THE GREEK MERCHANT SEES LORD VERNEY.
OUR friend, Wynne Williams, made a much longer stay than he had
expected in London. From him, too, Tom Sedley received about this time
a mysterious summons to town, so urgent and so solemn that he felt
there was something extraordinary in it; and on consultation with the
Etherage girls, those competent advisers settled that he should at
once obey it.
Tom wrote to Agnes on the evening of his arrival--
"I have been for an hour with Wynne Williams; you have no notion what
a good fellow he is, and what a wonderfully clever fellow. There is
something _very_ good in prospect for me, but not yet certain, and I
am bound not to tell a human being. But _you_, I will, of course, the
moment I know it for certain. It may turn out nothing at all; but we
are working very hard all the same."
In the meantime, down at Malory, things were taking a course of which
the good people of Cardyllian had not a suspicion.
With a little flush over his grim, brown face, with a little jaunty
swagger, and a slight screwing of his lips, altogether as if he had
sipped a little too much brandy-and-water--though he had nothing of
the kind that day--giggling and chuckling over short sentences; with a
very determined knitting of his eyebrows, and something in his eyes
unusually sinister, which a sense of danger gives to a wicked face,
Mr. Dingwell walked down the clumsy stairs of the steward's house, and
stood within the hatch.
There he meditated for a few moments, with compressed lips, and a
wandering sweep of his eyes along the stone urns and rose bushes that
stood in front of the dwarf wall, which is backed by the solemn old
trees of Malory.
"In for a penny, in for a pound."
And he muttered a Turkish sentence, I suppose equivalent; and thus
fortified by the wisdom of nations, he stepped out upon the broad
gravel walk, looked about him for a second or two, as if recalling
recollections, in a sardonic mood, and then walked round the corner to
the front of the house, and up the steps, and pulled at the door bell;
the knocker had been removed in tenderness to Lord Verney's irritable
nerves.
Two of his tall footmen in powder and livery were there, conveyed into
this exile from Ware; for calls of inquiry were made here, and a
glimpse of state was needed to overawe the bumpkins.
"His lordship was better; was sitting in the drawing-room; might
possibly see the gentleman; and who should he say, please?"
"Say, Mr. Dingwell, the great Greek merchant, who has a most important
communication to make."
His lordship would see Mr. Dingwell. Mr. Dingwell's name was called to
a second footman, who opened a door, and announced him.
Lady Wimbledon, who had been sitting at the window reading aloud to
Lord Verney at a little chink of light, abandoned her pamphlet, and
rustled out by another door, as the Greek merchant entered.
Dim at best, and very unequal was the light. The gout had touched his
lordship's right eyeball, which was still a little inflamed, and the
doctor insisted on darkness.
There was something diabolically waggish in Mr. Dingwell's face, if
the noble lord could only have seen it distinctly, as he entered the
room. He was full of fun; he was enjoying a coming joke, with perhaps
a little spice of danger in it, and could hardly repress a giggle.
The Viscount requested Mr. Dingwell to take a chair, and that
gentleman waited till the servant had closed the door, and then
thanked Lord Verney in a strange nasal tone, quite unlike Mr.
Dingwell's usual voice.
"I come here, Lord Verney, with an important communication to make. I
could have made it to some of the people about you--and you have able
professional people--or to your nephew; but it is a pleasure, Lord
Verney, to speak instead to the cleverest man in England."
The noble lord bowed a little affably, although he might have
questioned Mr. Dingwell's right to pay him compliments in his own
house; but Mr. Dingwell's fiddlestick had touched the right string,
and the noble instrument made music accordingly. Mr. Dingwell, in the
dark, looked very much amused.
"I can hardly style myself _that_, Mr. Dingwell."
"I speak of _business_, Lord Verney; and I adopt the language of the
world in saying the cleverest man in England."
"I'm happy to say my physician allows me to listen to reading, and to
talk a little, and there can be no objection to a little business
either," said Lord Verney, passing by the compliment this time, but,
on the whole, good-humouredly disposed toward Mr. Dingwell.
"I've two or three things to mention, Lord Verney; and the first is
money."
Lord Verney coughed drily. He was suddenly recalled to a consciousness
of Mr. Dingwell's character.
"Money, my lord. The name makes you cough, as smoke does a man with an
asthma. I've found it all my life as hard to keep, as you do to part
with. If I had but possessed Lord Verney's instincts and abilities, I
should have been at this moment one of the wealthiest men in England."
Mr. Dingwell rose as he said this, and bowed towards Lord Verney.
"I said I should name it first; but as your lordship coughs, we had,
perhaps, best discuss it last. Or, indeed, if it makes your lordship
cough very much, perhaps we had better postpone it, or leave it
entirely to your lordship's discretion--as I wouldn't for the world
send this little attack into your chest."
Lord Verney thought Mr. Dingwell less unreasonable, but also more
flighty, than he had supposed.
"You are quite at liberty, sir, to treat your subjects in what order
you please. I wish you to understand that I have no objection to hear
you; and--and you may proceed."
"The next is a question on which I presume we shall find ourselves in
perfect accord. I had the honour, as you are very well aware, of an
intimate acquaintance with your late brother, the Honourable Arthur
Verney, and beyond measure I admired his talents, which were second in
brilliancy only to your own. I admired even his _principles_--but I
see they make you cough also. They were, it is true, mephitic,
sulphurous, such as might well take your breath, or that of any other
moral man, quite away; but they had what I call the Verney stamp upon
them; they were perfectly consistent, and quite harmonious. His, my
lord, was the intense and unflinching rascality, if you permit me the
phrase, of a man of genius, and I honoured it. Now, my lord, his
adventures were curious, as you are aware, and I have them at my
fingers' ends--his crimes, his escape, and, above all, his life in
Constantinople--ha, ha, ha! It would make your hair stand on end. And
to think he should have been _your brother_! Upon my _soul_! Though,
as I said, the genius--the _genius_, Lord Verney--the inspiration was
there. In _that_ he _was_ your brother."
"I'm aware, sir, that he had talent, Mr. Dingwell, and could
speak--about it. At Oxford he was considered the most promising young
man of his time--almost."
"Yes, except _you_; but you were two years later."
"Yes, exactly. I was precisely two years later about it."
"Yes, my lord, you were always about it; so he told me. No matter what
it was--a book, or a boot-jack, or a bottle of port, you were always
about it. It was a way you had, he said--about it."
"I wasn't aware that anyone remarked any such thing--about it," said
Lord Verney, very loftily.
It dawned dimly upon him that Mr. Dingwell, who was a very irregular
person, was possibly intoxicated. But Mr. Dingwell was speaking,
though in a very nasal, odd voice, yet with a clear and sharp
articulation, and in a cool way, not the least like a man in that sort
of incapacity. Lord Verney concluded, therefore, that Mr. Dingwell was
either a remarkably impertinent person, or most insupportably
deficient in the commonest tact. I think he would have risen, even at
the inconvenience of suddenly disturbing his flannelled foot, and
intimated that he did not feel quite well enough to continue the
conversation, had he not known something of Mr. Dingwell's dangerous
temper, and equally dangerous knowledge and opportunities; for had
they not subsidized Mr. Dingwell, in the most unguarded manner, and
on the most monstrous scale, pending the investigation and proof
before the Lords? "It was inevitable," Mr. Larkin said, "but also a
little awkward; although _they_ knew that the man had sworn nothing
but truth." _Very_ awkward, _Lord Verney_ thought, and therefore he
endured Mr. Dingwell.
But the "great Greek merchant," as, I suppose half jocularly, he
termed himself, not only seemed odious at this moment, by reason of
his impertinence, but also formidable to Lord Verney, who, having
waked from his dream that Dingwell would fly beyond the Golden Horn
when once his evidence was given, and the coronet well fixed on the
brows of the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney, found himself still haunted by
this vampire bat, which hung by its hooked wing, sometimes in the
shadows of Rosemary Court--sometimes in those of the old Steward's
House--sometimes hovering noiselessly nearer--always with its eyes
upon him, threatening to fasten on his breast, and drain him.
The question of money he would leave "to his discretion." But what did
his impertinence mean? Was it not minatory? And to what exorbitant
sums in a choice of evils might not "discretion" point?
"This d--d Mr. Dingwell," thought Lord Verney "will play the devil
with my gout. I wish he was at the bottom of the Bosphorus."
"Yes. And your brother, Arthur--there were points in which he differed
from you. Unless I'm misinformed, he was a first-rate cricketer, the
crack bat of their team, and you were _nothing_; he was one of the
best Grecians in the university, and you were plucked."
"I--I don't exactly see the drift of your rather inaccurate and
extremely offensive observations, Mr. Dingwell," said Lord Verney,
wincing and flushing in the dark.
"Offensive? Good heaven! But I'm talking to a Verney, to a man of
genius; and I say, how the devil could I tell that _truth_ could
offend, either? With this reflection I forgive _myself_, and I go on
to say what will interest you."
Lord Verney, who had recovered his presence of mind, here nodded, to
intimate that he was ready to hear him.
"Well, there were a few other points, but I need not mention them, in
which you differed. You were both alike in this--each was a
genius--you were an opaque and obscure genius, he a brilliant one; but
each being a genius, there must have been a sympathy, notwithstanding
his being a publican and you a--not exactly a Pharisee, but a paragon
of prudence."
"I really, Mr. Dingwell, must request--you see I'm far from well,
about it--that you'll be so good as a little to abridge your remarks;
and I don't want to hear--you can easily, I hope, understand--my poor
brother talked of in any but such terms as a brother should listen
to."
"That arises, Lord Verney, from your not having had the advantage of
his society for so very many years. Now, I knew him intimately, and I
can undertake to say he did not care twopence what any one on earth
thought of him, and it rather amused him painting infernal caricatures
of himself, as a fiend or a monkey, and he often made me laugh by the
hour--ha, ha, ha! he amused himself with revealed religion, and with
everything sacred, sometimes even with _you_--ha, ha, ha--he _had_
certainly a wonderful sense of the ridiculous."
"May I repeat my request, if it does not appear to you _very_
unreasonable?" again interrupted Lord Verney, "and may I entreat to
know what it is you wish me to understand about it, in as few words as
you can, sir?"
"Certainly, Lord Verney; it is just this. As I have got materials,
perfectly authentic, from my deceased friend, both about
himself--horribly racy, you may suppose--ha, ha, ha--about your
grand-uncle Pendel--you've heard of him, of course--about your aunt
Deborah, poor thing, who sold mutton pies in Chester,--I was
thinking--suppose I write a memoir--Arthur alone deserves it; you pay
the expenses; I take the profits, and I throw you in the copyright for
a few thousand more, and call it, 'Snuffed-out lights of the Peerage,'
or something of the kind? I think something is due to Arthur--don't
you?"
"I think you can hardly be serious, Mr.--Mr.----"
"Perfectly serious, upon my soul, my lord. Could anything be more
curious? Eccentricity's the soul of genius, and you're proud of your
genius, I _hope_."
"What strikes me, Mr. Dingwell, amounts, in short, to something like
this. My poor brother, he has been unfortunate, about it, and--and
_worse_, and he has done things, and I ask myself _why_ there should
be an effort to obtrude him, and I answer myself, there's no reason,
about it, and therefore I vote to have everything as it is, and I
shall neither contribute my countenance, about it, nor money to any
such undertaking, or--or--undertaking."
"Then my book comes to the ground, egad."
Lord Verney simply raised his head with a little sniff, as if he were
smelling at a snuff-box.
"Well, Arthur must have something, you know."
"My brother, the Honourable Arthur Kiffyn Verney, is past receiving
anything at my hands, and I don't think he probably looked for
anything, about it, at any time from _yours_."
"Well, but it's just the time for what I'm thinking of. You wouldn't
give him a tombstone in his lifetime, I suppose, though you _are_ a
genius. Now, I happen to know he wished a tombstone. _You_'d like a
tombstone, though not now--time enough in a year or two, when you're
fermenting in your lead case."
"I'm not thinking of tombstones at present, sir, and it appears to me
that you are giving yourself a very unusual latitude--about it."
"I don't mean in the mausoleum at Ware. Of course that's a place where
people who have led a decorous life putrify together. I meant at the
small church of Penruthyn, where the scamps await judgment."
"I--a--don't see that such a step is properly for the consideration of
any persons--about it--outside the members of the Verney family, or
more properly, of any but the representatives of that family," said
Lord Verney, loftily, "and you'll excuse my not admitting, or--or, in
fact, admitting any right in anyone else."
"He wished it immensely."
"I can't understand why, sir."
"Nor I; but I suppose you all get them--all ticketed--eh? and I'd
write the epitaph, only putting in essentials, though, egad! in such a
life it would be as long as a newspaper."
"I've already expressed my opinion, and--and things, and I have
nothing to add."
"Then the tombstone comes to the ground also?"
"Anything _more_, sir?"
"But, my lord, he showed an immense consideration for you."
"I don't exactly recollect _how_."
"By _dying_--you've got hold of everything, don't you see, and you
grudge him a tablet in the little church of Penruthyn, by gad! I told
your nephew he wished it, and I tell you he wished it; it's not
stinginess, it's your mean pride."
"You seem, Mr. Dingwell, to fancy that there's no limit to the
impertinence I'll submit to."
"I'm sure there's none almost--you better not ring the bell--you
better think twice--he gave me that message, and he also left me a
mallet--quite a toy--but a single knock of it would bring Verney
House, or Ware, or this place, about your ears."
The man was speaking in quite another voice now, and in the most
awful tones Lord Verney had ever heard in his life, and to his alarmed
and sickly eyes it seemed as if the dusky figure of his visitor were
dilating in the dark like an evoked Genii.
"I--I think about it--it's quite unaccountable--all this." Lord Verney
was looking at the stranger as he spoke, and groping with his left
hand for the old-fashioned bell-rope which used to hang near him in
the library in Verney House, forgetting that there was no bell of any
sort within his reach at that moment.
"I'm not going to take poor dear Arthur's mallet out of my pocket, for
the least tap of it would make all England ring and _roar_, sir. No,
I'll make no noise; you and I, sir, _tete-a-tete_. I'll have no
go-between; no Larkin, no Levi, no Cleve; you and I'll settle it alone.
Your brother was a great Grecian, they used to call him [Greek:
Odusseus]--Ulysses. Do you remember? I said I was the great Greek
merchant? We have made an exchange together. You must pay. What shall I
call myself, for Dingwell isn't my name. I'll take a new one--To [Greek:
men proton Outin heauton epikalei--epeidande diepheuge
kai exo en belous Odussyn onomazesthai ephe] In English--at
first he called himself Outis--_Nobody_; but so soon as he had escaped,
and was out of the javelin's reach, he said that he was named
Odusseus--_Ulysses_, and here he is. This is the return of Ulysses!"
There had been a sudden change in Mr. Dingwell's Yankee intonation.
The nasal tones were heard no more. He approached the window, and
said, with a laugh, pulling the shutter more open--
"Why, Kiffyn, you fool, don't you know me?"
There was a silence.
"My great God! my great God of heaven!" came from the white lips of
Lord Verney.
"Yes; God's over all," said Arthur Verney, with a strange confusion,
between a sneer and something more genuine.
There was a long pause.
"Ha, ha, ha! don't make a scene! Not such a muff?" said Dingwell.
Lord Verney was staring at him with a face white and peaked as that of
a corpse, and whispering still--"My God! my great God!" so that
Dingwell, as I still call him, began to grow uneasy.
"Come; don't you make mountains of molehills. What the devil's all
this fuss about? Here, drink a little of this." He poured out some
water, and Lord Verney did sip a little, and then gulped down a good
deal, and then he looked at Arthur again fixedly, and groaned.
"That's right--never mind. I'll not hurt you. Don't fancy I mean to
disturb you. I _can't_, you know, if I wished it _ever_ so much. I
daren't _show_--I _know_ it. Don't suppose I want to _bully_ you; the
idea's _impracticable_. I looked in merely to tell you, in a friendly
way, who I am. You must do something handsome for me, you know.
Devil's in it if a fellow can't get a share of his own money, and, as
I said before, we'll have no go-betweens, no Jews or attorneys. D--n
them all--but settle it between ourselves, like brothers. Sip a little
more water."
"Arthur, Arthur, I say, _yes_; good God, I feel I shall have a good
deal to say; but--my head, and things--I'm a little perplexed still,
and I must have a glass of wine, about it, and I can't do it now; no,
I can't."
"I don't live far away, you know; and I'll look in to-morrow--we're
not in a hurry."
"It was a strange idea, Arthur. Good Lord, have mercy on me!"
"Not a bad one; eh?"
"Very odd, Arthur!--God forgive you."
"Yes, my dear Kiffyn, and you, too."
"The coronet--about it? I'm placed in a dreadful position, but you
shan't be compromised, Arthur. Tell them I'm not very well, and some
_wine_, I think--a little chill."
"And to-morrow I can look in again, quietly," said the Greek
merchant, "or whenever you like, and I shan't disclose our little
confidence."
"It's going--everything, everything; I shall see it by-and-by," said
Lord Verney, helplessly.
And thus the interview ended, and Mr. Dingwell in the hall gave the
proper alarm about Lord Verney.