CHAPTER IV.
ON THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAN.
WARE is a great house, with a palatial front of cut stone. The Hon.Kiffyn Fulke Verney seldom sees it. He stands next to the title, andthat large residue of the estates which go with it. The title has gotfor the present into an odd difficulty, and cannot assert itself; andthose estates are, pending the abeyance, compulsorily at nurse, wherethey have thriven, quite thrown off their ailments and incumbrances, andgrown plethorically robust.
Still the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney is not, as the lawyers say, inperception of one shilling of their revenues. He feels indeed that hehas grown in importance--that people seemed more pleased to see him,that he is listened to much better, that his jokes are taken and laughedat, and that a sceptical world seems to have come at last to give himcredit for the intellect and virtues of which he is conscious. All this,however, is but the shadow of the substance which seems so near, andyet is intangible.
No wonder he is a little peevish. His nephew and heirpresumptive--Cleve--runs down now and then for shooting and yachting;but his uncle does not care to visit Ware, and live in a corner of thehouse. I think he liked the people of Cardyllian and of the region roundabout, to suffer and resent with him. So they see his face but seldom.
Cleve Verney sat, after dinner, at an open window of Ware, with one footon the broad window-stone, smoking his cigar and gazing across the darkblue sheet of water, whose ripples glimmered by this time in themoonlight, toward the misty wood of Malory.
Cleve Verney is a young man of accomplishment, and of talents, and of adesultory and tumultuous ambition, which sometimes engrosses him wholly,and sometimes sickens and loses its appetite. He is conceited--affectingindifference, he loves admiration. The object for the time being seizeshis whole soul. The excitement of even a momentary pursuit absorbs him.He is reserved, capricious, and impetuous--knows not whatself-mortification is, and has a pretty taste for dissimulation.
He is, I think, extremely handsome. I have heard ladies pronounce himfascinating. Of course, in measuring his fascinations, his proximity toa title and great estates was not forgotten; and he is as amiable as aman can be who possesses all the qualities I have described, and isselfish beside.
Now Cleve Verney was haunted, or rather possessed, for the present, bythe beautiful phantom--sane or mad, saint or sinner--who had for solong, in that solemn quietude and monotony so favourable for thereception of fanciful impressions, stood or sat, Nun-like, book in hand,before him that day. So far from resisting, he encouraged this littledelirium. It helped him through his solitary evening.
When his cigar was out, he still looked out toward Malory. He wascultivating his little romance. He liked the mystery of it."Margaret--Margaret," he repeated softly. He fancied that he saw a lightfor a moment in the window of Malory, like a star. He could not be sure;it might be the light of a boat. Still it was an omen--the emblem oflife--an answer of hope.
How very capricious all this was. Here was a young man, before whomyearly the new blown beauties of each London season passed inreview--who fancied he had but to choose among them all--who had neverexperienced a serious passion, hardly even a passing sentiment--nowstrangely moved and interested by a person whom he had never spokento--only seen--who had seemed unaffectedly unconscious of his presence;who possibly had not even seen him; of whose kindred and history he knewnothing, and between whom and himself there might stand some impassablegulf.
Cleve was in the mood to write verses, but that relief, like others,won't always answer the invocation of the sufferer. The muse is as coyas death. So instead, he wrote a line to the Rev. Isaac Dixie, of ClayRectory, in which he said--
"MY DEAR DIXIE,--You remember when I used to call you '_Mr_. Dixie' and '_Sir_.' I conjure you by the memory of those happy days of innocence and Greek grammar, to take pity on my loneliness, and come here to Ware, where you will find me pining in solitude. Come just for a day. I know your heart is in your parish, and I shan't ask you to stay longer. The _Wave_, my cutter, is here; you used to like a sail (he knew that the Rev. Isaac Dixie suffered unutterably at sea, and loathed all nautical enjoyments), or you can stay in the house, and tumble over the books in the library. I will make you as comfortable as I can; only do come, and oblige
"Your old pupil, "CLEVE VERNEY.
"P.S.--I shall be leaving this _immediately_, so pray answer in person, by return. You'll get this at nine o'clock to-morrow morning, at Clay. If you take the 11.40 train to Llwynan--you see I have my "Bradshaw" by me--you will be there at four, and a fly will run you across to Cardyllian in little more than an hour, and there you will find me, expecting, at the Chancery; you know Wynne Williams's old house in Castle Street. I assure you, I really do want to see you, _particularly_, and you must not fail me. I shan't detain you a moment longer than your parish business will allow. Heavens, what a yarn have I post-scribbled!"
He walked down to the pretty little village of Ware, which consists ofabout a dozen and a-half of quaint little houses, and a small venerablechurch, situated by the road that winds through a wooded glen, and roundthe base of the hill by the shore of the moonlighted waters.
It was a romantic ramble. It was pleasanter, because it commanded,across the dark blue expanse, with its glimmering eddies, a misty view,now hardly distinguishable, of Malory, and pleasanter still, because hiserrand was connected with those tenants of old Lady Verney's of whom hewas so anxious to learn _any_thing.
When Tom Sedley, with the light whiskers, merry face, and kind blueeyes, had parted company that afternoon, he walked down to the green ofCardyllian. In the middle of September there is a sort of second seasonthere; you may then see a pretty gathering of muslins of all patterns,and silks of every hue, floating and rustling over the green, with dueadmixture of
"White waistcoats and black, Blue waistcoats and gray,"
with all proper varieties of bonnet and hat--pork-pie, wide-awake,Jerry, and Jim-Crow. There are nautical gentlemen, and gentlemen inKnickerbockers; fat commercial "gents" in large white waistcoats, andstarched buff cravats; touring curates in spectacles and "chokers," withthat smile proper to the juvenile cleric, curiously meek and pert; allsorts of persons, in short, making brief holiday, and dropping in andout of Cardyllian, some just for a day and off again in a fuss, andothers dawdling away a week, or perhaps a month or two, serenely.
Its heyday of fashion has long been past and over; but though the"fast" people have gone elsewhere, it is still creditably frequented.Tom Sedley was fond of the old town. I don't think he would havereviewed the year at its close, with a comfortable conscience, if he hadnot visited Cardyllian, "slow" as it certainly was, some time in itscourse.
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, the green looked bright, and theshingle glittered lazily beyond it, with the estuary rippling here andthere into gleams of gold, away to the bases of the glorious Welshmountains, which rise up from the deepest purple to the thinnest gray,and with many a dim rift and crag, and wooded glen, and slope, varyingtheir gigantic contour.
Tom Sedley, among others, showed his reverence for the Sabbath, bymounting a well brushed chimney-pot. No one, it is well established, canpray into a Jerry. The musical bell from the gray church tower hummedsweetly over the quaint old town, and the woods and hollows round about;and on a sudden, quite near him, Tom Sedley saw the friends of whom hehad been in search!
The Etherage girls, as the ancient members of the family still calledthem, were two in number. Old Vane Etherage of Hazelden, a very prettyplace, about twenty minutes' walk from the green of Cardyllian, hasbeen twice married. The result is, that the two girls belong to verydifferent periods. Miss Charity is forty-five by the parish register,and Miss Agnes of the blue eyes and golden hair, is just nineteen andfour months.
Both smiling after their different fashions, advanced upon Tom, whostrode up to them, also smiling, with
his chimney-pot in his hand.
Miss Charity of the long waist, and long thin brown face, and somewhatgoggle eyes, was first up, and asked him very volubly, at least elevenkind questions, before she had done shaking his hand, all which heanswered laughing, and at last, said he--
"Little Agnes, are you going to cut me? How well you look! Certainlythere's no place on earth like Cardyllian, for pretty complexions, isthere?"
He turned for confirmation to the curiously brown thin countenance ofMiss Charity, which smiled and nodded acquiescence. "You're goingto-morrow, you say; that's a great pity; everything looking sobeautiful."
"_Everything_," acquiesced Tom Sedley, with an arch glance at Agnes, whoblushed and said merrily--
"You're just the same old fool you always were; and we don't mind oneword you say."
"Aggie, my dear!" said her sister, who carried down the practice ofreproof from the nursery; and it was well, I suppose, that Miss Aggiehad that arbitress of proprieties always beside her.
"I suppose you have no end of news to tell me. Is anyone going to bemarried? Is anyone dying, or anyone christened? I'll hear it allby-and-by. And who are your neighbours at Malory?"
"Oh, quite charming!" exclaimed Miss Agnes eagerly. "The most mysteriouspeople that ever came to a haunted house. You know Malory has a ghost."
"Nonsense, child. Don't mind her, Mr. Sedley," said Miss Charity. "I_wonder_ how you can talk so foolishly."
"Oh, that's nothing new. Malory's been haunted as long as _I_ canremember," said Tom.
"Well, I did not think Mr. Sedley could have talked like that!"exclaimed Miss Charity.
"Oh, by Jove, I _know_ it. _Everyone_ knows it that ever lived here.Malory's _full_ of ghosts. None but very queer people could think ofliving there; and, Miss Agnes, you were going to say----"
"Yes, they are _awfully_ mysterious. There's an old man who stalks aboutat night, like the ghost in "Hamlet," and never speaks, and there's abeautiful young lady, and a gray old woman who calls herself AnneSheckleton. They shut themselves up so closely--you can't imagine. Somepeople think the old man is a maniac or a terrible culprit."
"Highly probable," said Tom; "and the old woman a witch, and the younglady a vampire."
"Well, hardly that," laughed Miss Agnes, "for they came to churchto-day."
"How you _can_ both talk such folly," interposed Miss Charity.
"But you know they would not let Mr. Pritchard up to the house," pleadedMiss Agnes. "Mr. Pritchard, the curate, you know"--this was to TomSedley--"he's a funny little man--he preached to-day--very good andzealous, and all that--and he wanted to push his way up to the house,and the cross old man they have put to keep the gate, took him by thecollar, and was going to beat him. Old Captain Shrapnell says he _did_beat him with a child's cricket-bat; but _he hates_ Mr. Pritchard, soI'm not sure; but, at all events, he was turned out in disgrace, andblushes and looks dignified ever since whenever Malory is mentioned.Now, everyone here knows what a good little man poor Mr. Pritchard is,so it must have been sheer hatred of religion that led to his beingturned out in that way."
"But the ladies were in church, my dear Aggie; we _saw_ them, Mr.Sedley, _to-day_; they were in the Malory pew."
"Oh, indeed?" said Tom Sedley, artfully; "and you saw them prettydistinctly, I dare say."
"The young lady is quite beautiful, _we_ thought. I'm so sorry you werenot in our seat; though, indeed, people ought not to be staring aboutthem in church; but you would have admired her immensely."
"Oh, I saw them. They were the people nearly opposite to the Verneys'seat, in the small pew? Yes, they _were_--that is, the young lady, Imean, was perfectly lovely," said little Tom, who could not with anycomfort practise a reserve.
"See, the people are beginning to hurry off to church; it must be timeto go," said Charity.
So the little party walked up by the court-house into Castle Street, andturned into quaint old Church Street, walking demurely, and talking veryquietly to the solemn note of the old bell.
The Tenants of Malory, Volume 1 Page 4
