Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  As he did not seem disposed to invite me into his apartment, although I had announced my visit as one of business, I was obliged to open my errand where I stood; and after a great deal of fumbling and muttering, I contrived to place before him distinctly the resolution to which I had come.

  “But I can’t think of taking back any portion of the sum I have paid you,” said he, with a cool, dry emphasis.

  “Your reluctance to do so, Mr. Smith, is most handsome, and I assure you, appreciated,” I replied. “It is very generous; but, at the same time, it is quite impossible for me to accept what I have no right to take, and I must beg of you not to mention that part of the subject again.”

  “And why should I take it?” demanded Mr. Smith.

  “Because you have paid this hundred pounds for six months, and you are leaving me with nearly five months of the term still unexpired,” I replied. “I expect to receive fair play myself, and always give it.”

  “But who on earth said that I was going away so soon?” pursued Mr. Smith, in the same dry, sarcastic key. “I have not said so — because I really don’t intend it; I mean to stay here to the last day of the six months for which I have paid you. I have no notion of vacating my hired lodgings, simply because you say, go. I shan’t quarrel with you — I never quarrel with anybody. I’m as much your friend as ever; but, without the least wish to disoblige, I can’t do this, positively I cannot. Is there anything else?”

  I had not anticipated in the least the difficulty which thus encountered and upset our plans. I had so set my heart upon effecting the immediate retirement of our inauspicious inmate, that the disappointment literally stunned me for a moment. I, however, returned to the charge: I urged, and prayed, and almost besought him to give up his apartments, and to leave us. I offered to repay every farthing of the sum he had paid me — reserving nothing on account of the time he had already been with us. I suggested all the disadvantages of the house. I shifted my ground, and told him that my wife wanted the rooms; I pressed his gallantry — his good nature — his economy; in short, I assailed him upon every point — but in vain, he did not even take the trouble of repeating what he had said before — he neither relented, nor showed the least irritation, but simply said —

  “I can’t do this; here I am, and here I stay until the half-year has expired. You wanted a lodger, and you have got one — the quietest, least troublesome, least expensive person you could have; and though your house, servants, and furniture are none of the best, I don’t care for that. I pursue my own poor business and enjoyments here entirely to my satisfaction.”

  Having thus spoken, he gave me a sort of nod, and closed the door.

  So, instead of getting rid of him the next day, as we had hoped, we had nearly five months more of his company in expectancy; I hated, and my wife dreaded the prospect. She was literally miserable and panic-struck at her disappointment — and grew so nervous and wretched that I made up my mind to look out for lodgings for her and the children (subversive of all our schemes of retrenchment as such a step would be), and surrendering the house absolutely to Mr. Smith and the servants during the remainder of his term.

  Circumstances, however, occurred to prevent our putting this plan in execution. My wife, meanwhile, was, if possible, more depressed and nervous every day. The servants seemed to sympathise in the dread and gloom which involved ourselves; the very children grew timid and spiritless, without knowing why — and the entire house was pervaded with an atmosphere of uncertainty and fear. A poorhouse or a dungeon would have been cheerful, compared with a dwelling haunted unceasingly with unearthly suspicions and alarms. I would have made any sacrifice short of ruin, to emancipate our household from the odious mental and moral thraldom which was invisibly established over us — overcasting us with strange anxieties and an undefined terror.

  About this time my wife had a dream which troubled her much, although she could not explain its supposed significance satisfactorily by any of the ordinary rules of interpretation in such matters. The vision was as follows.

  She dreamed that we were busily employed in carrying out our scheme of removal, and that I came into the parlour where she was making some arrangements, and, with rather an agitated manner, told her that the carriage had come for the children. She thought she went out to the hall, in consequence, holding little Fanny by one hand, and the boy — or, as we still called him, “baby,” — by the other, and feeling, as she did so, an unaccountable gloom, almost amounting to terror, steal over her. The children, too, seemed, she thought, frightened, and disposed to cry.

  So close to the hall-door as to exclude the light, stood some kind of vehicle, of which she could see nothing but that its door was wide open, and the interior involved in total darkness. The children, she thought, shrunk back in great trepidation, and she addressed herself to induce them, by persuasion, to enter, telling them that they were only “going to their new home.” So, in a while, little Fanny approached it; but, at the same instant, some person came swiftly up from behind, and, raising the little boy in his hands, said fiercely, “No, the baby first”; and placed him in the carriage. This person was our lodger, Mr. Smith, and was gone as soon as seen. My wife, even in her dream, could not act or speak; but as the child was lifted into the carriage-door, a man, whose face was full of beautiful tenderness and compassion, leaned forward from the carriage and received the little child, which, stretching his arms to the stranger, looked back with a strange smile upon his mother.

  “He is safe with me, and I will deliver him to you when you come.”

  These words the man spoke, looking upon her, as he received him, and immediately the carriage-door shut, and the noise of its closing wakened my wife from her nightmare.

  This dream troubled her very much, and even haunted my mind unpleasantly too. We agreed, however, not to speak of it to anybody, not to divulge any of our misgivings respecting the stranger. We were anxious that neither the children nor the servants should catch the contagion of those fears which had seized upon my poor little wife, and, if truth were spoken, upon myself in some degree also. But this precaution was, I believe, needless, for, as I said before, everybody under the same roof with Mr. Smith was, to a certain extent, affected with the same nervous gloom and apprehension.

  And now commences a melancholy chapter in my life. My poor little Fanny was attacked with a cough which soon grew very violent, and after a time degenerated into a sharp attack of inflammation. We were seriously alarmed for her life, and nothing that care and medicine could effect was spared to save it. Her mother was indefatigable, and scarcely left her night or day; and, indeed, for some time, we all but despaired of her recovery.

  One night, when she was at the worst, her poor mother, who had sat for many a melancholy hour listening, by her bedside, to those plaintive incoherences of delirium and moanings of fever, which have harrowed so many a fond heart, gained gradually from her very despair the courage which she had so long wanted, and knelt down at the side of her sick darling’s bed to pray for her deliverance.

  With clasped hands, in an agony of supplication, she prayed that God would, in his mercy, spare her little child — that, justly as she herself deserved the sorest chastisement his hand could inflict, he would yet deal patiently and tenderly with her in this one thing. She poured out her sorrows before the mercy-seat — she opened her heart, and declared her only hope to be in his pity; without which, she felt that her darling would only leave the bed where she was lying for her grave.

  Exactly as she came to this part of her supplication, the child, who had grown, as it seemed, more and more restless, and moaned and muttered with increasing pain and irritation, on a sudden started upright in her bed, and, in a thrilling voice, cried —

  “No! no! — the baby first.”

  The mysterious sentence which had secretly tormented her for so long, thus piercingly uttered by this delirious, and, perhaps, dying child, with what seemed a preternatural earnestness and strength, arrested her devotion
s, and froze her with a feeling akin to terror.

  “Hush, hush, my darling!” said the poor mother, almost wildly, as she clasped the attenuated frame of the sick child in her arms; “hush, my darling; don’t cry out so loudly — there — there — my own love.”

  The child did not appear to see or hear her, but sate up still with feverish cheeks, and bright unsteady eyes, while her dry lips were muttering inaudible words.

  “Lie down, my sweet child — lie down, for your own mother,” she said; “if you tire yourself, you can’t grow well, and your poor mother will lose you.”

  At these words, the child suddenly cried out again, in precisely the same loud, strong voice— “No! no! the baby first, the baby first” — and immediately afterwards lay down, and fell, for the first time since her illness into a tranquil sleep.

  My good little wife sate, crying bitterly by her bedside. The child was better — that was, indeed, delightful. But then there was an omen in the words, thus echoed from her dream, which she dared not trust herself to interpret, and which yet had seized, with a grasp of iron, upon every fibre of her brain.

  “Oh, Richard,” she cried, as she threw her arms about my neck, “I am terrified at this horrible menace from the unseen world. Oh! poor, darling little baby, I shall lose you — I am sure I shall lose you. Comfort me, darling, and say he is not to die.”

  And so I did; and tasked all my powers of argument and persuasion to convince her how unsubstantial was the ground of her anxiety. The little boy was perfectly well, and, even were he to die before his sister that event might not occur for seventy years to come. I could not, however, conceal from myself that there was something odd and unpleasant in the coincidence; and my poor wife had grown so nervous and excitable, that a much less ominous conjecture would have sufficed to alarm her.

  Meanwhile, the unaccountable terror which our lodger’s presence inspired continued to increase. One of our maids gave us warning, solely from her dread of our queer inmate, and the strange accessories which haunted him. She said — and this was corroborated by her fellow-servant — that Mr. Smith seemed to have constantly a companion in his room; that although they never heard them speak, they continually and distinctly heard the tread of two persons walking up and down the room together, and described accurately the peculiar sound of a stick or crutch tapping upon the floor, which my own ears had heard. They also had seen the large, ill-conditioned cat I have mentioned, frequently steal in and out of the stranger’s room; and observed that when our little girl was in greatest danger, the hateful animal was constantly writhing, fawning, and crawling about the door of the sick room after nightfall. They were thoroughly persuaded that this ill-omened beast was the foul fiend himself, and I confess I could not — sceptic as I was — bring myself absolutely to the belief that he was nothing more than a “harmless, necessary cat.” These and similar reports — implicitly believed as they palpably were by those who made them — were certainly little calculated to allay the perturbation and alarm with which our household was filled.

  The evenings had by this time shortened very much, and darkness often overtook us before we sate down to our early tea. It happened just at this period of which I have been speaking, after my little girl had begun decidedly to mend, that I was sitting in our dining-parlour, with my little boy fast asleep upon my knees, and thinking of I know not what, my wife having gone up stairs, as usual, to sit in the room with little Fanny. As I thus sate in what was to me, in effect, total solitude, darkness unperceived stole on us.

  On a sudden, as I sate, with my elbow leaning upon the table, and my other arm round the sleeping child, I felt, as I thought, a cold current of air faintly blowing upon my forehead. I raised my head, and saw, as nearly as I could calculate, at the far end of the table on which my arm rested, two large green eyes confronting me. I could see no more, but instantly concluded they were those of the abominable cat. Yielding to an impulse of horror and abhorrence, I caught a water-croft that was close to my hand, and threw it full at it with all my force. I must have missed my object, for the shining eyes continued fixed for a second, and then glided still nearer to me, and then a little nearer still. The noise of the glass smashed with so much force upon the table called in the servant, who happened to be passing. She had a candle in her hand, and, perhaps, the light alarmed the odious beast, for as she came in it was gone.

  I had had an undefined idea that its approach was somehow connected with a designed injury of some sort to the sleeping child. I could not be mistaken as to the fact that I had plainly seen the two broad, glaring, green eyes. Where the cursed animal had gone I had not observed: it might, indeed, easily have run out at the door as the servant opened it, but neither of us had seen it do so; and we were every one of us in such a state of nervous excitement, that even this incident was something in the catalogue of our ambiguous experiences.

  It was a great happiness to see our darling little Fanny every day mending, and now quite out of danger: this was cheering and delightful. It was also something to know that more than two months of our lodger’s term of occupation had already expired; and to realise, as we now could do, by anticipation, the unspeakable relief of his departure.

  My wife strove hard to turn our dear child’s recovery to good account for me; but the impressions of fear soon depart, and those of religious gratitude must be preceded by religious faith. All as yet was but as seed strewn upon the rock.

  Little Fanny, though recovering rapidly, was still very weak, and her mother usually passed a considerable part of every evening in her bedroom — for the child was sometimes uneasy and restless at night. It happened at this period that, sitting as usual at Fanny’s bedside, she witnessed an occurrence which agitated her not a little.

  The child had been, as it seems, growing sleepy, and was lying listlessly, with eyes half open, apparently taking no note of what was passing. Suddenly, however, with an expression of the wildest terror, she drew up her limbs, and cowered in the bed’s head, gazing at some object; which, judging from the motion of her eyes, must have been slowly advancing from the end of the room next the door.

  The child made a low shuddering cry, as she grasped her mother’s hand, and, with features white and tense with terror, slowly following with her eyes the noiseless course of some unseen spectre, shrinking more and more fearfully backward every moment.

  “What is it? Where? What is it that frightens you, my darling?” asked the poor mother, who, thrilled with horror, looked in vain for the apparition which seemed to have all but bereft the child of reason.

  “Stay with me — save me — keep it away — look, look at it — making signs to me — don’t let it hurt me — it is angry — Oh! mamma, save me, save me!”

  The child said this, all the time clinging to her with both her hands, in an ecstasy of panic.

  “There — there, my darling,” said my poor wife, “don’t be afraid; there’s nothing but me — your own mamma — and little baby in the room; nothing, my darling; nothing indeed.”

  “Mamma, mamma, don’t move; don’t go near him”; the child continued wildly. “It’s only his back now; don’t make him turn again; he’s untying his handkerchief. Oh! baby, baby; he’ll kill baby! and he’s lifting up those green things from his eyes; don’t you see him doing it? Mamma, mamma, why does he come here? Oh, mamma, poor baby — poor little baby!”

  She was looking with a terrified gaze at the little boy’s bed, which lay directly opposite to her own, and in which he was sleeping calmly.

  “Hush, hush, my darling child,” said my wife, with difficulty restraining an hysterical burst of tears; “for God’s sake don’t speak so wildly, my own precious love — there, there — don’t be frightened — there, darling, there.”

  “Oh! poor baby — poor little darling baby,” the child continued as before; “will no one save him — tell that wicked man to go away — oh — there — why, mamma — don’t — oh, sure you won’t let him — don’t — don’t — he’ll take
the child’s life — will you let him lie down that way on the bed — save poor little baby — oh, baby, baby, waken — his head is on your face.”

  As she said this she raised her voice to a cry of despairing terror which made the whole room ring again.

  This cry, or rather yell, reached my ears as I sate reading in the parlour by myself, and fearing I knew not what, I rushed to the apartment; before I reached it, the sound had subsided into low but violent sobbing; and, just as I arrived at the threshold I heard, close at my feet, a fierce protracted growl, and something rubbing along the surbase. I was in the dark, but, with a feeling of mingled terror and fury, I stamped and struck at the abhorred brute with my feet, but in vain. The next moment I was in the room, and heard little Fanny, through her sobs, cry —

  “Oh, poor baby is killed — that wicked man has killed him — he uncovered his face, and put it on him, and lay upon the bed and killed poor baby. I knew he came to kill him. Ah, papa, papa, why did you not come up before he went? — he is gone, he went away as soon as he killed our poor little darling baby.”

  I could not conceal my agitation, quite, and I said to my wife —

  “Has he, Smith, been here?”

  “No.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “The child has seen some one.”

  “Seen whom? Who? Who has been here?”

  “I did not see it; but — but I am sure the child saw — that is, thought she saw him; — the person you have named. Oh, God, in mercy deliver us! What shall I do — what shall I do!”

  Thus saying, the dear little woman burst into tears, and crying, as if her heart would break, sobbed out an entreaty that I would look at baby; adding, that she herself had not courage to see whether her darling was sleeping or dead.

  “Dead!” I exclaimed. “Tut, tut, my darling; you must not give way to such morbid fancies — he is very well, I see him breathing;” and so saying, I went over to the bed where our little boy was lying. He was slumbering; though it seemed to me very heavily, and his cheeks were flushed.