352
WYLDER'S HAND.
buried disgraces -which all concerned were equally interest-
ed in hiding away for ever.
From Rachel to Dorcas, from Dorcas to the attorney,
and from him to Dutton, and back again, he rambled in
the infernal litany he muttered over the inauspicious tarn,
among the enclosing banks and undulations, and solitary
and lonely woods.
"Lake Avernus," said a hollow voice behind him, and
a long grisly hand was laid on his shoulder.
A cold breath of horror crept from his brain to his
heels, as he turned about and saw the large, blanched
features and glassy eyes of Uncle Lome bent over him.
u Oh, Lake Avernus is it?" said Lake, with an angry
sneer, and raising his hat with a mock reverence.
"Aye! it is the window of hell, and the spirits in
prison come up to see the light of it. Did you see him
looking up?" said Uncle Lorne, with his pallid smile.
"Oh! of course — Napoleon Bonaparte leaning on old
Dr. Simcock's arm," answered Lake.
It was odd, in the sort of ghastly banter in which
he played off this old man, how much hatred was percep-
tible.
"No — not he. It is Mark Wylder," said Uncle
Lorne; "his face comes up like a white fish within a
fathom of the top — it makes me laugh. That's the way
they keep holiday. Can you tell by the sky when it is
holiday in hell? / can."
And he laughed, and rubbed his long fingers together
softly.
"Look how his nostrils go like a fish's gills. It is a
funny way for a gentleman, and he's a gentleman. Every
fool knows the Wylders are gentlemen — all gentlemen in
misfortune. He has a brother that is walking about in
his coffin. Mark has no coffin; it is all marble steps;