“Who is it?” inquired Maud, misled by her grave simplicity.
“Charles Marston, my dear,” she said, lighting up with a smile. “Of course you don’t care, but I do.”
“I don’t think that very likely. I should not wonder if I were never to see him again,” said the young lady.
“I should very much,” laughed Miss Max.
“I mean he was so vexed at that odious Wymering ball.”
“No wonder. But he has had time to cool since then, in one sense only. He will be there, as sure as I am here. You’ll see. Put on your things, and come out, and we’ll have a comfortable talk, quite to ourselves.”
So these two cronies went out together, busy with the future, and already, in imagination, at Carsbrook.
“It is a huge house,” said Miss Max. “One of those great black and white houses, with really an infinitude of bedrooms. When I was there last, we mustered sixty people every day to dinner — a noisier place, you see, than Roydon, and yet, I assure you, there were whole galleries perfectly deserted. She told me it would be much more crowded this year. I think, between ourselves, she takes a pride in collecting celebrities. It is her vanity, and certainly it is one of the very most amusing houses I ever was in. Of course one would grow tired of it after a time; at least, an old girl like me would. But for a little time it is quite delightful. She is very rich, you know.”
“Indeed!”
“I don’t say rich compared with you Roydon people, but she is what seems very rich to me; that is, her jointure is five thousand a year, and she has more than fifteen thousand a year that belonged to her mother, the first Lady Warhampton; so she has more than twenty thousand a year.”
“Well, tell me more about Carsbrook,” said Maud.
“We used to pass our time so agreeably, when we were not going out driving, or picnicking, or sight-seeing. There is a great, square flower-garden, with oldfashioned, trim hedges all round, and such quantities of pretty flowers, in the old Dutch style. As you look down on them from the terrace they seem like the pattern of a thick piled carpet. This is like a border all round, for the centre is kept in grass as smooth as velvet. And there is a very old mulberry-tree, with so many curious stories about it, in the centre. And ever so many parties used to play croquet or lawn billiards. It was such fun. And there were so many amusing affairs of the heart to interest old people like me. Such a comedy perpetually going on. You can’t think what a charming house it is to stay at.”
“I’m very glad we are going,” said Maud.
“But you don’t look very glad, my dear.”
“Well, I suppose I am discontented a little. I was just thinking what a pity it is mamma keeps such a dull house here.”
“So it is. I have often told her so,” said Miss Max. “She could do, you know, whatever she liked. I don’t think, indeed, she could get together so many remarkable people, but that kind of thing may be a little overdone, and, certainly, once or twice when I was there, there were some very absurd people at Carsbrook; but, taken for all in all, it is one of the most delightful houses in the world.”
Full of these pleasant anticipations, which, to a girl who had never seen a London season, had something even exciting in them, and in the certainty of a very early meeting with Maximilla Medwyn, Maud bore the hour of separation much more cheerfully than she otherwise would.
That hour had now arrived, and Miss Max, having bid Lady Vernon goodbye, and taken many leaves of Maud, drove away at last, with maid and boxes, down the old avenue of Roydon.
It was three o’clock when she set out, having a ten miles’ drive before reaching the train she was to catch.
It was about six o’clock, when the train in which she was now gliding toward her destination, stopped at the Drongwell station.
Here some of her fellow-passengers got out, and a gentleman with a small leather bag, a slender silk umbrella, and a rug, stepped nearly in, but arrested his foot at the door and would probably have receded had it not been that he was followed a little too closely by another person, who, with a despatch-box in his hand, had scaled the steps.
Miss Max saw his momentary hesitation, and a little maliciously said:
“How d’ye do?” with a nod and smile of recognition.
Doctor Malkin, for he it was, smiling his best, and squinting viciously with a surprised and glad recognition, returned her salutation, and took his place beside her. His companion took his seat at the opposite side, in the corner next the window, placed his despatch-box on the seat beside him, and unlocked it.
There was no mistaking the marble features, strange eyes, and coal-black square beard. The gentleman with the despatch-box, who now leaned across, and murmured low a word or two in Doctor Malkin’s ear, was that Antomarchi, whose appearance had so strongly excited Miss Maximilla Medwyn’s curiosity at the Wymering ball.
The clapping of the doors was over now, the whistle skirled its horrid blast, the engine communicated its first jerk through all the articulations of the snakelike train, and the carriages were again gliding forward.
Doctor Malkin for a few minutes was busy stowing away his bag and umbrella, and having rid his mind of these cares, he smiled again, turning to Miss Max, and observed on the beauty of the weather and scenery.
“How soon we glide from summer into autumn,” he observed. “The change of the leaf does not remind us so powerfully of our approach to winter, as the perceptible shortening of the days.”
“It is so long since I glided into autumn myself, that these changes in nature don’t trouble me much,” answered Miss Max, gaily. “Certainly, the days are shortening, and so are mine, but that does not vex me either. There are younger people — for instance, Lady Vernon, I think her looking by no means well. I can’t define what it is; she looks hectic, and odd, as if there were something decidedly wrong. She told me one day, when I remarked that she was not looking well, that she had a little palpitation, and she seemed almost vexed that she had mentioned it.”
“Yes, there is a little; the action of the heart is a little eccentric,” said Doctor Malkin. “Of course we must not mention it; people are so stupid, it would be sure to come back to her, and the fact of its being talked of would only make her worse.”
“You know I’m a homœopathist, but that’s of no importance. What I want to know is, does she suffer under any actual disease of the heart?”
“Why, as to the heart, it is very hard to say,” observed the doctor a little evasively; “because a man might pass the severest examination of the ablest physicians in England, and having been pronounced perfectly sound, might drop down dead as he quitted the room where the consultation was held. But there is no evidence of organic complaint in Lady Vernon’s case, and I’ll tell you frankly, if there were, I should not admit it; I am a great stickler for keeping faith with a patient. No one likes their ailments or infirmities to be disclosed: but of course,” he added, thinking he had been a little brusque, “to so very near a friend and relation as you, Miss Medwyn, it would be different. The truth is, however, just as I have told you.”
Miss Max sat quite far enough away to mention Doctor Antomarchi, the noise of the train allowed for, without danger of his overhearing what she said.
“I was going to say, I think Doctor Antomarchi a rather interesting man, and I should, I think, like to make his acquaintance.”
“Well, I don’t know that you would like him. He thinks of nothing but his science, his art; and to a listener not éclairée, I fear it must be more dull than entertaining.”
“He seemed to have a great deal to say for himself at Wymering, to Lady Mardykes, the other evening,” said Miss Max.
“I did not remark. But the truth is, I have scarcely made his acquaintance myself,” observed Doctor Malkin, smiling. “I found him on the platform, and he followed me in here.”
“How far does he go?”
“I don’t know. I’ve to get out at Wakesworth.”
“Wakesworth? That is not a great many miles away from L
ady Mardykes’. You know Carsbrook, of course?” says Miss Max. “It is such a broken, roundabout journey by rail, however. From Roydon it is more comfortably reached by the high road. What a huge old house it is,” she continued, breaking again into the description of it she had given to Maud a few days before; “black and white, you know, and the great, old, square flower-garden, with the clipped hedges round it, and the croquet-ground in the centre, and the old mulberry-tree.”
As Miss Max concluded the description she thought she saw a listening smile of secret intelligence on the still face of Antomarchi, who was busy noting the papers he took from his box, and did not raise his eyes.
Her curiosity was piqued.
Did Doctor Malkin know more about this Antomarchi than he pretended? Were their routes really as disconnected as the Roydon doctor would have her believe? Had their journey anything to do with Lady Mardykes and Carsbrook?
These inquiries must rest unspoken for the present. She leaned back, and was silent for a time, with her eyes all but closed.
“I’m sure it is a fine place,” resumed Doctor Malkin; “but I’ve never seen it, and I don’t know Lady Mardykes. I hear she is perfectly charming.”
“So she is, and extremely clever. Her poor mother was; and her father is. You know Lord Warhampton?”
“Yes, by fame, of course. Very able man. I’ve had to come here all the way about a patient,” he added, as if to quiet further conjectures.
The sun was at the edge of the horizon. It would, after two or three golden glorious minutes, be grey twilight.
Miss Max opened her eyes, and those of Antomarchi met, or rather seemed to hold, hers with a sensation the most unpleasant and overpowering she had ever experienced.
His eyes almost immediately looked another way, and were bent again upon his papers.
Twilight came. He then locked up his despatch-box, and looked out of the window.
“Is not your friend, Mr. Antomarchi, something of a mesmerist?” inquired Miss Max.
“He is; a very potent one; at least, he is so reputed. I have never seen him exercise his faculty,” answered Doctor Malkin.
A few minutes more passed, and the train, with a long whistle, came to a standstill at the platform of Wakesworth station.
Doctor Antomarchi stood up, with his despatch-box in his hand, and signed to the porter to open the door.
Miss Max was glad, somehow, that he was gone, and took leave of Doctor Malkin, who was also going, without much reluctance.
She watched their movements slyly from the window, close to which she had moved. But there was to-ing and fro-ing on the platform, and the steam from the engine had eddied in, and was confusing objects, and it was already nearly dark. She thought, however, that the two gentlemen went up the steep road from the station, side by side.
In another minute the train was moving away, and she had left Wakesworth and the two doctors far behind.
Those two doctors did walk up, side by side, into the little town, and entered the White Lion, and, while they were eating a hasty cold dinner, horses were put to a carriage, which stood ready at the door so soon as the gentlemen emerged.
Some of the people who were at the door looked darkly at Doctor Malkin, and whispered to one another, as, aided by the lamp over the inn-door, and by the faint silvery beams of the moon, which by this time was showing her light, they saw him get in and take his seat.
The doctors smiled amusedly on each other as the carriage rolled away through the quiet street of Wakesworth, and lighting their cigars, they smoked as they drove up the narrow road, over the hedges of which hung the dewy boughs and fruit of orchards in the moonlight.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE JOURNEY’S END.
For nearly three miles they drove in silence, each too comfortable to disturb the serenity of his ruminations.
There is a soothing influence in the subsidence of colour and the indistinctness of outline that surround one in a drive through a wooded country, when the thin mists arise by moonlight; and this seemed to prevail with the spirit of each gentleman, as he looked listlessly from his window.
Doctor Malkin broke the silence first.
“What asses young fellows are!” he declaimed. “I had an uncle the head of a great legal firm, and two first cousins solicitors, and they, one and all, wished me to go to the bar. I might have been making four thousand a year easily by this time. I might have been on the high road to the bench. Every one said I had a turn for it. But, like a fool, I took a fancy to be a doctor — and even so, I might have stayed in London. If I had — it was on the cards — I might have done some good. I know something about my business, I believe. And much good has it done me! What’s the good of a fellow’s making a slave of himself, if he doesn’t put by something worth while. Better to enjoy what he has.”
“Regretting is the greatest waste of time except wishing,” said Antomarchi, in his cold, resonant bass tones.
“I have not much, very little: but liberty is something,” said Doctor Malkin.
“Life without progress is death,” insisted the same marble oracle, with something of scorn ringing in his deep voice.
“Think what Paris is, or Vienna, and think, then, of being stuck in such a cursed little hole as Roydon,” said Doctor Malkin, with disgust.
“Your liberty and your vices are not resources enough for a life. A man of any mind must have a game of some sort to play at,” observed Antomarchi.
“You may laugh. I don’t say you are not a man of merit; I think you about the ablest man I ever met,” said the Roydon doctor; “but you have found a short cut to fortune.”
“You must count on a good deal of mud before you turn up a nugget,” said the man with the square beard, and yawned. “I was on my way to London this morning,” Doctor Antomarchi suddenly resumed; “I am not the first man who has so changed his purpose. A lady’s billet has brought me back. Try one of these.”
And so saying, he tendered his cigars.
“Thanks. I tell you, at a single jump you have reached a fortune,” said Doctor Malkin. “I wish I could woo the goddess as successfully.”
“Have you never tried the language of the eyes?” said Antomarchi.
“In ten years’ time you’ll be a baronet. You know how to rule men, and before fifteen more are passed you will have got a peerage. Of course, I assume that your energies will be directed to get it.”
“And I will take for my crest, what device?” said Antomarchi. “Let me see. Just that,” he said, nodding his head toward the resplendent moon. “A full moon argent, on a field azure, and three rasors proper.”
They were now approaching a village, with the tower of a country church shining silver white among dark trees and glimmering roofs.
Antomarchi’s resonant voice brought the driver to a halt.
“We get out here,” he cried, sternly. “Drive on to the gatehouse, and give the man these things, and he will pay you.”
“All right, sir,” replied the driver, and the carriage rolled away toward the village.
They were now standing on the white road, dappled by the intense shadow of a motionless tree, under the brilliant moon. Skirting the road at the left hand ran a high park wall, here and there clustered with ivy, and overtopped with high old trees.
A narrow, arched door in this opened to Antomarchi’s latchkey, and he and his companion entered, to find themselves on a narrow park road, from which, however, their path in a very little way diverged.
The grounds were studded with clumps of fine timber. The two doctors walked up a gentle, undulating slope, and when this was surmounted, close before them, on the low ground, stood a huge black and white house, its white showing, in the moonbeams, in dazzling contrast with the oak-beams that crossed it perpendicularly, horizontally, diagonally. They stood just overlooking a great, square, Dutch flower-garden, which interposed between them and the house, surrounded by tall, trim hedges, in the bygone Dutch taste. The flowers made a wide border in fantastic p
atterns all round, the centre was laid out in grass, and in the middle of this wide, green carpet stood a lonely old mulberry-tree.
In a long line of windows on the second story a ruddy light glowed out hospitably, as well as here and there from other windows above, and in the lower story.
They stopped for a minute without premeditation. The scene was so pretty, the contrast between the lights in the house and the cold, silver brightness of the moonbeams so striking, and the character of the whole so festive and hospitable, that each silently enjoyed the picture.
“There is a ball tonight,” said Antomarchi, “but we need not appear at it. Come.”
And he led the way toward the house. They soon reached a path, and under the wide shadow of tall trees, arrived at a door, like that which they had already passed, in the wall that begirt the garden.
The latchkey again opened this, and they entered the silent alleys of lofty clipped hedges, tall and straight as prison walls, making a profound shadow. They passed under the first arch of the many that pierced these thick curtains of foliage, and so found themselves, after passing the broad border of flowerbeds, upon the shorn grass, in the broad light of the moon, among the croquet hoops, that in this cloudless weather make their bivouac all night on the ground they have taken up by day.
It was, as I have said, a great black and white house, and, as they approached, its walls and windows seemed to expand, and the whole building to grow almost gigantic.
The latchkey of the privileged Doctor Antomarchi did here for Doctor Malkin the office which the feather from the cock’s tail did for Micyllus, and all doors opened before it.
Ascending two steps he opened a door in the wall, and led the way into the house.
They were in a long, dimly-lighted passage, that seemed to go right through the house, with doors on each side opening from it. Up this Antomarchi walked quickly, his hat still on, as confidently as if he were master of all about him.
Another passage, longer still, crossed this at right-angles, dimly lighted, like the first. A footman in livery was walking along it quickly. Antomarchi signed to him, and he approached.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 591
