Book: A Strange Story, Volume 4.
E >>
Edward Bulwer Lytton >> A Strange Story, Volume 4.
In order to avoid his visits I kept away from the study in which I had
habitually spent my mornings, and to which he had been accustomed to so
ready an access; and if he called at the front door, I directed my servant
to tell him that I was either from home or engaged. He did attempt for
the first few days to visit me as before, but when my intention to shun
him became thus manifest, desisted naturally enough, as any other man so
pointedly repelled would have done.
I abstained from all those houses in which I was likely to meet him, and
went my professional round of visits in a close carriage, so that I might
not be accosted by him in his walks.
One morning, a very few days after Strahan had shown me Sir Philip
Derval's letter, I received a note from my old college acquaintance,
stating that he was going to Derval Court that afternoon; that he should
take with him the memoir which he had found, and begging me to visit him
at his new home the next day, and commence my inspection of the
manuscript. I consented eagerly.
That morning, on going my round, my carriage passed by another drawn up to
the pavement, and I recognized the figure of Margrave standing beside the
vehicle, and talking to some one seated within it. I looked back, as my
own carriage whirled rapidly by, and saw with uneasiness and alarm that it
was Richard Strahan to whom Margrave was thus familiarly addressing
himself. How had the two made acquaintance?
Was it not an outrage on Sir Philip Derval's memory, that the heir he had
selected should be thus apparently intimate with the man whom he had so
sternly denounced? I became still more impatient to read the memoir: in
all probability it would give such explanations with respect to Margrave's
antecedents, as, if not sufficing to criminate him of legal offences,
would at least effectually terminate any acquaintance between Sir Philip's
successor and himself.
All my thoughts were, however, diverted to channels of far deeper interest
even than those in which my mind had of late been so tumultuously whirled
along, when, on returning home, I found a note from Mrs. Ashleigh. She
and Lilian had just come back to L----, sooner than she had led me to
anticipate. Lilian had not seemed quite well the last day or two, and had
been anxious to return.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Let me recall it--softly,--softly! Let me recall that evening spent with
her!--that evening, the last before darkness rose between us like a solid
wall.
It was evening, at the close of summer. The sun had set, the twilight was
lingering still. We were in the old monastic garden,--garden so quiet,
so cool, so fragrant. She was seated on a bench under the one great
cedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the grassy lawn with its
little paradise of flowers. I had thrown myself on the sward at her feet;
her hand so confidingly lay in the clasp of mine. I see her still,--how
young, how fair, how innocent!
Strange, strange! So inexpressibly English; so thoroughly the creature of
our sober, homely life! The pretty delicate white robe that I touch so
timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well become the soft
colour of the fair cheek, the wavy silk of the brown hair! She is
murmuring low her answer to my trembling question.
"As well as when last we parted? Do you love me as well still?"
"There is no 'still' written here," said she, softly pressing her
hand to her heart. "Yesterday is as to-morrow in the Forever."
"Ah, Lilian! if I could reply to you in words as akin to poetry as your
own!"
"Fie! you who affect not to care for poetry!"
"That was before you went away; before I missed you from my eyes, from my
life; before I was quite conscious how precious you were to me, more
precious than common words can tell! Yes, there is one period in love
when all men are poets, however the penury of their language may belie the
luxuriance of their fancies. What would become of me if you ceased to
love me?"
"Or of me, if you could cease to love?"
"And somehow it seems to me this evening as if my heart drew nearer to
you,--nearer as if for shelter."
"It is sympathy," said she, with tremulous eagerness,--"that sort of
mysterious sympathy which I have often heard you deny or deride; for I,
too, feel drawn nearer to you, as if there were a storm at hand. I was
oppressed by an indescribable terror in returning home, and the moment I
saw you there came a sense of protection."
Her head sank on my shoulder: we were silent some moments; then we both
rose by the same involuntary impulse, and round her slight form I twined
my strong arm of man. And now we are winding slow under the lilacs and
acacias that belt the lawn. Lilian has not yet heard of the murder, which
forms the one topic of the town, for all tales of violence and blood
affected her as they affect a fearful child. Mrs. Ashleigh, therefore,
had judiciously concealed from her the letters and the journals by which
the dismal news had been carried to herself. I need scarcely say that the
grim subject was not broached by me. In fact, my own mind escaped from
the events which had of late so perplexed and tormented it; the
tranquillity of the scene, the bliss of Lilian's presence, had begun to
chase away even that melancholy foreboding which had overshadowed me in
the first moments of our reunion. So we came gradually to converse of the
future,--of the day, not far distant, when we two should be as one. We
planned our bridal excursion. We would visit the scenes endeared to her
by song, to me by childhood,--the banks and waves of my native
Windermere,--our one brief holiday before life returned to labour, and
hearts now so disquieted by hope and joy settled down to the calm serenity
of home.
As we thus talked, the moon, nearly rounded to her full, rose amidst skies
without a cloud. We paused to gaze on her solemn haunting beauty, as
where are the lovers who have not paused to gaze? We were then on the
terrace walk, which commanded a view of the town below. Before us was a
parapet wall, low on the garden side, but inaccessible on the outer side,
forming part of a straggling irregular street that made one of the
boundaries dividing Abbey Hill from Low Town. The lamps of the
thoroughfares, in many a line and row beneath us, stretched far away,
obscured, here and there, by intervening roofs and tall church towers.
The hum of the city came to our ears, low and mellowed into a lulling
sound. It was not displeasing to be reminded that there was a world
without, as close and closer we drew each to each,--worlds to one another!
Suddenly there carolled forth the song of a human voice,--a wild,
irregular, half-savage melody, foreign, uncomprehended words,--air and
words not new to me. I recognized the voice and chant of Margrave. I
started, and uttered an angry exclamation.
"Hush!" whispered Lilian, and I felt her frame shiver within my encircling
arm. "Hush! listen! Yes; I have heard that voice before--last night--"
"Last night! you were not here; you were more than a hundred miles away."
"I heard it in a dream! Hush, hush!"
The song rose louder; impossible to describe its effect, in the midst of
the tranquil night, chiming over the serried rooftops, and under the
solitary moon. It was not like the artful song of man, for it was
defective in the methodical harmony of tune; it was not like the song of
the wild-bird, for it had no monotony in its sweetness: it was wandering
and various as the sounds from an AEolian harp. But it affected the
senses to a powerful degree, as in remote lands and in vast solitudes I
have since found the note of the mocking-bird, suddenly heard, affects the
listener half with delight, half with awe, as if some demon creature of
the desert were mimicking man for its own merriment. The chant now had
changed into an air of defying glee, of menacing exultation; it might have
been the triumphant war-song of some antique barbarian race. The note was
sinister; a shadow passed through me, and Lilian had closed her eyes, and
was sighing heavily; then with a rapid change, sweet as the coo with which
an Arab mother lulls her babe to sleep, the melody died away. "There,
there, look," murmured Lilian, moving from me, "the same I saw last night
in sleep; the same I saw in the space above, on the evening I first knew
you!"
Her eyes were fixed, her hand raised; my look followed hers, and rested on
the face and form of Margrave. The moon shone full upon him, so full as
if concentrating all its light upon his image. The place on which he
stood (a balcony to the upper story of a house about fifty yards distant)
was considerably above the level of the terrace from which we gazed on
him. His arms were folded on his breast, and he appeared to be looking
straight towards us. Even at that distance, the lustrous youth of his
countenance appeared to me terribly distinct, and the light of his
wondrous eye seemed to rest upon us in one lengthened, steady ray through
the limpid moonshine. Involuntarily I seized Lilian's hand, and drew her
away almost by force, for she was unwilling to move, and as I led her
back, she turned her head to look round; I, too, turned in jealous rage!
I breathed more freely. Margrave had disappeared!
"How came he there? It is not his hotel. Whose house is it?" I said
aloud, though speaking to myself.
Lilian remained silent, her eyes fixed upon the ground as if in deep
revery. I took her band; it did not return my pressure. I felt cut to
the heart when she drew coldly from me that hand, till then so frankly
cordial. I stopped short: "Lilian, what is this? you are chilled towards
me. Can the mere sound of that man's voice, the mere glimpse of that
man's face, have--" I paused; I did not dare to complete my question.
Lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and I saw at once in those eyes a change.
Their look was cold; not haughty, but abstracted. "I do not understand
you," she said, in a weary, listless accent. "It is growing late; I must
go in."
So we walked on moodily, no longer arm in arm, nor hand in hand. Then it
occurred to me that, the next day, Lilian would be in that narrow world of
society; that there she could scarcely fail to hear of Margrave, to meet,
to know him. Jealousy seized me with all its imaginary terrors, and
amidst that jealousy, a nobler, purer apprehension for herself. Had I
been Lilian's brother instead of her betrothed, I should not have trembled
less to foresee the shadow of Margrave's mysterious influence passing over
a mind so predisposed to the charm which Mystery itself has for those
whose thoughts fuse their outlines in fancies, whose world melts away into
Dreamland. Therefore I spoke.
"Lilian, at the risk of offending you-alas! I have never done so before
this night--I must address to you a prayer which I implore you not to
regard as the dictate of a suspicion unworthy you and myself. The person
whom you have just heard and seen is, at present, much courted in the
circles of this town. I entreat you not to permit any one to introduce
him to you. I entreat you not to know him. I cannot tell you all my
reasons for this petition; enough that I pledge you my honour that those
reasons are grave. Trust, then, in my truth, as I trust in yours. Be
assured that I stretch not the rights which your heart has bestowed upon
mine in the promise I ask, as I shall be freed from all fear by a promise
which I know will be sacred when once it is given."
"What promise?" asked Lilian, absently, as if she had not heard my words.
"What promise? Why, to refuse all acquaintance with that man; his name is
Margrave. Promise me, dearest, promise me."
"Why is your voice so changed?" said Lilian. "Its tone jars on my ear,"
she added, with a peevishness so unlike her, that it startled me more than
it offended; and without a word further, she quickened her pace, and
entered the house.
For the rest of the evening we were both taciturn and distant towards each
other. In vain Mrs. Ashleigh kindly sought to break down our mutual
reserve. I felt that I had the right to be resentful, and I clung to that
right the more because Lilian made no attempt at reconciliation. This,
too, was wholly unlike herself, for her temper was ordinarily
sweet,--sweet to the extreme of meekness; saddened if the slightest
misunderstanding between us had ever vexed me, and yearning to ask
forgiveness if a look or a word had pained me. I was in hopes that,
before I went away, peace between us would be restored. But long ere her
usual hour for retiring to rest, she rose abruptly, and, complaining of
fatigue and headache, wished me "good-night," and avoided the hand I
sorrowfully held out to her as I opened the door.
"You must have been very unkind to poor Lilian," said Mrs. Ashleigh,
between jest and earnest, "for I never saw her so cross to you before.
And the first day of her return, too!"
"The fault is not mine," said I, somewhat sullenly; "I did but ask Lilian,
and that as a humble prayer, not to make the acquaintance of a stranger in
this town against whom I have reasons for distrust and aversion. I know
not why that prayer should displease her."
"Nor I. Who is the stranger?"
"A person who calls himself Margrave. Let me at least entreat you to
avoid him!"
"Oh, I have no desire to make acquaintance with strangers. But, now
Lilian is gone, do tell me all about this dreadful murder. The servants
are full of it, and I cannot keep it long concealed from Lilian. I was in
hopes that you would have broken it to her."
I rose impatiently; I could not bear to talk thus of an event the tragedy
of which was associated in my mind with circumstances so mysterious. I
became agitated and even angry when Mrs. Ashleigh persisted in rambling
woman-like inquiries,--"Who was suspected of the deed? Who did I think
had committed it? What sort of a man was Sir Philip? What was that
strange story about a casket?" Breaking from such interrogations, to
which I could give but abrupt and evasive answers, I seized my hat and
took my departure.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Letter from Allen Fenwick to Lilian Ashleigh.
"I have promised to go to Derval Court to-day, and shall not return
till to-morrow. I cannot bear the thought that so many hours should
pass away with one feeling less kind than usual resting like a cloud
upon you and me. Lilian, if I offended you, forgive me! Send me one
line to say so!--one line which I can place next to my heart and
cover with grateful kisses till we meet again!"
Reply.
"I scarcely know what you mean, nor do I quite understand my own state
of mind at this moment. It cannot be that I love you less--and
yet--but I will not write more now. I feel glad that we shall not
meet for the next day or so, and then I hope to be quite recovered. I
am not well at this moment. Do not ask me to forgive you; but if it
is I who am in fault, forgive me, oh, forgive me, Allen!"
And with this unsatisfactory note, not worn next to my heart, not covered
with kisses, but thrust crumpled into my desk like a creditor's unwelcome
bill, I flung myself on my horse and rode to Derval Court. I am naturally
proud; my pride came now to my aid. I felt bitterly indignant against
Lilian, so indignant that I resolved on my return to say to her, "If in
those words, 'And yet,' you implied a doubt whether you loved me less, I
cancel your vows, I give you back your freedom." And I could have passed
from her threshold with a firm foot, though with the certainty that I
should never smile again.
Does her note seem to you who may read these pages to justify such
resentment? Perhaps not. But there is an atmosphere in the letters of
the one we love which we alone--we who love--can feel, and in the
atmosphere of that letter I felt the chill of the coming winter.
I reached the park lodge of Derval Court late in the day. I had occasion
to visit some patients whose houses lay scattered many miles apart, and
for that reason, as well as from the desire for some quick bodily exercise
which is so natural an effect of irritable perturbation of mind, I had
made the journey on horseback instead of using a carriage that I could not
have got through the lanes and field-paths by which alone the work set to
myself could be accomplished in time.
Just as I entered the park, an uneasy thought seized hold of me with the
strength which is ascribed to presentiments. I had passed through my
study (which has been so elaborately described) to my stables, as I
generally did when I wanted my saddle-horse, and, in so doing, had
doubtless left open the gate to the iron palisade, and probably the window
of the study itself. I had been in this careless habit for several years,
without ever once having cause for self-reproach. As I before said, there
was nothing in my study to tempt a thief; the study was shut out from the
body of the house, and the servant sure at nightfall both to close the
window and lock the gate; yet now, for the first time, I felt an impulse,
urgent, keen, and disquieting, to ride back to the town, and see those
precautions taken. I could not guess why, but something whispered to me
that my neglect had exposed me to some great danger. I even checked my
horse and looked at my watch; too late!--already just on the stroke of
Strahan's dinner-hour as fixed in his note; my horse, too, was fatigued
and spent: besides, what folly! what bearded man can believe in the
warnings of a "presentiment"? I pushed on, and soon halted before the
old-fashioned flight of stairs that led up to the Hall. Here I was
accosted by the old steward; he had just descended the stairs, and as I
dismounted he thrust his arm into mine unceremoniously, and drew me a
little aside.
"Doctor, I was right; it was his ghost that I saw by the iron door of the
mausoleum. I saw it again at the same place last night, but I had no fit
then. Justice on his murderer! Blood for blood!"
"Ay!" said I, sternly; for if I suspected Margrave before, I felt
convinced now that the inexpiable deed was his. Wherefore convinced?
Simply because I now hated him more, and hate is so easily convinced!
"Lilian! Lilian!" I murmured to myself that name; the flame of my hate
was fed by my jealousy. "Ay!" said I, sternly, "murder will out."
"What are the police about?" said the old man, querulously; "days pass on
days, and no nearer the truth. But what does the new owner care? He has
the rents and acres; what does he care for the dead? I will never serve
another master. I have just told Mr. Strahan so. How do I know whether
he did not do the deed? Who else had an interest in it?"
"Hush, hush!" I cried; "you do not know how wildly you are talking."
The old man stared at me, shook his head, released my arm, and strode
away.
A labouring man came out of the garden, and having unbuckled the
saddle-bags, which contained the few things required for so short a visit,
I consigned my horse to his care, and ascended the perron. The old
housekeeper met me in the hall, and conducted me up the great staircase,
showed me into a bedroom prepared for me, and told me that Mr. Strahan was
already waiting dinner for me. I should find him in the study. I
hastened to join him. He began apologizing, very unnecessarily, for the
state of his establishment. He had as yet engaged no new servants. The
housekeeper with the help of a housemaid did all the work.
Richard Strahan at college had been as little distinguishable from other
young men as a youth neither rich nor poor, neither clever nor stupid,
neither handsome nor ugly, neither audacious sinner nor formal saint,
possibly could be.
Yet, to those who understood him well, he was not without some of those
moral qualities by which a youth of mediocre intellect often matures into
a superior man.
He was, as Sir Philip had been rightly informed, thoroughly honest and
upright. But with a strong sense of duty, there was also a certain latent
hardness. He was not indulgent. He had outward frankness with
acquaintances, but was easily roused to suspicion. He had much of the
thriftiness and self-denial of the North countryman, and I have no doubt
that he had lived with calm content and systematic economy on an income
which made him, as a bachelor, independent of his nominal profession, but
would not have sufficed, in itself, for the fitting maintenance of a wife
and family. He was, therefore, still single.
It seems to me even during the few minutes in which we conversed before
dinner was announced, that his character showed a new phase with his new
fortunes. He talked in a grandiose style of the duties of station and the
woes of wealth. He seemed to be very much afraid of spending, and still
more appalled at the idea of being cheated. His temper, too, was ruffled;
the steward had given him notice to quit. Mr. Jeeves, who had spent the
morning with him, had said the steward would be a great loss, and a
steward at once sharp and honest was not to be easily found.
What trifles can embitter the possession of great goods! Strahan had
taken a fancy to the old house; it was conformable to his notions, both
of comfort and pomp, and Sir Philip had expressed a desire that the old
house should be pulled down. Strahan had inspected the plans for the new
mansion to which Sir Philip had referred, and the plans did not please
him; on the contrary, they terrified.
"Jeeves says that I could not build such a house under L70,000 or L80,000,
and then it will require twice the establishment which will suffice for
this. I shall be ruined," cried the man who had just come into possession
of at least ten thousand a year.
"Sir Philip did not enjoin you to pull down the old house; he only advised
you to do so. Perhaps he thought the site less healthy than that which he
proposes for a new building, or was aware of some other drawback to the
house, which you may discover later. Wait a little and see before
deciding."
"But, at all events, I suppose I must pull down this curious old
room,--the nicest part of the old house!"
Strahan, as he spoke, looked wistfully round at the quaint oak
chimneypiece; the carved ceiling; the well-built solid walls, with the
large mullion casement, opening so pleasantly on the sequestered gardens.
He had ensconced himself in Sir Philip's study, the chamber in which the
once famous mystic, Forman, had found a refuge.
"So cozey a room for a single man!" sighed Strahan. "Near the stables and
dog-kennels, too! But I suppose I must pull it down. I am not bound to
do so legally; it is no condition of the will. But in honour and
gratitude I ought not to disobey poor Sir Philip's positive injunction."
"Of that," said I, gravely, "there cannot be a doubt." Here our
conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Gates, who informed us that dinner
was served in the library. Wine of great age was brought from the long
neglected cellars; Strahan filled and re-filled his glass, and, warmed
into hilarity, began to talk of bringing old college friends around him in
the winter season, and making the roof-tree ring with laughter and song
once more.
Time wore away, and night had long set in, when Strahan at last rose from
the table, his speech thick and his tongue unsteady. We returned to the
study, and I reminded my host of the special object of my visit to
him,--namely, the inspection of Sir Philip's manuscript.
"It is tough reading," said Strahan; "better put it off till tomorrow.
You will stay here two or three days."
"No; I must return to L---- to-morrow. I cannot absent myself from
my patients. And it is the more desirable that no time should be lost
before examining the contents of the manuscript, because probably they
may give some clew to the detection of the murderer."
"Why do you think that?" cried Strahan, startled from the drowsiness that
was creeping over him.
"Because the manuscript may show that Sir Philip had some enemy, and who
but an enemy could have had a motive for such a crime? Come, bring forth
the book. You of all men are bound to be alert in every research that may
guide the retribution of justice to the assassin of your benefactor."
"Yes, yes. I will offer a reward of L5,000 for the discovery. Allen,
that wretched old steward had the insolence to tell me that I was the only
man in the world who could have an interest in the death of his master;
and he looked at me as if he thought that I had committed the crime. You
are right; it becomes me, of all men, to be alert. The assassin must be
found. He must hang."
While thus speaking, Strahan had risen, unlocked a desk, which stood on
one of the safes, and drawn forth a thick volume, the contents of which
were protected by a clasp and lock. Strahan proceeded to open this lock
by one of a bunch of keys, which he said had been found on Sir Philip's
person.
"There, Allen, this is the memoir. I need not tell you what store I place
on it,--not, between you and me, that I expect it will warrant poor Sir
Philip's high opinion of his own scientific discoveries; that part of his
letter seems to me very queer, and very flighty. But he evidently set his
heart on the publication of his work, in part if not in whole; and,
naturally, I must desire to comply with a wish so distinctly intimated by
one to whom I owe so much. I be, you, therefore, not to be too
fastidious. Some valuable hints in medicine, I have reason to believe,
the manuscript will contain, and those may help you in your profession,
Allen."