Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 464
CHAPTER XXIII.
MR. DACRE SEES A LETTER.
WHEN Mr. Dacre entered the drawing room at Guildford House this evening, Mrs. Wardell was alone, and greeted him with her accustomed kindness.
“Laura will be down, I expect, in a minute or two. She was in her room writing a line to poor Charles Mannering.”
“Not telling him, is she, that he was hit with a pistol-bullet?” inquired Dacre, with an odd smile.
“No, we agreed that it would only vex him our knowing the nature of his accident, and, although nothing could be more reprehensible, yet it is not just yet the time to find fault.”
“Besides, you know, it would not do to let him know that I told you. He might have another duel on his hands before he had well recovered the first,” Dacre laughed; “and I fancy he has had quite enough of that kind of thing for the present.”
“Oh, dear! no,” said Mrs. Wardell; “that would be treating you very ill.”
“Running my head into the lion’s mouth,” and Dacre smiled; “a formidable lion, no doubt, though a wounded one. The bulletin to-day, I’m glad to tell you, is quite satisfactory; no fever to signify, and no prescription but to keep quiet; in fact, he is a most fortunate patient. The luxurious importance of an invalid; the interest of a hero, and ample leisure to read his TIMES, and his novels, and to repent.”
“The last I do hope,” said Mrs. Wardell, accepting Dacre’s speech in perfect good faith: “and we have had a very satisfactory communication also. We were thinking of driving down in a few days to that place, just to inquire. I think it would be kind, don’t you? and show that we took an interest.”
“Well, of course it would be kind; but there’s such a thing as killing people with kindness, and my friend tells me that none of his friends must call even at the door; so says the doctor.”
“Why he can’t mean that talking to the waiter at the door would kill Charles Mannering upstairs in his bedroom?” exclaimed Julia Wardell.
“That doesn’t exactly describe the process,” said Dacre, laughing. “What he says is this — for the same paradox struck me also — that it would be less likely to put him in a fever for people to go direct into his room, and talk to him half the day, than to excite and tantalize him by such calls; he’d be sure to hear of them, and he’d insist on seeing the people, and if the waiters disobeyed him, he’d blow them up, and get himself into such a nervous excitement, that mischief would inevitably follow.”
“Well, we only thought of it; but, perhaps, the doctor knows best,” said Mrs. Wardell, placing her fat, short fingers on some letters that lay on the table beside her, and picking out one, which she presented to him, saying— “Just read that.”
“Thank you,” said Dacre, preparing to be bored with a long epistle from the Silver Dragon. It turned out, however, to be a totally different thing. Mrs. Wardell had addressed herself to converse with her dog, now happily recovering and occupying his cushion on the sofa beside her. The letter which Dacre had been invited to read, and which soon interested him intensely and disagreeably, was certainly not that which Mrs. Wardell had intended to give him.
It was in these terms, after a few lines of inquiry —
“You can’t think how beautiful the scenery is here. As I write, I command a view so like some of the glimpses down the glens of the Apennines. I think if you were in this part of the world for a summer it would end in your building a castle, and becoming a lady of the Lake (by-the-by, such lakes! and I think those cold mists which stupid people complain of, so fine, so singular, and so effective a contrast, when they rise and dissipate themselves — contrast, you understand, by way of preparation, to the noble colouring of these grand Caledonian landscapes). My parenthesis has run to such a length that you will let me off finishing the sentence. I like the people here so much. The peasantry so unaffectedly republican in tone and demeanour, and so feudal in their attachment. My host, you know, is YOUR kinsman as well as mine. You would, I think, like him and his wife so much. She is not a beauty, and in so far does not resemble you. But in many ways she reminds me so of you, and this being so, I can’t, of course, describe her, only, I know you would like her, and she would be charmed with you; and, therefore, if she asks you to Lochlinnir, I counsel you by all means to go. I wish I could say COME.
But I shall be in — shire a week before you could make up your mind. Therefore, I’m not selfish when I say DO accept when she invites you, which, I know, she meditates. She means, also, to ask Mrs. Wardell to accompany you. She consulted me on the subject, and asked whether you would come. I said, ‘Yes.’ Pray, don’t disappoint and make me tell a fib. But my dear Challys, it strikes me, an excursion of this kind would be the very thing you would probably wish, for quite other reasons. Will you think me very impertinent? I am sure you wont — you have always listened to my advice so kindly. Recollect it shall be only advice; for, even if I had a right to blame, you are not the least to blame in this matter. I only venture a caution — shall I say a warning? There is an acquaintance I want you to drop. You must not allow Mr. Dacre to call at Guildford House any more; quietly say — not at home. It is only to repeat the exorcism half-a-dozen times, and that spirit is laid. I can’t say more. My reasons are quite sufficient. When I am at liberty to state them you will THANK me. I feel happier now that I have got that off my mind; and pray, dear Challys, don’t contemn my warning.”
Then came some gossip, and then this passage —
“I have had a letter from Charles Mannering, who has had an adventure, and got himself hurt somehow; but, he tells me, it will be nothing.”
It ended with a word or two more, and the signature, “Ardenbroke;” and, smiling, Alfred Dacre returned it gently to its envelope, and while the old lady continued her talk with her dog, he slipped it among the two or three other letters on the table — still smiling.
He was smiling, while his heart swelled with wrath and bitterness.
“Well, that’s very satisfactory, isn’t it?” said good Mrs. Wardell, who had plainly mistaken the latter.
“He’s sure to do well, as I said, if only he does as his doctor bids him.”
“And I hope YOU have been quite well?” she said, suddenly observing how very pale he looked.
“I? Oh, I’ve been — yes, perfectly well, thank you,” he said, in a rather bewildered way; “very well, thanks — a little — a little tired, I think — that’s all — where is Miss Gray?”
“I told you she’s writing a note; I think it must be finished by this time.”
“Oh, I beg pardon; to be sure you did, and I have no business asking — I think I’m half asleep; I sat up nearly all last night over papers and accounts, and I really am little better than a somnambulist; a cup of your tea will, however, set me up again, and I shall be wide awake in a minute.”
“I know the sensation so well; yes, indeed. Would you mind touching the bell? we shall have tea in a moment, and — here’s Laura.”
Laura received him very graciously this evening. She smiled more; her manner seemed also sadder and more subdued. Had she been crying? No; there were none of the unbecoming evidences of that feminine occupation. But did not her fine dark eyes look tearful? Could it be about that letter; and was she weak enough to adopt its advice?
She sat down at the piano, and, with one hand, ran lightly over the notes. With a dark and piercing gaze he looked unobserved in her face. There was another feeling mingling in his anger, but he would not acknowledge it; it surprised, and almost alarmed him.
He drew near, and sat beside her at the piano.
“Miss Gray, I think — will you forgive me? — I think something has vexed you.
She was looking down at the notes which she was touching lightly with one hand, and she said, without raising her eyes —
“Yes, I am vexed; very much vexed.”
“Not with me, I hope, Miss Gray,” he nearly whispered, but he looked very sad and uncertain.
“Certainly not; oh, Mr. Dacre! my true and brave friend, how could you think so?”
She spoke with a kind of enthusiasm that thrilled him, and, at the same time, extended her hand, which he took. His was very cold; he looked as pale as a dying man, and he gazed in her face with his eyes full of a strange fire. Was it confusion — was it love — was it remorse? It was so intense she could not endure it. She felt a shudder in his hand; and, with a short sigh, like a gasp, he raised her hand to his lips, and passionately kissed it.
“What have I done? Forgive me, Miss Gray, I am very unhappy; I fancied you were — offended with me, and in the rapture of your acquittal, I forgot myself, and the immeasurable fate that separates us.”
She drew her hand back from him. He did not attempt to retain it. She had blushed intensely, but treated this stage act as the wildness of a moment. So estimating, it was, perhaps, more dignified to ignore it as she did.
“Not with you, but very much vexed with Ardenbroke and with Charles Mannering.
“I’m sure you’ll forgive them,” said he.
“Well, I don’t know; I suppose I shall; but why do you say so?” she said.
“Because some people are so fortunate,” lie said, dejectedly.
“And others are so unfortunate?” she added.
“Yes, others are so unfortunate.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
“OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS.”
A little silence followed these enigmatical speeches. She went on fiddling with the treble of an air, looking on her fingers. He stood beside her looking down upon her.
“I see, Miss Gray,” he said at last, “that you are a very good friend; I can be that — I could, at least, once. But I have found that people who are so, are also very steadfast enemies; I mean, I have found it so in myself. I have met many traitors; the world is full of simulated friendships and dissembled hatreds. I prefer a frank enemy to a flatterer. You never cherished an enmity; I have.”
“People have accused me of being vindictive; that is, not generally, but in one particular case, and I never was; but no one person quite understands another in this world.”
“I was on the point of being very impertinent; I was near asking a question,” said he.
“Well?” she said, still looking down on the notes.
“I was going to ask in what particular case that was; but I have no right, and I shan’t venture.”
He had chosen to interpret that “well?” as an invitation to put his question.
“No, you are right; we shan’t mind; we’ll not talk about it,” answered she.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“And why sorry?” asked she.
“Because it interests me so much,” said he.
“Well, it makes me sad, that is my only reason. I’m not afraid; I’m never afraid of anything I do, but I am sorry whenever I think of that,” she said.
“May I guess?” said he.
“Why?” she asked.
“I want to know; I long to know.”
“You are curious, then?”
“Very,” said he.
“I thought that curiosity was a feminine grace, and that you men boasted of never being curious.”
“Well, I shall ask but one question.”
“I don’t much mind, then, if I answer it. Go on, I’m listening.”
“Is it, then, De Beaumirail?” he asked.
“Yes; how did you guess it?”
“Because you hinted the same thing once before, though not so distinctly; and you really, then, regret your not having liberated that odious fellow?” exclaimed Dacre. “I beg your pardon, but is not that a very misplaced remorse, Miss Gray?”
“It is well that we don’t judge as harshly, always, as you men.”
“Equally well, Miss Gray, that we don’t always judge as mercifully as you — earth is no place for the angelic attributes — in this game that we call life; the diabolic carries all before it, the angels are nowhere. I don’t speak in particular of De Beau-
mirail, though I don’t take the indulgent view of his character that Ardenbroke does. But that, you will say, has something’ of malice in it; for no man living ever injured me so deeply as De Beaumirail. All I say is the general rule, you can’t govern, the world by kindness. Hell must be ruled with a strong hand, and so must the earth; the devils would swarm up, otherwise, and scale heaven.”
“Didn’t I hear you mention Mr de Beaumirail?” inquired Mrs. Wardell, who had overheard the name.
“Yes; so I did,” answered Dacre.
“And what do you think of him?” asked Mrs. Wardell; “of his appearance — his looks, I mean?”
“I never venture any such criticism in presence of ladies; they see with a truer eye. What is your opinion, Miss Gray?”
“I never saw him.”
“Never say De Beaumirail? I thought you told me you had seen him; perhaps it was he who said he had seen you, and of course, in that case, the boast is not very likely to be true. I can only say, Mrs. Wardell, that I shall defer to your judgment in that matter, for I don’t like him, and could not judge him fairly.”
“But I can’t tell any more than Laura.”
“Why you must have seen him at Gray Forest, have not you? He told me he has been there.”
“So I think he was,” said Julia Wardell, “but never while I was there.”
“No, he was not very often there,” said Laura; “I believe about three times, and not for very long. I was in France, and never saw him there, nor anywhere else that I remember, and I don’t care to hear about him; I mean, of course, what he is like. The whole subject is bitter to me, and I would give a year of my life that I dared set him free; but I can’t, and my real helplessness, where I seem to have the sole power, is the most miserable reflection of my life.”
“What! really sorry you can’t let that scamp loose upon the world?” said Dacre, with a little shrug and a smile. “I admire the charity of your angelic sex, Miss Gray, but I do believe there is no way to its heart, like being a bit of a MAUVAIS SUJET. I envy De Beaumirail; it is so pleasant, exciting a compassion on such easy terms. But our leaning is quite the other way. We don’t take an interest in scamps; their lives and motives are no mystery to us. Nothing awful or romantic about them; simple selfishness, I mean a life of folly, and champagne, the dice-box, and the pistol, ending in broken fortunes and reputation, and liberty and light itself, LOST.”
“And how can you think that is not pitiable, Mr. Dacre? The most pitiable of all miseries are those which overtake us from want of prudence, which seems to me so much the virtue of selfishness and hypocrisy.”
I think Dacre rather liked this doctrine, at least it did not shock him, for he smiled darkly with pleasure, one would have said, as she enunciated it, while Mrs. Wardell, more orthodox, exclaimed —
“Laura, my dear, how can you?”
“I believe it is quite true,” said Dacre, laughing; “prudence is active fear, and active fear is cowardice; at the same time, I am happy to say that I have learned that kind of cowardice myself. De Beaumirail has taught me a lesson or two in it, so valuable, although he exacted a very high price for them, that I almost forgive him.”
“Is he as good-looking as people say?” asked Mrs. Wardell, recurring to her point.
The window was open, and the rich perfume of flowers exhaling in the sultry night, hung in the air. Laura Gray changed her place, and sat by the window, while Dacre, answering Mrs. Wardell, said —
“I could not describe him conscientiously; but I want very much to see him, and will, although he refused me that honour a few nights ago. Suppose I ask him for his CARTE DE VISILE when he favours me with an interview? The fact really is, at least, in my case, that if I don’t like a man I can’t admire him, and De Beaumirail has hit me too often and too hard to allow me to like him; and, altogether, I am ashamed of him.”
Looking out in that luxurious atmosphere of fragrance, it was Laura’s turn to smile now — what was her thought? Might it not be something like this? —
“Poor Charles Mannering can’t say a good word of Mr. Dacre, and Mr. Dacre can’t see anything good in Mr de Beaumirail. How jealous they are, one of another; praise a man, and his sex are ready to tear him to pieces. They hate one to think, or fancy, any other man even good-looking.” Laura was smiling silently from the window — not a satirical smile — a smile with that indefinable air of gratification and victory in it, which, in a beautiful and gracious face, has such a charm.
“Well, you must not mention me, Mr. Dacre; but I really am curious,” said Julia Wardell, “I have heard so much about him. There’s an old clergyman, a Mr. Parker, who came here constantly to lecture Laura for not letting him out; and Mr. Gryston talks of him, and Ardenbroke, and Charles Mannering; and I’ve always heard him talked about in the Gray family; so, naturally, I wish to see him. Shall we get his photo’, Laura?”
“I’ll manage it, if you tell me?” said Dacre, looking at Miss Gray.
“No, I should not wish it. Pray don’t think of it,” said Laura, her curiosity overcome by a kind of disgust.
“Are you serious?”
“Perfectly; I shouldn’t like it.”
“I’m sure you are curious?”
“So she is — very curious,” interposed Julia Wardell.
“I should not look at it — nothing would pain me more. I don’t like talking of him. I don’t like thinking of him. He is suffering, and I am the passive instrument of his suffering. I pity him — I know how odious I must seem to others — and yet, from a feeling which I wont explain — I suppose you would laugh at me — a feeling that I can’t explain — I am powerless. But I won’t endure any jesting on the subject; it is so heartless, and it is cruel, besides, to me.”
“What an empress she is!” exclaimed Julia Wardell.
“Empress, indeed,” echoed Dacre, with a different meaning it seemed.
“Yes, about that very imperious,” she continued. “I wish he would let me be of use to him — such use as I can — but he is so impracticable, and so angry with me, and can I wonder at his hating me? I assure you, Mr. Dacre, I could kneel at his feet to ask his forgiveness; and I know I am governed by a kind of madness, but I can’t overcome it; and even talking of him makes me so miserably nervous. Julia Wardell, you ought to know it; and, Mr. Dacre, I implore of you to mention him no more.” Dacre looked at her with a strange curiosity.
