CHAPTER XXIII.
MARGARET HAS HER WARNING.
NEXT evening, I believe, Cleve saw Margaret Fanshawe, by favour of thatkindest of chaperons, Miss Anne Sheckleton, at the spot where by chancethey had met before--at the low bank that fences the wood of Malory,near the steep road that descends by the old church of Llanderris.
Here, in the clear glow of sunset, they met and talked under the oldtrees, and the good old spinster, with her spectacles on, worked at hercrochet industriously, and often peered over it this way and that, itmust be confessed, nervously; and with a prudence with which Cleve wouldgladly have dispensed, she hurried this hazardous meeting to a close.
Not ten minutes later Margaret Fanshawe stood alone at the old refectorywindow, which commands through the parting trees a view of the sea andthe distant headland, now filmed in the aerial lights of the sunset. Ishould not wonder if she had been drawn thither by the fanciful hope ofseeing the passing sail of Cleve Verney's yacht--every sign and relicgrows so interesting! Now is with them the season of all such things:romance has sent forth her angels; the woods, the clouds, the sea, thehills, are filled with them. Now is the play of fancy and the yearningof the heart--and the aching comes in its time.
Something sadder and gentler in the face than ever before. Undine hasreceived a soul, and is changed. The boat has passed, and to catch thelast glimpse of its white wing she crosses to the other side of thewindow, and stretches, with a long, strange gaze, till it is gone--quitegone--and everything on a sudden is darker.
With her hand still on the worn stone-shaft of the window, she leans andlooks, in a dream, till the last faint tint of sunset dies on the graymountain, and twilight is everywhere. So, with a sigh, a vague trouble,and yet a wondrous happiness at her heart, she turns to leave thestone-floored chamber, and at the head of the steps that lead down fromits door she is startled.
The pale old woman, with large, earnest eyes, was at the foot of thisstone stair, with her hand on the rude banister. It seemed to Margaretas if she had been waiting for her. Her great vague eyes were lookinginto hers as she appeared at the door.
Margaret arrested her step, and a little frown of fear for a momentcurved her eyebrows. She did fear this old Rebecca Mervyn with an oddapprehension that she had something unpleasant to say to her.
"I'm coming up to you," said the old woman, sadly, still looking at heras she ascended the steps.
Margaret's heart misgave her, but somehow she had not nerve to evade theinterview, or rather, she had felt that it was coming and wished itover.
Once or twice in passing, the old woman had seemed to hesitate, as ifabout to speak to her, but had changed her mind and passed on. Only theevening before, just at the hour when the last ray of the sun comes fromthe west, and all the birds are singing their last notes, as she wastying up some roses, on the short terrace round the corner of the oldmansion, she turned and raised her eyes, and in the window of the oldbuilding called the "Steward's House," the lattice being open, she saw,looking steadfastly upon her, from the shadows within, the pale face ofthis old woman. In its expression there was something ominous, and whenshe saw Margaret looking straight at her, she did not turn away, butlooked on sadly, as unmoved as a picture, till Margaret, disconcerted,lowered her eyes, and went away.
As this old woman ascended the stairs, Margaret crossed the floor to thewindow--light is always reassuring--and leaning at its side, lookedback, and saw Rebecca Mervyn already within the spacious chamber, anddrawing near slowly from the shadow.
"You wish to speak to me, Mrs. Mervyn?" said the young lady, who knewher name, although now for the first time she spoke to her.
"Only a word. Ah!--yes--you _are--very_ beautiful," she said, with adeep sigh, as she stood looking at her, with a strange sadness andcompassion in her gaze, that partook of the past, and the prophetic.
A little blush--a little smile--a momentary gleam of that light oftriumph, in beauty so beautiful--showed that the fair apparition wasmortal.
"Beauty!--ah!--yes! If _it_ were not here, neither would _they_. MissMargaret!--poor thing! I've seen him. I knew him, although it is a greatmany years," said old Rebecca. "The moment my eyes lighted on him, Iknew him; there is something about them all, peculiar--the Verneys, Imean. I should know a Verney anywhere, in any crowd, in any disguise.I've dreamt of him, and thought of him, and watched for him, for--howmany years? God help me, I forget! Since I was as young as you are.Cleve Verney is handsome, but there were others, long before--oh! everso much more beautiful. The Verney features--ah!--yes--thinking always,dreaming, watching, burnt into my brain; they have all some pointsalike. I knew Cleve by that; he is more like that than to his youngerself; a handsome boy he was--but, I beg pardon, it is so hard to keepthoughts from wandering."
This old woman, from long solitude, I suppose, talked to others as ifshe were talking to herself, and rambled on, flightily and vaguely. Buton a sudden she laid her hand upon Margaret's wrist, and closing itgently, held her thus, and looked in her face with great concern.
"Why does he come so stealthily? _death_ comes so, to the young andbeautiful. My poor sister died in Naples. No one knew there was dangerthe day before she was sent away there, despaired of. Well may I say theangel of death--beautiful, insidious--that's the way theycome--stealthily, mysterious--when I saw his handsome face about here--Ishuddered--in the twilight--in the dark."
Margaret's cheek flushed, and she plucked her wrist to disengage it fromthe old woman's hand.
"You had better speak to my cousin, Miss Sheckleton. It is she whoreceives Mr. Verney when he comes. She has known him longer than I; atleast, made his acquaintance earlier," said the young lady. "I don't, Iconfess, understand what you mean. I've been trying, and I can't;perhaps _she_ will?"
"I must say this; it is on my mind," said the old woman, without lettingher hand go. "There is something horrible in the future. You do not knowthe Verneys. They are a _cruel_ race. It would be better to suffer anevil spirit into the house. Poor young lady! To be another _innocentvictim_! Break it off--expel him! Shut out, if you can, his face fromyour thoughts and memory. It is one who knows them well who warns you.It will not come to good."
In the vague warning of this old woman, there was an echo of anindefinite fear that had lain at her own heart, for days. Neither,apart, was anything; but one seconding the other was ominous anddepressing.
"Let me go, please," she said, a little brusquely; "it is growing dark,and I _must_ go in. I'm sure, however, you mean what you say kindly; andI thank you for the intention--thank you very much."
"Yes--go--I shall stay here; from here one can see across to Pendillion,and the sea there; it _will_ come again, I know it will, some day ornight. My old eyes are weary with watching. I should know the sailagain, although it is a long, long time--I've lost count of the years."
Thus saying, she drew near the window, and without a word of farewell toMargaret, became absorbed in gazing; and Margaret left her, ran lightlydown the steps, and in a minute more was in the house.