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MIRK ABBEY
By James Payne
The Author Of “Lost Sir Massengberd;” “The Clyffards Of Clyffe;” &c.,
Ke.
In Three Volumes. Vol. III.
London:
1866.
CHAPTER I. MADAME DE CASTELLAN.
|UPON the fourth day after the reception of her Paris letter, my
Lady had to leave Mirk for town on business connected with Walter's
affairs--for, after all, she cannot permit his elder brother to bear the
whole brunt of these unexpected expenses. Her visit was to the family
lawyer, and she went alone save for the attendance of Mistress Forest.
Under any circumstances, she would rather it were thus, she repeats,
even if the preparations going on at Mirk did not take up so fully Sir
Richard's time, and render his accompanying her out of the question. For
this Coming of Age was a case wherein surely a man might busy himself
even though the whole affair was to be held in his own honour; the very
name of Lisgard being in a manner at stake, and obnoxious to censure, if
everything should not be in a fitting scale and perfect of its kind;
nay (though certainly more remotely), might not the Great Principle of
Territorial Aristocracy have been almost said to be upon its trial
upon the coming occasion? The business must have been pressing indeed,
remarked the baronet a little pointedly, that took the mistress of Mirk
from home at such an important epoch; and he thought in his heart that
his mother might have put off this signature of a few parchments until
after the fête-day. However, it was plain that my Lady considered the
call to town imperative, since she started thither upon the very morning
of the day on which her old friend Madame de Castellan had appointed
to reach Belcomb; and although she hoped to be able to return on the
ensuing afternoon, in company with Walter and his wife, whose marriage
had been in the meantime publicly announced, it was not certain that her
affairs could be transacted within such time as would permit her to do
so. And so it unfortunately turned out. About an hour after luncheon,
the carriage having been despatched from the Abbey to the Dalwynch
station just so long as would admit of its return with its expected
inmates, the sound of wheels was heard in the avenue, and both Sir
Richard and Letty felt the colour come into their cheeks. Each imagined
that it was the Return of the Prodigal (in this case rendered more
embarrassing by the fact of his bringing his wife with him). Suppose
their mother should have been prevented from accompanying Captain
and Mrs Lisgard! How very awkward and disconcerting would this first
interview be; and especially for the poor baronet, who had never seen
Rose, at least to his own knowledge, as a married woman. His brother's
bride, too! Sir Richard rather repented for that minute or two that he
had made such a point of the young couple returning to Mirk so soon. He
felt quite grateful to his sister when she placed her hand upon his arm,
and whispered: “Had we not better go out to meet them, Richard?” At any
other time, he would perhaps have resented her offer to share the duties
of host; for was it not his place, and his alone, to bid guests welcome
to Mirk Abbey? But upon this occasion he accepted it gladly; and it was
lucky for him he did.
Instead of the gay barouche and glistening steeds from his own stables,
he beheld, when he reached the hall steps, the Dalwynch fly--for the
little town only boasted of one such conveyance--a yellow single-seated
machine, which had once been proud to call itself a post-chaise, and
been whirled through the air by panting wheelers and leaders; but it was
now dragged along by animals so melancholy and slow, that but for their
colour and shortness of tail, they might have been hearse-horses; while
the driver had a lugubrious expression too, as befitted one who felt
that he should never buckle on his single spur again, or crack his
whip in triumph, as he came up the street of the county town at
a hand-gallop. But the tenant of this vehicle was a far more
old-world-looking object than itself or its belongings; a very ancient
and silverhaired lady, looking almost double even as she sat, and only
able, painfully, to alight from her carriage by aid of Mr Robert's arm
and a crutched stick. Her complexion was an agreeable gingerbread; she
had not above three teeth, which, however, were very white ones, left
in either jaw; and her head shook from side to side with the palsy of
extreme old age. But despite these disadvantages, she had by no means an
unpleasant expression; and Sir Richard, with his fete-day running in his
head, was somehow reminded of one of those beneficent old fairies, who,
at considerable personal inconvenience, used to make a point of being
present at the christening, marriage, and other important occasions in
the life of the young prince with whose royal mother they had been such
great friends in years gone by. He hurried down the steps to offer his
arm to this strange visitor, and bid her respectful welcome.
“Madame de Castellan, for I think it can be no one else,” said he; “it
is most kind of you to treat us thus. We ought to have been at Belcomb
ourselves by this time, instead of your being here, and indeed we should
have been there yesterday, had my mother been at home; but important
business has taken her to London, and I much regret to say that she has
not even yet returned, although we are expecting her every minute.”
Either the exertion of alighting, or the reception of this unexpected
news, set the poor old lady shaking to that degree, that it seemed a
wonder that she did not shake to pieces. She fell to kissing Letty,
doubtless partly from affection, but also perhaps as an excuse for not
immediately commencing the ascent of those dreadful stairs.
“You don't either of you remember me, I dare say,” mumbled she in the
French tongue.
Sir Richard smiled and bowed, as being the safest reply he could frame
to a question of which he understood nothing.
“Ah, Heaven, he does!” cried the old lady with evident delight. “That is
an excellent young man; and yet he was but a very little boy. And Miss
Letty? No, she does not remember--how should she? she was too young! And
Walter--the pretty boy, so _spirituel_, with his black velvet frock and
short sleeves tied with scarlet ribbon--where was he? What! grown up and
married? Was it possible! How time had flown; alas, alas! And the good
Dr Haldane and his wife, was he here as much as usual? clever, sarcastic
little gentleman!”
Not even the allusions to their own childhood gave Richard and his
sister so vast a notion of the time that had elapsed since Madame de
Castellan's previous visit to the Abbey, as this last remark of hers;
for the occurrence which had shut out the good doctor from the Abbey
had happened so long ago that it was almost legendary; and they were so
accustomed to his absence, that they could not picture to themselves the
state of things to which this patriarchal old lady referred as a matter
of course. As for Mrs Haldane, they had heard of the existence of such a
person, and that was all. That good woman had not made much noise in the
world when she was alive, and she had been among the Silent now for more
than eleven years. How far back were the explanations to begin, thought
Letty and her brother, that would make this female Rip Van Winkle _au
fait_ with the present order of things?
But the old Frenchwoman was fortunately not nearly so anxious to be
answered as she was to talk, a feat which she accomplished with much
more distinctness than could have been expected, notwithstanding that
Sir Richard subsequently ascribed to her paucity of teeth the fact that
he only understood about two words out of her every five.
It was very amusing to watch the poor young baronet listening with
fruitless diligence to her rapid syllables, and then turning an
imploring glance upon his sister and sworn interpreter for aid and
rescue. He was obliged upon two occasions to frame some halting reply
with his own lips; once when Madame openly complimented him upon his
good looks and gallant bearing; and secondly, when she thanked him for
the readiness with which he had placed the cottage at Belcomb at her
disposal; but for the rest, the burden of conversation rested upon
Letty.
“And how is Marie--how is the good Marie, who was to your dear mamma
like a servant and a sister in one?” asked the old lady, when they had
got her with some difficulty into the drawing-room.
“She is well, Madame; but in some trouble about a certain suitor,
whom” (here she pouted a little) “Sir Richard here considers to be
undesirable.”
Madame raised her rather shaggy eyebrows, and looked towards the young
baronet as if for an explanation. He knew that they were speaking of
Mistress Forest, and that was all.
“An admirable person,” said he earnestly; “most trustworthy in every
way. We have all cause to be more than satisfied.”
“Ah, then he does not object after all!” exclaimed Madame triumphantly.
“And Master Walter--what sort of a wife has he got? Beautiful? That is
well; it would be a pity if it were otherwise. And clever? Excellent!
And also good, I hope?”
“Well, Madame, she will be here in a minute, so that you may judge for
yourself,” answered Letty smiling, but by no means displeased to hear
the craunch of carriage-wheels upon the gravel of the terraced drive.
These home questions concerning her new sister-in-law were getting
rather difficult to answer, and especially in Richard's presence.
“Will your mother be with them?” inquired Madame, gathering from the
faces of her companions, rather than from any sound which could have
reached her tardy ears, that the arrival of those expected was imminent.
“As I said before, Madame, I cannot promise; but I sincerely trust, for
your sake--as, indeed, for her own--that it may be so. I am sure mamma
will deeply grieve to have missed you.”
The next moment, Captain and Mrs Lisgard were announced. Richard walked
straight up to Rose, and taking her hand in his best Sir Roger de
Coverley manner, bade her frank but stately welcome. Then, “How are you,
Walter?” said he, giving his brother's fingers an earnest squeeze, and
simulating cordiality all he could. “Here is a very old friend of our
mother's, Madame de Castellan, who remembers you in a velvet frock with
short sleeves and cherry-coloured ribbons.”
For the first time, Sir Richard blessed this old lady's presence,
which was so greatly mitigating to him the difficulties of this dreaded
interview; but Walter appeared to be but little embarrassed; less so,
indeed, than Madame herself, who, overcome, doubtless, by the strong
resemblance to his mother in the young man now presented to her, began
to tremble again almost as much as she had done a while ago.
“And this is Master Walter,” said she in broken tones. “I think I should
have known that without any introduction.” Here she held him with both
her hands at arms' length. “I suppose, now, you do not remember me at
all?”
“Madame,” returned the young man in bad French, but briskly enough, and
with a very pleasant smile, “I cannot say I do. Little folks in velvet
frocks have very bad memories. But I have often heard my dear mother
speak of you most affectionately; indeed, she wrote to me of your
expected arrival at Belcomb with greater pleasure than I have known her
to take in anything for years.”
“Except your marriage, Mister the Captain, eh?” returned the old lady
archly. “Come, introduce me to your lovely bride. Ah, Heaven, what
a young couple! Well, I like to see that--I who might be the
great-grandmother of both of you.--How are you, Madame Walter? What do
they call you? Rose! Ah, a charming name.”
But though the name was so charming, and the young lady was so lovely,
Madame de Castellan did not take her to her arms and embrace her as
she had taken Letty. Indeed, if it was possible for Rose to look
disconcerted, she would have done so now, as she stood with cast-down
eyes, exposed to the same steady scrutiny as her husband had just been
subjected to; but there was by no means so much affection in the old
lady's gaze on this occasion. When she had regarded her sufficiently,
she dismissed her with a patronising tap upon the head, and once more
addressed herself to Walter. “And what have you done with your mamma,
sir?”
“_I_ have done nothing, Madame,” answered he laughing. “She has never
given me the chance of making away with her, if it is of that you
suspect me; for she never came to see us in town at all. We were to
meet at the station this morning, but she was not there. I am afraid,
therefore--for she dislikes travelling at night--that we shall not see
her before this time to-morrow.”
Master Walter was in very different cue from that in which we saw him
last. The burden of his difficulties had been lifted from his shoulders,
at all events for the present. He had been saved at least from ruin, and
that, though he might be henceforth compelled to live the life of a
poor man, was a matter of congratulation; just as one is thankful, in
shipwreck upon the desolate seas, to land on even a barren rock. His
spirits were always buoyant, and they were now asserting themselves
after a period of severest pressure. In short, Master Walter was himself
again--good-humoured, graceful, and as desirous as well fitted to please
all with whom he came into contact. It was plain that he had made a
complete conquest of this old Frenchwoman.
“And Marie, have you hidden _her_ anywhere, you naughty boy?”
“Not I, Madame. If you saw her, you would understand that she is not
easily hidden. You remember her plump, I daresay; but plump is now no
word for her. Even love--and she is love-sick, poor thing, at
five-and-forty, or so--does not render her less solid.”
“Ah, wicked, to laugh at Love!” replied the old lady, holding up a
reproving finger, of whose shape and whiteness she was evidently proud,
and not altogether without reason; “and worse still, to laugh at Marie.
I love that dear Mistress Forest; and mind you, tell mamma, if ever she
parts with her, that she is to come straight to me. What would I not
give for a waiting-maid like that--devoted, prudent, to whom I could
confide my little love-affairs!--Why do you laugh, rude children? It
is, I see, time that I should go.--Seriously,” continued she, when the
chorus of dissatisfaction had died away (for every one except, perhaps,
Rose, was pleased with this sprightly old lady, and all felt her
presence to be, under the circumstances, an immense relief), “I must
be going home at once.--Thank you kindly, Sir Richard, but to stay to
dinner is impossible. The night-air, at my time of life--more even than
'five-or-forty or so, Mister the Captain--is very unwholesome. You must
all come and lunch with me shortly A _fête champêtre_ upon the--what is
it you call it?--Lisgard Folly. You will give this kiss to mamma for me,
Miss Letty, and tell her I must see her to-morrow--no, the day after,
for she will be tired. I will not have any of you young people on that
day. I shall wish to talk to her alone about so many things. Will
you please to ring for my--that droll conveyance which you call
_mouche_--'fly?'--Adieu, Madame Walter; take care of your handsome
husband, for I have fallen in love with him.--Adieu to you, naughty
boy.--Now, Sir Richard, if you will give me your arm, by the time we get
to the front door, and down these dreadful steps, the _mouche_ will be
at the door, though he walk slow, as though he had just escaped out of
treacle.”
As the pair made their way to the hall, at the pace of chief-mourners,
Madame de Castellan, to Richard's surprise and joy, began, for the first
time, to speak in broken English. “Your mother is very fond of you all,”
said she; “I hope you are fond of her.”
“I hope so indeed, Madame: we should be very ungrateful if we were not.”
“That is well, young man. Be good to her, for our mothers are obliged to
leave us, you know, long before we go ourselves.”
“God forbid, Madame, that we should lose her these many years,” answered
the baronet fervently.
“Yes, yes; but mind this,” answered the old lady testily, as she climbed
into the _mouche_, “that if Mistress Forest should want a place--here am
I at Belcomb, very glad to receive her. Good-bye.”
Sir Richard, thunder-struck, stared at the slowly-departing vehicle like
one in a dream. “I never heard such a speech,” soliloquised he--“never.
Can that old harridan be really calculating upon my mother's death
giving her a new lady's-maid? How selfish is extreme old age! I could
not have believed it possible. How it would have distressed mamma,
could she have heard her. And yet but for that speech, she seemed an
affectionate and kindly old creature enough. I have often heard that
Frenchwomen have no hearts, but only manners--and I suppose that so it
is.”