“No need of that, I think,” said Mr. Larkin, looking up and twiddling his eyeglass on his finger.
He glanced at Levi, who was listening intensely, and almost awfully, and, reading no sign in his face, he added, —
“However, I see no harm in making the note.”
So on went Mr. Dingwell, holding a pair of gold glasses over his nose.
“I can perfectly identify him as the Hon. Arthur Verney, having transacted business for him respecting an annuity which was paid him by his family; written letters for him when his hand was affected; and read his letters for him when he was ill, which latter letters, together with a voluminous correspondence found in his box, and now in my possession, I can identify also as having been in his.”
“I don’t see any need, my dear Mr. Dingwell, of your mentioning your having written any letters for him; it has, in fact, no bearing that I can recognise upon the case. I should, in fact, apprehend complicating the case. You might find it difficult to specify, and we to produce, the particular letters referred to; so I should simply say you read them to him, at his desire, before he despatched them for England; that is, of course, assuming that you did so.”
“Very good, sir; knock it out, and put that in; and I can prove that these letters, which can easily, I suppose, be identified by the writers of them in England, were in his possession, and that several of them I can recollect his having read to me on the day he received them. That’s pretty nearly what strikes me — eh?”
“Yes, sir — certainly, Mr. Dingwell — most important; but surely he had a servant; had he not, my dear sir? — an attendant of some sort? they’re to be had there for next to nothing, I think,” hesitated Mr. Larkin.
“Certainly — so there was — yes; but he started for Egypt in a boat full of tiles, or onions, or something, a day or two after the Hakim was buried, and I’m afraid they’ll find it rather hard to find him. I think he said Egypt, but I won’t swear.”
And Mr. Dingwell laughed, very much tickled, with intense sarcastic enjoyment; so much so that Mr. Larkin, though I have seldom before or since heard of his laughing, did suddenly laugh a short, explosive laugh, as he looked down on the table, and immediately looked very grave and sad, and pinked up to the very summit of his narrow bald head; and coughing a little, he said, —
“Thank you, Mr. Dingwell; this will suffice very nicely for an outline, and I can consult with our adviser as to its particular sufficiency — is not that your impression, Mr. Levi?”
“You lawyer chaps undusta-ans that line of business best; I know no more about it than watchmaking — only don’t shleep over it, for it’s costing us a da-a-am lot of money,” said Mr. Levi, rising with a long yawn and a stretch, and emphasising it with a dismal oath; and shutting his great glaring eyes and shaking his head, as if he were being victimised at a pace which no capital could long stand.
“Certainly, Mr. Levi,” said the attorney, “you quite take me with you there. We are all contributing, except, perhaps, our valued friend, Mr. Dingwell, our quota towards a very exhausting expense.”
“Da-a-md exhausting,” interposed Mr. Levi.
“Well, pray allow me my own superlative,” said the attorney, with religious grandeur. “I do say it is very exhausting; though we are all, I hope, cheerfully contributing — — “
“Curse you! to be sure you are,” said Mr. Dingwell, with an abrupt profanity that startled Mr. Larkin. “Because you all expect to make money by it; and I’m contributing my time, and trouble, and danger, egad! for precisely the same reason. And now, before you go — just a moment, if you please, as we are on the subject — who’s Chancellor of the Exchequer here?”
“Who advances the necessary funds?” interpreted Mr. Larkin, with his politest smile.
“Yes,” said the old man, with a sharp menacing nod. “Which of you two comes down, as you say, with the dust? Who pays the piper for this dance of yours, gentlemen? — the Christian or the Jew? I’ve a word for the gentleman who holds the purse — or, as we Christians would say, who carries the bag;” and he glanced from one to the other with a sniff, and another rather vicious wag of his head.
“I believe, sir, you may address us both as voluntary contributors towards a fund for carrying on, for the present, this business of the Honourable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, who will, of course, recoup us,” said Mr. Larkin, cautiously.
He used to say sometimes to his conducting man, with a smile, sly and holy, up at the yellow letters of one of the tin deed-boxes on his shelves at the Lodge, after an adroit conversation, “I think it will puzzle him, rather, to make an assumpsit out of that.”
“Well, you talk of allowing me — as you term it — four pounds a week. I’ll not take it,” said Mr. Dingwell.
“My hye! That’sh liberal, shir, uncommon ‘anshome, be Ga-a-ad!” exclaimed Mr. Levi, in a blessed mistake as to the nature of Mr. Dingwell’s objection.
“I know, gentlemen, this business can’t advance without me — to me it may be worth something; but you’ll make it worth a great deal more to yourselves, and whatever else you may find me, you’ll find me no fool; and I’ll not take one piastre less than five-and-twenty pounds a week.”
“Five-and-twenty pounsh!” howled Mr. Levi; and Mr. Larkin’s small pink eyes opened wide at the prodigious idea.
“You gentlemen fancy you’re to keep me here in this black-hole making your fortunes, and living on the wages of a clerk, egad! You shall do no such thing, I promise you; you shall pay me what I say. I’ll see the town, sir, and I’ll have a few guineas in my pocket, or I’ll know the reason why. I didn’t come ALL the way here for nothing — d — n you both!”
“Pray, sir, a moment,” pleaded Mr. Larkin.
“Pray, sir, as much as you like; but pay, also, if you please. Upon my life, you shall! Fortune owes me something, and egad! I’ll enjoy myself while I can.”
“Of course, sir; quite reasonable — so you should; but, my dear Mr. Dingwell, five-and-twenty pounds! — we can hardly be expected, my dear sir, to see our way.”
“‘Gad, sir! I see mine, and I’ll go it,” laughed Mr. Dingwell, with a most unpleasant glare in his eyes.
“On reflection, you will see, my dear Mr. Dingwell, the extreme inexpediency of anything in the least resembling a fraycas” (Mr. Larkin so pronounced his French) “in your particular case. I should certainly, my dear sir, recommend a most cautious line.”
“Cautious as the devil,” seconded Mr. Levi.
“You think I’m afraid of my liabilities,” croaked Mr. Dingwell, with a sudden flush across his forehead, and a spasm of his brows over his wild eyes, and then he laughed, and wagged his head.
“That’s right — quite right,” almost sighed Mr. Larkin— “do — do — pray do — just reflect for only a moment — and you’ll see it.”
“To be sure, I see it, and you shall see it, too. Egad! I know something, sir, at my years. I know how to deal with screws, and bullies, and schemers, sir — and that is by going straight at them — and I’ll tell you what, sir, if you don’t pay me the money I name, I’ll make you regret it.”
For a moment, Mr. Larkin, for one, did almost regret his share in this uncomfortable and highly “speculative” business. If this Mr. Dingwell chose to turn restive and extortionate, it would have been better it had never entered into his ingenious head, and he could already see in the Jew’s eyes the sulky and ferocious expression that seemed to forebode defeat.
“If you don’t treat me, as I say, with common fairness, I’ll go straight to young Mr. Verney myself, and put you out of the baby-house altogether.”
“What babby-houshe?” demanded Mr. Levi, glowering, and hanging the corners of his great halfopen mouth with a sullen ferocity.
“Your castle — in the air — your d — d plot, sir.”
“If you mean you’re going to turn stag,” began the Jew.
“There — do — pray, Mr. Levi — you — you mistake,” interposed Mr. Larkin, imploringly, who had heard
tales of this Mr. Dingwell’s mad temper.
“I say,” continued Levi, “if you’re going to split — — “
“Split, sir!” cried Mr. Dingwell, with a malignant frown, and drawing his mouth together into a puckered ring, as he looked askance at the Jew. “What the devil do you mean by split, sir? ‘Gad! sir, I’d split your black head for you, you little Jew miscreant!”
Mr. Larkin saw with a qualm that the sinews of that evil face were quivering with an insane fury, and that even under its sun-darkened skin it had turned pale, while the old man’s hand was instinctively extended towards the poker, of which he was thinking, and which was uncomfortably near.
“No, no, no — pray, gentlemen — I entreat — only think,” urged Mr. Larkin, seriously alarmed for the Queen’s peace and his own precious character, and for the personal safety of his capitalist and his witness.
Mr. Larkin confronted the Jew, with his great hands upon Mr. Levi’s shoulders, so as to prevent his advance; but that slender Hebrew, who was an accomplished sparrer, gave the godly attorney a jerk by the elbows which quite twirled him about, to his amazement and chagrin.
“‘Andsh off, old chap,” said the Jew, grimly, to Mr. Larkin, who had not endured such a liberty since he was at his cheap day-school, nearly forty years ago.
But Mr. Larkin interposed again, much alarmed, for behind him he thought he heard the clink of the fire-irons.
“He thinks he may say what he pleases,” cried the old man’s voice furiously, with a kind of choking laugh.
“No, sir — no, Mr. Dingwell — I assure you — do, Mr. Levi — how can you mind him?” he added in an undertone, as he stood between.
“I don’t mind him, Mr. Larkin: only I won’t let no one draw it that sort. I won’t stand a lick of a poker for no one; he shan’t come that over me” — and concurrently with this the shrill voice of Mr. Dingwell was yelling —
“Because I’m — because I’m — I’m — every d — d little whipper-snapper — because they think I’m down, the wretches, I’m to submit to their insults!”
“I don’t want to hurt him, Mr. Larkin; if I did, I’d give’m his tea in a mug this minute; but I don’t, I say — only he shan’t lift a poker to me.”
“No one, my dear sir, has touched a poker; no one, Mr. Levi, ever dreamed of such a thing. Pray, my dear sir, my dear Mr. Dingwell, don’t misconceive; we use slang phrases, now and then, without the least meaning or disrespect: it has become quite the tong. I assure you — it was only last week, at Nyworth Castle, where I had the honour to be received, Lady Mary Wrangham used the phrase yarn, for a long story.”
“D — n you, can’t you answer my question?” said Mr. Dingwell, more in his accustomed vein.
“Certainly, sir, we’ll reply to it. Do, Mr. Levi, do leave the room; your presence at this moment only leads to excitement.”
Levi, for a moment, pondered fiercely, and then nodded a sulky acquiescence.
“I shall overtake you in the court, Mr. Levi, if you can wait two or three minutes there.”
The Jew nodded over his shoulder, and was gone.
“Mr. Dingwell, sir, I can’t, I assure you. It’s not in my power; it is in the hands of quite other people, on whom, ultimately, of course, these expenses will fall, to sanction the outlay by way of weekly allowance, which you suggest. It is true I am a contributor, but not exactly in cash; only in money’s worth — advice, experience, and technical knowledge. But I will apply in the proper quarter, without delay. I wish, Mr. Dingwell, I were the party; you and I would not, I venture to think, be long in settling it between us.”
“No, to be sure, you’re all such liberal fellows — it’s always some one else that puts us under the screw,” laughed Mr. Dingwell, discordantly, with his face still flushed, and his hand trembling visibly, “you never have the stock yourselves — not you, — there’s always, Mr. Sheridan tells us, you know, in that capital play of his, a d —— d unconscionable fellow in the background, and in Shakspeare’s play, Shylock, you remember, he hasn’t the money himself, but Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of his tribe, will furnish him. Hey! I suppose they gave the immortal Shakspeare a squeeze in his day; he understood ‘em. But Shylock and Tubal are both dead and rotten long ago. It’s a comfort you can’t escape death, with all your cunning, d — n you.”
But Mr. Larkin spoke peaceably to Mr. Dingwell. The expense, up to a certain time, would, of course, fall upon Mr. Kiffyn Verney; after that, however, Mr. Larkin and the Jew firm would feel it. But be it how it might, they could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Dingwell; and Mr. Dingwell was a man of a flighty and furious temper.
* * *
CHAPTER X.
CLEVE VERNEY SEES THE CHATEAU DE CRESSERON.
I fancy that these estimates, on a rather large scale, moved by Mr. Dingwell, were agreed to, for sufficient reasons, by the parties interested in disputing them.
Mr. Dingwell kept very close during the daytime. He used to wander listlessly to and fro, between his bedroom and his drawingroom, with his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, and his feet in a pair of hard leather slippers, with curled-up toes and no heels, that clattered on the boards like sabots.
Miss Sarah Rumble fancied that her lodger was a little shy of the windows; when he looked out into the court, he stood back a yard or more from the windowsill.
Mr. Larkin, indeed, made no secret of Mr. Dingwell’s uncomfortable position, in his conferences with the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney. Mr. Dingwell had been a bankrupt, against whom many transactions to which the Court had applied forcible epithets, had been proved; to whom, in fact, that tribunal had refused quarter; and who had escaped from its fangs by a miracle. There were judgments, however, in force against him; there was a warrant procurable any day for his arrest; he was still “in contempt;” I believe he was an “outlaw;” and, in fact, there was all but a price set on his head. Thus, between him and his outcast acquaintance, the late Hon. Arthur Verney, had subsisted some strong points of sympathy, which had no doubt helped to draw them into that near intimacy which stood the Hon. Kiffyn, no less than Mr. Dingwell (to whose mill it was bringing very comfortable grist), so well in stead, at this moment.
It behoved Mr. Dingwell, therefore, to exercise caution. Many years had passed since he figured as a London trader. But time, the obliterator, in some cases works slowly; or rather, while the pleasant things of memory are sketched in with a pencil, the others are written in a bold, legible, round hand, as it were, with a broadnibbed steel pen, and the best durable japanned ink; on which Father Time works his India-rubber in vain, till his gouty old fingers ache, and you can fancy him whistling curses through his gums, and knocking his bald pate with his knuckles. Mr. Dingwell, on the way home, was, to his horror, half recognised by an ancient Cockney at Malta. Time, therefore, was not to be relied upon, though thirty years had passed; and Mr. Dingwell began to fear that a debtor is never forgotten, and that the man who is thoroughly dipt, like the lovely woman who stoops to folly, has but one way to escape consequences, and that is to die — a step which Mr. Dingwell did not care to take.
The meeting on the 15th, at the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney’s house, Mr. Dingwell was prevented by a cold from attending. But the note of his evidence sufficed, and the consultation, at which Mr. Larkin assisted, was quite satisfactory. The eminent parliamentary counsel who attended, and who made, that session, nearly fifty-thousand pounds, went to the heart of the matter direct; was reverentially listened to by his junior, by the parliamentary agent, by the serious Mr. Larkin, at whom he thrust sharp questions, in a peremptory and even fierce way, like a general in action, to whom minutes are everything; treated them once or twice to a recollection or short anecdote, which tended to show what a clever, sharp fellow the parliamentary counsel was, which, indeed, was true; and talked to no one quite from a level, except to one Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney, to whom he spoke confidentially in his ear, and who himself quickly grew into the same confidential relations.
“I’
m glad you take my view — Mr. — Mr. Forsythe — very happy about it, that we should be in accord. I’ve earned some confidence in my opinion, having found it more than once, I may say, come out right; and it gives me further confidence that you take my view,” said the Honourable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, grandly.
That eminent parliamentary counsel, Forsythe, was on his way to the door, when Mr. Verney interposed with this condescension.
“Oh! Ha! Do I? Very happy. What is it?” said Forsythe, smiling briskly, glancing at his watch and edging towards the door, all together.
“I mean the confident view — the cheerful — about it,” said the Hon. Mr. Verney, a little flushed, and laying his thin hand on his counsel’s arm.
“Certainly — confident, of course, smooth sailing, quite. I see no hitch at present.”
Mr. Forsythe was now, more decidedly, going. But he could not treat the Hon. Kiffyn Verney quite like an ordinary client, for he was before him occasionally in Committees of the House of Commons, and was likely soon to be so in others of the Lords, and therefore, chafing and smiling, he hesitated under the light pressure of the old gentleman’s stiff fingers.
“And you know the, I may say, absurd state of the law, about it — there was, you know, my unfortunate brother, Arthur — you are aware — civiliter mortuus, stopping the way, you know, for nearly twenty years, about it, ever since my poor father, Lord Verney, you know, expired, about it, and I’ve been, as you know, in the most painful position — absurd, you know.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 360
