‘Read it! Oh, my dear Sir, my dear Captain Lake, how could you — but, oh! no — you could not suppose I meant such an idea — oh, dear — no, no. You and I have our notions about what’s gentlemanlike and professional — a — and gentlemanlike, as I say — Heaven forbid.’
‘Quite so!’ said Captain Lake, gently.
‘Though all the world does not think with us, I can tell you, things come before us in our profession. Oh, ho! ho!’ and Mr. Larkin lifted up his pink eyes and long hands, and shook his long head, with a melancholy smile and a sigh like a shudder.
When at the later breakfast, up at Brandon, that irregular pencilled scroll reached Lord Chelford’s hand, he said, as he glanced on the direction —
‘This is Mark Wylder’s; what does he say?’
‘So Mark’s gone to town,’ he said; ‘but he’ll be back again on Saturday, and in the meantime desires me to lay his heart at your feet, Dorcas. Will you read the note?’
‘No,’ said Dorcas, quietly.
Lady Chelford extended her long, shrivelled fingers, on which glimmered sundry jewels, and made a little nod to her son, who gave it to her, with a smile. Holding her glasses to her eyes, the note at a distance, and her head rather back, she said —
‘It is not a pretty billet,’ and she read in a slow and grim way: —
‘DEAR CHELFORD, — I’m called up to London just for a day. No lark, but honest business. I’ll return on Saturday; and tell Dorcas, with dozens of loves, I would write to her, but have not a minute for the train.
‘Yours, &c.
‘M. WYLDER.’
‘No; it is not pretty,’ repeated the old lady; and, indeed, in no sense was it. Before luncheon Captain Lake arrived.
‘So Wylder has run up to town,’ I said, so soon as we had shaken hands in the hall.
‘Yes; I drove him to Dollington last night; we just caught the up train.’
‘He says he’ll be back again on Saturday,’ I said.
‘Saturday, is it? He seemed to think — yes — it would be only a day or so. Some jewels, I think, for Dorcas. He did not say distinctly; I only conjecture. Lady Chelford and Miss Brandon, I suppose, in the drawingroom?’
So to the drawingroom he passed.
‘How is Rachel? how is your sister, Captain Lake, have you seen her to-day?’ asked old Lady Chelford, rather benignantly. She chose to be gracious to the Lakes. ‘Only, for a moment, thank you. She has one of her miserable headaches, poor thing; but she’ll be better, she says, in the afternoon, and hopes to come up here to see you, and Miss Brandon, this evening.’
Lord Chelford and I had a pleasant walk that day to the ruins of Willerton Castle. I find in my diary a note— ‘Chelford tells me it is written in old surveys, Wylderton, and was one of the houses of the Wylders. What considerable people those Wylders were, and what an antique stock.’
After this he wished to make a visit to the vicar, and so we parted company. I got into Brandon Park by the pretty gate near Latham.
It was a walk of nearly three miles across the park from this point to the Hall, and the slopes and hollows of this noble, undulating plain, came out grandly in the long shadows and slanting beams of evening. That yellow, level light has, in my mind, something undefinably glorious and melancholy, such as to make almost any scenery interesting, and my solitary walk was delightful.
People must love and sympathise very thoroughly, I think, to enjoy natural scenery together. Generally it is one of the few spectacles best seen alone. The silence that supervenes is indicative of the solitary character of the enjoyment. It is a poem and a reverie. I was quite happy striding in the amber light and soft, long shadows, among the ferns, the copsewood, and the grand old clumps of timber, exploring the undulations, and the wild nooks and hollows which have each their circumscribed and sylvan charm; a wonderful interest those little parklike broken dells have always had for me; dotted with straggling birch and oak, and here and there a hoary ash tree, with a grand and melancholy grace, dreaming among the songs of wild birds, in their native solitudes, and the brown leaves tipped with golden light, all breathing something of old-world romance — the poetry of bygone love and adventure — and stirring undefinable and delightful emotions that mingle unreality with sense, a music of the eye and spirit.
After many devious wanderings, I found, under shelter of a wonderful little hollow, in which lay, dim and still, a tarn, reflecting the stems of the trees that rose from its edge, in a way so clear and beautiful, that, with a smile and a sigh, I sat myself down upon a rock among the ferns, and fell into a reverie.
The image of Dorcas rose before me. There is a strange mystery and power in the apathetic, and in that unaffected carelessness, even defiance of opinion and criticism, which I had seen here for the first time, so beautifully embodied. I was quite sure she both thought and felt, and could talk, too, if she chose it. What tremendous self-reliance and disdain must form the basis of a female character, which accepted misapprehension and depreciation with an indifference so genuine as to scorn even the trifling exertion of disclosing its powers.
She could not possibly care for Wylder, any more than he cared for her. That odd look I detected in the mirror — what did it mean? and Wylder’s confusion about Captain Lake — what was that? I could not comprehend the situation that was forming. I went over Wylder’s history in my mind, and Captain Lake’s — all I could recollect of it — but could find no clue, and that horrible visitation or vision! what was it?
This latter image had just glided in and taken its place in my waking dream, when I thought I saw reflected in the pool at my feet, the shape and face which I never could forget, of the white, long-chinned old man.
For a second I was unable, I think, to lift my eyes from the water which presented this cadaverous image.
But the figure began to move, and I raised my eyes, and saw it retreat, with a limping gait, into the thick copse before me, in the shadow of which it stopped and turned stiffly round, and directed on me a look of horror, and then withdrew.
It is all very fine laughing at me and my fancies. I do not think there are many men who in my situation would have felt very differently. I recovered myself; I shouted lustily after him to stay, and then in a sort of half-frightened rage, I pursued him; but I had to get round the pool, a considerable circuit. I could not tell which way he had turned on getting into the thicket; and it was now dusk, the sun having gone down during my reverie. So I stopped a little way in the copsewood, which was growing quite dark, and I shouted there again, peeping under the branches, and felt queer and much relieved that nothing answered or appeared.
Looking round me, in a sort of dream, I remembered suddenly what Wylder had told me of old Lorne Brandon, to whose portrait this inexplicable phantom bore so powerful a resemblance. He was suspected of having murdered his own son, at the edge of a tarn in the park. This tarn maybe — and with the thought the water looked blacker — and a deeper and colder shadow gathered over the ominous hollow in which I stood, and the rustling in the withered leaves sounded angrily.
I got up as quickly as might be to the higher grounds, and waited there for awhile, and watched for the emergence of the old man. But it did not appear; and shade after shade was spreading solemnly over the landscape, and having a good way to walk, I began to stride briskly along the slopes and hollows, in the twilight, now and then looking into vacancy, over my shoulder.
The little adventure, and the deepening shades, helped to sadden my homeward walk; and when at last the dusky outline of the Hall rose before me, it wore a sort of weird and haunted aspect.
CHAPTER XX.
CAPTAIN LAKE TAKES AN EVENING STROLL ABOUT GYLINGDEN.
Again I had serious thoughts of removing my person and effects to the Brandon Arms. I could not quite believe I had seen a ghost; but neither was I quite satisfied that the thing was altogether canny. The apparition, whatever it was, seemed to persecute me with a mysterious obstinacy; at all events, I was falling into a habit o
f seeing it; and I felt a natural desire to escape from the house which was plagued with its presence.
At the same time I had an odd sort of reluctance to mention the subject to my entertainers. The thing itself was a ghostly slur upon the house, and, to run away, a reproach to my manhood; and besides, writing now at a distance, and in the spirit of history, I suspect the interest which beauty always excites had a great deal to do with my resolve to hold my ground; and, I dare say, notwithstanding my other reasons, had the ladies at the Hall been all either old or ugly, I would have made good my retreat to the village hotel.
As it was, however, I was resolved to maintain my position. But that evening was streaked with a tinge of horror, and I more silent and distrait than usual.
The absence of an accustomed face, even though the owner be nothing very remarkable, is always felt; and Wylder was missed, though, sooth to say, not very much regretted. For the first time we were really a small party. Miss Lake was not there. The gallant captain, her brother, was also absent. The vicar, and his good little wife, were at Naunton that evening to hear a missionary recount his adventures and experiences in Japan, and none of the neighbours had been called in to fill the empty chairs.
Dorcas Brandon did not contribute much to the talk; neither, in truth, did I. Old Lady Chelford occasionally dozed and nodded sternly after tea, waking up and eyeing people grimly, as though enquiring whether anyone presumed to suspect her ladyship of having had a nap.
Chelford, I recollect, took a book, and read to us now and then, a snatch of poetry — I forget what. My book — except when I was thinking of the tarn and that old man I so hated — was Miss Brandon’s exquisite and mysterious face.
That young lady was leaning back in her great oak chair, in which she looked like the heroine of some sad and gorgeous romance of the old civil wars of England, and directing a gaze of contemplative and haughty curiosity upon the old lady, who was unconscious of the daring profanation.
All on a sudden Dorcas Brandon said —
‘And pray what do you think of marriage, Lady Chelford?’
‘What do I think of marriage?’ repeated the dowager, throwing back her head and eyeing the beautiful heiress through her gold spectacles, with a stony surprise, for she was not accustomed to be catechised by young people. ‘Marriage? — why ’tis a divine institution. What can the child mean?’
‘Do you think, Lady Chelford, it may be safely contracted, solely to join two estates?’ pursued the young lady.
‘Do I think it may safely be contracted, solely to join two estates?’ repeated the old lady, with a look and carriage that plainly showed how entirely she appreciated the amazing presumption of her interrogatrix.
There was a little pause.
‘Certainly,’ replied Lady Chelford; ‘that is, of course, under proper conditions, and with a due sense of its sacred character and a — a — obligations.’
‘The first of which is love,’ continued Miss Brandon; ‘the second honour — both involuntary; and the third obedience, which springs from them.’
Old Lady Chelford coughed, and then rallying, said —
‘Very good, Miss!’
‘And pray, Lady Chelford, what do you think of Mr. Mark Wylder?’ pursued
Miss Dorcas.
‘I don’t see, Miss Brandon, that my thoughts upon that subject can concern anyone but myself,’ retorted the old lady, severely, and from an awful altitude. ‘And I may say, considering who I am — and my years — and the manner in which I am usually treated, I am a little surprised at the tone in which you are pleased to question me.’
These last terrible remarks totally failed to overawe the serene temerity of the grave beauty.
‘I assumed, Lady Chelford, as you had interested yourself in me so far as to originate the idea of my engagement to Mr. Wylder, that you had considered these to me very important questions a little, and could give me satisfactory answers upon points on which my mind has been employed for some days; and, indeed, I think I’ve a right to ask that assistance of you.’
‘You seem to forget, young lady, that there are times and places for such discussions; and that to Mr. — a — a — your visitor (a glance at me), it can’t be very interesting to listen to this kind of — of — conversation, which is neither very entertaining, nor very wise.’
‘I am answerable only for my part of it; and I think my questions very much to the purpose,’ said the young lady, in her low, silvery tones.
‘I don’t question your good opinion, Miss Brandon, of your own discretion; but I can’t see any profit in now discussing an engagement of more than two months’ standing, or a marriage, which is fixed to take place only ten days hence. And I think, Sir (glancing again at me), it must strike you a little oddly, that I should be invited, in your presence, to discuss family matters with Miss Dorcas Brandon?’
Now, was it fair to call a peaceable inhabitant like me into the thick of a fray like this? I paused long enough to allow Miss Brandon to speak, but she did not choose to do so, thinking, I suppose, it was my business.
‘I believe I ought to have withdrawn a little,’ I said, very humbly; and old Lady Chelford at the word shot a gleam of contemptuous triumph at Miss Dorcas; but I would not acquiesce in the dowager’s abusing my concession to the prejudice of that beautiful and daring young lady— ‘I mean, Lady Chelford, in deference to you, who are not aware, as Miss Brandon is, that I am one of Mr. Wylder’s oldest and most intimate friends; and at his request, and with Lord Chelford’s approval, have been advised with, in detail, upon all the arrangements connected with the approaching marriage.’
‘I am not going, at present, to say any more upon these subjects, because Lady Chelford prefers deferring our conversation,’ said this very odd young lady; ‘but there is nothing which either she or I may say, which I wish to conceal from any friend of Mr. Wylder’s.’
The idea of Miss Brandon’s seriously thinking of withdrawing from her engagement with Mark Wylder, I confess never entered my mind. Lady Chelford, perhaps, knew more of the capricious and daring character of the ladies of the Brandon line than I, and may have discovered some signs of a coming storm in the oracular questions which had fallen so harmoniously from those beautiful lips. As for me, I was puzzled. The old viscountess was flushed (she did not rouge), and very angry, and, I think, uncomfortable, though she affected her usual supremacy. But the young lady showed no sign of excitement, and lay back in her chair in her usual deep, cold calm.
Lake’s late smoking with Wylder must have disagreed with him very much indeed, for he seemed more out of sorts as night approached. He stole away from Mr. Larkin’s trellised porch, in the dusk. He marched into the town rather quickly, like a man who has business on his hands; but he had none — for he walked by the ‘Brandon Arms,’ and halted, and stared at the postoffice, as if he fancied he had something to say there. But no — there was no need to tap at the wooden window-pane. Some idle boys were observing the dandy captain, and he turned down the short lane that opened on the common, and sauntered upon the short grass.
Two or three groups, and an invalid visitor or two — for Gylingden boasts a ‘spa’ — were lounging away the twilight half-hours there. He seated himself on one of the rustic seats, and his yellow eyes wandered restlessly and vaguely along the outline of the beautiful hills. Then for nearly ten minutes he smoked — an odd recreation for a man suffering from the cigars of last night — and after that, for nearly as long again, he seemed lost in deep thought, his eyes upon the misty grass before him, and his small French boot beating time to the music of his thoughts.
Several groups passed close by him, in their pleasant circuit. Some wondered what might be the disease of that pale, peevish-looking gentleman, who sat there so still, languid, and dejected. Others set him down as a gentleman in difficulties of some sort, who was using Gylingden for a temporary refuge.
Others, again, supposed he might be that Major Craddock who had lost thirty thousand pounds on Vanderdecke
n the other day. Others knew he was staying with Mr. Larkin, and supposed he was trying to raise money at disadvantage, and remarked that some of Mr. Larkin’s clients looked always unhappy, though they had so godly an attorney to deal with.
When Lake, with a little shudder, for it was growing chill, lifted up his yellow eyes suddenly, and recollected where he was, the common had grown dark, and was quite deserted. There were lights in the windows of the reading-room, and in the billiard-room beneath it; and shadowy figures, with cues in their hands, gliding hither and thither, across its uncurtained windows.
With a shrug, and a stealthy glance round him, Captain Lake started up. The instinct of the lonely and gloomy man unconsciously drew him towards the light, and he approached. A bat, attracted thither like himself, was flitting and flickering, this way and that, across the casement.
Captain Lake, waiting, with his hand on the door-handle, for the stroke, heard the smack of the balls, and the score called by the marker, and entered the hot, glaring room. Old Major Jackson, with his glass in his eye, was contending in his shirtsleeves heroically with a Manchester bag-man, who was palpably too much for him. The double-chinned and florid proprietor of the ‘Brandon Arms,’ with a brandy-and-water familiarity, offered Captain Lake two to one on the game in anything he liked, which the captain declined, and took his seat on the bench.
He was not interested by the struggle of the gallant major, who smiled like a prizefighter under his punishment. In fact, he could not have told the score at any point of the game; and, to judge by his face, was translated from the glare of that arena into a dark and splenetic world of his own.
When he wakened up, in the buzz and clack of tongues that followed the close of the game, Captain Lake glared round for a moment, like a man called up from sleep; the noise rattled and roared in his ears, the talk sounded madly, and the faces of the people excited and menaced him undefinably, and he felt as if he was on the point of starting to his feet and stamping and shouting. The fact is, I suppose, he was confoundedly nervous, dyspeptic, or whatever else it might be, and the heat and glare were too much for him.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 172