LXII.--THE CAPTAIN EXPLAINS WHY MARK WYLDER ABSCONDED LXIII.--THE ACE OF HEARTS LXIV.--IN THE DUTCH ROOM LXV.--I REVISIT BRANDON HALL LXVI.--LADY MACBETH LXVII.--MR. LARKIN IS VIS-A-VIS WITH A CONCEALED COMPANION LXVIII.--THE COMPANION DISCLOSES HIMSELF LXIX.--OF A SPECTRE WHOM OLD TAMAR SAW LXX.--THE MEETING IN THE LONG POND ALLEY LXXI.--SIR HARRY BRACTON'S INVASION OF GYLINGDEN LXXII.--MARK WYLDER'S HAND LXXIII.--THE MASK FALLS LXXIV.--WE TAKE LEAVE OF OUR FRIENDS WYLDER'S HAND. CHAPTER I. RELATING HOW I DROVE THROUGH THE VILLAGE OF GYLINGDEN WITH MARK WYLDER'S LETTER IN MY VALISE. It was late in the autumn, and I was skimming along, through a rich English county, in a postchaise, among tall hedgerows gilded, like all the landscape, with the slanting beams of sunset. The road makes a long and easy descent into the little town of Gylingden, and down this we were going at an exhilarating pace, and the jingle of the vehicle sounded like sledge-bells in my ears, and its swaying and jerking were pleasant and life-like. I fancy I was in one of those moods which, under similar circumstances, I sometimes experience still--a semi-narcotic excitement, silent but delightful. An undulating landscape, with a homely farmstead here and there, and plenty of old English timber scattered grandly over it, extended mistily to my right; on the left the road is overtopped by masses of noble forest. The old park of Brandon lies there, more than four miles from end to end. These masses of solemn and discoloured verdure, the faint but splendid lights, and long filmy shadows, the slopes and hollows--my eyes wandered over them all with that strange sense of unreality, and that mingling of sweet and bitter fancy, with which we revisit a scene familiar in very remote and early childhood, and which has haunted a long interval of maturity and absence, like a romantic reverie. As I looked through the chaise-windows, every moment presented some group, or outline, or homely object, for years forgotten; and now, with a strange surprise how vividly remembered and how affectionately greeted! We drove by the small old house at the left, with its double gable and pretty grass garden, and trim yews and modern lilacs and laburnums, backed by the grand timber of the park. It was the parsonage, and old bachelor Doctor Crewe, the rector, in my nonage, still stood, in memory, at the door, in his black shorts and gaiters, with his hands in his pockets, and a puckered smile on his hard ruddy countenance, as I approached. He smiled little on others I believe, but always kindly upon me. This general liking for children and instinct of smiling on them is one source of the delightful illusions which make the remembrance of early days so like a dream of Paradise, and give us, at starting, such false notions of our value.