CHAPTER XXVII. MR. DEXTER AT HOME.
I FOUND all the idle boys in the neighborhood collected around thepony-chaise, expressing, in the occult language of slang, their highenjoyment and appreciation at the appearance of "Ariel" in her man'sjacket and hat. The pony was fidgety--_he_ felt the influence of thepopular uproar. His driver sat, whip in hand, magnificentlyimpenetrable to the gibes and jests that were flying around her. I said"Good-morning" on getting into the chaise. Ariel only said "Gee up!" andstarted the pony.
I made up my mind to perform the journey to the distant northern suburbin silence. It was evidently useless for me to attempt to speak, andexperience informed me that I need not expect to hear a word fall fromthe lips of my companion. Experience, however, is not always infallible.After driving for half an hour in stolid silence, Ariel astounded me bysuddenly bursting into speech.
"Do you know what we are coming to?" she asked, keeping her eyesstraight between the pony's ears.
"No," I answered. "I don't know the road. What are we coming to?"
"We are coming to a canal."
"Well?"
"Well, I have half a mind to upset you in the canal."
This formidable announcement appeared to require some explanation. Itook the liberty of asking for it.
"Why should you upset me?" I inquired.
"Because I hate you," was the cool and candid reply.
"What have I done to offend you?" I asked next.
"What do you want with the Master?" Ariel asked, in her turn.
"Do you mean Mr. Dexter?"
"Yes."
"I want to have some talk with Mr. Dexter."
"You don't! You want to take my place. You want to brush his hair andoil his beard, instead of me. You wretch!"
I now began to understand. The idea which Miserrimus Dexter hadjestingly put into her head, in exhibiting her to us on the previousnight, had been ripening slowly in that dull brain, and had foundits way outward into words, about fifteen hours afterward, under theirritating influence of my presence!
"I don't want to touch his hair or his beard," I said. "I leave thatentirely to you."
She looked around at me, her fat face flushing, her dull eyes dilating,with the unaccustomed effort to express herself in speech, and tounderstand what was said to her in return.
"Say that again," she burst out. "And say it slower this time."
I said it again, and I said it slower.
"Swear it!" she cried, getting more and more excited.
I preserved my gravity (the canal was just visible in the distance), andswore it.
"Are you satisfied now?" I asked.
There was no answer. Her last resources of speech were exhausted. Thestrange creature looked back again straight between the pony's ears,emitted hoarsely a grunt of relief, and never more looked at me, nevermore spoke to me, for the rest of the journey. We drove past the banksof the canal, and I escaped immersion. We rattled, in our jinglinglittle vehicle, through the streets and across the waste patches ofground, which I dimly remembered in the darkness, and which looked moresqualid and more hideous than ever in the broad daylight. The chaiseturned down a lane, too narrow for the passage of any larger vehicle, andstopped at a wall and a gate that were new objects to me. Opening thegate with her key, and leading the pony, Ariel introduced me to the backgarden and yard of Miserrimus Dexter's rotten and rambling old house.The pony walked off independently to his stable, with the chaise behindhim. My silent companion led me through a bleak and barren kitchen, andalong a stone passage. Opening a door at the end, she admitted me to theback of the hall, into which Mrs. Macallan and I had penetrated by thefront entrance to the house. Here Ariel lifted a whistle which hungaround her neck, and blew the shrill trilling notes with the soundof which I was already familiar as the means of communication betweenMiserrimus Dexter and his slave. The whistling over, the slave'sunwilling lips struggled into speech for the last time.
"Wait till you hear the Master's whistle," she said; "then go upstairs."
So! I was to be whistled for like a dog! And, worse still, there wasno help for it but to submit like a dog. Had Ariel any excuses to make?Nothing of the sort.
She turned her shapeless back on me and vanished into the kitchen regionof the house.
After waiting for a minute or two, and hearing no signal from the floorabove, I advanced into the broader and brighter part of the hall, tolook by daylight at the pictures which I had only imperfectly discoveredin the darkness of the night. A painted inscription in many colors,just under the cornice of the ceiling, informed me that the works on thewalls were the production of the all-accomplished Dexter himself. Notsatisfied with being poet and composer, he was painter as well. On onewall the subjects were described as "Illustrations of the Passions;"on the other, as "Episodes in the Life of the Wandering Jew."Chance speculators like myself were gravely warned, by means of theinscription, to view the pictures as efforts of pure imagination."Persons who look for mere Nature in works of Art" (the inscriptionannounced) "are persons to whom Mr. Dexter does not address himself withthe brush. He relies entirely on his imagination. Nature puts him out."
Taking due care to dismiss all ideas of Nature from my mind, to beginwith, I looked at the pictures which represented the Passions first.
Little as I knew critically of Art, I could see that Miserrimus Dexterknew still less of the rules of drawing, color, and composition. Hispictures were, in the strictest meaning of that expressive word, Daubs.The diseased and riotous delight of the painter in representingHorrors was (with certain exceptions to be hereafter mentioned) the oneremarkable quality that I could discover in the series of his works.
The first of the Passion pictures illustrated Revenge. A corpse, infancy costume, lay on the bank of a foaming river, under the shade of agiant tree. An infuriated man, also in fancy costume, stood astride overthe dead body, with his sword lifted to the lowering sky, and watched,with a horrid expression of delight, the blood of the man whom he hadjust killed dripping slowly in a procession of big red drops down thebroad blade of his weapon. The next picture illustrated Cruelty, in manycompartments. In one I saw a disemboweled horse savagely spurred onby his rider at a bull-fight. In another, an aged philosopher wasdissecting a living cat, and gloating over his work. In a third, twopagans politely congratulated each other on the torture of two saints:one saint was roasting on a grid-iron; the other, hung up to a tree byhis heels, had been just skinned, and was not quite dead yet. Feelingno great desire, after these specimens, to look at any more of theillustrated Passions, I turned to the opposite wall to be instructed inthe career of the Wandering Jew. Here a second inscription informed methat the painter considered the Flying Dutchman to be no other thanthe Wandering Jew, pursuing his interminable Journey by sea. The marineadventures of this mysterious personage were the adventures chosen forrepresentation by Dexter's brush. The first picture showed me a harboron a rocky coast. A vessel was at anchor, with the helmsman singing onthe deck. The sea in the offing was black and rolling; thunder-cloudslay low on the horizon, split by broad flashes of lightning. In theglare of the lightning, heaving and pitching, appeared the misty formof the Phantom Ship approaching the shore. In this work, badly as it waspainted, there were really signs of a powerful imagination, and evenof a poetical feeling for the supernatural. The next picture showed thePhantom Ship, moored (to the horror and astonishment of the helmsman)behind the earthly vessel in the harbor. The Jew had stepped on shore.His boat was on the beach. His crew--little men with stony, white faces,dressed in funeral black--sat in silent rows on the seats of the boat,with their oars in their lean, long hands. The Jew, also a black, stoodwith his eyes and hands raised imploringly to the thunderous heaven.The wild creatures of land and sea--the tiger, the rhinoceros, thecrocodile, the sea-serpent, the shark, and the devil-fish--surroundedthe accursed Wanderer in a mystic circle, daunted and fascinated at thesight of him. The lightning was gone. The sky and sea had darkened toa great black blank. A faint and lurid light
lighted the scene, fallingdownward from a torch, brandished by an avenging Spirit that hoveredover the Jew on outspread vulture wings. Wild as the picture might bein its conception, there was a suggestive power in it which I confessstrongly impressed me. The mysterious silence in the house, and mystrange position at the moment, no doubt had their effect on my mind.While I was still looking at the ghastly composition before me, theshrill trilling sound of the whistle upstairs burst on the stillness.For the moment my nerves were so completely upset that I started with acry of alarm. I felt a momentary impulse to open the door and run out.The idea of trusting myself alone with the man who had painted thosefrightful pictures actually terrified me; I was obliged to sit down onone of the hall chairs. Some minutes passed before my mind recoveredits balance, and I began to feel like my own ordinary self again. Thewhistle sounded impatiently for the second time. I rose and ascended thebroad flight of stairs which led to the first story. To draw back at thepoint which I had now reached would have utterly degraded me in my ownestimation. Still, my heart did certainly beat faster than usual as Iapproached the door of the circular anteroom; and I honestly acknowledgethat I saw my own imprudence, just then, in a singularly vivid light.
There was a glass over the mantel-piece in the anteroom. I lingered fora moment (nervous as I was) to see how I looked in the glass.
The hanging tapestry over the inner door had been left partially drawnaside. Softly as I moved, the dog's ears of Miserrimus Dexter caught thesound of my dress on the floor. The fine tenor voice, which I had lastheard singing, called to me softly.
"Is that Mrs. Valeria? Please don't wait there. Come in!"
I entered the inner room.
The wheeled chair advanced to meet me, so slowly and so softly that Ihardly knew it again. Miserrimus Dexter languidly held out his hand. Hishead inclined pensively to one side; his large blue eyes looked atme piteously. Not a vestige seemed to be left of the raging, shoutingcreature of my first visit, who was Napoleon at one moment, andShakespeare at another. Mr. Dexter of the morning was a mild,thoughtful, melancholy man, who only recalled Mr. Dexter of the night bythe inveterate oddity of his dress. His jacket, on this occasion, wasof pink quilted silk. The coverlet which hid his deformity matched thejacket in pale sea-green satin; and, to complete these strange vagariesof costume, his wrists were actually adorned with massive bracelets ofgold, formed on the severely simple models which have descended to usfrom ancient times.
"How good of you to cheer and charm me by coming here!" he said, in hismost mournful and most musical tones. "I have dressed, expressly toreceive you, in the prettiest clothes I have. Don't be surprised. Exceptin this ignoble and material nineteenth century, men have always wornprecious stuffs and beautiful colors as well as women. A hundred yearsago a gentleman in pink silk was a gentleman properly dressed. Fifteenhundred years ago the patricians of the classic times wore braceletsexactly like mine. I despise the brutish contempt for beauty and themean dread of expense which degrade a gentleman's costume to blackcloth, and limit a gentleman's ornaments to a finger-ring, in the age Ilive in. I like to be bright and I beautiful, especially when brightnessand beauty come to see me. You don't know how precious your societyis to me. This is one of my melancholy days. Tears rise unbidden to myeyes. I sigh and sorrow over myself; I languish for pity. Just think ofwhat I am! A poor solitary creature, cursed with a frightful deformity.How pitiable! how dreadful! My affectionate heart--wasted. Myextraordinary talents--useless or misapplied. Sad! sad! sad! Please pityme."
His eyes were positively filled with tears--tears of compassion forhimself! He looked at me and spoke to me with the wailing, querulousentreaty of a sick child wanting to be nursed. I was utterly at aloss what to do. It was perfectly ridiculous--but I was never moreembarrassed in my life.
"Please pity me!" he repeated. "Don't be cruel. I only ask a littlething. Pretty Mrs. Valeria, say you pity me!"
I said I pitied him--and I felt that I blushed as I did it.
"Thank you," said Miserrimus Dexter, humbly. "It does me good. Go alittle further. Pat my hand."
I tried to restrain myself; but the sense of the absurdity of this lastpetition (quite gravely addressed to me, remember!) was too strong to becontrolled. I burst out laughing.
Miserrimus Dexter looked at me with a blank astonishment which onlyincreased my merriment. Had I offended him? Apparently not. Recoveringfrom his astonishment, he laid his head luxuriously on the back of hischair, with the expression of a man who was listening critically to aperformance of some sort. When I had quite exhausted myself, he raisedhis head and clapped his shapely white hands, and honored me with an"encore."
"Do it again," he said, still in the same childish way. "Merry Mrs.Valeria, _you_ have a musical laugh--_I_ have a musical ear. Do itagain."
I was serious enough by this time. "I am ashamed of myself, Mr. Dexter,"I said. "Pray forgive me."
He made no answer to this; I doubt if he heard me. His variable temperappeared to be in course of undergoing some new change. He sat lookingat my dress (as I supposed) with a steady and anxious attention, gravelyforming his own conclusions, steadfastly pursuing his own train ofthought.
"Mrs. Valeria," he burst out suddenly, "you are not comfortable in thatchair."
"Pardon me," I replied; "I am quite comfortable."
"Pardon _me,_" he rejoined. "There is a chair of Indian basket-work atthat end of the room which is much better suited to you. Will you acceptmy apologies if I am rude enough to allow you to fetch it for yourself?I have a reason."
He had a reason! What new piece of eccentricity was he about to exhibit?I rose and fetched the chair. It was light enough to be quite easilycarried. As I returned to him, I noticed that his eyes were strangelyemployed in what seemed to be the closest scrutiny of my dress. And,stranger still, the result of this appeared to be partly to interest andpartly to distress him.
I placed the chair near him, and was about to take my seat in it, whenhe sent me back again, on another errand, to the end of the room.
"Oblige me indescribably," he said. "There is a hand-screen hanging onthe wall, which matches the chair. We are rather near the fire here. Youmay find the screen useful. Once more forgive me for letting you fetchit for yourself. Once more let me assure you that I have a reason."
Here was his "reason," reiterated, emphatically reiterated, for thesecond time! Curiosity made me as completely the obedient servant of hiscaprices as Ariel herself. I fetched the hand-screen. Returning with it,I met his eyes still fixed with the same incomprehensible attention onmy perfectly plain and unpretending dress, and still expressing the samecurious mixture of interest and regret.
"Thank you a thousand times," he said. "You have (quite innocently)wrung my heart. But you have not the less done me an inestimablekindness. Will you promise not to be offended with me if I confess thetruth?"
He was approaching his explanation I never gave a promise more readilyin my life.
"I have rudely allowed you to fetch your chair and your screen foryourself," he went on. "My motive will seem a very strange one, Iam afraid. Did you observe that I noticed you very attentively--tooattentively, perhaps?"
"Yes," I said. "I thought you were noticing my dress."
He shook his head, and sighed bitterly.
"Not your dress," he said; "and not your face. Your dress is dark. Yourface is still strange to me. Dear Mrs. Valeria, I wanted to see youwalk."
To see me walk! What did he mean? Where was that erratic mind of hiswandering to now?
"You have a rare accomplishment for an Englishwoman," he resumed--"youwalk well. _She_ walked well. I couldn't resist the temptation of seeingher again, in seeing you. It was _her_ movement, _her_ sweet, simple,unsought grace (not yours), when you walked to the end of the room andreturned to me. You raised her from the dead when you fetched the chairand the screen. Pardon me for making use of you: the idea was innocent,the motive was sacred. You have distressed--and delighted me. My heartbleeds--and thanks you."
He paused for a moment; he let his head droop on his breast, thensuddenly raised it again.
"Surely we were talking about her last night?" he said. "What did I say?what did you say? My memory is confused; I half remember, half forget.Please remind me. You're not offended with me--are you?"
I might have been offended with another man. Not with him. I was far tooanxious to find my way into his confidence--now that he had touched ofhis own accord on the subject of Eustace's first wife--to be offendedwith Miserrimus Dexter.
"We were speaking," I answered, "of Mrs. Eustace Macallan's death, andwe were saying to one another--"
He interrupted me, leaning forward eagerly in his chair.
"Yes! yes!" he exclaimed. "And I was wondering what interest _you_ couldhave in penetrating the mystery of her death. Tell me! Confide in me! Iam dying to know!"
"Not even you have a stronger interest in that subject than the interestthat I feel," I said. "The happiness of my whole life to come depends onmy clearing up the mystery."
"Good God--why?" he cried. "Stop! I am exciting myself. I mustn't dothat. I must have all my wits about me; I mustn't wander. The thing istoo serious. Wait a minute!"
An elegant little basket was hooked on to one of the arms of his chair.He opened it, and drew out a strip of embroidery partially finished,with the necessary materials for working, a complete. We looked at eachother across the embroidery. He noticed my surprise.
"Women," he said, "wisely compose their minds, and help themselves tothink quietly, by doing needle-work. Why are men such fools as todeny themselves the same admirable resource--the simple and soothingoccupation which keeps the nerves steady and leaves the mind calm andfree? As a man, I follow the woman's wise example. Mrs. Valeria, permitme to compose myself."
Gravely arranging his embroidery, this extraordinary being began to workwith the patient and nimble dexterity of an accomplished needle-woman.
"Now," said Miserrimus Dexter, "if you are ready, I am. You talk--Iwork. Please begin."
I obeyed him, and began.
The Law and the Lady Page 27
