"Just under the walls of Malory; you were anxious to learn whether a sail was in sight, in the direction of Pendillion," said he, suggesting.
"No, there was none; it was not there. People—other people—would have tired of watching long ago; my old eyes never dazzled, sir. And he came, so like. He came—I thought it—was a spirit from the sea; and here he is. There's something in your voice, sir, and your face. It is wonderful; but not a Verney—no, you told me so. They are cruel men—one way or other they were all cruel, but some more than others—my God! much more. There's something in the eyes—the setting, the light—it can't be mistaken; something in the curve of the chin, very pretty—but you're no Verney, you told me—and see how he comes here a second time, smiling—and yet when he goes, it is like waking from a dream where they were, as they all used to look, long ago; and there's a pain at my heart, for weeks after. It never can be again, sir; I'm growing old. If it ever comes, it will find me so changed—or dead, I sometimes begin to think, and try to make up my mind. There's a good world, you know, where we'll all meet and be happy, no more parting or dying, sir. Yet I'd like to see him even once, here, just as he was, a beautiful mortal. God is so good; and while there's life there is hope."
"Certainly, hope, there's always hope; everyone has something to vex them. I have, I know, Mrs. Mervyn; and I was just thinking what a charming drawing-room this is, and how delightful it must be, the quiet and comfort, and glow of such a room. There is no drawing-room on earth I should like so well," said good-natured Tom Sedley, whose sympathies were easy, and who liked saying a pleasant thing when he could; "And this is the letter, and here is a printed receipt, which, when you have been so kind as to sign it, I've promised to give my friend, Mr. Robson of the post-office."
"Thank you, sir; this is registered, they call it. I had one a long time ago, with the same kind of green ribbon round it. Won't you sit down while I sign this?"
"Many thanks," said Sedley, sitting down gravely at the table, and looking so thoughtful, and somehow so much at home, that you might have fancied his dream of living in the Steward's House had long been accomplished.
"I'd rather not get a letter, sir; I don't know the handwriting of this address, and a letter can but bring me sorrow. There is but one welcome chance which could befall me, and that may come yet, just a hope, sir. Sometimes it brightens up, but it has been low all to-day."
"Sorry you have been out of spirits, Mrs. Mervyn, I know what it is; I've been so myself, and I am so, rather, just now," said Tom, who was, in this homely seclusion, tending towards confidence.
"There are now but two handwritings that I should know; one is his, the other Lady Verney's; all the rest are dead; and this is neither."
"Well, Mrs. Mervyn, if it does not come from either of the persons you care for, it yet may tell you news of them," remarked Tom Sedley, sagely.
"Hardly, sir. I hear every three months from Lady Verney. I heard on Tuesday last. Thank God, she's well. No, it's nothing concerning her, and I think it may be something bad. I am afraid of this letter, sir—tell me I need not be afraid of it."