CHAPTER XIII.
THE REV. ISAAC DIXIE SETS FORTH ON A MISSION.
THERE was, as Cleve knew, a basis of truth in all that Mr. Dingwell hadsaid, which made his voice more grating, his eye more alarming, and hislanguage more disgusting.
Would that Fortune had sent them, Cleve thought, some enchanted horse,other than that beast, to fly them into the fairy-land of theirlong-deferred ambition! Would that she had sent them a Rarey, to leadhim by a metaphoric halter, and quell, by his art, the devil withinhim--the evil spirit before which something in Cleve's nature quailed,because it seemed to know nothing but appetite, and was destitute ofsympathy and foresight.
Dingwell was beset with dangers and devils of his own; but he stood inhis magic circle, making mouths and shaking his fist, and cursing atthem. He seemed to have no imagination to awe, or prudence to restrainhim. He was aware, and so was Cleve, that Larkin knew all about his oldbankruptcy, the judgments against him, the impounded forgeries on whichhe had been on the brink of indictment, and his escape from prison; andyet he railed at Larkin, and defied the powerful Verneys, as if he hadbeen an angel sent to illuminate, to lecture, and to rule them.
Mr. Larkin was usually an adroit and effectual tamer of evil beasts, insuch case as this Mr. Dingwell. He waved his thin wand of red-hot ironwith a light and firm hand, and made every raw smoke in turn, till thelion was fit to lie down with the lamb. But this Dingwell was aneccentric brute; he had no awe for the superior nature, no respect forthe imposing airs of the tamer--not the slightest appreciation even ofhis cautery. On the contrary, he seemed to like the sensation, and amusehimself with the exposure of his sores to the inspection of Mr. Larkin,who began to feel himself drawn into an embarrassing and highlydisreputable confidence.
Mr. Larkin had latterly quite given up the idea of frightening Mr.Dingwell, for when he tried that method, Mr. Dingwell had grownuncomfortably lively and skittish, and, in fact, frightened theexemplary Mr. Larkin confoundedly. He had recapitulated his ownenormities with an elation and frightful merriment worthy of ascandalous corner at a Walpurges ball; had demonstrated that heperfectly understood the game of the serious attorney, and showedhimself so curiously thick of skin, and withal so _sportive_ andformidable a rhinoceros, that Mr. Larkin then and there learned alesson, and vowed no more to try the mesmerism that succeeded withothers, or the hot rod of iron under which they winced and gasped andsuccumbed.
Such a systematic, and even dangerous defiance of everything good, hehad never encountered before. Such a person exactly as this Mr. Dingwellhe could not have imagined. There was, he feared, a vein of insanity inthat unfortunate man.
He had seen quite enough of the horrid adroitness of Mr. Dingwell'shorse-play, and felt such qualms whenever that animal capered andsnorted, that he contented himself with musing and wondering over hisidiosyncrasies, and adopted a soothing treatment with him--talked to himin a friendly, and even tender way--and had some vague plans of gettinghim ultimately into a mad-house.
But Mr. Dingwell was by this time getting into his cab, with a draperyof mufflers round him, and telling the man through the front window todrive to Rosemary Court; he threw himself back into a corner, andchuckled and snorted in a conceited ecstasy over his victory, and themoney which was coming to minister to no good in this evil world.
Cleve Verney leaned back in his chair, and there rose before him a viewof a moonlighted wood, an old chateau, with its many peaked turrets, andsteep roofs, showing silvery against the deep, liquid sky of night, andwith a sigh, he saw on the white worn steps, that beautiful, wonderfulshape that was his hope and his fate; and as he leaned on his hand, theReverend Isaac Dixie, whose name had strangely summoned this picturefrom the deep sea of his fancy, entered the room, smiling rosily, afterhis wont, and extending his broad hand, as he marched with deliberatestrides across the floor, as much as to say--"Here I am, your old tutorand admirer, who always predicted great things for you; I know you arecharmed, as I am; I know how you will greet me."
"Ha! old Dixie," and Cleve got up, with a kind of effort, and notadvancing very far, shook hands.
"So you have got your leave--a week--or _how_ long?"
"I've arranged for next Sunday, that's all, my dear Mr. Verney; somelittle inconvenience, but very happy--always happy."
"Come, I want to have a talk with you," said Cleve, drawing theclergyman to a chair. "Don't you remember--you ought, you know--whatLord Sparkish (isn't it?) says in Swift's Polite Conversations--''Tis ascheap sitting as standing.'"
The clergyman took the chair, simpering bashfully, for the allusion wascruel, and referred to a time when the Reverend Isaac Dixie, being asyet young in the ways of the world, and somewhat slow in apprehendingliterary ironies, had actually put his pupil through a grave course of"Polite Conversation," which he picked up among some odd volumes of theworks of the great Dean of St. Patrick's, on the school-room shelf atMalory.
"And for my accomplishment of saying smart things in a polite way, I amentirely obliged to you and Dean Swift," said Cleve, mischievously.
"Ah! ah! you were always fond of a jest, my dear Mr. Verney; you likedpoking fun, you did, at your old tutor; but you know how that reallywas--I have explained it so often; still, I do allow, the jest is not abad one."
But Cleve's mind was already on quite another subject.
"And now, Dixie," said he, with a sharp glance into the clergyman'seyes, "you know, or at least you guess, what it is I want you to do forme?"
The clergyman looked down by his gaiter, with his head a littlea-one-side, and his mouth a little pursed; and said he, after amomentary silence,--
"I really, I may say, _unaffectedly_, assure you that I do not."
"You're a queer fellow, old Dixie," said Cleve; "you won't be vexed, butyou are always a little bit too clever. I did not tell you exactly, butI told you enough to enable you to guess it. Don't you remember our lasttalk? Come now, Dixie, you're no muff."
"I hope not, my dear Cleve; I may be, but I don't pretend to thatcharacter, though I have still, I apprehend, much to learn in theworld's ways."
"Yes, of course," said the young man; and tapped his small teeth thatglittered under his moustache, with the end of his pencil-case, while helazily watched the face of the clergyman from under his long lashes.
"And I assure you," continued the clergyman, "if I were to pretend thatI did apprehend your intentions, I should be guilty of an inaccuracyamounting, in fact, to an untruth."
He thought he detected something a little mocking in the handsome faceof the young gentleman, and could not tell, in the shadow of thewindow-curtain, whether those even white teeth were not smiling at himoutright; and a little nettled, but not forgetting himself, he wenton,--
"You know, my dear Cleve, it is nothing on earth to _me_--absolutely; Iact merely to oblige--merely, I mean, to be useful--if in my power,consistently with all other considerations, and I speak, I humbly, butconfidently hope, habitually the truth"----
"Of _course_ you do," said the young gentleman, with emphasis, andgrowing quite serious again. "It is very kind, I know, your coming allthis way, and managing your week's absence; and you may for the presentknow just as little or as much of the matter as you please; only mind,this is--not of course in any wrong sense--a dark business--awfullyquiet. They say that, in England, a talent for speaking may raise a manto anything, but I think a talent for holding one's tongue is sometimesa better one. And--I'm quite serious, old Dixie--I'll not forget yourfidelity to me, upon my honour--really, never; and as you know, I mayyet have the power of proving it."
The Rev. Isaac Dixie folded his hands, and hung his head sideways in ameek modesty, and withal smiled so rosily and gloriously, as he sate infront of the window, that had it happened an hour before sunrise, thesparrows in the ivy all along the stable walls, would undoubtedly havemistaken it for the glow of Aurora, and commenced their chirping andtwittering salutations to the dawn an hour too soon.
"It is very gratifying, _very_, you cannot readily es
timate, my dear,and--may I not say?--my _illustrious_ pupil, _how_ gratifying to me,quite irrespective of all those substantially kind intentions which youare pleased to avow in my behalf, to hear from your lips so frankand--may I say,--almost affectionate a declaration; so just an estimateof my devotion to your interests, and I may say, I hope, of my charactergenerally?"
The Rector of Clay was smiling with a huge bashfulness, and slowlyfolding and rubbing one hand over the other, with his head gentlyinclined, and his great blue chin upon his guileless, single-breasted,black silk bosom, as he spoke all this in mellow effusion.
"Now, Dixie," said the young man, while a very anxious expression forthe first time showed itself in his face, "I want you to do me akindness--a kindness that will tie me to you all the days of my life. Itis something, but not much; chiefly that you will have to keep a secret,and take some little trouble, which I know you don't mind; but nothingserious, not the slightest irregularity, a trifle, I assure you, andchiefly, as I said, that you will have to keep a secret for me."
Dixie also looked a good deal graver as he bowed his acquiescence,trying to smile on, and still sliding his hands softly, one over theother.
"I know you guess what it is--no matter--we'll not discuss it, dearDixie; it's quite past that now. You'll have to make a little trip forme--you'll not mind it; only across what you used to call theherring-pond; and you must wait at the Silver Lion at Caen; it is thebest place there--I wish it was better--not a soul will you see--I meanEnglish, no one but quite French people; and there is quite amusement,for a day or so, in looking over the old town. Just wait there, and I'lllet you know everything before you have been two days there. I've gotyour passport; you shall have no trouble. And you need not go to a bank;there's gold here; and you'll keep it, and spend it for me till I seeyou; and you must go _to-day_."
"And, of course, I know it is nothing _wrong_, my dear Cleve; but we aretold to avoid even the _appearance_ of evil. And in any case, I shouldnot, of course, for the world offend your uncle--Lord Verney, I may callhim now--the head of the family, and my very kind patron; for I trust Inever forget a kindness; and if it should turn out to be anything whichby any chance he might misinterpret, I may reckon upon your religioussilence, my dear Cleve, as respects my name?"
"Silence! of course--I'd die before I should tell, under any pressure. Ithink you know I can keep a secret, and my own especially. And nevertrust my honour more if your name is ever breathed in connexion with anylittle service you may render me."
He pressed the Rev. Isaac Dixie's hand very earnestly as he spoke.
"And now, will you kindly take charge of this for me, and do as I said?"continued Cleve, placing the gold in Dixie's not unwilling hand. "And onthis paper I have made a note of the best way--all about the boat andthe rest; and God bless you, my dear Dixie, good-bye."
"And God bless _you_, my dear Cleve," reciprocated the clergyman, andthey shook hands again, and the clergyman smiled blandly and tenderly;and as he closed the door, and crossed the hall, grew very thoughtful,and looked as if he were getting into a possible mess.
Cleve, too, was very pale as he stood by the window, looking into thesooty garden at the back of Verney House.