CHAPTER XIII.
THE BOY WITH THE CAGE.
AT Ware a letter awaited Cleve, from his uncle, the Hon. Kiffyn FulkeVerney. He read it after dinner, with his back to the fire, by a candle,placed on the corner of the chimney-piece. He never was in any greathaste to open his uncle's letters, except when he expected a remittance.I must allow they were not entertaining, and did not usually throw muchlight upon anything. But it was not safe to omit a single line, for hisuncle knew them by rote, and in their after meetings asked him questionsupon some passages, and referred pointedly to others. Uncle Kiffyn wasin fact thin-skinned in his vanities, and was a person with whom itwould have been highly inconvenient to have been on any but the verybest terms.
Cleve had, therefore, to read these closely written despatches with moreattention than even his friend Dixie read his Bible. They were a soretrouble, for their length was at times incredible.
As he read these letters, moans, and even execrations, escaped him, suchas poets describe as issuing from the abode of torment--"Good heavens!mightn't he have said that in five words?" Then a "Pish!"--"Alwaysgrumbling about that executorship. Why did he take it? I do believe helikes it."
And then Cleve read,--"I see no reason why, with respect to you, I maynot exercise--as between ourselves, at least--an absolute unreserve withrelation to a fact of which, through a channel not necessary toparticularise, I have just received an authentic assurance, to theeffect, namely, that Sir Booth Fanshawe, whose ruin has been broughtabout, partly by his virtual insanity in opposing me with an insensatepertinacity and an intense ill feeling, on which I offer no observation,but involving an expense to which his impaired means were obviouslyinadequate, and partly by early follies, profligacies, and vices, is nowliving concealed in the Rue de----, in Paris." Cleve laughed. "He is aperson to whom neither courtesy nor forbearance, as it appears to me,can reasonably be held to be in any respect due from me. There has beena recent order, charging him, as you may have seen by the publicpapers, with L2,317 costs in the collateral suit connected with thetrust cause, in which I was, though I by no means sought the position,the plaintiff, to foreclose the mortgage over Wycroft. I have written toapprise Milbanke of the fact, that he may take such steps as the natureof the case may suggest." "Well for Sir Booth he does not know he's sonear! What's this? A postscript! well"--"P.S.--I have opened my letterto introduce this postscript, in consequence of a letter which has justreached me in course of post from Mr. Jos. Larkin, a solicitor, who wasintroduced to my notice about two years since by a member of the Brandonfamily, and who is unquestionably a man of some ability in his positionin life. His letter is accompanied by a note from Messrs. Goldshed andLevi, and the two documents involve considerations so sudden,complicated, and momentous, that I must defer opening them, and requestyour presence at Verney House on the 15th proximo, when I mean to visittown for the purpose of arriving at a distinct solution of the severalreports thus submitted upon a subject intimately connected with myprivate feelings, and with the most momentous interests of my house."
So abruptly ended the postscript, and for a moment Cleve was seriouslyalarmed. Could those meddling fellows who had agents everywhere havefished up some bit of Cardyllian gossip about his Malory romance?
He knew very well what the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney would think of that.His uncle could make or mar him. He knew that he had dangerousqualities, being a narrow man, with obstinate resentments. He wasstunned for a moment; but then he reflected that all the romance inwhich he was living had been purely psychologic and internal, and thatthere was no overt act to support the case which he might not confessand laugh at.
"On the 15th proximo"--Very well; on the 15th he would be in town, andhear his uncle upon this subject, involving his "private feelings" and"the most momentous interests of his house." Could it be that hisout-cast uncle, who had been dragging out a villanous existence inTurkey, under the hospitable protection of the Porte--who was said tohave killed the captain of a French man-of-war, in that contemplativeretreat, and whom he was wont respectfully to call "the Old Man of theMountains," was dead at last?
The postscript would bear this interpretation and a pompous liking formystery, which was one of his uncle's small weaknesses, would accountfor his withholding the precise information, and nursing, and makingmuch of his secret, and delivering it at last, like a Cabinet manifestoor a Sessional address.
"If the Old Man of the Mountains be really out of the way, it's animportant event for us!"
And a dark smile lighted the young man's face, as he thought of the longtrain of splendid consequences that would awake at his death-bed, andbegin to march before his funeral.
Ambition, they say, is the giant passion. But giants are placableand sleep at times. The spirit of emulation--the lust ofdistinction--_hominum volitare per ora--digito monstrarier_--in awider, and still widening sphere--until all the world knows somethingabout you--and so on and on--the same selfish aspiration, and at best,the same barren progress, till at last it has arrived--you are athoroughly advertised and conspicuous mediocrity, still wishing, andoften tired, in the midst of drudgery and importance and _eclat_,and then--on a sudden, the _other_ thing comes--the first of thedays of darkness which are many.
"Thy house shall be of clay, A clot under thy head; Until the latter day, The grave shall be thy bed."
But nature has her flowers and her fruits, as well as those coarsegrains and vegetables on which overgrown reputations are stall-fed. TheCommons lobby, the division list, the bureau, Hansard, the newspapers,the dreary bombast of the Right Hon. Marcus Tullius Countinghouse, theironies of Mr. Swelter, the jokes of Mr. Rasp,--enjoy these shams whileyour faith is great--while you may, now, in the days of thy youth,before your time comes, and knowledge chills, and care catches you, andyou are drawn in and ground under the great old machine which has beenthundering round and round, and bruising its proper grist, ever sinceAdam and Eve walked out of Eden.
But beside all this delicious rape-cake and man-gold of politics, CleveVerney had his transient perceptions of the flowers and fruits, as wesay, that spring elsewhere. There are fancy, the regrets, theyearnings--something recluse in the human soul, which will have its day,a day, though brief it may be, of entire domination.
Now it came to pass, among the trees of lonely Malory, at eventide, whenthe golden air was flooded with the vesper songs of small birds, and thelong gray shadows were stretching into distance, that a little brownWelsh boy, with dark lively eyes, and a wire cage in his hand, suddenlystood before Miss Margaret Fanshawe, who awaking from a reverie, with astartled look--for intruders were there unknown--fixed her great eyesupon him.
"You've climbed the wall, little gipsy," said the beautiful lady, with ashake of her head and a little frown, raising her finger threateningly."What! You say nothing? This is a lonely place; don't you know there areghosts here and fairies in Malory? And I'm one of them, perhaps," shecontinued, softening a little, for he looked at her with round eyes ofwonder and awe.
"And what do you want here? and what have you got in that cage? Let mesee it."
Breaking through an accidental cleft among the old trees, one sunset raystreamed on the face of this little Welsh Murillo; and now through thewires of the cage, gilding them pleasantly as he raised it in his hand,and showed two little squirrels hopping merrily within.
"Squirrels! How curious! My poor little Whisk, there's none like you,funny little Whisk, kind little Whisk, true little thing; you loved yourmistress, and no one else, no one else. He's buried there, under thatlarge rose-bush; I won't cry for you, little Whisk, any more, I said Iwouldn't."
She looked wistfully toward the rose-bush, and the little headstone shehad girlishly placed at her favourite's grave, and the little boy sawtwo great crystal tears glittering in her large eyes as she gazed; andshe turned and walked a hasty step or two toward it. I don't knowwhether they fell or were dried, but when she came back she looked as atfirst.
"I'll buy one of these littl
e things, they _are_ very pretty, and I'llcall it Frisk; and I'll please myself by thinking it's little Whisk'sbrother; it _may_ be, you know," she said, unconsciously taking thelittle boy into the childish confidence. "What would you sell one ofthose little things for? perhaps you would not like to part with it, butI'll make it very happy, I shall be very kind to it."
She paused, but the little fellow only looked still silently andearnestly in her face.
"Is he deaf or dumb, or a sprite--who are you?" said the girl, lookingat him curiously.
A short sentence in Welsh, prettiest of all pretty tongues, with itspleasant accent, was the reply.
"Then all my fine sentences have been thrown away, and not one word hashe understood!"
Looking at his impenetrable face, and thus speaking, she smiled; and inthat sudden and beautiful radiance he smiled merrily also.
All this happened under the trees close by the old Refectory wall, atthe angle of which is a small door admitting into the stable-yard.Opening this she called "Thomas Jones!" and the Cardyllian "helper," socalled, answered the invocation quickly.
"Make out from that little boy, what he is willing to take for one ofhis squirrels," said she, and listened in suspense while the briefdialogue in Welsh proceeded.
"He says, my lady, he does not know, but will go home and ask; and ifyou give him a shilling for earnest, he'll leave the cage here. So youmay look at them for some time, my lady--yes, sure, and see which youwould find the best of the two."
"Oh, that's charming!" said she, nodding and smiling her thanks to theurchin, who received the shilling and surrendered the cage, which sheset down upon the grass in triumph; and seating herself upon the turfbefore them, began to talk to the imprisoned squirrels with theirrepressible delight with which any companionable creature is welcomedby the young in the monotony and sadness of solitude.
The sun went down, and the moon rose over Malory, but the little brownboy returned not. Perhaps his home was distant. But the next morning didnot bring him back, nor the day, nor the evening; and, in fact, she sawhis face no more.
"Poor little deserted squirrels!--two little foundlings!--what am I tothink? Tell me, cousin Anne, was that little boy what he seemed, or animp that haunts these woods, and wants to entangle me by a bargainuncompleted; or a compassionate spirit that came thus disguised tosupply the loss of poor little Whisk; and how and when do you think hewill appear again?"
She was lighting her bed-room candle in the faded old drawing-room ofMalory, as, being about to part for the night, she thus addressed hergray cousin Anne. That old spinster yawned at her leisure, and thensaid--
"He'll _never_ appear again, dear."
"I should really say, to judge by that speech, that you knew somethingabout him," said Margaret Fanshawe, replacing her candle on the table asshe looked curiously in her face.
The old lady smiled mysteriously.
"What is it?" said the girl; "you must tell me--you _shall_ tell me.Come, cousin Anne, I don't go to bed to-night till you tell me all youknow."
The young lady had a will of her own, and sat down, it might be for thenight, in her chair again.
"As to knowing, my dear, I really _know nothing_; but I have my_suspicions_."
"H-m!" said Margaret, for a moment dropping her eyes to the table, sothat only their long silken fringes were visible. Then she raised themonce more gravely to her kinswoman's face. "Yes, I _will_ know _what_you suspect."
"Well, I think that handsome young man, Mr. Cleve Verney, is at thebottom of the mystery," said Miss Sheckleton, with the same smile.
Again the young lady dropped her eyes, and was for a moment silent. "Wasshe pleased or _dis_-pleased? Proud and sad her face looked.
"There's no one here to tell him that I lost my poor little squirrel.It's quite impossible--the most unlikely idea imaginable."
"_I_ told him on Sunday," said Miss Sheckleton, smiling.
"He had no business to talk about me."
"Why, dear, unless he was a positive brute, he could not avoid askingfor you; so I told him you were _desole_ about your bereavement--yourpoor little Whisk, and he seemed so sorry and kind; and I'm perfectlycertain he got these little animals to supply its place."
"And so has led me into taking a present?" said the young lady, a littlefiercely--"he would not have taken that liberty----"
"_Liberty_, my dear?"
"Yes, _liberty_; if he did not think that we were fallen, ruinedpeople----"
"Now, my dear child, your father's _not_ ruined, I maintain it; therewill be more left, I'm very certain, than he supposes; and I could havealmost beaten you the other day for using that expression in speaking toMr. Verney; but you _are_ so _impetuous_--and then, could any one havedone a more thoughtful or a kinder thing, and in a more perfectlydelicate way? He _has_n't made you a present; he has only contrived thata purchase should be thrown in your way, which of all others was exactlywhat you most wished; he has not appeared, and never _will_ appear init; and I know, for my part, I'm very much obliged to him--_if_ he hasdone it--and I think he admires you too much to run a risk of offendingyou."
"What?"
"I do--I think he admires you."
The girl stood up again, and glanced at the mirror, I think, pleased,for a moment--and then took her candle, but paused by the table, lookingthoughtfully. Was she paler than usual? or was it only that the light ofthe candle in her hand was thrown upward on her features? Then she saidin a spoken meditation--
"There are dreams that have in them, I think, the germs of insanity;and the sooner we dissipate them, don't you think, the better and thewiser?"
She smiled, nodded, and went away.
Whose dreams did she mean? Cleve Verney's, Miss Sheckleton's, or--couldit be, her own?