Severalpairs of boots were placed in Mr. Longcluse's dressing-room.
“Where are the boots that I wore yesterday?” asked he.
“If you please, Sir,” said Mr. Franklin, “the man called this morning for the right boot of that pair.”
“What man?” asked Mr. Longcluse, rather grimly.
“Mr. Armagnac's man, Sir.”
“Did you desire him to call for it?” asked Mr. Longcluse.
“No, Sir. I thought you must have told some one else to order him to send for it,” said Franklin.
“I?You ought to know I leave those things toyou,” said Mr. Longcluse, staring at him more aghast and fierce than the possible mislaying of a boot would seem to warrant. “Did you see Armagnac's man?”
“No, Sir. It was Charles who came up, at eight o'clock, when you were still asleep, and said the shoemaker had called for the right boot of the pair you wore yesterday. I had placed them outside the door, and I gave it him, Sir, supposing it all right.”
“Perhaps itwasall right; but you know Charles has not been a week here. Call him up. I'll come to the bottom of this.”
Franklin disappeared, and Mr. Longcluse, with a stern frown, was staring vaguely at the varnished boot, as if it could tell something about its missing companion. His brain was already at work. What the plague was the meaning of this manœuvre about his boot? And why on earth, think I, should he make such a fuss and a tragedy about it? Charles followed Mr. Franklin up the stairs.
“What's all this about my boot?” demanded Mr. Longcluse, peremptorily. “Whohas got it?”
“A man called for it this morning, Sir.”
“What man?”
“I think he said he came from Mr. Armagnac's, Sir.”
“Youthink. Say what youknow, Sir. Whatdidhe say?” said Mr. Longcluse, looking dangerous.
“Well, Sir,” said the man, mending his case, “he did say, Sir, he came from Mr. Armagnac's, and wanted the right boot.”
“What right boot?—anyright boot?”
“No, Sir, please; the right boot of the pair you wore last night,” answered the servant.
“Andyougave it to him?”
“Yes, Sir, 'twas me,” answered Charles.
“Well, you mayn't be quite such a fool as you look. I'll sift all this to the bottom. You go, if you please, this moment, to Monsieur Armagnac, and say I should be obliged to him for a line to say whether he this morning sent for my boot, and got it—and I must have it back, mind;youshall bring it back, you understand? And you had better make haste.”
“I made bold, Sir,” said Mr. Franklin, “to send for it myself, when you sent me down for Charles; and the boy will beback,Sir, in two or three minutes.”
“Well, come you and Charles here again when the boy comes back, and bring him here also. I'll make out who has been playing tricks.”
Mr. Longcluse shut his dressing-room door sharply; he walked to the window, and looked out with a vicious scowl; he turned about, and lifted up his clenched hand, and stamped on the floor. A sudden thought now struck him.
“The right foot? By Jove! it may not be the one.”
The boot that was left was already in his hand. He was examining it curiously.
“Ay, by heaven! The rightwasthe boot! What's the meaning of this? Conspiracy? I should not wonder.”
He examined it carefully again, and flung it into its corner with violence.
“If it's an accident, it is a very odd one. It is a suspicious accident. It may be, of course, all right. I daresay itisall right. The odds are ten, twenty, a thousand to one that Armagnac has got it. I should have had a warm bath last night, and taken a ten miles' ride into the country this morning. It must be all right, and I am plaguing myself without a cause.”
Yet he took up the boot, and examined it once more; then, dropping it, went to the window and looked into the street—cameback, opened his door, and listened for the messenger's return.
It was not long deferred. As he heard them approach, Mr. Longcluse flung open his door and confronted them, in white waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, and with a very white and stern face—face and figure all white.
“Well, what about it? Where's the boot?” he demanded, sharply.
“The boy inquired, Sir,” said Mr. Franklin, indicating the messenger with his open hand, and undertaking the office of spokesman; “and Mr. Armagnac did not send for the boot, Sir, and has not got it.”
“Oh,oh! very good. And now, Sir,” he said, in rising fury, turning upon Charles, “what haveyougot to say for yourself?”
“The man said he came from Mr. Armagnac, please, Sir,” said Charles, “and wanted the boot, which Mr. Franklin should have back as early as he could return it.”
“Then you gave it to a common thief with that cock-and-a-bull story, and you wish me to believe that you took it all for gospel. There are men who would pitch you over the bannisters for a less thing. If I could be certain of it, I'd put you beside him in the dock. But, by heavens! I'll come to the bottom of the whole thing yet.”
He shut the door with a crash, in the faces of the three men, who stood on the lobby.
Mr. Franklin was a little puzzled at these transports, all about a boot. The servants looked at one another without a word. But just as they were going down, the dressing-room door opened, and the following dialogue ensued:—
“See, Charles, it was you who saw and spoke with that man?” said Longcluse.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Should you know him again?”
“Yes, Sir, I think I should.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“A very common person, Sir.”
“Was he tall or short? What sort of figure?”
“Tall, Sir.”
“Go on; what more? Describe him.”
“Tall, Sir, with a long neck, and held himself straight; very flat feet, I noticed; a thin man, broad in the shoulders—pretty well that.”
“Describe his face,” said Longcluse.
“Nothing very particular, Sir; a shabby sort of face—a bad colour.”
“How?”
“A bad white, Sir, and pock-marked something; a broad face and flat, and a very little bit of a nose; his eyes almost shut, and a sort of smile about his mouth, and stingy bits of red whiskers, in a curl, down each cheek.”
“How old?”
“He might be nigh fifty, Sir.”
“Ha, ha! very good. How was he dressed?”
“Black frock coat, Sir, a good deal worn; an old flowered satin waistcoat, worn and dirty, Sir; and a pair of raither dirty tweed trousers. Nothing fitted him, and his hat was brown and greasy, begging your parding, Sir; and he had a stick in his hand, and cotton gloves—a-trying to look genteel.”
“And he asked for the right boot?” asked Mr. Longcluse.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You are quite sure of that? Did he take the boot without looking at it, or did he examine it before he took it away?”
“He looked at it sharp enough, Sir, and turned up the sole, and he said ‘It's all right,’ and he went away, taking it along with him.”
“He asked for the boot I wore yesterday, or last night—which did he say?” asked Mr. Longcluse.
“I think it was last night he said, Sir,” answered Charles.
“Try to recollect yourself. Can't you be certain? Which was it?”
“I think it waslast night, Sir, he said.”
“It doesn't signify,” said Mr. Longcluse; “I wanted to see that your memory was pretty clear on the subject. You seem to remember all that passed pretty accurately.”
“I recollect it perfectly well, Sir.”
“H'm! That will do. Franklin, you'll remember that description—let every one of you remember it. It is the description of a thief; and when you see that fellow again, hold him fast till you put him in the hands of a policeman. And, Charles, you must be prepared, d'ye see, to swear to that description; for I am going to the detective office, and I shall give it to the police.”
“Yes, Sir,” answered Charles.
“I sha'n't want you, Franklin; let some one call a cab.”
So he returned to his dressing-room, and shut the door, and thought—“That's the fellow whom that miserable little fool, Lebas, pointed out to me at the saloon last night. He watched him, he said, wherever he went.Isaw him. There may be other circumstances. That is the fellow—that is the very man. Here's matter to think over! By heaven! that fellow must be denounced, and discovered, and brought to justice. It is a strong case—a pretty hanging case against him. We shall see.”
Full of surmises about his lost boot,Atra Curawalking unheardbehind him, with her cold hand on his shoulder, and with the image of the ex-detective always gliding before or beside him, and peering with an odious familiarity over his shoulder into his face, Mr. Longcluse marched eastward with a firm tread and a cheerful countenance. Friends who nodded to him, as he walked along Piccadilly, down Saint James's Street, and by Pall Mall, citywards, thought he had just been listening to an amusing story. Others, who, more deferentially, saluted the great man as he walked lightly by Temple Bar, towards Ludgate Hill, for a moment perplexed themselves with the thought, “What stock is up, and what down, on a sudden, to-day, that Longcluse looks so radiant?”
Mr. Longclusehad made up his mind to a certain course—a sharp and bold one. At the police office he made inquiry. “He understood a man had been lately dismissed from the force, answering to a certain description, which he gave them; and he wished to know whether he was rightly informed, because a theft had been that morning committed at his house by a man whose appearance corresponded, and against whom he hoped to have sufficient evidence.”
“Yes, a man like that had been dismissed from the detective department within the last fortnight.”
“What was his name?” Mr. Longcluse asked.
“Paul Davies, Sir.”
“If it should turn out to be the same, I may have a more serious charge to bring against him,” said Mr. Longcluse.
“Do you wish to go before his worship, and give an information, Sir?” urged the officer, invitingly.
“Not quite ripe for that yet,” said Mr. Longcluse, “but it is likely very soon.”
“And what might be the nature of the more serious charge, Sir?” inquired the officer, insinuatingly.
“I mean to give my evidence at the coroner's inquest that will be held to-day, on the Frenchman who was murdered last night at the Saloon Tavern. It is not conclusive—it does not fix anything upon him; it is merely inferential.”
“Connecting him with the murder?” whispered the man, something like reverence mingling with his curiosity, as he discovered the interesting character of his interrogator.
“I can only say possibly connecting him in some way with it. Where does the man live?”
“He did live in Rosemary Court, but he left that, I think. I'll ask, if you please, Sir. Tompkins—hi! You know where Paul Davies puts up. Left Rosemary Court?”
“Yes, five weeks. He went to Gold Ring Alley, but he's left that a week ago, and I don't know where he is now, but will easy find him. Will it answer at eight this evening, Sir?”
“Quite. I want a servant of mine to have a sight of him,” said Longcluse.
“If you like, Sir, to leave your address and a stamp, we'll send you the information by post, and save you calling here.”
“Thanks, yes, I'll do that.”
So Mr. Longcluse took his leave, and proceeded to the place where the coroner was sitting. Mr. Longcluse was received in that place with distinction. The moneyed man was honoured—eyes were gravely fixed on him, and respectful whispers went about. A seat was procured for him; and his evidence, when he came to give it, was heard with marked attention, and a general hush of expectation.
The reader, with his permission, must now pass away, seaward, from this smoky London, for a few minutes, into a clear air, among the rustling foliage of ancient trees, and the fragrance of hay-fields, and the song of small birds.
On the London and Dover road stands, as you know, the “Royal Oak,” still displaying its ancient signboard, where you behold King Charles II sitting with laudable composure, and a crown of Dutch gold on his head, and displaying his finery through an embrasure in the foliage, with an ostentation somewhat inconsiderate, considering the proximity of the halberts of the military emissaries in search of him to the royal features. As you drive towards London, it shows at the left side of the road, a good old substantial inn and posting-house. Its business has dwindled to something very small indeed, for the traffic prefers the rail, and the once bustling line of road is now quiet. The sun had set, but a reflected glow from the sky was still over everything; and by this somewhat lurid light Mr. Truelock, the innkeeper, was observing from the steps the progress of a chaise, with four horses and two postilions, which was driving at a furious pace down the gentle declivity about a quarter of a mile away, from the Dover direction towards the “Royal Oak” and London.
“It's a runaway. Them horses has took head. What do you think, Thomas?” he asked of the old waiter who stood beside him.
“No. See, the post-boys is whipping the hosses. No, Sir, it's a gallop, but no runaway.”
“There's luggage a' top?” said the innkeeper.
“Yes, Sir, there's something,” answered Tom.
“I don't see nothing a-followin' them,” said Mr. Truelock, shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed.
“No—thereisnothing,” said Tom.
“They're in fear o' summat, or they'd never go at that lick,” observed Mr. Truelock, who was inwardly conjecturing the likelihood of their pulling up at his door.
“Lawk!therewas a jerk. Theywasnigh over at the finger-post turn,” said Tom, with a grin.
And now the vehicle and the reeking horses were near. The post-boys held up their whips by way of signal to the “Royal Oak” people on the steps, and pulled up the horses with all their force before the door. Trembling, snorting, rolling up wreaths of steam, the exhausted horses stood.
“See to the gentleman, will ye?” cried one of the postilions.
Mr. Truelock, with the old-fashioned politeness of the English innkeeper, had run down in person to the carriage door, which Tom had opened. Master and man were a little shocked to behold inside an old gentleman, with a very brown, or rather a very bilious visage, thin, and with a high nose, who looked, as he lay stiffly back in the corner of the carriage, enveloped in shawls, with a velvet cap on, as if he were either dead or in a fit. His eyes were half open, and nothing but the white balls partly visible. There was a little froth at his lips. His mouth and delicately-formed hands were clenched, and all the furrows and lines of a selfish face fixed, as it seemed, in the lock of death. John Truelock said not a word, but peered at this visitor with a horrible curiosity.
“If he's dead,” whispered Tom in his ear, “we don't take in no dead men here. Ye'll have the coroner and his jury in the house, and the place knocked up-side down; and if ye make five pounds one way ye'll lose ten the tother.”
“Ye'll have to take him on, I'm thinkin',” said Mr. Truelock, rousing himself, stepping back a little, and addressing the post-boys sturdily. “You've no business bringin' a deceased party to my house. You must go somewhere else, if so be heisdeceased.”
“He's not gone dead so quick as that,” said the postilion, dismounting from the near leader, and throwing the bridle to a boy who stood by, as he strutted round bandily to have a peep into the chaise. The postilion on the “wheeler” had turned himself about in the saddle in order to have a peep through the front window of the carriage. The innkeeper returned to the door.
If the old London and Dover road had been what it once was, there would have been a crowd about the carriage by this time. Except, however, two or three servants of the “RoyalOak,” who had come out to see, no one had yet joined the little group but the boy who was detained, bridle in hand, at the horse's head.
“He'll not be dead yet,” repeated the postilion dogmatically.
“What happened him?” asked Mr. Truelock.
“I don't know,” answered the post-boy.
“Then how can you say whether he be dead or no?” demanded the innkeeper.
“Fetch me a pint of half-and-half,” said the dismounted post-boy, aside, to one of the “Royal Oak” people at his elbow.
“We was just at this side of High Hixton,” said his brother in the saddle, “when he knocked at the window with his stick, and I got a cove to hold the bridle, and I came round to the window to him. He had scarce any voice in him, and looked awful bad, and he said he thought he was a-dying. ‘And how far on is the next inn?’ he asked; and I told him the ‘Royal Oak’ was two miles; and he said, ‘Drive like lightning, and I'll give you half a guinea a-piece’—I hope he's not gone dead—‘if you get there in time.’”
By this time their heads were in the carriage again.
“Do you notice a sort of a little jerk in his foot, just the least thing in the world?” inquired the landlord, who had sent for the doctor. “It will be a fit, after all. If he's living, we'll fetch him into the 'ouse.”
The doctor's house was just round the corner of the road, where the clump of elms stands, little more than a hundred yards from the sign of the “Royal Oak.”
“Who is he?” inquired Mr. Truelock.
“I don't know,” answered the postilion.
“What's his name?”
“Don't know that, neither.”
“Why, it'll be on that box, won't it?” urged the innkeeper, pointing to the roof, where a portmanteau with a glazed cover was secured.
“Nothing on that but ‘R. A.,’” answered the man, who had examined it half an hour before, with the same object.
“Royal Artillery, eh?”
While they were thus conjecturing, the doctor arrived. He stepped into the chaise, felt the old man's hand, tried his pulse, and finally applied the stethoscope.
“It is a nervous seizure. He is in a very exhausted state,” said the doctor, stepping out again, and addressing Truelock. “You must get him into bed, and don't let his head down; take off his handkerchief, and open his shirt-collar—do you mind? I had best arrange him myself.”
So the forlorn old man, without a servant, without a name, is carried from the chaise, possibly to die in an inn.
The Rev. Peter Sprott, the rector, passing that way a few minutes later, and hearing what had befallen, went up to the bed-room, where the old gentleman lay in a four-poster, still unconscious.
“Here's a case,” said the doctor to his clerical friend. “A nervous attack. He'd be all right in no time, but he's so low. I daresay he crossed the herring-pond to-day, and was ill; he's in such an exhausted state. I should not wonder if he sank; and here we are, without a clue to his name or people. No servant, no name on his trunk; and, certainly, it would be awkward if he died unrecognised, and without a word to apprise his relations.”
“Is there no letter in his pockets?”
“Not one,” Truelock says.
The rector happened to take up the great-coat of the old gentleman, in which he found a small breast pocket, that had been undiscovered till now, and in this a letter. The envelope was gone, but the letter, in a lady's hand began: “My dearest papa.”
“We are all right, by Jove, we're in luck!”
“How does she sign herself?” said the doctor.
“‘Alice Arden,’ and she dates from 8, Chester Terrace,” answered the clergyman.
“We'll telegraph forthwith,” said the doctor. “It had best be in your name—the clergyman, you know—to a young lady.”
So together they composed the telegram.
“Shall it beillsimply, ordangerouslyill?” inquired the clergyman.
“Dangerously,” said the doctor.
“Butdangerouslymay terrify her.”
“And if we say onlyill, she mayn't come at all,” said the doctor.
So the telegram was placed in Truelock's hands, who went himself with it to the office; and we shall follow it to its destination.
Threepeople were sitting in Lady May Penrose's drawing-room, in Chester Terrace, the windows of which, as all her ladyship's friends are aware, command one of the parks. They were looking westward, where the sky was all a-glow with the fantastic gold and crimson of sunset. It is quite a mistake to fancy that sunset, even in the heart of London—which this hardly could be termed—has no rural melancholy and poetic fascination in it. Should that hour by any accident overtake you, in the very centre of the city, looking, say, from an upper window, or any other elevation toward the western sky beyond stacks of chimneys, roofs, and steeples, even through the smoke of London, you will feel the melancholy and poetry of sunset, in spite of your surroundings.
A little silence had stolen over the party; and young Vivian Darnley, who stole a glance now and then at beautiful Alice Arden, whose large, dark, grey eyes were gazing listlessly towards the splendid mists, that were piled in the west, broke the silence by a remark that, without being very wise, or very new, was yet, he hoped, quite in accord with the looks of the girl, who seemed for a moment saddened.
“I wonder why it is that sunset, which is so beautiful, makes us all sad!”
“It never made me sad,” said good Lady May Penrose, comfortably. “There is, I think, something very pleasant in a good sunset; theremustbe, for all the little birds begin to sing in it—it must be cheerful. Don't you think so, Alice?”
Alice was, perhaps, thinking of something quite different, for rather listlessly, and without a change of features, she said, “Oh, yes, very.”
“So, Mr. Darnley, you may sing, ‘Oh, leave me to my sorrow!’ for we won't mope with you about the sky. It is a very odd taste, that for being dolorous and miserable. I don't understand it—I never could.”
Thus rebuked by Lady Penrose, and deserted by Alice, Darnley laughed and said—
“Well, I do seem rather to have put my foot in it—but I did not mean miserable, you know; I meant only that kind of thing that one feels when reading a bit of really good poetry—and most people do not think it a rather pleasant feeling.”
“Don't mind that moping creature, Alice; let us talk about something we can all understand. I heard a bit of news to-day—perhaps, Mr. Darnley, you can throw a light upon it. You are a distant relation, I think, of Mr. David Arden.”
“Some very remote cousinship, of which I am very proud,” answered the young man gaily, with a glance at Alice.
“And what is that—what about uncle David?” inquired the young lady, with animation.
“I heard it from my banker to-day. Your uncle, you know, dear, despises us and our doings, and lives, I understand, very quietly; I mean, he has chosen to live quite out of the world, so we have no chance of hearing anything except by accident, from people we are likely to know. Do you see much of your uncle, my dear?”
“Not a great deal; but I am very fond of him—he is such a good man, or at least, what is better,” she laughed, “he has always been so very kind to me.”
“You know him,Mr.Darnley?” inquired Lady May.
“By Jove, I do!”
“And like him?”
“No one on earth has better reason to like him,” answered the young man warmly—“he has been my best friend on earth.”
“It is pleasant to know two people who are not ashamed to be grateful,” said fat Lady May, with a smile.
The young lady returned her smile very kindly. I don't think you ever beheld a prettier creature than Alice Arden. Vivian Darnley had wasted many a secret hour in sketching that oval face. Those large, soft, grey eyes, and long dark lashes, how difficult they are to express! And the brilliant lips! Could art itself paint anything quite like her? Who could paint those beautiful dimples that made her smiles so soft, or express the little circlet of pearly teeth whose tips were just disclosed? Stealthily he was now, for the thousandth time, studying that bewitching smile again.
“And what is the story about Uncle David?” asked Alice again.
“Well, what will you say—and you, Mr. Darnley, if it should be a story about a young lady?”
“Do you mean that Uncle David is going to marry? I think it would be an awful pity!” exclaimed Alice.
“Well, dear, to put you out of pain, I'll tell you at once; I only know this—that he is going to provide for her somehow, but whether by adopting her as a child, or taking her for a wife, I can't tell. Only I never saw any one looking archer than Mr. Brounker did to-day when he told me; and I fancied from that it could not be so dull a business as merely making her his daughter.”
“And who is the young lady?” asked Alice.
“Did you ever happen to meet anywhere a Miss Grace Maubray?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Alice quickly. “She was staying, and her father, Colonel Maubray, at the Wymerings' last autumn. She's quite lovely, I think, and very clever—but I don't know—I think she's a little ill-natured, but very amusing. She seems to have a talent for cutting people up—and a little of that kind of thing, you know, is very well, but one does not care for italways. And is she really the young lady?”
“Yes, and——Dear me! Mr. Darnley, I'm afraid my story has alarmed you.”
“Why should it?” laughed Vivian Darnley, partly tocover,perhaps, a little confusion.
“I can't tell, I'm sure, but you blushed as much as a man can; and you know you did. I wonder, Alice, what this under-plot can be, where all is so romantic. Perhaps, after all, Mr. David Arden is to adopt the young lady, and some one else, to whom he is also kind, is to marry her. Don't you think that would be a very natural arrangement?”
Alice laughed, and Darnley laughed; but he was embarrassed.
“And Colonel Maubray, is he still living?” asked Alice.
“Oh, no, dear; he died ten or eleven months ago. A very foolish man, you know; he wasted a very good property. He was some distant relation, also; Mr. Brounker said your uncle, Mr. David Arden, was very much attached to him—they were schoolfellows, and great friends all their lives.”
“I should not wonder,” said Alice smiling—and then became silent.
“Do you know the young lady, this fortunate Miss Maubray?” said Lady May, turning to Vivian Darnley again.
“I? Yes—that is, I can't say more than a mere acquaintance—and not an old one. I made her acquaintance at Mr. Arden's house. He is her guardian. I don't know about any other arrangements. I daresay there may be.”
“Well, I know her a little, also,” said Lady May. “I thought her pretty—and she sings a little, and she's clever.”
“She's all that,” said Alice. “Oh, here comes Dick! What do you say, Richard—is not Miss Maubray very pretty? We are making a plot to marry her to Vivian Darnley, and get Uncle David to contribute herdot.”
“What benevolent people!Youdon't object, I dare say, Vivian.”
“I have not been consulted,” said he; “and, of course, Uncle David need not be consulted, as he has simply to transfer the proper quantity of stock.”
Richard Arden had drawn near Lady May, and said a few words in a low tone, which seemed not unwelcome to her.
“I saw Longcluse this morning. He has not been here, has he?” he added, as a little silence threatened the conversation.
“No, he has not turned up. And what a charming person he is!” exclaimed Lady May.
“I quite agree with you, Lady May,” said Arden. “He is, take him on every subject, I think, about the cleverest fellow I ever met—art, literature, games,chess, which I take to be a subject by itself. He is very great at chess—for an amateur, I mean—and when I was chess-mad, nearly a year ago and beginning to grow conceited, he opened my eyes, I can tell you; and Airly says he is the best musical critic in England, and can tell you at any hour who is who in the opera, all over Europe; and he really understands, what so few of us here know anything about, foreign politics, and all the people and their stories and scandals he has at his fingers' ends. And he is such good company, when he chooses, and such a gentleman always!”
“He is very agreeable and amusing when he takes the trouble; I always like to listen when Mr. Longcluse talks,” said Alice Arden, to the secret satisfaction of her brother, whose enthusiasm was, I think, directed a good deal to her—and to, perhaps, the vexation of other people, whom she did not care at that moment to please.
“An Admirable Crichton!” murmured Vivian Darnley, with a rather hackneyed sneer. “Do you like his style of—beauty, I suppose I should call it? It has the merit of being very uncommon, at least, don't you think?”
“Beauty, I think, matters very little. He has no beauty, but his face has what, in a man, I think a great deal better—I mean refinement, and cleverness, and a kind of satire that rather interests one,” said Miss Arden, with animation.
Sir Walter Scott, in his “Rob Roy”—thinking, no doubt, of the Diana Vernon of his early days, the then beautiful lady, long afterwards celebrated by Basil Hall as the old Countess Purgstorf (if I rightly remember the title), and recurring to somecherished incident, and the thrill of a pride that had ceased to agitate, but was at once pleasant and melancholy to remember—wrote these words: “She proceeded to read the first stanza, which was nearly to the following purpose. [Then follow the verses.] ‘There is a great deal of it,’ said she, glancing along the paper, and interrupting the sweetest sounds that mortal ears can drink in—those of a youthful poet's verses, namely, read by the lips which are dearest to them.” So writes Walter Scott. On the other hand, in certain states, is there a pain intenser than that of listening to the praises of another man from the lips we love?
“Well,” said Darnley, “as you say so, I suppose there is all that, though I can't see it. Of course, if he tries to make himself agreeable (which he never does to me), it makes a difference, it affects everything—it affects even his looks. But I should not have thought him good-looking. On the contrary, he appears to me about as ugly a fellow as one could see in a day.”
“He's not that,” said Alice. “No one could be ugly with so much animation and so much expression.”
“You take up the cudgels very prettily, my dear, for Mr. Longcluse,” said Lady May. “I'm sure he ought to be extremely obliged to you.”
“So he would be,” said Richard Arden. “It would upset him for a week, I have no doubt.”
There are few things harder to interpret than a blush. At these words the beautiful face of Alice Arden flushed, first with a faint, and then, as will happen, with a brighter crimson. If Lady May had seen it, she would have laughed, probably, and told her how much it became her. But she was, at that moment, going to her chair in the window, and Richard Arden would, of course, accompany her. He did see it, as distinctly as he saw the glow in the sky over the park trees. But, knowing what a slight matter will sometimes make a recoil, and even found an antipathy, he wisely chose to see it not—and chatting gaily, followed Lady May to the window.
But Vivian Darnley, though he said nothing, saw that blush, of which Alice, with a sort of haughty defiance, was conscious. It did not make him like or admire Mr. Longcluse more.
“Well, I suppose he is very charming—I don't know him well enough myself to give an opinion. But he makes his acquaintances rather oddly, doesn't he? I don't think any one will dispute that.”
“I don't know really. Lady May introduced him to me, and she seems to like him very much. So far as I can see, people are very well pleased at knowing him, and don't trouble their heads as to how it came about,” said Miss Arden.
“No, of course; but people not fortunate enough to comewithin the influence of his fascination, can't help observing. How did he come to know your brother, for instance? Did any one introduce him? Nothing of the kind. Richard's horse was hurt or lame at one of the hunts in Warwickshire, and he lent him a horse, and introduced himself, and they dined together that evening on the way back, and so the thing was done.”
“Can there be a better introduction than a kindness?” asked Alice.
“Yes, where itisa kindness, I agree; but no one has a right to push his services upon a stranger who does not ask for them.”
“I really can't see. Richard need not have taken his horse if he had not liked,” she answered.
“And Lady May, who thinks him such a paragon, knows no more about him than any one else. She had her footman behind her—didn't she tell you all about it?”
“I really don't recollect; but does it very much matter?”
“I think it does—that is, it has been a sort of system. He just gave her his arm over a crossing, where she had taken fright, and then pretended to think hera greatdeal more frightened than she really can have been, and made her sit down to recover in a confectioner's shop, and so saw her home, andthataffair was concluded. I don't say, of course, that he is never introduced in the regular way; but a year or two ago, when he was beginning, he always made his approaches by means of that kind of stratagem; and the fact is, no one knows anything on earth about him; he has emerged, like a figure in a phantasmagoria, from total darkness, and may lose himself in darkness again at any moment.”
“I am interested in that man, whoever he is; his entrance, and his probable exit, so nearly resemble mine,” said a clear, deep-toned voice close to them; and looking up, Miss Arden saw the pale face and peculiar smile of Mr. Longcluse in the fading twilight.
Mr. Longcluse was greeted by Lady May and by Richard Arden, and then again he drew near Alice, and said, “Do you recollect, Miss Arden, about ten days ago I told you a story that seemed to interest you—the story of a young and eloquent friar, who died of love in his cell in an abbey in the Tyrol, and whose ghost used to be seen pensively leaning on the pulpit from which he used to preach, too much thinking of the one beautiful face among his audience, which had enthralled him. I had left the enamel portrait I told you of at an artist's in Paris, and I wrote for it, thinking you might wish to see it—hoping you might care to see it,” he added, in a lower tone, observing that Vivian Darnley, who was not in a happy temper, had, with a suddenimpulse of disdain, removed himself to another window, there to contemplate the muster of the stars in the darkening sky, at his leisure.
“That was so kind of you, Mr. Longcluse! You have had a great deal of trouble. Itissuch an interesting story!” said Alice.
In his reception, Mr. Longcluse found something that pleased, almost elated him. Had Richard Arden been speaking to her on the subject of their morning's conversation? He thought not, Lady May had mentioned that he had not been with them till just twenty minutes ago, and Arden had told him that he had dined with his uncle David and Mr. Blount, upon the same business on which he had been occupied with both nearly all day. No, he could not have spoken to her. The slight change which made him so tumultuously proud and happy, was entirely spontaneous.
“So it seemed to me—an eccentric and interesting story—but pray do not wound me by speaking of trouble. I only wish you knew half the pleasure it has been to me to get it to show you. May I hold the lamp near for a moment while you look at it?” he said, indicating a tiny lamp which stood on a pier-table, showing a solitary gleam, like a lighthouse, through the gloom; “you could not possibly see it in this faint twilight.”
The lady assented. Had Mr. Longcluse ever felt happier?
Mr. Longcluseplaced the little oval enamel, set in gold, in Miss Arden's fingers, and held the lamp beside her while she looked.
“How beautiful!—how very interesting!” she exclaimed. “What suffering in those thin, handsome features! What a strange enthusiasm in those large hazel eyes! I could fancy that monk the maddest of lovers, the most chivalric of saints. And did he really suffer that incredible fate? Did he really die of love?”
“So they say. But why incredible? I can quite imagine that wild shipwreck, seeing what a raging sea love is, and how frail even the strongest life.”
“Well, I can't say, I am sure. But your own novelists laugh at the idea of any but women—whose business it is, of course, to pay that tribute to their superiors—dying of love. But if any man could die such a death, he must be such as this picture represents. What a wild, agonised picture of passion and asceticism! What suicidal devotion and melancholy rapture! I confess I could almost fall in love with that picture myself.”
“And I think, were I he, I could altogether die to earn one such sentence, so spoken,” said Mr. Longcluse.
“Could you lend it to me for a very few days?” asked the young lady.
“As many—as long as you please. I am only too happy.”
“I should so like to make a large drawing of this in chalks!” said Alice, still gazing on the miniature.
“You draw so beautifully in chalks! Your style is not often found here—your colouring is so fine.”
“Do you really think so?”
“You must know it, Miss Arden. You are too good an artist not to suspect what everyone else must see, the real excellence of your drawings. Your colouring is better understood in France. Your master, I fancy, was a Frenchman?” said Mr. Longcluse.
“Yes, he was, and we got on very well together. Some of his young lady pupils were very much afraid of him.”
“Your poetry is fired by that picture, Miss Arden. Your copy will be a finer thing than the original,” said he.
“I shall aim only at making it a faithful copy; and if I can accomplish anything like that, I shall be only too glad.”
“I hope you will allow me to see it?” pleaded Longcluse.
“Oh, certainly,” she laughed. “Only I'm a little afraid of you, Mr. Longcluse.”
“What can you mean, Miss Arden?”
“I mean, you are so good a critic in art, every one says, that I reallyamafraid of you,” answered the young lady, laughing.
“I should be very glad to forfeit any little knowledge I have, if it were attended with such a misfortune,” said Longcluse. “But I don't flatter; I tell you truly, a critic has only to admire, when he looks at your drawings; they are quite above the level of an amateur's work.”
“Well, whether you mean it or not, Iamvery much flattered,” she laughed. “And though wise people say that flattery spoils one, I can't help thinking it very agreeable to be flattered.”
At this point of the dialogue Mr. Vivian Darnley—who wished that it should be plain to all, and to one in particular, that he did not care the least what was going on in other parts of the room—began to stumble through the treble of a tune at the piano with his right hand. And whatever other people may have thought of his performance, to Miss Alice Arden it seemed very good music indeed, and inspired her with fresh animation. Such as it was, Mr. Darnley's solo also turned the course of Miss Arden's thoughts from drawing to another art, and she said—
“You, Mr. Longcluse, who know everything about the opera, can you tell me—of course you can—anything about the great basso who is coming?”
“Stentoroni?”
“Yes; the newspapers and critics promise wonders.”
“It is nearly two years since I heard him. He was very great, and deserves all they say in ‘Robert le Diable.’ But there his greatness began and ended. The voice, of course, you had, but everything else was defective. It is plain, however, that the man who could make so fine a study of one opera, could with equal labour make as great a success in others. He has not sung in any opera for more than a year and a half, and has been working diligently; and so everyone is in the darkvery much, and I am curious to hear the result—and nobody knows more than I have told you. You are sure of a good ‘Robert le Diable,’ but all the rest is speculation.”
“And now, Mr. Longcluse, I shall try your good-nature.”
“How?”
“I am going to make Lady May ask you to sing a song.”
“Pray don't.”
“Why not?”
“I should so much rather you asked me yourself.”
“That's very good of you; then I certainly shall. Idoask you.”
“And I instantly obey. And what shall the song be?” asked he, approaching the piano, to which she also walked.
“Oh, that ghostly one that I liked so much when you sang it here about a week ago,” she answered.
“I know it—yes, with pleasure.” And he sat down at the piano, and in a clear, rich baritone, sang the following odd song:—