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THE
TENANTS OF MALORY.
(Reprinted from the "Dublin University Magazine.")
THE
TENANTS OF MALORY.
A Novel.
BY
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE SILAS," "GUY DEVERELL," "THE HOUSE
BY THE CHURCHYARD," ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1867.
[_The Right of Translation is reserved._]
LONDON:
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--IN THE OAK PARLOUR--A MEETING AND PARTING 1
II.--JUDAEUS APELLA 12
III.--MR. LEVI VISITS MRS. MERVYN 21
IV.--MR. BENJAMIN LEVI RECOGNISES AN ACQUAINTANCE 32
V.--A COUNCIL OF THREE 44
VI.--MR. DINGWELL ARRIVES 56
VII.--MR. DINGWELL MAKES HIMSELF COMFORTABLE 68
VIII.--THE LODGER AND HIS LANDLADY 76
IX.--IN WHICH MR. DINGWELL PUTS HIS HAND TO THE POKER 87
X.--CLEVE VERNEY SEES THE CHATEAU DE CRESSERON 102
XI.--SHE COMES AND SPEAKS 112
XII.--CLEVE VERNEY HAS A VISITOR 125
XIII.--THE REV. ISAAC DIXIE SETS FORTH ON A MISSION 136
XIV.--OVER THE HERRING-POND 146
XV.--MR. CLEVE VERNEY PAYS A VISIT TO ROSEMARY COURT 157
XVI.--IN LORD VERNEY'S LIBRARY 176
XVII.--AN OVATION 191
XVIII.--OLD FRIENDS ON THE GREEN 205
XIX.--VANE ETHERAGE GREETS LORD VERNEY 222
XX.--REBECCA MERVYN READS HER LETTER 235
XXI.--BY RAIL TO LONDON 252
XXII.--LADY DORMINSTER'S BALL 264
THE
TENANTS OF MALORY.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE OAK PARLOUR--A MEETING AND PARTING.
"GOSSIPING place Cardyllian is," said Miss Anne Sheckleton, after they
had walked on a little in silence. "What nonsense the people do talk. I
never heard anything like it. Did you ever hear such a galamathias?"
The young lady walking by her side answered by a cold little laugh--
"Yes, I suppose so. All small country towns _are_, I believe," said she.
"And that good old soul, Mrs. Jones, she does invent the most absurd
gossip about every body that imagination can conceive. Wilmot told me
the other day that she had given her to understand that your father is a
madman, sent down here by London doctors for change of air. I make it a
point never to mind one word she says; although her news, I confess,
does amuse me."
"Yes, it is, very foolish. Who are those Etherages?" said Margaret.
"Oh! They are village people--oddities," said Miss Sheckleton. "From all
I can gather, you have no idea what absurd people they are."
"He was walking with them. Was not he?" asked the young lady.
"Yes--I think so," answered her cousin.
Then followed a long silence, and the elder lady at length said--
"How fortunate we have been in our weather; haven't we? How beautiful
the hills look this evening!" said the spinster; but her words did not
sound as if she cared about the hills or the light. I believe the two
ladies were each acting a part.
"Yes," said Margaret; "so they do."
The girl felt as if she had walked fifty miles instead of two--quite
worn out--her limbs aching with a sense of fatigue; it was a trouble to
hold her head up. She would have liked to sit down on the old stone
bench they were passing now, and to die there like a worn-out prisoner
on a march.
Two or three times that evening as they sat unusually silent and
listless, Miss Anne Sheckleton peeped over her spectacles, lowering her
work for a moment, with a sad inquiry, into her face, and seemed on the
point of speaking. But there was nothing inviting to talk, in Margaret's
face, and when she spoke there was no reference to the subject on which
Miss Sheckleton would have liked to speak.
So, at last, tired, with a pale, wandering smile, she kissed the kind
old spinster, and bid her good night. When she reached her room,
however, she did not undress, but having secured her door, she sat down
to her little desk, and wrote a letter; swiftly and resolutely the pen
glided over the page. Nothing added--nothing erased; each line remained
as she penned it first.
Having placed this letter in its envelope, and addressed it to "Cleve
Verney, Esq., Ware," she opened her window. The air was mild; none of
the sharpness in it that usually gives to nights at that time of year, a
frosty foretaste of winter. So sitting by the window, which, placed in
one of the gables of the old house, commands a view of the uplands of
Cardyllian, and to the left, of the sea, and the misty mountains--she
sat there, leaning upon her hand.
Here, with the letter on her lap, she sat, pale as a meditating suicide,
and looking dreamily over the landscape. It is, at times, some little
incident of by-play, or momentary hesitation of countenance, that gives
its whole character and force to a situation. Before the retina of
Margaret one image was always visible, that of Cleve Verney as she saw
him to-day, looking under Agnes Etherage's bonnet, with interest, into
her eyes, as he talked and walked by her side, on the Green of
Cardyllian.
Of course there are false prophecies as well as true, in love; illusions
as well as inspirations, and fancied intimations may mislead. But
Margaret could not doubt here. All the time she smiled and assumed her
usual tone and manner, there was an agony at her heart.
Miss Fanshawe would trust no one with her secret. She was not like other
girls. Something of the fiery spirit of her southern descent she had
inherited. She put on the shawl and veil she had worn that day, unbarred
the hall-door, and at two o'clock, when Cardyllian was locked in the
deepest slumber, glided through its empty streets, to the little wooden
portico, over which that day she had read "Post-office," and placed in
it the letter which next morning made quite a little sensation in the
Post-office _coterie_.
Under the awful silence and darkness of the old avenue, she reached
again the hall-door of Malory. She stood for a moment upon the steps
looking seaward--I think towards Ware--pale as a ghost, with one slender
hand clenched, and a wild sorrow in her face. She cared very little, I
think, whether her excursion were discovered or not. The messenger had
flown from her empty hand; her voice could not recall it, or delay it
for an hour--quite irrevocable, and all was over.
She entered the hall, closed and barred the door again, ascended to her
room, and lay awake, through the long night, with her hand under her
cheek, not stunned, not dreaming, but in a frozen apathy, in which she
saw all with a despairing clearness.
Next day Cleve Verney received a note, in a hand which he knew not; but
having read--could not mistake--a cold, proud note, with a gentle
cruelty, ending all between them, quite decisively, and not deigning a
reason for it.
I dare say that Cleve could not himself describe with much precision the
feelings with which he read this letter.
Cleve Verney, however, could be as impetuous and as rash too, on
occasion, as other people. There was something of rage in his soul which
scouted all consequences. Could temerity be imagined more audacious than
his?
Right across from Ware to the jetty of Malory ran his yacht,
audaciously, in open sea, in broad daylight. There is, in the Dower
House, a long low room, wainscoted in black shining panels from floor to
ceiling, and which in old times was called the oak parlour. It has two
doors, in one of its long sides, the farther opening near the stairs,
the other close to the hall door.
Up the avenue, up the steps, into the hall, and, taking chance, into
this room, walked Cleve Verney, without encountering interruption or
even observation. _Fortuna favet fortibus_, so runs the legend in faded
gold letters, under the dim portrait of Sir Thomas Verney, in his
armour, fixed in the panel of the hall. So it had proved with his
descendant.
Favoured by fortune, without having met a human being, and directed by
the same divinity it would seem, he had entered the room I have
described; and at the other end, alone, awaiting Miss Sheckleton, who
was to accompany her in a little ramble among the woods, stood Miss
Fanshawe, dressed for her walk.
In came Cleve pale with agitation; approached her quickly, and stopped
short, saying--
"I've come; I'm here to ask--how could you--my God!--how _could_ you
write the letter you sent this morning?"
Miss Fanshawe was leaning a little against the oak window-frame, and
did not change this pose, which was haughty and almost sullen.
"_Why_ I wrote that letter, _no_ one has a right to ask me, and I shall
say no more than is contained in the letter itself." She spoke so coldly
and quietly that there seemed almost a sadness in her tones.
"I don't think you can really mean it," said Cleve, "I'm _sure_ you
can't; you can't _possibly_ think that any one would use another so,
without a reason."
"_Not_ without a reason," said she.
"But I say, surely I have a right to hear it," urged Cleve. "Is it fair
to condemn me, as your letter does, unheard, and to punish me, in
ignorance?"
"_Not_ in ignorance; at this moment, you _know_ the reason perfectly,"
replied the girl, and he felt as if her great hazel eyes lighted up all
the dark labyrinths of his brain, and disclosed every secret that lurked
there.
Cleve was for a moment embarrassed, and averted his eyes. It was true.
He _did_ know; he could not fail to guess the cause. He had been cursing
his ill luck all the morning, and wondering what malign caprice could
have led her, of all times and places, at that moment, to the Green of
Cardyllian.
In the "Arabian Nights," that delightful volume which owes nothing to
trick or book-craft, and will preserve its charm undimmed through all
the mutations of style and schools, which, projecting its images from
the lamp and hues of a dazzling fancy, can no more be lectured into
neglect than the magic lantern, and will preserve its popularity while
the faculty of imagination and the sense of colour remain, we all
remember a parallel. In the "Sultan's Purveyor's Story," where the
beautiful favourite of Zobaide is about to make the bridegroom of her
love quite happy, and in the moment of his adoration, starts up
transformed with a "lamentable cry," and hate and fury in her aspect,
all about an unfortunate "ragout made with garlic," and thereupon, with
her own hand and a terrible scourge, lashes him, held down by slaves,
into a welter of blood, and then orders the executioner to strike off,
at the wrist, his offending hand.
"_Yes!_ you _do_ know, self-convicted, _why_ I think it better for both
that we should part now--better that we should thus early be undeceived;
with little pain and less reluctance, forget the precipitation and folly
of an hour, and go our several ways through life apart. You are fickle;
you are selfish; you are reckless; you are quite unworthy of the love
you ask for; if you are trifling with that young lady, Miss Etherage,
how cruel and unmanly! and if _not_, by what right do you presume to
stand here?"
Could he ever forget that beautiful girl as he saw her before him there,
almost terrible--her eyes--the strange white light that seemed to
flicker on her forehead--her attitude, Italian more than English,
statuesque and wild?
On a sudden came another change, sad as a broken-hearted death and
farewell--the low tone--the fond lingering--of an unspeakable sorrow,
and eternal leave-taking.
"In either case my resolution is taken. I have said _Farewell_; and I
will see you no more--no more--never."
And as she spoke, she left the room by the door that was beside her.
It was a new sensation for Cleve Verney to feel as he did at that
moment. A few steps he followed toward the door, and then hesitated.
Then with a new impulse, he did follow and open it. But she was gone.
Even the sound of her step was lost.
He turned back, and paused for a minute to collect his thoughts. Of
course this must not be. The idea of giving her up so, was simple
nonsense, and not to be listened to.
The door at which the young lady had left the room but two or three
minutes before, now opened, and Miss Sheckleton's natty figure and kind
old face came in. Quite aghast she looked at him.
"For God's sake, Mr. Verney, why are you here? How _can_ you be so
rash?" she almost gasped. "You _must_ go, _instantly_."
"How could you advise the cruelty and folly of that letter?" he said,
impetuously.
"What letter?"
"Oh! Miss Sheckleton, do let us be frank; only say what have I done or
said, or thought, that I should be condemned and discarded without a
hearing?"
Hereupon Miss Sheckleton, still urging his departure in frightened
whispers, protested her innocence of his meaning, and at last bethought
her of persuading him, to leave the house, and meet her for the purpose
of explaining all, of which he soon perceived she was honestly ignorant,
in their accustomed trysting-place.
There, accordingly, among the old trees, they met, and discussed, and
she blamed and pitied him; and promised, with such caution as old ladies
use in speaking for the resolves of the young of their own sex, that
Margaret should learn the truth from her, although she could not of
course say what she might think of it, taking as she did such decided,
and, sometimes, strange views of things.
So they parted kindly. But Cleve's heart was disquieted within him, and
his sky this evening was wild and stormy.