The Tenants of Malory. Volume 1. Le Fanu Joseph Sheridan

family, excepting in church to-day; not one, indeed, sir; they are very strange; they never come into the town – not once since ever they came to Malory! but dear me! you know, sir, that might be, and yet everything as we could wish, mightn't it; yes, sure; still, you know, people will be talking; it's a pity we don't mind our own business more, and let others be, isn't it, sir?"

      "Great pity; but – but what's the matter?" urged Cleve Verney.

      "Well, Master Cleve, you know, Cardyllian, and how we do talk here; I don't say more than other places, but we do, and I do not like repeatin' everything I hear. There's more mischief than good, I think, comes of repeatin' stories."

      "Oh! come, pray what's the good of a story except to repeat it? I ought to know, perhaps I should tell Lady Verney about it," said Cleve, who was really curious, for nothing could be more quiet than the get up and demeanour of the ladies.

      "They haven't been here, you know, very long," murmured Mrs. Jones, earnestly.

      "No, I don't know. I know nothing about it; how long?"

      "Well, about five weeks – a little more; and we never saw the gentleman once; he's never been down to the town since he came; never indeed, sir, not once."

      "He shows his sense; doesn't he?"

      "Ah, you were always pleasant, Master Cleve, but you don't think so; no, you don't indeed; his conduct is really most singular, he's never been outside the walls of Malory all that time, in the daylight; very odd; he has hired Christmass Owen's boat, and he goes out in it every night, unless twice, the wind was too high, and Owen didn't choose to venture his boat. He's a tall man, Christmass Owen says, and holds himself straight, like an officer, for people will be making inquiries, you know; and he has gray hair; not quite white, you know."

      "How should I know?"

      "Ah, ha, you were always funny; yes, indeed, but it is gray, gone quite gray, Christmass Owen says."

      "Well, and what about the ladies?" inquired the young gentleman. "They're not gone gray, all? though I shouldn't wonder much, in Malory."

      "The ladies? Well. There's two, you know; there's Miss Sheckleton, that's the elderly lady, and all the Malory accounts in the town is opened in her name. Anne Sheckleton, very reg'lar she is. I have nothing to say concerning her. They don't spend a great deal, you understand, but their money is sure."

      "Yes, of course; but, you said, didn't you? that there was something not quite right about them."

      "Oh dear, no, sir; I did not say quite that; nothing wrong, no sure, but very odd, sir, and most unpleasant, and that is all."

      "And that's a good deal; isn't it?" urged Cleve.

      "Well, it is something; it is indeed a great deal," Mrs. Jones emphasised oracularly.

      "And what is it, what do you know of them, or the people here what do they say?"

      "Well, they say, putting this and that together, and some hints from the servant that comes down to order things up from the town – for servants, you know, will be talking – that the family is mad."

      "Mad!" echoed Cleve.

      "That's what they say."

      "The whole family are mad! and yet continue to manage their affairs as they do! By Jove, it is a comfort to find that people can get on without heads, on emergency."

      "They don't say, no, dear me! that all that's in the house are mad; only the old man and the young lady."

      "And what is she mad upon?"

      "Well, they don't say. I don't know – melancholy I do suppose."

      "And what is the old gentleman's name?"

      "We don't know, the servants don't know, they say; they were hired by Miss Sheckleton, in Chester, and never saw the old gentleman, nor the young lady, till after they were two or three days in Malory; and one night comes a carriage, with a madhouse gentleman, they do say, a doctor, in charge of the old gentleman, and the young lady, poor thing! and so they were handed over by him, to Miss Sheckleton."

      "And what sort of lunacies do they commit? They're not pulling down the house among them, I hope?"

      "Very gentle – very. I'm told, quite, as you may say, manageable. It's a very sad thing, sir, but what a world it is! yes, indeed. Isn't it?"

      "Ay, so it is. – I've heard that, I think, before."

      "You may have heard it from me, sir, and it's long been my feeling and opinion, dear me! The longer I live the more melancholy sights I see!"

      "How long is Malory let for?"

      "Can't say, indeed, sir. That is they may give it up every three months, but has the right to keep it two whole years, that is if they like, you understand."

      "Well, it is rather odd. It was they who sat in the Malory seat to-day?"

      "That was Miss Sheckleton, was the old lady; and the young one, didn't you think her very pretty, sir?"

      "Yes – she's pretty," he answered carelessly. "But I really could not see very well."

      "I was very near as she turned to leave – before she took down her veil – and I thought what a really beautiful creature she was!"

      "And what do they call her?"

      "Miss Margaret, sir."

      "Margaret! a pretty name – rather. Oh! here's Mr. Jones;" and Mr. Jones was greeted – and talked a little – somewhat more distantly and formally than his goodwife had done – and Mr. and Mrs. Jones, with a dutiful farewell, set off upon their Sunday's ramble.

      CHAPTER III

      HOME TO WARE

      "Mad!" thought Cleve. "What an awful pity if she is. She doesn't look mad – melancholy she may. She does not look a bit mad. By Jove, I don't believe a word of it. It's utterly out of the question that the quiet old lady there could bring a mad girl to church with her. And thus resolved, Cleve walked out of the coffee-room, and awaiting his conveyance, stood on the steps of the Verney Arms, from whence he saw Wynne Williams, the portly solicitor of Cardyllian, and of a wide circle of comfortable clients round it. Wynne Williams is omniscient. Nothing ever happens in Cardyllian that he does not know with precision.

      "Wynne," Cleve called up the quiet little street, and the attorney, looking over his fat shoulder, arrested his deliberate walk, and marched swiftly back, smiling.

      So there was another greeting; and some more questions ensued, and answers, and then said Cleve —

      "So Malory's let, I hear."

      "Yes," said the attorney, with a slight shrug.

      "You don't like the bargain, I see," said Cleve.

      "It's a mismanaged place, you know. Lady Verney won't spend a shilling on it, and we must only take what we can get. We haven't had a tenant for five years till now."

      "And who has taken it?"

      "The Reverend Isaac Dixie."

      "The devil he has. Why old Dixie's not mad, is he?"

      "No, he's no fool. More like the other thing – rather. Drove a hard bargain – but I wouldn't take it myself at the money."

      "Doesn't he live there?"

      "No. There's an old gentleman and two ladies; one of them an old woman."

      "And what's the old gentleman's name, and the young lady's?"

      "Don't know, indeed; and what does it matter?" The attorney was curious, and had taken some little trouble to find out. "The Reverend Isaac Dixie's the tenant, and Miss Sheckleton manages the family business; and devil a letter ever comes by post here, except to Miss Sheckleton or the servants."

      "Old