Wylders Hand | Page 6

up now as six years ago
in "Wylder and Brandon;" but surely you have your lawyer, Mr. Larkin,
haven't you?'
'To be sure--that's exactly it--he's Dorcas's agent. I don't know anything
about him, and I do know you--don't you see? A fellow doesn't want to

put himself into the hands of a stranger altogether, especially a lawyer,
ha, ha! it wouldn't pay.'
I did not half like the equivocal office which my friend Mark had
prepared for me. If family squabbles were to arise, I had no fancy to
mix in them; and I did not want a collision with Mr. Larkin either; and,
on the whole, notwithstanding his modesty, I thought Wylder very well
able to take care of himself. There was time enough, however, to settle
the point. So by this time, being splendid in French boots and white
vest, and altogether perfect and refreshed, I emerged from my
dressing-room, Wylder by my side.
We had to get along a dim oak-panelled passage, and into a sort of
_oeil-de-boeuf_, with a lantern light above, from which diverged two
other solemn corridors, and a short puzzling turn or two brought us to
the head of the upper stairs. For I being a bachelor, and treated
accordingly, was airily perched on the third storey.
To my mind, there is something indescribably satisfactory in the
intense solidity of those old stairs and floors--no spring in the planks,
not a creak; you walk as over strata of stone. What clumsy grandeur!
What Cyclopean carpenters! What a prodigality of oak!
It was dark by this time, and the drawing-room, a vast and grand
chamber, with no light but the fire and a pair of dim soft lamps near the
sofas and ottomans, lofty, and glowing with rich tapestry curtains and
pictures, and mirrors, and carved oak, and marble--was already
tenanted by the ladies.
Old Lady Chelford, stiff and rich, a Vandyke dowager, with a general
effect of deep lace, funereal velvet, and pearls; and pale, with dreary
eyes, and thin high nose, sat in a high-backed carved oak throne, with
red cushions. To her I was first presented, and cursorily scrutinised
with a stately old-fashioned insolence, as if I were a candidate footman,
and so dismissed. On a low seat, chatting to her as I came up, was a
very handsome and rather singular-looking girl, fair, with a light
golden-tinted hair; and a countenance, though then grave enough,
instinct with a certain promise of animation and spirit not to be

mistaken. Could this be the heroine of the pending alliance? No; I was
mistaken. A third lady, at what would have been an ordinary room's
length away, half reclining on an ottoman, was now approached by
Wylder, who presented me to Miss Brandon.
'Dorcas, this is my old friend, Charles de Cresseron. You have often
heard me speak of him; and I want you to shake hands and make his
acquaintance, and draw him out--do you see; for he's a shy youth, and
must be encouraged.'
He gave me a cheerful slap on the shoulder as he uttered this agreeable
bit of banter, and altogether disconcerted me confoundedly. Wylder's
dress-coats always smelt of tobacco, and his talk of tar. I was quietly
incensed and disgusted; for in those days I was a little shy.
The lady rose, in a soft floating way; tall, black-haired--but a blackness
with a dull rich shadow through it. I had only a general impression of
large dusky eyes and very exquisite features--more delicate than the
Grecian models, and with a wonderful transparency, like tinted marble;
and a superb haughtiness, quite unaffected. She held forth her hand,
which I did little more than touch. There was a peculiarity in her
greeting, which I felt a little overawing, without exactly discovering in
what it consisted; and it was I think that she did not smile. She never
took that trouble for form's sake, like other women.
So, as Wylder had set a chair for me I could not avoid sitting upon it,
though I should much have preferred standing, after the manner of men,
and retaining my liberty.
CHAPTER III.
OUR DINNER PARTY AT BRANDON.
I was curious. I had heard a great deal of her beauty; and it had
exceeded all I heard; so I talked my sublimest and brightest chit-chat,
in my most musical tones, and was rather engaging and amusing, I
ventured to hope. But the best man cannot manage a dialogue alone.
Miss Brandon was plainly not a person to make any sort of exertion

towards what is termed keeping up a conversation; at all events she did
not, and after a while the present one got into a decidedly sinking
condition. An acquiescence, a faint expression of surprise, a fainter
smile--she contributed little more, after the first few