This manœuvre, at all events, should not succeed. He seized the Napoleonic plan of taking the enemy in detail, and with his loaded whalebone in his grasp dashed onward to meet the foremost of his adversaries. He ran at the top of his speed; the enemy hesitated; with his left hand he flourished a ribbon of paper, in the other he grasped a thick bludgeon, and cried —
“You know me well, sir, there’s no use — you’re had.”
But Mr. Dacre’s onset was not to be so stayed. There was not a moment to spare, for the other fellow was running up, and Alfred Dacre had closed and struck before he was on the field. It was well, perhaps, for both parties that the man ducked at the moment that his blow descended. It struck off his hat, with no further damage, and our young friend, who, with all his foreign refinement, showed the skill of an English boxer, before the man had quite recovered his equilibrium, struck him a tremendous blow with his fist between the eyes, and down went his foremost foe with a stunning pound upon the road.
The “reserve,” who witnessed this disaster, now not three yards in his van, pulled down his hat, halted, and whirled his stick in the air. At him sprang our hero, but before he reached came a sound like a bat on the cricket-ball, and our handsome friend, stricken from behind, fell upon his shoulder, and rolled round upon his back, white and ghastly in the moonlight, and with a gush of blood trickling in a divided rivulet over his forehead and face.
Our handsome tenor lay there, in dreamland, or, for aught they knew, dead. No trace of sternness in his face; sad and gentle as a sick child’s sleep were the features on which the moon now shone, and his long silken lashes showed very prettily on the deathlike cheek below his closed eyes.
Laura Challys Gray was in her drawingroom, hardly two hundred steps away. What would she have thought of this tableau?
“Well, ’twas him took to that work first,” said the man with whom he had been on the point of closing. “He’d spar — that ere chap; that was a teazer he lent Jim. All right again, Jim?”
This polite inquiry from his brother beak did not elicit a reply from Jim, whose temper seemed to be a little soured.
“I shay, Jim, run you round and fetch the brougham. This here gent’s got it rather ‘eavy, and we’ll want to give him a hairing to-wards the city; or if you’d rayther, Tom can go — a bit queerish, I desshay?” said Mr. Levi.
“What’s this? I shay! develish well he didn’t give you a fillip with this ere feather,” continued the Jew, taking up the weapon that lay on the ground beside Dacre’s head, and jerking it lightly in the air. “Mind, Tom, where we found it. If anything goesh wrong with this queer fellow it will show the people what a lamb he vas.”
Then stooping over Mr. Dacre, the Jew insinuated his long fingers into his breastpocket, and drew out thence a paper, which, touching the blood on his cheek and forehead, as Mr. Levi plucked it forth, required to be shaken in the air, and opened gingerly to save that nice gentleman from dabbling his fingers.
Over this paper the Jew sneered, and grinned, and snorted. It was the passport of Guy De Beaumirail to Paris.
“I wish you a very pleasant trip, Mr. De Beaumirail; but you’ll want a bit of bazhilicon for your poor head first; a very pleasant journey; you do look a deal too lively for London. Paris is the ground for you; but it’s hard to tear yourshelf away from the sheenes of sho many agreeable years, and you’ll put it off for a day or two, wont you, and jusht shleep another night or two in the jolly old Fleet?”
Just at this moment the young man sat up and looked before him with a dazed wild stare, and said hurriedly —
“Where is he?”
“Who’sh he?” inquired Mr. Levi.
“The stick! — the — why — oh! it’s all right — where — that’s you Levi — am I hit? By Jove — ha! ha! ha! I’m bleeding a bit. I — I say it’s all fair; have you a little water?”
“Well get it on the way home” sneered the Jew, with a long-drawn drawl on the emphatic word. “Buckets o’ wa-ter. Great pity you’re not on your way to Paris viâ Havre — ain’t it?”
“All fair, sir; I don’t complain — the fortune of war,” said the wounded knight, with a feeble laugh. “A little trick — mine and countermine. Was it you who shot me, Mr. Levi?”
“The bullet that shot you is made of oak — a tap of Tom Burster’s switch.”
“Well — I don’t grumble; and — and here’s the carriage — quite fair; but — I’m a little thirsty. A fellow might have a glass of water, don’t you think? Very quickly done, sir — ha! ha! ha!” and the laugh trembled into a groan, and the young gentleman fainted — I suppose from loss of blood.
Levi was beginning to grow a little uncomfortable. It would have been decidedly awkward if the prisoner had died of his wound, in their hands.
After a little time he recovered consciousness, and this time got some water to drink, and said —
“Well, as I can’t go to Paris this time, I suppose I had better return to my castle. Tell them, in heaven’s name, to drive quick, and get it over soon.”
So they got him in, and escorting him in a body, drove rapidly toward the famous prison in Farringdon-street.
De Beaumirail said nothing till he reached the well-known door.
“Well, here’s the cage, and my wings pretty well clipt.”
So, he got out, and wiped his face with his handkerchief, and a faint groan escaped him. But his spirit was not subdued. He held himself erect and smiling, and staggered through the hatch and the corridor, and even whistled an air as he went up stairs; and on getting into his room, he fainted again.
CHAPTER XVII.
ON AGAIN.
No news, of course, of Dacre next day at Guildford House. None was to have been looked for; and yet Laura Gray was restless, and looking out from the windows, and could not be still for a moment.
To Mrs. Wardell she had never disclosed her secret. That kind old soul thought her, indeed, often rather hard upon Dacre, and took up the cudgels for him, never suspecting.
“Where is he? — what can it be? — could not he have written just a line? — I told him to write; — I think, whatever it is, he might have managed one line.”
All that time De Beaumirail, whom we know better as Alfred Dacre, was feverish Still, the perspective was not quite void. There was one last object — and something to interest — at least for a time. A day or two after, De Beaumirail, still very pale, had thrown himself on his sofa, and was expecting, by his own appointment, a visit from the persons who had foiled his escape, and were, probably, in no pleasant temper, as respected him.
These three gentlemen entered his room in silence, and with countenances, after their varieties, more or less threatening. Mr. Gillespie and Mr. Levi, uninvited, pulled chairs to the table, and grimly sat down. Mr. Larkin, who, whatever he might think of M; de Beaumirail, could never forget that he was himself a Christian gentleman, was the only one of the three visitors who saluted him — and a very dignified and withering bow it was.
“AU in the dumps, gentlemen — myself included. Let’s see if we can’t make ourselves a little more cheerful before we separate.”
“Gammon,” said Mr. Levi, under his breath, with a rather furious gleam in his sullen eyes.
“We’re not likely to be over cheerful, I thank ye, Mr. Beaumirail; I never was mair disgusted, sir, in a’ my life.”
“We conceived, sir,” said Mr. Larkin, “that dealing as gentlemen, there was a confidence on which we might mutually rely. Every gentleman is aware of the kind of feeling — of course there’s something higher, I hope, than any mere wordly code — but that is not for every one. I did, however, implicitly rely upon that delicacy — that — a — a — delicacy— “
“Well, you see it was not one of the delicacies of the season, as the Lord Mayor says,” interposed De Beaumirail.
“A delicacy which is implied in the term honour, Mr de Beaumirail — honour — sir,” repeated Mr. Larkin, with a melancholy severity.
“Honour among thieves — I know
— and I don’t dispute it — I’ve behaved very ill, but I’ll make amends.”
The gentlemen all looked at him fixedly.
“I’ve come off second best — I don’t complain; we were playing a sharp and hard game. It wasn’t ill played at either side, and I lost, that’s all,” said De Beaumirail.
Mr. Levi sneered sullenly.
“Yes, I’ve got a rap over the head, and I forgive you.”
“We advanshed you money, Mr. Beaumirail,” said Levi, reproachfully.
“I’m willing to return you everything you gave me, punctually, even that knock over the head, if you like it,” said De Beaumirail.
“Chaff, d — chaff, when business is on,” said Mr. Levi. “And we bought up them debts with thoushands of capital, sir, shpeculating on that marriage, and only I got a hint of your minewvers you’d’a carried your pint and mizzled!” and Mr. Levi clenched this energetic speech with an oath.
“Why this business is worth to you gentlemen, how much? and to me, at least, the same, and liberty. I think there’s some guarantee for sincerity. Come, gentlemen, I’m your most obedient humble servant once again.”
“And what did you mean by that deevil’s trick, sir?” demanded Mr. Gillespie.
“Suppose I meant to try whether I couldn’t have it all to myself. Wolves, sir — all wolves — we’re a greedy little pack, gentlemen; but I’ve got a lesson.”
“You’d like to be on again, is that it?” asked Mr. Levi.
“On again! Of course I would — in fact, I must — and so must you. You can’t afford to lose all that money. I can’t afford to lose all I’m to gain, along with my liberty and my life — I’m talking coarsely to you, gentlemen, to make myself intelligible — you wish it as much as I. I hate the routine affectation of indifference — it always delays, and sometimes loses a bargain.”
“If it’s ever on again — which I’m -doubtful — for myself and guv’nor — we’ll want to be sharp and wideawake,” said Mr. Levi.
“I confess, gentlemen, I have a very unpleasant feeling about this business. I shall, if you wish it, consider the subject; — but I don’t conceal from myself the extremely painful character of the recent occurrence, and I am bound, in frankness to all parties, to say, that my present feeling is to consider the matter as at an end, to act upon my detainers strictly, and to direct my attention to bringing to light, and, of course, into court, the foreign property of the gentleman with whom I have had the honour, for a time, to act, and which, I have some reason to think, is, by no means so inaccessible or inconsiderable as it was represented to us.”
“You’ll not object, Mr. Larkin, to come into the next room, and talk a bit wi’ me and Mr. Levi.”
So spoke Mr. Gillespie; and, taking Mr. Larkin’s assent pretty much for granted, he led the way into M. de Beaumirail’s bedroom; and, without ceremony, his companions followed him, leaving De Beaumirail, perfectly indifferent about that impertinence, and lost in a profound reverie.
“I won’t allow myself to hope; — no, there’s no hope; and poor old Parker will have nothing to tell me — nothing.”
He sighed profoundly, and walked to the window, for he expected a visit from his old friend, and stood gazing anxiously into the yard.
While he thus waited a knock came to his door, and a letter. It was from old Mr. Parker, and said —
“As I shall be unable to call at your rooms to-day, and. knowing that you will naturally be impatient to learn the result of my visit to Guildford House, I write to say that I saw Miss Gray to-day, and strictly regulated what I said upon your wishes, but quite unsuccessfully — the absolute secrecy as to your identity, which you imposed upon me, I, of course, observed. I confined myself to ascertaining whether her feelings with respect to Mr de Beaumirail had undergone any favourable change, whether she would enter on a discussion of his character and conduct, and whether any persuasion would induce her to tolerate an interview, however short, with him. I was not left many minutes in doubt upon any one of these points. No good can possibly come of any attempt to lead her into an interview. In her present temper nothing could be more painful and fruitless. I humbly pray the Almighty that He will be pleased to dispose her heart more charitably, and so in His own good time He may — at present it would be vain and even mischievous to press it.”
And so with regrets and condolences the kind old man closed his letter.
“I am not disappointed — blessed are they who expect nothing — not the least.” But his face looked paler and sharper, and he sighed again from his troubled heart.
“All’s over, quite.”
And he walked to the chimneypiece, as if in search of something there, and a pale, patient smile, gleamed on his face, and he repeated “quite;” and he wandered away to his mahogany bookcase, and there he read the backs of the books without remembering what he read, every now and then repeating gently, “quite;” and he heard the voices of his three visitors, whom he had forgotten, babbling inside, and waking up, he cursed them intensely under his breath.
“Three long heads in there; it will be some comfort to knock them together, as I shall; yes, you may lay them together, gentlemen, but I’ll knock them together, with a clink that will leave a headache behind it for sometime to come. That little Jew that looks as if he’d poison his mother for three half-crowns; and that conceited, stony-hearted, Scotch skinflint, Gillespie — and Larkin! I hold my peace at Larkin; no one but Satan could describe Mr. Larkin.
“To think of me here! And the mean dogs that are everywhere prosperous, and I, punished so inexorably for a few boyish follies! — fortune — health — liberty — the only good hope that ever approached me — all taken in cold blood; and I without a friend I may say, compelled to associate with such indescribable beasts!”
De Beaumirail ground his teeth with actual fury, and with one enraged spurn of his heel dashed in the door with a noise that made them jump.
“On or off — are you tongue-tied — delay twenty seconds longer, and I declare off, and, by Heaven, nothing shall move me after.”
Mr. Levi, who was of an excitable temperament, had jumped from his seat, and was standing with his fists clenched as the door flew open. Mr. Larkin cowering in his chair, was staring at the same object, with a flushed frown on his forehead, in the sudden conviction that De Beaumirail had shot himself with a pistol.
“Canny, there lad, canny,” bawled Mr. Gillespie, whose nerves were also ajar.
“Come, gentlemen, these are my rooms, if you please, and I choose to be alone,” said De Beaumirail, who was growing palpably dangerous.
Mr. Larkin rose with a lofty carelessness, and with a slight waive of his large hand towards Mr. Gillespie, he said grandly —
“You can state my views, Mr. Gillespie. I leave myself as to our joint answer to Mr de Beaumirail, unhesitatingly in your hands, sir;” and so Mr. Larkin, who had an objection to a fracas (which he called a fraycass), got out of the room with rather a brighter colour, and as grandly as he could.
“Well, Mr. Beaumirail,” said Gillespie, putting on his white felt hat, and taking his worsted gloves and stick, “we’re amost decided, for once more, to trust you, sir — that is,” he added cautiously, “about as far as I’d throw a bull by the tail, Mr. Beaumirail, ha, ha, ha. I mean, sir, we’ll tak more care, sir, we’ll tak more care, sir, and sleep with one eye open, ye ken; we must bring down half a dozen of our people, mind ye, every time you go down to that place at Brompton; you oblige us, ye see, to be sharp, sir, and that will cost us a handsome penny, but we’ll mak trial o’t for a couple of times more, jest — and — that’s all.”
“Once more is enough,” said De Beaumirail sharply.
“Well, well, Mr. Beaumirail, that’s bringin’ matters to a point,” said Mr. Gillespie, in a more conciliatory tone, “ye’r talking sense noo, sir, if ye can stick to it— “
“Time we should wind up, and get shomething out of the fire — a d — d long up-hill game it hash been to me and the guv’n
or,” said Mr. Levi, who never allowed that anything paid him; and took what fortune gave him, and, as Mr. Gillespie would have said, “kept aye grumblin’.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE KNIGHT OF THE SILVER DRAGON APPEARS.
THIS day an unexpected visitor was seen at Guildford House. Charles Mannering, thin and pale, alighted at the door, and Laura, at the window, could scarcely believe her eyes. She flew down stairs and met him in the hall.
“I’m so delighted you’ve come back from the wars, you poor wounded soldier! we must nurse you, and drive you about wherever you like, and take such care of you. Julia Wardell is the best nurse in the world. Don’t come upstairs, it will tire you — you shall come into the library. She’ll be back again soon. She went out about an hour ago for a drive, and I’m so glad to see you here again — honest old Charlie.”
“Are you really?” he said, smiling in great felicity, as he held her hands in both his; “I’m so much obliged, and so happy, you can’t think.”
So in he went to the library, and there was a great deal, you may be sure, to be asked and answered, and at last he said —
“By-the-bye, is Mr. Dacre in town?”
To which, looking down for a moment as she did so, she answered, after her wont, quite truly —
“I really don’t know.”
And looking up suddenly, with flaming cheeks, she asked in turn, with a grave defiance —
“Why do you inquire? Have you heard anything new about him?”
“Well, no,” said he, “that is, more properly, yes and no.”
“No man ever comes into this house,” said Challys Gray impetuously, “but he instantly begins to talk in riddles — riddles ascending through all degrees of perplexity, until they reach the climax, like this of simple absurdity. How can any honest question be truly answered by ‘yes and no?’”
“Well, it’s plain you give it up,” he said, laughing. “So what I mean is this — I have learned nothing more about him distinctly, but I have received a very distinct caution.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 475
