Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  William was very fond of old Martha, and a little henpecked by her. Her air and look embarrassed him; he was in an unpleasant suspense, and had only time to say, “Well, Martha?”

  “I’m come, sir, to gie ye warning; I’ll leave you this day month, or any day sooner ye please. I a’ been lang enough in Haworth House. I shouldn’t ken the aid place, wi’ the changes that’s like to be.”

  “Why, what do you mean, Martha? — what have I done?” said the Squire, standing up and opening his hands in expostulation.

  “What a’ ye done, Master Willie? Well, I think when ye bring in a young fool o’ a lass like that — a young lady, I believe I’m to call her — Lady, indeed! Cow-lady (ladybird) off the moss, more like — bring her in, I say, by the hand— “

  “I did not bring her in by the hand,” replied William, indignantly.

  “And what has that to do wi’ the matter, Master Willie? What does it signify, sir? Not that bit o’ stick that’s burning in the peat, there. But whether ye brought her in by the hand or no, it’s plain ye should put her out by the lug.”

  “Why, what the devil has she been doing?” demanded William, firing up with a stamp on the floor.

  “I don’t say she’s been doin’ nout, did I? All I say’s this — and queer crack-brain’d work it is! — how does you and me know who or what she is? I won’t make a butty o’ such folk for no one; catter-waulin’ over the moss wi’ her company-keeper, mayhap — and a brave gowk they’ve made o’ you — and I’m vexed to think you’d be so dafy. Ye usedn’t to du a that lids, Master Willie — and what will the nebbers consait? — and what will the nebbers say?”

  “Neighbors, indeed! I’d like to know where the neighbors are; and I give them all leave, when you can find them, to say what they please. I tell you, Martha, with your nonsense, you are enough to ruin the character of fifty men.” And as he said this, indignantly looking on her consequential face and dumpy person, his own speech was on a sudden so very near upsetting him, that he turned abruptly, and I think his shoulders shook a little.

  “Listen to me,” he said, turning again, with a countenance graver than ever; “and perhaps, once for all, you’ll hear reason. Returning home, only three minutes before I knocked at the kitchen-window, I saw this young woman — I suppose she’s young, as you say so; I’m sure I don’t know — standing alone in the storm, at the Mickle Steans. I suppose the poor creature meant to pass the night there. Would it have been creditable to Haworth House, and the old name, and to you as housekeeper, if I had passed her by, and left her in the mirk and storm — to be found dead, perhaps, in the morning, within ten-score steps of our door? Do you really mean to say that, in the name of virtue, I should have left her, the young woman as you call her, in a storm like this — do you hear the windows? do you hear the noise? — without a bield to shelter her, and perhaps to be smoored in the moss? I hope there’s hardly such a monster on earth.”

  “Well, you know. Don’t ye be in such a hurry. How could I know? and if, as you say, ’twas so near the door, and the night being so — I’ll no deny. But ye ought to be prudent, Master Willie; ye’re the head o’ a house now, mind, and ye’ll be looked to for example; and the apostle says — there’s a waster on yon can’le— ‘ye must not avoid evil only, but the appearance thereof.’ And I suppose she’ll no’ be puttin’ her staff here, and she’ll be gangin’ in the morning; and ’twas very unfortunate the thing should have happened so, but being as you say, I suppose it just couldn’t be helped, ye’ll no’ be makin’ a custom of it, and that’s all we can say about it, if we were to talk till doomsday.”

  Had the guest of Haworth Hall been short and crooked, pitted with the smallpox, and blind of an eye, this debate upon eternal principles would, I daresay, have been spared: Mrs. Gillyflower would not have had a word to say in favor of exposing young women, for whole nights together, to storms in the dark; and the ancient rites of hospitality would not have found, perhaps, quite so passionate a vindicator William Haworth.

  If feminine beauty be, in general, a letter of recommendation, it is also, with the gentler sex, a challenge and an alarm. It is only a different acknowledgment of the power of the talisman.

  He laughed to himself, as he poked the fire for the third time. “Certainly it is high time I should stand up for my rights a little. Good old Martha would tread down my prerogative to something very small indeed, if I allowed her to bully me as she seems to wish; in that I suppose they are all pretty much alike, but who is there like her in everything else? I could not live in this place if she went away, and she could not live away from it; she’s the last of the old people here, and she’s such an old darling! I hope, I’m sure,” he suddenly thought, “she’ll give her her breakfast in the morning.”

  CHAPTER IV.

  SMOKE.

  Now, it was a custom of our recluse Squire, every night at a quarter to ten (for which important hour he used punctually to set the “alarum” of his Dutch clock), to shut his book, take his pipe, and pay old Martha a visit in the kitchen, and have a talk with her as he smoked his churchwarden up the capacious chimney.

  At that hour Mall’s scrubbing and scouring for the day was over, and good Mrs. Gillyflower’s labors of direction had come to an end; and the kitchen was tranquil, and the “housekeeper” disposed to chat a little before she betook herself to her bed.

  The shrilly ring of the clock suddenly startled William from his book — it was a quarter to ten.

  “Yes, my smoke. No, I’ll not smoke here. I don’t see why I shouldn’t take my pipe to the kitchen, as usual, and have a look at her. I will.”

  And accordingly he popped his homely canister of tobacco into his pocket, and with his pipe in his fingers, and a candlestick in the other hand (for the hall of Haworth boasted no light), he set out on an exploration unusually interesting.

  As he entered the tiled passage he heard such sounds of merriment from the kitchen as had not enlivened Haworth Hall for many a day. The sound of laughter is not only cheery to listen to, but it excites a sympathetic merriment in the hearers; and alone as he was, and utterly ignorant of the fun that provoked it, William laughed quietly in unison, in spite of himself.

  The laughter which echoed from the kitchen was that of hale old Martha, and the young clear cacchination of Mall Darrell; and between these peals he heard a low sweet voice narrating the story that, no doubt, stimulated all the mirth.

  He could not find it in his heart to risk its interruption, and he waited, enjoying a sympathetic laugh, every time the merriment grew wild in the kitchen, until the story was plainly ended, and old Mrs. Gillyflower and Mall with great hilarity began to talk together. When this had a little subsided, William, with his pipe in one hand and his candle in the other, entered the snug old kitchen.

  His guest was standing in the attitude in which she may have recounted her story, with one hand on the tall back of the chair, and an indescribable grace, and even dignity, in her pose. He thought he had never seen so beautiful and singular a creature.

  There was no vulgar flurry or fidget; she simply awaited his notice, if he chose to give it, with a serene self-possession.

  Perhaps I shall best describe the points that struck him in the stranger, by transcribing a little pencil-note he made in his study, an hour later, in meditative idleness, to aid his memory in making a sketch. It is as follows:

  “Black hair — very black; low forehead; small head, beautifully set on; large brilliant black eyes, with long lashes; an oval face; a very small nose; small pretty ears; very pretty mouth, brilliantly red; very even little teeth; complexion clear brown, with a color seen richly through. Her figure, long-limbed, slender; flat shoulders, and very slender waist; distance from the waist to the feet long in proportion; her hands small; in walking, her steps not long enough to show her feet before her dress; her dress, I think, a very dark gray, comes up to her throat, and is long in the skirt She has put aside her cloak; a very high bearing; an air of independence and equality
that resembles command, yet very civil and gentle; perfectly self-possessed; her voice low and very sweet, with a pretty accent.

  “How comes this something wild and queenlike, with so perfectly feminine a bearing?

  “She is a lady — I think a foreign one; her accent is not quite English. A Spaniard, perhaps.

  “Suppose she should prove an escaped nun I “Not a bad conjecture. I wonder whether that is a conventual dress. I wish I had some drawings. We shall see its color with certainty in the morning. I think I saw beads and a cross for a moment.

  “We shall see how she bears the Bible; we shall hear what she has to say about religion.

  “What a Diana she looks!

  “I should like to see the villain who, as Sheridan Knowles says, dares touch her with but a look!”

  This was jotted down an hour later, and the sheet of paper has several sketches, each an improvement on the other, not one satisfactory; and under his disappointing essays he had written, in a kind of despair: —

  “Or like the borealis’ race, That flits ere you can mark the place.”

  Whatever William had expected, he certainly fancied that the embarrassment would have been altogether on the stranger’s side. Well, it had turned out differently. This girl — she did not look more than eighteen — was quite unabashed, and William somehow did not mind lighting his pipe until he returned to his quaint study.

  He did not return to his book — that was pretty well out of his head.

  It was simple curiosity, he told himself. Of - course she was herself a very interesting person, he allowed, for he was a frank fellow; but it was the situation — the romance — the utter uncertainty, that really employed his thoughts; it was, in short, the story more than the heroine, he could swear, that exercised his imagination.

  After he had bidden her welcome to Haworth Hall, and they had exchanged courtesies upon that occasion as guest and host, she seemed no longer to concern herself about his presence; her attention was unaffectedly engaged about other things. And while he was telling old Martha the story of his adventures on the moss that night, he was secretly mortified to observe that the stranger (for whom he perhaps intended it) was whispering something to Mall Darrell.

  One thing was plain, and did not displease him: Martha Gillyflower had grown into something more than toleration of her, and the unknown had, in fact, grown into high favor with Martha.

  William Haworth went to sleep that night thinking of his guest, and the first thing he thought of in the morning was. the same runaway nun. But was she a nun?

  She had made them almost die of laughing with the story of a series of adventures which a poor man whom she knew had undergone at a fair in Warwickshire. Was that the sort of story which a young lady who had taken the veil would have been likely to hear? On the other hand, why should she not? She had not always been a nun, and even nuns hear stories.

  “I think old Gillyflower would like to keep her for a little longer;” and if so, he would give her leave.

  CHAPTER V.

  HER STORY.

  MRS. GILLYFLOWER and she were sitting next morning in the kitchen, at the little deal table, with a coarse but very white cloth on it, and the teathings. Mall Darrell had done her breakfast, and was washing potatoes and peeling turnips, quite out of hearing, at the open door of die scullery, through which, faintly, were audible in the kitchen the crow and gobble of the busy poultry; and close to the kitchen-window, that opened in the side-wall, roses, planted by Peter Clinton, shook themselves up and nodded in the comparative shelter, and tapped on the panes, while the tall trees outside swayed their boughs and rustled boisterously in the still vehement wind.

  “Darrat ta, lass! yer no gangin’ to-day. Why, see how it blaas, an’ the branches swings, an’ the Squire himsel’ has bid ye. An’ I tell ye ye’ll no flit the day — ye shan’t goa noo, not a bit — ye’ll just bide where ye er; ye’ll stay ower the night, an’ gang in the mornin,’ if ye will. I like ye, lass; I see ye’re none o’ them fiirligig fools; ye hev sense an’ observation, an’ ye ken the aid saw to ‘be merry an’ wise.’ Ye can make a body laugh when ye like. But ye’re no gilliver, not a bit; ye heve principles an’ feelin’ like mysel’, though ye don’t keep braggin’ o’ them, nor talkin’ any such clish-ma-clash; an’ I like ye, lass, an’ I should na wonder if I came to like ye better.”

  Old Martha was talking heartily, and honestly too. She had formed instinctively a good opinion of her new acquaintance; and such opinions, mysteriously but irresistibly derived, command our confidence often more than any others.

  She meant to be encouraging; she had placed her broad dumpy hand upon the slender one of the girl, whose arm rested on the table.

  The girl looked at her with a grave countenance, in which were yet mingled expressions odd: something of amusement — something of disdain — something of liking.

  “Well, Mrs. Gillyflower,” she said, drawing back her hand sedately, “you’re kind — I don’t mind if I do; ‘twill be four rounds of the clock tomorrow; after that, I provide for myself.”

  “Provide for yersel’? Well, I’m glad ye hev no care o’ that sort to grieve ye; ye’re sure ye can?”

  “I can.”

  “H’m! Well, that’s a comfort — people and friends, I daresay?”

  “I have friends, and I have relations,” said the girl, quietly.

  “Where do they live?”

  “A good many miles away, but not so far that my feet won’t carry me to them. I can walk a long way, when I like.”

  Mrs. Gillyflower was curious; her little round gray eyes were peering vainly into the dark, fiery, unfathomable eyes of the girl.

  She felt that this girl was a different nature — a more potent spirit — that she could make nothing of her.

  “Well, lass, I tell ye what,” said the old woman. “We are not ower rich here, any o’ us; that is, we hev quite enough, d’ye mind, but none to spare. But I doubt ye’r ill-provided — an’ I have a bit o’ money by me — an’ I’d like to lend ye a pound, an’ ye’ll pay me whean ye can, or whean ye like; but ye’ll want somethin’ by the way, an’ ye’ll no refuse.”

  The girl quickly replaced her hand on the dumpy fingers of the old woman, with a movement like a caress; and with a wild smile she looked on her for a moment, and said, “You are very goodnatured, Mrs. Gillyflower — yes, and if it ever lies in my way to do you a good turn, I’ll do it Thank you very kindly; it was well-meant, but I don’t need it, Mrs. Gillyflower. Look here!” and from her pocket she took a little scarlet-cloth purse with a silk cord tied round it, and poured out a tiny pile of silver on the table; and then, sweeping it back again, she continued: “And I’ll tell you how I happen to be making this journey alone — I didn’t intend, but you’re goodnatured — I ran away!”

  “Ran away, child — hey? Not from a husband, though?” she asked, with a sudden consternation.

  The stranger laughed.

  “No — no! that never was our way. I’ve been used cruel bad. I’ve a stepmother. I wouldn’t wonder if you had a stepmother yourself, once?” she added, after a moment’s pause.

  “Well, noo, that is queer. So I had, lass, that was a tazzle, I can tell ye, and mickle she made me dree. I forgie her, an’ may God forgie her too! But I’ll never forget her, if I was to live for a thousand year. — An’ so ye hev a stepmother? Tell me more, poor lassie! I ween there was cause, an’ to spare, why ye should flee out o’ her hands, as Jacob did fra the hands o’ his unnatural brother Esau.” ‘

  “’Twas all about a man,” said the girl.

  “A man?” repeated Martha Gillyflower, much interested. “Well — go on, dear.”

  “She wanted to give me to a wicked man — the worst fellow, almost, she knew. Ha!”

  The ejaculation was like a gasp, quick and hard, and accompanied with a strange smile that showed her little white teeth suddenly — expressed abhorrence powerfully.

  “That fellow, as I guess from the looks and whispers of so
me that knows all about him, has murdered people — several, and I think I know where some of the graves is. Well, there was a man to choose! And I said ‘No.’ She wanted to be rid o’ me, for one thing, and to put me into the hands of a devil for smother. I said ‘No, I’d die first’”

  “Ye were right; I’d a’ done the same my lass. I telt ye, right I kenned quick enough ye were nane o’ them strackle-brained queans, I kenned ye had reason for what ye did.”

  “Ay, so I had. And she and I had words, and she snatched up the cudgel to break my head; and I caught it fast in my hand, and I flung her down; and ’twas just ay or no with me should I kill her — it’s a heavy cudgel— ’twas like lightnin’; I did not know myself — just a flicker and a chance — but I didn’t come down with it, and I flung it over the casties; and said I, ’Tis the last time ye’ll ever lift that to me!’ and I left her that night.”

  “And right well done o’ you. I’m maist sorry ye did not gie her a clink whaar ‘twould make her lugs sing, a-toppa t’ head; but ye did right to spare her, ’twas only what a Christian should.”

  “And she’ll try to set that fellow on my track,” continued the girl, “to kill me, if she can.”

  “And where did you live?”

  “Well — a good way off — the name don’t matter.”

  “And where are ye gangin’?”

  “To friends and kin.”

  “And had ye no kin living nigh yer stepmother?”

  “Ay, some; they left me to her, though — they don’t care. I have a grand-aunt there; if she was younger, she loves me, and would not see me wronged, but she’s too old for that work; and — ye were so kind, I’ve told ye all — and I mind the time I thought there was not a sore heart or wildered brain in all the world. — Hey! Why, there’s a bird and a pretty cage! That’s a bullfinch, and it can’t whistle, I’m sure, but I’ll teach it!” And by this time she was beside the cage, and began very sweetly to whistle a little tune. “Ay — av, see how he cocks his ear! I love birds! He will, the darling — he’ll whistle, I tell ye!”