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j'Y DEVERELL.
/
% NatjeL
By J. S. LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF
"UNCBE SILAS," "WYLDER'S HAND," &c.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
18661 y^
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He. 11


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TO THAT WRITER,
SO GENIAL, SO BRILLlANT, SO PHlLOSOPHlC,
WHOM ALL THE WORLD READS AS
HARRY LORREQUER and as CORNELIUS O'DOWD,
AND TO THAT FRIEND,
HOW LOVED AND HONORED!
KNOWN TO THE PRIVILEGED AS
CHARLES LEVER,
(£l)is Storji,
HOW UNWORTHY AS OFFERING ALL BUT HE WILL PERCEIVE,
IS DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.
r40Xll 59





GUY DEYERELL.
CHAPTER I.
SIR JEKYL MARLOWE AT THE PLOUGH INN.
The pretty little posting station, known as
the Plough Inn, on the Old London Road,
where the Sterndale Road crosses it, was in
a state of fuss and awe, at about five o'clock
on a fine sharp October evening, for Sir
Jekyl Marlowe, a man of many thousand
acres, and M. P. for the county, was standing
with his back to the fire, in the parlor, whose
bow-window looks out on the ancient thor-
oughfare I have mentioned, over the row of
scarlet geraniums which beautify the window
stone.
"Hollo !" cried the Baronet, as the bell-
rope came down in answer to an energetic
but not angry pull, and he received Mrs.
Jones, his hostess, who entered at the mo-
ment, with the dismantled bell-handle still
in his hand. "At my old tricks, you see.
I've been doing you a mischief, hey? but
we'll set it right in the bill, you know. How
devilish well you look! wonderful girl, by
Jove! Come in, my dear, and shut the
door. Not afraid of me. I want to talk of
ducks and inutton-chops. I've had no lunch-
eon, and I'm awfully hungry," said the
comely Baronet in a continued chuckle.
The Baronet was, by that awful red-bound
volume of dates, which is one of the melan-
choly drawbacks of aristocracy, set down
just then, and by all whom it might concern,
ascertainable to be precisely forty-nine years
and three months old; but so well had he
worn, and so cleverly was he got up, that he
might have passed for little more than
forty.
He was smiling, with very white teeth, and
a gay leer on pretty Mrs. Jones, an old friend
with black eyes and tresses, and pink cheeks,
who bore her five-and-thirty years as well al-
most as he did his own burthen. The slant-
ing autumnal sun became her, and she simp-
ered and courtesied and blushed the best she
could.
"Well, you pretty little devil, what can
you do for me—hey? You know we're old
friends—hey? What have you got for a
hungry fellow? and don't stand at the door
there, hang it—come in, can't you? and let
me hear what you say."
So Mrs. Jones, with a simpering bashful-
ness, delivered her bill of fare off book.
The Baronet was a gallant English gentle-
man, and came of a healthy race, though
there was a "beau " and an archbishop m
the family; he could rough it good-humor-
edly on beefsteak and port, and had an ac-
commodating appetite as to hours.
"That will do very nicely, my dear, thank
you. You're just the same dear hospitable
little rogue I remember you—how long is it,
by Jove, since I stopped here that day, and
the awful thunderstorm at night, don't you
recollect! and the whole house in such a
devil of a row, egad!" And the Baronet
chuckled and leered, with his hands in his
pockets.
"Three years, by Jove, I think—eh?"
"Four years in August last, Sir Jekyl,"
she answered, with a little toss of her head
and a courtesy.
"Four years, my dear—four devils! Is it
possible? why upon my life it has positively
improved you." And he tapped her cheek
playfully with his finger. "And what
o'clock is it ?" he continued, looking at his
watch, "just five. Well, I suppose you'll be
ready in half-an-hour—eh, my dear?"
"Sooner, if you wish, Sir Jekyl."
"No, thank you, dear, that will do very
nicely; and stay," he added, with a pluck at
her pink ribbon, as she retreated: "you've
some devilish good port here, unless it's all
out—old Lord Hogwood's stock—eh?"
'- More than two dozen left, Sir Jekyl;
would you please some?"
"You've hit it, you wicked little conjurer
—a bottle; and you must give me a few min-
utes after dinner, and a cup of coffee, and
tell me all the news—eh?"
The Baronet, standing on the threadbare
hearthrug, looked waggishly, as it were,
through the panels of the shut door, after
the fluttering cap of his pretty landlady.
Then he turned about and reviewed himself
in the sea-green mirror over the chimney-
piece, adjusted his curls and whiskers with
a touch or two of Ms fingers' ends, and
plucked a little at his ample silk necktie,
and shook out his tresses, with his chin a
little up, and a saucy simper.
But a man tires even of that prospect; and


6
GUY DEVERELL.
he turned on his heel, and whistled at the
smoky mezzotint of George III. on the
opposite wall. Then he turned his head,
and looked out through the bow-window,
and his whistling stopped in the middle of
a bar, at sight of a young man whom he
espied, only a yard or'two before the covered
porch of the little inn.
This young gentleman was, it seemed,
giving a parting direction to some one in
the doorway. He was tall, slender, rather
dark, and decidedly handsome. There were,
indeed, in his air, face, and costume, that
indescribable elegance and superiority
which constitute a man " distinguished look-
When Sir Jekyl beheld this particularly
handsome young man, it was with a disa-
greeable shock, like the tap on a big drum,
upon his diaphragm. If anyone had been
there he would have witnessed an odd and
grizzly change in the pleasant Baronet's
countenance. For a few seconds he did not
move. Then he drew back a pace or two,
and stood at the further side of the lire, with
the mantelpiece partially between him and
the young gentleman who spoke his parting
directions, all unconscious of the haggard
stare which made Sir Jekyl look a great
deal less young and good-natured than was
his wont.
This handsome young stranger, smiling,
signalled with his cane, as it seemed, to a
companion, who had preceded him, and ran
in pursuit.
For a time Sir Jekyl did not move a
muscle, and then, with a sudden pound on
the chimneypiece, and a great oath, he ex-
claimed—
"I could not have believed it! What the
devil can it mean ?."
Then the Baronet bethought him—" What
confounded stuff one does talk and think,
sometimes! Half the matter dropped out of
my mind. Twenty years ago, by Jove, too.
More than that, egad! How could I be such
an uss?"
And he countermarched, and twirled on
his heel into his old place, with his back to
the fire, and chuckled and asked again—
"How the plague could I be such a fool?"
And after some more of this sort of cate-
chism he began to ruminate oddly once
more, and, said he—
"It's plaguy odd, for all that."
And he walked to the window, and, with
his face close to the glass, tried in vain to see
the stranger again. The bowxwindow did
not command the road far enough to enable
him to see any distance; and he stuck his
hat on his head, and marched by the bar,
through the porch, and, standing upon the
road itself, looked shrewdly in the same
direction.
But the road makes a bend about there,
and between the hedgerows of that wooded
country the vista was not far.
With a cheerful air of carelessness, Sir
Jekyl returned and tapped on the bar win-
dow.
"I say, Mrs. Jones, who's that good-
looking young fellow that went out just
now?"
"The gentleman in the low crowned hat,
sir, with the gold-headed cane, please?"
"Yes, a tall young fellow, with large dark
eyes, and brown hair."
"That will be Mr. Strangers, Sir Jekyl."
"Does he sleep here to-night?"
"Yes, sir, please,"
"And what's his business?"
"Oh, dear! No business, Sir Jekyl, please.
He's a real gentleman, and no end of
money."
"I mean, how does he amuse himself?"
"A looking after prospects and old places,
and such like, Sir Jekyl. Sometimes riding
and sometimes a fly. Every day some place
or other."
"Oh! pencils*and paint-boxes—eh!"
"I 'aven't seen none, sir. I can't say how
that will be."
"Well, and what is he about; where is he
gone; where is he now?" demanded the
Barouet.
"What way did Mr. Strangers go, Bill,
just now ?" the lady demanded of boots, who
appeared at the moment.
"The Abbey, ma'am."
"The Abbey, please, Sir Jekyl."
"The Abbey—that's Wail Abbey—eh?
How far is it?"
"How far will it be, Bill?"
"'Taint a mile all out, ma'am."
"Not quite a mile, Sir Jekyl."
"A good ruin—isn't it?" asked the Baronet.
"Well, they do say it's very much out of
repair; but I never saw it myself, Sir Jekyl."
"Neither did I," said Sir Jekyl. "I say,
my good fellow, you can point it out, I dare
say, from the steps here'?"
"Ay, please. Sir Jekyl."
"You'll have dinner put back, Sir—please,
Sir Jekyl ?" asked Mrs. Jones.
"Back or forward, any way, my dear
child. Only I'll have my walk first."
And kissing and waving the tips of his
fingers, with a smile to Mrs. Jones, who
courtesied and simpered, though her heart
was perplexed with culinary solicitudes
"how to keep the water from getting into
the trout, and prevent the ducks of over-
roasting," the worthy Baronet followed by
Bill, stept through the porch, and on the
ridge of the old highroad, his own heart
being oddly disturbed with certain cares
which had given him a long respite; there
he received Bill's directions as to the route
to the Abbey.
It was a clear frosty evening. The red
round sun by this time, near the horizon,
looked as if a tall man on the summit of the
western hill might have touched its edge
with his finger. The Baronet looked on the
declining luminary as he buttoned his loose
coat across his throat, till his eyes were
almost dazzled, thinking all the time of
nothing but that handsome young man;
and as he walked on briskly toward the
Abbey, he saw little pale green suns dancing
along the road and wherever else his eyes
were turned.


GUY DEVERELL.
"I'll see this fellow face to face, and talk
ft bit with him. I dare say if one were near
he's not at all so like. It is devilish odd
though; twenty-five years and not a relation
on earth—and dead—hang him! Egad, its
like the Wandering Jew, and the what do
you call 'em, vita. Ay, here it is."
He paused for a moment, looking at the
pretty stile which led a little pathway across
the fields to the wooded hollow by the river,
where the ruin stands. Two old white
stone, fluted piers, once a doorway, now
tufted with grass, and stained and worn
by time, and the stile built up between.
"I know, of course, there's nothing in it;
but it's so odd—it is so devilish odd. I'd like
to know all about it," said the Baronet, pick-
ing the dust from the fluting with the point
of his walking-cane. Where has he got, I
wonder, by this time?" So he mounted the
stile, and paused near the summit to obtain
a commanding view.
"Well, I suppose he's got among the old
walls and rubbish by this time. I'll make
him out; he'll break cover."
And he skipped down the stile on the
. other side, and whistled a little, cutting
gaily in the air with his cane as he went.
But for all he could do the same intensely
uncomfortable curiosity pressed upon him as
he advanced. The sun sank behind the dis-
tant hills, leaving the heavens flooded with a
discolored crimson, and the faint silver of
the moon in the eastern sky glimmered
coldly over the fading landscape, as he sud-
denly emerged from the hedged pathway on
the rich meadow level by the slow river's
brink, on which, surrounded by lofty timber,
the ruined Abbey stands..
The birds had come home. Their vesper
song had sunk with the setting sun, and in
the sad solitude of twilight the grey ruins
rose dimly before him.
"A devilish good spot for a picnic!" said
he, making an effort to recover his usual
agreeable vein of thought and spirits.
So he looked up and about him, and
jauntily marched over the sward, and
walked along the line of the grey walls until
he found a doorway, and began his explora-
tions.
Through dark passages, up broken stairs,
over grass-grown piles of rubbish, he peeped
into all sorts of roofless chambers. Every-
thing was silent and settling down into night.
At last, by that narrow doorway, which in
such buildings so oddly gives entrance here
and there into vast apartments, he turned in-
to that grand chamber, whose stone floor
rests on the vaults beneath; and there the
Baronet paused for a moment with a little
start, for at the far end, looking towards
him, but a little upward, with the faint re-
flected glow that entered through the tall
row of windows, on the side of his face and
figure, stood the handsome young man of
whom he was in pursuit.
The Baronet being himself only a step or
two from the screw stairs, and still under
the shadow of the overhanging arch in the
corner, the stranger saw nothing of him
and to announce his approach, though not
much of musician, he hummed a bar or
two briskly as he entered, and marched
across and about as if thinking of nothing
but architecture or the picturesque.
"Charming ruin this, sir," exclaimed he,
raising his hat, so soon as he had approached
the stranger sufficiently near to make the
address natural. "Although I'm a resident
of this part of the world, I'm ashamed to
say I never saw it before."
The young man raised his hat too, and
bowed with a ceremonious grace, which, as
well as his accent, had something foreign
in it.
"While I, though a stranger, have been
unable to resist its fascination, and have
already visited it three times. You have
reason to be proud of your county, sir, it is
full of beauties."
The stranger's sweet, but peculiar, voice
thrilled the Baronet with a recollection as
vivid and detested. In fact this well-
seasoned man of the world was so much
shocked that he answered only with a bow,
and cleared his voice, and chuckled after his
fashion, but all the time felt a chill creeping
over his back.
There was a broad bar of a foggy red
light falling through the ivy-girt wmdow,
but the young man happened to stand at
that moment in the shadow beside it, and
when the Baronet's.quick glance, instead of
detecting some reassuring distinction of fea-
ture or expression, encountered only the am-
biguous and obscure, he recoiled inwardly
as from something abominable.
"Beautiful effect—beautiful sky!" ex-
claimed Sir Jekyl, not knowing very well
what he was saying, and waving his cane
upwards towards the fading tints of the sky.
The stranger emerged from his shadow
and stood beside him, and such light as
there was fell full upon his features, and as
the Baronet beheld he felt as if he were in
a dream.
CHAPTER II.
THE BARONET VISITS WARDLOCK MANOR.
In fact Sir Jekyl would have been puzzled
to know exactly what to say next, so odd
were his sensations, and his mind so pre-
occupied with a chain of extremely uncom-
fortable conjecture, had not the handsome
young gentleman who stood beside him at
the gaping window with its melancholy
folds of ivy, said—
"I have often tried to analyse, the pecu-
liar interest of ruins like these—the mixture
of melancholy and curiosity. I have seen
very many monasteries abroad—perhaps as
old as this, even older—still peopled with
their monks, with very little interest indeed,
and no sympathy; and yet here I feel a
yearning after the bygone age of English -
monasticism, an anxiety to learn all about
their ways and doings, and a sort of rever-
ence and sadness I can't account for, unless
it be an expression of that profound sym-


3
GUY DEVERELL.
pathy which mortals feel with every expres-
sion of decay and dissolution."
The Baronet fancied that he saw a lurk-
ing smile in the young man's face, and
recoiled from psychologic talk about mor-
tality.
"I dare say you're right, sir, but I am the
worst metaphysician in the world." He
thought the young man smiled again. "In
- your liking for the picturesque, however, I
quite go with you. Do you intend extend-
ing your tour to Wales and Scotland?"
"I can hardly call this little excursion a
tour. The fact is, my curiosity is pretty
much limited to this county; there are old
reasons which make me feel a very particu-
lar interest in it," said the young man, with
a very pointed carelessness and a smile,
which caused the Baronet inwardly to wince.
"I should be very happy," said Sir Jekyl,
"ifyou would take Marlowe in your way:
there are some pictures there, as well as
some views you might like to see. I am Sir
Jekyl Marlowe, and own two or three places
in this county, which are thought pretty—
and, may I give you a card?"
The snowy parallelogram was here pre-
sented and accepted with a mutual bow.
The stranger was smiling oddly as Sir Jekyl
introduced himself, with an expression which
he fancied he could read in spite of the
dark, as implying " rather old news you tell
me."
"And—and—what was I going to say?—
oh!—yes—if I can be of any use to you in
procuring access to any house or place you
wish to see, I shall be very happy. You are
at present staying at my occasional quarters,
the 'Plough. I'm afraid you'll think me
very impertinent and intrusive; but I should
like to be able to mention your name to some
of my friends, who don't usually allow stran-
gers to see their places."
This was more like American than Eng-
lish politeness; but the Baronet was deter-
mined to know all about the stranger, com-
mencing with his name, and the laws of
good breeding, though he knew them very-
well, were not likely to stand long in his
way when he had made up his mind to ac-
complish an object."
"My name is Guy Strangways," said the
stranger.
"O—ho—it's very odd -" exclaimed the
Baronet, in a sharp snarl, quite unlike his
previous talk. I think the distance between
them was a little increased, and he was look-
ing askance upon the young gentleman, who
made him a very low foreign bow.
There was a silence, and just then a deep
metallic voice from below called, "Guy—
hollo!"
"Excuse me—just a moment," and the
young man was gone. The Baronet waited.
"He'll be back," muttered Sir Jekyl, "in
a minute."
But the Baronet was mistaken. He
waited at that open window, whistling out
upon the deepening twilight, till the edges
of the ivy began to glitter in the moon-
beams, and the bats to trace their zigzags
in the air; and at last he gave over expect-
ing.
He looked back into the gloomy void of
that great chamber, and listened, and felt
rather angry at his queer sensations. He
had not turned about when the stranger
withdrew, and did not know the process of
his vanishing, and for the first time it struck
him, " who the plague could the fellow who
called him be?"
On the whole he wished himself away,
and he lighted a cigar for the sake of its vul-
gar associations, and made his way out
of the ruins, and swiftly through darkened
fields toward the Old London Road; and
was more comfortable than he cared to say,
when he stepped through the porch into the
open hall of the " Plough," and stopped be-
fore the light at the bar, to ask his hostess
once more, quite in his old way, whether
Mr. Strangways had returned.
"No, not yet; always uncertain; his din-
ner mostly overdone.
"Has he a friend with him?"
"Yes, sir, sure."
"And what is he like?"
"Older man, Sir Jekyl, a long way than -
young Mr. Guy Strangways: some relation
I do think."
"When do they leave you?"
"To-morrow evening, with a chaise and
pair for Aukworth."
"Aukworth? why, that's another of my
properties !—ha, ha, ha, by Jove! Does he
know the Abbey here is mine?"
"I rather think not, Sir Jekyl. Would you
please to wish dinner?"
"To be sure, you dear little quiz, dinner
by all means; and let them get my horses
to in half-an-hour; and if Mr. Strangways
should return before I go, I'd like to see
him, and don't fail to let me know—do ye
see?"
Dinner came and went, but Mr. Strang-
ways did not return, which rather vexed
Sir Jekyl, who, however, left his card for
that gentleman, together with an extremely
polite note, which he wrote at the bar with
his hat on, inviting him and his companion
to Marlowe, where he would be at home any
time for the next two months, and trusted
they would give him a week before they left
the country.
It was now dark, and Sir Jekyl loitered
under the lamplight of his chaise for a while,
in the hope that Mr. Strangways would turn
up. But he did not; and the Baronet
jumped into the vehicle, which was forthwith
in motion.
He sat in the corner, with one foot on the
cushion, and lighted a cigar. His chuckling
was all over, and his quizzing, for the pres-
ent. Mrs. Jones had not a notion that he
was in the least uneasy, or on any but hos-
pitable thoughts intent. But any one who
now looked m his face would have seen at a
glance how suddenly it had become overcast
with black care.
"Guy Strangways!" he thought; "those
two names, and his wouderful likeness!
Prowling about this county! Why this


GUY DEVERELL.
more than another? He seemed to take a
triumphant pleasure in telling me of his
special fancy for this county. And his voice
—a tenor they call it—I hate that sweet sort
of voice. Those d singing fellows. I
dare say he sings. They never do a bit of
food. It's very odd. It's the same voice.
forgot that old silvery sound. The same,
by Jove! I'll come to the bottom of the
whole thing. D me, I will!"
Then the Baronet puffed away fast and
earnest at his cigar, and then lighted
another, and after that a third. They
steadied him, I dare say, and helped to oil
. the mechanism of thought. But he had
not recovered his wonted cheer of mind
-when the chaise drew up at a pair of time-
worn fluted piers, with the gable of an old-
fashioned dwelling-house overlooking the
road at one side. An iron gate admitted
to a court-yard, and the hall door of the
house was opened by an old-fashioned foot-
man, with some flour on the top of his
head.
Sir Jekyl jumped down.
"Your mistress quite well, hey? My
daughter ready?" inquired the Baronet.
"Where are they? No, I'll not go up,
thank you; I'll stay here," and he entered
the parlor. "And, do you see, you just
go up and ask your mistress if she wishes
to see me."
By this time Sir Jekyl was poking up
the fire and frowning down on the bars,
with the flickering gale shooting over his
face.
"Can the old woman have anything to
do with it? Pooh! no. I'd like to see
her. But who knows what sort of a tem-
per she's in?"
As he thus ruminated, the domestic with
the old-fashioned livery and floured head
returned to say that his mistress would be
happy to see him.
The servant conducted him up a broad
stair with a great oak banister, and opening
a drawing-room door, announced—
"Sir Jekyl Marlowe."
He was instantly in the room, and a tall,
thin old lady, with a sad and stately mien,
rose up to greet him.
"How is little mamma f" cried the
Baronet, with his old chuckle. "An age
since we met, hey? How well you look!
The old lady gave her thin mittened
hand to her son-in-law, and looked a grim
and dubious sort of welcome upon him.
"Yes, Jekyl, an age; and only that
Beatrix is here, I suppose another age
would have passed without my seeing you.
And an old woman at my years has not
many ages between her and the grave."
The old lady spoke not playfully but
sternly, like one who had suffered long and
horribly, and who associated her sufferings
with her visitor; and in her oblique glance
was something of deep-seated antipathy.
"Egad! you're younger than I, though
you count more years. You live by clock
and rule, and you show it. You're as
fresh as that bunch of flowers there; while
I am literally knocking myself to pieces—
and I know it—by late hours, and all sorts
of nonsense. So you must not be coming
the old woman over me, you know, unless
you want to frighten me. And how is
Beatrix? How do, Beatrix? All ready, I
see. Good child."
Beatrix at this moment was entering.
She was tall and slightly formed, with large
dark eyes, hair of soft shadowy black, and
those tints of pure white and rich clear
blush, scarlet lips, and pearly teeth, and
long eyelashes, which are so beautiful in
contrast and in harmony. She had the
prettiest little white nose, and her face was
formed in that decided oval which so
heightens the charm of the features. She
was not a tragic heroine. Her smile was
girlish and natural—and the little ring of
pearls between her lips laughed beautifully
—and her dimples played on chin and
cheek as she smiled.
Her father kissed her, and looked at her
with a look of gratification, as he might on
a good picture that belonged to him; and
turning her smiling face, with his finger
and thumb upon her little dimpled chin,
toward Lady Alice, he said—
"Pretty well, this girl, hey?"
"I dare say, Jekyl, she'll do very well;
she's not formed yet, you know,"—was
stately Lady Alice's qualified assent. She
was one of that school who are more afraid
of spoiling people than desirous of pleasing
them by admiration. "She promises to
be like her darling mother; and that is
a melancholy satisfaction to me, and, of
course, to you. You'll have some tea,
Jekyl»"
The Baronet was standing, hat in hand,
with his outside coat on, and his back to
the fire, and a cashmere mufiler loosely
about his throat.
"Well, as it is here, I don't mind."
"May I run down, grandmamma, and
say good-bye to Ellen and old Mrs. Mason?"
"Surely—you mean, of course to the
parlor? You have them there."
"And you must not be all night about it,
Beatrix. We'll be going in a few minutes.
D'ye mind?"
"I'm quite ready, papa," said she; and
as she glided from the room she stole a
glance at her bright reflection in the
mirror.
"You are always in a hurry, Jekyl, to
leave me when you chance to come"here.
I should be sorry, however, to interfere
with the pleasantef disposition of your
time."
"Now, little mother, you musn't be
huffed with me. I have a hundred and
fifty things to look after at Marlowe when
I get there. I have not had a great deal
of time, you know—first the session, then
three months knocking about the world."
"You never wrote to me since you left
Paris," said the old lady, grimly.
"Didn't I? That was very wrong! But
you knew those were my holidays, and I
and you knew I could take


10
GUY DEVERELL.
care of myself; and it is so much better to
tell one's adventures than to put them into
letters, don't you think?"
"If one could tell them all in five minutes,"
replied the old lady, drily.
"Well, but you'll come over to Marlowe
—you really must—and I'll tell you every-
thmg there—the truth, the whole truth,
and as much more as you like."
This invitation was repeated every year,
but, like Don Juan's to the statue, was not
expected to lead to a literal visit.
"You have haunted rooms there, Jekyl,"
, she said, with an unpleasant smile and a
nod. "You have not kept house in Mar-
lowe for ten years, I think. Why do you
go there now?"
"Caprice, whim, what you will," said the
Baronet, combing out his favorite whisker
with the tips of his tigers, while he smiled
on himself in the glass upon the chimney-
piece, "I wish you'd tell me, for I really
don't know, except that I'm tired of Warton
and Dartbroke, as I am of all monotony. I
like change, you know."
"Yes; you like change" said the lady,
with a dignified sarcasm.
"I'm afraid it's a true bill," admitted Sir
Jekyl, with a chuckle. So you'll come to
Marlowe and see us there—won't you V
"No, Jekyl—certainly not" said the old
lady, with intense emphasis.
A little pause ensued, during which the
Baronet twiddled at his whisker, and contin-
ued to smile amusedly at himself in the glass.
"I wonder you could think of asking me
to Marlowe, considering all that has hap-
pened there. I sometimes wonder at myself
that I can endure to see you at all,* Jekyl
Marlowe; and I don't think, if it were not
for that dear girl, who is so like her sainted
mother, I should ever set eyes on you
again."
"I'm glad we have that link. You make
me love Beatrix better," he replied. He
was now arranging the elaborate breast-pin
with its tiny chain, which was at that date
in vogue.
"And so you are going to keep house at
Marlowe?" resumed the lady, stiffly, not
heeding the sentiment of his little speech.
"Well, so I purpose."
"I don't like that house," said the old lady,
with a subdued fierceness.
"Sorry it does not please you, little
mother, replied Sir Jekyl.
"You know I don't like it," she repeated.
"In that case you need not have told me,"
he said.
"I choose to tell you. I'll say so as often
as I see you—as often as I like."
It was an odd conference—back to back
—the old lady stiff and high—staring pale
and grimly at the opposite wall. The
Baronet looking with a quizzical smile on
his handsome face in the mirror—now pluck-
ing at a whisker—now poking at a curl with
his finger-tip—and now in the same light
way arranging the silken fall of his necktie.
"There's nothing my dear little mamma
can say, I'll not listen to with pleasure."
"There is much I might say you could
not listen to with pleasure." The cold was
growing more intense, and bitter in tone and
emphasis, as she addressed the Italian pic-
ture of Adonis and his two dogs hanging on
the distant wall.
"Well, with respect, not with pleasure—
no," said he, and tapped his white upper
teeth with the nail of his middle finger.
"Assuming, then, that you speak truth, it
is high time, Jekyl Marlowe, that you should
alter your courses—here's your daughter,
just come out. It is ridiculous, your affect-
ing the vices of youth. Make up as you will
—you're past the middle age—you're an.
elderly man now."
"You can't vex me that way, you dear
old mamma," he said with a chuckle, which
looked for the first time a little vicious in
the glass. "We baronets, you know, are all
booked, and all the world can read our ages;
but you women, manage better—you and
your two dear sisters, Winifred and Geor-
giana."
"They are dead" interrupted Lady Alice,
with more asperity than pathos.
"Yes, I know, poor old souls—to be sure,
peers' daughters die like other people, I'm
afraid."
"And when they do, are mentioned, if not
with sorrow, at least with decent respect, by
persons, that ie, who know how to behave
themselves."
There was a slight quiver in Lady Alice's
lofty tone that pleased Sir Jekyl, as you
might have remarked had you looked over
his shoulder into the glass.
"Well, you know, I was speaking not of
deaths but births, and only going to say if
you look in the peerage you'll find all the
men, poor devils, pinned to their birthdays,
and the women left at large, to exercise
their veracity on the point: but you need
not care—you have not pretended to youth
for the last ten years, I think."
"You are excessively impertinent, sir."
"I know it," answered Sir Jekyl, with a
jubilant chuckle.
A very little more, the Baronet knew, and
Lady Alice Redcliffe would have risen grey
aud grim, and sailed out of the room. Their
partings were often after this sort.
But he did not wish matters to go quite
that length at present. So he said, in a
sprightly way, as if a sudden thought had
struck him—
"By Jove, I believe I am devilish imper-
tinent, without knowing it though—and
you have forgiven me so often, I'm sure you
will once more, and I am really so much
obliged for your kindness to Beatrix. I am,
indeed."
So he took her hand, and kissed it.
CHAPTER JJI.
CONCERNING TWO REMARKABLE PERSON'S
WHO APPEARED IN WARDLOCK CHURCH.
Lady Alice carried her thin Roman nose
some degrees higher; but she said: .


GUY DEVERELL.
11
"If I say anything disagreeable, it is not | —a great deal—for the last few days' and it
for the pleasure of giving you pah., Jekyl | seemed very odd your asking; and in fact I
Marlowe; hut I understand that you mean
to have old General Lennox and his artful
wife to stay at your house, and if so, I think
it an arrangement that had better be dis
pensed with. I don't think her an eligible
acquaintance for Beatrix, and you know
very well she's not—and it is not a respect-
able or creditable kind of thing."
"Now, what d— d fool. I beg pardon
—but who the plague has been filling your
mind with these ridiculous stories—my dear
little mamma? You know how ready I am
to confess; you might at least; I tell you
everything; and I do assure you I never
admired her. She's good looking, I know;
but so are fifty pictures and statues I've seen,
and don't please me."
"Then it's true, the General and his wife
are going on a visit to Marlowe?" insisted
Lady Alice, drily.
"No, they are not. D me, I'm not
thinking of the General and his wife, nor of
any such d d trumpery. I'd give some-
thing to know who the devil's taking these
cursed liberties with my name."
"Pray, Jekyl Marlowe, command your
language. It can't the least signify who
tells me; but you see I do sometimes get a
letter."
"Yes, and a precious letter too. Such a
pack of lies did any human being ever hear
fired off in a sentence before? I m epris of
Mrs. General Lennox. Thumper number
one! She's a lady of—I beg pardon—easy
virtue. Thumper number two! and I invite
her and her husband down to Marlowe, to
make love of course to her, and to fight the
old General. Thumper number three''
And the Baronet chuckled over the three
"thumpers" merrily.
"Don't talk slang, if you please—gentle-
men don't, at least in addressing ladies."
"Well, then, I won't; I'll speak just as you
like, only you must not blow me up any
more; for really there is no cause, and we
here only two or three minutes together, you
know; and I want to tell you something, or
rather to ask you—do you ever hear any-
thing of those Deieretts, you kuow?"
Lady Alice looked quite startled, and
turned quickly half round in her chair with
her eyes on Sir Jekyl's face. The Baronet's
smile subsided, and he looked with a dark
curiosity in hers. A short but dismal silence
followed.
"You've heard from them?"
"No," said the lady, with little change in
the expression of her face.
"Well, of them?"
"No," she repeated; "but why. do you
ask? It's very strange!"
"What a strange? Come, now, you have
something to say; tell me what it is."
"I wonder, Jekyl, you ask for them, in the
first place."
"Well—well, of course; but what next?"
murmured the Baronet, eagerly; " why is it
so strange?"
"Only because I've been thinking of them
fancy the same thing has happened to us
both."
"Well, may be; but what is it?" de-
manded the Baronet, with a sinister smile.
"I have been startled; most painfully
and powerfully affected; I have seen the
most extraordinary resemblance to my beau-
tiful, murdered Guy."
She rose and wept passionately, standing
with her face buried in her handkerchief. J
Sir Jekyl frowned with closed eyes and
upturned face, waiting like a patient man
bored to death, for the subsidence of the
storm which he had conjured up. Very pale,
too was that countenance, and contracted for
a few moments with intense annoyance.
"I saw the same fellow," said the Baronet,
in a subdued tone, so soon as there was a
subsidence," this evening; he's at that little
inn on the Sterndale Road. Guy Strang-
ways he calls himself; I talked with him
for a few minutes; a gentlemanlv young
man; and I.don't know what to make of it.
So I thought I'd ask you whether you could
help me to guess; and that's all."
The old lady shook her head.
"And I don't think you need employ quite
such hard terms," he said.
"I don't want to speak of it at all," said
she; "but if I do I can't say less; nor I
won't—no, never!"
"You see it's very odd, those two names,"
said Sir Jekyl, not minding; "and as you
say, the likeness so astonishing—I—I—what
do you think of it?"
"Of course it's an accident," said the old
lady.
"I'm glad you think so," said he, abruptly.
"Why, what could it be? you don't be-
lieve in apparitions?" she replied, with an
odd sort of dryness.
"I rather think not," said he; "I meant
he left no very near relation, and I fancied
those Deverell people might have contrived
some trick, or intended some personation,
or something, and I thought that you, per
haps, had heard something of their move
ments."
Nothing—what could they have done,
or why should they have sought to make
any such impression? I don't understand it.
It is very extraordinary. But the likeness
in church amazed and shocked me, and made
me ill."
"In church, you say ?" repeated Sir Jekyl.
"Yes, in church," and she told him in her
own way, what I shall tell in mine,, as fol-
lows :—
Last Sunday she was driven, in her accus-
tomed state, with Beatrix, to Wardlock
church. The church was hardly five hun-
dred yards away, and the day bright and
dry. But Lady Alice always arrived and
departed in the coach, and sat in the Red-
cliffe seat, in the centre of the gallery. She
and Beatrix sat face to face at opposite
sides of the pew.
As Lady Alice looked with her cold and
steady glance over the congregation in the


12
GUY DEVERELL.
aisle, during the interval ol silence that
precedes the commencement of the service,
a tall and graceful young man, with an air
of semi-foreign fashion, entered the church,
accompanied by an elderly gentleman, of
whom she took comparatively little note.
The young man and his friend were
ushered into a seat confronting the gallery.
Lady Alice gazed and gazed transfixed with
astonishment and horror. The enamelled
miniature on her bosom was like; but there,
in that clear, melancholy face, with its large
eyes and wavy hair was a resurrection. In
that animated sculpture were delicate trac-
ings and touches of nature's chisel, which
the artist had failed to represent, which
even memory had neglected to fix, but
which all now returned with the startling
sense of identity in a moment.
She had put on her gold spectacles, as-
she always did on taking her seat, and
opening her "Morning Service," bound in
purple Russia, with its golden clasp and
long ribbons fringed with the same precious
metal, with the intent to mark the proper
psalms and lessons at her haughty leisure.
She therefore saw the moving image of her
dead son before her, with an agonizing dis-
tinctness that told like a blight of palsy on
her face.
She saw his elderly companion also dis-
tinctly. A round-shouldered man, with his
short caped cloak still on. A grave man,
with a large, high, bald forehead, a heavy,
hooked nose, and great hanging moustache
and beard. A dead and ominous face
enough, except for the piercing glance of
his full eyes, under very thick brows, and
just the one you would have chosen out of
a thousand portraits, for a plotting high-
priest or an old magician.
This magus fixed his gaze on Lady
Alice, not with an ostentation of staring,
but sternly from behind the dark embrasure
of his brows; and leaning a little side-
ways, whispered something m the ear of his
young companion, whose glance at the same
moment was turned with^ a dark and fixed
interest upon the old lady.
It was a very determined stare on both
sides, and of course ill-bred, but mellowed
by distance. The congregation were other-
wise like other country congregations,
awaiting the offices of their pastor, decent,
listless, while this great stare was going on,
so little becoming the higher associations
and solemn aspect of the place. It was
with all its conventional screening, a fierce
desperate scrutiny, cutting the dim air with
a steady congreve fire that crossed and
glared unintermittent by the ears of de-
ceased gentlemen in ruffs and grimy doublets,
at their posthumous devotions, and brazen
knights praying on their backs, and under
the eyes of all the gorgeous saints, with
glories round their foreheads, in attitudes of
benediction or meekness, who edified be-
lievers from the eastern window.
Lady Alice drew back in her pew. Bea-
trix was in a young-lady reverie, and did
not observe what was going on. There was
nothing indeed to make it very conspicuous.
Bat when she looked at Lady Alice, she was
shocked at her appearance, and instantly
crossed, and said—
"I am afraid you are ill, grandmamma;
shall we come away?"
The old lady made no answer, but got up
and took the girl's arm, and left the seat
very quietly. She got down the gallery
stairs, and halted at the old window on the
landing, and sate there a little, ghastly and
still mute.
The cold air circulating upward from the
porch revived her.
"I am better, child," said she, faintly.
"Thank Heaven," said the girl," whose
terror at her state proved how intensely
agitated the old lady must have been.
Mrs. Wrattles, the sextonesss, emerging at
that moment with repeated courtesies, and
whispered condolence and inquiries, Lady
Alice, with a stiff condescension, prayed
her to call her woman, Mason, to her.
So Lady Alice, leaning slenderly on
Mason's stout arm, insisted that Beatrix
should return and sit out the service; and
she herself, for the first time within the
memory of man, returned from Wardlock
church on foot, instead of in her coach.
Beatrix waited until the congregation had
nearly disgorged itself and dispersed, before
making her solitary descent.
'When she came down, without a chaperon,
at the close of the rector's discourse, the
floured footman in livery, with his gold-
headed cane, stood as usual at the coach-
door only to receive her, and convey the
order to the coachman, "home."
The churchyard gate, a,s is usual, I be-
lieve, in old places of that kind, opens at
the south side, and the road to Wardlock
manor leads along the churchyard wall and
round the corner of it at a sharp angle just
at the point where the clumsy old stone
mausoleum or vault of the Deverell family
overlooks the road, with its worn pilasters
and beetle-browed cornice.
Now that was a Sunday of wonders. It
had witnessed Lady Alice's pedestrian re-
turn from church, an act of humiliation,
almost of penance, such as the memory of
Wardlock could furnish no parallel to; and
now it was to see another portent, for her
ladyship's own gray horses, fat and tranquil
beasts, who had pulled her to and from
church for I know not how many years,
under the ministration of the careful coach-
man, with exemplary sedateness, on this
abnormal Sabbath took fright at a musical
performance of two boys, one playing the
Jew's harp and the other drumming tam-
bourine-wise on his hat, and suadente diabolo
and so forth, set off at a gallop, to the terror
of all concerned, toward home. Making
the sharp turn of the road, where the tomb
of the Deverells overhangs it from the
churchyard, the near-gray came down, and1
his off-neighbor reared and plunged fright-
fully.
The young lady did not scream, but very
much terrified, she made voluble inquiries


GUY DEVERELL.
13
of the air and hedges from the window,
while the purple coachman pulled hard from
the box, and spoke comforably to his horses,
and the footman, standing out of reach of
danger, talked also in his own vein.
Simultaneously with all this, as if emerg-
ing from the old mausoleum, there sprang
over the churchyard fence, exactly under
its shadow, that young man who had ex-
cited emotions so various in the Baronet and
in Lady Alice, and seized the horse by the
head with both hands, and so cooperated
that in less than a minute the two horses
were removed from the carriage, and he
standing, hat in hand, before the window,
to assure the youug lady that all was quite
safe now.
So she descended, and the grave footman,
with the Bible and Prayer-book, followed
'her steps with his gold-headed rod of office,
while the lithe and handsome youth, his haj
still in air which stirred his rich curls,
walked beside her with something of that
romantic deference which in one so elegant
and handsome has an inexpressible senti-
ment of the tender in it.
He walked to the door of Wardlock
Manor, and I purposely omit all he said,
because I doubt whether it would look as
well in this unexceptionable type as it
sounded from his lips in Beatrix Marlowe's
pretty ear. N
If the speaker succeed with his audience,
what more can oratory do for him? Well!
he was gone. There remained in Beatrix's
ear a music; in her fancy a heaven-like
image—a combination of tint, and outline,
and elegance, which made every room and
scene without it lifeless, and every other
object homely. These lilt' . untold impres-
sions are of course liable to ftu'e and vanish
pretty quickly in absence, and to be super-
seded even sooner. Therefore it would be
unwarranted to say that she was in love,
although I can't deny that she was haunted
by that slightly foreign young gentleman.
This latter portion of the adventure was
not divulged by old Lady Alice, because
Beatrix, I suppose, forgot to tell her, and
* she really knew nothing about it. All the
rest, her own observation and experience,
she related with a grim and candid parti-
cularity.
CHAPTER IV.
THE GREEN CHAMBER AT MARLOWE.
So the Baronet, with a rather dreary
chuckle, said:—
"I don't think, to say the truth, there is
anything in it. I really can't see why the
plague I should bore myself about it. You
know your pew in the middle of the gallery,
with that painted hatchment thing, you
know . . . ."
"Respect the dead," said Lady Alice,
looking down with a dry severity on the
table.
"Well, yes; I mean, you know, it is so
confoundedly conspicuous, I can't wonder
at the two fellows, the old dud young, staring
a bit at it, and, perhaps at you, you know,
said Sir Jekyl, in his impertinent vein.
"But I agree with you they are no ghosts,
and I really shan't trouble my head about
them any more. I wonder I was such a
fool—hey? But as you say, you know, it is
unpleasant to be reminded of—of those
things; it can't be helped now, though."
"Now, nor ever," said Lady Alice, grimly.
"Exactly; neither now, nor ever," re-
peated Sir Jekyl; "and we both know it
can't possibly be poor—I mean anyone con-
cerned in that transaction; so the likeness
must be accidental, and therefore of no
earthly significance—eh?"
Lady Alice, with elevated brows, fiddled
in silence with some crumbs on the table
with the tip of her thin finger.
"I suppose Beatrix is ready; may I ring
the bell?"
"Oh! here she is. Now, bid grandmamma
good-night," said the Baronet.
So slim and pretty Beatrix, in her cloak,
stooped down and placed her arms about
the neck of the old lady, over whose face
came a faint flush of tender sunset, and her
old grey eyes looked very kindly on the
beautiful young face that stooped over her,
as she said, in a tone that, however, was
stately—
"Good-bye, my dear child; you are warm
enough—you are certain?"
"Oh! yes, dear grandmamma—my cloak,
and this Cashmere thing."
"Well, darling, good-night. You'll not
forget to write—you 11 not fail? Good-night,
Beatrix, dear—good-bye."
"Good-night, said the Baronet, taking the
tips of her cold fingers together, and address-
ing himself to kiss her cheek, but she drew
back in one of her whims, and said stiffly,
"There, not to-night. Good-bye, Jekyl."
"Well," chuckled he, after his wont,
"another time; but mind, you're to come to
Marlowe."
He did not care to listen to what she
replied, but he called from the stairs, as he
ran down after his daughter—
"Now, mind, I won't let you off this time;
you really must come. Good-night, au re-
voir—good-night."
I really think that exemplary old lady
hated the Baronet, who called her "little
mamma," and invited her every year, with-
out meaning it, most good-naturedly, to join
his party under the ancestral roof-tree. He
took a perverse sort of pleasure in these
affectionate interviews, in fretting her not
very placid temper—in patting her as it
were, wherever there was a raw, and in
fondling her against the grain; so that his
caresses were cruel, and their harmony,
such as it was, amounted to no more than
a flimsy deference to the scandalous world.
But Sir Jekyl knew that there was nothing
in this quarter to be gained in love by a dif-
ferent tactique; there was a dreadful remem-
brance, which no poor lady has ostrich power
to digest, in the way; it lay there, hard, cold,
and irreducible; and the morbid sensation it


14
GUY DEVERELL.
produced was hatred. He knew that " little
mamma," humanly speaking, ought to hate
him. His mother indeed she was not; hut
only the step-mother of his wife. Mother-in-
law is not always a very sweet relation, but
with the prefix " step " thu chances are, per-
haps, worse.
There was, however, as you will by-and-
by see, a terrible accident, or something,
always remembered, gliding in and out of
Wardlock Manor like the Baronet's double,
walking in behind him when he visited her,
like his evil genius, and when they met affec-
tionately, standing by his shoulder, black
and scowling, with clenched fist.
* Now pretty Beatrix sat in the right corner
of the chariot, and Sir Jekyl, her father, in
the left. The lamps were lighted, and
though there was moonlight, for they had a
long stretch of road always dark, because
densely embowered in the forest of Penlake.
Tier over tier, file behind file, nodding to-
gether, the great trees bent over like plumed
warriors, and made a solemn shadow always
between their ranks.
Marlowe was quite new to Beatrix ; but
still too distant, twelve miles away, to tempt
her to look out and make observations as she
would on a nearer approach.
"You don't object to my smoking a cigar,
Beatrix? The smoke goes out of the win-
dow, you know," said the Baronet, after they
had driven about a mile in silence.
What young lady so appealed to by a
parent, ever did object? The fact is, Sir
Jekyl did not give himself the trouble to
listen to her answer, but was manifestly
thinking of something quite different, as he
lighted his match.
"When he threw his last stump out of the
window they were driving through Penlake
Forest, and the lamplight gleamed on broken
rows of wrinkled trunks and ivy.
"I suppose she told you all about it?"
said he, suddenly pursuing his own train of
thought.
"Who ?" inquired Beatrix.
"I never was a particular favorite of hers,
you know—grandmamma's, I mean. She
does not love me, poor old woman! And
she has a knack of making herself precious
disagreeable, in which I try to imitate her,
for peace' sake, you know; for, by George,
if I was not uncivil now and then, we would
never get ou at all."
Sir Jekyl chuckled after his wont, as it
were, between the bars of this recitative, and
he asked—
"What were the particulars—the adven-
ture on Sunday—that young fellow, you
know?"
Miss Beatrix had heard no such interroga-
tory from her grandmamma, whose observa-
tions in the church-aisle were quite as un-
known to her; and thus far the question of
Sir Jekyl was a shock.
"Did not grandmamma tell you about it?"
he pursued.
"About what, papa?" asked Beatrix, who
was glad that it was dark.
"About her illness—a young fellow in a
pew down in the aisle staring at her. By
Jove! one would have fancied that sort of
thing pretty well over. Tell me all about
it."
The fact was that this w s the first she had
heard of it.
"Grandmamma told me nothing of it,"
said she.
"And did not you see what occurred?
Did not you see him staring ?" asked he.
Beatrix truly denied.
"You young ladies are always thinking
of yourselves. So you saw nothing, ana
have nothing to tell? That will do," said
Sir Jekyl, drily; and silence returned.
Beatrix was relieved on discovering that
her little adventure was unsuspected. Very
little was there in it, and nothing to reflect
blame upon her. From her exaggeration
of its importance, and her quailing as she
fancied her father was approaching it, I con-
clude that the young gentleman had inter-
ested her a little.
And now, as Sir Jekyl in one corner of
the rolling chariot brooded in the dark over
his disappointed conjectures, so did pretty
Beatrix in the other speculate ori the sen-
tences which had just fallen from his lips,
and longed to inquire some further particu-
lars, but somehow dared not.
Could that tall and handsome young man,
who had come to her rescue so unaccount-
ably—the gentleman with those large, soft,
dark eyes, which properly belong to heroes
—have been the individual whose gaze had
so mysteriously affected her grandmamma?
What could the associations have been that
were painful enough so to overcome that
grim, white woman? Was he a relation?
Was he an outcast member of that proud
family? Or, was he that heir-at-law, or em-
bodied Nemesis, that the yawning sea or
grave will sometimes yield to plague the
guilty or the usurper?
For all or any of these parts he seemed
too young. Yet Beatrix fancied instinc-
tively that he could be no other than the
basilisk who had exercised so strange a spell
over her grim, but withal kind old kinswo-
man. •
Was there not, she thought, something
peculiar in the look he threw across the
windows of old stone-fronted Wardlock
manor — reserved, curious, half-smiling —
as if he looked on an object which he had
often heard described, and had somehow,
from personal associations or otherwise,
an interest in? It was but a momentary
glance just as he took his leave ; but there
was, she thought, that odd character in it
By this time the lamps were flashing on
the village windows and shop-fronts; and
at the end of the old gabled street, under a
canopy of dark trees, stood the great iron
gate of Marlowe.
Sir Jekyl rubbed the glass and looked out
when they halted at the gate. The struc-
tures of his fancy had amused him, rather
fearfully indeed, and he was surprised to find
that they were entering the grounds of Mar-
lowe so soon.


GUY DEVERELL.
15
He did not mind looking out, or speaking to
the old gamekeeper, who pulled open the
great barriers, but lay back in his corner sul-
lenly, in the attitude of a gentleman taking a
nap.
Beatrix, however, looked out inquisi-
tively, and saw by the misty moonlight a
broad level studded with majestic timber—
singly, in clumps, and here and there in
solemn masses; and soon rose the broad-
fronted gabled house before them, with its
steep roofs and its hospitable clumps of
twisted chimneys showing black against the
dim sky.
Miss Marlowe's maid, to whom the scene
was quite as new as to her mistress,descended
from the back seat, in cloaks and mufflers,
and stood by the hall-door steps, that shone
white in the moonlight, before their sum-
mons had been answered.
Committing his daughter to her care, the
Baronet—who was of a bustling tempera-
ment, and never drank tea except from
motives of gallantry—called for Mrs. Gwynn,
the housekeeper, who presently appeared.
She was an odd-looking woman—some
years turned of fifty, thin, with a longish
face and fine, white, glazed skin. There
was something queer about her eyes; you
soon discovered it to arise from their light
color and something that did not quite
match in their pupils.
On entering the hall, where the Baronet
had lighted a candle, having thrown his hat
on the table, and merely loosed his muffler
and one or two buttons of his outside coat,
she smiled a chill gleam of welcome with
her pale lips, and dropped two sharp little
courtesies. --
"Well, old Donica, and how do ye do?"
said the Baronet, smiling, with a hand on
each thin grey silk shoulder. "Long time
since I saw you. But, egad! you grow
younger and younger, you pretty old
rogue;" and he gave her pale, thin cheek a
playing tap with his fingers.
"Pretty well, please, Sir Jekyl. thank ye,"
she replied, receding a little with dry dig-
nity. "Very welcome, sir, to Marlowe.
Miss Beatrix looks very well, I am happy
to see; and you, sir, also."
"And you're glad to see us, I know?"
"Certainly, sir, glad to see you," said
Mrs. Gwynn, with another short courtesy.
"The servants not all come? No, nor
Ridley with the plate. He'll arrive to-
morrow; and—and we shall have the house
full in little more than a week. Let us go
up and look at the rooms; I forget them
. almost, by Jove—I really do—it's so long
since. Light you another, and we'll do
very well.
, "You'll see them better by daylight, sir.
I kept everything well aired and clean. The
house looks wonderful—it do," replie.d Mrs.
Gwynn, accompanying the Baronet up Cie
broad oak stairs.
"If it looks as fresh as you, Donica, it's a
miracle of a house—egad! you're.a wonder.
How you skip by my side, with your little
taper, like a sylph in a ballet, egad!"
"You wear pretty1 well yourself, Sir
Jekyl," drily remarked the white-faced sylph,
who had a sharp perpendicular line between
her eyebrows, indicative of temper. «
"So they tell me, by Jove. We're pretty
well on though, Donnie—eh? Everyone
knows my age—printed, you know, in the!
red book. You've the advantage of me
there—eh, Don?" "t
"I'm just fifty-six, sir, and I don't care if<
all the world knewd it." <
"All the world's curious, I dare say, on
the point; but I shan't tell them, old
Gwynn," said Sir Jekyl.
"Curious or no, sir, it's just the truth,
and I don't care to hide it. Past that folly
now, sir, and I don't care if I wor seventy,
and a steppin' like a"
"A sylph," supplied he.
"Yes—a sylph—into my grave. It's a
bad world, and them that's suffered in it
soon tires on it, sir."
"You have\iot had a great deal to trouble
you. Neither chick, nor child, nor husband,
egad! So here we are."
They were now standing on the gallery,
at the head of the great staircase.
"These are the rooms your letter says are
not furnished—eh? Let us come to the front
gallery."
So, first walking down the gallery in which
they were, to the right, and then entering a
passage by a turn on the left, they reached
the front gallery which runs parallel to that
at the head of the stairs.
"Where have you put Beatrix?"
"She wished the room next mine, please,
sir, upstairs," answered the housekeeper.
"Near the front—eh?"
"The left side, please, sir, as you look
from the front," replied she.
"From the front?" he repeated.
"From the front," she reiterated.
"Over there, then ?" he said, pointing up-
ward to the left.
"That will be about it, sir," she answered.
"How many rooms have we here in a
row?" he asked, facing down the gallery,
with its file of doors on each side.
"Four bed-rooms and three dressing-rooms
at each side.
"Ay, well now, I'll tell you who's coming,
and how lo dispose of them."
So Sir Jekyl quartered his friends, as he
listed, and then said he—
"And the large room at the other end,
here to the right—come along."
And Sir Jekyl marched briskly in the
direction indicated.
"Please, sir," said the s'im, pale house- /
keeper, with the odd leer in her eye, over-
taking him quietly.
"Ay, here it is," said he not minding her,
and pushing open the door of a dressing-
room at the end of the gallery. "Inside this,
I remember."
"But that's the green < hamber, sir," con-
tinued Mrs. Gwynn. gliding beside him as he
traversed the floor.
'The room we call Sir Harry's room, I
know—capital room—eh?"


16
GUY DEVERELL.
"I don't suppose," began the pale lady,
with a sinister sharpness.
"Well ?" he demanded, looking down in
hot face a little grimly.
"It's the green chamber, sir," she said,
with a hard emphasis.
"You said so before, eh ?" he replied.
"And I did not suppose, sir, you'd think
of putting any one there," she continued.
"Then you're just as green as the cham-
ber," said S r Jekyl, with a chuckle.
And he entered the room, holding the
candle high in air, and looking about him a
little curiously, the light tread and sharp
pallid face of Donica Gwynn following him.
CHAPTER V.
Bm JEKYL BETHINKS HIM OF PELTEB AND
CROWE.
The Baronet held his candle high in air,
as I have said, as he gazed round him inqui-
sitively. The thin housekeeper, with her
pale lips closed, and her odd eyes dropped
slantingly toward the floor, at the corner of
the room, held hers demurely in her right
finger and thumb, her arms being crossed.
The room was large, and the light insuffi-
cient. Still you could not help seeing at a
glance that it must be, in daylight, a tolera-
bly cheerful one. It was roomy and airy,
with a great bow-window looking to the
front of the building, of which it occupied
the extreme left, reaching about ten feet
from the level of the more ancient frontage
of the house. The walls were covered with
stamped leather, chiefly green and gold, and
the whole air of the room, even in its unar-
ranged state, though somewhat quaint and
faded, was wonderfully gay and cozy.
"This is the green chamber, sir," she re-
peated, with her brows raised and her eyes
still lowered askance, and some queer wrink-
les on her forehead, as she nodded a sharp
bitter emphasis.
"To be sure it is, damme !—why not ?" he
said, testily, and then burst into a short
laugh.
"You're not a going, I suppose, Sir Jekyl,
to put any one into it ?" said she.
"I donvt see, for the life of me, why I
should not—eh ? — a devilish comfortable
room."
"Hem! I can't but suppose you are a jok-
ing me, Sir Jekyl," persisted the gray silk
phantom.
"Egad! you forget how old we're grow-
ing; why the plague should I quiz you! I
want the room for old General Lennox, that's
all—though I'm not bound to tell you for
whom I want it—am I?"
"There's a plenty o' rooms without this
one, Sir Jekyl," persevered the lady, sternly.
''Plenty, of course; but none so good,"
said he, carelessly.
"No one ever had luck that slept in it,"
answered the oracle, lifting her odd eyes and
fixing them on Sir Jekvl.
"I don't put them here for luck. We
want to make them comfortable," answered
Sir Jekyl, poking at the furniture as he
spoke. ,
"You know what was your father's wish
about it, sir?" she insisted.
"My father's wish—egad, he did not leave
many of his wishes unsatisfied—eh?" he
answered, with another chuckle.
"And your poor lady's wish," she said, a
good deal more sharply.
"I don't know why the devil I'm talking
to you, old Gwynn," said the baronet, turning
a little fiercely about.
"Dying wishes," emphasised she.
"It is time, Heaven knows, all that stuff
should stop. You slept in it yourself, in my
father's time. I remember you, here, Donica,
and I don't think that I ever heard that you
saw a ghost—did I J" he said, with a sarcastic
chuckle.
She darted a ghastly look to the far end of
the chamber, and then, with a strange, half-
frozen fury, she said—
"I wish you good-night, Sir Jekyl," and
glided like a shadow out of the room.
"Saucy as ever, by Jupiter," he ejaculated,
following her with his glance, and trying to
smile; and as the door-shut, he looked again
down the long apartment as she had just
done, raising the candle again.
The light was not improved of course by
the disappearance of Mrs. Gwynn's candle,
and the end of the room was dim and unsat-
isfactory. - The great four-poster, with dark
curtains, and a plume at each corner, threw a
vague shadow on the back wall and up to
the ceiling, as he moved his candle, which at
the distance gave him an uncomfortable sen-
sation, and he stood for a few seconds sternly
there, and then turned on his heel and quit-
ted the room, saying aloud, as he did so—
"What a d—d fool that old woman is—al-
ways was /"
If there was a ghost there, the Baronet
plainly did not wish it to make its exit from
the green chamber by the door, for he locked
it on the outside, and put the key in his
pocket. Then, crossing the dressing-room I
have mentioned, he entered the passage
which crosses the gallery in which he and
Mrs. Gwynn, a few minutes before, had
planned their dispositions. The dressing-
room door is placed close to the window
which opens at the end of the corridor in the
front of the house. Standing with his back
to this, he looked down the long passage,
and smiled.
For a man so little given to the melo-dra-
matic, it was a very well expressed smile of
mystery—the smile of a man who knows
something which others don't suspect, and
would be surprised to learn.
It was the Baronet's fancy, as it had been
his father's and his grandfather's before him,
to occupy very remote quarters in this old
house. Solitary birds, their roost was alone.
Candle in hand, Sir Jekyl descended the
stairs, marched down the long gaunt passage,
which strikes rearward so inflexibly, and at
last reaches the foot of a back staircase, after


GUY DEVERELL.
17
a march of a hundred and forty feet, which
I have measured.
At top of this was a door at his left, which
he opened, and found himself in his own bed-
room.
You would have said on looking about you
that it was the bed-room of an old campaig-
ner or of a natty gamekeeper—a fellow who
rather liked roughing it, and had formed
tastes in the matter like the great Duke of
'Wellington. The furniture was slight and
plain, and looked like unvarnished deal; a
French bed, narrow, with chintz curtains,
and a plain white coverlet, like 'what one
might expect in a barrack, dormitory or an
hospital ; a little strip of carpet lying by the
bed, and a small square of Turkey carpet un-
der the table by the fire, hardly broke the
shining uniformity or the dark oak floor; a
pair of sporting prints decorated the sides of
the chimney-piece, and an oil-portrait of a
grey hunter hung in the middle. There were
fishing-rods and gun-cases, I dare say the
keys were lost of many, they looked so old
and dingy.
The Baronet's luggage, relieved of its black
japanned casings, lay on the floor, with his
hat-case and travelling-desk. A pleasant fire
burnt in the grate, and a curious abundance
of wax-lights, without which Sir Jeykl, such
was his peculiarity, could not exist, enlivened
the chamber.
As he made his toilet at his homely little
dressing-table, he bethought him suddenly,
and rang the bell in his shirt-sleeves.
"My letters."
"Yes, .sir."
And up came a salver well laden with let-
ters, pamphlets, and newspapers, of all shapes
and sizes.
"And tell Miss Beatrix I shan't have any
tea, and get some brandy from Mrs. Gwynn,
and cold water and a tumbler, and let them
leave me alone—d'ye see?—and give me
that."
It was a dressing-gown which Tomlinson's
care had already liberated from its valise, and
expanded before the fire.
The Baronet's tastes, as we might see, were
simple. He could dine on a bit of roast mut-
ton, and a few glasses of sherry. But his
mutton was eight years old, and came all the
way from Dartbroke, and his sherry cost
more than other men's Madeira, and he now
lighted one of those priceless cigars, which so
many fellows envied, and inhaled the disem-
bodied aroma of a tobacco which, perhaps,
Jove smokes in his easy chair at Olympus,
but which I have never smelt on earth, ex-
cept when Sir Jekyl dispensed the inestima-
ble treasures of his cigar-case.
Now, the Baronet stood over his table,
with a weed between his lips, tall in his
flowered silk dressing-gown, his open hands
shoving apart the pile of letters, as a conjur-
er at an exhibition spreads his pack of cards.
"Ha! poor little thing!" he murmured,
with a sly simper, in a petting tone, as he
plucked an envelope, addressed in a lady's
hand, between two fingers, caressingly, from
the miscellaneous assortment.
He looked at it, but reserved it as a bon-
bouche in his waistcoat pocket, and pursued
his examination.
There were several from invited guests,
who were either coming or not, with the cus-
tomary expressions, and were tossed togeth-
er in a little isolated litter for conference
with Mrs. Gwynn in the morning.
"Not a line from Pelter and Crowe! the
d—d fellows don't waste their ink upon me,
except when they furnish their costs. It's a
farce paying fellows to look after one's busi-
ness—no one ever does it but yourself. If
those fellows were worth their bread and
butter, they'd have known all about this
thing, whatever it is, and I'd have had it all
here, d it, to-night."
Sir Jekyl, it must be confessed, was not
quite consistent about this affair of the mys-
terious young gentleman; for, as we have
seen, he himself had a dozen times protested
against the possibility of there being any-
thing in it, and now he was seriously ceusur-
ing his-respectable London attorneys for not
furnishing him with the solid contents of this
"wind-bag."
But it was only his talk that was contra-
dictory. Almost from the moment of his
first seeing that young gentleman, on the
open way under the sign of the " Plough,"
there lowered a fantastic and cyclopean pic-
ture, drawn in smoke or vapor, volcanic and
thunderous, all over his horizon, like those
prophetic and retrospective pageants with
which Doree loves to paint his mystic skies.
It was wonderful, and presaged unknown
evil; and only cowed him the more that it
baffled analysis and seemed to mock at reason.
"Pretty fellows to keep a look-out! It's
well I can do it for myself—who knows
where we're driving to, or what's coming?
Signs enough — whatever they mean — he
that runs may read, egad! Not that there's
anything in it necessarily. But it's not about
drawing and ruins and that stuff—those fel-
lows have come down here. Bosh! looking
after my property. I'd take my oath they
are advised by some lawyer; and if Pelter
and Crowe were sharp, they'd know by
whom, and all about it, by Jove!"
Sir Jekyl jerked the stump of his cigar
over his shoulder into the grate as he mut-
tered this, looking surlily down on the un-
profitable papers that strewed the table.
He stood thinking, with his back to the
fire, and looking rather cross and perplexed,
and so he sat down and wrote a short letter.
It was to Pelter and Crowe, but he began, as
he did not care which got it, in his usual
way—
"My dbab Sib,—I have reason to suspect
that those ill-disposed people, who have often
threatened annoyance, are at last seriously
intent on mischief. You will be good
enough, therefore, immediately to set on foot
inquiries, here and at the other side of the
water, respecting the movements of the
D family, who, I fancy, are at the bot-
tom of an absurd, though possibly trouble-
some demonstration. I don't fear them, of


18
GUY DEVERELL.
f
course. But I thintf you will find that some
members of that family are at present in this
country, and disposed to be troublesome.
You will see, therefore, the urgency of the
affair, and will better know than I where
and how to prosecute the necessary inquiries.
I do not, of course, apprehend the least
danger from their machmations; but you
have always thought annoyance possible; and
if any be m store for me, I should rather not
have to charge it upon our supiueness. You
will therefore, exert your vigilance and ac-
tivity on my behalf, and be so good as to let
me know, at the earliest possible day—
which, I think, need not be later than Wed-
nesday next—the result of your inquiries
through the old channels. I am a little dis-
appointed, in fact, at not having heard from
you before now on this subject.
"Yours, my dear sir, very sincerely,
"Jekyl M. Marlowe."
Sir Jekyl never swore on paper, and, as a
rule, commanded his temper very creditably
in that vehicle. But all people who had
dealings with him knew very well that the
rich Baronet was not to be trifled with. So
understanding that it was strong enough, he
sealed it up for the post-office in the. morn-
ing, and dropped it into the post-bag, and
with it the unpleasant subject for the present.
And now, a little brandy and water, and
the envelope in the well-known female hand;
and he laughed a little over it, and looked
at himself in the glass with a vaunting com-
placency, and shook his head playfully at
the envelope. It just crossed his sunshine
like the shadow of a flying vapor—" that
cross-grained old Gwynn would not venture
to meddle?" But the envelope was honestly
closed, and showed no signs of having been
fiddled with.
He made a luxury of this little Jetter, and
read it in his easy chair, with his left leg
over the arm, with the fragrant accompani-
ment of the weed.
"Jealous, by Jove !" he ejaculated, in high
glee; "little fool, what's put that in your
head?"
"Poor, little, fluttering, foolish thing!"
sang the Baronet, -and then laughed, not
cynically, but indulgently rather.
"How audacious the little fools are upon
paper! Egad, it's a wonder there is not
twice as much mischief in the world as actu-
ally happens. We must positively burn this
little extravagance."
But before doing so he read it over again;
then smiling still, he gallantly touched it to
his lips, and re-perused it, as he drew an-
other cigar from the treasury of incense
which he carried about him. He lighted the
note, but did not apply it to his cigar, I am
bound to say—partly from a fine feeling, and
partly, I am afraid, because he thought that
paper spoiled the flavor of his tobacco. So,
with a sentimental smile, a gentle shrug, and
a sigh of the Lawrence Sterne pattern, he
converted that dangerous little scrawl into
ashes—and he thought, as he inhaled his
weed—
"It is well for you, poor little fanatics,
that we men take better care of you than
you do of yourselves, sometimes!"
No doubt; and Sir Jekyl supposed he was
thinking only of his imprudent little corres-
pondent, although there was another person
in whom he was nearly interested, who
might have been unpleasantly compromised
also, if that document had fallen into other
hands.
CHAPTER VI.
sir jektl's room is visited.
It was near one o'clock. Sir Jekyl yawned
and wound his watch, and looked at his bed
as if he would like to be in it without the
trouble of getting there; and at that moment
there came a sharp knock at his door, which
startled him, for he thought all his people
were asleep by that time.
"Who's there?" he demanded in a loud
key.
"It's me, sir, please," said Donica Gwynn's
voice.
"Come in, will you ?" cried he; and she
entered.
"Are you sick ?" he asked.
"No, sir, thank you," she replied, with a
sharp courtesy.
"You look so plaguy pale. Well, I'm
glad you're not. But what the deuce can
you want of me at this hour of night? Eh?"
"It's only about that room, sir."
"Oh, curse the room! Talk about it in
the morning. You ought to have been in
your bed an hour ago.
"So I was, sir; but I could not sleep, sir,
for thinking of it."
"Well, go back and think of it, if you
must. How can I stop you? Don't be a
fool, old Gwynn."
. " No more I will, sir, please, if I can help,
for fools we are, the most on us; but I could
not sleep, as I said, for thinking o't; and so «
I thought I'd jist put on my things again,
and come and try if you, sir, might be still
up."
"Well, you see I'm up; but I want to get
to bed, Gwynn, and not to talk here about
solemn bosh; and you must not bore me
about that green chamber—do you see—
to-night, like a good old girl; it will do in
the morning—won't it?"
"So it will, sir; only I could not rest in
my bed, until I said, seeing as you mean to
sleep in this room, it would never do. It
won't. I can't stand it."
"Stand what? Egad! it seems to me
you're demented, my good old Donica."
"No Sir Jekyl," she persisted, with a grim
resolution to say out her say. "You know
very well, sir, what's running in my head.
You know it's for nc good anyone sleeps
there. General Lennox, ye say; well 'an
good. You know well what a loss Mr. Dev-
erell met with in that room in Sir Harry,
your father's time."
"And you slept in it, did not you, and saw
something? Eh?"


GUY DEVERELL.
19
"Yes, I did" she said, in a sudden fury,
with a little stamp on the floor, and a pale,
staring frown.
After a breathless pause of a second or two
she resumed.
"And you know what your poor lady saw
there, and never held up her head again.
And well you know, sir, how your father,
Sir Harry, on his death-bed, desired it should
be walled up, when you were no more than
a boy; and your good lady did the same
many a year after, when she was a dying.
And I tell ye, Sir Jekyl, ye'll.sup sorrow
yourself yet if you don't. And take a fool's
counsel, and shut up that door, and never let
no one, friend or foe, sleep there; for well I
know it's not for nothing, with your dead
father's dying command, and your poor dear
lady's dying entreaty against it, that you put
anyone to sleep there. I don't know who
this General Lennox may be—a good gentle-
man or a bad; but I'm sure it's for no right-
eous reason he's to lie there. You would not
do it for nothing."
This harangue was uttered with a volubil-
ity, which, as the phrase is, tosk Sir Jekyl
aback. He was angry, but he was also per-
plexed and a little stunned by the unexpected
vehemence of his old housekeeper's assault,
and he stared at her with a rather bewildered
countenance.
"You're devilish impertinent," at last he
said, with an effort. "You rant there like a
madwoman, just because I like you, and
you've been in our family, I believe, since
before I was born; you think you may say
what you like. The house is mine, I believe,
and I rather think I'll do what I fhink best
in it while I'm here."
"And you going to sleep in this room!"
she broke in. "What else can it be?"
"You mean—what the devil do you
mean?" stammered the Baronet again, un-
consciously assuming the defensive.
"I mean you know very well what, Sir
Jekyl," she replied.
"It was my father's room, hey ?—when I
was a boy, as you say. It's good enough for
his son, I suppose; and I don't ask you to
lie in the green chamber."
"I'll be no party, sir, if you please, to any
one lying there," she observed, with a stiff
courtesy, and a sudden hectic in her cheek.
"Perhaps you mean because my door's
a hundred and fifty feet away from the front
of the house, if any mischief should happen,
I'm too far away—as others were before
me—to prevent it, eh?" said he, with a flur-
ried sneer.
"What I mean, I mean, sir—you ought
not; that's all. You won't take it amiss,
Sir Jekyl—I'm an old servant—I'm sorry,
sir; but I'a made up my mind what to do.
"You're not thinking of any folly, surely?
You seem to me always too much afraid, or
whatever you call it, of the remembrance,
you know, of what you saw there—eh ?—I
don't know, of course, what—to speak of it to
me. I never pressed you, because you
seemed—you know you did—to have a hor-
ror; and surely you're not going now to talk
among the servants or other people. You
can't be far from flve-and-thirty years in the
family."
"Four-and-thirty, Sir Jekyl, next April.
It's a good while; but I won't see no more
o' that; and unless the green chamber be
locked up, at the least, and used no more for
a bed-room, I'd rather go, sir. Nothing may
happen, of course, Sir Jekyl—it's a hundred
to one nothing would happen; but ye see, sir,
I've a feeling about it, sir; and there has
been these things ordered by your father that
was, and by your poor lady, as make me feel
queer. Nothing being done accordingly, and
I could not rest upon it, for sooner or later it
would come to this, and stay I could not. I
judge no one—Heaven forbid, Sir Jekyl—oh,
no! my own conscience is as macb as I can
look to; so sir, if you please, so soon as you
can suit yourself 1ll leave, sir."
"Stuff, old Gwynn; don't mind talking to-
night," said the Baronet, more kindly than
he had spoken before; "we'll see about it in
the morning. Good-nis;ht. We must not
quarrel about nothing. I was only a school-
boy when you came to us, you know."
But in the morning " old Gwynn" was re-
solute. She was actually going, so soon as
the master could suit himself. She was not
in a passion, nor in a panic, but in a state of
gloomy and ominous obstinacy.
"Well, you'll give me a little time, won.t
you, to look about me?" said the Baronet,
peevishly.
"Such is my intention, sir."
"And see, Gwynn, not a word about that
—that green chamber, you know, to Miss
Beatrix."
"As you please, sir."
"Because if you begin to talk, they'll all
think we are haunted."
"Whatever you please to order, sir."
"And it was not—it was my grandfather,
you know, who built it."
"Ah, so it was, sir:" and Gwynn looked
astonished and shook her head, as though
cowed by the presence of a master-spirit of
evil.
"One would fancy you saw his ghost,
Gwynn; but he was not such a devil as your
looks would make him, only a bit wild, and
a favorite with the women, Gwynn—always
the best judge of merit—hey? Beau Marlowe
they called him—the best dressed man of his
day. How the devil oould such a fellow
have any harm in him 1"
There is a fine picture, full length, of Beau
Marlowe, over the chimneypiece of the great
hall of Marlowe. He has remarkably gentle-
manlike hands and legs; the gloss is on his
silk stockings still. His features are hand-
some, of that type which we conventionally
term aristocratic; high, and smiling with a
Louis-Quatorze insolence. He wears a very
fine coat of cut velvet, of a rich, dusky red, the
technical name of which I forget. He was
of the gilded and powdered youth of his day.
He certainly was a handsome fellow, thls
builder of the " green chamber," and he has
not placed his candle under a bushel.' He
shines in many parts of the old house, and


20
GUT DEVERELL.
has repeated himself in all manner of be-
coming suits. You see him three-quarters,
in the parlor, in blue and silver; you meet
him in crayon, and again in small oil, oval;
and you have him in half a dozen miniatures.
We mention this ancestor chiefly because
when his aunt, Lady Mary, left him a legacy,
he added the green chamber to the house.
It seems odd that Sir Jekyl, not fifty yet,
should have had a grandfather who was a
fashionable and wicked notoriety of mature
years, and who had built an addition to the
family mansion so long as a hundred and
thirty years ago. But this gentleman had
married late, as rakes sometimes do, and his
son, Sir Harry, married still later—some-
where about seventy; having been roused
to this uncomfortable exertion by the pro-
prietorial airs of a nephew who was next in
succession. To this matrimonial explosion
Sir Jekyl owed his entrance and agreeable
sojourn upon the earth.
"I won't ask you to stay now; you're in a
state. I'll write to town for Sinnott, as you
insist or it; but you won't leave us in con-
fusion, and you'll make her au fait—won't
you? Give her any hints she may require;
and I know I shall have you back again
when you cool a little, or at all events when
we go back to Dartbroke; for I don't think
I shall like this place."
So Donica Gwynn declared herself willing
to remain till Mrs. Sinnott should arrive
from London; and preparations for the re-
ception of guests proceeded with energy.
CHAPTER VII.
THE BABONET PURSUES.
Sir Jekyl Marlowe was vexed when the
letters came, and none from Pelter and
Crowe. There are people who expect mir-
acles from their doctors and lawyers, and, in
proportion to their accustomed health and
prosperity, are unreasonable when anything
goes wrong. The Baronet's notion was that
the legal firm in question ought to think and
even dream of nothing else than his business.
It was an impertinence their expecting him
to think about it. What were they there for?
He knew that London was a pretty large
place, and England still larger; and that it
was not always easy to know what every-
body was about in either, and still less what
each man was doing on the Continent. Pelter
and Crowe had some other clients too on
their hands, and had hitherto done very sat-
isfactorily. But here was a serious-looking
thing—the first really uncomfortable occur-
rence which had taken place under his reign
—the first opportunity for exhibiting common
vigilance—and he ventured to say those fel
lows did not know these Strangways people
were in these kingdoms at all!
Sir Jekyl, though an idle fellow, was a
man of action, so he ordered his horse, and
rode- nine miles to the " Plough Inn," where
he hoped to see Mr. Strangways again, im-
prove his intimacy, and prevail with the
gentleman to return with him to Marlowe
and spend a fortnight there, when, or the
devil was in it, he should contrive to get at
the bottom of their plans.
He looked shrewdly in at the open door as
he rode up, and hallooed for some one to
take his horse. The little porch smiled
pleasantly, and the two gables and weather
cock, in the sunlight; and the farmer on the
broad and dingy panel, in his shirt-sleeves,
low - crowned, broad - leafed hat, crimson
waistcoat, canary-colored shorts, and blue
stockings, and flaxen wig, was driving his
plump horses, and guiding his plough, undis-
couraged as when last he saw him.
Boots and Mrs. Jones came out. Sir Jekyl
was too eager to wait to get down ; so from
the saddle he accosted his buxom hostess, in
his usual affable style. The Baronet was not
accustomed to be crossed and thwarted as
much as, I have been told, men with less
money sometimes are; and he showed his
mortification in his face when he teamed
that the two gentlemen had left very early
that morning.
"This morning! Why you said yesterday
they would not go till evening. Hang it, I
wish you could tell it right; and what the
d—l do you mean by Strangers? Call him
Strangways, can't you. It's odd people can't
say names."
He must have been very much vexed to
speak so sharply; and he saw, perhaps, how
much he had forgotten himself in the fright-
ened look which good Mrs. Jones turned
upon him.
"I don't mean you, my good little soul.
It's their fault; and where are they gone to?
I wanted to ask them both over to Marlowe.
Have you a notion?"
"They took our horses as far as the ' Bell
and Horns,' at Slowton." She called shrilly
to Boots, " They're not stopping at the ' Bell
and Horns,' sure. Come here, and tell Sir
Jekyl Marlowe about Mr. Strangers."
"You said last night they were going to
Awkworth;" and Sir Jekyl chuckled scorn-
fully, for he was vexed.
"They changed their minds, sir."
"Well, we'll say so. You're a wonderful
fascinating sex. Egad! if you could only
carry anything right in your heads for ten
minutes, ybu'd be too charming." And at
this point Boots emerged, and Sir Jekyl con-
tinued, addressing him—
"Well, where are the gentlemen who left
this morning?" asked he.
"They'll be at the 'Bell and Horns,' sir."
"Where's that?"
"Slowton, sir."
"I know. What hour did they go?"
"Eight o'clock, sir."
"Just seven miles. The Sterndale Road,
isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
And that was all that Boots had to tell.
"Will ye please to come in, sir?" inquired
Mrs. Jones.
"No, my good creature. I haven't time.
The old gentleman—what's his name?"
"I don't know, sir, please. He calls the


GUY DEVERELL.
21
young gentleman Guy, and the young gen-
tleman calls him sir."
"And both the same name?"
"We calls 'em both Strangers, please, sir."
"I know. Servants, had they?"
"Yes, sir, please. But they sent 'em on."
"Rich—don't want for money, I suppose.
Eh?"
"Oh! plenty of money, sir."
"And the servants called the men Strang-
ways, I suppose, eh?"
"Yes, Sir Jekyl, please; and so the letters
came."
"You never happened to hear any other
name?"
"No, Sir Jekyl."
"Think."
Mrs. Jones did think, but could recall
nothing.
"Nothing with a D?"
"D, sir! What, sir?"
"No matter what," said the Baronet.
"No name beginning with D—eh?"
"No, sir. You don't think they're going
by a false name?" inquired the lady, curi-
ously.
'' What the devil puts that in your head?
Take care of the law: you must not talk
that way, you foolish little rogue."
"I did not know, sir," timidly answered
Mrs. Jones, who saw in Sir Jekyl, the Par-
liament-man, Deputy-Lieutenant, and Grand
Juror, a great oracle of the law.
"I only wanted to know whether you had
happened to hear the name of the elder of
the two gentlemen, and could recollect what
letter it begins with."
"No, sir, please."
"So you've no more to tell me?"
"Nothing, sir."
"If they come back tell them I rode over
to offer them some shooting, and to beg
they'd remember to come to Marlowe. You
won't forget?"
"No, sir."
"Do they return here?"
"I think not, sir."
"Well, I believe there's nothing else," and
the Baronet looked up reflectively, as if he
expected to find a memorandum scribbled on
the blue sky, leaning with his hand on the
back of his horse. "No, nothing. You won't
forget my message, that's all. Good-bye, my
dear."
And touching the tips of his gloves to his
lips, with a smile and a nod he cantered
down the Sterndale Road.
He pulled up at the "Bell and Horns," in
the little town of Slowton, but was disappoint-
ed. The entire party, servants and all, had
; taken the train two hours before, at the sta-
tion three miles away.
Now Sir Jekyl was blooded, and the spirit
of the chase stirred within him. So he rode
down in his jack-boots, and pulled up his
steaming horse by the station, and he went
in and made inquiry.
A man like him is received even at one of
these cosmopolitan rallying-points within his
own country with becoming awe. The sta-
tion-master was awfully courteous, and the
subaltern officials awfully active and obliging,
and the resources of the establishment were
at once placed at his sublime disposal.
Unhappily, two branch lines converge at this
point, causing the usual bustle, and there was
consequently a conflict and confusion in the
evidence; so that Sir Jekyl, who laughed
and chatted agreeably amidst all the reveren-
tial zeal that surrounded him, could arrive at
nothing conclusive, but leaned to the view
that the party had actually gone to Awk-
worth, only by rail, instead of by road.
Sir Jekyl got on his horse and walked him
through the town, uncertain what to do next
This check had cooled him; his horse had his
long trot home still. It would not do to fol-
low to Awkworth; to come in, after a four-
and-twenty miles' ride, bespattered like a
a courier, merely to invite these gentlemen,
viva voce, who had hardly had his note of in-
vitation a score hours. It would be making
too much of them with a vengeance.
As he found himself once more riding
under the boughs of Marlowe, the early
autumn evening already closing in, Sir Jekyl
experienced one of those qualms and sink-
ings of the heart, which overcome us with a
vague anticipation of evil.
The point of the road which he had now
fained, commands a view of the old hall of
larlowe, with that projecting,addition, and
its wide bow-window, every pane of which
was now flaming in the sunset light, which
indicated the green chamber.
The green chamber! Just at that moment
the glare of its broad window flashed with a
melancholy and vengeful light upon his
brain, busied with painful retrospects and
harrassing conjecture.
Old Gwynn going away! It was an omen.
Marlowe without old Gwynn. Troy without
its palladium. Old Gwynn going with some-
thing like a deunciation on her lips! That
stupid old woman at Wardlock, too, who
really knew nothing about it.undertaking also
to prophesy! Out of the mouths of babes
and sucklings! There was no sense in it—
scarcely articulation. Still it was the croak
of the raven—the screech of the owl.
He looked across the gentle slope at the
angle of the inauspicious room. Why
should old General Lennox be placed within
the unhallowed precincts of that chamber?
The image of old Gwynn as she gabbled her
grim protest on the preceding night, rose
before him like a ghost. What business was
it of hers, and how could she divine his
motives? Still, if there was anything wrong
did not this vehement warning make the
matter worse.
An old man he felt himself on a sudden
that evening, and for the first time. There
was some failure of the electric fire, and a
subsidence of the system. His enterprise
was gone. Why should he take guilt, if such
it were, on his soul for vanity and vexation
of spirit? If guilt it were, was it not of a
kind inexcusably cool-blooded and long-
headed. Old Gwynn, he did not like to lose
you on those terms—just, too, as those un-
known actors were hovering at the wing,


GUY DEVERELL.
and about to step upon the stage, this old
man and young, who, instinctively he felt,
were meditating mischief against him. Mis-
chief—what t Such, perhaps, as might shat-
ter the structure of his greatness, and strew
its pinnacles in the dust. Perhaps all this
gloom was but the depression of a long ride,
and still longer fast. But he was accustomed
to such occassional strains upon his strength
without any such results. Ah, no! He had
come within the edge of the shadow of judg-
ment, and its darkness was stealing over him,
and its chill touched his heart.
These were the dreamy surmisings with
which he rode slowly toward the house, ami
a few good resolutions in a nebulous state
hovered uncomfortably about him.
No letter of any interest had come by the
early post, and Sir Jekyl sat down tete-a-tete
with his pretty daughter, in very dismal
spirits, to dinner.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HOUSE BEGINS TO FILL.
Beatrix was fond of her father, who was
really a good-natured man, in the common
acceptance of the term, that is to say, he had
high animal spirits, and liked to see people
pleasant about him, and was probably as
kind as a tolerably selfish and vicious man
can be, and had a liking, moreover, for old
faces, which was one reason why he hated
the idea of his housekeeper's leaving him.
But Beatrix was also a little in awe of him,
as girls often are of men of whom they see
but little, especially if they have something of
the masculine decision of temper.
"You may all go away now," said the
Boronet suddenly to the servants, who had
waited at dinner; and when the liveried
phantoms had withdrawn, and the door had
closed on the handsome calves of tall and
solemn Jenkins, he said —
"Nothing all day — no adventure, no
visitor, Trixie—not a word of news or fun
I dare say?"
"Nothmg—not a creature, papa; only
the birds and dogs, and some new music."
"Well, it is not much worse than Ward-
lock, I suppose; but we shall have a gay
house soon—at all events plenty of people.
Old General Lennox is coming. His
nephew, Captain Drayton, is very rich; he
will be Lord Tewkesbury—that is, if old
Tewkesbury doesn't many; and, at all
events, he has a very nice property, and
does not owe a guinea. You need not look
modest, Trixie. You may do just as you
please, only I'd be devilish glad you liked
one another—there, don't be distressed, I
say; I'll mention it no more if you don't
like; but he'll be here in a few days, and
you mayn't think him so bad."
After this the Baronet drank two glasses
of sherry in silence, slowly, and with a
gloomy countenance, and then, said he—
"I think, Trixie, if you were happily
placed, 1 should give the whole thing up.
I'm tired of that cursed House of Commons.
You can't imagine what a bore it is, when
a fellow does not want anything from them,
going down there for their d d divisions.
I'm not fit for the hounds either. I can't
ride as I used—egad! I'm as stiff as a
rusty hinge when I get up in the morning.
And I don't much like this place, and I'm
tired to death of the other two. When you
marry I'll let them, or, at all events, let
them alone. I'm tired of all those servants.
I know they're robbing me, egad! You
would not believe what my gardens cost
me last year, and, by Jove, I dorft believe all
that came to my table was worth two hun-
dred pounds. I'll have quite a different
sort of life. I haven't any time to myself,
looking after all those confounded people
one must keep about them. Keepeis, and
gardeners, and devil knows who beside. I
don't like London half as well as the Conti-
nent. I hate dinner-parties, and the season,
and all the racket. It dosn't pay, and
I'm growing old—you'll not mind if I
smoke it?" (he held a cigar between his
fingers)—" a complaint that doesn't mend
by time, you know. Oh! yes, I am old,
you little rogue. Everybody knows I'm
just fifty; and the fact is I'm tired of the
whole thing, stock, lock, and barrel; and I
believe what little is to be got of life is best
bad—that is, if you know how to look for
it—abroad. A fellow like me who has got
places and properties—egad! they expect
him to live pro bono publico, and not to
care or think twopence about himself—
at least it comes to that. How is old
Gwynn?"
"Very well, I think."
"And what has she to say for herself;
what about things in general?
"She's not very chatty, poor old Gwynn,
and I think she seems a little—just ever so
little—cross."
"So she does—damnably cross. She was
always a bit of a vixen, and she isn't im-
proving, poor old thing; but don't be afraid,
I like old Donnie for all that, though I
don't think I ever quite understood her,
and I don't expect either." These obser-
vations concluded, the conversation subsided,
and a long silence supervened.
"I wonder who the devil he is," said the
Baronet abruptly, as he threw the stump
of his cigar into the fire. If it's a fluke,
it's as like a miracle as, anything I ever
saw."
He recollected that he was talking with-
out an interlocutor, and looked for a
moment hesitatingly at his daughter.
"And your grandmamma told you no-
thing of her adventure in church?"
"No papa—not a word."
"It seems to me, women can hold their
tongues sometimes, but always in the wrong
places."
Here he shook the ashes of his cigar into
the grate.
"Old Granny's a fool—isn't she, Trixie,
and a little bit vicious—eh?"
Sir Jekyl put his question dreamily, in a


GUY DEVERELL.
23
reverie, and it plainly needed no answer.
So Beatrix was spared the pain of making
one; which she was glad of, for Lady Alice
was good to her after her way, and she was
fond of her.
"We must ask her to come, you know.
You write. Say I thought you would have
a better chance of prevailing. She won't,
you know; and so much the better."
So as the Baronet rose, and stood gloomily
with his back to the fire, the young lady
rose also, and ran away to the drawing-
room and her desk; and almost at the same
moment a servant entered the room, with a
letter, which had come by the late post.
Oddly enough, it had the Slowton post-
mark.
"Devilish odd!" exclaimed Sir Jekyl,
scowling eagerly on it; and seating himself
hastily on the side of a chair, he broke it
open and read at the foot the autograph,
"Guy Strangways."
It was with the Napoleonic thrill, " I have
them, then, these English!" that Sir Jekyl
read, in a gentlemanlike, rather foreign
hand, a ceremonious and complimentary
acceptance of his invitation to Marlowe, on
behalf of the young man and of his elder
companion. His correspondent could not
say exactly, as their tour was a little desul-
tory, where a note would find them; but as
Sir Jekyl Marlowe had been so good as to
permit them to name a day for their visit,
they would say so and so.
"Let me see—what day's this—why, that
will be,"—he was counting with the tips of
his fingers, pianowise, on the table—" Wed-
nesday week, eh ?" and he tried it over again
with nature's "Babbage's machine," and of
course with an inflexible result. "Wednes-
day week—Wednesday," and he heaved a
great sigh, like a man with a load taken off
him.
"Well, I'm devilish glad. I hope nothing
will happen to stop them now. It can't be a
ruse to get quietly off the ground? No—
that would be doing it too fine." He rang the
bell.
"I want Mrs. Gwynn."
The Baronet's spirit revived within him,
and he stood erect, with his back to the fire,
and his hands behind him, and when the
housekeeper entered, he received her with
his accustomed smile.
"Glad to see you, Donnie. Glass of sherry?
No—well, sit down—won't take a chair!—
why's that? Well, we'll be on pleasanter
terms soon—you'll find it's really no choice of
mine. I can't help using that green room.
Here are two more friends coming—n6t till
Wednesday week though—two gentlemen.
You may put them in rooms beside o»e
another—wherever you like only not in the
garrets, of course. Good rooms, do ye see."
"And what's the gentlemen's names,
please, Sir Jekyl?" inquired Mrs. Gwynn.
"Mr. Strangways, the young gentleman;
and the older, as well as I can read it, is
Mr. Varbarriore."
"Thank ye, sir."
The housekeeper having again declined
the kindly distinction of a glass of sherry,
withdrew.
In less than a week guests began to assem-
ble, and in a few days more old Marlowe
Hall began to wear a hospitable and plea-
sant countenance.'
The people were not, of course, themselves
all marvels of agreeability. For instance,
Sir Paul Blunket, the great agriculturist
and eminent authority on liquid manures,
might, as we all know, be a little livelier
with advantage. He is short and stolid; he
wears a pale blue muslin neck-handkerchief
with white stripe, carefully tied. His coun-
tenance, I am bound to say, is what some
people would term heavy—it is frosty, pain-
fully shaven, and shines with a glare of
transparent soap. He has small, very light
blue round eyes, and never smiles. A joke
always strikes him with unaffected amaze-
ment and suspicion. Laughter he knows
may imply ridicule, and he may himself pos-
sibly be the subject of it . He waits till it
subsides, and then takes on as before on sub-
jects which interest him.
Lady Blunket who accompanies him
everywhere, though not tall, is stout. She
is delicate, and requires nursing; and, for
so confirmed an invalid, has a surprising
appetite. John Blunket, the future Baronet,
is in the Diplomatic Service, I forget exactly
where, and by no means young; and lean
Miss Blunket, at Marlowe with her parents,
though known to be older than her brother,
is still quite a girl, and giggles with her
partner at dinner, and is very naive and ani-
mated, and sings arch little chansons discor-
dantly to the guitar, making considerable
play with her eyes, which are black and
malignant.
This family, though neither decorative nor
entertaining, being highly respectable and
ancient, make a circuit of all the good houses
in the county every year, and are wonder-
fully little complained of. Hither also they
had brought in their train prety little Mrs.
Maberly, a cousin, whose husband, the Major,
was in India—a garrulous and good-natured
siren, who smiled with pearly little teeth,
and blushed easily.
At Marlowe had already assembled several
single gentlemen too. There was little Tom
Linnet, with no end of money and spirits,
very good-natured, addicted to sentiment, and
with a taste for practical joking too, and a
very popular character notwithstanding.
Old Dick Doocey was there also, a colonel
long retired, and well known at several
crack London clubs; tall, slight, courtly,
agreeable, with a capital elderly wig, a little
deaf, and his handsome high nose a little
reddish. Billy Cobb—too, a gentleman who
could handle a gun, and knew lots about
horses and dogs—had arrived.
Captain Drayton had arrived: a swell,
handsome, cleverish, and impertinent, and,
as young men with less reason will be,
egotistical. He would not have admitted
that he had deigned to make either plan or
exertion with that object, but so it happened
that he was placed next to Miss Beatrix,


24
GUY DEVERELL.
whom he carelessly entertained .with agree-
able ironies, and anecdotes, and sometimes
poetic and perhaps a little vapid. On the
whole, a young gentleman of intellect, as
well as wealth and expectations, and who
felt, not unnaturally, that he was over-
powering. Miss Beatrix, though not quite
twenty, was not overpowered, however,
neither was her heart preoccupied. There
was, indeed, a shadow of another handsome
young gentleman—only a shadow, in a dif-
ferent style—dark, and this one light; and
she heart-whole, perhaps fancy-free, amused,
delighted, the world still new and only
begun to be explored. One London season
she had partly seen, and also made her an-
nual tour twice or thrice of all the best
country-houses, and so "was not nervous
among her peers.
CHAPTER IX.
DHTNEB.
Of the two guests destined for the green
chamber, we must be permitted to make
special mention.
General and Lady Jane Lennox had come.
The General, a tall, soldierlike old gentleman,
who held his bald and pink, but not very
high forehead, erect, with great grey project-
ing moustache, twisted up at the corners,
and bristling grey eyebrows to correspond,
over his frank round grey eyes—a gentleman
with a decidedly military bearing, imperious
but kindly aspect, good-natured, prompt, and
perhaps a little stupid.
Lady Jane—everybody knows Lady Jane
—the most admired of London belles for a
whole season. Golden brown hair, and what
young Thrumly of the Guards called, in
these exquisite lines of his, " slumbrous eyes
of blue," under very long lashes and exquis-
itely-traced eyebrows, such brilliant lips and
teeth, and such a sweet oval face, and above
all, so beautiful a figure and wonderful a
waist, might have made one marvel how a
lady so well qualified for a title, with noble
blood, though but a small dot, should have
wrecked herself on an old general, though
with eight thousand a year. But there were
stories and reasons why the simple old officer,
just home from India, who knew nothing
about London lies, and was sure of his
knighthood, and it was said of a baronetage,
did not come amiss.
There were people who chose to believe
these stories, and people who chose to dis-
credit them. But General Lennox never
had even heard them; and certainly, it
seemed nobody's business to tell him now.
It might not have been quite pleasant to tell
the General. He was somewhat muddled
of apprehension, and slow in everything but
fighting, and having all the old-fashioned
notions about hair-triggers, and " ten paces,"
as the proper ordeal in a misunderstanding,
people avoided uncomfortable topics in his
company, and were for the most part dis-
posed to let well alone.
Lady Jane hud a will and a temper ; but
the General held his ground firmly. As
brave men as he have been henpecked; but
somehow he was not of the temperament
which will submit to be bullied even by a
lady; and as he was indulgent and easily
managed, that tactique was the line she had
adopted. Lady Jane was not a riant beauty, i
Luxurious, funeste, sullen, the mystery and
melancholy of her face was a relief among.
the smirks and simpers of the ball-room, and
the novelty of the style interested for a time
even the blase men of twenty seasons-
Several guests of lesser note there were;
and the company had sat down to dinner;
when the Reverend Dives Marlowe. rector of
the succulent family living of Queen's Chor-
leigh, made his appearance in the parlor, a
little to the surprise of his brother the Baro-
net, who did not expect him quite so soon.
The Rector was a tall man and stalwart,
who had already acquired that convex curve
which indicates incipient corpulence, and
who, though younger than his brother, look-
ed half a dozen years his senior. With a
broad bald forehead, projecting eyebrows, a
largo coarse mouth, and with what I may
term the rudiments of a double chin—alto-
gether an ugly and even repulsive face, but
with no lack of energy and decision—one
looked with wonder from this gross, fierce
clerical countenance to the Baronet's face,
and wondered how the two men could really
be brothers.
The cleric shook his brother's hand in
passing, and smiled and nodded briefly here
and there, right and left, and across the table
his recognition, and chuckled a harsher
chuckle that his brother's, as he took his
place, extemporized with the quiet legerde-
main of a consummate butler by Ridley ; and
answered in a brisk, abrupt voice the smiling
inquiries of friends.
"Hope you have picked up an appetite on
the way, Dives," said the Baronet. Dives
generally carried a pretty good one about
with him. "Good air on the way, and
pretty good mutton here, too—my friends
tell me.
"Capital air—capital mutton—capital fish,"
replied the ecclesiastic, in a brisk, business-
like tone, while being a man of nerve, he got
some fish, although that esculent had long
vanished, and even the entrees had passed
into history, and called over his shoulder for
the special sauces which his soul loved, and
talked, and compounded his condiments with
energy and precision.
The Rector was a shrewd and gentleman-
like, though not a very pretty, apostle, and
had made a sufficient toilet before presenting
himself, and snapped and gobbled his fish, in
a glossy, single-breasted coat, with standing
collar; a ribbed silk waistcoat, covering his
ample chest, almost like a cassock, and one
of these transparent muslin dog-collars which
High Churchmen affect.
"Well, Dives," cried Sir Jekyl, "how do
the bells ring? I gave them a chime, poor
devils " (this was addressed to Lady Blunket
at his elbow), "by way of compensation,
when I sent them Dives."


GUY DEVERELL.
25
"Pretty well; they don't know how to
pull 'em, I think, quite," answered Dives,
dabbing a bit of fish in a pool of sauce, and
punching it into shape with his bit of bread.
"And how is old Parson Moulders?" con-
tinued the Barorlet, pleasantly.
"I haven't heard," said the Rector, and
drank off half his glass of hock.
"Can't believe it, Dives. Here's Lady
Blunket knows. He's the aged incumbent of
Droughton. A devilish good living in my
gift; and of course you've been asking how
the dear old fellow is."
"I haven't, upon my word; not but I
ought, though," said the Rev. Dives Mar-
lowe, as if he did not see the joke.
"He's very severe on you," simpered fat
Lady Blunket, faintly, across the table, and
subsided with a little cough, as if the exer-
tion hurt her.
"Is he ? Egad! I never perceived it." The
expression was not clerical, but the speaker
did not seem aware he had uttered it. "How
dull I must be! Have you ever been in this
part of the world before, Lady Jane?" con-
tinued he, turning towards General Lennox's
wife, who sat beside him.
"I've been to Wardlock, a good many
years ago; but that's a long way from this,
and I almost forget it," answered Lady Jane,
in her languid, haughty way.
"In what direction is Wardlock," she ask-
ed of Beatrix, raising her handsome, un-
fathomable eyes for a moment.
"You can see it from the bow-window of
your room—I mean that oddly-shaped hill to
the right."
"That's from the green chamber," said the
Rector. "I remember the view. Isn't it."
"Yes. They have put Lady Jane in the
haunted room," said Beatrix, smiling and
nodding to Lady Jane. •«
"And what fool, pray, told you that," said
the Baronet, perhaps just a little sharply.
"Old Gwynn seems to think so," answered
Beatrix, with the surprised and frightened
look of one who fancies she has made a blun-
der, "I—of course we know it is all folly."
"You must not say that—you shan't dis-
enchant us," said Lady Jane. "There's noth-
ing I should so like as a haunted room; it's a
charming idea—isn't it, Arthur?" she in-
quired of the General.
"We had a haunted room in my quarters
at Puttypoor," observed the General, twid-
dling the point of one of his moustaches.
"It was the store-room where we kept pick-
les, and olives, and preserves, and plates,
and jars, and glass bottles. And every night
there was a confounded noise there; jars,
and bottles, and things tumbling about, made
a devil of a row, you know. I got Smith—
my servant Smith, you know, a very respec-
table man—uncommon steady fellow, Smith
—to watch, and he did. We kept the door
closed, and Smith outside. I gave him half-
a-crown a night and his supper—very well
for Smith, you know. Sometimes he kept
a light, and sometimes I made him sit in the
dark with matches ready."
"Was not he very much frightened?"
asked Beatrix, who was deeply interested in
the ghost.
"I hope you gave him a smelling-bottle?"
inquired Tom Linnett, with a tender con-
cern.
"Well, I don't suppose he was," said the
General, smiling good-humoredly on pretty
Beatrix, while he loftily passed by thehu-,
morous inquiry of the young gentleman.
"He was, in fact, on dooty, you know; and
there were occasional noises and damage
done in the store-room—in fact, just the same
as if Smith was not there."
"Oh, possibly Smith himself among the
bottles!" suggested Linnett.
"He always got in as quick as he could,"
continued the General; "but could not see
anyone. Things were broken—bottles some-
times."
"How very strange," exclaimed Beatrix,
charmed to hear the tale of wonder.
"We could not make it out; it was very
odd, you know," resumed the narrator.
"You weren't frightened, General?" in-
quired Linnett.
"No, sir," replied the General, who held
that a soldier's courage, like a lady's reputa-
tion, was no subject for jesting, and con-
veyed that sentiment by a slight pause, and
a rather alarming stare from under his fierce
grey eyebrows. "No one was frightened, I
suppose; we were all men in the house, sir."
'- At home, I think, we'd have suspected a
rat or a cat," threw in the Rector.
"Some did, sir," replied the General; " and
we made a sort of a search; but it wasn't.
There was a capital tiled floor, not a hole you
could put a ramrod in; and no cat, neither—
high windows, grated; and the door always
close; and every now and then something
broken by night."
"Delightful! That's what Mrs. Crowe, in
that charming book, you know, " The Night
Side of Nature," calls, I forget the name;
but it's a German word, I think—the noisy
ghost it means. Racket—something, isn't it,
Beet?" (the short for Beatrix). "I do so de-
mur ghosts!" cried sharp old Miss Blunket,
who thought Beatrix's enthusiasm became
her; and chose to exhibit the same pretty
fanaticism.
"1 didn't say it was a ghost, mind ye," in-
terposed the General, with a grave regard for
his veracity; "only we were puzzled a bit.
There was something there we all knew;
and something that could reach up to the
high shelves, and break things on the floor
too, you see. We had been watching, off
and on, I think, some three or four weeks,
and I heard one night, early, a row in the
store-room—a devil of a row it was; but
Smith was on dooty, as we used to say, that
night, so I left it to him; and he could have
sung out, you know, if he wanted help—poor
fellow! And in the morning my native fel-
low told me that poor Smith was dead in the
store-room; and, egad! so he was, poor fel-
low!"
"How awful!" exclaimed Beatrix.
And Miss Blunket, in girlish horror, cover-
ed her fierce black eyes with her lank fingers.


GUY DEVERELL.
"A bite of a cobra, by Jove! above the
knee, and another on the hand. A fattish
fellow, poor Smith, the natives say they go
faster—that sort of man; but no one can
stand a fair bite of a cobra—I defy you. We
killed him after."
"What! Smith f" whispered Linuett in his
neighbor's ear.
V He lay in a basket; you never saw such
a brute," continued the General; "he was
very near killing another of my people."
"So there was your ghost?" said Doocey,
archly.
"Worse than a ghost," observed Sir Paul
Blunket
"A dooced deal," acquiesced the General,
gravely.
"You're very much annoyed with vermin
out there in India?" remarked Sir Paul.
"So we are, sir," agreed the General.
"It's very hard, you see, to meet with a
genuine ghost, Miss Marlowe; they generally
turn out impostors," said Doocey.
"I should like to think my room was
haunted," said Lady Jane.
"Oh! dear Lady Jane, how can you be so
horribly brave?" cried Miss Blunket.
"We have no cobras here, at all events,"
said Sir Paul, nodding to Sir Jekyl, with the
gravity becoming such a discovery.
"No," said Sir Jekyl, gloomily. I suppose
he was thinking of something else.
The ladies now floated away like summer
clouds, many-tinted, golden, through the
door, which Doocey held gracefully open;
and the mere mortals of the party, the men,
stood up in conventional adoration, while
the divinities were translated, as it were, be-
fore their eyes, and hovered out of sight
and hearing into the resplendent regions of
candelabra and mirrors, nectar and ambrosia,
tea and plum-cake, and clouds of silken ta-
pestry, and the musical tinkling their own
celestial small-talk.
CHAPTER X.
INQUIRIES HAVE BEEN MADE BY MESSES.
PELTEB AND CBOWE.
Before repairing to bed, such fellows,
young, or old, as liked a talk and a cigar, and
some sherry—or, by"r lady, brandy and water
—were always invited to accompany Sir
Jekyl to what he termed the back settlement,
where he bivouacked among deal chairs and
tables, with a little camp-bed, and plenty of
wax candles and a brilliant little fire.
Here, as the Baronet smoked in his homely
little " hut," as he termed it, after his guests
had dispersed to their bed-rooms, the Rev.
Dives Marlowe that night knocked at the
door, crying, " May I come in, Jekyl?"
"Certainly, dear Dives."
"You really mean it?"
"Never was parson so welcome."
"By Jove!" said the Rector, "it's later
than I thought—you are sure I don't bore
you."
"Not sure, but you may, Dives," said Sir
Jekyl, observing his countenance, which was
not quite pleasant, "Come in, and say your
say. Have a weed, old boy?"
"Well, well—a—we're alone. I don't
mind—I don't generally—not that there's
any harm; but some people, very good people,
object—the weaker brethren, you know."
"Consummate asses, we call them; but
weaker brethren, as you say, does as well.''
The Rector was choosing and sniffing out
a cigar to his heart's content.
"Milk for babes, you know," said the Rec-
tor, making his preparations. "Strong
meats"
"And strong cigars; but you'll find these
as mild as you please. Here s a match."
The Rector sat down with one foot on the
fender, and puffed away steadily, looking
into the fire; and his brothor at the opposite
angle of the fender, employed himself sim-
ilarly.
"Fine old soldier, General Lennox," said
the cleric, at last. "What stay does he make
with you?"
"As long as he pleases. Why ?'' said Sir
Jekyl.
"Only he said something to-night in the
drawing-room about having to go up to town
to attend a Board of East India Directors,"
answered the parson.
"Oh, did he?"
"And I think he said the day after to-
morrow. I thought he told yon, perhaps."
"Upon my life I can't say—perhaps he
did," said Sir Jekyl, carelessly. "Lennox is
a wonderful fine old fellow, as you say, but a
little bit slow, you know; and his going or
staying would not make very much difference
to ine.'
"I thought he told his story pretty well at
dinner—that haunted room and the cobra,
you remember," said the Rector.
The Baronet grunted an assent, and
nodded, without removing his cigar. Tho
brothers conducted their conversation, not
looking on one another, but each steadily
into the grate.
"And, apropos of haunted rooms, Lady
Jane mentioned they are in the green cham-
ber," continued the Rector.
"Did she? I forgot—so they are, 1 think,"
answered the Baronet.
Here they puffed away in silence for some
time.
"You know, Jekyl, about that room?
Poor Amy, when she was dying, made you
promise—and you did promise, you know—
and she got me to promise to remind you to
shut it up; and then, you know, my father
wished the same,'' said the Rector.
"Come, Dives, my boy, somebody has
been poking you up about this. You have
been hearing from my old mother-in-law, or
talking to her, the goosey old shrew!"
"Upon my honor!" said the Rector, so-
lemnly resting the wrist of his cigar-hand
upon the black silk vest, and motioning his
cheroot impressively, "you are quite mis-
taken. One syllable I have not heard from
Lady Alice upon the subject, nor indeed,
upon any other, for two months or more."
"Come, come, Dives, old fellow, you 11 not


GUY DEVERELL.
27
come the inspired preacher over me Some-
body's been at you, and if it was not poor old
Lady Alice it -was stupid old Gwynn. You
need not deny it—ha! ha! ha! your speak-
ing countenance proclaims it, my dear boy."
"I'm not thinking of denying it. Old
Donica Gwynn did write to me," said the
pastor.
"Let me see her note ?" said Sir Jekyl.
"I threw it into the fire; but I assure you
there was nothing in it that would or could
have vexed you, Nothing, in fact, but an
appeal to me to urge you to carry out the
request of poor Amy, and not particularly
well spelt or written, and certainly not the
sort of thing I should have liked anyone to
see but ourselves, so I destroyed it as soon as
I had read it,"
"I'd like to have known what the plague
could make you come here two days—of
course I'm glad to see you—two days before
you intended, and what's running in your
mind."
"Nothing in particular—nothing, I assure
you, but this. I'm certain it will be talked
about—it will—the women will talk. You'll
find there will be something very unplea-
sant; take my advice, my dear Jekyl, and
just do as you promised. My poor father
wished it, too—in fact, directed it, and—
and it ought to be done—you know it ought."
"Upon my soul I know no such thing.
I'm to pull down my house, I.suppose, for a
sentiment? What the plague harm does the
room do anybody? It doesn't hurt me nor
you."
"It may hurt you very much, Jekyl."
"I can't see it; but if it does, that's my
affair," said Sir Jekyl, sulkily.
"But, my dear Jekyl, surely you ought to'
consider your promise."
"Come, Dives, no preaching. It's a very
good trade, I know, and I'll do all I can for
you in it; but I'm no more to be humbugged
by a sermon than you are. Come! How
does the dog I sent you get on? Have you
bottled the pipe of port yet, and how is old
Moulders, as I asked you at dinner? Talk
of shooting, eating and drinking, and making
merry, and getting up in your profession—
by-the-bye, the Bishop is to be here in a
fortnight, so manage to stay and meet him.
Talk of the port, and the old parson's death,
and the tithes small and great, and I'll hear
you with respect, for I shall know you are
speaking of things you understand, and take
a real interest in; but pray don't talk any
more about that stupid old room, and the
stuff and nonsense these women connect
with it; and, once for all, believe me when
I say I have no notion of making a fool of
myself by shutting up or pulling down a
room which we want to use—I'll do no such
thing," and Sir Jekyl clenched the declara-
tion with an oath, and chucking the stump
of his cigar in the fire, stood up with his
back to it, and looked down on his clerical
Mentor, the very impersonation of ungodly
obstinacy.
"I had some more to say, Jekyl, but I
fancy you don't care to hear it."
"Not a word of it," replied the baronet.
"That's enough for me," said the parson,
with a wave of his hand, like a man who
has acquitted himself.of a duty.
"And how soon do you say the Bishop is
to be here!" he inquired, after a pause.
"About ten days, or less—egad! I for-
get," answered Sir Jekyl, still a good deal
ruffled.
The Rector stood up also, and hummed
something like " Rule Britannia" for a while.
I am afraid he was thinking altogether of
himself by this time, and suddenly recollect-
ing that he was not in his own room, he
wished his brother good-night, and departed.
Sir Jekyl was vexed. There are few things
so annoying, when one has made up his
mind to a certain course, as to have the un-
avowed misgivings and evil auguries of
one's own soul aggravated by the vain but
ominous dissuasions of others.
"I wish they'd keep their advice to them-
selves. What hurry need there be? Do
they want me to blow up the room with old
Lennox and his wife in it? I don't care two-
pence about it. It's a gloomy place." Sir
Jekyl was charging the accidental state of
his own spirits upon the aspect of the place,
which was really handsome and cheerful
though antique.
"They're all in a story, the fools! What
is it to me? I don't care if I never saw it
again. They may pull it down after Christ-
mas, if they like, for me. And Dives, too,
the scamp, talking pulpit. He thinks of
nothing but side-dishes and money. As
worldly a dog as there is in England!"
Jekyl Marlowe could get angry enough
on occasion, but he was not prone to sour
tempers and peevish humors. There was,
however, just now, something to render him
uncomfortable and irritable, and that was
that his expected guests, Mr. Guy Strang-
ways and M. Varbarriere had not kept
tryste. The day appointed for their visit
had come and gone, and no appearance
made. In an ordinary case a hundred and
fifty accidents might account for such a
miscarriage; but there was in this the un-
avowed specialty which excited and sick-
ened his mind, and haunted his steps and
his bed with suspicions; and he fancied he
could understand a little how Herod felt
when he mocked of the wise men.
Next morning's post-bag brought Sir
Jekyl two letters, one of which relieved,
and the other rather vexed him, though not
very profoundly. This latter was from his
mother-in-law, Lady Alice, in reply to his
civil note, and much to his surprise, accept-
ing his invitation to Marlowe.
"Cross-grained old woman! She's coming,
for no reason on earth but to vex me. ft
shan't though. I'll make her most damn-
ably welcome. We'll amuse her till she has
not a leg to stand on; we'll take her an ex-
cursion every second day, and bivouac on
the side of a mountain, or in the bottom of
a wet valley. We'll put the young ponies
to the phaeton, and Dutton shall run them
away with her. I'll get up theaticals, and


GUY DEVERELL.
balls, and concerts; and I'll have breakfast
at nine instead of ten. I'll entertain her
with a vengeance, egad! We'll see who'll
stand it longest."
A glance at the foot of the next letter,
which was a large document, on a bluish
sheet of letter-paper, showed him what he
expected, the official autograph of Messrs.
Pelter and Crowe; it was thus expressed—
"My dear Sir Jekyl Marlowe,—
"Pursuant to your's of the —th, and in
accordance with the instructions therein
contained, we have made inquiries, as therein
directed, in all available quarters, and have
received answers to our letters, and trust
that the copies thereof, and the general
summary of the correspondence, which we
hope to forward by this evening's post, will
prove satisfactory to you. The result seems
to us clearly to indicate that your informa-
tion has not been well founded, and that
there has been no movement in the quarter
o which your favor refers, and that no
member—at all events no prominent mem-
ber—of that family is at present in England.
In further execution of your instructions, as
conveyed in you* favor as above, we have,
through a reliable channel, learned that
Messrs. Smith, Rumsey, and Snagg, have
nothing in the matter of Deverell at present
in their office. Nor has there been, we are
assured, any correspondence from or on the
part of any of those clients for the last five
terms or more. Notwithstanding, there-
fore, the coincidence of the date of your
letter with the period to which, on a former
occasion, we invited your attention, as in-
dicated by the deed of 1809"
"What the plague is that?" interpolated
Sir Jekyl. "They want m3 to write and
ask, and pop it down in the costs;" and after
a vain endeavor to recall it, he read the
passage over again with deliberate emphasis.
"Notwithstanding, therefore, the coinci-
dence of the date of your letter with the
period to which, on a former occasion, we
invited your attention, as indicated by the
deed of 1809, we are clear upon the evidence
of the letters, copies of which will be before
you as above by the next post, that there is no
ground for supposing any unusual activity
on the part or behalf of the party or parties
to whom you have referred.
"Awaiting your further directions,
"I have the honor to remain,
"My dear Sir Jekyl Marlowe,
"Your obedient servant,
"N. Crowe.
"For Pelter and Crowe.
"Sir Jekyl Marlowe, Bart.
"Marlowe, Old Swayton."
When Sir Jekyl read this he felt all on a
sudden a dozen years younger. He snapped
his fingers,.and smiled, in spite of himself.
He could hardly bring himself to acknowl-
edge, even in soliloquy, how immensely he
was relieved. The sun shone delightfully:
and liis spirits returned quite brightly. He
would have liked cricket, to ride a steeple-I smiles.
chase—anything that would have breathed
and worked him well, and given him a fair
occasion for shouting and cheering.
CHA.PTER XI.
OLD GRYSTON BRIDGE.
Very merry was the Baronet at the social
breakfast-table, and the whole party very gay
except those few whose natures were sedate
or melancholic.
"A tremendous agreeable man, Sir Jekyl
—don't you think so, Jennie?" said Gen-
eral Lennox to his wife, as he walked her
slowly along the terrace at the side of the
house.
"I think him intolerably noisy, and some-
times absolutely vulgar," answered Lady
Jane, with a languid disdain, which con-
veyed alike her estimate of her husband's
discernment, and of Sir Jekyl's merits.
"Well, I thought he was agreeable. Some
of his jokes I think, indeed, had not much
sense in them. But sometimes I don't see
a witty thing as quick as cleverer fellows
do, and they were all laughing except you;
and I don't think you like him, Jennie.
'' I don't dislike him. I dare say he's a
very worthy soul; but he gives me a head-
ache.'"
"He is a little bit noisy, maybe. Yes, he
certainly is" acquiesced the honest General,
who, in questions of taste and nice criticism,
was diffident of his own judgment, and
leaned to his wife's. "But I thought he was
rather a pleasant fellow. I'm no great
judge ; but I like to see fellows laughing, and
that sort of thing. It looks good-humored,
don't you think?"
"I hate good humor," said Lady Jane.
The General, not knowing exactly what
to say next, marched by her side in silence,
till Lady Jane let go his arm, and sat down
on the rustic seat which commands so fine a
view, and, leaning back, eyed the landscape
with a dreamy indolence, as if she was going
to " cut" it.
The General scanned it with a military
eye, and his reconnoitring glance discerned,
coming up the broad walk at his right, their
host, with pretty Mrs. Maberly on his arm,
doing the honors plainly very agreeably.
On seeing the General and Lady Jane, he
smiled, quickened his pace, and raised his
hat.
"So glad we have found you," said he.
"Charming weather, isn't it? You must
determine, Lady Jane, what's to be done to-
day. There are two things you really ought
to see—Gryston Bridge and Hazelden Castle.
I assure you the great London artists visit
both for studies. We'll take our luncheon
there, it's such a warm, bright day—that
is, if you like the plan—and, which do you
say?"
"My husband always votes for roe. What
does Mrs. Maberly say?" and Lady Jane
looked in her face with one of her winning


GUY DEVERELL.
"Yes, what does Mrs. Maberly say?"
echoed the General, gallantly.
"So you won't advise V" said the Baronet,
leaning towards Lady Jane, a little reproach-
fully.
"I won't advise," she echoed in her indo-
lent way.
"Which is the best?" inquired Mrs.
Maberly, gleefully. "What a charming
idea!"
"For my part, I have a headache, you
know, Arthur—I told you, dear; and I shall
hardly venture a long excursion, I think.
What do you advise to-day?"
"What do you say, Sir Jekyl?"
"So very sorry to hear Lady Jane is suf-
fering; but I really think your advice, Gen-
eral Lennox—it's so very fine and mild—
and I think it might amuse Lady Jane;"
and he glanced at the lady, who, however,
wearing her bewitching smile, was con-
versing with Mrs. Maberly about a sweet
little white dog, with long ears and a blue
ribbon, which had accompanied her walk
from the house.
"Well, dear, Sir Jekyl wants to know.
What do you say ?" inquired the General.
"Oh, pray arrange as you please. I dare
say I can go. It's all the same," answered
Lady Jane, without raising her eyes from
silvery little Bijou, on whom she bestowed
her unwonted smiles and caresses.
"You belong to Beatrix, you charming
little fairy—I'm sure you do; and is it not
very wicked to go out with other people
-without leave, you naughty little truant?"
"You must not attack her so. She really
loves Beatrix; and though she has come out
just to take the air with me, I don't think
she cares a twopence about me; and I know
I don't about her."
"What a cruel speech !" cried pretty Mrs.
Maberly, with a laugh that showed her
exquisite little white teeth.
"The fact is cruel—if you will—not the
speech—for she can't hear it," said Sir Jekyl,
patting Bijou.
"So they act love to your face, poor little
dog, and say what they please of you behind
your back, murmured Lady Jane, sooth-
mgly, to little Bijou, who wagged his tail
and wriggled to her feet. "Yes, they do,
poor little dog!"
"Well, I shall venture—may I? I'll order
the carriages at one. And we ll say Gryston
Bridge," said Sir Jekyl, hesitating notwith-
standing, inquiry plainly in his countenance.
"Sir Jekyl's waiting, dear," said General
Lennox, a little imperiously.
"I really don't care. Yes, then," she said,
and, getting up, she took the General's arm
and walked away, leaving Mrs. Maberly
and her host to their tele-a-tete.
Gryston Bridge is one of the prettiest
scenes in that picturesque part of the coun-
try. A river slowly winds its silvery way
through the level base of a beautifully irre-
gular valley. No enclosure breaks the dim-
pling and undulating sward—for it is the
common of Gryston—which rises in soft
pastoral slopes at either side, forming the
gentle barriers of the valley, which is closed
in at the further1 end by a bold and Alpine
hill, with a base rising purple and dome-like
from the plain; and in this perspective the
vale of Gryston diverges, and the two
streams, which at its head unite to form the
slow-flowing current of the Greet, are lost
to sight. Trees of nature's planting here
and there overhang its stream, and others,
solitarily or in groups, stud the hill-sides
and the soft green plain. A strange row of
tall, grey stones, Druidic or monumental, of
a bygone Cyclopean age, stand up, time-
worn and mysterious, on a gentle slope,
with a few bending thorn and birch trees
beside them, in the near distance; and in the
foreground, the steep, Gothic bridge of Gret-
ford, or Gryston, spans the river, with five tall
arches, and a loop-hole gatehouse, which once
guarded the pass, now roofless and ruined.
In this beautiful and sequestered scene
the party from Marlowe had loitered away
that charming afternoon. The early sunset
had been rapidly succeeded by twilight, and
the moon had surprised them. The servants
were picking up hampers of plates and
knives and forks, and getting the horses to
for the return to Marlowe; while, in the
early moonlight a group stood upon the
bridge, overlooking from the battlement the
sweet landscape in its charming light.
Sir Jekyl could see that Captain Drayton
was by Beatrix's side, and concluded, rightly,
I have no doubt, that his conversation was
tinted by the tender lights of that romantic
scenery.
"The look back on this old bridge, from
those Druidic stones there by moonlight is
considered very fine. It is no distance—
hardly four hundred steps from this—although
it looks so misty," said the Baronet to Lady
Jane, who leaned on his arm. "Suppose we
make a little party, will you venture?"
I suppose the lady acquiesced, for Sir Jekyl
ordered that the carriages should proceed by
the road, and take them up at the point
where these Druidic remains stand.
The party who ventured this little roman-
tic walk over the grass, were General Len-
nox, in charge of the mature Miss Blunket
who loved a frolic with all her girlish heart;
Sir Jekyl with Lady Jane upon his arm; and
Captain Drayton, who escorted Beatrix.
Marching gaily, in open column, as the Gen-
eral would have said, they crossed the inter-
vening hollow, and reached the hillock on
which stand these ungainly relics of a by-
gone race; and up the steep bank they got,
each couple as best they could. Sir Jekyl
and Lady Jane, for he knew the ground, by
an easy path, were first to reach the upper
platform.
Sir Jekyl, I dare say, was not very learned
about the Druids, and I can't say exactly
what he. was talking about, when on a
sudden he arrested both his step and his
sentence, for on one of these great prostrate
stones which strew that summit, he saw
standing, not a dozen steps away, well illu-
minated by the moon, the figure of that, very
Guy Strangways, whom he so wished and


30
GUY DEVERELL.
hated to see—whom he had never beheld
without such strange sensations, and had not
expected to see again.
The young man took no note of them
apparently. He certainly did not recognise
Sir Jekyl, whose position placed his face in
the shade, while that of Mr. Strangways was
full in the white light of the moon.
They had found him almost in the act of
absconding from his pedestal; and he was
gone in a few moments, before the Baronet
had recovered from his surprise.
The vivid likeness which he bore to a per-
son whom the Baronet never wished to
think of, and the suddenness of his appear-
ance and his vanishing had impressed him
with just the same secret alarms and mis-
givings as when first he saw him; and the
serene confidence induced by the letter of
Messrs. Pelter and Crowe was for a moment
demolished. He dropped Lady Jane's arm,
and forgetting his chivalry, strode to the
brow of the hillock, over which the myste-
rious young man had disappeared. He had
lost sight of him, but he emerged in a few
seconds, about fifty yards away, from be-
hind a screen of thorn, walking swiftly
toward the road close by, on which stood
a chaise, sharp in the misty moonlight.
Just in time to prevent his shouting after
the figure, now on the point of re-entering
the vehicle, he recollected and checked him-
self. Confound the fellows, if they did not
appreciate his hospitality, should he run
after them; or who were they that he should
care a pin about 1 Had he not Pelter and
Crowe's letter? And suppose he did over-
take and engage the young rogue in talk,
what could he expect but a parcel of polite
lies. Certainly, under the circumstances,
pursuit would have been specially undigni-
fied; and the Baronet drew himself up on
the edge of the eminence, and cast a haughty
half-angry look after the young gentleman,
who was now stepping into the carriage;
and suddenly he recollected how very ill he
had treated Lady Jane, and he hastened to
rejoin her.
But Sir Jekyl, in that very short interval,
had lost something of his spirits. The sight
of that young man had gone far to undo the
tranquilising effect of his attorney's letter.
He would not have cared had this un-
changed phantom of the past and his hoary
mentor been in England, provided it were at
a distance. But here they were, on the con-
fines of his property, within a short drive of
Marlowe, yet affecting to forget his invita-
tion, his house, and himself, and detected
prowling in its vicinity like spies or poachers
by moonlight. Was there not something in-
sidious in this? It was not for nothing that
so well-bred a person as that young man
thus trampled on all the rules of courtesy for
the sake of maintaining his incognito, and
avoiding the obligations of hospitality.
So reasoned Sir Jekyl Marlowe, and felt
hiself rapidly relapsing into that dreamy and
intense uneasiness, from which for a few
hours he had been relieved.
"A thousand apologies, Lady Jane," cried
he, as he ran back and proffered his arm
again. "I was afraid that fellow might be
one of a gang—a very dangerous lot of
rogues—poachers, I believe. There were
people robbed here about a year ago, and I
quite forgot when I asked you to come. I
should never have forgiven myself — so
selfishly forgetful—never had you been frigh-
tened.
Sir Jekyl could, of course, tell fibs, espe-
cially by way of apology, as plausibly as
other men of the world. He had here
turned a negligence skillfully into a gal-
lantry, and I suppose the lady forgave
him.
The carriages had now arrived at the bend
of this pretty road; and our Marlowe friends
got in, and the whole cortege swept away
merrily towards that old mansion. Sir
Jekyl had been, with an effort, very lively
all the way home, and assisted Lady Jane to
the ground, smiling, and had a joke for Gen-
eral Lennox as he followed, and a very
merry party mustered in the hall, prattling,
laughing, and lighting their candles, to run
up-stairs and dress for a late dinner.
CHAPTER XII.
THE STRANGERS APPEAR AGAIN.
Sir Jekyl was the last of the party in the
hall; and the last joke and laugh had died
away on the lobby above him, and away fled
his smiles like the liveries and brilliants of
Cinderella to the region of illusions, and
black care laid her hand on his shoulder and
stood by him.
The bland butler, with a grave bow, ac-
costed him in mild accents—
"The two gentlemen, sir, as you spoke
of to Mrs. Sinnott, has arrived about five
minutes before you, sir; and she has, please
sir, followed your directions, and had them
put in the rooms in the front, as you ordered,
sir, should be kept for them, before Mrs.
Gwynn left."
"What two gentlemen?" demanded Sir
Jekyl, with a thrill. "Mr. Strangways and
M. Varbarriere?"
"Them, sir, I think, is the names—Strang-
ways, leastways, I am sure on, 'aving lived,
when young, with a branch of the Earl of
Dilbury's family, if you please, sir—which
Strangways is the name."
"A good-looking young gentleman, tall
and slight, eh?" •
"Yes, sir; and a heavy gentleman hac-
companies him—something in years—a fur-
riner, as I suppose, and speaking French or
Jarmin; leastways, it is not Fnglish."
"Dinner in twenty minutes," said Sir
Jekyl, with the decision of the Duke of Wel-
lington in action; and away he strode to his
dressing-room in the back-settlements, with a
quick step and a thoughtful face.
"I shan't want you, Tomlinson, you need
not stay," said he to his man; but before he
let him go, he asked carelessly a word or two


GUY DEVERELL.
31
about the new guests, and learned, in addi-
tion to what he already knew, nothing but
that they had brought a servant with them.
"So much the worse," thought Sir Jekyl;
"those confounded fellows hear everything,
and poke their noses everywhere. I some-
times think that rascal Tomlinson pries
about here."
And the Baronet, half-dressed, opened
the door of his study, as he called it, at the
further end of his homely bed-chamber, and
looked round.
It is or might be a comfortable room, of
some five-and-twenly feet square, surrounded
by book-shelves, as homely as the style of
bed-room, stored with volumes of the " An-
nual Register," "Gentleman's Magazine,"
and " Universal History" sort—long rows in
dingy gilding—moved up here when the old
library of Marlowe was broken up. The
room had a dusty air of repose about it. A
few faded pieces of old-fashioned furniture,
which had probably been quartered here in
genteel retirement, long ago, when the prin-
cipal sitting-rooms were undergoing a more
modern decoration.
Here Sir Jekyl stood with a sudden look
of dejection, and stared listlessly round on
the compact wall of books that surrounded
him, except for the one door-case, that
through which he had entered, and the two
windows, on all sides. Sir Jekyl was in a
sort of collapse of spirits. He stepped
dreamily to the far shelf and took down a
volume of Old Bailey Reports, and read the
back of it several times, then looked round
once more dejectedly, and blew the top of
the volume, and wondered at the quantity
of dust there, and replacing it, heaved a
deep sigh. Dust and death are old associa-
tions, and his thoughts were running in a
gloomy channel.
"Is it worth all this ?" he thought. "I'm
growing tired of it — utterly. I'm half
sorry I came here; perhaps they are right.
It might he a devilish good thing for me if
this rubbishy old house were burnt to the
ground—and I in it, by Jove! "Out, out,
brief candle!1" What's that Shakespeare
speech?—"A tale told by an idiot—a play
played by an idiot"—egad! I don't know
why I do half the things I do."
When he looked in the glass he did not
like the reflection.
"Down in the mouth—hang it! this will
never do," and he shook his curls, and
smirked, and thought of the ladies, and
bustled away over his toilet; and when it
was completed, as he fixed in his jewelled
wrist-buttons, the cold air and shadow of
his good or evil angel's winj» crossed him
again, and he sighed. Capricious were his
moods. Our wisdom is so frivolous, and
our frivolities so sad. Is there time here to
*think out anything completely? Is it pos-
sible to hold by our conclusions, even to
remember them long? And this trifling
and suffering are the woof and the warp of
an eternal robe—wedding garment, let us
hope—maybe winding-sheet, or—toga mo-
lests.
Sir Jekyl, notwithstanding his somewhat
interrupted toilet, was in the drawing-room
before many of his guests had assembled.
He hesitated for a moment at the door, and
turned about with a sickening thrill, and
walked to the table in the oater hall, or
vestibule, where the postbag lay. He had
no object in this countermarch, but to post-
pone for a second or two the meeting with
the gentlemen whom, with, as he sometimes
fancied, very questionable prudence, he had
invited under his roof.
And now he entered, frank, gay, smiling.
His eyes did not search, they were, as it
were, smitten instantaneously with a sense
of pain, by the image of the young man, so
handsome, so peculiar, sad, and noble, the
sight of whom had so moved him. He was
conversing with old Colonel Doocey, at the
further side of the fireplace. In another
moment Sir Jekyl was before him, his hand
very kindly locked in his.
"Very happy to see you here, Mr. Strang-
ways."
"I am very much honored, Sir Jekyl
Marlowe," returned the young gentleman,
in that low sweet tone which he also hated.
"I have many apologies to make. We have
arrived two days later than your note ap-
pointed ; but an accident"
"Pray not a word—your appearance here
is the hest compensation you can make
me. Your friend, Monsieur Varbarriere, I
hope"
"My uncle—yes; he, top, has the honor.
Will you permit me to present him? Mon-
sieur Varbarriere," said the young man, pre-
senting his relative.
A gentleman at this summons turned sud-
denly from General Lennox, with whom he
had been talking; a high-shouldered, portly
man, taller a good deal when you approached
him than he looked at first; his hair, "all
silvered," brushed up like Louis Phillippe's,
conically from his forehead; grey, heavily
projecting eyebrows, long untrimmed mous-
tache and beard; altogether a head and face
which seemed to indicate that combination
of strong sense and sensuality which we see
in some of the medals of Roman Emperors;
a forehead projecting at the brows, and keen
dark eyes in shadow, observing all things
from under their grizzled pent-house; these
points, and a hooked nose, and a certain
weight and solemnity of countenance, gave
to the large and rather pallid aspect, present-
ed suddenly to the Baronet, something as we
have said, of the character of an old magician.
Voluminous plaited black trousers, slanting
in to the foot, foreshadowed the peg-top of
more recent date; a loose and long black
velvet waistcoat, with more gold chain and
jewellery generally than Englishmen are ac-
customed to wear, and a wide and clumsy
black coat, added to the broad and thick-set
character of his figure.
As Sir Jekyl made his complimentary
speech to this gentleman, ho saw that his
steady and shrewd gaze was attentively con»
sidering him in a way that a little tried his
patience; and when the stranger spoke it


32
GUY DEVERELL.
was in French, and in that peculiar metallic
diapason which we sometimes hear among
the Hebrew community, and which brmgs
the nasals of that tongue into sonorous and
rather ugly relief.
"England is, I dare say, quite new to you,
Monsieur Varbarriere?" inquired Sir Jekyl
"I have seen it a very long time ago, and
admire your so fine country very much,'
replied the pallid and bearded sage, speakmg
in French still, and in those bell-like tones
which rang and buzzed unpleasantly in the
of those enchanters whom we have seen in
illustrations of Don Quixote.
"A deep fellow," he thought, " an influen-
tial fellow. That gentleman knows what
that young fellow is in his
he's about;
hands."
"You find us the same foggy and tasteless
islanders as before," said the host. "In art
indeed, we have made an advance; there, I
think we have capabilities, but we are as a
people totally deficient in that fine decorative
sense which expresses itself so gracefully and
universally in your charming part of the
world."
When Sir Jekyl talked of France, he was
generally thinking of Paris.
"We have our barbarous regions, as you
have: our vineyards are a dull sight after all,
and our forest trees you, with your grand
timber, would use for broom-sticks."
"But your capital; why every time one
looks out at the window it is a fillip to one's
spirits. To me, preferring France so infinite-
ly, as I do," said Sir Jekyl, replying in his
guest's language, " it appears a mystery why
any Frenchman, who can help it, ever visits
our dismal region."
The enchanter here shrugged slowly, with
a solemn smile.
"Ho wonder our actions are mysterious
to others, since they are so often so to our-
selves."
"You are best acquainted with the south
of France ?" said Sir Jekyl, without any data
for such an assumption, and saying the re-
verse of what he suspected.
"Very well with the south; pretty well,
indeed, with most parts."
Just at this moment Mr. Ridley s bland
and awful tones informed. the company that
dinner was on the table, and Sir Jekyl has-
tened to afford to Lady Blunket the support
of his vigorous arm into the parlor.
It ought to have been given to Lady Jane;
but the Blunket was a huffy old woman, and,
on the score of a very decided seniority, was
indulged.
Lady Blunket was notv very mterestmg,
and was of the alderman's opinion, that con-
versation prevents one's tasting the green
fat; Sir Jekyl had, therefore, time, with light
and careless glances, to see pretty well, from
time to time, what was going on among his
guests. Monsieur Varbarriere had begun to
interest him more than Mr. Guy Strangways,
and his eye oftener reviewed that ponderous
and solemn face and form than any other at
the table. It seemed that he liked his dinner,
and attended to his occupation. But though
taciturn, his shrewd eyes glanced from time
to time on the host and his guests with an
air of reserved observation that showed his
mind was anything but sluggish during the
process. He looked wonderfully like some
CHAPTER XIII.
VS TITE DRAWING-ROOM.
Sra Jektl heard snatches of conversation,
sometimes here, sometimes there.
Guy Strangways was talking to Beatrix,
and the Baronet heard him say, smiling—
"But you don't, I'm sure, believe in the
elixir of life; you only mean to mystify us."
He was looking more than ever—identical
with that other person, whom it was not
pleasant to Sir Jekyl to be reminded of—
horribly like, in this white waxlight splen-
dor.
"But there's another process, my uncle
Monsieur Varbarriere says by slow refriger-
ation: you are first put to sleep, and in that
state frozen; and once frozen, without having
suffered death, you may be kept in a state of
suspended life for twenty or thirty years,
neither conscious, nor growing old; arrested
precisely at the point of your existence at
which the process was applied, and at the
same point restored again whenever for any
purpose it may be expedient to recall you to
consciousness and activity."
One of those restless, searching glances
which the solemn, portly old gentleman in
black directed, from time to time, as he in-
dulged his traciturn gulosity, lighted on the
Baronet at this moment, and Sir Jekyl felt
that they exchanged an unintentional glance
of significance. Each averted his quickly;
and Sir Jekyl, with one of his chuckles, for
the sake merely of saying something, re-
marked—
"I don't see how you can restore people
to life by freezing them."
"He did not speak, I think, of restoring
life—did you, Guy?" said the bell-toned
diapason of the old gentleman, speaking
his nasal French.
"Oh, no—suspending merely," answered
the young man.
"To restore life, you must have recourse,
I fancy, to a higher process," continued the
sage, with an ironical gravity, and his eye
this time fixed steadily on Sir Jekyl's;
"and I could conceive none more embarras-
sing to the human race, undet certain cir-
cumstances" and he shrugged slowly and
shook his head.
"How delightful!—no more death!" ex-
claimed enthusiastic Miss Blunket.
"Embarrassing, of course, I mean, to
certain of the survivors."
This old gentleman was hitting his ten-
dcrest points rather hard and often. Was
it by chance or design? Who was he?
So thought the Baronet as he smiled and
nodded.
- Do you know who that fat old personage


GUY DEVERELL.
33
Is who dresses like an undertaker and looks
like a Jew?" asked Captain Drayton of
Beatrix.
"I think he is a relative of Mr. Strang-
ways."
"And who is Mr. Strangways?"
"He's at my right, next me," answered she
in a low tone, not liking the very clear and
distinct key in which the question was put.
- But Captain Drayton was not easily dis-
concerted, being a young gentleman of a bold
and rather impertinent temperament, and he
continued leaning back in his chair and look-
ing dreamily, into his hock-glass.
"Not a friend of yours, is he?"
"Oh, no."
"Really—not a friend. You're quite cer-
tain?" -
"Perfectly. We never saw either—that
is, papa met them at some posting place on
his way from London, and invited them;
but I think he knows nothing more."
"Well, I did not like to say till I know, but
I think him—the old fellow—I have not seen
the young man—a most vulgar-looking old
person. He's a wine-jobber, or manager of a
factory, or something. You never saw—I
know Paris by heart—you never saw such a
thing in gentlemanly society there."
And the young lady heard him say, sotto
voce, " Brute!" haughtily to himself, as an in-
terjection, while he just raised the finger-tips
of the hand which rested on the table, and
let them descend again on the snowy napery.
The subject deserved no more troublesome
gesture.
"And where is the young gentleman?"
asked Captain Drayton, after a little interval.
Beatrix told him again.
"Oh! Thats he! Isn't his French very
bad—did it strike you? Bad accent—I can
tell in a moment. That's not an accent one
hears anywhere."
Oddly enough, Sir Jekyl at the same time,
with such slight interruptions as his agree-
able attentions to Lady Blunket imposed,
was, in the indistinct way in which such dis-
cussions are mentally pursued, observing
upon the peculiarities of his two new guests,
and did not judge them amiss.
The elder was odd, take him for what coun-
try you pleased. Bearded like a German,
speaking good French, with a good accent,
but in the loud full tones of a Spaniard, and
with a quality of voice which resounds in
the synagogue, and a quietude of demeanor
much more English than continental. His
dress, such as I have described it, fine in ma-
terial, but negligent and easy, though odd.
Reserved and silent he was, a little sinister
perhaps, but his bearing unconstrained and
gracious when he spoke. There was, in-
deed, that odd, watchful glance from under
his heavy eyebrows, which, however, had
nothing sly, only observant, in it. Again he
thought,' Who could he be?' On the whole,
Sir jekyl was in no wise disposed to pro-
nounce upon him as Captain Drayton was
doing a little way down the table; nor yet
upon Guy Strangways, whom he thought, on
the contrary, an elegant young man, accord-
ing to French notions of the gentlemanly, and
he knew the French people a good deal bet-
ter than the youthful Captain did.
The principal drawing-room of Marlowe is
a very large apartment, and people can talk
of one another in it without any risk of de-
tection.
_ " Well, Lady Jane," said the Baronet, sit-
ting down before that handsome woman, and
her husband the General, so as to interrupt
a conjugal tete-a-tete, probably a particularly
affectionate one, for he was to leave for
London next day. "I saw you converse with
Monsieur Varbarriere. What do you think
of him?"
"I don't think I conversed with him—did
I? He talked to me; but I really did not
take the trouble to think about him."
The General laughed triumphantly, and
glanced over his shoulder at the Baronet.
He liked his wife's contempt for the rest of
the sex, and her occasional—only occasional
enthusiasm for him.
"Now you are much too clever, Lady
Jane, to be let off so. I really want to know
something about him which I don't at pre-
sent; and if any one can help me to a wise
conjecture, you, I am certain, can."
"And don't you really know who he is?''
inquired General Lennox, with a haughty
military surprise.
"Upon my honor, I have not the faintest
idea," answered Jekyl. "He may be a cook
or a rabbi, for anything I can tell."
The General's white eyebrows went some
wrinkles up the slanting ascent of his pink
forehead, and he plainly looked his amaze-
ment that Lady Jane should have been sub-
jected at Marlowe to the risk of being ac-
costed on equal terms by a cook or a rabbi.
His lips screwed themselves unconsciously
into a small o, and his eyes went in search
of the masquerading menial.
"We had a cook," said the General, still
eyemg M. Varbarriere, "at Futtychur, a
French fellow, fat like that, but shorter—
a capital cook, by Jove ! and a very gentle-
manly man. He wore a white cap, and he
had a very good way of stewing tomatos and
turkeys, I think it was, and—yes it was—and
a monstrous gentlemanlike fellow he was;
rather.too expensive though; he cost us a
great deal," and the General winked slyly.
"I had to speak to him once or twice. But
an uncommon gentlemanlike man."
"He's not a cook, my dear. He may be a
banker, perhaps," said Lady Jane, languidly
"You have exactly hit my idea," said Sir
Jekyl. "It was his knowing all about French
banking, General, when you mentioned that
trick that was played you on the Bourse."
At this moment the massive form and face
of M Varbarriere was seen approaching with
Beatrix by his side. They were conversing
but the httle group we have just been listen-
mg to dropped the discussion of M. Varbar-
riere, and the Baronet said that he hoped
General Lennox would have a fine day for
his journey, and that the moon looked par-
ticularly bright and clear.
"I want to show Monsieur Varbarriere the
3


84
GUY DEVERELL.
drawings of the house, papa; they are in
this cabinet. He admires the architecture
very much."
The large enchanter in black made a so-
lemn bow of acquiescence here, but said
nothing; and Beatrix took from its nook a
handsome red leather portfolio, on the side
of which, in tall golden letters, were the
words—
VIEWS AND ELEVATIONS
OF
MARLOWE MANOR HOUSE
PAULO ABRUZZI,
ABCHITECT.
1711.
as he spoke, for a moment pressed hers,which
not choosing to permit such accidents, she
turning carelessly and haughtily toward the
other speakers, slipped away.
CHAPTER XIV.
"Capital drawing, T am told. He was a
young man of great promise," said Sir Jekyl,
in French. "But the style is quite English,
and, I fear, will hardly interest an eye accus-
tomed to die more graceful contour of south-
ern continental architecture."
"Your English style interests me very
much. It is singular, and suggests hospital-
ity, enjoyment, and mystery."
Monsieur Varbarriere was turning over
these tinted drawings carefully.
"Is not that very true, papa—hospitality,
enjoyment, mystery?" repeated Beatrix,
think that faint character of mystery is so
pleasant. We have a mysterious room here."
She had turned to M. Varbarriere.
"Oh, a dozen," interrupted Sir Jekyl.
"No end of ghosts and devils, you know.
But I really think you excel us in that arti-
cle. I resided for five weeks in a haunted
house once, near Havre, and the stories were
capital, and there were some very good noises
too. We must get Dives to tell it by-and-by;
he was younger than I, and more frightened."
"And Mademoiselle says you have a
haunted apartment here," said the ponderous
foreigner with the high forehead and pro-
jecting brows.
"Yes, of course. We are very much
haunted. There is hardly a crooked passage
or a dark room that has not a story," said
Sir Jekyl. "Beatrix, why don't you sing us
a song, by-the-by?"
* "May I beg one other favor first, before
the crowning one of the song?" said M.
Varbarriere, with an imposing playfulness.
"Mademoiselle, I am sure, tells a story well.
Which, I entreat, is the particular room you
speak of?"
"We call it the green chamber," said Bea-
trix.
"The green chamber—what a romantic
title!" exclaimed the large gentleman in
black, graciously, " and where is it situated?"
he pursued. I
"We must really put you into it," said Sir
Jekyl.
"Nothing I should like so well," he observ-
ed, with a bow,
"That is, of course, whenever it is deserted.
You have not been plagued with apparitions,
General? Even Lady Jane—and there are
no ghost-seers like ladies, I've observed—has
failed to report anything horrible."
His hand lay on the arm of her chair, and
MUSIC.
"And pray, Mademoiselle Marlowe, - in
what part of the house is this so wonderful
room situated?" persisted the grave and rev-
erend signor.
"Quite out of the question to describe to
one who does not already know the house,"
interposed Sir Jekyl. "It is next the six-
sided dressing-room, which opens from the
hatchment gallery—that is its exact situation;
and I'm afraid I have failed to convey it,"
said Sir Jekyl, with one of his playful
olmcklcs
The Druidic-looking Frenchman shrugged
and lifted his fingers with a piteous expres-
sion of perplexity, and shook his head.
"Is there not among these drawings a view
of the side of the house where this room
lies?" he inquired.
"I was looking it out," said Beatrix.
"I'll find it, Trixie. Go you and sing us a
song," said the Baronet.
"I've got them both, papa. Now, Mon-
sieur Varbarriere, here they are. This is the
front view—this is the side."
"I am very much obliged," said Monsieur,
examining the drawing curiously. " The room
recedes. The large bow-window belongs to
it. Is it not so?—wide room?—how long?
You see I want to understand everything —
Ah! yes, here is the side view. It projects
from the side of the older building, 1 see.—
How charming! And this is the work of
the Italian artist? This style is quite novel
—a mixture partly Florentine—really very
elegant. Did he build anything more here T
"Yes, a very fine row of stables, and a tem-
ple in the grounds," said Sir Jekyl. "You
shall see them to-morrow."
"The chamber green. Yes, very clever,
very pretty;" and having eyed them over
again carefully, he said, laying them down—
"A curious as well as a handsome old
house, no doubt. Ah ! very curious, I dare
say," said the sage Monsieur Varbarriere.—
"Are there here the ground plans?"
"We have them somewhere, I fancy, among
the title-deeds, but none here," said Sir Jekyl,
a little stiffly, as if it struck him that his vis-
itor's curiosity was a trifle less ceremonious
than, all things considered, it might be.
Pretty Beatrix was singing now to her own
accompaniment; and Captain Drayton, twist-
ing the end of his light moustache, stood
haughtily by her side. The music in his ear
was but a half-heard noise. Indeed, although
he had sat out operas innumerable, like other
young gentlemen, who would sit out as many
hours of a knife-grinder's performance, or of
a railway whistle, if it were the fashion, had
but an imperfect recollection of the airs he
had paid so handsomely to hear, and was no
authority on music of any sort.


GUY DEVERELL.
35
Now Beatrix was pretty—more than pret-
ty. Some people called her lovely. She
sang in that rich and plaintive contralto—so
rare and so inexplicable moving—the famous
"Come Gentil," from Don Pasquale. When
she ceased, the gentleman at her other side,
Guy Strangways, sighed—not a complimen-
tary—a real sigh.
"That is a wonderful song, the very spirit
of a serenade. Such distance—such gaiety
—such sadness. Your Irish poet, Thomas
Moore, compares some spiritual music or
kind voice to sunshine spoken. This is moon-
light—moonlight sung, and so sung that I
could dream away half a life in listening,
and yet sigh when it ceases."
Mr. Guy Strangway's strange, dark eyes
looked full on her, as with an admiring en-
thusiasm he said these words.
The young lady smiled, looked up for a mo-
ment from the music-stool, and then with
lowered eyes again, and that smile of gratifi-
cation which is so beautiful in a lovely girl's
face.
"It is quite charming, really. I'm no mu-
sician, you know; but I enjoy good music
extravagantly, especially singing," said Cap-
tain Drayton. "I don't aspire to talk senti-
ment and that kind of poetry." He was,
perhaps, near using a stronger term—"a mere
John Bull; but it is, honestly, charming."
He had his glass in his eye, and turned
back tlie leaf of the song to the title-page.
"Don Pasquale—yes. Sweet opera that.
How often I have listened to Mario in it!
But never, Miss Marlowe, with more real
pleasure than to the charming performance
I have just heard."
Captain Drayton was not making his com-
pliment well, and felt it somehow. It was
clumsy—it was dull—it was meant to over
ride the tribute offered by Guy Strangways,
whose presence he chose, in modern phrase,
to ignore; and yet he felt that he had, as he
would have expressed it, rather " put his foot
in it;" and, with just a little flush in his
cheek and rather angry eyes, he stooped over
the piano and read the Italian words half
aloud.
"By-the-by," he said, suddenly recollecting
a topic, " what a sweet scene that is of Grys-
ton Bridge? Have you never been to see it
before?"
"Once since we came, we rode there, papa
and I," answered Miss Marlowe. "It looked
particularly well this evening—quite beauti-
ful in the moonlight."
"Is it possible, Miss Marlowe, that yon
were there this evening? I and my uncle
stopped on our way here to admire the ex-
quisite effect of the steep old bridge, with a
wonderful foreground of Druidic monuments,
as they seemed to me."
"Does your father preserve that river?"
asked Captain Drayton, coolly pretermitting
Mr. Strangways altogether.
"I really don't know," she replied, in a
slight and hurried way that nettled the Cap-
tain; and, turning to Guy Strangways, she
said, "Did you see it from the bridge?"
"No, Mademoiselle; from the mound in
which those curious stones are raised," an-
swered Mr. Strangways.
Captain Dayton felt that Miss Marlowe's
continuing to talk to Mr. Strangways, while
he was present and willing to converse, was
extremely offensive, choosing to entertain a
low opinion in all respects of that person.
He stooped a little forward, and stared at the
stranger with that ill-bred gaze of insolent
surprise which is the peculiar weapon of
Englishmen, and which very distinctly ex-
presses," who the devil are you?"
Perhaps it was fortunate for the harmony
of the party that just at this moment, and
before Captain Drayton could say anything
specially impertinent, Sir Jekyl touched Dray-
ton on the shoulder, saying—
"Are you for whist?"
"No, thanks—I'm no player."
"Oh! Mr. Strangways—I did not see—do
you play?"
Mr. Strangways smiled, bowed, and shook
his head.
"Drayton, did I present you to Mr. Strang-
ways?" and the Baronet made the two young
gentlemen technically known to one another
—though, of course, each knew the other al-
ready.
They bowed rather low, and a little haugh-
tily, neither smiling. I suppose Sir Jekyl
saw something a little dangerous in the
countenance of one at least of the gentlemen
as he approached, and chose to remind them,
in that agreeable way, that he was present,
and wished them acquainted, and of course
friendly.
He had now secured old Colonel Doocey
to make up his party—the sober old French-
man and Sir Paul Blunket making the sup-
plementary two; and before they had taken
their chairs round the card table, Captain
Drayton said, with a kind of inclination
rather insolent than polite—
"You are of the Dilbury family, of course?
I never knew a Strangways yet—I mean, of
course, a Strangways such as one would be
likely to meet, you know—who was not."
"You know one now, sir; for I am not
connected ever so remotely with that distin-
guished family. My family are quite another
Strangways."
"No doubt quite as respectable," said
Captain Drayton, with a bow, a look, and a
tone that would have passed for deferential
with many; but which, nevertheless, had the
subtle flavor of an irony in it.
"Perhaps more so; my ancestors are the
Strangways of Lynton; you are aware they
had a peerage down to the reign of George II.
Captain Drayton was not as deep as so
fashionable and moneyed a. man ought to
have been in extinct peerages, and therefore
he made a little short supercilious bow, and
no answer. He looked drowsily toward the
ceiling, and then—
"The Strangways of Lynton are on the
Continent, or something—one does not hear
of them," said Captain Drayton, slightly but
frandly. "We are the Draytons of Drayton
'orest, in the same county."
"Oh! then my uncle is misinformed. , He
y


GUY DEVERELL.
thought that family was extinct, and lament
ed over it when we saw the house and place
at a distance."
Captain Drayton colored a little above his
light colored moustache. He was no Dray-
ton, but a remotely collateral Smithers, with
a queen's letter constituting him a Drayton.
"Aw—yes—it is a fine old place—quite
misinformed. I can show you our descent
if you wish it."
If Drayton had collected his ideas a little
first he would not have made this condescen-
sion.
"Your descent is high and pure—very
high, I assume—mine is only respectable—
presentable, as you say, but by no means so
high as to warrant my inquiring into that
of other people."
"Inquiry! of course. I did not say in-
quiry," and with an effort Captain Drayton
almost laughed.
"Nothing more dull," acquiesced Mr.
Strangways, slightly.
Both gentlemen paused—each seemed to
expect something from the other—each
seemed rather angrily listening for it. The
ostensible attack had all been on the part of
the gallant Captain, who certainly had not
been particularly well bred. The Captain,
nevertheless, felt that Mr. Strangways knew
perfectly all about Smithers, and that Smith-
ers really had not one drop of the Drayton
blood in his veins; and he felt in the sore
and secret centre of his soul that the polished,
handsome young gentleman, so easy, so
graceful, with that suspicion of a foreign ac-
cent and of foreign gesture, had the best of
the unavowed battle. He had never spoken
a word or looked a look in the course of this
little dialogue which could have suggested
an idea of altercation, or any kind of mutual
unpleasantness, to the beautiful young girl;
who, with one hand on the keys of the piano,
touched them so lightly with her fingers, as
to call forth a dream of an air rather than
the air itself.
To her Guy Strangways turned, with his
peculiar smile—so winning, yet so deep—an
enigmatic smile that had in it a latent sad-
ness and fierceness, and by its very ambigu-
ousness interested one.
"I upbraid myself for losing these precious
moments while you sit here, and might, per-
haps, be persuaded to charm us with another
song."
So she was persuaded; Captain Drayton
still keeping guard, and applauding, though
with no special good will toward the unof-
fending stranger.
The party broke up early. The ladies
trooped to their bedroom candles and ascend-
ed the great staircase, chatting harmoni-
ously, and bidding mutual sweet goodnights,
as in succession they reached their doors.
The gentlemen, having sat for awhile lazily
about the fire, or gathered round the tray
whereon stood sherry and seltzer water, re-
paired also to the cluster of bed-chamber can-
dlesticks without, and helped themselves,
talking together in like sociable manner.
"Would you like to come to my room and
have a cigar, Monsieur Varbarriere?" asked
the Baronet in French.
Monsieur was much obliged, and bowed
very suavely, but declined.
"And you, Mr. Strangways?"
He also, with many thanks, a smile and a
bow, declined.
"My quarters are quite out of reach of the
inhabited part of the house—not very far
from two hundred feet from this spot, by
Jove! right in the rear. You must really
come to me there some night; you'll be
amused at my deal furniture and rustic bar-
barism; we often make a party there and
smoke for half an hour."
So, as they were not to be persuaded, the
Baronet hospitably accompanied them to
their rooms, at the common dressing-room
door, of which stood little Jacque Duval with
his thin, bronzed face, candle in hand, bow-
ing, to receive his master. .
CHAPTER XV.
M. VABBAKRIERE CONVERSES WITH HIS
NEPHEW.
Here then Sir Jekyl bid them good night,
and descended the great staircase, and navi-
gated the long line of passage to the back
stairs leading up to his own homely apart-
ment.
The elder man nodded to Jacque, and
moved the tips of his fingers toward the door
—a silent intimation which the adroit valet
perfectly understood; so, with a cheerful bow,
he withdrew.
There was a gay little spluttering fire in
the grate, which the sharpness of the night
made very pleasant. The clumsy door was
shut, and the room had an air of comfortable
secresy which invited a talk.
It was not to come, however, without pre-
paration. He drew a chair before the fire,
and sat down solemnly, taking a gigantic
cigar from his case, and moistening it dili-
gently between his lips before lighting it.
Then he pointed to a chair beside the hearth,
and presented his cigar-case to his young
companion, who being well versed in his
elder's ways, helped himself, and having, like
him, foreign notions about smoking, had of
course no remorse about a cigar or two in
their present quarters.
Up the chimney chiefly whisked the nar-
cotic smoke. Over the ponderous features
and knotted forehead of the sage flushed the
uncertain light of the fire, revealing all the
crows' feet—all the lines which years,
thought, passion or suffering had traced on
that large, sombre, and somewhat cadave-
rous countenance, reversing oddly some of
its shadows, and glittering with a snakelike
brightness on the eyes, which now gazed
grimly into the bars under their heavy brows.
The large and rather flat foot, shining in
French leather, of the portly gentleman in
the ample black velvet waistcoat, rested on
the fender, and he spoke not a word until his
cigar was fairly smoked out and the stump


GUY DEVERELL.
87
of it in the fire. Abruptly he began, without
altering his pose or the direction of bis gaze.
"You need not make yourself more friendly
with any person here than is absolutely ne-
cessary."
He was speaking French, and m a low
tone that sounded like the boom of a distant
bell.
Young Strangways bowed acquiescence.
"Be on your guard with Sir Jekyl Mar-
lowe. Tell him nothing. Don't let him be
kind to you. He will have no kind motive
in being so. Fence with his questions—
don't answer them. Remember he is an art-
ful man without any scruple. I know him
and all about him."
M. Varbarriere spoke each of these little
sentences in an isolated way, as a smoker
might, although he was no longer smoking,
between his puffs. "Therefore, not a word
to him—no obligations—no intimacy. If he
catches you by the hand, even by your little
finger, in the way of friendship, he 11 cling to
it, so as to impede your arm, should it become
necessary to exert it."
"I don't understand you, sir," said the
young man, in a deferential tone, but looking
very hard at him.
"You partly don't understand me; the
nature of my direction, however, is clear.
Observe it strictly."
There was a short silence here.
"I don't understand, sir, what covert hos-
tility can exist between us; that is, why I
should, in your phrase, keep my hand free to
exert it against him."
'' No, I don't suppose you do."
"And I can't help regretting that, if such
are our possible relations, I should find
myself as a guest under his roof," said the
young man, with a pained and almost resent-
ful look.
"You can't help regretting, and — you
can't help the circumstance," vibrated his
Mentor, in a metallic murmur, his cadave-
rous features wearing the same odd character
. of deep thought and apathy.
"I don't know, with respect to him—I
know, however, how it has affected me—
that I have felt unhappy, and even guilty
since this journey commenced, as if I were a
traitor and an impostor," said the young man
with a burst of impatience.
"Don't, sir, use phrases which reflect back
upon me," said the other, turning upon him
with a sudden sternness. "All you have
done is by my direction."
The ample black waistcoat heaved and
subsided a little faster than before, and the
imposing countenance was turned with pallid
fierceness upon the young man.
"I am sorry, uncle."
"So you should—you'll see one day how
little it is to me, and how much to you."
Here was a pause. The senior turned his
face again toward the fire. The little flush
that in wrath always touched his forehead
subsided slowly. He replaced his foot on
the fender, and chose another cigar.
"There's a great deal you don't see now
that you will presently. I did not want to
see Sir Jekyl Marlowe any more than you
did or do; but I did want to see this place.
You'll know hereafter why. I'd rather not
have met him. I'd rather not be his guest.
Had he been as usual at Dartbroke, I should
have seen all I wanted without that annoy-
ance. It is an accident his being here—
another, his having invited me; but no false
ideas and* no trifling chance shall regulate,
much less stop, the action of the machine
which I am constructing and will soon put
in motion."
And with these words he lighted his cigar,
and after smoking for a while he lowered it,
and said—
"Did Sir Jekyl put any questions to you,
with a view to learn particulars about you or
me?"
"I don't recollect that he did. I rather
think not; but Captain Drayton did."
"I know, Smithert f"
"Yes, sir."
"With an object ?" inquired the elder man.
"I think not—merely impertinence," an-
swered Guy Strangways.
"You are right—it is nothing to him. I
do not know that even Marlowe has a sus-
picion. Absolutely impertinence."
And upon this M. Varbarriere began to
smoke again with resolution and energy.
"You understand, Guy; you may be as
polite as you please—but no friendship—
nowhere—you must remain quite unembar-
rassed."
Here followed some more smoke, and after
it the question—
"What do you think of the young lady,
Mademoiselle Marlowe?"
"She sings charmingly, and for the rest, I
believe she is agreeable; but my opportunities
have been very little."
"What do you think of our fellow Jacque
—is he trustworthy?"
"Perfectly, so far as I know."
"You never saw him peep into letters, or
that kind of thing?"
"Certainly not."
"There is a theory which must be investi-
gated, and I should like to employ him,
You know nothing against him, nor do I."
"Suppose we go to our beds V resumed
the old gentleman, having finished his cigar.
A door at either side opened from the
dressing-room, by whose fire they had been
sitting.
"See which room is meant for me—Jacque
will have placed my things there."
The young man did as he was bid, and
made his report.
"Well, get you to bed, Guy, and remember
—no friendships and no follies."
And so the old man rose, and shook his
companion's hand, not smiling, but with a
solemn and thoughtful countenance, and they
separated for the night.
Next morning as the Rev. Dives Marlowe
stood in his natty and unexceptionable cleri-
cal costume on the hall-door steps, looking
with a pompous and, perhaps, a somewhat
forbidding countenance upon the morning
prospect before him, his brother joined him.


GUY DEVERELL.
"Early bird, Dives, pick the worm—eh?
Healthy and wise already, and wealthy to be.
Slept well, eh?"
"Always well here," answered the parson.
He was less of a parson and more like him-
self with Jekyl than with anyone else. His
brother was so uncomfortably amused with
his clerical airs, knew him so well, and so
undisguisedly esteemed him of the earth
earthy, that the cleric, although the abler as
well as the better read man, always felt in-
variably a little sheepish before him, in his
silk vest and single-breasted coat with the
standing collar, and the demi-shovel, which
under other eyes he felt to be imposing prop-
erties.
"You look so like that exemplary young
man in Watts' hymns, in the old-fashioned
toggery, Dives—the fellow with the hand-
some round cheeks, you know, piously salut-
ing the morning sun that's rising with a lot
of spokes stuck out of it, don't you remem-
ber?"
"I look like something that's ugly, I dare
say," said the parson, who had not got up in
a good temper. "There never was a Mar-
lowe yet who hadn't ugly points about him.
But a young man, though never so ugly, is
rather a bold comparison—eh? seeing I'm
but two years your junior, Jekyl."
"Bitterly true—every word—my dear boy.
But let us be pleasant. I've had a line to
say that old Moulders is very ill, and really
dying this time. Just read this melancholy
little bulletin."
With an air which seemed to say," well, to
please you," he took the note and read it. It
was from his steward, to mention that the
Rev. Abraham Moulders was extremely ill
of his old complaint, and that there was
something even worse the matter, and that
Doctor Winters had said that morning he
could not possibly get over this attack.
"Well, Dives, there is a case of 'sick and
weak' for you; you'll have prayers for him
at Queen's Chorleigh, eh?"
"Poor old man!" said Dives, solemnly,
with his head thrown back, and his thick
eyebrows elevated a little, and looking
straight before him as he returned the note,
"he's very ill, indeed, unless this reports
much too unfavorably."
"Too favorably, you mean," suggested
the Baronet.
"But you know, poor old man, it is only
wonderful he has lived so long. The old
people about there say he is eighty-seven.
Upon my word, old Jenkins says he told
him, two years ago, himself, he was eighty-
five; and Doctor Winters, no chicken—just
sixty—says his father was in the same
college with him, at Cambridge, nearly
sixty-seven years ago. You know, my
dear Jekyl, when a man comes to that
time of life, it's all idle—a mere pull
against wind and tide, and everything.
It is appointed unto all men once to die,
you know, and the natural term is three-
score years and ten. All idle—all in
vain!"
And delivering this, the Rev. Dives
Marlowe shook his head with a supercilious
melancholy, as if the Rev. Abraham Moul-
ders' holdmg out in that way against the
inevitable was a piece of melancholy bra-
vado, against which, on the part of modest
mortality, it was his sad duty to protest.
"Jekyl's cynicism was tickled, although
there was care at his heart, and he chuckled
"And how do you know you have any
interest in the old fellow's demise?"
The Rector coughed a little, and flushed,;
and looked as careless as he could, while he
answered—
"I said nothing of the kind; but you have
always told me you meant the living for
me. I've no reason, only your goodness,
Jekyl."
"Nogoodness at all," said Jekyl, kindly
"You shall have it, of course. I always
meant it for you, Dives, and I wish it were
better, and Vm very glad, for I'm fond of
you, old fellow."
Hereupon they both laughed a little,
shaking hands very kindly.
"Come to the stable, Dives," said the
Baronet, taking his arm. "You must
choose a horse. You don't hunt now?"
"I have not been at a cover for ten years,"
answered the reverend gentleman, speaking
with a consciousness of the demi-shovel.
"Well, come along," continued the Baro-
net. "I want to ask yon—let's be serious"
(everybody likes to be serious over his own
business). "What do you think of these
foreign personages?"
"The elder, I should say, an able man,"
answered Dives. "I dare say could be
agreeable. It is not easy to assign his
exact rank though, nor his profession or
business. You remarked he seems to know
something in detail and technically of nearly
every business one mentions."
"Yes; and about the young man—that
Mr. Guy Strangways, with his foreign
accent and manner—did anything strike
you about him?"
"Yes, certainly, could not fail. The .
most powerful likeness, I think, I ever saw
in my life."
They both stopped, and exchanged a
steady and anxious look, as if each expected
the other to say more; and after a while
the Rev. Dives Marlowe added, with an
awful sort of nod—
"GuyDeverell."
The Baronet nodded in reply.
"Well, in fact, he appeared to me some-
thing more than like—the same—identical."
"And old Lady Alice saw him in Ward-
lock Church, and was made quite ill," said
the Baronet gloomily. "But you know
he's gone these thirty years; and there is
no necromancy now-a-days; only I wish
you would take any opportunity", and try
and make out all about him, and what they
want. I brought them here to pump them,
by Jove; but that old fellow seems deuced
reserved and wary. Only, like a good
fellow, if you can find or make an opportu-
nity, you must get the young fellow on the
subject—for I don't care to tell you, Dives,


GUY DEVERELL.
I have been devilish uneasy about it.
There are things that make me confoundedly
uncomfortable; and I have a sort of fore-
boding it would have been better for me to
have blown up this house than to have
come here; but ten to one—a hundred to
one—there's nothing, and I'm only a fool."
As they thus talked they entered the
gate of the stable-yard.
CHAPTER XVI.
CONTAINING A VARIETY OF THINGS.
"Gity Deverell left no issue," said Dives.
"No; none in the world; neither chick
nor child. I need not care a brass farthing
about any that can't inherit, if there were
any; but there isn't one; there.s no real
danger you see. In fact, there can't be
any—eh? J don't see it. Do you t You
were a sharp fellow always, Dives. Can
you see anything threatening in it?"
"It! What?* said the Bev. Dives Mar-
lowe. "I see nothing—nothing whatever—
absolutely nothing. Surely you can't fancy
that a mere resemblance, however strong,
-where there can't possibly be identity, and
the fact that the young man's name^ Guy,
-will make a case for alarm!"
"Guy Strangways, you know," said Sir
Jekyl.
"Well, what of Strangways? I dent see."
"Why, Strangways, you remember, or
don't remember, was the name of the fellow
that was always with—with—that cross-
grained muff."
"With Guy Deverell, you mean?"
"Ay, with him at night, and constantly,
and abroad I think at those German gaming-
plac^s where he played so much."
"'I forgot the name. I remember hearing
there was a person in your company that
unlucky night; but you never heard more
of him?"
"No, of course; for he owed me a pre-
cious lot of money;" and from habit he
chuckled, but with something of a frown.
"He could have given me a lot of trouble,
but so could I him. My lawyers said he
could not seriously affect me, but he might
have annoyed me; and I did not care about
the money, bo I did not follow him; and,
as the lawyers say, we turned our backs on
one another."
"Strangways," murmured the Rector, mu-
singly.
"Do you remember him now?" asked Sir
Jekyl.
"No; that is, I'm not sure. I was in or-
ders then though, and could hardly have met
him. I am sure I should recollect him if I
had. What was he like?"
"A nasty-looking Scotch dog, with freckles
—starved and tall—a hungry hound—large
hands and feet—as ugly a looking cur as you
ever beheld."
"But Deverell, poor fellow, was a bit of a
dandy—wasn't he? How did he come to
choose such a companion?" I
"Well, may be he was not quite as bad as
he describes, and his family was good, I be-
lieve; but there must have been something
mere, he hung about him so. Yes, he was a
most objectionable-looking fellow—so awk-
ward, and not particularly well dressed ; but
a canny rascal, and knew what he was about.
I could not make out what use Deverell
made of him, nor exretly what advantage he
made of Deverell."
"I can't, for the life of me, see, Jekyl, any-
thing in it except a resemblance, and that is
positively nothing, and a Christian name,
that is all, and Guy is no such uncommon
one. As for Strangways, he does not enter
into it at all—a mere accidental association.
Where is that Strangways—is he living?"
"I don't know now; ten years ago he was,
and Pelter and Crowe thought he was going
to do me some mischief, a prosecution or
something, they thought, to extort money -
but I knew they were wrong. I had a reason
—at least it was unlikely, because I rather
think he had repaid me that money about
then. A year or so before a large sum ol
money was lodged to my account by Herbert
Strangways, that was his name, at the Inter-
national Bank in Lombard Street; in fact it
was more than I thought he owed me—in-
terest, I suppose, and that sort of thing. I
put Pelter and Crowe in his track, but they
could make out nothing. The bank people
could not help us. Unluckily I was away at
the time, and the lodgement was two months
old when l heard of it. There were several
raw Scotch-looking rascals, they said, making
lodgments about then, and they could not
tell exactly what sort of fellow made this. I
wanted to make out about him. What do
you think of it?"
"I don't see anything suspicious in it. He
owed you the money and chose to pay."
"He was protected by the Statute of Lim-
itations, my lawyer said, and I could not
have recovered it. Doesn't it look odd?"
"Those Scotch fellows."
"He's not Scotch though."
"Well, whatever. he is, if he has good blood
he's proud, perhaps, and would rather pay
what he owes than not."
"Well of course, a fellow's glad of the
money; but I did not like it; it looked as if
he wanted to get rid of the only pull I had
on him, and was going to take the steps to
annoy me, you see."
"That's ten years ago?"
"Yes."
"Well, considering how short life is, I
thinkfie'd have moved before now if he had
ever thought of it. It is a quarter of a century
since poor Deverell's time. It's a good while,
you know, and the longer you wait in matters
of that kind the less your chance;" and with a
brisk decision the Rector added," I'll stake, I
think, all I'm worth, these people have no
more connection with poor Deverell than
NapoleonBonaparte, and that Strangways has
no more notion of moving any matter con-
nected with that unhappy business than he
has of leading an Irish rebellion."
"I'm glad you take that view—I know it's


40
GUY DEVBRELL.
the sound one. I knew you would. I think
it's just a little flicker of gout. If I had taken
Vichy on my way back I'd never have thought
of it. I've no one to talk to. It's a comfort to
see you, Dives. I wish you'd come oftener."
And he placed his hand very kindly on his
brother's ahoulder.
"So I will," said Dives, not without kind-
ness in his eyes, though his mouth was for-
bidding still. "You must not let chimeras
take hold of you. I'm very glad I was here."
"Did you remark that fat, mountainous
French fellow, in that cursed suit of black,
was very inquisitive about the green cham-
ber?" asked Sir Jekyl, relapsing a little.
"No, I did not hear him mention it; w.hat
was it?" asked Dives.
'Well, not a great deal; only he seemed
to want to know all about that particular
room and its history, just as if there was al-
ready something in his head about it."
"Well, I told you, Jekyl," said Dives, in a
subdued tone and lookiDg away a little, "you
ought to do something decisive about that
room, all things considered. If it were mine,
I can tell you, I should pull it down—not, of
course, in such a way as to make people talk
and ask questions, but as a sort of improve-
ment. I'd make a conservatory, or some-
thing; you want a conservatory, and the
building is positively injured by it. It is not
the same architecture. You might put some-
thing there twice as good. At all events I'd
get rid of it."
"So I will—I intend—I think you're right
—I really do. But it was brought about by
little Beatrix talking about haunted rooms,
you know, and that sort of nonsense," said
Sir Jekyl.
"Oh! then she mentioned it? He only
asked questions about what she told him.
Surely you're not going to vex yourself about
that?''
Sir Jekyl looked at him and laughed, but
not quite comfortably.
"Well, I told you, you know, I do believe
it's great; and whatever it is, I know, Dives,
you've done me a great deal of good. Come,
now, I've a horse I think you'll like, and you
shall have him; try him to-day, and I'll send
him home for you if he suits you."
While the groom was putting up the horse,
Sir Jekyl, who was quick and accurate of eye,
recognised the dark-faced, intelligent little
valet, whom he had seen for a moment, candle
in hand, at the dressing-room door, last night,
to receive his guests.
With a deferential smile, and shrug, and
bow, all at once, this little gentleman lifted
his cap with one hand, removing his Ger-
man pipe with the other.
He had been a courier—clever, active, gay
—a man who might be trusted with money,
papers, diamonds. Beside his native French,
he spoke English very well, and a little Ger-
man. He could keep accounts, and write a
neat little foreign hand with florid capitals.
He could mend his own clothes, and even his
shoes. He could play the flute a little, and
very much the fiddle. He was curious, and
liked to know what was taking place. He
liked a joke and the dance, and was prone to
the tender passion, and liked, in an honest
way, a little of intrigue, or even espionage.
Such a man he was as I could fancy in a
light company of that marvellous army of
Italy, of which Napoleon I. always spoke
with respect and delight.
In the stable yard, as I have said, the Bar-
onet found this dark sprite smoking a Ger-
man pipe; and salutations having been ex-
changed, he bid him try instead two of his
famous cigars, which he presented, and then
he questioned him on tobacco, and on his
family, the theatres, the railways, the hotels;
and finally Sir Jekyl said,
"I wish you could recollect a man like
yourself—I want one confoundedly. I shall
be going abroad in August next year, and I'd
give him five thousand francs a year, or more
even, with pleasure, and keep him probably
as long as he liked to stay with me. Try if
you can remember such a fellow. Turn it
over in your mind—do you see? and I don't
care how soon he comes into my service."
The man lifted his cap again, and bowed
even lower, as he undertook to " turn it over
in his mind;" and though he smiled a great
deal, it was plain his thoughts were already
seriously employed in turning the subject
over, as requested by the Baronet.
NextTnorning M. Varbarriere took a quiet
opportunity, in the hall, of handing to his
host two letters of introduction, as they are
called—one from the Baronet's old friend,
Charteris, attached to the embassy at Paris
—a shrewd fellow, a man of the world,
amphibious, both French and English, and
equally at home on either soil—speaking un-
mistakably in high terms of M. Varbarriere
as of a gentleman very much respected in
very high quarters. The other was equally
handsome. But Charteris was exactly fhe
man whose letter in such a case was to be
relied upon.
The Baronet glanced over these, and said
he was very glad to hear from his friend
Charteris—the date was not a week since—
but laughed at the formality, regretting that
he had not a note from Charteris to present
in return, and then gracefully quoted an old
French distich, the sentiment of which is that
"chivalry proclaims itself, and the gentleman
is no more to be mistaken than the rose," and
proceeded to ask his guest, " How is Chart-
eris—he had hurt his wrist when I saw him
last—and is there any truth in the report
about his possible alliance with that rich
widow?" and so forth.
When Sir Jekyl got into his sanctum I am
afraid he read both letters with a very micro-
scopic scrutiny, and he resolved inwardly to
write a very sifting note to Charteris, and
put it upon him, as an act of friendship, to
make out every detail of the past life and ad-
ventures of M. Varbarriere, and particularly
whether he had any young kinsman, nephew
or otherwise, answering a certain description,
all the items of which he had by rote.
But writing of letters is to some people a
very decided bore. The Baronet detested it,
and his anxieties upon these points being in-


GUY DEVERELL.
41
termittent, the interrogatories were not so
soon despatched to his friend Charteris.
Old General Lennox was away for London
this morning; and his host took a seat beside
him in the brougham that was to convey
him to the station, and was dropped on the
way at the keeper's lodge, when he bid a
kind and courteous adieu to his guest, whom
he charged to return safe and soon, and kissed
his hand, and waved it after the florid smil-
ing countenance and bushy white eyebrows
that were protruded from the carriage-win-
dow as it glided away.
"You can manage it all in a day or two.
can't you?" said the Baronet, cordially, as he
held the General's wrinkled hand, with its
knobby and pink joints, in his genial grasp.
"We positively won't give you more than
three days' leave. Capital shooting when
you come back. I'm going to talk it over
with the keeper here—that is, if you come
back before we've shot them all."
'" Oh! yes, hang it, you must leave a bird
or two for me," laughed the General, and he
bawled the conclusion of the joke as the ve-
hicle drove away; but Sir Jekyl lost it.
Sir Jekyl was all the happier for his morn-
ing's talk with his brother. An anxiety, if
only avowed and discussed, is so immensely
i lightened; but Dives had scouted the whole
thing so peremptorily that the Baronet was
positively grateful. Dives was a wise and
clear-headed fellow. It was delighful his
taking so decided a view. And was it not
on reflection manifestly, even to him, the
sound view?
CHAPTER XVII.
I
THE MAGICIAN DRAWS A DIAGRAM. '*
The Baronet approached Marlowe Manor
on the side at which the stables and out-
offices lie, leaving which to his left, he took
his way by the path through the wood which
leads to the terrace-walk that runs parallel
to the side of the old house on which the
green chamber lies.
On this side the lofty timber approaches
the walks closely, and the green enclosure is
but a darkened strip and very solitary. Here,
when Sir Jekyl emerged, he saw M. Varbar-
riere standing on the grass, and gazing up-
ward in absorbed contemplation Of the build-
ing, which on the previous evening seemed
to have excited his curiosity so unaccount-
ably.
He did not hear the Baronet's approach-
ing step on the grass. Sir Jekyl felt both
alirmed and angry; for although it was but
natural that his guest should have visited the
spot and examined the building, it yet
seemed to him, for the moment, like the act
of a spy.
"Disappointed, I'm afraid," said he. "1
told you that addition was the least worth
looking at of all the parts of this otherwise
ancient house."
He spoke with a sort of sharpness that
seemed quite uncalled for; but it was unno-
ticed.
M. Varbarriere bowed low and graciously.
"I am much interested—every front of
this curious and handsome house interests
me. This indeed, as you say, is a good deal
spoiled by that Italian incongruity—still it
is charmmg—the contrast is as beautiful
frequently as the harmony—and I am per-
plexed."
"Some of my friends tell ma it spoils the
house so much I ought to pull it down, and
I have a great mind to do so. Have you
seen the lake? I should be happy to show
it to you if you will permit me."
The Baronet, as he spoke, was, from time
to time, slyly searching the solemn and pro-
found face of the stranger; but could find
there no clue to the spirit of his investiga-
tion. There was no shrinking—no embar-
rassment—no consciousness. He might as
well have looked on the awful surface of the
sea, in the expectation of discovering there
the secrets of its depths.
M. Varbarriere, with a profusion of grati-
tude, regretted that he could not just then
visit the lake, as he had several letters to
write; and so he and his host parted smiling
at the hall door; and the Baronet, as he pur-
sued his way, felt some stirrings of that men-
tal dyspepsia which had troubled him of late.
"The old fellow had not been in the house
two hours," such was his train of thought,
"when he was on the subject of that green
chamber, in the parlor and in the drawing
room—again and again recurring to it; ana
here he was just now, alone, absorbed, and
gazing up at its windows, as if he could think
of nothing else!"
Sir Jekyl felt provoked, and almost as if
he would like a crisis; and half regretted
that he had not asked him—" Pray can I
give you any information; is there anything
you particularly want to know about that
room? question me as you please, you shall
see the room—you shall sleep in it if you
like, so soon as it is vacant. Pray declare
yourself, and say what you want."
But second thoughts are said to be best,
if not always wisest: and this brief rehearing
of the case against his repose ended in a
"dismiss," as before. It was so natural, and
indeed inevitable, that he should himself in-
spect the original of those views which he
had examined the night before with interest,
considering that, being a man who cared not
for the gun or the fishing-rod, and plainly
without sympathies with either georgics or
bucolics, he had not many other ways of
amusing lymself in these country quarters.
M. Varbarriere, in the meantime, had en-
tered his chamber. I suppose he was amused,
for so soon as he closed the door he smiled
with a meditative sneer. It was not a fiend-
ish one, not even moderately wicked; but a
sneer is in the countenance what irony is in
the voice, and never pleasant.
If the Baronet had seen the expression of
M. Varbarriere's countenance as he sat down
in his easy-chair, he would probably have
been much disquieted—perhaps not without
reason.
M. Varbarriere was known in his own
neighborhood as a dark and inflexible man,


GUT DEVERELL.
but with these reservations kind; just in his
dealings, bold in enterprise, and charitable,
but not on impulse, with a due economy of
resource, and a careful measurement of de-
sert; on the whole, a man to be respected
and little feared, but a useful citizen.
Instead of writing letters as, of course, he
had intended, M. Varbarriere amused himself
bv muking a careful little sketch on a leaf of
his pocket-book. It seemed hardly worth all
the pains he bestowed upon it; for, after all,
it was but a paralellogram with a projecting
segment of a circle at one end, and a smaller
one at the side, and he noted his diagram
with figures, then pondered over ty with a
thoughtful countenance, and made, after a
while, a little cross at one end of it, and then
fell a whistling thoughtfully, and nodded
once or twice, as a thought struck him; and
then he marked another cross at one of its
sides, and reflected in like manner over this,
and as he thought, fiddling with his pencil at
the foot of the page, he scribbled the word
"hypothesis." Then he put up his pocket-
book, and stood listlessly with his hands in
the pockets of his vast black trowsers, look-
ing from the window, and whistled a little
more, the air hurrying sometimes, and some-
times dragging a good deal, so as to come at
times to an actual standstill.
On turning the coiner of the mansion Sir
Jekyl found himself on a sudden in the midst
of the ladies of his party, just descending
from the carriages which had driven them
round the lake. He was of that gay and
gallant temperament, as the reader is aware,
which is fired with an instantaneous inspira-
tion at sight of this sort of plumage and
flutter.
"What a fortunate fellow am I!" ex-
claimed Sir Jekyl, forgetting in a moment
everything but the sunshine, the gay voices;
and the pretty sight before him. "I had
laid myself out for a solitary walk, and lo!
I'm in the midst of a paradise of graces,
nymphs, and what not!"
"We have had such a charming drive
round the lake," said gay little Mrs. Maberly.
"The lake never looked so well before,
I'm sure. So stocked, at least, with fresh
water sirens and mermaids. Never did mir-
ror reflect so much beauty. An instinct,
you see, drew me this way. I assure you I
was on my way to the lake; one of those
enamored sprites who sing us tidings in such
tiny voices, we can't distinguish them from
our own fancies, warbled a word in my ear,
only a little too late, I suppose."
The Baronet was reciting his admiring
nonsense to pretty Mrs. Maberly, but his eye
from time to time wandered to Lady Jane,
and rested for a moment on that haughty
beauty, who, with downcast languid eyes,
one would have thought neither heard nor
saw him.
This gallant Baronet was so well under-
stood that every lady expected to hear that
kind of tender flattery whenever he ad-
dressed himself to the fair sex. It was quite
inevitable, and simply organic and constitu-
tional as blackbird's whistle and kitten's
play, and, in ninety-nine cases out of a hun-
dred, I am sure, meant absolutely nothing.
"But those sprites always come with a
particular message, don't they?" said old
Miss Blunket, smiling archly from the cor-
ners of her fierce eyes. "Don't you think
so, Mr. Linnett?"
"You are getting quite above me," an-
swered that sprightly gentleman, who was
growing just a little tired of Miss Blunket's
attentions. "I suppose it's spiritualism. 1
know nothing about it. What do you say,
Lady Jane?"
"I think it very heathen," said Lady Jane,
tired, I suppose, of the subject.
"I like to be heathen, now and then," said
Sir Jekyl, in a lower key; he was by this
time beside Lady Jane. "I'd have been a
most pious Pagan. As it is, I can't help
worshipping in the Pantheon, and trying
sometimes even to make a proselyte."
"Oh! you wicked creature!" cried little
Mrs. Maberly. "I assure you, Lady Jane,
his conversation'is quite frightful."
Lady Jane glanced a sweet, rather languid,
sidelong smile at the little lady.
"You'll not get Lady Jane to believe all
that mischief of me, Mrs. Maberly. I appeal
for my character to the General."
"But he's hundreds of miles away, and
can't hear you," laughed little Mrs. Maberly,
who really meant nothing satirical.
"I forget; but he'll be back to-morrow or
next day," replied Sir Jekyl, with rather a
dry chuckle, " and in the meantime I must
do without one, I suppose. Here we are,
Mr. Strangways, all talking nonsense, the
pleasantest occupation on earth. Do come
and help us."
This was addressed to Guy Strangways,
who, with his brother angler, Captain Doocey,
in the picturesque negligence and black wide-
awakes of fishermen, with baskets and rods,
approached.
"Only too glad to be permitted to contri-
bute," said the young man, smiling, and rais-
ing his hat.
"And pray permit me, also," said courtly
old Doocey. '- I could talk ii, I assure you,
before he was born. I've graduated in the
best schools, and was a doctor of nonsense
before he could speak even a word of sense."
"Not a bad specimen to begin with.
Leave your rods and baskets there; some one
will bring them in. Now we are so large a
party, you must come and look at my grapes.
1 am told my black Hamburgs are the finest
in the world."
So, chatting and laughing, and some in oth-
er moods, towards those splendid graperies
they moved, from which, as Sir Jekyl used
to calculate, he had the privilege of eating
black Hamburg and other grapes at about the
rate of one shilling each.
"A grapery—how delightful!" cried little
Mrs. Maberly.
"I quite agree with you," exclaimed Miss
Blunket, who effervesced with a girlish en-
thusiasm upon even the most difficult sub-
jects. "It is not the grapes, though they are
so pretty, and a—bacchanalian—no, I don't


GUY DEVERELL.
mean that—why do you laugh at me so?
but the atmosphere! Don't you love it? it is
bo like Lisbon—at least what I fancy it, for I
never was there; but at home, I bring my
book there and enjoy it so. I call it mock
Portugal."
"It has helped to dry her," whispered Lin-
nett so loud in Doocey s ear as to make that
courteous old dandy very uneasy.
It was odd that Sir Jekyl showed no sort
of discomfort at sight of Guy Strangways on
his sudden appearance; a thrill he felt indeed
Whenever he unexpectedly beheld that hand-
some and rather singular-looking young man
—a most unpleasant sensation—but although
he moved about him like a resurrection of
the past, and an omen of his fate, he yet grew
in a sort of way accustomed to this haunting
enigma, and could laugh and talk apparently
quite carelessly in his presence. I have been
told of men, the victims of a spectral illu-
sion, who could move about a saloon, and
smile, and talk and listen, with their awful
tormentor gliding always about them and
spying out all their ways.
Just about this hour the clumsy old car-
riage of Lady Alice Redcliffe stood at her
hall-door steps, in the small square court-yard
of Wardlock Manor, and the florid iron gates
stood wide open, resting on their piers. The
coachman's purple visage looked loweringly
round; the footman, with his staff of office
m hand, leaning on the door-post, gazed with
a peevish listlessness through the open gate-
way across the road; the near horse had be-
gun to hang his head, and his off-companion
had pawed a considerable hole in Lady
Alice's nattily-kept gravel enclosure. From
these signs one might have reasonably con-
jectured that these honest retainers, brute and
human, had been kept waiting for their mis-
tress somewhat longer than usual.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ANOTHER GUEST PREPARES TO COME.
Lady Alice was at that moment in her
bonnet and ample black velvet cloak and er-
mines, and the rest of her traveling costume,
seated in her stately parlor, which, like most
parlors of tolerably old mansions in that part
of the country, is wainscoted in very black
oak. In her own way Lady Alice evinced at
least as much impatience as her dependants
out of doors ; she tapped with her foot mo-
notonously upon her carpet; she opened and
shut her black shining leather bag, and pluck-
ed at and re-arranged its contents; she tat-
tooed with her pale prolix fingers on the ta-
ble; sometimes she snuffed a little; some-
times she muttered. As often as she fan-
cied a sound, she raised her chin imperious-
ly, and with a supercilious fixity, stared at
the door until expectation had again ex-
pired in disappointment, when she would
pluck out her watch, and glancing disdain-
fully upon it, exclaim—
"Upon my life!" or, "Very pretty beha-
vior!"
At last, however, the sound of a vehicle—
a "fly" it was—unmistakably made itself
heard at the hall-door, and her lady, with a
preparatory shake of her head, as a pugna-
cious animal shakes his ears, and a "hem,"
and a severe and pallid countenance, sat up,
very high and stiffly, in her chair.
The door opened, and the splendid footman
inquired whether her ladyship would please
to see Mrs. Gwynn.
"Show her in," said Lady Alice with a high
look and an awful quietude.
And our old friend, Donica, just as thin,
pallid, and, in l^er own way, self-possessed,
entered the room.
"Well, Donica Gwynn, you've come at
last! you have kept my horses standing at
the door—a thing I never do myself—for
three-quarters of an hour and four minutes!"
Donica Gwynn was sorry; but she could
not help it. She explained how the delay had
occurred, and, though respectful, her expla-
nation was curt and dry in proportion to the
sharpness and dryness of her reception.
"Sit down, Donica," said the lady, relent-
ing loftily. "How do you do?"
"Pretty well, I thank your ladyship; and
I hope I see you well, my lady,"
"As well as I can ever be, Donica, and that
is but poorly. I'm going, you know, to Mar-
lowe."
"I'm rayther glad on it, my lady."
"And I wish to know why?" said Lady
Alice.
"I wrote the why and the wherefore, my
lady, in my letter," answered the ex-house-
keeper, looking askance on the table, and
closing her thin lips tightly when she had
spoken.
"Your letter, my good Donica, it is next to
impossible to read, and quite impossible to
understand. What I want to know distinct-
ly is, why you have urged me so vehemently
to go to Marlowe."
"Well, my lady, I thought I said pretty
plain it was about my Lady Jane, the pretty
creature you had on visits here, and liked so
well, poor thing; an' it seemed to me she's
like to be in danger where she is. I can't ex-
plain how e xactly; but General Lennox is
gone up to London, and I think, my lady, you
ought to get her out of that unlucky room,
where he has put her; and, at all events, to
keep as near to her as you can yourself, at aU
times."
"I've listened to you, Donica, and I can't
comprehend you. I see you are hinting at
something; but unless you are explicit, I
don't see that I can be of any earthly use."
"You can, my lady—that is, you may, if you
only do as I say—I can't explain it more, nor
I won't" said Donica, peremptorily, perhaps
bitterly.
"There can be no good reason, Donica, for
reserve upon a point of so much moment as
you describe this to be. Wherever reserve
exists there is mystery, and wherever mys-
tery—guilt."
So said Lady Alice, who was gifted with
a spirit of inquiry which was impatient of
disappointment.


GUY DEVERELL.
"Guilt, indeed!" repeated Gwynn, in an
under-key, with a toss of her head and a
very white face; "there's secrets enough in
the world, and no guilt along of 'em."
"What room is it-you speak of—the green
chamber, is not it?"
"Yes, sure, my lady."
"I think you are all crazed about ghosts
and devils over there," exclaimed Lady Alice.
"Not much of ghosts, but devils, maybe,"
muttered Gwynn, oddly, looking sidelong
over the floor.
"It is that room, you say," repeated Lady
Alice.
"Yes, my lady, the green chamber."
"Well, what about it—-come, woman, did
not you sleep for years in that room?"
"Ay, my lady, a good while."
"And what did you see there?"
"A deal.""
"What, i say?"
"Well, supposin' I was to say devils,"
replied Donica.
Lady Alice sneered.
- " What did poor Lady Marlowe see there?"
demanded Donica, looking with her odd eyes
askance at Lady Alice's carpet, and backmg
her question with a nod.
"Well, you know I never heard exactly;
but my darling creature was, as you remem-
ber, dying of a consumption at the time,
and miserably nervous, and fancied things,
no doubt, as people do."
"Well, she did; I knew it," said Donica.
"You may have conjectured—every -one
can do that; but I rather think my poor
dear Amy would hare told me, had she
cared to divulge it to any living being. I
am persuaded she herself suspected it was
an allusion—fancy; but I know she had a
horror of the room, and I am sure my poor
girl's dying request out to have been
respected."
"So it ought, my lady," said Donica,
turning up her eyes, and raising her lean
hands together, while she slowly shook her
head. "So I said to him, and in like man-
ner his own father's dying orders, for such
they was, my lady; and they may say what
they will of Sir Harry, poor gentleman!
But he was a kind man, and good to many
that had not a good word for him after,
though there may a' been many a little
thing that was foolish or the like; but there
is mercy above for all, and the bishop that
is now, then he was the master of the great
school where our young gentlemen used to
go to, was with him."
"When he was dying?" said Lady Alice.
"Ay, my lady, a beautiful summer it was,
and the doctor, nor I, thought it would be
nothing to speak of; but he was anxious in
his mind from the first, and he wrote for
Doctor Wyndale—it was the holidays then
—asking him to come to him; and he did,
but Sir Harry had took an unexpected turn
for the worse, and not much did he ever
say, the Lord a' mercy on us, after that
good gentleman, he's the bishop now, came
to Marlowe, and he prayed by his bed, and
closed his eyes; and I, in and out, and
wanted there every minute, could not but
hear some of what he said, which it was not
much."
"He said something about that green
chamber, as you call it, I always under-
stood ?" said Lady Alice, interrogatively.
"Yes, my lady, he wished it shut up, or
taken down, or summat that way; 'but
man proposes and God disposes,' and there's
small affection and less gratitude to be met
with now-a-daya."
"I think, Donica Gwynn, and I always
thought, that you knew a good deal more
than you chose to tell me. Some people
are reserved and secret, and I suppose it is
your way; but I don't think it could harm
you to treat me more as your friend."
Donica rose, and courtesied as she said—
"You have always treated me friendly
I.m sure, my lady, and I hope I am thank-
ful; and this I know, I'll be a faithful ser-
vant to your ladyship so long as I continue
in your ladyship's service."
"I know .that very well; but I wish you
were franker with me, that's all—here are
the keys."
So Donica, with very little ceremony, as-
sumed the keys of office.
"And pray what do you mean exactly?"
said Lady Alice, rising and drawing on her
glove and not looking quite straight at the
housekeeper as she spoke; "do you mean to
say that Lady Jane is giddy or impertinent?
Come, be distinct."
"I can't say what she is, my Lady, but she
may be brought into folly some way. I
only know this much, please my lady, it will
be good for her you should be nigh, and your
eye and thoughts about her, at least till the
General returns."
"Well, Gwynn, I see you don't choose to
trust me."
"I have, my lady, spoke that free to yon
as I would not to any other, I think, alive."
"No, Gwynn, you don't trust me, you
have your reasons, I suppose; but I think you
are a shrewd woman—shrewd and mean
well. I don't suppose that you could talk as
you do without a reason; and though I can't
see any myself, not believing in apparitions
or—or"
She nearly lost the thread of her discourse
at this point, for as she spoke the word ap-
parition, the remembrance of the young gen-
tleman whom she had seen in Wardlock
Church rose in her memory—handsome, pale,
with sealed lips, and great eyes—unreadable
as night—the resurrection of another image.
The old yearning and horror overpowered
the train of her thoughts, and she floundered
into silence, and coughed into her handker-
chief, to hide her momentary confusion.
"What was I going to say ?" she said, brisk-
ly, meaning to refer her break-down to that
little fit of coughing, and throwing on Gwynn
the .onus of setting her speech in motion
again.
'- Oh! yes. I don't believe in those things,
not a bit. But Jennie, poor thing, though
she has not treated me quite as she might,
is a young wife, and very pretty; and tho


GUY DEVERELL.
45
house is fnll of wicked young men from Lon-
don; and her old fool of a husband chooses
to go about his business and leave her to her
devices—that's what you mean, Gwynn, and
that's what I understand."
"I have said all I can, my lady; you can
help her, and be near her night and day,"
said Donica.
"Sir Jekyl in his invitation bid me choose
my own room—so I shall. I'll choose that
oddly-shaped little room that opens into hers
—if I remember rightly, the room that my
poor dear Amy occupied in her last illness.
"And, my lady, do you take the key of the
door, and keep it in your bag, please.
"Of the door of communication between
the two rooms?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Why should I take it; you would not
have me lock her up?"
"Well, no, to be sure, my lady."
"Then why?"
"Because there is no bolt to her door, in-
side or out. You will see what I mean, my
lady, when you are there."
"Because she can't secure her door with-
out it, I'm to take possession of her key!"
said Lady Alice, with a dignified sneer.
"Well, my lady, it may seem queer, but
you'll see what I mean."
Lady Alice tossed her stately head.
"Any commands in particular, please, my
lady, before you leave?" inquired Donica,
with one of her dry little courtesies.
"No; and I must go. Just hand this pil-
low and bag to the man; and I suppose you
wish your respects to Miss Beatrix?"
To all which, in her own way, Donica
Gwynn assented; and the old lady, assisted
by her footman, got into the carriage, and
nodded a pale and silent farewell to her
housekeeper; and away drove the old car-
riage at a brisk pace toward Marlowe Manor.
CHARTER XIX.
LADY ALICE TAKES POSSESSION.
What to the young would seem an age;
what, even in the arithmetic of the old,
counts for something, about seventeen years,
had glided into the eternal past since last
Lady Alice had beheld the antique front and
noble timber of Marlowe Manor; and mem-
ory was busy with her heart, and sweet and
bitter fancies revisiting her old brain, as her
saddened eyes gazed on that fair picture of
the past. Old faces gone, old times changed,
and she, too, but the shadow of her former
self, soon, like those whom she remember-
ed there, to vanish quite, and be missed by
no one.
"Where is Miss Beatrix?" inquired the
old lady, as she set her long slim foot upon
1 the oak flooring of the hall. "I'll rest a mo-
ment here." And she sat down upon a
carved bench, and looked with sad and
dreaming eyes through the open door upon
the autumnal landscape flushed with the set-
ting sun, the season and the hour harmonis-
ing regretfully with her thoughts.
Her maid came at the summons of the
footman. "Tell her that granny has come,"
said the old woman gently. "You are quite
well, Jones!"
Jones made her smirk and courtesy, and
was quite well; and so tripped up the great
stair to apprise her young mistress.
"Tell the new housekeeper, please, that
Lady Alice Redclifle wishes very much to
see her for a moment in the hexagon dress-
ing-room at the end of the hatchment-gal-
lery," said the old lady, names and localities
coming back to her memory quite naturally
in the familiar old hall.
And as he spoke, being an active-minded
old lady, she rose,, and before her first mes-
sage had reached Beatrix, was ascending the
well-known stairs, with its broad shining
steps of oak, and her hand on its ponderous
banister, feeling strangely, all in a moment,
how much more she now needed that sup-
port, and that the sun of the seventeen years
was something to her as to others.
On the lobby, just outside this dressing-
room door, which stood open, letting the
dusky sunset radiance, so pleasant and so
sad, tall upon the floor and touch the edges
of the distant banisters, she was met by smil-
ing Beatrix.
"Darling!" cried the girl, softly, as she
threw her young arms round the neck of the
stately and thin old lady. "Darling, darling,
I'm so glad!"
She had been living among strangers, and
the sight and touch of her true old friend was
reassuring.
Granny s thin hands held her fondly. It
was pretty to see this embrace, in the glow of
the evening sun, and the rich brown tresses
of the girl close to the ashen locks of old
Lady Alice, who, with unwonted tears in her
eyes, was smiling on her very tenderly.
She was softened that evening. Perhaps it
was her real nature, disclosed for a few
genial moments, generally hidden under
films of reserve or pride—the veil of the
flesh.
"I think she does like her old granny,"
said Lady Alice, with a gentle little laugh;
one thin hand on her shoulder, the other
smoothing back her thick girlish tresses.
"I do love you, granny ; you were always
so good to me, and you are so—so fond of
me. Now, you are tired, darling; you must
take a little wine—here is Mrs. Sinnott com-
ing—Mrs. Sinnott." *
"No, dear, no wine; I'm very well. I
wish to see Mrs. Sinnott, though. She's
your new housekeeper, is not she?"
"Yes; and I'm so glad poor, good old
Donnie Gwynn is with you. You know she
would not stay; but our new housekeeper is,
I'm told, a very good creature too. Grand-
mamma wants to speak to you, Mrs. Sinnott."
Lady Alice by this time had entered the
dressing-room, three sides of which, project-
ing like a truncated bastion, formed a great
window, which made it, for its size, the best
lighted in the house. In the wall at the
right, close to this entrance, is the door
which admits to the green chamber ; in the


46
GUY DEVERELL.
opposite wall, out nearer the window, a door
leading across the end of ths hatchment-gal-
lery, with its large high window, by a little
passage, screened off by alow oak partition,
and admitting to a bed-room on the opposite
side of the gallery.
In the middle of the Window dressing-
room stood Lady Alice, and looked round re-
gretfully, and said to herself, with a little
shake of the head—
"Yes, yes, poor thing!"
1 She was thinking of poor Lady Marlowe,
whom, with her usual perversity, although a
step-daughter, she had loved very tenderly,
and who in her last illness had tenanted
these rooms, in which, seventeen years ago,
this old lady had sat beside her and soothed
her sickness, and by her tenderness, no doubt,
softened those untold troubles which gath-
ered about her bed as death drew near.
"How do you do, Mrs. Sinnott?" said
stately Lady Alice, recovering her dry and
lofty manner.
"Lady Alice Eedcliffe, my grandmamma,"
said Beatrix, in an undertoned introduction,
in the housekeeper's ear.
Mrs. Sinnott made a fussy little courtesy.
"Your ladyship's apartments, which is at
the other end of the gallery, please, is quite
ready, my lady."
"I don't mean to have those rooms, though
—that's the reason I sent for you—please
read this note, it is from Sir Jekyl Marlowe.
By-the-bye, is your master at home?"
"No, he was out."
"Well, be so good as to read this."
And Lady Alice placed Beatrix's note of
invitation in Mrs. Sinnott's hand, and pointed
to a passage in the autograph of Sir Jekyl,
which spoke thus:
P. S.—Do come, dearest little mamma, and
you shall command everything. Choose your
own apartments and hours, and, in short, rule
us all. With all my worldly goods I thee en-
dow, and place Mrs. Sinnott at your orders."
"Well, Mrs. Sinnott, I choose time apart-
ments, if you please," said Lady Alice, sitting
down stiffly, and thereby taking possession.
"Very well, my lady, said Mrs. Sinnott,
dropping another courtesy; but her sharp red
nose and little black eyes looked sceptical
and uneasy; " and I suppose, Miss," here she
paused, looking at Beatrix.
"You are to do whatever Lady Alice di-
rects," said the young lady.
"This here room, you know, Miss, is the
dressing-room properly of the green chamber."
"Lady Jane does not use it, though?" re-
plied the new visitor.
"But the General, when he comes back,"
insinuated Mrs. Sinnott.
"Of course, he shall have it. I'll remove
then; but in the meantime, liking these
rooms, from old remembrances, best of any,
I will occupy them, Beatrix ; this as a dress-
ing-room and the apartment there as bed-
room. I hope I don't give you a great deal
of trouble," added Lady Alice, addressing
the housekeeper, with an air that plainly said
that she did not care a pin whether she did
or not.
So this point was settled, and Lady Alice
sent for her maid and her boxes; and rising,
she approached the door of the green cham-
ber, and pointing to it, said to Beatrix—
"And so Lady Jane has this room. Do
you like her, Beatrix?"
"I can't say I know her, grandmamma."
"No, I dare say not. It is a large room
—too large for my notion of a cheerful bed-
room."
The old lady drew near, and knocked.
"She's not there?"
"No she's in the terrace-garden."
Lady Alice pushed the door open and
looked in.
"A very long room. That room is longer
than my drawing room at Wardlock, and that
is five and thirty feet long. Dismal, I say—
though so much light, and that portrait—Sir
Harry smirking there. What a look of du-
plicity in that face! He was an old man
when I can remember him; an old beau; a
wicked old man, rough and whitened; he
used to paint under his eyelashes, and had,
they said, nine or ten sets of false teeth, and
always wore a black curled wig that made
his contracted countenance more narrow.
There were such lines of cunning and mean-
ness about his eyes, actually crossing one an-
other. Jekyl hated him, I think. I don't
think anybody but a fool could have really
liked him; he was so curiously selfish, and so
contemptible; he was attempting the life of a
wicked young man at seventy."
Lady Alice had been speaking as it were
in soliloquy, staring drearily on the clever
portrait in gold lace and ruffles, stricken by
the spell of that painted canvas into a dream.
"Your grandpapa, my dear, was not a good
man; and I believe he injured my poor son
irreparably, and your father. Well—these
things, though never forgotten, are best not
spoken of when people happen to be con-
nected. For the sake of others we bear our
pain in silence; but the heart knoweth its
own bitterness."
And so saying, the old lady drew back
from the threshold of Lady Jane's apartment,
and closed the door with a stern countenance.
CHAPTER XX.
AN ALTERCATION.
Almost at the same moment Sir Jekyl
entered the hexagon, or, as it was more
pleasantly called, the Window dressing-room
from the lobby. He was quite radiant, and,
in that warm evening light, struck Lady
Alice as looking quite marvellously youthful.
"Well, Jekyl Marlowe, you see you have
brought me here at last," said the old lady,
extending her hand stiffly, like a wooden
marionette, her thin elbow making a right
angle.
"So I have; and I shall always think the
better of my eloquence for having prevailed.
You're a thousand times welcome, and not
tired, I hope; the journey is not much, after


GUY DEVERELL.
47
"Thanks; no, the distance is not much,
the fatigue nothing," said Lady Alice, draw-
ing her fingers horizontally back from his
hospitable pressure. "But it is not always
distance tha* separates people, or fatigue that
depresses one."
"No, of course; fifty things; rheumatism,
temper, hatred, affliction; and I am so de-
lighted to see you! Trixie, dear, would not
grandmamma like to see her room? Send
for"
"Thank you, I mean to stay here," said
Lady Alice.
"Here/" echoed Sir Jekyl, with a rather
bewildered smile.
"I avail myself of the privilege you give
me; your postscript to Beatrix's note, you
know. You tell me there to choose what
rooms I like best," said the old lady, dryly,
at the same time drawing her bag toward
her, that she might be ready to put the
docments in evidence, in case he should dis-
pute it.
"Oh! did I?" said the Baronet, wit?* the
same faint smile.
Lady Alice nodded, and then threw back
her head challenging contradiction by a su-
percilious stare, her hand firmly upon the
bag as before.
"But this room, you know; it's anything
but a comfortable one—don't you think?"
said Sir Jekyl.
"I like it," said the inflexible old lady, sit-
ting down.
"And I'm afraid there's a little difficulty,"
he continued, not minding. "For this is
General Lennox's dressing room. Don't you
think it might be awkward?" and he chuck-
led agreeably.
"General Lennox is absent in London on
business," said Lady Alice, grim as an old
Diana;" and Jane does not use it, and there
can be no intelligible objection to my having
it in his absence."
There was a little smile, that yet was not
a smile, and a slight play about Sir Jekyl's
nostrils, as he listened to this speech. They
came when he was vicious; but with a flush,
he commanded himself, and only laughed
slightly, and said—
"It is really hardly a concern of mine,
provided my guests are happy. You don't
mean to have your bed into this room, do
you?"
"I mean to sleep there," she replied, drily,
stabbing with her long forefinger toward the
door on the opposite side of the room.
"Well, I can only say I'd have fancied, for
other reasons, these the very last rooms in
the house you would have chosen—particu-
larly as this really belongs to the green cham-
ber. However, you and Lady Jane can ar-
range that between you. You'd have been
very comfortable where we would have put
fou, and you'll be very uncomfortable here,
'm afraid; but perhaps I'm not making
allowance for the affection you have for Lady
Jane, the length of time that has passed since
you've seen her, and the pleasure of being so
neai her."
There was an agreeable irony in this; for
the Baronet knew that they had never
agreed very well together, and that neither
spoke very handsomely of the other behind
her back. At the same time this was no con-
clusive* proof of unkindness on Lady Alice's
part, for her good will sometimes showed
itself under strange and uncomfortable dis-
guises.
"Beatrix, dear, I hope they are seeing to
your grandmamma's room; and you'll want
candles, it is growing dark. Altogether I'm
afraid you're very uncomfortable, little
mother; but if you prefer it, you know, of
course I'm silent."
With these words he kissed the old lady's
chilly cheek, and vanished. .
As he ran down the darkening stairs the
Baronet was smiling mischievously; and
when, having made his long straight journey
to the foot of the back stairs, he reascended,
and passing through the two little ante-
rooms, entered his own homely bed-chamber,
and looked at his handsome and wonderfully
preserved face in the glass, he laughed out-
right two or three comfortable explosions at
intervals, and was evidently enjoying some
fun in anticipation.
When, a few minutes later, that proud sad
beauty, Lady Jane, followed by her maid,
sailed rustling into the Window dressing-
room—I call it so in preference—and there
saw, by the light of a pair of wax candles, a
stately figure seated on the sofa at the furth-
er end in grey silk draperies, with its feet on
a boss, she paused in an attitude of sublime
surprise, with just a gleam of defiance in it.
"How d' y' do, Jennie, my dear?" said a
voice, on which as on the tones of an old
piano, a few years had told a good deal, but
which she recognized with some little sur-
prise, for notwithstanding Lady Alice's note
accepting the Baronet's invitation, he had
talked and thought of her actually coming to
Marlowe as a very unlikely occurrence in-
deed.
"Oh! oh! Lady Alice Redcliffe!" ex-
claimed the young wife, setting down her
bed-room candle, and advancing with a tran-
sitory smile to her old kinswoman, who half
rose from her throne and kissed her on the
cheek as she stopped to meet her salutation.
"You have only arrived a few minutes; I
saw your carriage going round from the
door."
"About forty minutes—hardly an hour.
How you have filled up, Jane; you're quite
an imposing figure since I saw you. I don't
think it unbecoming: your embonpoint does
very well?"
'Very well—and you?"
"I'm pretty well, dear, a good deal fa-
tigued ; and so you're a wife, Jennie, and very
happy, I hope.
"I can't say I have anything to trouble me.
I am quite happy, that is, as happy as other
people, I suppose."
"I hear nothing but praises of your hus-
band. I shall be so happy to make his ac-
quaintance," continued Lady Alice.
"He had to go up town about business this
morning, but he's to return very soon."


48
GUY DEVERELL.
"How soon, dear ?'-
"In a day or two," answerea the young
wife.
"To-morrow?" inquired Lady Alice,
drily. •
"Or next day," rejoined Lady Jane, with
a little stare.
"Do you really, my dear Jane, expect him
here the day after to-morrow?"
"He said he should be detained only a day
or two in town."
Old Lady Alice shook her incredulous head,
looking straight before her.
"I don't think he can have said, that, Jane
for he wrote to a friend of mine, the day be-
"fore yesterday, mentioning that he should be
detained by business at least a week."
"Oh ! did he?"
"Yes, and Jekyl Marlowe, I dare say,
thinks he will be kept there longer"
"I should fancy 1 am a better opinion,
rather, upon that point, than Sir Jekyl Mar-
lowe," said Lady Jane, loftily, and perhaps a
little angrily.
The old lady, with closed lips, at this made
a little nod, which might mean anything.
"And I can't conceive how it can concern
Sir Jekyl, or even you, Lady Alice, what bu-
siness my husband may have in town."
It was odd how sharp they were growing
upon this point..
"Well, Sir Jekyl's another thing; but me,
of course, it does concern, because I shall
have to give him up his room again when he
returns. /
"What room ?'-' inquired Lady Jane hon-
estly puzzled.
"This room," answered the old lady, like
one conscious that she drops, with the word,
a gage of battle.
"But this is my room."
"You don't use it, Lady Jane. I wish to
occupy it. I shall of course, give it up on
your husband's return; in the meantime I
deprive you of nothing by taking it. Do I?"
"That's not the question, Lady Alice. It
is my room—it is my dressing-room—and I
don't mean to give it up to any one. You
are the last person on earth who would allow
me to take such a liberty with you. I don't
understand it.
"Don't be excited, my dear Jenny," said
Lady Alice—an exhortation sometimes a little
inconsistently administered by members of
her admirable sex when they are themselves
most exciting.
"I'm not in the least excited, Lady Alice;
but I've had a note from you," said Lady
Jane, in rather a choking key.
"You have," acquiesced her senior.
"And I connect your extraordinary intru-
sion here, with it.'1
Lady Alice nodded.
"I do, and—and I'm right. You mean to
insult me. It's a shame—an outrage. What
do you mean, madam?"
"I'd have you to remember, Jane Chet-
wynd (the altercation obliterated her newly
acquired name of Lennox), that I am your
relation and your senior."
"Yes, you're my cousin, and my senior by
fifty years; but an old woman may be very
impertinent to a young one."
"Compose yourself, if you please, compose
yourself," said Lady Alice, in the same phi-
losophic vein, but with color a little heigh-
tened.
"Idon't know what you mean—you're a
disgraceful old woman. I'll complain to my
husband, and I'll tell Sir Jekyl Marlowe.
Either you or I must leave this house to-
night," de'claimed Lady Jane, with a most
beautiful blush, and eyes flashing lurid light-
nings.
"You forget yourself, my dear," said the
old lady, rising grimly, and confronting her.
"No, I don't, but you do. It's perfectly
disgusting and intolerable," cried Lady Jane,
with a stamp.
"One moment, if you please—you can af-
ford to listen for one moment, I suppose,"
said the old lady, in a very low, dry tone, lay-
ing two of her lean fingers upon the snowy
arm of the beautiful young lady, who, with a
haughty contraction and an uplifted head,
withdrew it fiercely from her touch. "You
forget your maid, I think. You had better
tell her to withdraw, hadn't you?"
"I don't care; why should I?" said Lady
Jane, in a high key.
"Beatrix, dear, run into my bed-room for
a moment," said" Granny " to that distressed
and perplexed young lady, who, accustomed
to obey, instantly withdrew.
CHAPTER XXI.
LADY ALICE IN BED.
"We may be alone together, if you choose
it; if not,/can't help it, said Lady Alice,
in a very low and impressive key.
"Well, it's nothing to me," said Lady Jane,
more calmly and sullenly—" nothing at all—
but as you msist—Cecile, you may go for a
few minutes."
This permission was communicated sulki-
ly, in French.
"Now, Jane, you shall hear me," said the
old lady, so soon as the maid had disappear-
ed and the doors were shut; "you must hear
me with patience, if not with respect—that I
don't expect—but remember you have no
mother, and I am an old woman and your .
kinswoman, and it is my duty to speak -
"I'm rather tired standing," interrupted
Lady Jane, in a suppressed passion. "Be-
sides, you say you don't want to be overheard,
and you can't know who may be on the lob-
bey uiere" and she pointed with her jewelled
finger at the door. "I'll go into my bed-
room, if you please; and I have not slightest
objection to hear anything you can possibly
say. Don't fancy I'm the least afraid of you.
Saying which Lady Jane, taking up her
bed-room candle, rustled out of the room,
without so much as looking over her should-
er to see whether the prophetess was follow-
ing- -
She did follow, and I dare say her lecture
was not mitigated by Lady Jane's rudeness.


GUY DEVERELL.
49
That young lady was lighting her candles on
her dressing-table when her kinswoman en-
tered and shut the door without an invita-
tion. She then seated herself serenely, and
cleared her voice.
"I live very much out of the world—in
fact, quite to myself; but I learn occasionally
what my relations are doing; and I was
grieved, Jane, to hear a great deal that was
very unpleasant, to say the least, about you."
Something between a smile and a laugh
was her only answer.
"Yes, extremely foolish. I don't, of
course, say there was anything wicked, but
very foolish and reckless. I know perfectly
how you were talked of; and I know also
why you married that excellent but old
man, General Lennox."
"I don't think anyone talked about me.
Everybody is talked about. There has
been enough of this rubbish. I burnt your
odious letter," broke in Lady Jane, inco-
herently.
"And would, no doubt, burn the writer,
if you could."
As there was no disclaimer, Lady Alice
resumed.
"Now, Jane, you have married a
most respectable old gentleman; I dare
say you have nothing on earth to con-
ceal from him—remember I've said all
along I don't suppose there is—but as the
young wife of an old man, you ought to
remember how very delicate your position
is."
""What do you mean?"
"I mean, generally" answered the old
lady, oracularly.
"I do declare this is perfectly insuffer-
able! What's the meaning of this lecture?
I'm as little likely, madam, as you are to
disgrace myself. You'll please to walk out
of my room."
"And how dare you talk to me in that
way, young lady; how dare you attempt to
hector me like your maid there?" broke out
old Lady Alice, suddenly losing her self-
command. "You know what I mean, and
what's more, Tdo, too. We both know it—
you a young bride—what does Jekyl Mar-
lowe invite you down here for? Do you
think I imagine he cares twopence about
your stupid old-husband, and that I don't
know he was once making love to you? Of
course I do; and I'll have nothing of the
sort here—and that's the reason I've come,
and that's why I'm in that dressing-room,
and that's why I'll write to your husband,
so sure as you give me the slightest uneasi-
ness; and you had better think well what
you do."
The old lady in a towermg passion, with a
fierce lustre in her cheeks, and eyes flashing
lightning over the face of her opponent,
vanished from the room.
Lady Alice had crossed the disputed
territory of the Window dressing-room, and
found herself in her elected bed-room before
she had come to herself. She saw Lady
Jane's face still before her, with th« lurid
astonishment and fear, white and sharp, I
on it, as when she had threatened a letter
to General Lennox.
She sat down a little stunned and con-
fused about the whole thing, incensed and
disgusted with Lady Jane, confirmed in
her suspicion by a look she did not like
in that young lady's face, and which her
peroration had called up. She.did not hear
the shrilly rejoinder that pursued her
through the shut door. She had given way
to a burst of passion, and felt a" little hot
and deaf and giddy.
When the party assembled at dinner Lady
Jane exerted herself more than usual. She
was agreeable, and even talkative, and her
color had not been so brillliant since heT
arrival. She sat next to Guy Strangways,
and old Lady Alice at the other side of the
table did not look triumphant, but sick and
sad; and to look ift the two ladies you would
have set her down as the defeated and
broken-spirited, and Lady Jane as the victrix
in the late encounter.
The conversation at this end of the table
resembled a dance, in which sometimes each
man sets to his partner and turns her round,
so that the whole company is frisking and
spinning together; sometimes two perform;
sometimes a cavalier seul. Thus was it
with the talk of this section of the dinner-
table, above the salt, at which the chief
people were seated.
"rve just been asked by Lady Blunket
how many miles it is to Wardlock, and I'm
ashamed to say I can't answer her," cried
Sir Jekyl diagonally to Lady Alice, so as to
cut off four people at his left hand, whose
conversation being at the moment in a pre-
carious way, forthwith expired, and the
Baronet and his mother-in-law were left in
possession of this part of the stage.
The old lady, as I have said, looked ill
and very tired, and as if she bad grown all
at once very old; and instead of answering,
she only nodded once or twice, and signed
across the table to Lady Jane.
"Oh! I forgot," said Sir Jekyl; "you
know Wardlock and all our distances, don.t
you, Lady Jane—can you tell me?"
"I don't remember," said Lady Jane,
hardly turning toward him; "ten or twelve
miles—is not it? it may be a good deal
more. I don't really recollect;" and this
was uttered with an air which plainly said,
"I don't,really care."
"I generally ride my visits, and a mile or
two more or less does not signify; but one
ought to know all the distances for thirty
miles round; you don't know otherwise
who's your neighbor."
"Do you think it an advantage to know
that any particular person is your neigh
bor?" inquired impertinent Drayton, with
his light moustache, leaning back and look-
ing drowsily into his glasses after his
wont.
"Oh! Mr. Drayton, the country without
neighbors—how dreadful!" exclaimed Miss
Blunket. "Existence without friends."
"Friends—bosh F' said Drayton, confi-
dentially, to his wine.


50
GUY DEVERELL.
"There's Drayton scouting friendship,
the young cynic |" cried Sir Jekyl. "Do
call him tD order, Lady Jane."
"I rather incline to agree with Mr. Dray-
ton," said Lady Jane, coldly.
"Do you mean to say you have no
friends V" said Sir Jekyl, in well-bred amaze-
ment.
"Quite the contrary—I have too many."
"Come—that's a new complaint. Per-
haps they are very new friends?" inquired
the Baronet.
"Some of them very old, indeed; but I've
found that an old friend means only an
old person privileged to be impertinent."
Lady Jane uttered a musical little laugh
that was very icy as she spoke, and her eye
flashed a single insolent glance at old Lady
Alice.
At another time perhaps a retort would not
have been wanting, but now the old woman's
eye returned but a wandering look, and her
face expressed nothing but apathy and sad-
ness.
"Grandmmama, dear, I'm afraid you are
very much tired," whispered Beatrix when
they reached the drawing-room, sitting be-
side her after she had made her comfortable
on a sofa with cushions to her back; "you
would be better lying down, I think."
"No, dear—no, darling. I think in a few
minutes I'll go to my room. I'm not very
well. I'm tired—very tired."
And poor old granny, who was speaking
very gently, and looking very pale and sunk-
en, sighed deeply—it was almost a moan.
Beatrix was growing very much alarmed,
and accompanied, or rather assisted, the old
lady up to the room, where, aided by her and
her maid, she got to her bed in silence, sigh-
ing deeply now and then.
She had not been long there when she
buast into tears; and after a violent par-
oxysm she beckoned to Beatrix, and threw
her lean old arms about her neck, saying—
"I'm sorry I came, child; I don t know
what to think. I'm too old to bear this agi-
tation—it will kill me."
Then she wept more quietly, and kissed
Beatrix, and whispered," Send her out of the
room—let her wait in the dressing-room."
The maid was sitting at the further end of
the apartment, and the old lady was too
feeble to raise her voice so as to be heard
there. So soon as her maid had withdrawn
Lady Alice said—
"Sit by me, Beatrix, darling. I am very
nervous, and tell me who is that young man
who sat beside Jane Lennox at dmner."
As she ended her little speech Lady Alice,
who, though I dare say actually ill enough,
yet did not want to lose for all the exhaustion
she fancied beside, closed her eyelids, and
leaned a little back on her pillow motionless.
This prevented her seeing that if she were
nervous Beatrix was so also, though in anoth-
er way, for her color was heightened very
prettily as she answered.
"You mean the tall, slight young man at
Ladv Jane's riarht?" inquired Beatrix.
"That beautiful but melancholy looking
young man whom we saw at Wardlock
Church," ssid Lady Alice, forgetting for the
moment that she had never divulged the re-
sult of her observations from the gallery to
any mortal but Sir Jekyl. Beatrix, who for-
got nothing, and knew that her brief walk at
Wardlock with that young gentleman had
not been confessed to anyone, was con-
founded on hearing herself thus, as she im-
agined, taxed with her secret.
She was not more secret than young ladies
generally are; but whom could she have
told at Wardlock? which of the old women
of that time-honored sisterhood was she to
have invited to talk romance with her? and
now she felt very guilty, and was blushing in
silent confusion at the pearl ring on her
pretty, slender finger, not knowing what to
answer, or bow to begin the confession
which she fancied her grandmamma was
about to extort.
Her grandmamma, however, relieved her
on a sudden by saying—
;< I forgot, dear, I told you nothing of that
dreadful day at Wardlock Church, the day I
was so ill. I told your papa only; but the
young man is here, and I may as well tell
you now that he bears a supernatural like-
ness to my poor lost darling. Jekyl knew
how it affected me, and he never told me. It
was so like Jekyl. I think, dear, I should
not have come here at all had 1 known that
dreadful young man was here."
"Dreadful! How is he dreadful?" ex-
claimed Beatrix.
"From his likeness to my lost darling—
my dear boy—my poor, precious, murdered
Guy," answered the old lady, lying back,
and looking straight toward the ceiling with
upturned eyes and clasped hands. She re-
peated—" Oh! Guy—Guy—Guy—my poor
child!"
She looked like a dying nun praying to
her patron saint.
"His name is Strangways — Mr. Guy
Strangways," said Beatrix.
"Ah, yes, darling! Guy was the name of
my dear boy, and Strangways was the name
of his companion—an evil eompanion, I dare
sav."
Beatrix knew that the young man whom
her grandmamma mourned had fallen in a
duel, and that, reasonably or unreasonably,
her father was blamed in the matter. More
than this she had never heard. Lady Alice
had made her acquainted with thus much;
but with preambles so awful that she had
never dared to open the subject herself, or to
question her " Granny" beyond the point at
which her disclosure had stopped.
That somehow it reflected on Sir Jekyl
prevented her from inquiring of any servant,
except old Donica, who met her curiosity
with a sound jobation, and told her if ever
she plagued her with questions about family
misfortunes like that, she would speak to
Sir Jekyl about it. Thus Beatrix only knew
how Guy Deverell had died—that her grand-
mamma chose to believe he had been mur-
dered, and insisted beside in blaming her fa-
ther, Sir Jekyl somehow for the catastrophe.


GUY DEVERELL.
51
CHAPTER XXII.
HOW EVERYTHING WENT ON.
"Go down, dear, to your company," re-
sumed Lady Alice, sadly; "they will miss
you. And tell your father, when he comes
to the drawing-room, I wish to see him, and
won't detain him long."
So they parted, and a little later Sir Jekyl
arrived with a knock at the old lady's bed-
room door.
"Come in—oh! yes—Jekyl—well, I've
only a word to say. Sit down a moment at
the bedside." „
"And how do you feel now, youTlear old
soul?" inquired the Baronet, cheerfully. He
looked strong and florid, as gentlemen do
after dinner, with a genial air of content-
ment, and a fragrance of his wonderful
sherry about him; all which seemed some-
how brutal to the nervous old lady.
"Wonderfully, considering the surprise
you had prepared for me, and which might
as well have killed me as not," she made
answer.
"I know, to be sure—Strangways, you
mean. Egad! I forgot. Trixie ought to
have told you."
"You ought to have told me. I don't
think I should have come here, Jekyl, had I
known it."
"If I had known ttot," thought Sir Jekyl,
with a regretful pang, "I'd have made a
point of telling you." But he said aloud—
"Yes. It was a sottise; but i've got over
the likeness so completely that I forgot how
it agitated you. But I ought to tell you
they have no connexion with the family—
none in the world. Pelter and Crowe, you
know—devilish sharp dogs—my lawyers in
town—they are regular detectives, by Jove!
and know everything—and particularly have
had for years a steady eye upon them and
their movements; and I have had a most de-
cided letter from them, assuring me that
there has not been the slightest movement in
that quarter, and therefore there is, absolute-
ly, as I told you from the first, nothing in it."
"And what Deverells are now living?" in-
quired the old lady, very pale.
"Two first cousins, they tell me—old fel-
lows now; and one of them has a son or two;
but not one called Guy, and none answering
this description, you see; and neither have a
shadow of claim, or ever pretended; and as
for that unfortunate accident"
"Pray spare me," said the old lady grimly.
"Well, they did not care a brass farthing
about the poor fellow, so they would never
move 1o give me trouble in that matter; and,
in fact, people never do stir in law, and put
themselves to serious expense, purely for a
sentiment—even a bad one."
"I remember some years ago you were very
much alarmed, Jekyl.''
"No, I was not. Who the plague says
that? There's nothing, thank Heaven, I need
fear. One does not like to be worried with
lawsuits—that's all—though there is and can
be no real danger in them."
"And was it from these cousins you appre-
hended lawsuits ?" inquired Lady Alice.
"No, not exactly—no, not at all. I be-
lieve that fellow Strangways—that fellow that
used to live on poor Guy—I fancy he was the
mover of it—indeed I know he was."
"What did they proceed for V asked the
old lady. "You never told me—you are so
secret, Jekyl."
"They did not proceed at all—how could
I? Their attorneys had cases before counsel
affecting me—that's all I ever heard; and
they say now it was all Strangways' doing—
that is, Pelter and Crowe say so. I wish I
were secret."
Old Lady Alice here heaved a deep groan,
and said, not with asperity, but with a fa-
tigued abhorrence—
"Go away; I wonder I can bear you near
me."
"Thank you very much," said the
Baronet, rising, with one of his pleasant
chuckles.
"I can't tell you how glad I am to have
you here, and I know you'll be very glad to
see me in the morning, when you are a little
rested."
So he kissed the tips of his fmgers and
touched them playfully to the back of her
thin hand, which she withdrew with a little
frown, as if they chilled her. And by her di-
rection he called in her maid, whom he ask-
ed very smilingly how she did, and welcomed
to Marlowe; and she, though a little passe,
having heard the fame of Sir Jekyl, and
many stories of his brilliant adventures, was
very modest and fluttered on the occasion.
Ana with another little petting speech to
Lady Alice, the radiant Baronet withdrew.
It is not to be supposed that Lady Alice's
tremors communicated themselves to Bea-
trix. Was it possible to regard that hand-
some, refined young man, who spoke in that
low, sweet voice, and smiled so intelligently,
and talked so pleasantly, and with that deli-
cate flavor of romance at times, in the light
of a goblin?
The gentlemen had made their whist-party.
The Rev. Dive3 Marlowe was chatting to, not
with Lady Jane, who sat listlessly on an ot-
toman. That elderly girl, Miss Blunket, with
the naive ways, the animated, smiling, and
rather malevolent countenance, had secured
little Linnett, who bore his imprisonment im-
patiently and wearily it must be owned.
When Miss Blunket was enthusiastic it was
all very well; but her playfulness was wick-
ed, and her satire gaily vitriolic.
"Mr. Marlowe is fascinated, don't you
think?" she inquired of harmless little Lin-
nett, glancing with an arch flash of her fierce
eyes at the Rev. Dives.
"She's awfully handsome," said Linnett,
honestly.
"Oh, dear, you wicked creature, you can't
think I meant that. She is some kind of
cousin, I think—is not she? And her hus-
band has that great living—what's its name?
—and no relation in the Church; and Lady
Jane, they say, rules him—and Sir Jekyl,
some people say, rules her."
s


GUT DEVERELL.
Linnett returned her arch glance with an
honest stare of surprise.
"I had no idea of that, egad," said he.
"She thinks him so wise in all worldly
matters, you know; and people in London
fancied she would have been the second Lady
Marlowe, if she had not met General Lennox
just at a critical time, and fallen in love with
him;" and as she said this she laughed
"Really!" exclaimed Linnett; and he sur-
veyed Lady Jane in this new light wonder-
"I really don't know ; I heard it said mere-
ly; but very likely, you know, it is not true,"
she answered with an artless giggle.
"I knew you were quizzing—though, by
Jove, you did sell me at first; but I really
think Sir Jekyl's a little spoony on that pret-
ty little Mrs. Maberly. Is she a widow? ,
"Oh, dear, no—at least, not quite; she has
a husband in India, but then, poor man, he's
so little in the way she need hardly wish him
dead."
"I see," said Linnett, looking at Mrs. Ma-
berly with a grave interest.
While Miss Blunket was entertaining and in-
structing little Linnett with this sort of girl-
islv chatter, and from the whist-table be-
tween the deals, arose those critical discus-
sions and reviews, relieved now and then by
a joke from the Baronet, or from his partner,
Colonel Doocey, at the piano, countenanced
by old Lady Blunket, who had come to listen
and remained to doze, Beatrix, her fingers
still on the keys, was listening to young
Strangways.
There are times, lights, accidents, under
which your handsome young people become
incredibly more handsome, and this Guy
Strangways now shared in that translated
glory, as he leaned on the back of a tall carv-
ed chair, sometimes speaking, sometimes lis-
tening.
"It is quite indescribable, Miss Marlowe,
how your music interests me—I should say,
haunts me. I thought at first it was because
you loved ballad music, which I also love;
but it is not that^it is something higher and
more peculiar."
"I am sure you were right at first, for I
know I am a very indifferent musician," said
Beatrix, looking down under her long lashes
on the keys over which the jewelled fingers
of her right hand wandered with hardly a
tinkle, just tracing dreamily one of those
sweet melancholy airs which made in fancy
an accompaniment to the music of that
young fellow's words.
How beautiful she looked, too, with eyes
lowered and parted lips, and that listening
smile—not quite a smile—drinking in with a
strange rapture of pride and softness the flat-
teries which she refused and yet invited.
"It is something higher and mysterious,
which, perhaps, I shall never attempt to ex-
plain, unless, indeed, I should risk talking
very wildly—too wildly for you to under-
stand, or, if you did, perhaps—to forgive."
"You mentioned a Breton ballad you once
heard," said Beatrix, frightened, as girls will
sometimes become whenever the hero of
their happy hours oegms on a sudden to de-
fine.
"Yes," he said, and the danger of the cri-
sis was over. "I wish so much I could re-
member the air, you would so enter into its
character, and make its wild unfathomable
melancholy so beautifully touching in your
clear contralto."
"You must not flatter me; I want to hear
more of that ballad."
"If flattery be to speak more highly than
one thinks, who can flatter Miss Marlowe?"
Again the crisis was menacing. "Besides,
I did not tell you we are leaving, I believe, in
day or tgvo, and on the eve of so near a de-
parture/may I not improve the few happy
moments that are left me, and be permitted
the privilege of a leave-taking, to speak more
frankly, and perhaps less wisely than one
who is destined to be all his life a neighbor?"
"Papa, I am sure, will be very sorry to
hear that you and Monsieur Varbarriere are
thinking of going so soon ; I must try, how-
ever, to improve the time, and hear all you
can tell me of those interesting people of
Brittany."
"Yes, they are. I will make them another
visit—a sadder visit, Mademoiselle—for me a
far more interesting one. You have taught
me how to hear and see them. I never felt
the spirit of Villemarque, or the romance
and melancholy of that antique region, till I
had the honor of knowing you."
"My friends always laughed at me about
Brittany. I suppose different people are in-
terested by different subjects; but I do not
think any one could read at all about that
part of the world and not be fascinated. You
promised to tell all you remember of that
Breton ballad."
"Oh, yes; the haunted lady, the beautiful
lady, the heiress of Carlowel, now such a
grand ruin, became enamored of a mysterious
cavalier who woood her; but he was some-
thing not of flesh and blood, but of the spirit
world."
"There is exactly such a legend, so far, at
least, of a castle on the Rhine. I must show
it to you. Do you read German?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"And does the ballad end tragically?"
"Most tragically. You shall hear.
"Where are you, G'\y?" in French, in-
quired a deep ringing voice.
And on the summons, Guy glanced over
his shoulder, and replied,
"Oh," exclaimed the same voice, "I de-
mand pardon. I am disturbing conversa-
tion, I fear; but an old man in want of as-
sistance will be excused. I want my road
book, Guy, and you have got it. Pray, run
up stairs and fetch it."
With great pleasure, of course, Guy
Strangways ran up stairs to tumble over
block-books, letters, diaries, and the general
residuum of a half-emptied valise.
Miss Beatrix played a spirited march,
which awoke Lady Blunket, whom she had
forgotten; and that interesting woman, to
make up for lost time, entertained her with
a history of the unreasonableness of Smidge,


GUY DEVERELL.
53
her maid, and a variety of other minute
afflictions, which, she assured Beatrix se-
riously, disturbed her sleep.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE DIVAN.
That night Sir Jekyl led the gentlemen in
a body to Ms outpost quarters, in the rear of
civilization, where they enjoyed their cigars,
brandy and water, and even "swipes," pro-
digiously. It is a noble privilege to be so
rich as Sir Jekyl Marlowe. The Jewish price
for frankincence was thrice its own weight in
gold. How much did that aromatic blue
canopy that rolled dimly over this Turkish
divan cost that off-handed Sybarite? How
many scruples of fine gold were floating in
that cloud?
Varbarriere was in his way charmed with
his excursion. He enjoyed the jokes and
stories of the younkers, and the satiric slang
and imperrturbable good humor of their
host. The twinkle of his eye, from its deep
cavern, and the suavity of his solemn fea-
tures, testified to his profound enjoyment of
a meeting to which he contributed, it must
be owned, for his own share, little but smoke.
In fact, he was very silent, very observant
—observant of more things than the talk
perhaps.
All sorts of things were talked about. Of
course, no end of horse and dog anecdote—
something of wine, something of tobacco,
something of the beauties of the opera and
the stage, and those sad visions, the fallen
angelic of the demimonde—something, but
only the froth and sparkle of politics—light
conjecture, and pungent scandal, in the spirit
of gay satire and profligate comedy.
"He's a bad dog, St. Evermore. Did not
you hear that about the duel ?". said Drayton.
"What?" asked the Baronet, with an un-
conscious glance at Guy Strangways.
"He killed that French fool—what's his
name ?—unfairly, they say. There has been
a letter or something in one of the Paris pa-
pers about it. Fired before his time, I think,
and very ill feeling against the English in
cousequence.
"Oh !" said the Baronet.
"But you know, interposed Doocey, who
was an older clubman than Drayton, and re-
membering further back, thought that sort
of anecdote of the duel a little maladroit just
then and there, "St. Evermore has been
talked about a good deal; there were other
things—that horse, you know ; and they say,
by Jove! he was licked by Tromboni, at the
wings of the opera, for what he called in-
sulting his wife; and Tromboni says he is a
marquess, and devil knows what beside, at
home, and wanted to fight, but St. Evermore
wouldn't, and took his licking."
"He's not a nice fellow by any means;
but he's devilish good company—lots of good
stories and capital cigars," said Drayton.
At this point M. Varbarriere was seized
with a fit of coughing; and Sir Jekyl glanced
sharply at him ; but no, he was not laughing.
The conversation proceeded agreeably, and
some charming stories were told of Sir Paul
Blunket, who was not present; and in less
than an hour the party broke up and left Sir
Jekyl to his solitary quarters.
The Baronet bid his last guest good night
at the threshold, and then shut his door and
locked himself in. It was his custom, here,
to sleep with his door locked.
"What was that fellow laughing at—Var-
barriere? I'm certain he was laughing. I
never saw a fellow with so completely the
cut of a charlatan. I'll write to Charteris to-
night. I must learn all about him."
Then Sir Jekyl yawned, and reflected what
a fool Drayton was, what a fellow to talk,
and what asses all fellows were at that age;
and, being sleepy, he postponed his letter to
Charteris to the next morning, and proceed-
ed to undress.
Next morning was bright and pleasant,
and he really did not see much good in
writing the letter; and so he put it off to a
more convenient time.
Shortly after the ladies had left the draw-
ing-room for their bed-rooms, Beatrix, having
looked in for a moment to her grandmam-
ma's room, and, with a kiss and a good night,
taken wing again, there entered to Lady
Alice, as the old plays express it, then com-
posing herself for the night, Lady Jane's
maid, with—
"Please, my lady, my lady wants to know
if your ladyship knows where her ladyship's
key maybe?"
"What key?"
"The key of her bedchamber, please, my
lady."
"Oh! the key of my dressing-room. Tell
Lady Jane that I have got the key of the
Window dressing-room, and mean to keep
it," replied the old lady, firmly.
The maid executed a courtesy, and depart-
ed; and Lady Alice sank back again upon
her pillow, with her eyes and mouth firmly
closed, and the countenance of an old lady
who is conscious of having done her duty
upon one of her sex.
About two minutes later there came a rus-
tle of a dressing-gown and the patter of a
swift slippered tread through the short pas-
sage from the dressing-room, and, without a
knock, Lady Jane, with a brilliant flush on
her face, ruffled into the room, and^ with
her head very high, and flashing eyes, de-
manded—
"Will you be so good, Lady Alice Red-
cliffe, as to give me the key of my bedroom?"
To which Lady Alice, without opening
her eyes, and with her hands mildly clasped,
in the fashion of a mediaeval monument,
over her breast, meekly and fimly made an-
swer—
"If you mean the key of the Window
dressing-room, Jane, I have already told your
maid that I mean to keep it!"
"And I'll not leave the room till I get it,"
cried Lady Jane, standing fiercely beside the
monument.


54
GUT DEVERELL.
"Then you'll not leave the room to-night,
Jane," replied the statuesque sufferer on the
bed.
"We shall «w that. Once more, will you
give me my key or not?"
"The key of my dressing-room door is in
my possession, and I mean to keep it," re-
peated the old lady, with a provoking mild-
ness.
"You shan't, madam—you'll do no such
thing. You shall give up the key you have
stolen. I'll lose my life but I'll make you."
"Jane, Jane," said the old lady, " you are
sadly changed for the worse since last I saw
you."
"And if you're not, it's only because there
was no room for it. Sadly changed indeed—
very true. I don't suffer you to bully me as
you used at Wardlock."
"May Heaven forgive and pardon you!"
ejaculated the old lady, with great severity,
rising perpendicularly and raising both her
eyes and hands.
"Keep your prayers for yourself, madam,
and give me my key," demanded the incensed
young lady.
"I'll do'no such thing; I'll do as I said;
and I'll pray how I please, ma'am," retorted
the suppliant, fiercely.
"Your prayers dou't signify twopence.
You've the temper of a fiend, as all the world
knows; and no one can live in the same-
house with you," rejoined Lady Jane.
"That's a wicked lie: my servants live all
their days with me."
"Because they know no one else wornd
take them. But you've the temper of a fury.
You haven't a friend left, and every one
hates you."
"Oh! oh! oh!" moaned Lady Alice, sink-
ing back, with her hand pressed to her heart
piteously, and closing her eyes, as she recol-
lected how ill she was.
"Ho ! dear me!" exclaimed Lady Jane, in
high disdain. "Had not you better restore
my key before you die, old lady!"
"Jane!" exclaimed Lady Alice, recovering
in an instant, " have you no feeling—you
know the state I'm in; and you're bent on
killing me with your unfeeling brutality?"
"You're perfectly well, ma'am, and you
look it. I wish I was half as strong; you
oblige me to come all this way, this bitter
night, you odious old woman."
"I see how it is, and why you want the
key. A very little more, and I'll write to
General Lennox."
"Do ; and he'll horsewhip you."
Lady Jane herself was a little stunned at
this speech, when she heard it from hdr o wn
lips : and I think would have recalled it.
"Thank you, Jane; I hope you'll remember
that. Horsewhip me l No doubt you wish
it; but General Lennox is a gentleman, I
hope, although he has married you; and 1
don't suppose he would murder a miserable
old woman to gratify you."
You know perfectly what I mean—if you
were a man he would horsewhip you; you
have done nothing but insult me ever since
you entered this house."
"Thank you ; it's quite plain. I shan't
forget it. Til ask him, when he comes,
whether he's in the habit of beating women.
It is not usual, I believe, among British
officers. It usen't at least; but every thingls
getting on—young ladies, and, I suppose, old
men—all getting on famously."
"Give me my key, if you please ; and cease
talking like a fool," cried Lady Jane.
"And what do you want of that key?
Come, now, young lady, what is it?"
"Idon't choose to have my door lie open,
and I won't. I've no bolt to the inside, and
I will have my key, madam."
"If that's your object, set your mind at
ease. I'll lock your door myself when you
have got in your bed."
"So that if the house takes fire I shall be
burnt to death!"
"Pooh ! nonsense!"
"And if I am they'll hang you, I hope."
"Thank you. Flogged and hanged!"
And Lady Alice laughed an exceedmg bitter
laugh. "But the wicked violence of your
language and menaces shan't deter me from
the duty I've prescribed to myself. I'll define
my reasons if you like, and I'll write as soon
as you please to General Lennox."
"I think you're mad—I do, I assure you.
I'll endure it for once, but depend on it I'll
complain to Sir Jekyl Marlowe, in my hus-
band's absence, in the morning; and if this
sort of thing is to go on, I had better leave
the house forthwith—that's all."
And having uttered these dignified sen-
tences with becoming emphasis, she sailed
luridly away.
"Good night, Jane," said Lady Alice, with
a dry serenity.
"Don't dare, you insupportable old wo-
man, to wish me good-night," burst out Lady
Jane, whisking round at the threshold.
"With which speech, having paused for a
moment in defiance, she disappeared, leaving
the door wide open, which is, perhaps, as an-
noying as clapping it, and less vulgar.
CHAPTER XXIV.
GUY STRANGWAYS AKD M, VABBAKRIERE
CONVEBSE.
When M. Varbarriere and his nephew thi3
night sat down in their dressing-room, the
elder man said—
"How do you like Sir Jekyl Marlowe?"
"A most agreeable host—verj lively-
very hospitable," answered Guy Strangways.
"Does it strike you that he is anxious
about anything?"
The young man looked surprised.
"No; that is, I mean, he appears to me
in excellent spirits. Perhaps, sir, I do not
quite apprehend you?"
"Not unlikely," said the old gentleman.
"He does not question you?"
"No, sir."
"Yet he suspects me, and I think sus-
pects you," observed M. Varbarriere.


GUY DEVERELL.
5i>
The young man looked pained, but said
nothing.
"That room where poor Lady Marlowe
was—was so shocked—the green chamber
—it is connected with the misfortunes of
your family."
"How, sir?"
"Those papers you have heard my law-
yer mention as having been lost at Dubois'
Hotel in London, by your grandfather, it
is my belief were lost in this house and in
that room."
A gentleman smoking a cigar must be
very much interested indeed when he re-
moves his weed from his lips and rests the
hand whose fingers hold it upon his knee,
to the imminent risk of its going out while
he pauses and listens.
"And how, sir, do you suppose this oc-
curred—by what agency?" inquired the
handsome young gentleman.
"The ghost," answered M. Varbarriere,
with a solemn sneer.
Guy Strangways knew he could not be
serious, although, looking on his counte-
nance, he could discern there no certain
trace of irony as he proceeded.
"Many years later, poor Lady Marlowe,
entered that room late at night—her maid
slept there, and she being ill, for a change,
in the smaller room adjoining (you don't
know those rooms, but I have looked in at
the door)—beheld what we call the ghost,
and never smiled or held up her head after,"
said the portly old gentleman between the
puffa of his cigar.
"Beheld the ghost!''
"So they say, and I believe it —what
they call the ghost."
"Did she make an alarm or call her hus-
band?"
"Her husband slept in that remote room
at the very back of the house, which, as
you sec, he still occupies, quite out of hear-
mg. You go down-stairs first, then up-
stairs; and as he slept the greater part of
'two hundred feet away from the front of
the house, of course he was out of the
question ;" and M. Yarbarriere sneered again
solemnly.
"A housekeeper named Gwynn, I am
told, knows all about it, but I believe she
is gone."
"And do you really think, sir, that my
grandfather lost those deeds here V
"I always thought so, and so I told your
father, and my information got him into a
bad scrape."
"You don't, I know, think it occurred
supernaturally?" said Guy, more and more
bewildered.
"Supernaturally; of course it was—how
else could it be?" answered the old gentle-
man, with a drowsy irony. "That room
has been haunted, as I have heard, by a
devil from the time it was built, in the
reign of George II. Can you imagine why
General Lennox was put to sleep there?"
The yonng man shook his head. The
old one resumed his smoking, leaving his
problem unsolved.
"It shall be my business to evoke and to
lay that devil," said the elderly gentleman,
abruptly.
"Ought not Lady Jane Lennox to be
warned if you really think there is any—
any danger f"
"The danger is to General Lennox, as
I suppose."
"I don't understand, sir."
"No, you don't—better not. I told your
poor father my belief once, and it proved
fatal knowledge to him. In the day that
he ate thereof he died. Bah! it is better
to keep your mind to yourself until you
have quite made it up—you understand?
—and even then till the time for action
has come, and not even then, unless you
want help. Who will sum up the mischief
one of those prating fellows does in a lifetime?"
The gentlemen were silent hereupon for a
period which I may measure by half a cigar.
"That green chamber—it is a hypocrite,"
said the solemn old man, looking drowsily
on the smoke that was ascending the chim-
ney, into which he threw the butt-end of
his cigar—" mind you, hypocrite. I have
my theory. But we will not talk; no—you
will be less embarrassed, and I more useful,
with this reserve. For the purpose I have
in view I will do fifty things in which vou
could and would have no partnership. Will
you peep into that letter, Monsieur?" The
ponderous gentleman grew dramatic here.
"Will you place your ear to that door,
si'l vous plait—your eye to that keyhole?
Will you oblige me by bribing that domes-
tic with five pounds sterling? Bah! I will
be all ear, all eye—omnipresent, omniscient
omnipotent!—by all means for this end—
ay, all means—what you call secret, shabby,
blackguard;" and the sonorous voice of the
old man, for the first time since his arrival,
broke into a clangorous burst of laughter,
which, subsiding into a sort of growl, died,
at last quite away. The old gentleman's
countenance looked more thoughtful and a
shade darker than he had seen it. Then
rising, he stood with his back to the fire,
and fumbled slowly at the heavy links of
his watch-chain, like a ghostly monk telling
his beads, while he gazed, in the abstraction
of deep thought, on the face of the young
man.
Suddenly his face grew vigilant, his eyes
lighted up, and some stern lines gathered
about them, as he looked down full upon his
nephew.
"Guy," said he, " you'll keep your promise
—your word—your oath—that not one sylla-
ble of what passes between us is divulged to
mortal, and that all those points on which I
have enjoined reserve shall be held by you
scrupulously secret."
Guy bowed his acquiescence.
"What nonsense was that going on at the
piano to-night? Well, you need not answer,
but there must be no more of it. 1 won't
burden you with painful secrets. You will
understand me hereafter; but no more of
that—observe me."
The old gentleman spoke this injunction


56
GUY DEVERELL.
with a lowering nod, and that deliberate and
peremptory emphasis to which his metallic
tones gave effect.
Guy heard this, leaning in an unchanged
attitude on his elbow over the chimney-piece,
in silence and with downcast eyes.
"Yes, Guy," said the old man, walking
suddenly up to him, and clapping his broad
hand upon his shoulder, "I will complete
the work I have begun for you. Have con-
fidence in me, don't mar it, and you shall
know all, and after I am gone, perhaps ad-
mire the zealous affection with which I
labored in your interest. Good-night, and
Heaven bless you, dear Guy;" and so they
parted for the night.
Guy Strangways had all his life stood in
awe of this reserved despotic uncle—kind, in-
dulgent in matters of pleasure and of money,
but habitually secret, and whenever he im-
posed a command, tyrannical. Yet Guy felt
that even here there was kindness; and
though he could not understand his plans, of
his motives he could have no doubt.
For M. Varbarriere, indeed, his nephew
had a singular sort of respect. More than
one-half of his character was enveloped in
total darkness to his eyes. Of the traits that
were revealed some were positively evil. He
knew, by just one or two proofs, that he was
proud and vindictive, and could carry his re-
venge for a long time, like a. cold stone, in
his sleeve. He could break out into a devil
of a passion, too, on occasion; he could be as
unscrupulous, in certain ways, as Machiavel;
and, it was fixed in Guy's mind, had abso-
lutely no religion whatsoever. What were
the evidences? M. Varbarriere led a respect-
able life, and showed his solemn face and
person in church with regularity, and was on
very courteous relations with the clergy, and
had built the greater part of a church in
Pontaubrique, where prayers are, I believe,
still offered up for him. Ought not all this
to have satisfied Guy? And yet he knew
quite well that solemn M. Varbarriere did
not believe one fact, record, tradition, or
article of the religion he professed, or of any
other. Had he denounced, ridiculed, or con-
troverted them?—Never. On the contrary,
he kept a civil tongue in his head, or was si-
lent. What, then, were the proofs, which
had long quite settled the question in Guy's
mind? They consisted of some half-dozen
smiles and shrugs, scattered over some fifteen
years, and delivered impressively at signifi-
cant moments.
But with all this he was kindly. The hap-
piness of a great number of persons depend-
ed upon M. Varbarriere, and they were hap-
py. His wine-estates were well governed.
His'great silk-factory in the south was wise-
ly and benevolently administered. He gave
handsomely to every deserving charity.
He smiled on children and gave them small
coins. He loved flowers, and no man was
more idolized by his dogs.
Guy was attached by his kindness, and he
felt that be his moral system exactly what it
might, he had framed one and acted under
it, and instinctively imbibed for him that
respect which we always cherish for the
man who has submitted his conduct consist-
ently to a code or principle self-imposed by
intellect—even erring.
CHAPTER XXV.
LADY ALICE TALKS WITH GUT STRANGWAYS.
When Guy had bid this man good-night
and entered his chamber, he threw himself
into his easy-chair beside the fire, which had
grown low and grey in the grate. He felt
both sad and alarmed. He now felt assured
that M. Varbarriere was fashioning and get-
ting together the parts of a machine which
was to work evil against their host and his
family? His daughter Beatrix. He had no
other.
Already implicated in deception, the rea-
sons for which he knew not, the direction of
which he only suspected—bound as Be was
to secrecy by promises the most sacred, to
his stern old kinsman and benefactor, he dared
not divulge the truth. Somehow the blow
meditated, he was confident, against this Bar-
onet, was to redound to his advantage. What
a villain should he appear when all was over!
Sir Jekyl, his host, too, frank and hospitable
—how could he have earned the misfortune,
be it great or small, that threatened? And
the image of Beatrix—like an angel—stood
between her father and the unmasked villain
Guy, who had entered the house in a borrowed
shape, ate and drank and slept, talked and
smiled, and, he now feared, loved, and in the
end—struck!
When Mr. Guy Strangways came down
next morning he looked very pale. His
breakfast was a sham. He talked hardly at
all, and smiled but briefly and seldom.
M. Varbarriere, on the contrary, was more
than usually animated, and talked in his pe-
culiar vein rather more than was his wont;
and after breakfast, Sir Jekyl placed his hand
kindly on Guy Strangways arm as he looked
dismally from the window. The young
man almost started at the kindly pressure.
"Very glad to hear that Monsieur Varbar-
riere has changed his mind," said Sir Jekyl,
with a smile.
What change was this? thought Guy,
whose thoughts were about other plans Of
his uncle's, and he looked with a strange sur-
prise in Sir Jekyl's face.
"I mean his ill-natured idea of going so
soon. I'm so glad. You know you have
seen nothing yet, and we are going to kill a
buck to-day, so you had better postpone the
moor to-morrow, and if you like to take your
rod in the afternoon, you will find—Barron
tells me—some very fine trout, about half a
mile lower down the stream than you fished
yesterday—a little below the bridge."
Guy thanked him, 1 fancy, rather oddly.
He heard him in fact as if it was tm effort to
follow his meaning, and he really did feel re-
lieved when his good-natured host was called
away, the next moment, to settle a disputed
question between the two sportsmen, Linnett
and Doocey.


GUY DEVERELL.
57
"How is grandmamma this morning ?" in-
quired Sir Jekyl of Beatrix, before she left
the room,
"Better, I think. She says she will take
a little turn up and down the broad walk, by-
and-by, and I am to go with her."
"Very pleasant for you, Trixie," said her
papa, with one of his chuckles. "So you
can't go with your ladies to Lonsted to-day?"
"No—it can't be helped; but I'm glad
poor granny can take her little walk."
"Not a bit of you, Trixie."
"Yes, indeed, I am. Poor old granny."
The-incredulous Baronet tapped her cheek
with his finger, as he chuckled again roguish-
ly, and with a smile and a shake of his head,
their little talk ended.
In the hall he found Guy Strangways in
his angling garb, about to start on a solitary
excursion. He preferred it. He was very
much obliged. He did not so much care for
the chase, and liked walking even better
than riding.
The Baronet, like a well-bred host, allowed
his guests to choose absolutely their own
methods of being happy, but he could not
but perceive something in the young gentle-
man's manner that was new and uncomfor-
table. Had he offended him—had anything
occurred during the sitting after dinner last
night? Well, he could not make it out, but
his manner was a little odd and constrained,
and in that slanting light from above, as he
had stood before him in the hall, he certain-
ly did look confoundedly like that other Guy
whose memory was his chief spoil-sport.
But it crossed him only like a neuralgic pang,
to be forgotten a minute after. And so the
party dispersed—some mounted, to the park;
others away with the keeper and dogs for
the moor; and Strangways, dejected on his
solitary river-side ramble.
His rod and fly-book were but pretexts—
his object was solitude. It was a beautiful
autumnal day, a low sun gilding the red and
yellow foliage of wood and hedgerow, and
the mellow songs of birds were quivering in
the air. The cheer and the melancholy of
autumn were there—the sadness of a pleasant
farewell.
"It is well," thought Strangways, " that I
have been so startled into consciousness,
while I yet have power to escape my fate—
that beautiful girl! I did not know till last
night how terrible I shall find it to say fare-
well. But, cost what it may, the word must
be spoken. She will never know what it
costs me. I may call it a dream, but even
dreams of paradise are forgotten; my dream
—never! All after-days dark without her.
All my future life a sad reverie—a celestial re-
membrance—a vain yearning. These proud
English people—and those dark designs, what
are they? No, they shan't hurt her—never.
I'll denounce hira first. What is it to me
what becomes of me if I have saved her—in
so few days grown to be so much to me—my
idol, my darling, though she may never
know it?"
Guy Strangways, just five-and-twenty, had
formed, on the situation, many such tremen-
dous resolutions as young gentlemen at that
period of life are capable of. He would speak
to her no more; he would think of her no
more; he would brave his uncle's wrath,
shield her from all possibility of evil—throw
up his own stakes, be they what they might—
and depart in silence, and never see Beatrix
again.
The early autumn evening had begun to
redden the western clouds, as Guy Strang-
ways, returning, approached the fine old
house, and passing a thick group of trees and
underwoods, he suddenly found himself be-
fore Beatrix and Lady Alice. I dare say
they had been talking about him, for Beatrix
blushed, and the old lady stared at him from
under her grey brows, with lurid half-
frightened eyes, as she leaned forward, her
thin fingers grasping the arms of the rustic
chair, enveloped in her ermine-lined mantle.
Lady Alice looked on him as an old lady
might upon a caged monster—with curiosity
and fear. She was beginning to endure his
presence, though still with an awe nearly
akin to horror—though that horror was fast
disappearing—and there was a strange yearn-
ing, too, that drew her toward him.
He had seen Beatrix that morning. The
apparition had now again risen in the midst
of his wise resolutions, and embarrassed him
strangely. The old lady's stare, too, was,
you may suppose, to a man predisposed to
be put out, very disconcerting. The result
was that he bowed very low indeed before
the ladies, and remained silent, expecting,
like a ghost, to be spoken to.
"Come here, sir, if you please," said the old
lady, with an odd mixture of apprehension
and command. "How d'ye do, Mr. Strang-
ways? I saw you, yesterday, you know, at
dinner; and I saw you some weeks since at
Wardlock Church. I have been affected by a
resemblance. Merciful Heaven,'it ts miracu-
lous! And things of that sort affect me now
more than they once might have done. I'm
a sickly old woman, and have lost most of
my dearest ties on earth, and cannot expect
to remain much longer behind them."
It was odd, but the repulsion was still
active, while at the same time she was alrea-
dy, after a fashion, opening her heart to hira.
H It was not easy to frame an answer, on
the moment, to this strange address. He
could only say, as again he bowed low—
"I do recollect, Lady Alice, having seen
you in Wardlock Church. My uncle, Mon-
sieur Vabarriere"
At this point the handsome young gentle-
man broke down. His uncle had whispered
him, as they sat side by side—
"Look at that old lady costumed in
mourning, in the seat in the gallery with the
marble tablet and two angels—do you see ?—
on the wall behind. That is Lady Alice Red-
cliffe. I'll tell you more about her by-and-by."
"By-and-by," as Guy Strangways had come
to know, indicated in M. Vabarrierr.s voca-
bulary that period which was the luminous
point in his perspective, at which his unex-
plained hints and proceedings would all be
cleared up. The sudden rush of these recol-


!5S
GUY DEVERELL.
lections and surmises m sucn a presence
overcame Guy Strangways, and he changed
color and became silent.
The old lady, however, understood nothing
of the cause of his sudden embarrassment,
and spoke again.
"Will you forgive an old woman for speak-
ing with so little reserve ?—your voice, too,
sir, so wonderfully resembles it—wonder-
fully."
Old Lady Alice dried her eyes a little here,
and Guy, who felt that his situation might
soon become very nearly comical, said very
gently—
"There are, I believe, such likenesses. I
have seen one or two such myself." And then
to Beatrix aside," My presence and these re-
collections, I fear, agitate Lady Alice."
But the old lady interposed in a softened
tone—" No, sir; pray don't go; pray remain.
You've been walking, fishing. What a sweet
day, and charming scenery near here. I
know it all very well. In my poor girl's life-
time I was a great deal here. She was very
accomplished—she drew beautifully—poor
thing; my pretty Beatrix here is very like
her. You can't remember your poor mamma?
No, hardly."
All this time Lady Alice was, with aristo-
cratic ill-breeding, contemplating the fea-
tures of Guy Strangways, as she might a pic-
ture, with saddened eyes. She was be-
coming accustomed to the apparition. It had
almost ceased to frighten her; and she liked
it even, as a help to memory.
Five" minutes later she was walking feebly
up and down the plateau, in the last level
beams of the genial sunset, leaning on the
arm of the young man, who could not refuse
this courtesy to the garrulous old lady, al-
though contrary to his prudent resolutions
—it retained him so near to Beatrix.
"And, Mr. Strangways, it is not every day,
you know, I can walk out; and Trixie here
will sometimes bring her work into the bou-
doir—and if you would pay me a visit there,
and read or talk a little, you can't think what
a kindness you would do me."
What could he do but hear and smile, and
declare how happy it would make him? Al-
though here, too, he saw danger to his wise
resolutions. But have not the charities of
society their claims?
These were their parting words as they
stood on the stone platform, under the carved
armorial bearings of the Marlowes, at the
hall-door; and old Lady Alice, when she
reached her room, wept softer and happier
tears than had wet her cheeks for many a
year.
CHAPTER XXVI.
SOME TALK OF A SURVEY OF TUB GREEN
CHAMBER.
The red sunset beam that had lighted the
gronp we have just been following, glanced
through the windows of M. Varbarriere's
dressing-room, and lighted up a letter he
was at that moment reading. It said—
"The woman co wnom you refer is still
living. We heard fully about her last year,
and, we are informed, is now in the service
of Lady Alice Redcliffe, of Wardlock, within
easy reach of Marlowe. We found her, as
we thought, reliable in her statements,
though impracticable and reserved ; but that
is eight years since. She was, I think, some
way past fifty then."
M. Varbarriere looked up here, and placed
the letter in his pocket, beholding his valet
entering.
"Come in, Jacques," exclaimed the pon-
derous old gentleman, in the vernacular of
the valet.
He entered gaily bowing and smiling.
"Well, my friend," he exclaimed, good hu-
moredly, "you look very happy, and no
wonder—you, a lover of beauty, are fortunate
in a house where so much is treasured."
"Ah! Monsieur mocks himself of me.
But there are many beautiful ladies assembled
here, my faith!"
"What do you think of Lady Jane Len-
nox r
"Oh, heavens! it is an angel!"
"And only think! she inhabits, all alone,
that terrible green chamber !" exclaimed the
old gentleman, with an unwonted smile, " I
have just been wondering about that green
chamber, regarding which so many tales of
terror are related, and trying from its out-
ward aspect to form some conjecture as to
its interior, you understand, its construction
and arrangements. It interests me so strange-
ly. Now, I dare say, by this time so curious
a sprite as you—so clever—so potent with
that fair sex who hold the keys of all that is
worth visiting, there is hardly a nook in this
house. from the cellar to the garret, worth
looking at, into which you have not con-
trived a peep during this time?"
"Ah, my faith! Monsieur does me too
much honor. I may have been possibly, but
I do not know to which of the rooms they
accord that name."
Now upon this M. Varbarriere described
to him the exact situation of the apartment.
"And who occupies the room at present,
Monsieur?"
"Lady Jane Lennox, I told you."
"Oh! then I'm sure I have not been there.
That would be impossible."
"But there must be no impossibility here,"
said the old gentleman, with agrim' half joke
and whole earnest' emphasis. "If you satis-
fy me during our stay in this house I will
make you a present of five thousand francs—
you comprehend ?—this day three weeks. I
am curious in my way as you are in yours.
Let us see whether your curiosity cannot sub-
serve mine. In the first place, on the honor
of a gentleman—your father was a Captain of \
Chasseurs, and his son will not dishonor him l
—you promise to observe the strictest silence,
and secrecy." \
Jacques bowed and smiled deferentially; V
their eyes met for a moment, and Monsieur J
Varbarriere said— J
"You need not suppose any thing so serious |l i
~mon ami—there is no tragedy or even


GUY DEVERELL.
59
fourberie intended. I have heard spiritual
marvels about that apartment; I am inqui-
sitive. Say I am composing a philosophy
and writing a book on the subject, and I want
some few facts about the proportions of it.
See, here is a sketch—oblong square—that
is the room. You will visit it—you take some
pieces of cord—you measure accurately the
distance from this wall to that—you see ?—
the length; then from this to this—the
breadth. If any projection or recess, you
measure its depth or prominence most exact-
ly. If there be any door or buffet in the
room, beside the entrance, you mark where.
You also measure carefully the thickness of
the wall at the windows and the door. I am
very curious, and all this you shall do."
The courier shrugged, and smiled, and
pondered.
"Come, there may be difficulties, but such
as melt before the light of your genius and
the glow of this," and he lifted a little column
of a dozen golden coins between his finger
and thumb.
"Do you think that when we, the visitors,
are all out walking or driving, a chamber-
maid would hesitate for a couple of these
counters to facilitate your enterprise, and en-
able you to do all this? Bah! I know them
too well."
"I am flattered of the confidence of Mon-
sieur. I am ravi of the opportunity to serve
him."
There was something perhaps cynical in
the imposing solemnity of gratitude with
which M. Varbarriere accepted these.evi-
dences of devotion.
"You must so manage that she will sup-
pose nothing of the fact that it is /who want
all these foolish little pieces cf twine," said
the grave gentleman; " she would tell every-
body. What will you say to her?"
"Ah, Monsieur, please, it will be Margery.
She is a charming rogue, and as discreet as
myself. She will assist, and I will tell her
nothing but fibs, and we shall make some
money. She and I together in the servants'
hall—she shall talk of the ghosts and the
green chamber, and I will tell how we used
to make wagers who would guess, without
having seen it, the length of such a room in
the Chateau Mauville, when we were visit-
ing there —how many windows, how high
the chimneypiece; and then the nearest
guesser won the pool. You see, Monsieur—
you understand ?—Margery and I, we will
play this little trick. And so she will help
me to all the measurements before, without
sharing of my real design, quite simply."
"Sir, I admire your care of the young la-
dy's simplicity," said M. Varbarriere, sardon-
ically. "You will procure all this for me as
quickly as you can, and I shan't forget my
promise."
Jacques was again radiantly grateful.
-' Jacques, you have the character of being
always true to your chief. I never doubted
your honor, and I show the esteem I hold
you in by undertaking to give you five thou-
sand francs in three weeks' time, provided
you satisfy me while here. It would not
cost me much, Jacques, to make of you as
good a gentleman as your father."
Jacques here threw an awful and inde-
scribable devotion into his countenance.
"I don't say, mind you, I'll do it—only
that if I pleased I very easily might. You
shall bring me, a little plan of that room,
including all the measurements I have men-
tioned, if possible to-morrow—the sooner
the better; that to begin with. Enough for
the present. Stay ; have you had any talk
with Sir Jekyl Marlowe—you must be quite
frank with me—has he noticed you?"
"He has done me that honor."
"Frequently?"
"Once only, Monsieur."
"Come, let us hear what passed."
M. Varbarriere had traced a slight em-
barrassment in Jacques' countenance.
So with a little effort and as much gaiety
as he could command, Jacques related,
tolerably truly what had passed in the stable-
yard.
A lurid flush appeared on the old man's
forehead for a moment, and he rang out
fiercely—
"And why the devil, sir, did you not men-
tion that before?"
"I was not aware, Monsieur, it was of
any importance," he answered deferentially.
"Jacques, you must tell me the whole
truth—did he make you a present?"
"Ho, Monsieur."
"He gave you nothing then or since?"
"Pas un sous, Monsieur—nothing."
"Has he promised you anything?''
"Nothing, Monsieur."
"But you understand what he means?"
"Monsieur will explain himself."
"You understand he has made yon an
offer in case you consent to transfer your
service."
"Monsieur commands my allegiance."
"You have only to say so if you wish it."
"Monsieur is my generous chief. I will
not abandon him for a stranger—never,
while he continues his goodness and hia
preference for me."
"Well, you belong to me for a month, you
know, by your agreement. After that you
may consider what you please. In the mean-
time be true to me; and not one word, if you
please, of me or my concerns to anybody."
"Certainly, Monsieur. I shall be found a
man of honor now as always."
"I have no doubt, Jacques; as I told you,
I know you to be a gentleman—I rely upon
you."
M. Varbarriere looked rather grimly into
his eye as he uttered this compliment; and
when the polite little gentleman had left the
room, M. Varbarriere bethought him how
very little he had to betray—how little he
knew about him, his nephew, and his plans;
and although he would not have liked his
inquiries to be either baulked or disclosed, I
he could yet mentallv snap his fingers at
Monsieur.'


80
GUY DEVERELL.
CHAPTER XXVII.
M. VARBARRIERE TALKS A LITTLE MOKE
FREELY.
After his valet left him, M. Varbarriere
did not descend, but remained in his dressing-
room, thinking profoundly; and, after a
while, he opened his pocket-book, and began
to con over a number of figures, and a dia-
gram to which these numbers seemed to refer.
Sometimes standing at the window, at
others pacing the floor, and all the time en-
grossed by a calculation, like a man over a
problem in mathematics.
For two or three minutes he had been
thus engaged when Guy Strangways entered
the room.
"Ho! young gentleman, why don't you
read your prayer-book?" said the old man
with solemn waggery.
"I don't understand," said the young gen-
tleman.
"No, you don't. I am the old sphynx, you
rse, and some of my riddles I can't make out,
even myself. My faith! I have been puzz-
ling my head till it aches over my note-book;
and I saw you walking with that old lady,
Lady Alice Redcliffe, up and down so dftfec-
tionately. There is another riddle! My
faith! the house itself is an enigma. And
Sir Jekyl—what do you think of him; is he
going to marry?"
"To marry!" echoed Guy Strangways.
"Ay, to marry. I do not know, but he
is so sly. We must not let him mariy, you
know; it would be so cruel to poor little
Mademoiselle Beatrix—eh?"
Guy Strangways looked at him doubtingly.
"He is pretty old, you know, but so am I,
and older, my faith! But I think he is mak-
ing eyes at the married ladies—eh?"
"I have not observed—perhaps so," an-
swered Guy, carelessly. "He does walk and
talk a great deal with* that pretty Madame
Maberly."
"Madame Maberly? Bah!" AndM. Var-
barriere's "bah" sounded like one of those
long sneering slides played sometimes on a
deep chord of a double bass. "No, no, it
is that fine woman, Miladi Jane Lennox."
"Lady Jane! I fancied she did not like
him. I mean that she positively disliked
him; and to say truth, I never saw, on his
part, the slightest disposition to make him-
self agreeable."
"I do not judge by words or conduct—
in presence of others those are easily con-
trolled ; it is when the eyes meet—you can't
mistake. Bah! I knew the first evening we
arrived. Now see, you must have your eyes
about you, Guy. It is your business, not
mine. Very important to you, mon petit
garoon; of no sort of imaginable consequence
to me, except as your friend; therefore you
shall watch and report to me. You under-
stand?"
Guy flushed with a glow of shame and
anger, and looked up with gleaming eyes,
expecting to meet the deep-set observation
of the old man. Had their eyes encountered,
perhaps a quarrel would have resulted, and
the fates and furies would have had the con-
sequences in their hand; but M. Varbar-
riere was at the moment reading his attor-
ney's letter again. Guy looked out of the
window, and thought resolutely.
"One duplicity I have committed. It is
base enough to walk among these people
masked; but to be a spy—-never."
And he clenched his hand and pressed his
foot upon the floor.
It was dreadful to know that these moral
impossibilities were expected of him. It
was terrible to feel that a rupture with his
best, perhaps his only friend, was drawing
slowly but surely on; but he was quite re-
solved. Nothing on earth could tempt him
to the degradation of which his kinsman
seemed to think so lightly.
Happily, perhaps, for the immediate con-
tinuance of their amicable relations, the
thoughts of M. Varbarriere had taken a new
turn, or rather reverted to the channel from
which they had only for a few minutes di-
verged.
"You were walking with that old woman,
Lady Alice Redcliffe. She seemed to talk a
great deal. How did she interest you all
that time?"
"To say truth, she did not interest me all
that time. She talked vaguely about family
afflictions, and the death of her son; and she
looked at me at first as if I were a brigand,
and said I was very like some one whom she
had lost."
'Then she's a friendly sort of old woman,
at least on certain topics, and garrulous?
Who's there? Oh! Jacques; very good,
you need not stay."
The old gentleman was by this time mak-
ing his toilet.
"Did she happen to mention a person
named Gwynn, a housekeeper in her ser-
vice?"
"No."
"I'm glad she is an affable old lady; we
shall be sure to hear something useful," said
the old gentleman, with an odd smile. "That
housekeeper I must see and sift. They tell
me she's impracticable; they found her so. I
shall see. While you live, Guy, do your own
business; no one else will do it, be sure. I
did mine, and I've got on."
The old gentleman, who was declaiming
before the looking-glass in his shirt-sleeves
and crimson silk suspenders, brushing up
that pyramid of grizzled hair which added
to the solemnity of his effect, now got into
his black silk waistcoat. The dressing-bell
had rung, and the candles had superseded
daylight.
"You'll observe all I told you, Guy. Sir
Jekyl shan't marry—he would grow what
they call impracticable, like Madame Gwynn;
Miss Beatrix, she shan't marry either —r it
would make, perhaps, new difficulties; and
you, I may as well tell you, can't marry her.
When you know the reasons you will see
that such an event could not be contemplated
You understand?"
And he dropped his haircomb, with which
he had been bestowing a last finish on hi3


GUY DEVERELL.
61
spire of hair, upon his dressing tabic, 'with a
slight emphasis.
"Therefore, Guy, you will understand you
must not be a fool about that young lady;
there are many others to speak to; and if
you allow yourself to like her, you will be a
miserable stripling till you forget her."
"There it no need, sir, to warn me ; I have
resolved to avoid any such feeling. I have
sense enough to see that there are obstacles
insurmountable to my ever cherishing that
ambition, and that I never could be regarded
as worthy."
"Bravo! young man, that is what I like;
you are as modest as the devil; and here, I
can tell you, modesty, which is so often sil-
ly, is as wise as the serpent. You under-
stand?"
The large-chested gentleman was now get-
ting into his capacious coat, having buttoned
his jewelled wrist-studs in; so he contem-
plated himself in the glass, with a touch and
a pluck here and there.
"One word more, about that old woman.
Talk to her all you please, and let her talk
—and talk more than you, so much the better;
but observe, she will question you about
yourself and your connections, and one word
you shall not anwer; observe she learns noth-
ing from you, that is, in the spirit of your
solemn promise to me."
M. Varbarriere had addressed this peremp-
tory reminder over his shoulder, and now re-
touched his perpendicular cone of hair,
which waved upwards like a grey flame.
"Guy, you will be late," he called over his
shoulder. "Come, my boy; we must not be
walking in with the entremets."
And he plucked out that huge chased re-
peater, a Genevan masterpiece, which some-
how harmonised with his air of wealth and
massiveness, and told him he had but eight
minutes left; and with an injunction to
haste, which Guy, with a start, obeyed, this
sable and somewhat mountainous figure
swayed solemnly from the room.
"Who is that Monsieur Varbarriere?" in-
quired Lady Alice of her host, as the com-
pany began to assemble in the drawing-
room, before that gentlemen had made his
appearance.
"I have not a notion."
"Are you serious? No, you're not se-
rious," observed Lady Alice.
"I'm always serious when I talk to you."
"Thank you. I'm sure that is meant for a
compliment," said the old lady, curtly.
"And I assure you I mean what I say,"
continued Sir Jekyl, not minding the paren-
thesis. "I really don't know, except that he
comes from France—rather a large place,
you know—where he comes from. I have
not a notion what his business, calling, or
trade may be."
"Trade f" replied Lady Alice, with dry
dignity.
"Trade, to be sure. You're a tradesman
yourself, you know—a miner—/bought twen-
ty-two shares in that for you in dune last;
you're an iron ship-builder—you have fif-
teen in that; you're a 'bus-man—you have
ten there; and you were devilish near being
a brewer, only it stopped."
"Don't talk like a fool—a joint-stock com-
pany I hope is one thing, and a—a—the
other sort of thing quite another, I fancy."
"You fancy, yes; but it is not. It's a
firm—Smith, Brown, Jones, RedclUTe, and
Co., omnibus drivers, brewers, and so forth.
So if he's not a rival, and doesn't interfere
with your little trade, I really don't care, my
dear little mamma, what sort of shop my
friend Varbarriere may keep; but as I said,
I don't know; maybe he's too fine a fellow
to meddle, like us, with vats and 'busses."
"It appears odd that you should know ab-
solutely nothing about your own guests," re-
marked Lady Alice.
"Well, it would be odd, only I do," an-
swered Sir Jekyl—" all one needs to know or
ask. He presented his papers, and comes
duly accredited—a letter from old Philander
the Peer. Do you remember Peery still? I
don't mind him; he was always a noodle,
though in a question of respectability he's
not quite nothing; and another from Bob
Charteris—you don't know him—Attache' at
Paris; a better or more reliable quarter one
couRl not hear from. I'll let you read them
to-morrow; they speak unequivocally for
his respectability; and I think the inference
is even that he has soul above 'busses. Here
he is."
M. Varbarriere advanced with the air of a
magician about to conduct a client to his
magic mirror, toward Lady Alice, before
whom he made a low bow, having been pre-
sented the day before, and he inquired with
a grave concern how she now felt herself,
and expressed with a sonorous suavity his re-
grets and his hopes.
Lady Alice, having had a good account of
him, received him on the whole very gra-
ciously; and being herself a good French
woman, the conversation flowed on agree-
ably.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
SOME PRIVATE TALK OP VARBARRIERE AND
LADY ALICE AT THE DINNER-TABLE.
At dinner he was placed beside the old
lady. He understood good cookery, and
with him to dine was to analyse and contem-
plate. He was usually taciturn and absorbed
during the process; but on this occasion he
made an effort, and talked a good deal in a
grave, but, as the old lady thought, an agree-
able and kindly vein.
Oddly enough, he led the conversation to
his nephew, and found his companion very
ready indeed to listen, as perhaps he had an
ticipated, and even to question him on thl
theme with close but unavowed interest.
"He bears two names which, united, re
mind me of some of my bitterest sorrows-
Guy was my dear son's Christian name, and
Mr. Strangways was his most particular
friend; and there is a likeness too," she con-
tinued, looking with her dim and clouded
eyes upon Guy at the other side, whom tate


GUY DEVERELL.
had placed beside Miss Blunket—" a like-
ness so wonderful as to make me, at times,
quite indescribably nervous; at times it is—
how handsome! don't you consider him
wonderfully handsome r"
She glanced suddenly as she spoke, and
saw an expression on the countenance of M.
Varbarriere who looked for no such inspec-
tion, at that.moment, which she neither
liked nor understood.
He said, to cover his.indiscretion," I was at
the moment, reminded of a strange mistake
which once took place in consequence of a
likeness. I was thinking of relating it, but,
on recollection, it is too vulgar."
M. Varbarriere did not hasten to change his
countenance, and presently he added—" You
think, perhaps, that my nephew was formerly
a companion of Mr. Redcliffe, your son?"
"Oh, no. He was about Jekyl's age. I dare
say I had lost him before that young man
was born."
"Oh! that surprises me very much.
Monsieur Redcliffe—your son—is it possible
he should have been so much older?"
"My son's name was Deverell," said the
old lady, sadly.
"Ah! that's very odd. He, Guy, then,
had an uncle who had a friend of that name
—Guy Deverell—long ago in this country.
That is very interesting.
"Is not it?" repeated Lady Alice, with a
gasp. "I feel somehow, it must be he—a
tall, slight young man."
"Alas! madam, he is much changed if it
be he. He must have been older than your
son, near sixty now, and rather stout. I've
heard him talk of his friend Guy Deverell."
"And with affection, doubtless."
"Well, yes, affection, certainly, and with
indignation at the mode of his death."
"Yes, Monsieur Varbarriere; but you
know, even though we cannot always forget,
we must forgive.'
"Yes, Lady Alice, divine philosophy, but
not easy to practice. I fear it is as hard to
do one as the other."
"And how is Mr. Strangways?" inquired
Lady Alice.
"Growing old, Lady Alice; he has not
spared himself; otherwise well."
"And this, you say, is his nephew?" con-
tinued the old lady. "And you?"
"I am Guy's uncle—his mother's brother."
"And his mother, is she living?"
"No, poor thing! gone long ago."
"Monsieur Varbarriere," said old Lady
Alice, a little sternly in his ear," you will par-
don me, but it seems to me that you are tri-
fling, and not quite sincere in all you tell me."
"I am shocked, madam. How have I
showed, I entreat, any evidences of a dispo-
sition so contrary to my feelings V"
"I tell you frankly—in your countenance,
and I observed it before, Monsieur."
"Believe me, I entreat, madam, when I
assure you, upon the honor of a gentleman,
every word I have said is altogether true,
Nor would it be easy for me to describe how
profound is my sympathy with you."
From this time forth Lady Alice saw no
return of that faint but odious look of banter
that had at first shocked and then irritated
her; and fortified by the solemn assurance
he had given, she fell into a habit of refer-
ring it to some association unconnected with
herself, and tried to make up for her attack
upon him by an increased measure of courtesy.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN RESUME CON"
VERSATION IN THE DRAWING-ROOM.
"Dives, my boy," said the Baronet, taking
his stand beside his brother on the hearth-
rug, " the Bishop's coming to-morrow."
"Ho !" exclaimed Dives, bringing his right
shoulder forward, so as nearly to confront
his brother.
"Here's his note. He'll be here to dinner,
I suppose, by the six o'clock train."
"Thanks, said Dives, taking the note and
devouring it energetically.
"Just half a dozen lines of three words
each—always so you know. Poor old Sam-
my! I always liked him—a go od old cock at
school—great fun, but always a gentleman."
"Sorry to see his hand begins to shake a
little," said Dives, returning the manuscript.
"Time for it, egad! He's pretty well on.
We'll all be shaky a bit before long, Dives."
"How long does he stay?"
"I think only a day or two. I have his
first note up stairs, if I did not burn it."
"I'm glad I'm to meet him—very glad in-
deed. I think it's five years since I met his
lordship. I always found him kind—very."
"You'd better get up your parochial expe-
riences a little, and your theology eh? You
used to be good at theology—usen'tyou?"-
Dives smiled. "Pretty well, Jekyl.''
"And what do you want of him' Dives?"
"Oh! he could be useful to me in fifty
ways. You know there's that archdeaconry
of Priors." Dives replied nearly in a whisper.
"By Jove ! yes—a capital thing—I forgot
it;" and Sir Jekyl laughed heartily.
"Why do you laugh ?" he asked.
"I—I really don't know," said the Baronet.
"I don't see any thing absurd or unreason-
able in it. That archdeaconry has always
been held by some one connected with the
county families, and no one that has not
something more than the archdeaconry it-
self can afford it." .
The conversation was here arrested by-
Lady Alice inquiring—" Pray can you tell
me what day General Lennox returns ?:>
"It" said Sir Jekyl. "I don't know, I
protest—maybe to-night—maybe to-morrow.
Come when he may, he's very welcome."
"You have not heard?" she persisted.
"No, I have not," he answered, rather
tartly, with a smile.
Lady Alice nodded, and raised her voice—
"Lady Jane Lennox, you've heard, no
doubt, pray when does the General return?"
"He has been detained unexpectedly,"
drawled Lady Jane.
"You hear from him constantly ?" pursued
the old lady.
"Every day."


GUY DEVERELL.
63
"It's odd he does not say when you may
look for him," said Lady Alice.
"Egad, you want to make her jealous, I
think, interposed Sir Jekyl.
"Jealous? Well, I think a young wife
may very reasonably be jealous, though not
exactly in the vulgar sense, when she is left
without a clue to her husband's movements.'.
"You said you were going to write to him.
I wish you would, Lady Alice," said the
ypung lady with an air of some contempt.
"I can't believe he has not said how soon
his return may be looked for," observed the
old lady.
"I suppose he'll say whenever he can, and
in the meantime I don't intend plaguing him
with inquiries he can't answer." And with
these words she leaned back fatigued, and
with a fierce glance at Sir Jekyl, who was
close by, she added, so loud that I wonder
Lady Alice did not hear her—" Why don't
you stop that odious old woman?"
"Stop an odious old woman!—why, who
ever did? Upon my honor, I know no way
but to kill her," chuckled the Baronet.
Lady Jane deigned no reply.
"Come here, Dives, and sit by me," croaked
the old lady, beckoning him with her thin,
long finger. "I've hardly seen you since I
came."
"Very happy, indeed—very much obliged
to you, Lady Alice, for wishing it."
And the natty but somewhat forbidding
looking Churchman sat himself down in
a prie-dieu chair vis-a-vis to the old woman,
and folded his hands, expecting her exor-
dium.
"Do you remember, Sir Harry, your fath-
er?"
"Oh, dear, yes. I recollect my poor fath-
er very well. We were at Oxford then or
j ust going. How old was I ?—pretty well out
of my teens."
It must be observed that they sat in a con-
fidential proximity—nobody listened—no-
body cared to approach.
"You remember when he died, poor man?"
"Yes—poor father!—we were at home—
Jekyl and I—for the holidays—I believe it
was— a month or so. The Bishop, you know,
was with him."
"I know. He's coming to-morrow."
"Yes; so my brother here just told me—
aa excellent, exemplary, pious prelate, and a
true friend to my poor father. He posted
fifty miles—from Doncaster—in four hours
and a half, to be with him. And a great com-
fort he was. I shall never forget it to him."
"I don't think you cared for your father,
Dives; and Jekyl positively disliked him,"
interposed Lady Alice agreeably.
"I trust there was no feeling so unchris-
tain and monstrous ever harbored in my
brother's breast," replied Dives, loftily, and
'with a little flush in his cheeks.
"You can't believe any such thing, my
dear Dives; and you know you did not care
if he was at the bottom of the Red Sea, and
I don't wonder."
"Pray don't, Lady Alice. If you think
such things, I should prefer not hearing
them," murmured Dives, with clerical dig-
nity.
"And what I want to ask you now is
this," continued Lady Alice; "you are of
course aware that he told the Bishop that he
wanted that green chamber, for some reason
or another, pulled down?"
Dives coughed, and said—
"Well, yes, I have heard."
"What was his reason, have you anv no-
tion?"
"He expressed none. My father gave, I
believe, no reason. I never heard any," re-
plied the Reverend Dives Marlowe.
"You may be very sure he had a reason,"
continued Lady Alice.
"Yes, very likely."
"And why is it not done?" persisted
Ladv Alice.
"I can no more say why, than you can,"
replied Dives.
"But why don't you see to it?" demanded
she.
"See to it! Why, my dear Lady Alice,
you must know I have no more power in the
matter than Doocey there, or the man in the
moon. The house belongs to Jekyl. Sup-
pose you speak to him."
"You've a tongue in your head, Dives,
when you've an object of your own."
Dives flushed again, and looked, for an
apostle, rather forbidding.
"I have not the faintest notion, Lady Alice,
to what you allude."
"Whatever else he may have been, he was
your father," continued Lady Alice, not di-
verted by this collateral issue, "and as his son
it was and is your business to give Jekyl no
rest till he complies with that dying injunc-
tion."
"Jekyl's his own master; what can I do?''
"Do as you do where your profit's con-
cerned; tease him as you would for a good
living, if he had it to give."
"I don't press my interests much upon
Jekyl. I've never teased him or anybody
else, for anything," answered Dives, grandly.
"Come, come, Dives Marlowe; you have
duties on earth, and something to think of
besides yourself."
"I trust I don't need to be reminded of
that, Lady Alice," said the cleric, with a bow
and a repulsive meekness.
"Well, speak to your brother."
"I have alluded to the subject, and an op-
portunity may occur again."
"Make one—make an opportunity, Dives."
"There are rules, Lady Alice, which we
must all observe."
"Come, come, Dives Marlowe," said the
lady, very tartly," remember you're a clergy-
man."
"I hope I do, madam; and I trust you will
too."
And the Rector rose, and with an offended
bow, and before she could reply, made a sec-
ond as stiff, and turned away to the table,
where he took up a volume and pretended to
read the title.
"Dives," said the lady, making no ac-
count of his huff, " please to tell Monsieur


64
GUY DEVERELL.
Varbarriere that \ should be very much
obliged if he would afford me a few minutes
here, if he is not better engaged; that is, it
seems to me he has nothing to do there."
M. Varbarriere was leaning back in his
chair, his hands folded, and the points of his
thumbs together; his eyes closed, and his
bronzed and heavy features composed as it
seemed, to deep thought; and one of his
large shining shoes beating time slowly to
the cadences of his ruminations.
The Reverend Dives Marlowe was in no
mood just at that moment to be trotted
about on that offensive old lady's messages.
But it is not permitted to gentlemen, even of
his sacred calling, to refuse, in this wise, to
make themselves the obedient humble ser-
vants of the fair sex, and to tell them to go
on their own errands.
Silently he made her a slight bow, secretly
resolving to avail himself sparingly of his op-
portunities of cultivating her society for the
future.
Perhaps it was owing to some mesmeric
reciprocity; but exactly at this moment M.
Varbarriere opened his eyes, arose, and
walked towards the fireplace, as if his object
had been to contemplate the ornaments over
the chimneypiece; and arriving at the hearth-
rug, and beholding Lady Alice, he courteous-
ly drew near, and accosted her with a defer-
ential gallantry, saving the Reverend Dives
Marlowe, who was skirting the other side of
the round table, the remainder of his tour.
CHAPTER XXX.
VARBARRIERE PICKS UP SOMETHING ABOUT
DONICA GWTtW.
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 din-
ner?"
"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 Red-
cliffe 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 rever-
ential 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 f"
"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 low-
ered 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 sup-
pose by his baud; I don't know, perhaps it
was; he was capable of a great deal; / 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 Varbar-
riere, m 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 im-
portant might be elicited."
"She is my housekeeper now," said Lady
Alice.
"Oh! and"
"I think she's a sensible person; a respec-
table person, I believe, in her rank of life,
although they choose 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 faithful servant to the family."
"And is now in your employment,
madam?"
"My housekeeper at Wardlock," responded
Lady Alice.
"Residing there now?" inquired M. Var-
barriere.
Lady Alice nodded assent.
I know not by what subtile evidences, hard
to define, seldom if ever remembered, we
sometimes come to a knowledge, by what
seems an intuition, of other people's inten-
tions. M. Varbarriere was as silent as Lady
Alice was; his heavy bronzed features were
still, and he looking down on one of those


GUY DEVERELL.
Co
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 fea-
tures. Lady Alice's eyes 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 hap-
pen 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 forgot what relation
you said ho 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 look-
ing 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 cen-
tury 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 compunc-
tion 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 plead-
ing 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
fondry across at her.
No response was vouchsafed by M. Var-
barriere.
"Don't you think so? Don't you think
my granddaughter very lovely?"
Thus directly appealed to, M. Vabarriere
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, super-
cedes 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 Grimatston," said Lady Alice.
"Of course I love my grandchild, but it al-
ways 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 dis-
proportioned fortune, and in a young lady so
sensible will awake suspicion 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 whatevei,
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 hun-
dred pounds a-year."
"Well maybe so," said the old lady, dubi-
ously, 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 par-
ticular case more strongly than others; but,
notwithstanding the superior rank, wealth,
-
5


GUY DEVERELL.
and family of Sir Jekyl Marlowe, I should
not, were I his equal, like to be tied to him
by a close family connection."
Lady Alice did not feel anger, nor wasshe
pleased. She did not look down abashed at
discovering that this stranger seemed to re-
sent 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.
CHAPTER XXXI.
LADY JANE PUTS ON HER BRILLIANTS.
That evening, by the late post, had arrived
a letter, in old General Lennox's hand, to his
wife. It had come at dinner-time, and it
was with a feeling of ennui she read the ad-
dress. It was one of those billets which, in
Swift's phrase, would " have kept cool;" but,
subsiding on the ottoman, she opened it—
conjugal relations demanded this attention;
and Lady Jane, thinking "what a hand he
writes!" ran her eye lazily down those crab-
bed pages in search of a date to light her to
the passage where he announced his return;
but there was none, so far as she saw.
"What's all this about ?' Masterson, the
silkmercer at Marlowe—a very' —something
— 'fellow—honest' Yes, that's the word.
So he may be, but I shan't buy his horrid
trash, if that's what you mean," said she,
crumpling up the stupid old letter, and lean-
ing back, not in the sweetest temper, and
with a sidelong glance of lazy defiance
through her half-closed lashes at the uncon-
scious Lady Alice.
And now arrived a sleek-voiced servant,
who, bowing beside Lady Jane, informed her
gently that Mr. Masterson had arrived with
the parcel for her ladyship.
"The parcel! what parcel?"
"I'm not aware, my lady."
'' Tell him to give it to my maid. Ridi-
culous rubbish!" murmured Lady Jane,
serenely.
But the man returned.
"Mr. Masterson's direction from the Gene-
ral, please, my lady, was to give the parcel
into your own hands."
"Where is he ?" inquired Lady Jane, rising
with a lofty fierceness.
"In the small breakfast-parlor, my lady."
"Show me the way, please."
When Lady Jane Lennox arrived she found
Mr. Masterson cloaked and muffled as though
off a journey, and he explained, that having
met General Lennox yesterday accidentally in
Oxford street, in London, from whence he had
only just returned, he had asked him to take
charge of a parcel, to be delivered into her
ladyship's own hands, where accordingly, he
now placed it.
Lady Jane did not thank him; she was
rather conscious of herself conferring a fa-
vor by accepting anything at his hands;
and when he was gone she called her maid,
and having reached her room and lighted
her candles, she found a very beantiful set of
diamonds.
"Why, these are really superb, beautiful
brilliants !" exclaimed the handsome young
lady. The cloud had quite passed away, ana
a beautiful light glowed on her features.
Forthwith to the glass she went, in a
charming excitement.
"Light all the candles you can find!" she
exclaimed.
"Well, my eyes, but them is beautiful, my
lady !" ejaculated the maid, staring with a
smirk, and feeling that at such a moment,
she might talk a little, without risk, which,
indeed, was true.
So with bed-room and dressing-table can-
dles, and a pair purloined even from old
Lady Alice's room, a tolerably satisfactory
illumination was got up, and the jewels did
certainly look dazzling.
The pendants flashed in her ears—the
exquisite collar round her beautiful threat—
the tiara streamed livid fire over her low
Venus-like forehead, and her eager eyes and
parted lips expressed her almost childlike
delight.
There are silver bullets against charmed
lives. There are women from whose snowy
breasts the fire-tipped shafts of Cupid fall
quenched and broken; and yet a handfull of
these brilliant pellets will find their way
through that wintry whiteness, and lie lodged
in her bleeding heart.
After I know not how long a time spent
before the glass, it suddenly struck Lady
Jane to inquire of the crumpled letter, in
which the name of Masterson figured, and
of whose contents she knew, in fact, nothing,
but that they named no day for the General s
return. She had grown curious as to who
the donor might be. Were those jewels a
gift from the General's rich old sister, who
had a splendid suit she had heard, which she
would never put on again? Had they come
as a bequest? How was it, and whose were
they?
And now with these flashing gems still
dangling so prettily in her ears, and spanning
her white throat, as she still stood before the
glass, she applied herself to spell out her
General's meaning in better temper than for
a long time she had read one of that gallant
foozle's kindly and honest rigmaroles. At
first the process was often interrupted by
those glances at the mirror which it is im-
possible under ordinary circumstances to
withhold; but as her interest deepened she
drew the candle nearer, and read very dili-
gently the stiffly written lines before her.
They showed her that the magnificent
present was from himself alone. I should
be afraid to guess how many thousand pounds
had been lavished upon those jewels. An
uxorious fogey—a wicked old fool—perhaps
we, outside the domestic circle, may pro-
nounce him. Lady Jane within that magic
ring saw differently.
The brief, blunt, soldier-like affection that
accompanied this magnificent present, and
the mention of a little settlement of the jew-
els, which made them absolutely hers in case


GUY DEVERELL.
67
her " old man" should die, and the little con-
jecture " I wonder whether you would some-
times miss him?" smote her heart strangely.
"What a gentleman—what an old dar-
ling !"—and she—how heinously had she re-
quited his manly but foolish adoration!
"I'll write to him this moment," she said,
quite pale.
And she took the casket in her hands and
laid it on her bed, and sat down on the side
of it, and trembled very much, and suddenly
burst into tears, insomuch that her maid was
startled, and yielding forthwith to her sym-
pathy, largely leavened with curiosity, she
came and stood by her and administered
such consolation as people will who know
nothing of your particular grief, and like,
perhaps, to discover its causes.
But after a while her mistress asked her
impatiently what she meant, and, to her in-
dignation and surprise, ordered her out of
the room.
"I wish he had not been so good to me.
I wish he had ever been unkind to me. I
wish he would beat me. Good Heaven! is
it all a dream?"
So, quite alone, with one flashing pendant
in her ear, with the necklace still on—inco-
herently, wildly, and affrighted—raved Lady
Jane, with a face hectic and wet with tears.
Things appeared to her all on a sudden,
quite in a new character, as persons sud-
denly called on to leave, life, see their own
doings as they never beheld them before ; so
with a shock, and an awakening, tumbled
about her the whole structure of her illu-
sions, and a dreadful void with a black per-
spective for the first time opened round her.
She did not return to the drawing-room.
When Beatrix, fearing she might be ill,
knocked at the door of the green chamber,
and heard from the far extremity Lady Jane's
clear voire call "Come in," she entered.
She found her lying in her clothes, with the
counterpane thrown partially over her, upon
the funereal-looking old bed, whoss dark
green curtains depended nearly from the
ceiling.
"Well?" exclaimed Lady Jane, almost
fiercely, rising to her elbow, and staring at
Beatrix.
"I—you told me to come in. I'm afraid
I mistook."
"Did I? I dare say. I thought it was my
maid. I've got such a bad headache."
"I'm very sorry. Can I do anything?"
"No, Beatrix—no, thank you; it will go
away of itself."
"I wish so much, Lady Jane, you would
allow me to do anything for you. I—I
sometimes fear I have offended you. You
seemed to like me, I thought, when I saw
you this spring in London, and I've been try-
mg to think how I have displeased you."
"Diipleased me! you displease me! Oh!
Beatrix, Beatrix, dear, you don't know, you
can never know. I—it is a feeling of dis-
gust and despair. I hate myself, and I'm
frightened and miserable, and I wish I dare
cling to you."
She looked for a moment as if she would
have liked to embrace her, but she turned
awav and buried her face in her pillow.
"Dear Lady Jane, you must not be so
agitated. You certainly are not well," said
Beatrix, close to the bedside, and really a
good deal frightened. "Have you heard—I
hope you have not—any ill news?"
If Lady Jane had been dead she could not
have seemed to hear her less.
"I hope General Lennox is not ill?" in-
quired she timidly.
"1ll? No—I don't know; he's very well.
I hope he's very well. I hope he is; and—
and I know what I wish for myself."
Beatrix knew what her grandmamma
thought of Lady Jane's violence and tem-
p<f, and she began to think that something
must have happened to ruffle it that evening.
"I wish you'd go, dear, you can do nothing
for me," said Lady Jane, ungraciously, with
a sudden and sombre change of manner.
"Well, dear Lady Jane, if you think of
anything I can do for you, pray send for
me; by-and-by you might like me to come
and read to you; and would you like me to
send your maid?"
"Oh! no — no, no, no — nothing — good-
night," repeated Lady Jane impatiently.
So Beatrix departed, and Lady Jane re-
mained alone in the va9t chamber, much
more alone than one would be in a smaller
CHAPTER XXXII.
CONCILIATION:
That night again, old Lady Alice, just set-
tling, and having actually swallowed her
drops, was disturbed by a visit from Lady
Jane, who stood by her dishevelled, flushed,
and with that storm-beaten look which
weeping leaves behind it. She looked eager,
even imploring, so that Lady Alice chal-
lenged her with
"What on earth, Jane, brings you to my
bedside at this hour of the night r'
"I've come to tell you, Lady Alice, that I
believe I was wrong the other night to speak
to you as I did."
"I thought, Jane," replied the old lady
with dignity, "you would come to view your
conduct in that light."
"I thought you were right all the time;
that is, 1 thought you meant kindly. I
wished to tell you so," said Lady Jane.
"I am glad, Jane, you can now speak with
temper."
"And I think you are the only person
alive, except poor Lennox, who really cares
for me."
"I knew, Jane, that reflection and con-
science would bring you to this form of
mind," said Lady Alice.
"And I think, when I come to say all this
to you, you ought not to receive me so."
"I meant to receive you kindly, Jane; one
can't always in a moment forget the pain and
humiliation which such scenes produce. It
will help me, however, your expressing your
regret as you do."


C8
GUY DEVERELL.
"Well, I believe I am a fool—I believe I
deserve this kind of treatment for lowering
myself as I have done. The idea of my com-
ing in here, half dressed, to say all this, and
being received in this—in this indescribable
way!"
"If you don't feel it, Jane, I'm sorry you
should have expressed any sorrow for your
misconduct," replied Lady Alice, loftily.
"Sorrow, madam! I never said a word
about sorrow. I said I thought you cared
for me, and I don't think so now. I am sure
you don't, and I care just as little for you, not
a pin, madam, with your ridiculous airs."
"Very good, dear—then I suppose you are
quite satisfied with your former conduct?"
"Perfectly—of course I am, and if I h;y)
had a notion what kind of person you are I
should not have come near you, I promise
you."
Lady Alice smiled a patient smile, which
somehow rather provoked the indignant pen-
itent.
"I'd as soon have put my hand in the fire,
madam. I've borne too much from you—a
great deal too much; it is you who should
have come to me, madam, and I don't care a
farthing about you."
"And I'm still under sentence, I presume,
when General Lennox returns with his horse-
whip," suggested Lady Alice, meekly.
"It would do you nothing but good."
"You are excessively impertinent" said
Lady Alice, a little losing her self-command.
"So are you, madam.
"And I desire you'll leave my room," puij
sued Lady Alice.
"And don't you address me while we re-
main in this house," exclaimed Lady Jane,
with flaming cheeks.
"Quit the room!" cried Lady Alice, sitting
up with preternatural rigidity.
"Open the door!" exclaimed Lady Jane,
fiercely, to the scared maid, " and carry this
candle."
And the maid heard her mutter forcibly as
she marched before her through the passage
—" wicked old frump."
I am afraid it was one of those cases of
incompatibility of temper, or faults on both
sides, in which it is, on the whole, more for
the interest of peace and goodwill that peo-
ple should live apart, than attempt that pro-
cess under the same roof.
There was a smoking party that night in
Sir Jekyl's room. A line had reached him
from General Lennox, regretting his long
stay in town, and fearing that he could hardly
hope to rejoin his agreeable party at Marlowe
before a week or possibly ten days. But he
hoped that they had not yet shot all the birds
—and so, with that mild joke and its varia-
tions, the letter humorously concluded.
He had also had a letter from the London
legal firm—this time the corresponding limb
of the body was Crowe—who, in reply to
some fresh interrogatories of the Baronet's,
wrote to say that his partner, Mr. Pelter,
being called to France by legal business con-
nected with Craddock and Maddox, it
devolved on him to " assure Sir Jekyl that,
so far as they could ascertain, everything in
the matter to which he referred was perfectly
quiet, and that no ground existed for appre-
hending any stir whatsoever."
These letters from Pelter and Crowe, who
were shrewd and by no means sanguine men
of business, had always a charming effect on
his spirits—not that he quite required them,
or that they gave him any new ideas or infor-
mation, but they were pleasant little fillips,
as compliments are to a beauty. He was
therefore, this evening more than usually
lively, and kept the conversation in a very
merry amble.
Guy Strangways was absent; but his uncle,
M. Varbarriere, was present, and in his sol-
emn, sly, porcine way, enjoyed himself with
small exertion and much unction, laughing
sometimes sardonically and without noise, at
things which did not seem to amuse the oth-
ers so much; but, in all he said, very courte-
ous, and in his demeanor suave and bow-
ing. He was the last man to take leave of
his host, on the threshold, that night.
"I always lock myself in," said Sir Jekyl,
observing his guest's eye rest for a moment
on the key, on which his own finger rested,
"and I can't think why the plague I do," he
added, laughing, " except that my father did
so before me."
"It makes your pleasant room more a her-
mitage, and you more of a recluse," said
Monsieur Varbarriere.
"It is very well to be a recluse at pleasure,
and take monastic vows of five hours' dura-
tion, and shut yourself up from the world,
and the key of the world, nevertheless, in
your pocket," said Sir Jekyl.
Monsieur Varbarriere laughed, and some-
how lingered, as if he expected more.
"You don't mean that you assert your lib-
erty at capricious hours and affright your
fuests in the character of a ghost?'' said
[onsieur Varbarriere, jocosely.
Sir Jekyl laughed.
"No," said he, " on the contrary, I make
myself more of a prisoner than you imagine.
My man sleeps in the little room in which
you now stand, and draws his little camp-
bed across the door. I can't tell you the
least why I do this, only it was my father's
custom also, and I fancy my throat would be
cut if my guard did not lie across the thresh-
old. The world is a mad tree, and we are
branches, says the Italian proverb. Good-
night, Monsieur Varbarriere."
"Good-night," said the guest, with a bow
and a smile; and both, with a little laugh,
shook hands and parted.
Monsieur Varbarriere was a tolerably early
riser, and next morning was walking in the
cheering sun, under the leaves of the ever-
greens, glittering with dew. A broad walk,
wide enough for a pony-carriage, sweeps
along a gentle wooded elevation, command-
ing a wide prospect of that rich country.
He leaned on the low parapet, and with
his pocket field-glass lazily swept the broad
landscape beneath. Lowering his telescope,
he stood erect, and looked about him, when,
to his surprise, for he did not think that


GUT DEVERELL.
either was an early riser, he saw Sir Jekyl
Marlowe and Lady Jane Lennox walking
side by side, and approaching.
Monsieur Varbarriere was blessed with
very long and clear sight, for his time of life.
There w.as something in the gait of these
two persons, and in the slight gesture that
accompanied their conversation, as they ap-
proached, which struck M. Varbarriere as in-
dicating excitement, though of different kinds.
In the pace of the lady, who carried her
head high, with a slight wave sometimes to
this side, sometimes to that, was much of
what we term swagger as is compatible with
feminine grace. Sometimes a sudden halt,
for a moment, and a "left-face" movement
on her companion. Sir Jeykl, on the other
hand, bore himself, he thought, like a gentle-
man, a good deal annoyed and irritated.
All this struck M. Varbarriere in a very
few seconds, durmg which, uncertain whe-
ther he ought to come forward or not, he
hesitated where he stood.
It was plain, however, that he was quite
unobserved standing in a recess of the ever-
greens; so he leaned once more upon the
parapet, and applied his glass to his eye.
Now he was right in his conjecture. This
had been a very stormy walk, though the
cool grey light of morning is not the season
for exciting demonstrations. We will take
them up in the midst of their conversation,
a little before Monsieur Varbarriere saw
them—just as Sir Jekyl said with a slight
sneer—
"Oh, of course, it was very kind."
"More, it's princely, sir," cried Lady Jane.
"Well, princely — very princely — only,
pray, dear Jane, do not talk so very loud;
you can't possibly wish the keepers and
milkmaids to hear every word you say."
"I don't care, Jekyl. I think you have
made me mad."
"You are a bit mad, Jane, but it is not I
who made you so."
"Yes, Jekyl, you've made me mad—you
have made me a fiend; but, bad as I am, I
can never face that good man more."
"Now don't—now don't. What can be
the matter with you?" urged Sir Jekyl in a
low tone.
"This, sir—I'll see him no more—you
must. You shall take me away."
"Now, now, now—come! Are you talk-
ing like a sane person, Janet? What the
devil can have come over you about these
trumpery diamonds?"
"You shan't talk that way."
"Come! I venture to say they are nothing
like as valuable as you fancy, and whatever
they are, Lennox got them a devilish good
bargain, rely on it. He knows perfectly well
what he is about. Everyone knows how
rich he is, and the wife of a fellow like that
ought to have jewels; people would talk—I
give you my honor they would, if you had
not; and then he is in town, with nothing to
keep him there—no business, I mean—an old
military man, and he wants to keep you in
good humor."
"It's a lie. I know what you mean."
"Upon my soul, it's a fact," he laughed,
looking very pale. "Surely you don't mis-
take an old East Indian general for a
Joseph!"
"Talk any way but that, you wretch! I
know him. It's no use—he's the soul of
honor. Oh Jekyl, Jekyl! why did not you
marry me when you might, and save me
from all this?"
"Now, Janet is this reasonable—you know
you never thought of it—you know it would
not have done—would you have liked Beat-
rix? Besides, you have really done better
—a great deal better—he's not so old as he
looks—I dare say not much older than I—
and a devilish deal richer, and—a—what the
devil you want, for the life of me, I can't
see."
.It was about at this point in their conversa-
tion, that, on a sudden, they came upon Mon-
sieur Varbarriere, looking through his field-
glass. Lady Jane moved to turn short about,
but Sir Jekyl pressed his arm on hers im-
patiently, and kept her straight.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
LADY JANE AND BEATRIX PLAY AT
CROQUET.
"Good morning, Monsieur Varbarriere,"
cried the Baronet, who divined truly that
the fattish elderly gentleman with the
bronzed features, and in the furred surtout,
had observed them.
"Ah !" cried Monsieur Varbarriere, turn-
ing toward them genially, his oddly-shaped
felt hat in one hand, and his field-glass still
extended in the other. "What a charming
morning! I have been availing myself of
the clear sunlight to study this splendid
prospect, partly as a picture, partly as a
map."
Lady Jane with her right hand plucked
some wild flowers from the bank, which at
that side rises steeply from the walk, while
the gentlemen exchanged salutations.
"I've just been pointing out some of our
famous places to Lady Jane Lennox. A little
higher up the walk the view is much more
commanding. What do you say to a walk
here after breakfast? There's a capital glass
in the hall, much more powerful than that
can be. Suppose we come by-and-by?"
'- You are very good—I am so obliged—
my curiosity has been so very much piqued
by all I have seen."
Monsieur Varbarriere was speaking, as
usual, his familiar French, and pointed with
his telescope toward a peculiarly shaped re-
mote hillock.
"I have just been conjecturing could that
be that Gryston which we passed by on our
way to Marlowe."
"Perfectly right, by Jove! what an eye for
locality you must have!"
'Have I? Well, sometimes, perhaps,"
said the foreign gentleman, laughing.
"The eye of a general. Yes, you are quite
right—it is Gryston."


70
GUY DEVERELL.
Now Sir Jekyl was frank and hearty in
his talk; but there was an air—a something
which would hare excited the observation
of Monsieur Varbarriere, even had he re-
marked nothing peculiar in the bearing of
his host and his companion aa they ap-
proached. There was a semi-abstraction, a
covert scrutiny of that gentleman's counten-
ance, and a certain sense of uneasiness.
Some more passed—enough to show that
there was nothing in the slightest degree
awkward to the two pedestrians in having so
unexpectedly fallen into an ambuscade while
on their route—and then Sir Jekyl, with a
word of apology to Lady Jane, resumed his
walk with her towards the pleasure-grounds
near the house.
That day Lady Jane played croquet with
Beatrix, while Sir Jekyl demonstrated half
the country, from the high grounds, to Mon-
sieur Varbarriere.
The croquet-ground is pretty—flower-beds
He round it, and a " rockery," as they called it,
covered with clambering flowers and plants,
and backed by a thick grove of shrubs and
evergreens, fenced it in to the north.
Lady Jane was kind, ill tempered, capri-
cious; played wildly, lazily, badly.
"Do you like people in spite of great faults
ever, Beatrix ?" she asked, suddenly.
"Every one has great faults," said Trixie,
sporting a little bit of philosophy.
"No, they have not; there are very good
people, and I hate them," said Lady Jane,
swinging her mallet slowly like a pendulum,
and gazing with her dark deep eyes full into
her companion's face.
"Hate the good people !" exclaimed Beat-
rix ;" then how do you feel towards the bad?"
"There are some whose badness suits me,
and I like them ; there are others whose bad-
ness does not, and them I hate as much as the
good almost."
Trixie was puzzled; but she concluded
Lady Jane was in one of her odd moods, and
venting her ill-temper in those shocking
eruptions of levity.
"How old are you, Beatrix?"
"Nineteen."
"Ha! and I am five-and-twenty—six
years. There is a great deal learned in those
six years. I don't recollect what I was like
when 1 was nineteen."
She did not sigh; Lady Jane was not given
to sighing, but her face looked sad and sullen.
"It all came of my having no friend," she
said, abruptly. "Not one. That stupid old
woman might have been one, but she would
not. I had no one—it was fate; and here I
am, such as I am, and I don't blame myself
or anything. But I wish I had one true
friend."
"I am sure, Lady Jane, you must have
many friends," said Beatrix.
"Don't be a little hypocrite, Beatrix ; why
should I more than another? Friends are
not picked up like the daisies as we walk
along. If you have neither mother nor sisters,
nor kith nor kin to care about you, you will
find it hard to make strangers do so. As for
old Lady Alice, I think she always hated me;
she did nothing but pick holes in everything
I said or did; I never heard anything from
her but the old story of my faults. And then
I was thrown among women of the world—
heartless, headless creatures. I don't blame
them, they knew no better—perhaps there is
no better ; but I do blame that egotistical old
woman, who,, if she had but controlled her
temper, might have been of so much use to
me, and would not. Religion, and good prin
ciples, and all that, whether it is true or false
is the safest plan; and I think if she had been
moderately kind and patient, she might have
made me as good as others. Don't look at me
as if I had two heads, dear. I'm not charg-
ing myself with any enormity. I only say it
is the happiest way, even if it be the way of
fools."
"Shall we play any more?" inquired Beat-
rix, after a sufficient pause had intervened to
soften the transition.
"Yes, certainly. Which is my ball?"
"The red. You are behind your hoop."
"Yes; and—and it seems to me, Beatrix,
you are a cold little stick, like your grand-
mamma, as you call her, though she's no
grandmamma of yours."
"Think me as stupid as you please, but you
must not think me cold; and, indeed, you
wrong poor old granny."
"we'll talk no more of her. I think her
a fool and a savage. Come, it's your turn, is
not it, to play?"
So the play went on for a while in silence,
except for those questions and comments
without which it can hardly proceed.
"And now'you have won, have not you ?''
said Lady Jane.
"Should you like another game?" asked
Beatrix.
"Maybe by-and-by; and—I sometimes
wish you liked, me, Beatrix; but I don't
know you, and 1 you are little better than a
child still; and^-no—it could not be—it nev-
er could—you'd be sure to hate me in a lit-
tle while."
"But I do like you, Lady Jane. I liked
you very much in London, you were so kind;
and I don't know why you we*e so changed
to me when you came here; you seem to
have taken a positive dislike to me."
"So I had, child—I detested you," said
Lady Jane, but in a tone that had something
mocking in it. "Everything has grown—
how shall I express it ?—disgusting to me—
yes, disgusting. You had done nothing to
cause it; you need not look so contrite. I
could not help it either. I am odious—and I
can't love or like anybody."
"I am sure, Lady Jane, you are not at all
like what you describe."
"You think me faultless, do you?"
Beatrix smiled.
"Well, I see you don't. What is my
fault ?" demanded Lady Jane, looking on her
not with a playful, but with a lowering
countenance.
"It is a very conceited office—pointing
out other people's faults, even if one under-
stood them, which I do not."
"Well, I give you leave; tell me one,


GUY DEVERELL.
71
to begin with," persisted Lady Jane Len-
nox.
Beatrix laughed.
"I wish, Lady Jane, if you insist on my
telling your faults, that you would not look
so stern."
"Stern—do I?" said Lady Jane; "I did
not intend; it was not with you, but myself,
that I was angry; not angry either, for my
faults have been caused by other people, and
to say truth, I don't very much wish to mend
them."
"No, Lady Jane," said Beatrix, merrily,
"I won't say in cold blood anything dis-
agreeable. I don't say, mind, that I really
could tell you any one fault you may fancy
you have—but I won't try."
"Well, let us walk round this oval; I'll
tell you what you think. You think I am
capricious—and so I may appear—but I am
not; on the contrary, my likings or aver-
sions are always on good grounds, and last
very long. I don't say people always know
the grounds, but they know it is not whim;
they know—those that have experienced
either—that my love and aversion are both
very steady. You think I am ill-tempered,
too, but I am not—I am isolated and un-
happy; but my temper is easy to get on
with—and I don't know why I am talking
to you," she exclaimed, with a sudden change
in her looks and tone, "as if you and I
could ever by any possibility become friends.
Good-bye, Beatrix; I see your grandmamma
beckoning."
So she was—leaning upon the arm of her
maid, a wan lank figure—motioning her
toward her.
"Coming, grandmamma," cried Beatrix
and smiled, and turning to say a parting
word to Lady Jane, she perceived that she
was already moving some way off toward
the house.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
GENERAL LENNOX RECEIVES A LETTER.
Monsieur Varbarriere was charmed
with his host this morning. Sir Jekyl spent
more than an hour in pointmg out and illus-
trating the principal objects in the panorama
that spread before and beneath them as they
stood with field-glasses scanning the distance,
and a very agreeable showman he made.
Very cheery and healthful among the
breezy "copse to make this sort of rural sur-
vey. As they parted in the hall, Monsieur
Varbarriere spoke his eloquent appreciation
of the beauties of the surrounding country;
and then, having letters to despatch by the
post, he took his leave, and strode up with
pounding steps to his dressing-room.
Long before he reached it, his smile had
quite subsided, and it was with a solemn and
stern countenance that he entered and
nodded to his valet, whom he found awaiting
him there.
"Well, Jacques, any more offers? Does
Sir Jekyl still wish to engage you?"
"I can assure Monsieur there has not been
a word since upon that affair."
"Good /" said Monsieur Varbarriere, after
a second's scrutiny of the valet's dark, smirk-
ing visage.
The elderly gentleman unlocked his desk,
and taking forth a large envelope, he un-
folded the papers enclosed in it.
"Have we anything to note to-day about
that apartment verd? Did you manage the
measurement of the two recesses?"
"They are three feet and a half wide, two
feet and a half deep, and the pier between
them is, counting in the carved case, ten feet
and six inches; and there is from the angle
of the room at each side, that next the win-
dow and that opposite, to the angle of the
same recesses, counting in, in like manner,
the carved case, two feet and six inches ex-
actly. Here Monsieur has the threads of
measurement," added Jacques, with a charm-
ing bow, handing a little paper, containing
certain pieces of tape cut at proper lengths
and noted in pen and ink, to his master.
"Were you in the room yourself since?"
"This afternoon I am promised to be
again introduced."
"Try both — particularly that to your
right as you stand near the door—and rap
them with your knuckles, and search as nar-
rowly as you can."
Monsieur Jacques bowed low and smiled.
"And now about the other room," said
Monsieur Varbarriere; " have you had an op-
portunity?"
"I have enjoyed the permission of visiting
it, by the kindness of Sir Jekyl's man."
"He does not suppose any object?" in-
quired Monsieur Varbarriere.
"None in the world—nothing—merely the
curiosity of seeing everything which is com-
mon in persons of my rank.
Monsieur Varbarriere smiled dimly.
"Well, there is a room opening at the back
of Sir Jekyl's room—what is it?"
"His study." ,
Varbarriere nodded—" Go on."
"A room about the same size, surrounded
ou all sides except the window with books
packed on shelves."
"Where is the door?"
"There is no door, visible at least, ex-
cept that by which one enters from Sir
Jekyl Marlowe's room," answered Monsieur
Jacques.
"Any sign of a door?"
Monsieur Jacques smiled a little mysteri-
ously.
"When my friend, Monsieur Tomlinson,
Sir Jekyl'e gentleman, had left me alone for
a few minutes, to look at some old books of
travels with engravings, for which 1 had al-
ways a liking, I did use my eyes a little, Mon-
sieur, upon other subjects, but could see
nothing. Then, with the head of my stick I
took the liberty to knock a little upon the
shelves, and one place I did find where the
books are not real, but made of wood."
"Made of wood?" repeated Monsieur Var-
barriere.
"Yes— bound over to imitate the tomes:
s


73
GUY DEVERELL.
and all as old and dingy as the books them-
selves."
"You knew by tUe sound?"
"Yes, Monsieur, by the sound. I removed,
moreover, a real book at the side, and I saw
there wood."
"Whereabout is that in the wall?"
"Next to the corner, Monsieur, which is
formed by the wall in which the windows
are set—it is a dark corner, nearly opposite
the door by which you enter."
"That's a door," said Monsieur Varbar-
riere, rising deliberately as if he were about
to walk through it.
"I think Monsieur conjectures sagely."
"What more did you see, Jacques?" de-
manded Monsieur Varbarriere, resuming his
seat quietly.
"Nothing, Monsieur ; for my good friend
returned just then, and occupied my atten-
tion otherwise."
"You did not give him a hint of your dis-
covery?"
"Not a word, sir."
"Jacques, you must see that room again,
quietly. You are very much interested, you
know, in those books of travel. When you
have a minute there to yourself again, you
will take down in turn every volume at each
side of that false bookcase, and search close,
ly for hinge or bolt—there must be some-
thing of the kind—or keyhole—do you see?
Rely upon me, I will not fail to consider the
service handsomely. Manage that, if possi-
ble, to-day."
"I will do all my possible, Monsieur."
"I depend upon you, Jacques. Adieu."
With a low bow and a smirk, Jacques de-
parted.
Monsieur Varbarriere bolted his dressing-
room door, and sat down musing mysterious-
ly before his paper. His large, fattish,
freckled hand hung down over the arm of
the low chair, nearly to the carpet, with his
heavy gold pencil-case in its fingers. He
heaved one deep, unconscious sigh, as he
leaned back. It was not that he quailed be-
fore any coming crisis. He was not a soft-
hearted or nervous general, and had quite
made up his mind. But he was not without
good nature in ordinary cases, and the page
he was about to open was full of terror and
bordered all round with black.
Lady Jane Lennox was at that moment
seated also before her desk, very pale, and
writing a few very grateful and humble lines
of thanks to her General—vehement thanks
—vehement self-abasement—such as sur-
prised him quite delightfully. He read them
over and over, smiling with all his might,
under his stiff white moustache, and with a
happy moisture in his twinkling grey eyes,
and many a murmured apostrophe, "Poor
little thing—how pleased she is—poor little
Janet!" and resolved how happy they two
should be, and how much sunshine was
breaking into their world.
Monsieur Varbarriere was sitting in deep
thought before his desk.
"Yes, I think I may," was the result of
his ruminations.
And in his bold clear hand he indited
the following letter, which we translate:—
Private and Confidential.
Marlowe Manor, —th October, 1849.
General Lennox.
Sir,—I, in the first place, beg you to ex-
cuse the apparent presumption of my solic-
iting a private audience of a gentleman to
whom I have the honor to be but so slightly
known, and of claiming the protection of an
honorable secrecy. The reason of my so do-
ing will be obvious when I say that I have
certain circumstances to lay before you
which nearly affect your honor. 1 decline
making any detailed statement by letter, nor
will I explain my meaning at Marlowe
Manor; but if, without fracas, you will give
me a private meeting, at any place between
this and London, I will make it my business
to see you, when I shall satisfy you that I
have not made this request without the grav-
est reasons. May I entreat that your reply
may be addressed to me, poste restante,
Slowton.
Accept the assurance, &c, &c, &c,
H. Varbarriere.
Thus was the angelic messenger, musical
with silvery wings, who visited honest Gen-
eral Lennox in his lodgings off Piccadilly,
accompanied all the way, in the long flight
from Slowton to the London terminus, by a
dark spirit of compensation, to appal him
with a doubt.
Varbarriere.'s letter had been posted at
Wardlock by his own servant Jacques—a
precaution he chose to adopt, as he did not
care that anyone at the little town of Mar-
lowe, far less at the Manor, should guess
that he had anything on earth to say to Gen-
eral Lennox.
When the two letters reached that old
gentleman, he opened Lady Jane.s first; for,
as we know, he had arrived at the amorous
age, and was impatient to read what his
little Jennie had to say; and when he had
read it once, he had of course to read it all
over again; then he kissed it ' and laughed
tremulously over it, and was nearer to cry-
ing than he would have confessed to anyone
—even to her; and he read it again at the
window, where he was seen by seedy Cap-
tain Fezzy, who was reading Ball's Life,
across the street, in the three-pair-of-stairs
window, and by Miss Dignum, the proprie-
tress, from the drawing-room, with a counte-
nance so radiant and moved as to interest
both spectators from their different points
of view.
Thus, with many re-perusals and pleasant
castle-buildings, and some airs gently
whistled in his reveries, he had nearly for
gotten M. Varbarriere's letter.
He was so gratified—he always knew she
cared for her old man, little Jennie—she was
not demonstrative, all the better perhaps for
that; and here, in this delightful letter, so
grateful, so sad, so humble, it was all con-
fessed—demonstrated, at last; and old Gen-
eral Lennox thought infinitely better of him-


GUY DEVERELL.
73
self, and far more adormgly of his wife than
ever, and was indescribably proud and
happy. Hitherto his good angel had had it
all his own way, the other spirit was now
about to take his turn—touched him on the
elbow and presented Monsieur Varbarriere's
letter, with a dark smile.
"Near forgetting this, by Jove!" said the
old gentleman with the white moustache and
eyebrows, takmg the letter in his gnarled
pink fingers.
"What the devil can the fellow mean?"
I think he's a fool," said the General, very
pale and stern, when he had read the letter
twice through.
If the people at the other side had been
studying the transition of human counte-
nance, they would have had a treat in the
General's, now again presented at his draw-
ing-room window, where he stood leaning
grimly on his knuckles.
Still oftener, and more microscopically,
was this letter spelled over than the other.
"It can't possibly refer to Jane. It can't.
I put that out of my head—quite," said the
poor General energetically to himself, with a
short wave of his hand like a little sabre-cut
in the air.
But what could it be? He had no kins-
man near enough in blood to "affect his
honor." But these French fellows had such
queer phrases. The only transaction he
could think of was the sale of his black
charger in Calcutta for two hundred guineas,
to that ill-conditioned fellow, Colonel Bar-
dell, who, he heard, had been grumbling
about that bargain, as he did about every
other.
"I should not be surprised if he said I
cheated him about that horse!"
And he felt quite obliged to Colonel Bar-
dell for affording this hypothesis.
"Yes, Bardellwas coming to England—
possibly at Marlowe now. He knows Sir
Jekyl. Egad, that's the very thing. He's
been talking; and this officious old French
bourgeois thinks he's doing a devilish polite
thing in telling me what a suspected dog I
am."
The General laughed, and breathed a
great sigh of relief, and recalled all the cases
he could bring up in which fellows had got
into scrapes unwittingly about horse-flesh,
and how savagely fellows sometimes spoke
When they did not like their bargains.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE BISHOP AT MARLOWE.
So he labored in favor of his hypothesis
with an uneasy sort of success; but, for a few
seconds, on one sore point of his heart had
there been a pressure, new, utterly agonizing,
and there remained the sense of contusion.
The General took his hat, and came and
walked off briskly into the city a long way,
thinking he had business; but when he
reached the office, preferring another day
—wishing to be back at Marlowe—wishing
to see Varbarriere—longing to know the
worst.
At last he turned into a city coffee-house,
and wrote a reply on a quarto sheet of letter-
paper to Monsieur Varbarriere. He was
minded first to treat the whole thing with a
well-bred contempt, and simply to mention
that as he expected soon to be at Marlowe,
he would not give Monsieur Varbarriere
the trouble of making an appointment else-
where.
But, seated in his box, he read Monsieur
Varbarriere's short letter over again before
committing himself, and it struck him that
it was not an intimation to be trifled with—
it had a certain gravity which did not lose its
its force by frequent reading. The gentle-
man himself, too—reserved, shrewd, with an
odd mixture of the unctuous and the sar-
donic—his recollection of this person, the
writer, came unpleasantly in aid of the serious
impression which his letter was calculated
to make; and he read again—
"I have certain circumstances to lay be-
fore you which nearly affect your honor."
The words smote his heart again with a
tremendous augury; somehow they would
not quite fit his hypothesis about the horse,
but it might be something else. Was there
any lady who might conceive herself jilted?
Who could guess what it might be?
Jennie's letter he then read again in his
box, with the smell of beef-steaks, the glitter
of pewter pots, and the tread of waiters
about him.
Yes, it was—he defied the devil himself
to question it—an affectionate, loving, grate-
ful letter. And Lady Alice had gone to
Marlowe, and was staying there—Lady Alice
Redcliffe, that stiff, austere duenna—Jane's
kinswoman. He was glad of it, and often
thinking of it. But, no—oh! no—it could
not possibly refer to Jane: upon that point
he had perfectly made up his mind.
Well, with his pen between his fingers,
he considered when he could go, and where
he should meet this vulgar Frenchman. He
could not leave London to-morrow, nor next
day, and the day following he had to give
evidence on the question of compensation to
that native prince, and so on; so at last he
wrote, naming the nearest day he could com-
mand, and requesting, in a postscript which
he opened the letter to add, that Monsieur
Varbarriere would be so very good as to let
him know a little more distinctly to what
specific subject his letter referred, as he had
in vain taxed his recollection for the slightest
clue to his meaning; and although he was
prefectly satisfied he could not have the
smallest difficulty in clearing up anything
that could possibly be alleged against him as
a soldier or a gentleman—having, he thanked
Heaven, accomplished his career with honor
—yet he could not feel quite comfortable
until he heard something more explicit.
As the General, with the letter in his
pocket, was hurrying to the post-office, the
party at Marlowe were admiring a glorious
sunset, and Monsieur Varbarriere was de-
scribing to Lady Jane Lennox some gorgeous


74
GUY DEVERELL.
effect of sunlight which he had witnessed
from Lisbon on the horizon of the Atlantic.
The Bishop had already arrived, and was
in his dressing-room, and Dives was more
silent and thoughtful than usual.
Yes, the Bishop had arrived. He was
venerable, dignified, dapper, with, for his
time of life, a wonderfully shapely leg in his
black silk stocking. There was m his man-
ner and tones that suavity which reminds
one at the same time of heaven and the
House of Lords. He did not laugh. He
smiled and bowed sometimes. There was a
classical flavor in his conversation with gen-
tlemen, and he sometimes conversed with
ladies, his leg crossed horizontally, the ankle
resting on his knee, while he mildly stroked
the shapely limb I have mentioned, and
murmured well-bred Christianity, to which,
as well as to his secular narratives, the ladies
listened respectfully.
Don't suppose he was a hypocrite or a
Pharisee. He was as honest as most men,
and better than many Christians. He was a
bachelor, and wealthy; but if he had amassed
a good deal of public money, he had also dis-
played a good deal of public spirit, and had
done many princely and even some kind
actions. His family were not presentable,
making a livelihood by unmentionable prac-
tices, such as shopkeeping and the hke.
Still he cut them with moderation, having
maintained affable though clandestine rela-
tions with his two maiden aunts, who lived
and died in Thames Street, and having twice
assisted a nephew, though he declined seeing
him, who was a skipper of a Russian brig.
He was a little High-Church. But though
a disciplinarian in ecclesiastical matters, and
with notions about self-mortification, his rule
as master of the great school he had once
governed had been kind and popular as well
as firm. I do not know exactly what interest
got him his bishopric. Perhaps it was his
reputation only; and that he was thinking
of duty and his fasts, and waked in his cell
one morning with a mitre on instead of his
night-cap. The Trappist, mayhap, in digging
his grave had lighted on a pot of gold.
"I had no idea," exclaimed Miss Blunket,
when the Bishop's apron and silk stockings
had moved with the Rev. Dives Marlowe to
the opposite extremity of the drawing-room,
where the attentive Rector was soon deep in
demonstrations, which evidently interested
the right reverend prelate much, drawn
from some manuscript notes of an ancestor
of Dives' who had filled that see, which had
long known him no more, and where he had
been sharp in his day in looking up obscure
rights and neglected revenues.
"I had no idea the bishop was so young;
he's by no means an old-looking man; and so
very admirable a prelate—is not he?"
"He has neglected one of St. Paul's condi-
tions though," said Sir Jekyl; "but you will
not think the worse of him for that. It may
be mended, you know."
"What's that?" inquired Miss Blunket.
"Why, he is not the husband of one wife."
"Nonsense, you wretch!" cried Miss Blun-
ket, with a giggle, jerking a violet which she
was twiddling between her fingers at the
Baronet.
"He has written a great deal, has not
he?" continued Miss Blunket. "His tract
on mortification has gone to fifteen thousand
copies, I see by the newspaper."
"I wonder he has never married," inter-
posed Lady Blunket, drowsily, with her
usual attention to the context.
"I wonder he never tried it as a species of
mortification," suggested Sir Jekyl.
"You horrid Vandal! Do you hear him,
mamma?" exclaimed Miss Blunket.
Lady Blunket rather testily—for she neither
heard nor understood very well, and her
daughter's voice was shrill—asked—
"What is it? You are always making
mountains of molehills, my dear, and startling
one."
Old Lady Alice Redcliffe's entrance at this
moment made a diversion. She entered, tall,
gray, and shaky, leaning on the arm of pretty
Beatrix, and was encountered near the door
by the right reverend prelate, who greeted
her with a dignified and apostolic gallantry,
which contrasted finely with Sir Jekyl's
jaunty and hilarious salutation.
The Bishop was very much changed since
she had seen him last. He, no doubt, thought
the same of her. Neither intimated this
httle reflection to the other. Each estimated,
with something of wonder and pity, the
other's decay, and neither appropriated the
lesson.
"I dare say you think me very much
altered," said Lady Alice, so soon as she
had made herself comfortable on the otto-
man.
"I was about putting the same inquiry of
myself, Lady Alice; but, alas! why should
we ?' Never continueth in one stay,' you
know; change is the universal law, and the
greatest, last."
The excellent prelate delivered this ex
eathredra, as an immortal to a mortal. It
was his duty to impress old Lady Alice, and
he courteously included himself, being a
modest priest, who talked of sin and death
as if bishops 'were equally subject to them
with other men.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
OLD SCENES BECALLED.
At dinner the prelate, who sat beside Lady
Alice, conversed in the same condescending
spirit, and with the same dignified humility,
upon all sorts of subjects—upon the new
sect, the Huggletonians, whom, with doubt-
ful originality, but considerable emphasis, he
likened to " lost sheep."
"Who's lost his sheep, my lord ?" inquired
Sir Paul Blunket across the table.
"I spoke metaphorically, Sir Paul. The
Huggletonians, the sheep who should have
been led by the waters of comfort, have been
suffered to stray into the wilderness."
"Quite so—I see. Shocking name that—
the Huggletonians. I should not like to be


GUY DEVERELL.
7o
a Huggletonian, egad!" said Sir Paul Blun-
ket, and drank some wine. "Lost sheep, to
be sure—yes; but that thing of bringing
sheep to water — you see—it's a mistake.
When a wether takes to drinking water, it's
a sign he's got the rot."
The Bishop gently declined his head, and
patiently allowed this little observation to
blow over.
Sir Paul Blunket, having delivered it,
merely added, after a decent pause, as he ate
his dinner—
"Dartbroke mutton this—five years old—
eh?"
"Yes. I hope you like it," answered his
host.
Sir Paul Blunket, having a bit in his
mouth, grunted politely—
"Only for your own table, though?" he
added, when he'd swallowed it.
"That's all," answered Sir Jekyl.
"Never pay at market, you know," said
Sir Paul Blunket. "I consider any sheep
kept beyond two years as lost."
"A lost sheep, and sell him as a Huggle-
tonian," rejoined Sir Jekyl.
"It is twenty years," murmured the Bishop
in Lady Alice's ear, for he preferred not
hearing that kind of joke, " since I sate in
this parlor."
"Ha !" sighed Lady Alice.
"Long before that I used, in poor Sir
Harry's time to be there a good deal—a hos-
pitable, kind man in the main."
"I never liked him," croaked Lady Alice,
and wiped her mouth.
They sat so very close to Sir Jekyl that the
Bishop merely uttered a mild ejaculation,
and bowed toward his plate.
"The arrangements of this room—the por-
traits—are just what I remember them."
"Yes, and you were here—let me see—
just thirty years since, when Sir Harry died
—weren't you?"
"So I was, my " dear Lady Alice—very
true," replied the Bishop in his most subdued
tones, and he threw his head back a little,
and nearly closed *his eyes; and she fancied
he meant, in a dignified way, to say, 'I
should prefer not speaking of those particular
recollections while we sit so near our host.
The old lady was much of the same mind,
and said to him quietly—
"I'll ask you a few questions by-and-by.
You remember Donica Gwynn. She's living
with me-now- -the housekeeper, you know.
"Yes, perfectly, a very nice-looking quiet
young woman—how is she?"
"A dried-up old woman now, but very
well," said Lady Alice.
"Yes, to be sure; she must be elderly
now," said he, hastily; and the Bishop men-
tally made up one of those little sums in ad-
dition, the result of which surprises us
sometimes in our elderly days so oddly.
When the party transferred themselves to
the drawing-room, Lady Alice failed to se-
cure the Bishop, who was seized by the Rev.
Dives Marlowe and carried into a recess-
Sir Jekyl having given his clerical brother
the key of a cabinet in which were deposited
more of the memoranda, and a handsome
collection of the official and legal correspon-
dence of that episcopal ancestor whose agree-
able MSS. had interested the Bishop so much
before dinner.
Jekyl, indeed, was a good-natured brother.
As a match-making mother will get the
proper persons under the same roof, he had
managed this little meeting at Marlowe.
When the ladies went away to the drawing-
room, he had cried—
"Dives, I want you here for a moment,"
and so he placed him on the chair which
Lady Jane Lennox had occupied beside him,
and what.was more to the purpose, beside
the Bishop; and, as Dives was a good schol-
ar, well made up in controversies, with a
very pretty notion of ecclesiastical law and a
turn for Latin verse, he and the prelate were
soon in a state of very happy and intimate
confidence. This cabmet, too, was what the
game of chess is to the lovers—a great oppor-
tunity—a seclusion; and Dives knowing all
about the papers, was enabled really to in-
terest the Bishop very keenly.
So Lady Alice, who wanted to talk with
him, was doomed to a jealous isolation, until
that friend, of whom she was gradually com-
ing to think very highly indeed, Monsieur
Varbarriere, drew near, and they fell into
conversation, first on the recent railway col-
lision, and then on the fruit and flower show,
and next upon the Bishop.
They both agreed what a charming and
venerable person he was, and then Lady
Alice said—
"Sir Harry Marlowe, I told you—the
father, you know, of Jekyl there," and she
dropped her voice as she named him, " was
in possession at the time when the deed
affecting my beloved son's lights was lost."
"Yes, madame."
"And it was the Bishop there who attend-
ed him on his death-bed."
"Ho !" exclaimed M. Varbarriere, looking
more curiously for a moment at that dapper
little gentleman in the silk apron.
"They said he heard a great deal from poor,
wretched Sir Harry. I have never had an
opportunity of asking him in private about
it, but I mean to-morrow, please Heaven."
"It may be, madame, in the highest degree
important," said Monsieur Varbarriere, em-
phatically.
"How can it be? My son is dead."
"Your son is" and M. Varbarriere,
who was speaking sternly and with a pallid
face, like a man deeply excited, suddenly
checked himself, and said—
"Yes, very true, your son is dead. Yes,
madame, he is dead.
Old Lady Alice looked at him with a be-
wildered and frightened gaze. |
"In Heaven's name, sir, what do you
mean?" * i
"Mean—mean—why, what have I said?"
exclaimed Monsieur Varbarriere, very tartly,
and looking still more uncomfortable.
"I did not say you had said anything, but
you do mean something."
"No, madame, I forgot something; the


76
GUY DEVERELL.
tragedy to which you referred is not to be
supposed to be always as present to the mind
of another as it naturally is to your own.
We forget in a moment of surprise many
things of which at another time we need not
to be reminded, and so it happened with
me."
Monsieur Varbarriere stood up and fiddled
with his gold double eye-glasses, and seemed
for a while disposed to add more on that
theme, but, after a pause, said—
"And so it was to the Bishop that Sir
Harry Marlowe communicated his dying
wish that the green chanber should be shut
up?"
"Yes, to him; and I have heard that more
passed than is suspected, but of that I know
nothing; only I mean to put the question
to him directly, when next I can see him
alone."
Monsieur Varbarriere again looked with a
curious scrutiny at the Bishop, and then he
inquired—
"He is a prelate, no doubt, who enjoys a
high reputation for integrity?"
"This I know, that he would not for
worlds utter an untruth," replied Lady Alice.
"What a charming person is Lady Jane
Lennox!" exclaimed Monsieur Varbarriere,
suddenly diverging.
"H'm! do you think so? Well, yes, she
is very much admired."
"It is not often you see a pair so unequal
in years so affectionately attached," said
Monsieur Varbarriere.
"I have never seen her husband, and I
can't, therefore, say how they get on toge-
ther; but I am glad to hear you say so. Jane
has a temper, you know, which every one
might not get on with; that is," she added,
fearing lest she had gone a little too far,
"sometimes it is not quite pleasant."
"No, I doubt she was much admired and
much pursued," observed Varbarriere.
"Yes, I said she was admired," answered
Lady Alice, dryly.
"How charming she looks, reading her
book at this moment!" exclaimed Vabarriere.
She was leaning back on an ottoman, with a
book in her hand; her rich wavy hair, her
jewels and splendid dress, her beautiful
braceleted arms, and exquisitely haughty
features, and a certain negligence in her pose,
recalled some of those voluptuous portraits
of the beauties of the Court of Charles II.
Sir Jekyl was seated on the other side of
the cushioned circle, leaning a little across,
and talking volubly, and, as it seemed,
earnestly. It is one of those groups in
which, marking the silence of the lady and
the serious earnestness of her companion,
and the flush of both countenances, one con-
cludes, if there be nothing to forbid, that the
talk is at least romantic.
Lady Alice was reserved, however; she
, merely said—
"Yes, Jane looks very well; she's always
well got up."
Monsieur Varbarriere saw her glance with
a shrewd little frown of scrutiny at the
Baronet and Lady Jane, and he knew what
was passing in her mind; she, too, suspected
what was in his, for she glanced at him, and
their eyes met for a moment and were
averted. Each knew what the other was
thinking; so Lady Alice said—
"For an old gentleman, Jekyl is the most
romantic I know; when he has had his wine,
I think he'd flirt with any woman alive. I
dare say he's boring poor Jane to death, if
we knew but all. She can't read her book.
I assure you I've seen him, when nobody
better was to be had, making love to old
Susan Blunket—Miss Blunket there—after
dinner, of course: and by the time he has
played his rubber of whist he's quite a sane
man, and continues so until he comes in
after dinner next evening. We all know
Jekyl, and never mind him."
Having thus spoken, she asked Monsieur
Varbarriere whether he intended a long stay
in England, and a variety of similar ques-
tions.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
IN WHICH LADY ALICE FUMFS THE BISHOP.
Lady Jane Lennox, who complained of a
headache, departed early for her room. The
Baronet's passion for whist returned, and he
played with more than his usual spirit and
hilarity; Monsieur Varbarriere, his partner,
was also in great force, and made some very
creditable sallies between the deals. All
went, in fact, merry as a marriage-bell. But
in that marriage-bell booms unmarked the
selfsame tone which thrills in the funeral-
knell. There was its somewhat of bitter
rising probably in each merry soul in that
gay room. Black care walked silently among
those smiling guests, and on an unseen salver
presented to each his sprig of rue or rose-
mary. Another figure also, lank, obsequi-
ous, smirking dolorously, arrayed in the
Marlowe livery, came in with a bow, and
stood with an hour-glass in his long yellow
claw at the back of Sir Jekyl's chair; you
might see the faint lights of his hollow eyes
reflected on the Baronet's cards.
"A little chilly to-night, is not it?" said
Sir Jekyl, and shook his shoulders. "Have
we quite light enough, do you think?"
In that serene company there were two
hearts specially sore, each with a totally dif-
ferent anguish.
In Lady Alice's old ears continually beat
these words, "Your son is" ending,
like an interrupted dream, in nothing.
Before her eyes was Varbarriere's disturbed
countenance as he dropped the curtain over
his meaning, and affected to have forgotten
the death of Guy Deverell.
"Your son is" Merciful Heaven!
could he have meant living?
Could that shape she had seen in its coffin,
with the small blue mark in its serene fore-
head, where the bullet had entered, been a
simulacrum—not her son—a cast—a fraud?
Her reason told her loudly such a thought
was mere insanity; and yet what could that
sudden break in Varbarriere's sentence have


GUY DEVERELL.
77
been meant to conceal, and what did that re-
coiling look imply?
"Your son is"—- It was for ever going
on. She knew there was something to tell,
something of which M. Varbarriere was
thoroughly cognisant, and about which noth-
ing could ever induce him to open his lips.
If it was not "your son is living,'" she
cared not what else it might be, and that—
could it ?—no, it could not be. A slight hec-
tic touched each thin cheek, otherwise she
looked as usual. But as she gazed dreamily
over the fender, with clouded eyes, her tem-
ples were throbbing and she felt sometimes
quite wild, and ready to start to her feet and
adjure that awful whist-player to disclose all
he knew about her dead boy.
Beatrix was that evening seated near the
fireplace, and Drayton making himself agree-
able, with as small trouble as possible to
himself. Drayton! Well, he was rather
amusing—cleverish—well enough upon those
subjects which are generally supposed to in-
terest young ladies; and, with an affectation
of not caring, really exerting himself to be
entertaining. Did he succeed? If you were
to judge by her animated looks and tones,
you would have said very decidedly. Dray-
ton's self-love was in a state of comfort, even
of luxury, that evening. But was there any-
thing in the triumph?
A pale face, at the farther end of the room,
with a pair of large, dark, romantic eyes, a
face that had grown melancholy of late, she
saw every moment, though she had not once
looked in that direction all the evening.
As Drayton saw her smiles at his sallies,
with bright eyes and heightened color, lean-
ing back in her cushioned chair, and looking
under her long lashes into the empty palm
of her pretty hand, he could not see that
little portrait—painted on air with the colors
of memory—that lay there like a locket;—
neither his nor any other eyes, but hers alone.
Guy Strangways was at the farther end of
the room, where were congregated Lady
Blunket and her charming daughter, and
that pretty Mrs. Maberly of whom we have
spoken; and little Linnett, mounted strad-
dle-wise on his chair, leaning with his elbows
on the back, and his chin on his knuckles,
helped to entertain them with his inexhaus-
tible agreeabilities. Guy Strangways had in-
deed very little cast upon him, for Linnett
was garrulous and cheerful, and reinforced
besides by help from other cheery spirits.
Here was Guy Strangways undergoing the
isolation to which he had condemned him-
self; and over there, engrossed by Drayton,
the lady whose peer he had never seen. Had
she missed him? He saw no sign. Not once
even casually had she looked in his direc-
tion; and how often, though she could not
know it, had his eyes wandered toward her!
Dull to him was the hour without her, and
she was engrossed by another, who, selfish
and shallow, was merely amusing himself
and pleasing his vanity.
How is it that people in love see, so well
Without eyes? Beatrix saw, without a glance,
exactly where Guy Strangways was. She
was piqued and proud, and chose perhaps to
show him how little he was missed. It was
his presence, though he suspected it so little,
that sustained that animation which he
resented; and had he left the room, Drayton
would have found, all at once, that she was
tired.
Next day was genial and warm, one of
those days that bygone summer sometimes
gives us "back from the past to the wintry
close of autumn, as in an old face that we
love we sometimes see a look, transitory and
how pathetic, of the youth we remember.
Such days, howsoever pleasant, come touched
with the melancholy of a souvenir. And
perhaps 'the slanting amber light nowhere
touched two figures more in harmony with
its tone than those who now sat side by side
on the rustic seat, under the two beech trees at
the farther end of the pleasure ground of
Marlowe.
Old Lady Alice, with her cushions disposed
about her, and her cloaks and shawls; had
one arm of the seat; and the Bishop, gait-
ered and prudently buttoned up in a surtout
of the finest black cloth, and with that gro-
tesque (bequeathed of course by the Apostles)
shovel-hat upon his silvery head, leaned back
upon the other, and, with his dapper leg
crossed, and showing the neat sole of his shoe
to Lady Alice, stroked and patted, after his
wont, the side of his calf.
"Upwards of three-and-thirty years," said
the Bishop.
"Yes, about that—about three-and-thirty
years; and what did you think of him? A
very bad man, I'm sure."
"Madam, de mortuis. We have a saying,
'concerning the dead, nothing but good.'"
"Nothing but truth, say I," answered Lady
Alice. "Praise can do them no good, and
falsehood will do us a great deal of harm."
"You put the point strongly, Lady Alice;
but when it is said, 'nothing but good,' we
mean, of course, nothing but the good we
may truly speak of them."
"And that, as you know, my lord, in his
case was not much. You were with him to
the moment of his death—nearly a week,
was it not?"
"Three days precisely."
"Did he know from the first he was
dying?" inquired Lady Alice.
"Bie was not aware that his situation was
desperate until the end of the second day.
Nor was it; but he knew he was in danger,
and was very much agitated, poor man;
very anxious to live and lead a better life."
"And you prayed with him?"
"Yes, yes; he was very much agitated,
though; and it was not easy to fix his
thoughts, poor Sir Harry! It was very sad.
He held my hand in his—my hand—all the
time I sat by the bed, saying, 'Don't yon
think I'll get over it ?—I feel that I shall-
I feel quite safe while I hold your hand.' I
never felt a hand tremble as his did."
"You prayed for him, and read with
him?" said Lady Alice. "And you acted,
beside, as his confessor, did not you, and
heard some revelation he had to make?"


78
GUY DEVERELL.
"You forget, my dear Lady Alice, that
the office of confessor is unknown to the
Church. It is not according to our theory
to extract a specific declaration of particu-
lar sins."
"H'm! I remember they told me that you
refused at school to read the Absolution to
the boys of your house until they had made
confession and pointed out an offender they
-were concealing."
The Bishop hemmed and slightly colored.
It might have amused an indifferent auditor
to see that eminent and ancient divine taken
to task, and made even to look a little foolish,
by this old woman, and pushed into a corner,
as a wild young curate might be by him on
a question of church doctrine.
"Why, as to that, the fact may be so; but
it was under very special circumstances,
Lady Alice. The Church refuses even the
Sacrament of the Lord's Supper to an in-
tending communicant who is known to be
living in wilful sin; and here was a wilful
concealment of a grave offence, to which all
had thus made themselves, and were con-
tinuing to make themselves, accessory. It
is, I allow, a doubtful question, and I do
not say I should be prepared to adopt that
measure now. The great Martin Luther
has spoken well and luminously on the fal-
lacy of taking his convictions at any one
period of his life as the measure of his doc-
trine at a later one. The grain of mustard-
seed, the law of perpetual expansion and
development, applies to faith as well as'to
motive and action, to the Christian as a
spiritual individual as well as to the Church
as an aggregate."
This apology for his faith did the Right
Reverend the Lord Bishop of Queen's Copely
urge in his citation before- old Lady Alice
Redcliffe, whom one would have thought
he might have afforded to despise in a
Christian way; but for wise purposes the
instincts of self defence and self-esteem, and
a jealousy of even our smallest neighbor's
opinion, is so deeply implanted, that we are
ready to say a good word for ourselves to
any one who misconceives the perfect wisdom
of our words, or the equally perfect purity of
our motives.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
LADY ALICE AND VABBAKMERE TETE TETE
IN THE LIBRARY.
"Well, he told you something, did not
he?" persisted Lady Alice.
"In the sense of a distinct disclosure,
nothing," said the Bishop, looking demurely
over his horizontal leg on the neatly-shorn
grass. "He did speak to me upon subjects
—his wishes, and I have no doubt he in-
tended to have been much more explicit. In
fact, he intimated as much; but he was over-
taken by death—unable to speak when I saw
him next morning."
"He spoke to you, I know, about pulling
down or blowing up that green chamber,
said Lady Alice, whose recollections grew a
little violent in proportion to the Bishop's
reserve and her own impatience.
"He did not suggest quite such strong
measures, but he did regret that it had ever
been built, and made me promise to urge
upon his son, as you once before mentioned
you were aware, so soon as he should come
of age, to shut it up."
"And you did urge him?"
"Certainly, Lady Alice," said the Bishop,
with dignity. "I viewed it in the light of a
duty, and a very sacred one, to do so."
"He told you the reason, then ?" inquired
Lady Alice.
"He gave me no reason on earth for his
wish; perhaps, had he been spared for
another day, he would have done so; but
he expressed himself strongly indeed, with
a kind of horror, and spoke of the Italian
who built, and his father who ordered it, in
terms of strong disapprobation, and wished
frequently it had never been erected. Per-
haps you would like to take a little turn.
How very pretty the flowers still are!"
"Very. No, thank you, I'll sit a little.
And 'there was something more. I know
perfectly there was, my lord; what was it,
pray?" answered the old lady.
"It was merely something that I took
charge of," said the Bishop, cautiously.
"You need not be so reserved with me, my
lord; I'm not, as you very well know, a talk-
ing old woman, by any means. I know some-
thing of the matter already, and have never
talked about it; and as the late Lady Mar-
lowe was my poor daughter by marriage,
you may talk to me, I should hope, a little
more freely, than to a total stranger."
The Bishop, I fancy, thought there was
something in this appeal, and was, perhaps,
amused at the persistency of women, for he
smiled sadly for a second or two on his
gaiter, and he said, looking before him with
his head a little on one side—
"You give me credit, my dear Lady Alice,
for a great deal more reserve than I have, at
least on this occasion, exercised. I have
very little to disclose, and I am not forbidden
by any promise, implied or direct, to tell you
the very little I know."
He paused.
"Well, my lord, pray go on," insisted Lady
Alice.
"Yes, on the whole," said the Bishop,
thoughtfully, " I prefer telling you. In the
room in which he died; in this house, there
is, or was, a sort of lock-up place."
"That was the room in which Jekyl now
sleeps," interrupted Lady Alice.
"I am not aware."
"The room at the extreme back of the
house. You go through a long passage on
the same level as the hall, and then, at the
head of the far back-stair, into a small room
on your left, and through that into the bed-
room, I mean. It was there, I know, his
coffin lay, for I saw him in it." >
"As well as I recollect, that must have
been the room. I know it lay as you de-
scribe. He gave me some keys that were
placed with his purse under his pillow, and


GUY DEVERELL.
79
directed me to open the press, and take out
a box, resembling a small oak plate-chest,
which I did, and, by his direction, having
unlocked it, I took out a very little trunk-
shaped box, covered with stamped red
leather, and he took it from me, and the keys,
and that time said no more."
"Well?"
"In the evening, when I returned, he said
he had been thinking about it, and wished to
place it and the key in my care, as his boy
was not of age, and it contained something,
the value of which, as I understood, might
be overlooked, and the box mislaid. His
direction to me was to give it to his son, the
present Sir Jekyl, on his coming of age, and
to tell him from him that he was to do what
was right with it. I know those were his
words, for he was exhausted, and not speaking
very distinctly; and I repeated them care-
fully alter him, and as he said,' correctly;'
after a short time he added,' I think I shall
tell you more about it to-morrow;' but, as I
told you, he was unable to speak next morn-
ing."
"And what did that red box contam?"
asked Lady Alice.
"I can't tell. I never unlocked it. I tied
it round with a red tape and sealed it, and so
it remained."
"Then, Jekyl got it when he came of age?"
"I had him, about that time, at my house.
He examined the box, and, when he had sat-
isfied himself as to its contents, he secured it
again with his own seal, and requested me
to keep it for him for some short time longer."
"Have you got it still in your possession?"
"Ho. I thought it best to insist at last on
his taking it into his own keeping. I've
brought it with me here—and I gave it to
him on the day of my arrival."
"Very heavy, was it?"
"On the contrary, very light."
"H'm! Thank you, my lord; it is very
good of you to converse so long with an old
woman such as I."
"On the contrary, Lady Alice, I am much
obliged to you. The fact is, I believe it is
better to have mentioned these circumstan-
ces. It may, perhaps, prove important that
some member of the family should know
exactly what took place between me and the
late Sir Harry Marlowe during his last ill-
ness. You now know everything. I have
reminded him, as I thought it right, of the
earnest injunction of his father, first with
respect to that room, the green chamber;
and he tells me that he means to comply
with it when his party shall have broken up.
And about the other matter, the small box,
I mentioned that he should do what is right
with it. He asked me if I had seen what the
box contained; and on my saying no he added
that he could not tell what his father meant
'by telling him to do what was right with it
—in fact, that he could do nothing with it."
"Quite an Italian evening ?" exclaimed the
Bishop, after a pause, rising, and offering his
arm to Lady Alice.
And so their conference ended.
Next day, contrary to her secluded custom,
and for the first time, Lady Alice glided
feebly into the new library of Marlowe, of
which all the guests were free.
Quite empty, except of that silent com-
pany in Russia leather and gold, in vellum,
and other fine suits; all so unobtrusive and
quiet; all so obsequiously at her service; all
ready to speak their best, their brightest, and
wisest thoughts, or to be silent and neglected,
and yet never affronted; always alert to
serve and speak, or lie quiet.
Quite deserted! No, not quite. There,
more than half hidden by that projection and
carved oak pilaster, sate Monsieur Varbar-
riere, in an easy chair and a pair of gold
spectacles, reading easily his vellum quarto.
"Pretty room! exclaimed Lady Alice in
soliloquy, so soon as sne had detected the
corpulent and grave student.
Monsieur Varbarriere laid down his book
with a look of weariness, and seeing Lady
Alice, smiled benignly, and rose and bowed,
and his sonorous bass tones greeted her
courteously from the nook in which he stood
framed in oak, like a portrait of a rich and
mysterious burgomaster.
"What a pretty room!" repeated the old
lady; "I believe we are tete-a-tete."
"Quite so; I have been totally alone; a
most agreeable surprise, Lady Alice. Books
are very good company; but even the best
won't do always; and I was beginning to
weary of mine.
M. Varbarriere spoke French, so did Lady
Alice; in fact, for that gentlemen's conve-
nience, all conversations with him in that
house were conducted in the same courtly
language.
Lady Alice looked round the room to sat-
isfy herself that they were really alone; and
having made her commendatory criticisms
on the apartment once more,
"Very pretty," echoed Monsieur Varbar-
riere; "I admire the oak, especially in a
library, it is so solerhn and contemplative.
The Bishop was here to-day, and admired
the room very much. An agreeable and
good man the Bishop appears to be."
"Yes; a good man; an excellent man. I
had a very interesting conversation with him
yesterday. I may as well tell you, Monsieur
Varbarriere—I know I may rely upon you—
I have not come to my time of life without
knowing pretty well, by a kind of instinct,
whom I may trust; and I well know how
you sympathise with me about my lost son."
"Profoundly, madame;" and Monsieur
Varbarriere, with his broad and brown hand
on his breast,.bowed slowly and very deep.
CHAPTER XXXIX
M. VARBARRIERE ORDERS HIS WINGS.
In her own way, with interjections, and
commentary and occasional pauses for the
sake of respiration, old Lady Alice related
the substance of what the Bishop had com-
municated to her.
"And what do you suppose, Monsieur
^


80
GUY DEVERELL.
Varbarriere, to have been the contents of
that red leather box?" asked Lady Alice.
Monsieur Varbarriere smiled mysteriously
and nodded.
"I fancy, Lady Alice, I have the honor to
have arrived at precisely the same conclu-
sion with yourself," said he.
"Well, I dare say. You see now what is
involved. You understand now why I
should be, for his own sake, more than ever
grieved that my boy is gone," she said, trem-
bling very much.
Monsieur Varbarriere bowed profoundly.
"Aud why it is, sir, that I do insist on
your explaining your broken phrase of the
other evening.
M^isieur Varbarriere in his deep oak
frame stood up tall, portly, and erect. A
narrow window, with stained heraldic embla-
zonry, was partly behind him, and the light
from above fell askance on one side of his mas-
sive countenance, throwing such dark, down-
ward bars of shadow on his face, that Lady
Alice could not tell whether he was scowling
or smiling, or whether the effect was an illu-
sion.
"What phrase, pray, does your ladyship al-
lude to ?" he inquired.
"You spoke of my boy—my poor Guy-
as if you knew more of him than you cared
to speak—as if you were on the point of dis-
closing, and suddenly recollected yourself,"
replied Lady Alice.
"You mean when I had the honor to con-
verse with you the night before last in the
drawing room," said he, a little brusquely,
observing that the old lady was becoming
vehemently excited.
"Yes ; when you left me under the impres-
sion that you thought my son still living," half
screamed Lady Alice, like a woman in a fury.
"Bah!" thundered the sneering diapason
of Monsieur Varbarriere, whose good man-
ners totally forsook him.in his angry impa-
tience, and his broad foot on the floor en-
forced his emphasis with a stamp.
"What do you mean, you foreign mas-
querader, whom nobody knows? What can
it be? Sir, you have half distracted me.
I've heard of people getting into houses—
I've heard of magicians—I've heard of the
devil—I have heard of charlatans, sir. I'd
like to know what right, if you know no-
thing of my dear son, you have to torture
me with doubts"
"Doubts!" repeated Varbarriere, .if less
angrily, even more contemptuously. "Pish!"
"You may say pish, sir, or any rudeness you
please; but depend upon this, if you do know
anything, of any kind, about my darling son,
Til have it from you if there be either laws
or men in England," shrieked Lady Alice.
Varbarriere all at once subsided, and
looked hesitatingly. In tones comparatively
quiet, but still a little ruffled, he said—
'- I've been, I fear, very rude; everyone
that's angry is. I think you are right. I
ought never to have approached the subject
of your domestic sorrow. It was not my do-
ing, madame; it was you who insisted on
drawing me to it."
"You told me that you had seen my son,
and knew Mr. Strangways intimately.
"I did not /" cried Varbarriere sternly,
with his head thrown back; and he and
Lady Alice for a second or two were silent.
"That is, I beg pardon, you misapprehended
me. I'm sure I never could have said I had
seen your son, Mr. Guy Deverell, or that I
had a particularly intimate acquintance with
Mr. Strangways."
"It won't do," burst forth Lady Alice again;
"I'll not be fooled—I won't be fooled, sir."
"Pray, then, pause for one moment before
you have excited an alarm iu the house, and
possibly decide me on taking my leave for
ever," said Varbarrierre, in a low but very
stern tone. "Whatever I may be—charla-
tan, conjurer, devil—if you but knew the
truth, you would acknowledge yourself pro-
foundly and everlastingly indebted to me.
It is quite true that I am in possession of
facts of which you had not even a suspicion;
it is true that the affaiss of those nearest to
you in blood have occupied my profoundest
thoughts and most affectionate care. I be-
lieve, if you will but exercise the self-com-
mand of which I have no doubt you are per-
fectly capable, for a very few days, I shall
have so matured my plans as to render their
defeat impracticable. On the other hand, if
you give me any trouble, or induce the
slightest suspicion anywhere that I have
taken an interest of the kind I describe, I
shall quit England, and you shall go down to
your grave in darkness, and with the convic-
tion, moreover, that you have blasted the
hopes for which you ought to have sacrificed
not your momentary curiosity only, but your
unhappy life."
Lady Alice was awed by the countenance
and tones of this strange man, who assumed
an authority over her, on this occasion,
which neither of her deceased lords had ever
ventured to assert in their life times.
Her fearless spirit would not, however, suc-
cumb, but looked out through the cold win-
dows of her deep-set eyes into the fiery gaze
of her master, as she felt him, daringly as be-
fore.
After a short pause, she said—
"You would have acted more wisely, Mon-
sieur Varbarriere, had you spoken to me on
other occasions as frankly as you have just
now done."
"Possibly, madame."
"Certainly, monsieur."
M. Varbarriere bowed.
"Certainly, sir. But having at length
heard so much, I am willing to concede what
you say. I trust the delay may not be long.
I think you ought to tell me soon. I sup-
pose we had better talk no more in the in-
terim," she added, suddenly turning as she
approached the threshold of the room, and
recovering something of her lofty tone—
"upon that, to me, terrible subject.''
"Much better, madame," acquiesced M.
Varbarriere.
"And we meet otherwise as before," said
the old lady, with a disdainful condescension
and a slight bow.


GUY DEVERELL.
81
"I thank you, madame, for that favor," re-
plied M. Varbarriere, reverentially, ap-
proaching the door, which, as she drew near
to withdraw, he opened for her with a bow,
and they parted.
"I hope she'll be quiet, that old grey wild-
cat. I must get a note from her to Madame
Gwynn. The case grows stronger; a little
more and it will be irresistible, if only that
stupid and ill-tempered old woman can be
got to govern herself for a few days."
That evening, in the drawing-room, Mon-
sieur Varbarriere was many degrees more
respectful than ever to that old grey wild-cat,
at whom that morning he had roared in a
way so utterly ungentlemanlike and ferocious.
People at a distance might have almost
fancied a sexagenarian caricature of a love-
scene. There had plainly been the lovers'
quarrel. The lady carried her head a little
high, threw sidelong glances on the carpet,
had a little pink flush in her cheeks, and
spoke little; listened, but smiled not; while
the gentleman sat as close as he dare, and
spoke earnestly and low.
Monsieur Varbarriere was, in fact, making
the most of his time, and recovering all he
could of his milder influence over Lady
Alice, and did (persuade and soften; and at
length he secured a promise of the note he
wanted to Mrs. Gwynn, pledging his honor
that she would thoroughly approve the
object of it, so soon as he was at liberty to
disclose it.
That night taking leave of Sir Jekyl,
Monsieur Varbarriere said-
"You've been so good as to wish me to
prolong my visit, which has been to me so
charming and so interesting. I have ven-
tured, therefore, to enable myself to do so, by
arranging an absence of two days, which 1
mean to devote to business which will not
bear postponement."
"Very sorry to lose you, even for the time
you say; but you must leave your nephew,
Mr. Strangways, as a hostage in our hands
to secure your return."
"He shall remain, as you are so good as
to desire it, to enjoy himself. As for me, I
need no tie to hold me to my engagement,
and only regret every minute stolen for other
objects from my visit."
There was some truth in these compli-
mentary speeches. Sir Jekyl was now quite
at ease as to the character of his guests,
whom he had at first connected with an often
threatened attack, which he profoundly
dreaded, however lightly he might talk of its
chances of success. The host, on the whole,
liked his guests, and really wished their stay
prolonged; and Monsieur Varbarriere, who
silently observed many things of which he
did not speak, was, perhaps, just now partic-
ularly interested in his private perusal of
that little romance which was to be read
only at Marlowe Manor.
"I see, Guy, you have turned over a new
leaf—no fooling now—you must not relapse,
mind. I shall be away for two days. If
longer, address me at Slowton. May I rely
on your good sense and resolution—knowing I
what are our probable relations with this
family—to continue to exercise the same
caution as I have observed in your conduct,
with much satisfaction, for the last two
evenings? Well,I suppose I may. If you
cannot trust yourself—fly. Get away-
pack. You may follow me to Slowton,
make what excuse you please; but don't
loiter here. Good-night."
Such was the farewell spoken by Varbar
riere to his nephew, as he nodded his good-
night on the threshold of their dressing-
room.
In the morning Monsieur Varbarriere's
place knew him no more at the breakfast-
table. With his valise, despatch-box, and
desk, he had glided away, in the frosty sun-
light, in a Marlowe post-chaise, to the
"Plough Inn," on the Old London Road,
where, as we know, he had once sojourned
before. It made a slight roundabout to the
point to which his business really invited
his route; and as he dismissed his vehicle
here, I presume it was done with a view to
mystify possible inquirers.
At the "Plough Inn" he was received
With an awful bustle and reverence. The.-
fame of the consideration with which he
was entertained at Marlowe had reached that
modest hostelry, and Monsieur Varbarriere
looked larger, grander, more solemn in its
modest hall, than ever; his valise was hand-
led with respect, and lifted in like an invalid,
not hauled and trundled like a prisoner; and
the desk and dispatch-box, as the more im-
mediate attendants on his person, were eyed
with the respect which such a confidence
could not fail to inspire.
So Monsieur Varbarriere, having had his
appetising drive through a bright country
and keen air, ate his breakfast very comfort-
ably ; and when that meal was over, ordered
a " fly," in which he proceeded to Wardlock,
and pulled up at the hall-door of Lady Alice's
reserved-looking, but comfortable old red-
brick mansion. «
CHAPTER XL.
MONSIEUR VARBARRIERE TALKS WITH
DONICA GWYNN.
The footman opened the door in deshabille
and unshorn, with a countenance that im-
plied his sense of the impertinence of this
disturbance of his gentlemanlike retirement.
There was, however, that in the countenance
of Monsieur Varbarriere, as well as the in-
tangible but potent" aura" emitted by wealth,
which surrounded him—an influence which
everybody feels and no one can well define,
which circumambiates a rich person and
makes it felt, nobody knows how, that he is
wealthy—that brought the flunky to him-
self; and adjusting his soiled necktie hastily
with one hand, he ran down to the heavy -
but commanding countenance that loomed
on his from the window of the vehicle.
"This is Wardlock?" demanded the vis-
itor.
6


GUY DEVERELL.
"Wardlock Manor ?—yes, sir," answered
the servant.
"I've a note from Lady Alice Redcliffe,
and a few words to Mrs. Gwynn the house-
keeper. She's at home?"
"Mrs. Gwynn ?—yes, sir."
"Open the door, please," said Monsieur
Varbarriere, who was now speaking good
frank English with wonderful fluency, con-
- eidering his marked preference for the French
tongue elsewhere.
The door flew open at the touch of the
footman; and, Monsieur Varbarriere entered
the staid mansion, and was shown by the
servant into the wainscoted parlor in which
Lady Alice had taken leave of the ancient
retainer whom he was about to confer with.
When Mrs. Gwynn, with that mixture of
curiosity and apprehension which an unex-
pected visit is calculated to inspire, entered
the room, very erect and natty, she saw a
large round-shouldered stranger, standing
with his back toward her, arrayed in black,
at the window, with his grotesque high-
crowned hat on.
Turning about he removed this with a
slight bow and a grave smile, and with his
sonorous foreign accent inquired—-
"Mrs. Gwynn, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir, that is my name, if you please."
"A note, Mrs. Gwynn, from Lady Alice
Redcliffe."
And as he placed it in the thin and rather
lady-like fingers of the housekeeper, his eyes
rested steadily on her features, as might those
of a process-server, whose business it might
be hereafter to identify h'er.
Mrs. Gwynn read the note, which was
simply an expression of her mistress's wish
that she should answer explicitly whatever
questions the gentleman, M. Varbarriere,
who wrould hand it to her, and who was
moreover, a warm friend of the family, might
put to her.
When Mrs. Gwynn, with the help of her
spectacles, had spelled through this letter,
she in turn looked searchingly at Monsieur
Varbarriere, and began to wonder unplea-
santly what line his examination might take.
"Will you, Mrs. Gwynn, allow me the
right to sit down, by yourself taking a chair?"
said Monsieur Varbarriere, very politely,
smiling darkly, and waving his hand toward
a seat.
"I'm very well as I am, I thank you, sir,"
replied Gwynn, who did not very much like
the gentleman's looks, and thought him
rather like a great roguish Jew pedlar whom
she had seen long ago at the fair of Marlowe.
"Nay, but pray sit down—I can't while
you stand—and our conversation may last
some time—pray do."
"I can talk as well, sir, one way as t'other,"
replied she, while at the same time, with a
sort of fidgeted impatience, she did sit down
and fold her hands in her lap.
"We have all, Mrs. Gwynn, a very high
opinion of you; I mean Lady Alice and the
friends of her family, among whom I reckon
myself."
"It's only of late as I came to my present
misses, you're aware, sir, 'aving been, from,
I may say, my childhood in the Marlowe
family."
"I know—the Marlowe family—it's all
one, in fact; but I may say, Mrs. Gwynn,
that short, comparatively, as has been }'our
time with Lady Alice, you are spoken of
with more respect and liking by that branch
of the family than by Sir Jekyl."
"I've done nothing to disoblege Sir Jekyl,
as Lady Alice knows. Will you be so kind,
sir, as to say what you want of me, having
business to attend to up-stairs?"
"Certainly, it is only a trifle or two."
Monsieur varbarriere cleared his voice.
"Having ascertained all about that secret
door that opens into the green chamber at
Marlowe, we would be obliged to you to let
us know at what time, to your knowledge,
it was first used."
His large full eyes, from under his pro-
jecting brows, stared full upon her shrinking
gaze as he asked this question in tones deep
and firm, but otherwise as civil as he could
employ.
It was vain for Mrs. Gwynn to attempt to
to conceal her extreme agitation. Her coun-
tenance showed it—she tried to speak and
failed; and cleared her throat, and broke
down again.
"Perhaps you'd like some water," said
Varbarriere, rising and approaching the bell.
"No," said Donica Gwynn, rising suddenly
and getting before him. "Let be.
He saw that she wished to escape observa-
tion.
"As you please, Mrs. Gwynn—sit down
again—I shan't without your leave—and re-
cover a little."
"There's nothing wrong with me, sir," re-
plied Donica, now in possession of her voice,
very angrily; "there's nothing to cause it."
"Well, Mrs. Gwynn, it's quite excusable. I
know all about it.
"What are you, a builder or a hartist?"
"Nothing of the kind; I'm a gentleman
without a profession, Mrs. Gwynn, and one
who will not permit you to be compromised;
one who will protect you from the slightest
suspicion of anything unpleasant."
"I don't know what you're a-driving at,"
said Mrs. Gwynn, still as white as death, and
glancing furiously.
"Come, Mrs. Gwynn, you're a sensible
woman. You do know perfectly. You have
maintained a respectable character."
"Yes, sir!" said Donica Gwynn, and sud-
denly burst into a paroxysm of hysterical
tears.
"Listen to me ; you have maintained a
respectable character, I know it; nothing
whatever to injure that character shall ever
fall from my lips; no human being—but two
or three just as much interested in concealing
all about it as you or I—shall ever know
anything about it; and Sir Jekyl Marlowe
has consented to take it down, so soon as the
party at present at Marlowe shall have dis-
persed."
"Lady Alice—I'll never like to see her
again," sobbed Donica.


GUT DEVERELL.
83
"Lady Alice has no more suspicion of the
existence of that door than the Pope of
Rome has; and what is more, never shall.
You may rely upon me to observe the most
absolute silence and secrecy—nay, more, if
necessary for the object of concealment—so
to mislead and mystify people, that they can
never so much as surmise the truth, provided
—pray observe me—provided you treat me
with the most absolute candor. You must
not practice the least reserve or concealment.
On tracing the slightest shadow of either in
your communication with me, I hold myself
free to deal with the facts in my possession,
precisely as may seem best to myself. You
- understand?"
. "Not Lady Alice, nor none of the ser-
vants, nor—nor a creature living, please."
"Depend on me," said Varbarriere.
""Well, sure I may; a gentleman would not
break his word with such as me," said Don-
ica, imploringly.
"We can't spend the whole day repeating
the same thing over and over, said Var-
barriere, rather grimly; "I've said my'say—
I know everything that concerns you about
it, without your opening your lips upon the
subject. You occupied that room for two
years and a half during Sir Harry's lifetime
—you see I know it all. There! you are
perfectly safe. I need not have made you
any promise, but I do—perfectly safe with
me—and the room shall vanish this winter,
and no one but ourselves know anything
of that door—do you understand ?—provi-
ded"
"Yes, sir, please—and what do you wish
to know more from me? I don't know, I'm
sure, why I should be such a fool as to take
on so about it, as if I could help it, or was
ever a bit the worse of it myself. There's
been many a one has slep' in that room and
never so much as knowd there was a door
but that they came in by."
"To be sure; so tell me, do you recollect
Mr. Deverell's losing a paper in that room?"
"Well, I do mind the time he said he lost
it there, but I know no more than the child
unborn."
"Did Sir Harry never tell you?"
"They said a deal o. bad o Sir Harry, and
them that should a' stood up for him never
said a good word for him. Poor old crea-
ture !—I doubt it he had pluck to do it. I
don't think he had, poor fellow?"
"Did he ever tell you he had done it?
Come, remember your promise."
"No, upon my soul—never."
"Do you think he took it?"
Their eyes met steadily.
"Yes, I do," she said with a slight defiant
frown.
"And why do you think so?"
"Because, shortly after the row began
about that paper, he talked with me, and said
there was something a-troubling of him, and
he wished me to go and live in a farm-house
at Applehythe, and keep summat he wanted
kep safe, as there was no one in all England
so true as me—poor old fellow! He never
told me, and I never asked. But I laid it
down in my own mind it was the paper Mr.
Deverell lost, that's all." „
"Did he ever show you that paper?"
"No."
"Did he tell you where it was?"
"He never sa'id he had it."
"Did he show you where that thing was
which he wanted you to take charge of?"
"Yes, in the press nigh his bed's head."
"Did he open the press?"
"Ay."
"Well?"
"He showed me a sort of box, and he said
that was all."
"A little trunk of stamped red leather—
was that like it?"
"That was just it."
"Did he afterwards give it into anybody's
charge?"
"I know no more about it. I saw it there,
that's all. I saw it once, and never before
nor since."
"Is there more than one secret door into
that room ?" pursued Varbarriere.
"More than one; no, never as I heard or
thought."
"Where is the door placed with which
you are acquainted?"
"Why? Don't you know?"
"Suppose I know of two. We have dis-
covered a second. Which is the one you
saw used? Come /"
Parenthetically it is to be observed that
no such discovery had been made, and Var-
barriere was merely fishing for information
without disclosing his ignorance.
"In the recess at the right of the bed's
head."
"Yes; and how do you open it? I mean)
from the green chamber?"
"I never knowd any way how to open it
—it's from t'other side. There's a way to
bolt it, though."
"Ay? How's that?"
"There's an ornament of scrowl-work,
they calls it, bronze-like, as runs down the
casing of the recess, shaped like letter esses.
Well, the fourteenth of them, reckoning up
from the bottom, next the wall, turns round
with your finger and thumb; so if any-
one be in the green chamber, and knows
the secret, they can stop the door being
opened."
"I see—thank you. You've been through
the passage leading from Sir Harry's room
that was—Sir Jekyl Marlowe's room at tho
back of the house, to the secret door of the
green chamber?"
"No, never. I know nothink of that, no
more nor a child."
"No?"
"No, nothink at all."
Varbarriere had here been trying to estab-
lish another conjecture.
There was a pause. Varbarriere rumi-
nating darkly, looked on Donica Gwynn.
He then closed his pocket-book, in which he
had inscribed a few notes, and said—
"Thank you, Mrs. Gwynn. Should I want
anything more I'll call again; and you had
better not mention the subject of my visit.


84
GUY DEVERELL.
Let me see the pictures—that will be the
excuse—and do you keep your secret, and I'll
keep mine."
"No, I thank you, sir," said Donica, dryly,
almost fiercely, drawing back from his prof-
ered douceur.
"Tut, tut—pray do."
"No, I thank you."
So he looked at the pictures in the different
rooms, and at some old china and snuff-boxes,
to give a color to his visit; and with polite
speeches and dark smiles, and a general cour-
tesy that was unctuous, he took his leave of
Donica Gwynn, whom he left standing in
the hall with a flushed face and a sore heart.
CHAPTER XLI.
A STORY OP A MAGICIAN AND, A VAMPIRE.
The pleasant autumn sun touched the
steep roofs and mullioned windows of Mar-
lowe Manor pleasantly that morning, turn-
ing the thinning foliage of its noble timber
into gold, and bringing all the slopes and
undulations of its grounds into relief in its
subdued glory. The influence of the weather
was felt by the guests assembled in the spa-
cious breakfast-parlor, and gay and animated
was the conversation.
Lady Jane Lennox, that " superbly hand-
some creature," as old Doocey used to term
her, had relapsed very much into her old
ways. Beatrix had been pleased when, even
in her impetuous and uncertain way, that
proud spirit had seemed to be drawn toward
her again. But that was past, and that
unruly nature had broken away once more
upon her own solitary and wayward courses.
She cared no more for Beatrix, or, if at all, it
was plainly not kindly.
In Lady Jane's bold and mournful isola-
tion there was something that interested
Beatrix, ungracious as her ways often were,
and she felt sore at the unjust repulse she
had experienced. But Beatrix was proud,
and so, though wounded, she did not show
her pain—not that pain, nor another far
deeper.
Between her and Guy Strangways had
come a coldness unintelligible to her, an
estrangement which she would have felt like
an insult, had it not been for his melancholy
looks and evident loss of spirits.
There is a very pretty room at Marlowe;
it is called (why, I forget) Lady Mary's bou-
doir; its door opens from the first landing on
the great stair. An oak floor, partly covered
with a Turkey carpet, one tall window with
stone shafts, a high old-fashioned stone chim-
ney-piece, and furniture perhaps a little in-
congruous, but pleasant in its incongruity.
Tapestry in the Teniers style—Dutch village
festivals, with no end of figures, about half
life-size, dancing, drinking, makmg music;
old boors, and young and fair-haired maidens,
and wrinkled vraus, and here and there gen-
tlemen in doublets and plumed hats, and
ladies, smiling and bare-headed, and fair and
plump, in great stomachers. These pleasant
subjects, so life-like, with children, cocks and
hens, and dogs interspersed, helped with a
Louis Quatorze suit of pale green, and gold
chairs cushioned with Utrecht velvet, to give
to this room its character so mixed, of gaiety
and solemnity, something very quaint and
cheery.
This room had old Lady Alice Redcliffe
selected for her sitting-room, when she found
herself unequal to the exertion of meeting
the other ladies in the drawing-room, and
hither she had been wont to invite Guy
Strangways, who would occasionally pass an
hour here wonderfully pleasantly and happily
—in fact, as many hours as the old lady .
would have permitted, so long as Beatrix
had been her companion.
But with those self-denying resolutions we
have mentioned came a change. When
Beatrix was there the young gentleman was
grave and rather silent, and generally had
other engagements which at least shortened
his visit. This was retorted by Beatrix,
who, a few minutes after the arrival of the
visitor whom old Lady Alice had begun to
call her secretary, would, on one pretence or
another, disappear, and leave the old prin-
cess and her secretary to the uninterrupted
enjoyment of each other's society.
Now since the night on which Varbarriere
in talking with Lady Alice had, as we have
heard, suddenly arrested his speech respect-
ing her son—leaving her in uncertainty how
it was to have been finished—an uncertainty
on which her morbid brain reflected a thou-
sand horrid and impossible shapes, the old
lady had once more conceived something of
her early dread of Guy Strangways. It was
now again subsiding, although last night,
under the influence of laudanum, in her
medicated sleep her son had been sitting at
her bedside, talking incessantly, she could
not remember what.
Guy Strangways had just returned from
the Park for his fishing-rod and angler's
gear, when he was met in the hall by the
grave and courteous butler, who presented a
tiny pencilled note from Lady Alice, begging
him to spare her half an hour in Lady Mary's
boudoir.
Perhaps it was a bore. But habitual cour-
tesy is something more than " mouth, honor,
breath." Language and thought react upon
one another marvellously. To restrain its
expression is in part to restrain the feeling;
and thus a well-bred man is not only in
words and demeanor, but inwardly and sin-
cerely, more gracious and noble than others.
How oddly things happen sometimes!
Exactly as Guy Strangways arrived on the
lobby, a little gloved hand—it was Beatrix's
—was on the door-handle of Lady Mary's
boudoir. It was withdrawn, and she stood
looking for a second or two at the young
gentleman, who had evidently been going in
the same direction. He, too, paused; then,
with a very low bow, advanced to open the
door for Miss Marlowe.
"No, thank you—I—I think I had better
postpone my visit to grandmamma till I re-


GUY DEVERELL.
85
turn. I'm going to the garden, and should
like to bring her some flowers."
"I'm afraid I have arrived unluckily—she
would, I know, have been so glad to see
you," said Guy Strangways.
"Oh, I've seen her twice before to-day.
You were going to make her a little visit
now."
«i—if you wish it, Miss Marlowe, Til defer
it,"'
"She would be very little obliged to me,
I'm sure ; but I must really go," said Beatrix,
recollecting on a sudden that there was no
need of so long a parley.
"It would very much relieve the poor sec-
retary's labors, and make his little period of
duty so much happier," said Guy, forgetting
his wise resolutions strangely.
"I am sure grandmamma would prefer
Beeing her visitors singly—it makes a great
deal more of them, you know."
And with a little smile and such a pretty
glow in her cheeks, she passed him by. He
bowed and smiled faintly too, and for a mo-
ment stood gazing after her into the now
vacant shadow of the old oak wainscoting,
as young Numa might after his vanished
Egeria, with an unspoken, burning grief and
a longing at his heart.
"I'm sure she can't like me—I'm sure she
dislikes me. So much the better—Heaven
knows I'm glad of it."
And with an aching heart he knocked,
turned the handle, and entered the pretty
apartment in which Lady Alice, her thin
shoulders curved, as she held her hands over
the fire, was sitting alone.
She looked at him over her shoulder
strangely from her hollow eyes, without
moving or speaking for a time. He bowed
gravely, and said—
"I have this moment received your little
note, Lady Alice, and have hastened to
obey."
She sat up straight and sighed.
"Thanks—I have not been very well—so
nervous—so very nervous," she repeated,
without removing her sad and clouded gaze
from his face.
"We all heard with regret that you had
not been so well," said he.
"Well, we'll not talk of it—you're very
good—I'm glad you've come—very nervous,
and almost wishing myself back at Wardlock
—where indeed I should have returned, only
that I should have been wishing myself back
again before an hour—miserably nervous."
And Lady Alice sniffed at her smelling-
salts, and added—
"And Monsieur Vafbarriere gone away on
business for some days—is not he?"
"Yes—quite uncertain—possibly for two,
or perhaps three, he said," answered Guy.
"And he's very—he knows—he knows a
great deal—I forget what I was going to say
—I'm half asleep to-day—no sleep—a very
bad night."
And old Lady Alice yawned drearily into
the fire.
"Beatrix said she'd look in; but every-one
forgets—you young people are so selfish." .
"Mademoiselle Marlowe was at the door
as I came in, and said she would go on instead
to the garden first, and gather some flowers
for you."
"Oh h'm—very good—well, I can't talk to-
day ; suppose you choose a book, Mr. Strang-
ways, and read a few pages—that is, if you
are quite at leisure?"
"Perfectly—that is for an hour—unfortu-
nately I have then an appointment . What"
kind of book shall I take ?" he asked, ap-
proaching one of the two tall bookstands that
flanked an oval mirror opposite the fireplace.
"Anything, provided it is old."
Nearly half an hour passed in discussing
what to read—the old lady not being in the
mood that day to pursue the verse readings
which had employed Guy Strangways hith-
erto.
"This seems a curious old book," he said,
after a few minutes. "Very old French—I
think upon witchcraft, and full of odd nar-
rfitivps
"That will do very well."
"I had better try to translate it—the lan-
guage is so antiquated."
He leaned the folio on the edge of the
chimneypiece, and his elbow beside it, sup-
porting his head on his hand and so read
aloud to the exigeante old lady, who liked to
see people employed about her, even though
little of comfort, amusement, or edification
resulted from it.
The narrative which Lady Alice had se-
lected was entitled thus:—
'CONCERNING A REMARKABLE
AFTER SEPULTURE.
REVENGE
"In the Province of Normandy, in the
year of grace 1405, there lived a young gen-
tleman of Styrian descent, possessing estates
in Hungary, but a still more opulent fortune
in France. His park abutted on that of the
Chevalier de St. Aubrache, who was a man
also young, of ancient lineage, proud to ex-
cess, and though wealthy, by no means so
wealthy as his Styrian neighbor.
"This disparity in riches excited the wrath
of the jealous nobleman, who having once
admitted the passions of envy and hatred to
his heart, omitted no opportunity to injure
him.
"The Chevalier de St. Aubrache, in fact,
succeeded so well"
Just at this point in the tale, Beatrix, with
her flowers, not expecting to find Guy
Strangways still in attendance, entered the
room.
"You need not go; come in, dear—you've
brought me some flowers—come in, I say;
thank you, Beatrix, dear—they are very
pretty, and very sweet too. Here is Mr
Strangways—sit by me, dear—reading a curi-
ous old tale of witchcraft. Tell her the be-
ginning, pray."
So Strangways told the story over again
in his best way, and then proceeded to read
as follows:—
"The Chevalier de St. Aubrache, in fact,
succeeded so well, that on a point of law,
aided by a corrupt judgo in the Parliament


bo
GUY DEVERELL.
of Rouen, he took from him a considerable
portion of his estate, and subsequently so
managed matters without committing him-
self, that he lost his life unfairly in a duel,
which the Chevalier secretly contrived.
"Now there was in the household of the
gentleman so made away with, a certain
Hungarian, older than he, a grave and politic
man, and reputed to have studied the art of
magic deeply. By this man was the corpse
of the deceased gentleman duly coffined, had
away to Styria, and, it is said, there buried
according to certain conditions, with which
the Hungarian magician, who had vowed a
terrible revenge, was well acquainted.
"In the meantime the Chevalier de St.
Aubrache had espoused a very beautiful
demoiselle of the noble family of D'Ayen-
terre, by whom he had one daughter, so
beautiful that she was the subject of univer-
sal admiration, which increased in the heart
of her proud father that affection which it was
only natural that he should cherish for her.
"It was about the time of Candlemas, a
full score of years after the death of his mas-
ter, that the Hungarian magician returned
to Normandy, accompanied by a young gen-
tleman, very pale indeed, but otherwise so
exactly like the gentleman now so long dead,
that no one who had been familiar with his
features could avoid being struck, and in-
deed, affrighted with the likeness.
"The Chevalier de St. Aubrache was at
first filled with horror, like the rest; but well
knowing that the young man whom je, the
"stranger, so resembled, had been actually
killed as aforesaid, in combat, and having
never heard of vampires, which are among the
most malignant and awful of the manifesta-
tions of the Evil One, and not yet recognis-
ing at all the Hungarian magician, who had
been careful to disguise himself effectually;
and, above all, relying on letters from the
King of Hungary, with which, under a
feigned name, as well as with others from the
Archbishop of Toledo in Spain, he had come
provided, he received him into his house;
when the grave magician, who resembled a
doctor of a university, and the fair-seeming
vampire, being established in the house of
their enemy, began to practise, by stealth,
their infernal arts."
The old lady saw that in the reader's
countenance, as he read this odd story, which
riveted her gaze. Perhaps conscious of her
steady and incomfortable stare, as well as
of a real parallel, he grew obviously discon-
certed, and at last, as it seemed, even agitated
as he proceeded.
"Young man, for Heaven's sake, will ycu
tell me who you are?" said Lady Alice, her
dark old eyes fixed fearfully on his face, as
she rose unconsciously from her chair.
The young man, very pale, turned a de
spairing and almost savage look from her to
Beatrix, and back to her again.
"You are not a Strangways," she contin-
ued.
He looked steadily at her, as if he were
going to speak, then dropped his glance sud-
denly and remained silent.
"I say, I know your name is not Strang-
ways," said the old lady, in increasing agita-
tion.
"I can tell you nothing about myself,"
said he again, fixing his great dark eyes, that
looked almost wild in his pallid face, full
upon her, with a strange expression of an-
guish.
"In the Almighty's name, are you Guy
Deverell?" she screamed, lifting up her thin
hands between him and her in her terror.
The young man returned her gaze, oddly
with, she fancied, a look of baffled horror in
his face. It seemed to her like an evil spirit
detected.
He recovered, however, for a few seconds,
something of his usual manner. Instead of
speaking, he bowed twice very low, and, on
the point of leaving the room,.he suddenly
arrested his departure, turning about with a
stamp on the floor; and walking back to her,
he said, very gently—
"Yes, yes, why should I deny it? My
name is Guy Deverell."
And he was gone.
CHAPTER XLII.
FABEWELL.
"Oh! grandmamma, what is it?" said Bea-
trix, clasping her thin wrist.
The old lady, stooping over the chair on
which she leaned, stared darkly after the
vanished image, trembling very much.
"What is Deverell—why should the name
be so dreadful—is there anything—oh!
grandmamma, is there anything very bad?"
"I don't know—I am confused—did you
ever see such a face? My gracious Heaven!"
muttered Lady Alice.
"Oh! grandmamma, darling, tell me what
it is, I implore you."
"Yes, dear, everything; another time. I
can't now. I might do a mischief. I might
prevent—you must promise me, darling, to
tell no one. You must not say his name is
Deverell. You say nothing about it. That
dreadful, dreadful story!"
The folio was lying with crumpled leaves,
back upward, on the floor, where it had fallen.
"There is something plainly fearful in it.
You think so, grandmamma; something dis-
covered; something going to happen. Send
after him, grandmamma; call him back. If
it is anything you can prevent, I'll ring."
"Don't touch the bell," cried granny,
sharply, clutching at her hand, " don't do it.
See, Beatrix, you promise me you say noth-
ing to any one of what you've witnessed—
promise. I'll tell you all I know when I'm
better. He'll come again. I wish he'd come
again. I'm sure he will, though I hardly
think I could bear to see him. I don't know
what to think."
The old lady threw herself back in her
chair, not affectedly at all, but looking so
awfully haggard and agitated that Beatrix
was frightened.
"Call nobody, there's a darling ; just open .
the window j I shall be better."


GUY DEVERELL.
8?
And she heaved some of those long and
heavy sighs which relieve hysterical oppres-
sion; and after a long silence, she said—
"It is a long time since I have felt so ill,
Beatrix. Remember this, darling, my pa-
pers are in the black cabinet in my bed-room
at home—I mean Wardlock. There is not
a great deal. My jointure stops, you know;
but whatever little there is, is for you,
darling."
"You're not to talk of it, granny, darling,
you'll be quite well in a minute; the air is
doing you good. May I give you a little
wine ?—Well, a little watar?"
"Thanks, dear; I am better. Remember
what I told you, and particularly your prom-
ise to mention what you heard to no one.
I mean the—the—strange scene with that
young man. I think I will take a glass of
wine. I'll tell you all when I'm better—
when Monsieur Varbarriere comes back. It
is important for a time, especially having
heard what I have, that I should wait a
little."
Granny sipped a little sherry slowly, and
the tint of life, such as visits the cheek of the
aged, returned to hers, and she was better.
"I'd rather not see him any more. It's
all like a dream. I don't know what to make
of it," muttered granny; and she began audi-
bly to repeat passages, tremblingly and with
upturned eyes, from her prayer-book.
Perplexed, anxious, excited, Beatrix looked
down on the collapsed and haggard face of
the old lady, and listened to the moaned pe-
tition, " Lord have mercy upon us!" which
trembled from her lips as it might from those
of a fainting sinner on a death-bed.
Guy Deverell, as I shall henceforward call
him, thinking of nothing but escape into soli-
tude, was soon a good way from the house.
He was too much agitated, and his thoughts
too confused at first, to estimate all the
possible consequences of the sudden disclo-
sure he had just made.
What would Varbarriere, who could be
stern and violent, say or do, when he learned
of it? Here was the one injunction on which
he had been ever harping violated. He felt
how much he owed to the unceasing care of
that able and disinterested friend through all
his life, and how had he repaid it all!
"Anything but deception—anything but
that. I could not endure the agony of my
position longer—yes, agony."
He was now wandering by the bank of the
solitary river, and looked back at the pictur-
esque gables of Marlowe Manor through the
trees; and he felt that he was leaving all
that could possibly interest him in existence
in leaving Marlowe. Always was rising in
his mind the one thought, " What does she
think of my deception and my agitation—
what can she think of me?"
It is not easy, even in silence and alone,
when the feelings are at all ruffled, to follow
out a train of thought. Guy thought of his
approaching farewell to his uncle: he some-
times heard his great voice thundering in
despair and fury over his ruined schemes—
schemes, be they what they might, at least
unselfish. Then he thought of the effect of
the discovery on Sir Jekyl, who, no doubt,
had special reasons for alarm connected with
this name—a secret so jealously guarded by
Varbarriere. Then he thought of his future.
His commission in the French army awaited
him. A life of drudgery or listlessness? No
such thing! a career of adventure and glory
—ending in a baton or death! Death is so
romantic in the field! There are always
some beautiful eyes to drop in secret those
tears which are worth dying for. It is not a
crowded trench where fifty corpses pig to-
gether in the last noisome sleep—but an
apotheosis!
He was sure he had done well in yielding
to the impulse that put an end to the tedious
teachery he had been doomed to practise;
and if well, then wisely—so, no more retro-
spection.
All this rose and appeared in fragments
like a wreck in the eddies of his mind.
One thing was clear—he must leave Mar-
lowe forthwith. He could not meet his host
again. He stood up. It is well to have hit
upon anything to be done—anything quite
certain.
With rapid steps he now returned to Mar-
lowe, wondering how far he had walked, as
it seemed to him in so mere a moment of
time.
The house was deserted; so fine a day had
tempted all its inmates but old Lady Alice
abroad. He sent to the village of Marlowe
for a chaise, while Jacques, who was to await
where he was the return of his master,
Monsieur Varbarriere, got his luggage into
readiness, and he himself, wrote, having tried
and torn up half a dozen, a note to Sir Jekyl,
thanking hhn for his hospitality, and regret-
ting that an unexpected occurrence made his
departure on so short a notice unavoidable.
He did not sign it. He would not write his
assumed name. Sir Jekyl could have no
difficulty in knowing from which of his
guests it came, perhaps would not even miss
the signature.
The chaise stood at the door-steps, his lug-
gage stowed away, his dark short travelling
cloak about his shoulders, and his note to
Sir Jekyl in his fingers.
He entered the great hall, meaning to place
it on the marble table where Sir Jekyl's notes
and newspapers usually awaited him, and
there he encountered Beatrix.
There was no one else. She was crossing
to the outer door, and they almost met before
they came to a stop.
"^h ! Mr. Strangways."
"Pray call me by my real name, Deverell.
Strangways was my mother's; and in obedi-
ence to those who are wiser than I, during
my journey I adopted it, although the rea-
sons were not told me."
There was a little pause here.
"I am verv glad I was so fortunate as to
meet you, Miss Marlowe, before I left. I'm
just going, and it would be such a privilege
to know that you had not judged me very
hardly."
"I am sure papa will be very sorry you


88
GUY DEVERELL.
are going—a break-up is always a sad event
—wc miss our guests so much," sho said,
smiling, but a little pale.
"If you know my story, Miss Marlowe,
you would acquit me," he said, bursting
forth all at once. "Misfortune overtook me
in my early childhood, before I can remem-
ber. I have no right to trouble you with
the recital; and in my folly I superadded
this—the worst—that madly I gave my love
to one who could not return it—who, per-
haps, ought not to have returned it. Pardon
me, Miss Marlowe, for talking of these things;
but as I am going away, and Wished you
to understand me, I thought, perhaps, you
would hear me. Seeing how hopeless was
my love, I never told it, but resolved to see
her no more, and so to the end of my days
will keep my vow; but this is added, that
for her sake my life becomes a sacrifice—a
real one—to guard her from sorrows and
dangers, which I believe did threaten her,
and to save her from which I devote myself,
as perhaps she will one day understand. I
thought I would just tell you so much before
I went, and—and—that you are that lady.
Farewell, dear Miss Marlowe, most beautiful
—beloved."
He pressed her hand, he kissed it passion
ately, and was gone.
It was not until she had heard the vehicle
drive rapidly away that she quite recovered
herself. She went into the front hall, and,
through the window, standing far back,
watched the receding chaise. When it was
out of sight, humming a gay air, she ran
up-stairs, and into her bed-room, when,
locking the door, she wept the bitterest tears,
perhaps, she had ever shed, since the days
of her childhood.
CHAPTER XLIII.
AT THE BELL AND HORNS.
With the reader's permission, I must tell
here how Monsieur Varbarriere proceeded
on his route to Slowton.
As he mounted his vehicle from the steps
of Wardlock, the flunkey, who was tantalised
by the very unsatisfactory result of his listen-
ing at the parlor-door, considered him curi-
ously.
"Go on towards the village," said M.
Varbarriere to the driver, in his deep foreigu
accents.
And so soon as they were quite out of
sight in the Wardlock flunkey, he opened the
front window of his nondescript vehicle, and
called—
"Drive to Slowton."
i Which, accordingly, was done. M. Var-
jbarriere, in profound good humor, a flood
of light and certainty having come upon him,
sat back luxuriously in a halo of sardonic
glory, and was smiling to himself, as men
sometimes will over the chess-board when
the rest of their game is secure.
At the Bell and Horns he was received
with a reverential welcome.
"A gentleman been inquiring for Monsieur
Varbarriere?" asked the foreign gentlman in
black, descending.
"A gentleman, sir, as has took number
seven, and expects a gentleman to call, but
did not say who, which his name is Mr.
Rumsey?"
"Very good," said Monsieur Varbarriere.
Suddenly he recollected that General Len-
nox's letter might have reached the post-
office, and, plucking a card from his case,
wrote an order on it for his letters, which he
handed to Boots, who trudged away to the
post-office close by.
Varbarriere was half sorry now that he
had opened his correspondence with old
General Lennox so soon. He had no hope
that Donica Gwyun's reserves would have
melted and given way so rapidly m the in-
terview which had taken place. He was a
man who cared nothing about penal justice,
who had embraced the world's ethics early,
and looked indulgently on escapades of
human nature, and had no natural turn for
cruelty, although he could be cruel enough
when an object was to be accomplished.
"I don't think I'd have done it, though he
deserves it richly, and has little right to look
for quarter at my hands."
And whichever of the gentlemen interested
he may have alluded to, he cursed him under
his breath ardently.
In number seven there awaited him a tall
and thin man of business, of a sad countenance
and bilious, with a pale drab-colored and bar-
red muslin cravat, tied with as much preci-
sion as a curate's; a little bald at the top of his
head; a little stooped at his shoulders. He
did not smile as Monsieur Varbarriere entered
the room. He bowed in a meek and suffering
way, and looked as if he had spent the morn-
ing in reading Doctor Blewish's pamphlet
"On the Ubiquity of Disguised Cholera Mor-
bus," or our good Bishop's well-known tract
on " Self-Mortification." There was a smell of
cigars in the room, which should not have
been had he known that Monsieur Var-
barriere was to be here so early. His chest
was weak, and the doctors ordered that sort
of fumigation.
Monsieur Varbarriere set his mind at ease
by preparing himself to smoke one of the no-
table large cigars, of which he carried always
a dozen rounds or so in his case.
"You have brought the cases and opinions
with you ?" inquired Varbarriere.
The melancholy solicitor replied by opening
a tin box from which he drew several sheafs
of neatly labelled papers tied up in red tape;
the most methodical and quiet of attorneys,
and one of the most efficient to be found.
Smoke away; you like it, so do I; we can
talk too, and look at these," said Varbarriere,
lighting his cigar.
Mr. Rumsey bowed, and meekly lighted his
also.
Then began the conference on business.
"Where are Gamford's letters ?—these—
hoi"
And as Monsieur Varbarriere read them,
puffing away as fast as a furnace, and threw


GUY DEVERELL.
89
each down as he would play a card, in turn,
he would cry 'Bah !'—' Booh !'—or, 'Did
you ever read such Galamathias ?'—and, at
last—
. "Who was right about that benet—you or
I? I told you what he was."
"You will perceive just now, I think, sir,
that there are some things to value there
notwithstanding. You can't see their impor-
tance until you shall have looked Into the
enlarged statement we have been enabled
by the result of some fresh discoveries to
submit to counsel."
"Give me that case. Fresh discoveries,
have you? I venture to say, when you've
heard my notes, you'll open your eyes. No,
I mean the cigar-case; well, you may give
me that too."
So he took the paper, with its bluish
briefing post pages, and broad margin, and
the opinions of Mr. Serjeant Edgeways and
Mr. Whaulbane, Q.c, copied in the same
large, round hand at the conclusion.
"Well, these opinions are stronger than I
expected. There is a bit here in Whaul-
bane's I don't like so well—what you call
fishy, you know. But you shall hear just
now what I can add to our proofs, and you
will see what becomes of good Mr. Whaul-
bane's doubts and queries. You said always
you did not think they had destroyed the
deed?"
"If well advised, they did not. I go that
length. Because the deed, although it told
against them while a claimant in the Deverell
line appeared, would yet be an essential part
of their case in the event of their title being
attacked from the Bracton quartet and
therefore the fact is, they could not destroy
it."
"They are both quite clear upon the ques-
tion of secondary evidence of the contents of
a lost deed, I see," said Varbarriere, musingly,
"and think our proof satisfactory. Those
advocates, however—u>hy do they?—always
say their say with so many reserves and mis-
givings, that you begin to think they know
very little more of the likelihoods of the
matter, with all their pedantry, than you do
yourself"
"The glorious uncertainty of the law!"
ejaculated Mr. Rumsey, employing a phrase
which I have heard before, and with the
nearest approach to a macerated smile which
his face had yet worn.
"Ay," said Varbarriere in his metallic
tones of banter, " the glorious uncertainty of
the law. That must be true, for you're
always saying it; and it must be pleasant
too, if one could only see it; for, my faith!
you look almost cheerful while you say it."
"It makes counsel cautious, though it does
.not cool clients when they're once fairly
blooded," said Mr. Rumsey. "A client is a
wonderful thing sometimes. There would
not be half the money made of our profession
if men kept their senses when they go into
law; but they seldom do. Lots of cool gam-
blers at every other game, but no one ever
keeps his head at law.
"That's encouraging; thank you. Suppose
I take your advice, and draw stakes f said
Varbarriere.
"You have no notion," said Mr. Rumsey,
resignedly.
"Well, I believe you're right, monsieur;
and I believe I am right too; and if you
have any faith in your favorite oracles, so
must you; but, have you done your cigar t
Well, take your pen for a moment and listen
to me, and note what I say. When Deverell
came down with his title deeds to Marlowe,
they gave him the Window dressing-room
for his bed-room, and the green chamber,
with the bed taken down, for his dressing-
room; and there he placed his papers, with
the key turned in the door. In the morning
his attorney came. It was a meeting about
a settlement of the mortgage; and when the
papers were overhauled it was found that
that deed had been abstracted. Very good.
Now listen to what I have to relate concern-
ing the peculiar construction of that room."
So Monsieur Varbarriere proceeded to re-
late minutely all he had ascertained that
day, much to the quiet edification of Mr.
Rumsey, whose eyes brightened, and whose
frontal wrinkles deepened as he listened.
"I told you I suspected some legerdemain
about that room loug ago; the idea came to
me oddly. When on a visit to the Marquis
de Mirault he told me that in making alter-
ations in the chateau they had discovered a
false door into one of the bed-rooms. The
tradition of this contrivance, which was singu-
larly artful, was lost. It is possible that the
secret of it perished with its first possessor.
By means of this door the apartment in
question was placed in almost immediate con-
junction with another, which, except through
this admirably concealed door, could not be
reached from it without a long circuit. The
proximity of the rooms, in fact, had been, by
reason or the craft with which they were ap-
parently separated, entirely overlooked."
The attorney observed, sadly—
"The French are an ingenious people."
"The curiosity of my friend was excited,"
continued Varbarriere, " and with some little
search among family records he found that
this room, which was constructed in the way
of an addition to the chateau, had been built
about the beginning of the eighteenth cen-
tury, during the marquisate of one of the
line, who was celebrated as un homme a
bonnes fortunes, you understand, and its object
was now quite palpable."
"A man, no doubt, of ability—a long-
headed gentleman," mused the melancholy
attorney.
"Well, at Marlowe I saw a collection of
elevations of the green chamber, as it is
called, built only two or three years later—
and, mind this, by the same architect, an
Italian, called Paulo Abruzzi, a remarkable
name, which I perfectly remembered as
having been mentioned by my friend the
Marquis as the architect of his ancestral
relict of Cupid's legerdemain. But here is
the most remarkable circumstance, and to
which my friend Sir Jekyl quite innocently
gave its proper-point. The room under this


00
GUT DEVERELL.
chamber, and, of course, in the same build-
ing, was decorated wita portraits painted in
the panel, and one of them was this identi-
cal Marquis de Mirault, with the date 1711,
and the Baronet was good enough to tell me
that he had been a very intimate friend, and
had visited his grandfather, at Marlowe."
CHAPTER XLIV.
M. varbarriere's plans.
Varbarmere solemnly lighted a cigar,
and squinted at its glowing point with his
great dark eyes, in which the mild attorney
saw the lurid reflection. When it was well
lighted he went on—
"You may suppose how this confirmed
my theory. I set about my inquiries quietly,
and was convinced that Sir Jekyl knew all
about it, by his disquietude whenever I
evinced an interest in that portion of the
building. But I managed matters very slyly,
and collected proof very nearly demonstra-
tive; and at this moment he has not a notion
who I am."
"No. It will be a surprise when he does
learn," answered the attorney, sadly.
"A fine natural hair-dye is the air of the
East Indies: first it turns light to black,
and then black to grey. Then, my faith!
—a bronzed face with plenty of furrows, a
double chin, and a great beard to cover it,
and eleven stone weight expanded to seven-
teen stone — Corpo di Bacco !— and six
pounds!"
And Monsieur Varbarriere laughed like the
clan°; and roar of a chime of cathedral bells.
"It will be a smart blow," said the attorney,
almost dreamily.
"Smash him," said Varbarriere. "The
Deverell estate is something over five thou-
sand a-year; and the mesne rates, with four
per cent interest, amount to 213,0007."
"He'll defend it," said the knight of the
sorrowful countenance, who was now gather-
ing in his papers.
"I hope he will," growled Varbarriere,
with a chuckle. "He has not a leg to stand
on—all the better for you, at all events;
and then I'll bring down that other hammer
on his head."
"The criminal proceedings ?" murmured the
sad attorney.
"Ay. lean prove that case myself—he
fired before his time, and killed him, I'm
certain simply to get the estate. I was the
only person present—poor Guy! Jekyl
had me in his pocket then. The rascal
wanted to thrust me down and destroy me
afterwards. He employed that Jew house,
Rbbenzahl and Isaacs—the villain! Luck
turned, and I am a rich fellow now, and his
turn is coming. Vive la justice eternelle!
Vive la bagatelle! Bravo! Bah!"
Monsieur Varbarriere had another pleasant
roar of laughter here, and threw his hat at
the solemn attorney's head.
"You'lllunch with me," said Varbarriere.
"Thanks," murmured the attorney.
"And now the war—the campaign—wha.
next?"
"You'll make an exact note," the attorney
musingly replied, "of what that woman
"Wynn or Gwynn can prove; also what the
Lord Bishop of what's-his-name can prove;
and it strikes me we shall have to serve
some notice to intimidate Sir Jekyl about
that red-leather box, to prevent his making
away with the deed, and show him we know
it is there; or perhaps apply for an order to
make him lodge the deed in court; but Tom
Weavel—he's always in town—will advise
us. You don't think that woman will leave
us in the lurch?"
"No," said Varbarriere, as if he was
thinking of something else. "That Donica
Gwynn, you mean. She had that green
chamber to herself, you see, for a matter of
three years."
"Yes."
"And she's one of those old domestic
Dianas who are sensitive about scandal—
you understand—and she knows what ill-
natured people would say; so I quieted her
all I could, and I don't think she'll venture
to recede. No; she certainly won't."
"How soon can you let me have the notes,
sir?"
"To-morrow, when I return. I've an ap-
pointment to keep by rail to-night, and I'll
make a Ml memorandum from my notes as
I go along."
"Thanks—and what are your instruc-
tions?"
"Send back the cases with copies of the
new evidence."
"ArRl assuming a favorable opinion, sir,
are my instructions to proceed ?".
"Certainly, my son, forthwith—the grass
it must not grow under our feet."
"Of course subject to counsel's opinion?"
said the attorney, sadly.
"To be sure."
"And which first—the action or the indict-
ment ? or both together?" asked Mr. Rumsey.
"That for counsel too. Only my general
direction is, let the onset be as sudden, vio-
lent, and determined as possible. You see?"
The attorney nodded gently, tying up his
last bundle of papers as softly as a lady
might knot her ribbon round the neck of her
lap-dog.
"Ybusce?"
"Yes, sir; your object is destruction.
Delenda est Carthago—that's the word,"
murmured Mr. Bumsey, plaintively.
"Yes—ha, ha!—what you call double him
up!" clanged out Varbarriere, with an ex-
ulting oath and a chuckle.
The attorney had locked up his dispatch-
box now, and putting the little bunch of keys
deep into his trowsers pocket, he said, " Yes,
that's the word; but I suppose you have con-
sidered"
"Whatt I'm tired considering."
"I was going to say whether some more
certain result might not be obtainable by
negotiation; that is, if you thought it a case
for negotiation."
"What negotiation? What do you mean?


GUY DEVERELL.
91
"Well, you see there are materials—there's
something to yield at both sides," said the
attorney, very slowly, in a diplomatic rev-
erie.
"But why should you think of a com-
promise, the worst thing I fancy could
happen you t"
There was a general truth in this. It is
not the ferryman's interest to build a bridge,
nor was it Mr. Rumsey's that his client should
walk high and dry over those troubled
waters through which it was his privilege
and profit to pilot him. But he had not
quite so much faith in this case as Monsieur
Varbarriere had, and he knew that his
wealthy and resolute client could grow
savage enough in defeat, and had once or
twice had stormy interviews with him after
failures.
"If the young gentleman and young lady
liked one another, for instance, the conflict-
ing claims might be reconciled, and a marri-
age would in that case arrange the difference."
"There's nothing very deep in that,"
snarled Varbarriere, " but there is everything
impracticable. Do you think Guy Deverell,
whose father that lache murdered before my
eyes, could ever endure to call him father?
Bah! If I thought so I would drive him
from my presence and never behold him
more. No, no, no! There is more than an
estate in all this—there is justice, there is
punishment."
Monsieur Varbarriere, with his hands in
his pockets, took a turn up and down the
room, and his solemn steps shook the floor,
and his countenance was agitated by violence
and hatred.
"The pale, thin attorney eyed him with a
gentle and careworn observation. His re-
spected client was heaviiig with a great
toppling swagger as he to-cd and fro-ed in
his thunderstorm, looking as black as the
Spirit of Evil.
This old-maidish attorney was meek and
wise, but by no means timid. He was accus-
tomed to hear strong language, and sometimes
even oaths, without any strange emotion.
He looked on this sort of volcanic demon-
stration scientifically, as a policeman does
on drunkenness—knew its stages, and when
is was best left to itself.
Mr. Rumsey, therefore, poked the fire a
little, and then looked out of the window.
"You don't go to town to-night?"
"Not if you require me here, sir."
"Yes, I shall have those memoranda to
give you—and tell me now, I think you
know your business. Do you think, as we
now stand, success is certain t"
"Well, sir, it certainly is very strong—
very; but I need not tell you a case will
sometimes take a queer turn, and I never like
to tell a client that anything is absolutely
certain—a case is sometimes carried out of
its legitimate course, you see; the judges
may go wrong, or the jury bolt, or a witness
may break down, or else a bit of evidence
may start up—it's a responsibility we never
take on ourselves to say that of any case;
and you know there has been a good deal
of time—and that sometimes raises a feeling
with a jury." *i
"Ay, a quarter of a century, but it can't
be helped. For ten years of that time I
could not show, I owed money to everybody.
Then, when /was for striking on the crimi-
nal charge for murder, or manslaughter, or
whatever you agreed it was to be, you all
said I must begin with the civil action, and
first oust him from Guy Deverell's estate.
Well, there you told me I could not move
till he was twenty-five, and now you talk of
the good deal of time—mafoi!—as if it was
I who delayed, and not you, messieurs. But
enough, past is past. We have the present,
and FU use it."
"We are to go on, then?"
"Yes, we've had to wait too long. Stop
for nothing, drive right on, you see, at the
fastest pace counsel can manage. If I saw
the Deverell estate where it should be, and
a judgment for the mesne rates, and Sir
Jekyl Marlowe in the dock for his crime, I
don t say I should sing nunc dimiltis; but,
parbleu, sir, it would be very agreeable—ha!
ha! ha!"
CHAPTER XLV.
"Does Mr. Guy Deverell know anything
of the measures you contemplate in his be-
half?" inquired the attorney.
"Nothing. Do you think me a fool?
Young men are such asses!"
"You know, however, of course, that he
will act. The proceedings, you know, must
be in his name." .
"Leave that to me."
Varbarriere rang the bell and ordered
luncheon. There were grouse and trout—
he was in luck—and some cream cheese, for
which rural delicacy he had a fancy. They
brew very great ale at Slowton, like the
Welsh, and it was a novelty to the gentle-
man of foreign habits, who eat as fastidiously
as a Frenchman, and as largely as a Ger-
man. On the whole it was satisfactory, and
the high-shouldered, Jewish-looking sybarite
shook hands in a very friendly way with his
attorney in the afternoon, on the platform
at Slowton, and glided off toward Chester,
into which ancient town he thundered,
screaming like a monster rushing on its
prey; and a victim awaited him in the old
commercial hotel; a tall, white-headed mili-
tary-looking man, with a white moustache
twirled up fiercely at the corners; whose
short pinkish face and grey eyes, as evening
deepened, were pretty constantly presented
at the window of the coffee-room next the
street door of the inn. From that post he
saw all the shops and gas-lamps, up and
down the street, gradually lighted. The
gaselier in the centre of the coffee-room,
with its six muffed glass globes, flared up
over the rumpled and coffee-stained morning
newspapers and the almanac, and the bat-
tered and dissipated-looking railway guide,
with corners curled and back coming to


GUY DEVERELL.
pieces, which he consulted every ten minutes
through his glasses.
How many consultations he had had with
the waiter upon the arrival of trains due at
various hours, and how often the injunction
had been repeated to see that no mistake
'occurred about the private room he had or-
dered; and how reiterated the order that
any gentleman inquiring for General Lennox
should be shown at once into his presence,
the patient waiter with the bilious complex-
ion could tell.
As the time drew near, the General hav-
ing again conferred with the waiter, con-
versed with the porter, and even talked a
little with Boots—withdrew to his small
square sitting-room and pair of candles up-
stairs, and awaited the arrival of Monsieur
Varbarriere, with his back to the fire, in a
state of extreme fidget.
That gentleman's voice he soon heard
upon the passage, and the creaking of his
heavy tread; and he felt as he used, when a
young soldier, on going into action.
The General stepped forward. The waiter
announced a gentleman who wished to see
him; and Varbarriere's dark visage and
mufflers, and sable mantle loomed behind;
his felt hat in his hand, and his wavy cone
of grizzled hair was bowing solemnly.
"Glad you're come—how d'ye do?" and
Varbarriere's fat brown hand was seized by
the General's pink and knotted fingers in a
very cold and damp grasp. "Come in and
sit down, sir. What will you take ?—tea, or
dinner, or what?"
"Very much obliged. I have ordered
something, by-and-by, to my room—thank
you very much. I thought, however, that
you might possibly wish to see me imme-
diately, and so I am here, at all events, as
you soldiers say, to report myself," said Var-
barriere, with his unctuous politeness.
"Yes, it is better, I'd rather have it now,"
answered the General, in a less polite and
more literal way. "A chair, sir;" and he
placed one before the fire, which he poked
into a blaze. "I — I hope you are not
fatigued," — here the door shut, and the
waiter was gone; " and I want to hear, sir, if
you please, the—the meaning of the letter
you favored me with."
The General by this time had it in his
hand open, and tendered it, I suppose for
identification, to M. Varbarriere, who, how-
ever, politely waved it back.
"I quite felt the responsibility I took upon
myself when I wrote as I did. That respon-
sibility of course I accept; and I have come
all this way, sir, for no other purpose than to
justify my expressions, and to invite you to
bring them to the test."
"Of course, sir. Thank you," said the
General.
Varbarriere had felt a momentary qualm
about this particular branch of the business
which he had cut out for himself. When he
wrote to General Lennox he was morally
certain of the existence of a secret passage
into that green room, and also of the rela-
tions which he had for some time suspected
between Sir Jekyl and his fair guest. On
the whole it was not a bad coup to provide,
by means of the old General's jealousy, such
literal proof as he still required of the con-
cealed entrance, through which so much
villainy had been accomplished—and so his
letter — and now its consequences — about
which it was too late to think.
General Lennox, standing by the table,
with one candle on the chimneypiece and
his glasses to his eyes, read aloud, with some
little stumbling, these words from the letter
of Monsieur Varbarriere:—
"The reason of my so doing will be ob-
vious when I say that I have certain circum-
stances to lay before you which nearly affect
your honor. I decline making any detailed
statement by letter; nor will I explain my
meaning at Marlowe Manor. But if, without
fracas, you will give me a private meeting,
at any place between this and London, I will
make it my business to see you, when I shall
satisfy you that I have not made this request
without the gravest reasons."
"Those are the passages, sir, on which you
are so good as to offer me an explanation;
and first, there's the phrase, you know,' cer-
tain circumstances to lay before you which
nearly affect your honor;' that's a word, you
know, sir, that a fellow feels in a way—in a
way that can't be trifled with."
"Certainly. Put your question, General
Lennox, how you please," answered Varbar-
riere, with a grave bow.
"Well, how—how—exactly—I'll—I will
put my question. I'd like to know, sir, in
what relation—in—yes—in what relation, as >
a soldier, sir, or as a gentleman, or as—
whatf"
"I am very much concerned to say, sir,
that it is in the very nearest and most sacred
interest, sir—as a husband."
General Lennox had sat down by this time,
and was gazing with a frank stern stare full
into the dark countenance of his visitor; and
in reply he made two short little nods, clear-
ing his voice, and lowering his eyes to the
table.
It was a very trifling way of taking it.
But Varbarriere saw his face flush fiercely up
to the very roots of his silver hair, and he
fancied he could see the vessels throbbing in
his temples.
"I—very good, sir—thank you," said the
General, looking up fiercely and shaking his
ears, but speaking in a calm tone.
"Go on, pray—let me know—I say—in
God's name, don't keep me."
"Now, sir, I'll tell it to you briefly—I'll
afterwards go into whatever proof you desire.
I have reason,I deeply regret it, to believe—'
in fact to know—that an immoral intimacy j
exists between Sir Jekyl Marlowe and Lady \
Jane Lennox."
"It's a lie, sir!" screamed the General—" a
damned lie, sir—a damned lie, sir—a damned .
lie, sir." . \
His gouty claw was advanced trembling
as if to clutch the muffler that was folded
about Monsieur Varbarriere's throat, but he
dropped back in his seat again shaking, and


GUY DEVERELL.
93
ran his fingers through his white hair several
times. There was a silence which even M.
Varbarriere did not like.
Varbarriere was not the least offended at
his violence. He knew quite well that the
General did not understand what he said, or
mean, or remember it—that it was only the
wild protest of agony. For the first time he
felt a compunction about that old foozle who
had hitherto somehow counted for nothing
in the game he was playing, and he saw him,
years after, as he had shrieked at him that
night, with his claw stretched towards his
throat, ludicrous, and also terrible.
"My God! sir," cried the old man, with a
quaver that sounded like a laugh, " do you
tell me so?"
"It's true, sir," said Varbarriere.
"Now, sir, I'll not interrupt you—tell all,
pray—hide nothing," said the General.
"I was, sir, accidentally witness to a con-
versation which is capable of no other inter-
pretation ; and I have legal proof of the exis-
tence of a secret door, connecting the apart-
ment which has been assigned to you, at
Marlowe, with Sir Jekyl's room."
"The damned villain! What a fool," and
then very fiercely he suddenly added, " You
can prove all this, sir? I hope you can."
"All this, and more, sir. I suspect, sir,
there will hardly be an attempt to deny it."
"Oh, sir, it's terrible; but I was such a
fool. 1 had no business—I deserve it all.
"Who'd have imagined such villains? But,
d me, sir, I can't believe it."
There was a tone of anguish in the old
man's voice which made even his grotesque
and feeble talk terrible.
"I say there can't be such devils on
earth ;" and then he broke into an incoherent
story of all his trust and love, and all that
Jane owed him, and of her nature which
was frank and generous, and how she never
hid a thought from him—open as heaven,
sir. What business was it of his, d him!
What did he mean by trying to set a man
against his wife? No one but a scoundrel
ever did it.
Varbarriere stood erect.
"You may submit how you like, sir, to
your fate; but you shan't insult me, sir, with-
out answering for it. My note left it optional
to you to exact my information or to remain
in the darkness, which it seems you prefer.
If you wish it, I'll make my bow—it's nothing
to me, but two can play at that game. I've
fought perhaps oftener than you, and you
shan't bully me"
"I suppose you're right, sir — don't go,
Eray—I think I'm half mad, sir," said General
«nnox, despairingly.
"Sir, I make allowance—I forgive your
language, but if you want to talk to me, it
must be with proper respect. I'm as good a
gentleman as you; my statement is, of
course, strictly true, and if you please you
can test it." -
CHAPTER XLVI.
GUY DEVERELL AT SLOWTON.
"Coke, sir, I have a right to know it-
have you not an object in fooling me?" said
General Lennox, relapsing all on a sudden
into his ferocious vein.
"In telling you the truth, sir, I have an
object, perhaps,—but seeing that it is the
truth, and concerns you so nearly, you need
not trouble yourself about my object," an-
swered Varbarriere, with more self-command
than was to have been expected.
"I will test it, sir. I will try you," said the
General, sternly. "By I'll sift it to the
bottom."
"So you ought, sir; that's what I mean to
help you to," said Varbarriere.
"How, sir ?—say how, and by Heaven, sir,
I'll shoot him like a dog."
"The way to do it I've considered.. I
shall place you probably in possession of such
proof as will thoroughly convince you."
"Thank you, sir, go on."
"I shall be at Marlowe to-morrow- you
must arrive late—on no account earlier than
half-past twelve. I will arrange to have you
admitted by the glass door—through the con-
servatory. Don't bring your vehicle beyond
the bridge, and leave your luggage at the
Marlowe Arms. The object, sir, is this,"
said Varbarriere, with deliberate emphasis,
observing that the General's grim counte-
nance did not look as apprehensive as he
wished, "that your arrival shall be unsus-
pected. No one must know anything of it
except myself and another, until you shall
have reached your room. Do you see?"
"Thanks, sir—yes," answered the General,
looking as unsatisfactory as before.
"There are two recesses with shelves—
one to the right, the other to the left of the
bed's head as you look from the door. The
secret entrance I have mentioned lies through
that at the right. You most not permit any
alarm which may be intended to reach Sir
Jekyl. Secure the door and do you sit up
and watch. There's a Way of securing the
secret door from the inside—which I'll ex-
plain—that would prevent his entrance—don't
allow it. The whole—pardon me, sir—in-
trigue will in that case be disclosed without
the possibility of a prevarication. You have
followed me, I hope, distinctly."
"I—I'm a little flurried, I believe, sir; I
have to apologise. I'll ask you, by-and-by,
to repeat it. I think I should like to be
alone, sir. She wrote me a letter, sir—I wish
I had died when I got it."
. When Varbarriere looked at him, he saw
that the old East Indian was crying.
"Sir, I grieve with you," said Varbarriere,
funereally. "You can command my pre-
sence whenever you choose to send for me.
I shall remain in this house. It will be ab-
solutely necessary, of course, that you should
see me again."
"Thank you, sir. I know—I'm sure you
mean kindly—but God only knows all it is."
He had shaken his hand very affection-
ately, without any meaning—without know-
ing that he had done so.
Varbarriere said—
"Don't give way, sir, too much. If there
is this sort of misfortune, it is much better


01
GUY DEVERELL.
discovered—much better. You'll think so
just now. You'll view it quite differently in
the morning. Call for me the moment you
want me—farewell, sir."
So Varbarriere was conducted to his bed-
room, and made, beside his toilet, conscien-
tious inquiries about his late dinner, which
was in an advanced state of preparation;
and when he went down to partake of it, he
had wonderfully recovered the interview
with General Lennox. Notwithstanding,
however, he drank two glasses of sherry,
contrary to gastronomic laws, before begin-
ning. Then, however, he made, even for
him, a very good dinner.
He could not help wondering what a pro-
digious fuss the poor old fogey made about
this little affair. He could not enter the
least into his state of mind. She was a fine
woman, no doubt; but there were others—
no stint—and he had been married quite
long enough to sober and acquire an appe-
tite for liberty.
What was the matter with the old fellow?
But that it was insufferably comical, he
could almost find it in his heart to pity
him.
Once or twice as he smoked his cigar he
could not forbear shaking with laughter,
the old Philander's pathetics struck him so
sardonically.
I really think the state of that old gentle-
man, who certainly had attained to years of
philosophy, was rather serious. That is, I
dare say that a competent medical man with
his case under observation at that moment
would have pronounced him on the verge
either of a fit or of insanity.
When Varbarriere had left the room, Gen-
eral Lennox threw himself on the red damask
sofa, which smelled powerfully of yesterday's
swell bagman's tobacco, never perceiving
that stale fragrance, nor the thinness of the
cushion which made the ribs and vertebra?
of the couch unpleasantly perceptible be-
neath. Then, with his knees doubled up,
and the " Times " newspaper over his face,
he wept, and moaned, and uttered such plain-
tive hideous maunderings as would do no-
body good to hear of.
A variety of wise impulses visited him.
One was to start instantaneously for Marlowe
and fight Sir Jekyl that night by candle-
light; another to write to his wife for the
last time as his wife—an eternal farewell—
which perhaps would have been highly
absurd, and affecting at the same time.
About two hours after Varbarriere's de-
parture for dinner, he sent for that gentle-
man, and they had another, a longer, and
a more collected interview—if not a happier
one.
The result was, that Varbarriere's advice
prevailed, as one might easily foresee, having
a patient so utterly incompetent to advise
himself.
The attorney having shaken hands with
Monsieur Varbarriere, and watched from
the platform the gradual disappearance of
the train that carried him from the purlieus
of Slowton, with an expression of face
plaintive as that with which Dido on the
wild sea banks beheld the receding galleys
of jEneas, loitered back again dolorously to
the hostelry.
He arrived at the door exactly in time to
witness the descent of Guy Deverell from
his chaise. I think he would have preferred
not meeting him, it would have saved him a
few boring questions; but it was by no means
a case for concealing himself. He therefore
met him with a melancholy frankness on the .
steps.
The young man recognised him.
"Mr. Rumsey ?—How do you do? Is my
uncle here?"
"He left by the last train. I hope I see
you well, sir.
"Gone? and where to?"
"He did not tell me." That was true,
but the attorney had seen his valise 'labelled
"Chester " by his direction. "He went by
the London train, but he said he would be
back to-morrow. Can i' do anything?
Your arrival was not expected."
"Thank you. I think not. It was just a
word with my uncle I wished. You say he
will be here again in the morning?"
"Yes, so he said. I'm waiting to see
him."
"Then I can't fail to meet him if I remain."
The attorney perceived with his weatherwise
experience, the traces of recent storm, both in
the countenance and manner of this young
man, whose restiveness just now might be
troublesome.
"Unless your business is urgent, I think
—if you'll excuse me—you had better return
to Marlowe," remarked the attorney. You'll
find it more comfortable quarters, a good deal,
and your uncle will be v»ry much hurried
while here, and means to return to Marlowe
to-morrow evening.
"But I shan't. I don't mean to return;,
in fact, I wish to speak to him here. I've
delayed you on the steps, sir, very rudely;
the wind is cold."
So he bowed, and they entered together,
and the attorney, whose curiosity was now a
little piqued, found he could make nothing
of him, and rather disliked him; his reserve
was hardly fair in so very young a person,
and practised by one who had not yet won
his spurs against so redoubted a champion
as the knight of the rueful countenance.
Next morning, as M. Varbarriere had pre-
dicted, General Lennox, although sleep had
certainly had little to do with the change,
was quite a different man in some respects—
in no wise happier, but much more collect-
ed; and now he promptly apprehended and
retained Monsieur Varbarriere's plan, which
it was agreed was to be executed that night.
More than once Varbarriere's compunc-
tions revisited him as he sped onwards
that morning from Chester to Slowton.
But as men will, he bullied these mis-L
fivings and upbraidings into submission,
le had been once or twice on the point of
disclosing this portion of the complication
to his attorney^ but an odd sort of shyness
prevented. He fancied that possibly the


GUY DEVERBLL.
95
picture and his part in it were not alto-
gether pretty, and somehow he did not care
to expose himself to the secret action of the
attorney's thoughts.
Even in his own mind it needed the
strong motive which had first prompted it.
Now it was no longer necessary to explore
the mystery of that secret door through
which the missing deed, and indeed the
Deverell estate, had been carried into old
Sir Harry's cupboard. But what was to be
.done? He had committed himself to the
statement. General Lennox had a right to
demand—in fact, he had promised—a dis-
tinct explanation.
Yes, a distinct explanation, and, further,
a due corroboration by proof of that expla-
nation. It was all due to Monsieur Var-
barriere, who had paid that debt to his
credit and conscience, and behold what a
picture! Three familiar figures, irrevocably
transformed, and placed in what a halo of
infernal light.
"The thing could not be helped, and,"
whether or no, it was only right. Why the
devil should I help Jekyl Marlowe to de-
ceive and disgrace that withered old gentle-
man? I don't think it would have been a
pleasant position for me."
And all the respectabilities hovering near
cried "hear, hear, hear!" and Varbarriere
shook up his head, and looked magisterial
over the havoc of the last livid scene of the
tragedy he had prepared; and the porter
crying "Slowton!" opened the door, and re-
leased him.
♦
CHAPTER XLVII.
UNCIiE«AND NEPHEW.
When he reached his room, having break-
fasted handsomely in the coffee-room, and
learned that early Mr. Rumsey had accom-
plished a similar meal in his own sitting-
room, he repaired thither, and entered forth-
with upon their talk.
It was a bright and pleasant morning;
the poplar trees in front of the hotel were
all glittering in the mellow early sunlight,
and the birds twittering as pleasantly as if
there was not a sorrow or danger on earth.
"Well, sir, true to my hour;" said Mon-
sieur Varbarriere, in his deep brazen tones,
as smiling and wondrously he entered the
attorney's apartment.
*' Good morning, sir—how d'ye do? Have
you got those notes prepared you men-
tioned?"
"That I have, sir, as you shall see, pencil
though; but that doesn't matter—no?"
The vowel sounded grandly in the upward
slide of Varbarriere's titanic double bass.
The attorney took possession of the pocket-
book containing these memoranda, and an-
swered—
"No, I can read it very nicely. Your
nephew is here, by-the-bye; he came last
night."
"Guy? What's brought him here?"
M. Varbarriere's countenance was over-
cast. What had gone w«ong? Some cham-
ber in his mine had exploded, he feared,
prematurely.
Varbarriere opened the door, intending to
roar for Guy, but remembering where he
was, and the dimensions of the place, he
tugged instead at the bell-rope, and made his
summons jangle wildly through the lower
regions.
"Hollo !" cried Varbarriere from his thres-
hold, anticipating the approaching waiter;
"a young gentleman — a Mr. Guy Strang-
ways, arrived last evening?"
"Strangways, please, sir? Strangways?
No, sir, I don't think we 'av got no gentle-
man of that name in the 'ouse, sir."
"But I know you have. Go, make out
where he is, and let him know that his uncle,
Monsieur Varbarriere, has just arrived, and
wants to see him — here, may I?" with a
glance at the attorney.
"Certainly."
"There's some mischief," said Varbarriere,
with a lowering glance at the attorney.
. " It looks uncommon like it," mused that
gentleman, sadly.
"Why doesn't he come?" growled Var-
barriere, with a motion of his heel like a
stamp. "What do you think he has done?
Some cursed sottise.
"Possibly he has proposed marriage to the
young lady, and been refused."
"Refused! I hop.e he has."
At this juncture the waiter returned.
"Well?"
"No, sir, please. No one hin the 'ouse,
sir. No such name."
"Are you sure ?" asked Varbarriere of the
attorney, in an under diapason.
"Perfectly—said he'd wait here for you.
I told him you'd be here this morning," an-
swered he, dolorously.
"Go down, sir, and get me a list of the
gentlemen in the house. I'll pay for it,"
said Varbarriere, with an imperious jerk of
his hand.
The ponderous gentleman in black was
very uneasy, and well he might. So he
looked silently out of the window which
commands a view of the inn-yard, and his
eyes wandered over a handsome manure-
heap to the chicken-coop and paddling ducks,
and he saw three horses' tails in perspective
in the chiaro-oscuro of- the stable, in the
open door of which a groom was rubbing a
curb chain. He thought how wisely he had
done in letting Guy know so little of his de-
signs. And as he gloomily congratulated
himself on his wise reserve, the waiter re-
turned with a slate, and a double column of
names scratched on it.
Varbarriere having cast his eye over it,
suddenly uttered an oath.
"Number 10—that's the gentleman. Go
to number 10, and tell him his uncle wants
him here," roared Varbarriere, as if on the
point of knocking the harmless waiter down.
"Read there!" he thundered, placing the
slate, with a clang, before the meek attorney,
who read opposite to number 10, "Mr. G.
Deverell."


90
GUY DEVERELL.
He pursed his mouth and looked up lacka-
daisically at his glowering client, saying
only "Ha!"'
A minute after and Guy Deverell in person
entered the room. He extended his hand
deferentially to M. Varbarriere, who on his
part drew himself up black as night, and
thrust his hands half way to the elbows in
his trowsers pockets, glaring thunderbolts in
the face of the contumacious young man.
"You see that t" jerking the slate with
another clang before Guy. "Did you give
that name? Look at number ten, sir."
Varbarriere was now again speaking French.
"Yes, sir, Guy Deverell—my own name,
I shall never again consent to go by any
other. I had no idea what it might involve
—never."
The young man was pale but quite firm.
"You've broken your word, sir; you have
ended your relations with me," said Varbar-
riere, with a horrible coldness.
"I am sorry, sir—I have broken my prom-
ise, but when I could not keep it without a
worse deception. To the consequences, be
they what they may, I submit, and I feel,
sir, more deeply than you will ever know all
the kindness you have shown me from my
earliest childhood until now."
"Infinitely flattered," sneered Varbarriere,
with a mock bow. "You have, I presume,
disclosed your name to the people at Mar-
lowe as frankly as to those at Slowton?"
"Lady Alice Redcliffe called me by my
true name, and insisted it was mine. I could
not deny it—I admitted the truth. Made-
moiselle Marlowe was present also, and heard
what passed. In little more than an hour
after this scene I left Marlowe Manor. I did
not see Sir Jekyl, and simply addressed a
note to him saying that I was called away
unexpectedly. I did not repeat to him the
disclosure made to Lady Alice. I left that
to the discretion of those who had heard it."
"Their discretion—very good—and now,
Monsieur Guy Deverell, I have done with
you. I shan't leave you as I took you up,
absolutely penniless. I shall so place you as
to enable you with diligence to earn your
bread without degradation—that is all. You
will be so good as to repair forthwith to
London and await me at our quarters in St.
James's Street. I shall send you, by next
post, a cheque to meet expenses in town—
no, pray don't thank me; you might have
thanked me by your obedience. I shan't do
much more to merit thanks. Your train
starts from hence, I think, in half an hour."
Varbarriere nodded angrily, and moved
his hand towards the door.
"Farewell, sir," said Guy, bowing low, but
proudly.
"One word more," said Varbarriere, recol-
lecting suddenly; "you have not arranged a
correspondence with any person? answer
me on your honor."
"No, sir, on my honor."
"Go, then. Adieu!" and Varbarriere
turned from him brusquely, and so they
parted.
"Am I to understand, sir," inquired the
attorney, "that what has just occured modifies
our instructions to proceed in those cases J"
"Not at all, sir," answered Varbarriere,
firmly.
"You see the civil proceedings must all be
in the name of the young gentleman—a party
who is of age—and you see what I mean."
"I undertake personally the entire respon-
sibility; you are to proceed in the name of
Guy Deverell, and what is more, use the ut-
most despatch, and spare no cost. When shall
we open the battle?"
"Why, I dare say next term?"
"That is less than a month hence?"
"Yes, sir."
"By my faith, his hands will be pretty full
by that time," said Varbarriere, exultingly.
"We must have the papers out again. I can
give you all this day, up to half-past five
o'clock. We must get the new case into shape
for counsel. You run up to town this evening.
I suspect I shall follow you to-morrow ; but
I must run over first to Marlowe. I have left
my things there, and my servant; and I sup-
pose I must take a civil leave of my enemy—
there are courtesies, you know—as your prize-
fighters shake hands in the ring."
The sun was pretty far down in the west by
the time their sederunt ended. M. Var-
barriere got into his short mantle and muf-
flers, and donned his ugly felt hat, talking all
the while in his deep metallic tones, with his
sliding cadences and resounding emphases.
The polite and melancholy attorney accom-
panied his nutritious client to the door, and
after he had taken his seat in his vehicle, they
chatted a little earnestly through the window,
agreeing that they had grown very " strong"
indeed—anticipating nothing but victory,
and in confidential whispers breathing
slaughter.
As Varbarriere, with his thick arm stuffed
through one of the upholstered leathern loops
with which it is the custom to flank the win-
dows of all sorts of carriages, and his large
varnished boot on the vacant cushion at the
other side, leaned back and stared darkly and
dreamily through the plate glass on the am-
ber-tinted landscape, he felt rather oddly ap-
proaching such persons and such scenes—a
crisis with a remoter and more tremendous
crisis behind—the thing long predicted in the
whisperings of hope—the real thing long
dreamed of, and now greeted strangely with
a mixture of exultation and disgust.
There are few men, I fancy,- who so
thoroughly enjoy their revenge as they ex-
pected. It is one of those lusts which has
its gout de revert—" sweet in the mouth, bitter
in the belly;" one of those appetites which
will allow its victim no rest till it is gratified,
and no peace afterward. Now, M. Varbarriere
was in for it, he was already coming under the
solemn shadow of its responsibilities, and was
chilled. It involved other people, too, besides
his proper object—people who, whatever else
some of them might be, were certainly, as re-
spected him and his, innocent. Did he quail,
and seriously think of retiring re infecta t No
such thing! It is wonderful how steadfast
of purpose are the disciples of darkness, and


GUY DEVERELL.
97
how seldom, having put their hands to the
plough, they look back.
All this while Guy Deverell, an exile, was
approaching London with brain, like every
other, teeming with its own phantasmagoria.
He knew not what particular danger threat-
ened Marlowe Manor, which to him was a
temple tenanted by Beatrix alone, the living
idol whom he worshiped. He was assured
that somehow his consent, perhaps coope-
ration, was needed to render the attack
effectual, and here would arise his opportu-
nity, the self-sacrifice which he contemplated
with positive pleasure, though, of course
with a certain awe, for futurity was a murky
vista enough beyond it.
Varbarriere's low estimate of young men
led him at once to conclude that this was an
amorous escopade, a bit of romance about
that pretty wench, Mademoiselle Beatrix.
Why not? The fool, fooling according to
his folly, should not arrest wisdom in her
march. Varbarriere was resolved to take all
necessary steps in his nephew's name, without
troubling the young man with a word upon
the subject. He would have judgment and
execution, and he scoffed at the idea that his
nephew, Guy, would take measures to have
him—his kinsman, guardian, and benefactor—
punished for having acted for his advantage
without his consent.
CHAPTER XLVIIL
IN LADY MABY'S BOUDOIR.
The red sun had faded into darkness as
M. Varbarriere descended from his carriage
at the door-steps of Marlowe. The dressing-
bell had not yet rung. Every one was quite
well, the solemn butler informed him gra-
ciously, as if he had kept them in health
expressly to oblige M. Varbarriere. That
gentleman's dark countenance, however, was
not specially illuminated on the occasion.
The intelligence he really wanted referred
to old Lady Alice, to whom the inexcusable
folly and perfidy of Guy had betrayed his
name.
Upon this point he had grown indescri
bably uncomfortable as he drew near to the
house. Had the old woman been conjectur-
ing and tattling? Had she called in Sir
Jekyl himself to counsel? How was he,
Varbarriere, to meet Sir Jekyl? He must
learn from Lady Alice's lips how the land
lay.
"And Lady Alice," he murmured with a
lowering countenance, " pretty well, I hope?
Down-stairs to-day, eh?"
The butler had not during his entire visit
heard the -' foreign chap " talk so much Eng-
lish before.
"Lady Halice was well in 'ealth."
"In the drawing-room?"
"No, sir, in Lady Mary's boudoir."
"And Sir Jekyl?"
"In 'is hown room, sir."
"Show me to the boudoir, please; I have
a word for Lady Alice."
A few moments more and he knocked at
the door of that apartment, and was invited
to enter with a querulous drawl that re-
called the association of the wild cat with
which in an irreverent moment he had once
connected that august old lady.
So Varbarriere entered and bowed and
stood darkly in the door-frame, reminding
her again of the portrait of a fat and cruel
burgomaster. "Oh! it's you? come back
again, Monsieur Varbarriere? Oh!—I'm
very glad to see you."
"Very grateful—very much flattered ; and
your ladyship, how are you t"
"Pretty well—ailing—always ailing—de-
licate health and cruelty tortured in mind.
What else can I expect, sir, but sickness?"
"I hope your mind has not been troubled,
Lady Alice, since I had the honor of last
seeing you."
"Now, do you really hope that? Is it
possible you can hope that my mind, in the
state in which you left it, has been one min-
ute at ease since I saw you? Beside, sir, I
have heard something that for reasons quite
inexplicable you have chosen to conceal
from me."
"May I ask what it is? I shall be happy
to explain."
"Yes, the name of that young man—it is
not Strangways, that was a falsehood; his
name, sir, is Guy Deverell!"
And saying this Lady Alice, after her
wont, wept passionately.
"That is perfectly true, Lady Alice; but
I don't see what value that information can
have, apart from the explanatory particulars
I promised to tell you; but not for a few
days. If, however, you desire it, I shall
postpone the disclosure no longer. You
will, I am sure, first be so good as to tell me.
though, whether anyone but you knows that
the foolish young man's name is Deverell?"
"No; no one, except Beatrix, not a crea-
ture. She was present, but has been, at my
request, perfectly silent," answered Lady
Alice, eagerly, and gaped darkly at Varbar-
riere expecting his revelation.
M. Varbarriere thought, under the unto
ward circumstances, that a disclosure so im-
perfect as had been made to Lady Alice was
a good deal more dangerous than one a little
fuller. He therefore took that lady's hand
very reverentially, and looking with his full
solemn eyes in her face, said—
"It is not only true, madam, that his name
is Guy Deverell, but equally true that he is
the lawful son, as well as the namesake, of
that Guy Deverell, your son, who perished
by the hand of Sir Jekyl Marlowe in a duel.
Shot down foully, as that Mr. Strangways
avers who was his companion, and who was
present when the fatal event took place."
"Gracious Heaven, sir! My son married?"
"Yes, madam, married more than a year
before his death. All the proofs are extant,
and at this moment in England."
"Married! my boy married, and nevti-
told his mother! Oh, Guy, Guy, Guy! is
it creditable?"
"It is not a question, madam, but an abso-
7


98
GUY DEVERELL.
lute certainty, as I will show you whenever
I get the papers to Wardlock."
"And to whom, sir, pray, was my son
married?" demanded Lady Alice, after a
long pause.
"To my sister, madam."
Lady Alice gaped at him in astonishment.
"Was she a person at all his equal in life?
—a person of—of any education, I mean?"
inquired Lady Alice, with a gasp, sublimely
unconscious of her impertinence.
"As good a lady as you are," replied Var-
barriere, with a swarthy flush upon his fore-
head.
"I should like to know she was a lady, at
all events."
"She was a lady, madam, of pure blood,
incapable of a mean thought, incapable, too,
of anything low-bred or impertinent."
His sarcasm sped through and through
Lady Alice without producing any effect, as
a bullet passes through a ghost.
"It is a great surprise, sir, but that will
be satisfactory. I suppose you can show it?"
Varbarriere smiled sardonically and an-
swered nothing.
"My son married to a Frenchwoman!
Dear, dear, dear! Married! You can feel
for me, monsieur, knowing as I do nothing
of the person or family with whom he con-
nected himself."
Lady Alice pressed her lean fingers over
her heart, and swept the wall opposite, with
dismal eyes, sighing at intervals, and gasping
dolorously.
The old woman's egotism and imperti-
nence did not vex him long or much. But
the pretence of being absolutely above irri-
tation from the feminine gender, in any ex-
tant sage, philosopher, or saint, is a despica-
ble affectation. Man and woman were created
with inflexible relations; each with the
power in large measure or in infinitesimal
doses, according to opportunity, to infuse
the cup of other's life with sweet or bitter—
with nectar or with poison. Therefore great
men and wise men have winced and will
wince under the insults of small and even of
old women.
"A year, you say, before my poor boy's
death f'
"Yes, about that; a little more."
"Mademoiselle Varbarriere! H'm," mused
Lady Alice.
"I did not say Varbarriere was the name,"
sneered he, with a deep-toned drawl.
"Why, you said, sir, did not you, that the
Frenchwoman he married was your sister?"
"I said the lady who accepted him was
my sister. I never said her name was Var-
barriere, or that she was a Frenchwoman."
"Is not your name Varbarriere, sir?" ex-
claimed Lady Alice, opening her eyes very
wide.
"Certainly, madam, A nom de guerre, as
we say in France, a name which I assumed
with the purchase of an estate, about six
years ago, when I became what you call a
naturalised French subject."
"And pray, sir, what is your name?"
"Varbarriere, madam. I did bear an Eng-
lish name, being of English birth and family
May I presume to inquire particularly
whether you have divulged the name of mi
nephew to anyone?"
"No, to no one; neither has Beatrix, I an
certain."
"You now know, madam, that the younr
man is your own grandson, and therefore
entitled to at least as much consideratior
from you as from me; and I again ventur
to impress upon you this fact, that if prema
turely his name be disclosed, it may, and in
deed must embarrass my endeavors to rein
state him in his rights."
As he said this Varbarriere made a pro
found and solemn bow; and before Lady
Alice could resume her catechism, that dark
gentleman had left the room.
As he emerged from the door he glanced
down the broad oak stairs, at the foot of
which he heard voices. They were those
of Sir Jekyl and his daughter. The Baro-
net's eye detected the dark form on the first
platform above him.
"Ha! Monsieur Varbarriere—very wel-
come, monsieur—when did you arrive?"
cried the host in his accustomed French.
"Ten minutes ago."
"Quite well, I hope."
"Perfectly; many thanks—and Mademoi-
selle Beatrix?"
The large and sombre figure was descend-
ing the stairs all this time, and an awful
shadow as he did so, seemed to overcast the
face and form of the young lady to whom,
with a dark smile, he extended his hand.
"Quite well, Beatrix, too—all quite well
-even Lady Alice in her usual health," said
Sir Jekyl.
"Better—I'm glad to hear," said Varbar-
riere.
"Better! Oh dear, no—that would never
do. But her temper is just as lively, and all
her ailments flourishing. By-the-bye, your
nephew had to leave us suddenly."
"Yes — business," said Varbarriere, inter-
rupting.
Beatrix, he was glad to observe, had gone
away to the1 drawing-room.
"He'll be back, I hope, immediately?"
continued the Baronet. "He's a fine young
fellow. Egad, he's about as good-looking
a young fellow as I know. I should be
devilish proud of him if I were you. When
does he come back to us?"
"Immediately, I hope; business, you know;
but nothing very long. We are both, I fear,
a very tedious pair of guests; but you have
been so pressing, so hospitable"
"Say rather, so selfish, monsieur," an-
swered Sir Jekyl, laughing. "Our whist
and cigars have languished ever since vou
left." J
M. Varbarriere laughed a double-bass
accompaniment to the Baronet'schuckle, and
the dressing-bell ringing at that moment, Sir
Jekyl and he parted agreeably.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE GUESTS TOGETHEB.
Varbarriere marched slowly up, and en-


GUY DEVERELL.
99
tered his dressing-room with a "glooming"
countenance and a heavy heart. Everything
looked as if he had left it but half an hour
ago. He poked the fire and sat down.
He felt like a surgeon with an operation
before him. There was a loathing of it, but
. he did not flinch.
Reader, you think you understand other
'men. Do you understand yourself? Did
i you ever quite succeed in defining your own
motives, and arriving at the moral base of
any action you ever did? Here was Varbar-
riere sailing with wind and tide full in his
favour, right into the haven where he would
be—yet to look in his face you would have
said "there is a sorrowful man," and had
you been able to see within, you would have
said, " there is a man divided against himself."
Yes, as every man is. Several spirits, quite
distinct, not blending, but pleading and bat-
tling very earnestly on opposite sides, all in
possession of the " house "—but one dominant
always with a disputed sway, but always car-
rying his point—always the prosperous bully.
Yes, every man is a twist of many strands.
Varbarriere was compacted of several Var-
barrieres—one of whom was the stronger
and the most infernal. His feebler associates
commented upon him—despised him—feared
him—sought to restrain him, but knew they
could not. He tyrannized, and was to the
outer world the one and indivisible Varbar-
riere.
Monsieur Varbarriere the tyrant was about
to bring about a fracas that night, against
which the feebler and better Varbarrieres
protested. Varbarriere the tyrant held the
knife over the throat of a faithless woman—
the better Varbarriere's murmured words of
pity and of faint remomstance. Varbarriere
the tyrant scrupled not to play the part of
spy and traitor for his ends; the' nobler Var-
barrieres upbraided him sadly, and even de-
spised him. But what were these feeble
angelic Varbarrieres? The ruler is the state,
Vetat c'est moi! and Varbarriere the tyrant
carried all before him.
As the dark and somewhat corpulent gen-
tleman before the glass adjusted his neck-tie
and viewed his shirt-studs, he saw in his
countenance, along with the terrible resolu-
tion of that tyrant, the sorrows and fears of
the less potent spirits; and he felt though he
would not accept their upbraidings and their
truth; so with a stern and heavy heart he
descended to the drawing-room.
He found the party pretty nearly as-
sembled, and the usual buzz and animation
prevailing, and he smiled and swayed from
group to group, and from one chair to an-
other.
Doocey was glad, monstrous glad to see
him.
"I had no idea how hard it was to find a
good player, until you left us—our whist has
been totally ruined. The first night we tried
Linnett; he thinks he plays, you know;
well, I do assure you, you never witnessed
such a thing—such a caricature, by Jupiter—
forgetting your lead—revoking—everything,
by Jove. You may guess what a chance we
had—my partner, I give you my honor,
against old Sir Paul Blunket, as dogged a
player as there is in England, egad, and Sir
Jekyl there. We tried Drayton next night
—the most conceited fellow on earth, and no
head—Sir Paul had him. I never saw an
old fellow so savage. Egad, they were call-
ing one another names across the table-
you'd have died laughing; but we'll have
some play now you've come back, and I'm
very glad of it."
Varbarriere, while he listened to all this,
smiling his fat dark smile, and shrugging and
bowing slightly as the tale required these
evidences, was quietly making his observa-
tions on two or three of the persons who
most interested him. Beatrix, he thought,
was looking ill—certainly much paler, and
though very pretty, rather sad—that is, she
was ever and anon falling into little abstrac-
tions, and when spoken to, waking up with
a sudden little smile.
Lady Jane Lennox—she did not seem to
observe him—was seated like a sultana on a
low cushioned seat, with her rich silks cir-
cling grandly round her. He looked at her
a little stealthily and curiously, as men eye a
prisoner who is about to suffer execution.
His countenance during that brief glance
was unobserved, but you might have read
there something sinister and cruel.
"I forget'—had the Bishop come when you
left us?" said Sir Jekyl, laying his hand
lightly from behind on the arm of Varbar-
riere. The dark-featured man winced—Sir
Jekyl's voice sounded unpleasantly in his
reverie.
"Ah! Oh! The Bishop? Yes —the
Bishop was here when I left; he had been
here a day or two," answered Varbarriere,
with a kind of effort.
"Then I need not introduce you—you're
friends already," said Sir Jekyl.
At which moment the assembled party
learned that dinner awaited them, and the
murmured arrangements for the procession
commenced, and the drawing-room was left
to the click of the Louis Quatorze clock and
the sadness of solitude.
"We had such a dispute, Monsieur Var-
barriere, while you were away," said Miss
Blunket.
"About me, I hope," answered the gentle-
man addressed, in tolerable English, and
with a gallant jocularity.
"Well, no—not about you," said old Miss
Blunket, timidly. "But I so wished for you
to take part in the argument."
"And why wish for me?" answered the
sardonic old fellow, amused, maybe the least
bit in the world flattered.
"Well, I think you have the power, Mon-
sieur Varbarriere, of putting a great deal in
very few words—I mean of making an argu-
ment so clear and short."
Varbarriere laughed indulgently, and be-
gan to think Miss Blunket a rather mtelligent
person.
"And what was the subject, pray?"
"Whether life was happier in town or
country."
1 fiftCtf


100
GUY DEVERELL.
"Oh! the old debate — country mouse
against town mouse," replied Varbarriere.
"Ah, just so—so true—I don't think any-
one said that, and—and—I do wish to know
which side you would have taken."
"The condition being that it should be all
country or all town, of course, and that we
were to retain our incomes"'
"Yes, certainly," said Miss Blunket, await-
ing his verdict with a little bit of bread sus-
pended between her forefinger and thumb.
"Well, then, I should pronounce at once
for the country," said Varbarriere.
"I'm so glad—that's just what I said.
I'm sure, said I, I should have Monsieur Var-
barriere on my side if he were here. I'm so
glad I was right. Did not you hear me say
that?" said she, addressing Lady Jane Len-
nox, whose steady look, obliquely from
across the table a little higher up, disconcert-
ed her.
Lady Jane was not thinking of the debate,
and askedin her quiet haughty wav—
"What is it?"
"Did I not say, yesterday, that Monsieur
Varbarriere would vote for the country, in
our town or country argument, if he were
here?"
"Oh! did you? Yes, I believe you did.
I was not listening."
"And which side, pray, Lady Jane, would
, you have taken in that ancient debate ?" in-
quired Varbarriere, who somehow felt con-
strained to address her.
"Neither side," answered she.
"What! neither town nor country—and
how then?" inquired Varbarriere, with a
shrug and a smile.
"(think there is as much hypocrisy and
slander in one as the other, and I should
have a new way—people living like the Chi-
nese, in boats, and never going on shore."
Varbarriere laughed — twiddled a bit of
bread between his finger and thumb, and
leaned back, and looked down, still smiling,
by the edge of his plate; and was there not
a little flush under the dark brown tint of his
face?
"That would be simply prison," ejaculated
Miss Blunket.
"Yes, prison; and is not anything bet-
ter than liberty with its liabilities? Why
did Lady Hester Stanhope go into exile in
the East, and why do sane men and women
go into monasteries?"
Varbarriere looked at her with an odd
kind of interest, and sighed without knowing
it; and he helped himself curiously to sweet-
bread, a minute later, and for a time his
share in the conversation flagged.
Lady Jane, he thought, was looking de-
cidedly better than when he left—very well,
in fact—very well indeed—not at all like a
person with anything pressing heavily on her
mind.
He glanced at her again. She was talking
to old Sir Paul Blunket in a bold careless
way, which showed no sign of hidden care
or fear.
"Have you been to town since?" inquired
Sir Jekyl, who happened to catch Varbar-
riere's eye at that moment, and availed him-
self of a momentary lull in what we term the
conversation, to put his question.
"No; you think I have been pleasuring,
but it was good honest business I assure you."
"Lady Alice here fancied you might have
seen the General, and learned something
about his plans," continued Sir Jekyl.
"What General? — Lennox — eh?" in-
quired Varbarriere.
"Yes. What's your question, Lady
Alice?" said the Baronet, turning to that
lady, and happily not observing an odd ex-
pression in Varbarriere's countenance.
"No question; he has not been to London,"
answered the old lady, drawing her shawl
which she chose to dine in about her,
chillily.
"Is it anything 1 can answer?" threw in
Lady Jane, who, superbly tranquil as she
looked, would have liked to pull and box
Lady Alice's ears at that moment.
"Oh no, I fancy not; it's only the old
question, when are we to see the General;
is he coming back at all?"
"I wish anyone could help me to an
answer," laughed Lady Jane, with a slight
uneasiness, which might have been referred
to the pique which would not have been un-
natural in a handsome wife neglected.
"I begin to fear I shall leave Marlowe
without having seen him," said Lady Alice,
peevishly.
"Yes, and it is not complimentary, you
know; he disappeared just the day before
you came, and he won't come back till you
leave; men are such mysterious fellows,
don't you think?" said Sir Jekyl.
"It doesn't look as if he liked her com-
pany. Did he ever meet you, Lady Alice?"
inquired Sir Paul Blunket in his bluff way,
without at all intending to be uncivil.
"That, you think, would account for it;
much obliged to you Sir Paul," said Lady
Alice, sharply.
Sir Paul did not see it, or what she was
driving at, and looked at her therefore with
a grave curiosity, for he did not perceive
that she was offended.
"Sir Paul has a way of hitting people
very hard, has not he, Lady Alice? and
then leaving them to recover of themselves,"
said Sir Jekyl.
"There's not a great deal of civility
wasted among you," observed Lady Alice.
"I only meant," said Sir Paul, who felt
that he should place himself right, "that I
could not see why General Lennox should
avoid Lady Alice, unless he was acquainted
with her. There's nothing in that."
"By-the-by, Lady Alice," said Sir Jekyl,
who apprehended a possible scene from that
lady's temper, and like a good shepherd
wished to see his flock pasture peaceably to-
gether—" I find I can let you have any
quantity you like of that plant you admired
yesterday. I forget its name, and the Bishop
says he has got one at the Palace with a
scarlet blossom; so, perhaps, if you make
interest with him—what do you say, my
lord?"


GUY DEVERELL.
101
. So having engaged the good Bishop in
floral conversation with that fiery spirit, the
Baronet asked Sir Paul whther he believed
all that was said about the great American
cow ; and what he thought of the monster
parsnip: "and thus he set him and Lady
Alice ambling on different tracts, so that
there was no risk of their breaking lances
again. _
CHAPTER L.
A VISIT0K IS THE LIBRARY.
The company were now pecking at those
fruits over which Sir Jekyl was wont to
chuckle grimly, making pleasant satire on
his gardener, vowing he kept an Aladdin's
garden, and that his greengages were eme-
ralds, and his gooseberries rubies.
In the midst of the talk, the grave and
somewhat corpulent butler stood behind his
master's chair, and murmured something
mildly in his ear.
"What's his name?" inquired Sir Jekyl.
"Pullet, please, sir."
"Pullet! I never heard of him. If he
had come a little earlier with a knife and
fork in his back, we'd have given a good
account of him."
His jokes were chuckled to Lady Alice,
who received them drowsily.
"Whire have you put him?"
"In the library, please, sir."
"What kind of looking person?"
"A middlish sort of a person, rayther re-
spectable, I should say, sir; but dusty from
his journey."
"Well, give him some wine, and let him
have dinner, if he has not had it before, and
bring in his card just now."
All this occurred without exciting atten-
tion or withdrawing Sir Jekyl from any
sustained conversation, for he and Lady
Alice had been left high and dry on the bank
together by the flow and ebb of talk, which
at this moment kept the room in a rattle;
and Sir Jekyl only now and then troubled
her with a word.
"Pullet!" thought Sir Jekyl, he knew not
why, uneasily. "Who the devil's Pullet,
and what the plague can Pullet want? It
can't be Paulett—can it? There's nothing
on earth Paulett can want of me, and he
would not come at this hour. Pullet—
Pullet—let us see." But he could not see,
there was not a soiil he knew who bore that
name.
"He's eating his dinner, sir, the gentleman,
sir, in the" small parlor, and says you'll know
him, quite well sir, when you see him," mur-
mured the butler, " and more"
"Have you got his card?"
"He said, sir, please, it would be time
enough when he had heat his dinner."
"Well, so it will."
And Sir Jekyl drank a glass of claret, and
returned to his ruminations.
•- So, I shall know Pullet quite well when
I see him," mused the Baronet, "and he'll
let me have his card when he has had his
dinner—a cool gentleman, whatever else he
may be." About this Pullet, however, Sir
Jekyl experienced a most uncomfortable sus-
pense and curiosity. A bird of ill omen he
seemed to him—an angel of sorrow, he knew
not why, in a mask.
While the Baronet sipped his claret, and
walked quite alone in the midst of his com-
pany, picking his anxious steps, and hearing
strange sounds through his valley of the
shadow of death, the promiscuous assem-
blage of ladies and gentlemen dissolved itself.
The fair sex rose, after their wont, smiled
their last on the sable file of gentlemen, who
stood politely, napkin in hand, simpering
over the back of their chairs, and some of
them majestically alone, others sliding their
hands affectionately within the other's arms,
glided through the door in celestial proces-
sion.
"I shall leave you to-mowow, Sir Jekyl,"
began the bishop, gravely, changing his seat
to one just vacated beside his host, and
bringing with him his principal chattels, his
wine-glasses and napkins.
"I do hope, my lord, you'll reconsider
that," interrupted Sir Jekyl, laying his
fingers kindly on the prelate's purple sleeve.
A dismal cloud in Sir Jekyl's atmosphere
was just then drifting over him, and he
clung, as men do under such shadows, to the
contact of good and early friendship.
"I am, I assure you, very sorry, and have
enjoyed your hospitality much—very much;
but we can't rest long you know: we hold a
good many strings, and matters won't wait
our convenience.
"I'm only afraid you are overworked ; but,
of course, I understand how you feel, and
shan't press," said Sir Jekyl.
"And I was looking for you to-day in the
library," resumed the Bishop, "anxious for
a few minutes, on a subject I glanced at
when I arrived."
"I—I know" said Sir Jekyl, a little hesita-
tingly.
"Yes, the dying wish of poor Sir Harry
Marlowe, your father," murmured the Bishop,
looking into his claret-glass, which he slowly
turned about by the stem; and to do him
justice, there was not a quarter of a glassful
remaining in the bottom.
"I know—to be sure. I quite agree with
your lordship's view. I wish to tell you that
—quite, I assure you. I don't—I really don't
at all understand his reasons; but, as you
say, it is a case for implicit submission. I
intend, I assure you, actually to take down
that room during the spring. It is of no real
use, and rather spoils the house."
"I am happy, my dear Sir Jekyl, to hear
you speak with so much decision on the sub-
ject—truly happy;" and the venerable pre-
late laid his hand with a gentle dignity on
the cuff of Sir Jekyl's dress-coat, after the
manner of a miniature benediction. "I may
then discharge that quite from my mind?"
"Certainly—quite, my lord. I accept
your views implicitly."
"And the box — the other wish — you
know," murmured the Bishop.


103
GUT DEVERELL.
"I must honestly say, I can't the least un-
derstand what can have heen in my poor
father's mind when he told me to—to do
what was right with it—was not that it?
For I do assure you, for the lite of me, I
can't think of anything to be done with it, but
let it alone. I pledge you my honor, how-
ever, if ever I get the least inkling of his
meaning, I will respect it as implicitly as the
other."
"Now, now, that's exactly what I wish.
I'm perfectly satisfied you'll do what's right."
And as he spoke the Bishop's countenance
brightened, and he drank slowly, looking up
toward the ceiling, that quarter of a glass
of claret on which he had gazed for so long
in the bottom of the crystal chalice.
Just then the butler once more inclined
his head from the back of Sir Jekyl's chair,
and presented a card to his master on the
little salver at hM left side. It bore the in-
scription, " Mr. Pelter, Camelia Villa," and
across this, perpendicularly, after the manner
of a joint "acceptance" of the firm, was
written—" Pelter and Crowe, Chambers, Lin-
coln's Inn Fields," in bold black pencilled
lines.
"Why did you not tell me that before?"
whispered the Baronet, tartly, half rising,
with the card in his hand.
"I was not haware, Sir Jekyl. The gen-
tleman said his name exactly like Pullet.
"In the library! Well—tell him I'm
coming," said Sir Jekyl; and his heart sank,
he knew not why.
"Beg your pardon, my lord, for a moment
—my man of business, all the way from
London, and I fancy in a huriy. I shall get
rid of him with a word or two—you'll excuse
me? Dives, will you oblige me—take my
place for a moment, and see that the bottle
does not stop; or, Doocey, will you ?—Dives
is doing4uty at the foot."
Doocey had hopes that the consultation
with the butler portended a bottle of that
wonderful Constantia which he had so ap-
proved two days before, and took his tempo-
rary seat hopefully.
Sir Jekyl, with a general apology, and a
smile, glided away without fuss, and the
talk went on much as before.
When the parlor-door shut behind Sir
Jekyl, his face darkened. "I know it's some
stupid thing," he thought, as he walked
down the gallery with rapid steps, toward
the study, the sharp air agitating, as he did
so, his snowy necktie and glossy curls.
"How d'ye do, Mr. Pelter? very happy to
see you. I hadn't a notion it was you—the
stupid fellow gave me quite another name.
Quite well, I hope?"
"Quite well, Sir Jekyl, I thank you—a—
quite well, said the attorney, a stoutish,
short, wealthy-looking man, with a massive
gold chain, a resolute countenance, and a
bullet-head, with close-cut, greyish hair.
Pelter was, indeed, an able, pushing fellow,
without Latin or even English grammar,
having risen in the office from a small clerk-
ship, and, perhaps, was more useful than his
gentlemanlike partner.
"Well—a—.well, and what has brought
you down here? Very glad to see you, you
know; but you would not run down for fun,
I'm afraid," said Sir Jekyl.
"Au—no—au, well, Sir Jekyl, it has turned
out, Sir—by gad, sir I believe them fellows
are in England, after all!"
"What do you mean by them fellows?"
said Sir Jekyl, with a very dark look, uncon-
sciously repeating the attorney's faulty
grammar.
"Strangways and Deverell, you know—I
mean them—Herbert Strangways, and a
young man named Deverell—they're in Eng-
land, I've been informed, very private—and
Strangways has been with Smith, Rumsey
and Snagg—the office—you know ; and there
is something on the stocks there."
As the attorney delivered this piece of in-
telligence he kept his eye shrewdly on Sir
Jekyl, rather screwed and wrinkled, as a man
looks against a storm.
"Oh !—is that all? there's nothing very
alarming, is there, in that ?—though, d
me, I don't see Mr. Pelter, how you reconcile
your present statement with what you and
your partner wrote to me twice within the
last few weeks."
"Very true, Sir Jekyl; perfectly true, sir.
Our information misled us totally; they
have been devilish sharp, sir—devilish sly.
We never were misled before about that
fellow's movements—not that they vsere ever
of any real importance."
"And why do you think them—but may
be you don't—of more consequence now?"
Pelter looked unpleasantly important, and
shook his head."
"What is it—I suppose I may know ?" said
Sir Jekyl.
"It looks queerish, Sir Jekyl, there's no
denying that, in fact, very queerish indeed,
both me and my partner think so. You re-
collect the deed."
"No—devil a deed—d them all!—I
don't remember one of them. Why, you
seem to forget it's nearly ten years ago," in-
terrupted the Baronet.
"Ah!—no—not ten—the copy of the deed
that we got hold of, pretending to be a mar-
riage settlement. It was brought us, you
know, in a very odd way, but quite fair."
"Yes, I do remember—yes, to be sure—
that thing you thought was a forgery, and
put in our way to frighten us. Well, and do
you fancy that's a genuine thing now?"
"I always thought it might—I think it
may—in fact, I think it is. We have got a
hint they rely on it. And here's a point to be
noted: the deed fixes five-and-twenty as the
period of his majority ; and just as he attains
that age, his father being nearly that time
dead, they put their shoulders to the
wheel."
"Put their d d numbskulls under it,
you mean. How can they move, how can
they stir? I'd like to know how they can
my title. I don't care a curse about them.
What the plague's frightening you nnd Crowe
now. I'm blest if I don't think you're grow-
ing old. Why can't you stick to your own


GUY DEVERELL.
103
view?—you say one thing one day and an-
other the next. Egad, there's no knowing
where to have you.
The Baronet was talking bitterly, scorn-
fully, and with all proper contempt of his ad-
versaries, but there's no denying he looked
very pale.
"And there certainly is activity there;
cases have been with counsel on behalf of
Guy Deverell, the son and heir of the de-
ceased," pursued Mr. Pelter with his hands in
his pockets, looking grimly up into the Bar-
onet's face.
"Won't you sit down ?—do sit down,
Pelter ; and you haven't had wine !" said Sir
Jekyl.
"Thanks—I've had some sherry."
"Well, you must have some claret. I'd
like a glass myself."
He had rung the bell, and a servant ap-
peared.
"Get claret and glasses for two."
The servant vanished deferentially.
"I'm not blaming you, mind ; but is it not
odd we should have known nothing of this
son, and this pretended marriage till now!"
"Odd! oh dear, no! you don't often
know half so much of the case at the other
side, nothing at all often till it's on the file."
"Precious satisfactory !" sneered Sir Jekyl.
"When we beat old Lord Levesham, in
Blount and Levesham, they had not a notion,
no more than the man in the moon, what we
were going on, till we produced the release,
and got a direction, egad." And the attorney
laughed over that favorite recollection.
CHAPTER LI.
PELTER OPENS HIS MIND.
"Take a glass of claret. This is '34-
Maybe you'd like some port better?"
"No, thanks, this will do very nicely,"
said the accommodating attorney. "Thirty-
four? So it is, egad! and uncommon fine
too."
"I hope you can give me a day or two—
not business of course—I mean by way of
holiday," said Sir Jekyl. "A little country
air will do you a world of good—set you up
for the term."
Mr. Pelter smiled, and shook his head
shrewdly.
"Quite out of the question, Sir Jekyl, I
thank you all the same—business tumbling
in too fast just now—I daren't stay away
another day—no, no—ha, ha, ha! no rest
for us, sir—no rest for the wicked. But
this thing, you know, looks rather queerish,
we thought—a little bit urgent: the other
party has been so sly; and no want of
money, sir—the sinews of war—lots of tin
there."
"Yes, of course; and lots of tin here, too.
I fancy fellows don't like to waste money
only to hold their own; but egad, if it
comes to be a pull at the long purse, all the
worse for them," threw in the Baronet.
"And their intending, you know, to set
up this marriage," continued the attorney
without minding; " and that Hubert Strang-
ways being over here with the young pre-
tender as we call him, under his wing; and
Strangways is a deuced clever fellow, and
takes devilish sound view of a case when
he lays his mind to it. It was he that re-
opened that great bankruptcy case of
Onslow and Grawley, you remember."
Sir Jekyl assented, but did not remember.
"And a devilish able bit of chess-play that
was on both sides—no end of concealed
property—brought nearly sixty thousand
pounds into the fund, egad! The creditors
passed a vote, you remember—spoke very
handsomely of him. Monstrous able fellow,
po-nri !*'
A monstrous able fellow he'll be if he
fets my property, egad! It seems to me you
'elter and Crowe are half in love with him,"
said Sir Jekyl, flushed and peevish.
"We'll hit him a hard knock or two yet,
for all that—ha, ha !—or I'm mistaken," re-
joined old Mr. Pelter.
"Do you know him ?" inquired Sir Jekyl;
and the servant at the same time appearing
in answer to his previous summons, he
said—
"Go to the parlor and tell Mr. Doocey
—you know quietly—that I am detained by
business, but that we'll join them in a little
time in the drawing-room."
So the servant with a reverence, departed.
"I say, do you?"
"Just a little. Seven years ago, when I
was at Havre, he was stopping there too.
A very gentlemanlike man—sat beside him
twice at the table d'hote. I could see he
knew d—d well who I was—wide awake,
very agreeable man, very—wonderful well-
informed. Wonderful ups and downs that
fellow's had—clever fellow—ha, ha,'ha !- I
mentioned you, Sir Jekyl; I wanted to hear
if he'd say anything fishing, hey? Old
file, you know," and the attorney winked
and grinned agreeably at Sir Jekyl. "Capital
claret this, cap-i-tal, by Jupiter! It came
in natural enough. We were talking of
England, you see. He was asking questions;
and so, talking of country gentlemen, and
county influence, and parliamentary life,
you know, I brought in you, and asked him
if he knew Sir Jekyl Marlow." Another
wink and a grin here. "I asked, a bit sud-
denly, you know, to see how he'd take it.
Did not show, egad ! more than that decanter
—ha, ha, ha! devilish cool dog, mon-
strous clever fellow, not a bit; and he said
he did not know you, had not that honor;
but he knew a great deal of you, and he
spoke very handsomely, upon my honor
quite au, au, handsomely of you, he did."
"Vastly obliged to him," said Sir Jekyl;
but though he sneered I think he was pleased.
"You don't recollect what he said, I dare
say?"
"Well, I cannot exactly."
"Did he mention any unpleasantness ever
between us?" continued Sir Jekyl.
"Yes, he said there had, and that he was


104
GUY DEVERELL.
afraid Sir Jekyl might not remember bis
name with satisfaction; but he, for his part,
liked to forget and forgive — that kind of
thing, you know, and young fellows being
too hot-headed, you know. I really — I
don't think he bears you personally any ill
will."
"There has certainly been time enough for
his anger to cool a little, and I really, for my
part, never felt anything of the kind towards
him; 1 can honestly say that, and I dare say
he knows it. I merely want to protect my-
self against—against madmen, egad!" said
Sir Jekyl.
"I think that copy of a marriage settle-
ment you showed me had no names in it,"
he resumed.
"No, the case is all put like a moot point,
not a name in it. It's all nonsense, too, be-
cause every man in my profession knows a
copying clerk never has a notion of the
meaning of anything—letter, deed, pleading
—nothing he copies—not an iota, by Jove!"
"Finish the bottle; you must not send it
away," said Sir Jekyl.
"Thanks, I'm doing very nicely; and now
as they may open fire suddenly, I want to
know —here the attorney's eyes glanced at
the door, and his voice dropped a little—
"any information of a confidential sort that
may guide us in—in"
"Why, I fancy it's all confidential, is'nt
it?" answered Sir Jekyl.
"Certainly—but aw—but—I meant—you
know—there was aw—a—there was a talk,
you know about a deed. Eh?"
"I—I—yes, I've heard—I know what you
mean," answered Sir Jekyl, pouring a little
claret into his glass. "They—those fellows
—they lost a deed, and they were d—d im-
pertinent about it; they wanted—you know
it's a long time ago—to try and slur my poor
father about it—I don't know exactly how,
only, I think, there would have been an ac-
tion, for slander very likely about it, if it had
not stopped of itself."
Sir Jekyl sipped his claret.
"I shan't start till three o'clock train to-
morrow, if you have anything to say to me,"
said the attorney, looking darkly and expect-
ingly in Sir Jekyl's face.
"Yes, I'll think over everything. I'd like
to have a good talk with you in the morning.
You sleep here, you know, of course."
"Very kind. I hope I shan't be in your
.way, Sir Jekyl. Very happy."
Sir Jekyl rang the bell.
"I shan't let you off to-morrow, unless you
really can't help it," he said; and, the servant
entering, " Tell Mrs. Sinnot that Mr. Pelter
remains here to-night, and would wish—do
you?—to run up to your room. Where's
your luggage?"
"Precious light luggage it is. I left it at
the hotel in the town—a small valise, and
a"
"Get it up here, do you mind, and let us
know when Mr. Pelter's room is ready."
"Don't be long about dressing; we must
join the ladies, you know, in the drawing-
room. I wish Pelter, there was no such
thing as business; and that all attorneys, ex-
cept you and Crowe, of course, were treated
in this and the next world according to their
deserts," an ambiguous compliment at which
Pelter nodded slyly, with his hands in his
pockets.'
"You'll have to get us all the information
you can scrape together, Sir Jekyl. You see
they may have evidence of that deed—Tmean
the lost one, you know—and proving a mar-
riage and the young gentleman legitimate.
It may be a serious case—upon my word a
very serious case—do you see? And term
begins, you know, immediately, so there
really is no time to lose, and there's no harm
in being ready."
"I'll have a long talk with you about it in
the morning, and I am devilish glad you
came—curse the whole thing!"
The servant here came to say that Mr.
Pelter's room was ready, and his luggage
sent for to the town.
"Come up, then — we'll look at your
room."
So up they went, and Pelter declared him-
self charmed.
"Come to my room, Mr. Pelter—it's a long
way off, and a confoundedly shabby crib;
but I've got some very good cigars there,"
said Sir Jekyl, who was restless, and wished
to hear the attorney more fully on this hated
business.
CHAPTER LII.
THE PIPE OF PEACE.
Sir Jekyl marched Mr. Pelter down the
great stair again, intending to make the long
journey rearward. As they reached the foot
of the stairs, Monsieur Varbarriere, candle in
hand, was approaching it on the way to his
room. He was walking leisurely, as large
men do after dinner, and was still some way
off.
"By Jove! Why did you not tell me?"
exclaimed the attorney, stopping short. "By
the law ! you've got him here."
"Monsieur Varbarriere ?" said the Baronet.
"Mr. Strangways, sir—that's he."
"That Strangways!" echoed the Baronet.
"Herbert Strangways," whispered Mr.
Pelter, and by this time M. Varbarriere was
under the rich oak archway, and stopped,
smiling darkly, and bowing a little to the
Baronet, who was for a moment surprised
into silence.
"How do you do, Mr. Strangways, sir?"
said the attorney, advancing with a shrewd
resolute smile, and extending his hand.
M. Varbarriere, without the slightest em-
barrasment, took it, bowing with a courtly
gravity.
"Ah, Monsieur Pelter ?—yes, indeed—very
happy to meet you again."
"Yes, sir—very happy, Mr. Strangways;
so am I. Did not know you were in this
part of the world, Mr. Strangways, sir.
You remember Havre, sir?"
"Perfectly—yes. You did not know me


GUY DEVERELL
105
by the name of Varbarriere, which name I
adopted on purchasing the Varbarriere
estates shortly after I met you at Havre, on
becoming a naturalised subject of France."
"Wonderful little changed, Monsieur Bar-
varrian—fat, sir—a little stouter—in good
case, Mr. Strangways; but six years, you
know, sir, does not count for nothing—ha, ha,
ha!"
"You have the goodness to flatter me, I
fear," answered Varbarriere, with a smile
somewhat contemptuous, and in his deep
tones of banter.
"This is my friend, Mr. Strangways, if
he'll allow me to call, him so—Mr. Herbert
Strangways, Sir Jekyl," said the polite attor-
ney, presenting his own guest to the Baronet.
"And so, Monsieur Varbarriere, I find I
. have an additional reason to rejoice in having
made your acquaintance, inasmuch as it
revives a very old one, so old that I almost
fear you may have forgotten it. You re-
member our poor friend, Guy Deverell,
and"
"Perfectly, Sir Jekyl, and I was often
tempted to ask you the same question; but
—but you know there's a melancholy—and
we were so very happy here, I had not cour-
age to invite the sadness of the retrospect,
though a very remote one. I believe I was
right, Sir Jekyl. Life's true philosophy is to
extract from the present all it can yield of
happiness, and to bury our dead out of our
sight."
"I dare say—I'm much , of that way of
thinking myself. And—dear me !—I—I sup-
pose I'm very much altered." He was look-
ing at Varbarriere, and trying to recover in
the heavy frame and ponderous features be-
fore him the image of that Herbert Strang-
-swiys whom, in the days of his early coxcom-
bry, he had treated with a becoming imper-
tinence.
"No—you're wonderfully little changed—
I say honestly—quite wonderfully like what
I remember you. And I—I know what a
transformation I am—perfectly," said Var-
barriere.
And he stood before Sir Jekyl, as he would
display a portrait, full front—Sir Jekyl held a
silver candlestick in his hand, Monsieur Var-
parriere his in his—and they stood face to
face—in a dream of the past.
Varbarriere's mystic smile expanded to a
grin, and the grin broke into a laugh—deep
and ldud—not insulting—not sneering.
In that explosion of sonorous and enigmat-
ic merriment Sir Jekyl joined—perhaps a lit-
tle hesitatingly and coldly, for he was trying,
I think, to read the riddle—wishing to be
quite sure that he might be pleased, and ac-
cept these vibrations as sounds of reconcilia-
tion.
There was nothing quite to forbid it.
"I see," said Monsieur Varbarriere, in tones
still disturbed by laughter, " in spite of your
politeness, Sir Jekyl, what sort of impression
my metamorphosis produces. Where is the
raw-boned youth—so tall and gawky, that,
egad! London bucks were ashamed to ac-
knowledge him in the street, and when they
did speak could not forbear breaking his
fawky bones with their jokes? ha,ha, ha!
Tow, lo! here he stands—the grand old
black swiue, on hind legs—hog-backed—and
with mighty paunch and face all draped in
fat. Bah! ha, ha, ha! What a magician is
Father Time! Look and laugh, sir—you
cannot laugh more than I."
"I laugh at your fantastic caricature, so
utterly unlike what I see. There's a change,
it's true, but no more than years usually
bring; and, by Jove! I'd much rather any
day grow a little full, for my part, than turn,
like some fellows, into a scarecrow."
"No, no—no scarecrow, certainly," still
laughed Varbarriere.
"Egad, no," laughed the attorney in
chorus. "No corners there, sir—ribs well
covered—hey? nothing like it coming on
winter;" and grinning pleasantly, he winked
at Sir Jekyl, who somehow neither heard nor
saw him, but said—
"Mr. Pelter, my law adviser here, was
good enough to say he'd come to my room,
which you know so well, Monsieur Varbar-
riere, and smoke a cigar. You can't do bet-
ter—pray let me persuade you."
He was in fact tolerably easily persuaded,
and the three gentlemen together—Sir Jekyl
feeling as if he was walking in a dream, and
leaping the way affably—reached that snug-
gery which Varbarriere had visited so often
before.
"Just one—they are- so good," said he.
"We are to go to the drawing-room—aren't
we?"
"Oh, certainly. I think you'll like these
—they're rather good, Mr. Pelter. You know
them, Monsieur Varbarriere."
"I've hardly ever smoked such tobacco.
Once, by a chance, at Lyons, I lighted on a
box very like these—that is, about a third of
them—but hardly so good."
"We've smoked some of these very pleas-
antly together," said Sir Jekyl, cultivating
genial relations.
Varbarriere, who had already one between
his lips, grunted a polite assent with a nod.
You would have thought that his whole soul
was in his tobacco, as his dark eyes dreamily
followed the smoke that thinly streamed from
his lips. His mind, however, was busy in con-
jecturing what the attorney had come about,
and how much he knew of his case and his
plans. So the three gentlemen puffed away
in silence for a time.
"Your nephew, Mr. Guy Strangways, I
hope we are soon to see him again I" asked
Sir Jekyl, removing his cigar for a moment.
"You are very good. Yes, I hope. In
fact, though I call it business, it is only a
folly which displeases me, which he has
promised shall end; and whenever I choose
to shake hands, he will come to my side.
There is no real quarrel, mind," and Varbar-'
riere laughed, "only I must cure him of his
nonsense."
"Well, then we may hope very soon to
see Mr. Strangways. I call him Strangways,
you know, because he has assumed that
name, I suppose, permanently."


106
GUY DEVERELL.
"Well, I think so. His real name is Dev
erell—a very near relation, and, in fact, rep-
resentative of our poor friend Guy. His
friends all thought it best he should drop it,
with its sad associations, and assume a name
that may be of some little use to him among
more affluent relatives," said M. Varbarriere,
who had resolved to be frank as day and
harmless as doves, and to disarm suspicion
adroitly.
"A particularly handsome fellow—a dis-
tinguished-looking young man. How many
things, Monsieur Varbaraiere, we wish un-
done as we get on in life?"
There was a knock at the door, and the
intelligence that Mr. Pelter's luggage was in
his room. He would have st-iyed, perhaps,
but Sir Jekyl, smiling, urged haste, and as his
cigar was out, he departed. When he was
quite gone, Sir Jekyl rose smiling, and ex-
tended his hand to Varbarriere, who took it
smiling in his own way; also, Sir Jekyl was
looking in the face of the large man who
stood before him, and returning his gaze a
little cloudily; and laughing, both shook
hands for a good while, and there was nothing
but this low-toned laughter between them.
"At all events, Herbert, I'm glad we have
met, very glad—very, very. I did not think
I'd have felt it quite this way. I've your
forgiveness to ask for a great deal. I never
mistook a man so much in my life. I believe
you are a devilish good fellow; but—hut I
fancied, you know, for a long time, that you
had taken a hatred to me, and—and I have
done you great injustice; and I wish very
much I could be of any use to—to that fine
young fellow, and show any kindness worth
the name towards you."
Sir Jekyl's eyes were moist, he was smiling,
and he was shaking Varbarriere's powerful
hand very kindly. I cannot analyse his
thoughts and feelings in that moment of con-
fusion. It had overcome him suddenly—it
had in some strange way even touched Var-
barriere. Was there dimly seen by each a
kindly solution of a life-long hatred—a pos-
sibility of something wise, perhaps self-sac-
rificing, that led to reconciliationand serenity
in old days?
Varbarriere leaned his great shoulders to
the wall, his hand still in Sir Jekyl's, still
.smiling, and looked almost sorrowfully, while
he uttered something between a long pant
and a sigh.
"Wonderful thing life is—terrible battle,
life!" murmured Varbarriere, leaning against
the wall, with his dark eyes raised to the
far cornice, and looking away and through
and beyond it into some far star.
There are times when your wide-awake
gentlemen dream a little, and Sir Jekyl
laughed a pensive and gentle little laugh,
shaking his head and smiling sadly in reply.
"Did you ever read Vathek?" asked the
Baronet, " rather a good horror—the fire, you
know—ah, ha!—that's a fire every fellow has
a spark of in him; I know I have. I've had
everything almost a fellow wants ; but this I
know, if I were sure that death was only
rest and darkness, there's hardly a day I live
I would not choose it." And with this senti-
ment came a sincere and odd little laugh.
"My faith! I believe it's true," said Var-
barriere with a shrug, and a faint smile of
satiety on his heavy features.
"We must talk lots together, Herbert—
talk a great deal. You'll find I'm not such
a bad fellow after all. Egad, I'm very glad
you're here!"
CHAPTER LIII.
A RENCONTRE Of THE GALLERY.
It was time now, however, that they should
make their appearance in the drawing-room;
so, for the present, Varbarriere departed.
He reached his dressing-room in an unde-
fined state — a sort of light, not of battle
fires, but of the dawn in his perspective;
when, all on a sudden, came the image of a
white-moustached, white-browed, grim old
military man, glancing with a clear, cold
eye, that could be cruel, from the first-class
carriage window, up and down the platform
of a gas-lit station, some hour and a half
away from Slowton, and then sternly at his
watch.
"The stupid old fogey!" thought Varbar-
riere with a pang, as he revised his toilet
hurriedly for the drawing-room. "Could
that episode be evaded?"
There was no time to arrive at a clear
opinion on this point, nor, indeed, to ascer-
tain very clearly what his own wishes
pointed at. So, in a state rather anarchic,
he entered the gallery, en route for the draw-
ing-room.
Monsieur Varbarriere slid forth, fat and
black, from his doorway, with wondrous
little nose, his bulk considered, and instantly
on his retina, lighted by the lamp at the
cross galleries, appeared the figure of a tall
thin female, attired in a dark cloak and bon-
net, seated against the opposite wall, not
many steps away. Its head turned, and he
saw Donica Gwynn. It was an odd sort of
surprise; he had just been thinking her.
"Oh! I did not think as you were here,
sir, I thought you was in Lunnon."
"Yet here I am, and you too, both unex-
pectedly." A suspicion had crossed his
mind. "How d'ye do, Mrs. Gwynn?"
"Well, I thank you, sir."
"Wmtme here?"
"No, sir; I was wrote for by missus,
please."
"Yes," he said very slowly, looking hard
at her. "Very good, Mrs. Gwynn; have you
anything to say to me?"
It would not do, of course, to protract this
accidental talk; he did not care to be seen
te'te-a-te'te with-Donica Gwynn in the gallery.
"No, sir, plejee, I han't nothing to say,
sir," and she courtesied.
"Very well, Mrs. Gwynn; we're quite se-
cret, hey?" and with another hard look, but
only momentary, in her face, he proceeded
toward the head of the staircase.
"Beg narding, sir, but I think you dropt


GUY DEVERELL
107
something." She was pointing to a letter,
doubled up, and a triangular corner of which
struck up from the floor, a few yards away.
"Oh! thank you," said Varbarriere,
quickly retracing his steps, and picking it up.
A terrible fact for the world to digest is
this, that some of our gentlemen attorneys
are about the most slobbering men of busi-
ness to be found within its four corners.
They will mislay papers, and even lose
them; they are dilatory and indolent —
qnite the reverse of our sharp, lynxed-eyed,
energetic notions of that priesthood of
Themis, and prone to every sort and descrip-
tion of lay irregularity in matters of order
and pink tape.
Our first Pelter had a first-rate staff, and a
clockwork partner beside in Crowe, so that
the house was a very regular one, and was
himself, in good measure, the fire, bustle, and
impetus of the firm. But every virtue has
its peccant correspondent. If Pelter was
rapid, decided, darling, he was also a little
hand-over-hand. He has been seen in a
hurry to sweep together and crunch like a
snowball a drift of bank-notes, and stuff them
so impressed into the bottom of his great-
coat pocket! What more can one say?
This night, fussing out at his bed-room
door, he plucked his scented handkerchief
from his pocket, and, as he crossed his
threshold, with* it flirted forth a letter, which
had undergone considerable attrition in that
receptacle, and was nothing the whiter, I
am bound to admit, especially about the
edges, for its long sojourn there.
Varbarriere knew the handwriting and
I. M. M. initials in the left-hand lower angle.
So, with a nod and a smile, he popped it
into his trowsers pocket, being that degree
mojre cautious than Pelter.
Sir Jekyl was once more in high spirits.
To do him justice, he had not effected any-
thing. There had been an effervescence—
he hardly knew how it came about. But
his dangers seemed to be dispersing; and,
at the worst, were not negotiation and com-
promise within his reach?
Samuel Pelter, Esq., gentleman attorney
and a solicitor of the High Court of Chan-
cery, like most prosperous men, had a com-
fortable confidence in himself; and having
heard that Lady Alice Redcliffe was quarrel-
ling with her lawyer, thought there could
be no harm in his cultivating her acquain-
tance.
The old lady was sitting in a high-back
chair, very perpendicularly, with several
shawls about and around her, stiff and pale;
but her dusky eyes peered from their sunken
sockets, in grim and isolated observation.
Pelter strutted up. He was $ot, perhaps,
a distinguished-looking man—rather, I fear,
the contrary. His face was ftjWad and smirk-
ing, with a' short, broad, blue chin, and a
close crop of iron-grey on his round head,
and plenty of crafty crow's-feet and other
lines well placed about.
He stood on the hearthrug, within easy
earshot of Lady Alice, whom he eyed with a
shrewd glance, " taking her measure," as his
phrase was, and preparing to fascinate his
prey.
"Awful smash that, ma'am, on the
Smather and Slam Junction," said Pelter,
having fished up a suitable topic. "Fright-
ful thing—fourteen killed—and they say up-
wards of seventy badly hurt. I'm no chicken,
Lady Alice, but by Jove, ma'am, I can't re-
member any such casualty—a regular ca-tas-
trophe, ma'am!"
And Pelter, with much feeling, gently
lashed his paunch with his watch-chain and
bunch of seals, an obsolete decoration, which
he wore—I believe still wears.
Lady Alice, who glowerde sternly' on him
during this speech, nodded abruptly with an
inarticulate sound, and then looked to his
left, at a distant picture.
"I trust I see you a great deal better, Lady
Alice. I have the pleasure, I believe, to ad-
dress Lady Alice Redcliffe—aw, haw, h'm,"
and the attorney executed his best bow, a
ceremony rather of agility than grace. "I
had the honor of seeing you, Lady Alice Red-
cliffe, at a shower-flow—flower-show, I mean
—in the year—let me see—egad, ma'am,
twelve—no—no—thirteen years ago. How
time does fly! Of course all them years—
thirteen, egad!—has not gone for nothing.
I dare say you don't perceive the alterations
in yourself—no one does—I wish no one else
did—that was always my wish to Mrs. P.
of a morning—my good lady, Mrs. Pelter—
ha, ha, ha! Man can't tether time or tide,
as the Psalm says, and every year scribbles
a winkle or two. You were suffering, I
heard then, ma'am, chronic Qough, ma'am -
and all that. I hope it's abated—I know it
will, ma'am—my poor lady is a martyr to
it—troublesome thing—very—awful trouble-
some! Lady Alice."
There was no reply, Lady Alice was still
looking sternly at the picture.
"I remember so well, ma'am, you were
walking a little lame then, linked with Lord
Lumdlebury—(we have had the honor to do
business occasionally for his lordship)—and
I was informed by a party with me that you
had been with Pincendorf. I don't think
much of them jockeys, ma'am, for my part;
but if it was anything, of a callosity "—
Without waiting for anything more, Lady
Alice Redcliffe rose in solemn silence to her
full height, beckoned to Beatrix, and said
grimly—
"I'll change my seat, dear, to the sofa—
will you help me with these things?"
Lady Alice glided awfully to the sofa, and
the gallant Mr. Pelter instituted a playful
struggle with Beatrix for possession of the
shawls.
"I remember the time, miss, I would not
have let you carry your share; but as I was
saying to Lady Alice Redcliffe"
He was by this time tucking a shawl about
her knees, which, so soon as she perceived,
she gasped to Beatrix—
"Where's Jekyl?—I can't have this any
longer—call him here."
"As I was saying to you. Lady Alice
ma'am our joints grow a bit rusty after


108
GUY DEVERELL.
sixty; and talking of feet, I passed the
Smather and Slam Junction, ma'am, only
two hours after the collision; and egad!
there were three feet all in a row cut off by
the instep, quite smooth, ma'am, lying in the
blood there, a pool as long as the passage
up-stairs—awful sight!"
Lady Alice rose up again with her eyes
very wide, and her mouth very close, ap-
parently engaged in mental prayer, and her
face angry and pink, and she beckoned with
tremulous fingers to Sir Jekyl, who was ap-
proaching with one of his provoking smiles.
"I say, Mr. Pelter, my friend Doocey wants
you over there; they're at loggerheads about
a law-point, and I can't help them."
"Hey! if it's practice I can give them a
wrinkle maybe;" and away stumped the
attorney, his fists in his pockets, smirking, to
the group indicated by his host.
"Hope I haven't interrupted a conversa-
tion? What can I do for you?" said Sir
Jekyl, gaily.
"What do you mean, Jekyl Marlowe—
what can you mean by bringing such persons
here?" What pleasure can you possibly find
in low and dreadful society ?—none of your
family liked it. Where did you find that
man? How on earth did you procure such
a person? If I could—if I had been well
enough, I'd have rung the bell and ordered
your servant to remove him. I'd have gone
to my bed-room, sir, only that even there I
could not have felt safe from his intrusions.
It's utterly intolerable and preposterous!"
"I had no idea my venerable friend,
Pelter, could have pursued a lady so cruelly;
but rely upon me, I'll protect you."
"I think you had better cleanse your house
of.such persons; at all events, I insist they
shan't be allowed to make their horrible
sport of me!" said Lady Alice, darting a
fiery glance after the agreeable attorney.
CHAPTER LIV.
OLD DONNEE AND LADY JANE.
"Can you tell me, child, anything about
that horrible fat old Frenchman, who has
begun to speak English since his return?"
asked Lady Jane Lennox of Beatrix, whom
she stopped, just touching her arm with the
tip of her finger, as she was passing. Lady
Jane was leaning back indolently, and watch-
ing the movements of M. Varbarriere with a
disagreeable interest.
"That's Monsieur Varbarriere," answered
Beatrix.
"Yes, I know that; but who is he—what
is he? I wish he were gone," replied she.
"I really know nothing of him," replied
Beatrix, with a smile.
"Yes, you do know something about him;
for instance, you know he's the uncle of that
handsome young man who accompanied
him." This, Lady Jane spoke with a point
which caused on a sudden a beautiful scarlet
to tinge the young girl's cheeks.
Lady Jane looked at her, without a smile-
without archness, with a lowering curiosity
and something of pain, one might fancy,
even of malignity.
Lady Jane hooked her finger in Beatrix's
bracelet, and lowering her eyes to the carpet,
remained silent, it seemed to the girl unde-
cided whether to speak or not on some
doubtful subject. With a vague interest
Beatrix watched her handsome but sombre
countenance, till Lady Jane appearing to
escape from her thoughts, with a little toss
of her beautiful head, and a frown, said,
looking up—
"Beatrix, I have such frightful dreams
sometimes. I am ill, I think; I am horribly
nervous tonight."
"Would you like to go to your room!
Maybe if you were to lie down, Lady
Jane"
"By-and-by, perhaps—yes." She was still
stealthily watching Varbarriere.
"I'll go with you—shall I?" said Beatrix.
"" No, you shan't," answered Lady Jane,
rudely.
"And why, Lady Jane?" asked Beatrix,
hurt and surprised.
"You shall never visit my room; you are
a good little creature. I could have loved
you, Beatrix, but now I can't."
"Yet I like you, and you meet me so!
why is this ?" pleaded Beatrix.
"I can't say, little fool; who ever knows
why they like or dislike? I don't. The
fault, I suppose, is mine, not yours. I never
said it was yours. If you were ever so little
wicked," she added, with a strange laugh,
"perhaps I could; but it is not worth talking
about," and with a sudden change from this
sinister levity to a seriousness which oscillated
strangely between cruelty and sadness, she
said—
"Beatrix, you like that young man, Mr.
Strangways!" Again poor Beatrix blushed,
and was about to falter an exculpation and
a. protest; but Lady Jane silenced it with a
grave and resolute " Yes—you like him;" and
after a little pause, she added—" Well, if
you don't marry him, marry no one else;"
and shortly after this, Lady Jane sighed
heavily.
This speech of hers was delivered in a
way that prevented evasion or girlish hypo-
crisy, and Beatrix had no answer but that
blush which became her so; and dropping
her eyes to the ground, she fell into a
reverie, from which she was called up by
Lady Jane, who said suddenly—
"What can that Monsieur Varbarriere be?
He looks like Torquemada, the Inquisitor—
mysterious, plausible, truculent—what do
you think? Don't you fancy he could poi-
son you in an ice or a cup of coffee; or put
you into Cardinal Ballue's cage, and smile on,
you once a year through the bars?"
Beatrix smiled, and looked on the unctu-
ous old gentleman with an indulgent eye,
comparatively.
"I can't see him so melodramatically,
Lady Jane," she laughed. "To me he seems
a much more commonplace individual, a
great deal less interesting and atrocious, and
less like the abbot."


GUY DEVERELL.
109
"What abbot ?" said Lady Jane, sharply.
"Now really that's very odd."
"I meant," said Beatrix, laughing, "the
Abbot of Quedlinberg, in Channingrs play,
who is described, you know, as very corpu-
lent and cruel."
'! Oh, I forgot; I don't think I ever read it;
but it chimed in so oddly with my dreams."
"How, what do you mean?" cried Beatrix,
amused.
"I dreamed'some one knocked at night at
my door, and when I said' come in. ' that
Monsieur Varbarriere put in his great face,
with a hood on like a friar's, smiling like—
like an assassin; and somehow I have felt a
disgust of him ever since."
"Well, I really think he would look rather
well in a friar's frock and hood," said Beatrix,
glancing at the solemn old man again with a
little laugh. "He would do very well for
Mrs. Radcliff's one-handed monk, or Sche-
done, or some of those awful ecclesiastics
that scare us in books."
"I think him positively odious, and I hate
him," said Lady Jane, quietly rising. "I
mean to steal away—will you come with me
to the foot of the stair?"
"Come," whispered Beatrix; and as Lady
Jane lighted her candle, in that arched re-
cess near the foot of the stair, where, in bur-
nished silver, stand the files of candles,
awaiting the fingers which are to bear them
off to witness the confidences of toilet or of
dejection, she said—
"Well, as you won't take me with you,
we must part hero. Good-night, Lady Jane."
Lady Jane turned as if to kiss her, but
only patted her on the cheek, and said
coldly—
"Good-bye, little fool — now run back
again."
When Lady Jane reached the gallery at
the top of the staircase, she, too, saw Donica
Gwynn seated where Varbarriere had spoken
to her.
"Ha! Donica," cried she suddenly, in the
accents of early girlhood, " I'm so glad to
see you, Donica. You hardly know me
now?"
And Lady Jane, in the light of one tran-
sient, happy smile, threw her jewelled arms
round the neck of the old housekeeper, whose
visits of weeks at a time to Wardlock were
nearly her happiest remembrances of that
staid old mansion.
"You dear old thing! you were always
good to me; and I such a madcap and such
a fury! Dull enough now, Donnie, but not
a bit better."
"My poor Miss Jennie!" said old Donica
Gwynn, with a tender little laugh, her head
just a little on one Side, looking on her old
pet and charge with such a beautiful, soft
lighting up of love in her hard old face as
you would not have fancied could have
beamed there. Oh! most pathetic mystery,
how in our poor nature, layer over layer, the
angelic and the evil, the mean and the noble,
lie alternated. How sometimes, at long in-
tervals, in the wintriest life and darkest face,
the love of angels will suddenly beam out,
and show you, still unwrecked, the eternal
capacity for heaven.
"And grown such a fine 'oman—bless ye
—I always said she would—didn't I?"
"You always stood up for me, old Donnie
Don. Come into my room with me now
and talk. Yes—come, and talk, and talk
and talk—I have no one, Donnie, to talk
with now. If I had I might be different—I
mean better. You remember poor mamma,
Donnie—don't you?"
"Dear! to be sure—yes, and a nice crea-
ture, and a pretty—there's a look in your
face sometimes reminds me on her, Miss
Jennie. And I allays said you'd do well—
didn't I ?—and see what a great match, they
tell me, you a' made! Well well! and how
you have grown !—a fine lady, bless you,"
and she laughed so softly over those thin,
girlish images of memory, you'd have said
the laugh was as far away and as sad as the
remembrance.
"Sit down, Donnie Don," she said, when
they had entered the room. "Sit down, and
tell me everything—how all the old people
are, and how the old place looks—you live
there now? J have nothing to tell, only I'm
married, as you know—and—and I thmk a
most good-for-nothing creature."
"Ah, no, pretty Miss Jane, there was good
in you always, only a little bit hasty, and that
anyone as had the patience could see; and I
knowed well you'd be better o' that little
folly in time."
"I'm not better, Donnie—I'm worse—I am
worse, Donnie. I know I am—not better."
"Well, dear! and jewels, and riches, and
coaches, and a fine gentleman adoring you—
not very young, though. Well, maybe all
the better. Did you never hear gay, it's bet-
ter to be an old man's darling than a young
man's slave?"
"Yes, Donnie, it's very well; but let us
talk of Wardlock—and he's not a fine man,.
Donnie, who put that in your head—he's old,
and ugly, and "—she was going to say stupid, ,
but the momentary bitterness was rebuked
by an accidental glimpse of the casket in
which his splendid present was secured—
"and tell maabout Wardlock, and the people
—is old Thomas Jones there still?"
"No, he's living at Glastonhowe now, with
his grandson that's married—very happy;
but you would not believe how old* he looks,
and they say can't remember nothink as he
used to, but very comfortable.",
"And Turpin, the gardener?"
"Old Turpin be dead, miss, two years
agone; had a fit a few months before, poor
old fellow, and was never strong after.
Very deaf he was of late years, and a bi
cross sometimes about the vegetables, the}
do say; but he was a good-natured fellow
and decent allays; and though he liked
mug of ale, poor fellow, now and then, h
was very regular at church."
"Poor old Turpin dead! I never heard it
—and old? he used to wear a kind of flaxen
wig."
"Old! dearie me, that he was, miss, you
would not guess how old—there's eighty-five
f


110
GUY DEVERELL.
years on the grave-stone that Lady Alice put
over him, from the parish register, in Ward-
lock churchyard, bless ye!"
"And—and as I said just now about my
husband, General Lennox, that he was old—
well, he is old, but he's a good man, and kind,
and such a gentleman."
"And you love him—and what more is
needed to make you both happy?" added
Donica; "and glad I am, miss, to see you so
, comfortably married—and such a nice, good
grand gentleman; and don't let them young
chaps be coming about you with their com-
jpliments, and fine talk, and love-making."
"What do you mean, woman? I should
hope I know how to behave myself as well
as ever Lady Alice Redcliife did. It is she
who has been talking to you, and, I suppose,
to every one, the stupid, wicked hag."
"Oh, Miss Jennie, dear!"
CHAPTER LV.
ALONE—YET NOT ALONE.
"Well, Donnie, don't talk about her; talk
about Wardlock, and the people, and the
garden, and the trees, and old Wardlock
church," said Lady Jane, subsiding almost as
suddenly as she flamed np. "Do you re-
member the brass tablet about Eleanor
Faukes, well-beloved and godly, who died in
her twenty-second year, in the year of grace
sixteen hundred and thirty-four? See how
I remember it! Poor Eleanor Faukes! I
often think of her—and do you remember
how you used to make me read the two
lines at the end of the epitaph?' What you
are I was; what I am you shall be.' Do you
remember?"
"Ay, miss, that I do. I wish I could think
o' them sort o' things allays—it's very good,
miss."
"Perhaps it is, Donnie. It's very sad and
very horrible, at all events, death and judg-
ment," answered Lady Jane.
"Have you your old Bible yet, miss?"
"Not here," answered Lady Jane, color-
ing a little; but recollecting, she said," I have
got a very pretty one, though," and she pro-
duced a beautiful volume bound in velvet
and gold.
"A deal handsomer, Miss Jennie, but not
so well read, I'm afeared," said Donica
Gwynn, looking at the fresh binding and
shining gilt leaves.
"There it is, Donnie Don; but I feel like
you, and I do like the old one best, blurred
and battered; poor old thing, it looked
friendly, and this like a fashionable chaplain.
I have not seen it for a long time, Donnie;
perhaps it's lost, and this is only a show one,
as you see."
And after a few seconds she added, a little
bitterly, almost angrily, "I never read my
Bible now. I never open it," and then came
an unnatural little laugh.
"Oh! Miss Jennie, dear — I mean my
Lady Jane—don't say that, darling — that
way, anyhow, don't say it. Why should not
you read your Bible, and love it, better now
nor ever, miss—the longer you live the more
you'll want it, and when sorrow comes, what
have you but that?"
"It s all denunciation, all hard names, and
threats, Donnie. If people believed them-
selves what they say every Sunday in church,
miserable sinners, and I dare say they are,
they'd sicken and quake at sight of it. I
hope I may come to like it some day, Don-
nie," she added, with a short sigh.
"I mind, Miss Jennie—I mean my Lady
Jane."
"No, you're to call me Jennie still, or I'll
drop Donnie Don, and call you Mrs. Gwynn,"
said Lady Jane, with her hands on Donica's
thin shoulders, playfully, but with a very pen-
sive face and tone.
Donica smiled for a moment, and then hei
face saddened too, and she said—
"And I mind, Miss Jennie, when it was
the same way with me, only with better
reason, for I was older than you, and had
lived longer than ever you did without a
thought of God; but I tell you, miss, you'll
find your only comfort there at last; it is
not much, maybe to the like o' me, that can't
lay her mind down to it, but it's somethmk;
ay, I mind the time I durst not open it, think-
ing I'd only meet summat there to vex me.
But 'tisn't so: there's a deal o' good nature
in the Bible, and ye'll be sure to stumble on
something kind whenever you open it.
Lady Jane made no answer. She looked
down with a careworn gaze on her white
hand, the fleeting tenementjof clay ; jewelled
rings glimmered on its fingers—the vanities
of the world, and under it lay the Bible, the
eternal word. She was patting the volume
with a little movement that made the bril-
liants flash. You would have thought she
was admiring her rings, but that her eyes
were so sad and her gaze so dreamy.
"And I hear the mistress, Lady Alice,
a-coming up — yes, 'tis her voice. Good-
night, Miss Jennie, dear."
"Good-night, dear old Donnie."
"And you'll promise me you'll read a bit
in it every night."
"Where's the use in promising, Donnie?
Don't we promise everything—the whole
Christian religion, at our baptism—and how
do we keep it?"
"You must promise you'll read, if 'twas
only a verse every night, Miss Jennie, dear
—it may be the makin' o' ye. I hear Lady
Alice a calling."
"You're a good old thing — I like you,
Donnie—you'd like to make me better—hap-
pier, that is—and I love you—and I promise
for this night, at all events, I will read a
verse, and maybe more, if it turns out good-
natured, as you say. Good-night."
And she shook old Gwynn by both hands,
and kissed her; and as she parted with her,
said—
"And, Donnie, you must tell my maid I'
shan't want her to-night—and I will read,
Donnie—and now, good-night again."
So handsome Lady Jane Was alone.
"It seems to me as if I had not time to


GUY DEVERELL.
Ill
think—God help me, God help me," said
Lady Jane. "Shall I read it? That odious
book, that puts impossibilities before us, and
calls eternal damnation eternal justice!"
"Good-night, Jane," croaked Lady Alice's
voice, and the key turned in the door.
With a pallid glance from the corners of
her eyes, of intense contempt—Mtred, even,
at the moment, she gazed on the door, as she
sate with her fingers under her chin; and if
a look could have pierced the panels, hers
would have shot old Lady Alice dead at the
Other side. For about a minute she sat so,
and then a chilly little laugh rang from her
lips; and she thought no more for a while of
Lady Alice, and her eyes wandered again to
her Bible.
"Yes, that odious book! with just power
enough to distract us, without convincing—
to embitter our short existence, without di-
recting it; I hate it."
So she said, and looked as if she would
have flung it into the farthest corner of the
room. She was spited with it, as so many
others are, because it won't do for us what
we must do for ourselves.
"When sorrow comes, poor Donnie says—
when it comes—little she knows how long it
has been here! Life—such a dream—such
an agony often. Surely it pays the penalty
of all its follies. Judgment indeed! The
all-wise Creator sitting in judgment upon
creatures like us, living but an hour, and
walking in a dream!"
This kind of talk with her, as with many
others, was only the expression of a form of
pain. She was perhaps in the very mood to
read, that is, with the keen and anxious in-
terest that accompanies and indicates a deep-
seated grief and fear.
It was quite true what she said to old
Donica. These pages had long been sealed
for her. And now, with a mixture of sad an-
tipathy and interest, as one looks into a coffin,
she did open the book, and read here and
there in a desultory way, and then, leaning
on her hand, she mused dismally; then made
search for a place she wanted, and read and
wept, wept aloud and long and bitterly.
The woman taken, and" set in the midst,"
the dreadful Pharisees standing round. The
Lord of life, who will judge us on the last
day, hearing and saving! Oh, blessed Prince,
whose service is perfect freedom, how wise
are thy statutes !" More to be desired are
they than gold—sweeter also than honey."
Standing between thy poor tempted crea-
tures and the worst sorrow that can befall
them—a sorrow that softens, not like others,
as death approaches, but is transformed, and
stands like a giant at the bedside. May they
see thy interposing image—may they see thy
face now and for ever.
Rest for the heavy-laden! The broken
and the contrite he will not despise. Read
and take comfort, how he dealt with that
poor sinner. Perfect purity, perfect mercy.
Oh, noblest vision that ever rose before con-
trite frailty! Lift up the downcast head—let
the poor heart break no more—you shall rise
from the dust an angel.
Suddenly she lifted up her pale face, with
an agony and a light on her countenance,
with hands clasped, and such a look from
the abyss, in her upturned eyes.
Oh! was it possible—could it be true? A
friend—such a friend!
Then came a burst of prayer—wild reso-
lutions—agonised tears. She knew that in
all space, for her, was but one place of safety
—to lie at the wounded feet of her Saviour,
to clasp them, to bathe them with her tears.
An hour—more—passed in this agony of
stormy hope breaking in gleams through des-
pair. Prayer—cries for help, as from the
drowning, and vows frantic—holy, for the fu-
ture.
"Yes, once more, thank God, I can dare
with safety—here and now—to see him for the
last time. In the morning I will conjure old
Lady Alice to take me to Wardlock. I will
write to London. Arthur will join me there.
I'd like to go abroad never into the world
again — never — never — never. He will be
pleased. I'll try to make amends. He'll
never know what a wretch I've been. But he
shall see the change, and be happier. Yes,
yes, yes." Her beautiful long hair was loose,
its rich folds clasped in her strained fingers—
her pale upturned face bathed in tears and
quivering—" The Saviour's feet! No happi-
ness but there; wash them with my tears;
dry them with this hair.'' And she lifted up
her eyes and hands to heaven.
Poor thing! In the storm, as cloud and
rack fly by, the momentary gleam that comes
—what is it? Do not often these agitations
subside in darkness? Was this to be a last-
ing sunshine, though saddened for her? Was
she indeed safe now and for ever?
But is there any promise that repentance
shall arrest the course of the avenger that
follows sin on earth? Are broken health or
blighted fame restored when the wicked man
"turneth away from the wickedness that he
hath committed;" and do those consequences
that dog iniquity with "feet of wool and
hands of iron," stay their sightless and
soundless march so soon as he begins to do
"that which is lawful and right?" It is
enough for him to know that he that does so
shall " save his soul alive."
CHAPTER LVL
VARBARBrERE THE TYRANT DEBATES WITH
THE WEAKER VARBARRIERES.
'" May I see you, Monsieur Varbarriere, to-
morrow, in the room in which I saw you to-
day, at any hour you please after half-past
eleven?" inquired Lady Alice, a few minutes
after that gentleman had approached her.
"Certainly, madam; perhaps I can at this
moment answer you upon points which cause
you anxiety; pray command me."
And he sate like a corpulent penitent on a
,low prie-dieu chair beside her knee, and in-
clined his ear to listen.
"It is only to learn whether my—my poo»
boy's son, my grandson, the young man ii
whom I must I feel so deep an interest, i
about to return here?


GUY DEVERELL.
113
the servant will show you the way; don't
fail to pay her a visit, d'ye mind, Pelter;
she's huffed, you left her so suddenly; don't
mind her at first; just amuse her a little,
and I think she's going to change her lawyer."
Pelter, with his hands in his pockets,
smiled shrewdly and winked on Sir Jekyl.
"Thanks; I kmow it, I heard it; you can
give us a lift in that quarter, Sir Jekyl, and I
shan't forget to pay my respects."
When the ladies had gone, and the gentle-
men stood in groups by_ the fire, or sat listless
before it, Sir Jekyl, smiling, laid his hand on
Varbarriere's shoulder, and asked him in a
low tone:
"Will you join Pelter in my room, and
wind up with a cigar?"
"I was going, that is, tempted, only ten
minutes ago, to ask leave to join your party,"
began Varbarriere.
"It is not a party, we shouM be only
three," said Sir Jekyl, in an eager whisper.
"All the more inviting," continued Var-
barriere, smiling. "But I suddenly recollect
that I shall have rather a busy hour or two
—three or four letters to write. My people
of business in France never give me a mo
ment: they won't pay my rent or cork a
bottle, my faith! without a letter."
"Well, I'm sorry you can't; but you must
make it up to me, and see, you must take
two or three of these to your dressing-room,"
and he presented his case to M. Varbarriere.
"Ha! you are very good; but, no; I like to
connect them with your room, they must not
grow too common, they shall remain a treat.
No, no, I won't; ha, ha, ha! Thank you very
much," and he waved them off, laughing and
shaking his head.
Somehow he could not brook accepting
this trifling present. To be sure, here he
was a guest at free quarters, but at this he
stuck; he drew back and waved away the
cigar-case. It was not logical, but he could
not help it.
When Pelter and Sir Jekyl sat in the
Baronet's chamber, under their canopy of
tobacco-smoke over their last cigar,
"See, Pelter," said Sir Jekyl, it won't do
to seem anxious; the fact is I'm not anxious;
I believe he has a. lot of money to leave that
young fellow. Suppose they marry; the
Deverells are a capital old family, don't you
see, and it will make up everything, and stop
people talking about—about old nonsense.
I'll settle all, and I don't care a curse, and I'll
not be very long in the way. I can't keep
always young, Fm past fifty.
"Judging by his manner, you know, I
should say any proposition you may have to
make he'd be happy to listen to," said Mr.
Pelter.
"You're sleepy, Pelter."
"Well, a little bit," said the attorney,
blinking, yawning, and grinning all to-
gether.
"And egad, I think you want to be
shaved," said Sir Jekyl, who did not stand
on ceremony with his attorney.
"Should not wonder," said Mr. Pelter,
feeling his chin over sleepily with his finger
and thumb. "My shave was at half-past
four, and what is it now ?—half-past eleven,
egad! I thought it was later. Good-night,
Sir Jekyl—those are cigars, magnificent, by
Jove!—and about that Strangway's business,
I would not be in too great a hurry, do you
see? I would not open anything, till I saw
whether they were going to move, or whether
there was anything in it. I would not put
it in his head, dye see, hey?" and from
habit Pelter winked.
And with that salutation, harmless as the
kiss apostolic, Mr. Pelter, aided by a few
directions from Sir Jekyl, toddled away to
his bed-chamber yawning, and the Baronet,
after his wont, locked himself into his room
in very tolerable spirits.
There was a sofa in Varbarriere's dressing-
room, on which by this time, in a great
shawl dressing-gown, supine lay our friend;
like the painted stone monument of the
Chief Justice of Chester in Wardlock Church,
you conld see on the wall sharply defined
m shadow the solemn outline of his paunch.
He was thinking—not as we endeavor to
trace thought in narrative, like a speech, but
crossing zigzag from point to point, and
back and forward. A man requires an
audience, and pen and paper; to think in
train at all. His ideas whisked and jolted
on somewhat in this fashion:
"It is to be avoided, if possible. My faith!
it is now just twelve o'clock! A dangerous
old blockhead. I must avoid it, if only for
time to think in. There was nothing this
evening to imply such relations—Parbleu!
a pleasant situation if it prove all a mistake.
These atrabilious countrymen and women
of mine are so odd they may mislead a fellow _
accustomed like me to a more intriguing
race and a higher finesse. Ah! no; it is
certainly true. The fracas will end every-
thing. That old white monkey will be sure
to blunder me into it. Better reconsider
things, and wait. What shall I tell him?
No excuse, I must go through with it, or I
suppose he will call for pistols—curse him!
I'll give Sir Jekyl a hint or two. He must
see her, and make all ready. The old fool
will blaze away at me, of course. Well! I
shall fight him or not, as I may be moved. No
one in this country need fight now who does
not wish it. Rather a comfortable place to
live in were it not for the climate. I forget
to ask Jacques whether Guy took all his lug-
gage! What o'clock now? Come, by my
faith! it is time to decide."
CHAPTER LVII.
M. VARBARRIERE DECIDES.
Varbarbiere sat up on the side of his
sofa.
"Who brought that woman, Gwynn, here?
What do they want of her?" It was only •
the formula by which interrogatively to ex-
press the suspicion that pointed at Sir Jekyl
and his attorney. "Soft words for me while
tampering with my witnesses, then laugh at
8


114
GUY DEVERELL.
me. Why did I not ask Lady Alice whether
she really wrote for her?"
Thus were his thoughts various as the
ingredients of that soup called harlequin,
which figures at low French taverns, in
which are floating bits of chicken, cheese,
potato, fish, sausage, and so forth — the
flavor of the soup itself is consistent, never-
theless. The tone of Varbarriere's rumina-
tions, on the whole, was decided. He wished
to avert the exposure which his interference
alone had invited.
He looked at his watch—he had still a
little more than a half hour for remedial
thought and action—and now, what is to be
done to prevent cet vieux singe blanc from
walking into the green-chamber, and keep-
ing watch and ward at his wife's bedside
until that spectre shall emerge through the
wall, whom with a curse and a stab he was
to lay?
Well, what precise measures were to be
taken? First he must knock up Sir Jekyl
in his room, and tell him positively that
General Lennox was to be at Marlowe by
one o'clock, having heard stories in town,
for the purpose of surprising and punishing
the guilty. Sir Jekyl would be sharp
enough to warn Lady Jane; or should he
suggest that it would be right to let her
know, in order to prevent her from being
alarmed at the temper and melodramatics of
her husband, and to secure that coolness and
preparation which were necessary? It re-
quired some delicacy and tact, but he was
not afraid. Next, he must meet General
Lennox, and tell Mm in snbstance that he
had begun to hope that he had himself been
practised upon. Yes, that would do—and
he might be as dark as he pleased on the
subject of his information.
Varbarriere lighted his bed-room candle,
intending to march forthwith to Sir Jekyl's
remote chamber.
Great events, as we all know, turn some-
times upon small pivots. Before he set out,
he stood for a moment with his candle in one
hand, and in his reverie he thrust the other
into the pocket of his voluminous black
trowsers, and there it encountered unexpect-
edly, the letter he had that evening picked
up on the floor of the gallery. It had quite,
dropped out of his mind. Monsieur Varbar-
riere was a Jupiter Scapin. He had not the
smallest scruple about reading it, and after-
wards throwing it into the fire, although
it contained other men's secrets, and was
another man's property.
This was a letter from Sir Jekyl Marlowe
to Pelter and Crowe, and was in fact upon
the special subject of Herbert Strangways.
Unlucky subject! unlucky composition!
Now there was, of course, here a great deal
of that sort of communication which occurs
between a clever attorney and his clever
client, which is termed 'i privileged," and is
not always quite fit to see the light. Did
ever beauty read letter of compliment and
adoration with greater absorption?
Varbarriere's face rather whitened as he
read, and his fat sneer was not pleasant to see.
He got through it, and re-commenced.
Sometimes he muttered and sometimes he
thought; and the notes of this oration would
have read nearly thus :—
"So the question is to be opened whether
the anonymous payment—he lies, it was in
my name !—through the banker protects me
technically from pursuit; and I'm to be ' run
by the old Hebrew pack from cover to cover,'
over the continent—bravo !—till I vanish for
seven years more." Here Monsieur Varbar-
riere laughed in lurid contempt.
The letter went on in the same vein—con-
temptuous, cruel, he fancied. Everyone is
cruel in self-defence; and in its allusions and
spirit was something which bitterly recalled
the sufferings which in younger and weaker
days that same Baronet, pursuing the same
policy, had inflicted upon him. Varbarriere
remembered when he was driven to the most
ignominious and risky shifts, to ridiculous
disguises; he remembered his image in the
cracked shaving-glass in the garret in his lair
near Notre Dame—the red wig and mous-
tache, and the goggles.
How easily an incautious poke will re-
awake the dormant neuralgia of toothache;
and tooth, cheek, ear, throat, brain, are all
throbbing again in the re induced anguish!
With these sharp and vived recollections of
humiliation, fear, and suffering, all stirred
into activity by this unlucky letter, that sav-
age and vindictive feeling which had for so
long ruled the life of Herbert Strangways,
and had sunk into an uneasy doze under the
narcotic of this evening's interview, rose up
suddenly, wide awake and energetic.
He looked at his watch. The minute-
hand showed him exactly how long he had
been reading this confidence of client to
attorney. "You will, will you?" murmured
Varbarriere, with his jaw a little fiercely set,
and a smile. "He will checkmate me, he
thinks, in two or three moves. He does not
see, clever fellow, that I will checkmate him
in one!"
Now, thisletter had preceded all that had
occurred this evening to soften old animosi-
ties—though, strictly examined, that was not
very much. It did. not seem quite logical
then, that it should work so sudden a revo-
lution. I cannot, however, say positively;
for in Varbarriere's mind may have long
lain a suspicion that Sir Jekyl was not now
altogether what he used to be, that he did
not quite know all he had inflicted, and that
time had made him wiser, and therefore
gentler of heart. If so, the letter had knocked
down this hypothesis, and its phrases, one or
two of them, were of that unlucky sort
which not only recalled the thrill of many
an old wound, but freshly galled that vanity
which never leaves us, till ear and eye grow
cold, and light and sound are shut out by the
coffin-lid.
So Varbarriere, being quite disenchanted,
wondered at his own illusions, and sighed'
bitterly when he thought what a fool he had
been so near making of himself. And think-
ing of these things, he stared grimly on his
watch, and by one of those movement's that


116
GUY DEVERELL.
go out, and he chose to come in. Jacques is
nothing but what you call the latch-key."
"And what is he a-doing hout o' doors
this time o' night, Mr. Jack? I never knowed
afore sich a thing to 'appen. Why it looks
like a stragethim, that's what it does, Mr.
Jack—a stragethim."
And the butler nodded with the air of a
moral constable.
"It's a folly, Monsieur. My faith! a little
ruse of love, I imagine."
"You don't mean to say he's hout a-
larkin?"
Jacques, who only conjectured the sense
of the sentence, winked and smiled.
"Well, I don't think it's not the way he
should be."
"My master is most generous man. My
friend, you shall see he shall know how kind
you have been. Monsieur, my master, he is
a prince /" murmured Jacques, eloquently,
his fingers on the butler's cuff, and drew back
to read in his countenance how it worked.
"It must not hoccur again, Mr. Jack, wile
ere," replied the butler, with another grave
shake of his head.
"Depend yourself on me," whispered
Jacques again in his ear, while he squeezed
the prudent hand of the butler affectionately.
"But you must go way."
"I do depend on you, Mr. Jack, but I don't
like it, mind—I don t like it, and I won't say
nothink of it till I hear more from you."
So the butler withdrew, and the 'danger
disappeared.
"You will please to remember, sir," said
Varbarriere, as they approached the house,
"that this is of the nature of a military move-
ment—a surprise; there must be no sound—
uo alarm."
"Quite so," whispered old Lennox, with
white lips. He was clutching something
nervously under the wide sleeve of his loose
drab overcoat. He stopped under the shadow
of a noble clump of trees about fifty steps
away from the glass door they were ap-
proaching.
"I—I almost wish, sir—I'll go back—I
don't think I can go on, sir."
Varbarriere looked at his companion with
an unconscious sneer, but said nothing.
"By , sir, if I find it true, I'll kUl him,
sir."
The old man had in his gouty grip one of
those foolish daggers once so much in vogue,
but which have now gone out of use, and
Varbarriere saw it glimmer in the faint
light.
"Surely, Colonel Lennox, you don't mean
—you can't mean—you're not going to resort
to violence, sir t"
"By , sir, he had best look to it."
Varbarriere placed his hand" on the old
man's sleeve, he could feel the tremor of his
thin wrist through it.
"General Lennox, if I had fancied that
you could have harbored such a thought, I
never should have brought you here."
The General, with his teeth clenched, made
him no reply but a fierce nod.
"Remember, sir, you have the courts of
law, and you have the code of honor—either
or both. One step more I shall not take with
you, if you mean what sort of violence."
"What do you mean, sir?" asked the Gen-
eral, grimly.
"I mean this, sir, you shall learn nothing
by this night's procedure, unless you promise
me, upon your honor as a soldier, sir, and a
gentleman, that you will not use that dagger
or any other weapon."
General Lennox looked at him with a
rather glassy stare.
"You're right, sir, I dare say," said Lennox,
suddenly and helplessly.
"You promise?"
"Ay, sir."
"Upon your honor?"
"Upon my honor; ay, sir, my honor."
"I'm satisfiedi General. Now observe,
you must be silent, and as noiseless as you
can. If Sir Jekyl be apprised of your arrival,
of course the—the experiment fails."
General Lennox nodded. Emerging into
the moonlight, Varbarriere saw how pale
and lean his face looked.
Across the grass they pace side by side in
silence. The glass door opened without a
creak or a hitch. Jacques politely secured
it, and, obeying his master's gesture, led the
way through the gallery to the hall.
"You'll remember, General, that you ar-
rived late; you understand? and having
been observed by me, were admitted; and—
and all the rest occured naturally."
"Yes, sir, any d—d lie you like. All the
world's lying—why should not I?"
At the foot of the staircase Jacques was
dismissed, having lighted bed-room candles
for the two .gentlemen, so that they lost
something of their air of Spanish conspira-
tors, and they mounted the stairs together
in a natural and domestic fashion.
When they had crossed the lobby, and
stood at the door of the dressing-room, Var-
barriere laid his hand on General Lennox's
arm—
"Stop here a moment; you must knock
at Lady Alice's door over there, and get the
key of your room. She locks the door and
keeps the key at night. Make no noise, you
know."
They had Men fortunate hitherto in hav-
ing escaped observation; and Varbarriere's
strategy had, up to this point, quite suc-
ceeded.
"Very quietly, mind," whispered he, and
withdrew behind the angle of the wall, to-
ward the staircase.
Old Lennox was by this time at the door
which he had indicated, and knocked. There
was a little fuss audible within, but no an-
swer. He knocked again more sharply, and
he heard the gabble of female voices; and
at last a rather nervous inquiry, "Who's
there, please?"
"General Lennox, who wants the key of
his room," answered he, in no mood to be
trifled with. The General was standing,
grim as fate, and stark as Corporal Trim,
bed-room candle in hand, outside her door.
"He's not General Lennox—send him


GUY DEVERELL
117
about his business," exclaimed an imperious
female voice from the state bed, in which
Lady Alice was sitting, measuring some my-
sterious drops in a graduated glass.
"My lady says she's sorry she can't find
it tonight, sir, being at present in bed,
please, sir."
"Come, child—no nonsense—I want my
key, and I'll have it," replied the General, so.
awfully that the maid recoiled.
"I think, my lady, he'll be rude if he
doesn't get it."
"What's the man like?"
"A nice-spoken gentleman, my lady, and
dressed very respectable."
"You never saw General Lennox?"
"No, my lady, please."
Neither had Lady Alice; but she had heard
him minutely described.
"A lean ugly old man is he, with white
bristly whiskers, you know, and a white
head, and little grey eyes, eh?"
They had no notion that their little con-
fidence was so distinctly audible to the Gen-
eral without, who stood eyeing the panel
fiercely as a sentry would a suspicious fig-
ure near his beat, and with fingers twitching
with impatience to clutch his key.
"What sort of nose?" demanded the un-
seen speaker—" long or short?"
"Neither, please, my lady; bluish, rayther,.
I should say."
"But it is either Ion" or short, decidedly,
and I forget which, said Lady Alice—
'"ZWthe!"
The General ground his teeth with impa-
tience, and knocked so sharp a signal at the
door that Lady Alice bounced in her bed.
"Lord bless us! How dare he do that?
—tell him how dare he."
"Lady Alice, sir, would be much obliged
if you'd be so good not knock so loud, sir,
please," said the maid at the door, translat-
ing the message.
'. Tell your mistress I'm General Lennox,
and must have the key," glared the General,
and the lady's-maid, who was growing ner-
vous, returned.
"He looks, my lady, like he'd beat us,
please, if he does not get the key, my lady."
"Sha'n't have it, the brute! We don't know
who he is—a robber, maybe. Bolt the door,
and tell him to bring Monsieur Varbarriere
to the lobby, and if he says he's General Len-
nox he shall have the key."
With trembling fingers the maid did bolt
the door, and once more accost the soldier,
who was chafing on the threshold.
"Please, sir, my lady is not well, having
nervous pains, please sir, in her head to-night,
and therefore would be 'appy if you would
be so kind to bring Mister Barvarrian" (the
name by which our corpulent friend was
known in the servants' hall) "to her door,
please, when she'll try what she may do to
oblige you, sir."
"They don't know me," said the General,
accosting Varbarriere, who was only half a
dozen steps removed, and whom he had re-
joined. "You must come to the door, they
say, and tell them it's all right."
Perhaps with some inward sense of the
comic, Varbarriere presented himself at the
door, when, his voice being recognised, and
he himself reconnoitred through the key-hole
and reported upon, the maid presented her-
self in an extemporised drapery of cloaks and
shawls, like a traveller in winter, and holding
these garments together with one hand, with
the other presented the key, peering anx-
iously in the General's face.
"Key, sir, please."
"I thank you," said the General, with a
nod, to which she responded with such a
courtesy as her costume permitted. The
door shut, and as the gentlemen withdrew
they heard the voices of the inmates again
busy with the subject.
"Good-night," whispered Varbarriere
looking in the General's blue eye with his
own full and steady gaze.
"I know you'll remember your promise,"
said he.
"Yes—what?"
"No violence," replied Varbarriere.
"No, of course, I said so. Good bye."
"You must appear—your manner, mind
—just as usual. Nothing to alarm—you may
defeat all else."
"I see."
Varbarriere pressed his hand encou-
ragingly. It felt like death.
"Don't fear me," said General Lennox.
"We'll see—we'll see, sir; good-night."
He spoke in a low, short, resolute tone,
almost defiant; but looked very ill. Var-
barriere had never taken leave of a man on
the drop, but thought that this must be like it.
He beckoned to him as the General moved
toward the dressing-room door, and made
an earnest signal of silence. Lennox nodded,
applied the key, and Varbarriere was gone.
CHAPTER LIX.
IN THE GREEN CHAMBER.
General Lennox opened the door sud-
denly, and stood in the green chamber, hold-
ing his candle above his temple, and staring
with a rather wild countenance and a gath-
ered brow to the further end of the room.
A candle burned on the table, and the
Bible lay beside it. No one was there but
the inmate of the bed, who sat up with a
scared face. He locked the door in silence,
and put the key in his pocket.
"Who's there ?—who is it? O my God!
Arthur, is it you?" she cried. It was not a
welcome. It was as if she had seen a ghost—
but she smiled.
"You're well? quite well? and happy?
no doubt happy?" said Lennox, setting
down his candle on the table near the bed,
"and glad to see me?"
"Yes, Arthur; Arthur, what's the matter?
You're ill—are you ill?"
"Ho! no, very well, quite well—very well
indeed."
There was that in his look and manner
that told her she was ruined. She froze


113
GUY DEVERELL.
with a horror she had never dreamed of
before.
"There's something, Arthur—there is—you
won't tell me."
"That's strange, and you tell me every-
thing."
"What do you mean, sir? Oh, Arthur,
what do you mean?"
"Mean! Nothing!"
"I was afraid you were angry, and I've
done nothing to vex you—nothing. You
looked so angry—it's so unreasonable and
odd of you. But I am glad to see you,
though you don't seem glad to see me.
You've been a long time away, Arthur, in
London, very long. I hope all your busi-
ness is settled—all well settled, I hope. And
I'm very glad to hear you're not ill—indeed
I am. Why are you vexed?"
"Vexed ! ho ! I'm vexed, am I ? that's odd."
She was making a desperate effort to seem
as usual, and talked on.
"We have had old Lady Alice Redcliffe
here, my chaperon, all this while, if you
please, and takes such ridiculous care of me,
and locks me into my room every night. She
means kindly, but it is very foolish.
"Yes, it is, d—d foolish."
"We have been employed very much as
usual, walking, and driving, and croquet.
Beatrix and I have been very much together,
and Sir Paul and Lady Blunket still here. I
don't think we have had any arrival since you
left us. Mr. Guy Strangways has gone away,
and Monsieur Varbarriere returned to-day."
She was gabbling as merrily as she could,
feeling all the time on the point of fainting,
"And the diamonds came?" the General
said, suddenly, with a sort of laugh.
"Oh! yes, the diamonds, so beautiful. I
did not thank you in my letter, not half
enough; they are beautiful, so exquisitely
beautiful, brilliants, and so becoming; you
have no idea. I hope you got my letter. In-
deed I felt it all, every word, Arthur, only I
could not say half what I wished. Don't
you believe me, Arthur?"
"Lie down, woman, and take your sleep;
you sleep wellt you all do, of course you
sleep? Lie down."
"You are angry, Arthur; you are excited;
something has happened, something bad,
what is it? For God's sake, Arthur, tell me
what it is. Why won't you tell me V
"Nothing, nothing strange, quite common."
"Oh! Arthur, tell me at once, or kill me.
You look as if you hated me."
"Hate you! There's a hereafter. God sees."
'.I can't understand you, Arthur; you
wish to distract me, I'd rather know any-
thing. For mercy's sake speak out."
"Lie you down, and wait."
She did lie down. The hour of judgment
had come as a thief in the night. The blood
in her temples seemed to drum on the pil-
low. There was not a clear thought in her
brain, only the one stunning consciousness.
"He knows all! I am ruined." Yet the
feminine instinct of finesse was not quite
overpowered.
Having placed the candle on the chimney-
piece, so that the curtain at the foot of the
bed threw its shadow over that recess in
which the sorcerer Varbarriere had almost
promised to show the apparition, old Lennox
sat down at the bedside, next this mysterious
point of observation. Suddenly it crossed
him, as a break of moonlight will the black-
est night of storm, that he must act more
wisely. Had he not alarmed his wife, what
signal might not be contrived to warn off her
guilty accomplice?
"Jennie," said he, with an effort, in a more
natural tone, " I'm tired, very tired. We'll
sleep. I'll tell you all in the morning. Go to
sleep."
"Good-night," she murmured.
"That will do; go to sleep," he answered.
Gently, gently, she stole a peep at that
pretty watch that stood in its little slanting
stand at her bedside. There was still twenty
minutes—Heaven be praised for its mercy!
and she heard old Lennox at the far side of
this " great bed of Ware," making an osten-
tation of undressing. His boots tumbled on
the floor. She heard his watch-guard jingle
on»the stand, and his keys and purse dropped
in turn on the table. She heard him adjust
the chair, as usual, on which he was wont
to deposit his clothes as he removed them;
she fancied she even heard him yawn.
Her heart was throbbing as though it would
choke her, and she was praying as she never
prayed before, for,a reprieve. And yet her
respiration was long and deep, as if in the
sleep she was counterfeiting.
Lennox, at the other side, put off his muff-
ler, his outer coat, the frock-coat he wore, the
waistcoat. She dared not look round to ob-
serve his progress. But at last he threw
himself on the bed with a groan of fatigue,
pulled the coverlet over him, and lay without
motion, like a man in need of rest.
Lady Jane listened. She could not hear
him breathe. She waited some five minutes,
and then she murmured, "Arthur." No
answer. "Arthur." Again no answer; and
she raised herself on her elbow, cautiously,
and listened; and after a little pause, quick
as light she got out of bed, glided to the
chimney piece, and lighted a taper at the can-
dle there, listened again for a moment, and on
tiptoe, in bare feet, glided round the foot of
the bed, and approached the recess at the
other side of the bed's head, and instantly
her fingers were on one of those little flowers
in the ormolu arabesque that runs along the
edge of the wooden casing.
Before she could turn it a gouty hand over
her shoulder took hold of hers, and, with a
low sudden cry, she saw her husband.
"Can't I do that for you? What is it?"
said he.
Her lips were white, and she gazed in his
face without saying a word.
He was standing there unbooted, in his
trowsers, with those crimson silk suspenders
on, with the embroidery of forget-me-nots,
which she had described as " her work"—I
am afraid inaccurately, a love-token —hy-
pocrisy on hypocrisy.
Asmodeus, seated on the bed's head


GUY DEVEKELL
119
smirked down sardonically on the tableau,
and clapped his apish hands.
"Get to your bed there. If you make a
sign,.by , I'll kill you.
She made no answer. She gazed at him
dumbly. He was not like himself. He looked
like a villain.
He did not lie down again. He sat by the
little table, on which his watch, his keys,
and loose shillings lay. The night was chill,
but he did not feel it then.
He sat in his shirt-sleeves, his chin on his
breast, eyeing from under*his stern white
brows the shadowy arch through which the
figure was to emerge..
Suddenly he heard the swift steps of little,
naked feet on the carpet come round the foot
of the bed, and his wife wildly threw herself
at his feet, and clasped them in an agony.
He could feel every sinew in her arms vibrate
in the hysterical strain of her entreaty^
"Oh, Arthur! oh, darling, take me away
from this, for God's sake. Come down with
me; come to the drawing-room, or to the
dressing-room; take me away; you'll be
happier, indeed you will, than ever you
were; you'll never repent it, darling; do
what I say. I'll be the best wife, indeed I
will. See, I've been reading my Bible; look
at it. I'm quite changed—quite changed.
God only knows how changed. Oh, Arthur,
Arthur, if you ever loved me, take me away;
come from this room, come, you'll never re-
pent it. Oh, Arthur, be wise, be merciful!
The more you forgive the more you'll be
loved.r It is not I, but God says that. I'm
praying to you as I would to Him, and He
forgives us when we implore: take pity on
me; you'll never be sorry. Have mercy,
Arthur, have mercy—you are kind, I know
you're kind, you would not ruin your
wretched Jennie. Oh, take pity before it is
too late, and take me from this dreadful
room. You'll be glad, indeed you will;
there never was such a wife as I'll be to you,
the humblest, the most loving, and you'll be
happier than ever you were. Oh, Arthur,
Arthur, I'm praying to you as if you were
God, for mercy; don't say no! Oh, can you;
can you; can you?"
General Lennox was moved, but not from
his course. He never saw before such a
face of misery. It was like the despairing
pleading of the last day. But alas! in this
sort of quarrel there can be no compromise;
reconciliation is dishonor.
"Go and lie down. It's all over between
us," said he in a tone that left her no
room for hope. With a low, long cry, and
her fingers clasped over her forehead, she
retraced her steps, and lay down, and quietly
drew her icy feet into the bed, awaiting the
inevitable. Lennox resumed his watch.
CHAPTER LX.
THE MORNING.
Monsieur Varbarriere was standing all
this while with his shadow to the door-post
of the Window dressing-room, and his dark
eyes fixed on the further door which admits
to the green chamber. His bed-room candle,
which was dwindling, stood on the table at
his elbow.
"He heard a step crossing the lobby
softly toward his own room, and whispered,
"Who's there?"
Jacques Duval, at Monsieur's service.'
Monsieur took a candle, and crossed the
floor to meet Jacques, who was approach-
ing, and he signed to him to stop. He
looked at his watch. It was now twenty
minutes past one.
"Jacques," said he in a whisper, "there's
no mistake about those sounds?"
"No, Monsieur, not at all."
"Three nights running, you say?"
"Monsieur is perfectly right."
"Steps, you say?"
"Yes, sir, footsteps."
"It could not have been the wind, the
shaking or creaking of the floor or win-
dows r
"Ah no, Monsieur, not at all as that."
"The steps quick, not slow; was'nt it!"
"Quick, sir, as one in hast,e and treading
lightly would walk."
"And this as you sat in the butJfer's
room?"
"Monsieur recollects exactly."
Varbarriere knew that the butler's room
exactly underlay that dingy library that
abutted on Sir Jekyl's bed-chamber, and on
that account had placed his sentinel to
watch there.
"Always about the same time ?" he asked.
"Very nearly, Monsieur, a few minutes,
sometimes before, sometimes after; only
trifle, in effect nothing" answered Jacques.
"Jacques, you must leave my daw open,
so that, should I want you, you can hear
me call from the door of that dressing-
room; take care you keep awake, but dorft
move."
So saying, Varbarriere returned to his
place of observation. He set down his
candle near the outer door, and listened,
glowering as before at the far one. - The
crisis was near at hand, so near that, on
looking at his watch again, he softly ap-
proached the door of the green chamber,
and there, I am sorry to say, he listened
diligently.
But all was disappointingly silent for a
while longer. Suddenly he heard a noise.
A piece of furniture shoved aside it seemed,
a heavy step or two, and the old man's
voice exclaim " Ha!" with an interrogatory
snarl in it. There was a little laugh, fol-
lowed by a muffled blow or a fall, and a
woman's cry, sharp and momentary—" Oh
God! oh, God!" and a gush of smothered
sobs, and the General's grim voice calling
"silence!" and a few stern woads from him,'
and fast talking between them, and Lady
Jane calling for light, and then more wild
sobbing. There had been no sound of a
struggle.
Varbarriere stood, stooping, scowling,
open-mouthed at the door, with his fingers


120
GUY DEVEKELL.
on the handle, hardly breathing. At last he
- old ape! has he hurt her?"
"That d-
He listened, but all was silent. Did he still
hear smothered sobs? He could not be
certain. His eyes were glaring on the panel
of the door; but on his retina was a ghostly
image of beautiful Lady Jane, blood-stained,
with glazing eyes, like Cleopatra dying of
her asps.
After a while he heard some words from
the General in an odd ironical tone. Then
came silence again—continued silence—half
an hour's silence, and then a sound of some
one stirring.
He knew the tread of the General about
the room. Whatever was to occur had
occurred. That was his conclusion. Perhaps
the General was coming to his room to look
for him. It was time he should withdraw,
and so he did.
"Tou may go to your bed, Jacques, and
come at the usual hour."
So with his accustomed civilities, Monsieur
Jacques disappeared. But old Lennox did
not visit Varbarriere, nor even emerge from
his room.
After an hour Varbarriere revisited the
drefsing-room next the green chamber. He
waited long without hearing anything, and
at length he heard a step—was it the Gen-
eral's again, or Sir Jekyl's ?—whoever it was,
he seemed to be fidgeting about the room,
collecting and packing his things, Varbar-
riere fancied, for a journey; and then he
heard him draw the writing-table a little, and
place a chair near it, and as the candle was
shining through the keyhole, he supposed
the General had placed himself to write
at it.
Something had happened, he felt sure.
Had Lennox despatched Sir Jekyl, or Sir
Jekyl wounded the General? Or had Lady
Jane been killed? Or was all right, and no
one of the actors stretched on the green baize
carpet before the floats? He would believe
that, and got quickly to his bed, nursing that
comfortable conclusion the while. But when
he shut his eyes, a succession of pale faces
smeared with blood came and looked at him,
and would not be ordered away. So he
lighted his candle again and tried to exorcise
these visitors with the pages of a Prench
Review, until very late sleep overtook him.
Jacques was in his room at the usual hour,
eight o'clock; and Varbarriere started up in
bed at sound of his voice, with a confused
anticipation of a catastrophe. But the cheer-
ful squire had nothing to relate except how
charming was the morning, and to hand a
letter to Monsieur.
Varbarriere's mind was not upon letters
that morning, but on matters nearer home.
.' General Lennox has not been down-
stairs yet V"
"No, Monsieur."
"Nor Sir Jekyl?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Where's my watch? there—yes—eight
o'clock. H'm. When does Lady Jane's
maid go to her."
"Not until the General has advanced him-
self pretty well in his toilet, the entrance
being through his dressing-room."
"The General used to be down early?"
"Yes, Monsieur, half-past eight, I remem-
ber."
1 "And Sir Jekyl?"
"About the same hour."
"And Lady Jane is called, I suppose, a
little before that hour?"
"Yes, about a quarter past eight, Mon-
sieur. Will Monsieur please to desire his cup
of coffee?" •
"Yes, everything — quickly—I wish to
dress; and what's this? a letter."
It was from Guy Deverell, as Varbarriere
saw at a glance, and not through the post.
"My nephew hasn't come t" sternly de-
manded Varbarriere, with a kind of start, on
reading the signature, which he did before
reading the letter.
"No, Monsieur, a young man has con-
veyed it from Slowton."
Whereupon Varbarriere, with a striped silk
nightcap of many colors pending over his
corrugated forehead, read the letter through
the divided bed-curtains.
His nephew, it appeared, had arrested his
course at Birmingham, and turned about,
and reached Slowton again about the hour.
at which M. Varbarriere had met old Lennox
in the grounds of Marlowe.
"What a fanfaronnade! These young
fellows—what asses they are!" sneered Var-
barriere.
It was not, in truth, very wise. _ This
handsome youth announced his intention to
visit Marlowe that day to see Monsieur Var-
barriere for, perhaps, the last time before
setting forth for Algeria, where he knew a
place would at once be found for him in the
ranks of those brave soldiers whom France
had sent there. His gratitude to his uncle
years could never abate, but it was time he
should cease to task his generosity, and he was
quite resolved henceforward to fight his way
single-handed in the word, as so many other
young fellows did. Before taking his de-
parture he thought he should present himself
to say his adieux to M. Varbierriere—even to
his host, Sir Jekyl Marlowe; and there was a
good deal more of such stuff.
"Sir Jekyl! stuff! His uncle! lanterns!
He wants to see that .pretty Miss Beatrix
once more! voila tout! He has chosen his
time well. Who knows what confusion may
be here to-day? No matter."
By this time he had got his great quilted
dressing-gown about him, in the folds of
which Varbarriere looked more unwieldy
still than in his drawing-room costume.
"I must read about that Algeria; have
they got any diseases there? plague—yellow
fever—ague! By my faith! if the place is
tolerably healthy, it would be no such bad
plan to let the young fool take a turn on that
gridiron, and '.earn thoroughly the meaning
of independence.'
So Monsieur Varbarriere, with a variety
of subjects to tl.i'Ak over, pursued his toilet.


GUY DEVERELL.
121
CHAPTER LXI.
TEE DOCTOR 8 VISIT.
Sib Jekyl's hour was eight o'clock, and
punctually his man, Tomlinson, knocked at
his door.
"Hollo! Is that Tomlinson?" answered
the voice from within.
"Yes, sir, please."
"See, Tomlinson, I say, it's very ridicu-
lous; but I'm hanged if I can stir, that
confounded gout has got hold of my foot
again. You'll have to force the door. Send
some one down to the town for Doctor Pratt
—d'ye see ?—and get me some handkerchiefs,
and don't he all day."
The faithful Tomlinson listening, with a
snowy shirt and a pair of socks on his arm
and the tips of his fingers fiddling with the
door-handle, listening at the other side of the
panel, with forehead inclined forward and
mouth open, looked, I am. sorry to say, a
good deal amused, although he answered in
a concerned tone; and departed to execute
his orders.
"Ouv'nor took in toe again," he mur-
mured with a solemn leer, as he paused
before the butler's broad Marseilles waistcoat.
"As how ?" inquired he.
"The gout; can't stir a peg, and he's
locked. hisself in, as usial, over night."
." Lawk !" exclaimed the butler, and I dare
say both would have liked to laugh, but
neither cared to compromise himself.
"Chisel and mallet, Mr. Story, we shall
want, if you please, and some one to go at
once for the doctor to the town."
"I know—yes—hinstantly," ejaculated the
butler.
So things proceeded. Pratt, M. D., the
medical practitioner of the village, whose
yellow hall door and broad brass plate, and
shop window round the corner, with the two
time-honored glass jars, one of red the other
of green fluid, representing physic in its most
attractive hues, were not more widely known
than his short, solemn, red face, blue chin,
white whiskers, and bald pate, was roused
by the messenger's summons at his toilet,
and peeped over his muslin blind to discover
the hand that was ringing so furiously among
his withered hollyhocks; and at the same
time Tomlinson and the butler were working
with ripping chisel, mallet, and even a poker,
to affect an entrance.
"Ha! Dives," said the Baronet, as that
divine, who had heard the sad news, pre-
sented himself at the now open door. "I
sent for you, my dear fellow. A horrid
screw in my left toe this time. Such a spoil-
sport! curse it, but it won't be anything.
I've sent for Pratt, and you'll tell the people
at breakfast, you know, that I'm a prisoner;
only a trifle though, I hope—down to dinner
maybe. There's the gong—run down, like a
dear fellow."
"Not flying—well fixed in the toe, eh?"
said Dives, rather anxiously, for he did not like
Sir Jekyl's constrained voice and sunken look.
"Quite fixed—blazing away—just the thing
Pratt likes—confounded pain though. Now
run down, my dear fellow, and make my
excuses, but say I hope to be down to dinner,
mind."
So, with another look, Dives went down,
not quite comfortable, for on the whole he
liked Jekyl, who had done a great deal for
him; he did not like tragedies, he was very
comfortable as he stood, and quite content to
await the course of nature.
"Is that d d doctor ever coming?".
asked Sir Jekyl, dismally.
"He'll be here, sir, please, in five minutes
—so he said, sir."
"I know, but there's been ten since, curse
Mm."
"Shall 1 send again, sir ?" asked Tomlinson.
"Do; say I'm in pain, and can't think
what the devil's keeping him."
Beatrix in a moment more came running
up in consternation.
"How do you feel now, papa? Gout, is it
not?" she asked, having obtained leave to
come in; "not very bad, I hope."
The Baronet smiled with an effort.
"Gout's never very pleasant, a hot thumb-
screw on one's toe, my dear, but that's all;
it will be nothing. Pratt's coming, and he'll
get me right in a day or two—only the great
toe. I beg pardon for naming it so often—
very waspish though, that's all. Don't stay
away, or the people will fancy something
serious; and possibly I may be down, in a
slipper though, to dinner." So run down
Trixie, darling."
And Trixie, with the same lingering look
that Dives had cast on him, only more
anxious, betook herself to the parlor as he
had desired.
In a little while Doctor Pratt had arrived.
As he toddled through the hall, he encount-
ered the Rev. Dives on his way to the break-
fast parlor. Pratt had suffered some rough
handling and damage at the hands of Time,
and Dives was nothing the better of the sar-
castic manipulations of the same ancient god,
since they had last met. Still they instantly
recognised, and shook hands cordially, and
when the salutation was over—
"Well, and what's wrong with the Baro-
net?"
"Gout; he drinks two glasses of port, I've
observed, at dinner, and it always disagrees
with him. Pray do stop it — the port, I
mean."
"Hand or foot?"
"The great toe—the best place, isn't it?"
"No better, sir. There's nothing, nothing
of the stomach ?—I brought this in case" and
he held up a phial.
"No, but I don't like his looks; he looks
so haggard and exhausted."
"H'm, I'd like to see him at once; I don't
know his room though."
So Dives put him in charge of a guide, and
they parted.
"Well, Sir Jekyl, how d'ye do, hey? and
how's all this? Old enemy, hey—all in the
foot—fast in the toe—isn't he ?" began the
Doctor as he entered the Baronet's room.
"Ay, in the toe. Sit down there, Pratt,
beside me."


122
GUT DEVERELL.
"Ah, ha! nervous; you think I'll knock
him, eh? Ha, ha, ha! No, no, no! Don't
be afraid. Nothing wrong in the stomach—
no chill—retching f'
"No."
"Head all right, too; nothing queer
there?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing in the knuckles—old acquaint-
ance, you know, when you meet, sometimes
a squeeze by the hand, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"
"No—nothing in the hand," said the Bar-
onet, a little testily.
"Nor any wandering sensations here, you
know, and there, hey?" said the little fellow,
sitting down briskly by his patient.
"No; curse it."
"Troublesome to talk, hey?" asked Pratt,
observing that he seemed faint, and talked
low and with effort.
"No—yes—that is, tired."
"I see, no pain; all nicely fixed in the toe;
that could not be better, and what do you
refer it to? By Jove, it's eighteen, nineteen
months since your last! When you came
down to Dartbrooke, for the Easter, you
know, and wrote to me for the thing with
the ether, hey? You've been at that d——d
bin, I'm afraid, the forbidden fruit? Egad,
sir, I call it fluid gout, and the crust nothing
but chalkstone."
"No — I haven't," croaked the Baronet,
savagely.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Doctor, drum-
ming on his fat knee with his stethoscope.
"Won't admit—won't allow, hey?" As he
spoke he was attempting to take him by the
wrist.
"Pulse? How are we there, eh?"
"Turn that d d fellow out of the room,
and bolt the door, will you?" muttered Sir
Jekyl, impatiently.
"Hey? I see. How are you, Mr. Tomlin-
son—no return of that bronchial annoyance,
eh? I'll ask you just now—we'll just make
Sir Jekyl Marlowe a little more comfortable
first, and I've a question or two—we'd be as
well alone, you see—and do you mind?
You'll be in the way, you know; we may
want you, you know."
So the docile Tomllnson withdrew with a
noiseless alacrity, and Doctor Pratt, in defer-
ence to his patron, bolted the mangled door.
"See, Pratt, you're tiring me to death,
with your beastly questions. Wait, will you?
Sit down. You'll promise me you won't tell
this to anyone."
"What!"
"Do hold your tongue, like a dear fellow,
and listen. Upon your honor, you don't tell,
till 1 give you leave, what's the matter with
me. Come—d you; yes or no?"
"Well, you know I must if you insist; but
I'd rayther not."
"You must. On your honor you won't
tell, and you'll call it gout?"
"Why—why, if it is not gout, eh! don't
you see? it would not do."
"Well, good morning to you, Doctor Pratt,
for I'm hanged if you prescribe for me on
any other terms."
"Well, don't you see, I say I must, if you
insist, don't you see; it may be—it may be—
egad! it might be very serious to let you
wait."
"You promise?"
"Yes, I do. There.'"
"Gout, mind, and nothing else; all gout,
upon your honor.'
"Aw, well! Yes."
"Upon your honor; why the devil can't
you speak t"
"Upon my honor, of course."
"You kill me, making me talk. Well,
'tisn't in the toe—it's up here," and he uncov-
ered his right shoulder and chest, showing
some handkerchiefs and his night-shirt
soaked in blood.
"What the devil's all this ?" exclaimed the
Doctor, rising suddenly, and the ruddy tints
of his face fading into a lilac hue. "Why-
why, you're hurt; egad, you're hurt. We
must examine it. What is it with—how the
plague did it all come about?"
"The act of God," answered Sir Jekyl,
with a faint irony in his tone.
"The—ah !—well, I don't understand."
"I mean the purest accident."
"Bled a lot, egad! These things seem
pretty dry—bleeding away still t You must
not keep it so hot—the sheet only."
"I think it's stopped—the things are stick-
ing—I feel them."
"So much the better; but we must not
leave it this way—and—and I daren't disturb
it, you know, without help, so we'll have to
take Tomlinson into confidence."
"'Gad, you'll do no such thing."
"But, my dear sir, I must tell you, this
thing, whatever it is, looks very serious. I
can tell you, it's not to be trifled with, and
this sort of nonsense may be as much as your
life's worth, egad."
"You shan't," said Sir Jekyl.
"You'll' allow me to speak with your
brother?"
"No, you shan't."
"Ho, now, Sir Jekyl, really now"
"Promised your honor."
"'Tisn't a fair position," said the practi-
tioner, shaking his head, with his hands
stuffed in his pockets, and staring dismally at
the blood - stained linen. "I'll tell you
what we must do—there are two supernu-
meraries I happen to know at the county
hospital, and Hicks is a capital nurse. I'll
write a line and they'll send her here.
There's a room in there, eh? yes, well, she
can be quartered there, and talk with no
one, but you and me, in fact, see no one
except in your presence, don't you see? and
egad, we must have her, or I'll give up the
ease."
"Well, yes; send for her."
CHAPTER LXn.
THE PATIENT INTERROGATED.
So Doctor Pratt scribbled a few lines on
the back of his card, and Tomlinson was sum-
moned to the door, and told to expedite its


GUT DEVERELL.
123
despatch, and "send one of the men in a dog-
cart as hard as he could peg, and to be sure
to see Doctor Hoggins," who had been an ap-
prentice once of honest Pratt's.
"Tell her not to wait for dressing, or pack-
ing, or anything. She'll come jusf as she is,
and we'll send again for her things, d'ye
mind? and let him drive quick. It's only
two miles, he must not be half an hour about
it;" and in a low whisper, with a frown and
a nod, he added to Tomlinson on the lobby,
"I leant her here."
So he sat down very grave by Sir Jekyl,
and took his pulse, very low and inflamma-
tory, he thought.
"You lost a good deal of blood? It is not
all here, eh?"
"No; I lost some beside."
"Mind, now, don't move. Tou may bring
it on again; and you're not in a condition to
spare any. How did it happen?"
"A knife or something."
"A thrust, eh? Not a cut; I mean a
slabt"
"Yes."
"About how long ago? What hour J"
Sir Jekyl hesitated.
"Oh! now come, Sir Jekyl, I beg pardon,
but I really must know the facts t"
"Remember your promise—awfully tired."
"Certainly. What o'clock?"
"Between one and two."
"You must have some claret;" and he
opened the door and issued orders accord-
ingly. The Doctor had his fingers on his
pulse by this time.
"Give me some water; I'm dying of
thirst," said the patient.
The Doctor obeyed.
"And there's no gout at nil, then ?" said he.
"Not a bit," answered bir Jekyl, pettish-
ly; his temper and his breath seemed to be
ailing him a little.
"Did vou feel faint when it happened, or
after?"
"Just for a moment when it happened,
then pretty well; and when I got here, in a
little time, worse, very faint; I think I did
faint, but a little blood always does that for
me. But it's not deep, I know by the feel-
only the muscle."
"H'm. I shan't disturb these things till
the nurse comes; glad there's no gout, no
complication."
The claret-jug was soon at the bedside, and
the Doctor helped his patient to a few spoon-
fuls, and felt his pulse again.
"I must go home for the things, d'ye see?
I shan't be long away though. Here, Tom-
linson, you'll give Sir Jekyl a spoonful or a
glassful of this claret, d'ye mind, as often as he
requires it. About every ten minutes a little
tc wet his lips; and mind, now Sir Jekyl,
drink any quantity rather than let yourself go
down."
As he went from the room he signed to
Tomlinson, who followed him quietly.
"See, now, my good fellow, this is rather
a serious case, you understand me; and he
must not be let down. Your master, Sir
Jekyl, I say, he must be kept up. Keep a
little claret to his lips, and if you see any
pallor or moisture in his face, give it him by
a glassful at a time; and go on, do you mind,
till he begins to look natural again, for he's
in a very critical state; and if he were to
faint, d'ye see, or anything, it might be a very
serious thing; and you d better ring for
another bottle or two; but don't leave him on
any account."
They were interrupted here by a tapping
in Sir Jekyl's room. Lying on his back, he
was rapping with his penknife on the table.
"Why the plague don't you come ?" he mut-
tered, as Tomlinson drew near. "Where's
Pratt? tell him I want him."
"Hey—no—no pain?" asked the Doctor.
"No; I want to know—I want to know
what the devil you've been saying to him
out there."
"Nothing; only a direction."
"Do you think — do you think I'm in
danger t" said Sir Jekyl.
"Well, no. You needn't be if you mind,
but—but don't refuse the claret, mind, and
don't be afraid of it if you feel a—a sinking,
you know, any quantity; and I'll be back
before the nurse comes from the hospital;
and—and don't be excited, for you'll do very
well if you'll only do as I tell you."
The Doctor nodded, standing by the bed,
but he did not look so cheerfully as he spoke.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes. Don't
be fidgety, you know; don't stir, and you'll
do very nicely, I say."
When the Doctor was gone, Sir Jekyl
said—
"Tomlinson."
"Yes, sir, please."
"Tomlinson, come here; let me see you."
"Yes, Sir Jekyl; sir"
"I say, Tomlinson, you'll tell the truth,
mind."
"Yes, sir, please."
"Did that fellow say anything?"
"Yes, sir, please."
"Out with it."
"'Twas claret, Sir Jekyl, please, sir."
"None of your d d lies, sir. I heard
him say "serious." What was it?"
"Please, sir, he said as how you were to be
kep up, sir, which it might be serious if
otherwise. So he said, sir, please, it might
be serious if you was not properly kep up
with claret, please, sir."
"Come, Tomlinson — see I must know.
Did he say I was in a bad way—likely to die k
come." His face was certainly hollow and
earthly enough just then to warrant fore-
bodings.
"No, sir; certainly not, sir. No, sir, please,
nothing of the kind."
The Baronet looked immeasurably more
like himself.
"Give me some wine—a glass," said he.
The Doctor, stumping away rapidly to his
yellow door, and red and green twin bottles,
m the village, was thinking how the deuce
this misadventure of Sir Jekyl's had be-
fallen. The Baronet's unlucky character was
well known wherever he resided or had prop-
erty.


124
GUT DEVERELL.
"Who the devil did it, I wondei?" con-
jectured the Doctor. "Two o'clock at night.
Some pretty fury with a scissors, maybe.
We'll know time enough; these things always
come out—always Come out, egad! It's a
shame for him getting into scrapes at his
time »f life."
In the breakfast-parlor, very merry was
the party then assembled, notwithstanding
the absence of some of its muster-roll. Lady
Jane Lennox, an irregular breakfaster, stood
excused. Old Lady Alice was no more ex-
pected than the portrait of Lady Mary in
her bed-room. General Lennox had busi-
ness that morning, and was not particularly
inquired after. Sir Jekyl, indeed, was
missed—bustling, good-natured, lively—his
guests asked after him with more than a
conventional solicitude.
Well, and how is papa now?" inquired
Sir Paul, who knew what gout was, and
being likely to know it again, felt a real
interest in the Baronet's case. "No acute
pain, I hope?"
"I'm afraid he is in pain, more than he
admits," answered Beatrix.
"Tomlinson told me it's all the—the ex-
tremity though that's well. Intelligent fel-
low, Tomlinson. Mine is generally what
they call atonic, not attended with much
pain, you know;" and he illustrated his
disquisition by tendering his massive mul-
berry knuckles for the young lady's contem-
plation, and fondling them with the glazed
fingers of the other hand, while his round
blue eyes stared, with a slow sort of wonder,
in her face, as if he expected a good deal in
the way of remark from the young lady to
mitigate his astonishment.
Lady Blunket, who was beside her, re-
lieved this embarrassment, and nodding at
her ear, said—
"Flannel— flannel, chiefly. Sir Paul,
there, his medical man, Doctor Duddle, we
have great confidence in Mm—relies very
much on warmth. My poor father used to
take Regent's—Regent's—I forget what—a
bottle. But Doctor Duddle would not hear
of Sir Paul there attempting to put it to his
lips. Regent's—what is it? I shall forget
my own name soon! Water is it? At all
events he won't hear of it—diet and flannel,
that's his method. My poor father, you
know, died of gout, quite suddenly, at
Brighton. Cucumber, they said."
And Lady Blunket, overcome by the re-
collection, touched her eyes with her hand-
kerchief.
"Cucumber and salmon, it was, I recol-
lect," said Sir Paul, with a new accession of
intelligence.
"But he passed away most happily, Miss
Marlowe," continued Lady Blunket. I have
some verses of poor mamma's. She was very
religious, you know; they have been very
much admired."
"Ay—yes," said Sir Paul, " he was helped
twice—very imprudent!"
"I was mentioning dear mamma's verses,
you remember."
Sir Paul not being quite so well up in
this aspect of the case, simply grunted and
became silent; and indeed I don't think he
had been so loquacious upon any other
morning or topic since his arrival at Mar-
lowe.
"They *are beautiful," continued Lady
Blunket, "and so resigned. I was most
anxious, my dear, to place a tablet under the
monument, you know, at Maisly; a mural
tablet, just like the Tuftons', you know;
they are very reasonable, inscribed with
dear mamma's verses; but I can't persuade
Sir Paul, he's so poor, you know; but cer-
tainly, some day or other, I'll do it myself."
The irony about Sir Paul's poverty, though
accompanied by a glance from her ladyship's
pink eyes, was lost on that excellent man,
who was by this time eating some hot broil.
Their judicious conversation was not with-
out an effect commensurate with the rarity
of the exertion, for between them they had
succeeded in frightening poor Beatrix a good
deal.
In other quarters the conversation was
proceeding charmingly. Linnett was de-
scribing to Miss Blunket the exploits of a
terrier of his, among a hundred rats let
loose together—a narrative to which she
listened with a pretty girlish alternation of
terror and interest; while the Rev. Dives
Marlowe and old Doocey conversed earnestly
on the virtues of colchicum, and exchanged
confidences touching their gouty symptoms
and affections; and Drayton, assisted by an
occasional parenthesis from that prodigious
basso, Varbarriere, was haranguing Beatrix
and Mrs. Maberly on pictures, music, and the.
way to give agreeable dinners; and now
Beatrix asked old Lady Blunket in what way
she would best like to dispose of the day.
What to do, where to drive, an inquiry into
which the other ladies were drawn, and the
debate, assisted by the gentlemen, grew
general and animated.
CHAPTER XLIII.
GENERAL LENNOX APPEARS.
In the midst of this animation the butler
whispered in the ear of the Rev. Dives Mar-
lowe, who, with a grave face, but hardly per-
ceived, slid away, and met the Doctor in the
hall.
"Aw—see—this is a—rather nasty case, I
am bound to tell you, Mr. Marlowe; he's in
a rather critical state. He'll see you, I dare
say, by-and-by, and I hope he'll get on satis-
factorily. I hope he'll do; but I must tell
you, it's a—it's a—serious case, sir."
"Nothing since?" asked Dives, a good
deal shocked.
"Nothing since, sir," answered the Doctor,
with a nod, and his eyebrows raised as he
stood ruminating a little with his fists in
his pockets. "But—but—you'll do this, sir,
if you please—you'll call in some physician,
in whom you have confidence, for I'll tell
you frankly, it's not a case in which I'd like
to be alone."


GUY DEVERELL.
135
'It's very sudden, sir; whom do you
advise?" said Dives, looking black and pal-
lid.
"Well, you know, it ought to be soon.
I'd like him at once—you can't send very
far. There's Ponder, I would not desire
better, if you approve. Send a fellow riding,
and don't spare horseflesh, mind, to Slowton.
He'll find Ponder there if he's quick, and
let him bring him in a chase and four, and
pay the fellows well, and they'll not be long
coming. They'd better be quick, for there's
something must be done, and I can't under-
take it alone."
Together they walked out to the stable-
yard, Dives feeling stunned and odd. The
Doctor was reserved, and only waited to see
things in train. Almost while Dives pen-
cilled his urgent note on the back of a letter,
the groom had saddled one of the hunters
and got into his jacket, and was mounted
and away.
Dives returned to the house. From the
steps he looked with a sinking heart after
the man cantering swiftly down the avenue,
and saw him in the distance like a dwindling
figure in a dream, and somehow it was to
him an effort to remember what it was all
about. He felt the cold air stirring his dark
locks, streaked with silver, and found he had
forgot his hat, and so came in.
"You have seen a great deal of art, Mon-
sieur Varbarriere," said Drayton, accosting
that gentleman admiringly, in the outer hall,
where they were fitting themselves with
their " wide-awakes" and "jerries." "It is
so pleasant to meet anyone who really un-
derstands it and has a feeling for it. You
seem to me to lean more to painting than to
statuary."
"Painting is the more popular art, because
the more literal. The principles of statuary
are abstruse. The one, you see, is a repeti-
tion—the other a translation. Color is
more than outline, and the painter commands
it. The man with the chisel has only out-
line, and must render nature into white-stone,
with the natural condition of being in-
spected from every point, and the unnatu-
ral one, in solid anatomy, of immobility. It
is a greater triumph, but a less effect."
Varbarriere was lecturing this morning
according to his lights, more copiously and
tx cathedra than usual. Perhaps his de-
clamations and -antithesis represented the
constraint which he placed on himself, like
those mental exercises which sleepless men
prescribe to wrest their minds from anxious
and exciting preoccupations.
"Do you paint, sir ?" asked Drayton, who
was really interested.
"Bah! never. I can make just a little
scratching with my pencil, enough to remind.
But paint—oh—ha, ha, ha!—no. 'Tis an art
I can admire; but should no more think to
practise than the dance."
And the ponderous M. Varbarriere pointed
his toe and made a mimic pirouette, snapped
his fingers, and shrugged his round shoulders.
"Alas! sir, the more I appreciate the
dance, the more I despair of figuring in the
ballet, and so with painting. Perhaps,
though, you paint V
"Well, I just draw a little—what you call
scratching, and I have tried a little tinting;
but I'm sure it's very bad. I don't care
about fools, of course, but I should be afraid
to show it to anyone who knew anything
about it—to you, for instance," said Drayton,
who, though conceited, had sense enough at
times to be a little modest.
"What is-it?" said Miss Blunket, skipping
into the hall, with a pretty little basket on
her arm, and such a coquettish little hat on,
looking so naive and girlish, and so remark-
ably tattooed with wrinkles. "Shall I run
away—is it a secret?"
"Oh, no; we have no secrets," said Dray-
ton.
"No secrets," echoed Varbarriere.
"And won't you tell? I'm such a curious,
foolish, wretched creature;" and she dropped
her eyes like a flower-girl in a play.
What lessons if we could only take them,
are read us every hour! What a giant
among liars is vanity! Here was this with-
ered witch, with her baptismal registry and
her looking-glass, dressing herself like a
strawberry girl, and fancying herself charm-
ing!
"Only about my drawings—nothing."
"Ah, I know. Did Mr. Drayton show
them to you?"
"No, Mademoiselle; I've not been so for-
tunate."
"He showed them to me, though. It's not
any harm to tell, is it? and they really are—
Well, I won't say all I think of them.,,(
"I was just telling Monsieur Varbarriere.
It is not everyone I'd show those drawings
to. Was not I, Monsieur?" said Drayton,
with a fine irony.
"So he was, upon my honor," said Var-
barriere, gravely.
"He did not mean it, though," simpered
Miss Blunket," if you can't—I'll try to induce
him to show them to you; they are — Oh!
here is Beatrix."
"How is your papa now, Mademoiselle?"
asked Varbarriere, anxious to escape.
"Just as he was, I think, a little low, the
Doctor says."
"Ah !" said Varbarriere, and still his dark
eyes looked on hers with grave inquiry.
"He always is low for a day or two; but
he says this will be nothing. He almost
hopes to be down this evening."
"Ah! Yes. That's very well," commented
Varbarriere, with pauses between, and his
steady, clouded gaze unchanged.
"We are going to the garden; are you
ready, darling?" said she to Miss Blunket.
"Oh, quite, and she skipped to the door,
smiling, this way and that, as she stood in
the sun on the step. "Sweet day," and she
looked back on Beatrix and the invitation,
glanced slightly on Drayton, who looked
loweringly after them unmoved, and
thought—
"Why the plague does she spoil her walks
with that frightful old humbug? There's no
escaping that creature."


126
GUY DEVERELL.
We have only conjecture as to which of
the young ladies, now running down the
steps, Mr. Drayton's pronouns referred to.
"You fish to-day?" asked Varbarriere,
on whose hands time dragged strangely.
"We were thinking of going down to that
pretty place Gryston. Linnett was there
on Saturday morning. It was Linnett's
trout you thought so good at luncheon."
And with such agreeable conversation
they loitered a little at the door, and sud-
denly, with quick steps, there approached,
and passed them by, an apparition.
It was old General Lennox. He had
been walking in the park—about the
grounds—he knew not where, since day-
break. Awfully stern he looked, fatigued,
draggled he well might be, gloveless, one
hand in his pocket, the other clenched on
his thumb like a child's in a convulsion.
His thoughts were set on something remote,
for he brushed by the gentlemen, and not
till he had passed did he seem to hear Dray-
ton's cheery salutation, and stopping and
turning toward them suddenly, he said, very
grimly—
"Beg your pardon"
"Nothing, General, only wishing you
good-morning," answered Drayton.
"Yes, charming morning. I've beeen
walking. I've been out—a—thank you,"
and that lead-colored and white General
vanished like a wicked ghost.
"'Gad, he looks as if he'd got a licking.
Did you ever see a fellow look so queer?"
"He's been overworking his mind—busi-
ness' you know—wants rest, I suspect," said
Varbarriere, with a solemn nod.
"They say fellows make themselves mad
that way. I wonder has he had any break-
fast ; did you see his trowsers all over mud?"
"I half envy your walk to Gryston," said
Varbarriere, glancing up toward the fleecy
clouds and blue sky, and down again to the
breezy landscape. "It's worth looking at,
a very pretty bit, that steep bridge and glen."
"No notion of coming; maybe you will?"
Varbarriere smiled and shook his head.
"No angler, sir, never was," he said.
"A bad day, rather, at all events," said
Drayton; " a grey day is the thing for us."
Ah, yes, a grey day; so my nephew tells
me ; a pretty good angler, I believe."
Varbarriere did not hear Drayton's answer,
whatever it was; he was thinking of quite
other things, and more and more feeverishly
every minute. The situation was for him all
in darkness. But there remained on his
mind the impression that something worse
even than a guilty discovery had occurred
last night, and the spectre that had just
crossed them in the hall was not a sight to
dissipate those awful shadows.
CHAPTER LIV.
LADY ALICE BEDCLD7FE MAKES GENERAL
LENNOX'S ACQUAINTANCE.
Old General Lennox stopped a servant
on the stairs, and learned from the staring
domestic where Lady Alice Redcliffe then
was.
That sad and somewhat virulent old
martyr was at that moment in her accus-
tomed haunt, Lady Mary's boudoir, and in
her wonted attitude over the fire, pondering
in drowsy discontent over her many mis-
eries, when a sharp knock at the door
startled her nerves and awakened her
temper.
Her " come in " sounded sharply, and she
beheld for the first time in her life the Gen-
eral, a tall lean old man, with white bristles
on his brow and cheek, with his toilet dis-
ordered by long and rather rapid exercise,
and grim and livid with no transient
agitation.
"Lady Alice Redcliffe t" inquired he,
with a stiff bow, remaining still inclined, his
eyes still fixed on her.
"J am Lady Alice Redcliffe," returned
that lady, haughtily, having quite forgotten
General Lennox and all about him.
• "My name is Lennox," he said.
"Oh, General Lennox? I was told you
were here last night," said the old lady,
scrutinising him with a sort of surprised
frown; his dress and appearance were a little
wild, and not in accordance with her ideas
on military precision. "I am happy, Gen-
eral Lennox, to make your acquaintance.
You've just arrived, I dare say?"
"I arrived yesterday—last night—last night
late. I—I'm—much obliged. May I say a
word?"
"Certainly, General Lennox," acquiesced
the old lady, looking harder at him—" cer-
tainly, but I must remind you that I have
been a sad invalid, and therefore very little
qualified to discuss or advise;" and she lean-
ed back with a fatigued air, but a curious
look nevertheless.
"I—I—it's about my, wife, ma'am. We
can—we can't live any longer together." - He
was twirling his gold eyeglass with trembling
fingers as he spoke.
"You have been quarelling—h'm?" said
Lady Alice, still staring hard at him, and
rising with more agility than one might have
expected; and shutting the door, which the
old General had left open, she said, ".Sit
down, sir—quarrelling, eh?"
"A quarrel, madam, that can never be
made up —by , never." The General
smote his gouty hand furiously on the chim-
neypiece as he thus spake.
"Don't, General Lennox, don't, pray. If
you can't command yourself, how can-you
hope to bear with one another's infirmities?
A quarrel? H'm."
"Madam, we've separated. It's worse,
ma'am—all over. I thought. Lady—Lady
—I thought, madam, I might ask you, as the
only early friend—a friend, ma'am, and a
kinswoman—to take her with you for a,.
little while, till some home is settled for her;
here she can't stay, of course, an hour. That
villain! May damn him."
"Who?" asked Lady Alice, with a kind
of scowl, quite forgetting to rebuke him this


128
GUY DEVERELL.
"Ay, sir; how can I help it?" answered
he.
"How can you help it! I don't quite see
your meaning," replied Varbarriere, slowly.
"I can only observe that it gives me new
ideas of a soldier's estimate of his promise."
"Don't blame me; sir, if I lost my head a
little, when I saw that villain there, in my
room, sir, by "and the General cursed
him here parenthetically through his clenched
teeth; "I felt, sir, as—as if the sight of him
struck me in the face—mad, sir, for a minute
I suppose, mad, sir; and—it occurred. I
say, sir, I can't help it—and I couldn't help
it, by I couldn't."
Varbarriere looked down with a peevish
sneer on the grass and innocent daisies at his
feet, his heel firmly placed, and tapping the
sole of his boot from that pivot on the sward,
like a man beating time to a slow movement
in an overture.
"Very good, sir! It's your own affair. I
suppose you've considered consequences, if
anything should go wrong." »
And without awaiting an answer, he turned
and slowly pursued his route toward the
house. I don't suppose, in his then frame of
mind, the General saw consequences very
clearly, or cared about them, or was capable,
when the image of Sir Jekyl presented itself,
of any emotions but those of hatred and
rage. He had gone now, at all events; the
future darkness; the past irrevocable.
CHAPTER LXV.
THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT.
In the hall Varbarriere met the Reverend
Dives Marlowe.
"Well, sir, how is Sir Jekyl ?" asked he.
The parson looked bilious and lowering.
"To say truth, Monsieur, I can't very well
make out what the Doctor thinks. I suspect
he does not understand very well himself.
Gout, he says, but in a very sinking state;
and we've sent for the physician at Slowton;
and altogether, sir, I am very uneasy."
I suppose if the blow had fallen, the rev-
erend gentleman would in a little while
have become quite resigned, as became him.
There were the baronetcy and some land;
but on the whole, when Death drew near
smirking, and offered on his tray, with a
handsome black pall over it, these sparkling
relics of the late Sir Jekyl Marlowe, Bart.,
the Rev. Dives turned away; and though he
liked these things well enough, put them
aside honestly, and even with a sort of
disgust. For Jekyl, as I have said, though
the brothers could sometimes exchange a
sharp sally, had always been essentially kind
to him; and Dives was not married, and in
fact, was funding money, and in no hurry;
those things were sure to come to him if he
lived, sooner or later.
"And what, may I ask, do you suppose it
is t inquired Varbarriere.
"Well, gout, you know—he's positive; and,
poor fellow, he's got it in his foot, and a very
nasty thing it is, I know, even there. We all
of us have it hereditarily—our family." The
apostle and martyr did not want him to sup-
pose he had earned it. "But I am very
anxious, sir. Do you know anything of gout?
May it be there and somewhere else at the
same time? Two members of our family
died of it in the stomach, and one in the
head. It has been awfully fatal with us."
Varbarriere shook his head. He had never -
had a declared attack, and had no light to
throw on the sombre prospect. The fact is,
if that solemn gentleman had known for
certain exactly how matters stood, and had
not been expecting the arrival of his contu-
macious nephew, he would have been many
miles on his way to London by this time.
"You know—you know, sinking seems
very odd as a symptom of common gout in
the great toe, said Dives, looking in his
companion's face, and speaking rather like
a man seeking than communicating informa-
tion. "We must not frighten the ladies, you
know; but I'm very much afraid of some-
thing in the stomach, eh? and possibly the
heart."
"After all, sir," said Varbarriere, with a
brisk effort, " Doctor—a—what's his name?
—he's but a rural practitioner—an apothecary
—is not it so?"
"The people here say, however, he's a
very clever fellow, though," said Dives, not
much comforted.
"We may hear a different story when the
Slowton doctor comes. I venture to think
we shall. I always fancied when gout was
well out in the toe, the internal organs were
safe. Oh! there's the Bishop."
"Just talking about poor Jekyl, my lord,"
said Dives, with a sad smile of deference, the
best he could command.
"And—and how is my poor friend and
pupil, Sir Jekyl ?—better, I trust," responded
the apostle in gaiters and apron.
"Well, my lord, we hope—I trust every-
thing satisfactory; but the Doctor has been
playmg the sphinx with us, and I don't
know exactly what to make of him."
"I saw Doctor Pratt for a moment, and
expressed my wish to see his patient—my
poor pupil—before I go, which must be—yes
—within an hour," said the Bishop, consult-
ing his punctual gold watch. "But he pre-
ferred my postponing until Doctor—I forget
his name—very much concerned, indeed, that
a second should be thought necessary—from
Slowton should have arrived. It—it gives
me—I—I can't deny, a rather serious idea of
it. Has he had many attacks?"
"Yes, my lord, several; never threatened
seriously, but Once—at Dartbroke, about two
years ago—in the stomach."
"Ah! I forgot it was the stomach. I re-
member his illness though," said the Bishop,
graciously.
"Not actually the stomach—only threat-
ened," suggested Dives, deferentially. "I
have made acquaintance with it myself, too,
slightly; never so sharply as poor Jekyl. I
wish that other doctor would come!_ But
even at best it's not a pleasant visitor."


GUY DEVERELL.
129
"I dare say—I can well suppose it. I
have reason to be very thankful. I've never
suffered. My poor father knew what it was
—suffered horribly. I remember him at
Buxton for it—horribly."
The Bishop was fond of this recollection,
people said, and liked it to be understood
that there was gout in the family, though
he could not show that aristocratic gules
himself.
At this moment Tomlinson approached,
respectfully—I might even say religiously—
and with such a reverence as High-Church-
men make at the creed, accosted the prelate,
in low tones like distant organ-notes, mur-
muring Sir Jekyl's compliments to his " lord-
ship, and would be very 'appy to see his
lordship whenever it might be his conve-
nience." To which his lordship assented,
with a grave " Now, certainly, I shall be most
happy," and turning to Dives—
"This, I hope, looks well. I fancy he
must feel better. Let us hope;" and with
slightly uplifted hand and eyes, the good
Bishop followed Tomlinson, feeling so oddly
as he threaded the same narrow half-lighted
passages, whose corners and panelling came
sharply on his memory as he passed them,
and ascended the steep back stair with the
narrow stained glass-slits, by which he had
reached, thirty years ago, the sick-chamber
of the dying Sir Harry Marlowe.
The Bishop sighed, looking round him, as
he stood on the lobby outside the little ante-
room. The light fell through the slim
colored orifice opposite on the oak before
him, just as it did on the day he last stood
there. The banisters, above and below,
looked on him like yesterday's acquaint-
ances; and the thoughtful frown of the
heavy oak beams overhead seemed still knit
over the same sad problem.
"Thirty years ago!" murmured the Bishop,
with a sad smile, nodding his silvery head
slightly, as his saddened eyes wandered over
these things. "What is man that thou art
mindful of him, or the son of man that thou
so regardest him?"
Tomlinson, who had knocked at the Baro-
net's door, returned to say he begged his
lordship would step in.
So with another sigh, peeping before him,
he passed through the small room that inter-
posed, and entered Sir Jekyl's, and took his
hand very kindly and gravely, pressing it,
and saying in the low tone] which becomes
a sick-chamber—
"I trust, my dear Sir Jekyl, you feel bet-
ter."
"Thank you, pretty well; very good of
you, my lord, to come. It's a long way, from
the front of the house—a journey. He told
me you were in the hall."
"Yes, it is a large house; interesting to
me, too, from earlier recollections."
"You were in this room, a great many
years ago, with my poor father. He died
here, you know."
"I'm afraid you're distressing yourself
speaking. Yes; oddly enough, 1 recognised
the passages and back stairs; the windows
too, are peculiar. The furniture, though,
that's changed—is not it?"
"So it is. I hated it," replied Sir Jekyl.
"Balloon-backed blue silk things — faded,
you know. It's curious you should remem-
ber, after such a devil of a time—such a great
number of years, my lord. I hated it. When
I had that fever here in this room—thirteen
—fourteen years ago—ay, by Jove, it's fifteen
—they were going to write for you."
"Excuse me, my dear friend, but it seems
to me you are exerting yourself too much,"
interposed the prelate again.
"Oh dear no! it does me good to talk.
I had all sorts of queer visions. People
fancy, you know, they see things; and I used
to think I saw him—my poor father, I mean
—every night. There were six of those
confounded blue-backed chairs in this room,
and a nasty idea got into my head. I had
a servant—poor Lewis—then a very trust-
worthy fellow, and liked me, I think; and
Lewis told me the Doctors said there was to
be a crisis on the night week of the first con-
sultation-«-seven days, you know."
"I really fear, Sir Jekyl, you are distress-
ing yourself," persisted the Bishop, who did
not like the voluble eagerness and the appar-
ent fatigue, nevertheless, with which he
spoke.
"Oh! it's only a word more—it doesn't, I
assure you—and I perceived he sat on a dif-
ferent chair, d'ye see, every night, and on
the fourth night he had got on the fourth
chair; and I liked his face less and less every
night. You know he hated me about Molly
—about nothing—he always hated me; and
as there were only six chairs, it got into my
head that he'd get up on my bed on the
seventh, and that I should die in the crisis.
So T put all the chairs out of the room.
They thought I was raving; but I was quite
right, for he did not come again, and here I
am;" and with these words there came the
rudiments of his accustomed chuckle, which
died out in a second or two, seeming to give
him pain.
"Now, you'll promise me not to talk so
much at a time till you're better. I am glad,
sir—very glad, Sir Jekyl, to have enjoyed
your hospitality, and to have even this op-
portunity of thanking you for it It is very
delightful to mc occasionally to find myseff
thus beholden to my old pupils. I have had
the pleasure of spending a days with the
Marquis at Queen's Dykely; in fact, I came
direct from him to you. 'i ou recollect him
—Lord Elstowe he was then? You remem-
ber Elstowe at school?"
"To be sure; remember him very well.
We did not agree, though—always thought
him a cur," acquiesced Sir Jekyl.
The Bishop cleared his voice.
"He was asking for you, I assure yon,
very kindly—very kindly indeed, and seems
to remember his school-days very affection-
ately, and—and pleasantly, and quite sur-
prised me with his minute recollections of all
the boys."
"They all hated him," murmured Sir Jekyl.
"I did, I know."
--
9


130
GUY DEVERELL.
"And—and I think we shall have a fine
day. I drive always with two windows open
—a window in front and one at the side,"
said the Bishop, whose mild and dignified
eyes glanced at the windows, and the pleas-
ant evidences of sunshine outside, as he
spoke. "I was almost afraid I should have
to start without the pleasure of saying good-
bye. You remember the graceful farewell
in Lucretius? I venture to say your brother
does. I made your class recite it, do you re-
member?"
And the Bishop repeated three or four
hexameters with a look of expectation at his
old pupil, as if looking to him to take up the
recitation.
"Yes, I am sure of it. I think I remem-
ber; but, egad! I've quite forgot my Latin,
any I knew," answered the Baronet, who
was totally unable to meet the invitation; " I
—I don't know how it is, but I'm sorry you
have to go to-day, very sorry;—sorry, of
course, any time, but particularly I feel as if
I should get well again very soon—that is,
if you were to stay. Do you think you
can?"
"Thank yon, my dear Marlowe, thank you
very much* for that feeling," said the good
Bishop, much gratified, and placing his old
hand very kindly in that of the patient, just
as Sir Jekyl suddenly remembered his doing
once at his bedside in the sick-house in
younger days, long ago, when he was a
school-boy, and the Bishop master; and
both paused for a moment in one of those
dreams of the past that make us smile so
sadly.
CHAPTER LXVI.
IN THE YARD OF THE MARLOWE ARMS.
The Bishop looked at his watch, and
smiled, shakmg his head.
"Time flies. I must, I fear, take my leave."
"Before you go," said Sir Jekyl, " I must
tell you I've.been thinking over my promise
about that odious green chamber, and I'll
pledge you «iy honor I'll fulfil it. I'll not
leave a stone of it standing; I won't, I assure
you. To ti» letter I'll fulfil it."
'' I never doubted it, my dear Sir Jekyl.",'
"And must you really leave me to-day?"
"No choice, I regret."
"It's very unlucky. You can't think how
your going affects me. It seems so odd and
unlucky, so depressing just now. I'd have
liked to talk to you, though I'm in no danger,
and know it. I'd like to hear what's to be
said, clergymen are generally so pompous
and weak; and to be sure," he said, suddenly
recollecting his brother, " there's Dives, who
is neither—who is a 'good clergyman, and
learned. I say so, of course, my lord, with
submission to you; but still it isn't quite the
same—you know the early association; and
it makes me uncomfortable and out of spirits
your going away. You don't think you
could possibly postpone?"
"No, my dear friend, quite impossible;
but I leave you—tell him I said so—in excel-
lent hands; and I'm glad to add, that so far
as I can learn you're by no means in a dying
state."
The Bishop smiled.
"Oh! I know that," said Sir Jekyl, return-
ing that cheerful expansion; "I know that
very well, my Lord: a fellow always knows
pretty well when he's in anything of a fix—I
menn his life at all in question; it is net the
least that, but a sort of feeling or fancy.
What does Doctor Pratt say it is f"
"Oh! gout, as J understand."
"Ah! yes, I have had a good deal in my
day. Do you think I could tempt you to
return, maybe, when your business—this
particular business, I mean—is over?
The Bishop smiled and shook his head.
"I find business—mine at least—a very
tropical plant; as fast as I head it down, it
throws up a new growth. I was not half
so hard worked, I do assure you, when I was
better able to work, at the school, long ago.
You havn't a notion what it is."
"Well, but you'll come back some time,
not very far away?" .
"Who knows?" smiled the Bishop. "it
is always a temptation. I can say that
truly. In the meantime, I shall expect to
hear that you are much better. Young
Marlowe—I mean Dives," and the Bishop
laughed gently at the tenacity of his old
school habits, " will let me hear; and so for
the present, my dear Sir Jekyl, with many
many thanks for a very pleasant sojourn,
and with all good wishes, I bid you farewell,
and may God bless you."
So having shaken his hand, and kissing
his own as he smiled another farewell at
the door, the dignified and good prelate dis-
appeared mildly from the room, Jekyl fol-
lowing him with his eyes, and sighing as the
door closed on him.
As Sir Jekyl leaned back against his pil-
lows, there arrived a little note, in a tall
hand; some of the slim l's, b's, and so on,
were a litle spiral with the tremor of age.
"Lady Halice Redcliffe, Sir Jekyl, please
sir, sends her compliments and hopes you
may be able to read it, and will not leave for
Wardlock earlier than half-past one o'clock."
"Very well. Get away and wait in the
outer room," said Sir Jekyl, flushing a little,
and looking somehow annoyed.
"I hate the sight of her hand. It's seajed,
too. I wish that cursed old woman was
where she ought to be; and she chooses now
because she knows I'm ill, and can't bear
worry."
Sir Jekyl twirled the little note round in
his fingers and thumb with a pinch. The
feverish pain he was suffering did not im-
prove his temper, and he was intemperately
disposed to write across the back of the un-
opened note something to this effect:—" 111
and suffering; the pleasure of your note
might be too much for me; pray keep it till
to-morrow."
But curiosity and something of a dread
that discovery had occurred prompted him
to open it and he read—


GUY DEVERELL.
131
"Having had a most painful interview
with unhappy General Lennox, and endured
mental agitation and excitement which are
too much for my miserable health and nerves,
I mean to return to Wardlock as early to-day,
as my strength will permit, taking with me,
at his earnest request, your victim.
"D n her!" interposed Sir Jekyl
through his set teeth.
"I think you will see,'' he read on, " that
this house is no longer a befitting residence
for your poor innocent girl. As I am charged
for a time with the care of the ruined wife of
your friend and guest, you will equally see
that it is quite impossible to offer my darling
Beatrix an asylum at Wardlock. The Fen-
tons, however, will, I am sure, be happy to
receive her. She must leave Marlowe, of
course, before I do. While here, she is under
my care; but this house is no home for her;
and >you can hardly wish that she should be
sacrificed in the ruin of the poor wife whom
you have made an outcast."
"Egad! it's the devil sent that fiend to tor-
tnre me so. It's all about, I suppose," ex-
claimed Sir Jekyl, with a gasp. "Unlucky!
The stupid old fribble, to think of his going
off with his story to that Pharisaical old
tattler!"
The remainder of the letter was brief.
"I do not say, Jekyl Marlowe, that I re-
gret your illness. You have to thank a mer-
ciful Providence that it is unattended with
danger; and it affords an opportunity for re-
flection, which may, if properly improved,
lead to some awakening of conscience—to a
proper estimate of yonr past life and an
amendment of the space that remains. I need
hardly add, that an amended life involves re-
paration, so far as practicable, to all whom
you, or, in your interest, yours may have
injured.
"In deep humiliation and sorrow,
"Alice Redcliffe."
"I wish you were in a deep pond, you
plaguy old witch. That fellow, Herbert
Strangways—Varbarriere—he's been talking
to her. I know what she means by all that
cant.""
Then he read over again the passages
about "your, victim," and" General Lennox,"
your "friend and guest." And he knocked
on the table and called as well as he could
—" Tomlinson," who entered.
"Where's General Lennox?"
"Can't say, Sir Jekyl, please, sir— 'avn't
saw him to-day."
"Just see, please, if he's in the house, and
let him know that I'm ill, but very anxious
to see him. You may say very ill, do you
mind, and only wish a word or two."
Tomlinson bowed and disappeared.
"Don't care if he strikes me again. I've
a word to say, and he must hear it," thought
Sir Jekyl.
But Tomlinson returned with the intelli-
gence that General Lennox had gone down
to the town, and was going to Slowton sta-
tion; and his man, with some of his things,
followed him to the Marlowe Arins, in the
town close by.
In a little while he called for paper, pen
and ink, and with some trouble wrote an odd
note to old General Lennox.
"General Lennox,
You must hear me. By ," and here
followed an oath and an imprecation quite
unnessary to transcribe. "Your wife is
innocent as an angel ! I have been the fiend
who would, if he could have ruined her
peace and yours. From your hand I have
met my deserts. I lie now, I believe, on my
death bed. I wish you knew the whole
story. The truth would deify her and make
you happy. I am past the age of romance,
though not of vice. I speak now as a dying
mae. I would not go out of the world with
a perjury on my soul; and, by , I swear
your wife is as guiltless as an angel. I am ill
able to speak, but will see and satisfy you.
Bring a Bible and a pistol with you—let me
swear to every answer I make you; and if I
have not convinced you before you leave, I
promise to shoot myself through the head,
and save you from all further trouble on ac-
count of "Jekyl Mablowe."
"Now see, Tomlinson, don't lose a moment.
Send a fellow runnmg, do you mind, and let
him tell General Lennox I'm in pain—very
ill—mind—and—and all that; and get me an
answer; and he'll put this in his hand."
Sir Jekyl was the sort of master who is
obeyed. The town was hardly three quar-
ters of a mile away. His messenger accom-
plished the distance as if for a wager.
The waiter flourished his napkin in the
hall of the Marlowe Arms, and told him—
"No General, nothing was there, as he
heerd."
"Who do want't" said the fat proprietress
with a red face and small eyes and a cap and
satin bow, emerging from a side door, and su-
perseding the waiter, who said— "A hofficer,
isn't it V" as he went aside.
"Oh! from the manor," continued the pro-
prietress in a conciliatory strain, recognising
the Marlowe button, though shfe did not know
the man. "Can I do anything?"
And she instinctively dropped a courtesy,
a deference to the far-off Baronet; and then
indemnifying herself by a loftier tone to the
menial.
"A note for General Lennox, ma'am."
"General Lennox? I know, I think a mil-
lentary man, white-'aired and spare."
"I must give it 'im myself, ma'am, thankee,"
said he declining the fat finger and thumb of
the curious hostess, who tossed her false ring-
lets with a little fat frown, and whiffled—
"Here, tell him where's the tall, thin gem-
m'n, with white mistashes, that's ordered the
hosses—that'll be him, I daresay," she said to
the waiter, reinstated, and waddled away
with a jingle of keys in her great pocket. So
to the back yard they went, the thin, little
elderly waiter skipping in front, with a jerk
or two of his napkin.
"Thankee, that's him," said the messenger


134
GUT DEVERELL.
"Won't you get your things on, darling?
I'll dress you. You'll take cold."
"Oh, Donnie! I wish I could cry. my
head! I don't know what it is. If I could
cry I think I should be better. I must see
him, Donnie."
"But he's gone away, miss."
"Gone I Is he?"
"Ay, sure I told ye so, dear, only this
minute. To Lunnon, I hear say."
"Oh! yes, I forgot; yes, I'll dress. Let us
make haste. I wish i knew. Oh! Donnie,
Donnie! oh! my heart, Donnie, Donnie—
my heart's breaking."
"There, miss, dear, don't take on so;
you'll be better when we gets into the air,
you will. What will ye put on ?—here's a
purple mornin' silk."
"Yes; very nice. Thank you. Oh!
Donnie, I wish we were away."
"So we shall, miss, presently, please God.
Them's precious bad pins—Binney and
Clew—bends like lead; there's two on 'em.
Thompson's mixed shillin' boxes—them's
the best. Miss Trixie allays has 'em.
Your hair's beautiful, miss, allays was; but
dearie me! what a lot you've got! and so
beautiful fine! I take it in handfuls—floss
silk—and the weight of it! Beautiful hair,
miss. Dearie me, what some 'id give for
that!"
Thus old Gwynn ran on; but fixed, pale,
and wild was the face which would once
have kindled in conscious pride of beauty
at the honest admiration of old Donnie, who
did not rise into raptures for everyone and
on all themes, and whose eulogy was there-
fore valuable.
"I see, Donnie—nothing bad has hap-
pened ?" said Lady Jane, with a scared glance
at her face.
"Bad? Nonsense! I told you, Miss Jen-
nie, 'twould all be made up, and so it will,
please God, miss."
But Lady Jane seemed in no wise cheered
by her promises, and after a silence of some
minutes, she asked suddenly, with the same
painful look—
"Donnie, tell me the truth, for God's
sake ; how is he?"
Donica looked at her with dark inquiry.
"The General is gone, you know, ma'am."
"Stop—you know" cried Lady Jane, seiz-
ing her fiercely by the arm, with a wild fixed
stare in her face.
"Who?" said Donica.
"Not he. I mean"
"Who ?" repeated Gwynn.
"How is Sir Jekyl?"
It seemed as if old Donica's breath was sus-
pended. Shade after shade her face dark-
ened, as with white eyes she stared in the
gazing face of Lady Jane, who cried, with a
strange laugh of rage—
"Yes—Sir Jekyl—how is he?"
"Oh, Miss Jane!—oh, Miss Jane !—oh,
Miss Jane—and is that it?"
Lady Jane's face was dark with other
fiercer passions.
the room to the fatal recess, and she was
shaking her head, as if over a tale of horror.
"Yes, I see, you know it all, and you'll
hate me now, as the others will, and I don't
care."
Suspicions are one thing—faint, phan-
tasmal; certainties quite another. Donica
Gwynn looked appalled.
"Oh! poor Miss Jennie!" she cried at last
and burst into tears. Before this old domes
tic Lady Jane was standing—a statue of
shame, of defiance—the fallen angelic.
"You're doing that to make me mad."
"Oh ! no, miss; I'm sorry."
There was silence for a good while.
"The curse of God's upon this room," said
Donica, fiercely, drying her eyes. "I wish
you had never set foot in it. Come away,
my lady. I'll go and send at once for a car-
riage to the town, and we'll go together
maTam, to Wardlock. Shall I, ma'am?"
"Yes, I'll go," said Lady Jane. "Let us
go, you and I. I won't go with Lady Alice.
I won't go with her."
"Good-bye, my lady; good-bye, Miss Jen-
nie dear; I'll be here again presently."
Dressed for the journey, with her cloak
on and bonnet, Lady Jane sat in an arm-
chair, haggard, listless, watching the slow
shuffling of her own foot upon the floor,
while Donica departed to complete the ar-
rangements for their journey.
CHAPTER LXIX.
THE TWO DOCTORS CONSULT.
The doctor from Slowton had arrived at
last. The horses, all smoking with the
break-neck speed at which they had been
driven, stood at the hall-door steps. The
doctor himself, with Pratt and the nurse,
were up-stairs in the patient's room. The
Rev. Dives Marlowe, looking uncomfortable
and bilious, hovered about the back stairs
that led to Sir Jekyl's apartment, to waylay
the doctors on their way down, and listened
for the sound of their voices to gather from
their tones something of their spirits and
opinions respecting his brother, about whose
attack he had instinctive misgivings. The
interview was a long one. Before it was
over Dives had gradually ascended to the
room outside the Baronet s, and was looking
out of the window on the prospect below
with the countenance with which one might
look on a bad balance-sheet.
The door opened, the doctors emerged—
the Slowton man first, Pratt following, both
looking grave as men returning from the
sacrament.
Oh! Mr. Dives Marlowe—the Rev. Dives
Marlowe," murmured Pratt as the door was
shut.
The lean practitioner from Slowton bowed
low, and the ceremony over—
"Well, gentlemen?" inquired the Rev.
Dives Marlowe.
Can't you answer, and not talk ?" said she. "We are about to compare notes, and
Donica's eyes wandered to the far end of I discuss the case a little—Doctor Pratt and I


136
GUY DEVERELL.
"Merciful Heavens! sir. To think of his
going this way!"
"very sad, sir. But we'll do all we can,
and possibly niay pull him through."
With slow steps Dives began to ascend the
stairs towards his brother's room. He recol-
lected that he had not bid Pratt good-bye, and
gave Mm his adieux over the banister; and
then with, slow and creaking steps, mounted,
and paused on the lobby, to let his head
clear and to think how he should accost him.
Dives was not a churchman to pester
people impertinently about their sins; and
out of the pulpit, where he lashed the vice,
but spared the man, he was a well-bred divine,
and could talk of sheep, and even of horses,
and re.ad everything from St. Paul to Paul
de Kbck, and had ridden till lately after the
hounds, and gave recherche little dinners, such
as the New Testament character whose name,
with a difference in pronunciation, he inheri-
ted might have praised, and well-iced cham
pagne, which, in his present uncomfortable
state, that fallen gentleman would have rel-
ished. And now he stood in a sombre mood,
with something of panic at the bottom of it,
frightened that the ice upon which men held
Vanity Fair, and roasted oxen, and piped and
danced, and gamed, should prove so thin;
and amazed to see his brother drowning
among the fragments in that black pool, and
no one minding, and he unable to help him.
And it came to him like a blow and a
spasm. "The special minister of Christ!—
am I what I'm sworn to be? Can I go in and
talk to him of those things that concern eter-
nity with any effect? Will he mind me?
Can I even now feel the hope, and lead the
prayer as I ought to do?"
And Dives, in a sort of horror, as from the
pit, lifted up his eyes, and prayed "have
mercy on me!" and saw a misspent hollow
life behind, and judgment before him; and
blamed himself too, for poor Jekyl, and felt
something of the anguish of his namesake in
the parable, and yearned for the safety of his
brother.
Dives, in fact, was frightened for himself
and for Jekyl, and in those few moments on
the lobby, his sins looked gigantic and the
vast future all dismay; and he felt that,
bad as poor Jekyl might be, he was worse—
a false soldier—a Simon Magus—chaff, to be
burnt up with unquenchable fire!
"I wish to God the Bishop had stayed over
this night," said Dives, with clasped hands,
and again turning his eyes upward. "We
must send after him. I'll write to implore
him. Oh; yes, he'll come."
Even in this was a sense of relief; and
treading more carefully, he softly turned the
handle of the outer door, and listened, and
heard Jekyl's cheerful voice say a few words
to the nurse. He sighed with a sense of
relief, and calling up a sunnier look, he
knocked at Jekyl's half-open door, and
stepped to his bedside.
<j
CHAPTER LXX.
VAKBARUIERE IN THE SICK-ROOM.
"Well, Jekyl, my dear follow—and how
do you feel now? There, don't; you must
not move, they told me," said Dives, taking
his brother's hand, and looking with very
anxious eyes in his face, while he managed
his best smile.
"Pretty well—nothing. Have they been
talking? What do they say?" asked Sir
Jekyl.!
"Say? Well, not much; those fellows
never do ; but they expect to have you all
right again, if you'll just do what you're bid,
in a week or two."
"Pratt's coming at five," he said. "What
is it now?"
Dives held his watchto Jekyl, who nodded.
"Do you think I'll get over it, Dives?" he
asked at length, rather ruefully.
"Get over? To be sure you will," an-
swered Dives, doing his best. "It might
be better for you, my dear Jekyl if it were
a little more serious. We all need to be
pulled up a little now and then. And there's
nothing like an alarm of—of that kind for
making a man think a little; for, after all,
health is only a long day, and a recovery
but a reprieve. The sentence stands against
us, and we must, sooner or later, submit."
"Yes, to be sure. We're all mortal, Dives
—is not that your discovery?" said Sir
Jekyl.
"A discovery it is, my dear fellow, smile
as we may—a discovery to me, and to you,
and to all—whenever the truth, in its full
force, opens on our minds."
"That's when we're going to die, I sup-
pose," said Sir Jekyl.
"Then, of course; but often, in the mercy
of God, long before it. That, in fact, is
what we call people's growing serious, or
religious; their perceiving, as a fact, that
they are mortal, and resolving to make the
best preparation they can for the journey."
"Come, Dives, hav'nt those fellows been
talking of me—eh ?—as if I were worse than
you say?" asked the Baronet, oddly.
"The doctors, you mean? They said ex-
actly what I told you. But it is not, my
dear Jekyl, when we are sick and frightened,
and maybe despairing, that these things are
best thought on ; but when we are, like you
and me, likely to live and eujoy life—then is
the time. I've been thinking myself, my
dear Jekyl, a good deal for some time past.
I have been living too much in the spirit of
the world: but I hope to do better."
"To do better—to be sure. You've al-
ways been hoping to do better; and I've
given you a lift or two," said the Baronet,
who, in truth, never much affected his bro-
ther's pulpit-talk, as he called it, and was
falling into his old cynical vein.
"But seriously, my dear fellow, I do. My
mind has been troubled thinking how un-
worthy I have been of my calling, and how
fruitles shave been my opportunities, my
dear brother, with you. I've never improved
them; and I'd be so glad—now we are likely
to have a few days—if you'll let me read a
little with you."
'Sermons, do you mean?" interposed the
Baronet.


GUY DEVERELL.
137
"Well, what's better? a little of the
Bible P'
"Come now, Dives, those doctors have
been shaking their heads over me. I say,
you must tell me. Do they say I'm in a
bad way?"
"They think you'll recover."
"Did they tell you what it is f
"Yes. A wound."
"They had no business, d them," said
Sir Jekyl, flushing.
"Don't, don't, my dear Jekyl; they could
not help it. I pressed that doctor—I forget
his name—and he really could not help say-
ing."
"Well, well, it doesn't much signify; I'd
have told you myself by-and-by. But you
must not tell—I've a reason—you must not
tell anyone, mind. It was my fault, and
I'm greatly to blame; and I'll tell you in a
little while—a day or two—all about it."
"Yes, so you can. But, my dear Jekyl, you
look much fatigued; vou are exerting your-
self."
Here the nurse interposed with the claret-
jug, and intimated that the Rev. Dives was
making her patient feverish, and indeed
there was an unpleasantly hot hectic in each
cheek. But the Baronet had no notion of
putting himself under the command of the
supernumerary, and being a contumacious
and troublesome patient, told her to sit in
the study and leave him alone.
"I've a word to say, Dives.' I must sec
that fellow Herbert Strangways."
"Who?" said Dives, a good deal alarmed,
for he feared that his brother's mind wa3
wandering.
"Herbert — that fellow Varbarriere. I
forgot I had not told you. Herbert Strang-
ways, you remember; they're the same. And
I want to see him. Better now than to-
morrow. I may be feverish then."
"By Jove! It's very surprising. Do you
really mean"
"Yes; he is. I do; they are the same.
You remember Herbert, of course—Herbert
Strangways — the fellow I had that long
chase after all over Europe. He has things
to complain of, you know, and we might as
well square the account in a friendlier way,
eh?—don't you think?"
"And was it he—was there any alterca-
tion?" stammered Dives.
"That did this, you mean," said Sir Jekyl,
moving his hand toward the wound "Not
a bit —- no. He seems reasonable; and I
should like—you know they are very old
blood, and there's nothing against it—that
all should be made up.. And if that young
fellow and Beatrix—don.t you see? Is Tom-
linson there?"
"In the outer room," said Dives.
"Call him. Tomlinson, I say, you take
my compliments to Monsieur Varbarriere,
and say, if he has no objection to see me for
a few minutes here, I should be very happy.
Try and make him out, and bring me word."
So Tomlinson disappeared.
"And, Dives, it tires me;—so will you—
I'm sure you will—see Pelter, after we've
spoken with that fellow Herbert, and consult
what we had best do, you know. I dare say
the young people would come to like one
another—he's a fine young fellow; and that,
you know, would be the natural way of
settling it—better than law or fighting."
"A great deal—a great deal, certainly."
"And you may tell him I have that thing
—-.the deed, you know—my poor father"
"I—I always told you, my dear Jekyl, I'd
rather know nothing of all that—in fact, I
do know nothing; and I should not like to
speak to Pelter on that subject. You can
another time, you know," said Dives.
"Well, it's in the red trunk in there."
"Pray, dear Jekyl, don't—I assure you I'd
rather know nothing—I—I can't; and Pelter
will understand you better when he sees you.
But I'll talk to him with pleasure about the
other thing, and I quite agree with you that
any reasonable arrangement is better than
litigation."
"Very well, be it so," said Sir Jekyl, very
tired.
- "I'm always drinking claret now—give me
some—the only quick way of making blood
-I've lost a lot."
"And you must not talk so much, Jekyl,"
Said Dives, as he placed the glass at his lips;
"you'll wear yourself out."
"Yes, I am tired," said the Baronet; "I'll
rest till Strangways comes."
And he closed his eyes, and was quiet for
a time. And Dives, leaning back in his
chair at the bedside, felt better assured of
Jekyl's recovery, and his thoughts began to
return to their wonted channel, and he enter-
tained himself with listlessly reading and
half understanding a tedious sculling match
iu a very old copy of "Bell's Life," which
happened to lie near him.
A tap at the outer door called up Dives
from Sandy Dick's sweep round a corner, and
Jekyl said—
"Tell him to come in—and stay—you're
not to say I'm hurt—do you mind?
"My dear Jekyl, I—I shan't say anything.
There he's knocking again."
"Well, tell him—come in!"
"Come in!" echoed Dives, in a louder
key.
And Monsieur Varbarriere entered with
that mysterious countenance and cautious
shuffle with which men enter a sick-cham-
ber.
"Very sorry to hear you've been suffering,"
began Varbarriere, in a low tone.
"Thanks—you're very good, I'm sure,"
said Sir Jekyl, with a faint smile. "I—I
wished very much to see you. I expect to
be better very soon, and I thought I might
have a word, as you are so good, in the
meantime."
"Very happy, indeed —most happy, as
long as you please; but you must not try too
much. You know they say you may disturb
gout if you try too much, particularly at
first," said Varbarriere, knowing very well
how little gout had really to do with it.
"Oh ! no danger—doing very nicely," said
Sir Jekyl.


138
GUY DEVERELL.
"That's well—that's very good," said Var-
barriere, with a leisurely sympathy, looking
on him all the time, and calling to mind how
the Comte de Vigny looked after he received
the sword-thmst of which he died in Varbar-
riere's house, to which he had been carried
after his duel with young D'Harnois. And
he came to the conclusion that Sir Jekyl
looked a great deal better than the Comte
had done—and, in fact, that he would do
very well. _
CHAPTER LXXI.
GTJY DEVERELL, AMOVES.
"Sit down, Herbert, I shan't keep you
long. There, I've just been saying to Dives
I think it's a pity we should quarrel any
more—that is, if we can help it; and I don't
see why we should not be friendly—I mean
more friendly than, in fact, we have ever
been—I don't; do you?"
"Why. I see no reason—none; that is, of
course, with the reservations that are—that
are always assumed—I don't see any."
Varbarriere was answering plausibly, po-
litely, smiling. But it was not like last night,
when for a few transient moments he had«
seemed moved from his equilibrium. There
was no emotion now. It was diplomatic
benignity. Still it was something. Here
was his foe willing to hear reason.
"It was just in my mind—Dives and I
talking—I think I've seen some signs of lik-
ing between the young people—1 mean your
nephew and Beatrix."
"Indeed!" interrupted Varbarriere, pro-
longing the last syllable after his wont, and
raising his thick eyebrows in very naturally
acted wonder.
"Well, yes—only a sort of conjecture, you
know—haven't you?"
"Well, I—ha, ha! If I ever observed
anything, it hasn't remained in my mind.
But she is so lovely—Miss Marlowe—that I
should not wonder. And you think"
"I think," said Sir Jekyl, supplying the
pause, " if it be so, we ought not to stand in
the way; and here's Dives, who thinks so
too."
"I—in fact, my brother, Jekyl, mentioned
it of course, to me—it would be a very happy
mode of —of making matters—a—happy;
and—and that, I think, was all that passed,"
said Dives, thus unexpectedly called into the
debate. .
"This view comes on me quite by surprise.
That the young fellow should adore at such
a shrine is but to suppose him mortal," said
Varbarriere, with something of his French
air. "But—but you know the young lady—
that's quite another thing—quite. Young
ladies, you know, are not won all in a mo-
ment." .
"No, of course. We are so far all m the
clouds.' But I wished to say so much to
vou; and I prefer talking face to face, in a
friendly way, to sending messages through
an attorney."
"A thousand thanks. I value the confi-
dence, I assure you—yes, much better—quite
right. And—and I shall be taking my leave
to-morrow morning—business, my dear Sir
Jekyl—and greatly regret it; but I've out-
stayed my time very considerably."
"Very sorry too—and only too happy if
you could prolong it a little. Could you, do
you think?"
Varbarriere shook his head, and thanked
him with a grave smile again—but it was
impossible.
"It is a matter — such an arrangement,
should it turn out practicable—on which we
should reflect and perhaps consult a little.
It sounds not unproruisingly, however; we
can talk again perhaps, if you allow it, before
I go."
"So we can—you won't forget, and I shall
expect to see you often and soon, mind."
And so for the present they parted, Dives
politely seeing him to the head of the stairs.
"I think he entertains it," said Sir Jekyl
to his brother.
"Yes, certainly, he does—yes, he enter-
tains it. But I suspect he's a cunning fel-
low ; and you'll want all the help you can
get, Jekyl, if it comes to settling a bargain."
"I dare say," said Sir Jekyl, very tired.
Meanwhile our friend Varbarriere was
passing through the conservatory, the outer
door of which stood open ever so little, tem-
pering the warmth of its artificial atmos-
phere. He stopped before a file of late
exotics, looking at them with a grave mean-
ing smile, and smelling at them abstractedly.
"Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or
the leopard his spots? Selfish rogue!
Could it be? A wedding, in which Guy,
the son of that murdered Mend, should act
bridegroom, and the daughter of his mur-
derer, bride; while he, the murderer, stood
by smiling, and I, the witness, cried ' amen'
to the blessing! Disgusting! Never, never
—bah I The proposition shows weakness.
Good—very good! A come-down for you,
Master Jekyl, when you sue for an alliance
with Herbert Strangways! Oh! ho! ho!
Never f"
A little while later, Varbarriere, who was
standing at the hall-door steps, saw a chaise
approaching. He felt a presentiment of
what was coming. It pulled up at the door.
"No melodrama—no fracas—no foolery.
Those young turkeys, my faith! they will
be turkeys still. Here he comes, the hero
of the piece! Well, what does it matter?"
This was not articulated, spoken only in
thought, and aloud he said—
"Ha!—Guy?"
And the young man was on the ground
in a moment, pale and sad, and hesitated
deferentially, not knowing how his uncle
might receive him.
"So, here you are," said Varbarriere, coolly
but not ill-humoredly. "Those rambles of
yours are not much to the purpose, my friend,
and cost some money—don't you see?"
Guy bowed sadly, and looked, Varbarriere
saw, really distressed.
"Well, never mind—the expense need not
trouble us," said Varbarriere, carelessly ex-


GUY DEVERELL.
139
tending his hand, which Guy took. "We
may be very good friends in a moderate
way; and I'm not sorry you came, on the
whole. Don't mind going in for a few min-
utes—you're very well—and let us come this
way for a little.
So side by side they turned the corner of
the house, and paced up and down the broad
quiet walk under the windows.
"We must leave this immediately, Guy;
Sir Jekyl is ill—more seriously, I believe,
than they fancy; not dangerously, but still
a tedious thing. They call it gout, but I be-
lieve there is something more.
"Indeed! , How sudden !" exclaimed Guy.
And to do him justice, he seemed both
shocked and sad, although perhaps all his
sorrow was not on Sir Jekyl's account.
"And I'll be frank with you, Guy," con-
tinued Vaibarriere. "I think I can see
plainly, maybe, what has drawn you here.
It is not I—it is not business—it is not Sir
Jekyl. Who or what can it be?"
"I—I thought, sir, my letter had ex-
plained."
"And I'm going away in the morning—
and some of the party probably to-day; for
there's no chance of Sir Jekyl's coming down
for some time," continued Varbarriere, not
seeming to hear Guy's interruptions.
"Very sorry!" said Guy, sincerely, and
his eyes glanced along the empty windows.
"And so, you see, this visit here leads
pretty much to nothing," continued Varbar-
riere. "And it might be best to keep that
carriage for a few minutes—eh?—and get
into it, and drive back again to Slowton."
"Immediately, sir?"
"Immediately—yes. I'll join you there
in the morning, and we cin talk over your
plans then. I do not know exactly—we
must consider. I don't want to part in un-
kindness. I wish to give you a lift, Guy, if
you'll let me." So said Varbarriere in his
off-hand way.
Guy bowed deferentially.
"And see, nephew; there's a thing— at-
tend, if you please," said Varbarriere, lower-
ing his, voice.
"I attend, sir."
"See—you answer upon your honor—do
you hear?"
"I do, sir. You hear nothing but truth
from me."
"Well, yes—very good. Is there—have
you any correspondence in this house?" de-
manded the ponderous uncle, and his full
dark eyes turned suddenly on the young
man.
"No, sir, no correspondence."
"No one writes to you?"
"No, sir."
"Nor you to anyone?"
"No, sir."
"There must be no nonsense of that kind,
Guy—I've told you so before—put it quite
out of your head. You need not speak—1
am merely discussing a hypothesis—quite
out of your head. Nothing could ever come
of it but annoyance. You know, of course,
to whom all this relates; and I tell you it
can't be. There are reasons you shall hear
elsewhere, which are final."
What Guy might have answered does not
appear, for at that moment old Doocey
joined them.
"Oh! come back—how d'ye do ?—going
to break up here, I fancy;" this was to Var-
barriere; Sir Jekyl's in for a regular fit of
it evidently. Old Sir Paul Blunket was talk-
ing to Pratt, their doctor here—and old fel-
lows, you know, go into particulars"
(Doocey, of course, was rather a young fel-
low), " and generally know more about things
of this sort—and he says Dr. Pratt thinks
he'll not be on his legs for a month, egad.
So he says he's going either to-night or to-
morrow—and I m off this evening; so is
Linnett. Can I do anything for you at
Llandudno? Going there first, and I want
to see a little of North Wales before the
season grows too late."
Varbarriere was grateful, tut had nothing
to transmit to Llandudno.
"And—and Drayton—he's going to stay,"
and he looked very sly. "An attraction,
you know, there; besides, I believe he's
related—is not he ?—and, of course, old Lady
Alice Redcliffe stays for chaperon. ' A great
chance for Drayton."
There was a young man at his elbow who
thought Doocey the greatest coxcomb and
fool on earth, except, perhaps, Drayton, and
who suffered acutely and in silence under
his talk.
"Drayton's very spoony on her—eh ?—
the young lady, Miss Marlowe—haven't you
observed?" murmured old Doocey, with a
sly smile, to Varbarriere.
"Very suitable it would be—fine estate,
I'm told," answered Varbarriere; "and a
good-looking young fellow too."
"A.—rather" acquiesced Doocey. "The
kind of fellow that pays very well in a ball-
room ; he's got a lot to say for himself."
"And good family," contributed Varbar-
riere, who was not sorry that old Doocey
should go on lowering his extinguisher on
Guy's foolish flame.
Well—well—-family, you know—there's
nothing very much of that—they—they
there was—it's not the family name, you
know. But no one minds family now—all
money—we're a devilish deal better family,
and so is Mr. Strangways here—all to noth-
ing. I was telling him the other day who
the Draytons are."
Precisely at this moment, through a half-
open upper window, there issued a sudden
cry, followed by sobs and women's gabble.
All stopped short—silent, and looking
up—
"Some one crying," exclaimed Doocey, in
an under-key
And they listened again.
"Nothing bad, I hope," muttered Varbar-
riere, anxiously looking up like the rest.
A maid came to the window to raise the
sash higher, but paused, seeing them.
"Come away, I say—hadn't we better?"
whispered Doocey.
"Let's go in and ask how he is." suggested


GUY DEVERELL.
141
can't hear me; and there's really nothing to
tease yourself about—quite the contrary,
you'll see ; you'll like the people abroad much
better than here—more common sense and
good nature; positively better people, and a
devilish deal more agreeable and—and cle-
verer. And why do you go on crying, Jennie?
You must not; hang it! you'll put me in the
dumps. You don't seem to hear me."
"Yes, I do, I do; but it's all over, Jekyl,
and I have come to bid you farewell, and on
earth we'll never meet again," said Lady
Jane, still weeping violently.
"Come, little Jennie, you shan't talk like a
fool. I've heard you long enough; you must
listen to me—I have more to say."
"Jekyl, Jekyl, I am sorry—oh! I'm sorry,
for your sake, and for mine, I ever saw your
face, and sorrier that I am to see you no
more; but I've quite made up my mind—no-
thing shall change me—nothing—never.
Good-bye, Jekyl. God forgive us. God bless
you."
"Come, Jane, I say, don't talk that way,
'What do you mean ?" said the Baronet, hold-
ing her hand fast in his, and with his other
hand encircling her wrist. If you really do
want to make me ill, Jennie, you'll talk in
that strain. I know, of course, I've been
very much to blame. It was all my fault,—
I said—I say—everything; but you will be
free, Jennie. I wish I had been worthy of
you ; I wish I had. No, you must not go.
Wait a moment. I say, Jennie, I wish to
Heaven I had made you marry me when
you might; but I'll not let you go now; by
heaven, I'll never run a risk of losing you
again."
"No, Jekyl, no, I've made up my mind; it
is all no use, I'll go. It is all over—quite
over, for ever. Good-bye, Jekyl. God bless
you. You'll be happier when we have
parted—in a few days -agreat deal happier;
and as for me, I think I'm broken-hearted."
"By , Jennie, you shan't go. Fll
make you swear; you shall be my wife—by
Heaven, you shall; we'll live and die togeth-
er. You'll be happier than ever you were;
we have years of happiness. I'll be whatever
you like. I'll go to church—I'll be a Pusey-
ite, or a Papist, or anything you like best.
rn—ni"—
And with these words Sir Jekyl let go her
hand suddenly, and with a groping motion
in the air, dropped back on the pillows.
Lady Jane cried wildly for help, and tried to
raise him. The nurse was at her side, she
knew not how. In ran Tomlinson, who,
-without waiting for directions, dashed water
in his face. Sir Jekyl lay still, with waxen
face, and a fixed deepening stare.
"Looks awful bad!" said Tomlinson, gaz-
ing down upon him.
"The wine—the claret !" cried the woman,
as she propped him under the head.
"My God! what is it?" said Lady Jane,
with white lips.
The woman made no answer, but rather
shouldered her, as she herself held the de-
canter to his mouth; and they could hear
the glass clinking on his teeth as her hand
trembled, and the claret flowed over his still
lips and down his throat.
"Lower his head," said the nurse ; and she
wiped his shining forehead with his hand-
kerchief; and all three stared in his face, pale
and stern.
"Call the doctor," at last exclaimed the
nurse. "He's not right."
"Doctor's gone, I think," said Tomlinson,
still gaping on his master.
"Send for him, man! I tell ye," cried the
nurse, scarce taking her eyes from the Baro-
net.
Tomlinson disappeared.
"Is he better?" asked Lady Jane, with a
gasp.
"He'll never be better; I'm afeared he's
gone, ma'am," answered the nurse, grimly,
looking on his open mouth, and wiping away
the claret from his chin.
"It can't be, my good Lord! it can't—
quite well this mmute — talking—why, it
can't—it's only weakness, nurse! for God's
sake, he's not—it is not—it can't be," almost
screamed Lady Jane.
The nurse only nodded her head sternly,
with her eyes still riveted on the face before
her.
"He ought 'a bin let alone—the talkin's
done it," said the woman in a savage under-
tone.
In fact she had her own notions about this
handsome young person who had intruded
herself into Sir Jekyl's sick-room. She knew
Beatrix, and that this was not she, and she
did not like or encourage the visitor, and was
disposed to be sharp, rude, and high with
her.
Lady Jane sat down, with her fingers to
her temple, and the nurse thought she was
on the point of fainting, and did not care.
Donica Gwynn entered, scared by a word
and a look from Tomlinson as he passed her
on the stair. She and the nurse, leaning
over Sir Jekyl, whispered for a while, and
the latter said—
"Quite easy—off like a child—all in a
minute;" and she took Sir Jekyl's hand, the
fingers of which were touching the table,
and laid it gently beside him on the cov-
erlet.
Donica Gwynn began to cry quietly, look-
ing on the familiar face, thinking of presents
of ribbons long ago, and school-boy days,
and many small good-natured remembran-
ces.
CHAPTER LXXm.
DT THE CHAISE.
Hearing steps approaching, Donica re-
collected herself, and said, locking the room
door—
"Don't let them in for a minute."
"Who is she?" inquired the nurse, follow
ing Donica's glance.
"Lady Jane Lennox.'
The woman looked at her with awe and a
little involuntary courtesy, which Lady Jane
did not see.


143
GUY DEVERELL.
"A relation—a—a sort of a niece like of
the poor master — a'most a daughter like
allays."
"Didn't know," whispered the woman,
with another faint courtesy; "but she's bet-
ter out o' this, don't you think, ma'am?"
"Drink a little wine, Miss Jennie, dear,"
said Donica, holding the glass to her lips.
"Won't you, darling?"
She pushed it away gently, and got up,
and looked at Sir Jekyl in silence.
"Come away, Miss Jennie, darling, come
away, dear, there's people at the door. It's
no place for you," said Donica, gently plac-
ing her hand under her arm, and drawing
her toward the study door. "Come in here,
for a minute, with old Donnie."
Lady Jane did go out unresisting, hur-
riedly, and weeping bitterly.
Old Donica glanced almost guiltily over
her shoulder; the nurse was hastening to
the outer door. "Say nothing of us," she
whispered, and shut the study door.
"Come, Miss Jennie, darling; do as I tell
you. They must not know."
They crossed the floor; at her touch the
false door with its front of fraudulent books
opened. They were. now in a dark passage,
lighted only by the reflection admitted
through two or three narrow lights near the
ceiling, concealed effectually on the outside.
The reader will understand that I am here
describing the architectural arrangements,
which I myself have seen and examined. At
the farther end of this room, which is about
twenty-three feet long, is a niche in which
stands a sort of cupboard. This swings upon
hinges, secretly contrived, and you enter
another chamber of about the same length.
This room is almost as ill-lighted as the first,
and was then stored with dustv old furniture,
piled along both sides, the lumber of fifty
years ago. From the side of this room a
door opens upon the gallery, which door has
been locked for half a century, and I believe
could hardly be opened from without.
At the other end of this dismal room is a
recess, in one side of which is fixed an open
press, with shelves in it; and this unsuspected
press revolves on hinges also, shutting with
a concealed bolt, and is, in fact, a door ad-
mitting to the green chamber.
It is about five years since I explored,
under the guidance of the architect employed
to remove this part of the building, this
mysterious suite of rooms; and knowing, as
I fancied, thoroughly the geography of the
house, I found myself with a shock of incre-
dulity thus suddenly in the green chamber,
which I fancied still far distant. Looking to
my diary, in which I that day entered the
figures copied from the ground plan of the
house, I find a little column which explains
how the distance from front to rear, amount-
ing to one hundred and seventy-three feet, is
disposed of.
Measuring from the western front of the
house, with which the front of the Window
dressing-room stands upon a level, that of the
green chamber receding about twelve feet:—
ft. in.
Window dressing-room or hexagon 12 0
Green chamber 38 o
Recess 2 0
First dark room 23 0
Recess 1 6
Second dark room 23 0
Recess 1 6
Study 26 0
Wall.... - 1 0
Sir Jekyl's bed-room 27 0
Ante-room 10 0
Stair, bow-window of which forms part
of the eastern front 9 0
173 0
I never spoke to anyone who had made
the same exploration who was not as much
surprised as I at the unexpected solution of
a problem which seemed to have proposed
bringing the front and rear of this ancient
house, by a " devilish cantrip slight," a hun-
dred feet at least nearer to one another than
stone mason and foot-rule had ordained.
The rearward march from the Window
dressing-room to the foot of the back-stair,
which ascends by the eastern wall of the
house, hardly spares you a step of the full
distance of one hundred and seventy-three
feet, and thus impresses you with an idea of
complete separation, which is enhanced by
the remote ascent a"nd descent. When you
enter Sir Jekyl's room, you quite forget that
its great window looking rearward is in
reality nineteen feet nearer the front than
the general line of the rear; and when you
stand in that moderately proportioned room,
his study, which appears to have no door
but that which opens into his bed-room, you
couid not believe without the evidence of
these figures, that there intervened but two
rooms of three-and-twenty feet in length
each, between you and that green chamber,
whose bow window ranks with the front of
the house.
How Lady Jane sat in that hated room
once more, a room henceforward loathed and
feared in memory, as if it had been the abode
of an evil spirit. Here, gradually it seemed,
opened upon her the direful vista of the
future; and as it happens in tales of magic
mirrors, when she looked into it her spirit
sank and she fainted.
When she recovered consciousness—the
window open—eau de cologne, sal volatile,
and all the rest around her, with cloaks
about her knees, and a shawl over her
shoulders, she sat and gazed in dark apathy
on the floor for a time. It was the first
time in her life she had experienced the
supernatural panic of death.
Where was Jekyl now? All irrevocable!
Nothing in this moment's state changeable
for ever, and ever, and ever!
This gigantic and inflexible terror the
human brain can hardly apprehend or en-
dure; and oh! when it concerns one for
whom you would have almost died yourself!
"Where is he? How can I reach him,
even with the tip of my finger, to convey
that one drop of water for which he moans
now and now, and through all futurity?"
Vain your wild entreaties. Can the dumb
earth answer, or the empty air hear you?


144
GUY DEVERELL.
minutes more she was sitting in her tempo-
rary room, leaning on her .hand, and still
cloaked and bonneted, appearing to look out
upon the antique garden, with its overgrown
staandard pear and cherry trees, but, in
truth, seeing nothing but the sharp face that
had gazed so awfully into space that day
from the pillow in Sir Jekyl's bed-room.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
OLD LADY ALICE TALKS WITH GTTT.
As Varbarriere, followed by Doocey and
Guy, entered the hall, they saw Dives cross
hurriedly to the library and shut the door.
Varbarriere followed and knocked. Dives,
very pallid, opened it, and looked hesitatingly
in his for a moment, and then said—
"Come in, come in, pray, and shut the
door. You'll be—you'll be shocked, sir.
He's gone—gone. Poor Jekyl! It's a ter-
rible thing. He's gone, air, quite suddenly."
His puffy, bilious hand was on Varbar-
riere's arm with a shifting pressure, and
Varbarriere made no answer, but looked in
his face sternly and earnestly.
"There's that poor girl, you know—my
niece. And—and all so unexpected. Itrs
awful, sir."
I'm very much shocked, sir. I had not
an idea there was any danger. I thought
him looking very far from actual danger, I'm
very much shocked."
"And—and things a good deal at sixes
and sevens, I'm afraid," said Dives—" law
business, you know."
"Perhaps it would be well to detain Mr.
Pelter, who is; I believe, still here," sug-
gested Varbarriere.
"Yes, certainly; thank you," answered
Dives, eagerly ringing the bell.
"And I've a chaise at the door," said Var-
barriere, appropriating Guy's vehicle.
"A melancholy parting, sir; but in circum-
stances so sad, the only kindness we can
show is to withdraw the restraint of our
presence, and to respect the sanctity of
affliction."
With which little speech, in the artificial
style which he had contracted in France, he
made his solemn bow, and, for the last time
for a good while, shook the Rev. Dives, now
Sir Dives Marlowe, by the hand.
When our friend the butler entered, it
was a comfort to see one countenance on
which was no trace of flurry. Nil admirari
—his manner was a philosophy, and the
convivial undertaker had acquired a grave
suavity of demeanor and countenance,
which answered all occasions—impertur-
bable during the comic stories of an after-
dinner sederunt—imperturbable now on
hearing the other sort of story, known
already, which the Rev. Dives Marlowe re-
counted, and offered, with a respectful in-
clination, his deferential but very short con-
dolences.
Varbarriere in the meanwhile looked
through the hall vestibule and from the steps,
in vain, for his nephew! He encountered
Jacques, however, but he had not seen Guy,
which when Varbarriere, who was in one of
his deep-seated fusses, heard, he made a few
sotto voce ejaculations.
"Tell that fellow—he's in the stable-yard,
I dare say—who drove Mr. Guy from Slow-
ton, to bring his chaise round this moment;
we shall return. If his horses want rest,
they can have it in town, Marlowe, close by;
I shall send a carriage up for you; and you
follow with all our things, immediately for
Slowton."
So Jacques departed, and Varbarriere did
not care to go up stairs to his room. He did
not like meeting people; he did not like the
chance of hearing Beatrix cry again; he
wished to be away, and his temper was sav-
age. He could have struck his nephew over
the head with his cane for detaining him.
But Guy had been summoned elsewhere.
As he walked listlessly before the house, a
sudden knocking from the great window of
Lady Mary's boudoir caused him to raise his
eyes, and he saw the grim apparition of old
Lady Alice beckoning to him. As he raised
his hat, she nodded at him, pale, scowling
like an evil genius, and beckoned him fiercely
up with her crooked fingers.
Another bow, and he entered the house,
ascended the great stair, and knocked at the
door of the boudoir. Old Lady Alice's thin
hand opened it. She nodded in the same in-
auspicious way, pointed to a seat, and shut
the door before she spoke.
Then, he still standing, she took his hand,
and said, in tones unexpectedly soft and
fond—
"Well, dear, how have yea been? It
seems a long time, although it's really noth-
ing. Quite well, I hope V
Guy answered, and inquired according to
usage; and the old lady said—
"Don't ask for me; never ask. I'm never
well—always the same, dear, and I hate to
think of myself^ You've heard the dreadful
intelligence—the frightful event What will
become of my poor niece? Everything in
distraction. But Heaven's will be done. I
shan't last long if this sort of thing is to con-
tinue—quite impossible. There—don't speak
to me for a moment. I wanted to tell you,
you must come to me; I have a great deal
to say," she resumed, having smelt a little at
her vinaigrette; "but not just now. I'm not
equal to all this. You know how I've been
tried and shattered."
Guy was too well accustomed to be more
than politely alarmed by these preparations
for swooning which Lady Alice occasionally
saw fit to make; and in a little while she
resumed—
"Sir Jekyl has been taken from us—he's
gone—awfully suddenly. I wish he had had
a little time for preparation. Ho, dear! poor
Jekyl J Awful! But we all bow to the will
of Providence. I fear there has been some
dreadful mismanagement. I always said
and knew that Pratt was a quack—positive
infatuation. But there's no good in looking
to secondary causes. Won't you sit down?"


GUY DEVERELL.
145
Guy preferred standing. The hysterical
raniblings of this selfish old woman did not
weary or disgust him. Quite the contrary;
he would have prolonged them. Was she
not related to Beatrix, and did not this
kindred soften, beautify, glorify that shri-
velled relic of another generation, and make
him listen to her in a second-hand fascina-
tion?
"You're to come to me—d'ye see ?—but
not immediately. TheTe's a—there's some
one there at present, and I possibly shan't be
at home. I must remain with poor dear
Beatrix a little. She'll probably go to Dart-
broke, you know; yes, that would not be a
bad plan, and I of course must consider her,
poor thing. When you grow a little older
you'll find yon must often sacrifice yourself,
my dear. I've served a long apprenticeship
to that kind of thing. You must come to
Wardlock, to my house; I have a great deal
to say and tell you, and you can spend a
week or so there very pleasantly. There
are some pictures and books, and some
walks, and everybody looks at the monu-
ments in the church. There are two of them
—the Chief Justice of Chester and Hugo de
Redcliffe— in the 'Gentleman's Magazine.'
I'll show it to you when you come, and you
can have the carriage, provided you don't
tire the horses; but you must come. I'm
your kinswoman—I'm your relation—I've
found it all out—very near—your poor dear
father."
Here Lady Alice dried her eyes.
"Well, it's time enough. You see how
shattered I am, and so pray don't urge me to
talk any more just now'. I'll write to you,
perhaps, if I find myself able; and you write
to me, mind, directly, and address to Ward-
lock Manor, Wardlock. Write it in your
pocket-book or you'll forget it, and put' to
be forwarded' on it. Old Donica will see to
it. She's very careful I think; and you pro-
mise you'll come?"
Guy did promise; so she said—
"Well, dear, till we meet, good-bye; there,
God bless you, dear."
And she drew his.hand toward her, and
he felt the loose soft leather of her old cheek
on his as she kissed him, and her dark old
eyes .ooked for a moment in his, and then
she-dismissed him with—
"There, dear, I can't talk ".ny more at
present; there, farewell. Gof oless you."
Down through that changed, mysterious
house, through which people now trod softly,
and looked demure, and spoke little on stairs
or lobby, and that in whispers, went Guy
Deverell, and glanced upward, involuntarily,
as he descended, hoping that he might see
the beloved shadow of Beatrix on the wall,
or even the hem of her garment; but all was
silent and empty, and in a few seconds more
he was again in the chaise, sitting by old
Varbarriere, who was taciturn and ill-tem-
pered all the way to Slowton.
By that evening all the visitors but the
Rev. Dives Marlowe and old Lady Alice,
who remained with Beatrix, had taken flight.
Even Pelter, after a brief consultation with
Dives, had fled Londonwards, and the
shadow and silence of the chamber of death
stole out under the door and pervaded all
the mansion.
That evening Lady Alice recovered suffi-
cient strength to write a note to Lady Jane,
telling her that in consequence of the death
of Sir Jekyl, it became her duty to remain
with her niece for the present at Marlowe.
It superadded many religious reflections
thereupon; and offering to her visitor at
Wardlock the use of that asylum, and the
societ)- and attendance of Donica Gywnn, it
concluded with many wholesome wishes for
the spiritual improvement of Lady Jane
Lennox.
Strangely enough, these did not produce
the soothing and elevating effect that might
have been expected; for when Lady Jane
read the letter she tore it into strips and
then into small squares, and stamped upon
the fragments more like her fierce old self
than she had appeared for the previous four-
and-twenty hours.
"Come, Donica, you write to say I leave
to-morrow, and that you come with me.
You said you'd wish it—you must not draw
back. You would not desert me?"
_ I fancy her measures were not quite so pre-
cipitate, for some arrangements were indis-
pensable before starting for a long sojourn on
the Continent. Lady Jane remained at
Wardlock, I believe, for more than a week;
and Donica, who took matters more peace-
ably in her dry way, obtained, without a
row, the permission of Lady Alice to accom-
pany the forlorn young wife on her journey.
CHAPTER LXXV.
SOMETHING MORE OP LADY JANE LENNOX.
"See, Doctor Pratt—how do you do?
you've been up-stairs. I—I was anxious to
see you, most anxious; this shocking, dread-
ful occurrence," said the Reverend Dives
Marlowe, who waylaid the Doctor as he came
down, and was now very pale, hurrying him
into the library as he spoke, and shutting the
door. "The nurse is gone, you know, and all
quiet; and—and the quieter the better, be-
cause, you know, that poor girl Beatrix my
niece, she has not a notion there was any
hurt, a wound, you see, and knows nothing
in fact. I'll go over and see that Slowton
doctor—a—a gentleman. I-forgct his name.
There's no need, I've considered it, none in
the world—of a—a—that miserable ceremony,
you know."
'I don't quite follow you, sir," observed
Doctor Pratt, looking puzzled.
"I mean, I mean a—a coroner—that a"
"Oh! I see, I—I see," answered Pratt.
"And I went up, poor fellow; there's no
blood, nothing. It may have been apoplexy,
or any natural cause, for anything I know.
"Internal haemorrhage—an abrasion, pro-
bably, of one of the great vessels; and gave
way, you see, in consequence of his over-ex-
erting himself."
10


146
GUY DEVERELL.
"Exactly; a blood-vessel has given way, I
see," said the Reverend Dives; "internal
haemorrhage. I see, exactly; and I—I know
that Slowton doctor won't speak any more
than you, my dear Pratt, but I may as well
see him, don't you think? And, and there's
really no need for all that terrible misery of
an inquest."
"Well, you know, it's not for me; the—the
family would act naturally."
"The family! why, look at that poor girl,
my niece, in hysterics! I would not stake
that—that Ml there, I protest, on her preserv-
ing her wits, if all that misery were to be
gone through."
"Does Lady Alice know anything of it?"
"Lady Alice Redcliffe? Quite right, sir—
very natural inquiry; not a syllable. She's,
you know, not a—a person to conceal things;
but she knows and suspects nothing; and no
one—that nurse, you told me, thought the
hurt was an operation—not a soul suspects."
And thus the Reverend Dives agreed with
himself that the scandal might be avoided;
and thus it came to pass that the county
paper, with a border of black round the par-
agraph, announced the death of Sir Jekyl
Marlowe, Baronet, at the family residence of
Marlowe Manor, in this county, the immedi-
ate cause of his death being the rupture of a
blood-vessel in the lungs, attended by inter-
nal haemorrhage. By the death of Sir Jekyl
Marlowe, it further stated, " a seat in Parlia-
ment and a deputy lieutenancy for this
county become vacant." Then came a grace-
ful tribute to Sir Jekyl's value as a county
gentleman, followed by the usual summary
from the " Peerage," and the fact that, leav-
ing no male issue, he would be succeeded in
his title and the bulk of his estates by his
brother, the Reverend Dives Marlowe.
So in due course this brother figured as the
Reverend Sir Dives Marlowe, and became
proprietor of Marlowe Manor, where, how-
ever, he does not reside, preferring his sa-
cred vocation, and the chance of preferment,
for he has grown, they say, very fond of
money—to the wordly life, and expensive lia-
bilities of a country gentleman.
The Reverend Sir Dives Marlowe, Bart., is
still unmarried. It is said, however, that he
was twice pretty near making the harbor of
matrimony. Lady Bateman, the relict of
Sir Thomas, was his first object, and matters
went on satisfactorily until the stage of busi-
ness was arrived at; when unexpectedly the
lovers on both side3 were pulled up and
thrown on their haunches by a clause in Sir
Thomas's will, the spirit of which is con-
tained in the Latin words, durante viduitate.
Over this they pondered, recovered their
senses, shook hands, and in the name of pru-
dence parted good friends, which they still
are.
The second was the beautiful and accom-
plished Miss D'Acre. In earlier days the
Reverend Dives would not have dreamed of
anything so imprudent. Time, however,
which notoriously does so much for us, if he
makes us sages in some particulars, in others,
makes us spoonies. It is hard to say what
might have happened if a more eligible bride-
groom had not turned up in George St.
George Lighton, of Seymour Park, Esq. So
that Dives' love passages have led to noth-
ing, and of late years he has attempted no
further explorations in those intricate ways.
I may as well here mention all I know
further about Lady Jane Lennox. I cannot
say exactly how soon she left Wardlock, but
she did not await Lady Alice's return, and, I
think, has never met her since.
Sir Jekyl Marlowe's death was, I suppose,
the cause of the abandonment of General
Leonox's resolution to proceed for a divorce.
He remained in England for fully four
months after the Baronet's death, evidently
awaiting any proceedings which the family
might institute, in consequence, against him.
Upon this point he was fiercely obstinate,
and his respectable solicitor even fancied him
"cracked." With as little/races as possible,
a separation was arranged, no difficult mat-
ter, for the General was open-handed, and
the lady impatient only to be gone. It was a
well-kept secret; the separation, of course, a
scandal, but its exact cause enveloped in
doubt. A desperate quarrel, it was known,
had followed the General's return from
town, but which of the younger gentlemen,
then guests at Marlowe, was the hero of the
suspicion, was variously conjectured. The
evidence of sojourners in the house only
deepened the mystery. Lady Jane had not
shown the least liking for anyone there. It
was thought by most to have a reference to
those old London stories which had never
been quite proved. A few even went the
length of conjecturing that something had
turned up about the old General, which had
caused the explosion.
With an elderly female cousin, Donica
Gwynn, and her maid, she went abroad,
where she has continued nearly ever since,
living rather solitarily, but not an outcast, a
woman who had been talked about unpleas-
antly, but never convicted—perhaps quite
blameless, and therefore by no means ex-
cluded.
But a secret sorrow always sat at her
heart. The last look of that bad man, who,
she believed, had loved her truly though
guiltily—summoned as he talked with her—
irrevocably gone. Where was he now? How-
was it with him?
"Oh, Jekyl! Jekyl! If I could only know
if we are ever to meet again—forgiven!"
With fingers clasped together under her
cloak, and eyes upturned to the stars in the
beautiful Italian skies, she used, as she
walked to and fro alone on the terrace of her
villa, to murmur these agonised invocations.
The heedless air received them; the silent
stars shone cold above, inexorably bright.
But Time, who dims the pictures, as well as
heals the wounds of the past, spread his.
shadows and mildews over these ghastly im-
ages; and as her unselfish sorrow subsided,
the sense of her irrevocable forfeiture
threw its ever-lengthening shadow over her
mind.
"I see how people think— some wonder


GUY DEVERELL
147
at me, some accept me, some flatter me—all
suspect me."
So thought she, with a sense of sometimes
nearly insupportable loneliness, of resent-
ment she could not express, and of restless-
mess—dissatisfied with the present, hopeless
of the future. It was a life without an
object, without retrospect—no technical
compromise, but somehow a fall—a fall in
which she bitterly acquiesced, yet which she
fiercely resented.
I don't know that her bible has yet stood
her in stead much. She has practised va-
garies—Tractarian sometimes, and some-
times Methodist. But there is a yearning,
I am sure, which will some day lead her to
hope and serenity.
It is about a year since I saw the death of
General Lennox in the "Times," an event
which took place rather suddenly at Vichy.
I am told that his will contains no allusion
to Lady Jane. This, however, was to have
been expected, for the deed of separation
had amply provided for her; so now she is
free. But I have lately heard from old Lady
Alice, who keeps her memor}' and activity
wonderfully, and maintains a correspon-
dence with old Donnie Gwynn, that she
shows no symptom of a disposition to avail
herself of her liberty. I have lived long
enough to be surprised at nothing, and
therefore should not wonder if hereafter she
should do so.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
THE LAST.
Old Lady Alice, who liked writing and
reading letters, kept up an active correspon-
dence with her grandson, and that dutiful
young gentleman received them with a
punctuality that did him honor.
Shortly after Lady Jane Lennox's depar-
ture from Wardlock, Lady Alice Redcliffe
and her fair young charge, Beatrix, arrived
at that discreet old dower house. Old Lady
Alice, who, when moved, could do a good-
natured thing, pitying the solitariness of her
pretty guest, so soon as she thought her
spirits would bear it, invited first the Miss
Radlowes, and afterward the Miss Winkle-
tons—lively young ladies of Beatrix's time
of life—who helped to make Wardlock less
depressing.' These hospitalities led to
"invites;" and so the time passed over
without the tedium that might have been
looked for, until the period dVew near when
Beatrix was to make the Italian tour she
had arranged with that respectable and by
no means disagreeable family, the Fentons
of Appleby. A rumour reached Guy that
Drayton was to be one of the party. This
certainly was not pleasant. He ailuded to
it in his next letter, but Lady Alice chose to
pass the subject by.
There has been no step actually taken in
the threatened lawsuit since the death of
Sir Jekyl. But there were unpleasant ru-
mors, and Pelter and Crowe were in com-
munication with the Rev. Sir Dives Marlowe
on the subject, and he occasionally commu-
nicated his peevish sense of poor' Jekyl's
unreasonableness in having died just when
everything was at sixes and sevens, and the
unfairness of his having all the trouble and
so little of the estates.
Varbarriere, I suppose, was on good terms
once more with his nephew. There was no
more talk of Algeria, and they were now
again in London. That corpulent old gen-
tleman used to smile with an unctuous
scorn over the long letters with which Lady
Alice occasionally favored him.
"My faith! she must suppose I have fine
leisure, good eyes also, to read all that. I
wish, Guy, she would distinguish only you
with her correspondence. I suppose if I
never answer her, she will cease some time."
He had a letter from her while in London,
on which he discoursed in the above vein. I
doubt that he had ever read it through.
Guy received one by the same post, in the
conclusion of which she said—
"Beatrix Marlowe goes in a few days, with
the Fentons, to Paris, and thence to Italy.
My house will then be a desert, and I miser-
ably solitary, unless you and your uncle will
come to me, as you long since promised, and
as you well know there is nothing to pre-
vent. I have written to him, nammg Wed-
nesday week. I shall then have rooms in
which to place you, and you positively must
not refuse."
Under this hospitable pressure, Varbarriere
resolved to make a visit to Wardlock—a fly-
ing visit of a day and night—rather to hear
what she might have to say than to enjoy
that excellent lady's society. From Slowton,
having there got rid of their railway dust
and vapor, the gentlemen reached Wardlock
at the approach of evening. In the hall they
found old Lady Alice, her thin stooping
figure cloaked and shawled for a walk, and
her close bonnet shading her hollow and
wrinkled face.
Hospitable in her way, and really glad to
see her guests, was the crone. She would
have dismantled and unbonnetted, and called
for luncheon, and would have led the way
into the parlor; but they would not hear of
such things, having refreshed at Slowton,
and insisted instead on joining the old lady
in her walk.
There is a tall glass door in the back hall,
which opens on the shorn grass, and through
it they passed into the circumscribed but
pretty pleasure-ground, a quadrangle, of
which the old house, overgrown with jessa-
mine and woodbine, formed nearly one side;
the opposite garden wall, overtopped with
ancient fruit-trees, another; and screens of
tall-stemmed birch and ash, and an under-
wood of juniper and evergreens, the others;
beds of brilliant verbena here and there pat-
terned the green sod; and the whole had an
air so quaint and cloister-like, as drew forth
some honest sentences of admiration from
old Varbarriere.
They strolled among these flowers in this
pleasant seclusion for a time, until Lady
Alice pronounced herself fatigued, and sat


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