Chapter 29 How Mark Wilder's Disappearance Affected His Friends Lady Chelford's wrath was now turned anew upon Wilder, and the inconvenience of having no visible object on which to expend it was once more painfully felt. Railing at Mark Wilder was alas, but beating the air. The most crushing invictive was thanks to his adroit mystification simply a soliloquy. Poor Lady Chelford, who loved to give the ingenious youngsters of both sexes when occasion invited a piece of her mind, was here, in the case of this vulgar and most provoking delinquent, absolutely tongue-tied. If it had been possible to tell Wilder what she thought of him it would perhaps have made her more tolerable than she was for some days after the arrival of that letter to other members of the family. The idea of holding Miss Brandon to this engagement and proroguing her nuptials from day to day to convenience the bridegroom absent without explanation was of course quite untenable. Fortunately the marriage considering the antiquity and the territorial position of the two families who were involved was to have been a very quiet affair indeed, no festivities, no fireworks, nothing of the nature of a county gala, no glare or thunder, no concussion of society, a dignified but secluded marriage. This divested the inevitable dissolution of these high relations of a great deal of its eclat and ridicule. Of course there was abundance of talk, scarce a man or a woman in the shire but had a theory or a story, sometimes bearing hard on the lady, sometimes on the gentleman. Still it was an abstract breach of promise, and would have much improved by some outward invisible sign of disruption and disappointment, some concrete pageantries to be abolished and removed, flag-staffs for instance, and banners, marquise, pyrotechnic machinery, and long tears of rockets, festoons of evergreens, triumphal arches with appropriate motos to come down and hide themselves away would have been pleasant to the many who like a joke and to the few, let us hope, who love a sneer. But there were no such foppereys to hurry off the stage disconcerted. In the autumnal sun, among the embrowned and thinning foliage of the noble trees, Brandon Hall looked solemn, sad and magnificent as usual, with a sort of retrospective serenity, buried in old world glories and sorrows, and heeding little the follies and scandals of the hour. In the same way Miss Brandon, with Lord and Lady Chelford, was seen next Sunday, serene and unchanged in the great carved oak-brand and pew, raised like a dais, two feet at least above the level of mere Christians, who frequented the family chapel. There, among old wilder and Brandon tombs, some painted stone effigies of the period of Elizabeth and the first James, and some much older, stone and marbled knight, praying on their backs with their spurs on, and said to have been removed nearly three hundred years ago from the Abbey of Norton Friars, when that famous monastery began to lose its roof and turn into a picturesque ruin, and bygone generations of wilders and brandons had offered up their conspicuous devotions with judging from their heathen lives, I fear no very remarkable efficacy. Here then, next Sunday afternoon, when the Good Vicar, the Reverend William Wilder at three o'clock, performed his holy office in reading-desk and pulpit, the good folk from Gillingdon assembled in force, saw nothing noticeable in the demeanor or appearance of the great Brandon Arras. A goddess in her aerial place, haughty, beautiful, unconscious of human gaze, and seen as it were telescopically by mortals from below. No shadow of trouble on that calm marble beauty, no light of joy, but a serene, superb indifference. Of course, there was some satire in Gillingdon, but in the main it was a loyal town and true to its princess. Mr. Wilder's settlements were not satisfactory, it was presumed, or the young lady could not bring herself to like him, or however it came to pass, one way or another. That sprig of willow, inevitably to be mounted by hero or heroine, upon such equivocal occasions, was placed by the honest town by no means in her breast, but altogether in his buttonhole. Gradually, in a more authentic shape, information traceable to old Lady Chelford, through some of the old county families who visited at Brandon, made it known that Mr. Wilder's affairs were not at present by any means in so settled estate as was supposed, and that along with Rotherl not being desirable on the whole, Miss Brandon's relatives thought it advisable that the engagement should terminate, and had so decided, Mr. Wilder having very properly, placed himself absolutely in their hands. As for Mark, it was presumed he had gone into voluntary banishment, and was making the grand tour in the spirit of that lackadaisical gentleman in the then fashionable song who says, From sport to sport they hurry me, to banish my regret, and if they win a smile from me they think that I forget. It was known to be quite final, and as the lady evinced no chagrin and affected no unusual spirits, but held swan-like and majestic the even tenor of her way, there was on the whole little doubt anywhere that the gentleman had received his congé, and was hiding his mortification and healing his wounds in Paris or Vienna, or some other suitable retreat. But though the good folk of Gillingdon in general cared very little how Mark Wilder might have disposed of himself, there was one inhabitant to whom his absence was fraught with very serious anxiety and inconvenience. This was his brother, William, the vicar. Poor William, sound in morals, free from vice, no dandy, a quiet, bookish, self-denying mortal, was yet when he took holy orders and quitted his chambers at Cambridge as much in debt as many a scamp of his college. He had been perhaps a little foolish and fanciful in the article of books, and had committed a serious indiscretion in the matter of a carved oak-book case, and worse still he had published a slender volume of poems, and a bulkier tome of essays, scholastic and theologic, both which ventures notwithstanding their merits, had turned out unhappily, and worse still he had lent that costly loan, his signed manual, on two or three occasions to friends in need, and one way or another found that, on winding up and closing his Cambridge life, his assets fell short of his liabilities very seriously. The entire amount it is true was not very great. A pupil or two, and a success with his work, quote, on the character and inaccuracies of Eusebius, unquote, would make matters square in a little time. But his advertisements for a resident pupil had not been answered, they had cost him something, and he had not any more spare bread just then to throw upon the waters. So the advertisements for the present were suspended, and the publishers somehow did not take kindly to Eusebius, who was making the tour of that fastidious and hard-hearted fraternity. He had staved off some of his troubles by a little loan from an insurance company, but the premium and the installments were disproportion to his revenue, and indeed very nearly frightful to contemplate. The Cambridge tradesmen were growing minatory, and there was a stern person who held a renewal of one of his old paper subsidies to the necessities of his scampish friend Clarkson, who was plainly a difficult and awful character to deal with. Dreadful as were the tradesmen's peremptory and wrathful letters, the promptitude and energy of this latter personage were such as to produce a sense of immediate danger so acute that the scared vicar opened his dismal case to his brother Mark. Mark, sorely against the grain and with no good grace, at last consented to advance three hundred pounds in this dread emergency, and the vicar blessed his benefactor, and in his closet on his knees shed tears of thankfulness over his deliverance, and the sky opened and the flowers locked bright, and life grew pleasant once more. But the three hundred pounds were not yet in his pocket, and Mark had gone away, and although, of course, the loan was sure to come, the delay, any delay in his situation, was critical and formidable. Here was another would-be correspondent of Mark's, foiled for want of his address. Still he would not believe it possible that he could forget his promise, or shut up his bowels of mercy, or long delay the remittance which he knew to be so urgently needed. In the meantime, however, a writ reached the hand of the poor vicar of noton friars, who wrote in eager and confused terror to a friend in the Middle Temple on the dread summons, and learned that he was now in court, and must appear or suffer judgment by default. The end was that he purchased a respite of three months, by adding thirty pounds to his debt, and so was thankful for another deliverance, and was confident of the promised subsidy within a week, or at all events a fortnight, or at worst, three months was a long reprieve, and the subsidy must arrive before the emergency. In this there can be no dismay. My ships come home a month before the day. When the service was over, the neighbourly little congregation, with a sprinkling of visitors to Gillingdon, for sake of its healing waters, broke up, and loitered in the vicinity of the porch, to remark on the sermon or the weather, and ask one another how they did, and to see the Brandon family enter their carriage, and the tall, powdered footmen shut the door upon them and mount behind, and move off at a brilliant pace, and with a glorious clanger in whirl of dust. And this incident over they broke up gradually into little groups, in Sunday guise and many colours, some for a ramble on the common, and some to tea, according to the primitive hours that ruled old Gillingdon. The vicar and John Hughes' clerk and sexton were last out, and the reverend gentleman thin and tall in white neck-tie, and black, a little thread-bear, stood on the steps of the porch in a sad abstraction. The red autumnal sun nearing the edge of the distant hills, looked through the horizontal misty air, shorn of its beams, and lighted the thin and gentle features of the vicar with a melancholy radiance. The sound of the oak door closing heavily behind him in John Hughes, and the key revolving in the lock, recalled him, and with a sigh and a smile, and a kindly nod to John. He looked up and round on the familiar and pretty scenery undecided. It was not quite time to go home. His troubles were heavy upon him too just then. They have their peroxisms like egg-you, and the quiet of the road and the sweet air and sunshine tempted him to walk off the chill and fever of the fit. As he passed the little cottage where Old Widow Maddox lay sick, Rachel Lake emerged. He was not glad. He would rather have had his sad walk in his own shy company. But there she was. He could not pass her by. So he stopped and lifted his hat and greeted her. And then they shook hands. She was going his way. He looked wistfully on the little hatch of Old Widow Maddox Cottage, for he felt a pang of reproach at passing her door. But there was no comfort then in his thoughts, only a sense of fear and hopeless fatigue. How is Old Widow Maddox? He asked. You have been visiting the sick and afflicted, and I was passing by, but indeed if I were capable at this moment I should not fail to see her poor creature. There was something apologetic and almost miserable in his look as he said this. She is not better, but you have been very good to her and she is very grateful. And I am glad, said Rachel, that I happened to light on you. And she paused. They were by this time walking side by side, and she glanced at him inquiringly, and he thought that the handsome girl looked rather thin and pale. You once said, Miss Lake resumed, that sooner or later I should be taught the value of religion, and would learn to prize my great privileges, and that for some spirits the only approach to the throne of mercy was through great tribulation. I have often thought sense of those words, and they have begun for me to take the spirit of a prophecy. Sometimes that is. But at others they sound differently, like a dreadful menace, as if my afflictions were only to bring me to the gate of life to find it shut. Knock, and it shall be opened, said the vicar, but the comfort was sadly spoken, and he sighed. But he is not at the time, Mr. Wilder, when he shall have shut to the door, and are there not some who crying to him to open shall yet remain forever in outer darkness? I see, dear Miss Lake, that your mind is at work. It is a good influence. At work upon the great theme which every mortal spirit ought to be employed upon. My fears are at work. My mind is altogether dark and turbid. I am sometimes at the brink of despair. Take comfort from those fears. There is hope in that despair, and he looked at her with great interest in his gentle eyes. She looked at him, and then away toward the declining sun, and she said despairingly, I cannot comprehend you. Come, said he, Miss Lake, be-think you. Was there not a time, and no very distant one, when futurity caused you no anxiety, and when the subject which has grown so interesting was altogether distasteful to you? The seed of the word is received at length into good ground, but a grain of wheat will bring forth no fruit unless it die first. The seed dies to outward sense, and despair follows, but the principle of life is working in it, and it will surely grow and bring forth fruit. Thirty, sixty, and hundredfold, be not dismayed. The body dies, and the Lord of life compares it to the death of the seed in the earth, and then comes the palan Genesis, the rising in glory. In like manner he compares the reception of the principle of eternal life into the soul to the dropping of a seed into the earth. It follows the general law of mortality.  Miss Lake's way lay by a footpath across a corner of the park to Redmond's Dell, so they crossed the style, and still conversing, followed the footpath under the hedgerow of the pretty field, and crossing another style entered the park. Recording by Kathy Barrett. Wilder's Hand. by J. Sheridan Lafanyu. Chapter 30. In Brandon Park. To me, from association, no doubt, that park has always had a melancholy character. The ground undulates beautifully, and noble timber studs it, in all varieties of grouping, and now, as when I had seen the ill omen form of Uncle Lorne among its solitudes, the descending sun shone across it with a sad and glory, tipping with gold, the blades of grass and the brown antlers of the distant deer. Still pursuing her solemn and melancholy discourse, the young lady followed the path accompanied by the vicar. True, said the vicar, your mind is disturbed, but not by doubt. No, it is by truth. He glanced aside at the tarn where I had seen the phantom, and by which their path now led them. You remember Parnell's pretty image? So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed, calm nature's image on its watery breast, down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, and skies beneath with answering colours glow. But if a stone the gentle scene divide, swift, ruffling circles curl on every side, and glimmering fragments of a broken sun, banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. But as I said, it is not a doubt that agitates your mind, that is well represented by the stone, that subsides and leaves the pool clear it may be, but stagnant as before. Oh no, it is an angel who comes down and troubles the water. What a heavenly evening! said a low, sweet voice, but with something insidious in it, close at his shoulder. With a start! Rachel glanced back and saw the pale, peculiar face of her brother. His yellow eyes, for a moment, gleamed into hers, and then on the vicar, and with his accustomed smile he extended his hand. How do you do? Better, I hope, Braddy. How are you, William? Rachel grew deadly pale, and then flushed, and then was pale again. I thought Stanley you were in London. So I was, but I arrived here this morning. I'm staying for a few days at the lodge, Larkin's house. You're going home, I suppose, Braddy? Yes? Oh yes, but I don't know that I'll go this way. You say you must return to Gillingdon now, Mr. Wilder. I think I'll turn also and go home that way. Nothing would give me greater pleasure, said the vicar, truly, as well as kindly, for he had grown interested in their conversation. But I fear you are tired. He looked very kindly on her pale face, and you know it will cost you a walk of more than two miles. I forgot. Yes. I believe I am a little tired. I am afraid I have led you, too, farther than you intended. She fancied that her sudden change of plan on meeting her brother would appear odd. I'll see you a little bit on your way home, Braddy, said Stanley. It was just what she wished to escape. She was more nervous, though not less courageous than formerly, but the old fierce defiant spirit awoke. Why should she fear Stanley, or what could it be to her whether he was beside her in her homeward walk? So the vicar made his adieu there, and began at a brisker pace to retrace his steps toward Gillingdon, and she and Stanley side by side walked on toward Redmond's Dell. What a charming park! And what delightful air, Braddy, and the weather so very delicious! They talk of Italian evenings, but there is a pleasant sharpness in English evenings quite peculiar. Is not there just a little suspicion of frost? Don't you think so? Not actually cold, but crisp and sharp, unspeakably exhilarating. Now, really, this evening is quite celestial. I've just been listening to a good man's conversation, and I wish to reflect upon it, said Rachel very coldly. Quite so. That is, of course, when you are alone, answered Stanley serenely. William was always a very clever fellow to talk. Very well read in theology. Is not he? Yes, he does talk very sweetly and nobly on religion. It is a pity he is not quite straight, or at least more punctual, in his money affairs. He is distressed for money? William Wilder is distressed for money. Do you mean that? said Rachel, turning a tone of sudden surprise and energy, almost horror, turning full upon him and stopping short? Oh, dear no, not the least distressed that I ever heard of, laughed Stanley coldly. Only just a little bit roguish, maybe. That's so like you, Stanley, said the young lady with a quiet scorn, resuming her onward walk. How very beautiful that clump of birch trees is, near the edge of the slope there. You really can't imagine who are always here, how very intensely a person who has just escaped from London enjoys all this. I don't think Stanley, said the young lady coldly, and looking straight before her as she walked. You ever cared for natural scenery, or liked the country, and yet you are here. I don't think you ever loved me, or cared whether I was alone or in company, and yet seeing, for you did see it, that I would now rather be alone you persist in walking with me, and talking of trees and air and celestial evenings, and thinking of something quite different. Had not you better turn back to Gillingdon, or the lodge, or wherever you mean to pass the evening, and leave me to my quiet walk and my solitude? In a few minutes, dear Raddy, you are so odd. I really believe you think no one can enjoy a ramble like this but yourself. Come, Stanley, what do you want? said his sister, stopping short, and speaking with the flush of irritation on her cheek. Do you mean to walk to Edmundsdale, or have you anything unpleasant to say? Neither, I hope, said the captain with his sleepy smile, his yellow eyes resting on the innocent grass blades before him. I don't understand you, Stanley. I am always uncomfortable when you are near me. You stand there like an evil spirit with some purpose which I cannot divine, but you shall not ensnare me.  Pursue your own plots, your wicked plots, but let me rest. I will be released, sir, from your presence. Really, this is very fine, Raddy, considering how we are related. I am Mephistopheles, I suppose, and you, Margaret, or some other simple heroine rebuking the fiend in the majesty of your purity. And indeed, in the reddish light, and in that lonely and solemn spot, the slim form of the captain, pale, sneering with his wild eyes, confronting the beautiful light-haired girl, looked not quite unlike a type of the jaunty fiend he was pleased to suppose himself. I tell you, Stanley, I feel that you design employing me in some of your crooked plans. I have horrible reasons, as you know, for avoiding you, and so I will. I hope I may never desire to see you alone again, but if I do, it shall not be to receive, but to impose, commands. You had better return to Gillingdon and leave me. So I will, dear Raddy, by and by, said he with his amused smile. That is, you won't, until you have said what you meditate. Well, then, as it seems I must hear it, pray speak at once, standing where we are, and quickly, for the sun will soon go down, and one step more I will not walk with you. Well, Raddy, you are pleased to be whimsical, and to say truth I was thinking of saying a word or two, just about an idea that has been in my mind some time, and you have devined. You are so clever. The first day I saw you at Redmond's farm. You know you, hence yet I was thinking of marrying. I don't remember that I said so, but I thought it. You mentioned Carol and Beauchamp, but I don't see how your visit here could have been connected with that plan. But don't you think, Raddy, I should do well to marry. That is, assuming everything to be suitable. Well, perhaps for yourself, Stanley, but— Yes, of course, said Lake, but the unfortunate girl you were going to say. Thank you. She's, of course, very much to be pitied, and you have my leave to pity her as much as you please. I do pity her, said Rachel. Thank you again, said Stanley, but seriously, Raddy, you can be, I think, very essentially of use to me in this affair, and you must not refuse. Now, Stanley, I will cut this matter short. I can't serve you. I won't. I don't know the young lady, and I don't mean to make her acquaintance. But I tell you that you can serve me, retorted Stanley, with a savage glare, and features whitened with passion, and you shall serve me, and you do know the young lady intimately. I say, sir, I do not, replied Rachel, hotly and fiercely. She is Dorcas Brandon. You know her, I believe. I came down here to marry her. I had made up my mind when I saw you first, and I'll carry my point. I always do. She does not like me, maybe, but she shall. I never yet resolved to make a woman like me and failed. You need not look so pale, and put on that damned affected look of horror. I may be wild, and what you please. But I'm no worse than that brute Mark Wilder, and you never turned up your eyes when he was her choice, and I knew things about him that ought to have damned him, and she's well rid of a branded rascal. And now, Rachel, you know her, and you must say a good word for me. I expect your influence, and if you don't use it, and effectually, it will be worse for you. You women understand one another, and how to get a fellow favourably into one another's thoughts. So listen to me. This is a vital matter. Indeed, it is, Riley. I have lost a lot of money like a fool, I suppose. Well, it is gone, and this marriage is indispensable. I must go in for it. It is life or death, and if I fail through your unkindness—here, he swore an impious oath—I'll end all with a pistol, and leave a letter to Chelford disclosing everything concerning you and me and Mark Wilder. I think Rachel Lake was as near fainting as ever Lady was without actually swooning. It was well they had stopped just by the stem of a great ashtray, against which Rachel leaned for some seconds with darkness before her eyes, and the roar of a whirlpool in her ears. After a while, with two or three gasps, she came to herself. Lake had been railing on all this time, and his voice, which in ill temper was singularly bleak and terrible, was again in her ears the moment she recovered her hearing. I do not care to quarrel. There are many reasons why we should not, Lake said, in his peculiar tones. You have some of my secrets, and you must have more. It can't be helped, and I say, you must. I have been very foolish. I'll give up play. It has brought me to this. I've had to sell out. I've paid away all I could and given bills for the rest, but I can't possibly pay them, don't you see? And if things go to the worst, I tell you I'll not stay. I don't want to make my bow just yet, and I've no wish to injure you, but I'll do as I have said. He swore again. And Chelford shall have a distinct statement under my hand of everything that has happened. I don't suppose you wish to be accessory to all this, and therefore it behooves you, Rachel, to do what you can to prevent it. One woman can always influence another, and you are constantly with Dorcas. You'll do all you can, I'm sure you will, and you can do a great deal. I know it. I'll do as much for you, Raddy, anything you like. For the first time, her brother stood before her in a really terrible shape. She felt his villainy turning with a cowardly and merciless treason upon her forlorn self, sacrificed for him, and that sacrificed used by him to torture, to extort, perhaps to ruin. She quailed for a minute in the presence of this gigantic depravity and cruelty, but Rachel was a brave lass, and rallied quickly. After all I have done and suffered, said she, with a faint smile of unimaginable bitterness. I did not think that human wickedness could produce such a brother as you are. Well, it is no news what you think of me, and not much matter either. I don't see that I am a worse brother than you are a sister. Stanley Lake was speaking with a livid intensity.  What you can do to save me may amount to nothing, but it may be everything, and you say you won't try. Now I say you shall, and with every energy and faculty you possess, or else abide the consequences.  You are capable of anything but of hurting yourself. I'll never be your slave, though if I pleased I might make you mine. I scorn your threats. I defy you. Stanley Lake looked transported, and the yellow fires of his deep set eyes glared on her while his lips moved to speak, but not a word came, and it became a contortion. He grasped the switch in his hand as if to strike her. Take care, sir. Lord Chelford's coming, said the young lady, haughtily, with a contracted glance of horror fixed on Lake. Lake collected himself. He was a man who could do it pretty quickly, but he had been violently agitated, and the traces of his fury could not disappear in a moment. Lord Chelford was indeed approaching, only a few hundred yards away. Take my arm, said Lake. And Rachel, mechanically, as storytellers say, placed her slender, gloved hand upon his arm, the miscreant arm that had been so nearly raised to strike her, and they walked along brother and sister in the sabbath sunset light to meet him. by Tina Broughton Wilder's Hand by J. Sheridan Lafanyo Chapter 31 In Redmond's Dell Lord Chelford raised his hat, smiling, I'm so very glad I met you. I was beginning to feel so solitary. He placed himself beside Miss Lake. I've had such a long walk across the park. How do you do, Lake? When did you come? And so on, Lake answering and looking wonderfully as usual. I think Lord Chelford perceived there was something a mess between the young people, for his eye rested on Rachel with a momentary look of inquiry, unconscious, no doubt, and quickly averted, and he went on chatting pleasantly. But he looked, once or twice, a little hard at Stanley Lake. I don't think he had an extraordinarily good opinion of that young gentleman. He seldom expressed an ill one of anybody, and then it was in very measured language. But though he never hinted at an unfavorable estimate of the captain, his intimacies with him were a little reserved. And I think I have seen him, even when he smiled, look the least little bit in the world uncomfortable, as if he did not quite enter into the captain's pleasantries. They had not walked together very far when Stanley recollected that he must take his leave and walk back to Gillingdon. And so the young lady and Lord Chelford were left to pursue their way towards Redmond's farm together. It would have been a more unaccountable proceeding on the part of Stanley Lake, and a more romantic situation if Rachel and his Lordship had not had before two or three little accidental rambles together in the grounds and gardens of Brandon. There was nothing quite new in the situation, therefore, and Rachel was, for a moment, indescribably relieved by Stanley's departure. The shock of her brief interview with her brother over, reflection assured her, knowing all she did, that Stanley's wooing would prosper, and so this cause of quarrel had really nothing in it.  Therefore, little by little, like a flower that has been bruised, in the tranquilizing influences about her, the young lady got up, expanded, and grew like herself again, not like enough indeed to say much, but to listen and follow his manly refined and pleasant talk, every moment with a pang that had yet something pleasurable in it. Contrasting the quiet and chivalric tone of her present companion with the ferocious duplicity of the sly smooth terrorist who had just left her side. It was rather a marked thing, as lean Mrs. Lord of Gillingdon, who had two thin spinsters with pink noses under her wing remarked, this long walk of Lord Shelford and Miss Lake in the park, and she enjoined upon her girls the propriety of being specially reserved in their intercourse with persons of Lord Shelford's rank, not that they were much troubled with dangers from any such quarter. Miss Lake had, she supposed, her own notions and would act as she pleased, but she owned for her part. She preferred the old fashion and thought amended also, and was sure, too, that young ladies lost nothing by little reserve and modesty. Now something of this no doubt passed in the minds of Lord Shelford and his pretty companion, but what was to be done? That perverse and utterly selfish brother Stanley Lake had chosen to take his leave. Lord Shelford could not desert the young lady, and would it have been a very nice delicacy in Miss Lake to make her courtesy in the middle of the park and protest against pursuing their walk together any further? Lord Shelford was a lively and agreeable companion, but there was something unusually gentle, almost resembling tenderness in his manner. She was so different from her gay fiery self in this walk. So gentle, so subdued, and he was more interested by her perhaps than he had ever been before. The sun just touched the verge of the wooded uplands as the young people began to descend the slope of Redmond's dell. How very short, Lord Shelford paused with a smile at these words. I was just going to say how short the days have grown as if it had all happened without notice and contrary to the almanac. But really the sun sets cruelly this evening, and I am so very sorry. Our little walk is so soon to end. There was not much in this little speech, but it was spoken in a low, sweet voice, and Rachel looked down on the ferns before her feet as they walked on side by side, not with a smile, but with a blush, and that beautiful look of gratification, so becoming and indescribable. Happy that moment, that enchanted moment of oblivion and illusion. But the fitful evening breeze came up through Redmond's dell with a gentle sweep over the autumnal foliage. Sudden as a sigh and cold, in her ear it sounded like a whisper or a shutter, and she lifted up her eyes and saw the darkening dell before her, and with a pang, the dreadful sense of reality returned. She stopped with something almost wild in her look, but with an effort she smiled and said with a little shiver. The air has grown quite chill, and the sun nearly set. We loitered, Stanley and I, a great deal too long in the park, but I am now at home, and I fear I have brought you much too far out of your way already. Goodbye, and she extended her hand. You must not dismiss your escort here. I must see you through the enchanted dell. It is only a step, and then I shall return with a good conscience, like a worthy knight having done my devour honestly. She looked down the dell with a dark and painful glance, and then she said a few words of hesitating apology and acquiescence, and in a few minutes more they parted at the little wicket of Redmond's farm. They shook hands. He had a few pleasant lingering words to say. She paused as he spoke at the other side of the little garden door. She seemed to like those lingering sentences, and hung upon them, and even smiled, but in her eyes there was a vague and melancholy pleading, a wandering and unfathomable look that pained him. They shook hands again. It was the third time, and then she walked at the little gravel walk hardly a dozen steps, and disappeared within the door of Redmond's farm, without turning another parting look on Lord Shelford, who remained at the little pawling, expecting one I think, to lift his hat and say one more parting word. She turned into the little drawing room at the left, and her self unseen did take that loose book, and saw him go up the road again towards Brandon. The shadows and mists of Redmond's Dell anticipated night, and it was already deep twilight there. On the table there lay a letter which Marjorie had brought from the post office, so Rachel lighted her candles and read it with very little interest, for it concerned a world towards which she had few yearnings. There was just one sentence which startled her attention. It said, We shall soon be at Nolten, for Christmas I suppose. It is growing too wintry for Mom in near the sea, though I like it better in a high wind than in a calm, and a gale is such fun, such a romp. The dull Hamptons have arrived. The old Marchioness never appears until three o'clock, and only out in the carriage twice since they came. I can't say I very much admire Lady Constance, though she is to be Shelford's wife. She has fine eyes, and I think no other good point, much too dark for my taste, but they say clever, and not another word was there on the subject. Lady Constance? Arranged? I supposed by Lady Shelford, no great dot, and an amiable family, an odious family, nothing to recommend her but her rank. So ruminated Rachel Lake as she looked out on her shadowy garden, and tapped a little feverish tattoo with her finger on the windowpane, and she meditated a great while, trying to bring back distinctly her recollection of Lady Constance, and also vaguely conjecturing who had arranged the marriage, and how it had come about. Shelford cannot like her. It is all Lady Shelford's doing. Can I have mistaken the name? But no, nothing could be more perfectly distinct than Shelford, traced in her fair correspondence very legible hand. He treats the young lady very coolly, thought Rachel, forgetting perhaps that his special relations to Dorcas Brandon had compelled his stay in that part of the world. Mingled with this criticism was a feeling quite unabowed, even to herself, a sore feeling that Lord Shelford had been, and this she never admitted to herself before, more particular, no, not exactly that, but more something or other, not exactly expressible in words, in his approaches to her, then was consistent with his situation. But then she had been very guarded, not stiff or prudish indeed, but frank and cold enough with him, and that was comforting. Still, there was a sense of wonder, a great blank, and something of pain in the discovery. Yes, pain, though she smiled a faint blushing smile, alone as she was, and then came a deep sigh, and then a sort of start. Rachel, Rachel, is it possible? Remember the young lady with the same dubious smile looking down upon the ground and shaking her head? Yes, I do really think you had begun to like Lord Shelford, only begun, the least little insidious bit. But thank you, wild Bessie Franklin, you have quite opened my eyes.  She looked like her old pleasant self during this little speech, arch and fresh and still smiling. She looked up inside, and then her dark look returned, and she said dismally, what utter madness, and leaned for a while with her fingers upon the window sash. And when she turned to old Tamar, who brought in her tiny tea aquaposh, it seemed as if the shadow of the dell, into which she had been vacantly gazing, still rested on her face. Not here Tamar, I'll drink tea in my room, and you must bring your tea cup too, and we'll take it together. I am, I think I am, a little nervous darling, and you won't leave me? So they sat down together in her chamber. It was a cheery little bedroom when the shutters were closed, and the fire burning brightly in the grate. My good Tamar will read her chapters aloud. I wish I could enjoy them like you. I can only wish. You must pray for me Tamar. There is a dreadful image, and I sometimes think, a dreadful being always near me. Though the words you read are sad and awful, they are also sweet, like funeral music a long way off, and they tranquilized me without making me better, as the harping of David did the troubled and forsaken King Saul. So the old nurse mounted her spectacles, glad of the invitation, and began to read. Her reading was very slow, and had other faults too, being in that sing-song style to which some people inexplicably like to read Holy Rit. But it was reverent and distinct, and I have heard worse, even in the reading desk. Stop! said Rachel suddenly, as she reached about the middle of the chapter. The old woman looked up with her watery eyes wide open, and there was a short pause. I beg your pardon, dear Tamar, but you must first tell me that story you used to tell me long ago of Lady Ringdove that lived in Epping Forest, to whom the ghost came and told something she was never to reveal, and who slowly died of the secret, growing all the time more and more like the specter, and besought the priest when she was dying, that he would have her laid in the abbey vault with her mouth open, and her eyes and ears sealed, in token that her term of slavery was over, that her lips might now be open, and that her eyes were to see no more the dreadful sight, nor her ears to hear the frightful words that used to scare them in her lifetime. And then, you remember, whenever afterwards they opened the door of the vault, the wind entering in made such moanings in her hollow mouth, and declared things so horrible that they built up the door of the vault, and entered it no more. Let me have the entire story, just as you used to tell it, so old Tamar who knew it was no use disputing a fancy of her young mistress, although on Sunday night she would have preferred other talk, recounted her old tale of wonder. Yes, it is true. A true allegory I mean, Tamar. Death will close the eyes and ears against the sights and sounds of earth, but even the tomb secures no secrecy. The dead themselves declare their dreadful secrets open-mouthed to the winds. Oh, Tamar, turn over the pages and try to find some part which says where safety and peace may be found at any price, for sometimes I think I am almost bereft of reason. CHAPTER 32 Mr. Larkin in the Vicar The good vicar was not only dismayed but endangered by his brother's protracted absence. It was now the first week in November. Bleak and wintry, that ungenial month set in at Gillingdon, and in accord with the tempestuous and dismal weather the fortunes of the Reverend William Wilder were darkened and agitated. This morning a letter came at breakfast by post and when he had read it the poor vicar grew a little white and he folded it very quietly and put it in his waistcoat pocket and patted Little Fairy on the head. Little Fairy was asking him a question all this time very vehemently. How long was Jack Sword that he killed the giants with? And several times to this distinct question he received only the unsatisfactory reply, Yes, my darling. And at last when Little Fairy mounted his knee and hugging the abstracted vicar round the neck urged his question with kisses and lamentations the person answered with a look of great perplexity and only half recalled, said, Indeed, little man, I don't know. How long you say was Jack Sword? Well, I dare say it was as long as the umbrella. He got up with the same perplexed and absent look as he said this and threw an anxious glance about the room as if looking for something he had mislaid.  You have not tasted your tea yet. I have indeed, dear, haven't I? Well, I will. And standing he drank nearly half the cup she had poured out for him and set it down and felt in his pocket she thought for his keys. Are you looking for anything, willy darling? Your keys are in my basket. No, darling, no, darling, nothing. I have everything I want. I think I must go to the lodge and see Mr. Larkin for a moment. But you have eaten nothing, remonstrated his partner. You must not go until you have eaten something. Time enough, darling. I can't wait. I shan't be away twenty minutes. Time enough when I come back. Have you heard anything of Mark, darling? She inquired eagerly. Of Mark? Oh, no! Nothing of Mark. And he added with a deep sigh. Oh, dear, I wonder he does not write. No, nothing of Mark. She followed him into the hall. Now, willy darling, you must not go till you've had your breakfast. You will make yourself ill. Indeed you will. Do come back, just to please me, and eat a little first. No, darling. No, my love, I can't. Indeed. I'll be back immediately. But I must catch Mr. Larkin before he goes out. It is only a little matter. I want to ask his opinion, and— Oh! Here's my stick. And I'll return immediately.  No, no, little man, I can't take you. No, it is business. Stay with Mama, and I'll be back again in a few minutes. So, spite of fairy's clamours in the remonstrances of his fond, clinging little wife, with a hurried kiss or two, away he went alone, at a very quick pace through the high street of Gillingdon, and was soon in the audience chamber of the serious gentlemen attorney. The attorney rose with a gaunt and sad smile of welcome, begged Mr. Wilder, with a wave of his long hand, to be seated, and then seating himself and crossing one long thigh over the other, he threw his arm over the back of his chair, and leaning back with what he conceived to be a graceful and gentlemanly negligence, with his visitor full in the light of the window, and his own countenance in shadow, the light coming from behind, a diplomatic arrangement which he affected. He fixed his small pink eyes observantly upon him, and asked if he could do anything for Mr. William Wilder. Have you heard anything since, Mr. Larkin? Can you conjecture where his address may now be, as the vicar a little abruptly? Oh! Mr. Mark Wilder, perhaps you referred to.  No, indeed, not a word. It is very sad, and involves quite a world of trouble, and utterly inexplicable, for I need not tell you in my position. It can be pleasant to be denied all access to the client who has appointed me to act for him, nor conducive to the apprehension of his wishes upon many points, which I should much prefer not being left in my discretion. It is really, as I say, inexplicable, for Mr. Mark Wilder must thoroughly see all this. He is endowed with eminent talents for business, and must perfectly appreciate the embarrassment in which the mystery with which he surrounds the place of his abode must involve those whom he has appointed to conduct his business. I have heard from him this morning, resumed the lawyer. He was pleased to direct a power of attorney to me to receive his rents and sign receipts, and he proposes making Lord Viscount Chelford and Captain Lake trustees to fund his money or otherwise invest it for his use. And has he—I beg pardon, but did he mention a little matter in which I am deeply, indeed, vitally interested, the vicar paused? I don't quite apprehend. Perhaps if you were to frame your question a little differently, I might possibly— you were saying, I mean a matter of very deep interest to me, said the poor vicar, coloring a little, though no very considerable sum, viewed absolutely, but under my unfortunate circumstances, of the most urgent importance, alone of three hundred pounds, did he mention it? Again Mr. Larkin shook his head with the same sad smile. But though we do not know how to find him, he knows very well where to find us, and as you are aware we hear from him constantly, and no doubt he recollects his promise, and will transmit the necessary directions all in good time. I earnestly hope he may, and the poor cleric lifted up his eyes unconsciously and threw his hope into the form of a prayer. For to speak frankly, Mr. Larkin, my circumstances are very pressing. I have just heard from Cambridge, and find that my good friend, Mr. Mountain, the bookseller, has been dead two months, and his wife—he was a widower when I knew him, but it would seem, has married since—is his soul executrix, and has sold the business, and directed two gentlemen, attorneys, to call in all the debts due to him, peremptorily, and they say I must pay before the fifteenth, and I have absolutely but five pounds in the world until March, when my half-year will be paid, and indeed only that the tradespeople here are so very kind, we should often find it very difficult to manage. Perhaps, said Mr. Larkin blandly, you would permit me to look at the letter you mentioned, having received from the solicitors at Cambridge. Oh, thank you, certainly! Here it is! said William Wilder eagerly, and he gazed with his kind, truthful eyes, upon the attorney's countenance as he glanced over it, trying to read something of futurity therein. Fuchs and Molly, said Mr. Larkin, I have never had but one transaction with them, they are not always pleasant people to deal with. Mind, I don't say anything affecting their integrity, heaven forbid, but they certainly did take, rather, what I would call a short turn with us, on the occasion to which I refer. You must be cautious. Indeed, my dear sir, very cautious. The fifteenth, just ten clear days. Well, you know, you have till then to look about you, and you know we may any day hear from your brother directing the loan to be paid over to you. And now, my dear and reverent friend, you know me, I hope, continued Mr. Larkin very kindly, as he handed back the letter. And you won't attribute what I say to impertinent curiosity, but your brother's intended advance of three hundred pounds can hardly have had relation only to this trifling claim upon you.  You must not trifle with these things, and let me recommend you seeing your legal advisor, whoever he is, immediately. You mean, said the vicar, who was by this time very much flushed, a gentleman of your profession, Mr. Larkin? Do you really think? Well, it has frequently crossed my mind, but the expense, you know, and although my affairs are in a most unpleasant and complicated state, I am sure that everything would be perfectly smooth if only I had received the loan my kind brother intends, and which, to be sure, as you say, any day I may receive. But, my dear sir, do you really mean to say that you would pay claims from various quarters? How old is this, for instance, without examination? The vicar looked very blank. I—this—well, this I certainly do owe. It has increased a little with interest, though good Mr. Mountain never charged more than six percent. It was, I think, about fifteen pounds. Books—I am ashamed to say how long ago—about a work which I began then, and laid aside, on Eusebius, but which is now complete, and will, I hope, eventually repay me. Were you of age, my dear sir, when he gave you these books on credit?  Oh, no, not twenty, but then I owe it, and I could not, as a Christian man you know, evade my debts. Of course, but you can't pay it at present, and it may be highly important to enable you to treat this as a debt of honour you perceive.  Now, see, my dear sir, I am, I humbly hope, a Christian man, but you will meet with men in every profession, and mine is no exception, disposed to extract the last farthing which the law by its extremist process will give them. And I really must tell you, frankly, that if you dream of escaping the most serious consequences, you must at once place yourself and your affairs in the hands of a competent man of business. It will probably be found that you do not in reality owe sixty pounds of every hundred claimed against you. Oh, Mr. Larkin, if I could induce you! Mr. Larkin smiled a melancholy smile, and shook his head. My dear sir, I only wish I could, but my hands are so awfully full, and he lifted them up and shook them, and shook his tall bald head at the same time, and smiled a weary smile. Just look there, and he waved his fingers in the direction of the cyclopean wall of tin boxes, tear above tear, each bearing in yellow italics the name of some country gentleman, and two baronettes among the number, every one of them laden with deeds and papers. You can't have a notion. No one has, what it is. I see, indeed, murmured the honest vicar, in a compassionate tone, and quite entering into the spirit of Mr. Larkin's mournful appeal, as if the being in large business was the most distressing situation in which an attorney could well find himself. It was very unreasonable of me to think of troubling you with my wretched affairs, but really I do not know very well where to turn, or whom to speak to. Maybe, my dear sir, you can think of some conscientious and Christian practitioner who is not so laden with other people's cares and troubles as you are. I am a very poor client, and indeed more trouble than I could possibly be gained to any one. But there may be some one. Pray think, ten days is so short a time, and I can do nothing. Mr.  Well, he said hesitatingly, it is not easy, at a moment's notice, to point out a suitable solicitor. There are many, of course, very desirable gentlemen, but I feel it, my dear sir, a very serious responsibility naming one for so peculiar a matter. But you shall not, in the meantime, go to the wall for want of advice. Rely upon it. We'll do the best we can for you, he continued, in a patronizing way, with his chin raised, and extending his hand kindly to shake that of the parson. Yes, I certainly will. You must have advice. Can you give me two hours to-morrow evening? Say to tea, if you will do me the honour. My friend Captain Lake dines at Brandon to-morrow. He's staying here with me, you are aware, on a visit. But we shall be quite by ourselves, say, at seven o'clock. Bring all your papers, and I'll get at the root of the business, and see, if possible, in each particular case, what line is best to be adopted. How can I thank you, my dear sir, cried gentle William Wilder, his countenance actually beaming with delight and gratitude, a brighter look than it had warned for many weeks. Oh, don't pray, don't mention it. I assure you, it is a happiness to me to be of any little use, and really, I don't see how you could possibly hold your own among the parties who are pressing you without professional advice.  I feel, as if my prayer for direction and deliverance were answered at last. Oh, my dear sir, I've suffered a great deal, but something assures me I am rescued, and shall have a quiet mind once more. I am now in safe and able hands, and he shook the safe and able, and rather large hands, of the amiable attorney in both his. You make too much of it, my dear sir. I should at any time be most happy to advise you, said Mr. Larkin, with a lofty and pleased benevolence, and with great pleasure provisionally, until we can hit upon a satisfactory solicitor with a little more time at his disposal, I undertake the management of your case. Thank heaven! again, said the vicar, who had not let go his hands. And it is so delightful to have for my God a Christian man, who even were I so disposed, would not lend himself to an unworthy or questionable defence. And although at this moment it is not in my power to reward your invaluable assistance, now really, my dear sir, I must insist no more of this, I beseech you. I do most earnestly insist that you promise me you will never mention the matter of professional remuneration more, until at least I press it, which rely upon it, will not be for a good while. The attorney's smile plainly said that his good while meant in fact never. This is indeed unimaginable kindness. How have I deserved so wonderful a blessing?  I had once a good deal of professional experience in this sort of business.  And you may rely upon it, you will have a much longer time at all events than they are disposed to allow you. Just at this moment they became aware of a timid little tapping which had been going on at the window during the latter part of this conference, and looking up, the attorney and the vicar saw little fairies' violet eyes peering under his light hair, with its mild, golden shadow, and the odd, sensitive smile at once shy and arch. His cheeks were wet with tears, and his pretty little nose red, though he was smiling, and he drew his face aside among the jesamine, when he saw the gaunt attorney directing his patronising smile upon him. I beg pardon, said the vicar, rising with a sudden smile and going to the window. It is my little man—Fairy! Fairy! What has brought you here, my little man? Fairy glanced, still smiling, but very shame-facedly at the grand attorney, and in his little fist he held a pair of rather seedy gloves to the window-pane. So I did. I protest I forgot my gloves. Thank you, little man. Who is with you? Oh, I see! That is right! Made, ducked a short courtesy. Indeed, sir, please, Master Fairy was raising the roof—a nursery phrase which implied indescribable bellowing—and as naughty as could be, until Mrs. allowed him to come after you. Oh, my little man, you must not do that!  But oh, wop, see, your hands would be cold! And he held the gloves to him against the glass. Well, darling, thank you! You are a kind little man, and I'll be with you in a moment, said the vicar, smiling very lovingly on his naughty little man. Mr. Larkin said he, turning very gratefully to the attorney, you can lay his Christian comfort to your kind heart that you have made mine a hundred-fold lighter since I entered this blessed room. Indeed, you have lifted a mountain from it by the timely proffer of your invaluable assistance.  I do believe, said the good vicar, as he walked down what Mr. Larkin called the approach, and looking up with irrepressible gratitude to the blue sky and the white clouds sailing over his head, if it be not presumption I must believe that I have been directed hither. Yes, darling, yes, my hands are warm. This was addressed to little Ferry, who was clamouring for information on the point, and clinging to his arm as he capered by his side. What immense relief!  The attorney stood at his window with a shadow on his face, and his small eyes a little contracted in snake-light, following the slim figure of the thread-bear vicar in his golden-haired dancing little comrade, and then he mounted a chair, and took down, successively, four of his Japaned boxes, two of them in yellow letters bore respectively the label brandon number one and number two, the other wilder number one and number two. He opened the wilder box first, and glanced through a neat little statement of title, prepared for counsel when drafting the deed of settlement for the marriage which was never to take place. The limitations, let me see, is not there something that one might be safe in advancing a trifle upon, eh? Yes. And with this lip in his finger and thumb, he conned over those remainders and reversions with a skilled and rapid eye. Rachel Lake was glad to see the slender and slightly stooped figure of the vicar standing that morning, his bright little boy by the hand, in the wicked of the tiny flower-garden of Redmond's farm. She went out quickly to greet him.  So they fell into discourse among the autumnal flowers and withered leaves, and as the day was still ingenial they remained standing in the garden, and away went busy little fairy smiling and chatting with marjorie to see the hens and chickens in the yard. The physician, after a while, finds the leading features of most cases pretty much alike. He knows when inflammation may be expected, and fever will supervine. He is not surprised if the patient's mind wanders a little at times, expects the period of prostration and the return of appetite, and has his measures and his palliatives ready for each successive phase of sickness and recovery. In like manner too, the good and skillful person comes by experience to know the signs and stages of the moral ailments and recoveries which some of them know how so tenderly and so wisely to care for. They too have ready, having often proved their consolatory efficacy. Their febri-fuges and their tonics culled from that tree of life whose leaves are for the healing of the nations. Poor Rachel's hours were dark, and life had grown in some sort terrible, and death seemed now so real and near. I, quite a fact, and somehow not unfriendly, but, oh, the immense futurity beyond that could not be shirked to which she was certainly going. Death and sleep so welcome! But, oh, that stupendous life ever lasting now first unveiled. She could only close her eyes and wring her hands. Oh, for some friendly voice and hand to stay her through the valley of the shadow of death! They talked a long while, Rachel chiefly a listener, and often quietly weeping, and at last a very kindly parting, and a promise from the simple and gentle vicar that he would often look in at Redmond's farm. She watched his retreating figure as he and Little Ferry walked down the Tenebrose Road to Gillingdon, following them with a dismal gaze, as a benighted and moonded wayfarer in that valley would the pale lamps disappearing that had for a few minutes, in a friendly hand, shone over his dreadful darkness. And when, in fitful reveries, fancy turned for a moment to an earthly past and future, all there was a blank, the past saddened, the future bleak. She did not know, or even suspect, that she had been living in an aerial castle, and worshiping an unreal image, until on a sudden all was revealed in that chance gleam of cruel lightning, the line in that letter which she read so often, spelled over and puzzled over so industriously, though it was clear enough. How noble, how good, how bright and true was that hero of her unconscious romance. Well, no one else suspected that incipient madness, that was something, and brave Rachel would quite master it. Happy, she had discovered it so soon. Besides, it was even if Chelford were at her feet a wild impossibility now, and it was well, though despair were in the pang, that she had, at last, quite explained this to herself. As Rachel stood in her little garden, on the spot where she had bidden farewell to the vicar, she was roused from her vague and dismal reverie by the sound of a carriage close at hand. She had just time to see that it was a brome, and to recognize the brand and liveries when it drew up at the garden wicket, and Dorcas called to her from the open window. I'm come, Rachel, expressly to take you with me, and I won't be denied. You are very good, Dorcas, thank you, dear, very much, but I am not very well, and a very dull companion to-day. You think I am going to bore you with visits, no such thing, I assure you. I have taken a fancy to walk on the common, that is all. A kind of longing, and you must come with me. Quite to ourselves, you and I. You won't refuse me, darling. I know you'll come. Well, Rachel did go, and away they drove through the quiet town of Gillingdon together, and through the short street on the right, and so upon the still quieter common. This plain of green turf broke gradually into a heath, and in a regular screen of timber and underwood divided the common of Gillingdon in silven fashion from the moor. The wood passed, Dorcas stopped the carriage, and the two young ladies descended. It was a sunny day, and the air still, and the open heath contrasted pleasantly with the somber and confined scenery of Redmond's Dell, and altogether Rachel was glad now that she had made the effort and come with her cousin.  Chelford has just returned from Brighton. He arrived this morning, and he and Lady Chelford will stay for the hunt-ball. I made it a point, and he called it hawkly on his way back to see Sir Julius. Do you know him? Sir Julius hawkly? No, I've heard of him only. Well, they say he is wasting his property very fast, and I think him every way very nearly a fool, but Chelford wanted to see him about Mr. Wilder. Mark Wilder, you know, of course, has turned up again in England. His letter to Chelford six weeks ago was from Boulogne, but his last was from Brighton, and Sir Julius hawkly witnessed, I think they call it, that letter of attorney which Mark sent about a week since to Mr. Larkin, and Chelford, who is most anxious to trace Mark Wilder, having to surrender—I think they call it a trust—is not it, or something—I really don't understand these things—to him, and not being able to find out his address. Mr. Larkin wrote to Sir Julius, whom Chelford did not find at home, to ask him for a description of Mark, to ascertain whether he had disguised himself, and Sir Julius wrote to Chelford such an absurd description of poor Mark, in dog-roll rhyme, so like his odd walk, his great whiskers, and everything. Chelford does not like personalities, but he could not help laughing. Are you ill, darling? Though she was walking on beside her companion, Rachel looked on the point of fainting. My darling, you must sit down. You do look very ill.  No, Dorcas, I am pretty well, but I have been ill, and I am a little tired. And Dorcas, I don't deny it. I am amazed. You tell me such things. That letter of attorney, or whatever it is, must not be acted upon. It is incredible. It is all horrible wickedness. Mark Wilder's fate is dreadful, and Stanley is the mover of all this. Oh, Dorcas, darling, I wish I could tell you everything. Some day I may be— I am sick and terrified. They had sat down by this time, side by side, on the crisp bank. Each lady looked down, the one in suffering, the other in thought. You are better, darling. Are you not better? said Dorcas, laying her hand on Rachel's and looking on her with a melancholy gaze? Yes, dear, better. Very well—answered Rachel, looking up, but without an answering glance at her cousin. You blame your brother, Rachel, in this affair. Did I? Well, maybe. Yes, he is to blame. The miserable man, whom I hate to think of, and yet am always thinking of, Stanley well knows, is not in a state to do it.  Oh, Dorcas, don't misunderstand me. If the secret were all my own, Heaven knows, hateful as it is, how boldly I would risk all and throw myself on your fidelity or your mercy. I know not how you might view it, but it is different, Dorcas, at least for the present. You know me.  But this is not mine, only in part. That is, I dare not tell it, but may be soon free, and to us all, dear Dorcas, a woeful, woeful day will it be. I made you a promise, Rachel, said her beautiful cousin gravely, and a little coldly, and sadly, too. I will never break it again. It was thoughtless. Let us each try to forget that there is anything hidden between us.  At all events, I think you'll pity me, and at last understand your miserable cousin. I said before, Rachel, that I liked you.  You are beautiful, wayward, and daring. And one way or another, misfortune always waylays us. And I have, I know it, calamity before me. Death comes to other women in a accustomed way, but we have a double death. There is not a beautiful portrait in Brandon that has not a sad and true story. Early death of the frail and fair tenement of clay, but a still earlier death of happiness. Come, Rachel, shall we escape from the spell and the destiny into solitude? What do you think of my old plan of the valleys and lakes of Wales? A pretty foreign tongue spoken round us, and no one but ourselves to commune with, and books and music? It is not ready altogether just. I sometimes yearn for it, as they say foreign girls do for convent life. Port Dorcas, said Rachel very softly, fixing her eyes upon her with a look of inexpressible sadness and pity. Rachel, said Dorcas, I am a changeable being, violent, self-willed. My fate may be quite a different one from that which I suppose, or you imagine, I may yet have to retract my secret. Oh, would it were so! Would to heaven it were so! Suppose, Rachel, that I had been deceiving you, perhaps deceiving myself. Time will show. There was a wild smile on beautiful Dorcas's face as she said this, which faded soon into the proud serenity that was its usual character. Oh, Dorcas, if your good angel is near, listen to his warnings. We have no good angels, my poor Rachel. What modern necromancers conversing with tables, called mocking spirits, have always usurped their place with us, singing in our drowsy ears like Ariel, visiting our reveries like angels of light, being really our evil, genii. Haha, yes. Dorcas, dear, said Rachel, after both had been silent for a time, speaking suddenly, and with a look of pale and keen entreaty. Beware of Stanley. Oh, beware, beware! I think I am beginning to grow afraid of him myself. Dorcas was not given to sighing, but she sighed, gazing sadly across the wide, bleak moor with her proud apathetic look, which seemed passively to defy futurity. And then, for a while, they were silent. She turned, and caressingly smoothed the golden tresses over Rachel's frank, white forehead, and kissed them as she did so. You are better, darling. You are rested, she said? Yes, dear Dorcas, and she kissed the slender hand that smoothed her hair. Each understood that the conversation on that theme was ended, and somehow each was relieved. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 of Wilder's Hand This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kathy Barrett Wilder's Hand by J. Sheridan Lafanyou Chapter 34 Sir Julius Hoxley's Letter Josiah Larkin mentioned in his conversation with the vicar just related that he had received a power of attorney from Mark Wilder. Connected with this document there came to light a circumstance so very odd that the reader must at once be apprised of it. This legal instrument was attested by two witnesses and bore date about a week before the interview just related between the vicar and Mr. Larkin. Here then was a fact established. Mark Wilder had returned from Boulang for the power of attorney had been executed at Brighton. Who were the witnesses? One was Thomas Tupton of the Traveller's Hotel Brighton. This Thomas Tupton was something of a sporting celebrity and a likely man enough to be of Mark's acquaintance. The other witness was Sir Julius Hoxley of Hoxley, an unexceptionable evidence, though a good deal on the turf. Now our friend Josiah Larkin had something of the Red Indian's faculty for tracking his game by hardly perceptible signs and tokens through the wilderness, and this mystery of Mark Wilder's flight and seclusion was the present object of his keen and patient pursuit. On receipt of the instrument, therefore, he wrote by return of post, presenting his respectful compliments to Sir Julius Hoxley, and deeply regretting that as solicitor of the Wilder family and the gentleman empowered to act under the letter of attorney, it was imperative upon him to trouble him, Sir Julius H., with a few interrogatories, which he trusted he would have no difficulty in answering. The first was whether he had been acquainted with the Mr. Mark Wilder's personal appearance before seeing him sign, so as to be able to identify him. The second was whether he, Mr. M. W., was accompanied at the time of executing the instrument by any friend, and if so, what were the name and address of such friend, and the third was whether he could communicate any information whatsoever respecting Mr. M. W.'s present place of abode. The same queries were put in a somewhat haughty and peremptory way to the sporting hotel keeper, who answered that Mr. Mark Wilder had been staying for a week in his house about five months ago, and that he had seen him twice, once backing Jonathan when he beat the great American billiard player, and another time when he lent him his copy of Bell's Life in the coffee-room, and thus he was enabled to identify him, for the rest he could say nothing. Sir Julius's reply was of the hoity-toity and rollicking sort, bordering in parts very nearly on nonsense and generally impertinent. It reached Mr. Larkin as he sat at breakfast with his friend Stanley Lake. Pray read your letters and don't mind me, I entreat. Perhaps you will allow me to look at the times, and I'll trouble you for the sardines." The postmark, hockly, stared the lawyer in the face, and longing to break the seal he availed himself of the captain's permission. So Lake opened the times, and as he studied its columns I think he stole a glance or two over its margin at the attorney, now deep in the letter of Sir Julius Hockly. He, Sir J. H., presented his respects to Mr. Larkin's or Larkmy or Larkus. Sir J. H. is not able to read which or what, but he is happy to observe at all events that end how he may, the gentleman begins with a lark, which Sir J. H. always does when he can. Not being able to discover his terminal syllable, he will take the liberty of styling him by his sprightly beginning, and calling him shortly Lark. As Sir J. never objected to a lark, the gentleman so designated introduces himself with a strong prejudice in Sir J's mind, in his favour, so much so that by way of a lark Sir J. will answer Lark's questions, which are not, he thinks, very impertinent. The wildest of all Lark's questions refers to Wilder's place of abode, which Sir J. was never wild enough to think of asking after, and does not know. And so little was he acquainted with the gentleman that he forgot he was an evangelist doing good under the style and title of Mark. Lark may therefore tell Mark, if he sees him or his friends, Matthew, Luke, and John, that Sir Julius saw Mark only on two successive days at the cricket match, played between Paul's eleven, the coincidence is remarkable, and the Ishmaelites, these I am bound to observe, were literally the designations of the opposing sides, and that he had the honour of being presented to Mark, saint or sinner as he may be, on the ground by his Sir J. H.'s friend, Captain Stanley Lake, of the Guards. Here was an astounding fact. Stanley Lake had been in Mark Wilder's company only ten days ago, when that great match was played at Brighton. What a deep gentleman was that Stanley Lake, who sat at the other end of the table with the times before him! What a varnished rascal!  He had returned to Gillingdon direct, in all likelihood, from his conferences with Mark Wilder, to tell all concerned that it was vain endeavouring to trace him, and still offering his disinterested services in the pursuit. No matter. We must take things coolly and cautiously. All this chicanery will yet break down, and the conspiracy, be it what it may, will be thoroughly exposed. Mystery is the shadow of guilt, and most assuredly thought, Mr. Larkin, there is some infernal secret, well worth knowing, at the bottom of all this.  All Mr. Josiah Larkin's properties were handsome and imposing, and he never played with children without producing his gold repeater, and making it strike and exhibiting its wonders for their amusement, and the edification of the adults whose presence, of course, he forgot. Paul's eleven have challenged the gypsies, said Lake Langwoodly, lifting his eyes from the paper. By the by are you anything of a cricketer? And they are to play at Hockley, Sir Julius Hockley's ground. You know Sir Julius, don't you? Very slightly. I may say I have that honour, but we have never been thrown together. A mere—uh—the slightest thing in the world. Not school, fellows. You are not an eaten man, eh? said Lake. Oh no, my dear father, the organist, would not send a boy of his to what he called an idle school. But my acquaintance with Sir Julius was a trifling matter. Hockley is a very pretty place. Is it not? A sweet place. A great match was played between those fellows at Brighton. Paul's eleven beat fifteen of the Ishmaelites about a fortnight since, but they have no chance with the gypsies. It will be quite a hollow thing. A one innings affair. Have you ever seen Paul's eleven play? asked the lawyer, carelessly taking up the newspaper which Lake had laid down. I saw them play that match at Brighton, I mentioned just now, a few days ago. Ah! did you? Did you not know I was there? said Lake, in rather a changed tone.  I was there, and Hockley was there, and Mark Wilder was there, was not he, and Lake stared and laughed, and the attorneys stared, and Lake added, What a damned cunning fellow you are! Larkin was not easily put out, but he was disconcerted now, and his cheeks and forehead grew suddenly pink, and he coughed a little, and tried to throw a look of mild surprise into his face. Ah! you have this moment, had a letter from Hockley. Don't you think I knew his hand in the postmark, and your look said, quite plainly, here's news of my friend Stanley Lake and Mark Wilder. I had an uncle in the foreign office, and they said he would have been quite a distinguished diplomatist if he had lived, and I was said to have a good deal of his talent, and I really think I have brought my little evidences very prettily together, and jumped to a right conclusion, eh? A flicker of that sinister shadow I've sometimes mentioned crossed Larkin's face, and contracted his eyes as he said little sternly, I have nothing unearth to conceal, sir, I never had. All my conduct has been as open as the light. There's not a letter, sir, I ever write or receive, that might not, so far as I am concerned, with my goodwill, lie open on that table for every visitor that comes in to read.  Here, here, here, said Lake languidly, and tapping a little applause on the table, while he watched the solicitor's rhetoric with his sly, disconcerting smile. It was but conscientious, Captain Lake, that I should make particular inquiry respecting the genuineness of a legal instrument conferring such very considerable powers. How on earth, sir, could I have the slightest suspicion that you had seen my client, Mr. Wilder, considering the tenor of your letters in conversation? And I venture to say, Captain Lake, that Lord Shelford will be just as much surprised as I when he hears it. Josiah Larkin Esquire delivered this peroration from a moral elevation, all the loftier that he had a peer of the realm on his side. But peers did not in the least over awe Stanley Lake, who had been all his days familiar with those idols, and the moral altitudes of the attorney amused him vastly. But he'll not hear it. I won't tell him, and you shan't, because I don't think it would be prudent of us, do you? To quarrel with Mark Wilder, and he does not wish our meeting known. It is nothing on earth to me, on the contrary, it rather places me in an awkward position keeping other people's secrets. The attorney made one of his slight, gentleman-like bows, and threw back his head with a lofty and reserved look. I don't know, Captain Lake, that I would be quite justified in withholding the substance of Sir Julius Hockley's letter from Lord Chelford, consulted, as I have had the honour to be, by that nobleman. I shall, however, turn it over in my mind. Don't the least mind me. In fact, I would rather tell it than not, and I can explain to Chelford why I could not mention the circumstance. Wilder, in fact, tied me down by a promise, and he'll be devilish angry with you. But it seems you don't very much mind that. He knew that Mr. Larkin did very much mind it, and the quick glance of the attorney could read nothing whatever in the Captain's pallid face and downcast eyes, smiling on the points of his varnished boots. Of course you know, Captain Lake. In alluding to the possibility of my making any communication to Lord Chelford, I limit myself strictly to the letter of Sir Julius Hockley, and do not, by any means, my dear Captain Lake, include the conversation which has just occurred, and the communication which you have volunteered to make me. Oh! quite so! said the Captain, looking up suddenly, as was his way, with a momentary glare, like a man newly waked from a narcotic dose. End of Chapter 34 CHAPTER 35 OF WILDER'S HAND This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kathy Barrett. Wilder's Hand by J. Sheridan Lofanyu. CHAPTER 35 THE HUNT BALL By this time your humble servant, the chronicler of these Gillingdon annals, had taken his leave of magnificent old Brandon, and of its strangely interesting young mistress, and was carrying away with him as he flew along the London rails the broken imagery of that grand and shivered dream. He was destined, however, before very long, to revisit these scenes, and in the meantime heard in rude outline the tenor of what was happening, the minute incidents and colouring of which were afterwards faithfully communicated. I can therefore, without break or blur, continue my description, and to say truth at this distance of time I have some difficulty so well acquainted was I with the actors in the scenery, and determining without consulting my diary what portions of the narrative I relate from hearsay and what as a spectator. But that I am so far from understanding myself I should often be amazed at the sayings and doings of other people. As it is, I behold in myself an abyss. I gaze down and listen, and discover neither light nor harmony, but thunderings and lightnings, and voices and laughter, and a medley that dismisses me. There rage the elements which God only can control. Forgive us, our trespasses. Lead us not into temptation. Deliver us from the evil one.  I have long ceased, then, to wonder why any living soul does anything that is incongruous and unanticipated. And therefore I cannot say how Miss Brandon persuaded her handsome cousin Rachel to go with her party under the wing of old Lady Chelford to the hunt-ball of Gillingdon. And knowing now all that then hung heavy at the heart of the fair tenet of Redmond's farm, I should indeed wonder inexpressibly were it not, as I have just said, that I have long ceased to wonder at any vagaries of myself or my fellow-creatures. The hunt-ball is the great annual event of Gillingdon. The critical process of coming out is here consummated by the young ladies of that town and vicinage. It is looked back upon for one half of the year and forward to for the other. People date by it. The battle of Inkerman was fought immediately before the hunt-ball. It was so many weeks after the hunt-ball that the Tsar Nicholas died. The Carnival of Venice was nothing like so grand an event. Its solemn and universal importance in Gillingdon and the country round gave me, I fancied, some notion of what the feast of unleavened bread must have been to the Hebrews and Jerusalem. The cannubial capabilities of Gillingdon are positively wretched. When I knew it, there were but three single men, according even to the modest measure of Gillingdon housekeeping, capable of supporting wives, and these were difficult to please, set a high price on themselves, looked the country round at long ranges, and were only wistfully and meekly glanced after by the frugal vestals of Gillingdon, as they strutted round the corners or smoked the pipe of apathy at the reading-room windows. Old Major Jackson kept the young ladies in practice between wiles, with his barren gallantries and graces, and was just so far better than nothing. But as it had been for years well ascertained that he either could not, or would not, afford to marry, and that his love passages, like the passages in Gothic piles that lead to nothing, were not designed to terminate advantageously. He had long ceased to excite, even in that desolate region, the smallest interest. Think, then, what it was when Mr. Pummis, of Coppel and Pummis, the splendid house-painters at Dullington, arrived with his artists and char-woman to give the assembly-room its annual touching-up and bedisenment, preparatory to the hunt-ball. The Gillingdon young ladies used to peep in and from the lobby observed the wenches dry-rubbing and waxing the floor, and the great Mr. Pummis, with his myrmidons, in aprons and paper caps retouching the gilding. It was a tremendous crisis for Honest Mrs. Page, the confectioner, over the way, who in legal phrase had the carriage of the supper and refreshments, though largely assisted by Mr. Batterspeed, of Dullington. During the few days' agony of preparation that immediately preceded this notable orgy, the good ladies countenance bespoke the magnitude of her cares. Though the weather was usually cold, I don't think she ever was cool during that period. I'm sure she never slept. I don't think she ate. And I'm afraid her exercises were neglected. Equally distracting, emaciating, and godless was the condition to which the mere advent of this festival reduced worthy Miss Williams, the dressmaker, who had more white muslin and young ladies on her hands than she and her choir of needle-women knew what to do with. During this tremendous period Miss Williams hardly resembled herself, her eyes dilated, her lips were pale, and her brow corrugated with deep and inflexible lines of fear and perplexity. She lived on bad tea, sat up all night, and every now and then burst into helpless floods of tears. But somehow generally things came pretty right in the end. One way or another the gay bells and elderly spinsters and fat village chaperones were invested in suitable costume by the appointed hour, and in a few weeks Miss Williams' mind recovered its wanted tone, and her countenance its natural expression. The great night had now arrived. Gillingdon was quite in an uproar. Rural families of eminence came in, some in old-fashioned coaches, others the wealthier, more in London style. The stables of the Brandon arms, of the George Inn, of the Silver Lion, even of the White House, though a good way off, and generally every vacant standing for horses in or about the town, were crowded, and the places of entertainment we have named and minor houses of refection were vocal with the talk of flunkies, patrician with powdered heads, and splendid in variegated liveries. The front of the town hall resounded with the ring of horse hooves, the crack of whips, the balling of coachmen, the clank of carriage steps, and the clang of coach doors. A promiscuous mob of the plebs and profanum vulgis of Gillingdon beset the door to see the ladies, the slim and the young in white muslins and artificial flowers, and their stout guardian angels of mature years in satins and velvets and jewels, some real and some just as good of paste. In the cloak-room such a fuss, unfurling of fans, and last looks and hurried adjustments. When the crutchleys of Clay Manor, a good old formal family, were mounting the stairs in solemn procession, they were always among the early arrivals. They heard a piano and a tenor performing in the supper-room. Now old Lady Chelford chose to patronize Mr. Page, the Darlington Professor, and partly, I fancy, to show that she could turn things topsy-turvy in this town of Gillingdon, had made a point, with the rulers of the feast, that her client should sing half a dozen songs in the supper-room before dancing commenced. Mrs. Crutchleys stayed her step upon the stairs abruptly, and turned with a look of fierce surprise upon her lean, white-headed lord, arresting thereby the upward march of Corf Crutchley Esquire, the hope of his house, who was pulling on his gloves with his eldest spinster sister on his lank arm. There appears to be a concert going on. We came here to a ball. Had you not better inquire, Mr. Crutchleys, it would seem we have made a mistake. Mrs. Crutchleys was sensitive about the dignity of the family of Clay Manor, and her cheeks flushed above the rouge, and her eyes flashed severely. That singing, particularly loud singing! Either we have mistaken the night, or somebody has taken upon him to upset all the arrangements. You'll be good enough to inquire whether there will be dancing to-night. I and Anastasia will remain in the cloak-room, and we'll all leave a few pleas, Mr. Crutchleys, if this goes on. The fact is, Mrs. Crutchleys had got an inkling of this performance, and had affected to believe it impossible, and detesting old Lady Chelford for sundry slights and small impertnances, and envying Brandon and its belongings, was resolved not to be put down by presumption in that quarter. Old Lady Chelford sat in an arm-chair in the supper-room where a considerable audience was collected. She had a splendid shawl or two about her, and a certain air of demi-toilette, which gave the Gillingdon people to understand that her ladieship did not look on this gala in the light of a real ball, but only as a sort of rustic imitation, curious, possibly amusing, and like other rural sports, deserving of encouragement for the sake of the people who made innocent holiday there. Mr. Page, the performer, was a plump young man, with black whiskers and his hair in oily ringlets, such as may be seen in the model wigs presented on smiling wax and dandies in Mr. Rose's front window at Dollington. He bowed and smiled in the most unexceptionable of white chokers and the dapperest of dress-coats, and drew off the whitest imaginable pair of kid-gloves when he sat down to the piano, subsiding in a sort of bow upon the music-stool, and striking those few brisk and noisy chords with which such artists proclaim silence and reassure themselves. Stanley Lake, that eminent London swell, had attached himself as gentleman in waiting to Lady Chelford's household, and was perpetually gliding with little messages between her ladyship and the dapper vocalist of Dollington, who varied his programme and submitted to an occasional encore on the private order thus communicated. I told you Chelford would be here, said Miss Brandon to Rachel in a low-tone glancing at the young peer. I thought he had returned to Brighton. I fancied he might be. You know the dull Hamptons are at Brighton, and Lady Constance, of course, has a claim on his time and thoughts. Rachel smiled as she spoke, and was adjusting her bouquet as Dorcas made answer. Lady Constance, my dear Raddy, that, you know, was never more than a mere whisper. It was only Lady Chelford and the Marchioness who talked it over. They would have liked it very well. But Chelford won't be managed or scolded into anything of the kind, and will choose, I think, for himself, and I fancy not altogether, according to their ideas, when the time comes. And I assure you, dear Raddy, there is not the least truth in that story about Lady Constance. Why should Dorcas be so earnest to convince her handsome cousin that there was nothing in this rumour? Rachel made no remark, and there was a little silence. I'm so glad I succeeded in bringing you here, said Dorcas. Chelford made such a point of it, and he thinks you are losing your spirits among the great trees and shadows of Redmond's dell, and he made it quite a little cousinly duty that I should succeed. At this moment Mr. Page interposed with the energetic prelude of his concluding ditty. It was one of Tom Moore's melodies. Rachel leaned back, and seemed to enjoy it very much. But when it was over, I think she would have found it difficult to say what the song was about. Mr. Page had now completed his programme, and worn by the disrespectful violins from the gallery of the ballroom, whence a considerable catter-walling was already announcing the approach of the dance, he made his farewell flourish, and bow, and smiling withdrew. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rachel Lake, standing by the piano, turned over the leaves of the volume of Moore's Melodies, from which the artist in Black Whiskers and White Wastecoat had just entertained his noble patroness and his audience. Everyone has experienced, I suppose, for a few wonderful moments now and then, a glow of seemingly causeless happiness in which the earth and its people are glorified. Peace and sunlight rest on everything. The spirit of music and love is in the air, and the heart itself sings for joy. In the light of this celestial illusion, she stood now by the piano, turning over the pages of poor Tom Moore, as I have said, when a low, pleasant voice near her said, I was so glad to see that Dorcas had prevailed, and that you were here. We both agreed that you are too much a recluse in that dear precious glen, at least for your friend's pleasure, and owe it to us all to appear now and then in this upper world. Excelsior, Miss Lake, interposed dapper, little Mr. Buttle, with a smirk. I think this little bit of music, it was got up, you know, by that old quiz. Dowager Lady Chalford was really not so bad. Rather good idea, after all. Miss Lake, don't you? Poor Mr. Buttle did not know Lord Chalford, and thus shooting his arrow o'er the house, he hurt his brother. Chalford turned away, and bowed and smiled to one or two friends at the other side of the room. Yes, the music was very pretty, and some of the songs were quite charmingly sung. I agree with you. We are very much obliged to Lady Chalford. That is her son, Lord Chalford. Oh! said Buttle, whose smirk vanished on the instant in a very red and dismal vacancy. I am afraid he'll think me shockingly rude, and in a minute more Buttle was gone.  An admirer, perhaps, certainly no worshipper. Yet I can't say. Perhaps I do worship, but if so, it is a worship strangely mixed with contempt. And she laughed a little. A kind of adoring which I fancy belongs probably to the Lords of Creation, and which we are the weaker sects have no right to practice. Miss Lake is pleased to be a runnacle tonight, he said with a smile. Am I? I dare say. All women are. Irony is the weapon of cowardice, and cowardice the vice of weakness. Yet I think I was naturally bold and true.    She tapped a little emphasis upon the floor with her white satin shoe, and her eyes flashed with a dark and angry meaning among the crowd at the other end of the room, as if for a second or two, following an object to whom, in some way, the statement applied. The strange bitterness of her tone, though it was low enough, and something wild, suffering, and revengeful in her look, though but momentary, and hardly definable, did not escape Lord Chalford, and he followed unconsciously the direction of her glance, but there was nothing there to guide him to a conclusion, and the good people who formed that polite and animated mob were in his eyes one in all quite below the level of tragedy, or even of melodrama. And yet, Miss Lake, we are all more or less cowards or deceivers, at least to the extent of suppression. Who would speak the whole truth, or like to hear it? Not I, I know. Nor I, she said quietly. And I do think if people had no reserves they would be very uninteresting, he added. She was looking with a strange light upon her face, a smile, perhaps, upon the open pages of Moore's melodies, as he spoke. I like a little puzzle and mystery. They surround our future and our past, and the present would be insipid, I think, without them.  Moore is a daring morality. What do you think, for instance, of these lines, she said, touching the verse with her bouquet? Lord Chelford read, I ask not, I know not, if guilt's in thy heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. He laughed. Very passionate, but hardly respectable, I once knew he continued a little more gravely, a marriage made upon that principle, and not very audaciously either, which turned out very unhappily. So I should conjecture, she said, rising from her chair, rather drearily and abstractedly, and there is good old Lady Sarah. I must go and ask her how she does. She passed for a moment, holding her bouquet drooping towards the floor, and looking with her clouded eyes down, down through it. And then she looked up suddenly, with an odd, fierce smile, and she said bitterly enough, and yet, if I were a man incapable of loving, I could love no other way, because I suppose love to be a madness, and the sublimest and most despicable of states. And I admire Moore for that flash of the fallen angelic. It is the sentiment of a hero and a madman, too base and too noble for this cool, wise world. She was already moving away, nebulous in hovering folds of snowy muslin, and she floated down like a cloud upon the ottoman beside old Lady Sarah, and smiled and leaned towards her, and talked in her sweet, low, distinct accents. And Lord Chelford followed her, with a sad sort of smile, admiring her greatly. Of course, non-Colby's candidity. It was not every man's privilege to dance with the splendid Lady of Brandon. It was only the demigods who ventured within the circle. Her kinsmen, Lord Chelford, did so, and now handsome Sir Harry Brackton, six feet high, so broad-shouldered and slim-waisted. His fine but not very wise face, irradiated with indefatigable smiles, stood and conversed with her, with that jaunty swagger of his, his weight now on this side, now on that, squaring his elbows like a crack whip with fore in hand, and wagging his perfume tresses, boisterous, rollicking, beaming with immeasurable self-complacency. Stanley Lake, left old Lady Chelford side, and glided to that of Dorcus Brandon. Will you dance this set? Are you engaged, Miss Brandon? he said, in low, eager tones. Yes, to both questions, answered she, with a faintest gleam of the conventional smile, and looking now gravely again at her bouquet. Well, the next possibly, I hope? I never do that, said the apathetic beauty serenely. Stanley looked as if he did not quite understand, and there was a little silence. I mean, I never engage myself beyond one dance. I hope you do not think it rude, but I never do. Miss Brandon can make what law she pleases for all here, and for some of us, everywhere, he replied, with a mortified smile and a bow. At that moment Sir Harry Brackton arrived to claim her, and Miss Keebs, elderly and sentimental, and in no great request, timidly said, in a gobbling confidential whisper, What a handsome couple they do make! Does not it quite realise your conception, Captain Lake, of young lock-in-bar, you know, and his fair Helen? So stately his form, and so lovely her face. You remember, that never a hall such a gullyard did grace? Is not it? So it is, really. It did not strike me. And that one cup of wine, you recollect, which the hero drank, and I dare say it made young lock-in-bar a little noisy and swaggering, when he proposed treading the measure, is not that the phrase? Yes, really. It is a very pretty poetical parallel. And Miss Keebs was pleased to think that Captain Lake would be sure to report her elegant little compliment in the proper quarters, and that her incense had not misfired. When Miss Brandon returned, Lake was unfortunately on duty beside old Lady Chelford, whom it was important to propitiate, and who was in the middle of a story, an extraordinary favour from her ladyship, and he had the vexation to see Lord Chelford palpably engaging Miss Brandon for the next dance. When she returned she was a little tired, and doubtful whether she would dance any more, certainly not the next dance, so he resolved to lie in wait, and anticipate any new suitor who might appear. His eyes, however, happened to wander in an unlucky moment to old Lady Chelford, who instantaneously signalled him with her fan.  So the captain had to assist the dower to Lady Sapa, and not only so, but in some sort at her digestion also, which she chose should take place for some ten minutes in the chair that she occupied at the supper-table. When he escaped Miss Brandon was engaged once more, and to Sir Harry Brackton for a second time, and, moreover, when he again essayed his suit, the young lady had peremptorily made up her mind to dance no more that night. How can Dorcas endure that man, thought Rachel, as she saw Sir Harry lead her to her seat after a second dance? Handsome, but so noisy, and foolish, and wicked, and is not he vulgar too? But Dorcas was not demonstrative. Her likings and dislikings were always more or less enigmatic. Still Rachel Lake fancied that she detected signs not only of tolerance, but of positive liking in her haughty cousin's demeanour, and wondered, after all, whether Dorcas was beginning to like Sir Harry Brackton. Dorcas had always puzzled her, not indeed so much latterly, but this night the mystery began to darken once more. Twice for a moment their eyes met, but only for a moment Rachel knew that a tragedy might be, at that instant, and under the influence of that very spectacle, gathering its thunders silently in another part of the room, where she saw Stanley's pale, peculiar face, and although he appeared in no wise occupied by what was passing between Dorcas Brandon and Sir Harry, she perfectly well knew that nothing of it escaped him. The sight of that pale face was a cold pang at her heart, a face prophetic of evil, at sight of which the dark curtain which hid futurity seemed to sway and tremble, as if a hand from behind was on the point of drawing it. Rachel sighed profoundly, and her eyes looked sadly through who bouquet on the floor. I am very glad you came, Raddy, said a sweet voice, which somehow made her shiver, close to her ear. This kind of thing will do your good, and you really wanted a little, Philip, shall I take you to the supper-room? No, Stanley, thank you, I prefer remaining. Have you observed how Dorcas has treated me this evening? No, Stanley, nothing unusual, is there? answered Rachel, glancing uneasily round, lest they should be overheard. Well, I think she has been more than usually repulsive. Quite marked, I almost fancy these Gillingdon people. Darles, they are, must observe it. I have a notion I shan't trouble Gillingdon or her after tomorrow. Rachel glanced quickly at him. He was deadly pale, with his faint unpleasant smile, and he returned her glance for a second wildly, and then dropped his eyes to the ground. I told you, he resumed again, after a short pause, and commencing with a gentle laugh, that she liked that fellow Brackton. You did say something, I think, of that, sometimes, since, said Rachel, but really. But really, Raddy, dear, you can't need any confirmation more than this evening affords. We both know Dorcas very well. She is not like other girls. She does not encourage fellows, as they do. But if she did not like Brackton very well indeed, she would send him about his business. She has danced with him twice, on the contrary, and has suffered his agreeable conversation all the evening. And that, from Dorcas' brandon, means, you know, everything. I don't know that it means anything. I don't see why it should. But I am very certain, said Rachel, who, in the midst of this crowded, gossiping ballroom, was talking much more freely to Stanley, and also, strange to say, in more sisterly fashion, than she would have done in the little parlour of Redmond's farm. I am very certain, Stanley, that if this supposed reference leads you to abandon your wild pursuit of Dorcas, it will prevent more ruin than perhaps either of us anticipates. And, Stanley, she added in a whisper, looking full in his eyes, which were raised for a moment to hers, it is hardly credible that you dare still to persist in so desperate and cruel a project. Thank you, said Stanley quietly, but the yellow light glared fiercely from their sockets, and were then lowered instantly to the floor. She has been very rude to me to-night, and you have not been, or tried to be, of any earthly use to me, and I will take a decided course. I perfectly know what I am about. You don't seem to be dancing. I have not either. We have both got something more serious, I fancy, to think of. And Stanley Lake glided slowly away, and was lost in the crowd. He went into the supper-room, and had a glass of seltzer water and sherry. He loitered at the table. His ruminations were very, I fancy, and his temper by no means pleasant, and it needed a good deal of that artificial command of countenance which he cultivated, to prevent his betraying something of the latter, when Sir Harry Brackton, talking loud and voluminously as usual, swaggered into the supper-room with Dorcas Brandon on his arm.