The House by the Church-Yard (22 page)

After such leave–takings, especially where something like a revelation takes place, there sometimes supervenes, I’m told, a sort of excitement before the chill and ache of separation sets in. So, Lily, when she went home, found that her music failed her, all but the one strange little air, 'The river ran between them;' and then she left the harpsichord and went into the garden through the glass door, but the flowers had only half their interest, and the garden was solitary, and she felt restless, as if she were going to make a journey, or looking for strange news; and then she bethought her again of Mrs. Colonel Stafford, that she might have by this time returned from Dublin, and there was some little interest about the good old lady, even in this, that she had just returned by the same road that he had gone away by, that she might have chanced to see him as he passed; that at least she might happen to speak of him, and to know something of the likelihood of his return, or even to speculate about him; for now any talk in which his name occurred was interesting, though she did not know it quite herself. So she went down to the King’s House, and did find old Mrs. Stafford at home: and after an entertaining gossip about some 'rich Nassau damask,' at Haughton’s in the Coombe, that had taken her fancy mightily, and how she had chosen a set of new Nankeen plates and fine oblong dishes at the Music Hall, and how Peter Raby, the watchman, was executed yesterday morning, in web worsted breeches, for the murder of Mr. Thomas Fleming, of Thomas–street, she did come at last to mention Devereux: and she said that the colonel had received a letter from General Chattesworth, 'who by–the–bye,' and then came a long parenthesis, very pleasant, you may be sure, for Lily to listen to; and the general, it appeared, thought it most likely that Devereux would not return to Chapelizod, and the Royal Irish Artillery; and then she went on to other subjects, and Lily staid a long time, thinking she might return to Devereux, but she did not mention him again. So home went little Lily more pensive than she came.

It was near eight o’clock, when who should arrive at the door, and flutter the crows in the old elms with an energetic double knock, but Aunt Rebecca, accompanied by no less a personage than Dr. Toole in full costume, and attended by old Dominick, the footman.

The doctor was a little bit ruffled and testy, for having received a summons from Belmont, he had attended in full blow, expecting to prescribe for Aunt Rebecca or Miss Gertrude, and found, instead, that he was in for a barren and benevolent walk of half a mile on the Inchicore road, with the energetic Miss Rebecca, to visit one of her felonious pensioners who lay sick in his rascally crib. It was not the first time that the jolly little doctor had been entrapped by the good lady into a purely philanthropic excursion of this kind. But he could not afford to mutiny, and vented his disgust in blisters and otherwise drastic treatment of the malingering scoundrels whom he served out after his kind for the trouble and indignity they cost him.

'And here we are, Lily dear, on our way to see poor dear Pat Doolan, who, I fear, is not very long for this world. Dominick!—he’s got a brain fever, my dear.'

The doctor said 'pish!' inaudibly, and Aunt Becky went on.

'You know the unhappy creature is only just out of prison, and if ever mortal suffered unjustly, he’s the man. Poor Doolan’s as innocent as you or I, my dear, or sweet little Spot, there;' pointing her fan like a pistol at that interesting quadruped’s head. 'The disgrace has broken his heart, and that’s at the bottom of his sickness. I wish you could hear him speak, poor dear wretch—Dominick!' and she had a word for that domestic in the hall.

'Hear him speak, indeed!' said Toole, taking advantage of her momentary absence. 'I wish you could, the drunken blackguard. King Solomon could not make sense of it. She gave that burglar, would you believe it, Ma’am? two guineas, by Jupiter: the first of this month—and whiskey only sixpence a pint—and he was drunk without intermission of course, day and night for a week after. Brain fever, indeed, 'tis just as sweet a little fit of delirium tremens, my dear Madam, as ever sent an innocent burglar slap into bliss;' and the word popped out with a venomous hiss and an angry chuckle.

'And so, my dear,' resumed Aunt Becky, marching in again; 'good Doctor Toole—our good Samaritan, here—has taken him up, just for love, and the poor man’s fee—his blessing.'

The doctor muttered something about 'taking him up,' but inarticulately, for it was only for the relief of his own feelings.

'And now, dear Lilias, we want your good father to come with us, just to pray by the poor fellow’s bedside: he’s in the study, is he?'

'No, he was not to be home until to–morrow morning.'

'Bless me!' cried Aunt Becky, with as much asperity as if she had said something different; 'and not a soul to be had to comfort a dying wretch in your father’s parish—yes, he’s dying; we want a minister to pray with him, and here we’ve a Flemish account of the rector. This tells prettily for Dr. Walsingham!'

'Dr. Walsingham’s the best rector in the whole world, and the holiest man and the noblest,' cried brave little Lily, standing like a deer at bay, with her wild shy eyes looking full in Aunt Becky’s, and a flush in her cheeks, and the beautiful light of truth beaming like a star from her forehead. And for a moment it looked like battle; but the old lady smiled a kind of droll little smile, and gave her a little pat on the cheek, saying with a shake of her head, 'saucy girl!'

'And you,' said Lily, throwing her arms about her neck, 'are my own Aunt Becky, the greatest darling in the world!' And so, as John Bunyan says, 'the water stood in their eyes,' and they both laughed, and then they kissed, and loved one another the better. That was the way their little quarrels used always to end.

'Well, doctor, we must only do what we can,' said Aunt Becky, looking gravely on the physician: 'and I don’t see why
you
should not read—you can lend us a prayer–book, darling—just a collect or two, and the Lord’s Prayer—eh?'

'Why, my dear Ma’am, the fellow’s howling about King Lewis and the American Indians, Dominick says, and ghosts and constables, and devils, and worse things, Madam, and—pooh—punch and laudanum’s his only chance; don’t mind the prayer–book, Miss Lily—there’s no use in it, Mistress Chattesworth! I give you my honour, Ma’am, he could not make head or tale of it.'

In fact, the doctor was terrified lest Aunt Rebecca should compel him to officiate, and he was thinking how the fellows at the club, and the Aldermen of Skinner’s–alley, would get hold of the story, and treat the subject less gravely than was desirable.

So Aunt Becky, with Lily’s leave, called in Dominick, to examine him touching the soundness of Pat Doolan’s mind, and the honest footman had no hesitation in pronouncing him wholly
non compos
.

'Pleasant praying with a chap like that, by Jove, as drunk as an owl, and as mad as a March hare! my dear Ma’am,' whispered Toole to Lilias.

'And, Lily dear', there’s poor Gertrude all alone—'twould be good natured in you to go up and drink a dish of tea with her; but, then, you’re cold—you’re afraid?'

She was not afraid—she had been out to–day—and it had done her all the good in the world, and it was very good of Aunt Becky to think of it, for she was lonely too: and so off went the elder Miss Chattesworth, with her doctor and Dominick, in their various moods, on their mission of mercy; and Lily sent into the town for the two chairmen, Peter Brian and Larry Foy, the two–legged ponies, as Toole called them.

At that time, in every hall of gentility, there stood a sedan–chair, the property of the lady of the house; and by the time the chairmen had arrived and got the poles into their places, and trusty John Tracy had got himself into his brown surtout, trimmed with white lace, and his cane in his hand—(there was no need of a lantern, for the moon shone softly and pleasantly down)—Miss Lilias Walsingham drew her red riding hood about her pretty face, and stepped into the chair; and so the door shut, the roof closed in, and the young lady was fairly under weigh. She had so much to think of, so much to tell about her day’s adventure, that before she thought she had come half the way, they were flitting under the shadows of the poplars that grew beside the avenue; and, through the window, she saw the hospitable house spreading out its white front as they drew near, and opening its wings to embrace her.

The hall–door stood half open, though it had been dark some time; and the dogs came down with a low growl, and plenty of sniffing, which forthwith turned into a solemn wagging of tails, for they were intimate with the chairmen, and with John Tracy, and loved Lilias too. So she got out in the hall, and went into the little room at the right, and opening the door of the inner and larger one—there was no candle there, and 'twas nearly dark—saw Gertrude standing by the window which looked out on the lawn toward the river. That side of the house was in shade, but she saw that the window was thrown up, and Gertrude, she thought, was looking toward her, though she did not move, until she drew nearer, wondering why she did not approach, and then, pausing in a kind of unpleasant doubt, she heard a murmured talking, and plainly saw the figure of a man, with a cloak, it seemed, wrapped about him, and leaning from outside, against the window–sill, and, as she believed, holding Gertrude’s hand.

The thing that impressed her most was the sharp outline of the cocked–hat, with the corners so peculiarly pinched in, and the feeling that she had never seen that particular hat before in the parish of Chapelizod.

Lily made a step backward, and Gertrude instantly turned round, and seeing her, uttered a little scream.

''Tis I, Gertrude, darling—Lily—Lily Walsingham,' she said, perhaps as much dismayed as Gertrude herself; 'I’ll return in a moment.'

She saw the figure, outside, glide hurriedly away by the side of the wall.

'Lily—Lily, darling; no, don’t go—I did not expect you;' and Gertrude stopped suddenly, and then as suddenly said—

'You are very welcome, Lily;' and she drew the window down, and there was another pause before she said—'Had not we better go up to the drawing–room, and—and—Lily darling, you’re very welcome. Are you better?'

And she took little Lily’s hand, and kissed her.

Little Lilias all this time had said nothing, so entirely was she disconcerted. And her heart beat fast with a kind of fear: and she felt Gertrude’s cold hand tremble she fancied in hers.

'Yes, darling, the drawing–room, certainly,' answered Lily. And the two young ladies went up stairs holding hands, and without exchanging another word.

'Aunt Becky has gone some distance to see a sick pensioner; I don’t expect her return before an hour.'

'Yes—I know—and she came, dear Gertrude, to see me; and I should not have come, but that she asked me, and—and——'

She stopped, for she was speaking apologetically, like an intruder, and she was shocked to feel what a chasm on a sudden separated them, and oppressed with the consciousness that their old mutual girlish confidence was dead and gone; and the incident of the evening, and Gertrude’s changed aspect, and their changed relations, seemed a dreadful dream.

Gertrude looked so pale and wretchedly, and Lily saw her eyes, wild and clouded, once or twice steal toward her with a glance of such dark alarm and enquiry, that she was totally unable to keep up the semblance of their old merry gossiping talk, and felt that Gertrude read in her face the amazement and fear which possessed her.

'Lily, darling, let us sit near the window, far away from the candles, and look out; I hate the light.'

'With all my heart,' said Lily. And two paler faces than theirs, that night, did not look out on the moonlight prospect.

'I hate the light, Lily,' repeated Gertrude, not looking at her companion, but directly out through the bow–window upon the dark outline of the lawn and river bank, and the high grounds on the other side. 'I hate the light—yes, I hate the light, because my thoughts are darkness—yes, my thoughts are darkness. No human being knows me; and I feel like a person who is
haunted
. Tell me what you saw when you came into the parlour just now.'

'Gertrude, dear, I ought not to have come in so suddenly.'

'Yes, 'twas but right—'twas but kind in you, Lily—right and kind—to treat me like the open–hearted and intimate friend that, Heaven knows, I was to you, Lily, all my life. I think—at least, I think—till lately—but you were always franker than I—and truer. You’ve walked in the light, Lily, and that’s the way to peace. I turned aside, and walked in mystery; and it seems to me I am treading now the valley of the shadow of death. Waking and talking, I am, nevertheless, in the solitude and darkness of the grave. And what did you see, Lily—I know you’ll tell me truly—when you came into the parlour, as I stood by the window?'

'I saw, I think, the form of a man in a cloak and hat, as I believe, talking with you in whispers, Gertrude, from without.'

'The form of a man, Lily—you’re right—not a man, but the form of a man,' she continued, bitterly; 'for it seems to me sometimes it can be no human fascination that has brought me under the tyranny in which I can scarce be said to breathe.'

After an interval she said—

'It will seem incredible. You’ve heard of Mr. Dangerfield’s proposal, and you’ve heard how I’ve received it. Well, listen.'

'Gertrude, dear!' said Lily, who was growing frightened.

'I’m going,' interrupted Miss Chattesworth, 'to tell you my strange, if you will, but not guilty—no,
not
guilty—secret. I’m no agent now, but simply passive in the matter. But you must first pledge me your sacred word that neither to my father nor to yours, nor to my aunt, nor to any living being, will you ever reveal what I am about to tell you, till I have released you from your promise.'

Did ever woman refuse a secret? Well, Lily wavered for a moment. But then suddenly stooping down, and kissing her, she said:

'No, Gertrude, darling—you’ll not be vexed with me—but you must not tell me your secret. You have excuses such as I should not have—you’ve been drawn into this concealment, step by step, unwillingly; but, Gertrude, darling, I must not hear it. I could not look Aunt Becky in the face, nor the kind general, knowing that I was——'

She tried to find a word.

'
Deceiving
them, Lily,' said Gertrude, with a moan.

'Yes, Gertrude, darling.' And she kissed her again. 'And it might be to your great hurt. But I thank you all the same from my heart for your confidence and love; and I’m gladder than you’ll ever know, Gerty, that they are still the same.' And thus the two girls kissed silently and fervently, and poor Gertrude Chattesworth wept uncomplainingly, looking out upon the dark prospect.

'And you’ll tell me, darling, when you’re happier, as you soon will be?' said Lily.

'I will—I will indeed. I’m sometimes happier—sometimes quite happy—but I’m very low to–night, Lily,' answered she.

Then Lily comforted and caressed her friend. And I must confess she was very curious, too, and nothing but a terror of possessing a secret under such terms, withheld her from hearing Gertrude’s confession. But on her way home she thanked Heaven for her resolution, and was quite sure that she was happier and better for it.

They were roused by Aunt Becky’s knock at the hall–door, and her voice and Dominick’s under the window.