A CONVERSATION IN SHADOWS
When Mr. Barringcourt was in it, the great black house held its
mysteries and shadows; without him they seemed aggravated fourfold. Not
long after the Wednesday evening music, Rosalie stood in the centre of
the hall suddenly smitten with the most chilly fear she had ever
experienced in her life. No noise, no sound, not even the wind without,
penetrated those walls of iron marble. Shadows and silence in endless
vista met her eye. Shadows and silence like a sigh congealed, changed
from nothingness into reality.
Dreading the loneliness, and her own want of nerve to go upstairs, she
went to the door and accosted the keeper there.
“Does this house frighten you?” she asked.
“Not at all,” he answered, most politely.
“That is strange, because I feel most frightened here. It is not
haunted, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“There are no—no ghosts?”
He smiled. “That depends upon your imagination, I should say.”
“I want to go upstairs, and I dare not. You don’t think me very foolish,
do you?”
“Where is Mariana? Does she not look after you?”
“Yes. But she went away, nearly an hour ago.”
“Shall I call her?”
“Oh, please do!”
He touched a bell, and a minute later Mariana appeared coming down the
staircase. She looked as calm as ever. The short outburst of the evening
had died away.
“I’m sorry to trouble you. But I really could not come upstairs alone.
The house was so quiet that it frightened me.”
“You will get accustomed to the silence by degrees,” she answered, and
led the way towards the staircase.
When they reached the little sitting-room where the fire burnt, Rosalie
was pleased to find a white cloth laid there, with supper on it. It was
a very plain repast, but cheerful, possibly because of the bright lamp
and firelight.
“When do you have your supper?” she asked of Mariana.
“I have had mine.”
“What is the time?”
“Almost ten o’clock.”
“How late! That is the time I generally go to bed. What time do you go?”
“As soon as you are settled for the night I shall retire.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“In the next room to yours. If you want anything in the night, you may
ring or come to me.”
“But then I should have to come out on to the corridor. I hate
corridors.”
“No. My bedroom opens into yours. Your door that opens into the passage
is locked at night.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
“Why do you lock it?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. You are safer with it locked, I expect.”
“How long have you lived here, Mariana?”
“Three years this autumn.”
“And how long has Mr. Barringcourt been here?”
“The same length of time. I came with him.”
“And you are happy here?”
“I could not be happier—under the circumstances.”
“Were you ever happier?”
“I think I was once. But it is a very long time ago. I don’t remember
how long, so that it cannot really matter.”
“Where did you live before you lived here?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t quite remember. I think it was a very cold and dark place, and
one day Mr. Barringcourt came and asked me would I like to go away.”
“And you accepted?”
“Yes. I wanted to get warm again.”
“And are you warm?”
“Yes. Every Wednesday night. If it were not for that I should grow cold
again.”
A silence. Then:
“Who lived here before Mr. Barringcourt?”
“A man who died. His name was Geoffrey Todbrook.”
“What?”
“Geoffrey Todbrook.”
“Why, he’s the man who started homes for incurables. There was one for
the dumb and deaf and blind. I should have gone there.”
“I have heard he was very charitable. He left this house to Mr.
Barringcourt.”
“Were they related?”
“No; I rather think myself the Master had let it to him on a lease. Then
when the lease expired he died, and left a will to smooth all
difficulties.”
“Was Mr. Barringcourt living in the city before Mr. Todbrook’s death?”
“Oh, no! I don’t think he had ever been here before. He took me to the
opera one Wednesday night, and he said it was only the second time he
had been there.”
“The opera? Did you like it?”
“Yes, I liked it; but it made my head ache. I was trying to remember
something all the time.”
“Do you often go out with him?”
“Oh, no; that would be to get oneself talked about. Besides, so long as
we remain here, I am but a servant.”
“Why does Mr. Barringcourt keep me here?”
“I expect you have some secret he wishes to discover, otherwise he would
not trouble himself about you. When he took me to the opera it was to
discover something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how can you tell?”
“Because, up to the time we went, and through the performance, he was
very affable to me. Afterwards he took no more notice of me, and never
has done.”
“Don’t you hate him?”
“Why should I? I had no secret. His conduct was permissible; and I had
rather be left alone.”
“And what secret can I have that he should be agreeable to me?”
“I cannot tell. Perhaps, like me, you have none. But if you have, rest
assured you will not leave this house till it has been discovered.”
“Have you ever had anyone staying here before in the same way that I
am?”
“Not in my time. People with secrets worth knowing are few and far
between.”
“Then what can make the Master think such an insignificant person as I
could hold a secret?”
“I cannot tell. I only said it might be so; there is no other reason why
he should tolerate your company?”
Rosalie laughed, despite a very uneasy feeling in her mind.
“Do you ever have company here?”
“Yes. Last Christmas there was a ball, and we had two or three dinner
parties and entertainments. Lady Flamington generally acts as hostess.
She and Sir James are very friendly with Mr. Barringcourt.”
“What is she like?”
“Very beautiful, I think, with very pleasing manners. She must be so to
please the Master; he is so hard to please.”
“Perhaps she has a secret?”
“Oh, no; I hardly think so. He makes a convenience of her.”
“Good gracious!” and Rosalie laughed. “You don’t give him an enviable
character.”
“I speak as truthfully as my perceptions allow me; but at times I may be
wrong.”
“And does she not resent being made a convenience of?”
“No; it is only self-respect that keeps her from falling in love with
him.”
“Is he then so agreeable to her?”
“He gives her everything that is not worth the having.”
“What do you mean?”
“He gives her everything but love.”
“But that, with a husband, no one would want.”
Mariana’s eyebrows rose. “There are double marriages on Lucifram, I’m
given to understand.”
“Yes; but no one thinks much of a woman who marries twice, unless she is
a widow.”
“Indeed,” Mariana answered, and was silent.
“But is Mr. Barringcourt fond of no one?” Rosalie pursued.
“I never heard of anyone. He is cold and proud, and often takes no
trouble to hide it.”
“But then there are so many good and beautiful women in the world.”
“They find partners, perhaps, that need them more.”
After another silence Rosalie continued: “And Mr. Todbrook—what did he
die of?”
“I think he went down the back staircase.”
“In his own house?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“He died.”
“In which room?”
“The one the Master sleeps in now. There is a portrait of him in the
picture-gallery. To-morrow you shall see it.”
“What did he die of?”
“He had quick ears. He heard the spirit voices calling, and he went to
them.”
“Painlessly?”
“Like one sailing on a sea of glass. They say his end was merciful; and
I know it was. He suffered nothing—he suffers nothing now.”
“Is he in heaven?”
“I doubt there was too little pain for that; but yet I cannot tell. He
may have suffered previously. Men’s lives are strange. And the roughest
rocks are coated by smooth waters. They keep their secrets all too
well.”
“I’m tired, Mariana. Shall we go to bed?”
“Yes. When you wish it.”
So they rose and went together to the bedroom, which had a chilly air in
it after the cosy room. When at last Rosalie was in bed, Mariana
smoothed the coverlet and tucked the bed-clothes in.
“Leave me a light, won’t you?”
“Yes; I’ll put it on this table. But there is nothing to fear. An easy
conscience may sleep well here, secure from harm.” She moved away, but
after a few steps returned. She stooped over the bed and kissed
Rosalie’s brow. “Good-night, little one. Sleep peacefully till
daybreak.” And then she went away.
Big tears rose in Rosalie’s eyes, for the words had awakened in her a
terrible longing for love and companionship, stronger and more powerful
than ever Mariana, in her terribly set existence, could ever know how to
give. For Rosalie felt that she was even now the stronger of the two,
and wept for Mariana’s solitude as well as her own.