A CHANGE OF APARTMENTS.
A boisterous welcome from Sebastian, a cordial grasp of the hand,
accompanied by a smile from the dark eyes of Madame Carmaux (which
latter would have appeared more sincere to Julian had the corners of
the mouth been less drawn down and the eyelids closed a little less,
while the eyes behind those lids glittering with a light that seemed
to him unnatural), did not, to use a metaphor, throw any dust in his
own eyes.
For long reflection on everything that had occurred since first
George Ritherdon had made his statement in the Surrey home until now,
when Julian stood once more in the house in which he believed himself
to have been born, had only served to produce in his mind one
conviction--the firm conviction that George Ritherdon was his uncle
and had spoken the truth; that Sebastian was--in spite of all evidence
seeming to point in a totally different direction--occupying a
position which was not rightly his. A belief that, before long, he was
resolved at all hazards to himself to justify and disprove once and
for all.
The hilarious welcome on the part of Sebastian did not deceive him,
therefore; the greeting of Madame Carmaux was, he felt, insincere. And
feeling thus he knew that in the latter was one against whom he would
have to be doubly on his guard.
And on his guard, against both the man and the woman, he commenced to
be from the moment when he once more entered the precincts of
Desolada.
That night at dinner, which was here called supper, but which only
varied from the former meal in name, he observed a most palpable
desire on the part of both his hosts to extract from him all that he
had done while staying with the Sprangers--as well as an even stronger
desire to discover into what society he might have been introduced, or
what acquaintances he might happen to have made.
"I made one acquaintance," he replied to Madame Carmaux, who was by
far the most pertinacious in her inquiries, "the hearing about whom
may interest you considerably. A gentleman who knew you long ago."
"Indeed!" she said, "and who might that be?"
She asked the question lightly, almost indifferently, yet--unless the
flicker of the lamp in the middle of the table was playing tricks with
his vision--there came suddenly a look of nervousness, of
apprehension, upon her face. A look controlled yet not altogether to
be subdued.
"It was Monsieur Lemaire," he replied, "the professor of modern
languages at the Victoria College. He said he knew you very well once,
before your marriage."
"Yes," she replied, "he did," and now he saw that, whatever
nervousness she might be experiencing, she was exerting a strong power
of suppression of any visible outward sign of her feelings. "Monsieur
Lemaire was very good to me. He enabled me to find employment as a
teacher in various houses. What did he tell you besides?"
"He mentioned the sad ending to your marriage. Also the death of your
little---- Excuse me," he broke off, "but you have upset your glass.
Allow me," and from where he sat he bent forward, and with his napkin
sopped up the spilt water which had been in that glass.
"It was very clumsy," she muttered. "My loose sleeves are always
knocking things over. Thank you. But what was it you said he
mentioned? The death of my----"
"Little daughter," Julian replied softly, feeling sorry--and indeed,
annoyed with himself--at what he now considered a lack of delicacy and
consideration. A lack of feeling, because he thought it very possible
that, even after a long lapse of time, this poor widowed woman might
still lament bitterly the death of her little child.
"Ah! yes," she said, though why now her face should brighten
considerably he did not understand. "Ah! yes. Poor little thing, it
did not live long, only a very little while. Poor little baby!"
Looking still under the lamp and feeling still a little disconcerted
at the reflection that he had quite unintentionally recalled unhappy
recollections to Madame Carmaux, he saw that Sebastian was also
regarding her with a strange, almost bewildered look in his eyes. What
that look meant, Julian was not sufficiently a judge of expression to
fathom; yet, had he been compelled there and then to describe what
feeling that glance most suggested to him, he would probably have
termed it one of surprise.
Surprise, perhaps, that Madame Carmaux should have been so emotional
as to exhibit such tenderness at the recollection being brought to her
mind of her little infant daughter, dead twenty-five years ago and
almost at the hour of its birth.
No more was said, however, on the subject and an adjournment was made
directly the meal was over to the veranda, that place on which in
British Honduras almost all people pass the hours of the evening; none
staying indoors more than is absolutely necessary. And here their
conversation became of the most ordinary kind for some time, its
commonplace nature only being varied occasionally by divers questions
put to Julian by both Sebastian and Madame Carmaux as to what George
Ritherdon's existence had been since he quitted Honduras to return to
England.
"It was a quiet enough one," replied Julian, carefully weighing every
word he uttered and forcing himself to be on his guard over every
sentence. "Quiet enough. He took to England some capital from this
part of the world, as I have always understood, and he was enabled to
make a sufficient living by the use of it to provide for us both. He
was never rich, yet since his desires were not inordinate, we did well
enough. At any rate, he was able to place me in the only calling I was
particularly desirous of following, without depriving himself of
anything."
"And he left money behind?" Madame Carmaux asked, while, even as she
did so, Julian could not but observe that her manner was listless and
absent, as well as to perceive that she only threw in a remark now and
again with a view of appearing to be interested in the conversation.
"Yes," he replied, "he left money behind him. Not much; some few
thousand pounds fairly well invested. Enough, anyhow, for a sailor
who, at the worst, can live on his pay."
"All the same," Sebastian said, "a few thousand pounds is a mighty
good thing to have handy. I wish I had a few."
"You!" exclaimed Julian, looking at him in surprise. "Why! I should
have thought you had any amount. This is a big property, even for the
colonies, and Mr. Ritherdon--your father--has left the reputation
behind him in Belize of being one of the richest planters in the
place."
"Ay," said Sebastian, "rich in produce, stores, cattle, and so forth,
but no money. No ready money. Not sufficient to work a large place
like this. Why, look here, Julian, as a matter of fact, you and I are
each other's heirs, yet I expect I'd sooner come in for your few
thousands than you would for Desolada. One can do a lot with a few
thousands. I wish I had some."
"Didn't your father leave any ready money, then?" Julian asked.
"Oh, yes! He did. But it's all sunk in the place already."
Such a conversation as this would, in ordinary circumstances, have
been one of no importance and certainly not worth recording, had it
not--short as it was--furnished Julian with some further food for
reflections. And among other shapes which those reflections took, one
was that he did not believe that all the money which Mr. Ritherdon was
stated to have died possessed of had been sunk in the estate. He, the
late Mr. Ritherdon, had been able to put by money out of the products
of that estate--it scarcely stood to reason, therefore, that his
successor would have instantly invested all that money in it.
Wherefore Julian at once came to the conclusion that if it was really
gone--vanished--it had done so in Sebastian's gambling transactions.
Then, as to their being each other's heirs! Well, that view had never
occurred to him--certainly it had never occurred to him that by any
chance Sebastian could be his heir. Yet, if Sebastian was in truth
Charles Ritherdon's son and he, Julian, was absolutely George
Ritherdon's son, such was the case. And, if anything should happen to
him while staying here at Desolada, where he had announced himself
plainly as the son of George Ritherdon, he could scarcely doubt that
Sebastian would put in a claim as that heir. If anything should happen
to him!
Well! it might! One could never tell. It might! Especially as, when
Sebastian had uttered those words, he had seen a flash from Madame
Carmaux's eyes and had observed a light spring into them which told
plainly enough that she had never regarded matters in that aspect
before; that this new view of the state of things had startled her.
If anything should happen to him! Well, to prevent anything doing so
he must be doubly careful of himself. That was all.
The evening--like most evenings spent in the tropics and away from the
garish amusements and gaieties of tropical towns--was passed more or
less monotonously, it being got through by scraps of conversation, by
two or three cooling drinks being partaken of by Julian and Sebastian,
and by Madame Carmaux in falling asleep in her chair. Though, Julian
thought, her slumbers could neither have been very sound nor
refreshing, seeing that, whenever he chanced to turn his eyes towards
her, he observed how hers were open and fixed on him, though shut
immediately that she perceived he had noticed that they were unclosed.
"Come," exclaimed Sebastian now, springing from out of his chair with
as much alacrity as is ever testified in the tropics, while as he did
so Madame Carmaux became wide-awake in the most perfect manner. "Come,
this won't do. Early to bed you know--and all the rest of it. We
practise that good old motto here."
"I thought you practised stopping up rather late when I was here
last," Julian remarked quietly. "As I told you, I heard your voices
and saw you sitting in the balcony long after I had turned in."
"But to-night we must be off to bed early," Sebastian replied. "I have
to start for Belize to-morrow in good time, as I remarked to you at
supper, and you are going to take a gun and try for some shooting in
the Cockscomb mountains. Early to bed, my boy, early, and, also, an
early breakfast."
After which Julian and Madame Carmaux made their adieux to each other
for the night, while Sebastian, as he had done before, escorted his
cousin up the vast stairs to his room. This room was, however, a
different one from that occupied previously by Julian, it being on the
other side of the house and looking towards those Cockscomb mountains
which, gun in hand, he was to explore on the morrow.
"It is a better room," said Sebastian, "than the other, as you see;
although not so large. And the sun will not bother you here in the
morning, nor will our chatter on the balcony beneath or inside the
room do so either. Good night, sleep well. To-morrow, breakfast at
six."
"Good-night," replied Julian as he entered the room, and, after
Sebastian was out of earshot (as he calculated), turned the key in the
lock. Then, as he sat himself down in his chair, after again producing
his revolver and placing it by his side, he thought to himself:
"Yes! he spoke truly. Their conversation below will not disturb me,
nor will there be any chance of my overhearing it. All right,
Sebastian, you understand the old proverb about one for me and two for
yourself. But you have for gotten a little fact, namely, that a sailor
can move about almost as lightly as a cat when he chooses, and, if I
think you and your respected housekeeper have anything to say that it
will be worth my while to hear--why, I shall be a cat for the time
being."