Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  Laura laughed, looking at her own pretty face in the glass before which she had seated herself. It seems to me a harmless satisfaction which young ladies seek in that sort of reflection.

  “When you see me an old maid, as you shall, you need not trouble yourself about the causes of it, because I have weighed the matter well, and an old maid I’m resolved to be.”

  “Well, if I could? But, no, Miss Challys; I don’t believe nothink of the sort. Why should you allow such an ungodly notion into your head?”

  “Ungodly — is it? How?” inquired Miss Gray.

  “Ungrateful to God, miss, for your wealth, and health, and beauty. Why, miss, it’s only natural you should choose a fine, handsome young gentleman that will love you with all his heart and soul, and be a good husband, and make you a happy wife and a good mother of a family.”

  “Oh, Mersey! you suffocate me.”

  “There, now, already there’s an uncommon nice young gentleman as ever you need wish to look at — that lovely young man, Mr. Dacres, and he’s rolling in money besides.”

  Laura blushed brilliantly, and with flashing eyes said angrily —

  “You could not have said a more absurd thing, Mersey, or a more awkward one. I almost think you are possessed. I’m obliged to see Mr. Dacre when he calls for half an hour in the evening. He has most particular business to speak of, and nothing could be more inconvenient than my being obliged to decline the information he is so good as to give me, and that, at any inconvenience, I should unquestionably do, if I thought any such monstrous folly could be talked by anyone upon the subject.”

  “And why should you feel like that, Miss Challys? How can you or me stop people talking if they likes it? And where could you see a handsomer or a nicer gentleman? And he has no end of money — and so generous he is. La, Miss Challys, dear. Old maid, indeed! What notions do come in your head, miss!”

  “Well, Mersey, if you will talk like a fool I can’t help it. Only I’d rather you talked of anyone but me. We’ll go abroad, and see the world. You shall see such beautiful places — Paris and Rome, and Venice and Switzerland — and if there must be marrying you shall marry, for I wont. What do you say to a French restaurateur or an Italian artist?”

  “Many thanks, miss; but I’m no more thinking of taking a husband than other people; and as for them foreigners, I can’t abide the sight of them.”

  And as she whisked her handkerchief from her pocket at these hoitytoity words, a letter flew out on the floor. Taking it up she found the address to “Miss Gray, Guildford House.”

  “Letter to you, miss, please.”

  As she leaned back indolently in her low chair, the young lady received it, almost without looking, in her fingers; and it was not until she held it just under her eyes that she gave herself the trouble of looking at it. Turning pale, she exclaimed —

  “My God! where did you get this?”

  And, staring at it, she held it tightly pinched in her hand. Mary Anne Mersey was seared by the looks and exclamations of her young mistress.

  “It fell out, miss. I think it must have been in my handkerchief — and — I don’t know. In my pocket, leastways — and I don’t know how in the world it ever has got there.”

  Miss Laura Gray might well be a little startled, for there, at a glance, she had recognised the broad, firm hand which had grown to her so horrible.

  Miss Gray stood up straight. She recognised the evil face of this letter, and her heart sank.

  Her maid, with a frown and her lips pursed, was peering curiously in her frightened face.

  There was something beside the letter enclosed in the envelope — a small, hard substance. The odd emblem was on the seal as before, and the legend, “Choose which Dart.”

  She broke the seal, and impatiently plucked out the contents. The enclosure was a ring.

  “This is so like my pearl ring!” she said, touching it with her finger, and looking, in her maid’s face inquiringly. “When did I wear it last?”

  “I thought you had it on now, miss.”

  “No, no; look there, on the ring-stand.”

  “It ain’t there, miss, and ‘tain’t on your finger, and that’s it, returned in the note. You must have dropped it when you were out, or forgot it on the counter, maybe, in some shop.”

  Miss Gray took it up and scrutinized it near the candle’s flame.

  “It is my ring — it certainly is. How can this have happened?”

  “Wont the note tell you, miss?”

  Miss Gray read it in silence.

  “You have sent a fool on his last errand. I enclose you proof that I have been in your house, where for half an hour the sword hung over his head. In and out, up and down your house, like tame cats, we know pretty well what passes there, as you perceive. I have had the pleasure of sending you in succession two little reminders — a locket set with brilliants — and a pearl-hoop ring. On the day after tomorrow I shall have the honour to present you with a larger and more precious packet, containing a suitable memento of a meddler, viz., the right hand of Mr. Alfred Dacre packed in lint.”

  “What is the matter with you, miss; you look very bad,” said her maid.

  “Nothing, nothing, too late to send a message. What o’clock is it, Mersey?”

  “Past ten, miss. Halfpast and three minutes, please.”

  “How much? Is it too late? I suppose we had better send tomorrow,” said the young lady, with a puzzled air.

  “Too late for what, miss, please?”

  “Too late to send for Lord Ardenbroke, or — or for whom? Mr. Mannering — yes — yes — it must wait till morning.”

  “What is it, miss, nothing gone wrong, sure?”

  “You had better run down and ask Mrs. Wardell, with my love, whether she can come up to me for a moment, or — no — don’t mind. Stay here, please,” she continued, in a suddenly altered voice. “I have, — let me think. Yes — Mary Anne Mersey, you must answer me honestly the questions I shall ask you. I’ll begin at the beginning — let me think! I’m stunned, I believe — — “

  Miss Mersey stood bridling a little, and looked from the corners of her eyes, in the young lady’s face, expecting what might come.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  MARY ANNE MERSEY EXAMINED.

  “WHERE did you get this letter, Mary Anne?”

  “Where did I get it, Miss? La! It tumbled out of my pocket, when I pulled out my handkerchief.”

  “Oh, Mersey! How can you fancy I am to be put off so? How did you get possession of that letter? I must know. You know everything about it, and you shall tell me the truth.”

  “But I don’t know, miss, as I hope to be saved, miss, I don’t!”

  “It’s a conspiracy — it’s a conspiracy; those that ought to love me best are my betrayers. Oh, Mersey! how could you? Why are you so changed; what have I done; how can you league yourself with such wretches?”

  “But, miss, I’ve done nothing; may I choke if I tell you a lie.”

  “I’ll know what you have done. Yes; you shall tell me everything. Come, Mersey, you had better tell me the truth, or I’ll find those who will make you,” said the young lady, with a sudden and fierce change of manner.

  “I’ve nothing to tell, so help me!”

  “Come, come, speak truth. Who gave you that letter?”

  “No one, miss,” she replied, with sturdy vehemence.

  “Shame! Why you took it from your pocket!”

  “No I didn’t, miss. I didn’t, please. No such thing. When I drew out my handkerchief, the letter was in it, and fell on the carpet, please, which you saw it yourself, miss.”

  “Then, by fair means, you’ll tell me nothing?”

  “Fair or foul, miss, I’ve nothing to tell. I haved sawed nothing but what you have sawed yourself, miss, and I don’t care who says it. I know no more about it than you do, miss.”

  Laura Gray paused, gazing in her face.

  “I don’t know what to think. I’m half distracted. Mersey, you look
honest; you have been always a good girl. I conjure you, don’t deceive me; now, tell me all you know about it.”

  “I do tell you, miss, and it’s nothing. You, have made me ready to cry, you have; you misdoubt me so. It is very hard, it is.”

  And Miss Mary Anne Mersey began to whimper into her handkerchief.

  “You need not cry, Mersey. It is I who should cry, if anyone cries. But here it’s the fact. Some one in the house has been telling to people outside all that passes among us; our secret conversations, our visitors and their names, our plans; in short, everything. Who can it be? What am I to think? How can you have got this letter into your possession?”

  “It must have stuck in my handkerchief, miss, by chance. No one gave it me. I never knew I had it till it fell on the floor, and I’ll make oath to that anywhere you like, miss.”

  “It was not in the Postoffice. It has no mark. It must have come by a messengers hand. Some of the servants, then, must have put it into your pocket when you weren’t looking. No, Mersey, it was only for a moment the doubt took possession of me, in this great perplexity. I am sure you would not aid in this cruel annoyance. But there are persons in this house who do, and who betray us to dangerous people outside, and repeat everything that passes among us.”

  “I wonder could it have been that fortuneteller; I was just thinking, miss. But she was standing outside, and we looking. I don’t think she could.”

  “That did not strike me. They are such thieves, and do such things with so much sleight of hand. I should not wonder if it were she. I dare say it was.”

  Miss Laura Gray paused, thinking.

  “But I think I had seen her, or felt her; I’m sharp enough that way,” said Mary Anne.

  “Not so sharp as she though. Those people live by roguery and sleight of hand. The more I think of it, the more likely it seems. Don’t you remember she said that you would find something that would frighten me? Yes; and that some one would be in danger within a short time? It is only a guess though.”

  “Yes, your sweetheart, miss,” said Mary Anne Mersey, thoughtfully.

  Laura Gray blushed, and turned her eyes angrily on her maid, but there was not a suspicion of slyness; a grave and perfect good faith, on the contrary.

  “Well, there is a gentleman in danger, though he is nothing whatever of the kind, and if not in danger, actually, at all events, threatened with injury; and as I don’t fancy that gipsies are inspired, I believe she must have been told to say those things, and the only persons who could have told her are those who employ themselves in writing these letters — I mean this letter that fell from your handkerchief — don’t you see? Well, then, if that is so, all the rest is plain; for the same people who gave her her instructions wrote the letter, perhaps, but it is only conjecture; and is there any use in telling you to keep it secret? Will you promise to tell no one a word of what has passed, for two or three days, until, at least, I give you leave?”

  “Not to Mrs. Wardell, miss?”

  “Certainly not; but I meant particularly to the servants,” said the young lady.

  “Oh, no, miss, sure!” said Miss Mersey, so loftily that Laura felt almost moved to beg her pardon for having admitted a suspicion so vulgar.

  “Mersey, you must sleep in this room tonight; I am so nervous. I dare say I’m a great fool, but I can’t help it; and in the morning, with God’s blessing, I shall have advice, and take steps to prevent all this. You know this ring — my pearl-hoop — I did not wear it yesterday?”

  “I can’t say, Miss; I’m not quite sure.”

  “Did I the day before?”

  “I’m sure you wore it within the last three or four days, but I could not be sure which was the last, miss.”

  “Very well, Mersey, but you must not say a word of it; it will put people in this house on their guard if you do. That ring was taken out of this house, and has been returned; and it is not the first proof I have had that we are watched, and betrayed.”

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  CHARLES MANNERING’S MISSION.

  AT about eleven o’clock next morning, Charles Mannering knocked at the door of Guildford House. He had received an earnest little note, saying,— “If I was cross the other night, pray forgive me. I seriously want your help now. Don’t say so to Mr. Gryston, or to any other person. No one is to know that you suspect that anything has gone wrong, or that I want advice but come, and listen to the very odd story I have to tell, and, by doing so, you will help to relieve me of a real anxiety, and possibly save me from a real danger.”

  He was full of curiosity, and a masculine belief in the trivial nature of this feminine complication. Wondering, too, why he had been directed in a postscript to say nothing about the matter to her cousin, Julia Wardell. Now and then an unpleasant fancy that she might have glided into a romance, and begun to lose her way in its mazes, startled him with a momentary pang.

  “A shark — a fortune-hunter, very likely — how could she be so mad? But, after the vows she is fond of repeating, it is hardly credible that she should dream of throwing herself away upon that fellow, of whom she knows absolutely nothing.”

  In came Charles. He had not seen Laura Gray in the drawingroom window — but as he put off his coat in the hall, she opened the library door, and called him in.

  “First of all — we are good friends, you know?” said the young lady.

  You may quarrel with me, but I’ll not quarrel with you, Challys,” said he, looking at her very kindly and gently.

  So she put out her hand to him, and there was another greeting, silent, but very friendly — and he said with a smile —

  “Well, now, Challys, as we used to say at school, what’s the row?”

  “Shut the door — sit down there, and I’ll tell you. It’s a long story, Charles, and I’ll begin at the beginning.”

  And so she did, and Charles listened, and gravely read the documents as she placed them in his hands, but when he came to the last he laughed. She looked with something of surprise and reproof at him — and he laughed the more.

  “Well, really this is too good,” he exclaimed.

  “Too bad, I should have thought.”

  “You don’t mean to say you believe it?” said Charles Mannering.

  “Believe what?” she demanded.

  “This rubbish.”

  “What rubbish, sir? Do, pray, Charles Mannering, speak intelligibly, if you mean me — but perhaps you don’t — to understand you.”

  “Can you really believe that you are to receive Mr. Dacre’s hand — might it not be better to send his foot, the member he has put in it — made up in paper, and directed to Miss Gray, tomorrow evening? Can you really have brought yourself to believe such a piece of incredible burlesque?”

  “The whole thing, up to that, is incredible, and yet it has happened. Here, this locket for one thing. I asked Fleurise and Boyd what it is worth, and they say sixty guineas, and that it must have cost more than a hundred. Is it credible that any one should give away — to a total stranger — sixty guineas? You know it is monstrous. Is it credible, that the names of our visitors, and all my plans — though I scarcely speak them above my breath — should be known to people totally unknown to me — who yet seem resolved, by a kind of torture, to influence my conduct, and are animated by a hatred of that miserable Mr. Guy de Beaumirail, and who have discovered Mr. Dacre’s pursuit of them, and threaten to put him out of the way. It is like a dream.”

  Charles Mannering listened patiently.

  “And the night before last, while you were here, there came to the window of this room a wicked-looking little man — and the same little demon I saw just as I reached the drawingroom door, stepping into the hall; I felt, for a moment, as if I should have fainted, and I had the house searched, but there was no one; and only ten minutes later he came to the hall-door, and inquired whether Mr. Dacre was in the house. You see they have a system of spies and messengers — and my pearl ring was taken away, and returned — merely to show tha
t somehow they have access to the house, and that nothing is secure from them. Most unscrupulous they have proved themselves — cunning and savage — and their language is ferocious — and I can’t in the least comprehend their schemes. And now I ask you, in the midst of this odious labyrinth, what am I to think or do?”

  She paused, and as he did not tell her, she continued— “What am I to believe? I saw only the other day, in the newspaper, the discovery of a dead body described — supposed, it said, to be that of a French gentleman, who left his lodging about ten days before. See how easy it is to murder without detection, in this great, wicked city — and, this morning, there is an account of some pieces of a human body, part of a foot and ankle — you will see it in the newspaper — tied up in a basket under the seat of a railway carriage, where it was left by some unknown person. And now, with all this, and things like it, continually happening in this vicious city, you say it is incredible that a stranger like Mr. Dacre should be murdered and cut in pieces. I wont argue more about it, it is disgusting, and frightful, and has haunted me all night.”

  “Relieve your mind upon that point, however; it was simply said to terrify you. I assure you such a hoax would not have been attempted upon any one but an inexperienced girl like you — the idea of giving you notice! Do you fancy that a murderer meditating such a thing would apprize you beforehand, when you would merely have to send a friend to mention the matter to the police, to have detectives placed all about to secure the examination, and the person, if need be, of every messenger who came to your door.”

  “You want to comfort me, Charles; it is very kind; but your argument wont do. I thought of all that. But, suppose a very nice carriage, with servants and all proper appointments, were to drive up to the door, in the afternoon, and a nice old lady to inquire particularly how I was, and leave a card, and also a parcel, would not that pass muster? or, suppose the public carrier should deliver the parcel; or one of my tradespeople, to whose shop it might be brought, should innocently send it here — there are so many ways of doing such a thing, with almost no risk of detection, and people who can deliver a letter like that here, and nobody be able to say how it came, could certainly do what they threaten. The best way, as it strikes me, to prevent their sending, is to apprize Mr. Dacre, who is primarily interested, of their designs.”