“Oh, I know; that was, of course, from Ardenbroke,” she said, looking at him with eyes not to be evaded.
“Why should you suppose Ardenbroke?” demanded he.
“Because Ardenbroke wrote a very unaccountable letter about him before,” she replied, “in fact, I think a most inexcusable letter — I mean from a person who had described himself as Mr. Dacre’s friend. You, of course, have your own ideas of friendship; they don’t quite agree with ours. We women never run down unoffending people as you do. You may say what you like, but we are not only more generous, but infinitely more just. And what did Ardenbroke say? or is the caution intended for us or for Mr. Dacre’s tailor? I think you’ll allow the whole thing does very nearly approach impertinence, not to say outrage.”
“Well, recollect I don’t say who it is,” began Charles Mannering.
“But there’s no good in denying; I know it was Ardenbroke; and what did lie say?” insisted Challys Gray.
“Well, whoever gave me this warning,” he began —
“I’ll promise you not to mention the subject to him, if you’ll only tell me plainly that it was Ardenbroke. I know it was; and I’ll attack him very fiercely, I can tell you, when he comes back, unless you tell me,” interrupted Laura.
“If I tell you who it was,” said Charles, giving way, “will you promise, quite seriously, not to betray your knowledge to the person who wrote?”
“Yes — I don’t mind — certainly — I promise,” said Laura.
“Well, on that condition, it was Ardenbroke,” he answered.
“I knew it was. Didn’t I say so half a dozen times?” said Laura; “and now tell me what he says. Have you got his letter here?”
“No; but I remember everything exactly.”
“Well, pray go on.”
“He told me to take an opportunity of talking to you. Perhaps if he had known,” said Charles, looking down, with a little embarrassment— “I mean if he had thought how very little right I have to speak to you, Challys, on any such subject, he would have chosen some one else; but he has put it upon me so much in the way of a duty that I could hardly evade it.”
“If solemnity is a recommendation I think he could hardly have chosen his ambassador better,” said Miss Gray.
“Even that is something,” said Charles, smiling sadly, “when one’s chance of being of use depends on being known to be in earnest.”
There was a latent sarcasm in the look which Challys Gray turned upon him, which was cruel.
“In that, perhaps, though in no other respect, such a messenger as he might have chosen,” said Charles, tranquilly.
“If sage advice could make one wise, I should be the wisest girl in England,” said Challys Gray.
“I venture no advice, pray remember; it comes all from Ardenbroke. I do not know even the facts on which he seems to found it. I only know the conclusion he presses, and that he is extremely anxious as well as earnest.”
“Well, and where is this earnest and anxious gentleman? If he is in London I think he might have saved you the trouble of remembering his lecture, and come here to speak for himself. I don’t mean, Charlie,” she said, observing something like a pained smile as he looked down, “that you could not say it just as well as he — perhaps better, but a lecture is a lecture, and a bore at best; and I think it is hardly fair to arrange that I should have this one twice over — first from his ambassador, and afterwards from himself — and — I really don’t know what to think. There never was a poor creature, I believe, so worried as I am.”
Challys Gray was curious, and yet reluctant — she complained of being so addressed, and yet wished intensely to hear the message.
“My dear Laura, don’t fancy that I urge you. I thought it was quite the other way; and, unless you command me, one word on the subject I shan’t say. In fact, as I said before, I have not the least right, except on these terms, to mention it again.”
“Now, you want to provoke me,” said Challys Gray; “pray, let there be no more about it, but tell me — I’m sure it is disagreeable — what has got into Ardenbroke’s head?”
“Well, it is just this — I can only tell you in a very general way, for I am quite in the dark as to his reasons: — He says that he would give a great deal to come up to London, and will, the very moment he has his second consultation about that Scotch property; and he says, in these words, as nearly as I can remember, ‘If Challys Gray has any friend near her — and I think you are one — he will not fail to entreat her to drop the person who calls himself Alfred Dacre. I made a foolish promise which embarrasses me though only a little; but, if I were assured that he was availing himself of my silence to insinuate himself into an intimacy in that house, I should not hesitate a moment about letting Challys know all about him. I hinted a good deal before. It is quite true what I said in his favour. But that is all that can be said in his favour, and when I said it I had no idea that he dreamed of introducing himself on a footing of intimate acquaintance in my cousin’s house.’”
“Upon my word, you seem to remember his periods wonderfully,” said Miss Gray, who was vexed and embarrassed. “What a capital actor you would have made.”
“A slower study, I’m afraid, than you think, Challys. From the moment his letter reached me, yesterday afternoon, I don’t think one of my waking hours has passed without my conning over these sentences.”
“Is there any more?” asked Challys.
“Yes; just an earnest request that as he could not well ask his mother, old Lady Ardenbroke— “
“Did he say why?”
“He seemed to hint that old ladies talk, and that it would be everywhere.”
“Yes, I know; and what more?”
“An earnest entreaty that I would see you; and his expression was to implore of you to quite give up Mr. Dacre’s acquaintance, and on no account to permit him to — to write to you.”
“Oh! nonsense — write. Mr Dacre used, as you saw, just to drop in for an hour or so, and sing a little. What a fuss! and besides, Mr. Dacre has not been here for — I forget how long — and did not Ardenbroke say that all he said of him — in his favour, I mean — was quite true? you said so.”
“Yes, he does,” said Charles.
“Well, so far as my acquaintance is likely to go, that is quite enough. If he is a gentleman — accomplished — well-connected. But, perhaps it is assumed that I am in love with him,” said Miss Gray, with a laugh, but very pale; ‘‘and that he is one of those charming gentlemen who go about in romances and melodrames, if nowhere else, making irresistible pretty speeches to adoring young ladies, and having all the time a wife or a skeleton locked up in a closet.”
“Oh, no; it ain’t that,” said he.
“How do you know? what could be worse?” she answered again with a little laugh.
“I — the fact is — I had heard a story, but it was of a Mr. Dacre — Alfred Dacre. But Ardenbroke speaks of him as calling himself Alfred Dacre, from which it is plain that whether he be a Dacre at all, with some other Christian name, he certainly is not Alfred Dacre; and so my story is worthless. And when I wrote to Ardenbroke, I asked him” — Charles looked aside a little bashfully as he made this confession— “whether this gentleman calling himself Alfred Dacre was married, and he said positively not; and he had very lately heard every particular about him.”
“Well, you may tell him, we’re in no danger here, and that so far from having to deny ourselves to Mr. Dacre, he seems to have quite other people to look after, for we have not seen him here, as I told you, for some time.”
And then, at Laura’s instance, the patient had a glass of sherry and a biscuit, and described to her his present quarters near Highgate, and told her all the little news about himself. And though he made nothing of it, he looked pale and thin, and little more than half way on the road to recovery.
So Challys said that she and Julia Wardell would drive out some day soon, to see old Mr. Plumtree’s wonderful garden, in which Charles w
as wont to lounge with his tweed plaid about him, on a rustic seat, reading his novel in the luxury of a listless invalid.
CHAPTER XIX.
A HAPPY HOUR.
A WEEK and more had passed, and no news of Alfred Dacre. Guildford House was sad, and never did time move in that dull mansion more slowly before.
Now and then Julia Wardell wondered whether he would ever write again, spoke dryly of his politeness, and expressed her impetuous wonder at the want alike of indignation and of kindness manifested, as she complained, by Challys Gray.
“It certainly is,” she would say sarcastically to Challys Gray, “a very enviable state to be in. No affront has the slightest effect upon you! Could anything be ruder than Mr. Dacre’s walking off as he has done, after all the — the— “
“Tea — ?” said Challys Gray.
“Well, the tea was not much to talk about; but the attention, and the agreeable evenings; and, in fact, his making quite a resource of this house, and coming here to chat and sing whenever he pleased; and I do say that going off as he has done, without explanation or even farewell — why he did not say so much as good night. I was just thinking for a minute or two about something, and when I raised my eyes he had slipped out of the room; and not a line since — not a word., I do assure you, whatever you may think, I look on it as one of the rudest, coolest proceedings I ever remember hearing of.”
“I daresay; but that’s very much his own business. It certainly does not matter much to us whether he is the flower of courtesy — isn’t that what Sancho Panza calls his master — or the most illbred —
“He ain’t that,” interposed Mrs. Wardell. “The most illbred person in London, if we are never to see him again,” continued Miss Gray. “So I shan’t trouble my head about it.”
“You certainly do take it very coolly, considering that the poor young man may have met with some accident, or even lost his life; for I am quite sure that something must have prevented his calling here, or writing — and something very unusual, or he would have been certain to let us hear; and I’m quite uncomfortable about him; and I envy you the charming apathy with which you consign our friends to the chances of this reckless town, in which I am told, there are nine hundred accidents a week.”
“Perhaps, dear Julia, I am a stock or a stone; but how can I help that. I did not make myself, and I really can’t get either into a passion or a misery about nothing. He’ll come back if he wishes, and if he doesn’t he won’t; and if you will have him dead, I humbly hope he won’t. A little time will bring all to light.”
“Well, I suppose it will. I wish you weren’t looking so pale, my dear. I have been telling you, you can’t be quite well, looking so poorly.”
“I am, notwithstanding, quite well, I assure you,” she protested. “You’ll put me quite out of conceit with myself if you go on telling me that I’m losing my looks.”
“Come with me to Lady Ardenbroke’s tonight — there’s a good child. She’ll be so disappointed; and I don’t think there will be six people there.”
“No, dear, I shan’t go.”
“What an obstinate little thing it is?”
“At what hour do you go?” asked Miss Gray.
“Nine — very early. She’s an invalid still, you know.”
“I shall see you before twelve, then. Give her my love, and tell her that when it came to the hour I found I could not change my mind, I really can’t, you know. She’s very goodnatured; but she has made a little plan to steal me into society, and she would succeed before I knew where I was; and then, farewell all comfort in existence. No, I’ll remain here; and if we change this drowsy life it shall be to travel — a state in which you can see everything and yet be solitary, and quite enjoy your liberty.”
“I suppose, then, there’s no good in my saying any more?” Mrs. Wardell looked at her, still in hope.
“None in the world, dear; and I see the carriage, and it is nearly dark; and you had better get your cloak on. Aunt Winnie is sometimes cross, you know, when people keep her waiting.”
So, in a few minutes more good Mrs. Wardell was gone, and Laura Gray stood quite alone at the drawingroom window.
The shades of night stole gradually over the homely old house. The mist hung on the grass, and floated among the stems of the ancient elms, and the darkness deepened under their boughs.
The pretty lane in front was by this time quite silent. Leaning lightly against the side of the window, she was looking quite sadly and subdued, down that dark vista where midway his carriage-lamps used to shine on nights like this.
“He’ll never come again — never.”
And still she listened and watched; and I know not what fancies chased one another through her pretty head, and what yearnings were at her heart. In this lonely musing nearly half an hour passed, and she turned away with a deep sigh, and sitting down in a low chair took a book. I don’t think she read a great deal — and more than once she sighed, and again fell into her reverie.
I wish I could say that she was interrupted in some more romantic way. The fact is the door opened, and the servant announced Mr. Dacre.
She raised her head, and saw him standing at the open door with his accustomed smile.
There was silence for a little while —
“I havn’t written — I preferred coming; and beside I couldn’t write,” said he. “It is so much pleasanter and wiser to talk. A letter, you know, is blind and deaf, and neither sees when you look weary, nor hears when you say ‘enough’, but bores on with inflexible stupidity till it has quite said out its say; and for this, and a thousand better reasons, I’m glad I did not write.”
- “Oh yes, I always think so,” said Challys Gray, scarcely knowing what she said. “I never write a note when I can help it. It is so much better — one can say everything so much more easily.”
“This drawingroom, this room— “he was looking round it in a wild reverie— “what a dream it all is! and, oh, Miss Gray, this hour. I’m to sing for you, mind, as usual, and to talk — all just in the old way it shall be; and it has been to me a year since I saw you.”
“It is, you know, a good many days,” said Challys Gray; “and — we are not to talk in a melancholy way; and now have I any news to tell — nothing, I think, except, indeed, this, that my cousin Julia has gone to drink tea with Lady Ardenbroke this evening; but she’ll not be very long away; and her dog is quite recovered; and the old cracked china vase you used to admire is broken, and gone to some wonderful woman in Long-acre, who puts all the bits together again, and makes annihilation harmless.”
“You’ll tell me where to find her?”
“Are you going to put her skill in requisition?”
“Yes.”
“What have you broken?”
“A trifle called a heart — my own — and so I had a right to break it.”
“It must have been very ill constructed; Those ornaments should be made quite solid, and they would be less liable to accidents,” said Laura.
“Yes, made of stone, I daresay. And now, for my little time, I’m going to be quite happy, that is to say, quite mad.”
“That sounds very wild, Mr. Dacre; yet, I daresay, there is some truth in it,” and she laughed. “People, I suppose, can only be happy by imagining something, and forgetting a great deal?”
“Yes, Miss Gray,” said he, “one can forget a great deal, but never everything; like others we long for the lotus; but who would quite forget? It is to its saddest records that memory clings most fondly. I suppose by the time life turns into a retrospect every memory has some one melancholy treasure, the secret of all its pain, from which it would not part for all its other stores. But I’m not going to be sad. I’ll wear my fool’s-cap, if you allow me, this evening, and you wont despise me if my music is mingled with its bells. And — and you have been quite well ever since?”
“Yes, thanks; very well.”
‘‘And the invalid of the Silver Dragon— “
“Recovering
very fast,” she replied; but he perceived that she was embarrassed as she answered, and his eye rested with a quiet curiosity upon her for a moment or two, before he spoke.
“Recovering, recovering; yes, its time he should; he has been out, has he, and here?”
“Yes, only once, for twenty minutes or so, and he has established himself somewhere at Highgate,” said Miss Gray.
“And talked of me?” said the gay man, with a smile.
“Very little; and I don’t mean to discuss his poor little visit any more. He staid hardly any time, and he looks very far from well,” said Laura Gray, “and he must have been a great deal more ill, and his hurt a great deal worse than I had any idea of.”
“Yes,” said her visitor, abstractedly. “And — and what about Ardenbroke?”
“Still in Scotland.”
“Enjoying himself, I daresay, and now and then writing letters. I should not be surprised, if he sometimes asked after me.” The young gentleman was smiling.
“Now come, Mr. Dacre, you’ll take nothing by your cleverness,” she answered; “for I made up my mind long ago that I never would talk of one acquaintance to another; and therefore, one of your insinuated questions I wont answer.”
“A misfortune it is to be gifted with a curious temperament, and I’m awfully curious, where sympathy is withheld, and illumination denied.”
“I pity you immensely, but I can’t assist you — no indeed.”
“Can a poor curious devil prevail nothing by entreaty?”
“I renounce curious devils, and hold no parley with them.”
“Quite obdurate?”
“Quite.”
“Do you think a song might possibly prevail?”
“I don’t say it will, but you shall try.”
“Instantly.”
And so he did.
CHAPTER XX.
UNMASKED.
HE did sing, and then they chatted about fifty things, he in the same gay spirits.
Swiftly and gaily flew the hour. Had he ever been so merry before? She felt his eyes upon her now and then as if he were meditating a talk perhaps of another kind. But if it was coming it was still deferred, and his wild spirits carried on their dialogue in its old channel.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 476
