It was by the drowsy faded light of a late summer's evening that he arrived at the quaint little parsonage. He maintained his character as 'a nice spoken gentleman,' by enquiring of the maid who opened the door how the little boy was. 'Not so well—gone to bed—but would be better, everyone was sure, in the morning.' So he went in and saw the vicar, who had just returned with Dolly from a little ramble. Everything promised fairly—the quiet mind was returning—the good time coming—all the pleasanter for the storms and snows of the night that was over.
'Well, my good invaluable friend, you will be glad—you will rejoice with us, I know, to learn that, after all, the sale of our reversion is unnecessary.'
The attorney allowed his client to shake him by both hands, and he smiled a sinister congratulation as well as he could, grinning in reply to the vicar's pleasant smile as cheerfully as was feasible, and wofully puzzled in the meantime. Had James Dutton arrived and announced the death of Mark—no; it could hardly be that—decency had not yet quite taken leave of the earth; and stupid as the vicar was, he would hardly announce the death of his brother to a Christian gentleman in a fashion so outrageous. Had Lord Chelford been invoked, and answered satisfactorily? Or Dorcas—or had Lake, the diabolical sneak, interposed with his long purse, and a plausible hypocrisy of kindness, to spoil Larkin's plans? All these fanciful queries flitted through his brain as the vicar's hands shook both his, and he laboured hard to maintain the cheerful grin with which he received the news, and his guileful rapacious little eyes searched narrowly the countenance of his client.
So after a while, Dolly assisting, and sometimes both talking together, the story was told, Rachel blessed and panegyrised, and the attorney's congratulations challenged and yielded once more. But there was something not altogether joyous in Jos. Larkin's countenance, which struck the vicar, and he said—
'You don't see any objection?' and paused.
'Objection? Why, objection, my dear Sir, is a strong word; but I fear I do see a difficulty—in fact, several difficulties. Perhaps you would take a little turn on the green—I must call for a moment at the reading-room—and I'll explain. You'll forgive me, I hope, Mrs. Wylder,' he added, with a playful condescension, 'for running away with your husband, but only for a few minutes—ha, ha!'
The shadow was upon Jos. Larkin's face, and he was plainly meditating a little uncomfortably, as they approached the quiet green of Gylingden.
'What a charming evening,' said the vicar, making an effort at cheerfulness.
'Delicious evening—yes,' said the attorney, throwing back his long head, and letting his mouth drop. But though his face was turned up towards the sky, there was a contraction and a darkness upon it, not altogether heavenly.
'The offer,' said the attorney, beginning rather abruptly, 'is no doubt a handsome offer at the first glance, and it may be well meant. But the fact is, my dear Mr. Wylder, six hundred pounds would leave little more than a hundred remaining after Burlington and Smith have had their costs. You have no idea of the expense and trouble of title, and the inevitable costliness, my dear Sir, of all conveyancing operations. The deeds, I have little doubt, in consequence of the letter you directed me to write, have been prepared—that is, in draft, of course—and then, my dear Sir, I need not remind you, that there remain the costs to me—those, of course, await your entire convenience—but still it would not be either for your or my advantage that they should be forgotten in the general adjustment of your affairs, which I understand you to propose.'