‘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 awhile, 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 hoitytoity 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. Larkens, or Larkins, or Larkme, or Larkus — 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 sch
oolfellows —— 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 postmark, 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 ex
cite, 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’ 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 oldfashioned 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.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 182
