A NEW LIGHT.
It was all over Cardyllian by this time that the viscount was very
ill--dying perhaps--possibly dead. Under the transparent green shadow
of the tall old trees, down the narrow road to Malory, which he had so
often passed in other moods, more passionate, hardly perhaps less
selfish, than his present, was Cleve now driving, with brain and heart
troubled and busy--"walking, as before, in a vain shadow, and
disquieting himself in vain." The daisies looked up innocently as the
eyes of children, into his darkened gaze. Had fate after all taken
pity on him, and was here by one clip of the inexorable shears a
deliverance from the hell of his complication?
As Cleve entered the gate of Malory he saw the party from Cardyllian
leaving in the yacht on their return. Lady Wimbledon, it turned out,
had remained behind in charge of Lord Verney. On reaching the house,
Cleve learned that Lord Verney was _alive_--was better in fact.
Combining Lady Wimbledon's and the doctor's narratives, what Cleve
learned amounted to this. Lord Verney, who affected a mysterious
urgency and haste in his correspondence, had given orders that his
letters should follow him to Malory that day. One of these letters,
with a black seal and black-bordered envelope, proved to be a
communication of considerable interest. It was addressed to him by the
clergyman who had charge of poor old Lady Verney's conscience, and
announced that his care was ended, and the Dowager Lady, Lord Verney's
mother, was dead.
As the doctor who had attended her was gone, and no one but servants
in the house, he had felt it a duty to write to Lord Verney to apprise
him of the melancholy event.
The melancholy event was no great shock to Lord Verney, her mature son
of sixty-four, who had sometimes wondered dimly whether she would live
as long as the old Countess of Desmond, and go on drawing her jointure
for fifty years after his own demise. He had been a good son; he had
nothing to reproach himself with. She was about ninety years of age;
the estate was relieved of L1,500 per annum. She had been a religious
woman too, and was, no doubt, happy. On the whole the affliction was
quite supportable.
But no affliction ever came at a more awkward time. Here was his
marriage on the eve of accomplishment--a secret so well kept up to
yesterday that no one on earth, he fancied, but half a dozen people,
knew that any such thing was dreamed of. Lord Verney, like other
tragedians in this theatre of ours, was, perhaps, a little more
nervous than he seemed, and did not like laughter in the wrong place.
He did not want to be talked over, or, as he said, "any jokes or
things about it." And therefore he wished the event to take mankind
unawares, as the Flood did. But this morning, with a nice calculation
as to time, he had posted four letters, bound, like Antonio's
argosies, to different remote parts of the world--one to Pau, another
to Lisbon, a third to Florence, and a fourth for Geneva, to friends
who were likely to spread the news in all directions--which he cared
nothing about, if only the event came off at the appointed time. With
the genius of a diplomatist, he had planned his remaining dispatches,
not very many, so as to reach their less distant destinations at the
latest hour, previous to that of his union. But the others were
actually on their way, and he supposed a month or more must now pass
before it could take place with any decorum, and, in the meantime,
all the world would be enjoying their laugh over his interesting
situation.
Lord Verney was very much moved when he read this sad letter; he was
pathetic and peevish, much moved and irritated, and shed some tears.
He withdrew to write a note to the clergyman, who had announced the
catastrophe, and was followed by Lady Wimbledon, who held herself
privileged, and to her he poured forth his "ideas and feelings" about
his "poor dear mother who was gone, about it;" and suddenly he was
seized with a giddiness so violent that if a chair had not been behind
him he must have fallen on the ground.
It was something like a fit; Lady Wimbledon was terrified; he looked
so ghastly, and answered nothing, only sighed laboriously, and moved
his white lips. In her distraction, she threw up the window, and
screamed for the servants; and away went Lord Verney's open carriage,
as we have seen, to Cardyllian, for the doctor.
By the time that Cleve arrived, the attack had declared itself
gout--fixed, by a mustard bath "nicely" in the foot, leaving, however,
its "leven mark" upon the head where it had flickered, in an angrily
inflamed eye.
Here was another vexation. It might be over in a week, the doctor
said; it might last a month. But for the present it was quite out of
the question moving him. They must contrive, and make him as
comfortable as they could. But at Malory he must be contented to
remain for the present.
He saw Cleve for a few minutes.
"It's very unfortunate--your poor dear grandmother--and this gout; but
we must bow to the will of Providence; we have every consolation in
her case. She's, no doubt, gone to heaven, about it; but it's
indescribably untoward the whole thing; you apprehend me--the
marriage--you know--and things; we must pray to heaven to grant us
patience under these cross-grained, unintelligible misfortunes that
are always persecuting some people, and never come in the way of
others, and I beg you'll represent to poor Caroline how it is. I'm not
even to write for a day or two; and you must talk to her, Cleve, and
try to keep her up, for I do believe she does like her old man, and
does not wish to see the poor old fellow worse than he is; and, Cleve,
I appreciate your attention and affection in coming so promptly;" and
Lord Verney put out his thin hand and pressed Cleve's. "You're very
kind, Cleve, and if they allow me I'll see you to-morrow, and you'll
tell me what's in the papers, for they won't let me read; and there
will be this funeral, you know--about it--your poor dear grandmother;
she'll of course--she'll be buried; you'll have to see to that, you
know; and Larkin, you know--he'll save you trouble, and--and--hey! ha,
ha--hoo! Very pleasant! Good gracious, what torture! Ha!--Oh, dear!
Well, I think I've made everything pretty clear, and you'll tell
Caroline--its only a flying gout--about it--and--and things. So I must
bid you good-bye, dear Cleve, and God bless you."
So Cleve did see Caroline Oldys at the Verney Arms, and talked a great
deal with her, in a low tone, while old Lady Wimbledon dozed in her
chair, and, no doubt, it was all about his uncle's "flying gout."
That night our friend Wynne Williams was sitting in his snuggery, a
little bit of fire was in the grate, the air being sharp, his
tea-things on the table, and the cozy fellow actually reading a novel,
with his slippered feet on the fender.
It was half-past nine o'clock, a rather rakish hour in Cardyllian,
when the absorbed attorney was aroused by a tap at his door.
I think I have already mentioned that in that town of the golden age,
hall-doors stand open, in evidence of "ancient faith that knows no
guile," long after dark.
"Come in," said Wynne Williams; and to his amazement who should enter,
not with the conventional smile of greeting, but pale, dark, and
wo-begone, but the tall figure of Mrs. Rebecca Mervyn.
Honest Wynne Williams never troubled himself about ghosts, but he had
read of spectral illusions, and old Mrs. Mervyn unconsciously
encouraged a fancy that the thing he greatly feared had come upon him,
and that he was about to become a victim to that sort of
hallucination. She stood just a step within the door, looking at him,
and he, with his novel, on his knee, stared at her as fixedly.
"She's dead," said the old lady.
"_Who?_" exclaimed the attorney.
"The Dowager Lady Verney," she continued, rather than answered.
"I was so much astonished, ma'am, to see you here; you haven't been
down in the town these twelve years, I think. I could scarce believe
my eyes. Won't you come in, ma'am? Pray do." The attorney by this time
was on his legs, and doing the honours, much relieved, and he placed a
chair for her. "If it's any business, ma'am, I'll be most happy, or
any time you like."
"Yes, she's dead," said she again.
"Oh, come in, ma'am--_do_--so is Queen Anne," said the attorney,
laughing kindly. "I heard _that_ early to-day; we _all_ heard it, and
we're sorry, of course. Sit down, ma'am. But then she was not very far
from a hundred, and we're all mortal. Can I do anything for you,
ma'am?"
"She was good to me--a proud woman--hard, they used to say; but she
was good to me--yes, sir--and so she's gone, at last. She was
frightened at them--there was something in them--my poor head--you
know--_I_ couldn't see it, and I did not care--for the little child
was gone; it was only two months old, and she was ninety years; it's a
long time, and now she's in her shroud, poor thing! and I may speak to
you."
"Do, ma'am--pray; but it's growing late, and hadn't we better come to
the point a bit?"
She was sitting in the chair he had placed for her, and she had
something under her cloak, a thick book it might be, which she held
close in her arms. She placed it on the table and it turned out to be
a small tin box with a padlock.
"Papers, ma'am?" he inquired.
"Will you read them, sir, and see what ought to be done--there's the
key?"
"Certainly, ma'am;" and having unlocked it, he disclosed two little
sheaves of papers, neatly folded and endorsed.
The attorney turned these over rapidly, merely reading at first the
little note of its contents written upon each. "By Jove!" he
exclaimed; he looked very serious now, with a frown, and the corners
of his mouth drawn down, like a man who witnesses something horrible.
"And, ma'am, how long have you had these?"
"Since Mr. Sedley died."
"I know; that's more than twenty years, I think; did you show them to
anyone?"
"Only to the poor old lady who's gone."
"Ay, I see."
There was a paper endorsed "Statement of Facts," and this the attorney
was now reading.
"Now, ma'am, do you wish to place these papers in my hands, that I may
act upon them as the interests of those who are nearest to you may
require?"
She looked at him with a perplexed gaze, and said, "_Yes_, sir,
certainly."
"Very well, ma'am; then I must go up to town at once. It's a very
serious affair, ma'am, and I'll do my duty by you."
"Can you understand them, sir?"
"N--_no_--that is, I must see counsel in London; I'll be back again in
a day or two. Leave it all to me, ma'am, and the moment I know
anything for certain, you shall know all about it."
The old woman asked the question as one speaks in their sleep,
without hearing the answer. Her finger was to her lip, and she was
looking down with a knitted brow.
"Ay, she was proud--I _promised_--proud--she was--very high--it will
be in Penruthyn, she told me she would be buried there--Dowager Lady
Verney! I wish, sir, it had been I."
She drew her cloak about her and left the room, and he accompanied her
with the candle to the hall-door, and saw her hurry up the street.
Now and then a passenger looked at the tall cloaked figure gliding
swiftly by, but no one recognised her.
The attorney was gaping after her in deep abstraction, and when she
was out of sight he repeated, with a resolute wag of his head--
"I _will_ do my duty by you--and a serious affair, upon _my soul_! A
_very_ serious affair it is."
And so he closed the door, and returned to his sitting-room in deep
thought, and very strange excitement, and continued reading those
papers till one o'clock in the morning.