Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  So, wishing in vain, she at last rang for her maid. It was time to dress for dinner.

  “Jones, do you know why mamma saw Doctor Malkin and Mr. Tintern in the shield-room to-day? She does not usually sit there?”

  No, Jones did not know.

  “Did you see that ill-looking man, blind of one eye, who was also in the room?”

  “No, miss, not I.”

  “Well, Jones, I’m very curious, and you must try to make out all about it, mind, and tell me tonight when I come up to bed. Don’t forget.”

  So Jones promised, and did her best; but nothing was to be learned, except that the blind man in question had had refreshments in the housekeeper’s room, and that the housekeeper was of opinion that he was one of those missionary folk, whom Lady Vernon was pleased to encourage.

  There are some pictures which, we scarcely know why, seize the imagination, and retain their hold on the retina; and ever and anon, during a troubled night, the obscure background of that spacious room, and the figures touched by the horizontal glare of sunset, were before Maud.

  Miss Vernon was one of those people who rely very much upon instincts and intuitions: felt uneasily that the spectacle of that strange quartette conveyed to her a warning; and that all that was needed was the faculty of reading it aright.

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

  Maud and her mother were tête-à-tête at dinner that day. Lady Vernon scarcely spoke; she seemed fatigued.

  Such meetings seldom happened. They embarrassed both mother and daughter, between whom there was an undefined but incurable estrangement.

  Under such circumstances a ladies’ dinner does not last very long; and they were soon, each provided with a book, taking a very unsociable tea in the drawingroom.

  A wood fire smouldered in the grate. The evening was a little chilly, and made it pleasant.

  Maud sat by it in a low chair with her feet on a stool. She leaned back with her book before her. The silence was only broken by the rustle of the pages as she turned them over.

  At length Maud lowered the book to her lap, and raised her eyes.

  They met the large grey eyes of Lady Vernon fixed on her, and the flush that indicated some secret agitation was in her cheeks. The mutual gaze continued for some two or three seconds, and then Lady Vernon turned her eyes away, as it seemed to Maud, haughtily.

  It had not lasted long; but it made Maud uncomfortable. She knew her mother’s face so well, that she read danger in that glance.

  She waited some time, expecting something to come. But as Lady Vernon remained silent Maud took up her book again, and read a page or two; but her mind did not follow the lines with her eyes.

  In a little time she put down her book again, and looked up.

  Her mother was again looking at her, and this time she spoke.

  “Did you hear,” she asked, in her coldest tones, “that Captain Vivian drove through the town of Roydon to-day?”

  “Did he, really?”

  “I should not have thought it necessary to ask you a second time,” she said, with a sneer. “Don’t you know he did?”

  “No, I did not hear that he was in the town since he left this,” Maud replied.

  “It is so nice of you, answering me so honestly,” said Lady Vernon.

  Maud looked at her, not quite certain whether the irony she suspected in her tone was real or fancied.

  “Did you see any one to-day?” Lady Vernon reopened her conversation, after an interval, more dangerously.

  “Miss Tintern was here to-day. She came in, hoping to see you, and then I took her [for] a little walk.”

  “Oh! Then this has been a day of walking,” said Lady Vernon, with something derisive in her tone, that terrified Maud for her secret, and Maud blushed.

  Lady Vernon, deadly pale, held her with her steady grey eyes, and an insulting smile, for some seconds.

  Then the elder lady turned slowly away, still smiling, and Maud felt that she could breathe.

  How much hatred there seemed to Maud in that pale, cruel smile; how much hatred in those cold, strange tones, low and sweet as the faintest notes of a flute!

  Maud was in momentary fear of a renewal of the torture. But a minute passed, five minutes, and there was no renewal of the attack. Her mother seemed to have forgotten her, and to have returned to her book, with no further intention of disturbing her studies.

  Ten minutes passed. The room was still as death. Suddenly that soft, cold, sweet voice was again in her ear. If it had been a clap of thunder it could not have startled her more.

  “Pray, Maud, did you meet any one to-day in your walk?”

  There was in Lady Vernon’s tone, air, and look that which fired the girl’s indignation.

  She returned her mother’s look, undecided whether she would answer her at all.

  Suddenly losing command of her temper, Lady Vernon exclaimed, sternly:

  “How dare you look at me, your mother, so? Answer my question, and speak truth. Whom did you meet to-day?”

  “I shan’t answer,” said Maud, flushing crimson. “What have I done that you should attack me with so much bitterness?”

  “Come, Maud, recollect yourself,” said Lady Vernon, recovering her colder manner. “You seem to forget that, as your mother, I have a right to know, from your own lips, whom you met to-day. Who was it?”

  “I question your right to catechise me,” returned Maud, now thoroughly roused. “If I am to remember your rights, you must remember mine. I shall be of age in a few weeks, and my own mistress. You are not to treat me any longer like a child.”

  “While you remain in my house you shall be amenable to me. I can’t command affection, but I can command respect. You shall obey me. I’ll make you obey me.”

  The flush had quite left her cheeks, her face was unnaturally white, and her lip, as white as her face, was trembling. Maud had never before seen her so terribly angry. But she was now past being daunted. She was herself very nearly as angry, and so the spark had started into flame, and the flame had gathered to a conflagration.

  “That is not the way to make me obey you. That is not what you want. You wish to wound me, and to trample on me. You never loved me; you hate me; yes, you hate me — your own child, your only child. And what have I done? All my life trying to bring you to love me. That’s over. I’ll try no more — never. You’ll teach me at last to hate you, as you hate me. I wish it were God’s will to take me. Oh! this dreadful world!”

  “Wicked people make it dreadful to themselves and to others,” said Lady Vernon.

  But Maud went on with her wild tirade.

  “That poor girl who drowned herself in the mere at Golden Friars — they said she was wicked — she looked like an angel. Oh! for courage like hers to take the leap out of this frightful world!”

  “That’s a threat of suicide, as I understand it, unless I forego, not my rights, but my duty. You shan’t deter me from doing it,” said Lady Vernon. “You shall confess.”

  “I will not answer you. I will not confess. I have nothing to confess. Why do you use that insulting word? There has been nothing in my life I need ever have been ashamed or afraid to disclose.”

  Lady Vernon looked at her intently for a moment, and then laughed a cold little laugh of disdain.

  But that counterfeit merriment did not last long. The false smile faded, and left a deeper shadow of menace on her face.

  “Another person would answer a daughter who presumed to talk to them so, very differently. But I know only too well your lamentable weakness and violence; and I’ll tell you, as you have not the grace or candour to admit it, that you cannot conceal the fact from me. You saw Captain Vivian to-day. You talked and walked with him, and returned to the house only a few minutes before you came into the shield-room this evening. You might as well have spoken frankly.”

  If it had not been for the anger provoked by Lady Vernon’s language and manner, Maud would, I dare say, have undeceived her, now. B
ut the devil of perverse pride had been evoked, and Maud answered:

  “If you knew all this, why need you have asked me to tell you. I said I should answer nothing; and I shall not.”

  “You shall do more than answer,” said Lady Vernon, rising to her feet, with a new access of passion, and confronting her daughter. “You shall now and here write me a letter renouncing Captain Vivian. Sit down at this desk and write it.”

  “No,” answered Maud, also rising, “I’ll do nothing of the kind. I’ll place myself in no such ridiculous position.”

  Lady Vernon was astounded. Maud had never disputed a distinct command of hers before.

  “Think again, Maud, you had better. I fear you are losing your head a little,” she said, coldly.

  “I need not think again; I won’t write anything. I’ve said so, and I won’t,” answered Maud, with all the fiery blood of the Vernons careering in her veins.

  “Then take the consequences of your insanity,” said Lady Vernon, almost in a whisper, but with an audible stamp on the floor.

  These two pairs of large grey eyes were encountering, all this time, in a burning gaze of mutual defiance.

  So the unnatural alienation that had for so many years existed between mother and child had now at last found positive expression, and the angry passions of both were declared and active.

  “I think I had better go to my own room,” said Maud, in tones which trembled a little.

  “Do,” said Lady Vernon.

  Maud walked straight to the door. She had opened it, and paused with the handle in her hand. It was only to say, hastily:

  “Goodnight, mamma.”

  “Goodnight,” returned Lady Vernon, in a tone that sounded like a curse.

  And so Maud stepped out, with heightened colour, blazing eyes, and a countenance strangely proud, yet heartbroken.

  She walked upstairs with a humming in her ears, as if she had received a blow. Her dry, hot lips were whispering:

  “No, never again: we never can be again even what we were before. It is all over; there is nothing ever to reconcile us. No, never, it can never be again.”

  When she got to her room, her maid Jones, advancing with her accustomed smile, exclaimed with a sudden halt and a change of countenance:

  “La! Miss Maud, dear, what’s the matter? you do look pale and queer!”

  “Do I?” said Maud, vaguely. “No, not much. But I’m sorry, Jones,” and she burst into a wild flood of tears.

  “What is it, Miss Maud, my dear child; what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Jones! if all the world were like you!”

  And she placed her arms round her trusty maid’s neck and kissed her.

  “What is it, my dear? There, there, don’t! Tell me, like a good child, what’s the matter?”

  “I’ll tell you all, Jones, by-and-bye. It has come at last; it’s as well it should. Mamma has been so unkind, and cruel, and insulting, and I was angry, and we’ve quarelled — desperately. It can never be made up again, Jones; never, never.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Maud, what a fuss you make; it will all be nothing at all.”

  “I was violent — I was wrong — I spoke as I ought not — I blame myself. But, no, Jones, it can never be made up — it is folly to think it. I know mamma too well. It is past that; she never forgives; and she never loved me; there is no use in trying to think it. She hates me now, and always will, and I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.”

  So she sobbed on, sitting in the great chair, with her face to the wall beside it, and honest Jones, who was disturbed and even shocked, said, with her hand on the big arm of the chair, leaning over her, and employing a powerful superlative of her own invention:

  “Her ladyship’s the very most religiousest lady in England, and the most charitablest, and you musn’t to say or think so. She’s strict, and will have her will obeyed, and you musn’t gainsay her when she thinks she’s right. But she’s a just woman, and good. Now don’t be crying so, darling, for you have only to say what you should say to her, and everything will be as it used, and you’ll say so yourself in the morning. There, now, don’t take on so.”

  Thus honest Jones poured consolation into an inattentive and incredulous ear, and the young lady, answering never a word, wept on for a long time. It was her leavetaking of a dream that could never come again, the hope that her mother might, at last, come to love her.

  CHAPTER L.

  LADY VERNON.

  When Maud had closed the door, the bitter smile that had gleamed on her mother’s face with a wintry light, departed, and left the bleakest darkness instead.

  She remained sitting as in a dream where Maud had left her, with her hands clasped hard together in her lap; she looked down on the carpet, a yard or so before her feet, darkly, and drew her shoulders together, as if a chill air were about her, and shuddered.

  How sudden had been the alarm! and now that the danger was upon her, how fast events were driving on!

  The tiny ring of the clock over the mantelpiece recalled her. It was twelve o’clock. More than an hour had passed since Maud had left her. It had not appeared five minutes.

  She lit her candle, and ascended the great stairs, still in her dream. Without effort, almost without consciousness of motion, she moved like a ghost along the galleries. The homely figure of lean Mrs. Latimer, in her plain black silk dress, startled her like the sight of a stranger.

  Lady Vernon did not talk to Latimer that night; she had no questions to ask her. Her veteran maid had never known her so darkly absent before. She told her to leave the two candles on the dressing-table burning, and the maid departed, wondering what had gone wrong, or who had vexed my lady.

  Left to herself, Lady Vernon lay still, in that grisly vigilance that in outward seeming simulates the quietude of slumber. Sometimes, for five minutes, her eyes were closed; sometimes wide open for as long. She heard the pulse of the artery in her temple drum on her pillow; and her heart beat harder than a heart at ease is wont to throb.

  Lady Vernon had now lain awake in her bed for an hour. She grew hopeless of the rest she felt she wanted. At last she got up, unlocked her dressing-case, and took out one of its pretty cut-glass bottles, with a golden cap over its stopper. It contained that infusion of opium in water, which De Quincey mentions as the fluid approved by those who use that drug on a large scale.

  Lady Vernon had recourse to its potent magic only when sleep forsook her, as at present. This of late had happened often enough to cause her to apply to it with increasing doses.

  It failed on this occasion; and produced, instead of quiet, exaggerated excitement, as it always does when it fails to soothe.

  At length the lady rose, and in her dressing-gown and slippers sat down at her table, and wrote a passionate letter to Captain Vivian, summoning him to Roydon, and promising to open her heart to him if he would come.

  This letter written, she again had recourse to the little cut-glass bottle, and this time with success. In a few minutes she lay in a deep, motionless sleep.

  In the morning when she awoke the vengeful drug exacted its compensation. She felt almost stunned by the potent medicine.

  She had locked the letter in her dressing-box. The first thing in the morning she took it out and read it.

  No; it would not do. The glamour of the opium was upon it. She burnt it at the candle that was still flaring at her bedside, pale and smoky, in the early light of morning which she had admitted at the open shutter.

  That letter must be very carefully written, she thought; and other measures must be taken first. It seemed doubtful, altogether, whether it might not be as effectual and wiser to write only to old Mr. Dawe.

  She did not come down to breakfast that morning. Maud was infinitely relieved; she dreaded the idea of meeting Lady Vernon; and to her great delight there came a letter from Lady Mardykes, naming the day for receiving her at Carsbrook. It said:

  “Your mamma has been so good as to tell Maximilla Medwyn that she will allow you to
come to Carsbrook any day you please. If you can, do come on Monday next; Maximilla has promised to be here early, so if you arrive any time in the afternoon you will be sure to find her. I tried to get Ethel Tintern to come; but she can’t, she says, for some time. You will find my house very full, and there are some odd, and, I think, very amusing people here. Maximilla tells me that you and she were interested by the rather striking appearance of Doctor Antomarchi. I wrote to ask him for a day or two; so you shall meet him at Carsbrook. He is a wonderful mesmerist. Two young ladies are talking in my room as I write. I hope I am not quite unintelligible in consequence. I hope you like dancing. We dance a great deal here; but you will learn all our ways in a little time.”

  There was a note from Maximilla Medwyn also, seconding Lady Mardykes’ invitation, and promising to be punctually at Carsbrook on the morning of Monday. She mentioned also that she had written to Lady Vernon, and was certain, from what had passed, that she would place no difficulty in the way of Maud’s visit to Carsbrook. Of this, however, Maud was by no means so sure.

  Lady Vernon did not meet her at luncheon. Maud had gone to the room in secret trepidation. The respite was very welcome; if she could only make her escape to Carsbrook, what a happy change!

  She was glad to learn from Jones that Sir David and Lady Blunkett were to dine at Roydon, and stay till next day, and that Mr. and Mrs. Foljambe and Captain Bamme were to meet the worthy baronet and his wife.

  She was in hopes of getting away to Carsbrook — if she were indeed to be allowed to visit Lady Mardykes, of which she had very uncomfortable doubts since the scene of the night before — without the agitation of another tête-à-tête with her mother.

  She sent for Jones, and ran up to her own room, trembling lest she should meet Lady Vernon on the stairs.

  I don’t know whether Lady Vernon had any secret shrinkings of a similar kind. If she had she would have disdained them, and played out her game, whatever it was, stoically.

  Jones found her young mistress standing at her own window, looking out in an anxious reverie.