Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 292
“I said the lady who accepted him was my sister. I never said her name was Varbarriere, or that she was a Frenchwoman.”
“Is not your name Varbarriere, sir?” exclaimed Lady Alice, opening her eyes very wide.
“Certainly, madam. A nom de guerre, as we say in France, a name which I assumed with the purchase of an estate, about six years ago, when I became what you call a naturalised French subject.”
“And pray, sir, what is your name?”
“Varbarriere, madam. I did bear an English name, being of English birth and family. May I presume to inquire particularly whether you have divulged the name of my nephew to anyone?”
“No, to no one; neither has Beatrix, I am certain.”
“You now know, madam, that the young man is your own grandson, and therefore entitled to at least as much consideration from you as from me; and I again venture to impress upon you this fact, that if prematurely his name be disclosed, it may, and indeed must embarrass my endeavours to reinstate him in his rights.”
As he said this Varbarriere made a profound and solemn bow; and before Lady Alice could resume her catechism, that dark gentleman had left the room.
As he emerged from the door he glanced down the broad oak stair, at the foot of which he heard voices. They were those of Sir Jekyl and his daughter. The Baronet’s eye detected the dark form on the first platform above him.
“Ha! Monsieur Varbarriere — very welcome, monsieur — when did you arrive?” cried his host in his accustomed French.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Quite well, I hope.”
“Perfectly; many thanks — and Mademoiselle Beatrix?”
The large and sombre figure was descending the stairs all this time, and an awful shadow, as he did so, seemed to overcast the face and form of the young lady, to whom, with a dark smile, he extended his hand.
“Quite well, Beatrix, too — all quite well — even Lady Alice in her usual health,” said Sir Jekyl.
“Better — I’m glad to hear,” said Varbarriere.
“Better! Oh dear, no — that would never do. But her temper is just as lively, and all her ailments flourishing. By-the-bye, your nephew had to leave us suddenly.”
“Yes — business,” said Varbarriere, interrupting.
Beatrix, he was glad to observe, had gone away to the drawingroom.
“He’ll be back, I hope, immediately?” continued the Baronet. “He’s a fine young fellow. Egad, he’s about as good-looking a young fellow as I know. I should be devilish proud of him if I were you. When does he come back to us?”
“Immediately, I hope; business, you know; but nothing very long. We are both, I fear, a very tedious pair of guests; but you have been so pressing, so hospitable — — “
“Say rather, so selfish, monsieur,” answered Sir Jekyl, laughing. “Our whist and cigars have languished ever since you left.”
M. Varbarriere laughed a double-bass accompaniment to the Baronet’s chuckle, and the dressing-bell ringing at that moment, Sir Jekyl and he parted agreeably.
* * *
CHAPTER XII.
The Guests Together.
Varbarriere marched slowly up, and entered his dressing-room with a “glooming” countenance and a heavy heart. Everything looked as if he had left it but half an hour ago. He poked the fire and sat down.
He felt like a surgeon with an operation before him. There was a loathing of it, but he did not flinch.
Reader, you think you understand other men. Do you understand yourself? Did you ever quite succeed in defining your own motives, and arriving at the moral base of any action you ever did? Here was Varbarriere sailing with wind and tide full in his favour, right into the haven where he would be — yet to look in his face you would have said “there is a sorrowful man,” and had you been able to see within, you would have said, “there is a man divided against himself.” Yes, as every man is. Several spirits, quite distinct, not blending, but pleading and battling very earnestly on opposite sides, all in possession of the “house” — but one dominant, always with a disputed sway, but always carrying his point — always the prosperous bully.
Yes, every man is a twist of many strands. Varbarriere was compacted of several Varbarrieres — one of whom was the stronger and the most infernal. His feebler associates commented upon him — despised him — feared him — sought to restrain him but knew they could not. He tyrannised, and was to the outer world the one and indivisible Varbarriere.
Monsieur Varbarriere the tyrant was about to bring about a fracas that night, against which the feebler and better Varbarrieres protested. Varbarriere the tyrant held the knife over the throat of a faithless woman — the better Varbarrieres murmured words of pity and of faint remonstrance. Varbarriere the tyrant scrupled not to play the part of spy and traitor for his ends; the nobler Varbarrieres upbraided him sadly, and even despised him. But what were these feeble angelic Varbarrieres? The ruler is the state, l’état c’est moi! and Varbarriere the tyrant carried all before him.
As the dark and somewhat corpulent gentleman before the glass adjusted his necktie and viewed his shirt-studs, he saw in his countenance, along with the terrible resolution of that tyrant, the sorrows and fears of the less potent spirits; and he felt, though he would not accept, their upbraidings and their truth; so with a stern and heavy heart he descended to the drawingroom.
He found the party pretty nearly assembled, and the usual buzz and animation prevailing, and he smiled and swayed from group to group, and from one chair to another.
Doocey was glad, monstrous glad to see him.
“I had no idea how hard it was to find a good player, until you left us — our whist has been totally ruined. The first night we tried Linnett; he thinks he plays, you know; well, I do assure you, you never witnessed such a thing — such a caricature, by Jupiter — forgetting your lead — revoking — everything, by Jove. You may guess what a chance we had — my partner, I give you my honour, against old Sir Paul Blunket, as dogged a player as there is in England, egad, and Sir Jekyl there. We tried Drayton next night — the most conceited fellow on earth, and no head — Sir Paul had him. I never saw an old fellow so savage. Egad, they were calling one another names across the table — you’d have died laughing; but we’ll have some play now you’ve come back, and I’m very glad of it.”
Varbarriere, while he listened to all this, smiling his fat dark smile, and shrugging and bowing slightly as the tale required these evidences, was quietly making his observations on two or three of the persons who most interested him. Beatrix, he thought, was looking ill — certainly much paler, and though very pretty, rather sad — that is, she was ever and anon falling into little abstractions, and when spoken to, waking up with a sudden little smile.
Lady Jane Lennox — she did not seem to observe him — was seated like a sultana on a low cushioned seat, with her rich silks circling grandly round her. He looked at her a little stealthily and curiously, as men eye a prisoner who is about to suffer execution. His countenance during that brief glance was unobserved, but you might have read there something sinister and cruel.
“I forget — had the Bishop come when you left us?” said Sir Jekyl, laying his hand lightly from behind on the arm of Varbarriere. The dark-featured man winced — Sir Jekyl’s voice sounded unpleasantly in his reverie.
“Ah! Oh! The Bishop? Yes — the Bishop was here when I left; he had been here a day or two,” answered Varbarriere, with a kind of effort.
“Then I need not introduce you — you’re friends already,” said Sir Jekyl.
At which moment the assembled party learned that dinner awaited them, and the murmured arrangements for the procession commenced, and the drawingroom was left to the click of the Louis Quatorze clock and the sadness of solitude.
“We had such a dispute, Monsieur Varbarriere, while you were away,” said Miss Blunket.
“About me, I hope,” answered the gentleman addressed, in tolerable English, and with a gallant jocularity.
“Well, no — not about you,” said old Miss Blunket, timidly. “But I so wished for you to take part in the argument.”
“And why wish for me?” answered the sardonic old fellow, amused, maybe the least bit in the world flattered.
“Well, I think you have the power, Monsieur Varbarriere, of putting a great deal in very few words — I mean, of making an argument so clear and short.”
Varbarriere laughed indulgently, and began to think Miss Blunket a rather intelligent person.
“And what was the subject, pray?”
“Whether life was happier in town or country.”
“Oh! the old debate — country mouse against town mouse,” replied Varbarriere.
“Ah, just so — so true — I don’t think anyone said that, and — and — I do wish to know which side you would have taken.”
“The condition being that it should be all country or all town, of course, and that we were to retain our incomes?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Miss Blunket, awaiting his verdict with a little bit of bread suspended between her forefinger and thumb.
“Well, then, I should pronounce at once for the country,” said Varbarriere.
“I’m so glad — that’s just what I said. I’m sure, said I, I should have Monsieur Varbarriere on my side if he were here. I’m so glad I was right. Did not you hear me say that?” said she, addressing Lady Jane Lennox, whose steady look, obliquely from across the table a little higher up, disconcerted her.
Lady Jane was not thinking of the debate, and asked in her quiet haughty way —
“What is it?”
“Did I not say, yesterday, that Monsieur Varbarriere would vote for the country, in our town or country argument, if he were here?”
“Oh! did you? Yes, I believe you did. I was not listening.”
“And which side, pray, Lady Jane, would you have taken in that ancient debate?” inquired Varbarriere, who somehow felt constrained to address her.
“Neither side,” answered she.
“What! neither town nor country — and how then?” inquired Varbarriere, with a shrug and a smile.
“I think there is as much hypocrisy and slander in one as the other, and I should have a new way — people living like the Chinese, in boats, and never going on shore.”
Varbarriere laughed — twiddled a bit of bread between his finger and thumb, and leaned back, and looked down, still smiling, by the edge of his plate; and was there not a little flush under the dark brown tint of his face?
“That would be simply prison,” ejaculated Miss Blunket.
“Yes, prison; and is not anything better than liberty with its liabilities? Why did Lady Hester Stanhope go into exile in the East, and why do sane men and women go into monasteries?”
Varbarriere looked at her with an odd kind of interest, and sighed without knowing it; and he helped himself curiously to sweetbread, a minute later, and for a time his share in the conversation flagged.
Lady Jane, he thought, was looking decidedly better than when he left — very well, in fact — very well indeed — not at all like a person with anything pressing heavily on her mind.
He glanced at her again. She was talking to old Sir Paul Blunket in a bold careless way, which showed no sign of hidden care or fear.
“Have you been to town since?” inquired Sir Jekyl, who happened to catch Varbarriere’s eye at that moment, and availed himself of a momentary lull in what we term the conversation, to put his question.
“No; you think I have been pleasuring, but it was good honest business, I assure you.”
“Lady Alice here fancied you might have seen the General, and learned something about his plans,” continued Sir Jekyl.
“What General? — Lennox — eh?” inquired Varbarriere.
“Yes. What’s your question, Lady Alice?” said the Baronet, turning to that lady, and happily not observing an odd expression in Varbarriere’s countenance.
“No question; he has not been to London,” answered the old lady, drawing her shawl which she chose to dine in about her, chillily.
“Is it anything I can answer?” threw in Lady Jane, who, superbly tranquil as she looked, would have liked to pull and box Lady Alice’s ears at that moment.
“Oh no, I fancy not; it’s only the old question, when are we to see the General; is he coming back at all?”
“I wish anyone could help me to an answer,” laughed Lady Jane, with a slight uneasiness, which might have been referred to the pique which would not have been unnatural in a handsome wife neglected.
“I begin to fear I shall leave Marlowe without having seen him,” said Lady Alice, peevishly.
“Yes, and it is not complimentary, you know; he disappeared just the day before you came, and he won’t come back till you leave; men are such mysterious fellows, don’t you think?” said Sir Jekyl.
“It doesn’t look as if he liked her company. Did he ever meet you, Lady Alice?” inquired Sir Paul Blunket in his bluff way, without at all intending to be uncivil.
“That, you think, would account for it; much obliged to you, Sir Paul,” said Lady Alice, sharply.
Sir Paul did not see it, or what she was driving at, and looked at her therefore with a grave curiosity, for he did not perceive that she was offended.
“Sir Paul has a way of hitting people very hard, has not he, Lady Alice? and then leaving them to recover of themselves,” said Sir Jekyl.
“There’s not a great deal of civility wasted among you,” observed Lady Alice.
“I only meant,” said Sir Paul, who felt that he should place himself right, “that I could not see why General Lennox should avoid Lady Alice, unless he was acquainted with her. There’s nothing in that.”
“By-the-bye, Lady Alice,” said Sir Jekyl, who apprehended a possible scene from that lady’s temper, and like a good shepherd wished to see his flock pasture peaceably together— “I find I can let you have any quantity you like of that plant you admired yesterday. I forget its name, and the Bishop says he has got one at the Palace with a scarlet blossom; so, perhaps, if you make interest with him — what do you say, my lord?”
So having engaged the good Bishop in floral conversation with that fiery spirit, the Baronet asked Sir Paul whether he believed all that was said about the great American cow; and what he thought of the monster parsnip: and thus he set him and Lady Alice ambling on different tracts, so that there was no risk of their breaking lances again.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII.
A Visitor in the Library.
The company were now pecking at those fruits over which Sir Jekyl was wont to chuckle grimly, making pleasant satire on his gardener, vowing he kept an Aladdin’s garden, and that his greengages were emeralds, and his gooseberries rubies.
In the midst of the talk, the grave and somewhat corpulent butler stood behind his master’s chair, and murmured something mildly in his ear.
“What’s his name?” inquired Sir Jekyl.
“Pullet, please, sir.”
“Pullet! I never heard of him. If he had come a little earlier with a knife and fork in his back, we’d have given a good account of him.”
His jokes were chuckled to Lady Alice, who received them drowsily.
“Where have you put him?”
“In the library, please, sir.”
“What kind of looking person?”
“A middlish sort of a person, rayther respectable, I should say, sir; but dusty from his journey.”
“Well, give him some wine, and let him have dinner, if he has not had it before, and bring in his card just now.”
All this occurred without exciting attention or withdrawing Sir Jekyl from any sustained conversation, for he and Lady Alice had been left high and dry on the bank together by the flow and ebb of talk, which at this moment kept the room in a rattle; and Sir Jekyl only now and then troubled her with a word.
“Pullet!” thought Sir Jekyl, he knew not why, uneasily. “Who the devil’s Pullet, and what the plague can Pullet want? It can’t be Paulett — can it? There’s nothing on earth Paulett can want of me, and he would not come at this hour. Pullet — Pullet — let us see.” But he could not see, there was not a soul he knew who bore that name.
“He’s eating his dinner, sir, the gentleman, sir, in the small parlour, and says you’ll know him quite well, sir, when you see him,” murmured the butler, “and more— “
“Have you got his card?”
“He said, sir, please, it would be time enough when he had heat his dinner.”
“Well, so it will.”
And Sir Jekyl drank a glass of claret, and returned to his ruminations.
“So, I shall know Pullet quite well when I see him,” mused the Baronet, “and he’ll let me have his card when he has had his dinner — a cool gentleman, whatever else he may be.” About this Pullet, however, Sir Jekyl experienced a most uncomfortable suspense and curiosity. A bird of ill omen he seemed to him — an angel of sorrow, he knew not why, in a mask.
While the Baronet sipped his claret, and walked quite alone in the midst of his company, picking his anxious steps, and hearing strange sounds through his valley of the shadow of death, the promiscuous assemblage of ladies and gentlemen dissolved itself. The fair sex rose, after their wont, smiled their last on the sable file of gentlemen, who stood politely, napkin in hand, simpering over the backs of their chairs, and, some of them majestically alone, others sliding their fair hands affectionately within the others’ arms, glided through the door in celestial procession.
“I shall leave you tomorrow, Sir Jekyl,” began the Bishop, gravely, changing his seat to one just vacated beside his host, and bringing with him his principal chattels, his wine-glasses and napkin.
“I do hope, my lord, you’ll reconsider that,” interrupted Sir Jekyl, laying his fingers kindly on the prelate’s purple sleeve. A dismal cloud in Sir Jekyl’s atmosphere was just then drifting over him, and he clung, as men do under such shadows, to the contact of good and early friendship.
“I am, I assure you, very sorry, and have enjoyed your hospitality much — very much; but we can’t rest long, you know: we hold a good many strings, and matters won’t wait our convenience.”
“Is not your name Varbarriere, sir?” exclaimed Lady Alice, opening her eyes very wide.
“Certainly, madam. A nom de guerre, as we say in France, a name which I assumed with the purchase of an estate, about six years ago, when I became what you call a naturalised French subject.”
“And pray, sir, what is your name?”
“Varbarriere, madam. I did bear an English name, being of English birth and family. May I presume to inquire particularly whether you have divulged the name of my nephew to anyone?”
“No, to no one; neither has Beatrix, I am certain.”
“You now know, madam, that the young man is your own grandson, and therefore entitled to at least as much consideration from you as from me; and I again venture to impress upon you this fact, that if prematurely his name be disclosed, it may, and indeed must embarrass my endeavours to reinstate him in his rights.”
As he said this Varbarriere made a profound and solemn bow; and before Lady Alice could resume her catechism, that dark gentleman had left the room.
As he emerged from the door he glanced down the broad oak stair, at the foot of which he heard voices. They were those of Sir Jekyl and his daughter. The Baronet’s eye detected the dark form on the first platform above him.
“Ha! Monsieur Varbarriere — very welcome, monsieur — when did you arrive?” cried his host in his accustomed French.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Quite well, I hope.”
“Perfectly; many thanks — and Mademoiselle Beatrix?”
The large and sombre figure was descending the stairs all this time, and an awful shadow, as he did so, seemed to overcast the face and form of the young lady, to whom, with a dark smile, he extended his hand.
“Quite well, Beatrix, too — all quite well — even Lady Alice in her usual health,” said Sir Jekyl.
“Better — I’m glad to hear,” said Varbarriere.
“Better! Oh dear, no — that would never do. But her temper is just as lively, and all her ailments flourishing. By-the-bye, your nephew had to leave us suddenly.”
“Yes — business,” said Varbarriere, interrupting.
Beatrix, he was glad to observe, had gone away to the drawingroom.
“He’ll be back, I hope, immediately?” continued the Baronet. “He’s a fine young fellow. Egad, he’s about as good-looking a young fellow as I know. I should be devilish proud of him if I were you. When does he come back to us?”
“Immediately, I hope; business, you know; but nothing very long. We are both, I fear, a very tedious pair of guests; but you have been so pressing, so hospitable — — “
“Say rather, so selfish, monsieur,” answered Sir Jekyl, laughing. “Our whist and cigars have languished ever since you left.”
M. Varbarriere laughed a double-bass accompaniment to the Baronet’s chuckle, and the dressing-bell ringing at that moment, Sir Jekyl and he parted agreeably.
* * *
CHAPTER XII.
The Guests Together.
Varbarriere marched slowly up, and entered his dressing-room with a “glooming” countenance and a heavy heart. Everything looked as if he had left it but half an hour ago. He poked the fire and sat down.
He felt like a surgeon with an operation before him. There was a loathing of it, but he did not flinch.
Reader, you think you understand other men. Do you understand yourself? Did you ever quite succeed in defining your own motives, and arriving at the moral base of any action you ever did? Here was Varbarriere sailing with wind and tide full in his favour, right into the haven where he would be — yet to look in his face you would have said “there is a sorrowful man,” and had you been able to see within, you would have said, “there is a man divided against himself.” Yes, as every man is. Several spirits, quite distinct, not blending, but pleading and battling very earnestly on opposite sides, all in possession of the “house” — but one dominant, always with a disputed sway, but always carrying his point — always the prosperous bully.
Yes, every man is a twist of many strands. Varbarriere was compacted of several Varbarrieres — one of whom was the stronger and the most infernal. His feebler associates commented upon him — despised him — feared him — sought to restrain him but knew they could not. He tyrannised, and was to the outer world the one and indivisible Varbarriere.
Monsieur Varbarriere the tyrant was about to bring about a fracas that night, against which the feebler and better Varbarrieres protested. Varbarriere the tyrant held the knife over the throat of a faithless woman — the better Varbarrieres murmured words of pity and of faint remonstrance. Varbarriere the tyrant scrupled not to play the part of spy and traitor for his ends; the nobler Varbarrieres upbraided him sadly, and even despised him. But what were these feeble angelic Varbarrieres? The ruler is the state, l’état c’est moi! and Varbarriere the tyrant carried all before him.
As the dark and somewhat corpulent gentleman before the glass adjusted his necktie and viewed his shirt-studs, he saw in his countenance, along with the terrible resolution of that tyrant, the sorrows and fears of the less potent spirits; and he felt, though he would not accept, their upbraidings and their truth; so with a stern and heavy heart he descended to the drawingroom.
He found the party pretty nearly assembled, and the usual buzz and animation prevailing, and he smiled and swayed from group to group, and from one chair to another.
Doocey was glad, monstrous glad to see him.
“I had no idea how hard it was to find a good player, until you left us — our whist has been totally ruined. The first night we tried Linnett; he thinks he plays, you know; well, I do assure you, you never witnessed such a thing — such a caricature, by Jupiter — forgetting your lead — revoking — everything, by Jove. You may guess what a chance we had — my partner, I give you my honour, against old Sir Paul Blunket, as dogged a player as there is in England, egad, and Sir Jekyl there. We tried Drayton next night — the most conceited fellow on earth, and no head — Sir Paul had him. I never saw an old fellow so savage. Egad, they were calling one another names across the table — you’d have died laughing; but we’ll have some play now you’ve come back, and I’m very glad of it.”
Varbarriere, while he listened to all this, smiling his fat dark smile, and shrugging and bowing slightly as the tale required these evidences, was quietly making his observations on two or three of the persons who most interested him. Beatrix, he thought, was looking ill — certainly much paler, and though very pretty, rather sad — that is, she was ever and anon falling into little abstractions, and when spoken to, waking up with a sudden little smile.
Lady Jane Lennox — she did not seem to observe him — was seated like a sultana on a low cushioned seat, with her rich silks circling grandly round her. He looked at her a little stealthily and curiously, as men eye a prisoner who is about to suffer execution. His countenance during that brief glance was unobserved, but you might have read there something sinister and cruel.
“I forget — had the Bishop come when you left us?” said Sir Jekyl, laying his hand lightly from behind on the arm of Varbarriere. The dark-featured man winced — Sir Jekyl’s voice sounded unpleasantly in his reverie.
“Ah! Oh! The Bishop? Yes — the Bishop was here when I left; he had been here a day or two,” answered Varbarriere, with a kind of effort.
“Then I need not introduce you — you’re friends already,” said Sir Jekyl.
At which moment the assembled party learned that dinner awaited them, and the murmured arrangements for the procession commenced, and the drawingroom was left to the click of the Louis Quatorze clock and the sadness of solitude.
“We had such a dispute, Monsieur Varbarriere, while you were away,” said Miss Blunket.
“About me, I hope,” answered the gentleman addressed, in tolerable English, and with a gallant jocularity.
“Well, no — not about you,” said old Miss Blunket, timidly. “But I so wished for you to take part in the argument.”
“And why wish for me?” answered the sardonic old fellow, amused, maybe the least bit in the world flattered.
“Well, I think you have the power, Monsieur Varbarriere, of putting a great deal in very few words — I mean, of making an argument so clear and short.”
Varbarriere laughed indulgently, and began to think Miss Blunket a rather intelligent person.
“And what was the subject, pray?”
“Whether life was happier in town or country.”
“Oh! the old debate — country mouse against town mouse,” replied Varbarriere.
“Ah, just so — so true — I don’t think anyone said that, and — and — I do wish to know which side you would have taken.”
“The condition being that it should be all country or all town, of course, and that we were to retain our incomes?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Miss Blunket, awaiting his verdict with a little bit of bread suspended between her forefinger and thumb.
“Well, then, I should pronounce at once for the country,” said Varbarriere.
“I’m so glad — that’s just what I said. I’m sure, said I, I should have Monsieur Varbarriere on my side if he were here. I’m so glad I was right. Did not you hear me say that?” said she, addressing Lady Jane Lennox, whose steady look, obliquely from across the table a little higher up, disconcerted her.
Lady Jane was not thinking of the debate, and asked in her quiet haughty way —
“What is it?”
“Did I not say, yesterday, that Monsieur Varbarriere would vote for the country, in our town or country argument, if he were here?”
“Oh! did you? Yes, I believe you did. I was not listening.”
“And which side, pray, Lady Jane, would you have taken in that ancient debate?” inquired Varbarriere, who somehow felt constrained to address her.
“Neither side,” answered she.
“What! neither town nor country — and how then?” inquired Varbarriere, with a shrug and a smile.
“I think there is as much hypocrisy and slander in one as the other, and I should have a new way — people living like the Chinese, in boats, and never going on shore.”
Varbarriere laughed — twiddled a bit of bread between his finger and thumb, and leaned back, and looked down, still smiling, by the edge of his plate; and was there not a little flush under the dark brown tint of his face?
“That would be simply prison,” ejaculated Miss Blunket.
“Yes, prison; and is not anything better than liberty with its liabilities? Why did Lady Hester Stanhope go into exile in the East, and why do sane men and women go into monasteries?”
Varbarriere looked at her with an odd kind of interest, and sighed without knowing it; and he helped himself curiously to sweetbread, a minute later, and for a time his share in the conversation flagged.
Lady Jane, he thought, was looking decidedly better than when he left — very well, in fact — very well indeed — not at all like a person with anything pressing heavily on her mind.
He glanced at her again. She was talking to old Sir Paul Blunket in a bold careless way, which showed no sign of hidden care or fear.
“Have you been to town since?” inquired Sir Jekyl, who happened to catch Varbarriere’s eye at that moment, and availed himself of a momentary lull in what we term the conversation, to put his question.
“No; you think I have been pleasuring, but it was good honest business, I assure you.”
“Lady Alice here fancied you might have seen the General, and learned something about his plans,” continued Sir Jekyl.
“What General? — Lennox — eh?” inquired Varbarriere.
“Yes. What’s your question, Lady Alice?” said the Baronet, turning to that lady, and happily not observing an odd expression in Varbarriere’s countenance.
“No question; he has not been to London,” answered the old lady, drawing her shawl which she chose to dine in about her, chillily.
“Is it anything I can answer?” threw in Lady Jane, who, superbly tranquil as she looked, would have liked to pull and box Lady Alice’s ears at that moment.
“Oh no, I fancy not; it’s only the old question, when are we to see the General; is he coming back at all?”
“I wish anyone could help me to an answer,” laughed Lady Jane, with a slight uneasiness, which might have been referred to the pique which would not have been unnatural in a handsome wife neglected.
“I begin to fear I shall leave Marlowe without having seen him,” said Lady Alice, peevishly.
“Yes, and it is not complimentary, you know; he disappeared just the day before you came, and he won’t come back till you leave; men are such mysterious fellows, don’t you think?” said Sir Jekyl.
“It doesn’t look as if he liked her company. Did he ever meet you, Lady Alice?” inquired Sir Paul Blunket in his bluff way, without at all intending to be uncivil.
“That, you think, would account for it; much obliged to you, Sir Paul,” said Lady Alice, sharply.
Sir Paul did not see it, or what she was driving at, and looked at her therefore with a grave curiosity, for he did not perceive that she was offended.
“Sir Paul has a way of hitting people very hard, has not he, Lady Alice? and then leaving them to recover of themselves,” said Sir Jekyl.
“There’s not a great deal of civility wasted among you,” observed Lady Alice.
“I only meant,” said Sir Paul, who felt that he should place himself right, “that I could not see why General Lennox should avoid Lady Alice, unless he was acquainted with her. There’s nothing in that.”
“By-the-bye, Lady Alice,” said Sir Jekyl, who apprehended a possible scene from that lady’s temper, and like a good shepherd wished to see his flock pasture peaceably together— “I find I can let you have any quantity you like of that plant you admired yesterday. I forget its name, and the Bishop says he has got one at the Palace with a scarlet blossom; so, perhaps, if you make interest with him — what do you say, my lord?”
So having engaged the good Bishop in floral conversation with that fiery spirit, the Baronet asked Sir Paul whether he believed all that was said about the great American cow; and what he thought of the monster parsnip: and thus he set him and Lady Alice ambling on different tracts, so that there was no risk of their breaking lances again.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII.
A Visitor in the Library.
The company were now pecking at those fruits over which Sir Jekyl was wont to chuckle grimly, making pleasant satire on his gardener, vowing he kept an Aladdin’s garden, and that his greengages were emeralds, and his gooseberries rubies.
In the midst of the talk, the grave and somewhat corpulent butler stood behind his master’s chair, and murmured something mildly in his ear.
“What’s his name?” inquired Sir Jekyl.
“Pullet, please, sir.”
“Pullet! I never heard of him. If he had come a little earlier with a knife and fork in his back, we’d have given a good account of him.”
His jokes were chuckled to Lady Alice, who received them drowsily.
“Where have you put him?”
“In the library, please, sir.”
“What kind of looking person?”
“A middlish sort of a person, rayther respectable, I should say, sir; but dusty from his journey.”
“Well, give him some wine, and let him have dinner, if he has not had it before, and bring in his card just now.”
All this occurred without exciting attention or withdrawing Sir Jekyl from any sustained conversation, for he and Lady Alice had been left high and dry on the bank together by the flow and ebb of talk, which at this moment kept the room in a rattle; and Sir Jekyl only now and then troubled her with a word.
“Pullet!” thought Sir Jekyl, he knew not why, uneasily. “Who the devil’s Pullet, and what the plague can Pullet want? It can’t be Paulett — can it? There’s nothing on earth Paulett can want of me, and he would not come at this hour. Pullet — Pullet — let us see.” But he could not see, there was not a soul he knew who bore that name.
“He’s eating his dinner, sir, the gentleman, sir, in the small parlour, and says you’ll know him quite well, sir, when you see him,” murmured the butler, “and more— “
“Have you got his card?”
“He said, sir, please, it would be time enough when he had heat his dinner.”
“Well, so it will.”
And Sir Jekyl drank a glass of claret, and returned to his ruminations.
“So, I shall know Pullet quite well when I see him,” mused the Baronet, “and he’ll let me have his card when he has had his dinner — a cool gentleman, whatever else he may be.” About this Pullet, however, Sir Jekyl experienced a most uncomfortable suspense and curiosity. A bird of ill omen he seemed to him — an angel of sorrow, he knew not why, in a mask.
While the Baronet sipped his claret, and walked quite alone in the midst of his company, picking his anxious steps, and hearing strange sounds through his valley of the shadow of death, the promiscuous assemblage of ladies and gentlemen dissolved itself. The fair sex rose, after their wont, smiled their last on the sable file of gentlemen, who stood politely, napkin in hand, simpering over the backs of their chairs, and, some of them majestically alone, others sliding their fair hands affectionately within the others’ arms, glided through the door in celestial procession.
“I shall leave you tomorrow, Sir Jekyl,” began the Bishop, gravely, changing his seat to one just vacated beside his host, and bringing with him his principal chattels, his wine-glasses and napkin.
“I do hope, my lord, you’ll reconsider that,” interrupted Sir Jekyl, laying his fingers kindly on the prelate’s purple sleeve. A dismal cloud in Sir Jekyl’s atmosphere was just then drifting over him, and he clung, as men do under such shadows, to the contact of good and early friendship.
“I am, I assure you, very sorry, and have enjoyed your hospitality much — very much; but we can’t rest long, you know: we hold a good many strings, and matters won’t wait our convenience.”
