HOME TO WARE.
"MAD!" thought Cleve. "What an awful pity if she is. She doesn't _look_
mad--melancholy she may. She does not look a _bit_ mad. By Jove, I don't
_believe_ a word of it. It's utterly out of the question that the quiet
old lady there could bring a mad girl to church with her. And thus
resolved, Cleve walked out of the coffee-room, and awaiting his
conveyance, stood on the steps of the Verney Arms, from whence he saw
Wynne Williams, the portly solicitor of Cardyllian, and of a wide circle
of comfortable clients round it. Wynne Williams is omniscient. Nothing
ever happens in Cardyllian that he does not know with precision.
"Wynne," Cleve called up the quiet little street, and the attorney,
looking over his fat shoulder, arrested his deliberate walk, and marched
swiftly back, smiling.
So there was another greeting; and some more questions ensued, and
answers, and then said Cleve--
"So Malory's let, I hear."
"Yes," said the attorney, with a slight shrug.
"You don't like the bargain, I see," said Cleve.
"It's a mismanaged place, you know. Lady Verney won't spend a shilling
on it, and we must only take what we can get. We haven't had a tenant
for five years till now."
"And who has taken it?"
"The Reverend Isaac Dixie."
"The devil he has. Why old Dixie's not mad, is he?"
"No, he's no fool. More like the other thing--rather. Drove a hard
bargain--but _I_ wouldn't take it myself at the money."
"Doesn't he live there?"
"No. There's an old gentleman and two ladies; one of them an old woman."
"And what's the old gentleman's _name_, and the young lady's?"
"Don't know, indeed; and what does it matter?" The attorney was curious,
and had taken some little trouble to find out. "The Reverend Isaac
Dixie's the tenant, and Miss Sheckleton manages the family business; and
devil a letter ever comes by post here, except to Miss Sheckleton or the
servants."
"Old Mother Jones, the draper's wife, over the way, says the girl and
the old fellow are mad."
"Don't believe it. More likely he's in a fix, and wants to keep out of
sight and hearing just now, and Malory's the very place to hide a fellow
in. It's just _possible_, you know, there may be a screw loose in the
upper works; but I don't believe it, and don't for the world hint it to
the old lady. She's half mad herself about mad people, and if she took
that in her head, by Jove, she'd never forgive me," and the attorney
laughed uneasily.
"You do think they're mad. By Jove, you _do_. I _know_ you think they're
mad."
"I _don't_ think they're mad. I don't know anything about them," said
the good-humoured attorney, with Dundreary whiskers, leaning on the
wooden pillar of the Verney Arms, and smiling provokingly in the young
man's face.
"Come now, Wynne, I'll not tell the old lady, upon my honour. You may as
well tell me all you know. And you _do_ know; of _course_, you do; you
_always_ know. And these people living not a mile away! You _must_
know."
"I see how it is. She's a pretty girl, and you want to pick up all about
her, by way of inquiring after the old gentleman."
Verney laughed, and said--
"Perhaps you're right, though, I assure you, I didn't know it myself.
But _is_ the old fellow mad, or is there any madness among them?"
"I do assure you, I know no more than you do," laughed Mr. Wynne
Williams. "He may be as sober as Solomon, or as mad as a hatter, for
anything _I_ know. It's nothing to me. He's only a visitor there, and
the young lady, too, for that matter; and our tenant is the Reverend
Isaac Dixie."
"Where is Dixie living now?"
"The old shop."
"I know. I wonder he has not wriggled on and up a bit. I always looked
on Dixie as the bud of a dignitary; he has had time to burst into a
Bishop since I saw him. Dixie and I have had some queer scenes
together," and he laughed quietly over his recollections. "He and I
spent three months once together in Malory--do you remember? I dare say
_he_ does. He was tutor and I pupil. Charming time. We used to read in
the gun-room. That was the year they had the bricklayers and painters at
Ware. Do you remember the day you came in exactly as I shied the
ink-bottle at his head? I dare say the mark's on the wall still. By
Jove, I'd have killed him, I suppose, if I'd had the luck to hit him.
You must come over and see me before I go. I'm quite alone; but I can
give you a mutton chop and some claret, and I want to show you the
rifle I told you of. You'll be delighted with it."
And so this young man, with large dark eyes, smiled and waved his
farewell, and, with a groom behind him, drove at a rapid pace down the
street, and away toward Ware.
"He'll do that seven miles in five-and-thirty minutes," thought the
attorney, looking after him drowsily; and his speculation taking another
turn, he thought mistily of his political possibilities, for he had been
three years in the House, and was looked upon as a clever young man, and
one who, having many advantages, might yet be--who could tell where? and
have power to make the fortunes of many deserving attorneys.
Cleve meanwhile was driving at a great pace toward Ware. I don't suppose
a town life--a life of vice, a life of any sort, has power to kill the
divine spark of romance in a young man born with imagination.
Malory had always had a strange and powerful interest for him. A dower
house now, it had once been the principal mansion of his family. Over
it, to his eye, hung, like the sombre and glowing phantasms of a cloudy
sunset, the story of the romance, and the follies and the crimes of
generations of the Verneys of Malory. The lordly old timber that rises
about its chimneys and gables, seemed to him the mute and melancholy
witnesses of bygone tragedies and glories.
There, too, in the Steward's House, a veritable relic of the ancient
Friary, lived dreamy old Rebecca Mervyn; he wondered how he had
forgotten to ask whether she was still there. She had seemed to his
boyish fancy one of those delightful German ambiguities--half human,
half ghost; her silent presents of toffy, and faint wintry smile and
wandering gaze, used to thrill him with "a pleasing terror." He liked
her, and yet he would have been afraid to sit alone in her latticed room
with that silent lady, after twilight. Poor old Rebecca! It was eight
years since he had last seen her tall, sad, silent form--silent, except
when she thought herself alone, and used to whisper and babble as she
looked with a wild and careworn gaze over the sea, toward the mighty
mountains that built it round, line over line, till swell and peak are
lost in misty distance. He used to think of the Lady of Branksome Tower,
and half believe that old Rebecca was whispering with the spirits of the
woods and cataracts, and lonely headlands, over the water.
"Is old Rebecca Mervyn there still?" he wondered on. "Unless she's dead,
poor thing, she _is_--for my grandmother would never think of
disturbing her, and she shall be my excuse for going up to Malory. I
ought to see her."
The door of her quaint tenement stood by the court-yard, its carved
stone chimney top rose by the roof of the dower-house, with which,
indeed, it was connected. "It won't be like crossing their windows or
knocking at their hall door. I shan't so much as enter the court-yard,
and I really ought to see the poor old thing."
The duty would not have been so urgent had the face that appeared in
church that day been less lovely.
He had never troubled himself for eight years about the existence of old
Rebecca. And now that the image, after that long interval, suddenly
returned, he for the first time asked himself why old Rebecca Mervyn was
ever there? He had always accepted her presence as he did that of the
trees, and urns, and old lead statues in the yew walk, as one of the
properties of Malory. She was a sort of friend or client of his
grandmother's--not an old servant plainly, not even a house-keeper.
There was an unconscious refinement, and an air of ladyhood in this old
woman. His grandmother used to call her Mrs. Mervyn, and treated her
with a sort of distinction and distance that had in it both sympathy and
reserve.
"I dare say Wynne Williams knows all about her, and I'll go and see
her, at all events." So he thought as his swift trotter flew under the
noble trees of Ware, along the picturesque road which commands the
seaward view of that unrivalled estuary flanked by towering headlands,
and old Pendillion, whose distant outline shews like a gigantic sphinx
crouching lazily at the brink of the sea. Across the water now he sees
the old town of Cardyllian, the church tower and the ruined Castle, and,
further down, sad and sequestered, the dark wood and something of the
gray front of Malory blurred in distance, but now glowing with a sort of
charm that was fast deepening into interest.