A KNOCKING AT THE DOOR.
WHEN Charles Mannering reached his rooms at the Temple, it was nearly three o’clock. In his letter-box was a note in that pretty, but not unmanly hand which Miss Laura Gray had seen and admired also. “A. D.” in the corner of the envelope indicated the writer, who said –
“DEAR MR MANNERING, — Thank you so much, for your note, which has just reached me. I am at this moment so engaged — I fancy upon the subject of your message — that it is out of my power to name an hour for a meeting. Sometime to-day, however, I certainly shall call at your rooms, in the Temple, on the chance of finding you there.
Believe me, yours very truly,
“ALFRED DACRE.”
“If he thinks I’m going to wait here all day for him, he flatters himself,” said Charles, throwing the note on the table. “That sort of fellow gets so spoiled by women — they are such fools — that they think they may do as they please with us.”
And he laughed scornfully, and took his hat and umbrella and walked down the stairs again, and went off to his club.
It was all done in a spirit of defiance to this admirable Mr. Dacre, who assumed that Charles Mannering would wait for him, and was to learn that he was to wait on Charles Mannering.
He did not go again to his rooms till eight o’clock, although, if the truth were confessed, he was a little curious, and would have liked very well to hear what Dacre had to say, if only he could have managed to snub him a little at the same time.
Up the silent stairs, and into his lonely room, by his latch-key, went he. The papers he expected were on his table, some letters also, but no note in the hand with which he was now acquainted, with “A. D.” in the corner of the envelope.
So he had called, and tried to get in, and was, no doubt, surprised to discover that Charles Mannering had taken such a liberty as to go out, without having made provision for his reception.
Charles smiled faintly with a grim satisfaction as he pictured to himself the incredulous mortification of this conceited young gentleman, when he found himself obliged to turn about on the lobby, and go downstairs as he came up.
So he sat down in his easy-chair, with his candles, and not till an hour later was startled from the study of his papers, in which he was now deep, by a knocking at his door.
On opening it he saw, standing in the moonlight admitted by the lobby window, a gentleman in a loose coat and a felt hat, whom he had no difficulty in recognising as Mr. Dacre.
Oh, Mr. Mannering!” he said, raising his hat, and his handsome features smiling in the moonlight, looked as if they were fashioned of ivory.
“Pray come in. I hope you did not call while I was out? I should have waited here, but business compelled me to go out for a time,” said Charles Mannering, surprised into politeness and I fear a momentary disregard of truth.
“Thank you. No, I did not call — in fact I could not — until now. So fortunate to have met you.”
As he now stood, in the light of the room, face to face, Charles Mannering confessed to himself, with a twinge of chagrin, what a very handsome fellow Dacre unquestionably was.
“You were so good as to say you would give me some information when we met,” said Dacre after they had talked a little. “The subject of course is — — “
“The anonymous correspondence with which Miss Gray has been so shamefully annoyed. It’s a mere burlesque, but it is not less an annoyance.” And he went on to recount all that Miss Gray had related, and particularly the threat of sending her Mr. Dacre’s hand, at which Charles laughed heartily, and the handsome Mr. Dacre laughed also, but not so comfortably, looking at his slender hand and wrist, which he moved under his eye, as if measuring in his mind whereabouts the line of amputation would be traced.
“Very laughable, but very curious; I’ll tell you how just now,” said he. “But I hope, so much Miss Gray does not mind it.”
“The whole thing worries and frightens her. I don’t think she believes all that; but she is nervous and uncomfortable.”
“It can’t be otherwise,” said Dacre; “and I’m afraid she suffers even more than she need.”
“I’m thinking of applying to the police about it,” said Charles Mannering.
Dacre shrugged —
“I can’t help it if you do; but the whole thing falls through-mind, I tell you that, and I know more about it than I did yesterday. It would be the greatest pity in life to let those miscreants off.”
“You seem to think rather seriously of it,” said Charles.
“I have reason,” said Dacre, with a faint smile. “You are advising Miss Gray in this miserable business?” he asked gently but suddenly.
“I can hardly say advising, because it seems to me that for the present she has made up her mind to do nothing. I undertook her little message to you, in Lord Ardenbroke’s absence — as a friend of yours he would have naturally undertaken it.”
“He is out of town, then?”
“Yes — likely to remain away for some weeks,” said Charles Mannering.
“Yes; Ardenbroke and I were very intimate long ago. He knows everything about, me. We Dacres are a scattered family. You are aware that this little visit of mine to London is made under peculiar circumstances. I’m under a condition which embarrasses me extremely. I undertook it entirely to oblige other people; but it prevents my putting myself in the way of recognition. My little mission — a labour of love — would be spoiled entirely if I declared myself, As it has turned out, I am sorry I accepted the condition. If I were in a position to avow myself, I would act with infinitely more decision — infinitely; but without what would now amount to cruelty to, others — a terrible disappointment in fact, and something amounting, after all the trouble I’ve submitted to, and the condition of reserve, to ridicule, as respects myself — I hope in a week, certainly in a fortnight, it will be at an end, and then you will quite understand; you will see clearly how I was circumstanced. No one was ever by nature so little qualified to maintain a mystery, and I assure you it is the most irksome thing I ever undertook. I did not think it would have lasted a week altogether, and I find myself already a fortnight under my incognito, and likely to continue so for as much longer. If I were relieved of it, I could be of very great and immediate use.”
“It’s a great pity you can’t,” said Charles.
“Yes,” said Dacre, “but apart from cruelty, to declare myself at this moment would make me ridiculous, and of course I could not think of doing it — Honour — yes, honour — God bless it — we all respect and wish it well; but honour, as you’ll see in a few days, has nothing to do with this question of ‘reserve or no reserve;’ to declare myself has nothing to do with honour, but it would have a very distinct connexion with absurdity, and that fantastic spirit, ridicule, is the scourge of mankind. There are degrees, you know. Honour stands high; we sacrifice our lives to honour, but honour sometimes to fortune, and fortune itself at times to ridicule. Ridicule, therefore, sits supreme: no thunder so stunning as its titter, no tropical lightning like the half-hidden gleam of its eye, no crashing hurricane like its whisper. You’ve found it so, and so did I, and so does all the world. Pray forgive my interruption — talking nonsense while weighty matters call you away — — “ he glanced at the papers on the table, “so, with many apologies, I’ll say good-night.”
With a smile he was about to turn to the door, but Charles Mannering interposed —
“Pray, one word more. You used the phrase curious; you said that this affair was very curious, you recollect, and you were good enough to say you would tell me how by-and-by.”
“Oh? a little curious naturally yourself.”
Mr. Dacre smiled, and returned a step or two to the table.