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 halfpast 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 underlip 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, dovelike 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 two 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 be 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 pocketbook, 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 statio
n-master, whom he also knew, and afterwards with Tom Christmas, the porter; and in the waiting-room he made some equally businesslike 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 pocketbook.
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 doorsteps, 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 eat 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 drawingroom.
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 drawingroom, 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
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 177
