The Greatest Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (65+ Novels & Short Stories in One Edition). Joseph Sheridan Le FanuЧитать онлайн книгу.
I could not make up my mind to reveal it; nor yet to erase the inscription, which was my alternative thought. Indeed I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived, in my ordinary mood. High excitement or passion only can inspire me with decision. Under the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave.
“Some one left here last night, I think, Miss,” said Mary Quince, with a mysterious nod, one morning. “’Twas two o’clock, and I was bad with the toothache, and went down to get a pinch o’ red pepper — leaving the candle a-light here lest you should awake. When I was coming up — as I was crossing the lobby, at the far end of the long gallery — what should I hear, but a horse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet like. So I looks out o’ the window; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay, and a fellah a-pullin’ a box up o’ top; and out comes a walise and a bag; and I think it was old Wyat, please’m, that Miss Milly calls L’Amour, that stood in the doorway a-talking to the driver.”
“And who got into the chaise, Mary?” I asked.
“Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was bad, and made me so awful cold; I gave it up at last, and came back to bed, for I could not say how much longer they might wait. And you’ll find, Miss, ’twill be kep’ a secret, like the shay as you saw’d, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways, and secrets; and old Wyat — she does tell stories, don’t she? — and she as ought to be partickler, seein’ her time be short now, and she so old. It is awful, an old un like that telling such crams as she do.”
Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both agreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whose arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the chaise had drawn up at the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house; and, no doubt, driven away by the back road.
Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was very provoking, however, that Mary Quince had not resolution to wait for the appearance of the traveller. We all agreed, however, that we were to observe a strict silence, and that even to Wyat — L’Amour I had better continue to call her — Mary Quince was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however, that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly adhered to this self-denying resolve.
But cheerful wintry suns and frosty skies, long nights, and brilliant starlight, with good homely fires in our snuggery — gossipings, stories, short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always beautiful scenery of Bartram–Haugh, and, above all, the unbroken tenor of our life, which had fallen into a serene routine, foreign to the idea of danger or misadventure, gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which my interview with Doctor Bryerly had so powerfully resuscitated.
My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to her country-house; and an active diplomacy, through the post-office, was negotiating the re-opening of friendly relations between the courts of Elverston and of Bartram.
At length, one fine day, Cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, with her cloak and bonnet on, and her colour fresh from the shrewd air of the Derbyshire hills, stood suddenly before me in our sitting-room. Our meeting was that of two school-companions long separated. Cousin Monica was always a girl in my eyes.
What a hug it was; what a shower of kisses and ejaculations, enquiries and caresses! At last I pressed her down into a chair, and, laughing, she said —
“You have no idea what self-denial I have exercised to bring this visit about. I, who detest writing, have actually written five letters to Silas; and I don’t think I said a single impertinent thing in one of them! What a wonderful little old thing your butler is! I did not know what to make of him on the steps. Is he a struldbrug, or a fairy, or only a ghost? Where on earth did your uncle pick him up? I’m sure he came in on All Hallows E’en, to answer an incantation — not your future husband, I hope — and he’ll vanish some night into gray smoke, and whisk sadly up the chimney. He’s the most venerable little thing I ever beheld in my life. I leaned back in the carriage and thought I should absolutely die of laughing. He’s gone up to prepare your uncle for my visit; and I really am very glad, for I’m sure I shall look as young as Hebe after him. But who is this? Who are you, my dear?”
This was addressed to poor Milly, who stood at the corner of the chimney-piece, staring with her round eyes and plump cheeks in fear and wonder upon the strange lady.
“How stupid of me,” I exclaimed. “Milly, dear, this is your cousin, Lady Knollys.”
“And so you are Millicent. Well, dear, I am very glad to see you.” And Cousin Monica was on her feet again in an instant, with Milly’s hand very cordially in hers; and she gave her a kiss upon each cheek, and patted her head.
Milly, I must mention, was a much more presentable figure than when I first encountered her. Her dresses were at least a quarter of a yard longer. Though very rustic, therefore, she was not so barbarously grotesque, by any means.
Chapter 39.
Cousin Monica and Uncle Silas Meet
COUSIN MONICA, with her hands upon Milly’s shoulders, looked amusedly and kindly in her face. “And,” said she, “we must be very good friends — you funny creature, you and I. I’m allowed to be the most saucy old woman in Derbyshire — quite incorrigibly privileged; and nobody is ever affronted with me, so I say the most shocking things constantly.”
“I’m a bit that way, myself; and I think,” said poor Milly, making an effort, and growing very red; she quite lost her head at that point, and was incompetent to finish the sentiment she had prefaced.
“You think? Now, take my advice, and never wait to think my dear; talk first, and think afterwards, that is my way; though, indeed, I can’t say I ever think at all. It is a very cowardly habit. Our cold-blooded cousin Maud, there, thinks sometimes; but it is always such a failure that I forgive her. I wonder when your little pre-Adamite butler will return. He speaks the language of the Picts and Ancient Britons, I dare say, and your father requires a little time to translate him. And, Milly dear, I am very hungry, so I won’t wait for your butler, who would give me, I suppose, one of the cakes baked by King Alfred, and some Danish beer in a skull; but I’ll ask you for a little of that nice bread and butter.”
With which accordingly Lady Knollys was quickly supplied; but it did not at all impede her utterance.
“Do you think, girls, you could be ready to come away with me, if Silas takes leave, in an hour or two? I should so like to take you both home with me to Elverston.”
“How delightful! you darling,” cried I, embracing and kissing her; “for my part, I should be ready in five minutes; what do you say, Milly?”
Poor Milly’s wardrobe, I am afraid, was more portable than handsome; and she looked horribly affrighted, and whispered in my ear —
“My best petticoat is away at the laundress; say in a week, Maud.”
“What does she say?” asked Lady Knollys.
“She fears she can’t be ready,” I answered, dejectedly.
“There’s a deal of my slops in the wash,” blurted out poor Milly, staring straight at Lady Knollys.
“In the name of wonder, what does my cousin mean?” asked Lady Knollys.
“Her things have not come home yet from the laundress,” I replied; and at this moment our wondrous old butler entered to announce to Lady Knollys that his master was ready to receive her, whenever she was disposed to favour him; and also to make polite apologies for his being compelled, by his state of health, to give her the trouble of ascending to his room.
So Cousin Monica was at the door in a moment, over her shoulder calling to us, “Come, girls.”
“Please, not yet, my lady — you alone; and he requests the young