“Well, Mr. Arden, I am very much obliged to you, notwithstanding;” and so he gratefully saw him to the door, and smiled and bowed him off, and stood for a moment as his carriage whirled down the short street.
“He does not like me — nor I, perhaps, him. Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed, very softly and reservedly, looking down on the flags. “What an odd thing it is! Those instincts and antipathies, they are very odd.” All this, except the faint laughter, was in thought.
Mr. Longcluse stepped back. He was negatively happy — he was rid of an anxiety. He was positively happy — he had been better received by Miss Arden, this evening, than he had ever been before. So he went to his bed with a light heart, and a head full of dreams.
All the next day, one beautiful image haunted Longcluse’s imagination. He was delayed in town; he had to consult about operations in foreign stocks; he had many words to say, directions to modify, and calls to make on this man and that. He had hoped to be at Mortlake Hall at three o’clock. But it was past six before he could disentangle himself from the tenacious meshes of his business. Never had he thought it so irksome. Was he not rich enough — too rich? Why should he longer submit to a servitude so wearisome? It was high time he should begin to enjoy his days in the sunshine of his gold and the companionship of his beautiful idol. But “man proposes,” says the ancient saw, “and God disposes.”
It was just seven o’clock when Mr. Longcluse descended at the steps of old Mortlake Hall.
Sir Reginald, who is writhing under a letter from the attorney of the millionaire mortgagee of his Yorkshire estate, making an alternative offer, either to call in the principal sum or to allow it to stand out on larger interest, had begged of Mr. Longcluse, last night, to give him a few words of counsel some day. He had, in a quiet talk the evening before, taken the man of huge investments rather into his confidence.
“I don’t know, Mr. — a — Mr. Longcluse, whether you are aware how cruelly my property is tied up,” he said, as he talked in a low tone with him, in a corner of the drawingroom. “A life estate, and my son, who declines bearing any part of the burden of his own extravagance, will do nothing to facilitate my efforts to pay his debts for him; and I declare solemnly, if they raise the interest on this very oppressive mortgage, I don’t know how on earth I can pay my insurances. I don’t see how I am to do it. I should be so extremely obliged to you, Mr. Longcluse, if you would, with your vast experience and knowledge in all — all financial matters, give me any advice that strikes you — if you could, with perfect convenience, afford so much time. I don’t really know what rate of interest is usual. I only know this, that interest, as a rule, has been steadily declining ever since I can remember — perpetually declining; I mean, of course, upon perfect security like this; and now this confounded harpy wants, after ten years, to raise it! I believe they want to drive me out of the world, among them! and they well know the cruelty of it, for I have never been able to pay them a single half-year punctually. Will you take some tea?”
So Longcluse had promised his advice very gladly next day; and now he asked for Sir Reginald. Sir Reginald was very particularly engaged at this moment on business; Mr. Arden was with him at present; but if Mr. Longcluse would wait for a few minutes, Sir Reginald would be most happy to see him. So there was to be a little wait. How could he better pass the interval than in Miss Arden’s company?
CHAPTER XXV.
A TETE-A-TETE.
Up to the drawingroom went Mr. Longcluse, and there he found Miss Arden finishing a drawing. He fancied a very slight flush on her cheek as he entered. Was there really a heightening of that beautiful tint as she smiled? How lovely her long lashes, and her even little teeth, and the lustrous darkness of her eyes, in that subdued light!
“I so wanted advice, Mr. Longcluse, and you have come in so fortunately! I am not satisfied with my sky and mountains, and the foreground where the light touches that withered branch is a horrible failure. In nature, it looked quite beautiful. I remember it so well. It looked on fire, almost. This is Saxteen Castle, near Golden Friars, and that is a bit of the lake and those are the fells. I sketched it in pencil, and trusted to memory for colouring. It was just at the most picturesque moment, when the sun was going down between the two mountains that overhang the little town on the west.”
“Sunset is very well expressed. You indicated all those long shadows, Miss Arden, in pencil, and I envy your perspective, and I think your colouring so extremely good! The distances are admirably marked. Try a little cadmium, burnt sienna, and lake for the intense touches of light in the foreground, on that barkless branch. Your own eye will best regulate the proportions. I am one of those vandals who prefer colour a little too bold and overdone to any timidity in that respect. Exuberance in a beginner is always, in my mind, an augury of excellence. It is so easy to moderate afterwards.”
“Yes, I daresay; I’m very glad you advise that, because I always thought so myself; but I was half afraid to act on it. I think that is about the tint — a little more yellow, perhaps. Yes; how does it look now? — what do you think?”
“Now judge yourself, Miss Arden. Do not those three sharp little touches of reflected fire light up the whole drawing? I say it is admirable. It is really quite a beautiful little drawing.”
“I’m growing so vain! you will quite spoil me, Mr. Longcluse.”
“Truth will never spoil any one. Praise is very delightful. I have not had much of it in my day, but I think it makes one better as well as happier; and to speak simple truth of you, Miss Arden, is inevitably to praise you.”
“Those are compliments, Mr. Longcluse, and they bewilder me — anything one does not know how to answer; so I would rather you pointed me out four or five faults in my drawing, and I should be very well content if you said no more. I believe you know the scenery of Golden Friars.”
“I do. Beautiful, and so romantic, and full of legends! the whole place with its belongings is a poem.”
“So I think. And the hotel — the inn I prefer calling it — the ‘George and Dragon,’ is so picturesque and delightfully old, and so comfortable! Our headquarters were there for two or three weeks. And did you see Childe Waylin’s Leap?”
“Yes, an awful scene; what a terrible precipice! I saw it to great advantage from a boat, while a thunderstorm was glaring and pealing over its summit. You know the legend, of course?”
“No, I did not hear it.”
“Oh, it is a very striking one, and won’t take many words to tell. Shall I tell it?”
“Pray do,” said Alice, with her bright look of expectation.
He smiled sadly. Perhaps the story returned with an allegoric melancholy to his mind. With a sigh and a smile he continued —
“Childe Waylin fell in love with a phantom lady, and walked day and night along the fells — people thought in solitude, really lured on by the beautiful apparition, which, as his love increased, grew less frequent, more distant and fainter, until at last, in the despair of his wild pursuit, he threw himself over that terrible precipice, and so perished. I have faith in instinct — faith in passion, which is but a form of instinct. I am sure he did wisely.”
“I sha’n’t dispute it; it is not a case likely to happen often. These phantom ladies seem to have given up practice of late years, or else people have become proof against their wiles, and neither follow, nor adore, nor lament them.”
“I don’t think these phantom ladies are at all out of date,” said Mr. Longcluse.
“Well, men have grown wiser, at all events.”
“No wiser, no happier; in such a case there is no room for what the world calls wisdom. Passion is absolute, and as for happiness, that or despair hangs on the turn of a die.”
“I have made that shadow a little more purple — do you think it an improvement?”
“Yes, certainly. How well it throws out that bit of the ruin that catches the sunlight! You have made a very poetical sketch; you have given not merely the outlines, but the character of tha
t singular place — the genus loci is there.”
Just as Mr. Longcluse had finished this complimentary criticism, the door opened, and rather unexpectedly Richard Arden entered the room. Very decidedly de trop at that moment, his friend thought Mr. Arden. Longcluse meant again to have turned the current of their talk into the channel he liked best, and here was interruption. But was not Richard Arden his sworn brother, and was he not sure to make an excuse of some sort, and take his leave, and thus restore him to his tête-à-tête.
But was there — or was it fancy — a change scarcely perceptible, but unpleasant, in the manner of this sworn brother? Was it not very provoking, and a little odd, that he did not go away, but stayed on and on, till at length a servant came in with a message from Sir Reginald to Mr. Longcluse, to say that he would be very happy to see him whenever he chose to come to his room? Mr. Longcluse was profoundly vexed. Richard Arden, however, had resumed his old manner pretty nearly. Was the interruption he had persisted in designed, or only accidental? Could he suppose Richard Arden so stupid? He took his leave smiling, but with an uncomfortable misgiving at his heart.
Richard Arden now proceeded in his own way, with some colouring and enormous suppression at discretion, to give his sister such an account as he thought would best answer of the interview he had just had with his father. Honestly related, what occurred between them was as follows: —
Richard Arden had come on summons from his father. Without a special call, he never appeared at Mortlake while his father was there, and never in his absence but with an understanding that Sir Reginald was to hear nothing of it. He sat for a considerable time in the apartment that opened from his father’s dressing-room. He heard the baronet’s peevish voice ordering Crozier about. Something was dropped and broken, and the same voice was heard in angrier alto. Richard Arden looked out of the window and waited uncomfortably. He hated his father’s pleadings with him, and he did not know for what purpose he had appointed this interview.
The door opened, and Sir Reginald entered, limping a little, for his gout had returned slightly. He was leaning on a stick. His thin, dark face and prominent eyes looked angry, and he turned about and poked his dressing-room door shut with the point of his stick, before taking any notice of his son.
“Sit down, if you please, in that chair,” he said, pointing to the particular seat he meant him to occupy with two vicious little pokes, as if he were running a small-sword through it. “I wrote to ask you to come, Sir, merely to say a word respecting your sister, for whom, if not for other members of your family, you still retain, I suppose, some consideration and natural affection.”
Here was a pause which Richard Arden did not very well know what to do with. However, as his father’s fierce eyes were interrogating him, he murmured —
“Certainly, Sir.”
“Yes, and under that impression I showed you Lord Wynderbroke’s letter. He is to dine here tomorrow at a quarter to eight — please to recollect — precisely. Do you hear?”
“I do, Sir, everything.”
“You must meet him. Let us not appear more divided than we are. You know Wynderbroke — he’s peculiar. Why the devil shouldn’t we appear united? I don’t say be united, for you won’t. But there is something owed to decency. I suppose you admit that? And before people, confound you, Sir, can’t we appear affectionate? He’s a quiet man, Wynderbroke, and makes a great deal of these domestic sentiments. So you’ll please to show some respect and affection while he’s present, and I mean to show some affection for you; and after that, Sir, you may go to the devil for me! I hope you understand?”
“Perfectly, Sir.”
“As to Wynderbroke, the thing is settled — it is there.” He pointed to his desk. “What I told you before, I tell you now — you must see that your sister doesn’t make a fool of herself. I have nothing more to say to you at present — unless you have something to say to me?”
This latter part of the sentence had something sharp and interrogative in it. There was just a chance, it seemed to imply, that his son might have something to say upon the one point that lay near the old man’s heart.
“Nothing, Sir,” said Richard, rising.
“No, no; so I supposed. You may go, Sir — nothing.”
Of this interview, one word of the real purport of which he could not tell to his sister, he gave her an account very slight indeed, but rather pleasant.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE GARDEN AT MORTLAKE.
Alice leaned back in her chair, smiling, and very much pleased.
“So my father seems disposed to relent ever so little — and ever so little, you know, is better than nothing,” said Richard Arden.
“I’m so glad, Dick, that he wishes you to take your dinner with us tomorrow; it is a very good sign. It would be so delightful if you could be at home with us, as you used to be.”
“You are a good little soul, Alice — a dear little thing! This is very pretty,” he said, looking at her drawing. “What is it?”
“The ruined castle near the northern end of the lake at Golden Friars. Mr. Longcluse says it is pretty good. Is he to dine here, do you know?”
“No — I don’t know — I hope not,” said Richard shortly.
“Hope not! why?” said she. “I thought you liked him extremely.”
“I thought he was very well for a sort of outdoor acquaintance for men; but I don’t even know that, now. There’s no use in speaking to Lady May, but I warn you — you had better drop him. There is very little known about him, but there is a great deal that is not pleasant said.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“But you used to speak so highly of him. I’m so surprised!”
“I did not know half what people said of him. I’ve heard a great deal since.”
“But is it true?” asked Alice.
“It is nothing to me whether it is true or not. It is enough if a man is talked about uncomfortably, to make it unpleasant to know him. We owe nothing to Mr. Longcluse; there is no reason why you should have an acquaintance that is not desirable. I mean to drop him quietly, and you can’t know him, really you mustn’t, Alice.”
“I don’t know. It seems to me very hard,” said Miss Alice spiritedly. “It is not many days since you spoke of him so highly; and I was quite pained when you came in just now. I don’t know whether he perceived it, but I think he must. I only know that I thought you were so cold and strange to him, your manner so unlike what it always was before. I thought you had been quarrelling. I fancied he was vexed, and I felt quite sorry; and I don’t think what you say, Richard, is manly, or like yourself. You used to praise him so, and fight his battles; and he is, though very distinguished in some ways, rather a stranger in London; and people, you told me, envy him, and try in a cowardly way to injure him; and what more easy than to hint discreditable things of people? and you did not believe a word of those reports when last you spoke of him; and considering that he had no people to stand by him in London, or to take his part, and that he may never even hear the things that are said by low people about him, don’t you think it would be cowardly of us, and positively base to treat him so?”
“Upon my word, Miss Alice, that is very good oratory indeed! I don’t think I ever heard you so eloquent before, at least upon the wrongs of one of my sex.”
“Now, Dick, that sneer won’t do. There may possibly be reasons why it would have been wiser never to have made Mr. Longcluse’s acquaintance; I can’t say. Those reasons, however, you treated very lightly indeed a little time ago — you know you did — and now, upon no better, you say you are going to cut him. I can’t bring myself to do any such thing. He is always looking in at Lady May’s, and I can’t help meeting him unless I am to cut her also. Now don’t you see how odious I should appear, and how impossible it is?”
“I won’t argue it now, dear Alice; there is quite time enough. I shall come an hour before dinner, tomorrow, and we can have a quiet talk; and I am quite sure
I shall convince you. Mind, I don’t say we should insult him,” he laughed. “I only say this, and I’ll maintain it — and I’ll show you why — that he is not a desirable acquaintance. We have taken him up very foolishly, and we must drop him. And now, darling, goodbye.”
He kissed her — she kissed him. She looked grave for a moment after, after he had run down the stairs. He has quarrelled with Mr. Longcluse about something, she thought, as she stood at the window with the tip of her finger to her lip, looking at her brother as he mounted the showy horse which had cantered with him up and down Rotten Row for two hours or more, before he had ridden out to Mortlake. She saw him now ride away.
It was near eight o’clock, and all this time Mr. Longcluse had been in confidence with Sir Reginald about his miserable mortgage. Mr. Longcluse was cautious; but there floated in his mind certain possible contingencies, under which he might perhaps make the financial adjustment, which Sir Reginald desired, very easy indeed to the worthy baronet.
It was the tempting hour of evening when the birds begin to sing, and the level beams from the west glorify all objects. Alice put on her hat and ran out to the old gardens of Mortlake. They are enclosed in a grey wall, and lie one above the other in three terraces, with tall standard fruit trees, so old that their fruit was now dwarfed in size to half its earlier bearings, standing high with a dark and sylvan luxuriance, and at this moment, sheltering among their sunlit leaves, nestle and flutter the small birds whose whistlings cheer and sadden the evening air. Every tree and bush that bore fruit, in this old garden, had grown quite beyond the common stature of its kind, and a good gardener would have cut them all down fifty years ago. But there was a kind of sylvan and stately beauty in those wonderful lofty pear-trees, with their dense dark foliage, and in the standard cherries so tall and prim, and something homely and comfortable in the great straggling apples and plums, dappled with grey lichens and tufted with moss. There were flowers as well as fruits, of all sorts, in this garden. All its arrangements were out of date. There was an air, not actually of neglect — for it was weeded, and the walks were trim and gravelled — but of carelessness and rusticity, not unpleasant, in the place. Trees were allowed to straggle and spread, and rise aloft in the air, just as they pleased. Tall roses climbed the walls about the door, and clustered in nodding masses overhead; and no end of pretty annuals and other flowers, quite out of fashion, crowded the dishevelled currant bushes, and the forest of raspberries. Here and there were very tall myrtles, and the quince, and obsolete medlars, were discoverable among the other fruit-trees. The summits of the walls were in some places crowned, to the scandal of all decent gardening, with ivy, and a carved shaft in the centre of each garden supported a sun-dial as old as the Hall itself.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 534
