A FEW WORDS IN THE HALL.
AS they drove homeward Miss Gray was silent, but her thoughts were happier. There was even a little excitement that was pleasant. Did this heroic looking young man interest her independently of all theories about the nameless letter or the diamond locket, about which her conjectures grew more and more confused?
Here she was, sitting, in his carriage, a very nice one — pretty, elegant even — and utterly in the dark as to who or what he was — longing to know — with nothing but a moveable sheet of glass between her and the coachman, who could relate everything about him, and, yet, still in the dark, without a conjecture as to how she was ever to learn more than the generalities she had collected from Ardenbroke.
At last she said to Mrs. Wardell —
“Did you remark the young man who was so kind about lending us his carriage; I mean, did you recognise him as the same who sat with an ugly old man at the opera, nearly opposite to us?”
“Yes, to be sure; I could not recollect it was the very person.”
“I’ve been wondering who he is; he’s a friend of Ardenbroke’s; but Ardenbroke would not tell me who he is, and we must make it all out; you are to manage that, mind, when we get home; you can see the servant and ask him whether our horse was much hurt, or anything you please, only you must learn the name of his master.”
“Very good, my dear.; suppose you tell Mrs. Rumble to get him some supper, and to make out everything while he is eating it; and I can call him into the dining-room first, so that you shall have time to give Rumble her instructions.”
This little plot was hardly completed when they reached the gate of Guildford House. It was thrown open. The carriage lamps flashed on the knotted trunks of the old elms, as they flew by, and with a sudden sweep they drew up at the steps.
The plan, so artfully contrived, however, broke down before it was so much as set in motion; for the door was again opened by the handsome young man who owned the carriage. He assisted the ladies, in turn, to alight, and Miss Gray with only a little bow, and “We are very much obliged,” ran up the steps, and disappeared, leaving Mrs. Wardell to deal with the stranger.
“Wont you come in? pray do,” said the old lady.
This handsome cavalier might have assumed this invitation to mean precisely so much as similar hospitalities so offered, do mean, and no more. Even Mrs. Wardell, curious as she had become — and what passion is more unscrupulous than curiosity? — was at her wit’s end to find a decent pretext for urging him to come into the house at such an hour, had he hesitated.
But this difficulty did not occur, for he instantly availed himself of her invitation.
He followed her into the hall, and said, “I could not deny myself the honour of coming in, just to receive from your own lips the assurance that you and your young friend were not hurt.”
“Hurt! well I do hope not injured, but shaken — shaken a good deal, and — and our nerves — you can understand — but no serious injury.”
“I’m so happy to hear you say so; and would it be very impertinent to ask leave to call to inquire to-morrow? My name is Dacre; your servant mentioned that the young lady is Miss Gray, of Gray Forest. I knew, at one time, some of her relations, and I shall do myself the honour to call.”
And thus speaking, with a bow that was graceful, as well as stately and grave, he took his leave; and in another minute was driving rapidly in the direction from which he had come.
“He’s coming to-morrow,” said Mrs. Wardell, who repaired forthwith to Laura Gray’s room, very purple, and very much out of breath, “and his name is Dacre; and I think him one of the very most agreeable and elegant young men I ever saw; and he knew some of your people long ago, and he was so kind, and anxious, and attentive.”
“Oh! coming here? How odd! And why is he coming here?” asked Laura, very gravely.
“To inquire — to ask how we are; he couldn’t well do less, he’s so polite!”
“Dacre — I think I recollect the name, but I’m not sure. Well, he’ll call; do you intend seeing him?”
“I see no reason why I shouldn’t, merely to tell him how we are,” answered Mrs. Wardell.
“No, there’s no reason,” acquiesced Laura Gray, slowly; “did he come into the house?”
“Yes; just to the hall, but merely to inquire, and ask leave to call to-morrow, which, of course, I could not refuse; but it may be merely a call at the hall door, you know.”
“Very likely. Dacre? Do you remember the name among friends or acquaintance of ours?”
“He only said that he once knew relations of yours. No; I can’t say I do,” answered Mrs. Wardell.
Laura Gray was sitting before her glass, in her dressing-gown, with her line hair loose about her shoulders. She leaned back in her chair.
“You’ll take a little tea, wont you? I should like some. Get tea, Noel.”
And her maid glided away.
“Dacre?” repeated Laura, thinking. “I saw him, I told you, at the opera; but distance, you know — and — I don’t know how it is, but people do look different in such places. Did he look like a singer, or an actor, when you saw him near — in the house?”
“Not at all; he looked just like anyone else, only very handsome, and distinguished,” answered the old lady.
“And what of his manners?”
“Perfect,” said Mrs. Wardell, decisively.
“He seems to have made a very agreeable impression,” said Laura, smiling, and relapsed into thought. “Dacre, I cannot recall it; yet I feel as if I ought to remember it. And what hour is he to call?”
“He did not say; and if he asks to come in I don’t see why I shouldn’t see him,” said Mrs. Wardell.
“Ardenbroke will be here to-morrow, I’m certain. What fun if he and Mr. Dacre happened to meet here after all their mystery to-night,” said Miss Gray.
So they continued to chat together till it was time to say good night, and old Mrs. Wardell went away.
Then Laura Gray, having also despatched her maid, unlocked her desk, and took out the mysterious letter and the diamond locket.
Just as that glimmering circle flashed suddenly and steadily on her eye, had the conviction gleamed on her mind that the person whom she saw that night in the box with that long-headed old man, was the author of the letter which she now scanned with an excited interest. As she read, the image of the young man, as he appeared for a moment before her, when her glass had lighted upon him unawares — was before her handsome, sinister, watching. As she read, still she saw that faint, stern smile, that seemed to imply a mutual understanding — shadowed unpleasantly before her.
And now, what did her evidence amount to? Simply to this smile and this intuition. A case of shadows. And yet this intuition continued, and the smile abated not. A painful impression — a persistent phantom — that followed her to her bed — and showed still through the filmy curtain of her eyelid.