She had visited her father at his breakfast in the study, and promptly introduced the subject of Tom Sedley, and he broke into this line of observation —
“I’d like to know what the deuce Tom Sedley means by talking of business to girls. I’d like to know it. I say, if he has anything to say, why doesn’t he say it, that’s what I say. Here I am. What has he to say. I don’t object to hear him, be it sense or be it nonsense — out with it! That’s my maxim; and be it sense or be it nonsense, I won’t have it at second-hand. That’s my idea.”
Acting upon this, Miss Charity insisted that he ought to see Mr. Etherage; and, with a beating heart, he knocked at the study door, and asked an audience.
“Come in,” exclaimed the resonant voice of the Admiral. And Tom Sedley obeyed.
The Admiral extended his hand, and greeted Tom kindly, but gravely.
“Fine day, Mr. Sedley; very fine, sir. It’s an odd thing, Tom Sedley, but there’s more really fine weather up here, at Hazelden, than anywhere else in Wales. More sunshine, and a deal less rain. You’d hardly believe, for you’d fancy on this elevated ground we should naturally have more rain, but it’s less, by several inches, than anywhere else in Wales! And there’s next to no damp — the hygrometer tells that. And a curious thing, you’ll have a southerly wind up here when it’s blowing from the east on the estuary. You can see it, by Jove! Now just look out of that window; did you ever see such sunshine as that? There’s a clearness in the air up here — at the other side, if you go up, you get mist — but there’s something about it here that I would not change for any place in the world.”
You may be sure Tom did not dispute any of these points.
“By Jove, Tom Sedley, it would be a glorious day for a sail round the point of Penruthyn. I’d have been down with the tide, sir, this morning if I had been as I was ten years ago; but a fellow doesn’t like to be lifted into his yacht, and the girls did not care for sailing; so I sold her. There wasn’t such a boat — take her for everything — in the world — never!”
“The Feather; wasn’t she, sir?” said Tom.
“The Feather! that she was, sir. A name pretty well known, I venture to think. Yes, the Feather was her name.”
“I have, sir; yes, indeed, often heard her spoken of,” said Tom, who had heard one or two of the boatmen of Cardyllian mention her with a guarded sort of commendation. I never could learn, indeed, that there was anything very remarkable about the boat; but Tom would just then have backed any assertion of the honest Admiral’s with a loyal alacrity, bordering, I am afraid, upon unscrupulousness.
“There are the girls going out with their trowels, going to poke among those flowers; and certainly, I’ll do them justice to say, their garden prospers. I don’t see such flowers anywhere; do you?”
“Nowhere!” said Tom, with enthusiasm.
“By, there they’re at it — grubbing and raking. And, by-the-by, Tom, what was that? Sit down for a minute.”
Tom felt as if he was going to choke, but he sat down.
“What was that — some nonsense Charity was telling me last night?”
Thus invited, poor Sedley, with many hesitations, and wanderings, and falterings, did get through his romantic story. And Mr. Etherage did not look pleased by the recital; on the contrary, he carried his head unusually high, and looked hot and minatory, but he did not explode. He continued looking on the opposite wall, as he had done as if he were eyeing a battle there, and he cleared his voice.
“As I understand it, sir, there’s not an income to make it at all prudent. I don’t want my girls to marry; I should, in fact, miss them very much; but if they do, there ought to be a settlement, don’t you see? there should be a settlement, for I can’t do so much for them as people suppose. The property is settled, and the greater part goes to my grand-nephew after me; and I’ve invested, as you know, all my stock and money in the quarry at Llanrwyd; and if she married you, she should live in London the greater part of the year. And I don’t see how you could get on upon what you both have; I don’t, sir. And I must say, I think you ought to have spoken to me before paying your addresses, sir. I don’t think that’s unreasonable; on the contrary, I think it reasonable, perfectly so, and only right and fair. And I must go further, sir; I must say this, I don’t see, sir, without a proper competence, what pretensions you had to address my child.”
“None, sir; none in the world, Mr. Etherage. I know, sir, I’ve been thinking of my presumption ever since. I betrayed myself into it, sir; it was a kind of surprise. If I had reflected I should have come to you, sir; but — but you have no idea, sir, how I adore her.” Tom’s eye wandered after her through the window, among the flowers. “Or what it would be to me to — to have to” ——
Tom Sedley faltered, and bit his lip, and started up quickly and looked at an engraving of old Etherage’s frigate, which hung on the study wall.
He looked at it for some time steadfastly. Never was man so affected by the portrait of a frigate, you would have thought. Vane Etherage saw him dry his eyes stealthily two or three times, and the old gentleman coughed a little, and looked out of the window, and would have got up, if he could, and stood close to it.
“It’s a beautiful day, certainly; wind coming round a bit to the south, though — south by east; that’s always a squally wind with us; and — and — I assure you I like you, Tom; upon my honour I do, Tom Sedley — better, sir, than any young fellow I know. I think I do — I am sure, in fact, I do. But this thing — it wouldn’t do — it really wouldn’t; no, Tom Sedley, it wouldn’t do; if you reflect you’ll see it. But, of course, you may get on in the world. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“It’s very kind of you, sir; but the time’s so long, and so many chances,” said Sedley, with a sigh like a sob; “and when I go away, sir, the sooner I die, the happier for me.”
Tom turned again quickly toward the frigate — the Vulcan — and old Etherage looked out of the window once more, and up at the clouds.
“Yes,” said the admiral, “it will; we shall have it from south by east. And, d’ye hear, Tom Sedley? I — I’ve been thinking there’s no need to make any fuss about this — this thing; just let it be as if you had never said a word about it, do you mind, and come here just as usual. Let us put it out of our heads; and if you find matters improve, and still wish it, there’s nothing to prevent your speaking to me; only Agnes is perfectly free, you understand, and you are not to make any change in your demeanour — a — or — I mean to be more with my daughters, or anything marked, you understand. People begin to talk here, you know, in the club-house, on very slight grounds! and — and — you understand now; and there mustn’t be any nonsense; and I like you, sir — I like you, Thomas Sedley; I do — I do, indeed, sir.”
And old Vane Etherage gave him a very friendly shake by the hand, and Tom thanked him gratefully, and went away reprieved, and took a walk with the girls, and told them, as they expressed it, everything; and Vane Etherage thought it incumbent on him to soften matters a little by asking him to dinner; and Tom accepted; and when they broke up after tea, there was another mistake discovered about the hour, and Miss Charity most emphatically announced that it was perfectly unaccountable, and must never occur again; and I hope, for the sake of the venerable man who sat up, resigned and affronted, to secure the hall-door and put out the lamps after the party had broken up, that these irregular hours were kept no more at Hazelden.
* * *
CHAPTER VII.
ARCADIAN RED BRICK, LILAC, AND LABURNUM.
As time proceeds, renewal and decay, its twin principles of mutation, are everywhere and necessarily active, applying to the moral as well as to the material world. Affections displace and succeed one another. The most beautiful are often the first to die. Characteristics in their beginning, minute and unsubstantial as the fairy brood that people the woodland air, enlarge and materialize till they usurp the dominion of the whole man, and the people and the world are changed.
Sir B
ooth Fanshawe is away at Paris just now, engaged in a great negotiation, which is to bring order out of chaos, and inform him at last what he is really worth per annum. Margaret and her cousin, Miss Sheckleton, have revisited England; their Norman retreat is untenanted for the present.
With the sorrow of a great concealment upon her, with other sorrows that she does not tell, Margaret looks sad and pale.
In a small old suburban house, that stands alone, with a rural affectation, on a little patch of shorn grass, embowered in lilacs and laburnums, and built of a deep vermillion brick, the residence of these ladies is established.
It is a summer evening, and a beautiful little boy, more than a year old, is sprawling, and babbling, and rolling, and laughing on the grass upon his back. Margaret, seated on the grass beside him, prattles and laughs with him, and rolls him about, delighted, and adoring her little idol.
Old Anne Sheckleton, sitting on the bench, smiling happily, under the window, which is clustered round with roses, contributes her quota of nonsense to the prattle.
In the midst of this comes a ring at the bell in the jessamine-covered wall, and a tidy little maid runs out to the green door, opens it, and in steps Cleve Verney.
Margaret is on her feet in a moment, with the light of a different love, something of the old romance, in the glad surprise, “Oh, darling, it is you!” and her arms are about his neck, and he stoops and kisses her fondly, and in his face for a moment, is reflected the glory of that delighted smile.
“Yes, darling. Are you better?”
“Oh, yes — ever so much; I’m always well when you are here; and look, see our poor little darling.”
“So he is.”
“We have had such fun with him — haven’t we, Anne? I’m sure he’ll be so like you.”
“Is this in his favour, cousin Anne?” asked Cleve, taking the old lady’s hand.
“Why should it not?” said she gaily.
“A question — well, I take the benefit of the doubt,” laughed Cleve. “No, darling,” he said to Margaret, “you mustn’t sit on the grass; it is damp; you’ll sit beside our Cousin Anne, and be prudent.”
So he instead sat down on the grass, and talked with them, and prattled and romped with the baby by turns, until the nurse came out to convey him to the nursery, and he was handed round to say what passes for “Good night,” and give his tiny paw to each in turn.
“You look tired, Cleve, darling.”
“So I am, my Guido; can we have a cup of tea?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll get it in a moment,” said active Anne Sheckleton.
“It’s too bad disturbing you,” said Cleve.
“No trouble in the world,” said Anne, who wished to allow them a word together; “besides, I must kiss baby in his bed.”
“Yes, darling, I am tired,” said Cleve, taking his place beside her, so soon as old Anne Sheckleton was gone. “That old man” ——
“Lord Verney, do you mean?”
“Yes; he has begun plaguing me again.”
“What is it about, darling?”
“Oh, fifty things; he thinks, among others, I ought to marry,” said Cleve, with a dreary laugh.
“Oh, I thought he had given up that,” she said, with a smile that was very pale.
“So he did for a time; but I think he’s possessed. If he happens to take up an idea that’s likely to annoy other people, he never lets it drop till he teases them half to death. He thinks I should marry money and political connection, and I don’t know what all, and I’m quite tired of the whole thing. What a vulgar little box this is — isn’t it, darling? I almost wish you were back again in that place in France.”
“But I can see you so much oftener here, Cleve,” pleaded Margaret, softly, with a very sad look.
“And where’s the good of seeing me here, dear Margaret? Just consider, I always come to you anxious; there’s always a risk, besides, of discovery.”
“Where you are is to me a paradise.”
“Oh, darling, do not talk rubbish. This vulgar, odious little place! No place can be either — quite, of course — where you are. But you must see what it is — a paradise” — and he laughed peevishly— “of red brick, and lilacs, and laburnums — a paradise for old Mr. Dowlas, the tallow-chandler.”
There was a little tremor in Margaret’s lip, and the water stood in her large eyes; her hand was, as it were, on the coffin-edge; she was looking in the face of a dead romance.
“Now, you really must not shed tears over that speech. You are too much given to weeping, Margaret. What have I said to vex you? It merely amounts to this, that we live just now in the future; we can’t well deny that, darling. But the time will come at last, and my queen enjoy her own.”
And so saying he kissed her, and told her to be a good little girl; and from the window Miss Sheckleton handed them tea, and then she ran up to the nursery.
“You do look very tired, Cleve,” said Margaret, looking into his anxious face.
“I am tired, darling,” he said, with just a degree of impatience in his tone; “I said so — horribly tired.”
“I wish so much you were liberated from that weary House of Commons.”
“Now, my wise little woman is talking of what she doesn’t understand — not the least; besides, what would you have me turn to? I should be totally without resource and pursuit — don’t you see? We must be reasonable. No, it is not that in the least that tires me, but I’m really overwhelmed with anxieties, and worried by my uncle, who wants me to marry, and thinks I can marry whom I please — that’s all.”
“I sometimes think, Cleve, I’ve spoiled your fortunes,” with a great sigh, said Margaret, watching his face.
“Now, where’s the good of saying that, my little woman? I’m only talking of my uncle’s teasing me, and wishing he’d let us both alone.”
Here came a little pause.
“Is that the baby?” said Margaret, raising her head and listening.
“I don’t hear our baby or any one else’s,” said Cleve.
“I fancied I heard it cry, but it wasn’t.”
“You must think of me more, and of that child less, darling — you must, indeed,” said Cleve, a little sourly.
I think the poor heart was pleased, thinking this jealousy; but I fear it was rather a splenetic impulse of selfishness, and that the baby was, in his eyes, a bore pretty often.
“Does the House sit tonight, Cleve, darling?”
“Does it, indeed? Why it’s sitting now. We are to have the second reading of the West India Bill on tonight, and I must be there — yes — in an hour” — he was glancing at his watch— “and heaven knows at what hour in the morning we shall get away.”
And just at this moment old Anne Sheckleton joined them. “She’s coming with more tea,” she said, as the maid emerged with a little tray, “and we’ll place our cups on the window-stone when we don’t want them. Now, Mr. Verney, is not this a charming little spot just at this light?”
“I almost think it is,” said Cleve, relenting. The golden light of evening was touching the formal poplars, and the other trees, and bringing out the wrinkles of the old bricks duskily in its flaming glow.
“Yes, just for about fifteen minutes in the twenty-four hours, when the weather is particularly favourable, it has a sort of Dutch picturesqueness; but, on the whole, it is not the sort of cottage that I would choose for a permanent dovecot. I should fear lest my pigeons should choke with dust.”
“No, there’s no dust here; it is the quietest, most sylvan little lane in the world.”
“Which is a wide place,” said Cleve. “Well, with smoke then.”
“Nor smoke either.”
“But I forgot, love does not die of smoke or of anything else,” said Cleve.
“No, of course, love is eternal,” said Margaret.
“Just so; the King never dies. Les roix meurent-ils? Quelquefois, madame. Alas, theory and fact conflict. Love is eternal in the abstract; but nothing is more mo
rtal than a particular love,” said Cleve.
“If you think so, I wonder you ever wished to marry,” said Margaret, and a faint tinge flushed her cheeks.
“I thought so, and yet I did wish to marry,” said Cleve. “It is perishable, but I can’t live without it,” and he patted her cheek, and laughed a rather cold little laugh.
“No, love never dies,” said Margaret, with a gleam of her old fierce spirit. “But it may be killed.”
“It is terrible to kill anything,” said Cleve.
“To kill love,” she answered, “is the worst murder of all.”
“A veritable murder,” he acquiesced, with a smile and a slight shrug; “once killed, it never revives.”
“You like talking awfully, as if I might lose your love,” said she, haughtily; “as if, were I to vex you, you never could forgive.”
“Forgiveness has nothing to do with it, my poor little woman. I no more called my love into being than I did myself; and should it die, either naturally or violently, I could no more call it to life, than I could Cleopatra or Napoleon Bonaparte. It is a principle, don’t you see? that comes as direct as life from heaven. We can’t create it, we can’t restore it; and really about love, it is worse than mortal, because, as I said, I am sure it has no resurrection — no, it has no resurrection.”
“That seems to me a reason,” she said, fixing her large eyes upon him with a wild resentment, “why you should cherish it very much while it lives.”
“And don’t I, darling?” he said, placing his arms round her neck, and drawing her fondly to his breast, and in the thrill of that momentary effusion was something of the old feeling when to lose her would have been despair, to gain her heaven, and it seemed as if the scent of the woods of Malory, and of the soft sea breeze, was around them for a moment.
And now he is gone, away to that tiresome House — lost to her, given up to his ambition, which seems more and more to absorb him; and she remains smiling on their beautiful little baby, with a great misgiving at her heart, to see Cleve no more for four-and-twenty hours more.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 376