He sighed deeply.
“I must have seemed often monstrously ungrateful, Mr. Parker, but it was not I; it was the bitterness and fury of my fate; thrust any man with energies and feelings into the solitude of prison for life, and what do you leave of him but his fiendish nature, with every good that ever qualified it corrupted to poison, or extinguished; but I believe, even devils can be grateful; grateful to you I know I was; but, then, you were my one friend. The last gleam of heaven that kept human sympathy alive within me, entered my door when you opened it, and I ding to your affection, as to a spar in shipwreck; and for the present — perhaps, sir, for ever — farewell.”
And so saying, De Beaumirail, in the foreign fashion, embraced his visitor.
CHAPTER XV.
TWICE GOODNIGHT.
THAT night, at his usual hour, Dacre arrived in the highest imaginable spirits at Guildford House.
“What a charming old house this is, there is something in it so riant and genial. Spirits of hope and gaiety haunt its passages, one runs up its stairs without touching them, as a lark flutters upwards to heaven, one crosses the floor to the measure of a dance, and its very walls seem humming to the vibrations of old music; and pray, forgive me, I’m talking such nonsense, trying to keep pace with my happiness, which quite outstrips my reason.”
“Better to fall in love with our clumsy old house than to quarrel with the poor old thing, as some people do,” said Laura Gray, “there’s Lady Ardenbroke, who can’t afford it a civil word.”
“She’s not content with calling it a nunnery, I assure you,” interposed Mrs. Wardell; “she says it’s a madhouse.”
“Not quite a misnomer, while I am in it,” laughed Dacre. “Sometimes, at least — to night, for instance — I am very mad; but very happy.”
“And if one is to go mad there is no cause preferable, but it is not common; one does not meet many people who are suffering from too much happiness,” said Mrs. Wardell.
“Madness is sometimes, I believe, hilarious enough, but is not brought on by overmuch joy; there is a reaction from misery, and even in misery that simulates gaiety. Heaven help us,” said he, “a gaiety of nature in her irony — cynical as it subsides, insane as it rises. I think if I could have gaiety no otherwise, I should thank anyone for a flagon of laughing gas; dying wretches in the hospitals are heard to laugh in their dreams; but Mrs. Wardell’s voice has waked me from mine.” He sighed, and laughed, and sighed again.
“Sorry to hear it if it makes you less happy. If I thought I were making you dull here,” said Mrs. Wardell, with an influx of dignity, “I should keep my remarks a good deal more to myself.”
“How stupid of me to convey myself so ill,” said Dacre, “I spoke only of those mad dreams which lead sleepwalkers to death. There are dreams of paradise — the most unreal, perhaps, of all; and from them no voice but one can recall us.”
“Ain’t we getting into the clouds, Mr. Dacre?” said Laura Gray. “I sometimes suspect you of having picked up some of Don Quixote’s library in your travels.”
“And read them to the same purpose?”
“No, for you seem a little conscious of your craze,” said Challys.
“That’s my misfortune; — than want of faith in one’s insanity — what is there more miserable?” answered he.
“That depends, of course, on the nature of one’s delusion,” said she, “and now I’ll talk no more nonsense, and by-and-by you’ll sing us a song.”
“Always command me,” said he, lowering his voice as he came near her; “have I ever yet disobeyed you?”
“You have not always kept your promise,” she answered.
“In what have I ever broken it to you?”
“In this very matter of music,” she answered. “There have been evenings here, when I asked you to sing, when you promised to sing, and yet when you went away without singing.”
“And if I did, you know, Miss Gray, it was some mischance, never from want of ardour in your service. You won’t say that, Miss Gray, but believe, although I’ve never done you any service, yet I’d lay down my life for you — as, for you, I am laying down my last hope.”
Laura Gray answered only by a steadfast and melancholy look, in which her beautiful eyes met his, and after a moment were lowered to the ground.
“And in whatever I promise to you, Miss Gray, or in your behalf, I will die rather than fail, and you will see how hard a trial I will yet endure for you. And now to begin, I’ll sing, and redeem my promise.”
The last words he spoke with a strange ardour full of a wild reproach.
A pretty Italian song. I don’t know whether it has a place in any opera; I only know that it is one of my earliest acquaintances in that sort of melody — full of passion, melancholy and self-devotion. He sang —
“Giuro che ad altra mai
La destra io porgero —
Che a quei vezzosi rai
Sempre fidel saro.
Se del averso fato
Vittima al fin’ cadro.
Col suo bell’ nome amato
Fra i labri io morero.”
Well did Challys Gray, as she sat by the window listening, know to what divinity the thrilling adoration of that passionate tenor was addressed. Never had she heard that voice so divinely melancholy and rapturous before — never perhaps before had it so moved her.
It ceased — there was silence — ever so little more, and she could not have restrained her tears — and then reserve and prudence farewell — where might she not have found herself? — the reserves and liberty of proud Challys Gray — all lost in a moment. On what hysterical uncertainties sometimes hang life-long destinies, and even the courses of eternity.
In her silence was that trembling, when the breath is held, and the heart swells, and the eyes are filling. For worlds she would not have let him see how she was moved. Could she trust that half-deposed caution which her impulsive heart almost despised, and what pledges might not such a moment have given and taken, and so imperious, haughty Challys Gray would have promised herself away, without one of her difficulties answered, or a single mystery cleared up.
“Shall I sing it again?” he asked in alow tone, after an interval.
“No,” said Challys Gray.
“You don’t like it?”
“No, that is, I don’t care about it.”
“Really, Challys, you might be a little less, I had almost said rude, but certainly you are not very grateful, considering how beautifully it was sung,” interposed Mrs. Wardell.
“No, I don’t like it,” repeated Challys impetuously. “I don’t mean, of course, that Mr. Dacre did not sing it well; but I don’t like the song, and that’s the reason I say so when I’m asked. Will you sing something else, Mr. Dacre?”
“What shall it be?” asked he.
“Nothing sentimental — I mean in that strain. You sang some very pretty English ballads for us one night,” she replied.
So he sang one of those which had pleased her.
“I may be wrong, Mr. Dacre, but I don’t think, somehow, our music is quite so good as usual,” said Challys Gray; “you wont mind my saying so; I don’t know how it is — perhaps it is my fault — people are sometimes out of voice, and as often out of ear, I think. But it is not that,” she said cruelly, “you are not singing well tonight, and I don’t care to hear it. It is a vulgar taste I am sure, but I think I should like a foolish comic song this evening better than all the lovelorn ditties we could pick out of the whole circle of the Italian operas. I know you have not any, I’m only saying what a Vandal I am, but I daresay the Vandals had very good sense.”
I don’t know what thought may have prompted this sudden petulance. But Laura Gray’s mind was in an odd state; all this time there was a great pain at her heart; she was angry, she did not well know at what, or with whom.
Dacre walked slowly over to the window. “I’m very sorry — I’m mortified — that I should, have acquitted myself so indifferently.”
&n
bsp; She made him no answer.
“But my singing, for a while, is over.”
“How do you mean?”
“I can’t come tomorrow, nor the next day, nor the day after. I can’t see you again for some time — a short time, I hope — but I must deny myself — and — may I write? — I’ll write, if you allow me, a very full letter.”
Challys Gray looked very pale.
“And, pray, who imposes this absence upon you?” she asked a little haughtily, “and how can it interest us more than your other friends?”
They were talking low, and she glanced towards Julia Wardell, but that lady was deep in her novel.
“It is imposed upon me, Miss Gray, and it pains me to think I shan’t be missed here, for except you, I have scarcely on earth another friend.”
“You had no business, sir,” said imperious little Challys Gray, “to decide on any such thing without first consulting your friends.”
This, it must be allowed, was a very inconsistent speech.
“My friends, as a rule, seem to care so little what becomes of me, that my consulting them would have been a very great presumption,” said Alfred Dacre a little bitterly.
“Perhaps it would, or very likely you have consulted them. It is very impertinent of me to talk about it; your time and plans are, of course, your own, and I don’t desire to be one of those people who engage in the thankless office of advising others, and I shan’t, though, indeed, I have not been asked; and if it is not very rude, is it not very near your usual hour of leaving us?”
Dacre smiled reproachfully.
“The hour to which you usually permitted my stay has not not quite arrived,” he said, gently, “but even were it less clear that the time when I ought to go has come, I should have had to take my leave. I must go earlier than usual this evening. I need not say how much more painful than I expected my departure has become.”
“You seem to wish to go, Mr. Dacre, and there is no reason why you should not be gone this moment. Pray do go.”
“You are displeased with me, Miss Gray.”
“Displeased, sir! you talk to me as if I had a right to be pleased or displeased with you in matters that concern yourself only. I don’t know what you mean.”
“May I write to you, Miss Gray?”
“No, Mr. Dacre; there’s no occasion to write.”
“Do you really refuse me that very humble privilege?”
“It is better not, Mr. Dacre. I mean, it would only be a trouble, and I don’t wish it,” she said, imperiously.
He looked at her beautiful and spirited face, darkly and sadly.
“From this hour, Challys, my sorrow dates.”
“You can’t blame us,” said Challys Gray, haughtily; “and — and — Mr. Dacre, pray don’t run a risk of being late for your business.”
“May I write?” he pleaded.
“I’ve said already, I prefer your not writing — I don’t choose it — it shan’t be, Mr. Dacre.”
“I think you are very cruel. I ought to have known it; but I have quite made up my mind.”
He stood leaning at the window, and looked out; a shadow of care had overcast him, and it seemed to her, under that gloom, that his face was growing like that of Leonora’s phantom trooper, paler, and thinner, and sterner, from minute to minute.
“Made up your mind, Mr. Dacre! To what?”
“To disobey you.”
“To write, you mean?”
“Yes — for one thing, I’ll write.”
“Does not it strike you, sir, that nothing can be more insolent? And I’ll tell you what I shall do — for I’ve made up my mind, also — if you should presume to do so, the moment I see from whom it comes I’ll burn it unread.”
With these words she rose, and walked quickly out of the room.
Julia Wardell had dropped into one of her naps. Dacre had forgot her presence. His face was pale and resolute, and his eyes gleamed with the light of excitement, as he took a last look down the avenue in which stood his carriage. There was a little moonlight this night. He looked at his watch, and then he drew a paper from the pocket in the breast of his coat. He opened it, and, having read a few words, replaced it.
Then he suddenly recollected worthy Julia Wardell.
Seeing that she was asleep, he stole lightly across the floor, and let himself softly out of the room.
He had hardly entered the lobby when Laura Gray ran down the stairs. She looked sad and gentle.
“Mr. Dacre, I’m so glad — you wont remember what I said tonight — and you’ll write to me — wont you? — and I was very cross — but I was vexed — and I could not part without saying this — and we are quite good friends again? — ain’t we?”
“And I’m forgiven? — and I’ll write and — explain everything; and then you’ll see how inevitable was the reserve of which you complained — and I think — you’ll pity me.”
“Good night,” she said.
He pressed the hand she gave him to his lips, and, hastily drawing it away, she repeated, “Good night,” and ran up the stairs. He looked after her, in silence; and then he turned, and went down to the hall.
Challys Gray had placed herself at the lobby window above that near which their parting had been. She was waiting to see him come down the steps, and to see the last of him, as he passed down the avenue.
She waited there minute after minute, for a long time, in this expectation. But Mr. Dacre did not emerge from the house.
CHAPTER XVI.
IN WHICH MR. DACRE FAINTS.
ON arriving at the foot of the stairs at Guildford House, you find yourself looking toward the hall-door, at the entrance of a spacious hall. There is a back hall, considerably smaller than this, visible under an arch, and with a second door, opening upon a terrace, which exactly faces the hall-door.
When Dacre had reached the foot of the stairs there was no one in the hall. He walked a few steps cautiously into it. From the pocket of his great coat he took one of those instruments which were then known as “night-protectors,” formed of a strong piece of whalebone, with a nob of lead at each end, and all whipped over with catgut, like the handle of a riding-whip. The great coat he left where it hung, and took merely his wideawake hat. Then he stood still for a moment, and looked toward the terrace-entrance with a sharp glance, listening intently. There was neither sight nor sound to alarm him.
In a moment more he had opened and closed the door, and jumping from the terrace to the lower level of the grass, he listened again, under shelter of the overhanging balustrade.
It was a pause only of a second. With swift steps he reached the stable-door. It opened with a latch.
“Anyone here?” he asked, as he entered.
There was no answer. He passed through and found himself in a paved stableyard. Here he repeated his question again without an answer.
The door opening upon the stable lane was fast, but the key was in the lock. Again Dacre looked at his watch. The momentous hour had just arrived. There was exactly time to reach the point of safety, if all went smoothly.
Stern and sharp were the features of the young man as he looked up and down the carriageway leading from the stables.
This was a much wider road than Brompton lanes, especially stable-lanes, were wont to be, and had been laid out probably at first for a line of dwelling-houses, and a lordly row of old elm trees rose dimly into the moonlight from the other side, and the buildings that abutted on it at the side on which he stood were oldfashioned gateways or gables of stable-buildings, some of which were overgrown with ivy.
Not a human being was moving on this pretty and melancholy old road, and not a sound audible but the baying of a watchdog, and the faint clink of his own steps.
He knew the geography of this road perfectly; in fact, he had studied it as a general does the scene of his operations. About two hundred steps higher up, it opened upon a road parallel to the great Brompton highway.
If he could reach that corner unobserved,
five minutes more would bring him to a cabstand, and then one long straight pull of half an hoar or less, and if money could make “the mare go,” the cab and its freightage would be at the right minute at its destination.
Under the shadow of the buildings, with a light and quick tread, he walked. He had not gone fifty yards, however, when a whistle from the road behind him, and answered from the point to which he was tending, pierced him with a chill misgiving.
In a situation so intensely critical, the bravest man is liable to unacknowledged tremors, such as in ascertained and open danger on the field would never approach him. He might as well be shot as delayed. All depended on two hundred steps.
Looking over his shoulder he saw two figures approaching from the lower end of the road, and before him were also two — one some little way in advance of the other.
His heart swelled and fluttered for an instant, and then came the cold intense resolution of an adventurous man who is in for a crisis of danger. He saw that these persons were approaching at a rapid pace from either end, and would surround him by the time they had reached the centre.
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 —
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 474