I got Prichard to send his son, without a moment’s delay, to Cardyllion, to bring Dr. Mervyn, and as they got the bleeding man on towards Plas Ylwd, I, in a state of high excitement, walked swiftly homeward, hoping to reach Malory before the declining light failed altogether.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE PATIENT AT PLAS YLWD.
I got home just as the last broad beam of the setting sun was spent, and twilight overspread churchyard and manorhouse, sea and land, with its grey mantle. Lights were gleaming from the drawingroom window as I approached; a very welcome light to me, for it told me that Laura Grey had come down, and I was longing to tell her my story. I found her, as I expected, seated quietly at our tea-table, and saw, in her surprised and eager looks, how much she was struck by the excitement which mine exhibited, as, without waiting to take off my hat or coat, I called on her to listen, and stumbled and hurried through the opening of my strange story.
I had hardly mentioned the sudden appearance of Mr. Marston, when Laura Grey rose with her hands clasped:
“Was any one shot? For God’s sake, tell me quickly!”
I described all I had seen. She pressed her hand hard to her heart.
“Oh! he has killed him — the villain! His threats are always true — his promises never. Oh! Ethel, darling, he has been so near me, and I never dreamed it.”
“Who? What is it, Laura? Don’t, darling, be so frightened; he’s not killed — nobody’s killed. I daresay it is very trifling, and Doctor Mervyn is with him by this time.”
“I am sure he’s badly wounded; he has killed him. He has hated him so long, he would never have left him till he had killed him.”
She was growing quite distracted; I, all the time, doing my utmost to reassure her.
“What is his name?” at length I asked.
The question seemed to quiet her. She looked at me, and then down; and then again at me.
Once or twice she had mentioned a brother whom she loved very much, and who was one of her great anxieties. Was this wounded man he? If not, was he a lover? This latter could hardly be; for she had once, after a long, laughing fencing with my close questions, told me suddenly, quite gravely, “I have no lover, and no admirer, except one whom I despise and dislike as much as I can any one on earth.” It was very possible that her brother was in debt, or in some other trouble that made her, for the present, object to disclose anything about him. I thought she was going to tell me a great deal now — but I was disappointed. I was again put off; but I knew she spoke truth, for she was the truest person I ever met, when she said that she longed to tell me all her story, and that the time would soon come when she could. But now, poor thing! she was, in spite of all I could say, in a state, very nearly, of distraction. She never was coherent, except when, in answer to her constantly repeated questioning, I again and again described the appearance of the wounded man, which each time seemed to satisfy her on the point of identity, but without preventing her from renewing her inquiries with increasing detail.
That evening passed miserably enough for us both. Doctor Mervyn, on his way to his patient, looked in upon us early next morning, intent on learning all he could from me about the circumstances of the discovery of his patient. I had been too well drilled by prudent Rebecca Torkill, to volunteer any information respecting the unexpected appearance of Mr. Marston so suspiciously near the scene of the occurrence. I described, therefore, simply the spectacle presented by the wounded man, on my lighting upon him in the wood, and his removal to the farmhouse of Plas Ylwd.
“It’s all very fine, saying it was a accident,” said the doctor, with a knowing nod and a smile. “Accident, indeed! If it was, why should he refuse to say who had a hand in the accident, besides himself? But there’s no need to make a secret of the matter, for unless something unexpected should occur, he must, in the ordinary course of things, be well in little more than a week. It’s an odd wound. The ball struck the collar bone and broke it, glancing upward. If it had penetrated obliquely downward instead, it might have killed him on the spot.”
“Do you know his name?” I inquired.
“No; he’s very reserved; fellows in his situation often are; they don’t like figuring in the papers, you understand; or being bound over to be of good behaviour; or, possibly, prosecuted. But no trouble will come of this; and he’ll be on his legs again in a very few days.”
With this reassuring news the doctor left us. Miss Grey was relieved. One thing seemed pretty certain; and that was that the guilty and victorious duellist would not venture to appear in our part of the world for some time to come.
“Will you come with me to-day, to ask how he gets on?” I said to Laura as soon as the doctor was gone.
“No, I can’t do that; but it would be very kind of you: that is, if you have no objection.”
“None in the world; we must get Rebecca to make broth, or whatever else the doctor may order, and shall I mention your name to Mrs. Prichard? I mean, do you wish the patient — shall we call him — to know that you are here?”
“Oh! no, pray. He is the last person on earth — — “
“You are sure?”
“Perfectly. I entreat, dear Ethel, that you run no risk of my name being mentioned.”
“Why, Mr. Marston knows that you are here,” I said persistently.
“Bad as that was, this would be intolerable. I know, Ethel, I may rely on you.”
“Well, I won’t say a word — I won’t mention your name, since you so ordain it.”
Two or three days passed. As I had been the good Samaritan, in female garb, who aided the wounded man in his distress, I was now the visiting Sister of Mercy, the ministering angel — whatever you are good enough to call me — who every day saw after his wants, and sent, sometimes soup, and sometimes jelly, to favour the recovery of which the doctor spoke so sanguinely.
I did not feel the romantic interest I ought perhaps to have felt in the object of my benevolence. I had no wish to see his face again. I was haunted by a recollection of him that was ghastly. I am not wanting in courage, physical or moral. But I should have made a bad nurse, and a worse soldier; at the sight of blood I immediately grow faint, and a sense of indescribable disgust remains.
I sometimes think we women are perverse creatures. For there is an occult interest about the guilty and audacious, if it be elevated by masculine courage and beauty, and surrounded by ever so little of mystery and romance. Shall I confess it? The image of that wicked Mr. Marston, notwithstanding all Laura’s hard epithets, and the startling situation in which I had seen him last, haunted me often, and with something more of fascination than I liked to confess. Let there be energy, cleverness, beauty, and I believe a reckless sort of wickedness will not stand the least in the way of a foolish romance. I think I had energy; I know I was impetuous. Insipid or timid virtue would have had no chance with me.
I was going to the farmhouse one day, I forget how long after the occurrence which had established my interesting relations with Plas Ylwd. My mother had a large cheval-glass; it had not often reflected her pretty image; it was the only one in the house, the furniture of which was very much out of date. It had been removed to my room, and before it I now stood, in my hat and jacket, to make a last inspection before I started. What did I see before me? I have courage to speak my real impressions, for there is no one near to laugh at me. A girl of eighteen, above the middle height, slender, with large, dark, grey eyes and long lashes, not much colour, not pink and white, by any means, but a very clear-tinted and marble-smooth skin; lips of carmine-scarlet, and teeth very white; thick, dark brown hair; and a tendency, when talking or smiling, to dimple in cheek and chin. There was something, too, spirited and energetic in the face that I contemplated with so much satisfaction.
I remained this day a little longer before my glass than usual. Half an hour later, I stood at the heavy stone doorway of Plas Ylwd. It is one of the prettiest farmhouses in the world. Round the farmyard stand very old hawthorn and lime trees,
and the farmhouse is a composite building in which a wing of the old Tudor manorhouse of Plas Ylwd is incorporated, under a common thatch, which has grown brown and discoloured, and sunk and risen into hillocks and hollows by time. The door is protected by a thatched porch, with worn stone pillars; and here I stood, and learned that “the gentleman upstairs” was very well that afternoon, and sitting up; the doctor thought he would be out for a walk in two or three days. Having learned this, and all the rest that it concerned Rebecca Torkill to hear, I took my leave of good Mrs. Prichard, and crossing the stile from the farmyard, I entered the picturesque old wood in which the inmate of Plas Ylwd had received his wound. Through this sylvan solitude I intended returning to Malory.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE OUTLAW.
As I followed my path over the unequal flooring of the forest, among the crowded trunks of the trees and the thickets of brambles, I saw, on a sudden, Mr. Marston almost beside me. I was a good deal startled, and stood still. There was something in his air and looks, as he stood with his hat raised, so unspeakably deprecatory, that I felt at once reassured. Without my permission it was plain he would not dream of accompanying me, or even of talking to me. All Laura’s warnings and entreaties sounded at that moment in my ears like a far-off and unmeaning tinkle. He had no apologies to make; and yet he looked like a penitent. I was embarrassed, but without the slightest fear of him. I spoke; but I don’t recollect what I said.
“I have come here, Miss Ware, as I believe, at some risk; I should have done the same thing had the danger been a hundred times greater. I tried to persuade myself that I came for no other purpose than to learn how that foolish fellow, who would force a quarrel on me, is getting on. But I came, in truth, on no such errand; I came here on the almost desperate chance of meeting you, and in the hope, if I were so fortunate, that you would permit me to say a word in my defence. I am unfortunate in having two or three implacable enemies, and fate has perversely collected them here. Miss Grey stands in very confidential relations with you, Miss Ethel; her prejudices against me are cruel, violent, and in every way monstrous.”
He was walking beside me as he said this.
“Mr. Marston,” I interposed, “I can’t hear you say a word against Miss Grey. I have the highest opinion of her; she is my very dearest friend — she is truth itself.”
“One word you say I don’t dispute, Miss Ware. She means all she says for truth; but she is cruelly prejudiced, and, without suspecting it, does me the most merciless injustice. Whenever she is at liberty to state her whole case against me — at present I haven’t so much as heard it — I undertake to satisfy you of its unfairness. There is no human being to whom I would say all this, or before whom I would stoop to defend myself and sue for an acquittal, where I am blameless, but you, Miss Ware.”
I felt myself blushing. I think that sign of emotion fired him.
“I could not tell,” he said, extending his hand towards Plas Ylwd, “whether that foolish man was dead or living; and this was the last place on earth I should have come to, in common prudence, while that was in doubt; but I was willing to brave that danger for a chance of seeing you once more — I could not live without seeing you.”
He was gazing at me, with eyes glowing with admiration. I thought he looked wonderfully handsome. There was dash and recklessness, I thought, enough for an old-world outlaw, in his talk and looks, and, for all I knew, in his reckless doings; and the scene, the shadow, this solemn decaying forest, accorded well, in my romantic fancy, with the wild character I assigned him. There was something flattering in the devotion of this prompt and passionate man.
“Make me no answer,” he continued— “no answer, I entreat. It would be mere madness to ask it now; you know nothing of me but, perhaps, the wildest slanders that prejudice ever believed, or hatred forged. From the moment I saw you, in the old garden at Malory, I loved you! Love at first sight! It was no such infatuation. It was the recalling of some happy dream. I had forgotten it in my waking hours; but I recognised, with a pang and rapture, in you, the spirit that had enthralled me. I loved you long before I knew it. I can’t escape, Ethel, I adore you!”
I don’t know how I felt. I was pretty sure that I ought to have been very angry. And I was half angry with myself for not being angry. I was, however — which answered just as well, a little alarmed; I felt as a child does when about to enter a dark room, and I drew back at the threshold.
“Pray, Mr. Marston, don’t speak so to me any longer. It is quite true, I do not know you; you have no right to talk to me in my walks — pray leave me now.”
“I shall obey you, Miss Ware; whatever you command, I shall do. My last entreaty is that you will not condemn me unheard; and pray do not mention to my enemies the infatuation that has led me here, with the courage of despair — no, not quite despair, I won’t say that. I shall never forget you. Would to Heaven I could! I shall never forget or escape you; who can disenchant me? I shall never forget, or cease to pursue you, Ethel, I swear by Heaven!”
He looked in my face for a moment, raised my hand gently, but quickly, and pressed it to his lips, before I had recovered from my momentary tumult. I did not turn to look after him. I instinctively avoided that, but I heard his footsteps, in rapid retreat, in the direction of the farmhouse which I had just left.
It was not until I had got more than halfway on my return to Malory that I began to think clearly on what had just occurred. What had I been dreaming of? I was shocked to think of it. Here was a total stranger admitted to something like the footing of a declared lover! What was I to do? What would papa or mamma say if my folly were to come to their ears? I did not even know where Mr. Marston was to be found. Some one has compared the Iliad to a frieze, which ceases, but does not end; and precisely of the same kind was this awkward epic of the wood of Plas Ylwd. Who could say when the poet might please to continue his work? Who could say how I could now bring the epic to a peremptory termination?
I must confess, however, although I felt the embarrassment of the situation, this lawless man interested me. Like many whimsical young ladies, I did not quite know my own mind.
On the step of the stile that crosses the churchyard wall, near Malory, I sat down, in rather uncomfortable rumination. I was interrupted by the sound of a step upon the road, approaching from the direction of Malory. I looked up, and, greatly to my surprise, saw Mr. Carmel, quite close to me. I stood up, and walked a few steps to meet him; we shook hands, he smiling, very glad, I knew, to meet me.
“You did not expect to see me so soon again, Miss Ware? And I have ever so much to tell you. I can’t say whether it will please or vex you; but if you and Miss Grey will give me my old chair at your tea-table, I will look in for half an hour this evening. I have first to call at old Parry’s, and give him a message that reached me from your mamma yesterday.”
He smiled again, as he continued his walk, leaving me full of curiosity as to the purport of his news.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A JOURNEY.
Behold us now, about an hour later, at our tea-table. Mr. Carmel, as he had promised, came in and talked, as usual, agreeably; but, if he had any particular news to tell us, he had not yet begun to communicate it.
“You found your old quarters awaiting your return. We have lost our interesting stranger,” I said; “I wish you would tell us all you know about him.”
Mr. Carmel’s head sank; his eyes were fixed, in painful thought, upon the table. “No,” he said, looking up sharply, “God knows all, and that’s enough. The story could edify no one.”
He looked so pained, and even agitated, that I could not think of troubling him more.
“I had grown so attached to this place,” said Mr. Carmel, rising and looking from the window, “that I can scarcely make up my mind to say goodbye, and turn my back on it for ever; yet I believe I must in a few days. I don’t know. We soldiers, ecclesiastics, I mean, must obey orders, and I scarcely hope that mine will ever call me here again. I have news
for you, also, Miss Ethel; I had a letter from your mamma, and a note from Mr. Ware, last night, and there is to be a break-up here, and a movement townward; you are to come out next season, Miss Ethel; your mamma and papa will be in town, for a week or so, in a few days; and, Miss Grey, she hopes you will not leave her on account of the change.”
He paused; but she made no answer.
“Oh! darling Laura, you won’t leave me?” I exclaimed.
“Certainly not, dear Ethel; and whenever the time for parting comes,” she said very kindly, “it will cost me a greater pang than perhaps it will cost you. But though I am neither a soldier nor an ecclesiastic, my movements do not always depend upon myself.”
Unrestrained by Mr. Carmel’s presence, we kissed each other heartily.
“Here is a note, Miss Grey, enclosed for you,” he murmured, and handed it to Laura.
In our eagerness we had got up and stood with Mr. Carmel in the recess of the window. It was twilight, and the table on which the candles burned stood at a considerable distance. To the light Laura Grey took her letter, and as she read it, quite absorbed, Mr. Carmel talked to me in low tones.
As he stood in the dim recess of the window, with trains of withered leaves rustling outside, and the shadow of the sear and half-stript elms upon the court and window, he said, kindly and gently:
“And now, at last, Miss Ethel forsakes her old home, and takes leave of her humble friends, to go into the great world. I don’t think she will forget them, and I am sure they won’t forget her. We have had a great many pleasant evenings here, and in our conversations in these happy solitudes, the terrors and glories of eternal truth have broken slowly upon your eyes. Beware! If you trifle with Heaven’s mercy, the world, or hell, or heaven itself, has no narcotic for the horrors of conscience. In the midst of pleasure and splendour, and the tawdry triumphs of vanity, the words of Saint Paul will startle your ears like thunder. It is impossible for those who were once enlightened, and have tasted of the heavenly gift, and the good word of God, and the powers of the world to come, if they shall fall away, to renew them again unto repentance. The greater the privilege, the greater the liability. The higher the knowledge, the profounder the danger. You have seen the truth afar off; rejoice, therefore, and tremble.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 628
