Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 351
“Did you miss anything — I’m sure you did — yesterday? I found a pin at the jetty of Penruthyn. It is so pretty, I’ve been ever so much tempted to keep it; so very pretty, that somehow, I think it could not have belonged to any one but to you.”
And he took the trinket from his waistcoat pocket.
“Oh! I’m so glad,” said she; “I thought I had seen it this morning, and could not think what had become of it. I never missed it till this evening.”
He touched the fingers she extended to receive it. He took them in his hand, and held them with a gentle force.
“For one moment allow me to hold your hand; don’t take it from me yet. I implore, only while I say a few words, which you may make, almost by a look, a farewell — my eternal farewell. Margaret, I love you as no other man ever will love you. You think all this but the madness that young men talk. I know nothing of them. What I say is desperately true; no madness, but sad and irreparable reality. I never knew love but for you — and for you it is such idolatry as I think the world never imagined. You are never for one moment from my thoughts. Every good hope or thought I have, I owe to you. You are the good principle of my life, and if I lose you, I am lost myself.”
This strange girl was not a conventional young lady. I don’t pronounce whether she was better or worse for that. She did not drop her eyes, nor yet withdraw her hand. She left that priceless pledge in his, it seemed, unconsciously, and with eyes of melancholy and earnest inquiry, looked on the handsome young man that was pleading with her.
“It is strange,” she said, in a dreamy tone, as if talking with herself. “I said it was strange, for he does not, and cannot, know me.”
“Yes,” he answered, “I do know you — intuitively I know you. We have all faith in the beautiful. We cannot separate the beautiful and the good; they come both direct from God, they resemble him; and I know your power — you can make of me what you will. Oh, Margaret, will you shut me out for ever from the only chance of good I shall ever know? Can you ever, ever like me?”
There was a little silence, and she said, very low, “If I were to like you, would you love me better than anything else in all the world?”
“Than all the world — than all the world,” he reiterated, and she felt the hand of this young man of fashion, of ambition, who had years ago learned to sneer at all romance, quiver as it held her own.
“But first, if I were to allow any one to like me, I would say to him, you must know what you undertake. You must love me with your entire heart; heart and soul, you must give yourself altogether up to me. I must be everything to you — your present, your future, your happiness, your hope; for I will not bear to share your heart with anything on earth! And these are hard terms, but the only ones.”
“I need make no vow, darling — darling. My life is what you describe, and I cannot help it; I adore you. Oh! Margaret, can you like me?”
Then Margaret Fanshawe answered, and in a tone the most sad, I think, that ever spoke; and to him, the sweetest and most solemn; like distant music in the night, funereal and plaintive, her words fell upon his entranced ear.
“If I were to say I could like you enough to wait, and try if I could like you more, it always seemed to me so awful a thing — try if I could like you more — would not the terms seem to you too hard?”
“Oh! Margaret, darling, say you can like me now. You know how I adore you,” he implored.
“Here, then, is the truth. I do not like you well enough to say all that; no, I do not, but I like you too well to say go. I don’t know how it may be, but if you choose to wait, and give me a very little time to resolve, I shall see clearly, and all uncertainty come to an end, somehow, and God guide us all to good! That is the whole truth, Mr. Verney; and pray say no more at present. You shall not wait long for my answer.”
“I agree, darling. I accept your terms. You don’t know what delay is to me; but anything rather than despair.”
She drew her hand to herself. He released it. It was past all foolish by-play with him, and the weight of a strange fear lay upon his heart.
This little scene took longer in speaking and acting, than it does in reading in this poor note of mine. When they looked up, the moon was silvering the tops of the trees, and the distant peaks of the Welsh mountains, and glimmering and flashing to and fro, like strings of diamonds, on the water.
And now Miss Anne Sheckleton entered, having talked old Neptune into good humour.
“Is there a chance of your visiting Penruthyn again?” asked Cleve, as if nothing unusual had passed. “You have not seen the old park. Pray, come tomorrow.”
Miss Sheckleton looked at the young lady, but she made no sign.
“Shall we? I see nothing against it,” said she.
“Oh! do. I entreat,” he persisted.
“Well, if it should be fine, and if nothing prevents, I think I may say, we will, about three o’clock tomorrow.”
Margaret did not speak; but was there not something sad and even gentle in her parting? The old enigma was still troubling his brain and heart, as he walked down the dark avenue once more. How would it all end? How would she at last pronounce?
The walk, next day, was taken in the Warren, as he had proposed. I believe it was a charming excursion; as happy, too, as under the bitter conditions of suspense it could be; but nothing worthy of record was spoken, and matters, I dare say, remained, ostensibly at least, precisely as they were.
* * *
CHAPTER XX.
HIS FATE.
Cleve Verney, as we know, was a young gentleman in whose character were oddly mingled impetuosity and caution. A certain diplomatic reserve and slyness had often stood him in stead in the small strategy of life, and here, how skillfully had he not managed his visits to Penruthyn, and hid from the peering eyes of Cardyllian his walks and loiterings about the enchanted woods of Malory.
Visiting good Mrs. Jones’s shop next day to ask her how she did, and gossip a little across the counter, that lady, peering over her spectacles, received him with a particularly sly smile, which, being prone to alarms just then, he noted and did not like.
Confidential and voluble as usual, was this lady, bringing her black lace cap and purple ribbons close to the brim of Mr. Verney’s hat, as she leaned over the counter, and murmured her emphatic intelligence and surmises deliberately in his ear. She came at last to say —
“You must be very solitary, we all think, over there, at Ware, sir; and though you have your yacht to sail across in, and your dog-cart to trot along, and doesn’t much mind, still it is not convenient, you know, for one that likes this side so much better than the other. We think, and wonders, we all do, you wouldn’t stay awhile at the Verney Arms, over the way, and remain among us, you know, and be near everything you might like; the other side, you know, is very dull; we can’t deny that, though its quite true that Ware is a very fine place — a really beautiful place — but it is lonely, we must allow; mustn’t we?”
“Awfully lonely,” acquiesced Cleve, “but I don’t quite see why I should live at the Verney Arms, notwithstanding.”
“Well, they do say — you mustn’t be angry with them, you know — but they do, that you like a walk to Malory,” and this was accompanied with a wonderfully cunning look, and a curious play of the crow’s-feet and wrinkles of her fat face, and a sly, gentle laugh. “But I don’t mind.”
“Don’t mind what?” asked Cleve, a little sharply.
“Well, I don’t mind what they say, but they do say you have made acquaintance with the Malory family — no harm in that, you know.”
“No harm in the world, only a lie,” said Cleve, with a laugh that was not quite enjoying. “I wish they would manage that introduction for me; I should like it extremely. I think the young lady rather pretty — don’t you? — and I should not object to pay my respects, if you think it would not be odd. My Cardyllian friends know so much better than I what is the right thing to do. The fact is, I don’t know one of our own tenants there, except for taking off my hat twice to the only sane one of the party, that old Miss Anne — Anne — something — you told me— “
“Sheckleton that will be,” supplemented Mrs. Jones.
“Sheckleton. Very well; and my real difficulty is this — and upon my honour, I don’t know how to manage it. My grandmother, Lady Verney, puts me under orders — and you know she does not like to be disobeyed — to go and see poor old Rebecca, Mrs. Mervyn, you know, at the steward’s house, at Malory; and I am looking for a moment when these people are out of the way, just to run in for five minutes, and ask her how she does. And my friend, Wynne Williams, won’t let me tell Lady Verney how odd these people are, he’s so afraid of her hearing the rumour of their being mad. But the fact is, whenever I go up there and peep in through the trees, I see some of them about the front of the house, and I can’t go up to the door, of course, without annoying them, for they wish to be quite shut up; and the end of it is, I say, that, among them, I shall get blown up by Lady Verney, and shan’t know what to answer — by Jove! But you may tell my friends in Cardyllian, I am so much obliged to them for giving me credit for more cleverness than they have had in effecting an introduction; and talking of me about that pretty girl, Miss — oh! — what’s her name? — at Malory. I only hope she’s not mad; for if she is I must be also.”
Mrs. Jones listened, and looked at him more gravely, for his story hung pretty well together, and something of its cunning died out of the expression of her broad face. But Cleve walked away a little disconcerted, and by no means in a pleasant temper with his good neighbours of Cardyllian; and made that day a long visit at Hazelden, taking care to make his approaches as ostentatiously as he could. And he was seen for an hour in the evening, walking on the green with the young ladies of that house, Miss Charity flanking the little line of march on one side, and he the other, pretty Miss Agnes, of the golden locks, the pretty dimples, and brilliant tints, walking between, and listening, I’m afraid, more to the unphilosophic prattle of young Mr. Verney than to the sage conversation, and even admonitions and reminders, of her kind, but unexceptionable sister.
From the news-room windows, from the great bow-window of the billiard-room, this promenade was visible. It was a judicious demonstration, and gave a new twist to conjecture; and listless gentlemen, who chronicled and discussed such matters, observed upon it, each according to his modicum of eloquence and wisdom.
Old Vane Etherage, whose temperament, though squally, was placable, was won by the frank courtesy, and adroit flatteries of the artless young fellow who had canvassed boroughs and counties, and was master of a psychology of which honest old Etherage knew nothing.
That night, notwithstanding, Cleve was at the gate of Malory, and the two ladies were there.
“We have been looking at the boat ten minutes, just, since it left. Sir Booth is out as usual, and now see how far away; you can scarcely see the sail, and yet so little breeze.”
“The breeze is rather from the shore, and you are sheltered here, all this old wood, you know. But you can hear it a little in the tops of the trees,” Cleve answered, caring very little what way the breeze might blow, and yet glad to know that Sir Booth was on his cruise, and quite out of the way for more than an hour to come.
“We intended venturing out as far as the pier, there to enjoy once more that beautiful moonlight view, but Sir Booth went out tonight by the little door down there, and this has been left with its padlock on. So we must only treat this little recess as the convent parlour, with the grating here, at which we parley with our friends. Do you hear that foolish old dog again? I really believe he has got out of the yard,” suddenly exclaimed goodnatured Miss Anne, who made the irregularities of old Neptune an excuse for trifling absences, very precious to Cleve Verney.
So now, she walked some ten or twenty steps toward the house, and stood there looking up the avenue, and prattling incessantly, though Cleve could not hear a word she said, except now and then the name of “Neptune,” when she ineffectually accosted that remote offender.
“You have not said a word, Miss Fanshawe. You are not offended with me, I hope?” he murmured.
“Oh, no.”
“You have not shaken hands,” he continued, and he put his hand between the bars; “won’t you?”
So she placed hers in his.
“And now, can you tell me nothing?”
“I’ve been thinking that I may as well speak now,” she said, in very low tones. “There must be uncertainty, I believe, in all things, and faith in those who love us, and trust that all may end in good; and so, blindly — almost blindly — I say, yes, if you will promise me — oh! promise, that you will always love me, as you do now, and never change. If you love me, I shall love you, always; and if you change, I shall die. Oh! won’t you promise?”
Poor fluttering heart! The bird that prunes its wing for the untried flight over the sea, in which to tire is to die, lonely, in the cold waste, may feel within its little breast the instinct of that irrevocable venture, the irresistible impulse, the far-off hope, the present fear and danger, as she did.
Promises! What are they? Who can answer for the follies of the heart, and the mutations of time? We know what we are; we know not what we may be. Idlest of all idle words are these promises for the affections, for the raptures and illusions, utterly mortal, whose duration God has placed quite beyond our control. Kill them, indeed, we may, but add one hour to their uncertain lives, never.
Poor trembling heart! “Promise never to change. Oh! won’t you promise?” Promises spoken to the air, written in dust — yet a word, a look, like a blessing or a hope — ever so illusive, before the wing is spread, and the long and untried journey begins!
What Cleve Verney swore, and all the music he poured into those little listening ears in that enchanting hour, I know not.
Miss Anne Sheckleton came back. Through the convent bars Cleve took her hand, in a kind of agitation, a kind of tumult, with rapture in his handsome face, and just said, “She has told me, she will” and Miss Sheckleton said nothing, but put her arms round Margaret’s neck, and kissed her many times, and holding her hand, looked up smiling, and took Cleve’s also, and in the old spinster’s eyes were glittering those diamond tears, so pure and unselfish that, when we see them, we think of those that angels are said to weep over the sorrows and the vanities of human life.
Swiftly flew the hour, and not till the sail was nearing the shore, and the voices of the boatmen were audible across the water, did the good old lady insist on a final farewell, and Cleve glided away, under the shadow of the trees that overhang the road, and disappeared round the distant angle of the wall of Malory.
* * *
CHAPTER XXI.
CAPTAIN SHRAPNELL.
The next afternoon Miss Charity Etherage and her sister Agnes, were joined in their accustomed walk upon the green of Cardyllian by Captain Shrapnell, a jaunty half-pay officer of five-and-fifty, who represented to his own satisfaction, the resident youth and fashion of that quiet watering-place.
“I give you my honour, Miss Etherage,” said he, placing himself beside Miss Agnes, “I mistook you yesterday, for Lady Fanny Mersey. Charming person she is, and I need not say, perfectly lovely.” A little arch bow gave its proper point to the compliment. “She has gone, however, I understand; left Llwynan yesterday. Is that young Verney’s boat? No, oh no — nothing like so sharp. He’s a very nice fellow, young Verney.”
This was put rather interrogatively, and Miss Agnes, thinking that she had blushed a little, blushed more, to her inexpressible chagrin, for she knew that Captain Shrapnell was watching her with the interest of a gossip.
“Nice? I dare say. But I really know him so very slightly,” said Miss Agnes.
“Come, come; that won’t do,” said the Captain, very archly. “You forget that I was sitting in our club window, yesterday evening, when a certain party were walking up and down. Ha, ha, you do. We’re tolerably clear-sighted up there, and old Rogers keeps our windows rubbed; and the glass is quite brilliantly transparent, ha, ha, ha! hey?”
“I think your windows are made of multiplying glasses, and magnifying glasses, and every kind of glass that distorts and discolours,” said Miss Agnes, a little pettishly. “I don’t know how else it is that you all see such wonderful sights as you do, through them.”
“Well, they do, certainly. Some of our friends do colour a little,” said the Captain, with a waggish yet friendly grin, up at the great bow window. “But in this case, you’ll allow there was no great opportunity for colour, the tints of nature are so beautiful,” and Shrapnell fired off this little saying, with his bow and smile of fascination. “Nor, by Jove! for the multiplying glasses either, for more than three in that party would have quite spoiled it; now, wouldn’t it, hey? ha, ha, ha! The two principals, and a gooseberry, eh? Ha, ha, ha!”
“What is a gooseberry?” inquired Miss Charity, peremptorily.
“A delightful object in the garden, Miss Etherage, a delightful object everywhere. The delight of the young especially, hey, Miss Agnes? ha, ha! hey? and one of the sweetest products of nature Eh, Miss Agnes? ha, ha, ha! Miss Etherage, I give you my honour every word I say is true.”
“I do declare, Captain Shrapnell, it seems to me you have gone perfectly mad!” said Miss Charity, who was outspoken and emphatic.
“Always a mad fellow, Miss Etherage, ha, ha, ha! Very true; that’s my character, hey? ha, ha, ha, egad! So the ladies tell me,” said the gay, young Captain. “Wish I’d a guinea for every time they’ve called me mad, among them. I give you my honour I’d be a rich fellow this moment.”
“Now, Captain Shrapnell,” said Miss Charity, with a frank stare with her honest goggle eyes, “you are talking the greatest nonsense I ever heard in my life.”
