“I didn’t tell you, did I, about my last visit? I went to tea there a night or two ago,” asked old Mr. Parker.
“No — nothing — how was it?”
“Nothing, but merely that I did no good, sir. No, no; it was, in fact, imposed upon me that I should not open the subject.”
“And my friend Dacre goes there, doesn’t he? He has not softened Miss Gray in my behalf, I dare say?”
“I fear not, Mr de Beaumirail; no, I think not.”
“You don’t suppose I expected any such thing?” said the captive.
“I don’t know, sir; but Mr. Dacre, I believe, is intimate there. I wish very much he were more your friend than you suppose him.”
“You think he has an influence, then?” said De Beaumirail.
“I — I rather do,” answered the clergyman, simply.
“And why?”
“The elder lady, a Mrs. Wardell, who, I assume, from her age and superior experience, is naturally looked up to by Miss Gray, talked a great deal of him. He had been there to tea that night, and she spoke very favourably of him indeed, and as if he was there very often, and on a sudden she seemed to recollect herself as if she ought not to have mentioned him. I think I saw the young lady look at her; perhaps she said something; I don’t know.”
“Well, the upshot is that only the old lady mentioned him?”
“Yes, only Mrs. Wardell.”
“Well, you know she could do nothing.”
“Except by her authority with Miss Gray,” suggested Mr. Parker.
“I don’t believe, sir, that young ladies now-a-days are troubled with much awe of their elders. Besides, I explained before, Miss Gray has no longer the power to release me. So now, sir, I’ll try another way — I’ll turn the wheel — try a new course, and strike a smashing blow at the villains who are dissecting me in the next room.” De Beaumirail, with his clenched hands in his dressing-gown pockets, shook his head as he thus spoke, and smiled with so resolute a frown, that good Mr. Parker was almost frightened.
“My good friend,” said he, “I have often told you that patience is a prayer in itself, and implored of you also, if you cannot control either such feelings or the expression of them, at least, in kindness, to spare me the pain of witnessing such ungoverned bursts of feeling.”
De Beaumirail made no answer, but looked for a time gloomily out of the window.
“Suppose you come and have a cup of tea with me tomorrow evening? I have a book to give you,” said he.
“I’m afraid I can’t, my dear friend,” said Mr. Parker.
“But why not?” pleaded De Beaumirail.
“It is my night for preparing my sermon. I can’t leave it to Saturday, which is one of my fatiguing days, and the evening finds me tired and very little good for.”
“Ah! your sermon? I daren’t interfere with that, sir. For where a sermon’s in the case, all other things, of course, give place,” said De Beaumirail, slightly modifying the quotation. “But if not tomorrow, come tonight.”
“I promised to dine at Guildford House,” said Mr. Parker.
“Oh — that’s very well — at Guildford House. Well, then you may meet Mr. Dacre there?”
“He was not mentioned — no one, in fact. I think it was to be quite to ourselves. But why should you suppose Mr. Dacre?”
“Because one of my people tells me he is perpetually in and out there,” said De Beaumirail. “I hope you may light upon him.”
“I don’t see, sir, exactly why. I don’t know him. I knew but one of that family.
If he is one of the Dacres of Chezledon— “
“Yes, so he is.”
“Well, I knew but one of that family, and he’s dead — poor young man. I saw him often in his last illness, and attended his funeral.”
“He was the son of Harry Dacre of Chezledon, wasn’t he? His name was Alfred Dacre?”
“So it was, sir,” acquiesced Mr. Parker. “And he is the person who visits at Guildford House,” said De Beaumirail.
The clergyman smiled and shook his head. “Ah, sir, impossible, for the reason I told you. Poor Mr. Alfred Dacre, I should be happy that he were still among us.”
“Well, sir,” continued De Beaumirail, without in the least minding Mr. Parker’s little difficulty, “I am very anxious you should see him there. I should so like to know on what terms he is received, for I think I might possibly make him useful to me still. When were you last at Guildford House?”
“I drank tea, I mentioned, a few days ago.”
“And going to dine to-day? They have taken quite a fancy to you. You’ll soon have an influence as powerful as Dacre’s in that house. I’ve an idea of a way in which some good may yet be done for me, if you two were only to put your heads together over my lamentable case.”
The clergyman smiled faintly, and nodded; and De Beaumirail understood that there was passing in his mind the thought how obstinately that crazy prisoner will adhere to his fixed idea, and insist that Alfred Dacre is still living.
“Sooner or later, you know, you must meet, and then you’ll mention me, and find out how he’s disposed,” said De Beaumirail.
“Sooner or later, perhaps, but not in this world, sir,” replied the clergyman.
“We shall see, sir. Well, then, you are going?”
“Yes, a very hurried visit.”
“I wish you believed in holy water, and that I had some to offer you; you need some prophylactic against the powers of evil as you pass through that room; will you excuse my going with you to the door? I shiver at sight of those villains, and can hardly answer for myself.”
“Farewell, sir, good-by.”
And the old clergyman took his leave, again entering the anteroom, and disturbing the little parliament of pandemonium, — two of whose members, at least, looked sourly enough at the gentle intruder, who quickly made his exit.
CHAPTER X.
TWO OLD FRIENDS MEET.
THIS evening, at Guildford House, Alfred Dacre turned up as usual.
When he entered the drawingroom, Julia Wardell had not yet appeared, and Laura was seated in her usual place near the window.
Old Mr. Parker was sipping his coffee in the library in the agreeable company of Mrs. Wardell.
“I thought you’d come upstairs,” said Miss Gray. “So I left my cousin Julia for a few minutes to take care of our good old friend, Mr. Parker. I wrote to tell you — I suppose you got my note — that he was coming.”
“Oh, yes, thank you very much.”
“And that we should give him his tea in the library, as you did not care to meet him,” she continued.
“I am so sorry you should have put yourself at all out of your way, but it is better I should not meet him just now.”
The fact is, Miss Gray’s warning had not reached him; and if it had, I don’t think he would have gone to Guildford House that evening.
“And he was talking of going away when I came here, a few minutes ago, so I’m sure he’s not going to stay very much longer,” said she.
There was somehow a little consciousness, and a constraint also, in their meeting. They were talking as yet very much as they used to do, before the scene of last night; he could not discover in her reception of him any marked change. He fancied that if there was any alteration, it was that there had occurred just that slight but appreciable change of temperature which is perceived within the half-hour after sunset on an autumn evening — a faint chill.
A little graver — her wise little head perhaps a little more cogitative than usual — still there was nothing to alarm him, for there was the soft blush, and in her eyes was that liquid fire which poets describe.
He sat beside her, and he said in a very low tone, “You are not vexed, I hope, at my having come?”
“No, indeed — no, Mr. Dacre — I should have been very much vexed if you had not come. I should have thought it quite unaccountable, and very unkind.”
“I was so afraid, I thought I had done something to giv
e you pain.”
“No; I should have told you so.”
“Then, you regret — oh do you regret having allowed me to speak even the few words I said yesterday?”
“I have been, since then, more unhappy. I am in a labyrinth; I have lost my way, and I have been silent. I have been troubling myself with the thought that you might have fancied I had said that which I never meant to say, for I do not know whether I shall ever like anyone on earth more than as a very good friend. I hope you are not vexed with me, Mr. Dacre; but I could not bear to appear to mislead you, or to have said more than I meant.”
“No one, Miss Gray, could ever misunderstand you. But, oh! do not mistake me, and add to your warning, words that mean despair.”
“I have said nothing — I want you to understand that I have said nothing; and you will stay here until Julia and I can come up; you are not to go away, you know — I came up to prevent that. I’ll think you are vexed with us if you do. Poor old Mr. Parker — he’s so good. He has been so kind and patient with me; and I know he can’t understand me — I hardly do myself — about that miserable affair, that we must be kind to him — that is all, not very much — that is in my power; I like him so much; I like him so very much. He says he is writing some work, and he was looking at the French folio engravings of eastern cities, and scenery with so much interest, that I told him to come as often as he likes, and I intend to make him go to Gray Forest next month, when his little holidays begin. But till then don’t be uncomfortable, or fancy that you are likely to meet him here, for he shall have the library to himself; and you know you can’t meet; and he goes home so early — in fact just about the time you usually come. I half blame myself, I was so afraid, after I had done it, that you might think there was danger of his meeting you here.”
So spoke Miss Gray, and paused, looking at him.
“I have to make a call, very near this, merely a word or two, and I shall be back again. I looked in to say so, and it turns out luckily, for old Mr. Parker will have gone away by that time. In a day or two it wont matter whether I meet him or not, but just at this moment it would not do; so, for half an hour, I say goodbye.”
As Dacre walked down the steps he said to himself, with a dissatisfied laugh —
“How oddly things turn out — this good old simpleton is about to become a fixture here, and I must sooner or later meet him face to face. I hope he wont lose his wits. He’ll precipitate things a little, I dare say, and whether for good or evil I can’t conjecture. What a world! To think of me, of all men, gliding off my path into this desperate romance!”
He glanced toward the library window and sighed.
“If something like this had come earlier; but what vainer than regrets? Might there have been a happy life? — but as it is I scarcely dare look at it, for what good remains except the melancholy glory of a self-sacrifice?”
In this there was, of course, something of that self-conceit in which, like other young men, he was principled. But in his heart the ruling idolatry is declining— “the great god Pan is dead” — and a truer and holier worship is superseding that selfish superstition which had burnt a perpetual incense, and offered up so many sacrifices before his own handsome image.
Along with the opening of a nobler nature, there opens a deeper melancholy — a loftier heaven, a profounder hell. This young man, yet old in the world’s ways, bright, cold, and trenchant, as a beautiful steel weapon, was at first shocked and then perplexed by the discovery that he had a heart — that in a barren field he had found a treasure, for which no imaginable price was too great. Dacre’s carriage stood scarcely thirty yards down the short avenue; as he loitered on the steps in his dream, he fancied that he heard the library door open, and with a sudden recollection he ran down the steps, got into his carriage, and drove away.
In the meantime, in the library Mr. Parker had reestablished himself in his chair, and was entertaining the ladies with a plan he had conceived of exploring the upper extremity of the Red Sea by means of diving-bells, and a competent troop of navvies, for the purpose of bringing to light such relics of Pharaoh’s host, as he was prepared to show, chemically and geologically, must still lie, very nearly uninjured, under the deposit.
Half an hour, nearly, had passed pretty much in this kind of discourse, when the servant, to Miss Gray’s secret relief, came in to inform Mr. Parker that a man living in his parish had called to beg he would return to visit a dying person, and saying that he had got a cab outside the gate, and would wait there for Mr. Parker.
“Hadn’t he better tell him to bring his cab to the door?” said Miss Gray.
But Mr. Parker said no. He preferred walking down, and would bid his friends good night now — and so at last was quite gone.
On the steps where Dacre but a short time before had stood in his soliloquy, the old clergyman also paused, and from that platform for a moment looked up in silent adoration upon the myriad shining stars that gleamed through the dark blue space above him, the manifestation of the Creator’s glory and power illimitable; and in the sublime and tender rapture of that expansion the good old man walked down the short but shadowy avenue, and having emerged from the gate, he looked to the right and to the left — but saw only one figure — that of a gentleman with a short cloak on, who was walking toward him, but with the air of a man bent on a more distant route, walking at a firmer and more rapid pace than a mere lounger waiting for an arrival. He approached and passed him by without a symptom of observation or recognition. So there was no one awaiting him, and no sign of a cab. Mr. Parker walked slowly down toward the main Brompton road, looking out as keenly as he could for the person who had summoned him to return to his duties.
He had not walked forty steps when he was overtaken, and a hand from behind was gently laid upon his shoulder.
“Running away from me, Mr. Parker?” said the voice in an undertone.
Mr. Parker halted and was silent, peering with wrinkled brows earnestly in his face, but that face was somewhat muffled as well as shaded by his broadleafed hat, and the night was dark.
“You — did you call for me?” inquired the clergyman.
“Yes, this moment, a sick call — a sick parishioner; let’s come on to that lamp at the corner, where we can see one another.” The clergyman paused, still looking at him, and he said, hesitating —
“It is very odd — but certainly, sir — let us go.”
And as they walked, he involuntarily peeped more than once at his companion.
CHAPTER XI.
COLLOQUY.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Parker, whose curiosity was excited; “but may I ask, am I acquainted with you, or have I ever been?”
“Yes, sir, you once were, and I hope to restore myself to your recollection when we reach that lamp; but I have one stipulation to make.”
“Very good, sir,” said the clergyman.
“And that is, that you don’t utter my name,” said the person who walked by his side.
“Not to mention your name?” repeated Mr. Parker.
The stranger stopped short.
“No, not to utter it, now or after. If you promise this as a Christian man, I’ll go on; but if you hesitate, I turn about and you see me no more.”
“Sir, I do make you the promise; I think you have a perfect right to exact it; and pray what is your name?”
“I don’t mean to mention it.”
“Are you, sir — are you a Mr. Dacre?” asked Mr. Parker, again hesitating, and speaking in a very low tone, but with a species of excitement.
“I’ll first try whether you recognise me, please; I don’t want to say my name, if it is to be avoided, for stone walls have ears; and observe, I hold you strictly to your promise.”
“Of course. I only meant to ask, are you related to Mr. Alfred Dacre, son of Mr. Dacre, of Chezledon?”
“We shall have light enough, in one minute more, to answer your question without speaking, if you will only have the goodness to walk on.”
“If you were to raise your voice ever so little I think I should guess,” said Mr. Parker, still hesitating. “It isn’t curiosity, sir, it is that there were some unpleasant things; and, in fact, I should prefer, if any meeting is to take place between any member of that family and me, that it should not occur in this way. It should be, sir, for very many reasons, a little more formally.”
“At the lamp at that angle, sir, we can see in both directions and all around. I have only a few words to say, but I should like to see that no one else is near; and as to meeting more formally, as you say, I don’t think I shall mind it.”
“I said, sir, what was in my mind. I think, if there is anything to talk over, it had better be in my house, or anywhere else, where a quiet interview may take place. But I am speaking hypothetically, and in any case, rather than part with you as you alternatively propose, you can of course talk to me here, or where you please.”
He had by this time come close to the lamp which he had already indicated as their halting place. It stood where the dead wall, overtopped by trees, under the foliage of which they had been walking, made a slight bend, affording a clear view up and down the narrow road, and shedding light enough to prevent a surprise by either approach.
“Don’t mind naming me, Mr. Parker; but it does seem odd you don’t know me. Now, sir, look — here I am.”
He let his cloak fall backward a little upon his shoulders, and raised his hat. It was Alfred Dacre who stood before him, smiling. He even laughed gently, as Mr. Parker stepped a little tremulously back with a stare and gape of dumb astonishment.
He drew nearer to the amazed old gentleman, and laying his hand softly to his breast, he said, still smiling, but in a very low tone —
“Don’t say my name — pray don’t — remember you promised; and now I’ll tell you something of my plans, if you allow me.”
“My gracious! — Good heavens! — I can scarcely believe my eyes — I am bewildered, sir,” said the old man.
“We need not stand here, you know,” said Dacre. “It was only for the discovery, and let us walk on. I’ve learned this, that people are sometimes watched when they don’t suspect it.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 471