Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  The window of his room looked out upon the yard in which Clewson, from his own, had seen Carmel Sherlock, on the memorable night of the murder, make his preparations for departure. There Mark Shadwell now saw a man busily getting a horse between the shafts of his taxcart, while a portmanteau and bag lay on the ground beside the wheel.

  Now Mark looked at his watch. He put on a loose coat and his hat, as he saw the vehicle get into motion to leave the yard. He put out the candles, and, with more caution than before, walked lightly through the gallery.

  At the head of the great staircase stood the slender figure of Miss Agnes Marlyn. The moonlight entering through the great window on the landing showed her pretty form distinctly. She was dressed in her ordinary costume; there was no bonnet, no cloak, no sign of meditated flight. The lady in the grey, high-up dress, with the little bit of crimson ribbon showing like a wound at her breast, met his sudden and eager advance with a little sign of caution, her slender figure raised. He took the warning, and checked his hurried step, looking over his shoulder. She glided a little way towards him by the wall, against which leaning her shoulder lightly, and repeating her warning gesture, she awaited him.

  The lowest and softest possible “hush!” she breathed rather than whispered. He would have taken her hand, but she withdrew it, with a gentle but decided gesture, and another “hush!” while the moonlight showed the faint knitting of her beautiful eyebrows, betokening caution.

  “The letter?” she whispered, her fingers a little extended.

  “Yes,” said he, and placed in them the letter he had just taken from his desk.

  She turned it towards the light of the moon — that emblem of purity — and read the address; it was:

  “MRS. SHADWELL,

  “RABY.”

  and in the left-hand corner the sternly marked initials “M. S.”

  “I’ll put it in the Raby postoffice as I go,” said she, as she softly dropped it within the breast of her dress.

  “Just so — yourself?” he answered.

  “Myself? — yes,” she repeated.

  “Don’t give it to any servant, mind — old Wyndle would get it, and know all about it; and just do as you said.”

  She nodded.

  “And, so, goodbye,” he whispered, hesitating. Had he ever seen that strange girl look so beautiful before?

  She merely nodded again, raising her head a little, in the moonlight delicately beautiful — a tinted statue.

  “Not a word — nothing?” he whispered, lingering still in that fascination.

  He extended his hand gently towards hers. She withdrew it again, merely whispering —

  “Go!”

  But, changing her mind before he turned, she took his hand, and pressed it tremblingly — vehemently — whispering:

  “Goodbye! God bless you!”

  Yes, “God bless you!” A benediction, an appeal to God; what a chaos in that mind! And she glided swiftly away into the dark. With a strange pang of shame, rapture, agony, he gazed for a moment back through the familiar oak-carved arch into the darkness which shrouded from him a shattered home — an anarchy of past and future, and the shapes of a dream wild and wicked.

  Drawing his coat about him now, he ran lightly down the stairs. The hall-door was open, and the taxcart stood there, and lean, wiry old Jem Truelock, who had served the Squire’s father before him, was standing by the horse’s head, whip in hand.

  “The things there?” said Mark, not thinking of his luggage, hut reminded of it by seeing it there. “Shut the door — very gently.”

  “All right, sir.”

  “You see, Jem,” said his master, as he took his seat and the reins beside him, “I’m forced to steal away for a bit. You are an old friend, so I don’t mind telling you: I’ve got a hint — the beaks, you know. All settled in a week or a fortnight, though — running up to town to manage it. These d — d fellows will be down tomorrow, perhaps, and I shouldn’t much mind if, among you, you managed to give them a devilish good licking. Get along!” Jem smiled shrewdly, and nodded with a fierce wink, and a touch of his finger to his hat; and away they went. Was there any truth in this story? Not a word. Mark was angry at having to practise this meanness — a shabby deception — upon his own servant; angry and ashamed, and he felt that he was lying badly, and doubted whether the man believed him.

  He lighted a cigar as they drove out of the dark avenue of Raby. He felt relieved as the gate closed behind him, and they emerged from the solemn groining of the huge old trees, upon the road and into the clear moonlight. He felt better, and his cheroot helped him to serenity.

  He did not look back at Raby. He looked toward the sky, and the stars, and the distant hills, and warmed and soothed his thoughts with tobacco; every now and then applying a reflection he had taught himself: “No woman ever loved a man whom she could not understand, and she never understood me.”

  At Raby all was quiet until the grey of the late wintry dawn. It was to be a day of change. Miss Marlyn was to leave Raby at eleven o’clock; and perhaps the consciousness of this approaching relief made Amy Shadwell’s waking happier that morning than it had been for many days before.

  Rachel ran into her mamma’s room:

  “Papa had to go away all on a sudden last night to London,” said she. “Jem Truelock drove him to the station — sudden business. Did he tell you?”

  “No. I hope nothing bad — no.” She answered, looking as if she was going to faint.

  But he was here last night, and I fancy intended to speak to me. But though I saw him, that laudanum made me drowsy — and I did not say a word — I’ll get up. I must go into the next room, and see old Truelock. I’m certain he told him; he tells Truelock everything.”

  So Mrs. Shadwell got on her dressing-gown, and made a hasty toilet, and in her morning-room she saw old Truelock, and cross-examined him, she and Rachel, and he gave them a clear opinion upon the cause of his absence, founded on Mark’s brief talk as they started, and he reminded her of another expedition on a similar occasion to London twelve years ago, which turned out all right in the end.

  “Oh! yes, poor fellow! that must be it; that is certainly the cause. Old Truelock is so shrewd, he could not be mistaken, and Mark would not deceive him, he tells him everything.”

  With these and similar reflections she chased away the vague alarms that still returned. Later in the morning in came old Wyndle.

  “Well, ma’am, that Frenchwoman — Agnes Marlyn — has her things on ready to start, and glad and gay she seems, and I thought first ’twas no more than swagger; but it’s more than that, I’m thinkin’; and I tell you what it is, ma’am, if I was you, I’d keep her a bit longer at Raby.”

  Old Wyndle nodded, and looked darkly wise. “I don’t know what you mean, Wyndle.”

  “Only just that, my lady,” said Wyndle, grimly. “I’d keep her here, and let the master send her away himself.”

  “Really, Wyndle, I don’t understand you,” said the lady, looking very hard at her, and a little agitated.

  “Whew! ma’am, she’s a feather-pated wench, a wild daredevil lass wi’ her brain half-turned wi’ vanities; and she was so forward — always pokin’ after the master here, wi’ her secretary stuff and nonsense, as if that giddy lass had a head for business, like poor Mr. Sherlock — God forgive him — had, and figuring and the like — not she; and if she goes away now, mind — God knows where she’ll be going to.”

  “What do you mean, Wyndle?” said Amy Shadwell, sitting up in her bed, with a bright hectic in her cheek, for after her little talk in the next room with old Jem Truelock, she had lain down again, being still very ill.

  “I know what I mean,” said blunt, old Wyndle, mysteriously. “I don’t trust them furriners.”

  “Oh! Wyndle, it’s very wrong to speak of Miss Marlyn as you are doing, and as for your master, he’s the soul of honour.”

  “Oh, yes! — I’m only meanin’ her, ma’am. To be sure, she may be all very good and nice, but
I’m an old woman, ma’am, and has seen more in my time than you, and I tell you, she doesn’t like a bone in your skin, nor none of us: she hates us all; me because I see through her, an’ you because ‘appen you’re a bit in her way.”

  “Oh! Wyndle, I really think you are going mad!” said Mrs. Shadwell, affecting incredulity, but feeling as if she were going to faint.

  “Well, ma’am, there it is. I may be wrong, and I may be right; but anyhow, if I was in your place, ma’am, I wouldn’t let her budge till master was here to write her discharge and pay her wi’ his own hand — not a foot,” said old Wyndle, resolutely.

  “But he has paid her; he paid Miss Marlyn yesterday: I have got her acknowledgment, and there is no such thing as a discharge needed — a governess does not require one. If she chooses to refer people to us, of course we’ll say all we can for her, and I know nothing against her.”

  “Well, ma’am, if ye will ye will; an’ what’ll ye have for your dinner?” And so old Wyndle, with a disconcerting transition, passed abruptly to other matters, leaving her mistress frightened and agitated, quite in the dark.

  She sickened as she doubted whether the spirit of prudence might not have spoken in the coarse but kindly counsel of the privileged old servant. But what would Mark say or think if, on his return, he were to find Miss Marlyn still at Raby, under a countermand from its capricious mistress. So, as usually happens with irresolute people in a perplexity, it ended by her doing nothing.

  It was between nine and ten o’clock, when a gentle tap came to Mrs. Shadwell’s door, and, in obedience to her call, Miss Agnes Marlyn e in.

  ‘I should not have thought of coming to bid farewell, Mr». Shadwell, until you had sent for me; but I saw Mr. Shadwell, for a few minutes before his departure, this morning very early.” Miss Marlyn spoke very slowly. She liked, I believe, protracting this communication. “And he requested me particularly to place this note in your hand — and, accordingly — here it is.”

  So saying, she gave her Mark’s letter — which she was to have dropped, by his direction, in the Raby postoffice — with a dark steady look, all the time, turned on Mrs. Shadwell’s countenance. I am pretty certain that Miss Marlyn knew the contents of that letter perfectly, and that she had a fancy to witness its effect upon Mrs. Shadwell. In this, however, she was disappointed. Mrs. Shadwell glanced at the address, and felt very oddly. She laid it on the coverlet beside her, however, unopened, and she said gently —

  “I suppose I am to say goodbye, now, Miss Marlyn— “

  “You are very good,” she said; “but I should not care to go till eleven — if you don’t mind; the waiting at the station would be so very long.”

  “Oh! dear — of course — I only meant to say goodbye now. I am very sorry that you’ve seemed to misunderstand me — of late — and — and — we were not so happy — but I trust you may be very soon happier than you could ever have been in this triste place — and I wish you every good— “

  She fancied she saw the smile of a disdainful incredulity faintly playing at the comers of Agnes Marlyn’s lips, and hardly perceptibly dimpling her soft chin and cheek.

  “Yes, indeed, Agnes Marlyn, I do wish you all good and happiness; and although we have not been so happy for some time — I am sure it was neither my wish, nor my fault — I shall never forget your kindness and attention — until the unhappy change came — and if you think of any way in which I can be of use, you may rely upon me.”

  So saying, she extended her open hand on the coverlet to Miss Marlyn; but the young lady did not take it.

  “I don’t think it would be fair to think of giving you any trouble, Mrs. Shadwell. In fact I rather think and hope I shan’t need any help. I don’t, of course, count good wishes and prayers, for they really hardly involve any trouble; but you, I assure you, Mrs. Shadwell,. on account of your health and everything, are one of the very last persons on whom I should venture to impose the slightest real trouble on my account. Oh! no — thank you all the same, Mrs. Shadwell, very much.”

  “Well, Agnes — Miss Marlyn — goodbye,” said Mrs. Shadwell; and again she extended her hand to take that of the young lady.

  “Adieu, Madame,” said Miss Marlyn, in the sweetest, softest imaginable tone; and at the same time she made her the very prettiest, saddest little courtesy you could imagine; her beautiful eyes lowered to her tiny foot, not choosing, I think, to see Mrs. Shadwell’s friendly gesture; and so she passed through the door that opened into Mrs. Shadwell’s sitting-room, where she stopped — having closed the door — affecting to admire some early flowers, the bells of which she turned up caressingly with the tips of her fingers, while she was listening for what might be heard from the next room, expecting that Mrs. Shadwell would open her letter forthwith, and in this her anticipations were verified.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  BREAKING THE SEAL.

  IN some goodnatures a farewell is a forgiveness; and Amy Shadwell had experienced this unrequited at the moment when she was to look her last on Miss Marlyn. The door, however, had hardly closed upon her, when she opened her husband’s letter, and read as follows:

  “AMY, — I have long made up my mind to take a step which, however painful at the outset to you and to me, will ultimately, I am convinced, conduce to the happiness of both. We have been living together without sympathy and without confidence. This state of things was painful to me. I saw that it was painful to you. It was not in my power, nor in yours, to improve our unhappy relations.

  What imaginable good purpose, therefore, could have been consulted by continuing to practise what had ceased to be even an experiment, and had become a miserable hypocrisy? I am quite incapable of reproaching you with that for which you are in no way to blame. The entire incompatibility, not of tempers, but of sympathies and of tendencies, which had long separated us, had been seconded for years by the aggravations of ill health, and of incessant and harassing cares. Living under the same roof, we have for years been as effectually separated as if we had resided in separate cities; nay, worse, our occasional miserable meetings aggravated for each that sense of loneliness which was the root of our misery. I have left Raby, therefore, with the fixed and unalterable resolution of seeing it no more until the separation, which I am satisfied is essential to the happiness of each of us, shall have been legally and finally accomplished. Your own fortune shall return to you, together with such a portion of my wretched income as may be fairly awarded for your further support and that of Rachel. I have written on the subject to your former guardian and surviving trustee, General Hardwicke. You and Rachel must arrange to leave Raby. I should finally arrange to do so myself, but the state of the property compels my personal presence and care. Your arrangements shall be absolutely at your own disposal. I shall not of course, interfere. Hardwicke will no doubt advise with you on any subject connected with the measure I have adopted. The cavils of a censorious and pharisaical world I utterly despise. I have taken the course which is best for both, and no expostulation can alter me.

  “MARK SHADWELL.”

  Holding the paper before her eyes with one hand, and with the other pressing her temple, with white lips she read the dreadful letter through. “My good God!” she exclaimed when she had read it through. And she attempted to begin it over again, but she was seized with such a trembling that she could not.

  “Why — why — what does he mean? I can’t make it out,” she repeated, still pressing her hand to her temple, with that look of horrible incredulity which borders on idiotcy, and saying, “Where, where, call him,” she got partly out of bed. But uttering a long, wild scream, she fell back in a violent convulsive fit.

  Miss Marlyn, in the next room, heard the unearthly scream, and for a moment was scared. She would have returned and given an alarm, but she heard the bedroom door, at the other end of Mrs. Shadwell’s room, open, and old Wyndle’s voice — and then another voice and hurried steps entering.

  From the distant door in the sitting-room, therefore, Miss Ma
rlyn glided out upon the gallery, and down by the back stairs, and then round by the great staircase, to her own room, without passing again Mrs. Shadwell’s door. There, pale and agitated, she sat down upon the side of her bed, with a beating heart, and listened, but could hear nothing. Then she opened her door, and stood at it listening again; but it was too far; and so she stole, on and on, till she could hear old Wyndle’s voice, and that of the maid; and so, by little and little, she drew near enough to the door to hear what was passing.

  “She’s getting out of it, God be praised!” said old Wyndle.

  “Oh! — oh! — oh!” groaned Amy Shadwell’s voice. “What is it — what is it? Something dreadful has happened.”

  “No, no, sweetheart; nothin’ — nothin’ — all quite right again; there now — there now — don’t mind disturbin’ yourself; just lie quiet; don’t let her get out o’ bed at that side.”

  And then Mrs. Shadwell’s voice said —

  “Oh! this dreadful news! What is it? Poor Mark will be so shocked to hear it, when he comes in!”

  “There — there now — there — my darling good lady!” said Wyndle’s voice. “Don’t let her sit up!” And so on, until, all on a sudden, the same appalling scream again thrilled Agnes Marlyn’s ear, and she knew that the convulsions had returned.

  She was frightened, and for a moment irresolute, but she turned to retrace her steps towards her bedroom, hearing, as she did so, the hurried talk of the frightened women, and the sounds of a terrible mute struggle.

  Miss Marlyn sat down on the stairs very pale. She had not been there long, when Rachel, who had heard nothing of the scene now going on in her mother’s room, came up. Quite disregarding the terms on which they had been, Agnes Marlyn stood up, and taking her by the arm, said —

  “Rachel, I’m afraid Mrs. Shadwell’s very ill. She’s in her own room — you must send to Raby for the doctor.”