In the momentary interval her heart seemed to cease beating, and as the name was pronounced it fluttered up with a sudden bound, as if it would suffocate her. She felt quite wild with the sense of relief.
What did Alfred Dacre see? He saw Miss Gray pale and cold, looking down on her book as if too much interested to look up.
“Laura, dear, — Mr. Dacre,” said Mrs. Wardell.
“Oh, Mr. Dacre?” and Laura looked up smiling, and gave him a very cold hand.
“I was half afraid I shouldn’t have been able to come tonight; and I’m so happy; but I hope you are quite well.”
She was looking very pale — paler than he had thought when he first came in, and there was a little brilliant hectic in each cheek.
“Quite well, thanks. I’ve been looking into this book, and it is so dull, and it is very good of you coming. I don’t know how we should have got through this evening.”
“And we have been in such a fright about you,” interposed Mrs. Wardell.
“Really,” said he, and glanced at Laura’s face, to which came the prettiest blush in the world.
“Well, I don’t know hardly that,” she said, trying to assent herself; “we heard some foolish story, and it would have been too provoking, you know, if your so goodnaturedly looking in upon us should have exposed you to any annoyance from those ill-disposed people who, I am afraid, are watching you. What was it, Julia? Tell Mr. Dacre exactly what we heard.”
Mrs. Wardell with eager volubility recounted the odd little alarm of last evening, told the story of their exertions in his behalf, and described the young man who gave the warning, and then declared their thanks and obligations.
For the first time a frown darkened Dacre’s face; he seemed to wince at some recollection, and impatiently and even harshly said —
“I disdain thanks. I do what I like for my own sake. I like every one to treat me as an enemy. I mean as to my motives, to assume that T am selfish.”
He paused suddenly, as if startled at his own words.
“You are very peremptory with me, Mr. Dacre,” replied Julia Wardell, with a surprised look; “but you know it would be very unusual not to thank people who are really kind to us.”
“Oh, yes. I did not mean to address what I said to — to, in fact, to any one in particular. I meant merely to express my belief about people’s motives, and to say I’m no better than others, and no worse either,” he added, almost fiercely.
He saw Miss Gray’s fine eyes looking upon him with a gaze of surprise, almost of alarm. His own eyes dropped to the floor, and after a moment or two he raised them again with an odd smile.
“I’m sure there is something oriental in my blood,” he said. “I’m so prone to exaggeration, my friends will mitigate my hyperboles, and even understand the feelings that impel me into them.”
“Well, if you wont allow us to thank you,” said Mrs. Wardell, a little huffed, “or at least receive our thanks so oddly— “
“Pray excuse me; it is not ingratitude,” he said; “but I’m not very happy, and my vehemence is rather the expression of pain than of thought; thinking is an exercise that never was my forte.”
“Why thinking? You must think, Mr. Dacre; is not that the attribute of the human race?” said Julia Wardell, who did not know what to make of him.
“One grows sometimes impatient and disgusted with one’s own folly, and incensed at one’s malignant luck, and what a man says who is stung with anger and delirious with his wounds is all chance, and of course counts for nothing. I am sure I owe an apology; but how is one to make it if one does not remember what one has said? All I can say, Mrs. Wardell, is, that if I talked nonsense I know you’ll forgive me, and if worse I beg your pardon a thousand times.”
“Well, what you said was — what was it? It has really gone out of my head, but it does not in the least matter; and this I am quite sure of, that you said nothing that needed an apology.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Wardell.”
“And I’m so glad you are come,” she continued. “You can’t have a notion how dull we are, and how we miss your music when you don’t come; and you’ll be glad to hear, for you like dogs, that my poor little creature is ever so much better to-day.” Dacre, I’m afraid, did not hear all this. As the old lady was speaking he came to Laura’s side, and while Mrs. Wardell entered into conversation with her dog, he stooped over the young lady. At a little distance you would have fancied he was looking into the book that lay open before her, and he said very low —
“I hope I did not speak ungraciously, Miss Gray; there is nothing so sweet as being thanked by you; but you are not to thank me. When, if ever, I do a service worthy of such a reward, and the only one I can ever do will tear my heart asunder, then I may claim it, but not now.”
“As usual, Mr. Dacre, you speak enigmas,” said Laura; “but notwithstanding all you say I am obliged to you for coming tonight. We had heard what made us very uncomfortable, and I am sure you have something to tell me.”
“Why do you think so?” he asked, as if he shrank from it.
“Don’t you think one might guess from the things you have said that you have something unusual to tell?” said she.
“Yes, I dare say. I’m sure I have been talking like a fool.” He laughed more in his old way. “I was going to say a very vain thing — I was going to say I had been talking very unlike myself; but, Miss Gray, I don’t regret anything. If all this meanness and villainy had not been practised, I should not now have been here. I don’t regret the price that buys that privilege for me’; and cost what more it may, I’ll retain it as long as I can endure the melancholy agony of that happiness.”
A look of surprised uncertainty in Miss Gray’s large eyes suddenly met his own.
“I see I’ve been talking more enigmas; half our riddles have really no answers to them. I should be very much puzzled I know to explain my own dark sayings. It is much easier to speak in an unknown tongue than to interpret.” And as he concluded this little speech his old manner returned; he laughed, and Miss Gray felt reassured.
“Well, you are to tell me,” she said, “whether anything has happened.”
“A great deal,” he said.
“Wont you tell me what it is?”
“People have repented.”
“Incorrigibly oracular this evening,” said Miss Laura Gray.
“Bitterly — bitterly — life-long repentance. Before I tell you anything I must exact a distinct promise,” he said.
They were still talking in an undertone, and Julia Wardell, conversing affectionately still with her lap-dog, was not in their way. “Say what it is,” asked Miss Gray.
“It is that you wont thank me.”
“Not thank you? Then I am sure you have done me some great kindness,” said Miss Gray.
“Something has happened, but there is — nothing — not the least kindness — so pray allow me to insist on my condition,” persisted Alfred Dacre.
“It is delightful to thank people, and very hard to be denied, and very difficult, too, to keep such a promise.”
“You don’t know, Miss Gray, how much you torture me. I thought my request an humble one enough, and ‘yet you wont grant it.”
“I’m so curious that I must grant it; and, if I appear very rude and unkind, remember who compelled me to be so.”
“Only promise that you’ll never thank me.
“Never! Why, you’re becoming more and more exacting!” exclaimed Miss Laura Gray.
“Never thank me,” he repeated.
“Well, you know I’m in a corner, and I can’t escape, and I’m too curious to wait; so I believe there is nothing for it but to promise,” said Miss Gray.
“Well, Miss Gray, you are’ not to say thank you,” repeated Dacre.
“Then, as it must be so, I wont say thank you; and now you are to tell me what it is.”
“I had some doubts,” he answered, “as to whether I should bring it myself; in fact,” he conti
nued, with a momentary look of pain and dejection, “it was a struggle; it is a vile swindle, but I can’t help it, and here it is — and I’ll never touch it more.” With these words he placed in her hand a large sealed envelope addressed to her in his own hand. A melancholy look he fixed on her for a moment; she gazed upward in his eyes, expecting him to speak, and I think he was on the point of doing so, but changed his mind, and went instead to the piano and sat down, and there played snatches of old, wild, and melancholy airs; so Miss Gray broke the seal of the envelope and examined its contents.
CHAPTER V.
LAURA READS.
The letter instantly rivetted her attention, for the hand was the same bold and peculiar one which had written the villainous letters which had so perplexed and affrighted her. She gasped a sudden exclamation of amazement, and began to read.
“Can you sing us that charming little song again tonight, Mr. Dacre?” asked Mrs. Wardell, whom the tones of the piano recalled from a reverie. “‘Come to me,’ you know, ‘when daylight sets;’ is not that it?”
“I’m afraid, — thank you very much for wishing it, — but I’m afraid I’ve got a little cold, and I would not for the world be à failure, having had so very kind a reception,” said he, not caring just then to sing.
“A cold! dear me, I’m so sorry. Let me advise you to try one of these lozenges. I find them very good when my voice is affected.”
Very gratefully he declined, and she continued —
“Indeed, I think there is some kind of influenza attacking every one just now. I’ve had it slightly, like you; and here is my poor little miserable creature here suffering from his chest, so oppressed at times you could hear him breathing where you’re sitting now. I’m not half satisfied with the advice I’ve got — no, indeed, we are not, my poor little darling soul — and I was going to ask you, Mr, Dacre, if you understand anything of the treatment of dogs; I should be so much obliged if you’d allow me to consult you.”
“I should be only too happy, if you really wish it; but, I ought to tell you that I have not very much experience, and have not been fortunate. In fact, I never treated more than one dog, and he died, and it was thought, poor fellow, I accidentally poisoned him.”
“Oh, indeed! Oh, I see; but you must have been awfully pained.”
“Yes, so we were, the dog and I; but he, poor fellow, got out of his pain first: and I’m only too happy to obey you, and at least I can promise that if I should be so unhappy as to poison another dog, it shan’t be with the same thing.”
“Well, thanks, there’s time enough; we can see how he is tomorrow,” said good Mrs. Wardell, a little frightened.
All this time, as he played lightly or talked, he was looking over the piano, and watching Miss Gray, who was reading this paper, It said —
“I write to acknowledge the offence we have committed, and that still worse which we meditated. I have placed in Mr. Alfred Dacre’s hands a signed confession, on the condition that no one sees it, unless we violate our undertaking, hereby entered into, that we shall give you no more trouble. It is understood, on the other hand, that you give us none, unless we break this engagement.
“The locket set with brilliants which we sent at first you will please to purchase at 70l, which sum we have agreed you may distribute among such public charities as you select; and the acknowledgment of the same, by advertisement in the Times, we accept as payment of said sum. This being accepted as a settlement of all complaints, claims, or possible litigations on account of past occurrences, we withdraw, and unless recalled by a departure from those stipulations, we shall appear no more.”
“Oh, what a relief! That gallant friend. What do I not owe him?”
Her eyes spoke all this as she raised them in silent delight from the paper, and fixed them for a moment on that handsome musician, who lowered his at the same moment to the notes, and seemed absorbed in the tangled maze of a half-forgotten air.
He saw that her eyes stole again toward him, and he said —
“I think, Mrs. Wardell, I could sing a little, if you still command me. I fancy my voice is better. May I try, Miss Gray?”
“Certainly. We are always so much obliged,” she answered with alacrity.
Mrs. Wardell seconded the proposal, and Alfred Dacre sang more exquisitely than ever.
Thanked and -approved by his goodnatured little audience, Alfred Dacre got up and crossed the room to Laura Gray’s side.
She knew that his song had been sung for a purpose. She felt that he was quite in earnest when he told her not to thank him; and this song he had interposed like a dream, that the grateful impulse might have time to cool, and she to remember and observe her promise.
She held up the envelope in her fingers, with the light of triumph and gratitude in her eyes.
“You are to keep that,” he said, “and name it no more. If there’s anything in it you don’t understand you have only to ask me. Otherwise pray never mention it to me.”
“I’m so delighted!” she looked in his face, smiling.
He smiled — but it was with an effort — and the wintry light quickly faded away, and left behind a look of pain and annoyance.
“I’m very glad — that is, that you are pleased,” said Dacre.
“And aren’t you?”
“I say I’m glad that you are glad,” said he, a little impatiently.
“But aren’t you pleased to see this?” She held up the envelope again.
“No,” said he.
“No? I’m sure you do like to look at it.”
Miss Laura Gray teased him, but I am sure it was her curiosity that prompted.
“Miss Gray, pray believe me. I look at it with a disgust and horror which you can’t conceive. Of which it would give you but a faint idea to suppose yourself compelled to look in the face of a corpse, or anything else which most repulses you.
Pray, lock it up, and try to put it out of your mind — for you’ll never have trouble from that quarter more.”
Laura looked at him, and saw that he was profoundly pained. So after a little silence, she mentioned another subject, though not a very remote one.
“I dare say you have seen Mr. De Beaumirail since?”
“That is a subject, Miss Gray, that I thought you objected to,” said Alfred Dacre.
“I don’t like speaking of him — that is very true — but I have a vague idea that he knew something of this.”
And she glanced at the envelope still in her fingers.
“You are perfectly right,” said he; “I’m sure of it.”
“And how was it?” she asked.
“I can’t tell. You’ll kindly not ask me to discuss it — but I hate and despise him more than ever.”
“I have no reason to like him,” she said. “Few people, I fancy, had,” said Dacre, “though, as I have often said, I am the person he injured most; perhaps the only one whom he injured seriously.”
“Do you know his history?”
“Yes; very well.”
“You know he treated my family very ill,” she said.
“I think I know what you allude to, Miss Gray,” he said, in a tone of melancholy respect. “But I believe upon that one point you are entirely mistaken. Ardenbroke and I have talked that painful matter over more than once.”
“Ah!” said she bitterly, “the fickle, odious, cruel coward, can the other world send up a viler soul than the man who trifles with that sacred feeling, and kills a poor creature by that slow torture?”
Alfred Dacre, with downcast eyes, was listening respectfully.
Miss Gray went on with sudden excitement —
“I’ve often wished that I were a man, that I might have let him go free, and fought him — to strike down that cold villain with a pistol shot, or die by his — and let him lay death upon death, and go to judgment with a double murder. Ardenbroke and you — and you and Ardenbroke — with your metaphysics, and your partisanship, and your cruelty! To break a girl’s heart is but the breaki
ng of a china tea-cup. What’s a woman? The plaything of your insolence. What her love? A song to laugh over. The feather of your vanity. But I say, the noblest treasure that ever God poured out on earth! Oh, manhood! Oh for the time when men were men, and honoured the creatures whom nature committed to their protection. But, oh, that’s all oldfashioned now — entirely mistaken — and men are wiser; and women must be patient — yes, patient — till God’s justice comes to rule the world.”
Alfred Dacre was taken aback, as the phrase is, by the sudden vehemence of Challys Gray. Still looking down, he waited —
“Entirely mistaken, say you and Ardenbroke? You put your heads together, and wonder why such a fuss about a girl’s fancies, and pity De Beaumirail; and then, with a shrug or two, turn over to some other folly. But I tell you, show me the man who in such a matter practises the least duplicity, or even thinks deceit, and I see a villain.”
Was there anything in these generalities that Dacre applied for himself? There was a vengeful light for the moment in Challys Gray’s eyes; and his, with a dilated gaze, met hers — he looked white as a ghost — stem and resigned, and after a brief gaze, he lowered his eyes to the ground.
“I don’t understand people’s motives, or much, I’m afraid, about right and wrong,” said he at last. “I don’t understand human nature, because I can’t, to begin with, understand myself. But, dear Miss Gray, don’t we walk in such a mist? I mean with ideas frequently so clouded, when we are ourselves concerned — in a region so haunted by illusions, and with a vision so feeble, that even when we most wish to be fair, we follow shadows and lose our way?”
Miss Gray was silent, looking sadly out on the darkness.
“And although I have quite misconveyed my real feelings about that particular circumstance, and although I was unfortunate enough to incur a portion of your censure, I yet am glad that I was present — very glad, for many reasons. Your feelings I can understand, and respect and admire them, more than I can describe, and I shan’t make the least attempt at present to talk in extenuation of myself and Ardenbroke; but we have been misapprehended, and any time you command me to explain, I shall only be too grateful.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 468