"I can't rise, sir, to receive you—you'll excuse me; but I'm still very ill," said Mr. Dingwell.
"Pray don't stir, sir," said the clergyman.
"I can't," said Mr. Dingwell. "Will you kindly sit in that chair, near the fire? What I have to say is private, and if you please we'll speak very low. My head isn't recovered yet."
"Certainly," said the old gentleman, placing himself as Dingwell wished.
"Thank you very much, sir. Now I can manage it. Isn't your name Thomas, sir—the Reverend Thomas Bartlett?" said Mr. Dingwell, looking at him shrewdly from under his white eyebrows.
"My name's Dingwell. You don't remember? I'll try to bring it to your mind. About twenty-nine years ago you were one of the curates at St. Wyther's in the Fields?"
"Yes, sir, I was," answered the clergyman, fixing his eyes in turn inquisitively on him.
"I was the witness—do you remember me, now—to the ceremony, when that unfortunate fellow, Verney, married Miss—I have a note of her name—hang it!—Rebecca, was it?—Yes, Rebecca—it was Rebecca Mervyn. You married Verney to Miss Mervyn, and I witnessed it."
"I remember very well, sir, that a gentleman did accompany Mr. Verney; and I remember the marriage extremely well, because there occurred very distressing circumstances respecting that Mr. Verney not very long after, which fixed that marriage in my mind; but having seen you once only, sir, I can't pretend to recollect your face."