“I can’t for the life of me, see, Jekyl, anything in it except a resemblance, and that is positively nothing, and a Christian name, that is all, and Guy is no such uncommon one. As for Strangways, he does not enter into it at all — a mere accidental association. Where is that Strangways — is he living?”
“I don’t know now; ten years ago he was, and Pelter and Crowe thought he was going to do me some mischief, a prosecution or something, they thought, to extort money; but I knew they were wrong. I had a reason — at least it was unlikely, because I rather think he had repaid me that money about then. A year or so before a large sum of money was lodged to my account by Herbert Strangways, that was his name, at the International Bank in Lombard Street; in fact it was more than I thought he owed me — interest, I suppose, and that sort of thing. I put Pelter and Crowe in his track, but they could make out nothing. The bank people could not help us. Unluckily I was away at the time and the lodgment was two months old when I heard of it. There were several raw Scotch-looking rascals, they said, making lodgments about then, and they could not tell exactly what sort of fellow made this. I wanted to make out about him. What do you think of it?”
“I don’t see anything suspicious in it. He owed you the money and chose to pay.”
“He was protected by the Statute of Limitations, my lawyer said, and I could not have recovered it. Doesn’t it look odd?”
“Those Scotch fellows.”
“He’s not Scotch, though.”
“Well, whatever he is, if he has good blood he’s proud, perhaps, and would rather pay what he owes than not.”
“Well, of course, a fellow’s glad of the money; but I did not like it; it looked as if he wanted to get rid of the only pull I had on him, and was going to take steps to annoy me, you see.”
“That’s ten years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Well, considering how short life is, I think he’d have moved before now if he had ever thought of it. It is a quarter of a century since poor Deverell’s time. It’s a good while, you know, and the longer you wait in matters of that kind the less your chance;” and with a brisk decision the Rector added, “I’ll stake, I think, all I’m worth, these people have no more connection with poor Deverell than Napoleon Bonaparte, and that Strangways has no more notion of moving any matter connected with that unhappy business than he has of leading an Irish rebellion.”
“I’m glad you take that view — I know it’s the sound one. I knew you would. I think it’s just a little flicker of gout. If I had taken Vichy on my way back I’d never have thought of it. I’ve no one to talk to. It’s a comfort to see you, Dives. I wish you’d come oftener.” And he placed his hand very kindly on his brother’s shoulder.
“So I will,” said Dives, not without kindness in his eyes, though his mouth was forbidding still. “You must not let chimeras take hold of you. I’m very glad I was here.”
“Did you remark that fat, mountainous French fellow, in that cursed suit of black, was very inquisitive about the green chamber?” asked Sir Jekyl, relapsing a little.
“No, I did not hear him mention it; what was it?” asked Dives.
“Well, not a great deal; only he seemed to want to know all about that particular room and its history, just as if there was already something in his head about it.”
“Well, I told you, Jekyl,” said Dives, in a subdued tone and looking away a little, “you ought to do something decisive about that room, all things considered. If it were mine, I can tell you, I should pull it down — not, of course, in such a way as to make people talk and ask questions, but as a sort of improvement. I’d make a conservatory, or something; you want a conservatory, and the building is positively injured by it. It is not the same architecture. You might put something there twice as good. At all events I’d get rid of it.”
“So I will — I intend — I think you’re right — I really do. But it was brought about by little Beatrix talking about haunted rooms, you know, and that sort of nonsense,” said Sir Jekyl.
“Oh! then she mentioned it? He only asked questions about what she told him. Surely you’re not going to vex yourself about that?”
Sir Jekyl looked at him and laughed, but not quite comfortably.
“Well, I told you, you know, I do believe it’s great; and whatever it is, I know, Dives, you’ve done me a great deal of good. Come, now, I’ve a horse I think you’ll like, and you shall have him; try him to-day, and I’ll send him home for you if he suits you.”
While the groom was putting up the horse, Sir Jekyl, who was quick and accurate of eye, recognised the dark-faced, intelligent little valet, whom he had seen for a moment, candle in hand, at the dressing-room door, last night, to receive his guests.
With a deferential smile, and shrug, and bow, all at once, this little gentleman lifted his cap with one hand, removing his German pipe with the other.
He had been a courier — clever, active, gay — a man who might be trusted with money, papers, diamonds. Beside his native French, he spoke English very well, and a little German. He could keep accounts, and write a neat little foreign hand with florid capitals. He could mend his own clothes, and even his shoes. He could play the flute a little, and very much the fiddle. He was curious, and liked to know what was taking place. He liked a joke and the dance, and was prone to the tender passion, and liked, in an honest way, a little bit of intrigue, or even espionage. Such a man he was as I could fancy in a light company of that marvellous army of Italy, of which Napoleon I. always spoke with respect and delight.
In the stableyard, as I have said, the Baronet found this dark sprite smoking a German pipe; and salutations having been exchanged, he bid him try instead two of his famous cigars, which he presented, and then he questioned him on tobacco, and on his family, the theatres, the railways, the hotels; and finally Sir Jekyl said,
“I wish you could recollect a man like yourself — I want one confoundedly. I shall be going abroad in August next year, and I’d give him five thousand francs a year, or more even, with pleasure, and keep him probably as long as he liked to stay with me. Try if you can remember such a fellow. Turn it over in your mind — do you see? and I don’t care how soon he comes into my service.”
The man lifted his cap again, and bowed even lower, as he undertook to “turn it over in his mind;” and though he smiled a great deal, it was plain his thoughts were already seriously employed in turning the subject over, as requested by the Baronet.
Next morning M. Varbarriere took a quiet opportunity, in the hall, of handing to his host two letters of introduction, as they are called — one from the Baronet’s old friend, Charteris, attached to the embassy at Paris — a shrewd fellow, a man of the world, amphibious, both French and English, and equally at home on either soil — speaking unmistakably in high terms of M. Varbarriere as of a gentleman very much respected in very high quarters. The other was equally handsome. But Charteris was exactly the man whose letter in such a case was to be relied upon.
The Baronet glanced over these, and said he was very glad to hear from his friend Charteris — the date was not a week since — but laughed at the formality, regretting that he had not a note from Charteris to present in return, and then gracefully quoted an old French distich, the sentiment of which is that “chivalry proclaims itself, and the gentleman is no more to be mistaken than the rose,” and proceeded to ask his guest, “How is Charteris — he had hurt his wrist when I saw him last — and is there any truth in the report about his possible alliance with that rich widow?” and so forth.
When Sir Jekyl got into his sanctum I am afraid he read both letters with a very microscopic scrutiny, and he resolved inwardly to write a very sifting note to Charteris, and put it upon him, as an act of friendship, to make out every detail of the past life and adventures of M. Varbarriere, and particularly whether he had any young kinsman, nephew or otherwise, answering a certain description, all the items of which he had by rote.
But writing of letters is to some
people a very decided bore. The Baronet detested it, and his anxieties upon these points being intermittent, the interrogatories were not so soon despatched to his friend Charteris.
Old General Lennox was away for London this morning; and his host took a seat beside him in the brougham that was to convey him to the station, and was dropped on the way at the keeper’s lodge, when he bid a kind and courteous adieu to his guest, whom he charged to return safe and soon, and kissed his hand, and waved it after the florid smiling countenance and bushy white eyebrows that were protruded from the carriage-window as it glided away.
“You can manage it all in a day or two, can’t you?” said the Baronet, cordially, as he held the General’s wrinkled hand, with its knobby and pink joints, in his genial grasp. “We positively won’t give you more than three days’ leave. Capital shooting when you come back. I’m going to talk it over with the keeper here — that is, if you come back before we’ve shot them all.”
“Oh! yes, hang it, you must leave a bird or two for me,” laughed the General, and he bawled the conclusion of the joke as the vehicle drove away; but Sir Jekyl lost it.
Sir Jekyl was all the happier for his morning’s talk with his brother. An anxiety, if only avowed and discussed, is so immensely lightened; but Dives had scouted the whole thing so peremptorily that the Baronet was positively grateful. Dives was a wise and clear-headed fellow. It was delightful his taking so decided a view. And was it not on reflection manifestly, even to him, the sound view?
* * *
CHAPTER XVII.
The Magician Draws a Diagram.
The Baronet approached Marlowe Manor on the side at which the stables and out-offices lie, leaving which to his left, he took his way by the path through the wood which leads to the terrace-walk that runs parallel to the side of the old house on which the green chamber lies.
On this side the lofty timber approaches the walks closely, and the green enclosure is but a darkened strip and very solitary. Here, when Sir Jekyl emerged, he saw M. Varbarriere standing on the grass, and gazing upward in absorbed contemplation of the building, which on the previous evening seemed to have excited his curiosity so unaccountably.
He did not hear the Baronet’s approaching step on the grass. Sir Jekyl felt both alarmed and angry; for although it was but natural that his guest should have visited the spot and examined the building, it yet seemed to him, for the moment, like the act of a spy.
“Disappointed, I’m afraid,” said he. “I told you that addition was the least worth looking at of all the parts of this otherwise ancient house.”
He spoke with a sort of sharpness that seemed quite uncalled for; but it was unnoticed.
M. Varbarriere bowed low and graciously.
“I am much interested — every front of this curious and handsome house interests me. This indeed, as you say, is a good deal spoiled by that Italian incongruity — still it is charming — the contrast is as beautiful frequently as the harmony — and I am perplexed.”
“Some of my friends tell me it spoils the house so much I ought to pull it down, and I have a great mind to do so. Have you seen the lake? I should be happy to show it to you if you will permit me.”
The Baronet, as he spoke, was, from time to time, slyly searching the solemn and profound face of the stranger; but could find there no clue to the spirit of his investigation. There was no shrinking — no embarrassment — no consciousness. He might as well have looked on the awful surface of the sea, in the expectation of discovering there the secrets of its depths.
M. Varbarriere, with a profusion of gratitude, regretted that he could not just then visit the lake, as he had several letters to write; and so he and his host parted smiling at the hall-door; and the Baronet, as he pursued his way, felt some stirrings of that mental dyspepsia which had troubled him of late.
“The old fellow had not been in the house two hours,” such was his train of thought, “when he was on the subject of that green chamber, in the parlour and in the drawingroom — again and again recurring to it; and here he was just now, alone, absorbed, and gazing up at its windows, as if he could think of nothing else!”
Sir Jekyl felt provoked, and almost as if he would like a crisis; and half regretted that he had not asked him— “Pray can I give you any information; is there anything you particularly want to know about that room? question me as you please, you shall see the room — you shall sleep in it if you like, so soon as it is vacant. Pray declare yourself, and say what you want.”
But second thoughts are said to be best, if not always wisest; and this brief rehearing of the case against his repose ended in a “dismiss,” as before. It was so natural, and indeed inevitable, that he should himself inspect the original of those views which he had examined the night before with interest, considering that, being a man who cared not for the gun or the fishing-rod, and plainly without sympathies with either georgics or bucolics, he had not many other ways of amusing himself in these country quarters.
M. Varbarriere, in the meantime, had entered his chamber. I suppose he was amused, for so soon as he closed the door he smiled with a meditative sneer. It was not a fiendish one, not even moderately wicked; but a sneer is in the countenance what irony is in the voice, and never pleasant.
If the Baronet had seen the expression of M. Varbarriere’s countenance as he sat down in his easy-chair, he would probably have been much disquieted — perhaps not without reason.
M. Varbarriere was known in his own neighbourhood as a dark and inflexible man, but with these reservations kind; just in his dealings, bold in enterprise, and charitable, but not on impulse, with a due economy of resource, and a careful measurement of desert; on the whole, a man to be respected and a little feared, but a useful citizen.
Instead of writing letters as, of course, he had intended, M. Varbarriere amused himself by making a careful little sketch on a leaf of his pocketbook. It seemed hardly worth all the pains he bestowed upon it; for, after all, it was but a parallelogram with a projecting segment of a circle at one end, and a smaller one at the side, and he noted his diagram with figures, and pondered over it with a thoughtful countenance, and made, after a while, a little cross at one end of it, and then fell a-whistling thoughtfully, and nodded once or twice, as a thought struck him; and then he marked another cross at one of its sides, and reflected in like manner over this, and as he thought, fiddling with his pencil at the foot of the page, he scribbled the word “hypothesis.” Then he put up his pocketbook, and stood listlessly with his hands in the pockets of his vast black trowsers, looking from the window, and whistled a little more, the air hurrying sometimes, and sometimes dragging a good deal, so as to come at times to an actual standstill.
On turning the corner of the mansion Sir Jekyl found himself on a sudden in the midst of the ladies of his party, just descending from the carriages which had driven them round the lake. He was of that gay and gallant temperament, as the reader is aware, which is fired with an instantaneous inspiration at sight of this sort of plumage and flutter.
“What a fortunate fellow am I!” exclaimed Sir Jekyl, forgetting in a moment everything but the sunshine, the gay voices, and the pretty sight before him. “I had laid myself out for a solitary walk, and lo! I’m in the midst of a paradise of graces, nymphs, and what not!”
“We have had such a charming drive round the lake,” said gay little Mrs. Maberly.
“The lake never looked so well before, I’m sure. So stocked, at least, with fresh-water sirens and mermaids. Never did mirror reflect so much beauty. An instinct, you see, drew me this way. I assure you I was on my way to the lake; one of those enamoured sprites who sing us tidings in such tiny voices, we can’t distinguish them from our own fancies, warbled a word in my ear, only a little too late, I suppose.”
The Baronet was reciting his admiring nonsense to pretty Mrs. Maberly, but his eye from time to time wandered to Lady Jane, and rested for a moment on that haughty beauty, who, with downcast languid eyes, one would have th
ought neither heard nor saw him.
This gallant Baronet was so well understood that every lady expected to hear that kind of tender flattery whenever he addressed himself to the fair sex. It was quite inevitable, and simply organic and constitutional as blackbird’s whistle and kitten’s play, and, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, I am sure, meant absolutely nothing.
“But those sprites always come with a particular message; don’t they?” said old Miss Blunket, smiling archly from the corners of her fierce eyes. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Linnett?”
“You are getting quite above me,” answered that sprightly gentleman, who was growing just a little tired of Miss Blunket’s attentions. “I suppose it’s spiritualism. I know nothing about it. What do you say, Lady Jane?”
“I think it very heathen,” said Lady Jane, tired, I suppose, of the subject.
“I like to be heathen, now and then,” said Sir Jekyl, in a lower key; he was by this time beside Lady Jane. “I’d have been a most pious Pagan. As it is, I can’t help worshipping in the Pantheon, and trying sometimes even to make a proselyte.”
“Oh! you wicked creature!” cried little Mrs. Maberly. “I assure you, Lady Jane, his conversation is quite frightful.”
Lady Jane glanced a sweet, rather languid, sidelong smile at the little lady.
“You’ll not get Lady Jane to believe all that mischief of me, Mrs. Maberly. I appeal for my character to the General.”
“But he’s hundreds of miles away, and can’t hear you,” laughed little Mrs. Maberly, who really meant nothing satirical.
“I forgot; but he’ll be back tomorrow or next day,” replied Sir Jekyl, with rather a dry chuckle, “and in the meantime I must do without one, I suppose. Here we are, Mr. Strangways, all talking nonsense, the pleasantest occupation on earth. Do come and help us.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 274
