Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “Welcome, welcome!”

  “Thanks, Challys, a thousand thanks!” said he, looking up to the flowers and the pretty face in the drawingroom window.

  “We are busy over the map of Europe, and at Murray’s Handbooks. Come up and help us.”

  No one could have told by Charles’s looks or manner that his heart was beating so fast, and that he hardly knew for a minute, or two what he was saying; neither would a shrewder observer than Julia Wardell have suspected from Challys Gray’s greeting that so decisive and odd an interview had occurred so lately.

  “I was thinking of Italy,” said Miss Gray, pointing with a laugh to the open atlas, and the litter of handbooks about it.

  “But I have just read a few such awful words of Mr. Murray’s, about mosquitos, and the summer sun, that I shall certainly take Italy rather late; and I find myself so tired of geography, and so very ignorant of latitudes and longitudes, that I must ask you to help us at our next lesson; and you know we have time enough to decide in, for Mr. Gryston says there are things for me to sign before I go, that wont be ready till the end of June.”

  “Oh! I fancied you were going more suddenly.”

  “What a pity we can’t!” Julia Wardell threw in; “and I don’t think the hot weather, if it weren’t for the flies, would matter at all. I like warm weather; I’ve known people say they could not sleep in hot weather, but I never found it disagree, with me.”

  “Well, Julia dear, we’ll consult again tomorrow, and Charles shall look in and help, us — wont you? — and we’ll settle something; but I think we have puzzled over maps so long this evening, that I should like to see that great book shut up and not opened for a week again. Do, pray, shut it, Charles.”

  And as she spoke she went to the window, and sat down on the stool there, looking out; and Charles joined her — the window at which only last night they had stood in that strange colloquy; and the page on which that dialogue was inscribed Challys had taken out of the record of their lives — and that history was going on, just as if that passage had never been written.

  “What was that you mentioned yesterday about Mr. Dacre’s going to see that wretched man, De Beaumirail?” asked Miss Gray, after a moment’s silence.

  Charles recounted the circumstance.

  “I suppose he speaks ill of me to every one,” said Challys Gray, after a brief silence; “I can’t help it. I wish to Heaven some one less superstitious, or nervous, or whatever it is, had the responsibility of his fate cast upon them. I can’t get over my horror of interposing to disturb. I don’t argue it; it, is not a matter of reason, I’ve told you, but one of instinct — superstition overpowering conviction. I can’t change myself — nothing can alter me; and all the time he is describing me in such colours; and it does seem so cruel and I can’t help it.”

  “If Mr. Dacre allows him to speak ill of you in his presence, I don’t think it matters one farthing what he thinks of anybody,” said Charles.

  “I had another teazing note this morning from that poor old clergyman, Mr. Parker; he’s so good, and so foolish. So far from sympathising., he can’t even understand what I mean.”

  Charles Mannering smiled, but he forbore the old dispute.

  “Another reason why I don’t care to go immediately,” she said, suddenly recurring to a former part of their conversation, “is that I don’t choose those people, whoever they are, who want to frighten me, to fancy that they have driven me away. Everything, I expect, will be quiet in a very little time; the people who gave me all that annoyance will be found out, and stand disarmed and at my mercy. Then I shall go. But they shan’t bully me; and here comes tea. Shall I give you some?”

  CHAPTER XI.

  DE BEAUMIRAIL.

  “WHAT kind of tea do you think this is?” asked Miss Gray of her guest.

  Charles raised his cup to his lips.

  While they are sipping their early tea, and talking with the volatility of youth, by this time, on quite other subjects, the reader of these pages is reminded, by the little dialogue at the close of the last chapter, that he has not visited De Beaumirail since his despairing and bitter conference with the worthy old clergyman.

  How, meanwhile, did it fare with the prisoner? He was not better — worse. He lay on his bed. He had sent for his friend, perhaps his only friend, Mr. Parker.

  He entered the dismal bedroom of the prodigal; very tired he seemed at the end of his breathless journey down the road to ruin. He lay in that ample dressing-gown which his few visitors knew so well. His arm was on the pillow; his forehead pillowed on his arm.

  When the old clergyman stept to the bedside, there lay Monsieur de Beaumirail, prone and motionless, his face buried in his arm, little to be seen of him but his long locks lying over that arm, those long folds of shawl drapery, and, lower down, one foot slippered, the other from which the slipper had fallen.

  Have you seen tired or drunken men. He so unstrung and still that they seem to have sunk into the surface that sustains them? Here was a fellow, neither drunk nor yet tired, Heaven knows, by physical exercise, but pressed down by a load immeasurable, who lay like a dead man, sunk down together and into himself, but not by the hand of death — perhaps by a heavier sorrow.

  “Mr. de Beaumirail,” murmured the clergyman, placing just his fingertips timidly on the coverlet. “Mr. de Beaumirail — pray, sir, are you worse?”

  “No, sir. I don’t know — I don’t care.”

  “Has your doctor been with you, sir?”

  “I — upon my honour, I forget. Does it matter to anyone?”

  “I thought you might not have been so well. I fancied he might not have been as well satisfied.”

  “Visitation of the sick — I know — thank you — nothing of the kind,” said the prisoner gruffly.

  “Would there be any use in my again calling upon Miss Gray? I ventured to write a line to her this morning.”

  “I’m sorry you did. None in the world. It has come to this, that even were you to succeed with her now, it could not do me the slightest good,” said he. “The wand, one touch of which, in her hand, would have transformed the reptile you see here into a free man, has passed from her cruel fingers into a stronger grasp, and is broken; that chance is gone, and I am a very slave. I’m talking allegories.”

  “Well, sir?” said the clergyman.

  “And very hackneyed ones,” said De Beaumirail. “It is well to masquerade our degradations in any sort of disguise.”

  “But what, pray, has happened, sir, in plain terms?” asked the old man.

  “I have fallen into the hands of villains.”

  “Villains! Very strong language. I hope not, sir,” said Mr. Parker dissuasively.

  “Here I lie, sir, with the fangs of one — two — three — four wolves holding me fast.”

  “Well, now, your interpretation?”

  “A gang of sharpers — a gang of sharpers?” cried De Beaumirail.

  “What have they done?”

  “They have bought up all my debts, except hers. A bargain, sir, I suspect — don’t you? I don’t think you’d back me to pay a shilling in the pound. Eh?”

  “I never make wagers, sir,” said the old clergyman.

  “So much the better, unless you have the talent of making a book.”

  “I don’t quite follow you, sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Parker, they have bought up all the debts, except Miss Gray’s. There’s an attorney, there’s a Scotchman — — “

  “Some of my best friends — some of the best people on earth — are Scotchmen, sir,” expostulated the clergyman with some ardour, and a little indignation.

  “Yes, very good fellows among them, no doubt; but they’re a d —— d sensible people, sir; their heads are a great deal harder and longer than yours or mine, and I pay a compliment to the nationality when I say I’d rather deal with any rogue than a Scotch one. Yes, there’s an attorney, and a Scotchman, and two Jews, sir. You see what a vice I have got into; and if Miss Laura Ch
allys Gray, whose cruelty has brought me to this pass, wished ever so much now to undo the crime against all human feeling she has committed — she no longer could; so bend the knee no more at her shrine — that divinity is deposed. And what news of Alfred Dacre? — have you heard anything of him lately? — is he still in London? — curse him! I beg your pardon — I’ll say bless him, if that will do.”

  “I don’t know — I’m not aware — I’m not in the way of hearing,” he replied.

  “Then you haven’t been to see Miss Gray; for I’m told he’s in her house like a tame cat. She has got me into a bad fix, and herself into worse,” he laughed.

  “No, I’ve not heard of him since,” replied the clergyman.

  “Well, last night, one of those wretches who haunt me, brought me his card. You’ll see it on the chimneypiece. I would not see him; and since I’ve been thinking that possibly he was not here at all. I’m encircled by a bell of deception.”

  “I can throw no light upon it.”

  “I should like to know one thing,” returned De Beaumirail, sitting up— “what motive he can possibly have for pursuing a poor devil like me as he does. You did not mention my rash language about Miss Gray, and my resolution to punish her, to any one?”

  “I regarded that, Sir, exactly as you described it — as so many mad and reckless words. I knew very well that reflection would come to your aid, and that you could not mean it.”

  De Beaumirail looked down with a musing smile on his ring, and, still smiling, his angry eyes looked suddenly in the old man’s face, and said he —

  “I did mean every word I said, and I did not speak without having measured my strength and my weakness. Challys Gray shall suffer the most exemplary punishment that ever befell a vindictive woman; and if she employs Mr. Dacre any longer as a detective, he shall be suddenly relieved of his office, and she frightened half out of her wits; and you have my permission to tell her what I say.”

  “You threaten that young lady in cold blood!” exclaimed the old man, in indignant horror.

  “Threaten her! Oh, fie! My worthy friend, be charitable. I don’t threaten. Observe the distinction — the miscreant De Beaumirail threatens, say you. The prophet De Beaumirail predicts, say I.”

  But we must return from our excursion to Guildford House, and the little party whom we left there over their teacups.

  “Well,” answered Charles Mannering, setting down his cup. “It is not gunpowder, is it?”

  You observe that Charles has just answered the question with which this chapter opened, so that the little episode involved really no interruption, not even of a second.

  CHAPTER XII.

  SONGS.

  GRADUALLY twilight came and moonlight, and the lamp at which Mrs. Wardell, worked, and it was night.

  Quite friendly, quite in the old vein, and to all outward seeming, quite unembarrassed, was the conversation, and on it flowed — not very profound, but careless, gay, and various.

  Charles sat in that statuesque pose, which we may describe as riding upon his chair, with his elbows on the back of it, recounting one of those comic school adventures which are remembered with such a sense of their fun, at a much longer distance. He was looking at pretty Challys Gray, who sat listening and amused by the window as his recital proceeded in low tones.

  His back was turned toward the door, so that he could not see, why on a sudden, Challys blushed so deeply, and looked so prettily embarrassed.

  He looked round, and saw Mr. Dacre smiling in the doorway.

  “I’m very audacious,” laughed Dacre. “I know I should have waited for an invitation; but having an hour I could not resist, so I ventured, and I hope I’m forgiven.”

  “We are always very happy to see you, Mr. Dacre,” interposed Mrs. Wardell. “It is very good of you, knowing how very lonely we are here.”

  “The odious puppy!” thought Charles, “with his airs of acceptance, and affectation of modesty!”

  “Mr. Mannering, our cousin,” she said, introducing that gentleman. The dignity of his rising was embarrassed a good deal by his attitude, but Mr. Dacre went upon his former introduction, and smiled, and spoke a word or two, as to an acquaintance.

  “How encouraging!” thought Charles. “It is really too good; I’m the stranger — he’s quite at home. I suppose he does the honours here, and lectures the servants.”

  Charles was resolved, however, that he should not lead the conversation, so he instantly began —

  “By-the-bye, I met that woman you both like so much, Mrs. Mauley,” said Charles Mannering, with a playful irony.

  “Oh! Really!” moaned Laura.

  “Dear me, how horrid!” exclaimed Mrs. Wardell, more energetically.

  “And I think she meditates a visit. She said she heard you were in town, and asked me where you were,” continued Charles.

  “You did not tell her, I hope?” said Julia Wardell, looking straight in his face, with round eyes of horror.

  “I shall leave, London at once,” said Laura.

  “But did you tell her?” demanded the elder lady.

  “Well, you know she asked me quite straight if I knew where you were,” said Charles.

  “And you told her?” said Mrs. Wardell.

  “Challys, you know, would be angry if I told an untruth,” said he.

  “Then you did tell her?” said the old lady.

  “What did you say, Charles?” implored Laura.

  “Well, Challys, I’ll relieve you, I lied; I said I did not know.”

  “There’s no harm on earth in a polite fib now and then when one can’t help it,” said good Mrs. Wardell.

  “I don’t like it, though; I feel very small after I have told one,” said he.

  “I don’t in the least,” said Mrs. Wardell. “What do you say, Mr. Dacre?”

  “I? Oh, of course, I’m for simplicity — whatever is most convenient. If truth answers best, tell truth; if otherwise, fib. In nine cases out of ten, the fib is the more convenient. Human nature is too irascible, life is too short, for veracity. Why should I follow the phantom truth into quags and briars, with the straight path of mendacity before me? Wounded self-love never forgives; by all means let us spare it. For my part I lie quite frankly, whenever my duty to others or myself invites.”

  The young man laughed, and his eye glanced on Laura. There was in her look a pained hesitation, as if she doubted whether he was in jest or earnest; but she said nothing. She took up a book that lay on the table, and leaned back as if engrossed by it.

  “I don’t agree with you at all,” said Charles Mannering. “Everyone, I suppose, tells an untruth now and then; but I hate it. I’m not a bit better than other fellows, but that’s not my talent or taste. No, I don’t agree with you.”

  “On that point?” asked Dacre.

  “Yes,” said Charles; “I don’t.”

  “I think you’ll find you do.”’

  “Well, I hope I know myself, at least on that point.”

  “And now, Miss Gray, I’m going to acquit myself,” said Dacre. “I not only agree with Mr. Mannering, but I go further. What I just now said is simply farce. I have suffered as much as any one from falsehood — too much not to hate it; no one on earth is more strict about truth than I. It is the solid foundation of all character, without it the most attractive is but sentiment, impulse, and illusion; it may be beautiful, but as baseless as the rainbow. Nothing so beautiful as truth.”

  Challys Gray felt that his glowing eyes were fixed on her, and she said —

  “Well, we are all pretty well agreed, except Julia. You’re the only sinner of the party.”

  “Oh! don’t say that,” said Dacre. “I’m bad enough; I only venture to give myself a character for truth, and when I give up that, I give myself up; at the same time, I’m profoundly mysterious.”

  “Now, Charles, it’s your turn to give an account of yourself,” said Mrs. Wardell.

  “Thanks! If I had studied myself carefully enough, and, if I had
a proper sense of my importance, perhaps I might expect you to listen; but I really can’t talk of myself, where I’m not quite sure of admiration, and I almost fancy there are other people who interest me more.”

  Dacre laughed goodhumouredly.

  “Modesty is one of the noble attributes; but what is a fellow to do who was born conceited — and that is my hard case? I’m not so bad as I was, though; one learns what one is, as years increase, and I hope I may yet come to be half as modest as I ought to have been at my best.”

  “I think you’re quite modest enough, Mr. Dacre. I never could see the good of having too low an opinion of one’s self.”

  “You are too goodnatured, Mrs. Wardell — too indulgent; but as I get on, I’m not so much my hero — I’m less in love with my follies; one tires of sugar — one tires even of the looking-glass; there are other things besides what is termed pleasure — other people besides one’s self. Will you, Miss Gray, do me a great kindness?” he said, suddenly transferring himself to her side, and lowering his voice as he reached it. “Would you mind playing that charming thing of Beethoven’s?”

  “Don’t ask me this evening — I feel that it would make me so sad. And — and have you heard anything more?” So said Miss Gray, looking inquiringly into his eyes for a moment. Charles was almost unconsciously watching them with a covert side glance, and he saw still on her cheek the tinge of that blush.

  He turned away, stung and alarmed; his pride and jealousy were awake again, and he entered on a little careless conversation with Mrs. Wardell on a new book upon the treatment, education, and dietetics of lapdogs, which interested that good lady so earnestly that she set down her crochet and discussed the whole matter with a mind greedy of knowledge, if also a little dogmatic.

  “I expected to ascertain something last night,” said Dacre. “I went, after I had the pleasure of seeing you, to the prison, for the purpose of seeing De Beaumirail, but he would not admit me. I pressed it all I could, but a perverse demon had got possession of him, — and he resolutely refused to see me. I’m quite certain he will, though. I brought an influence with me; but next time I shall bring one still more powerful. Rely upon me. I never yet took a thing up that I did not carry through; so don’t lose faith in me, because my discovery has been postponed from day to day.”