From the attorney of Sir Richard Arden was served upon Messrs. Childers and Ballard, that day, a cautionary notice in very stern terms respecting their threatened attack upon Sir Reginald’s funeral appointments and body; to which they replied in terms as sharp, and fixed three o’clock for payment of the bond.
It was a very short mile from Mortlake to that small old church near the “Guy of Warwick,” the bit of whose grey spire and the pinnacle of whose weather-cock you could see between the two great clumps of elms to the left. Sir Reginald, feet foremost, was to make this little journey that evening under a grove of black plumes, to the small, quiet room, which he was henceforward to share with his ancestor Sir Hugh Arden, of Mortlake Hall, Baronet, whose pillard monument decorated the little church.
He lies now, soldered up and screwed down, in his strait bed, triply secured in lead, mahogany, and oak, and as safe as “the old woman of Berkeley” hoped to be from the grip of marauders. Once there, and the stone door replaced and mortared in, the irritable old gentleman might sleep the quietest sleep his body had ever enjoyed, to the crack of doom. The space was short, too, which separated that from the bedroom he was leaving; but the interval was “Jew’s ground,” trespassing on which, it was thought, he ran a great risk of being clutched by frantic creditors. A whisper of the danger had got into the housekeeper’s room; and Crozier, whose north-country blood was hot, and temper warlike, had loaded the horse-pistols, and swore that he would shoot the first man who laid a hand unfriendly on the old master’s coffin.
There was an agitation simmering under the grim formalities and tip-toe treadings of the house of death. Martha Tansey grew frightened, angry as she was, and told Richard Arden that Crozier was “neither to hold nor to bind, and meant to walk by the hearse, and stand by the coffin till it was shut into the vault, with loaded pistols in his coatpockets, and would make food for worms so sure as they villains dar’d to interrupt the funeral.”
Whereupon Richard saw Crozier, took the pistols from him, shook him very hard by the hand, for he liked him all the more, and told him that he would desire nothing better than their attempting to accomplish their threats, as he was well advised the law would make examples of them. Then he went upstairs, and saw Alice, and he could not help thinking how her black crapes became her. He kissed her, and, sitting down beside her, said, —
“Martha Tansey says, darling, that you are unhappy about something she has been telling you concerning this miserable funeral. She ought not to have alarmed you about it. If I had known that you were frightened, or, in fact, knew anything about it, I should have made a point of coming out here yesterday, although I had fifty things to do.”
“I had a very goodnatured note to-day, Dick, from Lady May,” she said— “only a word, but very kindly intended.” And she placed the open note in his fingers. When he had read it, Richard dropped the note on the table with a sneer.
“That man, I suspect, is himself the secret promoter of this outrage — a very inexpensive way, this, of making character with Lady May, and placing you under an obligation — the scoundrel!”
Looks and language of hatred are not very pretty at any time, but in the atmosphere of death they acquire a character of horror. Some momentary disturbance of this kind Richard may have seen in his sister’s pale face, for he said, —
“Don’t mind what I say about that fellow, for I have no patience with myself for having ever known him.”
“I am so glad, Dick, you have dropped that acquaintance!” said the young lady.
“You have come at last to think as I do,” said Richard.
“It is not so much thinking as something different; the uncertainty about him — the appalling stories you have heard — and, oh! Richard, I had such a dream last night! I dreamt that Mr. Longcluse murdered you. You smile, but I could not have imagined anything that was not real, so vivid, and it was in this room, and — I don’t know how, for I forget the beginning of it — the candles went out, and you were standing near the door talking to me, and bright moonlight was at the window, and showed you quite distinctly, and the open door; and Mr. Longcluse came from behind it with a pistol, and I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. But you turned about and stabbed at him with a knife or something; it shone in the moonlight, and instantly there was a line of blood across his face; he fired, and I saw you fall back on the floor; I knew you were dead, and I awoke in terror. I thought I still saw his wicked face in the dark, quite white as it was in my dream. I screamed, and thought I was going mad.”
“It is only, darling, that all that has happened has made you nervous, and no wonder. Don’t mind your dreams. Longcluse and I will never exchange a word more. We have turned our backs on one another, and our paths lie in very different directions.”
This was a melancholy and grizzly evening at Mortlake Hall. The undertakers were making some final and mysterious arrangements about the coffin, and stole in and out of the dead baronet’s room, of which they had taken possession.
Martha Tansey was alone in her room. It was a lurid sunset. Immense masses of black cloud were piled in the west, and from a long opening in that sombre screen, near the horizon, the expiring light glared like the red fire at night, through the clink of a smithy. Mrs. Tansey, dressed in deepest mourning, awaited the hour when she was to accompany the funeral of her old master.
Without succumbing to the threat of Messrs. Childers and Ballard, David Arden and his nephew would have been glad to evade the risk of the fracas, which would no doubt have been a dismal scandal. Martha Tansey herself was not quite sure at what hour the funeral was to leave Mortlake. Opposite the window from which she looked, stand groups of gigantic elms that darken that side of the house, and underwood forms a thick screen among their trunks. Upon the edges of this foliage glinted that fierce farewell gleam, and among the glimmering leaves behind she thought she saw the sinister face of Mr. Longcluse looking toward her. Her fear and horror of Longcluse had increased, and if the very remembrance of him visited her with a sudden qualm, you may be sure that the sight of him, on this melancholy evening, was a shock. Alice’s wild dream, which she had recounted to her, did not serve to dissociate him from the vague misgivings that his image called up. She stared aghast at the apparition — itself uncertain — while in the deep shadow, with a foreground of fiercely flashing leaves, had on a sudden looked at her, and before she could utter an exclamation it was gone.
“I think it is my old eyes that plays me tricks, and my weary head that’s ‘wildered wi’ all this dowly jummlement! What sud bring him there? It was never him I sid, only a fancy, and it’s past and gone; and so, in the name of God, be it now, and ever, amen! For an evil sight it is, and bodes us no good. Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Mrs. Tansey,” said Crozier, who had just come in. “Master Richard desired me to tell you it is to be at ten o’clock tonight. He and Mr. David thinks that best, and you’re to please not to mention it to no one.”
“Ten o’clock! That’s very late, ain’t it? No, surely, I’ll not blab to no one; let him tell them when he sees fit. Martha Tansey’s na that sort; she has had mony a secret to keep, and always the confidence o’ the family, and ‘twould be queer if she did not know to ho’d her tongue by this time. Sit ye down, Mr. Crozier — ye’re wore off yer feet, man, like myself, ever since this happened — and rest a bit; the kettle’s boilin’, and ye’ll tak’ a cup o’ tea. It’s hours yet to ten o’clock.”
So Mr. Crozier, who was in truth a tired man, complied, and took his seat by the fire, and talked over Sir Reginald’s money matters, his fits, and his death; and, finally, he fell asleep in his chair, having taken three cups of tea.
The twilight had melted into darkness by this time, and the clear, cold moonlight was frosting all the landscape, and falling white and bright on the carriageway outside, and casting on the floor the sharp shadows of the window-sashes, and giving the brilliant representations of the windows and the very veining of the panes of glass upon the white boards
.
As Martha sat by the table, with her eyes fixed, in a reverie, on one of these reflections upon the floor, the shadow of a man was suddenly presented upon it, and raising her eyes she saw a figure, black against the moonlight, beckoning gently to her to approach.
Martha Tansey was an old lass of the Northumbrian counties, and had in her veins the fiery blood of the Border. The man wore a greatcoat, and she could not discern his features; but he was tall and slight, and she was sure he was Mr. Longcluse. But “what dar’ Longcluse say or do that she need fear?” And was not Crozier dozing there in the chair, “ready at call?”
Up she got, and stalked boldly to the window, and, drawing near, she plainly saw, as the stranger drew himself up from the window-pane through which he had been looking, and the moonlight glanced on his features, that the face was indeed that of Mr. Longcluse. He looked very pale, and was smiling. He nodded to her in a friendly way once or twice as she approached. She stood stock-still about two yards away, and though she knew him well, she deigned no sign of recognition, for she had learned vaguely something of the feud that had sprung up between him and the young head of the family, and no daughter of the marches was ever a fiercer partisan than lean old Martha. He tapped at the window, still smiling, and beckoned her nearer. She did come a step nearer, and asked sternly —
“What’s your will wi’ me?”
“I’m Mr. Longcluse,” he said, in a low tone, but with sharp and measured articulation. “I have something important to say. Open the window a little; I must not raise my voice, and I have this to give you.” He held a note by the corner, and tapped it on the glass.
Martha Tansey thought for a moment. It could not be a law-writ he had to serve; a rich man like him would never do that. Why should she not take his note, and hear what he had to say? She removed the bolt from the sash, and raised the window. There was not a breath stirring.
CHAPTER LIV.
AMONG THE TREES.
When the old woman had raised the window, “Thanks,” said Mr. Longcluse, almost in a whisper. “There are people, Lady May Penrose told me this morning, threatening to interrupt the funeral tonight. Of course you know — you must know.”
“I have heard o’ some such matter, but ’tis nout to no one here. We don’t care a snap for them, and if they try any sich lids, by my sang, we’ll fit them. And I think, Sir, if ye’ve any thing o’ consequence to tell to the family, ye’ll not mind my saying ‘twould be better ye sud go, like ither folk, to the hall-door, and leave your message there.”
“Your reproof would be better deserved, Mrs. Tansey,” he answers goodhumouredly, “if there had not been a difficulty. Mr. Richard Arden is not on pleasant terms with me, and my business will not afford to wait. I understand that Miss Arden has suffered much anxiety. It is entirely on her account that I have interested myself so much in it; and I don’t see, Mrs. Tansey, why you and I should not be better friends,” he adds, extending his long slender hand gently towards her.
She does not take it, but makes a stiff little curtsey instead, and draws back about six inches.
Perhaps Mr. Longcluse had meditated making her a present, but her severe looks daunted him, and he thought that he might as well be a little better acquainted before he made that venture. He went on —
“You have spoken very wisely, Mrs. Tansey; I am sure if these people do as they threaten, it will be contrary to law, and so, as you say, you may snap your fingers at them at last. But in the meantime they may enter the house and seize the coffin, or possibly cause some disgraceful interruption on the way. Lady May tells me that Miss Alice has suffered a great deal in consequence. Will you tell her to set her mind at ease? Pray assure her that I have seen the people, that I have threatened them into submission, that I am confident no such attempt will be made, and that should the slightest annoyance be attempted, Crozier has only to present the notice enclosed in this to the person offering it, and it will instantly be discontinued. I have done all this entirely on her account, and pray lose no time in quieting her alarms. I am sure, Mrs. Tansey, you and I shall be better friends some day.”
Mrs. Tansey curtseyed again.
“Pray take this note.”
She took it.
“Give it to Crozier; and pray tell Miss Alice Arden, immediately, that she need have no fears. Goodnight.”
And pale Mr. Longcluse, with his smile and his dismally dark gaze, and the strange suggestion of something undefined in look or tone, or air, that gradually overcame her more and more till she almost felt faint, as he smiled and murmured at the open window, in the moonlight, was gone. Then she stood with the note in her thin fingers, without moving, and called to Crozier with a shrill and earnest summons as one who has just had a frightful dream will call up a sleeper in the same room.
Mr. Longcluse walks boldly and listlessly through this forbidden ground. He does not care who may meet him. Near the house, indeed, he would not like an encounter with Sir Richard Arden, because he knows that his being involved in a quarrel at such a moment, so near, especially with her brother, would not subserve his interests with Alice Arden.
For hours he strode or loitered alone through the solitary woodlands. The moonlight was beautiful; the old trees stand mournful and black against the luminous sky; there is for him a fascination in the solitude, as his noiseless steps lead him alternately into the black shadow cast on the sward by the towering foliage, and into the clear moonlight, on dewy grass that shows grey in that cold brightness. He was in the excitement of hope and suspense. Things had looked very black, but a door had opened and light came out. Was it a dream?
He leans with folded arms against the trunk of one of the trees that stand there, and from the slight elevation of the ground he can see the avenue under the boughs of the trees that flank it, and the chimneys of Mortlake Hall through the summits of the opening clumps. How melancholy and still the whole scene looks under that light!
“When I succeed to all this, who will be mistress of it?” he says, with his strange smile, looking toward the summits of the chimneys, that indicate the site of the Hall. “No one knows who I am; who can tell my history? What about that opera-girl? What about my money? — money is alway exaggerated. How many humbugs! how many collapses! stealing into society by evasions, on false pretences, in disguise! The man in the mask, ha! ha! Really perhaps two masks; not a bad fluke, that. The villain! You would not take a thousand pounds and know me — that is speaking boldly. A thousand pounds is still something in your book. You would not take it. The time will come, perhaps, when you’d give a thousand — ten thousand, if you had them — that I were your friend. Slanderous villain! To think of his talking so of me! The man in the mask trying to excite suspicion. My two masks are broken, and I all the better. By — ! you shall meet me yet without a mask. Alice! will you be my idol? There is no neutrality with one like me in such a case. If I don’t worship, I must break the image. What a speck we stand on between the illimitable — the eternal past and the eternal future — always looking for a present that shall be something tangible; always finding it a mathematical point, cujus nulla est pars — the mere stand-point of a retrospect and a conjecture. Ha! There are the wheels: there goes the funeral!”
He holds his breath, and watches. How interesting is everything connected with Alice! Slowly it passes along. Through one opening made by the havoc of a storm in the line of trees that form the avenue, he sees it plainly enough. A very scanty procession — the plumed hearse and three carriages, and a few persons walking beside. It passes. The great iron gate shrieks its long and dolorous note as it opened, and Longcluse heard it clang after the last carriage had passed, and with this farewell the old gate sent forth the dead master of Mortlake.
“Farewell to Mortlake,” murmured Longcluse, as he heard these sounds, with a shrug and his peculiar smile; “farewell, the lights, the claret-jug, the whist, and all the rest. You ‘fear neither justices nor bailiffs,’ as the song says, any longer. Very easy about your interest a
nd your premiums; very careless who arrests you in your leaden vesture; and having paid, if nothing else, at least your beloved son’s post obit. Courage, Sir Reginald! your earthly troubles are over. Here am I, erect as this tree, and as like to live my term out, with all that money, and no will made, and yet as tired as ever you were, and very willing, if the transaction were feasible, to die, and be bothered no more, instead of you.”
He sighs, and looks toward the house, and sighs again.
“Does she relent? Was it not she who told Lady May to ask this service of me? If I could only be sure of that, I should stand here, this moment, the proudest man in England. I think I know myself — a very simple character; just two principles — love and malice; for the rest, unscrupulous. Mere cruelty gives me no pleasure: well for some people it don’t. Revenge does make me happy: well for some people if it didn’t. Except for those I love or those I hate, I live for none. The rest live for me. I owe them no more than I do this rotten stick. Let them rot and fatten my land; let them burn and bake my bread.”
With these words he kicked the fragments of a decayed branch that lay at his foot, and glided over the short grass, like a ghost, toward the gate.
CHAPTER LV.
MR. LONGCLUSE SEES A FRIEND.
Sir Reginald Arden, then, is actually dead and buried, and is quite done with the pomps and vanities, the business and the miseries of life — dead as King Duncan, and cannot come out of his grave to trouble any one with protest or interference; and his son, Sir Richard, is in possession of the title, and seized of the acres, and uses them, without caring to trouble himself with conjectures as to what his father would have liked or abhorred.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 548
