CHAPTER XV.

THE HOSPITALITY OF MR BAYRE

It was an apartment which he had not yet seen in which young Bartlett now found himself shut in with his elder namesake. More like one of the galleries of a museum than a room in a private house, this saloon with its panelled walls of white and gold, its pillars and its painted ceiling, was bare in the centre, but lined all along the sides with cabinets and show-cases, full of treasures of all kinds.

The most casual glance at the contents of these cases showed to the least experienced eye that the collection was one of great value. Exquisite specimens of rare porcelain, beautiful enamels, ancient jewels of all countries, weapons of great price, treasures of lace and of embroidery, all were represented here.

Bayre was attracted, in spite of his eagerness to solve the mystery surrounding his uncle, by what he saw. He was just enough of a connoisseur to appreciate and to wish to examine more closely the rare and costly objects around him; and even as his uncle occupied himself in replacing the heavy iron bar across the shutters, he drew near to the first cabinet on the left hand and peered with interest and curiosity at the carved ivories within.

The light was very bad, being supplied solely by the lantern which old Mr Bayre carried with him and had now placed on the floor, but the young man made out enough to prove that report had not exaggerated the beauty and the value of the collection.

As he looked the light grew a little better, and he found old Mr Bayre standing by his side, holding the lantern aloft. The young man was for the moment under the impression that his uncle, softened a little by the interest the treasures excited in his visitor, was courteously enabling him to see them more distinctly.

He turned, pointing with one hand to one of those fantastic jewels which mediæval art loved to devise out of huge mis-shapen pearls, when, coming thus suddenly face to face with the owner of the treasures, he was surprised to find that the light was held, not for him to inspect the jewels, but for their owner to inspect him.

And again young Bayre asked himself whether this lined, haggard, crafty old countenance, with its furrows and the lurking malignity in its half-closed eyes, was that of a sane man or of one who was the victim of mania.

Old Mr Bayre seemed to understand that he had in some measure betrayed himself by the expression of his own countenance, for he tried to laugh away the look of sudden consternation which he saw on his nephew’s face. Showing the gaps between his yellow teeth in a mirthless opening of the mouth which was meant for a genial laugh, he said, in a more conciliatory tone than he had yet used,--

“Some nice things there, eh? Good things, uncommon things? Do you know much about objects of that sort?”

“Not perhaps more than the average Londoner is bound to know through the museums and collections he’s visited,” said the young man, “but enough to know that you have something to be proud of here.”

The old man laughed again, cunningly, as if with some secret enjoyment.

“Worth some thousands of pounds, pictures and furniture and what you see,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the rest of the cabinets.

“Yes,” said young Bayre, shortly.

He was surprised and disappointed to hear in the old man’s tone something more like the pride of a tradesman at the market value of the goods around him than the tender enthusiasm of the real connoisseur.

Mr Bayre rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking at his nephew out of the corners of his eyes, and then beckoned to him to follow across the room in the direction of a door at the further end, above which there was an elaborate device in white and gold.

Young Bayre followed slowly, reflecting that he did not know by what door he should be finally ejected from the building, and that this might be his last chance of seeing the treasures through which he was passing. His guide, perceiving that he lingered, stopped near the door to say, impatiently and almost contemptuously,--

“Oh, you’ll have plenty of time to see those things, and all the rest besides. Now you’re here you won’t be satisfied, I suppose, until you have been afforded an opportunity of counting up on your fingers the value of every farthing’s worth.”

Bayre said nothing, but again he was surprised. Had the old man been always like this, or was the late crisis in his life answerable for a most singular metamorphosis? Had he made his collection with some ulterior purpose, either of disposing of it at a high price or bequeathing it to the nation with posthumous ostentation?

This latter idea seemed a probable one, he thought, for throughout the old man’s whole demeanour, in every word he uttered and in every look he threw at his nephew, there seemed to run the same idea of rejoicing at what he conceived to be the young man’s disappointed greed.

They passed almost side by side out of the long room into a narrow passage, at the end of which was a steep and inconvenient staircase, which had evidently been an afterthought in the construction of the house.

The old man went up first, dangling the lantern and humming to himself as he went, and making so much noise that it flashed through the mind of the younger man that this might be a warning to someone near at hand to get out of the way.

At the top of the stairs, on a landing as narrow and stuffy as the staircase, Mr Bayre turned round again and said loudly,--

“This is the room, this”--and he thumped at the door on his left as he spoke--“where you say I have a woman concealed. Well, go in and see for yourself.”

Changing his lantern into his left hand, and fumbling for a few suggestive moments, he at last fitted into the lock a key which he took from the pocket of his dressing-gown, and turning it with great deliberation, he threw open the door and ushered his companion into a room so oppressively close that Bayre thought the windows could not have been opened for many days.

Once well inside, however, he forgot this inconvenience in the curiosity which the appearance of the room aroused in him.

It was a long and narrow apartment, with the two shuttered windows at one end, and an enormous satinwood wardrobe, old and rather battered, at the other.

Between the windows was a dressing-table of the makeshift sort, apparently consisting of a pile of boxes covered with an old-fashioned arrangement of faded pink calico and muslin discoloured with dust and age.

On the top was a small mirror on a stand, of the kind that is usually found in servants’ bedrooms, and beside it was a candle burning in a flat candlestick.

Piled up on the available surface of the dressing-table was a heterogeneous mass of small articles, all of women’s use, such as hairpins, ornamental combs for the hair, bracelets, brooches, rings, a powder-puff, some reels of cotton and silk, and a packet of needles.

In front of the dressing-table was a common cane-bottomed chair, over the back of which hung a dressing-gown and the trained skirt of a lady’s silken dress. This garment attracted Bayre’s attention by the old-fashioned pattern of the brocade of which it was composed.

More traces of a woman’s occupation were visible on all sides: on one chair was a pile of laces and fans; on another, a magnificent cloak lined with fur; on a chest in one corner was a great heap of feathers, crumpled artificial flowers, and bits of lace and ribbon; while on the floor lay little heaps of old satin slippers, soiled gloves, and a miscellaneous assortment of odds and ends, all appertaining to the feminine toilet.

Young Bayre had not the least doubt that a woman had been in the room quite recently, probably within a few moments of his entrance with the old man. For, with his senses well on the alert, he noted one significant fact--there was dust on the surface of the chest, and there was dust on the stand of the mirror, but there was none on the various articles that lay about the room; they had evidently been taken quite recently from their cupboards and drawers.

Old Mr Bayre’s explanation of what he saw, therefore, was not satisfactory.

“This room,” said he, “is just as it was left by my wife when she took it into her head to run away from me eight months ago.”

“And has the candle been burning in that candlestick for all these eight months?” asked the young man, rashly.

His uncle threw at him a malevolent look, which he felt that his impudence deserved.

“No,” said the old man, shortly, “I was in here myself a few minutes ago.”

Bayre did not believe him. Since his statement that the crumpled finery and women’s trifles had been lying there for months was evidently not true, what confidence could be put in his other assertions? Besides, there was, so the young man felt, something not exactly definable about the disposition of the various things lying about which suggested the hand of a woman rather than the heavier, more careless touch of a man.

And by a sudden inspiration he stepped forward to the chair by the dressing-table and laid his hand upon the brocaded skirt.

_It was quite warm._

Bayre turned to his uncle with a significant look and the old man frowned slightly and immediately averted his eyes sullenly.

“Are you not satisfied now?” he asked shortly.

Bayre glanced round the room. There was a door nearly opposite the one by which they had entered. The old man crossed the room testily and threw it open. It was not locked.

“If you are not satisfied yet, you shall be,” said he. “Come this way.”

Leaving the candle burning on the dressing-table, and carrying his lantern as before, he led the way again with heavy steps; and Bayre found himself in another room, large and bare, a state bedroom of an old-fashioned type, with a ponderous wooden bedstead hung with faded damask curtains. Through this room they passed with leisurely steps, the old man always in front, raising his lantern ostentatiously from time to time, and asking every few minutes, in a jeering tone, whether his visitor saw anything he should like to examine further.

And from this room they passed into a corridor, with windows on the one side and a row of doors on the other.

Old Mr Bayre tried the handles of all these and found some open, in which case he insisted on his guest’s entering and making such investigations as he pleased. Sometimes they were locked, and there was much searching for keys, some of which the old man professed to have mislaid, on which occasions he would ask, with elaborate civility, if it was his nephew’s pleasure that he should go and look for them.

But whenever they went into a room they found no trace of any living creature within. Nothing but bare-looking apartments furnished in the taste of a past day--funereal bedsteads, ponderous wardrobes, polished floors, and a mouldy smell of little-frequented, closely-shut-up rooms, where the air remained stagnant for weeks.

Sometimes a rat would scurry across the polished floor, slipping and sliding as he ran in unaccustomed terror, or a loud squeaking and scampering behind the skirting-boards of the room would denote a panic among the mice at the disturbance.

So they went on, not indeed examining every room, but getting a general impression of dead hospitality and of vanished state.

But all the time, as they walked along or when they stood still, Bayre was haunted by the belief that he could hear the pattering of lighter feet than theirs not far off, stopping when they stopped, going on again when they went on.

Again and again he would turn quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fancied companion. But the lantern threw no light behind, and if anyone followed them or preceded them he could not discover the fact.

His guide grew jocose at last, humming to himself in a cracked old voice, and making jesting remarks upon his disappointment.

“Young folk love a mystery,” said he, throwing the words over his shoulder, as it were, as he went on, swinging his lantern and clanking his keys along the passages. “Especially if they can manufacture it round the figure of a woman. Now I’ve always hated mysteries and mystery-mongers myself, even when I was a young man. And as for women, I can only say I had nothing to do with them till late in life, and I sincerely wish I had never had anything to do with them at all.”

They had long since left that portion of the building which contained the shut-up rooms, had passed through a long succession of wide attics, which the young man knew must be above the great hall, and had descended to a newer part of the house, where a different atmosphere disclosed the fact that it was less deserted than the rest.

“This,” said old Mr Bayre, “is all we use of the old place now. You shall see my own rooms, young man, since we are here. I dare say you’ll not be in a hurry to call upon me again.”

Uttering these words in the same jibing tone, the old man opened the door of a luxuriously-furnished bed-chamber, where a fire burned brightly on the dogs, throwing out a pleasant perfume of burning logs, and shedding bright reflections upon the polished floor, the ceiling above, and the panels of the dark mahogany furniture.

The half-tester bedstead was massively carved and hung with dark green velvet to match the drawn window curtains, the little stumpy sofa and the two low armchairs. An old retriever, lying on a rug before the fire, wagged his tail lazily on their entrance, but did not get up.

Rather to the young man’s surprise, his uncle motioned him to take one of the armchairs, and proceeded to light two wax candles, which stood on a heavy writing-table at some distance from the fire.

“You shall drink to our next merry meeting,” said he, grimly, as he unlocked a cupboard and took out a massive decanter of gilded Bohemian glass and a couple of oddly-shaped glasses that matched it. “Oh, yes, I insist. You forced your way in, in your tender anxiety to see me. I can’t let you go unrefreshed.”

Bayre felt that he shivered. Yet he scarcely knew why.

The room was warm, cosy, handsome. The greeting of the dog, unceremonious and affectionate to its master, with never a growl or a sniff at the stranger, ought, he thought, to have set him at his ease.

Yet the young man felt that there was something sinister in this hospitality from a man who professed nothing but aversion for him, and he would have refused it if he could.

Mr Bayre, however, was obstinate. Bringing the decanter and glasses to the long, narrow table near the fireplace, where lay some books, papers and a spectacle-case, he poured out some dark liquor that dropped out slowly, and told his guest to drink it off.

“It will keep the cold out on your journey back,” said he.

The young man put the glass to his lips with a suspicion of which he felt ashamed. Old Mr Bayre sipped his with a nod and a sort of smirk. The contents of the glass were a liqueur unknown to the younger man, sweet, strong, heady.

“Drink it,” urged his host. “Do you think I want to poison you?”

His nephew obeyed with a rather hollow laugh. He did not, of course, suppose that his uncle had designs upon his life, but that there was some secret and malevolent intention underlying his grim hospitality the unwilling guest felt sure.

The potent liquor seemed to have a mollifying effect upon old Mr Bayre, who began to stroke the head of his dog, the while he looked meditatively at his guest, and presently said, with abruptness,--

“How long is it since I saw you last, Bartlett?”

“About twenty years, I should think, sir,” replied the young man.

“Ah! and how many do you think will it be before I see you again?”

The question was put with a sort of grim jocularity.

“Am I to judge by the warmth of your reception of me, sir, or by some other criterion?”

The old man laughed, actually chuckled to himself, as he rubbed his knees.

“Ah, well, ah, well,” said he, “I was more amiable once, Bartlett. We don’t grow sweeter as we grow older. Look here, I don’t suppose we shall see much more of each other in the years to come than we have in the years that are past. I don’t see why we should. Do you?”

“N-n-o, sir.”

“But in the meantime we’ll patch up a friendship, if it’s only for half an hour. You shall see some of my things, some that I prize, some that are not shown to everybody. Stay where you are,” he went on, as he rose, and crossing the polished floor poured out a second glass for his nephew and refilled his own. “I’ll bring you something to look at, something you won’t see the counterpart of in any of your London museums.”

As he spoke he went out of the room and fumbled about, by the light of his lantern, with keys and locks, with drawers and cupboards.

Rather despising himself for his own suspicions, young Bayre could not quite conquer them. He therefore flung the second glassful of the liqueur into the fire, where it blazed up fiercely, throwing long tongues of vivid light on the heavy furniture and hangings of the room.

His uncle came peeping to the door, went back again, and returned with an armful of treasures quaint and curious, a gold cup with a notable history, a jewel that had belonged to Marie Antoinette, and many other strange and beautiful things. Together they admired them, the old man at last showing some enthusiasm for his precious curios, and chuckling at the envy his purchases had excited in other connoisseurs.

At length the young man judged that he might take his leave, since he felt convinced he should get no nearer to the truth of the mystery if he were to stay until the following morning. He rose, and making some sort of apology, which came awkwardly from his lips in the singular circumstances, moved in the direction of the door by which he had entered the room.

But his uncle beckoned him to come through the small room from which he had just brought his treasures, and they passed together through this outer chamber to a wide and handsome landing new to the guest.

Here there was a velvet divan against the wall, and a bearskin rug on the floor, while round about, on the panelled walls, there hung, in massive frames, a few large pictures, each one of which was a masterpiece.

There was an oil-lamp suspended from the roof over the staircase, enclosed in a magnificent lantern, which had formerly hung in the mansion of a French nobleman. By the faint light this gave Bayre saw enough of the paintings around him to assure himself that they were worthy of the rest of the collection, and when his uncle signed to him to go down first, he went slowly, gazing about him at every step.

Between the pictures were trophies of shields, swords, spears and other weapons, arranged against the dark oak panelling. He had got half-way down to the first turn in the staircase, when he was startled by a shrill scream in a woman’s voice.

Turning quickly, the young man saw his uncle on the step behind him, with a heavy Indian war-club uplifted in his hands, and an expression on his withered face and in his sunken eyes which could only be described in one word--murderous.