CHAPTER XV.
CLAY RECTORY BY MOONLIGHT.
As the attorney made his astounding announcement, Cleve had felt as ifhis brain, in vulgar parlance, _turned_! In a moment the world inwhich he had walked and lived from his school-days passed away, and achasm yawned at his feet. His whole future was subverted. A man whodies in delusion, and awakes not to celestial music and the light ofparadise, but to the trumpet of judgment and the sight of the abyss,will quail as Cleve did.
How he so well maintained the appearance of self-possession while Mr.Larkin remained, I can't quite tell. Pride, however, which has carriedso many quivering souls, with an appearance of defiance, through thepress-room to the drop, supported him.
But now that scoundrel was gone. The fury that fired him, the ironconstraint that held him firm was also gone, and Cleve despaired.
Till this moment, when he was called on to part with it all, he didnot suspect how entirely his ambition was the breath of his nostrils,or how mere a sham was the sort of talk to which he had often treatedMargaret and others about an emigrant's life and the Arcadian libertyof the Antipodes.
The House-of-Commons life--the finest excitement on earth--the growingfame, the peerage, the premiership in the distance--the vulgar fingersof Jos. Larkin had just dropped the extinguisher upon the magic lampthat had showed him these dazzling illusions, and he was left to gropeand stumble in the dark among his debts, with an obscure wife on hisarm, and a child to plague him also. And this was to be the end! Aprecarious thousand a-year--dependent on the caprice of a narrow,tyrannical old man, with a young wife at his ear, and a load of debtsupon Cleve's shoulders, as he walked over the quag!
It is not well to let any object, apart from heaven, get into yourhead and fill it. Cleve had not that vein of insanity which onoccasion draws men to suicide. In the thread of his destiny that fineblack strand was not spun. So blind and deep for a while was hisplunge into despair, that I think had that atrabilious poison, whichthrows out its virus as suddenly as latent plague, and lays a_felo-de-se_ to cool his heels and his head in God's prison, thegrave--had a drop or two, I say, of that elixir of death been mingledin his blood, I don't think he would ever have seen another morrow.
But Cleve was not thinking of dying. He was sure--in rage, andblasphemy, and torture, it might be--but still he _was_ sure to liveon. Well, what was now to be done? Every power must be tasked toprevent the ridiculous catastrophe which threatened him with ruin;neither scruple, nor remorse, nor conscience, nor compunction shouldstand in the way. We are not to suppose that he is about to visit theHon. Miss Caroline Oldys with a dagger in one hand and a cup of poisonin the other, nor with gunpowder to blow up his uncle and Ware, assome one did Darnley and the house of Kirk of Field. Simply his mindwas filled with the one idea, that one way or another the thing _must_be stopped.
It was long before his ideas arranged themselves, and for a long timeafter no plan of operations which had a promise of success suggesteditself. When at length he did decide, you would have said no wilder orwickeder scheme could have entered his brain.
It was a moonlight night. The scene a flat country, with a monotonousrow of poplars crossing it. This long file of formal trees marks theline of a canal, fronting which at a distance of about a hundred yardsstands a lonely brick house, with a few sombre elms rising near it; alight mist hung upon this expansive flat. The soil must have beenunproductive, so few farmsteads were visible for miles around. Hereand there pools of water glimmered coldly in the moonlight; andpatches of rushes and reeds made the fields look ragged and neglected.
Here and there, too, a stunted hedge-row showed dimly along the level,otherwise unbroken, and stretching away into the haze of the horizon.It is a raw and dismal landscape, where a murder might be done, andthe scream lose itself in distance unheard--where the highwayman,secure from interruption, might stop and plunder the chance wayfarerat his leisure--a landscape which a fanciful painter would flank witha distant row of gibbets.
The front of this square brick house, with a little enclosure, hardlytwo yards in depth, and a wooden paling in front, and with a greenmoss growing damply on the piers and the door-steps, and tinging themortar between the bricks, looks out upon a narrow old road, alongwhich just then were audible the clink and rattle of an approachingcarriage and horses.
It was past one o'clock. No hospitable light shone from the windows,which on the contrary looked out black and dreary upon the vehicle andsteaming horses which pulled up in front of the house.
Out got Cleve and reconnoitred.
"Are you quite sure?"
"Clay Parsonage--yes, sir," said the driver.
Cleve shook the little wooden gate, which was locked; so he climbedthe paling, and knocked and rang loud and long at the hall-door.
The driver at last reported a light in an upper window.
Cleve went on knocking and ringing, and the head of the Rev. IsaacDixie appeared high in the air over the window-stool.
"What do you want, pray?" challenged that suave clergyman from hissanctuary.
"It's I--Cleve Verney. Why do you go to bed at such hours? I must seeyou for a moment."
"Dear me! my dear, valued pupil! Who could have dreamed?--I shall bedown in one moment."
"Thanks--I'll wait;" and then to the driver he said--"I shan't stayfive minutes; mind, you're ready to start with me the moment Ireturn."
Now the hall-door opened. The Rev. Isaac Dixie--for his dress was acompromise between modesty and extreme haste, and necessarily veryimperfect--stood in greater part behind the hall-door; a bed-roomcandlestick in his fingers, smiling blandly on his "distinguishedpupil," who entered without a smile, without a greeting--merelysaying:--
"Where shall we sit down for a minute, old Dixie?"
Holding his hand with the candle in it across, so as to keep hisflowing dressing-gown together; and with much wonder and somemisgivings, yet contriving his usual rosy smile, he conducted hisunexpected 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 chimney-piece, and looked inquiringlyon 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 theseare 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 thefuture prelate, with his elbow on the chimney-piece.
"_Nolo episcopari_, of course, but we _know_ you would, and there's notime now for pretty speeches. Now, listen, you shall be _that_, andyou shall reach it by two steps--the two best livings in our gift. Ialways keep my word; and when I set my heart on a thing I bring itabout, and so sure as I do any good, I'll bend all my interest to thatone 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 ofClay looked horribly perplexed. His countenance seemed to ask, "Doeshe mean to give me a mitre or to take my life, or is he quite right inhis head?"
"You think I don't mean what I say, or that I'm talking nonsense, orthat I'm mad. I'm not mad, it's no nonsense, and no man was ever moreresolved 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 acondition; you must do me a service. It won't cost you much--lesstrouble, almost, than you've taken for me to-night, but you _must_ doit."
"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 ofservice 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 totake
that step, and I trust that you will on reconsideration----"
"You _must_ do what I say," said Cleve, looking and speaking with thesame unconscious sternness, which frightened the Rector more than anyamount of bluster. "I hardly suppose you want to break with mefinally, and you don't quite know all the consequences of that step, Ifancy."
"Break with _you_? my admirable patron! desert my dear and brilliantpupil in an emergency? _Certainly_ not. Reckon upon me, my dear Mr.Verney, when_ever_ you need my poor services, to the _uttermost_. To_you all_ my loyalty is due, but unless you made a very special pointof 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 owncase you must repeat the service, as you call it, which you once didme, 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 unaffectedgesture of fear; and he fixed a terrified gaze upon Cleve Verney'seyes, 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 ahorrible 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 thinkI'd commit myself to any man, by such an idiotic proposal? No one buta 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 youmarried 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 deceasedlady, I should not, my dear pupil, have alluded to, of course; butneed I say, I never heard of that affliction?"
"How on earth could you? You don't suppose, knowing all you do, I'dput it in the papers among the _deaths_?"
"No, dear me, of course," said the Rev. Isaac Dixie, hastily bringinghis dressing-gown again together. "No, certainly."
"I don't think that sort of publication would answer you or me. Youforget it is two years ago and more, a _good deal_ more. _I_ don'tthough, and whatever _you_ may, _I_ don't want my uncle to knowanything 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 isinvolved; but _this_--_could_n't you put this upon some one else?Do--_do_ think."
"No, in _no_ one's power, but _yours_, Dixie;" and Cleve took hishand, looking in his face, and wrung it so hard that the rev.gentleman almost winced under the pressure, of administering which Idare say Cleve was quite unconscious. "No one but _you_."
"The poor--the respected lady--being deceased, of course you'll giveme 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 exactsimplicit 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 someawkwardness, and the penalties are awful," said he with increasinguneasiness, "and it does strike me, that if my dear Mr. Verney couldplace 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, andso decide whether you have seen the last of me; I can't spend thenight giving you my reasons, but they are conclusive. If you act likea man of sense, it's the last service I shall ever require at yourhands, and I'll reward you _splendidly_; if you don't, I not onlycease to be your friend, but I become your _enemy_. I can strike whenI like it--you know _that_; and upon my soul I'll smash you. I shallsee my uncle to-morrow morning at Ware, and I'll tell him distinctlythe 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 arisk for you already, a risk in _form_."
"Exactly, _in form_; and you don't increase it by this kindness, andyou secure my eternal gratitude. Now you speak like a man of sense.You must be in Cardyllian to-morrow evening. It is possible I may ask_nothing_ of you; if I do, the utmost is a technical irregularity, andsecrecy, which we are both equally interested in observing. You shallstay a week in Cardyllian mind, and I, of course, frank you there andback, and while you remain--it's my business. It has a politicalaspect, as I shall explain to you by-and-bye, and so soon as I shallhave brought my uncle round, and can avow it, it will lead the wayrapidly to _your_ fortune. Shall I see you in Cardyllian to-morrowevening?"
"Agreed, sir!--agreed, my dear Mr. Verney. I shall be there, my dearand 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 to-morrow;"and without taking leave, or hearing as it seemed the Rev. IsaacDixie's farewell compliments and benedictions, he walked out in gloomyhaste, as if the conference was not closed, but only suspended by theapproaching parenthesis of a night and a day.
From the hall-table the obsequious divine took the key of the littlegate, to which, in slippers and dressing-gown, he stepped blandlyforth, and having let out his despotic pupil, and waved his adieu, asthe chaise drove away, he returned, and locked up his premises andhouse, with a great load at his heart.
The Tenants of Malory, Volume 3 Page 15