Wylder's Hand Part 85

I don't know what Mr. Larkin would have thought of it; it was simply Rachel's letter to her friend Dolly Wylder on the subject of the attorney's conference with her at Redman's Farm. It was a frank and pa.s.sionate denial of the slander, breathing undefinably, but irresistibly, the spirit of truth.

'Then am I to understand, in conclusion,' said the attorney, that defying all consequences, the Rev. Mr. Wylder refuses to execute the deed of sale?'

'Certainly,' said Lord Chelford, taking this reply upon himself.

'You know, my dear Mr. Wylder, I told you from the first that Messrs.

Burlington and Smith were, in fact, a very sharp house; and I fear they will execute any powers they possess in the most summary manner.' The attorney's eye was upon the vicar as he spoke, but Lord Chelford answered.

'The powers you speak of are quite without parallel in a negotiation to purchase; and in the event of their hazarding such a measure, the Rev.

Mr. Wylder will apply to a court of equity to arrest their proceedings.

My own solicitor is retained in the case.'

Mr. Larkin's countenance darkened and lengthened visibly, and his eyes a.s.sumed their most unpleasant expression, and there was a little pause, during which, forgetting his lofty ways, he bit his thumb-nail rather viciously.

'Then I am to understand, my lord, that I am superseded in the management of this case?' said the attorney at last, in a measured way, which seemed to say, 'you had better think twice on this point.'

'Certainly, Mr. Larkin,' said the viscount.

'I'm not the least surprised, knowing, I am sorry to say, a good deal of the ways of the world, and expecting very little grat.i.tude, for either good will or services.' This was accompanied with a melancholy sneer directed full upon the poor vicar, who did not half understand the situation, and looked rather guilty and frightened. 'The Rev. Mr. Wylder very well knows with what reluctance I touched the case--a nasty case; and I must be permitted to add, that I am very happy to be quite rid of it, and only regret the manner in which my wish has been antic.i.p.ated, a discourtesy which I attribute, however, to female influence.'

The concluding sentence was spoken with a vile sneer and a measured emphasis directed at Lord Chelford, who coloured with a sudden access of indignation, and stood stern and menacing, as the attorney, with a general bow to the company, and a lofty _nonchalance_, made his exit from the apartment.

Captain Lake was sinking very fast next morning. He made a statement to Chelford, who was a magistrate for the county, I suppose to a.s.sist the coroner's inquest. He said that on the night of Mark Wylder's last visit to Brandon, he had accompanied him from the Hall; that Mark had seen some one in the neighbourhood of Gylingden, a person pretending to be his wife, or some near relative of hers, as well as he, Captain Lake, could understand, and was resolved to go to London privately, and have the matter arranged there. He waited near the 'White House,' while he, Stanley Lake, went to Gylingden and got his tax-cart at his desire. He could give particulars as to that. Captain Lake overtook him, and he got in and was driven to Dollington, where he took the up-train. That some weeks afterwards he saw him at Brighton; and the night before last, by appointment, in the grounds of Brandon; and that he understood Larkin had some lights to throw upon the same subject.

The jury were not sworn until two o'clock. The circ.u.mstances of the discovery of the body were soon established. But the question which next arose was very perplexed--was the body that of Mr. Mark Wylder? There could be no doubt as to a general resemblance; but, though marvellously preserved, in its then state, certainty was hardly attainable. But there was a perfectly satisfactory identification of the dress and properties of the corpse as those of Mr. Mark Wylder. On the other hand there was the testimony of Lord Chelford, who put Captain Lake's deposition in evidence, as also the testimony of Larkin, and the equally precise evidence of Larcom, the butler.

The proceedings had reached this point when an occurrence took place which startled Lord Chelford, Larkin, Larcom, and every one in the room who was familiar with Mark Wylder's appearance.

A man pushed his way to the front of the crowd, and for a moment it seemed that Mark Wylder stood living before them.

'Who are you?' said Lord Chelford.

'Jim Dutton, Sir; I come by reason of what I read in the "Chronicle" over night, about Mr. Mark Wylder being found.'

'Do you know anything of him?' asked the coroner.

'Nowt,' answered the man bluffly, 'only I writ to Mr. Larkin, there, as I wanted to see him. I remember him well when I was a boy. I seed him in the train from Lunnon t'other night; and he seed me on the s.h.i.+llingsworth platform, and I think he took me for some one else. I was comin' down to see the Captain at Brandon--and seed him the same night.'

'Why have you come here?' asked the coroner.

'Thinkin' I might be mistook,' answered the man. 'I _was_ twice here in England, and three times abroad.'

'For whom?'

'Mr. Mark Wylder,' answered he.

'It is a wonderful likeness,' said Lord Chelford.

Larkin stared at him with his worst expression; and Larcom, I think, thought he was the devil.

I was as much surprised as any for a few seconds. But there were points of difference--Jim Dutton was rather a taller and every way a larger man than Mark Wylder. His face, too, was broader and coa.r.s.er, but in features and limbs the relative proportions were wonderfully preserved. It was such an exaggerated portrait as a rustic genius might have executed upon a sign-board. He had the same black, curly hair, and thick, black whiskers: and the style of his dress being the same, helped the illusion.

In fact, it was a rough, but powerful likeness--startling at the moment--unexceptionable at a little distance--but which failed on a nearer and exacter examination. There was, beside, a scar, which, however, was not a very glaring inconsistency, although it was plainly of a much older standing than the date of Mark's disappearance. All that could be got from Jim Dutton was that 'he thought he might be mistook'

and so attended. But respecting Mr. Mark Wylder he could say 'nowt.' He knew 'nowt.'

Lord Chelford was called away at this moment by an urgent note. It was to request his immediate attendance at Redman's Farm, to see Captain Lake, who was in a most alarming state. The hand was Dorcas's--and Lord Chelford jumped into the little pony carriage which awaited him at the door of the 'Silver Lion.'

When he reached Redman's Farm, Captain Lake could not exert himself sufficiently to speak for nearly half-an-hour. At the end of that time he was admitted into the tiny drawing-room in which the captain lay. He was speaking with difficulty.

'Did you see Buddle, just now?'

'No, not since morning.'

'He seems to have changed--bad opinion--unless he has a _law_ object--those d--d doctors--never can know. Dorcas thinks--I'll do no good. Don't you think--he may have an object--and not believe I'm in much danger? You don't?'

Lake's hand, with which he clutched and pulled Chelford's, was trembling.

'You must reflect, my dear Lake, how very severe are the injuries you have sustained. You certainly _are_ in danger--_great_ danger.'

Lake became indescribably agitated, and uttered some words, not often on his lips, that sounded like desperate words of supplication. Not that seaworthy faith which floats the spirit through the storm, but fragments of its long-buried wreck rolled up from the depths and flung madly on the howling sh.o.r.e.

'I'd like to see Rachel,' at last he said, holding Chelford's hand in both his, very hard. 'She's clever--and I don't think she gives me up yet, no--a drink!--and they think I'm more hurt than I really am--Buddle, you know--only an apothecary--village;' and he groaned.

His old friend, Sir Francis Seddley, summoned by the telegraph, was now gliding from London along the rails for Dollington station; but another--a pale courier--on the sightless coursers of the air, was speeding with a different message to Captain Stanley Lake, in the small and sombre drawing-room in Redman's Dell.

I had promised Chelford to run up to Redman's Farm, and let him know if the jury arrived at a verdict during his absence. They did so; finding that the body was that of Marcus Wylder, Esquire, of Raddiston, and 'that he had come by his death in consequence of two wounds inflicted with a sharp instrument, in the region of the heart, by some person or persons unknown, at a period of four weeks since or upwards.'

Chelford was engaged in the sick room, as I understood, in conference with the patient. It was well to have heard, without procrastination, what he had to say; for next morning, at a little past four o'clock, he died.

A nurse who had been called in from the county infirmary, said he made a very happy ending. He mumbled to himself, in his drowsy state, as she was quite sure, in prayer; and he made a very pretty corpse when he was laid out, and his golden hair looked so nice, and he was all so slim and shapely.

Rachel and Dorcas were sitting in the room with him--not expecting the catastrophe then. Both tired; both silent; the nurse dozing a little in her chair, near the bed's head; and Lake said, in his clear, low tone, on a sudden, just as he spoke when perfectly well--

'Quite a mistake, upon my honour.'

As a clear-voiced sentence sometimes speaks out in sleep, followed by silence, so no more was heard after this--no more for ever. The nurse was the first to perceive 'the change.'

'There's a change, Ma'am'--and there was a pause. 'I'm afraid, Ma'am, he's gone,' said the nurse.

Both ladies, in an instant, were at the bedside, looking at the peaked and white countenance, which was all they were ever again to see of Stanley; the yellow eyes and open mouth.

Rachel's agony broke forth in a loud, wild cry. All was forgotten and forgiven in that tremendous moment.

'Oh! Stanley, Stanley!--brother, brother, oh, brother!'

There was the unchanged face, gaping its awful farewell of earth. All over!--never to stir more.

'Is he dead?' said Dorcas, with the peculiar sternness of agony.