of her little air again.
And Tom, standing now in the middle of the room, leaning on the back of a chair, by way of looking still upon the landscape which they had been discussing, was really looking, unobserved, on her, and thinking that there was not in all the world so pretty a creature.
Charity opened the door, equipped for the walk, and bearing an alpaca umbrella, such as few gentlemen would like to walk with in May Fair.
"Well, you won't come, I see. I think you are very obstinate. Come, Thomas Sedley. Good-bye, Agnes;" and with these words the worthy girl led forth my friend Tom, and as they passed the corner of the house, he saw Agnes standing in the window, looking out sadly, with her fingertips against the pane.
"She's lonely, poor little thing!" thought he, with a pang. "Why wouldn't she come? Listlessness – apathy, I suppose. How selfish and odious any trifling with a girl's affections is;" and then aloud to Charity, walking by her side, he continued, "You have not seen Cleve since the great day of Lord Verney's visit, I suppose?"
"No, nothing of him, and don't desire to see him. He has been the cause of a great deal of suffering, as you see, and I think he has behaved odiously. She's very odd; she doesn't choose to confide in me. I don't think it's nice or kind of her, but, of course, it's her own affair; only this is plain to me, that she'll never think of any one else now but Cleve Verney."
"It's an awful pity," said Tom Sedley, quite sincerely.
They were walking down that steep and solitary road, by which Vane Etherage had made his memorable descent a few months since, now in deep shadow under the airy canopy of transparent leaves, and in total silence, except for the sounds, far below, of the little mill-stream struggling among the rocks.
"Don't you know Mr. Cleve Verney pretty well?"
"Intimately – that is, I did. I have not lately seen so much of him."
"And do you think, Thomas Sedley, that he will ever come forward?" said blunt Miss Charity.
"Well, I happen to know that Cleve Verney has no idea of anything of the kind. In fact, I should be deceiving you, if I did not say distinctly that I know he won't."
Tom was going to say he can't, but checked himself. However, I think he was not sorry to have an opportunity of testifying to this fact, and putting Cleve Verney quite out of the field of conjecture as a possible candidate.
"Then I must say," said Miss Charity, flushing brightly, "that Mr. Verney is a villain."
From this strong position Tom could not dislodge her, and finding that expostulation involved him in a risk of a similar classification, he abandoned Cleve to his fate.
Up and down the Green they walked until Miss Flood espied and arrested Charity Etherage, and carried her off upon a visit of philanthropy in her pony-carriage, and Tom Sedley transferred his charge to fussy, imperious Miss Flood; and he felt strangely incensed with her, and walked the Green, disappointed and bereft. Was not Charity Agnes's sister? While he walked with her, he could talk of Agnes. He was still in the halo of Hazelden, and near Agnes. But now he was adrift, in the dark. He sat down, looking toward the upland woods that indicate Hazelden, and sighed with a much more real pain than he had ever sighed toward Malory; and he thought evil of meddling Miss Flood, who had carried away his companion. After a time he walked away toward Malory, intending a visit to his old friend Rebecca Mervyn, and thinking all the way of Agnes Etherage.
CHAPTER V.
MRS. MERVYN'S DREAM
He found himself, in a little time, under the windows of the steward's house. Old Rebecca Mervyn was seated on the bench beside the door, plying her knitting-needles; she raised her eyes on hearing his step.
"Ha, he's come!" she said, lowering her hands to her knees, and fixing her dark wild gaze upon him, "I ought to have known it – so strange a dream must have had a meaning."
"They sometimes have, ma'am, I believe. I hope you are pretty well, Mrs. Mervyn."
"No, sir, I am not well."
"Very sorry, very sorry indeed, ma'am," said Tom Sedley. "I've often thought this must be a very damp, unhealthy place – too much crowded up with trees; they say nothing is more trying to health. You'd be much better, I'm sure, anywhere else."
"Nowhere else; my next move shall be my last. I care not how soon, sir."
"Pray, don't give way to low spirits; you really mustn't," said Tom.
"Tell me what it is, sir; for I know you have come to tell me something."
"No, I assure you; merely to ask you how you are, and whether I can be of any use."
"Oh! sir; what use? —no."
"Do you wish me to give any message to that fellow, Dingwell? Pray make use of me in any way that strikes you. I hear he is on the point of leaving England again."
"I'm glad of it," exclaimed the old lady. "Why do I say so? I'm glad of nothing; but I'm sure it's better. What business could he and Mr. Larkin, and that Jew, have with my child, who, thank God, is in Heaven, and out of the reach of their hands, evil hands, I dare say."
"So I rather think also, ma'am; and Mr. Larkin tried, did he?"
"Larkin; – yes, that was the name. He came here, sir, about the time I saw you; and he talked a great deal about my poor little child. It is dead, you know, but I did not tell him so. I promised Lady Verney I'd tell nothing to strangers – they all grow angry then. Mr. Larkin was angry, I think. But I do not speak – and you advised me to be silent – and though he said he was their lawyer, I would not answer a word."
"I have no doubt you acted wisely, Mrs. Mervyn; you cannot be too cautious in holding any communication with such people."
"I'd tell you, sir – if I dare; but I've promised, and I daren't. Till old Lady Verney's gone, I daren't. I know nothing of law papers – my poor head! How should I? And she could not half understand them. So I promised. You would understand them. Time enough – time enough."
"I should be only too happy, whenever you please," said Tom, making ready tender of his legal erudition.
"And you, sir, have come to tell me something; what is it?"
"I assure you I have nothing particular to say; I merely called to inquire how you are."
"Nothing more needless, sir; how can a poor lonely old woman be, whose last hope has perished and left her alone in the world? For twenty years – more, more than twenty – I have been watching, day and night; and now, sir, I look at the sea no more. I will never see those headlands again. I sit here, sir, from day to day, thinking; and, oh, dear, I wish it was all over."
"Any time you should want me, I should be only too happy, and this is my address."
"And you have nothing to tell me?"
"No, ma'am, nothing more than I said."
"It was wonderful: I dreamed last night I was looking toward Pendillion, watching as I used; the moon was above the mountain, and I was standing by the water, so that the sea came up to my feet, and I saw a speck of white far away, and something told me it was his sail at last, and nearer and nearer, very fast it came; and I walked out in the shallow water, with my arms stretched out to meet it, and when it came very
