“I’m sure she can’t like me — I’m sure she dislikes me. So much the better — Heaven knows I’m glad of it.”
And with an aching heart he knocked, turned the handle, and entered the pretty apartment in which Lady Alice, her thin shoulders curved, as she held her hands over the fire, was sitting alone.
She looked at him over her shoulder strangely from her hollow eyes, without moving or speaking for a time. He bowed gravely, and said —
“I have this moment received your little note, Lady Alice, and have hastened to obey.”
She sat up straight and sighed.
“Thanks — I have not been very well — so nervous — so very nervous,” she repeated, without removing her sad and clouded gaze from his face.
“We all heard with regret that you had not been so well,” said he.
“Well, we’ll not talk of it — you’re very good — I’m glad you’ve come — very nervous, and almost wishing myself back at Wardlock — where indeed I should have returned, only that I should have been wishing myself back again before an hour — miserably nervous.”
And Lady Alice sniffed at her smelling-salts, and added —
“And Monsieur Varbarriere gone away on business for some days — is not he?”
“Yes — quite uncertain — possibly for two, or perhaps three, he said,” answered Guy.
“And he’s very — he knows — he knows a great deal — I forget what I was going to say — I’m half asleep to-day — no sleep — a very bad night.”
And old Lady Alice yawned drearily into the fire.
“Beatrix said she’d look in; but everyone forgets — you young people are so selfish.”
“Mademoiselle Marlowe was at the door as I came in, and said she would go on instead to the garden first, and gather some flowers for you.”
“Oh! h’m! — very good — well, I can’t talk to-day; suppose you choose a book, Mr. Strangways, and read a few pages — that is, if you are quite at leisure?”
“Perfectly — that is, for an hour — unfortunately I have then an appointment. What kind of book shall I take?” he asked, approaching one of the two tall bookstands that flanked an oval mirror opposite the fireplace.
“Anything, provided it is old.”
Nearly half an hour passed in discussing what to read — the old lady not being in the mood that day to pursue the verse readings which had employed Guy Strangways hitherto.
“This seems a curious old book,” he said, after a few minutes. “Very old French — I think upon witchcraft, and full of odd narratives.”
“That will do very well.”
“I had better try to translate it — the language is so antiquated.”
He leaned the folio on the edge of the chimneypiece, and his elbow beside it, supporting his head on his hand, and so read aloud to the exigeante old lady, who liked to see people employed about her, even though little of comfort, amusement, or edification resulted from it.
The narrative which Lady Alice had selected was entitled thus: —
“CONCERNING A REMARKABLE REVENGE AFTER SEPULTURE.
“In the Province of Normandy, in the year of grace 1405, there lived a young gentleman of Styrian descent, possessing estates in Hungary, but a still more opulent fortune in France. His park abutted on that of the Chevalier de St. Aubrache, who was a man also young, of ancient lineage, proud to excess, and though wealthy, by no means so wealthy as his Styrian neighbour.
“This disparity in riches excited the wrath of the jealous nobleman, who having once admitted the passions of envy and hatred to his heart, omitted no opportunity to injure him.
“The Chevalier de St. Aubrache, in fact, succeeded so well— “
Just at this point in the tale, Beatrix, with her flowers, not expecting to find Guy Strangways still in attendance, entered the room.
“You need not go; come in, dear — you’ve brought me some flowers — come in, I say; thank you, Beatrix, dear — they are very pretty, and very sweet too. Here is Mr. Strangways — sit by me, dear — reading a curious old tale of witchcraft. Tell her the beginning, pray.”
So Strangways told the story over again in his best way, and then proceeded to read as follows: —
“The Chevalier de St. Aubrache, in fact, succeeded so well, that on a point of law, aided by a corrupt judge in the Parliament of Rouen, he took from him a considerable portion of his estate, and subsequently so managed matters without committing himself, that he lost his life unfairly in a duel, which the Chevalier secretly contrived.
“Now there was in the household of the gentleman so made away with, a certain Hungarian, older than he, a grave and politic man, and reputed to have studied the art of magic deeply. By this man was the corpse of the deceased gentleman duly coffined, had away to Styria, and, it is said, there buried according to certain conditions, with which the Hungarian magician, who had vowed a terrible revenge, was well acquainted.
“In the meantime the Chevalier de St. Aubrache had espoused a very beautiful demoiselle of the noble family of D’Ayenterre, by whom he had one daughter, so beautiful that she was the subject of universal admiration, which increased in the heart of her proud father that affection which it was only natural that he should cherish for her.
“It was about the time of Candlemas, a full score of years after the death of his master, that the Hungarian magician returned to Normandy, accompanied by a young gentleman, very pale indeed, but otherwise so exactly like the gentleman now so long dead, that no one who had been familiar with his features could avoid being struck, and indeed, affrighted with the likeness.
“The Chevalier de St. Aubrache was at first filled with horror, like the rest; but well knowing that the young man whom he, the stranger, so resembled, had been actually killed as aforesaid, in combat, and having never heard of vampires, which are among the most malignant and awful of the manifestations of the Evil One, and not recognising at all the Hungarian magician, who had been careful to disguise himself effectually; and, above all, relying on letters from the King of Hungary, with which, under a feigned name, as well as with others from the Archbishop of Toledo in Spain, he had come provided, he received him into his house; when the grave magician, who resembled a doctor of a university, and the fair-seeming vampire, being established in the house of their enemy, began to practise, by stealth, their infernal arts.”
The old lady saw that in the reader’s countenance, as he read this odd story, which riveted her gaze. Perhaps conscious of her steady and uncomfortable stare, as well as of a real parallel, he grew obviously disconcerted, and at last, as it seemed, even agitated as he proceeded.
“Young man, for Heaven’s sake, will you tell me who you are?” said Lady Alice, her dark old eyes fixed fearfully on his face, as she rose unconsciously from her chair.
The young man, very pale, turned a despairing and almost savage look from her to Beatrix, and back to her again.
“You are not a Strangways,” she continued.
He looked steadily at her, as if he were going to speak, then dropped his glance suddenly and remained silent.
“I say, I know your name is not Strangways,” said the old lady, in increasing agitation.
“I can tell you nothing about myself,” said he again, fixing his great dark eyes, that looked almost wild in his pallid face, full upon her, with a strange expression of anguish.
“In the Almighty’s name, are you Guy Deverell?” she screamed, lifting up her thin hands between him and her in her terror.
The young man returned her gaze oddly, with, she fancied, a look of baffled horror in his face. It seemed to her like an evil spirit detected.
He recovered, however, for a few seconds, something of his usual manner. Instead of speaking, he bowed twice very low, and, on the point of leaving the room, he suddenly arrested his departure, turning about with a stamp on the floor; and walking back to her, he said, very gently —
“Yes, yes, why should I deny it? My name is Guy Deverell.”
<
br /> And was gone.
* * *
CHAPTER V.
Farewell.
“Oh! grandmamma, what is it?” said Beatrix, clasping her thin wrist.
The old lady, stooping over the chair on which she leaned, stared darkly after the vanished image, trembling very much.
“What is Deverell — why should the name be so dreadful — is there anything — oh! grandmamma, is there anything very bad?”
“I don’t know — I am confused — did you ever see such a face? My gracious Heaven!” muttered Lady Alice.
“Oh! grandmamma, darling, tell me what it is, I implore of you.”
“Yes, dear, everything; another time. I can’t now. I might do a mischief. I might prevent — you must promise me, darling, to tell no one. You must not say his name is Deverell. You say nothing about it. That dreadful, dreadful story!”
The folio was lying with crumpled leaves, back upward, on the floor, where it had fallen.
“There is something plainly fearful in it. You think so, grandmamma; something discovered; something going to happen. Send after him, grandmamma; call him back. If it is anything you can prevent, I’ll ring.”
“Don’t touch the bell,” cried granny, sharply, clutching at her hand, “don’t do it. See, Beatrix, you promise me you say nothing to anyone of what you’ve witnessed — promise. I’ll tell you all I know when I’m better. He’ll come again. I wish he’d come again. I’m sure he will, though I hardly think I could bear to see him. I don’t know what to think.”
The old lady threw herself back in her chair, not affectedly at all, but looking so awfully haggard and agitated that Beatrix was frightened.
“Call nobody, there’s a darling; just open the window; I shall be better.”
And she heaved some of those long and heavy sighs which relieve hysterical oppression; and, after a long silence, she said —
“It is a long time since I have felt so ill, Beatrix. Remember this, darling, my papers are in the black cabinet in my bedroom at home — I mean Wardlock. There is not a great deal. My jointure stops, you know; but whatever little there is, is for you, darling.”
“You’re not to talk of it, granny, darling, you’ll be quite well in a minute; the air is doing you good. May I give you a little wine? — Well, a little water?”
“Thanks, dear; I am better. Remember what I told you, and particularly your promise to mention what you heard to no one. I mean the — the — strange scene with that young man. I think I will take a glass of wine. I’ll tell you all when I’m better — when Monsieur Varbarriere comes back. It is important for a time, especially having heard what I have, that I should wait a little.”
Granny sipped a little sherry slowly, and the tint of life, such as visits the cheek of the aged, returned to hers, and she was better.
“I’d rather not see him any more. It’s all like a dream. I don’t know what to make of it,” muttered granny; and she began audibly to repeat passages, tremblingly and with upturned eyes, from her prayer-book.
Perplexed, anxious, excited, Beatrix looked down on the collapsed and haggard face of the old lady, and listened to the moaned petition, “Lord, have mercy upon us!” which trembled from her lips as it might from those of a fainting sinner on a deathbed.
Guy Deverell, as I shall henceforward call him, thinking of nothing but escape into solitude, was soon a good way from the house. He was too much agitated, and his thoughts too confused at first, to estimate all the possible consequences of the sudden disclosure he had just made.
What would Varbarriere, who could be stern and violent, say or do, when he learned it? Here was the one injunction on which he had been ever harping violated. He felt how much he owed to the unceasing care of that able and disinterested friend through all his life, and how had he repaid it all!
“Anything but deception — anything but that. I could not endure the agony of my position longer — yes, agony.”
He was now wandering by the bank of the solitary river, and looked back at the picturesque gables of Marlowe Manor through the trees; and he felt that he was leaving all that could possibly interest him in existence in leaving Marlowe. Always was rising in his mind the one thought, “What does she think of my deception and my agitation — what can she think of me?”
It is not easy, even in silence and alone, when the feelings are at all ruffled, to follow out a train of thought. Guy thought of his approaching farewell to his uncle: he sometimes heard his great voice thundering in despair and fury over his ruined schemes — schemes, be they what they might, at least unselfish. Then he thought of the effect of the discovery on Sir Jekyl, who, no doubt, had special reasons for alarm connected with this name — a secret so jealously guarded by Varbarriere. Then he thought of his future. His commission in the French army awaited him. A life of drudgery or listlessness? No such thing! a career of adventure and glory — ending in a baton or death! Death is so romantic in the field! There are always some beautiful eyes to drop in secret those tears which are worth dying for. It is not a crowded trench, where fifty corpses pig together in the last noisome sleep — but an apotheosis!
He was sure he had done well in yielding to the impulse that put an end to the tedious treachery he had been doomed to practise; and if well, then wisely — so, no more retrospection.
All this rose and appeared in fragments like a wreck in the eddies of his mind.
One thing was clear — he must leave Marlowe forthwith. He could not meet his host again. He stood up. It is well to have hit upon anything to be done — anything quite certain.
With rapid steps he now returned to Marlowe, wondering how far he had walked, as it seemed to him, in so mere a moment of time.
The house was deserted; so fine a day had tempted all its inmates but old Lady Alice abroad. He sent to the village of Marlowe for a chaise, while Jacques, who was to await where he was the return of his master, Monsieur Varbarriere, got his luggage into readiness, and he himself wrote, having tried and torn up half a dozen, a note to Sir Jekyl, thanking him for his hospitality, and regretting that an unexpected occurrence made his departure on so short notice unavoidable. He did not sign it. He would not write his assumed name. Sir Jekyl could have no difficulty in knowing from which of his guests it came, perhaps would not even miss the signature.
The chaise stood at the doorsteps, his luggage stowed away, his dark short travelling cloak about his shoulders, and his note to Sir Jekyl in his fingers.
He entered the great hall, meaning to place it on the marble table where Sir Jekyl’s notes and newspapers usually awaited him, and there he encountered Beatrix.
There was no one else. She was crossing to the outer door, and they almost met before they came to a stop.
“Oh! Mr. Strangways.”
“Pray call me by my real name, Deverell. Strangways was my mother’s; and in obedience to those who are wiser than I, during my journey I adopted it, although the reasons were not told me.”
There was a little pause here.
“I am very glad I was so fortunate as to meet you, Miss Marlowe, before I left. I’m just going, and it would be such a privilege to know that you had not judged me very hardly.”
“I’m sure papa will be very sorry you are going — a break-up is always a sad event — we miss our guests so much,” she said, smiling, but a little pale.
“If you knew my story, Miss Marlowe, you would acquit me,” he said, bursting forth all at once. “Misfortune overtook me in my early childhood, before I can remember. I have no right to trouble you with the recital; and in my folly I superadded this — the worst — that madly I gave my love to one who could not return it — who, perhaps, ought not to have returned it. Pardon me, Miss Marlowe, for talking of these things; but as I am going away, and wished you to understand me, I thought, perhaps, you would hear me. Seeing how hopeless was my love, I never told it, but resolved to see her no more, and so to the end of my days will keep my vow; but this is added, that for her sake my life
becomes a sacrifice — a real one — to guard her from sorrows and dangers, which I believe did threaten her, and to save her from which I devote myself, as perhaps she will one day understand. I thought I would just tell you so much before I went, and — and — that you are that lady. Farewell, dear Miss Marlowe, most beautiful — beloved.”
He pressed her hand, he kissed it passionately, and was gone.
It was not until she had heard the vehicle drive rapidly away that she quite recovered herself. She went into the front hall, and, through the window, standing far back, watched the receding chaise. When it was out of sight, humming a gay air, she ran upstairs, and into her bedroom, when, locking the door, she wept the bitterest tears, perhaps, she had ever shed, since the days of her childhood.
* * *
CHAPTER VI.
At the Bell and Horns.
With the reader’s permission, I must tell here how Monsieur Varbarriere proceeded on his route to Slowton.
As he mounted his vehicle from the steps of Wardlock, the flunky, who was tantalised by the very unsatisfactory result of his listening at the parlour-door, considered him curiously.
“Go on towards the village,” said M. Varbarriere to the driver, in his deep foreign accents.
And so soon as they were quite out of sight of the Wardlock flunky, he opened the front window of his nondescript vehicle, and called —
“Drive to Slowton.”
Which, accordingly, was done. M. Varbarriere, in profound goodhumour, a flood of light and certainty having come upon him, sat back luxuriously in a halo of sardonic glory, and was smiling to himself, as men sometimes will over the chess-board when the rest of their game is secure.
At the Bell and Horns he was received with a reverential welcome.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 288