The Silent House | Page 8

took place; also that the curtains are drawn
across the window, and no light could have been thrown on the blind."
"The curtains were, no doubt, drawn after I rang the bell," said Lucian,
glancing towards the heavy folds of crimson velvet which veiled the
window.
"The curtains," retorted Berwin, stripping off his coat, "were drawn by
me before I went out."
Lucian said nothing, but shook his head doubtfully. Evidently Berwin
was trying, for his own ends, to talk him into a belief that his eyes had
deceived him; but Denzil was too clear-headed a young man to be so
gulled. Berwin's explanations and excuses only confirmed the idea that

there was something in the man's life which cut him off from humanity,
and which would not bear the light of day. Hitherto, Lucian had heard
rather than seen Berwin; but now, in the clear light of the lamp, he had
an excellent opportunity of observing both the man and his quarters.
Berwin was of medium height, and lean, with a clean-shaven face,
hollow cheeks, and black, sunken eyes. His hair was grey and thin, his
looks wild and wandering, and the hectic colouring of his face and
narrow chest showed that he was far gone in consumption. Even as
Lucian looked at him he was shaken by a hollow cough, and when he
withdrew his handkerchief from his lips the white linen was spotted
with blood.
He was in evening dress, and looked eminently refined, although worn
and haggard in appearance. Denzil noted two peculiar marks about him;
the first, a serpentine cicatrice extending on the right cheek from lip
almost to ear; the second, the loss of the little finger of the left hand,
which was cut off at the first joint. As he examined the man a second
and more violent fit of coughing shook him.
"You seem to be very ill," said Lucian, pitying the feebleness of the
poor creature.
"Dying of consumption--one lung gone!" gasped Berwin. "It will soon
be over--the sooner the better."
"With your health, Mr. Berwin, it is sheer madness to dwell in this
rigorous English climate."
"No doubt," replied the man, pouring himself out a tumbler of claret,
"but I can't leave England--I can't leave this house, even; but on the
whole," he added, with a satisfied glance around, "I am not badly
lodged."
Lucian agreed with this speech. The room was furnished in the most
luxurious manner. The prevailing hue was a deep, warm red--carpet,
walls, hangings, and furniture were all of this cheerful tint. The chairs
were deep, and softly cushioned; on the walls were several oil paintings

by celebrated modern artists; there were dwarf bookcases filled with
well-chosen books, and on a small bamboo table near the fire lay
magazines and papers.
The mantelpiece, reaching nearly to the ceiling, was of oak, framing
mirrors of bevelled glass; and on the numerous shelves, cups, saucers,
and vases of old and valuable china were placed. There was also a gilt
clock, a handsome sideboard, and a neat smoking-table, on which stood
a cut-glass spirit-stand and a box of cigars. The whole apartment was
furnished with taste and refinement, and Lucian saw that the man who
owned such luxurious quarters must be possessed of money, as well as
the capability of using it in the most civilised way.
"You have certainly all that the heart of man can desire in the way of
material comforts," said he, looking at the supper table, which, with its
silver and crystal and spotless covering, glittered like a jewel under the
brilliant lamplight. "My only wonder is that you should furnish one
room so finely and leave the others bare."
"My bedroom and bathroom are yonder," replied Berwin, pointing
towards large folding doors draped with velvet curtains, and placed
opposite to the window. "They are as well furnished as this. But how
do you know the rest of this house is bare?"
"I can hardly help knowing it, Mr. Berwin. Your contrast of poverty
and riches is an open secret in this neighbourhood."
"No one has been in my house save yourself, Mr. Denzil."
"Oh, I have said nothing. You turned me out so quickly the other night
that I had no time for observation. Besides, I am not in the habit of
remarking on matters which do not concern me."
"I beg your pardon," said Berwin weakly. "I had no intention of
offending you. I suppose Mrs. Kebby has been talking?"
"I should think it probable."

"The skirling Jezebel!" cried Berwin. "I'll pack her off right away!"
"Are you a Scotchman?" asked Denzil suddenly.
"Why do you ask?" demanded Berwin, without replying.
"You used an essentially Scotch word--'skirling.'"
"And I used an essentially American phrase--'right away,'" retorted the
man. "I may be a Scot, I may