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CHAPTER III.
Monsieur Varbarriere talks with Donica Gwynn.
The footman opened the door in deshabille and unshorn, with a countenance that implied his sense of the impertinence of this disturbance of his gentlemanlike retirement. There was, however, that in the countenance of Monsieur Varbarriere, as well as the intangible but potent “aura” emitted by wealth, which surrounded him — an influence which everybody feels and no one can well define, which circumambiates a rich person and makes it felt, nobody knows how, that he is wealthy — that brought the flunky to himself; and adjusting his soiled necktie hastily with one hand, he ran down to the heavy but commanding countenance that loomed on his from the window of the vehicle.
“This is Wardlock?” demanded the visitor.
“Wardlock Manor? — yes, sir,” answered the servant.
“I’ve a note from Lady Alice Redcliffe, and a few words to Mrs. Gwynn the housekeeper. She’s at home?”
“Mrs. Gwynn? — yes, sir.”
“Open the door, please,” said Monsieur Varbarriere, who was now speaking good frank English with wonderful fluency, considering his marked preference for the French tongue elsewhere.
The door flew open at the touch of the footman; and Monsieur Varbarriere entered the staid mansion, and was shown by the servant into the wainscoted parlour in which Lady Alice had taken leave of the ancient retainer whom he was about to confer with.
When Mrs. Gwynn, with that mixture of curiosity and apprehension which an unexpected visit is calculated to inspire, entered the room, very erect and natty, she saw a large round-shouldered stranger, standing with his back toward her, arrayed in black, at the window, with his grotesque high-crowned hat on.
Turning about he removed this with a slight bow and a grave smile, and with his sonorous foreign accent inquired —
“Mrs. Gwynn, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir, that is my name, if you please.”
“A note, Mrs. Gwynn, from Lady Alice Redcliffe.”
And as he placed it in the thin and rather ladylike fingers of the housekeeper, his eyes rested steadily on her features, as might those of a process-server, whose business it might be hereafter to identify her.
Mrs. Gwynn read the note, which was simply an expression of her mistress’s wish that she should answer explicitly whatever questions the gentleman, M. Varbarriere, who would hand it to her, and who was, moreover, a warm friend of the family, might put to her.
When Mrs. Gwynn, with the help of her spectacles, had spelled through this letter, she in turn looked searchingly at Monsieur Varbarriere, and began to wonder unpleasantly what line his examination might take.
“Will you, Mrs. Gwynn, allow me the right to sit down, by yourself taking a chair?” said Monsieur Varbarriere, very politely, smiling darkly, and waving his hand toward a seat.
“I’m very well as I am, I thank you, sir,” replied Gwynn, who did not very much like the gentleman’s looks, and thought him rather like a great roguish Jew pedlar whom she had seen long ago at the fair of Marlowe.
“Nay, but pray sit down — I can’t while you stand — and our conversation may last some time — pray do.”
“I can talk as well, sir, one way as t’other,” replied she, while at the same time, with a sort of fidgeted impatience, she did sit down and fold her hands in her lap.
“We have all, Mrs. Gwynn, a very high opinion of you; I mean Lady Alice and the friends of her family, among whom I reckon myself.”
“It’s only of late as I came to my present misses, you’re aware, sir, ‘aving been, from, I may say, my childhood in the Marlowe family.”
“I know — the Marlowe family — it’s all one, in fact; but I may say, Mrs. Gwynn, that short, comparatively, as has been your time with Lady Alice, you are spoken of with more respect and liking by that branch of the family than by Sir Jekyl.”
“I’ve done nothing to disoblege Sir Jekyl, as Lady Alice knows. Will you be so kind, sir, as to say what you want of me, having business to attend to upstairs?”
“Certainly, it is only a trifle or two.”
Monsieur Varbarriere cleared his voice.
“Having ascertained all about that secret door that opens into the green chamber at Marlowe, we would be obliged to you to let us know at what time, to your knowledge, it was first used.”
His large full eyes, from under his projecting brows, stared full upon her shrinking gaze as he asked this question in tones deep and firm, but otherwise as civil as he could employ.
It was vain for Mrs. Gwynn to attempt to conceal her extreme agitation. Her countenance showed it — she tried to speak, and failed; and cleared her throat, and broke down again.
“Perhaps you’d like some water,” said Varbarriere, rising and approaching the bell.
“No,” said Donica Gwynn, rising suddenly and getting before him. “Let be.”
He saw that she wished to escape observation.
“As you please, Mrs. Gwynn — sit down again — I shan’t without your leave — and recover a little.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, sir,” replied Donica, now in possession of her voice, very angrily; “there’s nothing to cause it.”
“Well, Mrs. Gwynn, it’s quite excusable; I know all about it.”
“What are you, a builder or a hartist?”
“Nothing of the kind; I’m a gentleman without a profession, Mrs. Gwynn, and one who will not permit you to be compromised; one who will protect you from the slightest suspicion of anything unpleasant.”
“I don’t know what you’re a-driving at,” said Mrs. Gwynn, still as white as death, and glancing furiously.
“Come, Mrs. Gwynn, you’re a sensible woman. You do know perfectly. You have maintained a respectable character.”
“Yes, sir!” said Donica Gwynn, and suddenly burst into a paroxysm of hysterical tears.
“Listen to me: you have maintained a respectable character, I know it: nothing whatever to injure that character shall ever fall from my lips; no human being — but two or three just as much interested in concealing all about it as you or I — shall ever know anything about it; and Sir Jekyl Marlowe has consented to take it down, so soon as the party at present at Marlowe shall have dispersed.”
“Lady Alice — I’ll never like to see her again,” sobbed Donica.
“Lady Alice has no more suspicion of the existence of that door than the Pope of Rome has; and what is more, never shall. You may rely upon me to observe the most absolute silence and secrecy — nay, more, if necessary for the object of concealment — so to mislead and mystify people, that they can never so much as surmise the truth, provided — pray observe me — provided you treat me with the most absolute candour. You must not practise the least reserve or concealment. On tracing the slightest shadow of either in your communication with me, I hold myself free to deal with the facts in my possession, precisely as may seem best to myself. You understand?”
“Not Lady Alice, nor none of the servants, nor — nor a creature living, please.”
“Depend on me,” said Varbarriere.
“Well, sure I may; a gentleman would not break his word with such as me,” said Donica, imploringly.
“We can’t spend the whole day repeating the same thing over and over,” said Varbarriere, rather grimly; “I’ve said my say — I know everything that concerns you about it, without your opening your lips upon the subject. You occupied that room for two years and a half during Sir Harry’s lifetime — you see I know it all. There! you are perfectly safe. I need not have made you any promise, but I do — perfectly safe with me — and the room shall vanish this winter, and no one but ourselves know anything of that door — do you understand? — provided— “
“Yes, sir, please — and what do you wish to know more from me? I don’t know, I’m sure, why I should be such a fool as to take on so about it, as if I could help it, or was ever a bit the worse of it myself. There’s been many a one has slep’ in that roo
m and never so much as knowd there was a door but that they came in by.”
“To be sure; so tell me, do you recollect Mr. Deverell’s losing a paper in that room?”
“Well, I do mind the time he said he lost it there, but I know no more than the child unborn.”
“Did Sir Harry never tell you?”
“They said a deal o’ bad o’ Sir Harry, and them that should a’ stood up for him never said a good word for him. Poor old creature! — I doubt if he had pluck to do it. I don’t think he had, poor fellow!”
“Did he ever tell you he had done it? Come, remember your promise.”
“No, upon my soul — never.”
“Do you think he took it?”
Their eyes met steadily.
“Yes, I do,” said she, with a slight defiant frown.
“And why do you think so?”
“Because, shortly after the row began about that paper, he talked with me, and said there was something a-troubling of him, and he wished me to go and live in a farmhouse at Applehythe, and keep summat he wanted kep safe, as there was no one in all England so true as me — poor old fellow! He never told me, and I never asked. But I laid it down in my own mind it was the paper Mr. Deverell lost, that’s all.”
“Did he ever show you that paper?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you where it was?”
“He never said he had it.”
“Did he show you where that thing was which he wanted you to take charge of?”
“Yes, in the press nigh his bed’s head.”
“Did he open the press?”
“Ay.”
“Well?”
“He showed me a sort of a box, and he said that was all.”
“A little trunk of stamped red leather — was that like it?”
“That was just it.”
“Did he afterwards give it into anybody’s charge?”
“I know no more about it. I saw it there, that’s all. I saw it once, and never before nor since.”
“Is there more than one secret door into that room?” pursued Varbarriere.
“More than one; no, never as I heard or thought.”
“Where is the door placed with which you are acquainted?”
“Why? Don’t you know?”
“Suppose I know of two. We have discovered a second. Which is the one you saw used? Come!”
Parenthetically it is to be observed that no such discovery had been made, and Varbarriere was merely fishing for information without disclosing his ignorance.
“In the recess at the right of the bed’s head.”
“Yes; and how do you open it? I mean from the green chamber?”
“I never knowd any way how to open it — it’s from t’other side. There’s a way to bolt it, though.”
“Ay? How’s that?”
“There’s an ornament of scrowl-work, they calls it, bronze-like, as runs down the casing of the recess, shaped like letter esses. Well, the fourteenth of them, reckoning up from the bottom, next the wall, turns round with your finger and thumb; so if anyone be in the green chamber, and knows the secret, they can stop the door being opened.”
“I see — thank you. You’ve been through the passage leading from Sir Harry’s room that was — Sir Jekyl Marlowe’s room, at the back of the house, to the secret door of the green chamber?”
“No, never. I know nothink o’ that, no more nor a child.”
“No?”
“No, nothink at all.”
Varbarriere had here been trying to establish another conjecture.
There was a pause. Varbarriere, ruminating darkly, looked on Donica Gwynn. He then closed his pocketbook, in which he had inscribed a few notes, and said —
“Thank you, Mrs. Gwynn. Should I want anything more I’ll call again; and you had better not mention the subject of my visit. Let me see the pictures — that will be the excuse — and do you keep your secret, and I’ll keep mine.”
“No, I thank you, sir,” said Donica, drily, almost fiercely, drawing back from his proffered douceur.
“Tut, tut — pray do.”
“No, I thank you.”
So he looked at the pictures in the different rooms, and at some old china and snuff-boxes, to give a colour to his visit; and with polite speeches and dark smiles, and a general courtesy that was unctuous, he took his leave of Donica Gwynn, whom he left standing in the hall with a flushed face and a sore heart.
* * *
CHAPTER IV.
A Story of a Magician and a Vampire.
The pleasant autumn sun touched the steep roofs and mullioned windows of Marlowe Manor pleasantly that morning, turning the thinning foliage of its noble timber into gold, and bringing all the slopes and undulations of its grounds into relief in its subdued glory. The influence of the weather was felt by the guests assembled in the spacious breakfast-parlour, and gay and animated was the conversation.
Lady Jane Lennox, that “superbly handsome creature,” as old Doocey used to term her, had relapsed very much into her old ways. Beatrix had been pleased when, even in her impetuous and uncertain way, that proud spirit had seemed to be drawn toward her again. But that was past, and that unruly nature had broken away once more upon her own solitary and wayward courses. She cared no more for Beatrix, or, if at all, it was plainly not kindly.
In Lady Jane’s bold and mournful isolation there was something that interested Beatrix, ungracious as her ways often were, and she felt sore at the unjust repulse she had experienced. But Beatrix was proud, and so, though wounded, she did not show her pain — not that pain, nor another far deeper.
Between her and Guy Strangways had come a coldness unintelligible to her, an estrangement which she would have felt like an insult, had it not been for his melancholy looks and evident loss of spirits.
There is a very pretty room at Marlowe; it is called (why, I forget) Lady Mary’s boudoir; its door opens from the first landing on the great stair. An oak floor, partly covered with a Turkey carpet, one tall window with stone shafts, a high oldfashioned stone chimneypiece, and furniture perhaps a little incongruous, but pleasant in its incongruity. Tapestry in the Teniers style — Dutch village festivals, with no end of figures, about half life-size, dancing, drinking, making music; old boors, and young and fair-haired maidens, and wrinkled vraus, and here and there gentlemen in doublets and plumed hats, and ladies, smiling and bareheaded, and fair and plump, in great stomachers. These pleasant subjects, so lifelike, with children, cocks and hens, and dogs interspersed, helped, with a Louis Quatorze suit of pale green, and gold chairs cushioned with Utrecht velvet, to give to this room its character so mixed, of gaiety and solemnity, something very quaint and cheery.
This room had old Lady Alice Redcliffe selected for her sitting-room, when she found herself unequal to the exertion of meeting the other ladies in the drawingroom, and hither she had been wont to invite Guy Strangways, who would occasionally pass an hour here wonderfully pleasantly and happily — in fact, as many hours as the old lady would have permitted, so long as Beatrix had been her companion.
But with those self-denying resolutions we have mentioned came a change. When Beatrix was there the young gentleman was grave and rather silent, and generally had other engagements which at least shortened his visit. This was retorted by Beatrix, who, a few minutes after the arrival of the visitor whom old Lady Alice had begun to call her secretary, would, on one pretence or another, disappear, and leave the old princess and her secretary to the uninterrupted enjoyment of each other’s society.
Now since the night on which Varbarriere in talking with Lady Alice had, as we have heard, suddenly arrested his speech respecting her son — leaving her in uncertainty how it was to have been finished — an uncertainty on which her morbid brain reflected a thousand horrid and impossible shapes, the old lady had once more conceived something of her early dread of Guy Strangways. It was now again subsiding, although last night, under the influence of laudanum, in her medicated sl
eep her son had been sitting at her bedside, talking incessantly, she could not remember what.
Guy Strangways had just returned from the Park for his fishing-rod and angler’s gear, when he was met in the hall by the grave and courteous butler, who presented a tiny pencilled note from Lady Alice, begging him to spare her half an hour in Lady Mary’s boudoir.
Perhaps it was a bore. But habitual courtesy is something more than “mouth honour, breath.” Language and thought react upon one another marvellously. To restrain its expression is in part to restrain the feeling; and thus a well-bred man is not only in words and demeanour, but inwardly and sincerely, more gracious and noble than others.
How oddly things happen sometimes!
Exactly as Guy Strangways arrived on the lobby, a little gloved hand — it was Beatrix’s — was on the door-handle of Lady Mary’s boudoir. It was withdrawn, and she stood looking for a second or two at the young gentleman, who had evidently been going in the same direction. He, too, paused; then, with a very low bow, advanced to open the door for Miss Marlowe.
“No, thank you — I — I think I had better postpone my visit to grandmamma till I return. I’m going to the garden, and should like to bring her some flowers.”
“I’m afraid I have arrived unluckily — she would, I know, have been so glad to see you,” said Guy Strangways.
“Oh, I’ve seen her twice before to-day. You were going to make her a little visit now.”
“I — if you wish it, Miss Marlowe, I’ll defer it.”
“She would be very little obliged to me, I’m sure; but I must really go,” said Beatrix, recollecting on a sudden that there was no need of so long a parley.
“It would very much relieve the poor secretary’s labours, and make his little period of duty so much happier,” said Guy, forgetting his wise resolutions strangely.
“I am sure grandmamma would prefer seeing her visitors singly — it makes a great deal more of them, you know.”
And with a little smile and such a pretty glow in her cheeks, she passed him by. He bowed and smiled faintly too, and for a moment stood gazing after her into the now vacant shadow of the old oak wainscoting, as young Numa might after his vanished Egeria, with an unspoken, burning grief and a longing at his heart.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 287