Guy Strangways and M. Varbarriere converse.
When M. Varbarriere and his nephew this night sat down in their
dressing-room, the elder man said--
"How do you like Sir Jekyl Marlowe?"
"A most agreeable host--very lively--very hospitable," answered Guy
Strangways.
"Does it strike you that he is _anxious_ about anything?"
The young man looked surprised.
"No; that is, I mean, he appears to me in excellent spirits. Perhaps,
sir, I do not quite apprehend you?"
"Not unlikely," said the old gentleman. "He does not question you?"
"No, sir."
"Yet he suspects me, and I think suspects you," observed M. Varbarriere.
The young man looked pained, but said nothing.
"That room where poor Lady Marlowe was--was so shocked--the green
chamber--it is connected with the misfortunes of your family."
"How, sir?"
"Those papers you have heard my lawyer mention as having been lost at
Dubois' Hotel in London, by your grandfather, it is my belief were lost
in this house and in that room."
A gentleman smoking a cigar must be very much interested indeed when he
removes his weed from his lips and rests the hand whose fingers hold it
upon his knee, to the imminent risk of its going out while he pauses and
listens.
"And how, sir, do you suppose this occurred--by what agency?" inquired
the handsome young gentleman.
"The ghost," answered M. Varbarriere, with a solemn sneer.
Guy Strangways knew he could not be serious, although, looking on his
countenance, he could discern there no certain trace of irony as he
proceeded.
"Many years later, poor Lady Marlowe, entering that room late at
night--her maid slept there, and she being ill, for a change, in the
smaller room adjoining (you don't know those rooms, but I have looked in
at the door)--beheld what we call the ghost, and never smiled or held up
her head after," said the portly old gentleman between the puffs of his
cigar.
"Beheld the ghost!"
"So they say, and I believe it--what they _call_ the ghost."
"Did she make an alarm or call her husband?"
"Her husband slept in that remote room at the very back of the house,
which, as you see, he still occupies, quite out of hearing. You go
down-stairs first, then up-stairs; and as he slept the greater part of
two hundred feet away from the front of the house, of course he was out
of the question;" and M. Varbarriere sneered again solemnly.
"A housekeeper named Gwynn, I am told, knows all about it, but I believe
she is gone."
"And do you really think, sir, that my grandfather lost those deeds
_here_?"
"I always thought so, and so I told your father, and my information got
him into a bad scrape."
"You don't, I know, think it occurred supernaturally?" said Guy, more
and more bewildered.
"Supernaturally; of course it was--how else could it be?" answered the
old gentleman, with a drowsy irony. "That room has been haunted, as I
have heard, by a devil from the time it was built, in the reign of
George II. Can you imagine why General Lennox was put to sleep there?"
The young man shook his head. The old one resumed his smoking, leaving
his problem unsolved.
"It shall be my business to evoke and to lay that devil," said the
elderly gentleman, abruptly.
"Ought not Lady Jane Lennox to be warned if you really think there is
any--any _danger_?"
"The danger is to _General_ Lennox, as I suppose."
"I don't understand, sir."
"No, you don't--better not. I told your poor father my belief once, and
it proved fatal knowledge to him. In the day that he ate thereof he
died. Bah! it is better to keep your mind to yourself until you have
quite made it up--you understand?--and even then till the time for
action has come, and not even then, unless you want help. Who will sum
up the mischief one of those prating fellows does in a lifetime?"
The gentlemen were silent hereupon for a period which I may measure by
half a cigar.
"That green chamber--it is a hypocrite," said the solemn old man,
looking drowsily on the smoke that was ascending the chimney, into which
he threw the butt-end of his cigar--"mind you, a hypocrite. I have my
theory. But we will not talk; no--_you_ will be less embarrassed, and
_I_ more useful, with this reserve. For the purpose I have in view I
will do fifty things in which you could and would have no partnership.
Will you peep into that letter, Monsieur?" The ponderous gentleman grew
dramatic here. "Will you place your ear to that door, _s'il vous
plait_--your eye to that keyhole? Will you oblige me by bribing that
domestic with five pounds sterling? Bah! I will be all ear, all
eye--omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent!--by _all_ means for this
END--ay, all means--what _you_ call secret, shabby, blackguard;" and the
sonorous voice of the old man, for the first time since his arrival,
broke into a clangorous burst of laughter, which, subsiding into a sort
of growl, died, at last, quite away. The old gentleman's countenance
looked more thoughtful and a shade darker than he had seen it. Then
rising, he stood with his back to the fire, and fumbled slowly at the
heavy links of his watch-chain, like a ghostly monk telling his beads,
while he gazed, in the abstraction of deep thought, on the face of the
young man.
Suddenly his face grew vigilant, his eyes lighted up, and some stern
lines gathered about them, as he looked down full upon his nephew.
"Guy," said he, "you'll keep your promise--your word--your oath--that
not one syllable of what passes between us is divulged to mortal, and
that all those points on which I have enjoined reserve shall be held by
you scrupulously secret."
Guy bowed his acquiescence.
"What nonsense was that going on at the piano to-night? Well, you need
not answer, but there must be no more of it. I won't burden you with
painful secrets. You will understand me hereafter; but no more of
_that_--observe me."
The old gentleman spoke this injunction with a lowering nod, and that
deliberate and peremptory emphasis to which his metallic tones gave
effect.
Guy heard this, leaning in an unchanged attitude on his elbow over the
chimneypiece, in silence and with downcast eyes.
"Yes, Guy," said the old man, walking suddenly up to him, and clapping
his broad hand upon his shoulder, "I will complete the work I have begun
for you. Have confidence in me, don't mar it, and you shall know all,
and after I am gone, perhaps admire the zealous affection with which I
laboured in your interest. Good-night, and Heaven bless you, dear Guy;"
and so they parted for the night.
Guy Strangways had all his life stood in awe of this reserved despotic
uncle--kind, indulgent in matters of pleasure and of money, but
habitually secret, and whenever he imposed a command, tyrannical. Yet
Guy felt that even here there was kindness; and though he could not
understand his plans, of his motives he could have no doubt.
For M. Varbarriere, indeed, his nephew had a singular sort of respect.
More than one-half of his character was enveloped in total darkness to
his eyes. Of the traits that were revealed some were positively evil. He
knew, by just one or two proofs, that he was proud and vindictive, and
could carry revenge for a long time, like a cold stone, in his sleeve.
He could break out into a devil of a passion, too, on occasion; he could
be as unscrupulous, in certain ways, as Machiavel; and, it was fixed in
Guy's mind, had absolutely no religion whatsoever. What were the
evidences? M. Varbarriere led a respectable life, and showed his solemn
face and person in church with regularity, and was on very courteous
relations with the clergy, and had built the greater part of a church in
Pontaubrique, where prayers are, I believe, still offered up for him.
Ought not all this to have satisfied Guy? And yet he knew quite well
that solemn M. Varbarriere did not believe one fact, record, tradition,
or article of the religion he professed, or of any other. Had he
denounced, ridiculed, or controverted them?--Never. On the contrary, he
kept a civil tongue in his head, or was silent. What, then, were the
proofs which had long quite settled the question in Guy's mind? They
consisted of some half-dozen smiles and shrugs, scattered over some
fifteen years, and delivered impressively at significant moments.
But with all this he was kindly. The happiness of a great number of
persons depended upon M. Varbarriere, and they were happy. His
wine-estates were well governed. His great silk-factory in the south was
wisely and benevolently administered. He gave handsomely to every
deserving charity. He smiled on children and gave them small coins. He
loved flowers, and no man was more idolised by his dogs.
Guy was attached by his kindness, and he felt that be his moral system
exactly what it might, he had framed one, and acted under it, and he
instinctively imbibed for him that respect which we always cherish for
the man who has submitted his conduct consistently to a code or
principle self-imposed by intellect--even erring.