CHAPTER XV.
WITHIN THE SANCTUARY.
"SO the old man of the mountains is dead at last," thought Cleve. "Poorold sinner--what a mess he made of it--uncle Arthur! Fine cards, uncle,ill played, sir. I wonder what it all was. To judge by the result hemust have been a precious fool. Of what sort was your folly, Iwonder--weak brains, or violent will. They say he was clever,--a littlebit mad, I dare say; an idea ran away with him, whip and spurs, but nobridle--not unlike me, I sometimes think, headstrong--headlong--but I'llnever run in _your_ track, though I may break my neck yet. And so thisViscount Verney, _de jure_--outlaw and renegade, _de facto_--has died inone of those squalid lanes of Constantinople, and lies among poorAsiatics, in a Turkish cemetery! This was the meaning of my uncleKiffyn's letter--never was mortal in such a fuss and flurry aboutanything, as he is at this moment; and yet he must practise hisaffectation of indifference, and his airs of superiority--_what_ a foolmy uncle Kiffyn is!"
Cleve walked back to the study. Things looked changed, somehow. He hadnever perceived before how old and dingy the furniture was, and howshabby the paint and gilding had grown.
"This house must be made habitable, one of the first things," said he,"and we must take our right place in the county. The Hammerdons havebeen everything here. It must not be so."
Cleve went to the window and looked out. The timber of Ware is old andmagnificent. The view of Malory and Cardyllian and all that Verneysea-board does make an imposing display across the water. Theauctioneering slang of the attorney, had under its glare and vulgarity apleasant foundation of truth, and as the young man viewed this landscapethe sun seemed to brighten over it, and he smiled with a new and solemnjoy swelling at his heart.
"I hope that attorney fellow, Larkin, will go on and work this thingproperly. It would be too bad that any delay should occur for want ofproof--another name for want of energy--after the unfortunate old fellowhas actually died."
Mr. Larkin's card was upon the table, and with the providence which inall small matters distinguished him, he had written under "The Lodge"his post-town, "Gylingden." So Cleve Verney wrote forthwith to tell himthat although he had no authority to direct inquiries in the matter, andthat his uncle would, of course, undertake _that_, he was yet sostrongly of opinion that _no time_ should be wasted, and that Mr.Larkin's services might be of the greatest possible value, that he couldnot forbear writing to say so; and also that he would take the firstopportunity of pressing that view upon his uncle. So the letter foundthe good attorney that evening at "The Lodge." He needed no such spur.He was, in fact, very deep in the business already, and, with his ownobjects in view, was perhaps quite as much excited as either CleveVerney or his uncle.
When Cleve had dispatched this note, the restlessness and fever of thisnew and great suspense were upon him. It was impossible to sit down andread his magazines and newspapers. Had he been a fisherman he might havetaken his rod and fly-hook, and becalmed his excited spirit in thatmysterious absorption. But he had never possessed patience enough forthe gentle craft. It ought to be cultivated early for its metaphysicalvirtues--neither transient like music nor poisonous like opium. For aharassed or excited mind, priceless is the resource of being able toproject itself into the condition of the otter or the crane, and thinkof _nothing_ but fish.
Two sedatives, however, were at his disposal--cigars and the sea--and tothem he betook himself. Away went the _Wave_ over the sparkling sea,with a light breeze, toward the purple dome of Pendillion, streaked withdull yellow rock and towering softly in the distance. Delightfulsea-breeze, fragrant cigars, and gently rising, misty woods of Malorywith their romantic interest--and all seen under the glory of this greatnews from the East. The cutter seemed to dance and writhe along thewaves in elation and delight, and the spray flew up like showers ofbrilliants from the hands of friendly Undines sporting round her bows.Trance-like it seemed, all musical and dreamy; and Cleve felt, for thehour, he could have lived and died in that luxurious fascination.
Away for Pendillion ran the cutter. He did not choose idle tongues inCardyllian to prate of his hovering about Malory. He knew his yachtwould be seen from the pier. Active Captain Shrapnell frequented it, andwould forthwith report her course in the billiard and reading rooms,with such conjectures as might strike his ingenious mind. So the cuttershould run for that remote headland for nearly an hour, and then with achange of tack for Penruthyn Priory, which was hidden from Cardyllianeyes by intervening promontories; and not one of the wiseacres couldtell or guess where he had been.
When the sail of the yacht had grown like a gray speck in the distance,she was put about, and at a sharp angle ran to the rude pier ofPenruthyn Priory, whence taking his gun as if for a ramble in thewarren, he told his men to expect him in about two hours, at the turn ofthe tide.
Across the Warren there is a wild pathway which leads toward Malory,coming out upon the old road close by Llanderris churchyard, and withina few minutes' walk of the wooded grounds of the ancient Dower House ofthe Verneys.
Approached from this point, there is a peculiar melancholy in the oldwood. The quiet little church of Llanderris, and the graveyard with itsold yew tree, and the curve of the narrow road overhung by ivy-mantledash trees form the foreground, as you approach the wildest side of thewoodlands, which lie at the foot of the gentle descent.
The little by-road making a sweep skirts the rear of the Malory grounds.Here the great hawthorn hedges have, time out of mind, been neglected,and have grown gigantic and utterly irregular, stooping from the grassybank like isolated trees, and leaving wide gaps through which you maysee the darkened sward, the roots and stems of the forest trees within,and the vistas that break dimly into the distance.
Hours had passed since the _Wave_ had left the jetty of Ware, and theautumnal sun was already declining in the early evening. There is nohour and no light, not even night and moonlight--so favourable to acertain pensive and half saddened vein of fancy, as that at which theday gives signs of approaching farewell, and gilds the landscape with afunereal splendour.
When Cleve reached the old road that descends by the churchyard, andthrough its double hedgerows looked down upon the enchanted grounds ofMalory, he slackened his pace, and fell into a sort of reverie andrapture.
There are few of the impostures we commit more amusing, than that whichwe habitually practise upon ourselves in assigning the highest moralmotives for doing what pleases us best.
"If my uncle Arthur had married some one whom he really loved, howdifferently all might have gone with him! Here am I, with more moneyultimately awaiting me than I shall really care to spend. One thousandpounds with me will do more than two thousand with most other men. Idon't play. I'm not on the turf. Why should I sacrifice my chance ofhappiness for the sake of a little more money, which I really don'twant, or for the sake of party connection? If I can't make my waywithout the aid of a wife, I'm not fit for politics, and the sooner Iturn to something else the better. Every man ought to consult hisaffections, and to make his home the centre of them. Where is the goodof fortune, and money, and all that, if it does not enable one to do so?How can you love your children if you don't love their mother--if youhate her, by Jove--as I know fellows that do. Settlements, and politicalinfluence--all very fine--and we expect happiness to come of itself,when we have sold our last chance of it."
In this vein was Cleve Verney's contemplation--and even more virtuousand unworldly as he proceeded--in the elation of his new sense ofomnipotence and glory. Had he been a little franker with himself hemight have condensed it thus, "A fancy has taken possession of me, and Idon't choose to deny myself."
Troubling his visions, however, was the image of his uncle, and thedistant sound of his cold uncomfortable voice, and a sense of severity,selfishness, and danger, under his feeble smile. Against this teasingphantom with its solemn prattle, however, he closed his eyes and shookhis ears. He had never enjoyed a sail or a walk so in all his life. Wasnature ever so glorious before, or romance so noble and tender? What apen
sive glow and glory was over everything! He walked down the steeplittle curve of the old road, and found himself on the path that followsthe low bank and thorn trees which fence in the woods of Malory.
Walking slowly, and now and then pausing, he looked among the glitteringtrunks and down the opening aisles of the wood. But there was no sign oflife. The weeds trembled and nodded in the shadow, and now and then abrown leaf fell. It was like the wood of the "Sleeping Beauty." Thedusky sunlight touched it drowsily, and all the air was silent andslumbrous.
The path makes a turn round a thick clump of trees, and as he passedthis, on a sudden he saw the beautiful young lady standing near thebank, her hat thrown on the ground, the thick folds of her chestnut hairall golden in the misty sunlight. Never so like the Guido before. Thelarge eyes, the delicate, oval, and pearly tints, and the smallvermilion mouth, its full lips parted, he could see the sunlight glitteron the edge of the little teeth within.
A thrill--a kind of shiver--passed through him, as if at sight of abeautiful spectre. She saw him stop, and in the momentary silence, hethought--was it fancy?--he saw a blush just tinge her cheeks. On thebank, glimmering in the sunlight, was the cage with the little squirrelshopping inside.
"What a sweet evening!" said he, "I've been down to PenruthynPriory--I've grown so fond of that old place. I used not to care aboutit; but one changes--and now it seems to me the most interesting placein the world, except, perhaps, one. _You_ tired of it very quickly, MissFanshawe. You have not half seen it, you know. Why don't you come andsee it again?"
"I suppose we ought," said the young lady, "and I dare say we shall."
"Then do to-morrow, pray," said he.
She laughed, and said--
"An excursion like that must always depend on the whim of the hour,don't you think, to be the least pleasant? It loses its charm the momentit loses the air of perfect liberty and caprice; and I don't knowwhether we shall ever see the old Priory again."
"I'm very sorry," said Cleve. There was honest disappointment in histone, and his dark soft eyes looked full in hers.
She laughed again a little, and looking at the pretty old Church ofLlanderris, that stands among nodding ash trees on the near upland, shesaid--
"That old church is, I think, quite beautiful. I was exploring thesewoods with my little squirrels here, when I suddenly came upon thisview, and here I stood for nearly ten minutes."
"I'm very much obliged, I know, to Llanderris Church, and I'm glad youadmire it, for I like it very much myself," said Cleve. "And so you havegot two squirrels. I was so sorry to hear last Sunday that you had lostyour little pet, Whisk. Wasn't that his name?"
"Yes. Poor little Whisk!"
"And you're not going to leave Malory?"
"Not immediately, I believe," said Miss Fanshawe.
"That makes me very happy for _three_ reasons," he said, lowering hisvoice.--"First, it proves that you have some confidence, after all, inme; and next, because it shows that you are not so troubled here as youfeared you might be; and the third reason--perhaps you shall never knowuntil, at least, you can guess it."
"Yes; papa is not talking of leaving immediately, and I'm glad of it,for I know it was important that he should be able for a little timelonger to remain in England. And now, I think my little squirrels wanttheir nuts, and I must go."
"Poor little prisoners! You're all prisoners here. You shut yourselvesup so jealously," said Cleve. "The monastic spirit still haunts thisplace, I think. It must be that old convent ground. Almost every day Iwalk by this old place, and never have seen you once, even through thegrille, until to-day."
She stooped to pick up the cage.
"I'm sure you'll shake hands before you go, Miss Fanshawe, won't you,through the grille--the hedge, I mean?"
"Well, I wish you good-bye," she said, merrily, but without comingnearer.
"And we are good friends?"
"Oh, yes."
"And--and I'll tell you a secret, but you must forgive me." As he spoke,Cleve Verney, with a step or two, mounted the bank and stood beside theyoung lady within the precincts of Malory.
"Don't mind coming in, pray," said she.
"Only for a moment--only one word," besought Cleve.
"Well," laughed Miss Fanshawe, though he thought a little uneasily, forshe glanced toward the house, and he fancied was thinking of Sir Booth."If you _will_, I can't help it, only you must remember there are dogsin the yard, and," she added, more gravely, "papa has so many noticesup to keep people away, I think he'd be vexed."
"Here I'm almost on neutral ground. It is only a step, and I'm gone. Iwant to tell you--you must forgive me--but it was I who ventured to sendthat little boy with those squirrels there. I knew how lonely you were,and I was selfish enough to wish to give you even so small an evidenceof the sincerity of my professions--my anxiety to be employed."
"That little boy promised to return, but has never come back," said MissFanshawe, throwing back her head a little, and pushing back her richtresses. He thought there was a brighter colour in her cheeks, and thatshe looked a little haughty.
"He could not help it, poor little fellow. He lives at Pendillion, ninemiles across the water, and nearly thirty by the road. You must lay thewhole blame upon me--you must, indeed. It's all my fault."
Miss Fanshawe was looking down upon the unconscious squirrels. There wassomething of disdain in this glance that fell from under her long silkenlashes askance upon them, hopping and frisking within their wires, as ifshe meditated sending them away in disgrace.
"You must not be vexed with _them_ either, it is all my doing, myfault, let me confess. I ran down in my boat to Pendillion, and lookedup that little fellow who always has half-a-dozen squirrels. I had to gotwice to find him, and then brought him here, and he met a lady in thewood. There was no mistaking the description, and so these littlecreatures are your happy captives--and--I hope you are not very angrywith me."
The colour was brilliant in her cheeks, and gave a correspondingbrilliancy to her great eyes; how were they so mysterious and yet sofrank? She looked on him gravely in silence for a moment, and then downupon the little prisoners in the cage. Was she angry--was sheembarrassed--was she secretly pleased? That odd, beautiful girl--hecould not quite understand her.
But Mr. Cleve Verney was an impetuous orator; when he took fire upon atheme he ran on daringly--
"And I've done more--I'm even _more_ guilty; I'll hide nothing--I'vetaken a great reward--I've got a talisman that I prize aboveanything--this little coin;" and there was a bright shilling fixed likea "charm" to his watch-guard. "It is _mine_--you only can guess; no oneshall ever know why I wore it next my heart, and you may blame, but youwon't _quite_ condemn me; and won't you make it up with these poorlittle squirrels, and tell me it's all forgiven, and--by Jove, here'sMiss Sheckleton."
And so she was approaching with her firm light step, and pleasant smile,in the shadow of the great trees, and near enough already to greet Mr.Verney with--
"How d'ye do? What a charming evening?" and having arrived at thehawthorn tree beside which they were standing, she added, in the lowtone in which she habitually spoke of the Baronet--"Sir Booth is notvery well this evening--he's in his room, and he'll stay at home readingthe newspapers, at all events for an hour or so."
There was a want of tact in this little intimation which had an effectquite different from that which the good-natured spinster intended; forMiss Fanshawe said, lifting the little cage, and looking in upon itstiny inhabitants in the sunlight--
"Then I had better run in and see him." And with a gay slight"Good-bye," she nodded to Mr. Cleve Verney. The smile was only amomentary light, and the great hazel eyes looked thoughtfully as sheturned away; and as she disappeared among the old trees, it seemed tohim that a dull shadow suddenly descended upon the trees, and the grass,and the landscape.
"We are always, Mr. Verney, in a fuss here; that is, we never knowexactly what a post may bring us any morning or evening, or how suddenlywe may have to go. You m
ay guess what it is to _me_, who have to arrangeeverything," said the old lady, lifting her thin fingers and shaking herhead. "As for Margaret there, she's both clever and energetic--but _no_experience; and therefore, I don't allow her to take her share. Poorthing, it is a sad thing for her, and this place so very solitary."
"You must make her come to-morrow," said Cleve, "and see the Priory; youonly _half_ saw it the other day, and I assure you it _is_ really wellworth looking at; and it will make an excuse to tempt her outside thisgloomy place. I can't conceive anything worse than being shut up weekafter week in this solitude and darkness; you really _must_ persuadeher; at what hour do you think you will be there?"
"Well now, I really _will_ try," said good-natured Miss Sheckleton,"positively I will; and I think about three o'clock--I'll make aneffort; and I'll send for the boat without asking her, and she canhardly refuse me, then. You have not been here very long, Mr. Verney?"she added, with a not unnatural curiosity.
"Only a minute or two before you came," he answered, a littleinaccurately, I think. "Well, then, to-morrow, I hope to tempt her outa little, as you advise; and--and"--she glanced over her shouldertowards the house--"perhaps I had better bid you good-bye for thepresent, Mr. Verney; good-bye! How beautiful everything looks!"
She gave him her hand very cordially. Was there a sort of freemasonryand a romantic sympathy in that kindly farewell? Cleve felt that she atleast half understood him. Even in reserved natures, there is aninstinctive yearning for a confidant in such situations, and a friendlyrecognition, even at a distance, of one that promises to fill that placeof sympathy.
So there they parted, with friendly looks, in a friendly spirit.Romantic and simple Miss Sheckleton, he felt that you were a truedenizen of those regions in which of late, he had been soaring,unworldly, true. It is well for a time to put off the profoundattorney-nature of man--we brought nothing into this world, and it iscertain we can carry nothing out--and to abandon ourselves for a fewhappy moments, to the poetry and kindness which are eternal.