Refreshing more than sinful swipes,The weary manWho quaffs a can,That sparkling foams through leaden pipes.Chorus.Let every manThen, fill his can,And fill the glassOf every lassIn brimming bumpers sparkling clear,To pledge the health of Verney's Peer!
Refreshing more than sinful swipes,The weary manWho quaffs a can,That sparkling foams through leaden pipes.
Chorus.
Let every manThen, fill his can,And fill the glassOf every lassIn brimming bumpers sparkling clear,To pledge the health of Verney's Peer!
And then came a chill and ghastly "hip-hip, hurrah," and with some gracious inquiries on Lord Verney's part, as to the numbers, progress, and finances of "their interesting association," and a subscription of ten pounds, which Mr. John Swillers took leave to remark, "wouldn't be laid out on water, bynomeans," the viscount, with grand and radiant Mr. Larkin at his elbow, and frequently murmuring in his ear—to the infinite disgust of my friend, Wynne Williams, theCardyllian attorney, thus out-strutted and out-crowed on his own rustic elevation—was winning golden opinions from all sorts of men.
The party went on, after the wonders of the town had been exhausted, to look at Malory, and thence returned to a collation, at which toasts were toasted and speeches spoken, and Captain Shrapnell spoke, by arrangement, for the ladies of Cardyllian in his usual graceful and facetious manner, with all the puns and happy allusions which a month's private diligence, and, I am sorry to say, some shameless plagiarisms from three old numbers of poor Tom Hood's "Comic Annual," could get together, and the gallant captain concluded by observing that the noble lord whom they had that day the honour and happiness to congratulate, intended, he understood, everything that was splendid and liberal and handsome, and that the town of Cardyllian, in the full radiance of the meridian sunshine, whose golden splendour proceeded from thesouth—"The cardinal point at which the great house of Ware is visible from the Green of Cardyllian"—(hear, hear, and laughter)—"there remained but one grievance to be redressed, and that set to rights, every ground of complaint would slumber for ever, he might say, in the great bed of Ware"—(loud cheers and laughter)—"and what was that complaint? He was instructed by his fair, lovely, and beautiful clients—the ladies of Cardyllian—some of whom he saw in the gallery, and some still more happily situated at the festive board"—(a laugh). "Well, he was, he repeated, instructed by them to say that there was one obvious duty which the noble lord owed to his ancient name—to the fame of his public position—to the coronet, whose golden band encircled his distinguished brow—and above all, to the ancient feudal dependency of Cardyllian"—(hear, hear)—"and that was to select from his county's beauty, fascination, and accomplishment, and he might say loveliness, a partner worthy to share the ermine and the coronet and the name and the—ermine" (hear, hear) "of the ancient house of Verney" (loud cheers); "and need he add that when the selection was made, it was hoped and trusted and aspired after, that the selection would not be made a hundred miles away from the ivied turrets, the feudal ruins, the gushing fountains, and the spacious town-hall of Cardyllian" (loud and long-continued cheering, amid which the gallant captain, very hot, and red, and smiling furiously, sat down with a sort of lurch, and drank off a glass of champagne, and laughed and giggled a little in his chair, while the "cheering and laughter" continued).
And Lord Verney rose, not at all hurt by this liberty, very much amused on the contrary, and in high good humour his lordship said,—
"Allow me to say—I am sure you will"—(hear, hear, and cries of "We will")—"I say, I am sure you will permit me to say that the ladies of Cardyllian, a-a-about it, seem to me to have chosen a very eloquent spokesman in the gallant, and I have no doubt, distinguished officer who has just addressed the house. We have all been entertained by the eloquence of Captain Scollop"—[here the mayor deferentially whispered something to the noble orator]—"I beg pardon—Captain Grapnell—who sits at the table, with his glass of wine, about it—and very good wine it is—his glass, I say, where it should be, in his hand"—(hear, hear, and laughter, and "You got it there, captain"). "And I assure the gallant captain I did not mean to be severe—only we were all joking—and I do say that he has his hand—my gallant friend, Captain Grabblet, has it—where every gallant officer's ought to be, about it, and that is, upon his weapon"—(hear, hear, laughter, and cries of "His lordship's too strong for you, captain"). "I don't mean to hurt him, though, about it," (renewed cries of hear, and laughter, during which the captain shook his ears a little, smiling into his glass rather foolishly, as a man who was getting the worst of it, and knew it, but took it pleasantly). "No, it would not be fair to the ladies about it," (renewed laughter and cheering), "and all Iwillsay is this, about it—there are parts of Captain Scraplet's speech, which I shan't undertake to answer at this moment. I feel that I am trespassing, about it, for a much longer time than I had intended," (loud cries of "No, no, go on, go on," and cheering, during which the mayor whispered something to the noble lord, who, having heard it twice or thrice repeated, nodded to the mayor in evident apprehension, and when silence was restored, proceeded to say), "I have just heard, without meaning to say anything unfair of the gallant captain, Captain Scalpel, that he is hardly himself qualified to give me the excellent advice, about it, which I received from him; for they tell me that he has rather run away, about it, from his colours, on that occasion." (Great laughter and cheering). "I should be sorry to wound Captain Shat—Scat—Scrap, the gallant captain, to wound him, I say, even in front." (Laughter, cheering, and a voice from the gallery "Hit him hard, and he won't swell," "Order.") "But I think I was bound to make that observation in the interest of the ladies of Cardyllian, about it;" (renewed laughter); "and, for mypart, I promise my gallant friend—my—captain—about it—that although I may take some time, like himself" (loud laughter); "although I cannot let fall, about it, any observation that may commit me, yet I do promise to meditate on the excellent advice he has been so good as to give me, about it." And the noble lord resumed his seat amid uproarious cheering and general laughter, wondering what had happened to put him in the vein, and regretting that some of the people at Downing Street had not been present to hear it, and witness its effect.
Tom Sedleysaw the Etherage girls on the green, and instead of assisting as he had intended, at the great doings in the town, he walked over to have a talk with them.
People who know Cardyllian remember the two seats, partly stone, partly wood, which are placed on the green, near the margin of the sea—seats without backs—on which you can sit with equal comfort, facing the water and the distant mountains, or the white-fronted town and old Castle of Cardyllian. Looking toward this latter prospect, the ladies sat, interested, no doubt, though they preferred a distant view, in the unusual bustle of the quiet old place.
On one of these seats sat Charity and Agnes, and as he approached, smiling, up got Charity and walked some steps towards him! looking kindly, but not smiling, for that was not herwont, and with her thin hand, in doe-skin glove, extended to greet him.
"How are you, Thomas Sedley? when did you come?" asked Miss Charity, much gladder to see him than she appeared.
"I arrived this morning; you're all well, I hope;" he was looking at Agnes, and would have got away from Miss Charity, but that she held him still by the hand.
"All very well, thank you, except Agnes. I don't think she's very well. I have ever so much to tell you when you and I have a quiet opportunity, but not now,"—she was speaking in a low tone;—"and now go and ask Agnes how she is."
So he did. She smiled a little languidly, he thought, and was not looking very strong, but prettier than ever—soverypretty! She blushed too, very brilliantly, as he approached; it would have been flattering had he not seen Cleve Verney walking quickly over the green toward the Etherage group. For whom was the blush? Two gentlemen had fired simultaneously.
"Your bird? I rather thinkmybird?—isn't it?"
Now Tom Sedley did not think the bird his, and he felt, somehow, strangely vexed. And he got through his greeting uncomfortably; hismind was away with Cleve Verney, who was drawing quickly near.
"Oh! Mr. Verney,whata time it is since we saw you last!" exclaimed emphatic Miss Charity; "I really began to think you'dnevercome."
"Very good of you, Miss Etherage, to think about me."
"And you never gave me your subscription for our poor old women, last winter!"
"Oh! my subscription? I'll give it now—what was it to be—a pound?"
"No, you promised only ten shillings, but itoughtto be a pound. I think less would beshameful."
"Then, Miss Agnes, shall it be a pound?" he said, turning to her with a laugh—with his fingers in his purse, "whatever you say I'll do."
"Agnes—ofcourse, a pound," said Charity, in her nursery style of admonition.
"Charity says it must be a pound," answered Agnes.
"Andyousay so?"
"Of course, I must."
"Then a pound itis—and mind," he added, laughing, and turning to Miss Charity with the coin in his fingers, "I'm to figure in your book of benefactors—your golden book of saints, ormartyrs, rather; but you need not put down myname, only 'The old woman's friend,' or 'A lover of flannel' or 'A promoter of petticoats,' or any other benevolent alias you think becoming."
"'The old woman's friend,' will do very nicely," said Charity, gravely. "Thank you, Mr. Verney, and we weresoglad to hear that your uncle has succeeded at last to the peerage. He can be of suchuse—you really would be—he and youboth, Mr. Verney—quite amazed and shocked, if you knew how much poverty there is in this town."
"It's well he does not know just now, for he wants all his wits about him. This is a critical occasion, you know, and the town expects great things from a practised orator. I've stolen away, just for five minutes, to ask you the news. We are at Ware, for a few days; only two or three friends with us. They came across in my boat to-day. We are going to set all the tradespeople on earth loose upon the house in a few days. It is to be done in an incredibly short time; and my uncle is talking of getting down some of his old lady relations to act chaperon, and we hope to have you all over there. You know it's all made up, that little coldness between my uncle and your father. I'm so glad. Your father wrote him such a nice note to-day explaining his absence—he never goes into a crowd, he says—and Lord Verney wrote him a line to say, if he would allow him, he would go up to Hazelden to pay his respects this afternoon."
This move was a suggestion of Mr. Larkin's, who was pretty well up in election strategy.
"I've ascertained, my lord, he's good for a hundred and thirty-seven votes in the county, and your lordship has managed him with such consummate tact that a very little more will, with the Divine blessing, induce the happiest, and I may say, considering the disparity of your lordship's relations and his, the mostdutifulfeelings on his part—resulting, in fact, in your lordship's obtaining the absolute command of the constituency. You were defeated, my lord, last time, by only forty-three votes, with his influence against you. If your lordship were to start your nephew, Mr. Cleve Verney, for it next time, having made your ground good with him, he would be returned, humanly speaking, by a sweeping majority."
"So, Lord Verney's going up to see papa! Agnes,weought to be at home. He must have luncheon."
"No—a thousand thanks—but all that's explained. There's luncheon to be in the town-hall—it's part of the programme—and speeches—and all that kind of rubbish; so he can only run up for a few minutes, just to say, 'How do ye do?' and away again. So, pray, don't think of going all that way, and he'll come here to be introduced, and make your acquaintance. And now tell me all your news."
"Well, those odd people went away from Malory"—began Charity.
"Oh, yes, I heard, I think, something of that," said Cleve, intending to change the subject, perhaps; but Miss Charity went on, for in that eventless scene an occurrence of any kind is too precious to be struck out of the record on any ground.
"They went away as mysteriously as they came—almost—and so suddenly"——
"You forgot, Charity, dear, Mr. Verney was at Ware when they went, and here two or three times after they left Malory."
"So Iwas," said Cleve, with an uneasy glance at Tom Sedley; "IknewI had heard something of it."
"Oh, yes; and they say that the old man was both mad and in debt."
"What a combination!" said Cleve.
"Yes, I assure you, and a Jew came down with twenty or thirty bailiffs—I'm only telling you what Mr. Apjohn heard, and the people heretell us—and a mad doctor, and people with strait waistcoats, and they surrounded Malory; but he was gone!—not a human being knew where—and that handsome girl, wasn't she quitebee-au-tiful?"
"Oh, what everyone says, you know,mustbe true," said Cleve.
"What doyousay?" she urged upon Tom Sedley.
"Oh, I say ditto to everyone, of course."
"Well, I should think so, for you know you are quite desperately in love with her," said Miss Charity.
"I?Why, I really never spoke to her in all my life. Now, if you had said Cleve Verney."
"Oh, yes! If you had namedme. But, by Jove! there they go. Do you see? My uncle and the mayor, and all the lesser people, trooping away to the town-hall. Good-bye! I haven't another moment. You'll be here, Ihope, when we get out;do, pray. I have not a moment."
And he meant a glance for Miss Agnes, but it lost itself in air, for that young lady was looking down, in a little reverie, on the grass, at the tip of her tiny boot.
"There'sold Miss Christianout, Ideclare!" exclaimed Charity. "Did you everhearof sucha thing? Iwonderwhether Doctor Lyster knows she is out to-day. I'll just go and speak to her. If he doesn't, I'll simply tell her she ismad!"
And away marched Miss Charity, bent upon finding out, as she said, all about it.
"Agnes," said Tom Sedley, "it seemed to me to-day, you were not glad to see me. Are you vexed with me?"
"Vexed? No, indeed!" she said, gently, and looking up with a smile.
"And your sister said——" Tom paused, for he did not know whether Charity's whisper about her not having been "very strong" might not be a confidence.
"Whatdoes Charity say?" asked Agnes, almost sharply, while a little flush appeared in her cheeks.
"Well, she said she did not think you were so strong as usual. That was all."
"That wasall—no great consequence," said she, with a little smile upon the grass and sea-pinks—a smile that was bitter.
"You can't think I meant that, little Agnes,Iof all people; but I never was good at talking. And youknowI did not mean that."
"People often say—Ido, I know—what they mean without intending it," she answered, carelessly. "Iknowyou would not make a rude speech—I'm sure of that; and as to what we say accidentally, can it signify very much? Mr. Verney said he was coming back after the speeches, and Lord Verney, he said, didn't he? I wonder you don't look in at the town-hall. You could make us laugh by telling all about it, by-and-by—that is, if we happen to see you again."
"Ofcourseyou should see me again."
"I meant this evening; to-morrow, perhaps, we should," said she.
"If I went there; but I'm not going. I think that old fellow, Lord Verney, Cleve's uncle, is an impertinent old muff. Every one knows he's a muff, though heisCleve's uncle; he gave me just one finger to-day, and looked at me as if I ought to be anywhere but where I was. I have as good a right asheto be in Cardyllian, and I venture to say the people like me a great deal better than they like him, or ever will."
"And so you punish him by refusing your countenance to this—what shall I call it?—gala."
"Oh! of course you take the Verneys' part against me; they are swells, and I am a nobody."
He thought Miss Agnes coloured a little atthis remark. The blood grows sensitive and capricious when people are ailing, and a hint is enough to send it to and fro; but she said only,—
"I never heard of the feud before. I thought that you and Mr. Verney were very good friends."
"So we were; so weare—Cleve and I. Of course, I was speaking of the old lord. Cleve, of course, no one ever hears anything but praises of Cleve. I suppose I ought to beg your pardon for having talked as I did of old Lord Verney; it's petty treason, isn't it, to talk lightly of a Verney, in Cardyllian or its neighbourhood?" said Sedley, a little sourly.
"I don't knowthat; but I dare say, if you mean to ask leave to fish or shoot, it might be as well not to attack them."
"Well, I shan't in your hearing."
And with this speech came a silence.
"I don't think, somehow, that Cleve is as frank with me as he used to be. Can you imagine any reason?" said Tom, after an interval.
"I?No, upon my word—unless you are as frank to him about his uncle, as you have been with me."
"Well, I'mnot. I never spoke to him about his uncle. But Shrapnell, who tells me all thenews of Cardyllian while I'm away"—this was pointedly spoken—"said, I thought, that he had not been down here ever since the Malory people left, and I find that he was here for a week—at least at Ware—last autumn, for a fortnight; and he never told me, though he knew, for I said so to him, that I thought that he had stayed away; and I think that was very odd."
"He may have thought that he was not bound to account to you for his time and movements," said Miss Agnes.
"Well, hewashere; Mrs. Jones was good enough to tell me so, though other people make a secret of it.Yousaw him here, I dare say."
"Yes, hewashere, for a few days. I think in October, or the end of September."
"Oh! thank you. But, as I said, I had heard that already from Mrs. Jones, who is a most inconvenient gossip upon nearlyallsubjects."
"I rather like Mrs. Jones; you mean the 'draper,' as we call her? and if Mr. Verney is not as communicative as you would have him, I really can't help it. I can only assure you, for your comfort, that the mysterious tenants of Malory had disappeared long before that visit."
"I know perfectly well when they went away," said Sedley, drily.
Miss Agnes nodded with a scarcely perceptible smile.
"And I know—that is, I found out afterwards—that he admired her, I mean the young lady—Margaret, they called her—awfully. He never let me know it himself, though. I hate fellows being so close and dark about everything, and I've found out other things; and, in short, if people don't like to tell me their—secretsI won't call them, for everyone in Cardyllian knows all about them—I'm hanged if I ask them. All I know is, that Cleve is going to live a good deal at Ware, which means at Cardyllian, which will be a charming thing, a positive blessing,—won't it?—for the inhabitants and neighbours; and that I shall trouble them very little henceforward with my presence. There's Charity beckoning to me; would you mind my going to see what she wants?"
So, dismissed, away he ran like a "fielder" after a "by," as he had often run over the same ground before.
"Thomas Sedley, I want you to tell Lyster, the apothecary, to send a small bottle ofsal volatileto Miss Christian immediately. I'd go myself—it's only round the corner—but I'm afraid of thecrowd. If he can give it to you now, perhaps you'd bring it, and I'll wait here."
When he brought back the phial, and Miss Charity had given it with a message at Miss Christian's trelliced door, she took Tom's arm, and said,—
"She has not been looking well."
"You mean Agnes?" conjectured he.
"Yes, of course. She's not herself. She does not tell me, but Iknowthe cause, and, as an old friend of ours, and a friend, beside, of Mr. Cleve Verney, I must tell you that I think he is using herdisgracefully."
"Really?"
"Yes,most flagitiously."
"How do you mean? Shrapnell wrote me word that he was very attentive, and used to join her in her walks; and afterwards he said that he had been mistaken, and discovered that he was awfully in love with the young lady at Malory."
"Don'tbelieve awordof it. Iwonderat Captain Shrapnell circulating suchinsanity. He mustknowhow it really was, andis. I look upon it asperfectly wicked, the way that Captain Shrapnell talks. You're not to mention it,of course, to anyone. It would bescandalousof you, Thomas Sedley, tothinkof breathing awordtomortal—mind that; but I'm certain youwouldn't."
"What a beast Cleve Verney has turned out!" exclaimed Tom Sedley. "Do you think she still cares for him?"
"Why, of course she does. If he had been paying his addresses tome, and thatIhad grown by his perseverance anddevotionto like him, do you think, Thomas Sedley, that although I might give him up in consequence of his misconduct, that I could ever cease to feel the same kind of feeling about him?" And as she put this incongruous case, she held Tom Sedley's arm firmly, showing her bony wrist above her glove; and with her gaunt brown face and saucer eyes turned full upon him, rather fiercely, Tom felt an inward convulsion at the picture of Cleve's adorations at this shrine, and the melting of the nymph, which by a miracle he repressed.
"Butyoumay have more constancy than Agnes," he suggested.
"Don't talk like afool, Thomas Sedley.Every nice girlis thesame."
"May I talk to Cleve about it?"
"Onno account. Nonicegirl could marry himnow, and an apology would be simplyridiculous.Ihave not spoken to him on the subject, and though I had intended cutting him, myfriend Mrs. Splayfoot was so clear that I should meet him just as usual, that I do control theexpressionof my feelings, and endeavour to talk to him indifferently, though I should likeuncommonlyto tell him howodiousI shall always think him."
"Yes, I remember," said Tom, who had been pondering. "Clevedidtell me, that time—it's more than a year ago now—it was a year in autumn—that he admired Agnes, and used to walk with you on the green every day; hedidcertainly. I must do him that justice. But suppose Agnes did not show that she liked him, he might not have seen any harm."
"That's the way you men always take one another's parts. I must say, I think it isodious!" exclaimed Charity, with a flush in her thin cheeks, and a terrible emphasis.
"But, I say,didshe let him see that she liked him?"
"No, ofcourseshe didn't. Nonicegirlwould. But of course hesawit," argued Charity.
"Oh, then sheshowedit?"
"No, she didnotshow it; there wasnothinginanything shesaidordid, thatcouldleadanyone, by look, or word, or act, to imagine that she liked him. Howcanyou be soperverseandridiculous, Thomas Sedley, to think she'dshowher liking?Why, evenIdon't know it. I neversawit. She's agreatdealtoo nice. You don'tknowAgnes. I should not venture tohintat it myself. Gracious goodness! What afoolyou are, Thomas Sedley! Hush."
The concluding caution was administered in consequence of their having got very near the seat where Agnes was sitting.
"Miss Christian is only nervous, poor old thing! and Thomas Sedley has been gettingsal volatilefor her, and she'll be quite well in a day or two. Hadn't we better walk a little up and down; it's growing too cold for you to sit any longer, Agnes, dear. Come."
And up got obedient Agnes, and the party of three walked up and down the green, conversing upon all sorts of subjects but the one so ably handled by Charity and Tom Sedley in their two or three minutes' private talk.
And now the noble lord and his party, and the mayor, and the corporation, and Mr. Larkin, and Captain Shrapnell, and many other celebrities, were seen slowly emerging from the lane that passes the George Inn, upon the green; and the peer having said a word or two to the mayor, and also to Lady Wimbledon, and bowed and pointed toward the jetty, the main body proceeded slowly toward that point, while Lord Verney, accompaniedby Cleve, walked grandly towards the young ladies who were to be presented.
Tom Sedley, observing this movement, took his leave hastily, and, in rather a marked way, walked off at right angles with Lord Verney's line of march, twirling his cane.
Sothe great Lord Verney, with the flush of his brilliant successes in the town-hall still upon his thin cheeks, and a countenance dry and solemn, to which smiling came not easily, made the acquaintance of the Miss Etherages, and observed that the younger was "sweetly pretty, about it, and her elder sister appeared to him a particularly sensible young woman, and was, he understood, very useful in the charities, and things." And he repeated to them in his formal way, his hope of seeing them at Ware, and was as gracious as such a man can be, and instead of attorneys and writs sent grouse and grapes to Hazelden.
And thus this narrow man, who did not easily forgive, expanded and forgave, and the secret of the subsidence of the quarrel, and of the Christian solution of the "difficulty," was simply Mr. Vane Etherage's hundred and thirty votes in the county.
What a blessing to these counties is representative government, with its attendant institution of the canvass! It is the one galvanism which no material can resist. It melts every heart, and makes the coldest, hardest, and heaviest metals burst into beautiful flame. Granted that at starting, the geniality, repentance, kindness, are so many arrant hypocrisies; yet who can tell whether these repentances, in white sheets, taper in hand, these offerings of birds and fruits, these smiles and compliments, and "Christian courtesies," may not end in improving the man who is compelled to act like a good fellow and accept his kindly canons, and improvehimalso with whom these better relations are established? As muscle is added to the limb, so strength is added to the particular moral quality we exercise, and kindness is elicited, and men perhaps end by having some of the attributes which they began by affecting. At all events, any recognition of the kindly and peaceable social philosophy of Christianity is, so far as it goes, good.
"What a sensible, nice, hospitable old man Lord Verney is; I think himthemost sensible and thenicest manIevermet," said Miss Charity, in an enthusiasm which was quite genuine, for she was, honestly, no respecter of persons. "And young Mr. Verney certainly looked very handsome, but I don't like him."
"Don't like him!Why?" said Agnes, looking up.
"Because I think him perfectlyodious," replied Miss Charity.
Agnes was inured to Miss Charity's adjectives, and even the fierce flush that accompanied some of them failed to alarm her.
"Well, I rather like him," she said, quietly.
"Youcan'tlike him, Agnes. It is not a matter of opinion at all; it's just simply a matter offact—and youknowthat he is a mostworldly,selfish,cruel, andIthink,wickedyoung man, and you need not talk about him, for he'sodious. And here comes Thomas Sedley again."
Agnes smiled a faint and bitter smile.
"And what do you think ofhim?" she asked.
"Thomas Sedley? Of course I like him; we all like him. Don't you?" answered Charity.
"Yes, pretty well—very well. I suppose he has faults, like other people. He's good-humoured, selfish, of course—I fancy they all are. And papa likes him, I think; but really, Charrie, if you want to know, I don't care if I never saw him again."
"Hush!"
"Well!You've got rid of the Verneys, and here I am again," said Tom, approaching. "They are going up to Hazelden to see your father."
And so they were—up that pretty walk that passes the mills and ascends steeply by the precipitous side of the wooded glen, so steep, that in two places you have to mount by rude flights of steps—a most sequestered glen, and utterly silent, except for the sound of the mill-stream tinkling and crooning through the rocks below, unseen through the dense boughs and stems of the wood beneath.
If Lord Verney in his conciliatory condescension was grand, so was Vane Etherage on the occasion of receiving and forgiving him at Hazelden. He had considered and constructed a little speech, with some pomp of language, florid and magnanimous. He had sat in his bath-chair for half an hour at the little iron gate of the flower-garden of Hazelden, no inmate of which had ever seen him look, for a continuance, so sublimely important, and indeed solemn, as he had done all that morning.
Vane Etherage had made his arrangements to receive Lord Verney with a dignified deference. He was to be wheeled down the incline about two hundred yards, to "the bower," to meet the peer at that point, and two lusty fellows were to push him up by Lord Verney's side to the house, where wine and other comforts awaited him.
John Evans had been placed at the mill tosignal to the people above at Hazelden, by a musket-shot, the arrival of Lord Verney at that stage of his progress. The flagstaff and rigging on the green platform at Hazelden were fluttering all over with all the flags that ever were invented, in honour of the gala.
Lord Verney ascended, leaning upon the arm of his nephew, with Mr. Larkin and the mayor for supporters, Captain Shrapnell, Doctor Lyster, and two or three other distinguished inhabitants of Cardyllian bringing up the rear.
Lord Verney carried his head high, and grew reserved and rather silent as they got on, and as they passed under the solemn shadow of the great trees by the mill, an overloaded musket went off with a sound like a cannon, as Lord Verney afterwards protested, close to the unsuspecting party, and a loud and long whoop from John Evans completed the concerted signal.
The Viscount actually jumped, and Cleve felt the shock of his arm against his side.
"D—— you, John Evans, what thedevilare youdoing?" exclaimed Captain Shrapnell, who, turning from white to crimson, was the first of the party to recover his voice.
"Yes, sir, thank you—very good," said Evans, touching his hat, and smiling incessantly with the incoherent volubility of Welsh politeness."A little bit of a squib, sir, if you please, for Captain Squire Etherage—very well, I thank you—to let him know Lord Verney—very much obliged, sir—was at the mill—how do you do, sir?—and going up to Hazelden, if you please, sir."
And the speech subsided in a little, gratified laugh of delighted politeness.
"You'd better not do thatagain, though," said the Captain, with a menacing wag of his head, and availing himself promptly of the opportunity of improving his relations with Lord Verney, he placed himself by his side, and assured him that though he was an old campaigner, and had smelt powder in all parts of the world, he had never heard such a report from a musket in all his travels and adventures before; and hoped Lord Verney's hearing was not the worse of it. He had known a general officer deafened by a shot, and, by Jove! his own ears were singing with it still, accustomed as he was, by Jupiter! to such things.
His lordship, doing his best on the festive occasion, smiled uncomfortably, and said,—
"Yes—thanks—ha, ha! I really thought it was a cannon, or the gas-works—about it."
And Shrapnell called back and said,—
"Don't you be coming on with that thing,John Evans—do you mind?—Lord Verney's had quite enough of that. You'll excuse me, Lord Verney, I thought you'd wish so much said," and Lord Verney bowed graciously.
The answering shot and cheer which were heard from above announced to John Evans that the explosion had been heard at Hazelden, and still smiling and touching his heart, he continued his voluble civilities—"Very good, sir, very much obliged, sir, very well, I thank you; I hope you are very well, sir, very good indeed, sir," and so forth, till they were out of hearing.
The shot, indeed, was distinctly heard at the gay flagstaff up at Hazelden, and the Admiral got under weigh, and proceeded down the incline charmingly till they had nearly reached the little platform at the bower, where, like Christian in his progress, he was to make a halt.
But his plans at this point were disturbed. Hardly twenty yards before they reached it, one of his men let go, the drag upon the other suddenly increased, and resulted in a pull, which caused him to trip, and tripping as men while in motion downhill will, he butted forward, charging headlong, and finally tumbling on his face, he gave to the rotatory throne of Mr. Etherage such an impulse as carried him quite past the arbour, and launched him upon the steep descent of thegravel-walk with a speed every moment accelerated.
"Stop her!—ease her!—d—— you, Williams!" roared the Admiral, little knowing how idle were his orders. The bath-chair had taken head, the pace became furious; the running footmen gave up pursuit in despair, and Mr. Vane Etherage was obliged to concentrate his severest attention, as he never did before, on the task of guiding his flying vehicle, a feat which was happily favoured by the fact that the declivity presented no short turns.
The sounds were heard below—a strange ring of wheels, and a powerful voice bawling, "Ease her! stop her!" and some stronger expressions.
"Can't be a carriage, about it,here?" exclaimed Lord Verney, halting abruptly, and only restrained from skipping upon the side bank by a sense of dignity.
"Never mind, Lord Verney! don't mind—I'll take care of you—I'm your vanguard," exclaimed Captain Shrapnell, with a dare-devil gaiety, inspired by the certainty that it could not be a carriage, and the conviction that the adventure would prove nothing more than some children and nursery maids playing with a perambulator.
His feelings underwent a revulsion, however,when old Vane Etherage, enveloped in cloak, and shawls, his hat gone, and his long grizzled hair streaming backward, with a wild countenance, and both hands working the directing handle, came swooping into sight, roaring, maniacally, "Ease her! back her!" and yawing frightfully in his descent upon them.
Captain Shrapnell, they say, turned pale at the spectacle; but he felt he must now go through with it, or for ever sacrifice that castle-in-the-air, of which the events of the day had suggested the ground-plan and elevation.
"Good heaven! he'll be killed, about it!" exclaimed Lord Verney, peeping from behind a tree, with unusual energy; but whether he meant Shrapnell, or Etherage, or both, I don't know, and nobody in that moment of sincerity minded much what he meant. I dare say a front-rank man in a square at Waterloo did not feel before the gallop of the Cuirassiers as the gallant Captain did before the charge of the large invalid who was descending upon him. All he meditated was a decent show of resistance, and as he had a stout walking-stick in his hand, something might be done without risking his bones. So, as the old gentleman thundered downward, roaring, "Keep her off—keep her clear," Shrapnell, roaring "I'm your man!" nervously popped the end of his stickunder the front wheel of the vehicle, himself skipping to one side, unhappily the wrong one, for the chair at this check spun round, and the next spectacle was Mr. Vane Etherage and Captain Shrapnell, enveloped in cloaks and mufflers, and rolling over and over in one another's arms, like athletes in mortal combat, the Captain's fist being visible, as they rolled round, at Mr. Vane Etherage's back, with his walking-stick still clutched in it.
The chair was lying on its side, the gentlemen were separated, and Captain Shrapnell jumped to his feet.
"Well, Lord Verney, I believe I did something there!" said the gallant Captain, with the air of a man who has done his duty, and knows it.
"Done something! you've broke my neck, you lubber!" panted Mr. Vane Etherage, who, his legs not being available, had been placed sitting with some cloaks about him, on the bank.
Shrapnell grinned and winked expressively, and confidentially whispered, "Jolly old fellow he is—no one minds the Admiral; we let him talk."
"Lord Verney," said his lordship, introducing himself with a look and air of polite concern.
"No, my name's Etherage," said the invalid,mistaking—he fancied that Jos. Larkin, who was expounding his views of the accident grandly to Cleve Verney in the background, could not be less than a peer—"I live up there, at Hazelden—devilish near beingkilled here, by that lubber there. Why I was running at the rate of five-and-twenty knots an hour, if I was makingone; and I remember it right well, sir, there's a check down there, just before you come to the mill-stile, and the wall there; and I'd have run my bows right into it, and not a bit the worse, sir, if that d—— fellow had just kept out of the—the—king's course, you know; and egad! I don't know now how it is—I suppose I'm smashed, sir."
"I hope not, sir. I am Lord Verney—about it; and it would pain me extremely to learn that any serious injuries, or—or—things—had been sustained, about it."
"I'll tell that in a moment," said Doctor Lyster, who was of the party, briskly.
So after a variety of twists and wrenches and pokes, Vane Etherage was pronounced sound and safe.
"I don't know how the devil I escaped!" exclaimed the invalid.
"By tumbling onme—very simply," replied Captain Shrapnell with a spirited laugh.
"You may set your mind at rest, Shrapnell," said the Doctor, walking up to him, with a congratulatory air. "He's all right, this time; but you had better mind giving the old fellow any more rolls of that sort—the pitcher to the well, you know—and the next time might smash him."
"I'm more concerned about smashing myself, thank you. The next time he may roll to the devil—and through whoever he pleases for me—knocked down with that blackguard old chair, and that great hulking fellow on top of me—all for trying to be of use, egad! when everyone of you funked it—and not a soul asks aboutmybones, egad! or my neck either."
"Oh! come, Shrapnell, you're not setting up for an old dog yet. There's a difference between you and Etherage," said the Doctor.
"I hope so," answered the Captain, sarcastically, "but civility is civility all the world over; and I can tell you, another fellow would make fuss enough about the pain I'm suffering."
It was found, further, that one wheel of the bath-chair was disorganised, and the smith must come from the town to get it to rights, and that Vane Etherage, who could as soon have walked up a rainbow as up the acclivity to Hazelden, must bivouac for a while where he sat.
So there the visit was paid, and the exciting gala of that day closed, and the Viscount and his party marched down, with many friends attendant, to the jetty, and embarked in the yacht for Ware.
Theevenings being short, the shops alight, and the good people of Cardyllian in their houses, Tom Sedley found the hour before dinner hang heavily on his hands. So he walked slowly up Castle Street, and saw Mr. Robson, the worthy post-master, standing, with his hands in his pockets, at the open door.
"No letter for me, I dare say?" asked Sedley.
"No, sir—nothing."
"I don't know how to kill the time. I wish my dinner was ready. You dined, like a wise man, at one o'clock, I dare say?"
"We do—we dine early here, sir."
"I know it; a capital plan. I do it myself, whenever I make any stay here."
"And you can eat a bit o' something hearty at tea then."
"To be sure; that's the good of it. I don't know what to do with myself. I'll take a walkround by Malory. Can I leave the Malory letters for you?"
"You're only joking, sir."
"I was not, upon my honour. I'd be glad to bolt your shutters, or to twig your steps—anything to do. I literally don't know what to do with myself."
"There's no family at Malory, you know, now, sir."
"Oh! I did not know. I knew the other family had gone. No letters to be delivered then?"
"Well, sir, thereis—but you're only joking."
"What is it?"
"A letter to Mrs. Rebecca Mervyn—but I would not think of troubling a gentleman with it."
"Old Rebecca? why I made her acquaintance among the shingles and cockles on the sea-shore last year—a charming old sea-nymph, or whatever you call it."
"We all have a great respect for Mrs. Mervyn, down here, in Cardyllian. The family has a great opinion of her, and they think a great deal of her, like us," said Mr. Robson, who did not care to hear any mysterious names applied to her without a protest.
"Well—so I say—so have I. I'll give her theletter, and take a receipt," said Sedley, extending his hand.
"There reallyisa receipt, sir, wanting," said the official, amused. "It came this morning—and if you'll come in—if it isn't too much trouble—I'll show it to you, please, sir."
In he stepped to the post-office, where Mr. Robson showed him a letter which he had that afternoon received. It said,—
"Sir,—I enclose five shillings, represented by postage-stamps, which will enable you to pay a messenger on whom you can depend, to deliver a letter which I place along with this in the post-office, into the hand of Mrs. Mervyn, Steward's House, Malory, Cardyllian, to whom it is addressed, and which is marked with the letter D at the left-hand corner."I am, sir,"Your obt. servant,"J. Dingwell."
"Sir,—I enclose five shillings, represented by postage-stamps, which will enable you to pay a messenger on whom you can depend, to deliver a letter which I place along with this in the post-office, into the hand of Mrs. Mervyn, Steward's House, Malory, Cardyllian, to whom it is addressed, and which is marked with the letter D at the left-hand corner.
"I am, sir,
"Your obt. servant,
"J. Dingwell."
"The letter is come," said Mr. Robson, taking it out of a pigeon-hole in a drawer, and thumbing it, and smiling on it with a gentle curiosity.
"Yes—that's it," said Tom Sedley, also reading the address. "'Mrs. Mervyn'—what a queerold ghost of a lady she is—'Malory,' that's the ground—and the letter D in the corner. Well, I'm quite serious. I'll take the letter with pleasure, and see the old woman, and put it into her hand. I'm not joking, and I shall be back again in an hour, I dare say, and I'll tell you what she says, and how she looks—that is, assuming it is a love-letter."
"Well, sir, as you wish it; and it's very kind of you, and the old lady must sign a receipt, for the letter's registered—but it's too much trouble for you, sir, isn't it really?"
"Nonsense; give me the letter. If you won't, I can't help it."
"And this receipt should be signed."
"And the receipt also."
So away went our friend, duly furnished, and marched over the hill we know so well, that over-hangs the sea, and down by the narrow old road to Malory, thinking of many things.
The phantom of the beautiful lady of Malory was very much faded now. Even as he looked down on the old house and woodlands, the romance came not again. It was just a remembered folly, like others, and excited or pained him little more. But a new trouble vexed him. How many of our blessings do we take for granted, enjoy thanklessly, like our sight, our hearing, ourhealth, and only appreciate when they are either withdrawn or in danger!
Captain Shrapnell had written among his gossip some jocular tattle about Cleve's devotion to Miss Agnes Etherage, which had moved him oddly and uncomfortably; but the next letter disclosed the mystery of Cleve's clandestine visits to Malory, and turned his thoughts into a new channel.
But here was all revived, and worse. Charity, watching with a woman's eyes, and her opportunities, had made to him a confidence about which there could be no mistake; and then Agnes was so changed—not a bit glad to see him! And did not she look pretty? Was there not a slight look of pride—a reserve—that was new—a little sadness—along with the heightened beauty of her face and figure? How on earth had he been so stupid as not to perceive how beautiful she was all this time? Cleve had more sense. By Jove! she was the prettiest girl in England, and that selfish fellow had laid himself out to make her fond of him, and, having succeeded, jilted her! And now she would not care for any one but him.
There was a time, he thought, when he, Tom Sedley, might have made her like him. What a fool he was! And that was past—unimproved—irrevocable—and now she never could. Girls mayaffect those second likings, he thought, but they never really care after the first. It is pride, or pique, or friendship, or convenience—anything but love.
Love! And what had he to do with love? Who would marry him on four hundred a year, and no expectations? And now he was going to teaze himself because he had not stepped in before Cleve Verney and secured the affections of little Agnes. What a fool he was! What business had he dreaming such dreams? He had got on very well without falling in love with Agnes. Why should he begin now? If he foundthatfolly gaining upon him, he would leave Cardyllian without staying his accustomed week, and never return till the feeling had died as completely as last year's roses.
Down the hill he marched in his new romance, as he had done more than a year ago, over the same ground, in his old one, when in the moonlight, on the shingle, he had met the same old lady of whom he was now in quest.
The old trees of Malory rose up before him, dark and silent, higher and higher as he approached. It was a black night—no moon; even the stars obscured by black lines of cloud as he pushed open the gate, and entered the deeper darkness of the curving carriage-road that leads up through the trees.
It was six o'clock now, and awfully dark. When he reached the open space before the hall-door, he looked up at the dim front of the house, but no light glimmered there. The deep-mouthed dog in the stable-yard was yelling his challenge, and he further startled the solitary woods by repeated double-knocks that boomed through the empty hall and chambers of the deserted house.
Despairing of an entrance at last, and not knowing which way to turn, he took the way by chance which led him to the front of the steward's house, from the diamond casement of which a light was shining. The door lay open; only the latch was closed, such being the primitive security that prevails in that region of poverty and quietude.
With his stick he knocked a little tattoo, and a candle was held over the clumsy banister, and the little servant girl inquired in her clear Welsh accent what he wanted.
So, preliminaries over, he mounted to that chamber in which Mr. Levi had been admitted to a conference among the delft and porcelain, stags, birds, officers, and huntsmen, who, in gay tints and old-fashioned style, occupied every coigne of vantage, and especially that central dresser, which mounted nearly to the beams of the ceiling.
The room is not large, the recesses are deep, the timber-work is of clumsy oak, and the decorations of old-world teapots, jugs, and beasts of the field, and cocked-hatted gentlemen in gorgeous colouring and gilding, so very gay and splendid, reflecting the candle-light and the wavering glare of the fire from a thousand curves and angles; the old shining furniture, and carved oak clock; the room itself, and all its properties so perfectly neat and tidy, not one grain of dust or single cob-web to be seen in any nook or crevice, that Tom Sedley was delighted with the scene.
What a delightful retreat, he thought, from the comfortless affectations of the world. Here was the ideal of snugness, and of brightness, and warmth. It amounted to a kind of beauty that absolutely fascinated him. He looked kindly on the old lady, who had laid down her knitting, and looked at him through a pair of round spectacles, and thought that he would like to adopt her for his housekeeper, and live a solitary life of lonely rabbit-shooting in Penruthyn Park, trout-fishing in the stream, and cruising in an imaginary yacht on the estuary and the contiguous seaboard.
This little plan, or rather vision, pictured itself to Tom Sedley's morbid and morose imaginationas the most endurable form of life to which he could now aspire.
The old lady, meanwhile, was looking at him with an expression of wonder and anxiety, and he said—
"I hope, Mrs. Mervyn, I have not disturbed you much. It is not quite so late as it looks, and as the post-master, Mr. Robson, could not find a messenger, and I was going this way, I undertook to call and give you the letter, having once had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, although you do not, I'm afraid, recollect me."
"I knew it, the moment his face entered the room. It was the same face," she repeated, as if she had seen a picture, not a face.
"Just under the walls of Malory; you were anxious to learn whether a sail was in sight, in the direction of Pendillion," said he, suggesting.
"No, there was none; it was not there. People—other people—would have tired of watching long ago; my old eyes never dazzled, sir. Andhecame, so like. He came—I thought it—was a spirit from the sea; and here he is. There's something in your voice, sir, and your face. It is wonderful; but not a Verney—no, you told me so. They are cruel men—one way or other they were all cruel, but some more than others—myGod! much more. There's something in the eyes—the setting, the light—it can't be mistaken; something in the curve of the chin, very pretty—but you're no Verney, you told me—and see how he comes here a second time, smiling—and yet when he goes, it is like waking from a dream where they were, as they all used to look, long ago; and there's a pain at my heart, for weeks after. It never can be again, sir; I'm growing old. If it ever comes, it will find me so changed—or dead, I sometimes begin to think, and try to make up my mind. There's a good world, you know, where we'll all meet and be happy, no more parting or dying, sir. Yet I'd like to see him even once, here, just as he was, a beautiful mortal. God is so good; and while there's life there is hope."
"Certainly, hope, there's always hope; everyone has something to vex them.Ihave, I know, Mrs. Mervyn; and I was just thinking what a charming drawing-room this is, and how delightful it must be, the quiet and comfort, and glow of such a room. There is no drawing-room on earth I should like so well," said good-natured Tom Sedley, whose sympathies were easy, and who liked saying a pleasant thing when he could; "And this is the letter, and here is a printed receipt, which, when you have been so kind as tosign it, I've promised to give my friend, Mr. Robson of the post-office."
"Thank you, sir; this is registered, they call it. I had one a long time ago, with the same kind of green ribbon round it. Won't you sit down while I sign this?"
"Many thanks," said Sedley, sitting down gravely at the table, and looking so thoughtful, and somehow so much at home, that you might have fancied his dream of living in the Steward's House had long been accomplished.
"I'd rather not get a letter, sir; I don't know the handwriting of this address, and a letter can but bring me sorrow. There is but one welcome chance which could befall me, and thatmaycome yet, just ahope, sir. Sometimes it brightens up, but it has been low all to-day."
"Sorry you have been out of spirits, Mrs. Mervyn, I know what it is; I've been so myself, and Iamso, rather, just now," said Tom, who was, in this homely seclusion, tending towards confidence.
"There are now but two handwritings that I should know; one is his, the other Lady Verney's; all the rest are dead; and this is neither."
"Well, Mrs. Mervyn, if it does not come from either of the persons you care for, it yet maytell you news of them," remarked Tom Sedley, sagely.
"Hardly, sir. I hear every three months from Lady Verney. I heard on Tuesday last. Thank God, she's well. No, it's nothing concerning her, and I think it may be something bad. I am afraid of this letter, sir—tellme I need not be afraid of it."
"I know the feeling, Mrs. Mervyn; I've had it myself, when duns were troublesome. But you have nothing of the kind in this happy retreat; which I really do envy you from my heart."
"Envy! Ah, sir—happy retreat! Little you know, sir. I have been for weeks and months at a time half wild with anguish, dreaming of the sea. How can he know?"
"Very true, I can't know; I only speak of it as it strikes me at the moment. I fancy I should so like to live here, like a hermit, quite out of the persecutions of luck and the nonsense of the world."
"You are wonderfully like at times, sir—it is beautiful, it is frightful—when I moved the candle then——"
"I'll sit any way you like best, Mrs. Mervyn, with pleasure, and you can move the candle, and try; if it amuses—no, I mean interests you."
If some of his town friends could have peeped in through a keyhole, and seen Tom Sedley and old Rebecca Mervyn seated at opposite sides of the table, in this very queer old room, so like Darby and Joan, it would have made matter for a comical story.
"Like a flash it comes!"
Tom Sedley looked at the wild, large eyes that were watching him—the round spectacles now removed—across the table, and could not help smiling.
"Yes, thesmile—itisthe smile! You told me, sir, your name was Sedley, not Verney."
"My name is Thomas Sedley. My father was Captain Sedley, and served through a part of the Peninsular campaign. He was not twenty at the battle of Vittoria, and he was at Waterloo. My mother died a few months after I was born."
"Wasshea Verney?"
"No; she was distantly connected, but her name was Melville," said he.
"Connected. That accounts for it, perhaps."
"Very likely."
"And your father—dead?" she said, sadly.
"Yes; twenty years ago."
"I know, sir; I remember. They are all locked upthere, sir, and shan't come out till oldLady Verney dies. But he was not related to the Verneys?"
"No, they were friends. He managed two of the estates after he left the army, and very well, I'm told."
"Sedley—Thomas Sedley—I remember the name. I did not know the name of Sedley—except on one occasion—I was sent for, but it came to nothing. I lived so much in the dark about things," and she sighed.
"I forgot, Mrs. Mervyn, how late it is growing, and how much too long I have stayed here admiring your pretty room, and I fear interrupting you," said Tom, suddenly remembering his dinner, and standing up—"If you kindly give me the receipt, I'll leave it on my way back."
Mrs. Mervyn had clipped the silken cord, and was now reading the letter, and he might as well have addressed his little speech to the china shepherdess, with the straw disc and ribbons on her head, in the bodice and short petticoat of flowered brocade, leaning against a tree, with a lamb with its hind leg and tail broken off, looking affectionately in her face.
"I can't make it out, sir; your eyes are young—perhaps you would read it to me—it is not very long."
"Certainly, with pleasure"—and Tom Sedleysat down, and, spreading the letter on the table, under the candles, read as follows to the old lady opposite:—
"Private."Madam,—As an old and intimate friend of your reputed husband, I take leave to inform you that he placed a sum of money in my hands for the use of your son and his, if he be still living. Should he be so, will you be so good as to let me know where it will reach him. A line to Jos. Larkin, Esq., at the Verney Arms, Cardyllian, or a verbal message, if you desire to see him, will suffice. Mr. Larkin is the solvent and religious attorney of the present Lord Verney, and you have my consent to advise with him on the subject."I have the honour to be,"Madam,"Your obedient servant,"J. Dingwell.""P.S.—You are aware, I suppose, madam, that I am the witness who proved the death of the late Hon. Arthur Verney, who died of a low fever in Constantinople, in July twelve months."
"Private.
"Madam,—As an old and intimate friend of your reputed husband, I take leave to inform you that he placed a sum of money in my hands for the use of your son and his, if he be still living. Should he be so, will you be so good as to let me know where it will reach him. A line to Jos. Larkin, Esq., at the Verney Arms, Cardyllian, or a verbal message, if you desire to see him, will suffice. Mr. Larkin is the solvent and religious attorney of the present Lord Verney, and you have my consent to advise with him on the subject.
"I have the honour to be,
"Madam,
"Your obedient servant,
"J. Dingwell."
"P.S.—You are aware, I suppose, madam, that I am the witness who proved the death of the late Hon. Arthur Verney, who died of a low fever in Constantinople, in July twelve months."
"Died!My God! Died! did you saydied?"
"Yes. I thought you knew. It was proved ayear ago nearly. The elder brother of the present Lord Verney."
There followed a silence while you might count ten, and then came a long, wild, and bitter cry.
The little girl started up, with white lips, and said, "Lord bless us!" The sparrows in the ivy about the windows fluttered—even Tom Sedley was chilled and pierced by that desolate scream.
"I'm very sorry, really, I'm awfully sorry," Tom exclaimed, finding himself, he knew not how, again on his feet, and gazing at the white, imploring face of the trembling old woman. "I really did not know—I had not an idea you felt such an interest in any of the family. If I had known, I should have been more careful. I'm shocked at what I've done."
"Oh! Arthur—oh! Arthur. He's gone—after all, afterall. If we could have only met for one minute, just for one look." She was drawing back the window-curtain, looking towards the dark Pendillion and the starless sea. "He said he'd come again—he went—and my heart misgave me. I said, he'll never come again—my beautiful Arthur—never—never—never. Oh, darling, darling. If I could even see your grave."
"I'm awfully sorry, ma'am; I wish I could be of any use," said honest Tom Sedley, speaking very low and kindly, standing beside her, with, Ithink, tears in his eyes. "I wish so much, ma'am, you could employ me any way. I'd be so glad to be of any use, about your son, or to see that Mr. Larkin. I don't like his face, ma'am, and would not advise your trusting him too much."
"Our little child's dead. Oh! Arthur—Arthur!—a beautiful little thing; and you, my darling,—that I watched for, so long—never to come again—never, never—never—I have no one now."
"I'll come to you and see you in the morning," said Tom.
And he walked home in the dark, and stopped on the summit of the hill, looking down upon the twinkling lights of the town, and back again toward solemn Malory, thinking of what he had seen, and what an odd world it was.