MR. LARKIN AND THE VICAR.
The good vicar was not only dismayed but endangered by his brother's
protracted absence. It was now the first week in November. Bleak and
wintry that ungenial month set in at Gylingden; and in accord with the
tempestuous and dismal weather the fortunes of the Rev. William Wylder
were darkened and agitated.
This morning a letter came at breakfast, by post, and when he had read
it, the poor vicar grew a little white, and he folded it very quietly and
put it in his waistcoat pocket, and patted little Fairy on the head. Little Fairy was asking him a question all this time, very vehemently, 'How long was Jack's sword that he killed the giants with?' and several times to this distinct question he received only the unsatisfactory reply, 'Yes, my darling;' and at last, when little Fairy mounted his knee, and hugging the abstracted vicar round the neck, urged his question with kisses and lamentations, the parson answered with a look of great perplexity, and only half recalled, said, 'Indeed, little man, I don't know. How long, you say, was Jack's sword? Well, I dare say it was as long as the umbrella.' He got up, with the same perplexed and absent look, as he said this, and threw an anxious glance about the room, as if looking for something he had mislaid.
'You are not going to write now, Willie, dear?' expostulated his good
little wife, 'you have not tasted your tea yet.'
'I have, indeed, dear; haven't I? Well, I will.'
And, standing, he drank nearly half the cup she had poured out for him, and set it down, and felt in his pocket, she thought, for his keys.
'Are you looking for anything, Willie, darling? Your keys are in my
basket.'
'No, darling; no, darling—nothing. I have everything I want. I think I
must go to the Lodge and see Mr. Larkin, for a moment.'
'But you have eaten nothing,' remonstrated his partner; 'you must not go
until you have eaten something.'
'Time enough, darling; I can't wait—I sha'n't be away twenty
minutes—time enough when I come back.'
'Have you heard anything of Mark, darling?' she enquired eagerly.
'Of Mark? Oh, no!—nothing of Mark.' And he added with a deep sigh, 'Oh, dear! I wonder he does not write—no, nothing of Mark.'
She followed him into the hall.
'Now, Willie darling, you must not go till you have had your
breakfast—you will make yourself ill—indeed you will—do come back, just to please me, and eat a little first.'
'No, darling; no, my love—I can't, indeed. I'll be back immediately; but
I must catch Mr. Larkin before he goes out. It is only a little matter—I
want to ask his opinion—and—oh! here is my stick—and I'll return
immediately.'
'And I'll go with you,' cried little Fairy.
'No, no, little man; I can't take you—no, it is business—stay with
mamma, and I'll be back again in a few minutes.'
So, spite of Fairy's clamours and the remonstrances of his fond, clinging
little wife, with a hurried kiss or two, away he went alone, at a very
quick pace, through the high street of Gylingden, and was soon in the
audience chamber of the serious, gentleman attorney.
The attorney rose with a gaunt and sad smile of welcome—begged Mr. Wylder, with a wave of his long hand, to be seated—and then seating himself and crossing one long thigh over the other, he threw his arm over the back of his chair, and leaning back with what he conceived to be a graceful and gentlemanly negligence—with his visitor full in the light of the window and his own countenance in shadow, the light coming from behind—a diplomatic arrangement which he affected—he fixed his small, pink eyes observantly upon him, and asked if he could do anything for Mr. William Wylder.
'Have you heard anything since, Mr. Larkin? Can you conjecture where his
address may now be?' asked the vicar, a little abruptly.
'Oh! Mr. Mark Wylder, perhaps, you refer to?'
'Yes; my brother, Mark.'
Mr. Larkin smiled a sad and simple smile, and shook his head.