Wylder's Hand Part 67

The attorney allowed his client to shake him by both hands, and he smiled a sinister congratulation as well as he could, grinning in reply to the vicar's pleasant smile as cheerfully as was feasible, and wofully puzzled in the meantime. Had James Dutton arrived and announced the death of Mark--no; it could hardly be _that_--decency had not yet quite taken leave of the earth; and stupid as the vicar was, he would hardly announce the death of his brother to a Christian gentleman in a fas.h.i.+on so outrageous. Had Lord Chelford been invoked, and answered satisfactorily?

Or Dorcas--or had Lake, the diabolical sneak, interposed with his long purse, and a plausible hypocrisy of kindness, to spoil Larkin's plans?

All these fanciful queries flitted through his brain as the vicar's hands shook both his, and he laboured hard to maintain the cheerful grin with which he received the news, and his guileful rapacious little eyes searched narrowly the countenance of his client.

So after a while, Dolly a.s.sisting, and sometimes both talking together, the story was told, Rachel blessed and panegyrised, and the attorney's congratulations challenged and yielded once more. But there was something not altogether joyous in Jos. Larkin's countenance, which struck the vicar, and he said--

'You don't see any objection?' and paused.

'Objection? Why, _objection_, my dear Sir, is a strong word; but I fear I do see a difficulty--in fact, several difficulties. Perhaps you would take a little turn on the green--I must call for a moment at the reading-room--and I'll explain. You'll forgive me, I hope, Mrs. Wylder,'

he added, with a playful condescension, 'for running away with your husband, but only for a few minutes--ha, ha!'

The shadow was upon Jos. Larkin's face, and he was plainly meditating a little uncomfortably, as they approached the quiet green of Gylingden.

'What a charming evening,' said the vicar, making an effort at cheerfulness.

'Delicious evening--yes,' said the attorney, throwing back his long head, and letting his mouth drop. But though his face was turned up towards the sky, there was a contraction and a darkness upon it, not altogether heavenly.

'The offer,' said the attorney, beginning rather abruptly, 'is no doubt a handsome offer at the first glance, and it may be well meant. But the fact is, my dear Mr. Wylder, six hundred pounds would leave little more than a hundred remaining after Burlington and Smith have had their costs.

You have no idea of the expense and trouble of t.i.tle, and the inevitable costliness, my dear Sir, of all conveyancing operations. The deeds, I have little doubt, in consequence of the letter you directed me to write, have been prepared--that is, in draft, of course--and then, my dear Sir, I need not remind you, that there remain the costs to me--those, of course, await your entire convenience--but still it would not be either for your or my advantage that they should be forgotten in the general adjustment of your affairs, which I understand you to propose.'

The vicar's countenance fell. In fact, it is idle to say that, being unaccustomed to the grand scale on which law costs present themselves on occasion, he was unspeakably shocked and he grew very pale and silent on hearing these impressive sentences.

'And as to Miss Lake's residing with you--I speak now, you will understand, in the strictest confidence, because the subject is a painful one; as to her residing with you, as she proposes, Miss Lake is well aware that I am cognizant of circ.u.mstances which render any such arrangement absolutely impracticable. I need not, my dear Sir, be more particular--at present, at least. In a little time you will probably be made acquainted with them, by the inevitable disclosures of time, which, as the wise man says, "discovers all things."'

'But--but what'--stammered the pale vicar, altogether shocked and giddy.

'You will not press me, my dear Sir; you'll understand that, just now, I really _cannot_ satisfy any particular enquiry. Miss Lake has spoken, in charity I _will_ hope and trust, without thought. But I am much mistaken, or she will herself, on half-an-hour's calm consideration, see the moral impossibilities which interpose between her, to me, most amazing plan and its realisation.'

There was a little pause here, during which the tread of their feet on the soft gra.s.s alone was audible.

'You will quite understand,' resumed the attorney, 'the degree of confidence with which I make this communication; and you will please, specially not to mention it to any person whatsoever. I do not except, in fact, _any_. You will find, on consideration, that Miss Lake will not press her residence upon you. No; I've no doubt Miss Lake is a very intelligent person, and, when not excited, will see it clearly.'

The attorney's manner had something of that reserve, and grim sort of dryness, which supervened whenever he fancied a friend or client on whom he had formed designs was becoming impracticable. Nothing affected him so much as that kind of unkindness.

Jos. Larkin took his leave a little abruptly. He did not condescend to ask the vicar whether he still entertained Miss Lake's proposal. He had not naturally a pleasant temper--somewhat short, dark, and dangerous, but by no means noisy. This temper, an intense reluctance ever to say 'thank you,' and a profound and quiet egotism, were the ingredients of that 'pride' on which--a little inconsistently, perhaps, in so eminent a Christian--he piqued himself. It must be admitted, however, that his pride was not of that stamp which would prevent him from listening to other men's private talk, or reading their letters, if anything were to be got by it; or from prosecuting his small spites with a patient and virulent industry; or from stripping a man of his possessions, and transferring them to himself by processes from which most men would shrink.

'Well,' thought the vicar, 'that munificent offer is unavailing, it seems. The sum insufficient, great as it is; and other difficulties in the way.'

He was walking homewards, slowly and dejectedly; and was now beginning to feel alarm lest the purchase of the reversion should fail. The agreement was to have gone up to London by this day's mail, and now could not reach till the day after to-morrow--four-and-twenty hours later than was promised. The attorney had told him it was a 'touch-and-go affair,' and the whole thing might be off in a moment; and if it _should_ miscarry what inevitable ruin yawned before him? Oh, the fatigue of these monotonous agitations--this never-ending suspense! Oh, the yearning unimaginable for quiet and rest! How awfully he comprehended the reasonableness of the thanksgiving which he had read that day in the churchyard--'We give Thee hearty thanks for that it hath pleased Thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world.'

With the attorney it was different. Making the most of his height, which he fancied added much to the aristocratic effect of his presence, with his head thrown back, and swinging his walking cane easily between his finger and thumb by his side, he strode languidly through the main street of Gylingden, in the happy belief that he was making a sensation among the denizens of the town.

And so he moved on to the mill-road, on which he entered, and was soon deep in the shadows of Redman's Dell.

He opened the tiny garden-gate of Redman's Farm, looking about him with a supercilious benevolence, like a man conscious of bestowing a distinction. He was inwardly sensible of a sort of condescension in entering so diminutive and homely a place--a kind of half amusing disproportion between Jos. Larkin, Esq., of the Lodge, worth, already, 27,000, and on the high road to greatness, and the trumpery little place in which he found himself.

Old Tamar was sitting in the porch, with her closed Bible upon her knees; there was no longer light to read by. She rose up, like the 'grim, white woman who haunts yon wood,' before him.

Her young lady had walked up to Brandon, taking the little girl with her, and she supposed would be back again early.

Mr. Larkin eyed her for a second to ascertain whether she was telling lies. He always thought everyone might be lying. It was his primary impression here. But there was a recluse and unearthly character in the face of the crone which satisfied him that she would never think of fencing with such weapons with him.

Very good. Mr. Larkin would take a short walk, and as his business was pressing, he would take the liberty of looking in again in about half-an-hour, if she thought her mistress would be at home then.

So, although the weird white woman who leered after him so strangely as he walked with his most lordly air out of the little garden, and down the darkening road towards Gylingden, could not say, he resolved to make trial again.

In the meantime Rachel had arrived at Brandon Hall. Dorcas--whom, if the truth were spoken, she would rather not have met--encountered her on the steps. She was going out for a lonely, twilight walk upon the terrace, where many a beautiful Brandon of other days, the suns.h.i.+ne of whose smile glimmered only on the canvas that hung upon those ancestral walls, and whose sorrows were hid in the grave and forgotten by the world, had walked in other days, in the pride of beauty, or in the sadness of desertion.

Dorcas paused upon the door-steps, and received her sister-in-law upon that elevation.

'Have you really come all this way, Rachel, to see _me_ this evening?'

she said, and something of sarcasm thrilled in the cold, musical tones.

'No, Dorcas,' said Rachel, taking her proffered hand in the spirit in which it was given, and with the air rather of a defiance than of a greeting; 'I came to see my brother.'

'You are frank, at all events, Rachel, and truth is better than courtesy; but you forget that your brother could not have returned so soon.'

'Returned?' said Rachel; 'I did not know he had left home.'

'It's strange he should not have consulted you. I, of course, knew nothing of it until he had been more than an hour upon his journey.'

Rachel Lake made no answer but a little laugh.

'He'll return to-morrow; and perhaps your meeting may still be in time. I was thinking of a few minutes' walk upon the terrace, but you are fatigued: you had better come in and rest.'

'No, Dorcas, I won't go in.'

'But, Rachel, you are tired; you must come in with me, and drink tea, and then you can go home in the brougham,' said Dorcas, more kindly.

'No, Dorcas, no; I will not drink tea nor go in; but I _am_ tired, and as you are so kind, I will accept your offer of the carriage.'

Larcom had, that moment, appeared in the vestibule, and received the order.

'I'll sit in the porch, if you will allow me, Dorcas; you must not lose your walk.'

'Then you won't come into the house, you won't drink tea with me, and you won't join me in my little walk; and why not any of these?'

Dorcas smiled coldly, and continued,

'Well, I shall hear the carriage coming to the door, and I'll return and bid you good-night. It is plain, Rachel, you do not like my company.'

'True, Dorcas, I do _not_ like your company. You are unjust; you have no confidence in me; you prejudge me without proof; and you have quite ceased to love me. Why should I like your company?'

Dorcas smiled a proud and rather sad smile at this sudden change from the conventional to the pa.s.sionate; and the direct and fiery charge of her kinswoman was unanswered.

She stood meditating for a minute.

'You think I no longer love you, Rachel, as I did. Perhaps young ladies'

friends.h.i.+ps are never very enduring; but, if it be so, the fault is not mine.'