MR. BENJAMIN LEVI RECOGNISES AN ACQUAINTANCE.
MR. BENJAMIN LEVI, having turned the corner of the steward's house,
found himself before two great piers, passing through the gate of which
he entered the stable-yard, at the further side of which was a second
gate, which he rightly conjectured would give him access to that back
avenue through which he meant to make his exit.
He glanced round this great quadrangle, one end of which was over-looked
by the rear of the old house, and that quaint old refectory with its
clumsy flight of stone steps, from the windows of which our friend
Sedley had observed the ladies of Malory while engaged in their garden
work.
There was grass growing between the paving stones, and moss upon the
walls, and the stable doors were decaying upon their rusty hinges.
Commenting, as so practical a genius naturally would, upon the
surrounding capabilities and decay, Mr. Levi had nearly traversed this
solitude when he heard some one call, "Thomas Jones!" twice or thrice,
and the tones of the voice arrested him instantly.
He was a man with a turn for musical business, and not only dabbled in
concerts and little operatic speculations, but, having a naturally
musical ear, had a retentive memory for voices--and this blind man's
faculty stood him in stead here, for, with a malicious thrill of wonder
and delight, he instantly recognised this voice.
The door of that smaller yard which is next the house opened now, and
Sir Booth Fanshawe entered, bawling with increased impatience--"Thomas
Jones!"
Sir Booth's eye lighted on the figure of Mr. Levi, as he stood close by
the wall at the other side, hoping to escape observation.
With the same instinct Sir Booth stepped backward hastily into an open
stable door, and Mr. Levi skipped into another door, within which
unfortunately, a chained dog, Neptune, was dozing.
The dog flew the length of his tether at Mr. Levi's legs, and the Jewish
gentleman sprang forth more hastily even than he had entered.
At the same moment, Sir Booth's pride determined _his_ vacillation, and
he strode boldly forward and said--
"I think I know you, sir; don't I?"
As there was still some little distance between them, Mr. Levi affected
near-sightedness, and, compressing his eyelids, smiled dubiously, and
said--
"Rayther think not, sir. No, sir--I'm a stranger; my name is Levi--of
Goldshed and Levi--and I've been to see Mrs. Mervyn, who lives here,
about her young man. I don't know you, sir--no--it is a mishtake."
"No, Mr. Levi--you _do_ know me--you do," replied Sir Booth, with a grim
oath, approaching, while his fingers clutched at his walking-stick with
an uneasy gripe, as if he would have liked to exercise it upon the
shoulders of the Israelite.
"Oh! crikey! Ay, to be sure--why, it's Sir Booth Fanshawe! I beg pardon,
Sir Booth. We thought you was in France; but no matter, Sir Booth
Fanshawe, none in the world, for all that little bushiness is blow'd
over, quite. We have no interest--no more than your horse--in them
little securities, upon my shoul; we sold them two months ago to
Sholomons; we were glad to sell them to Sholomons, we were; he hit us
pretty hard with some of Wilbraham and Cumming's paper, and I don't care
if he never sees a shilling of it--we would rayther _like_ it." And Mr.
Levi again made oath to that confession of feeling.
"Will you come into the house and have a glass of sherry or something?"
said Sir Booth, on reflection.
"Well, I don't mind," said Mr. Levi.
And in he went and had a glass of sherry and a biscuit, and grew
friendly and confidential.
"Don't you be running up to town, Sir Booth--Sholomons is looking for
you. Clever man, Sholomons, and you should get quietly out of this
country as soon as you conveniently can. He thinks you're in France now.
He sent Rogers--you know Rogers?"
He paused so long here that Sir Booth had to answer "No."
"Well, he sent him--a good man, Rogers, you know, but drinks a
bit--after you to Vichy, ha, ha, ha! Crikey! it _was_ rich. Sholomons be
blowed! It was worth a pound to see his face--ugly fellow. You know
Sholomons?"
And so Mr. Levi entertained his host, who neither loved nor trusted him,
and at his departure gave him all sorts of friendly warnings and sly
hints, and walked and ran partly to the "George," and got a two-horse
vehicle as quickly as they could harness the horses, and drove at great
speed to Llywnan, where he telegraphed to his partner to send a writ
down by the next train for Sir Booth, the message being from Benjamin
Levi, George Inn, Cardyllian, to Goldshed and Levi, &c., &c., London.
Mr. Levi took his ease in his inn, sipped a good deal of brandy and
water, and smoked many cigars, with a serene mind and pleasant
anticipations, for, if nothing went wrong, the telegram would be in his
partner's hand in ample time to enable him, with his accustomed
diligence, to send down a "beak" with the necessary documents by the
night train who would reach Cardyllian early, and pay his little visit
at Malory by nine o'clock in the morning.
Mr. Levi, as prosperous gentlemen will, felt his solitude, though
luxurious, too dull for the effervescence of his spirits, and having
questioned his host as to the amusements of Cardyllian, found that its
normal resources of that nature were confined to the billiard and
reading rooms, where, on payment of a trifling benefaction to the
institution, he enjoyed, as a "visitor," the exhilarating privileges of
a member of the club.
In the billiard-room, accordingly, that night, was the fragrance of Mr.
Levi's cheroot agreeably perceptible, the sonorous drawl of his peculiar
accent vocal amongst pleasanter intonations, and his "cuts," "double
doubles," and "long crosses," painfully admired by the gentlemen whose
shillings he pocketed at pool. And it was pleasant to his exquisitively
commercial genius to think that the contributions of the gentlemen to
whom he had "given a lesson," and whose "eyes he had opened," would
constitute a fund sufficient to pay his expenses at the "George," and
even to leave something towards his return fare to London.
The invalid who was suffering from asthma in the bed-room next his was
disturbed by his ejaculations as he undressed, and by his repeated
bursts of laughter, and rang his bell and implored the servant to beg of
the two gentlemen who were conversing in the next room to make a little
less noise, in consideration of his indisposition.
The manner in which he had "potted" the gentlemen in the billiard-room,
right and left, and the uncomfortable admiration of his successes
exhibited in their innocent countenances, had, no doubt, something to do
with these explosions of merriment. But the chief source of his
amusement was the anticipated surprise of Sir Booth, when the little
domiciliary visit of the next morning should take place, and the
recollection of his own adroitness in mystifying the Baronet.
So he fell into a sweet slumber, uncrossed by even an ominous dream,
not knowing that the shrewd old bird for whom his chaff was spread and
his pot simmering had already flown with the scream of the whistle on
the wings of the night train to Chester, and from that centre to an
unknown nook, whence, in a day or two more, he had flitted to some
continental roost, which even clever Mr. Levi could not guess.
Next morning early, the ladies were on their way to London, through
which they were to continue their journey, and to join Sir Booth abroad.
Two persons were, therefore, very much disappointed next day at Malory;
but it could not be helped. One was Cleve Verney, who tried the
inexorable secrecy of the servant in every way, but in vain; possibly
because the servant did not himself know where "the family" were gone.
The other was Mr. Benjamin Levi, who resented Sir Booth's selfish
duplicity with an exasperation which would hardly have been appeased by
burning that "old mizzled robber" alive.
Mr. Levi flew to Chester with his "beak" in a third-class carriage, and
thence radiated telegraphic orders and entreaties affecting Sir Booth
wherever he had a friend, and ready, on a hint by the wires, to unleash
his bailiff on his track, and fix him on the soil, immovable as the
petrified witch of Mucklestane Muir, by the spell of his parchment
legend.
But no gleam of light rewarded his labours. It was enough to ruffle even
Mr. Levi's temper, which, accordingly, _was_ ruffled. To have been so
near! To have had his hand, as it were, upon the bird. If he had only
had the writ himself in his pocket he might have dropped, with his own
fingers, the grain of salt upon his tail. But it was not to be. At the
moment of possession, Mr. Levi was balked. He could grind curses under
his white teeth, and did not spare them now. Some of them were, I dare
say, worthy of that agile witch, "Cuttie Sark," as she stood baffled on
the "key-stane" of the bridge, with Meggie's severed tail in her grip.
In the meantime, for Cleve Verney, Malory is stricken with a sudden
blight. Its woods are enchanted no longer; it is dark, now, and empty.
His heart aches when he looks at it.
He missed his accustomed walk with the Etherage girls. He wrote to tell
old Vane Etherage that he was suffering from a severe cold, and could
not dine with him, as he had promised. The cold was a lie--but was he
really well? Are the spirits no part of health; and where were his?
About a fortnight later, came a letter from his good friend, Miss
Sheckleton. How delightfully interesting, though it contained next to
nothing. But how interesting! How often he read it through! How every
solitary moment was improved by a glance into it!
It was a foreign letter. It would be posted, she said, by a friend in
Paris. She could not yet tell, even to a friend so kind as he, the
address which would find them. She hoped, however, _very_ soon to be at
liberty to do so. _All_ were well. Her young friend had never alluded
since to the subject of the last painful interview. _She_, Miss
Sheckleton, could not, unless a favourable opening presented, well
invite a conversation on the matter. She had no doubt, however, that an
opportunity would occur. She understood the peculiar character of her
beautiful young cousin, and saw a difficulty, and even danger, in
pressing the question upon her, possibly prematurely. When he, Cleve,
wrote--which she supposed he would so soon as he was in possession of
her address--he could state exactly what he wished her to say.
Meanwhile, although as she had before hinted, dear Margaret was admired
and _sought_ by a man both of rank and fortune, with very great
constancy, (she thought it not improbable that Cleve had already
suspected that affair,) there was in _her_ opinion nothing to
apprehend, at least at present, in that gentleman's suit--flattered, of
course, she must be by a constancy so devoted; but she hardly thought
there was a chance that the feeling would grow to anything beyond
_that_. So, she bid God bless him, and wrote Anne Sheckleton at the foot
of the page.
The physician who, mistaking a complaint, administers precisely the
concoction which debilitates the failing organ, or inflames the tortured
nerve, commits just such an innocent cruelty as good Miss Sheckleton
practised, at the close of her letter, upon Cleve Verney.
She had fancied that he knew something of the suit to which she referred
for the purpose of relieving an anxiety to which her thoughtful allusion
introduced him, in fact, for the first time.
Who was this faithful swain? He knew enough of Sir Booth Fanshawe's
surroundings, his friends and intimates, to count up four, or five, or
six possible rivals. He knew what perseverance might accomplish, and
absence undo, and his heart was disquieted within him.
If he had consulted his instinct, he would have left Ware forthwith, and
pursued to the Continent, and searched every town in France; but he
could not act quite according to impulse. He had told the Cardyllian
people that he was not to leave Ware till the fourteenth; would no
remark attend his sudden departure, following immediately upon the
mysterious flitting of the Malory people? He knew what wonderful stories
might thereupon arise in Cardyllian, and how sure they would be, one way
or another, to reach his uncle Kiffyn, and how that statesman's
suspicions might embarrass him. Then a letter might easily reach Ware
while he was away, and be lost, or worse.
So he resolved to see out the rest of his time where he was. In
Cardyllian church, how dark and cold looked the cavity of the Malory
pew! The saints and martyrs in the great eastern window were subdued,
and would not glow, and their glories did not burn, but only smouldered
that day. And oh! how long was Dr. Splayfoot's sermon! And how vague was
his apprehension of the "yarn" to which Miss Charity Etherage treated
him all the way from the church porch to the top of Castle Street.
He was glad when the fifteenth, which was to call him away from Ware,
approached. He was glad to leave this changed place, glad to go to
London--_anywhere_.
Just as all was ready for his flight by the night train, on the evening
of the 14th, to his great joy, came a letter, a note, almost, so short,
from kind Anne Sheckleton.
_All_--underlined--were well. There was nothing more, in fact, but one
satisfactory revelation, which was the address which would now find
them.
So Cleve Verney made the journey to London that night in better
spirits.