LADY DORMINSTER'S BALL.
CLEVE VERNEY was in harness again--attending the House with remarkable
punctuality; for the eye of the noble peer, his uncle, was upon him. He
had the division lists regularly on his table, and if Cleve's name was
missing from any one of even moderate importance, his uncle took leave
to ask an explanation. Cleve had also reasons of his own for working
diligently at the drudgery of public life. His march was not upon solid
ground, but over a quaking bog, every undulation and waver of which was
answered by a qualm at his heart.
Still it was only some nice management of time and persons; it was a
mere matter of presence of mind, of vigilance, of resource, to which he
felt--at least hoped he might be found equal, and all _must_ end
well. Was not his uncle sixty-six his last birthday? People might natter
and say he looked nothing like it; but the red book so pronounced, and
there is no gainsaying that sublime record. After all, his uncle was not
an everlasting danger. Time and the hour will end the longest day; and
then must come the title, and estates, and a quiet heart at last.
When the House did not interfere, Cleve was of course seen at all the
proper places. On the night of which I am now speaking there was among
others Lady Dorminster's ball, and a brilliant muster of distinguished
persons.
On that crowded floor, in those celebrated salons, in an atmosphere of
light and music, in which moved so much of what is famous,
distinguished, splendid, is seen the figure of Cleve Verney. Everyone
knew that slight and graceful figure, and the oval face, delicate
features, and large, dark, dreamy eyes, that never failed to impress you
with the same ambiguous feeling. It was Moorish, it was handsome; but
there was a shadow there--something secret and selfish, and smilingly,
silently insolent.
This session he had come out a little, and made two speeches of real
promise. The minister had complimented his uncle upon them, and had also
complimented him. The muse was there; something original and above
routine--genius perhaps--and that passion for distinction which breaks a
poor man's heart, and floats the rich to greatness.
A man of Cleve's years, with his position, with his promise, with London
life and Paris life all learned by rote, courted and pursued, wary,
contemptuous, sensual, clever, ambitious--is not young. The whole
chaperon world, with its wiles, was an open book for him. For him, like
the man in the German legend, the earth under which they mined and
burrowed had grown to his eyes transparent, and he saw the gnomes at
work. For him young ladies' smiles were not light and magic--only marsh
fires and tricks. To him old and young came up and simpered or fawned;
but they dimpled, or ogled, or grinned, all in the Palace of Truth.
Truth is power, but not always pretty. For common men the surface is
best; all beyond is knowledge--an acquisition of sorrow.
Therefore, notwithstanding his years, the clear olive oval of his
handsome face, the setting--void of line or colour--of those deep dark
eyes, so enthusiastic, yet so cold, the rich wave of his dark hair, and
the smooth transparency of temples and forehead, and all the tints and
signs of beautiful youth, Cleve Verney was well stricken in years of
knowledge; and of that sad gift he would not have surrendered an iota in
exchange for the charms and illusions of innocence, so much for the most
part do men prefer power to happiness.
"How d'ye do, Miss Oldys?" said this brilliant young man of actualities
and expectations.
"Oh, Mr. Verney, _you_ here!"
This Miss Caroline Oldys was just nine-and-twenty. Old, like him, in the
world's dismal psychology, but with one foolish romance still at her
heart; betrayed into a transient surprise, smiling in genuine gladness,
almost forgetting herself, and looking quite country-girlish in the
momentary effusion. It is not safe affecting an emotion with men like
Cleve, especially when it does not flatter them. He did not care a
farthing whether she was surprised or not, or glad or sorry. But her
very eye and gesture told him that she had marked him as he stood there,
and had chosen the very seat on which her partner had placed her of
malice aforethought. Fine acting does it need to succeed with a critic
like Cleve.
"Yes, I here--and where's the wonder?"
"Why,--who was it?--_some_ one told me only half an hour ago, you were
somewhere in France."
"Well, if it was a man he told a story, and if a lady she made a
mistake," said Cleve, coolly but tartly, looking steadily at her. "And
the truth is, I wanted a yacht, and I went down to look at her, tried
her, liked her, and bought her. Doesn't it sound very like a marriage?"
Caroline laughed.
"That's your theory--we're all for sale, and handed over to the best
bidder."
"Pretty waltz," said Cleve, waving his slender hand just the least in
the world to the music. "Pretty thing!"
He did not use much ceremony with this young lady--his cousin in some
remote way--who, under the able direction of her mother, Lady Wimbledon,
had once pursued him in a barefaced way for nearly three years; and who,
though as we have seen, her mother had by this time quite despaired, yet
liked him with all the romance that remained to her.
"And who are you going to marry, Caroline? There's Sedley--I see him
over there. What do you say to Sedley?"
"No, thanks--much obliged--but Sedley, you know, has seen his fate in
that mysterious lady in Wales, or somewhere."
"Oh? has he?" He signed to Sedley to come to them.
Looking through the chinks and chasms that now and then opened in the
distinguished mob of which he formed a unit, he occasionally saw the
stiff figure and small features of his pompous uncle, Lord Verney, who
was talking affably to Lady Wimbledon. Lord Verney did not wear his
agreeable simper. He had that starch and dismal expression, rather,
which came with grave subjects, and he was tapping the fingers of his
right hand upon the back of his left, in time to the cadence of his
periods, which he did when delivering matter particularly well worth
hearing. It plainly did not displease Lady Wimbledon, whatever his
discourse might be. "I'm to be married to Caroline, I suppose. I wish
that old woman was at the bottom of the Red Sea."
Cleve looked straight in the eyes of the Honourable Miss Caroline Oldys,
and said he, with a smile, "Lady Wimbledon and my uncle are deep in some
mystery--is it political? Have you an idea?"
Caroline Oldys had given up blushing very long ago indeed; but there was
the confusion, without the tint of a blush in her face, as he said these
words.
"I dare say--mamma's a great politician."
"Oh! I know that. By Jove, my uncle's looking this way. I hope he's not
coming."
"Would you mind taking me to mamma?"
"No--pray stay for a moment. Here's Sedley."
And the young man, whom we know pretty well, with the bold blue eyes and
golden moustaches, and good frank handsome face, approached smiling.
"How are you, Sedley?" said Cleve, giving him two fingers. "Caroline
Oldys says you've had an adventure. Where was it?"
"The lady in black, you know, in Wales," reminded Miss Oldys.
"Oh! to be sure," said Sedley, laughing. "A lady in gray, it was. I saw
her twice. But that's more than a year old, and there has been nothing
ever since."
"_Do_ go on."
Sedley laughed.
"It was at Cardyllian, in the church. She lived at Malory--that dark old
place you went to see with the Verneys, the day you were at
Cardyllian--don't you remember?"
"Oh, yes,--what a romantic place!"
"What an awfully cross old fellow, old enough to be her father, but with
the air of her husband, guarding her like a dragon, and eyeing every
fellow that came near as if he'd knock him down; a lean,
white-whiskered, bald old fellow, with bushy eyebrows, and a fierce
face, and eyes jumping out of his head, and lame of one foot, too. Not a
beauty, by any means."
"Where did you see _him_?" said Cleve.
"I did not see him--but Christmass Owen the boatman told me."
"Well, and which is your fate--which is to kill you--the husband or
wife?" inquired Cleve, looking vaguely among the crowd.
"Oh, the wife, as he calls her, is really quite beautiful, melancholy
and that, you know. I'd have found out all about them, but they left
before I had time to go back, but Verney was at Cardyllian, when I was
there."
"When was that?" asked Cleve.
"I mean when these people were at Malory. Cleve was much more gone about
her than I was--at least so I've heard," answered Sedley.
"That's very ungrateful of you, Sedley. I never interfered, upon my
honour. I saw her once in church, and accompanied him in his pursuit at
his earnest request, and I never saw her again. Are you going on to the
Halbury's, Caroline?"
"Yes; are you?"
"No, quite used up. Haven't slept since Wednesday night."
Here a partner came to claim Miss Caroline.
"I'll go with you," said Sedley.
"Very well," answered Cleve, without looking back. "Come to my lodgings,
Sedley--we'll smoke, shall we? I've got some capital cigars."
"I don't care. I'm going on also."
"What a delicious night!" exclaimed Tom Sedley, looking up at the stars.
"Suppose we walk--it isn't far."
"I don't care--let us walk," said Cleve.
So walk they did. It was not far to Cleve's lodgings, in a street off
Piccadilly. The young men had walked rather silently; for, as it seemed
to Sedley, his companion was not in a temper to talk a great deal, or
very pleasantly.
"And what about this gray woman? Did you ever follow it up? Did the
romance take fire where it ought? Is it a mutual flame?" asked Cleve,
like a tired man who feels he must say something, and does not care
what. "I don't think you mentioned her since the day you showed me that
Beatrice Cenci, over your d----d chimney-piece."
"Of course I'd have told you if there had been anything to tell," said
Tom.
"They haven't been at Malory since?"
"Oh! no--frightened away--you'll never see them there again. There's
nothing absolutely in it, and never was, not even an adventure. Nothing
but the little that happened long ago--and you know all about that,"
continued Sedley. "She's a wonderfully beautiful creature, though; I
wish you saw her again, Cleve. You're such a clever fellow, you'd make a
poem of her, or something--she'd bring you back to the days of chivalry,
and that style of thing. I'm a sort of fellow, you know, that feels a
lot, and I think, I _think_ some too; but I haven't the knack of saying
it, or writing it--I'm not particularly good at anything; but I went
that morning, you know, into the Refectory--you know--there are such a
lot of stairs, and long places and doors, it makes a fellow quite
foolish--and there she was--don't you remember?--I wish I could describe
her to you gardening there with her gloves on."
"Don't try--you've tried so often--there's a good fellow; but just tell
me her name?" said Cleve, looking straight before him, above the lamps
and the slanting slates and chimneys, into the deep sky, where
brilliantly, spite of London smoke, shone the clear sad moon.
"Her name?--I never found out, except Margaret--I don't know; but I
believe they did not want their name told."
"That did not look well--did it?" suggested Cleve.
"Well, no more it generally does; but it is not her fault. It was--in
fact it was--for I _did_ find it out, I may as well tell you--old Sir
Booth Fanshawe, you know he's broken--not worth a guinea--and always
running about from place to place to avoid pursuit, in fact. It can't
signify, you know, now that I think of it, mentioning him, because, of
course, he's gone somewhere else long ago."
So said romantic little Sedley, and Cleve sneered.
"I see you can tell a fib on occasion, Tom, like another man. So you
found out the name, and knew it all the time you were protesting
ignorance. And who told you _that_? People here thought Sir Booth had
gone to Italy."
"Well, it was--but you mustn't tell him I told you. There was a Jew
fellow down at Malory, with a writ and a lot of fellows to nab him; but
the old fellow was off; and the Jew, thinking that Wynne Williams knew
where he was, came to his office and offered him a hatfull of money to
tell, and he was going to kick him out; and that's the way _he_ found
out it was old Sir Booth; and he is awfully afraid of getting into a
scrape about it, if the old people heard who the tenant was."
"So he would--the worst scrape he ever was in, with my _uncle_, at all
events. And that d--d Larkin would get into the management of
everything, I suppose. I hope, you have not been telling everyone?"
"Not a soul--not a human being."
"There are some of the Cardyllian people that hardly come under that
term; and, by Jove, if you breathe it to one of them, it's all over the
town, and my uncle will be sure to hear it; and poor Wynne
Williams!--you'll be the ruin of him, very likely."
"I tell you, except to you, I _swear_ to you, I haven't mentioned it to
a soul on earth," exclaimed Tom.
"Well, I do think, as a matter of conscience and fairness, you ought to
hold your tongue, and keep faith with poor Wynne," said Cleve, rudely,
"and I think he was a monstrous fool to tell you. You know I'm
interested," continued Cleve, perceiving that his vehemence surprised
Tom Sedley; "because I have no faith in Larkin--I think him a sneak and
a hypocrite, and a rogue--of course that's in confidence, and he's doing
all in his power to get a fast hold of my uncle, and to creep into Wynne
Williams's place, and a thing like this, with a hard unreasonable fellow
like my uncle, would give him such a lift as you can't imagine."
"But, I'm not going to tell; unless _you_ tell, or _he_, I don't know
who's to tell it--_I_ won't, I know."
"And about Sir Booth--of course he's not in England now--but neither is
he in Italy," said Tom.
"It's well he has you to keep his 'log' for him," said Cleve.
"He's in France."
"Oh!"
"Yes, in the north of France, somewhere near Caen," said Tom Sedley.
"I wonder you let him get so near England. It seems rather perilous,
doesn't it?"
"So one would think, but _there_ he is. Tom Blackmore, of the
Guards--you know him?"
"No, I don't."
"Well he saw old Fanshawe there. He happened to be on leave."
"Old Fanshawe?"
"No, Tom Blackmore. He likes poking into out-of-the-way places."
"I dare say."
"He has such a turn for the picturesque and all that, and draws very
nicely."
"The long bow, I dare say."
"Well, no matter, he was there--old Fanshawe I mean--Blackmore saw him.
He knows his appearance perfectly--used to hunt with his hounds, and
that kind of thing, and often talked to him, so he could not be
mistaken--and there he was as large as life."
"Well?"
"He did not know Tom a bit, and Tom asked no questions--in fact, he did
not care to know where the poor old fellow hides himself--he preferred
not--but Madame something or other--I forget her name--gave him a
history, about as true as Jack the Giant-Killer, of the eccentric
English gentleman, and told him that he had taken a great old house, and
had his family there, and a most beautiful young wife, and was as
jealous as fifty devils; so you see Margaret must have been there. Of
course that was she," said Tom.
"And you said so to your friend Blackmore?" suggested Cleve Verney.
"Yes," said Tom.
"It seems to me you want to have him caught."
"Well, I did not think--I hope not--and I did not know you took any
interest in him," said Sedley, quite innocently.
"Interest! _I_--me! Interest, indeed! Why the devil should _I_ take an
interest in Sir Booth Fanshawe? Why you seem to forget all the trouble
and annoyance he has cost me. Interest, indeed! Quite the contrary.
Only, I think, one would not like to get any poor devil into worse
trouble than he's in, for no object, or to be supposed to be collecting
information about him."
"No one could suppose anything like that of me," said Tom Sedley.
"I beg your pardon; they can suppose anything of anybody," answered
Cleve, and, seeing that Tom looked offended, he added, "and the more
absurd and impossible, the more likely. I wish you heard the things that
have been said of _me_--enough to make your hair stand on end, by Jove!"
"Oh! I dare say."
They were now turning into the street where Cleve had taken lodgings.
"I could not stand those fellows any longer. My uncle has filled the
house with them--varnish and paint and that stifling plaster--so I've
put up here for a little time."
"I like these streets. I'm not very far away from you here," said Tom.
"And talking of that affair at Caen, you know, he said, by Jove he did,
that he saw _you_ there."
"Who said?"
"Tom Blackmore of the Guards."
"Then Tom Blackmore of the Guards _lies_--that's all. I never saw him--I
never spoke to him--I don't know him; and how should he know me? And if
he did, I wasn't there; and if I had been, what the devil was it to
him? So besides telling lies, he tells _impertinent_ lies, and he ought
to be kicked."
"Well, of course as you say so, he must have made a mistake; but Caen is
as open to you as to him, and there's no harm in the place; and he knows
you by appearance."
"He knows everybody by appearance, it seems, and nobody knows him; and,
by Jove, he describes more like a bailiff than a Guardsman."
"He's a thorough gentleman in every _idea_. Tom Blackmore is as nice a
little fellow as there is in the world," battled Tom Sedley for his
friend.
"Well, I wish you'd persuade that faultless gentleman to let me and my
concerns alone. I have a reason in this case; and I don't mind if I tell
you I _was_ at Caen, and I suppose he _did_ see me. But there was no
romance in the matter, except the romance of the Stock Exchange and a
Jew; and I wish, Tom, you'd just consider _me_ as much as you do the old
baronet, for my own sake, that is, for _I_'m pretty well dipped too, and
don't want everyone to know when or where I go in quest of my Jews. I
_was_--not very far from that about four months ago; and if you go about
telling everyone, by Jove my uncle will guess what brought me there,
and old fellows don't like _post-obits_ on their own lives."
"My dear Cleve, I had not a notion----"
"Well, all you can do for me now, having spread the report, is to say
that I _was_n't there--I'm serious. Here we are."
END OF VOL. II.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
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| Transcriber's note:- |
| |
| Punctuation errors have been corrected. |
| |
| The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed. |
| |
| Page 25: A word fragment 'stea' was removed as it seemed to be |
| unecessary and out of context. ("I'm startled sir." stea) |
| |
| Page 79: Rumbble changed to Rumble. (are they Mrs Rumble--eh?) |
| |
| Page 90: aud changed to and. (and with a pen in his fingers) |
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| Page 139: and changed to an. (an old chateau) |
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| Page 151: sear changed to sere. (no bloom restores the sere) |
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| Page 184: Iv'e changed to I've. (I've had a word of trouble) |
| |
| Page 206: dog-skin changed to doe-skin. (her thin hand, in |
| doe-skin glove) |
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Tenants of Malory, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu