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:--
'Genoa: 20th march.
'DEAR LARKIN,--I hope you did the three commissions all right. Wealdon
won't refuse, I reckon--but don't let Lake guess what the 150_l._ is for.
Pay Martin for the job when finished; it is under 60_l._. mind; and get
it looked at first.'
There was a great deal more, but these were the passages which perplexed
Larkin. He unlocked the iron safe, and took out the sheaf of Wylder's
letters, and conned the last one over very carefully.
'Why,' said he, holding the text before his eyes in one hand and with the
fingers of the other touching the top of his bald forehead, 'Tom Wealdon
is not once mentioned in this, nor in any of them; and this palpably
refers to some direction. And 150_l._?--no such sum has been mentioned.
And what is this job of Martin's? Is it Martin of the China Kilns, or
Martin of the bank? That, too, plainly refers to a former letter--not a
word of the sort. This is very odd indeed.'
Larkin's finger-tips descended over his eyebrow, and scratched in a
miniature way there for a few seconds, and then his large long hand
descended further to his chin, and his under-lip was, as usual in deep
thought, fondled and pinched between his finger and thumb.
'There has plainly been a letter lost, manifestly. I never knew anything
wrong in this Gylingden office. Driver has been always correct; but it is
hard to know any man for certain in this world. I don't think the captain
would venture anything so awfully hazardous. I really can't suspect so
monstrous a thing; but, _unquestionably_, a letter _has_ been lost--and
who's to _take_ it?'
Larkin made a fuller endorsement than usual on this particular letter,
and ruminated over the correspondence a good while, with his lip between
his finger and thumb, and a shadow on his face, before he replaced it in
its iron drawer.
'It is not a thing to be passed over,' murmured the attorney, who had
come to a decision as to the first step to be taken, and he thought with
a qualm of the effect of one of Wylder's confidential notes getting into
Captain Lake's hands.
While he was buttoning his walking boots, with his foot on the chair
before the fire, a tap at his study door surprised him. A hurried glance
on the table satisfying him that no secret paper or despatch lay there,
he called--
'Come in.'
And Mr. Larcom, the grave butler of Brandon, wearing outside his portly
person a black garment then known as a 'zephyr,' a white choker, and
black trousers, and well polished, but rather splay shoes, and, on the
whole, his fat and serious aspect considered, being capable of being
mistaken for a church dignitary, or at least for an eminent undertaker,
entered the room with a solemn and gentlemanlike reverence.
'Oh, Mr. Larcom! a message, or business?' said Mr. Larkin, urbanely.
'Not a message, Sir; only an enquiry about them few shares,' answered Mr.
Larcom, with another serene reverence, and remaining standing, hat in
hand, at the door.
'Oh, yes; and how do you do, Mr. Larcom? Quite well, I trust. Yes--about
the Naunton Junction. Well, I'm happy to tell you--but pray take a
chair--that I have succeeded, and the directors have allotted you five
shares; and it's your own fault if you don't make two ten-and-six a
share. The Chowsleys are up to six and a-half, I see here,' and he
pointed to the 'Times.' Mr. Larcom's fat face smiled, in spite of his
endeavour to keep it under. It was part of his business to look always
grave, and he coughed, and recovered his gravity.
'I'm very thankful, Sir,' said Mr. Larcom, 'very.'
'But do sit down, Mr. Larcom--pray do,' said the attorney, who was very
gracious to Larcom. 'You'll get the scrip, you know, on executing, but
the shares are allotted. They sent the notice for you here. And--and how
are the family at Brandon--all well, I trust?'
Mr. Larcom blew his nose.
'All, Sir, well.'
'And--and let me give you a glass of sherry, Mr. Larcom, after your walk.
I can't compete with the _Brandon_ sherry, Mr. Larcom. Wonderful fine
wine that!--but still I'm told this is not a _bad_ wine notwithstanding.'
Larcom received it with grave gratitude, and sipped it, and spoke
respectfully of it.
'And--and any news in that quarter of Mr. Mark Wylder--any--any
_surmise_? I--you know--I'm interested for all parties.'
'Well, Sir, of Mr. Wylder, I can't say as I know no more than he's been a
subjek of much unpleasant feelin', which I should say there has been a
great deal of angry talk since I last saw you, Sir, between Miss Lake and
the capting.'
'Ah, yes, you mentioned something of the kind; and your own impression,
that Captain Lake, which I trust may turn out to be so, knows where Mr.
Mark Wylder is at present staying.'
'I much misdoubt, Sir, it won't turn out to be no good story for no one,'
said Mr. Larcom, in a low and sad tone, and with a long shake of his
head.
'No good story--hey? How do you mean, Larcom?'
'Well, Sir, I know you won't mention me, Mr. Larkin.'
'Certainly not--go on.'
'When people gets hot a-talking they won't mind a body comin' in; and
that's how the capting and Miss Rachel Lake they carried on their dispute
like, though me coming into the room.'
'Just so; and what do you found your opinion about Mr. Mark Wylder on?'
'Well, Sir, I could not hear more than a word now and a sentince again;
and pickin' what meaning I could out of what Miss Lake said, and the
capting could not deny, I do suspeck, Sir, most serious, as how they have
put Mr. Mark Wylder into a mad-house; and that's how I think it's gone
with him; an' you'll never see him out again if the capting has his
will.'
'Do you mean to say you actually think he's shut up in a madhouse at this
moment?' demanded the attorney; his little pink eyes opened quite round,
and his lank cheeks and tall forehead flushed, at the rush of wild ideas
that whirred round him, like a covey of birds at the startling
suggestion.
The butler nodded gloomily. Larkin continued to stare on him in silence,
with his round eyes, for some seconds after.
'In a _mad_-house! Pooh, pooh! incredible! Pooh! impossible--_quite_
impossible. Did either Miss Lake or the captain use the word mad-house?'
'Well, no.'
Or any other word--lunatic asylum, or a--bedlam, or--or _any_ other word
meaning the same thing?'
'Well, I can't say, Sir, as I remember; but I rayther think not. I only
know for certain, I took it so; and I do believe as how Mr. Mark Wylder
is confined in a mad-house, and the captain knows all about it, and won't
do nothing to get him out.'
'H'm--very odd--very strange; but it is only from the general tenor of
what passed, by a sort of guess work, you have arrived at that
conclusion?'
Larcom assented.
'Well, Mr. Larcom, I think you have been led into an erroneous
conclusion. Indeed, I may mention I have reason to think so--in fact, to
_know_ that such is the case. What you mention to me, you know, as a
friend of the family, and holding, as I do, a confidential position--in
fact, a _very_ confidential one--alike in relation to Mr. Wylder and to
the family of Brandon Hall, is of course sacred; and anything that comes
from you, Mr. Larcom, is never heard in connection with your name beyond
these walls. And let me add, it strikes me as highly important, both in
the interests of the leading individuals in this unpleasant business, and
also as pertaining to your own comfort and security, that you should
carefully avoid communicating what you have just mentioned to any other
party. You understand?'
Larcom did understand perfectly, and so this little visit ended.
Mr. Larkin took a turn or two up and down the room thinking. He stopped,
with his fingertips to his eyebrow, and thought more. Then he took
another turn, and stopped again, and threw back his head, and gazed for a
while on the ceiling, and then he stood for a time at the window, with
his lip between his finger and thumb.
No, it was a mistake; it could not be. It was Mark Wylder's
penmanship--he could swear to it. There was no trace of madness in his
letters, nor of restraint. It was not possible even that he was wandering
from place to place under the coercion of a couple of keepers. No; Wylder
was an energetic and somewhat violent person, with high animal courage,
and would be sure to blow up and break through any such machination. No,
no; with Mark Wylder it was quite out of the question--altogether
visionary and impracticable. Persons like Larcom do make such absurd
blunders, and so misapprehend the conversation of educated people.
Nothwithstanding all which, there remained in his mind an image of Mark
Wylder, in the straw and darkness of a solitary continental
mad-house--squalid, neglected, and becoming gradually that which he was
said to be. And he always shaped him somehow after the outlines of a
grizzly print he remembered in his boyish days, of a maniac chained in a
Sicilian cell, grovelling under the lash of a half-seen gaoler, and with
his teeth buried in his own arm.
Quite impossible! Mark Wylder was the last man in the world to submit to
physical coercion. The idea, besides, could not be reconciled with the
facts of the case. It was all a blundering chimera.
Mr. Larkin walked down direct to Gylingden, and paid a rather awful visit
to Mr. Driver, of the post-office. A foreign letter, addressed to him,
had most positively been lost. He had called to mention the circumstance,
lest Mr. Driver should be taken by surprise by official investigation.
Was it possible that the letter had been sent by mistake to Brandon--to
Captain Lake? Lake and Larkin, you know, might be mistaken. At all
events, it would be well to make your clerks recollect themselves. (Mr.
Larkin knew that Driver's 'clerks' were his daughters.) It is not easy to
meet with a young fellow that is quite honest. But if they knew that they
would be subjected to a sifting examination on oath, on the arrival of
the commissioner, they might possibly prefer finding the letter, in which
case there would be no more about it. Mr. Driver knew him (Mr. Larkin),
and he might tell his young men if they got the letter for him they
should hear no more of it.
The people of Gylingden knew very well that, when the rat-like glitter
twinkled in Mr. Larkin's eyes, and the shadow came over his long face,
there was mischief brewing.