Wylder's Hand Part 64

answered Lake.

It was odd, in the sort of ghastly banter in which he played off this old man, how much hatred was perceptible.

'No--not he. It is Mark Wylder,' said Uncle Lorne; 'his face comes up like a white fish within a fathom of the top--it makes me laugh. That's the way they keep holiday. Can you tell by the sky when it is holiday in h.e.l.l? _I_ can.'

And he laughed, and rubbed his long fingers together softly.

'Look! ha! ha!--Look! ha! ha! ha!--_Look!_' he resumed pointing with his cadaverous forefinger towards the middle of the pool.

'I told you this morning it was a holiday,' and he laughed very quietly to himself.

'Look how his nostrils go like a fish's gills. It is a funny way for a gentleman, and _he's_ a gentleman. Every fool knows the Wylders are gentlemen--all gentlemen in misfortune. He has a brother that is walking about in his coffin. Mark has no coffin; it is all marble steps; and a wicked seraph received him, and blessed him till his hair stood up. Let me whisper you.'

'No, not just at this moment, please,' said Lake, drawing away, disgusted, from the maniacal leer and t.i.tter of the gigantic old man.

'Aye, aye--another time--some night there's aurora borealis in the sky.

You know this goes under ground all the way to Vallambrosa?'

'Thank you; I was not aware: that's very convenient. Had you not better go down and speak to your friend in the water?'

'Young man, I bless you for remembering,' said Uncle Lorne, solemnly.

'What was Mark Wylder's religion, that I may speak to him comfortably?'

'An Anabaptist, I conjecture, from his present situation,' replied Lake.

'No, that's in the lake of fire, where the wicked seraphim and cherubim baptise, and anabaptise, and hold them under, with a great stone laid across their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I only know two of their clergy--the African vicar, quite a gentleman, and speaks through his nose; and the archbishop with wings; his face is so burnt, he's all eyes and mouth, and on one hand has only one finger, and he tickles me with it till I almost give up the ghost. The ghost of Miss Baily is a lie, he said, by my soul; and he likes you--he loves you. Shall I write it all in a book, and give it you?

I meet Mark Wylder in three places sometimes. Don't move, till I go down; he's as easily frightened as a fish.'

And Uncle Lorne crept down the bank, tacking, and dodging, and all the time laughing softly to himself; and sometimes winking with a horrid, wily grimace at Stanley, who fervently wished him at the bottom of the tarn.

'I say,' said Stanley, addressing the keeper, whom by a beck he had brought to his side, 'you don't allow him, surely, to go alone now?'

'No, Sir--since your order, Sir,' said the stern, reserved official.

'Nor to come into any place but this--the park, I mean?'

'No, Sir.'

'And do you mind, try and get him home always before nightfall. It is easy to frighten him. Find out what frightens him, and do it or say it.

It is dangerous, don't you see? and he might break his d--d neck any time among those rocks and gullies, or get away altogether from you in the dark.'

So the keeper, at the water's brink, joined Uncle Lorne, who was talking, after his fashion, into the dark pool. And Stanley Lake--a general in difficulties--retraced his steps toward the park gate through which he had come, ruminating on his situation and resources.

CHAPTER LVIII.

MISS RACHEL LAKE BECOMES VIOLENT.

So soon as the letter which had so surprised and incensed Stanley Lake was despatched, and beyond recall, Rachel, who had been indescribably agitated before, grew all at once calm. She knew that she had done right.

She was glad the die was cast, and that it was out of her power to retract.

She kneeled at her bedside, and wept and prayed, and then went down and talked with old Tamar, who was knitting in the shade by the porch.

Then the young lady put on her bonnet and cloak, and walked down to Gylingden, with an anxious, but still a lighter heart, to see her friend, Dolly Wylder.

Dolly received her in a glad sort of fuss.

'I'm so glad to see you, Miss Lake.'

'Call me Rachel; and won't you let me call you Dolly?'

'Well, Rachel, dear,' replied Dolly, laughing, 'I'm delighted you're come; I have such good news--but I can't tell it till I think for a minute--I must begin at the beginning.'

'Anywhere, everywhere, only if it is good news, let me hear it at once.

I'll be sure to understand.'

'Well, Miss--I mean Rachel, dear--you know--I may tell you now--the vicar--my dear Willie--he and I--we've been in great trouble--oh, such trouble--Heaven _only_ knows--' and she dried her eyes quickly--'money, my dear--' and she smiled with a bewildered shrug--'some debts at Cambridge--no fault of his--you can't imagine what a saving darling he is--but these were a few old things that mounted up with interest, my dear--you understand--and law costs--oh, you can't think--and indeed, dear Miss--well, _Rachel_--I forgot--I sometimes thought we must be quite ruined.'

'Oh, Dolly, dear,' said Rachel, very pale, 'I feared it. I thought you might be troubled about money. I was not sure, but I was afraid; and, to say truth, it was partly to try your friendship with a question on that very point that I came here, and not indeed, Dolly, dear, from impertinent curiosity, but in the hope that maybe you might allow me to be of some use.'

'How wonderfully good you are! How friends are raised up!' and with a smile that shone like an April sun through her tears, she stood on tiptoe, and kissed the tall young lady, who--not smiling, but with a pale and very troubled face--bowed down and returned her kiss.

'You know, dear, before he went, Mark promised to lend dear Willie a large sum of money. Well, he went away in such a hurry, that he never thought of it; and though he constantly wrote to Mr. Larkin--you have no idea, my dear Miss Lake, what a blessed angel that man is--oh! _such_ a friend as has been raised up to us in that holy and wise man, words cannot express; but what was I saying?--oh, yes--Mark, you know--it was very kind, but he has so many things on his mind it quite escaped him--and he keeps, you know, wandering about on the Continent, and never gives his address; so he, can't, you see, be written to; and the delay--but, Rachel, darling, are you ill?'

She rang the bell, and opened the window, and got some water.

'My darling, you walked too fast here. You were very near fainting.'

'No, dear--nothing--I am quite well now--go on.'

But she did not go on immediately, for Rachel was trembling in a kind of shivering fit, which did not pa.s.s away till after poor Dolly, who had no other stimulant at command, made her drink a cup of very hot milk.

'Thank you, darling. You are too good to me, Dolly. Oh! Dolly, you are too good to me.'

Rachel's eyes were looking into hers with a careworn, entreating gaze, and her cold hand was pressed on the back of Dolly's.

Nearly ten minutes pa.s.sed before the talk was renewed.

'Well, now, what do you think--that good man, Mr. Larkin, just as things were at the worst, found a way to make everything--oh, blessed mercy!--the hand of Heaven, my dear--quite right again--and we'll be so happy. Like a bird I could sing, and fly almost--a foolish old thing--ha!

ha! ha!--such an old goose!' and she wiped her eyes again.

'Hush! is that Fairy? Oh, no, it is only Anne singing. Little man has not been well yesterday and to-day. He won't eat, and looks pale, but he slept very well, my darling man; and Doctor Buddle--I met him this morning--so kindly took him into his room, and examined him, and says it may be nothing at all, please Heaven,' and she sighed, smiling still.

'Dear little Fairy--where is he?' asked Rachel, her sad eyes looking toward the door.

'In the study with his Wapsie. Mrs. Woolaston, she is such a kind soul, lent him such a beautiful old picture book--"Woodward's Eccentricities"