Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 479
“Oh, dear, sir, it’s very sad and dreadful, and yet what could I do?”
“I gave him your message, and told him of your offer; and although it was as I thought, and he could not accept it, he was very grateful, and very much moved.”
“I’m glad you told him — it was kind. I am very much obliged — and pray tell me all he said.”
“He spoke of your forgiveness in the terms I mentioned, and he said, pointing to his desk, ‘As you came in, I was reading a note of hers.’”
“Reading a note of mine! A note written by me, do you mean?”
“I have been charged by him, Miss Gray, to make an explanation which pains me; I wish the task had devolved on any other person.”
Mr. Parker was speaking with averted eyes, and with the profound embarrassment of one who expects to awaken very painful emotions.
“Pray do; I am quite in the dark, and can’t think how Mr de Beaumirail could have obtained possession of any note of mine; though, perhaps, indeed it does not very much matter, for I have never written a note in which I need wish anything changed, or need in the least regret.”
Mr. Parker sighed and shook his head, and seemed at a loss how to proceed. But it was to be got through somehow, so he said —
“He did not say what they were; he did not speak of them as being on any subject of the least importance; he merely spoke of them as relics which he prized very dearly j. and when he spoke of your music, it was in reference to a time, not many months ago, when he, under a feigned name, used to come here and contribute to it in the evenings, — indeed, for a time, nearly every evening.”
As he thus spoke Mr. Parker raised his eyes, and was startled. Challys Gray was standing before him with a face so wild and pale, her hand pressed to her temple, that he expected to see her drop to the ground.
With a wild cry came the words, “Oh, it was Alfred Dacre, and you hid it! Oh, wicked old man! how could you? And it was this — and in prison. Oh, Alfred, Alfred; oh, God, he’s gone!”
She had caught him by the arm, and was clasping it with trembling hands, as she gazed with her large affrighted eyes in his face.
“You’ll see, Miss Gray, by-and-by,” he pleaded, “you will indeed, that I am not the least to blame in this matter. I could not divulge, without violating a solemn promise, the little he had chosen to disclose.”
“You let him die, you cruel old man, and never told me; and I — I — oh, my God, I have killed him!”
“Miss Gray, listen to me, I entreat,” said the old man, gently. “From all I can learn, no power on earth could have saved him. He died of some affection of the heart. I forget the name, but the doctor tells me it must have been established more than a year ago; certainly before you saw him, and probably at least a full year before that time; therefore, as to the event, his remaining in prison, or coming out, was quite immaterial.”
“And where is he? Oh, take me to him — I must see him.”
“Poor child, that can’t be; he was laid in his last resting-place this morning. I attended and read the service,” said he.
For some time she was silent, gazing in his face, and then, with a long, low, and bitter cry, the storm broke — wild words, better forgotten.
He was glad when she burst into tears, and wept for some time in silence.
The old man, experienced in grief, did not interrupt, and the silence was broken her only by moaning and convulsive sobs.
“Oh, tell me everything,” at last she said; “tell me from the beginning, that I may try to understand; you saw it all.” And he told his sad story from first to last, and then again — and then again — and then they talked, she still weeping, for a long time; and at last he went, and she ran up to her room, and locked the door, and kneeled with her head on the side of her bed, weeping wildly, and that evening she did not go down.
Next day the old clergyman called again, and Miss Gray went down, cloaked and veiled, to the library, and they drove away in a cab which he had brought there. It was to the cemetery where De Beaumirail is laid.
CHAPTER XXV.
CONCLUSION.
NEARLY a year after, Challys Gray at length put her long-deferred plan of foreign travel in execution, and about a year later she and Julia Wardell were joined at Naples by old Lady Ardenbroke and her son.
Two years had passed, therefore, since the occurrences mentioned in the preceding chapters. That faithful fellow, Charles Mannering, with now and then a month’s absence in England, was always in attendance, only to be employed reading to them in the evenings, and supplying, on all occasions, his convenient escort. Lord Ardenbroke’s pretty yacht was in the bay. There was just breeze enough for a lazy sail, and Lord Ardenbroke, beside Miss Gray, no one overhearing, as the fleet schooner glided through the smooth water, said —
“Why don’t you, Challys, follow a good example?”
“Whose example?”
“Charles Mannering’s.”
Lord Ardenbroke looked very arch as he said this, and Laura, a little perplexed and curious, looked at him expectingly.
He only laughed.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t see anything particularly to imitate in him, except that he is the best creature in the world.”
“And if there can be two best, you are one of them Challys; but that isn’t it; he’s going home, you know, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Challys, looking hard at her companion; “but he’ll be coming back, I suppose, in four or five weeks?”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said he, with a laugh.
“Well, he has not told me; I suppose he’ll do as he likes about that; but what do you mean?”
“Can you keep a secret, Challys?”
“A secret? yes — I hope I can.”
“Well you must promise quite seriously that you’ll not let Charles know that you have heard a word about it, for he’d know instantly that it was I who had told.”
“Yes, I’ll promise; now tell me.”
“You are not to mention it even to my mother.”
“No, no one. I wish he was here, and I’m certain that he’d tell without any fuss. Has anyone left him money?”
“Oh, he has lots of that already. No, it ain’t anything like that. Now, you’re not to tell Charles, and you’re not to tell anyone else; isn’t that quite understood?”
“Yes; do pray, tell me.
“Well, I think Charles is going to be married.”
“Oh!” she said, coldly enough. “Not at all an unlikely thing — I always thought he would marry — but why should he make such a secret of it?”
“Because he’s not quite sure that the young lady will say ‘yes;’ but I am, and hell be married in four or five weeks.”
“I’m sure he’ll be very happy, and he has kept his secret very well. Dear me, isn’t there more smoke than usual from the mountain?”
“No, it’s only the light.”
“And, I forget, did you say who the young lady is?” said Miss Challys, carelessly, still looking toward the distant Vesuvius.
“No, I daren’t tell her name, but she is as nice a girl as ever you saw. They were in the same hotel with you two months ago; in Rome you never saw a prettier creature. Do you remember, when we were passing through Rome, you told me that Charles was absent two or three hours every day on pretence of sketching, and that you saw very little to show for the time — how I laughed! I knew the thing was going on then.”
“I suppose so; he has been very secret.”
“Very sly,” laughed Lord Ardenbroke.
“Although, of course, there was no reason why he should be in any particular hurry to tell; and I’m sure we had no right to look for disclosures earlier than other people. I’m sure, I hope he’ll be very happy, but I think he’s making rather a fool of himself.”
Ardenbroke laughed— “Really?”
“Yes; why should you laugh? He need not have been in any hurry, that I can see. He had time enough, goodness knows; and I think anyone who is so entirely his own master, and leading so happy a life, is rather a fool to change everything, and put his happiness in another person’s keeping.”
“I see here the spirit of the ‘virgin Queen’ ascendant. No courtier permitted to marry.”
Ardenbroke laughed as he said this, but Miss Gray, so far from laughing, or even smiling, looked rather bored, and then talked about something else.
And so they chatted through this slow, luxurious sail; and when they landed in the punt, Charles Mannering was waiting to take her cloak and book, and contrived to look so innocent that Ardenbroke could not forbear smiling as he caught her eye. But she either did not see, or did not choose to see, and gave her parasol and book to Lord Ardenbroke; and when she was obliged to see Charles Mannering, she gave him a rather chilly smile, and said, “Writing letters at home, I suppose?”
“Writing letters, yes; how did you find that out?”
But she did not answer; and looking seaward, made some remarks, instead, to Lord Ardenbroke, upon the peculiar green tint of the water, which Charles did not very well hear; and she passed him by, and walked upstairs, when they got home, in rather a stately way.
When she reached her room, she locked the door, and threw herself into a chair, and — wept.
“I thought I had one friend — one friend — and I’ve lost him — good old Charlie; — I have no one now.”
And on this theme she wept for a time. Then recollecting, she dried her tears, and bathed her eyes and cheeks, to remove the appearance of recent weeping, and came down more cheerfully than she had for a long time, and was very gay and chatty at tea. But, somehow, Charles fancied himself a little in disgrace.
The gentlemen went out after tea for a stroll and a cigar. Julia Wardell sat at an open window looking affably at the distant sea, and babbling to her dog; and Challys Gray found herself sitting beside the old dowager Lady Ardenbroke, who said— “It was quite delightful, my dear, to listen to you this evening.”
“Why, what did I say?”
“Nothing very particular; but you seem to have found your spirits again.”
“Found them, have I? I was not aware that I had lost them,” said Challys.
“Come, come, my dear, I’m a shrewd old woman; I have heard more than you think,” and she laughed and shook her head.
“I really don’t know what you mean,” said Challys, first blushing very brilliantly, and then growing very pale.
“You ought to tell me that kind of nonsense, my dear, instead of allowing it to prey upon your spirits; every foolish little fancy, if one broods over it in solitude, grows into the dimensions of a tragedy. You ought to talk with me; you can’t, you know, to Mrs. Wardell, because — though she’s a good old soul — she’s stupid, and she could not understand you.”
“But who, dear Lady Ardenbroke, has been telling you all these stories about me “My dear, I’ve heard quite enough from that good, dull creature who is talking to her dog in the window, to understand — though she doesn’t — that there was a very foolish little fancy that ought to have been quite forgotten in as many weeks as it has taken years— “
“You mean— “ began Challys, with her eyes fixed on the carpet.
“I do,” said the old lady, “and I can tell you that anything so wild and silly as your allowing yourself to think of such a person as Mr de Beaumirail, even at the best — so vain, selfish, violent, and unprincipled— “
“Oh, no, no, no I you mustn’t — I can’t bear it! You never knew him. He sacrificed himself for me.”
“Well, dear, if you will have it so, and that it pains you my talking so plainly, I’ll only say, that if you had consulted me, I should have warned you instantly; and I now tell you that if he had not owed a guinea, and been just as when he came of age, no one who took the least interest in you would have allowed you to dream of him as a husband; he never could have made anyone happy, and there is no good in our affecting to think differently from everyone who knew him. Ardenbroke knew him at one time very well, and, though he thought him amusing, he knew perfectly well that he was everything I describe him; and although he had lost sight of him for years, and knew nothing of the utter ruin that had befallen him, I do assure you he was in an agony to get back from Scotland all that time, and I could not make out for what and only that he was kept there in spite of himself, and not able to put off people, he would have come up to town about it; and Heaven only knows what might have happened, for he, in his own way, is just as fiery as De Beaumirail was, and the idea of putting such a person in comparison with that nice, honest, gentle creature, Charles Mannering — I think you must have been bereft of your senses! Charles Mannering is such a gentleman, and such a charming companion, and so goodnatured — I could really almost beat you.”
“Well, darling, I’ll not talk any more, for it’s all a retrospect now, and you know I’ve settled that I’m to be an old maid.” And with a smile, and a very deep sigh, she pointed Lady Ardenbroke’s attention away from such things, to the brilliant moonlight that was quivering on the waters beneath them.
That night Lord Ardenbroke found himself at the window beside Challys Gray, just before his good night, and he whispered, laughing, “Well, have you made out anything more about Charles?”
“Oh, no; I shouldn’t think of asking; of course we’ll have it all in good time.”
“Well, I do think, though, he might have told you; he doesn’t know, I assure you, that I gave you the least hint, but you are such old friends.”
“Oh, really, there’s no hurry,” said the young lady; “why should there? Besides, the young lady, whoever she is, might like to choose who’s to hear it all first.”
“Well, I’m going home now, and he’ll have time to cool by morning, so I don’t care if he’s a little angry; and I give you leave to tell him, after I’ve gone, if you like it. I suppose he’s a little shy. Good night!”
And away he went, and said a word or two to Charles at the door. She fancied he was advising a confidence to her; she did not quite know how she felt; her pride was wounded; but, also, she was resolved that he should not think she cared; and, therefore, when he came near the window, with a remark about the sea and the moonlight, she managed to receive him very nearly in her usual way. So they talked on and compared notes on the picturesque; and finally she said carelessley —
“What day, I forget, do you set out for home?”
“Not till this day week, I think.”
“Oh! Isn’t that a mistake?”
“How? I don’t see,” he said.
“I always think, when one has to make a journey, it is better to start as soon as possible, particularly when it is going to be a pleasant journey.”
“Pleasant? I did not say it was to be pleasant.”
“Oh! but I heard all about it,” said Challys. “Dear me! what a noise that little dog makes.”
“But do you mean you really heard anything? What did you hear?”
“Of course you know what I heard; you told it all to Ardenbroke, and Ardenbroke told it to me.”
“Ardenbroke! I told him nothing,” answered Charles.
“Oh, nonsense, you did,” said Challys, lighting up suddenly with a little flush and brilliant eyes; “you told him you were going to England to marry, or rather to try to marry some one; and I’m sure there’s no need to make such a fuss about nothing, or next to nothing.”
“And you believe all that nonsense?” he said, after a moment’s silence, looking straight at her with kind and sad eyes. “I did not think, Challys, you thought me so — I can’t find exactly a word; but I thought you were the last person in the world who could have believed such a story.”
“I don’t know; I don’t see anything so incredible in it.”
“Yes, Challys, you do — that is, if you know and understand me ever so little — you must see that it is quite incredible — you must see that I hate going away, even for two or three weeks, and that my only happiness is to be near you.”
She looked at him with still that blush, and with the half-quenched fire in her eyes, timidly almost, and lowered her eyes again.
“You are very kind, Charlie, to say so, for I’m sure I’ve been often very cross and very ungrateful.”
At this point I hear nothing but the snarling of the dog and the nonsensical caresses of good Julia Wardell. I don’t approach the two young people, who carry on their colloquy in the same low tone, I verily believe, without so much as being: conscious of the noise that Mrs. Wardell and her dog are kicking up.
Half an hour goes by, and half an hour more, during which Julia Wardell, at her window, has been taking a nap. The dog is lying on his cushion, coiled round with his head to his tail, and one eye vigilantly watching Charles Mannering’s back, with an air of covert suspicion. The young people are still talking very low, and can I believe my eyes! — Charles Mannering has stolen his hand slily round Challys Gray’s slender waist — and there seems no resistance; and they whisper on and on — and he actually kisses her — once, twice, thrice; and I know not how often the indiscretion might have been repeated, had not Mrs. Wardell, waking suddenly, said —
“Were you speaking to me, dear?”
“I? No, darling,” answered Challys’s voice from the other window; and in obedience to some imperious signal, I suppose, Charles Mannering’s hand stole slily to his own side, and he said, quite innocently, “Can I do anything, Mrs. Wardell?”
“No, thanks,” answered that lady; “but, dear me, how the candles have burnt down — how the time goes while one’s thinking, and that exquisite view — and — is it really? — upon my life, it is nearly one o’clock! My dear Challys, what have we been thinking of? we can’t live without sleep. Mr. Mannering, don’t you think — it’s very rude of me — but isn’t it very late?”
So Charles apologized, and looked at his watch and laughed, and bid good night, and had another little whisper with Challys at the window, and bid good night again, and then another whispering word, and so good night once more, and now really departed-
But he might have been seen, as the old novels say, for ever so long after, walking slowly to and fro under the trees, and looking up at the windows of the house, in a rapture, in a dream, with a heart tumultuous with pride.
