There is a great deal in nature, physical and moral,
that had as well not be ascertained. It is better
to take things on trust, with something of distance
and indistinctness. What we gain in knowledge
by scrutiny is sometimes paid for in a ghastly sort
of disgust. It is marvellous in a small constituency
of 300 average souls, what a queer moral result one
of these business-like and narrow investigations which
precede an election will furnish. How you find
them rated and classified—what odd notes
you make to them in the margin; and after the trenchant
and rapid vivisection, what sinister scars and seams
remain, and how gaunt and repulsive old acquaintances
stand up from it.
The Town Clerk knew the constituency of Dollington
at his fingers’ ends; and Stanley Lake quietly
enjoyed, as certain minds will, the nefarious and
shabby metamorphosis which every now and then some
familiar and respectable burgess underwent, in the
spell of half-a-dozen dry sentences whispered in his
ear; and all this minute information is trustworthy
and quite without malice.
I went to my bed-room, and secured the door, lest
Uncle Lorne, or Julius, should make me another midnight
visit. So that mystery was cleared up. Neither
ghost nor spectral illusion, but flesh and blood—though
in my mind there has always been a horror of a madman
akin to the ghostly or demoniac.
I do not know how late Tom Wealdon and Stanley Lake
sat up over their lists; but I dare say they were
in no hurry to leave them, for a dissolution was just
then expected, and no time was to be lost.
When I saw Tom Wealdon alone next day in the street
of Gylingden, he walked a little way with me, and,
said Tom, with a grave wink—
’Don’t let the captain up there be hard
on the poor old gentleman. He’s quite harmless—he
would not hurt a fly. I know all about him; for
Jack Ford and I spent five weeks in the Hall, about
twelve years ago, when the family were away and thought
the keeper was not kind to him. He’s quite
gentle, and sometimes he’d make you die o’
laughing. He fancies, you know, he’s a
prophet; and says he’s that old Sir Lorne Brandon
that shot himself in his bed-room. Well, he is
a rum one; and we used to draw him out—poor
Jack and me. I never laughed so much, I don’t
think, in the same time, before or since. But
he’s as innocent as a child—and you
know them directions in the will is very strong; and
they say Jos. Larkin does not like the captain
a bit too well—and he has the will off,
every word of it; and I think, if Captain Lake does
not take care, he may get into trouble; and maybe
it would not be amiss if you gave him a hint.’
Tom Wealdon, indeed, was a good-natured fellow:
and if he had had his way, I think the world would
have gone smoothly enough with most people.
CHAPTER XLIX.
LARCOM, THE BUTLER, VISITS THE ATTORNEY.
Now I may as well mention here an occurrence which,
seeming very insignificant, has yet a bearing upon
the current of this tale, and it is this. About
four days after the receipt of the despatches to which
the conference of Captain Lake and the attorney referred,
there came a letter from the same prolific correspondent,
dated 20th March, from Genoa, which altogether puzzled
Mr. Larkin. It commenced thus:—
Copyrights
Wylder's Hand from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
