MRS. MERVYN'S DREAM.
HE found himself, in a little time, under the windows of the steward's
house. Old Rebecca Mervyn was seated on the bench beside the door,
plying her knitting-needles; she raised her eyes on hearing his step.
"Ha, he's come!" she said, lowering her hands to her knees, and fixing
her dark wild gaze upon him, "I ought to have known it--so strange a
dream must have had a meaning."
"They sometimes have, ma'am, I believe. I hope you are pretty well,
Mrs. Mervyn."
"No, sir, I am not well."
"Very sorry, very sorry indeed, ma'am," said Tom Sedley. "I've often
thought this must be a very damp, unhealthy place--too much crowded up
with trees; they say nothing is more trying to health. You'd be much
better, I'm sure, anywhere else."
"Nowhere else; my next move shall be my last. I care not how soon,
sir."
"Pray, don't give way to low spirits; you really mustn't," said Tom.
"Tell me what it is, sir; for I know you have come to tell me
something."
"No, I assure you; merely to ask you how you are, and whether I can be
of any use."
"Oh! sir; what use?--_no_."
"Do you wish me to give any message to that fellow, Dingwell? Pray
make use of me in any way that strikes you. I hear he is on the point
of leaving England again."
"I'm glad of it," exclaimed the old lady. "Why do I say so? I'm glad
of nothing; but I'm sure it's better. What business could he and Mr.
Larkin, and that Jew, have with my child, who, thank God, is in
Heaven, and out of the reach of their hands, _evil_ hands, I dare
say."
"So I rather think also, ma'am; and Mr. Larkin tried, did he?"
"Larkin;--yes, that was the name. He came here, sir, about the time I
saw you; and he talked a great deal about my poor little child. It is
dead, you know, but I did not tell him so. I promised Lady Verney I'd
tell nothing to strangers--they all grow angry then. Mr. Larkin was
angry, I think. But I do not speak--and you advised me to be
silent--and though he said he was their lawyer, I would not answer a
word."
"I have no doubt you acted wisely, Mrs. Mervyn; you cannot be too
cautious in holding any communication with such people."
"I'd tell you, sir--if I dare; but I've promised, and I _dare_n't.
Till old Lady Verney's gone, I daren't. I know nothing of law
papers--my poor head! How should I? And _she_ could not half
understand them. So I promised. _You_ would understand them. Time
enough--time enough."
"I should be only too happy, whenever you please," said Tom, making
ready tender of his legal erudition.
"And you, sir, have come to tell me something; what is it?"
"I assure you I have nothing particular to say; I merely called to
inquire how you are."
"Nothing more needless, sir; how can a poor lonely old woman be, whose
last hope has perished and left her alone in the world? For twenty
years--more, _more_ than twenty--I have been watching, day and night;
and now, sir, I look at the sea no more. I will never see those
headlands again. I sit here, sir, from day to day, thinking; and, oh,
dear, I wish it was all over."
"Any time you should want me, I should be only too happy, and this is
my address."
"And you have nothing to tell me?"
"No, ma'am, nothing more than I said."
"It was wonderful: I dreamed last night I was looking toward
Pendillion, watching as I used; the moon was above the mountain, and I
was standing by the water, so that the sea came up to my feet, and I
saw a speck of white far away, and something told me it was his sail
at last, and nearer and nearer, very fast it came; and I walked out in
the shallow water, with my arms stretched out to meet it, and when it
came very near, I saw it was Arthur himself coming upright in his
shroud, his feet on the water, and with his feet, hands, and face, as
white as snow, and his arms stretched to meet mine; and I felt I was
going to die; and I covered my eyes with my hands, praying to God to
receive me, expecting his touch; and I heard the rush of the water
about his feet, and a voice--it was _yours_, not his--said, 'Look at
me,' and I did look, and saw you, and you looked like a man that had
been drowned--your face as white as his, and your clothes dripping,
and sand in your hair; and I stepped back, saying, 'My God! how have
you come here?' and you said, 'Listen, I have great news to tell you;'
and I waked with a shock. I don't believe in dreams more I believe
than other people, but this troubles me still."
"Well, thank God, I have had no accident by land or by water," said
Tom Sedley, smiling in spite of himself at the awful figure he cut in
the old lady's vision; "and I have no news to tell, and I think it
will puzzle those Jews and lawyers to draw me into their business,
whatever it is. I don't like that sort of people; you need never be
afraid of me, ma'am, I detest them."
"Afraid of _you_, sir! Oh no. You have been very kind. See, this view
here is under the branches; you can't see the water from this, only
those dark paths in the wood; and I walk round sometimes through that
hollow and on the low road toward Cardyllian in the evening, when no
one is stirring, just to the ash tree, from which you can see the old
church and the churchyard; and oh! sir, I wish I were lying there."
"You must not be talking in that melancholy way, ma'am," said Tom,
kindly; "I'll come and see you again if you allow me; I think you are
a great deal too lonely here; you ought to go out in a boat, ma'am,
and take a drive now and then, and just rattle about a little, and you
can't think how much good it would do you; and--I must go--and I hope
I shall find you a great deal better when I come back"--and with these
words he took his leave, and as he walked along the low narrow road
that leads by the inland track to Cardyllian, of which old Rebecca
Mervyn spoke, whom should he encounter but Miss Charity coming down
the hill at a brisk pace with Miss Flood in that lady's pony-carriage.
Smiling, hat in hand, he got himself well against the wall to let them
pass; but the ladies drew up, and Miss Charity had a message to send
home if he, Thomas Sedley, would be so good as to call at Jones's they
would find a messenger, merely to tell Agnes that she was going to
dine with Miss Flood, and would not be home till seven o'clock.
So Tom Sedley undertook it; smiled and bowed his adieus, and then
walked faster toward the town, and instead of walking direct to Mrs.
Jones's, sauntered for a while on the Green, and bethought him what
mistakes such messengers as Mrs. Jones could provide sometimes make,
and so resolved himself to be Miss Charity's Mercury.
Sedley felt happier, with an odd kind of excited and unmeaning
happiness, as he walked up the embowered steep toward Hazelden, than
he had felt an hour or two before while walking down it. When he
reached the little flowery platform of closely-mown grass, on which
stands the pretty house of Hazelden, he closed the iron gate gently
and looked toward the drawing-room windows that reach the grass, and
felt a foolish flutter at his heart as he saw that the frame stood in
Agnes's window without its mistress.
"Reading now, I suppose," whispered Tom, as if he feared to disturb
her. "She has changed her place and she is reading;" and he began to
speculate whether she sat on the ottoman, or on the sofa, or in the
cushioned arm-chair, with her novel in her hands. But his sidelong
glances could not penetrate the panes, which returned only reflections
of the sky or black shadow, excepting of the one object, the deserted
frame which stood close to their surface.
There was a time, not long ago either, when Tom Sedley would have run
across the grass to the drawing-room windows, and had he seen Agnes
within would have made a semi-burglarious entry through one of them.
But there had come of late, on a sudden, a sort of formality in his
relations with Agnes; and so he walked round by the hall-door, and
found the drawing-rooms empty, and touching the bell, learned that
Miss Agnes had gone out for a walk.
"I've a message to give her from Miss Charity; have you any idea which
way she went?"
He found himself making excuses to the servant for his inquiry. A
short time since he would have asked quite frankly where she was,
without dreaming of a reason; but now had grown, as I say, a reserve,
which has always the more harmless incidents of guilt. He was
apprehensive of suspicion; he was shy even of this old servant, and
was encountering this inquiry by an explanation of his motives.
"I saw her go by the beech-walk, sir," said the man.
"Oh! thanks; very good."
And he crossed the grass, and entered the beech-walk, which is broad
and straight, with towering files of beech at each side, and a thick
screen of underwood and evergreens, and turning the clump of
rhododendrons at the entrance of the walk, he found himself, all on a
sudden, quite close to Agnes, who was walking toward him.
She stopped. He fancied she changed colour: had she mistaken him for
some one else?
"Well, Agnes, I see the sun and the flowers prevailed, though we
couldn't; and I'm glad, at all events, that you have had a little
walk."
"Oh! yes, after all, I couldn't really resist; and is Charity coming?"
"No, you are not to expect her till tea-time. She's gone with Miss
Flood somewhere, and she sent me to tell you."
"Oh! thanks;" and Agnes hesitated, looking towards home, as if she
intended returning.
"You may as well walk once more up and down; it does look so jolly,
doesn't it?" said Tom; "pray do, Agnes."
"Well, yes, once more I will; but that is all, for I really am a
little tired."
They set out in silence, and Tom, with a great effort, said,--
"I wonder, Agnes, you seem so cold, I mean so unfriendly, with me; I
think you do; and you must be quite aware of it; you must, _indeed_,
Agnes. I _think_ if you knew half the pain you are giving me--I really
do--that you wouldn't."
The speech was very inartificial, but it had the merit of going direct
to the point, and Miss Agnes began,--
"I haven't been at all unfriendly."
"Oh! but you _have_--_indeed_ you have--you are quite _changed_. And I
don't know what I have done--I wish you'd tell me--to deserve it;
because--even if there was--another--anything--no matter what--I'm an
old friend, and I think it's very unkind; _you_ don't perceive it,
perhaps, but you are awfully changed."
Agnes laughed a very little, and she answered, looking down on the
walk before her, as Sedley thought, with a very pretty blush; and I
believe there was.
"It is a very serious accusation, and I don't deserve it. No, indeed,
and even if it were true, it rather surprises me that it should in the
least interest you; because we down here have seen so little of you
that we might very reasonably suspect that you had begun to forget
us."
"Well, I _have_ been an _awful_ fool, it is quite true, and you have
punished me, not more than I deserve; but I think you might have
remembered that you had not on earth a better friend--I mean a more
earnest one--particularly _you_, Agnes, than I."
"I really don't know what I have done," pleaded she, with another
little laugh.
"I was here, you know, as intimate almost as a brother. I don't say,
of course, there are not many things I had no right to expect to hear
anything about; but if I had, and been thought worthy of confidence, I
would at all events have spoken honestly. But--may I speak quite
frankly, Agnes? You won't be offended, will you?"
"No; I shan't--I'm quite sure."
"Well, it was only this--you _are_ changed, Agnes, you know you are.
Just this moment, for instance, you were going home, only because _I_
came here, and you fancied I might join you in your walk; and this
change began when Cleve Verney was down here staying at Ware, and used
to walk with you on the Green."
Agnes stopped short at these words and drew back a step, looking at
Sedley with an angry surprise.
"I don't understand you--I'm certain I don't. I can't conceive what
you mean," she said.
Sedley paused in equal surprise.
"I--I beg pardon; I'm awfully sorry--you'll never know _how_ sorry--if
I have said anything to vex you; but I _did_ think it was some
influence or something connected with that time."
"I really don't pretend to understand you," said Agnes, coldly, with
eyes, however, that gleamed resentfully. "I do recollect perfectly Mr.
Cleve Verney's walking half-a-dozen times with Charity and me upon the
Green, but what that can possibly have to do with your fancied wrongs,
I cannot imagine. I fancied you were a friend of Mr. Verney's."
"So I was--so I am; but no such friend as I am of yours--_your_
friend, Agnes. There's no use in saying it; but, Agnes, I'd die for
you--I would indeed."
"I thought it very strange, your coming so very seldom to inquire for
papa, when he was so poorly last year, when you were at Cardyllian.
_He_ did not seem to mind it; but considering, as you say, how much
you once used to be here, it did strike me as very unkind--I may as
well say what I really thought--not only unkind, but rude. So that if
there has been any change, you need not look to other people for the
cause of it."
"If you knew how I blame myself for that, I think, bad as it was,
you'd forgive me."
"I think it showed that you did not very much care what became of us."
"Oh! Agnes, you did not think that--you never thought it. Unless _you_
are happy, I _can't_ be happy, nor even then unless I think you have
forgiven me; and I think if I could be sure you liked me ever so
little, even in the old way, I should be one of the happiest fellows
in the world. I don't make any excuses--I was the stupidest fool on
earth--I only throw myself on your mercy, and ask you to forgive me."
"I've nothing to forgive," said Agnes, with a cruel little laugh, but
changing colour.
"Well--well, _forget_--oh, _do_! and shake hands like your old self.
You've no idea how miserable I have been."
Lowering her eyes, with a very beautiful blush and a smile--a little
shy, and so gratified--and a little silvery laugh, Agnes relented, and
did give her hand to Tom Sedley.
"Oh, Agnes! Oh, Agnes! I'm so happy and so grateful! Oh, Agnes, you
won't take it away--just for a moment."
She drew her hand to remove it, for Tom was exceeding his privilege,
and kissing it.
"_Now_ we are friends," said Agnes, laughing.
"Are we _quite_ friends?"
"Yes, quite."
"You must not take your hand away--one moment more. Oh, Agnes! I can
never tell you--never, how I love you. You are my darling, Agnes, and
I can't live without you."
Agnes said something--was it reproof or repulse? He only knew that the
tones were very sad and gentle, and that she was drawing her hand
away.
"Oh, darling, I adore you! You would not make me miserable for life.
There is nothing I won't do--nothing I won't try--if you'll only say
you like me--ever so little. Do sit down here just for a
moment"--there was a rustic seat beside them--"only for a moment."
She did sit down, and he beside her. That "moment" of Tom Sedley's
grew as such moments will, like the bean that Jack sowed in his
garden, till it reached--Titania knows whither! I know that Miss
Charity on her return surprised it still growing.
"I made the tea, Agnes, fancying you were in your room. I've had such
a search for you. I really think you might have told Edward where you
were going. Will you drink tea with us, Thomas Sedley, this evening?
though I am afraid you'll find it perfectly cold."
If Miss Charity had been either suspicious or romantic, she would have
seen by a glance at the young people's faces what had happened; but
being neither, and quite pre-occupied with her theory about Cleve
Verney, and having never dreamed of Tom Sedley as possibly making his
_debut_ at Hazelden in the character of a lover--she brought her
prisoners home with only a vague sense now and then that there was
either something a little odd in their manner or in her own
perceptions, and she remarked, looking a little curiously at Tom, in
reference to some query of hers,--
"I've asked you that question twice without an answer, and now you say
something totally unmeaning."