330
WYLDER'S HAJVD.
The Vicar on his way to the chapel passed Mr. Jos
Larkin on the green — not near enough to speak — only
to smile and wave his hand kindly, and look after the good
attorney with one of those yearning, grateful looks, which
cling to straws upon the drowning stream of life.
The sweet chapel bell was just ceasing to toll as Mr.
Jos Larkin stalked under the antique ribbed arches of the
little isle. Slim and tall, he glided, a chastened dignity
in his long upturned countenance, and a faint halo of
saint-hood round his tall bald head. Having whispered
his orisons into his well brushed hat, and taken his seat,
his dove-like eyes rested for a moment upon the Brandon
seat.
There was but one figure .in it — slender, light-haired,
with his yellow moustache and pale face, grown of late a
little fatter. Captain Brandon Lake was a very punctual
church-goer since the idea of trying the county at the next
election had entered his mind. Dorcas was not very well.
Lord Chelford had taken his departure. There was no guest
just then at Brandon, and the Captain sat alone on that
devotional dais, the elevated floor of the great oaken Bran-
don seat.
When the service was over Stanley Lake walked up the
little isle toward the communion table, thinking, and took
hold of the railing that surrounded the brass monument
of Sir William de Braundon, and seemed to gaze intently
on the eflBgy, but was really thinking profoundly of other
matters, and once or twice his sly sidelong glance stole
ominously to Jos Larkin, who was talking at the church
door with the good Vicar.
In fact, he was then and there fully apprising him of
his awful situation; and poor William Wylder looking
straight at him, with white face and damp forehead, was
listening, stunned, and hardly understanding a word he