XXVII
Desrolles Is Not Communicative
Mr. Desrolles left the Manor House a new man. He held his head erect, and bore himself with a lofty air, even before the butler who showed him out. He was respectabilised by a full purse. There was nothing left in him of the shabby, downcast stranger who had approached the house with an air of mingled mystery and apprehension. Trimmer hardly knew him. The man’s seedy overcoat hung with the reckless grace of artistic indifference to attire, and not with the forlorn droop of beggary. His hat was set on with a debonair slant. He looked a Bohemian, a painter, an actor, a popular parson gone to the bad: anything rather than an undistinguished pauper. He flung Trimmer half-a-crown, with the lofty elegance of a Lauzun or a Richelieu, nodded a condescending good night, and walked slowly along the gravel drive, humming “La Donna e mobile,” with not an unskilful mimicry of him who, of all men that ever walked the boards of Covent Garden, looked and moved like a prince of the blood royal, and the thinnest thread of whose fading voice sent a thrill through every heart in the vast opera-house.
The snow was no longer falling. It lay in patches here and there upon the grass, and whitened the topmost edge of the moor, but there was an end of the brief snowstorm. The stars were shining in a deep blue sky, calm and clear as at midsummer. The moon was rising behind the dark ridge of moor. It was a scene that might have stirred the heart of a man fresh from the life of cities; but the thoughts of Desrolles were occupied in considering the new aspect given to affairs by his discovery of Jack Chicot in the young squire of Hazlehurst, and in calculating how he might best turn the occasion to his own peculiar profit.
“A good, easygoing fellow,” he reflected, “and he seems inclined to be openhanded. But if the dancer was his legal wife, and if he married Laura a year ago, that poor girl is no more his wife than I am. Awkward for me to wink at such a position as that, in my paternal character; yet it might be dangerous for me to interfere.”
“Good evening, Mr. Desrolles,” said a voice close behind him.
He had been so deeply absorbed in self-interested speculations that he had not heard footsteps on the, gravel. He turned sharply round, surprised at the familiar mention of his name, and encountered Edward Clare.
In that dim light he failed to recognise the man whom he had met in Long Acre, and talked with for about ten minutes, nearly a year ago.
“You seem to have forgotten me,” said Clare, pleasantly; “yet we have met before. Do you remember meeting me in Long Acre one afternoon, and our talking together of your fellow-lodger, Mr. Chicot?”
“Your face and voice are both familiar to me,” said Desrolles, thoughtfully. “Yes, you are the, gentleman with whom I conversed for some minutes in the bar of the Rose Tavern. I remember your speaking of Hazlehurst. You belong to this part of the world, I presume?”
“I do; but I am rather surprised to see you in such an out-of-the-way nook and corner of the universe—on Christmas Eve, too—”
“When I ought to be hanging up holly in my ancestral mansion, and kissing my grandchildren under the mistletoe,” interjected Desrolles, with a harsh laugh. “Sir, I am a floating weed upon the river of life, and you need never be surprised to see me anywhere. I have no cable to moor me to any harbour, no dock but the hospital, no haven but the grave.”
Desrolles uttered this dismal speech with positive relish. He had a hundred pounds in his pocket, and the world before him where to choose. What did he want with dock or haven? He was by nature a rover.
“I am very glad we have met,” said Edward, gravely; “I have something serious to say to you—so serious that I would rather say it within four walls. Can you come with me to my house for half an hour, and let me talk to you over a tumbler of toddy?”
Toddy had but little temptation for the brandy drinker; it was almost as if someone had offered him milk and water.
“I want to get away by the mail,” said Desrolles, doubtfully; “and what the deuce can you have to say to me?”
“Something of the utmost importance. Something that may put money in your purse.”
“The suggestion provokes my curiosity. Suppose I forego the idea of the mail? It’s a cold night, and I’ve had a good deal of travelling since morning. Does your village boast an inn where a man can get a decent bed?”
“Yes, they will make you comfortable at the George. You had better come home with me, and hear what I have to say. It’s a quarter past nine, and the mail goes at ten thirty. You could hardly do it, if you tried.”
“Well, let the mail go without this Caesar and his fortunes; I’ll hear what you have to say.”
They walked together to the Vicarage. Mr. and Mrs. Clare and Celia were still at the Manor House, where the Christmas-tree was being stripped by the tumultuous infants, with shouts of rapture and shrill screams of delight. Edward had slipped out directly he had finished the “Jackdaw,” under the pretence of smoking a cigar, and had gone round to the front of the house to watch for the unknown visitor’s departure.
The Vicarage was wrapped in darkness, save in the servants’ quarters, where some mild rejoicings were in progress. Edward let himself in at the hall door, and went up to his den, followed by Mr. Desrolles The fire had burnt low, but there was a basket of word by the
