Wylder's Hand (1864)
J Sheridan Le Fanu




CONTENTS

I.--RELATING HOW I RODE THROUGH THE VILLAGE OF GYLINGDEN WITH MARK
    WYLDER'S LETTER IN MY VALISE
II.--IN WHICH I ENTER THE DRAWING-ROOM
III.--OUR DINNER-PARTY AT BRANDON
IV.--IN WHICH WE GO TO THE DRAWING-ROOM AND THE PARTY BREAKS UP
V.--IN WHICH MY SLUMBER IS DISTURBED
VI.--IN WHICH DORCAS BRANDON SPEAKS
VII.--RELATING HOW A LONDON GENTLEMAN APPEARED IN REDMAN'S DELL
VIII.--IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE TAKES HIS HAT AND STICK
IX.--I SEE THE RING OF THE PERSIAN MAGICIAN
X.--THE ACE OF HEARTS
XI.--IN WHICH LAKE UNDER THE TREES OF BRANDON, AND I IN MY CHAMBER, SMOKE
     OUR NOCTURNAL CIGARS
XII.--IN WHICH UNCLE LORNE TROUBLES ME
XIII.--THE PONY CARRIAGE
XIV.--IN WHICH VARIOUS PERSONS GIVE THEIR OPINIONS OF CAPTAIN STANLEY LAKE
XV.--DORCAS SHOWS HER JEWELS TO MISS LAKE
XVI.--"JENNY PUT THE KETTLE ON"
XVII.--RACHEL LAKE SEES WONDERFUL THINGS BY MOONLIGHT FROM HER WINDOW
XVIII.--MARK WYLDER'S SLAVE
XIX.--THE TARN IN THE PARK
XX.--CAPTAIN LAKE TAKES AN EVENING STROLL ABOUT GYLINGDEN
XXI.--IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE VISITS HIS SISTER'S SICK BED
XXII.--IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE MEETS A FRIEND NEAR THE WHITE HOUSE
XXIII.--HOW RACHEL SLEPT THAT NIGHT IN REDMAN'S FARM
XXIV.--DORCAS BRANDON PAYS RACHEL A VISIT
XXV.--CAPTAIN LAKE LOOKS IN AT NIGHTFALL
XXVI.--CAPTAIN LAKE FOLLOWS TO LONDON
XXVII.--LAWYER LARKIN'S MIND BEGINS TO WORK
XXVIII.--MARK WYLDER'S SUBMISSION
XXIX.--HOW MARK WYLDER'S DISAPPEARANCE AFFECTED HIS FRIENDS
XXX.--IN BRANDON PARK
XXXI.--IN REDMAN'S DELL
XXXII.--MR. LARKIN AND THE VICAR
XXXIII.--THE LADIES OF GYLINGDEN HEATH
XXXIV.--SIR JULIUS HOCKLEY'S LETTER
XXXV.--THE HUNT BALL
XXXVI.--THE BALL ROOM
XXXVII.--THE SUPPER-ROOM
XXXVIII.--AFTER THE BALL
XXXIX.--IN WHICH MISS RACHEL LAKE COMES TO BRANDON, AND DOCTOR BUDDLE
        CALLS AGAIN
XL.--THE ATTORNEY'S ADVENTURES ON THE WAY HOME
XLI.--IN WHICH SIR FRANCIS SEDDLEY MANIPULATES
XLII.--A PARAGRAPH IN THE COUNTY PAPER
XLIII.--AN EVIL EYE LOOKS ON THE VICAR
XLIV.--IN WHICH OLD TAMAR LIFTS UP HER VOICE IN PROPHECY
XLV.--DEEP AND SHALLOW
XLVI.--DEBATE AND INTERRUPTION
XLVII.--A THREATENING NOTICE
XLVIII.--IN WHICH I GO TO BRANDON, AND SEE AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN THE
         TAPESTRY ROOM
XLIX.--LARCOM, THE BUTLER, VISITS THE ATTORNEY
L.--NEW LIGHTS
LI.--A FRACAS IN THE LIBRARY
LII.--AN OLD FRIEND LOOKS INTO THE GARDEN AT REDMAN'S FARM
LIII.--THE VICAR'S COMPLICATIONS, WHICH LIVELY PEOPLE HAD BETTER NOT READ
LIV.--BRANDON CHAPEL ON SUNDAY
LV.--THE CAPTAIN AND THE ATTORNEY CONVERSE AMONG THE TOMBS
LVI.--THE BRANDON CONSERVATORY
LVII.--CONCERNING A NEW DANGER WHICH THREATENED CAPTAIN STANLEY LAKE
LVIII.--MISS RACHEL LAKE BECOMES VIOLENT
LIX.--AN ENEMY IN REDMAN'S DELL
LX.--RACHEL LAKE BEFORE THE ACCUSER
LXI.--IN WHICH DAME DUTTON IS VISITED
LXII.--THE CAPTAIN EXPLAINS WHY MARK WYLDER ABSCONDED
LXIII.--THE ACE OF HEARTS
LXIV.--IN THE DUTCH ROOM
LXV.--I REVISIT BRANDON HALL
LXVI.--LADY MACBETH
LXVII.--MR. LARKIN IS VIS-A-VIS WITH A CONCEALED COMPANION
LXVIII.--THE COMPANION DISCLOSES HIMSELF
LXIX.--OF A SPECTRE WHOM OLD TAMAR SAW
LXX.--THE MEETING IN THE LONG POND ALLEY
LXXI.--SIR HARRY BRACTON'S INVASION OF GYLINGDEN
LXXII.--MARK WYLDER'S HAND
LXXIII.--THE MASK FALLS
LXXIV.--WE TAKE LEAVE OF OUR FRIENDS


* * * * *


CHAPTER I.

RELATING HOW I DROVE THROUGH THE VILLAGE OF GYLINGDEN WITH MARK WYLDER'S
LETTER IN MY VALISE.


It was late in the autumn, and I was skimming along, through a rich
English county, in a postchaise, among tall hedgerows gilded, like all
the landscape, with the slanting beams of sunset. The road makes a long
and easy descent into the little town of Gylingden, and down this we were
going at an exhilarating pace, and the jingle of the vehicle sounded like
sledge-bells in my ears, and its swaying and jerking were pleasant and
life-like. I fancy I was in one of those moods which, under similar
circumstances, I sometimes experience still--a semi-narcotic excitement,
silent but delightful.

An undulating landscape, with a homely farmstead here and there, and
plenty of old English timber scattered grandly over it, extended mistily
to my right; on the left the road is overtopped by masses of noble
forest. The old park of Brandon lies there, more than four miles from end
to end. These masses of solemn and discoloured verdure, the faint but
splendid lights, and long filmy shadows, the slopes and hollows--my eyes
wandered over them all with that strange sense of unreality, and that
mingling of sweet and bitter fancy, with which we revisit a scene
familiar in very remote and early childhood, and which has haunted a long
interval of maturity and absence, like a romantic reverie.

As I looked through the chaise-windows, every moment presented some
group, or outline, or homely object, for years forgotten; and now, with a
strange surprise how vividly remembered and how affectionately greeted!
We drove by the small old house at the left, with its double gable and
pretty grass garden, and trim yews and modern lilacs and laburnums,
backed by the grand timber of the park. It was the parsonage, and old
bachelor Doctor Crewe, the rector, in my nonage, still stood, in memory,
at the door, in his black shorts and gaiters, with his hands in his
pockets, and a puckered smile on his hard ruddy countenance, as I
approached. He smiled little on others I believe, but always kindly upon
me. This general liking for children and instinct of smiling on them is
one source of the delightful illusions which make the remembrance of
early days so like a dream of Paradise, and give us, at starting, such
false notions of our value.

There was a little fair-haired child playing on the ground before the
steps as I whirled by. The old rector had long passed away; the shorts,
gaiters, and smile--a phantom; and nature, who had gathered in the past,
was providing for the future.

The pretty mill-road, running up through Redman's Dell, dank and dark
with tall romantic trees, was left behind in another moment; and we were
now traversing the homely and antique street of the little town, with its
queer shops and solid steep-roofed residences. Up Church-street I
contrived a peep at the old gray tower where the chimes hung; and as we
turned the corner a glance at the 'Brandon Arms.' How very small and low
that palatial hostelry of my earlier recollections had grown! There were
new faces at the door. It was only two-and-twenty years ago, and I was
then but eleven years old. A retrospect of a score of years or so, at
three-and-thirty, is a much vaster affair than a much longer one at
fifty.

The whole thing seemed like yesterday; and as I write, I open my eyes and
start and cry, 'can it be twenty, five-and-twenty, aye, by Jove!
five-and-thirty, years since then?' How my days have flown! And I think
when another such yesterday shall have arrived, where shall I be?

The first ten years of my life were longer than all the rest put
together, and I think would continue to be so were my future extended to
an ante-Noachian span. It is the first ten that emerge from nothing, and
commencing in a point, it is during them that consciousness, memory--all
the faculties grow, and the experience of sense is so novel, crowded, and
astounding. It is this beginning at a point, and expanding to the immense
disk of our present range of sensuous experience, that gives to them so
prodigious an illusory perspective, and makes us in childhood, measuring
futurity by them, form so wild and exaggerated an estimate of the
duration of human life. But, I beg your pardon.

My journey was from London. When I had reached my lodgings, after my
little excursion up the Rhine, upon my table there lay, among the rest,
one letter--there generally _is_ in an overdue bundle--which I viewed
with suspicion. I could not in the least tell why. It was a broad-faced
letter, of bluish complexion, and had made inquisition after me in the
country--had asked for me at Queen's Folkstone; and, _vised_ by my
cousin, had presented itself at the Friars, in Shropshire, and thence
proceeded by Sir Harry's direction (there was the autograph) to Nolton
Hall; thence again to Ilchester, whence my fiery and decisive old aunt
sent it straight back to my cousin, with a whisk of her pen which seemed
to say, 'How the plague can I tell where the puppy is?--'tis your
business, Sir, not mine, to find him out!' And so my cousin despatched it
to my head-quarters in town, where from the table it looked up in my
face, with a broad red seal, and a countenance scarred and marred all
over with various post-marks, erasures, and transverse directions, the
scars and furrows of disappointment and adventure.

It had not a good countenance, somehow. The original lines were not
prepossessing. The handwriting I knew as one sometimes knows a face,
without being able to remember who the plague it belongs to; but, still,
with an unpleasant association about it. I examined it carefully, and
laid it down unopened. I went through half-a-dozen others, and recurred
to it, and puzzled over its exterior again, and again postponed what I
fancied would prove a disagreeable discovery; and this happened every now
and again, until I had quite exhausted my budget, and then I did open it,
and looked straight to the signature.

'Pooh! Mark Wylder,' I exclaimed, a good deal relieved.

Mark Wylder! Yes, Master Mark could not hurt _me_. There was nothing
about him to excite the least uneasiness; on the contrary, I believe he
liked me as well as he was capable of liking anybody, and it was now
seven years since we had met.

I have often since thought upon the odd sensation with which I hesitated
over his unopened letter; and now, remembering how the breaking of that
seal resembled, in my life, the breaking open of a portal through which I
entered a labyrinth, or rather a catacomb, where for many days I groped
and stumbled, looking for light, and was, in a manner, lost, hearing
strange sounds, witnessing imperfectly strange sights, and, at last,
arriving at a dreadful chamber--a sad sort of superstition steals over
me.

I had then been his working junior in the cause of Wylder _v._ Trustees
of Brandon, minor--Dorcas Brandon, his own cousin. There was a
complicated cousinship among these Brandons, Wylders, and
Lakes--inextricable intermarriages, which, five years ago, before I
renounced the bar, I had at my fingers' ends, but which had now relapsed
into haze. There must have been some damnable taint in the blood of the
common ancestor--a spice of the insane and the diabolical. They were an
ill-conditioned race--that is to say, every now and then there emerged a
miscreant, with a pretty evident vein of madness. There was Sir Jonathan
Brandon, for instance, who ran his own nephew through the lungs in a duel
fought in a paroxysm of Cencian jealousy; and afterwards shot his
coachman dead upon the box through his coach-window, and finally died in
Vienna, whither he had absconded, of a pike-thrust received from a sentry
in a brawl.

The Wylders had not much to boast of, even in contrast with that wicked
line. They had produced their madmen and villains, too; and there had
been frequent intermarriages--not very often happy. There had been many
lawsuits, frequent disinheritings, and even worse doings. The Wylders of
Brandon appear very early in history; and the Wylder arms, with their
legend, 'resurgam,' stands in bold relief over the great door of Brandon
Hall. So there were Wylders of Brandon, and Brandons of Brandon. In one
generation, a Wylder ill-using his wife and hating his children, would
cut them all off, and send the estate bounding back again to the
Brandons. The next generation or two would amuse themselves with a
lawsuit, until the old Brandon type reappeared in some bachelor brother
or uncle, with a Jezebel on his left hand, and an attorney on his right,
and, presto! the estates were back again with the Wylders.

A 'statement of title' is usually a dry affair. But that of the dynasty
of Brandon Hall was a truculent romance. Their very 'wills' were spiced
with the devilment of the 'testators,' and abounded in insinuations and
even language which were scandalous.

Here is Mark Wylder's letter:--

'DEAR CHARLES--Of course you have heard of my good luck, and how kind
poor Dickie--from whom I never expected anything--proved at last. It was
a great windfall for a poor devil like me; but, after all, it was only
right, for it ought never to have been his at all. I went down and took
possession on the 4th, the tenants very glad, and so they might well be;
for, between ourselves, Dickie, poor fellow, was not always pleasant to
deal with. He let the roof all out of repair, and committed waste beside
in timber he had no right to in life, as I am told; but that don't
signify much, only the house will cost me a pretty penny to get it into
order and furnish. The rental is five thousand a-year and some hundreds,
and the rents can be got up a bit--so Larkin tells me. Do you know
anything of him? He says he did business for your uncle once. He seems a
clever fellow--a bit too clever, perhaps--and was too much master here, I
suspect, in poor Dickie's reign. Tell me all you can make out about him.
It is a long time since I saw you, Charles; I'm grown brown, and great
whiskers. I met poor Dominick--what an ass that chap is--but he did not
know me till I introduced myself, so I must be a good deal changed. Our
ship was at Malta when I got the letter. I was sick of the service, and
no wonder: a lieutenant--and there likely to stick all my days. Six
months, last year, on the African coast, watching slavers--think of that!
I had a long yarn from the viscount--advice, and that sort of thing. I do
not think he is a year older than I, but takes airs because he's a
trustee. But I only laugh at trifles that would have riled me once. So I
wrote him a yarn in return, and drew it uncommon mild. And he has been
useful to me; and I think matters are pretty well arranged to disappoint
the kind intention of good Uncle Wylder--the brute; he hated my father,
but that was no reason to persecute me, and I but an infant, almost, when
he died, d-- him. Well, you know he left Brandon with some charges to my
Cousin Dorcas. She is a superbly fine girl. Our ship was at Naples when
she was there two years ago; and I saw a good deal of her. Of course it
was not to be thought of then; but matters are quite different, you know,
now, and the viscount, who is a very sensible fellow in the main, saw it
at once. You see, the old brute meant to leave her a life estate; but it
does not amount to that, though it won't benefit me, for he settled that
when I die it shall go to his right heirs--that will be to my son, if I
ever have one. So Miss Dorcas must pack, and turn out whenever I die,
that is, if I slip my cable first. Larkin told me this--and I took an
opinion--and found it is so; and the viscount seeing it, agreed the best
thing for her as well as me would be, we should marry. She is a
wide-awake young lady, and nothing the worse for that: I'm a bit that way
myself. And so very little courtship has sufficed. She is a splendid
beauty, and when you see her you'll say any fellow might be proud of such
a bride; and so I am. And now, dear Charlie, you have it all. It will
take place somewhere about the twenty-fourth of next month; and you must
come down by the first, if you can. Don't disappoint. I want you for best
man, maybe; and besides, I would like to talk to you about some things
they want me to do in the settlements, and you were always a long-headed
fellow: so pray don't refuse.

'Dear Charlie, ever most sincerely,

'Your old Friend,

'MARK WYLDER.

'P.S.--I stay at the Brandon Arms in the town, until after the marriage;
and then you can have a room at the Hall, and capital shooting when we
return, which will be in a fortnight after.'


I can't say that Wylder was an old _friend_. But he was certainly one of
the oldest and most intimate acquaintances I had. We had been for nearly
three years at school together; and when his ship came to England, met
frequently; and twice, when he was on leave, we had been for months
together under the same roof; and had for some years kept up a regular
correspondence, which first grew desultory, and finally, as manhood
supervened, died out. The plain truth is, I did not _very_ much like him.

Then there was that beautiful apathetic Dorcas Brandon. Where is the
laggard so dull as to experience no pleasing flutter at his heart in
anticipation of meeting a perfect beauty in a country house. I was
romantic, like every other youngish fellow who is not a premature
curmudgeon; and there was something indefinitely pleasant in the
consciousness that, although a betrothed bride, the young lady still was
fancy free: not a bit in love. It was but a marriage of convenience, with
mitigations. And so there hovered in my curiosity some little flicker of
egotistic romance, which helped to rouse my spirits, and spur me on to
action.




CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH I ENTER THE DRAWING-ROOM.


I was now approaching Brandon Hall; less than ten minutes more would set
me down at its door-steps. The stiff figure of Mrs. Marston, the old
housekeeper, pale and austere, in rustling black silk (she was accounted
a miser, and estimated to have saved I dare not say how much money
in the Wylder family--kind to me with the bread-and-jam and
Naples-biscuit-kindness of her species, in old times)--stood in fancy at
the doorway. She, too, was a dream, and, I dare say, her money spent by
this time. And that other dream, to which she often led me, with the
large hazel eyes, and clear delicate tints--so sweet, so _riante_, yet so
sad; poor Lady Mary Brandon, dying there--so unhappily mated--a young
mother, and her baby sleeping in long 'Broderie Anglaise' attire upon the
pillow on the sofa, and whom she used to show me with a peeping mystery,
and her finger to her smiling lip, and a gaiety and fondness in her
pretty face. That little helpless, groping, wailing creature was now the
Dorcas Brandon, the mistress of the grand old mansion and all its
surroundings, who was the heroine of the splendid matrimonial compromise
which was about to reconcile a feud, and avert a possible lawsuit, and,
for one generation, at least, to tranquillise the troubled annals of the
Brandons and Wylders.

And now the ancient gray chapel, with its stained window, and store of
old Brandon and Wylder monuments among its solemn clump of elm-trees,
flitted by on my right; and in a moment more we drew up at the great gate
on the left; not a hundred yards removed from it, and with an eager
recognition, I gazed on the noble front of the old manorial house.

Up the broad straight avenue with its solemn files of gigantic timber
towering at the right and the left hand, the chaise rolled smoothly, and
through the fantastic iron gate of the courtyard, and with a fine
swinging sweep and a jerk, we drew up handsomely before the door-steps,
with the Wylder arms in bold and florid projection carved above it.

The sun had just gone down. The blue shadows of twilight overcast the
landscape, and the mists of night were already stealing like thin smoke
among the trunks and roots of the trees. Through the stone mullions of
the projecting window at the right, a flush of fire-light looked pleasant
and hospitable, and on the threshold were standing Lord Chelford and my
old friend Mark Wylder; a faint perfume of the mildest cheroot declared
how they had been employed.

So I jumped to the ground and was greeted very kindly by the smokers.

'I'm here, you know, _in loco parentis_;--my mother and I keep watch and
ward. We allow Wylder, you see, to come every day to his devotions. But
you are not to go to the Brandon Arms--you got my note, didn't you?'

I had, and had come direct to the Hall in consequence.

I looked over the door. Yes, my memory had served me right. There were
the Brandon arms, and the Brandon quartered with the Wylder; but the
Wylder coat in the centre, with the grinning griffins for supporters, and
flaunting scrolls all round, and the ominous word 'resurgam' underneath,
proclaimed itself sadly and vauntingly over the great entrance. I often
wonder how the Wylder coat came in the centre; who built the old house--a
Brandon or a Wylder; and if a Wylder, why was it Brandon Hall?

Dusty and seedy somewhat, as men are after a journey, I chatted with Mark
and the noble peer for a few minutes at the door, while my valise and _et
ceteras_ were lifted in and hurried up the stairs to my room, whither I
followed them.

While I was at my toilet, in came Mark Wylder laughing, as was his wont,
and very unceremoniously he took possession of my easy-chair, and threw
his leg over the arm of it.

'I'm glad you're come, Charlie; you were always a good fellow, and I
really want a hand here confoundedly. I think it will all do very nicely;
but, of course, there's a lot of things to be arranged--settlements, you
know--and I can't make head or tail of their lingo, and a fellow don't
like to sign and seal hand over head--_you_ would not advise that, you
know; and Chelford is a very good fellow, of course, and all that--but
he's taking care of Dorcas, you see; and I might be left in the lurch.'

'It is a better way, at all events, Mark, than Wylder _versus_ Trustees
of Brandon, minor,' said I.

'Well, things do turn out very oddly; don't they?' said Mark with a sly
glance of complacency, and his hands in his pockets. 'But I know you'll
hold the tiller till I get through; hang me if I know the soundings, or
where I'm going; and you have the chart by heart, Charlie.'

'I'm afraid you'll find me by no means so well up now as six years ago in
"Wylder and Brandon;" but surely you have your lawyer, Mr. Larkin,
haven't you?'

'To be sure--that's exactly it--he's Dorcas's agent. I don't know
anything about him, and I do know you--don't you see? A fellow doesn't
want to put himself into the hands of a stranger altogether, especially a
lawyer, ha, ha! it wouldn't pay.'

I did not half like the equivocal office which my friend Mark had
prepared for me. If family squabbles were to arise, I had no fancy to mix
in them; and I did not want a collision with Mr. Larkin either; and, on
the whole, notwithstanding his modesty, I thought Wylder very well able
to take care of himself. There was time enough, however, to settle the
point. So by this time, being splendid in French boots and white vest,
and altogether perfect and refreshed, I emerged from my dressing-room,
Wylder by my side.

We had to get along a dim oak-panelled passage, and into a sort of
_oeil-de-boeuf_, with a lantern light above, from which diverged two
other solemn corridors, and a short puzzling turn or two brought us to
the head of the upper stairs. For I being a bachelor, and treated
accordingly, was airily perched on the third storey.

To my mind, there is something indescribably satisfactory in the intense
solidity of those old stairs and floors--no spring in the planks, not a
creak; you walk as over strata of stone. What clumsy grandeur! What
Cyclopean carpenters! What a prodigality of oak!

It was dark by this time, and the drawing-room, a vast and grand chamber,
with no light but the fire and a pair of dim soft lamps near the sofas
and ottomans, lofty, and glowing with rich tapestry curtains and
pictures, and mirrors, and carved oak, and marble--was already tenanted
by the ladies.

Old Lady Chelford, stiff and rich, a Vandyke dowager, with a general
effect of deep lace, funereal velvet, and pearls; and pale, with dreary
eyes, and thin high nose, sat in a high-backed carved oak throne, with
red cushions. To her I was first presented, and cursorily scrutinised
with a stately old-fashioned insolence, as if I were a candidate footman,
and so dismissed. On a low seat, chatting to her as I came up, was a very
handsome and rather singular-looking girl, fair, with a light
golden-tinted hair; and a countenance, though then grave enough, instinct
with a certain promise of animation and spirit not to be mistaken. Could
this be the heroine of the pending alliance? No; I was mistaken. A third
lady, at what would have been an ordinary room's length away, half
reclining on an ottoman, was now approached by Wylder, who presented me
to Miss Brandon.

'Dorcas, this is my old friend, Charles de Cresseron. You have often
heard me speak of him; and I want you to shake hands and make his
acquaintance, and draw him out--do you see; for he's a shy youth, and
must be encouraged.'

He gave me a cheerful slap on the shoulder as he uttered this agreeable
bit of banter, and altogether disconcerted me confoundedly. Wylder's
dress-coats always smelt of tobacco, and his talk of tar. I was quietly
incensed and disgusted; for in those days I _was_ a little shy.

The lady rose, in a soft floating way; tall, black-haired--but a
blackness with a dull rich shadow through it. I had only a general
impression of large dusky eyes and very exquisite features--more delicate
than the Grecian models, and with a wonderful transparency, like tinted
marble; and a superb haughtiness, quite unaffected. She held forth her
hand, which I did little more than touch. There was a peculiarity in her
greeting, which I felt a little overawing, without exactly discovering in
what it consisted; and it was I think that she did not smile. She never
took that trouble for form's sake, like other women.

So, as Wylder had set a chair for me I could not avoid sitting upon it,
though I should much have preferred standing, after the manner of men,
and retaining my liberty.




CHAPTER III.

OUR DINNER PARTY AT BRANDON.


I was curious. I had heard a great deal of her beauty; and it had
exceeded all I heard; so I talked my sublimest and brightest chit-chat,
in my most musical tones, and was rather engaging and amusing, I ventured
to hope. But the best man cannot manage a dialogue alone. Miss Brandon
was plainly not a person to make any sort of exertion towards what is
termed keeping up a conversation; at all events she did not, and after a
while the present one got into a decidedly sinking condition. An
acquiescence, a faint expression of surprise, a fainter smile--she
contributed little more, after the first few questions of courtesy had
been asked, in her low silvery tones, and answered by me. To me the
natural demise of a _tête-à-tête_ discourse has always seemed a disgrace.
But this apathetic beauty had either more moral courage or more stupidity
than I, and was plainly terribly indifferent about the catastrophe. I've
sometimes thought my struggles and sinkings amused her cruel serenity.

Bella ma stupida!--I experienced, at last, the sort of pique with which
George Sand's hero apostrophises _la derniere Aldini_. Yet I could not
think her stupid. The universal instinct honours beauty. It is so
difficult to believe it either dull or base. In virtue of some mysterious
harmonies it is 'the image of God,' and must, we feel, enclose the
God-like; so I suppose I felt, for though I wished to think her stupid, I
could not. She was not exactly languid, but a grave and listless beauty,
and a splendid beauty for all that.

I told her my early recollections of Brandon and Gylingden, and how I
remembered her a baby, and said some graceful trifles on that theme,
which I fancied were likely to please. But they were only received, and
led to nothing. In a little while in comes Lord Chelford, always natural
and pleasant, and quite unconscious of his peerage--he was above it, I
think--and chatted away merrily with that handsome animated blonde--who
on earth, could she be?--and did not seem the least chilled in the stiff
and frosted presence of his mother, but was genial and playful even with
that Spirit of the Frozen Ocean, who received his affectionate trifling
with a sort of smiling, though wintry pride and complacency, reflecting
back from her icy aspects something of the rosy tints of that kindly
sunshine.

I thought I heard him call the young lady Miss Lake, and there rose
before me an image of an old General Lake, and a dim recollection of some
reverse of fortune. He was--I was sure of that--connected with the
Brandon family; and was, with the usual fatality, a bit of a _mauvais
sujet_. He had made away with his children's money, or squandered his
own; or somehow or another impoverished his family not creditably. So I
glanced at her, and Miss Brandon divined, it seemed, what was passing in
my mind, for she said:--

'That is my cousin, Miss Lake, and I think her very beautiful--don't
you?'

'Yes, she certainly is very handsome,' and I was going to say something
about her animation and spirit, but remembered just in time, that that
line of eulogy would hardly have involved a compliment to Miss Brandon.
'I know her brother, a little--that is, Captain Lake--Stanley Lake; he's
her brother, I fancy?'

'_Oh?_' said the young lady, in that tone which is pointed with an
unknown accent, between a note of enquiry and of surprise. 'Yes; he's her
brother.'

And she paused; as if something more were expected. But at that moment
the bland tones of Larcom, the solemn butler, announced the Rev. William
Wylder and Mrs. Wylder, and I said--

'William is an old college friend of mine;' and I observed him, as he
entered with an affectionate and sad sort of interest. Eight years had
passed since we met last, and that is something at any time. It had
thinned my simple friend's hair a little, and his face, too, was more
careworn than I liked, but his earnest, sweet smile was there still.
Slight, gentle, with something of a pale and studious refinement in his
face. The same gentle voice, with that slight, occasional hesitation,
which somehow I liked. There is always a little shock after an absence of
some years before identities adjust themselves, and then we find the
change is not, after all, so very great. I suspect it is, rather, that
something of the old picture is obliterated, in that little interval, to
return no more. And so William Wylder was vicar now instead of that
straight wiry cleric of the mulberry face and black leggings.

And who was this little Mrs. William Wylder who came in, so homely of
feature, so radiant of goodhumour, so eager and simple, in a very plain
dress--a Brandon housemaid would not have been seen in it, leaning so
pleasantly on his lean, long, clerical arm--made for reaching books down
from high shelves, a lank, scholarlike limb, with a somewhat threadbare
cuff--and who looked round with that anticipation of pleasure, and that
simple confidence in a real welcome, which are so likely to insure it?
Was she an helpmeet for a black-letter man, who talked with the Fathers
in his daily walks, could extemporise Latin hexameters, and dream in
Greek. Was she very wise, or at all learned? I think her knowledge lay
chiefly in the matters of poultry, and puddings, and latterly, of the
nursery, where one treasure lay--that golden-haired little boy, four
years old, whom I had seen playing among the roses before the parsonage
door, asleep by this time--half-past seven, 'precise,' as old Lady
Chelford loved to write on her summons to dinner.

When the vicar, I dare say, in a very odd, quaint way, made his proposal
of marriage, moved thereto assuredly, neither by fortune, nor by beauty,
to good, merry, little Miss Dorothy Chubley, whom nobody was supposed to
be looking after, and the town had, somehow, set down from the first as a
natural-born old maid--there was a very general amazement; some
disappointment here and there, with customary sneers and compassion, and
a good deal of genuine amusement not ill-natured.

Miss Chubley, all the shopkeepers in the town knew and liked, and, in a
way, respected her, as 'Miss Dolly.' Old Reverend John Chubley, D.D., who
had been in love with his wife from the period of his boyhood; and yet so
grudging was Fate, had to undergo an engagement of nigh thirty years
before Hymen rewarded their constancy; being at length made Vicar of
Huddelston, and master of church revenues to the amount of three hundred
pounds a year--had, at forty-five, married his early love, now forty-two.

They had never grown old in one another's fond eyes. Their fidelity was
of the days of chivalry, and their simplicity comical and beautiful.
Twenty years of happy and loving life were allotted them and one
pledge--poor Miss Dorothy--was left alone, when little more than nineteen
years old. This good old couple, having loved early and waited long, and
lived together with wonderful tenderness and gaiety of heart their
allotted span, bid farewell for a little while--the gentle little lady
going first, and, in about two years more, the good rector following.

I remembered him, but more dimly than his merry little wife, though she
went first. She made raisin-wine, and those curious biscuits that tasted
of Windsor soap.

And this Mrs. William Wylder just announced by soft-toned Larcom, is the
daughter (there is no mistaking the jolly smile and lumpy odd little
features, and radiance of amiability) of the good doctor and Mrs.
Chubley, so curiously blended in her loving face. And last comes in old
Major Jackson, smiling largely, squaring himself, and doing his
courtesies in a firm but florid military style, and plainly pleased to
find himself in good company and on the eve of a good dinner. And so our
dinner-list is full.

The party were just nine--and it is wonderful what a row nine
well-behaved people will contrive to make at a dinner-table. The inferior
animals--as we see them caged and cared for, and fed at one o'clock,
'precise,' in those public institutions provided for their
maintenance--confine their uproar to the period immediately antecedent to
their meal, and perform the actual process of deglutition with silent
attention, and only such suckings, lappings, and crunchings, as
illustrate their industry and content. It is the distinctive privilege of
man to exert his voice during his repast, and to indulge also in those
specially human cachinnations which no lower creature, except that
disreputable Australian biped known as the 'laughing jackass,' presumes
to imitate; and to these vocal exercises of the feasters respond the
endless ring and tinkle of knife and fork on china plate, and the
ministering angels in white chokers behind the chairs, those murmured
solicitations which hum round and round the ears of the revellers.

Of course, when great guns are present, and people talk _pro bono
publico_, one at a time, with parliamentary regularity, things are
different; but at an ordinary symposium, when the garrulous and diffident
make merry together, and people break into twos or threes and talk across
the table, or into their neighbours' ears, and all together, the noise is
not only exhilarating and peculiar, but sometimes perfectly
unaccountable.

The talk, of course, has its paroxysms and its subsidences. I have once
or twice found myself on a sudden in total silence in the middle of a
somewhat prolix, though humorous story, commenced in an uproar for the
sole recreation of my pretty neighbour, and ended--patched up,
_renounced_--a faltering failure, under the converging gaze of a sternly
attentive audience.

On the other hand, there are moments when the uproar whirls up in a
crescendo to a pitch and volume perfectly amazing; and at such times, I
believe that anyone might say anything to the reveller at his elbow,
without the smallest risk of being overheard by mortal. You may plan with
young Caesar Borgia, on your left, the poisoning of your host; or ask
pretty Mrs. Fusible, on your right, to elope with you from her grinning
and gabbling lord, whose bald head flashes red with champagne only at the
other side of the table. There is no privacy like it; you may plot your
wickedness, or make your confession, or pop the question, and not a soul
but your confidant be a bit the wiser--provided only you command your
countenance.

I don't know how it happened, but Wylder sat beside Miss Lake. I fancied
he ought to have been differently placed, but Miss Brandon did not seem
conscious of his absence, and it seemed to me that the handsome blonde
would have been as well pleased if he had been anywhere but where he was.
There was no look of liking, though some faint glimmerings both of
annoyance and embarrassment in her face. But in Wylder's I saw a sort of
conceited consciousness, and a certain eagerness, too, while he talked;
though a shrewd fellow in many ways, he had a secret conviction that no
woman could resist him.

'I suppose the world thinks me a very happy fellow, Miss Lake?' he said,
with a rather pensive glance of enquiry into that young lady's eyes, as
he set down his hock-glass.

'I'm afraid it's a selfish world, Mr. Wylder, and thinks very little of
what does not concern it.'

'Now, _you_, I dare say,' continued Wylder, not caring to perceive the
_soupçon_ of sarcasm that modulated her answer so musically, 'look upon
me as a very fortunate fellow?'

'You are a very fortunate person, Mr. Wylder; a gentleman of very
moderate abilities, with no prospects, and without fortune, who finds
himself, without any deservings of his own, on a sudden, possessed of an
estate, and about to be united to the most beautiful heiress in England,
_is_, I think, rather a fortunate person.'

'You did not always think me so stupid, Miss Lake,' said Mr. Wylder,
showing something of the hectic of vexation.

'Stupid! did I say? Well, you know, we learn by experience, Mr. Wylder.
One's judgment matures, and we are harder to please--don't you think
so?--as we grow older.'

'Aye, so we are, I dare say; at any rate, some things don't please us as
we calculated. I remember when this bit of luck would have made me a
devilish happy fellow--_twice_ as happy; but, you see, if a fellow hasn't
his liberty, where's the good of money? I don't know how I got into it,
but I can't get away now; and the lawyer fellows, and trustees, and all
that sort of prudent people, get about one, and persuade, and exhort, and
they bully you, by Jove! into what they call a marriage of convenience--I
forget the French word--you know; and then, you see, your feelings may be
very different, and all that; and where's the good of money, I say, if
you can't enjoy it?'

And Mr. Wylder looked poetically unhappy, and trundled over a little bit
of fricandeau on his plate with his fork, desolately, as though earthly
things had lost their relish.

'Yes; I think I know the feeling,' said Miss Lake, quietly. 'That ballad,
you know, expresses it very prettily:--"Oh, thou hast been the cause of
this anguish, my mother?"'

It was not then as old a song as it is now.

Wylder looked sharply at her, but she did not smile, and seemed to speak
in good faith; and being somewhat thick in some matters, though a cunning
fellow, he said--

'Yes; that is the sort of thing, you know--of course, with a
difference--a girl is supposed to speak there; but men suffer that way,
too--though, of course, very likely it's more their own fault.'

'It is very sad,' said Miss Lake, who was busy with a _pâté_.

'She has no life in her; she's a mere figurehead; she's awfully slow; I
don't like black hair; I'm taken by conversation--and all that. There are
some men that can only really love once in their lives, and never forget
their first love, I assure you.'

Wylder murmured all this, and looked as plaintive as he could without
exciting the attention of the people over-the-way.

Mark Wylder had, as you perceive, rather vague notions of decency, and
not much experience of ladies; and thought he was making just the
interesting impression he meditated. He was a good deal surprised, then,
when Miss Lake said, and with quite a cheerful countenance, and very
quickly, but so that her words stung his ear like the prick of a bodkin.

'Your way of speaking of my cousin, Sir, is in the highest degree
discreditable to you and offensive to me, and should you venture to
repeat it, I will certainly mention it to Lady Chelford.'

And so she turned to old Major Jackson at her right, who had been
expounding a point of the battle of Vittoria to Lord Chelford; and she
led him again into action, and acquired during the next ten minutes a
great deal of curious lore about Spanish muleteers and French prisoners,
together with some particulars about the nature of picket duty, and 'that
scoundrel, Castanos.'




CHAPTER IV.

IN WHICH WE GO TO THE DRAWING-ROOM AND THE PARTY BREAKS UP.


Wylder was surprised, puzzled, and a good deal incensed--that saucy craft
had fired her shot so unexpectedly across his bows. He looked a little
flushed, and darted a stealthy glance across the table, but no one he
thought had observed the manoeuvre. He would have talked to ugly Mrs. W.
Wylder, his sister-in-law, at his left, but she was entertaining Lord
Chelford now. He had nothing for it but to perform _cavalier seul_ with
his slice of mutton--a sensual sort of isolation, while all the world was
chatting so agreeably and noisily around him. He would have liked, at
that moment, a walk upon the quarter-deck, with a good head-wind blowing,
and liberty to curse and swear a bit over the bulwark. Women are so full
of caprice and hypocrisy, and 'humbugging impudence!'

Wylder was rather surly after the ladies had floated away from the scene,
and he drank his liquor doggedly. It was his fancy, I suppose, to revive
certain sentimental relations which had, it may be, once existed between
him and Miss Lake; and he was a person of that combative temperament that
magnifies an object in proportion as its pursuit is thwarted.

In the drawing-room he watched Miss Lake over his cup of coffee, and
after a few words to his _fiancée_ he lounged towards the table at which
she was turning over some prints.

'Do come here, Dorothy,' she exclaimed, not raising her eyes, 'I have
found the very thing.'

'What thing? my dear Miss Lake,' said that good little woman, skipping to
her side.

'The story of "Fridolin," and Retzch's pretty outlines. Sit down beside
me, and I'll tell you the story.'

'Oh!' said the vicar's wife, taking her seat, and the inspection and
exposition began; and Mark Wylder, who had intended renewing his talk
with Miss Lake, saw that she had foiled him, and stood with a heightened
colour and his hands in his pockets, looking confoundedly cross and very
like an outcast, in the shadow behind.

After a while, in a pet, he walked away. Lord Chelford had joined the two
ladies, and had something to say about German art, and some pleasant
lights to throw from foreign travel, and devious reading, and was as
usual intelligent and agreeable; and Mark was still more sore and angry,
and strutted away to another table, a long way off, and tossed over the
leaves of a folio of Wouverman's works, and did not see one of the plates
he stared at so savagely.

I don't think Mark was very clear as to what he wanted, or, even if he
had had a cool half-hour to define his wishes, that he would seriously
have modified existing arrangements. But he had a passionate sort of
obstinacy, and his whims took a violent character when they were crossed,
and he was angry and jealous and unintelligible, reminding one of
Carlyle's description of Philip Egalité--a chaos.

Then he joined a conversation going on between Dorcas Brandon and the
vicar, his brother. He assisted at it, but took no part, and in fact was
listening to that other conversation which sounded, with its pleasant
gabble and laughter, like a little musical tinkle of bells in the
distance. His gall rose, and that distant talk rang in his ears like a
cool but intangible insult.

It was dull work. He looked at his watch--the brougham would be at the
door to take Miss Lake home in a quarter of an hour; so he glided by old
Lady Chelford, who was dozing stiffly through her spectacles on a French
novel, and through a second drawing-room, and into the hall, where he saw
Larcom's expansive white waistcoat, and disregarded his advance and
respectful inclination, and strode into the outer hall or vestibule,
where were hat-stands, walking-sticks, great coats, umbrellas, and the
exuviae of gentlemen.

Mark clapped on his hat, and rifled the pocket of his paletot of his
cigar-case and matches, and spluttered a curse or two, according to old
Nollekins' receipt for easing the mind, and on the door-steps lighted his
cheroot, and became gradually more philosophical.

In due time the brougham came round with its lamps lighted, and Mark, who
was by this time placid, greeted Price on the box familiarly, after his
wont, and asked him whom he was going to drive, as if he did not know,
cunning fellow; and actually went so far as to give Price one of those
cheap and nasty weeds, of which he kept a supply apart in his case for
such occasions of good fellowship.

So Mark waited to put the lady into the carriage, and he meditated
walking a little way by the window and making his peace, and there was
perhaps some vague vision of jumping in afterwards; I know not. Mark's
ideas of ladies and of propriety were low, and he was little better than
a sailor ashore, and not a good specimen of that class of monster.

He walked about the courtyard smoking, looking sometimes on the solemn
front of the old palatial mansion, and sometimes breathing a white film
up to the stars, impatient, like the enamoured Aladdin, watching in
ambuscade for the emergence of the Princess Badroulbadour. But honest
Mark forgot that young ladies do not always come out quite alone, and
jump unassisted into their vehicles. And in fact not only did Lord
Chelford assist the fair lady, cloaked and hooded, into the carriage, but
the vicar's goodhumoured little wife was handed in also, the good vicar
looking on, and as the gay good-night and leave-taking took place by the
door-steps, Mark drew back, like a guilty thing, in silence, and showed
no sign but the red top of his cigar, glowing like the eye of a Cyclops
in the dark; and away rolled the brougham, with the two ladies, and
Chelford and the vicar went in, and Mark hurled the stump of his cheroot
at Fortune, and delivered a fragmentary soliloquy through his teeth; and
so, in a sulk, without making his adieux, he marched off to his crib at
the Brandon Arms.




CHAPTER V.

IN WHICH MY SLUMBER IS DISTURBED.


The ladies had accomplished their ascension to the upper regions. The
good vicar had marched off with the major, who was by this time
unbuckling in his lodgings; and Chelford and I, _tête-à-tête_, had a
glass of sherry and water together in the drawing-room before parting.
And over this temperate beverage I told him frankly the nature of the
service which Mark Wylder wished me to render him; and he as frankly
approved, and said he would ask Larkin, the family lawyer, to come up in
the morning to assist.

The more I saw of this modest, refined, and manly peer, the more I liked
him. There was a certain courteous frankness, and a fine old English
sense of duty perceptible in all his serious talk. So I felt no longer
like a conspirator, and was to offer such advice as might seem expedient,
with the clear approbation of Miss Brandon's trustee. And this point
clearly settled, I avowed myself a little tired; and lighting our candles
at the foot of the stairs, we scaled that long ascent together, and he
conducted me through the intricacies of the devious lobbies up stairs to
my chamber-door, where he bid me good-night, shook hands, and descended
to his own quarters.

My room was large and old-fashioned, but snug; and I, beginning to grow
very drowsy, was not long in getting to bed, where I fell asleep
indescribably quickly.

In all old houses one is, of course, liable to adventures. Where is the
marvellous to find refuge, if not among the chambers, the intricacies,
which have seen the vicissitudes, the crimes, and the deaths of
generations of such men as had occupied these?

There was a picture in the outer hall--one of those full-length gentlemen
of George II.'s time, with a dark peruke flowing on his shoulders, a cut
velvet coat, and lace cravat and ruffles. This picture was pale, and had
a long chin, and somehow had impressed my boyhood with a singular sense
of fear. The foot of my bed lay towards the window, distant at least
five-and-twenty-feet; and before the window stood my dressing-table, and
on it a large looking-glass.

I dreamed that I was arranging my toilet before this glass--just as I had
done that evening--when on a sudden the face of the portrait I have
mentioned was presented on its surface, confronting me like a real
countenance, and advancing towards me with a look of fury; and at the
instant I felt myself seized by the throat and unable to stir or to
breathe. After a struggle with this infernal garotter, I succeeded in
awaking myself; and as I did so, I felt a rather cold hand really resting
on my throat, and quietly passed up over my chin and face. I jumped out
of bed with a roar, and challenged the owner of the hand, but received no
answer, and heard no sound. I poked up my fire and lighted my candle.
Everything was as I had left it except the door, which was the least bit
open.

In my shirt, candle in hand, I looked out into the passage. There was
nothing there in human shape, but in the direction of the stairs the
green eyes of a large cat were shining. I was so confoundedly nervous
that even 'a harmless, necessary cat' appalled me, and I clapped my door,
as if against an evil spirit.

In about half an hour's time, however, I had quite worked off the effect
of this night-mare, and reasoned myself into the natural solution that
the creature had got on my bed, and lay, as I have been told they will,
upon my throat, and so, all the rest had followed.

Not being given to the fear of _larvae_ and _lemures_, and also knowing
that a mistake is easily committed in a great house like that, and that
my visitor might have made one, I grew drowsy in a little while, and soon
fell asleep again. But knowing all I now do, I hold a different
conclusion--and so, I think, will you.

In the morning Mark Wylder was early upon the ground. He had quite slept
off what he would have called the nonsense of last night, and was very
keen upon settlements, consols, mortgages, jointures, and all that dry
but momentous lore.

I find a note in my diary of that day:--'From half-past ten o'clock until
two with Mark Wylder and Mr. Larkin, the lawyer, in the study--dull
work--over papers and title--Lord Chelford with us now and then to lend a
helping hand.'

Lawyer Larkin, though he made our work lighter--for he was clear, quick,
and orderly, and could lay his hand on any paper in those tin walls of
legal manuscripts that built up two sides of his office--did not make our
business, to me at least, any pleasanter. Wylder thought him a clever man
(and so perhaps, in a certain sense, he was); Lord Chelford, a most
honourable one; yet there came to me by instinct an unpleasant feeling
about him. It was not in any defined way--I did not fancy that he was
machinating, for instance, any sort of mischief in the business before
us--but I had a notion that he was not quite what he pretended.

Perhaps his _personnel_ prejudiced me--though I could not quite say why.
He was a tall, lank man--rather long of limb, long of head, and gaunt of
face. He wanted teeth at both sides, and there was rather a skull-like
cavity when he smiled--which was pretty often. His eyes were small and
reddish, as if accustomed to cry; and when everything went smoothly were
dull and dove-like, but when things crossed or excited him, which
occurred when his own pocket or plans were concerned, they grew
singularly unpleasant, and greatly resembled those of some not amiable
animal--was it a rat, or a serpent? It was a peculiar concentrated
vigilance and rapine that I have seen there. But that was long
afterwards. Now, indeed, they were meek, and sad, and pink.

He had an ambition, too, to pass for a high-bred gentleman, and thought
it might be done by a somewhat lofty and drawling way of talking, and
distributing his length of limb in what he fancied were easy attitudes.
If the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel, so are the elegances of a
vulgar man; and his made me wince.

I might be all in the wrong--and was, no doubt, unreasonable--for he bore
a high character, and passed for a very gentlemanlike man among the
villagers. He was also something of a religious light, and had for a time
conformed to Methodism, but returned to the Church. He had a liking for
long sermons, and a sad abhorrence of amusements, and sat out the morning
and the evening services regularly--and kept up his dissenting connection
too, and gave them money--and appeared in print, in all charitable
lists--and mourned over other men's backslidings and calamities in a
lofty and Christian way, shaking his tall bald head, and turning up his
pink eyes mildly.

Notwithstanding all which he was somehow unlovely in my eyes, and in an
indistinct way, formidable. It was not a pleasant misgiving about a
gentleman of Larkin's species, the family lawyer, who become _viscera
magnorum domuum_.

My duties were lighter, as adviser, than I at first apprehended. Wylder's
crotchets were chiefly 'mare's nests.' We had read the draft of the
settlement, preparatory to its being sent to senior counsel to be
approved. Wylder's attorney had done his devoir, and Mr. Larkin avowed a
sort of parental interest in both parties to the indentures, and made, at
closing, a little speech, very high in morality, and flavoured in a manly
way with religion, and congratulated Mark on his honour and plain
dealing, which he gave us to understand were the secrets of all success
in life, as they had been, in an humble way of his own.




CHAPTER VI.

IN WHICH DORCAS BRANDON SPEAKS.


In answer to 'the roaring shiver of the gong' we all trooped away
together to luncheon. Lady Chelford and Dorcas and Chelford had nearly
ended that irregular repast when we entered. My chair was beside Miss
Brandon; she had breakfasted with old Lady Chelford that morning, and
this was my first meeting that day. It was not very encouraging.

People complained that acquaintance made little way with her. That you
were, perhaps, well satisfied with your first day's progress, but the
next made no head-way; you found yourself this morning exactly at the
point from which you commenced yesterday, and to-morrow would recommence
where you started the day before. This is very disappointing, but may
sometimes be accounted for by there being nothing really to discover. It
seemed to me, however, that the distance had positively increased since
yesterday, and that the oftener she met me the more strange she became.
As we went out, Wylder enquired, with his usual good taste: 'Well, what
do you think of her?' Then he looked slily at me, laughing, with his
hands in his pockets. 'A little bit slow, eh?' he whispered, and laughed
again, and lounged into the hall. If Dorcas Brandon had been a plain
woman, I think she would have been voted an impertinent bore; but she was
so beautiful that she became an enigma. I looked at her as she stood
gravely gazing from the window. Is it Lady Macbeth? No; she never would
have had energy to plan her husband's career and manage that affair of
Duncan. A sultana rather--sublimely egotistical, without reverence--a
voluptuous and haughty embodiment of indifference. I paused, looking at a
picture, but thinking of her, and was surprised by her voice very near
me.

'Will you give me just a minute, Mr. De Cresseron, in the drawing-room,
while I show you a miniature? I want your opinion.'

So she floated on and I accompanied her.

'I think,' she said, 'you mentioned yesterday, that you remembered me
when an infant. You remember my poor mamma, don't you, very well?'

This was the first time she had yet shown any tendency, so far as I had
seen, to be interested in anything, or to talk to me. I seized the
occasion, and gave her, as well as I could, the sad and pretty picture
that remained, and always will, in the vacant air, when I think of her,
on the mysterious retina of memory.

How filmy they are! the moonlight shines through them, as through the
phantom Dane in Retzch's outlines--colour without substance. How they
come, wearing for ever the sweetest and pleasantest look of their earthly
days. Their sweetest and merriest tones hover musically in the distance;
how far away, how near to silence, yet how clear! And so it is with our
remembrance of the immortal part. It is the loveliest traits that remain
with us perennially; all that was noblest and most beautiful is there, in
a changeless and celestial shadow; and this is the resurrection of the
memory, the foretaste and image which the 'Faithful Creator' accords us
of the resurrection and glory to come--the body redeemed, the spirit made
perfect.

On a cabinet near to where she stood was a casket of ormolu, which she
unlocked, and took out a miniature, opened, and looked at it for a long
time. I knew very well whose it was, and watched her countenance; for, as
I have said, she interested me strangely. I suppose she knew I was
looking at her; but she showed always a queenlike indifference about what
people might think or observe. There was no sentimental softening; but
her gaze was such as I once saw the same proud and handsome face turn
upon the dead--pale, exquisite, perhaps a little stern. What she read
there--what procession of thoughts and images passed by--threw neither
light nor shadow on her face. Its apathy interested me inscrutably.

At last she placed the picture in my hand, and asked--

'Is this really very like her?'

'It is, and it is _not_,' I said, after a little pause. 'The features are
true: it is what I call an accurate portrait, but that is all. I dare
say, exact as it is, it would give to one who had not seen her a false,
as it must an inadequate, idea, of the original. There was something
_naïve_ and _spirituel_, and very tender in her face, which he has not
caught--perhaps it could hardly be fixed in colours.'

'Yes, I always heard her expression and intelligence were very beautiful.
It was the beauty of mobility--true beauty.'

'There is a beauty of another stamp, equally exquisite, Miss Brandon, and
perhaps more overpowering.' I said this in nearly a whisper, and in a
very marked way, almost tender, and the next moment was amazed at my own
audacity. She looked on me for a second or two, with her dark drowsy
glance, and then it returned to the picture, which was again in her hand.
There was a total want of interest in the careless sort of surprise she
vouchsafed my little sally; neither was there the slightest resentment.
If a wafer had been stuck upon my forehead, and she had observed it,
there might have been just that look and no more. I was ridiculously
annoyed with myself. I was betrayed, I don't know how, into this little
venture, and it was a flat failure. The position of a shy man, who has
just made an unintelligible joke at a dinner-table, was not more pregnant
with self-reproach and embarrassment.

Upon my honour, I don't think there was anything of the _roué_ in me. I
own I did feel towards this lady, who either was, or seemed to me, so
singular, a mysterious interest just beginning--of that peculiar kind
which becomes at last terribly absorbing.

I was more elated by her trifling notice of me than I can quite account
for. It was a distinction. She was so indescribably handsome--so
passively disdainful. I think if she had listened to me with even the
faintest intimation of caring whether I spoke in this tone or not, with
even a flash of momentary resentment, I might have rushed into a most
reprehensible and ridiculous rigmarole.

In this, the subtlest and most perilous of all intoxications, it needs
immense presence of mind to conduct ourselves always with decorum. But
she was looking, just as before, at the miniature, as it seemed to me, in
fancy infusing some of the spirit I had described into the artist's
record, and she said, only in soliloquy, as it were, 'Yes, I see--I
_think_ I see.'

So there was a pause; and then she said, without, however, removing her
eyes from the miniature, 'You are, I believe, Mr. De Cresseron, a very
old friend of Mr. Wylder's. Is it not so?'

So soon after my little escapade, I did not like the question; but it was
answered. There was not the faintest trace of a satirical meaning,
however, in her face; and after another very considerable interval, at
the end of which she shut the miniature in its case, she said, 'It was a
peculiar face, and very beautiful. It is odd how many of our family
married for love--wild love-matches. My poor mother was the last. I could
point you out many pictures, and tell you stories--my cousin, Rachel,
knows them all. You know Rachel Lake?'

'I've not the honour of knowing Miss Lake. I had not an opportunity of
making her acquaintance yesterday; but I know her brother--so does
Wylder.'

'What's that?' said Mark, who had just come in, and was tumbling over a
volume of 'Punch' at the window.

'I was telling Miss Brandon that we both know Stanley Lake.' On hearing
which, Wylder seemed to discover something uncommonly interesting or
clever in the illustration before him; for he approached his face very
near to it, in a scrutinising way, and only said, 'Oh?'

'That marrying for love was a fatality in our family,' she continued in
the same low tone--too faint I think to reach Mark. 'They were all the
most beautiful who sacrificed themselves so--they were all unhappy
marriages. So the beauty of our family never availed it, any more than
its talents and its courage; for there were clever and witty men, as well
as very brave ones, in it. Meaner houses have grown up into dukedoms;
ours never prospers. I wonder what it is.'

'Many families have disappeared altogether, Miss Brandon. It is no small
thing, through so many centuries, to have retained your ancestral
estates, and your pre-eminent position, and even this splendid residence
of so many generations of your lineage.'

I thought that Miss Brandon, having broken the ice, was henceforth to be
a conversable young lady. But this sudden expansion was not to last. Ovid
tells us, in his 'Fasti,' how statues sometimes surprised people by
speaking more frankly and to the purpose even than Miss Brandon, and
straight were cold chiselled marble again; and so it was with that proud,
cold _chef d'oeuvre_ of tinted statuary.

Yet I thought I could, even in that dim glimpse, discern how the silent
subterranean current of her thoughts was flowing; like other
representatives of a dynasty, she had studied the history of her race to
profit by its errors and misfortunes. There was to be no weakness or
passion in her reign.

The princess by this time was seated on the ottoman, and chose to read a
letter, thus intimating, I suppose, that my audience was at an end; so I
took up a book, put it down, and then went and looked over Wylder's
shoulder, and made my criticisms--not very novel, I fear--upon the pages
he turned over; and I am sorry to say I don't think he heard much of what
I was saying, for he suddenly came out with--

'And where is Stanley Lake now, do you know?'

'I saw him in town--only for a moment though--about a fortnight ago; he
was arranging, he said, about selling out.'

'Oh! retiring; and what does he propose doing then?' asked Wylder,
without raising his eyes from his book. He spoke in a sort of undertone,
like a man who does not want to be overheard, and the room was quite
large enough to make that sort of secrecy easy without the appearance of
seeking it.

'I have not an idea. I don't think he's fit for many things. He knows
something of horses, I believe, and something of play.'

'But he'll hardly make out a living that way,' said Wylder, with a sort
of sneer or laugh. I thought he seemed put out, and a little flushed.

'I fancy he has enough to live upon, without adding to it, however,' I
said.

Wylder leaned back in his low chair, with his hands stuffed in his
pockets, and the air of a man trying to look unconcerned, but both
annoyed and disconcerted nevertheless.

I tell you what, Charlie, between you and me, that fellow, Stanley, is a
d----d bad lot. I may be mistaken, of course; he's always been very civil
to me, but we don't like one another; and I don't think I ever heard him
say a good word of any one, I dare say he abuses you and me, as he does
everyone else.'

'Does he?' I said. 'I was not aware he had that failing.'

'Oh, yes. He does not stick at trifles, Master Stanley. He's about the
greatest liar, I think, I ever met with,' and he laughed angrily.

I happened at that moment to raise my eyes, and I saw Dorcas's face
reflected in the mirror; her back was towards us, and she held the letter
in her hand as if reading it, but her large eyes were looking over it,
and on us, in the glass, with a gaze of strange curiosity. Our glances
met in the mirror; but hers remained serenely undisturbed, and mine
dropped and turned away hastily. I wonder whether she heard us. I do not
know. Some people are miraculously sharp of hearing.

'I dare say,' said Wylder, with a sneer, 'he was asking affectionately
for me, eh?'

'No; not that I recollect--in fact there was not time; but I suppose he
does not like you less for what has happened; you're worth cultivating
now, you know.'

Wylder was leaning on his elbow, with just the tip of his thumb to his
teeth, with a vicious character of biting it, which was peculiar to him
when anything vexed him considerably, and glancing sharply this way and
that--

'You know,' he said, suddenly, 'we are a sort of cousins; his mother was
a Brandon--a second cousin of Dorcas's--no, of her father's--I don't know
exactly how. He's a pushing fellow, one of the coolest hands I know; but
I don't see that I can be of any use to him, or why the devil I should. I
say, old fellow, come out and have a weed, will you?'

I raised my eyes. Miss Brandon had left the room. I don't know that her
presence would have prevented his invitation, for Wylder's wooing was
certainly of the coolest. So forth we sallied, and under the autumnal
foliage, in the cool amber light of the declining evening, we enjoyed our
cheroots; and with them, Wylder his thoughts; and I, the landscape, and
the whistling of the birds; for we waxed Turkish and taciturn over our
tobacco.




CHAPTER VII.

RELATING HOW A LONDON GENTLEMAN APPEARED IN REDMAN'S DELL.


I believe the best rule in telling a story is to follow events
chronologically. So let me mention that just about the time when Wylder
and I were filming the trunks of the old trees with wreaths of lingering
perfume, Miss Rachel Lake had an unexpected visitor.

There is, near the Hall, a very pretty glen, called Redman's Dell, very
steep, with a stream running at the bottom of it, but so thickly wooded
that in summer time you can only now and then catch a glimpse of the
water gliding beneath you. Deep in this picturesque ravine, buried among
the thick shadows of tall old trees, runs the narrow mill-road, which
lower down debouches on the end of the village street. There, in the
transparent green shadow, stand the two mills--the old one with A.D.
1679, and the Wylder arms, and the eternal 'resurgam' projecting over its
door; and higher up, on a sort of platform, the steep bank rising high
behind it, with its towering old wood overhanging and surrounding, upon a
site where one of King Arthur's knights, of an autumn evening, as he rode
solitary in quest of adventures, might have seen the peeping, gray gable
of an anchorite's chapel dimly through the gilded stems, and heard the
drowsy tinkle of his vesper-bell, stands an old and small two-storied
brick and timber house; and though the sun does not very often glimmer on
its windows, it yet possesses an air of sad, old-world comfort--a little
flower-garden lies in front with a paling round it. But not every kind of
flowers will grow there, under the lordly shadow of the elms and
chestnuts.

This sequestered tenement bears the name of Redman's Farm; and its
occupant was that Miss Lake whom I had met last night at Brandon Hall,
and whose pleasure it was to live here in independent isolation.

There she is now, busy in her tiny garden, with the birds twittering
about her, and the yellow leaves falling; and her thick gauntlets on her
slender hands. How fresh and pretty she looks in that sad, sylvan
solitude, with the background of the dull crimson brick and the climbing
roses. Bars of sunshine fall through the branches above, across the thick
tapestry of blue, yellow, and crimson, that glow so richly upon their
deep green ground.

There is not much to be done just now, I fancy, in the gardening way; but
work is found or invented--for sometimes the hour is dull, and that
bright, spirited, and at heart, it may be, bitter exile, will make out
life somehow. There is music, and drawing. There are flowers, as we see,
and two or three correspondents, and walks into the village; and her dark
cousin, Dorcas, drives down sometimes in the pony-carriage, and is not
always silent; and indeed, they are a good deal together.

This young lady's little Eden, though overshadowed and encompassed with
the solemn sylvan cloister of nature's building, and vocal with sounds of
innocence--the songs of birds, and sometimes those of its young
mistress--was no more proof than the Mesopotamian haunt of our first
parents against the intrusion of darker spirits. So, as she worked, she
lifted up her eyes, and beheld a rather handsome young man standing at
the little wicket of her garden, with his gloved hand on the latch. A man
of fashion--a town man--his dress bespoke him: smooth cheeks, light brown
curling moustache, and eyes very peculiar both in shape and colour, and
something of elegance of finish in his other features, and of general
grace in the _coup d'oeil_, struck one at a glance. He was smiling
silently and slily on Rachel, who, with a little cry of surprise, said--

'Oh, Stanley! is it you?'

And before he could answer, she had thrown her arms about his neck and
kissed him two or three times. Laughingly, half-resisting, the young man
waited till her enthusiastic salutation was over, and with one gloved
hand caressingly on her shoulder, and with the other smoothing his
ruffled moustache, he laughed a little more, a quiet low laugh. He was
not addicted to stormy greetings, and patted his sister's shoulder
gently, his arm a little extended, like a man who tranquillises a
frolicsome pony.

'Yes, Radie, you see I've found you out;' and his eye wandered, still
smiling oddly, over the front of her quaint habitation.

'And how have you been, Radie?'

'Oh, very well. No life like a gardener's--early hours, work, air, and
plenty of quiet.' And the young lady laughed.

'You are a wonderful lass, Radie.'

'Thank you, dear.'

'And what do you call this place?'

'"The Happy Valley," _I_ call it. Don't you remember "Rasselas?"'

'No,' he said, looking round him; 'I don't think I was ever there.'

'You horrid dunce!--it's a book, but a stupid one--so no matter,' laughed
Miss Rachel, giving him a little slap on the shoulder with her slender
fingers.

His reading, you see, lay more in circulating library lore, and he was
not deep in Johnson--as few of us would be, I'm afraid, if it were not
for Boswell.

'It's a confounded deal more like the "Valley of the Shadow of Death," in
"Pilgrim's Progress"--you remember--that old Tamar used to read to us in
the nursery,' replied Master Stanley, who had never enjoyed being quizzed
by his sister, not being blessed with a remarkably sweet temper.

'If you don't like my scenery, come in, Stanley, and admire my
decorations. You must tell me all the news, and I'll show you my house,
and amaze you with my housekeeping. Dear me, how long it is since I've
seen you.'

So she led him in by the arm to her tiny drawing-room; and he laid his
hat and stick, and gray paletot, on her little marquetrie-table, and sat
down, and looked languidly about him, with a sly smile, like a man
amused.

'It is an odd fancy, living alone here.'

'An odd necessity, Stanley.'

'Aren't you afraid of being robbed and murdered, Radie?' he said, leaning
forward to smell at the pretty bouquet in the little glass, and turning
it listlessly round. 'There are lots of those burglar fellows going
about, you know.'

'Thank you, dear, for reminding me. But, somehow, I'm not the least
afraid. There hasn't been a robbery in this neighbourhood, I believe, for
eight hundred years. The people never think of shutting their doors here
in summer time till they are going to bed, and then only for form's sake;
and, beside, there's nothing to rob, and I really don't much mind being
murdered.'

He looked round, and smiled on, as before, like a man contemptuously
amused, but sleepily withal.

'You are very oddly housed, Radie.'

'I like it,' she said quietly, also with a glance round her homely
drawing-room.

'What do you call this, your boudoir or parlour?'

'I call it my drawing-room, but it's anything you please.'

'What very odd people our ancestors were,' he mused on. 'They lived, I
suppose, out of doors like the cows, and only came into their sheds at
night, when they could not see the absurd ugliness of the places they
inhabited. I could not stand upright in this room with my hat on. Lots of
rats, I fancy, Radie, behind that wainscoting? What's that horrid work of
art against the wall?'

'A shell-work cabinet, dear. It is not beautiful, I allow. If I were
strong enough, or poor old Tamar, I should have put it away; and now that
you're here, Stanley, I think I'll make you carry it out to the lobby for
me.'

'I should not like to touch it, dear Radie. And pray how do you amuse
yourself here? How on earth do you get over the day, and, worse still,
the evenings?'

'Very well--well enough. I make a very good sort of a nun, and a capital
housemaid. I work in the garden, I mend my dresses, I drink tea, and when
I choose to be dissipated, I play and sing for old Tamar--why did not you
ask how she is? I do believe, Stanley, you care for no one, but' (she was
going to say yourself, she said instead, however, but) 'perhaps, the
least in the world for me, and that not very wisely,' she continued, a
little fiercely, 'for from the moment you saw me, you've done little else
than try to disgust me more than I am with my penury and solitude. What
do you mean? You always have a purpose--will you ever learn to be frank
and straightforward, and speak plainly to those whom you ought to trust,
if not to love? What are you driving at, Stanley?'

He looked up with a gentle start, like one recovering from a reverie, and
said, with his yellow eyes fixed for a moment on his sister, before they
dropped again to the carpet.

'You're miserably poor, Rachel: upon my word, I believe you haven't clear
two hundred a year. I'll drink some tea, please, if you have got any, and
it isn't too much trouble; and it strikes me as very curious you like
living in this really very humiliating state.'

'I don't intend to go out for a governess, if that's what you mean; nor
is there any privation in living as I do. Perhaps you think I ought to go
and housekeep for you.'

'Why--ha, ha!--I really don't know, Radie, where I shall be. I'm not of
any regiment now.'

'Why, you have not sold out?' She flushed and suddenly grew pale, for she
was afraid something worse might have happened, having no great
confidence in her brother.

But she was relieved.

'I _have_ sold my commission.'

She looked straight at him with large eyes and compressed lips, and
nodded her head two or three times, just murmuring, 'Well! well! well!'

'Women never understand these things. The army is awfully expensive--I
mean, of course, a regiment like ours; and the interest of the money is
better to me than my pay; and see, Rachel, there's no use in lecturing
_me_--so don't let us quarrel. We're not very rich, you and I; and we
each know our own affairs, you yours, and I mine, best.'

There was something by no means pleasant in his countenance when his
temper was stirred, and a little thing sometimes sufficed to do so.

Rachel treated him with a sort of deference, a little contemptuous
perhaps, such as spoiled children receive from indulgent elders; and she
looked at him steadily, with a faint smile and arched brows, for a little
while, and an undefinable expression of puzzle and curiosity.

'You are a very amusing brother--if not a very cheery or a very useful
one, Stanley.'

She opened the door, and called across the little hall into the homely
kitchen of the mansion.

'Tamar, dear, Master Stanley's here, and wishes to see you.'

'Oh! yes, poor dear old Tamar; ha, ha!' says the gentleman, with a gentle
little laugh, 'I suppose she's as frightful as ever, that worthy woman.
Certainly she _is_ awfully like a ghost. I wonder, Radie, you're not
afraid of her at night in this cheerful habitation. _I_ should, I know.'

'A ghost _indeed_, the ghost of old times, an ugly ghost enough for many
of us. Poor Tamar! she was always very kind to _you_, Stanley.'

And just then old Tamar opened the door. I must allow there was something
very unpleasant about that worthy old woman; and not being under any
personal obligations to her, I confess my acquiescence in the spirit of
Captain Lake's remarks.

She was certainly perfectly neat and clean, but white predominated
unpleasantly in her costume. Her cotton gown had once had a pale pattern
over it, but wear and washing had destroyed its tints, till it was no
better than white, with a mottling of gray. She had a large white
kerchief pinned with a grisly precision across her breast, and a white
linen cap tied under her chin, fitting close to her head, like a child's
nightcap, such as they wore in my young days, and destitute of border or
frilling about the face. It was a dress very odd and unpleasant to
behold, and suggested the idea of an hospital, or a madhouse, or death,
in an undefined way.

She was past sixty, with a mournful puckered and puffy face, tinted all
over with a thin gamboge and burnt sienna glazing; and very blue under
the eyes, which showed a great deal of their watery whites. This old
woman had in her face and air, along with an expression of suspicion and
anxiety, a certain character of decency and respectability, which made
her altogether a puzzling and unpleasant apparition.

Being taciturn and undemonstrative, she stood at the door, looking with
as pleased a countenance as so sad a portrait could wear upon the young
gentleman.

He got up at his leisure and greeted 'old Tamar,' with his sleepy, amused
sort of smile, and a few trite words of kindness. So Tamar withdrew to
prepare tea; and he said, all at once, with a sudden accession of energy,
and an unpleasant momentary glare in his eyes--

'You know, Rachel, this sort of thing is all nonsense. You cannot go on
living like this; you must marry--you shall marry. Mark Wylder is down
here, and he has got an estate and a house, and it is time he should
marry you.'

'Mark Wylder is here to marry my cousin, Dorcas; and if he had no such
intention, and were as free as you are, and again to urge his foolish
suit upon his knees, Stanley, I would die rather than accept him.'

'It was not always so foolish a suit, Radie,' answered her brother, his
eyes once more upon the carpet. 'Why should not _he_ do as well as
another? You liked him well enough once.'

The young lady coloured rather fiercely.

'I am not a girl of seventeen now, Stanley; and--and, besides, I _hate_
him.'

'What d--d nonsense! I really beg your pardon, Radie, but it _is_
precious stuff. You are quite unreasonable; you've no cause to hate him;
he dropped you because you dropped him. It was only prudent; he had not a
guinea. But now it is different, and he _must_ marry you.'

The young lady stared with a haughty amazement upon her brother.

'I've made up my mind to speak to him; and if he won't I promise you, he
shall leave the country,' said the young man gently, just lifting his
yellow eyes for a second with another unpleasant glare.

'I almost think you're mad, Stanley; and if you do anything so insane,
sure I am you'll rue it while you live; and wherever he is I'll find him
out, and acquit myself, with the scorn I owe him, of any share in a plot
so unspeakably mean and absurd.'

'Brava, brava! you're a heroine, Radie; and why the devil,' he continued,
in a changed tone, 'do you apply those insolent terms to what I purpose
doing?'

'I wish I could find words strong enough to express my horror of your
plot--a plot every way disgusting. You plainly know something to Mark
Wylder's discredit; and you mean, Stanley, to coerce him by fear into a
marriage with your penniless sister, who _hates_ him. Sir, do you pretend
to be a gentleman?'

'I rather think so,' he said, with a quiet sneer.

'Give up every idea of it this moment. Has it not struck you that Mark
Wylder may possibly know something of you, you would not have published?'

'I don't think he does. What do you mean?'

'On my life, Stanley, I'll acquaint Mr. Wylder this evening with what you
meditate, and the atrocious liberty you presume--yes, Sir, though you are
my brother, the _atrocious liberty_ you dare to take with my name--unless
you promise, upon your honour, now and here, to dismiss for ever the
odious and utterly resultless scheme.'

Captain Lake looked very angry after his fashion, but said nothing. He
could not at any time have very well defined his feelings towards his
sister, but mingling in them, certainly, was a vein of unacknowledged
dread, and, shall I say, respect. He knew she was resolute, fierce of
will, and prompt in action, and not to be bullied.

'There's more in this, Stanley, than you care to tell me. You have not
troubled yourself a great deal about me, you know: and I'm no worse off
now than any time for the last three years. You've _not_ come down here
on _my_ account--that is, altogether; and be your plans what they may,
you sha'n't mix my name in them. What you please--wise or foolish--you'll
do in what concerns yourself;--you always _have_--without consulting me;
but I tell you again, Stanley, unless you promise, upon your honour, to
forbear all mention of my name, I will write this evening to Lady
Chelford, apprising her of your plans, and of my own disgust and
indignation; and requesting her son's interference. _Do_ you promise?'

'There's no such _haste_, Radie. I only mentioned it. If you don't like
it, of course it can lead to nothing, and there's no use in my speaking
to Wylder, and so there's an end of it.'

'There _may_ be some use, a purpose in which neither my feelings nor
interests have any part. I venture to say, Stanley, your plans are all
for _yourself_. You want to extort some advantage from Wylder; and you
think, in his present situation, about to marry Dorcas, you can use me
for the purpose. Thank Heaven! Sir, you committed for once the rare
indiscretion of telling the truth; and unless you make me the promise I
require, I will take, before evening, such measures as will completely
exculpate me. Once again, do you promise?'

'Yes, Radie; ha, ha! of course I promise.'

'Upon your honour?'

'Upon my honour--_there_.'

'I believe, you gentlemen dragoons observe that oath--I hope so. If you
choose to break it you may give me some trouble, but you sha'n't
compromise me. And now, Stanley, one word more. I fancy Mr. Wylder is a
resolute man--none of the Wylders wanted courage.'

Captain Lake was by this time smiling his sly, sleepy smile upon his
French boots.

'If you have formed any plan which depends upon frightening him, it is a
desperate one. All I can tell you, Stanley, is this, that if I were a
man, and an attempt made to extort from me any sort of concession by
terror, I would shoot the miscreant who made it through the head, like a
highwayman.'

'What the devil are you talking about?' said he.

'About _your danger_,' she answered. 'For once in your life listen to
reason. Mark Wylder is as prompt as you, and has ten times your nerve and
sense; you are more likely to have committed yourself than he. Take care;
he may retaliate your _threat_ by a counter move more dreadful. I know
nothing of your doings, Stanley--Heaven forbid! but be warned, or you'll
rue it.'

'Why, Radie, you know nothing of the world. Do you suppose I'm quite
demented? Ask a gentleman for his estate, or watch, because I know
something to his disadvantage! Why, ha, ha! dear Radie, every man who has
ever been on terms of intimacy with another must know things to his
disadvantage, but no one thinks of telling them. The world would not
tolerate it. It would prejudice the betrayer at least as much as the
betrayed. I don't affect to be angry, or talk romance and heroics,
because you fancy such stuff; but I assure you--when will that old woman
give me a cup of tea?--I assure you, Radie, there's nothing in it.'

Rachel made no reply, but she looked steadfastly and uneasily upon the
enigmatical face and downcast eyes of the young man.

'Well, I hope so,' she said at last, with a sigh, and a slight sense of
relief.




CHAPTER VIII.

IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE TAKES HIS HAT AND STICK.


So the young people sitting in the little drawing-room of Redman's Farm
pursued their dialogue; Rachel Lake had spoken last, and it was the
captain's turn to speak next.

'Do you remember Miss Beauchamp, Radie?' he asked rather suddenly, after
a very long pause.

'Miss Beauchamp? Oh! to be sure; you mean little Caroline; yes, she must
be quite grown up by this time--five years--she promised to be pretty.
What of her?'

Rachel, very flushed and agitated still, was now trying to speak as
usual.

'She _is_ good-looking--a little coarse some people think,' resumed the
young man; 'but handsome; black eyes--black hair--rather on a large
scale, but certainly handsome. A style I admire rather, though it is not
very refined, nor at all classic. But I like her, and I wish you'd advise
me.' He was talking, after his wont, to the carpet.

'Oh?' she exclaimed, with a gentle sort of derision.

'You mean,' he said, looking up for a moment, with a sudden stare, 'she
has got money. Of course she has; I could not afford to admire her if she
had not; but I see you are not just now in a mood to trouble yourself
about my nonsense--we can talk about it to-morrow; and tell me now, how
do you get on with the Brandon people?'

Rachel was curious, and would, if she could, have recalled that sarcastic
'oh' which had postponed the story; but she was also a little angry, and
with anger there was pride, which would not stoop to ask for the
revelation which he chose to defer; so she said, 'Dorcas and I are very
good friends; but I don't know very well what to make of her. Only I
don't think she's quite so dull and apathetic as I at first supposed; but
still I'm puzzled. She is either absolutely uninteresting, or very
interesting indeed, and I can't say which.'

'Does she like you?' he asked.

'I really don't know. She tolerates me, like everything else; and I don't
flatter her; and we see a good deal of one another upon those terms, and
I have no complaint to make of her. She has some aversions, but no
quarrels; and has a sort of laziness--mental, bodily, and moral--that is
sublime, but provoking; and sometimes I admire her, and sometimes I
despise her; and I do not yet know which feeling is the juster.'

'Surely she is woman enough to be fussed a little about her marriage?'

'Oh, dear, no! she takes the whole affair with a queenlike and
supernatural indifference. She is either a fool or a very great
philosopher, and there is something grand in the serene obscurity that
envelopes her,' and Rachel laughed a very little.

'I must, I suppose, pay my respects; but to-morrow will be time enough.
What pretty little tea-cups, Radie--quite charming--old cock china, isn't
it? These were Aunt Jemima's, I think.'

'Yes; they used to stand on the little marble table between the windows.'

Old Tamar had glided in while they were talking, and placed the little
tea equipage on the table unnoticed, and the captain was sipping his cup
of tea, and inspecting the pattern, while his sister amused him.

'This place, I suppose, is confoundedly slow, is not it? Do they
entertain the neighbours ever at Brandon?'

'Sometimes, when old Lady Chelford and her son are staying there.'

'But the neighbours can't entertain them, I fancy, or you. What a dreary
thing a dinner party made up of such people must be--like "Aesop's
Fables," where the cows and sheep converse.'

'And sometimes a wolf or a fox,' she said.

'Well, Radie, I know you mean me; but as you wish it, I'll carry my fangs
elsewhere;--and what has become of Will Wylder?'

'Oh! he's in the Church!'

'Quite right--the only thing he was fit for;' and Captain Lake laughed
like a man who enjoys a joke slily. 'And where is poor Billy quartered?'

'Not quite half a mile away; he has got the vicarage of Naunton Friars.'

'Oh, then, Will is not quite such a fool as we took him for.'

'It is worth just £180 a year! but he's very far from a fool.'

'Yes, of course, he knows Greek poets and Latin fathers, and all the rest
of it. I don't mean he ever was plucked. I dare say he's the kind of
fellow _you'd_ like very well, Radie.' And his sly eyes had a twinkle in
them which seemed to say, 'Perhaps I've divined your secret.'

'And so I do, and I like his wife, too, _very_ much.'

'His wife! So William has married on £180 a year;' and the captain
laughed quietly but very pleasantly again.

'On a very little more, at all events; and I think they are about the
happiest, and I'm sure they are the best people in this part of the
world.'

'Well, Radie, I'll see you to-morrow again. You preserve your good looks
wonderfully. I wonder you haven't become an old woman here.'

And he kissed her, and went his way, with a slight wave of his hand, and
his odd smile, as he closed the little garden gate after him.

He turned to his left, walking down towards the town, and the innocent
green trees hid him quickly, and the gush and tinkle of the clear brook
rose faint and pleasantly through the leaves, from the depths of the
glen, and refreshed her ear after his unpleasant talk.

She was flushed, and felt oddly; a little stunned and strange, although
she had talked lightly and easily enough.

'I forgot to ask him where he is staying: the Brandon Arms, I suppose. I
don't at all like his coming down here after Mark Wylder; what _can_ he
mean? He certainly never would have taken the trouble for _me_. What
_can_ he want of Mark Wylder? I think _he_ knew old Mr. Beauchamp. He may
be a trustee, but that's not likely; Mark Wylder was not the person for
any such office. I hope Stanley does not intend trying to extract money
from him; anything rather than that degradation--than that _villainy_.
Stanley was always impracticable, perverse, deceitful, and so foolish
with all his cunning and suspicion--so _very_ foolish. Poor Stanley. He's
so unscrupulous; I don't know what to think. He said he could force Mark
Wylder to leave the country. It must be some bad secret. If he tries and
fails, I suppose he will be ruined. I don't know what to think; I never
was so uneasy. He will blast himself, and disgrace all connected with
him; and it is quite useless speaking to him.'

Perhaps if Rachel Lake had been in Belgravia, leading a town life, the
matter would have taken no such dark colouring and portentous
proportions. But living in a small old house, in a dark glen, with no
companion, and little to occupy her, it was different.

She looked down the silent way he had so lately taken, and repeated,
rather bitterly, 'My only brother! my only brother! my only brother!'

That young lady was not quite a pauper, though she may have thought so.
Comparatively, indeed, she was; but not, I venture to think, absolutely.
She had just that symmetrical three hundred pounds a year, which the
famous Dean of St. Patrick's tells us he so 'often wished that he had
clear.' She had had some money in the Funds besides, still more
insignificant but this her Brother Stanley had borrowed and begged
piecemeal, and the consols were no more. But though something of a nun in
her way of life, there was no germ of the old maid in her, and money was
not often in her thoughts. It was not a bad _dot_; and her brother
Stanley had about twice as much, and therefore was much better off than
many a younger son of a duke. But these young people, after the manner of
men were spited with fortune; and indeed they had some cause. Old General
Lake had once had more than ten thousand pounds a year, and lived, until
the crash came, in the style of a vicious old prince. It was a great
break up, and a worse fall for Rachel than for her brother, when the
plate, coaches, pictures, and all the valuable effects of old Tiberius
went to the hammer, and he himself vanished from his clubs and other
haunts, and lived only--a thin intermittent rumour--surmised to be in
gaol, or in Guernsey, and quite forgotten soon, and a little later
actually dead and buried.




CHAPTER IX.

I SEE THE RING OF THE PERSIAN MAGICIAN.


'That's a devilish fine girl,' said Mark Wylder.

He was sitting at this moment on the billiard table, with his coat off
and his cue in his hand, and had lighted a cigar. He and I had just had a
game, and were tired of it.

'Who?' I asked. He was looking on me from the corners of his eyes, and
smiling in a sly, rakish way, that no man likes in another.

'Radie Lake--she's a splendid girl, by Jove! Don't you think so? and she
liked me once devilish well, I can tell you. She was thin then, but she
has plumped out a bit, and improved every way.'

Whatever else he was, Mark was certainly no beauty;--a little short he
was, and rather square--one shoulder a thought higher than the other--and
a slight, energetic hitch in it when he walked. His features in profile
had something of a Grecian character, but his face was too broad--very
brown, rather a bloodless brown--and he had a pair of great, dense,
vulgar, black whiskers. He was very vain of his teeth--his only really
good point--for his eyes were a small cunning, gray pair; and this,
perhaps, was the reason why he had contracted his habit of laughing and
grinning a good deal more than the fun of the dialogue always warranted.

This sea-monster smoked here as unceremoniously as he would have done in
'Rees's Divan,' and I only wonder he did not call for brandy-and-water.
He had either grown coarser a great deal, or I more decent, during our
separation. He talked of his _fiancée_ as he might of an opera-girl
almost, and was now discussing Miss Lake in the same style.

'Yes, she is--she's very well; but hang it, Wylder, you're a married man
now, and must give up talking that way. People won't like it, you know;
they'll take it to mean more than it does, and you oughtn't. Let us have
another game.'

'By-and-by; what do you think of Larkin?' asked Wylder, with a sly glance
from the corners of his eyes. 'I think he prays rather more than is good
for his clients; mind I spell it with an 'a,' not with an 'e;' but hang
it, for an attorney, you know, and such a sharp chap, it does seem to me
rather a--a joke, eh?'

'He bears a good character among the townspeople, doesn't he? And I don't
see that it can do him any harm, remembering that he has a soul to be
saved.'

'Or the other thing, eh?' laughed Wylder. 'But I think he comes it a
little too strong--two sermons last Sunday, and a prayer-meeting at nine
o'clock?'

'Well, it won't do him any harm,' I repeated.

'Harm! O, let Jos. Larkin alone for that. It gets him all the religious
business of the county; and there are nice pickings among the charities,
and endowments, and purchases of building sites, and trust deeds; I dare
say it brings him in two or three hundred a year, eh?' And Wylder laughed
again. 'It has broken up his hard, proud heart,' he says; 'but it left
him a devilish hard head, I told him, and I think it sharpens his wits.'

'I rather think you'll find him a useful man; and to be so in his line of
business he must have his wits about him, I can tell you.'

'He amused me devilishly,' said Wylder, 'with a sort of exhortation he
treated me to; he's a delightfully impudent chap, and gave me to
understand I was a limb of the Devil, and he a saint. I told him I was
better than he, in my humble opinion, and so I am, by chalks. I know very
well I'm a miserable sinner, but there's mercy above, and I don't hide my
faults. I don't set up for a light or a saint; I'm just what the
Prayer-book says--neither more nor less--a miserable sinner. There's only
one good thing I can safely say for myself--I am no Pharisee; that's all;
I am no religious prig, puffing myself, and trusting to forms, making
long prayers in the market-place' (Mark's quotations were paraphrastic),
'and thinking of nothing but the uppermost seats in the synagogue, and
broad borders, and the praise of men--hang them, I hate those fellows.'

So Mark, like other men we meet with, was proud of being a Publican; and
his prayer was--'I thank Thee that I am not as other men are, spiritually
proud, formalists, hypocrites, or even as this Pharisee.'

'Do you wish another game?' I asked.

'Just now,' said Wylder, emitting first a thin stream of smoke, and
watching its ascent. 'Dorcas is the belle of the county; and she likes
me, though she's odd, and don't show it the way other girls would. But a
fellow knows pretty well when a girl likes him, and you know the marriage
is a sensible sort of thing, and I'm determined, of course, to carry it
through; but, hang it, a fellow can't help thinking sometimes there are
other things besides money, and Dorcas is not my style. Rachel's more
that way; she's a _tremendious_ fine girl, by Jove! and a spirited minx,
too; and I think,' he added, with an oath, having first taken two puffs
at his cigar, 'if I had seen her first, I'd have thought twice before I'd
have got myself into this business.'

I only smiled and shook my head. I did not believe a word of it. Yet,
perhaps, I was wrong. He knew very well how to take care of his money; in
fact, compared with other young fellows, he was a bit of a screw. But he
could do a handsome and generous thing for himself. His selfishness would
expand nobly, and rise above his prudential considerations, and drown
them sometimes; and he was the sort of person, who, if the fancy were
strong enough, might marry in haste, and repent--and make his wife, too,
repent--at leisure.

'What do you laugh at, Charlie?' said Wylder, grinning himself.

'At your confounded grumbling, Mark. The luckiest dog in England! Will
nothing content you?'

'Why, I grumble very little, I think, considering how well off I am,'
rejoined he, with a laugh.

'Grumble! If you had a particle of gratitude, you'd build a temple to
Fortune--you're pagan enough for it, Mark.'

'Fortune has nothing to do with it,' says Mark, laughing again.

'Well, certainly, neither had you.'

'It was all the Devil. I'm not joking, Charlie, upon my word, though I'm
laughing.' (Mark swore now and then, but I take leave to soften his
oaths). 'It was the Persian Magician.'

'Come, Mark, say what you mean.'

'I mean what I say. When we were in the Persian Gulf, near six years ago,
I was in command of the ship. The captain, you see, was below, with a
hurt in his leg. We had very rough weather--a gale for two days and a
night almost--and a heavy swell after. In the night time we picked up
three poor devils in an open boat--. One was a Persian merchant, with a
grand beard. We called him the magician, he was so like the pictures of
Aladdin's uncle.'

'Why _he_ was an African,' I interposed, my sense of accuracy offended.

'I don't care a curse what he was,' rejoined Mark; 'he was exactly like
the picture in the story-books. And as we were lying off--I forget the
cursed name of it--he begged me to put him ashore. He could not speak a
word of English, but one of the fellows with him interpreted, and they
were all anxious to get ashore. Poor devils, they had a notion, I
believe, we were going to sell them for slaves, and he made me a present
of a ring, and told me a long yarn about it. It was a talisman, it seems,
and no one who wore it could ever be lost. So I took it for a keepsake;
here it is,' and he extended his stumpy, brown little finger, and showed
a thick, coarsely-made ring of gold, with an uncut red stone, of the size
of a large cherry stone, set in it.

'The stone is a humbug,' said Wylder. 'It's not real. I showed it to
Platten and Foyle. It's some sort of glass. But I would not part with it.
I got a fancy into my head that luck would come with it, and maybe that
glass stuff was the thing that had the virtue in it. Now look at these
Persian letters on the inside, for that's the oddest thing about it. Hang
it, I can't pull it off--I'm growing as fat as a pig--but they are like a
queer little string of flowers; and I showed it to a clever fellow at
Malta--a missionary chap--and he read it off slick, and what do you think
it means: "I will come up again;"' and he swore a great oath. 'It's as
true as you stand there--_our_ motto. Is not it odd? So I got the
"resurgam" you see there engraved round it, and by Jove! it did bring me
up. I was near lost, and did rise again. Eh?'

Well, it certainly was a curious accident. Mark had plenty of odd and not
unamusing lore. Men who beat about the world in ships usually have; and
these 'yarns,' furnished, after the pattern of Othello's tales of
Anthropophagites and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders, one
of the many varieties of fascination which he practised on the fair sex.
Only in justice to Mark, I must say that he was by no means so shameless
a drawer of the long-bow as the Venetian gentleman and officer.

'When I got this ring, Charlie, three hundred a year and a London life
would have been Peru and Paradise to poor Pill Garlick, and see what it
has done for me.'

'Aye, and better than Aladdin's, for you need not rub it and bring up
that confounded ugly genii; the slave of your ring works unseen.'

'So he does,' laughed Wylder, in a state of elation, 'and he's not done
working yet, I can tell you. When the estates are joined in one, they'll
be good eleven thousand a year; and Larkin says, with smart management, I
shall have a rental of thirteen thousand before three years! And that's
only the beginning, by George! Sir Henry Twisden can't hold his
seat--he's all but broke--as poor as Job, and the gentry hate him, and he
lives abroad. He has had a hint or two already, and he'll never fight the
next election. D'ye see--hey?'

And Wylder winked and grinned, with a wag of his head.

'M.P.--eh? You did not see that before. I look ahead a bit, eh? and can
take my turn at the wheel--eh?'

And he laughed with cunning exultation.

'Miss Rachel will find I'm not quite such a lubber as she fancies. But
even then it is only begun. Come, Charlie, you used to like a bet. What
do you say? I'll buy you that twenty-five-guinea book of pictures--what's
its name?--if you give me three hundred guineas one month after I'm a
peer of Parliament. Hey? There's a sporting offer for you. Well! what do
you say--eh?'

'You mean to come out as an orator, then?'

'Orator be diddled! Do you take me for a fool? No, Charlie; but I'll come
out strong as a _voter_--that's the stuff they like--at the right side,
of course, and that is the way to manage it. Thirteen thousand a
year--the oldest family in the county--and a steady thick and thin
supporter of the minister. Strong points, eh, Charlie? Well, do you take
my offer?'

I laughed and declined, to his great elation, and just then the gong
sounded and we were away to our toilets.

While making my toilet for dinner, I amused myself by conjecturing
whether there could be any foundation in fact for Mark's boast, that Miss
Brandon liked him. Women are so enigmatical--some in everything--all in
matters of the heart. Don't they sometimes actually admire what is
repulsive? Does not brutality in our sex, and even rascality, interest
them sometimes? Don't they often affect indifference, and occasionally
even aversion, where there is a different sort of feeling?

As I went down I heard Miss Lake chatting with her queenlike cousin near
an open door on the lobby. Rachel Lake was, indeed, a very constant guest
at the Hall, and the servants paid her much respect, which I look upon as
a sign that the young heiress liked her and treated her with
consideration; and indeed there was an insubordinate and fiery spirit in
that young lady which would have brooked nothing less and dreamed of
nothing but equality.




CHAPTER X.

THE ACE OF HEARTS.


Who should I find in the drawing-room, talking fluently and smiling,
after his wont, to old Lady Chelford, who seemed to receive him very
graciously, for her at least, but Captain Stanley Lake!

I can't quite describe to you the odd and unpleasant sort of surprise
which that very gentlemanlike figure, standing among the Brandon
household gods at this moment, communicated to me. I thought of the few
odd words and looks that had dropped from Wylder about him with an
ominous pang as I looked, and I felt somehow as if there were some occult
relation between that confused prelude of Wylder's and the
Mephistophelean image that had risen up almost upon the spot where it was
spoken. I glanced round for Wylder, but he was not there.

'You know Captain Lake?' said Lord Chelford, addressing me.

And Lake turned round upon me, a little abruptly, his odd yellowish eyes,
a little like those of the sea-eagle, and the ghost of his smile that
flickered on his singularly pale face, with a stern and insidious look,
confronted me. There was something evil and shrinking in his aspect,
which I felt with a sort of chill, like the commencing fascination of a
serpent. I often thought since that he had expected to see Wylder before
him.

The church-yard meteor expired, there was nothing in a moment but his
ordinary smile of recognition.

'You're surprised to see me here,' he said in his very pleasing low
tones.

'I lighted on him in the village; and I knew Miss Brandon would not
forgive me if I allowed him to go away without coming here. (He had his
hand upon Lake's shoulder.) They are cousins, you know; we are all
cousins. I'm bad at genealogies. My mother could tell us all about
it--we, Brandons, Lakes; Wylders, and Chelfords.'

At this moment Miss Brandon entered, with her brilliant Cousin Rachel.
The blonde and the dark, it was a dazzling contrast.

So Chelford led Stanley Lake before the lady of the castle. I thought of
the 'Fair Brunnisende,' with the captive knight in the hands of her
seneschal before her, and I fancied he said something of having found him
trespassing in her town, and brought him up for judgment. Whatever Lord
Chelford said, Miss Brandon received it very graciously, and even with a
momentary smile. I wonder she did not smile oftener, it became her so.
But her greeting to Captain Lake was more than usually haughty and
frozen, and her features, I fancied, particularly proud and
pale. It seemed to me to indicate a great deal more than mere
indifference--something of aversion, and nearer to a positive emotion
than anything I had yet seen in that exquisitely apathetic face.

How was it that this man with the yellow eyes seemed to gleam from them
an influence of pain or disturbance, wherever almost he looked.

'Shake hands with your cousin, my dear,' said old Lady Chelford,
peremptorily. The little scene took place close to her chair; and upon
this stage direction the little piece of by-play took place, and the
young lady coldly touched the captain's hand, and passed on.

Young as he was, Stanley Lake was an old man of the world, not to be
disconcerted, and never saw more than exactly suited him. Waiting in the
drawing-room, I had some entertaining talk with Miss Lake. Her
conversation was lively, and rather bold, not at all in the coarse sense,
but she struck me as having formed a system of ethics and views of life,
both good-humoured and sarcastic, and had carried into her rustic
sequestration the melancholy and precocious lore of her early London
experience.

When Lord Chelford joined us, I perceived that Wylder was in the room,
and saw a very cordial greeting between him and Lake. The captain
appeared quite easy and cheerful; but Mark, I thought, notwithstanding
his laughter and general jollity, was uncomfortable; and I saw him once
or twice, when Stanley's eye was not upon him, glance sharply on the
young man with an uneasy and not very friendly curiosity.

At dinner Lake was easy and amusing. That meal passed off rather
pleasantly; and when we joined the ladies in the drawing-room, the good
vicar's enthusiastic little wife came to meet us, in one of her honest
little raptures.

'Now, here's a thing worth your looking at! Did you ever see anything so
bee-utiful in your life? It is such a darling little thing; and--look
now--is not it magnificent?'

She arrested the file of gentlemen just by a large lamp, before whose
effulgence she presented the subject of her eulogy--one of those costly
trifles which announce the approach of Hymen, as flowers spring up before
the rosy steps of May.

Well, it was pretty--French, I dare say--a little set of tablets--a
toy--the cover of enamel, studded in small jewels, with a slender border
of symbolic flowers, and with a heart in the centre, a mosaic of little
carbuncles, rubies, and other red and crimson stones, placed with a view
to light and shade.

'Exquisite, indeed!' said Lord Chelford. 'Is this yours, Mrs. Wylder?'

'Mine, indeed!' laughed poor little Mrs. Dorothy. 'Well, dear me, no,
indeed;'--and in an earnest whisper close in his ear--'a present to Miss
Brandon, and the donor is not a hundred miles away from your elbow, my
lord!' and she winked slyly, and laughed, with a little nod at Wylder.

'Oh! I see--to be sure--really, Wylder, it does your taste infinite
credit.'

'I'm glad you like it,' says Wylder, chuckling benignantly on it, over
his shoulder. 'I believe I _have_ a little taste that way; those are all
real, you know, those jewels.'

'Oh, yes! of course. Have you seen it, Captain Lake?' And he placed it in
that gentleman's fingers, who now took his turn at the lamp, and
contemplated the little parallelogram with a gleam of sly amusement.

'What are you laughing at?' asked Wylder, a little snappishly.

'I was thinking it's very like the ace of hearts,' answered the captain
softly, smiling on.

'Fie, Lake, there's no poetry in you,' said Lord Chelford, laughing.

'Well, now, though, really it is funny; it did not strike me before, but
do you know, now, it _is_,' laughs out jolly Mrs. Dolly, 'isn't it. Look
at it, do, Mr. Wylder--isn't it like the ace of hearts?'

Wylder was laughing rather redly, with the upper part of his face very
surly, I thought.

'Never mind, Wylder, it's the winning card,' said Lord Chelford, laying
his hand on his shoulder.

Whereupon Lake laughed quietly, still looking on the ace of hearts with
his sly eyes.

And Wylder laughed too, more suddenly and noisily than the humour of the
joke seemed quite to call for, and glanced a grim look from the corners
of his eyes on Lake, but the gallant captain did not seem to perceive it;
and after a few seconds more he handed it very innocently back to Mrs.
Dorothy, only remarking--

'Seriously, it _is_ very pretty, and _appropriate_.'

And Wylder, making no remark, helped himself to a cup of coffee, and then
to a glass of Curaçoa, and then looked industriously at a Spanish quarto
of "Don Quixote," and lastly walked over to me on the hearthrug.

'What the d-- has he come down here for? It can't be for money, or balls,
or play, and he has no honest business anywhere. Do you know?'

'Lake? Oh! I really can't tell; but he'll soon tire of country life. I
don't think he's much of a sportsman.'

'Ha, isn't he? I don't know anything about him almost; but I hate him.'

'Why should you, though? He's a very gentlemanlike fellow and your
cousin.'

'My cousin--the Devil's cousin--everyone's cousin. I don't know who's my
cousin, or who isn't; nor you don't, who've been for ten years over those
d--d papers; but I think he's the nastiest dog I ever met. I took a
dislike to him at first sight long ago, and that never happened me but I
was right.'

Wylder looked confoundedly angry and flustered, standing with his heels
on the edge of the rug, his hands in his pockets, jingling some silver
there, and glancing from under his red forehead sternly and unsteadily
across the room.

'He's not a man for country quarters! he'll soon be back in town, or to
Brighton,' I said.

'If _he_ doesn't, _I_ will. That's all.'

Just to get him off this unpleasant groove with a little jolt, I said--

'By-the-bye, Wylder, you know the pictures here; who is the tall man,
with the long pale face, and wild phosphoric eyes? I was always afraid of
him; in a long peruke, and dark red velvet coat, facing the hall-door. I
had a horrid dream about him last night.'

'That? Oh, I know--that's Lorne Brandon. He was one of our family devils,
he was. A devil in a family now and then is not such a bad thing, when
there's work for him.' (All the time he was talking to me his angry
little eyes were following Lake.) 'They say he killed his son, a
blackguard, who was found shot, with his face in the tarn in the park. He
was going to marry the gamekeeper's daughter, it was thought, and he and
the old boy, who was for high blood, and all that, were at loggerheads
about it. It was not proved, only thought likely, which showed what a
nice character he was; but he might have done worse. I suppose Miss
Partridge would have had a precious lot of babbies; and who knows where
the estate would have been by this time.'

'I believe, Charlie,' he recommenced suddenly, 'there is not such an
unnatural family on record as ours; is there? Ha, ha, ha! It's well to be
distinguished in any line. I forget all the other good things he did; but
he ended by shooting himself through the head in his bed-room, and that
was not the worst thing ever he did.'

And Wylder laughed again, and began to whistle very low--not, I fancy,
for want of thought, but as a sort of accompaniment thereto, for he
suddenly said--

'And where is he staying?'

'Who?--Lake?'

'Yes.'

'I don't know; but I think he mentioned Larkins's house, didn't he? I'm
not quite sure.'

'I suppose he thinks I'm made of money. By Jove! if he wants to borrow any
I'll surprise him, the cur; I'll talk to him; ha, ha, ha!'

And Wylder chuckled angrily, and the small change in his pocket tinkled
fiercely, as his eye glanced on the graceful captain, who was
entertaining the ladies, no doubt, very agreeably in the distance.




CHAPTER XI.

IN WHICH LAKE UNDER THE TREES OF BRANDON, AND I IN MY CHAMBER, SMOKE OUR
NOCTURNAL CIGARS.


Miss Lake declined the carriage to-night. Her brother was to see her
home, and there was a leave-taking, and the young ladies whispered a word
or two, and kissed, after the manner of their kind. To Captain Lake, Miss
Brandon's adieux were as cold and haughty as her greeting.

'Did you see that?' said Wylder in my ear, with a chuckle; and, wagging
his head, he added, rather loftily for him, 'Miss Brandon, I reckon, has
taken your measure, Master Stanley, as well as I. I wonder what the deuce
the old dowager sees in him. Old women always like rascals.'

And he added something still less complimentary.

I suppose the balance of attraction and repulsion was overcome by Miss
Lake, much as he disliked Stanley, for Wylder followed them out with Lord
Chelford, to help the young lady into her cloak and goloshes, and I found
myself near Miss Brandon for the first time that evening, and much to my
surprise she was first to speak, and that rather strangely.

'You seem to be very sensible, Mr. De Cresseron; pray tell me, frankly,
what do you think of all this?'

'I am not quite sure, Miss Brandon, that I understand your question,' I
replied, enquiringly.

'I mean of the--the family arrangements, in which, as Mr. Wylder's
friend, you seem to take an interest?' she said.

'There can hardly be a second opinion, Miss Brandon; I think it a very
wise measure,' I replied, much surprised.

'Very wise--exactly. But don't these very wise things sometimes turn out
very foolishly? Do you really think your friend, Mr. Wylder, cares about
me?'

'I take that for granted: in the nature of things it can hardly be
otherwise,' I replied, a good deal startled and perplexed by the curious
audacity of her interrogatory.

'It was very foolish of me to expect from Mr. Wylder's friend any other
answer; you are very loyal, Mr. De Cresseron.'

And without awaiting my reply she made some remark which I forget to Lady
Chelford, who sat at a little distance; and, appearing quite absorbed in
her new subject, she placed herself close beside the dowager, and
continued to chat in a low tone.

I was vexed with myself for having managed with so little skill a
conversation which, opened so oddly and frankly, might have placed me on
relations so nearly confidential, with that singular and beautiful girl.
I ought to have rejoiced--but we don't always see what most concerns our
peace. In the meantime I had formed a new idea of her. She was so
unreserved, it seemed, and yet in this directness there was something
almost contemptuous.

By this time Lord Chelford and Wylder returned; and, disgusted rather
with myself, I ruminated on my want of general-ship.

In the meantime, Miss Lake, with her hand on her brother's arm, was
walking swiftly under the trees of the back avenue towards that footpath
which, through wild copse and broken clumps near the park, emerges upon
the still darker road which passes along the wooded glen by the mills,
and skirts the little paling of the recluse lady's garden.

They had not walked far, when Lake suddenly said--

'What do you think of all this, Radie--this particular version, I mean,
of marriage, _à-la-mode_, they are preparing up there?' and he made a
little dip of his cane towards Brandon Hall, over his shoulder. 'I really
don't think Wylder cares twopence about her, or she about him,' and
Stanley Lake laughed gently and sleepily.

'I don't think they pretend to like one another. It is quite understood.
It was all, you know, old Lady Chelford's arrangement: and Dorcas is so
supine, I believe she would allow herself to be given away by anyone, and
to anyone, rather than be at the least trouble. She provokes me.'

'But I thought she liked Sir Harry Bracton: he's a good-looking fellow;
and Queen's Bracton is a very nice thing, you know.'

'Yes, so they said; but that would, I think, have been worse. Something
may be made of Mark Wylder. He has some sense and caution, has not
he?--but Sir Harry is wickedness itself!'

'Why--what has Sir Harry done? That is the way you women run away with
things! If a fellow's been a little bit wild, he's Beelzebub at once.
Bracton's a very good fellow, I can assure you.'

The fact is, Captain Lake, an accomplished player, made a pretty little
revenue of Sir Harry's billiards, which were wild and noisy; and liking
his money, thought he liked himself--a confusion not uncommon.

'I don't know, and can't say, how you fine gentlemen define wickedness:
only, as an obscure female, I speak according to my lights: and he is
generally thought the wickedest man in this county.'

'Well, you know, Radie, women like wicked fellows: it is contrast, I
suppose, but they do; and I'm sure, from what Bracton has said to me--I
know him intimately--that Dorcas likes him, and I can't conceive why they
are not married.'

'It is very happy, for her at least, they are not,' said Rachel, and a
long silence ensued.

Their walk continued silent for the greater part, neither was quite
satisfied with the other. But Rachel at last said--

'Stanley, you meditate some injury to Mark Wylder.'

'I, Radie?' he answered quietly, 'why on earth should you think so?'

'I saw you twice watch him when you thought no one observed you--and I
know your face too well, Stanley, to mistake.'

'Now that's impossible, Radie; for I really don't think I once thought of
him all this evening--except just while we were talking.'

'You keep your secret as usual, Stanley,' said the young lady.

'Really, Radie, you're quite mistaken. I assure you, upon my honour, I've
no secret. You're a very odd girl--why won't you believe me?'

Miss Rachel only glanced across her mufflers on his face. There was a
bright moonlight, broken by the shadows of overhanging boughs and
withered leaves; and the mottled lights and shadows glided oddly across
his pale features. But she saw that he was smiling his sly, sleepy smile,
and she said quietly--

'Well, Stanley, I ask no more--but you don't deceive me.'

'I don't try to. If your feelings indeed had been different, and that you
had not made such a point--you know--'

'Don't insult me, Stanley, by talking again as you did this morning. What
I say is altogether on your own account. Mark my words, you'll find him
too strong for you; aye, and too deep. I see very plainly that _he_
suspects you as I do. You saw it, too, for nothing of that kind escapes
you. Whatever you meditate, he probably anticipates it--you know
best--and you will find him prepared. You have given him time enough. You
were always the same, close, dark, and crooked, and wise in your own
conceit. I am very uneasy about it, whatever it is. _I_ can't help it. It
will happen--and most ominously I feel that you are courting a dreadful
retaliation, and that you will bring on yourself a great misfortune; but
it is quite vain, I know, speaking to you.'

'Really, Radie, you're enough to frighten a poor fellow; you won't mind a
word I say, and go on predicting all manner of mischief between me and
Wylder, the very nature of which I can't surmise. Would you dislike my
smoking a cigar, Radie?'

'Oh, no,' answered the young lady, with a little laugh and a heavy sigh,
for she knew it meant silence, and her dark auguries grew darker.

To my mind there has always been something inexpressibly awful in family
feuds. Mortal hatred seems to deepen and dilate into something diabolical
in these perverted animosities. The mystery of their origin--their
capacity for evolving latent faculties of crime--and the steady vitality
with which they survive the hearse, and speak their deep-mouthed
malignities in every new-born generation, have associated them somehow in
my mind with a spell of life exceeding and distinct from human and a
special Satanic action.

My chamber, as I have mentioned, was upon the third storey. It was one of
many, opening upon the long gallery, which had been the scene, four
generations back, of that unnatural and bloody midnight duel which had
laid one scion of this ancient house in his shroud, and driven another a
fugitive to the moral solitudes of a continental banishment.

Much of the day, as I told you, had been passed among the grisly records
of these old family crimes and hatreds. They had been an ill-conditioned
and not a happy race. When I heard the servant's step traversing that
long gallery, as it seemed to me in haste to be gone, and when all grew
quite silent, I began to feel a dismal sort of sensation, and lighted the
pair of wax candles which I found upon the small writing table. How
wonderful and mysterious is the influence of light! What sort of beings
must those be who hate it?

The floor, more than anything else, showed the great age of the room. It
was warped and arched all along by the wall between the door and the
window. The portion of it which the carpet did not cover showed it to be
oak, dark and rugged. My bed was unexceptionably comfortable, but, in my
then mood, I could have wished it a great deal more modern. Its four
posts were, like the rest of it, oak, well-nigh black, fantastically
turned and carved, with a great urn-like capital and base, and shaped
midway, like a gigantic lance-handle. Its curtains were of thick and
faded tapestry. I was always a lover of such antiquities, but I confess
at that moment I would have vastly preferred a sprightly modern chintz
and a trumpery little French bed in a corner of the Brandon Arms. There
was a great lowering press of oak, and some shelves, with withered green
and gold leather borders. All the furniture belonged to other times.

I would have been glad to hear a step stirring, or a cough even, or the
gabble of servants at a distance. But there was a silence and desertion
in this part of the mansion which, somehow, made me feel that I was
myself a solitary intruder on this level of the vast old house.

I shan't trouble you about my train of thoughts or fancies; but I began
to feel very like a gentleman in a ghost story, watching experimentally
in a haunted chamber. My cigar-case was a resource. I was not a bit
afraid of being found out. I did not even take the precaution of smoking
up the chimney. I boldly lighted my cheroot. I peeped through the dense
window curtain there were no shutters. A cold, bright moon was shining
with clear sharp lights and shadows. Everything looked strangely cold and
motionless outside. The sombre old trees, like gigantic hearse plumes,
black and awful. The chapel lay full in view, where so many of the,
strange and equivocal race, under whose ancient roof-tree I then stood,
were lying under their tombstones.

Somehow, I had grown nervous. A little bit of plaster tumbled down the
chimney, and startled me confoundedly. Then some time after, I fancied I
heard a creaking step on the lobby outside, and, candle in hand, opened
the door, and looked out with an odd sort of expectation, and a rather
agreeable disappointment, upon vacancy.




CHAPTER XII.

IN WHICH UNCLE LORNE TROUBLES ME.


I was growing most uncomfortably like one of Mrs. Anne Radcliffe's
heroes--a nervous race of demigods.

I walked like a sentinel up and down my chamber, puffing leisurely the
solemn incense, and trying to think of the Opera and my essay on
'Paradise Lost,' and other pleasant subjects. But it would not do. Every
now and then, as I turned towards the door, I fancied I saw it softly
close. I can't the least say whether it was altogether fancy. It was with
the corner, or as the Italians have it, the 'tail' of my eye that I saw,
or imagined that I saw, this trifling but unpleasant movement.

I called out once or twice sharply--'Come in!' 'Who's there?' 'Who's
that?' and so forth, without any sort of effect, except that unpleasant
reaction upon the nerves which follows the sound of one's own voice in a
solitude of this kind.

The fact is I did not myself believe in that stealthy motion of my door,
and set it down to one of those illusions which I have sometimes
succeeded in analysing--a half-seen combination of objects which, rightly
placed in the due relations of perspective, have no mutual connection
whatever.

So I ceased to challenge the unearthly inquisitor, and allowed him, after
a while, serenely enough, to peep as I turned my back, or to withdraw
again as I made my regular right-about face.

I had now got half-way in my second cheroot, and the clock clanged 'one.'
It was a very still night, and the prolonged boom vibrated strangely in
my excited ears and brain. I had never been quite such an ass before; but
I do assure you I was now in an extremely unpleasant state. One o'clock
was better, however, than twelve. Although, by Jove! the bell was
'beating one,' as I remember, precisely as that king of ghosts, old
Hamlet, revisited the glimpses of the moon, upon the famous platform of
Elsinore.

I had pondered too long over the lore of this Satanic family, and drunk
very strong tea, I suppose. I could not get my nerves into a comfortable
state, and cheerful thoughts refused to inhabit the darkened chamber of
my brain. As I stood in a sort of reverie, looking straight upon the
door, I saw--and this time there could be no mistake whatsoever--the
handle--the only modern thing about it--slowly turned, and the door
itself as slowly pushed about a quarter open.

I do not know what exclamation I made. The door was shut instantly, and I
found myself standing at it, and looking out upon the lobby, with a
candle in my hand, and actually freezing with foolish horror.

I was looking towards the stair-head. The passage was empty and ended in
utter darkness. I glanced the other way, and thought I saw--though not
distinctly--in the distance a white figure, not gliding in the
conventional way, but limping off, with a sort of jerky motion, and, in a
second or two, quite lost in darkness.

I got into my room again, and shut the door with a clap that sounded
loudly and unnaturally through the dismal quiet that surrounded me, and
stood with my hand on the handle, with the instinct of resistance.

I felt uncomfortable; and I would have secured the door, but there was no
sort of fastening within. So I paused. I did not mind looking out again.
To tell you the plain truth, I was just a little bit afraid. Then I grew
angry at having been put into such remote, and, possibly, suspected
quarters, and then my comfortable scepticism supervened. I was yet to
learn a great deal about this visitation.

So, in due course having smoked my cheroot, I jerked the stump into the
fire. Of course I could not think of depriving myself of candle-light;
and being already of a thoughtful, old-bachelor temperament, and averse
from burning houses, I placed one of my tall wax-lights in a basin on the
table by my bed--in which I soon effected a lodgment, and lay with a
comparative sense of security.

Then I heard two o'clock strike; but shortly after, as I suppose, sleep
overtook me, and I have no distinct idea for how long my slumber lasted.
The fire was very low when I awoke, and saw a figure--and a very odd
one--seated by the embers, and stooping over the grate, with a pair of
long hands expanded, as it seemed, to catch the warmth of the sinking
fire.

It was that of a very tall old man, entirely dressed in white flannel--a
very long spencer, and some sort of white swathing about his head. His
back was towards me; and he stooped without the slightest motion over the
fire-place, in the attitude I have described.

As I looked, he suddenly turned towards me, and fixed upon me a cold, and
as it seemed, a wrathful gaze, over his shoulder. It was a bleached and a
long-chinned face--the countenance of Lorne's portrait--only more faded,
sinister, and apathetic. And having, as it were, secured its awful
command over me by a protracted gaze, he rose, supernaturally lean and
tall, and drew near the side of my bed.

I continued to stare upon this apparition with the most dreadful
fascination I ever experienced in my life. For two or three seconds I
literally could not move. When I did, I am not ashamed to confess, it was
to plunge my head under the bed-clothes, with the childish instinct of
terror; and there I lay breathless, for what seemed to me not far from
ten minutes, during which there was no sound, nor other symptom of its
presence.

On a sudden the bed-clothes were gently lifted at my feet, and I sprang
backwards, sitting upright against the back of the bed, and once more
under the gaze of that long-chinned old man.

A voice, as peculiar as the appearance of the figure, said:--

'You are in my bed--I died in it a great many years ago. I am Uncle
Lorne; and when I am not here, a devil goes up and down in the room. See!
he had his face to your ear when I came in. I came from Dorcas Brandon's
bed-chamber door, where her evil angel told me a thing;--and Mark Wylder
must not seek to marry her, for he will be buried alive if he does, and
he will, maybe, never get up again. Say your prayers when I go out, and
come here no more.'

He paused, as if these incredible words were to sink into my memory; and
then, in the same tone, and with the same countenance, he asked--

'Is the blood on my forehead?'

I don't know whether I answered.

'So soon as a calamity is within twelve hours, the blood comes upon my
forehead, as they found me in the morning--it is a sign.'

The old man then drew back slowly, and disappeared behind the curtains at
the foot of the bed, and I saw no more of him during the rest of that
odious night.

So long as this apparition remained before me, I never doubted its being
supernatural. I don't think mortal ever suffered horror more intense. My
very hair was dripping with a cold moisture. For some seconds I hardly
knew where I was. But soon a reaction came, and I felt convinced that the
apparition was a living man. It was no process of reason or philosophy,
but simply I became persuaded of it, and something like rage overcame my
terrors.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE PONY CARRIAGE


So soon as daylight came, I made a swift cold-water toilet, and got out
into the open air, with a solemn resolution to see the hated interior of
that bed-room no more. When I met Lord Chelford in his early walk that
morning, I'm sure I looked myself like a ghost--at all events, very wild
and seedy--for he asked me, more seriously than usual, how I was; and I
think I would have told him the story of my adventure, despite the secret
ridicule with which, I fancied, he would receive it, had it not been for
a certain insurmountable disgust and horror which held me tongue-tied
upon the affair.

I told him, however, that I had dreamed dreams, and was restless and
uncomfortable in my present berth, and begged his interest with the
housekeeper to have my quarters changed to the lower storey--quite
resolved to remove to the Brandon Arms, rather than encounter another
such night as I had passed.

Stanley Lake did not appear that day; Wylder was glowering and
abstracted--worse company than usual; and Rachel seemed to have quite
passed from his recollection.

While Rachel Lake was, as usual, busy in her little garden that day, Lord
Chelford, on his way to the town, by the pretty mill-road, took off his
hat to her with a smiling salutation, and leaning on the paling, he
said--

'I often wonder how you make your flowers grow here--you have so little
sun among the trees--and yet, it is so pretty and flowery; it remains in
my memory as if the sun were always shining specially on this little
garden.'

Miss Lake laughed.

'I am very proud of it. They try not to blow, but I never let them alone
till they do. See all my watering-pots, and pruning-scissors, my sticks,
and bass-mat, and glass covers. Skill and industry conquer churlish
nature--and this is my Versailles.'

'I don't believe in those sticks, and scissors, and watering-pots. You
won't tell your secret; but I'm sure it's an influence--you smile and
whisper to them.'

She smiled--without raising her eyes--on the flower she was tying up;
and, indeed, it was such a smile as must have made it happy--and she
said, gaily--

'You forget that Lord Chelford passes this way sometimes, and shines upon
them, too.'

'No, he's a dull, earthly dog; and if he shines here, it is only in
reflected light'

'Margery, child, fetch me the scissors.'

And a hobble-de-hoy of a girl, with round eyes, and a long white apron,
and bare arms, came down the little walk, and--eyeing the peer with an
awful curiosity--presented the shears to the charming Atropos, who
clipped off the withered blossoms that had bloomed their hour, and were
to cumber the stalk no more.

'Now, you see what art may do; how _passée_ this creature was till I made
her toilet, and how wonderfully the poor old beauty looks now,' and she
glanced complacently at the plant she had just trimmed.

'Well, it is young again and beautiful; but no--I have no faith in the
scissors; I still believe in the influence--from the tips of your
fingers, your looks, and tones. Flowers, like fairies, have their
favourites, whom they smile on and obey; and I think this is a haunted
glen--trees, flowers, all have an intelligence and a feeling--and I am
sure you see wonderful things, by moonlight, from your window.'

With a strange meaning echo, those words returned to her afterwards--'I'm
sure you see wonderful things, by moonlight, from your window.'

But no matter; the winged words--making pleasant music--flew pleasantly
away, now among transparent leaves and glimmering sun; by-and-by, in
moonlight, they will return to the casement piping the same tune, in
ghostly tones.

And as they chatted in this strain, Rachel paused on a sudden, with
upraised hand, listening pleasantly.

'I hear the pony-carriage; Dorcas is coming,' she said.

And the tinkle of tiny wheels, coming down the road, was audible.

'There's a pleasant sense of adventure, too, in the midst of your
seclusion. Sudden arrivals and passing pilgrims, like me, leaning over
the paling, and refreshed by the glimpse the rogue steals of this
charming oratory. Yes; here comes the fair Brunnisende.'

And he made his salutation. Miss Brandon smiled from under her gipsy-hat
very pleasantly for her.

'Will you come with me for a drive, Radie?' she asked.

'Yes, dear--delighted. Margery, bring my gloves and cloak.' And she
unpinned the faded silk shawl that did duty in the garden, and drew off
her gauntlets, and showed her pretty hands; and Margery popped her cloak
on her shoulders, and the young lady pulled on her gloves. All ready in a
moment, like a young lady of energy; and chatting merrily she sat down
beside her cousin, who held the reins. As there were no more gates to
open, Miss Brandon dismissed the servant, who stood at the ponies' heads,
and who, touching his hat with his white glove, received his _congé_, and
strode with willing steps up the road.

'Will you take me for your footman as far as the town?' asked Lord
Chelford; so, with permission, up he jumped behind, and away they
whirled, close over the ground, on toy wheels ringing merrily on the
shingle, he leaning over the back and chatting pleasantly with the young
ladies as they drove on.

They drew up at the Brandon Arms, and little girls courtesied at doors,
and householders peeped from their windows, not standing close to the
panes, but respectfully back, at the great lady and the nobleman, who was
now taking his leave.

And next they pulled up at that official rendezvous, with white-washed
front--and 'post-office,' in white letters on a brown board over its
door, and its black, hinged window-pane, through which Mr. Driver--or, in
his absence, Miss Anne Driver--answered questions, and transacted affairs
officially.

In the rear of this establishment were kept some dogs of Lawyer Larkin's;
and just as the ladies arrived, that person emerged, looking
overpoweringly gentlemanlike, in a white hat, gray paletot, lavender
trowsers, and white riding gloves. He was in a righteous and dignified
way pleased to present himself in so becoming a costume, and moreover in
good company, for Stanley Lake was going with him to Dutton for a day's
sport, which neither of them cared for. But Stanley hoped to pump the
attorney, and the attorney, I'm afraid, liked being associated with the
fashionable captain; and so they were each pleased in the way that suited
them.

The attorney, being long as well as lank, had to stoop under the doorway,
but drew himself up handsomely on coming out, and assumed his easy,
high-bred style, which, although he was not aware of it, was very nearly
insupportable, and smiled very engagingly, and meant to talk a little
about the weather; but Miss Brandon made him one of her gravest and
slightest bows, and suddenly saw Mrs. Brown at her shop door on the other
side, and had a word to say to her.

And now Stanley Lake drew up in the tax-cart, and greeted the ladies, and
told them how he meant to pass the day; and the dogs being put in, and
the attorney, I'm afraid a little spited at his reception, in possession
of the reins, they drove down the little street at a great pace, and
disappeared round the corner; and in a minute more the young ladies, in
the opposite direction, resumed their drive. The ponies, being grave and
trustworthy, and having the road quite to themselves, needed little
looking after, and Miss Brandon was free to converse with her companion.

'I think, Rachel, you have a lover,' she said.

'Only a bachelor, I'm afraid, as my poor Margery calls the young
gentleman who takes her out for a walk on a Sunday, and I fear means
nothing more.'

'This is the second time I've found Chelford talking to you, Rachel, at
the door of your pretty little garden.'

Rachel laughed.

'Suppose, some fine day, he should put his hand over the paling, and take
yours, and make you a speech.'

'You romantic darling,' she said, 'don't you know that peers and princes
have quite given over marrying simple maidens of low estate for love and
liking, and understand match-making better than you or I; though I could
give a tolerable account of myself, after the manner of the white cat in
the story, which I think is a pattern of frankness and modest dignity.
I'd say with a courtesy--"Think not, prince, that I have always been a
cat, and that my birth is obscure; my father was king of six kingdoms,
and loved my mother tenderly," and so forth.'

'Rachel, I like you,' interrupted the dark beauty, fixing her large eyes,
from which not light, but, as it were, a rich shadow fell softly on her
companion. It was the first time she had made any such confession. Rachel
returned her look as frankly, with an amused smile, and then said, with a
comic little toss of her head--

'Well, Dorcas, I don't see why you should not, though I don't know why
you say so.'

'You're not like other people; you don't complain, and you're not bitter,
although you have had great misfortunes, my poor Rachel.'

There be ladies, young and old, who, the moment they are pitied, though
never so cheerful before, will forthwith dissolve in tears. But that was
not Rachel's way; she only looked at her with a good-humoured but grave
curiosity for a few seconds, and then said, with rather a kindly smile--

'And now, Dorcas, I like you.'

Dorcas made no answer, but put her arm round Rachel's neck, and kissed
her; Dorcas made two kisses of it, and Rachel one, but it was cousinly
and kindly; and Rachel laughed a soft little laugh after it, looking
amused and very lovingly on her cousin; but she was a bold lass, and not
given in anywise to the melting mood, and said gaily, with her open hand
still caressingly on Dorcas's waist--

'I make a very good nun, Dorcas, as I told Stanley the other day. I
sometimes, indeed, receive a male visitor, at the other side of the
paling, which is my grille; but to change my way of life is a dream that
does not trouble me. Happy the girl--and I am one--who cannot like until
she is first beloved. Don't you remember poor, pale Winnie, the maid who
used to take us on our walks all the summer at Dawling; how she used to
pluck the leaves from the flowers, like Faust's Marguerite, saying, "He
loves me a little--passionately, not at all." Now if I were loved
passionately, I might love a little; and if loved a little--it should be
not at all.'

They had the road all to themselves, and were going at a walk up an
ascent, so the reins lay loosely on the ponies' necks and Dorcas looked
with an untold meaning in her proud face, on her cousin, and seemed on
the point of speaking, but she changed her mind.

'And so Dorcas, as swains are seldom passionately in love with so small a
pittance as mine, I think I shall mature into a queer old maid, and take
all the little Wylders, masters and misses, with your leave, for their
walks, and help to make their pinafores.' Whereupon Miss Dorcas put her
ponies into a very quick trot, and became absorbed in her driving.




CHAPTER XIV.

IN WHICH VARIOUS PERSONS GIVE THEIR OPINIONS OF CAPTAIN STANLEY LAKE.


'Stanley is an odd creature,' said Rachel, so soon as another slight
incline brought them to a walk; 'I can't conceive why he has come down
here, or what he can possibly want of that disagreeable lawyer. They have
got dogs and guns, and are going, of course, to shoot; but he does not
care for shooting, and I don't think Mr. Larkin's society can amuse him.
Stanley is clever and cunning, I think, but he is neither wise nor frank.
He never tells me his plans, though he must know--he _does_ know--I love
him; yes, he's a strange mixture of suspicion and imprudence. He's
wonderfully reserved. I am certain he trusts no one on earth, and at the
same time, except in his confidences, he's the rashest man living. If he
were like Lord Chelford, or even like our good vicar--not in piety, for
poor Stanley's training, like my own, was sadly neglected there--I mean
in a few manly points of character, I should be quite happy, I think, in
my solitary nook.'

'Is he so very odd?' said Miss Brandon, coldly.

'I only know he makes me often very uncomfortable,' answered Rachel. 'I
never mind what he tells me, for I think he likes to mislead everybody;
and I have been too often duped by him to trust what he says. I only know
that his visit to Gylingden must have been made with some serious
purpose, and his ideas are all so rash and violent.'

'He was at Donnyston for ten days, I think, when I was there, and seemed
clever. They had charades and _proverbes dramatiques_. I'm no judge, but
the people who understood it, said he was very good.'

'Oh! yes he is clever; I knew he was at Donnyston, but he did not mention
he had seen you there; he only told me he had met you pretty often when
you were at Lady Alton's last season.'

'Yes, in town,' she answered, a little drily.

While these young ladies are discussing Stanley Lake, I may be permitted
to mention my own estimate of that agreeable young person.

Captain Lake was a gentleman and an officer, and of course an honourable
man; but somehow I should not have liked to buy a horse from him. He was
very gentlemanlike in appearance, and even elegant; but I never liked
him, although he undoubtedly had a superficial fascination. I always
thought, when in his company, of old Lord Holland's silk stocking with
something unpleasant in it. I think, in fact, he was destitute of those
fine moral instincts which are born with men, but never acquired; and in
his way of estimating his fellow men, and the canons of honour, there was
occasionally perceptible a faint flavour of the villainous, and an
undefined savour, at times, of brimstone. I know also that when his
temper, which was nothing very remarkable, was excited, he could be
savage and brutal enough; and I believe he had often been violent and
cowardly in his altercations with his sister--so, at least, two or three
people, who were versed in the scandals of the family, affirmed. But it
is a censorious world, and I can only speak positively of my own
sensations in his company. His morality, however, I suppose, was quite
good enough for the world, and he had never committed himself in any of
those ways of which that respectable tribunal takes cognizance.

'So that d--d fellow Lake is down here still; and that stupid, scheming
lubber, Larkin, driving him about in his tax-cart, instead of minding his
business. I could not see him to-day. That sort of thing won't answer me;
and he _is_ staying at Larkin's house, I find.' Wylder was talking to me
on the door steps after dinner, having in a rather sulky way swallowed
more than his usual modicum of Madeira, and his remarks were delivered
interruptedly--two or three puffs of his cigar interposed between each
sentence.

'I suppose he expects to be asked to the wedding. He _may_ expect--ha,
ha, ha! You don't know that lad as I do.'

Then there came a second cigar, and some little time in lighting, and
full twenty enjoyable puffs before he resumed.

'Now, you're a moral man, Charlie, tell me really what you think of a
fellow marrying a girl he does not care that for,' and he snapt his
fingers. 'Just for the sake of her estate--it's the way of the world, of
course, and all that--but, is not it a little bit shabby, don't you
think? Eh? Ha, ha, ha!'

'I'll not debate with you, Wylder, on that stupid old question. It's the
way of the world, as you say, and there's an end of it.'

'They say she's such a beauty! Well, so I believe she is, but I can't
fancy her. Now you must not be angry. I'm not a poet like
you--book-learned, you know; and she's too solemn by half, and grand. I
wish she was different. That other girl, Rachel--she's a devilish
handsome craft. I wish almost she was not here at all, or I wish she was
in Dorcas's shoes.'

'Nonsense, Wylder! stop this stuff; and it is growing cold, throw away
that cigar, and come in.'

'In a minute. No, I assure you, I'm not joking. Hang it! I must talk to
some one. I'm devilish uncomfortable about this grand match. I wish I had
not been led into it I don't think I'd make a good husband to any woman I
did not fancy, and where's the good of making a girl unhappy, eh?'

'Tut, Wylder, you ought to have thought of all that before. I don't like
your talking in this strain when you know it is too late to recede;
besides, you are the luckiest fellow in creation. Upon my word, I don't
know why the girl marries you; you can't suppose that she could not marry
much better, and if you have not made up your mind to break off, of which
the world would form but one opinion, you had better not speak in that
way any more.'

'Why, it was only to you, Charlie, and to tell you the truth, I do
believe it is the best thing for me; but I suppose every fellow feels a
little queer when he is going to be spliced, a little bit nervous, eh?
But you are right--and I'm right, and we are all right--it _is_ the best
thing for us both. It will make a deuced fine estate; but hang it! you
know a fellow's never satisfied. And I suppose I'm a bit put out by that
disreputable dog's being here--I mean Lake; not that I need care more
than Dorcas, or anyone else; but he's no credit to the family, you see,
and I never could abide him. I've half a mind, Charlie, to tell you a
thing; but hang it! you're such a demure old maid of a chap. Will you
have a cigar?'

'No.'

'Well, I believe two's enough for me,' and he looked up at the stars.

'I've a notion of running up to town, only for a day or two, before this
business comes off, just on the sly; you'll not mention it, and I'll have
a word with Lake, quite friendly, of course; but I'll shut him up, and
that's all. I wonder he did not dine here to-day. Did you ever see so
pushing a brute?'

So Wylder chucked away his cigar, and stood for a minute with his hands
in his pockets looking up at the stars, as if reading fortunes there.

I had an unpleasant feeling that Mark Wylder was about some mischief--a
suspicion that some game of mine and countermine was going on between him
and Lake, to which I had no clue whatsoever.

Mark had the frankness of callosity, and could recount his evil deeds and
confess his vices with hilarity and detail, and was prompt to take his
part in a lark, and was a remarkably hard hitter, and never shrank from
the brunt of the row; and with these fine qualities, and a much superior
knowledge of the ways of the flash world, had commanded my boyish
reverence and a general popularity among strangers. But, with all this,
he could be as secret as the sea with which he was conversant, and as
hard as a stone wall, when it answered his purpose. He had no lack of
cunning, and a convenient fund of cool cruelty when that stoical
attribute was called for. Years, I dare say, and a hard life and
profligacy, and command, had not made him less selfish or more humane, or
abated his craft and resolution.

If one could only see it, the manoeuvring and the ultimate collision of
two such generals as he and Lake would be worth observing.

I dare say my last night's adventure tended to make me more nervous and
prone to evil anticipation. And although my quarters had been changed to
the lower storey, I grew uncomfortable as it waxed late, and half
regretted that I had not migrated to the Brandon Arms.

Uncle Lorne, however, made me no visit that night. Once or twice I
fancied something, and started up in my bed. It was fancy, merely. What
state had I really been in, when I saw that long-chinned apparition of
the pale portrait? Many a wiser man than I had been mystified by
dyspepsia and melancholic vapours.




CHAPTER XV.

DORCAS SHOWS HER JEWELS TO MISS LAKE.


Stanley Lake and his sister dined next day at Brandon. Under the cold
shadow of Lady Chelford, the proprieties flourished, and generally very
little else. Awful she was, and prompt to lecture young people before
their peers, and spoke her mind with fearful directness and precision.
But sometimes she would talk, and treat her hearers to her recollections,
and recount anecdotes with a sort of grim cleverness, not wholly
unamusing.

She did not like Wylder, I thought, although she had been the inventor
and constructor of the family alliance of which he was the hero. I did
not venture to cultivate her; and Miss Brandon had been, from the first,
specially cold and repellent to Captain Lake. There was nothing very
genial or promising, therefore, in the relations of our little party, and
I did not expect a very agreeable evening.

Notwithstanding all this, however, our dinner was, on the whole, much
pleasanter than I anticipated. Stanley Lake could be very amusing; but I
doubt if our talk would quite stand the test of print. I often thought if
one of those artists who photograph language and thought--the quiet,
clever 'reporters,' to whom England is obliged for so much of her daily
entertainment, of her social knowledge, and her political safety, were,
pencil in hand, to ensconce himself behind the arras, and present us, at
the close of the agreeable banquet, with a literal transcript of the
feast of reason, which we give and take with so much complacency--whether
it would quite satisfy us upon reconsideration.

When I entered the drawing-room after dinner, Lord Chelford was plainly
arguing a point with the young ladies, and by the time I drew near, it
was Miss Lake's turn to speak.

'Flattering of mankind, I am sure, I have no talent for; and without
flattering and wheedling you'll never have conjugal obedience. Don't you
remember Robin Hood? how--

  'The mother of Robin said to her husband,
  My honey, my love, and my dear.'

And all this for leave to ride with her son to see her own brother at
Gamwell.'

'I remember,' said Dorcas, with a smile. 'I wonder what has become of
that old book, with its odd little woodcuts.

  'And he said, I grant thee thy boon, gentle Joan!
  Take one of my horses straightway.'

'Well, though the book is lost, we retain the moral, you see,' said
Rachel with a little laugh; 'and it has always seemed to me that if it
had not been necessary to say, "my honey, my love, and my dear," that
good soul would not have said it, and you may be pretty sure that if she
had not, and with the suitable by-play too, she might not have ridden to
Gamwell that day.'

'And you don't think _you_ could have persuaded yourself to repeat that
little charm, which obtained her boon and one of his horses straightway?'
said Lord Chelford.

'Well, I don't know what a great temptation and a contumacious husband
might bring one to; but I'm afraid I'm a stubborn creature, and have not
the feminine gift of flattery. If, indeed, he felt his inferiority and
owned his dependence, I think I might, perhaps, have called him "my
honey, my love, and my dear," and encouraged and comforted him; but to
buy my personal liberty, and the right to visit my brother at
Gamwell--never!'

And yet she looked, Lord Chelford thought, very goodhumoured and
pleasant, and he fancied a smile from her might do more with some men
than all gentle Joan's honeyed vocabulary.

'I own,' said Lord Chelford, laughing, 'that, from prejudice, I suppose,
I am in favour of the apostolic method, and stand up for the divine right
of my sex; but then, don't you see, it is your own fault, if you make it
a question of right, when you may make it altogether one of fascination?'

'Who, pray, is disputing the husband's right to rule?' demanded old Lady
Chelford unexpectedly.

'I am very timidly defending it against very serious odds,' answered her
son.

'Tut, tut! my dears, what's all this; you _must_ obey your husbands,'
cried the dowager, who put down nonsense with a high hand, and had ruled
her lord with a rod of iron.

'That's no tradition of the Brandons,' said Miss Dorcas, quietly.

'The Brandons--pooh! my dear--it is time the Brandons should grow like
other people. Hitherto, the Brandon men have all, without exception, been
the wickedest in all England, and the women the handsomest and the most
self-willed. Of course the men could not be obeyed in all things, nor the
women disobeyed. I'm a Brandon myself, Dorcas, so I've a right to speak.
But the words are precise--honour and obey--and obey you _must_; though,
of course you may argue a point, if need be, and let your husband hear
reason.'

And, having ruled the point, old Lady Chelford leaned back and resumed
her doze.

There was no longer anything playful in Dorcas's look. On the contrary,
something fierce and lurid, which I thought wonderfully becoming; and
after a little she said--

'I promised, Rachel, to show you my jewels. Come now--will you?--and see
them.'

And she placed Rachel's hand on her arm, and the two young ladies
departed.

'Are you well, dear?' asked Rachel when they reached her room.

Dorcas was very pale, and her gaze was stern, and something undefinably
wild in her quietude.

'What day of the month is this?' said Dorcas.

'The eighth--is not it?--yes, the eighth,' answered Rachel.

'And our marriage is fixed for the twenty-second--just a fortnight hence.
I am going to tell you, Rachel, what I have resolved on.'

'How really beautiful these diamonds are!--quite superb.'

'Yes,' said Dorcas, opening the jewel-cases, which she had taken from her
cabinet, one after the other.

'And these pearls! how very magnificent! I had no idea Mark Wylder's
taste was so exquisite.'

'Yes, very magnificent, I suppose.'

'How charming--quite regal--you will look, Dorcas!'

Dorcas smiled strangely, and her bosom heaved a little, Rachel thought.
Was it elation, or was there not something wildly bitter gleaming in that
smile?

'I _must_ look a little longer at these diamonds.'

'As long, dear, as you please. You are not likely, Rachel, to see them
again.'

From the blue flash of the brilliants Rachel in honest amazement raised
her eyes to her cousin's face. The same pale smile was there; the look
was oracular and painful. Had she overheard a part of that unworthy talk
of Wylder's at the dinner-table, the day before, and mistaken Rachel's
share in the dialogue?

And Dorcas said--

'You have heard of the music on the waters that lures mariners to
destruction. The pilot leaves the rudder, and leans over the prow, and
listens. They steer no more, but drive before the wind; and what care
they for wreck or drowning?'

I suppose it was the same smile; but in Rachel's eyes, as pictures will,
it changed its character with her own change of thought, and now it
seemed the pale rapt smile of one who hears music far off, or sees a
vision.

'Rachel, dear, I sometimes think there is an evil genius attendant on our
family,' continued Dorcas in the same subdued tone, which, in its very
sweetness, had so sinister a sound in Rachel's ear. 'From mother to
child, from child to grandchild, the same influence continues; and, one
after another, wrecks the daughters of our family--a wayward family, and
full of misery. Here I stand, forewarned, with my eyes open, determinedly
following in the funereal footsteps of those who have gone their way
before me. These jewels all go back to Mr. Wylder. He never can be
anything to me. I was, I thought, to build up our house. I am going, I
think, to lay it in the dust. With the spirit of the insane, I feel the
spirit of a prophetess, too, and I see the sorrow that awaits me. You
will see.'

'Dorcas, darling, you are certainly ill. What is the matter?'

'No, dear Rachel, not ill, only maybe agitated a little. You must not
touch the bell--listen to me; but first promise, so help you Heaven, you
will keep my secret.'

'I do promise, indeed Dorcas, I swear I'll not repeat one word you tell
me.'

'It has been a vain struggle. I know he's a bad man, a worthless
man--selfish, cruel, maybe. Love is not blind with me, but quite insane.
He does not know, nor you, nor anyone; and now, Rachel, I tell you what
was unknown to all but myself and Heaven--looking neither for counsel,
nor for pity, nor for sympathy, but because I must, and you have sworn to
keep my secret. I love your brother. Rachel, you must try to like me.'

She threw her arms round her cousin's neck, and Rachel felt in her
embrace the vibration of an agony.

She was herself so astonished that for a good while she could hardly
collect her thoughts or believe her senses. Was it credible? Stanley!
whom she had received with a coldness, if not aversion, so marked, that,
if he had a spark of Rachel's spirit, he would never have approached her
more! Then came the thought--perhaps they understood one another, and
that was the meaning of Stanley's unexpected visit?

'Well, Dorcas, dear, I _am_ utterly amazed. But does Stanley--he can
hardly hope?'

Dorcas removed her arms from her cousin's neck; her face was pale, and
her cheeks wet with tears, which she did not wipe away.

'Sit down by me, Rachel. No, _he_ does _not_ like _me_--that is--I don't
know; but, I am sure, he can't suspect that I like him. It was my
determination it should not be. I resolved, Rachel, quite to extinguish
the madness; but I could not. It was not his doing, nor mine, but
something else. There are some families, I think, too wicked for Heaven
to protect, and they are given over to the arts of those who hated them
in life and pursue them after death; and this is the meaning of the curse
that has always followed us. No good will ever happen us, and I must go
like the rest.'

There was a short silence, and Rachel gazed on the carpet in troubled
reflection, and then, with an anxious look, she took her cousin's hand,
and said--

'Dorcas, you must think of this no more. I am speaking against my
brother's interest. But you must not sacrifice yourself, your fortune,
and your _happiness_, to a shadow; whatever his means are, they hardly
suffice for his personal expenses--indeed, they don't suffice, for I have
had to help him. But that is all trifling compared with other
considerations. I am his sister, and, though he has shown little love for
me, I am not without affection--and strong affection--for him; but I must
and will speak frankly. You could not, I don't think anyone could be
happy with Stanley for her husband. You don't know him: he's profligate;
he's ill-tempered; he's cold; he's selfish; he's secret. He was a spoiled
boy, totally without moral education; he might, perhaps, have been very
different, but he _is what_ he is, and I don't think he'll ever change.'

'He may be what he will. It is vain reasoning with that which is not
reason; the battle is over; possibly he may never know, and that might be
best for both--but be it how it may, I will never marry anyone else.'

'Dorcas, dear, you must not speak to Lady Chelford, or to Mark Wylder,
to-night. It is too serious a step to be taken in haste.'

'There has been no haste, Rachel, and there can be no change.'

'And what reason can you give?'

'None; no reason,' said Dorcas, slowly.

'Wylder would have been suitable in point of wealth. Not so well, I am
sure, as you _might_ have married; but neither would _he_ be a good
husband, though not so bad as Stanley; and I do not think that Mark
Wylder will quietly submit to his disappointment.'

'It was to have been simply a marriage of two estates. It was old Lady
Chelford's plan. I have now formed mine, and all that's over. Let him do
what he will--I believe a lawsuit is his worst revenge--I'm indifferent.'

Just then a knock came to the chamber door.

'Come in,' said Miss Brandon: and her maid entered to say that the
carriage, please Ma'am, was at the door to take Miss Lake home.

'I had no idea it was so late,' said Rachel.

'Stay, dear, don't go for a moment. Jones, bring Miss Lake's cloak and
bonnet here. And now, dear,' she said, after a little pause, 'you'll
remember your solemn promise?'

'I never broke my word, dear Dorcas; your secret is safe.'

'And, Rachel, try to like me.'

'I love you better, Dorcas, than I thought I ever could. Good-night,
dear.'

'Good-night.'

And the young ladies parted with a kiss, and then another.




CHAPTER XVI.

'JENNY, PUT THE KETTLE ON.'


Old Lady Chelford, having despatched a sharp and unceremonious message to
her young kinswoman, absent without leave, warning her, in effect, that
if she returned to the drawing-room it would be to preside, alone, over
gentlemen, departed, somewhat to our secret relief.

Upon this, on Lord Chelford's motion, in our forlorn condition, we went
to the billiard-room, and there, under the bright lights, and the gay
influence of that wonderful game, we forgot our cares, and became
excellent friends apparently--'cuts,' 'canons,' 'screws,' 'misses,'
'flukes'--Lord Chelford joked, Wylder 'chaffed,' even Lake seemed to
enjoy himself; and the game proceeded with animation and no lack of
laughter, beguiling the watches of the night; and we were all amazed, at
length, to find how very late it was. So we laid down our cues, with the
customary ejaculations of surprise.

We declined wine and water, and all other creature comforts. Wylder and
Lake had a walk before them, and we bid Lord Chelford 'good-night' in the
passage, and I walked with them through the deserted and nearly darkened
rooms.

Our talk grew slow, and our spirits subsided in this changed and
tenebrose scenery. The void and the darkness brought back, I suppose, my
recollection of the dubious terms on which these young men stood, and a
feeling of the hollowness and delusion of the genial hours just passed
under the brilliant lights, together with an unpleasant sense of
apprehension.

On coming out upon the door-steps we all grew silent.

The moon was low, and its yellow disk seemed, as it sometimes does,
dilated to a wondrous breadth, as its edge touched the black outline of
the distant woods. I half believe in presentiments, and I felt one now,
in the chill air, the sudden silence, and the watchful gaze of the moon.
I suspect that Wylder and Lake, too, felt something of the same ominous
qualm, for I thought their faces looked gloomy in the light, as they
stood together buttoning their loose wrappers and lighting their cigars.

With a 'good-night, good-night,' we parted, and I heard their retreating
steps crunching along the walk that led to Redman's Hollow, and by Miss
Rachel's quiet habitation. I heard no talking, such as comes between
whiffs with friendly smokers, side by side; and, silent as mutes at a
funeral, they walked on, and soon the fall of their footsteps was heard
no more, and I re-entered the hall and shut the door. The level moonlight
was shining through the stained heraldic window, and fell bright on the
portrait of Uncle Lorne, at the other end, throwing a patch of red, like
a stain, on one side of its pale forehead.

I had forgot, at the moment, that the ill-omened portrait hung there, and
a sudden horror smote me. I thought of what my vision said of the 'blood
upon my forehead,' and, by Jove! there it was!

At this moment the large white Marseilles waistcoat of grave Mr. Larcom
appeared, followed by a tall powdered footman, and their candles and
business-like proceedings frightened away the phantoms. So I withdrew to
my chamber, where, I am glad to say, I saw nothing of Uncle Lorne.

Miss Lake, as she drove that night towards Gylingden, said little to the
vicar's wife, whose good husband had been away to Friars, making a
sick-call, and she prattled on very merrily about his frugal little tea
awaiting his late return, and asked her twice on the way home whether it
was half-past nine, for she did not boast a watch; and in the midst of
her prattle was peeping at the landmarks of their progress.

'Oh, I'm so glad--here's the finger post, at last!' and then--'Well, here
we are at the "Cat and Fiddle;" I thought we'd never pass it.'

And, at last, the brougham stopped at the little garden-gate, at the far
end of the village; and the good little mamma called to her
maid-of-all-work from the window--

'Has the master come yet, Becky?'

'No, Ma'am, please.'

And I think she offered up a little thanksgiving, she so longed to give
him his tea herself; and then she asked--

'Is our precious mannikin asleep?' Which also being answered happily, as
it should be, she bid her fussy adieux, with a merry smile, and hurried,
gabbling amicably with her handmaid, across the little flower-garden; and
Miss Lake was shut in and drove on alone, under the thick canopy of old
trees, and up the mill-road, lighted by the flashing lamps, to her own
little precincts, and was, in turn, at home--solitary, triste, but still
her home.

'Get to your bed, Margery, child, you are sleepy,' said the young lady
kindly to her queer little maid-of-honour. Rachel was one of those
persons who, no matter what may be upon their minds, are quickly
impressible by the scenes in which they find themselves. She stepped into
her little kitchen--always a fairy kitchen, so tiny, so white, so
raddled, and shining all over with that pleasantest of all
effulgence--burnished tins, pewters, and the homely decorations of the
dresser--and she looked all round and smiled pleasantly, and kissed old
Tamar, and said--

'So, my dear old fairy, here's your Cinderella home again from the ball,
and I've seen nothing so pretty as this since I left Redman's Farm. How
white your table is, how nice your chairs; I wish you'd change with me
and let me be cook week about; and, really the fire is quite pleasant
to-night. Come, make a cup of tea, and tell us a story, and frighten me
and Margery before we go to our beds. Sit down, Margery, I'm only here by
permission. What do you mean by standing?' And the young lady, with a
laugh, sat down, looking so pleased, and good-natured, and merry, that
even old Tamar was fain to smile a glimmering smile; and little Margery
actively brought the tea-caddy; and the kettle, being in a skittish
singing state, quickly went off in a boil, and Tamar actually made tea in
her brown teapot.

'Oh, no; the delf cups and saucers;--it will be twice as good in them;'
and as the handsome mistress of the mansion, sitting in the deal chair,
loosened her cloak and untied her bonnet, she chatted away, to the
edification of Margery and the amusement of both.

This little extemporised bivouac, as it were, with her domestics,
delighted the young belle. Vanity of vanities, as Mr. Thackeray and King
Solomon cry out in turn. Silver trays and powdered footmen, and Utrecht,
velvet upholstery--miserable comforters! What saloon was ever so cheery
as this, or flashed all over in so small a light so splendidly, or
yielded such immortal nectar from chased teapot and urn, as this brewed
in brown crockery from the roaring kettle?

So Margery, sitting upon her stool in the background--for the Queen had
said it, and sit she must--and grinning from ear to ear, in a great halo
of glory, partook of tea.

'Well, Tamar, where's your story?' said the young lady.

'Story! La! bless you, dear Miss Radie, where should I find a story? My
old head's a poor one to remember,' whimpered white Tamar.

'Anything, no matter what--a ghost or a murder.'

Old Tamar shook her head.

'Or an elopement?'

Another shake of the head.

'Or a mystery--or even a dream?'

'Well--a dream! Sometimes I do dream. I dreamed how Master Stanley was
coming, the night before.'

'You did, did you? Selfish old thing! and you meant to keep it all to
yourself. What was it?'

Tamar looked anxiously and suspiciously in the kitchen fire, and placed
her puckered hand to the side of her white linen cap.

'I dreamed, Ma'am, the night before he came, a great fellow was at the
hall-door.'

'What! here?'

'Yes, Ma'am, this hall-door. So muffled up I could not see his face; and
he pulls out a letter all over red.'

'Red?'

'Aye, Miss; a red letter.'

'Red ink?'

'No, Miss, red _paper_, written with black, and directed for you.'

'Oh!'

'And so, Miss, in my dream, I gave it you in the drawing-room; and you
opened it, and leaned your hand upon your head, sick-like, reading it. I
never saw you read a letter so serious-like before. And says you to me,
Miss, "It's all about Master Stanley; he is coming." And sure enough,
here he was quite unexpected, next morning.'

'And was there no more?' asked Miss Lake.

'No more, Miss. I awoke just then.'

'It _is_ odd,' said Miss Lake, with a little laugh. 'Had you been
thinking of him lately?'

'Not a bit, Ma'am. I don't know when.'

'Well, it certainly is _very_ odd.'

At all events, it had glanced upon a sensitive recollection unexpectedly.
The kitchen was only a kitchen now; and the young lady, on a sudden,
looked thoughtful--perhaps a little sad. She rose; and old Tamar got up
before her, with her scared, secret look, clothed in white--the witch,
whose word had changed all, and summoned round her those shapes, which
threw their indistinct shadows on the walls and faces around.

'Light the candles in the drawing-room, Margery, and then, child, go to
your bed,' said the young lady, awakening from an abstraction. 'I don't
mind dreams, Tamar, nor fortune-tellers--I've dreamed so many good
dreams, and no good ever came of them. But talking of Stanley reminds me
of trouble and follies that I can't help, or prevent. He has left the
army, Tamar, and I don't know what his plans are.'

'Ah! poor child; he was always foolish and changeable, and a deal too
innocent for them wicked officer-gentlemen; and I'm glad he's not among
them any longer to learn bad ways--I am.'

So, the drawing-room being prepared, Rachel bid Tamar and little Margery
good-night, and the sleepy little handmaid stumped off to her bed; and
white old Tamar, who had not spoken so much for a month before, put on
her solemn round spectacles, and by her dipt candle read her chapter in
the ponderous Bible she had thumbed so well, and her white lips told over
the words as she read them in silence.

Old Tamar, I always thought, had seen many untold things in her day, and
some of her recollections troubled her, I dare say; and she held her
tongue, and knitted her white worsteds when she could sit quiet--which
was most hours of the day; and now and then when evil remembrances,
maybe, gathered round her solitude, she warned them off with that book of
power--so that my recollection of her is always the same white-clad,
cadaverous old woman, with a pair of barnacles on her nose, and her look
of secrecy and suffering turned on the large print of that worn volume,
or else on the fumbling-points of her knitting-needles.

It was a small house, this Redman's Farm, but very silent, for all that,
when the day's work was over; and very solemn, too, the look-out from the
window among the colonnades of tall old trees, on the overshadowed earth,
and through them into deepest darkness; the complaining of the lonely
stream far down is the only sound in the air.

There was but one imperfect vista, looking down the glen, and this
afforded no distant view--only a downward slant in the near woodland, and
a denser background of forest rising at the other side, and to-night
mistily gilded by the yellow moon-beams, the moon herself unseen.

Rachel had opened her window-shutters, as was her wont when the moon was
up, and with her small white hands on the window-sash, looked into the
wooded solitudes, lost in haunted darkness in every direction but one,
and there massed in vaporous and discoloured foliage, hardly more
distinct, or less solemn.

'Poor old Tamar says her prayers, and reads her Bible; I wish _I_ could.
How often I wish it. That good, simple vicar--how unlike his brother--is
wiser, perhaps, than all the shrewd people that smile at him. He used to
talk to me; but I've lost that--yes--I let him understand I did not care
for it, and so that good influence is gone from me--graceless creature.
No one seemed to care, except poor old Tamar, whether I ever said a
prayer, or heard any good thing; and when I was no more than ten years
old, I refused to say my prayers for her. My poor father. Well, Heaven
help us all.'

So she stood in the same sad attitude, looking out upon the shadowy
scene, in a forlorn reverie.

Her interview with Dorcas remained on her memory like an odd, clear,
half-horrible dream. What a dazzling prospect it opened for Stanley; what
a dreadful one might it not prepare for Dorcas. What might not arise from
such a situation between Stanley and Mark Wylder, each in his way a
worthy representative of the ill-conditioned and terrible race whose
blood he inherited? Was this doomed house of Brandon never to know repose
or fraternity?

Was it credible? Had it actually occurred, that strange confession of
Dorcas Brandon's? Could anything be imagined so mad--so unaccountable?
She reviewed Stanley in her mind's eye. She was better acquainted,
perhaps, with his defects than his fascinations, and too familiar with
both to appreciate at all their effect upon a stranger.

'What can she see in him? There's nothing remarkable in Stanley, poor
fellow, except his faults. There are much handsomer men than he, and many
as amusing--and he with no estate.'

She had heard of charms and philtres. How could she account for this
desperate hallucination?

Rachel was troubled by a sort of fear to-night, and the low fever of an
undefined expectation was upon her. She turned from the window, intending
to write two letters, which she had owed too long--young ladies'
letters--for Miss Lake, like many of her sex, as I am told, had several
little correspondences on her hands; and as she turned, with a start, she
saw old Tamar standing in the door-way, looking at her.

'Tamar!'

'Yes, Miss Rachel.'

'Why do you come so softly, Tamar? Do you know, you frightened me?'

'I thought I'd look in, Miss, before I went to bed, just to see if you
wanted anything.'

'No--nothing, thank you, dear Tamar.'

'And I don't think, Miss Rachel, you are quite well to-night, though you
are so gay--you're pale, dear; and there's something on your mind. Don't
be thinking about Master Stanley; he's out of the army now, and I'm
thankful for it; and make your mind easy about him; and would not it be
better, dear, you went to your bed, you rise so early.'

'Very true, good old Tamar, but to-night I must write a letter--not a
long one, though--and I assure you, I'm quite well. Good-night, Tamar.'

Tamar stood for a moment with her odd weird look upon her, and then
bidding her good-night, glided stiffly away, shutting the door.

So Rachel sat down to her desk and began to write; but she could not get
into the spirit of her letter; on the contrary, her mind wandered away,
and she found herself listening, every now and then, and at last she
fancied that old Tamar, about whom that dream, and her unexpected
appearance at the door, had given her a sort of spectral feeling that
night, was up and watching her; and the idea of this white sentinel
outside her door excited her so unpleasantly, that she opened it, but
found no Tamar there; and then she revisited the kitchen, but that was
empty too, and the fire taken down. And, finally, she passed into the old
woman's bed-chamber, whom she saw, her white head upon her pillow,
dreaming again, perhaps. And so, softly closing her door, she left her to
her queer visions and deathlike slumber.



CHAPTER XVII.

RACHEL LAKE SEES WONDERFUL THINGS BY MOONLIGHT FROM HER WINDOW.


Though Rachel was unfit for letter-writing, she was still more unfit for
slumber. She leaned her temple on her hand, and her rich light hair half
covered her fingers, and her amazing interview with Dorcas was again
present with her, and the same feeling of bewilderment. The suddenness
and the nature of the disclosures were dream-like and unreal, and the
image of Dorcas remained impressed upon her sight; not like Dorcas,
though the same, but something ghastly, wan, glittering, and terrible,
like a priestess at a solitary sacrifice.

It was late now, not far from one o'clock, and around her the terrible
silence of a still night. All those small sounds lost in the hum of
midday life now came into relief--a ticking in the wainscot, a crack now
and then in the joining of the furniture, and occasionally the tap of a
moth against the window-pane from outside, sounds sharp and odd, which
made her wish the stillness of the night were not so intense.

As from her little table she looked listlessly through the window, she
saw against the faint glow of the moonlight, the figure of a man who
seized the paling and vaulted into the flower-garden, and with a few
swift, stumbling strides over the flower-beds, reached the window, and
placing his pale face close to the glass, she saw his eyes glittering
through it; he tapped--or rather beat on the pane with his fingers--and
at the same time he said, repeatedly: 'Let me in; let me in.'

Her first impression, when she saw this person cross the little fence at
the road-side was, that Mark Wylder was the man. But she was mistaken;
the face and figure were Stanley Lake's.

She would have screamed in the extremity of her terror, but that her
voice for some seconds totally failed her; and recognising her brother,
though like Rhoda, in Holy Writ, she doubted whether it was not his
angel, she rose up, and with an awful ejaculation, she approached the
window.

'Let me in, Radie; d-- you, let me in,' he repeated, drumming incessantly
on the glass. There was no trace now of his sleepy jeering way. Rachel
saw that something was very wrong, and beckoned him towards the porch in
silence, and having removed the slender fastenings of the door, it
opened, and he entered in a rush of damp night air. She took him by the
hand, and he shook hers mechanically, like a man rescued from shipwreck,
and plainly not recollecting himself well.

'Stanley, dear, what's the matter, in Heaven's name?' she whispered, so
soon as she had got him into her little drawing-room.

'He has done it; d-- him, he has done it,' gasped Stanley Lake.

He looked in her face with a glazed and ashy stare. His hat remained on
his head, overshadowing his face; and his boots were soiled with clay,
and his wrapping coat marked, here and there, with the green of the stems
and branches of trees, through which he had made his way.

'I see, Stanley, you've had a scene with Mark Wylder; I warned you of
your danger--you have had the worst of it.'

'I spoke to him. He took a course I did not expect. I'm not well.'

'You've broken your promise. I see you have used _me_. How base; how
stupid!'

'How could I tell he was such a _fiend_?'

'I told you how it would be. He has frightened you,' said Rachel, herself
frightened.

'D-- him; I wish I had done as you said. I wish I had never come here.
Give me a glass of wine. He has ruined me.'

'You cruel, wretched creature!' said Rachel, now convinced that he had
compromised her as he threatened.

'Yes, I was wrong; I'm sorry; things have turned out different. Who's
that?' said Lake, grasping her wrist.

'Who--where--Mark Wylder?'

'No; it's nothing, I believe.'

'Where is he? Where have you left him?'

'Up there, at the pathway, near the stone steps.'

'Waiting there?'

'Well, yes; and I don't think I'll go back, Radie.'

'You _shall_ go back, Sir, and carry my message; or, no, I could not
trust you. I'll go with you and see him, and disabuse him. How could
you--how _could_ you, Stanley?'

'It was a mistake, altogether; I'm sorry, but I could not tell there was
such a devil on the earth.'

'Yes, I told you so. _He_ has frightened _you_' said Rachel.

'He _has_, _maybe_. At any rate, I was a fool, and I think I'm ruined;
and I'm afraid, Rachel, you'll be inconvenienced too.'

'Yes, you have made him savage and brutal; and between you, I shall be
called in question, you wretched fool!'

Stanley was taking these hard terms very meekly for a savage young
coxcomb like him. Perhaps they bore no very distinct meaning just then to
his mind. Perhaps it was preoccupied with more exciting ideas; or, it may
be, his agitation and fear cried 'amen' to the reproach; at all events,
he only said, in a pettish but deprecatory sort of way--

'Well, where's the good of scolding? how can I help it now?'

'What's your quarrel? why does he wait for you there? why has he sent you
here? It must concern _me_, Sir, and I insist on hearing it all.'

'So you shall, Radie; only have patience just a minute--and give me a
little wine or water--anything.'

'There is the key. There's some wine in the press, I think.'

He tried to open it, but his hand shook. He saw his sister look at him,
and he flung the keys on the table rather savagely, with, I dare say, a
curse between his teeth.

There was running all this time in Rachel's mind, and had been almost
since the first menacing mention of Wylder's name by her brother, an
indistinct remembrance of something unpleasant or horrible. It may have
been mere fancy, or it may have referred to something long ago
imperfectly heard. It was a spectre of mist, that evaporated before she
could fix her eyes on it, but was always near her elbow.

Rachel took the key with a faint gleam of scorn on her face and brought
out the wine in silence.

He took a tall-stemmed Venetian glass that stood upon the cabinet, an
antique decoration, and filled it with sherry--a strange revival of old
service! How long was it since lips had touched its brim before, and
whose? Lovers', maybe, and how. How long since that cold crystal had
glowed with the ripples of wine? This, at all events, was its last
service. It is an old legend of the Venetian glass--its shivering at
touch of poison; and there are those of whom it is said, 'the poison of
asps is under their lips.'

'What's that?' ejaculated Rachel, with a sudden shriek--that whispered
shriek, so expressive and ghastly, that you, perhaps, have once heard in
your life--and her very lips grew white.

'Hollo!' cried Lake. He was standing with his back to the window, and
sprang forward, as pale as she, and grasped her, with a white leer that
she never forgot, over his shoulder, and the Venice glass was shivered on
the ground.

'Who's there?' he whispered.

And Rachel, in a whisper, ejaculated the awful name that must not be
taken in vain.

She sat down. She was looking at him with a wild, stern stare, straight
in the face, and he still holding her arm, and close to her.

'I see it all now,' she whispered.

'Who--what--what is it?' said he.

'I could not have fancied _that_,' she whispered with a gasp.

Stanley looked round him with pale and sharpened features.

'What the devil is it! If that scoundrel had come to kill us, you could
not cry out louder,' he whispered, with an oath. 'Do you want to wake
your people up?'

'Oh! Stanley,' she repeated, in a changed and horror-stricken way. 'What
a fool I've been. I see it at last; I see it all now,' and she waved her
white hands together very slowly towards him, as mesmerisers move theirs.

There was a silence of some seconds, and his yellow ferine gaze met hers
strangely.

'You were always a sharp girl, Radie, and I think you do see it,' he said
at last, very quietly.

'The witness--the witness--the dreadful witness!' she repeated.

'I'll show you, though, it's not so bad as you fancy. I'm sorry I did not
take your advice; but how, I say, could I know he was such a devil? I
must go back to him. I only came down to tell you, because Radie, you
know you proposed it yourself; _you_ must come, too--you _must_, Radie.'

'Oh, Stanley, Stanley, Stanley!'

'Why, d-- it, it can't be helped now; can it?' said he, with a peevish
malignity. But she was right; there was something of the poltroon in him,
and he was trembling.

'Why could you not leave me in peace, Stanley?'

'I can't go without you, Rachel. I won't; and if we don't we're both
ruined,' he said, with a bleak oath.

'Yes, Stanley, I knew you were a coward,' she replied, fiercely and
wildly.

'You're always calling names, d-- you; do as you like. I care less than
you think how it goes.'

'No, Stanley; you know me too well. Ah! No, you sha'n't be lost if I can
help it.' Rachel shook her head as she spoke, with a bitter smile and a
dreadful sigh.

Then they whispered together for three or four minutes, and Rachel
clasped her jewelled fingers tight across her forehead, quite wildly, for
a minute.

'You'll come then?' said Stanley.

She made no answer, and he repeated the question.

By this time she was standing; and without answering, she began
mechanically to get on her cloak and hat.

'You must drink some wine first; he may frighten you, perhaps. You _must_
take it, Rachel, or I'll not go.'

Stanley Lake was swearing, in his low tones, like a swell-mobsman
to-night.

Rachel seemed to have made up her mind to submit passively to whatever he
required. Perhaps, indeed, she thought there was wisdom in his advice. At
all events she drank some wine.

Rachel Lake was one of those women who never lose their presence of mind,
even under violent agitation, for long, and who generally, even when
highly excited, see, and do instinctively, and with decision, what is
best to be done; and now, with dilated eyes and white face, she walked
noiselessly into the kitchen, listened there for a moment, then stole
lightly to the servants' sleeping-room, and listened there at the door,
and lastly looked in, and satisfied herself that both were still
sleeping. Then as cautiously and swiftly she returned to her
drawing-room, and closed the window-shutters and drew the curtain, and
signalling to her brother they went stealthily forth into the night air,
closing the hall-door, and through the little garden, at the outer gate
of which they paused.

'I don't know, Rachel--I don't like it--I'm not fit for it. Go back
again--go in and lock your door--we'll not go to him--_you_ need not, you
know. He may stay where he is--let him--I'll not return. I say, I'll see
him no more. I'll get away. I'll consult Larkin--shall I? Though that
won't do--he's in Wylder's interest--curse him. What had I best do? I'm
not equal to it.'

'We _must_ go, Stanley. You said right just now; be resolute--we are both
ruined unless we go. You have brought it to that--you _must_ come.'

'I'm not fit for it, I tell you--I'm not. You were right, Radie--I think
I'm not equal to a business of this sort, and I won't expose you to such
a scene. _You're_ not equal to it either, I think,' and Lake leaned on
the paling.

'Don't mind me--you haven't much hitherto. Go or stay, I'm equally ruined
now, but not equally disgraced; and go we must, for it is _your only_
chance of escape. Come, Stanley--for shame!'

In a few minutes more they were walking in deep darkness and silence,
side by side, along the path, which diverging from the mill-road,
penetrates the coppice of that sequestered gorge, along the bottom of
which flows a tributary brook that finds its way a little lower down into
the mill-stream. This deep gully in character a good deal resembles
Redman's Glen, into which it passes, being fully as deep, and wooded to
the summit at both sides, but much steeper and narrower, and therefore
many shades darker.

They had now reached those rude stone steps, some ten or fifteen in
number, which conduct the narrow footpath up a particularly steep
acclivity, and here Lake lost courage again, for they distinctly heard
the footsteps that paced the platform above.




CHAPTER XVIII.

MARK WYLDER'S SLAVE.


Nearly two hours had passed before they returned. As they did so, Rachel
Lake went swiftly and silently before her brother. The moon had gone
down, and the glen was darker than ever. Noiselessly they re-entered the
little hall of Redman's Farm. The candles were still burning in the
sitting-room, and the light was dazzling after the profound darkness in
which they had been for so long.

Captain Lake did not look at all like a London dandy now. His dress was
confoundedly draggled; the conventional countenance, too, was wanting.
There was a very natural savagery and dejection there, and a wild leer in
his yellow eyes.

Rachel sat down. No living woman ever showed a paler face, and she stared
with a look that was sharp and stern upon the wainscot before her.

For some minutes they were silent; and suddenly, with an exceeding bitter
cry, she stood up, close to him, seizing him in her tiny hands by the
collar, and with wild eyes gazing into his, she said--

'See what you've brought me to--wretch, wretch, wretch!'

And she shook him with violence as she spoke. It was wonderful how that
fair young face could look so terrible.

'There, Radie, there,' said Lake, disengaging her fingers. 'You're a
little hysterical, that's all. It will be over in a minute; but don't
make a row. You're a good girl, Radie. For Heaven's sake, don't spoil all
by folly now.'

He was overawed and deprecatory.

'A slave! only think--a slave! Oh frightful, frightful! Is it a dream? Oh
frightful, frightful! Stanley, Stanley, it would be _mercy_ to kill me,'
she broke out again.

'Now, Radie, listen to reason, and don't make a noise; you know we
agreed, _you_ must go, and _I can't_ go with you.'

Lake was cooler by this time, and his sister more excited than before
they went out.

'I used to be brave; my courage I think is gone; but who'd have imagined
what's before me?'

Stanley walked to the window and opened the shutter a little. He forgot
how dark it was. The moon had gone down. He looked at his watch and then
at Rachel. She was sitting, and in no calmer state; serene enough in
attitude, but the terribly wild look was unchanged. He looked at his
watch again, and held it to his ear, and consulted it once more before he
placed the tiny gold disk again in his pocket.

'This won't do,' he muttered.

With one of the candles in his hand he went out and made a hurried,
peeping exploration, and soon, for the rooms were quickly counted in
Redman's Farm, he found her chamber small, neat, _simplex munditiis_.
Bright and natty were the chintz curtains, and the little toilet set out,
not inelegantly, and her pet piping-goldfinch asleep on his perch, with
his bit of sugar between the wires of his cage; her pillow so white and
unpressed, with its little edging of lace. Were slumbers sweet as of old
ever to know it more? What dreams were henceforward to haunt it? Shadows
were standing about that lonely bed already. I don't know whether Stanley
Lake felt anything of this, being very decidedly of the earth earthy. But
there are times when men are translated from their natures, and forced to
be romantic and superstitious.

When he came back to the drawing-room, a toilet bottle of _eau de
cologne_ in his hand, with her lace handkerchief he bathed her temples
and forehead. There was nothing very brotherly in his look as he peered
into her pale, sharp features, during the process. It was the dark and
pallid scrutiny of a familiar of the Holy Office, bringing a victim back
to consciousness.

She was quickly better.

'There, don't mind me,' she said sharply; and getting up she looked down
at her dress and thin shoes, and seeming to recollect herself, she took
the candle he had just set down, and went swiftly to her room.

Gliding without noise from place to place, she packed a small black
leather bag with a few necessary articles. Then changed her dress
quickly, put on her walking boots, a close bonnet and thick veil, and
taking her purse, she counted over its contents, and then standing in the
midst of the room looked round it with a great sigh, and a strange look,
as if it was all new to her. And she threw back her veil, and going
hurriedly to the toilet, mechanically surveyed herself in the glass. And
she looked fixedly on the pale features presented to her, and said--

'Rachel Lake, Rachel Lake! what are you now?'

And so, with knitted brows and stern lips, a cadaveric gaze was returned
on her from the mirror.

A few minutes later her brother, who had been busy down stairs, put his
head in and asked--

'Will you come with me now, Radie, or do you prefer to wait here?'

'I'll stay here--that is, in the drawing-room,' she answered, and the
face was withdrawn.

In the little hall Stanley looked again at his watch, and getting quietly
out, went swiftly through the tiny garden, and once upon the mill-road,
ran at a rapid pace down towards the town.

The long street of Gylingden stretched dim and silent before him. Slumber
brooded over the little town, and his steps sounded sharp and hollow
among the houses. He slackened his pace, and tapped sharply at the little
window of that modest post-office, at which the young ladies in the pony
carriage had pulled up the day before, and within which Luke Waggot was
wont to sleep in a sort of wooden box that folded up and appeared to be a
chest of drawers all day. Luke took care of Mr. Larkin's dogs, and
groomed Mr. Wylder's horse, and 'cleaned up' his dog-cart, for Mark being
close about money, and finding that the thing was to be done more cheaply
that way, put up his horse and dog-cart in the post-office premises, and
so evaded the livery charges of the Brandon Arms.

But Luke was not there; and Captain Lake recollecting his habits and his
haunt, hurried on to the Silver Lion, which has its gable towards the
common, only about a hundred steps away, for distances are not great in
Gylingden. Here were the flow of soul and of stout, long pipes, long
yarns, and tolerably long credits; and the humble scapegraces of the town
resorted thither for the pleasures of a club-life, and often revelled
deep into the small hours of the morning.

So Luke came forth.

D-- it, where's the note?' said the captain, rummaging uneasily in his
pockets.

'You know me--eh!'

'Captain Lake. Yes, Sir.'

'Well--oh! here it is.'

It was a scrap pencilled on the back of a letter--


'LUKE WAGGOT,

'Put the horse to and drive the dog-cart to the "White House." Look out
for me there. We must catch the up mail train at Dollington. Be lively.
If Captain Lake chooses to drive you need not come.

'M. WYLDER.'


'I'll drive,' said Captain Lake. 'Lose no time and I'll give you
half-a-crown.'

Luke stuck on his greasy wideawake, and in a few minutes more the
dog-cart was trundled out into the lane, and the horse harnessed, went
between the shafts with that wonderful cheerfulness with which they bear
to be called up under startling circumstances at unseasonable hours.

'Easily earned, Luke,' said Captain Lake, in his soft tones.

The captain had buttoned the collar of his loose coat across his face,
and it was dark beside. But Luke knew his peculiar smile, and presumed
it; so he grinned facetiously as he put the coin in his breeches pocket
and thanked him; and in another minute the captain, with a lighted cigar
between his lips, mounted to the seat, took the reins, the horse bounded
off, and away rattled the light conveyance, sparks flying from the road,
at a devil of a pace, down the deserted street of Gylingden, and quickly
melted in darkness.

That night a spectre stood by old Tamar's bedside, in shape of her young
mistress, and shook her by the shoulder, and stooping, said sternly,
close in her face--

'Tamar, I'm going away--only for a few days; and mind this--I'd rather be
_dead_ than any creature living should know it. Little Margery must not
suspect--you'll manage that. Here's the key of my bed-room--say I'm
sick--and you must go in and out, and bring tea and drinks, and talk and
whisper a little, you understand, as you might with a sick person, and
keep the shutters closed; and if Miss Brandon sends to ask me to the
Hall, say I've a headache, and fear I can't go. You understand me
clearly, Tamar?'

'Yes, Miss Radie,' answered old Tamar, wonder-stricken, with a strange
expression of fear in her face.

'And listen,' she continued, 'you must go into my room, and bring the
message back, as if from me, with _my love_ to Miss Brandon; and if she
or Mrs. William Wylder, the vicar's wife, should call to see me, always
say I'm asleep and a little better. You see exactly what I mean?'

'Yes, Miss,' answered Tamar, whose eyes were fixed in a sort of
fascination, full on those of her mistress.

'If Master Stanley should call, he is to do just as he pleases. You used
to be accurate, Tamar; may I depend upon you?'

'Yes, Ma'am, certainly.'

'If I thought you'd fail me now, Tamar, I should _never_ come back.
Good-night, Tamar. There--don't bless me. Good-night.'

When the light wheels of the dog-cart gritted on the mill-road before the
little garden gate of Redman's Farm, the tall slender figure of Rachel
Lake was dimly visible, standing cloaked and waiting by it. Silently she
handed her little black leather bag to her brother, and then there was a
pause. He stretched his hand to help her up.

In a tone that was icy and bitter, she said--

'To save myself I would not do it. You deserve no love from me--you've
showed me none--_never_, Stanley; and yet I'm going to give the most
desperate proof of love that ever sister gave--all for your sake; and
it's guilt, guilt, but my _fate_, and I'll go, and you'll never thank me;
that's all.'

In a moment more she sat beside him; and silent as the dead in Charon's
boat, away they glided towards the "White House" which lay upon the high
road to Dollington.

The sleepy clerk that night in the Dollington station stamped two
first-class tickets for London, one of which was for a gentleman, and the
other for a cloaked lady, with a very thick veil, who stood outside on
the platform; and almost immediately after the scream of the engine was
heard piercing the deep tatting, the Cyclopean red lamps glared nearer
and nearer, and the palpitating monster, so stupendous and so docile,
came smoothly to a stand-still before the trelliswork and hollyhocks of
that pretty station.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE TARN IN THE PARK.


Next morning Stanley Lake, at breakfast with the lawyer, said--

'A pretty room this is. That bow window is worth all the pictures in
Brandon. To my eye there is no scenery so sweet as this, at least to
breakfast by. I don't love your crags and peaks and sombre grandeur, nor
yet the fat, flat luxuriance of our other counties. These undulations,
and all that splendid timber, and the glorious ruins on that hillock over
there! How many beautiful ruins that picturesque old fellow Cromwell has
left us.'

'You don't eat your breakfast, though,' said the attorney, with a
charming smile of reproach.

'Ah, thank you; I'm a bad breakfaster; that is,' said Stanley,
recollecting that he had made some very creditable meals at the same
table, 'when I smoke so late as I did last night.'

'You drove Mr. Wylder to Dollington?'

'Yes; he's gone to town, he says--yes, the mail train--to get some
diamonds for Miss Brandon--a present--that ought to have come the day
before yesterday. He says they'll never have them in time unless he goes
and blows them up. Are you in his secrets at all?'

'Something in his confidence, I should hope,' said Mr. Larkin, in rather
a lofty and reserved way.

'Oh, yes, of course, in serious matters; but I meant other things. You
know he has been a little bit wild; and ladies, you know, ladies will be
troublesome sometimes; and to say truth, I don't think the diamonds have
much to say to it.'

'Oh?--hem!--well, you know, _I_'m not exactly the confidant Mr. Wylder
would choose, I suspect, in a case of that very painful, and, I will say,
distressing character--I rather think--indeed, I _hope_ not.'

'No, of course--I dare say--but I just fancied he might want a hint about
the law of the matter.'

The gracious attorney glanced at his guest with a thoroughly
business-like and searching eye.

'You don't think there's any really serious annoyance--you don't know the
party?' said he.

'_I?_--Oh, dear, no. Wylder has always been very reserved with me. He
told me nothing. If he had, of course I should not have mentioned it. I
only conjecture, for he really did seem to have a great deal more on his
mind; and he kept me walking back and forward, near the mill-road, a
precious long time. And I really think once or twice he was going to tell
me.'

'Oh! you think then, Mr. Lake, there _may_ be some serious--a--a--well, I
should hope not--I do most earnestly _trust_ not.' This was said with
upturned eyes and much unction. 'But do you happen, Captain Lake, to know
of any of those unfortunate, those miserable connections which young
gentlemen of fashion--eh? It's very sad. Still it often needs, as you
say, professional advice to solve such difficulties--it is very sad--oh!
is not it sad?'

'Pray, don't let it affect your spirits,' said Lake, who was leaning back
in his chair, and looking on the carpet, about a yard before his
lacquered boots, in his usual sly way. 'I may be quite mistaken, you
know, but I wished you to understand--having some little experience of
the world, I'd be only too happy to be of any use, if you thought my
diplomacy could help poor Wylder out of his trouble--that is, if there
really is any. But _you_ don't know?'

'_No_,' said Mr. Larkin, thoughtfully; and thoughtful he continued for a
minute or two, screwing his lips gently, as was his wont, while
ruminating, his long head motionless, the nails of his long and somewhat
large hand tapping on the arm of his chair, with a sharp glance now and
then at the unreadable visage of the cavalry officer. It was evident his
mind was working, and nothing was heard in the room for a minute but the
tapping of his nails on the chair, like a death-watch.

'No,' said Mr. Larkin again, 'I'm not suspicious--naturally too much the
reverse, I fear; but it certainly does look odd. Did he tell the family
at Brandon?'

'Certainly not, that I heard. He may have mentioned it. But I started
with him, and we walked together, under the impression that he was going,
as usual, to the inn, the--what d'ye call it?--Brandon Arms; and it was
a sudden thought--now I think of it--for he took no luggage, though to be
sure I dare say he has got clothes and things in town.'

'And when does he return?'

'In a day or two, at furthest,' he said.

'I wonder what they'll think of it at Brandon?' said the attorney, with a
cavernous grin of sly enquiry at his companion, which, recollecting his
character, he softened into a sad sort of smile, and added, 'No harm, I
dare say; and, after all, you know, why should there--any man may have
business; and, indeed, it is very likely, after all, that he really went
about the jewels. Men are too hasty to judge one another, my dear Sir;
charity, let us remember, thinketh no evil.'

'By-the-bye,' said Lake, rather briskly for him, rummaging his pockets,
'I'm glad I remembered he gave me a little note to Chelford. Are any of
your people going to Brandon this morning?'

'I'll send it,' said the lawyer, eyeing the little pencilled note
wistfully, which Lake presented between two fingers.

'Yes, it is to Lord Chelford,' said the attorney, with a grand sort of
suavity--he liked lords--placing it, after a scrutiny, in his waistcoat
pocket.

'Don't you think it had best go at once?--there may be something
requiring an answer, and your post leaves, doesn't it, at twelve?'

'Oh! an answer, is there?' said Mr. Larkin, drawing it from his pocket,
and looking at it again with a perceptible curiosity.

'I really can't say, not having read it, but there _may_,' said Captain
Lake, who was now and then a little impertinent, just to keep Mr. Larkin
in his place, and perhaps to hint that he understood him.

'_Read_ it! Oh, my _dear_ Sir, my _dear_ Captain Lake, how _could_
you--but, oh! no--you _could_ not suppose I meant such an idea--oh,
dear--no, no. You and I have our notions about what's gentlemanlike and
professional--a--and gentlemanlike, as I say--Heaven forbid.'

'Quite so!' said Captain Lake, gently.

'Though all the world does not think with us, _I_ can tell you, things
come before us in _our_ profession. Oh, ho! ho!' and Mr. Larkin lifted up
his pink eyes and long hands, and shook his long head, with a melancholy
smile and a sigh like a shudder.

When at the later breakfast, up at Brandon, that irregular pencilled
scroll reached Lord Chelford's hand, he said, as he glanced on the
direction--

'This is Mark Wylder's; what does he say?'

'So Mark's gone to town,' he said; 'but he'll be back again on Saturday,
and in the meantime desires me to lay his heart at your feet, Dorcas.
Will you read the note?'

'No,' said Dorcas, quietly.

Lady Chelford extended her long, shrivelled fingers, on which glimmered
sundry jewels, and made a little nod to her son, who gave it to her, with
a smile. Holding her glasses to her eyes, the note at a distance, and her
head rather back, she said--

'It is not a pretty billet,' and she read in a slow and grim way:--


'DEAR CHELFORD,--I'm called up to London just for a day. No lark, but
honest business. I'll return on Saturday; and tell Dorcas, with dozens of
loves, I would write to her, but have not a minute for the train.

'Yours, &c.

'M. WYLDER.'


'No; it is not pretty,' repeated the old lady; and, indeed, in no sense
was it. Before luncheon Captain Lake arrived.

'So Wylder has run up to town,' I said, so soon as we had shaken hands in
the hall.

'Yes; _I_ drove him to Dollington last night; we just caught the up
train.'

'He says he'll be back again on Saturday,' I said.

'Saturday, is it? He seemed to think--yes--it _would_ be only a day or
so. Some jewels, I think, for Dorcas. He did not say distinctly; I only
conjecture. Lady Chelford and Miss Brandon, I suppose, are in the
drawing-room?'

So to the drawing-room he passed.

'How is Rachel? how is your sister, Captain Lake, have you seen her
to-day?' asked old Lady Chelford, rather benignantly. She chose to be
gracious to the Lakes.

'Only, for a moment, thank you. She has one of her
miserable headaches, poor thing; but she'll be better, she says, in the
afternoon, and hopes to come up here to see you, and Miss Brandon, this
evening.'

'Lord Chelford and I had a pleasant walk that day to the ruins of
Willerton Castle. I find in my diary a note--Chelford tells me it is
written in old surveys, Wylderton, and was one of the houses of the
Wylders. What considerable people those Wylders were, and what an antique
stock.'

After this he wished to make a visit to the vicar, and so we parted
company. I got into Brandon Park by the pretty gate near Latham.

It was a walk of nearly three miles across the park from this point to
the Hall, and the slopes and hollows of this noble, undulating plain,
came out grandly in the long shadows and slanting beams of evening. That
yellow, level light has, in my mind, something undefinably glorious and
melancholy, such as to make almost any scenery interesting, and my
solitary walk was delightful.

People must love and sympathise very thoroughly, I think, to enjoy
natural scenery together. Generally it is one of the few spectacles best
seen alone. The silence that supervenes is indicative of the solitary
character of the enjoyment. It is a poem and a reverie. I was quite happy
striding in the amber light and soft, long shadows, among the ferns, the
copsewood, and the grand old clumps of timber, exploring the undulations,
and the wild nooks and hollows which have each their circumscribed and
sylvan charm; a wonderful interest those little park-like broken dells
have always had for me; dotted with straggling birch and oak, and here
and there a hoary ash tree, with a grand and melancholy grace, dreaming
among the songs of wild birds, in their native solitudes, and the brown
leaves tipped with golden light, all breathing something of old-world
romance--the poetry of bygone love and adventure--and stirring
undefinable and delightful emotions that mingle unreality with sense, a
music of the eye and spirit.

After many devious wanderings, I found, under shelter of a wonderful
little hollow, in which lay, dim and still, a tarn, reflecting the stems
of the trees that rose from its edge, in a way so clear and beautiful,
that, with a smile and a sigh, I sat myself down upon a rock among the
ferns, and fell into a reverie.

The image of Dorcas rose before me. There is a strange mystery and power
in the apathetic, and in that unaffected carelessness, even defiance of
opinion and criticism, which I had seen here for the first time, so
beautifully embodied. I was quite sure she both thought and felt, and
could talk, too, if she chose it. What tremendous self-reliance and
disdain must form the basis of a female character, which accepted
misapprehension and depreciation with an indifference so genuine as to
scorn even the trifling exertion of disclosing its powers.

She could not possibly care for Wylder, any more than he cared for her.
That odd look I detected in the mirror--what did it mean? and Wylder's
confusion about Captain Lake--what was that? I could not comprehend the
situation that was forming. I went over Wylder's history in my mind, and
Captain Lake's--all I could recollect of it--but could find no clue, and
that horrible visitation or vision! what was _it_?

This latter image had just glided in and taken its place in my waking
dream, when I thought I saw reflected in the pool at my feet, the shape
and face which I never could forget, of the white, long-chinned old man.

For a second I was unable, I think, to lift my eyes from the water which
presented this cadaverous image.

But the figure began to move, and I raised my eyes, and saw it retreat,
with a limping gait, into the thick copse before me, in the shadow of
which it stopped and turned stiffly round, and directed on me a look of
horror, and then withdrew.

It is all very fine laughing at me and my fancies. I do not think there
are many men who in my situation would have felt very differently. I
recovered myself; I shouted lustily after him to stay, and then in a sort
of half-frightened rage, I pursued him; but I had to get round the pool,
a considerable circuit. I could not tell which way he had turned on
getting into the thicket; and it was now dusk, the sun having gone down
during my reverie. So I stopped a little way in the copsewood, which was
growing quite dark, and I shouted there again, peeping under the
branches, and felt queer and much relieved that nothing answered or
appeared.

Looking round me, in a sort of dream, I remembered suddenly what Wylder
had told me of old Lorne Brandon, to whose portrait this inexplicable
phantom bore so powerful a resemblance. He was suspected of having
murdered his own son, at the edge of a tarn in the park. _This_ tarn
maybe--and with the thought the water looked blacker--and a deeper and
colder shadow gathered over the ominous hollow in which I stood, and the
rustling in the withered leaves sounded angrily.

I got up as quickly as might be to the higher grounds, and waited there
for a while, and watched for the emergence of the old man. But it did not
appear; and shade after shade was spreading solemnly over the landscape,
and having a good way to walk, I began to stride briskly along the slopes
and hollows, in the twilight, now and then looking into vacancy, over my
shoulder.

The little adventure, and the deepening shades, helped to sadden my
homeward walk; and when at last the dusky outline of the Hall rose before
me, it wore a sort of weird and haunted aspect.




CHAPTER XX.

CAPTAIN LAKE TAKES AN EVENING STROLL ABOUT GYLINGDEN.


Again I had serious thoughts of removing my person and effects to the
Brandon Arms. I could not quite believe I had seen a ghost; but neither
was I quite satisfied that the thing was altogether canny. The
apparition, whatever it was, seemed to persecute me with a mysterious
obstinacy; at all events, I was falling into a habit of seeing it; and I
felt a natural desire to escape from the house which was plagued with its
presence.

At the same time I had an odd sort of reluctance to mention the subject
to my entertainers. The thing itself was a ghostly slur upon the house,
and, to run away, a reproach to my manhood; and besides, writing now at a
distance, and in the spirit of history, I suspect the interest which
beauty always excites had a great deal to do with my resolve to hold my
ground; and, I dare say, notwithstanding my other reasons, had the ladies
at the Hall been all either old or ugly, I would have made good my
retreat to the village hotel.

As it was, however, I was resolved to maintain my position. But that
evening was streaked with a tinge of horror, and I more silent and
_distrait_ than usual.

The absence of an accustomed face, even though the owner be nothing very
remarkable, is always felt; and Wylder was missed, though, sooth to say,
not very much regretted. For the first time we were really a small party.
Miss Lake was not there. The gallant captain, her brother, was also
absent. The vicar, and his good little wife, were at Naunton that evening
to hear a missionary recount his adventures and experiences in Japan, and
none of the neighbours had been called in to fill the empty chairs.

Dorcas Brandon did not contribute much to the talk; neither, in truth,
did I. Old Lady Chelford occasionally dozed and nodded sternly after tea,
waking up and eyeing people grimly, as though enquiring whether anyone
presumed to suspect her ladyship of having had a nap.

Chelford, I recollect, took a book, and read to us now and then, a snatch
of poetry--I forget what. _My_ book--except when I was thinking of the
tarn and that old man I so hated--was Miss Brandon's exquisite and
mysterious face.

That young lady was leaning back in her great oak chair, in which she
looked like the heroine of some sad and gorgeous romance of the old civil
wars of England, and directing a gaze of contemplative and haughty
curiosity upon the old lady, who was unconscious of the daring
profanation.

All on a sudden Dorcas Brandon said--

'And pray what do you think of marriage, Lady Chelford?'

'What do I think of marriage?' repeated the dowager, throwing back her
head and eyeing the beautiful heiress through her gold spectacles, with a
stony surprise, for she was not accustomed to be catechised by young
people. 'Marriage?--why 'tis a divine institution. What can the child
mean?'

'Do you think, Lady Chelford, it may be safely contracted, solely to join
two estates?' pursued the young lady.

'Do I think it may safely be contracted, solely to join two estates?'
repeated the old lady, with a look and carriage that plainly showed how
entirely she appreciated the amazing presumption of her interrogatrix.

There was a little pause.

'_Certainly_,' replied Lady Chelford; 'that is, of course, under proper
conditions, and with a due sense of its sacred character and
a--a--obligations.'

'The first of which is _love_,' continued Miss Brandon; 'the second
_honour_--both involuntary; and the third _obedience_, which springs from
them.'

Old Lady Chelford coughed, and then rallying, said--

'Very good, Miss!'

'And pray, Lady Chelford, what do you think of Mr. Mark Wylder?' pursued
Miss Dorcas.

'I don't see, Miss Brandon, that my thoughts upon that subject can
concern anyone but myself,' retorted the old lady, severely, and from an
awful altitude. 'And I may say, considering who I am--and my years--and
the manner in which I am usually treated, I am a little surprised at the
tone in which you are pleased to question me.'

These last terrible remarks totally failed to overawe the serene temerity
of the grave beauty.

'I assumed, Lady Chelford, as you had interested yourself in me so far as
to originate the idea of my engagement to Mr. Wylder, that you had
considered these to me very important questions a little, and could give
me satisfactory answers upon points on which my mind has been employed
for some days; and, indeed, I think I've a right to ask that assistance
of you.'

'You seem to forget, young lady, that there are times and places for such
discussions; and that to Mr.--a--a--your visitor (a glance at me), it
can't be very interesting to listen to this kind of--of--conversation,
which is neither very entertaining, nor very _wise_.'

'I am answerable only for _my_ part of it; and I think my questions very
much to the purpose,' said the young lady, in her low, silvery tones.

'I don't question your good opinion, Miss Brandon, of your own
discretion; but _I_ can't see any profit in now discussing an engagement
of more than two months' standing, or a marriage, which is fixed to take
place only ten days hence. And I think, Sir (glancing again at me), it
must strike _you_ a little oddly, that I should be invited, in your
presence, to discuss family matters with Miss Dorcas Brandon?'

Now, was it fair to call a peaceable inhabitant like me into the thick of
a fray like this? I paused long enough to allow Miss Brandon to speak,
but she did not choose to do so, thinking, I suppose, it was my business.

'I believe I ought to have withdrawn a little,' I said, very humbly; and
old Lady Chelford at the word shot a gleam of contemptuous triumph at
Miss Dorcas; but I would not acquiesce in the dowager's abusing my
concession to the prejudice of that beautiful and daring young lady--'I
mean, Lady Chelford, in deference to you, who are not aware, as Miss
Brandon is, that I am one of Mr. Wylder's oldest and most intimate
friends; and at his request, and with Lord Chelford's approval, have been
advised with, in detail, upon all the arrangements connected with the
approaching marriage.'

'I am not going, at present, to say any more upon these subjects, because
Lady Chelford prefers deferring our conversation,' said this very odd
young lady; 'but there is nothing which either she or I may say, which I
wish to conceal from any friend of Mr. Wylder's.'

The idea of Miss Brandon's seriously thinking of withdrawing from her
engagement with Mark Wylder, I confess never entered my mind. Lady
Chelford, perhaps, knew more of the capricious and daring character of
the ladies of the Brandon line than I, and may have discovered some signs
of a coming storm in the oracular questions which had fallen so
harmoniously from those beautiful lips. As for me, I was puzzled. The old
viscountess was flushed (she did not rouge), and very angry, and, I
think, uncomfortable, though she affected her usual supremacy. But the
young lady showed no sign of excitement, and lay back in her chair in her
usual deep, cold calm.

Lake's late smoking with Wylder must have disagreed with him very much
indeed, for he seemed more out of sorts as night approached. He stole
away from Mr. Larkin's trellised porch, in the dusk. He marched into the
town rather quickly, like a man who has business on his hands; but he had
none--for he walked by the Brandon Arms, and halted, and stared at the
post-office, as if he fancied he had something to say there. But
no--there was no need to tap at the wooden window-pane. Some idle boys
were observing the dandy captain, and he turned down the short lane that
opened on the common, and sauntered upon the short grass.

Two or three groups, and an invalid visitor or two--for Gylingden boasts
a 'spa'--were lounging away the twilight half-hours there. He seated
himself on one of the rustic seats, and his yellow eyes wandered
restlessly and vaguely along the outline of the beautiful hills. Then for
nearly ten minutes he smoked--an odd recreation for a man suffering from
the cigars of last night--and after that, for nearly as long again, he
seemed lost in deep thought, his eyes upon the misty grass before him,
and his small French boot beating time to the music of his thoughts.

Several groups passed close by him, in their pleasant circuit. Some
wondered what might be the disease of that pale, peevish-looking
gentleman, who sat there so still, languid, and dejected. Others set him
down as a gentleman in difficulties of some sort, who was using Gylingden
for a temporary refuge.

Others, again, supposed he might be that Major Craddock who had lost
thirty thousand pounds on Vanderdecken the other day. Others knew he was
staying with Mr. Larkin, and supposed he was trying to raise money at
disadvantage, and remarked that some of Mr. Larkin's clients looked
always unhappy, though they had so godly an attorney to deal with.

When Lake, with a little shudder, for it was growing chill, lifted up his
yellow eyes suddenly, and recollected where he was, the common had grown
dark, and was quite deserted. There were lights in the windows of the
reading-room, and in the billiard-room beneath it; and shadowy figures,
with cues in their hands, gliding hither and thither, across its
uncurtained windows.

With a shrug, and a stealthy glance round him, Captain Lake started up.
The instinct of the lonely and gloomy man unconsciously drew him towards
the light, and he approached. A bat, attracted thither like himself, was
flitting and flickering, this way and that, across the casement.

Captain Lake, waiting, with his hand on the door-handle, for the stroke,
heard the smack of the balls, and the score called by the marker, and
entered the hot, glaring room. Old Major Jackson, with his glass in his
eye, was contending in his shirt-sleeves heroically with a Manchester
bag-man, who was palpably too much for him. The double-chinned and florid
proprietor of the Brandon Arms, with a brandy-and-water familiarity,
offered Captain Lake two to one on the game in anything he liked, which
the captain declined, and took his seat on the bench.

He was not interested by the struggle of the gallant major, who smiled
like a prize-fighter under his punishment. In fact, he could not have
told the score at any point of the game; and, to judge by his face, was
translated from the glare of that arena into a dark and splenetic world
of his own.

When he wakened up, in the buzz and clack of tongues that followed the
close of the game, Captain Lake glared round for a moment, like a man
called up from sleep; the noise rattled and roared in his ears, the talk
sounded madly, and the faces of the people excited and menaced him
undefinably, and he felt as if he was on the point of starting to his
feet and stamping and shouting. The fact is, I suppose, he was
confoundedly nervous, dyspeptic, or whatever else it might be, and the
heat and glare were too much for him.

So, out he went into the chill, fresh night-air, and round the corner
into the quaint main-street of Gylingden, and walked down it in the dark,
nearly to the last house by the corner of the Redman's Dell road, and
then back again, and so on, trying to tire himself, I think; and every
time he walked down the street, with his face towards London, his yellow
eyes gleamed through the dark air, with the fixed gaze of a man looking
out for the appearance of a vehicle. It, perhaps, indicated an anxiety
and a mental look-out in that direction, for he really expected no such
thing.

Then he dropped into the Brandon Arms, and had a glass of brandy-and-
water, and a newspaper, in the coffee-room; and then he ordered a 'fly,'
and drove in it to Lawyer Larkin's house--'The Lodge,' it was called--and
entered Mr. Larkin's drawing-room very cheerfully.

'How quiet you are here,' said the captain. 'I have been awfully
dissipated since I saw you.'

'In an innocent way, my dear Captain Lake, you mean, of course--in an
innocent way.'

'Oh! no; billiards, I assure you. Do you play?'

'Oh! dear no--not that I see any essential harm in the game _as_ a game,
for those, I mean, who don't object to that sort of thing; but for a
resident here, putting aside other feelings--a resident holding a
position--it would not do, I assure you. There are people there whom one
could not associate with comfortably. I don't care, I hope, how poor a
man may be, but do let him be a gentleman. I own to that prejudice. A
man, my dear Captain Lake, whose father before him has been a gentleman
(old Larkin, while in the flesh, was an organist, and kept a small day
school at Dwiddleston, and his grandfather he did not care to enquire
after), and who has had the education of one, does not feel himself at
home, you know--I'm sure you have felt the same sort of thing yourself.'

'Oh! of course; and I had such a nice walk on the common first, and then
a turn up and down before the Brandon Arms, where at last I read a
paper, and could not resist a glass of brandy and water, and, growing
lazy, came home in a fly, so I think I have had a very gay evening.

Larkin smiled benignantly, and would have said something no doubt worth
hearing, but at that moment the door opened, and his old cook and elderly
parlour-maid--no breath of scandal ever troubled the serene fair fame of
his household, and everyone allowed that, in the prudential virtues, at
least, he was nearly perfect--and Sleddon the groom, walked in, with
those sad faces which, I suppose, were first learned in the belief that
they were acceptable to their master.

'Oh!' said Mr. Larkin, in a low, reverential tone, and the smile
vanished; 'prayers!'

'Well, then, if you permit me, being a little tired, I'll go to my
bed-room.'

With a grave and affectionate interest, Mr. Larkin looked in his face,
and sighed a little and said:--

'Might I, perhaps, venture to beg, just this one night----'

That chastened and entreating look it was hard to resist. But somehow the
whole thing seemed to Lake to say, 'Do allow me this once to prescribe;
do give your poor soul this one chance,' and Lake answered him
superciliously and irreverently.

'No, thank you, no--any prayers I require I can manage for myself, thank
you. Good-night.'

And he lighted a bed-room candle and left the room.

'What a beast that fellow is. I don't know why the d-- I stay in his
house.'

One reason was, perhaps, that it saved him nearly a guinea a day, and he
may have had some other little reasons just then.

'Family prayers indeed! and such a pair of women--witches, by Jove!--and
that rascally groom, and a hypocritical attorney! And the vulgar brute
will be as rich as Croesus, I dare say.'

Here soliloquised Stanley Lake in that gentleman's ordinary vein. His
momentary disgust had restored him for a few seconds to his normal self.
But certain anxieties of a rather ghastly kind, and speculations as to
what might be going on in London just then, were round him again, like
armed giants, in another moment, and the riches or hypocrisy of his host
were no more to him than those of Overreach or Tartuffe.




CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE VISITS HIS SISTER'S SICK BED.


I suspect there are very few mere hypocrites on earth. Of course, I do
not reckon those who are under compulsion to affect purity of manners and
a holy integrity of heart--and there are such--but those who volunteer an
extraordinary profession of holiness, being all the while conscious
villains. The Pharisees, even while devouring widows' houses, believed
honestly in their own supreme righteousness.

I am afraid our friend Jos. Larkin wore a mask. I am sure he often wore
it when he was quite alone. I don't know indeed, that he ever took it
off. He was, perhaps, content to see it, even when he looked in the
glass, and had not a very distinct idea what the underlying features
might be. It answers with the world; it almost answers with himself. Pity
it won't do everywhere! 'When Moses went to speak with God,' says the
admirable Hall, 'he pulled off his veil. It was good reason he should
present to God that face which he had made. There had been more need of
his veil to hide the glorious face of God from him than to hide his from
God. Hypocrites are contrary to Moses. He showed his worst to men, his
best to God; they show their best to men, their worst to God; but God
sees both their veil and their face, and I know not whether He more hates
their veil of dissimulation or their face of wickedness.'

Captain Lake wanted rest--sleep--quiet thoughts at all events. When he
was alone he was at once in a state of fever and gloom, and seemed always
watching for something. His strange eyes glanced now this way, now that,
with a fierce restlessness--now to the window--now to the door--and you
would have said he was listening intently to some indistinct and too
distant conversation affecting him vitally, there was such a look of fear
and conjecture always in his face.

He bolted his door and unlocked his dressing case, and from a little
silver box in that glittering repository he took, one after the other,
two or three little wafers of a dark hue, and placed them successively on
his tongue, and suffered them to melt, and so swallowed them. They were
not liquorice. I am afraid Captain Lake dabbled a little in opium. He was
not a great adept--yet, at least--like those gentlemen who can swallow
five hundred drops of laudanum at a sitting. But he knew the virtues of
the drug, and cultivated its acquaintance, and was oftener under its
influence than perhaps any mortal, except himself, suspected.

The greater part of mankind are, upon the whole, happier and more
cheerful than they are always willing to allow. Nature subserves the
majority. She smiled very brightly next morning. There was a twittering
of small birds among the brown leaves and ivy, and a thousand other
pleasant sounds and sights stirring in the sharp, sunny air. This sort of
inflexible merry-making in nature seems marvellously selfish in the eyes
of anxious Captain Lake. Fear hath torment--and fear is the worst
ingredient in mental pain. This is the reason why suspense is so
intolerable, and the retrospect even of the worst less terrible.

Stanley Lake would have given more than he could well afford that it were
that day week, and he no worse off. Why did time limp so tediously away
with him, prolonging his anguish gratuitously? He felt truculently, and
would have murdered that week, if he could, in the midst of its loitering
sunshine and gaiety.

There was a strange pain at his heart, and the pain of intense and
fruitless calculation in his brain; and, as the Mahometan prays towards
Mecca, and the Jew towards Jerusalem, so Captain Lake's morning orisons,
whatsoever they were, were offered at the window of his bed-room towards
London, from whence he looked for his salvation, or it might be the other
thing--with a dreadful yearning.

He hated the fresh glitter of that morning scene. Why should the world be
cheerful? It was a repast spread of which he could not partake, and it
spited him. Yes; it was selfish--and hating selfishness--he would have
struck the sun out of the sky that morning with his walking-cane, if he
could, and draped the world in black.

He saw from his window the good vicar walk smiling by, in white choker
and seedy black, his little boy holding by his fingers, and capering and
wheeling in front, and smiling up in his face. They were very busy
talking.

Little 'Fairy' used to walk, when parochial visits were not very distant,
with his 'Wapsie;' how that name came about no one remembered, but the
vicar answered to it more cheerily than to any other. The little man was
solitary, and these rambles were a delight. A beautiful smiling little
fellow, very exacting of attention--troublesome, perhaps; he was so
sociable, and needed sympathy and companionship, and repaid it with a
boundless, sensitive _love_. The vicar told him the stories of David and
Goliath, and Joseph and his brethren, and of the wondrous birth in
Bethlehem of Judea, the star that led the Wise Men, and the celestial
song heard by the shepherds keeping their flocks by night, and snatches
of 'Pilgrim's Progress'; and sometimes, when they made a feast and ate
their pennyworth of cherries, sitting on the stile, he treated him, I am
afraid, to the profane histories of Jack the Giant-killer and the Yellow
Dwarf; the vicar had theories about imagination, and fancied it was an
important faculty, and that the Creator had not given children their
unextinguishable love of stories to no purpose.

I don't envy the man who is superior to the society of children. What can
he gain from children's talk? Is it witty, or wise, or learned? Be frank.
Is it not, honestly, a mere noise and interruption--a musical cackling of
geese, and silvery braying of tiny asses? Well, say I, out of my large
acquaintance, there are not many men to whom I would go for wisdom;
learning is better found in books, and, as for wit, is it always
pleasant? The most companionable men are not always the greatest
intellects. They laugh, and though they don't converse, they make a
cheerful noise, and show a cheerful countenance.

There was not a great deal in Will Honeycomb, for instance; but our dear
Mr. Spectator tells us somewhere that 'he laughed easily,' which I think
quite accounts for his acceptance with the club. He was kindly and
enjoying. What is it that makes your dog so charming a companion in your
walks? Simply that he thoroughly likes you and enjoys himself. He appeals
imperceptibly to your affections, which cannot be stirred--such is God's
will--ever so lightly, without some little thrillings of happiness; and
through the subtle absorbents of your sympathy he infuses into you
something of his own hilarious and exulting spirit.

When Stanley Lake saw the vicar, the lines of his pale face contracted
strangely, and his wild gaze followed him, and I don't think he breathed
once until the thin smiling man in black, with the little gambolling
bright boy holding by his hand, had passed by. He was thinking, you may
be sure, of his Brother Mark.

When Lake had ended his toilet and stared in the glass, he still looked
so haggard, that on greeting Mr. Larkin in the parlour, he thought it
necessary to mention that he had taken cold in that confounded
billiard-room last night, which spoiled his sleep, and made him awfully
seedy that morning. Of course, his host was properly afflicted and
sympathetic.

'By-the-bye, I had a letter this morning from that party--our common
friend, Mr. W., you know,' said Larkin, gracefully.

'Well, what is he doing, and when does he come back? You mean Wylder, of
course?'

'Yes; my good client, Mr. Mark Wylder. Permit me to assist you to some
honey, you'll find it remarkably good, I venture to say; it comes from
the gardens of Queen's Audley. The late marquis, you know, prided himself
on his honey--and my friend, Thornbury, cousin to Sir Frederick
Thornbury--I suppose you know him--an East Indian judge, you know--very
kindly left it at Dollington for me, on his way to the Earl of Epsom's.'

'Thank you--delicious, I'm sure, it has been in such good company. May I
see Wylder's note--that is, if there's no private business?'

'Oh, certainly.'

And, with Wylder's great red seal on the back of the envelope, the letter
ran thus:--


'DEAR LARKIN,--I write in haste to save post, to say I shall be detained
in town a few days longer than I thought. Don't wait for me about the
parchments; I am satisfied. If anything crosses your mind, a word with
Mr. De C. at the Hall, will clear all up. Have all ready to sign and seal
when I come back--certainly, within a week.

'Yours sincerely,

'M. WYLDER,

'London.'


It was evidently written in great haste, with the broad-nibbed pen he
liked; but notwithstanding the sort of swagger with which the writing
marched across the page, Lake might have seen here and there a little
quaver--indicative of something different from haste--the vibrations of
another sort of flurry.

'"Certainly within a week," he writes. Does he mean he'll be here in a
week or only to have the papers ready in a week?' asked Lake.

'The question, certainly, does arise. It struck me on the first perusal,'
answered the attorney. 'His address is rather a wide one, too--London! Do
you know his club, Captain Lake?'

'The _Wanderers_. He has left the _United Service_. Nothing for me,
by-the-way?'

'No letter. No.'

'_Tant mieux_, I hate them,' said the captain. 'I wonder how my sister is
this morning.'

'Would you like a messenger? I'll send down with pleasure to enquire.'

'Thank you, no; I'll walk down and see her.'

And Lake yawned at the window, and then took his hat and stick and
sauntered towards Gylingden. At the post-office window he tapped with the
silver tip of his cane, and told Miss Driver with a sleepy smile--

'I'm going down to Redman's Farm, and any letters for my sister, Miss
Lake, I may as well take with me.'

Everybody 'in business' in the town of Gylingden, by this time, knew
Captain Lake and his belongings--a most respectable party--a high man;
and, of course, there was no difficulty. There was only one letter--the
address was written--'Miss Lake, Redman's Farm, near Brandon Park,
Gylingden,' in a stiff hand, rather slanting backwards.

Captain Lake put it in his paletot pocket, looked in her face gently, and
smiled, and thanked her in his graceful way--and, in fact, left an
enduring impression upon that impressible nature.

Turning up the dark road at Redman's Dell, the gallant captain passed the
old mill, and, all being quiet up and down the road, he halted under the
lordly shadow of a clump of chestnuts, and opened and read the letter he
had just taken charge of. It contained only these words:--


'Wednesday.

'On Friday night, next, at half-past twelve.'


This he read twice or thrice, pausing between whiles. The envelope bore
the London postmark. Then he took out his cigar-case, selected a
promising weed, and wrapping the laconic note prettily round one of his
scented matches, lighted it, and the note flamed pale in the daylight,
and dropped still blazing, at the root of the old tree he stood by, and
sent up a little curl of blue smoke--an incense to the demon of the
wood--and turned in a minute more into a black film, overrun by a hundred
creeping sparkles; and having completed his mysterious incremation, he,
with his yellow eyes, made a stolen glance around, and lighting his
cigar, glided gracefully up the steep road, under the solemn canopy of
old timber, to the sound of the moaning stream below, and the rustle of
withered leaves about him, towards Redman's Farm.

As he entered the flower-garden, the jaundiced face of old Tamar, with
its thousand small wrinkles and its ominous gleam of suspicion, was
looking out from the darkened porch. The white cap, kerchief, and
drapery, courtesied to him as he drew near, and the dismal face changed
not.

'Well, Tamar, how do you do?--how are all? Where is that girl Margery?'

'In the kitchen, Master Stanley,' said she, courtesying again.

'Are you sure?' said Captain Lake, peeping towards that apartment over the
old woman's shoulder.

'Certain sure, Master Stanley.'

'Well, come up stairs to your mistress's room,' said Lake, mounting the
stairs, with his hat in his hand, and on tip-toe, like a man approaching
a sick chamber.

There was something I think grim and spectral in this ceremonious ascent
to the empty chamber. Children had once occupied that silent floor for
there was a little balustraded gate across the top of the staircase.

'I keep this closed,' said old Tamar, 'and forbid her to cross it, lest
she should disturb the mistress. Heaven forgive me!'

'Very good,' he whispered, and he peeped over the banister, and then
entered Rachel's silent room, darkened with closed shutters, the white
curtains and white coverlet so like 'the dark chamber of white death.'

He had intended speaking to Tamar there, but changed his mind, or rather
could not make up his mind; and he loitered silently, and stood with the
curtain in his gloved hand, looking upon the cold coverlet, as if Rachel
lay dead there.

'That will do,' he said, awaking from his wandering thought. 'We'll go
down now, Tamar.'

And in the same stealthy way, walking lightly and slowly, down the stairs
they went, and Stanley entered the kitchen.

'How do you do, Margery? You'll be glad to hear your mistress is better.
You must run down to the town, though, and buy some jelly, and you are to
bring her back change of this.'

And he placed half-a-crown in her hand.

'Put on your bonnet and my old shawl, child; and take the basket, and
come back by the side door,' croaked old Tamar.

So the girl dried her hands--she was washing the teacups--and in a
twinkling was equipped and on her way to Gylingden.




CHAPTER XXII.

IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE MEETS A FRIEND NEAR THE WHITE HOUSE.


Lake had no very high opinion of men or women, gentle or simple.

'She listens, I dare say, the little spy,' said he.

'No, Master Stanley! She's a good little girl.'

'She quite believes her mistress is up stairs, eh?'

'Yes; the Lord forgive me--I'm deceiving her.'

He did not like the tone and look which accompanied this.

'Now, my good old Tamar, you really can't be such an idiot as to fancy
there can be any imaginable wrong in keeping that prying little slut in
ignorance of that which in no wise concerns her. This is a critical
matter, do you see, and if it were known in this place that your young
mistress had gone away as she has done--though quite innocently--upon my
honour--I think it would blast her. You would not like, for a stupid
crotchet, to ruin poor Radie, I fancy.'

'I'm doing just what you both bid me,' said the old woman.

'You sit up stairs chiefly?'

She nodded sadly.

'And keep the hall door shut and bolted?'

Again she nodded.

'I'm going up to the Hall, and I'll tell them she's much better, and that
I've been in her room, and that, perhaps, she may go up to see them in
the morning.'

Old Tamar shook her head and groaned.

'How long is all this to go on for, Master Stanley?'

'Why, d-- you, Tamar, can't you listen?' he said, clutching her wrist in
his lavender kid grasp rather roughly. 'How long--a very short time, I
tell you. She'll be home immediately. I'll come to-morrow and tell you
exactly--maybe to-morrow evening--will that do? And should they call, you
must say the same; and if Miss Dorcas, Miss Brandon, you know--should
wish to go up to see her, tell her she's asleep. Stop that hypocritical
grimacing, will you. It is no part of your duty to tell the world what
can't possibly concern them, and may bring your young mistress
to--_perdition_. That does not strike me as any part of your religion.'

Tamar groaned again, and she said: 'I opened my Bible, Lord help me,
three times to-day, Master Stanley, and could not go on. It's no use--I
can't read it.'

'Time enough--I think you've read more than is good for you. I think you
are half mad, Tamar; but think what you may, it must be done. Have not
you read of straining at gnats and swallowing camels? You used not, I've
heard, to be always so scrupulous, old Tamar.'

There was a vile sarcasm in his tone and look.

'It is not for the child I nursed to say that,' said Tamar.

There were scandalous stories of wicked old Tiberius--bankrupt, dead, and
buried--compromising the fame of Tamar--not always a spectacled and
cadaverous student of Holy Writ. These, indeed, were even in Stanley's
childhood old-world, hazy, traditions of the servants' hall. But boys
hear often more than is good, and more than gospel, who live in such
houses as old General Lake, the old millionaire widower, kept.

'I did not mean anything, upon my honour, Tamar, that could annoy you. I
only meant you used not to be a fool, and pray don't begin now; for I
assure you Radie and I would not ask it if it could be avoided. You have
Miss Radie's secret in your hands, I don't think you'd like to injure
her, and you used to be trustworthy. I don't think your Bible teaches you
anywhere to hurt your neighbour and to break faith.'

'Don't speak of the Bible now; but you needn't fear me, Master Stanley,'
answered the old woman, a little sternly. 'I don't know why she's gone,
nor why it's a secret--I don't, and I'd rather not. Poor Miss Radie, she
never heard anything but what was good from old Tamar, whatever I might
ha' bin myself, miserable sinners are we all; and I'll do as you bid me,
and I _have_ done, Master Stanley, howsoever it troubles my mind;' and
now old Tamar's words spoke--that's all.

'Old Tamar is a sensible creature, as she always was. I hope I did not
vex you, Tamar. I did not mean, I assure you; but we get rough ways in
the army, I'm afraid, and you won't mind me. You never _did_ mind little
Stannie when he was naughty, you know.'

There was here a little subsidence in his speech. He was thinking of
giving her a crown, but there were several reasons against it, so that
handsome coin remained in his purse.

'And I forgot to tell you, Tamar, I've a ring for you in town--a little
souvenir; you'll think it pretty--a gold ring, with a stone in it--it
belonged to poor dear Aunt Jemima, you remember. I left it behind; so
stupid!'

So he shook hands with old Tamar, and patted her affectionately on the
shoulder, and he said:--

'Keep the hall-door bolted. Make any excuse you like: only it would not
do for anyone to open it, and run up to the room as they might, so don't
forget to secure the door when I go. I think that is all. Ta-ta, dear
Tamar. I'll see you in the morning.'

As he walked down the mill-road towards the town, he met Lord Chelford on
his way to make enquiry about Rachel at Redman's Farm; and Lake, who, as
we know, had just seen his sister, gave him all particulars.

Chelford, like the lawyer, had heard from Mark Wylder that morning--a few
lines, postponing his return. He merely mentioned it, and made no
comment; but Lake perceived that he was annoyed at his unexplained
absence.

Lake dined at Brandon that evening, and though looking ill, was very good
company, and promised to bring an early report of Rachel's convalescence
in the morning.

I have little to record of next day, except that Larkin received another
London letter. Wylder plainly wrote in great haste, and merely said:--

'I shall have to wait a day or two longer than I yesterday thought, to
meet a fellow from whom I am to receive something of importance, rather,
as I think, to me. Get the deeds ready, as I said in my last. If I am not
in Gylingden by Monday, we must put off the wedding for a week
later--there is no help for it. You need not talk of this. I write to
Chelford to say the same.'

This note was as unceremonious, and still shorter. Lord Chelford would
have written at once to remonstrate with Mark on the unseemliness of
putting off his marriage so capriciously, or, at all events, so
mysteriously--Miss Brandon not being considered, nor her friends
consulted. But Mark had a decided objection to many letters: he had no
fancy to be worried, when he had made up his mind, by prosy
remonstrances; and he shut out the whole tribe of letter-writers by
simply omitting to give them his address.

His cool impertinence, and especially this cunning precaution, incensed
old Lady Chelford. She would have liked to write him one of those terse,
courteous, biting notes, for which she was famous; and her fingers,
morally, tingled to box his ears. But what was to be done with mere
'London?' Wylder was hidden from mortal sight, like a heaven-protected
hero in the 'Iliad,' and a cloud of invisibility girdled him.

Like most rustic communities, Gylingden and its neighbourhood were early
in bed. Few lights burned after half-past ten, and the whole vicinity was
deep in its slumbers before twelve o'clock.

At that dread hour, Captain Lake, about a mile on the Dollington, which
was the old London road from Gylingden, was pacing backward and forward
under the towering files of beech that overarch it at that point.

The 'White House' public, with a wide panel over its door, presenting, in
tints subdued by time, a stage-coach and four horses in mid career, lay a
few hundred yards nearer to Gylingden. Not a soul was stirring--not a
sound but those, sad and soothing, of nature was to be heard.

Stanley Lake did not like waiting any more than did Louis XIV. He was
really a little tired of acting sentry, and was very peevish by the time
the ring of wheels and horse-hoofs approaching from the London direction
became audible. Even so, he had a longer wait than he expected,
sounds are heard so far by night. At last, however, it drew
nearer--nearer--quite close--and a sort of nondescript vehicle--one
horsed--loomed in the dark, and he calls--

'Hallo! there--I say--a passenger for the "White House?"'

At the same moment, a window of the cab--shall we call it--was let down,
and a female voice--Rachel Lake's--called to the driver to stop.

Lake addressed the driver--

'You come from Johnson's Hotel--don't you--at Dollington?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Well, I'll pay you half-fare to bring me there.'

'All right, Sir. But the 'oss, Sir, must 'av 'is oats fust.'

'Feed him here, then. They are all asleep in the "White House." I'll be
with you in five minutes, and you shall have something for yourself when
we get into Dollington.'

Stanley opened the door. She placed her hand on his, and stepped to the
ground. It was very dark under those great trees. He held her hand a
little harder than was his wont.

'All quite well, ever since. You are not very tired, are you? I'm afraid
it will be necessary for you to walk to Redman's Farm, dear Radie--but
it is hardly a mile, I think--for, you see, the fellow must not know who
you are; and I must go back with him, for I have not been very
well--indeed I've been, I may say, very ill--and I told that fellow,
Larkin, who has his eyes about him, and would wonder what kept me out so
late, that I would run down to some of the places near for a change, and
sleep a night there; and that's the reason, dear Radie, I can walk only a
short way with you; but you are not afraid to walk a part of the way home
without me? You are so sensible, and you have been, really, so very kind,
I assure you I appreciate it, Radie--I do, indeed; and I'm very
grateful--I am, upon my word.'

Rachel answered with a heavy sigh.




CHAPTER XXIII.

HOW RACHEL SLEPT THAT NIGHT IN REDMAN'S FARM.


'Allow me--pray do,' and he took her little bag from her hand. 'I hope
you are not very tired, darling; you've been so very good; and you're not
afraid--you know the place is so quiet--of the little walk by yourself.
Take my arm; I'll go as far as I can, but it is very late you know--and
you are sure you are not afraid?'

'I ought to be afraid of nothing now, Stanley, but I think I am afraid of
everything.'

'Merely a little nervous--it's nothing--I've been wretchedly since,
myself; but, I'm so glad you are home again; you shall have no more
trouble, I assure you; and not a creature suspects you have been from
home. Old Tamar has behaved admirably.'

Rachel sighed again and said--

'Yes--poor Tamar.'

'And now, dear, I'm afraid I must leave you--I'm very sorry; but you see
how it is; keep to the shady side, close by the hedge, where the trees
stop; but I'm certain you will meet no one. Tamar will tell you who has
called--hardly anyone--I saw them myself every day at Brandon, and told
them you were ill. You've been very kind, Radie; I assure you I'll never
forget it. You'll find Tamar up and watching for you--I arranged all
that; and I need not say you'll be very careful not to let that girl of
yours hear anything. You'll be very quiet--she suspects nothing; and I
assure you, so far as personal annoyance of any kind is concerned, you
may be perfectly at ease. Good-night, Radie; God bless you, dear. I wish
very much I could see you all the way, but there's a risk in it, you
know. Good-night, dear Radie. By-the-bye, here's your bag; I'll take the
rug, it's too heavy for you, and I may as well have it to Dollington.'

He kissed her cheek in his slight way, and left her, and was soon on his
way to Dollington, where he slept that night--rather more comfortably
than he had done since Rachel's departure.

Rachel walked on swiftly. Very tired, but not at all sleepy--on the
contrary, excited and nervous, and rather relieved, notwithstanding that
Stanley had left her to walk home alone.

It seemed to her that more than a month had passed since she saw the
mill-road last. How much had happened! how awful was the change! Familiar
objects glided past her, the same, yet the fashion of the countenance was
altered; there was something estranged and threatening.

The pretty parsonage was now close by: in the dews of night the spirit of
peace and slumbers smiled over it; but the sight of its steep roof and
homely chimney-stacks smote with a shock at her brain and heart--a
troubled moan escaped her. She looked up with the instinct of prayer, and
clasped her hands on the handle of that little bag which had made the
mysterious journey with her; a load which no man could lift lay upon her
heart.

Then she commenced her dark walk up the mill-road--her hands still
clasped, her lips moving in broken appeals to Heaven. She looked neither
to the right nor to the left, but passed on with inflexible gaze and
hasty steps, like one who crosses a plank over some awful chasm.

In such darkness Redman's dell was a solemn, not to say an awful, spot;
and at any time, I think, Rachel, in a like solitude and darkness, would
have been glad to see the red glimmer of old Tamar's candle proclaiming
under the branches the neighbourhood of human life and sympathy.

The old woman, with her shawl over her head, sat listening for her young
mistress's approach, on the little side bench in the trellised porch, and
tottered hastily forth to meet her at the garden wicket, whispering
forlorn welcomes, and thanksgivings, which Rachel answered only with a
kiss.

Safe, safe at home! Thank Heaven at least for that. Secluded once
more--hidden in Redman's Dell; but never again to be the same--the
careless mind no more. The summer sunshine through the trees, the leafy
songs of birds, obscured in the smoke and drowned in the discord of an
untold and everlasting trouble.

The hall-door was now shut and bolted. Wise old Tamar had turned the key
upon the sleeping girl. There was nothing to be feared from prying eyes
and listening ears.

'You are cold, Miss Radie, and tired--poor thing! I lit a bit of fire in
your room, Miss; would you like me to go up stairs with you, Miss?'

'Come.'

And so up stairs they went; and the young lady looked round with a
strange anxiety, like a person seeking for something, and forgetting
what; and, sitting down, she leaned her head on her hand with a moan, the
living picture of despair.

'You've a headache, Miss Radie?' said the old woman, standing by her with
that painful enquiry which sat naturally on her face.

'A heartache, Tamar.'

'Let me help you off with these things, Miss Radie, dear.'

The young lady did not seem to hear, but she allowed Tamar to remove her
cloak and hat and handkerchief.

The old servant had placed the tea-things on the table, and what remained
of that wine of which Stanley had partaken on the night from which the
eclipse of Rachel's life dated. So, without troubling her with questions,
she made tea, and then some negus, with careful and trembling hands.

'No,' said Rachel, a little pettishly, and put it aside.

'See now, Miss Radie, dear. You look awful sick and tired. You are tired
to death and pale, and sorry, my dear child; and to please old Tamar,
you'll just drink this.'

'Thank you, Tamar, I believe you are right.'

The truth was she needed it; and in the same dejected way she sipped it
slowly; and then there was a long silence--the silence of a fatigue, like
that of fever, near which sleep refuses to come. But she sat in that
waking lethargy in which are sluggish dreams of horror, and neither eyes
nor ears for that which is before us.

When at last with another great sigh she lifted her head, her eyes rested
on old Tamar's face, at the other side of the fire-place, with a dark,
dull surprise and puzzle for a moment, as if she could not tell why she
was there, or where the place was; and then rising up, with piteous look
in her old nurse's face, she said, 'Oh! Tamar, Tamar. It is a dreadful
world.'

'So it is, Miss Radie,' answered the old woman, her glittering eyes
returning her sad gaze wofully. 'Aye, so it is, sure!--and such it was
and will be. For so the Scripture says--"Cursed is the ground for thy
sake"--hard to the body--a vale of tears--dark to the spirit. But it is
the hand of God that is upon you, and, like me, you will say at last, "It
is good for me that I have been in trouble." Lie down, dear Miss Radie,
and I'll read to you the blessed words of comfort that have been sealed
for me ever since I saw you last. They have--but that's over.'

And she turned up her pallid, puckered face, and, with a trembling and
knotted pair of hands uplifted, she muttered an awful thanksgiving.

Rachel said nothing, but her eyes rested on the floor, and, with the
quiet obedience of her early childhood, she did as Tamar said. And the
old woman assisted her to undress, and so she lay down with a sigh in her
bed. And Tamar, her round spectacles by this time on her nose, sitting at
the little table by her pillow, read, in a solemn and somewhat quavering
voice, such comfortable passages as came first to memory.

Rachel cried quietly as she listened, and at last, worn out by many
feverish nights, and the fatigues of her journey, she fell into a
disturbed slumber, with many startings and sudden wakings, with cries and
strange excitement.

Old Tamar would not leave her, but kept her seat in the high-backed
arm-chair throughout the night, like a nurse--as indeed she was--in a
sick chamber. And so that weary night limped tediously away, and morning
dawned, and tipped the discoloured foliage of the glen with its glow,
awaking the songs of all the birds, and dispersing the white mists of
darkness. And Rachel with a start awoke, and sat up with a wild look and
a cry--

'What is it?'

'Nothing, dear Miss Radie--only poor old Tamar.' And a new day had begun.




CHAPTER XXIV.

DORCAS BRANDON PAYS RACHEL A VISIT.


It was not very much past eleven that morning when the pony carriage from
Brandon drew up before the little garden wicket of Redman's Farm.

The servant held the ponies' heads, and Miss Dorcas passed through the
little garden, and met old Tamar in the porch.

'Better to-day, Tamar?' enquired this grand and beautiful young lady.

The sun glimmered through the boughs behind her; her face was in shade,
and its delicate chiselling was brought out in soft reflected lights; and
old Tamar looked on her in a sort of wonder, her beauty seemed so
celestial and splendid.

Well, she _was_ better, though she had had a bad night. She was up and
dressed, and this moment coming down, and would be very happy to see Miss
Brandon, if she would step into the drawing-room.

Miss Brandon took old Tamar's hand gently and pressed it. I suppose she
was glad and took this way of showing it; and tall, beautiful, graceful,
in rustling silks, she glided into the tiny drawing-room silently, and
sate down softly by the window, looking out upon the flowers and the
falling leaves, mottled in light and shadow.

We have been accustomed to see another girl--bright and fair-haired
Rachel Lake--in the small rooms of Redman's Farm; but Dorcas only in rich
and stately Brandon Hall--the beautiful 'genius loci' under lofty
ceilings, curiously moulded in the first James's style--amid carved oak
and richest draperies, tall china vases, paintings, and cold white
statues; and somehow in this low-roofed room, so small and homely, she
looks like a displaced divinity--an exile under Juno's jealousy from the
cloudy splendours of Olympus--dazzlingly melancholy, and 'humano major'
among the meannesses and trumperies of earth.

So there came a step and a little rustling of feminine draperies, the
small door opened, and Rachel entered, with her hand extended, and a pale
smile of welcome.

Women can hide their pain better than we men, and bear it better, too,
except when _shame_ drops fire into the dreadful chalice. But poor Rachel
Lake had more than that stoical hypocrisy which enables the tortured
spirits of her sex to lift a pale face through the flames and smile.

She was sanguine, she was genial and companionable, and her spirits rose
at the sight of a friendly face. This transient spring and lighting up
are beautiful--a glamour beguiling our senses. It wakens up the frozen
spirit of enjoyment, and leads the sad faculties forth on a wild
forgetful frolic.

'Rachel, dear, I'm so glad to see you,' said Dorcas, placing her arms
gently about her neck, and kissing her twice or thrice. There was
something of sweetness and fondness in her tones and manner, which was
new to Rachel, and comforting, and she returned the greeting as kindly,
and felt more like her former self. 'You have been more ill than I
thought, darling, and you are still far from quite recovered.'

Rachel's pale and sharpened features and dilated eye struck her with a
painful surprise.

'I shall soon be as well as I am ever likely to be--that is, quite well,'
answered Rachel. 'You have been very kind. I've heard of your coming
here, and sending, so often.'

They sat down side by side, and Dorcas held her hand.

'Maybe, Rachel dear, you would like to drive a little?'

'No, darling, not yet; it is very good of you.'

'You have been so ill, my poor Rachel.'

'Ill and troubled, dear--troubled in mind, and miserably nervous.'

Poor Rachel! her nature recoiled from deceit, and she told, at all
events, as much of the truth as she dared.

Dorcas's large eyes rested upon her with a grave enquiry, and then Miss
Brandon looked down in silence for a while on the carpet, and was
thinking a little sternly, maybe, and with a look of pain, still holding
Rachel's hand, she said, with a sad sort of reproach in her tone,

'Rachel, dear, you have not told my secret?'

'No, indeed, Dorcas--never, and never will; and I think, though I have
learned to fear death, I would rather die than let Stanley even suspect
it.'

She spoke with a sudden energy, which partook of fear and passion, and
flushed her thin cheek, and made her languid eyes flash.

'Thank you, Rachel, my Cousin Rachel, my only friend. I ought not to have
doubted you,' and she kissed her again. 'Chelford had a note from Mr.
Wylder this morning--another note--his coming delayed, and something of
his having to see some person who is abroad,' continued Dorcas, after a
little pause. 'You have heard, of course, of Mr. Wylder's absence?'

'Yes, something--_everything_,' said Rachel, hurriedly, looking
frowningly at a flower which she was twirling in her fingers.

'He chose an unlucky moment for his departure. I meant to speak to him
and end all between us; and I would now write, but there is no address to
his letters. I think Lady Chelford and her son begin to think there is
more in this oddly-timed journey of Mr. Wylder's than first appeared.
When I came into the parlour this morning I knew they were speaking of
it. If he does not return in a day or two, Chelford, I am sure, will
speak to me, and then I shall tell him my resolution.'

'Yes,' said Rachel.

'I don't understand his absence. I think _they_ are puzzled, too. Can you
conjecture why he is gone?'

Rachel made no answer, but rose with a dreamy look, as if gazing at some
distant object among the dark masses of forest trees, and stood before
the window so looking across the tiny garden.

'I don't think, Rachel dear, you heard me?' said Dorcas.

'Can I conjecture why he is gone?' murmured Rachel, still gazing with a
wild kind of apathy into distance. 'Can I? What can it now be to you or
me--why? Yes, we sometimes conjecture right, and sometimes wrong; there
are many things best not conjectured about at all--some interesting, some
abominable, some that pass all comprehension: I never mean to conjecture,
if I can help it, again.'

And the wan oracle having spoken, she sate down in the same sort of
abstraction again beside Dorcas, and she looked full in her cousin's
eyes.

'I made you a voluntary promise, Dorcas, and now you will make me one. Of
Mark Wylder I say this: his name has been for years hateful to me, and
recently it has become frightful; and you will promise me simply this,
that you will never ask me to speak again about him. Be he near, or be he
far, I regard his very name with horror.'

Dorcas returned her gaze with one of haughty amazement; and Rachel said,

'Well, Dorcas, you promise?'

'You speak truly, Rachel, you _have_ a right to my promise: I give it.'

'Dorcas, you are changed; have I lost your love for asking so poor a
kindness?'

'I'm only disappointed, Rachel; I thought you would have trusted me, as I
did you.'

'It is an antipathy--an antipathy I cannot get over, dear Dorcas; you may
think it a madness, but don't blame me. Remember I am neither well nor
happy, and forgive what you cannot like in me. I have very few to love me
now, and I thought you might love me, as I have begun to love you. Oh!
Dorcas, darling, don't forsake me; I am very lonely here and my spirits
are gone and I never needed kindness so much before.'

And she threw her arms round her cousin's neck, and brave Rachel at last
burst into tears.

Dorcas, in her strange way, was moved.

'I like you still, Rachel; I'm sure I'll always like you. You resemble
me, Rachel: you are fearless and inflexible and generous. That spirit
belongs to the blood of our strange race; all our women were so. Yes,
Rachel, I do love you. I was wounded to find you had thoughts you would
not trust to me; but I have made the promise, and I'll keep it; and I
love you all the same.'

'Thank you, Dorcas, dear. I like to call you cousin--kindred is so
pleasant. Thank you, from my heart, for your love; you will never know,
perhaps, how much it is to me.'

The young queen looked on her kindly, but sadly, through her large,
strange eyes, clouded with a presage of futurity, and she kissed her
again, and said--

'Rachel, dear, I have a plan for you and me: we shall be old maids, you
and I, and live together like the ladies of Llangollen, careless and
happy recluses. I'll let Brandon and abdicate. We will make a little tour
together, when all this shall have blown over, in a few weeks, and choose
our retreat; and with the winter's snow we'll vanish from Brandon, and
appear with the early flowers at our cottage among the beautiful woods
and hills of Wales. Will you come, Rachel?'

At sight of this castle or cottage in the air, Rachel lighted up. The
little whim had something tranquillising and balmy. It was escape--flight
from Gylingden--flight from Brandon--flight from Redman's Farm: they and
all their hated associations would be far behind, and that awful page in
her story, not torn out, indeed, but gummed down as it were, and no
longer glaring and glowering in her eyes every moment of her waking life.

So she smiled upon the picture painted on the clouds; it was the first
thing that had interested her for days. It was a hope. She seized it; she
clung to it. She knew, perhaps, it was the merest chimera; but it rested
and consoled her imagination, and opened, in the blackness of her sky,
one small vista, through whose silvery edge the blue and stars of heaven
were visible.




CHAPTER XXV.

CAPTAIN LAKE LOOKS IN AT NIGHTFALL.


In the queer little drawing-room of Redman's Farm it was twilight, so
dense were the shadows from the great old chestnuts that surrounded it,
before the sun was well beneath the horizon; and you could, from its
darkened window, see its red beams still tinting the high grounds of
Willerston, visible through the stems of the old trees that were massed
in the near foreground.

A figure which had lost its energy--a face stamped with the lines and
pallor of a dejection almost guilty--with something of the fallen grace
and beauty of poor Margaret, as we see her with her forehead leaning on
her slender hand, by the stirless spinning-wheel--the image of a strange
and ineffaceable sorrow, sat Rachel Lake.

Tamar might glide in and out; her mistress did not speak; the shadows
deepened round her, but she did look up, nor call, in the old cheerful
accents, for lights. No more roulades and ringing chords from the
piano--no more clear spirited tones of the lady's voice sounded through
the low ceilings of Redman's Farm, and thrilled with a haunting melody
the deserted glen, wherein the birds had ended their vesper songs and
gone to rest.

A step was heard at the threshold--it entered the hall; the door of the
little chamber opened, and Stanley Lake entered, saying in a doubtful,
almost timid way--

'It is I, Radie, come to thank you, and just to ask you how you do, and
to say I'll never forget your kindness; upon my honour, I never can.'

Rachel shuddered as the door opened, and there was a ghastly sort of
expectation in her look. Imperfectly as it was seen, he could understand
it. She did not bid him welcome or even speak. There was a silence.

'Now, you're not angry with me, Radie dear; I venture to say I suffer
more than you: and how could I have anticipated the strange turn things
have taken? You know how it all came about, and you must see I'm not
really to blame, at least in intention, for all this miserable trouble;
and even if I were, where's the good in angry feeling or reproaches now,
don't you see, when I can't mend it? Come, Radie, let by-gones be
by-gones. There's a good girl; won't you?'

'Aye, by-gones are by-gones; the past is, indeed, immutable, and the
future is equally fixed, and more dreadful.'

'Come, Radie; a clever girl like you can make your own future.'

'And what do you want of me now?' she asked, with a fierce cold stare.

'But I did not say I wanted anything.'

'Of course you do, or I should not have seen you. Mark me though, I'll go
no further in the long route of wickedness you seem to have marked out
for me. I'm sacrificed, it is true, but I won't renew my hourly horrors,
and live under the rule of your diabolical selfishness.'

'Say what you will, but keep your temper--will you?' he answered, more
like his angry self. But he checked the rising devil within him, and
changed his tone; he did not want to quarrel--quite the reverse.

'I don't know really, Radie, why you should talk as you do. I don't want
you to do anything--upon my honour I don't--only just to exercise your
common sense--and you have lots of sense, Radie. Don't you think people
have eyes to see, and ears and tongues in this part of the world? Don't
you know very well, in a small place like this, they are all alive with
curiosity? and if you choose to make such a tragedy figure, and keep
moping and crying, and all that sort of thing, and look so _funeste_ and
miserable, you'll be sure to fix attention and set the whole d--d place
speculating and gossiping? and really, Radie, you're making mountains of
mole-hills. It is because you live so solitary here, and it _is_ such a
gloomy out-o'-the-way spot--so awfully dark and damp, nobody _could_ be
well here, and you really must change. It is the very temple of
blue-devilry, and I assure you if I lived as you do I'd cut my throat
before a month--you _mustn't_. And old Tamar, you know, such a figure!
The very priestess of despair. She gives me the horrors, I assure you,
whenever I look at her; you must not keep her, she's of no earthly use,
poor old thing; and, you know, Radie, we're not rich enough--you and
I--to support other people. You must really place yourself more
cheerfully, and I'll speak to Chelford about Tamar. There's a very nice
place--an asylum, or something, for old women--near--(Dollington he was
going to say, but the associations were not pleasant)--near some of those
little towns close to this, and he's a visitor, or governor, or whatever
they call it. It is really not fair to expect you or me to keep people
like that.'

'She has not cost you much hitherto, Stanley, and she will give you very
little trouble hereafter. I won't part with Tamar.'

'She has not cost me much?' said Lake, whose temper was not of a kind to
pass by anything. 'No; of course, she has not. _I_ can't afford a guinea.
You're poor enough; but in proportion to my expenses--a woman, of course,
can live on less than half what a man can--I'm a great deal poorer than
you; and I never said I gave her sixpence--did I? I have not got it to
give, and I don't think she's fool enough to expect it; and, to say the
truth, I don't care. I only advise you. There are some cheerful little
cottages near the green, in Gylingden, and I venture to think, this is
one of the very gloomiest and most uncomfortable places you could have
selected to live in.'

Rachel looked drearily towards the window and sighed--it was almost a
groan.

'It was cheerful always till this frightful week changed everything. Oh!
why, why, why did you ever come?' She threw back her pale face, biting
her lip, and even in that deepening gloom her small pearly teeth
glimmered white; and then she burst into sobs and an agony of tears.

Captain Lake knew something of feminine paroxysms. Rachel was not given
to hysterics. He knew this burst of anguish was unaffected. He was rather
glad of it. When it was over he expected clearer weather and a calm. So
he waited, saying now and then a soothing word or two.

'There--there--there, Radie--there's a good girl. Never
mind--there--there.' And between whiles his mind, which, in truth, had a
good deal upon it, would wander and pursue its dismal and perplexed
explorations, to the unheard accompaniment of her sobs.

He went to the door, but it was not to call for water, or for old Tamar.
On the contrary, it was to observe whether she or the girl was listening.
But the house, though small, was built with thick partition walls, and
sounds were well enclosed in the rooms to which they belonged.

With Rachel this weakness did not last long. It was a gust--violent--soon
over; and the 'o'er-charged' heart and brain were relieved. And she
pushed open the window, and stood for a moment in the chill air, and
sighed, and whispered a word or two over the closing flowers of her
little garden towards the darkening glen, and with another great sigh
closed the window, and returned.

'Can I do anything, Radie? You're better now. I knew you would be. Shall
I get some water from your room?'

'No, Stanley; no, thank you. I'm very well now,' she said, gently.

'Yes, I think so. I knew you'd be better.' And he patted her shoulder
with his soft hand; and then followed a short silence.

'I wish you were more pleasantly lodged, Radie; but we can speak of that
another time.'

'Yes--you're right. This place is dreadful, and its darkness dreadful;
but light is still more dreadful now, and I think I'll change; but, as
you say, there is time enough to think of all that.'

'Quite so--time enough. By-the-bye, Radie, you mentioned our old servant,
whom my father thought so highly of--Jim Dutton--the other evening. I've
been thinking of him, do you know, and I should like to find him out. He
was a very honest fellow, and attached, and a clever fellow, too, my
father thought; and _he_ was a good judge. Hadn't you a letter from his
mother lately? You told me so, I think; and if it is not too much
trouble, dear Radie, would you allow me to see it?'

Rachel opened her desk, and silently selected one of those clumsy and
original missives, directed in a staggering, round hand, on paper oddly
shaped and thick, such as mixes not naturally with the aristocratic
fabric, on which crests and ciphers are impressed, and placed it in her
brother's hand.

'But you can't read it without light,' said Rachel.

'No; but there's no hurry. Does she say where she is staying, or her
son?'

'Both, I think,' answered Rachel, languidly; 'but he'll never make a
servant for you--he's a rough creature, she says, and was a groom. You
can't remember him, nor I either.'

'Perhaps--very likely;' and he put the letter in his pocket.

'I was thinking, Rachel, you could advise me, if you would, you are so
clever, you know.'

'Advise!' said Rachel, softly; but with a wild and bitter rage ringing
under it. 'I did advise when it was yet time to profit by advice. I bound
you even by a promise to take it, but you know how it ended. You don't
want my advice.'

'But really I do, Radie. I quite allow I was wrong--worse than wrong--but
where is the use of attacking me now, when I'm in this dreadful fix? I
took a wrong step; and what I now have to do is to guard myself, if
possible, from what I'm threatened with.'

She fancied she saw his pale face grow more bloodless, even in the shadow
where he sat.

'I know you too well, Stanley. You want _no_ advice. You never took
advice--you never will. Your desperate and ingrained perversity has
ruined us both.'

'I wish you'd let me know my own mind. I say I do--(and he uttered an
unpleasant exclamation). Do you think I'll leave matters to take their
course, and sit down here to be destroyed? I'm no such idiot. I tell you
I'll leave no stone unturned to save myself; and, in some measure, _you_
too, Radie. You don't seem to comprehend the tremendous misfortune that
menaces me--_us_--_you_ and me.'

And he cursed Mark Wylder with a gasp of hatred not easily expressed.

She winced at the name, and brushed her hand to her ear.

'Don't--don't--_don't_,' she said, vehemently.

'Well, what the devil do you mean by refusing to help me, even with a
hint? I say--I _know_--all the odds are against us. It is sometimes a
long game; but unless I'm sharp, I can't escape what's coming. I
_can't_--you can't--sooner or later. It is in motion already--d--
him--it's coming, and you expect me to do everything alone.'

'I repeat it, Stanley,' said Rachel, with a fierce cynicism in her low
tones, 'you don't want advice; you have formed your plan, whatever it is,
and that plan you will follow, and no other, though men and angels were
united to dissuade you.'

There was a pause here, and a silence for a good many seconds.

'Well, perhaps, I _have_ formed an outline of a plan, and it strikes me
as very well I have--for I don't think you are likely to take that
trouble. I only want to explain it, and get your advice, and any little
assistance you can give me; and surely that is not unreasonable?'

'I have learned one secret, and am exposed to one danger. I have
taken--to save you--it may be only a _respite_--one step, the remembrance
of which is insupportable. But I was passive. I am fallen from light into
darkness. There ends my share in your confidence and your fortunes. I
will know no more secrets--no more disgrace; do what you will, you shall
never use me again.'

'Suppose these heroics of yours, Miss Radie, should contribute to bring
about--to bring about the worst,' said Stanley, with a sneer, through
which his voice trembled.

'Let it come--my resolution is taken.'

Stanley walked to the window, and in his easy way, as he would across a
drawing-room to stand by a piano, and he looked out upon the trees, whose
tops stood motionless against the darkened sky, like masses of ruins.
Then he came back as gently as he had gone, and stood beside his sister;
she could not see his yellow eyes now as he stood with his back to the
window.

'Well, Radie, dear--you have put your hand to the plough, and you sha'n't
turn back now.'

'What?'

'No--you sha'n't turn back now.'

'You seem, Sir, to fancy that I have no right to choose for myself,' said
Miss Rachel, spiritedly.

'Now, Radie, you must be reasonable--who have I to advise with?'

'Not me, Stanley--keep your plots and your secrets to yourself. In the
guilty path you have opened for me one step more I will never tread.'

'Excuse me, Radie, but you're talking like a fool.'

'I am not sorry you think so--you can't understand motives higher than
your own.'

'You'll see that you must, though. You'll see it in a little while.
Self-preservation, dear Radie, is the first law of nature.'

'For yourself, Stanley; and for _me_, self-sacrifice,' she retorted,
bitterly.

'Well, Radie, I may as well tell you one thing that I'm resolved to carry
out,' said Lake, with a dreamy serenity, looking on the dark carpet.

'I'll hear no secret, Stanley.'

'It can't be long a secret, at least from you--you can't help knowing
it,' he drawled gently. 'Do you recollect, Radie, what I said that
morning when I first called here, and saw you?'

'Perhaps I do, but I don't know what you mean,' answered she.

'I said, Mark Wylder----'

'Don't name him,' she said, rising and approaching him swiftly.

'I said _he_ should go abroad, and so he shall,' said Lake, in a very low
tone, with a grim oath.

'Why do you talk that way? You terrify me,' said Rachel, with one hand
raised towards his face with a gesture of horror and entreaty, and the
other closed upon his wrist.

'I say he _shall_, Radie.'

'Has he lost his wits? I can't comprehend you--you frighten me, Stanley.
You're talking wildly on purpose, I believe, to terrify me. You know the
state I'm in--sleepless--half wild--all alone here. You're talking like a
maniac. It's cruel--it's cowardly.'

'I mean to _do_ it--you'll see.'

Suddenly she hurried by him, and in a moment was in the little kitchen,
with its fire and candle burning cheerily. Stanley Lake was at her
shoulder as she entered, and both were white with agitation.

Old Tamar rose up affrighted, her stiff arms raised, and uttered a
blessing. She did not know what to make of it. Rachel sat down upon one
of the kitchen chairs, scarce knowing what she did, and Stanley Lake
halted near the threshold--gazing for a moment as wildly as she, with the
ghost of his sly smile on his smooth, cadaverous face.

'What ails her--is she ill, Master Stanley?' asked the old woman,
returning with her white eyes the young man's strange yellow glare.

'I--I don't know--maybe--give her some water,' said Lake.

'Glass of water--quick, child,' cried old Tamar to Margery.

'Put it on the table,' said Rachel, collected now, but pale and somewhat
stern.

'And now, Stanley, dear,' said she, for just then she was past caring for
the presence of the servants, 'I hope we understand one another--at
least, that you do me. If not, it is not for want of distinctness on my
part; and I think you had better leave me for the present, for, to say
truth, I do not feel very well.'

'Good-night, Radie--good-night, old Tamar. I hope, Radie, you'll be
better--every way--when next I see you. Good-night.'

He spoke in his usual clear low tones, and his queer ambiguous smile was
there still; and, hat in hand, with his cane in his fingers, he made
another glance and a nod over his shoulder, at the threshold, and then
glided forth into the little garden, and so to the mill-road, down which,
at a swift pace, he walked towards the village.




CHAPTER XXVI.

CAPTAIN LAKE FOLLOWS TO LONDON.


Wylder's levanting in this way was singularly disconcerting. The time was
growing short. He wrote with a stupid goodhumour, and an insolent
brevity which took no account of Miss Brandon's position, or that (though
secondary in awkwardness) of her noble relatives. Lord Chelford plainly
thought more than he cared to say; and his mother, who never minced
matters, said perhaps more than she quite thought.

Chelford was to give the beautiful heiress away. But the receiver of this
rich and peerless gift--like some mysterious knight who, having carried
all before him in the tourney, vanishes no one knows whither, when the
prize is about to be bestowed, and whom the summons of the herald and the
call of the trumpet follow in vain--had escaped them.

'Lake has gone up to town this morning--some business with his banker
about his commission--and he says he will make Wylder out on his arrival,
and write to me,' said Lord Chelford.

Old Lady Chelford glanced across her shoulder at Dorcas, who leaned back
in a great chair by the window, listlessly turning over a book.

'She's a strange girl, she does not seem to feel her situation--a most
painful and critical one. That low, coarse creature must be looked up
somehow.'

'Lake knows where he is likely to be found, and will see him, I dare say,
this evening--perhaps in time to write by to-night's post.'

So, in a quiet key, Miss Dorcas being at a distance, though in the same
room, the dowager and her son discussed this unpleasant and very nervous
topic.

That evening Captain Lake was in London, comfortably quartered in a
private hotel, in one of the streets off Piccadilly. He went to his club
and dined better than he had done for many days. He really enjoyed his
three little courses--his pint of claret, his cup of _cafè noir_, and his
_chasse;_ the great Babylon was his Jerusalem, and his spirit found rest
there.

He was renovated and refreshed, his soul was strengthened, and his
countenance waxed cheerful, and he began to feel like himself again,
under the brown canopy of metropolitan smoke, and among the cabs and
gaslights.

After dinner he got into a cab, and drove to Mark Wylder's club. Was he
there?--No. Had he been there to-day?--No. Or within the last week?--No;
not for two months. He had left his address, and was in the country. The
address to which his letters were forwarded was 'The Brandon Arms,
Gylingden.'

So Captain Lake informed that functionary that his friend had come up to
town, and asked him again whether he was quite certain that he had not
called there, or sent for his letters.--No; nothing of the sort. Then
Captain Lake asked to see the billiard-marker, who was likely to know
something about him. But he knew nothing. He certainly had not been at
the 'Lark's Nest,' which was kept by the marker's venerable parent, and
was a favourite haunt of the gay lieutenant.

Then our friend Stanley, having ruminated for a minute, pencilled a
little note to Mark, telling him that he was staying at Muggeridge's
Hotel, 7, Hanover Street, Piccadilly, and wished _most_ particularly to
see him for a few minutes; and this he left with the hall-porter to give
him should he call.

Then Lake got into his cab again, having learned that he had lodgings in
St. James's Street when he did not stay at the club, and to these he
drove. There he saw Mrs. M'Intyre, a Caledonian lady, at this hour
somewhat mellow and talkative; but she could say nothing to the purpose
either. Mr. Wylder had not been there for nine weeks and three days; and
would owe her, on Saturday next, twenty-five guineas. So here, too, he
left a little note to the same purpose; and re-entering his cab, he drove
a long way, and past St. Paul's, and came at last to a court, outside
which he had to dismount from his vehicle, entering the grimy quadrangle
through a narrow passage. He had been there that evening before, shortly
after his arrival, with old Mother Dutton, as he called her, about her
son, Jim.

Jim was in London, looking for a situation, all which pleased Captain
Lake; and he desired that she should send him to his hotel to see him in
the morning.

But being in some matters of a nervous and impatient temperament, he had
come again, as we see, hoping to find Jim there, and to anticipate his
interview of the morning.

The windows, however, were dark, and a little research satisfied Captain
Lake that the colony was in bed. In fact, it was by this time half-past
eleven o'clock, and working-people don't usually sit up to that hour. But
our friend, Stanley Lake, was one of those persons who think that the
course of the world's affairs should bend a good deal to their personal
convenience, and he was not pleased with these unreasonable
working-people who had gone to their beds, and brought him to this remote
and grimy amphitheatre of black windows for nothing. So, wishing them the
good-night they merited, he re-entered his cab, and drove rapidly back
again towards the West-end.

This time he went to a somewhat mysterious and barricadoed place, where
in a blaze of light, in various rooms, gentlemen in hats, and some in
great coats, were playing roulette or hazard; and I am sorry to say, that
our friend, Captain Lake, played first at one and then at the other, with
what success exactly I don't know. But I don't think it was very far from
four o'clock in the morning when he let himself into his family hotel
with that latchkey, the cock's tail of Micyllus, with which good-natured
old Mrs. Muggeridge obliged the good-looking captain.

Captain Lake having given orders the evening before, that anyone who
might call in the morning, and ask to see him, should be shown up to his
bed-room _sans ceremonie_, was roused from deep slumber at a quarter past
ten, by a knock at his door, and a waiter's voice.

'Who's that?' drawled Captain Lake, rising, pale and half awake, on his
elbow, and not very clear where he was.

'The man, Sir, as you left a note for yesterday, which he desires to see
you?'

'Tell him to step in.'

So out went the waiter in pumps, and the sound of thick shoes was audible
on the lobby, and a sturdier knock sounded on the door.

'Come in,' said the captain.

And Jim Dutton entered the room, and, closing the door, made, at the side
of the bed, his reverence, consisting of a nod and a faint pluck at the
lock of hair over his forehead.

Now Stanley Lake had, perhaps, expected to see some one else; for though
this was a very respectable-looking fellow for his walk in life, the gay
young officer stared full at him, with a frightened and rather dreadful
countenance, and actually sprung from his bed at the other side, with an
ejaculation at once tragic and blasphemous.

The man plainly had not expected to produce any such result, and looked
very queer. Perhaps he thought something had occurred to affect his
personal appearance; perhaps some doubt about the captain's state of
health, and misgiving as to delirium tremens may have flickered over his
brain.

They were staring at one another across the bed, the captain in his
shirt.

At last the gallant officer seemed to discover things as they were, for
he said--

'Jim Dutton, by Jove!'

The oath was not so innocent; but it was delivered quietly; and then the
captain drew a long breath, and then, still staring at him, he laughed a
ghastly little laugh, also quietly.

'And so it is you, Jim,' said the captain. 'And how do you do--quite
well, Jim--and out of place? You've been hurt in the foot, eh? so old
your--Mrs. Dutton tells me, but that won't signify. I was dreaming when
you came in; not quite awake yet, hardly; just wait a bit till I get my
slippers on; and this--' So into his red slippers he slid, and got his
great shawl dressing-gown, such as fine gentlemen then wore, about his
slender person, and knotted the silken cords with depending tassels, and
greeted Jim Dutton again in very friendly fashion, enquiring very
particularly how he had been ever since, and what his mother was doing;
and I'm afraid not listening to Jim's answers as attentively as one might
have expected.

Whatever may have been his intrinsic worth, Jim was not polished, and
spoke, moreover, an uncouth dialect, which broke out now and then. But he
was in a sort of way attached to the Lake family, the son of an
hereditary tenant on that estate which had made itself wings, and flown
away like the island of Laputa. It could not be said to be love; it was a
sort of traditionary loyalty; a sentiment, however, not altogether
unserviceable.

When they had talked together for a while, the captain said--

'The fact is, it is not quite on me you would have to attend; the
situation, perhaps, is better. You have no objection to travel. You
_have_ been abroad, you know; and of course wages and all that will be in
proportion.'

Well, Jim had not any objection to speak of.

'What's wanted is a trustworthy man, perfectly steady, you see, and a
fellow who knows how to hold his tongue.'

The last condition, perhaps, struck the man as a little odd; he looked a
little confusedly, and he conveyed that he would not like to be in
anything that was not quite straight.

'Quite straight, Sir!' repeated Stanley Lake, looking round on him
sternly; 'neither should I, I fancy. You are to suppose the case of a
gentleman who is nursing his estate--you know what that means--and wants
to travel, and keep quite quiet, and who requires a steady, trustworthy
man to look after him, in such a way as I shall direct, with very little
trouble and capital pay. I have a regard for you, Dutton; and seeing so
good a situation was to be had, and thinking you the fittest man I know,
I wished to serve you and my friend at the same time.'

Dutton became grateful and docile upon this.

'There are reasons, quite honourable I need not tell you, which make it
necessary, James Dutton, that the whole of this affair should be kept
perfectly to ourselves; you are not to repeat one syllable I say to you
to your mother, do you mind, or to any other person living. The gentleman
is liberal, and if you can just hold your tongue, you will have little
trouble in satisfying him upon all other points. But if you can't be
quite silent, you had better, I frankly tell you, decline the situation,
excellent in all respects as it is.'

'I'm a man, Sir, as can be close enough.'

'So much the better. You don't drink?'

Dutton coloured a little and coughed and said--

'No, Sir.'

'You have your papers?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'We must be satisfied as to your sobriety, Dutton. Come back at half-past
eleven and I'll see you, and bring your papers; and, do you see, you are
not to talk, you understand; only you may say, if anyone presses, that I
am thinking of hiring you to attend on a gentleman, whose name you don't
yet know, who's going to travel. That's all.'

So Jim Dutton made his bow, and departed; and Captain Lake continued to
watch the door for some seconds after his departure, as if he could see
his retreating figure through it. And, said he, with an oath, and his
hand to his forehead, over his eyebrow--

'It _is_ the most unaccountable thing in nature!'

Then, after a reverie of some seconds, the young gentleman applied
himself energetically to his toilet; and coming down to his sitting-room,
he looked into his morning paper, and then into the street, and told the
servant as he sate down to breakfast, that he expected a gentleman named
Wylder to call that morning, and to be sure to show him up directly.

Captain Lake's few hours' sleep, contrary to popular ideas about
gamesters' slumbers, had been the soundest and the most natural which he
had enjoyed for a good many nights. He was refreshed. At Gylingden and
Brandon he had been simulating Captain Stanley Lake--being, in truth,
something quite different--with a vigilant histrionic effort which was
awfully exhausting, and sometimes nearly intolerable. Here the captain
was perceptibly stealing into his old ways and feelings. His spirit
revived; something like confidence in the future, and a possibility even
of enjoying the present, was struggling visibly through the cold fog that
environed him. Reason has, after all, so little to do with our moods. The
weather, the scene, the stomach, how pleasantly they deal with facts--how
they supersede philosophy, and even arithmetic, and teach us how much of
life is intoxication and illusion.

Still there was the sword of Damocles over his pineal gland. D---- that
sheer, cold blade! D---- him that forged it! Still there was a great deal
of holding in a horsehair. Had not salmon, of I know not how many
pounds' weight, been played and brought to land by that slender towage.
There is the sword, a burnished piece of cutlery, weighing just so many
pounds; and the horsehair has sufficed for an hour, and why not for
another--and soon? Hang moping and nonsense! Waiter, another pint of
Chian; and let the fun go forward.

So the literal waiter knocked at the door. 'A person wanted to see
Captain Lake. No, it was not Mr. Wylder. It was the man who had been here
in the morning--Dutton is his name.'

'And so it is really half-past eleven?' said Lake, in a sleepy surprise.
'Let him come in.'

And so in comes Jim Dutton again, to hear particulars, and have, as he
hopes, his engagement ratified.




CHAPTER XXVII.

LAWYER LARKIN'S MIND BEGINS TO WORK.


That morning Lake's first report upon his inquisition into the
whereabouts of Mark Wylder--altogether disappointing and barren--reached
Lord Chelford in a short letter; and a similar one, only shorter, found
Lawyer Larkin in his pleasant breakfast parlour.

Now this proceeding of Mr. Wylder's, at this particular time, struck the
righteous attorney, and reasonably, as a very serious and unjustifiable
step. There was, in fact, no way of accounting for it, that was
altogether complimentary to his respected and nutritious client. Yes;
there was something every way _very_ serious in the affair. It actually
threatened the engagement which was so near its accomplishment. Some most
powerful and mysterious cause must undoubtedly be in operation to induce
so sharp a 'party,' so keen after this world's wealth, to risk so huge a
prize. Whatever eminent qualities Mark Wylder might be deficient in, the
attorney very well knew that cunning was not among the number.

'It is nothing of the nature of debt--plenty of money. It is nothing that
money can buy off easily either, though he does not like parting with it.
Ten--_twenty_ to one--it is the old story--some unfortunate female
connection--some ambiguous relation, involving a doubtful marriage.'

And Josiah Larkin turned up his small pink eyes, and shook his tall, bald
head gently, and murmured, as he nodded it--

'The sins of his youth find him out; the sins of his youth.'

And he sighed; and his long palms were raised, and waved, or rather
paddled slowly to the rhythm of the sentiment.

If the butchers' boy then passing saw that gaunt and good attorney,
standing thus in his bow window, I am sure he thought he was at his
devotions and abated his whistling as he went by.

After this Mr. Larkin's ruminations darkened, and grew, perhaps, less
distinct. He had no particular objection to a mystery. In fact, he rather
liked it, provided he was admitted to confidence. A mystery implied a
difficulty of a delicate and formidable sort; and such difficulties were
not disadvantageous to a clever and firm person, who might render himself
very necessary to an embarrassed principal with plenty of money.

Mr. Larkin had a way of gently compressing his under-lip between his
finger and thumb--a mild pinch, a reflective caress--when contemplations
of this nature occupied his brain. The silver light of heaven faded from
his long face, a deep shadow of earth came thereon, and his small,
dove-like eyes grew intense, hungry, and rat-like.

Oh! Lawyer Larkin, your eyes, though very small, are very sharp. They can
read through the outer skin of ordinary men, as through a parchment
against the light, the inner writing, and spell out its meanings. How is
it that they fail to see quite through one Jos. Larkin, a lawyer of
Gylingden? The layover of Gylingden is somehow too opaque for them, I
almost think. Is he really too deep for you? Or is it that you don't care
to search him too narrowly, or have not time? or as men in money
perplexities love not the scrutiny of their accounts or papers, you don't
care to tire your eyes over the documents in that neatly japanned box,
the respectable lawyer's conscience?

If you have puzzled yourself, you have also puzzled me. I don't quite
know what to make of you. I've sometimes thought you were simply an
impostor, and sometimes simply the dupe of your own sorceries. The heart
of man is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. Some men,
with a piercing insight into the evil of man's nature, have a blurred
vision for their own moralities. For them it is not easy to see where
wisdom ends and guile begins--what wiles are justified to honour, and
what partake of the genius of the robber, and where lie the delicate
boundaries between legitimate diplomacy and damnable lying. I am not sure
that Lawyer Larkin did not often think himself very nearly what he wished
the world to think him--an 'eminent Christian.' What an awful abyss is
self delusion.

Lawyer Larkin was, on the whole, I dare say, tolerably well pleased with
the position, as he would have said, of his spiritual interest, and
belonged to that complacent congregation who said, 'I am rich and have
need of nothing;' and who, no doubt, opened their eyes wide enough, and
misdoubted the astounding report of their ears, when the judge thundered,
'Thou art wretched and miserable, and poor and blind and naked.'

When Jos. Larkins had speculated thus, and built rich, but sombre,
castles in the air, for some time longer, he said quietly to himself--

'Yes.'

And then he ordered his dog-cart, and drove off to Dollington, and put up
at Johnson's Hotel, where Stanley Lake had slept on the night of his
sister's return from London. The people there knew the lawyer very well;
of course, they quite understood his position. Mr. Johnson, the
proprietor, you may be sure, does not confound him with the great
squires, the baronets, and feudal names of the county; but though he was
by comparison easy in his company, with even a dash of familiarity, he
still respected Mr. Larkin as a man with money, and a sort of influence,
and in whose way, at election and other times, it might lie to do his
house a good or an ill turn.

Mr. Larkin got into a little brown room, looking into the inn garden, and
called for some luncheon, and pen and ink, and had out a sheaf of law
papers he had brought with him, tied up in professional red tape; and
asked the waiter, with a grand smile and recognition, how he did; and
asked him next for his good friend, Mr. Johnson; and trusted that
business was improving; and would be very happy to see him for two or
three minutes, if he could spare time.

So, in due time, in came the corpulent proprietor, and Lawyer Larkin
shook hands with him, and begged him to sit down, like a man who confers
a distinction; and assured him that Lord Edward Buxleigh, whom he had
recommended to stay at the house for the shooting, had been very well
pleased with the accommodation--very highly so indeed--and his lordship
had so expressed himself when they had last met at Sir Hugh Huxterley's,
of Hatch Court.

The good lawyer liked illuminating his little narratives, compliments,
and reminiscences with plenty of armorial bearings and heraldic figures,
and played out his court-cards in easy and somewhat overpowering
profusion.

Then he enquired after the two heifers that Mr. Johnson was so good as to
feed for him on his little farm; and then he mentioned that his friend,
Captain Lake, who was staying with him at his house at Gylingden, was
also very well satisfied with his accommodation, when he, too, at Lawyer
Larkin's recommendation, had put up for a night at Johnson's Hotel; and
it was not every house which could satisfy London swells of Captain
Lake's fashion and habits, he could tell him.

Then followed some conversation which, I dare say, interested the lawyer
more than he quite showed in Mr. Johnson's company. For when that pleased
and communicative host had withdrawn, Jos. Larkin made half-a-dozen
little entries in his pocket-book, with 'Statement of Mr. William
Johnson,' and the date of their conversation, at the head of the
memorandum.

So the lawyer, having to run on as far as Charteris by the goods-train,
upon business, walked down to the station, where, having half-an-hour to
wait, he fell into talk with the station-master, whom he also knew, and
afterwards with Tom Christmas, the porter; and in the waiting-room he
made some equally business-like memoranda, being certain chips and
splinters struck off the clumsy talk of these officials, and laid up in
the lawyer's little private museum, for future illustration and analysis.

By the time his little book was again in the bottom of his
pocket, the train had arrived, and doors swung open and clapt
and people got in and out to the porter's accompaniment of
'Dollington--Dollington--Dollington!' and Lawyer Larkin took his place,
and glided away to Charteris, where he had a wait of two hours for the
return train, and a good deal of barren talk with persons at the station,
rewarded by one or two sentences worth noting, and accordingly duly
entered in the same little pocket-book.

Thus was the good man's day consumed; and when he mounted his dog-cart,
at Dollington, wrapped his rug about his legs, whip and reins in hand,
and the ostler buckled the apron across, the sun was setting redly behind
the hills; and the air was frosty, and the night dark, as he drew up
before his own door-steps, near Gylingden. A dozen lines of one of these
pages would suffice to contain the fruits of his day's work; and yet the
lawyer was satisfied, and even pleased with it, and ate his late dinner
very happily; and though dignified, of course, was more than usually mild
and gracious with all his servants that evening, and 'expounded at family
prayers' in a sense that was liberal and comforting; and went to bed
after a calm and pleased review of his memoranda, and slept the sleep of
the righteous.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

MARK WYLDER'S SUBMISSION.


Every day the position grew more critical and embarrassing. The day
appointed for the nuptials was now very near, and the bridegroom not only
out of sight but wholly untraceable. What was to be done?

A long letter from Stanley Lake told Lord Chelford, in detail, all the
measures adopted by that energetic young gentleman for the discovery of
the truant knight:--

'I have been at his club repeatedly, as also at his lodgings--still
_his_, though he has not appeared there since his arrival in town. The
billiard-marker at his club knows his haunts; and I have taken the
liberty to employ, through him, several persons who are acquainted with
his appearance, and, at my desire, frequent those places with a view to
discovering him, and bringing about an interview with me.

'He was seen, I have reason to believe, a day or two before my arrival
here, at a low place called the "Miller's Hall," in the City, where
members of the "Fancy" resort, at one of their orgies, but not since. I
have left notes for him wherever he is likely to call, entreating an
interview.

'On my arrival I was sanguine about finding him; but I regret to say my
hopes have very much declined, and I begin to think he must have changed
his quarters. If you have heard from him within the last few days,
perhaps you will be so kind as to send me the envelope of his letter,
which, by its postmark, may possibly throw some light or hint some theory
as to his possible movements. He is very clever; and having taken this
plan of concealing his residence, will conduct it skilfully. If the case
were mine I should be much tempted to speak with the detective
authorities, and try whether they might not give their assistance, of
course without _éclat_. But this is, I am aware, open to objection, and,
in fact, would not be justifiable, except under the very peculiar urgency
of the case.

'Will you be so good as to say what you think upon this point; also, to
instruct me what you authorise me to say should I be fortunate enough to
meet him. At present I am hardly in a position to say more than an
acquaintance--never, I fear, very cordial on his part--would allow;
which, of course, could hardly exceed a simple mention of your anxiety to
be placed in communication with him.

'If I might venture to suggest, I really think a peremptory alternative
should be presented to him. Writing, however, in ignorance of what may
since have passed at Brandon, I may be assuming a state of things which,
possibly, no longer exists. Pray understand that in any way you please to
employ me, I am entirely at your command. It is also possible, though I
hardly hope it, that I may be able to communicate something definite by
this evening's post.

'I do not offer any conjectures as to the cause of this very embarrassing
procedure on his part; and indeed I find a great difficulty in rendering
myself useful, with any likelihood of really succeeding, without at the
same exposing myself to an imputation of impertinence. You will easily
see how difficult is my position.

'Whatever may be the cause of Mark Wylder's present line of conduct, it
appears to me that if he really did attend that meeting at the "Miller's
Hall," there cannot be anything _very_ serious weighing upon his spirits.
My business will detain me here, I rather think, three days longer.'

By return of post Lord Chelford wrote to Stanley Lake:--

'I am so very much obliged to you for all the trouble you have taken. The
measures which you have adopted are, I think, most judicious; and I
should not wish, on consideration, to speak to any official person. I
think it better to trust entirely to the means you have already employed.
Like you, I do not desire to speculate as to the causes of Wylder's
extraordinary conduct; but, all the circumstances considered, I cannot
avoid concluding, as you do, that there must be some _very_ serious
reason for it. I enclose a note, which, perhaps, you will be so good as
to give him, should you meet before you leave town.'

The note to Mark Wylder was in these terms:--


'DEAR WYLDER,--I had hoped to see you before now at Brandon. Your
unexplained absence longer continued, you must see, will impose on me the
necessity of offering an explanation to Miss Brandon's friends, of the
relations, under these strange circumstances, in which you and she are to
be assumed to stand. You have accounted in no way for your absence. You
have not even suggested a postponement of the day fixed for the
completion of your engagement to that young lady; and, as her guardian, I
cannot avoid telling her, should I fail to hear explicitly from you
within three days from this date, that she is at liberty to hold herself
acquitted of her engagement to you. I do not represent to you how much
reason everyone interested by relationship in that young lady has to feel
offended at the disrespect with which you have treated her. Still hoping,
however, that all may yet be explained,

'I remain, my dear Wylder, yours very truly,

'CHELFORD.'


Lord Chelford had not opened the subject to Dorcas. Neither had old Lady
Chelford, although she harangued her son upon it as volubly and fiercely
as if he had been Mark Wylder in person, whenever he and she were
_tête-à-tête_. She was extremely provoked, too, at Dorcas's evident
repose under this astounding treatment, and was enigmatically sarcastic
upon her when they sat together in the drawing-room.

She and her son were, it seemed, not only to think and act, but to feel
also, for this utterly immovable young lady! The Brandons, in her young
days, were not wanting in spirit. No; they had many faults, but they were
not sticks or stones. They were not to be taken up and laid down like wax
dolls; they could act and speak. It would not have been safe to trample
upon them; and they were not less beautiful for being something more than
pictures and statues.

This evening, in the drawing-room, there were two very pretty ormolu
caskets upon the little marble table.

'A new present from Mark Wylder,' thought Lady Chelford, as these objects
met her keen glance. 'The unceremonious bridegroom has, I suppose, found
his way back with a peace-offering in his hand.' And she actually peered
through her spectacles into the now darkened corners of the chamber, half
expecting to discover the truant Wylder awaiting there the lecture she
was well prepared to give him; but the square form and black whiskers of
the prodigal son were not discernible there.

'So, so, something new, and very elegant and pretty,' said the old lady
aloud, holding her head high, and looking as if she were disposed to be
propitiated. 'I think I can risk a conjecture. Mr. Wylder is about to
reappear, and has despatched these heralds of his approach, no doubt
suitably freighted, to plead for his reacceptance into favour. You have
heard, then, from Mr. Wylder, my dear Dorcas?'

'No, Lady Chelford,' said the young lady with a grave serenity, turning
her head leisurely towards her.

'No? Oh, then where is my son? He, perhaps, can explain; and pray, my
dear, what are these?'

'These caskets contain the jewels which Mr. Wylder gave me about six
weeks since. I had intended restoring them to him; but as his return is
delayed, I mean to place them in Chelford's hands; because I have made up
my mind, a week ago, to put an end to this odious engagement. It is all
over.'

Lady Chelford stared at the audacious young lady with a look of incensed
amazement for some seconds, unable to speak.

'Upon my word, young lady! vastly fine and independent! You _chasser_ Mr.
Wylder without one moment's notice, and without deigning to consult me,
or any other person capable of advising you. You are about to commit as
gross and indelicate a breach of faith as I recollect anywhere to have
heard of. What will be thought?--what will the world say?--what will your
friends say? Will you be good enough to explain yourself? _I_'ll not
undertake your excuses, I promise you.'

'Excuses! I don't think of excuses, Lady Chelford; no person living has a
right to demand one.'

'Very tragic, young lady, and quite charming!' sneered the dowager
angrily.

'Neither one nor the other, I venture to think; but quite true, Lady
Chelford,' answered Miss Brandon, haughtily.

'I don't believe you are serious, Dorcas,' said Lady Chelford, more
anxiously, and also more gently. 'I can't suppose it. I'm an old woman,
my dear, and I sha'n't trouble you very long. I can have no object in
misleading you, and you have never experienced from me anything but
kindness and affection. I think you might trust me a little, Dorcas--but
that, of course, is for you, you are your own mistress now--but, at
least, you may reconsider the question you propose deciding in so
extraordinary a way. I allow you might do much better than Mark Wylder,
but also worse. He has not a title, and his estate is not enough to carry
the point _à force d'argent_; I grant all that. But _together_ the
estates are more than most titled men possess; and the real point is the
fatal slip in your poor uncle's will, which makes it so highly important
that you and Mark should be united; bear that in mind, dear Dorcas. I
look for his return every day--every hour, indeed--and no doubt his
absence will turn out to have been unavoidable. You must not act
precipitately, and under the influence of mere pique. His absence, I will
lay my life, will be satisfactorily accounted for; he has set his heart
upon this marriage, and I really think you will almost drive him mad if
you act as you threaten.'

'You have, indeed, dear Lady Chelford, been always very kind to me, and I
do trust you,' replied this beautiful heiress, turning her large shadowy
eyes upon the dowager, and speaking in slow and silvery accents, somehow
very melancholy. 'I dare say it is very imprudent, and I don't deny that
Mr. Wylder may have reason to complain of me, and the world will not
spare me either; but I have quite made up my mind, and nothing can ever
change me; all is over between me and Mr. Wylder--quite over--for ever.'

'Upon my life, young lady, this is being very sharp, indeed. Mr. Wylder's
business detains him a day or two longer than he expected, and he is
punished by a final dismissal!'

The old lady's thin cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shot a reddish
light, and altogether she made an angry sight. It was hardly reasonable.
She had been inveighing against Miss Brandon's apathy under Wylder's
disrespect, and now that the young lady spoke and acted too, she was
incensed. She had railed upon Wylder, in no measured terms, herself, and
even threatened, as the proper measure, that very step which Dorcas had
announced; and now she became all at once the apologist of this insolent
truant, and was ready to denounce her unreasonable irritation.

'So far, dear Lady Chelford, from provoking me to this decision, his
absence is, I assure you, the sole reason of my having delayed to inform
him of it.'

'And I assure you, Miss Brandon, _I_ sha'n't undertake to deliver your
monstrous message. He will probably be here to-morrow. You have prepared
an agreeable surprise for him. You shall have the pleasure of
administering it yourself, Miss Brandon. For my part, I have done my
duty, and here and now renounce all responsibility in the future
management of your affairs.'

Saying which, she rose, in a stately and incensed way, and looking with
flashing eyes over Dorcas's head to a far corner of the apartment,
without another word she rustled slowly and majestically from the
drawing-room.

She was a good deal shocked, and her feelings quite changed, however,
when next morning the post brought a letter to Chelford from Mark Wylder,
bearing the Boulogne postmark. It said--


'DEAR CHELFORD,

'Don't get riled; but the fact is I don't see my way out of my present
business'--(this last word was substituted for another, crossed out,
which looked like 'scrape')--'for a couple of months, maybe. Therefore,
you see, my liberty and wishes being at present interfered with, it would
be very hard lines if poor Dorcas should be held to her bargain.
Therefore, I will say this--_she is quite free_ for me. Only, of course,
I don't decline to fulfil my part whenever at liberty. In the meantime I
return the miniature, with her hair in it, which I constantly wore about
me since I got it. But I have no right to it any longer, till I know her
decision. Don't be too hard on me, dear Chelford. It is a very old lark
has got me into this present vexation. In the meantime, I wish to make it
quite clear what I mean. Not being able by any endeavour'--(here a
nautical phrase scratched out, and 'endeavour' substituted)--'of mine to
be up to time, and as these are P.P. affairs, I must only forfeit. I
mean, I am at the lady's disposal, either to fulfil my engagement the
earliest day I can, or to be turned adrift. That is all I can say.

'In more trouble than you suppose, I remain, dear Chelford, yours,
whatever you may think, faithfully,

'MARK WYLDER'




CHAPTER XXIX.

HOW MARK WYLDER'S DISAPPEARANCE AFFECTED HIS FRIENDS.


Lady Chelford's wrath was now turned anew upon Wylder--and the
inconvenience of having no visible object on which to expend it was once
more painfully felt. Railing at Mark Wylder was, alas! but beating the
air. The most crushing invective was--thanks to his adroit
mystification--simply a soliloquy. Poor Lady Chelford, who loved to give
the ingenious youngsters of both sexes, when occasion invited, a piece of
her mind, was here--in the case of this vulgar and most provoking
delinquent--absolutely tongue-tied! If it had been possible to tell
Wylder what she thought of him it would, perhaps, have made her more
tolerable than she was for some days after the arrival of that letter, to
other members of the family.

The idea of holding Miss Brandon to this engagement, and proroguing her
nuptials from day to day, to convenience the bridegroom--absent without
explanation--was of course quite untenable. Fortunately, the marriage,
considering the antiquity and the territorial position of the two
families who were involved, was to have been a very quiet affair
indeed--no festivities--no fire-works--nothing of the nature of a county
gala--no glare or thunder--no concussion of society--a dignified but
secluded marriage.

This divested the inevitable dissolution of these high relations of a
great deal of its _éclat_ and ridicule.

Of course there was abundance of talk. Scarce a man or woman in the shire
but had a theory or a story--sometimes bearing hard on the lady,
sometimes on the gentleman; still it was an abstract breach of promise,
and would have much improved by some outward and visible sign of
disruption and disappointment. Some concrete pageantries to be abolished
and removed; flag-staffs, for instance, and banners, marquees,
pyrotechnic machinery, and long tiers of rockets, festoons of evergreens,
triumphal arches with appropriate mottoes, to come down and hide
themselves away, would have been pleasant to the many who like a joke,
and to the few, let us hope, who love a sneer.

But there were no such fopperies to hurry off the stage disconcerted. In
the autumnal sun, among the embrowned and thinning foliage of the noble
trees, Brandon Hall looked solemn, sad and magnificent, as usual, with a
sort of retrospective serenity, buried in old-world glories and sorrows,
and heeding little the follies and scandals of the hour.

In the same way Miss Brandon, with Lord and Lady Chelford, was seen next
Sunday, serene and unchanged, in the great carved oak Brandon pew, raised
like a dais two feet at least above the level of mere Christians, who
frequented the family chapel. There, among old Wylder and Brandon
tombs--some painted stone effigies of the period of Elizabeth and the
first James, and some much older--stone and marble knights praying on
their backs with their spurs on, and said to have been removed nearly
three hundred years ago from the Abbey of Naunton Friars, when that
famous monastery began to lose its roof and turn into a picturesque ruin,
and by-gone generations of Wylders and Brandons had offered up their
conspicuous devotions, with--judging from their heathen lives--I fear no
very remarkable efficacy.

Here then, next Sunday afternoon, when the good vicar, the Rev. William
Wylder, at three o'clock, performed his holy office in reading-desk and
pulpit, the good folk from Gylingden assembled in force, saw nothing
noticeable in the demeanour or appearance of the great Brandon heiress. A
goddess in her aerial place, haughty, beautiful, unconscious of human
gaze, and seen as it were telescopically by mortals from below. No shadow
of trouble on that calm marble beauty, no light of joy, but a serene
superb indifference.

Of course there was some satire in Gylingden; but, in the main, it was a
loyal town, and true to its princess. Mr. Wylder's settlements were not
satisfactory, it was presumed, or the young lady could not bring herself
to like him, or however it came to pass, one way or another, that sprig
of willow inevitably to be mounted by hero or heroine upon such equivocal
occasions was placed by the honest town by no means in her breast, but
altogether in his button-hole.

Gradually, in a more authentic shape, information traceable to old Lady
Chelford, through some of the old county families who visited at Brandon,
made it known that Mr. Wylder's affairs were not at present by any means
in so settled a state as was supposed; and that a long betrothal not
being desirable on the whole, Miss Brandon's relatives thought it
advisable that the engagement should terminate, and had so decided, Mr.
Wylder having, very properly, placed himself absolutely in their hands.

As for Mark, it was presumed he had gone into voluntary banishment, and
was making the grand tour in the spirit of that lackadaisical gentleman
in the then fashionable song, who says:--

  From sport to sport they hurry me,
    To banish my regret,
  And if they win a smile from me,
    They think that I forget.

It was known to be quite final, and as the lady evinced no chagrin and
affected no unusual spirits, but held, swanlike and majestic, the even
tenor of her way, there was, on the whole, little doubt anywhere that the
gentleman had received his _congé_, and was hiding his mortification and
healing his wounds in Paris or Vienna, or some other suitable retreat.

But though the good folk of Gylingden, in general, cared very little how
Mark Wylder might have disposed of himself, there was one inhabitant to
whom his absence was fraught with very serious anxiety and inconvenience.
This was his brother, William, the vicar.

Poor William, sound in morals, free from vice, no dandy, a quiet,
bookish, self-denying mortal, was yet, when he took holy orders and
quitted his chambers at Cambridge, as much in debt as many a scamp of his
college. He had been, perhaps, a little foolish and fanciful in the
article of books, and had committed a serious indiscretion in the matter
of a carved oak bookcase; and, worse still, he had published a slender
volume of poems, and a bulkier tome of essays, scholastic and theologic,
both which ventures, notwithstanding their merits, had turned out
unhappily; and worse still, he had lent that costly loan, his sign
manual, on two or three occasions, to friends in need, and one way or
another found that, on winding up and closing his Cambridge life, his
assets fell short of his liabilities very seriously.

The entire amount it is true was not very great. A pupil or two, and a
success with his work 'On the Character and Inaccuracies of Eusebius,'
would make matters square in a little time. But his advertisements for a
resident pupil had not been answered; they had cost him something, and he
had not any more spare bread just then to throw upon the waters. So the
advertisements for the present were suspended; and the publishers,
somehow, did not take kindly to Eusebius, who was making the tour of that
fastidious and hard-hearted fraternity.

He had staved off some of his troubles by a little loan from an insurance
company, but the premium and the instalments were disproportioned to his
revenue, and indeed very nearly frightful to contemplate. The Cambridge
tradesmen were growing minatory; and there was a stern person who held a
renewal of one of his old paper subsidies to the necessities of his
scampish friend Clarkson, who was plainly a difficult and awful character
to deal with.

Dreadful as were the tradesmen's peremptory and wrathful letters, the
promptitude and energy of this latter personage were such as to produce a
sense of immediate danger so acute that the scared vicar opened his
dismal case to his Brother Mark.

Mark, sorely against the grain, and with no good grace, at last consented
to advance £300 in this dread emergency, and the vicar blessed his
benefactor, and in his closet on his knees, shed tears of thankfulness
over his deliverance, and the sky opened and the flowers looked bright,
and life grew pleasant once more.

But the £300 were not yet in his pocket, and Mark had gone away; and
although of course the loan was sure to come, the delay--any delay in his
situation--was critical and formidable. Here was another would-be
correspondent of Mark's foiled for want of his address. Still he would
not believe it possible that he could forget his promise, or shut up his
bowels of mercy, or long delay the remittance which he knew to be so
urgently needed.

In the meantime, however, a writ reached the hand of the poor Vicar of
Naunton Friars, who wrote in eager and confused terror to a friend in the
Middle Temple on the dread summons, and learned that he was now 'in
court,' and must 'appear,' or suffer judgment by default.

The end was that he purchased a respite of three months, by adding thirty
pounds to his debt, and so was thankful for another deliverance, and was
confident of the promised subsidy within a week, or at all events a
fortnight, or, at worst, three months was a long reprieve--and the
subsidy must arrive before the emergency.

  In this there can be no dismay;
  My ships come home a month before the day.

When the 'service' was over, the neighbourly little congregation, with a
sprinkling of visitors to Gylingden, for sake of its healing waters,
broke up, and loitered in the vicinity of the porch, to remark on the
sermon or the weather, and ask one another how they did, and to see the
Brandon family enter their carriage and the tall, powdered footman shut
the door upon them, and mount behind, and move off at a brilliant pace,
and with a glorious clangour and whirl of dust; and, this incident over,
they broke up gradually into little groups, in Sunday guise, and many
colours, some for a ramble on the common, and some to tea, according to
the primitive hours that ruled old Gylingden.

The vicar, and John Hughes, clerk and sexton, were last out; and the
reverend gentleman, thin and tall, in white necktie, and black, a little
threadbare, stood on the steps of the porch, in a sad abstraction. The
red autumnal sun nearing the edge of the distant hills,

  Looked through the horizontal misty air
  Shorn of its beams--

and lighted the thin and gentle features of the vicar with a melancholy
radiance. The sound of the oak door closing heavily behind him and John
Hughes, and the key revolving in the lock recalled him, and with a sigh
and a smile, and a kindly nod to John, he looked up and round on the
familiar and pretty scenery undecided. It was not quite time to go home;
his troubles were heavy upon him, too, just then; they have their
paroxysms like ague; and the quiet of the road, and the sweet air and
sunshine, tempted him to walk off the chill and fever of the fit.

As he passed the little cottage where old Widow Maddock lay sick, Rachael
Lake emerged. He was not glad. He would rather have had his sad walk in
his own shy company. But there she was--he could not pass her by; so he
stopped, and lifted his hat, and greeted her; and then they shook hands.
She was going his way. He looked wistfully on the little hatch of old
Widow Maddock's cottage; for he felt a pang of reproach at passing her
door; but there was no comfort then in his thoughts, only a sense of fear
and hopeless fatigue.

'How is poor old Mrs. Maddock?' he asked; 'you have been visiting the
sick and afflicted, and I was passing by; but, indeed, if I were capable
at this moment I should not fail to see her, poor creature.'

There was something apologetic and almost miserable in his look as he
said this.

'She is not better; but you have been very good to her, and she is very
grateful; and I am glad,' said Rachel, 'that I happened to light on you.'

And she paused. They were by this time walking side by side; and she
glanced at him enquiringly; and he thought that the handsome girl looked
rather thin and pale.

'You once said,' Miss Lake resumed, 'that sooner or later I should be
taught the value of religion, and would learn to prize my great
privileges; and that for some spirits the only approach to the throne of
mercy was through great tribulation. I have often thought since of those
words, and they have begun, for me, to take the spirit of a
prophecy--sometimes that is--but at others they sound differently--like a
dreadful menace--as if my afflictions were only to bring me to the gate
of life to find it shut.'

'Knock, and it shall be opened,' said the vicar; but the comfort was
sadly spoken, and he sighed.

'But is not there a time, Mr. Wylder, when He shall have shut to the
door, and are there not some who, crying to Him to open, shall yet remain
for ever in outer darkness?'

'I see, dear Miss Lake, that your mind is at work--it is a good
influence--at work upon the great, theme which every mortal spirit ought
to be employed upon.'

'My fears are at work; my mind is altogether dark and turbid; I am
sometimes at the brink of despair.'

'Take comfort from those fears. There is hope in that despair;' and he
looked at her with great interest in his gentle eyes.

She looked at him, and then away towards the declining sun, and she said
despairingly--

'I cannot comprehend you.'

'Come!' said he, 'Miss Lake, bethink you; was there not a time--and no
very distant one--when futurity caused you no anxiety, and when the
subject which has grown so interesting, was altogether distasteful to
you. The seed of the Word is received at length into good ground; but a
grain of wheat will bring forth no fruit unless it die first. The seed
dies to outward sense, and despair follows; but the principle of life is
working in it, and it will surely grow, and bring forth fruit--thirty,
sixty, an hundredfold--be not dismayed. The body dies, and the Lord of
life compares it to the death of the seed in the earth; and then comes
the palingenesis--the rising in glory. In like manner He compares the
reception of the principle of eternal life into the soul to the dropping
of a seed into the earth; it follows the general law of mortality. It too
dies--such a death as the children of heaven die here--only to germinate
afresh with celestial power and beauty.'

Miss Lake's way lay by a footpath across a corner of the park to Redman's
Dell. So they crossed the stile, and still conversing, followed the
footpath under the hedgerow of the pretty field, and crossing another
stile, entered the park.




CHAPTER XXX.

IN BRANDON PARK.


To me, from association, no doubt, that park has always had a melancholy
character. The ground undulates beautifully, and noble timber studs it in
all varieties of grouping; and now, as when I had seen the ill-omened
form of Uncle Lorne among its solitudes, the descending sun shone across
it with a saddened glory, tipping with gold the blades of grass and the
brown antlers of the distant deer.

Still pursuing her solemn and melancholy discourse, the young lady
followed the path, accompanied by the vicar.

'True,' said the vicar, 'your mind is disturbed, but not by doubt. No; it
is by _truth_.' He glanced aside at the tarn where I had seen the
phantom, and by which their path now led them--'You remember Parnell's
pretty image?

  'So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
  Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
  Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
  And skies beneath with answering colours glow;
  But if a stone the gentle scene divide,
  Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
  And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
  Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.'

'But, as I said, it is not a doubt that agitates your mind--that is well
represented by the "stone," that subsides and leaves the pool clear, it
maybe, but stagnant as before. Oh, no; it is an angel who comes down and
troubles the water.'

'What a heavenly evening!' said a low, sweet voice, but with something
insidious in it, close at his shoulder.

With a start, Rachel glanced back, and saw the pale, peculiar face of her
brother. His yellow eyes for a moment gleamed into hers, and then on the
vicar, and, with his accustomed smile, he extended his hand.

'How do you do?--better, I hope, Radie? How are you, William?'

Rachel grew deadly pale, and then flushed, and then was pale again.

'I thought, Stanley, you were in London.'

'So I was; but I arrived here this morning; I'm staying for a few days at
the Lodge--Larkin's house; you're going home, I suppose, Radie?'

'Yes--oh, yes--but I don't know that I'll go this way. You say you must
return to Gylingden now, Mr. Wylder; I think I'll turn also, and go home
that way.'

'Nothing would give me greater pleasure,' said the vicar, truly as well
as kindly, for he had grown interested in their conversation; 'but I fear
you are tired'--he looked very kindly on her pale face--'and you know it
will cost you a walk of more than two miles.'

'I forgot--yes--I believe I _am_ a _little_ tired; I'm afraid I have led
_you_, too, farther than you intended.' She fancied that her sudden
change of plan on meeting her brother would appear odd.

'I'll see you a little bit on your way home, Radie,' said Stanley.

It was just what she wished to escape. She was more nervous, though not
less courageous than formerly. But the old, fierce, defiant spirit awoke.
Why should she fear Stanley, or what could it be to her whether he was
beside her in her homeward walk?

So the vicar made his adieux there, and began, at a brisker pace, to
retrace his steps towards Gylingden; and she and Stanley, side by side,
walked on towards Redman's Dell.

'What a charming park! and what delightful air, Radie; and the weather so
very delicious. They talk of Italian evenings; but there is a pleasant
sharpness in English evenings quite peculiar. Is not there just a little
suspicion of frost--don't you think so--not actually cold, but crisp and
sharp--unspeakably exhilarating; now really, this evening is quite
celestial.'

'I've just been listening to a good man's conversation, and I wish to
reflect upon it,' said Rachel, very coldly.

'Quite so; that is, of course, when you are alone,' answered Stanley,
serenely. 'William was always a very clever fellow to talk--very well
read in theology--is not he?--yes, he does talk very sweetly and nobly on
religion; it is a pity he is not quite straight, or at least more
punctual, in his money affairs.'

'He is distressed for money? William Wylder is distressed for money! Do
you mean _that_?' said Rachel, turning a tone of sudden surprise and
energy, almost horror, turning full upon him, and stopping short.

'Oh, dear! no--not the least distressed that I ever heard of,' laughed
Stanley coldly--'only just a little bit roguish, maybe.'

'That's so like you, Stanley,' said the young lady, with a quiet scorn,
resuming her onward walk.

'How very beautiful that clump of birch trees is, near the edge of the
slope there; you really can't imagine, who are always here, how very
intensely a person who has just escaped from London enjoys all this.'

'I don't think, Stanley,' said the young lady coldly, and looking
straight before her as she walked, 'you ever cared for natural
scenery--or liked the country--and yet you are here. I don't think you
ever loved me, or cared whether I was alone or in company; and yet
seeing--for you _did_ see it--that I would now rather be alone, you
persist in walking with me, and talking of trees and air and celestial
evenings, and thinking of something quite different. Had not you better
turn back to Gylingden, or the Lodge, or wherever you mean to pass the
evening, and leave me to my quiet walk and my solitude?'

'In a few minutes, dear Radie--you are so odd. I really believe you think
no one can enjoy a ramble like this but yourself.'

'Come, Stanley, what do you want?' said his sister, stopping short, and
speaking with the flush of irritation on her cheek--'do you mean to walk
to Redman's Dell, or have you anything unpleasant to say?'

'Neither, I hope,' said the captain, with his sleepy smile, his yellow
eyes resting on the innocent grass blades before him.

'I don't understand you, Stanley. I am always uncomfortable when you are
near me. You stand there like an evil spirit, with some purpose which I
cannot divine; but you shall not ensnare me. Go your own way, why can't
you? Pursue your own plots--your wicked plots; but let me rest. I _will_
be released, Sir, from your presence.'

'Really this is very fine, Radie, considering how we are related; I'm
Mephistopheles, I suppose, and you Margaret, or some other simple
heroine--rebuking the fiend in the majesty of your purity.'

And indeed in the reddish light, and in that lonely and solemn spot, the
slim form of the captain, pale, sneering, with his wild eyes, confronting
the beautiful light-haired girl, looked not quite unlike a type of the
jaunty fiend he was pleased to suppose himself.

'I tell you, Stanley, I feel that you design employing me in some of your
crooked plans. I have horrible reasons, as you know, for avoiding you,
and so I will. I hope I may never desire to see you alone again, but if I
do, it shall not be to receive, but to impose commands. You had better
return to Gylingden, and leave me.'

'So I will, dear Radie, by-and-by,' said he, with his amused smile.

'That is, you _won't_ until you have said what you meditate. Well, then,
as it seems I must hear it, pray speak at once, standing where we are,
and quickly, for the sun will soon go down, and one step more I will not
walk with you.'

'Well, Radie, you are pleased to be whimsical; and, to say truth, I _was_
thinking of saying a word or two, just about as idea that has been in my
mind some time, and which you half divined--you are so clever--the first
day I saw you at Redman's Farm. You know you fancied I was thinking of
marrying.'

'I don't remember that I said so, but I thought it. You mentioned
Caroline Beauchamp, but I don't see how your visit _here_ could have been
connected with that plan.'

'But don't you think, Radie, I should do well to marry, that is, assuming
everything to be suitable?'

'Well, perhaps, for _yourself_, Stanley; but----'

'Yes, of course,' said Lake; 'but the unfortunate girl, you were going to
say--thank you. She's, of course, very much to be pitied, and you have my
leave to pity her as much as you please.'

'I do pity her,' said Rachel.

'Thank you, again,' said Stanley; 'but seriously, Radie, you can be, I
think, very essentially of use to me in this affair, and you must not
refuse.'

'Now, Stanley, I will cut this matter short. I can't serve you. I won't.
I don't know the young lady, and I don't mean to make her acquaintance.'

'But I tell you that you _can_ serve me,' retorted Stanley, with a savage
glare, and features whitened with passion, 'and you _shall_ serve me; and
you _do_ know the young lady intimately.'

'I say, Sir, I do _not_,' replied Rachel, haughtily and fiercely.

'She is Dorcas Brandon; you know _her_, I believe. I came down here to
marry her. I had made up my mind when I saw you first and I'll carry my
point; I always do. She does not like me, maybe; but she _shall_. I never
yet resolved to make a woman like me, and failed. You need not look so
pale; and put on that damned affected look of horror. I may be wild,
and--and what you please, but I'm no worse than that brute, Mark Wylder,
and you never turned up your eyes when he was her choice; and I knew
things about him that ought to have damned him, and she's well rid of a
branded rascal. And now, Rachel, you know her, and you must say a good
word for me. I expect your influence, and if you don't use it, and
effectually, it will be worse for you. You women understand one another,
and how to get a fellow favourably into one another's thoughts. So,
listen to me, this is a vital matter; indeed, it is, Radie. I have lost a
lot of money, like a--fool, I suppose; well, it is gone, and this
marriage is indispensable. I must go in for it, it is life or death; and
if I fail through your unkindness (here he swore an impious oath) I'll
end all with a pistol, and leave a letter to Chelford, disclosing
everything concerning you, and me, and Mark Wylder.'

I think Rachel Lake was as near fainting as ever lady was, without
actually swooning. It was well they had stopped just by the stem of a
great ash tree, against which Rachel leaned for some seconds, with
darkness before her eyes, and the roar of a whirlpool in her ears.

After a while, with two or three gasps, she came to herself. Lake had
been railing on all this time, and his voice, which, in ill-temper, was
singularly bleak and terrible, was again in her ears the moment she
recovered her hearing.

'I do not care to quarrel; there are many reasons why we should not,'
Lake said in his peculiar tones. 'You have some of my secrets, and you
must have more; it can't be helped, and, I say, you _must_. I've been
very foolish. I'll give up play. It has brought me to this. I've had to
sell out. I've paid away all I could, and given bills for the rest; but I
can't possibly pay them, don't you see; and if things go to the worst, I
tell you I'll not stay. I don't want to make my bow just yet, and I've no
wish to injure you; but I'll do as I have said (he swore again), and
Chelford shall have a distinct statement under my hand of everything that
has happened. I don't suppose you wish to be accessory to all this, and
therefore it behoves you, Rachel, to do what you can to prevent it. One
woman can always influence another, and you are constantly with Dorcas.
You'll do all you can; I'm sure you will; and you can do a great deal. I
know it; I'll do as much for you, Radie! Anything you like.'

For the first time her brother stood before her in a really terrible
shape; she felt his villainy turning with a cowardly and merciless
treason upon her forlorn self. Sacrificed for him, and that sacrifice
used by him to torture, to extort, perhaps to ruin. She quailed for a
minute in the presence of this gigantic depravity and cruelty. But Rachel
was a brave lass, and rallied quickly.

'After all I have done and suffered!' said she, with a faint smile of
unimaginable bitterness; 'I did not think that human wickedness could
produce such a brother as you are.'

'Well, it is no news what you think of me, and not much matter, either. I
don't see that I am a worse brother than you are a sister.' Stanley Lake
was speaking with a livid intensity. 'You see how I'm placed; a ruined
man, with a pistol to my head; what you can do to save me may amount to
nothing, but it may be everything, and you say you won't try! Now I say
you _shall_, and with every energy and faculty you possess, or else abide
the consequences.'

'And I tell you, Sir,' replied Rachel, 'I know you; you are capable of
anything but of hurting yourself. I'll never be your slave; though, if I
pleased, I might make you mine. I scorn your threats--I defy you.'

Stanley Lake looked transported, and the yellow fires of his deep-set
eyes glared on her, while his lips moved to speak, but not a word came,
and it became a contortion; he grasped the switch in his hand as if to
strike her.

'Take care, Sir, Lord Chelford's coming,' said the young lady, haughtily,
with a contracted glance of horror fixed on Lake.

Lake collected himself. He was a man who could do it pretty quickly; but
he had been violently agitated, and the traces of his fury could not
disappear in a moment.

Lord Chelford was, indeed, approaching, only a few hundred yards away.

'Take my arm,' said Lake.

And Rachel mechanically, as story-tellers say, placed her slender gloved
hand upon his arm--the miscreant arm that had been so nearly raised to
strike her; and they walked along, brother and sister, in the Sabbath
sunset light, to meet him.




CHAPTER XXXI.

IN REDMAN'S DELL.


Lord Chelford raised his hat, smiling: 'I am so very glad I met you, I
was beginning to feel so solitary!' he placed himself beside Miss Lake.
'I've had such a long walk across the park. How do you do, Lake? when did
you come?'

And so on--Lake answering and looking wonderfully as usual.

I think Lord Chelford perceived there was something amiss between the
young people, for his eye rested on Rachel with a momentary look of
enquiry, unconscious, no doubt, and quickly averted, and he went on
chatting pleasantly; but he looked, once or twice, a little hard at
Stanley Lake. I don't think he had an extraordinarily good opinion of
that young gentleman. He seldom expressed an ill one of anybody, and then
it was in very measured language. But though he never hinted at an
unfavourable estimate of the captain, his intimacies with him were a
little reserved; and I think I have seen him, even when he smiled, look
the least little bit in the world uncomfortable, as if he did not quite
enter into the captain's pleasantries.

They had not walked together very far, when Stanley recollected that he
must take his leave, and walk back to Gylingden; and so the young lady
and Lord Chelford were left to pursue their way towards Redman's Farm
together.

It would have been a more unaccountable proceeding on the part of Stanley
Lake, and a more romantic situation, if Rachel and his lordship had not
had before two or three little accidental rambles together in the grounds
and gardens of Brandon. There was nothing quite new in the situation,
therefore; and Rachel was for a moment indescribably relieved by
Stanley's departure.

The shock of her brief interview with her brother over, reflection
assured her, knowing all she did, that Stanley's wooing would prosper,
and so this cause of quarrel had really nothing in it; no, nothing but a
display of his temper and morals--not very astonishing, after all--and,
like an ugly picture or a dreadful dream, in no way to affect her
after-life, except as an odious remembrance.

Therefore, little by little, like a flower that has been bruised, in the
tranquillising influences about her, the young lady got up, expanded, and
grew like herself again--not like enough, indeed, to say much, but to
listen and follow his manly, refined, and pleasant talk, every moment
with a pang, that had yet something pleasurable in it, contrasting the
quiet and chivalric tone of her present companion, with the ferocious
duplicity of the sly, smooth terrorist who had just left her side.

It was rather a marked thing--as lean Mrs. Loyd, of Gylingden, who had
two thin spinsters with pink noses under her wing, remarked--this long
walk of Lord Chelford and Miss Lake in the park; and she enjoined upon
her girls the propriety of being specially reserved in their intercourse
with persons of Lord Chelford's rank; not that they were much troubled
with dangers from any such quarter. Miss Lake had, she supposed, her own
notions, and would act as she pleased; but she owned for her part she
preferred the old fashion, and thought the men did also; and was sure,
too, that young ladies lost nothing by a little reserve and modesty.

Now something of this, no doubt, passed in the minds of Lord Chelford and
his pretty companion. But what was to be done? That perverse and utterly
selfish brother, Stanley Lake, had chosen to take his leave. Lord
Chelford could not desert the young lady, and would it have been a very
nice delicacy in Miss Lake to make her courtesy in the middle of the
park, and protest against pursuing their walk together any further?

Lord Chelford was a lively and agreeable companion; but there was
something unusually gentle, almost resembling tenderness, in his manner.
She was so different from her gay, fiery self in this walk--so gentle; so
subdued--and he was more interested by her, perhaps, than he had ever
been before.

The sun just touched the verge of the wooded uplands, as the young people
began to descend the slope of Redman's Dell.

'How very short!' Lord Chelford paused, with a smile, at these words. 'I
was just going to say how short the days have grown, as if it had all
happened without notice, and contrary to the almanac; but really the sun
sets cruelly early this evening, and I am so _very_ sorry our little walk
is so soon to end.'

There was not much in this little speech, but it was spoken in a low,
sweet voice; and Rachel looked down on the ferns before her feet, as they
walked on side by side, not with a smile, but with a blush, and that
beautiful look of gratification so becoming and indescribable. Happy that
moment--that enchanted moment of oblivion and illusion! But the fitful
evening breeze came up through Redman's Dell, with a gentle sweep over
the autumnal foliage. Sudden as a sigh, and cold; in her ear it sounded
like a whisper or a shudder, and she lifted up her eyes and saw the
darkening dell before her; and with a pang, the dreadful sense of reality
returned. She stopped, with something almost wild in her look. But with
an effort she smiled, and said, with a little shiver, 'The air has grown
quite chill, and the sun nearly set; we loitered, Stanley and I, a great
deal too long in the park, but I am now at home, and I fear I have
brought you much too far out of your way already; good-bye.' And she
extended her hand.

'You must not dismiss your escort here. I must see you through the
enchanted dell--it is only a step--and then I shall return with a good
conscience, like a worthy knight, having done my devoir honestly.'

She looked down the dell, with a dark and painful glance, and then she
said a few words of hesitating apology and acquiescence, and in a few
minutes more they parted at the little wicket of Redman's Farm. They
shook hands. He had a few pleasant, lingering words to say. She paused as
he spoke at the other side of that little garden door. She seemed to like
those lingering sentences--and hung upon them--and even smiled but in her
eyes there was a vague and melancholy pleading--a wandering and
unfathomable look that pained him.

They shook hands again--it was the third time--and then she walked up the
little gravel walk, hardly a dozen steps, and disappeared within the door
of Redman's Farm, without turning another parting look on Lord Chelford,
who remained at the little paling--expecting one, I think--to lift his
hat and say one more parting word.

She turned into the little drawing-room at the left, and, herself unseen,
did take that last look, and saw him go up the road again towards
Brandon. The shadows and mists of Redman's Dell anticipated night, and it
was already deep twilight there.

On the table there lay a letter which Margery had brought from the
post-office. So Rachel lighted her candles and read it with very little
interest, for it concerned a world towards which she had few yearnings.
There was just one sentence which startled her attention: it said, 'We
shall soon be at Knowlton--for Christmas, I suppose. It is growing too
wintry for mamma near the sea, though I like it better in a high wind
than in a calm; and a gale is such fun--such a romp. The Dulhamptons have
arrived: the old Marchioness never appears till three o'clock, and only
out in the carriage twice since they came. I can't say I very much admire
Lady Constance, though she is to be Chelford's wife. She has fine
eyes--and I think no other good point--much too dark for my taste--but
they say clever;' and not another word was there on this subject.

'Lady Constance! arranged, I suppose, by Lady Chelford--no great dot--and
an unamiable family--an odious family--nothing to recommend her but her
rank.'

So ruminated Rachel Lake as she looked out on her shadowy garden, and
tapped a little feverish tattoo with her finger on the window-pane; and
she meditated a great while, trying to bring back distinctly her
recollection of Lady Constance, and also vaguely conjecturing who had
arranged the marriage, and how it had come about.

'Chelford cannot like her. It is all Lady Chelford's doing. Can I have
mistaken the name?'

But no. Nothing could be more perfectly distinct than 'Chelford,' traced
in her fair correspondent's very legible hand.

'He treats the young lady very coolly,' thought Rachel, forgetting,
perhaps, that his special relations to Dorcas Brandon had compelled his
stay in that part of the world.

Mingled with this criticism, was a feeling quite unavowed even to
herself--a sore feeling that Lord Chelford had been--and this she never
admitted to herself before--more particular--no, not exactly that--but
more something or other--not exactly expressible in words, in his
approaches to her, than was consistent with his situation. But then she
had been very guarded; not stiff or prudish, indeed, but frank and cold
enough with him, and that was comforting.

Still there was a sense of wonder--a great blank, and something of pain
in the discovery--yes, pain--though she smiled a faint blushing
smile--alone as she was; and then came a deep sigh; and then a sort of
start.

'Rachel, Rachel, is it possible?' murmured the young lady, with the same
dubious smile, looking down upon the ground, and shaking her head. 'Yes,
I do really think you had begun to like Lord Chelford--only _begun_, the
least little insidious bit; but thank you, wild Bessie Frankleyn, you
have quite opened my eyes. Rachel, Rachel, girl! what a fool you were
near becoming!'

She looked like her old pleasant self during this little speech--arch and
fresh, and still smiling--she looked up and sighed, and then her dark
look returned, and she said dismally,

'What utter madness!'

And leaned for a while with her fingers upon the window-sash; and when
she turned to old Tamar, who brought in her tiny tea equipage, it seemed
as if the shadow of the dell, into which she had been vacantly gazing,
still rested on her face.

'Not here, Tamar; I'll drink tea in my room; and you must bring your
teacup, too, and we'll take it together. I am--I think I am--a little
nervous, darling, and you won't leave me?'

So they sat down together in her chamber. It was a cheery little
bed-room, when the shutters were closed, and the fire burning brightly in
the grate.

'My good Tamar will read her chapters aloud. I wish I could enjoy them
like you. I can only wish. You must pray for me, Tamar. There is a
dreadful image--and I sometimes think a dreadful being always near me.
Though the words you read are sad and awful, they are also sweet, like
funeral music a long way off, and they tranquillise me without making me
better, as the harping of David did the troubled and forsaken King Saul.'

So the old nurse mounted her spectacles, glad of the invitation, and
began to read. Her reading was very, slow, and had other faults too,
being in that sing-song style to which some people inexplicably like to
read Holy Writ; but it was reverent and distinct, and I have heard worse
even in the reading-desk.

'Stop,' said Rachel suddenly, as she reached about the middle of the
chapter.

The old woman looked up, with her watery eyes wide open, and there was a
short pause.

'I beg your pardon, dear Tamar, but you must first tell me that story you
used to tell me long ago of Lady Ringdove, that lived in Epping Forest,
to whom the ghost came and told something she was never to reveal, and
who slowly died of the secret, growing all the time more and more like
the spectre; and besought the priest when she was dying, that he would
have her laid in the abbey vault, with her mouth open, and her eyes and
ears sealed, in token that her term of slavery was over, that her lips
might now be open, and that her eyes were to see no more the dreadful
sight, nor her ears to hear the frightful words that used to scare them
in her life-time; and then, you remember, whenever afterwards they opened
the door of the vault, the wind entering in, made such moanings in her
hollow mouth, and declared things so horrible that they built up the door
of the vault, and entered it no more. Let me have the entire story, just
as you used to tell it.'

So old Tamar, who knew it was no use disputing a fancy of her young
mistress, although on Sunday night she would have preferred other talk,
recounted her old tale of wonder.

'Yes, it is true--a true allegory, I mean, Tamar. Death will close the
eyes and ears against the sights and sounds of earth; but even the tomb
secures no secrecy. The dead themselves declare their dreadful secrets,
open-mouthed, to the winds. Oh, Tamar! turn over the pages, and try to
find some part which says where safety and peace may be found at any
price; for sometimes I think I am almost bereft of--reason.'




CHAPTER XXXII.

MR. LARKIN AND THE VICAR.


The good vicar was not only dismayed but endangered by his brother's
protracted absence. It was now the first week in November. Bleak and
wintry that ungenial month set in at Gylingden; and in accord with the
tempestuous and dismal weather the fortunes of the Rev. William Wylder
were darkened and agitated.

This morning a letter came at breakfast, by post, and when he had read
it, the poor vicar grew a little white, and he folded it very quietly and
put it in his waistcoat pocket, and patted little Fairy on the head.
Little Fairy was asking him a question all this time, very vehemently,
'How long was Jack's sword that he killed the giants with?' and several
times to this distinct question he received only the unsatisfactory
reply, 'Yes, my darling;' and at last, when little Fairy mounted his
knee, and hugging the abstracted vicar round the neck, urged his question
with kisses and lamentations, the parson answered with a look of great
perplexity, and only half recalled, said, 'Indeed, little man, I don't
know. How long, you say, was Jack's sword? Well, I dare say it was as
long as the umbrella.' He got up, with the same perplexed and absent
look, as he said this, and threw an anxious glance about the room, as if
looking for something he had mislaid.

'You are not going to write now, Willie, dear?' expostulated his good
little wife, 'you have not tasted your tea yet.'

'I have, indeed, dear; haven't I? Well, I will.'

And, standing, he drank nearly half the cup she had poured out for him,
and set it down, and felt in his pocket, she thought, for his keys.

'Are you looking for anything, Willie, darling? Your keys are in my
basket.'

'No, darling; no, darling--nothing. I have everything I want. I think I
must go to the Lodge and see Mr. Larkin, for a moment.'

'But you have eaten nothing,' remonstrated his partner; 'you must not go
until you have eaten something.'

'Time enough, darling; I can't wait--I sha'n't be away twenty
minutes--time enough when I come back.'

'Have you heard anything of Mark, darling?' she enquired eagerly.

'Of Mark? Oh, no!--nothing of Mark.' And he added with a deep sigh, 'Oh,
dear! I wonder he does not write--no, nothing of Mark.'

She followed him into the hall.

'Now, Willie darling, you must not go till you have had your
breakfast--you will make yourself ill--indeed you will--do come back,
just to please me, and eat a little first.'

'No, darling; no, my love--I can't, indeed. I'll be back immediately; but
I must catch Mr. Larkin before he goes out. It is only a little matter--I
want to ask his opinion--and--oh! here is my stick--and I'll return
immediately.'

'And I'll go with you,' cried little Fairy.

'No, no, little man; I can't take you--no, it is business--stay with
mamma, and I'll be back again in a few minutes.'

So, spite of Fairy's clamours and the remonstrances of his fond, clinging
little wife, with a hurried kiss or two, away he went alone, at a very
quick pace, through the high street of Gylingden, and was soon in the
audience chamber of the serious, gentleman attorney.

The attorney rose with a gaunt and sad smile of welcome--begged Mr.
Wylder, with a wave of his long hand, to be seated--and then seating
himself and crossing one long thigh over the other, he threw his arm over
the back of his chair, and leaning back with what he conceived to be a
graceful and gentlemanly negligence--with his visitor full in the light
of the window and his own countenance in shadow, the light coming from
behind--a diplomatic arrangement which he affected--he fixed his small,
pink eyes observantly upon him, and asked if he could do anything for Mr.
William Wylder.

'Have you heard anything since, Mr. Larkin? Can you conjecture where his
address may now be?' asked the vicar, a little abruptly.

'Oh! Mr. Mark Wylder, perhaps, you refer to?'

'Yes; my brother, Mark.'

Mr. Larkin smiled a sad and simple smile, and shook his head.

'No, indeed--not a word--it is very sad, and involves quite a world of
trouble--and utterly inexplicable; for I need not tell you, in my
position, it can't be pleasant to be denied all access to the client who
has appointed me to act for him, nor conducive to the apprehension of his
wishes upon many points, which I should much prefer not being left to my
discretion. It is really, as I say, inexplicable, for Mr. Mark Wylder
must thoroughly see all this: he is endowed with eminent talents for
business, and must perfectly appreciate the embarrassment in which the
mystery with which he surrounds the place of his abode must involve those
whom he has appointed to conduct his business.'

'I have heard from him this morning,' resumed the lawyer; 'he was pleased
to direct a power of attorney to me to receive his rents and sign
receipts; and he proposes making Lord Viscount Chelford and Captain Lake
trustees, to fund his money or otherwise invest it for his use, and'--

'Has he--I beg pardon--but did he mention a little matter in which I am
deeply--indeed, vitally interested?' The vicar paused.

'I don't quite apprehend; perhaps if you were to frame your question a
little differently, I might possibly--a--you were saying'--

'I mean a matter of very deep interest to me,' said the poor vicar,
colouring a little, 'though no very considerable sum, viewed absolutely;
but, under my unfortunate circumstances, of the most urgent importance--a
loan of three hundred pounds--did he mention it?'

Again Mr. Larkin shook his head, with the same sad smile.

'But, though we do not know how to find him, he knows very well where to
find us--and, as you are aware, we hear from him constantly--and no doubt
he recollects his promise, and will transmit the necessary directions all
in good time.'

'I earnestly hope he may,' and the poor cleric lifted up his eyes
unconsciously and threw his hope into the form of a prayer. 'For, to
speak frankly, Mr. Larkin, my circumstances are very pressing. I have
just heard from Cambridge, and find that my good friend, Mr. Mountain,
the bookseller, has been dead two months, and his wife--he was a
widower when I knew him, but it would seem has married since--is
his sole executrix, and has sold the business, and directed
two gentlemen--attorneys--to call in all the debts due to
him--peremptorily--and they say I must pay before the 15th; and I have,
absolutely, but five pounds in the world, until March, when my half-year
will be paid. And indeed, only that the tradespeople here are so very
kind, we should often find it very difficult to manage.'

'Perhaps,' said Mr. Larkin, blandly, 'you would permit me to look at the
letter you mention having received from the solicitors at Cambridge?'

'Oh, thank you, certainly; here it is,' said William Wylder, eagerly, and
he gazed with his kind, truthful eyes upon the attorney's countenance as
he glanced over it, trying to read something of futurity therein.

'Foukes and Mauley,' said Mr. Larkin. 'I have never had but one
transaction with them; they are not always pleasant people to deal with.
Mind, I don't say anything affecting their integrity--Heaven forbid; but
they certainly did take rather what I would call a short turn with us on
the occasion to which I refer. You must be cautious; indeed, my dear Sir,
_very_ cautious. The fifteenth--just ten clear days. Well, you know you
have till then to look about you; and you know we may any day hear from
your brother, directing the loan to be paid over to you. And now, my dear
and reverend friend, you know me, I hope,' continued Mr. Larkin, very
kindly, as he handed back the letter; 'and you won't attribute what I say
to impertinent curiosity; but your brother's intended advance of three
hundred pounds can hardly have had relation only to this trifling claim
upon you. There are, no doubt--pardon me--several little matters to be
arranged; and considerable circumspection will be needed, pending your
brother's absence, in dealing with the persons who are in a position to
press their claims unpleasantly. You must not trifle with these things.
And let me recommend you seeing your legal adviser, whoever he is,
immediately.'

'You mean,' said the vicar, who was by this time very much flushed, 'a
gentleman of your profession, Mr. Larkin. Do you really think--well, it
has frequently crossed my mind--but the expense, you know; and although
my affairs are in a most unpleasant and complicated state, I am sure that
everything would be perfectly smooth if only I had received the loan my
kind brother intends, and which, to be sure, as you say, any day I may
receive.'

'But, my dear Sir, do you really mean to say that you would pay claims
from various quarters--how old is this, for instance?--without
examination!'

The vicar looked very blank.

'I--this--well, this I certainly do owe; it has increased a little with
interest, though good Mr. Mountain never charged more than six per cent.
It was, I think, about fifteen pounds--books--I am ashamed to say how
long ago; about a work which I began then, and laid aside--on Eusebius;
but which is now complete, and will, I hope, eventually repay me.'

'Were you of age, my dear Sir, when he gave you these books on credit?
Were you twenty-one years of age?'

'Oh! no; not twenty; but then I owe it, and I could not, as a Christian
man, you know, evade my debts.'

'Of course; but you can't pay it at present, and it may be highly
important to enable you to treat this as a debt of honour, you perceive.
Suppose, my dear Sir, they should proceed to arrest you, or to
sequestrate the revenue of your vicarage. Now, see, my dear Sir, I am, I
humbly hope, a Christian man; but you will meet with men in every
profession--and mine is no exception--disposed to extract the last
farthing which the law by its extremest process will give them. And I
really must tell you, frankly, that if you dream of escaping the most
serious consequences, you must at once place yourself and your affairs in
the hands of a competent man of business. It will probably be found that
you do not in reality owe sixty pounds of every hundred claimed against
you.'

'Oh, Mr. Larkin, if I could induce _you_.'

Mr. Larkin smiled a melancholy smile, and shook his head.

'My dear Sir, I only wish I could; but my hands are so awfully full,' and
he lifted them up and shook them, and shook his tall, bald head at the
same time, and smiled a weary smile. 'Just look there,' and he waved his
fingers in the direction of the Cyclopean wall of tin boxes, tier above
tier, each bearing, in yellow italics, the name of some country
gentleman, and two baronets among the number; 'everyone of them laden
with deeds and papers. You can't have a notion--no one has--what it is.'

'I see, indeed,' murmured the honest vicar, in a compassionating tone,
and quite entering into the spirit of Mr. Larkin's mournful appeal, as if
the being in large business was the most distressing situation in which
an attorney could well find himself.

'It was very unreasonable of me to think of troubling you with my
wretched affairs; but really I do not know very well where to turn, or
whom to speak to. Maybe, my dear Sir, you can think of some conscientious
and Christian practitioner who is not so laden with other people's cares
and troubles as you are. I am a very poor client, and indeed more trouble
than I could possibly be gain to anyone. But there may be some one; pray
think; ten days is so short a time, and I can do nothing.'

Mr. Larkin stood at the window ruminating, with his left hand in his
breeches pocket, and his right, with finger and thumb pinching his under-
lip, after his wont, and the despairing accents of the poor vicar's last
sentence still in his ear.

'Well,' he said hesitatingly, 'it is not easy, at a moment's notice, to
point out a suitable solicitor; there are many, of course, very desirable
gentlemen, but I feel it, my dear Sir, a very serious responsibility
naming one for so peculiar a matter. But you shall not, in the meantime,
go to the wall for want of advice. Rely upon it, we'll do the best we can
for you,' he continued, in a patronising way, with his chin raised, and
extending his hand kindly to shake that of the parson. 'Yes, I certainly
will--you must have advice. Can you give me two hours to-morrow
evening--say to tea--if you will do me the honour. My friend, Captain
Lake, dines at Brandon to-morrow. He's staying here with me, you are
aware, on a visit; but we shall be quite by ourselves, say at seven
o'clock. Bring all your papers, and I'll get at the root of the business,
and see, if possible, in each particular case, what line is best to be
adopted.'

'How can I thank you, my dear Sir,' cried gentle William Wylder, his
countenance actually beaming with delight and gratitude--a brighter look
than it had worn for many weeks.

'Oh, don't--_pray_ don't mention it. I assure you, it is a happiness to
me to be of any little use; and, really, I don't see how you could
possibly hold your own among the parties who are pressing you without
professional advice.'

'I feel,' said the poor vicar, and his eyes filled as he smiled, and his
lip quivered a little--'I feel as if my prayer for direction and
deliverance were answered at last. Oh! my dear Sir, I have suffered a
great deal; but something assures me I am rescued, and shall have a quiet
mind once more--I am now in safe and able hands.' And he shook the safe
and able, and rather large, hands of the amiable attorney in both his.

'You make too much of it, my dear Sir. I should at any time be most happy
to advise you,' said Mr. Larkin, with a lofty and pleased benevolence,
'and with great pleasure, _provisionally_, until we can hit upon a
satisfactory solicitor with a little more time at his disposal, I
undertake the management of your case.'

'Thank Heaven!' again said the vicar, who had not let go his hands. 'And
it is so delightful to have for my guide a Christian man, who, even were
I so disposed, would not lend himself to an unworthy or questionable
defence; and although at this moment it is not in my power to reward your
invaluable assistance----'

'Now really, my dear Sir, I must insist--no more of this, I beseech you.
I do most earnestly insist that you promise me you will never mention the
matter of professional remuneration more, until, at least, I press it,
which, rely upon it, will not be for a good while.'

The attorney's smile plainly said, that his 'good while' meant in fact
'never.'

'This is, indeed, unimaginable kindness. How _have_ I deserved so
wonderful a blessing!'

'And I have no doubt,' said the attorney, fondling the vicar's arm in his
large hand, 'that these claims will ultimately be reduced fully thirty
per cent. I had once a good deal of professional experience in this sort
of business; and, oh! my dear Sir, it is really _melancholy_!' and up
went his small pink eyes in a pure horror, and his hands were lifted at
the same time; 'but we will bring them to particulars; and you may rely
upon it, you will have a much longer time, at all events, than they are
disposed to allow you.'




CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE LADIES ON GYLINGDEN HEATH.


Just at this moment they became aware of a timid little tapping which had
been going on at the window during the latter part of this conference,
and looking up, the attorney and the vicar saw 'little Fairy's' violet
eyes peering under his light hair, with its mild, golden shadow, and the
odd, sensitive smile, at once shy and arch; his cheeks were wet with
tears, and his pretty little nose red, though he was smiling; and he drew
his face aside among the jessamine, when he saw the gaunt attorney
directing his patronising smile upon him.

'I beg pardon,' said the vicar, rising with a sudden smile, and going to
the window. 'It is my little man. Fairy! Fairy! What has brought you
here; my little man?'

Fairy glanced, still smiling, but very shamefacedly at the grand
attorney, and in his little fist he held a pair of rather seedy gloves to
the window-pane.

'So I did. I protest I forgot my gloves. Thank you, little man. Who is
with you? Oh! I see. That is right.'

The maid ducked a short courtesy.

'Indeed, Sir, please, Master Fairy was raising the roof (a nursery
phrase, which implied indescribable bellowing), and as naughty as could
be, until missis allowed him to come after you.'

'Oh! my little man, you must not do that. Ask nicely, you know; always
quietly, like a little gentleman.'

'But, oh! Wapsie, your hands would be cold;' and he held the gloves to
him against the glass.

'Well, darling, thank you; you are a kind little man, and I'll be with
you in a moment,' said the vicar, smiling very lovingly on his naughty
little man.

'Mr. Larkin,' said he, turning very gratefully to the attorney 'you can
lay this Christian comfort to your kind heart, that you have made mine a
hundredfold lighter since I entered this blessed room; indeed, you have
lifted a mountain from it by the timely proffer of your invaluable
assistance.'

Again the attorney waved off, with a benignant and humble smile, rather
oppressive to see, all idea of obligation, and accompanied his grateful
client to the glass door of his little porch, where Fairy was already
awaiting him with the gloves in his hand.

'I do believe,' said the good vicar, as he walked down what Mr. Larkin
called 'the approach,' and looking up with irrepressible gratitude to the
blue sky and the white clouds sailing over his head, 'if it be not
presumption, I must believe that I have been directed hither--yes,
darling, yes, my hands are warm' (this was addressed to little Fairy, who
was clamouring for information on the point, and clinging to his arm as
he capered by his side). 'What immense relief;' and he murmured another
thanksgiving, and then quite hilariously--

'If little man would like to come with his Wapsie, we'll take such a nice
little walk together, and we'll go and see poor Widow Maddock; and we'll
buy three muffins on our way home, for a feast this evening; and we'll
look at the pictures in the old French "Josephus;" and Mamma and I will
tell stories; and I have a halfpenny to buy apples for little Fairy.'

The attorney stood at his window with a shadow on his face, and his small
eyes a little contracted and snakelike, following the slim figure of the
threadbare vicar and his golden-haired, dancing little comrade; and then
he mounted a chair, and took down successively four of his japanned
boxes; two of them, in yellow letters, bore respectively the label
'_Brandon, No. 1_,' and '_No. 2_;' the other '_Wylder, No. 1_,' and '_No.
2_.'

He opened the 'Wylder' box first, and glanced through a neat little
'statement of title,' prepared for counsel when draughting the deed of
settlement for the marriage which was never to take place.

'The limitations, let me see, is not there something that one might be
safe in advancing a trifle upon--eh?--h'm--yes.'

And, with his lip in his finger and thumb, he conned over those
remainders and reversions with a skilled and rapid eye.

Rachel Lake was glad to see the slender and slightly-stooped figure of
the vicar standing that morning--his bright little boy by the hand--in
the wicket of the tiny flower-garden of Redman's Farm. She went out
quickly to greet him. The sick man likes the sound of his kind doctor's
step on the stairs; and, be his skill much or little, trusts in him, and
will even joke a little asthmatic joke, and smile a feeble hectic smile
about his ailments, when he is present.

So they fell into discourse among the autumnal flowers and withered
leaves; and, as the day was still and genial, they remained standing in
the garden; and away went busy little 'Fairy,' smiling and chatting with
Margery, to see the hens and chickens in the yard.

The physician, after a while, finds the leading features of most cases
pretty much alike. He knows when inflammation may be expected and fever
will supervene; he is not surprised if the patient's mind wanders a
little at times; expects the period of prostration and the return of
appetite; and has his measures and his palliatives ready for each
successive phase of sickness and recovery. In like manner, too, the good
and skilful parson comes by experience to know the signs and stages of
the moral ailments and recoveries which some of them know how so tenderly
and so wisely to care for. They, too, have ready--having often proved
their consolatory efficacy--their febrifuges and their tonics, culled
from that tree of life whose 'leaves are for the healing of the nations.'

Poor Rachel's hours were dark, and life had grown in some sort terrible,
and death seemed now so real and near--aye, quite a fact--and, somehow,
not unfriendly. But, oh! the immense futurity beyond, that could not be
shirked, to which she was certainly going.

Death, and sleep so welcome! But, oh! that stupendous LIFE EVERLASTING,
now first unveiled. She could only close her eyes and wring her hands.
Oh! for some friendly voice and hand to stay her through the Valley of
the Shadow of Death!

They talked a long while--Rachel chiefly a listener, and often quietly
weeping; and, at last, a very kindly parting, and a promise from the
simple and gentle vicar that he would often look in at Redman's Farm.

She watched his retreating figure as he and little Fairy walked down the
tenebrose road to Gylingden, following them with a dismal gaze, as a
benighted and wounded wayfarer in that 'Valley' would the pale lamp's
disappearing that had for a few minutes, in a friendly hand, shone over
his dreadful darkness.

And when, in fitful reveries, fancy turned for a moment to an earthly
past and future, all there was a blank--the past saddened, the future
bleak. She did not know, or even suspect, that she had been living in an
aerial castle, and worshipping an unreal image, until, on a sudden, all
was revealed in that chance gleam of cruel lightning, the line in that
letter, which she read so often, spelled over, and puzzled over so
industriously, though it was clear enough. How noble, how good, how
bright and true, was that hero of her unconscious romance.

Well, no one else suspected that incipient madness--that was something;
and brave Rachel would quite master it. Happy she had discovered it so
soon. Besides, it was, even if Chelford were at her feet, a wild
impossibility now; and it was well, though despair were in the pang, that
she had, at last, quite explained this to herself.

As Rachel stood in her little garden, on the spot where she had bidden
farewell to the vicar, she was roused from her vague and dismal reverie
by the sound of a carriage close at hand. She had just time to see that
it was a brougham, and to recognise the Brandon liveries, when it drew up
at the garden wicket, and Dorcas called to her from the open window.

'I'm come, Rachel, expressly to take you with me; and I won't be denied.'

'You are very good, Dorcas; thank you, dear, very much; but I am not very
well, and a very dull companion to-day.'

'You think I am going to bore you with visits. No such thing, I assure
you. I have taken a fancy to walk on the common, that is all--a kind of
longing; and you must come with me; quite to ourselves, you and I. You
won't refuse me, darling; I know you'll come.'

Well, Rachel did go. And away they drove through the quiet town of
Gylingden together, and through the short street on the right, and so
upon the still quieter common.

This plain of green turf broke gradually into a heath; and an irregular
screen of timber and underwood divided the common of Gylingden in sylvan
fashion from the moor. The wood passed, Dorcas stopped the carriage, and
the two young ladies descended. It was a sunny day, and the air still;
and the open heath contrasted pleasantly with the sombre and confined
scenery of Redman's Dell; and altogether Rachel was glad now that she had
made the effort, and come with her cousin.

'It was good of you to come, Rachel,' said Miss Brandon; 'and you look
tired; but you sha'n't speak more than you like; and I'll tell you all
the news. Chelford is just returned from Brighton; he arrived this
morning; and he and Lady Chelford will stay for the Hunt Ball. I made it
a point. And he called at Hockley, on his way back, to see Sir Julius. Do
you know him?'

'Sir Julius Hockley? No--I've heard of him only.'

'Well, they say he is wasting his property very fast; and I think him
every way very nearly a fool; but Chelford wanted to see him about Mr.
Wylder. Mark Wylder, you know, of course, has turned up again in England.
His letter to Chelford, six weeks ago, was from Boulogne; but his last
was from Brighton; and Sir Julius Hockley witnessed--I think they call
it--that letter of attorney which Mark sent about a week since to Mr.
Larkin; and Chelford, who is most anxious to trace Mark Wylder, having to
surrender--I think they call it--a "trust" is not it--or something--I
really don't understand these things--to him, and not being able to find
out his address, Mr. Larkin wrote to Sir Julius, whom Chelford did not
find at home, to ask him for a description of Mark, to ascertain whether
he had disguised himself; and Sir Julius wrote to Chelford such an absurd
description of poor Mark, in doggrel rhyme--so like--his odd walk, his
great whiskers, and everything. Chelford does not like personalities, but
he could not help laughing. Are you ill, darling?'

Though she was walking on beside her companion, Rachel looked on the
point of fainting.

'My darling, you must sit down; you do look very ill. I forgot my promise
about Mark Wylder. How stupid I have been! and perhaps I have distressed
you.'

'No, Dorcas, I am pretty well; but I have been ill, and I am a little
tired; and, Dorcas, I don't deny it, I _am_ amazed, you tell me such
things. That letter of attorney, or whatever it is, must not be acted
upon. It is incredible. It is all horrible wickedness. Mark Wylder's fate
is dreadful, and Stanley is the mover of all this. Oh! Dorcas, darling, I
wish I could tell you everything. Some day I may be--I am sick and
terrified.'

They had sat down, by this time, side by side, on the crisp bank. Each
lady looked down, the one in suffering, the other in thought.

'You are better, darling; are not you better?' said Dorcas, laying her
hand on Rachel's, and looking on her with a melancholy gaze.

'Yes, dear, better--very well'--answered Rachel, looking up but without
an answering glance at her cousin.

'You blame your brother, Rachel, in this affair.'

'Did I? Well--maybe--yes, he _is_ to blame--the miserable man--whom I
hate to think of, and yet am always thinking of--Stanley well knows is
not in a state to do it.'

'Don't you think, Rachel, remembering what I have confided to you, that
you might be franker with me in this?'

'Oh, Dorcas! don't misunderstand me. If the secret were all my
own--Heaven knows, hateful as it is, how boldly I would risk all, and
throw myself on your fidelity or your mercy--I know not how you might
view it; but it is different, Dorcas, at least for the present. You know
me--you know how I hate secrets; but this _is_ not mine--only in
part--that is, I dare not tell it--but may be soon free--and to us all,
dear Dorcas, a woful, _woful_, day will it be.'

'I made you a promise, Rachel,' said her beautiful cousin, gravely, and a
little coldly and sadly, too; 'I will never break it again--it was
thoughtless. Let us each try to forget that there is anything hidden
between us.'

'If ever the time comes, dear Dorcas, when I may tell it to you, I don't
know whether you will bless or hate me for having kept it so well; at all
events, I think you'll pity me, and at last understand your miserable
cousin.'

'I said before, Rachel, that I liked you. You are one of us, Rachel. You
are beautiful, wayward, and daring, and one way or another, misfortune
always waylays us; and I have, I know it, calamity before me. Death comes
to other women in its accustomed way; but we have a double death. There
is not a beautiful portrait in Brandon that has not a sad and true story.
Early death of the frail and fair tenement of clay--but a still earlier
death of happiness. Come, Rachel, shall we escape from the spell and the
destiny into solitude? What do you think of my old plan of the valleys
and lakes of Wales? a pretty foreign tongue spoken round us, and no one
but ourselves to commune with, and books, and music. It is not, Radie,
altogether jest. I sometimes yearn for it, as they say foreign girls do
for convent life.'

'Poor Dorcas,' said Rachel, very softly, fixing her eyes upon her with a
look of inexpressible sadness and pity.

'Rachel,' said Dorcas, 'I am a changeable being--violent, self-willed. My
fate may be quite a different one from that which _I_ suppose or _you_
imagine. I may yet have to retract _my_ secret.'

'Oh! would it were so--would to Heaven it were so.'

'Suppose, Rachel, that I had been deceiving you--perhaps deceiving
myself--time will show.'

There was a wild smile on beautiful Dorcas's face as she said this, which
faded soon into the proud serenity that was its usual character.

'Oh! Dorcas, if your good angel is near, listen to his warnings.'

'We have no good angels, my poor Rachel: what modern necromancers,
conversing with tables, call "mocking spirits," have always usurped their
place with us: singing in our drowsy ears, like Ariel--visiting our
reveries like angels of light--being really our evil genii--ah, yes!'

'Dorcas, dear,' said Rachel, after both had been silent for a time,
speaking suddenly, and with a look of pale and keen entreaty--'Beware of
Stanley--oh! beware, beware. I think I am beginning to grow afraid of him
myself.'

Dorcas was not given to sighing--but she sighed--gazing sadly across the
wide, bleak moor, with her proud, apathetic look, which seemed passively
to defy futurity--and then, for a while, they were silent.

She turned, and caressingly smoothed the golden tresses over Rachel's
frank, white forehead, and kissed them as she did so.

'You are better, darling; you are rested?' she said.

'Yes, dear Dorcas,' and she kissed the slender hand that smoothed her
hair.

Each understood that the conversation on that theme was ended, and
somehow each was relieved.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

SIR JULIUS HOCKLEY'S LETTER.


Jos. Larkin mentioned in his conversation with the vicar, just related,
that he had received a power of attorney from Mark Wylder. Connected with
this document there came to light a circumstance so very odd, that the
reader must at once be apprised of it.

This legal instrument was attested by two witnesses, and bore date about
a week before the interview, just related, between the vicar and Mr.
Larkin. Here, then, was a fact established. Mark Wylder had returned from
Boulogne, for the power of attorney had been executed at Brighton. Who
were the witnesses? One was Thomas Tupton, of the Travellers' Hotel,
Brighton.

This Thomas Tupton was something of a sporting celebrity, and a likely
man enough to be of Mark's acquaintance.

The other witness was Sir Julius Hockley, of Hockley, an unexceptionable
evidence, though a good deal on the turf.

Now our friend Jos. Larkin had something of the Red Indian's faculty for
tracking his game, by hardly perceptible signs and tokens, through the
wilderness; and this mystery of Mark Wylder's flight and seclusion was
the present object of his keen and patient pursuit.

On receipt of the 'instrument,' therefore, he wrote by return of post,
'presenting his respectful compliments to Sir Julius Hockley, and deeply
regretting that, as solicitor of the Wylder family, and the _gentleman_
(_sic_) empowered to act under the letter of attorney, it was imperative
upon him to trouble him (Sir Julius H.) with a few interrogatories, which
he trusted he would have no difficulty in answering.'

The first was, whether he had been acquainted with Mr. Mark Wylder's
personal appearance before seeing him sign, so as to be able to identify
him. The second was, whether he (Mr. M.W.) was accompanied, at the time
of executing the instrument, by any friend; and if so, what were the name
and address of such friend. And the third was, whether he could
communicate any information whatsoever respecting Mr. M.W.'s present
place of abode?

The same queries were put in a somewhat haughty and peremptory way to the
sporting hotel-keeper, who answered that Mr. Mark Wylder had been staying
for a week at his house, about five months ago; and that he had seen him
twice--once 'backing' Jonathan, when he beat the great American
billiard-player; and another time, when he lent him his copy of 'Bell's
Life,' in the coffee-room; and thus he was enabled to identify him. For
the rest he could say nothing.

Sir Julius's reply was of the hoity-toity and rollicking sort, bordering
in parts very nearly on nonsense, and generally impertinent. It reached
Mr. Larkin as he sat at breakfast with his friend, Stanley Lake.

'Pray read your letters, and don't mind me, I entreat. Perhaps you will
allow me to look at the "Times;" and I'll trouble you for the sardines.'

The postmark 'Hockley,' stared the lawyer in the face; and, longing to
break the seal, he availed himself of the captain's permission. So Lake
opened the 'Times;' and, as he studied its columns, I think he stole a
glance or two over its margin at the attorney, now deep in the letter of
Sir Julius Hockley.

He (Sir J.H.) 'presented his respects to Mr. Lark_ens_, or Lark_ins_, or
Lark_me_, or Lark_us_--Sir J.H. is not able to read _which_ or _what_;
but he is happy to observe, at all events, that, end how he may, the
gentleman begins with a "lark!" which Sir J.H. always does, when he can.
Not being able to discover his terminal syllable, he will take the
liberty of styling him by his sprightly beginning, and calling him
shortly "Lark." As Sir J. never objected to a lark, the gentleman so
designated introduces himself with a strong prejudice, in Sir J.'s mind,
in his favour--so much so, that by way of a lark, Sir J. will answer
Lark's questions, which are not, he thinks, very impertinent. The wildest
of all Lark's questions refers to Wylder's place of abode, which Sir J.
was never wild enough to think of asking after, and does not know; and so
little was he acquainted with the gentleman, that he forgot he was an
evangelist doing good under the style and title of Mark. Lark may,
therefore, tell Mark, if he sees him, or his friends--Matthew, Luke, and
John--that Sir Julius saw Mark only on two successive days, at the
cricket-match, played between Paul's Eleven--the coincidence is
remarkable--and the Ishmaelites (these, I am bound to observe, were
literally the designations of the opposing sides); and that he had the
honour of being presented to Mark--saint or sinner, as he may be--on the
ground, by his, Sir J.H.'s, friend, Captain Stanley Lake, of the Guards.'

Here was an astounding fact. Stanley Lake had been in Mark Wylder's
company only ten days ago, when that great match was played at Brighton!
What a deep gentleman was that Stanley Lake, who sat at the other end of
the table with the 'Times' before him. What a varnished rascal--what a
matchless liar!

He had returned to Gylingden, direct, in all likelihood, from his
conferences with Mark Wylder, to tell all concerned that it was vain
endeavouring to trace him, and still offering his disinterested services
in the pursuit.

No matter! We must take things coolly and cautiously. All this chicanery
will yet break down, and the conspiracy, be it what it may, will be
thoroughly exposed. Mystery is the shadow of guilt; and, most assuredly,
thought Mr. Larkin, there is some _infernal_ secret, _well worth
knowing_, at the bottom of all this. You little think I have you here!
and he slid Sir Julius Hockley's piece of rubbishy banter into his
waistcoat pocket, and then opened and glanced at half-a-dozen other
letters, in a cool, quick official way, endorsing a little note on the
back of each with his gold, patent pencil. All Mr. Jos. Larkin's
'properties' were handsome and imposing, and he never played with
children without producing his gold repeater, and making it strike, and
exhibiting its wonders for their amusement, and the edification of the
adults, whose presence, of course, he forgot.

'Paul's Eleven have challenged the Gipsies,' said Lake, languidly lifting
his eyes from the paper. 'By-the-bye, are you anything of a cricketer?
And they are to play at Hockley, Sir Julius Hockley's ground. You know
Sir Julius, don't you?'

'Very slightly. I may say I _have_ that honour, but we have never been
thrown together; a mere--a--the slightest thing in the world.'

'Not schoolfellows----you are not an Eton man, eh?' said Lake.

'Oh no! My dear father' (the organist) 'would not send a boy of his to
what he called an idle school. But my acquaintance with Sir Julius was a
trifling matter. Hockley is a very pretty place, is not it?'

'A sweet place. A great match was played between those fellows at
Brighton: Paul's Eleven beat fifteen of the Ishmaelites, about a
fortnight since; but they have no chance with the Gipsies. It will be
quite a hollow thing--a one-innings affair.'

'Have you ever seen Paul's Eleven play?' asked the lawyer, carelessly
taking up the newspaper which Lake had laid down.

'I saw them play that match at Brighton, I mentioned just now, a few days
ago.'

'Ah! did you?'

'Did not you _know_ I was there?' said Lake, in rather a changed tone.
Larkin looked up, and Lake laughed in his face quietly the most
impertinent laugh he had ever seen or heard, with his yellow eyes fixed
on the lawyer's pink little optics. 'I was there, and Hockley was there,
and Mark Wylder was there--was not he?' and Lake stared and laughed, and
the attorney stared; and Lake added, 'What a d--d cunning fellow you are;
ha, ha, ha!'

Larkin was not easily put out, but he _was_ disconcerted now; and his
cheeks and forehead grew suddenly pink, and he coughed a little, and
tried to throw a look of mild surprise into his face.

'Why, you have this moment had a letter from Hockley. Don't you think I
knew his hand and the post-mark, and your look said quite plainly,
"Here's news of my friend Stanley Lake and Mark Wylder." I had an uncle
in the Foreign Office, and they said he would have been quite a
distinguished diplomatist if he had lived; and I was said to have a good
deal of his talent; and I really think I have brought my little evidences
very prettily together, and jumped to a right conclusion--eh?'

A flicker of that sinister shadow I have sometimes mentioned crossed
Larkin's face, and contracted his eyes, as he said, a little sternly--

'I have nothing on earth to conceal, Sir; I never had. All _my_ conduct
has been as open as the light; there's not a letter, Sir, I ever write or
receive, that might not, so far as _I_ am concerned, with my good will,
lie open on that table for every visitor that comes in to read;--open as
the day, Sir:' and the attorney waved his hand grandly.

'Hear, hear, hear,' said Lake, languidly, and tapping a little applause
on the table, while he watched the solicitor's rhetoric with his sly,
disconcerting smile.

'It was but conscientious, Captain Lake, that I should make particular
enquiry respecting the genuineness of a legal instrument conferring such
very considerable powers. How, on earth, Sir, could I have the slightest
suspicion that _you_ had seen my client, Mr. Wylder, considering the
tenor of your letters and conversation? And I venture to say, Captain
Lake, that Lord Chelford will be just as much surprised as I, when he
hears it.'

Jos. Larkin, Esq., delivered this peroration from a moral elevation, all
the loftier that he had a peer of the realm on his side. But peers did
not in the least overawe Stanley Lake, who had been all his days familiar
with those idols; and the moral altitudes of the attorney amused him
vastly.

'But he'll _not_ hear it; _I_ won't tell him, and you sha'n't; because I
don't think it would be prudent of us--do you?--to quarrel with Mark
Wylder, and he does not wish our meeting known. It is nothing on earth to
me; on the contrary, it rather places me in an awkward position keeping
other people's secrets.'

The attorney made one of his slight, gentlemanlike bows, and threw back
his head with a lofty and reserved look.

'I don't know, Captain Lake, that I would be quite justified in
withholding the substance of Sir Julius Hockley's letter from Lord
Chelford, consulted, as I have had the honour to be, by that nobleman. I
shall, however, turn it over in my mind.'

'Don't the least mind me. In fact, I would rather tell it than not. And I
can explain to Chelford why _I_ could not mention the circumstance.
Wylder, in fact, tied me down by a promise, and he'll be devilish angry
with you; but, it seems, you don't very much mind that.'

He knew that Mr. Larkin _did_ very much mind it; and the quick glance of
the attorney could read nothing whatever in the captain's pallid face and
downcast eyes, smiling on the points of his varnished boots.

'Of course, you know, Captain Lake, in alluding to the possibility of my
making any communication to Lord Chelford, I limit myself strictly to the
letter of Sir Julius Hockley, and do not, by any means, my dear Captain
Lake, include the conversation which has just occurred, and the
communication which you have volunteered to make me.'

'Oh! quite so,' said the captain, looking up suddenly, as was his way,
with a momentary glare, like a man newly-waked from a narcotic doze.




CHAPTER XXXV.

THE HUNT BALL.


By this time your humble servant, the chronicler of these Gylingden
annals, had taken his leave of magnificent old Brandon, and of its
strangely interesting young mistress and was carrying away with him, as
he flew along the London rails, the broken imagery of that grand and
shivered dream. He was destined, however, before very long, to revisit
these scenes; and in the meantime heard, in rude outline, the tenor of
what was happening--the minute incidents and colouring of which were
afterwards faithfully communicated.

I can, therefore, without break or blur, continue my description; and to
say truth, at this distance of time, I have some difficulty--so well
acquainted was I with the actors and the scenery--in determining, without
consulting my diary, what portions of the narrative I relate from
hearsay, and what as a spectator. But that I am so far from understanding
myself, I should often be amazed at the sayings and doings of other
people. As it is, I behold in myself an abyss, I gaze down and listen,
and discover neither light nor harmony, but thunderings and lightnings,
and voices and laughter, and a medley that dismays me. There rage the
elements which God only can control. Forgive us our trespasses; lead us
not into temptation; deliver us from the Evil One! How helpless and
appalled we shut our eyes over that awful chasm.

I have long ceased, then, to wonder why any living soul does anything
that is incongruous and unanticipated. And therefore I cannot say how
Miss Brandon persuaded her handsome Cousin Rachel to go with her party,
under the wing of Old Lady Chelford, to the Hunt Ball of Gylingden. And
knowing now all that then hung heavy at the heart of the fair tenant of
Redman's Farm, I should, indeed, wonder inexpressibly, were it not, as I
have just said, that I have long ceased to wonder at any vagaries of
myself or my fellow creatures.

The Hunt Ball is the great annual event of Gylingden. The critical
process of 'coming out' is here consummated by the young ladies of that
town and vicinage. It is looked back upon for one-half of the year, and
forward to for the other. People date by it. The battle of Inkerman was
fought immediately before the Hunt Ball. It was so many weeks after the
Hunt Ball that the Czar Nicholas died. The Carnival of Venice was nothing
like so grand an event. Its solemn and universal importance in Gylingden
and the country round, gave me, I fancied, some notion of what the feast
of unleavened bread must have been to the Hebrews and Jerusalem.

The connubial capabilities of Gylingden are positively wretched. When I
knew it, there were but three single men, according even to the modest
measure of Gylingden housekeeping, capable of supporting wives, and these
were difficult to please, set a high price on themselves--looked the
country round at long ranges, and were only wistfully and meekly glanced
after by the frugal vestals of Gylingden, as they strutted round the
corners, or smoked the pipe of apathy at the reading-room windows.

Old Major Jackson kept the young ladies in practice between whiles, with
his barren gallantries and graces, and was, just so far, better than
nothing. But, as it had been for years well ascertained that he either
could not or would not afford to marry, and that his love passages, like
the passages in Gothic piles that 'lead to nothing,' were not designed to
terminate advantageously, he had long ceased to excite, even in that
desolate region, the smallest interest.

Think, then, what it was, when Mr. Pummice, of Copal and Pummice, the
splendid house-painters at Dollington, arrived with his artists and
charwomen to give the Assembly Room its annual touching-up and
bedizenment, preparatory to the Hunt Ball. The Gylingden young ladies
used to peep in, and from the lobby observe the wenches dry-rubbing and
waxing the floor, and the great Mr. Pummice, with his myrmidons, in
aprons and paper caps, retouching the gilding.

It was a tremendous crisis for honest Mrs. Page, the confectioner, over
the way, who, in legal phrase, had 'the carriage' of the supper and
refreshments, though largely assisted by Mr. Battersby, of Dollington.
During the few days' agony of preparation that immediately preceded this
notable orgie, the good lady's countenance bespoke the magnitude of her
cares. Though the weather was usually cold, I don't think she ever was
cool during that period--I am sure she never slept--I don't think she
ate--and I am afraid her religious exercises were neglected.

Equally distracting, emaciating, and godless, was the condition to which
the mere advent of this festival reduced worthy Miss Williams, the
dressmaker, who had more white muslin and young ladies on her hands than
she and her choir of needle-women knew what to do with. During this
tremendous period Miss Williams hardly resembled herself--her eyes
dilated, her lips were pale, and her brow corrugated with deep and
inflexible lines of fear and perplexity. She lived on bad tea--sat up all
night--and every now and then burst into helpless floods of tears. But
somehow, generally things came pretty right in the end. One way or
another, the gay belles and elderly spinsters, and fat village
chaperones, were invested in suitable costume by the appointed hour, and
in a few weeks Miss Williams's mind recovered its wonted tone, and her
countenance its natural expression.

The great night had now arrived. Gylingden was quite in an uproar. Rural
families of eminence came in. Some in old-fashioned coaches; others, the
wealthier, more in London style. The stables of the 'Brandon Arms,' of
the 'George Inn,' of the 'Silver Lion,' even of the 'White House,' though
a good way off, and generally every vacant standing for horses in or
about the town were crowded; and the places of entertainment we have
named, and minor houses of refection, were vocal with the talk of
flunkeys, patrician with powdered heads, and splendent in variegated
liveries.

The front of the Town Hall resounded with the ring of horse-hoofs, the
crack of whips, the bawling of coachmen, the clank of carriage steps and
clang of coach doors. A promiscuous mob of the plebs and profanum vulgus
of Gylingden beset the door, to see the ladies--the slim and the young in
white muslins and artificial flowers, and their stout guardian angels, of
maturer years, in satins and velvets, and jewels--some real, and some,
just as good, of paste. In the cloak-room such a fuss, unfurling of fans,
and last looks and hurried adjustments.

When the Crutchleighs, of Clay Manor, a good, old, formal family, were
mounting the stairs in solemn procession--they were always among the
early arrivals--they heard a piano and a tenor performing in the
supper-room.

Now, old Lady Chelford chose to patronise Mr. Page, the Dollington
professor, and partly, I fancy, to show that she could turn things
topsy-turvy in this town of Gylingden, had made a point, with the rulers
of the feast, that her client should sing half-a-dozen songs in the
supper-room before dancing commenced.

Mrs. Crutchleigh stayed her step upon the stairs abruptly, and turned,
with a look of fierce surprise upon her lean, white-headed lord,
arresting thereby the upward march of Corfe Crutchleigh, Esq., the hope
of his house, who was pulling on his gloves, with his eldest spinster
sister on his lank arm.

'There appears to be a concert going on; we came here to a ball. Had you
not better enquire, Mr. Crutchleigh; it would seem we have made a
mistake?'

Mrs. Crutchleigh was sensitive about the dignity of the family of Clay
Manor; and her cheeks flushed above the rouge, and her eyes flashed
severely.

'That's singing--particularly _loud singing_. Either we have mistaken the
night, or somebody has taken upon him to upset all the arrangements.
You'll be good enough to enquire whether there will be dancing to-night;
I and Anastasia will remain in the cloak-room; and we'll all leave if you
please, Mr. Crutchleigh, if this goes on.'

The fact is, Mrs. Crutchleigh had got an inkling of this performance, and
had affected to believe it impossible; and, detesting old Lady Chelford
for sundry slights and small impertinences, and envying Brandon and its
belongings, was resolved not to be put down by presumption in that
quarter.

Old Lady Chelford sat in an arm-chair in the supper-room, where a
considerable audience was collected. She had a splendid shawl or two
about her, and a certain air of demi-toilette, which gave the Gylingden
people to understand that her ladyship did not look on this gala in the
light of a real ball, but only as a sort of rustic imitation--curious,
possibly amusing, and, like other rural sports, deserving of
encouragement, for the sake of the people who made innocent holiday
there.

Mr. Page, the performer, was a plump young man, with black whiskers, and
his hair in oily ringlets, such as may be seen in the model wigs
presented on smiling, waxen dandies, in Mr. Rose's front window at
Dollington. He bowed and smiled in the most unexceptionable of white
chokers and the dapperest of dress coats, and drew off the whitest
imaginable pair of kid gloves, when he sat down to the piano, subsiding
in a sort of bow upon the music-stool, and striking those few, brisk and
noisy chords with which such artists proclaim silence and reassure
themselves.

Stanley Lake, that eminent London swell, had attached himself as
gentleman-in-waiting to Lady Chelford's household, and was perpetually
gliding with little messages between her ladyship and the dapper vocalist
of Dollington, who varied his programme and submitted to an occasional
_encore_ on the private order thus communicated.

'I told you Chelford would be here,' said Miss Brandon to Rachel, in a
low tone, glancing at the young peer.

'I thought he had returned to Brighton. I fancied he might be--you know
the Dulhamptons are at Brighton; and Lady Constance, of course, has a
claim on his time and thoughts.'

Rachel smiled as she spoke, and was adjusting her bouquet, as Dorcas made
answer--

'Lady Constance, my dear Radie! That, you know, was never more than a
mere whisper; it was only Lady Chelford and the marchioness who talked it
over--they would have liked it very well. But Chelford won't be managed
or scolded into anything of the kind; and will choose, I think, for
himself, and I fancy not altogether according to their ideas, when the
time comes. And I assure you, dear Radie, there is not the least truth in
that story about Lady Constance.'

Why should Dorcas be so earnest to convince her handsome cousin that
there was nothing in this rumour? Rachel made no remark, and there was a
little silence.

'I'm so glad I succeeded in bringing you here,' said Dorcas; 'Chelford
made such a point of it; and he thinks you are losing your spirits among
the great trees and shadows of Redman's Dell; and he made it quite a
little cousinly duty that I should succeed.'

At this moment Mr. Page interposed with the energetic prelude of his
concluding ditty. It was one of Tom Moore's melodies.

Rachel leaned back, and seemed to enjoy it very much. But when it was
over, I think she would have found it difficult to say what the song was
about.

Mr. Page had now completed his programme, and warned by the disrespectful
violins from the gallery of the ball-room, whence a considerable
caterwauling was already announcing the approach of the dance, he made
his farewell flourish, and bow and, smiling, withdrew.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE BALL ROOM.


Rachel Lake, standing by the piano, turned over the leaves of the volume
of 'Moore's Melodies' from which the artist in black whiskers and white
waistcoat had just entertained his noble patroness and his audience.

Everyone has experienced, I suppose for a few wonderful moments, now and
then, a glow of seemingly causeless happiness, in which the earth and its
people are glorified--peace and sunlight rest on everything--the spirit
of music and love is in the air, and the heart itself sings for joy. In
the light of this celestial illusion she stood now by the piano, turning
over the pages of poor Tom Moore, as I have said, when a low pleasant
voice near her said--

'I was so glad to see that Dorcas had prevailed, and that you were here.
We both agreed that you are too much a recluse in that Der Frieschutz
Glen--at least, for your friends' pleasure; and owe it to us all to
appear now and then in this upper world.'

'Excelsior, Miss Lake,' interposed dapper little Mr. Buttle, with a
smirk; 'I think this little bit of music--it was got up, you know, by
that old quiz, Dowager Lady Chelford--was really not so bad--a rather
good idea, after all, Miss Lake. Don't you?'

Poor Mr. Buttle did not know Lord Chelford, and thus shooting his 'arrow
o'er the house,' he 'hurt his brother.' Chelford turned away, and bowed
and smiled to one or two friends at the other side of the room.

'Yes, the music was very pretty, and some of the songs were quite
charmingly sung. I agree with you--we are very much obliged to Lady
Chelford--that is her son, Lord Chelford.'

'Oh!' said Buttle, whose smirk vanished on the instant in a very red and
dismal vacancy, 'I--I'm afraid he'll think me shockingly rude.' And in a
minute more Buttle was gone.

Miss Lake again looked down upon the page, and as she did so, Lord
Chelford turned and said--

'You are a worshipper of Tom Moore, Miss Lake?'

'An admirer, perhaps--certainly no worshipper. Yet, I can't say. Perhaps
I do worship; but if so, it is a worship strangely mixed with contempt.'
And she laughed a little. 'A kind of adoring which I fancy belongs
properly to the lords of creation, and which we of the weaker sex have no
right to practise.'

'Miss Lake is pleased to be ironical to-night,' he said, with a smile.

'Am I? I dare say. All women are. Irony is the weapon of cowardice, and
cowardice the vice of weakness. Yet I think I was naturally bold and
true. I hate cowardice and deception even in myself--I hate perfidy--I
hate _fraud_.'

She tapped a little emphasis upon the floor with her white satin shoe,
and her eyes flashed with a dark and angry meaning among the crowd at the
other end of the room, as if for a second or two following an object to
whom in some way the statement applied.

The strange bitterness of her tone, though it was low enough, and
something wild, suffering, and revengeful in her look, though but
momentary, and hardly definable, did not escape Lord Chelford, and he
followed unconsciously the direction of her glance; but there was nothing
there to guide him to a conclusion, and the good people who formed that
polite and animated mob were in his eyes, one and all, quite below the
level of tragedy, or even of melodrama.

'And yet, Miss Lake, we are all more or less cowards or deceivers--at
least, to the extent of suppression. Who would speak the whole truth, or
like to hear it?--not I, I know.'

'Nor I,' she said, quietly.

'And I do think, if people had no reserves, they would be very
uninteresting,' he added.

She was looking, with a strange light upon her face--a smile,
perhaps--upon the open pages of 'Moore's Melodies' as he spoke.

'I like a little puzzle and mystery--they surround our future and our
past; and the present would be insipid, I think, without them. Now, I
can't tell, Miss Lake, as you look on Tom Moore there, and I try to read
your smile, whether you happen at this particular moment to adore or
despise him.'

'Moore's is a daring morality--what do you think, for instance, of these
lines?' she said, touching the verse with her bouquet.

Lord Chelford read--

  I ask not, I know not, if guilt's in thy heart
  I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.'

He laughed.

'Very passionate, but hardly respectable. I once knew,' he continued a
little more gravely, 'a marriage made upon that principle, and not very
audaciously either, which turned out very unhappily.'

'So I should conjecture,' she said, rising from her chair, rather
drearily and abstractedly, 'and there is good old Lady Sarah. I must go
and ask her how she does.' She paused for a moment, holding her bouquet
drooping towards the floor, and looking with her clouded eyes
down--down--through it; and then she looked up suddenly, with an odd,
fierce smile, and she said bitterly enough--'and yet, if I were a man,
and capable of loving, I could love no other way; because I suppose love
to be a madness, and the sublimest and the most despicable of states. And
I admire Moore for that flash of the fallen angelic--it is the sentiment
of a hero and a madman--too base and too _noble_ for this cool, wise
world.'

She was already moving away, nebulous in hovering folds of snowy muslin.
And she floated down like a cloud upon the ottoman, beside old Lady
Sarah, and smiled and leaned towards her, and talked in her sweet, low,
distinct accents. And Lord Chelford followed her, with a sad sort of
smile, admiring her greatly.

Of course, _non cuivis contigit_, it was not every man's privilege to
dance with the splendid Lady of Brandon. It was only the demigods who
ventured within the circle. Her kinsman, Lord Chelford, did so; and now
handsome Sir Harry Bracton, six feet high, so broad-shouldered and
slim-waisted, his fine but not very wise face irradiated with
indefatigable smiles, stood and conversed with her, with that jaunty
swagger of his--his weight now on this side, now on that, squaring his
elbows like a crack whip with four-in-hand, and wagging his perfumed
tresses--boisterous, rollicking, beaming with immeasurable
self-complacency.

Stanley Lake left old Lady Chelford's side, and glided to that of Dorcas
Brandon.

'Will you dance this set--are you engaged, Miss Brandon?' he said, in low
eager tones.

'Yes, to both questions,' answered she, with the faintest gleam of the
conventional smile, and looking now gravely again at her bouquet.

'Well, the next possibly, I hope?'

'I never do that,' said the apathetic beauty, serenely.

Stanley looked as if he did not quite understand, and there was a little
silence.

'I mean, I never engage myself beyond one dance. I hope you do not think
it rude--but I never do.'

'Miss Brandon can make what laws she pleases for all here, and for some
of us everywhere,' he replied, with a mortified smile and a bow.

At that moment Sir Harry Bracton arrived to claim her, and Miss
Kybes--elderly and sentimental, and in no great request--timidly said, in
a gobbling, confidential whisper--

'What a handsome couple they do make! Does not it quite realise your
conception, Captain Lake, of young Lochinvar, you know, and his fair
Helen--

  So stately his form and so lovely her face--

You remember--

  'That never a hall such a galliard did grace.

Is not it?'

'So it is, really; it did not strike me. And that "one cup of wine"--you
recollect--which the hero drank; and, I dare say it made young Lochinvar
a little noisy and swaggering, when he proposed "treading the
measure"--is not that the phrase? Yes, really; it is a very pretty
poetical parallel.'

And Miss Kybes was pleased to think that Captain Lake would be sure to
report her elegant little compliment in the proper quarters, and that her
incense had not missed fire.

When Miss Brandon returned, Lake was unfortunately on duty beside old
Lady Chelford, whom it was important to propitiate, and who was in the
middle of a story--an extraordinary favour from her ladyship; and he had
the vexation to see Lord Chelford palpably engaging Miss Brandon for the
next dance.

When she returned, she was a little tired, and doubtful whether she would
dance any more--certainly not the next dance. So he resolved to lie in
wait, and anticipate any new suitor who might appear.

His eyes, however, happened to wander, in an unlucky moment, to old Lady
Chelford, who instantaneously signalled to him with her fan.

'-- the woman,' mentally exclaimed Lake, telegraphing, at the same time,
with a bow and a smile of deferential alacrity, and making his way
through the crowd as deftly as he could; what a ---- fool I was to go
near her.'

So the captain had to assist at the dowager lady's supper; and not only
so, but in some sort at her digestion also, which she chose should take
place for some ten minutes in the chair that she occupied at the supper-
table.

When he escaped, Miss Brandon _was_ engaged once more--and to Sir Harry
Bracton, for a second time.

And moreover, when he again essayed his suit, the young lady had
peremptorily made up her mind to dance no more that night.

'How _can_ Dorcas endure that man,' thought Rachel, as she saw Sir Harry
lead her to her seat, after a second dance. 'Handsome, but so noisy and
foolish, and wicked; and is not he vulgar, too?'

But Dorcas was not demonstrative. Her likings and dislikings were always
more or less enigmatical. Still Rachel Lake fancied that she detected
signs, not only of tolerance, but of positive liking, in her haughty
cousin's demeanour, and wondered, after all, whether Dorcas was beginning
to like Sir Harry Bracton. Dorcas had always puzzled her--not, indeed, so
much latterly--but this night the mystery began to darken once more.

Twice, for a moment, their eyes met; but only for a moment. Rachel knew
that a tragedy might be--at that instant, and under the influence of that
very spectacle--gathering its thunders silently in another part of the
room, where she saw Stanley's pale, peculiar face; and although he
appeared in nowise occupied by what was passing between Dorcas Brandon
and Sir Harry, she perfectly well knew that nothing of it escaped him.

The sight of that pale face was a cold pang at her heart--a face
prophetic of evil, at sight of which the dark curtain which hid futurity
seemed to sway and tremble, as if a hand from behind was on the point of
drawing it. Rachel sighed profoundly, and her eyes looked sadly through
her bouquet on the floor.

'I'm very glad you came, Radie,' said a sweet voice, which somehow made
her shiver, close to her ear. 'This kind of thing will do you good; and
you really wanted a little fillip. Shall I take you to the supper-room?'

'No, Stanley, thank you; I prefer remaining.'

'Have you observed how Dorcas has treated me this evening?'

'No, Stanley; nothing unusual, is there?' answered Rachel, glancing
uneasily round, lest they should be overheard.

'Well, I think she has been more than usually repulsive--quite marked; I
almost fancy these Gylingden people, dull as they are, must observe it. I
have a notion I sha'n't trouble Gylingden or her after to-morrow.'

Rachel glanced quickly at him. He was deadly pale, with his faint
unpleasant smile; and he returned her glance for a second wildly, and
then dropped his eyes to the ground.

'I told you,' he resumed again, after a short pause, and commencing with
a gentle laugh, 'that she liked that fellow, Bracton.'

'You did say something, I think, of that, some time since,' said Rachel;
'but really----'

'But really, Radie, dear, you can't need any confirmation more than this
evening affords. We both know Dorcas very well; she is not like other
girls. She does not encourage fellows as they do; but if she did not like
Bracton very well indeed, she would send him about his business. She has
danced with him twice, on the contrary, and has suffered his agreeable
conversation all the evening; and that from Dorcas Brandon means, you
know, everything.'

'I don't know that it means anything. I don't see why it should; but I am
very certain,' said Rachel, who, in the midst of this crowded, gossiping
ball-room, was talking much more freely to Stanley, and also, strange to
say, in more sisterly fashion, than she would have done in the little
parlour of Redman's Farm; 'I am very certain, Stanley, that if this
supposed preference leads you to abandon your wild pursuit of Dorcas, it
will prevent more ruin than, perhaps, either of us anticipates; and,
Stanley,' she added in a whisper, looking full in his eyes, which were
raised for a moment to hers, 'it is hardly credible that you dare still
to persist in so desperate and cruel a project.'

'Thank you,' said Stanley quietly, but the yellow lights glared fiercely
from their sockets, and were then lowered instantly to the floor.

'She has been very rude to me to-night; and you have not been, or tried
to be, of any earthly use to me; and I will take a decided course. I
perfectly know what I'm about. You don't seem to be dancing. _I_ have not
either; we have both got something more serious, I fancy, to think of.'

And Stanley Lake glided slowly away, and was lost in the crowd. He went
into the supper-room, and had a glass of seltzer water and sherry. He
loitered at the table. His ruminations were dreary, I fancy, and his
temper by no means pleasant; and it needed a good deal of that artificial
command of countenance which he cultivated, to prevent his betraying
something of the latter, when Sir Harry Bracton, talking loud and volubly
as usual, swaggered into the supper-room, with Dorcas Brandon on his arm.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE SUPPER-ROOM.


It was rather trying, in this state of things, to receive from the
triumphant baronet, with only a parenthetical 'Dear Lake, I beg your
pardon,' a rough knock on the elbow of the hand that held his glass, and
to be then summarily hustled out of his place. It was no mitigation of
the rudeness, in Lake's estimate, that Sir Harry was so engrossed and
elated as to seem hardly conscious of any existence but Miss Brandon's
and his own.

Lake was subject to transient paroxysms of exasperation; but even in
these be knew how to command himself pretty well before witnesses. His
smile grew a little stranger, and his face a degree whiter, as he set
down his glass, quietly glided a little away, and brushed off with his
handkerchief the aspersion which his coat had suffered.

In a few minutes more Miss Brandon had left the supper-room leaning upon
Lord Chelford's arm; and Sir Harry remained, with a glass of pink
champagne, such as young fellows drink with a faith and comfort so
wonderful, at balls and _fêtes champêtres_.

Sir Harry Bracton was already 'chaffing a bit,' as he expressed it, with
the young lady who assisted in dispensing the good things across the
supper-table, and was just calling up her blushes by a pretty parallel
between her eyes and the sparkling quality of his glass, and telling her
her mamma must have been sweetly pretty.

Now, Sir Harry's rudeness to Lake had not been, I am afraid, altogether
accidental. The baronet was sudden and vehement in his affairs of the
heart; but curable on short absences, and easily transferable. He had
been vehemently enamoured of the heiress of Brandon a year ago and more;
but during an absence Mark Wylder's suit grew up and prospered, and Sir
Harry Bracton acquiesced; and, to say truth, the matter troubled his
manly breast but little.

He had hardly expected to see her here in this rollicking, rustic
gathering. She was, he thought, even more lovely than he remembered her.
Beauty sometimes seen again does excel our recollections of it. Wylder
had gone off the scene, as Mr. Carlyle says, into infinite space. Who
could tell exactly the cause of his dismissal, and why the young lady had
asserted her capricious resolve to be free?

There were pleasant theories adaptable to the circumstances; and Sir
Harry cherished an agreeable opinion of himself; and so, all things
favouring; the old flame blazed up wildly, and the young gentleman was
more in love then, and for some weeks after the ball, than perhaps he had
ever been before.

Now some men--and Sir Harry was of them--are churlish and ferocious over
their loves, as certain brutes are over their victuals. In one of these
tender paroxysms, when in the presence of his Dulcinea, the young baronet
was always hot, short, and saucy with his own sex; and when his jealousy
was ever so little touched, positively impertinent.

He perceived what other people did not, that Miss Brandon's eye once on
that evening rested for a moment on Captain Lake with a peculiar
expression of interest. This look was but once and momentary; but the
young gentleman resented it, and brooded over it, every now and then,
when the pale face of the captain crossed his eye; and two or three
times, when the beautiful young lady's attention seemed unaccountably to
wander from his agreeable conversation, he thought he detected her
haughty eye moving in the same direction. So he looked that way too; and
although he could see nothing noticeable in Stanley's demeanour, he could
have felt it in his heart to box his ears.

Therefore, I don't think he was quite so careful as he might have been to
spare Lake that jolt upon the elbow, which coming from a rival in a
moment of public triumph was not altogether easy to bear like a
Christian.

'Some grapes, please,' said Lake, to the young lady behind the table.

'Oh, _uncle_! Is that you, Lake?--beg pardon; but you _are_ so like my
poor dear uncle, Langton. I wish you'd let me adopt you for an uncle. He
was such a pretty fellow, with his fat white cheeks and long nose, and he
looked half asleep. Do, pray, Uncle Lake; I should like it so,' and the
baronet, who was, I am afraid, what some people would term, perhaps,
vulgar, winked over his glass at the blooming confectioner, who turned
away and tittered over her shoulder at the handsome baronet's charming
banter.

The girl having turned away to titter, forgot Lake's grapes; so he helped
himself, and leaning against the table, looked superciliously upon Sir
Harry, who was not to be deterred by the drowsy gaze of contempt with
which the captain retorted his angry 'chaff.'

'Poor uncle died of love, or chicken pox, or something, at forty. You're
not ailing, Nunkie, are you? You do look wofully sick though; too bad to
lose a second uncle at the same early age. You're near forty, eh, Nunkie?
and such a pretty fellow! You'll take care of me in your will, Nunkie,
won't you? Come, what will you leave me; not much tin, I'm afraid.'

'No, not much tin,' answered Lake; 'but I'll leave you what you want
more, my sense and decency, with a request that you will use them for my
sake.'

'You're a devilish witty fellow, Lake; take care your wit don't get you
into trouble,' said the baronet, chuckling and growing angrier, for he
saw the Hebe laughing; and not being a ready man, though given to banter,
he sometimes descended to menace in his jocularity.

'I was just thinking your dulness might do the same for you,' drawled
Lake.

'When do you mean to pay Dawlings that bet on the Derby?' demanded Sir
Harry, his face very red, and only the ghost of his smile grinning there.
'I think you'd better; of course it is quite easy.'

The baronet was smiling his best, with a very red face, and that
unpleasant uncertainty in his contracted eyes which accompanies
suppressed rage.

'As easy as that,' said Lake, chucking a little bunch of grapes full into
Sir Harry Bracton's handsome face.

Lake recoiled a step; his face blanched as white as the cloth; his left
arm lifted, and his right hand grasping the haft of a table-knife.

There was just a second in which the athletic baronet stood, as it were
breathless and incredulous, and then his Herculean fist whirled in the
air with a most unseemly oath: the girl screamed, and a crash of glass
and crockery, whisked away by their coats, resounded on the ground.

A chair between Lake and Sir Harry impeded the baronet's stride, and his
uplifted arm was caught by a gentleman in moustache, who held so fast
that there was no chance of shaking it loose.

'D-- it, Bracton; d-- you, what the devil--don't be a--fool' and other
soothing expressions escaped this peacemaker, as he clung fast to the
young baronet's arm.

'The people--hang it!--you'll have all the people about you.
Quiet--quiet--can't you, I say. Settle it quietly. Here I am.'

'Well, let me go; that will do,' said he, glowering furiously at Lake,
who confronted him, in the same attitude, a couple of yards away. 'You'll
hear,' and he turned away.

'I am at the Brandon Arms till to-morrow,' said Lake, with white lips,
very quietly, to the gentleman in moustaches, who bowed slightly, and
walked out of the room with Sir Harry.

Lake poured out some sherry in a tumbler, and drank it off. He was a
little bit stunned, I think, in his new situation.

Except for the waiters, and the actors in it, it so happened that the
supper-room was empty during this sudden fracas. Lake stared at the
frightened girl, in his fierce abstraction. Then, with his wild gaze, he
followed the line of his adversary's retreat, and shook his ears
slightly, like a man at whose hair a wasp has buzzed.

'Thank you,' said he to the maid, suddenly recollecting himself, with a
sort of smile; 'that will do. What confounded nonsense! He'll be quite
cool again in five minutes. Never mind.'

And Lake pulled on his white glove, glancing down the file of silent
waiters--some looking frightened, and some reserved--in white ties and
waistcoats, and he glided out of the room--his mind somewhere else--like
a somnambulist.

It was not perfectly clear to the gentlemen and ladies in charge of the
ices, chickens, and champagne, between which of the three swells who had
just left the room the quarrel was--it had come so suddenly, and was over
so quickly, like a clap of thunder. Some had not seen any, and others
only a bit of it, being busy with plates and ice-tubs; and the few who
had seen it all did not clearly comprehend it--only it was certain that
the row had originated in jealousy about Miss Jones, the pretty
apprentice, who was judiciously withdrawn forthwith by Mrs. Page, the
properest of confectioners.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

AFTER THE BALL.


Lake glided from the feast with a sense of a tremendous liability upon
him. There was no retreat. The morning--yes, the morning--what then?
Should he live to see the evening? Sir Harry Bracton was the crack shot
of Swivel's gallery. He could hit a walking-cane at fifteen yards, at the
word. There he was, talking to old Lady Chelford. Very well; and there
was that fellow with the twisted moustache--plainly an officer and a
gentleman--twisting the end of one of them, and thinking profoundly, with
his back to the wall, evidently considering his coming diplomacy with
Lake's 'friend.' Aye, by-the-bye, and Lake's eye wandered in bewilderment
among village dons and elderly country gentlemen, in search of that
inestimable treasure.

These thoughts went whisking and whirling round in Captain Lake's brain,
to the roar and clatter of the Joinville Polka, to which fifty pair of
dancing feet were hopping and skimming over the floor.

'Monstrous hot, Sir--hey? ha, ha, by Jove!' said Major Jackson, who had
just returned from the supper-room, where he had heard several narratives
of the occurrence. 'Don't think I was so hot since the ball at Government
House, by Jove, Sir, in 1828--awful summer that!'

The major was jerking his handkerchief under his florid nose and chin, by
way of ventilation; and eyeing the young man shrewdly the while, to read
what he might of the story in his face.

'Been in Calcutta, Lake?'

'No; very hot, indeed. Could I say just a word with you--this way a
little. So glad I met you.' And they edged into a little nook of the
lobby, where they had a few minutes' confidential talk, during which the
major looked grave and consequential, and carried his head high, nodding
now and then with military decision.

Major Jackson whispered an abrupt word or two in his ear, and threw back
his head, eyeing Lake with grave and sly defiance. Then came another
whisper and a wink; and the major shook his hand, briefly but hard, and
the gentlemen parted.

Lake strolled into the ball-room, and on to the upper end, where the
'best' people are, and suddenly he was in Miss Brandon's presence.

'I've been very presumptuous, I fear, to-night, Miss Brandon,' he said, in
his peculiar low tones. 'I've been very importunate--I prized the honour
I sought so very much, I forgot how little I deserved it. And I do not
think it likely you'll see me for a good while--possibly for a very long
time. I've therefore ventured to come, merely to say good-bye--only that,
just--good-bye. And--and to beg that flower'--and he plucked it
resolutely from her bouquet--'which I will keep while I live. Good-bye,
Miss Brandon.'

And Captain Stanley Lake, that pale apparition, was gone.

I do not know at all how Miss Brandon felt at this instant; for I never
could quite understand that strange lady. But I believe she looked a
little pale as she gravely adjusted the flowers so audaciously violated
by the touch of the cool young gentleman.

I can't say whether Miss Brandon deigned to follow him with her dark,
dreamy gaze. I rather think not. And three minutes afterwards he had left
the Town Hall.

The Brandon party did not stay very late. And they dropped Rachel at her
little dwelling. How very silent Dorcas was, thought Rachel, as they
drove from Gylingden. Perhaps others were thinking the same of Rachel.

Next morning, at half-past seven o'clock, a dozen or so of rustics, under
command of Major Jackson, arrived at the back entrance of Brandon Hall,
bearing Stanley Lake upon a shutter, with glassy eyes, that did not seem
to see, sunken face, and a very blue tinge about his mouth.

The major fussed into the house, and saw and talked with Larcom, who was
solemn and bland upon the subject, and went out, first, to make personal
inspection of the captain, who seemed to him to be dying. He was shot
somewhere in the shoulder or breast--they could not see exactly where,
nor disturb him as he lay. A good deal of blood had flowed from him, upon
the arm and side of one of the men who supported his head.

Lake said nothing--he only whispered rather indistinctly one word,
'water'--and was not able to lift his head when it came; and when they
poured it into and over his lips, he sighed and closed his eyes.

'It is not a bad sign, bleeding so freely, but he looks devilish shaky,
you see. I've seen lots of our fellows hit, you know, and I don't like
his looks--poor fellow. You'd better see Lord Chelford this minute. He
could not stand being brought all the way to the town. I'll run down and
send up the doctor, and he'll take him on if he can bear it.'

Major Jackson did not run. Though I have seen with an astonishment that
has never subsided, fellows just as old and as fat, and braced up,
besides, in the inflexibilities of regimentals, keeping up at double
quick, at the heads of their companies, for a good quarter of a mile,
before the colonel on horseback mercifully called a halt.

He walked at his best pace, however, and indeed was confoundedly uneasy
about his own personal liabilities.

The major surprised Doctor Buddle shaving. He popped in unceremoniously.
The fat little doctor received him in drawers and a very tight web
worsted shirt, standing by the window, at which dangled a small
looking-glass.

'By George, Sir, they've been at mischief,' burst forth the major; and
the doctor, razor in hand, listened with wide open eyes and half his face
lathered, to the story. Before it was over the doctor shaved the unshorn
side, and (the major still in the room) completed his toilet in hot
haste.

Honest Major Jackson was very uncomfortable. Of course, Buddle could not
give any sort of opinion upon a case which he had not seen; but it
described uglily, and the major consulted in broken hints, with an uneasy
wink or two, about a flight to Boulogne.

'Well, it will be no harm to be ready; but take no step till I come
back,' said the doctor, who had stuffed a great roll of lint and
plaister, and some other medicinals, into one pocket, and his leather
case of instruments, forceps, probe, scissors, and all the other steel
and silver horrors, into the other; so he strutted forth in his great
coat, unnaturally broad about the hips; and the major, 'devilish
uncomfortable,' accompanied him at a smart pace to the great gate of
Brandon. He did not care to enter, feeling a little guilty, although he
explained on the way all about the matter. How devilish stiff Bracton's
man was about it. And, by Jove, Sir! you know, what was to be said? for
Lake, like a fool, chucked a lot of grapes in his face--for nothing, by
George!'

The doctor, short and broad, was now stumping up the straight avenue,
under the noble trees that roofed it over, and Major Jackson sauntered
about in the vicinity of the gate, more interested in Lake's safety than
he would have believed possible a day or two before.

Lord Chelford being an early man, was, notwithstanding the ball of the
preceding night, dressing, when St. Ange, his Swiss servant, knocked at
his door with a dozen pockethandkerchiefs, a bottle of eau-de-cologne,
and some other properties of his métier.

St. Ange could not wait until he had laid them down, but broke out with--

'Oh, mi Lor!--qu'est-il arrivé?--le pauvre capitaine! il est tué--il se
meurt--he dies--d'un coup de pistolet. He comes de se battre from beating
himself in duel--il a été atteint dans la poitrine--le pauvre
gentil-homme! of a blow of the pistol.'

And so on, the young nobleman gathering the facts as best he might.

'Is Larcom there?'

'In the gallery, mi lor.'

'Ask him to come in.'

So Monsieur Larcom entered, and bowed ominously.

'You've seen him, Larcom. Is he very much hurt?'

'He appears, my lord, to me, I regret to say, almost a-dying like.'

'Very weak? Does he speak to you?'

'Not a word, my lord. Since he got a little water he's quite quiet.'

'Poor fellow. Where have you put him?'

'In the housekeeper's lobby, my lord. I rather think he's a-dying. He
looks uncommon bad, and I and Mrs. Esterbroke, the housekeeper, my lord,
thought you would not like he should die out of doors.'

'Has she got your mistress's directions?'

'Miss Brandon is not called up, my lord, and Mrs. Esterbroke is unwillin'
to halarm her; so she thought it better I should come for orders to your
lordship; which she thinks also the poor young gentleman is certainly
a-dying.'

'Is there any vacant bed-room near where you have placed him? What does
Mrs. ---- the housekeeper, say?'

'She thinks, my lord, the room hopposit, where Mr. Sledd, the architeck,
slep, when 'ere, would answer very nice. It is roomy and hairy, and no
steps. Major Jackson, who is gone to the town to fetch the doctor, my
lord, says Mr. Lake won't a-bear carriage; and so the room on the level,
my lord, would, perhaps, be more convenient.'

'Certainly; tell her so. I will speak to Miss Brandon when she comes
down. How soon will the doctor be here?'

'From a quarter to half an hour, my lord.'

'Then tell the housekeeper to arrange as she proposes, and don't remove
his clothes until the doctor comes. Everyone must assist. I know, St.
Ange, you'll like to assist.'

So Larcom withdrew ceremoniously, and Lord Chelford hastened his toilet,
and was down stairs, and in the room assigned by the housekeeper to the
ill-starred Captain Lake, before Doctor Buddle had arrived.

It had already the dismal character of a sick chamber. Its light was
darkened; its talk was in whispers; and its to-ings and fro-ings on
tip-toe. An obsolete chambermaid had been already installed as nurse.
Little Mrs. Esterbroke, the housekeeper, was fussing hither and thither
about the room noiselessly.

So this gay, astute man of fashion had fallen into the dungeon of sudden
darkness, and the custody of old women; and lay helpless in the stocks,
awaiting the judgment of Buddle. Ridiculous little pudgy Buddle--how
awful on a sudden are you grown--the interpreter of death in this very
case. '_My_ case,' thought that seemingly listless figure on the bed;
'_my_ case--I suppose it _is_ fatal--I am to go out of this room in a
long cloth-covered box. I am going to try, alone and for ever, the value
of those theories of futurity and the unseen which I have quietly scouted
all my days. Oh, that the prophet Buddle were here, to end my tremendous
suspense, and to announce a reprieve from Heaven.'

While the wounded captain lay on the bed, with his clothes on, and the
coverlet over him, and that clay-coloured apathetic face, with closed
eyes, upon the pillow, without sigh or motion, not a whispered word
escaped him; but his brain was appalled, and his heart died within him in
the unspeakable horror of death.

Lord Chelford, too, having looked on Lake with silent, but awful
misgivings, longed for the arrival of the doctor; and was listening and
silent when Buddle's short step and short respiration were heard in the
passage. So Larcom came to the door to announce the doctor in a whisper,
and Buddle fussed into the room, and made his bow to Lord Chelford, and
his brief compliments and condolences.

'Not asleep?' he enquired, standing by the bed.

The captain's lips moved a disclaimer, I suppose, but no sound came.

So the doctor threw open the window-shutters, and clipped Stanley Lake's
exquisite coat ruthlessly through with his scissors, and having cleared
the room of all useless hands, he made his examination.

It was a long visit. Buddle in the hall afterwards declined breakfast--he
had a board to attend. He told Lord Chelford that the case was 'a very
nasty one.'

In fact, the chances were against the captain, and he, Buddle, would wish
a consultation with a London surgeon--whoever Lord Chelford had most
confidence in--Sir Francis Seddley, he thought, would be very
desirable--but, of course, it was for the family to decide. If the
messenger caught the quarter to eleven up train at Dollington, he would
be in London at six, and could return with the doctor by the down mail
train, and so reach Dollington at ten minutes past four next morning,
which would answer, as he would not operate sooner.

As the doctor toddled towards Gylingden, with sympathetic Major Jackson
by his side, before they entered the town they were passed by one of the
Brandon men riding at a hard canter for Dollington.

'London?' shouted the doctor, as the man touched his hat in passing.

'Yes, Sir.'

'Glad o' that,' said the major, looking after him.

'So am I,' said the learned Buddle. 'I don't see how we're to get the
bullet out of him, without mischief. Poor devil, I'm afraid he'll do no
good.'

The ladies that morning had tea in their rooms. It was near twelve
o'clock when Lord Chelford saw Miss Brandon. She was in the conservatory
amongst her flowers, and on seeing him stepped into the drawing-room.

'I hope, Dorcas, you are not angry with me. I've been, I'm afraid, very
impertinent; but I was called on to decide for you, in your absence, and
they all thought poor Lake could not be moved on to Gylingden without
danger.'

'You did quite rightly, Chelford, and I thank you,' said Miss Brandon,
coldly; and she seated herself, and continued--

'Pray, what does the doctor really say?'

'He speaks very seriously.'

'Does he think there is danger?'

'Very great danger.'

Miss Brandon looked down, and then, with a pale gaze suddenly in
Chelford's face--

'He thinks he may die?' said she.

'Yes,' said Lord Chelford, in a very low tone, returning her gaze
solemnly.

'And nobody to advise but that village doctor, Buddle--that's hardly
credible, I think.'

'Pardon me. At his suggestion I have sent for Sir Francis Seddley, from
town, and I hope he may arrive early to-morrow morning.'

'Why, Stanley Lake may die to-day.'

'He does not apprehend that. But it is necessary to remove the bullet,
and the operation will be critical, and it is for that specially that Sir
Francis is coming down.'

'It is to take place to-morrow, and he'll die in that operation. You know
he'll die,' said Dorcas, pale and fierce.

'I assure you, Dorcas, I have been perfectly frank. He looks upon poor
Lake as in very great danger--but that is all.'

'What brutes you men are!' said Dorcas, with a wild scorn in her look and
accent, and her cheeks flushed with passion. 'You knew quite well last
night there was to be this wicked duel in the morning--and you--a
magistrate--a lord-lieutenant--what are you?--you connived at this bloody
conspiracy--and _he_--your own cousin, Chelford--your cousin!'

Chelford looked at her, very much amazed.

'Yes; you are worse than Sir Harry Bracton--for you're no fool; and worse
than that wicked old man. Major Jackson--who shall never enter these
doors again--for he was employed--trusted in their brutal plans; but you
had no excuse and every opportunity--and you have allowed your Cousin
Stanley to be murdered.'

'You do me great injustice, Dorcas. I did not know, or even suspect that
a hostile meeting between poor Lake and Bracton was thought of. I merely
heard that there had been some trifling altercation in the supper-room;
and when, intending to make peace between them, I alluded to it, just
before we left, and Bracton said it was really nothing--quite blown
over--and that he could not recollect what either had said. I was
entirely deceived--you know I speak truth--quite deceived. They think it
fair, you know, to dupe other people in such affairs; and I will also
say,' he continued, a little haughtily, 'that you might have spared your
censure until at least you had heard what I had to say.'

'I do believe you, Chelford; you are not vexed with me. Won't you shake
hands?'

He took her hand with a smile.

'And now,' said she, 'Chelford, ought not we to send for poor Rachel: her
only brother? Is not it sad?'

'Certainly; shall I ask my mother, or will you write?'

'I will write,' she said.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

IN WHICH MISS RACHEL LAKE COMES TO BRANDON, AND DOCTOR BUDDLE CALLS
AGAIN.


In about an hour afterwards, Rachel Lake arrived in the carriage which
had been despatched for her with Dorcas's note.

She was a good deal muffled up, and looked very pale, and asked whether
Miss Brandon was in her room, whither she glided rapidly up stairs. It
was a sort of boudoir or dressing-room, with a few pretty old portraits
and miniatures, and a number of Louis Quatorze looking-glasses hung
round, and such pretty quaint cabriole gilt and pale green furniture.

Dorcas met her at the door, and they kissed silently.

'How is he, Dorcas?'

'Very ill, dear, I'm afraid--sit down, darling.'

Rachel was relieved, for in her panic she almost feared to ask if he were
living.

'Is there immediate danger?'

'The doctor says not, but he is very much alarmed for to-morrow.'

'Oh! Dorcas, darling, he'll die; I know it. Oh! merciful Heaven! how
tremendous.'

'You will not be so frightened in a little time. You have only just heard
it, Rachel dearest, and you are startled. I was so myself.'

'I'd like to see him, Dorcas.'

'Sit here a little and rest, dear. The doctor will make his visit
immediately, and then we can ask him. He's a good-natured little
creature--poor old Buddle--and I am certain if it can safely be, he won't
prevent it.'

'Where is he, darling--where is Stanley?'

So Dorcas described as well as she could.

'Oh, poor Stanley. Oh, Stanley--poor Stanley,' gasped Rachel, with white
lips. 'You have no idea, Dorcas--no one can--how terrific it is. Oh, poor
Stanley--poor Stanley.'

'Drink this water, darling; you must not be so excited.'

'Dorcas, say what the doctor may, see him I must.'

'There is time to think of that, darling.'

'Has he spoken to anyone?'

'Very little, I believe. He whispers a few words now and then--that is
all.'

'Nothing to Chelford--nothing particular, I mean?'

'No--nothing--at least that I have heard of.'

'Did he wish to see no one?'

'No one, dear.'

'Not poor William Wylder?'

'No, dear. I don't suppose he cares more for a clergyman than for any
other man; none of his family ever did, when they came to lie on a bed of
sickness, or of death either.'

'No, no,' said Rachel, wildly; 'I did not mean to pray. I was not
thinking of that; but William Wylder was different; and he did not
mention _me_ either?'

Dorcas shook her head.

'I knew it,' continued Rachel, with a kind of shudder. 'And tell me,
Dorcas, does he know that he is in danger--such imminent danger?'

'That I cannot say, Rachel, dear. I don't believe doctors like to tell
their patients so.'

There was a silence of some minutes, and Rachel, clasping her hands in an
agony, said--

'Oh, yes--he's gone--he's certainly gone; and I remain alone under that
dreadful burden.'

'Please, Miss Brandon, the doctor's down stairs with Captain Lake,' said
the maid, opening the door.

'Is Lord Chelford with him?'

'Yes, Miss, please.'

'Then tell him I will be so obliged if he will come here for a moment,
when the doctor is gone; and ask the doctor now, from me, how he thinks
Captain Lake.'

In a little while the maid returned. Captain Lake was not so low, and
rather better than this morning, the doctor said; and Rachel raised her
eyes, and whispered an agitated thanksgiving. 'Was Lord Chelford coming?'

'His lordship had left the room when she returned, and Mr. Larcom said he
was with Lawyer Larkin in the library.'

'Mr. Larkin can wait. Tell Lord Chelford I wish very much to see him
here.'

So away went the maid again. A message in that great house was a journey;
and there was a little space before they heard a knock at the door of
Dorcas's pretty room, and Lord Chelford, duly invited, came in.

Lord Chelford was surprised to see Rachel, and held her hand, while he
congratulated her on the more favourable opinion of the physician this
afternoon; and then he gave them, as fully and exactly as he could, all
the lights emitted by Dr. Buddle, and endeavoured to give his narrative
as cheerful and confident an air as he could. Then, at length, he
recollected that Mr. Larkin was waiting in the study.

'I quite forgot Mr. Larkin,' said he; 'I left him in the library, and I
am so very glad we have had a pleasanter report upon poor Lake this
evening; and I am sure we shall all feel more comfortable on seeing Sir
Francis Seddley. He _is_ such an admirable surgeon; and I feel sure he'll
strike out something for our poor patient. I've known him hit upon such
original expedients, and make such wonderful successes.'

So with a kind smile he left the room.

Then there was a long pause.

'Does he really think that Stanley will recover?' said Rachel.

'I don't know; I suppose he hopes it. I don't know, Rachel, what to think
of anyone or anything. What wild beasts they are. How "swift to shed
blood," as poor William Wylder said last Sunday. Have you any idea what
they quarrelled about?'

'None in the world. It was that odious Sir Harry Bracton--was not it?'

'Why so odious, Rachel? How can you tell which was in the wrong? I only
know he seems to be a better marksman than your poor brother.'

Rachel looked at her with something of haughty and surprised displeasure,
but said nothing.

'You look at me, Radie, as if I were a monster--or _monstress_, I should
say--whereas I am only a Brandon. Don't you remember how our great
ancestor, who fought for the House of York, changed suddenly to
Lancaster, and how Sir Richard left the King and took part with Cromwell,
not for any particular advantage, I believe, or for any particular reason
even, but for wickedness and wounded pride, perhaps.'

'I don't quite see your meaning, Dorcas. I can't understand how _your_
pride has been hurt; but if Stanley had any, I can well imagine what
torture it must have endured; wretched, wicked, punished fool!'

'You suspect what they fought about, Radie!'

Rachel made no answer.

'You do, Radie, and why do you dissemble with me?'

'I don't dissemble; I don't care to speak; but if you will have me say
so, I _do_ suspect--I think it must have originated in jealousy of you.'

'You look, Radie, as if you thought I had managed it--whereas I really
did not care.'

'I do not understand you, Dorcas; but you appear to me very cruel, and
you smile, as I say so.'

'I smile, because I sometimes think so myself.'

With a fixed and wrathful stare Rachel returned the enigmatical gaze of
her beautiful cousin.

'If Stanley dies, Dorcas, Sir Harry Bracton shall hear of it. I'll lose
my life, but he shall pay the forfeit of his crime.'

So saying, Rachel left the room, and gliding through passages, and down
stairs, she knocked at Stanley's door. The old woman opened it.

'Ah, Dorothy! I'm so glad to see _you_ here!' and she put a present in
her hard, crumpled hand.

So, noiselessly, Rachel Lake, without more parley, stepped into the room,
and closed the door. She was alone with Stanley with a beating heart, and
a kind of chill stealing over her, by her brother's bed.

The room was not so dark that she could not see distinctly enough.

There lay her brother, such as he was--still her brother, on the bleak,
neutral ground between life and death. His features, peaked and earthy,
and that look, so new and peculiar, which does not savour of life upon
them. He did not move, but his strange eyes gazed cold and earnest from
their deep sockets upon her face in awful silence. Perhaps he thought he
saw a phantom.

'Are you better, dear?' whispered Rachel.

His lips stirred and his throat, but he did not speak until a second
effort brought utterance, and he murmured,

'Is that you, Radie?'

'Yes, dear. Are you better?'

'_No_. I'm shot. I shall die to-night. Is it night yet?'

'Don't despair, Stanley, dear. The great London doctor, Sir Francis
Seddley, will be with you early in the morning, and Chelford has great
confidence in him. I'm sure he will relieve you.'

'This is Brandon?' murmured Lake.

'Yes, dear.'

She thought he was going to say more, but he remained silent, and she
recollected that he ought not to speak, and also that she had that to say
which must be said.

Sharp, dark, and strange lay that familiar face upon the white pillow.
The faintest indication of something like a peevish sneer; it might be
only the lines of pain and fatigue; still it had that unpleasant
character remaining fixed on its features.

'Oh, Stanley! you say you think you are dying. Won't you send for William
Wylder and Chelford, and tell all you know of Mark?'

She saw he was about to say something, and she leaned her head near his
lips, and she heard him whisper,--

'It won't serve Mark.'

'I'm thinking of _you_, Stanley--I'm thinking of you.'

To which he said either 'Yes' or 'So.' She could not distinguish.

'I view it now quite differently. You said, you know, in the park, you
would tell Chelford; and I resisted, I believe, but I don't now. I had
_rather_ you did. Yes, Stanley, I conjure you to tell it all.'

The cold lips, with a livid halo round them, murmured, 'Thank you.'

It was a sneer, very shocking just then, perhaps; but unquestionably a
sneer.

'Poor Stanley!' she murmured, with a kind of agony, looking down upon
that changed face. 'One word more, Stanley. Remember, it's I, the only
one on earth who stands near you in kindred, your sister, Stanley, who
implores of you to take this step before it is too late; at least, to
consider.'

He said something. She thought it was 'I'll think;' and then he closed
his eyes. It was the only motion she had observed, his face lay just as
it had done on the pillow. He had not stirred all the time she was there;
and now that his eyelids closed, it seemed to say, our interview is
over--the curtain has dropped; and so understanding it, with that one
awful look that may be the last, she glided from the bed-side, told old
Dorothy that he seemed disposed to sleep, and left the room.

There is something awful always in the spectacle of such a sick-bed as
that beside which Rachel had just stood. But not quite so dreadful is the
sight as are the imaginings and the despair of absence. So reassuring is
the familiar spectacle of life, even in its subsidence, so long as bodily
torture and mental aberration are absent.

In the meanwhile, on his return to the library, Lord Chelford found his
dowager mother in high chat with the attorney, whom she afterwards
pronounced 'a very gentlemanlike man for his line of life.'

The conversation, indeed, was chiefly that of Lady Chelford, the
exemplary attorney contributing, for the most part, a polite
acquiescence, and those reflections which most appositely pointed the
moral of her ladyship's tale, which concerned altogether the vagaries of
Mark Wylder--a subject which piqued her curiosity and irritated her
passions.

It was a great day for Jos. Larkin; for by the time Lord Chelford
returned the old lady had asked him to stay for dinner, which he did,
notwithstanding his morning dress, to his great inward satisfaction,
because he could henceforward mention, 'the other day, when I dined at
Brandon,' or 'old Lady Chelford assured me, when last I dined at
Brandon;' and he could more intimately speak of 'our friends at Brandon,'
and 'the Brandon people,' and, in short, this dinner was very serviceable
to the excellent attorney.

It was not very amusing this interchange of thought and feeling between
Larkin and the dowager, upon a theme already so well ventilated as Mark
Wylder's absconding, and therefore I let it pass.

After dinner, when the dowager's place knew her no more, Lord Chelford
resumed his talk with Larkin.

'I am quite confirmed in the view I took at first,' he said. 'Wylder has
no claim upon me. There are others on whom much more naturally the care
of his money would devolve, and I think that my undertaking the office he
proposes, under his present strange circumstances, might appear like an
acquiescence in the extraordinary course he has taken, and a sanction
generally of his conduct, which I certainly can't approve. So, Mr.
Larkin, I have quite made up my mind. I have no business to undertake
this trust, simple as it is.'

'I have only, my lord, to bow to your lordship's decision; at the same
time I cannot but feel, my lord, how peculiar and painful is the position
in which it places me. There are rents to be received by me, and sums
handed over, to a considerable--I may say, indeed, a very large amount:
and my friend Lake--Captain Lake--now, unhappily, in so very precarious a
state, appears to dislike the office, also, and to anticipate annoyance,
in the event of his consenting to act. Altogether, your lordship will
perceive that the situation is one of considerable, indeed very great
embarrassment, as respects me. There is, however, one satisfactory
circumstance disclosed in his last letter. His return, he says, cannot be
delayed beyond a very few months, perhaps _weeks;_ and he states, in his
own rough way, that he will then explain the motives of his conduct to
the entire satisfaction of all those who are cognizant of the measures
which he has adopted--no more claret, thanks--no more--a delicious
wine--and he adds, it will then be quite understood that he
has acted neither from caprice, nor from any motive other than
self-preservation. I assure you, my lord, that is the identical phrase he
employs--self-preservation. I all along suspected, or, rather, I mean,
supposed, that Mr. Wylder had been placed in this matter under
coercion--a--a threat.'

'A little more wine?' asked Lord Chelford, after another interval.

'No--no more, I thank you. Your lordship's very good, and the wine, I may
say, excellent--delicious claret; indeed, quite so--ninety shillings a
dozen, I should venture to say, and hardly to be had at that figure; but
it grows late, I rather think, and the trustees of our little Wesleyan
chapel--we've got a little into debt in that quarter, I am sorry to
say--and I promised to advise with them this evening at nine o'clock.
They have called me to counsel more than once, poor fellows; and so, with
your lordship's permission, I'll withdraw.'

Lord Chelford walked with him to the steps. It was a beautiful
night--very little moon, but that and the stars wonderfully clear and
bright, and all things looking so soft and airy.

'Try one of these,' said the peer, presenting his cigar-case.

Larkin, with a glow of satisfaction, took one of these noble cigars, and
rolled it in his fingers, and smelt it.

'Fragrant--wonderfully fragrant!' he observed, meekly, with a
connoisseur's shake of the head.

The night was altogether so charming that Lord Chelford was tempted. So
he took his cap, and lighted his cigar, too, and strolled a little way
with the attorney.

He walked under the solemn trees--the same under whose airy groyning
Wylder and Lake had walked away together on that noteworthy night on
which Mark had last turned his back upon the grand old gables and twisted
chimneys of Brandon Hall.

This way was rather a round, it must be confessed, to the Lodge--Jos,
Larkin's peaceful retreat. But a stroll with a lord was worth more than
that sacrifice, and every incident which helped to make a colourable case
of confidential relations at Brandon--a point in which the good attorney
had been rather weak hitherto--was justly prized by that virtuous man.

If the trustees, Smith the pork-butcher, old Captain Snoggles, the Town
Clerk, and the rest, had to wait some twenty minutes in the drawing-room
at the Lodge, so much the better. An apology was, perhaps, the best and
most modest shape into which he could throw the advertisement of his
dinner at Brandon--his confidential talk with the proud old dowager, and
his after-dinner ramble with that rising young peer, Lord Chelford. It
would lead him gracefully into detail, and altogether the idea, the
situation, the scene and prospect, were so soothing and charming, that
the good attorney felt a silent exaltation as he listened to Lord
Chelford's two or three delighted sentences upon the illimitable wonders
and mysteries glimmering in the heavens above them.

The cigar was delicious, the air balmy and pleasant, his digestion happy,
the society unexceptionably aristocratic--a step had just been gained,
and his consideration in the town and the country round improved, by the
occurrences of the evening, and his whole system, in consequence, in a
state so serene, sweet and satisfactory, that I really believe there was
genuine moisture in his pink, dove-like eyes, as he lifted them to the
heavens, and murmured, 'Beautiful, beautiful!' And he mistook his
sensations for a holy rapture and silent worship.

Cigars, like other pleasures, are transitory. Lord Chelford threw away
his stump, tendered his case again to Mr. Larkin, and then took his
leave, walking slowly homewards.




CHAPTER XL.

THE ATTORNEY'S ADVENTURES ON THE WAY HOME.


Mr. Jos. Larkin was now moving alone, under the limbs of the Brandon
trees. He knew the path, as he had boasted to Lord Chelford, from his
boyhood; and, as he pursued his way, his mind got upon the accustomed
groove, and amused itself with speculations respecting the vagaries of
Mark Wylder.

'I wonder what his lordship thinks. He was very close--very,' ruminated
Larkin; 'no distinct ideas about it possibly; and did not seem to wish to
lead me to the subject. Can he _know_ anything? Eh, can he possibly?
Those high fellows are very knowing often--so much on the turf, and all
that--very sharp and very deep.'

He was thinking of a certain noble lord in difficulties, who had hit a
client of his rather hard, and whose affairs did not reflect much credit
upon their noble conductor.

'Aye, I dare say, deep enough, and intimate with the Lakes. He expects to
be home in two months' time. _He's_ a deep fellow too; he does not like
to let people know what he's about. I should not be surprised if he came
to-morrow. Lake and Lord Chelford may both know more than they say. Why
should they both object merely to receive and fund his money? They think
he wants to get them into a fix--hey? If I'm to conduct his business, I
ought to know it; if he keeps a secret from me, affecting all his
business relations, like this, and driving him about the world like an
absconding bankrupt, how can I advise him?'

All this drifted slowly through his mind, and each suggestion had its
collateral speculations; and so it carried him pleasantly a good way on
his walk, and he was now in the shadow of the dense copsewood that
mantles the deep ravine which debouches into Redman's Dell.

The road was hardly two yards wide, and the wood walled it in, and
overhung it occasionally in thick, irregular masses. As the attorney
marched leisurely onward, he saw, or fancied that he saw, now and then,
in uncertain glimpses, something white in motion among the trees beside
him.

At first he did not mind; but it continued, and grew gradually
unpleasant. It might be a goat, a white goat; but no, it was too tall for
that. Had he seen it at all? Aye! there it was, no mistake now. A
poacher, maybe? But their poachers were not of the dangerous sort, and
there had not been a robber about Gylingden within the memory of man.
Besides, why on earth should either show himself in that absurd way?

He stopped--he listened--he stared suspiciously into the profound
darkness. Then he thought he heard a rustling of the leaves near him, and
he hallooed, 'Who's there?' But no answer came.

So, taking heart of grace, he marched on, still zealously peering among
the trees, until, coming to an opening in the pathway, he more distinctly
saw a tall, white figure, standing in an ape-like attitude, with its arms
extended, grasping two boughs, and stooping, as if peeping cautiously, as
he approached.

The good attorney drew up and stared at this gray phantasm, saying to
himself, 'Yes,' in a sort of quiet hiss.

He stopped in a horror, and as he gazed, the figure suddenly drew back
and disappeared.

'Very pleasant this!' said the attorney, after a pause, recovering a
little. 'What on earth can it be?'

Jos. Larkin could not tell which way it had gone. He had already passed
the midway point, where this dark path begins to descend through the
ravine into Redman's Dell. He did not like going forward--but to turn
back might bring him again beside the mysterious figure. And though he
was not, of course, afraid of ghosts, nor in this part of the world, of
robbers, yet somehow he did not know what to make of this gigantic gray
monkey.

So, not caring to stay longer, and seeing nothing to be gained by turning
back, the attorney buttoned the top button of his coat, and holding his
head very erect, and placing as much as he could of the path between
himself and the side where the figure had disappeared, marched on
steadily. It was too dark, and the way not quite regular enough, to
render any greater speed practicable.

From the thicket, as he proceeded, he heard a voice--he had often shot
woodcocks in that cover--calling in a tone that sounded in his ears like
banter, 'Mark--Mark--Mark--Mark.'

He stopped, holding his breath, and the sound ceased.

'Well, this certainly is not usual,' murmured Mr. Larkin, who was a
little more perturbed than perhaps he quite cared to acknowledge even to
himself. 'Some fellow perhaps watching for a friend--or tricks, maybe.'

Then the attorney, trying his supercilious smile in the dark, listened
again for a good while, but nothing was heard except those whisperings of
the wind which poets speak of. He looked before him with his eyebrows
screwed, in a vain effort to pierce the darkness, and the same behind
him; and then after another pause, he began uncomfortably to move down
the path once more.

In a short time the same voice, with the same uncertain echo among the
trees, cried faintly, 'Mark--Mark,' and then a pause; then again,
'Mark--Mark--Mark,' and then it grew more distant, and sounded among the
trees and reverberations of the glen like laughter.

'Mark--ha--ha--hark--ha--ha--ha--hark--Mark--Mark--ha--ha--hark!'

'Who's there?' cried the attorney, in a tone rather ferocious from
fright, and stamping on the path. But his summons and the provocation
died away together in the profoundest silence.

Mr. Jos. Larkin did not repeat his challenge. This cry of 'Mark!' was
beginning to connect itself uncomfortably in his mind with his
speculations about his wealthy client, which in that solitude and
darkness began to seem not so entirely pure and disinterested as he was
in the habit of regarding them, and a sort of wood-demon, such as a queer
little schoolfellow used long ago to read a tale about in an old German
story-book, was now dogging his darksome steps, and hanging upon his
flank with a vindictive design.

Jos. Larkin was not given to fancy, nor troubled with superstition. His
religion was of a comfortable, punctual, business-like cast, which
according with his genius--denied him, indeed, some things for which, in
truth, he had no taste--but in no respect interfered with his main
mission upon earth, which was getting money. He had found no difficulty
hitherto in serving God and Mammon. The joint business prospered. Let us
suppose it was one of those falterings of faith, which try the best men,
that just now made him feel a little queer, and gave his thoughts about
Mark Wylder, now grown habitual, that new and ghastly complexion which
made the situation so unpleasant.

He wished himself more than once well out of this confounded pass, and
listened nervously for a good while, and stared once more,
half-frightened, in various directions, into the darkness.

'If I thought there could be anything the least wrong or
reprehensible--we are all fallible--in my allowing my mind to turn so
much upon my client, I can certainly say I should be very far from
allowing it--I shall certainly consider it--and I may promise myself to
decide in a Christian spirit, and if there be a doubt, to give it against
myself.'

This resolution, which was, he trusted, that of a righteous man, was, I
am afraid, the effect rather of fright than reflection, and employed in
that sense somewhat in the manner of an exorcism--whispered rather to the
ghost than to his conscience.

I am sure Larkin did not himself suppose this. On the contrary, he really
believed, I am convinced, that he scouted the ghost, and had merely
volunteered this salutary self-examination as an exercise of conscience.
He could not, however, have doubted that he was very nervous--and that he
would have been glad of the companionship even of one of the Gylingden
shopkeepers, through this infested bit of wood.

Having again addressed himself to his journey, he was now approaching
that part of the path where the trees recede a little, leaving a
considerable space unoccupied at either side of his line of march. Here
there was faint moonlight and starlight, very welcome; but a little in
advance of him, where the copsewood closed in again, just above those
stone steps which Lake and his sister Rachel had mounted together upon
the night of the memorable rendezvous, he fancied that he again saw the
gray figure cowering among the foremost stems of the wood.

It was a great shock. He stopped short--and as he stared upon the object,
he felt that electric chill and rising of the hair which accompany
supernatural panic.

As he gazed, however, it was gone. Yes. At all events, he could see it no
more. Had he seen it there at all? He was in such an odd state he could
not quite trust himself. He looked back hesitatingly. But he remembered
how very long and dark the path that way was, and how unpleasant his
adventures there had been. And although there was a chance that the gray
monkey was lurking somewhere near the path, still there was now but a
short space between him and the broad carriage track down Redman's Dell,
and once upon that he considered himself almost in the street of
Gylingden.

So he made up his mind, and marched resolutely onward, and had nearly
reached that point at which the converging screen of thicket again
overshadows the pathway, when close at his side he saw the tall, white
figure push itself forward among the branches, and in a startling
under-tone of enquiry, like a conspirator challenging his brother, a
voice--the same which he had so often heard during this walk--cried over
his shoulder,

'Mark _Wylder_!'

Larkin sprung back a pace or two, turning his face full upon the
challenger, who in his turn was perhaps affrighted, for the same voice
uttered a sort of strangled shriek, and he heard the branches crack and
rustle as he pushed his sudden retreat through them--leaving the attorney
more horrified than ever.

No other sound but the melancholy soughing of the night-breeze, and the
hoarse murmur of the stream rising from the stony channel of Redman's
Dell, were now, or during the remainder of his walk through these haunted
grounds, again audible.

So, with rapid strides passing the dim gables of Redman's Farm, he at
length found himself, with a sense of indescribable relief, upon the
Gylingden road, and could see the twinkling lights in the windows of the
main-street.




CHAPTER XLI.

IN WHICH SIR FRANCIS SEDDLEY MANIPULATES.


At about two o'clock Buddle was called up, and spirited away to Brandon
in a dog-cart. A haemorrhage, perhaps, a sudden shivering, and
inflammation--a sinking, maybe, or delirium--some awful change,
probably--for Buddle did not return.

Old Major Jackson heard of it, in his early walk, at Buddle's door. He
had begun to grow more hopeful. But hearing this he walked home, and
replaced the dress-coat and silk stockings he had ventured to remove,
promptly in his valise, which he buckled down and locked--swallowed with
agitated voracity some fragments of breakfast--got on his easy boots and
gaiters--brushed his best hat, and locked it into its leather
case--placed his rug, great-coat, and umbrella, and a rough walking-stick
for service, and a gold-tipped, exquisite cane, for duty on promenades of
fashion, neatly on top of his valise, and with his old white hat and
shooting-coat on, looking and whistling as much as possible as usual, he
popped carelessly into John Hobbs's stable, where he was glad to see
three horses standing, and he mentally chose the black cob for his flight
to Dollington.

'A bloodthirsty rascal that Bracton,' muttered the major. The expenses
were likely to be awful, and some allowance was to be made for his state
of mind.

He was under Doctor Buddle's porch, and made a flimsy rattle with his
thin brass knocker. 'Maybe he has returned?' He did not believe it,
though.

Major Jackson was very nervous, indeed. The up trains from Dollington
were 'few and far between,' and that _diddled_ Crutchleigh would be down
on him the moment the breath was out of poor Lake. 'It was plain
yesterday at the sessions that infernal woman (his wife) had been at him.
She hates Bracton like poison, because he likes the Brandon people; and,
by Jove, he'll have up every soul concerned. The Devil and his wife I
call them. If poor Lake goes off anywhere between eleven and four
o'clock, I'm nabbed, by George!'

The door was opened. The doctor peeped out of his parlour.

'Well?' enquired the major, confoundedly frightened.

'Pretty well, thank ye, but awfully fagged--up all night, and no use.'

'But how _is_ he?' asked the major, with a dreadful qualm of dismay.

'Same as yesterday--no change--only a little bleeding last night--not
arterial; venous you know--only venous.'

The major thought he spoke of the goddess, and though he did not well
comprehend, said he was 'glad of it.'

'Think he'll do then?'

'He may--very unlikely though. A nasty case, as you can imagine.'

'He'll certainly not go, poor fellow, before four o'clock P.M. I dare
say--eh?'

The major's soul was at the Dollington station, and was regulating poor
Lake's departure by 'Bradshaw's Guide.'

'Who knows? We expect Sir Francis this morning. Glad to have a share of
the responsibility off my shoulders, I can tell you. Come in and have a
chop, will you?'

'No, thank you, I've had my breakfast.'

'You have, have you? Well, I haven't,' cried the doctor, with an
agreeable chuckle, shaking the major's hand, and disappearing again into
his parlour.

I found in my lodgings in London, on my return from Doncaster, some two
months later, a copy of the county paper of this date, with a cross
scrawled beside the piece of intelligence which follows. I knew that
tremulous cross. It was traced by the hand of poor old Miss Kybes--with
her many faults always kind to me. It bore the Brandon postmark, and
altogether had the impress of authenticity. It said:--

'We have much pleasure in stating that the severe injury sustained four
days since by Captain Stanley Lake, at the time a visitor at the Lodge,
the picturesque residence of Josiah Larkin, Esq., in the vicinity of
Gylingden, is not likely to prove so difficult of treatment or so
imminently dangerous as was at first apprehended. The gallant gentleman
was removed from the scene of his misadventure to Brandon Hall, close to
which the accident occurred, and at which mansion his noble relatives,
Lord Chelford and the Dowager Lady Chelford, are at present staying on a
visit. Sir Francis Seddley came down express from London, and assisted by
our skilful county practitioner, Humphrey Buddle, Esq., M.D. of
Gylingden, operated most successfully on Saturday last, and we are happy
to say the gallant patient has since been going on as favourably as could
possibly have been anticipated. Sir Francis Seddley returned to London on
Sunday afternoon.'

Within a week after the operation, Buddle began to talk so confidently
about his patient, that the funereal cloud that overhung Brandon had
almost totally disappeared, and Major Jackson had quite unpacked his
portmanteau.

About a week after the 'accident' there came one of Mr. Mark Wylder's
strange letters to Mr. Jos. Larkin. This time it was from Marseilles, and
bore date the 27th November. It was much the longest he had yet received,
and was in the nature of a despatch, rather than of those short notes in
which he had hitherto, for the most part, communicated.

Like the rest of his letters it was odd, but written, as it seemed, in
better spirits.

'Dear Larkin,--You will be surprised to find me in this port, but I think
my secret cruise is nearly over now, and you will say the plan was a
master-stroke, and well executed by a poor devil, with nobody to advise
him. I am coiling such a web round them, and making it fast, as you may
see a spider, first to this point and then to the other, that I won't
leave my persecutors one solitary chance of escape. I'll draw it quietly
round and round--closer and closer--till they can neither blow nor budge,
and then up to the yardarm they go, with what breath is left in them. You
don't know yet _how_ I am dodging, or why my measures are taken; but I'll
shorten your long face a good inch with a genuine broad grin when you
learn how it all was. I may see you to tell the story in four weeks'
time; but keep this close. Don't mention where I write from, nor even so
much as my name. I have reasons for everything, which you may guess, I
dare say, being a sharp chap; and it is not for nothing, be very sure,
that I am running this queer rig, masquerading, hiding, and dodging, like
a runaway forger, which is not pleasant anyway, and if you doubt it, only
try; but needs must when the old boy drives. He is a clever fellow, no
doubt, but has been sometimes out-witted before now. You must arrange
about Chelford and Lake. I don't know where Lake is staying. I don't
suppose at Brandon; but he won't stay in the country nor spend his money
to please you or I. Therefore you must have him at your house--be
sure--and I will square it with you; I think three pounds a week ought to
do it very handsome. Don't be a muff and give him expensive wines--a pint
of sherry is plenty between you; and when he dines at his club
half-a-pint does him. _I_ know; but if he costs you more, I hereby
promise to pay it. Won't that do? Well, about Chelford: I have been
thinking he takes airs, and maybe he is on his high-horse about that
awkward business about Miss Brandon. But there is no reason why Captain
Lake should object. He has only to hand you a receipt in my name for the
amount of cheques you may give him, and to lodge a portion of it where I
told him, and the rest to buy consols; and I suppose he will expect
payment for his no-trouble. Every fellow, particularly these
gentlemanlike fellows, they have a pluck at you when they can. If he is
at that, give him at the rate of a hundred a-year, or a hundred and fifty
if you think he won't do for less; though 100 £ . ought to be a good deal
to Lake; and tell him I have a promise of the adjutancy of the county
militia, if he likes that; and I am sure of a seat in Parliament either
for the county or for Dollington, as you know, and can do better for him
then; and I rely on you, one way or another, to make him undertake it.
And now for myself: I think my vexation is very near ended. I have not
fired a gun yet, and they little think what a raking broadside I'll give
them. Any of the county people you meet, tell them I'm making a little
excursion on the Continent; and if they go to particularise, you may say
the places I have been at. Don't let anyone know more. I wish there was
any way of stopping that old she'--(it looked like dragon or devil--but
was traced over with a cloud of flourishes, and only 'Lady Chelford's
mouth' was left untouched). 'Don't expect to hear from me so long a yarn
for some time again; and don't write. I don't stay long anywhere, and
don't carry my own name--and never ask for letters at the post. I've a
good glass, and can see pretty far, and make a fair guess enough what's
going on aboard the enemy.

'I remain always,

'Dear Larkin,

'Ever yours truly,

'MARK WYLDER.'

'He hardly trusts Lake more than he does me, I presume,' murmured Mr.
Larkin, elevating his tall bald head with an offended and supercilious
air; and letting the thin, open letter fall, or rather throwing it with a
slight whisk upon the table.

'No, I take leave to think he certainly does _not_. Lake has got private
directions about the disposition of a portion of the money. Of course, if
there are persons to be dealt with who are not pleasantly approachable by
respectable professional people--in fact it would not suit me. It is
really rather a compliment, and relieves me of the unpleasant necessity
of saying--no.'

Yet Mr. Larkin was very sore, and curious, and in a measure, hated both
Lake and Wylder for their secret confidences, and was more than ever
resolved to get at the heart of Mark's mystery.




CHAPTER XLII.

A PARAGRAPH IN THE COUNTY PAPER.


The nature of his injury considered, Captain Lake recovered with
wonderful regularity and rapidity. In four weeks he was out rather pale
and languid but still able to walk without difficulty, leaning on a
stick, for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. In another fortnight he had
made another great advance, had thrown away his crutch-handled stick, and
recovered flesh and vigour. In a fortnight more he had grown quite like
himself again; and in a very few weeks more, I read in the same county
paper, transmitted to me by the same fair hands, but this time not with a
cross, but three distinct notes of admiration standing tremulously at the
margin of the paragraph, the following to me for a time incredible, and
very nearly to this day amazing, announcement:--

    'MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.

'The auspicious event so interesting to our county, which we have this
day to announce, though for some time upon the _tapis_, has been attended
with as little publicity as possible. The contemplated union between
Captain Stanley Lake, late of the Guards, sole surviving son of the late
General Williams Stanley Stanley Lake, of Plasrhwyn, and the beautiful
and accomplished Miss Brandon, of Brandon Hall, in this county, was
celebrated in the ancestral chapel of Brandon, situated within the
manorial boundaries, in the immediate vicinity of the town of Gylingden,
on yesterday. Although the marriage was understood to be strictly
private--none but the immediate relations of the bride and bridegroom
being present--the bells of Gylingden rang out merry peals throughout the
day, and the town was tastefully decorated with flags, and brilliantly
illuminated at night.

'A deputation of the tenantry of the Gylingden and the Longmoor estates,
together with those of the Brandon estate, went in procession to Brandon
Hall in the afternoon, and read a well-conceived and affectionate
address, which was responded to in appropriate terms by Captain Lake, who
received them, with his beautiful bride at his side, in the great
gallery--perhaps the noblest apartment in that noble ancestral mansion.
The tenantry were afterwards handsomely entertained under the immediate
direction of Josiah Larkin, Esq., of the Lodge, the respected manager of
the Brandon estates, at the Brandon Arms, in the town of Gylingden. It
is understood that the great territorial influence of the Brandon family
will obtain a considerable accession in the estates of the bridegroom in
the south of England.'

There was some more which I need not copy, being very like what we
usually see on such occasions.

I read this piece of intelligence half a dozen times over during
breakfast. 'How that beautiful girl has thrown herself away!' I thought.
'Surely the Chelfords, who have an influence there, ought to have exerted
it to prevent her doing anything so mad. His estates in the south of
England, indeed! Why, he can't have £300 a year clear from that little
property in Devon. He _is_ such a liar; and so absurd, as if he could
succeed in deceiving anyone upon the subject.'

So I read the paragraph over again, and laid down the paper, simply
saying, 'Well, certainly, that _is_ disgusting!'

I had heard of his duel. It was also said that it had in some way had
reference to Miss Brandon. But this was the only rumoured incident which
would at all have prepared one for the occurrence. I tried to recollect
anything particular in his manner--there was nothing; and she positively
seemed to dislike him. I had been utterly mystified, and so, I presume,
had all the other lookers-on.

Well! after all, 'twas no particular business of mine.

At the club, I saw it in the 'Morning Post;' and an hour after, old Joe
Gabloss, that prosy Argus who knows everything, recounted the details
with patient precision, and in legal phrase, 'put in' letters from two or
three country houses proving his statement.

So there was no doubting it longer: and Captain Stanley Lake, late of Her
Majesty's ---- Regiment of Guards, idler, scamp, coxcomb, and the
beautiful Dorcas Brandon, heiress of Brandon, were man and wife.

I wrote to my fair friend, Miss Kybes, and had an answer confirming, if
that were needed, the public announcement, and mentioning enigmatically,
that it had caused 'a great deal of conversation.'

The posture of affairs in the small world of Gylingden, except in the
matter of the alliance just referred to, was not much changed.

Since the voluminous despatch from Marseilles, promising his return so
soon, not a line had been received from Mark Wylder. He might arrive any
day or night. He might possibly have received some unexpected check--if
not checkmate, in that dark and deep game on which he seemed to have
staked so awfully. Mr. Jos. Larkin sometimes thought one thing, sometimes
another.

In the meantime, Captain Lake accepted the trust. Larkin at times thought
there was a constant and secret correspondence going on between him and
Mark Wylder, and that he was his agent in adjusting some complicated and
villainous piece of diplomacy by means of the fund--secret-service
money--which Mark had placed at his disposal.

He, Mr. Larkin, was treated like a child in this matter, and his advice
never so much as asked, nor his professional honour accredited by the
smallest act of confidence.

Sometimes his suspicions took a different turn, and he thought that Lake
might be one of those 'persecutors' of whom Mark spoke with such
mysterious hatred; and that the topic of their correspondence was,
perhaps, some compromise, the subject or the terms of which would not
bear the light.

Lake certainly made two visits to London, one of them of a week's
duration. The attorney being a sharp, long-headed fellow, who knew very
well what business was, knew perfectly well, too, that two or three short
letters might have settled any legitimate business which his gallant
friend had in the capital.

But Lake was now married, and under the incantation whistled over him by
the toothless Archdeacon of Mundlebury, had sprung up into a county
magnate, and was worth cultivating, and to be treated tenderly.

So the attorney's business was to smile and watch--to watch, and of
course, to pray as heretofore--but specially to watch. He himself hardly
knew all that was passing in his own brain. There are operations of
physical nature which go on actively without your being aware of them;
and the moral respiration, circulation, insensible perspiration, and all
the rest of that peculiar moral system which exhibited its type in Jos.
Larkin, proceeded automatically in the immortal structure of that
gentleman.

Being very gentlemanlike in externals, with a certain grace, amounting
very nearly to elegance, and having applied himself diligently to please
the county people, that proud fraternity, remembering his father's
estates, condoned his poverty, and took Captain Lake by the hand, and
lifted him into their superb, though not very entertaining order.

There were solemn festivities at Brandon, and festive solemnities at the
principal county houses in return. Though not much of a sportsman, Lake
lent himself handsomely to all the sporting proceedings of the county,
and subscribed in a way worthy of the old renown of Brandon Hall to all
sorts of charities and galas. So he was getting on very pleasantly with
his new neighbours, and was likely to stand very fairly in that dull, but
not unfriendly society.

About three weeks after this great county marriage, there arrived, this
time from Frankfort, a sharp letter, addressed to Jos. Larkin, Esq. It
said:--

'My Dear Sir,--I think I have reason to complain. I have just seen by
accident the announcement of the marriage at Brandon. I think as my
friend, and a friend to the Brandon family, you ought to have done
something to delay, if you could not stop it. Of course, you had the
settlements, and devil's in it if you could not have beat about a
while--it was not so quick with me--and not doubled the point in a single
tack; and you know the beggar has next to nothing. Any way, it was your
duty to have printed some notice that the thing was thought of. If you
had put it, like a bit of news, in "Galignani," I would have seen it, and
known what to do. Well, that ship's blew up. But I won't let all go. The
cur will begin to try for the county or for Dollington. You must quietly
stop that, mind; and if he persists, just you put an advertisement in
"Galignani," saying _Mr. Smith will take notice, that the other party is
desirous to purchase, and becoming very pressing_. Just you hoist that
signal, and _somebody_ will bear down, and blaze into him at all
hazards--you'll see how. Things have not gone quite smooth with me since;
but it won't be long till I run up my flag again, and take the command.
Be perfectly civil with Stanley Lake till I come on board--that is
indispensable; and keep this letter as close from every eye as sealed
orders. You may want a trifle to balk S.L.'s electioneering, and there's
an order on Lake for 200 £ . Don't trifle about the county and borough.
He must have no footing in either till I return.

'Yours, dear Larkin,

'Very truly

'(but look after my business better),

'M. WYLDER.'

The order on Lake, a little note, was enclosed:--

'Dear Lake,--I wish you joy, and all the good wishes going, as I could
not make the prize myself.

'Be so good to hand my lawyer, Mr. Jos. Larkin, of the Lodge, Gylingden,
200 £  sterling, on my account.

'Yours, dear Lake,

'Very faithfully,

'M. WYLDER.

200 £ 

'23rd Feb., &c. &c.'

When Jos. Larkin presented this little order, it was in the handsome
square room in which Captain Lake transacted business--a lofty apartment,
wainscoted in carved oak, and with a great stone mantelpiece, with the
Wylder arms, projecting in bold relief, in the centre, and a florid
scroll, with 'RESURGAM' standing forth as sharp as the day it was
chiselled nearly three hundred years before.

There was some other business--Brandon business--to be talked over first;
and that exhausted, Mr. Larkin sat as usual, with one long thigh crossed
upon the other--his arm thrown over the back of his chair, and his tall,
bald head a little back, and his small mild eyes twinkling through their
pink lids on the enigmatical captain, who had entered upon the march of
ambition in a spirit so audacious and conquering.

'I had a line from Mr. Mark Wylder yesterday afternoon, as usual without
any address but the postmark;' and good Mr. Larkin laughed a mild, little
patient laugh, and lifted his open hand, and shook his head. 'It really
is growing too absurd--a mere order upon you to hand me 200 £ . How I'm
to dispose of it, I have not the faintest notion.'

And he laughed again; at the same time he gracefully poked the little
note, between two fingers, to Captain Lake, who glanced full on him, for
a second, as he took it.

'And how is Mark?' enquired Lake, with his odd, sly smile, as he scrawled
a little endorsement on the order. 'Does he say anything?'

'No; absolutely nothing--he's a very strange client!' said Larkin,
laughing again. 'There can be no objection, of course, to your reading
it; and he thinks--he thinks--he'll be here soon again--oh, here it is.'

Mr. Larkin had been fumbling, first in his deep waistcoat, and then in
his breast-pocket, as if for the letter, which was locked fast into the
iron safe, with Chubb's patent lock, in his office at the Lodge. But it
would not have done to have kept a secret from Captain Lake, of Brandon;
and therefore his not seeing the note was a mere accident.

'Oh! no--stupid!--that's Mullett and Hock's. I have not got it with me;
but it does not signify, for there's nothing in it. I hope I shall soon
be favoured with his directions as to what to do with the money.'

'He's an odd fellow; and I don't know how he feels towards me; but on my
part there is no feeling, I do assure you, but the natural desire to live
on the friendly terms which our ties of family and our position in the
county'--

Stanley Lake was writing the cheque for 200 £  meanwhile, and handed it
to Larkin; and as that gentleman penned a receipt, the captain
continued--his eyes lowered to the little vellum-bound book in which he
was now making an entry:--

'You have handed me a large sum, Mr. Larkin--3,276 £  11  4d._ I
undertook this, you know, on the understanding that it was not to go on
very long; and I find my own business pretty nearly as much as I can
manage. Is Wylder at all definite as to when we may expect his return?'

'Oh, dear no--quite as usual--he expects to be here soon; but that is
all. I so wish I had brought his note with me; but I'm positive that is
all.'

So, this little matter settled, the lawyer took his leave.




CHAPTER XLIII.

AN EVIL EYE LOOKS ON THE VICAR.


There were influences of a wholly unsuspected kind already gathering
round the poor vicar, William Wylder; as worlds first begin in thinnest
vapour, and whirl themselves in time into consistency and form, so do
these dark machinations, which at times gather round unsuspecting mortals
as points of revolution, begin nebulously and intangibly, and grow in
volume and in density, till a colossal system, with its inexorable
tendencies and forces, crushes into eternal darkness the centre it has
enveloped.

Thou shalt not covet; thou shalt not cast an eye of desire; out of the
heart proceed _murders_;--these dreadful realities shape themselves from
so filmy a medium as thought!

Ever since his conference with the vicar, good Mr. Larkin had been dimly
thinking of a thing. The good attorney's weakness was money. It was a
speck at first; a metaphysical microscope of no conceivable power could
have developed its exact shape and colour--a mere speck, floating, as it
were, in a transparent kyst, in his soul--a mere germ--by-and-by to be an
impish embryo, and ripe for action. When lust hath conceived it bringeth
forth sin, and sin when it is finished bringeth forth death.

The vicar's troubles grew and gathered, as such troubles will; and the
attorney gave him his advice; and the business of the Rev. William Wylder
gradually came to occupy a good deal of his time. Here was a new reason
for wishing to know really how Mark Wylder stood. William had undoubtedly
the reversion of the estate; but the attorney suspected sometimes--just
from a faint phrase which had once escaped Stanley Lake--as the likeliest
solution, that Mark Wylder had made a left-handed marriage somehow and
somewhere, and that a subterranean wife and family would emerge at an
unlucky moment, and squat upon that remainder, and defy the world to
disturb them. This gave to his plans and dealings in relation to the
vicar a character of irresolution and caprice foreign to his character,
which was grim and decided enough when his data were clear, and his
object in sight.

William Wylder, meanwhile, was troubled, and his mind clouded by more
sorrows than one.

Poor William Wylder had those special troubles which haunt nervous
temperaments and speculative minds, when under the solemn influence of
religion. What the great Luther called, without describing them, his
'tribulations'--those dreadful doubts and apathies which at times menace
and darken the radiant fabric of faith, and fill the soul with nameless
horrors. The worst of these is, that unlike other troubles, they are not
always safely to be communicated to those who love us best. These terrors
and dubitations are infectious. Other spiritual troubles, too, there are;
and I suppose our good vicar was not exempt from them any more than other
Christians.

The best man, the simplest man that ever lived, has his reserves. The
conscious frailty of mortality owes that sad reverence to itself, and to
the esteem of others. You can't be too frank and humble when you have
wronged your neighbour; but keep your offences against God to yourself,
and let your battle with your own heart be waged under the eye of Him
alone. The frankness of the sentimental Jean Jacques Rousseau, and of my
coarse friend, Mark Wylder, is but a damnable form of vicious egotism. A
miserable sinner have I been, my friend, but details profit neither thee
nor me. The inner man had best be known only to himself and his Maker. I
like that good and simple Welsh parson, of Beaumaris, near two hundred
years ago, who with a sad sort of humour, placed for motto under his
portrait, done in stained glass, _nunc primum transparui_.

But the spiritual tribulation which came and went was probably connected
with the dreadful and incessant horrors of his money trouble. The
gigantic Brocken spectre projected from himself upon the wide horizon of
his futurity.

The poor vicar! He felt his powers forsaking him. Hope, the life of
action, was gone. Despair is fatalism, and can't help itself. The
inevitable mountain was always on his shoulders. He could not rise--he
could not stir. He could scarcely turn his head and look up beseechingly
from the corners of his eyes.

Why is that fellow so supine? Why is his work so ill done, when he ought
most to exert himself? He disgusts the world with his hang-dog looks.
Alas! with the need for action, the power of action is gone.
Despair--distraction--the Furies sit with him. Stunned, stupid, and
wild--always agitated--it is not easy to compose his sermons as finely as
heretofore. He is always jotting down little sums in addition and
subtraction. The cares of the world--the miseries of what the world calls
'difficulties' and a 'struggle'--these were for the poor vicar;--the
worst torture, for aught we know, which an average soul out of hell can
endure. Other sorrows bear healing on their wings;--this one is the
Promethean vulture. It is a falling into the hands of men, not of God.
The worst is, that its tendencies are so godless. It makes men bitter;
its promptings are blasphemous. Wherefore, He who knew all things, in
describing the thorns which choke the word, places the _cares_ of this
world _first_, and _after_ them the deceitfulness of riches and the lusts
of other things. So if money is a root of evil, the want of it, with
debt, is root, and stem, and branches.

But all human pain has its intervals of relief. The pain is suspended,
and the system recruits itself to endure the coming paroxysm. An hour of
illusion--an hour of sleep--an hour's respite of any sort, to six hours
of pain--and so the soul, in anguish, finds strength for its long labour,
abridged by neither death nor madness.

The vicar, with his little boy, Fairy, by the hand, used twice, at least,
in the week to make, sometimes an hour's, sometimes only half an hour's,
visit at Redman's Farm. Poor Rachel Lake made old Tamar sit at her
worsteds in the window of the little drawing-room while these
conversations proceeded. The young lady was so intelligent that William
Wylder was obliged to exert himself in controversy with her eloquent
despair; and this combat with the doubts and terrors of a mind of much
more than ordinary vigour and resource, though altogether feminine,
compelled him to bestir himself, and so, for the time, found him entire
occupation; and thus memory and forecast, and suspense, were superseded,
for the moment, by absorbing mental action.

Rachel's position had not been altered by her brother's marriage. Dorcas
had urged her earnestly to give up Redman's Farm, and take up her abode
permanently at Brandon. This kindness, however, she declined. She was
grateful, but no, nothing could move her. The truth was, she recoiled
from it with a species of horror.

The marriage had been, after all, as great a surprise to Rachel as to any
of the Gylingden gossips. Dorcas, knowing how Rachel thought upon it, had
grown reserved and impenetrable upon the subject; indeed, at one time, I
think, she had half made up her mind to fight the old battle over again
and resolutely exercise this fatal passion. She had certainly mystified
Rachel, perhaps was mystifying herself.

Rachel grew more sad and strange than ever after this marriage. I think
that Stanley was right, and that living in that solitary and darksome
dell helped to make her hypochondriac.

One evening Stanley Lake stood at her door.

'I was just thinking, dear Radie,' he said in his sweet low tones, which
to her ear always bore a suspicion of mockery in them, 'how pretty you
contrive to make this bright little garden at all times of the year--you
have such lots of those evergreens, and ivy, and those odd flowers.'

'They call them _immortelles_ in France,' said Rachel, in a cold strange
tone, 'and make chaplets of them to lay upon the coffin-lids and the
graves.'

'Ah, yes, to be sure, I have seen them there and in Père la Chaise--so
they do; they have them in all the cemeteries--I forgot that. How
cheerful; how very sensible. Don't you think it would be a good plan to
stick up a death's-head and cross-bones here and there, and to split up
old coffin-lids for your setting-sticks, and get old Mowlders, the
sexton, to bury your roots, and cover them in with a "dust to dust," and
so forth, and plant a yew tree in the middle, and stick those bits of
painted board, that look so woefully like gravestones, all round it, and
then let old Tamar prowl about for a ghost? I assure you, Radie, I think
you, all to nothing, the perversest fool I ever encountered or heard of
in the course of my life.'

'Well, Stanley, suppose you do, I'll not dispute it. Perhaps you are
right,' said Rachel, still standing at the door of her little porch.

'Perhaps,' he repeated with a sneer; 'I venture to say, _most
positively_, I can't conceive any sane reason for your refusing Dorcas's
entreaty to live with us at Brandon, and leave this triste, and
unwholesome, and everyway objectionable place.'

'She was very kind, but I can't do it.'

'Yes, you can't do it, simply because it would be precisely the most
sensible, prudent, and comfortable arrangement you could possibly make;
you _won't_ do it--but you can and will practise all the airs and
fooleries of a bad melodrama. You ha