CHAPTER LXXII.
MARK WYLDER'S HAND.
Just at the darkest point of the road, a little above the rude columnwhich I have mentioned, Lake's horse, a young one, shied, stopped short,recoiling on its haunches, and snorted fiercely into the air. At the sametime, the two dogs which had accompanied us began to bark furiouslybeneath in the ravine.
The tall form of Uncle Lorne was leaning against a tree at the edge ofthe ravine, with his left hand extended towards us, and his rightpointing down the precipice. Perhaps it was this odd apparition thatstartled Lake's horse.
'I told you he was coming up--lend him a hand,' yelled Uncle Lorne, ingreat excitement.
No one at such a moment minded his maunderings: but many peopleafterwards thought that the crazed old man, in one of his night-rambles,had seen that which, till now, no one had imagined; and that Captain Lakehimself, whose dislike of him was hardly disguised, suspected him, attimes of that alarming knowledge.
Lake plunged the spurs into his beast, which reared so straight that shetoppled backward toward the edge of the ravine.
'Strike her on the head; jump off,' shouted Wealdon.
But he did neither.
'D-- it! put her head down; lean forward,' bellowed Wealdon again.
But it would not do. With a crash among briars, and a heavy thump frombeneath that shook the earth, the mare and her rider went over. A shoutof horror broke from us all; and Jekyl, watching the catastrophe, wasvery near pulling our horse over the edge, and launching us all together,like the captain, into the defile.
In a moment more we were all on the ground, and scrambling down the sideof the ravine, among rocks, boughs, brambles, and ferns, in the deepshadows of the gorge, the dogs still yelling furiously from below.
'Here he is,' cried Jekyl. 'How are you, Lake? Much hurt, old boy? ByJove, he's killed, I think.'
Lake groaned.
He lay about twelve feet below the edge. The mare, now lying near thebottom of the gorge, had, I believe, fallen upon him, and then tumbledover.
Strange to say, Lake was conscious, and in a few seconds, he said, inreply to the horrified questions of his friend--
'I'm _all_ smashed. Don't move me;' and, in a minute more--'Don't mindthat d--d brute; she's killed. Let her lie.'
It appeared very odd, but so it was, he appeared eager upon this point,and, faint as he was, almost savage.
'Tell them to let her lie there.'
Wealdon and I, however, scrambled down the bank. He was right. The marelay stone dead, on her side, at the bottom. He lifted her head, by theear, and let it fall back.
In the meantime the dogs continued their unaccountable yelling close by.
'What the devil's that?' said Wealdon.
Something like a stunted, blackened branch was sticking out of the peat,ending in a set of short, thickish twigs. This is what it seemed. Thedogs were barking at it. It was, really, a human hand and arm, disclosedby the slipping of the bank; undermined by the brook, which was swollenby the recent rains.
The dogs were sniffing and yelping about it.
'It's a hand!' cried Wealdon, with an oath.
'A hand?' I echoed.
We were both peering at it, having drawn near, stooping and hesitating asmen do in a curious horror.
It was, indeed, a human hand and arm, disclosed from about the elbow,enveloped in a discoloured coat-sleeve, which fell back from the limb,and the fingers, like it black, were extended in the air. Nothing more ofthe body to which it belonged, except the point of a knee, in stained andmuddy trousers, protruding from the peat, was visible.
It must have lain there a considerable time, for, notwithstanding theantiseptic properties of that sort of soil, mixed with the decayed barkand fibre of trees, a portion of the flesh of the hand was decomposed,and the naked bone disclosed. On the little finger something glimmereddully.
In this livid hand, rising from the earth, there was a character both ofmenace and appeal; and on the finger, as I afterwards saw at the inquest,glimmered the talismanic legend 'Resurgam--I will rise again!' It was thecorpse of Mark Wylder, which had lain buried here undiscovered for manymonths. A horrible odour loaded the air. Perhaps it was this smell ofcarrion, from which horses sometimes recoil with a special terror, thatcaused the swerving and rearing which had ended so fatally. At thatmoment we heard a voice calling, and raising our eyes, saw Uncle Lornelooking down from the rock with an agitated scowl.
'I've done with him now--_emeritus_--he touches me, no more. Take him bythe 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 unexpectedlydiscovered.
We beat off the dogs, and on returning to Lake, found Jekyl trying toraise 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 beto carry Lake thither at once by the footpath, and that one ofus--Wealdon undertook this--should drive the carriage on, and apprisingRachel on the way of the accident which had happened, and that herbrother 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 wasnot one of us who looked at him that did not feel convinced that he wasmortally hurt. I don't think he believed so himself then; but we couldnot 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 seemeddistressed by the noise.
'There's a dead body partly disclosed down there--some one murdered andburied; 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 suppressedmoan he abandoned it.
'Is there no doctor--I'm very much hurt?' said Lake, faintly, after aminute's silence.
We told him that Buddle had been sent for; and that we only awaited helpto get him down to Redman's Farm.
When Rachel heard the clang of hoofs and the rattle of the tax-cartdriving down the mill-road, at a pace so unusual, a vague augury of evilsmote her. She was standing in the porch of her tiny house, and old Tamarwas 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 Tamarstood up, and shaded her eyes with her shrunken hand.
Tom Wealdon pulled up at the little wicket. He was pale. He had lost hishat, 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 thecaptain's badly hurt, and maybe you could have a shakedown in the parlourready 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 bythis 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 deadbody that's there. You'd better stay where you are, Miss; but if youcould send up some water, I think he'd like it. Going for the doctor,Ma'am; good-bye, Miss Lake.'
And away went Wealdon, wild, pale, and hatless, like a man pursued byrobbers.
'Oh! Tamar, he's killed--Stanley's killed--I'm sure he's killed, andall's discovered'--and Rachel ran wildly up the hill a few steps, butstopped and returned as swiftly.
'Thank God, Miss,' said old Tamar, lifting up her trembling fingers andwhite eyes to Heaven. 'Better dead, Miss, than living on in sin andsorrow, better discovered than hid by daily falsehood and cruelty. OldTamar's tired of life; she's willing to go, and wishin' for death thismany a day. Oh! Master Stanley, my child!'
Rachel went into the parlour and kneeled down, with white upturned faceand clasped hands. But sh
e could not pray. She could only look her wildsupplication;--deliverance--an issue out of the terrors that beset her;and 'oh! poor miserable lost Stanley!' It was just a look and aninarticulate cry for mercy.
An hour after Captain Stanley Brandon Lake, whose 'election address' wasfiguring that evening in the 'Dollington Courier,' and in the 'CountyChronicle,' lay with his clothes still on, in the little drawing-room ofRedman's Farm, his injuries ascertained, his thigh broken near the hip,and his spine fractured. No hope--no possibility of a physicalreascension, this time.
Meanwhile, in the Blackberry Dell, Doctor Buddle was assisting at adifferent sort of inquisition. The two policemen who constituted thecivil force of Gylingden, two justices of the peace, the doctor, and acrowd of amateurs, among whom I rank myself, were grouped in the dismalgorge, a little to windward of the dead body, which fate had brought tolight, while three men were now employed in cautiously disinterring it.
When the operation was completed, there remained no doubt whatever on mymind: discoloured and disfigured as were both clothes and body, I wassure that the dead man was no other than Mark Wylder. When the clay withwhich it was clotted was a little removed, it became indubitable. Thegreat whiskers; the teeth so white and even; and oddly enough, one blacklock 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 lasttoilet for Brandon Hall.
In the rude and shallow grave in which he lay, his purse was found, andsome loose silver mixed in the mould. The left hand, on which was thering of 'the Persian magician,' was bare; the right gloved, with theglove 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 placedin a disused coach-house to await the inquest. There the examination wascontinued, and his watch (the chain broken) found in his waistcoatpocket. In his coat-pocket were found (of course, in no very presentablecondition) his cigar-case, his initials stamped on it, for Mark had, inhis day, a keen sense of property; his handkerchief, also marked; apocket-book with some entries nearly effaced; and a letter unopened, andsealed with Lord Chelford's seal. The writing was nearly washed away, butthe letters 'lwich,' or 'twich,' were still legible near the corner, andit turned out to be a letter to Dulwich, which Mark Wylder had undertakento put in the Gylingden post-office, on the last night on which heappeared at Brandon.
The whole town was in a ferment that night. Great debate and conjecturein the reading-room, and even on the benches of the billiard-room. The'Silver Lion' did a great business that night. Mine host might haveturned a good round sum only by showing the body, were it not thatEdwards, the chief policeman, had the keys of the coach-house. Muchto-ing and fro-ing there was between the town and Redman's Farm, therespectable inhabitants all sending or going up to enquire how thecaptain was doing. At last Doctor Buddle officially interfered. Theconstant bustle was injurious to his patient. An hourly bulletin up totwelve o'clock should be in the hall of the 'Brandon Arms;' and Redman'sDell grew quiet once more.
When William Wylder heard the news, he fainted; not altogether throughhorror or grief, though he felt both; but the change in his circumstanceswas so amazing and momentous. It was a strange shock--immenserelief--immense horror--quite overwhelming.
Mark had done some good-natured things for him in a small five-pound way;he had promised him that loan, too, which would have lifted him out ofhis Slough of Despond, and he clung with an affectionate gratitude tothese exhibitions of brotherly love. Besides, he had accustomedhimself--the organ of veneration standing prominent on the top of thevicar's head--to regard Mark in the light of a great practicalgenius--'natus rebus agendis;' he knew men so thoroughly--he understoodthe world so marvellously! The vicar was not in the least surprised whenMark came in for a fortune. He had always predicted that Mark must become_very_ rich, and that nothing but indolence could prevent his ultimatelybecoming a very great man. The sudden and total disappearance of socolossal an object was itself amazing.
There was another person very strongly, though differently, affected bythe news. Under pretext of business at Naunton, Jos. Larkin had drivenoff early to Five Oaks, to make inspection of his purchase. He dined likea king in disguise, at the humble little hostelry of Naunton Friars, andreturned in the twilight to the Lodge, which he would make thedower-house of Five Oaks, with the Howard shield over the door. He wasgracious to his domestics, but the distance was increased: he was nearerto the clouds, and they looked smaller.
'Well, Mrs. Smithers,' said he, encouragingly, his long feet on thefender, for the evening was sharp, and Mrs. S. knew that he liked a bitof 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 suddenlyvanishing.
'No, Sir; Mr. _Mark_ Wylder, please; the gentleman, Sir, as was to 'avmarried Miss Brandon.'
'What the devil do you mean, woman?' ejaculated the attorney, his back tothe fire, standing erect, and a black shadow over his amazed and offendedcountenance.
'The devil,' in such a mouth, was so appalling and so amazing, that theworthy woman gazed, thunder-struck, 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 "SilverLion" 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 millrace, and impossible it was that Mark, whom he and Larcom had both seenalive and well last night--the latter, indeed, _this morning_--couldpossibly be the man. And thus comforting himself, he met old MajorJackson on the green, and that gentleman's statement ended with thewords; 'and in an advanced stage of decomposition.'
'That settles the matter,' said Larkin, breathing again, and with a tossof his head, and almost a smile of disdain: 'for I saw Mr. Mark Wylderlate last night at Shillingsworth.'
Leaving Major Jackson in considerable surprise, Mr. Larkin walked off toEdwards' dwelling, at the top of Church Street, and found that activepoliceman at home. In his cool, grand, official way, Mr. Larkin requestedMr. Edwards to accompany him to the 'Silver Lion,' where in the same calmand commanding way, he desired him to attend him to view the corpse. Invirtue of his relation to Mark Wylder, and of his position as soleresident and legal practitioner, he was obeyed.
The odious spectacle occupied him for some minutes. He did not speakwhile they remained in the room. On coming out there was a black cloudupon the attorney's features, and he said, sulkily, to Edwards, who hadturned 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 faras 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 thiscertainly _was_ he, and with a sulky nod to the policeman, he walkeddarkly down to the vicar's house. The vicar had been sent for to Nauntonto pray with a dying person; and Mr. Larkin, disappointed, left a note tostate that in writing that morning, as he had done, in reference to thepurchase of the reversion, through Messrs. Burlington and Smith, he hadsimply expressed his own surmises as to the probable withdrawal of theintending purchaser, but had received no formal, nor, indeed, _any_authentic information, from either the party or the solicitors referredto, to that effect. That he mentioned this lest misapprehension shouldarise, but not as attaching any importance to the supposed discoverywhich seemed to imply Mr. Mark Wylder's death. That gentleman, on thecontrary, he had seen alive and well at Shillingsworth on the nightprevious; and he had been seen in conference with Captain Lake at asubsequent hour, at Brandon.
From all thi
s the reader may suppose that Mr. Jos. Larkin was not quitein a comfortable state, and he resolved to get the deeds, and go downagain to the vicar's, and persuade him to execute them. He could makeWilliam Wylder, of course, do whatever he pleased.
There were a good many drunken fellows about the town, but there was anend of election demonstrations in the Brandon interest. Captain Lake wasnot going in for that race; he would be on another errand by the time thewrit came down.
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