‘Your sorrowful and only sister,
‘RACHEL.’
On finishing the letter, Stanley rose quickly to his feet. He had become gradually so absorbed in reading it, that he laid his cigar unconsciously beside him, and suffered it to go out. With downcast look, and an angry contortion, he tore the sheets of notepaper across, and was on the point of reducing them to a thousand little snow flakes, and giving them to the wind, when, on second thoughts, he crumpled them together, and thrust them into his breast pocket.
His excitement was too intense for foul terms, or even blasphemy. With the edge of his nether lip nipped in his teeth, and his clenched hands in his pockets, he walked through the forest trees to the park, and in his solitudes hurried onward as if his life depended on his speed. Gradually he recovered his self-possession. He sat down under the shade of a knot of beech trees, overlooking that ill-omened tarn, which we have often mentioned, upon a lichen-stained rock, his chin resting on his clenched hand, his elbow on his knee, and the heel of his other foot stamping out bits of the short, green sod.
‘That d — d girl deserves to be shot for her treachery,’ was the first sentence that broke from his white lips.
It certainly was an amazing outrage upon his self-esteem, that the secret which was the weapon of terror by which he meant to rule his sister Rachel, should, by her slender hand, be taken so easily from his grasp, and lifted to crush him.
The captain’s plans were not working by any means so smoothly as he had expected. That sudden stab from Jos. Larkin, whom he always despised, and now hated — whom he believed to be a fifth-rate, pluckless rogue, without audacity, without invention; whom he was on the point of tripping up, that he should have turned short and garotted the gallant captain, was a provoking turn of fortune.
That when a dire necessity subjugated his will, his contempt, his rage, and he inwardly decided that the attorney’s extortion must be submitted to, his wife — whom he never made any account of in the transaction, whom he reckoned carelessly on turning about as he pleased, by a few compliments and cajoleries — should have started up, cold and inflexible as marble, in his path, to forbid the payment of the black mail, and expose him to the unascertained and formidable consequences of Dutton’s story, and the disappointed attorney’s vengeance — was another stroke of luck which took him altogether by surprise.
And to crown all, Miss Radie had grown tired of keeping her own secret, and must needs bring to light the buried disgraces which all concerned were equally interested in hiding away for ever.
Stanley Lake’s position, if all were known, was at this moment formidable enough. But he had been fifty times over, during his brief career, in scrapes of a very menacing kind; once or twice, indeed, of the most alarming nature. His temper, his craft, his impetus, were always driving him into projects and situations more or less critical. Sometimes he won, sometimes he failed; but his audacious energy hitherto had extricated him. The difficulties of his present situation were, however, appalling, and almost daunted his semi-diabolical energies.
From Rachel to Dorcas, from Dorcas to the attorney, and from him to Dutton, and back again, he rambled in the infernal litany he muttered over the inauspicious tarn, among the enclosing banks and undulations, and solitary and lonely woods.
‘Lake Avernus,’ said a hollow voice behind him, and a long grisly hand was laid on his shoulder.
A cold breath of horror crept from his brain to his heel, as he turned about and saw the large, blanched features and glassy eyes of Uncle Lorne bent over him.
‘Oh, Lake Avernus, is it?’ said Lake, with an angry sneer, and raising his hat with a mock reverence.
‘Ay! it is the window of hell, and the spirits in prison come up to see the light of it. Did you see him looking up?’ said Uncle Lorne, with his pallid smile.
‘Oh! of course — Napoleon Bonaparte leaning on old Dr. Simcock’s arm,’ answered Lake.
It was odd, in the sort of ghastly banter in which he played off this old man, how much hatred was perceptible.
‘No — not he. It is Mark Wylder,’ said Uncle Lorne; ‘his face comes up like a white fish within a fathom of the top — it makes me laugh. That’s the way they keep holiday. Can you tell by the sky when it is holiday in hell? I can.’
And he laughed, and rubbed his long fingers together softly.
‘Look! ha! ha! — Look! ha! ha! ha! — Look!’ he resumed pointing with his cadaverous forefinger towards the middle of the pool.
‘I told you this morning it was a holiday,’ and he laughed very quietly to himself.
‘Look how his nostrils go like a fish’s gills. It is a funny way for a gentleman, and he’s a gentleman. Every fool knows the Wylders are gentlemen — all gentlemen in misfortune. He has a brother that is walking about in his coffin. Mark has no coffin; it is all marble steps; and a wicked seraph received him, and blessed him till his hair stood up. Let me whisper you.’
‘No, not just at this moment, please,’ said Lake, drawing away, disgusted, from the maniacal leer and titter of the gigantic old man.
‘Aye, aye — another time — some night there’s aurora borealis in the sky.
You know this goes under ground all the way to Vallambrosa?’
‘Thank you; I was not aware: that’s very convenient. Had you not better go down and speak to your friend in the water?’
‘Young man, I bless you for remembering,’ said Uncle Lorne, solemnly.
‘What was Mark Wylder’s religion, that I may speak to him comfortably?’
‘An Anabaptist, I conjecture, from his present situation,’ replied Lake.
‘No, that’s in the lake of fire, where the wicked seraphim and cherubim baptise, and anabaptise, and hold them under, with a great stone laid across their breasts. I only know two of their clergy — the African vicar, quite a gentleman, and speaks through his nose; and the archbishop with wings; his face is so burnt, he’s all eyes and mouth, and on one hand has only one finger, and he tickles me with it till I almost give up the ghost. The ghost of Miss Baily is a lie, he said, by my soul; and he likes you — he loves you. Shall I write it all in a book, and give it you? I meet Mark Wylder in three places sometimes. Don’t move, till I go down; he’s as easily frightened as a fish.’
And Uncle Lorne crept down the bank, tacking, and dodging, and all the time laughing softly to himself; and sometimes winking with a horrid, wily grimace at Stanley, who fervently wished him at the bottom of the tarn.
‘I say,’ said Stanley, addressing the keeper, whom by a beck he had brought to his side, ‘you don’t allow him, surely, to go alone now?’
‘No, Sir — since your order, Sir,’ said the stern, reserved official.
‘Nor to come into any place but this — the park, I mean?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘And do you mind, try and get him home always before nightfall. It is easy to frighten him. Find out what frightens him, and do it or say it. It is dangerous, don’t you see? and he might break his d — d neck any time among those rocks and gullies, or get away altogether from you in the dark.’
So the keeper, at the water’s brink, joined Uncle Lorne, who was talking, after his fashion, into the dark pool. And Stanley Lake — a general in difficulties — retraced his steps toward the park gate through which he had come, ruminating on his situation and resources.
CHAPTER LVIII.
MISS RACHEL LAKE BECOMES VIOLENT.
So soon as the letter which had so surprised and incensed Stanley Lake was despatched, and beyond recall, Rachel, who had been indescribably agitated before, grew all at once calm. She knew that she had done right. She was glad the die was cast, and that it was out of her power to retract.
She kneeled at her bedside, and wept and prayed, and then went down and talked with old Tamar, who was knitting in the shade by the porch.
Then the young lady put on her bonnet and cloak, and walked down to
Gylingden, with an anxious, but still a lighter heart, to see her f
riend,
Dolly Wylder.
Dolly received her in a glad sort of fuss.
‘I’m so glad to see you, Miss Lake.’
‘Call me Rachel; and won’t you let me call you Dolly?’
‘Well, Rachel, dear,’ replied Dolly, laughing, ‘I’m delighted you’re come; I have such good news — but I can’t tell it till I think for a minute — I must begin at the beginning.’
‘Anywhere, everywhere, only if it is good news, let me hear it at once.
I’ll be sure to understand.’
‘Well, Miss — I mean Rachel, dear — you know — I may tell you now — the vicar — my dear Willie — he and I — we’ve been in great trouble — oh, such trouble — Heaven only knows— ‘ and she dried her eyes quickly— ‘money, my dear— ‘ and she smiled with a bewildered shrug— ‘some debts at Cambridge — no fault of his — you can’t imagine what a saving darling he is — but these were a few old things that mounted up with interest, my dear — you understand — and law costs — oh, you can’t think — and indeed, dear Miss — well, Rachel — I forgot — I sometimes thought we must be quite ruined.’
‘Oh, Dolly, dear,’ said Rachel, very pale, ‘I feared it. I thought you might be troubled about money. I was not sure, but I was afraid; and, to say truth, it was partly to try your friendship with a question on that very point that I came here, and not indeed, Dolly, dear, from impertinent curiosity, but in the hope that maybe you might allow me to be of some use.’
‘How wonderfully good you are! How friends are raised up!’ and with a smile that shone like an April sun through her tears, she stood on tiptoe, and kissed the tall young lady, who — not smiling, but with a pale and very troubled face — bowed down and returned her kiss.
‘You know, dear, before he went, Mark promised to lend dear Willie a large sum of money. Well, he went away in such a hurry, that he never thought of it; and though he constantly wrote to Mr. Larkin — you have no idea, my dear Miss Lake, what a blessed angel that man is — oh! such a friend as has been raised up to us in that holy and wise man, words cannot express; but what was I saying? — oh, yes — Mark, you know — it was very kind, but he has so many things on his mind it quite escaped him — and he keeps, you know, wandering about on the Continent, and never gives his address; so he, can’t, you see, be written to; and the delay — but, Rachel, darling, are you ill?’
She rang the bell, and opened the window, and got some water.
‘My darling, you walked too fast here. You were very near fainting.’
‘No, dear — nothing — I am quite well now — go on.’
But she did not go on immediately, for Rachel was trembling in a kind of shivering fit, which did not pass away till after poor Dolly, who had no other stimulant at command, made her drink a cup of very hot milk.
‘Thank you, darling. You are too good to me, Dolly. Oh! Dolly, you are too good to me.’
Rachel’s eyes were looking into hers with a careworn, entreating gaze, and her cold hand was pressed on the back of Dolly’s.
Nearly ten minutes passed before the talk was renewed.
‘Well, now, what do you think — that good man, Mr. Larkin, just as things were at the worst, found a way to make everything — oh, blessed mercy! — the hand of Heaven, my dear — quite right again — and we’ll be so happy. Like a bird I could sing, and fly almost — a foolish old thing — ha! ha! ha! — such an old goose!’ and she wiped her eyes again.
‘Hush! is that Fairy? Oh, no, it is only Anne singing. Little man has not been well yesterday and to-day. He won’t eat, and looks pale, but he slept very well, my darling man; and Doctor Buddle — I met him this morning — so kindly took him into his room, and examined him, and says it may be nothing at all, please Heaven,’ and she sighed, smiling still.
‘Dear little Fairy — where is he?’ asked Rachel, her sad eyes looking toward the door.
‘In the study with his Wapsie. Mrs. Woolaston, she is such a kind soul, lent him such a beautiful old picture book— “Woodward’s Eccentricities” it is called — and he’s quite happy — little Fairy, on his little stool at the window.’
‘No headache or fever?’ asked Miss Lake cheerfully, though, she knew not why, there seemed something ominous in this little ailment.
‘None at all; oh, none, thank you; none in the world. I’d be so frightened if there was. But, thank Heaven, Doctor Buddle says there’s nothing to make us at all uneasy. My blessed little man! And he has his canary in the cage in the window, and his kitten to play with in the study. He’s quite happy.’
‘Please Heaven, he’ll be quite well tomorrow — the darling little man,’ said Rachel, all the more fondly for that vague omen that seemed to say, ‘He’s gone.’
‘Here’s Mr. Larkin!’ cried Dolly, jumping up, and smiling and nodding at the window to that long and natty apparition, who glided to the hall-door with a sad smile, raising his well-brushed hat as he passed, and with one grim glance beyond Mrs. Wylder, for his sharp eye half detected another presence in the room.
He was followed, not accompanied — for Mr. Larkin knew what a gentleman he was — by a young and bilious clerk, with black hair and a melancholy countenance, and by old Buggs — his conducting man — always grinning, whose red face glared in the little garden like a great bunch of hollyhocks. He was sober as a judge all the morning, and proceeded strictly on the principle of business first, and pleasure afterward. But his orgies, when off duty, were such as to cause the good attorney, when complaints reached him, to shake his head, and sigh profoundly, and sometimes to lift up his mild eyes and long hands; and, indeed, so scandalous an appendage was Buggs, that if he had been less useful, I believe the pure attorney, who, in the uncomfortable words of John Bunyan, ‘had found a cleaner road to hell,’ would have cashiered him long ago.
‘There is that awful Mr. Buggs,’ said Dolly, with a look of honest alarm. ‘I often wonder so Christian a man as Mr. Larkin can countenance him. He is hardly ever without a black eye. He has been three nights together without once putting off his clothes — think of that; and, my dear, on Friday week he fell through the window of the Fancy Emporium, at two o’clock in the morning; and Doctor Buddle says if the cut on his jaw had been half an inch lower, he would have cut some artery, and lost his life — wretched man!’
‘They have come about law business, Dolly!’ enquired the young lady, who had a profound, instinctive dread of Mr. Larkin.
‘Yes, my dear; a most important windfall. Only for Mr. Larkin, it never could have been accomplished, and, indeed, I don’t think it would ever have been thought of.’
‘I hope he has some one to advise him,’ said Miss Lake, anxiously. ‘I — I think Mr. Larkin a very cunning person; and you know your husband does not understand business.’
‘Is it Mr. Larkin, my dear? Mr. Larkin! Why, my dear, if you knew him as we do, you’d trust your life in his hands.’
‘But there are people who know him still better; and I think they fancy he is a very crafty man. I do not like him myself, and Dorcas Brandon dislikes him too; and, though I don’t think we could either give a reason — I don’t know, Dolly, but I should not like to trust him.’
‘But, my dear, he is an excellent man, and such a friend, and he has managed all this most troublesome business so delightfully. It is what they call a reversion.’
‘William Wylder is not selling his reversion?’ said Rachel, fixing a wild and startled look on her companion.
‘Yes, reversion, I am sure, is the name. And why not, dear? It is most unlikely we should ever get a farthing of it any other way, and it will give us enough to make us quite happy.’
‘But, my darling, don’t you know the reversion under the will is a great fortune? He must not think of it;’ and up started Rachel, and before Dolly could interpose or remonstrate, she had crossed the little hall, and entered the homely study, where the gentlemen were conferring.
William Wylder was sitting at his desk, and a large sheet of law
scrivenery, on thick paper, with a stamp in the corner, was before him. The bald head of the attorney, as he leaned over him, and indicated an imaginary line with his gold pencil-case, was presented toward Miss Lake as she entered.
The attorney had just said ‘there, please,’ in reply to the vicar’s question, ‘Where do I write my name?’ and red Buggs, grinning with his mouth open, like an overheated dog, and the sad and bilious young gentleman, stood by to witness the execution of the cleric’s autograph.
Tall Jos. Larkin looked up, smiling with his mouth also a little open, as was his wont when he was particularly affable. But the rat’s eyes were looking at her with a hungry suspicion, and smiled not.
‘William Wylder, I am so glad I’m in time,’ said Rachel, rustling across the room.
‘There,’ said the attorney, very peremptorily, and making a little furrow in the thick paper with the seal end of his pencil.
‘Stop, William Wylder, don’t sign; I’ve a word to say — you must pause.’
‘If it affects our business, Miss Lake, I do request that you address yourself to me; if not, may I beg, Miss Lake, that you will defer it for a moment.’
‘William Wylder, lay down that pen; as you love your little boy, lay it down, and hear me,’ continued Miss Lake.
The vicar looked at her with his eyes wide open, puzzled, like a man who is not quite sure whether he may not be doing something wrong.
‘I — really, Miss Lake — pardon me, but this is very irregular, and, in fact, unprecedented!’ said Jos. Larkin. ‘I think — I suppose, you can hardly be aware, Ma’am, that I am here as the Rev. Mr. Wylder’s confidential solicitor, acting solely for him, in a matter of a strictly private nature.’
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 199
