What she sees is this — a pair of candles burning on a small table, on which, with a pencil, Mr. Longcluse is drawing, it seems, with care, a diagram; at the same moment he raises his eyes, and Richard Arden, who is standing with one hand placed on the table over which he is leaning a little, looks quickly round, and rising walks straight to the door, interposing between her and Longcluse.
“Oh, Alice? You didn’t expect me: I’m very busy, looking for — looking over papers. Don’t mind.”
He had placed his hands gently on her shoulders, and she receded as he advanced.
“Oh! it don’t matter. I thought — I thought — I did not know.”
She was smiling her best. She was horrified. He looked like a ghost. Alice was gazing piteously in his face, and with a little laugh, she began to cry convulsively.
“What is the matter with the little fool! There, there — don’t, don’t — nonsense!”
With an effort she recovered herself.
“Only a little startled, Dick; I did not think you were there — goodnight.”
And she hastened back to her chamber, and locked the door; and running into her maid’s room, sat down on the side of her bed, and wept hysterically. To the imploring inquiries of her maid, she repeated only the words, “I am frightened,” and left her in a startled perplexity.
She knew that Longcluse had seen her, and he, that she had seen him. Their eyes had met. He saw with a bleak rage the contracting look of horror, so nearly hatred, that she fixed on him for a breathless moment. There was a tremor of fury at his heart, as if it could have sprung at her, from his breast, at her throat, and murdered her; and — she looked so beautiful! He gazed with an idolatrous admiration. Tears were welling to his eyes, and yet he would have laughed to see her weltering on the floor. A madman for some tremendous seconds!
CHAPTER LXXII.
MEASURES.
About twelve o’clock next day Richard Arden showed himself at Mortlake. It was a beautiful autumnal day, and the mellow sun fell upon a foliage that was fading into russet and yellow. Alice was looking out from the open window, on the noble old timber whose wide-spread boughs and thinning leaves caught the sunbeams pleasantly. She had heard her brother and his companion go down the stairs, and saw them, from the window, walk quickly down the avenue, till the trees hid them from view. She thought that some of the servants were up, and that the door was secured on their departure; and the effect of the shock she had received gradually subsiding, she looked to her next interview with her brother for an explanation of the occurrence which had so startled her.
That interview was approaching; the cab drove up to the steps, and her brother got out. Anxiously she looked, but no one followed him, and the driver shut the cab-door. Sir Richard kissed his hand to her, as she stood in the window.
From the hall the house opens to the right and left, in two suites of rooms. The room in which Alice stood was called the sage-room, from its being hung in sage-green leather, stamped in gold. It is a small room to the left, and would answer very prettily for a card party or a tête-à-tête. Alice had her work, her books, and her music there; she liked it because the room was small and cheery.
The door opened, and her brother comes in.
“Good Dick, to come so early! welcome, darling,” she said, putting her arms about his neck, as he stooped and kissed her, smiling.
He looked very ill, and his smile was painful.
“That was an odd little visit I paid last night,” said he, with his dark eyes fixed on her, inquiringly she thought— “very late — quite unexpected. You are quite well to-day? — you look flourishing.”
“I wish I could say as much for you, Dick; I’m afraid you are tiring yourself to death.”
“I had some one with me last night,” said Sir Richard, with his eye still upon her; “I — I don’t know whether you perceived that.”
Alice looked away, and then said carelessly, but very gravely —
“I did — I saw Mr. Longcluse. I could not believe my eyes, Dick. You must promise me one thing.”
“What is that?”
“That he sha’n’t come into this house any more — while I am here, I mean.”
“That is easily promised,” said he.
“And what did he come about, Dick?”
“Oh! he came — he came — I thought I told you; he came about papers. I did not tell you; but he has, after all, turned out very friendly. He is going to do me a very important service.”
She looked very much surprised.
The young man glanced through the window, to which he walked; he seemed embarrassed, and then turning to her, he said peevishly —
“You seem to think, Alice, that one can never make a mistake, or change an opinion.”
“But I did not say so; only, Dick, I must tell you that I have such a horror of that man — a terror of him — as nothing can ever get over.”
“I’m to blame for that.”
“No, I can’t say you are. I don’t mind stories so much as — — “
“As what?”
“As looks.”
“Looks! Why, you used to think him a gentlemanly-looking fellow, and so he is.”
“Looks and language,” said Alice.
“I thought he was a very civil fellow.”
“I sha’n’t dispute anything. I suppose you have found him a good friend after all, as you say.”
“As good a friend as most men,” said Sir Richard, growing pale; “they all act from interest: where interests are the same, men are friends. But he has saved me from a great deal, and he may do more; and I believe I was too hasty about those stories, and I think you were right when you refused to believe them without proof.”
“I daresay — I don’t know — I believe my senses — and all I say is this, if Mr. Longcluse is to come here any more, I must go. He is no gentleman, I think — that is, I can’t describe how I dislike him — how I hate him! I’m afraid of him! Dick, you look ill and unhappy: what’s the matter?”
“I’m well enough — I’m better; we shall be better — all better by-and-by. I wish the next five weeks were over! We must leave this, we must go to Arden Court; I will send some of the servants there first. I am going to tell them now, they must get the house ready. You shall keep your maid here with you; and when all is ready in Yorkshire, we shall be off — Alice, Alice, don’t mind me — I’m miserable — mad!” he says suddenly, and covers his face with his hands, and, for the first time for years, he is crying bitter tears.
Alice was by his side, alarmed, curious, grieved; and with all these emotions mingling in her dark eyes and beautiful features, as she drew his hand gently away, with a rush of affectionate entreaties and inquiries.
“It is all very fine, Alice,” he exclaims, with a sudden bitterness; “but I don’t believe, to save me from destruction, you would sacrifice one of your least caprices, or reconcile one of your narrowest prejudices.”
“What can you mean, dear Richard? only tell me how I can be of any use. You can’t mean, of course — — “
She stops with a startled look at him. “You know, dear Dick, that was always out of the question: and surely you have heard that Lord Wynderbroke is to be married to Grace Maubray? It is all settled.”
Quite another thought had been in Richard’s mind, but he was glad to accept Alice’s conjecture.
“Yes, so it is — so, at least, it is said to be — but I am so worried and distracted, I half forget things. Girls are such jolly fools; they throw good men away, and lose themselves. What is to become of you, Alice, if things go wrong with me! I think the old times were best, when the old people settled who was to marry whom, and there was no disputing their decision, and marriages were just as happy, and courtships a great deal simpler; and I am very sure there were fewer secret repinings, and broken hearts, and — threadbare old maids. Don’t you be a fool, Alice; mind what I say.”
He is leaving the room, but pauses at the door, and returns and place
s his hand on her arm, looking in her face, and says —
“Yes, mind what I say, for God’s sake, and we may all be a great deal happier.”
He kisses her, and is gone. Her eyes follow him, as she thinks with a sigh —
“How strange Dick is growing! I’m afraid he has been playing again, and losing. It must have been something very urgent that induced him to make it up again with that low malignant man; and this break-up, and journey to Arden Court! I think I should prefer being there. There is something ominous about this place, picturesque as it is, and much as I like it. But the journey to Yorkshire is only another of the imaginary excursions Dick has been proposing every fortnight; and next year, and the year after, will find us, I suppose, just where we are.”
But this conjecture, for once, was mistaken. It was, this time, a veritable break-up and migration; for Martha Tansey came in, with the importance of a person who has a matter of moment to talk over.
“Here’s something sudden, Miss Alice; I suppose you’ve heard. Off to Arden Court in the mornin’. Crozier and me; the footman discharged, and you to follow with Master Richard in a week.”
“Oh, then, it is settled. Well, Martha, I am not sorry, and I daresay you and Crozier won’t be sorry to see old Yorkshire faces again, and the Court, and the rookery, and the orchard.”
“I don’t mind; glad enough to see a’ad faces, but I’m a bit o’er a’ad myself for such sudden flittins, and Manx and Darwent, and the rest, is to go by night train tomorrow, and not a housemaid left in Mortlake. But Master Richard says a’s provided, and ‘twill be but a few days after a’s done; and ye’ll be down, then, at Arden by the middle o’ next week, and I’m no sa sure the change mayn’t serve ye; and as your uncle, Master David, and Lady May Penrose, and Miss Maubray — a strackle-brained lass she is, I doubt — and to think o’ that a’ad fule, Lord Wynderbroke, takin’ sich a young, bonny hizzy to wife! La bless ye, she’ll play the hangment wi’ that a’ad gowk of a lord, and all his goold guineas won’t do. His kist o’ money won’t hod na time, I warrant ye, when once that lassie gets her pretty fingers under the lid. There’ll be gaains on in that house, I warrant, not but he’s a gude man, and a fine gentleman as need be,” she added, remembering her own strenuous counsel in his favour, when he was supposed to be paying his court to Alice; “and if he was mated wi’ a gude lassie, wi’ gude blude in her veins, would doubtless keep as honourable a house, and hod his head as high as any lord o’ them a’. But as I was saying, Miss Alice, now that Master David, and Lady May, and Miss Maubray, has left Lunnon, there’s no one here to pay ye a visit, and ye’d be fairly buried alive here in Mortlake, and ye’ll be better, and sa will we a’, down at Arden, for a bit; and there’s gentle folk down there as gude as ever rode in Lunnon streets, mayhap, and better; and mony a squire, that ony leddy in the land might be proud to marry, and not one but would be glad to match wi’ an Arden.”
“That is a happy thought,” said Alice, laughing.
“And so it is, and no laughing matter,” said Martha, a little offended, as she stalked out of the room, and closed the door, grandly, after her.
“And God bless you, dear old Martha,” said the young lady, looking towards the door through which she had just passed; “the truest and kindest soul on earth.”
Sir Richard did not come back. She saw him no more that evening.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
AT THE BAR OF THE “GUY OF WARWICK.”
Next evening there came, not Richard, but a note saying that he would see Alice the moment he could get away from town. As the old servant departed northward, her solitude for the first time began to grow irksome, and as the night approached, worse even than gloomy.
Her extemporised household made her laugh. It was not even a skeleton establishment. The kitchen department had dwindled to a single person, who ordered her luncheon and dinner, only two or three plats, daily, from the “Guy of Warwick.” The housemaid’s department was undertaken by a single servant, a short, strong woman of some sixty years of age.
This person puzzled Alice a good deal. She came to her, like the others, with a note from her brother, stating her name, and that he had engaged her for the few days they meant to remain roughing it at Mortlake, and that he had received a very good account of her.
This woman has not a bad countenance. There is, indeed, no tenderness in it; but there is a sort of hard goodhumour. There are quickness and resolution. She talks fluently of herself and her qualifications, and now and then makes a short curtsey. But she takes no notice of any one of Alice’s questions.
A silence sometimes follows, during which Alice repeats her interrogatory perhaps twice, with growing indignation, and then the new comer breaks into a totally independent talk, and leaves the young lady wondering at her disciplined impertinence. It was not till her second visit that she enlightened her.
“I did not send for you. You can go!” said Alice.
“I don’t like a house that has children in it, they gives a deal o’ trouble,” said the woman.
“But I say you may go; you must go, please.”
The woman looked round the room.
“When I was with Mrs. Montgomery, she had five, three girls and two boys; la! there never was five such — — “
“Go, this moment, please, I insist on your going; do you hear me, pray?”
But so far from answering, or obeying, this cool intruder continues her harangue before Miss Arden gets half way to the end of her little speech.
“That woman was the greatest fool alive — nothing but spoiling and petting — I could not stand it no longer, so I took Master Tommy by the lug, and pulled him out of the kitchen, the limb, along the passage to the stairs, every inch, and I gave him a slap in the face, the fat young rascal; you could hear all over the house! and didn’t he rise the roof! So missus and me, we quarrelled upon it.”
“If you don’t leave the room, I must; and I shall tell my brother, Sir Richard, how you have behaved yourself; and you may rely upon it — — “
But here again she is overpowered by the strong voice of her visitor.
“It was in my next place, at Mr. Crump’s, I took cold in my head, very bad, Miss, indeed, looking out of window to see two fellows fighting, in the lane — in both ears — and so I lost my hearing, and I’ve been deaf as a post ever since!”
Alice could not resist a laugh at her own indignant eloquence quite thrown away; and she hastily wrote with a pencil on a slip of paper: —
“Please don’t come to me except when I send for you.”
“La! Ma’am, I forgot!” exclaims the woman, when she had examined it; “my orders was not to read any of your writing.”
“Not to read any of my writing!” said Alice, amazed; “then, how am I to tell you what I wish about anything?” she inquires, for the moment forgetting that not one word of her question was heard. The woman makes a curtsey and retires. “What can Richard have meant by giving her such a direction? I’ll ask him when he comes.”
It was likely enough that the woman had misunderstood him, still she began to wish the little interval destined to be passed at Mortlake before her journey to Yorkshire, ended.
She told her maid, Louisa Diaper, to go down to the kitchen and find out all she could as to what people were in the house, and what duties they had undertaken, and when her brother was likely to arrive.
Louisa Diaper, slim, elegant, and demure, descended among these barbarous animals. She found in the kitchen, unexpectedly, a male stranger, a small, slight man, with great black eyes, a big sullen mouth, a sallow complexion, and a profusion of black ringlets. The deaf woman was conning over some writing of his on a torn-off blank leaf of a letter, and he was twiddling about the pencil, with which he had just traced it, in his fingers, and, in a singing drawl, holding forth to the other woman, who, with a long and high canvas apron on, and the handle of an empty saucepan in her right hand, stood gaping at him, with her arms hanging by her sides.
On the
appearance of Miss Diaper, Mr. Levi, for he it was, directs his solemn conversation to that young lady.
“I was just telling them about the robberies in the City and Wesht Hend. La! there’sh bin nothin’ like it for twenty year. They don’t tell them in the papersh, blesh ye! The ‘ome Shecretary takesh precious good care o’ that; they don’t want to frighten every livin’ shoul out of London. But there’ll be talk of it in Parliament, I promish you. I know three opposition membersh myshelf that will move the ‘oushe upon it next session.”
Mr. Levi wagged his head darkly as he made this political revelation.
“Thish day twel’month the number o’ burglariesh in London and the West Hend, including Hizzlington, was no more than fifteen and a half a night; and two robberiesh attended with wiolensh. What wazh it lasht night? I have it in confidensh, from the polishe offish thish morning.”
He pulled a pocketbook, rather greasy, from his breast, and from this depositary, it is to be presumed, of statistical secrets, he read the following official memorandum: —
“Number of ‘oushes burglarioushly hentered lasht night, including private banksh, charitable hinshtitutions, shops, lodging-’oushes, female hacadamies, and private dwellings, and robbed with more or less wiolench, one thoushand sheven hundred and shixty-sheven. We regret to hadd,” he continued, the official return stealing, as it proceeded, gradually into the style of “The Pictorial Calendar of British Crime,” a halfpenny paper which he took in— “this hinundation of crime seems flowing, or rayther rushing northward, and hazh already enweloped Hizhlington, where a baldheaded clock and watch maker, named Halexander Goggles, wazh murdered with his sheven shmall children, with unigshampled ba-arba-arity.”
Mr. Levi eyed the women horribly all round as he ended the sentence, and he added, —
“Hizhlington’sh only down there. It ain’t five minutesh walk; only a pleasant shtep; just enough to give a fellow azh has polished off a family there a happetite for another up here. Azh I ‘ope to be shaved, I shleep every night with a pair of horshe pishtols, a blunderbush, and a shabre by my bed; and Shir Richard wantsh every door in the ‘oushe fasht locked, and the keysh with him, before dark, thish evening, except only such doors as you want open; and he gave me a note to Miss Harden.” And he placed the note in Miss Diaper’s hand. “He wantsh the ‘oushe a bit more schecure,” he added, following her towards the hall. “He wishes to make you and she quite shafe, and out of harm’s way, if anything should occur. It will be only a few days, you know, till you’re both away.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 557