BRANDON CHAPEL ON SUNDAY.
For a month and three days Mr. Jos. Larkin was
left to ruminate without any new light upon the dusky
landscape now constantly before his eyes. At
the end of that time a foreign letter came for him
to the Lodge. It was not addressed in Mark Wylder’s
hand—not the least like it. Mark’s
was a bold, free hand, and if there was nothing particularly
elegant, neither was there anything that could be
called vulgar in it. But this was a decidedly
villainous scrawl—in fact it was written
as a self-educated butcher might pen a bill.
There was nothing impressed on the wafer, but a poke
of something like the ferrule of a stick.
The interior corresponded with the address, and the
lines slanted confoundedly. It was, however,
on the whole, better spelled and expressed than the
penmanship would have led one to expect. It said—
’MISTER LARKINS,—Respeckted Sir,
I write you, Sir, to let you know has how there is
no more Chance you shud ear of poor Mr. Mark Wylder—of
hose orrible Death I make bold to acquainte you by
this writing—which is Secret has yet from
all—he bing Hid, and made away with in the
dark. It is only Right is family shud know all,
and his sad ending—wich I will tell before
you, Sir, in full, accorden to my Best guess, as bin
the family Lawyer (and, Sir, you will find it usful
to Tell this in secret to Capten Lake, of Brandon
Hall—But not on No account to any other).
It is orrible, Sir, to think a young gentleman, with
everything the world can give, shud be made away with
so crewel in the dark. Though you do not rekelect
me, Sir, I know you well, Mr. Larkins, haven seen you
hoffen when a boy. I wud not wish, Sir, no noise
made till I cum—which I am returning hoame,
and will then travel to Gylingden strateways to see
you.
Sir, your obedient servant,
‘JAMES DUTTON.’
This epistle disturbed Mr. Jos. Larkin profoundly.
He could recollect no such name as James Dutton.
He did not know whether to believe this letter or
not. He could not decide what present use to make
of it, nor whether to mention it to Captain Lake,
nor, if he did so, how it was best to open the matter.
Captain Lake, he was confident, knew James Dutton—why,
otherwise, should that person have desired his intelligence
communicated to him. At least it proved that
Dutton assumed the captain to be specially interested
in what concerned Mark Wylder’s fate; and in
so far it confirmed his suspicions of Lake. Was
it better to wait until he had seen Dutton, and heard
his story, before hinting at his intelligence and his
name—or was it wiser to do that at once,
and watch its effect upon the gallant captain narrowly,
and trust to inspiration and the moment for striking
out the right course.
If this letter was true there was not a moment to
be lost in bringing the purchase of the vicar’s
reversion to a point. The possibilities were
positively dazzling. They were worth risking something.
I am not sure that Mr. Larkin’s hand did not
shake a little as he took the statement of title again
out of the Wylder tin box No. 2.
