'The _Wanderers_. He has left the _United Service_. Nothing for me, by-the-way?'

'No letter. No.'

'_Tant mieux_, I hate them,' said the captain. 'I wonder how my sister is this morning.'

'Would you like a messenger? I'll send down with pleasure to enquire.'

'Thank you, no; I'll walk down and see her.'

And Lake yawned at the window, and then took his hat and stick and sauntered toward Gylingden. At the post-office window he tapped with the silver tip of his cane, and told Miss Driver with a sleepy smile--

'I'm going down to Redman's Farm, and any letters for my sister, Miss Lake, I may as well take with me.'

Everybody 'in business' in the town of Gylingden, by this time, knew Captain Lake and his belongings--a most respectable party--a high man; and, of course, there was no difficulty. There was only one letter--the address was written--'Miss Lake, Redman's Farm, near Brandon Park, Gylingden,' in a stiff hand, rather slanting backwards.

Captain Lake put it in his paletot pocket, looked in her face gently, and smiled, and thanked her in his graceful way--and, in fact, left an enduring impression upon that impressible nature.

Turning up the dark road at Redman's Dell, the gallant captain pa.s.sed the old mill, and, all being quiet up and down the road, he halted under the lordly shadow of a clump of chestnuts, and opened and read the letter he had just taken charge of. It contained only these words:--

'Wednesday.

'On Friday night, next, at half-past twelve.'

This he read twice or thrice, pausing between whiles. The envelope bore the London postmark. Then he took out his cigar case, selected a promising weed, and wrapping the laconic note prettily round one of his scented matches, lighted it, and the note flamed pale in the daylight, and dropped still blazing, at the root of the old tree he stood by, and sent up a little curl of blue smoke--an incense to the demon of the wood--and turned in a minute more into a black film, overrun by a hundred creeping sparkles; and having completed his mysterious incremation, he, with his yellow eyes, made a stolen glance around, and lighting his cigar, glided gracefully up the steep road, under the solemn canopy of old timber, to the sound of the moaning stream below, and the rustle of withered leaves about him, toward Redman's Farm.

As he entered the flower-garden, the jaundiced face of old Tamar, with its thousand small wrinkles and its ominous gleam of suspicion, was looking out from the darkened porch. The white cap, kerchief, and drapery, courtesied to him as he drew near, and the dismal face changed not.

'Well, Tamar, how do you do?--how are all? Where is that girl Margery?'

'In the kitchen, Master Stanley,' said she, courtesying again.

'Are you sure?' said Captain Lake, peeping toward that apartment over the old woman's shoulder.

'Certain sure, Master Stanley.'

'Well, come up stairs to your mistress's room,' said Lake, mounting the stairs, with his hat in his hand, and on tip-toe, like a man approaching a sick chamber.

There was something I think grim and spectral in this ceremonious ascent to the empty chamber. Children had once occupied that silent floor for there was a little bal.u.s.traded gate across the top of the staircase.

'I keep this closed,' said old Tamar, 'and forbid her to cross it, lest she should disturb the mistress. Heaven forgive me!'

'Very good,' he whispered, and he peeped over the banister, and then entered Rachel's silent room, darkened with closed shutters, the white curtains and white coverlet so like 'the dark chamber of white death.'

He had intended speaking to Tamar there, but changed his mind, or rather could not make up his mind; and he loitered silently, and stood with the curtain in his gloved hand, looking upon the cold coverlet, as if Rachel lay dead there.

'That will do,' he said, awaking from his wandering thought. 'We'll go down now, Tamar.'

And in the same stealthy way, walking lightly and slowly, down the stairs they went, and Stanley entered the kitchen.

'How do you do, Margery? You'll be glad to hear your mistress is better.

You must run down to the town, though, and buy some jelly, and you are to bring her back change of this.'

And he placed half-a-crown in her hand.

'Put on your bonnet and my old shawl, child; and take the basket, and come back by the side door,' croaked old Tamar.

So the girl dried her hands--she was washing the teacups--and in a twinkling was equipped and on her way to Gylingden.

CHAPTER XXII.

IN WHICH CAPTAIN LAKE MEETS A FRIEND NEAR THE WHITE HOUSE.

Lake had no very high opinion of men or women, gentle or simple.

'She listens, I dare say, the little spy,' said he.

'No, Master Stanley! She's a good little girl.'

'She quite believes her mistress is up stairs, eh?'

'Yes; the Lord forgive me--I'm deceiving her.'

He did not like the tone and look which accompanied this.

'Now, my good old Tamar, you really can't be such an idiot as to fancy there can be any imaginable wrong in keeping that prying little s.l.u.t in ignorance of that which in no wise concerns her. This is a critical matter, do you see, and if it were known in this place that your young mistress had gone away as she has done--though quite innocently--upon my honour--I think it would blast her. You would not like, for a stupid crotchet, to ruin poor Radie, I fancy.'

'I'm doing just what you both bid me,' said the old woman.

'You sit up stairs chiefly?'

She nodded sadly.

'And keep the hall door shut and bolted?'

Again she nodded.

'I'm going up to the Hall, and I'll tell them she's much better, and that I've been in her room, and that, perhaps, she may go up to see them in the morning.'

Old Tamar shook her head and groaned.

'How long is all this to go on for, Master Stanley?'