CHAPTER LIX.
AN ENEMY IN REDMAN'S DELL.
Jos. Larkin grew more and more uncomfortable about the unexpectedinterposition of Rachel Lake as the day wore on. He felt, with anunerring intuition, that the young lady both despised and suspected him.He also knew that she was impetuous and clever, and he feared from thatsmall white hand a fatal mischief--he could not tell exactly how--to hisplans.
Jim Dutton's letter had somehow an air of sobriety and earnestness, whichmade way with his convictions. His doubts and suspicions had subsided,and he now believed, with a profound moral certainty, that Mark Wylderwas actually dead, within the precincts of a mad-house or of some lawlessplace of detention abroad. What was that to the purpose? Dutton mightarrive at any moment. Low fellows are always talking; and the story mightget abroad before the assignment of the vicar's interest. Of course therewas something speculative in the whole transaction, but he had made hisbook well, and by his 'arrangement' with Captain Lake, whichever way thetruth lay, he stood to win. So the attorney had no notion of allowingthis highly satisfactory arithmetic to be thrown into confusion by thefillip of a small gloved finger.
On the whole he was not altogether sorry for the delay. Everything workedtogether he knew. One or two covenants and modifications in the articleshad struck him as desirable, on reading the instrument over with WilliamWylder. He also thought a larger consideration should be stated andacknowledged as paid, say 22,000_l._ The vicar would really receive just2,200_l._ 'Costs' would do something to reduce the balance, for Jos.Larkin was one of those oxen who, when treading out corn, decline to bemuzzled. The remainder was--the vicar would clearly understand--one ofthose ridiculous pedantries of law, upon which our system of crotchetsand fictions insisted. And William Wylder, whose character, simply andsensitively honourable, Mr. Larkin appreciated, was to write toBurlington and Smith a letter, for the satisfaction of their speculativeand nervous client, pledging his honour, as a gentleman, and hisconscience, as a Christian, that in the event of the sale beingcompleted, he would never do, countenance, or permit, any act orproceeding, whatsoever, tending on any ground to impeach or invalidatethe transaction.
'I've no objection--have I?--to write such a letter,' asked the vicar ofhis adviser.
'Why, I suppose you have no intention of trying to defeat your own act,and that is all the letter would go to. I look on it as whollyunimportant, and it is really not a point worth standing upon for asecond.'
So that also was agreed to.
Now while the improved 'instrument' was in preparation, the attorneystrolled down in the evening to look after his clerical client, and keephim 'straight' for the meeting at which he was to sign the articles nextday.
It was by the drowsy faded light of a late summer's evening that hearrived at the quaint little parsonage. He maintained his character as 'anice spoken gentleman,' by enquiring of the maid who opened the door howthe little boy was. 'Not so well--gone to bed--but would be better,everyone was sure, in the morning.' So he went in and saw the vicar, whohad just returned with Dolly from a little ramble. Everything promisedfairly--the quiet mind was returning--the good time coming--all thepleasanter for the storms and snows of the night that was over.
'Well, my good invaluable friend, you will be glad--you will rejoice withus, I know, to learn that, after all, the sale of our reversion isunnecessary.'
The attorney allowed his client to shake him by both hands, and he smileda sinister congratulation as well as he could, grinning in reply to thevicar's pleasant smile as cheerfully as was feasible, and wofully puzzledin the meantime. Had James Dutton arrived and announced the death ofMark--no; it could hardly be _that_--decency had not yet quite takenleave of the earth; and stupid as the vicar was, he would hardly announcethe death of his brother to a Christian gentleman in a fashion sooutrageous. Had Lord Chelford been invoked, and answered satisfactorily?Or Dorcas--or had Lake, the diabolical sneak, interposed with his longpurse, and a plausible hypocrisy of kindness, to spoil Larkin's plans?All these fanciful queries flitted through his brain as the vicar's handsshook both his, and he laboured hard to maintain the cheerful grin withwhich he received the news, and his guileful rapacious little eyessearched narrowly the countenance of his client.
So after a while, Dolly assisting, and sometimes both talking together,the story was told, Rachel blessed and panegyrised, and the attorney'scongratulations challenged and yielded once more. But there was somethingnot altogether joyous in Jos. Larkin's countenance, which struck thevicar, and he said--
'You don't see any objection?' and paused.
'Objection? Why, _objection_, my dear Sir, is a strong word; but I fear Ido see a difficulty--in fact, several difficulties. Perhaps you wouldtake a little turn on the green--I must call for a moment at thereading-room--and I'll explain. You'll forgive me, I hope, Mrs. Wylder,'he added, with a playful condescension, 'for running away with yourhusband, but only for a few minutes--ha, ha!'
The shadow was upon Jos. Larkin's face, and he was plainly meditating alittle uncomfortably, as they approached the quiet green of Gylingden.
'What a charming evening,' said the vicar, making an effort atcheerfulness.
'Delicious evening--yes,' said the attorney, throwing back his long head,and letting his mouth drop. But though his face was turned up towards thesky, there was a contraction and a darkness upon it, not altogetherheavenly.
'The offer,' said the attorney, beginning rather abruptly, 'is no doubt ahandsome offer at the first glance, and it may be well meant. But thefact is, my dear Mr. Wylder, six hundred pounds would leave little morethan a hundred remaining after Burlington and Smith have had their costs.You have no idea of the expense and trouble of title, and the inevitablecostliness, my dear Sir, of all conveyancing operations. The deeds, Ihave 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, ofcourse, await your entire convenience--but still it would not be eitherfor your or my advantage that they should be forgotten in the generaladjustment of your affairs, which I understand you to propose.'
The vicar's countenance fell. In fact, it is idle to say that, beingunaccustomed to the grand scale on which law costs present themselves onoccasion, he was unspeakably shocked and he grew very pale and silent onhearing these impressive sentences.
'And as to Miss Lake's residing with you--I speak now, you willunderstand, in the strictest confidence, because the subject is a painfulone; as to her residing with you, as she proposes, Miss Lake is wellaware that I am cognizant of circumstances which render any sucharrangement absolutely impracticable. I need not, my dear Sir, be moreparticular--at present, at least. In a little time you will probably bemade 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, Ireally _cannot_ satisfy any particular enquiry. Miss Lake has spoken, incharity 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 moralimpossibilities which interpose between her, to me, most amazing plan andits realisation.'
There was a little pause here, during which the tread of their feet onthe soft grass alone was audible.
'You will quite understand,' resumed the attorney, 'the degree ofconfidence with which I make this communication; and you will please,specially not to mention it to any person whatsoever. I do not except, infact, _any_. You will find, on consideration, that Miss Lake will notpress her residence upon you. No; I've no doubt Miss Lake is a veryintelligent person, and, when not excited, will see it clearly.'
The attorney's manner had something of that reserve, and grim sort ofdryness, which supervened whenever he fancied a friend or client on whomhe had formed designs was becoming impracticable. Nothing affected him
somuch as that kind of unkindness.
Jos. Larkin took his leave a little abruptly. He did not condescend toask the vicar whether he still entertained Miss Lake's proposal. He hadnot naturally a pleasant temper--somewhat short, dark, and dangerous, butby no means noisy. This temper, an intense reluctance ever to say 'thankyou,' and a profound and quiet egotism, were the ingredients of that'pride' on which--a little inconsistently, perhaps, in so eminent aChristian--he piqued himself. It must be admitted, however, that hispride was not of that stamp which would prevent him from listening toother men's private talk, or reading their letters, if anything were tobe got by it; or from prosecuting his small spites with a patient andvirulent industry; or from stripping a man of his possessions, andtransferring them to himself by processes from which most men wouldshrink.
'Well,' thought the vicar, 'that munificent offer is unavailing, itseems. The sum insufficient, great as it is; and other difficulties inthe way.'
He was walking homewards, slowly and dejectedly; and was now beginning tofeel alarm lest the purchase of the reversion should fail. The agreementwas to have gone up to London by this day's mail, and now could not reachtill the day after to-morrow--four-and-twenty hours later than waspromised. The attorney had told him it was a 'touch-and-go affair,' andthe whole thing might be off in a moment; and if it _should_ miscarrywhat inevitable ruin yawned before him? Oh, the fatigue of thesemonotonous agitations--this never-ending suspense! Oh, the yearningunimaginable for quiet and rest! How awfully he comprehended thereasonableness of the thanksgiving which he had read that day in thechurchyard--'We give Thee hearty thanks for that it hath pleased Thee todeliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world.'
With the attorney it was different. Making the most of his height, whichhe fancied added much to the aristocratic effect of his presence, withhis head thrown back, and swinging his walking cane easily between hisfinger and thumb by his side, he strode languidly through the main streetof Gylingden, in the happy belief that he was making a sensation amongthe denizens of the town.
And so he moved on to the mill-road, on which he entered, and was soondeep in the shadows of Redman's Dell.
He opened the tiny garden-gate of Redman's Farm, looking about him with asupercilious benevolence, like a man conscious of bestowing adistinction. He was inwardly sensible of a sort of condescension inentering so diminutive and homely a place--a kind of half amusingdisproportion between Jos. Larkin, Esq., of the Lodge, worth, already,L27,000, and on the high road to greatness, and the trumpery little placein 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, whitewoman 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 tellinglies. He always thought everyone might be lying. It was his primaryimpression here. But there was a recluse and unearthly character in theface of the crone which satisfied him that she would never think offencing with such weapons with him.
Very good. Mr. Larkin would take a short walk, and as his business waspressing, he would take the liberty of looking in again in abouthalf-an-hour, if she thought her mistress would be at home then.
So, although the weird white woman who leered after him so strangely ashe walked with his most lordly air out of the little garden, and down thedarkening road towards Gylingden, could not say, he resolved to maketrial again.
In the meantime Rachel had arrived at Brandon Hall. Dorcas--whom, if thetruth were spoken, she would rather not have met--encountered her on thesteps. She was going out for a lonely, twilight walk upon the terrace,where many a beautiful Brandon of other days, the sunshine of whose smileglimmered only on the canvas that hung upon those ancestral walls, andwhose sorrows were hid in the grave and forgotten by the world, hadwalked in other days, in the pride of beauty, or in the sadness ofdesertion.
Dorcas paused upon the door-steps, and received her sister-in-law uponthat 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 inwhich it was given, and with the air rather of a defiance than of agreeting; '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, knewnothing of it until he had been more than an hour upon his journey.'
Rachel Lake made no answer but a little laugh.
'He'll return to-morrow; and perhaps your meeting may still be in time. Iwas thinking of a few minutes' walk upon the terrace, but you arefatigued: 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, andthen 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 asyou are so kind, I will accept your offer of the carriage.'
Larcom had, that moment, appeared in the vestibule, and received theorder.
'I'll sit in the porch, if you will allow me, Dorcas; you must not loseyour walk.'
'Then you won't come into the house, you won't drink tea with me, and youwon'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 andbid you good-night. It is plain, Rachel, you do not like my company.'
'True, Dorcas, I do _not_ like your company. You are unjust; you have noconfidence in me; you prejudge me without proof; and you have quiteceased to love me. Why should I like your company?'
Dorcas smiled a proud and rather sad smile at this sudden change from theconventional to the passionate; and the direct and fiery charge of herkinswoman 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 notmine.'
'No, Dorcas, the fault is not yours, nor mine. The fault is incircumstances. 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, justbecause, in spite of all, I do love you still; and in yours I only seethe 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 yousay, Rachel, and--no matter--_time_, as you say, and _light_--I don'tunderstand you, Rachel; but there is this in you that resembles me--weboth hate hypocrisy, and we are both, in our own ways, proud. I'll comeback, when I hear the carriage, and see you for a moment, as you won'tstay, or come with me, and bid you good-bye.'
So Dorcas went her way; and alone, on the terrace, looking over the stonebalustrade--over the rich and sombre landscape, dim and vaporous in thetwilight--she still saw the pale face of Rachel--paler than she liked tosee it. Was she ill?--and she thought how lonely she would be if Rachelwere to die--how lonely she was now. There was a sting of compunction--ayearning--and then started a few bitter and solitary tears.
In one of the great stone vases, that are ranged along the terrace, thereflourished a beautiful and rare rose. I forget its name. Some of myreaders will remember. It is first to bloom--first to wither. Itsfragrant petals were now strewn upon the terrace underneath. One blossomonly remained untarnished, and Dorcas plucked it, and with it in herfingers, she returned to the porch where Rachel remained.
'You see, I have come back a litt
le before my time,' said Dorcas. 'I havejust been looking at the plant you used to admire so much, and the leavesare shed already, and it reminded me of our friendship, Radie; but I amsure 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 relicof the bloom that is gone--the last token,' and she kissed Rachel, as sheplaced it in her fingers, 'a token of remembrance and of hope.'
'I will keep it, Dorkie. It was kind of you,' and their eyes metregretfully.
'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 amnot very happy; and--here's the carriage.'
And it drew up close to the steps, and Rachel entered; and her littlehandmaid of up in the seat behind; and Dorcas and Rachel kissed theirhands, and smiled, and away the carriage glided; and Dorcas, standing onthe steps, looked after it very sadly. And when it disappeared, shesighed again heavily, still looking in its track; and I think she said'Darling!'
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