Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  He stood with one foot upon it, like a man awaiting a friend, and looking listlessly toward the church. And as he loitered, a friend did turn up whom he very little expected to see. A young man, though hardly so young as Cleve — good-looking, decidedly, with light golden moustache, and a face so kind, frank, and merry, it made one happy to look at it.

  “Ah! Sedley! I had not an idea. What brings you here?” said Cleve, smiling, and shaking his hand moderately, but keeping his large eyes steadily on the distant point at which he expected to see the unknown ladies emerge.

  “Down here just for a day or two,” answered Tom Sedley. “I was above you in the gallery. Did you see that beautiful creature in the Malory seat, right before you? By Jove, she’s a stunning girl. There was an old woman with her. I think I never saw so beautiful a being.”

  “Well, I did see a pretty girl at the other side of the church, I think; isn’t that she?” said Cleve, as he saw the two ladies — the younger with one of those short black veils which nearly obliterate the face of the wearer behind the intricacies of a thick lace pattern.

  “By Jove! so it is,” said Sedley; “come along — let us see where they go.”

  They were walking almost solitarily, followed only by an old servant who carried their books, toward the entrance at the further side of the churchyard, a small door opening upon a flight of steps by which you descend into one of the deserted back streets of Cardyllian.

  Cleve and Sedley pursued as little conspicuously as possible. The quaint street, into which the stone stairs led them, follows the mouldering shelter of the old town wall.

  Looking along the perspective of this street, if such the single row of small old houses confronting the dark ivied wall may be termed, the two young gentlemen saw the figures in pursuit of which they had entered it, proceeding in the direction of Malory.

  “We mustn’t get too near; let us wait a little, and let them go on,” suggested Sedley in a whisper, as if the ladies could have overheard them.

  Cleve laughed. He was probably the more eager of the two; but some men have no turn for confidences, and Cleve Verney was not in the habit of opening either his plans or his feelings to anyone.

  * * *

  CHAPTER II.

  ALL THAT THE DRAPER’S WIFE COULD TELL.

  This street, in a few hundred steps emerging from the little town, changes its character into that of a narrow rural road, overhung by noble timber, and descending with a gentle curve toward the melancholy woods of Malory.

  “How beautifully she walks, too! By Jove, she’s the loveliest being I ever beheld. She’s the most perfectly beautiful girl in England. How I wish some d — d fellow would insult her, that I might smash him, and have an excuse for attending her home.”

  So spoke enthusiastic Tom Sedley, as they paused to watch the retreat of the ladies, leaning over the dwarf stone wall, and half hidden by the furrowed stem of a gigantic ash tree.

  From this point, about a quarter of a mile distant from Malory, they saw them enter the wide iron gate and disappear in the dark avenue that leads up to that sombre place.

  “There! I said it was Malory,” exclaimed Sedley, laying his hand briskly on Cleve’s arm.

  “Well, I hope you’re pleased; and tell me, now, what stay do you make at Cardyllian, Tom? Can you come over to Ware — not tomorrow, for I’m not quite sure that I shall be there, but on Tuesday, for a day or two?”

  No — Tom Sedley couldn’t. He must leave tomorrow, or, at latest, on Tuesday morning; and, for to-day, he had promised to go to afternoon service with the Etherges, and then home to tea with them. He was to meet the party on the Green.

  So after a little talk, they turned together toward the town; and they parted near the Verney Arms, where Cleve’s dog-cart awaited him. Having given his order in the hall, he walked into the coffee-room, in which, seated demurely, and quite alone, he found stout Mrs. Jones, the draper’s wife — suave, sedate, wearing a subdued Sabbath smile upon her broad and somewhat sly countenance.

  Her smile expanded as Cleve drew near. She made a great and gracious courtesy, and extended her short fat hand, which Cleve Verney took and shook — for the tradition of homelier, if not kindlier times, still lingered in Cardyllian, and there were friendly personal relations between the great family and the dozen and a half of shopkeepers who constituted its commercial strength.

  So Cleve Verney joked and talked with her, leaning on the back of a chair, with one knee on the seat of it. He was pleased to have lighted upon such a gossip, as good Mrs. Jones, the draper, who was waiting for the return of her husband, who was saying a word to Mr. Watkyn Hughes, in the bar, about a loan of his black horse for a funeral next morning.

  “So it seems Lady Verney has got a tenant in Malory?” he said at last.

  “Yes, indeed, sir,” she replied, in her most confidential manner; “and I hope — I do indeed — it may turn out such a thing as she would like.”

  Mrs. Jones usually spoke in low and significant tones, and with a mystery and caution worthy of deeper things than she often talked about.

  “Why, is there anything odd?” asked the young gentleman curiously.

  “Well, it is not, now, altogether what I would wish for Lady Verney. I haven’t seen any of the Malory family, excepting in church to-day; not one, indeed, sir; they are very strange; they never come into the town — not once since ever they came to Malory! but dear me! you know, sir, that might be, and yet everything as we could wish, mightn’t it; yes, sure; still, you know, people will be talking; it’s a pity we don’t mind our own business more, and let others be, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Great pity; but — but what’s the matter?” urged Cleve Verney.

  “Well, Master Cleve, you know, Cardyllian, and how we do talk here; I don’t say more than other places, but we do, and I do not like repeatin’ everything I hear. There’s more mischief than good, I think, comes of repeatin’ stories.”

  “Oh! come, pray what’s the good of a story except to repeat it? I ought to know, perhaps I should tell Lady Verney about it,” said Cleve, who was really curious, for nothing could be more quiet than the get up and demeanour of the ladies.

  “They haven’t been here, you know, very long,” murmured Mrs. Jones, earnestly.

  “No, I don’t know. I know nothing about it; how long?”

  “Well, about five weeks — a little more; and we never saw the gentleman once; he’s never been down to the town since he came; never indeed, sir, not once.”

  “He shows his sense; doesn’t he?”

  “Ah, you were always pleasant, Master Cleve, but you don’t think so; no, you don’t indeed; his conduct is really most singular, he’s never been outside the walls of Malory all that time, in the daylight; very odd; he has hired Christmass Owen’s boat, and he goes out in it every night, unless twice, the wind was too high, and Owen didn’t choose to venture his boat. He’s a tall man, Christmass Owen says, and holds himself straight, like an officer, for people will be making inquiries, you know; and he has gray hair; not quite white, you know.”

  “How should I know?”

  “Ah, ha, you were always funny; yes, indeed, but it is gray, gone quite gray, Christmass Owen says.”

  “Well, and what about the ladies?” inquired the young gentleman. “They’re not gone gray, all? though I shouldn’t wonder much, in Malory.”

  “The ladies? Well. There’s two, you know; there’s Miss Sheckleton, that’s the elderly lady, and all the Malory accounts in the town is opened in her name. Anne Sheckleton, very reg’lar she is. I have nothing to say concerning her. They don’t spend a great deal, you understand, but their money is sure.”

  “Yes, of course; but, you said, didn’t you? that there was something not quite right about them.”

  “Oh dear, no, sir; I did not say quite that; nothing wrong, no sure, but very odd, sir, and most unpleasant, and that is all.”

  “And that’s a good deal; isn’t it?” urged Cleve.

  “We
ll, it is something; it is indeed a great deal,” Mrs. Jones emphasised oracularly.

  “And what is it, what do you know of them, or the people here what do they say?”

  “Well, they say, putting this and that together, and some hints from the servant that comes down to order things up from the town — for servants, you know, will be talking — that the family is mad.”

  “Mad!” echoed Cleve.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “The whole family are mad! and yet continue to manage their affairs as they do! By Jove, it is a comfort to find that people can get on without heads, on emergency.”

  “They don’t say, no, dear me! that all that’s in the house are mad; only the old man and the young lady.”

  “And what is she mad upon?”

  “Well, they don’t say. I don’t know — melancholy I do suppose.”

  “And what is the old gentleman’s name?”

  “We don’t know, the servants don’t know, they say; they were hired by Miss Sheckleton, in Chester, and never saw the old gentleman, nor the young lady, till after they were two or three days in Malory; and one night comes a carriage, with a madhouse gentleman, they do say, a doctor, in charge of the old gentleman, and the young lady, poor thing! and so they were handed over by him, to Miss Sheckleton.”

  “And what sort of lunacies do they commit? They’re not pulling down the house among them, I hope?”

  “Very gentle — very. I’m told, quite, as you may say, manageable. It’s a very sad thing, sir, but what a world it is! yes, indeed. Isn’t it?”

  “Ay, so it is. — I’ve heard that, I think, before.”

  “You may have heard it from me, sir, and it’s long been my feeling and opinion, dear me! The longer I live the more melancholy sights I see!”

  “How long is Malory let for?”

  “Can’t say, indeed, sir. That is they may give it up every three months, but has the right to keep it two whole years, that is if they like, you understand.”

  “Well, it is rather odd. It was they who sat in the Malory seat to-day?”

  “That was Miss Sheckleton, was the old lady; and the young one, didn’t you think her very pretty, sir?”

  “Yes — she’s pretty,” he answered carelessly. “But I really could not see very well.”

  “I was very near as she turned to leave — before she took down her veil — and I thought what a really beautiful creature she was!”

  “And what do they call her?”

  “Miss Margaret, sir.”

  “Margaret! a pretty name — rather. Oh! here’s Mr. Jones;” and Mr. Jones was greeted — and talked a little — somewhat more distantly and formally than his goodwife had done — and Mr. and Mrs. Jones, with a dutiful farewell, set off upon their Sunday’s ramble.

  * * *

  CHAPTER III.

  HOME TO WARE.

  “Mad!” thought Cleve. “What an awful pity if she is. She doesn’t look mad — melancholy she may. She does not look a bit mad. By Jove, I don’t believe a word of it. It’s utterly out of the question that the quiet old lady there could bring a mad girl to church with her. And thus resolved, Cleve walked out of the coffee-room, and awaiting his conveyance, stood on the steps of the Verney Arms, from whence he saw Wynne Williams, the portly solicitor of Cardyllian, and of a wide circle of comfortable clients round it. Wynne Williams is omniscient. Nothing ever happens in Cardyllian that he does not know with precision.

  “Wynne,” Cleve called up the quiet little street, and the attorney, looking over his fat shoulder, arrested his deliberate walk, and marched swiftly back, smiling.

  So there was another greeting; and some more questions ensued, and answers, and then said Cleve —

  “So Malory’s let, I hear.”

  “Yes,” said the attorney, with a slight shrug.

  “You don’t like the bargain, I see,” said Cleve.

  “It’s a mismanaged place, you know. Lady Verney won’t spend a shilling on it, and we must only take what we can get. We haven’t had a tenant for five years till now.”

  “And who has taken it?”

  “The Reverend Isaac Dixie.”

  “The devil he has. Why old Dixie’s not mad, is he?”

  “No, he’s no fool. More like the other thing — rather. Drove a hard bargain — but I wouldn’t take it myself at the money.”

  “Doesn’t he live there?”

  “No. There’s an old gentleman and two ladies; one of them an old woman.”

  “And what’s the old gentleman’s name, and the young lady’s?”

  “Don’t know, indeed; and what does it matter?” The attorney was curious, and had taken some little trouble to find out. “The Reverend Isaac Dixie’s the tenant, and Miss Sheckleton manages the family business; and devil a letter ever comes by post here, except to Miss Sheckleton or the servants.”

  “Old Mother Jones, the draper’s wife, over the way, says the girl and the old fellow are mad.”

  “Don’t believe it. More likely he’s in a fix, and wants to keep out of sight and hearing just now, and Malory’s the very place to hide a fellow in. It’s just possible, you know, there may be a screw loose in the upper works; but I don’t believe it, and don’t for the world hint it to the old lady. She’s half mad herself about mad people, and if she took that in her head, by Jove, she’d never forgive me,” and the attorney laughed uneasily.

  “You do think they’re mad. By Jove, you do. I know you think they’re mad.”

  “I don’t think they’re mad. I don’t know anything about them,” said the goodhumoured attorney, with Dundreary whiskers, leaning on the wooden pillar of the Verney Arms, and smiling provokingly in the young man’s face.

  “Come now, Wynne, I’ll not tell the old lady, upon my honour. You may as well tell me all you know. And you do know; of course, you do; you always know. And these people living not a mile away! You must know.”

  “I see how it is. She’s a pretty girl, and you want to pick up all about her, by way of inquiring after the old gentleman.”

  Verney laughed, and said —

  “Perhaps you’re right, though, I assure you, I didn’t know it myself. But is the old fellow mad, or is there any madness among them?”

  “I do assure you, I know no more than you do,” laughed Mr. Wynne Williams. “He may be as sober as Solomon, or as mad as a hatter, for anything I know. It’s nothing to me. He’s only a visitor there, and the young lady, too, for that matter; and our tenant is the Reverend Isaac Dixie.”

  “Where is Dixie living now?”

  “The old shop.”

  “I know. I wonder he has not wriggled on and up a bit. I always looked on Dixie as the bud of a dignitary; he has had time to burst into a Bishop since I saw him. Dixie and I have had some queer scenes together,” and he laughed quietly over his recollections. “He and I spent three months once together in Malory — do you remember? I dare say he does. He was tutor and I pupil. Charming time. We used to read in the gunroom. That was the year they had the bricklayers and painters at Ware. Do you remember the day you came in exactly as I shied the ink-bottle at his head? I dare say the mark’s on the wall still. By Jove, I’d have killed him, I suppose, if I’d had the luck to hit him. You must come over and see me before I go. I’m quite alone; but I can give you a mutton chop and some claret, and I want to show you the rifle I told you of. You’ll be delighted with it.”

  And so this young man, with large dark eyes, smiled and waved his farewell, and, with a groom behind him, drove at a rapid pace down the street, and away toward Ware.

  “He’ll do that seven miles in five-and-thirty minutes,” thought the attorney, looking after him drowsily; and his speculation taking another turn, he thought mistily of his political possibilities, for he had been three years in the House, and was looked upon as a clever young man, and one who, having many advantages, might yet be — who could tell where? and have power to make the fortunes of many deserving attorneys.

 
Cleve meanwhile was driving at a great pace toward Ware. I don’t suppose a town life — a life of vice, a life of any sort, has power to kill the divine spark of romance in a young man born with imagination.

  Malory had always had a strange and powerful interest for him. A dower house now, it had once been the principal mansion of his family. Over it, to his eye, hung, like the sombre and glowing phantasms of a cloudy sunset, the story of the romance, and the follies and the crimes of generations of the Verneys of Malory. The lordly old timber that rises about its chimneys and gables, seemed to him the mute and melancholy witnesses of bygone tragedies and glories.

  There, too, in the Steward’s House, a veritable relic of the ancient Friary, lived dreamy old Rebecca Mervyn; he wondered how he had forgotten to ask whether she was still there. She had seemed to his boyish fancy one of those delightful German ambiguities — half human, half ghost; her silent presents of toffy, and faint wintry smile and wandering gaze, used to thrill him with “a pleasing terror.” He liked her, and yet he would have been afraid to sit alone in her latticed room with that silent lady, after twilight. Poor old Rebecca! It was eight years since he had last seen her tall, sad, silent form — silent, except when she thought herself alone, and used to whisper and babble as she looked with a wild and careworn gaze over the sea, toward the mighty mountains that built it round, line over line, till swell and peak are lost in misty distance. He used to think of the Lady of Branksome Tower, and half believe that old Rebecca was whispering with the spirits of the woods and cataracts, and lonely headlands, over the water.

  “Is old Rebecca Mervyn there still?” he wondered on. “Unless she’s dead, poor thing, she is — for my grandmother would never think of disturbing her, and she shall be my excuse for going up to Malory. I ought to see her.”

  The door of her quaint tenement stood by the courtyard, its carved stone chimney top rose by the roof of the dower-house, with which, indeed, it was connected. “It won’t be like crossing their windows or knocking at their hall door. I shan’t so much as enter the courtyard, and I really ought to see the poor old thing.”