyn’s — allusion to which, in moods of sinister playfulness, was not unfrequent — it is right to observe, had no material existence, and was altogether an imaginary confidant.

  “I hate that black cat, Pucelle; I wish you’d make it jump out of the window; I can’t think it likes us, and I’m afraid of it.”

  Miss Marlyn laughed gently, with a sidelong glance along the carpet, and the glittering edges of her even teeth appeared with a pretty suggestion of malice, that made her for a moment appear like a stranger to Rachel.

  “Part with my dear little black cat, with the yellow eyes, and sage counsel, and patient ears! Ah! no. It is such a little wiseacre, and so sharp, and has heard all my secrets, and is so very old a friend, and only the size of my hand, and never comes except when people use me ill; and then it comes crouching and clawing along my pillow to my ear, rubbing its little whiskers to the sheet, and tumbling so playfully, growling like a dear little tiger, or hissing like a tiny pet snake. You can’t imagine such a darling; when I was at school, where old La Chouette used to knock me about as she pleased, even before that, when I was beaten and half-starved at home, from that time it was my solitary confidant — my own dear, little, black rogue — who listened to my poor little whimperings, and — taught me tricks.” Except in this little enigmatical speech, Miss Agnes Marlyn evinced no sense of wrong: and when the hour of rest arrived, she kissed Rachel at her door, and went to her room. She had not to pass Sir Roke’s door, but she could see it as she went round the corner of the gallery swiftly, and glanced hastily at it over her shoulder as she quickened her pace. She was not afraid of ghosts, as most young people are. I suppose on occasion, however, she was capable of that kind of fear; but whatever may have been the tricks or menaces of her imagination when she saw that door after dark, I am sure she hated the sight of it.

  Hurriedly she shut and locked her door. Her heart was full of bitterness; but she did not burst into tears, as young ladies under a sense of wrong usually do in the seclusion of their rooms. Perhaps the tenderness of early parental love, and the habit of being pitied, are needed to induce that relief, and Agnes Marlyn had no home affections to look back to, and had never enjoyed the luxury of being pitied. And so her training had steeled her against the necessities of sympathy, and the habit even of pitying herself.

  Miss Marlyn sat for a moment before her glass, thinking and looking all the time at her reflected features. She liked looking at herself in the glass; and she knew she was beautiful; and she could do that and think also. Her beauty was her power, and the vivid consciousness of this inspired her thoughts, and quickened her sense of insult.

  She had sat longer than she thought, and was a little chilly when she stood up to undress. Having gathered up her magnificent hair, her graceful limbs were quickly laid in her bed. She did not put out her candle; she liked thinking in this kind of light, with her small hand under her cheek. Her heart was full. An intense, cold anger was struggling in it, and yearned for some expression in act. She was turning over all sorts of things in her mind — talking, as her phrase was, with her little black cat. They had a long confidence, and it was late when she put out her candle.

  Miss Marlyn was a clever person, and made theories, and often saw further into millstones than other people. She fancied a change of manner towards her when Miss Barbara had come down that day from her talk with Mrs. Shadwell. Who had brought about that change? and now she was in consequence forbidden to go to the Vicarage. Insult upon insult! Cowardly outrage! Very well. She was not a person to be stricken down with a blow of a fan, and walked, over. She would talk for a time with her little black cat, and gee what was to be done.

  Next morning Miss Marlyn came down serene and beautiful, in good spirits even, for she had quite made up her mind, and saw her way a little in advance, distinctly. Up to last night, whatever she might say or write, she had been in a great indecision. A grain of passion had determined the equilibrium, and Miss Marlyn’s future, for some chapters to come, was now distinctly written in those tablets of her little brain that retained inscriptions like adamant.


  At the appointed hour away went Rachel, Agnes Marlyn standing on the steps, and smiling her farewell. When the sound of the wheels grew faint in the distance, she was still smiling, though looking down musingly, at her little foot, which, on the smooth Caen stone, was beating time, as it were, to the gentle measure of her pleasant thoughts. Then, awakening from them, she looked up at the clear autumnal sky, and abroad over the fair landscape. It was the sun of Austerlitz, the augury of conquest, and she ran in and amused herself with jubilant music, and some spirited marches, on the old piano.

  Miss Marlyn read her novel, and took her walk, and sang songs to the jingle of the old instrument, which was abandoned to the wear and tear of practising; and, at the usual hour she repaired to Mrs. Shadwell’s room, and was particularly gentle and submissive, and, somehow, engaging. She offered to read to Mrs. Shadwell, who was beginning to relent; won, insensibly, by her melancholy, little attentions. Mrs. Shadwell, however, had a long interview pending with old Wyndle, but, fearing that a mere refusal would appear ungracious, she asked Miss Marlyn to come to her for half an hour, by-and-bye, and read a little then, if she still felt disposed. Miss Marlyn pathetically thanked her, and entreated that Mrs. Shadwell would think of some way of making her useful, during the very brief stay that remained to her at Raby.

  The evening closed over that gloomy household, and darkness succeeded; and Mrs. Shadwell, looking to the little clock over her chimneypiece, saw that it was halfpast seven, and remembered Miss Marlyn’s promise.

  Just then, the door opened roughly, and her husband entered. He looked pale and angry, and came over, silently, to the little table, which was placed beside her, and sat down at it. Then, suddenly, he said:

  “What has become of Rachel?”

  “She went to-day — I thought you knew — to the Temples, to pay a little visit,” she replied.

  “Well, she has returned by this time, I suppose?”

  “No; she was not to return till tomorrow, or, perhaps, next day.”