style="font-size:15px;"> The Green Chamber at Marlowe
So the Baronet, with a rather dreary chuckle, said: —
"I don't think, to say truth, there is anything in it. I really can't see why the plague I should bore myself about it. You know your pew in the middle of the gallery, with that painted hatchment thing, you know…"
"Respect the dead," said Lady Alice, looking down with a dry severity on the table.
"Well, yes; I mean, you know, it is so confoundedly conspicuous, I can't wonder at the two fellows, the old and young, staring a bit at it, and, perhaps, at you, you know," said Sir Jekyl, in his impertinent vein. "But I agree with you they are no ghosts, and I really shan't trouble my head about them any more. I wonder I was such a fool – hey? But, as you say, you know, it is unpleasant to be reminded of – of those things; it can't be helped now, though."
"Now, nor ever," said Lady Alice, grimly.
"Exactly; neither now, nor ever," repeated Sir Jekyl; "and we both know it can't possibly be poor – I mean anyone concerned in that transaction; so the likeness must be accidental, and therefore of no earthly significance – eh?"
Lady Alice, with elevated brows, fiddled in silence with some crumbs on the table with the tip of her thin finger.
"I suppose Beatrix is ready; may I ring the bell?"
"Oh! here she is. Now, bid grandmamma good-night," said the Baronet.
So slim and pretty Beatrix, in her cloak, stooped down and placed her arms about the neck of the old lady, over whose face came a faint flush of tender sunset, and her old grey eyes looked very kindly on the beautiful young face that stooped over her, as she said, in a tone that, however, was stately —
"Good-bye, my dear child; you are warm enough – you are certain?"
"Oh! yes, dear grandmamma – my cloak, and this Cashmere thing."
"Well, darling, good-night. You'll not forget to write – you'll not fail? Good-night, Beatrix, dear – good-bye."
"Good-night," said the Baronet, taking the tips of her cold fingers together, and addressing himself to kiss her cheek, but she drew back in one of her whims, and said, stiffly, "There, not to-night. Good-bye, Jekyl."
"Well," chuckled he, after his wont, "another time; but mind, you're to come to Marlowe."
He did not care to listen to what she replied, but he called from the stairs, as he ran down after his daughter —
"Now, mind, I won't let you off this time; you really must come. Good-night, au revoir– good-night."
I really think that exemplary old lady hated the Baronet, who called her "little mamma," and invited her every year, without meaning it, most good-naturedly, to join his party under the ancestral roof-tree. He took a perverse sort of pleasure in these affectionate interviews, in fretting her not very placid temper – in patting her, as it were, wherever there was a raw, and in fondling her against the grain; so that his caresses were cruel, and their harmony, such as it was, amounted to no more than a flimsy deference to the scandalous world.
But Sir Jekyl knew that there was nothing in this quarter to be gained in love by a different tactique; there was a dreadful remembrance, which no poor lady has ostrich power to digest, in the way; it lay there, hard, cold, and irreducible; and the morbid sensation it produced was hatred. He knew that "little mamma," humanly speaking, ought to hate him. His mother indeed she was not; but only the step-mother of his deceased wife. Mother-in-law is not always a very sweet relation, but with the prefix "step" the chances are, perhaps, worse.
There was, however, as you will by-and-by see, a terrible accident, or something, always remembered, gliding in and out of Wardlock Manor like the Baronet's double, walking in behind him when he visited her, like his evil genius, and when they met affectionately, standing by his shoulder, black and scowling, with clenched fist.
Now pretty Beatrix sat in the right corner of the chariot, and Sir Jekyl, her father, in the left. The lamps were lighted, and though there was moonlight, for they had a long stretch of road always dark, because densely embowered in the forest of Penlake. Tier over tier, file behind file, nodding together, the great trees bent over like plumed warriors, and made a solemn shadow always between their ranks.
Marlowe was quite new to Beatrix; but still too distant, twelve miles away, to tempt her to look out and make observations as she would on a nearer approach.
"You don't object to my smoking a cigar, Beatrix? The smoke goes out of the window, you know," said the Baronet, after they had driven about a mile in silence.
What young lady, so appealed to by a parent, ever did object? The fact is, Sir Jekyl did not give himself the trouble to listen to her answer, but was manifestly thinking of something quite different, as he lighted his match.
When he threw his last stump out of the window they were driving through Penlake Forest, and the lamplight gleamed on broken rows of wrinkled trunks and ivy.
"I suppose she told you all about it?" said he, suddenly pursuing his own train of thought.
"Who?" inquired Beatrix.
"I never was a particular favourite of her's, you know – grandmamma's, I mean. She does not love me, poor old woman! And she has a knack of making herself precious disagreeable, in which I try to imitate her, for peace' sake, you know; for, by George, if I was not uncivil now and then, we could never get on at all."
Sir Jekyl chuckled after his wont, as it were, between the bars of this recitative, and he asked —
"What were the particulars – the adventure on Sunday – that young fellow, you know?"
Miss Beatrix had heard no such interrogatory from her grandmamma, whose observations in the church-aisle were quite as unknown to her; and thus far the question of Sir Jekyl was a shock.
"Did not grandmamma tell you about it?" he pursued.
"About what, papa?" asked Beatrix, who was glad that it was dark.
"About her illness – a young fellow in a pew down in the aisle staring at her. By Jove! one would have fancied that sort of thing pretty well over. Tell me all about it."
The fact was that this was the first she had heard of it.
"Grandmamma told me nothing of it," said she.
"And did not you see what occurred? Did not you see him staring?" asked he.
Beatrix truly denied.
"You young ladies are always thinking of yourselves. So you saw nothing, and have nothing to tell? That will do," said Sir Jekyl, drily; and silence returned.
Beatrix was relieved on discovering that her little adventure was unsuspected. Very little was there in it, and nothing to reflect blame upon her. From her exaggeration of its importance, and her quailing as she fancied her father was approaching it, I conclude that the young gentleman had interested her a little.
And now, as Sir Jekyl in one corner of the rolling chariot brooded in the dark over his disappointed conjectures, so did pretty Beatrix in the other speculate on the sentences which had just fallen from his lips, and long to inquire some further particulars, but somehow dared not.
Could that tall
