Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Is he affectionate?”

  “His sister seems to worship him,” he answered; “but young ladies are so angelic, that where they like they resent nothing, and respect selfishness itself as a manly virtue.”

  “But you know him intimately; surely you must know something of him.”

  Under different circumstances, this audacious young lady’s cross-examination would have amused Mr. Longcluse; but in his present relations, and spirits, it was otherwise.

  “I should but mislead you if I were to answer more distinctly. I answer for no man, hardly for myself. Besides, I question your theory. I don’t think, except by accident, that a brother’s character throws any light upon a sister’s; and I hope — I think, I mean — that Miss Arden has qualities illimitably superior to those of her brother. Are these your friends, Miss Maubray?” he continued.

  “So they are,” she answered. “I’m so much obliged to you, Mr. Longcluse! I think they are leaving.”

  Mr. Longcluse, having delivered her into the hands of her chaperon, took his leave, and walked into the broad alleys among the trees, and in solitude under their shade, sat himself down by a pond, on which two swans were sailing majestically. Looking down upon the water with a pallid frown, he struck the bank beneath him viciously with his heel, peeling off little bits of the sward, which dropped into the water.

  “It is all plain enough now. Richard Arden has been playing me false. It ought not to surprise me, perhaps. The girl, I still believe, has neither act nor part in the conspiracy. She has been duped by her brother. I have thrown myself upon her mercy; I will now appeal to her justice. As for him — what vermin mankind are! He must return to his allegiance; he will. After all, he may not like to lose me. He will act in the way that most interests his selfishness. Come, come! it is no impracticable problem. I’m not cruel? Not I! No, I’m not cruel; but I am utterly just. I would not hang a mouse up by the tail to die, as they do in France, head downwards, of hunger, for eating my cheese; but should the vermin nibble at my heart, in that case, what says justice? Alice, beautiful Alice, you shall have every chance before I tear you from my heart — oh, for ever! Ambition! That coarse girl, Miss Maubray, can’t understand you. Ambition, in her sense, you have none; there is nothing venal in your nature. Vivian Darnley, is there anything in that either? I think nothing. I observed them closely, that night, at Mortlake. No, there was nothing. My conversation and music interested her, and when I was by, he was nothing.

  “They are going to the Derby tomorrow. I think Lady May has treated me rather oddly, considering that she had all but borrowed my drag. She might have put me off civilly; but I don’t blame her. She is goodnatured, and if she has any idea that I and the Ardens are not quite on pleasant terms, it quite excuses it. Her asking me here, and her little note to remind, were meant to show that she did not take up the quarrel against me. Never mind; I shall know all about it, time enough. They are going to the Derby tomorrow. Very well, I shall go also. It will all be right yet. When did I fail? When did I renounce an object? By Heaven, one way or other, I’ll accomplish this!”

  Tall Mr. Longcluse rose, and looked round him, and in deep thought, marched with a resolute step towards the house.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  UNDER THE LIME-TREES.

  At this garden-party, marvellous as it may appear, Lord Wynderbroke has an aunt. How old she is I know not, nor yet with what conscience her respectable relations can permit her to haunt such places, and run a risk of being suffocated in doorways, or knocked down the steps by an enamoured couple hurrying off to more romantic quarters, or of having her maundering old head knocked with a croquet mallet, as she totters drearily among the hoops.

  This old lady is worth conciliating, for she has plate and jewels, and three thousand a-year to leave; and Lord Wynderbroke is a prudent man. He can bear a great deal of money, and has no objection to jewels, and thinks that the plate of his bachelor and old-maid kindred should gravitate to the centre and head of the house. Lord Wynderbroke was indulgent, and did not object to her living a little longer, for this aunt conduced to his air of juvenility more than the flower in his buttonhole. However, she was occasionally troublesome, and on this occasion made an unwise mixture of fruit and other things; and a servant glided into the music-room, and with a proper inclination of his person, in a very soft tone said, —

  “My lord, Lady Witherspoons is in her carriage at the door, my lord, and says her ladyship is indisposed, and begs, my lord, that your lordship will be so good as to hacompany her ‘ome in her carriage, my lord.”

  “Oh! tell her ladyship I am so very sorry, and will be with her in a moment.” And he turned with a very serious countenance to Alice. “How extremely unfortunate! When I saw those miserable cherries, I knew how it would be; and now I am torn away from this charming place; and I’m sure I hope she may be better soon, it is so (disgusting, he thought, but he said) melancholy! With whom shall I leave you, Miss Arden?”

  “Thanks, I came with my brother, and here is my cousin, Mr. Darnley, who can tell me where he is.”

  “With a croquet party, near the little bridge. I’ll be your guide, if you’ll allow me,” said Vivian Darnley eagerly.

  “Pray, Lord Wynderbroke, don’t let me delay you longer. I shall find my brother quite easily now. I so hope Lady Witherspoons may soon be better!”

  “Oh, yes, she always is better soon; but in the meantime one is carried away, you see, and everything upset; and all because, poor woman, she won’t exercise the smallest restraint. And she has, of course, a right to command me, being my aunt, you know, and — and — the whole thing is ineffably provoking.”

  And thus he took his reluctant departure, not without a brief but grave scrutiny of Mr. Vivian Darnley. When he was gone, Vivian Darnley proffered his arm, and that little hand was placed on it, the touch of which made his heart beat faster. Though people were beginning to go, there was still a crush about the steps. This little resistance and mimic difficulty were pleasant to him for her sake. Down the steps they went together, and now he had her all to himself; and silently for a while he led her over the closely-shorn grass, and into the green walk between the lime-trees, that leads down to the little bridge.

  “Alice,” at last he said— “Miss Arden, what have I done that you are so changed?”

  “Changed! I don’t think I am changed. What is there to change me?” she said carelessly, but in a low tone, as she looked along towards the flowers.

  “It won’t do, Alice, repeating my question, for that is all you have done. I like you too well to be put off with mere words. You are changed, and without a cause — no, I could not say that — not without a cause. Circumstances are altered; you are in the great world now, and admired; you have wealth and titles at your feet — Mr. Longcluse with his millions, Lord Wynderbroke with his coronet.”

  “And who told you that these gentlemen were at my feet?” she exclaimed, with a flash from her fine eyes, that reminded him of moments of pretty childish anger, long ago. “If I am changed — and perhaps I am — such speeches as that would quite account for it. You accuse me of caprice — has any one ever accused you of impertinence?”

  “It is quite true, I deserve your rebuke. I have been speaking as freely as if we were back again at Arden Court, or Ryndelmere, and ten years of our lives were as a mist that rolls away.”

  “That’s a quotation from a song of Tennyson’s.”

  “I don’t know what it is from. Being melancholy myself, I say the words because they are melancholy.”

  “Surely you can find some friend to console you in your affliction.”

  “It is not easy to find a friend at any time, much less when things go wrong with us.”

  “It is very hard if there is really no one to comfort you. Certainly I sha’n’t try anything so hopeless as comforting a person who is resolved to be miserable. ‘There’s such a charm in melancholy, I would not if I could, be gay.’ There’s a quotation for you, as you like verse
s — particularly what I call moping verses.”

  “Come, Alice! this is not like you; you are not so unkind as your words would seem; you are not cruel, Alice — you are cruel to no one else, only to me, your old friend.”

  “I have said nothing cruel,” said Miss Alice, looking on the grass before her; “cruelty is too sublime a phrase. I don’t think I have ever experienced cruelty in my life; and I don’t think it likely that you have; I certainly have never been cruel to any one. I’m a very goodnatured person, as my birds and squirrel would testify if they could.”

  She laughed.

  “I suppose people call that cruel which makes them suffer very much; it may be but a light look, or a cold word, but still it may be more than years of suffering to another. But I don’t think, Alice, you ought to be so with me. I think you might remember old times a little more kindly.”

  “I remember them very kindly — as kindly as you do. We were always very good friends, and always, I daresay, shall be. I sha’n’t quarrel. But I don’t like heroics, I think they are so unmeaning. There may be people who like them very well and —— There is Richard, I think, and he has thrown away his mallet. If his game is over, he will come now, and Lady May doesn’t want the people to stay late; she is going into town, and I stay with her tonight. We are going to the Derby tomorrow.”

  “I am going also — it was so kind of her! — she asked me to be of her party,” said Vivian Darnley.

  “Richard is coming also; I have never been to the Derby, and I daresay we shall be a very pleasant party; I know I like it of all things. Here comes Richard — he sees me. Was my uncle David here?”

  “No.”

  “I hardly thought he was, but I saw Grace Maubray, and I fancied he might have come with her,” she said carelessly.

  “Yes, she was here; she came with Lady Tramway. They went away about half-an-hour ago.”

  So Richard joined her, and they walked to the house together, Vivian Darnley accompanying them.

  “I think I saw you a little spooney to-day, Vivian, didn’t I?” said Richard Arden, laughing. He remembered what Longcluse once said to him, about Vivian’s tendre for his sister, and did not choose that Alice should suspect it. “Grace Maubray is a very pretty girl.”

  “She may be that, though it doesn’t strike me,” began Darnley.

  “Oh! come, I’m too old for that sort of disclaimer; and I don’t see why you should be so modest about it. She is clever and pretty.”

  “Yes, she is very pretty,” said Alice.

  “I suppose she is, but you’re quite mistaken if you really fancy I admire Miss Maubray. I don’t, I give you my honour, I don’t,” said Vivian vehemently.

  Richard Arden laughed again, but prudently urged the point no more, intending to tell the story that evening as he and Alice drove together into town, in the way that best answered his purpose.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  THE DERBY.

  The morning of the Derby day dawned auspiciously. The weather-cocks, the sky, and every other prognostic portended a fine cloudless day, and many an eye peeped early from bedroom window to read these signs, rejoicing.

  “Ascot would have been more in our way,” said Lady May, glancing at Alice, when the time arrived for taking their places in the carriage. “But the time answered, and we shall see a great many people we know there. So you must not think I have led you into a very fast expedition.”

  Richard Arden took the reins. The footmen were behind, in charge of hampers from Fortnum and Mason’s, and inside, opposite to Alice, sat Lord Wynderbroke; and Lady May’s vis-à-vis was Vivian Darnley. Soon they had got into the double stream of carriages of all sorts. There are closed carriages with pairs or fours, gigs, hansom cabs fitted with gauze curtains, dog-carts, open carriages with hampers lashed to the foot-boards, dandy drags, bright and polished, with crests; vans, cabs, and indescribable contrivances. There are horses worth a hundred and fifty guineas a-piece, and there are others that look as if the knacker should have them. There are all sorts of raws, and sand-cracks, and broken knees. There are kickers and roarers, and bolters and jibbers, such a crush and medley in that densely packed double line, that jogs and crushes along you can hardly tell how.

  Sometimes one line passes the other, and then sustains a momentary check, while the other darts forward; and now and then a panel is smashed, with the usual altercation, and dust unspeakable eddying and floating everywhere in the sun; all sorts of chaff exchanged, mail-coach horns blowing, and general impudence and hilarity; gentlemen with veils on, and ladies with light hoods over their bonnets, and all sorts of gauzy defences against the dust. The utter novelty of all these sights and sounds highly amuses Alice, to whom they are absolutely strange.

  “I am so amused,” she said, “at the gravity you all seem to take these wonderful doings with. I could not have fancied anything like it. Isn’t that Borrowdale?”

  “So it is,” said Lady May. “I thought he was in France. He doesn’t see us, I think.”

  He did see them, but it was just as he was cracking a personal joke with a busman, in which the latter had decidedly the best of it, and he did not care to recognise his lady acquaintances at disadvantage.

  “What a fright that man is!” said Lord Wynderbroke.

  “But his team is the prettiest in England, except Longcluse’s,” said Darnley; “and, by Jove, there’s Longcluse’s drag!”

  “Those are very nice horses,” said Lord Wynderbroke looking at Longcluse’s team, as if he had not heard Darnley’s observation. “They are worth looking at, Miss Arden.”

  Longcluse was seated on the box, with a veil on, through which his white smile was indistinctly visible.

  “And what a fright he is, also! He looks like a picture of Death I once saw, with a cloth half over his face; or the Veiled Prophet. By Jove, a curious thing that the two most hideous men in England should have between them the two prettiest teams on earth!”

  Lord Wynderbroke looks at Darnley with raised brows, vaguely. He has been talking more than his lordship perhaps thinks he has any business to talk, especially to Alice.

  “You will be more diverted still when we have got upon the course,” interposes Lord Wynderbroke. “The variety of strange people there — gipsies, you know, and all that — mountebanks, and thimble-riggers, and beggars, and musicians — you’ll wonder how such hordes could be collected in all England, or where they come from.”

  “And although they make something of a day like this, how on earth they contrive to exist all the other days of the year, when people are sober, and minding their own business,” added Darnley.

  “To me the pleasantest thing about the drive is our finding ourselves in the open country. Look out of the window there — trees and farmsteads — it is so rural, and such an odd change!” said Lady May.

  “And the young corn, I’m glad to see, is looking very well,” said Lord Wynderbroke, who claimed to be something of an agriculturist.

  “And the oddest thing about it is our being surrounded, in the midst of all this rural simplicity, with the population of London,” threw in Vivian Darnley.

  “Remember, Miss Arden, our wager,” said Lord Wynderbroke; “you have backed May Queen.”

  “May! she should be a cousin of mine,” said good Lady May, firing off her little pun, which was received very kindly by her audience.

  “Ha, ha! I did not think of that; she should certainly be the most popular name on the card,” said Lord Wynderbroke. “I hope I have not made a great mistake, Miss Arden, in betting against so — so auspicious a name.”

  “I sha’n’t let you off, though. I’m told I’m very likely to win — isn’t it so?” she asked Vivian.

  “Yes, the odds are in favour of May Queen now; you might make a capital hedge.”

  “You don’t know what a hedge is, I daresay, Miss Arden; ladies don’t always quite understand our turf language,” said Lord Wynderbroke, with a consideration which he hoped that very forward young man, o
n whom he fancied Miss Arden looked goodnaturedly, felt as he ought. “It is called a hedge, by betting men, when — — “ and he expounded the meaning of the term.

  The road had now become more free, as they approached the course, and Dick Arden took advantage of the circumstance to pass the omnibuses, and other lumbering vehicles, which he soon left far behind. The grand stand now rose in view — and now they were on the course. The first race had not yet come off, and young Arden found a good place among the triple line of carriages. Off go the horses! Miss Arden is assisted to a cushion on the roof; Lord Wynderbroke and Vivian take places beside her. The sun is growing rather hot, and the parasol is up. Goodnatured Lady May is a little too stout for climbing, but won’t hear of anyone’s staying to keep her company. Perhaps when Richard Arden, who is taking a walk by the ropes, and wants to see the horses which are showing, returns, she may have a little talk with him at the window. In the meantime, all the curious groups of figures, and a hundred more, which Lord Wynderbroke promised — the monotonous challenges of the fellows with games of all sorts, the whine of the beggar for a little penny, the guitarring, singing, barrel-organing, and the gipsy inviting Miss Arden to try her lucky sixpence — all make a curious and merry Babel about her.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  A SHARP COLLOQUY.

  On foot, near the weighing stand, is a tall, powerful, and clumsy fellow, got up gaudily — a fellow with a lowering red face, in loud goodhumour, very ill-looking. He is now grinning and chuckling with his hands in his pockets, and talking with a little Hebrew, young, sable-haired, with the sallow tint, great black eyes, and fleshy nose that characterise his race. A singularly sullen mouth aids the effect of his vivid eyes, in making this young Jew’s face ominous.

  “Young Dick Harden’s ‘ere,” said Mr. Levi.