CHAPTER II.
Now old Smith was the son of a great London millionaire—an alderman, or even a lord mayor, for any thing I know—who had bought Howkey, and built an enormous house, to which his son had taken the moment the old gentleman died; had cut the shop, got on the commission, and now rejoiced in a fat, jolly, good-tempered wife, and a multiplicity of sons and daughters. Such a fellow for points of law was never heard of out of Westminster Hall, nor in it either. He read Acts of Parliament as other people read novels—for his amusement; and every body thought he knew more about them than a lord chancellor. There was great rejoicing at Howkey, from the drawing-room up to the very nursery, when I told of Frank Edwards's arrival. All manner of enquiries were made, in various tones of interest, from the romantic Miss Sibylla down to the youngest of the girls, as to his appearance, manner, height, and complexion. I answered them all to the extreme satisfaction of the enquirers, but took care to make no allusion to his companion; though, at the same time, I confess I could not persuade myself that what I had overheard had the dreadful meaning I at first attached to it. He must have meant something else; for I had not become acquainted with the new style of flash language, where so many allusions are made to people's mothers and their mangles, without any real reference either to one or other. Getting a man murdered in a shooting-box might mean something equivalent to "There you go, with your eye out!" which has no meaning at all. But although I had persuaded myself of this, I made no mention at Howkey of the ferocious-looking Percy Marvale, but merely asked my friend Old Smith to come over, and help me to welcome the new neighbour. Sibylla, who had all along been of opinion that Mr Frank Edwards was engaged to his tutor's daughter, and took no interest in him accordingly, was all of a sudden seized with an uncommon affection for my wife. She felt for the awkwardness of her position so much in being the only lady among so many gentlemen, that she insisted on going over with her father, merely to bear her company; and, from the sympathizing countenance of her fair sister Monimia, I expected every moment a similar offer from her. The Williamses, and old Harry Lambert and his son, were the only others I could catch on so short a notice; but we all determined to make up in friendliness for the paucity in numbers, and give young Frank a hearty welcome to his native county.
We were all assembled in the drawing-room—that is to say, all but the party from Bandvale—and Mr Smith was laying down the law, or rather explaining it after his usual manner, when Sibylla, who had stood at the window, all of a sudden gave a slight scream, and flushed up to the eyes like a peony rose.
"Why, what's the matter, Sib?" said Old Smith; "has a bee stung you."
"No, no!" she said; "but I saw likeness—a something"—
"What was it you saw?" enquired my wife—"a ghost?"
Sibylla lifted up her eyes to the ceiling, and said nothing; for at that moment the door opened, and Frank Edwards and Mr Percy Marvale were announced.
"No, not a ghost," whispered Sibylla to my wife, "but an apparition I as little expected to see—I knew Mr Marvale in town."
The introduction was soon over; and Mr Marvale, on being presented to Miss Sibylla, exhibited as much surprise as that young lady had done at the window. I watched him as closely as if I had been one of the detective police; but, saving an enormous amount of puppyism and affectation, I could trace nothing very unusual in his appearance. Frank, on the other hand, was a fine open-mannered fellow, that one took to at once; and it was a mystery to me how he could be so intimate with a person so different from himself. Pity such a good-dispositioned youth should fall into the hands of such an atrocious character!
"You've met Mr Marvale before?" I said to Sibylla, as I took her into the dining-room.
"Oh, yes—at my cousin Jane's, in Russell Square—a wonderful man—a perfect genius!"
"I hope to Heaven he's no worse," said I, "though that's bad enough."
"Bad enough! Oh, I doat on men of genius! Did you never hear of him? He is quite a celebrity. Cousin Jane always has him at her literary parties, for she does not know Bulwer or Dickens; and he's so handsome, too—such a wild expression."
"Wild enough to get him two months of the tread-mill, if your father lays hands on him."
But when I saw the glance of profound admiration darted by Sibylla at the interesting stranger, I felt sure she would only like him the more if he were found out to be a murderer in reality; for there is a certain school of young ladies who do not stand upon trifles in the way of their flirtations, but extract fresh reasons for glorifying the object of their preference, from facts which the unwary lay before them by way of warnings. If he is a spendthrift, it is so noble to be free and generous; if he is a gambler, he is of such a fine unsuspecting disposition, he is only the dupe of the designing. In short, whatever you say to put them on their guard, only makes them expose themselves the more; and, therefore, I made no further attempt to open the eyes of Miss Sibylla Smith. All passed off very well at dinner. Every one was kind to Frank, and, for his sake, were abundantly civil to his friend; but that individual seemed to care very little whether we were civil to him or not. He talked more than all the rest of us put together— corrected Old Smith on points of law—and put me right on the routine of crops; proved to old Lambert's own satisfaction that he knew nothing of stall-feeding, and so belaboured us with great people, with their whole birth, parentage, and connexions, that we might have fancied he was Mr Debrett. Sibylla evidently believed he was the most delightful of men; and certainly the looks she darted at him, and the looks he darted at her, were the most extraordinary phenomena of the look kind I ever happened to see. It was quite evident that the daughter's feelings were not shared by Old Smith; and I made little doubt he would have been delighted to give him seven years of the hulks, if he could have found out any act of Parliament making it penal for a good-looking young fellow to encourage a silly young woman to make a fool of herself. He found time, in spite of his apparently monopolizing the whole conversation, to whisper incessantly into Sibylla's ear. He was evidently asking questions about her household position—how many sisters she had—how many brothers—their ages, characters looks, and the state of their education. He seemed practising for an inspector of schools. Then he went off to her cousin's, where he had met her in Russell Square, and the same series of questions about family affairs was repeated. Was the man engaged in collecting the census returns?
"What a dreadful thing the death of poor Mr Mopple!" said Sibylla. "They said he wasn't kind to his wife, though I never saw any signs of it at my cousin's."
"Mopple! Mopple!" he said, as if trying to remember. "Ah! a poor man with a beautiful wife is he dead?"
"Oh, yes—quite suddenly! He was down in Scotland, on the moors. Some people say there is something wrong about it."
"Indeed—ha!" said Mr Marvale. "What—what do they say?"
"He was found dead in a shooting-box. His gun had gone off and killed him; but"—
I looked at the man's face. He was trying to appear as if he scarcely attended to what she was saying.
"Some of the friends are not quite satisfied that it was accidental," continued Sibylla. "How I pity poor Mrs Mopple."
"Pray, Sibylla," I said, "what was the poor woman's Christian name?"
"Her name was Isabella."
"So!" I said, and looked firmly at Mr Marvale. "Do you hear that, sir?
Her name was Isabella."
"Isabella, or the Fatal Marriage—a good thing in its time, but out of fashion now," he answered. "A curious fact, there is an incident of precisely the same kind, of which I claim the credit."
"Of what kind, sir?" I said. "Take care what you say."
"Oh, it's no secret! Mr Edwards and I concocted it between us; that is to say, he objected to it a little at first, but I flatter myself it will make some little noise in the world when it is fairly known."
I looked again at the brazen-faced fellow, and nearly fell off my chair at hearing him make such a horrid confession.
"I don't believe a word of it, sir," I exclaimed, "as far as Frank
Edwards is concerned."
"I assure you he had very little hand in it," he replied. "The merit, as you say, is entirely my own."
"And the consequences, too, I hope."
"I hope so. I offered a good deal before I undertook it; and I think it will pay very well."
"What will pay?"
"The Surrey, when the melodrama is finished."
"Oh! it is a melodrama you're speaking of? I was not aware, I am sure, or I should"—
"My dear sir, make no apologies. I hate the fuss people make about a man because he happens to be a successful author. I assure you, the plain entertainment you have given is better than all the fêtes my friends Devonshire and Lansdowne gave me, when I published the Blasted Nun."
So my murderer had sunk into a writer of plays.
Sibylla looked at him with still more intense admiration, when she heard him speak of the honours his works had procured him, and he entered at once into a minute description of the festivities of Chatsworth and Bowood, that would have done honour to the Morning Post.
After the ladies had gone to the drawing-room, I took the opportunity of having a quiet conversation with Frank, while his friend was astonishing the minds of the rest of the party with an account of his having refused the Guelphic Order which the Queen had pressed upon him on the twenty-fourth night of his Blood-stained Milkmaid.
"Who, in Heaven's name, and what is your friend, Mr Percy Marvale?"
"Oh, a very good fellow!" replied Frank. "I have known him at the Club for a long time."
"He seems a rum one."
"A very useful ally, I can assure you. I study him as the beau ideal of vanity and impudence."
"But your studies seem somewhat useless, if you have no higher object?"
"Oh, but I have, though—a very serious object—the only object, in fact, I care for in the world!"
And here the young man sighed.
"Well, if your object," I said, "has any connexion with my old friend
Smith, I think he is in a fair way of securing you a confederate in Miss
Sibylla."
"She may perhaps be useful; but Marvale will find out whether she will be so or not, before he lets her go to-night."
"Well, if it's any thing where other assistance is needed, you may depend on me."
"You're very good; but I fear you have neither the vanity nor the impudence that are so invaluable in my friend Percy Marvale."
"Is that his real name?"
"I am sure I don't know. It is what he is known by in the Club. He dramatizes all the bloodthirsty horrors at the Surrey—pushes his way every where—puffs and praises himself wherever he goes—is very good-looking, and makes love like a French hero—and, in short, is at this moment indispensable to me."
I made no further enquiries, for Frank filled his glass, and sighed like a smith's bellows. But I was filled with wonder at all that passed, and could form no guess at the bond that united two such dissimilar men, nor at the reason so much value was attached to the services of a boastful, clattering, pushing, inquisitive vagabond like the bewhiskered dramatist.
Before I joined in the general conversation, it was evident that Mr Percy Marvale, by dint of downright categorical questions, had acquired an intimate knowledge of poor old Harry Lambert's and Williams's domestic affairs; and it is useless to say he had bound himself in the most solemn manner to visit both them and Mr Smith, though neither of them, as far as I could see, seemed much delighted with his repeated asseverations.
"It's what I always do, my dear sir," he said to Harry Lambert; "for how could a man pick up any information unless he made himself intimate with all classes? Why should I keep myself separate from good fellows, merely because I happen to have written the Frozen Island, or the Fire King of the Caucasus? I will see you the day after to-morrow. I give you my honour. Your daughters have perhaps read my works?"
"I'm afraid they're too young, sir."
"What age are they? But if they are well taught, they have studied the drama, of course. They have a governess, I suppose?
"Yes."
"Has she red hair? I have an idea that red-haired people are all good teachers."
"I don't recollect the colour of her hair, I'm sure."
"I'll come over and judge for myself. I will not disappoint you on any account. So you may be quite easy."
And the same thing he said to Mr Williams, with the slight variation of an enquiry whether his governess squinted; for he had another theory that squinting people had a peculiar faculty for speaking French.
"I'll tell you what, Frank Edwards," I said to my young guest when we were about to separate, "I was an old friend of your father's, and I wish to show my regard to his memory by kindness to you; and as I don't think you have formed the best acquaintance in the world in the person of your companion, Mr Marvale, I wish you would give me an hour to-morrow at Bandvale, and I will offer you a little advice."
He shook my hand very warmly, and thanked me; and I agreed to be with him at one o'clock.
"I'll save the poor fellow from that harpy, at any rate; and have him back to Bandvale in half a year."
"You must get him married first," said my wife, "or his life will be miserable."
"How?"
"Why, there are three Miss Smiths, two Lamberts, and seven or eight others. They will set on him like a swarm of bees; and as they can't all make honey of him"—
"They will sting him to death. I see—I see."