“Then it was you, sir,” began Mr. Parker deliberately, “was it, who sent in— “
“Just now, to tell you that a sick parishioner wanted you. Yes; and sick enough, just now, in head and heart I am, Mr. Parker, and actually lodging in your parish. Could I have more exactly said the truth?” said Dacre.
“Well, sir, I certainly never in all my life was half so much amazed,” repeated Mr. Parker, taking breath.
“Don’t — don’t, pray, allude to anything,” said Dacre, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “I may be led into trouble if you talk. Let us turn back and walk a little the other way. Thanks.”
“I’m afraid, sir, I ought to be on my way home. Could not I see you early tomorrow?” asked the old clergyman.
“You ought? Why you are on your way home. You’ll lose twenty minutes, perhaps, waiting for a ‘bus, and not be set down after all near your own house. Now, I’m going to set you down at your own door in my brougham, and all that will save twice as much time as I shall detain you.”
“Well, sir, yes — if it doesn’t put you out of your way. I shall be very much obliged.”
Dacre smiled as he told him how happy he should be, for in the old man’s face was still the wild and amazed look of a man just startled by an alarm from his sleep.
“You were at Guildford House, Mr. Parker? I had an antipathy to some people there — not unnatural — but I’ve changed my mind. Miss Gray, in whom you take an interest, I have saved from the greatest danger she ever was, or ever will be, in. No matter what or how. I’ll explain another time — perhaps. A circle of fraud has been drawn round that young lady; but I am master of the charm — it shan’t prevail; it can’t unless I choose. But I go my own way about it, and you must keep faith with me; nothing must be known of me at Guildford House, except what they already know. There I am Mr. Alfred Dacre, and as to all the rest they are, and must remain, in utter darkness till I enlighten them. Do you return there tonight? No, I forgot.”
“No, sir, no. I’ve rather outstaid my time,” said he.
“Yes, it can’t happen tonight; but it may in a day or two. Remember, I’ve a hard card to play. I have three of the most suspicious villains in London watching me; and when you meet me at Guildford House, if it should happen, remember I am its guardian angel, and you betray me to my worst enemies if you divulge one syllable of my story.”
“But, sir, I can’t be accessory to anything at all of the nature of a deception,” said Mr. Parker, a little shocked.
“I ask only silence,” said his companion. “That is always understood where one honourable man places another in possession of his secret. I don’t think that either honour or religion imposes upon the confidant the perfidy of divulging it.”
“Sir, I only say — peremptorily — that anything indirect, though never so little, I will have neither act nor part in,” said Mr. Parker, resolutely.
“Well, then, this you may promise — they know perfectly that you know me, for I told them so; they are aware that Ardenbroke — Lord Ardenbroke, you know — knows me also. He gave me a promise not to mention anything more than I had told them myself, -and he has kept his word. I don’t think it too much to expect from you, who are not, as he is, a relation, to observe the same reticence about that which in no respect concerns you?” said Mr. Dacre, petulantly.
“I shall volunteer no information, sir,” said Mr. Parker. “But I think I ought not to have been placed in this situation.”
“And if questions should be put to you, you will say, as Ardenbroke did, that you are under promise to mention nothing about me — that’s fair,” insisted Mr. Dacre.
“Yes, sir — that I may say, and I will,” said the clergyman.
“Very well, sir. And now, Mr. Parker, one other kindness. I shall go back to Guildford House tonight, as I find you are positively not returning; but I should not care to meet you there, and simply for this reason, that I should not like to trust too much to anyone’s presence of mind; people, you know, can’t be always thinking of one thing, and always on their guard; and it would be very unpleasant to me, and I fancy not very pleasant to you. So, as I never go there till about this hour, could you manage to make your visits earlier; and if they want you to dine or drink tea there, you can say, ‘I have no objection in the world,’ but that there would be an awkwardness in your meeting me — only don’t, of course, put it in a way that would make them fancy me a person whom you would not associate with; it is very easy to say that there is a circumstance — reflecting no discredit — which yet would make our meeting embarrassing,” said Dacre. “Can’t you say that?”
“Yes, I may; I’m sure I can say that,” answered Mr. Parker.
“And I’m going to tell you more: I have no one to speak to but you, and I must tell it. Let us turn again here, and walk towards my trap — I mean, my brougham. I promise it shan’t keep you longer than five minutes; and I should die if I had no one to talk to.”
“Five minutes, sir: but it really mustn’t exceed that,” said Mr. Parker.
So, walking side by side, his companion in a low tone addressed him.
CHAPTER XII.
AGAIN AT GUILDFORD HOUSE.
“WHEN I contemplate my position,” said Mr. Dacre, “I am as much amazed as you are. I have got myself into a strange situation — another time I’ll tell you how. It is too long a story for our five minutes’ walk. For the present I shall content myself with asking a favour.”
“Say what it is you wish, sir,” replied the clergyman.
“Your voice is that of a man who is willing to help his friend,” said Alfred Dacre, turning toward him with a dark and sudden smile.
“I make no promises, sir, until I shall have heard the nature of the assistance you require,” said he.
“Well, that’s reasonable; only speak a little lower,” said Mr. Dacre, looking around him with a sharp glance. “You have a brother holding high rank in the Austrian army; you must write to him about me.”
“So I shall, with pleasure, sir; provided you can show me how my doing so can be of any use to you,” said Mr. Parker.
“That is something off my mind, sir,” said he. “I’ll show you how tomorrow.”
“Then you may reckon upon me, sir.”
“And — and one thing more; but don’t exclaim when I tell it to you.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“I mean whatever you decide,” said Alfred Dacre, almost in a whisper, having first glanced furtively about him again. “Pray don’t raise your voice or express the least surprise. I tell you I don’t know who may be near.”
“Very well, sir.”
“I want you to do me a great kindness.”
“What is it, sir?”
“And you must not mention it anywhere. It is a secret, mind.”
“Well, sir, whether I do your commission or not, I’ll not betray your secret,” said Mr. Parker.
“Let us turn the other way, for a moment,” said Alfred Dacre. “Listen — I’ve made up my mind to go abroad immediately. Now don’t — don’t, pray, say a word; and you must get my passport. Pray, oblige me. I’ll see you in the morning, and tell you fifty things that will surprise you; and you wont refuse me. Now, I know you are surprised; so you need not tell me. But only say you will do me this last and vital kindness?”
“Sir, I really— “ began the clergyman.
“Must think about it, and I know that will end in your doing it,” interrupted Dacre. “You have always been so kind.”
He pressed his arm with his hand as he said this, and looked very earnestly in his face, like a man who has a great stake trembling upon another’s decision.
“Yes, you know sufficiently well,” said Mr. Parker, “that you may always reckon upon me, within the limit of duty, to the full extent of my opportunities. But I should prefer, as you say, thinking it over; in fact, I could not consent to take any step in the matter without knowing more about it, and being quite clear that I should be doing right;
and — I’ll sleep upon it, if you please,” and with a sigh he looked in his face for a moment, and looking up again he said —
“It seems to me so incredible — a dream — quite a dream!”
“My whole life seems to me one long dream. No wonder one of its oddest passages should seem so to you. There is my brougham, however — one of its few realities, you’ll find it, if you trust it to leave you at home. So, goodnight, and you’ll see me in the morning, and then I’ll unroll a bit of the future, as odd — as odd as the strange cartoon of the past, in which, in every change of scenery, amid a throng of admirers or oppressors, crowned or bleeding, the athlete contends with fortune.”
“I hope, sir, it may all end well. Heaven grant it!” said Mr. Parker, as he stepped into the carriage, the door of which Dacre had opened.
“Better end any way than go on wrong” said Dacre as he shut the door; “and when the hour comes, and it is time to part, I’ll take off my hat, and say goodnight.”
And as he spoke he smiled and raised his hat, and the servant, previously instructed, drove rapidly away to leave Mr. Parker at home.
Away went the carriage, leaving Dacre alone at the broad confluence of the lane down which they had walked, and the great Brompton highway. It was very quiet that night; scarcely a footstep heard up or down the dry pathway; the rumble of a distant ‘bus, the bark of a few lonely dogs, and the whistling of a fellow who stood outside the Bull and Horns, were the only sounds then audible. Mr. Dacre looked up and down the pathway shrewdly, then climbed the low wall that fenced the lane. There was no sign of a listener near. In high spirits he jumped down again to the road, and smiling in the dark as he passed under the trees, which in that place overarched the lane, he walked swiftly back again to Guildford House.
He saw the lights in the drawingroom as he approached, and he ran up the stairs wild with the spirits of excitement.
“I’ve returned, Miss Gray, and have transacted my little business, and feel happier than ever schoolboy did when dismissed for the holidays,” he said.
“That’s very good of you,” said Mrs. Wardell, taking some of this speech to herself, with a gracious smile; “and we are very glad to see you, also. We are, indeed, always, Mr. Dacre.”
“How can I thank you?” said he, gaily, and with a glance toward Miss Gray. “It is delightful to find a welcome, especially so far from home, and where one’s merits are so few and small, and the privilege — so immense.”
“And I hope, from what you say, your teazing business is now quite over,” said Mrs. Wardell, “and that your time will be more at your disposal.”
“Yes; my business is nearly ended!” said he. “I hope tomorrow will conclude it, and emancipate a slave.”
As he thus spoke, Miss Laura Gray fancied there was in his face an exultation beyond the gay sense of relief which he implied.
“Are you going to sing for us? do, pray,” said Mrs. Wardell.
“No, pray, no; you wont ask me tonight.”
“And why not, Mr. Dacre?” asked Mrs. Wardell.
“Because I’m too happy,” he answered.
“Now that is no reason,” said Julia Wardell. “Laura, why don’t you join me? You know, Mr. Dacre, that is no reason; tell him so, Laura.”
“But I think it is a reason,” said Laura.
“A thousand thanks, Miss Gray,” said he; “I feared no one could understand it but myself, and yet it is true.”
“Well, that is highly metaphysical, I suppose,” said Mrs. Wardell, “and I don’t pretend to understand it. Do we, my darling little old precious Mousey? No, we don’t, not a bit of it.”
The latter question was to her little dog. “But haven’t you come unusually late, Mr. Dacre, this evening?” inquired Mrs. Wardell.
“So I have, but inevitably, need I say? and earlier, too, than usual I must go, but all to regain my liberty the sooner,” said Mr. Dacre. “I promised to meet some people tonight upon business. I’m tired of business — I hate it; but when you have counted the last milestone, you almost forgive the journey its tediousness.”
“Yes, indeed, country milestones, very true, and a very tiresome occupation it is, we know, Laura, don’t we? Nearly seventy miles we drove up here; such a journey from Gray Forest, dust and everything; would you believe it, I actually fell asleep on the way?” said Julia Wardell.
“I’ve had a more tedious journey still, Mrs. Wardell; not a journey, however, to make one sleep, by any means; and, oh dear! how glad I shall be to set my foot on the ground once more, and, escaping from the dust and rumble, to see the sky and green leaves, far from the deafening highroad of life. There was a time, Miss Gray, when I liked noise and glare, and not very long since. I think I’m changed; I hardly know myself.”
“I forgot to tell you,” said Mrs. Wardell, “you’ll be glad to hear that poor Charles Mannering is ever so much better, and likely very soon to be out and about again.”
“Oh! I haven’t heard, as you know, for a day or two: my friend has not been looking after him since he began to get all right so rapidly.”
“Did I give you his letter, Laura?” inquired Julia Wardell.
“No; you read it aloud when you were in the library.”
“So I did. Dear me, I’ve forgot it there.” And Mrs. Wardell waddled off in a fuss, and lighted her candle on the lobby, and went down to the library, for there were things in that letter which she did not care to have seen by curious eyes, and while she was away Alfred Dacre sat down near Laura Gray, and, said, he —
“You have commanded me to be very formal, Miss Gray, and I must obey; but there are times when silence is torture, and I have so many things to say, and time is so short.”
“Time so short, Mr. Dacre, do you mean tonight?”
“I mean altogether. I mean that before a week, probably, I shall have to leave England.”
“Oh, I did not understand; but only for a short time; it wont be for long, surely?”
“No, no, that is, I hope not; I may remain longer there, however; delays may occur, but — but it seems to me inevitable that I should go for a time, and, if my hours are measured, to lose one of them is anguish.”
“Now? is this fair? Aren’t you talking heroics? and if you do, I can’t follow you, and your soliloquy is quite contrary to your promise, and you must not — no, no, you shan’t, and I wont excuse you if you do.”
Miss Gray stood up quite in earnest, with eyes that flashed, and a brilliant colour, as she said these words, and Alfred Dacre heard them with a pang and a chill.
Perhaps he ought to have read all this quite differently, and known that this peremptoriness indicated only her distrust of herself.
“Of course, I obey,” he said sadly; “and now the hour has arrived which I cannot outstay. I appointed to meet some people whom it is essential to see — whom I must see, in fact, or things will be so complicated that I shall be unable to act; I can’t explain it, bit by bit. You must have the entire case before you, and all together; and, as I said, you soon shall — you shall — and in that true story, beautiful Challys Gray, you will understand how I have — adored. you.”
She was looking down at her little foot, with the same beautiful flush in her cheeks, very gravely. She did not raise her eyes. He hesitated for a moment, and then with a sigh, and without another word, he left the room.
CHAPTER XIII.
IN WHICH MR. DACRE VISITS THREE CONVIVIAL GENTLEMEN.
“SHALL I ever know myself again?” said Dacre, with a kind of shudder, as he drove away. “I can’t give her up. I’m enchanted, and yet my plain course is to bid her goodbye, and go to my room, and — cut my throat.”
He had fallen into a habit of watching the light in the window as long as it remained in sight. As the carriage turned the corner at the gate, he kissed his hand toward that disappearing light, and a mist was in his eyes, and he whispered, “Darling, darling, good night.” And then he threw himself back in the carriage with a great sigh.
“I
believe it is impossible to think alone, either that, or I’m going mad. I can arrange nothing, there’s not one clear idea in my mind. I believe in such utter solitude of mind, and agitation of heart, connected thought is unattainable. One hour, one thing, the next, another, the eddies and undulations of chaos. Now for my scoundrels. I had no idea what a wretch I was until my impetus failed, and my scheme stood lifeless before me.”
He looked out of the carriage window— “Where are we now? Ho! Trafalgar-square. We shall soon see them — instruments, masters, accomplices. What! How slowly this beastly thing gets along.”
Nevertheless, it was getting on at a very good pace. But Mr. Dacre was impatient, and his fever heightened as he drew near the trysting-place, and often popped his head out of the window, and throwing himself back, kicked his heel against the opposite cushion in irrepressible restlessness.
At length the carriage stopped at Mr. Gillespie’s door, and Dacre jumped out as it opened.
“Mr. Gillespie upstairs?” he asked of the maid.
Yes, he was; and two gentlemen were with him at supper; and he expected a gentleman, Mr. Dacre, to come, and ordered that he should be shown up on his arrival.
As Dacre ran up the stairs, he laughed low to himself, and delivered a double knock on Mr. Gillespie’s drawingroom door with the head of his cane.
Alfred Dacre was approaching these gentlemen in an unwonted mood, not quite hilarious, nor yet familiar, for there were latent in it the cynicism and banter of suppressed scorn.
Three persons were in Mr. Gillespie’s drawingroom when Mr. Dacre opened the door. They sat in the fragrance of whisky-punch, which he had brewed, after the old fashion, in a bowl, and under a canopy of tobacco-smoke.
Mr. Levi sat near the fire, with his heels on a chair, smoking a great cigar, and blowing his clouds in thin streams toward the ceiling. The Scottish intonation of Mr. Gillespie was heard in loud and genial harshness, as he recited his repertory of lying old stories for the amusement of his guests. Opposite to him sat Mr. Larkin, with a celestial smile, which went far to sanctify that equivocal gathering. He and his host were alike tinted with that agreeable rosiness with which punch suffuses cheeks, chins, noses, and even heads, when they are bald.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 472
