When Beck woke the next morning, and gradually recalled all that had
so startled and appalled him the previous night, the grateful creature
felt, less by the process of reason than by a brute instinct, that in
the mysterious resuscitation and nocturnal wanderings of the pretended
paralytic, some danger menaced his master; he became anxious to learn
whether it was really St. John’s room Madame Dalibard stealthily
visited. A bright idea struck him; and in the course of the day, at
an hour when the family were out of doors, he contrived to coax the
good-natured valet, who had taken him under his special protection, to
show him over the house. He had heard the other servants say there was
such a power of fine things that a peep into the rooms was as good as
a show, and the valet felt pride in being cicerone even to Beck. After
having stared sufficiently at the banquet-hall and the drawing-room, the
armour, the busts, and the pictures, and listened, open-mouthed, to his
guide’s critical observations, Beck was led up the great stairs into
the old family picture-gallery, and into Sir Miles’s ancient room at the
end, which had been left undisturbed, with the bed still in the
angle; on returning thence, Beck found himself in the corridor which
communicated with the principal bedrooms, in which he had lost himself
the night before.
“And vot room be that vith the littul vite ‘ead h-over the door?” asked
Beck, pointing to the chamber from which Madame Dalibard had emerged.
“That white head, Master Beck, is Floorer the goddess; but a heathen
like you knows nothing about goddesses. Floorer has a half-moon in her
hair, you see, which shows that the idolatrous Turks worship her; for
the Turkish flag is a half-moon, as I have seen at Constantinople. I
have travelled, Beck.”
“And vot room be it? Is it the master’s?” persisted Beck.
“No, the pretty young lady, Miss Mainwaring, has it at present. There is
nothing to see in it. But that one opposite,” and the valet advanced
to the door through which Madame Dalibard had disappeared,--“that is
curious; and as Madame is out, we may just take a peep.” He opened
the door gently, and Beck looked in. “This, which is called the
turret-chamber, was Madame’s when she was a girl, I have heard old Bessy
say; so Master pops her there now. For my part, I’d rather sleep in your
little crib than have those great gruff-looking figures staring at me
by the firelight, and shaking their heads with every wind on a winter’s
night.” And the valet took a pinch of snuff as he drew Beck’s attention
to the faded tapestry on the walls. As they spoke, the draught between
the door and the window caused the gloomy arras to wave with a life-like
motion; and to those more superstitious than romantic, the chamber had
certainly no inviting aspect.
“I never sees these old tapestry rooms,” said the valet, “without
thinking of the story of the lady who, coming from a ball and taking off
her jewels, happened to look up, and saw an eye in one of the figures
which she felt sure was no peeper in worsted.”
“Vot vos it, then?” asked Beck, timidly lifting up the hangings, and
noticing that there was a considerable space between them and the wall,
which was filled up in part by closets and wardrobes set into the walls,
with intervals more than deep enough for the hiding-place of a man.
“Why,” answered the valet, “it was a thief. He had come for the jewels;
but the lady had the presence of mind to say aloud, as if to herself,
that she had forgotten something, slipped out of the room, locked the
door, called up the servants, and the thief--who was no less a person
than the under-butler--was nabbed.”
“And the French ‘oman sleeps ‘ere?” said Beck, musingly.
“French ‘oman! Master Beck, nothing’s so vulgar as these nicknames in
a first-rate situation. It is all very well when one lives with
skinflints, but with such a master as our’n, respect’s the go. Besides,
Madame is not a French ‘oman; she is one of the family,--and as old a
family it is, too, as e’er a lord’s in the three kingdoms. But come,
your curiosity is satisfied now, and you must trot back to your horses.”
As Beck returned to the stables, his mind yet more misgave him as to the
criminal designs of his master’s visitor. It was from Helen’s room that
the false cripple had walked, and the ill health of the poor young lady
was a general subject of compassionate comment. But Madame Dalibard was
Helen’s relation: from what motive could she harbour an evil thought
against her own niece? But still, if those drops were poured into the
healing draught for good, why so secretly? Once more he revolved the
idea of speaking to St. John: an accident dissuaded him from this
intention,--the only proof to back his tale was the mysterious phial he
had carried away; but unluckily, forgetting that it was in his pocket,
at a time when he flung off his coat to groom one of the horses, the
bottle struck against the corn-bin and broke; all the contents were
spilt. This incident made him suspend his intention, and wait till he
could obtain some fresh evidence of evil intentions. The day passed
without any other noticeable occurrence. The doctor called, found Helen
somewhat better, and ascribed it to his medicines, especially to the
effect of his tonic draught the first thing in the morning. Helen
smiled. “Nay, Doctor,” said she, “this morning, at least, it was
forgotten. I did not find it by my bedside. Don’t tell my aunt; she
would be so angry.” The doctor looked rather discomposed.
“Well,” said he, soon recovering his good humour, “since you are
certainly better to-day without the draught, discontinue it also
to-morrow. I will make an alteration for the day after.” So that
night Madame Dalibard visited in vain her niece’s chamber: Helen had a
reprieve.