Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  I don’t know that Lord Verney was on the whole a happier man than the Honourable Kiffyn had been. He had become somewhat more exacting; his pride pronounced itself more implacably; men felt it more, because he was really formidable. Whatever the Viscount in the box might be, the drag he drove was heavy, and men more alert in getting out of his way than they would, perhaps, had he been a better whip.

  He had at length his heart’s desire; but still there was something wanting. He was not quite where he ought to be. With his boroughs, and his command of one county, and potent influence in another, he ought to have been decidedly a greater man. He could not complain of being slighted. The minister saw him when he chose; he was listened to, and in all respects courteously endured. But there was something unsatisfactory. He was not telling, as he had expected. Perhaps he had no very clear conceptions to impress. He had misgivings, too, that secretly depressed and irritated him. He saw Twyndle’s eye wander wildly, and caught him yawning stealthily into his hand, while he was giving him his view of the affair of the “the Matilda Briggs,” and the right of search. He had seen Foljambe, of the Treasury, suddenly laugh at something he thought was particularly wise, while unfolding to that gentleman, in the drawingroom, after dinner, his ideas about local loans, in aid of agriculture. Foljambe did not laugh outright. It was only a tremulous qualm of a second, and he was solemn again, and rather abashed. Lord Verney paused, and looked for a second, with stern inquiry in his face, and then proceeded politely. But Lord Verney never thought or spoke well of Foljambe again; and often reviewed what he had said, in secret, to try and make out where the absurdity lay, and was shy of ventilating that particular plan again, and sometimes suspected that it was the boroughs and the county, and not Kiffyn Lord Verney, that were listened to.

  As the organ of self-esteem is the region of our chief consolations and irritations (and its condition regulates temper), this undivulged mortification, you may be sure, did not make Lord Verney, into whose ruminations was ever trickling, through a secret duct, this fine stream of distilled gall, brighter in spirits, or happier in temper.

  Oh! vanity of human wishes! Not that the things we wish for are not in themselves pleasant, but that we forget that, as in nature every substance has its peculiar animalcule and infestings, so every blessing has, too minute to be seen at a distance, but quite inseparable, its parasite troubles.

  Cleve Verney, too, who stood so near the throne, was he happy? The shadow of care was cast upon him. He had grown an anxious man. “Verney’s looking awfully thin, don’t you think, and seedy? and he’s always writing long letters, and rather cross,” was the criticism of one of his club friends. “Been going a little too fast, I dare say.”

  Honest Tom Sedley thought it was this pending peerage business, and the suspense; and reported to his friend the confident talk of the town on the subject. But when the question was settled, with a brilliant facility, his good humour did not recover. There was still the same cloud over his friend, and Tom began to fear that Cleve had got into some very bad scrape, probably with the Hebrew community.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV.

  MR. CLEVE VERNEY PAYS A VISIT TO ROSEMARY COURT.

  That evoked spirit, Dingwell, was now functus officio, and might be dismissed. He was as much afraid of the light of London — even the gaslight — as a man of his audacity could be of anything. Still he lingered there.

  Mr. Larkin had repeatedly congratulated the Verney peer, and his young friend and patron, Cleve, upon his own masterly management, and the happy result of the case, as he called it. And although, with scriptural warning before him, he would be the last man in the world to say, “Is not this great Babylon that I have builded?” Yet he did wish Lord Viscount Verney, and Cleve Verney, M.P., distinctly to understand that he, Mr. Larkin, had been the making of them. There were some things — very many things, in fact, all desirable — which those distinguished persons could effect for the good attorney of Glyngden, and that excellent person in consequence presented himself diligently at Verney House.

  On the morning I now speak of, he was introduced to the library, where he found the peer and his nephew.

  “I ventured to call, my lord — how do you do, Mr. Verney? — to invite your lordship’s attention to the position of Mr. Dingwell, who is compelled by lack of funds to prolong his stay in London. He is, I may say, most anxious to take his departure quietly and expeditiously, for Constantinople, where, I venture to think, it is expedient for all parties, that his residence should be fixed, rather than in London, where he is in hourly danger of detection and arrest, the consequence of which, my lord; — it will probably have struck your lordship’s rapid apprehension already, — would be, I venture to think, a very painful investigation of his past life, and a concomitant discrediting of his character, which although, as your lordship would point out to me, it cannot disturb that which is already settled, would yet produce an unpleasant effect out of doors, which, it is to be feared, he would take care to aggravate by all means in his power, were he to refer his detention here, and consequent arrest, to any fancied economy on your lordship’s part.”

  “I don’t quite follow you about it, Mr. Larkin,” said Lord Verney, who generally looked a little stern when he was puzzled. “I don’t quite apprehend the drift — be good enough to sit down — about it — of your remarks, as they bear upon Mr. Dingwell’s wishes, and my conduct. Do you, Cleve?”

  “I conjecture that Dingwell wants more money, and can’t be got out of London without it,” said Cleve.

  “Eh? Well, that did occur to me; of course, that’s plain enough — about it — and what a man that must be! and — God bless me! about it — all the money he has got from me! It’s incredible, Mr. — a — Larkin, three hundred pounds, you know, and he wanted five, and that absurdly enormous weekly payment besides!”

  “Your lordship has exactly, as usual, touched the point, and anticipated, with your wonted accuracy, the line at the other side; and indeed, I may also say, all that may be urged by way of argument, pro and con. It is a wonderful faculty!” added Mr. Larkin, looking down with a contemplative smile, and a little wondering shake of the head.

  “Ha, ha! Something of the same sort has been remarked in our family about it,” said the Viscount, much pleased. “It facilitates business, rather, I should hope — about it.”

  The attorney shook his head, reflectively, raising his hands, and said, “No one but a professional man can have an idea!”

  “And what do you suggest?” asked Cleve, who was perhaps a little tired of the attorney’s compliments.

  “Yes, what do you suggest, Mr. — Mr. Larkin? Your suggestion I should be prepared to consider. Anything, Mr. Larkin, suggested by you shall be considered,” said Lord Verney grandly, leaning back in his chair, and folding his hands.

  “I am much — very much — flattered by your lordship’s confidence. The former money, I have reason to think, my lord, went to satisfy an old debt, and I have reason to know that his den has been discovered by another creditor, from whom, even were funds at his disposal to leave England tonight, escape would be difficult, if not impossible.”

  “How much money does he want?” asked Mr. Cleve Verney.

  “A moment, a moment, please. I was going to say,” said Lord Verney, “if he wants money — about it — it would be desirable to state the amount.”

  Mr. Larkin, thus called on, cleared his voice, and his dovelike eyes contracted, and assumed their rat-like look, and he said, watching Lord Verney’s face, —

  “I am afraid, my lord, that less than three hundred — — “

  Lord Verney contracted his brows, and nodded, after a moment.

  “Three hundred pounds. Less, I say, my lord, will not satisfy the creditor, and there will remain something still in order to bring him back, and to keep him quiet there for a time; and I think, my lord, if you will go the length of five hundred — — “

  “‘Gad, it’s growing quite serious, Mr. — Mr. S
ir, I confess I don’t half understand this person, Mr. Ding — Dong — whatever it is — it’s going rather too fast about it. I — I — and that’s my clear opinion— “ and Lord Verney gazed and blinked sternly at the attorney, and patted his fragrant pockethandkerchief several times to his chin— “very unreasonable and monstrous, and, considering all I’ve done, very ungrateful.”

  “Quite so, my lord; monstrously ungrateful. I can’t describe to your lordship the trouble I have had with that extraordinary and, I fear I must add, fiendish person. I allude, of course, my lord, in my privileged character as having the honour of confidential relations with your lordship, to that unfortunate man, Dingwell. I assure you, on one occasion, he seized a poker in his lodgings, and threatened to dash my brains out.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Lord Verney, whose mind was busy upon quite another point; “and suppose I do, what do we gain, I ask, by assisting him?”

  “Simply, my lord, he is so incredibly reckless, and, as I have said, fiendish, that if he were disappointed, I do think he will stick at nothing, even to the length of swearing that his evidence for your lordship was perjured, for the purpose of being revenged, and your generosity to him pending the inquiry, or rather the preparation of proofs, would give a colour unfortunately even to that monstrous allegation. Your lordship can have no idea — the elevation of your own mind prevents it — of the desperate character with whom we have had to deal.”

  “Upon my life, sir, a pleasant position you seem to have brought me into,” said Lord Verney, flushing a good deal.

  “My lord, it was inevitable,” said Mr. Larkin, sadly.

  “I don’t think he could have helped it, really,” said Cleve Verney.

  “And who says he could?” asked Lord Verney, tartly. “I’ve all along said it could not well be helped, and that’s the reason I did it, don’t you see? but I may be allowed to say, I suppose, that the position is a most untoward one; and so it is, egad!” and Lord Verney got up in his fidget, and walked over to the window, and to the chimneypiece, and to the table, and fiddled with a great many things.

  “I remember my late brother, Shadwell Verney — he’s dead, poor Shadwell — had a world of trouble with a fellow — about it — who used to extort money from him — something I suppose — like this Mr. Ringwood — or I mean — you know his name — till he called in the police, and put an end to it.”

  “Quite true, my lord, quite true; but don’t you think, my lord, such a line with Mr. Dingwell might lead to a fraycas, and the possible unpleasantness to which I ventured to allude? You have seen him, Mr. Verney?”

  “Yes; he’s a beast, he really is; a little bit mad, I almost think.”

  “A little bit mad, precisely so; it really is, my lord, most melancholy. And I am so clearly of opinion that if we quarrel definitively with Mr. Dingwell, we may find ourselves in an extremely difficult position, that were the case my own, I should have no hesitation in satisfying Mr. Dingwell, even at a sacrifice, rather than incur the annoyance I anticipate. If you allow me, my lord, to conduct the matter with Mr. Dingwell, I think I shall succeed in getting him away quietly.”

  “It seems to me a very serious sum, Mr. Larkin,” said Lord Verney.

  “Precisely so, my lord; serious — very serious; but your lordship made a remark once in my hearing which impressed me powerfully: it was to the effect that where an object is to be accomplished, it is better to expend a little too much power, than anything too little.” I think that Mr. Larkin invented this remark of Lord Verney’s, which, however, his lordship was pleased to recognise, notwithstanding.

  So the attorney took his departure, to call again next day.

  “Clever man that Mr. — Mr. Larkin — vastly clever,” said Lord Verney. “I rather think there’s a great deal in what he says — it’s very disgusting — about it; but one must consider, you know — there’s no harm in considering — and — and that Mr. — Dong — Dingleton, isn’t it? — about it — a most offensive person. I must consider — I shall think it over, and give him my ideas tomorrow.”

  Cleve did not like an expression which had struck him in the attorney’s face that day, and he proposed next day to write to Mr. Dingwell, and actually did so, requesting that he would be so good as to call at Verney House.

  Mr. Dingwell did not come; but a note came by post, saying that the writer, Mr. Dingwell, was not well enough to venture a call.

  What I term Mr. Larkin’s rat-like eyes, and a certain dark and even wicked look that crosses the attorney’s face, when they appear, had left a profound sense of uncertainty in Cleve’s mind respecting that gentleman’s character and plans. It was simply a conviction that the attorney meditated something odd about Mr. Dingwell, and that no good man could look as he had looked.

  There was no use in opening his suspicion, grounded on so slight a thing as a look, to his uncle, who, though often timid and hesitating, and in secret helpless, and at his wits’ end for aid in arriving at a decision, was yet, in a matter where vanity was concerned, or a strong prejudice or caprice involved, often incredibly obstinate.

  Mr. Larkin’s look teased Cleve. Larkin might grow into an influence very important to that young gentleman, and was not lightly to be quarrelled with. He would not quarrel with him; but he would see Dingwell, if indeed that person were still in London; a fact about which he had begun to have some odd misgivings. The note was written in a straight, cramp hand, and Mr. Larkin’s face was in the background always. He knew Mr. Dingwell’s address; an answer, real or forged, had reached him from it. So, full of dark dreams and conjectures, he got into a cab, and drove to the entrance of Rosemary Court, and knocked at Miss Sarah Rumble’s door.

  That good lady, from the shadow, looked suspiciously on him.

  “Is Mr. Dingwell at home?”

  “Mr. Dingwell, sir?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Is he at home?”

  “Mr. Dingwell, sir? No sir.”

  “Does not Mr. Dingwell live here?”

  “There was a gentleman, please, sir, with a name like that. Go back, child,” she said, sharply to Lucy Maria, who was peeping in the background, and who might not be edified, perhaps, by the dialogue. “Beg parding, sir,” she continued, as the child disappeared; “they are so tiresome! There was an old gentleman lodging here, sir, please, which his name was like that I do remember.”

  Cleve Verney did not know what to think.

  “Is there anyone in the house who knows Mr. Dingwell? I’ve come to be of use to him; perhaps he could see me. Will you say Mr. Verney?”

  “Mr. — what, sir, please?”

  “Verney — here’s my card; perhaps it is better.”

  As the conversation continued, Miss Rumble had gradually come more and more forward, closing the door more and more as she did so, so that she now confronted Cleve upon the step, and could have shut the door at her back, had he made any attempt to get in; and she called over her shoulder to Lucy Maria, and whispered something, and gave her, I suppose, the card; and in a minute more Miss Rumble opened the door wide, and showed “the gentleman” upstairs, and told him on the lobby she hoped he would not be offended, but that she had such positive orders as to leave her no choice; and that in fact Mr. Dingwell was in the drawingroom, and would be happy to see him, and almost at the same moment she threw open the door and introduced him, with a little courtesy, and —

  “This way, please, sir; here’s the gentleman, please, sir.”

  There he did find Mr. Dingwell, smoking a cigar, in his fez, slippers, and pea-green silk dressing-gown, with a cup of black coffee on the little table beside him, his Times and a few magazines there also. He looked, in vulgar parlance, “seedy,” like an old fellow who had been raking the night before, and was wofully tired, and in no very genial temper.

  “Will you excuse an old fellow, Mr. Verney, and take a chair for yourself? I’m not very well to-day. I suppose, from your note, you thought I had quitted London. It was not to be expected so old a plant should
take root; but it’s sometimes not worth moving ‘em again, and they remain where they are, to wither, ha, ha, ha!”

  “I should be sorry it was for any such purpose; but I am happy to find you still here, for I was really anxious to call and thank you.”

  “Anxious — to thank me! Are you really serious, Mr. Verney?” said Dingwell, lowering his cigar again, and looking with a stern smile in his visitor’s face.

  “Yes, sir; I did wish to call and tell you,” said Cleve, determined not to grow angry; “and I am here to say that we are very much obliged.”

  “We?”

  “Yes; my uncle and I.”

  “Oh, yes; well, it is something. I hope the coronet becomes him, and his robes. I venture to say he has got up the masquerading properties already; it’s a pity there isn’t a coronation or something at hand; and I suppose he’ll put up a monument to my dear friend Arthur — a mangy old dog he was, you’ll allow me to say, though he was my friend, and very kind to me; and I, the most grateful fellow he ever met; I’ve been more grieved about him than any other person I can remember, upon my soul and honour — and a devilish dirty dog he was.”

  This last reflection was delivered in a melancholy aside, after the manner of a soliloquy, and Cleve did not exactly know how to take this old fellow’s impertinence.

  “Arthur Verney — poor fellow! your uncle. He had a great deal of the pride of his family, you know, along with utter degradation. Filthy dog! — pah!” And Mr. Dingwell lifted both his hands, and actually used that unpleasant utensil called a “spittoon,” which is seen in taverns, to give expression, it seemed, to his disgust.