‘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 title, 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 circumstances 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 grass 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 tomorrow — 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 sunshine 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 doorsteps, 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 lau
gh.
‘He’ll return tomorrow; 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 goodnight. 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 passionate; 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’ friendships are never very enduring; but, if it be so, the fault is not mine.’
‘No, Dorcas, the fault is not yours, nor mine. The fault is in circumstances. The time is coming, Dorcas, when you will know all, and, maybe, judge me mercifully. In the meantime, Dorcas, you cannot like my company, because you do not like me; and I do not like yours, just because, in spite of all, I do love you still; and in yours I only see the image of a lost friend. You may be restored to me soon — maybe never — but till then, I have lost you.’
‘Well,’ said Dorcas, ‘it may be there is a wild kind of truth in what you say, Rachel, and — no matter — time, as you say, and light — I don’t understand you, Rachel; but there is this in you that resembles me — we both hate hypocrisy, and we are both, in our own ways, proud. I’ll come back, when I hear the carriage, and see you for a moment, as you won’t stay, or come with me, and bid you goodbye.’
So Dorcas went her way; and alone, on the terrace, looking over the stone balustrade — over the rich and sombre landscape, dim and vaporous in the twilight — she still saw the pale face of Rachel — paler than she liked to see it. Was she ill? — and she thought how lonely she would be if Rachel were to die — how lonely she was now. There was a sting of compunction — a yearning — and then started a few bitter and solitary tears.
In one of the great stone vases, that are ranged along the terrace, there flourished a beautiful and rare rose. I forget its name. Some of my readers will remember. It is first to bloom — first to wither. Its fragrant petals were now strewn upon the terrace underneath. One blossom only remained untarnished, and Dorcas plucked it, and with it in her fingers, she returned to the porch where Rachel remained.
‘You see, I have come back a little before my time,’ said Dorcas. ‘I have just been looking at the plant you used to admire so much, and the leaves are shed already, and it reminded me of our friendship, Radie; but I am sure you are right; it will all bloom again, after the winter, you know, and I thought I would come back, and say that, and give you this relic of the bloom that is gone — the last token,’ and she kissed Rachel, as she placed it in her fingers, ‘a token of remembrance and of hope.’
‘I will keep it, Dorkie. It was kind of you,’ and their eyes met regretfully.
‘And — and, I think, I do trust you, Radie,’ said the heiress of Brandon; ‘and I hope you will try to like me on till — till spring comes, you know. And, I wish,’ she sighed softly, ‘I wish we were as we used to be. I am not very happy; and — here’s the carriage.’
And it drew up close to the steps, and Rachel entered; and her little handmaid of up in the seat behind; and Dorcas and Rachel kissed their hands, and smiled, and away the carriage glided; and Dorcas, standing on the steps, looked after it very sadly. And when it disappeared, she sighed again heavily, still looking in its track; and I think she said ‘Darling!’
CHAPTER LX.
RACHEL LAKE BEFORE THE ACCUSER.
Twilight was darker in Redman’s Dell than anywhere else. But dark as it was, there was still light enough to enable Rachel, as she hurried across the little garden, on her return from Brandon, to see a long white face, and some dim outline of the figure to which it belonged, looking out upon her from the window of her little drawingroom.
But no, it could not be; who was there to call at so odd an hour? She must have left something — a bag, or a white basket upon the window-sash. She was almost startled, however, as she approached the porch, to see it nod, and a hand dimly waved in token of greeting.
Tamar was in the kitchen. Could it be Stanley! But faint as the outline was she saw, she fancied that it was a taller person than he. She felt a sort of alarm, in which there was some little mixture of the superstitious, and she pushed open the door, not entering the room, but staring in toward the window, where against the dim, external light, she clearly saw, without recognising it, a tall figure, greeting her with mop and moe.
‘Who is that?’ cried Miss Lake, a little sharply.
‘It is I, Miss Lake, Mr. Josiah Larkin, of the Lodge,’ said that gentleman, with what he meant to be an air of dignified firmness, and looking very like a tall constable in possession; ‘I have taken the liberty of presenting myself, although, I fear, at a somewhat unseasonable hour, but in reference to a little business, which, unfortunately, will not, I think, bear to be deferred.’
‘No bad news, Mr. Larkin, I hope — nothing has happened. The Wylders are all well, I hope?’
‘Quite well, so far as I am aware,’ answered the attorney, with a grim politeness; ‘perfectly. Nothing has occurred, as yet at least, affecting the interests of that family; but something is — I will not say threatened — but I may say mooted, which, were any attempt seriously made to carry it into execution, would, I regret to say, involve very serious consequences to a party whom for, I may say, many reasons, I should regret being called upon to affect unpleasantly.’
‘And pray, Mr. Larkin, can I be of any use?’
‘Every use, Miss Lake, and it is precisely for that reason that I have taken the liberty of waiting upon you, at what, I am well aware, is a somewhat unusual hour.’
‘Perhaps, Mr. Larkin, you would be so good as to call in the morning — any hour you appoint will answer me,’ said the young lady, a little stiffly. She was still standing at the door, with her hand upon the brass handle.
‘Pardon me, Miss Lake, the business to which I refer is really urgent.’
‘Very urgent, Sir, if it cannot wait till tomorrow morning.’
‘Very true, quite true, very urgent indeed,’ replied the attorney, calmly; ‘I presume, Miss Lake, I may take a chair?’
‘Certainly, Sir, if you insist on my listening tonight, which I should certainly decline if I had the power.’
‘Thank you, Miss Lake.’ And the attorney took a chair, crossing one leg over the other, and throwing his head back as he reclined in it with his long arm over the back — the ‘express image,’ as he fancied, of a polished gentleman, conducting a diplomatic interview with a clever and highbred lady.
‘Then it is plain, Sir, I must hear you tonight,’ said Miss Lake, haughtily.
‘Not that, exactly, Miss Lake, but only that I must speak tonight — in fact, I have no choice. The subject of our conference really is, as you will find, an urgent one, and tomorrow morning, which we should each equally prefer, would be possibly too late — too late, at least, to obviate a very painful situation.’
‘You
will make it, I am sure, as short as you can, Sir,’ said the young lady, in the same tone.
‘Exactly my wish, Miss Lake,’ replied Mr. Jos. Larkin.
‘Bring candles, Margery.’
And so the little drawingroom was illuminated; and the bald head of the tall attorney, and the gloss on his easy, black frock-coat, and his gold watch-chain, and the long and large gloved hand, depending near the carpet, with the glove of the other in it. And Mr. Jos. Larkin rose with a negligent and lordly case, and placed a chair for Miss Lake, so that the light might fall full upon her features, in accordance with his usual diplomatic arrangement, which he fancied, complacently, no one had ever detected; he himself resuming his easy pose upon his chair, with his back, as much as was practicable, presented to the candles, and the long, bony fingers of the arm which rested on the table, negligently shading his observing little eyes, and screening off the side light from his expressive features.
These arrangements, however, were disconcerted by Miss Lake’s sitting down at the other side of the table, and quietly requesting Mr. Larkin to open his case.
‘Why, really, it is hardly a five minutes’ matter, Miss Lake. It refers to the vicar, the Rev. William Wylder, and his respectable family, and a proposition which he, as my client, mentioned to me this evening. He stated that you had offered to advance a sum of 600l. for the liquidation of his liabilities. It will, perhaps, conduce to clearness to dispose of this part of the matter first. May I therefore ask, at this stage, whether the Rev. William Wylder rightly conceived you, when he so stated your meaning to me?’
‘Yes, certainly, I am most anxious to assist them with that little sum, which I have now an opportunity of procuring.’
‘A — exactly — yes — well, Miss Lake, that is, of course, very kind of you — very kind, indeed, and creditable to your feelings; but, as Mr. William Wylder’s solicitor, and as I have already demonstrated to him, I must now inform you, that the sum of six hundred pounds would be absolutely useless in his position. No party, Miss Lake, in his position, ever quite apprehends, even if he could bring himself fully to state, the aggregate amount of his liabilities. I may state, however, to you, without betraying confidence, that ten times that sum would not avail to extricate him, even temporarily, from his difficulties. He sees the thing himself now; but drowning men will grasp, we know, at straws. However, he does see the futility of this; and, thanking you most earnestly, he, through me, begs most gratefully to decline it. In fact, my dear Miss Lake — it is awful to contemplate — he has been in the hands of sharks, harpies, my dear Madam; but I’ll beat about for the money, in the way of loan, if possible, and, one way or another, I am resolved, if the thing’s to be done, to get him straight.’
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 201
