CHAPTER V.
MRS. MERVYN'S DREAM.
HE found himself, in a little time, under the windows of the steward'shouse. Old Rebecca Mervyn was seated on the bench beside the door,plying her knitting-needles; she raised her eyes on hearing his step.
"Ha, he's come!" she said, lowering her hands to her knees, and fixingher dark wild gaze upon him, "I ought to have known it--so strange adream must have had a meaning."
"They sometimes have, ma'am, I believe. I hope you are pretty well,Mrs. Mervyn."
"No, sir, I am not well."
"Very sorry, very sorry indeed, ma'am," said Tom Sedley. "I've oftenthought this must be a very damp, unhealthy place--too much crowded upwith trees; they say nothing is more trying to health. You'd be muchbetter, I'm sure, anywhere else."
"Nowhere else; my next move shall be my last. I care not how soon,sir."
"Pray, don't give way to low spirits; you really mustn't," said Tom.
"Tell me what it is, sir; for I know you have come to tell mesomething."
"No, I assure you; merely to ask you how you are, and whether I can beof any use."
"Oh! sir; what use?--_no_."
"Do you wish me to give any message to that fellow, Dingwell? Praymake use of me in any way that strikes you. I hear he is on the pointof leaving England again."
"I'm glad of it," exclaimed the old lady. "Why do I say so? I'm gladof nothing; but I'm sure it's better. What business could he and Mr.Larkin, and that Jew, have with my child, who, thank God, is inHeaven, and out of the reach of their hands, _evil_ hands, I daresay."
"So I rather think also, ma'am; and Mr. Larkin tried, did he?"
"Larkin;--yes, that was the name. He came here, sir, about the time Isaw you; and he talked a great deal about my poor little child. It isdead, you know, but I did not tell him so. I promised Lady Verney I'dtell nothing to strangers--they all grow angry then. Mr. Larkin wasangry, I think. But I do not speak--and you advised me to besilent--and though he said he was their lawyer, I would not answer aword."
"I have no doubt you acted wisely, Mrs. Mervyn; you cannot be toocautious in holding any communication with such people."
"I'd tell you, sir--if I dare; but I've promised, and I _dare_n't.Till old Lady Verney's gone, I daren't. I know nothing of lawpapers--my poor head! How should I? And _she_ could not halfunderstand them. So I promised. _You_ would understand them. Timeenough--time enough."
"I should be only too happy, whenever you please," said Tom, makingready tender of his legal erudition.
"And you, sir, have come to tell me something; what is it?"
"I assure you I have nothing particular to say; I merely called toinquire how you are."
"Nothing more needless, sir; how can a poor lonely old woman be, whoselast hope has perished and left her alone in the world? For twentyyears--more, _more_ than twenty--I have been watching, day and night;and now, sir, I look at the sea no more. I will never see thoseheadlands again. I sit here, sir, from day to day, thinking; and, oh,dear, I wish it was all over."
"Any time you should want me, I should be only too happy, and this ismy address."
"And you have nothing to tell me?"
"No, ma'am, nothing more than I said."
"It was wonderful: I dreamed last night I was looking towardPendillion, watching as I used; the moon was above the mountain, and Iwas standing by the water, so that the sea came up to my feet, and Isaw a speck of white far away, and something told me it was his sailat last, and nearer and nearer, very fast it came; and I walked out inthe shallow water, with my arms stretched out to meet it, and when itcame very near, I saw it was Arthur himself coming upright in hisshroud, his feet on the water, and with his feet, hands, and face, aswhite as snow, and his arms stretched to meet mine; and I felt I wasgoing to die; and I covered my eyes with my hands, praying to God toreceive me, expecting his touch; and I heard the rush of the waterabout his feet, and a voice--it was _yours_, not his--said, 'Look atme,' and I did look, and saw you, and you looked like a man that hadbeen drowned--your face as white as his, and your clothes dripping,and sand in your hair; and I stepped back, saying, 'My God! how haveyou come here?' and you said, 'Listen, I have great news to tell you;'and I waked with a shock. I don't believe in dreams more I believethan other people, but this troubles me still."
"Well, thank God, I have had no accident by land or by water," saidTom Sedley, smiling in spite of himself at the awful figure he cut inthe old lady's vision; "and I have no news to tell, and I think itwill puzzle those Jews and lawyers to draw me into their business,whatever it is. I don't like that sort of people; you need never beafraid of me, ma'am, I detest them."
"Afraid of _you_, sir! Oh no. You have been very kind. See, this viewhere is under the branches; you can't see the water from this, onlythose dark paths in the wood; and I walk round sometimes through thathollow and on the low road toward Cardyllian in the evening, when noone is stirring, just to the ash tree, from which you can see the oldchurch and the churchyard; and oh! sir, I wish I were lying there."
"You must not be talking in that melancholy way, ma'am," said Tom,kindly; "I'll come and see you again if you allow me; I think you area great deal too lonely here; you ought to go out in a boat, ma'am,and take a drive now and then, and just rattle about a little, and youcan't think how much good it would do you; and--I must go--and I hopeI shall find you a great deal better when I come back"--and with thesewords he took his leave, and as he walked along the low narrow roadthat leads by the inland track to Cardyllian, of which old RebeccaMervyn spoke, whom should he encounter but Miss Charity coming downthe hill at a brisk pace with Miss Flood in that lady's pony-carriage.Smiling, hat in hand, he got himself well against the wall to let thempass; but the ladies drew up, and Miss Charity had a message to sendhome if he, Thomas Sedley, would be so good as to call at Jones's theywould find a messenger, merely to tell Agnes that she was going todine with Miss Flood, and would not be home till seven o'clock.
So Tom Sedley undertook it; smiled and bowed his adieus, and thenwalked faster toward the town, and instead of walking direct to Mrs.Jones's, sauntered for a while on the Green, and bethought him whatmistakes such messengers as Mrs. Jones could provide sometimes make,and so resolved himself to be Miss Charity's Mercury.
Sedley felt happier, with an odd kind of excited and unmeaninghappiness, as he walked up the embowered steep toward Hazelden, thanhe had felt an hour or two before while walking down it. When hereached the little flowery platform of closely-mown grass, on whichstands the pretty house of Hazelden, he closed the iron gate gentlyand looked toward the drawing-room windows that reach the grass, andfelt a foolish flutter at his heart as he saw that the frame stood inAgnes's window without its mistress.
"Reading now, I suppose," whispered Tom, as if he feared to disturbher. "She has changed her place and she is reading;" and he began tospeculate whether she sat on the ottoman, or on the sofa, or in thecushioned arm-chair, with her novel in her hands. But his sidelongglances could not penetrate the panes, which returned only reflectionsof the sky or black shadow, excepting of the one object, the desertedframe which stood close to their surface.
There was a time, not long ago either, when Tom Sedley would have runacross the grass to the drawing-room windows, and had he seen Agneswithin would have made a semi-burglarious entry through one of them.But there had come of late, on a sudden, a sort of formality in hisrelations with Agnes; and so he walked round by the hall-door, andfound the drawing-rooms empty, and touching the bell, learned thatMiss Agnes had gone out for a walk.
"I've a message to give her from Miss Charity; have you any idea whichway she went?"
He found himself making excuses to the servant for his inquiry. Ashort time since he would have asked quite frankly where she was,without dreaming of a reason; but now had grown, as I say, a reserve,which has always the more harmless incidents of guilt. He wasapprehensive of suspicion; he was shy even of this old servant, andwas encountering this inquiry by an explanation of his mo
tives.
"I saw her go by the beech-walk, sir," said the man.
"Oh! thanks; very good."
And he crossed the grass, and entered the beech-walk, which is broadand straight, with towering files of beech at each side, and a thickscreen of underwood and evergreens, and turning the clump ofrhododendrons at the entrance of the walk, he found himself, all on asudden, quite close to Agnes, who was walking toward him.
She stopped. He fancied she changed colour: had she mistaken him forsome one else?
"Well, Agnes, I see the sun and the flowers prevailed, though wecouldn't; and I'm glad, at all events, that you have had a littlewalk."
"Oh! yes, after all, I couldn't really resist; and is Charity coming?"
"No, you are not to expect her till tea-time. She's gone with MissFlood somewhere, and she sent me to tell you."
"Oh! thanks;" and Agnes hesitated, looking towards home, as if sheintended returning.
"You may as well walk once more up and down; it does look so jolly,doesn't it?" said Tom; "pray do, Agnes."
"Well, yes, once more I will; but that is all, for I really am alittle tired."
They set out in silence, and Tom, with a great effort, said,--
"I wonder, Agnes, you seem so cold, I mean so unfriendly, with me; Ithink you do; and you must be quite aware of it; you must, _indeed_,Agnes. I _think_ if you knew half the pain you are giving me--I reallydo--that you wouldn't."
The speech was very inartificial, but it had the merit of going directto the point, and Miss Agnes began,--
"I haven't been at all unfriendly."
"Oh! but you _have_--_indeed_ you have--you are quite _changed_. And Idon't know what I have done--I wish you'd tell me--to deserve it;because--even if there was--another--anything--no matter what--I'm anold friend, and I think it's very unkind; _you_ don't perceive it,perhaps, but you are awfully changed."
Agnes laughed a very little, and she answered, looking down on thewalk before her, as Sedley thought, with a very pretty blush; and Ibelieve there was.
"It is a very serious accusation, and I don't deserve it. No, indeed,and even if it were true, it rather surprises me that it should in theleast interest you; because we down here have seen so little of youthat we might very reasonably suspect that you had begun to forgetus."
"Well, I _have_ been an _awful_ fool, it is quite true, and you havepunished me, not more than I deserve; but I think you might haveremembered that you had not on earth a better friend--I mean a moreearnest one--particularly _you_, Agnes, than I."
"I really don't know what I have done," pleaded she, with anotherlittle laugh.
"I was here, you know, as intimate almost as a brother. I don't say,of course, there are not many things I had no right to expect to hearanything about; but if I had, and been thought worthy of confidence, Iwould at all events have spoken honestly. But--may I speak quitefrankly, Agnes? You won't be offended, will you?"
"No; I shan't--I'm quite sure."
"Well, it was only this--you _are_ changed, Agnes, you know you are.Just this moment, for instance, you were going home, only because _I_came here, and you fancied I might join you in your walk; and thischange began when Cleve Verney was down here staying at Ware, and usedto walk with you on the Green."
Agnes stopped short at these words and drew back a step, looking atSedley with an angry surprise.
"I don't understand you--I'm certain I don't. I can't conceive whatyou mean," she said.
Sedley paused in equal surprise.
"I--I beg pardon; I'm awfully sorry--you'll never know _how_ sorry--ifI have said anything to vex you; but I _did_ think it was someinfluence or something connected with that time."
"I really don't pretend to understand you," said Agnes, coldly, witheyes, however, that gleamed resentfully. "I do recollect perfectly Mr.Cleve Verney's walking half-a-dozen times with Charity and me upon theGreen, but what that can possibly have to do with your fancied wrongs,I cannot imagine. I fancied you were a friend of Mr. Verney's."
"So I was--so I am; but no such friend as I am of yours--_your_friend, Agnes. There's no use in saying it; but, Agnes, I'd die foryou--I would indeed."
"I thought it very strange, your coming so very seldom to inquire forpapa, when he was so poorly last year, when you were at Cardyllian._He_ did not seem to mind it; but considering, as you say, how muchyou once used to be here, it did strike me as very unkind--I may aswell say what I really thought--not only unkind, but rude. So that ifthere has been any change, you need not look to other people for thecause of it."
"If you knew how I blame myself for that, I think, bad as it was,you'd forgive me."
"I think it showed that you did not very much care what became of us."
"Oh! Agnes, you did not think that--you never thought it. Unless _you_are happy, I _can't_ be happy, nor even then unless I think you haveforgiven me; and I think if I could be sure you liked me ever solittle, even in the old way, I should be one of the happiest fellowsin the world. I don't make any excuses--I was the stupidest fool onearth--I only throw myself on your mercy, and ask you to forgive me."
"I've nothing to forgive," said Agnes, with a cruel little laugh, butchanging colour.
"Well--well, _forget_--oh, _do_! and shake hands like your old self.You've no idea how miserable I have been."
Lowering her eyes, with a very beautiful blush and a smile--a littleshy, and so gratified--and a little silvery laugh, Agnes relented, anddid give her hand to Tom Sedley.
"Oh, Agnes! Oh, Agnes! I'm so happy and so grateful! Oh, Agnes, youwon't take it away--just for a moment."
She drew her hand to remove it, for Tom was exceeding his privilege,and kissing it.
"_Now_ we are friends," said Agnes, laughing.
"Are we _quite_ friends?"
"Yes, quite."
"You must not take your hand away--one moment more. Oh, Agnes! I cannever tell you--never, how I love you. You are my darling, Agnes, andI can't live without you."
Agnes said something--was it reproof or repulse? He only knew that thetones were very sad and gentle, and that she was drawing her handaway.
"Oh, darling, I adore you! You would not make me miserable for life.There is nothing I won't do--nothing I won't try--if you'll only sayyou like me--ever so little. Do sit down here just for amoment"--there was a rustic seat beside them--"only for a moment."
She did sit down, and he beside her. That "moment" of Tom Sedley'sgrew as such moments will, like the bean that Jack sowed in hisgarden, till it reached--Titania knows whither! I know that MissCharity on her return surprised it still growing.
"I made the tea, Agnes, fancying you were in your room. I've had sucha search for you. I really think you might have told Edward where youwere going. Will you drink tea with us, Thomas Sedley, this evening?though I am afraid you'll find it perfectly cold."
If Miss Charity had been either suspicious or romantic, she would haveseen by a glance at the young people's faces what had happened; butbeing neither, and quite pre-occupied with her theory about CleveVerney, and having never dreamed of Tom Sedley as possibly making his_debut_ at Hazelden in the character of a lover--she brought herprisoners home with only a vague sense now and then that there waseither something a little odd in their manner or in her ownperceptions, and she remarked, looking a little curiously at Tom, inreference to some query of hers,--
"I've asked you that question twice without an answer, and now you saysomething totally unmeaning."