Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  He looked at his watch. The minute-hand showed him exactly how long he had been reading this confidence of client to attorney. “You will, will you?” murmured Varbarriere, with his jaw a little fiercely set, and a smile. “He will checkmate me, he thinks, in two or three moves. He does not see, clever fellow, that I will checkmate him in one!”

  Now, this letter had preceded all that had occurred this evening to soften old animosities — though, strictly examined, that was not very much. It did not seem quite logical then, that it should work so sudden a revolution. I cannot, however, say positively; for in Varbarriere’s mind may have long lain a suspicion that Sir Jekyl was not now altogether what he used to be, that he did not quite know all he had inflicted, and that time had made him wiser, and therefore gentler of heart. If so, the letter had knocked down this hypothesis, and its phrases, one or two of them, were of that unlucky sort which not only recalled the thrill of many an old wound, but freshly galled that vanity which never leaves us, till ear and eye grow cold, and light and sound are shut out by the coffin-lid.

  So Varbarriere, being quite disenchanted, wondered at his own illusions, and sighed bitterly when he thought what a fool he had been so near making of himself. And thinking of these things, he stared grimly on his watch, and by one of those movements that betray one’s abstraction, held it to his ear, as if he had fancied it might have gone down.

  There it was, thundering on at a gallop. The tread of unseen fate approaching. Yes, it was time he should go. Jacques peeped in.

  “You’ve done as I ordered?”

  “Yes Monsieur.”

  “Here, lend me a hand with my cloak — very good. The servants, the butler, have they retired?”

  “So I believe, Monsieur.”

  “My hat — thanks. The lights all out on the stairs and lobbies?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Go before — is that lighted?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  This referred to one of those little black lanterns which belong to Spanish melodrama, with a semi-cylindrical horn and a black slide. We have most of us seen such, and handled if not possessed them.

  “Leporello! hey, Jacques?” smiled Varbarriere sardonically, as he drew his short black cloak about him.

  “Monsieur is always right,” acquiesced the man, who had never heard of Leporello before.

  “Get on, then.”

  And the valet before, the master following, treading cautiously, they reached the stairhead, where Varbarriere listened for a moment, then descended and listened again at the foot, and so through the hall into the long gallery, near the end of which is a room with a conservatory.

  This they entered. The useful Jacques had secured the key of the glass door into the conservatory, which also opened the outer one; and Varbarriere, directing him to wait there quietly till his return, stepped out into the open air and faint moonlight. A moment’s survey was enough to give him the lie of the ground, and recognising the file of tufted lime-trees, rising dark in the mist, he directed his steps thither, and speedily got upon the broad avenue, bordered with grass and guarded at either side by these rows of giant limes.

  On reaching the carriageway, standing upon a slight eminence, Varbarriere gazed down the misty slope toward the gatehouse, and then toward Marlowe Manor, in search of a carriage or a human figure. Seeing none, he strolled onward toward the gate, and soon did see, airy and faint in the haze and distance, a vehicle approaching. It stopped some two hundred yards nearer the gate than he, a slight figure got out, and after a few words apparently, the driver turned about, and the slim, erect figure came gliding stiffly along in his direction. As he approached Varbarriere stood directly before him.

  “Ha! here I am waiting, General,” said Varbarriere, advancing. “I — I suppose we had better get on at once to the house?”

  General Lennox met him with a nod.

  “Don’t care, sir. Whatever you think best,” answered the General, as sternly as if he were going into action.

  “Thanks for your confidence, General. I think so;” and side by side they walked in silence for a while toward the house.

  “Lady Alice Redcliffe here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s well. And, sir,” he continued, suddenly stopping short, and turning full on Varbarriere— “for God’s sake, do you think it is certainly true?”

  “You had better come, sir, and judge for yourself,” pursued Varbarriere.

  “D —— you, sir — you think I’ll wait over your cursed riddles. I’d as soon wait in hell, sir. You don’t know, sir — it’s the tortures of the damned. Egad, no man has a right — no man could stand it.”

  “I think it is, sir. I think it’s true, sir. I think it’s true. I’m nearly sure it’s true,” answered Varbarriere, with a pallid frown, not minding his anathema. “How can I say more?”

  General Lennox looked for a while on the ground, then up and about dismally, and gave his neck a little military shake, as if his collar sat uneasily.

  “A lonely life for me, sir. I wish to God the villain had shot me first. I was very fond of her, sir — desperately fond — madness, sir. I was thinking I would go back to India. Maybe you’ll advise with me, sir, tomorrow? I have no one.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXI.

  At the Green Chamber.

  As they approached the house, Jacques, who sat awaiting M. Varbarriere’s return, behind the door facing the conservatory, was disagreeably surprised by a visit from the butler.

  “Here I am!” exclaimed Jacques very cheerfully, feeling that he could not escape.

  “Ow! haw! Mr. Jack, by gad!” exclaimed the butler, actually jumping back in panic, and nearly extinguishing his candle on his breast.

  It was his custom, on hearing a noise or seeing a light, to make a ceremonious reconnoissance in assertion of his character, not of course in expectation of finding anything; and here at length he thought he had lighted on a burglar, and from the crown of his head to his heels froze thrills of terror. “And what the devil, Mr. Jack, are you doing here, please, sir?”

  “Waiting, my friend, to admit Monsieur, my master,” answered Jacques, who was adroit enough to know that it is sometimes cunning to be frank.

  In fact it was the apparition of M. Varbarriere, in his queer hat and cloak, crossing a window, which had inspired the butler with a resolution to make his search.

  “Haw! dear me! yes, I saw him, Mr. Jack, I did; and what, Mr. Jack, is the doors opened for at these hours, unbeknown to me?”

  “My most dear friend, I am taking every care, as you see; but my master, he choose to go out, and he choose to come in. Jacques is nothing but what you call the latchkey.”

  “And what is he a-doing hout o’ doors this time o’ night, Mr. Jack? I never knowd afore sich a think to ‘appen. Why it looks like a stragethim, that’s what it does, Mr. Jack — a stragethim.”

  And the butler nodded with the air of a moral constable.

  “It’s a folly, Monsieur. My faith! a little ruse of love, I imagine.”

  “You don’t mean to say he’s hout a-larkin?”

  Jacques, who only conjectured the sense of the sentence, winked and smiled.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s not the way he should be.”

  “My master is most generous man. My friend, you shall see he shall know how kind you have been. Monsieur, my master, he is a prince!” murmured Jacques, eloquently, his fingers on the butler’s cuff, and drew back to read in his countenance how it worked.

  “It must not hoccur again, Mr. Jack, wile ere,” replied the butler, with another grave shake of his head.

  “Depend yourself on me,” whispered Jacques again in his ear, while he squeezed the prudent hand of the butler affectionately. “But you must go way.”

  “I do depend on you, Mr. Jack, but I don’t like it, mind — I don’t like it, and I won’t say nothink of it till I hear more from you.”

  So the butler withdrew, and the danger disa
ppeared.

  “You will please to remember, sir,” said Varbarriere, as they approached the house, “that this is of the nature of a military movement — a surprise; there must be no sound — no alarm.”

  “Quite so,” whispered old Lennox, with white lips. He was clutching something nervously under the wide sleeve of his loose drab overcoat. He stopped under the shadow of a noble clump of trees about fifty steps away from the glass door they were approaching.

  “I — I almost wish, sir — I’ll go back — I don’t think I can go on, sir.”

  Varbarriere looked at his companion with an unconscious sneer, but said nothing.

  “By —— , sir, if I find it true, I’ll kill him, sir.”

  The old man had in his gouty grip one of those foolish daggers once so much in vogue, but which have now gone out of use, and Varbarriere saw it glimmer in the faint light.

  “Surely, Colonel Lennox, you don’t mean — you can’t mean — you’re not going to resort to violence, sir?”

  “By —— , sir, he had best look to it.”

  Varbarriere placed his hand on the old man’s sleeve, he could feel the tremor of his thin wrist through it.

  “General Lennox, if I had fancied that you could have harboured such a thought, I never should have brought you here.”

  The General, with his teeth clenched, made him no reply but a fierce nod.

  “Remember, sir, you have the courts of law, and you have the code of honour — either or both. One step more I shall not take with you, if you mean that sort of violence.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” asked the General, grimly.

  “I mean this, sir, you shall learn nothing by this night’s procedure, unless you promise me, upon your honour as a soldier, sir, and a gentleman, that you will not use that dagger or any other weapon.”

  General Lennox looked at him with a rather glassy stare.

  “You’re right, sir, I dare say,” said Lennox, suddenly and helplessly.

  “You promise?”

  “Ay, sir.”

  “Upon your honour?”

  “Upon my honour; ay, sir, my honour.”

  “I’m satisfied, General. Now observe, you must be silent, and as noiseless as you can. If Sir Jekyl be apprised of your arrival, of course the — the experiment fails.”

  General Lennox nodded. Emerging into the moonlight, Varbarriere saw how pale and lean his face looked.

  Across the grass they pace side by side in silence. The glass door opened without a creak or a hitch. Jacques politely secured it, and, obeying his master’s gesture, led the way through the gallery to the hall.

  “You’ll remember, General, that you arrived late; you understand? and having been observed by me, were admitted; and — and all the rest occurred naturally.”

  “Yes, sir, any d — d lie you like. All the world’s lying — why should not I?”

  At the foot of the staircase Jacques was dismissed, having lighted bedroom candles for the two gentlemen, so that they lost something of their air of Spanish conspirators, and they mounted the stairs together in a natural and domestic fashion.

  When they had crossed the lobby, and stood at the door of the dressing-room, Varbarriere laid his hand on General Lennox’s arm —

  “Stop here a moment; you must knock at Lady Alice’s door over there, and get the key of your room. She locks the door and keeps the key at night. Make no noise, you know.”

  They had been fortunate hitherto in having escaped observation; and Varbarriere’s strategy had, up to this point, quite succeeded.

  “Very quietly, mind,” whispered he, and withdrew behind the angle of the wall, toward the staircase.

  Old Lennox was by this time at the door which he had indicated, and knocked. There was a little fuss audible within, but no answer. He knocked again more sharply, and he heard the gabble of female voices; and at last a rather nervous inquiry, “Who’s there, please?”

  “General Lennox, who wants the key of his room,” answered he, in no mood to be trifled with. The General was standing, grim as fate, and stark as Corporal Trim, bedroom candle in hand, outside her door.

  “He’s not General Lennox — send him about his business,” exclaimed an imperious female voice from the state bed, in which Lady Alice was sitting, measuring some mysterious drops in a graduated glass.

  “My lady says she’s sorry she can’t find it tonight, sir, being at present in bed, please, sir.”

  “Come, child — no nonsense — I want my key, and I’ll have it,” replied the General, so awfully that the maid recoiled.

  “I think, my lady, he’ll be rude if he doesn’t get it.”

  “What’s the man like?”

  “A nice-spoken gentleman, my lady, and dressed very respectable.”

  “You never saw General Lennox?”

  “No, my lady, please.”

  Neither had Lady Alice; but she had heard him minutely described.

  “A lean ugly old man is he, with white bristly whiskers, you know, and a white head, and little grey eyes, eh?”

  They had no notion that their little confidence was so distinctly audible to the General without, who stood eyeing the panel fiercely as a sentry would a suspicious figure near his beat, and with fingers twitching with impatience to clutch his key.

  “What sort of nose?” demanded the unseen speaker— “long or short?”

  “Neither, please, my lady; bluish, rayther, I should say.”

  “But it is either long or short, decidedly, and I forget which,” said Lady Alice— “’Tisn’t he!”

  The General ground his teeth with impatience, and knocked so sharp a signal at the door that Lady Alice bounced in her bed.

  “Lord bless us! How dare he do that? — tell him how dare he.”

  “Lady Alice, sir, would be much obliged if you’d be so good not knock so loud, sir, please,” said the maid at the door, translating the message.

  “Tell your mistress I’m General Lennox, and must have my key,” glared the General, and the lady’s-maid, who was growing nervous, returned.

  “He looks, my lady, like he’d beat us, please, if he does not get the key, my lady.”

  “Sha’n’t have it, the brute! We don’t know he is — a robber, maybe. Bolt the door, and tell him to bring Monsieur Varbarriere to the lobby, and if he says he’s General Lennox he shall have the key.”

  With trembling fingers the maid did bolt the door, and once more accost the soldier, who was chafing on the threshold.

  “Please, sir, my lady is not well, having nervous pains, please sir, in her head tonight, and therefore would be ‘appy if you would be so kind to bring Mister Barvarrian” (the name by which our corpulent friend was known in the servants’ hall) “to her door, please, when she’ll try what she may do to oblige you, sir.”

  “They don’t know me,” said the General, accosting Varbarriere, who was only half a dozen steps removed, and whom he had rejoined. “You must come to the door, they say, and tell them it’s all right.”

  Perhaps with some inward sense of the comic, Varbarriere presented himself at the door, when, his voice being recognised, and he himself reconnoitred through the keyhole and reported upon, the maid presented herself in an extemporised drapery of cloaks and shawls, like a traveller in winter, and holding these garments together with one hand, with the other presented the key, peering anxiously in the General’s face.

  “Key, sir, please.”

  “I thank you,” said the General, with a nod, to which she responded with such a courtesy as her costume permitted. The door shut, and as the gentlemen withdrew they heard the voices of the inmates again busy with the subject.

  “Goodnight,” whispered Varbarriere, looking in the General’s blue eye with his own full and steady gaze.

  “I know you’ll remember your promise,” said he.

  “Yes — what?”

  “No violence” replied Varbarriere.

  “No, of course, I said so. Goodbye.”

 
“You must appear — your manner, mind — just as usual. Nothing to alarm — you may defeat all else.”

  “I see.”

  Varbarriere pressed his hand encouragingly. It felt like death.

  “Don’t fear me,” said General Lennox. “We’ll see — we’ll see, sir; goodbye.”

  He spoke in a low, short, resolute tone, almost defiant; but looked very ill. Varbarriere had never taken leave of a man on the drop, but thought that this must be like it.

  He beckoned to him as the General moved toward the dressing-room door, and made an earnest signal of silence. Lennox nodded, applied the key, and Varbarriere was gone.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXII.

  In the Green Chamber.

  General Lennox opened the door suddenly, and stood in the green chamber, holding his candle above his temple, and staring with a rather wild countenance and a gathered brow to the further end of the room. A candle burned on the table, and the Bible lay beside it. No one was there but the inmate of the bed, who sat up with a scared face. He locked the door in silence, and put the key in his pocket.

  “Who’s there? — who is it? O my God! Arthur, is it you?” she cried. It was not a welcome. It was as if she had seen a ghost — but she smiled.

  “You’re well? quite well? and happy? no doubt happy?” said Lennox, setting down his candle on the table near the bed, “and glad to see me?”

  “Yes, Arthur; Arthur, what’s the matter? You’re ill — are you ill?”

  “Ho! no, very well, quite well — very well indeed.”

  There was that in his look and manner that told her she was ruined. She froze with a horror she had never dreamed of before.

  “There’s something, Arthur — there is — you won’t tell me.”

  “That’s strange, and you tell me everything.”

  “What do you mean, sir? Oh, Arthur, what do you mean?”

  “Mean! Nothing!”