124
WYLDER'S HAND.
There was only one letter — the address was written —
"Miss Lake, Redman's Farm, near Brandon Park, Gyling-
den," in a stiff hand, rather slanting backwards.
Captain Lake put it in his paletot pocket, looked in her
face gently, and smiled, and thanked her in his graceful
way — and, in fact, left an enduring impression upon that
impressible nature.
Turning up the dark road at Redman's Dell, the gallant
Captain passed the old mill, and, all being quiet up and
down the road, he halted under the lordly shadow of a
clump of chestnuts, and opened and read the letter he had
just taken charge of. It contained only these words:—
"Wednesday
"On Friday night, next, at half-past twelve."
This he read twice or thrice, pausing between whiles.
The envelope bore the London postmark. Then he took
out his cigar case, selected a promising weed, and wrapping
the laconic note prettily, round one of his scented matches,
lighted it, and the note flamed pale in the daylight, and
dropped, still blazing, at the root of the old tree he. stood
by. Having completed his mysterious incremation, he,
with his yellow eyes, made a stolen glance around, and
lighting his cigar, glided gracefully up the steep road, un-
der the solemn canopy of old timber, toward Redman's
Farm.
As he entered the flower-garden, the jaundiced face of
old Tamar, with its thousand small wrinkles and its omi-
nous gleam of suspicion, was looking out from the darken-
ed porch. The white cap, kerchief, and drapery, courte-
sied to him as he drew near, and the dismal face changed
not.
"Well, Tamar, how do you do ? — how are all? Where
is that girl, Margery?"