The Tenants of Malory, Volume 3
Page 17
CHAPTER XVII.
A NEW LIGHT.
It was all over Cardyllian by this time that the viscount was veryill--dying perhaps--possibly dead. Under the transparent green shadowof the tall old trees, down the narrow road to Malory, which he had sooften passed in other moods, more passionate, hardly perhaps lessselfish, than his present, was Cleve now driving, with brain and hearttroubled and busy--"walking, as before, in a vain shadow, anddisquieting himself in vain." The daisies looked up innocently as theeyes of children, into his darkened gaze. Had fate after all takenpity on him, and was here by one clip of the inexorable shears adeliverance from the hell of his complication?
As Cleve entered the gate of Malory he saw the party from Cardyllianleaving in the yacht on their return. Lady Wimbledon, it turned out,had remained behind in charge of Lord Verney. On reaching the house,Cleve learned that Lord Verney was _alive_--was better in fact.
Combining Lady Wimbledon's and the doctor's narratives, what Clevelearned amounted to this. Lord Verney, who affected a mysteriousurgency and haste in his correspondence, had given orders that hisletters should follow him to Malory that day. One of these letters,with a black seal and black-bordered envelope, proved to be acommunication of considerable interest. It was addressed to him by theclergyman who had charge of poor old Lady Verney's conscience, andannounced that his care was ended, and the Dowager Lady, Lord Verney'smother, was dead.
As the doctor who had attended her was gone, and no one but servantsin the house, he had felt it a duty to write to Lord Verney to apprisehim of the melancholy event.
The melancholy event was no great shock to Lord Verney, her mature sonof sixty-four, who had sometimes wondered dimly whether she would liveas long as the old Countess of Desmond, and go on drawing her jointurefor fifty years after his own demise. He had been a good son; he hadnothing to reproach himself with. She was about ninety years of age;the estate was relieved of L1,500 per annum. She had been a religiouswoman too, and was, no doubt, happy. On the whole the affliction wasquite supportable.
But no affliction ever came at a more awkward time. Here was hismarriage on the eve of accomplishment--a secret so well kept up toyesterday that no one on earth, he fancied, but half a dozen people,knew that any such thing was dreamed of. Lord Verney, like othertragedians in this theatre of ours, was, perhaps, a little morenervous than he seemed, and did not like laughter in the wrong place.He did not want to be talked over, or, as he said, "any jokes orthings about it." And therefore he wished the event to take mankindunawares, as the Flood did. But this morning, with a nice calculationas to time, he had posted four letters, bound, like Antonio'sargosies, to different remote parts of the world--one to Pau, anotherto Lisbon, a third to Florence, and a fourth for Geneva, to friendswho were likely to spread the news in all directions--which he carednothing about, if only the event came off at the appointed time. Withthe genius of a diplomatist, he had planned his remaining dispatches,not very many, so as to reach their less distant destinations at thelatest hour, previous to that of his union. But the others wereactually on their way, and he supposed a month or more must now passbefore it could take place with any decorum, and, in the meantime,all the world would be enjoying their laugh over his interestingsituation.
Lord Verney was very much moved when he read this sad letter; he waspathetic and peevish, much moved and irritated, and shed some tears.He withdrew to write a note to the clergyman, who had announced thecatastrophe, and was followed by Lady Wimbledon, who held herselfprivileged, and to her he poured forth his "ideas and feelings" abouthis "poor dear mother who was gone, about it;" and suddenly he wasseized with a giddiness so violent that if a chair had not been behindhim he must have fallen on the ground.
It was something like a fit; Lady Wimbledon was terrified; he lookedso ghastly, and answered nothing, only sighed laboriously, and movedhis white lips. In her distraction, she threw up the window, andscreamed for the servants; and away went Lord Verney's open carriage,as we have seen, to Cardyllian, for the doctor.
By the time that Cleve arrived, the attack had declared itselfgout--fixed, by a mustard bath "nicely" in the foot, leaving, however,its "leven mark" upon the head where it had flickered, in an angrilyinflamed eye.
Here was another vexation. It might be over in a week, the doctorsaid; it might last a month. But for the present it was quite out ofthe question moving him. They must contrive, and make him ascomfortable as they could. But at Malory he must be contented toremain for the present.
He saw Cleve for a few minutes.
"It's very unfortunate--your poor dear grandmother--and this gout; butwe must bow to the will of Providence; we have every consolation inher case. She's, no doubt, gone to heaven, about it; but it'sindescribably untoward the whole thing; you apprehend me--themarriage--you know--and things; we must pray to heaven to grant uspatience under these cross-grained, unintelligible misfortunes thatare always persecuting some people, and never come in the way ofothers, and I beg you'll represent to poor Caroline how it is. I'm noteven to write for a day or two; and you must talk to her, Cleve, andtry to keep her up, for I do believe she does like her old man, anddoes not wish to see the poor old fellow worse than he is; and, Cleve,I appreciate your attention and affection in coming so promptly;" andLord Verney put out his thin hand and pressed Cleve's. "You're verykind, Cleve, and if they allow me I'll see you to-morrow, and you'lltell me what's in the papers, for they won't let me read; and therewill be this funeral, you know--about it--your poor dear grandmother;she'll of course--she'll be buried; you'll have to see to that, youknow; and Larkin, you know--he'll save you trouble, and--and--hey! ha,ha--hoo! Very pleasant! Good gracious, what torture! Ha!--Oh, dear!Well, I think I've made everything pretty clear, and you'll tellCaroline--its only a flying gout--about it--and--and things. So I mustbid you good-bye, dear Cleve, and God bless you."
So Cleve did see Caroline Oldys at the Verney Arms, and talked a greatdeal with her, in a low tone, while old Lady Wimbledon dozed in herchair, and, no doubt, it was all about his uncle's "flying gout."
That night our friend Wynne Williams was sitting in his snuggery, alittle bit of fire was in the grate, the air being sharp, histea-things on the table, and the cozy fellow actually reading a novel,with his slippered feet on the fender.
It was half-past nine o'clock, a rather rakish hour in Cardyllian,when the absorbed attorney was aroused by a tap at his door.
I think I have already mentioned that in that town of the golden age,hall-doors stand open, in evidence of "ancient faith that knows noguile," long after dark.
"Come in," said Wynne Williams; and to his amazement who should enter,not with the conventional smile of greeting, but pale, dark, andwo-begone, but the tall figure of Mrs. Rebecca Mervyn.
Honest Wynne Williams never troubled himself about ghosts, but he hadread of spectral illusions, and old Mrs. Mervyn unconsciouslyencouraged a fancy that the thing he greatly feared had come upon him,and that he was about to become a victim to that sort ofhallucination. She stood just a step within the door, looking at him,and he, with his novel, on his knee, stared at her as fixedly.
"She's dead," said the old lady.
"_Who?_" exclaimed the attorney.
"The Dowager Lady Verney," she continued, rather than answered.
"I was so much astonished, ma'am, to see you here; you haven't beendown in the town these twelve years, I think. I could scarce believemy eyes. Won't you come in, ma'am? Pray do." The attorney by this timewas on his legs, and doing the honours, much relieved, and he placed achair for her. "If it's any business, ma'am, I'll be most happy, orany time you like."
"Yes, she's dead," said she again.
"Oh, come in, ma'am--_do_--so is Queen Anne," said the attorney,laughing kindly. "I heard _that_ early to-day; we _all_ heard it, andwe're sorry, of course. Sit down, ma'am. But then she was not very farfrom a hundred, and we're all mortal. Can I do anything for you,ma'am?"
"She was good to me--a proud woman--hard, they used to say; but shewa
s good to me--yes, sir--and so she's gone, at last. She wasfrightened at them--there was something in them--my poor head--youknow--_I_ couldn't see it, and I did not care--for the little childwas gone; it was only two months old, and she was ninety years; it's along time, and now she's in her shroud, poor thing! and I may speak toyou."
"Do, ma'am--pray; but it's growing late, and hadn't we better come tothe point a bit?"
She was sitting in the chair he had placed for her, and she hadsomething under her cloak, a thick book it might be, which she heldclose in her arms. She placed it on the table and it turned out to bea small tin box with a padlock.
"Papers, ma'am?" he inquired.
"Will you read them, sir, and see what ought to be done--there's thekey?"
"Certainly, ma'am;" and having unlocked it, he disclosed two littlesheaves of papers, neatly folded and endorsed.
The attorney turned these over rapidly, merely reading at first thelittle note of its contents written upon each. "By Jove!" heexclaimed; he looked very serious now, with a frown, and the cornersof his mouth drawn down, like a man who witnesses something horrible.
"And, ma'am, how long have you had these?"
"Since Mr. Sedley died."
"I know; that's more than twenty years, I think; did you show them toanyone?"
"Only to the poor old lady who's gone."
"Ay, I see."
There was a paper endorsed "Statement of Facts," and this the attorneywas now reading.
"Now, ma'am, do you wish to place these papers in my hands, that I mayact upon them as the interests of those who are nearest to you mayrequire?"
She looked at him with a perplexed gaze, and said, "_Yes_, sir,certainly."
"Very well, ma'am; then I must go up to town at once. It's a veryserious affair, ma'am, and I'll do my duty by you."
"Can you understand them, sir?"
"N--_no_--that is, I must see counsel in London; I'll be back again ina day or two. Leave it all to me, ma'am, and the moment I knowanything for certain, you shall know all about it."
The old woman asked the question as one speaks in their sleep,without hearing the answer. Her finger was to her lip, and she waslooking down with a knitted brow.
"Ay, she was proud--I _promised_--proud--she was--very high--it willbe in Penruthyn, she told me she would be buried there--Dowager LadyVerney! I wish, sir, it had been I."
She drew her cloak about her and left the room, and he accompanied herwith the candle to the hall-door, and saw her hurry up the street.
Now and then a passenger looked at the tall cloaked figure glidingswiftly by, but no one recognised her.
The attorney was gaping after her in deep abstraction, and when shewas out of sight he repeated, with a resolute wag of his head--
"I _will_ do my duty by you--and a serious affair, upon _my soul_! A_very_ serious affair it is."
And so he closed the door, and returned to his sitting-room in deepthought, and very strange excitement, and continued reading thosepapers till one o'clock in the morning.