Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  “But, Mr. Dacre, there is no need to run into danger,” began Miss Gray.

  “Danger disappears before a resolute will. There shall be no danger — nothing but victory. Let me tell you why I speak in so sanguine and confident a spirit: if, as I suspect, this odious persecution originates from some one point in the circle of debt and villainy that surrounds that miserable fellow, De Beaumirail, I have opportunities which no other person possesses, of placing my hand upon its spring. I will see De Beaumirail again tomorrow. I don’t much enjoy an interview with him.” He laughed. “I have had one already, and thought it quite enough; but I must see him, and from him I will learn who are his enemies among the people at present in London. I shall have all the light that he can indirectly throw upon it; and there is a great deal that I cannot yet tell you. But I hope I may soon have something very decisive and very satisfactory to say.”

  “I wish, Mr. Dacre, I could tell you how much obliged — — “

  “No — no — you are not to use that phrase to me.”

  “But I can’t help saying how very kind I think it; and I think it is very selfish, allowing a friend to engage in so irksome and, perhaps, dangerous an enterprise.”

  “You don’t know all I feel about it. You have called me your friend, pray do not recall that distinction — it is my dearest hope to deserve it. You shall soon see how terribly in earnest I can be, and with how enthusiastic a devotion I consecrate myself to such a cause as yours. I abandon every other occupation and pursuit, and, till I have succeeded, shall think of nothing else. And — no — you are not to thank me. Perhaps when I have succeeded I may hear, without a sense of utter unworthiness, that delightful assurance.”

  Mrs. Wardell had been conversing with her dog while Mr. Dacre finished his sentence; and under cover of this tender babble and its snarling accompaniment he added —

  “Have I permission to call again tomorrow evening? I may have nothing to tell you; but possibly I may hear news that will interest you.”

  “Pray do; but — but you will be engaged about business of your own — that business that so much occupies your time.”

  “I have told you, Miss Gray, I forswear it in favour of yours; not one moment of my time shall it engage tomorrow.”

  “Then you can come to us earlier, can’t you?”

  Mr. Dacre’s countenance darkened, and then he smiled, oddly: —

  “I thought I mentioned to you, Miss Gray — or — no. I beg pardon, it was to Ardenbroke, that it was not my business only, but a condition imposed upon me altogether in the interest of other people, not to let myself be known to be in London — at least for some little time. I am, therefore, obliged to observe a sort of mystery, or to make my excursions — as that UNKNOWN CORRESPONDENT says — like a man who has returned from the dead — is not that his phrase? — in the dark.”

  “In the dark?”

  “Yes — certainly in the dark.”

  His even white teeth glimmered as he laughed gently and coldly, and she fancied he looked paler.

  Did he anticipate more danger than he chose to avow?

  “Those who invoke the dead must abide the consequences. I look upon their mention of me, and in those menacing terms, as of good augury. If they understood me better they would not have resorted to threats. As it is, their doing so betrays their apprehensions — they are conscious of my opportunities.”

  Mr. Dacre was looking sternly on the ground beside his boot as he spoke, and he fell into a grim reverie of a few seconds.

  “Suppose,” he said suddenly, raising his eyes with a look inquisitive, and it seemed also cruel— “A thought has struck me. Suppose the motive of this experiment upon your nerves should prove to be hatred of you rather than of De Beaumirail?”

  “Hatred of me?”

  “Yes, Miss Gray; because you are yourself incapable of hatred, malice, and revenge, you fancy such things do not exist, or if you do, you do not, and cannot, understand their infernal psychology.”

  Miss Gray dropped her eyes.

  “Nothing so hard for the young and gentle who have seen nothing of the world — nothing of human nature — except within the paradise of home, as to believe in the existence of those reptile natures, cold-blooded, full of poison, patient, and more subtle than any beast of the field.”

  “The confines of revenge and justice are so hard to define,” said Miss Gray in a very low tone, still looking down.

  “Oh! oh!” he laughed very softly in a kind of derision, “much they think of justice. No; the strange thing is this — such people will hate you without a cause — will hate you for your prosperity — for your position; or, if in your walk through life, ever so accidentally, you, tread on a fibre or touch their skins, they’ll sting you to death if they can.”

  Miss Gray sighed.

  “You, Miss Gray, are young; you have as yet neither had adulation nor misery to harden your heart. You are forgiving and compassionate, and can conceive no other nature. Because you are conscious of never having intentionally inflicted one moment’s pain on any living creature — are incapable of revenge — — “

  “No, not incapable of revenge; but my revenges are peculiar, and not from a malignant motive,” said she, interrupting suddenly.

  “Revenge, and Miss Laura Challys Gray! Oh! no. That were a discord of which nature is incapable. Revenge! Perhaps you avenged a scratch by striking your kitten with a glove, or committing some other such cruelty!”

  “No,” she again interrupted; “I have been what many good and stupid people would call revengeful, but not from malice. I have requited injury by punishment, and I mean to persevere in so doing.”

  Mr. Dacre smiled and shook his head.

  “I suspect, Miss Gray, you are taking a tragic view of yourself, There are some things too hard for my belief, and one is, the possibility of your cherishing a harsh thought or feeling.”

  “But I can’t bear to be thought better than I am,” said Miss Gray; “and it may be that it will help you to conclusions.”

  “Yes,” he said, with a faint laugh, “so it might, if you think you really have enemies.”

  “I don’t know. You saw Mr. de Beaumirail?”

  “I saw him, yes, for ten minutes only; it was a very dry and hurried interview. My wish was to make it as short as possible, and I had to crowd a great deal into it.”

  “Did he mention me or my family?”

  “No, not a word.”

  He paused inquiringly.

  “Well, then,” she said, “there’s no need that I should mention him more.”

  There was a little silence here.

  “From what you have told me this evening, Miss Gray, I may conjecture a great deal, and for the present I must return to my proper element — darkness.”

  “Oh?” she said, with that look of imperfect apprehension and inquiry, which seemed to ask for explanation.

  But Mrs. Wardell now broke in with —

  “Charming music! Do you sing, Mr. Dacre?”

  “I can’t say I do. I once did, a little; but among musicians I could not venture; and, at all events, my happy minutes have run out, and I must say good night.”

  CHAPTER XIX.

  WHO ARE THE DACRES?

  NOW he was gone, and with the moment of departure came that revulsion which always followed her interviews with him.

  How was it that he had stolen into those strangely confidential terms with her? So soon as he went she felt like a somnambulist awakened, who opens her eyes in the confusion of an interrupted dream, and in an unintelligible situation. Something for a moment like the panic of such an awaking, agitated Miss Gray.

  Next day, at about five o’clock, came the old Countess of Ardenbroke. The invalid either could not or would not get out of her carriage, so Laura Gray came down and got into it, and was very affably received by the thin old lady in an ermine tippet, propped with cushions, and with her feet upon a heated stool. It was hard to say which was paying this visit. She made Laura s
it opposite to her, and told her all about her health and her sufferings, and her wants and sorrows with her maid, and various little bits of news about fifty people of whom Laura had never heard before. And now the visit being over, before Laura bid her goodbye, she said —

  “You know something, Lady Ardenbroke, of the De Beaumirails, who were related to us?”

  “Yes; not a great deal, but something.”

  “Can you tell me anything about relations or connexions of theirs named Dacre?”

  “Yes, there were Dacres.”

  “Are they related to us?”

  “No. De Beaumirail’s uncle married a Dacre, that’s all. Why?”

  “Nothing, only that; I know that a Mr. Dacre has turned up in London who claims to be a relative of the De Beaumirails.”

  “Don’t believe it, my dear. The last of those Dacres was Alfred Dacre, who died, let me see fully ten years ago.”

  “Alfred! Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Alfred.”

  “Oh, then, it must be a brother of his.”

  “No, it can’t be that. There was no, brother. The property has gone to the Davenants,” said the old lady.

  “Alfred Dacre, a friend of Ardenbroke’s,” repeated Miss Gray; “then you have seen him, I dare say?”

  “Oh, dear, yes, a hundred times.”

  “Then it must be a mistake. Was he agreeable?”

  “Yes; agreeable, amusing, and odd. I think he was clever.”

  “And young?”

  “Yes, young — quite a young man.”

  “And good-looking?”

  “Oh, very good-looking. The Dacres were all that. I’ll tell you what will give you an idea. If you suppose Mario, the Tenore at the Opera, in some of his most becoming parts, you have a very good idea of him.”

  “Oh!” said Laura Gray in a very low tone, dropping her eyes for a moment. She had seen the great Tenore, and the general likeness had struck her on seeing her mysterious visitor.

  “Yes, it must be a mistake,” she repeated.

  “I think so,” said the old lady. “There is not one of that family left, and it is ten years since that handsome creature died. There may be cousins. I don’t say positively; but if there are I never heard. And why do you ask me all these questions?”

  “I haven’t asked many, have I? But it was only that when we heard him mentioned, Julia Wardell remembered the name, and was puzzling over it.”

  “Well, if there is one of that handsome family left, pray don’t think of making him master of Gray Forest. Dear me, how the little creature blushes!”

  She had blushed very brilliantly.

  “I — I didn’t know; but if I have,” said Laura, “it is because I blush more capriciously than any other person I ever heard of, and totally without a cause.”

  And hereupon she blushed still more intensely.

  “Well, dear, don’t mind; it’s very becoming.”

  And she kissed her. And Miss Gray said, with a laugh —

  “It is very provoking; but I assure you my blushes bear false witness, and there is not the slightest excuse for them. And now your horses are impatient, and I have delayed you a great deal too long.”

  So in turn she kissed the old lady, who forthwith departed for her drive in the park.

  “It must be a cousin, then,” thought the young lady as old Lady Ardenbroke’s carriage drove away, “and when we come to know him a little better, of course he will tell us everything.”

  That evening the two ladies sat as usual in the drawingroom of Guildford Hall, and the hour of tea was approaching when Charles Mannering joined the little party.

  Laura Challys Gray was very frank and true; but was she quite so glad to see him as she seemed? Perhaps she was; but if so, she quickly recollected something that qualified that sentiment.

  Mr. Dacre would probably look in as usual, and would he quite like an introduction to a stranger under his present circumstances?

  I don’t know whether he imagined some little constraint or coldness in his reception, for he said —

  “I’m afraid it’s very cool my coming this way. I should have waited, I dare say, until I was sent for?”

  Though he laughed; Miss Gray thought he was piqued.

  “If you stay away, Charlie, until I send for you, it will be a long wait. Not,” she added kindly, “that I should not wish to see you back, but being just as proud as you are — if you choose to stand aloof and grow ceremonious — I shall draw back a step too, and then, little by little, we shall stand so far that the tips of our fingers can’t touch, and shaking hands any more will be quite out of the question. Therefore, Charlie Mannering, you must never be high or cold with me; but if you are angry scold me, and if you think I have affronted you, say so, and we may quarrel for ten minutes very spiritedly, but at the end of that time we’ll be sure to shake hands, and then we’ll be better friends than ever.”

  He smiled on her, very much pleased. He looked on her as if he would have given her the Kohinoor at that moment, had he possessed it. But he only said, after a little silence —

  “I don’t know, Challys, that you are not preaching a very good philosophy — what shall we call it? the sect of the plain-speakers — of which it would hereafter be written: This school of philosophers was founded by Laura Challys Gray, the first of the wise women of Brompton, who practised her philosophy with such a charm and success, that she speedily drew about her a school of disciples of the other sex. But it needed so much beauty as well as so much natural goodness to make the things they said go down with the unlearned, that her followers were ultimately beaten and dispersed; and the doctrine and practice of the plain-speakers being discovered, in a short time, to amount simply to speaking the truth, fell speedily into contempt, and in deference to the devil, whom it was intended to shame, and who is always paramount in London and the suburbs, it was peremptorily put down by the respectable inhabitants, and so fell into absolute neglect.”

  “Many thanks for that page of history, which will also recount,” said Miss Gray, “that, in the same remarkable age, one Charles Mannering, of the same city, set up as a prophet, in which profession he had some moderate success, up to the period of fulfilment, when nothing ever came of his prophecies; and when he and the wise woman of Brompton met of an evening, they had so much to say to one another, and were so very wise, that they invariably forgot that it was time to take their tea, the more especially as in that dull age their audience usually fell asleep, and there was no one consequently to remind them. So as Julia Wardell is taking her nap, would you mind touching the bell? for I think a little tea would do us all good.”

  They had tea, and talked on pleasantly, and Mrs. Wardell, waking, said —

  “By-the-bye, Charles Mannering, you know Mr. Dacre, don’t you?”

  “Haven’t that pleasure. Who is he?”

  “Oh, dear! a most agreeable and handsome young man, whose acquaintance we have made. He’ll probably be here to tea. Did not Laura mention him?”

  “No, I think not.”

  “Did you?” said Mrs. Wardell.

  “No,” said Charles, “but I’m really glad to hear you have made an agreeable acquaintance. I told you you would find your solitude here insupportable, didn’t I?”

  He spoke with a smile; but I don’t think that he was a bit pleased, nevertheless, to find that solitude invaded. I suspect he would have liked very much to ask some questions about this charming Mr. Dacre, of whom he had already an uncomfortable perception, as an insupportable puppy whom these ladies were, no doubt, bent upon making him still more conceited. But what need he care, or how could it possibly interest him? So, with the hand next it, he gently touched a few notes of the piano, and hummed an air.

  While he was thus engaged, the door opened, and Mr. Dacre was announced.

  CHAPTER XX.

  THEY DRINK TEA.

  MR. DACRE, entered, and, as he did so, his quick eye detected the presence of the stranger, leaning upon the piano. Miss G
ray observed the shrewd, hard glance which he directed on him — it was hardly momentary, it seemed but to touch its object, but it was stern and suspicious.

  “I ventured, you see, to look in on my way into town,” said he, advancing quite like himself in a moment.

  “We are charmed to see you,” said Mrs. Wardell.

  “Rather cool at this hour, and not quite, usual,” thought Charles Mannering sarcastically, as he looked at Miss Gray, whose hand the stranger’s was just now touching. “By Jove! a fellow, learns as he gets on — nothing like impudence, I do believe, plenty of conceit, and a little impertinence. I dare say I’m rather in the way here.”

  Charles Mannering’s sneer, however, was not inconsistent, it seemed, with his staying where he was. He had no notion of going — he went on fiddling at the piano, and a stranger might have fancied that his whole soul was absorbed in the attempt to stumble through the treble of an air.

  Mr. Dacre put down his cup of tea on the table, and seating himself beside Miss Gray, he said, with a glance toward the pianist, which seemed to say, “There’s no risk, I see, of being overheard.”

  “I have made a discovery since I saw you.”

  He paused with an odd smile, looking in her eyes. She was silent.