Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  She was looking with a melancholy gaze in his eyes as he spoke.

  “Oh! no, I ought, I am sure I ought, and yet I can’t — no, no, no, I can’t say that!” she said.

  “God for ever bless you, darling, for that hope.”

  “I think, Mr. Dacre,” she said in a kind of wild dejection, “you know what kind of person I am, and all my faults; and this too I must tell you — I’m ambitious, not in the way the world esteems ambition, but if I were ever to like anyone, it must be one whom in secret my heart could be proud of. I thought I should never meet one, and I know not how it may be, and no one knows the height and depth of their own madness; but I think if I told you now never to come again, and sent you from me untried, I should have parted with my one wild hope. So you’ll come again, and again, and again, till I know you better; and oh! what have I said!”

  And she was silent. He too, was silent, radiant with happiness and pride. His heart fluttered up in the rekindled flame of hope, and his brain — the camera obscura within that handsome head — was already alight and astir with the scenery and figures of a hundred Quixotic plans and visions.

  “And now my life is devoted, Challys, you’ll see what I’ll become.”

  Another little pause followed. Her hand was in her own possession now, her face was no longer pale and wild — the beautiful blush had returned.

  “And now,” said odd Challys Gray, with A sudden awaking to her old, grave, imperious manner, “you are to do exactly what I tell you; you resume exactly your old ways — and — no romance — remember — and — so go to the piano and sing me a song, for Julia Wardell is nodding, and we must awake her.”

  With a flush on his cheek also, and eyes unusually brilliant, he crossed the floor and obeyed.

  It was but a verse or two of a little French song, and when it ended, good Mrs.

  Wardell, who did not care that her nap should be suspected, said vivaciously —

  “A thousand thanks! I think, Laura, he never sang so well as this evening; and he has kept it up so. I am sure we are extremely obliged. Ain’t we, Laura?”

  “It is very pretty. I like those gay little French things, with just a suspicion of sadness,” said she.

  “Something theatric, too — a pretty affectation,” said Dacre. “The volatility and light enthusiasm of the people is in their music. Is there, I wonder, anywhere, a collection of the music of the Revolution? We know only two or three things — the Marseillaise and Caira, and no doubt there was character in them all — a romantic vein of ruffianism.”

  “That, I think, and refinement, are oftener found associated in France than anywhere else,” said Laura Gray, talking, though with an effort, as usual.

  “The French revolution was a very awful time. I’ve heard my dear mother talk about it as a thing she could remember,” said Mrs.

  Wardell. “The time when the poor King and Queen were so near getting over the frontier. It was so interesting, poor things, and so horribly provoking. What’s that noise out there?”

  “It must be my brougham,” said Dacre, walking to the open window. “Yes, indeed, driving up to the door, as a hint to me that I am boring the horses to death by singing so much here.”

  At the same time the silvery ring of the little clock over the chimney told twelve.

  “Twelve o’clock!” exclaimed Julia Wardell, who had counted carefully. I hadn’t an idea. It is very rude of me; but you’re so friendly, Mr. Dacre, you don’t mind — and, Laura, my dear, you know you are never so late as this. How time glides away, especially when one listens to such music as Mr. Dacre makes.”

  “Yes,” said Dacre, with a sigh, “I have quite exceeded my privilege.”

  He looked hesitatingly at Miss Gray; but she made no sign, and he dare not propose to outstay Mrs. Wardell’s outspoken advice.

  So “goodnights “were exchanged, and Dacre, with a wild elation at his heart, drove in a dream into town.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  VISITORS IN DE BEAUMIRAIL’S SITTING-BOOM.

  IN the Fleet Prison, now happily no more, Mr de Beaumirail had two apartments, — as good, I dare say, as were to be had in that melancholy barrack of the broken-down soldiers of fortune. There was that gentleman’s sitting-room, where he entertained his visitors — few and far between; and beyond it, his bedroom; melancholy apartments, where the day limped tediously away as Richard’s night; and their solitary tenant, in his long silk dressing-gown, fluttered slowly back and forward, or moped sourly with his hands in his pockets at the windows.

  Outside his own windows stood — two on each stone — four sooty scarlet geraniums, an anonymous souvenir of a damsel in temporary distress, who had occupied a room on the other side, and who had fallen silently in love with him, while he, such is destiny, did not know her from Adam.

  The windows were stained and mottled, as if, in that dingy climate, it rained always thin mud in summer, and snowed nothing but dust and soot-flakes in Christmas weather.

  A neighbour — a Crown debtor, I believe, who was to emerge no more, and liked the songs of birds — had a blind canary which seemed to be always moulting, but sang very cheerfully, notwithstanding, from its cage, which hung outside the window, and gave De Beaumirail a share of its monotonous minstrelsy.

  Good old Mr. Parker dropped in at about eleven o’clock in the morning, and found three gentlemen in Mr de Beaumirail’s sitting-room. He knew the suave Mr. Larkin. Mr. Levi, of the fierce black eyes, and sullen mouth, was also there; and the square white head and hard features of Mr. Gillespie also.

  Mr. Larkin was delivering his ideas in his own engaging manner over a great old book like a ledger. There were sheets of papers there also tied up in pink tape and labelled, and a japanned tin box stood open on a chair close by, with a padlock dangling from it precariously.

  Whatever they were talking about, they stopped abruptly on the entrance of the old man. The little Jew glared savagely at him, as if he was on the point of pulling him out by the ear; and Mr. Gillespie inquired surlily— “What’s your will, sir?”

  But Mr. Larkin recognised him, and greeting him with his large red hand, and his gracious smile, inquired sweetly whether he, Mr. Larkin, could do anything for Mr. Parker; observing with a slight elevation of his eyes, and a shake of his tall bald head, and a faint plaintive smile, that showed the sinister gaps which time had made at either side in his teeth —

  “You find us, Mr. Parker, engaged, sir, in labours very unlike those happier ones in which it is your privilege, if I may so say, to soar — the temporal concerns, sir, the unhappy complications which attend the affairs of a young man who lives as too many young men, it is to be feared, do live. A sad spectacle, sir, this we have before us; a melancholy history of a splendid inheritance, sold, as one may say, for a mess of pottage. Ah, sir, is not it melancholy — isn’t it shocking, my dear Mr. Parker?”

  Up went the big hands and the pink eyes as he spoke this sentence, and the tall bald head shook in solemn unison with the sentiment.

  “But haven’t you bought up his debts?” asked the old man, with a look of such simple and kindly inquiry, that Mr. Levi, who was glowering in his face, could not resist a sudden laugh— ‘‘boo-hoo, ha-ha!” — still looking straight in the face of the old gentleman, who returned his laugh with an offended look.

  Mr. Larkin, had the grace of blushing, but it was an odd kind of blush, and tinged chiefly the narrow dome of his bald head.

  “Perhaps that phrase does not quite accurately describe the risk which some friends of Mr de Beaumirail have incurred very distinctly for his own advantage, Mr. Parker, which circumstance, perhaps, you would be so good as to mention to your informant, in the event of his again talking inaccurately with respect to the business of a gentleman whom — though in his sad circumstances he has long ceased to maintain professional relations anywhere — I am still happy, from motives which you will, perhaps, appreciate, to advise; and I hope I do so as zealously, whenever as a friend he happens to call upon
me, as if his position were, in a worldly point of view, very different indeed.”

  “I know you very well, Mr. Larkin, better by reputation even than personally. I wish there were many such persons,” said good Mr. Parker, in simple sincerity.

  “Unprofitable servants, Mr. Parker,” said the attorney, softly, dropping his red eyelids for a moment, and with his large hand waving away what his modesty received as a compliment— “we do but our duty, when all’s done; what more can we boast? but our duty, sir.”

  “And so lay up treasure, Mr. Larkin, where treasure is abiding,” added good Mr. Parker, with eyes that smiled on the angelic man.

  “And something nishe in conshols,” drawled Mr. Levi, with a leer at the good attorney.

  “But this is a little out of our way at present, Mr. Parker,” said Larkin, hastily; “I am trying to look through these miserable intricacies — a tangled skein — how different a task from a few minutes’ refreshing talk on happier themes with a gentleman and a Mentor — such as Mr. Parker; but business, upon this earth, sir, is, in fact, business; and can I do anything for you, Mr. Parker?”

  “No, sir, I thank you; only I hoped to see Mr de Beaumirail; he is not ill, I hope?”

  “Oh dear, no; you’ll find him in the next room; and I will say, my dear sir,” he concluded, in an under tone, laying his big hand carelessly on the clergyman’s arm, “I am truly happy that you have looked in, for our poor friend is really in need of a word in season; his temper — his temper occasionally is — unpleasant, and he’ll be all the better — you understand — a man in spiritual authority; things will be taken from you, you know,” and so he bowed him to the threshold of the chamber, opening the door and closing it after him.

  “That old muff’s always up and down here, blesh him! I don’t think I was twishe in this room, but I met him; and you and him gets into such a precious yarn always about your d — d shouls, and such rot!”

  “Why the deil didn’t you say he was walking down there in the court?” suggested Gillespie also, angrily.

  “My dear sir! The thing that was not! Besides,” he added, recollecting his company, “we’d have had him back in five minutes, Mr. Gillespie.”

  “Gad I’d a turned the key in the door, and when he’d a cooled his heels a bit on the stairs, he’d a gone home to where he came from, sir,” said Gillespie.

  Mr. Larkin glanced reflectively, with his under lip, after his habit in such moods, gently held between his finger and thumb, and for a moment, perhaps, the good man thought it might not have been a bad plan.

  “But even you, Mr. Gillespie, will consider that we should have been sure to meet Mr. Parker again — and no — it would not have been right — for it would have excited suspicion — and — and not a word, sir, we say on business here, can possibly be heard in the next room. I’ve observed that, sir; so, ahem! as I was saying, you may lock the door, however — as I was saying, Mr. Gillespie, with respect to that promissory note, Mr. Jellicott’s. I’m not, by any means, so sure, sir, that the statute protects him; and if he did pay it, sir, no doubt, Mr. Gillespie, he can show that he did so. Heaven forbid that any opportunity were denied him. I should despise myself if I were capable of anything in such a matter that was not perfectly straight and simple; but people should pay their debts.”

  “I’m not objecting to make him pay twishe over, no more than you,” said Mr. Levi; “but it was by cheque to order, and there’s a note acknowledging receipt of cheque. I know — for his sholishitor’s conducting man, Splinks, and me is as thick as — as you pleashe, and we’ll make nothing of it.”

  And so these worthies debated and disagreed, and agreed again, over the schedule of old debts, which, according to their compact, Mr de Beaumirail had made over to them, and of which they still hoped to make something.

  CHAPTER IX.

  DE BEAUMIRAIL VIEWS HIS SITUATION.

  WHEN the old clergyman entered, De Beaumirail was sitting with his feet on the fender of a fire that had expired in ashes. The room was dim with cigar-smoke, and its dismal tenant, in his well-known dressing-gown, was puffing at his weed.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Parker, I’m miserable,” said De Beaumirail, rising, as he threw his cigar into the ashes, and extending his hand to his visitor.

  “I hope, my young friend, you are not suffering?” said Mr. Parker, looking with a kindly concern in his face, as he shook him by the hand.

  “Miserably, sir,” answered the prisoner.

  “Ill?” said the clergyman.

  “Ill? — yes; the time is out of joint. I’m ill every way — all the nobler organs — heart, head, and — pocket. Who was ever well in despair? Ay, sir, I’m in hell. I hope, by-the-bye, you don’t find the smoke unpleasant. I am in hell, Mr. Parker. You saw my Cerberus sitting outside — the beast that guards my door, with three monstrous heads — the white head, the bald head, and the black head — the Scot, the lawyer, and the Jew. I’m sold to that triple-headed monster. They have bought up my debts, sir. I’m a slave — Dickon is bought, and is sold.”

  “I have just heard, sir, that they have taken that step chiefly for your advantage.”

  “That is charming. Who said so?”

  “Mr. Larkin, sir,” said the clergyman.

  “Mr. Larkin be d — d,” said De Beaumirail. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Parker, I know I ought to have spoken in a more — roundabout way. Pray what do you think of Mr. Larkin?”

  “Mr. Larkin appears to me to be a truly exemplary and Christian man.”

  “So he appears to me; but he isn’t. Mr.

  Larkin is of this little epitome of hell in which I am a prisoner — the Satan-in-chief.”

  “Oh, Mr de Beaumirail, my dear sir, don’t you see how very shocking that way of speaking is? I do assure you, Mr. Larkin is one of the most entirely Christian men I ever met, that is, so far as I am yet acquainted with him; and I have had the pleasure of conversing with him a great deal more than “with others whom I have known four or five times as long; and no man, in my opinion, can fail to make his true character known by his conversation after a time; it is impossible.”

  “When next he is coming the godly man over you, my dear sir,” said De Beaumirail, “I’ll give you a recipe to bring him to — himself.”

  “My dear Mr de Beaumirail, I do assure you, reflections upon Mr. Larkin pain me extremely, you have no conception how much.”

  “Well, I don’t want to pain you, Heaven knows; but I hate that fellow, because he’s the most odious of that direful set. I know everything about him; he does not fancy I do; and when next he performs his righteousness before you, just ask him from me whether he has any relations with Mr. Alfred Dacre.”

  “I should not like, sir, to pain Mr. Larkin, and I don’t understand the subject.”

  “Pray do,” said De Beaumirail.

  “You can hardly be serious, sir; I could not talk to him so. I know him very slightly, and I don’t know the meaning of your message.”

  “It means, sir, that he’s capable of the most Satanic conspiracy that ever employed human malice and avarice for its instruments.”

  “Oh, my dear Mr de Beaumirail!” exclaimed the good clergyman, reprovingly.

  “Ay, sir, my malice and other people’s avarice. But I’ll not be used further, Mr. Larkin. In the dome of their pandemonium I’ll break a hole, and let the light in.”

  “I don’t understand, sir, how you can speak so bitterly,” said Mr. Parker.

  “Nor I, sometimes,” said De Beaumirail, with a short strange laugh. “I sometimes think there is nothing on earth worth being bitter or sweet about.”

  “I am sure, Mr de Beaumirail, if you knew the interest with which Mr. Larkin invariably speaks of you; he’s at this moment working in the next room over your accounts. No paid agent, I am certain, could do it with a more praiseworthy diligence.”

  “Why, sir, the debts are his own; any rights I had are theirs, and they hold me here under a load of debt as big as Pelion, and I
can’t see the light nor stir my hand! And here, sir, I was to be their familiar spirit, and aid them in their atrocious enchantments!”

  “Now, now, pray” remonstrated the clergyman.

  “You’re a theologian, and have read about Asmodeus. Of course you have all the devils at your fingers’ ends, and the devil-on-two-sticks among them. If you were like me, sir, a spirit sealed down in a bottle by three such shabby and villanous conjurors, you’d feel, and perhaps talk even, very like me.”

  “I came in to pay you a little visit, Mr de Beaumirail— “

  “You did very kindly, sir. The sight of a friendly face here is like a window opened in heaven. This place — you don’t know what it is, sir — you don’t know what it is. Some fellows seem to get accustomed to it, others never. A look forward of a year is like a perspective of seven; and the prospect of a whole life, it is eternity — despair.”

  “Sir, I still live in hope,” began the clergyman.

  “Ah, my dear sir,” interrupted De Beaumirail, with a chilly laugh, “it is a strange flighty world, full of phantoms, hard to seize upon anything. I don’t blame people — I don’t blame myself — we are no better and no worse than others; but the whole thing is insane and miserable, and I believe if you could collect into one great funnel the groan and pant of all its sufferings, it would drown the music of the spheres.”

  “Man is born— “ began Mr. Parker.

  “I know, to trouble, as the sparks fly upward. Forgive me, sir, but I’m growing, I believe, unfit for human companionship, and more morose than a wounded bear.”

  “I’m always glad, sir, to hear a friend take a text of Scripture out of my mouth and finish it. I should be a very odd fellow to have charge of a parish — in an age when so few look into their Bibles — if I were offended by anyone’s giving me proof that he knew the Scriptures.”

  “Have you been looking after my interests still? — you are always so good. Have you seen the people at Guildford House?”