CHAPTER XX.
HIS FATE.
CLEVE VERNEY, as we know, was a young gentleman in whose character wereoddly mingled impetuosity and caution. A certain diplomatic reserve andslyness had often stood him in stead in the small strategy of life, andhere, how skillfully had he not managed his visits to Penruthyn, and hidfrom the peering eyes of Cardyllian his walks and loiterings about theenchanted woods of Malory.
Visiting good Mrs. Jones's shop next day to ask her how she did, andgossip a little across the counter, that lady, peering over herspectacles, received him with a particularly sly smile, which, beingprone to alarms just then, he noted and did not like.
Confidential and voluble as usual, was this lady, bringing her blacklace cap and purple ribbons close to the brim of Mr. Verney's hat, asshe leaned over the counter, and murmured her emphatic intelligence andsurmises deliberately in his ear. She came at last to say--
"You must be very _sol_itary, we all think, over there, at Ware, sir;and though you have your yacht to sail across in, and your dog-cart totrot along, and doesn't much mind, still it is not con_venient_, youknow, for one that likes _this_ side so much better than the other. Wethink, and _wonders_, we all do, you wouldn't stay awhile at the VerneyArms, over the way, and remain among us, you know, and be neareverything you might like; the other side, you know, is very dull; wecan't deny _that_, though its quite true that Ware is a very fineplace--a really _beau_tiful place--but it _is_ lonely, we must allow;_mustn't_ we?"
"Awfully lonely," acquiesced Cleve, "but I don't quite see why I shouldlive at the Verney Arms, notwithstanding."
"Well, they do say--you mustn't be angry with them, you know--but theydo, that you like a walk to Malory," and this was accompanied with awonderfully cunning look, and a curious play of the crow's-feet andwrinkles of her fat face, and a sly, gentle laugh. "But _I_ don't mind."
"Don't mind _what_?" asked Cleve, a little sharply.
"_Well_, I don't mind what they _say_, but they _do_ say you have madeacquaintance with the Malory family--no harm in that, you know."
"No harm in the world, only a lie," said Cleve, with a laugh that wasnot quite enjoying. "I wish they would manage that introduction for me;I should like it extremely. I think the young lady rather pretty--don'tyou?--and I should not object to pay my respects, if you think it wouldnot be odd. My Cardyllian friends know so much better than I what is theright thing to do. The fact is, I don't know one of our own tenantsthere, except for taking off my hat twice to the only sane one of theparty, that old Miss Anne--Anne--_something_--you told me--"
"_Sheckleton_ that will _be_," supplemented Mrs. Jones.
"Sheckleton. Very well; and my real difficulty is this--and upon myhonour, I don't know how to manage it. My grandmother, Lady Verney, putsme under orders--and you know she does not like to be disobeyed--to goand see poor old Rebecca, Mrs. Mervyn, you know, at the steward's house,at Malory; and I am looking for a moment when these people are out ofthe way, just to run in for five minutes, and ask her how she does. Andmy friend, Wynne Williams, won't let me tell Lady Verney how odd thesepeople are, he's so afraid of her hearing the rumour of their being mad.But the fact is, whenever I go up there and peep in through the trees, Isee some of them about the front of the house, and I can't go up to thedoor, of course, without annoying them, for they wish to be quite shutup; and the end of it is, I say, that, among them, I shall get blown upby Lady Verney, and shan't know what to answer--by Jove! But you maytell my friends in Cardyllian, I am so much obliged to them for givingme credit for more cleverness than _they_ have had in effecting anintroduction; and talking of me about that pretty girl,Miss--oh!--what's her name?--at Malory. I only hope she's not mad; forif she is I must be also."
Mrs. Jones listened, and looked at him more gravely, for his story hungpretty well together, and something of its cunning died out of theexpression of her broad face. But Cleve walked away a littledisconcerted, and by no means in a pleasant temper with his goodneighbours of Cardyllian; and made that day a long visit at Hazelden,taking care to make his approaches as ostentatiously as he could. And hewas seen for an hour in the evening, walking on the green with the youngladies of that house, Miss Charity flanking the little line of march onone side, and he the other, pretty Miss Agnes, of the golden locks, thepretty dimples, and brilliant tints, walking between, and listening, I'mafraid, more to the unphilosophic prattle of young Mr. Verney than tothe sage conversation, and even admonitions and reminders, of her kind,but unexceptionable sister.
From the news-room windows, from the great bow-window of thebilliard-room, this promenade was visible. It was a judiciousdemonstration, and gave a new twist to conjecture; and listlessgentlemen, who chronicled and discussed such matters, observed upon it,each according to his modicum of eloquence and wisdom.
Old Vane Etherage, whose temperament, though squally, was placable, waswon by the frank courtesy, and adroit flatteries of the artless youngfellow who had canvassed boroughs and counties, and was master of apsychology of which honest old Etherage knew nothing.
That night, notwithstanding, Cleve was at the gate of Malory, and thetwo ladies were there.
"We have been looking at the boat ten minutes, just, since it left. SirBooth is out as usual, and now see how far away; you can scarcely seethe sail, and yet so little breeze."
"The breeze is rather from the shore, and you are sheltered here, allthis old wood, you know. But you can hear it a little in the tops ofthe trees," Cleve answered, caring very little what way the breeze mightblow, and yet glad to know that Sir Booth was on his cruise, and quiteout of the way for more than an hour to come.
"We intended venturing out as far as the pier, there to enjoy once morethat beautiful moonlight view, but Sir Booth went out to-night by thelittle door down there, and this has been left with its padlock on. Sowe must only treat this little recess as the convent parlour, with thegrating here, at which we parley with our friends. _Do_ you hear thatfoolish old dog again? I really believe he has got out of the yard,"suddenly exclaimed good-natured Miss Anne, who made the irregularitiesof old Neptune an excuse for trifling absences, very precious to CleveVerney.
So now, she walked some ten or twenty steps toward the house, and stoodthere looking up the avenue, and prattling incessantly, though Clevecould not hear a word she said, except now and then the name of"Neptune," when she ineffectually accosted that remote offender.
"You have not said a word, Miss Fanshawe. You are not offended with me,I hope?" he murmured.
"Oh, no."
"You have not shaken hands," he continued, and he put his hand betweenthe bars; "won't you?"
So she placed hers in his.
"And now, can you tell me nothing?"
"I've been thinking that I may as well speak now," she said, in very lowtones. "There must be uncertainty, I believe, in all things, and faithin those who love us, and trust that all may end in good; and so,_blindly_--almost _blindly_--I say, yes, if you will promise me--oh!_promise_, that you will always love me, as you do now, and neverchange. If you love me, I shall love you, _always_; and if you change, Ishall _die_. Oh! won't you promise?"
Poor fluttering heart! The bird that prunes its wing for the untriedflight over the sea, in which to tire is to die, lonely, in the coldwaste, may feel within its little breast the instinct of thatirrevocable venture, the irresistible impulse, the far-off hope, thepresent fear and danger, as she did.
Promises! What are they? Who can answer for the follies of the heart,and the mutations of time? We know what we are; we know not what we maybe. Idlest of all idle words are these promises for the affections, forthe raptures and illusions, utterly mortal, whose duration God hasplaced quite beyond our control. Kill them, indeed, we may, but add onehour to their uncertain lives, never.
Poor trembling heart! "Promise never to change. Oh! won't you promise?"Promises spoken to the air, written in dust--yet a word, a look, like ablessing or a hope--ever so illusive, before the wing is spread, and thelong and untried journey
begins!
What Cleve Verney swore, and all the music he poured into those littlelistening ears in that enchanting hour, I know not.
Miss Anne Sheckleton came back. Through the convent bars Cleve took herhand, in a kind of agitation, a kind of tumult, with rapture in hishandsome face, and just said, "She has told me, she _will_" and MissSheckleton said nothing, but put her arms round Margaret's neck, andkissed her many times, and holding her hand, looked up smiling, and tookCleve's also, and in the old spinster's eyes were glittering thosediamond tears, so pure and unselfish that, when we see them, we think ofthose that angels are said to weep over the sorrows and the vanities ofhuman life.
Swiftly flew the hour, and not till the sail was nearing the shore, andthe voices of the boatmen were audible across the water, did the goodold lady insist on a final farewell, and Cleve glided away, under theshadow of the trees that overhang the road, and disappeared round thedistant angle of the wall of Malory.