A NIGHT SAIL.
POOR Tom Sedley! The little excitement of parting with the bull-necked
keeper of his "garden of beauty", over, his spirits sank. He could not
act the unconscious tourist again, and re-commit the premeditated
mistake of the morning. His exclusion was complete.
Tom Sedley paid a visit that day at Hazelden, and was depressed, and
dull, and absent to such a degree, that Miss Charity Etherage, after he
had gone away, canvassed the matter very earnestly, and wondered whether
he was quite well, and hoped he had not had bad news from London.
I don't know how Tom got over all that day; but at about four o'clock,
having paid his penny at the toll-gate of the pier of Cardyllian, he was
pacing up and down that breezy platform, and discussing with himself the
possibility of remaining for another Sunday, on the chance of again
seeing the Malory ladies in church. Lifting up his eyes, in his
meditation, he saw a cutter less than a mile away, making swiftly for
the pierhead, stooping to the breeze as she flew, and beating up the
spray in sparkling clouds from her bows. His practised eye recognised at
a glance the _Wave_, the victorious yacht of Cleve Verney. With this
breeze it was a run without a tack from Ware jetty.
In less than five minutes she furled her sails, and dropped anchor close
to the pier stair, and Cleve Verney in another minute stepped upon it
from his punt.
"You're to come back in her, to Ware, this evening," said he, as they
shook hands. "I'm so glad I've found you. I've to meet a friend at the
Verney Arms, but our talk won't take very long; and how have you been
amusing yourself all day? Rather slow, isn't it?"
Tom Sedley told his story.
"Well, and what's the _name_?" inquired Cleve.
"I can't tell; they don't know at the hotel; the Etherages don't know. I
asked Castle Edwards, and _he_ doesn't know either," said Sedley.
"Yes, but the fellow, the servant, who turned you out at Malory----"
"He did not turn me out. I was _going_," interrupted Tom Sedley.
"Well, who _saw_ you out? You made him a present; he'd have told you, of
course. _Did_ he?"
"I didn't ask him."
"Come, that's being very delicate indeed! All I can say is, if I were as
spoony as you are, on that girl, I'd have learned all about her long
ago. It's nothing to me; but if you find out her name, I know two or
three fellows in town who know everything about everybody, and I'll make
out the whole story--that is, if she's anybody."
"By Jove! that's very odd. There he _is_, just gone into the Golden
Lion, that groom, that servant, that Malory man," exclaimed Tom Sedley
very eagerly, and staring hard at the open door of the quaint little
pot-house.
"Well, go; give him a pound, it's well worth it," laughed Cleve. "I'm
serious, if you want to learn it; no fellow like that can resist a
pound; and if _you_ tell me the name, I'll make you out all the rest, I
really will, when we get to town. There, don't let him get off, and
you'll find me at the Verney Arms."
So saying, Cleve nodding his irresolute friend toward the Golden Lion,
walked swiftly away to meet the Reverend Isaac Dixie. But Dixie was not
at the Chancery; only a letter, to say that "most unhappily" that
morning, Clay Rectory was to undergo an inspection by a Commissioner of
Dilapidations; but that, D.V., he would place himself next day, at the
appointed hour, at his honoured pupil's disposal.
"Those shovel-hatted martinets! they never allow a minute for common
sense, or anything useful--always pottering over their clerical drill
and pipe-clay," said Cleve, who, when an idea once entered his mind,
pursued it with a terrible concentration, and hated an hour's delay.
So out he came disappointed, and joined Sedley near the Golden Lion.
They said little for a time, but walked on, side by side, and found
themselves sauntering along the road toward Malory together.
"Well, Sedley, I forgot,--what about the man? Did he tell you anything?"
"I do believe if a fellow once allows a girl to get into his head, ever
so little, he's in a sort of way drunk--worse than drunk--systematically
foolish," said honest Sedley, philosophizing. "I've been doing nothing
but idiotic things ever since church time yesterday."
"Well, but what did he say?"
"He took the pound, and devil a thing he said. He wouldn't tell anything
about them. I give you leave to laugh at me. I know I'm the greatest
ass on earth, and I think he's the ugliest brute I ever saw, and the
most uncivil; and, by Jove, if I stay here much longer, I think he'll
get all my money from me. He doesn't ask for it, but I go on giving it
to him; I can't help it; the beast!"
"Isn't there a saying about a sage, or something and his money being
soon parted?" asked Cleve. "I think if I were so much gone about a girl
as you are, and on such easy terms with that fellow, and tipped him so
handsomely, I'd have learned her name, at least, before now."
"I can't; everything goes wrong with me. Why should I risk my reason,
and fall in love with the moon? The girl wouldn't look at me; by Jove,
she'll never even _see_ me; and it's much better so, for nothing can
possibly come of it, but pain to me, and fun to every one else. The late
train does not stop at our station. I can't go to-night; but, by Jove,
I'll be off in the morning. I _will_. Don't you think I'm right, Cleve?"
Tom Sedley stopped short, and faced his friend--who was, in most
matters, his oracle--earnestly laying his hand upon his arm. Cleve
laughed at his vehemence, for he knew Tom's impulsive nature, his
generous follies, and terrible impetuosity, and, said he--"Right, Tom;
always a philosopher! Nothing like the radical cure, in such a case,
absence. If the cards won't answer, try the dice, if they won't do, try
the balls. I'm afraid this is a bad venture; put your heart to sea in a
sieve! No, Tom, that precious freightage is for a more substantial
craft. I suppose you have seen your last of the young lady, and it would
be a barren fib of friendship to say that I believe you have made any
impression. Therefore, save yourself, fly, and try what absence will do,
and work and play, and eating and drinking, and sleeping abundantly in a
distant scene, to dissipate the fumes of your intoxication, steal you
away from the enchantress, and restore you to yourself. Therefore I
echo--go."
"I'm sure you think it, though you're half joking," said Tom Sedley.
"Well, let us come on. I've half a mind to go up myself and have a peep
at the refectory," said Cleve.
"To what purpose?"
"Archaeology," said Cleve.
"If you go in there, after what occurred this morning, by Jove, _I_'ll
not wait for you," said Sedley.
"Well, come along; there's no harm, I suppose, in passing by. The
Queen's highway, I hope, isn't shut up," answered Verney.
Sedley sighed, looked towards Malory, and not being in a mood to resist,
walked on toward the enchanted forest and castle, by his companion's
side.
When they came by the dark and narrow cross-road that skirts the
southern side of Malory to the farmyard gate, nailed on its pier, on a
square bit of board, in fresh black and white paint, they read the
following words:--
NOTICE.
No admission at this gate to any but servants or others employed at
Malory.
Any person found trespassing within the walls will be prosecuted
according to law.
--September, 18--.
When the young men, in a momentary silence, read this warning, the
ingenuous countenance of Tom Sedley flushed crimson to the very roots of
his hair, and Cleve Verney was seized with a fit of laughter that grew
more and more violent the more grave and reproachful grew Tom Sedley's
aspect.
"Well, Tom, I think, if we have any dignity left, we had better turn our
backs upon this inhospitable refectory, and seek comfort elsewhere. By
Jove! a pretty row you must have made up there this morning to oblige
the governor to declare the place in a state of siege, and mount his
artillery."
"Come away, Cleve; that is, as soon as you've done laughing at that
board. Of course, you knew as well as I do, that my coming in, and
looking as, I hope, any gentleman might, at that stupid old barn, this
morning, could not possibly be the cause of that offensive notice. If
you think it is pointed at me, of course, it's more amusing, but if not,
hang me if I can see the joke."
Tom Sedley was out of spirits, and a little testy, and very silent all
the way back to Cardyllian. He refused Cleve's invitation to Ware. He
made up his mind to return to London in the morning; and this being his
last evening in this part of the world, he must spend it at Hazelden.
So these young gentlemen dined together at the Verney Arms, and it grew
dark as they sat by the open window at their wine, and the moon got up
and silvered the distant peaks of shadowy mountains, and these
companions grew silent and dreamy as they might in the spell of distant
music.
But the people of Hazelden kept early hours, and Tom Sedley suddenly
recollected that he must go. They parted, therefore, excellent friends,
for Sedley had no suspicion that Cleve was his rival, and Cleve could
afford to be amused at Sedley's rivalry.
When Verney got on board there was a light breeze. "We'll run down
toward Penruthyn Priory," said he; and round went the cutter, leaning
with the breeze, and hissing and snorting through the gentle swell as
she flew on towards the headland on which stands that pretty monastic
ruin.
She glided into the black shadow cast by the solemn wall of cloud that
now hid the moon from sight, away from the hundred star-like lights of
Cardyllian, flying swiftly backward on the left, close under the
shapeless blackness of the hill, that rises precipitously from the sea,
and over which lies the path from the town to Malory, and onward by the
wooded grounds of that old mansion, now an indistinguishable mass of
darkness, whose outline was hardly visible against the sky.
I dare say, the thought of crossing the lights of these windows, had its
share in prompting this nautical freak, and towards these Cleve's gaze
was turned, when, on a sudden, the man looking out at the bows shouted
"Starboard;" but before the boat had time to feel the helm, the end of
the cutter's boom struck the mast of a small boat; a shout from several
voices rose suddenly, and was almost instantaneously far behind. Round
went the yacht; they hailed the boat.
"She's lost her mast, I think," said one of Cleve's men.
"D---- you, where are your lights?" shouted a stern, fierce voice.
"No one overboard?" cried Cleve.
"No, no. You'll be the _Wave_, sure? Mr. Cleve Verney, from Ware?"
replied a different voice.
"Who are these fellows, do you know?" asked Cleve of his men.
"That will be Christmass Owen, sir."
"Oh!" exclaimed Cleve. "And the other's the old gentleman from Malory?"
"Well, I think 'twill be him, sure."
In another minute the punt of the yacht was alongside the boat, with a
message from Cleve, inviting the old gentleman on board, and offering to
put him ashore wherever he liked best.
Shortly and grimly the courtesy was refused. The wrath of the old man,
however, seemed to have subsided, and he gathered himself within the
folds of his silence again. All had passed in a darkness like that of
Styx. A dense screen of cloud had entirely hid the moon; and though so
near, Cleve could not see the old man of Malory, about whom he was
curious, with a strange and even tender sort of curiosity, which,
certainly, no particular graciousness on his part had invited. In a few
minutes more the boat, with the aid of another spar, was on her course
again, and the _Wave_ more than a mile away on hers.