“Much better, thanks — very much better,” whispered the old lady.
“Of course, you’re better, ma’am. Here it is at la-a-ast. Have some water, ma’am? Do. Give her the water, you little fool.”
She sipped a little.
“Coming round — all right,” he said tenderly. “What cattle them old women are! drat them.” A little pause followed.
“A deal better now, ma’am?”
“I’m startled, sir.”
“Of course you’re startled, ma’am.”
“And faint.”
“Why not, ma’am?”
Mrs. Rebecca Mervyn breathed three or four great sighs, and began to look again like a living woman.
“Now she looks quite nice,” (he pronounced it ni-i-ishe) “doesn’t she? You may make tracksh, young woman; go, will you?”
“I feel so much better,” said the old lady when they were alone, “pray go on.”
“You do — quite — ever so much better. Shall I go on?”
“Pray do, sir.”
“Well now, see, if I do, there must be no more of that, old lady. If you can’t talk of the governor, we’ll just let him alone,” said Levi, sturdily.
“For God’s sake, sir, if you mean my husband, tell me all you know.”
“All aint a great deal, ma’am; but a cove has turned up who knew him well.”
“Some one who knew him?”
“Just so, ma’am.” He balanced whether he should tell her that he was dead or not, but decided that it would be more convenient, though less tragic, to avoid getting up a new scene like the other, so he modified his narrative. “He’s turned up, ma’am, and knew him very intimate; and has got a meogny” (he so pronounced mahogany) “desk of his, gave in charge to him, since he could not come home at present, containing a law paper, ma’am, making over to his son and yours some property in England.”
“Then, he is not coming?” said she.
“Not as I knowzh, ma’am.”
“He has been a long time away,” she continued.
“So I’m informed, ma’am,” he observed.
“I’ll tell you how it was, and when he went away.”
“Thank ye, ma’am,” he interposed. “I’ve heard — melancholy case, ma’am; got seven penn’orth, didn’t he, and never turned up again?”
“Seven what, sir?”
“Seven years, ma’am; seven penn’orth we call it, ma’am, familiar like.”
“I don’t understand you, sir — I don’t know what it means; I saw him sail away. It went off, off, off.”
“I’ll bet a pound it did, ma’am,” said Mr. Levi.
“Only to be for a very short time; the sail — I could see it very far — how pretty they look on the sea; but very lonely, I think — too lonely.”
“A touch of solitary, ma’am,” acquiesced Levi.
“Away, in the yacht,” she dreamed on.
“The royal yacht, ma’am, no doubt.”
“The yacht, we called it. He said he would return next day; and it went round Pendillion — round the headland of Pendillion, I lost it, and it never came again; but I think it will, sir — don’t you? I’m sure it will — he was so confident; only smiled and nodded, and he said, ‘No, I won’t say goodbye.’ He would not have said that if he did not mean to return — he could not so deceive a lonely poor thing like me, that adored him.”
“No, he couldn’t ma’am, not he; no man could. Betray the girl that adored him! Ba-a-ah! impossible,” replied Mr. Levi, and shook his glossy ringlets sleepily, and dropped his eyelids, smiling. This old girl amused him, her romance was such a joke. But the light was perceptibly growing more dusky, and business must not wait upon fun, so Mr. Levi said —
“He’sh no chicken by this time, ma’am — your son, ma’am; I’m told he’sh twenty-sheven yearsh old — thatsh no chicken — twenty-sheven next birthday.”
“Do you know anything of him, sir? Oh, no, he doesn’t,” she said, looking dreamily with her great sad eyes upon him.
“Jest you tell me, ma’am, where was he baptised, and by what name?” said her visitor.
A look of doubt and fear came slowly and wildly into her face as she looked at him.
“Who is he — I’ve been speaking to you, sir?”
“Oh! yesh, mo-o-st beautiful, you ‘av, ma’am,” answered he; “and I am your son’s best friend — and yours, ma’am; only you tell me where to find him, and he’sh a made man, for all his dayzh.”
“Where has he come from? — a stranger,” she murmured.
“I told you, ma’am.”
“I don’t know you, sir; I don’t know your name,” she dreamed on.
“Benjamin Levi. I’ll spell it for you, if you like,” he answered, beginning to grow testy. “I told you my name, and showed you my ca-a-ard. Bah! it ravels at one end, as fast as it knits at the other.”
And again he held the card of the firm of Goldshed and Levi, with his elbows on the table, between the fingers of his right and left hand, bowed out like an oldfashioned shopboard, and looking as if it would spring out elastically into her face.
“There, ma’am, that’sh the ticket!” said he, eyeing her over it.
“Once, sir, I spoke of business to a stranger, and I was always sorry; I did mischief,” said the old woman, with a vague remorsefulness.
“I’m no stranger, ma’am, begging your pardon,” he replied, insolently; “you don’t half know what you’re saying, I do think. Goldshed and Levi — not know us; sich precious rot, I never!”
“I did mischief, sir.”
“I only want to know where to find your son, ma’am, if you know, and if you won’t tell, you ruin that poor young man. It aint a pound to me, but it’sh a deal to him,” answered the goodnatured Mr. Levi.
“I’m very sorry, sir, but I once did mischief by speaking to a gentleman whom I didn’t know. Lady Verney made me promise, and I’m sure she was right, never to speak about business without first consulting some member of her family. I don’t understand business — never did,” pleaded she.
“Well, here’s a go! not understaan’? Why, there’s nothing to understaan’. It isn’t business. S-o-n,” he spelt “son. H-u-s-b-a-n-d — uzbaan’ that aint business — da-a-m me! Where’s the business? Ba-ah!”
“Sir,” said the old lady, drawing herself up, “I’ve answered you. It was about my husband — God help me — I spoke before, and did mischief without knowing it. I won’t speak of him to strangers, except as Lady Verney advises — to any stranger — especially to you, sir.”
There was a sound of steps outside, which, perhaps, modified the answer of Mr. Levi. He was very much chagrined, and his great black eyes looked very wickedly upon her helpless face.
“Ha, ha, ha! as you please, ma’am. It isn’t the turn of a shilling to me, but you ru-in the poo-or young man, your son, for da-a-am me, if I touch his bushinesh again, if it falls through now; mind you that. So, having ruined your own flesh and blood, you tell me to go as I came. It’s nauthing to me — mind that — but ru-in to him; here’s my hat and stick — I’m going, only just I’ll give you one chance more for that poor young man, just a minute to think again.” He had stood up, with his hat and cane in his hand. “Just one chance — you’ll be sending for me again, and I won’t come. No — no — never, da-a-am me!”
“Good evening, sir,” said the lady.
Mr. Levi bit his thumb-nail.
“You don’t know what you’re a-doing, ma’am,” said he, trying once more.
“I can’t, sir — I can’t,” she said, distractedly.
“Come, think — I’m going — going; just think — what do you shay?”
He waited.
“I won’t speak, sir.”
“You won’t?”
“No, sir.”
He lingered for a moment, and the red sunlight showed like a flush of anger on his sallow face. Then, with an insolent laugh, he turned, sticking his hat on his head, and walked down the stairs,
singing.
Outside the hatch, he paused for a second.
“I’ll get it all another way,” he thought. “Round here,” he said, “wasn’t it — the back way. Good evening, you stupid old crazy cat,” and he saluted the windows of the steward’s house with a vicious twitch of his cane.
* * *
CHAPTER IV.
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 stableyard, 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 overlooked 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 bedroom 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 mizzl
ed 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.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 356