Wylders Hand | Page 4

he did business for your uncle once. He
seems a clever fellow--a bit too clever, perhaps--and was too much
master here, I suspect, in poor Dickie's reign. Tell me all you can make
out about him. It is a long time since I saw you, Charles; I'm grown
brown, and great whiskers. I met poor Dominick--what an ass that chap
is--but he did not know me till I introduced myself, so I must be a good
deal changed. Our ship was at Malta when I got the letter. I was sick of
the service, and no wonder: a lieutenant--and there likely to stick all my
days. Six months, last year, on the African coast, watching
slavers--think of that! I had a long yarn from the viscount--advice, and
that sort of thing. I do not think he is a year older than I, but takes airs
because he's a trustee. But I only laugh at trifles that would have riled
me once. So I wrote him a yarn in return, and drew it uncommon mild.

And he has been useful to me; and I think matters are pretty well
arranged to disappoint the kind intention of good Uncle Wylder--the
brute; he hated my father, but that was no reason to persecute me, and I
but an infant, almost, when he died, d-- him. Well, you know he left
Brandon with some charges to my Cousin Dorcas. She is a superbly
fine girl. Our ship was at Naples when she was there two years ago; and
I saw a good deal of her. Of course it was not to be thought of then; but
matters are quite different, you know, now, and the viscount, who is a
very sensible fellow in the main, saw it at once. You see, the old brute
meant to leave her a life estate; but it does not amount to that, though it
won't benefit me, for he settled that when I die it shall go to his right
heirs--that will be to my son, if I ever have one. So Miss Dorcas must
pack, and turn out whenever I die, that is, if I slip my cable first. Larkin
told me this--and I took an opinion--and found it is so; and the viscount
seeing it, agreed the best thing for her as well as me would be, we
should marry. She is a wide-awake young lady, and nothing the worse
for that: I'm a bit that way myself. And so very little courtship has
sufficed. She is a splendid beauty, and when you see her you'll say any
fellow might be proud of such a bride; and so I am. And now, dear
Charlie, you have it all. It will take place somewhere about the
twenty-fourth of next month; and you must come down by the first, if
you can. Don't disappoint. I want you for best man, maybe; and besides,
I would like to talk to you about some things they want me to do in the
settlements, and you were always a long-headed fellow: so pray don't
refuse.
'Dear Charlie, ever most sincerely,
'Your old Friend,
'MARK WYLDER.
'P.S.--I stay at the Brandon Arms in the town, until after the marriage;
and then you can have a room at the Hall, and capital shooting when we
return, which will be in a fortnight after.'
I can't say that Wylder was an old friend. But he was certainly one of
the oldest and most intimate acquaintances I had. We had been for

nearly three years at school together; and when his ship came to
England, met frequently; and twice, when he was on leave, we had
been for months together under the same roof; and had for some years
kept up a regular correspondence, which first grew desultory, and
finally, as manhood supervened, died out. The plain truth is, I did not
very much like him.
Then there was that beautiful apathetic Dorcas Brandon. Where is the
laggard so dull as to experience no pleasing flutter at his heart in
anticipation of meeting a perfect beauty in a country house. I was
romantic, like every other youngish fellow who is not a premature
curmudgeon; and there was something indefinitely pleasant in the
consciousness that, although a betrothed bride, the young lady still was
fancy free: not a bit in love. It was but a marriage of convenience, with
mitigations. And so there hovered in my curiosity some little flicker of
egotistic romance, which helped to rouse my spirits, and spur me on to
action.
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH I ENTER THE DRAWING-ROOM.
I was now approaching Brandon Hall; less than ten minutes more
would set me down at its door-steps. The stiff figure of Mrs. Marston,
the old housekeeper, pale and austere, in rustling black silk (she