Guy Deverell. Volume 1 of 2. Le Fanu Joseph Sheridan

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СКАЧАТЬ was instantly in the room, and a tall, thin old lady, with a sad and stately mien, rose up to greet him.

      "How is little mamma?" cried the Baronet, with his old chuckle. "An age since we met, hey? How well you look!"

      The old lady gave her thin mittened hand to her son-in-law, and looked a grim and dubious sort of welcome upon him.

      "Yes, Jekyl, an age; and only that Beatrix is here, I suppose another age would have passed without my seeing you. And an old woman at my years has not many ages between her and the grave."

      The old lady spoke not playfully, but sternly, like one who had suffered long and horribly, and who associated her sufferings with her visitor; and in her oblique glance was something of deep-seated antipathy.

      "Egad! you're younger than I, though you count more years. You live by clock and rule, and you show it. You're as fresh as that bunch of flowers there; while I am literally knocking myself to pieces – and I know it – by late hours, and all sorts of nonsense. So you must not be coming the old woman over me, you know, unless you want to frighten me. And how is Beatrix? How do, Beatrix? All ready, I see. Good child."

      Beatrix at this moment was entering. She was tall and slightly formed, with large dark eyes, hair of soft shadowy black, and those tints of pure white and rich clear blush, scarlet lips, and pearly teeth, and long eyelashes, which are so beautiful in contrast and in harmony. She had the prettiest little white nose, and her face was formed in that decided oval which so heightens the charm of the features. She was not a tragic heroine. Her smile was girlish and natural – and the little ring of pearls between her lips laughed beautifully – and her dimples played on chin and cheek as she smiled.

      Her father kissed her, and looked at her with a look of gratification, as he might on a good picture that belonged to him; and turning her smiling face, with his finger and thumb upon her little dimpled chin, toward Lady Alice, he said —

      "Pretty well, this girl, hey?"

      "I dare say, Jekyl, she'll do very well; she's not formed yet, you know," – was stately Lady Alice's qualified assent. She was one of that school who are more afraid of spoiling people than desirous of pleasing them by admiration. "She promises to be like her darling mother; and that is a melancholy satisfaction to me, and, of course, to you. You'll have some tea, Jekyl?"

      The Baronet was standing, hat in hand, with his outside coat on, and his back to the fire, and a cashmere muffler loosely about his throat.

      "Well, as it is here, I don't mind."

      "May I run down, grandmamma, and say good-bye to Ellen and old Mrs. Mason?"

      "Surely – you mean, of course to the parlour? You may have them there."

      "And you must not be all night about it, Beatrix. We'll be going in a few minutes. D'ye mind?"

      "I'm quite ready, papa," said she; and as she glided from the room she stole a glance at her bright reflection in the mirror.

      "You are always in a hurry, Jekyl, to leave me when you chance to come here. I should be sorry, however, to interfere with the pleasanter disposition of your time."

      "Now, little mother, you mustn't be huffed with me. I have a hundred and fifty things to look after at Marlowe when I get there. I have not had a great deal of time, you know – first the session, then three months knocking about the world."

      "You never wrote to me since you left Paris," said the old lady, grimly.

      "Didn't I? That was very wrong! But you knew those were my holidays, and I detest writing, and you knew I could take care of myself; and it is so much better to tell one's adventures than to put them into letters, don't you think?"

      "If one could tell them all in five minutes," replied the old lady, drily.

      "Well, but you'll come over to Marlowe – you really must – and I'll tell you everything there – the truth, the whole truth, and as much more as you like."

      This invitation was repeated every year, but like Don Juan's to the statue, was not expected to lead to a literal visit.

      "You have haunted rooms there, Jekyl," she said, with an unpleasant smile and a nod. "You have not kept house in Marlowe for ten years, I think. Why do you go there now?"

      "Caprice, whim, what you will," said the Baronet, combing out his favourite whisker with the tips of his fingers, while he smiled on himself in the glass upon the chimneypiece, "I wish you'd tell me, for I really don't know, except that I'm tired of Warton and Dartbroke, as I am of all monotony. I like change, you know."

      "Yes; you like change," said the old lady, with a dignified sarcasm.

      "I'm afraid it's a true bill," admitted Sir Jekyl, with a chuckle, "So you'll come to Marlowe and see us there – won't you?"

      "No, Jekyl – certainly not," said the old lady, with intense emphasis.

      A little pause ensued, during which the Baronet twiddled at his whisker, and continued to smile amusedly at himself in the glass.

      "I wonder you could think of asking me to Marlowe, considering all that has happened there. I sometimes wonder at myself that I can endure to see you at all, Jekyl Marlowe; and I don't think, if it were not for that dear girl, who is so like her sainted mother, I should ever set eyes on you again."

      "I'm glad we have that link. You make me love Beatrix better," he replied. He was now arranging the elaborate breast-pin with its tiny chain, which was at that date in vogue.

      "And so you are going to keep house at Marlowe?" resumed the lady, stiffly, not heeding the sentiment of his little speech.

      "Well, so I purpose."

      "I don't like that house," said the old lady, with a subdued fierceness.

      "Sorry it does not please you, little mother," replied Sir Jekyl.

      "You know I don't like it," she repeated.

      "In that case you need not have told me," he said.

      "I choose to tell you. I'll say so as often as I see you – as often as I like."

      It was an odd conference – back to back – the old lady stiff and high – staring pale and grimly at the opposite wall. The Baronet looking with a quizzical smile on his handsome face in the mirror – now plucking at a whisker – now poking at a curl with his finger-tip – and now in the same light way arranging the silken fall of his necktie.

      "There's nothing my dear little mamma can say, I'll not listen to with pleasure."

      "There is much I might say you could not listen to with pleasure." The cold was growing more intense, and bitter in tone and emphasis, as she addressed the Italian picture of Adonis and his two dogs hanging on the distant wall.

      "Well, with respect, not with pleasure – no," said he, and tapped his white upper teeth with the nail of his middle finger.

      "Assuming, then, that you speak truth, it is high time, Jekyl Marlowe, that you should alter your courses – here's your daughter, just come out. It is ridiculous, your affecting the vices of youth. Make up as you will – you're past the middle age – you're an elderly man now."

      "You can't vex me that way, you dear old mamma," he said, СКАЧАТЬ