A BREAK-DOWN.
ABOUT an hour after, a message came down from Malory for the doctor.
"How is his lordship?" asked the doctor, eagerly.
"No, it isn't _him_, sure; it is the old _lady_ is taken very bad."
"Lady Wimbledon?"
"No, sure. Her ladyship's not there. Old Mrs. Mervyn."
"Oh!" said the doctor, tranquillized. "Old Rebecca Mervyn, is it? And
what may be the matter with the poor old lady?"
"Fainting like; one fainting into another, sure; and her breath almost
gone. She's very bad--as pale as a sheet."
"Is she talking at all?"
"No, not a word. Sittin' back in her chair, sure."
"Does she know you, or mind what you say to her?"
"Well, _no_. She's a-holdin' that old white-headed man's hand that's
been so long bad there, and a-lookin' at him; but I don't think she
hears nor sees nothin' myself."
"Apoplexy, or the heart, more likely," ruminated the doctor. "Will you
call one of those pony things for me?"
And while the pony-carriage was coming to the door, he got a few
phials together and his coat on, being in a hurry; for he was to play
a rubber of billiards at the club for five shillings at seven o'clock.
In an hour's time after the interview with Arthur Verney, Lord Verney
had wonderfully collected his wits. His effects in that department, it
is true, were not very much, and perhaps the more easily brought
together. He wrote two short letters--marvellously short for him--and
sent down to the Verney Arms to request the attendance of Mr. Larkin.
Lord Verney was calm; he was even gentle; spoke, in his dry way,
little, and in a low tone. He had the window-shutter opened quite, and
the curtains drawn back, and seemed to have forgotten his invalided
state, and everything but the revolution which in a moment had
overtaken and engulfed him--to which great anguish with a dry
resignation he submitted.
Over the chimney was a little oval portrait of his father, the late
Lord Verney, taken when they wore the hair long, falling back upon
their shoulders. A pretty portrait, refined, handsome, insolent. How
dulled it was by time and neglect--how criss-crossed over with little
cracks; the evening sun admitted now set it all aglow.
"A very good portrait. How has it been overlooked so long? It must be
preserved; it shall go to Verney House. To Verney House? I forgot."
Mr. Jos. Larkin, in obedience to this sudden summons, was speedily
with Lord Verney. With this call a misgiving came. The attorney smiled
blandly, and talked in his meekest and happiest tones; but people who
knew his face would have remarked that sinister contraction of the eye
to which in moments of danger or treachery he was subject, and which,
in spite of his soft tones and child-like smile, betrayed the fear or
the fraud of that vigilant and dangerous Christian.
When he entered the room, and saw Lord Verney's face pale and stern,
he had no longer a doubt.
Lord Verney requested Mr. Larkin to sit down, and prepare for
something that would surprise him.
He then proceeded to tell Mr. Larkin that the supposed Mr. Dingwell
was, in fact, his brother, the Hon. Arthur Verney, and that,
therefore, he was not Lord Verney, but only as before, the Hon. Kiffyn
Fulke Verney.
Mr. Larkin saw that there was an up-hill game and a heavy task before
him. It was certain now, and awful. This conceited and foolish old
nobleman, and that devil incarnate, his brother, were to be managed,
and those Jew people, who might grow impracticable; and doors were to
be muffled, and voices lowered, and a stupendous secret kept. Still he
did not despair--if people would only be true to themselves.
When Lord Verney came to that part of his brief narrative where,
taking some credit dismally to himself for his penetration, he stated
that "notwithstanding that the room was dark and his voice disguised,
I recognized him; and you may conceive, Mr. Larkin, that when I made
the discovery I was a good deal disturbed about it."
Mr. Larkin threw up his eyes and hands--
"_What_ a world it is, my dear Lord Verney! for so I persist in
styling you still, for this will prove virtually no interruption."
At the close of his sentence the attorney lowered his voice earnestly.
"I don't follow you, sir, about it," replied Lord Verney,
disconsolately; "for a man who has had an illness, he looks
wonderfully well, and in good spirits and things, and as likely to
live as I am, about it."
"My remarks, my lord, were directed rather to what I may term the
animus--the design--of this, shall I call it, _demonstration_, my
lord, on the part of your lordship's brother."
"Yes, of course, the animus, about it. But it strikes me he's as
likely to outlive me as not."
"My lord, may I venture, in confidence and with great respect, to
submit, that your lordship was hardly judicious in affording him a
personal interview?"
"Why, I should hope my personal direction of that conversation,
and--and things, has been such as I should wish," said the peer, very
loftily.
"My lord, I have failed to make myself clear. I never questioned the
consummate ability with which, no doubt, your lordship's part in that
conversation was sustained. What I meant to convey is, that
considering the immense distance socially between you, the habitual
and undeviating eminence of your lordship's position, and the
melancholy circle in which it has been your brother's lot to move,
your meeting him face to face for the purpose of a personal discussion
of your relations, may lead him to the absurd conclusion that your
lordship is, in fact, afraid of him."
"That, sir, would be a very impertinent conclusion."
"Quite so, my lord, and render him proportionably impracticable. Now,
I'll undertake to bring him to reason." The attorney was speaking very
low and sternly, with contracted eyes and a darkened face. "He has
been married to the lady who lives in the house adjoining, under the
name of Mrs. Mervyn, and to my certain knowledge inquiries have been
set in motion to ascertain whether there has not been issue of that
marriage."
"You may set your mind perfectly at rest with regard to that marriage,
Mr. Larkin; the whole thing was thoroughly sifted--and things--my
father undertook it, the late Lord Verney, about it; and so it went
on, and was quite examined, and it turned out the poor woman had been
miserably deceived by a mock ceremony, and this mock thing was the
whole _thing_, and there's nothing more; the evidence was very
deplorable, and--and quite satisfactory."
"Oh! that's a great weight off my mind," said Larkin, trying to smile,
and looking very much disappointed, "a great weight, my lord."
"I knew it would--yes," acquiesced Lord Verney.
"And simplifies our dealings with the other side; for if there had
been a good marriage, and concealed issue male of that marriage, they
would have used that circumstance to _extort money_."
"Well, I don't see how they could, though; for if there had been a
child, about it--he'd have been heir apparent, don't you see? to the
title."
"Oh!--a--yes--_certainly_, that's very true, my lord; but then there's
_none_, so _that's_ at rest."
"I've just heard," interposed Lord Verney, "I may observe, that the
poor old lady, Mrs. Mervyn, is suddenly and dangerously ill."
"Oh! _is_ she?" said Mr. Larkin very uneasily, for she was, if not his
queen, at least a very valuable pawn upon his chess-board.
"Yes; the doctor thinks she's actually dying, poor old soul!"
"What a world! What is life? What is man?" murmured the attorney with
a devout feeling of the profoundest vexation. "It was for this most
melancholy character," he continued; "you'll pardon me, my lord, for
so designating a relative of your lordship's--the Honourable Arthur
Verney, who has so _fraudulently_, I will say, presented himself again
as a living claimant. Your lordship is aware of course--I shall be
going up to town possibly by the mail train to-night--that the law, if
it were permitted to act, would remove that obstacle under the old
sentence of the Court."
"Good God! sir, you can't possibly mean that I should have my brother
caught and executed?" exclaimed Lord Verney, turning quite white.
"Quite the reverse, my lord. I'm--I'm unspeakably shocked that I should
have so misconveyed myself," said Larkin, his tall bald head tinged to
its top with an ingenuous blush. "Oh no, my lord, I understand the
Verney feeling too well, thank God, to suppose anything, I will say,
so _entirely_ objectionable. I said, my lord, if it were
_permitted_, that is, allowed by simple non-_interference_--
your lordship sees--and it is precisely _because_ non-interference
must bring about that catastrophe--for I must not conceal from your
lordship the fact that there is a great deal of unpleasant talk in the
town of Cardyllian already--that I purpose running up to town to-night.
There is a Jew firm, your lordship is aware, who have a very heavy
judgment against him, and the persons of that persuasion are so
interlaced, as I may say, in matters of business, that I should
apprehend a communication to them from Goldshed and Levi, who,
by-the-by, to my certain knowledge--_what_ a world it is!--have a
person here actually watching Mr. Dingwell, or in other words, the
unhappy but Honourable Arthur Verney, in _their_ interest."
(This was in effect true, but the name of this person, which he did not
care to disclose, was Josiah Larkin.) "If I were on the spot, I think
I know a way effectually to stop all action of that sort."
"You think they'd arrest him, about it?" said Lord Verney.
"Certainly, my lord."
"It is very much to be deprecated," said Lord Verney.
"And, my lord, if you will agree to place the matter quite in my
hands, and peremptorily to decline on all future occasions, conceding
a personal interview, I'll stake my professional character, I effect a
satisfactory compromise."
"I--I don't know--I don't _see_ a compromise--there's nothing that I
see, to _settle_," said Lord Verney.
"_Every_ thing, my lord. Pardon me--your lordship mentioned that, in
point of fact, you are no longer Lord Verney; that being
so--technically, of course--measures must be taken--in short, a--a
quiet _arrangement_ with your lordship's brother, to prevent any
disturbance, and I undertake to effect it, my lord; the nature of
which will be to prevent the return of the title to abeyance, and of
the estates to the management of the trustees, whose claim for mesne
_rates_ and the liquidation of the mortgage, I need not tell your
lordship, would be ruinous to you."
"Why, sir--Mr. Larkin--I can hardly believe, sir--you can't mean, or
think it possible, sir, that I should lend myself to a deception,
and--and sit in the House of Peers by a _fraud_, sir! I'd much rather
_die_ in the debtor's prison, about it; and I consider myself
dishonoured by having involuntarily heard such an--an idea."
Poor, pompous, foolish Lord Verney stood up, so dignified and stern in
the light of his honest horror, that Mr. Larkin, who despised him
utterly, quailed before a phenomenon he could not understand.
Nothing confounded our friend Larkin, as a religious man, so much as
discovering, after he had a little unmasked, that his client would not
follow, and left him, as once or twice had happened, alone with his
dead villanous suggestion, to account for it how he could.
"Oh dear!--_surely_, my lord, your lordship did not _imagine_," said
Mr. Larkin, doing his best, "I was--I, in fact--I _supposed_ a _case_.
I only went the length of saying that I think--and with _sorrow_ I
think it--that your lordship's brother has in view an _adjustment_ of
his claim, and meant to _extract_, I fear, a sum of _money_ when he
disclosed himself, and conferred with your lordship. I meant, merely,
of course, that as he thought this I would _let_ him think it, and
allow him to disclose his plans, with a view, of course, to deal with
that information--first, of _course_, with a view to your lordship's
_honour_, and next your lordship's safety; but if your lordship did
not see your way _clearly_ to it"----
"No, I don't see--I think it most objectionable--about it. I know all
that concerns me; and I have written to two official persons--one, I
may say, the Minister himself--apprizing them of the actual position
of the title, and asking some information as to how I should proceed
in order to divest myself of it and the estates."
"Just what I should have expected from your lordship's exquisite sense
of honour," said Mr. Larkin, with a deferential bow, and a countenance
black as thunder.
That gigantic machine of torture which he had been building and
dove-tailing, with patient villany, at Lord Verney's word fell with a
crash, like an enchanted castle at its appointed spell. Well was it
for Lord Verney that the instinct of honour was strong in him, and
that he would not suffer his vulgar tempter to beguile him into one
indefensible concealment. Had he fallen, that tempter would have been
his tyrant. He would have held everything in trust for Mr. Jos.
Larkin. The effigy of Lord Verney would, indeed, have stood, on state
occasions, robed and coronetted, with his order, driven down to the
House, and sat there among hereditary senators; all around him, would
have been brilliant and luxurious, and the tall bald head of the
Christian attorney would have bowed down before the out-going and the
in-coming of the phantom. But the real peer would have sat cold and
dark enough, in Jos. Larkin's dungeon--his robe on the wall, a shirt
of Nessus--his coronet on a nail, a Neapolitan "cap of silence"--quite
tame under the rat-like eye of a terror from which he never could
escape.
There was a silence here for some time. Lord Verney leaned back with
closed eyes, exhausted. Mr. Larkin looked down on the carpet smiling
faintly, and with the tip of one finger scratching his bald head
gently. The attorney spoke--"Might I suggest, for the safety of your
lordship's unhappy brother, that the matter should be kept strictly
quiet--just for a day or two, until I shall have made arrangements for
his--may I term it--escape."
"Certainly," said Lord Verney, looking away a little. "Yes--_that_
must, of course, be arranged; and--and this marriage--I shall leave
that decision entirely in the hands of the young lady." Lord Verney
was a little agitated. "And I think, Mr. Larkin, I have said
everything at present. Good evening."
As Mr. Larkin traversed the hall of Malory, scratching the top of his
bald head with one finger, in profound and black rumination, I am
afraid his thoughts and feelings amounted to a great deal of cursing
and swearing.
"Sweet evening," he observed suddenly to the surprised servant who
opened the door for him. He was now standing at the threshold, with
his hands expanded as if he expected rain, and smiling villianously
upward toward the stars.
"Sweet evening," he repeated, and then biting his lip and looking down
for a while on the gravel, he descended and walked round the corner to
the Steward's House.