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THE
TENANTS OF MALORY.
(Reprinted from the "Dublin University Magazine")
A Novel.
BY
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE SILAS," "GUY DEVERELL," "THE HOUSE
BY THE CHURCHYARD," ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1867.
[_The Right of Translation is reserved._]
LONDON;
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
TO THE
RIGHT HON. THE LADY DUFFERIN,
This Tale is inscribed,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--CONCERNING TWO LADIES WHO SAT IN THE MALORY PEW 1
II.--ALL THAT THE DRAPER'S WIFE COULD TELL 13
III.--HOME TO WARE 21
IV.--ON THE GREEN OF CARDYLLIAN 29
V.--A VISIT TO HAZELDEN 40
VI.--MALORY BY MOONLIGHT 51
VII.--A VIEW FROM THE REFECTORY WINDOW 62
VIII.--A NIGHT SAIL 70
IX.--THE REVEREND ISAAC DIXIE 81
X.--READING AN EPITAPH 93
XI.--FAREWELL 104
XII.--IN WHICH CLEVE VERNEY WAYLAYS AN OLD LADY 114
XIII.--THE BOY WITH THE CAGE 122
XIV.--NEWS ABOUT THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS 135
XV.--WITHIN THE SANCTUARY 154
XVI.--AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR 170
XVII.--THEY VISIT THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTHYN AGAIN 184
XVIII.--CLEVE AGAIN BEFORE HIS IDOL 203
XIX.--CLEVE VERNEY TAKES A BOLD STEP 214
XX.--HIS FATE 227
XXI.--CAPTAIN SHRAPNELL 236
XXII.--SIR BOOTH SPEAKS 246
XXIII.--MARGARET HAS HER WARNING 256
XXIV.--SIR BOOTH IN A PASSION 263
XXV.--IN WHICH THE LADIES PEEP INTO CARDYLLIAN 271
THE
TENANTS OF MALORY.
CHAPTER I.
CONCERNING TWO LADIES WHO SAT IN THE MALORY PEW.
THERE were tenants at last in Malory; and the curiosity of the honest
residents of Cardyllian, the small and antique town close by, was at
once piqued and mortified by the unaccountable reserve of these people.
For four years, except from one twisted chimney in the far corner of the
old house, no smoke had risen from its flues. Tufts of grass had grown
up between the paving-stones of the silent stable-yard, grass had crept
over the dark avenue, which, making a curve near the gate, is soon lost
among the sombre trees that throw a perpetual shadow upon it; the groves
of nettles had spread and thickened among their trunks; and in the
signs of neglect and decay, the monastic old place grew more than ever
_triste_.
The pretty little Welsh town of Cardyllian stands near the shingle of a
broad estuary, beyond which tower the noble Cambrian mountains. High and
dim, tier above tier, undulating hills, broken by misty glens, and
clothed with woods, rise from the opposite shore, and are backed, range
behind range, by the dim outlines of Alpine peaks and slopes, and
flanked by purple and gold-tinted headlands, rising dome-like from the
sea.
Between the town and the gray shingle stretches a strip of bright green
sward, the Green of Cardyllian, along which rows of pleasant houses,
with little gardens in front, look over the sea to the mountains.
It is a town quaint, old, and quiet. Many of the houses bear date
anterior to the great civil wars of England, and on the oak beams of
some are carved years of grace during which Shakespeare was still living
among his friends, in Stratford-on-Avon.
At the end of long Castle Street rise the battlements and roofless
towers of that grand old feudal fortress which helped to hold the
conquest of Wales for the English crown in the days of tabards, lances,
and the long-bow. Its other chief street strikes off at right angles,
and up hill from this, taking its name from the ancient church, which,
with its churchyard, stands divided from it by a low wall of red
sandstone, surmounted by one of those tall and fanciful iron rails, the
knack of designing which seems to be a lost art in these countries.
There are other smaller streets and by-lanes, some dark with a monastic
stillness, others thinly built, with little gardens and old plum and
pear trees peeping over grass-grown walls, and here and there you light
upon a fragment of that ancient town wall from which, in the great
troubles which have helped to build up the glory of England, plumed
cavaliers once parleyed with steel-capped Puritans. Thus the tints and
shadows of a great history rest faintly even upon this out-of-the-way
and serene little town.
The permanent residents of Cardyllian for half the year are idle, and
for mere occupation are led to inquire into and report one another's
sins, vanities, and mishaps. Necessity thus educates them in that mutual
interest in one another's affairs, and that taste for narrative, which
pusillanimous people call prying and tattle. That the people now
residing in Malory, scarcely a mile away, should have so totally
defeated them was painful and even irritating.
It was next to impossible to take a walk near Cardyllian without seeing
Malory; and thus their failure perpetually stared them in the face.
You can best see Malory from the high grounds which, westward of the
town, overlook the estuary. About a mile away you descry a dark and
rather wide-spread mass of wood, lying in a gentle hollow, which, I
think, deepens its sombre tint. It approaches closely to the long ripple
of the sea, and through the foliage are visible some old chimneys and
glimpses of gray gables. The refectory of the friary that once stood
there, built of gray and reddish stones, half hid in ivy, now does duty
as a barn. It is so embowered in trees, that you can scarcely, here and
there, gain a peep from without at its tinted walls; and the whole place
is overhung by a sadness and silence that well accord with its
cloistered traditions. That is Malory.
It was Sunday now. Over the graves and tombstones of those who will hear
its sweet music no more, the bell had summoned the townsfolk and
visitors to the old church of Cardyllian.
The little town boasts, indeed, a beautiful old church, Gothic, with
side-aisles, and an antique stained window, from which gloried saints
and martyrs look down, in robes as rich and brilliant as we see
now-a-days only upon the kings and queens of our court cards. It has
also some fine old monuments of the Verney family. The light is solemn
and subdued. There is a very sweet-toned organ, which they say is as old
as the reign of Charles I., but I do not know how truly. In the porch
are hung in chains two sacrilegious round-shot, which entered the church
when Cromwell's general opened his fire, in those days of sorrow when
the liberties of England were in the throes of birth. Beside the
brilliant stained window, engraven upon a brass plate, is a record of
the same "solemn times," relating how certain careful men, to whom we
are obliged, had taken down, enclosed in boxes, and buried, in hope of a
typical resurrection, the ancient window which had for so long
beautified "this church," and thus saved it from the hands of "violent
and fanatical men."
When "the season" is still flourishing at Cardyllian, the church is
sometimes very full. On the Sunday I speak of it was so. One pew,
indeed, was quite relieved from the general pressure. It was the large
panelled enclosure which stands near the communion rails, at the right
as you look up the aisle toward the glowing window. Its flooring is
raised a full foot higher than the surrounding level. This is the seat
of the Verney family.
But one person performed his devotions in it, upon the day of which I
speak. This was a tall, elegantly slight young man, with the
indescribable air of careless fashion; and I am afraid he was much more
peeped at and watched than he ought to have been by good Christians
during divine service.
Sometimes people saw but the edge of his black whisker, and the waves of
his dark hair, and his lavender-gloved hand resting on the edge of the
pew. At other times--when, for instance, during the Litany, he leaned
over with his arms resting on the edge of the pew--he was very
satisfactorily revealed, and elicited a considerable variety of
criticism. Most people said he was very handsome, and so, I think, he
was--a dark young man, with very large, soft eyes, and very brilliant
even teeth. Some people said he was spoiled by an insolent and selfish
expression of countenance. Some ladies again said that his figure was
perfect, while others alleged that there was a slight curve--not a
stoop, but a bend at the shoulder, which they could not quite sanction.
The interest, and even anxiety with which this young gentleman was
observed and afterwards discussed, were due to the fact that he was Mr.
Cleve Verney, the nephew, not of the present Viscount Verney, but of
the man who must very soon be so, and heir presumptive to the title--a
position in the town of Cardyllian, hardly inferior to that of Prince of
Wales.
But the title of Verney, or rather the right claimant of that title, was
then, and had been for many years, in an extremely odd position. In more
senses than one, a cloud rested upon him. For strong reasons, and great
danger, he had vanished more than twenty years ago, and lived, ever
since, in a remote part of the world, and in a jealous and eccentric
mystery.
While this young gentleman was causing so many reprehensible
distractions in the minds of other Christians, he was himself, though
not a creature observed it, undergoing a rather wilder aberration of a
similar sort himself.
In a small seat at the other side, which seems built for privacy, with a
high panelling at the sides and back, sat a young lady, whose beauty
riveted and engrossed his attention in a way that seemed to the young
gentleman, of many London seasons, almost unaccountable.
There was an old lady with her--a lady-like old woman, he thought
her--slight of figure, and rubrically punctual in her up-risings, and
down-sittings. The seat holds four with comfort, but no more. The oak
casing round it is high. The light visits it through the glorious old
eastern window, mellowed and solemnized--and in this chiar'oscuro, the
young lady's beauty had a transparent and saddened character which he
thought quite peculiar. Altogether he felt it acting upon him with the
insidious power of a spell.
The old lady--for the halo of interest of which the girl was the centre,
included her--was dressed, he at first thought, in black, but now he was
nearly sure it was a purple silk.
Though she wore a grave countenance, suitable to the scene and occasion,
it was by no means sombre--a cheerful and engaging countenance on the
contrary.
The young lady's dress was one of those rich Welsh linseys, which
exhibit a drapery of thick ribbed, dark gray silk, in great measure
concealed by a short but ample cloak or coat of black velvet--altogether
a costume, the gravity of which struck him as demure and piquant.
Leaning over the side of his pew, Mr. Cleve Verney prayed with a
remarkable persistence in the direction of this seat. After the Litany
he thought her a great deal more beautiful than he had before it, and by
the time the Communion service closed, he was sure he had never seen any
one at all so lovely. He could not have fancied, in flesh and blood, so
wonderful an embodiment of Guido's portrait of Beatrice Cenci. The
exquisite brow, and large hazel eye, so clear and soft, so bold and shy.
The face voluptuous, yet pure; _funeste_ but innocent. The rich chestnut
hair, the pearly whiteness, and scarlet lips, and the strange, wild,
melancholy look--and a shadow of fate. Three-quarters, or full face, or
momentary profile--in shade, now--in light--the same wonderful likeness
still. The phantom of Beatrice was before him.
I can't say whether the young lady or the old observed the irregular
worship directed towards their pew. Cleve did not think they did. He had
no particular wish that they should. In fact, his interest was growing
so strangely absorbing that something of that jealousy of observation
which indicates a deeper sentiment than mere admiration, had supervened,
and Mr. Cleve conducted his reconnoitring with slyness and caution.
That small pew over the way, he was nearly certain, belonged to Malory.
Now Malory is a dower house of the Verneys. His own grandmother, the
Venerable Dowager Lady Verney, as much to her annoyance the fashionable
morning paper respectfully called her, was at that time the incumbent.
But though she held it with the inflexible grip of an old lady whose
rights were not to be trifled with, she would not reside, and the place
was, as I have said, utterly neglected, and the old house very much out
of repair.
Why, then, should the Malory pew be thus tenanted? These ladies, he had
no doubt, sat there of right--for if the seat had been opened to the
congregation at large, in the then state of pressure, it would have been
filled. Could they possibly be of kindred to the Verneys, and sit where
they did by virtue of an order from the Dowager?
So Cleve Verney began to count up cousins whom he had never seen, and
left off no wiser.
Close by this dark Malory pew, is a small side-door of the church. There
is another like it, a little lower down, in the opposite wall, not far
from the Verney pew, and through these emerge thin files of worshippers,
while the main column shuffles and pushes through the porch. So, when
the Rector had pronounced his final blessing, Cleve Verney having
improved the little silence that followed to get his hat and cane into
his hand, glided from his seat before the mass of the congregation were
astir, and emerging on the little gravel walk, stepped lightly down to
the stone stile, from whence you command a view of every exit from the
churchyard.
He stood with one foot upon it, like a man awaiting a friend, and
looking listlessly toward the church. And as he loitered, a friend did
turn up whom he very little expected to see. A young man, though hardly
so young as Cleve--good-looking, decidedly, with light golden moustache,
and a face so kind, frank, and merry, it made one happy to look at it.
"Ah! Sedley! I had not an idea. What brings you here?" said Cleve,
smiling, and shaking his hand moderately, but keeping his large eyes
steadily on the distant point at which he expected to see the unknown
ladies emerge.
"Down here just for a day or two," answered Tom Sedley. "I was above you
in the gallery. Did you see that beautiful creature in the Malory seat,
right before you? By Jove, she's a stunning girl. There was an old woman
with her. I think I never saw so beautiful a being."
"Well, I did see a pretty girl at the other side of the church, I
_think_; isn't _that_ she?" said Cleve, as he saw the two ladies--the
younger with one of those short black veils which nearly obliterate the
face of the wearer behind the intricacies of a thick lace pattern.
"By Jove! so it is," said Sedley; "come along--let us see where they
go."
They were walking almost solitarily, followed only by an old servant
who carried their books, toward the entrance at the further side of the
churchyard, a small door opening upon a flight of steps by which you
descend into one of the deserted back streets of Cardyllian.
Cleve and Sedley pursued as little conspicuously as possible. The quaint
street, into which the stone stairs led them, follows the mouldering
shelter of the old town wall.
Looking along the perspective of this street, if such the single row of
small old houses confronting the dark ivied wall may be termed, the two
young gentlemen saw the figures in pursuit of which they had entered it,
proceeding in the direction of Malory.
"We mustn't get _too_ near; let us wait a little, and let them go on,"
suggested Sedley in a whisper, as if the ladies could have overheard
them.
Cleve laughed. He was probably the more eager of the two; but some men
have no turn for confidences, and Cleve Verney was not in the habit of
opening either his plans or his feelings to anyone.