In this livid hand, rising from the earth, there was a character both of menace and appeal; and on the finger, as I afterwards saw at the inquest, glimmered the talismanic legend ‘Resurgam — I will rise again!’ It was the corpse of Mark Wylder, which had lain buried here undiscovered for many months. A horrible odour loaded the air. Perhaps it was this smell of carrion, from which horses sometimes recoil with a special terror, that caused the swerving and rearing which had ended so fatally. At that moment we heard a voice calling, and raising our eyes, saw Uncle Lorne looking down from the rock with an agitated scowl.
‘I’ve done with him now — emeritus — he touches me, no more. Take him by the hand, merciful lads, or they’ll draw him down again.’
And with these words Uncle Lorne receded, and I saw him no more.
As yet we had no suspicion whose was the body thus unexpectedly discovered.
We beat off the dogs, and on returning to Lake, found Jekyl trying to raise him a little against a tree. We were not far from Redman’s Farm, and it was agreed, on hasty consultation, that our best course would be to carry Lake thither at once by the footpath, and that one of us — Wealdon undertook this — should drive the carriage on, and apprising Rachel on the way of the accident which had happened, and that her brother was on his way thither, should drive on to Buddle’s house, sending assistance to us from the town.
It was plain that Stanley Lake’s canvass was pretty well over. There was not one of us who looked at him that did not feel convinced that he was mortally hurt. I don’t think he believed so himself then; but we could not move him from the place where he lay without inflicting so much pain, that we were obliged to wait for assistance.
‘D — the dogs, what are they barking for?’ said Lake, faintly. He seemed distressed by the noise.
‘There’s a dead body partly disclosed down there — some one murdered and buried; but one of Mr. Juke’s young men is keeping them off.’
Lake made an effort to raise himself, but with a grin and a suppressed moan he abandoned it.
‘Is there no doctor — I’m very much hurt?’ said Lake, faintly, after a minute’s silence.
We told him that Buddle had been sent for; and that we only awaited help to get him down to Redman’s Farm.
When Rachel heard the clang of hoofs and the rattle of the taxcart driving down the mill-road, at a pace so unusual, a vague augury of evil smote her. She was standing in the porch of her tiny house, and old Tamar was sitting knitting on the bench close by.
‘Tamar, they are galloping down the road, I think — what can it mean?’ exclaimed the young lady, scared she could not tell why; and old Tamar stood up, and shaded her eyes with her shrunken hand.
Tom Wealdon pulled up at the little wicket. He was pale. He had lost his hat, too, among the thickets, and could not take time to recover it. Altogether he looked wild.
He put his hand to where his hat should have been in token of salutation, and said he —
‘I beg pardon, Miss Lake, Ma’am, but I’m sorry to say your brother the captain’s badly hurt, and maybe you could have a shakedown in the parlour ready for him by the time I come back with the doctor, Ma’am?’
Rachel, she did not know how, was close by the wheel of the vehicle by this time.
‘Is it Sir Harry Bracton? He’s in the town, I know. Is Stanley shot?’
‘Not shot; only thrown, Miss, into the Dell; his mare shied at a dead body that’s there. You’d better stay where you are, Miss; but if you could send up some water, I think he’d like it. Going for the doctor, Ma’am; goodbye, Miss Lake.’
And away went Wealdon, wild, pale, and hatless, like a man pursued by robbers.
‘Oh! Tamar, he’s killed — Stanley’s killed — I’m sure he’s killed, and all’s discovered’ — and Rachel ran wildly up the hill a few steps, but stopped and returned as swiftly.
‘Thank God, Miss,’ said old Tamar, lifting up her trembling fingers and white eyes to Heaven. ‘Better dead, Miss, than living on in sin and sorrow, better discovered than hid by daily falsehood and cruelty. Old Tamar’s tired of life; she’s willing to go, and wishin’ for death this many a day. Oh! Master Stanley, my child!’
Rachel went into the parlour and kneeled down, with white upturned face and clasped hands. But she could not pray. She could only look her wild supplication; — deliverance — an issue out of the terrors that beset her; and ‘oh! poor miserable lost Stanley!’ It was just a look and an inarticulate cry for mercy.
An hour after Captain Stanley Brandon Lake, whose ‘election address’ was figuring that evening in the ‘Dollington Courier,’ and in the ‘County Chronicle,’ lay with his clothes still on, in the little drawingroom of Redman’s Farm, his injuries ascertained, his thigh broken near the hip, and his spine fractured. No hope — no possibility of a physical reascension, this time.
Meanwhile, in the Blackberry Dell, Doctor Buddle was assisting at a different sort of inquisition. The two policemen who constituted the civil force of Gylingden, two justices of the peace, the doctor, and a crowd of amateurs, among whom I rank myself, were grouped in the dismal gorge, a little to windward of the dead body, which fate had brought to light, while three men were now employed in cautiously disinterring it.
When the operation was completed, there remained no doubt whatever on my mind: discoloured and disfigured as were both clothes and body, I was sure that the dead man was no other than Mark Wylder. When the clay with which it was clotted was a little removed, it became indubitable. The great whiskers; the teeth so white and even; and oddly enough, one black lock of hair which he wore twisted in a formal curl flat on his forehead, remained undisturbed in its position, as it was fixed there at his last toilet for Brandon Hall.
In the rude and shallow grave in which he lay, his purse was found, and some loose silver mixed in the mould. The left hand, on which was the ring of ‘the Persian magician,’ was bare; the right gloved, with the glove of the other hand clutched firmly in it.
The body was got up in a sheet to a sort of spring cart which awaited it, and so conveyed to the ‘Silver Lion,’ in Gylingden, where it was placed in a disused coachhouse to await the inquest. There the examination was continued, and his watch (the chain broken) found in his waistcoat pocket. In his coatpocket were found (of course, in no very presentable condition) his cigar-case, his initials stamped on it, for Mark had, in his day, a keen sense of property; his handkerchief, also marked; a pocketbook with some entries nearly effaced; and a letter unopened, and sealed with Lord Chelford’s seal. The writing was nearly washed away, but the letters ‘lwich,’ or ‘twich,’ were still legible near the corner, and it turned out to be a letter to Dulwich, which Mark Wylder had undertaken to put in the Gylingden postoffice, on the last night on which he appeared at Brandon.
The whole town was in a ferment that night. Great debate and conjecture in the reading-room, and even on the benches of the billiard-room. The ‘Silver Lion’ did a great business that night. Mine host might have turned a good round sum only by showing the body, were it not that Edwards, the chief policeman, had the keys of the coachhouse. Much to-ing and fro-ing there was between the town and Redman’s Farm, the respectable inhabitants all sending or going up to enquire how the captain was doing. At last Doctor Buddle officially interfered. The constant bustle was injurious to his patient. An hourly bulletin up to twelve o’clock should be in the hall of the ‘Brandon Arms;’ and Redman’s Dell grew quiet once more.
When William Wylder heard the news, he fainted; not altogether through horror or grief, though he felt both; but the change in his circumstances was so amazing and momentous. It was a strange shock — immense relief — immense horror — quite overwhelming.
Mark had done some goodnatured things for him in a small five-pound way; he had promised him that loan, too, which would have lifted him out of his Slough of Despond, and he clung with an affectionate gratitude to these exhibitions of brotherly love. Besides, he had accustomed himself — the organ of
veneration standing prominent on the top of the vicar’s head — to regard Mark in the light of a great practical genius— ‘natus rebus agendis;’ he knew men so thoroughly — he understood the world so marvellously! The vicar was not in the least surprised when Mark came in for a fortune. He had always predicted that Mark must become very rich, and that nothing but indolence could prevent his ultimately becoming a very great man. The sudden and total disappearance of so colossal an object was itself amazing.
There was another person very strongly, though differently, affected by the news. Under pretext of business at Naunton, Jos. Larkin had driven off early to Five Oaks, to make inspection of his purchase. He dined like a king in disguise, at the humble little hostelry of Naunton Friars, and returned in the twilight to the Lodge, which he would make the dower-house of Five Oaks, with the Howard shield over the door. He was gracious to his domestics, but the distance was increased: he was nearer to the clouds, and they looked smaller.
‘Well, Mrs. Smithers,’ said he, encouragingly, his long feet on the fender, for the evening was sharp, and Mrs. S. knew that he liked a bit of fire at his tea ‘any letters — any calls — any news stirring?’
‘No letters, nor calls, Sir, please, except the butcher’s book. I s’pose,
Sir, you were viewing the body?’
‘What body?’
‘Mr. Wylder’s, please, Sir.’
‘The vicar!’ exclaimed Mr. Larkin, his smile of condescension suddenly vanishing.
‘No, Sir; Mr. Mark Wylder, please; the gentleman, Sir, as was to ‘av married Miss Brandon.’
‘What the devil do you mean, woman?’ ejaculated the attorney, his back to the fire, standing erect, and a black shadow over his amazed and offended countenance.
‘The devil,’ in such a mouth, was so appalling and so amazing, that the worthy woman gazed, thunderstruck, upon him for a moment.
‘Beg your pardon, Sir; but his body’s bin found, Sir.’
‘You mean Mr. Mark?’
‘Yes, please, Sir; in a hole near the mill road — it’s up in the “Silver
Lion” now, Sir.’
‘It must be the vicar’s — it must,’ said Jos. Larkin, getting his hat on, sternly, and thinking how likely he was to throw himself into the mill race, and impossible it was that Mark, whom he and Larcom had both seen alive and well last night — the latter, indeed, this morning — could possibly be the man. And thus comforting himself, he met old Major Jackson on the green, and that gentleman’s statement ended with the words; ‘and in an advanced stage of decomposition.’
‘That settles the matter,’ said Larkin, breathing again, and with a toss of his head, and almost a smile of disdain: ‘for I saw Mr. Mark Wylder late last night at Shillingsworth.’
Leaving Major Jackson in considerable surprise, Mr. Larkin walked off to Edwards’ dwelling, at the top of Church Street, and found that active policeman at home. In his cool, grand, official way, Mr. Larkin requested Mr. Edwards to accompany him to the ‘Silver Lion,’ where in the same calm and commanding way, he desired him to attend him to view the corpse. In virtue of his relation to Mark Wylder, and of his position as sole resident and legal practitioner, he was obeyed.
The odious spectacle occupied him for some minutes. He did not speak while they remained in the room. On coming out there was a black cloud upon the attorney’s features, and he said, sulkily, to Edwards, who had turned the key in the lock, and now touched his hat as he listened,
‘Yes, there is a resemblance, but it is all a mistake. I travelled as far as Shillingsworth last night with Mr. Mark Wylder: he was perfectly well. This can’t be he.’
But there was a terrible impression on Mr. Jos. Larkin’s mind that this certainly was he, and with a sulky nod to the policeman, he walked darkly down to the vicar’s house. The vicar had been sent for to Naunton to pray with a dying person; and Mr. Larkin, disappointed, left a note to state that in writing that morning, as he had done, in reference to the purchase of the reversion, through Messrs. Burlington and Smith, he had simply expressed his own surmises as to the probable withdrawal of the intending purchaser, but had received no formal, nor, indeed, any authentic information, from either the party or the solicitors referred to, to that effect. That he mentioned this lest misapprehension should arise, but not as attaching any importance to the supposed discovery which seemed to imply Mr. Mark Wylder’s death. That gentleman, on the contrary, he had seen alive and well at Shillingsworth on the night previous; and he had been seen in conference with Captain Lake at a subsequent hour, at Brandon.
From all this the reader may suppose that Mr. Jos. Larkin was not quite in a comfortable state, and he resolved to get the deeds, and go down again to the vicar’s, and persuade him to execute them. He could make William Wylder, of course, do whatever he pleased.
There were a good many drunken fellows about the town, but there was an end of election demonstrations in the Brandon interest. Captain Lake was not going in for that race; he would be on another errand by the time the writ came down.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
THE MASK FALLS.
There was a ‘stop press’ that evening in the county paper— ‘We have just learned that a body has been disinterred, early this afternoon, under very strange circumstances, in the neighbourhood of Gylingden; and if the surmises which are afloat prove well-founded, the discovery will set at rest the speculations which have been busy respecting the whereabouts of a certain gentleman of large property and ancient lineage, who, some time since, mysteriously disappeared, and will, no doubt, throw this county into a state of very unusual excitement. We can state, upon authority, that the coroner will hold his inquest on the body, tomorrow at twelve o’clock, in the town of Gylingden.
There was also an allusion to Captain Lake’s accident — with the expression of a hope that it would ‘prove but a trifling one,’ and an assurance ‘that his canvass would not be prevented by it — although for a few days it might not be a personal one. But his friends might rely on seeing him at the hustings, and hearing him too, when the proper time arrived.’
It was quite well known, however, in Gylingden, by this time, that Captain Lake was not to see the hustings — that his spine was smashed — that he was lying on an extemporised bed, still in his clothes, in the little parlour of Redman’s Farm — cursing the dead mare in gasps — railing at everybody — shuddering whenever they attempted to remove his clothes — hoping, in broken sentences, that his people would give Bracton and — good licking. Bracton’s outrage was the cause of the entire thing — and so help him Heaven, so soon as he should be on his legs again, he would make him feel it, one way or other.
Buddle thought he was in so highly excited a state, that his brain must have sustained some injury also.
He asked Buddle about ten o’clock (having waked up from a sort of stupor)— ‘what about Jim Dutton?’ and then, whether there was not some talk about a body they had found, and what it was. So Buddle told him all that was yet known, and he listened very attentively.
‘But Larkin has been corresponding with Mark Wylder up to a very late day, and if this body has been so long buried, how the devil can it be he? And if it be as bodies usually are after such a time, how can anybody pretend to identify it? And I happen to know that Mark Wylder is living,’ he added, suddenly.
The doctor told him not to tire himself talking, and offered, if he wished to make a statement before a magistrate, to arrange that one should attend and receive it.
‘I rather dislike it, because Mark wants to keep it quiet; but if, on public grounds, it is desirable, I will make it, of course. You’ll use your discretion in mentioning the subject.’
So the captain was now prepared to acknowledge the secret meeting of the night before, and to corroborate the testimony of his attorney and his butler.
Stanley Lake had now no idea that his injuries were dangerous. He said he had a bad bruise under his ribs, and a sprained wrist, and was a little bit shaken; and he talked
of his electioneering as only suspended for a day or two.
Buddle, however, thought the case so imminent, that on his way to the ‘Brandon Arms,’ meeting Larkin, going, attended by his clerk, again to the vicar’s house, he stopped him for a moment, and told him what had passed, adding, that Lake was so frightfully injured, that he might begin to sink at any moment, and that by next evening, at all events, he might not be in a condition to make a deposition.
‘It is odd enough — very odd,’ said Larkin. ‘It was only an hour since, in conversation with our policeman, Edwards, that I mentioned the fact of my having myself travelled from London to Shillingsworth last night with Mr. Mark Wylder, who went on by train in this direction, I presume, to meet our unfortunate friend, Captain Lake, by appointment. Thomas Sleddon, of Wadding Hall — at this moment in the “Brandon Arms” — is just the man; if you mention it to him, he’ll go up with you to Redman’s Farm, and take the deposition. Let it be a deposition, do you mind; a statement is mere hearsay.’
Comforted somewhat, reassured in a certain way, and in strong hopes that, at all events, such a muddle would be established as to bewilder the jury, Mr. Jos. Larkin, with still an awful foreboding weighing at his heart, knocked at the vicar’s door, and was shown into the study. A solitary candle being placed, to make things bright and pleasant for the visitor, who did not look so himself, the vicar, very pale, and appearing to have grown even thinner since he last saw him, entered, and shook his hand with an anxious attempt at a smile, which faded almost instantly.
‘I am so delighted that you have come. I have passed a day of such dreadful agitation. Poor Mark!’
‘There is no doubt, Sir, whatsoever that he is perfectly well. Three different persons — unexceptionable witnesses — can depose to having seen him last night, and he had a long conference with Captain Lake, who is by this time making his deposition. It is with respect to the other little matter — the execution of the deed of conveyance to Messrs. Burlington and Smith’s clients. You know my feeling about the note I wrote this morning a little — I will not say incautiously, because with a client of your known character and honour, no idea of the sort can find place — but I will say thoughtlessly. If there be any hanging back, or appearance of it, it may call down unpleasant — indeed, to be quite frank, ruinous — consequences, which, I think, in the interest of your family, you would hardly be justified in invoking upon the mere speculation of your respected brother’s death.’
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 211
