“Thanks — I’ll wait;” and then to the driver he said— “I shan’t stay five minutes; mind, you’re ready to start with me the moment I return.”
Now the hall-door opened. The Rev. Isaac Dixie — for his dress was a compromise between modesty and extreme haste, and necessarily very imperfect — stood in greater part behind the hall-door; a bedroom candlestick in his fingers, smiling blandly on his “distinguished pupil,” who entered without a smile, without a greeting — merely saying: —
“Where shall we sit down for a minute, old Dixie?”
Holding his hand with the candle in it across, so as to keep his flowing dressing-gown together; and with much wonder and some misgivings, yet contriving his usual rosy smile, he conducted his unexpected visitor into his “study.”
“I’ve so many apologies to offer, my very honoured and dear friend; this is so miserable, and I fear you are cold. We must get something; we must, really, manage something — some little refreshment.”
Dixie placed the candle on the chimneypiece, and looked inquiringly on Cleve.
“There’s some sherry, I know, and I think there’s some brandy.”
“There’s no one up and about?” inquired Cleve.
“Not a creature,” said the Rector; “no one can hear a word, and these are good thick walls.”
“I’ve only a minute; I know you’d like to be a bishop, Dixie?”
Cleve, with his muffler and his hat still on, was addressing the future prelate, with his elbow on the chimneypiece.
“Nolo episcopari, of course, but we know you would, and there’s no time now for pretty speeches. Now, listen, you shall be that, and you shall reach it by two steps — the two best livings in our gift. I always keep my word; and when I set my heart on a thing I bring it about, and so sure as I do any good, I’ll bend all my interest to that one object.”
The Rev. Isaac Dixie stared hard at him, for Cleve looked strangely, and spoke as sternly as a villain demanding his purse. The Rector of Clay looked horribly perplexed. His countenance seemed to ask, “Does he mean to give me a mitre or to take my life, or is he quite right in his head?”
“You think I don’t mean what I say, or that I’m talking nonsense, or that I’m mad. I’m not mad, it’s no nonsense, and no man was ever more resolved to do what he says.” And Cleve who was not given to swearing, did swear a fierce oath. “But all this is not for nothing; there’s a condition; you must do me a service. It won’t cost you much — less trouble, almost, than you’ve taken for me tonight, but you must do it.”
“And may I, my dear and valued pupil, may I ask?” began the rev. gentleman.
“No, you need not ask, for I’ll tell you. It’s the same sort of service you did for me in France,” said Cleve.
“Ah! ah!” ejaculated the clergyman, very uneasily. “For no one but you, my dear and admirable pupil, could I have brought myself to take that step, and I trust that you will on reconsideration — — “
“You must do what I say,” said Cleve, looking and speaking with the same unconscious sternness, which frightened the Rector more than any amount of bluster. “I hardly suppose you want to break with me finally, and you don’t quite know all the consequences of that step, I fancy.”
“Break with you? my admirable patron! desert my dear and brilliant pupil in an emergency? Certainly not. Reckon upon me, my dear Mr. Verney, whenever you need my poor services, to the uttermost. To you all my loyalty is due, but unless you made a very special point of it, I should hesitate for any other person living, but yourself, to incur a second time — — “
“Don’t you think my dear, d — d old friend, I understand the length, and breadth, and depth, of your friendship; I know how strong it is, and I’ll make it stronger. It is for me — yes, in my own case you must repeat the service, as you call it, which you once did me, in another country.”
The Rev. Isaac Dixie’s rosy cheeks mottled all over blue and yellow; he withdrew his hand from his dressing-gown, with an unaffected gesture of fear; and he fixed a terrified gaze upon Cleve Verney’s eyes, which did not flinch, but encountered his, darkly and fixedly, with a desperate resolution.
“Why, you look as much frightened as if I asked you to commit a crime; you marvellous old fool, you hardly think me mad enough for that?”
“I hardly know, Mr. Verney, what I think,” said Dixie, looking with a horrible helplessness into his face.
“Good God! sir; it can’t be anything wrong?”
“Come, come, sir; you’re more than half asleep. Do you dare to think I’d commit myself to any man, by such an idiotic proposal? No one but a lunatic could think of blasting himself, as you — but you can’t suppose it. Do listen, and understand if you can; my wife, to whom you married me, is dead, six months ago she died; I tell you she’s dead.”
“Dear me! I’m very much pained, and I will say shocked; the deceased lady, I should not, my dear pupil, have alluded to, of course; but need I say, I never heard of that affliction?”
“How on earth could you? You don’t suppose, knowing all you do, I’d put it in the papers among the deaths?”
“No, dear me, of course,” said the Rev. Isaac Dixie, hastily bringing his dressing-gown again together. “No, certainly.”
“I don’t think that sort of publication would answer you or me. You forget it is two years ago and more, a good deal more. I don’t though, and whatever you may, I don’t want my uncle to know anything about it.”
“But, you know, I only meant, you hadn’t told me; my dear Mr. Verney, my honoured pupil, you will see — don’t you perceive how much is involved; but this — couldn’t you put this upon some one else? Do — do think.”
“No, in no one’s power, but yours, Dixie;” and Cleve took his hand, looking in his face, and wrung it so hard that the rev. gentleman almost winced under the pressure, of administering which I dare say Cleve was quite unconscious. “No one but you.”
“The poor — the respected lady — being deceased, of course you’ll give me a note to that effect under your hand; you’ll have no objection, in this case, to my taking out a special licence?”
“Special devil! are you mad? Why, anyone could do it with that. No, it’s just because it is a little irregular, nothing more, and exacts implicit mutual confidence, that I have chosen you for it.”
Dixie looked as if the compliment was not an unmixed pleasure.
“I still think, that — that having performed the other, there is some awkwardness, and the penalties are awful,” said he with increasing uneasiness, “and it does strike me, that if my dear Mr. Verney could place his hand upon some other humble friend, in this particular case, the advantages would be obvious.”
“Come, Dixie,” said Cleve, “I’m going; you must say yes or no, and so decide whether you have seen the last of me; I can’t spend the night giving you my reasons, but they are conclusive. If you act like a man of sense, it’s the last service I shall ever require at your hands, and I’ll reward you splendidly; if you don’t, I not only cease to be your friend, but I become your enemy. I can strike when I like it — you know that; and upon my soul I’ll smash you. I shall see my uncle tomorrow morning at Ware, and I’ll tell him distinctly the entire of that French transaction.”
“But — but pray, my dear Mr. Verney, do say, did I refuse — do I object? you may command me, of course. I have incurred I may say a risk for you already, a risk in form.”
“Exactly, in form; and you don’t increase it by this kindness, and you secure my eternal gratitude. Now you speak like a man of sense. You must be in Cardyllian tomorrow evening. It is possible I may ask nothing of you; if I do, the utmost is a technical irregularity, and secrecy, which we are both equally interested in observing. You shall stay a week in Cardyllian mind, and I, of course, frank you there and back, and while you remain — it’s my business. It has a political aspect, as I shall explain to you by-and-bye, and so soon as I shall have brought my uncle round, and can avow it, it will lead the wa
y rapidly to your fortune. Shall I see you in Cardyllian tomorrow evening?”
“Agreed, sir! — agreed, my dear Mr. Verney. I shall be there, my dear and valued pupil — yes.”
“Go to the Verney Arms; I shall probably be looking out for you there; at all events I shall see you before night.”
Verney looked at his watch, and repeated “I shall see you tomorrow;” and without taking leave, or hearing as it seemed the Rev. Isaac Dixie’s farewell compliments and benedictions, he walked out in gloomy haste, as if the conference was not closed, but only suspended by the approaching parenthesis of a night and a day.
From the hall-table the obsequious divine took the key of the little gate, to which, in slippers and dressing-gown, he stepped blandly forth, and having let out his despotic pupil, and waved his adieu, as the chaise drove away, he returned, and locked up his premises and house, with a great load at his heart.
* * *
CHAPTER XVI.
AN ALARM.
Cleve reached the station, eight miles away from the dismal swamp I have described, in time to catch the mail train. From Llwynan he did not go direct to Ware, but drove instead to Cardyllian, and put up at the Verney Arms early next morning.
By ten o’clock he was seen, sauntering about the streets, talking with old friends, and popping into the shops and listening to the gossip of the town. Cleve had a sort of friendliness that answered all electioneering purposes perfectly, and that was the measure of its value.
Who should he light upon in Castle Street but Tom Sedley! They must have arrived by the same train at Llwynan. The sight of Tom jarred intensely upon Cleve Verney’s nerves. There was something so strange in his looks and manner that Sedley thought him ill. He stopped for a while to talk with him at the corner of Church Street, but seemed so obviously disposed to escape from him, that Sedley did not press his society, but acquiesced with some disgust and wonder in their new relations.
Tom Sedley had been with Wynne Williams about poor Vane Etherage’s affairs. Honest Wynne Williams was in no mood to flatter Lord Verney, the management of whose affairs he had, he said, “resigned.” The fact was that he had been, little by little, so uncomfortably superseded in his functions by our good friend Jos. Larkin, and the fashion of Lord Verney’s countenance was so manifestly changed, that honest Wynne Williams felt that he might as well do a proud thing, and resign, as wait a little longer for the inevitable humiliation of dismissal.
“I’m afraid my friend the admiral is in bad hands; worse hands than Larkin’s he could hardly have fallen into. I could tell you things of that fellow, if we had time — of course strictly between ourselves, you know — that would open your eyes. And as to his lordship — well, I suppose most people know something of Lord Verney. I owe him nothing, you know; it’s all ended between us, and I wash my hands of him and his concerns. You may talk to him, if you like; but you’ll find you might as well argue with the tide in the estuary there. I’d be devilish glad if I could be of any use; but you see how it is; and to tell you the truth, I’m afraid it must come to a regular smash, unless Lord Verney drops that nasty litigation. There are some charges, you know, upon the property already; and with that litigation hanging over it, I don’t see how he’s to get money to pay those calls. It’s a bad business, I’m afraid, and an awful pity. Poor old fellow! — a little bit rough, but devilish good-hearted.”
Tom Sedley went up to Hazelden. The Etherage girls knew he was coming, and were watching for him at the top of the steep walk.
“I’ve been talking, as I said I would, to Wynne Williams this morning,” he said, after greetings and inquiries made and answered, “and he had not anything important to advise; but he has promised to think over the whole matter.”
“And Wynne Williams is known to be the cleverest lawyer in the world,” exclaimed Miss Charity, exulting. “I was afraid, on account of his having been so lately Lord Verney’s adviser, that he would not have been willing to consult with you. And will he use his influence, which must be very great, with Lord Verney?”
“He has none; and he thinks it would be quite useless my talking to him.”
“Oh! Is it possible? Well, if he said that, I never heard such nonsense in the course of my life. I think old Lord Verney was one of the very nicest men I ever spoke to in the course of my life; and I’m certain it is all that horrid Mr. Larkin, and a great mistake; for Lord Verney is quite a gentleman, and would not do anything so despicable as to worry and injure papa by this horrid business, if only you would make him understand it; and I do think, Thomas Sedley, you might take that trouble for papa.”
“I’ll go over to Ware, and try to see Lord Verney, if you think my doing so can be of the least use,” said Tom, who knew the vanity of arguing with Miss Charity.
“Oh, do,” said pretty Agnes, and that entreaty was, of course, a command; so without going up to see old Etherage, who was very much broken and ill, his daughters said; and hoping possibly to have some cheering news on his return, Tom Sedley took his leave for the present, and from the pier of Cardyllian crossed in a boat to Ware.
On the spacious steps of that palatial mansion, as Mr. Larkin used to term it, stood Lord Verney, looking grandly seaward, with compressed eyes, like a near-sighted gentleman as he was.
“Oh! is she all right?” said Lord Verney.
“I — I don’t know, Lord Verney,” replied Tom Sedley. “I came to” —
“Oh — aw — Mr. — Mr. — how d’ye do, sir,” said Lord Verney, with marked frigidity, not this time giving him the accustomed finger.
“I came, Lord Verney, hoping you might possibly give me five minutes, and a very few words, about that unfortunate business of poor Mr. Vane Etherage.”
“I’m unfortunately just going out in a boat — about it; and I can’t just now afford time, Mr. — a — Mr.” —
“Sedley is my name,” suggested Sedley, who knew that Lord Verney remembered him perfectly.
“Sedley — Mr. Sedley; yes. As I mentioned, I’m going in a boat. I’m sorry I can’t possibly oblige you; and it is very natural you, who are so intimate, I believe, with Mr. Etherage, should take that side of the question — about it; but I’ve no reason to call those proceedings unfortunate; and — and I don’t anticipate — and, in fact, people usually look after their own concerns — about it.” Lord Verney, standing on the steps, was looking over Sedley’s head, as he spoke, at the estuary and the shipping there.
“I’m sure, Lord Verney, if you knew how utterly ruinous, how really deplorable, the consequences of pursuing this thing — I mean the lawsuit against him — may be — I am sure — you would stop it all.”
Honest Tom spoke in the belief that in the hesitation that had marked the close of the noble lord’s remarks there was a faltering of purpose, whereas there was simply a failure of ideas.
“I can’t help your forming opinions, sir, though I have not invited their expression upon my concerns and — and affairs. If you have anything to communicate about those proceedings, you had better see Mr. Larkin, my attorney; he’s the proper person. Mr. Etherage has taken a line in the county to wound and injure me, as, of course, he has a perfect right to do; he has taken that line, and I don’t see any reason why I should not have what I’m entitled to. There’s the principle of government by party, you’re aware; and we’re not to ask favours of those we seek to wound and injure — about it; and that’s my view, and idea, and fixed opinion. I must wish you good morning, Mr. Sedley. I’m going down to my boat, and I decline distinctly any conversation upon the subject of my law business; I decline it distinctly, Mr. Sedley — about it,” repeated the peer peremptorily; and as he looked a good deal incensed, Tom Sedley wisely concluded it was time to retire; and so his embassage came to an end.
Lord Verney crossed the estuary in his yacht, consulting his watch from time to time, and reconnoitering the green and pier of Cardyllian through his telescope with considerable interest. A little group was assembled near the stair, among whose
figures he saw Lady Wimbledon. “Why is not Caroline there?” he kept asking himself, and all the time searching that little platform for the absent idol of his heart.
Let us deal mercifully with this antiquated romance; and if Miss Caroline Oldys forebore to say, “Go up, thou baldhead,” let us also spare the amorous incongruity. Does any young man love with the self-abandonment of an old one? Is any romance so romantic as the romance of an old man? When Sancho looked over his shoulder, and saw his master in his shirt, cutting capers and tumbling head-over-heels, and tearing his hair in his love-madness, that wise governor and man of proverbs forgot the grotesqueness of the exhibition in his awe of that vehement adoration. So let us. When does this noble frenzy exhibit itself in such maudlin transports, and with a self-sacrifice so idolatrously suicidal, as in the old? Seeing, then, that the spirit is so prodigiously willing, let us bear with the spectacle of their infirmities, and when one of these sighing, magnanimous, wrinkled Philanders goes by, let us not hiss, but rather say kindly, “Vive la bagatelle!” or, as we say in Ireland, “More power!”
He was disappointed. Miss Caroline Oldys had a very bad headache, Lady Wimbledon said, and was in her room, in care of her maid, so miserable at losing the charming sail to Malory.
Well, the lover was sorely disappointed, as we have said; but there was nothing for it but submission, and to comfort himself with the assurances of Lady Wimbledon that Caroline’s headaches never lasted long, and that she was always better for a long time, when they were over. This latter piece of information seemed to puzzle Lord Verney.
“Miss Oldys is always better after an attack than before it,” said Cleve, interpreting for his uncle.
“Why, of course. That’s what Lady Wimbledon means, as I understand it,” said Lord Verney, a little impatiently. “It’s very sad; you must tell me all about it; but we may hope to find her, you say, quite recovered when we return?”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 383
