And I must do that spinster the justice to say, that there was not the faintest flavour of sour grapes in the acerbity with which she pronounced against the “shocking folly of girls marrying,” for she might undoubtedly have been married, having had in her youth several unexceptionable offers, none of which had ever moved her.
I know not what hopes Sir Booth may have founded upon his conversation with Cleve Verney. Men in the Baronet’s predicament nurse their hopes fondly, and their mustard seeds grow rapidly into great trees, in whose branches they shelter their families, and roost themselves. He grew gracious at times in the contemplation of brilliant possibilities, and one day, to her amazement and consternation, opened the matter briefly to Miss Sheckleton, who fancied that she was discovered, and he on the point of exploding, and felt as if she were going to faint.
Happily for her, he fancied that Cleve must have seen Margaret accidentally during some of his political knight-errantries in the county which he had contested with Sir Booth. We know, as well as Miss Sheckleton, how this really was.
Sir Booth’s dreams, however, were broken with a crash. To Miss Anne Sheckleton came a letter from Sir Booth’s attorneys, informing the Baronet that Mr. Kiffyn Fulke Verney had just served them with a notice which seemed to threaten a wantonly vexatious and expensive proceeding, and then desired to know what course, having detailed the respective consequences of each, he would wish them to take.
Now Sir Booth broke into one of his frenzies, called up Miss Sheckleton, damned and cursed the whole Verney family, excommunicated them, and made the walls of Malory ring with the storm and thunder he launched at the heads of the ancient race who had built them.
Scared and pale Miss Anne Sheckleton withdrew.
“My dear, something has happened: he has had a letter from his law people, and Mr. Kiffyn Verney has directed, I think, some unexpected proceedings. How I wish they would stop these miserable lawsuits, and leave your papa at peace. Your papa’s attorneys think they can gain nothing by worrying him, and it is so unfortunate just now.”
So spoke Miss Sheckleton, who had found Margaret, with her bullfinch and her squirrels, in that pretty but melancholy room which is darkened by the old forest, through whose shafted stems shadowy perspectives open, and there, as in the dimness of a monastic library, she was busy over the illumination of her vellum Psalter, with gold and ultramarine, and all other vivid pigments.
Margaret stood up, and looked in her face rather pale, and with her small hand pressed to her heart.
“He’s very angry,” added Miss Sheckleton, with a dark look, and a nod.
“Are we going to leave this?” inquired the girl in almost a whisper.
“He did not say; I fancy not. No, he’d have said so the first thing,” answered the old lady.
“Well, we can do nothing; it can’t be helped, I suppose?” said Miss Margaret, looking down very sadly on her medi?val blazonry.
“Nothing, my dear! nothing on earth. No one can be more anxious that all this kind of thing should cease, than Cleve Verney, as you know; but what can even he do?” said Miss Sheckleton.
Margaret looked through the window, down the sylvan glade, and sighed.
“His uncle, Kiffyn Verney,” resumed Anne Sheckleton, “is such a disagreeable, spiteful man, and such a feud has been between them, I really don’t see how it is to end; but Cleve, you know, is so clever, and so devoted, I’m sure he’ll find some way.”
Margaret sighed again, and said —
“Papa, I suppose, is very angry.”
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
(Left Keyword <-) Previous:
Chapter 23. Margaret has Her Warning.
Back
Next:
Chapter 25. In which the Ladies Peep into Cardyllian.
(Right Keyword:->)