Rest for the heavy-laden! The broken and the contrite he will not despise. Read and take comfort, how he dealt with that poor sinner. Perfect purity, perfect mercy. Oh, noblest vision that ever rose before contrite frailty! Lift up the downcast head — let the poor heart break no more — you shall rise from the dust an angel.
Suddenly she lifted up her pale face, with an agony and a light on her countenance, with hands clasped, and such a look from the abyss, in her upturned eyes.
Oh! was it possible — could it be true? A friend — such a friend!
Then came a burst of prayer — wild resolutions — agonised tears. She knew that in all space, for her, was but one place of safety — to lie at the wounded feet of her Saviour, to clasp them, to bathe them with her tears. An hour — more — passed in this agony of stormy hope breaking in gleams through despair. Prayer — cries for help, as from the drowning, and vows frantic — holy, for the future.
“Yes, once more, thank God, I can dare with safety — here and now — to see him for the last time. In the morning I will conjure old Lady Alice to take me to Wardlock. I will write to London. Arthur will join me there. I’d like to go abroad — never into the world again — never — never — never. He will be pleased. I’ll try to make amends. He’ll never know what a wretch I’ve been. But he shall see the change, and be happier. Yes, yes, yes.” Her beautiful long hair was loose, its rich folds clasped in her strained fingers — her pale upturned face bathed in tears and quivering— “The Saviour’s feet! — No happiness but there — wash them with my tears — dry them with this hair.” And she lifted up her eyes and hands to heaven.
Poor thing! In the storm, as cloud and rack fly by, the momentary gleam that comes — what is it? Do not often these agitations subside in darkness? Was this to be a lasting sunshine, though saddened for her? Was she indeed safe now and for ever?
But is there any promise that repentance shall arrest the course of the avenger that follows sin on earth? Are broken health or blighted fame restored when the wicked man “turneth away from the wickedness that he hath committed;” and do those consequences that dog iniquity with “feet of wool and hands of iron,” stay their sightless and soundless march so soon as he begins to do “that which is lawful and right?” It is enough for him to know that he that does so “shall save his soul alive.”
* * *
CHAPTER XIX.
Varbarriere the Tyrant debates with the weaker Varbarrieres.
“May I see you, Monsieur Varbarriere, tomorrow, in the room in which I saw you to-day, at any hour you please after halfpast eleven?” inquired Lady Alice, a few minutes after that gentleman had approached her.
“Certainly, madam; perhaps I can at this moment answer you upon points which cause you anxiety; pray command me.”
And he sate like a corpulent penitent on a low prie-dieu chair beside her knee, and inclined his ear to listen.
“It is only to learn whether my — my poor boy’s son, my grandson, the young man in whom I must feel so deep an interest, is about to return here?”
“I can’t be quite certain, madam, of that; but I can promise that he will do himself the honour to present himself before you, whenever you may please to appoint, at your house of Wardlock.”
“Yes, that would be better still. He could come there and see his old grandmother. I would like to see him soon. I have a great deal to say to him, a great deal to tell him that would interest him; and the pictures; I know you will let him come. Do you really mean it, Monsieur Varbarriere?”
M. Varbarriere smiled a little contemptuously, and bowed most deferentially.
“Certainly madam, I mean what I say; and if I did not mean it, still I would say I do.”
There was something mazy in this sentence which a little bewildered old Lady Alice’s head, and she gazed on Varbarriere with a lacklustre frown.
“Well, then, sir, the upshot of the matter is that I may rely on what you say, and expect my grandson’s visit at Wardlock?”
“Certainly, madam, you may expect it,” rejoined Varbarriere, oracularly.
“And pray, Monsieur Varbarriere, are you married?” inquired the old lady, with the air of a person who had a right to be informed.
“Alas, madam, may I say Latin? — Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem; you stir up my deepest grief. I am, indeed, what you call an old bachelor.”
“Well, so I should suppose; I don’t see what business you would have had to marry.”
“Nor I either,” he replied.
“And you are very rich, I suppose.”
“The rich man never says he is rich, and the poor man never says he is poor. What shall I say? Pretty well! Will that do?”
“H’m, yes; you ought to make a settlement, Monsieur Varbarriere.”
“On your grandson, madam?”
“Yes, my grandson, he’s nothing the worse of that, sir — and your nephew.”
“Madam, the idea is beneficent, and does honour to your heart. I have, to say truth, had an idea of doing something for him by my will, though not by settlement; you are quite in advance of me, madam — I shall reflect.”
Monsieur Varbarriere was, after his wont, gravely amusing himself, so gravely that old Lady Alice never suspected an irony. Old Lady Alice had in her turn taken up the idea of a solution of all family variance, by a union between Guy Deverell and Beatrix, and her old brain was already at the settlements.
“Lady Alice, you must positively give us up our partner, Monsieur Varbarriere, our game is arrested; and, egad, Pelter, poor fellow, is bursting with jealousy!”
Lady Alice turned disdainfully from Sir Jekyl.
“Monsieur Varbarriere, pray don’t allow me to detain you now. I should be very glad to see you, if you had no particular objection, tomorrow.”
“Only too happy; you do me, madam, a great deal of honour;” and with a bow and a smile Monsieur Varbarriere withdrew to the whist-table.
He did not play that night by any means so well as usual. Doocey, who was his partner, was, to say the least, disappointed, and Sir Jekyl and Sir Paul made a very nice thing of it, in that small way which makes domestic whist-players happy and serene. When they wound up, Doocey was as much irritated as a perfectly well-bred gentleman could be.
“Well, Sir Paul; we earned our winnings, eh? Four times the trick against honours, not bad play, I think,” said Sir Jekyl, as they rose.
“Captain Doocey thinks our play had nothing to do with it,” observed Sir Paul, with a faint radiance of complacent banter over his bluff face, as he put his adversary’s half-crowns into his trowsers pocket.
“I never said that, Sir Paul, of course; you mistake me, but we might, don’t you think, Monsieur Varbarriere, have played a little better? for instance, we should have played our queen to the lead of spades. I’m sure that would have given us the trick, don’t you see, and you would have had the lead, and played diamonds, and forced Sir Jekyl to ruff with his ace, and made my knave good, and that would have given us the lead and trick.”
“Our play goes for nothing, you see, Sir Paul,” said Sir Jekyl.
“No; Captain Doocey thinks play had nothing to do with it,” said Sir Paul Blunket.
“‘Gad, I think play had everything to do with it — not yours, though,” said Doocey, a little tartly.
“I must do you all justice,” interposed Varbarriere, “you’re all right — everyone played well except me. I do pretty well when I’m in the vein, but I’m not tonight; it was a very bad performance. I played execrably, Captain Doocey.”
“Oh! no, I won’t allow that; but you know once or twice you certainly did not play according to your own principles, I mean, and I couldn’t therefore see exactly what you meant, and I dare say it was as much my fault as yours.”
And Doocey, with his finger on Varbarriere’s sleeve, fell into one of those resumés which mysteriously interest whist-players, and Varbarriere listened to his energetic periods with his hands in his pockets, benignant but bored, and
assented with a good grace to his own condemnation. And smothering a yawn as he moved away, again pleaded guilty to all the counts, and threw himself on the mercy of the court.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” exclaimed Sir Jekyl, and he heard a voice repeat “tomorrow,” and so did Varbarriere. “I’ll turn it over, and at breakfast I’ll lay half a dozen plans before you, and you shall select. It’s a clear frosty night; we shall have a fine day. You don’t leave us, Mr. Pelter, till the afternoon, d’ye see? and mind, Lady Alice Redcliffe sits in the boudoir, at the first landing on the great stair; the servant will show you the way; don’t fail to pay her a visit, d’ye mind, Pelter; she’s huffed, you left her so suddenly; don’t mind her at first; just amuse her a little, and I think she’s going to change her lawyer.”
Pelter, with his hands in his pockets, smiled shrewdly and winked on Sir Jekyl.
“Thanks; I know it, I heard it; you can give us a lift in that quarter, Sir Jekyl, and I shan’t forget to pay my respects.”
When the ladies had gone, and the gentlemen stood in groups by the fire, or sat listless before it, Sir Jekyl, smiling, laid his hand on Varbarriere’s shoulder, and asked him in a low tone —
“Will you join Pelter in my room, and wind up with a cigar?”
“I was going, that is, tempted, only ten minutes ago, to ask leave to join your party,” began Varbarriere.
“It is not a party — we should be only three,” said Sir Jekyl, in an eager whisper.
“All the more inviting,” continued Varbarriere, smiling. “But I suddenly recollected that I shall have rather a busy hour or two — three or four letters to write. My people of business in France never give me a moment; they won’t pay my rent or cork a bottle, my faith! without a letter.”
“Well, I’m sorry you can’t; but you must make it up to me, and see, you must take two or three of these to your dressing-room,” and he presented his case to M. Varbarriere.
“Ha! you are very good; but, no; I like to connect them with your room, they must not grow too common, they shall remain a treat. No, no, I won’t; ha, ha, ha! Thank you very much,” and he waved them off, laughing and shaking his head.
Somehow he could not brook accepting this trifling present. To be sure, here he was a guest at free quarters, but at this he stuck; he drew back and waved away the cigar-case. It was not logical, but he could not help it.
When Pelter and Sir Jekyl sat in the Baronet’s chamber, under their canopy of tobacco-smoke over their last cigar,
“See, Pelter,” said Sir Jekyl, “it won’t do to seem anxious; the fact is I’m not anxious; I believe he has a lot of money to leave that young fellow. Suppose they marry; the Deverells are a capital old family, don’t you see, and it will make up everything, and stop people talking about — about old nonsense. I’ll settle all, and I don’t care a curse, and I’ll not be very long in the way. I can’t keep always young, I’m past fifty.”
“Judging by his manner, you know, I should say any proposition you may have to make he’d be happy to listen to,” said Mr. Pelter.
“You’re sleepy, Pelter.”
“Well, a little bit,” said the attorney, blinking, yawning, and grinning all together.
“And, egad, I think you want to be shaved,” said Sir Jekyl, who did not stand on ceremony with his attorney.
“Should not wonder,” said Mr. Pelter, feeling his chin over sleepily with his finger and thumb. “My shave was at halfpast four, and what is it now? — halfpast eleven, egad! I thought it was later. Goodnight, Sir Jekyl — those are cigars, magnificent, by Jove! — and about that Strangways’ business, I would not be in too great a hurry, do you see? I would not open anything, till I saw whether they were going to move, or whether there was anything in it. I would not put it in his head, d’ye see, hey?” and from habit Pelter winked.
And with that salutation, harmless as the kiss apostolic, Mr. Pelter, aided by a few directions from Sir Jekyl, toddled away to his bedchamber yawning, and the Baronet, after his wont, locked himself into his room in very tolerable spirits.
There was a sofa in Varbarriere’s dressing-room, on which by this time, in a great shawl dressing-gown, supine lay our friend; like the painted stone monument of the Chief Justice of Chester in Wardlock church, you could see on the wall sharply defined in shadow the solemn outline of his paunch. He was thinking — not as we endeavour to trace thought in narrative, like a speech, but crossing zigzag from point to point, and back and forward. A man requires an audience, and pen and paper, to think in train at all. His ideas whisked and jolted on somewhat in this fashion: —
“It is to be avoided, if possible. My faith! it is now just twelve o’clock! A dangerous old blockhead. I must avoid it, if only for time to think in. There was nothing this evening to imply such relations — Parbleu! a pleasant situation if it prove all a mistake. These atrabilious countrymen and women of mine are so odd, they may mislead a fellow accustomed like me to a more intriguing race and a higher finesse. Ah! no; it is certainly true. The fracas will end everything. That old white monkey will be sure to blunder me into it. Better reconsider things, and wait. What shall I tell him? No excuse, I must go through with it, or I suppose he will call for pistols — curse him! I’ll give Sir Jekyl a hint or two. He must see her, and make all ready. The old fool will blaze away at me, of course. Well! I shall fight him or not, as I may be moved. No one in this country need fight now who does not wish it. Rather a comfortable place to live in, if it were not for the climate. I forgot to ask Jacques whether Guy took all his luggage! What o’clock now? Come, by my faith! it is time to decide.”
* * *
CHAPTER XX.
M. Varbarriere decides.
Varbarriere sat up on the side of his sofa.
“Who brought that woman, Gwynn, here? What do they want of her?” It was only the formula by which interrogatively to express the suspicion that pointed at Sir Jekyl and his attorney. “Soft words for me while tampering with my witnesses, then laugh at me. Why did not I ask Lady Alice whether she really wrote for her?”
Thus were his thoughts various as the ingredients of that soup called harlequin, which figures at low French taverns, in which are floating bits of chicken, cheese, potato, fish, sausage, and so forth — the flavour of the soup itself is consistent, nevertheless. The tone of Varbarriere’s ruminations, on the whole, was decided. He wished to avert the exposure which his interference alone had invited.
He looked at his watch — he had still a little more than half an hour for remedial thought and action — and now, what is to be done to prevent ce vieux singe blanc from walking into the green chamber, and keeping watch and ward at his wife’s bedside until that spectre shall emerge through the wall, whom with a curse and a stab he was to lay?
Well, what precise measures were to be taken? First he must knock up Sir Jekyl in his room, and tell him positively that General Lennox was to be at Marlowe by one o’clock, having heard stories in town, for the purpose of surprising and punishing the guilty. Sir Jekyl would be sharp enough to warn Lady Jane; or should he suggest that it would be right to let her know, in order to prevent her from being alarmed at the temper and melodramatics of her husband, and to secure that coolness and preparation which were necessary? It required some delicacy and tact, but he was not afraid. Next, he must meet General Lennox, and tell him in substance that he had begun to hope that he had been himself practised upon. Yes, that would do — and he might be as dark as he pleased on the subject of his information.
Varbarriere lighted his bedroom candle, intending to march forthwith to Sir Jekyl’s remote chamber.
Great events, as we all know, turn sometimes upon small pivots. Before he set out, he stood for a moment with his candle in one hand, and in his reverie he thrust the other into the pocket of his voluminous black trowsers, and there it encountered, unexpectedly, the letter he had that evening picked up on the floor of the gallery. It had quite dropped out of his mind. Monsieur Varbarriere was a Jupiter Scapin. He
had not the smallest scruple about reading it, and afterwards throwing it into the fire, though it contained other men’s secrets, and was another man’s property.
This was a letter from Sir Jekyl Marlowe to Pelter and Crowe, and was in fact upon the special subject of Herbert Strangways. Unlucky subject! unlucky composition! Now there was, of course, here a great deal of that sort of communication which occurs between a clever attorney and his clever client, which is termed “privileged,” and is not always quite fit to see the light. Did ever beauty read letter of compliment and adoration with keener absorption?
Varbarriere’s face rather whitened as he read, and his fat sneer was not pleasant to see.
He got through it, and recommenced. Sometimes he muttered and sometimes he thought; and the notes of this oration would have read nearly thus: —
“So the question is to be opened whether the anonymous payment — he lies, it was in my name! — through the bankers protects me technically from pursuit; and I’m to be ‘run by the old Hebrew pack from cover to cover,’ over the Continent — bravo! — till I vanish for seven years more.” Here Monsieur Varbarriere laughed in lurid contempt.
The letter went on in the same vein — contemptuous, cruel, he fancied. Everyone is cruel in self-defence; and in its allusions and spirit was something which bitterly recalled the sufferings which in younger and weaker days that same Baronet, pursuing the same policy, had inflicted upon him. Varbarriere remembered when he was driven to the most ignominious and risky shifts, to ridiculous disguises; he remembered his image in the cracked shaving-glass in the garret in his lair near Notre Dame — the red wig and moustache, and the goggles.
How easily an incautious poke will re-awake the dormant neuralgia of toothache; and tooth, cheek, ear, throat, brain, are all throbbing again in the reinduced anguish! With these sharp and vivid recollections of humiliation, fear, and suffering, all stirred into activity by this unlucky letter, that savage and vindictive feeling which had for so long ruled the life of Herbert Strangways, and had sunk into an uneasy doze under the narcotic of this evening’s interview, rose up suddenly, wide awake and energetic.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 296