“Well, sir, Mr. Gillespie learned that Miss Gray was coming to the opera, and, after nearly four years passed within these walls, I emerged. We sat in a box nearly opposite, for it was as well that I should see the young lady; and a harmless accident to her carriage as she returned home had been arranged with her coachman, to enable me, under the name of Dacre, to introduce myself by a little service, and to found on it an excuse for a visit of inquiry; and so the acquaintance was made. That night at the opera, as luck would have it, Ardenbroke saw and knew me; and — in the dark, like the rest of the world, as to where I had been for years — I told him such lies as answered my purpose, and tied him by a promise not to mention my name or visit, as I called it, to London. I’m afraid, sir, you think I have taken a liberty with your text, and let my yea be nay, and my nay yea; and so it was from first to last, almost — not quite — last of this villany.”
“I’m filled, I confess, sir, with astonishment and horror.”
“So you ought — so ought I — I suppose. But my theory is, that if you practise a deception, it ought to be thoroughly practised. It is illogical to stick at subsidiary lies. The fraud seems now to me odious, mean, and truculent, because I have ceased to think of its contemplated victim as I did. Nothing draws man and woman together like a secret to be kept between them; nothing gratifies the pride and elicits the love of woman like a man’s devoting himself to danger for her sake; nothing cherishes that tenderness like being, by any means always present to her thought; nothing heightens the romantic feeling like a little mystery — all this was provided for by some real reserves; for I dared not tell her who I was, and for plain reasons I was obliged to conduct my stolen exits from this place with caution; for had I been seen and recognised, it might have cleared matters up with a clap of thunder. But it was provided for elaborately by a cruel imposture, which amused me, the drama of a pretended conspiracy conducted by anonymous letters.
“All that I hate to think of now. When I conceived it I was mad with malice and misery; it was delight to me to torture my enemy in the process of subjugation.”
Mr. Parker sighed deeply.
“I see, sir, all this pains you. I don’t mind telling you, now that it wrings my own heart with anguish and fury to think of my stupidity — how long it was before my eyes were opened. Good heavens, sir! that I should have seen a fiend in that angel! Oh, sir — oh, Mr. Parker, I don’t believe that any human soul ever suffered before what I am enduring now: not remorse — no. I despise that feeling, — but an eternal leavetaking, the separation of the damned. I should lose my reason or cut my throat if it were not for one hope.”
“The Christian has always — if he will only look for it — in his darkest hour, and wildest wanderings, a hope eternal as the love and truth of God,” said Mr. Parker.
“To that hope, sir, my eyes are blind. The hope I mean is death.”
“Let every man labour while it is called day, that death may prove repose for him. He thinks of the poor body on its pillow of clay, and of death as no more than a cold slumber; but no, sir, the body is but the cenotaph he leaves behind him. The man himself is awake, and far away, receiving the recompense of his life.”
“We’ll not dispute about that now, sir,” answered De Beaumirail, gently enough. “I’m willing to take it as a sleep, and I think it is not far off. I’m sure it isn’t. I could not feel as I do if it were; and now, sir, you’ll never tell her while I live who was that Alfred Dacre who grew from hating to love her so.”
After a short silence the old clergyman said thoughtfully —
“Why, Mr. De Beaumirail, should, you not write to the young lady and tell her this whole truth?”
“Write to her! I’d die a thousand deaths first. While I live she shall never know more; no, if she had commanded it I should have confessed all, but she was merciful; that dreadful ordeal she remitted; and now, if you, my one true friend, from a mistaken kindness, betray me, by Heaven I’ll put a pistol to my head, and end my life the hour I hear it. Oh, sir, I rely on you — your promise — you wont betray me.”
“Sir, I’ll keep my promise. Without your leave I never dreamed of speaking to Miss Gray on the subject; only it seemed to me a natural thing to do,” said the old man.
“Ah! sir, you don’t know. But when I’m dead you may — you will; and say that, adoring her as I did, I honoured her too much to shock her with the revelation of my name. Tell her she could never have thought more vilely of me than I do of myself; and that what I dared not have sued for while living, she will, perhaps, grant to the dead — forgiveness. And, oh! sir — you’ll not forsake me.”
“You shall see me, sir, at least as often as ever; and — about your health — pray tell me who is your medical man,” asked Mr. Parker.
De Beaumirail smiled.
“You’ve seen him here once or twice, and might have taken him for what he metaphorically is — a grave-digger. He is a fellow-lodger in this retired wing of the palace of justice, and his name is Wiley.”
“A skilful man, I hope?”
“Really, sir, I don’t know; but I have what is termed entire confidence in him. Never refuse to see him, drunk or sober. Allow him to feel my pulse, and listen to the secrets of my heart. Let him call my complaints by what hard names he pleases, and I never interrupt him; and in so far may be said to take his advice, but not his medicine; and I believe he is a jolly, half-mad, miserable prisoner like myself.”
“Well, I must say good night. I think you seem a little better,” said Mr. Parker, “and I hope you’ll find yourself a great deal better tomorrow.”
“Thanks, sir. Fellows like me, who live in this odd place, are always going to be better tomorrow. It is the easiest way of improving, and leads a man cheerfully on his journey like the bell that tinkles between the donkey’s ears, and always an inch or two in advance, amuses the Alpine march.”
And having said these words, he bid his old friend good night.
“Good night, sir,” said Mr. Parker, “and I will look in very soon again,” and away he went; and De Beaumirail stood looking down the dark void of the staircase, in deeper misery than anyone who had listened to his cynical trifling, a moment before, could have imagined. It was about the hour when, well muffled to escape recognition at the door, he used to walk out, accompanied by old Gillespie, or it might be by Mr. Levi, well known and influential people in that locality, and get into his brougham and go off in a dream to Guildford House.
CHAPTER XXIII.
MUTAT TERRA VICES.
IN a little time Lord Ardenbroke returned to London. A note awaited him which quite relieved him on the uneasy subject of Guildford House and its masquerading visitor.
It was written by De Beaumirail, and reminded him that he was under promise of secrecy, and upon the sole condition of his continuing to observe it, now promised that no communication, by letter or message, should ever again be opened with the tenants of that mansion. It said— “When you heard that the pretended Alfred Dacre was admitted at Guildford House, I can understand your surprise and anxiety only too well. You will not inflict upon a very miserable man the additional anguish of a useless disclosure. I appeal to your magnanimity and your justice. I enclose the address of a friend who will see you, should you wish it, and answer in confidence any questions you may care to ask. But I submit I have a right to your silence, and I insist on your promise to respect my secret.”
Lord Ardenbroke did hold his tongue very scrupulously on the subject, seeing that no duty any longer conflicted with, this claim of secrecy.
And now the House was up, the season quite over, and London emptied of its great people, and even in large measure of its small. The dowager Lady Ardenbroke was at Brighton, and her son on the Scotch moors. But Guildford House had not closed its shutters, nor locked its doors. Challys Gray lingered on, and Julia Wardell dozed contentedly over her crochet and her novel, and walked her dog up and down the avenue twice a day, and noted his appetite and spirits with more than mater
nal solicitude, and I daresay the servants’ hall and housekeeper’s room had their ideas respecting the humdrum life to which they were condemned.
Challys Gray had found a new pursuit. Was she changed? There was not change enough for Julia Wardell, who was with her day by day, to take note of. She chatted very much as usual; she went out as usual in her carriage; there was the customary shopping; and sometimes she recurred to her old plan of foreign travel, and made ideal tours, and seemed interested with maps and guide-books for an hour at a time.
But for all that there was a change. It had come in a moment. An eternal farewell to the untold hope. The feeling that grew, day by day, duller and darker — that time was doing nothing
“To lift that longing from her heart.”
She had taken old Mr. Parker very much into counsel, and also a curate who had the care of the district round her. She had made herself, after the manner of young ladies grieved at heart, who have no nunneries to go into, a Dorcas, a volunteer Sister of Mercy. I merely mention this very commonplace fact, having no intention of following her little rambles or visitations among the sick and needy.
Of course she talked to these poor people, and gave them good little books and other things. But when young ladies visit so, it is, as a rule, their money that is welcome, and not their tracts, nor, I am afraid, even their pretty faces.
It was, however, occupation, and of that grave, melancholy, and yet comforting sort which accords with a mind wounded, and in danger of subsiding into utter apathy.
Charles Mannering was now a great deal better, and every day at Guildford House; and with a sure instinct, conscious, though he never hinted that sad knowledge to anyone, that Challys Gray had known her first love — blighted it might be — yet, still, there would always remain that preoccupation. Challys Gray, he could see, though good Mrs. Wardell did not, was quite changed.
She laughed and talked pretty much as usual; but often she fell into reveries, in which she looked, so sad and hopeless, that he wondered that anyone on earth, could be worth so much of Challys Gray’s sorrow.
Very devoted he was. He walked with her on her little daily circuits, carried her little basket, for she was in a mood that yearned for all kinds of humilities, and no servant attended her, and Challys thought she was doing “good works,” and that she had never known what “charity” was before. But Challys had always been kind and open-handed. In the matter of liberality there was nothing to change. The change was in the mode and practice of distribution, and was, on the whole, harmless, and to herself useful. It afforded her occupation, and introduced her to scenes that accorded with her melancholy mood, and gave her sterner, and also tenderer notions of God’s dealings with His creatures than inexperienced people in her rank of life entertain; it startled her also with a nearer sense of the responsibilities of wealth, and filled her with a juster awe of futurity.
This kind of thing, thought Charles Mannering, can’t last for ever, and when she gives it up it will be a sign that she has come to herself, also, in other matters. “It may take some time,” and he sighed, “but one day or another it will be so.”
So we reason — the head against the heart — logic against the presentiment. The steel passes through the phantom and it stands there still. The shadowy augury is not of reason, and will not be killed by its weapon.
Charles Mannering knew that she was changed, and felt, as other men have felt, that the heart over which a sorrowful first-love has passed, will never be quite the same again. With this melancholy, however, there was now a quietude. The agitation and the burning gall of rivalry he had done with, and he was always near beautiful Challys Gray.
It was late in October now. The leaves were rustling on the avenue, or skipping and whirling over the grass, in the rough autumnal gusts, and still pretty Challys Gray remained at Guildford House, and the nun-like life went on.
One day she said to old Mr. Parker, who had come, as was his wont, with a list of “cases of distress,” to Challys Gray, whose purse was always open —
“I have been thinking, Mr. Parker, about that poor prisoner— “
She paused at these words reflectively. “What poor prisoner, Miss Gray?” the old man asked, a little inquisitively.
“I mean Mr de Beaumirail;” she answered.
“Oh, Mr de Beaumirail! Yes — yes — to be sure,” repeated he.
And he looked steadily on her, with a kind of apprehension, expecting something.
But Challys Gray looked quite frank, and her face indicated neither doubt nor reserve, as she continued —
“You told me once, Mr. Parker, that my feeling about that matter was a superstition, and that no such auguries should stand in the way of an act of simple mercy. I could not listen to you then; but I have been thinking, and I have made up my mind to oppose his release no longer.”
“But, my dear Miss Gray, it is no longer in your power; the other creditors have withdrawn their consent, and nothing can now persuade them to renew it.”
“I’m very sorry; but I’m glad I spoke before I knew this new difficulty. Well, if this cannot be, at least you must persuade him to allow me, through you, to be of some use.”
“You mean, Miss Gray, to furnish him with money. I dare not hint at such a thing. I know very well how such a proposal would be received. Besides you need have no uneasiness upon that point. He has some property in France which his creditors cannot touch, and which is ample for all his present wants; and he is not, I fear, likely very long to enjoy any rights that remain to him, for the physician that attends him seems to think that his life now hangs upon a thread.”
“Ill, is he? — Fever, or what is his complaint?” she asked, evidently shocked.
“No, nothing of that kind. One of those complaints of the heart, his doctor says, which may kill him at any moment,” answered Mr. Parker.
“I have behaved very cruelly,” she said, with a contraction of her brow, as she looked down, very pale, “but not with a cruel motive — no — no — not with a cruel motive — I never was cruel; I was often angry, but never cruel or unforgiving — say that of me — you know it, Mr. Parker.”
“I do know it, Miss Gray. I never charged you with anything worse than an entirely erroneous idea of your duty; there is no use in discussing it now, because no practical effect can now result from it, and you have shown that you cease to hold that opinion by offering to sign his release.”
“Sir, I’m glad you understand. It is very unhappy — what a world this is!”
“I have been out of town for some days, and mean to see him tomorrow, when I am making my visits, between three and four, and if you desire it I can mention the wishes, you have expressed.”
“And tell him, sir, that I ask his forgiveness, and would receive the news that he had accepted my offer with gratitude as a token of that forgiveness.”
And thus charged, Mr. Parker took his departure.
CHAPTER XXIV.
REQUIESCAT.
Three days later old Mr. Parker was at Guildford House, very grave, with something to tell.
He did not go up to the drawingroom, where the ladies were. He asked to see Miss Gray in the library, only for a few minutes.
The young lady came down, and when she looked on his face there came a foreboding of ill.
Pretty much as usual he greeted her; but there was a little constraint, and a hesitation about opening his business, that made her ask, with a rather alarmed look fixed on him —
“Is there any news — anything about any friend of mine?”
“No, nothing; I can’t say anything about your friends, Miss Gray, but about Mr de Beaumirail; I have to tell you first that you need think of him or his troubles no more.”
There was a silence, and after two or three seconds Miss Gray said, very low —
“Oh, really!” as she looked in a kind of sorrowful consternation in the old man’s eyes.
“Yes; he died very suddenly on Monday evening. He had been as usual. The docto
r says, he talked with him in the course of the day, and saw no change. He might, he says, humanly speaking, have possibly lived for a year or more.”
“Were you with him?” she asked.
“Yes; I changed my plans after seeing you, and went there, and I found him at his desk reading some old letters. He was very much dejected. He asked all about you, so I gave him your message, and he seemed affected; and he said, ‘I forgive her! Ah, sir, you know that is folly. I only hope the time will come when she will forgive me; I know it will; her forgiveness will follow me to the grave, for death is the seal of repentance, and she will know me better when I die.’ So I told him I had met the doctor in the court, and that he had not apparently any unusual apprehensions about him, and he smiled and said, ‘The blind leading the blind. I don’t mind doctors; but there’s an understanding between the dying man and death, and signs as slight as lovers’ exchange, of which they see nothing; therefore don’t mind him.’ And then he made me tell him over again all about you, and he said, after a silence, ‘Have you ever heard her sing?’”
“How came he to know that I sang? But I have not for some time — and I think I never shall again,” she said.
“And when he had talked a little more,” continued Mr. Parker, “seemingly all the time very sad, and in a gentle mood, he said at last, ‘Would you mind opening that window? I should like a little more air.’ It was just at sunset, and he said, smiling, “Look at those old brick chimneys; isn’t it odd, everything in this light looks picturesque, and even sad? I watch them every evening till the twilight hides them. People learn ways of making time pass, sir, in places like this and then he told me over again his message to you, and he said with a little gasp, ‘Is there air?’ and with one slight gasp more he suddenly fell back. I thought he had fainted; I could not believe it was all over. I called the doctor, whom I saw walking in the court, and when he came he saw how it was. He was gone.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 478
