Old Lady Alice talks with Guy.
As Varbarriere, followed by Doocey and Guy, entered the hall, they saw Dives cross hurriedly to the library and shut the door. Varbarriere followed and knocked. Dives, very pallid, opened it, and looked hesitatingly in his 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 Jekyl! It’s a terrible thing. He’s gone, sir, quite suddenly.”
His puffy, bilious hand was on Varbarriere’s arm with a shifting pressure, and Varbarriere made no answer, but looked in his face sternly and earnestly.
“There’s that poor girl, you know — my niece. And — and all so unexpected. It’s awful, sir.”
“I’m very much shocked, sir. I had not an idea there was any danger. I thought him looking very far from actual danger. I’m very much shocked.”
“And — and things a good deal at sixes and sevens, I’m afraid,” said Dives— “law business, you know.”
“Perhaps it would be well to detain Mr. Pelter, who is, I believe, still here,” suggested Varbarriere.
“Yes, certainly; thank you,” answered Dives, eagerly ringing the bell.
“And I’ve a chaise at the door,” said Varbarriere, appropriating Guy’s vehicle. “A melancholy parting, sir; but in circumstances so sad, the only kindness we can show is to withdraw the restraint of our presence, and to respect the sanctity of affliction.”
With which little speech, in the artificial style which he had contracted in France, he made his solemn bow, and, for the last time for a good while, shook the Rev. Dives, now Sir Dives Marlowe, by the hand.
When our friend the butler entered, it was a comfort to see one countenance on which was no trace of flurry. Nil admirari — his manner was a philosophy, and the convivial undertaker had acquired a grave suavity of demeanour and countenance, which answered all occasions — imperturbable during the comic stories of an after-dinner sederunt — imperturbable now on hearing the other sort of story, known already, which the Rev. Dives Marlowe recounted, and offered, with a respectful inclination, his deferential but very short condolences.
Varbarriere in the meanwhile looked through the hall vestibule and from the steps, in vain, for his nephew! He encountered Jacques, however, but he had not seen Guy, which when Varbarriere, who was in one of his deep-seated fusses, heard, he made a few sotto voce ejaculations.
“Tell that fellow — he’s in the stable-yard, I dare say — who drove Mr. Guy from Slowton, to bring his chaise round this moment; we shall return. If his horses want rest, they can have it in the town, Marlowe, close by; I shall send a carriage up for you; and you follow, with all our things, immediately for Slowton.”
So Jacques departed, and Varbarriere did not care to go up-stairs to his room. He did not like meeting people; he did not like the chance of hearing Beatrix cry again; he wished to be away, and his temper was savage. He could have struck his nephew over the head with his cane for detaining him.
But Guy had been summoned elsewhere. As he walked listlessly before the house, a sudden knocking from the great window of Lady Mary’s boudoir caused him to raise his eyes, and he saw the grim apparition of old Lady Alice beckoning to him. As he raised his hat, she nodded at him, pale, scowling like an evil genius, and beckoned him fiercely up with her crooked fingers.
Another bow, and he entered the house, ascended the great stair, and knocked at the door of the boudoir. Old Lady Alice’s thin hand opened it. She nodded in the same inauspicious way, pointed to a seat, and shut the door before she spoke.
Then, he still standing, she took his hand, and said, in tones unexpectedly soft and fond —
“Well, dear, how have 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 dreadful intelligence — the frightful event. What will become of my poor niece? Everything in distraction. But Heaven’s will be done. I shan’t last long if this sort of thing is to 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 saw fit to make; and in a little while she resumed —
“Sir Jekyl has been taken from us — he’s gone — awfully suddenly. I wish he had had a little time for preparation. Ho, dear! poor Jekyl! 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 shrivelled relic of another generation, and make him listen to her in a second-hand fascination?
“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 Beatrix a little. She’ll probably go to Dartbroke, you know; yes, that would not be a bad plan, and I of course must consider her, poor thing. When you grow a little older you’ll find you must often sacrifice yourself, my dear. I’ve served a long apprenticeship to that kind of thing. You must come to Wardlock, to my house; I have a great deal to say and tell you, and you can spend a week or so there very pleasantly. There are some pictures and books, and some walks, and everybody looks at the monuments in the church. There are two of them — the Chief Justice of Chester and Hugo de Redcliffe — in the “Gentleman’s Magazine.” I’ll show it to you when you come, and you can have the carriage, provided you don’t tire the horses; but you must come. I’m your kinswoman — I’m your relation — I’ve found it all out — very near — your poor dear father.”
Here Lady Alice dried her eyes.
“Well, it’s time enough. You see how shattered I am, and so pray don’t urge me to talk any more just now. I’ll write to you, perhaps, if I find myself able; and you write to me, mind, directly, and address to Wardlock Manor, Wardlock. Write it in your pocket-book or you’ll forget it, and put “to be forwarded” on it. Old Donica will see to it. She’s very careful, I think; and you promise you’ll come?”
Guy did promise; so she said —
“Well, dear, till we meet, good-bye; there, God bless you, dear.”
And she drew his hand toward her, and he felt the loose soft leather of her old cheek on his as she kissed him, and her dark old eyes looked for a moment in his, and then she dismissed him with —
“There, dear, I can’t talk any more at present; there, farewell. God bless you.”
Down through that changed, mysterious house, through which people now trod softly, and looked demure, and spoke little on stair or lobby, and that in whispers, went Guy Deverell, and glanced upward, involuntarily, as he descended, hoping that he might see the beloved shadow of Beatrix on the wall, or even the hem of her garment; but all was silent and empty, and in a few seconds more he was again in the chaise, sitting by old Varbarriere, who was taciturn and ill-tempered all the way to Slowton.
By that evening all the visitors but the Rev. Dives Marlowe and old Lady Alice, who remained with Beatrix, had taken flight. Even Pelter, after a brief consultation with Dives, had fled Londonwards, and the shadow and silence of the chamber of death stole out under the door and pervaded all the mansion.
That evening Lady Alice recovered sufficient strength to write a note to Lady Jane, telling her that in consequence of the death of Sir Jekyl, it became her duty to remain with her niece for the present at Marlowe. It superadded many religious reflections thereupon; and offering to her visitor at Wardlock the use of that asylum, and the society and attendance of Donica Gwynn, it concluded with many wholesome wishes for the spiritual improvement of Lady Jane Lennox.
Strangely enough, these did not produce the soothing and elevating effect that might have been expected; for when Lady Jane read the letter she tore it into strips and then into small squares, and stamped upon the fragments more like her fierce old self than she had appeared for the previous four-and-twenty hours.
“Come, Donica, you write to say I leave 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 indispensable 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 peaceably in her dry way, obtained, without a row, the permission of Lady Alice to accompany the forlorn young wife on her journey.