Lady Alice talks with Guy Strangways.
When Guy had bid this man good-night and entered his chamber, he threw
himself into his easy-chair beside the fire, which had grown low and
grey in the grate. He felt both sad and alarmed. He now felt assured
that M. Varbarriere was fashioning and getting together the parts of a
machine which was to work evil against their host and his family. His
family? His _daughter_ Beatrix. He had no other.
Already implicated in deception, the reasons for which he knew not, the
direction of which he only suspected--bound as he was to secrecy by
promises the most sacred, to his stern old kinsman and benefactor, he
dared not divulge the truth. Somehow the blow meditated, he was
confident, against this Baronet, was to redound to _his_ advantage. What
a villain should he appear when all was over! Sir Jekyl his host, too,
frank and hospitable--how could he have earned the misfortune, be it
great or small, that threatened? And the image of Beatrix--like an
angel--stood between her father and the unmasked villain, Guy, who had
entered the house in a borrowed shape, ate and drank and slept, talked
and smiled, and, he now feared, _loved_, and in the end--struck!
When Mr. Guy Strangways came down next morning he looked very pale. His
breakfast was a sham. He talked hardly at all, and smiled but briefly
and seldom.
M. Varbarriere, on the contrary, was more than usually animated, and
talked in his peculiar vein rather more than was his wont; and after
breakfast, Sir Jekyl placed his hand kindly on Guy Strangways' arm as he
looked dismally from the window. The young man almost started at the
kindly pressure.
"Very glad to hear that Monsieur Varbarriere has changed his mind," said
Sir Jekyl, with a smile.
What change was this? thought Guy, whose thoughts were about other plans
of his uncle's, and he looked with a strange surprise in Sir Jekyl's
face.
"I mean his ill-natured idea of going so soon. I'm so glad. You know you
have seen nothing yet, and we are going to kill a buck to-day, so you
had better postpone the moor to-morrow, and if you like to take your rod
in the afternoon, you will find--Barron tells me--some very fine trout,
about half a mile lower down the stream than you fished yesterday--a
little below the bridge."
Guy thanked him, I fancy, rather oddly. He heard him in fact as if it
was an effort to follow his meaning, and he really did feel relieved
when his good-natured host was called away, the next moment, to settle a
disputed question between the two sportsmen, Linnett and Doocey.
"How is grandmamma this morning?" inquired Sir Jekyl of Beatrix, before
she left the room.
"Better, I think. She says she will take a little turn up and down the
broad walk, by-and-by, and I am to go with her."
"Very pleasant for you, Trixie," said her papa, with one of his
chuckles. "So you can't go with your ladies to Lonsted to-day?"
"No--it can't be helped; but I'm glad poor granny can take her little
walk."
"Not a bit of you, Trixie."
"Yes, _indeed_, I am. Poor old granny!"
The incredulous Baronet tapped her cheek with his finger, as he chuckled
again roguishly, and with a smile and a shake of his head, their little
talk ended.
In the hall he found Guy Strangways in his angling garb, about to start
on a solitary excursion. He preferred it. He was very much obliged. He
did not so much care for the chase, and liked walking even better than
riding.
The Baronet, like a well-bred host, allowed his guests to choose
absolutely their own methods of being happy, but he could not but
perceive something in the young gentleman's manner that was new and
uncomfortable. Had he offended him--had anything occurred during the
sitting after dinner last night? Well, he could not make it out, but his
manner was a little odd and constrained, and in that slanting light from
above, as he had stood before him in the hall, he certainly did look
confoundedly like that other Guy whose memory was his chief
spoil-sport. But it crossed him only like a neuralgic pang, to be
forgotten a minute later. And so the party dispersed--some mounted, to
the park; others away with the keeper and dogs for the moor; and
Strangways, dejected, on his solitary river-side ramble.
His rod and fly-book were but pretexts--his object was solitude. It was
a beautiful autumnal day, a low sun gilding the red and yellow foliage
of wood and hedgerow, and the mellow songs of birds were quivering in
the air. The cheer and the melancholy of autumn were there--the sadness
of a pleasant farewell.
"It is well," thought Strangways, "that I have been so startled into
consciousness, while I yet have power to escape my fate--that beautiful
girl! I did not know till last night how terrible I shall find it to say
farewell. But, cost what it may, the word must be spoken. She will never
know what it costs me. I may call it a dream, but even dreams of
paradise are forgotten; my dream--never! All after-days dark without
her. All my future life a sad reverie--a celestial remembrance--a vain
yearning. These proud English people--and those dark designs, what are
they? No, they shan't hurt her--never. I'll denounce him first. What is
it to me what becomes of me if I have saved her--in so few days grown to
be so much to me--my idol, my darling, though she may never know it?"
Guy Strangways, just five-and-twenty, had formed, on the situation, many
such tremendous resolutions as young gentlemen at that period of life
are capable of. He would speak to her no more; he would think of her no
more; he would brave his uncle's wrath--shield her from all possibility
of evil--throw up his own stakes, be they what they might--and depart in
silence, and never see Beatrix again.
The early autumn evening had begun to redden the western clouds, as Guy
Strangways, returning, approached the fine old house, and passing a
thick group of trees and underwoods, he suddenly found himself before
Beatrix and Lady Alice. I dare say they had been talking about him, for
Beatrix blushed, and the old lady stared at him from under her grey
brows, with lurid half-frightened eyes, as she leaned forward, her thin
fingers grasping the arms of the rustic chair, enveloped in her
ermine-lined mantle.
Lady Alice looked on him as an old lady might upon a caged monster--with
curiosity and fear. She was beginning to endure his presence, though
still with an awe nearly akin to horror--though that horror was fast
disappearing--and there was a strange yearning, too, that drew her
towards him.
He had seen Beatrix that morning. The apparition had now again risen in
the midst of his wise resolutions, and embarrassed him strangely. The
old lady's stare, too, was, you may suppose, to a man predisposed to be
put out, very disconcerting. The result was that he bowed very low
indeed before the ladies, and remained silent, expecting, like a ghost,
to be spoken to.
"Come here, sir, if you please," said the old lady, with an odd mixture
of apprehension and command. "How d'ye do, Mr. Strangways? I saw you
yesterday you know, at dinner; and I saw you some weeks since at
Wardlock Church. I have been affected by a resemblance. Merciful Heaven,
it is miraculous! And things of that sort affect me now more than they
once might have done. I'm a sickly old woman, and have lost most of my
dearest ties on earth, and cannot expect to remain much longer behind
them."
It was odd, but the repulsion was still active, while at the same time
she was already, after a fashion, opening her heart to him.
It was not easy to frame an answer, on the moment, to this strange
address. He could only say, as again he bowed low--
"I do recollect, Lady Alice, having seen you in Wardlock Church. My
uncle, Monsieur Varbarriere--"
At this point the handsome young gentleman broke down. His uncle had
whispered him, as they sat side by side--
"Look at that old lady costumed in mourning, in the seat in the gallery
with the marble tablet and two angels--do you see?--on the wall behind.
That is Lady Alice Redcliffe. I'll tell you more about her by-and-by."
"By-and-by," as Guy Strangways had come to know, indicated in M.
Varbarriere's vocabulary that period which was the luminous point in his
perspective, at which his unexplained hints and proceedings would all be
cleared up. The sudden rush of these recollections and surmises in such
a presence overcame Guy Strangways, and he changed colour and became
silent.
The old lady, however, understood nothing of the causes of his sudden
embarrassment, and spoke again.
"Will you forgive an old woman for speaking with so little
reserve?--your voice, too, sir, so wonderfully resembles
it--wonderfully."
Old Lady Alice dried her eyes a little here, and Guy, who felt that his
situation might soon become very nearly comical, said very gently--
"There are, I believe, such likenesses. I have seen one or two such
myself." And then to Beatrix, aside, "My presence and these
recollections, I fear, agitate Lady Alice."
But the old lady interposed in a softened tone--"No, sir; pray don't go;
pray remain. You've been walking, fishing. What a sweet day, and
charming scenery near here. I know it all very well. In my poor girl's
lifetime I was a great deal here. She was very accomplished--she drew
beautifully--poor thing; my pretty Beatrix here is very like her. You
can't remember your poor mamma? No, hardly."
All this time Lady Alice was, with aristocratic ill-breeding,
contemplating the features of Guy Strangways, as she might a picture,
with saddened eyes. She was becoming accustomed to the apparition. It
had almost ceased to frighten her; and she liked it even, as a help to
memory.
Five minutes later she was walking feebly up and down the plateau, in
the last level beams of the genial sunset, leaning on the arm of the
young man, who could not refuse this courtesy to the garrulous old lady,
although contrary to his prudent resolutions--it retained him so near to
Beatrix.
"And, Mr. Strangways, it is not every day, you know, I can walk out; and
Trixie here will sometimes bring her work into the boudoir--and if you
would pay me a visit there, and read or talk a little, you can't think
what a kindness you would do me."
What could he do but hear and smile, and declare how happy it would make
him? Although here, too, he saw danger to his wise resolutions. But have
not the charities of society their claims?
These were their parting words as they stood on the stone platform,
under the carved armorial bearings of the Marlowes, at the hall-door;
and old Lady Alice, when she reached her room, wept softer and happier
tears than had wet her cheeks for many a year.