Some private Talk of Varbarriere and Lady Alice at the Dinner-table.
At dinner he was placed beside the old lady. He understood good cookery,
and with him to dine was to analyse and contemplate. He was usually
taciturn and absorbed during the process; but on this occasion he made
an effort, and talked a good deal in a grave, but, as the old lady
thought, an agreeable and kindly vein.
Oddly enough, he led the conversation to his nephew, and found his
companion very ready indeed to listen, as perhaps he had anticipated,
and even to question him on this theme with close but unavowed interest.
"He bears two names which, united, remind me of some of my bitterest
sorrows--Guy was my dear son's Christian name, and Mr. Strangways was
his most particular friend; and there is a likeness too," she continued,
looking with her dim and clouded eyes upon Guy at the other side, whom
fate had placed beside Miss Blunket--"a likeness so wonderful as to make
me, at times, quite indescribably nervous; at times it is--how handsome!
don't you consider him wonderfully handsome?--at times the likeness is
so exact as to become all but insupportable."
She glanced suddenly as she spoke, and saw an expression on the
countenance of M. Varbarriere, who looked for no such inspection at that
moment, which she neither liked nor understood.
No, it was _not_ pleasant, connected with the tone in which she spoke,
the grief and the agitation she recounted, and above all with the sad
and horrible associations connected indissolubly in her mind with those
names and features. It was a face both insincere and mocking--such a
countenance as has perhaps shocked us in childhood, when in some grief
or lamentation, looking up for sympathy, we behold a face in which lurks
a cruel enjoyment, or a sense of an undivulged joke.
Perhaps he read in the old lady's face something of the shock she
experienced; for he said, to cover his indiscretion, "I was, at the
moment, reminded of a strange mistake which once took place in
consequence of a likeness. Some of the consequences were tragic, but the
rest so ridiculous that I can never call the adventure to mind without
feeling the comedy prevail. I was thinking of relating it, but, on
recollection, it is too vulgar."
M. Varbarriere, I am certain, was telling fibs; but he did it well. He
did not hasten to change his countenance, but allowed that expression to
possess his features serenely after she had looked, and only shifted it
for a grave and honest one when he added--
"You think then, perhaps, that, my nephew had formerly the honour of
being a companion of Mr. Redcliffe, your son?"
"Oh, dear, no. He was about Jekyl's age. I dare say I had lost him
before that young man was born."
"Oh! that surprises me very much. Monsieur Redcliffe--your son--is it
possible he should have been so much older?"
"My son's name was Deverell," said the old lady, sadly.
"Ah! that's very odd. He, Guy, then, had an uncle who had a friend of
that name--Guy Deverell--long ago, in this country. That is very
interesting."
"_Is_ not it?" repeated Lady Alice, with a gasp. "I feel, somehow, it
must be he--a tall, slight young man."
"Alas! madam, he is much changed if it be he. He must have been older
than your son, madam. He must be, I think, near sixty now, and grown
rather stout. I've heard him talk at times of his friend Guy Deverell."
"And with affection, doubtless."
"Well, yes, with affection, certainly, and with great indignation of his
death--the mode of it."
"Ah! yes," said Lady Alice, flushing to the roots of her grey hair, and
looking down on her plate.
Here there was silence for the space of a minute or more.
"Yes, Monsieur Varbarriere; but you know, even though we cannot always
forget, we must forgive."
"Champagne, my lady?" inquired the servant over her shoulder.
"_No_, thank you," murmured Lady Alice.
M. Varbarriere took some and sipped it, wondering how Sir Jekyl
contrived to get such wines, and mentally admitting that even in the
champagne countries it would task him--M. Varbarriere--to find its
equal. And he said--
"Yes, Lady Alice, divine philosophy, but not easy to practise. I fear it
is as hard to do one as the other."
"And how _is_ Mr. Strangways?" inquired Lady Alice.
They were talking very confidentially and in a low tone, as if old
Strangways' health was the subject of conspiracy.
"Growing old, Lady Alice; he has not spared himself; otherwise well."
"And this, you say, is his nephew?" continued the old lady. "And you?"
"I am Guy's uncle--his _mother's_ brother."
"And his mother, is _she_ living?"
"No, poor thing! gone long ago."
Lady Alice looked again unexpectedly into M. Varbarriere's face, and
there detected the same unreliable expression.
"Monsieur Varbarriere," said old Lady Alice a little sternly in his ear,
"you will pardon me, but it seems to me that you are trifling, and not
quite sincere in all you tell me."
In a moment the gravity of all the Chief Justices that ever sat in
England was gathered in his massive face.
"I am shocked, madam, at your thinking me capable of trifling. How have
I showed, I entreat, any evidences of a disposition so contrary to my
feelings?"
"I tell you frankly--in your countenance, Monsieur Varbarriere; and I
observed it before, Monsieur."
"Believe me, I entreat, madam, when I assure you, upon the honour of a
gentleman, every word I have said is altogether true. Nor would it be
easy for me to describe how profound is my sympathy with you."
From this time forth Lady Alice saw no return, of that faint but odious
look of banter that had at first shocked and then irritated her; and
fortified by the solemn assurance he had given, she fell into a habit of
referring it to some association unconnected with herself, and tried to
make up for her attack upon him by an increased measure of courtesy.
Dwelling on those subjects that most interested Lady Alice, he and she
grew more and more confidential, and she came, before they left the
parlour, to entertain a high opinion of both the wisdom and the
philanthropy of M. Varbarriere.