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Updated: May 8, 2025
When Darrell, rich by the rewards of his profession and the bequest of his namesake, had entered Parliament, and risen into that repute which confers solid and brilliant station, Mrs. Lyndsay conceived the idea of appropriating to herself his honours and his wealth by a second Hymen. Having so long been domesticated in his house during the life of Mrs.
Lyndsay had told us about the ghost; and the more I thought, the more sad and strange it seemed that not one of those who saw it, not even Aunt Eleanour, who is so kind and thoughtful, had had one pitying thought for it.
Her egotism was profoundly shocked, her worldliness cruelly thwarted. With Guy Darrell for her own spouse, the Marquess of Montfort for her daughter's, Mrs. Lyndsay would have been indeed a considerable personage in the world. But to lose Darrell for herself, and the Marquess altogether the idea was intolerable!
Don't fancy he frets; that kind of man thinks of nothing but blue-books and politics. And your cousin proposes, and you say with a sigh, 'No; I am bound to Guy Darrell'; and your mother says to my Lord, 'Wait, and still come as a cousin! And then, day by day, the sweet Mrs. Lyndsay drops into your ear the hints that shall poison your heart.
When a long blue flame sprang up, he drew his chair near the hearth and stretched towards the blaze his still tremulous hands. "Mr. Lyndsay," he said, in a voice as strangely altered as his whole appearance, "may I sit here a little till it is light? I dread to go back to that room. But don't let me keep you up." I said, and in all honesty, that I had no inclination to sleep.
Sometimes he seems to smile gently upon the sins and sorrows of his day, at other times he pours forth upon them words of savage scorn, grim and terrible. But when we take all his work together, we find that we have such a picture of the times in which he lived as perhaps only Chaucer besides has given us. *Sir David Lyndsay. For us the most interesting poem is The Thistle and the Rose.
Lyndsay, did you ever see anything like it?" I said "Never." "If Lindy has a fault in this world, it is that he is as pernickety, as my old nurse used to say as pernickety as an old maid. The stiff formality of his room would give me the creeps, if anything could. The first thing I always want to do when I see it is to make hay in it."
There was no past or future, but only an intolerable present, in which mind and soul were blotted out, and all of sentient existence that remained was the animal consciousness of agony. I cannot share men's stoical contempt for a Gehenna, which is nothing worse. "Mr. Lyndsay, imagine pain, worse than any ever endured on earth going on and on, for ever!"
When the morning came the rain fell no longer, the cry of the wind had ceased, and the cloud-curtain above us was growing lighter and softer as if penetrated and suffused by the growing sunshine behind it. I was late for breakfast that day. "Mr. Lyndsay, Tip is all right again," cried Denis at sight of me. "Mrs. Mallet says it was chicken bones he stole from the cat's dish."
Lyndsay, who, with her consummate craft, saved her dignity by affected blindness to the artifices at which she connived, declared that, in a matter of inquiry which involved the private character of a man so eminent, and to whom she owed so much, she would not trust his name to the gossip of others. She herself would go to London.
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