THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO LIBRARY |- /. GUY DEVERELL, * * * * * * * * * * * * BY J. S. LE FANU *\ AUTHOR OF • UNCLE SILAs, ‘WYLDER's HAND, ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 1865. [The right of Translation is reserved.] * LONDON S-P OTT is Woo D R AND Co. PRINT p D py NEW-STREET squaRR III. IV. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. CONTENTS OF THE THIRD WOLUME, ------ PAGE . PELTER OPENS HIS MIND • • • 1 . THE PIPE OF PEACE . ... • • . 10 A RENCONTRE IN THE GALLERY . . 22 OLD DONNIE AND LADY JANE • . 33 . ALONE-YET NOT ALONE • • . 44 VARBARRIERE THE TYRANT DEBATES WITH THE WEAKER WARBARRIERES • . 54 M. VARBARRIERE DECIDEs . • . 66 AT THE GREEN CHAMBER . • . 77 IN THE GREEN CHAMBER - - . 90 THE MORNING . • - • ... 100 THE DOCTOR'S VISIT . • • . 109 THE PATIENT INTERROGATED . • . 121 GENERAL LENNox APPEARs . - . 132 LADY ALICE REDCLIFFE MAKES GENERAL LENNox's ACQUAINTANCE . • . 142 THE Bishop SEES THE PATIENT . . 153 IN THE YARD OF THE MARLOWE ARMS , 165 iv CONTENTS OF THE THIRD WOLUME. CHAP. PAGE XVII. ABOUT LADY JANE - - • . 176 XVIII. LADY JANE's TOILET . - - . 186 XIX. THE TWO DOCTORS CONSULT . - . 193 XX. VARBARRIERE IN THE SICK-Room . . 204 XXI. GUY DEVERELL ARRIVES - - . 214 XXII. I AM THINE AND THOU ART MINE, BoDY AND SouL, FOR EVER - • . 226 XXIII. IN THE CHAISE . • • - . 237 XXIV. OLD LADY ALICE TALKS WITH GUY . 250 XXV. SOMETHING MORE OF LADY JANE LENNOX 260 XXVI. THE LAST . - - - - . 269 GUY DEVERELL. -*— CHAPTER I. 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 VOL. III. B PELTER OPENS HIS MIND. 3 ‘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, egad!’ - ‘A monstrous able fellow he'll be if he gets my property, egad! It seems to me you Pelter 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, hal—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 parlour 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, de- parted. “I say, do you?” B 2 4 GUY DEVERELL. • “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'hôte. 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 Marlowe.’ 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 honour; PELTER OPENS HIS MIND. 5 but he knew a great deal of you, and he spoke very handsomely—upon my honour 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 afraid Sir Jekyl might not remember his 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 anger to cool a little, and I really, for my part, never felt anything of the kind to- wards him; I can honestly say that, and I dare say he knows it. I merely want to protect myself against—against madmen, egad!” said Sir Jekyl. 6 - GUY DEVERELL. ‘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, because 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, isn't 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 8 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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, except 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 informa- tion you can scrape together, Sir Jekyl. You see they may have evidence of that deed—I mean the lost one, you know—and proving a marriage and the young gentle- man 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.’ n have a long talk with you about it \ ". * PELTER OPENS HIS MIND. 9 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 himself 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. ss- s > -#| 10 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER II. 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 Warbarriere, 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 not you tell me?’ exclaimed the attorney, stopping short. ‘By the law you’ve got him here.” ‘Monsieur Warbarriere?” said the Ba- rOnet. ‘Mr. Strangways, sir—that's he.' ‘That Strangways!” echoed the Baronet. ‘Herbert Strangways, whispered Mr. Pelter, and by this time M. Warbarriere was under the rich oak archway, and stopped, THE PIPE OF PEACE. 11 \ smiling darkly, and bowing a little to the Baronet, who was for a moment surprised into silence. 4. . . ‘How do you do, Mr. Strangways, sir?’ said the attorney, advancing with a shrewd resolute smile, and extending his hand. M. Warbarriere, without the slightest embarrassment, 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 by the name of Warbarriere, which name I adopted on purchasing the Warbarriere estates shortly after I met you at Havre, on becoming a naturalised subject of France.” “Wonderful little changed, Monsieur Barvarrian—fat, sir—a little stouter—in good case, Mr. Strangways; but six years, you know, sir, does not count for nothing— ha, ha, ha!” - s : -i 12 GUY DEVERELL. ‘You have the goodness to flatter me, I fear, answered Warbarriere, 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 attorney, presenting his own guest to the Baronet. ‘And so, Monsieur Warbarriere, 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 remember 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 courage to invite the sadness of the retro- spect, though a very remote one. I believe I was right, Sir Jekyl. Life's true philo- sophy is to extract from the present all it can yield of happiness, and to bury our dead out of our sight.’ THE PIPE OF PEACE. 13 ‘I dare say—I'm much of that way of thinking myself. And—dear me!—I–I suppose I'm very much altered. He was looking at Warbarriere, and trying to recover in the heavy frame and ponderous features before him the image of that Herbert Strangways whom, in the days of his early coxcombry, he had treated with a becom- ing impertinence. - ‘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 Warbarriere. And he stood before Sir Jekyl, as he would display a portrait, full front—Sir Jekyl held a silver candlestick in his hand, Monsieur Warbarriere his in his — and they stood face to face—in a dream of the past. Warbarriere's mystic smile expanded to a grin, and the grin broke into a laugh— deep and loud—not insulting—not sneering. In that explosion of sonorous and enig- matic merriment Sir Jekyl joined—perhaps a little hesitatingly and coldly, for he was 14 GUY DEVERELL. trying, I think, to read the riddle-wishing to be quite sure that he might be pleased, and accept these vibrations as sounds of reconciliation. There was nothing quite to forbid it. “I see, said Monsieur Warbarriere, 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 acknowledge him in the street, and when they did speak could not forbear breaking his gawky bones with their jokes? —ha, ha, ha! Now, lo! here he stands— the grand old black swine, 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 Jovel I’d much * THE PIPE OF PEACE. 15 rather any day grow a little full, for my part, than turn, like some fellows, into a scarecrow.’ ‘No, no—no scarecrow, certainly, stil laughed Warbarriere. - ‘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 War- barriere, and smoke a cigar. You can’t do better—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 leading the way affably—reached that snuggery which Warbarriere had vi- sited so often before. “Just one—they are so good, said he. ‘We are to go to the drawing-room—aren't we?” : > 16 GUY DEVERELL. ‘Oh, certainly. I think you'll like these —they're rather good, Mr. Pelter. You know them, Monsieur Warbarriere.” “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 plea- santly together, said Sir Jekyl, cultivating genial relations. Warbarriere, 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, how- ever, was busy in conjecturing 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?’ asked Sir Jekyl, removing his cigar for a moment. ‘You are very good. Yes, I hope. In | * THE PIPE OF PEACE. . 17 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 War- barriere laughed, ‘only I must cure him of his nonsense.” ‘Well, then we may hope very soon to see Mr. Strangways. I call him Strang- ways, you know, because he has assumed that name, I suppose, permanently.” ‘Well, I think so. His real name is Deverell—a very near relation, and, in fact, representative 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 dis- arm suspicion adroitly. - “A particularly handsome fellow—a dis- tinguished-looking young man. How many things, Monsieur Warbarriere, we wish un- done as we get on in life!” VOL. III. C 18 GUY DEVERELL. The attorney lay back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, his heels on the carpet, his cigar pointing up to the ceiling, and his eyes closed luxuriously. He intended making a note of everything. ‘I hope to get him on rapidly in the French service, resumed Warbarriere, ‘and I can make him pretty comfortable myself while I live, and more so after I’m gone; and in the meantime I am glad to put him in a field where he must exert himself, and see something of labour as well as of life.” There was a knock at the door, and the intelligence that Mr. Pelter's luggage was in his room. He would have stayed, per- haps, but Sir Jekyl, smiling, urged haste, and as his cigar was out, he departed. When he was quite gone, Sir Jekyl rose smiling, and extended his hand to Warbat- riere, 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 THE PIPE OF PEACE. 19 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—but 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 Warbarriere's powerful hand very kindly. I cannot ana- lyse his thoughts and feelings in that moment of confusion. It had overcome him suddenly — it had in some strange way even touched Warbarriere. Was there dimly seen by each a kindly solution of a life-long hatred—a possibility of something wise, perhaps self-sacrificing, that led to reconciliation and serenity in old days? C 2 2U GUY DEVERELL. Warbarriere 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 l’ murmured Warbarriere, 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 sentiment came a sincere and odd little laugh. “My faith ! I believe it's true,' said War- THE PIPE OF PEACE. 21 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!’ 22 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER III. A RENCONTRE IN THE GALLERY. IT was time now, however, that they should make their appearance in the drawing-room; so, for the present, Warbarriere 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 Warbar- riere, with a pang, as he revised his toilet hurriedly for the drawing-room. ‘Could that episode be evaded?' A RENCONTRE IN THE GALLERY. 23 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 drawing-room. Monsieur Warbarriere slid forth, fat and black, from his doorway, with wondrous little noise, his bulk considered, and in- stantly 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 bonnet, 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 of 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 un- expectedly. A suspicion had crossed his mind. ‘How d'ye do, Mrs. Gwynn '' “Well, I thank you, sir.’ ‘Want me here?’ ‘No, sir; I was wrote for by missus, please.” 24 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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 tête-à-tête with Donica Gwynn in the gallery. ‘No, sir, please, I han’t nothing to say, sir, and she courtesied. “Very well, Mrs. Gwynn; we're quite secret, hey?’ and with another hard look, but only momentary, in her face, he pro- ceeded toward the head of the staircase. ‘Beg parding, sir, but I think you dropt something. She was pointing to a letter, doubled up, and a triangular corner of which stuck up from the floor, a few yards away. ‘Oh! thank you, said Warbarriere, 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. A RENCONTRE IN THE GALLERY. 25 They will mislay papers, and even lose them; they are dilatory and indolent— quite the reverse of our sharp, lynx-eyed, energetic notions of that priesthood of Themis, and prone to every sort and de- scription of lay irregularity in matters of order and pink tape. Our friend 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, daring, 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 26 GUY DEVERELL. in that receptacle, and was nothing the whiter, I am bound to admit, especially about the edges, for its long sojourn there. Warbarriere 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 more cautious than Pelter. Sir Jekyl was once more in high spirits. To do him justice, he had not affected 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 2 Samuel Pelter, Esq., gentleman attorney and a solicitor of the High Court of Chan- cery, like most prosperous men, had a comfortable confidence in himself; and having heard that Lady Alice Redcliffe was quarrelling with her lawyer, thought there could be no harm in his cultivating her acquaintance. The old lady was sitting in a high-backed chair, very perpendicularly, with several A RENCONTRE IN THE GALLERY. 27 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 not, perhaps, a distinguished-looking man—rather, I fear, the contrary. His face was broad and Smirking, 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 upwards of seventy badly hurt. I’m no chicken, Lady Alice, but by Jove, ma'am, I can't remember any such casualty—a regu- lar ca-tas-trophe, ma'am!’ And Pelter, with much feeling, gently lashed his paunch with his watch-chain and A RENCONTRE IN THE GALLERY. 29 ma'am, chronic cough, 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 troublesome ! 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 honour 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 any 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. 30 GUY DEVERELL. “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 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 pas- sage 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 logger- A RENCONTRE IN THE GALLERY. 31 heads 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 at- torney, 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 per- sons 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.’ 32 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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. | OLD DONNIE AND LADY JANE. 33 CHAPTER IV. OLD DONNIE 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 Warbarriere, 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 VOL. III. D 34 GUY DEVERELL. 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 car- pet, remained silent, it seemed to the girl undecided 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 to-night.” ‘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 Warbarriere. OLD DONNIE AND LADY JANE. 35 “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 little laugh, “perhaps I could ; but it is not worth talking about, and with a sudden change from this sinister levity to a serious- ness 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;’ * D 2 36 GUY DEVERELL. 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 fat Monsieur Varbarriere be He looks like Torquemada, the In- quisitor—mysterious, plausible, truculent— what do you think? Don't you fancy he could poison 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 unctuous old gentleman with an indulgent eye, com- paratively. ‘I can’t see him so melodramatically, Lady Jane, she laughed. ‘To me he seems a much more commonplace individual, a OLD DONNIE AND LADY JANE. 37 great deal less interesting and atrocious, and less like the abbot.’ ‘What abbot ?” said Lady Jane, sharply. ‘Now really that's very odd.’ ‘I meant, said Beatrix, laughing, ‘the Abbot of Quedlinberg, in Canning's 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 Warbarriere 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.” OLD DONNIE AND LADY JANE. 39 accents of early girlhood, ‘I’m so glad to see you, Donica. You hardly know me now P’ 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 intervals, in the wintriest life and 40 GUY DEVERELL. darkest face, the love of angels will sud- denly beam out, and show you, still un- wrecked, the eternal capacity for heaven. ‘And grown such a fine 'oman—bless ye —I allays 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 l—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 OLD DONNIE AND LADY JANE. 41 tell me everything—how all the old people are, and how the old place looks—you live there now I have nothing to tell, only I'm married, as you know—and— and I think a most good-for-nothing crea- ture.” “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 say, it's better 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 OLD DONNIE AND LADY JANE. 43 Alice put over him, from the parish register, in Wardlock 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 compliments, and fine talk, and love- making.’ ‘What do you mean, woman 2 I should hope I know how to behave myself as well as ever Lady Alice Redcliffe did. It is she who has been talking to you, and, I suppose, to every one, the stupid, wicked hag.’ ‘Oh, Miss Jennie, dear!” 44 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER V. 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 up. “Do you remember 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 sorts o' things allays—it's very good, miss.” - ALONE-YET NOT ALONE. 45 ( ‘Perhaps it is, Donnie. It's very sad and very horrible, at all events, death and judgment, answered Lady Jane. “Have you your old Bible yet, miss?' “Not here,' answered Lady Jane, colour- ing a little; but recollecting, she said, ‘I have got a very pretty one, though, and she produced 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 46 GUY DEVERELL. 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, Donnie, 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 pensive face and tone. Donica smiled for a moment, and then her 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 ALONE-YET NOT ALONE. 47 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 somethink; ay, I mind the time I durst not open it, thinking 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 somethink kind when- ever you open it.’ Lady Jane made no answer. She looked down with a careworn gaze on her white hand, the fleeting tenement of 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.’ ALONE–YET NOT ALONE. 49 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 jus- tice l’ - ‘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—hatred, 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 directing it; I hate it.’ So she said, and looked as if she would have flung it into the farthest corner of the VOL. III. E. 50 GUY DEVERELL. 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 l’ 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 interest 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 antipathy 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, ALONE–YET NOT ALONE. 51 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 contrite 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 E 2 52 GUY DEVERELL. 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 despair. Prayer-cries for help, as from the drowning, and vows frantic—holy, for the future. ‘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 con- jure 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, * ALONE–YET NOT ALONE. 53 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 hap. piness 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 lasting 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 con- sequences that dog iniquity with “feet of wool and hands of iron, stay their sight- less 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.’ 54 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER WI. VARBARRIERE 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 ap- proached 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 poor boy's son, my grandson, the young man in whom I must feel so deep an in- terest, is about to return here ?' ‘I can’t be quite certain, madam, of that ; 56 GUY DEVERELL. “And pray, Monsieur Varbarriere, are you married ?' inquired the old lady, with, the air of a person who had a right to be informed. - ‘Alas, madam, may I say Latin 2—In- fandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem; you stir up my deepest grief. I am, indeed, what you call an old bachelor.” “Well, so I should suppose; I don't see what business you would have had to marry.' “Nor I either, he replied. ‘And you are very rich, I suppose.' “The rich man never says he is rich, and the poor man never says he is poor. What shall I say? Pretty well! Will that do?” ‘H’m, yes; you ought to make a settle- ment, Monsieur Warbarriere.” ‘On your grandson, madam?” ‘Yes, my grandson, he's nothing the worse of that, sir—and your nephew.’ ‘Madam, the idea is beneficent, and does honour to your heart. I have, to say truth, had an idea of doing something for him by my will, though not by settlement; you are VARBARRIERE's DEBATINGS. 57 quite in advance of me, madam—I shall reflect.” Monsieur Varbarriere was, after his wont, gravely amusing himself, so gravely that old Lady Alice never suspected an irony. Old Lady Alice had in her turn taken up the idea of a solution of all family variance, by a union between Guy Deverell and Beatrix, and her old brain was already at the settlements. ‘Lady Alice, you must positively give us up our partner, Monsieur Warbarriere, our game is arrested; and, egad, Pelter, poor fellow, is bursting with jealousy l’ Lady Alice turned disdainfully from Sir Jekyl. ‘Monsieur Warbarriere, pray don’t allow me to detain you now. I should be very glad to see you, if you had no particular objection, to-morrow.’ ‘Only too happy; you do me, madam, a great deal of honour;' and with a bow and a smile Monsieur Warbarriere withdrew to the whist-table. He did not play that night by any means VARBARRIERE's DEBATINGS. 59 forced Sir Jekyl to ruff with his ace, and made my knave good, and that would have given us the lead and trick.’ ‘Our play goes for nothing, you see, Sir Paul, said Sir Jekyl. ‘No; Captain Doocey thinks play had nothing to do with it, said Sir Paul Blunket. ‘’Gad, I think play had everything to do with it—not yours, though, said Doocey, a little tartly. ‘I must do you all justice, interposed Warbarriere, ‘you’re all right—everyone played well except me. I do pretty well when I'm in the vein, but I'm not to-night; it was a very bad performance. I played execrably, Captain Doocey.’ ‘Oh! no, I won’t allow that; but you know once or twice you certainly did not play according to your own principles, I mean, and I could’nt therefore see exactly what you meant, and I dare say it was as much my fault as yours.” And Doocey, with his finger on Warbar- rierre's sleeve, fell into one of those resumés : s : 60 GUY DEVERELL. which mysteriously interest whist-players, and Varbarriere listened to his energetic periods with his hands in his pockets, be- nignant but bored, and assented with a good grace to his own condemnation. And smothering a yawn as he moved away, again pleaded guilty to all the counts, and threw himself on the mercy of the court. ‘What shall we do to-morrow P’ ex- claimed Sir Jekyl, and he heard a voice repeat ‘to-morrow, and so did Warbarriere. “I’ll turn it over, and at breakfast I’ll lay half a dozen plans before you, and you shall select. It's a clear frosty night; we shall have a fine day. You don’t leave us, Mr. Pelter, till the afternoon, d'ye see? and mind, Lady Alice Redcliffe sits in the bou- doir, at the first landing on the great stair; 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. VARBARRIERE'S DEBATINGS. 61 ‘Thanks; I know 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 list- less before it, Sir Jekyl, smiling, laid his hand on Warbarriere'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 Warbarriere. ‘It is not a party—we should be only three, said Sir Jekyl, in an eager whisper. “All the more inviting, continued War- barriere, smiling. “But I suddenly recol- lected 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 moment; 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 . : 62 GUY DEVERELL. 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 Peter 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 an- xious; 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 -|- (| 64 GUY DEVERELL. it in his head, d'ye 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 bedchamber yawning, and the Baronet, after his wont, locked himself into his room in very tolerable spirits. There was a sofa in Warbarriere'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 could see on the wall sharply defined in shadow the solemn outline of his paunch. He was thinking—not as we endeavour 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, VARBARRIERE'S DEBATINGS. 65 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 country- men 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 everything. That old white mon- key 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, if it were not for the climate. I forgot to ask Jacques whether Guy took all his lug- gage! What o'clock now? Come, by my faith ! it is time to decide.’ VOL. III. F 66 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER WII. M. VARBARRIERE DECIDES. WARBARRIERE 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 me. Why did not I 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 flavour of the soup itself is consistent, never- theless. The tone of Warbarriere's rumina- tions, on the whole, was decided. He wished M. VARBARRIERE DECIDES. 67 to avert the exposure which his interference alone had invited. He looked at his watch—he had still a little more than half an hour for remedial thought and action—and now, what is to be done to prevent cet vieuw 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 : | : r 2 68 GUY DEVERELL. not afraid. Next, he must meet General Lennox, and tell him in substance that he had begun to hope that he had been himself practised upon. Yes, that would do—and he might be as dark as he pleased on the subject of his information. Warbarriere 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, unex- pectedly, the letter he had that evening picked up on the floor of the gallery. It had quite dropped out of his mind. Mon- sieur Warbarriere was a Jupiter Scapin. He had not the smallest scruple about read- ing it, and afterwards throwing it into the fire, though 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 M. VARBARRIERE DECIDES. 69 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 “privileged, and is not always quite fit to see the light. Did ever beauty read letter of compliment and adoration with keener absorption? Warbarriere'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 bankers 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 Warbarriere laughed in lurid con- tempt. M. VARBARRIERE DECIDES. 71 view, 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 Warbarriere, 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, this letter 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 Warbarriere'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 --:. . : : 72 GUY DEVERELL. unlucky sort which not only recalled the thrill of many an old wound, but freshly galled that vanity which never leaves us, till car and eye grow cold, and light and sound are shut out by the coffin-lid. So Warbarriere, 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 thinking of these things, he stared grimly on his watch, and by one of those move- ments that betray one's abstraction, held it to his ear, as if he had fancied it might have gone down. There it was, thundering on at a gallop. The tread of unseen fate approaching. Yes, it was time he should go. Jacques peeped in. ‘You’ve done as I ordered ?” ‘Yes, Monsieur.” ‘Here, lend me a hand with my cloak— very good. The servants, the butler, have they retired?” “So I believe, Monsieur.” ‘My hat—thanks. The lights all out on the stairs and lobbies?” M. VARBARRIERE DECIDES. 73 ‘Yes, Monsieur.” “Go before—is that lighted?' ‘Yes, sir.’ This referred to one of those little black lanterns which belong to Spanish melo- drama, with a semi-cylindrical horn and a black slide. We have most of us seen such, and handled if not possessed them. ‘Leporello! hey, Jacques?’ smiled War- barriere sardonically, as he drew his short black cloak about him. ‘Monsieur is always right, acquiesced the man, who had never heard of Leporello before. “Get on, then.’ And the valet before, the master following, treading cautiously, they reached the stair- head, where Varbarriere listened for a mo- ment, then descended and listened again at the foot, and so through the hall into the long gallery, near the end of which is a room with a conservatory. This they entered. The useful Jacques had secured the key of the glass door into the conservatory, which also opened the 74 GUY IDEVERELL. outer one; and Warbarriere, directing him to wait there quietly till his return, stepped out into the open air and faint moonlight. A moment's survey was enough to give him the lie of the ground, and recognising the file of tufted lime-trees, rising dark in the mist, he directed his steps thither, and speedily got upon the broad avenue, bor- dered with grass and guarded at either side by these rows of giant limes. On reaching the carriage-way, standing upon a slight eminence, Varbarriere gazed down the misty slope toward the gate-house, and then toward Marlowe Manor, in search of a carriage or a human figure. Seeing none, he strolled onward toward the gate, and soon did see, airy and faint in the haze and distance, a vehicle approaching. It stopped some two hundred yards nearer the gate than he, a slight figure got out, and after a few words apparently, the driver turned about, and the slim, erect figure came gliding stiffly along in his direction. As he approached Warbarriere stood directly before him. M. VARBARRIERE DECIDES. 75 ‘Ha! here I am waiting, General, said Varbarriere, advancing. ‘I—I suppose we had better get on at once to the house?’ General Lennox met him with a nod. ‘Don’t care, sir. Whatever you think best, answered the General, as sternly as if he were going into action. ‘Thanks for your confidence, General. I think so; and side by side they walked in silence for a while toward the house. ‘Lady Alice Redcliffe here?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘That's well. And, sir,’ he continued, suddenly stopping short, and turning full on Warbarriere— for God's sake, do you think it is certainly true?” ‘You had better come, sir, and judge for yourself, pursued Warbarriere. * D you, sir—you think I'll wait over your cursed riddles. I’d as soon wait in hell, sir. You don’t know, sir—it's the tor- tures of the damned. Egad, no man has a right—no man could stand it.’ “I think it is, sir. I think it's true, sir. I think it's true. I'm nearly sure it's true,' : : 76 GUY DEVERELL. answered Warbarriere, with a pallid frown, not minding his anathema. “How can I say more ?' General Lennox looked for a while on the ground, then up and about dismally, and gave his neck a little military shake, as if his collar sat uneasily. “A lonely life for me, sir. I wish to God the villain had shot me first. I was very fond of her, sir—desperately fond—mad- ness, sir. I was thinking I would go back to India. Maybe you'll advise with me, sir, to-morrow? I have no one.’ AT THE GREEN CHAMBER. 79 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 P’ 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 80 GUY DEVERELL. 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 movement—a surprise; there must be no sound—no 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 approaching. ‘I—I almost wish, sir—I'll go back—I don’t think I can go on, sir.’ Warbarriere looked at his companion with an unconscious sneer, but said nothing. ‘By , sir, if I find it true, I'll kill 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 AT THE GREEN CHAMBER, 81 Warbarriere saw it glimmer in the faint light. - ‘Surely, Colonel Lennox, you don’t mean —you can't mean-—you're not going to re- sort to violence, sir?” ‘By , sir, he had best look to it.’ Warbarriere 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 harboured 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 honour– either or both. One step more I shall not take with you, if you mean that sort of violence.” ‘What do you mean, sir?’ asked the General, grimly. ‘I mean this, sir, you shall learn nothing by this night's procedure, unless you pro- mise me, upon your honour as a soldier, sir, VOL. III, G * 82 GUY DEVERELL. 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 daresay, said Lennox, suddenly and helplessly. ‘You promise ?’ ‘Ay, sir.’ “Upon your honour?’ “Upon my honour; ay, sir, my honour.’ ‘I’m satisfied, 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, Warbarrierre 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 arrived late; you understand? and having ; AT THE GREEN CHAMBER. 83 been observed by me, were admitted; and— and all the rest occurred 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, Varbarrierre 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 been fortunate hitherto in having escaped observation; and Warbar- riere's strategy had, up to this point, quite succeeded. “Very quietly, mind, whispered he, and G 2 86 GUY DEVERELL. The General ground his teeth with im- patience, 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, trans- lating the message. “Tell your mistress I’m General Lennox, and must have my 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 he is—a robber, maybe. Bolt the door, and tell him to bring Monsieur War- barriere to the lobby, and if he says he's General Lennox 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 AT THE GREEN CHAMBER. 87 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 Warbarriere, who was only half a dozen steps removed, and whom he had rejoined. ‘You must come to the door, they say, and tell them it's all right.” Perhaps with some inward sense of the comic, Warbarrierre presented himself at the door, when, his voice being recognised, and he himself reconnoitred through the key- hole and reported upon, the maid presented herself 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 anxiously in the General's face. , ‘Key, sir, please.’ ‘I thank you, said the General, with a nod, to which she responded with such a 8S GUY DEVERELL. 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 Warbarriere, look- ing 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 Warbarriere. ‘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.” Warbarriere pressed his hand encou- ragingly. It felt like death. ‘Don’t fear me,’ said General Lennox. “We'll see—we'll see, sir; good-bye.” He spoke in a low, short, resolute tone, almost defiant; but looked very ill. War- barriere had never taken leave of a man on the drop, but thought that this must be like it. AT THE GREEN CHAMBER. 89 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 Warbarriere was gone. 90 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER IX. IN THE GREEN CHAMBER. GENERAL LENNOx opened the door sud- denly, and stood in the green chamber, holding his candle above his temple, and staring with a rather wild countenance and a gathered 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 si- lence, 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?’ IN THE GREEN CHAMBER. 91 ‘Yes, Arthur; Arthur, what's the mat- ter? 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 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 ?” 92 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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 to- gether, 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 Warbarriere 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 IN THE GREEN CHAMBER. 93 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. Indeed 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 well ? you all do—of course you sleep? Lie down.” ‘You are angry, Arthur; you are ex- cited; something has happened—something bad—what is it? For God's sake, Arthur, tell me what it is. Why won't you tell me?’ “Nothing—nothing strange—quite com- mon.” ‘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 judg- 94 GUY DEVERELL. ment had come as a thief in the night. The blood in her temples seemed to drum on the pillow. There was not a clear thought in her brain, only the one stunning con- sciousness. ‘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 Warbarriere had almost promised to show the apparition, old Lennox sat down at the bedside, next this mys- terious point of observation. Suddenly it crossed him, as a break of moonlight will the blackest 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 morn- ing. Go to sleep.” ‘Good-night, she murmured. IN THE GREEN CHAMBER. 95 ‘That will do; go to sleep, he an- swered. Gently, gently, she stole a peep at that pretty watch that stood in its little slant- ing 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 ostentation 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 muffler, his outer coat, the frock-coat he wore, the waistcoat. She dared not look round to observe his progress. But at last 96 GUY DEVERELL. he threw himself on the bed with a groan of fatigue, and 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 chimneypiece, and lighted a taper at the candle there, listened again for a moment, and on tiptoe, in bare feet, glided round the foot of the bed, and approached the re- cess 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 hus- band. “Can't I do that for you? What is it?” said he. 98 GUY DEVERELL. 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 hap- pier, 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 repent it. Oh, Arthur, be wise, be merciful! The more you forgive the more you’ll be loved. 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 IN THE GREEN CHAMBER. 99 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 dishonour. “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. H 2 100 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER X. THE MORNING, MoNSIEUR WARBARRIERE 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 P’ ‘Jacques Duval, at Monsieur's service.’ Monsieur took his 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?” THE MORNING. 101 ‘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?” “Ah no, Monsieur, not at all as that.” “The steps quick, not slow; wasn’t it 7” ‘Quick, sir, as one in haste and treading lightly would walk.” ‘And this as you sat in the butler's room?' ‘Monsieur recollects exactly.” Varbarriere knew that the butler's room exactly underlay that dingy library that abutted on Sir Jekyl's bedchamber, 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 door open, so that, should I want you, you can hear 102 GUY DEVERELL. me call from the door of that dressing- room; take care you keep awake, but don't 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 l’ and a few stern words from him, and fast talking between them, and Lady Jane calling for light, and then more wild THE MORNING. 103 sobbing. There had been no sound of a struggle. Warbarriere stood, stooping, scowling, open-mouthed, at the door, with his fingers on the handle, hardly breathing. At last he gasped— ‘That d old apel has he hurt her ?” 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. Per- haps the General was coming to his room to look for him. It was time he should with- draw, and so he did. 104 GUY DEVERELL. ‘You may get to your bed, Jacques, and come at the usual hour.’ So, with his accustomed civilities, Mon- sieur Jacques disappeared. But old Lennox did not visit Warbarriere, nor even emerge from his room. After an hour Warbarriere revisited the dressing-room next the green chamber. He waited long without hearing anything, and at length he heard a step–was it the Gene- ral'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 writting-table a little, and place a chair near it, and as the candle was shining through the keyhole, he sup- posed 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 THE MORNING. 105 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 suc- cession 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 French Review, until very late sleep overtook him. Jacques was in his room at the usual hour, eight o'clock; and Warbarriere started up in his bed at sound of his voice, with a confused anticipation of a catastrophe. But the cheerful squire had nothing to relate except how charming was the morning, and to hand a letter to Monsieur. Warbarriere's mind was not upon letters that morning, but on matters nearer home. ‘General Lennox has not been down- stairs yet?’ ‘No, Monsieur.” “Nor Sir Jekyl?' ‘No, Monsieur.” 106 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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 himself pretty well in his toilet, the en- trance being through his dressing-room.’ ‘The General used to be down early? ‘Yes, Monsieur, half-past eight I remem- ber.’ ‘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 Warbarriere saw at a glance, and not through the post. “My nephew hasn't come?” sternly de- manded Warbarriere, with a kind of start, on reading the signature, which he did before reading the letter. THE MORNING. 107 ‘No, Monsieur, a young man has con- veyed it from Slowton.’ Whereupon Warbarriere, with a striped silk nightcap of many colours 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. Warbarriere had met old Len- nox in the grounds of Marlowe. ‘What a fanfaronnade! These young fellows—what asses they are !’ sneered Warbarriere. It was not, in truth, very wise. This handsome youth announced his intention to visit Marlowe that day, to see Monsieur Warbarriere 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 gene- rosity, and he was quite resolved hencefor- 108 GUY DEVERELL. ward to fight his way single-handed in the world, as so many other young fellows did. Before taking his departure he thought he should present himself to say his adieux to M. Varbarriere—even to his host, Sir Jekyl Marlowe; and there was a good deal more of such stuff. ‘Sir Jekyll 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 learn thoroughly the meaning of independence.' - So Monsieur Warbarriere, with a variety of subjects to think over, pursued his toilet. THE DOCTOR'S VISIT. 109 CHAPTER XI. THE DoCTOR'S VISIT. SIR 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's 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 hand- kerchiefs, and don’t be 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 THE DOCTOR'S VISIT. 111 widely known than his short, solemn, red face, blue chin, white whiskers, and bald pate, was roused by the messenger's sum- mons, 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 effect 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 any- thing. 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. 112 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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 he here, sir, please, in five minutes—so he said, sir.’ ‘I know, but there's been ten since, curse him.’ “Shall I 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 DOCTOR'S VISIT. 113 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 parlour as he had desired. In a little while Doctor Pratt had arrived. As he toddled through the hall, he en- countered the Rev. Dives on his way to the breakfast-parlour. Pratt had suffered some rough handling and damage at the hands of Time, and Dives was nothing the better of the sarcastic 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— WOL. III. I 114 GUY DEVERELL. ‘Well, and what's wrong with the Baronet?’ ‘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 7' began the Doctor as he entered the Baronet's room. ‘Ay, in the toe. Sit down there, Pratt, beside me.’ “Ah, ha! nervous; you think I'll knock him, eh? Ha, ha, ha! No, no, no! Don't 116 GUY DEVERELL. thing with the ether, hey? You've been at that d-d bin, I'm afraid, the forbidden fruit, hey? 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. Tom- linson—no return of that bronchial annoy- ance, eh? I'll ask you just now—we'll just make Sir Jekyl Marlowe a little more com- fortable 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 Tomlinson withdrew with a noiseless alacrity, and Doctor Pratt, in defer- 118 GUY DEVERELL. ‘You promise ?’ ‘Yes, I do. There !’ ‘Gout, mind, and nothing else; all gout, upon your honour.’ “Aw, well ! Yes.’ “Upon your honour; why the devil can't you speak 2' “Upon my honour, of course.’ ‘You kill me, making me talk. Well, 'tisn’t in the toe—it's up here, and he un- covered his right shoulder and chest, show- ing 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’tunderstand.” ‘I mean the purest accident.’ “Bled a lot, egad! These things seem THE DOCTOR'S VISIT. 119 * * - pretty dry-bleeding away still? You must not keep it so hot—the sheet only.’ “I think it's stopped—the things are sticking—I feel them.’ “So much the better; but we must not leave it this way—and—and I daren’t dis- turb 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 honour.’ ‘’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- 120 GUY DEVERELL. 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 case.’ ‘Well, yes; send for her.’ THE PATIENT INTERROGATED. 121 CHAPTER XII. 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 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 apprentice once of honest Pratt's. “Tell her not to wait for dressing, or packing, or anything. She'll come just 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 want her here.” So he sat down very grave by Sir Jekyl, and took his pulse, very low and inflam- matory, he thought. '' 122 GUY DEVERELL. ‘You lost a good deal of blood? It is not all here, eh?” ‘No; I lost some beside.” ‘Mind, now, don't move. You may bring it on again; and you're not in a con- dition to spare any. How did it happen?’ ‘A knife or something.’ ‘A thrust, eh? Not a cut; I mean a stab?’ ‘Yes.” ‘About how long ago? What hour?” Sir Jekyl hesitated. “Oh ! now come, Sir Jekyl, I beg pardon, but I really must know the facts.” “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 all, then ?” said he. THE PATIENT INTERROGATED. 123 “Not a bit, answered Sir Jekyl, pettishly; his temper and his breath seemed to be failing him a little. ‘Did you 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 spoonfuls, and felt his pulse again. “I must go home for the things, d'ye see? I shan’t be long away though. Here, Tomlinson, 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 to wet his lips; and mind, now, Sir Jekyl, drink any quantity rather than let yourself go down.” 124 GUY DEVERELL. 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 muttered, as Tomlinson drew near. “Where's Pratt P tell him I want him.” ‘Hey—no—no pain 7' asked the Doctor. ‘No; I want to know—I want to know what the devil you've been saying to him out there.” . TIIE PATIENT INTERROGATED. 125 “Nothing; only a direction.’ “Do you think — do you think I'm in danger?” 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 sink- ing, you know, any quantity; and I’ll be back before the nurse comes from the hos- pital; 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.’ 126 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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?—come. His face was certainly hollow and earthy enough just then to warrant forebodings. ‘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, in the village, was thinking how the deuce this misadventure of Sir Jekyl's had 128 GUY DEVERELL. 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 in the—the extremity, though that's well. Intelligent fellow, 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 con- templation, 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 him—relies very much on warmth. My poor father used to take Regent's—Regent's—I forget what—a } | THE PATIENT INTERROGATED. 129 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 recollection, touched her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘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 im-prudent!’ “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 VOL. III. K 130 GUY DEVERELL. 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 per- suade Sir Paul, he's so poor, you know; but certainly, 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 ex- cellent man, who was by this time eating some hot broil. Their judicious conversation was not without 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 THE PATIENT INTERROGATED. 131 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 ear- nestly 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, Warbarriere, was ha- ranguing Beatrix and Mrs. Maberly on pictures, music, and the way to give agree- able 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. 132 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XIII. 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 perceived, 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 satisfactorily. 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, GENERAL LENNOX APPEARS. 133 in whom you have confidence, for I'll tell you frankly, it's not a case in which I'd like to be alone.” “It's very sudden, sir; whom do you ad- vise ?” said Dives, looking black and pallid. ‘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 chaise 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 134 GUY DEVERELL. steps he looked with a sinking heart after the man cantering swiftly down the avenue, and saw him in the distance like a dwind- ling 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 Warbarriere, 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 understands 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. Colour 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 136 GUY DEVERELL. ballet, and so with painting. Perhaps, though, you paint ?’ ‘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 7” said Miss Blunket, skip- ping 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 re- markably tattooed with wrinkles, ‘Shall I run away—is it a secret?’ ‘Oh, no; we have no secrets, said Dray- tOn. “No secrets, echoed Warbarriere. ‘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 only could take them, are read us every hour ! What a giant among liars is vanity ! Here was this GENERAL LENNOX APPEARS. 137 withered witch, with her baptismal registry and her looking-glass, dressing herself like a strawberry girl, and fancying herself charming! ‘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 2 and they really are—Well, I won't say all I think of them.” “I was just telling Monsieur Warbarriere. It is not everyone I'd show those drawings to. Was not I, Monsieur 7” said Drayton, with a fine irony. “So he was, upon my honour, said War- 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 Warbarriere, anxious to escape. 138 GUY DEVERELL. “Just as he was, I think, a little low, the Doctor says.” “Ah!” said Warbarriere, and still his dark eyes looked on hers with grave in- quiry. ‘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.” We have only conjecture as to which of the young ladies, now running down GENERAL LENNOX APPEARS. 139 the steps, Mr. Drayton's pronouns referred to. ‘You fish to-day?' asked Warbarriere, 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 Drayton's cheery salutation, and stopping and turning towards them suddenly, he said, very grimly— - 140 GUY DEVERELL. ‘Beg your pardon’ “Nothing, General, only wishing you good-morning, answered Drayton. ‘Yes, charming morning. I’ve been walk- ing. I’ve been out—a—thank you, and that lead-coloured and white General van- ished 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 Warbarriere, 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 Warbarriere, glancing up towards 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?” Warbarriere smiled and shook his head. ‘No angler, sir, never was, he said. GENERAL LENNOX APPEARS. 141 ‘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.” Warbarriere did not hear Drayton's answer, whatever it was; he was thinking of quite other things, and more and more feverishly 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. 142 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XIV. LADY ALICE REDCLIFFE MAKES GENERAL LENNOx’s ACQUAINTANCE. OLD General Lennox stopped a servant on the stairs, and learned from the staring do- mestic 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, ponder- ing in drowsy discontent over her many miseries, 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 General, a tall lean old man, with white bristles on brow and cheek, with his toilet disordered by long and rather rapid exer- MAKING AN ACQUAINTANCE. 143 cise, and grim and livid with no transient agitation. ‘Lady Alice Redcliffe?' inquired he, with a stiff bow, remaining still inclined, his eyes still fixed on her. ‘I 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, General Lennox, to make your acquaint- ance. 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 144 GUY DEVERELL. leaned back with a fatigued air, but a curi- ous 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 quarrelling—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 chimneypiece 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 MAKING AN ACQUAINTANCE. 145 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 time, her face darkening and turning very pale, for she saw it was another great family disgrace. ‘Sir Jekyl Marlowe, ma'am, of Marlowe, Baronet, Member of Parliament, Deputy Lieutenant, bawled the old General, with shrill and trembling voice. “I’ll drag him through the law courts, and the divorce court, and the House of Lords. He held his right fist up with its trembling knuckles working, as if he had them in Sir Jekyl's cravat, “drag him through them all, ma'am, till the dogs would not pick his bones; and I'll shoot him through the head, by ? I'll shoot him through the head, and his family ashamed to put his name on his tombstone.’ Lady Alice stood up, with a face so dismal it almost looked wicked. “I see, sir; I see there's something very VOL. III. L 146 GUY DEVERELL. bad; I'm sorry, sir; I'm very sorry; I'm very sorry.’ She had a hand of the old General's in each of hers, and was shaking them with a tremulous clasp. Such as it was, it was the first touch of sympathy he had felt. The old General's grim face quivered and trembled, and he grasped her hands too, and then there came those convulsive croupy sobs, so dreadful to hear, and at last tears, and this dried and bleached old soldier wept loud and piteously. Outside the door you would not have known what to make of these cracked, convulsive sounds. You would have stopped in horror, and fancied some one dying. After a while he said— “Oh ! ma'am, I was very fond of her—I was, desperately. If I could know it was all a dream, I’d be content to die. I wish, ma'am, you'd advise me. I'll go back to India, I think; I could not stay here. You'll know best, madam, what she ought to do. I wish everything the best for her— you'll see, ma'am—you'll know best.’ MAKING AN ACQUAINTANCE. 147 “Quite—quite; yes, these things are best settled by men of business. There are papers, I believe, drawn up, arranged by lawyers, and things, and I'm sorry, sir” And old Lady Alice suddenly began to sob. “I’ll—I'll do what I can for the poor thing, she said. “I’ll take her to Wardlock —it's quite solitary—no prying people— and then to — perhaps it's better to go abroad; and you'll not make it public sooner than it must be; and it's a great blow to me, sir, a terrible blow. I wish she had placed herself more under direction; but it's vain looking back—she always refused advice, poor, poor wretched thing ! Poor Jennie! We must be resigned, sir; and—and, sir, for God's sake, no fighting—no pistoling. That sort of thing is never heard of now; and if you do, the whole world will be ring- ing with it, and the unfortunate creature the gaze of the public before she need be, and perhaps some great crime added—some one killed. Do you promise?’ ‘Ma'am, it's hard to promise.’ L 2 148 GUY DEVERELL. “But you must, General Lennox, or I'll take measures to stop it this moment, cried Lady Alice, drying her eyes and glaring at him fiercely. “Stop it! who'll stop it?’ holloed the General with a stamp. - ‘You’ll stop it, General, exclaimed the old lady; ‘your own common sense; your own compassion; your own self-respect; and not the less that a poor old woman that sympathises with you implores it.’ “There was here an interval. ‘Ma'am, ma'am, it's not easy; but I will —I will, ma'am. I'll go this moment; I will, ma'am; I can’t trust myself here. If I met him, ma'am, by Heaven I couldn't.” ‘Well, thank you, thank you, General Lennox—do go; there's not much chance of meeting, for he's ill; but go, don't stay a moment, and write to me to Wardlock, and you shall hear everything. There —go. Good-bye.” So the General was gone, and Lady Alice stood for a while bewildered, looking at the door through which he had vanished. | MAKING AN ACQUAINTANCE. 149 It is well when these sudden collapses of the overwrought nerves occur. More de- jected, more broken, perhaps, he looked, but much more like the General Lennox whom his friends remembered. Something of the panic and fury of his calamity had subsided, too; and though the grief must, perhaps, always remain pretty much unchanged, yet he could now estimate the situation more justly, and take his measures more like a Sane IIlain. - In this better, if not happier mood, War- barriere encountered him in that over- shadowed back avenue which leads more directly than the main one to the little town of Marlowe. Warbarriere was approaching the house, and judged, by the General's slower gait, that he was now more himself. The large gentleman in the Germanesque felt hat raised that grotesque head-gear, French fashion, as Lennox drew nigh. The General, with two fingers, made him a stern, military salute in reply, and came suddenly to a standstill. 150 GUY DEVERELL. ‘May I walk a little with you, General Lennox 7' inquired Warbarriere. ‘Certainly, sir. Walk? By all means; I'm going to London, rejoined the General, without, however, moving from the spot where he had halted. “Rather a long stretch for me, thought Warbarriere, with one of those inward thrills of laughter which sometimes surprise us in the gravest moods and in the most unsuitable places. He looked sober enough, however, and merely said— ‘You, know, General, there's some one ill up there, and he nodded mysteriously to- ward the house. ‘Is there? Ay. Well, yes, I dare say,’ and he laughed with a sudden quaver. ‘I was not sure; the old woman said some- thing. I'm glad, sir.’ “I—I think I know what it is, sir, said Warbarriere. “So do I, sir, said the General, with an- other short laugh. ‘You recollect, General Lennox, what you promised me '’ MAKING AN ACQUAINTANCE. 151 ‘Ay, sir; how can I help it?” answered he. ‘How can you help it! I don’t quite see your meaning, replied Warbarriere, 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 152 GUY DEVERELL. turned and slowly pursued his route to- ward the house. I don't suppose, in his then frame of mind, the General saw conse- quences 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. THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT. 153 CHAPTER XV. THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT. IN the hall Warbarriere 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 sink- ing state; and we've sent for the physician at Slowton; and altogether, sir, I’m very uneasy.” I suppose if the blow had fallen, the reverend 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 - - - - - - - - - - 154 GUY DEVERELL. 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 ex- change a sharp sally, had always been essen- tially kind to him; and Dives was not married, and, in fact, was funding money, and in no hurry; and those things were sure to come to him if he lived, sooner or later. - ‘And what, may I ask, do you suppose it is ?’ inquired Warbarriere. ‘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 suppose 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.” t THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT. 155 Warbarriere 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 contumacious 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 something in the stomach, eh? and possibly the heart.” “After all, sir, said Warbarriere, with a brisk effort, ‘Doctor—a—what's his name? —he's but a rural practitioner—an apothe- cary—is not it so?' “The people here say, however, he's a very clever fellow, though, said Dives, not much comforted. 156 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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 playing 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, consulting his punctual gold watch. “But he preferred my postponing until Doctor — I forget his name — very much con- cerned, indeed, that a second should be thought necessary—from Slowton—should have arrived. It—it gives me—I—I can't THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT. 157 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.” ‘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, THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT. 159 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 Ba- ronet'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 in- terposed, 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 better.’ ‘Thank you, pretty well; very good of you, my lord, to come. It's a long way, 160 GUY DEVERELL. 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, I 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. THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT. 161 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 trustworthy 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 consultation—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 ap- parent 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 different 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 WOL. III. M : 162 GUY DEVERELL. on the seventh, and that I should die in the crisis. So I 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 en- joyed your hospitality, and to have even this opportunity of thanking you for it. It is very delightful to me occasionally to find myself thus beholden to my old pupils. I have had the pleasure of spending a few days with the Marquis at Queen's Dykely; in fact, I came direct from him to you. You recollect him—Lord Elstowe he was then ? You remember Elstowe at school 2’ “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 you, THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT. 163 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.’ ‘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 dig- nified eyes glanced at the windows, and the pleasant 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 fare- well in Lucretius’ I venture to say your brother does. I made your class recite it, do you remember?” 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, M 2 164 GUY DEVERELL. 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 P” ‘Thank you, 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 remem- bered 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. | IN THE YARD OF THE MARLOWE ARMS. 165 CHAPTER XVI. IN THE YARD OF THE MARLOWE ARMS. THE Bishop looked at his watch, and smiled, shaking 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 pro- mise about that odious green chamber, and I’ll pledge you my honour I'll fulfil it. I'll not leave a stone of it standing; I won't, I assure you. To the 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 166 GUY DEVERELL. 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 clergy- man, 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 excellent 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, re- turning 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 mean his life at all in question; it is not the least that, but a sort of feeling or fancy. What does Doctor Pratt say it is ?” “Oh! gout, as I understand.” IN THE YARD OF THE MARLOWE ARMS. 167 “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 168 GUY DEVERELL. 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 pillows, there arrived a little note, in a tall hand; some of the slim l’s, b's, and so on, were a little 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 Warlock 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 sealed, 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 IN THE YARD OF THE MARLOWE ARMS. 169 disposed to write across the back of the un- opened note something to this effect:—‘Ill 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— “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 : IN THE YARD OF THE MARLOWE ARMS. 171 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 talk- ing 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 P’ ‘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 172 GUY DEVERELL. 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 station; and his man, with some of his things, followed him to the Marlowe Arms, 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 unnecessary 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 man. I would not go out IN THE YARD OF THE MARLowe ARMS. 173 of the world with a perjury on my soul; and, by , I swear your wife is as guilt- less 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 con- vinced you before you leave, I promise to shoot myself through the head, and save you from all further trouble on account of “JEKYL MARLOWE.” ‘Now see, Tomlinson, don’t lose a moment. Send a fellow running, 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.” 174 GUY DEVERELL. ‘Who do you want?’ said the fat pro- prietress, with a red face and small eyes and a cap and satin bow, emerging from a side door, and superseding the waiter, who said —‘A hofficer, isn’t it ’’ as he went aside. ‘Oh! from the Manor, continued the proprietress in a conciliatory strain, recog- nising the Marlowe button, though she 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 P—I know, I think, a millentery 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 ringlets with a little fat frown, and whiffled— ‘Here, tell him where's the tall, thin gemm’n, with white mistashes, that's ordered the hosses—that'll be him, I dessay, she said to the waiter, reinstated, and waddled away with a jingle of keys in her great IN THE YARD OF THE MARLOWE ARMS. 175 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 mes- senger. 176 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XVII. ABOUT LADY JAN E. THE General was walking up and down the jolty pavement with a speed that seemed to have no object but to tire himself, his walking-stick very tighly grasped, his lips occasionally contracting, and his hat now and then making a vicious wag as he tra- versed his beat. ‘Hollo!” said the General, drawing up suddenly, as the man stood before him with the letter, accosting him with his hand to his cap. ‘Hey! well, sir? • ‘Letter, please, sir.’ The General took it, stared at the man, I think, without seeing him, for a while, and then resumed his march, with his cane, sword-fashion, over his shoulder. The mes- senger waited, a little perplexed. It was not until he had made a third turn that the ABOUT LADY JANE. 177 General, again observing the letter in his hand, looked at it, and again at the messen- ger, who was touching his cap, and stopping short, said— ‘Well—ay! This?—aw—you brought it, didn't you?” So the General broke it open—he had not his glasses with him—and, holding it far away, read a few lines with a dreadful glare, and then bursting all on a sudden into such a storm of oaths and curses as scared the sober walls of that unmilitary hostelry, he whirled his walking-stick in the air, with the fluttering letter extended toward the face of the astounded messenger, as if in another second he would sweep his head off. At the sound of this hoarse screech the kitchen-wench looked open-mouthed out of the scullery-window with a plate dripping in her hand. ‘Boots, with his fist in a ‘Wellington, held his blacking-brush poised in air, and gazed also; and the hostler held the horse he was leading into the stable by the halter, and stood at the door gaping over his shoulder. VOL. III. N : 178 GUY DEVERELL. “Tell your master I said he may go to hell, sir, said the General, scrunching the letter like a snowball in his fist, and stamp- ing in his fury. What more he said I know not. The man withdrew, and, once or twice, turned about, sulkily, half puzzled and half angered, perhaps not quite sure whether he ought not to ‘lick’ him. - ‘What'll be the matter now?’ demanded the proprietress, looking from under her balustrade of brown ringlets from the back door. ‘’Drat me if I know; he's a rum un, that he be, replied the man with the Marlowe button. “When master hears it he'll lay his whip across that old cove's shouthers, I'm thinking.’ ‘I doubt he's not right in his head; he's bin a-walkin' up an’ down the same way ever since he ordered the chaise, like a man beside himself. Will ye put them horses to?” she continued, raising her voice; ‘why, the 'arniss is on 'em this half-hour. Will ye put 'em to or no?’ and so, in something of - ABOUT LADY JANE. 179 an angry panic, she urged on the prepara- tions, and in a few minutes more General Lennox was clattering through the long street of the town, on his way to Slowton, and the London horrors of legal consul- tations, and the torture of the slow pro- cesses by which those whom God hath joined together are sundered. “Send Donica Gwynn to me,’ said Lady Alice to the servant whom her bell had summoned to Lady Mary's boudoir. When Donica arrived— ‘Shut the door, Donica Gwynn, said she, ‘and listen. Come a little nearer, please. Sir Jekyl Marlowe is ill, and, of course, we cannot all stay here. Lady Alice looked at her dubiously. ‘Fit o' the gout, my lady, I'm told.’ ‘Yes, an attack of gout.' “It does not hold long with him, not like his poor father, Sir Harry, that would lie six months at a time in flannel. Sir Jekyl, law bless you, my lady! He's often 'ad his toe as red as fire overnight, and before sup- per to-morrow walking about the house. N 2 ABOUT LADY JANE. 181 fortable mysteries in its blurred pattern. Then Donica looked up sharply, and asked— “And, please, my lady, what is your lady- ship's orders?” - “Well, Gwynn, you must get a “fly” now from the town, and go on before us to Ward- lock. We shall leave this probably in little more than an hour, in the carriage. Tell Lady Jane, with my compliments, that I hope she will be ready by that time—or no, you may give her my love—don't say com- pliments—and say, I will either go and see her in her room, or if she prefer, I will see her here, or anywhere else; and you can ask her what room at Wardlock she would like best—do you mind? Whatever room she would like best she shall have, except mine, of course, and the moment you get there you'll set about it.’ ‘Yes, ma'am, please, my lady.” Donica looked at her mistress as if ex- pecting something more; and her mistress looked away darkly, and said nothing. “I’ll return, my lady, I suppose, and tell you what Miss Jane says, ma'am ?’ 184 GUY DEVERELL. could the green chamber have to do with it? Had not the General arrived express very late last night? It was some London story that sent him down from town in that hurry, and Sir Jekyl laid up in gout too. Some o' them jealous stories, and a quarrel over it. It will sure be made up again—ay, ay.” And so thinking, she knocked, and re- ceiving no answer, she opened the door and peeped in. There was but a narrow strip of one shutter open. “Miss Jennie, dear, she called. Still no answer. “Miss Jennie, darling. No an- swer still. She understood those sulky taciturnities well, in which feminine tempest sometimes subsides, and was not at all un- easy. On the floor, near the foot of the bed, lay the General's felt hat and travelling coat. Standing there, she drew the cur- tain and saw Lady Jane, her face buried in the pillow, and her long hair lying wildly on the coverlet and hanging over the bed- side. \ “Miss Jennie, dear—Miss Jennie, dar- - s ABOUT LADY JANE. 185 ling; it's me—old Donnie, miss. Won't you speak to me?’ Still no answer, and Donica went round, beginning to feel uneasy, to the side where she lay. 186 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XVIII. LADY JANE'S TOILET. ‘MISs JENNIE, darling, it's me, she repeated, and placed her fingers on the young lady's shoulder. It was with an odd sense of re- lief she saw the young lady turn her face away. “Miss Jennie, dear; it's me—old Donnie —don't you know me?’ cried Donica once more. ‘Miss, dear, my lady, what's the matter you should take on so?—only a few wry words—it will all be made up, dear.’ ‘Who told you—who says it will be made up?" said Lady Jane, raising her head slowly, very pale, and, it seemed to old Gwynn, grown so thin in that one night. ‘Don’t mind—it will never be made up— no, Donnie, never; it oughtn't. Is my—is General Lennox in the house?’ “Gone down to the town, miss, I'm told, LADY JANE'S TOILET. 187 in a bit of a tantrum—going off to Lunnon. It's the way wi' them all—off at a word; and then cools, and back again same as ever.’ Lady Jane's fingers were picking at the bed-clothes, and her features were sunk and peaked as those of a fever-stricken girl. - “The door is shut to—outer darkness. I asked your God for mercy last night, and see what he has done for me!’ ‘Come, Miss Jennie, dear, you'll be happy yet. Will ye come with me to Wardlock?' ‘That I will, Donnie, she answered, with a sad alacrity, like a child's. “I’ll be going, then, in half an hour, and you'll come with me.’ Lady Jane's tired wild eyes glanced on the gleam of light in the half-open shutter with the wavering despair of a captive. ‘I wish we were there. I wish we were —you and I, Donnie—just you and I.” “Well, then, what's to hinder? My mis- sus sends her love by me, to ask you to go there, till things be smooth again 'twixt LADY JANE's TOILET. 189 “Oh yes, I forgot; yes, I'll dress. Let us make haste. I wish I knew. Oh! Don- nie, 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 l’ Thus old Gwynn ran on; but fixed, pale, and wild was the face which would once have kindled in the conscious pride of beauty at the honest admiration of old Donnie, who did not rise into raptures for everyone 190 GUY DEVERELL. and on all themes, and whose eulogy was therefore valuable. “I see, Donnie—nothing bad has hap- pened?” said Lady Jane, with a scared glance at her face. ‘Bad 7 Nonsense! I told you, Miss Jennie, '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, seizing her fiercely by the arm, with a wild fixed stare in her face. ‘Who P” said Donica. “Not he. I mean’ ‘Who?’ repeated Gwynn. ‘How is Sir Jekyl?’ It seemed as if old Donica's breath was suspended. Shade after shade her face LADY JANE'S TOILET. 191 darkened, as with wide 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 l—and is that it ’’ Lady Jane's face was dark with other fiercer passions. ‘Can't you answer, and not talk?” said she. Donica's eyes wandered to the far end of 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 domestic Lady Jane was standing—a statue of shame, of defiance—the fallen angelic. ‘You’re doing that to make me mad.’ 192 GUY DEVERELL. ‘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 carriage to the town, and we'll go together, ma'am, 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. Iwon't go with her.’ ‘Good-bye, my lady; good-bye, Miss Jennie 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. 194 GUY DEVERELL. 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. ‘We are about to compare notes, and discuss the case a little—Doctor Pratt and I —and we shall then, sir, be in a position to say something a-a-definite, we hope.” So the Rey. Dives withdrew to the stair- head, exchanging bows with the priests of AEsculapius, and there awaited the opening of the doors. When that event came, and the Rev. Dives entered— “Well, Mr. Marlowe, murmured the Slowton doctor, a slight and dismal man of five-and-fifty—‘we think, sir, that your THE TWO DOCTORS CONSULT. 195 brother, Sir Jekyl Marlowe, is not in imme- diate danger; but it would not be right or fair to conceal the fact that he is in a very critical state—highly so, in fact; and we think it better on the whole that some mem- ber of his family should advise him, if he has anything to arrange—a—a Will, or any particular business, that he should see to it; and we think that—we are quite agreed upon this, Doctor Pratt’” Pratt bowed assent, forgetful that he had not yet heard what they were agreed on. ‘We think he should be kept very quiet; he's very low, and must have claret. We have told the nurse in what quantities to administer it, and some other things; she's a very intelligent woman, and your servants can take their directions from her.’ Dives felt very oddly. We talk of Death all our lives, but know nothing about him until he stands in our safe homesteads sud- denly before us, face to face. He is a much grizzlier object than we had fancied when busied with a brother or a child. What he o 2 196 GUY DEVERELL. is when he comes for ourselves, the few who have seen him waiting behind the doctor and live can vaguely remember. ‘Good Lord, sir!" said Dives, ‘is he really in that state? I had no idea.' ‘Don’t mis-take us, sir. We don't say he may not, if everything goes right, do very well. Only the case is critical, and we should deceive you if we shrank from telling you so; is not that your view, Doctor—Dr. Pratt 2' Dr. Pratt was of course quite clear on the point. ‘And you are in very able hands here,’ and the Slowton doctor waved his yellow fingers and vouchsafed a grave smile and nod of approbation toward Pratt, who wished to look indifferent under the com- pliment, but simpered a little in spite of himself. The Rev. Dives Marlowe accompanied the two doctors down-stairs, looking like a man going to execution. - ‘You need not be afraid, sir, said Dives, laying his hand on the Slowton leech's 198 GUY DEVERELL. nurse knows what to do; and I think—I think I have said everything now.’ ‘Haemorrhage, sir! But what haemor- rhage? Why, what haemorrhage is appre- hended?’ asked Dives, amazed. ‘Internal or external it may occur, said the doctor; and Pratt, coughing and shaking his chops, interposed hurriedly and said– ‘Yes, there may be a bleeding, it may come to that.” “He has bled a great deal already, you are aware, resumed the Slowton doctor, and in his exhausted state a return of that might of course be very bad.' “But I don't understand, persisted Dives. “I beg pardon, but I really must. What is this haemorrhage? it is not connected with gout, is it?’ ‘Gout, sir! no; who said gout 7. A bad wound, that seems to run toward the lung,' answered the Slowton man. ‘Wound ! how's this? I did not hear, and Dives looked frightened, and inquiringly on Pratt, who said— “Not hear, didn't you? Why, Sir Jekyl THE TWO DOCTORS CONSULT. 199 undertook to tell you, and would not let me. He took me in for a while, poor fellow, quite, and said 'twas gout, that's all. I'm surprised he did not tell you.’ ‘No—no—not a word; and—and you think, sir, it may begin bleeding afresh ’’ ‘That's what we chiefly apprehend. Fare- well, sir. I find I have not a moment. I must be at Todmore in three quarters of an hour. A sad case that at Todmore; only a question of a few days, I'm afraid; and a very fine young fellow.’ f ‘Yes,’ said Dives—‘I—I—it takes me by surprise. Pray, Dr. Pratt, don't go for a moment, and he placed his hand on his arm. ‘Farewell, sir, said the Slowton doctor, and putting up his large gold watch, and bowing gravely, he ran at a quiet trot down the stairs, and jumped into his chaise at the back entrance, and vanished. ‘You did not tell me, began Dives. ‘No,' said Pratt, promptly, “he said he'd tell himself, and did not choose me.’ ‘And you think —you think it's very bad P’ 200 GUY DEVERELL. “Very bad, sir.’ ‘And you think he'll not get over it?’ “He may not, sir. . “It's frightful, Doctor, frightful. And how was it, do you know?' “No more than the man in the moon. You must not tease him with questions, mind, to-day. In a day or two you may ask him. But he said, upon his honour, no one was to blame but himself.” ‘Merciful Heavens ! sir. To think of his going this way!” “Very sad, sir. But we'll do all we can, and possibly may pull him through.” With slow steps Dives began to ascend the stairs toward his brother's room. He recollected that he had not bid Pratt good- bye, and gave him 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 202 GUY DEVERELL. 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 name- sake 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 of 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, THE TWO DOCTORS CONSULT. 203 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. 204 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XX. VARBARRIERE IN THE SICK-ROOM. ‘WELL, Jekyl, my dear fellow—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 watch to Jekyl, who nodded. t VARBARRIERE IN THE SICK-ROOM. 205 “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 206 GUY DEVERELL. they are mortal, and resolving to make the best preparation they can for the journey.’ ‘Come, Dives, haven’t 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 enjoy 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 unworthy I have been of my calling, and how fruitless have been my opportunities, VARBARRIERE IN THE SICK-ROOM. 207 my dear brother, with you. I've never im- proved them; and I’d be so glad—now we are likely to have a few quiet days—if you'll let me read a little with you.’ ‘Sermons, do you mean?’ interposed the Baronet. ‘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 ?’ ‘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 for- get his name—and he really could not help saying.’ - ‘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 208 GUY DEVERELL. 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; you are exerting yourself.' 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 contuma- cious and troublesome patient, told her to sit in the study and leave him alone. “I’ve a word to say, Dives. I must see that fellow Herbert Strangways.” ‘Who?” said Dives, a good deal alarmed, for he feared that his brother's mind was wandering. ‘Herbert–that fellow Warbarriere. 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.’ 210 GUY DEVERELL. 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 con- sult 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 fight- -ing.’ | “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 214 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XXI. GUY DEVERELL ARRIVES. ‘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.’ Warbarriere was answering plausibly, politely, 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 diplo- matic benignity. Still it was something. Here was his foe willing to hear reason. “It was just in my mind—Dives and I * * GUY DEVERELL ARRIVES. 215 talking—I think I’ve seen some signs of liking between the young people—I mean your nephew and Beatrix.’ ‘Indeed!’ interrupted Warbarriere, 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 sur- prise. That the young fellow should adore 216 GUY DEVERELL. at such a shrine is but to suppose him mor- tal, said Warbarriere, 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 moment.” ‘No, of course. We are so far all in the clouds. But I wished to say so much to you; 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 outstayed my time very considerably.’ “Very sorry too—and only too happy if you could prolong it a little. Could you, do you think?" Warbarriere 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 GUY DEVERELL ARRIVES. 217 we should reflect and perhaps consult a little. It sounds not unpromisingly, how- ever; 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 Warbarriere was passing through the conservatory, the outer door of which stood open ever so little, tempering the warmth of its artificial at- mosphere. He stopped before a file of late exotics, looking at them with a grave meaning smile, and smelling at them ab- stractedly. ‘Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots 7 Selfish rogue ! 218 GUY DEVERELL. Could it be? A wedding, in which Guy, the son of that murdered friend, 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! 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 !’ A little while later, Warbarriere, 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 - GUY DEVERELL ARRIVES. 225 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 Warbarriere suddenly, and toward the hall- door they walked. Was it something in the tone and cadence of this cry that made each in that party of three feel that a dreadful tragedy was con- summated? I can’t say—only they walked faster than usual, and in silence, like men anticipating evil news and hastening to a revelation. VOL. III. Q 226 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XXII. I AM THINE AND THOU ART MINE, BoDY AND SOUL, FOR EVER | IN order to understand the meaning of this cry, it will be necessary to mention that so soon as the corpulent and sombre visitor had left the bed-room of Sir Jekyl Marlowe, Dives lent his reverend aid to the nurse in adjusting his brother more comfortably in his bed; and he, like Warbarriere, took in- stinctively a comfortable and confident view of Sir Jekyl's case, so that when the officious handmaid of AEsculapius assumed her airs of direction he put aside her interference rather shortly. At all events, there was abundance of time to grow alarmed in, and certainly no need for panic just now. So Dives took his leave for the present, the Baronet having agreed with him that his visitors had better be allowed to disperse to THINE AND MINE, FOR EVER. 227 their own homes, a disposition to do so having manifested itself here and there among them. Sir Jekyl, a little more easy inconsequence of these manipulations, was lying back on pillows, with that pleasant confidence in his case at which a sanguine man so easily arrives, and already beginning to amuse himself with pictures in the uncertain future. The hospital nurse, sitting by a fire in that dim and faded study which opened from the sick-room, now and then rose, and with soundless steps drew near the half-open door, and sometimes peeped, and sometimes only listened. The patient was quiet. The woman sat down in that drowsy light, and ruminated, looking into the fire, with her feet on the fender, and a good deal of stock- ing disclosed; when, all on a sudden, she heard a rustling of a loose dress near her, and looking over her shoulder, surprised, still more so, saw a pale and handsome lady cross the floor from near the window to the door of Sir Jekyl's room, which she closed as she entered it. Q 2 228 GUY DEVERELL. With her mouth open, the nurse stood up and gazed in the direction in which she had disappeared. Sir Jekyl, on the other hand, witnessed her entrance with a silent amaze- ment, scarcely less than the nurse's. A few hurried steps brought her to his bedside, and looking down upon him with great agony, and her hands clasped together, she said, with a kind of sob— ‘Thank God, thank God!—alive, alive! Oh, Jekyl, what hours of torture!’ “Alive! to be sure I’m alive, little fool!’ said the Baronet, with an effort, smiling uncomfortably. “They have not been telling you it's anything serious?” “They told me nothing. I’ve heard nothing, I’ve seen no one but Gwynn. Oh, Jekyll tell me the truth; what do they say?—there's so much blood on the floor.” “Why, my precious child, don’t worry yourself about it; they evidently think it's nothing at all. I know it's nothing, only what they call, just, the muscles—you know —a little sore. I'll be on my legs again in a week.’ THINE AND MINE, FOR EVER. 229 ‘I’m going to Wardlock, Jekyl; you'll hear news of me from there.” Had the tone or the look something in effably ominous? I know not. ‘Come, Jennie, none of that, he answered. “No folly. I’ve behaved very badly. I've been to blame; altogether my fault. Don't tease yourself about what can't be helped. We must not do anything foolish, though. I'm tired of the world; so are you, Jennie; we are both sick of it. If we choose to live out of it, what the plague do we really lose?” - At this moment the nurse, slowly opening the door a little, said, with a look of quiet authority— ‘Please, sir, the doctor said particular you were not to talk, sir.’ * D n you and the doctor—get out of that, and shut the door !’ cried the Baronet; and the woman vanished, scared. ‘Give me your hand, Jennie darling, and don't look as if the sky had fallen. I'm not going to make my bow yet, I promise you.’ 230 GUY DEVERELL. ‘And then, I suppose, a duel, said Lady Jane, wringing her hands in an agony. “Duel, you little fool! Why, there's no such thing now, that is, in these countries. Put fighting quite out of your head, and listen to me. You're right to keep quiet for a little time, and Wardlock is as good a place as any. I shall be all right again in a few days.” ‘I can look no one in the face; no— never again—and Beatrix; and—oh, Jekyl, how will it be? I am half wild.” “To be sure, everyone's half wild when an accident happens, till they find it really does not signify two pence. Can't you listen to me, and not run from one thing to another? and I'll tell you everything.’ With a trembling hand he poured some claret into a tumbler and drank it off, and was stronger. - ‘He'll take steps, you know, and I'll help all I can; and when you're at liberty, by I'll marry you, Jane, if you'll accept me. Upon my honour and soul, Jennie, I'll do exactly whatever you like. THINE AND MINE, FOR EVER. 231 Don't look so. What frightens you? I tell you we'll be happier than you can think or imagine.’ Lady Jane was crying wildly and bit- terly. ‘Fifty times happier than ever we could have been if this—this annoyance had not happened. We'll travel. I'll lay myself out to please you, every way, and make you happy; upon my soul I will, Jennie. I owe you everything I can do. We'll travel. We'll not try pharisaical England, but abroad, where people have common sense. Don’t, don’t go on crying, darling, that way; you 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 com- mon sense and good nature; positively better people, and a devilish deal more agreeable and—and cleverer. 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, THINE AND MINE, FOR EVER. 233 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—a great deal happier; and as for me, I think I'm broken- hearted.’ ‘By , Jennie, you shan't go. I'll make you swear; you shall be my wife—by Heaven, you shall; we'll live and die to- gether. 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 Puseyite, or a Papist, or anything you like best. I’ll—I’ll’ 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 Tom- linson, who, without waiting for directions, 234 GUY DEVERELL. dashed water in his face. Sir Jekyl lay still, with waxen face, and a fixed deepen- ing 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 upon his throat. ‘Lower his head, said the nurse; and she wiped his shining forehead with his handkerchief; 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. S end for him, man | I tell ye, cried the THINE AND MINE, FOR EVER. 235 nurse, scarce taking her eyes from the Baronet. Tomlinson disappeared. ‘Is he better?' asked Lady Jane, with a gasp. - ‘He'll never be better; I'm 'feared 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 minute—talking—why, it can’t—its 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 in- truded herself into Sir Jekyl's sick-room. She knew Beatrix, and that this was not 236 GUY DEVERELL. 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 coverlet. - Donica Gwynn began to cry quietly, look- ing on the familiar face, thinking of pre- sents of ribbons long ago, and school-boy days, and many small good-natured re- membrances. IN THE CHAISE. 237 CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE CHAISE. HEARING steps approaching, Donica recol- lected 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. - “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 better out o' this, don't you think, ma'am?’ ‘Drink a little wine, Miss Jennie, dear,' 238 GUY DEVERELL. 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 placing her hand under her arm, and draw- ing 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 240 GUY DEVERELL. 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:– Window dressing-room or hexagon . • # '; Green chamber • • • • . 38 O Recess . • • • • • . 2 0 First dark room • • • • . 23 0 Recess • • 1 6 Second dark room . . . • . 23 O Recess • • • • • . 1 6 Study . . • • • • * . 25 () Wall • • • • • • . 1 0 Sir Jekyl's bed-room • • e . 27 () Ante-room • - • - • ... 10 () Stair, bow-window of which forms part of the eastern front . o • • . 9 () IN THE CHAISE. 241 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 or- dained. 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 and 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 could not believe without the evidence of VOL. III. R 242 GUY DEVERELL. 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. Now 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 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 244 GUY DEVERELL. The house full o' servants; think, my dar- ling, and don’t let yourself down. Come away with me to Wardlock—this is no place any longer for you—and let your maid follow. Come along, Miss Jennie; come, darling. Come by the glass door, there is no one there, and the chaise waiting outside. Come, miss, you must not lower yourself before the like o' them that's about the house.’ It was an accident; but this appeal did touch her pride. “Well, Donnie, I will. It matters little who now knows everything. Wait one moment—my face. Give me a towel.” And with feminine precaution she hastily bathed her eyes and face, looking into the glass, and adjusted her hair. ‘A thick veil, Donnie.’ Old Gwynn adjusted it, and Lady Jane gathered in its folds in her hand; and be- hind this mask, with old Donnie near her, she glided down-stairs without encountering anyone, and entered the carriage, and lay back in one of its corners, leaving to 246 GUY DEVERELL. ruin. I—I—my wicked, wretched vanity. He's gone, lost for ever, and it's I who've done it all. It's I, Donnie. I’ve destroyed him.’ It was well that they were driving in a lonely place, over a rough way, and at a noisy pace, for in sheer distraction Lady Jane screamed these wild words of unavail- ing remorse. “Ah! my dear, expostulated Donica Gwynn. “You, indeed! Put that nonsense out of your head. I know all about him, poor master Jekyl; a wild poor fellow he was always. You, indeed! Ah! it's little you know.’ Lady Jane was now crying bitterly into her handkerchief, held up to her face with both hands, and Donica was glad that her frantic fancy of returning had passed. “Donnie, she sobbed at last—‘Donnie, you must never leave me. Come with me everywhere.” - “Better for you, ma'am, stay with Lady Alice, replied old Donnie, with a slight shake of her head. - IN THE CHAISE. 249 landscape was around her, and the old piers by the roadside, and the florid iron gate, and the quaint and staid old manor-house rose before her like the scenery of a sick dream. The journey was over, and in a few 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 standard 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. 250 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XXIV. old LADY ALICE TALKs with Guy. As Warbarriere, followed by Doocey and Guy, entered the hall, they saw Dives cross hurriedly to the library and shut the door. Warbarriere followed and knocked. Dives, very pallid, opened it, and looked hesitatingly in his face 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 Jekyll It's a ter- rible thing. He's gone, sir, quite suddenly.’ His puffy, bilious hand was on Warbar- riere's arm with a shifting pressure, and Warbarriere 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. It's awful, sir.’ ‘I’m very much shocked, sir. I had not OLD LADY ALICE TALKS WITH GUY. 251 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 Warbarriere. ‘Yes, certainly; thank you,' answered Dives, eagerly ringing the bell. ‘And I’ve a chaise at the door, said Warbarriere, 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 254 GUY DEVERELL. Then, he still standing, she took his hand, and said, in tones unexpectedly soft and fond– ‘Well, dear, how have you been ? It seems a long time, although it's really nothing. Quite well, I hope?’ 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 dread- ful 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 continue—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 those preparations for swooning which Lady Alice occasionally OLD LADY ALICE TALKS WITH GUY. 255 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 Jekyll 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 preferred standing. The hysterical ramblings 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. There's a–there's some one there at present, and I possibly shan’t be at home. I must remain with poor dear OLD LADY ALICE TALKS WITH GUY. 259 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 this 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 precipitate, for some arrangements were in- dispensable 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 ac- company the forlorn young wife on her journey. 260 GUY DEVERELL. CHAPTER XXV. SOMETHING MORE OF 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, dreadful 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, because, 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 forget his name. There's no need—I’ve considered it—none in the world—of a-a-that miserable ceremony, you know.’ SOMETHING MORE OF LADY JANE. 261 ‘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 apo- plexy, 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- exerting himself.” - “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 SOMETHING MORE OF LADY JANE. 263 as a country gentleman, followed by the usual summary from the ‘Peerage, and the fact that, leaving 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, however, he does not reside, pre- ferring his sacred vocation, and the chance of preferment—for he has grown, they say, very fond of money—to the worldly life and expensive liabilities of a country gentle- In all. The Reverend Sir Dives Marlowe, Bart, is still unmarried. It is said, however, that he was twice pretty near making the harbour of matrimony. Lady Bateman, the relict of Sir Thomas, was his first object, and matters went on satisfactorily until the stage of business was arrived at ; when unexpectedly the lovers on both sides were pulled up and thrown on their haunches by a clause in Sir Thomas's will, the spirit of SOMETHING MORE OF LADY JANE. 265 the cause of the abandonment of General Lennox'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 fracas as pos- sible, a separation was arranged—no difficult matter—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 enve- loped in doubt. A desperate quarrel, it was known, had followed the General's re- turn from town, but which of the younger gentlemen, then guests at Marlowe, was the hero of the suspicion, was variously conjec- tured. The evidence of sojourners in the house only deepened the mystery. Lady Jane had not shown the least liking for any- one there. It was thought by most to have a reference to those old London stories which had never been quite proved. A few SOMETHING MORE OF LADY JANE. 267 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 images; 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 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- ness—dissatisfied with the present, hopeless of the future. It was a life without an object, without a 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. - 268 GUY DEVERELL. 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 memory 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. THE LAST. 269 CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST. OLD Lady Alice, who liked writing and reading letters, kept up an active corre- spondence with her grandson, and that dutiful young gentleman received them with an interest, and answered them with a punctuality that did him honour. - 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 afterwards the Miss Wynkletons—lively youngladies of Beatrix's time of life—who helped to make Wardlock less depressing. These hospitalities led to 270 GUY DEVERELL. ‘invites; and so the time passed over without the tedium that might have been looked for, until the period drew 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 alluded to it in his next letter, but Lady Alice chose to pass the subject by. - There had been no step actually taken in the threatened lawsuit since the death of Sir Jekyl. But there were unpleasant rumours, and Pelter and Crowe were in communication with the Rev. Sir Dives Marlowe on the subject, and he occasion- ally communicated 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. Warbarriere, I suppose, was on good terms once more with his nephew. There was no more talk of Algeria, and they were now THE LAST. 271 again in London. That corpulent old gen- tleman used to smile with an unctuous scorn over the long letters with which Lady Alice occasionally favoured 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 answer her never, 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 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 miserably solitary, unless you and your uncle will come to me, as you long since promised, and as you well know there is nothing to prevent. I have written to him, naming Wednesday week. I shall then have rooms in which to place you, and you positively must not refuse.’ Under this hospitable pressure, Varbarriere 272 GUY DEVERELL. - resolved to make the visit to Wardlock—a flying visit of a day and night—rather to hear what she might have to say than to enjoy the excellent lady's society. From Slowton, having there got rid of their rail- way dust and vapour, 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 unbonneted, and called for luncheon, and would have led the way into the parlour; 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; 274 GUY DEVERELL. doorcase of Caen stone in the garden wall; ‘and I want to talk a little to my friend, M. de Varbarriere—Mr. Strangways, as I remember him.’ And turning to that sage, she said— ‘You got my letter, and have well con- sidered it, I trust?” ‘I never fail to consider well anything that falls from Lady Alice Redcliffe.’ “Well, sir, I must tell you.’ These were the last words that Guy heard as he departed, according to orders, to visit her ladyship's old-fashioned garden. Could a young fellow fancy a duller enter- tainment? Yet to Guy Deverell it was not dull. Everything he looked on here was beautified and saddened by the influence that had been there so recently and was gone. Those same roses, whose leaves were dropping to the earth, she had seen but a day or two ago in their melancholy clus- ters; under these tall trees she had walked, here on this rustic seat she had rested; and Guy, like a reverent worshipper of relics, sat him down in the same seat, and, with a THE LAST. 275 strange thrill, fancied he saw a pencilled word or two on the arm of it. But no, it was nothing, only the veining of the wood. Why do ladies use their pencils so much less than we men, and so seldom (those I mean whose relics are precious) trace a line by chance, and throw this bread upon the waters, where we poor devils pull cheer- less against wind and tide’’ Here were flowers, too, tied up on tall sticks. He wondered whether Beatrix ever tended these with her delicate fingers, and he rose and looked at the bass-mat with inexpressible feeling. Then, on a sudden, he stopped by a little circle of annuals, overgrown, run into pod, all draggled, but in the centre a split stick and a piece of bleached paper folded and stuck across it. Had she written the name of the flower, which perhaps she sowed ? and he plucked the stick from the earth, and with tender fingers unfolded the record. In a hideous scrawl, evidently the seeds- man's, “Lupines’ sprawled across the wea- ther-beaten brown paper. T 2 THE LAST. 279 where not only Cupid applauds, but Plutus smiles, Hymen seldom makes much pother about his share in the business. Beatrix did not make that tour with the Fentons. They, on the contrary, delayed their de- parture for rather more than a month; and I find Miss Fenton and Miss Arabella Fenton among the bridesmaids. Drayton did not attend the wedding, and oddly enough, was married only about three weeks after to Lady Justina Flynston, who was not pretty, and had but little money; and they say he has turned out rather cross, and hates the French and all their products, as “utter rot.’ Warbarriere has established two great silk-factories, and lives in France, where they say gold pours in upon him in streams before which the last editor of “Aladdin’ and Mr. Kightley of the ‘Ancient My- , thology’ hang their heads. His chief “object’ is the eldest son of the happy union which we have seen celebrated a few lines back. They would have called the boy Herbert, but Warbarriere would not hear