COLLOQUY.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Parker, whose curiosity was excited; “but may I ask, am I acquainted with you, or have I ever been?”
“Yes, sir, you once were, and I hope to restore myself to your recollection when we reach that lamp; but I have one stipulation to make.”
“Very good, sir,” said the clergyman.
“And that is, that you don’t utter my name,” said the person who walked by his side.
“Not to mention your name?” repeated Mr. Parker.
The stranger stopped short.
“No, not to utter it, now or after. If you promise this as a Christian man, I’ll go on; but if you hesitate, I turn about and you see me no more.”
“Sir, I do make you the promise; I think you have a perfect right to exact it; and pray what is your name?”
“I don’t mean to mention it.”
“Are you, sir — are you a Mr. Dacre?” asked Mr. Parker, again hesitating, and speaking in a very low tone, but with a species of excitement.
“I’ll first try whether you recognise me, please; I don’t want to say my name, if it is to be avoided, for stone walls have ears; and observe, I hold you strictly to your promise.”
“Of course. I only meant to ask, are you related to Mr. Alfred Dacre, son of Mr. Dacre, of Chezledon?”
“We shall have light enough, in one minute more, to answer your question without speaking, if you will only have the goodness to walk on.”
“If you were to raise your voice ever so little I think I should guess,” said Mr. Parker, still hesitating. “It isn’t curiosity, sir, it is that there were some unpleasant things; and, in fact, I should prefer, if any meeting is to take place between any member of that family and me, that it should not occur in this way. It should be, sir, for very many reasons, a little more formally.”
“At the lamp at that angle, sir, we can see in both directions and all around. I have only a few words to say, but I should like to see that no one else is near; and as to meeting more formally, as you say, I don’t think I shall mind it.”
“I said, sir, what was in my mind. I think, if there is anything to talk over, it had better be in my house, or anywhere else, where a quiet interview may take place. But I am speaking hypothetically, and in any case, rather than part with you as you alternatively propose, you can of course talk to me here, or where you please.”
He had by this time come close to the lamp which he had already indicated as their halting place. It stood where the dead wall, overtopped by trees, under the foliage of which they had been walking, made a slight bend, affording a clear view up and down the narrow road, and shedding light enough to prevent a surprise by either approach.
“Don’t mind naming me, Mr. Parker; but it does seem odd you don’t know me. Now, sir, look — here I am.”
He let his cloak fall backward a little upon his shoulders, and raised his hat. It was Alfred Dacre who stood before him, smiling. He even laughed gently, as Mr. Parker stepped a little tremulously back with a stare and gape of dumb astonishment.
He drew nearer to the amazed old gentleman, and laying his hand softly to his breast, he said, still smiling, but in a very low tone —
“Don’t say my name — pray don’t — remember you promised; and now I’ll tell you something of my plans, if you allow me.”
“My gracious! — Good heavens! — I can scarcely believe my eyes — I am bewildered, sir,” said the old man.
“We need not stand here, you know,” said Dacre. “It was only for the discovery, and let us walk on. I’ve learned this, that people are sometimes watched when they don’t suspect it.”
“Then it was you, sir,” began Mr. Parker deliberately, “was it, who sent in— “
“Just now, to tell you that a sick parishioner wanted you. Yes; and sick enough, just now, in head and heart I am, Mr. Parker, and actually lodging in your parish. Could I have more exactly said the truth?” said Dacre.
“Well, sir, I certainly never in all my life was half so much amazed,” repeated Mr. Parker, taking breath.
“Don’t — don’t, pray, allude to anything,” said Dacre, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “I may be led into trouble if you talk. Let us turn back and walk a little the other way. Thanks.”
“I’m afraid, sir, I ought to be on my way home. Could not I see you early tomorrow?” asked the old clergyman.
“You ought? Why you are on your way home. You’ll lose twenty minutes, perhaps, waiting for a ‘bus, and not be set down after all near your own house. Now, I’m going to set you down at your own door in my brougham, and all that will save twice as much time as I shall detain you.”
“Well, sir, yes — if it doesn’t put you out of your way. I shall be very much obliged.”
Dacre smiled as he told him how happy he should be, for in the old man’s face was still the wild and amazed look of a man just startled by an alarm from his sleep.
“You were at Guildford House, Mr. Parker? I had an antipathy to some people there — not unnatural — but I’ve changed my mind. Miss Gray, in whom you take an interest, I have saved from the greatest danger she ever was, or ever will be, in. No matter what or how. I’ll explain another time — perhaps. A circle of fraud has been drawn round that young lady; but I am master of the charm — it shan’t prevail; it can’t unless I choose. But I go my own way about it, and you must keep faith with me; nothing must be known of me at Guildford House, except what they already know. There I am Mr. Alfred Dacre, and as to all the rest they are, and must remain, in utter darkness till I enlighten them. Do you return there tonight? No, I forgot.”
“No, sir, no. I’ve rather outstaid my time,” said he.
“Yes, it can’t happen to-night; but it may in a day or two. Remember, I’ve a hard card to play. I have three of the most suspicious villains in London watching me; and when you meet me at Guildford House, if it should happen, remember I am its guardian angel, and you betray me to my worst enemies if you divulge one syllable of my story.”
“But, sir, I can’t be accessory to anything at all of the nature of a deception,” said Mr. Parker, a little shocked.
“I ask only silence,” said his companion. “That is always understood where one honourable man places another in possession of his secret. I don’t think that either honour or religion imposes upon the confidant the perfidy of divulging it.”
“Sir, I only say — peremptorily — that anything indirect, though never so little, I will have neither act nor part in,” said Mr. Parker, resolutely.
“Well, then, this you may promise — they know perfectly that you know me, for I told them so; they are aware that Ardenbroke — Lord Ardenbroke, you know — knows me also. He gave me a promise not to mention anything more than I had told them myself, -and he has kept his word. I don’t think it too much to expect from you, who are not, as he is, a relation, to observe the same reticence about that which in no respect concerns you?” said Mr. Dacre, petulantly.
“I shall volunteer no information, sir,” said Mr. Parker. “But I think I ought not to have been placed in this situation.”
“And if questions should be put to you, you will say, as Ardenbroke did, that you are under promise to mention nothing about me — that’s fair,” insisted Mr. Dacre.
“Yes, sir — that I may say, and I will,” said the clergyman.
“Very well, sir. And now, Mr. Parker, one other kindness. I shall go back to Guildford House to-night, as I find you are positively not returning; but I should not care to meet you there, and simply for this reason, that I should not like to trust too much to anyone’s presence of mind; people, you know, can’t be always thinking of one thing, and always on their guard; and it would be very unpleasant to me, and I fancy not very pleasant to you. So, as I never go there till about this hour, could you manage to make your visits earlier; and if they want you to dine or drink tea there, you can say, ‘I have no objection in the world,’ but that there would be an awkwardness in your meeting me — only don’t, of course, put it in a way that would make them fancy me a person whom you would not associate with; it is very easy to say that there is a circumstance — reflecting no discredit — which yet would make our meeting embarrassing,” said Dacre. “Can’t you say that?”
“Yes, I may; I’m sure I can say that,” answered Mr. Parker.
“And I’m going to tell you more: I have no one to speak to but you, and I must tell it. Let us turn again here, and walk towards my trap — I mean, my brougham. I promise it shan’t keep you longer than five minutes; and I should die if I had no one to talk to.”
“Five minutes, sir: but it really mustn’t exceed that,” said Mr. Parker.
So, walking side by side, his companion in a low tone addressed him.