DESROLLES IS NOT COMMUNICATIVE.
Mr. Desrolles left the Manor House a new man. He held his head erect,
and bore himself with a lofty air even before the butler who showed him
out. He was respectabilised by a full purse. There was nothing left
in him of the shabby, downcast stranger who had approached the house
with an air of mingled mystery and apprehension. Trimmer hardly knew
him. The man’s seedy overcoat hung with the reckless grace of artistic
indifference to attire, and not with the forlorn droop of beggary. His
hat was set on with a debonair slant. He looked a Bohemian, a painter,
an actor, a popular parson gone to the bad: anything rather than an
undistinguished pauper. He flung Trimmer half-a-crown with the lofty
elegance of a Lauzun or a Richelieu, nodded a condescending good-night,
and walked slowly along the gravel drive, humming _La Donna e
mobile_, with not an unskilful mimicry of him who, of all men that
ever walked the boards of Covent Garden, looked and moved like a prince
of the blood royal, and the thinnest thread of whose fading voice sent
a thrill through every heart in the vast opera-house.
The snow was no longer falling. It lay in patches here and there upon
the grass, and whitened the topmost edge of the moor, but there was
an end of the brief snowstorm. The stars were shining in a deep blue
sky, calm and clear as at midsummer. The moon was rising behind the
dark ridge of moor. It was a scene that might have stirred the heart
of a man fresh from the life of cities; but the thoughts of Desrolles
were occupied in considering the new aspect given to affairs by his
discovery of Jack Chicot in the young squire of Hazlehurst, and in
calculating how he might best turn the occasion to his own peculiar
profit.
‘A good, easy-going fellow,’ he reflected, ‘and he seems inclined to be
open-handed. But if the dancer was his legal wife, and if he married
Laura a year ago, that poor girl is no more his wife than I am. Awkward
for me to wink at such a position as that, in my paternal character;
yet it might be dangerous for me to interfere.’
‘Good evening, Mr. Desrolles,’ said a voice close behind him.
He had been so deeply absorbed in self-interested speculations that
he had not heard footsteps on the gravel. He turned sharply round,
surprised at the familiar mention of his name, and encountered Edward
Clare.
In that dim light he failed to recognise the man whom he had met in
Long Acre, and talked with for about ten minutes, nearly a year ago.
‘You seem to have forgotten me,’ said Clare pleasantly; ‘yet we have
met before. Do you remember meeting me in Long Acre one afternoon and
our talking together of your fellow-lodger, Mr. Chicot?’
‘Your face and voice are both familiar to me,’ said Desrolles
thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you are the gentleman with whom I conversed for
some minutes in the bar of the Rose Tavern. I remember your speaking of
Hazlehurst. You belong to this part of the world, I presume?’
‘I do; but I am rather surprised to see you in such an out-of-the-way
nook and corner of the universe--on Christmas Eve, too----’
‘When I ought to be hanging up holly in my ancestral mansion, and
kissing my grandchildren under the mistletoe,’ interjected Desrolles,
with a harsh laugh. ‘Sir, I am a floating weed upon the river of life,
and you need never be surprised to see me anywhere. I have no cable
to moor me to any harbour, no dock but the hospital, no haven but the
grave.’
Desrolles uttered this dismal speech with positive relish. He had a
hundred pounds in his pocket, and the world before him where to choose.
What did he want with dock or haven? He was by nature a rover.
‘I am very glad we have met,’ said Edward gravely; ‘I have something
serious to say to you--so serious that I would rather say it within
four walls. Can you come with me to my house for half-an-hour, and let
me talk to you over a tumbler of toddy?’
Toddy had but little temptation for the brandy drinker; it was almost
as if some one had offered him milk and water.
‘I want to get away by the mail,’ said Desrolles doubtfully; ‘and what
the deuce can you have to say to me?’
‘Something of the utmost importance. Something that may put money in
your purse.’
‘The suggestion provokes my curiosity. Suppose I forego the idea of the
mail? It’s a cold night, and I’ve had a good deal of travelling since
morning. Does your village boast an inn where a man can get a decent
bed?’
‘Yes, they will make you comfortable at the George. You had better come
home with me, and hear what I have to say. It’s a quarter past nine,
and the mail goes at ten thirty. You could hardly do it, if you tried.’
‘Well, let the mail go without this Cæsar and his fortunes; I’ll hear
what you have to say.’
They walked together to the Vicarage. Mr. and Mrs. Clare and Celia were
still at the Manor House, where the Christmas-tree was being stripped
by the tumultuous infants, with shouts of rapture and shrill screams of
delight. Edward had slipped out directly he had finished the ‘Jackdaw,’
under the pretence of smoking a cigar, and had gone round to the front
of the house to watch for the unknown visitor’s departure.
The Vicarage was wrapped in darkness, save in the servants’ quarters,
where some mild rejoicings were in progress. Edward let himself in
at the hall door, and went up to his den, followed by Mr. Desrolles.
The fire had burnt low, but there was a basket of wood by the hearth.
Edward flung on a log, and lighted the candles on the table. Then he
opened a cosy little corner cupboard in the panelling, and took out a
black bottle, a couple of tumblers, and a sugar basin.
‘If your whisky’s good, don’t trouble to mix it,’ said Desrolles; ‘I’d
rather taste it neat.’
He settled himself comfortably in the chair beside the hearth, the
poet’s own particular rocking-chair, in which he was wont to cradle his
fine fancies, and sometimes hush his genius to placid slumber.
‘A tidy little crib,’ said Desrolles, looking curiously round the room,
with all its masculine luxuries and feminine frivolities. ‘I wonder you
should speak so disparagingly of a village in which you’ve such snug
quarters.’
‘The grub is snug in his cocoon,’ retorted Edward, ‘but that isn’t
life.’
‘No. Life is to be a butterfly, at the mercy of every wind that blows.
I think on the whole the grub has the best of it.’
‘Help yourself,’ said Edward, pushing the whisky bottle across the
table to his visitor.
Desrolles filled a glass and emptied it at a draught. ‘New and raw,’ he
said, disapprovingly. ‘Well, Mr. ----. By the way, you did not favour
me with your card when last we met.’
‘My name is Clare.’
‘Well, Mr. Clare, here I am. I have gone out of my own way to put
myself at your disposal. What is this wondrous communication you have
to make to me?’
‘First, let us discuss your own position.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed Desrolles, rising and taking up his
hat. ‘I did not come here to talk about that. If you’ve set a trap for
me you’ll find you’ve got the wrong customer. I belong to the ferret
tribe.’
‘My dear fellow, don’t be in such a hurry,’ said Edward, putting up his
white, womanish hand in languid entreaty; ‘as a prelude to what I have
got to say I am obliged to speak of your own position with reference to
Laura Treverton and her husband, John Treverton, otherwise Jack Chicot.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply what I say. John Treverton, squire of Hazlehurst, and Jack
Chicot--Bohemian, adventurer, artist in black and white, unsuccessful
painter in oils, what you will--are one and the same. It may suit Mr.
Treverton to forget that he was ever Jack Chicot; but the story of his
past life is not blotted out because he is ashamed of it. You know, and
I know, that the present lord of Hazlehurst Manor is Mrs. Evitt’s old
lodger.’
‘You must be crazy to suggest such a thing,’ said Desrolles, looking at
the other with an air of half stupefied inquiry, as a man in whom he
did verily perceive indications of insanity. ‘The two men have not one
attribute in common.’
‘If the man I saw talking to you in Long Acre was Chicot, the
caricaturist, then Chicot and Treverton are one.’
‘My dear fellow, your eyes played you false. Possibly there may be a
kind of likeness, as far as height, figure, complexion, go.’
‘I saw the man’s face at the magazine office, and I’ll swear it was
Treverton’s face.’
Desrolles shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, ‘Here is a poor
half-cracked fellow labouring under a harmless delusion. I must indulge
him.’
‘Well, my dear sir,’ he said presently, stretching his well-worn boots
before the hearth, and luxuriating in the warmth of the blazing wood,
‘if this is all you have to say, you might as well have let me get away
by the mail.’
‘You deny the identity of John Treverton and Chicot, the caricaturist?’
‘Most emphatically. I have the honour to know both men, and
am in a position to state that they are totally distinct
individuals--bearing a kind of resemblance to each other in certain
broad characteristics--height, figure, complexion--a resemblance that
might mislead a man seeing one of the two for a few moments, as you saw
Chicot----’
‘How do you know how often I saw Chicot?’
‘I draw my inference from your own conduct. If you had seen him
often--if you had seen him more than once--you could not possibly
mistake him for Mr. Treverton, or Mr. Treverton for him.’
Edward Clare shrugged his shoulders, and sat looking frowningly at the
fire for some moments. Whatever this man Desrolles knew, or whatever he
thought, it was evident that there was very little to be got out of him.
‘You are very positive,’ Edward said presently, ‘so I suppose you are
right. After all, I can have no desire to identify the husband of a
woman I highly esteem with such a fellow as this Chicot. I want only to
protect her interests. Married to a scoundrel, what might not be her
fate? Perhaps as terrible as that of the dancer.’
Desrolles answered nothing. He was lying back in the rocking chair,
resting, his eyes half closed.
‘Have you seen Chicot since his wife was murdered?’ asked Edward, after
a pause.
‘No one has seen him. It is my belief that he made straight for one of
the bridges, and drowned himself.’
‘In that case his body would have been found, and his death made known
to the police.’
‘You would not say that if you were a Londoner. How many nameless
corpses do you think are fished out of the Thames every week--how many
unrecognised corpses lie in the East-end dead-houses waiting for some
one to claim them, and are never claimed or identified, and go to the
paupers’ burial-ground without a name? The police did not know Chicot.
They had only his description to guide them in their search for him. I
am very clear in my mind that the poor devil put himself out of their
way in the most effectual manner.’
‘You think he murdered his wife?’
Desrolles shrugged his shoulders dubiously.
‘I think nothing,’ he answered. ‘Why should I think the very worst of a
man who was my friend? But I know he bolted. The inference is against
his innocence.’
‘If he is alive it shall be my business to find him,’ said Edward
savagely. ‘The crime was brutal--unprovoked--inexcusable--and if it is
in my power to bring it home to him he shall suffer for it.’
‘You speak as if you had a personal animosity,’ said Desrolles. ‘I
could understand the detectives being savage with him, for he has
led them a pretty dance, and they have been held up to ridicule for
their failure in catching him. But why you--a gentleman living at ease
here--should feel thus strongly----’
‘I have my reasons,’ said Edward.
‘Well, I’ll wish you good night. It’s getting late, and I suppose the
George is an early house. _Au revoir_, Mr. Clare. By the way, when
you told me your name just now I forgot to ask you how you came to be
so familiar with mine.’
‘I saw it in the newspapers, in the report of the inquest on Madame
Chicot.’
‘True. I had told you that I was Jack Chicot’s fellow-lodger. I had
forgotten that. Good night.’
‘You are still living in Cibber Street, I suppose?’
‘No, the house became hateful to me after that terrible event. Mrs.
Evitt lost both her lodgers. Mrs. Rawber, the tragédienne, moved two
doors off. My address is at the Poste Restante all over Europe. But for
the next week or so I may be found at Paris.’
‘Good night,’ said Edward. ‘I must come downstairs and let you out. My
people ought to be home by this time, and perhaps you may not care to
meet them.’
‘It is indifferent to me,’ Desrolles answered loftily.
They did not encounter the Vicar or his wife on the stairs. The
children’s party had been kept up till the desperate hour of half-past
ten, and Mr. and Mrs. Clare were now on their road home, leaving Celia
behind them to spend Christmas Day with the Trevertons.