Wylder's Hand
Page 51
CHAPTER L.
NEW LIGHTS.
A few days later 'Jos. Larkin, Esq., The Lodge, Gylingden,' received fromLondon a printed form, duly filled in, and with the official signatureattached, informing him that enquiry having been instituted inconsequence of his letter, no result had been obtained.
The hiatus in his correspondence caused Mr. Larkin extreme uneasiness. Hehad a profound distrust of Captain Lake. In fact, he thought him capableof everything. And if there should turn out to be anything not quitestraight going on at the post-office of Gylingden--hitherto anunimpeached institution--he had no doubt whatsoever that that dark andsinuous spirit was at the bottom of it.
Still it was too prodigious, and too hazardous to be probable; but thecaptain had no sort of principle, and a desperately strong head. Therewas not, indeed, when they met yesterday, the least change orconsciousness in the captain's manner. That, in another man, would haveindicated something; but Stanley Lake was so deep--such a mask--in him itmeant nothing.
Mr. Larkin's next step was to apply for a commissioner to come down andinvestigate. But before he had time to take this step, an occurrence tookplace to arrest his proceedings. It was the receipt of a foreign letter,of which the following is an exact copy:--
'VENICE: March 28.
'DEAR LARKIN,--I read a rumour of a dissolution during the recess. Keep abright look out. Here's three things for you:--
'1. Try and get Tom Wealdon. He is a _sina que non_. [Mark's Latin wassailor-like.]
'2. Cash the enclosed order for 150_l._ more, for _the same stake_.
'3. Tell Martin the tiles I saw in August last will answer for thecow-house; and let him put them down at once.
'In haste,
'Yours truly,
'M. WYLDER.'
Enclosed was an order on Lake for 150_l._
When Larkin got this he was in his study.
'Why--why--this--_positively_ this is the letter. _How's_ this?'
And Mr. Larkin looked as much scared and astonished as if a spirit roseup before him.
'_This_ is the letter--aye, this _is_ the letter.'
He repeated this from time to time as he turned it over and looked at thepostmark, and back again at the letter, and looked up at the date, anddown at the signature, and read the note through.
'Yes, this is it--here it is--this is it. There's no doubt whatever--thisis the letter referred to in the last--Wealdon, Martin, and the 150_l._'
And the attorney took out his keys, looking pale and stern, like a manabout to open the door upon a horror, and unlocked his safe, and took outthe oft-consulted and familiar series--letters tied up and bearing thelabel, 'Mark Wylder, Esq.'
'Aye, here it is, Genoa, 20th, and this, Venice, 28th. Yes, the postmarkscorrespond; yet the letter from Genoa, dated 20th, refers back to theletter from Venice, written eight days later! the-- Well--I can'tcomprehend--how in the name of--how in the name----'
He placed the two letters on his desk, and read them over, and up anddown, and pondered darkly over them.
'It is Mark Wylder's writing--I'll swear to it. What on earth _can_ hemean? He can't possibly want to confuse us upon dates, as well as places,because that would simply render his letters, for purposes of business,nugatory, and there are many things he wishes attended to.'
Jos. Larkin rose from his desk, ruminating, and went to the window, andplaced the letter against the pane. I don't think he had any definitemotive in doing this, but something struck him that he had not remarkedbefore.
There was something different in the quality of the ink that wrote thenumber of the date, 28th, from that used in the rest of the letter.
'What can that mean?' muttered Larkin, with a sort of gasp at hisdiscovery; and shading his eyes with his hand, he scrutinised thenumerals--'28th,' again;--'a totally different ink!
He took the previous letter, frowned on it fiercely from his rat-likeeyes, and then with an ejaculation, as like an oath as so good a mancould utter, he exclaimed,
'I have it!'
Then came a pause, and he said--
'Both alike!--blanks left when the letters were written, and the datesfilled in afterward--_not_ the same hand I _think_--no, _not_ thesame--_positively_ a different hand.'
Then Jos. Larkin examined these mysterious epistles once more.
'There may be something in what Larcom said--a very great deal, possibly.If he was shut up somewhere they could make him write a set of theseletters off at a sitting, and send them from place to place to be posted,to make us think he was travelling, and prevent our finding where theykeep him. Here it is plain there was a slip in posting the wrong onefirst.'
Trepanned, kidnapped, hid away in the crypts of some remotemad-house--reduced to submission by privation and misery--a case asdesperate as that of a prisoner in the Inquisition. What could be themotive for this elaborate and hideous fraud? Would it not be a moreconvenient course, as well as more merciful to put him to death? Thecrime would hardly be greater. Why should he be retained in that ghastlyexistence?
Well, if Stanley Lake were at the bottom of this horrid conspiracy, _he_certainly had a motive in clearing the field of his rival. And then--forthe attorney had all the family settlements present to his mind--therewas this clear motive for prolonging his life, that by the slip in thewill under which Dorcas Brandon inherited, the bulk of her estate wouldterminate with the life of Mark Wylder; and this other motive too existedfor retaining him in the house of bondage, that by preventing hismarriage, and his having a family to succeed him, the reversion of hisbrother William was reduced to a certainty, and would become amagnificent investment for Stanley Lake whenever he might choose topurchase. Upon that purchase, however, the good attorney had cast hiseye. He thought he now began to discern the outlines of a gigantic andsymmetrical villainy emerging through the fog. If this theory were right,William Wylder's reversion was certain to take effect; and it wasexasperating that the native craft and daring of this inexperiencedcaptain should forestall so accomplished a man of business as Jos.Larkin.
The attorney began to hate Stanley Lake as none but a man of that stampcan hate the person who mars a scheme of aggrandisement. But what was heto do exactly? If the captain had his eye on the reversion, it wouldrequire nice navigation to carry his plan successfully through.
On the other hand, it was quite possible that Wylder was a free agent,and yet, for purposes of secrecy, employing another person to post hisletters at various continental towns; and this blunder might just as wellhave happened in this case, as in any other that supposed the samemachinery.
On the whole, then, it was a difficult question. But there were Larcom'sconclusions about the mad-house to throw into the balance. And though, asrespected Mark Wylder, they were grisly, the attorney would not have beensorry to be quite sure that they were sound. What he most needed wereascertained data. With these his opportunities were immense.
Mr. Larkin eyed the Wylder correspondence now with a sort of reverencethat was new to him. There was something supernatural and talismanic inthe mystery. The sheaf of letters lay before him on the table, likeCornelius Agrippa's 'bloody book'--a thing to conjure with. Whatprodigies might it not accomplish for its happy possessor, if only hecould read it aright, and command the spirits which its spells might callup before him? Yes, it was a stupendous secret. Who knew to what it mightconduct? There was a shade of guilt in his tamperings with it, akin tothe black art, which he felt without acknowledging. This little parcel ofletters was, in its evil way, a holy thing. While it lay on the table,the room became the holy of holies in his dark religion; and the lankattorney, with tall bald head, shaded face, and hungry dangerous eyes, apriest or a magician.
The attorney quietly bolted his study door, and stood erect, with hishands in his pockets, looking sternly down on the letters. Then he took alittle gazetteer off a tiny shelf near the bell-rope, where was a railwayguide, an English dictionary, a French ditto, and a Bible, and with hissharp penknife he deftly sliced from its place in the w
ork of referencethe folded map of Europe.
It was destined to illustrate the correspondence, and Larkin sat downbefore it and surveyed, with a solemn stare, the wide scene of MarkWylder's operations, as a general would the theatre of his rival'sstrategy.
Referring to the letters as he proceeded, with a sharp pen in red ink, hemade his natty little note upon each town or capital in succession, fromwhich Wylder had dated a despatch. Boulogne, for instance, a neat littlered cross over the town, and beneath, '12th October, 1854;' Brighton,ditto, '20th October, 1854;' Paris, ditto, '17th November, 1854;'Marseilles, ditto, '26th November, 1854;' Frankfurt, ditto, '22ndFebruary, 1855;' Geneva, ditto, '10th March, 1855;' Genoa, ditto, '20thMarch, 1855;' Venice, ditto, '28th March, 1855.'
I may here mention that in the preceding notation I have marked the daysand months exactly, but the years fancifully.
I don't think that Mr. Larkin had read the 'Wandering Jew.' He had nogreat taste for works of fancy. If he had he might have been reminded, ashe looked down upon the wild field of tactics just noted by his pen, ofthat globe similarly starred all over with little red crosses, which M.Rodin was wont to consult.
Now he was going into this business as he did into others, methodically.He, therefore, read what his gazetteer had to say about these towns andcities, standing, for better light, at the window. But though, the typebeing small, his eyes were more pink than before, he was nothing wiser,the information being of that niggardly historical and statistical kindwhich availed nothing in his present scrutiny. He would get Murray'shandbooks, and all sorts of works--he was determined to read it up. Hewas going into this as into a great speculative case, in which he had aheavy stake, with all his activity, craft, and unscrupulousness. It mightbe the making of him.
His treasure--his oracle--his book of power, the labelled parcel ofWylder's letters, with the annotated map folded beside them--he replacedin their red-taped ligature in his iron safe, and with Chubb's key in hispocket, took his hat and cane--the day was fine--and walked forth forBrandon and the captain's study.
A pleasant day, a light air, a frosty sun. On the green the vicar, withhis pretty boy by the hand, passed him, not a hundred yards off, like aship at sea. There was a waving of hands, and smiles, and a shouted'beautiful day.'
'What a position that poor fellow has got himself into!' good Mr. Larkinthought, with a shrug of compassion, to himself. 'That reversion! Whyit's nothing--I really don't know why I think about it at all. If it wereoffered me this moment, positively I would not have it. Anythingcertain--_any_ thing would be better.'
Little Fairy grew grave, in spite of the attorney's smiles, whenever hesaw him. He was now saying--as holding his 'Wapsie's' hand, he caperedround in front, looking up in his face--
'Why has Mr. Larkin no teeth when he laughs? Is he ever angry when helaughs--is he, Wapsie--oh, Wapsie, _is_ he? Would you let him whip me, ifI was naughty? I don't like him. Why does mamma say he is a good man,Wapsie?'
'Because, little man, he _is_ a good man,' said the vicar, recalled bythe impiety of the question. 'The best friend that Wapsie ever met within his life.'
'But you would not give me to him, Wapsie?'
'Give you, darling! no--to no one but to God, my little man; for richer,for poorer, you're my own--your Wapsie's little man.'
And he lifted him up, and carried him in his arms against his lovingheart, and the water stood in his eyes, as he laughed fondly into thatpretty face.
But 'little man' by this time was struggling to get down and give chaseto a crow grubbing near them for dainties, with a muddy beak, and'Wapsie's' eyes followed, smiling, the wild vagaries of his little Fairy.
In the mean time Mr. Larkin had got among the noble trees of Brandon, andwas approaching the lordly front of the Hall. His mind was busy. He hadnot very much fact to go upon. His theories were built chiefly of vapour,and every changing light or breath, therefore, altered their colouringand outlines.
'Maybe Mark Wylder is mad, and wandering in charge of a keeper; maybe heis in some mad doctor's house, and _not_ mad; maybe in England, and therewrites these letters which are sent from one continental town to anotherto be posted, and thus the appearance of locomotion is kept up. Perhapshe has been inveigled into the hands of ruffians, and is living as itwere under the vault of an Inquisition, and compelled to write what everhis gaolers dictate. Maybe he writes not under physical but moralcoercion. Be the fact how it may, those Lakes, brother and sister, have aguilty knowledge of the affair.
'I will be firm--it is my duty to clear this matter up, if I can--we mustdo as we would be done by.'