ai B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 L5l9t 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/tenantsofmaloryn01lefa 
 
5^' 
 
THE 
 
 TENANTS OF MALOEY. 
 
 (Reprinted from the " Dublin University Magazine.") 
 
THE 
 
 TENANTS OF MALOEY, 
 
 % Mobd. 
 
 JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " UXCLE SILAS," "GUY DEVERELL," "THE HOUSE 
 BY THE CHrRCHVARD," ETC. ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 
 
 1867. 
 
 [TJie Ricjlit of Translation is reserixd.] 
 

 LONDON ; 
 BRADBTRY, EVANS, A^D CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIAR3. 
 

 'y 
 
 EIGHT HON. THE LADY DUFFEKIN, 
 
 S^^b f ak is instrikb, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 i 
 
 no 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. — COKCERNIXG TWO LADIES WHO SAT IN THK 
 
 MALORY PEW 1 
 
 II, — ALL THAT THE DRAPEn's WIFE COULD TELL . 13 
 
 III. — HOME TO WARE 21 
 
 IV. — ON THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAN ... 29 
 
 V. — A VLSIT TO H.AZELDEN 40 
 
 VI. — MALORY BY MOONLIGHT 51 
 
 VII. — A VIEW FROM THE REFECTORY WINDOW . . 62 
 
 VIII.— A NIGHT .SAIL 70 
 
 IX. — THE REVEREND I.SAAC DIXIE 81 
 
 X. — READING AN EPITAPH 93 
 
 XI.— FAREWELL . . 104 
 
 XII.— IN WHICH CLEVE VERNEY WAYLAYS AN OLD LADY 114 
 
 XIII. — THE BOY WITH THE CAGE 122 
 
 XIV. — NEW.S ABOUT THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.S 135 
 
 XV. — WITHIN THE SANCTUARY 154 
 
VI 11 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 XVI, — AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR . . ... 170 
 
 XVII. — THEY VISIT THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYN AGAIN . 184 
 
 XVIII. — CLEVE AGAIN BEFORE HIS IDOL . . . 203 
 
 XIX. — CLEVE VERNEY TAKES A BOLD STEP . . . 214 
 
 XX. — HIS FATE 227 
 
 XXI. — CAPTAIN SHRAPNELL 236 
 
 XXII. — SIR BOOTH SPEAKS 246 
 
 XXIII. — MARGARET HAS HER WARNING . . , . 256 
 
 XXIV. — SIR BOOTH IN A PASSION 263 
 
 XXV. — IN WHICH THE LADIES PEEP INTO CARDYLLIAN . 271 
 
THE 
 
 TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CONCERNING TWO LADIES WHO SAT IN THE 
 MALORY PEW. 
 
 There were tenants at last in Malory ; and 
 
 the curiosity of the honest residents of Cardyl- 
 
 lian, the small and antique town close by, was at 
 
 7 once piqued and mortified by the unaccountable 
 
 reserve of these people. 
 
 For four years, except from one twisted chim- 
 ney in the far corner of the old house, no smoke 
 had risen from its flues. Tufts of grass had 
 grown up between the paving-stones of the silent 
 stable-yard, grass had crept over the dark avenue, 
 which, making a curve near the gate, is soon lost 
 among the sombre trees that throw a perpetual 
 shadow upon it ; the groves of nettles had spread 
 and thickened among their trunks ; and in the 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 signs of neglect and decay, the monastic old place 
 grew more than ever triste. 
 
 The pretty little Welsh town of Cardyllian 
 stands near the shingle of a broad estuary, be- 
 yond which tower the noble Cambrian mountains. 
 High and dim, tier above tier, undulating hills, 
 broken by misty glens, and clothed with woods, 
 rise from the opposite shore, and are backed, 
 range behind range, by the dim outlines of 
 Alpine peaks and slopes, and flanked by purple 
 and gold-tinted headlands, rising dome-like from 
 the sea. 
 
 Between the town and the gray shingle 
 stretches a strip of bright green sward, the Green 
 of Cardyllian, along which rows of pleasant 
 houses, with little gardens in front, look over the 
 sea to the mountains. 
 
 It is a town quaint, old, and quiet. Many of 
 the houses bear date anterior to the great civil 
 wars of England, and on the oak beams of some 
 are carved years of grace during which Shake- 
 speare was still living among his friends, in 
 Stratford-on-Avon. 
 
 At the end of long Castle Street rise the battle- 
 ments and roofless towers of that grand old feudal 
 fortress which helped to hold the conquest of 
 Wales for the English crown in the days of 
 tabards, lances, and the long-bow. Its other 
 
THE MALORY PEW. 3 
 
 chief street strikes off at right angles, and up hill 
 from this, taking its name from the ancient 
 church, which, with its churchyard, stands divided 
 from it by a low wall of red sandstone, sur- 
 mounted by one of those tall and fanciful iron 
 rails, the knack of designing which seems to be a 
 lost art in these countries. 
 
 There are other smaller streets and bv-lanes, 
 some dark with a monastic stillness, others thinly 
 built, with little gardens and old plum and pear 
 trees peeping over grass-grown walls, and here 
 and there you light upon a fragment of that 
 ancient town wall from which, in the great 
 troubles which have helped to build up the glory 
 of England, plumed cavaliers once parleyed with 
 steel-capped Puritans. Thus the tints and shadows 
 of a great history rest faintly even upon this out- 
 of-the-way and serene little town. 
 
 The permanent residents of CardylHan for half 
 the year are idle, and for mere occupation are led 
 to inquire into and report one another^s sins, 
 vanities, and mishaps. Necessity thus educates 
 them in that mutual interest in one another^s 
 affairs, and that taste for narrative, which pusil- 
 lanimous people call prying and tattle. That the 
 people now residing in Malory, scarcely a mile 
 away, should have so totally defeated them was 
 painful and even irritating. 
 
4 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 It was next to impossible to take a walk near 
 Cardyllian without seeing Malory; and thus their 
 failure perpetually stared them in the face. 
 
 You can best see Malory from the high 
 grounds which, westward of the town, overlook 
 the estuary. About a mile away you descry a 
 dark and rather wide-spread mass of wood, lying 
 in a gentle hollow, which, I think, deepens its 
 sombre tint. It approaches closely to the long 
 ripple of the sea, and through the foliage are 
 visible some old chimneys and glimpses of gray 
 gables. The refectory of the friary that once 
 stood there, built of gray and reddish stones, half 
 hid in ivy, now does duty as a barn. It is so 
 embowered in trees, that you can scarcely, here 
 and there, gain a peep from without at its tinted 
 walls; and the whole place is overhung by a sad- 
 ness and silence that well accord with its cloistered 
 traditions. That is Malory. 
 
 It was Sunday now. Over the graves and 
 tombstones of those who will hear its sweet music 
 no more, the bell had summoned the townsfolk 
 and visitors to to the old church of Cardyllian. 
 
 The little town boasts, indeed, a beautiful old 
 church, Gothic, with side-aisles, and an antique 
 stained window, from which gloried saints and 
 martyrs look down, in robes as rich and brilliant 
 as we see now-a-days only upon the kings and 
 
THE MALORY PEW. 5 
 
 queens of our court cards. It has also some fine 
 old monuments of the Verney family. The light 
 is solemn and subdued. There is a very sweet- 
 toned organ, which they say is as old as the reign 
 of Charles I., but I do not know how truly. In 
 the porch are hung in chains two sacrilegious 
 round shot, which entered the church when 
 Cromwell's general opened his fire, in those days 
 of sorrow when the liberties of England were in 
 the throes of birth. Beside the brilliant stained 
 window, engraven upon a brass plate, is a record 
 of the same "solemn times," relating how certain 
 careful men, to whom we are obliged, had taken 
 down, enclosed in boxes, and buried, in hope of a 
 typical resurrection, the ancient window which 
 had for so long beautified *^this church," and 
 thus saved it from the hands of "violent and 
 fanatical men." 
 
 When " the season " is still flourishing at Car- 
 dyllian, the church is sometimes very full. On 
 the Sunday I speak of it was so. One pew, in- 
 deed, was quite relieved from the general pres- 
 sure. It was the large panelled enclosure which 
 stands near the communion rails, at the right as 
 you look up the aisle toward the glowing window. 
 Its flooring is raised a full foot higher than the 
 surrounding level. This is the seat of the Verney 
 familv. 
 
t) THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 But one person performed his devotions in it, 
 upon the day of which 1 speak. This was a tall, 
 elegantly slight young man, with the indescri- 
 bable air of careless fashion; and I am afraid he 
 was much more peeped at and watched than he 
 ought to have been by good Christians during 
 divine service. 
 
 Sometimes people saw but the edge of his 
 black whisker, and the waves of his dark hair, 
 and his lavender-gloved hand resting on the edge 
 of the pew. At other times — when, for instance, 
 during the Litany, he leaned over with his arms 
 resting on the edge of the pew — he was very 
 satisfactorily revealed, and elicited a considerable 
 variety of criticism. Most people said he was 
 very handsome, and so, I think, he was — a dark 
 young man, with very large, soft eyes, and very 
 brilliant even teeth. Some people said he was 
 spoiled by an insolent and selfish expression of 
 countenance. Some ladies again said that his 
 figure was perfect, while others alleged that there 
 was a slight curve — not a stoop, but a bend at 
 the shoulder, which they could not quite sanc- 
 tion. 
 
 The interest, and even anxiety with which this 
 young gentleman was observed and afterwards dis- 
 cussed, were due to the fact that he was Mr. Cleve 
 Verney, the nephew, not of the present Viscount 
 
THE MALORY PEW. 7 
 
 Verney, but of the man who must very soon be 
 so, and heir presumptive to the title — a position 
 in the town of Cardyllian, hardly inferior to that 
 of Prince of Wales. 
 
 But the title of Verney, or rather the right 
 claimant of that title, was then, and had been for 
 many years, in an extremely odd position. In 
 more senses than one, a cloud rested upon him. 
 For strong reasons, and great danger, he had 
 vanished more than twenty years ago, and lived, 
 ever since, in a remote part of the world, and in a 
 jealous and eccentric mystery. 
 
 While this young gentleman was causing so 
 many reprehensible distractions in the minds of 
 other Christians, he was himself, though not a 
 creature observed it, undergoing a rather wilder 
 aberration of a similar sort himself. 
 
 In a small seat at the other side, which seems 
 built for privacy, with a high panelling at the 
 sides and back, sat a young lady, whose beauty 
 riveted and engrossed his attention in a way that 
 seemed to the young gentleman, of many London 
 seasons, almost unaccountable. 
 
 There was an old lady with her — a lady-like 
 old woman, he thought her — slight of figure, and 
 rubrically punctual in her up-risings, and down- 
 sittings. The seat holds four with comfort, but 
 no more. The oak casing round it is high. The 
 
gl THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 light visits it through the glorious old eastern 
 window, mellowed and solemnized — and in this 
 chiar'oscuro, the young lady^s beauty had a 
 transparent and saddened character which he 
 thought quite peculiar. Altogether he felt it 
 acting upon him with the insidious power of a 
 spell. 
 
 The old lady — for the halo of interest of which 
 the girl was the centre, included her — was dressed^ 
 he at first thought, in black, but now he was 
 nearly sure it was a purple silk. 
 
 Though she wore a grave countenance, suitable 
 to the scene and occasion, it was by no means 
 sombre — a cheerful and engaging countenance on 
 the contrary. 
 
 The young lady's dress was one of those rich 
 Welsh linseys, which exhibit a drapery of thick 
 ribbed, dark gray silk, in great measure concealed 
 by a short but ample cloak or coat of black vel- 
 vet — altogether a costume, the gravity of which 
 struck him as demure and piquant. 
 
 Leaning over the side of his pew, Mr. Cleve 
 Verney prayed with a remarkable persistence in 
 the direction of this seat. After the Litany he 
 thought her a great deal more beautiful than he 
 had before it, and by the time the Communion 
 service closed, he was sure he had never seen any 
 one at all so lovely. He could not have fancied. 
 
THE MALORY PEW. \f 
 
 in flesh and blood, so wonderful an embodiment 
 of Guidons portrait of Beatrice Cenci. The ex- 
 quisite brow, and large hazel eye, so clear and 
 soft, so bold and shy. The face voluptuous, yet 
 pure; funeste but innocent. The rich chestnut 
 hair, the pearly whiteness, and scarlet lips, and 
 the strange, wild, melancholy look — and a shadow 
 of fate. Three-quarters, or full face, or momentary 
 profile — in shade, now — in light — the same won- 
 derful likeness still. The phantom of Beatrice 
 was before him. 
 
 I can^t say whether the young lady or the old 
 observed the irregular worship directed towards 
 their pew. Cleve did not think they did. He 
 had no particular wish that they should. In fact, 
 his interest was growing so strangely absorbing 
 that something of that jealousy of observation 
 which indicates a deeper sentiment than mere 
 admiration, had supervened, and Mr. Cleve con- 
 ducted his reconnoitring with slyness and cau- 
 tion. 
 
 That small pew over the way, he was nearly cer- 
 tain, belonged to Malory. Now Malory is a dower 
 house of the Verneys. His own grandmother, the 
 Venerable Dowager Lady Verney, as much to her 
 annoyance the fashionable morning paper respect- 
 fully called her, was at that time the incumbent. 
 But though she held it with the inflexible gripe 
 
10 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 of an old lady whose rights were not to be trifled 
 with, she would not reside, and the place was, as 
 I have said, utterly neglected, and the old house 
 very much out of repair. 
 
 AYhy, then, should the Malory pew be thus 
 tenanted ? These ladies, he had no doubt, sat 
 there of right — for if the seat had been opened to 
 the congregation at large, in the then state of 
 pressure, it would have been filled. Could they 
 possibly be of kindred to the Yerneys, and sit 
 where they did by virtue of an order from the 
 Dowager ? 
 
 So Cleve Verney began to count up cousins 
 whom he had never seen, and left off no wiser. 
 
 Close by this dark Malory pew, is a small side- 
 door of the church. There is another like it, a 
 little lower down, in the opposite wall, not far 
 from the Verney pew, and through these emerge 
 thin files of worshippers, while the main column 
 shuffles and pushes through the porch. So, when 
 the Hector had pronounced his final blessing, 
 Cleve Verney having improved the little silence 
 that followed to get his hat and cane into his 
 hand, glided from his seat before the mass of the 
 congregation were astir, and emerging on the 
 little gravel walk, stepped lightly down to the 
 stone stile, from whence you command a view of 
 every exit from the churchyard. 
 
THE MALORY PEW. 11 
 
 He stood with one foot upon it, like a man 
 awaiting a friend, and looking listlessly toward 
 the church. And as he loitered, a friend did turn 
 up whom he very little expected to see. A young 
 man, though hardly so young as Cleve — good- 
 looking, decidedly, with light golden moustache, 
 and a face so kir.d, frank, and merry, it made one 
 happy to look at it. 
 
 "Ah! Sedley ! I had not an idea. What 
 brings you here ? " said Cleve, smiling, and 
 shaking his hand moderately, but keeping his 
 large eyes steadily on the distant point at which 
 he expected to see the unknown ladies emerge. 
 
 "Down here just for a day or two," answered 
 Tom Sedley. " I was above you in the galler}'. 
 Did you see that beautiful creature in the Malorj^ 
 seat, right before you ? By Jove, she's a stunning 
 girl. There was an old woman with her. I think 
 I never saw so beautiful a being.'^ 
 
 "Well, I did see a pretty girl at the other side 
 of the church, I tliink; isn^t that she?^' said 
 Cleve, as he saw the two ladies — the younger with 
 one of those short black veils which nearly ob- 
 literate the face of the wearer behind the intrica- 
 cies of a thick lace pattern. 
 
 " By Jove ! so it is,^' said Sedley ; " come 
 along — let us see where they go." 
 
 They were walking almost solitarily, followed 
 
12 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 only by an old servant who carried their books, 
 toward the entrance at the further side of the 
 churchyard, a small door opening upon a flight 
 of steps by which you descend into one of the 
 deserted back streets of Cardylliau. 
 
 Cleve and Sedley pursued as little conspicu- 
 ously as possible. The quaint street, into which 
 the stone stairs led them, follows the mouldering 
 shelter of the old town wall. 
 
 Looking along the perspective of this street, if 
 such the single row of small old houses confront- 
 ing the dark ivied wall may be termed, the two 
 young gentlemen saw the figures in pursuit of 
 which they had entered it, proceeding in the 
 direction of Malory. 
 
 " We mustn't get too near ; let us wait a little, 
 and let them go on," suggested Sedley in a 
 whisper, as if the ladies could have overheard 
 them. 
 
 Cleve laughed. He was probably the more 
 eager of the two ; but some men have no turn for 
 confidences, and Cleve Verney was not in the 
 habit of opening either his plans or his feelings to 
 anyone. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 ALL THAT THE DRAPERS WIFE COULD TELL. 
 
 This street, in a few hundred steps emerging 
 from the little town, changes its character into 
 that of a narrow rural road, overhung by noble 
 timber, and descending with a gentle curve to- 
 ward the melancholy woods of Malory. 
 
 " How beautifully she walks, too ! By Jove, 
 she's the loveliest being I ever beheld. She's the 
 most perfectly beautiful girl in England. How 
 I wish some d — d fellow would insult her, that 
 I might smash him, and have an excuse for 
 attending her home." 
 
 So spoke enthusiastic Tom Sedley, as they 
 paused to watch the retreat of the ladies, leaning 
 over the dwarf stone wall, and half hidden by the 
 furrowed stem of a gigantic ash tree. 
 
 From this point, about a quarter of a mile dis- 
 tant from Malory, they saw them enter the wide 
 iron gate and disappear in the dark avenue that 
 leads up to that sombre place. 
 
14 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " There ! I said it was Malory/^ exclaimed 
 Sedley, laying his hand briskly on Cleve's arm. 
 
 " Well, I hope you're pleased ; and tell me, 
 now, what stay do you make at Cardyllian, Tom? 
 Can you come over to Ware— not to-morrow, for 
 I'm not quite sure that I shall be there, but on 
 Tuesday, for a day or two? " 
 
 No — Tom Sedley couldn't. He must leave to- 
 morrow, or, at latest, on Tuesday morning ; and, 
 for to-day, he had promised to go to afternoon 
 service with the Etherges, and then home to tea 
 with them. He was to meet the party on the 
 Green. 
 
 So after a little talk, they turned together toward 
 the town ; and they parted near the Yerney Arms, 
 where Cleve's dog- cart awaited him. Having 
 given his order in the hall, he walked into the coffee- 
 room, in which, seated demurely, and quite alone, 
 he found stout Mrs. Jones, the draper's wife — 
 suave, sedate, wearing a subdued Sabbath smile 
 upon her broad and somewhat sly counte- 
 nance. 
 
 Her smile expanded as Cleve drew near. She 
 made a great and gracious courtesy, and extended 
 her short fat hand, which Cleve Verney took and 
 shook — for the tradition of homelier, if not kind- 
 lier times, still lingered in Cardyllian, and there 
 were friendly personal relations between the great 
 
THE draper's wife. 15 
 
 family and the dozen and a half of shopkeepers 
 who constituted its commercial strength. 
 
 So Cleve Verney joked and talked -with her, 
 leaning on the back of a chair, ^vith one knee on 
 the seat of it. He was pleased to have lighted 
 upon such a gossip, as good Mrs. Jones, the 
 draper, who was waiting for the return of her hus- 
 band, who was saying a word to Mr. Watkyn 
 Hughes, in the bar, about a loan of his black horse 
 for a funeral next morning. 
 
 " So it seems Lady Yerney has got a tenant in 
 Malory ? '' he said at last. 
 
 *' Yes, indeed, six" she replied, in her most con- 
 fidential manner; '^ and I hope — I do indeed — it 
 may turn out such a thing as she would like." 
 
 Mrs. Jones usually spoke in low and significant 
 tones, and with a mystery and caution worthy of 
 deeper things than she often talked about. 
 
 ""Why, is there anything odd?^' asked the 
 young gentleman curiously. 
 
 ^' Well, it is not, now, altogether what I would 
 ivish for Lady Yerney. I haven^t seen any of the 
 Malory family, excepting in church to-day; not 
 one, indeed, sir; they are very strange; they 
 never come into the town — not once since ever 
 they came to Malory ! but dear me ! you know, 
 sir, that might be, and yet everything as we could 
 wish, mightn't it ; yes, sure ; still, you know. 
 
16 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 people tvill be talking ; it's a pity we don't mind 
 our own business more^ and let others be, isn't 
 it, sir? " 
 
 "Great pity; but — but what's the matter?'' 
 urged Cleve Verney. 
 
 "Well, Master Cleve, you know, Cardyllian, 
 and how we do talk here ; I don't say more than 
 other places, but we do, and I do not like repeatirC 
 everything I hear. There's more mischief than 
 good, /think, comes of repeatin' stories." 
 
 " Oh ! come, pray what's the good of a story 
 except to repeat it ? I ought to know, perhaps I 
 should tell Lady Verney about it," said Cleve, 
 who was really curious, for nothing could be more 
 quiet than the get up and demeanour of the 
 ladies. 
 
 " They haven't been here, you know, very long" 
 murmured Mrs. Jones, earnestly. 
 
 " No, I dont know. I know nothing about it ; 
 Jiow long ? " 
 
 "Well, about five weeks — a little more; and 
 we never saw the gentleman once ; he's never been 
 down to the town since he came ; never indeed, 
 sir, not once." 
 
 " He shows his sense ; doesn't he ? " 
 
 " Ah, you were always pleasant. Master ClevCj 
 but you don't think so; no, you don't indeed; his 
 conduct is really most singular, he's never been 
 
THE DRAPER'S WIFE. 17 
 
 outside the walls of Malory all that time, in the 
 daylight ; very odd ; he has hired Christmass 
 Owen's boat, and he goes out in it every night, 
 unless twice, the wind was too high, and Owen 
 didn't choose to venture his boat. He's a tall 
 man, Christmass Owen says, and holds himself 
 straight, like an officer, for people will be making 
 inquiries, you know; and he has gray hair; not 
 quite white, you know." 
 
 " How should I know ? '' 
 
 " Ah, ha, you were always funny ; yes, indeed, 
 but it is gray, gone quite gray, Christmass Owen 
 says.^^ 
 
 " Well, and what about the ladies ? " inquired 
 the young gentleman. " They're not gone gray, 
 all ^ though I shouldn't wonder much, in Ma- 
 lory." 
 
 " The ladies ? Well. There^s two, you know ; 
 there's Miss Sheckleton, that's the elderly lady, 
 and all the Malory accounts in the town is opened 
 in her name. Anne Sheckleton, very reg'lar she 
 is. I have nothing to say concerning her. They 
 don't spend a great deal, you understand, but 
 their money is sure." 
 
 " Yes, of course ; but, you said, didn't you ? 
 that there was something not quite right about 
 them.'' 
 
 " Oh dear, no, sir ; I did not say quite that ; 
 
18 THE TENANTS OF IMALORY. 
 
 nothing lorong^ no sure, but very odd, sir, and 
 most unpleasant^ and that is all/' 
 
 "And that's a good deal; isn't it?" urged 
 Clave. 
 
 " Well, it IS something ; it is indeed a great 
 dealy' Mrs. Jones emphasised oracularly. 
 
 " And what is it, what do you know of them, or 
 the people here what do they say ? " 
 
 " Well, they say, putting this and that together, 
 and some hints from the servant that comes down 
 to order things up from the town — for servants, 
 you know, will be talking — that the family is 
 mad." 
 
 " Mad ! " echoed Cleve. 
 
 "That's what they say." 
 
 "The whole family are mad! and yet continue 
 to manage their affairs as they do ! By Jove, it is 
 a comfort to find that people can get on without 
 heads, on emergency." 
 
 " They don't saj', no, dear me ! that all that's 
 in the house are mad ; only the old man and the 
 young lady." 
 
 " And what is she mad upon ? " 
 
 " Well, they don't say. I don't know — melan- 
 choly I do suppose." 
 
 '' And what is the old gentleman's name? " 
 
 " We don't knoWj the servants don't know, they 
 say; they were hired by Miss Sheckleton, in 
 
THE draper's wife. 19 
 
 Chester, and never saw the old gentleman, nor 
 the young lady, till after they were two or three 
 days in Malory ; and one night comes a carriage, 
 with a madhouse gentleman, they do say, a doctor, 
 in charge of the old gentleman, and the young 
 lady, poor thing ! and so they were handed over 
 by him, to Miss Sheckleton." 
 
 ''And "what sort of lunacies do they commit? 
 They're not pulling down the house among them, 
 I hope ? " 
 
 "Very gentle — very. Tm told, quite, as you 
 may say, manageable. It's a very sad thing, sir, 
 but what a world it is ! ves, indeed. Isn't it?'' 
 
 "Ay, so it is. — I've heard that, I think, before." 
 
 " You may have heard it from me, sir, and it's 
 long been my feeling and opinion, dear me ! The 
 longer I live the more melancholy sights I 
 see ! " 
 
 " How long is Malory let for ? " 
 
 ''Can't say, indeed, sir. That is they may give 
 it up every three months, but has the right to 
 keep it two whole years, that is if they like, you 
 understand.^' 
 
 " Well, it is rather odd. It was they who sat 
 in the Malory seat to-day ?" 
 
 "That was Miss Sheckleton, was the old lady; 
 and the young one, didn't you think her very 
 pretty, sir ? " 
 
 o2 
 
20 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 ''Yes — she's pretty/^ he answered carelessly. 
 " But I really could not see very well." 
 
 " I was very near as she turned to leave — 
 before she took down her veil — and I thought 
 what a really beauiiful creature she was ! " 
 
 " And what do they call her ? " 
 
 " Miss Margaret, sir." 
 
 " Margaret ! a pretty name — rather. Oh ! here's 
 Mr. Jones ; " and Mr. Jones was greeted — and 
 talked a little — somewhat more distantly and 
 formally than his goodwife had done — and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Jones, with a dutiful farewell, set off 
 upon their Sunday's ramble. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOME TO "WARE. 
 
 "Mad!'' thought Cleve. '^ What an awful 
 pity if she is. She doesn't look mad — melancholy 
 she may. She does not look a bit mad. By Jove, 
 I don^t believe a word of it. It's utterly out of 
 the question that the quiet old lady there could 
 bring a mad girl to church with her. And thus 
 resolved, Cleve walked out of the coffee-room, and 
 awaiting his conveyance, stood on the steps of the 
 Verney Arms, from whence he saw Wynne Wil- 
 liams, the portly solicitor of Cardyllian, and 
 of a wide circle of comfortable clients round it. 
 Wynne Williams is omniscient. Nothing ever 
 happens in Cardyllian that he does not know with 
 precision. 
 
 " Wynne," Cleve called up the quiet little street, 
 and the attorney, looking over his fat shoulder, 
 arrested his deliberate walk, and marched swiftly 
 back, smiling. 
 
 So there was another greeting ; and some more 
 
22 THE TENANTS OF AlALORY. 
 
 questions ensued, and answers, and then said 
 Cleve— 
 
 " So Malory's let, I hear/' 
 
 " Yes,'' said the attornej^ with a slight shrug. 
 
 " You don't like the bargain, I see," said Cleve. 
 
 " It's a mismanaged place, you know. Lady 
 Verney won't spend a shilling on it, and we must 
 only take what we can get. We haven't had a 
 tenant for five years till now." 
 
 "And who has taken it?" 
 
 "The Reverend Isaac Dixie." 
 
 "The devil he has. Why old Dixie's not mad, 
 is he ? " 
 
 " No, he's no fool. More like the other thing 
 — rather. Drove a hard bargain — but / wouldn't 
 take it myself at the money." 
 
 " Doesn't he live there ? " 
 
 " No. There's an old gentleman and two ladies ; 
 one of them an old woman." 
 
 " And what's the old gentleman's name, and the 
 young lady's?" 
 
 " Don't know, indeed ; and what does it 
 matter ? " The attorney was curious, and had 
 taken some little trouble to find out. "The 
 Reverend Isaac Dixie's the tenant, and Miss 
 Sheckleton manages the family business ; and 
 devil a letter ever comes by post here, except to 
 Miss Sheckleton or the servants." 
 
HOME TO WARE. 23 
 
 " Old Mother Jones, the draper's wife, over the 
 way, says the girl and the old fellow are mad." 
 
 "Don't believe it. More likely he's in a fix, 
 and wants to keep out of sight and hearing just 
 now, and Malory's the very place to hide a fellow 
 in. It's just possible, you know, there may be a 
 screw loose in the upper works ; but I don't believe 
 it, and don't for the world hint it to the old lady. 
 She's half mad herself about mad people, and if 
 she took that in her head, by Jove, she'd never 
 forgive me," and the attorney laughed uneasily. 
 
 "You do think they're mad. By Jove, you do. 
 I know you think they're mad." 
 
 " I dont think they're mad. I don't know any- 
 thing about them," said the good-humoured at- 
 torney, with Dundreary whiskers, leaning on the 
 wooden pillar of the Verney Arms, and smiling 
 provokiugly in the young man's face. 
 
 " Come now, Wynne, FU not tell the old lady, 
 upon my honour. You may as well tell me all 
 you know. And you do know; of course, you 
 do ; you always know. And these people living 
 not a mile away ! You must know." 
 
 " I see how it is. She's a pretty girl, and you 
 want to pick up all about her, by way of inquiring 
 after the old gentleman." 
 
 Verney laughed, and said — 
 
 "Perhaps you're right, though, I assure you, I 
 
24 THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 
 
 didn't know it myself. But is the old fellow mad, 
 or is there any madness among them? '' 
 
 '^I do assure you, I know no more than you 
 do," laughed Mr. Wynne Williams. "He may 
 be as sober as Solomon, or as mad as a hatter, for 
 anything /know. It's nothing to me. He's only 
 a visitor there, and the young lady, too, for that 
 matter; and our tenant is the Eeverend Isaac 
 Dixie." 
 
 " Where is Dixie living now ? " 
 
 "The old shop." 
 
 "I know. I wonder he has not wriggled on 
 and up a bit. I always looked on Dixie as the 
 bud of a dignitary ; he has had time to burst into 
 a Bishop since I saw him. Dixie and I have had 
 some queer scenes together,'' and he laughed 
 quietly over his recollections. " He and I spent 
 three months once together in Malory — do you 
 remember ? I dare say he does. He was tutor 
 and I pupil. Charming time. We used to read 
 in the gun-room. That was the year they had 
 the bricklayers and painters at Ware. Do you 
 remember the day you came in exactly as I shied 
 the ink-bottle at his head ? I dare say the mark's 
 on the wall still. By Jove, I'd have killed him, I 
 suppose, if I'd had the luck to hit him. You 
 must come over and see me before I go. I'm 
 quite alone; but I can give you a mutton chop 
 
HOME TO WARE. 2o 
 
 and some claret, and I want to show you the 
 rifle I told you of. You^U be delighted with 
 it/' 
 
 And so this young man, with large dark eyes, 
 smiled and waved his farewell, and, with a groom 
 behind him, drove at a rapid pace down the street, 
 and away toward "Ware. 
 
 *' He'll do that seven miles in five-and-thirty 
 minutes,^' thought the attorney, looking after him 
 drowsily; and his speculation taking another 
 turn, he thought mistily of his political possibili- 
 ties, for he had been three years in the House, 
 and was looked upon as a clever young man, and 
 one who, having many advantages, might yet be 
 — who could tell where? and have power to make 
 the fortunes of many deserving attorneys. 
 
 Clave meanwhile was driving at a great pace 
 toward ^^^are. I don't suppose a town life — a life 
 of vice, a life of any sort, has power to kill the 
 divine spark of romance in a young man born 
 with imagination. 
 
 Malory had always had a strange and powerful 
 interest for him. A dower house now, it had once 
 been the principal mansion of his family. Over 
 it, to his eye, hung, like the sombre and glowing 
 phantasms of a cloudy sunset, the story of the 
 romance, and the follies and the crimes of gene- 
 rations of the Yerneys of Malory. The lordly old 
 
26 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 timber tliat rises about its cliimneys and gables, 
 seemed to him the mute and melancholy witnesses 
 of bygone tragedies and glories. 
 
 There, too, in the Steward's House, a veritable 
 relic of the ancient Friary, lived dreamy old 
 Rebecca Mervyn ; he wondered how he had for- 
 gotten to ask whether she was still there. She 
 had seemed to his boyish fancy one of those de- 
 lightful German ambiguities — half human, half 
 ghost; her silent presents of toffy, and faint 
 wintry smile and wandering gaze, used to thrill 
 him with " a pleasing terror.^' He liked her, and 
 yet he would have been afraid to sit alone in her 
 latticed room with that silent lad}^, after twilight. 
 Poor old Rebecca ! It was eight years since he 
 had last seen her tall, sad, silent form — silent, 
 except when she thought herself alone, and used 
 to whisper and babble as she looked with a wild 
 and careworn gaze over the sea, toward the mighty 
 mountains that built it round, line over line, till 
 swell and peak are lost in misty distance. He 
 used to think of the Lady of Branksome Tower, 
 and half believe that old Rebecca was whispering 
 with the spirits of the woods and cataracts, and 
 lonely headlands, over the water. 
 
 " Is old Rebecca Mervyn there still ?" he won- 
 dered on. " Unless she's dead, poor thing, she is 
 — for my grandmother would never think of dis- 
 
HOME TO WARE. 27 
 
 turbing her, and she shall be my excuse for going 
 up to Malory. I ought to see her/^ 
 
 The door of her quaint tenement stood by the 
 court-yard, its carved stone chimney top rose by 
 the roof of the dower-house, with which, indeed, 
 it was connected. '' It won^t be like crossing their 
 windows or knocking at their hall door. I shan^t 
 so much as enter the court-yard, and I really 
 ought to see the poor old thing.'' 
 
 The duty would not have been so urgent had 
 the face that appeared in church that day been 
 less lovely. 
 
 He had never troubled himself for eight years 
 about the existence of old Uebecca. And now 
 that the image, after that long interval, suddenly 
 returned, he for the first time asked himself why 
 old Rebecca Mervyn was ever there? He had 
 always accepted her presence as he did that of the 
 trees, and urns, and old lead statues in the yew 
 walk, as one of the properties of Malory. She 
 was a sort of friend or client of his grandmother's 
 — not an old servant plainly, not even a house- 
 keeper. There was an unconscious refinement, 
 and an air of ladyhood in this old woman. His 
 grandmother used to call her Mrs. Mervyn, and 
 treated her with a sort of distinction and distance 
 that had in it both sympathy and reserve. 
 
 " I dare say Wynne Williams knows all about 
 
28 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 her, and 1^11 go and see her, at all events." So 
 he thought as his swift trotter flew under the 
 noble trees of Ware, along the picturesque road 
 which commands the seaward view of that unri- 
 valled estuary flanked by towering headlands, and 
 old Pendillion, whose distant outline shews like a 
 gigantic sphinx crouching lazily at the brink of 
 the sea. Across the water now he sees the old 
 town of Cardyllian, the church tower and the 
 ruined Castle, and, further down, sad and seques- 
 tered, the dark wood and something of the gray 
 front of Malory blurred in distance, but now 
 glowing with a sort of charm that was fast 
 deepening into interest. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ON THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAN. 
 
 Ware is a great house, with a palatial front of 
 cut stone. The Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney seldom 
 sees it. He stands next to the title, and that 
 large residue of the estates which go with it. The 
 title has got for the present into an odd difficulty, 
 and cannot assert itself; and those estates are, 
 pending the abeyance, compulsorily at nurse, 
 where they have thriven, quite thrown off their 
 ailments and incumbrances, and grown plethori- 
 cally robust. 
 
 Still the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney is ncft, as 
 the lawyers say, in perception of one shilling of 
 their revenues. He feels indeed that he has 
 grown in importance — that people seemed more 
 pleased to see him, that he is listened to much 
 better, that his jokes are taken and laughed at, 
 and that a sceptical world seems to have come at 
 last to give him credit for the intellect and virtues 
 of which he is conscious. All this, however, is 
 
30 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 but the shadow of the substance which seems so 
 near, and yet is intangible. 
 
 No wonder he is a little peevish. His nephew 
 and heir presumptive — Cleve — runs down now 
 and then for shooting and yachting ; but his 
 uncle does not care to visit Ware, and live in 
 a corner of the house. I think he liked the 
 people of Cardyllian and of the region round 
 about, to suffer and resent with him. So they 
 see his face but seldom. 
 
 Cleve Yerney sat, after dinner, at an open 
 window of Ware, with one foot on the broad 
 window-stone, smoking his cigar and gazing 
 across the dark blue sheet of water, whose 
 ripples glimmered by this time in the moonlight, 
 toward the misty wood of Malory. 
 
 Cleve Verney is a young man of accomplish- 
 ment, and of talents, and of a desultory and 
 tumultuous ambition, which sometimes engrosses 
 him "wholly, and sometimes sickens and loses its 
 appetite. He is conceited — affecting indifference, 
 he loves admiration. The object for the time 
 being seizes his whole soul. The excitement of 
 even a momentary pursuit absorbs him. He is 
 reserved, capricious, and impetuous — knows not 
 what self-mortification is, and has a pretty taste 
 for dissimulation. 
 
 He is, I think, extremely handsome. I have 
 
ox THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAN. *^1 
 
 heard ladies pronounce him fascinating. Of 
 course, in measuring his fascinations, his 
 proximity to a title and great estates was not 
 forgotten ; and he is as amiable as a man can be 
 who possesses all the qualities I have described, 
 and is selfish beside. 
 
 Now Cleve Verney was haunted, or rather 
 possessed, for the present, by the beautiful 
 phantom — sane or mad, saint or sinner — who 
 had for so long, in that solemn quietude and 
 monotony so favouralDle for the reception of 
 fanciful impressions, stood or sat, Nun-like, book 
 in hand, before him that day. So far from 
 resisting, he encoura^^ed this little delirium. It 
 helped him through his solitary evening. 
 
 "When his cigar was out, he still looked out 
 toward Malory. He was cultivating his little 
 romance. He liked the mystery of it. " Mar- 
 garet — Margaret," he repeated softly. He 
 fancied that he saw a light for a moment in the 
 window of Malory, like a star. He could not be 
 sure; it might be the light of a boat. Still it 
 was an omen — the emblem of life — an answer of 
 hope. 
 
 How very capricious all this was. Here was a 
 young man, before whom yearly the new blown 
 beauties of each London season passed in review 
 — who fancied he had but to choose among them 
 
SZ THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 all — who had never experienced a serious passion, 
 hardly even a passing sentiment — now strangely- 
 moved and interested by a person whom he had 
 never spoken to — only seen — who had seemed 
 unaffectedly unconscious of his presence; who 
 possibly had not even seen him ; of whose kindred 
 and history he knew nothing, aud between whom 
 and himself there might stand some impassable 
 gulf. 
 
 Cleve was in the mood to write verses, but that 
 relief, like others, won't always answer the invo- 
 cation of the sufferer. The muse is as coy as 
 death. So instead, he wrote a line to the Rev. 
 Isaac Dixie, of Clay Rectory, in which he 
 said — 
 
 "My dear Dixie, — You remember when I 
 used to call you ' M?\ Dixie,^ and ' Sir.' I con- 
 jure you by the memory of those happy days of 
 innocence and Greek grammar, to take pity on 
 my loneliness, and come here to Ware, where you 
 will find me pining in solitude. Come just for a 
 day. I know your heart is in your parish, and I 
 shan't ask you to stay longer. The Wave, my 
 cutter, is here; you used to like a sail (he knew 
 that the Rev. Isaac Dixie suffered unutterably at 
 sea, and loathed all nautical enjoyments), or you 
 can stav in the house, and tumble over the books 
 
ox THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAN. 33 
 
 in the library. I will make you as comfortable 
 as I can ; only do come, and oblige 
 
 '' Your old pupil, 
 
 "Cleve Verney. 
 
 "P.S. — I shall be leaving this immediately, so 
 pray answer in person, by return. You^U get 
 this at nine o'clock to-morrow morning, at Clay. 
 If you take the 11 '40 train to Llwynan — you see 
 I have my " Bradshaw " by me — you will be there 
 at four, and a fly will run you across to Cardyllian 
 in little more than an hour, and there you Avill 
 find me, expecting, at the Chancery; you know 
 Wynne Williams's old house in Castle Street. I 
 assure you, I really do want to see you, particu- 
 larly, and you must not fail me. I shan't detain 
 you a moment longer than your parish business 
 will allow. Heavens, what a yarn have I post- 
 scribbled ! " 
 
 He walked down to the pretty little village of 
 Ware, which consists of about a dozen and a- half 
 of quaint little houses, and a small venerable 
 church, situated by the road that winds through 
 a wooded glen, and round the base of the hill by 
 the shore of the moonlighted waters. 
 
 It was a romantic ramble. It was pleasanter, 
 because it commanded, across the dark blue 
 expanse, with its glimmering eddies, a misty 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 THE TENANTS OF 3IAL0RY. 
 
 view, now hardly distinguishable, of Malory, and 
 pleasanter still, because his errand was connected 
 with those tenants of old Lad}^ Verney's of whom 
 he was so anxious to learn anything. 
 
 When Tom Sedley, with the light whiskers, 
 merry face, and kind blue eyes, had parted com- 
 pany that afternoon, he walked down to the green 
 of Cardyllian. In the middle of September there 
 is a sort of second season there ; you may then 
 see a pretty gathering of muslins of all patterns, 
 and silks of every hue, floating and rustling over 
 the green, with due admixture of 
 
 " "White waistcoats and black, 
 Blue waistcoats and gray, " 
 
 with all proper varieties of bonnet and hat — pork- 
 pie, wide-awake, Jerry, and Jim-Crow. There 
 are nautical gentlemen, and gentlemen in 
 Knickerbockers ; fat commercial " gents " in large 
 white waistcoats, and starched buff cravats ; 
 touring curates in spectacles and ^' chokers," 
 with that smile proper to the juvenile cleric, 
 curiously meek and pert ; all sorts of persons, in 
 short, making brief holiday, and dropping in and 
 out of Cardyllian, some just for a day and off 
 again in a fuss, and others dawdling away a week, 
 or perhaps a month or two, serenely. 
 
 Its heyday of fashion has long been past and 
 
ox THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAX. oO 
 
 over; but thougli the " fast " people have gone 
 elsewhere, it is still creditably frequented. Tom 
 Sedley was fond of the old town. I don^t think 
 he would have reviewed the year at its close, with 
 a comfortable conscience, if he had not visited 
 Cardyllian, *^slow'' as it certainly was, some time 
 in its course. 
 
 It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, the green 
 looked bright, and the shingle glittered lazily 
 beyond it, with the estuary rippHng here and 
 there into gleams of gold, away to the bases of 
 the glorious Welsh mountains, which rise up from 
 the deepest purple to the thinnest gray, and with 
 many a dim rift and crag, and wooded glen, and 
 slope, varying their gigantic contour. 
 
 Tom Sedley, among others, showed his reve- 
 rence for the Sabbath, by mounting a well 
 brushed chimney-pot. No one, it is well estab- 
 lished, can pray into a Jerry. The musical bell 
 from the gray church tower hummed sweetly 
 over the quaint old town, and the woods and 
 hollows round about ; and on a sudden, quite 
 near him, Tom Sedley saw the friends of whom 
 he had been in search ! 
 
 The Etherage girls, as the ancient members of 
 the family still called them, were two in number. 
 Old Yane Etherage of Hazelden, a very pretty 
 place, about twenty minutes' walk from the 
 
36 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 green of Cardyllian, has been twice married. 
 The result is, that the two girls belong to very 
 different periods. Miss Charity is forty-five by 
 the parish register, and Miss Agnes of the blue 
 eyes and golden hafr, is just nineteen and four 
 months. 
 
 Both smiling after their different fashions, 
 advanced upon Tom, who strode up to them, 
 also smiling, with his chimney-pot in his 
 hand. 
 
 Miss Charity of the long waist, and long thin 
 brown face, and somewhat goggle eyes, was first 
 up, and asked him very volubly, at least eleven 
 kind questions, before she had done shaking his 
 hand, all which he answered laughing, and at last, 
 said he — 
 
 " Little Agnes, are you going to cut me ? 
 How well you look ! Certainly there's no place 
 on earth like Cardyllian, for pretty complexions, 
 is there ? " 
 
 He turned for confirmation to the curiously 
 brown thin countenance of Miss Charity, which 
 smiled and nodded acquiescence. " You're going 
 to-morrow, you say; that's a great pity; every- 
 thing looking so beautiful." 
 
 " Everything,'' acquiesced Tom Sedley, with an 
 arch glance at Agnes, who blushed and said 
 merrily — 
 
ox THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAX. 37 
 
 "You're just the same old fool you always 
 were ; and we don't mind one word you say/' 
 
 " Aggie, my dear ! " said her sister, who car- 
 ried down the practice of reproof from the 
 nursery; and it was well, I suppose, that Miss 
 Aggie had that arbitress of proprieties always 
 beside her. 
 
 " I suppose you haye no end of news to tell 
 me. Is anyone going to be married ? Is anyone 
 dying, or anyone christened ? I'll hear it all 
 by-and-by. And who are your neighbours at 
 Malory ?'' 
 
 " Oh, quite charming ! '* exclaimed Miss Agnes 
 eagerly. " The most mysterious people that ever 
 came to a haunted house. You know Malory 
 has a ghost." 
 
 "Nonsense, child. Don't mind her, Mr. 
 Sedley," said Miss Charity. " I wonder how 
 you can talk so foolishly," 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing new. Malory's been 
 haunted as long as / can remember," said Tom. 
 
 " Well, I did not think Mr. Sedley could have 
 talked like that !" exclaimed Miss Charity. 
 
 " Oh, by Jove, I know it. Everyone knows it 
 that ever lived here. Malory's full of ghosts. 
 None but very queer people could think of living 
 there ; and, Miss Agnes, you were going to 
 say " 
 
US THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 "Yes, they are aivfulli/ mysterious. There's an 
 old man who stalks about at night, like the ghost 
 in " Hamlet," and never speaks, and there's a 
 beautiful young lady, and a gray old woman who 
 calls herself Anne Sheckleton. They shut them- 
 selves up so closely — you can't imagine. Some 
 people think the old man is a maniac or a terrible 
 culprit.'^ 
 
 " Highly probable," said Tom ; " and the old 
 woman a witch, and the young lady a vampire." 
 
 "Well, hardly that," laughed Miss Agnes, ''for 
 they came to church to-day/' 
 
 " How you can both talk such folly," interposed 
 Miss Charity. 
 
 " But you know they would not let Mr. 
 Pritchard up to the house,'' pleaded Miss Agnes. 
 "Mr. Pritchard, the curate, you know'' — this 
 was to Tom Sedley — " he's a funny little man — 
 he preached to-day — very good and zealous, and 
 all that — and be wanted to push his way up to the 
 house, and the cross old man they have put to 
 keep the gate, took him by the collar, and was 
 going to beat him. Old Captain Shrapnel! says 
 he did beat him with a child's cricket-bat; but 
 Jie hates Mr. Pritchard, so I'm not sure ; but, at 
 all events, he was turned out in disgrace, and 
 blushes and looks dignified ever since whenever 
 Malorv is mentioned. Now, evervone here knows 
 
ox THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAX. SO 
 
 what a good little man poor Mr. Pritchard is, so 
 it must have been sheer hatred of religion that 
 led to his being turned out in that way." 
 
 " But the ladies were in church, my dear Aggie ; 
 we saw them, Mr. Sedley, to-day ; they were in 
 the Malory pew.^' 
 
 "Oh, indeed?" said Tom Sedley, artfully; 
 "and you saw them pretty distinctly, I dare 
 say." 
 
 "The young lady is quite beautiful, tee 
 thought. I'm so sorry you were not in our 
 seat; though, indeed, people ought not to be 
 staring about them in church; but you would 
 have admired her immensely .^^ 
 
 "Oh, I saw them. They were the people 
 nearly opposite to the Verneys' seat, in the small 
 pew ? Yes, they wei'e — that is, the young lady, 
 I mean, was perfectly lovely,'^ said httle Tom, 
 who could not with any comfort practise a 
 reserve. 
 
 " See, the people are beginning to hurry off to 
 church; it must be time to go,^^ said Charity. 
 
 So the little party walked up by the court-house 
 into Castle Street, and turned into quaint old 
 Church Street, walking demurely, and talking 
 very quietly to the solemn note of the old bell. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A VISIT TO HAZELDEN. 
 
 They all looked toward the Malory seat on 
 taking their places in their own ; but that retreat 
 was deserted now, and remained so, as Tom 
 Sedley at very brief intervals ascertained, through- 
 out the afternoon service ; after which, with a 
 secret sense of disappointment, honest Sedley 
 escorted the Etherage " girls ^^ up the steep road 
 that leads through the wooded glen of Hazelden 
 to the hospitable house of old Yane Etherage. 
 
 Everyone in that part of the world knows that 
 generous, pompous, and boisterous old gentleman. 
 You could no more visit Cardyllian without 
 seeing Vane Etherage, than you could visit 
 Naples without seeing Vesuvius. He is a fine 
 portly bust, but little more. In his waking hours 
 he lives alternately in his Bath chair and in the 
 great leathern easy chair in his study. He 
 manages to shufile very slowly, leaning upon his 
 servant on one side, and propped on his crutch 
 
A VISIT TO HAZELDEN. 41 
 
 at tlie other, across the hall of the Cardyllian 
 Club, which boasts about six-and-thirty members, 
 besides visitors, and into the billiard-room, where 
 he takes possession of the chair by the fire, and 
 enjoys the agreeable conversation of Captain 
 Shrapnell, hears all about the new arrivals, who 
 they are, what screws are loose, and where, and 
 generally all the gossip and scandal of tlie little 
 commonwealth of Cardyllian. 
 
 Vane Etherage had served in the navy, and, I 
 believe, reached the rank of captain. In Car- 
 dyllian he was humorously styled ''the Admiral," 
 when people spoke of him, not to him; for old 
 Etherage was fiery and consequential, and a 
 practical joke which commenced in a note from 
 an imaginary secretary, announcing that " The 
 Badger Hunt" would meet at Hazelden House 
 on a certain day, and inducing hospitable pre- 
 parations, for the entertainment of those nebu- 
 lous sportsmen, was like to have had a sanguinary 
 ending. It was well remembered that when 
 young Sniggers of Sligh Farm apologised on that 
 occasion, old Etherage had arranged with Captain 
 Shrapnell, who was to have been his second, that 
 the Admiral was to fight in his Bath chair — an 
 evidence of resource and resolution which was not 
 lost upon his numerous friends. 
 
 " How do you do, Sedley ? Very glad to see 
 
42 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 you, Tom — very glad indeed, sir. You'll come 
 to-morrow and dine ; you must, indeed — and next 
 day. You know our T^^elsh mutton — you do — 
 you know it well ; it's better here than in any 
 other place in the world — in the whole world, 
 sir — the Hazelden mutton, and, egad, you'll 
 come here — you shall, sir — and dine here with 
 us to-morrow ; mind, you shall." 
 
 The Admiral wore a fez, from beneath which 
 his gray hair bushed out rather wildly, and he 
 w^as smoking through an enormous pipe as Tom 
 Sedley entered his study, accompanied by the 
 ladies. 
 
 " He says he's to go away to-morrow," said 
 Miss Charity, with an upbraiding look at 
 Sedley. 
 
 " Pooh — nonsense — not Tie — not you^ Tom — 
 not a bit, sir. We won't let you. Girls, we 
 -won't alloiv him to go. Eh ? — No — no — you 
 dine here to-morrow, and next day." 
 
 "You're very kind, sir; but I promised, if I 
 am still in Cardyllian to-morrow, to run over to 
 Ware, and dine with Verney." 
 
 " What Verney ? " 
 
 '' Cleve Yerney." 
 
 "D him." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! " exclaimed Miss Charity, grimly. 
 
 " Boh ! — I hate him — I hate all the Yerneys," 
 
A VISIT TO HAZELDEX. 43 
 
 bawled old Vane Etherage, as if hating were a 
 dutv and a orenerositv. 
 
 " Oh — no, papa — you know you don't — that 
 would be extremely ivicked" said Miss Charity, 
 with that severe superiority with which she 
 governed the Admiral. 
 
 *'Beorad, you're always telling me I'm wicked 
 — and we know where the wicked go — that's 
 catechism, I believe — so I'd like to know where's 
 the difference between that and d — ing a fellow ?" 
 exclaimed the portly bust, and blew off his wrath 
 with a testy laugh. 
 
 " I think we had better put off our bonnets 
 and coats ? — The language is becoming rather 
 strong — and the tobacco," said Mi-ss Charity, 
 with dry dignity, to her sister, leaving the study 
 as she did so. 
 
 " I thought it might be that Kiffijn Yerney — 
 the uncle fellow — Honourable Kiffyn Yerney — 
 <fi5-hon our able, I call him — that old dog, sir, he's 
 no better than a cheat — and I'd be glad of an 
 opportunity to tell him so to his face, sir — you 
 have no idea, sir, how he has behaved to 
 me ! " 
 
 " He has the character of being a very honour- 
 able, sir — I'm sorry you think so differently," 
 said honest Tom Sedley, who always stood up for 
 his friends, and their kindred — '' and Clevc, I've 
 
44< THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 known from my childhood, and I assure you, sir, 
 a franker or more generous fellow I don't sup- 
 pose there is on earth." 
 
 " I know nothing about the jackanape, except 
 that he's nephew of his roguish uncle," said the 
 florid old gentleman with the short high nose 
 and double chin. " He wants to take up Llan- 
 deris, and he shanH have it. He's under cove- 
 nant to renew the lease, and the devil of it is, 
 that between me and Wynne AVilliams we have 
 put the lease astray — and I can't find it — nor he 
 either — but it will turn up — I don't care two- 
 pence about it — but no one shall humbug me — 
 I won't be gammoned, sir, by all the Verneys in 
 England. Stuff— ^iv ! " 
 
 Then the conversation took a happier turn. 
 The weather was sometimes a little squally with 
 the Admiral — but not often — genial and bois- 
 terous — on the whole sunny and tolerably serene 
 — and though he sometimes threatened high and 
 swore at his servants, they knew it did not mean 
 a great deal, and liked him. 
 
 People who lived all the year round in Car- 
 dyllian, which from November to May, every 
 year, is a solitude, fall into those odd ways and 
 little self-indulgences which gradually metamor- 
 phose men of the world into humorists and 
 grotesques. Given a sparse population, and 
 
A VISIT TO HAZELDEX. 45 
 
 difficult intercominimicatioiij which in effect 
 constitute sohtude, and you have the conditions 
 of barbarism. Thus it was that Yane Etherage 
 had grown uncouth to a degree that excited the 
 amazement of old contemporaries who happened, 
 from time to time, to look in upon his invalided 
 retirement at CardvUian. 
 
 The ladies and Tom Sedlev, in the drawing:- 
 room, talked very merrily at tea, while old Vane 
 Etherage, in his study, with the door between the 
 rooms wide open, amused himself with a nautical 
 volume and his terrestrial globe. 
 
 "So," said Miss Agnes, "you admired the 
 !Malory young lady — Margaret, our maid says, 
 she is called — very much to-day ? " 
 
 "I did, by Jove. Didn't you?" said Tom, 
 well pleased to return to the subject. 
 
 " Yes," said Agnes, looking down at her spoon 
 — "Yes, I admired her; that is, her features are 
 very regular ; she's what I call extremely hand- 
 some ; but there are prettier girls." 
 
 ^'Here do you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes — here." 
 
 " And who are they ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't say here now; but I do think 
 those Miss Dartmores, for instance, who were 
 here last year, and who used to wear those blue 
 dresses, were decidedly prettier. The heroine of 
 
46 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 Malory, wliooi j^ou have fallen in love with, seems 
 to me to want animation." 
 
 '^ Why, she couldn't show a great deal of ani- 
 mation over the Litany," said Tom. 
 
 " I did not see her then ; I happened to be 
 praying myself during the Litany," said Miss 
 Agnes, recollecting herself. 
 
 " It^s more than / was," said Tom. 
 
 "You ought not to talk that way, Mr. Sedley. 
 It isn't nice. I wonder you can," said Miss 
 Charity. 
 
 *' I would not say it, of course, to strangers," 
 said Tom. "But then, Vm. so intimate here — 
 and it's really true, that is, I mean, it was to-day." 
 
 "I wonder what you go to church for," said 
 Miss Charity. 
 
 " Well, of course, you know, it's to pray ; but 
 I look at the bonnets a little, also ; every fellow 
 does. By Jove, if they'd only say truth, I'm 
 certain the clergymen peep — I often saw them. 
 There's that little fellow, the Rev. Richard 
 Pritchard, the curate, you know — I'd swear I've 
 seen that fellow watching you, Agnes, through 
 the chink in the reading-desk door, while the 
 sermon was going on; and I venture to say he 
 did not hear a word of it." 
 
 "You ought to tell the rector, if you really 
 saw that," said Miss Charity, severely. 
 
A VISIT TO HAZELDEN. 47 
 
 " Pray do no such thing," entreated Agnes ; 
 " a pleasant situation for me ! " 
 
 " Certainly, if Mr. Pritchard behaves himself 
 as you describe," said Miss Charity; "but I've 
 been for hours shut up in the same room with 
 him — sometimes here, and sometimes at the 
 school — about the children, and the widows' fund, 
 and the parish charities, and I never observed 
 the slightest levity; but you are joking, I'm 
 sure/^ 
 
 "I'm not, upon my honour. I don't say it's 
 the least harm. I don't see how he can help it ; 
 I know if / were up in the air — in a reading- 
 desk, with a good chink in the door, where I 
 thought no one could see me, and old Doctor 
 Splayfoot preaching his pet sermon over my head 
 — wouldnH I peep ? — that's all." 
 
 " Well, I really think, if he makes a habit of 
 it, I ought to speak to Doctor Splayfoot. I think 
 it's my duty,'' said Miss Charity, sitting up very 
 stiffly, as she did when she spoke of duty ; and 
 when once the notion of a special duty got into 
 her head, her inflexibility, as Tom Sedley and her 
 sister Agnes knew, was terrifying. 
 
 " Fcr mercy's sake, my dear Charry, do think 
 of me ! If you tell Doctor Splayfoot he'll be 
 certain to tell it all to Wynne Williams and 
 Doctor Lyster, and Price Apjohn, and every crea- 
 
48 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 ture in Cardyllian will know everything about it, 
 and a great deal more^ before two hours ; and once 
 for all, if that ridiculous story is set afloat, into 
 the church door I'll never set my foot again." 
 
 Miss Agnes' pretty face had flushed crimson, 
 and her lip quivered with distress. 
 
 " How can you be such a fool, Aggie ! I'll 
 only say it was at our seat — and no one can pos- 
 sibly tell which it was at — you or me ; and I'll 
 certainly tell Dr. Splayfoot that ISIr. Sedley saw 
 it." 
 
 "And I'll tell the Doctor," said Sedley, who 
 enjoyed the debate immensely, "that I neither 
 saw nor said any such thing/' 
 
 " I don't think, Thomas Sedley, you'd do any- 
 thing so excessively wicked ! " exclaimed Miss 
 Charity, a little fiercely. 
 
 " Try me," said Tom, with an exulting little 
 laugh. 
 
 " Every gentleman tells the truth," thrust she. 
 
 "Except where it makes mischief," parried 
 Tom, with doubtful morality and another mis- 
 chievous laugh. 
 
 " Well, I suppose I had better say nothing of 
 Christianity. But what you do is your own 
 aff'air ! my duty I'll perform. I shall think it 
 over; and I shan't be ruffled by any folly 
 intended to annoy me." Miss Charity's thin 
 
A VISIT TO HAZELDEN. 49 
 
 brown cheeks had flushed to a sort of madder 
 crimson. Excepting these flashes of irritability, 
 I can't charge her with many human weaknesses. 
 " ril not say who he looked at — I've promised 
 that; but unless I change my present opinion, 
 Dr. Splayfoot shall hear the whole thing to- 
 morrow. I think in a clergyman any such con- 
 duct in church is unpardonable. The efi'ect on 
 other people is positively ruinous. You, for 
 instance, would not have talked about such 
 things in the light you do, if you had not been 
 encouraged in it, by seeing a clergyman conduct- 
 ing himself so." 
 
 "Mind, you've promised poor little Agnes, 
 you'll not bring her into the business, no matter 
 what / do," said Sedley. 
 
 " I have, certainly." 
 
 " Well, ni stay in Cardyllian to-morrow, and 
 ril see Doctor Splayfoot." Sedley was buttoning 
 his coat and pulling on his gloves, with a wicked 
 smile on his good-humoured face. "And I'll tell 
 him that you think the curate ogles you through a 
 hole in the reading-desk. That you like him, and 
 he^s very much gone about you; and that you 
 wish the afi'air brought to a point ; and that 
 you're going to appeal to him — Doctor Splayfoot 
 — to use his authority either to aftect tJiat, or to 
 stop the ogling. I will, upon my honour ! " 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " And I shall speak to papa to prevent it," said 
 Miss Charity, who was fierce and literal. 
 
 " And that ^will bring about a duel, and he'll be 
 shot in his Bath chair, and I shall be hanged '^ — 
 old Vane Etherage, with his spectacles on, was 
 plodding away serenely at the little table by the 
 fire, over his Naval Chronicle — "and Pritchard 
 will be deprived of his curacy, and you'll go mad, 
 and Agnes will drown herself like Ophelia, and a 
 nice little tragedy you'll have brought about. 
 Good night ; I'll not disturb him " — he glanced 
 toward the unconscious Admiral — " I'll see you 
 both to-morrow, after I've spoken to the Rector." 
 He kissed his hand, and was gone. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MALORY BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 "Whex Tom Sedley stepped out from the glass 
 door on the gravel ^yalk, among the autumn 
 flowers and the evergreens in the pleasant moon- 
 light, it was just nine o'clock, for in that primi- 
 tive town and vicinage people keep still wonder- 
 fully early hours. 
 
 It is a dark and lonely walk, down the steep 
 Hazelden Road, by the side of the wooded glen, 
 from whose depths faintly rises the noise of the 
 mill-stream. The path leads you down the side 
 of the glen, with dense forest above and below 
 you ; the rocky steep ascending at the left hand, 
 the wooded precipice descending into utter dark- 
 ness at your right, and beyond that, rising black 
 against the sky, the distant side of the wooded 
 ra\'ine. Cheery it was to emerge from the close 
 overhanging trees, and the comparative darkness, 
 upon the high road to CardylUau, which follows 
 
 E 2 
 
 ^' OF r^ . ,^ 
 
52 THE TENANTS OF IVIALORY. 
 
 the sweep of the estuary to the high street of the 
 town, already quiet as at midnight. 
 
 The moon shone so broad and bright, the land- 
 scape looked so strange, and the air was so frosty 
 and pleasant, that Tom Sedley could not resist 
 the temptation to take a little walk which led him 
 over the Green, and up the steep path overhang- 
 ing the sea, from which you command so fine a 
 view of the hills and headlands of the opposite 
 side, and among other features of the landscape, 
 of Malory, lying softly in its dark and misty 
 woodlands. 
 
 Moonlight, distance, and the hour, aided the 
 romance of my friend Tom Sedley, who stood 
 in the still air and sighed toward that antique 
 house. 
 
 With arms folded, his walking-cane grasped in 
 his right hand, and passed, sword-fashion, under 
 his left arm, I know not what martial and chi- 
 valric aspirations concerning death and combat 
 rose in his good-natured heart, for in some tem- 
 peraments the sentiment of love is mysteriously 
 associated with the combative, and our homage to 
 the gentler sex connects itself magnanimously 
 with images of wholesale assault and battery upon 
 the other. Perhaps if he could have sung, a stave 
 or two might have relieved his mind ; or even had 
 he been eloquent in the language of sentiment. 
 
MALORY BY MOONLIGHT. 53 
 
 But his vocabulary, unhappily, was limited, and 
 remarkably prosaic, and not even having an 
 appropriate stanza by rote, he was fain to betake 
 himself to a cigar, smoking which he at his leisure 
 walked down the hill toward Malory. 
 
 Halfway down, he seated himself upon the 
 dwarf wall, at the roadside, and by the ivied stem 
 of a huge old tree, smoked at his ease, and sighed 
 now and then. 
 
 " I can^t understand it — it is like some con- 
 founded witchcraft," said he. "I canH get her 
 out of my head." 
 
 I dare say it was about the same time that his 
 friend Cleve Verney was performing, though not 
 with so sublime an enthusiasm, his romantic 
 devotions in the same direction, across the water 
 from Ware. 
 
 As he stood and gazed, he thought he saw a 
 figure standing near the water's edge on the 
 shingle that makes a long curve in front of 
 Malory. 
 
 If a living figure, it was very still. It looked 
 gray, nearly white, in the moonlight. Was there 
 an upright shaft of stone there, or a post to moor 
 the boats by ? He could not remember. 
 
 He walked slowly down the road. " By Jove ! 
 I think it's moving,*' he said aloud, pulling up all 
 at once and lowering his cigar. "No, it isnH 
 
54 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 moving, but it did move, I think — yes, it has 
 changed its ground a little — hasn't it ? Or is it 
 only my stand-point that's changed ? '' 
 
 He was a good deal nearer now, and it did look 
 much more like a human figure — tall and slight, 
 with a thin gray cloak on — but he could not yet 
 be quite certain. Was there not a resemblance 
 in the proportions — tall and slight ? The uncer- 
 tainty was growing intense ; there was a delight- 
 ful confusion of conjecture. Tom Sedley dropped 
 his cigar, and hastened forward with an instinctive 
 stealthiness in his eagerness to arrive before this 
 figure — if such it were — should be scared away by 
 his approach. 
 
 He was now under the shadow of the tall trees 
 that overhang the outer wall of [Malory, and cast 
 their shadows some way down upon the sloping 
 shore, near the edge of which a tall female figure 
 was undoubtedly standing, with her feet almost 
 touching the ripple of the water, and looking 
 stedfastly in the direction of the dim head-land 
 of Pendillion, which at the far side guards the 
 entrance of the estuary. 
 
 In the wall of Malory, at some three hundred 
 yards away from the gate, is a small door, a little 
 sally-port tliat opens a nearly direct access from the 
 house to the rude jetty where the boats are some- 
 times moored. This little door stood now wide 
 
MALORY BY MOONLIGHT. OO 
 
 Open, and tlirougb. it the figure had of course 
 emerged. 
 
 Tom Sedley now for the first time began to 
 feel a little embarrassed. The general privacy of 
 the place, the fact that the Jetty, and in point of 
 law the strand itself, here, belonged to Malory, 
 from which the private door which still stood 
 open, showed that the lady had emerged — all 
 these considerations made him feel as if he were 
 guilty of an impertinence, and very nearly of a 
 trespass. 
 
 The lady stood quite still, looking across the 
 water. Tom Sedley was upon the road that 
 skirts the wall of Malory, in the shadow of the 
 great trees. It would not have done to walk 
 straight across the shingle to the spot where the 
 lady stood, neither could he place himself so as to 
 intercept her return to the doorway, directly so, 
 as a less obvious stratagem, he made a detour, 
 and sauntering along the water's ed^e like a man 
 intent solely on the picturesque, with a beating 
 heart he approached the female, who maintained 
 her pose quite movelessly until he approached 
 within a few steps. 
 
 Then she turned, suddenly, revealing an old 
 and almost agonized face, that looked, in the 
 intense moonlight, white, and fixed as if cut in 
 stone. There is something ludicrous in the sort 
 
56 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 of shock which Tom Sedley experienced. He 
 stood staring at the old lady with an expression 
 which, if she had apprehended it, would not have 
 flattered her feminine self-esteem, if any of that 
 good quality remained to her. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir,^^ said the old woman, 
 with a nervous eagerness, drawing near. "But 
 pray, can you see a sail in that direction, a yawl, 
 sir, they call it, just there?'' — she pointed — "I 
 fancied about two miles beyond that vessel that 
 lies at anchor there ? I can't see it now, sir, can 
 you ? " 
 
 She had come so close that Sedley could see not 
 only the deep furrows, but the finely etched 
 wrinkles about the large eyes that gazed on him, 
 and from him to the sea, with an imploring stare. 
 
 " There's no sail, ma'am, between us and Pen- 
 dillion," said Sedley, having first raised his hat 
 deferentially; for did not this strange old lady 
 with her gray mantle drawn over her head, never- 
 theless, represent ]Malory, and was not Malory 
 saddened and glorified by the presence of that 
 beautiful being whom he had told himself a 
 thousand times since morning service, he never, 
 never could forget ? 
 
 *' Ha, ha ! I thought I saw it, exactly, sir, in 
 that direction ; pray look more carefully, sir, my 
 old eyes tire, and fail me." 
 
MALORY BY MOONLIGHT. o7 
 
 "No, ma^am, positively nothing there. How 
 long ago is it since you first saw it? " 
 
 "Ten — twenty — minutes, it must be." 
 
 "A yawl will run a good way in that time, 
 ma'am/' said Tom with a little shake of his head, 
 and a smile. " The yawl they had at Ware last 
 year would make eight knots an hour in this 
 breeze, light as it is. She might have been up to 
 Bryll by this time, or down to Pendrewist, but 
 there^s no sail, ma'am, either way." 
 
 '^ Oh ! sir, are you very sure ?" 
 
 " Quite sure, ma'am. No sail in sight, except 
 that brig just making the head of Pendillion, and 
 that can't be the sail you saw, for she wasn't in 
 sight twenty minutes since. There's nothing 
 more, ma'am, except boats at anchor." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the lady, still looking 
 across the water, and with a deep sigh. " Xo, I 
 suppose there's none. It sometimes happens to 
 me — fancy, I suppose, and long expectation, from 
 my window, looking out. It's a clear view, be- 
 tween the trees, across the bay to Pendillion ; my 
 eyes tire, I think ; and so I fancy I see it. 
 Knowing, that is, feeling so very sure, it will 
 come again. Another disappointment for a 
 foolish old woman. I sometimes think it's all a 
 dream." She had turned and was now stumbHug 
 over the large loose stones toward the door. 
 
56 THE TEXA^TS OF MALORY. 
 
 " Foolish dreams — foolish head — foolish old head, 
 yet, sir, it may be that which goes away may come 
 back, all except life. I've been looking out that 
 way," and she turned and moved her hand towards 
 the distant headlands. ^' You see nothing ? " 
 
 " No sail J ma'am," answered Tom. 
 
 "Ko, no sail," she repeated to the shingle under 
 her feet, as she picked her steps again homeward. 
 
 " A little longer — another wait ; wait patiently. 
 Oh ! God, how slowly years and months go 
 over ! " 
 
 "May I see you to the door, ma'am?" asked 
 Tom Sedley, prosaically. The old lady, thinking, 
 I dare say, of other things, made him no answer 
 — a silence which he accepted as permission, and 
 walked on beside her, not knowing what to say 
 next, and terribly anxious to hit upon something, 
 and try to found an acquaintance. The open 
 door supplied him. 
 
 " Charming place this Cardyllian, ma'am. I 
 believe no one ever was robbed in it. They leave 
 their doors open half the night, just like that." 
 
 " Do they, indeed ? " said she. I think she had 
 forgotten her companion altogether in the inter- 
 val. " I don't remember. It's fifteen years and 
 upwards since I was there. I live here, at 
 Malory." She nodded, and raised her eyes to 
 his face as she spoke. 
 
MALORY BY MOONLIGHT. 59 
 
 Suddenly she stopped, and looked at him more 
 earnestly in silence for some seconds, and then 
 said she — 
 
 " Sir, will you forgive me ? Are you related to 
 the Yerneys?" 
 
 " Xo, I haven't that honour/' said he, smiling. 
 " I knoiv Cleve Yerney very well, and a very good 
 fellow he is ; but we're not connected ; my name 
 is Sedley — Thomas Sedley." 
 
 " Sedley ! '' she repeated once or twice, still 
 looking at him, " I recollect the name. No — no 
 connection, I dare say, Cleve ; and how is Cleve V 
 
 "Yerv well; he's at Ware, now, for a few 
 
 " Ah ! I dare say, and very well ; a pretty boy 
 — very pretty ; but not like — no, not the 
 least." 
 
 '^ I've heard people say he's very like what his 
 father was," said Tom. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I think so ; there is a likeness," 
 acquiesced she. 
 
 " His father's been dead a long time, you 
 know ? " 
 
 '' I know ; yes. Cleve is at Oxford or Cam- 
 bridge by this time ? " she continued. 
 
 Tom Sedley shook his head and smiled a little. 
 
 ''Cleve has done with all that ever so long. 
 He's in the House of Commons now, and likely 
 
60 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 to be a swell there, making speeches, and all 
 that." 
 
 " I know — I know. I had forgot how long it 
 is since ; he was a clever boy, wild, and talkative ; 
 yes, yes, he'll do for Parliament, I suppose, and 
 be a great man, some day, there. There was no 
 resemblance though ; and you, sir, are like him, 
 he was so handsome — no one so handsome." 
 
 Tom Sedley smiled. He fancied he was only 
 amused. But I am sure he was also pleased. 
 
 " And I don't know. I can make out nothing. 
 No one can. There^s a picture. I think they'd 
 burn it, if they knew. It is drawn in chalks by 
 a French artist; they colour so beautifully. It 
 hangs in my room. I pray before it, every 
 morning, for him." 
 
 The old lady moaned, with her hands folded 
 together, and still looking steadfastly in his face. 
 
 '^ They'd burn it, I think, if they knew there 
 was a picture. I was always told they were a 
 cruel family. Well, I don't know, I forgive him ; 
 Fve forgiven him long ago. You are very like 
 the picture, and even more like what I remember 
 him. The picture was taken just Avhen he came 
 of age. He was twenty-seven when I first saw 
 him; he was brilliant, a beautiful creature, and 
 when I looked in his face I saw the sorrow that 
 has never left me. You are wonderfully like, sir ; 
 
MALORY BY MOONLIGHT. 61 
 
 but there's a diflference. You're not so hand- 
 some/' Here was a blow to honest Tom Sedlev, 
 who again thought he was only amused, but was 
 really chagrined. 
 
 " There is goodness and kindness in your face ; 
 his had little of that^ nothing soft in it, but every- 
 thing brilliant and interesting ; and yet you are 
 wonderfully like." 
 
 She pressed her hand on her thin bosom. 
 
 " The wind grows cold. A pain shoots through 
 me while I look at you, sir. I feel as if I were 
 speaking to a spirit, God help me ! I have said 
 more to you to-night, than I have spoken for ten 
 years before ; forgive me, sir, and thank you, very 
 much." 
 
 She turned from him again, took one long look 
 at the distant headland, and then, with a deep 
 sigh, almost a sob, she hastened towards the door. 
 He followed her. 
 
 " Will you permit me to see you to the house?" 
 he pleaded, with a benevolence I fear not quite 
 disinterested. She was by this time at the door, 
 from which with a gesture, declining his offer, she 
 gently waved him back, and disappeared within it, 
 without another word. He heard the key turned 
 in the lock, and remained without, as wise with 
 respect to his particular quest as he had arrived. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A VIEW FROM THE REFECTORY WINDOW. 
 
 The old discoloured wall of Malory, that runs 
 along the shore overshadowed by grand old 
 timber, that looks to me darker than any other 
 grove, is seven feet high, and as he could see 
 neither through nor over it, and could not think 
 of climbing it, after a few seconds spent in 
 staring at the gray door, Tom Sedley turned about 
 and walked down to the little hillock that stands 
 by the roadside, next the strand, and from the top 
 of this he gazed, during an entire cigar, upon the 
 mullioned windows of Malory, and was gratified 
 by one faint gleam of a passing candle from a 
 gallery window. 
 
 " That's a nice old woman, odd as she is ; she 
 looks quite like a lady ; she's certainly not the 
 woman we saw in church to-day ; how well she 
 looked ; what a nice figure, that time, as she 
 stood looking from the shore ; that cloak thing is 
 
A VIEW FROM THE REFECTORY WINDOW. 63 
 
 loose to be sure ; but, by Jove, she might have 
 been a girl almost ; and what large eyes she has 
 got, and a well-shaped face. She must have been 
 quite charming, about a hundred years ago ; she's 
 not the mother : she's too old ; a grand-aunt, 
 perhaps ; what a long talk we had, and I such a 
 fool, listening to all that rubbish, and never get- 
 ting in a word about the people, that peerless 
 creature ! " 
 
 His walk home to Cardyllian was desultory and 
 interrupted. I should not like to risk my credit 
 by relating how often he halted on his way, and 
 how long, to refresh his eyes with the dim outlines 
 of the trees and chimneys of Malory ; and how, 
 very late and melancholy, and abstracted, he 
 reached his crib in the Verney Arms. 
 
 Early next morning, in pursuance of a clever 
 idea, Tom Sedley made, I admit, his most pic- 
 turesque and becoming toilet. It consisted of 
 his black velvet knickerbocker suit, with those 
 refined jack-boots of shining leather, and the 
 most charming jerry that had ever appeared in 
 Cardyllian, and away he marched over the hill, 
 while the good people of the town were champing 
 their muffins and sipping their tea, to the back 
 gate of ^Malory. 
 
 It stood half open, and with as careless a bold- 
 ness as he could assume, in he went and walked 
 
64 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 confidently up the straight farmyard lane, girt 
 with high thorn hedges. Here, bribing a rustic 
 who showed symptoms of churlishness, with half- 
 a-crown, he was admitted into a sort of farmyard, 
 under pretext of examining the old monastic 
 chapel and refectory, now used as a barn, and 
 some other relics of the friary, which tourists 
 were wont to admire. 
 
 From the front of the refectory there is a fine 
 view of the distant mountains. Also, as Tom 
 Sedley recollected, a foreground View, under the 
 trees, in front of the hall-door, and there, with a 
 sudden bound at his heart, he beheld the two 
 ladies who had yesterday occupied the Malory 
 pew, the old and the young, busy about the 
 flower-bed, with garden gauntlets on, and trowel 
 in hand. 
 
 They were chatting together cheerily enough, 
 but he could not hear what they said. The young 
 lady now stood up from her work, in a dress 
 which looked to him like plain holland. 
 
 The young lady had pushed her hat a little 
 back, and stood on the grass, at the edge of the 
 flowers, with her trowel glittering in the early 
 sun, in her slender right hand, which rested upon 
 her left; her pretty right foot was advanced a 
 little on the short grass, and showed just its tip, 
 over the edge of the flower-bed. A homely dress 
 
A VIEW FROM THE REFECTORY WINDOW. Go 
 
 and rustic appliances. But, oh ! that oval, beau- 
 tiful face ! 
 
 Tom Sedley — the " peeping Tom '' of this story 
 — from his deep monastic window, between the 
 parting of the tall trees, looked down upon this 
 scene in a breathless rapture. From the palmy 
 days of the Roman Pantheon down, was ever 
 Flora so adored ? 
 
 From under his Gothic arch, in his monkish 
 shade, Tom could have stood, he fancied, for ever, 
 gazing as friar has seldom gazed upon his pic- 
 tured saint, on the supernatural portrait which 
 his enthusiasm worshipped. 
 
 The young lady, as I have described her, look- 
 ing down upon her old companion, said something 
 with a little nod, and smiled; then she looked up 
 at the tree tops from where the birds were chirp- 
 ing; so Tom had a fair view of her wonderful face, 
 and though he felt himself in imminent danger of 
 detection, he could not move. Then her eyes 
 with a sidelong glance, dropped on the window 
 where he stood, and passed on instantly. 
 
 With the instinct which never deceives us, he 
 felt her glance touch him, and knew that he was 
 detected. The young lady turned quietly, and 
 looked seaward for a few moments. Tom relieved 
 his suspense with a sigli ; he hoped he might pass 
 muster for a tourist, and that the privileges of 
 VOL. I. r 
 
66 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 such visitors had not been abridged by the 
 recluses. 
 
 The young lady then quietly turned and re- 
 sumed her work, as if nothing had happened ; 
 but, I thinkj she said something to her elderly 
 companion^ for that slim lady, in a Tweed shawl, 
 closely brooched across her breast, stood up, 
 walked a step or two backward upon the grass, 
 and looked straight up at the window, with the 
 inquisitive frown of a person a little dazzled or 
 near-sighted. 
 
 Honest Tom Sedle}^ who was in a rather morbid 
 state all this morning, felt his heart throb again, 
 and drum against his ribs_, as he affected to gaze 
 in a picturesque absorption upon the distant 
 headlands. 
 
 The old lady, on the other hand, having dis- 
 tinctly seen in the deep-carved panel of that 
 antique wall, the full-length portrait of our hand- 
 some young friend, Tom Sedley, in his killing 
 knickerbocker suit of black velvet, with his ivory- 
 headed cane in his hand, and that *^ stunning '^ 
 jerry which so exactly suited his countenance, 
 and of which he believed no hatter but his own 
 possessed the pattern, or could produce a similar 
 masterpiece. 
 
 The old lady with her hand raised to fend off 
 the morning sun that came flickering through the 
 
A VIEW FROM THE REFECTORY WINDOW. G7 
 
 branches on lier wrinkled forehead, and her light 
 gray eyes peering on him, had no notion of the 
 awful power of her gaze upon that " impudent 
 young man." 
 
 With all his might Tom Sedley gazed at the 
 Welsh headlands, without even w^inking, while he 
 felt the basilisk eye of the old spinster in gray 
 Tweed upon him. So intense was his stare, that 
 old Pendillion at last seemed to nod his mighty 
 head, and finally to submerge himself in the sea. 
 When he ventured a glance downward, he saw 
 Miss Anne Sheckleton with quick steps entering 
 the house, while the young lady had recommenced 
 working at a more distant flower-bed, with the 
 same quiet diligence. 
 
 It was to be feared that the old lady was taking 
 steps for his expulsion. He preferred anticipating 
 her measures, and not caring to be caught in the 
 window, left the refectory, and walked down the 
 stone stairs, whistling and tapping the wall with 
 the tip of his cane. 
 
 To him, as the old play-books say, entered 
 from the side next the house, and just as he set 
 the sole of his resplendent boot upon the paving- 
 stones, a servant. Short, strong, and surly was 
 the man. He did not seem disposed for violence, 
 however, for he touched an imaginary hatbrim as 
 he came up, and informed ^Ir. Sedley, who was 
 
68 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 properly surprised and pained to hear it, that he 
 had in fact committed a trespass; that since it 
 had been let, the place was no longer open to the 
 inspection of tourists ; and, in short, that he was 
 requested to withdraw. 
 
 Tom Sedley was all alacrity and regret. He had 
 never been so polite to a groom in all his life. 
 The man followed him down the back avenue, to 
 see him out, which at another time would have 
 stirred his resentment; and when he held the 
 gate open for him to emerge, Tom gave him no 
 less than three half-crowns — a prodigality whereat 
 his eyes opened, if not his heart, and he made a 
 gruff apology for the necessities imposed by d'uty, 
 and Tom interrupted him with — 
 
 '* Quite right, perfectly right ! you could do 
 
 nothing else. I hope the la your master is 
 
 not vexed. You must say I told you to mention 
 how very much pained I was at having made such 
 a mistake. Say that I, Mr. Sedley, regret it very 
 much, and beg to apologise. Pray don^t forget. 
 Good morning; and I'm very sorry for having 
 given you so much trouble — this long walk." 
 
 This tenderness his bow-legged conductor was 
 also in a mood to receive favourably. In fact, if 
 he had not told him his name was Sedley, he 
 might have settled affirmatively the question at 
 that moment before his mind — whether the in- 
 
A VIEW FROM THE REFECTORY -WINDOW. G9 
 
 truder from whom silver flowed so naturally and 
 refreshingly might not possibly be the Prince of 
 Wales himself, who had passed through the village 
 of Ware, only seven miles away, three weeks 
 before. 
 
CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 A NIGHT SAIL. 
 
 Poor Tom Sedley ! The little excitement of 
 parting with the bull-necked keeper of his " garden 
 of beauty/' over, his spirits sank. He could not 
 act the unconscious tourist again, and re-commit 
 the premeditated mistake of the morning. His 
 exclusion was complete. 
 
 Tom Sedley paid a visit that day at Hazelden, 
 and was depressed, and dull, and absent to such 
 a degree, that Miss Charity Etherage, after he had 
 gone away, canvassed the matter very earnestly, 
 and wondered whether he was quite well, and 
 hoped he had not had bad news from London. 
 
 I don't know how Tom got over all that day; 
 but at about four o'clock, having paid his penny 
 at the toll-gate of the pier of Cardyllian, he was 
 pacing up and down that breezy platform, and 
 discussing with himself the possibility of remain- 
 ing for another Sunday, on the chance of again 
 seeing the Malory ladies in church. 
 
A NIGUT SAIL. 71 
 
 Lifting up his eyes, in liis meditation, he saw 
 a cutter less than a mile away, making swiftly for 
 the pierhead, stooping to the breeze as she flew, 
 and beating up the spray in sparkling clouds from 
 her bows. His practised eye recognised at a 
 glance the Wave, the victorious yacht of Cleve 
 Verney. With this breeze it was a run without 
 a tack from Ware jetty. 
 
 In less than five minutes she furled her sails, 
 and dropped anchor close to the pier stair, and 
 Cleve Verney in another minute stepped upon it 
 from his punt. 
 
 "You're to come back in her, to Ware, this 
 evening/' said he, as they shook hands. " I'm 
 so glad I've found you. I've to meet a friend at 
 the Verney Arms, but our talk won't take very 
 long ; and how have you been amusing yourself 
 all day? Rather slow, isn't it ?" 
 
 Tom Sedley told his story. 
 
 " Well, and what's the name?'^ inquired Cleve. 
 
 "I can't tell; they don't know at the hotel; 
 the Etherages don't know. I asked Castle 
 Edwards, and he doesn't know either," said 
 Sedley. 
 
 '' Yes, but the fellow, the servant, who turned 
 you out at Malory " 
 
 " He did not turn me out. I was going,'' 
 interrupted Tom Sedley. 
 
72 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " AYellj who saiv you out ? You made him a 
 present ; he'd have told you, of course. Did 
 he?" 
 
 " I didn't ask him/' 
 
 "Come, that's being very delicate indeed ! All 
 I can say is, if I Tvere as spoony as you are, on 
 that girl, IM have learned all about her long 
 ago. It's nothing to me; but if you find out 
 her name, I know two or three fellows in town 
 who know everything about everybody, and I'll 
 make out the whole story — that is, if she's any- 
 body." 
 
 " By Jove ! that's very odd. There he is, just 
 gone into the Golden Lion, that groom, that 
 Bp-rvant, that Malory man," exclaimed Tom Sedley 
 very eagerly, and staring hard at the open door 
 of the quaint little pot-house. 
 
 " Well, go ; give him a pound, it's well worth 
 it," laughed Cleve. " I'm serious, if you want 
 to learn it; no fellow like that can resist a pound; 
 and if you tell me the name, I'll make you out 
 all the rest, I really will, when we get to town. 
 There, don't let him get off, and you'll find me 
 at the Veraey Arms." 
 
 So saying, Cleve nodding his irresolute friend 
 toward the Golden Lion, walked swiftly away to 
 meet the Reverend Isaac Dixie. But Dixie was 
 not at the Chancery ; only a letter, to say that 
 
A NIGHT SAIL. 73 
 
 " most unhappily " that moruing, Clay Rectory 
 was to undergo an inspection by a Commissioner 
 of Dilapidations ; but that, D.Y., he would place 
 himself next day, at the appointed hour, at his 
 honoured pupil's disposal. 
 
 '' Those shovel-hatted martinets ! they never 
 allow a minute for common sense, or anything 
 useful — always pottering over their clerical drill 
 and pipe-clay,^' said Cleve, who, when an idea once 
 entered his mind, pursued it with a terrible con- 
 centration, and hated an hour's delay. 
 
 So out he came disappointed, and joined Sedley 
 near the Golden Lion. 
 
 They said little for a time, but walked on, side 
 by side, and found themselves sauntering along 
 the road toward Malory together. 
 
 " Well, Sedley, I forgot, — what about the man ? 
 Did he tell you anything V 
 
 *•' I do believe if a fellow once allows a girl to 
 get into his head, ever so little, he's in a sort of 
 way drunk — worse than drunk — systematically 
 foolish/^ said honest Sedley, philosophizing. " Tve 
 been doing nothing but idiotic things ever since 
 church time yesterday .'* 
 
 "Well, but what did he say?" 
 
 " He took the pound, and devil a thing he 
 he said. He wouldn't tell anything about them. 
 I give you leave to laugh at me. I know I'm the 
 
74 THE TEXANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 greatest ass on earth, and I think he's the ugliest 
 brute I ever saw, and the most uncivil ; and, by 
 Jove, if I stay here much longer, I think hell 
 get all my money from me. He doesn't ask for 
 it, but I go on giving it to him ; I can't help it ; 
 the beast !'' 
 
 " Isn't there a saying about a sage, or some- 
 thing, and his money being soon parted ?" asked 
 Cleve. ^' I think if I were so much gone 
 about a girl as you are, and on sucli easy 
 terms with that fellow, and tipped him so hand- 
 somely, I'd have learned her name, at least, 
 before now/^ 
 
 " I can't ; everything goes wrong with me. 
 Why should I risk my reason, and fall in love 
 with the moon ? The girl wouldn't look at me ; 
 by Jove, she'll never even see me ; and it's much 
 better so, for nothing can possibly come of it, 
 but pain to me, and fun to every one else. The 
 late train does not stop at our station. I can't 
 go to-night ; but, by Jove, I'll be off in the 
 morning. I unll. Don't you think I'm right, 
 Cleve?" 
 
 Tom Sedley stopped short, and faced his friend 
 — who was, in most matters, his oracle — earnestly 
 laying his hand upon his arm. Cleve laughed at 
 his vehemence, for he knew Tom's impulsive 
 nature, his generous follies, and terrible im- 
 
A NIGHT SAIL. iO 
 
 petuosity, and, said he — '^ Right, Tom; always a 
 philosopher ! Nothing like the radical cure, in 
 such a case, absence. If the cards won't answer, 
 try the dice, if they won't do, try the balls. Tm 
 afraid this is a bad venture ; put your heart to 
 sea in a sieve ! No, Tom, that precious freightage 
 is for a more substantial craft. I suppose you 
 have seen your last of the young lady, and it 
 would be a barren fib of friendship to say that 
 I believe you have made any impression. There- 
 fore, save yourself, fly, and try what absence 
 will do, and work and play, and eating and 
 drinking, and sleeping abundantly in a distant 
 scene, to dissipate the fumes of your intoxica- 
 tion, steal you away from the enchantress, and 
 restore you to yourself. Therefore I echo — 
 go." 
 
 "I'm sure you think it, though you're half 
 joking," said Tom Sedley. 
 
 "Well, let us come on. I've half a mind to 
 go up myself and have a peep at the refectory," 
 said Cleve. 
 
 " To what purpose V 
 
 " Archseology," said Cleve. 
 
 " If you go in there, after what occurred this 
 morning, by Jove, /'ll not wait for you," said 
 Sedley. 
 
 " Well, come along ; there's no harm, I sup- 
 
76 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 pose, in passing by. The Queen's highway, I 
 hope, isn't shut up,'' answered Verney. 
 
 Sedley sighed, looked towards Malor\^, and not 
 being in a mood to resist, walked on toward the 
 enchanted forest and castle, by his companion's 
 side. 
 
 When they came by the dark and narrow cross- 
 road that skirts the southern side of Malory to the 
 farm-yard gate, nailed on its pier, on a square 
 bit of board, in fresh black and white paint, they 
 read the following words : — 
 
 Notice. 
 No admission at this gate to any but servants or otliers 
 employed at Malory, 
 
 Any person found trespassing within the Avails will be 
 prosecuted according to law. 
 — September, 18—. 
 
 AVhen the young men, in a momentary silence, 
 read this warning, the ingenuous countenance of 
 Tom Sedley flushed crimson to the very roots of 
 his hair, and Cleve Verney was seized with a fit 
 of laughter that grew more and more violent the 
 more grave and reproachful grew Tom Sedley's 
 aspect. 
 
 "Well, Tom, I think, if we have any dignity 
 left, we had better turn our backs upon this 
 inhospitable refectory, and seek comfort else- 
 where. By Jove ! a pretty row you must have 
 made up there this morning to oblige the 
 
A NIGHT SAIL. 77 
 
 governor to declare the place in a state of siege, 
 and mount his artillery." 
 
 " Come away, Cleve ; that is, as soon as you've 
 done laughing at that board. Of course, you 
 kne^y as well as I do, that my coming in, and 
 looking as, I hope, any gentleman might, at that 
 stupid old barn, this morning, could not possibly 
 be the cause of that offensive notice. If you 
 think it is pointed at me, of course, it's more 
 amusing, but if not, hang me if I can see the 
 joke." 
 
 Tom Sedley was out of spirits, and a little 
 testy, and very silent all the way back to Car- 
 dylHan. He refused Clove's invitation to AVare. 
 He made up his mind to return to London in 
 the morning ; and this being his last evening in 
 this part of the world, he must spend it at 
 Hazelden. 
 
 So these young gentlemen dined together at 
 the Yemey Arms, and it grew dark as they sat 
 by the open window at their wine, and the moon 
 got up and silvered the distant peaks of shadowy 
 mountains, and these companions grew silent and 
 dreamy as they might in the spell of distant 
 music. 
 
 But the people of Hazelden kept early hours, 
 and Tom Sedley suddenly recollected that he must 
 go. They parted, therefore, excellent friends, for 
 
78 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 Sedley had no suspicion that Cleve ^as his rival, 
 and Cleve could afford to be amused at Sedley's 
 rivalry. 
 
 When Verney got on board there was a light 
 breeze. "We'll run down toward Penruthyn 
 Priory," said he; and round went the cutter, 
 leaning with the breeze, and hissing and snorting 
 through the gentle swell as she flew on towards 
 the headland on which stands that pretty monastic 
 ruin. 
 
 She glided into the black shadow cast by the 
 solemn wall of cloud that now hid the moon from 
 sight, away from the hundred star-like lights of 
 Cardyllian, flying swiftly backward on the left, 
 close under the shapeless blackness of the hill, 
 that rises precipitously from the sea, and over 
 which lies the path from the town to Malory, 
 and onward by the wooded grounds of that old 
 mansion, now an indistinguishable mass of dark- 
 ness, whose outline was hardly visible against the 
 sky. 
 
 I dare say, the tliought of crossing the lights 
 of these windows, had its share in prompting 
 this nautical freak, and towards these Cleve's 
 gaze was turned, wlien, on a sudden, the man 
 looking out at the bows shouted " Starboard ; " 
 but before the boat had time to feel the helm, the 
 end of the cutter^s boom struck the mast of a 
 
A NIGHT SAIL. 79 
 
 small boat ; a shout from several voices rose 
 suddenly, and was almost instantaneously far 
 behind. Round went the yacht ; they hailed the 
 boat. 
 
 " She's lost her mast, I think/' said one of 
 Cleve's men. 
 
 " D you, where are your lights ? " shouted 
 
 a stern, fierce voice. 
 
 "No one overboard?" cried Cleve. 
 
 "No, no. You'll be the PFave, sure? Mr. 
 Cleve Verney, from Ware ? '' repHed a different 
 voice. 
 
 "Who are these fellows, do you know?'' asked 
 Cleve of his men. 
 
 " That will be Christmass Owen, sir." 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed Cleve. " And the other's 
 the old gentleman from Malory ? '' 
 
 "Well, I think 'twill be him, sure." 
 
 In another minute the punt of the yacht was 
 alongside the boat, with a message from Cleve, 
 inviting the old gentleman on board, and offering 
 to put him ashore wherever he liked best. 
 
 Shortly and grimly the courtesy was refused. 
 The wrath of the old man, however, seemed to 
 have subsided, and he gathered himself within 
 the folds of his silence again. All had passed in 
 a darkness like that of Styx. A dense screen of 
 cloud had entirely hid the moon ; and though so 
 
80 THE TEXAXTS OF MALORY. 
 
 near, Cleve could not see the old man of Malory, 
 about whom he was curious, with a strange and 
 even tender sort of curiosity, which, certainly, no 
 particular graciousness on his part had invited. 
 In a few minutes more the boat, with the aid of 
 another spar, was on her course again, and the 
 IVave more than a mile awav on hers. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE REVEREND ISAAC DIXIE. 
 
 At five o'clock next day, Cleve Verney was 
 again in Cardyllian. 
 
 Outside "The Chancery '' stood a ''fly/' only 
 just arrived. The Reverend Isaac Dixie had 
 come only a minute or two before, and was wait- 
 ing in the chamber which was still called the state 
 room. 
 
 The room is long and panelled with oak, and 
 at the further end is the fire-place. The ceiling 
 above the cornice slopes at each side with the 
 roof, so as to give it quite a chapel-hke eff'ect ; 
 a high carved oak mantel-piece, and a carved 
 wainscotting embedding in its panels a symme- 
 trical system of cupboards, closed the perspective, 
 and, as Cleve entered at the door in the further 
 wall, gave effect to the solitary figure of the 
 Reverend Isaac Dixie, who was standing with his 
 back to the fire-place on the threadbare hearth- 
 
 VOL. T. O 
 
82 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 rug, waiting, witli an angelic smile, and beating 
 time to a sacred melody, I am willing to believe, 
 with bis broad flat foot. 
 
 This clerical gentleman looked some six or 
 seven and forty years old, rather tall than other- 
 wise, broad, bland, and blue-chinned, smiling, 
 gaitered, and single-breasted. 
 
 "Capital place to read out the Ten Com- 
 mandments,'^ exclaimed Cleve. " Glad to see 
 you, old Dixie. It's a long time since we 
 met." 
 
 The clergyman stepped forward, his chin a 
 little advanced, his head a little on one side, 
 smiling rosily with nearly closed eyes, and with a 
 broad hand expanded to receive his former pupil's 
 greeting. 
 
 "Fve obeyed the summons, you see; punc- 
 tually, I hope. Delighted, my dear, distinguished 
 young pupil, to meet you, and congratulate you 
 on your brilliant successes, delighted, my dear 
 Cleve," murmured the divine, in a mild rapture 
 of affection. 
 
 " That's not so neat as the old speech, Dixie ; 
 don't you remember?" said Cleve, nevertheless 
 shaking his great soft red hand kindly enough. 
 " What was it ? Yes, you were to be my] iuta- 
 men, and I your dulce decus, AYasn't that 
 it?" 
 
THE REVEREND ISAAC DIXIE. cSo 
 
 " Ha, yes, I may have said it ; a little classic 
 turn, you know ; ha, ha ! [not altogether bad — 
 not altogether ? We have had many agreeable 
 conversations — colloquies — you and I, ]Mr. Ver- 
 ney, together, in other and very happy days," 
 said the clergyman, with a tender melancholy 
 smile, while his folded hands faintly smoothed 
 one another over as if in a dream of warm water 
 and wash-balls. 
 
 " Do you remember the day I shied that awful 
 ink-bottle at your head ? by Jove, it was as large 
 as a tea-pot. If I had hit you that time, Dixie, I 
 don't think we'd ever have found a mitre to fit 
 your head." 
 
 " Arch, arch — ha, ha ! dear me ! yes — I had 
 forgot that — yes, quite — you were always an arch 
 boy, Cleve. Always arch, Mr. Verney." 
 
 " Very arch — yes, it was what old Toler called 
 the office bottle ; do you remember ? it weighed 
 three or four pounds. I think you were glad it 
 was broken ; you never got one like it into the 
 room again. I say if it had caught you on the 
 head, what a deal of learning and other things 
 the Church would have lost ! " 
 
 Whenever it was Cleve's pleasure to banter, 
 the E-everend Isaac Dixie took it in good part. 
 It was his ancient habit, so on this occasion he 
 simpered agreeably. 
 
 o 2 
 
84) THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " It was in the little study at Malory. By- 
 the-by, who are those people you have 'put into 
 Malory ? " continued Cleve. 
 
 " Ha — the — the people who occupy iheywuse ?" 
 asked the clergyman, throwing out a question to 
 gain time. 
 
 " Come — who are they ? " said Cleve, a little 
 briskly, throwing himself back in his seat at the 
 same time, and looking in Dixie's face. 
 
 " Well, I'm the person responsible ; in fact the 
 lease is to me." 
 
 " Yes, I know that ; go on/' 
 
 "Well, I took it at the request of Miss 
 Sheckleton, an elderly lady, whom ■" 
 
 " Whom I don't care to hear about/'' inter- 
 rupted. Cleve. '^There's an old gentleman — 
 there's a young lady; who are they? I want 
 their names." 
 
 The Reverend Isaac Dixie was evidently a little 
 puzzled. He coughed, he looked down, he sim- 
 pered, and shook his head. 
 
 "You don't want to tell me, Dixie." 
 
 " There is nothing I should not be most happy 
 to tell my distinguished pupil. I've been always 
 frank, quite frank with you, Mr. Verney. I've 
 never had a secret." 
 
 Celve laughed gently. 
 
 "You wrong me if you think I have," and the 
 
THE REVEREND ISAAC DIXIE. 85 
 
 Rector of Clay dropped his eyes and coloured a 
 little and coughed. " But this is not mine — and 
 there really is a difficulty." 
 
 " Insuperable ? " 
 
 " Well, really, I'm afraid that term expresses 
 it but too truly/' acquiesced the clergyman, 
 
 " Vv'liat a bore ! '' exclaimed Cleve. 
 
 " Shut the windou", if it isn't too much trouble, 
 like a dear old Dixie— a thousand thanks." 
 
 '' I assure you I would not say" it," resumed the 
 Rector of Clay, '' if it were not so — and I hope 
 I'm in the habit of speaking truth — and this 
 secret, if so trifling a thing may be seriously so 
 termed, is not mine, and therefore not at my 
 disposal." 
 
 '' Something in that, old Dixie. Have a 
 weed? " he added, tendering his cigars. 
 
 " Thanks, no ; never smoke now,'' said he, 
 closing his eyes, and lifting his hand as if in a 
 benediction. 
 
 " Oh, to be sure, your bishop — I forgot," said 
 Cleve. 
 
 " Yes, a-ha ; strong opinions — very able lecture ; 
 you have no doubt read it." 
 
 " With delight and terror. Death riding on a 
 pipe-clay coloured horse. Sir Walter Raleigh, 
 the man of sin, and the smoke of the Bottomless 
 pit, smelling of cheroots. You used not to be 
 
86 THE TENANTS OF !kLA.LORY. 
 
 such a fool, old Dixie, /'m your bishop now; 
 I've said it, mind — and no one sees you," said 
 Cleve, again offering his cigars. 
 
 " Well, well; anything, anything; thanks, just 
 for once, only once ; " and he selected one, with a 
 playful bashfulness. 
 
 " I'm your bishop — I don't forget. But you 
 must wait till I'm — what d'ye call it? — conse- 
 crated — there, you need not laugh. Upon my 
 honour, I'm serious ; you shall have your choice ; 
 I swear you shall/^ said Cleve Verney, who stood 
 very near the title and estates of Verney, with all 
 their comfortable advowsons appendant. 
 
 The Reverend Isaac Dixie smiled affably and 
 jiQeekly with prospective gratitude, and said he 
 softly — 
 
 " I'm only too happy to think my distinguished, 
 and I may say, honoured pupil, should deem me 
 fit for a weighty charge in the Church; and I 
 may say, although Clay has been considered a 
 nice little thing, some years ago, yet, since the 
 vicar's — I must say, most unreasonable — claim 
 has been allowed, it is really, I should be ashamed 
 to say how trifling in emolument; we have all 
 our crosses to bear, my dear pupil, friend, and I 
 may say, patron — but it is good, nay, pleasant to 
 me to have suffered disappointments, since in 
 their midst comes no trifling balm in the confi- 
 
THE REVEREND ISAAC DIXIE. 87 
 
 dence you are pleased to evidence in my humble 
 fitness." 
 
 The clergyman was moved. A gleam of the 
 red western sun through the window, across his 
 broad, meek, and simpering countenance, helped 
 the efi'ect of his blinking eyes, and he hastily 
 applied his handkerchief. 
 
 " Isaac, Isaac, you shan't come that over me. 
 I dont think you fit — not a bit. I'm not an 
 Aristides, only a bishop ; and I don't pretend to 
 more conscience than the rest." His eye rested 
 on him with an unconscious disdain. " And for 
 the life of me, I don't know why I intend doing 
 anything for you, except that I promised, and 
 your name's lucky, I suppose ; you used to keep 
 telling me, don't you remember, that all the pro- 
 mises were to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob ? and 
 you are Isaac, in the middle — medio tutissimus — 
 and I think Isaac is the queerest mixture of Jew 
 and mufl" in the Old Testament, and — and — 
 so on.-" 
 
 The sentence ended so because Cleve was now 
 lighting his cigar. The clergyman smiled afi'ably, 
 and even waggishly, as one who can bear to be 
 quizzed, and has a confidence in the affection of 
 the joker; and Cleve smoked on serenely and 
 silently for a little. 
 
 " And those are really my intentions respecting 
 
88 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 3'ou/' he resumed ; " but you are to do as I bid 
 you in the mean time, you know. I say, you 
 mustn^t snub your bishop ; and^ upon my honour, 
 Fm perfectly serious, you shall never see my face 
 again, nor hear of me more, if you don't, this 
 this minute, tell me everything you know about 
 those people at Malory." 
 
 ^*'Are you really serious, Mr. Yerney? — really 
 so?" 
 
 '*■ Yes, quite so ; and I can keep my word, as 
 you know. Who are they ? " 
 
 " You are placing me in the most awkward 
 possible position ; pray consider whether you 
 really do make a point of it." 
 
 "I do make a point of it." 
 
 ^' 1, of course, keep nothing from you, when you 
 press it in that way; and beside, although it is 
 awkward, it is, in a measure right, inasmuch as 
 you are connected with the property, I may say, 
 and have a right to exact information, if you thus 
 so insist upon it as a duty." 
 
 " Come, Dixie, who are they ! " said Cleve, 
 peremptorily. 
 
 ^' Well, he's in some difficulties just now, and 
 it is really vital that his name should not be dis- 
 closed, so I entreat you won't mention it; and 
 especially you won't mention me as having di- 
 vulged it." 
 
THE REVEREND ISAAC DIXIE. 89 
 
 " Certainly ; of course I don't want to set the 
 beaks on your friend. I shan't mention his name, 
 depend upon it, to mortal. I've just one reason 
 for -wishing to know, and I have brought you a 
 journey, here and back, of a hundred and forty 
 miles, precisely to answer me this question, and I 
 luill know." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Yerney, my dear sir, I venture to 
 wash my hands of consequences, and unfeignedly 
 relying upon your promise, I tell you that the 
 old gentleman now residing in very strict seclu- 
 sion at Malory, is Sir Booth " he paused as 
 
 if willing that Cleve should supply the surname, 
 and so, perhaps, relieve him of a part of the 
 disclosure. 
 
 " Sir Booth what 1 '' 
 
 " Don't you know ? '^ 
 
 " No. You can't mean Sir Booth Fanshawe." 
 
 "Sir Booth — Sir Booth FanshaAve; yes," said 
 the clergyman, looking down bashfully, " I do 
 mean Sir Booth Fanshawe.^'' 
 
 " By Jove I And don't you think it was rather 
 a liberty, bringing Sir Booth Fanshawe to occupy 
 our house at Malory, after all that has passed ? ■" 
 demanded Cleve Yerney, rather sternly. 
 
 '^ Well, no, it really did not — I'm grieved if I 
 have erred in judgment; but it never did strike 
 me in that light — never in that point of view; 
 
90 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 and Sir Booth doesn't know who it belongs to. 
 It never struck me to tell him, and I don't think 
 he has an idea." 
 
 " / don't care ; but if my uncle liears, he'W. not 
 like it, I can tell you." 
 
 " I should not for any earthly consideration 
 have made myself accessory to anything that 
 could possibly have given a moment's pain to my 
 honoured patron, the Honourable Kiffyn Fulke 
 Verne}', or to my honoured pupil " 
 
 '' AVhy, yes, my uncle might do you a mischief; 
 as for me, I don't care. Only I think it was 
 rather cool, considering how savage he has always 
 been — what a lot of money he has cost us — get- 
 ting up contests and petitions, and vilifying us 
 wherever he could. He has left no stone un- 
 turned — but that's all over ; and I think you've 
 committed an indiscretion, because he hasn't a 
 guinea left, and my sensible old grandmother will 
 positively make you pay the rent, and that will 
 be as unpleasant as sharing your tithes with the 
 vicar." 
 
 " We are not all so wise as perhaps we should be 
 in our generation," said the Reverend Isaac Dixie, 
 with an apostolic simper that was plaintive and 
 simple. To quiet the reader's uneasiness, how- 
 ever, I may mention that this good man had 
 taken particular care to secure himself against a 
 
THE REVEREND ISAAC DIXIE. 91 
 
 possible loss of a shilliug in the matter. " And 
 there are claims to which it is impossible to be 
 deaf — there is a voice that seems to say, turn not 
 thou away.'^ 
 
 "Do stop that. You know very well that 
 Booth Fanshawe was once a man who could give 
 you a lift ; and you did not know, perhaps, that 
 he is ruined."" 
 
 "Pardon me; but too well. It is to protect 
 him against immediate and melancholy conse- 
 quences that I ventured, at some little risk, per- 
 haps, to seek for him an asylum in the seclusion 
 of Malory .^^ 
 
 " Well, it wasn't all sentiment, my dear Dixie ; 
 there's a gold thread of a ravelled tuft running 
 through it somewhere ; for whatever the romance 
 of Christianity may say, the practice of the 
 apostles is, very much, nothing for nothing; and 
 if old Fanshawe wasn^t worth obliging, I dare say 
 Hammerdon wrote or spoke to you. Come, your 
 looks confess it.'' 
 
 " Lord Hammerdon, I have no hesitation in 
 saying, did suggest '"' 
 
 " There, that will do. AVill you come over to 
 AYare, and dine with me? I'm sure old Jones 
 can give you a bed.'^ 
 
 The Reverend Isaac Dixie, however, could not 
 come. There was to be a religious meeting in 
 
92 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 the morning at Clay school-liouse ; the bishop was 
 to be there; and the rector ^Yas himself to move 
 a resolution, and had not yet considered what he 
 was to say. 
 
 So he stepped with a bland countenance and a 
 deliberate stride into his fly again ; and from its 
 window smirked sadly, and waved his hand to the 
 future patron of Fridon-cum-Fleece, as he drove 
 away; and the clergyman, who was not always 
 quite celestial, and could, on safe occasions, be 
 sharp and savage enough, exploded in a coarse 
 soliloquy over the money, and the day and the 
 ease he had sacrificed to the curiosity of that 
 young man, who certainly had some as odious 
 points as it had ever been his lot to meet with. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 READING AX EPITAPH. 
 
 Cleve Verney next afternoon was again on 
 board his yacht. Wind and tide both favouring, 
 the cutter was running under a press of canvas 
 that brought her gunwale to the water^s edge once 
 more for Penruthyn Priory. This time it was no 
 mere aquatic whim ; it was pursuit. 
 
 Searching the wooded sea-board of Malory with 
 his glass, from the terrace of Ware, he had seen 
 an open sail-boat waiting at the jetty. Down 
 came a servant with cloaks and rugs. Cleve grew 
 more and more interested as he adjusted the focus 
 of his glass more exactly. On a sudden, from the 
 little door in the boundary wall, emerged two 
 ladies. There was no mistake ; he could swear to 
 them. They were the very same whom he had 
 seen on Sunday in the Malory seat. 
 
 He watched till he saw the boat round the 
 point, and then — " Yes," he thought, " they are 
 certainly going to Penruthyn Priory." 
 
94 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 And away went Cleve Verney in pursuit of the 
 shadow wiiich he secretly adored. From Ware to 
 Penruthyn Priory is about six miles, and by the 
 time the pursuing cutter was in motion the chase 
 had made more than a mile of her course, and was 
 within two of the landing point at the ruin. 
 
 Cleve saw the two ladies disembark. It was 
 now plain that they had come either to visit the 
 ruins, or for a walk in that wild and lonely park 
 called the Warren. Cleve had brought his gun 
 with him, only for an excuse. 
 
 Little more than five minutes after the arrival 
 of the open boat, Cleve Verney set his foot upon 
 the rude landing place, as old perhaps as the 
 Priory itself; a clumsy little pier, constructed of 
 great rocks, overgrown with sea-rack, over which 
 slippery platform he strode with reckless haste, 
 and up by that steep and pretty little winding 
 lane, the trees over-hanging which look centuries 
 old, stooping and mantled in ivy. They may have 
 heard the tinkle of the bells of the prior's mule, 
 as he ambled beneath their boughs, and the 
 solemn swell of the monkish requiem from the 
 melancholy little churchyard close by, under the 
 old Priory windows. The thick stone wall that 
 fences this ancient by-road is clasped together 
 with ivy, and hoar with lichens, irregular, and 
 broken as the battlements of a ruined tower. 
 
READING AN EPITAPH. 95 
 
 The approach, and the place itself, are in their 
 picturesque sadness and solitude the very scene 
 and setting of such a romance as Cleve Verney 
 was pursuing. 
 
 Into the Warren, by the stile up this road^s 
 side, went Cleve, and climbed the gray rocky 
 hillock that commands an extensive view of that 
 wild park ; but there they were not. 
 
 Well, they must, then, have pursued the path 
 up to the Priory, and thither he followed. 
 
 Oh, ho ! here they are ; the young lady at a 
 little distance looking up at the singular ruin; 
 the old lady engaged in an active discussion with 
 shrewish old Mrs. Hughes, who was very deaf, 
 and often a little tipsy, and who was now testily 
 refusing the ladies admission within the iron gate 
 which affords access to the ruins, of which she 
 held the keys. 
 
 No situation 'could have been more fortunate 
 for Cleve. The Warren and the Priory being his 
 uncle's property, and the termagant Mrs. Hughes 
 his officer, he walked up to the visitor, and in- 
 quired very courteously the object of the applica- 
 tion, and forthwith ordered the portress to open 
 the gate and deliver up her keys; which she did, 
 a good deal frightened at sight of so unexpected a 
 dens ex machind. 
 
 An unmistakable gentleman, handsome, and 
 
96 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 plainly a sort of prince in tins region, the old 
 lady, although she did not know to ■whom she was 
 obliged, was pleased at his offer to act as cicerone 
 here, and accepted it graciously. 
 
 " My young friend will be very glad ; she draws 
 a little, and enjoys such sights immensely. Mar- 
 garet ! '' she called. The young lady turned, and 
 Cleve saw before him once more in flesh and blood, 
 that wonderful portrait of Beatrice Cenci, which 
 had haunted him for three days. 
 
 The young lady heard what her companion had 
 to say, and for a moment her large eyes rested on 
 Cleve with a glance that seemed to him at once 
 haughty, wild, and shy. 
 
 ^Vith one hand he held the gate open, and in 
 the other his hat was raised respectfully, as side 
 by side they walked into the open court. They 
 each bowed as they passed, the elder lady very 
 cheerily, the younger with a momentary glance of 
 the same unconscious superiority, which wounded 
 him more than his pride would have allowed; and 
 a puzzled recollection flitted across his mind of 
 having once heard, he could not remember when, 
 that Booth Fanshawe had married a beautiful 
 Italian, an heiress (a princess — wasn^t she ?)— at 
 all events, a scion of one of their proud old 
 houses, whose pedigrees run back into the Empire, 
 and dwarf into parvenus the great personages of 
 
READINO AN EPITAPH. !J/ 
 
 Debrett's Peerage. What made it 'worse was, 
 that there was no shyness, no awkwardness. She 
 talked a good deal to her companion, and laughed 
 slightly once or twice, in a very sweet tone. The 
 old lady was affable and friendly ; the young lady, 
 on the contrary, so far from speaking to him, 
 seemed hardly to give herself the trouble of listen- 
 ing to what he said. This kind of exclusion, to 
 which the petted young man certainly was not 
 accustomed, galled hiui extremely, the more so 
 that she looked, he thought, more beautiful than 
 ever, and that her voice, and pretty, slightly 
 foreign accent, added another charm to the 
 spell. 
 
 He made them a graceful little lecture on the 
 building, as they stood in the court. If she had 
 any cleverness she would see with what a playful 
 and rapid grace he could convey real information. 
 The young lady looked from building to building 
 as he described them, but with no more interest 
 in the speaker, it seemed to him, than if the bell- 
 man of Cardyllian had been reading it from a 
 handbill. He had never done anything so well 
 in the House of Commons, and here it was 
 accepted as a piece of commonplace. The worst 
 of it was that'there was no finesse in all this. It 
 was in perfect good faith that this beautiful young 
 lady was treating him like a footman. 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 Cleve was intensely piqued. Had she been less 
 lovely, liis passion might have recoiled into dis- 
 gust ; as it was, with a sort of vindictive adoration, 
 he vowed that he would yet compel her to hang 
 upon his words as angels' music, to think of him, 
 to watch for him, to love him with all that wild 
 and fiery soul which an intuition assured him was 
 hers. 
 
 So, with this fierce resolve at his heart, he talked 
 very agreeably with the accessible old lady, seem- 
 ing, in a spirit, I dare say, altogether retaliatory, 
 to overlook the young lady's presence a good 
 deal. 
 
 " I've got the key of the church, also ; you'll 
 allow me, I hope, to show it to you. It is really 
 very curious — a much older style than the rest of 
 the building — and there are some curious monu- 
 ments and epitaphs. 
 
 The old lady would be charmed, of course, and 
 her young companion^ to whom she turned, would 
 like it also. So Cleve, acting as porter, opened 
 the ponderous door, and the party entered this 
 dim and solemn Saxon chapel, and the young lady 
 paused and looked round her, struck, as it 
 seemed with a sense of something new and very 
 interesting. 
 
 " How strange ! How rude it is, and irregular; 
 not large, and yet how imposing!" murmured 
 
READING AX EPITAPH. Of) 
 
 tlie girl, as she looked round with a momentary 
 awe and delight. It was the first remark she had 
 made, which it was possible for Cleve Verney to 
 answer. 
 
 " That's so true ! considering how small it is, 
 it does inspire a wonderful awe," said he, catch- 
 ing at the opportunity. " It's very dark, to be 
 sure, and that goes a long way ; but its style is so 
 rough and Cyclopean, that it overcomes one with 
 a feeling of immense antiquity; and antiquity is 
 always solemn, a gift from the people so remote 
 and mysterious, as those who built this chapel, is 
 affecting." 
 
 At this point Cleve Yerney paused ; either his 
 ideas failed him, or he felt that they were leading 
 him into an oration. But he saw that the young 
 lady looked at him, as he spoke, with some interest, 
 and he felt more elated than he had done for 
 many a day. 
 
 '' Is that a broken pillar ? " asked Miss Sheckle- 
 ton, — as I shall for the future call the elder 
 lady. 
 
 "That's the font — very ancient — there's some 
 odd carving about it, which has puzzled our anti- 
 quaries,'' said Cleve, leading the way to it. 
 
 The young lady had not followed. His exposi- 
 tion was to Miss Sheckleton, whose inquisitive- 
 ness protracted it. It was dry work for Cleve. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 The young lady liad seated herself in a sort o-f 
 oak stall, and was looking up at the groining of 
 the round ribbed arches, at some distance. The 
 effect was singular. She was placed in the deep 
 chiaroscuro, a strong gleam of light entering 
 through a circular aperture in the side wall, illu- 
 minated her head and face with a vivid and iso- 
 lated effect ; her rich chestnut hair was now- 
 disclosed, her bonnet having fallen back, as she 
 gazed upward, and the beautiful oval face was 
 disclosed in the surrounding shadow with the 
 sudden brilliancy and isolation of a picture in a 
 phantasmagoria. 
 
 Verney's eyes were not upon the font on which 
 he was lecturing, his thoughts were wandering 
 too, and Miss Sheckleton observed perhaps some 
 odd vagueness and iteration in his remarks ; but 
 the young lady changed her position, and was 
 now examining another part of the church. 
 
 Cleve either felt or fancied, seeing, as the 
 Italians say, with the tail of his eye, that she Avas 
 now, for a moment, looking at him, believing her- 
 self unseen. If this were so, was it not the be- 
 ginning of a triumph ? It made him strangely 
 happy. 
 
 If Cleve had seen those sights in town, I can't 
 say whether their effect would have been at all 
 similar; but beautiful scenery, like music. 
 
READING AX EPITAPH. 101 
 
 predisposes to emotion. Its contemplation is 
 the unconscious abandonment of the mind to 
 sentiment, and once excite tendernesss and 
 mehincholy, and the transition to love is easy 
 upon small provocations. In the country our 
 visions flit more palpably before us; there is 
 nothing there, as amid the clatter and vul^ijarities 
 of the town, to break our dreams. The beautiful 
 rural stillness is monotony itself, and monotony 
 is the spell and the condition of all mesmeric 
 impressions. Hence young men, in part, are the 
 dangers of those euchnnted castles called country 
 houses, in uliich you lose your heads and hearts ; 
 whither you arrive jubilant and free, and Avhence 
 you are led by delicate hands, with a silken halter 
 round your necks, with a gay gold ring in your 
 obedient noses, and a tiny finger crooked therein, 
 and with a broad parchment pinned upon your 
 patient shoulders, proclaiming to the admiring 
 world that your estates have gone the way of 
 your liberties, and that you and they are settled 
 for life. 
 
 *^ Now, tJdSj' said he, pointing to a block of 
 carved stone placed in the aisle, " is the monu- 
 ment of old Martha Nokes ; pray ask your young 
 lady to come for one moment ; it^s worth read- 
 ing." 
 
 *' Margaret ! " called the elder visitor, in the 
 
102 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 subdued tone suited to the sacred place. " Come, 
 darling, and see this." 
 
 " This inscription is worth reading, and I can 
 tell you about the old woman, for I remember 
 her quite well. 1 was eight years old when she 
 died. Old Martha Nokes ; she died in her hun- 
 dred and twentieth year.^^ 
 
 The young lady stood by and listened and 
 read. The epitaph related her length of service, 
 her fidelity, and other virtues, and that ''this 
 stone was placed here in testimony of the sincere 
 and merited esteem, respect, and affection che- 
 rished for the deceased, by Eleanor, Viscountess 
 (Dowager) Verney, of Malory.'^ 
 
 " There's some beautiful embroidery on satin, 
 worked by her more than a hundred and fifteen 
 years ago, at Ware,'* said Cleve Verney. " They 
 say such work can't be had now. ' In the course 
 of her long pilgrimagey' you see by the epitaph, 
 *she had no less than twenty-three substantial offers 
 of marriage, all which she declined, preferring her 
 single state to the many caries and trials of wedded 
 life, and vnlling also to remain to the end of her 
 days in the service of the family of Verney, {to 
 whom she uas justly grateful,) and in ivhich she 
 had commenced her active and useful, though hum- 
 ble life, in the reign of King George the First' So 
 you see she spent all her life with us ; and V\\ 
 
READING AN EriTAl'il. lOo 
 
 tell our people, if you should happen to pass near 
 Ware — it's not an hour's sail across — and would 
 care to see it, to show you her embroidery, and 
 her portrait ; and if there's anything else you 
 think worth looking at ; there are some pictures 
 and bronzes — they'll be quite at your service ; 
 my uncle is hardly ever at AVare; and I only 
 run down for a little boating and shooting, now 
 and then.'' 
 
 " Thank you," said the old lady, and utter 
 silence followed. Her young companion glanced 
 at her for a moment, and saw her look blank and 
 even confounded. She averted her gaze, and 
 something, I suppose, struck her as comical, for, 
 with a sudden little silvery laugh, she said — 
 
 " What a charming, funny old woman she 
 must have been ! '' 
 
 And with this excuse she laughed more — and 
 again, after a little interval. Nothing more con- 
 tagious than this kind of laughter, especially 
 when one has an inkling of the cause. Cleve 
 looked at the font, and lowered his large eyes to 
 the epitaph of the Virgin Martha Nokes, and bit 
 his lips, but he did laugh a little in spite of him- 
 self, for there was something nearly irresistible 
 in pleasant Miss Sheckleton's look of vacant con- 
 sternation. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 The young lady -o as instantly grave, with even 
 a little fiery gleam of anger in her eyes, he 
 thought. He could not help raising his also, 
 now quite gravely and even respectfully, looking 
 on her. 
 
 " I think you know who we are,^'' she said a 
 little suddenly and haughtily. 
 
 " You are at present living at Malory, I be- 
 lieve,^' said he, with a respectful evasion. 
 
 " Yes j but I mean ivlio we are," said Margaret, 
 very pale, very proud, and with her splendid 
 hazel eyes fixed full upon him with the irresistible 
 inspiration of truth. 
 
 " I have heard — in part accidentally — some- 
 thing." 
 
 " Yes,^^ said the girl ; " you are Mr. Cleve 
 Yerney, and my name is Fanshawe ; and my 
 father, Sir Booth Fanshawe, is at present living 
 at Malorv.'' 
 
FAREWELL. 10-3 
 
 "My dear! are you mad?'' gasped Miss 
 Sheckleton aghast. 
 
 " Yes. We are tlie people who live at Malory, 
 and my father had hoped tliat he might have 
 escaped there the observation of all but the very 
 few persons who take a friendly interest in him. 
 The place was looked out and taken for us by a 
 person of whom we know nothing — a clergyman, 
 I believe. I have now, for the first time, learned 
 from that gravestone to whom the place belongs. 
 We know nothing of the townspeople or of neigh- 
 bours. We have lived to ourselves ; and if he 
 had known that Malory belonged to the Verneys, 
 I hope you believe he would neither have been 
 mad or mean enough to come here, to live in the 
 house of his enemies.''^ 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! Margaret ! you have ruined 
 your father,^"* said poor INIiss Sheckleton, pale as 
 a ghost, and with her trembling fingers iu the 
 air. 
 
 '•'I assure you, !Miss Fanshawe," said Cleve, 
 "you do me a cruel injustice, when you class me 
 with Sir Booth Fanshawe's enemies. There have 
 been those miserable money matters, in which / 
 never had, nor could have had, any influence 
 whatsoever. And there has been political hos- 
 tility, iu which I have been the victim rather 
 than the aggressor. Of course, I've had to fight 
 
106 THE TENANTS OF ^LiLORY. 
 
 my battles as best I could; but IVe never done 
 anything unfair or unmanly. You plainly think 
 me a personal enemy of Sir Booth's. It pains 
 me that you do so. In the sense in which you 
 seem to think it, I never was, nor in any sense 
 could I continue to be so, in his present — his 
 present — '* 
 
 The young man hesitated for a word or a para- 
 phrase to convey a painful meaning without 
 offence. 
 
 " His present ruin, and his approaching exile/^ 
 said the young lady. 
 
 '^Tm sure, sir, what you say is exactly so,'* 
 pleaded poor Miss Sheckleton, nervously. " It 
 was, as you say, all about elections, and that kind 
 of thing, which, with him, you know, never can 
 be again. So, I'm sure, the feeling is all over. 
 Isn't it, Mr. Verney ? " 
 
 " I don't think it matters much,'' said the 
 young lady, in the same tone of haughty defiance. 
 " / don't — girls, I believe, never do understand 
 business and politics. All I know is this — that 
 my father has been ruined. My father has been 
 ruined, and that, I hope, will satisfy his enemies. 
 I know he thinks, and other people think — people 
 in no way mixed up in his afifairs — people who 
 are impartial — that it was the cruelty and op- 
 pression of Mr. KifFyn Verney, your uncle, I 
 
FAREWELL. 107 
 
 think you say — that drove him to ruin. Well, 
 you now know that my father is at Malory." 
 
 " He does, darling. We may be overheard." 
 said Miss Sheckleton in an imploring tremor. 
 
 But tlie young lady continued in the same 
 clear tone — 
 
 " I can't say what is considered fair and manly, 
 as you say, in political enmity ; but, seeing what 
 it has done, I have no reason to believe it very 
 scrupulous or very merciful ; therefore, with some 
 diffidence, I ask only, whether you can promise 
 that he shall not be molested for a few days, 
 until some other refuge shall have been provided 
 for us ? And when we shall have left England 
 for ever, you will have no more to fear from my 
 father, and can afford, I think, to forget his 
 name." 
 
 There was a kind of contradiction here, or 
 rather one of those discords which our sense of 
 harmony requires, and mysteriously delights in — 
 for while her language was toned with something 
 of the anguish of pleading, her mien and look 
 were those of a person dictating terms to the 
 vanquished. Had she but known all, they might 
 have been inspired by the workings of his heart. 
 Her colour Iiad returned more brilliantly, her 
 large eyes gleamed, and her beautiful eyebrow 
 wore that anguine curve which is the only 
 
108 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 approach to a scowl Mliicli painters accord to 
 angels. Thus, though her tones ^svere pathetic, 
 she stood like a beautiful image of Victory. 
 
 In the silence that followed, Cleve stood before 
 her for a moment confounded. Too many 
 feelings were on a sudden set in motion by 
 this girl's Imrangue, to find a distinct resultant 
 in "words. His pride "was stung — something of 
 anger was stirred within him ; his finer sym- 
 pathies, too, were moved, and a deeper feeling 
 still. 
 
 " I'm afraid 3'ou think me a very mean person, 
 indeed,^^ said Cleve. "To no one, not to my 
 uncle, not to any living person, Mill I so much as 
 hint that I know anything of Sir Booth Fan- 
 shawe's present place of abode. I don't think 
 that we men are ever quite understood by you. 
 I hope that is it. I liope it is not that you enter- 
 tain a particularly ill opinion of me. I haven't 
 deserved it, you'll find I never shall. I hope you 
 Avill employ me. I hope. Miss Sheckleton, you 
 will employ me, whenever, in any way, you think 
 I can be of use. Your having, although I know 
 it is perfectly accidental, come to Malory, places 
 me under a kind of obligation, I wish you would 
 allow me to think so, of hospitality ; there is no 
 room for generosity here; it would be a mis- 
 placed phrase ; but I Avish, very much, that you 
 
FAREWELL. 1 Of) 
 
 would put my goodwill to the proof, and rely 
 upon my fidelity; only give me a trial." 
 
 I believe that every one who is speaking all in 
 earnest, and, for the moment, quite from a good 
 impulse, looks more beautiful in that momentar}^ 
 light of paradise, and certainly no handsomer 
 young fellow, to my mind, could have been 
 imagined than Cleve Yerney, as he stood un- 
 covered before the beautiful stranger, and pleaded 
 for her good opinion. 
 
 The young lady was silent, and looked at Miss 
 Sheckleton, as if deputing her to answer, and 
 then looked away. 
 
 "You're very kind. I hioiv you won't deceive 
 us, Mr. \brney," said Miss Sheckleton, ^vith an 
 imploring look, and laying her hand uncon- 
 sciously upon his arm. " I am sure you won^t 
 disappoint us ; but it is a great difficulty ; you've 
 no idea, for Sir Booth feels very strongly, and in 
 fact we don't mention the name of your family 
 to him ; and Vm sure — indeed I knoiv — if he 
 were aware that j\Ialory was Verney property, he 
 would never have come here, and if I were to tell 
 him, he would leave it at once. It was a very 
 old friend. Lord Hammerdon, who employed a 
 clergyman, a Mr. Dixie, I think, a friend of his, 
 to look out a suitable place in a very quiet neigh- 
 bourhood ; and so, without making — without, 
 
110 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 indeed, the power of making inquiry, we came 
 down here, and have just made the discovery — 
 two discoveries, indeed — for not only does the 
 place belong to your family, but you, Mr. Verney 
 are aware that Sir Booth is here." 
 
 " Sir Booth will do me the justice to trust my 
 word. I assure you — I swear to you — no mortal 
 shall learn the secret of his residence from me. 
 I hope Miss Fanshawe believes me. I'm sure 
 you do. Miss Sheckleton,'^ said Cleve. 
 
 " We are both very much obliged,'^ said the old 
 lady. 
 
 The girl's eyes were lowered. Cleve thought 
 she made just a perceptible inclination to inti- 
 mate her acquiescence. It was clear, however, 
 that her fears were satisfied. She raised her 
 eyes, and they rested on him for a moment with 
 a grave and even melancholy gaze, in which — was 
 there confidence? That momentary, almost un- 
 conscious glance, was averted, but Cleve felt 
 unaccountably happy and even proud. 
 
 "It is then understood," said he, "that I am 
 not to charge myself with having caused, however 
 unintentionally, any disturbance or embarrass- 
 ment of your plans. Do you think — it would 
 give me so much pleasure — that I might venture 
 to call upon Sir Booth Fanshawe, to make him in 
 person that off'er of my humble services, in any 
 
FAREWELL. Ill 
 
 way in which he might please to employ me, 
 "which I have already tendered to you? '' 
 
 He saw the young lady turn an alarmed glance 
 upon her companion, and press her hand slightly 
 on her arm, and the old lady said quickly — 
 
 "Not for the world ! Nothing would vex him 
 more. That is, I mean, it is better he should 
 not think that he has been recognised; he is 
 impetuous, and, as you j/u/.st know, a little fiery, 
 and just now is suffering, and, in fact, I should 
 not venture, although I need not say, I quite 
 appreciate the feeling, and thank you very 
 much." 
 
 A silence followed this little speech. The sub- 
 ject that had engrossed and excited the little 
 party, was for the present exhausted, and no one 
 was ready at the moment to start anotlier. 
 
 "TVe have detained you here, most unrea- 
 sonably, ^Ir. Verney, Tm afraid,'^ said !Miss 
 Sheckleton, glancing towards the door. '' The 
 evenings have grown so short, and our boatman 
 said we should be longer returning; and I 
 think we should have been on our way home 
 before now." 
 
 "I only wish you would allow me to set you 
 down at Malory, iu my boat, but I know that 
 would not do, so you must allow me to see you 
 on board vour own." 
 
112 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 More time had passed, a great deal, during this 
 odd scene, than it takes to read this note of it. 
 When they stepped forth from the door of the 
 tenebrous little church, the mellow light of sun- 
 set uas streaming along the broken pavement 
 and grass, and glowing on the gray walls and ivy 
 of the old building. 
 
 Margaret Fanshawe was very silent all the way 
 down to the little stone pier, at which the boat 
 was moored. But the old lady had quite reco- 
 vered her garrulous good spirits and energy. 
 There was something likeable and even winning 
 in Miss Anne Sheckleton, sixty years though she 
 looked. She did not hide her gray locks ; they 
 were parted smoothly over her intelligent fore- 
 head, and in her clear, pleasant face you could 
 see at times a little gleam of waggery, and some- 
 times the tenderness of sentiment. So that there 
 remained with her that inextinguishable youth 
 of spirit that attracts to the last. 
 
 Cleve was not one of those fellows who don't 
 understand even so much self-denial as is neces- 
 sary to commend them to old ladies on occasion, 
 lie was wiser. He walked beside her slight 
 figure and light firm step, talking agreeably, with 
 now and then a stolen glance at the silent girl. 
 Miss Sheckleton was an old woman such as I 
 love. Such as remains young at three score, and 
 
FAREWELL. 113 
 
 is active still with youthful interests, and a vein 
 of benevolent romance. 
 
 And now they stood at the gunwale of the 
 boat, and Miss Sheckleton smiling a little 
 anxiousl}-, gave him her hand at parting. 
 
 " May I ? •'^ said he, in a tone respectful and 
 even melancholy, at the same time, extending his 
 hand with hesitation toward the young lady 
 beside him. 
 
 There was a little motion in her hand, as if she 
 would have shut or withdrawn it, but she looked 
 at him with grave eyes ; was there doubt in 
 them, or was there confidence ? and gave him her 
 hand too, with a sad look. There was one strong 
 violent throb at his heart as he pressed that 
 slender gauge ; and then it seemed to stand still 
 for a moment ; and he heard the evening breeze 
 among the leaves, like a sigh along the shore. 
 Was it an omen ? 
 
 The next moment he was standing alone, w^ith 
 his hat in his hand, smiling and waving an adieu 
 over the glittering waves to the receding boat. 
 
 VOL. r. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IN WHICH CLEVE VERNEY WAYLAYS AN OLD LADY, 
 
 Cleve visited the old Priory next day, but 
 there had been no one to look at it since. He 
 took a walk in the warren and killed some inno- 
 cent rabbits, and returned an hour later. Still 
 no one. He loitered about the ruins for some 
 time longer, but nothing came of it. The next 
 day in like manner, he again inspected the Priory, 
 to the wonderment of Mrs. Hughes, who kept the 
 keys, and his yacht was seen till sunset hovering 
 about Penruthyn. He drove into the town also 
 now and then, and looked in on the shop-keepers, 
 and was friendly as usual ; and on these occasions 
 always took a ramble either over the hill or by the 
 old Malory road, in the direction of the Dower 
 House. 
 
 But the Malory people seemed to have grown 
 still more cautious and reserved since the adven- 
 ture of Penruthyn Priory. Sunday came, and 
 
CLEVE VERNE V WAYLAYS AX OLD LADY. 115 
 
 Miss Anne Sheckleton sat alone in the Malory 
 pew. 
 
 Cleve, who had been early in his place, saw the 
 old lady enter alone and the door shut, and expe- 
 rienced a pang of disappointment — more than 
 disappointment, it amounted to pain. 
 
 If in the dim light of the Malory seat he had 
 seen, once more, the Guido that haunted him, he 
 could with pleasure have sat out three services; 
 with three of the longest of good Mr. Splayfoot's 
 long sermons. But as it was, it dragged wofully 
 — it made next to no way; the shrilly school- 
 children and the deep-toned Mr. Bray sang more 
 verses than ever to the solemn drone of the organ, 
 and old Splayfoot preached as though he'd preach 
 his last. Even Cleve's watch, which he peeped at 
 with a frequency he grew ashamed of, limped and 
 loitered over the minutes cruelly. 
 
 The service would not have seemed so nearly 
 interminable if Cleve had not resolved to waylay 
 and accost the lady at the other side — even at 
 the risk of being snubbed for his pains ; and to 
 him, full of this resolve, the interval was mi- 
 serable. 
 
 When the people stood up after the blessing, 
 Cleve Verney had vanished. From the church- 
 yard he had made his exit, by the postern door, 
 from which he and his enamoured friend, Sedley, 
 
116 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 had descended a week before to the narrow road, 
 under the town wall, leading to Malory. 
 
 Down this he walked listlessly till he reached 
 that lonely part of the road which is over-arched 
 by trees ; and here, looking over the sloping fields 
 toward the sea, as if at the distant mountains, he 
 did actually waylay Miss Sheckleton. 
 
 The old lady seemed a little flurried and shy, 
 and would, he fancied, have gladly been rid of 
 him. TJut that did not weigh much with Cleve, 
 who, smiling and respectful, walked by her side 
 after he had made his polite salutation. A few 
 sentences having been first spoken about indif- 
 ferent things, Cleve said— 
 
 "I have been to the old Priory twice since I 
 met you there." 
 
 "Oh!'' said Miss Anne Sheckleton, looking 
 uneasily toward Malory. He thought she was 
 afraid that Sir Booth's eye might chance to be 
 observing them. 
 
 Cleve did not care. He rather enjoyed her 
 alarm, and the chance of bringing matters to a 
 crisis. She had not considered him much in the 
 increased jealousy with which she had cloistered 
 up her beautiful recluse ever since that day whicli 
 burned in his memory, and cast a train of light 
 along the darkness of the interval. Cleve would 
 have been glad that the old man had discovered 
 
CLEVE VERNE V WAYLAYS AX OLD LADY. 117 
 
 and attacked him. He thought he could have 
 softened and even made him his friend. 
 
 "Do you never purpose visiting the ruin 
 again ?" asked Cleve. " I had hoped it interested 
 you and Miss Fanshawe too much to be dropped 
 on so slight an acquaintance." 
 
 *^I don't know. Our Httle expeditions have 
 been very few and very uncertain/^ hesitated Miss 
 Sheckleton. 
 
 '^ Pray, don't treat me quite as a stranger/' said 
 Cleve, in a lone and earnest tone; "what I said 
 the other day was not, I assure you, spoken upon 
 a mere impulse. I hope, I am sure, that Miss 
 Fanshawe gives me credit at least for sincerity." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "Oh ! certainlv, Mr.Yerney, we do." 
 
 "And I so wish you would tell her that I have 
 been ever since thinking how I can be of any real 
 use — ever so little — if only to prove my anxiety to 
 make her trust me even a little." 
 
 " I think, Mr. Yerney, it is quite enough if we 
 don't distr\x%t you ; and I can assure you we do 
 not," said the spinster. 
 
 " My uncle, though not the sort of man you 
 may have been led to suppose him — not at all an 
 unkind man — is, I must allow, a little odd and 
 difficult sometimes — you see I'm not speaking to 
 you as a stranger — and he won't do things in a 
 
lis THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 moment ; still if I knew cxactl}^ ^vllat Sir Booth 
 expected from him — if you think I might venture 
 to ask an intervie\y " 
 
 " Quite imj)ossihle ! You must not thiyik of it," 
 exclaimed the lady with a look almost of terror, 
 "just now^ while all is so fresh, and feelings so 
 excited, he^s in no mood to be reasonable, and no 
 good could come of it." 
 
 "Well, you know best, of course. But 1 expect 
 to b« called away, my stay at Ware can't be much 
 longer. My uncle writes as if he wants me j and 
 I wish so much, short as it is, that I could improve 
 it to any useful purpose. I can't tell you how 
 very much I pity Miss Fanshawe, immured in that 
 gloomiest of all gloomy places. Such an unnatural 
 and terrifying seclusion for one so very young." 
 
 " It is certainly very triste,'^ said Miss Shec- 
 kleton. 
 
 " She draws, you told me, and likes the garden, 
 and reads ; you must allow me to lend you some 
 books, won't you? you I say; and you can lend 
 them to her," he added, seeing a hesitation, "and 
 you need take no trouble about returning them. 
 Just lock them up anywhere in the house whe 
 you've done with them, and I'll get them when 
 you leave Malory, which I hope won't be for a 
 long time, unless it be for a very much pleasanter 
 residence." 
 
CLEVE VERNE Y WAYLAYS AN OLD LADY. 119 
 
 Here came a pause ; the eyes of the two pedes- 
 trians were directed toward Malory as they de- 
 scended the road, but no sign of life was visible in 
 that quarter. 
 
 " You got home very well that day from the 
 Priory; I watched you all the way," said he at 
 last. 
 
 " Oh ! yes; the distance is nothing/^ 
 
 Another little pause followed. 
 
 " You^e not afraid, Miss Sheckleton, of ven- 
 turing outside the walls. I fear, however, Fve a 
 great deal to answer for in having alarmed Miss 
 Fanshawe, though quite unintentionally, for the 
 safety of Sir Booth's incognito. The secret is 
 known to no one but to me and the persons origi- 
 nally entrusted with it ; I swear to you it's so. 
 There's no reason on earth for your immuring 
 yourselves as you do within those melancholy 
 precincts ; it excites curiosity, on the contrary, 
 and people begin to pry and ask questions ; and 
 I trust you believe that I would not trifle or 
 mislead you upon such a subject.'^ 
 
 *^ You are very good,^' answered Miss Sheckle- 
 ton, lookiug down. ''Yes, we are obliged to be 
 very careful; but it is hardly worth breaking a 
 rule; we may possibly be here for so very short a 
 time, you know. And about the books ^' 
 
 *' Oh ! about the books I'll hear nothing; there 
 
120 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 are books coming for me to "Ware, and I shan't be 
 there to receive them. And I shall be, I assure 
 you, ever so much obliged if you^ll only just give 
 them house-room — they'll be so much safer — at 
 Malory; and you won't deny me the pleasure of 
 thinking that you and Miss Fansha^ye will look 
 over them ? " 
 
 He fancied she did not like this ; and thought 
 she seemed embarrassed to find an evasion ; but 
 before she could speak, he continued, ''and how 
 is the little squirrel I saw in the boat the other 
 day; Miss Fanshawe's, I suppose? Such a pretty 
 little thing!" 
 
 " Oh ! poor little Whisk. There has been a 
 tragedy : some horrid thing, a wild cat or an owl, 
 killed him the other night, and mangled him so; 
 poor little, dear thing, you must not ask/' 
 
 '' Oh dear ! I'm so sorry; and Miss Fanshawe 
 can so ill spare a companion just now." 
 
 "Yes, it has been a great blow; and — and I 
 think, Mr. Yerney, I should prefer bidding you 
 good-bye here/^ said Miss Sheckleton, stopping 
 resolutely, and holding out her fingers for him to 
 take ; for she was on odd terms of suspicion and 
 confidence — something more than mere chance 
 acquaintance. 
 
 He looked towards the wood of Malory — now 
 overlooking them, almost in the foreground ; and^ 
 
CLEVE VERNFA' WAYLAYS AX OLD LADY. 121 
 
 I tliiiik, if lie had seen Miss Fanshawe under its 
 shadows, nothing would have prevented his going 
 right on — perhaps very rashly — upon the chance 
 of even a word from her. But the groves were 
 empty; neither '^Erl King" nor his daughter 
 were waiting for them. So, for simply nothing, 
 it would not do to vex the old lady, with whom, 
 for many reasons, it was desirahle that he should 
 continue upon good terms, and with real regret 
 he did there, as she desired, take his leave, and 
 slowly Avalk hack to Cardyllian, now and then 
 stealing a glance over the old side-walk of the 
 steep road, thinking that just possibly his Guido 
 might appear in the shadow to greet the old lady 
 at the gate. But nothing appeared — she went in, 
 and the darkness received her. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE BOY "WITH THE CAGE. 
 
 At Ware a letter awaited Cleve, from his uncle, 
 the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney. He read it after 
 dinner, with his back to the fire, by a candle, 
 placed on the corner of the chimney-piece. He 
 never was in any great haste to open his uncle^s 
 letters, except when he expected a remittance. I 
 must allow they were not entertaining, and did 
 not usually throw much light upon anything. 
 But it was not safe to omit a single line, for his 
 uncle knew them by rote, and in their after 
 meetings asked him questions upon some pas- 
 sages, and referred pointedly to others. Uncle 
 Kift'yn was in fact thin-skinned in his vanities, 
 and was a person with whom it would have been 
 highly inconvenient to have been on any but the 
 very best terms. 
 
 Cleve had, therefore, to read these closely 
 written despatches with more attention than even 
 
THE BOY WITH THE CAGE. 123 
 
 his friend Dixie read his Bible. They were a sore 
 trouble, for their length was at times incredible. 
 
 As he read these letters, moans, and even exe- 
 crations, escaped him, such as poets describe as 
 issuing from the abode of torment — ^' Good hea- 
 vens ! mightn't he have said that in five words ? " 
 Then a '' Pish ! " — '' Always grumbling about that 
 executorship. T\'hy did he take it ? I do believe 
 he likes it." 
 
 And then Cleve read,—" I see no reason why, 
 with respect to you, I may not exercise — as 
 between ourselves, at len^t — an absolute unre- 
 serve with relation to a fact of which, through a 
 channel not necessary to particularise, I have just 
 received an authentic assurance, to the effect, 
 namely, that Sir Booth Fanshawe, whose ruin has 
 been brought about, parly by his virtual insanity 
 in opposing me with an insensate pertinacity and an 
 intense ill feeling, on which I offer no observation, 
 but involving an expense to which his impaired 
 means were obviously inadequate, and partly by 
 early follies, profligacies, and vices, is now living 
 
 concealed in the Ptue de , in Paris.^^ Cleve 
 
 laughed. " He is a person to whom neither 
 courtesy nor forbearance, as it appears to me, can 
 reasonably be held to be in any respect due from 
 me. There has been a recent order, charging 
 him, as you may have seen by the public papers. 
 
124 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 ■with £2,ol7 costs in the collateral suit connected 
 Tvith the trust cause, in Avhicli I was, though I by 
 uo means sought the position, the plaintiff, to 
 foreclose the mortora«re over Wvcroft. I have 
 written to apprise Milbanke of the fact, that he 
 may take such steps as the nature of the case may 
 suggest." " Well for Sir Booth he does not know 
 he's so near ! AYliat^s this ? A postscript ! welP^ — 
 " P.S. — I have opened my letter to introduce this 
 postscript, in consequence of a letter which has 
 just reached me in course of post from Mr. Jos. 
 Larkin, a soHcitor, who was introduced to my 
 notice about two years since by a member of the 
 Brandon family, and who is unquestionably a man 
 of some ability in his position in life. His letter 
 is accompanied by a note from Messrs. Goldshed 
 and Levi, and the two documents involve conside- 
 rations so sudden, comphcated, and momentous, 
 that I must defer opening them, and request your 
 presence at A'erney House on the 15th proximo, 
 when I mean to visit town for the purpose of 
 arriving at a distinct solution of the several 
 reports thus submitted upon a subject intimately 
 connected with my private feelings, and with the 
 most momentous interests of my house." 
 
 So abruptly ended the postscript, and for a 
 moment Cleve was seriously alarmed. Could 
 those meddling fellows who had agents every- 
 
THE 130 Y WITH THE CAGE. 125 
 
 where have fished up some bit of CardylHau 
 gossip about liis Malory romance? 
 
 He knew very well what the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke 
 Yerney would think of that. His uncle could 
 make or mar him. He knew that he had dan- 
 gerous quaUties^ being a narrow man, with obsti- 
 nate resentments. He was stunned for a moment ; " 
 but then he reflected that all the romance in which 
 he was living had been purely psychologic and 
 internal, and that there was no overt act to sup- 
 port the case which he might not confess and 
 laugh at. 
 
 "On the 15th proximo'" — Very well; on the 
 15th he would be in town, and hear his uncle 
 upon this subject, involving his " private feelings" 
 and "the most momentous interests of his house.^^ 
 Could it be that his out-cast uncle, who had been 
 dragging out a ^illanous existence in Turkey, 
 under the hospitable protection of the Porte — 
 who was said to have killed the captain of a 
 French man-of-war, in that contemplative retreat, 
 and whom he was wont respectfully to call "the 
 Old Man of the Mountains,^^ was dead at last ? 
 
 The postscript Avould bear this interpretation and 
 a pompous liking for mystery, which was one of 
 his uncle's small weaknesses, would account for 
 his withholding the precise information, and nurs- 
 ing, and making much of his secret, and delivering 
 
126 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 it at last, like a Cabinet manifesto or a Sessional 
 address. 
 
 " If the Old ]\Ian of the Mountains be really 
 out of the way, it's an important event for us ! '^ 
 
 And a dark smile lighted the young man's face, 
 as he thought of the long train of splendid con- 
 sequences that would awake at his death-bed, and 
 begin to march before his funeral. 
 
 Ambition, they say, is the giant passion. But 
 giants are placable and sleep at times. The spirit 
 of emulation — the lust of distinction — hominum 
 volitare per ora — digito monstrarier — in a wider, 
 and still widening sphere — until all the world 
 knows something about you — and so on and on — 
 the same selfish aspiration, and at best, the same 
 barren progress, till at last it has arrived — you are 
 a thoroughly advertised and conspicuous medio- 
 crity, still wishing, and often tired, in the midst 
 of drudgery and importance and eclat, and then — 
 on a sudden, the other thing comes — the first of 
 the days of darkness which are many. 
 
 ' ' Thy house shall be of clay, 
 A clot under thy head ; 
 Until the latter day. 
 
 The grave shall be thy bed," 
 
 But nature has her flowers and her fruits, as 
 well as those coarse grains and vegetables on 
 which overgrown reputations are stall-fed. The 
 
THE BOY WITH THE CAGE. 127 
 
 Commons lobby, the division list, the bureau, 
 Hansard, the newspapers, the dreary bombast of 
 the Right Hon. Marcus Tullius Countinghouse, 
 the ironies of Mr. Swelter, the jokes of Mr. Rasp, 
 — enjoy these shams while your faith is great — 
 while you may, now, in the days of thy youth, 
 before your time comes, and knowledge chills, and 
 care catches you, and you are drawn in and ground 
 under the great old machine which has been thun- 
 dering round and round, and bruising its proper 
 grist, ever since Adam and Eve walked out of Eden. 
 But beside all this delicious rape-cake and man- 
 gold of politics, Cleve Verney had his transient 
 perceptions of the flowers and fruits, as we say, 
 that spring elsewhere. There are fancy, the re- 
 grets, the yearnings — something recluse in the 
 human soul, which will have its day, a day, though 
 brief it may be, of entire domination. 
 
 Now it came to pass, among the trees of lonely 
 Malory, at eventide, when the golden air was 
 flooded with the vesper songs of small birds, and 
 the long gray shadows were stretching into dis- 
 tance, that a little brown Welsh boy, with dark 
 lively eyes, and a wire cage in his hand, suddenly 
 stood before Miss Margaret Fanshawe, who 
 awaking from a reverie, with a startled look — for 
 intruders were there unknown — fixed her great 
 eyes upon him. 
 
128 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " You've climbed the wall, little gipsy/' said 
 the beautiful lady, with a shake of her head and 
 a little frown, raising her finger threateningly. 
 " What ! You say nothing ? This is a lonely 
 place ; don't you know there are ghosts here and 
 fairies in Malory? And I'm one of them, per- 
 haps," she continued, softening a little, for he 
 looked at her with round eyes of wonder and 
 awe. 
 
 " And what do you want here ? and what have 
 you got in that cage ? Let me see it/' 
 
 Breaking through an accidental cleft among 
 the old trees, one sunset ray streamed on the face 
 of this little Welsh Murillo; and now through 
 the wires of the cage, gilding them pleasantly as 
 he raised it in his hand, and showed two little 
 squirrels hopping merrily within. 
 
 " Squirrels ! How curious ! My poor little 
 Whisk, there's none like you, funny little Whisk, 
 kind little Whisk, true little thing; you loved 
 vour mistress, and no one else, no one else. 
 He's buried there, under that large rose-bush; I 
 wont cry for you, little Whisk, any more, I said I 
 wouldn't." 
 
 She looked wistfully toward the rose-bush, and 
 the little headstone she had girlishlyj placed at 
 her favourite's grave, and the little boy saw two 
 great crystal tears glittering in her large eyes as 
 
THE BOY WITH THE CAGE. 129 
 
 she gazed; and slic turned and walked a hasty 
 step or two toward it. I don't know^ whether 
 they fell or were dried, but when she came back 
 she looked as at first. 
 
 '' 1^11 buy one of these little things, they are 
 very pretty, and I'll call it Frisk; and I'll please 
 myself by thinking it's little Whisk's brother ; it 
 may be, you know," she said, unconsciously 
 taking the little boy into the childish confidence. 
 ''What would you sell one of those little things 
 for ? perhaps you would not like to part with it, 
 but I'll make it very happy, I shall be very kind 
 to it.'' 
 
 She paused, but the little fellow only looked 
 still silently and earnestly in her face. 
 
 " Is he deaf or dumb, or a sprite — who are 
 you?" said the girl, looking at him curiously. 
 
 A short sentence in Welsh, prettiest of all 
 pretty tongues, with its pleasant accent, was the 
 reply. 
 
 *' Then all my fine sentences have been thrown 
 away, and not one word has he understood ! " 
 
 Looking at his impenetrable face, and thus 
 speaking, she smiled ; and in that sudden and 
 beautiful radiance he smiled merrily also. 
 
 All this happened under the trees close by the 
 old Refectory wall, at the angle of which is a 
 small door admitting into the stable-yard. 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 Opening this she called ^^ Thomas Jones ! '' and 
 the Cardyllian " helper/' so called, answered the 
 invocation quickly. 
 
 " Make out from that little boy, what he is 
 willing to take for one of his squirrels," said she, 
 and listened in suspense while the brief dialogue 
 in Welsh proceeded. 
 
 " He says, my lady, he does not know, but will 
 go home and ask ; and if you give him a shilling 
 for earnest, he'll leave the cage here. So you 
 may look at them for some time, my lady — yes, 
 sure, and see which you would find the best of 
 the two." 
 
 "Oh, that's charming ! " said she, nodding and 
 smiling her thanks to the urchin, who received 
 the shilling and surrendered the cage, which she 
 set down upon the grass in triumph ; and seating 
 herself upon the turf before them, began to talk 
 to the imprisoned squirrels with the irrepressible 
 delight with which any companionable creature is 
 welcomed by the young in the monotony and 
 sadness of solitude. 
 
 The sun went down, and the moon rose over 
 Malory, but the little brown boy returned not. 
 Perhaps his home was distant. But the next 
 morning did not bring him back, nor the day, 
 nor the evening ; and, in fact, she saw his face no 
 more. 
 
THE P.OY WITH THE CAGE. 131 
 
 " Poor little deserted squirrels ! — two little 
 foundlings! — what am I to think? Tell me, 
 cousin Anne, was that little boy what he seemed, 
 or an imp that haunts these woods, and wants to 
 entangle me by a bargain uncompleted ; or a 
 compassionate spirit that came thus disguised to 
 supply the loss of poor little Whisk ; and how and 
 when do you think he will appear again ? ^^ 
 
 She was lighting her bed-room candle in the 
 faded old drawing-room of Malory, as, being 
 about to part for the night, she thus addressed 
 her gray cousin Anne. That old spinster yawned 
 at her leisure, and then said — 
 
 " He'll never appear again, dear/' 
 
 '' I should really say, to judge by that speech, 
 that you knew something about him," said Mar- 
 garet Fanshawe, replacing her candle on the 
 table as she looked curiously in her face. 
 
 The old lady smiled mysteriously. 
 
 "What is it?'' said the girl; you must tell 
 me — you shall tell me. Come, cousin Anne, I 
 don't go to bed to-night till you tell me all you 
 know." 
 
 The young lady had a will of her own, and sat 
 down, it might be for the night, in her chair 
 again. 
 
 "As to knowing, my dear, I really know 
 nothing ; but I have my suspicions.'' 
 
lo2 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 "H-ra ! " said Margaret, for a moment drop- 
 ping her eyes to the table, so that only their long 
 silken fringes were visible. Then she raised 
 them once more gravely to her kinswoman^s face. 
 " Yes, I icill know what you suspect." 
 
 "Well, I think that handsome young man, 
 Mr. Cleve Yerney, is at the bottom of the mys- 
 tery," said Miss Sheckleton, with the same 
 smile. 
 
 Again the young lady dropped her eyes, and 
 was for a moment silent. Was she pleased or 
 <?w-pleased ? Proud and sad her face looked. 
 
 " There^s no one here to tell him that I lost 
 my poor little squirrel. It's quite impossible — 
 the most unlikely idea imaginable.^^ 
 
 "/told him on Sunday," said Miss Sheckleton, 
 smiling. 
 
 " He had no business to talk about me." 
 
 " Why, dear, unless he was a positive brute, he 
 could not avoid asking for you; so I told him 
 you were desoU about your bereavement — your 
 poor little Whisk, and he seemed so sorry and 
 kind ; and Vm perfectly certain he got these 
 little animals to supply its place.^' 
 
 " And so has led me into taking a present ? ^^ 
 said the young lady, a little fiercely — " he would 
 not have taken that liberty '^ 
 
 " Lilerly, my dear ? " 
 
THE BOY WITH THE CAGE. 133 
 
 "YeSj liberty ; if he did not think that we were 
 fallen, ruined people " 
 
 " Now, my dear child, your father's 7iot ruined, 
 I maintain it ; there will be more left, I'm very 
 certain, than he supposes; and I could have 
 almost beaten you the other day for using that 
 expression in speaking to Mr. Yerney ; but you 
 are so impetuous — and then, could any one have 
 done a more thoughtful or a kinder thing, and in 
 a more perfectly delicate way? He hasn't made 
 you a present ; he has only contrived that a pur- 
 chase should be thrown in your way, which of all 
 others was exactly what you most wished ; he 
 has not appeared, and never ivill appear in 
 it; and I know, for my part, I'm very much 
 obliged to him — if he has done it — and I think 
 he admires you too much to run a risk of offend- 
 ing you." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 "I do — 1 think he admires you." 
 
 The girl stood up again, and glanced at the 
 mirror, I think, pleased, for a moment — and then 
 took her candle, but paused by the table, looking 
 thoughtfully. Was she paler than usual ? or was 
 it only that the light of the candle in her hand 
 was thrown upward on her features ? Then she 
 said in a spoken meditation — 
 
 " There are dreams that have in them, I think, 
 
134 THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 
 
 the germs of insanity ; and tlie sooner we dissi- 
 pate them, don't you think, the better and the 
 wiser ? ^* 
 
 She smiled, nodded, and went away. 
 
 Whose dreams did she mean ? Cleve Verney's, 
 Miss Sheckleton's, or — could it be, her own ? 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 NEWS ABOUT THE OLD MAN Of THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Next morning Margaret Fanshawe was un- 
 usually silent at breakfast, except to her new- 
 friends the squirrels, whose cage she placed on 
 a little table close by, and who had already begun 
 to attach themselves to her. To them she talked, 
 as she gave them their nuts, a great deal of that 
 silvery nonsense which is pleasant to hear as 
 any other pleasant sound in nature. But good 
 old Miss Sheckleton thought her out of spirits. 
 
 " She's vexing herself about my conjectures," 
 thought the old lady. *' Fm sorry I said a word 
 about it. I believe / Avas a fool, but shes a 
 greater one. She's young, however, and has that 
 excuse." 
 
 " Hoiv old are you, Margaret ? " said she 
 abruptly, after a long silence. 
 
 " Twenty-two, my last birth-day," answered 
 the young lady, and looked, as if expecting a 
 reason for the question. 
 
136 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 "Yes; SO I thought," said Miss Sheckleton. 
 " The twenty-third of June — a midsummer birth- 
 day — your poor mamma used to say — the glow 
 and flowers of summer — a briUiant augury." 
 
 "Brilliantly accomplished," added the girl; 
 "don't you think so, Frisk, and you, little Comet? 
 Are you not tired of IMalory already, my friends ? 
 My cage is bigger, but so am I, don't you see ; 
 you'd be happier climbing and hopping among 
 the boughs. What am / to you, compared with 
 liberty ? I did not ash for you, little fools, did 
 I ? You came to me ; and I will open the door 
 of your cage some day, and give you back to the 
 unknown — to chance — from which you came." 
 
 " You^re sad to-day, my child," said Miss 
 Sheckleton, laying her hand gently on her 
 shoulder. " Are you vexed at what I said to you 
 last night ? " 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 " About these little things — the squirrels." 
 
 "No, darling, I don't care. Why should I? 
 They come from Fortune, and that little brown 
 boy. They came no more to me than to you,'' 
 said the girl carelessly. " Yes, another nut ; you 
 shall, you little wonders ! " 
 
 "Now, that's just what I was going to say. 
 / might just as well have bought them as you; 
 and I must confess I coloured my guess a little, 
 
THE OLD MAX OF THE MOUNTAINS. 137 
 
 for I only mentioned poor Whisk in passing, and 
 I really dont know that he heard me; and I 
 think if he had thought of getting a squirrel for 
 us, he'd have asked leave to send it to me. I 
 could not have objected to that, you know ; and 
 that little boy may be ill, you know; or some- 
 thing may have happened to delay him, and he'll 
 turn up ; and you'll have to make a bargain, and 
 pay a fair price for them yet/' 
 
 "Yes, of course; I never thought anything 
 else — eventually ; and I knew all along you were 
 jesting. I told these little creatures so this 
 morning, over and over again. If they could 
 speak they would say so. Would not you, you 
 two dear little witches?" 
 
 So she carried out her pets with her, and hung 
 their cage among the boughs of the tree that 
 stood by the rustic seat to which she used to take 
 her book. 
 
 " Well, I've relieved her mind," thought Miss 
 Sheckleton. 
 
 But oddly enough, she found the young lady 
 not sad, but rather cross and fierce all that after- 
 noon — talking more bitterly than ever to her 
 squirrels, about Malory, and with an angry kind 
 of gaiety, of her approaching exile to France. 
 
 *' It is not always easy to know how to please 
 young ladies," thought Miss She:Jileton. " They 
 
138 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 "non't always take the trouble to know their own 
 minds. Poor thing ! It is very lonely — very 
 lonesome, to be sure ; — and this little temper will 
 blow over." 
 
 So, full of these thoughts, jNIiss Sheckleton 
 repaired to that mysterious study door within 
 which Sir Booth, dangerous as a caged beast, 
 paced his floor, and stormed and ground his teeth, 
 over — not his own vices, prodigalities, and mad- 
 ness, but the fancied villanies of mankind — glared 
 through his window in his paroxysms, and sent 
 his curses like muttered thunder across the sea 
 over the head of old Pendillion — and then would 
 subside, and write long, rambling, rubbishy letters 
 to his attorneys in London, which it was Miss 
 Sheckleton's business to enclose and direct, in her 
 feminine hand, to her old friend Miss Ogden, of 
 Bolton Street, Piccadilly, who saw after the due 
 delivery of these missives, and made herself gene- 
 rally useful duriug the mystery and crisis of the 
 Fanshawe afiairs. 
 
 Outside the sombre precincts of Malory Mar- 
 garet Fanshawe would not go. Old Miss Sheck- 
 leton had urged her. Perhaps it was a girlish 
 perversity ; perhaps she really disliked the idea of 
 again meeting or making an acquaintance. At 
 all events, she was against any more excursions. 
 Thus the davs were dull at Malorv, and even 
 
THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS. 139 
 
 Miss Sheckleton was -weary of her imprison- 
 ment. 
 
 It is a nice thing to hit the exact point of reserve 
 and difficulty at which an interest of a certain 
 sort is piqued, without danger of being extin- 
 guished. Perhaps it is seldom compassed by art, 
 and a fluke generally does it. I am absolutely 
 certain that there was no design here. But there 
 is a spirit of contrariety — a product of pride, 
 of a sensitiveness almost morbid, of a reserve 
 gliding into duplicity, a duplicity without cal- 
 culation — which yet operates like design. Cleve 
 was piqued — Cleve was angry. The spirit of the 
 chase was roused, as often as he looked at the 
 dusky woods of Malory. 
 
 And now he had walked on three successive 
 days past the old gateway, and on each of them, 
 loitered long on the wind-beaten hill that over- 
 looks the grounds of Malory. But in vain. He 
 was no more accustomed to wait than Louis XIV. 
 Now wonder he grew impatient, and meditated 
 the wildest schemes — even that of Avalking up to 
 the hall-door, and asking to see Sir Booth and 
 Miss Sheckleton, and, if need be, Miss Fanshawe. 
 He only knew that, one way or another, he must 
 see her. He was a young man of exorbitant 
 impatience, and a violent will, and would control 
 events. 
 
140 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 There are consequences, of course, and these 
 subjugators are controlled in their turn. Time, 
 as mechanical science shows us, is an element in 
 power ; and patience is in durability. God waits, 
 and God is might. And without patience we enter 
 not into the kingdom of God, which is the 
 kingdom of power, and the kingdom of eternity. 
 
 Cleve Yerney's romance, next morning, was 
 doomed to a prosaic interruption. He was ex- 
 amining a chart of the Cardyllian estuary, which 
 hangs in the library, trying to account for the 
 boat's having touched the bank at low water, at 
 a point where he fancied there was a fathom to 
 spare, when the rustic servant entered with — 
 
 " Please, sir, a gentleman which his name is 
 Mr. Larkin, is at the door, and wishes to see you, 
 sir, on partickler business, please.''' 
 
 "Just wait a moment, Edward. Three fathom 
 — two — four feet— by Jove ! So it is. We might 
 have been aground for five hours ; a shame there 
 isn't a buoy there — got off in a coach, by Jove ! 
 Larkin ? Has he no card ? '^ 
 
 " Yes, sir, please.'^ 
 
 '^ Oh ! yes — very good. Mr. Larkin — The 
 Lodge. Does he look like a gatekeeper ? " 
 
 " No, sir, please ; quite the gentleman." 
 
 "What the devil can he want of me ? Are you 
 certain he did not ask for mv uncle ? '' 
 
THE OLD MAN OF THK MOX^XTAINS. 141 
 
 " Yes, sir — the Honourable !Mr. Yerney — wliicli 
 I told him he wasn't here." 
 
 ** And why did not you send him away, then? " 
 " lie asked me if you were here, and wished to 
 see you partickler, sir." 
 
 " Larkin — The Lodge ; what is he like — tall or 
 short — old or young ? " asked Cleve. 
 
 " Tall gentleman, please, sir — not young — 
 helderley, sir, rayther." 
 
 " By Jove ! Larkin ? I think it is, — Is he 
 bald — a long face, eh ? " asked Cleve with sudden 
 interest. 
 
 "Yes, sir, a good deal in that way, sir — 
 rayther." 
 
 " Show him in," said Cleve ; " I shall hear all 
 about it, now," he soliloquised as the man de- 
 parted. " Yes, the luckiest thing in the world ! " 
 The tall attorney, with the tall bald head and 
 pink eyelids, entered simpering, with hollow jaws, 
 and a stride that was meant to be perfectly easy 
 and gentlemanlike. Mr. Larkin had framed his 
 costume upon something he had once seen upon 
 somebody whom he secretly worshipped as a great 
 authority in quiet elegance. But every article in 
 the attorney's wardrobe looked always new — a 
 sort of lavender was his favourite tint — a lavender 
 waistcoat, lavender trowsers, lavender gloves — 
 so that, as the tall lank figure came in, a sort 
 
142 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 of blooming and vernal efifect, in spite of his open 
 black frock-coat, seemed to enter and freshen 
 the chamber. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Mr. Larkin? My uncle is at 
 present in France. Sit down, pray — can I be of 
 any use ? " said Cleve, who now recollected his 
 appearance perfectly, and did not like it. 
 
 The attorney, smiling engagingly, more and 
 more, and placing a very smooth new hat upon 
 the table, sat himself down, crossing one long leg 
 over the other, throwing himself languidly back, 
 and letting one of his long arms swing over the 
 back of his chair, so that his fingers almost 
 touched the floor, said — 
 
 '' Oh ? " in a prolonged tone of mild surprise. 
 " They quite misinformed me in town — not at 
 Verney House — I did not allow myself time to 
 call there; but my agents, they assured me that 
 your uncle, the Honourable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, 
 was at present down here at Ware, and a most 
 exquisite retreat it certainly is. My occupations, 
 and I may say my habits, call me a good deal 
 among the residences of our aristocracy," he con- 
 tinued, with a careless grandeur and a slight wave 
 of his hand, throwing himself a little. more back, 
 " and I have seen nothing, I assure you, Mr. 
 Verney, more luxurious and architectural than 
 this patrician house of Ware, with its tasteful 
 
THE OLD MAX OF THE MOUNTAINS. 143 
 
 colonnade, and pilastered front, and the distant 
 view of the fashionable watering-phice of Car- 
 dyllian, which also belongs to the family; nothing 
 certainly lends a more dignified charm to the 
 scene, Mr. Yerney, than a distant view of 
 family property, where, as in this instance, it is 
 palpably accidental — where it is at all forced, as 
 in the otherwise highly magnificent seat of my 
 friend Sir Thomas Oldbull, baronet ; so far from 
 elevating, it pains one, it hurts one's taste ^' — and 
 Mr. Jos. Larkin shrugged and winced a little, and 
 shook his head — " Do you know Sir Thomas ? — 
 no — I dare say — he's quite a new man, Sir Tho- 
 mas — we all look on him in that light in our part 
 of the world — a — in fact, a parvenu" which word 
 Mr. Larkin pronounced as if it were spelled pair 
 venneiv. " But, you know, the British Constitu- 
 tion, every man may go up — we can't help it — we 
 can't keep them down. Money is power, Mr. 
 Verney, as the old Earl of Coachhouse once said 
 to me — and so it is ; and when they make a lot of 
 it, they come up, and we must only receive them, 
 and make the best of them." 
 
 " Have you had breakfast, Mr. Larkin ? " in- 
 quired Cleve, in answer to all this. 
 
 " Thanks, yes — at Llwynan — a very sweet spot 
 — one of the sweetest, I should say, in this beau- 
 teous countrv." 
 
144 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " I don't know — I dare say — I think you 
 wished to see me on business, Mr. Larkin ? " said 
 Cleve. 
 
 " I must say, Mr. Verney, you will permit me, 
 that I really have been taken a little by surprise. 
 I had expected confidently to find your uncle, the 
 Honourable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, here, where I 
 had certainly no hope of having the honour of 
 finding you/^ 
 
 I must here interpolate the fact that no person 
 in or out of England was more exactly apprised 
 of the whereabout of the Verneys, uncle and 
 nephew, at the moment when he determined to 
 visit "Ware, with the ostensible object of seeing 
 the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke, and the real one of seeing 
 Mr. Cleve, than was my friend Mr. Larkin. He 
 was, however, as we know, a gentleman of inge- 
 nious morals and labyrinthine tastes. With truth 
 he was, as it were, on bowing terms, and invari- 
 ably spoke of her with respect, but that was all. 
 There was no intimacy, she was an utterly im- 
 practicable adviser, and Mr. Larkin had grown 
 up under a more convenient tuition. 
 
 " The information, however, I feel concerns 
 you, my dear sir, as nearly, in a manner, as it 
 does your uncle ; in fact, your youth taken into 
 account, more momentously than it can so old a 
 gentleman. I would, therefore, merely venture 
 
THE OLD MAX OF THE MOUNTAINS. 14o 
 
 to solicit one condition, and that is, that you will 
 be so good as not to mention me to your uncle as 
 having conveyed this information to you, as he 
 might himself have wished to be the first person 
 to open it, and my having done so might possibly 
 induce in his mind an unpleasant feeling." 
 
 " I shan't see my uncle before the fifteenth," 
 said Cleve Verney. 
 
 '' A long wait, Mr. Yerney, for such intelli- 
 gence as it falls to my lot to communicate, which, 
 in short, I shall be most happy to lay before you, 
 provided you Avill be so good as to say you desire 
 it on the condition I feel it due to all parties to 
 suggest." 
 
 " You mean that my uncle need not be told 
 anything about this interview. I don't see that 
 he need, if it concerns me. What concerns him^ I 
 suppose you will tell him, Mr. Larkin.-'^ 
 
 *' Quite so; that's quite my meaning; merely 
 to avoid unpleasant feeling. I am most anxious 
 to acquaint you — but you understand the delicacy 
 of my position with your uncle — and that pre- 
 mised, I have now to inform you^^ — here he 
 dropped his voice, and raised his hand a little, like 
 a good man impressing a sublime religious fact — 
 " that your uncle, the Honourable Arthur Verney, 
 is no more." 
 
 The young man flushed up to the very roots of 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
14G THE TENANTS OF MALOia\ 
 
 his hair. There was a little pink flush, also, on 
 the attorney's long cheeks ; for there was some- 
 thing exciting in even making such an announce- 
 ment. The consequences were so unspeakably 
 splendid. 
 
 Mr. Larkin saw a vision of permanent, confi- 
 dential, and lucrative relations with the rich 
 Verney family, such as warmed the cool tide of 
 his blood, and made him feel for the moment at 
 peace with all mankind. Cleve was looking in 
 the attorney's eyes — the attorney in his. There 
 was a silence for while you might count three or 
 four. Mr. Larkin saw that his intended client, 
 Cleve — the future Viscount Verney — was dazzled, 
 and a little confounded. Recollecting himself, he 
 turned his shrewd gaze on the marble face of 
 Plato, who stood on his pedestal near the window, 
 and a smile seraphic and melancholy lighted up 
 the features and the sad pink eyes of the godly 
 attorney. He raised them ; he raised his great 
 hand in the lavender glove, and shook his long 
 head devoutly. 
 
 " Mysterious are the dealings of Providence, 
 Mr. Verney; happy those who read the lesson, 
 sir. How few of us so favoured ! Wonderful are 
 his ways ! '^ 
 
 With a little effort, and an affectation of sere- 
 nity, Cleve spoke — 
 
THE OLD MAX OF THE MOUNTAINS. 147 
 
 *' No ver}^ great wonder, however, considering 
 he was sixty-four in May last/' The young man 
 knew his vagabond uncle Arthur's age to an hour, 
 and nobody can blame him much for his attention 
 to those figures. '' It might not have happened, of 
 course, for ten or twelve years, but it might have 
 occurred, I suppose, at any moment. How did it 
 happen ? Do you know the particulars ? But, is 
 there — is there no" (he was ashamed to say hope) 
 ^' no chance that he may still be living ? — is it 
 quite certain ? " 
 
 " Perfectly certain, perfectly. In a family 
 matter, I have always made it a rule to be certain 
 before speaking. No trifling with sacred feelings, 
 that has been my rule, Mr. Yerney, and although 
 in this case there are mitigations as respects the 
 survivors, considering the life of privation and 
 solitude, and, as I have reason to know, of cease- 
 less self-abasement and remorse, which was all 
 that remained to your unhappy relative, the 
 Honourable Arthur Yerney, it was hardly to be 
 desired that the event should be very much longer 
 deferred." 
 
 Cleve Yerney looked for a moment on the table, 
 in the passing contagion of the good attorney's 
 high moral tone. 
 
 Cleve just said " yes," in a low tone, and shook 
 his head. But rallying, he remarked — 
 
148 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " You, of course, know how the title is affected 
 by this event — and the estates ? " And as he 
 raised his eyes, he encountered the attorney's 
 fixed upon him with that peculiar rat-like vigi- 
 lance, concentrated and dangerous, which, as we 
 know, those meek orbs sometimes assume when 
 his own interests and objects were intensely pre- 
 sent to his mind. 
 
 elevens eye shrank for a second under the enig- 
 matic scrutiny which as instantly gave way, in 
 turn, before his glance. 
 
 " Oh, certainly,^^ said the attorney, '^ the public 
 know always something of great houses, and their 
 position ; that is, generally, of course — details are 
 quite another affair. But every one knows the 
 truly magnificent position, ]Mr. Verney, in which 
 the event places your uncle, and I may say you. 
 At the same time the House of Lords, your house, 
 I may call it now, are, very properly, particular in 
 the matter of evidence." 
 
 " Our consul, I suppose," said Cleve 
 
 " If he were cognisant of all the points neces- 
 sary to put in proof, the case would be a very 
 simple one indeed," said Mr. Larkin, with a sad 
 smile, slowly shaking his tall head. 
 
 " Where, Mr. Larkin, did my poor uncle die ? " 
 inquired Cleve, with a little effort at the word 
 " uncle.'-' 
 
THE OLD MAX OF THE MOUNTAINS. 149 
 
 " In Constantinople, sir — a very obscure 
 quarter. His habits, Mr. Yerney, were very 
 strange; he hved like a rat — I beg pardon, I 
 should say a rahh'it in a burrow. Darkness, sir, 
 obscurity — known, I believe, personally to but 
 two individuals. Strange fate, Mr. Verney, for 
 one born to so brilliant an inheritance. Known 
 to but two individuals, one of wiioni died — what 
 a thing life is I — but a {^\\ months before him, 
 leaving, I may say, but one reliable witness to 
 depose to his death ; and, for certain reasons, that 
 witness is most reluctant to leave Constantinople, 
 and not very easily to be discovered, even there. 
 You see, IMr. Yerney, now, probably, something 
 of the difficulty of the case. Fortunately, I have 
 got some valuable information, confidential, I may 
 say, in its nature, and with the aid of a few valu- 
 able local agents, providentially at this moment at 
 my disposal, I think the difficulty may be quite 
 overcome.^' 
 
 " If old Arthur Yerney is dead, I'll find proof 
 of the fact,' said Cleve; ''I'll send out people 
 who will know how to come at it." 
 
 " You must be well advised, and very cautious, 
 
 Mr. Yerney— in fact, I may tell you, you can't be 
 
 00 cautious, for I happen to know that a certain 
 
 low firm are already tampering with the witness." 
 
 "And how the devil can it concern anv firm to 
 
150 THE TEXAXTS OF MALORY. 
 
 keep us — my uncle KifTvn Verney out of his 
 rights ? " said Mr. Cleve Verney, scornfully. 
 
 ^' Very true, Mr. Verney, in one sense, no mo- 
 tive; but I am older in tlie sad experience of the 
 Avorld than you, Mr. Verney. At your age I 
 could not believe it, much later I would not. But, 
 ah ! Mr. Verney, in the long-run, the facts are 
 too strong for us. Poor, miserable, fallen human 
 nature, it is capable of anything. It is only too 
 true, and too horrible. It sticks at nothing, my 
 dear Mr. Verney, and their object is to command 
 the witness by this means, and to dictate terms to 
 you — in fact, my dear Mr. Verney, it is shocking 
 to think of it — to extort money.'' 
 
 " I hope you over-estimate the difficulty. If 
 the death has occurred I wager my life me^W prove 
 it, and come what will I hope my uncle will never 
 be persuaded to give those scoundrels a shilling.^' 
 
 " Certainly not— not a shilling — not a farthing 
 — but I have taken prompt, and I trust decisive 
 steps to check-mate those gentlemen. I am not 
 at liberty, just at present, to disclose all I know; 
 I don't say that I could exactly undertake the 
 management of the case, but I shall be very 
 happy to volunteer all the assistance in my power; 
 and as I say, some accidental circumstances place 
 me in a position to undertake that you shall not 
 be defeated. A break down, I may mention, 
 
THE OLD MAX OF THE MOUNTAINS. 151 
 
 would be a more serious matter than you seem to 
 suppose ; in fact, I should prefer the Honourable 
 Arthur Verney's living for twelve years more, with 
 clear proof of his death at the end of that time, 
 than matters as they stand at present, with a 
 failure of the necessary proof." 
 
 " Thauk you very much, Mr. Larkin ; my uncle, 
 I am sure, will also be very much obliged. I un- 
 derstand, of course, the sort of difficulty you 
 apprehend." 
 
 " It's not conjectural, Mr. Verney, I wish it 
 were — but it's past that ; it exists,'^ said the at- 
 torney, sadly. 
 
 " Well, I can only say, we are very much 
 obliged," said Cleve, quite honestly. "I shan't 
 forget your wish, that I should not mention our 
 conversation to my uncle, and if you should learn 
 anything further " 
 
 " You shall certainly hear it, Mr. Verney. I 
 must now take my leave. Sweet day, and a 
 beauteous country ! How blest are you, Mr. 
 Verney, in your situation ! I allude to your 
 scenery, and I may add, the architectural magni- 
 ficence of this princely residence. What a row of 
 windows as I approached the house ! What a 
 number of bed-rooms you must have ! Hardly so 
 many, let us hope, as there are mansions, Mr. 
 Verney, in that house to which we humlily trust wc 
 
152 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 are proceeding." Mr. Larkin, who, on his way 
 had called professionally upon a subscriber to the 
 Gylingden Chapel— an "eminent Christian" — 
 and talked accordingly — perceived that his meat 
 was a little too strong for a babe of Mr. Verney's 
 standing, and concluded more like an attorney of 
 this world. 
 
 " Splendid and convenient residence, and in all 
 respects suitable, INIr. A^erney, to the fine position 
 of usefulness, and, I may say, splendour, to which 
 you are about being called," and he smiled round 
 upon the book-cases and furniture, and waved his 
 hand gently, as if in the act of diffusing a bene- 
 diction over the chairs and tables. 
 
 " Won't you take something, Mr. Larkin, before 
 you go? " asked Cleve. 
 
 " No —thanks — no, Mr. Yerney — many thanks. 
 It is but an hour since I had my modest dejeuner 
 at that sweet little inn at Llwynan." 
 
 So on the door-steps they parted ; the attorney 
 smihng quite celestially, and feeling all a-glow 
 with affability, virtue, and a general sense of ac- 
 ceptance. In fact he was pleased with his morn- 
 ing's work for several reasons — pleased with him- 
 self, with Cleve Verney, and confident of gliding 
 into the management of the Verney estates, and 
 in great measure of the Verneys themselves ; now 
 seciricr before him in the great and cloudy vista 
 
THE OLD ilAN OF THE MOUNTAINS. lo3 
 
 of his future, a new and gorgeous castle in the 
 air. These chateaux^ in the good man's horizon 
 had, of late, been multiplying rapidly, and there 
 was now quite a little city of palaces in his per- 
 spective — an airy pageant which, I think, he 
 sometimes mistook for the iSew Jerusalem, he 
 talked and smiled so celestially when it was in 
 view. 
 
CHAPTER XY. 
 
 WITHIN THE SANCTUARY, 
 
 " So the old man of the mountains is dead 
 at last/' thought Cleve. '' Poor old sinner — • 
 Tvhat 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 he 
 must have been a precious fool. Of what sort 
 was your folly, I wonder — weak brains, or violent 
 will. They say he was clever, — a little bit mad, I 
 dare say ; an idea ran away with him, whip and 
 spurs, but no bridle — not unlike me, I sometimes 
 think, headstrong — headlong — but Pll never run 
 in yoio' track, though I may break my neck yet. 
 And so this Viscount Yerney, de jure — outlaw 
 and renegade, de facto — has died in one of those 
 squalid lanes of Constantinople, and lies among 
 poor Asiatics, in a Turkish cemetery ! This was 
 the meaning of my uncle Kiffyn's letter — never 
 was mortal in such a fuss and flurry about any- 
 
WITHIN THE SAN'CTUARY. 15) 
 
 thing, as he is at this moment; and yet he must 
 practise his affectation of indifference, and his airs 
 of superiority — what a fool my imcle Kiffyn is!" 
 
 Cleve walked back to the study. Things looked 
 changed, somehow. He had never perceived be- 
 fore how old and dingy the furniture was, and 
 how shabby 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 
 have been everything here. It must not be so." 
 
 Cleve went to the window and looked out. The 
 timber of Ware is old and magnificent. The view 
 of [Malory and Cardyllian and all that Verney 
 sea-board does make an imposing display across 
 the water. The auctioneering slang of the at- 
 torney, had under its glare and vulgarity a plea- 
 sant foundation of truth, and as the young man 
 viewed this landscape the sun seemed to brighten 
 over it, and he smiled with a new and solemn joy 
 swelling at his heart. 
 
 " I hope that attorney fellow, Larkin, will go 
 on and work this thing properly. It would be 
 too bad that any delay should occur for want of 
 proof — another name for want of energy — after the 
 unfortunate old fellow has actually died." 
 
 Mr. Larkin's card was upon the table, and with 
 the providence which in all small matters distin- 
 
156 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 guished him, he had written under ^' The Lodge" 
 his post-town, " Gylingden." So Cleve Verney 
 wrote forthwith to tell him that although he had 
 no authority to direct inquiries in the matter, and 
 that his uncle would, of course, undertake that, 
 he was yet so strongly of opinion that no time 
 should be wasted, and that Mr. Larkin's services 
 might be of the greatest possible value, that he 
 could not forbear writing to say so ; and also that 
 he would take the first opportunity of pressing 
 that view upon his uncle. So the letter found the 
 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 own objects 
 in view, was perhaps quite as much excited as 
 either Cleve Yerney or his uncle. 
 
 When Cleve had dispatched this note, the rest- 
 lessness and fever of this new and great suspense 
 were upon him. It was impossible to sit down 
 and read his magazines and newspapers. Had he 
 been a fisherman he might have taken his rod and 
 fly-book, and becalmed his excited spirit in that 
 mysterious absorption. But he had never possessed 
 patience enough for the gentle craft. It ought to 
 be cultivated early for its metaphysical virtues — 
 neither transient like music nor poisonous like 
 opium. For a harassed or excited mind, priceless 
 is the resource of being able to project itself into 
 
WITHIN THE SANXTUARY. 157 
 
 the condition of the otter or the crane, and think 
 oi nothing but fish. 
 
 Two sedatives, however, were at his disposal — 
 cigars and tlie sea — and to them he betook him- 
 self. Away went the JJ^ave over the sparkling 
 sea, with a Hght breeze, toward the purple dome 
 of Pendillion, streaked with dull yellow rock and 
 towering softly in the distance. Delightful sea- 
 breeze, fragrant cigars, and gently rising, misty 
 woods of Malory with their romantic interest — 
 and all seen under the glory of this great news 
 from the East. The cutter seemed to dance and 
 writhe along the waves in elation and delight, and 
 the spray flew up like showers of brilliants from 
 the hands of friendly Undines sporting round her 
 bows. Trance-like it seemed, all musical and 
 dreamy; and Cleve felt, for the hour, he could 
 have lived and died in that luxurious fascination. 
 
 Away for Pendillion ran the cutter. lie did 
 not choose idle tongues in Cardyllian to prate of 
 his hovering about Malory. He knew his yacht 
 would be seen from the pier. Active Captain 
 Shrapnell frequented it, and would forthwith re- 
 port her course in the billiard and reading rooms, 
 with such conjectures as might strike his ingenious 
 mind. So the cutter should run for that remote 
 headland for nearly an hour, and then with a 
 change of tack for Penruthyn Priory, which was 
 
158 THE TENA^'TS OF MALORY. 
 
 liidden from Cardyllian ej^es by intervening pro- 
 montories ; and not one of the wiseacres could tell 
 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 of Penruthyn 
 Priory, whence taking his gun as if for a ramble 
 in the warren, he told his men to expect him in 
 about two hours, at the turn of the tide. 
 
 Across the Warren there is a wild pathway 
 which leads toward Malory, coming out upon the 
 old road close by Llanderris churchyard, and 
 within a few minutes* walk of the wooded grounds 
 of the ancient Dower House of the Verneys. 
 
 Approached from this point, there is a peculiar 
 melancholy in the old wood. The quiet little 
 church of Llanderris, and the graveyard with its 
 old yew tree, and the curve of the narrow road 
 overhung by ivy-mantled ash trees form the fore- 
 ground, as you approach the wildest side of the 
 woodlands, 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 grassy bank like iso- 
 lated trees, and leaving wide gaps through which 
 
WITHIN THE SANX'TUARY. 159 
 
 you may see the darkened sward, tlie roots and 
 stems of the forest trees within, and the vistas 
 that break dimly into the distance. 
 
 Hours had passed since the TVave had left the 
 jetty of Ware, and the autumnal sun was already 
 declining in the early evening. There is no hour 
 and no light, not even night and moonlight — so 
 favourable to a certain pensive and half saddened 
 vein of fancy, as that at which the day gives signs 
 of approaching farewell, and gilds the landscape 
 with a funereal splendour. 
 
 When Cleve reached the old road that descends 
 by the churchyard, and through its double hedge- 
 rows looked down upon the enchanted grounds of 
 Malory, he slackened his pace, and fell into a sort 
 of reverie and rapture. 
 
 There are few of the impostures we commit 
 more amusing, than that which we habitually 
 practise upon ourselves in assigning the highest 
 moral motives for doing what pleases us best. 
 
 "If my uncle Arthur had married some one 
 whom he really loved, how diflPerently all might 
 have gone with him ! Here am I, with more 
 money ultimately awaiting me than I shall really 
 care to spend. One thousand pounds with me 
 will do more than two thousand with most other 
 men. I don't play. Tm not on the turf. Why 
 should I sacrifice my chance of happiness for the 
 
160 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 sake of a little more money, wliich I really don't 
 uant, or for the sake of party connection? If I 
 can't make my way without the aid of a wife, I'm 
 not fit for politics, and the sooner I turn to some- 
 thing else the better. Every man ought to consult 
 his affections, and to make his home the centre of 
 them. AVhere is the good of 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 you hate her, by Jove — as I know 
 fellows that do. Settlements, and political influ- 
 ence — 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 Yerney's contemplation 
 — and even more virtuous and unworldly as he 
 proceeded — in the elation of his new sense of 
 omnipotence and glory. Had he been a little 
 franker with himself he might have condensed it 
 thus, " A fancy has taken possession of me, and I 
 don"t choose to deny myself." 
 
 Troubling his visions, however, was the image 
 of his uncle, and the distant sound of his cold un- 
 comfortable voice, and a sense of severity, selfish- 
 ness, and danger, under his feeble smile. Against 
 this teasing phantom with its solemn prattle, how- 
 ever, he closed his eyes and shook his ears. He 
 had never enjoyed a sail or a walk so in all his 
 
WITHIN THE SANXTUARY. 101 
 
 life. Was nature ever so glorious before, or ro- 
 mance so noble and tender? What a pensive 
 glow and glory was over everything ! He walked 
 down the steep little curve of the old road, and 
 found himself on the path that follows the low 
 bank and thorn trees which fence in the woods of 
 Malory. 
 
 Walking slowly, and now and then pausing, he 
 looked among the glittering trunks and down the 
 opening aisles of the wood. But there was no sign 
 of life. The weeds trembled and nodded in the 
 shadow, and now and then a brown leaf fell. It 
 was like the wood of the '^ Sleeping Beauty.^^ 
 The dusky sunlight touched it drowsily, and all 
 the air was silent and slumbrous. 
 
 The path makes a turn round a thick clump of 
 trees, and as he passed this, on a sudden he saw 
 the beautiful young lady standing near the bank, 
 her hat thrown on the ground, the thick folds of 
 her chestnut hair all golden in the misty sunlight. 
 Never so like the Guido before. The large eyes, 
 the delicate, oval, and pearly tints, and the small 
 vermilion mouth, its full lips parted, he could see 
 the sunlight glitter on the edge of the little teeth 
 within. 
 
 A thrill — a kind of shiver — passed through him, 
 as if at sight of a beautiful spectre. She saw him 
 stop, and in the momentary silence, he thouglit — 
 
162 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 was it fancy? — he saw a blush just tinge her 
 cheeks. On the bank, glimmering in the sun- 
 light, was the cage with the little squirrels hop- 
 ping inside. 
 
 " What a sweet evening ! '' said he, " Fve been 
 down to Penruthyn Priory — I've grown so fond of 
 that old place. I used not to care about it ; but 
 one changes — and now it seems to me the most 
 interesting place in the world, except, perhaps, 
 one. You tired of it very quickly, Miss Fanshawe. 
 You have not half seen it, you know. Why don't 
 you come and see 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 moment 
 it loses the air of perfect liberty and caprice ; and 
 I don't know whether we shall ever see the old 
 Priory again." 
 
 " I'm very sorry," said Cleve. There was honest 
 disappointment in his tone, and his dark soft eyes 
 looked full in hers. 
 
 She laughed again a little, and looking at the 
 pretty old Church of Llanderris, that stands among 
 nodding ash trees on the near upland, she said — 
 
WITHIN THE SANCTUARY. 1G3 
 
 "That old church is, I think, quite beautiful. 
 I was exploring these woods with my little 
 squirrels here, when I suddenly came upon this 
 view, and here I stood for nearly ten minutes/' 
 
 " I'm very much obliged, I know, to Llanderris 
 Church, and Vm glad you admire it, for I like it 
 very much myself," said Cleve. "And so you 
 have got two squirrels. I was so sorry to hear 
 last Sunday that you had lost your 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 Fan- 
 shawe. 
 
 " That makes me very happy for three reasons," 
 he said, lowering his voice. — " First, it proves 
 that you have some confidence, after all, in me ; 
 and next, because it shows that you are not so 
 troubled here as you feared you might be ; and 
 the third reason — perhaps you shall never know 
 until, at least, you can guess it." 
 
 " Yes ; papa is not talking of leaving imme- 
 diately, and Fm glad of it, for I know it was 
 important that he should be able for a little time 
 longer to remain in England. And now, I think 
 my little squirrels want their nuts, and I must 
 
 go." 
 
 " Poor little prisoners ! You're all prisoners 
 
 M 2 
 
164 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 here. You shut yourselves up so jealously," said 
 Cleve. " The monastic spirit still haunts this 
 place, I think. It must be that old convent 
 ground. Almost every day 1 walk by this old 
 place, and never have seen you once, even through 
 the grille, 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 coming nearer. 
 
 "And we are good friends ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " And — and Til 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 
 the young lady within the precincts of Ma- 
 lory. 
 
 *' Don't mind coming in, pray,^' said she. 
 
 " Only for a moment — only one word," be- 
 sought Cleve. 
 
 " Well,'' laughed Miss Fanshawe, though he 
 thought a little uneasily, for she 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 dogs in the yard, and," 
 she added, more gravely, " papa has so many 
 
WITHIX THE SANCTUARY. 165 
 
 notices up 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. I want to tell you — 
 you must forgive me — but it was I who ventured 
 to send that 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 
 evidence of the sincerity of my professions — my 
 anxiety to be employed.'^ 
 
 " That little boy promised to return, but has 
 never come back," said Miss Fanshawe, throwing 
 back her head a little, and pushing back her rich 
 tresses. He thought there was a brighter colour 
 in her cheeks, and that she looked a little 
 haughty. 
 
 " He could not help it, poor little fellow. He 
 lives at Pendiliion, nine miles across the water, 
 and nearly thirty by the road. You must lay the 
 whole blame upon me — you must, indeed. It's 
 all my fault." 
 
 Miss Fanshawe was looking down upon the 
 unconscious squirrels. There was something of 
 disdain in this glance that fell from under her 
 long silken lashes askance upon them, hopping 
 and frisking within their wires, as if she medi- 
 tated sending them away in disgrace. 
 
 '' You must not be vexed with them either, it is 
 
1G6 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 all my doing, my fault, let me confess. I ran 
 down in my boat to Pendillion, and looked up 
 that little fellow who always has half-a-dozen 
 squirrels. I had to go twice to find him, and 
 then brought him here, and he met a lady in the 
 wood. There was no mistaking the description, 
 and so these little creatures are your happy captives 
 — and — I hope you are not very angry with me.'' 
 
 The colour was brilliant in her cheeks, and 
 gave a corresponding brilliancy to her great eyes ; 
 how were they so mysterious and yet so frank? 
 She looked on him gravely in silence for a mo- 
 ment, and then down upon the little prisoners in 
 the cage. Was she angry — was she embarrassed 
 — was she secretly pleased ? That odd, beautiful 
 girl — he could not quite understand her. 
 
 But Mr. Cleve Verney was an impetuous 
 orator ; when he took fire upon a theme he ran 
 on daringly — 
 
 " And Vve done more — Fm even more guilty ; 
 I'll hide nothing — IVe taken a great reward — 
 Vve got a talisman that I prize above anything — 
 this little coin;" and there was a bright shilling 
 fixed like a " charm " to his watch-guard. " It is 
 mine — you only can guess ; no one shall ever 
 know why I wore it next my heart, and you may 
 blame, but you won't quite condemn me ; and 
 won't you make it up with these poor little 
 
WITHIN THE SANCTUARY. 167 
 
 squirrels, and tell me it's all forgiven, and — by 
 Jove, here's Miss 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 ? TThat a charming evening ? " 
 and having arrived at the hawthorn tree beside 
 which they were standing, she added, in the low 
 tone in which she habitually spoke of the Baronet 
 — " Sir Booth is not very well this evening — he's 
 iu his room, and he'll stay at home reading the 
 newspapers, at all events for an hour or so." 
 
 There was a want of tact in this little inti- 
 mation which had an effect quite different from 
 that which the good-natured spinster intended ; 
 for Miss Fanshawe said, lifting the little cage, 
 and looking in upon its tiny inhabitants in the 
 sun-light — 
 
 " 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 a 
 momentary light, and the great hazel eyes looked 
 thoughtfully as she turned away ; and as she 
 disappeared among the old trees, it seemed to 
 him that a dull shadow suddenly descended upon 
 the trees, and the grass, and the landscape. 
 
 '' We are always, Mr. Vcrnev, in a fuss here ; 
 
168 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 that is, we never know exactly what a post may 
 bring us any morning or evening, or how sud- 
 denly we may have to go. You may guess what 
 it is to me, who have to arrange everything," said 
 the old lady, lifting her thin fingers and shaking 
 her head. "As for Margaret there, she's both 
 clever and energetic — but no experience; and 
 therefore, I don't allow her to take her share. 
 Poor thing, 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 ; you only half saw it 
 the other day, and I assure you it is really well 
 worth looking at; and it will make an excuse to 
 tempt her outside this gloomy place. I can't 
 conceive anything worse than being shut up week 
 after week in this solitude and darkness; you 
 really must persuade her ; 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 an effort ; 
 and I'll send for the boat without asking her, and 
 she can hardly refuse me, then. You have not 
 been here very long, Mr. Yerney ? " she added, 
 with a not unnatural curiosity. 
 
 *^ Only a minute or two before you came," he 
 answered, a little inaccurately, I think. 
 
WITHIN THE SANCTUARY. 169 
 
 " Well, then, to-morrow, I hope to tempt her 
 out a little, as you advise; aud — and'' — she 
 glanced over her shoulder towards the house — 
 " perhaps I had better bid you good-bye for the 
 present, Mr. Verney; good-bye ! How beautiful 
 everything looks ! " 
 
 She gave him her hand very cordially. AVas 
 there a sort of freemasonry and a romantic sym- 
 pathy in that kindly farewell ? Cleve felt that 
 she at least half understood him. Even in re- 
 served natures, there is an instinctive yearning 
 for a confidant in such situations, and a friendly 
 recognition, even at a distance, of one that pro- 
 mises to till that place of sympathy. 
 
 So there they parted, with friendly looks, in a 
 friendly spirit. Romantic and simple Miss Sheck- 
 leton, he felt that you were a true denizen of 
 those regions in which of late, he had been soar- 
 ing, unworldly, true. It is well for a time to put 
 off the profound attorney-nature of man — we 
 brought nothing into this world, and it is certain 
 we can carry nothiug out — and to abandon our- 
 selves for a few happy moments, to the poetry aud 
 kindness which are eternal. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 
 
 In romances, it is usual for lovers to dream a 
 great deal, and always of the objects of their 
 adorations. We acquiesce gravely and kindly in 
 these conventional visions ; but, on reflection, we 
 must admit that lovers have no faculty of dream- 
 ing, and of selecting the subjects of their dreams, 
 superior to that of ordinary persons. Cleve, I 
 allow, sat up rather late that night, thinking, I 
 venture to say, a great deal about the beautiful 
 young lady who, whether for good or ill, now 
 haunted his thoughts incessantly ; and with this 
 brilliant phantom, he walked romantically in the 
 moonlight, by the chiming shingle of the sea. 
 But I don't know what his dreams were about, or 
 that he had any dreams at all; and, in fact, I 
 believe he slept very soundly, but awoke in the 
 morning with a vague anticipation of something 
 very delightful and interesting. Why is it that 
 
AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 171 
 
 when we first awake the pleasures or the horrors 
 of the coming day seem always most in- 
 tense ? 
 
 Another bright autumnal day, with just breeze 
 enough to fill the sails of the cutter. On his 
 breakfast-table, from the post-office of Ware, lay 
 a letter, posted over-night, at Gylingden, by his 
 newly revealed good angel, " very truly, his,^' Jos. 
 Larkin. It said — 
 
 "My Dear Sir, — The interview with which 
 you this morning honoured me, conveyed more 
 fully even than your note implies your wishes on 
 the subject of it. Believe me, I needed no fresh 
 incentive to exertion in a matter so pregnant with 
 serious results, and shall be only too happy to ex- 
 pend thought, time, and money, in securing with 
 promptitude a successful termination of what in 
 dilatory or inexperienced hands might possibly 
 prove a most tedious and distressing case. I have 
 before me directions of proofs on which I have 
 partially acted, and mean in the sequel to do so 
 completely. I may mention that there awaited 
 me on my arrival a letter from my agent, to whom 
 I more particularly referred in the conversation, 
 which you were pleased to invite this morning, 
 conveying information of very high importance, of 
 which I shall be happy to apprise you in detail, 
 
172 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 when next I have the honour of a conference. I 
 am not quite clear as to whether I mentioned this 
 morning a person named Dingwell ? — " 
 
 "No, you did not/' interpolated Cleve. 
 
 "Who/' continued the letter, "resides under 
 circumstances of considerable delicacy on his part, 
 at Constantinople, and who has hitherto acted as 
 the correspondent and agent of the Jewish firm, 
 through whom the Dowager Lady Verney aud 
 your uncle, the Hon. KifFyn Fulke Verney, were 
 accustomed, with a punctuality so honourable to 
 their feelings, to forward the respective annuities, 
 which they were so truly considerate, as mutually 
 to allow for the maintenance of the unfortunate 
 deceased. This gentleman, Mr. Dingwell, has 
 been unhappily twice a bankrupt in London, in 
 early life, and there are still heavy judgments 
 against him ; and as he is the only witness dis- 
 coverable, competent from his habits of regular 
 communication with your lamented uncle for 
 years, to depose to his identity and his death ; it 
 is unfortunate that there should exist, for the 
 special reasons I have mentioned, considerable 
 risk and difficulty in his undertaking to visit Lon- 
 don, for the purpose of making the necessary de- 
 positions ; and I fear he cannot be induced to 
 take that step without some considerable pecu- 
 niary sacrifice on your part. This will necessarily 
 
AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 173 
 
 form one of the topics for discussion at the pro- 
 posed conference of the 15th prox.; and it is no 
 small point in our favour satisfactorily to be 
 assured that a witness to the cardinal points to 
 which I have referred, is actually produceable, and 
 at this moment in communication with me. 
 " I have the honour to be, dear Sir, 
 " Very truly yours, 
 
 " Jos. Larkin. 
 " The Lodge, Gylingden. 
 
 "P.S. I may mention that the Jewish firm to 
 which I have referred, have addressed to me a 
 letter, apprising me of the decease of the Hon. 
 Arthur Verney, a step which, as terminating the 
 annuities on which they received an annual per- 
 centage, they would not, I presume, have adopted, 
 had they not been absolutely certain of the event, 
 and confident also that we must, if they were 
 silent, be otherwise apprised of it.'' 
 
 I think our old friend, Jos. Larkin, wrote this 
 letter with several views, one of which was that, 
 in the event of his thinking proper, some years 
 hence, notwithstanding his little flourishes of 
 gratuitous service, to unmuzzle the ox who had 
 trod out the corn, and to send in his little bill, it 
 might help to show that he had been duly in- 
 structed to act in this matter at least bv Mr. Cleve 
 
174 THE TENANTS OF MALOllV. 
 
 Yerney. The other object^ that of becoming the 
 channel of negotiating terms with Mr. Dingwell, 
 offered obvious advantages to a gentleman of 
 acquisitive diplomacy and ingenious morals. 
 
 Cleve, however, had not yet learned to suspect 
 this Christian attorney, and the letter on the 
 whole was highly satisfactory. 
 
 " Capital man of business, this Mr. Larkin ! 
 Who could have expected an answer, and so full 
 an answer, so immediately to his letter ? That is 
 the kind of attorney the world sighed for. Eager, 
 prompt, clear, making his clients' interests his 
 own^' — more literally sometimes than Cleve was 
 yet aware — " disinterested, spirited, for was he 
 not risking his time, skill, and even money, with- 
 out having been retained in this matter, and with 
 even a warning that he might possibly never be 
 so ? Did he not also come in the livery of 
 religion, and discuss business, as it were, in a 
 white robe and with a palm in his hand ? And 
 was it not more unlikely that a man who com- 
 mitted himself every hour to the highest principles 
 should practise the lowest, than a person who 
 shirked the subject of virtue, and thought religion 
 incongruous with his doings?" Perhaps, Cleve 
 thought, there is a little too much of that solemn 
 flam. But who can object if it helps to keep him 
 straight ? 
 
AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 175 
 
 This was a day of surprises. Cleve had gone 
 up to his room to replenish his cigar-case, when a 
 chaise drove up to the hall door of Ware, and 
 looking out he beheld with a sense of dismay liis 
 uncle's man, Mr. Ridley, descending from his seat 
 on the box, and opening the door of the vehicle, 
 from which the thin stiflP figure of the Hon. Kiffyn 
 Fulke Verney descended, and entered the house. 
 
 Could the devil have hit upon a more ill- 
 natured plan for defeating the delightful hopes of 
 that day? AYhy could not that teasing old man 
 stay where he was ? Heaven only knows for how 
 many days he might linger at Ware, lecturing 
 Cleve upon themes on which his opinion was not 
 worth a pin, directing him to write foolish letters, 
 and now and then asking him to obleege him by 
 copying papers of which he required duplicates, 
 benumbing him with his chilly presence, and 
 teasing him by his exactions. 
 
 Cleve groaned when he saw this spectacle from 
 his window, and muttered something, I don't care 
 what. 
 
 '^Let him send for me if he w^ants me. I 
 shan't pretend to have seen him,'' was Cleve's 
 petulant resolve. But a knock at his room 
 door, with an invitation from his uncle to visit 
 him in the library, settled the question. 
 
 "How d'ye do, Cleve?" and his uncle, who 
 
176 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 was sitting ia a great chair at the table, with 
 some letters, noted, and folded into long slim 
 parallelograms, already before him, put forth a 
 thin hand for him to shake, throwing back his 
 head, and fixing his somewhat dull grey eyes with 
 an imperious sort of curiosity upon him, he said, 
 •'Yes — yes — recruiting. I was always in favour 
 of making the most of the recess, about it. You 
 make the most of it. I saw Winkledon and your 
 friend Colonel Tellerton at Dyce's yesterday, and 
 talked with 'em about it, and they both agreed 
 with me, we are pretty sure of a stormy session, 
 late sittings, and no end of divisions, and I am 
 glad you are taking your holiday so sensibly. The 
 Wave's here, isn't she ? And you sail in her a 
 good deal, I dare say, about it, and youVe got 
 yourself a good deal sunburnt. Yes, the sun does 
 that; and you're looking very well, about it, I 
 thmk, very well indeed.'^ 
 
 To save the reader trouble, I mention here, 
 that the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney has a habit 
 of introducing the words " about it,'' as everybody 
 is aware who has the honour of knowing him, 
 without relation to their meaning, but simply to 
 caulk, as it were, the seams of his sentences, to 
 stop them where they open, and save his speech 
 from foundering for want of this trifling half- 
 pennyworth of oakum. 
 
AX UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 177 
 
 "Very lonely, sir, Ware is. You've come to 
 stay for a little time perhaps/^ 
 
 " Oh ! no. Oh, dear no. My view upon that 
 subject is very decided indeed, as you know. I 
 ask myself tliis question, — What good can I pos- 
 sibly do, about it, by residing for any time at 
 Ware, until my income shall have been secured, 
 and my proper position ascertained and recog- 
 nised ? I find myself, by the anomalous absurdity 
 of our existing law, placed in a position, about it, 
 of so much difficulty and hardship, that although 
 the people must feel it very much, and the 
 county regret it, I feel it only due to myself, to 
 wash my hands about it, of the entire thing for 
 the present, and to accept the position of a mere 
 private person, which the existing law, in its 
 wisdom, imposes upon me — don't you see ? " 
 
 "It certainly is," acquiesced Cleve, '' sl gross 
 absurdity that there should be no provision for 
 such a state of things/^ 
 
 "Absurdity! my dear sir, I don't call it 
 absurdity at alj^ I call it rank injustice, and a 
 positive cruelty " said the feeble voice of this old 
 gentleman with an eager quaver in it, while, as 
 always occurred when he was suddenly called on 
 for what he called his " sentiments'' upon this 
 intolerable topic, a pink flush suffused his thin 
 temples and narrow forehead. Here I am, about 
 
 yoL. I. N 
 
178 THE TENANTS OF [MALORY. 
 
 it, invested by opinion, don't you see, and a moral 
 constraint, -with the liabilities of a certain posi- 
 tion, and yet excluded from its privileges and 
 opportunities. And what, I ask myself, can come 
 of such a thing, except the sort of thing, about it, 
 •which we see going on ? Don't you see ? '^ 
 
 " Any news of any kind from the East, sir ? " 
 asked Cleve. 
 
 "Well, now, wait — a— a — I'll come to it — Vm 
 coming to that. I wrote to you to say that you 
 were to meet me in town, d'ye see, on the fif- 
 teenth, and I mean to have a Mr. Larkin, an 
 attorney, a very proper person in his rank of life 
 — a very proper person — about it, to meet us and 
 produce his papers, and make his statement 
 again. And I may tell you that he's of opinion, 
 and under the impression, that poor Arthur is 
 deadj about it ; and now you'll read this letter — 
 very good, and now this — very good, and now 
 this.^' 
 
 As he handed these papers over to Cleve in 
 succession, the young gentleman thought his 
 uncle's air a little grander than usual, and fancied 
 there was a faint simper of triumph discernible 
 under the imposing solemnity of his looks. 
 
 "A — well, that's all, at present; and imme- 
 diately on receiving the first of these I wrote to 
 the consul there — a very proper man, very well 
 
AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 179 
 
 connected ; I was, I may say, instrumental in 
 getting his appointment for him — saying he\l 
 obleege me by instituting inquiry and communi- 
 cating the result, and possibly I may hear before 
 the fifteenth ; and I should be very glad, about 
 it, to learn or know something definite, in which 
 case, you see, there would be a natural solution 
 of the complication, and poor Arthur's death, 
 about it, would clear up the whole thing, as in 
 fact it does in all such cases, don^t you see ? " 
 
 " Of course, sir, perfectly/^ 
 
 ''And as to mourning and all that, about it, 
 I don't quite see my way ; no, I don't ; because, 
 d'ye see, I rather think there should be nothing 
 of the kind : but it's time enough to decide what 
 the house of Verney are to do when I shall have 
 all the circumstances, don't you see, and every- 
 thing/' 
 
 Cleve acquiesced. 
 
 " And if the dissolution comes next autumn — 
 as they apprehend it may — you'll have no annoy- 
 ance from the old quarter — Sir Booth Fanshawe 
 — he's quite ruined — about it ; and he's been 
 obhged to leave the country; he's in France, I 
 understand, and I've directed our people in town 
 to follow up the proceedings as sharply as pos- 
 sible. He has never spared me, egad, and has 
 often distressed me very seriously by his malevo- 
 
 -N 2 
 
180 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 lent and utterly wanton opposition where he had 
 absolutely no chance whatever, and knew it, nor 
 any object, I give you my honour, except to 
 waste my money, when, owing to the absurd and 
 cruel position I was placed in, he knew very well 
 I could not have a great deal to throw away. 1 
 look upon a person of that kind as a mere nui- 
 sance ; and I look upon it as a matter of dooty 
 and of principle, about it, which one owes to 
 society, don't you see, to exterminate them like 
 vermin. And if you want to stop it, you mustn't 
 let him oflP when you've got the advantage at last, 
 don't you see? You must follow it up, and show 
 evil-disposed people that if they choose to play 
 that game they may, but that you won't let ^em 
 off, about it, and that/' 
 
 These were not very pleasant words in Cleve's 
 ears. 
 
 '^ And, egad, sir, I'll make an example of that 
 person — I owe it to the principle of fair political 
 warfare, about it. What business had he to run 
 me into six thousand pounds expense for nothing, 
 when he had not really a hundred pounds at the 
 time he could call his own ? And I ask myself, 
 where's the good of laws if there's no way of 
 reaching a person who commits, from the worst 
 possible motives, an outrage like that, and goes 
 on doing that sort of thing, about it ? " 
 
AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 181 
 
 Here the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney paused for 
 a minute, and then looked at his watch. 
 
 " Just ten minutes still left me. TU ask you 
 to touch the beli, Cleve. I'm going to the rail- 
 way — to Llwynau, about it, and to see the people 
 at Heathcote Hall ; and I^ve been tliinking you 
 ought to turn over in your mind what I said last 
 Easter, when we were at Dawling Hill, If this 
 affair of poor Arthur's should turn out to be 
 quite true, I think the connection would re- 
 commend itself to most people,^^ he said, grandly, 
 " and in fact you might strengthen yourself very 
 materially, about it. You could not do better 
 than marry Ethel ; depend upon it, the connection 
 will serve you. Her uncle, you know — always 
 some of that family — in the Cabinet ; and Dor- 
 minster, they say — every one says it — Winkledon, 
 for instance, and Colonel Tellers, about it — they 
 both said the other day he^U very probably be 
 Minister. Every one says that sort of thing, 
 about it; and it has been my opinion a long 
 time before people generally began to say so, and 
 things of that sort, don't you see ? " 
 
 As a general rule, Cleve knew that there was 
 no use in fighting any favourite point with his 
 uncle. He acquiesced and relied upon dilatory 
 opportunities and passive resistance; so now he 
 expressed himself most gratefully for the interest 
 
182 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 he had always taken in him, and seemed to lend an 
 attentive ear, while the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney 
 rambled on upon this theme in his wise and 
 quietly dictatorial way. It was one of his plea- 
 santest occupations, and secretly pleased his self- 
 love, this management of Cleve Verney — really a 
 promising young man — and whom he magnified, 
 as he did everything else that belonged to him, 
 and whose successes in the House, and growth in 
 general estimation, he quietly took to himself as 
 the direct consequence of his own hints and 
 manipulations, and his " keeping the young man 
 straight about it." 
 
 '^ He has an idea — the young man has — that I 
 know something about it — that I have seen some 
 public life, and known people — and things of that 
 sort. He is a young man who can take a hint, 
 and, egad, I think I've kept him pretty straight 
 about it up to this, and put him on a right track, 
 and things; and if I'm spared, I'll put him on, 
 sir. I know pretty well about things, and you 
 see the people talk to me, and they listen to me, 
 about it, and I make him understand what he^s 
 about, and things/^ 
 
 And then came the parting. He gave Cleve 
 ten pounds, which Mrs. Jones, the draper's wife, 
 used to distribute for him among certain poor 
 people of Cardyllian. So his small soul was not 
 
AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 183 
 
 destitute of kindliness, after its fashion ; and he 
 drove away from Ware, and Cleve stood upon the 
 steps, smiling, and waving his hand, and repeat- 
 ing, " On the fifteenth," and then suddenly was 
 grave. 
 
CHAPTER XVIT. 
 
 THEY VISIT THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYN AGAIN. 
 
 Very grave was Cleve Verney as tlie vehicle 
 disappeared. His uncle^s conversation had been 
 very dismal. "Ethel, indeed! What an old 
 bore he is, to be sure ! Well, no matter ; we 
 shall see who'll win the game. He is so obstinate 
 and selfish.^' There was, indeed, an enemy in 
 front — an up-hill battle before him. He prayed 
 heaven, at all events, that the vindictive old 
 gentleman might not discover the refuge of Sir 
 Booth Fanshawe. Were he to do so, what a 
 situation for Cleve ! He would talk the matter 
 over with his nucleus attorneys, who knew him, 
 with whom he had often been deputed to confer 
 on other things ; who, knowing that he stood 
 near the throne, would listen to him, and they 
 would not be over zealous in hunting the old 
 Baronet down. With those shrewd suspicious 
 fellows, Cleve would put it all on election grounds. 
 Sir Booth was in a kind of way popular. There 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYN AGAIN. 185 
 
 would be a strong feeling against any extreme or 
 vindictive courses being taken by his uncle, and 
 this would endanger, or at all events embarrass 
 Cleve very seriously. 
 
 Away shadows of the future — smoke and 
 vapours of the pit ! Let us have the sun and air 
 of heaven while we may. What a charming day ! 
 how light and pleasant the breeze ! The sails 
 rattle, quiver and fill, and stooping to the breeze, 
 away goes the TFave — and, with a great sigh, 
 away go Cleve's troubles, for the present ; and his 
 eye travels along the sea-board, from Cardyllian 
 on to Malory, and so to the dimmer outline of 
 Penruthyn Priory. 
 
 As usual, they ran for Pendillion — the wind 
 favouring — and at two o'clock Cleve stood on the 
 sea-rocked stones of the rude pier of Penruthyn, 
 and ordered his men to bring the yacht, seaward, 
 round the point of Cardrwydd, and there to await 
 him. There was some generalship in this. His 
 interview of the morning had whetted his instincts 
 of caution. Round Cardrwydd the men could 
 not see, and beside he wanted no one — especially 
 not that young lady, whom the sight might move 
 to he knew not what capricious resolve, to see the 
 fVave in the waters of Penruthyn. 
 
 Away went the yacht, and Cleve strolled up 
 to the ancient Priory, from the little hillock 
 
186 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 beyond which is a view of the sea half way to 
 Malory. 
 
 Three o'clock came, and no sail in sight. 
 
 " They're not coming. I shan^t see her. They 
 must have seen our sail. Hang it, I knew we 
 tacked too soon. And she^s such an odd girl, I 
 think, if she fancied I were here she'd rather stay 
 at home, or go anywhere else. Three o'clock ! " 
 He held his watch to his ear for a moment. '' By 
 Jove ! I thought it had stopped. That hour 
 seems «o long. I won't give it up yet, though. 
 That" — he was going to call him brute, but even 
 under the irritation of the hypothesis he could 
 not — "that oddity. Sir Booth, may have upset 
 their plans or delayed them." 
 
 So, with another long look over the lonely sea 
 toward Malorj^, he descended from his post of 
 observation, and sauntered, rather despondingly, 
 by the old Priory, and down the steep and pretty 
 old road, that sinuously leads to the shore and 
 the ruinous little quay, for which boats of tourists 
 still make. He listened and lingered on the way. 
 His mind misgave him. He would have deferred 
 the moment when his last hope was to go out, 
 and the chance of the meeting, which had been 
 his last thought at night, and his first in the 
 morning, should lose itself in the coming shades 
 of night. Yes, he would allow them a little time 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYX AGAIN. 187 
 
 — it could not be much — aud if a sail were not in 
 sight by the time he reached the strand he would 
 give all up, and set out upon his dejected walk to 
 Cardrwydd. 
 
 He halted and lingered for awhile in that em- 
 bowered part of the little by-road which opens 
 on the shore, half afraid to terminate a sus- 
 pense in which was still a hope. With an effort, 
 then, he walked on, over the little ridge of 
 sand and stones, and, lo ! there was the boat 
 with furled sails by the broken pier, and 
 within scarce fifty steps the Malory ladies were 
 approaching. 
 
 He raised his hat — he advanced quickh' — not 
 knowing quite how he felt, and hardly recollect- 
 ing the minute after it was spoken, what he had 
 said. He only saw that the young lady seemed 
 surprised and grave. He thought she was even 
 vexed. 
 
 '' I'm so glad we've met you here, Mr. Verney," 
 said artful Miss Sheckleton. "1 was just think- 
 ing, compared with our last visit, how little profit 
 we should derive from our preseut. I'm such a 
 dunce in ancient art and architecture, and in all 
 the subjects, in fact, that help one to understand 
 such a building as this, that I despaired of enjoy- 
 ing our excursion at all as I did our last; but, 
 perhaps you are leaving, and once more is too 
 
188 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 much to impose such a task as you undertook on 
 our former visit." 
 
 " Goincj away ! You could not really think 
 such a thing possible, while I had a chance of 
 your permitting me to do the honours of our poor 
 Priory." 
 
 He glanced at Miss Fanshawe, who was at the 
 other side of the chatty old lady, as they walked 
 up the dim monastic road ; but the Guido was 
 looking over the low wall into the Warren, and 
 his glance passed by unheeded. 
 
 "I'm so fond of this old place/' said Cleve, to 
 fill in a pause. " I should be ashamed to say — 
 youM think me a fool almost — how often I take a 
 run over here in my boat, and wander about its 
 grounds and walls, quite alone. If there^s a 
 transmigration of souls, I dare say mine once 
 inhabited a friar of Penruthyn — I feel, especially 
 since I last came to Ware, such an affection for 
 the old place.'^ 
 
 " It's a very nice taste, Mr. Verney. You have 
 no reason to be ashamed of it/^ said the old lady, 
 decisively. " Young men, now-a-days, are so 
 given up to horses and field games, and so little 
 addicted to anything refined, that I'm quite glad 
 when I discover any nice taste or accomplishment 
 among them. You must have read a great deal, 
 Mr. Verney, to be able to tell us all the 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYN AGAIN. 189 
 
 curious tliiugs you did about this old place and 
 others." 
 
 "Perhaps I'm only making a great effort — a 
 show of learning on an extraordinary occasion. 
 You must see how my stock lasts to-day. You 
 are looking into that old park, Miss Fanshawe/' 
 said Cleve, slily crossing to her side. " We call 
 it the Warren ; but it was once the Priory Park. 
 There is a very curious old grant from the Prior 
 of Penruthyn, which my uncle has at Ware, of 
 a right to pasture a certain number of cows in 
 the park, on condition of aiding the verderer in 
 keeping up the green underwood. There is a 
 good deal of holly still there, and some relics of 
 the old timber, but not much. There is not 
 shelter for deer now. But you never saw any- 
 thing like the quantity of rabbits; and there are 
 really, here and there, some very picturesque 
 fragments of old forest — capital studies of huge 
 oak trees in the last stage of venerable decay and 
 decrepitude, and very well worthy of a place in 
 your sketch-book." 
 
 " I dare say ; I should only fear my book is 
 hardly worthy of them," said Miss Fanshawe. 
 
 " I forgot to show you this when you were here 
 before." He stopped short, brushing aside the 
 weeds with his walking-cane. *' Here are the 
 bases of the piers of the old park gate." 
 
190 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 The little party stopped, and looked as people 
 do on such old-world relics. But there was more 
 than the conventional interest ; or rather some- 
 thing quite different — something at once sullen 
 and pensive in the beautiful face of the girl. She 
 stood a little apart, looking down on that old 
 masonry. "What is she thinking of?" he spe- 
 culated ; " is she sad, or is she offended ? is it 
 pride, or melancholy, or anger ? or is it only the 
 poetry of these dreamy old places that inspires 
 her reverie ? I don't think she has listened to 
 one word I said about it. She seemed as much a 
 stranger as the first day T met her here;^'' and 
 his heart swelled with a bitter yearning, as he 
 glanced at her without seeming to do so. And 
 just then, with the same sad face, she stooped and 
 plucked two pretty wild flowers that grew by the 
 stones, under the old wall. It seemed to him 
 like the action of a person walking in a dream — 
 half unconscious of what she was doing, quite 
 unconscious of everyone near her. 
 
 "AVhat shall we do?'^ said Cleve, as soon as 
 they had reached the enclosure of the buildings. 
 " Shall we begin at the refectory and library, or 
 return to the chapel, which we had not quite 
 looked over when you were obliged to go, on your 
 last visit ? " 
 
 This question his eyes directed to Miss Fan- 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYX AGAIN. 191 
 
 shawe ; but as she did not so receive it, Miss 
 Sheckleton took on herself to answer for the party. 
 So into the chapel they went — into shadow and 
 seclusion. Once more among the short rude 
 columns, the epitaphs, and round arches, in dim 
 light, and he shut the heavy door with a clap 
 that boomed through its lonely aisles, and re- 
 joiced in his soul at having secured if it were 
 only ten minutes' quiet and seclusion again 
 with the ladies of Malory. It seemed like a 
 dream. 
 
 " I quite forgot. Miss Fanshawe,*' said he, art- 
 fully compelling her attention, " to show you a 
 really curious, and even mysterious tablet, which 
 is very old, and about which are ever so many 
 stories and conjectures.^' 
 
 He conveyed them to a recess between two 
 windows, where in the shade is a very old mural 
 tablet. 
 
 " It is elaborately carved, and is dated, you see, 
 14:11. If you look near you will see that the 
 original epitaph has been chipped off near the 
 middle, and the word * Eheu,^ which is Latin for 
 ' alas !' cut deeply into the stone." 
 
 '^ What a hideous skull ! '' exclaimed the young 
 lady, looking at the strange carving of that em- 
 blem, which projected at the summit of the 
 tablet. 
 
192 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " Yes, what a diabolical expression ! Isn't it ?" 
 said Cleve. 
 
 "Are not those tears?'' continued Miss Fan - 
 shawc, curiously. 
 
 '^Ko, look more nearly and you will see. They 
 are worms — great worms — crawling from the eyes, 
 and knotting themselves, as you see," answered 
 Cleve. 
 
 " Yes," said the lady, with a slight shudder, 
 " and what a wicked grin the artist has given to 
 the mouth. It is wonderfully powerful! What 
 rage and misery ! It is an awful image ! Is that 
 a tongue?" 
 
 "A tongue of lire. It represents a flame 
 issuing from between the teeth ; and on the scroll 
 beneath, which looks, you see, like parchment 
 shrivelled by fire are the words in Latin, ' Where 
 their worm dieth not, and the fire is not 
 quenched ; ' and here is the epitaph — ' Hie sunt 
 ruinse, forma letifera, cor mortuum, lubrica 
 lingua dccmonis, digitus proditor, nunc gehenna^ 
 favilla. Plorate. Plaudite.' It is Latin, and the 
 meaning is, * Here are ruins, fatal beauty, a dead 
 heart, the slimy tongue of the demon, a traitor 
 finger, now ashes of gehenna. Lament. Applaud.' 
 Some people say it is the tomb of the wicked 
 Lady Mandeville, from whom we have the honour 
 of being descended, who with her traitor finger 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYX AGAIN. 198 
 
 indicated the place where her husband was con- 
 cealed ; and afterwards was herself put to death, 
 they say, though I never knew any evidence of it, 
 by her own son. All this happened in the Castle 
 of Cardyllian, which accounts for her being buried 
 in the comparative seclusion of the Priory, and 
 yet so near Cardyllian. But antiquarians say the 
 real date of that lady's misdoings was nearly a 
 century later; and so the matter rests an enigma 
 probably to the day of doom." 
 
 "It is a very good horror. T^'hat a pity we 
 shall never know those sentences that have been 
 cut away," said Miss Fanshawe. 
 
 " That skull is worth sketching ; won^t you try 
 it ?" said Cleve. 
 
 "No, not for the world. I shall find it only 
 too hard to forget it, and I don't mean to look 
 at it again. Some countenances seize one with a 
 tenacity and vividness quite terrible.' 
 
 " Very true," said Cleve, with a meaning 
 she understood, as he turned away with her. 
 " We are not rich in wonders here, but the old 
 church chest is worth seeing, it is curiously 
 carved." 
 
 He led them towards a niche in which it is 
 placed near the communion rails. But said Miss 
 Sheckleton — 
 
 " I'm a little tired, Margaret ; you will look at 
 
194 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 it, dear; and Mr. Verney will excuse me. We 
 have been delving and hoeing all the morning, 
 and I shall rest here for a fevr minutes." And 
 she sat down on the bench. 
 
 Miss Margaret Fanshawe looked at her a 
 little vexed, Cleve thought ; and the young lady 
 said — 
 
 " Hadn't you better come ? It's only a step, 
 and Mr. Verney says it is really curious.'* 
 
 " I'm a positive old woman," said cousin Anne, 
 " as you know, and really a little tired ; and you 
 take such an interest in old carving in wood — a 
 thing I don't at all understand, Mr. Verney ; she 
 has a book quite full of really beautiful drawings, 
 some taken at Brussels, and some at Antwerp. 
 Go, dear, and see it, and I shall be rested by the 
 time you come back." 
 
 So spoke good-natured Miss Sheckleton, de- 
 priving Margaret of every evasion ; and she ac- 
 cordingly followed Cleve Verney as serenely as 
 she might have followed the verger. 
 
 " Here it is,'' said Cleve, pausing before the 
 recess in which this antique kist is placed. He 
 glanced towards Miss Sheckleton. She was a 
 good way off — out of hearing, if people spoke low; 
 and besides, busy making a pencilled note in a 
 little book which she had brought to light. 
 Thoughtful old soul ! 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYX AGAIN. 195 
 
 " And about the way in which faces rivet the 
 imagination and haunt the memory, I've never 
 experienced it but once,' said Cieve, in a very 
 low tone. 
 
 " Oh ! it has happened to me often, very often. 
 From pictures, I think, always ; evil expressions 
 of countenance that are ambiguous and hard to 
 explain, always something demoniacal, I think," 
 said the young lady. 
 
 "There is nothing of the demon — never was, 
 never could be — in the phantom that haunts me," 
 said Cleve. " It is, on the contrary — I don^t say 
 angelic. Angels are very good, but not interest- 
 ing. It is like an image called up by an en- 
 chanter — a wild, wonderful spirit of beauty and 
 mystery. In darkness or light I always see it. 
 You like to escape from yours. I would not lose 
 mine for worlds ; it is my good genius, my inspi- 
 ration ; and whenever that image melts into air, 
 and I see it no more, the last good principle of my 
 life will have perished." 
 
 The young lady laughed in a silvery little 
 cadence that had a sadness in it, and said — 
 
 " Your superstitions are much prettier than 
 mine. My good cousin Anne, there, talks of blue 
 devils, and my famihars are, I think, of that vulgar 
 troop ; while yours are all couleur de I'ose, and so 
 elegantly got up, and so perfectly presentable and 
 
 o 2 
 
196 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 well bred, that I really think I should grow quite 
 tired of the best of them in a five-minutes' tete- 
 a-Uter 
 
 "I must have described ray apparition very 
 badly/' said Cleve. " That which is lovely beyond 
 all mortal parallel can be described only by its 
 effects upon one's fancy and emotions, and in 
 proportion as these are intense, I believe they are 
 incommunicable." 
 
 " You are growing quite too metaphysical for 
 me,'' said Miss Margaret Fanshawe. ''I respect 
 metaphysics, but I never could understand 
 them." 
 
 " It is quite true," laughed Cleve. " I was so. 
 I hate metaphysics myself; and they have no- 
 thing to do with this, they are so dry and detes- 
 table. But noAv, as a physician — as an exorcist — 
 tell me, I entreat, in my sad case, haunted by a 
 beautiful phantom of despair, which I have mis- 
 taken for my good angel, how am I to redeem 
 myself from this fatal spell." 
 
 A brilliant colour tinged the young lady's 
 cheeks, and her great eyes glanced on him for a 
 moment, he thought, with a haughty and even 
 angry brilliancy. 
 
 " I don't profess the arts you mention ; but I 
 doubt the reality of your spectre. I think it is an 
 illusion, depending on an undue excitement in the 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYN AGAIN. 197 
 
 organ of self-esteem, quite to be dispelled by 
 restoring the healthy action of those other organs 
 — of common sense. Seriously, I'm not compe- 
 tent to advise gentlemen, young or old, in their 
 perplexities, real or fancied ; but I certainly would 
 say to any one who had set before him an object 
 of ambition, the attainment of which he thought 
 would be injurious to him, — be manly, have done 
 with it, let it go, give it to the winds. Besides, 
 you know that half the objects which young men 
 set before them, the ambitions which they che- 
 rish, are the merest castles in the air, and that 
 all but themselves can see the ridicule of their 
 aspirations.^' 
 
 " You must not go, Miss Fanshawe ; you have 
 not seen the carving you came here to look at. 
 Here is the old church chest; but — but suppose 
 the patient — let us call him — knows that the 
 object of his — his ambition is on all accounts the 
 best and noblest he could possibly have set before 
 him. What then?'' 
 
 " What then ! " echoed Miss Fanshawe. " How 
 can any one possibly tell — but the patient, as you 
 call him, himself — what he should do. Your 
 patient does not interest me ; he wearies me. 
 Let us look at this carving." 
 
 "Do you think he should, despair because 
 there is no present answer to his prayers, and 
 
198 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 his idol vouchsafes no sign or omen ? " persisted 
 Cleve. 
 
 " I don^t think," she replied, with a cold impa- 
 tience, ^' the kind of person you describe is capable 
 of despairing in such a case. I think he would 
 place too high a value upon his merits to question 
 the certainty of their success — don^t you ? " said 
 the young lady. 
 
 " Well, no ; I don't think so. He is not an 
 unreal person ; I know him, and I know that his 
 good opinion of himself is humbled, and that he 
 adores with an entire abandonment of self the 
 being whom he literally worships." 
 
 ''Very adoring, perhaps, but rather that's 
 
 a great dog like a wolf-hound in that panel, and it 
 has got its fangs in that pretty stag's throat," 
 said Miss Fanshawe, breaking into a criticism 
 upon the carving. 
 
 " Yes — but you were saying ' Very adoring, but 
 rather ' — what ? " urged Cleve. 
 
 "Rather silly, don't you think? What busi- 
 ness have people adoring others of whom they 
 know nothing — who may not even like them — 
 who may possibly dis\\\iQ them extremely ? I am 
 tired of your good genius — I hope I'm not very 
 rude — and of your friend's folly — tired as you 
 must be ; and I think we should both give him 
 very much the same advice. / should say to him. 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYX AGAIN. 199 
 
 pray don't sacrifice yourself; you are much too 
 precious ; consider your own value, and above all, 
 remember that even should you make up your 
 mind to the humiliation of the altar and the knife, 
 the ceremonial may prove a fruitless mortification, 
 and the opportunity of accomplishing your sacri- 
 fice be denied you by your divinity. And I 
 think that's a rather well-rounded period : don't 
 you?'^ 
 
 By this time Miss Margaret Fanshawe had 
 reached her cousin, who stood up smiling. 
 
 " I^m ashamed to say I have been actually 
 amusing myself here with my accounts. We have 
 seen, I think, nearly everything now in this 
 building. I should so like to visit the ruins at 
 the other side of the court-yard.'' 
 
 " I shall be only too happy to be your guide, if 
 you permit me," said Cleve. 
 
 And accordingly they left the church, and 
 Cleve shut the door with a strange feeling both 
 of irritation and anxiety. 
 
 " Does she dislike me ? Or is she engaged ? 
 What can her odd speeches mean, if not one or 
 other of these things ? She warns me off, and 
 seems positively angry at my approach. She took 
 care that I should quite understand her ironies, 
 and there was no mistaking the reality of her 
 unaccountable resentment." 
 
200 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 So it was with a weight at his heart, the like 
 of which he had never experienced before, that 
 Cleve undertook, and I fear in a rather spiritless 
 way performed his duties as cicerone, over the 
 other parts of the building. 
 
 Her manner seemed to him changed, chilled 
 and haughty. Had there come a secret and 
 sudden antipathy, the consequence of a too hasty 
 revelation of feelings which he ought in prudence 
 to have kept to himself for some time longer ? 
 And again came with a dreadful pang the thought 
 that her heart was already won — the heart so cold 
 and impenetrable to him — the passionate and 
 docile worshipper of another man — some beast — 
 some fool. But the first love — the only love 
 worth having ; and yet, of all loves the most igno- 
 rant — the insanest. 
 
 Bitter as gall was the outrage to his pride. He 
 would have liked to appear quite indifferent, but 
 he could not. He knew the girl would penetrate 
 his finesse. She practised none herself; he 
 could see and feel a change that galled him 
 — very slight but intolerable. Would it not 
 be a further humiliation to be less frank than 
 she, and to practise an affectation which she 
 despised. 
 
 Miss Sheckleton eyed the young people 
 stealthily and curiously now and then, he 
 
THE CHAPEL OF PEXRUTHYN AGAIN. 201 
 
 thought. She suspected perhaps more than 
 there reall}' -was, and she was particularly kind 
 and grave at parting, and, he thought, observed 
 him with a sort of romantic compassion which 
 is so pretty in old ladies. 
 
 He did touch Miss Fanshawe's hand at parting, 
 and she smiled a cold and transient smile as she 
 gathered her cloaks about her, and looked over 
 the sea, toward the setting sun. In that clear, 
 mellow glory, how wonderfully beautiful she 
 looked ! He was angry with himself for the sort 
 of adoration which glowed at his heart. What 
 would he not have given to be indifferent, and to 
 make her feel that he was so ! 
 
 He smiled and waved his farewell to Miss 
 Sheckleton. Miss Fanshawe was now looking 
 toward Malory. The boat was gliding swiftly 
 into distance, and disappeared with the sunset 
 glittering on its sides, round the little headland, 
 and Cleve was left alone. 
 
 His eyes dropped to the shingle, and broken 
 shells, and seaweed, that lay beneath his feet, 
 in that level stream of amber light. He thought 
 of going away, thought what a fool he had been, 
 thought of futurity and fate, with a sigh, and 
 renounced the girl, washed out the portrait before 
 which he had worshipped for so long, with the 
 hand of defiance — the water of Lethe. Vain, 
 
202 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 vain ; in svmpatlietic dyes, the shadow stained 
 upon the brain, still fills his retina, glides before 
 him in light and darkness, and will not be 
 divorced. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 CLEVE AGAIN BEFORE HIS IDOL. 
 
 Cleve could not rest — he could not return to 
 Ware. He would hear his fate defined by her 
 who had grown so inexpressibly dear by being — 
 unattainable ! Intolerant of impediment or delay, 
 this impetuous spirit would end all, and know all 
 that very night. 
 
 The night had come — one that might have 
 come in June. The moon was up — the air so 
 sweetly soft — the blue of heaven so deep and 
 liquid. 
 
 His yacht lay on the deep quiet shadow, under 
 the pier of Cardyllian. He walked over the 
 moon-lighted green, which was now quite de- 
 serted. The early town had already had its tea 
 and " pikelets." Alone — if lovers ever are alone 
 — he walked along the shore, and heard the 
 gentle sea ripple rush and sigh along the stones. 
 He ascended the steep path that mounts the sea- 
 
204 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 beaten heights, overlooking Cardyllian on one 
 side, and Malory on the other. 
 
 Before him lay the landscape on which he had 
 gazed as the sun went down that evening, when 
 the dull light from the gold and crimson sky fell 
 softly round. And now, how changed everything ! 
 The moon's broad disk over the headland was 
 silvering the objects dimly. The ivied castle at 
 his left looked black against the sky. The ruins 
 how empty now ! How beautiful everything, and 
 he how prodigious a fool ! No matter. We have 
 time enough to be wise. Away, to-morrow, or at 
 latest, next day; and in due course would arrive 
 the season — that tiresome House of Commons — 
 and the routine of pleasure, grown on a sudden so 
 insupportably dull. 
 
 So he had his walk in the moonlight toward 
 Malory — the softest moonlight that ever fell from 
 heaven — the air so still and sweet : it seemed an 
 enchanted land. Down the hill toward Malory 
 he sauntered, looking sometimes moonward, some- 
 times on the dark woods, and feeling as five weeks 
 since he could not have believed himself capable 
 of feeling, and so he arrived at the very gate of 
 Malory. 
 
 Here stood two ladies, talking low their desul- 
 tory comments on the beautiful scene, as they 
 looked across the water toward the headland of 
 
CLEVE AGAIN BEFORE HIS IDOL. 205 
 
 Pendillion. And these two ladies were the same 
 from wliom he had parted so few hours since. It 
 was still very early everywhere except at Cardyl- 
 lian, and these precincts of Malory^ so entirely 
 deserted at these hours that there seemed as 
 little chance of interruption at the gate, as if 
 they had stood in the drawing-room windows. 
 
 Cleve was under too intense and impetuous an 
 excitement to hesitate. He approached the iron 
 gate where, as at a convent grille, the old and the 
 young recluse stood. The moonlight was of that 
 intense and brilliant kind which defines objects 
 clearly as daylight. The ladies looked both sur- 
 prised ; even Miss Anne Sheckleton looked grave. 
 
 " How very fortunate ! ^' said Cleve, raising his 
 bat, and drawing near. Just then, he did not 
 care whether Sir Booth should chance to see him 
 there or not, and it was not the turn of his mind 
 to think, in the first place, of consequences to 
 other people. 
 
 Happily, perhaps, for the quiet of Malory, one 
 of Sir Booth's caprices had dispensed that night 
 with his boat, and he was at that moment 
 stretched in his long silk dressing-gown and 
 slippers, on the sofa, in what he called his study. 
 After the first instinctive alarm, therefore, Miss 
 Anne Sheckleton had quite recovered her accus- 
 tomed serenitv and cheer of mind, and even 
 
206 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 interrupted him before he had well got to the 
 end of his salutation to exclaim — 
 
 " Did you ever, anywhere, see such moonlight ? 
 It almost dazzles me." 
 
 " Quite splendid ; and Malory looks so pic- 
 turesque in this light." He was leaning on the 
 pretty old gate, at which stood both ladies, suffi- 
 ciently far apart to enable him, in a low tone, to 
 say to the younger, without being overheard — 
 — " So interesting in every light, now ! I wonder 
 your men don't suspect me of being a poacher, or 
 something else very bad, I find myself prowling 
 about here so often, at this hour, and even later.'^ 
 
 "I admire that great headland — Pendillion, 
 isn't it ? — so very much ; by this light one might 
 fancy it white with snow," said Miss Sheckleton. 
 
 "I wish you could see Cardrwydd Island now ; 
 the gray cliffs in tliis light are so white and trans- 
 parent, you can hardly imagine so strange and 
 beautiful an effect," said Cleve. 
 
 " I dare say," said Miss Sheckleton. 
 
 "You have only to walk about twenty steps 
 across that little road towards the sea, and you 
 have it full in view. Do let me persuade you," 
 said Cleve. 
 
 "Well, I don't mind," said Miss Sheckleton. 
 "Come, Margaret, dear," and these latter words 
 she repeated in private exhortation, and then 
 
CLEVE AGAIN BEFORE HIS IDOL. 207 
 
 aloud she added — '^We have grown so much into 
 the habit of shutting ourselves up in our convent 
 grounds, that we feel like a pair of runaway nuns 
 whenever we pass the walls ; however, I must see 
 the island/' 
 
 The twenty steps toward the sea came to be a 
 hundred or more, and at last brought thera close 
 under the rude rocks that form the little pier ; in 
 that place, the party stopped, and saw the island 
 rising in the distant sheen, white and filmy ; a 
 phantom island, with now and then a gleam of 
 silvery spray, from the swell which was unfelt 
 within the estuary, shooting suddenly across its 
 points of shadow. 
 
 " Oh ! how beautiful ! " exclaimed Miss Fan- 
 shawe, and Cleve felt strangely elated in her 
 applause. They were all silent, and Miss Sheckle- 
 ton, still gazing on the distant cliffs, walked 
 on a little, and a little more, and paused. 
 
 " How beautiful ! '^ echoed Cleve, in tones as 
 low, but very different. ''Yes, how beautiful — 
 how fatally beautiful ; how beloved, and yet how 
 cold. Cold, mysterious, wild as the sea ; beau- 
 tiful, adored and cruel. How could you speak as 
 you did to-day? What have I done, or said, or 
 thought, if you could read my thoughts ? I tell 
 you, ever since I saw you in Cardyllian church 
 I've thought only of you ; you haunt my steps; 
 
208 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 YOU inspire my hopes. I adore you, Mar- 
 garet." 
 
 She "vvas looking on him with parted lips, and 
 something like fear in her large eyes, and how- 
 beautiful her features were in the brilliant moon- 
 light. 
 
 " Yes, I adore you ; I don't know what fate or 
 fiend rules these things; but to-day it seemed to 
 n^e that you hated me, and yet I adore you ; do 
 you hate me ? ^' 
 
 " How wildly you talk ; you can't love me ; 
 you don't know me,'' said this odd girl. 
 
 " I don't know you, and yet I love you ; you 
 don't know me, and yet I think you hate me. 
 You talk of love as if it were a creation of reason 
 and calculation. You don't know it, or you could 
 not speak so ; antipathies perhaps you do not 
 experience ; is there no caprice in them ? I love 
 you in defiance of calculation, and of reason, and 
 of hope itself. I can no more help loving you 
 than the light and air without which I should die. 
 You're not going; you're not so cruel; it may be 
 the last time you shall ever hear me speak. You 
 won't believe me ; no, not a word I say, although 
 it's all as true as that this light shines from 
 heaven. You'd believe one of your boatmen 
 relating any nonsense he pleases about people 
 and places here. You'll believe worse fellows, I 
 
CLEVE AGAIX BEFORE HIS IDOL. 209 
 
 dare say, speaking of higher and dearer things, 
 perhaps — I can't tell; but me, on this, upon which 
 I tell you, all depends for me, you won^t believe. 
 I never loved any mortal before. I did not know 
 what it was, and now here I stand, telling you 
 my bitter story, telling it to the sea, and the 
 rocks, and the air, with as good a chance of a 
 hearing. I read it in your manner and your 
 words to-day. I felt it intuitively. You don't 
 care for me -, you can^t like me ; I see it in your 
 looks. And now, will you tell me ; for God's sake, 
 Margaret, do tell me — is there not some one — 
 you do like ? I know there is." 
 
 '' That's quite untrue — I mean there is nothing 
 of the kind," said this young lady, looking very 
 pale, with great flashing eyes ; '^ and one word 
 more of this kind to-night you are not to say to 
 me. Cousin Anne," she called, '' come, Vm. going 
 back." 
 
 "We are so much obliged to you, Mr. Verney," 
 said Miss Sheckleton, returning; "we should 
 never have thought of coming down here, to look 
 for this charming view. Come, ^Margaret, darling, 
 your papa may want me." 
 
 An inquisitive glance she darted furtively at 
 the young people, and I dare say she thought 
 that she saw something unusual in their counte- 
 nances. 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
210 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 As they did not speak, Miss Slieckleton chatted 
 on unheeded, till, on a sudden, Cleve interposed 
 with — 
 
 "There's an old person — an old lady, I may 
 call her — named Rebecca Mervyn, who lives in 
 the steward's house, adjoining Malory, for whom 
 I have a very old friendship ; she was so kind to 
 me, poor thing, when I w^as a boy. My grand- 
 mother has a very high opinion of her; and she 
 was never very easily pleased. I suppose you 
 have seen Mrs. Mervyn ; you'd not easily forget 
 her, if you have. They tell me in the town that 
 she is quite well ; the same odd creature she 
 always was, and living still in the steward's 
 house." 
 
 ''1 know — to be sure — I've seen her very often 
 — that is, half-a-dozen times or more — and she 
 is a very odd old woman, like that benevolent 
 enchantress in the 'Magic Ring^ — don't you 
 remember? who lived in the castle with white 
 lilies growing all round the battlements," an- 
 swered Miss Sheckleton. 
 
 " I know," said Cleve, who had never read it. 
 
 " And if you want to see her, here she is, oddly 
 enough," whispered Miss Sheckleton, as the old 
 woman with whom Sedley had conferred on the 
 sea-beach came round the corner of the boundary 
 wall near the gateway by which they were now 
 
CLEVE AGAIN BEFORE HIS IDOL. 211 
 
 standing, in her grey cloak, with dejected steps, 
 and looking, after her wont, sea-ward toward 
 Pendillion. 
 
 "No," said Cleve, getting up a smile as he 
 drew a little back into the shadow ; " Til not 
 speak to her now ; I should have so many ques- 
 tions to answer, I should not get away from her 
 for an hour/^ 
 
 Almost as he spoke the old woman passed 
 them, and entered the gate ; as she did so, look- 
 ing hard on the little party, and hesitating for 
 a moment, as if she would have stopped out- 
 right. But she went on without any further 
 sign. 
 
 "I breathe again," said Cleve; "I was so 
 afraid she would know me again, and insist on a 
 talk." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is better she did not ; it 
 might not do, you know, if she mentioned your 
 name, for reasoiis^^ whispered Miss Sheckleton, 
 who was on a sudden much more intimate with 
 Cleve, much more friendly, much more kind, and 
 somehow pitying. 
 
 So he bade good-night. Miss Sheckleton gave 
 him a little friendly pressure as they shook hands 
 at parting. Miss Fanshawe neither gave nor 
 refused her hand. He took it; he held it for a 
 moment — that slender hand, all the world to him. 
 
212 THE TEXAXTS OF MALORY. 
 
 clasped in his own, yet never to be his, lodged 
 like a stranger's for a moment there — then to go, 
 for ever. The hand was carelessly drawn away ; 
 he let it go, and never a word spoke he. 
 
 The ladies entered the deep shadow of the 
 trees. He listened to the light steps fainting 
 into silent distance, till he could hear them no 
 more. 
 
 Suspense — still suspense. 
 
 Those words spoken in her clear undertone — 
 terrible words, that seemed at the moment to 
 thunder in his ears, "loud as a trumpet with a 
 silver sound " — were they, after all, words of 
 despair, or words of hope? 
 
 " One ivord more of this kind, to-night, you are 
 not to say to me." 
 
 How was he to translate the word '^ to-night " 
 in this awful text ? It seemed, as she spoke it, 
 introduced simply to add peremptoriness to her 
 forbiddance. But was that its fair meaning ? 
 Did it not imply that the prohibition was limited 
 only to that night ? Might it not mean that he 
 was free to speak more — possibly to hear more — 
 at a future time ? 
 
 A riddle ? Well ! he would read it in the way 
 most favourable to his hopes ; and who will blame 
 him ? He would have no oracles — no ambigui- 
 ties — nothing but sharply defined certainty. 
 
CLEVE AGAIX BEFORE HIS IDOL. 213 
 
 With an insolent spirit, instinct with an impa- 
 tience and impetuosity utterly intolerant of the 
 least delay or obstruction^ the interval could not 
 be long. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 CLEVE VERNEY TAKES A BOLD STEP. 
 
 When we seek danger lie is sometimes — like 
 death — hard to find. Cleve would not have dis- 
 liked an encounter with Sir Booth Fanshawe ; 
 who could tell what might come of such a meet- 
 ing ? It was palpably so much the interest of 
 that ruined gentleman to promote his wishes, 
 that, if he would only command his temper and 
 listen to reason, he had little doubt of enlisting 
 him zealously in his favour. It was his own uncle 
 who always appeared to him the really formidable 
 obstacle. 
 
 Therefore, next night, Cleve fearlessly walked 
 down to Malory. It was seven o'clock, and dark* 
 It was a still, soft night. The moon not up yet, 
 and all within the gate, dark as Erebus — silent, 
 also, except for the fall of a dry leaf now and then, 
 rustling sadly through the boughs. 
 
 At the gate for a moment he hesitated, and 
 then with a sudden decision, pushed it open, 
 
CLEVE VERXEY TAKES A BOLD STEP. 215 
 
 entered, aud the darkness received him. A little 
 confused were his thoughts and feelings as he 
 strode through that darkness and silence toward 
 the old house. So dark it was, that to direct his 
 steps, he had to look up for a streak of sky 
 between the nearly meeting branches of the 
 trees. 
 
 This trespass was not a premeditated outrage. 
 It was a sudden inspiration of despair. He had 
 thought of writing to Sir Booth. But to what 
 mischief might not that fierce and impracticable 
 old man apply his overt act ? Suppose he were 
 to send his letter on to the Hon. KifFyn Fulke 
 Verney ? In that case Mr. Cleve Verney might 
 moralise with an income of precisely two hundred 
 a year, for the rest of his days, upon the transi- 
 tory nature of all human greatness. At the next 
 election he would say a compulsory farewell to 
 the House. He owed too much money to remain 
 pleasantly in England, his incensed uncle would 
 be quite certain to marry, and with Cleve Verney 
 — ex-M.P., and quondam man of promise, and 
 presumptive Earl of Verney — conclamatum 
 foret. 
 
 He had therefore come to the gate of Malory 
 in the hope of some such happy chance as befel 
 the night before. And now disappointed, he 
 broke through all considerations, and was walking 
 
216 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 in a sort of desperation, right into the lion's 
 mouth. 
 
 He slackened his pace, however, and bethought 
 him. Of course, he could not ask at this hour to 
 see Miss Anne Sheckleton. Should he go and 
 pay a visit to old Rebecca Mervyn ? Hour and 
 circumstances considered, would not that, also, be 
 a liberty and an outrage ? What would they 
 think of it? What would he say of it in another 
 fellow's case ? Was he then going at this hour 
 to pay his respects to Sir Booth Fanshawe, whom 
 he had last seen and heard in the thunder and 
 dust of the hustings, hurling language and 
 grammar that were awful, at his head. 
 
 Cleve Verney was glad that he had pulled up 
 before he stood upon the door steps ; and he felt 
 like an awakened somnambulist. 
 
 " I cant do this. It's impossible. What a 
 brute I am growing," thought Cleve, awaking 
 to realities. " There's nothing for it, I believe, 
 but patience. If I were now to press for an 
 answer, she would say ' No ; ' and were I to ask 
 admission at the house at this hour, what would 
 she — what would Miss Sheckleton, even, think of 
 me ? If I had nerve to go away and forget her, 
 I should be happier — quite happy and quite good- 
 for-nothing, and perfectly at my uncle's disposal. 
 As it is, I^m miserable — a miserable /oo/. Every- 
 
CLEVE VERXEY TAKES A BOLD STEP. 217 
 
 thing against it — even the girl, I believe ; and I 
 here — partly in a vision of paradise, partly in the 
 torments of the damned, wasting my life in the 
 dream of an opium-eater, and without power to 
 break from it, and see the world as it is/' 
 
 He was leaning with folded arms, like the 
 melancholy Jaques, against the trunk of a forest 
 tree, as this sad soliloquy glided through his 
 mind, and he heard a measured step approaching 
 slowly from the house. 
 
 "This is Sir Booth coming," thought he, with 
 a strange, sardonic gladness. '^ We shall see 
 what will come of it. Let us hear the old gen- 
 tleman, by all means." 
 
 The step was still distant. 
 
 It would have been easy for him to retrace 
 his steps, and to avoid the encounter. But it 
 seemed to him that to stir would have been 
 like moving a mountain, and a sort of cold 
 defiance kept him there, and an unspeakable 
 interest in the story which he was enacting, and 
 a longing to turn over the leaf, and read the next 
 decisive page. So he waited. 
 
 His conjecture was right, but the anticipated 
 dialogue did not occur. The tall figure of Sir 
 Booth appeared ; some wrappers thrown across 
 his arm. He stalked on and passed by Cleve, 
 without observing, or rather, seeing him ; for his 
 
218 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 eye had not grown like Cleve's accustomed to the 
 darkness. 
 
 Cleve stood where he was till the step was lost 
 in silence, and waited for some time longer, and 
 heard Sir Booth's voice, as he supposed, hailing 
 the boatmen from that solitary shore, and theirs 
 replying, and he thought of the ghostly boat and 
 boatmen that used to scare him in the " Tale of 
 Wonder " beloved in his boyhood. For anything 
 that remains to him in life, for any retrospect but 
 one of remorse, he might as well be one of those 
 phantom boatmen on the haunted lake. By this 
 time he is gliding, in the silence of his secret 
 thoughts, upon the dark sea outside Malory. 
 
 '' Well ! " thought Cleve, with a sudden inspi- 
 ration, ^^he will not return for two hours at least. 
 I will go on — no great harm in merely passing 
 the house — and we shall see whether anything 
 turns up. 
 
 On went Cleve. The approach to the old 
 house is not a very long one. On a sudden, 
 through the boughs, the sight of lighted windows 
 met his eyes, and through the open sash of one 
 of them, he heard faintly the pleasant sound of 
 female prattle. 
 
 He drew nearer. He stood upon the espla- 
 nade before the steps, under the well-known gray 
 front of the whole house. A shadow crossed the 
 
CLEVE VERNEY TAKES A BOLD STEP. 219 
 
 window, and he heard Miss Anne Sheckleton's 
 merry voice speaking vohibly, and then a little 
 silence, of which he availed himself to walk with 
 as distinct a tread as he conld manage, at a little 
 distance, in front of the windows, in the hope of 
 exciting the attention of the inmates. He suc- 
 ceeded; for almost at the instant two shadowy 
 ladies, the lights being within the room, and 
 hardly any from without, appeared at the open 
 window; Miss Sheckleton was in front, and Miss 
 Fanshawe with her hand leaning upon her old 
 cousin^s shoulder, looked out also. 
 
 Cleve stopped instantly, and approached, 
 raising his hat. This young gentleman was also 
 a mere dark outline, and much less distinct than 
 those he recognised against the cheery light of 
 the drawing-room candles. But I don't think 
 there was a moment's doubt about his identity. 
 
 " Here I am, actually detected, trying to glide 
 by unperceived," said Cleve, lying, as Mr. Fag 
 says in the play, and coming up quickly to the 
 open window. " You must think me quite mad, 
 or the most impudent person alive ; but what am 
 I to do ? I canH leave Ware, without paying 
 old Rebecca — Mrs. Mervyn, you know — a visit. 
 Lady Verney blows me up so awfully about it, 
 and has put it on me as a duty. She thinks 
 there^s no one like old Rebecca ; and really poor 
 
220 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 old Mervyn was always very kind to me when I 
 was a boy. She lives, you know, in the steward's 
 house. I can't come up here in daylight. I'm in 
 such a dilemma. I must wait till Sir Booth has 
 gone out in his boat, don't you see ? and so I did ; 
 and if I had just got round the corner there, 
 without your observing me, I should have been all 
 right. I'm really quite ashamed. I must look 
 so like a trespasser — a poacher — everything that 
 is suspicious ; but the case, you see, is really so 
 difficult. I've told you everything, and I do hope 
 you quite acquit me." 
 
 *' Ob, yes/'' said Miss Sheckleton. " We must, 
 you know. It's like a piece of a Spanish comedy ; 
 but what^s to be done? You must have been 
 very near meeting. Booth has only just gone 
 down to the boat." 
 
 " We did meet — that is, he actually passed me 
 by, but without seeing me. I heard him coming, 
 and just stood, taking my chance; it was very 
 dark you know." 
 
 *' Well, I forgive you," said Miss Sheckleton. 
 " I must, you know ; but the dogs won't. You 
 hear them in the yard. What good dear creatures 
 they are ; and when they hear us talking to you, 
 they'll grow quite quiet, and understand that all 
 is well, they are so intelligent. And there^s the 
 boat ; look, Margaret, through that opening, you 
 
CLEVE VERXEY TAKES A BOLD STEP. 221 
 
 can just see it. AVhen the moon gets up, it 
 looks so pretty. I suppose it's my bad taste, 
 but those clumsy fishing boats seem to me so 
 much more picturesque than your natty yachts, 
 though, of course, thetj are very nice in their 
 way. Do you hear how furious you have made 
 our great dog, poor old Neptune ! He looks upon 
 us, Margaret and I, as in his special charge; but 
 it does not do, making such an uproar." 
 
 I fancy she was thinking of Sir Booth, for she 
 glanced toward the boat ; and perhaps the kind 
 old lady -svas thinking of somebody else, 
 also. 
 
 " ni just run to the back window^ and quiet 
 him. I shan't be away a moment, Margaret, 
 dear." 
 
 And away went Miss Sheckleton, shutting the 
 door. Miss Fanshawe had not said a word, but 
 remained at the window looking out. You might 
 have thought his being there, or not, a matter of 
 entire indifference to her. She had not said 
 a word. She looked toward the point at which 
 the rising splendour of the moon was already 
 visible over the distant hills. 
 
 '^Did you miss anything — Vm. sure you did — 
 yesterday ? I found a pin at the jetty of Pen- 
 ruthyn. It is so pretty, I've been ever so much 
 tempted to keep it; so very pretty, that some- 
 
222 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 how, I think it could not have belonged to any 
 one but to you." 
 
 And he took the trinket from his waistcoat 
 pocket. 
 
 " Oh ! I'm so glad/' said she ; " I thought I 
 had seen it this morning, and could not think 
 what had become of it. I never missed it till this 
 evening." 
 
 He touched the fingers she extended to receive 
 it. He took them in his hand, and held them 
 with a gentle force. 
 
 "For one moment allow me to hold your 
 hand ; don't take it from me yet. I implore, 
 only while I say a few words, which you may 
 make, almost by a look, a farewell — my eternal 
 farewell. Margaret, I love you as no other man 
 ever will love you. You think all this but the 
 madness that young men talk. I know nothing 
 of them. ^Vhat I say is desperately true; no 
 madness, but sad and irreparable reality. I 
 never knew love but for you — and for you it is 
 such idolatry as I think the world never imagined. 
 You are never for one moment from my thoughts. 
 Every good hope or thought I have, I owe to you. 
 You are the good principle of my life, and if I 
 lose you, I am lost myself.'' 
 
 This strange girl was not a conventional young 
 lady. I don't pronounce whether she was better 
 
CLEVE VERXEY TAKES A BOLD STEP. 223 
 
 or worse for that. She did not drop her eyes, 
 nor 3'et withdraw her hand. She left that price- 
 less pledge in his, it seemed, unconsciously, and 
 with eyes of melancholy and earnest inquiry, 
 looked on the handsome young man that was 
 pleading with her. 
 
 '' It is strange," she said, in a dreamy toae, as 
 if talking with herself. "I said it was strange, 
 for he does not, and cannot, know me." 
 
 '' Yes,^^ he answered, " I do know you — intui- 
 tively I know you. We have all faith in the 
 beautiful. We cannot separate the beautiful and 
 the good ; they come both direct from God, they 
 resemble him ; and I know your power — you can 
 make of me what you will. Oh, Margaret, will 
 you shut me out for ever from the only chance of 
 good I shall ever know? Can you ever, ever like 
 me ?" 
 
 There was a little silence, and she said, very 
 low, " If I were to like you, would you love me 
 better than anything else in all the world ? '' 
 
 "Than all the world— than all the world/' he 
 reiterated, and she felt the hand of this young 
 man of fashion, of ambition, who had years ago 
 learned to sneer at all romance, quiver as it held 
 her own. 
 
 " But first, if I were to allow any one to like 
 me, I would say to him, you must know wliat vou 
 
224 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 undertake. You must love me with your entire 
 heart ; heart and soul, you must give yourself 
 altogether up to me. I must be everything to 
 you — your present, your future, your happiness, 
 your hope ; for I will not bear to share your heart 
 with anything on earth ! And these are hard 
 terms, but the only ones." 
 
 " I need make 7io vow, darling — darling. My 
 life is what you describe, and I cannot help it ; I 
 adore you. Oh ! Margaret, ca?i jou like me ? " 
 
 Then Margaret Fanshawe answered, and in a 
 tone the most sad, I think, that ever spoke ; and 
 to him, the sweetest and most solemn ; like dis- 
 tant music in the night, funereal and plaintive, 
 her words fell upon his entranced ear. 
 
 " If I were to say I could like you enough to 
 wait, and try if I could like you more, it always 
 seemed to me so awful a thing — try if I could 
 like you more — would not the terms seem to you 
 too hard ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Margaret, darling, say you can like me 
 now. You know how I adore you," he implored. 
 
 " Here, then, is the truth. I do not like you 
 Avell enough to say all that ; no, I do not, but I 
 like you too well to say go. I don't know how it 
 may be, but if you choose to wait, and give me a 
 very little time to resolve, I shall see clearly, and 
 all uncertainty come to an end, somehow, and God 
 
CLEVE VERNEY TAKES A BOLD STEP. 225 
 
 guide us all to good ! That is the whole truth, 
 Mr. Verney ; and pray say no more at present. 
 You shall not wait long for my answer." 
 
 " I agree, darling. I accept your terms. You 
 don't know what delay is to me : but anything: 
 rather than despair." 
 
 She drew her hand to herself. He released it. 
 It was past all foolish by- play with him, and the 
 weight of a strange fear lay upon his heart. 
 
 This little scene took longer in speaking and 
 acting, than it does in reading in this poor note of 
 mine. When tliey looked up, the moon was 
 silvering the tops of the trees, and the distant 
 peaks of the Welsh mountains, and glimmering 
 and flashing to and fro, like strings of diamonds, 
 on the water. 
 
 And now Miss Anne Sheckleton entered, 
 having talked old Neptune into good humour. 
 
 " Is there a chance of your visiting Penruthyn 
 again ? " asked Cleve, as if nothing unusual had 
 passed. " You have not seen the old park. Pray, 
 come to-morrow." 
 
 Miss Sheckleton looked at the young lady, but 
 she made no sign. 
 
 " Shall we ? / see nothing against it," said 
 she. 
 
 '' Oh ! do. I entreat," he persisted. 
 
 " Well, if it should be fine, and if nothing pre- 
 
22G THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 vents, I think I may say, we willy about three 
 o'clock to-moiTow." 
 
 Margaret did not speak; but was there not 
 something sad and even gentle in her parting ? 
 The old enigma was still troubling his brain and 
 heart, as he walked down the dark avenue once 
 more. How would it all end ? How would she 
 at last pronounce ? 
 
 The walk, next day, was taken in the Warren, 
 as he had proposed. I believe it was a charming 
 excursion ; as happy, too^ as under the bitter 
 conditions of suspense it could be ; but nothing 
 worthy of record was spoken, and matters, I dare 
 say, remained, ostensibly at least, precisely as 
 they were. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 HIS FATE. 
 
 Cleve Verney, as we know, was a young 
 gentleman in whose character were oddly mingled 
 impetuosity and caution. A certain diplomatic 
 reserve and slyness had often stood him in stead 
 in the small strategy of life, and here, how skil- 
 fully had he not managed his visits to Penruthyn, 
 and hid from the peering eyes of Cardyllian his 
 walks and loiterings about the enchanted woods 
 of Malory. 
 
 Visiting good Mrs. Joneses shop next day to ask 
 her how she did, and gossip a little across the 
 counter, that lady, peering over her spectacles, 
 received him with a particularly sly smile, which, 
 being prone to alarms just then, he noted and did 
 not like. 
 
 Confidential and voluble as usual, was this lady, 
 bringing her black lace cap and purple ribbons 
 close to the brim of Mr. Verney's hat, as she 
 leaned over the counter, and murmured her 
 
 a 2 
 
228 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 emphatic intelligence and surmises deliberately in 
 his ear. She came at last to srj — 
 
 " You must be very sohtury, we all think, over 
 there, at Ware, sir; and though j^ou have your 
 yacht to sail across in, and your dog-cart to trot 
 along, and doesn't much mind, still it is not con- 
 venient, you know, for one that likes this side so 
 much better than the other. We think, and 
 wonders, we all do, you wouldn't stay awhile at 
 the Verney Arms, over the way, and remain 
 among us, you know, and be near everything you 
 might like ; the other side, you know, is very 
 dull; we can't deny that, though its quite true 
 that Ware is a very fine place — a really beaut\i\x\ 
 place — but it is lonely, we must allow; mustn't 
 we?'' 
 
 " Awfully lonely,^' acquiesced Cleve, " but I 
 don't quite see why I should live at the Verney 
 Arms, notwithstanding." 
 
 " AVell, they do say — you mustn't be angry with 
 them, you know — but they do, that you like a 
 walk to ^lalory," and this was accompanied with 
 a wonderfully cunning look, and a curious play of 
 the crow's-feet and wrinkles of her fat face, and a 
 sly, gentle laugh. " But / don't mind." 
 
 ''Don't mind what?'' asked Cleve, a little 
 sharply. 
 
 " Wdl, I don't mind what they say, but they 
 
HIS FATE. 229 
 
 do say tou have made acquaintance with the 
 ^lalory family — no harm in that, you know/' 
 
 *^ Xo harm in the world, only a lie," said Cleve, 
 with a laugh that was not quite enjoying. '^ I 
 wish they would manage that introduction for 
 me ; I should like it extremely. I think the 
 young lady rather pretty — don't you? — and I 
 should not object to pay my respects, if you think 
 it would not be odd. My Cardyllian friends 
 know so much better than I what is the right 
 thing to do. The fact is, I don't know one of our 
 own tenants there, except for taking off my 
 hat twice to the only sane one of the party, that 
 old Miss Anne — Anne — sometJdny — you told 
 me " 
 
 " Sheckleton that will ^e," supplemented ^Irs. 
 Jones. 
 
 " Sheckleton. Very well ; and my real diffi- 
 culty is this — and upon my honour, I don't know 
 how to manage it. My grandmother, Iiady 
 Verney, puts me under orders — and you know she 
 does not like to be disobeyed — to go and see poor 
 old Eebecca, Mrs. Mervyn, you know, at the 
 steward's house, at ^lalory; and I am looking for 
 a moment when these people are out of the way, 
 just to run in for five minutes, and ask her how 
 she does. And my friend, Wynne AVilliams, 
 won't let me tell Lady Verney how odd these 
 
230 THE TENANTS OF MAI.ORY. 
 
 people 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, I see some of them about the front of the 
 house, and I can^t go up to the door, of course, 
 without annoying them, for thev wish to be quite 
 shut up ; and the end of it is, I say, that, among 
 them, I shall get blown up by Lady Verney, and 
 shan^t know what to answer — by Jove ! But you 
 may tell my friends in Cardyllian, I am so much 
 obliged to them for giving me credit for more 
 cleverness than they have had in effecting an 
 introduction ; and talking of me about that pretty 
 girl, Miss — oh ! — what's her name ? — at Malory. 
 I only hope she's not mad; for if she is I must 
 be also." 
 
 Mrs. Jones listened, and looked at him more 
 gravely, for his story hung pretty well together, 
 and something of its cunning died out of the ex- 
 pression of her broad face. But Cleve walked 
 away a little disconcerted, and by no means in a 
 pleasant temper with his good neighbours of 
 Cardyllian; and made that day a long visit at 
 Hazelden, taking care to make his approaches as 
 ostentatiously as he could. And he was seen for 
 an hour in tlie evening, walking on the green with 
 the young ladies of that house. Miss Charity 
 flanking the little line of march on one side, and 
 
HIS FATE. 231 
 
 he the other, pretty Miss Agnes, of the golden 
 locks, the pretty dimples, and brilliant tints, 
 walking between, and listening, I'm afraid, more 
 to the unphilosophic prattle of young Mr. Verney 
 than to the sage conversation, and even admoni- 
 tions and reminders, of her kind, but unexception- 
 able sister. 
 
 From the news-room windows, from the great 
 bow-window of the billiard-room, this promenade 
 was visible. It was a judicious demonstration, 
 and gave a new twist to conjecture; and listless 
 gentlemen, who chronicled and discussed such 
 matters, observed upon it, each according to his 
 modicum of eloquence and wisdom. 
 
 Old Yane Etherage, whose temperament, though 
 squally, was placable, was won by the frank cour- 
 tesy, and adroit flatteries of the artless young 
 fellow who had canvassed boroughs and counties, 
 and was master of a psychology of which honest 
 old Etherage knew nothing. 
 
 That night, notwithstanding, Cleve was at the 
 gate of Malory, and the two ladies were there. 
 
 " We have been looking at the boat ten 
 minutes, just, since it left. Sir Booth is out as 
 usual, and now see how far away ; you can 
 scarcely see the sail, and yet so little breeze." 
 
 " The breeze is rather from the shore, and you 
 are sheltered here, all this old wood, you know. 
 
232 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 But you can hear it a little in the tops of the 
 trees/' Cleve answered, caring very little what 
 way the breeze might blow, and yet glad to know 
 that Sir Booth was on his cruise, and quite out 
 of the way for more than an hour to come. 
 
 "We intended venturing out as far as the pier, 
 there to enjoy once more tliat beautiful moonlight 
 view, but Sir Booth went out to-night by the 
 little door down there, and. this has been left 
 with its padlock on. So we must only treat this 
 little recess as the convent parlour, with the 
 grating here, at which we parley with our friends. 
 Do you hear that foolish old doo; again ? I 
 really believe he has got out of the yard," sud- 
 denly exclaimed good-natured Miss Anne, who 
 made the irregularities of old Neptune an excuse 
 for trifling absences, very precious to Cleve 
 Yerney. 
 
 So now, she walked some ten or twenty steps 
 toward the house, and stood there looking up the 
 avenue, and prattling incessantly, though Cleve 
 could not hear a word she said, except now and 
 then the name of " Neptune,'' when she ineffec- 
 tually accosted that remote offender. 
 
 " You have not said a word. Miss Fanshawe. 
 ^^You are not offended with me, I hope?" he 
 murmured. 
 
 '' Oh, no." 
 
HIS FATE. 233 
 
 " You have not shaken hands/' he continued, 
 and he put his hand between the 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 low tones. " There must 
 be uncertainty, I believe, in all things, and faith 
 in 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 
 never change. If you love me, I shall love you, 
 always ; and it you change, I shall die. Oh ! 
 won't you promise ? " 
 
 Poor fluttering heart ! The bird that prunes 
 its wing for the untried flight over the sea, in 
 which to tire is to die, lonely, in the cold waste, 
 may feel within its little breast the instinct of 
 that irrevocable venture, the irresistible impulse, 
 the far-off hope, the present 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 may be. Idlest of all idle words are 
 these promises for the affections, for the raptures 
 and illusions, utterly mortal, whose duration God 
 
^34 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 has placed quite beyond our control. Kill them, 
 indeed, we ma}", but add one hour to their un- 
 certain 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 a blessing or a hope — ever so illusive, 
 before the wing is spread, and the long and un- 
 tried journey begins ! 
 
 What Cleve Verney swore, and all the music 
 he poured into those little listening ears in that 
 enchanting hour, I know not. 
 
 Miss Anne Sheckleton came back. Through 
 the convent bars Cleve took her hand^ in a kind 
 of agitation, a kind of tumult, with rapture in his 
 handsome face, and just said, " She has told me, 
 she ivill,*^ and Miss Sheckleton said nothing, but 
 put her arms round Margaret's neck, and kissed 
 her many times, and holding her hand, looked 
 up smiling, and took Cleve's also, and in the old 
 spinster's eyes were glittering those diamond 
 tears, so pure and unselfish that, when we see 
 them, we think of those that angels are said to 
 weep over the sorrows and the vanities of human 
 life. 
 
 Swiftly flew the hour, and not till the sail was 
 nearing the shore, and the voices of the boatmen 
 were audible across the water, did the good old 
 
HIS FATE. 235 
 
 lady insist on a final farewell^ and Cleve glided 
 away, under the shadow of the trees that over- 
 hang the road, and disappeared round the distant 
 angle of the wall of Malory. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CAPTAIN SHRAPNELL. 
 
 The next afternoon Miss Charity Etherage and 
 lier sister Agnes, were joined in their accustomed 
 walk upon the green of Cardyllian by Captain 
 Shrapnell, a jaunty half-pay officer of five-and- 
 fifty, who represented to his own satisfaction, the 
 resident youth and fashion of that quiet watering- 
 place. 
 
 " I give you my honour, Miss Etherage," said 
 he, placing himself beside Miss Agnes, "I mistook 
 you yesterday, for Lady Fanny Mersey. Charm- 
 ing person she is, and I need not say, perfectly 
 lovely." A little arch bow gave its proper point 
 to the compliment. " She has gone, however, I 
 understand ; left Llwynan yesterday. Is that young 
 Verney's boat ? No, oh ! no — nothing like so 
 sharp. He^s a very nice fellow, young Verney." 
 
 This was put rather interrogatively, and Miss 
 Agnes, thinking that she had blushed a little, 
 blushed more, to her inexpressible chagrin, for 
 
CAPTAIN SHRAPNELL. 237 
 
 she knew that Captain Shrapnell was watching 
 her with the interest of a gossip. 
 
 '' Nice ? I dare say. But I really know him 
 so very slightly/' said Miss Agnes. 
 
 "Come, come; that won't do," said the Cap- 
 tain, very archly. " You forget that I was sitting 
 in our club window, yesterday evening, when a 
 certain party were walking up and down. Ha, 
 ha, you do. We're tolerably clear-sighted up 
 there, and old Jlogers keeps our windows rubbed ; 
 and the glass is quite brilliantly transparent, ha, 
 ha, ha! hey?" 
 
 " I think your windows are made of multiplying 
 glasses, and magnifying glasses, and every kind of 
 glass that distorts and discolours," said Miss 
 Agnes, a little pettishly. "I don't know how else 
 it is that you all see such wonderful sights as you 
 do, through them." 
 
 '^ Well, they do, certainly. Some of our friends 
 do colour a little," said the Captain, with a waggish 
 yet friendly grin, up at the great bow window. 
 " But in this case, you'll allow there was no great 
 opportunity for colour, the tints of nature are so 
 beautiful,'* and Shrapnell fired off this little say- 
 ing, with his bow and smile of fascination. "Nor, 
 by Jove ! for the multiplying glasses either, for 
 more than three in that party would have quite 
 spoiled it; now, wouldn'i it, hey? ha, ha, ha! 
 
238 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 The two principals, and a gooseberry, eh? Ha, ha, 
 ha!" 
 
 "What is a gooseberry ?'' inquired Miss Charity, 
 peremptorily. 
 
 " A delightful object in the garden, Miss Ethe- 
 rage, a delightful object everywhere. The delight 
 of the young especially, hey. Miss Agnes? ha, ha! 
 hey ? and one of the sweetest products of nature 
 Eh, Miss Agnes ? ha, ha, ha ! Miss Etherage, I 
 give you my honour every word I say is true.^' 
 
 " I do declare, Captain Shrapnell, it seems to 
 me you have gone perfectly mad I" said Miss 
 Charity, who was out-spoken and emphatic. 
 
 '^ Always a mad fellow, Miss Etherage, ha, ha, 
 ha ! Very true ; that's my character, hey ? ha, 
 ha, ha, egad ! So the ladies tell me,^^ said the 
 gay, young Captain. " Wish I'd a guinea for 
 every time they've called me mad, among them. 
 I give you my honour I'd be a rich fellow this 
 moment.^^ 
 
 " Now, Captain Shrapnell,'^ said Miss Charity, 
 with a frank stare with her honest goggle eyes, 
 "you are talking the greatest nonsense I ever 
 heard in my life.^' 
 
 "Miss Agnes, here, does not think so, hey?" 
 giggled the Captain. " Now, come. Miss Agnes, 
 what do you think of young Yerney, hey? There's 
 a question." 
 
CAPTAIN SHRAPNELL. 239 
 
 How ]\Iiss Agnes hated the gibing, giggling 
 wretch, and detested the club of whose prattle 
 and gossip he was the inexhaustible spokesman; 
 and would at that moment have hailed the appear- 
 ance of a ship-of-war with her broadside directed 
 upon the bow window of that haunt, with just, of 
 course, such notice to her worthy father, whose 
 gray head was visible in it, as was accorded to 
 the righteous Lot — under orders, with shot, shell, 
 rockets, and marlin-spikes, to blow the entire con- 
 cern into impalpable dust. 
 
 It must be allowed that Miss Agnes was un- 
 just; that it would not have been fair to visit 
 upon the harmless and, on the whole, good-natured 
 persons who congregated in that lively receptacle, 
 and read the Times through their spectacles there, 
 the waggeries and exaggerations of the agreeable 
 captain, and to have reached that incorrigible 
 offender, and demolished his stronghold at so 
 great a waste of human life. 
 
 " Come, now ; I won^t let you off, Miss Aggie. 
 I say, there's a question. What do you say? 
 Come, now, you really must tell us. What do you 
 think of young Verney ?" 
 
 " If you wish to know what / think,'^ inter- 
 posed Miss Charity, " I think he's the very nicest 
 man I ever spoke to. He's so nice about religion. 
 Wasn't he, Aggie?" 
 
240 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 Here the Captain exploded. 
 
 '' Religion ! egad — do you really mean to tell 
 me — ha, ha, ha ! Upon my soul, that's the richest 
 thing ! — now, reMlly !" 
 
 '' My goodness ! How frightfully wicked you 
 are," ex-claimed Miss Charity. 
 
 '' True bill, egad ! upon my soul, I^m afraid — 
 ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 " Now, Captain Shrapnell, you shall not walk 
 with us, if you swear," said Miss Charity. 
 
 *' Sivear ! I didn't swear, did I ? Very sorry if 
 I did, upon my — T give you my word," said the 
 Captain, politely. 
 
 ''Yes, you did; and it's extremely wicked^' said 
 Miss Charity. 
 
 " Well, I won't ; I swear to you I won't," vowed 
 the Captain, a little inconsistently; "but now 
 about Master Cleve Verney, Miss Agnes. I said 
 I would not let you off, and I won't. I give you 
 my honour, you shall say what you think of him, 
 or, by Jove ! — I conclude you can't trust yourself 
 on the subject, ha, ha, ha ! Hey ? " 
 
 " You are mad. Captain Shrapnell," interposed 
 Miss Charity, with weight. 
 
 " I can't say, really, I've formed any particular 
 opinion. I think he is rather agreeable," an- 
 swered Miss Agnes, under this pressure. 
 
 "Well, so do /," acquiesced the Captain. 
 
CAPTAIN SHKAPNELL. 241 
 
 " Master Cleve can certainly be agreeable when 
 he chooses ; and yon think him devilish good-look- 
 ing — don't you?" 
 
 " I really can't say — he has very good features 
 —but '' 
 
 " But what ? Why every one allows that Yer- 
 ney's as good-looking a fellow as you'll meet with 
 anywhere," persisted the Captain. 
 
 "/think him joerfectly be-aui\h\\\" said Miss 
 Charity, who never liked people by halves. 
 
 " Well — yes — he may be handsome," said Miss 
 Agnes. " I'm no very great critic ; but I can^t 
 conceive any girl falling in love with him.^^ 
 
 "Oh! as to that — but — why?'' said Captain 
 Shapnell. 
 
 " His face, I think, is so selfish — somehow," she 
 said. 
 
 " Is it now, really ? — how ] " asked the Captain. 
 
 " I'm am-azed at you ! ^^ exclaimed Miss 
 Charity. 
 
 " Well, there's a selfish hook — no, not a hook, 
 a curve — of his nose, and a cruel crook of his 
 shoulder," said Miss Agnes, in search of faults. 
 
 "You're determined to hit him by hook or by 
 crook — ha, ha, ha — I say," pursued the Captain. 
 
 " A hook I " exclaimed Miss Charity, almost 
 angrily; "there's no hook! I ?6'o/iC?er at you — I 
 really think, sometimes, Agnes, you're the greatest 
 
 VOL, I. R 
 
242 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 fool I ever met in the whole course of my 
 life!" 
 
 "Well, I can't help thinking what I think," 
 said Agnes. 
 
 '' But YOU don't think that — you know you 
 don't — YOU emit think it," decided her elder 
 sister. 
 
 " No more she does," urged the Captain, with 
 his teazing giggle ; " she doesn't think it. You 
 always know, when a girl abuses a man, she likes 
 him ; she does, by Jove ! And I venture to say 
 she thinks Master Cleve one of the very hand- 
 somest and most fascinating fellows she ever be- 
 held," said the agreeable Captain. 
 
 " I really think what I said," replied Agnes, and 
 her pretty face showed a brilliant colour, and her 
 eyes had a handsome fire in them, for she was 
 vexed ; " though it is natural to think in a place 
 like this, where all the men are more or less old 
 and ugly, that any young man, even tolerably 
 good-looking, should be thought a wonder."' 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! very good," said the Captain, 
 plucking out his whisker a little, and twiddling his 
 moustache, and glancing down at his easy waist- 
 coat, and perhaps ever so little put out ; but he 
 also saw over his shoulder Cleve crossing the 
 Green towards them from the jetty, and not per- 
 haps being quite on terms to call him " Master 
 
CAPTAIN SHRAPNELL. 243 
 
 Cleve" to his face, he mentioned a promise to 
 meet young Owen of Henlwyd in the billiard- 
 room for a great game of pyramid, and so took off 
 his hat gracefully to the ladies, and, smirking, 
 and nodding, and switching his cane, swaggered 
 swiftly away toward the point of rendezvous. 
 
 So Cleve arrived, and joined the young ladies, 
 and walked beside Agnes, chatting upon all sorts 
 of subjects, and bearing some occasional reproofs 
 and protests from Miss Charity with great sub- 
 mission and gaiety, and when Miss Charity caught 
 a glimpse of ''the Admiral's" bath-chair, with 
 that used-up officer in it, en route for the Hazeldeu 
 Road, and already near the bridge, she plucked 
 her watch from her belt, with a slight pallor in 
 her cheek, and ^^ declared'' she had not an idea 
 how late it was. Cleve Verney accompanied the 
 ladies all the way to Hazelden, and even went in, 
 when bidden, and drank a cup of tea, at their 
 early meal, and obeyed also a summons to visit 
 the "Admiral" in his study. 
 
 " Very glad to see you, sir — very happy, Mr. 
 Verney/' said Mr. Vane Etherage, with his fez 
 upon his head, and lowering his pipe with the 
 gravity of a Turk. '' I wish you would come and 
 dine at three o'clock — the true hour for dinner, 
 sir— I've tried every hour, in my time, from 
 twelve to half-past eight — at three o'clock, sir, 
 
 r2 
 
:i44 THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 
 
 sonie day — any day — to-morrow. The Welsh 
 mutton is the best on earth, and the Hazeldeii 
 mutton is the best in Wales ! " The "Admiral '^ 
 always looked in the face of the person whom he 
 harangued, with an expression of cool astonish- 
 ment, which somehow aided the pomp of Lis deli- 
 very. " An unfortunate difference, Mr. Verney 
 — a dispute, sir — has arisen between me and your 
 uncle ; but that, Mr. Verney, need not extend to 
 his nephew; no, sir, it need not; no need it 
 should. Shall we say to-morrow, Mr. Verney ? " 
 
 I forget what excuse Mr. Verney made ; it was 
 sufficient, however, and he was quite unable to 
 name an immediate day, but lived in hope. So 
 having won golden opinions, he took his leave. 
 And the good people of Cardyllian, who make 
 matches easily, began to give Mr. Cleve Verney to 
 pretty [Miss Agnes Etherage. 
 
 While this marrying and giving in marriage 
 was going on over many tea-tables, that evening, 
 in Cardyllian, Mr. Cleve Verney, the hero of this 
 new romance, had got ashore a little below 
 Malory, and at nightfall walked down the old 
 road by Llanderris church, and so round the 
 path that skirts the woods of Malory, and down 
 upon the shore that winds before the front of the 
 old house. 
 
 As he came full in sight of the shore, on a 
 
CAPTAIN SHRAPNELL. 1'4') 
 
 sudden, witliin little more than a hundred paces 
 away, he saw, standing solitary upon tlie shingle, 
 a tall man, with a Tweed rug across his arm, 
 awaiting a hoat which was slowly approaching in 
 the distance. 
 
 In this tall figure he had no difficulty in recog- 
 nizing Sir Booth Fanshawe, whom lie had con- 
 fronted in other, and very different scenes, and 
 who had passed so near him, in the avenue at 
 Malory. 
 
 With one of those sudden and irresistible im- 
 pulses, which, as tliey fail or succeed, are classed 
 as freaks of madness, or inspirations of genius, he 
 resolved to walk up to Sir Booth, and speak to 
 him upon the subject then so near to his heart. 
 
CHAPTEK XXII. 
 
 SIR BOOTH SPEAKS. 
 
 The idea, perhaps, that sustained Cleve Verney 
 in this move, was the sudden recurrence of his 
 belief that Sir Booth would so clearly see the 
 advantages of such a connexion as to forget his 
 resentments. 
 
 Sir Booth was looking seaward, smoking a 
 cigar, and watching the approach of the boat, 
 which was still distant. As Cleve drew near, he 
 saw Sir Booth eye him, he fancied, uneasily; and 
 throwing back his head a little, and withdrawing 
 his cheroot, ever so little from his lips, the 
 Baronet demanded grimly — 
 
 " Wish to speak to me, sir ? " 
 
 "Only a word, if you allow me,^^ answered 
 Cleve, approaching. 
 
 On ascertaining that he had to deal with a 
 gentleman. Sir Booth was conhdent once more. 
 
 " Well, sir, I hear you," said he. 
 
 " You don't recognise me, Sir Booth ; and I 
 
SIR BOOTH SPEAKS. 247 
 
 fear when I introduce myself, you will hardly 
 connect my name with anything pleasant or 
 friendly. I only ask a patient hearing, and I am 
 sure your own sense of fairness will excuse me 
 personally/' 
 
 " Before you say, more, sir, I should like to 
 know for whom you take me, and why ; I don't 
 recollect you — I tfiiak — I can^t see very well — no 
 one does in this sort of light ; but I rather think, 
 I never saw your face before, sir — nor you mine, 
 I dare say — your guesses as to who I am, may be 
 anything you please — and quite mistaken — and 
 this is not a usual time, you know, for talking 
 with strangers about business — and, in fact, I've 
 come here for quiet and my health, and I can"t 
 undertake to discuss other people's afi'airs — I find 
 my own as much as my health and leisure will 
 allow me to attend to." 
 
 " Sir Booth Fanshawe, you must excuse me for 
 saying I know you perfectly. I am also well 
 aware that you seek a little repose and privacy 
 here, and you may rely implicitly upon my men- 
 tioning your name to no one; in fact, I have been 
 for some weeks aware of your residing at Malory, 
 and never have mentioned it to any one." 
 
 '* Ha ! you're very kind, indeed — talking great 
 care of me, sir ; you are very obliging," said Sir 
 Booth, sarcastically, ^' I'm sure ; ha, ha ! I ought 
 
248 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 to be very s:rateful. And to whom, may I ask, 
 do I owe all this attention to my — my interests 
 and comforts ? '^ 
 
 "I am connected, Sir Booth, with a house that 
 has unfortunately been a good deal opposed, in 
 politics, to yours. There are reasons which make 
 this particularly painful to me, although I have 
 been by the direction of others, whom I had no 
 choice but to obey, more in evidence in these 
 miserable contests than I could wish ; I've really 
 been little more than a passive instrument in the 
 hands of others, absolutely without power, or 
 even influence of my own in the matter. You 
 don't recognise me, but you have seen me else- 
 where. My name is Cleve Verney." 
 
 Sir Booth had not expected this name, as his 
 countenance showed. With a kind of jerk, he 
 removed his cigar from his lips, sending a shower 
 of red sparks away on the breeze, and gazing on 
 the young man with eyes like balls of stone, ready 
 to leap from their sockets. I dare say he was 
 very near exploding in that sort of language 
 which, on occasion, he did not spare. But he 
 controlled himself, and said merely, clearing his 
 voice first, — 
 
 " That will do, sir, the name's enough ; I can't 
 be supposed to wish to converse with any one of 
 that name, sir — no more 1 do." 
 
SIK BOOTH SPEAKS. 24-<l 
 
 ' " What I have to say, Sir Booth, affects you, it 
 interests you very nearly,'" answered Cleve. 
 
 '^ But, sir, I am going out in that boat — I wish 
 to smoke my cigar — I've come down here to live 
 to myself, and to be alone when 1 choose it," said 
 Sir Booth, with suppressed exasperation. 
 
 " One word, I beg — you'll not regret it, Sir 
 Booth," pleaded Cleve. 
 
 '' AVell, sir, come — I will hear it ; but I tell 
 you beforehand, I have pretty strong views as to 
 how I have been nsed, and it is not likely to lead 
 to much," said Sir Booth, with one of those 
 sudden changes of purpose to which fiery men 
 are liable. 
 
 So, as briefly and as persuasively as he could, 
 Cleve Verney disclosed his own feelings, giving to 
 the date of his attachment, skilfully, a retro- 
 spective character, and guarding the ladies of 
 !^^alory from the unreasonable temper of this 
 violent old man ; and, in fact, from Cleve's state- 
 ment you would have gathered that he was not 
 even conscious that the ladies were now residing 
 at Malory. He closed his little confession with a 
 formal proposal. 
 
 Was there something — ever so little — in the 
 tone of this latter part of his brief speech, that 
 reflected something of the confidence to which I 
 have alluded, and stung the angry pride of this 
 
250 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 ruined man ? He kept smoking his cigar a little 
 faster, and looked steadily at the distant boat 
 that was slowly approaching against the tide. 
 
 When Cleve concluded, the old man lowered 
 his cigar and laughed shortly and scornfully. 
 
 " You do us a great deal of honour, Mr. Verney 
 
 — too much honour, by ,'"' scoffed the Baronet. 
 
 *^ Be so good at all events as to answer me this 
 one question frankly — yes or no. Is your uncle, 
 Kiffyn Verney, aware of your speaking to me on 
 this subject ?" 
 
 ^' No, Sir Booth, he is not,^' said Cleve; ^^ he 
 knows nothing of it. I ought, perhaps, to have 
 mentioned that at first. ^^ 
 
 '' So you ought," said Sir Booth, brusquely. 
 
 " And I beg that you won't mention the sub- 
 ject to him.^^ 
 
 " You may be very sure I shan't, sir,*' said the 
 Baronet, fiercely. " Why, d— n it, sir, what do 
 you mean ? Do you know what you're saying ? 
 You come here, and you make a proposal for my 
 daughter, and you think I should be so charmed, 
 that rather than risk your alliance I should prac- 
 tise any meanness you think fit. D — n you, sir, 
 how dare you suppose I could fancy your aspiring 
 to my daughter a thing to hide like a mes- 
 alliance ? '' 
 
 '' Nothino; of the kind, Sir Booth." 
 
SIR BOOTH SPEAKS. 251 
 
 *' Everything of tlie kind, sir. Do you know 
 who you are, sir? You have not a farthing 
 on earth, sir, but what you get from your 
 uncle." 
 
 " I beg your pardon — allow me, Sir Booth — 
 I've six hundred a-year of my own. I know it's 
 very little; but I've been thought to have some 
 energies ; I know I have some friends. I have 
 still my seat in the House, and this Parliament 
 may last two or three years. It is quite possible 
 that I may quarrel with my uncle ; I can't help it ; 
 I'm quite willing to take my chance of that ; and I 
 entreat, Sir Booth, that you won't make this a 
 matter of personal feeling, and attribute to me 
 the least sympathy with the miserable doings of 
 my uncle." 
 
 Sir Booth listened to him, looking over the sea 
 as before, as if simply observing the approach of 
 the boat, but he spoke this time in a mitigated 
 tone. 
 
 "You're no young man," said he, "if you don't 
 owe money. I never knew one with a rich old 
 fellow at his back who didn't." 
 
 He paused, and Cleve looked down. 
 
 " In fact, you don't know how much you owe. 
 If you were called on to book up, d'ye see, there 
 might remain very little to show for your six 
 hundred a-year. You're just your uncle's nephew, 
 
252 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 sir, and nothing more. When you quarrel with 
 him you're a ruined man/' 
 
 " I don't see that " began Cleve. 
 
 "But I do. If he quarrels with you, he'll 
 never rest till he ruins you. That's his character. 
 It might be very different if you had a gentleman 
 to deal with ; but you must look the thing in the 
 face. You may never succeed to the title. We 
 old fellows have our palsies and apoplexies ; and 
 you, young fellows, your fevers and inflamma- 
 tions. Here you are quite well, and a fever 
 comes, and turns you off like a gaslight the day 
 after; and, besides, if you quarrel he'll marry, 
 and, where are you then 1 And I tell you 
 frankly, if ^Ir. KifiPyn Verney has objections to 
 me, Fve stronger to him. There's no brother of 
 mine disgraced. Why, his elder brother — it's 
 contamination to a gentleman to name him." 
 
 " He's dead, sir; Arthur Verney is dead," said 
 Cleve, who was more patient under Sir Booth's 
 bitter language than under any other circum- 
 stances he would have been. 
 
 *^ Oh ! Well, that does not very much matter," 
 said Sir Booth. ^^ But this is the upshot : I'll have 
 nothing underhand — all above board, sir — and if 
 Mr. Kiffyn Verney writes a proper apology — by 
 
 , he owes me one — and puts a stop to the 
 
 fiendish persecutions he has been directing against 
 
SIR BOOTH SPEAKS. 2.33 
 
 me, and himself submits the proposal you have — 
 yes — done me the honour to make, and under- 
 takes to make suitable settlements, I shan't stand 
 in the way ; I shan't object to your speaking to 
 my daughter, though I can't the least tell how 
 she'll take it ! and I tell you from myself /don't 
 
 like it— I dont, by , I don't like it. He's a 
 
 bad fellow — a nasty dog, sir, as any in England 
 — but thaVs what I say, sir, and I shan't alter ; 
 and you'll please never to mention the subject to 
 me again except on these conditions. Except from 
 him I dechne to hear of it — not a word — and — • 
 and, sir, you'll please to regard my name as a 
 secret; it has been hitherto ; my liberty depends 
 on it. Your uncle can't possibly know I'm 
 here ? " he added, sharply. 
 
 "When last I saw him — a very short time 
 since — he thought you were in France. You, of 
 course, rely upon my honour, Sir Booth, that no 
 one living shall hear from me one syllable affect- 
 ing your safety." 
 
 ** Very good, sir. I never supposed you would ; 
 but I mean every one — these boatmen, and the 
 people here. Ko one is to know w ho I am ; 
 and what I've said is my ultimatum, sir. And 
 I'll have no corresporidence, sir — no attempt to 
 
 visit any where. You understand. By —, if 
 
 you do, I'll let your uncle, Mr. Kiffyn Verney, 
 
254 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 know the moment I learn it. Be so good as to 
 leave me/' 
 
 *' Good night, sir," said Clive. 
 
 Sir Booth nodded slightly. 
 
 The tall old man went stalking and stumbling 
 over the shingle, toward the water's edge, still 
 watching the boat, his cigar making a red star in 
 the dusk, by which Christmass Owen might have 
 steered ; and the boatmen that night heard their 
 mysterious steersman from Malory, as he sat 
 with his hand on the tiller, talking more than 
 usual to himself, now and then d ing un- 
 known persons, and backing his desultory babble 
 to the waves, with oaths that startled those sober- 
 tongued Dissenters. 
 
 Cleve walked slowly up that wide belt of 
 rounded gray stones, that have rattled and rolled 
 for centuries there, in every returning and re- 
 treating tide, and turned at last and looked 
 toward the tall, stately figure of the old man now 
 taking his place in the boat. Standing in the 
 shadow, he watched it receding as the moonlight 
 came out over the landscape. His thoughts 
 began to clear, and he was able to estimate, 
 according to his own gauges and rashness, the 
 value and effect of his interview with the angry 
 and embittered man. 
 
 He wondered at the patience with which he 
 
SIR BOOTH SPEAKS. 
 
 9n.^ 
 
 had borne tliis old man's impertinence— unpa- 
 ralleled impertinence ; yet even now he could not 
 resent it. He was the father of that beautiful 
 Margaret. The interview was a mistake — a very 
 mortifying ordeal it had proved — and its result 
 was to block his path with new difficulties. 
 
 Not to approach except through the mediation 
 of his Uncle Kiffyn ! He should like to see how 
 his uncle would receive a proposal to mediate in 
 this matter. Not to visit — not to write — neither 
 to see nor to hear of her ! Submission to such 
 conditions was not to be dreamed of. He 
 trampled on them, and defied all consequences. 
 
 Cleve stood on the gray shingle looking after 
 the boat, now running swiftly with the tide. A 
 patch of seaweed, like an outstretched hand, lay 
 at his feet, and in the fitful breeze lifted a warnins: 
 finger, again, and again, and again. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MARGARET HAS HER WARNING. 
 
 Next evening, I believe, Cleve saw Margaret 
 Fanshawe, by favour of that kindest of chaperons, 
 Miss Anne Sheckleton, at the spot where by 
 chance they had met before — at the low bank 
 that fences the wood of Malory, near the steep 
 road that descends by the old church of Llan- 
 derris. 
 
 Here, in the clear glow of sunset, they met 
 and talked under the old trees, and the good old 
 spinster, with her spectacles on, worked at her 
 crochet industriously, and often peered over it 
 this way and that, it must be confessed, nervously ; 
 and with a prudence with which Cleve would 
 gladly have dispensed, she hurried this hazardous 
 meeting to a close. 
 
 Not ten minutes later Margaret Fanshawe 
 stood alone at the old refectory window, which 
 commands through the parting trees a view of 
 the sea and the distant headland, now filmed in 
 
MARGARET HAS HER WARNING. 257 
 
 the aerial lights of tlie sunset. I should not 
 wonder if she had been drawn thither by the 
 fanciful hope of seeing the passing sail of Cleve 
 Yerney's yacht — every sign and relic grows so 
 interesting ! Now is with them the season of all 
 such things ; romance has sent forth her angels ; 
 the woods, the clouds, the sea, the hills, are filled 
 with them. Now is the play of fancy and the 
 yearning of the heart — and the aching comes in 
 its time. 
 
 Something sadder and gentler in the face than 
 ever before. Undine has received a soul, and is 
 changed. The boat has passed, and to catch the 
 last glimpse of its white wing she crosses to the 
 other side of the window, and stretches, with a 
 long, strange gaze, till it is gone — quite gone — 
 and everything on a sudden is darker. 
 
 With her hand still on the worn stone-shaft of 
 the window, she leans and looks, in a dream, till 
 the last faint tint of sunset dies on the gray 
 mountain, and twilight is everywhere. So, with 
 a sigii, a vague trouble, and yet a wondrous hap- 
 piness at her heart, she turns to leave the stone- 
 floored cliamher, and at the head of the steps 
 that lead down from its door she is startled. 
 
 The pale old woman, with large, earnest eyes, 
 was at the foot of this stone stair, with her hand 
 on the rude banister. It seemed to ^largarct as 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 if she had been waiting for her. Her great vague 
 eyes were looking into hers as she appeared at the 
 door. 
 
 Margaret arrested her step, and a little frown 
 of fear for a moment curved her eyebrows. She 
 did fear this old Rebecca Mervyn with an odd 
 apprehension that she had something unpleasant 
 to say to her. 
 
 " Vm coming up to you," said the old woman, 
 sadly, still looking at her as she ascended the 
 steps. 
 
 Margaret's heart misgave her, but somehow 
 she had not nerve to evade the interview, or 
 rather, she had felt that it was coming and wished 
 it over. 
 
 Once or twice in passing, the old woman had 
 seemed to hesitate, as if about to speak to her, 
 but had changed her mind and passed on. Only 
 the evening before, just at the hour when the 
 last ray of the sun comes from the west, and all 
 the birds are singing their last notes, as slie was 
 tying up some roses, on the short terrace round 
 the corner of the old mansion, she turned and raised 
 her eyes, and in the window of the old building 
 called the " Steward's House,'' the lattice being 
 open, she saw, looking stedfastly upon her, from 
 the shadows within, the pale face of this old 
 woman. In its expression there was something 
 
MARGARET HAS HHR WARNING. 2of) 
 
 ominous^ and when she saw ^largaret luokinj^ 
 straight at her, she did not turn away, but looked 
 on sadly, as unmoved as a picture, till Margaret, 
 disconcerted, lowered her eyes, and went away. 
 
 As this old woman ascended the stairs, Mar- 
 garet crossed the floor to the window — light is 
 always reassuring — and leaning at its side, looked 
 back, and saw Rebecca Mervyn already within 
 the spacious chamber, and drawing near slowly 
 from the shadow. 
 
 "You wish to speak to me, Mrs. Mervyn ? '^ 
 said the young lady, who knew her name, al- 
 though now for the first time she spoke to her. 
 
 "Only a word. Ah! — yes — vou are — very 
 beautiful,^' she said, with a deep sigh, as she 
 stood looking at her, with a strange sadness and 
 compassion in her gaze, that partook of the past, 
 and the prophetic. 
 
 A little blush — a little smile— a momentary 
 gleam of that light of triumph, in beauty so 
 beautiful — showed that the fair apparition was 
 mortal. 
 
 "Beauty! — ah! — yes! If it were not here, 
 neither would ihexj. Miss Margaret ! — poor 
 thing ! I've seen him. I knew him, although 
 it is a great many years," said old Rebecca. 
 "The moment my eyes lighted on him, I knew 
 him ; there is something about them all, peculiar 
 
 s 2 
 
2()0 THE TPLNAXTS OF MALOilV. 
 
 — the Veriieys, I mean. 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 — how many years ? God help me, I 
 forget ! Since I was as young as you are. Cleve 
 \ erney is handsome, but there were others, long 
 before — oh ! ever so much more beautiful. TJie 
 Yerney features — ah! — yes — thinking always, 
 dreaming, watching, burnt into my brain; they 
 have all some points alike. I knew Cleve by that; 
 lie is more like that than to his younger self; a 
 handsome boy he was — but, I beg pardon, it is 
 so hard to keep thoughts from wandering/'' 
 
 This old woman, from long solitude, I suppose, 
 talked to others as if she were talking to herself, 
 and rambled on, flightily and vaguely. But on a 
 sudden she laid her hand upon ^Margaret's wrist, 
 and closing it gently, held her thus, and looked 
 in her face with great concern. 
 
 " Why does he come so stealthily? death comes 
 so, to the young and beautiful. My poor sister 
 died in Naples, No one knew there was danger 
 the day before she was sent away there, despaired 
 of. Well may I say the angel of death — beau- 
 tiful, insidious — that's the way they come — 
 stealthily, mysterious — when I saw his handsome 
 face about here — I shuddered — in the twilight — 
 in the dark." 
 
MARGARET HAS HER WARNIXd. 'HW 
 
 Margaret's cheek fliislied, and she plucked hci- 
 wrist to disengage it from the okl woman's 
 hand. 
 
 " You had better speak to my cousin, Miss 
 Sheckleton. It is she who receives Mr. Vcrney 
 when he comes. She has known liim longer 
 than I ; at least, made his acquaintance earlier," 
 said the j^oung lady. "I don't, I confess, under- 
 stand what you mean. Fve been trying, and I 
 can't ; perhaps she will ?^' 
 
 " I must say this ; it is on mj^ mind," said the 
 old woman, without letting her hand go. '^ There 
 is something horrible in the future. You do not ^ 
 know the Verneys, They are a a^uel race. It 
 would be better to sutler an evil spirit into the 
 house. Poor young lady ! To be another uiuo- 
 cent victim/ Break it off — expel him ! Shut out, 
 if you can, his face from your 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 an indefinite fear that had lain at 
 her own heart, for days. Neither, apart, was 
 anything; but one seconding the other was omi- 
 nous and depressing. 
 
 " 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 ; and I 
 
2f>2 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 tliaiik you fur 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 tcill come again, I know it will, some day or 
 night. My old eyes are weary with watching. I 
 should know the sail again, 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 to Margaret, became 
 absorbed in gazing; and Margaret left her, ran 
 lightly down the steps, and in a minute more was 
 in the house. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 SIR BOOTH IN A PASSION. 
 
 Days passed, during which Cleve Yerney paid 
 stolen visits at Maloiy, more cautiously managed 
 than ever ; and nearly every afternoon did the 
 good people of Cardyllian see him walk the green, 
 to and fro, with the Etherage girls, so that the 
 subject began to be canvassed very gravely, and 
 even Miss Charity was disposed to think that he 
 certainly did like Agnes, and confided to her 
 friend, Mrs. Brindley, of " The Cottage," that if 
 Aggie married, she should give up. Nothing 
 could induce her. Miss Charity, to marry, she 
 solemnly assured her friends. 
 
 And I must do that spinster the justice to say, 
 that there was not the faintest flavour of sour 
 grapes in the acerbity with which she pronounced 
 against the " shocking folly of girls marrying," 
 for she might undoubtedly have been married, 
 ha\dng had in her youth several unexceptionable 
 offers, none of which had ever moved her. 
 
264 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 I know uot what hopes Sir Booth may have 
 founded upon his conversation uith Cleve Verney. 
 Men in the Baronet^s predicament nurse their 
 hopes fondly, and their mustard seeds grow rapidly 
 into great trees, in whose branches they shelter 
 their families, and roost themselves. He grew 
 gracious at times in the contemplation of brilliant 
 possibilities, and one day, to her amazement and 
 consternation, opened the matter briefly to Miss 
 Sheckleton, who fancied that she was discovered, 
 and he on the point of exploding, and felt as if she 
 were going to faint. 
 
 Happily for her, he fancied that Cleve must 
 have seen Margaret accidentally during some of 
 his political knight-errantries in the county which 
 he had contested with Sir Booth. We know, as 
 well as Miss Sheckleton, how this really was. 
 
 Sir BootVs dreams, however, were broken with 
 a crash. To Miss Anne Sheckleton came a letter 
 from Sir Booth^s attorneys, informing the Baronet 
 that Mr. Kiffyn Fulke Verney had just served 
 them with a notice which seemed to threaten a 
 wantonly vexatious and expensive proceeding, and 
 then desired to know what course, having detailed 
 the respective consequences of each, he would 
 wish them to take. 
 
 Now Sir Booth broke into one of his frenzies, 
 called up Miss Sheckleton, damned and cursed 
 
SIR BOOTH IN A PASSION. 265 
 
 the whole Veriiey family, excommunicated them, 
 and made the walls of ^lalory ring with the storm 
 and thunder he launched at the heads of the 
 ancient race who had built them. 
 
 Scared and pale Miss Anne Sheckleton with- 
 drew. 
 
 " My dear, something has happened : he has 
 had a letter from his law people, and Mr. Kiffyn 
 Yerney has directed, I think, some unexpected 
 proceedings. How I wish they would stop these 
 miserable lawsuits, and leave your papa at peace. 
 Your papa^s attorneys think they can gain nothing 
 by worrying him, and it is so unfortunate just 
 now.^^ 
 
 So spoke Miss Sheckleton, who had found 
 Margaret, with her bullfinch and her squirrels, in 
 that pretty but melancholy room which is dar- 
 kened by the old forest, through whose shafted 
 stems shadowy perspectives open, and there, as in 
 the dimness of a monastic library, she was busy 
 over the illumination of her vellum Psalter, with 
 gold and ultramarine, and all other vivid pig- 
 ments. 
 
 Margaret stood up, and looked in her face 
 rather pale, and with her small hand pressed to 
 her heart. 
 
 "He's very angry,^^ added Miss Sheckleton, 
 with a dark look, and a nod. 
 
'26() THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 ''Are we going to leave this?'^ inquired the 
 girl in almost a whisper. 
 
 " He did not say ; I fancy not. No, he'd have 
 said so the first thing/' answered the old lady. 
 
 " Well, we can do nothing ; it can't be helped, 
 I suppose ? " said Miss Margaret, looking down 
 very sadly on her mediseval blazonry. 
 
 " Nothing, my dear ! nothing on earth. No 
 one can be more anxious that all this kind of 
 thing should cease, than Cleve Verney, as you 
 know; but what can even he do?'' said Miss 
 Sheckleton. 
 
 Margaret looked through the window, down 
 the sylvan glade, and sighed. 
 
 " His uncle, Kiffyn Verney," resumed Anne 
 Sheckleton, " is such a disagreeable, spiteful man, 
 and such a feud has been between them, I really 
 don't see how it is to end ; but Cleve, you know, 
 is so clever, and so devoted, I'm sure he'll find 
 some way." 
 
 Margaret sighed again, and said, — 
 
 '' Papa, I suppose, is very angry." 
 
 I think Sir Booth Fanshawe was the only 
 person on earth whom that spirited girl really 
 feared. I'm afraid there was not much good in 
 that old man, and that most of the things I have 
 heard of him were true. Unlike other violent 
 men, he was not easily placable; and generally. 
 
SIR BOOTH IN A PASSION. 267 
 
 wheu it was not very troublesome, remembered 
 and executed his threats. She remembered dimly 
 scenes between hiui and her dead mother. She 
 remembered well herchilriish dread of his severity, 
 and her fear of his eye and his voice had never 
 left her. 
 
 Miss Sheckleton just lifted her fingers in the 
 air, and raised her eyes to the ceiling, with a little 
 shake of her head. 
 
 Margaret sighed again. I suppose she was 
 thinking of that course of true love that never 
 yet ran smooth, upon which the freightage of her 
 life was ventured. 
 
 Her spinster friend looked on her sad, pale 
 face, gazing dreamily into the forest. The 
 solemn shadow of the inevitable, the sorrows of 
 human life, had now for the first time begun to 
 touch her young face. The old story was already 
 telling itself to her, in those ominous musical 
 tones that swell to solemn anthem soon ; and 
 sometimes, crash and howl at last over such 
 wreck, and in such darkness as we shut our eyes 
 and ears upon, and try to forget. 
 
 Old Anne Sheckleton's face saddened at the 
 sight with a beautiful softness. She laid her thin 
 hand on the girl's shoulder, and then put her 
 arms about her neck, and kissed her, and said, — 
 "All will come right, darling, you'll see;" and 
 
2G8 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 the girl made ans\ver by another kiss j and they 
 stood for a minute, hand locked in hand^ and the 
 old maid smiled tenderly, a cheerful smile but 
 pale, and patted her cheek and nodded, and with 
 another kiss, left the room, with a mournful 
 presage heavy at her heart. 
 
 As she passed, the stern voice of Sir Booth 
 called to her. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 "A word or two," he said, and she went to his 
 room. 
 
 " l^-e been thinking," said he, looking at her 
 steadily and fiercely — had some suspicion lighted 
 up his mind since he had spoken to her ? — " that 
 young man, Cleve Verney; T believe he's still at 
 Ware. Do you know him ?" 
 
 " I should know his appearance. I saw him two 
 or three times during that contest for the county, 
 two years since; but he did not see me, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 This was an evasion, but the vices of slaverv 
 always grow up under a tyranny. 
 
 "Well, Margaret — does she correspond with 
 any one?" demanded he. 
 
 " I can answer for it, positively. Margaret has 
 no correspondence. She writes to no one," she 
 answered. 
 
 " That fellow is still at Ware. So, Christmass 
 
SIR BOOTH IX A PASSIUX. 2^)9 
 
 Owen tokl me hist ni^ht — a place of tlie V'enieys, 
 at the other side — and he has got a boat. I 
 should not wonder if he were to come here, trvinir 
 to see her." 
 
 So Sir Booth followed out his hypothesis, and 
 waxed wroth, and more wroth as he proceeded, 
 and so chafed himself into one of his paroxysms 
 of temper. I know not what he said ; but when 
 she left him, poor Miss Sheckleton was in tears, 
 and, trembling, told Margaret, that if it were not 
 for Ae/', she would not remain another day in his 
 house. She related to Margaret what had passed, 
 and said, — 
 
 " I almost hope Cleve Verney may not come 
 again while we remain here. I really don^t know 
 what might be the consequence of your papa's 
 meeting liim here, in his present state of exaspera- 
 tion ! Of course to Cleve it would be very little ; 
 but your existence, my poor child, would be made 
 so miserable ! And as for me, I tell you frankly, 
 I should be compelled to leave you. Every one 
 knows what Booth Fanshawe is when he is angry 
 — how cruel he can be. I know he's your father, 
 my dear, but we can't be blind to facts, and we 
 both know that his misfortunes have not improved 
 his temper." 
 
 Cleve nevertheless saw the ladies that day, 
 talked with them earnestly and hurriedly, for 
 
:270 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 Miss Anne Sheckleton was nervous, and miserable 
 till the interview ended, and submitted to the 
 condition imposed by that kindly and panic- 
 stricken lady, which was on no account to visit 
 Malory as heretofore for two or three days, by the 
 end of which time she hoped Sir Booth^s anger 
 and suspicions might have somewhat subsided. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I\ WHICH THE LADIES PEEP INTO CARDYLLIAN. 
 
 " My dear child," said Miss Slieckleton next 
 day, " is not this a very wild freak, considering 
 you have shut yourself up so closely, and not 
 without reason ? Suppose among the visitors at 
 Cardyllian there should happen to be one who 
 has seen and known you, how would it be if he or 
 she should meet and recognise you?'^ 
 
 " Rely on me, dear old cousin ; no one shall 
 know me." 
 
 The young lady, in a heavy, gray, Highland 
 shawl, was standing before the looking-glass in 
 her room as she spoke. 
 
 " Girls look all alike in these great shawls, and 
 I shall wear my thick lace veil, through which I 
 defy anyone to see a feature of my face ; and 
 even my feet, in these strong, laced boots, are 
 disguised. Noiv — see! I should not know myself 
 in the glass among twenty others. 1 might meet 
 
'27 '2 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 you a dozen times in Cardyllian and you should 
 not recognise me. Look and say." 
 
 " H-m — well ! I must allow it would not be 
 easy to see through all this/^ said Miss Sheckle- 
 ton ; " but don't forget and lift your veil, when 
 you come into the town — the most unlikely people 
 are there sometimes. Who do you think I had a 
 bow from the other day, but old Doctor Bell, who 
 lives in York; and the same evening in Castle 
 Street whom should 1 see but my Oxford Street 
 dressmaker ! It does not matter, you know, 
 where a solitary old maid like me is seen ; but it 
 would be quite different in your case, and who 
 knows what danger to your papa might result 
 from it?" 
 
 ''1 shan't forget — I really shan't," said the 
 girl. 
 
 " Well, dear, I've said all I could to dissuade 
 vou; but if jou ivill come, I suppose you must," 
 said Miss Anne. 
 
 "It's just as you say — a fancy," answered Mar- 
 garet ; " but I feel that if I were disappointed I 
 should die." 
 
 I think, and Miss Sheckleton thought so too, 
 that this pretty girl was very much excited that 
 dav, and could not endure the terrible stillness of 
 Malorv. Uncertainty, suspense, enforced absence 
 from the person who loved her best in the world, 
 
THE LADIES PEEP INTO CARDYLLIAN. '2 to 
 
 and who yet is very near; dangers and hopes, 
 quite new — no wonder if all these incidents of 
 her situation did excite her. 
 
 It was near a week since the elder lady had 
 appeared in the streets and shops of Cardyllian. 
 Between the banks of the old sylvan road she and 
 her mysterious companion walked in silence into 
 steep Church Street, and down that quaint quarter 
 of the town presenting houses of all dates from 
 three centuries ago, and by the church, still older, 
 down into Castle Street, in which, as we know, 
 stands the shop of Jones, the draper. Empty of 
 customers was this well- garnished shop when the 
 two ladies of Malory entered it ; and Mrs. Jones 
 raised her broad, bland, spectacled face, with a 
 smile and a word of greeting to Miss Anne Sheck- 
 leton, and an invitation to both ladies to ''he 
 seated," and her usual inquiry, as she leaned over 
 the counter, "And what will you be pleased to 
 want ?" and the order, " John, get down the gray 
 linseys — not them — those over yonder — yes, 
 sure, you'd like to see the best — I know you 
 would." 
 
 So some little time was spent over the linseys, 
 and then, — 
 
 " You're to measure thirteen yards, John, for 
 Miss Anne Sheckleton, and send it over, with 
 trimmin's and linings, to Miss Pritchard. Miss 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 THE TENANTS OF MALORV. 
 
 Anne Sheckleton will speak to Miss Pritchard 
 about the trimmings herself." 
 Then Mrs. Jones observed, — 
 " What a day this has been — hasn't it, miss ? 
 And such weather, a/together, I really don't 
 remember in Cardyllian, /think ever." 
 
 " Yes, charming weather," acquiesced Miss 
 Sheckleton ; and just then two ladies came in and 
 bought some velvet ribbon, which caused an inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 "AVhat a pretty girl," said Miss Anne, so soon 
 as the ladies had withdrawn. " Is that her 
 mother?" 
 
 ^•' Oh, no — dear, no, miss ; they are sisters/' 
 half laughed Mrs. Jones. " Don't you know who 
 they are ? No ! Well, they are the Miss Ethe- 
 rages. There, they're going down to the green. 
 She'll meet him there. She's going to make a 
 very great match, ma'am — yes, indeed." 
 
 "Oh! But whom is she going to meet?" 
 asked Miss Anne, who liked the good lady's 
 gossip. 
 
 " Oh ! you don't know ! Well, dear me ! I 
 thought every one knew that. Why, Mr. Cleve, 
 of course — young Mr. Verney. He meets her 
 every afternoon on the green here, and walks 
 home with the young ladies. It has been a very 
 old liking — you understand — between them, and 
 
lately he has grown very pressing, and they do 
 say — them that should know— that the Admiral — 
 we call him — ^Ir. Yane Etherage— her father, has 
 spoke to him. She has a good fortune, you know 
 — yes, indeed— the two Miss Etherages has— we 
 count them quite heiresses here in Cardyllian, and 
 a very good old family too. Everybody here is 
 pleased it is to be, and they do say Mr. Kiffyn — 
 that is, the Honourable Kiffyn Fulke Verney— 
 will be very glad, too, he should settle at last, and 
 has wrote to the young lady's father, to say how 
 well pleased he is; for iMr. Cleve has been" — 
 here she dropped her voice to a confidential 
 murmur, approaching her spectacles to the very 
 edge of her customer's bonnet, as she rested her 
 fat arms upon the counter— " wild. Oh, dear! 
 they do tell such stories of him ! A pity, Mi^ss 
 Sheckleton— i^n't it ? — there should be so maoy 
 stories to his prejudice. But, dear me ! he has 
 been wild, miss; and now, you see, on that 
 account it is Mr. Kifi*yn — the Honorable Kiffyn 
 Fulke Verney — is so well pleased he should settle 
 and take a wife that will be so liked by the people 
 at Ware as well as at this side.'' 
 
 Miss Anne Sheckleton had been listening with 
 an uneasiness, which the draper's wife fancied she 
 saw, yet doubted her own observation; for she 
 could not understand why her old spinster customer 
 
276 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 should care a fartliiug about tlie matter, the talk 
 about his excursions to Malory having been quite 
 suspended and abolished by the sustained and 
 vigorous gossip to which his walks with Agnes 
 Etherage, and his ostentatious attentions, had 
 given r\^e. 
 
 "But Miss Etherage is hardly the kind of 
 person — is she ? — whom a young man of fashion, 
 such as I suppose young Mr. Verney to be, would 
 think of. She must have been very much shut 
 up with her old father, at that quiet little place of 
 his,^' suggested Miss Sheckleton. 
 
 " Shut up, miss ! Ob, dear me ! Nothing of 
 that sort, miss. She is out with her sister, Miss 
 Charity, every day, about the schools, and the 
 Sunday classes, and the lending library, and the 
 clothing charity, and all tliera things; very good 
 of her, you know. I often say to her — ' I ivonder, 
 Miss Agnes — that's her name — you're not titled 
 ■\^ilh all your walks; I do, indeed;' and she only 
 laughs. She has a very pretty laugh too, she 
 has; and as Mr. Cleve said to me once — that's two 
 years ago, now — the first year he was spoke of in 
 Cardyllian about her. We did think then there 
 was something to be, and now it is all on again, 
 and the old people — as we may call them — is well 
 pleased it should." 
 
 "Yes, but I mean that Miss Etherage has seen 
 
THE LADIES PEEP INTO CARDYLLIAX. 277 
 
 nothing of the world — nothing of society, except 
 what is to be met with at Hazelden — isn't that 
 the name of the place ?— and in her little excur- 
 sions into this town. Isn't it so?" said Miss 
 Sheckleton. 
 
 " Oh, no ! — bless you, no. Miss Agnes Ethe- 
 rage — they pay visits — she and her sister — at all 
 the great houses; a week here, and a fortnight 
 there, round the two counties, this side and the 
 other. She's a great favourite, is Miss Agnes. 
 She can play and sing, dear me, very nice, she 
 can : I have heard her. You would wonder now, 
 what a bright little thing she is." 
 
 " But even so. I don't think that town-bred 
 young men ever care much for country-bred 
 young ladies. Xot that they mayn't be a great 
 deal better ; but, somehow, they don't suit, I 
 think — they don't get on." 
 
 " But, mark you this," said Mrs. Jones. " He 
 always liked her. AVe always saw he liked her. 
 There's property too — a good estate ; and all goes 
 to them two girls ; and Miss Charity, we all know, 
 will never marry; no more will the Admiral — I 
 mean Mr. Etherage himself — with them legs of 
 his ; and Mr. Kiffyn — Master Cleve^s uncle — 
 spoke to our lawyer here once about it, as if it 
 was a thing he would like — that the Hazelden 
 property should be joined to the Ware estate." 
 
278 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 " Joined together in holy wedlock/' laughed 
 Miss Sheckleton ; but she was not particularly 
 cheerful. And some more intending purchasers 
 coming in and seizing upon the communicative 
 Mrs. Jones, who had only time to whisper, " They 
 do say — them that should know — that it will be 
 in spring next; but I'm not to tell; so you'll 
 please remember it's a secret." 
 
 " Shall we go, dear ?" whispered Miss Sheckle- 
 ton to her muffled companion, who forthwith rose 
 and accompanied her from the shop, followed by 
 the eyes of Mrs. Jones's new visitors, who were 
 more interested on hearing that ^^it was Miss 
 Anne Sheckleton and the other Malory lady," 
 and they slipped out to the door-step, and under 
 the awning peeped after the mysterious ladies, 
 until an accidental backward glance from Miss 
 Sheckleton routed them, and the materfamilias 
 entered a little hastily but gravely, and with her 
 head high, and her young ladies tittering. 
 
 As Cleve Verney walked to and fro beside 
 pretty Agnes Etherage that day, and talked as 
 usual, gaily and fluently, there seemed on a 
 sudden to come a sort of blight over the harvest 
 of his thoughts — both corn and flowers. He 
 repeated the end of his sentence, and forgot what 
 he was going to say; and Miss Charity said, 
 "Well? go on; I want so much to hear the 
 
THE LADIES PEEP INTO CARDYLLIAN. 279 
 
 end;'' aud lookiug up she thought he looked a 
 little pale. 
 
 "Yes, certainly, I'll tell you the end when I 
 can remember it. But I let myself think of some- 
 thing else for a moment, and it has flown away — " 
 
 " I beg your pardon/^ interrupted Miss Charity, 
 '^just a moment. Look there, Aggie ! Aren't 
 those the Malory ladies?" 
 
 "Where?'' said Cleve. "Oh! I see. Very 
 like, I think — the old lady, I mean." 
 
 "Yes, oh certainly," replied Agnes, "it is the 
 old lady, and I'm nearly certain the young lady 
 also ; who else can it be ? It must be she." 
 
 " They are going over the hill to Malory,'' said 
 Miss Charity. " I don't know what it is about 
 that old lady that I think so woriderfally nice, 
 and so perfectly charming ; and the young lady is 
 the most perfectly — beautiful — person, all to no- 
 thing, I ever saw in my life. Don't you think so, 
 Mr. Verney ? " 
 
 " Your sister, I'm sure, is very much obliged,'^ 
 said he, with a glance at Agnes. " But this 
 ]\Ialory young lady is so muffled in that great 
 shawl that there is very little indeed to remind 
 one of the young lady we saw in church — " 
 
 "What o'clock is that?" interrupted Miss 
 Charity, as the boom of the clock from the church 
 tower sounded over the green. 
 
280 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 
 
 So it seemed their hour had come, and the 
 little demoDstration on the green came to a close, 
 and Cleve that evening walked with the Hazelden 
 ladies only so far as the bridge ; there taking his 
 leave with an excuse. He felt uncomfortable 
 somehow. That Margaret Fanshawe should have 
 actually come down to Cardyllian was a singular 
 and almost an unaccountable occurrence ! 
 
 Cleve Verney had certainly not intended the 
 pantomime which he presented to the window of 
 the Cardyllian reading-room for the eyes that had 
 witnessed it. 
 
 Cleve was uncomfortable. It is always unplea- 
 sant to have to explain — especially where the 
 exculpation involves a disclosure that is not 
 noble. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 RRADBURT, EVANS, AND CO., PR1NJKR8, WHirEFRlARS. 
 
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