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Файл:Wylder’s Hand
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WYLDER’S HAND
with his hollow smile and hungry eyes before him, knowing more
than he should do, paying him compliments, and plotting his ruin.
‘Everything would have been quite smooth only for that d – –
fellow. The Devil fi xed him precisely there for the express purpose
of fl eecing and watching, and threatening him – perhaps worse. He
hated that sly, double-dealing reptile of prey – the arachnida of social nature – the spiders with which also naturalists place the scorpions. I dare say Mr. Larkin would have had as little diffi culty in
referring the gallant captain to the same family.
While Stanley Lake is thus scanning the shabby, but dangerous
image of the attorney in the magic mirror before him, that eminent
limb of the law was not inactive in the quiet town of Gylingden.
Under ordinary circumstances his ‘pride’ would have condemned
the vicar to a direful term of suspense, and he certainly would not
have knocked at the door of the pretty little gabled house at the
Dollington end of the town for many days to come. The vicar would
have had to seek out the attorney, to lie in wait for and to woo him.
But Jos. Larkin’s pride, like all his other passions – except his
weakness for the precious metals – was under proper regulation.
Jim Dutton might arrive at any moment, and it would not do to risk
his publishing the melancholy intelligence of Mark Wylder’s death
before the transfer of the vicar’s reversion; and to prevent that risk
the utmost promptitude was indispensable.
At nine o’clock, therefore, he presented himself, attended by his
legal henchmen as before.
‘Another man might not have come here, Mr. Wylder, until his
presence had been specially invited, after the – the – ‘ when he
came to defi ne the offence it was not very easy to do so, inasmuch
as it consisted in the vicar’s having unconsciously very nearly escaped from his fangs; ‘but let that pass. I have had, I grieve to say, by
this morning’s post a most serious letter from London;’ the attorney
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JOSEPH SHERIDAN L E FANU
shook his head, while searching his pocket. ‘I’ll read just a passage
or two if you’ll permit me; it comes from Burlington and Smith.
I protest I have forgot it at home; however, I may mention, that in
consequence of the letter you authorised me to write, and guaranteed by your bond, on which they have entered judgment, they
have gone to the entire expense of drawing the deeds, and investigating title, and they say that the purchaser will positively be off,
unless the articles are in their offi ce by twelve o’clock to-morrow;
and, I grieve to say, they add, that in the event of the thing falling
through, they will issue execution for the amount of their costs,
which, as I anticipated, a good deal exceeds four hundred pounds.
I have, therefore, my dear Mr. Wylder, casting aside all unpleasant
feeling, called to entreat you to end and determine any hesitation
you may have felt, and to execute without one moment’s delay the
articles which are prepared, and which must be in the post-offi ce
within half an hour.’
Then Mr. Jos. Larkin entered pointedly and briefl y into Miss
Lake’s offer, which he characterised as ‘wholly nugatory, illusory,
and chimerical;’ told him he had spoken on the subject, yesterday
evening, to the young lady, who now saw plainly that there really
was nothing in it, and that she was not in a position to carry out
that part of her proposition, which contemplated a residence in the
vicar’s family.
This portion of his discourse he dismissed rather slightly and
mysteriously; but he contrived to leave upon the vicar’s mind a very
painful and awful sort of uncertainty respecting the young lady of
whom he spoke.
Then he became eloquent on the madness of further indecision
in a state of things so fearfully menacing, freely admitting that it
would have been incomparably better for the vicar never to have
moved in the matter, than, having put his hand to the plough, to
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WYLDER’S HAND
look back as he had been doing. If he declined his advice, there was
no more to be said, but to bow his head to the storm, and that ponderous execution would descend in wreck and desolation.
So the vicar, very much fl ushed, in panic and perplexity, and
trusting wildly to his protesting lawyer’s guidance, submitted. Buggs
and the bilious youngster entered with the deed, and the articles
were duly executed, and the vicar signed also a receipt for the fanciful part of the consideration, and upon it and the deed he endorsed
a solemn promise, in the terms I have mentioned before, that he
would never take any step to question, set aside, or disturb the purchase, or any matter connected therewith.
Then the attorney, now in his turn fl ushed and very much elated, congratulated the poor vicar on his emancipation from his diffi culties; and ‘now that it was all done and over, told him, what he had
never told him before, that, considering the nature of the purchase,
he had got a splendid price for it.’
The good man had also his agreement from Lake to sell Five
Oaks.
The position of the good attorney, therefore, in a commercial
point of view, was eminently healthy and convenient. For less than
half the value of Five Oaks alone, he was getting that estate, and
a vastly greater one beside, to be succeeded to on Mark Wylder’s
death.
No wonder, then, that the good attorney was more than usually
bland and happy that day. He saw the pork-butcher in his backparlour, and had a few words to say about the chapel-trust, and his
looks and talk were quite edifying. He met two little children in the
street, and stopped and smiled as he stooped down to pat them on
the heads, and ask them whose children they were, and gave one of
them a halfpenny. And he sat afterwards, for nearly ten minutes,
with lean old Mrs. Mullock, in her little shop, where toffey, toys,
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JOSEPH SHERIDAN L E FANU
and penny books for young people were sold, together with baskets,
tea-cups, straw-mats, and other adult ware; and he was so friendly
and talked so beautifully, and although, as he admitted in his lofty
way, ‘there might be differences in fortune and position,’ yet were
we not all members of one body? And he talked upon this theme till
the good lady, marvelling how so great a man could be so humble,
was called to the receipt of custom, on the subject of ‘paradise’ and
‘lemon-drops,’ and the heavenly-minded attorney, with a celestial
condescension, recognised his two little acquaintances of the street,
and actually adding another halfpenny to his bounty – escaped,
with a hasty farewell and a smile, to the street, as eager to evade the
thanks of the little people, and the admiration of Mrs. Mullock.
It is not to be supposed, that having got one momentous matter
well off his mind, the good attorney was to be long rid of anxieties.
The human mind is fertile in that sort of growth. As well might the
gentleman who shaves suppose, as his fi ngers glide, after the operation, over the polished surface of his chin – factus ad unguem – that
he may fl ing his brush and strop into the fi re, and bury his razor
certain fathoms in the earth. No! One crop of cares will always succeed another – not very oppressive, nor in any wise grand, perhaps – worries, simply, no more; but needing a modicum of lather,
the looking glass, the strop, the diligent razor, delicate manipulation, and stealing a portion of our precious time every day we live;
and this must go on so long as the state of man is imperfect, and
plenty of possible evil in futurity.
The attorney must run up to London for a day or two. What if
that mysterious, and almost illegible brute, James Dutton, should arrive while he was away. Very unpleasant, possibly! For the attorney
intended to keep that gentleman very quiet. Suffi cient time must be
allowed to intervene to disconnect the purchase of the vicar’s remainder from the news of Mark Wylder’s demise. A year and a-half,
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WYLDER’S HAND
maybe, or possibly a year might do. For if the good attorney was cautious, he was also greedy, and would take possession as early as was
safe. Therefore arrangements were carefully adjusted to detain that
important person, in the event of his arriving; and a note, in the good
attorney’s hand, inviting him to remain at the Lodge till his return,
and particularly requesting that ‘he would kindly abstain from mentioning to anyone, during his absence, any matter he might intend to
communicate to him in his professional capacity or otherwise.’
This, of course, was a little critical, and made his to-morrow’s
journey to London a rather anxious prospect.
In the meantime our friend, Captain Lake, arrived in a hired fl y,
with his light baggage, at the door of stately Brandon. So soon as the
dust and ashes of railway travel were removed, the pale captain, in
changed attire, snowy cambric, and with perfumed hair and handkerchief, presented himself before Dorcas.
‘Now, Dorkie, darling, your poor soldier has come back, resolved
to turn over a new leaf, and never more to reserve another semblance of a secret from you,’ said he, so soon as his fi rst greeting
was over. ‘I long to have a good talk with you, Dorkie. I have no one
on earth to confi de in but you. I think,’ he said, with a little sigh,
‘I would never have been so reserved with you, darling, if I had had
anything pleasant to confi de; but all I have to say is triste and tiresome – only a story of diffi culties and petty vexations. I want to talk
to you, Dorkie. Where shall it be?’
They were in the great drawing-room, where I had fi rst seen
Dorcas Brandon and Rachel Lake, on the evening on which my acquaintance with the princely Hall was renewed, after an interval of
so many years.
‘This room, Stanley, dear?’
‘Yes, this room will answer very well,’ he said, looking round.
‘We can’t be overheard, it is so large. Very well, darling, listen.’
CHAPTER LXII
THE CAPTAIN EXPLAINS WHY
MARK WYLDER ABSCONDED
‘How delicious these violets are!’ said Stanley, leaning for a moment over the fragrant purple dome that crowned a china stand
on the marble table they were passing. ‘You love fl owers, Dorkie.
Every perfect woman is, I think, a sister of Flora’s. You are looking
pale – you have not been ill? No! I’m very glad you say so. Sit down
for a moment and listen, darling. And fi rst I’ll tell you, upon my
honour, what Rachel has been worrying me about.’
Dorcas sate beside him on the sofa, and he placed his slender
arm affectionately round her waist.
‘You must know, Dorkie, that before his sudden departure, Mark
Wylder promised to lend William, his brother, a sum suffi cient to
relieve him of all his pressing debts.’
‘Debts! I never knew before that he had any,’ exclaimed Dorcas. ‘Poor
William! I am so sorry.’
‘Well, he has, like other fellows, only he can’t get away as easily,
and he has been very much pressed since Mark went, for he has not
yet lent him a guinea, and in fact Rachel says she thinks he is in
danger of being regularly sold out. She does not say she knows it, but
only that she suspects they are in a great fi x about money.’
‘Well, you must know that I was the sole cause of Mark Wylder’s
leaving the country.’
‘You, Stanley!’
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WYLDER’S HAND
‘Yes, I, Dorkie. I believe I thought I was doing a duty; but really
I was nearly mad with jealousy, and simply doing my utmost to drive
a rival from your presence. And yet, without hope for myself, desper-
ately in love.’
Dorcas looked down and smiled oddly; it was a sad and bitter
smile, and seemed to ask whither has that desperate love, in so short
a time, fl own?
‘I know I was right. He was a stained man, and was liable at any
moment to be branded. It was villainous in him to seek to marry
you. I told him at last that, unless he withdrew, your friends should
know all. I expected he would show fi ght, and that a meeting would
follow; and I really did not much care whether I were killed or not.
But he went, on the contrary, rather quietly, threatening to pay me
off, however, though he did not say how. He’s a cunning dog, and
not very soft-hearted; and has no more conscience than that,’ and he
touched his fi nger to the cold summit of a marble bust.
‘He is palpably machinating something to my destruction with
an infl uential attorney on whom I keep a watch, and he has got
some fellow named Dutton into the conspiracy; and not knowing
how they mean to act, and only knowing how utterly wicked, cunning, and bloody-minded he is, and that he hates me as he probably
never hated anyone before, I must be prepared to meet him, and, if
possible, to blow up that Satanic cabal, which without money I can’t.
It was partly a mystifi cation about the election; of course, it will be
expensive, but nothing like the other. Are you ill, Dorkie?’
He might well ask, for she appeared on the point of fainting.
Dorcas had read and heard stories of men seemingly no worse
than their neighbours – nay, highly esteemed, and praised, and
liked – who yet were haunted by evil men, who encountered them
in lonely places, or by night, and controlled them by the knowledge of some dreadful crime. Was Stanley – her husband – whose
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JOSEPH SHERIDAN L E FANU
character she had begun to discern, whose habitual mystery was,
somehow, tinged in her mind with a shade of horror, one of this
two-faced, diabolical order of heroes?
Why should he dread this cabal, as he called it, even though
directed by the malignant energy of the absent and shadowy Mark
Wylder? What could all the world do to harm him in free England,
if he were innocent, if he were what he seemed – no worse than his
social peers?
Why should it be necessary to buy off the conspirators whom
a guiltless man would defy and punish?
The doubt did not come in these defi ned shapes. As a halo surrounds a saint, a shadow rose suddenly, and enveloped pale, scented, smiling Stanley, with the yellow eyes. He stood in the centre of
a dreadful medium, through which she saw him, ambiguous and awful; and she sickened.
‘Are you ill, Dorkie, darling?’ said the apparition in accents of
tenderness. ‘Yes, you are ill.’
And he hastily threw open the window, close to which they were
sitting, and she quickly revived in the cooling air.
She saw his yellow eyes fi xed upon her features, and his face
wearing an odd expression – was it interest, or tenderness, or only
scrutiny; to her there seemed a light of insincerity and cruelty in its
pallor.
‘You are better, darling; thank Heaven, you are better.’
‘Yes – yes – a great deal better; it is passing away.’
Her colour was returning, and with a shivering sigh, she said –
‘Oh? Stanley, you must speak truth; I am your wife. Do they
know anything very bad – are you in their power?’
‘Why, my dearest, what on earth could put such a wild fancy
in your head?’ said Lake, with a strange laugh, and, as she fancied,
growing still paler. ‘Do you suppose I am a highwayman in disguise,
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WYLDER’S HAND
or a murderer, like – what’s his name – Eugene Aram? I must have
expressed myself very ill, if I suggested anything so tragical. I protest
before Heaven, my darling, there is not one word or act of mine
I need fear to submit to any court of justice or of honour on earth.’
He took her hand, and kissed it affectionately, and still fondling
it gently between his, he resumed –
‘I don’t mean to say, of course, that I have always been better than
other young fellows; I’ve been foolish, and wild, and – and – I’ve
done wrong things, occasionally – as all young men will; but for high
crimes and misdemeanors, or for melodramatic situations, I never had
the slightest taste. There’s no man on earth who can tell anything of
me, or put me under any sort of pressure, thank Heaven; and simply
because I have never in the course of my life done a single act unworthy of a gentleman, or in the most trifl ing way compromised myself.
I swear it, my darling, upon my honour and soul, and I will swear it in
any terms – the most awful that can be prescribed – in order totally
and for ever to remove from your mind so amazing a fancy.’
And with a little laugh, and still holding her hand, he passed his
arm round her waist, and kissed her affectionately.
‘But you are perfectly right, Dorkie, in supposing that I am under very considerable apprehension from their machinations.
Though they cannot slur our fair fame, it is quite possible they may
very seriously affect our property. Mr. Larkin is in possession of all
the family papers. I don’t like it, but it is too late now. The estates
have been back and forward so often between the Brandons and
Wylders, I always fancy there may be a screw loose, or a frangible
link somewhere, and he’s deeply interested for Mark Wylder.’
‘You are better, darling; I think you are better,’ he said, looking
in her face, after a little pause.
‘Yes, dear Stanley, much better; but why should you suppose any
plot against our title?’
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JOSEPH SHERIDAN L E FANU
‘Mark Wylder is in constant correspondence with that fellow
Larkin. I wish we were quietly rid of him, he is such an unscrupulous dog. I assure you, I doubt very much if the deeds are safe in his
possession; at all events, he ought to choose between us and Mark
Wylder. It is monstrous his being solicitor for both. The Wylders
and Brandons have always been contesting the right to these estates,
and the same thing may arise again any day.’
‘But tell me, Stanley, how do you want to apply money? What
particular good can it do us in this unpleasant uncertainty?’
‘Well, Dorkie, believe me I have a sure instinct in matters of this
kind. Larkin is plotting treason against us. Wylder is inciting him,
and will reap the benefi t of it. Larkin hesitates to strike, but that
won’t last long. In the meantime, he has made a distinct offer to buy
Five Oaks. His doing so places him in the same interest with us; and,
although he does not offer its full value, still I should sleep sounder
if it were concluded; and the fact is, I don’t think we are safe until
that sale is concluded.’
Dorcas looked for a moment earnestly in his face, and then
down, in thought.
‘Now, Dorkie, I have told you all. Who is to advise you, if not
your husband? Trust my sure conviction, and promise me, Dorcas,
that you will not hesitate to join me in averting, by a sacrifi ce we
shall hardly feel, a really stupendous blow.’
He kissed her hand, and then her lips, and he said –
‘You will, Dorkie, I know you will. Give me your promise.’
‘Stanley, tell me once more, are you really quite frank when
you tell me that you apprehend no personal injury from these people – apart, I mean, from the possibility of Mr. Larkin’s conspiring
to impeach our rights in favour of Mr. Wylder?’
‘Personal injury? None in life, my darling.’
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