CHAPTER XXII
How Everything went on
"Go down, dear, to your company," resumed Lady Alice, sadly; "they will miss you. And tell your father, when he comes to the drawing-room, I wish to see him, and won't detain him long."
So they parted, and a little later Sir Jekyl arrived with a knock at the old lady's bed-room door.
"Come in – oh! yes – Jekyl – well, I've only a word to say. Sit down a moment at the bedside."
"And how do you feel now, you dear old soul?" inquired the Baronet, cheerfully. He looked strong and florid, as gentleman do after dinner, with a genial air of contentment, and a fragrance of his wonderful sherry about him; all which seemed somehow brutal to the nervous old lady.
"Wonderfully, considering the surprise you had prepared for me, and which might as well have killed me as not," she made answer.
"I know, to be sure – Strangways, you mean. Egad! I forgot. Trixie ought to have told you."
"You ought to have told me. I don't think I should have come here, Jekyl, had I known it."
"If I had known that," thought Sir Jekyl, with a regretful pang, "I'd have made a point of telling you." But he said aloud —
"Yes. It was a sottise; but I've got over the likeness so completely that I forgot how it agitated you. But I ought to tell you they have no connexion with the family – none in the world. Pelter and Crowe, you know – devilish sharp dogs – my lawyers in town – they are regular detectives, by Jove! and know everything – and particularly have had for years a steady eye upon them and their movements; and I have had a most decided letter from them, assuring me that there has not been the slightest movement in that quarter, and therefore there is, absolutely, as I told you from the first, nothing in it."
"And what Deverells are now living?" inquired the old lady, very pale.
"Two first cousins, they tell me – old fellows now; and one of them has a son or two; but not one called Guy, and none answering this description, you see; and neither have a shadow of a claim, or ever pretended; and as for that unfortunate accident – "
"Pray spare me," said the old lady, grimly.
"Well, they did not care a brass farthing about the poor fellow, so they would never move to give me trouble in that matter; and, in fact, people never do stir in law, and put themselves to serious expense, purely for a sentiment – even a bad one."
"I remember some years ago you were very much alarmed, Jekyl."
"No, I was not. Who the plague says that? There's nothing, thank Heaven, I need fear. One does not like to be worried with lawsuits – that's all – though there is and can be no real danger in them."
"And was it from these cousins you apprehended lawsuits?" inquired Lady Alice.
"No, not exactly – no, not at all. I believe that fellow Strangways – that fellow that used to live on poor Guy – I fancy he was the mover of it – indeed I know he was."
"What did they proceed for?" asked the old lady. "You never told me – you are so secret, Jekyl."
"They did not proceed at all – how could I? Their attorneys had cases before counsel affecting me – that's all I ever heard; and they say now it was all Strangways' doing – that is, Pelter and Crowe say so. I wish I were secret."
Old Lady Alice here heaved a deep groan, and said, not with asperity, but with a fatigued abhorrence —
"Go away; I wonder I can bear you near me."
"Thank you very much," said the Baronet, rising, with one of his pleasant chuckles. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you here, and I know you'll be very glad to see me in the morning, when you are a little rested."
So he kissed the tips of his fingers and touched them playfully to the back of her thin hand, which she withdrew with a little frown, as if they chilled her. And by her direction he called in her maid, whom he asked very smilingly how she did, and welcomed to Marlowe; and she, though a little passé, having heard the fame of Sir Jekyl, and many stories of his brilliant adventures, was very modest and fluttered on the occasion. And with another little petting speech to Lady Alice, the radiant Baronet withdrew.
It is not to be supposed that Lady Alice's tremors communicated themselves to Beatrix. Was it possible to regard that handsome, refined young man, who spoke in that low, sweet voice, and smiled so intelligently, and talked so pleasantly, and with that delicate flavour of romance at times, in the light of a goblin?
The gentlemen had made their whist-party. The Rev. Dives Marlowe was chatting to, not with, Lady Jane, who sat listlessly on an ottoman. That elderly girl, Miss Blunket, with the naïve ways, the animated, smiling, and rather malevolent countenance, had secured little Linnett, who bore his imprisonment impatiently and wearily it must be owned. When Miss Blunket was enthusiastic it was all very well; but her playfulness was wicked, and her satire gaily vitriolic.
"Mr. Marlowe is fascinated, don't you think?" she inquired of harmless little Linnett, glancing with an arch flash of her fierce eyes at the Rev. Dives.
"She's awfully handsome," said Linnett, honestly.
"Oh, dear, you wicked creature, you can't think I meant that. She is some kind of cousin, I think – is not she? And her husband has that great living – what's its name? – and no relation in the Church; and Lady Jane, they say, rules him – and Sir Jekyl, some people say, rules her."
Linnett returned her arch glance with an honest stare of surprise.
"I had no idea of that, egad," said he.
"She thinks him so wise in all worldly matters, you know; and people in London fancied she would have been the second Lady Marlowe, if she had not met General Lennox just at a critical time, and fallen in love with him;" and as she said this she laughed.
"Really!" exclaimed Linnett; and he surveyed Lady Jane in this new light wonderingly.
"I really don't know; I heard it said merely; but very likely, you know, it is not true," she answered with an artless giggle.
"I knew you were quizzing – though, by Jove, you did sell me at first; but I really think Sir Jekyl's a little spoony on that pretty little Mrs. Maberly. Is she a widow?"
"Oh, dear, no – at least, not quite; she has a husband in India, but then, poor man, he's so little in the way she need hardly wish him dead."
"I see," said Linnett, looking at Mrs. Maberly with a grave interest.
While Miss Blunket was entertaining and instructing little Linnett with this sort of girlish chatter, and from the whist-table, between the deals, arose those critical discussions and reviews, relieved now and then by a joke from the Baronet, or from his partner, Colonel Doocey, at the piano, countenanced by old Lady Blunket, who had come to listen and remained to doze, Beatrix, her fingers still on the keys, was listening to young Strangways.
There are times, lights, accidents, under which your handsome young people become incredibly more handsome, and this Guy Strangways now shared in that translated glory, as he leaned on the back of a tall carved chair, sometimes speaking, sometimes listening.
"It is quite indescribable, Miss Marlowe, how your music interests me – I should say, haunts me. I thought at first it was because you loved ballad music, which I also love; but it is not that – it is something higher and more peculiar."
"I am sure you were right at first, for I know I am a very indifferent musician," said Beatrix, looking down under her long lashes on the keys over which the jewelled fingers of her right hand wandered with hardly a tinkle, just tracing dreamily one of those sweet melancholy airs which made in fancy an accompaniment to the music of that young fellow's words.
How beautiful she looked, too, with eyes lowered and parted lips, and that listening smile – not quite a smile – drinking in with a strange rapture of pride and softness the flatteries which she refused and yet invited.
"It is something higher and mysterious, which, perhaps, I shall never attempt to explain, unless, indeed, I should risk talking very wildly – too wildly for you to understand, or, if you did, perhaps – to forgive."
"You mentioned a Breton ballad you once heard," said Beatrix, frightened, as girls will sometimes become whenever the hero of their happy hours begins on a sudden to define.
"Yes," he said, and the danger of the crisis was over. "I wish so much I could remember the air, you would so enter into its character, and make its wild unfathomable melancholy so beautifully touching in your clear contralto."
"You must not flatter me; I want to hear more of that ballad."
"If flattery be to speak more highly than one thinks, who can flatter Miss Marlowe?" Again the crisis was menacing. "Besides, I did not tell you we are leaving, I believe, in a day or two, and on the eve of so near a departure, may I not improve the few happy moments that are left me, and be permitted the privilege of a leave-taking, to speak more frankly, and perhaps less wisely than one who is destined to be all his life a neighbour?"
"Papa, I am sure, will be very sorry to hear that you and Monsieur Varbarriere are thinking of going so soon; I must try, however, to improve the time, and hear all you can tell me of those interesting people of Brittany."
"Yes, they are. I will make them another visit – a sadder visit, Mademoiselle – for me a far more interesting one. You have taught me how to hear and see them. I never felt the spirit of Villemarque, or the romance and melancholy of that antique region, till I had the honour of knowing you."
"My friends always laughed at me about Brittany. I suppose different people are interested by different subjects; but I do not think anyone could read at all about that part of the world and not be fascinated. You promised to tell all you remember of that Breton ballad."
"Oh, yes; the haunted lady, the beautiful lady, the heiress of Carlowel, now such a grand ruin, became enamoured of a mysterious cavalier who wooed her; but he was something not of flesh and blood, but of the spirit world."
"There is exactly such a legend, so far, at least, of a castle on the Rhine. I must show it to you. Do you read German?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"And does the ballad end tragically?"
"Most tragically. You shall hear."
"Where are you, Guy?" in French, inquired a deep ringing voice.
And on the summons, Guy glanced over his shoulder, and replied.
"Oh," exclaimed the same voice, "I demand pardon. I am disturbing conversation, I fear; but an old man in want of assistance will be excused. I want my road book, Guy, and you have got it. Pray, run up-stairs and fetch it."
With great pleasure, of course, Guy Strangways ran up-stairs to tumble over block-books, letters, diaries, and the general residuum of a half-emptied valise.
Miss Beatrix played a spirited march, which awoke Lady Blunket, whom she had forgotten; and that interesting woman, to make up for lost time, entertained her with a history of the unreasonableness of Smidge, her maid, and a variety of other minute afflictions, which, she assured Beatrix seriously, disturbed her sleep.
CHAPTER XXIII
The Divan
That night Sir Jekyl led the gentlemen in a body to his outpost quarters, in the rear of civilisation, where they enjoyed their cigars, brandy and water, and even "swipes," prodigiously. It is a noble privilege to be so rich as Sir Jekyl Marlowe. The Jewish price for frankincense was thrice its own weight in gold. How much did that aromatic blue canopy that rolled dimly over this Turkish divan cost that off-handed Sybarite? How many scruples of fine gold were floating in that cloud?
Varbarriere was in his way charmed with his excursion. He enjoyed the jokes and stories of the younkers, and the satiric slang and imperturbable good-humour of their host. The twinkle of his eye, from its deep cavern, and the suavity of his solemn features, testified to his profound enjoyment of a meeting to which he contributed, it must be owned, for his own share, little but smoke.
In fact, he was very silent, very observant – observant of more things than the talk perhaps.
All sorts of things were talked about. Of course, no end of horse and dog anecdote – something of wine, something of tobacco, something of the beauties of the opera and the stage, and those sad visions, the fallen angelic of the demimonde – something, but only the froth and sparkle, of politics – light conjecture, and pungent scandal, in the spirit of gay satire and profligate comedy.
"He's a bad dog, St. Evermore. Did not you hear that about the duel?" said Drayton.
"What?" asked the Baronet, with an unconscious glance at Guy Strangways.
"He killed that French fool – what's his name? – unfairly, they say. There has been a letter or something in one of the Paris papers about it. Fired before his time, I think, and very ill feeling against the English in consequence."
"Oh!" said the Baronet.
"But you know," interposed Doocey, who was an older clubman than Drayton, and remembering further back, thought that sort of anecdote of the duel a little maladroit just then and there, "St. Evermore has been talked about a good deal; there were other things – that horse, you know; and they say, by Jove! he was licked by Tromboni, at the wings of the opera, for what he called insulting his wife; and Tromboni says he's a marquess, and devil knows what beside, at home, and wanted to fight, but St. Evermore wouldn't, and took his licking."
"He's not a nice fellow by any means; but he's devilish good company – lots of good stories and capital cigars," said Drayton.
At this point M. Varbarriere was seized with a fit of coughing; and Sir Jekyl glanced sharply at him; but no, he was not laughing.
The conversation proceeded agreeably, and some charming stories were told of Sir Paul Blunket, who was not present; and in less than an hour the party broke up and left Sir Jekyl to his solitary quarters.
The Baronet bid his last guest good-night at the threshold, and then shut his door and locked himself in. It was his custom, here, to sleep with his door locked.
"What was that fellow laughing at – Varbarriere? I'm certain he was laughing. I never saw a fellow with so completely the cut of a charlatan. I'll write to Charteris to-night. I must learn all about him."
Then Sir Jekyl yawned, and reflected what a fool Drayton was, what a fellow to talk, and what asses all fellows were at that age; and, being sleepy, he postponed his letter to Charteris to the next morning, and proceeded to undress.
Next morning was bright and pleasant, and he really did not see much good in writing the letter; and so he put it off to a more convenient time.
Shortly after the ladies had left the drawing-room for their bed-rooms, Beatrix, having looked in for a moment to her grandmamma's room, and, with a kiss and a good-night, taken wing again, there entered to Lady Alice, as the old plays express it, then composing herself for the night, Lady Jane's maid, with —
"Please, my lady, my lady wants to know if your ladyship knows where her ladyship's key may be?"
"What key?"
"The key of her bedchamber, please, my lady."
"Oh! the key of my dressing-room. Tell Lady Jane that I have got the key of the Window dressing-room, and mean to keep it," replied the old lady, firmly.
The maid executed a courtesy, and departed; and Lady Alice sank back again upon her pillow, with her eyes and mouth firmly closed, and the countenance of an old lady who is conscious of having done her duty upon one of her sex.
About two minutes later there came a rustle of a dressing-gown and the patter of a swift-slippered tread through the short passage from the dressing-room, and, without a knock, Lady Jane, with a brilliant flush on her face, ruffled into the room, and, with her head very high, and flashing eyes, demanded —
"Will you be so good, Lady Alice Redcliffe, as to give me the key of my bed-room?"
To which Lady Alice, without opening her eyes, and with her hands mildly clasped, in the fashion of a mediæval monument, over her breast, meekly and firmly made answer —
"If you mean the key of the Window dressing-room, Jane, I have already told your maid that I mean to keep it!"
"And I'll not leave the room till I get it," cried Lady Jane, standing fiercely beside the monument.
"Then you'll not leave the room to-night, Jane," replied the statuesque sufferer on the bed.
"We shall see that. Once more, will you give me my key or not?"
"The key of my dressing-room door is in my possession, and I mean to keep it," repeated the old lady, with a provoking mildness.
"You shan't, madam – you'll do no such thing. You shall give up the key you have stolen. I'll lose my life but I'll make you."
"Jane, Jane," said the old lady, "you are sadly changed for the worse since last I saw you."
"And if you're not, it's only because there was no room for it. Sadly changed indeed – very true. I don't suffer you to bully me as you used at Wardlock."
"May Heaven forgive and pardon you!" ejaculated the old lady, with great severity, rising perpendicularly and raising both her eyes and hands.
"Keep your prayers for yourself, madam, and give me my key," demanded the incensed young lady.
"I'll do no such thing; I'll do as I said; and I'll pray how I please, ma'am," retorted the suppliant, fiercely.
"Your prayers don't signify twopence. You've the temper of a fiend, as all the world knows; and no one can live in the same house with you," rejoined Lady Jane.
"That's a wicked lie: my servants live all their days with me."
"Because they know no one else would take them. But you've the temper of a fury. You haven't a friend left, and everyone hates you."
"Oh! oh! oh!" moaned Lady Alice, sinking back, with her hand pressed to her heart piteously, and closing her eyes, as she recollected how ill she was.
"Ho! dear me!" exclaimed Lady Jane, in high disdain. "Had not you better restore my key before you die, old lady?"
"Jane!" exclaimed Lady Alice, recovering in an instant, "have you no feeling – you know the state I'm in; and you're bent on killing me with your unfeeling brutality?"
"You're perfectly well, ma'am, and you look it. I wish I was half as strong; you oblige me to come all this way, this bitter night, you odious old woman."
"I see how it is, and why you want the key. A very little more, and I'll write to General Lennox."
"Do; and he'll horsewhip you."
Lady Jane herself was a little stunned at this speech, when she heard it from her own lips; and I think would have recalled it.
"Thank you, Jane; I hope you'll remember that. Horsewhip me! No doubt you wish it; but General Lennox is a gentleman, I hope, although he has married you; and I don't suppose he would murder a miserable old woman to gratify you."
"You know perfectly what I mean – if you were a man he would horsewhip you; you have done nothing but insult me ever since you entered this house."
"Thank you; it's quite plain. I shan't forget it. I'll ask him, when he comes, whether he's in the habit of beating women. It is not usual, I believe, among British officers. It usen't at least; but everything's getting on – young ladies, and, I suppose, old men – all getting on famously."
"Give me my key, if you please; and cease talking like a fool," cried Lady Jane.
"And what do you want of that key? Come, now, young lady, what is it?"
"I don't choose to have my door lie open, and I won't. I've no bolt to the inside, and I will have my key, madam."
"If that's your object, set your mind at ease. I'll lock your door myself when you have got to your bed."
"So that if the house takes fire I shall be burnt to death!"
"Pooh! nonsense!"
"And if I am they'll hang you, I hope."
"Thank you. Flogged and hanged!" And Lady Alice laughed an exceeding bitter laugh. "But the wicked violence of your language and menaces shan't deter me from the duty I've prescribed to myself. I'll define my reasons if you like, and I'll write as soon as you please to General Lennox."
"I think you're mad– I do, I assure you. I'll endure it for once, but depend on it I'll complain to Sir Jekyl Marlowe, in my husband's absence, in the morning; and if this sort of thing is to go on, I had better leave the house forthwith – that's all."
And having uttered these dignified sentences with becoming emphasis, she sailed luridly away.
"Good-night, Jane," said Lady Alice, with a dry serenity.
"Don't dare, you insupportable old woman, to wish me good-night," burst out Lady Jane, whisking round at the threshold.
With which speech, having paused for a moment in defiance, she disappeared, leaving the door wide open, which is, perhaps, as annoying as clapping it, and less vulgar.