Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 290
How many consultations he had had with the waiter upon the arrival of trains due at various hours, and how often the injunction had been repeated to see that no mistake occurred about the private room he had ordered; and how reiterated the order that any gentleman inquiring for General Lennox should be shown at once into his presence, the patient waiter with the bilious complexion could tell.
As the time drew near, the General having again conferred with the waiter, conversed with the porter, and even talked a little with Boots — withdrew to his small square sitting-room and pair of candles upstairs, and awaited the arrival of Monsieur Varbarriere, with his back to the fire, in a state of extreme fidget.
That gentleman’s voice he soon heard upon the passage, and the creaking of his heavy tread; and he felt as he used, when a young soldier, on going into action.
The General stepped forward. The waiter announced a gentleman who wished to see him; and Varbarriere’s dark visage and mufflers, and sable mantle loomed behind; his felt hat in his hand, and his wavy cone of grizzled hair was bowing solemnly.
“Glad you’re come — how d’ye do?” and Varbarriere’s fat brown hand was seized by the General’s pink and knotted fingers in a very cold and damp grasp. “Come in and sit down, sir. What will you take? — tea, or dinner, or what?”
“Very much obliged. I have ordered something, by-and-by, to my room — thank you very much. I thought, however, that you might possibly wish to see me immediately, and so I am here, at all events, as you soldiers say, to report myself,” said Varbarriere, with his unctuous politeness.
“Yes, it is better, I’d rather have it now,” answered the General in a less polite and more literal way. “A chair, sir;” and he placed one before the fire, which he poked into a blaze. “I — I hope you are not fatigued,” — here the door shut, and the waiter was gone; “and I want to hear, sir, if you please, the — the meaning of the letter you favoured me with.”
The General by this time had it in his hand open, and tendered it, I suppose for identification, to M. Varbarriere, who, however, politely waved it back.
“I quite felt the responsibility I took upon myself when I wrote as I did. That responsibility of course I accept; and I have come all this way, sir, for no other purpose than to justify my expressions, and to invite you to bring them to the test.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you,” said the General.
Varbarriere had felt a momentary qualm about this particular branch of the business which he had cut out for himself. When he wrote to General Lennox he was morally certain of the existence of a secret passage into that green room, and also of the relations which he had for some time suspected between Sir Jekyl and his fair guest. On the whole it was not a bad coup to provide, by means of the old General’s jealousy, such literal proof as he still required of the concealed entrance, through which so much villany had been accomplished — and so his letter — and now its consequences — about which it was too late to think.
General Lennox, standing by the table, with one candle on the chimneypiece and his glasses to his eyes, read aloud, with some little stumbling, these words from the letter of Monsieur Varbarriere: —
“The reason of my so doing will be obvious when I say that I have certain circumstances to lay before you which nearly affect your honour. I decline making any detailed statement by letter; nor will I explain my meaning at Marlowe Manor. But if, without fracas, you will give me a private meeting, at any place between this and London, I will make it my business to see you, when I shall satisfy you that I have not made this request without the gravest reasons.”
“Those are the passages, sir, on which you are so good as to offer me an explanation; and first, there’s the phrase, you know, ‘certain circumstances to lay before you which nearly affect your honour;’ that’s a word, you know, sir, that a fellow feels in a way — in a way that can’t be triffled with.”
“Certainly. Put your question, General Lennox, how you please,” answered Varbarriere, with a grave bow.
“Well, how — how — exactly — I’ll — I will put my question. I’d like to know, sir, in what relation — in — yes — in what relation, as a soldier, sir, or as a gentleman, sir, or as — what?”
“I am very much concerned to say, sir, that it is in the very nearest and most sacred interest, sir — as a husband.”
General Lennox had sat down by this time, and was gazing with a frank stern stare full into the dark countenance of his visitor; and in reply he made two short little nods, clearing his voice, and lowering his eyes to the table.
It was a very trifling way of taking it. But Varbarriere saw his face flush fiercely up to the very roots of his silver hair, and he fancied he could see the vessels throbbing in his temples.
“I — very good, sir — thank you,” said the General, looking up fiercely and shaking his ears, but speaking in a calm tone.
“Go on, pray — let me know — I say — in God’s name, don’t keep me.”
“Now, sir, I’ll tell it to you briefly — I’ll afterwards go into whatever proof you desire. I have reason, I deeply regret it, to believe — in fact to know — that an immoral intimacy exists between Sir Jekyl Marlowe and Lady Jane Lennox.”
“It’s a lie, sir!” screamed the General— “a damned lie, sir — a damned lie, sir — a damned lie, sir.”
His gouty claw was advanced trembling as if to clutch the muffler that was folded about Monsieur Varbarriere’s throat, but he dropped back in his seat again shaking, and ran his fingers through his white hair several times. There was a silence which even M. Varbarriere did not like.
Varbarriere was not the least offended at his violence. He knew quite well that the General did not understand what he said, or mean, or remember it — that it was only the wild protest of agony. For the first time he felt a compunction about that old foozle, who had hitherto somehow counted for nothing in the game he was playing, and he saw him, years after, as he had shrieked at him that night, with his claw stretched towards his throat, ludicrous, and also terrible.
“My God! sir,” cried the old man, with a quaver that sounded like a laugh, “do you tell me so?”
“It’s true, sir,” said Varbarriere.
“Now, sir, I’ll not interrupt you — tell all, pray — hide nothing,” said the General.
“I was, sir, accidentally witness to a conversation which is capable of no other interpretation; and I have legal proof of the existence of a secret door, connecting the apartment which has been assigned to you, at Marlowe, with Sir Jekyl’s room.”
“The damned villain! What a fool,” and then very fiercely he suddenly added, “You can prove all this, sir? I hope you can.”
“All this, and more, sir. I suspect, sir, there will hardly be an attempt to deny it.”
“Oh, sir, it’s terrible; but I was such a fool. I had no business — I deserve it all. Who’d have imagined such villains? But, d —— me, sir, I can’t believe it.”
There was a tone of anguish in the old man’s voice which made even his grotesque and feeble talk terrible.
“I say there can’t be such devils on earth;” and then he broke into an incoherent story of all his trust and love, and all that Jane owed him, and of her nature which was frank and generous, and how she never hid a thought from him — open as heaven, sir. What business was it of his, d —— him! What did he mean by trying to set a man against his wife? No one but a scoundrel ever did it.
Varbarriere stood erect.
“You may submit how you like, sir, to your fate; but you shan’t insult me, sir, without answering it. My note left it optional to you to exact my information or to remain in the darkness, which it seems you prefer. If you wish it, I’ll make my bow — it’s nothing to me, but two can play at that game. I’ve fought perhaps oftener than you, and you shan’t bully me.”
“I suppose you’re right, sir — don’t go, pray — I think I’m half mad, sir,” said General Lennox, despairingly.
“Sir, I make allowance — I forgive your language, but if you want to talk to me, it must be with proper respect. I’m as good a gentleman as you; my statement is, of course, strictly true, and if you please you can test it.”
* * *
CHAPTER IX.
Guy Deverell at Slowton.
“Come, sir, I have a right to know it — have you not an object in fooling me?” said General Lennox, relapsing all on a sudden into his ferocious vein.
“In telling you the truth, sir, I have an object, perhaps — but seeing that it is the truth, and concerns you so nearly, you need not trouble yourself about my object,” answered Varbarriere, with more self-command than was to have been expected.
“I will test it, sir. I will try you,” said the General, sternly. “By —— I’ll sift it to the bottom.”
“So you ought, sir; that’s what I mean to help you to,” said Varbarriere.
“How, sir? — say how, and by Heaven, sir, I’ll shoot him like a dog.”
“The way to do it I’ve considered. I shall place you probably in possession of such proof as will thoroughly convince you.”
“Thank you, sir, go on.”
“I shall be at Marlowe tomorrow — you must arrive late — on no account earlier than halfpast twelve. I will arrange to have you admitted by the glass door — through the conservatory. Don’t bring your vehicle beyond the bridge, and leave your luggage at the Marlowe Arms. The object, sir, is this,” said Varbarriere, with deliberate emphasis, observing that the General’s grim countenance did not look as apprehensive as he wished, “that your arrival shall be unsuspected. No one must know anything of it except myself and another, until you shall have reached your room. Do you see?”
“Thanks, sir — yes,” answered the General, looking as unsatisfactorily as before.
“There are two recesses with shelves — one to the right, the other to the left of the bed’s head as you look from the door. The secret entrance I have mentioned lies through that at the right. You must not permit any alarm which may be intended to reach Sir Jekyl. Secure the door, and do you sit up and watch. There’s a way of securing the secret door from the inside — which I’ll explain — that would prevent his entrance — don’t allow it. The whole — pardon me, sir — intrigue will in that case be disclosed without the possibility of a prevarication. You have followed me, I hope, distinctly.”
“I — I’m a little flurried, I believe, sir; I have to apologise. I’ll ask you, by-and-by, to repeat it. I think I should like to be alone, sir. She wrote me a letter, sir — I wish I had died when I got it.”
When Varbarriere looked at him, he saw that the old East Indian was crying.
“Sir, I grieve with you,” said Varbarriere, funereally. “You can command my presence whenever you please to send for me. I shall remain in this house. It will be absolutely necessary, of course, that you should see me again.”
“Thank you, sir. I know — I’m sure you mean kindly — but God only knows all it is.”
He had shaken his hand very affectionately, without any meaning — without knowing that he had done so.
Varbarriere said —
“Don’t give way, sir, too much. If there is this sort of misfortune, it is much better discovered — much better. You’ll think so just now. You’ll view it quite differently in the morning. Call for me the moment you want me — farewell, sir.”
So Varbarriere was conducted to his bedroom, and made, beside his toilet, conscientious inquiries about his late dinner, which was in an advanced state of preparation; and when he went down to partake of it, he had wonderfully recovered the interview with General Lennox. Notwithstanding, however, he drank two glasses of sherry, contrary to gastronomic laws, before beginning. Then, however, he made, even for him, a very good dinner.
He could not help wondering what a prodigious fuss the poor old fogey made about this little affair. He could not enter the least into his state of mind. She was a fine woman, no doubt; but there were others — no stint — and he had been married quite long enough to sober and acquire an appetite for liberty.
What was the matter with the old fellow? But that it was insufferably comical, he could almost find it in his heart to pity him.
Once or twice as he smoked his cigar he could not forbear shaking with laughter, the old Philander’s pathetics struck him so sardonically.
I really think the state of that old gentleman, who certainly had attained to years of philosophy, was rather serious. That is, I dare say that a competent medical man with his case under observation at that moment would have pronounced him on the verge either of a fit or of insanity.
When Varbarriere had left the room, General Lennox threw himself on the red damask sofa, which smelled powerfully of yesterday’s swell bagman’s tobacco, never perceiving that stale fragrance, nor the thinness of the cushion which made the ribs and vertebræ of the couch unpleasantly perceptible beneath. Then, with his knees doubled up, and the “Times” newspaper over his face, he wept, and moaned, and uttered such plaintive and hideous maunderings as would do nobody good to hear of.
A variety of wise impulses visited him. One was to start instantaneously for Marlowe and fight Sir Jekyl that night by candlelight; another, to write to his wife for the last time as his wife — an eternal farewell — which perhaps would have been highly absurd, and affecting at the same time.
About two hours after Varbarriere’s departure for dinner, he sent for that gentleman, and they had another, a longer, and a more collected interview — if not a happier one.
The result was, that Varbarriere’s advice prevailed, as one might easily foresee, having a patient so utterly incompetent to advise himself.
The attorney, having shaken hands with Monsieur Varbarriere, and watched from the platform the gradual disappearance of the train that carried him from the purlieus of Slowton, with an expression of face plaintive as that with which Dido on the wild sea banks beheld the receding galleys of Æneas, loitered back again dolorously to the hostelry.
He arrived at the door exactly in time to witness the descent of Guy Deverell from his chaise. I think he would have preferred not meeting him, it would have saved him a few boring questions; but it was by no means a case for concealing himself. He therefore met him with a melancholy frankness on the steps.
The young man recognised him.
“Mr. Rumsey? — How do you do? Is my uncle here?”
“He left by the last train. I hope I see you well, sir.”
“Gone? and where to?”
“He did not tell me.” That was true, but the attorney had seen his valise labelled “Chester” by his direction. “He went by the London train, but he said he would be back tomorrow. Can I do anything? Your arrival was not expected.”
“Thank you. I think not. It was just a word with my uncle I wished. You say he will be here again in the morning?”
“Yes, so he said. I’m waiting to see him.”
“Then I can’t fail to meet him if I remain.” The attorney perceived, with his weatherwise experience, the traces of recent storm, both in the countenance and the manner of this young man, whose restiveness just now might be troublesome.
“Unless your business is urgent, I think — if you’ll excuse me — you had better return to Marlowe,” remarked the attorney. “You’ll find it more comfortable quarters, a good deal, and your uncle will be very much hurried while here, and means to return to Marlowe tomorrow evening.”
“But I shan’t. I don’t mean to return; in fact, I wish to speak to him here. I’ve delayed you on the steps, sir, very rudely; the wind is cold.”
So he bowed, and they entered together, and the attorney, whose curiosity was now a little piqued, found he could make nothing of him, and rather disliked him; his reserve was hardly fair in so very young a person, and practised by one who had not yet won his spurs against so redoubted a champion as the knight of the rueful countenance.
Next morning, as M. Varbarriere had predicted, General Lennox, although sleep had certainly had little to do with the change, was quite a different man in some respects — in no wise happier, but much more collected; and now he promptly apprehended and retained Monsieur Varbarriere’s plan, which it was agreed was to be executed that night.
More than once Varbarriere’s compunctions revisited him as he sped onwards that morning from Chester to Slowton. But as men will, he bullied these misgivings and upbraidings into submission. He had been once or twice on the point of disclosing this portion of the complication to his attorney, but an odd sort of shyness prevented. He fancied that possibly the picture and his part in it were not altogether pretty, and somehow he did not care to expose himself to the secret action of the attorney’s thoughts.
Even in his own mind it needed the strong motive which had first prompted it. Now it was no longer necessary to explore the mystery of that secret door through which the missing deed, and indeed the Deverell estate, had been carried into old Sir Harry’s cupboard. But what was to be done? He had committed himself to the statement. General Lennox had a right to demand — in fact, he had promised — a distinct explanation.
