Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 281
“I am Guy’s uncle — his mother’s brother.”
“And his mother, is she living?”
“No, poor thing! gone long ago.”
Lady Alice looked again unexpectedly into M. Varbarriere’s face, and there detected the same unreliable expression.
“Monsieur Varbarriere,” said old Lady Alice a little sternly in his ear, “you will pardon me, but it seems to me that you are trifling, and not quite sincere in all you tell me.”
In a moment the gravity of all the Chief Justices that ever sat in England was gathered in his massive face.
“I am shocked, madam, at your thinking me capable of trifling. How have I showed, I entreat, any evidences of a disposition so contrary to my feelings?”
“I tell you frankly — in your countenance, Monsieur Varbarriere; and I observed it before, Monsieur.”
“Believe me, I entreat, madam, when I assure you, upon the honour of a gentleman, every word I have said is altogether true. Nor would it be easy for me to describe how profound is my sympathy with you.”
From this time forth Lady Alice saw no return, of that faint but odious look of banter that had at first shocked and then irritated her; and fortified by the solemn assurance he had given, she fell into a habit of referring it to some association unconnected with herself, and tried to make up for her attack upon him by an increased measure of courtesy.
Dwelling on those subjects that most interested Lady Alice, he and she grew more and more confidential, and she came, before they left the parlour, to entertain a high opinion of both the wisdom and the philanthropy of M. Varbarriere.
* * *
CHAPTER XXIX.
The Ladies and Gentlemen resume Conversation in the Drawingroom.
“Dives, my boy,” said the Baronet, taking his stand beside his brother on the hearthrug, when the gentlemen had followed the ladies into the drawingroom, and addressing him comfortably over his shoulder, “the Bishop’s coming tomorrow.”
“Ho!” exclaimed Dives, bringing his right shoulder forward, so as nearly to confront his brother. They had both been standing side by side, with their backs, according to the good old graceful English fashion, to the fire.
“Here’s his note — came tonight. He’ll be here to dinner, I suppose, by the six o’clock fast train to Slowton.”
“Thanks,” said Dives, taking the note and devouring it energetically.
“Just half a dozen lines of three words each — always so, you know. Poor old Sammy! I always liked old Sammy — a good old cock at school he was — great fun, you know, but always a gentleman.”
Sir Jekyl delivered these recollections standing with his hands behind his back, and looking upwards with a smile to the ceiling, as the Rev. Dives Marlowe read carefully every word of the letter.
“Sorry to see his hand begins to shake a little,” said Dives, returning the interesting manuscript.
“Time for it, egad! He’s pretty well on, you know. We’ll all be shaky a bit before long, Dives.”
“How long does he stay?”
“I think only a day or two. I have his first note upstairs, if I did not burn it,” answered the Baronet.
“I’m glad I’m to meet him — very glad indeed. I think it’s five years since I met his lordship at the consecration of the new church of Clopton Friars. I always found him very kind — very. He likes the school-house fellows.”
“You’d better get up your parochial experiences a little, and your theology, eh? They say he expects his people to be alive. You used to be rather good at theology — usen’t you?”
Dives smiled.
“Pretty well, Jekyl.”
“And what do you want of him, Dives?”
“Oh! he could be useful to me in fifty ways. I was thinking — you know there’s that archdeaconry of Priors.” Dives replied pretty nearly in a whisper.
“By Jove! yes — a capital thing — I forgot it;” and Sir Jekyl laughed heartily.
“Why do you laugh, Jekyl?” he asked, a little drily.
“I — I really don’t know,” said the Baronet, laughing on.
“I don’t see anything absurd or unreasonable in it. That archdeaconry has always been held by some one connected with the county families. Whoever holds it must be fit to associate with the people of that neighbourhood, who won’t be intimate, you know, with everybody; and the thing really is little more than a feather, the house and place are expensive, and no one that has not something more than the archdeaconry itself can afford it.”
The conversation was here arrested by a voice which inquired —
“Pray, can you tell me what day General Lennox returns?”
The question was Lady Alice’s. She had seemed to be asleep — probably was — and opening her eyes suddenly, had asked it in a hard, dry tone.
“I?” said Sir Jekyl. “I don’t know, I protest — maybe tonight — maybe tomorrow. Come when he may, he’s very welcome.”
“You have not heard?” she persisted.
“No, I have not,” he answered, rather tartly, with a smile.
Lady Alice nodded, and raised her voice —
“Lady Jane Lennox, you’ve heard, no doubt — pray, when does the General return?”
If the scene had not been quite so public, I dare say this innocent little inquiry would have been the signal for one of those keen encounters to which these two fiery spirits were prone.
“He has been detained unexpectedly,” drawled Lady Jane.
“You hear from him constantly?” pursued the old lady.
“Every day.”
“It’s odd he does not say when you may look for him,” said Lady Alice.
“Egad, you want to make her jealous, I think,” interposed Sir Jekyl.
“Jealous? Well, I think a young wife may very reasonably be jealous, though not exactly in the vulgar sense, when she is left without a clue to her husband’s movements.”
“You said you were going to write to him. I wish you would, Lady Alice,” said the young lady, with an air of some contempt.
“I can’t believe he has not said how soon his return may be looked for,” observed the old lady.
“I suppose he’ll say whenever he can, and in the meantime I don’t intend plaguing him with inquiries he can’t answer.” And with these words she leaned back fatigued, and with a fierce glance at Sir Jekyl, who was close by, she added, so loud that I wonder Lady Alice did not hear her— “Why don’t you stop that odious old woman?”
“Stop an odious old woman! — why, who ever did? Upon my honour, I know no way but to kill her,” chuckled the Baronet.
Lady Jane deigned no reply.
“Come here, Dives, and sit by me,” croaked the old lady, beckoning him with her thin, long finger. “I’ve hardly seen you since I came.”
“Very happy, indeed — very much obliged to you, Lady Alice, for wishing it.”
And the natty but somewhat forbidding-looking Churchman sat himself down in a prie-dieu chair vis-à-vis to the old gentlewoman, and folded his hands, expecting her exordium.
“Do you remember, Sir Harry, your father?”
“Oh, dear, yes. I recollect my poor father very well. We were at Oxford then or just going. How old was I? — pretty well out of my teens.”
It must be observed that they sat in a confidential proximity — nobody listened — nobody cared to approach.
“You remember when he died, poor man?”
“Yes — poor father! — we were at home — Jekyl and I — for the holidays — I believe it was — a month or so. The Bishop, you know, was with him.”
“I know. He’s coming tomorrow.”
“Yes; so my brother here just told me — an excellent, exemplary, pious prelate, and a true friend to my poor father. He posted fifty miles — from Doncaster — in four hours and a half, to be with him. And a great comfort he was. I shall never forget it to him.”
“I don’t think you cared for your father, Dives; and Jekyl positively disliked him,” interposed Lady Alice agreeably.
“I trust there was no feeling so unchristian and monstrous ever harboured in my brother’s breast,” replied Dives, loftily, and with a little flush in his cheeks.
“You can’t believe any such thing, my dear Dives; and you know you did not care if he was at the bottom of the Red Sea, and I don’t wonder.”
“Pray don’t, Lady Alice. If you think such things, I should prefer not hearing them,” murmured Dives, with clerical dignity.
“And what I want to ask you now is this,” continued Lady Alice; “you are of course aware that he told the Bishop that he wanted that green chamber, for some reason or another, pulled down?”
Dives coughed, and said —
“Well, yes, I have heard.”
“What was his reason, have you any notion?”
“He expressed none. My father gave, I believe, no reason. I never heard any,” replied the Reverend Dives Marlowe.
“You may be very sure he had a reason,” continued Lady Alice.
“Yes, very likely.”
“And why is it not done?” persisted Lady Alice.
“I can no more say why, than you can,” replied Dives.
“But why don’t you see to it?” demanded she.
“See to it! Why, my dear Lady Alice, you must know I have no more power in the matter than Doocey there, or the man in the moon. The house belongs to Jekyl. Suppose you speak to him.”
“You’ve a tongue in your head, Dives, when you’ve an object of your own.”
Dives flushed again, and looked, for an apostle, rather forbidding.
“I have not the faintest notion, Lady Alice, to what you allude.”
“Whatever else he may have been, Dives, he was your father,” continued Lady Alice, not diverted by this collateral issue; “and as his son, it was and is your business to give Jekyl no rest till he complies with that dying injunction.”
“Jekyl’s his own master; what can I do?”
“Do as you do where your profit’s concerned; tease him as you would for a good living, if he had it to give.”
“I don’t press my interests much upon Jekyl. I’ve never teased him or anybody else, for anything,” answered Dives, grandly.
“Come, come, Dives Marlowe; you have duties on earth, and something to think of besides yourself.”
“I trust I don’t need to be reminded of that, Lady Alice,” said the cleric, with a bow and a repulsive meekness.
“Well, speak to your brother.”
“I have alluded to the subject, and an opportunity may occur again.”
“Make one — make an opportunity, Dives.”
“There are rules, Lady Alice, which we must all observe.”
“Come, come, Dives Marlowe,” said the lady, very tartly, “remember you’re a clergyman.”
“I hope I do, madam; and I trust you will too.”
And the Rector rose, and with an offended bow, and before she could reply, made a second as stiff, and turned away to the table, where he took up a volume and pretended to read the title.
“Dives,” said the old lady, making no account of his huff, “please to tell Monsieur Varbarriere that I should be very much obliged if he would afford me a few minutes here, if he is not better engaged; that is, it seems to me he has nothing to do there.”
M. Varbarriere was leaning back in his chair, his hands folded, and the points of his thumbs together; his eyes closed, and his bronzed and heavy features composed, as it seemed, to deep thought; and one of his large shining shoes beating time slowly to the cadences of his ruminations.
The Reverend Dives Marlowe was in no mood just at that moment to be trotted about on that offensive old lady’s messages. But it is not permitted to gentlemen, even of his sacred calling, to refuse, in this wise, to make themselves the obedient humble servants of the fair sex, and to tell them to go on their own errands.
Silently he made her a slight bow, secretly resolving to avail himself sparingly of his opportunities of cultivating her society for the future.
Perhaps it was owing to some mesmeric reciprocity, but exactly at this moment M. Varbarriere opened his eyes, arose, and walked towards the fireplace, as if his object had been to contemplate the ornaments over the chimneypiece; and arriving at the hearthrug, and beholding Lady Alice, he courteously drew near, and accosted her with a deferential gallantry, saving the Reverend Dives Marlowe, who was skirting the other side of the round table, the remainder of his tour.
* * *
CHAPTER XXX.
Varbarriere picks up something about Donica Gwynn.
Drawingroom conversation seldom opens like an epic in the thick of the plot, and the introductory portions, however graceful, are seldom worth much. M. Varbarriere and Lady Alice had been talking some two or three minutes, when she made this inquiry.
“When did you last see the elder Mr. Strangways, whom you mentioned at dinner?”
“Lately, very lately — within this year.”
“Did he seem pretty well?”
“Perfectly well.”
“What does he think about it all?”
“I find a difficulty. If Lady Alice Redcliffe will define her question — — “
“I mean — well, I should have asked you first, whether he ever talked to you about the affairs of that family — the Deverell family — I mean as they were affected by the loss of a deed. I don’t understand these things well; but it involved the loss, they say, of an estate; and then there was the great misfortune of my life.”
M. Varbarriere here made a low and reverential bow of sympathy; he knew she meant the death of her son.
“Upon this latter melancholy subject he entirely sympathises with you. His grief of course has long abated, but his indignation survives.”
“And well it may, sir. And what does he say of the paper that disappeared?”
“He thinks, madam, that it was stolen.”
“Ha! So do I.”
The confidential and secret nature of their talk had drawn their heads together, and lowered their voices.
“He thinks it was abstracted by one of the Marlowe family.”
“Which of them? Go on, sir.”
“Well, by old Sir Harry Marlowe, the father of Sir Jekyl.”
“It certainly was he; it could have been no other; it was stolen, that is, I don’t suppose by his hand; I don’t know, perhaps it was; he was capable of a great deal; I say nothing, Monsieur Varbarriere.”
Perhaps that gentleman thought she had said a good deal; but he was as grave on this matter as she.
“You seem, madam, very positive. May I be permitted to inquire whether you think there exists proof of the fact?”
“I don’t speak from proof, sir.”
Lady Alice sat straighter, and looked full in his face for a moment, and said —
“I am talking to you, Monsieur Varbarriere, in a very confidential way. I have not for ever so many years met a human being who cared, or indeed knew anything of my poor boy as his friend. I have at length met you, and I open my mind, my conjectures, my suspicions; but, you will understand, in the strictest confidence.”
“I have so understood all you have said, and in the same spirit I have spoken and mean to speak, madam, if you permit me, to you. I do feel an interest in that Deverell family, of whom I have heard so much. There was a servant, a rather superior order of person, who lived as housekeeper — a Mrs. Gwynn — to whom I would gladly have spoken, had chance thrown her in my way, and from whom it was hoped something important might be elicited.”
“She is my housekeeper now,” said Lady Alice.
“Oh! and— “
“I think she’s a sensible person; a respectable person, I believe, in her rank of life, although they chose to talk scandal about her; as what young woman who lived in the same house with that vile old man, Sir Harry Marlowe, could escape scandal? But, poor thing! there was no evidence that ever I could learn; nothing but lies and envy: and she has been a very faithful servant to the family.”
“And is now in your employment, madam?”
“My housekeeper at Wardlock,” responded Lady Alice.
“Residing there now?” inquired M. Varbarriere.
Lady Alice nodded assent.
I know not by what subtle evidences, hard to define, seldom if ever remembered, we sometimes come to a knowledge, by what seems an intuition, of other people’s intentions. M. Varbarriere was as silent as Lady Alice was; his heavy bronzed features were still, and he looking down on one of those exquisite wreaths of flowers that made the pattern of the carpet; his brown, fattish hands were folded in his lap. He was an image of an indolent reverie.
Perhaps there was something special and sinister in the composure of those large features. Lady Alice’s eye rested on his face, and instantly a fear smote her. She would have liked to shake him by the arm, and cry, “In God’s name, do you mean us any harm?” But it is not permitted even to old ladies such as she to explode in adjuration, and shake up old gentlemen whose countenances may happen to strike them unpleasantly.
As people like to dispel an omen, old Lady Alice wished to disturb the unpleasant pose and shadows of those features. So she spoke to him, and he looked up like his accustomed self.
“You mentioned Mr. Herbert Strangways just now, Monsieur. I forget what relation you said he is to the young gentleman who accompanies you, Mr. Guy Strangways.”
“Uncle, madam.”
“And, pray, does he perceive — did he ever mention a most astonishing likeness in that young person to my poor son?”
“He has observed a likeness, madam, but never seemed to think it by any means so striking as you describe it. Your being so much moved by it has surprised me.”
Here Lady Alice’s old eyes wandered toward the spot where Guy Strangways stood, resting them but a moment; every time she looked so at him, this melancholy likeness struck her with a new force. She sighed and shuddered, and removed her eyes. On looking again at M. Varbarriere, she saw the same slightly truculent shadow over his features, as again he looked drowsily upon the carpet.
She had spent nearly a quarter of a century in impressing her limited audience with the idea that if there were thunderbolts in heaven they ought to fall upon Sir Jekyl Marlowe. Yet, now that she saw in that face something like an evil dream, a promise of judgment coming, a feeling of compunction and fear agitated her.
