IN A GLASS DARKLY.
BY
J. SHERIDAN LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE SILAS", &C.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
R. BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1872.
In a Glass Darkly.
THE ROOM
IN
THE DRAGON VOLANT.
VOL. II.
PROLOGUE.
The curious case which I am about to place before you, is
referred to, very pointedly, and more than once, in the
extraordinary Essay upon the drugs of the Dark and the Middle
Ages, from the pen of Doctor Hesselius.
This Essay he entitles "Mortis Imago," and he, therein, discusses
the _Vinum letiferum_, the _Beatifica_, the _Somnus Angelorum_,
the _Hypnus Sagarum_, the _Aqua Thessalliæ_, and about twenty
other infusions and distillations, well known to the sages of
eight hundred years ago, and two of which are still, he alleges,
known to the fraternity of thieves, and, among them, as
police-office inquiries sometimes disclose to this day, in
practical use.
The Essay, _Mortis Imago_, will occupy as nearly as I can, at
present, calculate, two volumes, the ninth and tenth, of the
collected papers of Doctor Martin Hesselius.
This Essay, I may remark, in conclusion, is very curiously
enriched by citations, in great abundance, from mediæval verse
and prose romance, some of the most valuable of which, strange to
say, are Egyptian.
I have selected this particular statement from among many cases
equally striking, but hardly, I think, so effective as mere
narratives, in this irregular form of publication, it is simply
as a story that I present it.
CHAPTER I.
ON THE ROAD.
In the eventful year, 1815, I was exactly three-and-twenty, and
had just succeeded to a very large sum in consols, and other
securities. The first fall of Napoleon had thrown the continent
open to English excursionists, anxious, let us suppose, to
improve their minds by foreign travel; and I--the slight check of
the 'hundred days' removed, by the genius of Wellington, on the
field of Waterloo--was now added to the philosophic throng.
I was posting up to Paris from Bruxelles, following, I presume,
the route that the allied army had pursued but a few weeks
before--more carriages than you could believe were pursuing the
same line. You could not look back or forward, without seeing
into far perspective the clouds of dust which marked the line of
the long series of vehicles. We were, perpetually, passing relays
of return-horses, on their way, jaded and dusty, to the inns from
which they had been taken. They were arduous times for those
patient public servants. The whole world seemed posting up to
Paris.
I ought to have noted it more particularly, but my head was so
full of Paris and the future, that I passed the intervening
scenery with little patience and less attention; I think,
however, that it was about four miles to the frontier side of a
rather picturesque little town, the name of which, as of many
more important places through which I posted in my hurried
journey, I forget, and about two hours before sunset, that we
came up with a carriage in distress.
It was not quite an upset. But the two leaders were lying flat.
The booted postillions had got down, and two servants who seemed
very much at sea in such matters, were by way of assisting them.
A pretty little bonnet and head were popped out of the window of
the carriage in distress. Its _tournure_, and that of the
shoulders that also appeared for a moment, was captivating: I
resolved to play the part of a good Samaritan; stopped my chaise,
jumped out, and with my servant lent a very willing hand in the
emergency. Alas! the lady with the pretty bonnet, wore a very
thick, black veil. I could see nothing but the pattern of the
Bruxelles lace, as she drew back.
A lean old gentleman, almost at the same time, stuck his head
out of the window. An invalid he seemed, for although the day was
hot, he wore a black muffler which came up to his ears and nose,
quite covering the lower part of his face, an arrangement which
he disturbed by pulling it down for a moment, and poured forth a
torrent of French thanks, as he uncovered his black wig, and
gesticulated with grateful animation.
One of my very few accomplishments besides boxing, which was
cultivated by all Englishmen at that time, was French; and I
replied, I hope and believe, grammatically. Many bows being
exchanged, the old gentleman's head went in again, and the
demure, pretty little bonnet once more appeared.
The lady must have heard me speak to my servant, for she framed
her little speech in such pretty, broken English, and in a voice
so sweet, that I more than ever cursed the black veil that
baulked my romantic curiosity.
The arms that were emblazoned on the panel were peculiar; I
remember especially, one device, it was the figure of a stork,
painted in carmine, upon what the heralds call a 'field or.' The
bird was standing upon one leg, and in the other claw held a
stone. This is, I believe, the emblem of vigilance. Its oddity
struck me, and remained impressed upon my memory. There were
supporters besides, but I forget what they were.
The courtly manners of these people, the style of their servants,
the elegance of their travelling carriage, and the supporters to
their arms, satisfied me that they were noble.
The lady, you may be sure, was not the less interesting on that account.
What a fascination a title exercises upon the imagination! I do not mean
on that of snobs or moral flunkies. Superiority of rank is a powerful
and genuine influence in love. The idea of superior refinement is
associated with it. The careless notice of the squire tells more upon
the heart of the pretty milkmaid, than years of honest Dobbin's manly
devotion, and so on and up. It is an unjust world!
But in this case there was something more. I was conscious of
being good-looking. I really believe I was; and there could be no
mistake about my being nearly six feet high. Why need this lady
have thanked me? Had not her husband, for such I assumed him to
be, thanked me quite enough, and for both? I was instinctively
aware that the lady was looking on me with no unwilling eyes;
and, through her veil, I felt the power of her gaze.
She was now rolling away, with a train of dust behind her wheels,
in the golden sunlight, and a wise young gentleman followed her
with ardent eyes, and sighed profoundly as the distance
increased.
I told the postillions on no account to pass the carriage, but to keep
it steadily in view, and to pull up at whatever posting-house it should
stop at. We were soon in the little town, and the carriage we followed
drew up at the Belle Etoile, a comfortable old inn. They got out of the
carriage and entered the house.
At a leisurely pace we followed. I got down, and mounted the
steps listlessly, like a man quite apathetic and careless.
Audacious as I was, I did not care to inquire in what room I
should find them. I peeped into the apartment to my right, and
then into that on my left. _My_ people were not there.
I ascended the stairs. A drawing-room door stood open. I entered
with the most innocent air in the world. It was a spacious room,
and, beside myself, contained but one living figure--a very
pretty and lady-like one. There was the very bonnet with which I
had fallen in love. The lady stood with her back toward me. I
could not tell whether the envious veil was raised; she was
reading a letter.
I stood for a minute in fixed attention, gazing upon her, in the
vague hope that she might turn about, and give me an opportunity
of seeing her features. She did not; but with a step or two she
placed herself before a little cabriole-table, which stood
against the wall, from which rose a tall mirror, in a tarnished
frame.
I might, indeed, have mistaken it for a picture; for it now
reflected a half-length portrait of a singularly beautiful woman.
She was looking down upon a letter which she held in her slender
fingers, and in which she seemed absorbed.
The face was oval, melancholy, sweet. It had in it, nevertheless,
a faint and undefinably sensual quality also. Nothing could
exceed the delicacy of its features, or the brilliancy of its
tints. The eyes, indeed, were lowered, so that I could not see
their colour; nothing but their long lashes, and delicate
eyebrows. She continued reading. She must have been deeply
interested; I never saw a living form so motionless--I gazed on a
tinted statue.
Being at that time blessed with long and keen vision, I saw this
beautiful face with perfect distinctness. I saw even the blue
veins that traced their wanderings on the whiteness of her full
throat.
I ought to have retreated as noiselessly as I came in, before my
presence was detected. But I was too much interested to move from
the spot, for a few moments longer; and while they were passing,
she raised her eyes. Those eyes were large, and of that hue which
modern poets term "violet."
These splendid melancholy eyes were turned upon me from the
glass, with a haughty stare, and hastily the lady lowered her
black veil, and turned about.
I fancied that she hoped I had not seen her. I was watching every
look and movement, the minutest, with an attention as intense as
if an ordeal involving my life depended on them.