Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  “That, sir, would be a very impertinent conclusion.”

  “Quite so, my lord, and render him proportionably impracticable. Now, I’ll undertake to bring him to reason.” The attorney was speaking very low and sternly, with contracted eyes and a darkened face. “He has been married to the lady who lives in the house adjoining, under the name of Mrs. Mervyn, and to my certain knowledge inquiries have been set in motion to ascertain whether there has not been issue of that marriage.”

  “You may set your mind perfectly at rest with regard to that marriage, Mr. Larkin; the whole thing was thoroughly sifted — and things — my father undertook it, the late Lord Verney, about it; and so it went on, and was quite examined, and it turned out the poor woman had been miserably deceived by a mock ceremony, and this mock thing was the whole thing, and there’s nothing more; the evidence was very deplorable, and — and quite satisfactory.”

  “Oh! that’s a great weight off my mind,” said Larkin, trying to smile, and looking very much disappointed, “a great weight, my lord.”

  “I knew it would — yes,” acquiesced Lord Verney.

  “And simplifies our dealings with the other side; for if there had been a good marriage, and concealed issue male of that marriage, they would have used that circumstance to extort money.”

  “Well, I don’t see how they could, though; for if there had been a child, about it — he’d have been heir apparent, don’t you see? to the title.”

  “Oh! — a — yes — certainly, that’s very true, my lord; but then there’s none, so that’s at rest.”

  “I’ve just heard,” interposed Lord Verney, “I may observe, that the poor old lady, Mrs. Mervyn, is suddenly and dangerously ill.”

  “Oh! is she?” said Mr. Larkin very uneasily, for she was, if not his queen, at least a very valuable pawn upon his chess-board.

  “Yes; the doctor thinks she’s actually dying, poor old soul!”

  “What a world! What is life? What is man?” murmured the attorney with a devout feeling of the profoundest vexation. “It was for this most melancholy character,” he continued; “you’ll pardon me, my lord, for so designating a relative of your lordship’s — the Honourable Arthur Verney, who has so fraudulently, I will say, presented himself again as a living claimant. Your lordship is aware of course — I shall be going up to town possibly by the mail train tonight — that the law, if it were permitted to act, would remove that obstacle under the old sentence of the Court.”

  “Good God! sir, you can’t possibly mean that I should have my brother caught and executed?” exclaimed Lord Verney, turning quite white.

  “Quite the reverse, my lord. I’m — I’m unspeakably shocked that I should have so misconveyed myself,” said Larkin, his tall bald head tinged to its top with an ingenuous blush. “Oh no, my lord, I understand the Verney feeling too well, thank God, to suppose anything, I will say, so entirely objectionable. I said, my lord, if it were permitted, that is, allowed by simple non-interference — your lordship sees — and it is precisely because non-interference must bring about that catastrophe — for I must not conceal from your lordship the fact that there is a great deal of unpleasant talk in the town of Cardyllian already — that I purpose running up to town tonight. There is a Jew firm, your lordship is aware, who have a very heavy judgment against him, and the persons of that persuasion are so interlaced, as I may say, in matters of business, that I should apprehend a communication to them from Goldshed and Levi, who, by-the-by, to my certain knowledge — what a world it is! — have a person here actually watching Mr. Dingwell, or in other words, the unhappy but Honourable Arthur Verney, in their interest.” (This was in effect true, but the name of this person, which he did not care to disclose, was Josiah Larkin.) “If I were on the spot, I think I know a way effectually to stop all action of that sort.”

  “You think they’d arrest him, about it?” said Lord Verney.

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  “It is very much to be deprecated,” said Lord Verney.

  “And, my lord, if you will agree to place the matter quite in my hands, and peremptorily to decline on all future occasions, conceding a personal interview, I’ll stake my professional character, I effect a satisfactory compromise.”

  “I — I don’t know — I don’t see a compromise — there’s nothing that I see, to settle,” said Lord Verney.

  “Every thing, my lord. Pardon me — your lordship mentioned that, in point of fact, you are no longer Lord Verney; that being so — technically, of course — measures must be taken — in short, a — a quiet arrangement with your lordship’s brother, to prevent any disturbance, and I undertake to effect it, my lord; the nature of which will be to prevent the return of the title to abeyance, and of the estates to the management of the trustees, whose claim for mesne rates and the liquidation of the mortgage, I need not tell your lordship, would be ruinous to you.”

  “Why, sir — Mr. Larkin — I can hardly believe, sir — you can’t mean, or think it possible, sir, that I should lend myself to a deception, and — and sit in the House of Peers by a fraud, sir! I’d much rather die in the debtor’s prison, about it; and I consider myself dishonoured by having involuntarily heard such an — an idea.”

  Poor, pompous, foolish Lord Verney stood up, so dignified and stern in the light of his honest horror, that Mr. Larkin, who despised him utterly, quailed before a phenomenon he could not understand.

  Nothing confounded our friend Larkin, as a religious man, so much as discovering, after he had a little unmasked, that his client would not follow, and left him, as once or twice had happened, alone with his dead villanous suggestion, to account for it how he could.

  “Oh dear! — surely, my lord, your lordship did not imagine,” said Mr. Larkin, doing his best, “I was — I, in fact — I supposed a case. I only went the length of saying that I think — and with sorrow I think it — that your lordship’s brother has in view an adjustment of his claim, and meant to extract, I fear, a sum of money when he disclosed himself, and conferred with your lordship. I meant, merely, of course, that as he thought this I would let him think it, and allow him to disclose his plans, with a view, of course, to deal with that information — first, of course, with a view to your lordship’s honour, and next your lordship’s safety; but if your lordship did not see your way clearly to it” ——

  “No, I don’t see — I think it most objectionable — about it. I know all that concerns me; and I have written to two official persons — one, I may say, the Minister himself — apprizing them of the actual position of the title, and asking some information as to how I should proceed in order to divest myself of it and the estates.”

  “Just what I should have expected from your lordship’s exquisite sense of honour,” said Mr. Larkin, with a deferential bow, and a countenance black as thunder.

  That gigantic machine of torture which he had been building and dovetailing, with patient villany, at Lord Verney’s word fell with a crash, like an enchanted castle at its appointed spell. Well was it for Lord Verney that the instinct of honour was strong in him, and that he would not suffer his vulgar tempter to beguile him into one indefensible concealment. Had he fallen, that tempter would have been his tyrant. He would have held everything in trust for Mr. Jos. Larkin. The effigy of Lord Verney would, indeed, have stood, on state occasions, robed and coronetted, with his order, driven down to the House, and sat there among hereditary senators; all around him, would have been brilliant and luxurious, and the tall bald head of the Christian attorney would have bowed down before the outgoing and the incoming of the phantom. But the real peer would have sat cold and dark enough, in Jos. Larkin’s dungeon — his robe on the wall, a shirt of Nessus — his coronet on a nail, a Neapolitan “cap of silence” — quite tame under the rat-like eye of a terror from which he never could escape.

  There was a silence here for some time. Lord Verney leaned back with closed eyes, exhausted. Mr. Larkin looked down on the carpet smiling faintly, and with the ti
p of one finger scratching his bald head gently. The attorney spoke— “Might I suggest, for the safety of your lordship’s unhappy brother, that the matter should be kept strictly quiet — just for a day or two, until I shall have made arrangements for his — may I term it — escape.”

  “Certainly,” said Lord Verney, looking away a little. “Yes — that must, of course, be arranged; and — and this marriage — I shall leave that decision entirely in the hands of the young lady.” Lord Verney was a little agitated. “And I think, Mr. Larkin, I have said everything at present. Good evening.”

  As Mr. Larkin traversed the hall of Malory, scratching the top of his bald head with one finger, in profound and black rumination, I am afraid his thoughts and feelings amounted to a great deal of cursing and swearing.

  “Sweet evening,” he observed suddenly to the surprised servant who opened the door for him. He was now standing at the threshold, with his hands expanded as if he expected rain, and smiling villianously upward toward the stars.

  “Sweet evening,” he repeated, and then biting his lip and looking down for a while on the gravel, he descended and walked round the corner to the Steward’s House.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXI.

  MR. LARKIN’S TWO MOVES.

  The hatch of the Steward’s House stood open, and Mr. Larkin entered. There was a girl’s voice crying in the room next the hall, and he opened the door.

  The little girl was sobbing with her apron to her eyes, and hearing the noise she lowered it and looked at the door, when the lank form of the bald attorney and his sinister face peering in met her eyes, and arrested her lamentation with a new emotion.

  “It’s only I — Mr. Larkin,” said he. He liked announcing himself wherever he went. “I want to know how Mrs. Mervyn is now.”

  “Gone dead, sir — about a quarter of an hour ago;” and the child’s lamentation recommenced.

  “Ha! very sad. The doctor here?”

  “He’s gone, sir.”

  “And you’re certain she’s dead?”

  “Yes, sure, sir,” and she sobbed on.

  “Stop that,” he said, sternly, “just a moment — thanks. I want to see Mr. Dingwell, the old gentleman who has been staying here — where is he?”

  “In the drawingroom, sir, please,” said the child, a good deal frightened. And to the drawingroom he mounted.

  Light was streaming from a door a little open, and a fragrance also of a peculiar tobacco, which he recognised as that of Mr. Dingwell’s chibouque. There was a sound of feet upon the floor of the room above, which Mr. Larkin’s ear received as those of persons employed in arranging the dead body.

  I would be perhaps wronging Mr. Dingwell, as I still call him, to say that he smoked like a man perfectly indifferent. On the contrary, his countenance looked lowering and furious — so much so that Mr. Larkin removed his hat, a courtesy which he had intended studiously to omit.

  “Oh! Mr. Dingwell,” said he, “I need not introduce myself.”

  “No, I prefer your withdrawing yourself and shutting the door,” said Dingwell.

  “Yes, in a moment, sir. I merely wish to mention that Lord Verney — I mean your brother, sir — has fully apprized me of the conversation with which you thought it prudent to favour him.”

  “You’d rather have been the medium yourself, I fancy. Something to be made of such a situation? Hey! but you shan’t.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir, by something to be made. If I chose to mention your name and abode in the city, sir, you’d not enjoy the power of insulting others long.”

  “Pooh, sir! I’ve got your letter and my brother’s secret. I know my strength. I’m steering the fire-ship that will blow you all up, if I please; and you talk of flinging a squib at me, you blockhead! I tell you, sir, you’ll make nothing of me; and now you may as well withdraw. There are two things in this house you don’t like, though you’ll have enough of them one day; there’s death up stairs, sir, and some thing very like the devil here.”

  Mr. Larkin thought he saw signs of an approaching access of the Dingwell mania, so he made his most dignified bow, and at the door remarked, “I take my leave, sir, and when next we meet I trust I may find you in a very different state of mind, and one more favourable to business.”

  He had meditated a less covert sneer and menace, but modified his speech prudently as he uttered it; but there was still quite enough that was sinister in his face, as he closed the door, to strike Mr. Dingwell’s suspicion.

  “Only I’ve got that fellow in my pocket, I’d say he was bent on mischief; but he’s in my pocket; and suppose he did, no great matter, after all — only dying. I’m not gathering up my strength; no — I shall never be the same man again — and life so insipid — and that poor old doll up stairs. So many things going on under the stars, all ending so!”

  Yes — so many things. There was Cleve, chief mourner to-day, chatting now wonderfully gaily, with a troubled heart, and a kind of growing terror, to that foolish victim who no more suspected him than he did the resurrection of his uncle Arthur, smoking his chibouque only a mile away.

  There, too, far away, is a pale, beautiful young mother, sitting on the bedside of her sleeping boy, weeping silently, as she looks on his happy face, and — thinks.

  Mr. Dingwell arrayed in travelling costume, suddenly appeared before Lord Verney again.

  “I’m not going to plague you — only this. I’ve an idea I shall lose my life if I don’t go to London tonight, and I must catch the mail train. Tell your people to put the horses to your brougham, and drop me at Llwynan.”

  Lord Verney chose to let his brother judge for himself in this matter, being only too glad to get rid of him.

  Shrieking through tunnels, thundering through lonely valleys, gliding over wide, misty plains, spread abroad like lakes, the mail train bore Arthur Verney, and also — each unconscious of the other’s vicinity — Mr. Jos. Larkin toward London.

  Mr. Larkin had planned a checkmate in two moves. He had been brooding over it in his mufflers, sometimes with his eyes shut, sometimes with his eyes open — all night, in the corner of his carriage. When he stepped out in the morning, with his despatch-box in his hand, whom should he meet in the cold gray light upon the platform, full front, but Mr. Dingwell. He was awfully startled.

  Dingwell had seen him, too; Larkin had felt, as it were, his quick glance touch him, and he was sure that Dingwell had observed his momentary but significant change of countenance. He, therefore, walked up to him, touched him on the arm, and said, with a smile —

  “I thought, sir, I recognized you. I trust you have an attendant? Can I do anything for you? Cold, this morning. Hadn’t you better draw your muffler up a little about your face?” There was a significance about this last suggestion which Mr. Dingwell could not mistake, and he complied. “Running down again to Malory in a few days, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” said Dingwell.

  “So shall I, and if quite convenient to you, I should wish, sir, to talk that little matter over much more carefully, and — can I call a cab for you? I should look in upon you to-day only I must be at Brighton, not to return till tomorrow, and very busy then, too.”

  They parted. Dingwell did not like it.

  “He’s at mischief. I’ve thought of every thing, and I can’t see any thing that would answer his game. I don’t like his face.”

  Dingwell felt very oddly. It was all like a dream; an unaccountable horror overcame him. He sent out for a medicine that day, which the apothecary refused to give to Mrs. Rumble. But he wrote an explanatory note alleging that he was liable to fits, and so got back just a little, at which he pooh’d and psha’d, and wrote to some other apothecaries, and got together what he wanted, and told Mrs. Rumble he was better.

  He had his dinner as usual in his snuggery in Rosemary Court, and sent two letters to the post by Mrs. Rumble. That to Lord Verney contained Larkin’s one unguarded letter inviting him to visit England, and with all the caution compa
tible with being intelligible, but still not enough — suggesting the audacious game which had been so successfully played. A brief and pointed commentary in Mr. Dingwell’s handwriting, accompanied this.

  The other enclosed to Wynne Williams, to whose countenance he had taken a fancy; the certificate of his marriage to Rebecca Mervyn, and a reference to the Rev. Thomas Bartlett; and charged him to make use of it to quiet any unfavourable rumours about that poor lady, who was the only human being he believed who had ever cared much about him.

  When Wynne Williams opened this letter he lifted up his hands in wonder.

  “A miracle, by heaven!” he exclaimed. “The most providential and marvellous interposition — the only thing we wanted!”

  “Perhaps I was wrong to break with that villain, Larkin,” brooded Mr. Dingwell. “We must make it up when we meet. I don’t like it. When he saw me this morning his face looked like the hangman’s.”

  It was now evening, and having made a very advantageous bargain with the Hebrew gentleman who had that heavy judgment against the late Hon. Arthur Verney, an outlaw, &c. — Mr. Larkin played his first move, and amid the screams of Mrs. Rumble, old Dingwell was arrested on a warrant against the Hon. Arthur Verney, and went away, protesting it was a false arrest, to the Fleet.

  Things now looked very awful, and he wrote to Mr. Larkin at his hotel, begging of him to come and satisfy “some fools” that he was Mr. Dingwell. But Jos. Larkin was not at his inn. He had not been there that day, and Dingwell began to think that Jos. Larkin had, perhaps, told the truth for once, and was actually at Brighton. Well, one night in the Fleet was not very much; Larkin would appear next morning, and Larkin could, of course, manage the question of identity, and settle everything easily, and they would shake hands, and make it up. Mr. Dingwell wondered why they had not brought him to a sponging-house, but direct to the prison. But as things were done under the advice of Mr. Jos. Larkin, in whom I have every confidence, I suppose there was a reason.