Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “The gentleman who came in here this minute, can you tell me where he is?”

  “Mr. Goldshed?”

  No, Mr. Dacre; two gentlemen came in here together?”

  “Oh! yes, I know him — gone in to see Mr. de Beaumirail — well, sir?”

  Well, what was to be his next step? He had cooled by this time.

  “Do you want him, sir?”

  “Well, as he’s gone in to see a friend, you say, it will answer me another time. I’ll — yes — I shall see him elsewhere, tomorrow, or — that will do. Will you allow me to light my cigar?”

  And with this disjointed address, and his cigar glowing, he turned his back upon Mr. Blunt, and full of conjecture, as to what Mr. Dacre could possibly want of De Beaumirail, whom he professed to detest, he returned to his cab.

  “Not too late to follow them to Brompton,” he thought, as he looked at his watch under the lamp.

  After all this devious excursion had been accomplished at such a pace that less time than one would have supposed had been wasted upon it. So away he went, having bribed the cabman with a handsome promise, through the still bustling town to the then comparatively rural and sequestered suburb of Old Brompton.

  CHAPTER IX.

  A WORD IN HASTE.

  “OH, Charlie, you’re a good creature, after all,” said Challys Gray. “I’m so glad you have come.”

  So gay and kindly was her voice, that half his jealousy and all his gloom vanished as he spoke.

  “Glad — really glad — well! I’m rewarded. Did you like the singing — was it worth so long a drive, and so unprotected a — what shall I call it?”

  “A frolic,” said Challys Gray— “quite worth it; and I advise you to look in and listen, and Julia Wardell will lend you her white Cashmere shawl, and you’ll not have the trouble even of taking off your hat. But what do you mean by unprotected? I’ll tell you — you mean a question. You men are always accusing us poor women of practising small duplicities and indirections, and, alas, what an example do you set us? For instance, by introducing that one little word, you contrive to ask me, without seeming to do so — did you and Julia Wardell go by yourselves?”

  He laughed.

  “It is so well reasoned, I can’t find it in my heart to deny it.”

  “Well, I’ll meet that confession by telling you as frankly, we did go by ourselves, and witnessed the whole thing without a protector — not among the gentlemen in shawls, but among the ladies in great coats.”

  He fancied that she said all this to acquit herself of having been accompanied by Mr. Dacre. There was something unspeakably gratifying in this. Charles’s spirit effervesced.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Wardell, lowering her book of fashions — in which she had been studying a lady in gigot sleeves, smiling over her left shoulder, with pink gloves on, and a lilac pelisse— “all we ladies were shut up together in the gallery, with a little grille before us, so that no one could see us from the lower part of the chamber, or whatever it is, and very comfortably we saw and heard it all. I was rather amused — I mean, of course, it’s wrong to say exactly that of a place of — of — is it exactly worship — now that the Jews, you know, are under a curse?”

  “We did not act on that though. We sat there as discreetly as the most orthodox Jewess; and very delightful, really, the singing was.”

  “I saw Dacre there,” said Charles, who by a glance had ascertained that Mrs. Wardell was deep in her fashions again.

  “Yes,” said Laura, a little dryly.

  “Had he anything to tell worth hearing?”

  “No; nothing yet but good hopes.”

  “In what direction do his hopes point?” said Charles.

  “He expects a discovery very soon.”

  “I think I have made a little discovery myself in the meantime,” said Charles.

  “About whom?” she asked, raising her eyes suddenly.

  “About Mr. Dacre,” he said, with a faint smile, returning her gaze as steadily.

  “Oh,” said Laura, also with a smile, growing a little pale, and then suddenly blushing and looking away.

  She looked back again at him a little fiercely, quite straight. He was still smiling, but his face was sad and pale.

  “Now, Charlie, here we are, a pair of fools,” she said, with a gay laugh. “You look at me as if you suspected me of high treason, or worse, if worse can be; and I, like an idiot as I am, blush, as usual, without a reason. Was ever so provoking a trick? I always do it. It is quite enough if I particularly wish not to blush. I am always sure to blush at the wrong moment. One day when we were all together in the drawingroom at Gray Forest, and dear papa reading his newspaper by the window, in came old Medlicot, the housekeeper, in consternation, to report that one of three West Indian fruits — they were like ripe figs — I remember them very well, and a great curiosity, to have been pronounced upon that day after dinner by the collective wisdom — one of them was missing. Dear papa laid down his paper; you were talking to my poor sister, and you were silent. She looked up from her drawing at old Medlicot; and I, what did I do? — I blushed, neck, forehead, all scarlet. I held up my head as long as I could; but I felt the brand of guilt glowing on my cheeks. My eyes dropped to the carpet, and, in an agony of conscious innocence, I burst into tears. My father told old Medlicot it did not matter. I know he thought I had taken it, and was sparing my feelings. I think you all thought I had eaten it — and there never was a time when I could have done so mean a thing — or hid it, if I had, but I didn’t; and dear Maud understood me when I told her, and laughed and kissed me, and pitied me ever so much. Poor Maud, she understood me, and always judged me charitably, through all my furies and follies, and made much of the little good that was in me, and made the best of all the bad.”

  As she spoke, Challys Gray got up and went to the window, which was open, and looked out.

  A very different scene it was from the lordly timber, the broad river, and high wooded banks which one saw from the great window of Gray Forest. Very different, too, from the still, sultry sea, under the brilliant moon of Naples, with which, for two winters, her eye had grown familiar. Still there was something she liked — something even of poetry, in the dim night view of the tufted trees, and homely and irregular buildings.

  “I’ll bid you goodnight, I believe,” said Julia Wardell, waking gently, and putting her worsteds into her work-basket. “Would you mind touching the bell, Charles? Thanks;” and, giving her dog in charge of the servant, he conveyed the brute upstairs, where, at Mrs. Wardell’s door, her maid received the dog and his mistress.

  A tête-à-tête with Charlie Mannering was nothing — very like uncle and niece, brother and sister — what less romantic?

  “Yes, Challys,” he said, when he had closed the door after Julia Wardell, “one other person does understand you perfectly. You are a very odd person, very inconvenient, very like an angel — for I do believe nothing on earth would tempt you to tell a fib. No, from the time you were a tiny little thing, no higher than that, when I was a great clumsy fellow of seventeen, and you a little girl of nine — always quite true. How did it happen? I wonder whether anyone else ever so walked in the light as you, Challys?”

  Come, Charlie, this is quite new. I hardly know you. I expected a lecture instead — wholesome bitters, and here is a shower of bonbons.”

  “Well, I used, I believe, to lecture you a great deal more than I had any business to do, but I don’t think I have ventured for a long time; that conceited custom has fallen into disuse, hasn’t it?”

  “Too long, Charlie, I like old customs, and I think it would do me good.”

  “Really, Challys?”

  “Really, for at the worst, I should laugh at it, and laughter is about the pleasantest exercise we have. But what is your discovery, pray, about Mr. Dacre? for since I have employed him in this odd business, I should like to know.”

  “He told you, didn’t he, that he did not know De Beaumirail, and I’ve discover
ed that he does know him, and visits him frequently in the debtors’ prison.”

  “No, on the contrary, he said very distinctly he did know him: he never said anything else; but he did say that he didn’t like him.”

  “Oh!” said Charles Mannering, in a disappointed tone, “I’m very glad! Then my discovery amounts to nothing, but I suppose he’ll have something to say about his interview?”

  “I don’t think you like him much, Charlie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t afford him a good word.”

  “I know next to nothing about him,” answered Charles, “and the little I do know, I confess I don’t like. People have a good deal to say of him that is not quite pleasant. I have heard some odd things. I’m not quite certain, that is, I don’t quite rely upon them yet, but I’ll make out, and you shall hear.”

  “I don’t expect any marvels, Charlie, at least about him. By the time Ardenbroke comes back all reasons for secrecy will have disappeared, and we shall hear all about him. In the meantime it doesn’t matter. I’m much more anxious to learn something about those people — shut the window, I grow nervous whenever I think of them — the people who have been writing those letters, and I did not thank you half enough for all the trouble you have been taking.”

  “I only wish, Challys, I could deserve your thanks in any way.”

  “Yes, indeed, Charlie, I am very much obliged; and suppose we talk of Gray Forest again, and old times. I think they were very happy times. I shall never be so happy again.”

  “Yes, you may — you will — happier than ever. It is I who have reason to despond, to despair.”

  “Indeed!” laughed Challys. “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “No, thanks, I shan’t tell my story — you’d be sure to laugh at it; you’ve begun already.”

  “I told you before, I should like that extremely.”

  “Yes; but I shouldn’t — no, I could not bear that.”

  Challys looked wonderingly at him for a moment. For that moment she was a little puzzled.

  “Is he going,” she thought, “to make me his confidante?”

  “I could tell you a great deal, Challys, but it is better not — you’d think me a fool; and as you say you like laughing, you’d be sure to laugh at me.”

  She looked at him again. He was not more embarrassed, she thought, than a shy man might be, who was on the point of disclosing to a third person the secret of a romance.

  “Surely, Charles, you are not going to have such a secret and hide it from me?”

  It was Charles’s turn now to glance at his companion’s face — beautiful, kind; was it more than kind? Grave. What was he to make of that look? But might not there be a great deal — everything in that invitation — so appealing and quite irresistible. And if her looks betrayed no more — was she not a girl, and what spirit so cautious?

  “Well, Challys, I have a story to tell.”

  She listened only. How beautiful she looked, as she leaned on the side of the window, listening! He could have kissed the clumsy old window-frame for her sake.

  “May I tell it?”

  “I’m waiting to hear, Charles.”

  “Well, Challys, perhaps, you have guessed it. I’ve tried to hide it even from myself, but it would not do — I can’t. I tell you Challys, I have loved you without knowing it for years; I know it now, perhaps, too late. I adore you; if you can ever like me, darling — ever — don’t answer now — ever so little; let me hope and wait, for years — any time you please, only don’t decide in a moment against me. If you could ever — any time — ever so long — and if not — you’ll laugh at me, Challys, for an hour, and then forget me for ever.”

  “Forget you!” She looked very angry; there was a brilliant flush in her cheeks. “Never, while a sense of the ridiculous remains to me. We shall never shake hands again.”

  There was silence for some seconds, and his ear tingled with these words.

  “It is very hard I can’t have a friend!” exclaimed Challys Gray vehemently. “Is there no such relation on earth as a friend and a kinsman? Why will you form your ideas of us girls from bad plays, and even farces? Nothing but lovers! You can’t have meant that folly. You shall forget it, Charlie, and so will I, and I’ll forgive you.”

  There was another silence. Charles was pushing the window as if he meant to raise it, he did not know why, but he turned to Challys, and looked at her —

  “I think you might have spoken a little more kindly,” said he at last, with the gentleness of utter disappointment.

  “And if I had, you’d have thought I did not mean what I say, and it would have gone for nothing.”

  “I think you may be quite distinct, Challys, and yet kind.”

  “No, the unkindness is in being distinct, and if I were less distinct you would not have understood me. Now come, old Charlie, you usen’t to be so foolish, and you must give up all this to please me. If I did not like you very much, in the way I choose, I should not ask you. Yes, you must, now and here, make a solemn vow — you must I swear an unalterable indifference, and let us be a pair of steadfast friends, for I do like you; and I should hate to lose you, and I will give you my hand again. There, kind old Charlie, you have made me sorry.” And she hastily shook him by the hand, and ran away.

  He was stung, he was mortified, he was grieved; his heart was very full, for he liked her still, better than ever, I think.

  He continued looking at the door for some time, as if he could see her still in the air, and then he turned and leaned on the window-sash, looking out on the starlight, and the blurred and silent landscape, and he wept in silence some very bitter tears.

  CHAPTER X.

  NEW PLANS.

  NOW, here was an heiress; and what was Charles Mannering, that he should aspire to her hand? There was nothing very monstrous in it, however, even in temporal matters, for Charles Mannering had some very good certainties, and much better possibilities; and, I must do him the justice to say, that he would have acted precisely as he did, if she had not fifty pounds to her dowry.

  To a man such as he, with a somewhat rough exterior, yet sensitive, simple, and, in some respects, very reserved, the fear of vulgar misapprehension renders such advantages as those enjoyed by Miss Laura Challys Gray a real impediment in the way of free avowal in such romantic situations.

  It was a long walk to his lodgings that night, for it was too late to find a cab, and in truth he preferred the walk to reaching home more easily and swiftly.

  Until this Mr. Dacre had appeared, he had not suspected the actual state of his heart. Then the alarm of jealousy rang out. Then the danger of losing her was real. But the crisis of this evening had stolen upon him, and a great revolution befallen him unawares.

  Now that he had got home to his lodgings, what was there for him to think about? Still one problem of intense interest. If he could be sure that she did not care for Alfred Dacre, the light of hope would spring up again.

  After all, was it not natural, owing to very special circumstances, that Dacre should be employed, and, being employed, that he should be admitted to confer confidentially in this odd and unpleasant affair; and except in these circumstances, which might just as well exist if Dacre were an old fellow of five-and-fifty, was there anything to alarm, much less to sink him in despair? No, he must not be too much cast down.

  But how would Challys receive him? On second thoughts, would she banish him? In the morning he had resumed that catechism of a hundred questions, with which in like circumstances an ingenious man can always torment himself.

  A very welcome light came — a little lamp in the shape of a note, in the hand of Challys Gray, lay on his table in the morning. It said —

  “You are to come to us to tea, Charlie. I shall have ever so many things to consult you about. I intend to set you down to study maps and handbooks, and make a comprehensive plan of travel for us, for I begin to grow tired of Guildford House; and for this and other reasons I think �
� but sage as you are, you must not vaunt your superior prescience — I think, I say, sir, I shall lead a wandering life, for a time, and peep at all places worth looking at. And now I must tell you my part of the plan. Your business in London is a make-belief — you don’t want it, and it doesn’t want you; you shall take your leave of that sham, and enlarge your mind, and. improve your tastes, like us, by seeing the world; every nunnery admits a lay-brother, a porter, or something, and our sisterhood (you remember I am a nun of that strict order who lead apes in the Elysian fields) can’t travel so conveniently alone; so you really must make up your mind, old Charlie, and help to take care of us. I should not half enjoy it if you were not of the party. Julia Wardell and an inflexible old maid, may not be the most interesting companions in the world; but we are cheerful, and quite free from that dismal ingredient of human nature called romance. So once for all, Charlie, come you must. Do come, or I shan’t believe that you forgive as easily as I forget, and I shall write a great deal more formally in future.”

  Now here were two very consolatory sheets of notepaper, for not only did they restore him quite to his old place, but they seemed to say very clearly that Challys Gray, although she would brook no lovemaking, was yet fancy-free, and quite as resolute a spinster as ever. The sense of relief was immense. He could almost have found it in his heart, at the moment, to forgive Dacre.

  So the edifice overthrown but the night before, rose up again from the rubbish of its ruin at that pleasant spell. Happy compensation, that the hopes of lovers are as easily excited as their fears!

  Notwithstanding what had passed, it was therefore with a lighter heart than he had carried for some time before, that he walked up the double line of old trees to the hall-door of Guildford House.

  A little sad as he drew near, but relieved at least of one terrible uncertainty — a little nervous about meeting Challys, but still happy that the way was not closed against him — he heard on a sudden a pleasant voice in the air calling —