Here was a little pause, and he said —
“So you wont play that Beethoven tonight?”
“I can’t; but you admitted you could sing, and for us you never have sung,” said Miss Gray.
“If you say I must sing, I will.”
“That’s very good of you.”
“No, not a bit,” he said in a lower tone, for I can’t help obeying you; it is so delightful to be commanded by Miss Gray.”
“That’s very pretty, at all events; and now I shall test your sincerity. What do you sing? Do you know the tenors of any of the Italian operas?”
“Some.”
“Don Pasquale?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, the serenade, ‘Come gentil.’ Julia, Mr. Dacre is going to sing a song for us.”
“Oh! that’s very good of you, Mr. Dacre.”
Challys Gray played the accompaniment, and Dacre sang; yes, Alfred Dacre sang, so exquisitely, with a voice so ringing and plaintive, that one might have fancied the great tenor of those days in the room.
Dacre was surely a great musician; but we all know it is one thing to fill a drawingroom, and quite another to fill Her Majesty’s theatre. Perhaps this chamber-tenor was better here than the great tenor would have been. Other things he sang, making no difficulty, pleased at the delight and wonder of at least some of his little audience. Then there were songs in which Challys, not knowing them, gave up the piano to him, and listened in a rapture; and then he said —
“Do you know, Miss Gray, I long ago took the subject of that piece of Beethoven’s, and made a song of it.”
He touched the accompaniment lightly, hummed the air for a moment, and then sang. The words were odd, mysterious, melancholy. Sitting by the window, leaning on her hand, looking out, Laura listened in a rapture that was almost agony, and the fountains of her heart were opened, and tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Dacre; it is quite a gift. What a resource you must find your music. It is a most charming talent,” said Mrs. Wardell. “Isn’t it?” she appealed to Charles.
“My praise is very little worth,” said he; “I’m no musician. But,” he added, for this sounded rather grudgingly, “I can venture to say what gives me pleasure, and I have seldom listened to music with more.”
“I shall be more conceited than ever,” said Dacre, giving Charles a smile.
That young gentleman’s quick glance searched the smile in vain for a latent mockery. Nothing like an irony was there. It was goodhumoured, and seemed to say —
“I understand your feeling; but why should we quarrel? I’m disposed to like you.”
The person whom Dacre most wished to please sat still at the window, looking out, and said nothing. He looked towards her, and then back again at Mrs. Wardell.
“You have inspired us all with romance and sentiment by that delicious music. There’s Laura looking out at the moonlight, and I have tangled my worsteds.”
“That, certainly, is most gratifying evidence. I wish my poor music could move me ever so little.”
“Why, it must. You could not sing with so much feeling if it didn’t,” said Julia Wardell.
“I don’t know. Nothing moves me much now — not even dinner, or money.”
“Money!” exclaimed Mrs. Wardell.
“Yes, of course. Riches represent everything we respect on earth,” said Mr. Dacre.
“Not everything, I hope, Mr. Dacre,” said the old lady, gravely.
“You’re quite right — except rank, and, as I said, dinner.”
“Oh! fie, Mr. Dacre; you’re really too bad.”
“As a rule, men have but one determined principle, which is their interest,” he continued; “their Passions may cross and perplex it, but it is there. If we affect to despise money, we must change our manners.”
“Oh! you’re a — what is it? — a cynic, Mr. Dacre. It’s quite shocking to hear such sentiments from anyone who can sing like you!” exclaimed Mrs. Wardell.
Dacre laughed. He went over to the window and said very low —
“My hour has flown — come like shadows, so depart — and I return to darkness. May I come again, Miss Gray?”
“Do — yes — we shall be so glad to see you; thank you so much for singing — so, very much.”
He held her hand ever so little longer than usual, pressed it a little more, and without another word he returned, and took his leave of Mrs. Wardell.
To Charles he held out his hand with the same kindly smile. “I shan’t forget your approbation; a musician is never without vanity, and — — “ Whatever he was going to say he forgot it, or, perhaps, put it off. At all events he shook hands, smiled, and, with another “good night” to the ladies, he disappeared. Laura, at the window, saw a carriage glide swiftly under the branches of the old spreading trees, and away.
“I’m afraid Mr. Dacre thought you were offended with him,” said the elder lady, reprovingly. “It seemed so odd you never said one word about his music, and he was so obliging.”
“I dare say; I forgot,” answered Challys, rising dreamily. “But that piece of Beethoven’s — dear Mary used to play it, and it always makes me sad — and very sad I felt tonight.”
“But was not his singing quite magnificent?” exclaimed Julia Wardell.
“I dare say — I suppose so. Was it?” exclaimed Laura Gray.
“Was it, indeed? You’re enough to put one out of patience,” said Mrs. Wardell.
“What did you think of it?” she appealed to Charles.
“As I said, I’m no judge; but it seemed to me more like that of a public singer than an amateur. I should not be surprised if he turned out to be an artist, as they call themselves.”
“Oh, no — that’s not conceivable!” exclaimed the old lady. “Why, Challys, he says that Mr. Dacre is a public singer!”
“I don’t think there is anything theatrical in his manner; but I don’t know, I’m sure. I only know that I wish he had not sung that thing from Beethoven. It made me sad, and nothing’s so sleepy as sadness. So I think I shall say good night.”
Charles came out to the lobby to light her candle for her, and to say “good night” once more.
“Good night, Charlie,” she said, with a smile a little sad, but very kind, “and I’m so much obliged to you for coming; it was very good of you.”
Up the broad stair she went. He remained looking until she disappeared; then, with a sigh, he returned to the drawingroom, and what more passed between him and Mrs. Wardell, was not, I believe, particularly interesting.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SILVER DRAGON.
AS Alfred Dacre placed himself in his brougham he smiled. As they turned the corner at the gate, he looked back at Guildford House — at the drawingroom window, from which the light was gleaming — smiling still, but with a shrewd, odd smile.
The carriage whirled on, and he laughed merrily — Vive la bagatelle! Then he grew grave, very grave — sinking down from level to level, till he had reached that point which is deep thought. As we know, his hands were pretty full, and his brain teeming with all kinds of little plans.
When Charles Mannering reached his chambers that night, he found, among more serious letters, a little note in his letter-box, which could not have been dropped there many minutes. It was signed “Alfred Dacre,” and said: —
“MY DEAR MR. MANNERING, — I should so much wish that we knew one another better. There are things on which your advice, by-and-by, would be more useful to me than you can imagine. See what selfish creatures we are! It is this instinct that prompts me to violate forms, and venture to ask you to dine with me tomorrow. Pray do come. You mentioned accidentally this evening that you had no particular engagement for tomorrow except to see the billiard match played. That wont be till eleven. I enclose a note for your friend — Captain Transom, I think — who, you mentioned, is to accompany you. Pray persuade him to come with you first to me. I have written to order dinner at such a quaint co
mfortable old inn, called the Silver Dragon, just three miles out of town, on the old road to —— . All the livery-stable people know it. It is quite an adventure dining there, it is so quaint and pretty. You will be charmed with it. I have told the people to expect us at six, but don’t hesitate to change the hour if another suits you better. A line to Miniver’s will always find me. Should I not hear, I will conclude that all is settled.
“Ever yours, very truly,
“ALFRED DACRE.”
Charles Mannering, as we know, did not like him; but somehow he was flattered. In spite of himself, he smiled as he read it.
“It’s a bore, but one can’t be absolutely churlish, and he’s so very pressing,” thought Charles, and the result was that he took his friend, Captain Transom, down with him to the Silver Dragon, where that handsome fellow Dacre received them with a hospitality that was a little ceremonious and foreign, but also very cordial and fascinating.
The Silver Dragon reminds one of the May-Pole in “Barnaby Rudge” — a miniature May-Pole — antique, quaint, and gabled, with stone chimneys, some spiral, some octagonal at the base and cylindrical upwards, like the barrels of oldfashioned pocket-pistols. There is an old pigeon-house, and half a dozen trees at each side flank the space in front. There is a hedged garden at one side, and tall old pear and cherry trees show themselves in the air. Hollyhocks and roses grow outside, and tint the old place pleasantly, and the great sign of the Silver Dragon swings between two posts at the roadside, with store of florid and gilded ironwork above. I speak of it in the present tense, forgetting the flight of years. I wonder whether the Silver Dragon holds his own still, or has gone, like St. George’s, into the land of dreams.
This day there was a cricket match going on in the field in front of the old inn, and the Ticklepitchers were whacking and running with all their might in their second innings. The bright green field, with its clumps of ancient trees and its oldfashioned white paling, with the lively sounds and sights of the cricket match, gave a vivacity to a scene which might otherwise have been perhaps a little drowsy.
Before the door of the Silver Dragon, as they arrived, stood an elderly gentleman in tweed trousers, white hat, and white waistcoat, and a black frock coat — a somewhat clumsy figure with an unprepossessing countenance, and whiskers, moustache and hair all white. He was smoking a cigar, and from the elevation of the steps he surveyed the landscape.
“Mr. Dacre here?” inquired Charles Mannering of the waiter.
“He’s just walked round that way to the oaks, — or, as he pronounced it, hoax, — not five minutes ago, to meet two town gentlemen who is for dinner here, ordered at six, sir.”
It was plain, from a covert glance, that the waiter suspected the new arrivals to be the two gentlemen who, in his undignified phrase, were “for dinner.”
“Well, what shall we do?” said Charles, turning to Transom.
“We may miss if we follow him.”
“He’ll be here again, sir, in five minutes. He thought you might come that way.”
“Ho! that will be Mr. Dacre, then,” said the old fellow in the white hat, interposing unceremoniously— “the young, man that’s walked round there.” He was indicating the direction with the end of his cigar. “I thought I knew his face — I know all about him — is he stopping here?”
“No, sir — only come down for dinner.”
“Well, I vote we stay where we are,” said Charles, looking at Transom, who agreeing, walked down the steps, and looked about him a little.
Charles, who remembered the white-hatted smoker’s remarks about Dacre, addressed a few polite observations to him, which the old fellow received with a shrewd civility. Perhaps he had no objection to talk a little with the young man.
“We’ve just run down to meet a friend of yours, I think you said — Mr. Dacre.”
“Well, I can’t say a friend, though, by my faith, he should be my friend, for I helped him to one or two deseerable things in the way of business; but I have met him only in that way, sir; and that not over frequently; he’s a fine young man, sir; and I know everything about him; and I wish I had his money, sir — by my troth, sir, it wouldn’t hurt either of us.”
At this moment the waiter apprized the old gentleman that his dinner awaited him.
“Who is that gentleman?” inquired Charles, as soon as he was gone.
“That’s Mr. Gillespie, sir. He’s a banker, sir, or something, in London, sir.”
“Ho! Scotchman, too,” reflected Charles, “good men of business — likely to know — I wish his dinner had not been ready so soon — but a man may have money and be a mauvais sujet — a banker — that Scotch fellow — it’s a convenient title — banker — a usurer — I dare say.”
In another moment Dacre had arrived, and they were chatting gaily together.
“I’ll run down, if you let me, after dinner, and have a look at those fellows; there’s a jolly good hit to leg,” said Transom, from the steps at the inn door. It was his farewell speech, as they went into the comfortable long, low dining-room, wainscoted in oak, and with a glass door at the other end affording a view of the flowers and fruit trees
of the garden.
Very friendly was the host; gay, too, and agreeable. An excellent dinner the Silver Dragon afforded, and wine so good that a learned Judge — noted in his day for a shrewd perception of vintages and flavours — used to make a point of dining at that out-of-the-way little hostelry half-a-dozen times in the year.
When they had dined, and had some wine, and chatted pleasantly for a time, Transom remembered the cricket, and, with permission, ran away to see. Now it was a tête-à-tête, and Charles Mannering fancied that Dacre was about perhaps to approach some subjects that specially interested him. But he did not. He chatted on very pleasantly, but somehow he was not making himself at all better known to Mr. Mannering, in the sense in which he had expected, nor was he even growing more intimate in any way. He was disclosing nothing of his life and adventures, nor even of his character, for his reflections on life were seasoned with a spirit of mockery which left Charles in doubt as to whether they represented anything but the whim of the hour.
Over the chimneypiece clicked an old Louis Quatorze clock, and as he looked into the garden, Charles Mannering fancied he saw his host now and then glance at its dial.
“The fellow thinks I may be in his way at Guildford House, and that I am to be managed by a little flattery and attention, and everything made easy, and a troublesome cousin cajoled. Hi is counting the minutes till it is time to get away, and laughing at my simplicity.”
Charles was nettled. If this dinner was meant to propitiate him, it had no such pleasant effect, but a good deal the reverse.
“I think, Mr. Dacre,” said Charles, “I once knew a friend of yours, a Mr. Vanhomrigh?”
“Where did he live?” inquired Dacre.
He had a very pretty house at Richmond.”
“Ha! the very man; then you’ve heard that story?”
Charles had not expected this, and he felt a little awkward. But Mr. Dacre was perfectly himself, and unusually grave, and he continued serenely —
“I did know him — I’ve known all sorts of people in my life — I used to consult him about pictures. Otherwise, I think we’ll agree, your friend was not a desirable acquaintance; but being a man of some learning and great brutality, he was looked upon as a philosopher, and I did not care what he was, he was not pretty; and there was a peculiarity, you recollect, about his head?”
“Ah, perhaps there was, I don’t quite remember.”
“It was this, his head had no brains in it, and so he was always guided by his own strong common non-sense. He did me the honour to be jealous of me, although his wife was, upon my honour, as indifferent to me as if she had been my own. He insisted on a duel. I shot him only through both legs — a little higher and I should have rid the world, and particularly Mrs. Vanhomrigh, of a bore. But while I — if there be any force in the ordeal — was in
scribing the proofs of my innocence upon his legs, his wife was testifying to the same fact, in an equally satisfactory manner, by going away with a Mr. Tromperant. We parted — Mr. Vanhomrigh and I — affectionately, and I don’t believe he called Mr. Tromperant out.”
“0h!” said Charles, a little dryly: “people used, I’ve heard, to tell that a little differently.”
“Ah! did they? You heard she ran away with quite a different person — with me, in fact.”
“Well, I confess it was something a little like that — and — and — but it was very absurd,” hesitated Charles Mannering.
“Tell me, I entreat, what it was. Don’t think me a fool; such things never vex me — nothing offends me in a friend but reserve.”
Charles looked at him for a moment shrewdly, and then down, and smiled a little awkwardly. The inquisitor was suffering more than the person undergoing the question. In fact, the examination was beginning to be inverted, and the éclaircissement approached at an inconveniently rapid pace. Mr. Dacre smiled very good naturedly.
“So many things one hears are — are— “ hesitated Charles.
“I know — utterly absurd,” said Dacre; “but if my friends do hear them, and that they affect me, I protest against being kept in the dark, be it what it may — pray tell me all about it.” “Well the story is that you ran away with her; her husband divorced her, and you then married her,” said Mannering, with a little shrug and a laugh, making nothing of it.
“Ho! There’s the whole epic in a nutshell, and simply a lie from first to last. She went away not with me, but a Mr. Tromperant. I don’t know whether Vanhomrigh divorced his wife or not, but I’m ready to swear I never married her.”
Here was a short silence.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 458