THE MEETING IN THE LONG POND ALLEY.
I suppose there were few waking heads at this hour in all the wide parish
of Gylingden, though many a usually idle one was now busy enough about
the great political struggle which was to muster its native forces, both
in borough and county, and agitate these rural regions with the roar and
commotion of civil strife.
But generals must sleep like other men; and even Tom Wealdon was snoring
in the fairy land of dreams.
The night was very still—a sharp night, with a thin moon, like a
scimitar, hanging bright in the sky, and a myriad of intense stars
blinking in the heavens, above the steep roofs and spiral chimneys of
Brandon Hall, and the ancient trees that surrounded it.
It was late in the night, as we know. The family, according to their
custom, had sought their slumbers early; and the great old house was
perfectly still.
One pair, at least, of eyes, however, were wide open; one head busy; and
one person still in his daily costume. This was Mr. Larcom—the grave
major domo, the bland and attached butler. He was not busy about his
plate, nor balancing the cellar book, nor even perusing his Bible.
He was seated in that small room or closet which he had, years ago, appropriated as his private apartment. It is opposite the housekeeper's room—a sequestered, philosophic retreat. He dressed in it, read his newspaper there, and there saw his select acquaintance. His wardrobe stood there. The iron safe in which he kept his keys, filled one of its nooks. He had his two or three shelves of books in the recess; not that he disturbed them much, but they were a grave and gentlemanlike property, and he liked them for their binding, and the impression they produced on his visitors. There was a meditative fragrance of cigars about him, and two or three Havannah stumps under the grate.
The fact is, he was engaged over a letter, the writing of which, considering how accomplished a gentleman he was, he had found rather laborious and tedious. The penmanship was, I am afraid, clumsy, and the spelling here and there, irregular. It was finished however, and he was now reading it over with care.
It was thus expressed:—
'RESPECTET SIR,—In accordens with your disier, i av took my pen to say a
fue words. There has cum a leter for a sertun persen this morning, with a
Lundun posmark, and i do not now hand nor sele, but bad writting, which i
have not seen wot contanes, but I may, for as you told me offen, you are
anceus for welfare of our famly, as i now to be no more than trewth, so I
am anceus to ascest you Sir, wich my conseynce is satesfid, but leter as
trubeled a sertun persen oufull, hoo i new was engry, and look oufull put
about, wich do not offen apen, and you may sewer there is sumthing in
wind, he is alday so oufull peefish, you will not thing worse of me
speeken plane as yo disier, there beeing a deel to regret for frends of
the old famly i feer in a sertun resent marrege, if I shud lern be chance
contense of letter i will sewer rite you.—i Remane your humbel servant,
'JOHN LARCOM.'
Just as grave Mr. Larcom had ended the perusal of this bulletin, he heard
a light step on the stair, at the end of the passage, which made his
manly heart jump unpleasantly within his fat ribs. He thrust the unfolded
letter roughly into the very depths of his breeches pocket, and blew out
both candles; and then listened, as still as a mouse.
What frightened him was the certainty that the step, which he well knew, was Stanley Lake's. And Stanley being a wideawake and violent person, and his measures sharp and reckless, Mr. Larcom cherished a nervous respect for him.
He listened; the captain's step came lightly to the foot of the stairs, and paused. Mr. Larcom prepared to be fast asleep in the chair, in the event of the captain's making a sudden advance, and entering his sanctum. But this movement was not executed.
There was a small door at the foot of the stairs. It shut with a spring
lock, of which Captain Lake had a latch-key. Mr. Larcom accidentally had
another—a cylindrical bit of steel, with a hinge in the end of it, and a
few queer wards.
Now, of this little door he heard the two iron bolts stealthily drawn, and then the handle of the spring lock turned, and the door cautiously opened, and as gently closed.