She looked over his stooping shoulders and saw pretty Beatrix leaning on the back of her father’s chair, the young lady pleading gaily for some concession, Sir Jekyl laughing her off.
“How pretty she looks tonight — poor Trixie!” said Lady Alice, unconsciously.
M. Varbarriere raised his head, and looked, directed by her gaze, toward father and daughter. But his countenance did not brighten. On the contrary, it grew rather darker, and he looked another way, as if the sight offended him.
“Pretty creature she is — pretty Beatrix!” exclaimed the old lady, looking sadly and fondly across at her.
No response was vouchsafed by M. Varbarriere.
“Don’t you think so? Don’t you think my granddaughter very lovely?”
Thus directly appealed to, M. Varbarriere conceded the point, but not with effusion.
“Yes, Mademoiselle is charming — she is very charming — but I am not a critic. I have come to that time of life, Lady Alice, at which our admiration of mere youth, with its smooth soft skin and fresh tints, supersedes our appreciation of beauty.”
In making this unsatisfactory compliment, he threw but one careless glance at Beatrix.
“That girl, you know, is heiress of all this — nothing but the title goes to Dives, and the small estate of Grimalston,” said Lady Alice. “Of course I love my grandchild, but it always seems to me wrong to strip a title of its support, and send down the estates by a different line.”
“Miss Beatrix Marlowe has a great deal too much for her own happiness. It is a disproportioned fortune, and in a young lady so sensible will awake suspicions of all her suitors. ‘You are at my feet, sir,’ she will think, ‘but is your worship inspired by love or by avarice?’ She is in the situation of that prince who turned all he touched into gold; while it feeds the love of money, it starves nature.”
“I don’t think it has troubled her head much as yet. If she had no dot whatever, she could not be less conscious,” said the old lady.
“Some people might go through life and never feel it; and even of those who do, I doubt if there is one who would voluntarily surrender the consequence or the power of exorbitant wealth for the speculative blessing of friends and lovers more sincere. I could quite fancy, notwithstanding, a lady, either wise or sensitive, choosing a life of celibacy in preference to marriage under conditions so suspicious. Miss Marlowe would be a happier woman with only four or five hundred pounds a-year.”
“Well, maybe so,” said the old lady, dubiously, for she knew something of the world as well as of the affections.
“She will not, most likely, give it away; but if it were taken, she would be happier. Few people have nerve for an operation, and yet many are the more comfortable when it is performed.”
“Beatrix has only been out one season, and that but interruptedly. She has been very much admired, though, and I have no doubt will be very suitably married.”
“There are disadvantages, however.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lady Alice, a little stiffly.
“I mean the tragedy in which Sir Jekyl is implicated,” said M. Varbarriere, rising, and looking, without intending it, so sternly at Lady Alice, that she winced under it.
“Yes, to be sure, but you know the world does not mind that — the world does not choose to believe ill of fortune’s minions — at least, to remember it. A few oldfashioned people view it as you and I do; but Jekyl stands very well. It is a wicked world, Monsieur Varbarriere.”
“It is not for me to say. Every man has profited, more or less, at one time or another, by its leniency. Perhaps I feel in this particular case more strongly than others; but, notwithstanding the superior rank, wealth, and family of Sir Jekyl Marlowe, I should not, were I his equal, like to be tied to him by a close family connexion.”
Lady Alice did not feel anger, nor was she pleased. She did not look down abashed at discovering that this stranger seemed to resent on so much higher ground than she the death of her son. She compressed her thin lips, looking a little beside the stern gentleman in black, at a distant point on the wall, and appeared to reflect.
* * *
CHAPTER XXXI.
Lady Jane puts on her Brilliants.
That evening, by the late post, had arrived a letter, in old General Lennox’s hand, to his wife. It had come at dinner-time, and it was with a feeling of ennui she read the address. It was one of those billets which, in Swift’s phrase, would “have kept cool;” but, subsiding on the ottoman, she opened it — conjugal relations demanded this attention; and Lady Jane, thinking “what a hand he writes!” ran her eye lazily down those crabbed pages in search of a date to light her to the passage where he announced his return; but there was none, so far as she saw.
“What’s all this about? ‘Masterson, the silkmercer at Marlowe — a very’ — something— ‘fellow — honest.’ Yes, that’s the word. So he may be, but I shan’t buy his horrid trash, if that’s what you mean,” said she, crumpling up the stupid old letter, and leaning back, not in the sweetest temper, and with a sidelong glance of lazy defiance through her half-closed lashes, at the unconscious Lady Alice.
And now arrived a sleek-voiced servant, who, bowing beside Lady Jane, informed her gently that Mr. Masterson had arrived with the parcel for her ladyship.
“The parcel! what parcel?”
“I’m not aware, my lady.”
“Tell him to give it to my maid. Ridiculous rubbish!” murmured Lady Jane, serenely.
But the man returned.
“Mr. Masterson’s direction from the General, please, my lady, was to give the parcel into your own hands.”
“Where is he?” inquired Lady Jane, rising with a lofty fierceness.
“In the small breakfast-parlour, my lady.”
“Show me the way, please.”
When Lady Jane Lennox arrived she found Mr. Masterson cloaked and muffled, as though off a journey, and he explained, that having met General Lennox yesterday accidentally in Oxford Street, in London, from whence he had only just returned, he had asked him to take charge of a parcel, to be delivered into her ladyship’s own hands, where, accordingly, he now placed it.
Lady Jane did not thank him; she was rather conscious of herself conferring a favour by accepting anything at his hands; and when he was gone she called her maid, and having reached her room and lighted her candles, she found a very beautiful set of diamonds.
“Why, these are really superb, beautiful brilliants!” exclaimed the handsome young lady. The cloud had quite passed away, and a beautiful light glowed on her features.
Forthwith to the glass she went, in a charming excitement.
“Light all the candles you can find!” she exclaimed.
“Well, my eyes, but them is beautiful, my lady!” ejaculated the maid, staring with a smirk, and feeling that at such a moment she might talk a little, without risk, which, indeed, was true.
So with bedroom and dressing-table candles, and a pair purloined even from old Lady Alice’s room, a tolerably satisfactory illumination was got up, and the jewels did certainly look dazzling.
The pendants flashed in her ears — the exquisite collar round her beautiful throat — the tiara streamed livid fire over her low Venus-like forehead, and her eager eyes and parted lips expressed her almost childlike delight.
There are silver bullets against charmed lives. There are women from whose snowy breasts the fire-tipped shafts of Cupid fall quenched and broken; and yet a handful of these brilliant pellets will find their way through that wintry whiteness, and lie lodged in her bleeding heart.
After I know not how long a time spent before the glass, it suddenly struck Lady Jane to inquire of the crumpled letter, in which the name of Masterson figured, and of whose contents she knew, in fact, nothing, but that they named no day for the General’s return. She had grown curious as to who the donor might be. Were those jewels a gift from the General’s rich old sister, who had a splendid suit, she had heard, which she would never
put on again? Had they come as a bequest? How was it, and whose were they?
And now with these flashing gems still dangling so prettily in her ears, and spanning her white throat, as she still stood before the glass, she applied herself to spell out her General’s meaning in better temper than for a long time she had read one of that gallant foozle’s kindly and honest rigmaroles. At first the process was often interrupted by those glances at the mirror which it is impossible under ordinary circumstances to withhold; but as her interest deepened she drew the candle nearer, and read very diligently the stiffly written lines before her.
They showed her that the magnificent present was from himself alone. I should be afraid to guess how many thousand pounds had been lavished upon those jewels. An uxorious fogey — a wicked old fool — perhaps we, outside the domestic circle, may pronounce him. Lady Jane within that magic ring saw differently.
The brief, blunt, soldier-like affection that accompanied this magnificent present, and the mention of a little settlement of the jewels, which made them absolutely hers in case her “old man” should die, and the little conjecture “I wonder whether you would sometimes miss him?” smote her heart strangely.
“What a gentleman — what an old darling!” — and she — how heinously had she requited his manly but foolish adoration.
“I’ll write to him this moment,” she said, quite pale.
And she took the casket in her hands and laid it on her bed, and sat down on the side of it, and trembled very much, and suddenly burst into tears, insomuch that her maid was startled, and yielding forthwith to her sympathy, largely leavened with curiosity, she came and stood by her and administered such consolation as people will who know nothing of your particular grief, and like, perhaps, to discover its causes.
But after a while her mistress asked her impatiently what she meant, and, to her indignation and surprise, ordered her out of the room.
“I wish he had not been so good to me. I wish he had ever been unkind to me. I wish he would beat me, Good Heaven! is it all a dream?”
So, quite alone, with one flashing pendant in her ear, with the necklace still on — incoherently, wildly, and affrighted — raved Lady Jane, with a face hectic and wet with tears.
Things appeared to her all on a sudden, quite in a new character, as persons suddenly called on to leave life, see their own doings as they never beheld them before; so with a shock, and an awakening, tumbled about her the whole structure of her illusions, and a dreadful void with a black perspective for the first time opened round her.
She did not return to the drawingroom. When Beatrix, fearing she might be ill, knocked at the door of the green chamber, and heard from the far extremity Lady Jane’s clear voice call “Come in,” she entered. She found her lying in her clothes, with the counterpane thrown partially over her, upon the funereal-looking old bed, whose dark green curtains depended nearly from the ceiling.
“Well!” exclaimed Lady Jane, almost fiercely, rising to her elbow, and staring at Beatrix.
“I — you told me to come in. I’m afraid I mistook.”
“Did I? I dare say. I thought it was my maid. I’ve got such a bad headache.”
“I’m very sorry. Can I do anything?”
“No, Beatrix — no, thank you; it will go away of itself.”
“I wish so much, Lady Jane, you would allow me to do anything for you. I — I sometimes fear I have offended you. You seemed to like me, I thought, when I saw you this spring in London, and I’ve been trying to think how I have displeased you.”
“Displeased me! you displease me! Oh! Beatrix, Beatrix, dear, you don’t know, you can never know. I — it is a feeling of disgust and despair. I hate myself, and I’m frightened and miserable, and I wish I dare cling to you.”
She looked for a moment as if she would have liked to embrace her, but she turned away and buried her face in her pillow.
“Dear Lady Jane, you must not be so agitated. You certainly are not well,” said Beatrix, close to the bedside, and really a good deal frightened. “Have you heard — I hope you have not — any ill news?”
If Lady Jane had been dead she could not have seemed to hear her less.
“I hope General Lennox is not ill?” inquired she timidly.
“Ill? No — I don’t know; he’s very well. I hope he’s very well. I hope he is; and — and I know what I wish for myself.”
Beatrix knew what her grandmamma thought of Lady Jane’s violence and temper, and she began to think that something must have happened to ruffle it that evening.
“I wish you’d go, dear, you can do nothing for me,” said Lady Jane, ungraciously, with a sudden and sombre change of manner.
“Well, dear Lady Jane, if you think of anything I can do for you, pray send for me; by-and-by you might like me to come and read to you; and would you like me to send your maid?”
“Oh! no — no, no, no — nothing — goodnight,” repeated Lady Jane, impatiently.
So Beatrix departed, and Lady Jane remained alone in the vast chamber, much more alone than one would be in a smaller one.
* * *
CHAPTER XXXII.
Conciliation.
That night again, old Lady Alice, just settling, and having actually swallowed her drops, was disturbed by a visit from Lady Jane, who stood by her dishevelled, flushed, and with that storm-beaten look which weeping leaves behind it. She looked eager, even imploring, so that Lady Alice challenged her with —
“What on earth, Jane, brings you to my bedside at this hour of the night?”
“I’ve come to tell you, Lady Alice, that I believe I was wrong the other night to speak to you as I did.”
“I thought, Jane,” replied the old lady with dignity, “you would come to view your conduct in that light.”
“I thought you were right all the time; that is, I thought you meant kindly. I wished to tell you so,” said Lady Jane.
“I am glad, Jane, you can now speak with temper.”
“And I think you are the only person alive, except poor Lennox, who really cares for me.”
“I knew, Jane, that reflection and conscience would bring you to this form of mind,” said Lady Alice.
“And I think, when I come to say all this to you, you ought not to receive me so.”
“I meant to receive you kindly, Jane; one can’t always in a moment forget the pain and humiliation which such scenes produce. It will help me, however, your expressing your regret as you do.”
“Well, I believe I am a fool — I believe I deserve this kind of treatment for lowering myself as I have done. The idea of my coming in here, half dressed, to say all this, and being received in this — in this indescribable way!”
“If you don’t feel it, Jane, I’m sorry you should have expressed any sorrow for your misconduct,” replied Lady Alice, loftily.
“Sorrow, madam! I never said a word about sorrow. I said I thought you cared for me, and I don’t think so now. I am sure you don’t, and I care just as little for you, not a pin, madam, with your ridiculous airs.”
“Very good, dear — then I suppose you are quite satisfied with your former conduct?”
“Perfectly — of course I am, and if I had had a notion what kind of person you are I should not have come near you, I promise you.”
Lady Alice smiled a patient smile, which somehow rather provoked the indignant penitent.
“I’d as soon have put my hand in the fire, madam. I’ve borne too much from you — a great deal too much; it is you who should have come to me, madam, and I don’t care a farthing about you.”
“And I’m still under sentence, I presume, when General Lennox, returns with his horsewhip,” suggested Lady Alice, meekly.
“It would do you nothing but good.”
“You are excessively impertinent,” said Lady Alice, a little losing her self-command.
“So are you, madam.”
“And I desire you’ll leave my room,” pursued Lady Alice.
“And don’t
you address me while we remain in this house,” exclaimed Lady Jane, with flaming cheeks.
“Quit the room!” cried Lady Alice, sitting up with preternatural rigidity.
“Open the door!” exclaimed Lady Jane, fiercely, to the scared maid, “and carry this candle.”
And the maid heard her mutter forcibly as she marched before her through the passage— “wicked old frump.”
I am afraid it was one of those cases of incompatibility of temper, or faults on both sides, in which it is, on the whole, more for the interests of peace and goodwill that people should live apart, than attempt that process under the same roof.
There was a smoking party that night in Sir Jekyl’s room. A line had reached him from General Lennox, regretting his long stay in town, and fearing that he could hardly hope to rejoin his agreeable party at Marlowe before a week or possibly ten days. But he hoped that they had not yet shot all the birds — and so, with that mild joke and its variations, the letter humorously concluded.
He had also had a letter from the London legal firm — this time the corresponding limb of the body was Crowe — who, in reply to some fresh interrogatories of the Baronet’s, wrote to say that his partner, Mr. Pelter, being called to France by legal business connected with Craddock and Maddox, it devolved on him to “assure Sir Jekyl that, so far as they could ascertain, everything in the matter to which he referred was perfectly quiet, and that no ground existed for apprehending any stir whatsoever.”
These letters from Pelter and Crowe, who were shrewd and by no means sanguine men of business, had always a charming effect on his spirits — not that he quite required them, or that they gave him any new ideas or information, but they were pleasant little fillips, as compliments are to a beauty. He was, therefore, this evening, more than usually lively, and kept the conversation in a very merry amble.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 282
