‘What ails her—is she ill, Master
Stanley?’ asked the old woman, returning with
her white eyes the young man’s strange yellow
glare.
‘I—I don’t know—maybe—give
her some water,’ said Lake.
‘Glass of water—quick, child,’
cried old Tamar to Margery.
‘Put it on the table,’ said Rachel, collected
now, but pale and somewhat stern.
‘And now, Stanley, dear,’ said she, for
just then she was past caring for the presence of
the servants, ’I hope we understand one another—at
least, that you do me. If not, it is not for want
of distinctness on my part; and I think you had better
leave me for the present, for, to say truth, I do
not feel very well.’
’Good-night, Radie—good-night, old
Tamar. I hope, Radie, you’ll be better—every
way—when next I see you. Good-night.’
He spoke in his usual clear low tones, and his queer
ambiguous smile was there still; and, hat in hand,
with his cane in his fingers, he made another glance
and a nod over his shoulder, at the threshold, and
then glided forth into the little garden, and so to
the mill-road, down which, at a swift pace, he walked
towards the village.
CAPTAIN LAKE FOLLOWS TO LONDON.
Wylder’s levanting in this way was singularly
disconcerting. The time was growing short.
He wrote with a stupid good-humour, and an insolent
brevity which took no account of Miss Brandon’s
position, or that (though secondary in awkwardness)
of her noble relatives. Lord Chelford plainly
thought more than he cared to say; and his mother,
who never minced matters, said perhaps more than she
quite thought.
Chelford was to give the beautiful heiress away.
But the receiver of this rich and peerless gift—like
some mysterious knight who, having carried all before
him in the tourney, vanishes no one knows whither,
when the prize is about to be bestowed, and whom the
summons of the herald and the call of the trumpet
follow in vain—had escaped them.
’Lake has gone up to town this morning—some
business with his banker about his commission—and
he says he will make Wylder out on his arrival, and
write to me,’ said Lord Chelford.
Old Lady Chelford glanced across her shoulder at Dorcas,
who leaned back in a great chair by the window, listlessly
turning over a book.
’She’s a strange girl, she does not seem
to feel her situation—a most painful and
critical one. That low, coarse creature must be
looked up somehow.’
’Lake knows where he is likely to be found,
and will see him, I dare say, this evening—perhaps
in time to write by to-night’s post.’
So, in a quiet key, Miss Dorcas being at a distance,
though in the same room, the dowager and her son discussed
this unpleasant and very nervous topic.
That evening Captain Lake was in London, comfortably
quartered in a private hotel, in one of the streets
off Piccadilly. He went to his club and dined
better than he had done for many days. He really
enjoyed his three little courses—his pint
of claret, his cup of cafe noir, and his chasse;
the great Babylon was his Jerusalem, and his spirit
found rest there.
