“Not if he came with us himself.”
“Well, I don’t want that either — we’re not obliged to tell Charles Mannering everything we do, and I shouldn’t like to take him with us.”
“Very good, dear; there’s no very particular reason why we should, and I suppose we mustn’t talk — any more than we do in church — so I don’t see any good in taking him with us.”
“And don’t ask him to tea,” said Laura.
“Why not to tea?” inquired she.
“Because we are to go in the evening. Don’t be alarmed, we shall have a gallery to ourselves, and the carriage shall wait close to the door — and I think it is a charming adventure.”
So on Friday morning she sent a note to Charles to say —
“We are going out this evening, so don’t come” — and having written thus far, she fancied she had meant him to think they were going out to tea — so she resolutely added, “It is not to tea, and. I’m not going to tell you more than that we are going to a place of worship, and I hope that way of spending an evening is approved of by your gravity.”
Charles did not appear. In due time the carriage was at the door; the ladies got in, and away they drove.
They arrived at their destination a little late. They should have been there before sunset. It was now twilight, and the street lamps lighted.
When the carriage drew up, Laura looked from the window and saw a large building resembling, she thought with some disappointment, a meeting-house. She saw a large door in the centre, and two smaller doors, one at each side. But no one appeared at the steps to whom they could put a question.
The footman stood at the carriage door for his orders. In her perplexity she saw a female beckon to her from one of the side doors — and was determined.
“Come, Julia — come, dear;” and she got out, followed by Mrs. Wardell, and they found themselves in a small chamber, from which a staircase ascended.
“How did you know, dear, that we wished to come up to the gallery?” asked Laura of the handsome little Jewish girl with raven hair and great dark eyes, and the rich transparent tints of her race.
“The liveries, please, miss, and — and I was told the colour of your eyes, and that you were very handsome, please.”
Laura smiled, and was disposed to like the little girl, and to admire the place. But there was not, as yet, at least, much to admire. It was very much such a vestibule and staircase, lighted by a hanging lamp, as conduct to the gallery of a commonplace church, except that they did not communicate by any side door with the great central passage leading on to the floor of the building.
She was, however, already interested, for, faint and muffled, she heard the solemn swell of voices chanting. She could distinguish at times the soaring notes of a falsetto mingling with tenors and bassoes; and as she softly ascended, those strange and beautiful harmonies, exceeding, she thought, any she had ever heard in cathedral music, grew grander and more thrilling, until, on reaching the back of the gallery, the music was perfectly distinct. But here she was disappointed for although she found herself in an assembly of Jewish women (as was clear enough from the peculiarities of outline and complexion), a close lattice-work covered the front of the, gallery, and she feared would effectually interrupt her view of the interior of the building.
The little girl silently indicated two vacant seats in front, to which accordingly they made their way. Here it was easy to see through the lattice, now close to their eyes, all that was passing below.
CHAPTER VII.
A RECOGNITION.
LOOKING beneath and before her she saw a large chamber, the general effect of which resembled that of a church, with, however, few considerable distinctions.
There was at each side a row of tall windows, which, however, the deepening twilight failed to penetrate, and the lamplight from large hanging candelabra filled the building. Some way up the centre passage, was a railed enclosure containing a table, on a sort of dais, ascended by several steps. At each side of this table stood a man; one the reader, the other an officer of the synagogue, and behind them at a desk were six others, who were, at the moment, chanting the service, led by the reader. Beyond this, at the far extremity, was something resembling a wardrobe, covered before with a red velvet curtain embroidered with gold, and with Hebrew letters embroidered on the valance at its top; and in bas relief an angel, as large as a living human figure, was carved at each side of it. Over this hung a solitary lamp, and at its right extremity stood a figure, very singular. He was dressed in a white satin cassock, that nearly reached the ground; his shoes were fastened with large silver buckles, and on his head a tall, white conical hat, with a dark roll of fur instead of a brim, surrounding his head. The curtained piece of furniture was the ark, and the strangely-costumed man was the Rabbi.
The officiating people, as well as the congregation, all males, stood facing the East, their backs toward the gallery, and wearing their hats, and each with a white woollen drapery, with a broad stripe of blue, hanging about his shoulders.
The scene was so odd, almost grotesque, for these white draperies were worn shawl fashion, and had long slender white tassels from their corners — and the voices were so splendid, the entire service proceeding in the Hebrew language, and the Oriental seclusion of the lattice so new and strange, that Laura was too much interested in the novelty of the spectacle and situation for a minute or two, to recollect the particular object of her visit. Soon, however, it recurred. She fixed her attention on the singers. There were two tenors, one a smaller man than the other. But standing as they all did with their backs to the gallery, she almost despaired of any accident’s affording her a glimpse of their faces.
Such a chance, however, did at last occur. The chanting subsided. There was a silence, and the reader called in a few words in a low tone to a person, one of the officers of the synagogue, who proceeded to a distant seat, from which arose a hatted man with his copious white shawl, who proceeded to the ark, drew the curtain, opened a double door, and produced two rolls, which he drew reverently forth from their embroidered velvet cases.
These were the manuscript copies of the law written on vellum. The reading of the law was to begin, and now, too, began the opportunity for which Laura Gray had been waiting.
From one of the openings in the side of the railed enclosure the reader proceeded, followed by the six singers, his assistants, who proceeded singly in slow procession behind him up the building, and as they filed round the corner of the railing she had a glimpse of each in the series of those dark Jewish faces — and one, that of the smaller tenor, who was walking like the rest with downcast eyes startled her. She had but a momentary and very imperfect view of the blackhaired pallid face which looked to her like the malignant countenance which she had seen at the window and in the hall of Guildford House! She drew back instinctively —— she felt uncertain but frightened. Very much frightened for a few seconds, and then very angry with Mr. Dacre for exposing her to that kind of shock without a warning. Then she began to grow very restless and uncomfortable, and her first impulse was to make her escape quietly and quickly from the place.
But was she quite certain — was there no mistake? when she looked again these figures stood, like the rest, with their backs turned toward her. The reader was standing a little to the left of the Rabbi, and the singers in a semicircle behind him. The chanting proceeded, and she remained in uncertainty.
Henceforward the vocal music, rich in harmony, finer still in the quality of the voices that mingled in it, had ceased to enchant her. Like sweet and solemn music heard through a terrible dream, it confused her sensations, but her spirit no longer took part in it. She could think of nothing but the chance of again seeing, and with more certain observation, that odious, face which she was so nearly certain she recognised.
Now, again, the chanting was suspended. The reader and his choir returned in the same order to their former places, and as they marched slowly down this face turned fully to the g
allery, she did see the face that had looked in at the study window and peered into the hall, and that pale, black-browed man, with the large sullen mouth, and the great lurid eyes, chanting the time-honoured Jewish liturgy, was actually one — perhaps the chief — of those miscreant conspirators who were persecuting her with so satanic a persistency, and had actually attempted to murder Alfred Dacre.
A sense of danger and of horror overpowered her — she felt faint, and whispered in Mrs. Wardell’s ear —
“Let us come away, dear.”
“But may we?” answered the chaperon.
“I’ll try — I wont stay,” whispered Laura, and rose quickly. No interruption was offered. Their withdrawal seemed hardly observed. How glad she was of that lattice screen that covered the front of the gallery, for the sullen malignant eye of the little tenor had for a moment swept the place from which she was looking down and held her there.
On reaching the street door Alfred Dacre stepped swiftly to her side. He looked in her face and saw how pale she was as he offered her his arm. She was seated in the carriage, she scarcely knew how, and he leaning on the window looking in.
“You are fatigued?” he whispered, taking her hand with an anxious look.
“Nothing,” she said, not removing it.
“It was so good of you to come.”
“I suspected it was all about my own business, and so it was,” she said, looking for a moment darkly into his eyes with a very little nod.
“I understand. You recognised some one?”
“Yes.”
“Then my course is clear.”
“You are not to take any step without first consulting me,” said Challys Gray, with a sudden access of her imperious manner, “Nothing — I’ll never speak again to you if you do, Mr. Dacre. Nothing shall be done without my permission.”
He smiled, and said —
“May I call tomorrow at Guildford House?”
Yes, certainly. Who is Mrs. Wardell talking to?” she said, glancing at the other window. “Is that Charles Mannering?” she said addressing the speaker at the other side.
“Yes, here I am,” said Charles, with a laugh; “you did not expect me. I ran down to Brompton on the chance of your having changed your mind and stayed at home, to beg a cup of tea, and I learned from the servant that you had come to this place, and I was impertinent enough to follow.”
Though Charles laughed, she fancied he looked vexed, and was speaking in a tone that was not really so gay as he assumed to be. And though, perhaps, she would not have confessed this to any one, I think it made her uncomfortable.
“Don’t go for a moment,” she whispered to him; and, resuming her little talk with Mr. Dacre, she said— “I am so nervous while I stay here. I am longing to leave this place. I was a little vexed with you, for a moment, when I saw that face; but I dare say it was necessary, at least important, that I should.”
“The important and the ridiculous, trick and reality, deceit and enthusiasm, as you, may one day learn, Miss Gray, are strangely mixed up at times. It shall be my office to discriminate. I admire your energy. I wish I could tell you all I owe you. You have showed me the game, and I will run it down.”
“But you remember, you are not to do anything without my consent,” she said.
“Don’t be the least uneasy; there shall be no fracas, do you but be half as wise as I believe you.”
“Well, I’ll try. And, now, I really am growing uncomfortable; those dreadful people will be coming out; and I think the horses are growing impatient; so I’ll say good night,” and she gave him her hand and continued— “Julia, dear, Mr. Dacre is going, you must bid him good night.” And thus, transferring him to Mrs. Wardell, she herself turned to Charles, and said— “You must come back to tea with us; you’ll come in here and drive home with us.”
“Do you really wish it?” said he. “Wish it? Of course I wish it, or I shouldn’t tell you to do it,” said the young lady.
“Well, I’ve got a cab here. I can’t take a seat with you, I’m very sorry to say, having a call to make; but it is only a minute or two at my solicitor’s chambers, and I shall be at Guildford House in less than ten minutes after you get there; and I wont say good bye.”
“What a very charming person he is exclaimed Julia Wardell, turning towards the speaker.
“Who?” asked Laura.
“Oh! Mr. Dacre, of course,” said Charles. “I don’t know of anyone else, at present, answering to the description.”
“Well, he’s gone and we must go also, so I shall expect you, remember,” and away they drove toward home.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FLEET.
AS they drove away Charles saw Mr. Dacre. step into a cab, in which he saw, he fancied, some other persons seated. It drove away just as he got into his hansom. He was in no particular good humour with Mr. Dacre; and, at sight of his companions, his suspicions and his curiosity revived.
“Drive after that cab and be sure you keep it in sight,” said he; himself watching it with a shrewd and steady gaze as they pursued.
From time to time as they clattered along the pavement, Mannering told the driver to pull in a little, so as to regulate the distance between them; and, with this caution, he followed through several streets, and turning into one, deserted and oldfashioned, Dacre’s cab drew up at the steps of a dingy hall-door. Dacre and one of his companions got out, and, after a very few words his friend ran up the steps, and Dacre jumping into the cab, it drove away at a rapid pace. Charles Mannering had his misgivings about Dacre. What or who was he? That was an odd-looking street — a curious habitation for the intimate of a very fine man as, he fancied, Dacre assumed to be.
Some qualms visited him as he pursued the chase. Was this sort of thing within the limits which circumscribe a gentleman’s morality?
“Yes;” he insisted
bullying himself— “it is not merely allowable, but my duty. I will find out who this Mr. Dacre is. I’ll learn, at all events, what are his haunts, and who his friends. It is worse than ridiculous, the confidence with which Challys treats him; that the poor little thing should be made such a fool of; and certainly, I’ll not spare myself, nor spare him either, and — where are we getting to now?”
By this time they were approaching a famous place. That grand chemin de fer, the road to ruin, had then, as we know, like other great highways, that daily and nightly pour into a common centre their inexhaustible streams of life — its handsome and convenient terminus, I mean the Fleet Prison; and, at the entrance of this Mr. Dacre’s cab drew up, and he and his remaining companion jumped down to the flags — beside a lamp-post, which then stood close to the door.
With Dacre there entered at this door his companion, a fat, round-shouldered Jew, some sixty years of age, with the characteristic heavy nose; a great moist smiling mouth, and eyes half closed; his hands in his pockets, and his wrinkled and somewhat, dusty black velvet waistcoat crossed and lapped with several gold chains.
“How ish Mr. Blunt this hevening?” he inquired politely of Mr. Blunt the officer at the hatch, a low door, well barred and bolted, which communicated with the interior passage, a view of which it permitted breast high.
“Well, thank you, sir. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Goldshed?” said this gentleman, touching his hat as he lowered his newspaper.
“We want to pay a vishit, me and my friend, to Mr. de Beaumirail, if he’sh at home,” drawled the Jew, facetiously.
“Well,” said Mr. Blunt unbending, in the same pleasant vein, and opening the enchanted gate to let these privileged spirits pass in; “it’s only to knock at his hall-door, sir, and ask the footman.” In the passage lounging about the hatch were several nondescript persons, who might be bailifs or wardens, a reserve force in case of any one’s being disposed to be troublesome.
“Any more detainers against Foljambe?” drawled the Jew in Mr. Blunt’s ear, as he passed.
“Just a little thing o’ fifteen pun, sir.”
“Nothing else, you’re sure?” said Mr. Goldshed, stopping short.
“Not a penny, sir.”
Mr. Goldshed whistled some bars of a quiet tune, which was interrupted by a little hiccough, as he shook off his momentary meditation, and swayed and swaggered after his companion. Charles Mannering jumped down to the flagway, hesitated, and got in again, and then made up his mind, got out once more, told the man to wait where he was, and walked on to the door which Dacre had entered only a minute before.
Our friend, Charles Mannering, felt as a proud man does who has detected himself doing a shabby thing. His pride upbraided him, and he was inwardly ashamed. He could not acknowledge it though, and he was determined to brazen it out.
The fact is, he was jealous of this handsome Alfred Dacre, and jealousy is a madness, subject, as we know, to capricious and violent paroxysms. He had seen Dacre talking at the window of the carriage to Challys Gray, and conclusions had instantly possessed his mind. Dacre had, of course, arranged this visit to the synagogue, had accompanied them, and had in fact as much of their society as he pleased; while he had been not only uninvited to be of the expedition, but written to and forbidden to go to Guildford House; but he would have been in the way.
And who was this Mr. Dacre whom Challys Gray had taken up in so unaccountable a way, and appointed to be her standing counsel, and her knight errant, her prime minister, and even her master of the revels?
He, Charles Mannering, would find out all about him. He had no idea of mere masks and disguises, mimæ, balatrones, winning their way by sheer impudence and insinuation, with their disguises still on, into such houses as Challys Gray’s. He was huffed and wounded, and in no mood to mince matters with Mr. Dacre. The sooner, in his present temper, he thought, they went to the heart of the question, and understood one another, the better. And he was quite sure if Ardenbroke were here, he would thoroughly approve the resolution he had taken.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 455