THE HOSPITALITY OF MR BAYRE
It was an apartment which he had not yet seen in which young
Bartlett now found himself shut in with his elder namesake. More like
one of the galleries of a museum than a room in a private house, this
saloon with its panelled walls of white and gold, its pillars and its
painted ceiling, was bare in the centre, but lined all along the sides
with cabinets and show-cases, full of treasures of all kinds.
The most casual glance at the contents of these cases showed to the
least experienced eye that the collection was one of great value.
Exquisite specimens of rare porcelain, beautiful enamels, ancient
jewels of all countries, weapons of great price, treasures of lace and
of embroidery, all were represented here.
Bayre was attracted, in spite of his eagerness to solve the mystery
surrounding his uncle, by what he saw. He was just enough of a
connoisseur to appreciate and to wish to examine more closely the rare
and costly objects around him; and even as his uncle occupied himself
in replacing the heavy iron bar across the shutters, he drew near to
the first cabinet on the left hand and peered with interest and
curiosity at the carved ivories within.
The light was very bad, being supplied solely by the lantern which old
Mr Bayre carried with him and had now placed on the floor, but the
young man made out enough to prove that report had not exaggerated the
beauty and the value of the collection.
As he looked the light grew a little better, and he found old Mr Bayre
standing by his side, holding the lantern aloft. The young man was for
the moment under the impression that his uncle, softened a little by
the interest the treasures excited in his visitor, was courteously
enabling him to see them more distinctly.
He turned, pointing with one hand to one of those fantastic jewels
which mediæval art loved to devise out of huge mis-shapen pearls,
when, coming thus suddenly face to face with the owner of the
treasures, he was surprised to find that the light was held, not for
him to inspect the jewels, but for their owner to inspect him.
And again young Bayre asked himself whether this lined, haggard,
crafty old countenance, with its furrows and the lurking malignity in
its half-closed eyes, was that of a sane man or of one who was the
victim of mania.
Old Mr Bayre seemed to understand that he had in some measure betrayed
himself by the expression of his own countenance, for he tried to
laugh away the look of sudden consternation which he saw on his
nephew’s face. Showing the gaps between his yellow teeth in a
mirthless opening of the mouth which was meant for a genial laugh, he
said, in a more conciliatory tone than he had yet used,--
“Some nice things there, eh? Good things, uncommon things? Do you know
much about objects of that sort?”
“Not perhaps more than the average Londoner is bound to know through
the museums and collections he’s visited,” said the young man, “but
enough to know that you have something to be proud of here.”
The old man laughed again, cunningly, as if with some secret
enjoyment.
“Worth some thousands of pounds, pictures and furniture and what you
see,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the rest of the
cabinets.
“Yes,” said young Bayre, shortly.
He was surprised and disappointed to hear in the old man’s tone
something more like the pride of a tradesman at the market value of
the goods around him than the tender enthusiasm of the real
connoisseur.
Mr Bayre rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking at his nephew out of
the corners of his eyes, and then beckoned to him to follow across the
room in the direction of a door at the further end, above which there
was an elaborate device in white and gold.
Young Bayre followed slowly, reflecting that he did not know by what
door he should be finally ejected from the building, and that this
might be his last chance of seeing the treasures through which he was
passing. His guide, perceiving that he lingered, stopped near the door
to say, impatiently and almost contemptuously,--
“Oh, you’ll have plenty of time to see those things, and all the rest
besides. Now you’re here you won’t be satisfied, I suppose, until you
have been afforded an opportunity of counting up on your fingers the
value of every farthing’s worth.”
Bayre said nothing, but again he was surprised. Had the old man been
always like this, or was the late crisis in his life answerable for a
most singular metamorphosis? Had he made his collection with some
ulterior purpose, either of disposing of it at a high price or
bequeathing it to the nation with posthumous ostentation?
This latter idea seemed a probable one, he thought, for throughout the
old man’s whole demeanour, in every word he uttered and in every look
he threw at his nephew, there seemed to run the same idea of rejoicing
at what he conceived to be the young man’s disappointed greed.
They passed almost side by side out of the long room into a narrow
passage, at the end of which was a steep and inconvenient staircase,
which had evidently been an afterthought in the construction of the
house.
The old man went up first, dangling the lantern and humming to himself
as he went, and making so much noise that it flashed through the mind
of the younger man that this might be a warning to someone near at
hand to get out of the way.
At the top of the stairs, on a landing as narrow and stuffy as the
staircase, Mr Bayre turned round again and said loudly,--
“This is the room, this”--and he thumped at the door on his left as he
spoke--“where you say I have a woman concealed. Well, go in and see
for yourself.”
Changing his lantern into his left hand, and fumbling for a few
suggestive moments, he at last fitted into the lock a key which he
took from the pocket of his dressing-gown, and turning it with great
deliberation, he threw open the door and ushered his companion into a
room so oppressively close that Bayre thought the windows could not
have been opened for many days.
Once well inside, however, he forgot this inconvenience in the
curiosity which the appearance of the room aroused in him.
It was a long and narrow apartment, with the two shuttered windows at
one end, and an enormous satinwood wardrobe, old and rather battered,
at the other.
Between the windows was a dressing-table of the makeshift sort,
apparently consisting of a pile of boxes covered with an old-fashioned
arrangement of faded pink calico and muslin discoloured with dust and
age.
On the top was a small mirror on a stand, of the kind that is usually
found in servants’ bedrooms, and beside it was a candle burning in a
flat candlestick.
Piled up on the available surface of the dressing-table was a
heterogeneous mass of small articles, all of women’s use, such as
hairpins, ornamental combs for the hair, bracelets, brooches, rings, a
powder-puff, some reels of cotton and silk, and a packet of needles.
In front of the dressing-table was a common cane-bottomed chair, over
the back of which hung a dressing-gown and the trained skirt of a
lady’s silken dress. This garment attracted Bayre’s attention by the
old-fashioned pattern of the brocade of which it was composed.
More traces of a woman’s occupation were visible on all sides: on one
chair was a pile of laces and fans; on another, a magnificent cloak
lined with fur; on a chest in one corner was a great heap of feathers,
crumpled artificial flowers, and bits of lace and ribbon; while on the
floor lay little heaps of old satin slippers, soiled gloves, and a
miscellaneous assortment of odds and ends, all appertaining to the
feminine toilet.
Young Bayre had not the least doubt that a woman had been in the room
quite recently, probably within a few moments of his entrance with the
old man. For, with his senses well on the alert, he noted one
significant fact--there was dust on the surface of the chest, and
there was dust on the stand of the mirror, but there was none on the
various articles that lay about the room; they had evidently been
taken quite recently from their cupboards and drawers.
Old Mr Bayre’s explanation of what he saw, therefore, was not
satisfactory.
“This room,” said he, “is just as it was left by my wife when she took
it into her head to run away from me eight months ago.”
“And has the candle been burning in that candlestick for all these
eight months?” asked the young man, rashly.
His uncle threw at him a malevolent look, which he felt that his
impudence deserved.
“No,” said the old man, shortly, “I was in here myself a few minutes
ago.”
Bayre did not believe him. Since his statement that the crumpled
finery and women’s trifles had been lying there for months was
evidently not true, what confidence could be put in his other
assertions? Besides, there was, so the young man felt, something not
exactly definable about the disposition of the various things lying
about which suggested the hand of a woman rather than the heavier,
more careless touch of a man.
And by a sudden inspiration he stepped forward to the chair by the
dressing-table and laid his hand upon the brocaded skirt.
_It was quite warm._
Bayre turned to his uncle with a significant look and the old man
frowned slightly and immediately averted his eyes sullenly.
“Are you not satisfied now?” he asked shortly.
Bayre glanced round the room. There was a door nearly opposite the one
by which they had entered. The old man crossed the room testily and
threw it open. It was not locked.
“If you are not satisfied yet, you shall be,” said he. “Come this
way.”
Leaving the candle burning on the dressing-table, and carrying his
lantern as before, he led the way again with heavy steps; and Bayre
found himself in another room, large and bare, a state bedroom of an
old-fashioned type, with a ponderous wooden bedstead hung with faded
damask curtains. Through this room they passed with leisurely steps,
the old man always in front, raising his lantern ostentatiously from
time to time, and asking every few minutes, in a jeering tone, whether
his visitor saw anything he should like to examine further.
And from this room they passed into a corridor, with windows on the
one side and a row of doors on the other.
Old Mr Bayre tried the handles of all these and found some open, in
which case he insisted on his guest’s entering and making such
investigations as he pleased. Sometimes they were locked, and there
was much searching for keys, some of which the old man professed to
have mislaid, on which occasions he would ask, with elaborate
civility, if it was his nephew’s pleasure that he should go and look
for them.
But whenever they went into a room they found no trace of any living
creature within. Nothing but bare-looking apartments furnished in the
taste of a past day--funereal bedsteads, ponderous wardrobes, polished
floors, and a mouldy smell of little-frequented, closely-shut-up
rooms, where the air remained stagnant for weeks.
Sometimes a rat would scurry across the polished floor, slipping and
sliding as he ran in unaccustomed terror, or a loud squeaking and
scampering behind the skirting-boards of the room would denote a panic
among the mice at the disturbance.
So they went on, not indeed examining every room, but getting a
general impression of dead hospitality and of vanished state.
But all the time, as they walked along or when they stood still, Bayre
was haunted by the belief that he could hear the pattering of lighter
feet than theirs not far off, stopping when they stopped, going on
again when they went on.
Again and again he would turn quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of
the fancied companion. But the lantern threw no light behind, and if
anyone followed them or preceded them he could not discover the fact.
His guide grew jocose at last, humming to himself in a cracked old
voice, and making jesting remarks upon his disappointment.
“Young folk love a mystery,” said he, throwing the words over his
shoulder, as it were, as he went on, swinging his lantern and clanking
his keys along the passages. “Especially if they can manufacture it
round the figure of a woman. Now I’ve always hated mysteries and
mystery-mongers myself, even when I was a young man. And as for women,
I can only say I had nothing to do with them till late in life, and I
sincerely wish I had never had anything to do with them at all.”
They had long since left that portion of the building which contained
the shut-up rooms, had passed through a long succession of wide
attics, which the young man knew must be above the great hall, and had
descended to a newer part of the house, where a different atmosphere
disclosed the fact that it was less deserted than the rest.
“This,” said old Mr Bayre, “is all we use of the old place now. You
shall see my own rooms, young man, since we are here. I dare say
you’ll not be in a hurry to call upon me again.”
Uttering these words in the same jibing tone, the old man opened the
door of a luxuriously-furnished bed-chamber, where a fire burned
brightly on the dogs, throwing out a pleasant perfume of burning logs,
and shedding bright reflections upon the polished floor, the ceiling
above, and the panels of the dark mahogany furniture.
The half-tester bedstead was massively carved and hung with dark green
velvet to match the drawn window curtains, the little stumpy sofa and
the two low armchairs. An old retriever, lying on a rug before the
fire, wagged his tail lazily on their entrance, but did not get up.
Rather to the young man’s surprise, his uncle motioned him to take one
of the armchairs, and proceeded to light two wax candles, which stood
on a heavy writing-table at some distance from the fire.
“You shall drink to our next merry meeting,” said he, grimly, as he
unlocked a cupboard and took out a massive decanter of gilded Bohemian
glass and a couple of oddly-shaped glasses that matched it. “Oh, yes,
I insist. You forced your way in, in your tender anxiety to see me. I
can’t let you go unrefreshed.”
Bayre felt that he shivered. Yet he scarcely knew why.
The room was warm, cosy, handsome. The greeting of the dog,
unceremonious and affectionate to its master, with never a growl or a
sniff at the stranger, ought, he thought, to have set him at his ease.
Yet the young man felt that there was something sinister in this
hospitality from a man who professed nothing but aversion for him, and
he would have refused it if he could.
Mr Bayre, however, was obstinate. Bringing the decanter and glasses to
the long, narrow table near the fireplace, where lay some books,
papers and a spectacle-case, he poured out some dark liquor that
dropped out slowly, and told his guest to drink it off.
“It will keep the cold out on your journey back,” said he.
The young man put the glass to his lips with a suspicion of which he
felt ashamed. Old Mr Bayre sipped his with a nod and a sort of smirk.
The contents of the glass were a liqueur unknown to the younger man,
sweet, strong, heady.
“Drink it,” urged his host. “Do you think I want to poison you?”
His nephew obeyed with a rather hollow laugh. He did not, of course,
suppose that his uncle had designs upon his life, but that there was
some secret and malevolent intention underlying his grim hospitality
the unwilling guest felt sure.
The potent liquor seemed to have a mollifying effect upon old Mr
Bayre, who began to stroke the head of his dog, the while he looked
meditatively at his guest, and presently said, with abruptness,--
“How long is it since I saw you last, Bartlett?”
“About twenty years, I should think, sir,” replied the young man.
“Ah! and how many do you think will it be before I see you again?”
The question was put with a sort of grim jocularity.
“Am I to judge by the warmth of your reception of me, sir, or by some
other criterion?”
The old man laughed, actually chuckled to himself, as he rubbed his
knees.
“Ah, well, ah, well,” said he, “I was more amiable once, Bartlett. We
don’t grow sweeter as we grow older. Look here, I don’t suppose we
shall see much more of each other in the years to come than we have in
the years that are past. I don’t see why we should. Do you?”
“N-n-o, sir.”
“But in the meantime we’ll patch up a friendship, if it’s only for
half an hour. You shall see some of my things, some that I prize, some
that are not shown to everybody. Stay where you are,” he went on, as
he rose, and crossing the polished floor poured out a second glass for
his nephew and refilled his own. “I’ll bring you something to look at,
something you won’t see the counterpart of in any of your London
museums.”
As he spoke he went out of the room and fumbled about, by the light of
his lantern, with keys and locks, with drawers and cupboards.
Rather despising himself for his own suspicions, young Bayre could not
quite conquer them. He therefore flung the second glassful of the
liqueur into the fire, where it blazed up fiercely, throwing long
tongues of vivid light on the heavy furniture and hangings of the
room.
His uncle came peeping to the door, went back again, and returned with
an armful of treasures quaint and curious, a gold cup with a notable
history, a jewel that had belonged to Marie Antoinette, and many other
strange and beautiful things. Together they admired them, the old man
at last showing some enthusiasm for his precious curios, and chuckling
at the envy his purchases had excited in other connoisseurs.
At length the young man judged that he might take his leave, since he
felt convinced he should get no nearer to the truth of the mystery if
he were to stay until the following morning. He rose, and making some
sort of apology, which came awkwardly from his lips in the singular
circumstances, moved in the direction of the door by which he had
entered the room.
But his uncle beckoned him to come through the small room from which
he had just brought his treasures, and they passed together through
this outer chamber to a wide and handsome landing new to the guest.
Here there was a velvet divan against the wall, and a bearskin rug on
the floor, while round about, on the panelled walls, there hung, in
massive frames, a few large pictures, each one of which was a
masterpiece.
There was an oil-lamp suspended from the roof over the staircase,
enclosed in a magnificent lantern, which had formerly hung in the
mansion of a French nobleman. By the faint light this gave Bayre saw
enough of the paintings around him to assure himself that they were
worthy of the rest of the collection, and when his uncle signed to him
to go down first, he went slowly, gazing about him at every step.
Between the pictures were trophies of shields, swords, spears and
other weapons, arranged against the dark oak panelling. He had got
half-way down to the first turn in the staircase, when he was startled
by a shrill scream in a woman’s voice.
Turning quickly, the young man saw his uncle on the step behind him,
with a heavy Indian war-club uplifted in his hands, and an expression
on his withered face and in his sunken eyes which could only be
described in one word--murderous.