“By Jove! Larkin? I think it is. — Is he bald — a long face, eh?” asked Cleve with sudden interest.
“Yes, sir, a good deal in that way, sir — rayther.”
“Show him in,” said Cleve; “I shall hear all about it, now,” he soliloquised as the man departed. “Yes, the luckiest thing in the world!”
The tall attorney, with the tall bald head and pink eyelids, entered simpering, with hollow jaws, and a stride that was meant to be perfectly easy and gentlemanlike. Mr. Larkin had framed his costume upon something he had once seen upon somebody whom he secretly worshipped as a great authority in quiet elegance. But every article in the attorney’s wardrobe looked always new — a sort of lavender was his favourite tint — a lavender waistcoat, lavender trowsers, lavender gloves — so that, as the tall lank figure came in, a sort of blooming and vernal effect, in spite of his open black frock-coat, seemed to enter and freshen the chamber.
“How d’ye do, Mr. Larkin? My uncle is at present in France. Sit down, pray — can I be of any use?” said Cleve, who now recollected his appearance perfectly, and did not like it.
The attorney, smiling engagingly, more and more, and placing a very smooth new hat upon the table, sat himself down, crossing one long leg over the other, throwing himself languidly back, and letting one of his long arms swing over the back of his chair, so that his fingers almost touched the floor, said —
“Oh?” in a prolonged tone of mild surprise. “They quite misinformed me in town — not at Verney House — I did not allow myself time to call there; but my agents, they assured me that your uncle, the Honourable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, was at present down here at Ware, and a most exquisite retreat it certainly is. My occupations, and I may say my habits, call me a good deal among the residences of our aristocracy,” he continued, with a careless grandeur and a slight wave of his hand, throwing himself a little more back, “and I have seen nothing, I assure you, Mr. Verney, more luxurious and architectural than this patrician house of Ware, with its tasteful colonnade, and pilastered front, and the distant view of the fashionable watering-place of Cardyllian, which also belongs to the family; nothing certainly lends a more dignified charm to the scene, Mr. Verney, than a distant view of family property, where, as in this instance, it is palpably accidental — where it is at all forced, as in the otherwise highly magnificent seat of my friend Sir Thomas Oldbull, baronet; so far from elevating, it pains one, it hurts one’s taste” — and Mr. Jos. Larkin shrugged and winced a little, and shook his head— “Do you know Sir Thomas? — no — I dare say — he’s quite a new man, Sir Thomas — we all look on him in that light in our part of the world — a — in fact, a parvenu,” which word Mr. Larkin pronounced as if it were spelled pair vennew. “But, you know, the British Constitution, every man may go up — we can’t help it — we can’t keep them down. Money is power, Mr. Verney, as the old Earl of Coachhouse once said to me — and so it is; and when they make a lot of it, they come up, and we must only receive them, and make the best of them.”
“Have you had breakfast, Mr. Larkin?” inquired Cleve, in answer to all this.
“Thanks, yes — at Llwynan — a very sweet spot — one of the sweetest, I should say, in this beauteous country.”
“I don’t know — I dare say — I think you wished to see me on business, Mr. Larkin?” said Cleve.
“I must say, Mr. Verney, you will permit me, that I really have been taken a little by surprise. I had expected confidently to find your uncle, the Honourable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, here, where I had certainly no hope of having the honour of finding you.”
I must here interpolate the fact that no person in or out of England was more exactly apprised of the whereabout of the Verneys, uncle and nephew, at the moment when he determined to visit Ware, with the ostensible object of seeing the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke, and the real one of seeing Mr. Cleve, than was my friend Mr. Larkin. He was, however, as we know, a gentleman of ingenious morals and labyrinthine tastes. With truth he was, as it were, on bowing terms, and invariably spoke of her with respect, but that was all. There was no intimacy, she was an utterly impracticable adviser, and Mr. Larkin had grown up under a more convenient tuition.
“The information, however, I feel concerns you, my dear sir, as nearly, in a manner, as it does your uncle; in fact, your youth taken into account, more momentously than it can so old a gentleman. I would, therefore, merely venture to solicit one condition, and that is, that you will be so good as not to mention me to your uncle as having conveyed this information to you, as he might himself have wished to be the first person to open it, and my having done so might possibly induce in his mind an unpleasant feeling.”
“I shan’t see my uncle before the fifteenth,” said Cleve Verney.
“A long wait, Mr. Verney, for such intelligence as it falls to my lot to communicate, which, in short, I shall be most happy to lay before you, provided you will be so good as to say you desire it on the condition I feel it due to all parties to suggest.”
“You mean that my uncle need not be told anything about this interview. I don’t see that he need, if it concerns me. What concerns him, I suppose you will tell him, Mr. Larkin.”
“Quite so; that’s quite my meaning; merely to avoid unpleasant feeling. I am most anxious to acquaint you — but you understand the delicacy of my position with your uncle — and that premised, I have now to inform you” — here he dropped his voice, and raised his hand a little, like a good man impressing a sublime religious fact— “that your uncle, the Honourable Arthur Verney, is no more.”
The young man flushed up to the very roots of his hair. There was a little pink flush, also, on the attorney’s long cheeks; for there was something exciting in even making such an announcement. The consequences were so unspeakably splendid.
Mr. Larkin saw a vision of permanent, confidential, and lucrative relations with the rich Verney family, such as warmed the cool tide of his blood, and made him feel for the moment at peace with all mankind. Cleve was looking in the attorney’s eyes — the attorney in his. There was a silence for while you might count three or four. Mr. Larkin saw that his intended client, Cleve — the future Viscount Verney — was dazzled, and a little confounded. Recollecting himself, he turned his shrewd gaze on the marble face of Plato, who stood on his pedestal near the window, and a smile seraphic and melancholy lighted up the features and the sad pink eyes of the godly attorney. He raised them; he raised his great hand in the lavender glove, and shook his long head devoutly.
“Mysterious are the dealings of Providence, Mr. Verney; happy those who read the lesson, sir. How few of us so favoured! Wonderful are his ways!”
With a little effort, and an affectation of serenity, Cleve spoke —
“No very great wonder, however, considering he was sixty-four in May last.” The young man knew his vagabond uncle Arthur’s age to an hour, and nobody can blame him much for his attention to those figures. “It might not have happened, of course, for ten or twelve years, but it might have occurred, I suppose, at any moment. How did it happen? Do you know the particulars? But, is there — is there no” (he was ashamed to say hope) “no chance that he may still be living? — is it quite certain?”
“Perfectly certain, perfectly. In a family matter, I have always made it a rule to be certain before speaking. No trifling with sacred feelings, that has been my rule, Mr. Verney, and although in this case there are mitigations as respects the survivors, considering the life of privation and solitude, and, as I have reason to know, of ceaseless self-abasement and remorse, which was all that remained to your unhappy relative, the Honourable Arthur Verney, it was hardly to be desired that the event should be very much longer deferred.”
Cleve Verney looked for a moment on the table, in the passing contagion of the good attorney’s high moral tone.
Cleve just said “yes,” in a low tone, and shook his head. But rallying, he remarked —
“You, of course, know how the title is affected by this event — and the es
tates?” And as he raised his eyes, he encountered the attorney’s fixed upon him with that peculiar rat-like vigilance, concentrated and dangerous, which, as we know, those meek orbs sometimes assume when his own interests and objects were intensely present to his mind.
Cleve’s eye shrank for a second under the enigmatic scrutiny which as instantly gave way, in turn, before his glance.
“Oh, certainly,” said the attorney, “the public know always something of great houses, and their position; that is, generally, of course — details are quite another affair. But everyone knows the truly magnificent position, Mr. Verney, in which the event places your uncle, and I may say you. At the same time the House of Lords, your house, I may call it now, are, very properly, particular in the matter of evidence.”
“Our consul, I suppose,” said Cleve ——
“If he were cognisant of all the points necessary to put in proof, the case would be a very simple one indeed,” said Mr. Larkin, with a sad smile, slowly shaking his tall head.
“Where, Mr. Larkin, did my poor uncle die?” inquired Cleve, with a little effort at the word “uncle.”
“In Constantinople, sir — a very obscure quarter. His habits, Mr. Verney, were very strange; he lived like a rat — I beg pardon, I should say a rabbit in a burrow. Darkness, sir, obscurity — known, I believe, personally to but two individuals. Strange fate, Mr. Verney, for one born to so brilliant an inheritance. Known to but two individuals, one of whom died — what a thing life is! — but a few months before him, leaving, I may say, but one reliable witness to depose to his death; and, for certain reasons, that witness is most reluctant to leave Constantinople, and not very easily to be discovered, even there. You see, Mr. Verney, now, probably, something of the difficulty of the case. Fortunately, I have got some valuable information, confidential, I may say, in its nature, and with the aid of a few valuable local agents, providentially at this moment at my disposal, I think the difficulty may be quite overcome.”
“If old Arthur Verney is dead, I’ll find proof of the fact,” said Cleve; “I’ll send out people who will know how to come at it.”
“You must be well advised, and very cautious, Mr. Verney — in fact, I may tell you, you can’t be too cautious, for I happen to know that a certain low firm are already tampering with the witness.”
“And how the devil can it concern any firm to keep us — my uncle Kiffyn Verney out of his rights?” said Mr. Cleve Verney, scornfully.
“Very true, Mr. Verney, in one sense, no motive; but I am older in the sad experience of the world than you, Mr. Verney. At your age I could not believe it, much later I would not. But, ah! Mr. Verney, in the long-run, the facts are too strong for us. Poor, miserable, fallen human nature, it is capable of anything. It is only too true, and too horrible. It sticks at nothing, my dear Mr. Verney, and their object is to command the witness by this means, and to dictate terms to you — in fact, my dear Mr. Verney, it is shocking to think of it — to extort money.”
“I hope you over-estimate the difficulty. If the death has occurred I wager my life we’ll prove it, and come what will I hope my uncle will never be persuaded to give those scoundrels a shilling.”
“Certainly not — not a shilling — not a farthing — but I have taken prompt, and I trust decisive steps to checkmate those gentlemen. I am not at liberty, just at present, to disclose all I know; I don’t say that I could exactly undertake the management of the case, but I shall be very happy to volunteer all the assistance in my power; and as I say, some accidental circumstances place me in a position to undertake that you shall not be defeated. A break down, I may mention, would be a more serious matter than you seem to suppose; in fact, I should prefer the Honourable Arthur Verney’s living for twelve years more, with clear proof of his death at the end of that time, than matters as they stand at present, with a failure of the necessary proof.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Larkin; my uncle, I am sure, will also be very much obliged. I understand, of course, the sort of difficulty you apprehend.”
“It’s not conjectural, Mr. Verney, I wish it were — but it’s past that; it exists,” said the attorney, sadly.
“Well, I can only say, we are very much obliged,” said Cleve, quite honestly. “I shan’t forget your wish, that I should not mention our conversation to my uncle, and if you should learn anything further — — “
“You shall certainly hear it, Mr. Verney. I must now take my leave. Sweet day, and a beauteous country! How blest are you, Mr. Verney, in your situation! I allude to your scenery, and I may add, the architectural magnificence of this princely residence. What a row of windows as I approached the house! What a number of bedrooms you must have! Hardly so many, let us hope, as there are mansions, Mr. Verney, in that house to which we humbly trust we are proceeding.” Mr. Larkin, who, on his way had called professionally upon a subscriber to the Gylingden Chapel — an “eminent Christian” — and talked accordingly — perceived that his meat was a little too strong for a babe of Mr. Verney’s standing, and concluded more like an attorney of this world.
“Splendid and convenient residence, and in all respects suitable, Mr. Verney, to the fine position of usefulness, and, I may say, splendour, to which you are about being called,” and he smiled round upon the bookcases and furniture, and waved his hand gently, as if in the act of diffusing a benediction over the chairs and tables.
“Won’t you take something, Mr. Larkin, before you go?” asked Cleve.
“No — thanks — no, Mr. Verney — many thanks. It is but an hour since I had my modest déjeuner at that sweet little inn at Llwynan.”
So on the doorsteps they parted; the attorney smiling quite celestially, and feeling all a-glow with affability, virtue, and a general sense of acceptance. In fact he was pleased with his morning’s work for several reasons — pleased with himself, with Cleve Verney, and confident of gliding into the management of the Verney estates, and in great measure of the Verneys themselves; now seeing before him in the great and cloudy vista of his future, a new and gorgeous castle in the air. These châteaux, in the good man’s horizon had, of late, been multiplying rapidly, and there was now quite a little city of palaces in his perspective — an airy pageant which, I think, he sometimes mistook for the New Jerusalem, he talked and smiled so celestially when it was in view.
* * *
CHAPTER XV.
WITHIN THE SANCTUARY.
“So the old man of the mountains is dead at last,” thought Cleve. “Poor old sinner — what a mess he made of it — uncle Arthur! Fine cards, uncle, ill played, sir. I wonder what it all was. To judge by the result he must have been a precious fool. Of what sort was your folly, I wonder — weak brains, or violent will. They say he was clever, — a little bit mad, I dare say; an idea ran away with him, whip and spurs, but no bridle — not unlike me, I sometimes think, headstrong — headlong — but I’ll never run in your track, though I may break my neck yet. And so this Viscount Verney, de jure — outlaw and renegade, de facto — has died in one of those squalid lanes of Constantinople, and lies among poor Asiatics, in a Turkish cemetery! This was the meaning of my uncle Kiffyn’s letter — never was mortal in such a fuss and flurry about anything, as he is at this moment; and yet he must practise his affectation of indifference, and his airs of superiority — what a fool my uncle Kiffyn is!”
Cleve walked back to the study. Things looked changed, somehow. He had never perceived before how old and dingy the furniture was, and how shabby the paint and gilding had grown.
“This house must be made habitable, one of the first things,” said he, “and we must take our right place in the county. The Hammerdons have been everything here. It must not be so.”
Cleve went to the window and looked out. The timber of Ware is old and magnificent. The view of Malory and Cardyllian and all that Verney seaboard does make an imposing display across the water. The auctioneering slang of the attorney, had under its glare and vulgarity a pleasant foundation of truth, and as the you
ng man viewed this landscape the sun seemed to brighten over it, and he smiled with a new and solemn joy swelling at his heart.
“I hope that attorney fellow, Larkin, will go on and work this thing properly. It would be too bad that any delay should occur for want of proof — another name for want of energy — after the unfortunate old fellow has actually died.”
Mr. Larkin’s card was upon the table, and with the providence which in all small matters distinguished him, he had written under “The Lodge” his post-town, “Gylingden.” So Cleve Verney wrote forthwith to tell him that although he had no authority to direct inquiries in the matter, and that his uncle would, of course, undertake that, he was yet so strongly of opinion that no time should be wasted, and that Mr. Larkin’s services might be of the greatest possible value, that he could not forbear writing to say so; and also that he would take the first opportunity of pressing that view upon his uncle. So the letter found the good attorney that evening at “The Lodge.” He needed no such spur. He was, in fact, very deep in the business already, and, with his own objects in view, was perhaps quite as much excited as either Cleve Verney or his uncle.
When Cleve had dispatched this note, the restlessness and fever of this new and great suspense were upon him. It was impossible to sit down and read his magazines and newspapers. Had he been a fisherman he might have taken his rod and fly-hook, and becalmed his excited spirit in that mysterious absorption. But he had never possessed patience enough for the gentle craft. It ought to be cultivated early for its metaphysical virtues — neither transient like music nor poisonous like opium. For a harassed or excited mind, priceless is the resource of being able to project itself into the condition of the otter or the crane, and think of nothing but fish.
Two sedatives, however, were at his disposal — cigars and the sea — and to them he betook himself. Away went the Wave over the sparkling sea, with a light breeze, toward the purple dome of Pendillion, streaked with dull yellow rock and towering softly in the distance. Delightful sea-breeze, fragrant cigars, and gently rising, misty woods of Malory with their romantic interest — and all seen under the glory of this great news from the East. The cutter seemed to dance and writhe along the waves in elation and delight, and the spray flew up like showers of brilliants from the hands of friendly Undines sporting round her bows. Trance-like it seemed, all musical and dreamy; and Cleve felt, for the hour, he could have lived and died in that luxurious fascination.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 346