Varbarriere picks up something about Donica Gwynn.
Drawing-room conversation seldom opens like an epic in the thick of the
plot, and the introductory portions, however graceful, are seldom worth
much. M. Varbarriere and Lady Alice had been talking some two or three
minutes, when she made this inquiry.
"When did you last see the elder Mr. Strangways, whom you mentioned at
dinner?"
"Lately, very lately--within this year."
"Did he seem pretty well?"
"Perfectly well."
"What does he think about it all?"
"I find a difficulty. If Lady Alice Redcliffe will define her
question----"
"I mean--well, I should have asked you first, whether he ever talked to
you about the affairs of that family--the Deverell family--I mean as
they were affected by the loss of a deed. I don't understand these
things well; but it involved the loss, they say, of an estate; and then
there was the great misfortune of my life."
M. Varbarriere here made a low and reverential bow of sympathy; he knew
she meant the death of her son.
"Upon this latter melancholy subject he entirely sympathises with you.
His grief of course has long abated, but his indignation survives."
"And well it may, sir. And what does he say of the paper that
disappeared?"
"He thinks, madam, that it was stolen."
"Ha! So do I."
The confidential and secret nature of their talk had drawn their heads
together, and lowered their voices.
"He thinks it was abstracted by one of the Marlowe family."
"Which of them? Go on, sir."
"Well, by old Sir Harry Marlowe, the father of Sir Jekyl."
"It certainly _was_ he; it could have been no other; it was stolen, that
is, I don't suppose by his hand; I don't know, perhaps it was; he was
capable of a great deal; _I_ say nothing, Monsieur Varbarriere."
Perhaps that gentleman thought she had said a good deal; but he was as
grave on this matter as she.
"You seem, madam, very positive. May I be permitted to inquire whether
you think there exists proof of the fact?"
"I don't speak from proof, sir."
Lady Alice sat straighter, and looked full in his face for a moment, and
said--
"I am talking to you, Monsieur Varbarriere, in a very confidential way.
I have not for ever so many years met a human being who cared, or indeed
knew anything of my poor boy as his friend. I have at length met you,
and I open my mind, my conjectures, my suspicions; but, you will
understand, in the strictest confidence."
"I have so understood all you have said, and in the same spirit I have
spoken and mean to speak, madam, if you permit me, to you. I do feel an
interest in that Deverell family, of whom I have heard so much. There
was a servant, a rather superior order of person, who lived as
housekeeper--a Mrs. Gwynn--to whom I would gladly have spoken, had
chance thrown her in my way, and from whom it was hoped something
important might be elicited."
"She is my housekeeper now," said Lady Alice.
"Oh! and--"
"I think she's a sensible person; a respectable person, I believe, in
her rank of life, although they chose to talk scandal about her; as what
young woman who lived in the same house with that vile old man, Sir
Harry Marlowe, could escape scandal? But, poor thing! there was no
evidence that ever I could learn; nothing but lies and envy: and she has
been a very faithful servant to the family."
"And is now in your employment, madam?"
"My housekeeper at Wardlock," responded Lady Alice.
"Residing there now?" inquired M. Varbarriere.
Lady Alice nodded assent.
I know not by what subtle evidences, hard to define, seldom if ever
remembered, we sometimes come to a knowledge, by what seems an
intuition, of other people's intentions. M. Varbarriere was as silent as
Lady Alice was; his heavy bronzed features were still, and he looking
down on one of those exquisite wreaths of flowers that made the pattern
of the carpet; his brown, fattish hands were folded in his lap. He was
an image of an indolent reverie.
Perhaps there was something special and sinister in the composure of
those large features. Lady Alice's eye rested on his face, and instantly
a fear smote her. She would have liked to shake him by the arm, and cry,
"In God's name, do you mean us any harm?" But it is not permitted even
to old ladies such as she to explode in adjuration, and shake up old
gentlemen whose countenances may happen to strike them unpleasantly.
As people like to dispel an omen, old Lady Alice wished to disturb the
unpleasant pose and shadows of those features. So she spoke to him, and
he looked up like his accustomed self.
"You mentioned Mr. Herbert Strangways just now, Monsieur. I forget what
relation you said he is to the young gentleman who accompanies you, Mr.
Guy Strangways."
"Uncle, madam."
"And, pray, does he perceive--did he ever mention a most astonishing
likeness in that young person to my poor son?"
"He has observed a likeness, madam, but never seemed to think it by any
means so striking as you describe it. Your being so much moved by it has
surprised me."
Here Lady Alice's old eyes wandered toward the spot where Guy Strangways
stood, resting them but a moment; every time she looked so at him, this
melancholy likeness struck her with a new force. She sighed and
shuddered, and removed her eyes. On looking again at M. Varbarriere, she
saw the same slightly truculent shadow over his features, as again he
looked drowsily upon the carpet.
She had spent nearly a quarter of a century in impressing her limited
audience with the idea that if there were thunderbolts in heaven they
ought to fall upon Sir Jekyl Marlowe. Yet, now that she saw in that face
something like an evil dream, a promise of judgment coming, a feeling of
compunction and fear agitated her.
She looked over his stooping shoulders and saw pretty Beatrix leaning on
the back of her father's chair, the young lady pleading gaily for some
concession, Sir Jekyl laughing her off.
"How pretty she looks to-night--poor Trixie!" said Lady Alice,
unconsciously.
M. Varbarriere raised his head, and looked, directed by her gaze, toward
father and daughter. But his countenance did not brighten. On the
contrary, it grew rather darker, and he looked another way, as if the
sight offended him.
"Pretty creature she is--pretty Beatrix!" exclaimed the old lady,
looking sadly and fondly across at her.
No response was vouchsafed by M. Varbarriere.
"Don't you think so? Don't you think my granddaughter very lovely?"
Thus directly appealed to, M. Varbarriere conceded the point, but not
with effusion.
"Yes, Mademoiselle is charming--she is very charming--but I am not a
critic. I have come to that time of life, Lady Alice, at which our
admiration of mere youth, with its smooth soft skin and fresh tints,
supersedes our appreciation of beauty."
In making this unsatisfactory compliment, he threw but one careless
glance at Beatrix.
"That girl, you know, is heiress of all this--nothing but the title goes
to Dives, and the small estate of Grimalston," said Lady Alice. "Of
course I love my grandchild, but it always seems to me wrong to strip a
title of its support, and send down the estates by a different line."
"Miss Beatrix Marlowe has a great deal too much for her own happiness.
It is a disproportioned fortune, and in a young lady so sensible will
awake suspicions of all her suitors. 'You are at my feet, sir,' she will
think, 'but is your worship inspired by love or by avarice?' She is in
the situation of that prince who turned all he touched into gold; while
it feeds the love of money, it starves nature."
"I don't think it has troubled her head much as yet. If she had no dot
whatever, she could not be less conscious," said the old lady.
"Some people might go through life and never feel it; and even of those
who do, I doubt if there is one who would voluntarily surrender the
consequence or the power of exorbitant wealth for the speculative
blessing of friends and lovers more sincere. I could quite fancy,
notwithstanding, a lady, either wise or sensitive, choosing a life of
celibacy in preference to marriage under conditions so suspicious. Miss
Marlowe would be a happier woman with only four or five hundred pounds
a-year."
"Well, maybe so," said the old lady, dubiously, for she knew something
of the world as well as of the affections.
"She will not, most likely, give it away; but if it were taken, she
would be happier. Few people have nerve for an operation, and yet many
are the more comfortable when it is performed."
"Beatrix has only been out one season, and that but interruptedly. She
has been very much admired, though, and I have no doubt will be very
suitably married."
"There are disadvantages, however."
"I don't understand," said Lady Alice, a little stiffly.
"I mean the tragedy in which Sir Jekyl is implicated," said M.
Varbarriere, rising, and looking, without intending it, so sternly at
Lady Alice, that she winced under it.
"Yes, to be sure, but you know the world does not mind that--the world
does not choose to believe ill of fortune's minions--at least, to
remember it. A few old-fashioned people view it as you and I do; but
Jekyl stands very well. It is a wicked world, Monsieur Varbarriere."
"It is not for me to say. Every man has profited, more or less, at one
time or another, by its leniency. Perhaps I feel in this particular case
more strongly than others; but, notwithstanding the superior rank,
wealth, and family of Sir Jekyl Marlowe, I should not, were I his
equal, like to be tied to him by a close family connexion."
Lady Alice did not feel anger, nor was she pleased. She did not look
down abashed at discovering that this stranger seemed to resent on so
much higher ground than she the death of her son. She compressed her
thin lips, looking a little beside the stern gentleman in black, at a
distant point on the wall, and appeared to reflect.