"The moon shines bright:—in such a night as this,When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,And they did make no noise; in such a night,Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents,Where Cresid lay that night. In such a nightStood Dido, with a willow in her hand,Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her loveTo come again to Carthage."
"The moon shines bright:—in such a night as this,When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,And they did make no noise; in such a night,Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents,Where Cresid lay that night. In such a nightStood Dido, with a willow in her hand,Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her loveTo come again to Carthage."
Thus, in the visions of the Seer who lies in Stratford-on-Avon, moonlight and love and melancholy are related; and so it is, and will be, to the end of time, till mortal love is no more, and sadness ends, and the moon is changed to blood, and all things are made new.
And now over the moonlit water, through the boughs of the old trees, the still night air is thrilled with a sweet contralto—a homely song—the echo of childish days and the nursery. Poor Milly! her maid who died so early, whose lover was a young sailor, far away, used to sing it for her in the summer evenings, when they sat down under the hawthorns, on Winnockhough, looking toward the sea, though the sea was many a mile away:—
"As Eve went forth from Paradise,She, weeping, bore awayOne flower that, reared, in tears and sighs,Is growing to this day."Where'er the children of the fallAre toiling to this hour,It blooms for each, it blooms for all,And Love we call this flower."Red roses of the bygone yearAre mingled with the mould,And other roses will appearWhere they grew pale and old."But where it grew, no other grows,No bloom restores the sere;So this resembles not the rose,And knows no other year."So, welcome, when thy bloom is red,The glory of thy light;And welcome when thy bloom is shed,The long sleep of my night."
"As Eve went forth from Paradise,She, weeping, bore awayOne flower that, reared, in tears and sighs,Is growing to this day.
"Where'er the children of the fallAre toiling to this hour,It blooms for each, it blooms for all,And Love we call this flower.
"Red roses of the bygone yearAre mingled with the mould,And other roses will appearWhere they grew pale and old.
"But where it grew, no other grows,No bloom restores the sere;So this resembles not the rose,And knows no other year.
"So, welcome, when thy bloom is red,The glory of thy light;And welcome when thy bloom is shed,The long sleep of my night."
And now the song is ended, and, listening, nature seems to sigh; and looking toward the old château, the front next you is in shadow, the window is open, and within you seetwoladies. The elder is standing by the girl, who sits still at the open window, looking up into the face of her old friend—the old friend who has known, in the early days of romance, what love is, for whom now "the bloom is shed, and mingling with the mould," but who remembers sadly the blush and glory of its light that died five-and-thirty years ago upon Canadian snows.
Gently the old lady takes her hand, and sits beside her girlish kinswoman, and lays her other hand over that, and smiles with a strange look of affection, and admiration, and immeasurable compassion, that somehow seems to translate her, itis so sad and angelic. I cannot hear what she is saying, but the young lady looks up, and kisses her thin cheek, and lays her head upon her old shoulder.
Behind, high over the steep roofs and pinnacles, and those glimmering weather-vanes, that seem sometimes to melt quite away, hangs the moon, unclouded—meet emblem of a pure love—no longer crossed by the sorrows of true love's course—Dian the Chaste, with her sad, pure, and beautifully misleading light—alas! the emblem, also, of mutation.
In a few concise and somewhat dry sentences, as old prison stones bear the records which thin hands, long since turned to dust, have carved, the world's corridors and corners bear the tracings of others that were busy two thousand years ago; and the inscriptions that tell the trite story of human fears and sadness, cut sharp and deep in the rock, tell simply and briefly how Death was the King of Terrors, and the shortness of Life the bitter wonder, and black Care the companion of the wayfarers who marched by the same route to the same goal, so long ago. These gigantic griefs and horrors are all in a nutshell. A few words tell them. Their terror is in their truth. There is no use in expanding them: they are sublimely simple. Among the shadowy men and womenthat people these pages, I see them everywhere—plots too big and complicated to be got, by any compression, within the few pages and narrow covers of the book of their lives: Care, in her old black weeds, and Death, with stealthy foot and blow like thunder.
Twelve months had come and gone for ever since the Reverend Isaac Dixie made that little trip to Caen, every month bringing his portion of blossom, fruit, or blight to every mortal. All had gone well and gloriously in this Verney Peerage matter.
The death of the late Honourable Arthur Verney was proved; and the Honourable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, as next heir, having complied with the proper forms, duly succeeded to the ancient peerage of the Verneys. So the dream was accomplished more splendidly, perhaps, than if the prize had come earlier, for the estates were in such condition as they had never attained to since the great rebellion; and if Viscount Verney was not among the more potent of his peers, the fault was not in the peerage and its belongings.
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 nottelling, 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 drawing-room, 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 lookedfor 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.
Thatevoked spirit, Dingwell, was nowfunctus 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 thathe, 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. Doyou, Cleve?"
"I conjecture that Dingwell wants more money, and can't be got out of London without it," said Cleve.
"Eh? Well, thatdidoccur to me; ofcourse, that's plain enough—about it—andwhata 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 wantedfive, 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,proandcon. 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 anidea!"
"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 youshallbe 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 toknowthat his den has been discovered by another creditor, from whom, even were funds at his disposal to leave England to-night, escape would be difficult, if not impossible."
"How much money does he want?" asked Mr. Cleve Verney.
"Amoment, amoment, 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 dove-like eyes contracted, and assumedtheir 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 offivehundred——"
"'Gad, it's growing quite serious, Mr.—Mr. Sir, I confess I don't half understand thisperson, Mr. Ding—Dong—whatever it is—it's going rather toofastabout it. I—I—and that's my clear opinion—" and Lord Verney gazed and blinked sternly at the attorney, and patted his fragrant pocket-handkerchief several times to his chin—"very unreasonable and monstrous, and, considering all I've done, veryungrateful."
"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. Iassure 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 Ido, 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 wasperjured, 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 notwell be helped, and that's the reason Ididit, don't you see? but I may be allowed to say, I suppose, that the position is a mostuntowardone; and so it is, egad!" and Lord Verney got up in his fidget, and walked over to the window, and to the chimney-piece, 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 afraycas, and the possible unpleasantness to whichIventured to allude?Youhave seen him, Mr. Verney?"
"Yes; he's a beast, he reallyis; 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, mylord, 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 to-morrow."
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 personwere 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?Nosir."
"Does not Mr. Dingwell live here?"
"Therewasa gentleman, please, sir, with a name like that. Goback, 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; "theyareso 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 drawing-room, 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 hedidfind 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, hisTimesand 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—tothank me! Are you reallyserious, Mr. Verney?" said Dingwell, lowering his cigar again, and looking with a stern smile in his visitor's face.
"Yes, sir; Ididwish to call and tell you," said Cleve, determined not to grow angry; "and Iamhere to say that we are very much obliged."
"We?"
"Yes; my uncle and I."
"Oh, yes; well, itissomething. 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 amonument 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.
"But he had his pride, dear Arthur; he was proud, and wished for a tombstone. When he was dying, he said, 'I should like a monument—not of course in a cathedral, for I have been living so darkly, and a good deal talked about; but there's an old church or abbey near Malory (that I'm sure was the name of the place) where our family has been accustomed to bury its quiet respectabilities and itsmauvais sujets; and Ithink they might give me a pretty little monument there, quite quietly.' I think you'll do it, for you're a grateful person, and like thinking people; and he certainly did a great deal for his family by going out of it, and the little vanity of a monument would not cost much, and, as he said himself, no one would ever see it; and I promised, if I ever had an opportunity, to mention the subject to your uncle."
Cleve bowed.
"'And,' said he, 'there will be a little conflict of feeling. I am sure they'd like themonument, but they would not make an ostentation ofme. But remind them of my Aunt Deborah. Poor old girl! she ran away with a fiddler.' Egad, sir! these were his very words, and I've found, on inquiring here, they were quite true. She ran away with a fiddler—egad! and I don't know how many little fiddlers she had; and, by Jove! he said if I came back I should recognise a possible cousin in every street-fiddler I met with, for music is a talent that runs in families. And so, when Atropos cut his fiddlestring, and he died, she took, he said, to selling mutton pies, for her maintenance, in Chester, and being properly proud as a Verney, though as a fiddler's widow necessitous, he said she used to cry, behind her little table, 'Hot mutton pies!' and then,sottovoce, 'I hope nobody hears me;' and you may rely upon that family anecdote, for I had it from the lips of that notorious member of your family, your uncle Arthur, and he hoped that they would comply with the tradition, and reconcile the Verney pride with Verney exigencies, and concede him the secret celebration of a monument."
"If you are serious——"
"Serious about a monument, sir! who the devil could be lively on such a subject?" and Mr. Dingwell looked unaccountably angry, and ground his teeth, and grew white. "A monument, cheap and nasty, I dare say; it isn't much for a poor devil from whom you've got everything. I suppose you'll speak to your uncle, sir."
"I'll speak to him, sir."
"Yes,do, pray, and prevail. I'm not very strong, sir, and there's something that remains for you and me to do, sir."
"What is that?"
"To rot under ground, sir; and as I shall go first, it would be pleasant to me to be able to present your affectionate regards to your uncle, when I meet him, and tell him that you had complied with his little fancy about the monument, as he seemed to make a point that his name should not be blotted totally from the records of his family."
Cleve was rather confirmed in his suspicionsabout the sanity of this odious old man—as well he might—and, at all events, was resolved to endure him without a row.
"I shall certainly remember, and mention all you have said, sir," said Cleve.
"Yes," said the old man, in a grim meditation, looking down, and he chucked away the stump of his cigar, "it's a devilish hard case, Kismet!" he muttered.
"I suppose you find our London climate very different from that you have grown accustomed to?" said Cleve, approaching the point on which he desired some light.
"I lived in London for a long time, sir. I was—as perhaps you know—junior partner in the great Greek house of Prinkipi and Dingwell—d——n Prinkipi! say I. He ran us into trouble, sir; then came a smash, sir, and Prinkipi levanted, making a scapegoat of me, the most vilified and persecuted Greek merchant that ever came on 'Change! And, egad! if they could catch me, even now, I believe they'd bury me in a dungeon for the rest of my days, which, in that case, would not be many. I'm here, therefore, I may say, at the risk of my life."
"A very anxious situation, indeed, Mr. Dingwell; and I conclude you intend but a short stay here?"
"Quite the contrary, sir. I mean to stay as long as I please, and that may be as long as I live."
"Oh! I had thought from something that Mr. Larkin said," began Cleve Verney.
"Larkin! He's a religious man, and does not put his candle under a bushel. He's very particular to say his prayers; and provided he saysthem, he takes leave to say what he likes beside."
Mr. Dingwell was shooting his arrows as freely as Cupid does; but Cleve did not take this satire for more than its worth.
"He may think it natural I should wish to be gone, and so I do," continued the old man, setting down his coffee cup, "if I could get away without the trouble of going, or was sure of a tolerably comfortable berth, at my journey's end; but I'm old, and travelling shakes me to pieces, and I have enemies elsewhere, as well as here; and the newspapers have been printing sketches of my life and adventures, and poking up attention about me, and awakening the slumbering recollection of persons by whom I had been, in effect, forgotten,every-where. No rest for the wicked, sir. I'm pursued; and, in fact, what little peace I might have enjoyed in this, the closing period of my life, has been irreparablywrecked by my visit and public appearance here, to place your uncle, and by consequenceyou, in the position now secured to you. What do you think of me?"
"I think, sir, you have done us a great service; and I know we are very much obliged," said Cleve, with his most engaging smile.
"And do you know what I think of myself? I think I'm a d——d fool, unless I look for some advantage."
"Don't you think, sir, you have found it, on the whole, advantageous, your coming here?" insinuated Cleve.
"Barren, sir, as a voyage on the Dead Sea. The test is this—what have I by it? not five pounds, sir, in the world. Now, I've opened my mind a little to you upon this subject, and I'm of the same mind still; and if I've opened Aladdin's garden to you, with its fruitage of emeralds, rubies, and so forth, I expect to fill my snuff-box with the filings and chippings of your gigantic jewellery."
Cleve half repented his visit, now that the presence of the insatiable Mr. Dingwell, and his evident appetite for more money, had justified the representations of the suspected attorney.
"I shall speak to Mr. Larkin on the subject," said Cleve Verney.
"D——n Larkin, sir! Speak to me."
"But, Mr. Dingwell, I have really, as I told you before, no authority to speak; and no one has the least power in the matter but my uncle."
"And what the devil did you come here for?" demanded Mr. Dingwell, suddenly blazing up into one of his unaccountable furies. "I suppose you expected me to congratulate you on your success, and to ask leave to see your uncle in his coronet—ha, ha, ha!—or his cap and bells, or whatever he wears. By —— sir, I hope he holds his head high, and struts like a peacock, and has pleasant dreams; time enough for nightmares, sir, hereafter, eh? Uneasy rests the head that wears the crown! Good evening, sir; I'll talk to Mr. Larkin."
And with these words Mr. Dingwell got up, looking unaccountably angry, and made a half-sarcastic, half-furious bow, wherewith he dismissed Mr. Cleve Verney, with more distinct convictions than ever that the old gentleman was an unmitigated beast, and more than half a lunatic.
Whoshould light upon Cleve that evening as he walked homeward but our friend Tom Sedley, who was struck by the anxious pallor and melancholy of his face.
Good-natured Sedley took his arm, and said he, as they walked on together,—
"Why don't you smile on your luck, Cleve?"
"How do you know what my luck is?"
"All the world knows that pretty well."
"All the world knows everything but its own business."
"Well, people do say that your uncle has lately got the oldest peerage—one of them—in England, and an estate of thirty-seven thousand a year, for one thing, and that you are heir-presumptive to these trifles."
"And that heirs-presumptive often get nothing but their heads in their hands."
"No, you'll not come Saint Denis nor anyother martyr over us, my dear boy; we know very well how you stand in that quarter."
"It's pleasant to have one's domestic relations so happily arranged by such very competent persons. I'm much obliged to all the world for the parental interest it takes in my private concerns."
"And it also strikes some people that a perfectly safe seat in the House of Commons is not to be had for nothing by every fellow who wishes it."
"But suppose Idon'twish it."
"Oh! we may suppose anything."
Tom Sedley laughed as he said this, and Cleve looked at him sharply, but saw no uncomfortable meaning in his face.
"There is no good in talking of what one has not tried," said he. "If you had to go down to that tiresome House of Commons every time it sits; and had an uncle like mine to take you to task every time you missed a division—you'd soon be as tired of it as I am."
"I see, my dear fellow, you are bowed down under a load of good luck." They were at the door of Tom Sedley's lodgings by this time, and opening it, he continued, "I've something in my room to show you; just run up with me for a minute, and you'll say I'm a conjuror."
Cleve, not to be got into good spirits that evening, followed him upstairs, thinking of something else.
"I've got a key to your melancholy, Cleve," said he, leading the way into his drawing-room. "Lookthere," and he pointed to a clever copy in crayons of the famous Beatrice Cenci, which he had hung over his chimney-piece.
Tom Sedley laughed, looking in Cleve's eyes. A slight flush had suddenly tinged his visitor's face, as he saw the portrait. But he did not seem to enjoy the joke, on the contrary, he looked a little embarrassed and angry. "That's Guido's portrait—well, what about it?" he asked, rather surlily.
"Yes, of course; but who is it like?"
"Very few, I dare say, foritis very pretty; and except on canvas, there is hardly such a thing as a pretty girl to be seen. Is that all? for the life of me, I can't see where the conjuring lies."
"Not in the picture, but thelikeness; don't you see it?"
"No" said Cleve. "I must go; are you coming?"
"Not see it!" said Tom. "Why if it were painted for her, it could not be more like. Why, it's the Flower of Cardyllian, the Star of Malory. It isyourMiss Fanshawe—myMargaret—ourMiss Margaret Fanshawe. I'm making the fairest division I can, you see; and I would not be without it for all the world."
"She would be very much gratified if she heard it. It is so flattering to a young lady to have a fellow buy a coloured lithograph, and call it by her name, and crack jokes and spout mock heroics over it. It is the modern way of celebrating a lady's name. Don't you seriously think, Sedley, it would be better to smash it with a poker, and throw it into the fire, than go on taking such liberties with any young lady's name?"
"Upon my honour, Cleve, you mistake me; you do me great injustice. You used to laugh at me, you know, when I'm quite sure, thinking over it now, you were awfully gone about her yourself. I never told any one but you why I bought that picture; it isn't a lithograph, but painted, or drawn, or whatever they call it, with chalks, and it cost five guineas; and no one but you ever heard me mention Miss Fanshawe's name, except the people at Cardyllian, and then only as I might mention any other, and always with respect."
"What does it signify?" interrupted Cleve, in the middle of a forced yawn. "I'm tired to-day, and cross—don't you see; and man delights notme, nor woman neither. So, if you're coming, come, for I must go."
"And, really, Cleve, the Cardyllian people do say (I've had letters) that you were awfully in love with her yourself, and always haunting those woods of Malory while she was there, and went away immediately she left, and have never been seen in Cardyllian since."
"Those Cretans were always liars, Tom Sedley. That comes direct from the club. I can fancy old Shrapnell in the light of the bow-window, composing his farrago of dreams, and lies, and chuckling and cackling over it."
"Well, I don't say that Shrapnell had anything to do with it; but I did hear at first they thought you were gone about little Agnes Etherage."
"Oh! they found that out—did they?" said Cleve. "But you know those people—I mean the Cardyllian people—as well, or better than I, and really, as a kindness to me, and to save me the trouble of endless explanations to my uncle, I would be so much obliged if you would not repeat their follies—unless, of course, you happen to believe them."
Cleve did not look more cheerful as he drove away in a cab which he took to get rid of his friend Tom Sedley. It was mortifying to findhow vain were his clever stratagems, and how the rustic chapmen of that Welsh village and their wives had penetrated his diplomacy. He thought he had killed the rumours about Malory, and yet that grain of mustard seed had grown while his eye was off it, with a gigantic luxuriance, and now was large enough to form a feature in the landscape, and quite visible from the windows of Ware—if his uncle should happen to visit that mansion—overtopping the roofs and chimneys of Cardyllian. His uncle meditated an early visit to Cardyllian, and a short stay at Ware, before the painters and gilders got possession of the house; a sort of ovation in demi-toilette, grand and friendly, and a foretaste of the splendours that were coming. Cleve did hope that those beasts would be quiet while Lord Verney was (as he in his grand manner termed it) "among them." He knew the danger of a vague suspicion seizing on his mind, how fast it clung, how it fermented like yeast, fantastic and obstinate as a foolish woman's jealousy—and as men sometimes will, he even magnified this danger. Altogether, Cleve was not causelessly anxious and alarmed. He had in the dark to navigate a channel which even in broad daylight tasked a good steersman.
When Cleve reached Verney House it waseight o'clock. Lord Verney had ordered his brougham at half-past, and was going down to the House; he had something to say on Lord Frompington's bill. It was not very new, nor very deep, nor very much; but he had been close at it for the last three weeks. He had amused many gentlemen—and sometimes even ladies—at many dinner parties, with a very exact recital of his views. I cannot say that they were exactlyhis, for they were culled, perhaps unconsciously, from a variety of magazine articles and pamphlets, which happened to take Lord Verney's view of the question.
It is not given to any mortal to have his heart's desire in everything. Lord Verney had a great deal of this world's good things—wealth, family, rank. But he chose to aim at official station, and here his stars denied him.
Some people thought him a goose, and some only a bore. He was, as we know, pompous, conceited, obstinate, also weak and dry. His grandfather had been a cabinet minister, respectable and silent; and was not he wiser, brighter, and more learned than his grandfather? "Why on earth should nothe?" His influence commanded two boroughs, and virtually two counties. The minister, therefore, treated him with distinction; and spoke of him confidentially as horriblyfoolish, impracticable, and at times positively impertinent.
Lord Verney was subject to small pets and huffs, and sometimes was affronted with the Premier for four or five weeks together, although the fact escaped his notice. And when the viscount relented, he would make him a visit to quiet his mind, and show him that friendly relations were re-established; and the minister would say, "Here comes that d——d Verney; I suppose I must give him half-an-hour!" and when the peer departed, thinking he had made the minister happy, the minister was seriously debating whether Lord Verney's boroughs were worth the price of Lord Verney's society.
His lordship was now in that sacred apartment, his library; where not even Cleve had a right to disturb him uninvited. Preliminaries, however, were now arranged; the servant announced him, and Cleve was commanded to enter.
"I have just had a line to say I shall be in time at half-past ten o'clock, about it. Frompington's bill won't be on till then; and take that chair and sit down, about it, won't you? I've a good many things on my mind; people put things upon me.Somepeople think I have a turn for business, and they ask me to consider and direct matters abouttheirs, and I do whatI can. There was poor Wimbledon, who died, about it, seven years ago. You remember Wimbledon—or—I say—you either remember him or you don't recollect him; but in either case it's of no importance. Let me see: Lady Wimbledon—she's connected with you, about it—your mother, remotely—remotely also with us, the Verneys. I've had a world of trouble about her settlements—I can't describe—I can't describe—I was not well advised, in fact, to accept the trust at all. Long ago, when poor Frompington—I mean poor Wimbledon, of course—have I been saying Wimbledon?"
Cleve at once satisfied him.
"Yes, of course. When poor Wimbledon looked as healthy and as strong as I do at this moment, about it—a long time ago. Poor Wimbledon!—he fancied, I suppose, I had some little turn, about it, for business—someof my friendsdo—and I accepted the trust when poor Wimbledon looked as little likely to be hurried into eternity, about it, as I do. I had a regard for him, poor Wimbledon, and he had a respect for me, and thought I could be of use to him after he was dead, and I have endeavoured, and people think Ihave. But Lady Wimbledon, the dowager, poor woman! She's very long-winded, poor soul, and gives me an infinity of trouble. One can't sayto a lady, 'You are detaining me; you are wandering from the subject; you fail to come to the point.' It would be taking a liberty, or something, about it. I had not seen Lady Wimbledon, simple 'oman, for seven years or more. It's a very entangled business, and I confess it seems rather unfair, that I should have my time, already sufficiently occupied with other, as I think, more important affairs, so seriously interrupted and abridged. There's going to be a bill filed—yes, and a great deal of annoyance. She has one unmarried daughter, Caroline, about it, who is not to have any power over her money until she is thirty-one. She's not that now. It was hardly fair to me, putting it in trust so long. She is a very superior person—a young woman one does not meet with every day, about it; and—and very apprehensive—a great deal of mind—quite unusual. Do you know her?"
The viscount raised his eyes toward the ceiling with a smile that was mysterious and pleased.
Cleve did know that young lady of eight-and-twenty, and her dowager mamma, "simple 'oman," who had pursued him with extraordinary spirit and tenacity for several years, but that was past and over. Cleve experienced a thrill of pain at his heart. He suspected that the old torturing idea was again active in his uncle's mind.
Yes, hedidknow them—ridiculous old woman; and the girl—he believed she'd marry any one; he fancied she would have donehimthat honour at one time, and he fancied that the trust, if it was to end when she was thirty-one, could not be very long in force.
"My dear Cleve, don't you think that's rather an odd way of speaking of a young lady? People used not in my time—that is, when I was a young man of two or three-and-twenty, about it—to talk so of young ladies. It was not considered a thing that ought to be done. I—I never heard a word of the kind."
Lord Verney's chivalry had actually called a little pink flush to his old cheeks, and he looked very seriously still at the cornice, and tapped a little nervous tattoo with his pencil-case on the table as he did so.
"I really did not mean—I only meant—in fact, uncle, I tellyoueverything; and poor Caroline issomuch older than I, it always struck me as amusing."
"Their man of business in matters of law is Mr. Larkington, about it.Ourman, you know—you know him."
"Oh, yes. They could not do better. Mr. Larkin—a very shrewd fellow. I went, by-the-by, to see that old man, Dingwell."
"Ah, well, very good. We'll talk of that by-and-by, if you please; but it has been occurring to my mind, Cleve, that—that you should look about you. In fact, if you don't like one young lady, you may like another. It strikes me I never saw a greater number of pretty young women, about it, than there are at present in town. I do assure you, at that ball—where was it?—the place I saw you, and sent you down to the division—don't you remember?—and next day, I told you, I think, they never said so much as 'I'm obliged to you' for what I had done, though it was the saving of them, about it. I say I was quite struck; the spectacle was quite charming, about it, from no other cause; and you know there is Ethel—I always said Ethel—and therecanbe no objection there; and I have distinct reasons for wishing you to be well connected, about it—in a political sense—and there is no harm in a littlemoney; and, in fact, I have made up my mind, my dear Cleve, it is indispensable, and youmustmarry. I'm quite clear upon the point."
"I can promise you, my dear uncle, that I shan't marry without your approbation."
"Well, I rather took that for granted," observed Lord Verney, with dry solemnity.
"Of course. I only say it's very difficult sometimes to see what's wisest. I have you, I know, uncle, to direct me; but you must allow I have also your example. You relied entirely upon yourself for your political position. You made it without the aid of any such step, and I should be only too proud to follow your example."
"A—yes—but the cases are different; there's a difference, about it. As I said in the debate on the Jewish Disabilities, there arc no two cases, about it, precisely parallel; and I've given my serious consideration to the subject, and I am satisfied that for every reason you ought to choose a wifeimmediately; there'snoreason against it, and you ought to choose a wife, about it, immediately; and my mind is made up quite decidedly, and I have spoken repeatedly; but now I tell you I recognise no reason for further delay—no reason against the step, and every reason for it; and in short, I shall have no choice but to treat any dilatory procedure in the matter as amounting to a distinct trifling with my known wishes, desire, and opinion."
And the Right Hon. Lord Viscount Verney smote his thin hand emphatically at these words, upon the table, as he used to do in his place in the House.
Then followed an impressive silence, the peer holding his head high, and looking a littleflushed; and Cleve very pale, with the ghost of the smile he had worn a few minutes before.
There are instruments that detect and measure with a beautiful accuracy, the presence and force of invisible influences—heat, electricity, air, moisture. If among all these "meters"—electronometers, hygrometers, anemometers—anodynometer, to detect the presence and measure the intensity of hiddenpain, were procurable, and applied to the breast of that pale, smiling young man at that moment, I wonder to what degree in its scale its index would have pointed!
Cleve intended to make some slight and playful remark, he knew not what, but his voice failed him.
He had been thinking of this possibility—of thishour—for many a day, as some men will of the Day of Judgment, and putting it aside as a hateful thought, possibly never to be embodied infact, and here it was come upon him, suddenly, inevitably, in all its terrors.
"Well, certainly, uncle,—as you wish it. I must look about me—seriously. I know you wish me to be happy. I'm very grateful; you have always bestowed so much of your thought and care upon me—toogood, a great deal."
So spoke the young man—white as that sheet of paper on which his uncle had been pencillingtwo or three of what he called his thoughts—and almost as unconscious of the import of the words he repeated.
"I'm glad, my dear Cleve, you are sensible that I have been, I may say, kind; and now let me say that I think Ethel has a great deal in her favour. There are others, however, I am well aware, and there is time to look about, but I should wish something settledthisseason—in fact, before we break up, about it; in short I have, as I said, made up my mind. I don't act without reasons; I never do, and mine are conclusive; and it was on this topic, my dear Cleve, I wished to see you. And now I think you may as well have some dinner. I'm afraid I've detained you here rather long."
And Lord Verney rose, and moved toward a book-case with Hansard in it, to signify that the conference was ended, and that he desired to be alone in his study.
Clevehad no dinner; he had supped full of horrors. He got on his coat and hat, and appeared nowhere that evening, but took an immense walk instead, in the hope I dare say of tiring out his agony—perhaps simply because quietude and uninterrupted thought were unendurable.
Next day hope began a little to revive. An inventive mind is inexhaustible; and are not the resources of delay always considerable?
Who could have been acting upon his uncle's mind in this matter? The spring of Lord Verney's action was seldom quite within himself. All at once he recollected that he had come suddenly upon what seemed an unusually secret conference between his uncle and Mr. Larkin about ten days since; it was in the library. He was sure the conversation had some reference to him. His uncle looked both annoyed and embarrassed when he came into the room; even the practised countenance of Mr. Larkin betrayed some faint signs of confusion.
Larkin he knew had been down in the neighbourhood of Ware, and probably in Cardyllian. Had anything reached him about the Malory romance? Mr. Larkin was a man who would not stick at trifles in hunting up evidence, and all that concernedhimwould now interest Mr. Larkin, and Cleve had too high an opinion of that gentleman's sagacity not to assume that if he had obtained the clue to his mystery he would make capital of the secret with Lord Verney.Viscera magnorum domuum—nothing like secret relations—confidences,—and what might not come of this? Of course, the first result would be a peremptory order on which Lord Verney had spoken last night. The only safety for the young man, it will be concluded, is to marry him suitably forthwith.
And—by Jove!—a flash of light! He had it! The whole thing was clear now. Yes;hewas to be married to Caroline Oldys, because Mr. Larkin was the professional right hand of that family, and so the attorney would glide ultimately into the absolute command of the House of Verney!
To think of that indescribably vulgar rogue's actually shaping the fortunes and meting out the tortures of Cleve Verney.
How much of our miseries result from the folly of those who would serve us! Here was Viscount Verney with, as respected Cleve, the issues of life very much in his fingers, dropping through sheer imbecility into the coarse hands of that odious attorney!
Cleve trembled with rage as he thought of the degradation to which that pompous fool, Lord Verney, was consigning him, yet what was to be done? Cleve was absolutely at the disposal of the peer, and the peer was unconsciously placing himself in the hands of Mr. Larkin, to be worked like a puppet, and spoken for by the Pharisaical attorney.
Cleve's theory hung together plausibly. It would have been gross folly to betray his jealousy of the attorney, whose opportunities with his uncle he had no means of limiting or interrupting, and against whom he had as yet no case.
He was gifted with a pretty talent for dissimulation; Mr. Larkin congratulated himself in secret upon Cleve's growing esteem and confidence. The young gentleman's manner was gracious and even friendly to a degree that was quite marked, and the unconscious attorney would have been startled had he learned on a sudden how much he hated him.
Ware—that great house which all across theestuary in which its princely front was reflected, made quite a feature in the landscape sketched by so many tourists, from the pier on the shingle of Cardyllian on bright summer days, was about to be re-habilitated, and very splendid doings were to follow.
In the mean time, before the architects and contractors, the plumbers, and painters, and carpenters, and carvers, and gilders had taken possession, and before those wonderful artists in stucco who were to encrust and overspread the ceilings with noble designs, rich and graceful and light, of fruit and flowers and cupids, and from memory, not having read the guide-book of Cardyllian and its vicinity for more than a year, I should be afraid to say what arabesques, and imagery beside, had entered with their cements and their scaffolding; and before the three brother artists had got their passports for England who were to paint on the panels of the doors such festive pieces as Watteau loved. In short, before the chaos and confusion that attend the throes of that sort of creation had set in, Lord Verney was to make a visit of a few days to Ware, and was to visit Cardyllian and to receive a congratulatory address from the corporation of that ancient town, and to inspect the gas-works (which I am glad to say are hid away in a little hollow), and the twofountains which supply the town—constructed, as the inscription tells, at the expense of "the Right Honourable Kiffyn Fulke, Nineteenth Viscount Verney, and Twenty-ninth Baron Penruthyn, of Malory." What else his lordship was to see, and to do, and to say on the day of his visit the county and other newspapers round about printed when the spectacle was actually over, and the great doings matter of history.
There were arches of evergreens and artificial flowers of paper, among which were very tolerable hollyhocks, though the roses were startling. Under these, Lord Viscount Verney and the "distinguished party" who accompanied him passed up Castle Street to the town-hall, where he was received by the mayor and town-councillors, accompanied and fortified by the town-clerk and other functionaries, all smiling except the mayor, on whom weighed the solemn responsibility of having to read the address, a composition, and no mean one, of the Rev. Dr. Splayfoot, who attended with parental anxiety "to see the little matter through," as he phrased it, and was so awfully engaged that Mrs. Splayfoot, who was on his arm, and asked him twice, in a whisper, whether the tall lady in purple silk was Lady Wimbledon, without receiving the slightest intimation that she was so much as heard, remarked testily that shehoped he would not write many more addresses, inasmuch as it made him ill-bred to that degree that if the town-hall had fallen during the reading, he never would have perceived it till he had shaken his ears in kingdom-come. Lord Verney read his answer, which there was much anxiety and pressure to hear.
"Now it reallywasbe-autiful—wasn'tit?" our friend Mrs. Jones, the draper, whispered, in particular reference to that part of it, in which the viscount invoked the blessing of the Almighty upon himself and his doings, gracefully admitting that in contravention of the Divine will and the decrees of heaven, even he could not be expected to accomplish much, though with the best intentions. And Captain Shrapnell, who felt that the sentiment was religious, and was anxious to be conspicuous, standing with his hat in his hand, with a sublime expression of countenance, said in an audible voice—"Amen."
All this over, and the building inspected, the distinguished party were conducted by the mayor, the militia band accompanying their march—[air—"The Meeting of the Waters"]—to the "Fountains" in Gunner's Lane, to which I have already alluded.
Here they were greeted by a detachment of the Llanwthyn Temperance Union, headed by short,fat Thomas Pritchard, the interesting apostle of total abstinence, who used to preach on the subject alternately in Welsh and English in all the towns who would hear his gospel, in most of which he was remembered as having been repeatedly fined for public intoxication, and known by the familiar pet-name of "Swipey Tom," before his remarkable conversion.
Mr. Pritchard now led the choir of the Lanwthyn Temperance Union, consisting of seven members, of various sizes, dressed in their Sunday costume, and standing in a row in front of fountain No. 1—each with his hat in his left hand and a tumbler of fair water in his right.
Good Mrs. Jones, who had a vague sense of fun, and remembered anecdotes of the principal figure in this imposing spectacle, did laugh a little modestly into her handkerchief, and answered the admonitory jog of her husband's elbow by pleading—"Poorfellows! Well, you know itisodd—there's no denyingthatyouknow;" and from the background were heard some jeers from the excursionists who visited Cardyllian for that gala, which kept Hughes, the Cardyllian policeman, and Evans, the other "horney," who had been drafted from Llwynan, to help to overawe the turbulent, very hot and active during that part of the ceremony.
Particularly unruly was John Swillers, who, having failed as a publican in Liverpool, in consequence of his practice of drinking the greater part of his own stock in trade, had migrated to "The Golden Posts" in Church Street, Cardyllian, where he ceased to roll his barrel, set up his tressels, and had tabernacled for the present, drinking his usual proportion of his own liquors, and expecting the hour of a new migration.
Over the heads of the spectators and the admiring natives of Cardyllian were heard such exhortations as "Go it, Swipey." "There's gin in that," "Five shillin's for his vorship, Swipey," "I say, Swipey Tom, pay your score at the Golden Posts, will ye?" "Will ye go a bit on the stretcher, Swipey?" "Here's two horneys as 'll take ye home arter that."
And these interruptions, I am sorry to say, continued, notwithstanding the remonstrances which Mr. Hughes addressed almost pathetically to John Swillers of the Golden Posts, as a respectable citizen of Cardyllian, one from whose position the police were led to expect assistance and the populace an example. There was something in these expostulations which struck John Swillers, for he would look with a tipsy solemnity in Hughes's face while he delivered them, and once took his hand, rather affectionately, and said,"That's your sort." But invariably these unpleasant interpolations were resumed, and did not cease until this moral exhibition had ended with the last verse of the temperance song, chanted by the deputation with great vigour, in unison, and which, as the reader will perceive, had in it a Bacchanalian character, which struck even the gravest listeners as a hollow mockery:—