[Transcriber's note: The spelling inconsistencies of the original havebeen retained in this etext. ]

UNCLE SILAS

A Tale of Bartram-Haugh

By J. S. LeFanu

1899

TOTHE RIGHT HON. THE COUNTESS OF GIFFORD, AS A TOKEN OFRESPECT, SYMPATHY, AND ADMIRATION_This Tale_IS INSCRIBED BYTHE AUTHOR

_A PRELIMINARY WORD_

The writer of this Tale ventures, in his own person, to address a very fewwords, chiefly of explanation, to his readers. A leading situation in this'Story of Bartram-Haugh' is repeated, with a slight variation, from a shortmagazine tale of some fifteen pages written by him, and published long agoin a periodical under the title of 'A Passage in the Secret History of anIrish Countess, ' and afterwards, still anonymously, in a small volume underan altered title. It is very unlikely that any of his readers should haveencountered, and still more so that they should remember, this trifle. Thebare possibility, however, he has ventured to anticipate by this briefexplanation, lest he should be charged with plagiarism--always a disrespectto a reader. 

May he be permitted a few words also of remonstrance against thepromiscuous application of the term 'sensation' to that large school offiction which transgresses no one of those canons of construction andmorality which, in producing the unapproachable 'Waverley Novels, ' theirgreat author imposed upon himself? No one, it is assumed, would describeSir Walter Scott's romances as 'sensation novels;' yet in that marvellousseries there is not a single tale in which death, crime, and, in some form, mystery, have not a place. 

Passing by those grand romances of 'Ivanhoe, ' 'Old Mortality, ' and'Kenilworth, ' with their terrible intricacies of crime and bloodshed, constructed with so fine a mastery of the art of exciting suspense andhorror, let the reader pick out those two exceptional novels in the serieswhich profess to paint contemporary manners and the scenes of common life;and remembering in the 'Antiquary' the vision in the tapestried chamber, the duel, the horrible secret, and the death of old Elspeth, the drownedfisherman, and above all the tremendous situation of the tide-bound partyunder the cliffs; and in 'St. Ronan's Well, ' the long-drawn mystery, thesuspicion of insanity, and the catastrophe of suicide;--determine whetheran epithet which it would be a profanation to apply to the structure ofany, even the most exciting of Sir Walter Scott's stories, is fairlyapplicable to tales which, though illimitably inferior in execution, yetobserve the same limitations of incident, and the same moral aims. 

The author trusts that the Press, to whose masterly criticism and generousencouragement he and other humble labourers in the art owe so much, willinsist upon the limitation of that degrading term to the peculiar type offiction which it was originally intended to indicate, and prevent, as theymay, its being made to include the legitimate school of tragic Englishromance, which has been ennobled, and in great measure founded, by thegenius of Sir Walter Scott. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. AUSTIN RUTHYN, OF KNOWL, AND HIS DAUGHTER

II. UNCLE SILAS

III. A NEW FACE

IV. MADAME DE LA ROUGIERRE

V. SIGHTS AND NOISES

VI. A WALK IN THE WOOD

VII. CHURCH SCARSDALE

VIII. THE SMOKER

IX. MONICA KNOLLYS

X. LADY KNOLLYS REMOVES A COVERLET

XI. LADY KNOLLYS SEES THE FEATURES

XII. A CURIOUS CONVERSATION

XIII. BEFORE AND AFTER BREAKFAST

XIV. ANGRY WORDS

XV. A WARNING

XVI. DOCTOR BRYERLY LOOKS IN

XVII. AN ADVENTURE

XVIII. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

XIX. AU REVOIR

XX. AUSTIN RUTHYN SETS OUT ON HIS JOURNEY

XXI. ARRIVALS

XXII. SOMEBODY IN THE ROOM WITH THE COFFIN

XXIII. I TALK WITH DOCTOR BRYERLY

XXIV. THE OPENING OF THE WILL

XXV. I HEAR FROM UNCLE SILAS

XXVI. THE STORY OF UNCLE SILAS

XXVII. MORE ABOUT TOM CHARKE'S SUICIDE

XXVIII. I AM PERSUADED

XXIX. HOW THE AMBASSADOR FARED

XXX. ON THE ROAD

XXXI. BARTRAM-HAUGH

XXXII. UNCLE SILAS

XXXIII. THE WINDMILL WOOD

XXXIV. ZAMIEL

XXXV. WE VISIT A ROOM IN THE SECOND STOREY

XXXVI. AN ARRIVAL AT DEAD OF NIGHT

XXXVII. DOCTOR BRYERLY EMERGES

XXXVIII. A MIDNIGHT DEPARTURE

XXXIX. COUSIN MONICA AND UNCLE SILAS MEET

XL. IN WHICH I MAKE ANOTHER COUSIN'S ACQUAINTANCE

XLI. MY COUSIN DUDLEY

XLII. ELVERSTON AND ITS PEOPLE

XLIII. NEWS AT BARTRAM GATE

XLIV. A FRIEND ARISES

XLV. A CHAPTER-FULL OF LOVERS

XLVI. THE RIVALS

XLVII. DOCTOR BRYERLY REAPPEARS

XLVIII. QUESTION AND ANSWER

XLIX. AN APPARITION

L. MILLY'S FAREWELL

LI. SARAH MATILDA COMES TO LIGHT

LII. THE PICTURE OF A WOLF

LIII. AN ODD PROPOSAL

LIV. IN SEARCH OF MR. CHARKE'S SKELETON

LV. THE FOOT OF HERCULES

LVI. I CONSPIRE

LVII. THE LETTER

LVIII. LADY KNOLLYS' CARRIAGE

LIX. A SUDDEN DEPARTURE

LX. THE JOURNEY

LXI. OUR BED-CHAMBER

LXII. A WELL-KNOWN FACE LOOKS IN

LXIII. SPICED CLARET

LXIV. THE HOUR OF DEATH

LXV. IN THE OAK PARLOUR

CONCLUSION

UNCLE SILAS

A Tale of Bartram-Haugh

CHAPTER I

_AUSTIN RUTHYN, OF KNOWL, AND HIS DAUGHTER_

It was winter--that is, about the second week in November--and great gustswere rattling at the windows, and wailing and thundering among our talltrees and ivied chimneys--a very dark night, and a very cheerful fireblazing, a pleasant mixture of good round coal and spluttering dry wood, ina genuine old fireplace, in a sombre old room. Black wainscoting glimmeredup to the ceiling, in small ebony panels; a cheerful clump of wax candleson the tea-table; many old portraits, some grim and pale, others pretty, and some very graceful and charming, hanging from the walls. Few pictures, except portraits long and short, were there. On the whole, I think youwould have taken the room for our parlour. It was not like our modernnotion of a drawing-room. It was a long room too, and every way capacious, but irregularly shaped. 

A girl, of a little more than seventeen, looking, I believe, younger still;slight and rather tall, with a great deal of golden hair, dark grey-eyed, and with a countenance rather sensitive and melancholy, was sitting at thetea-table, in a reverie. I was that girl. 

The only other person in the room--the only person in the house related tome--was my father. He was Mr. Ruthyn, of Knowl, so called in his county, but he had many other places, was of a very ancient lineage, who hadrefused a baronetage often, and it was said even a viscounty, being of aproud and defiant spirit, and thinking themselves higher in station andpurer of blood than two-thirds of the nobility into whose ranks, it wassaid, they had been invited to enter. Of all this family lore I knew butlittle and vaguely; only what is to be gathered from the fireside talk ofold retainers in the nursery. 

I am sure my father loved me, and I know I loved him. With the sureinstinct of childhood I apprehended his tenderness, although it was neverexpressed in common ways. But my father was an oddity. He had been earlydisappointed in Parliament, where it was his ambition to succeed. Though aclever man, he failed there, where very inferior men did extremely well. Then he went abroad, and became a connoisseur and a collector; took a part, on his return, in literary and scientific institutions, and also in thefoundation and direction of some charities. But he tired of this mimicgovernment, and gave himself up to a country life, not that of a sportsman, but rather of a student, staying sometimes at one of his places andsometimes at another, and living a secluded life. 

Rather late in life he married, and his beautiful young wife died, leavingme, their only child, to his care. This bereavement, I have been told, changed him--made him more odd and taciturn than ever, and his temper also, except to me, more severe. There was also some disgrace about his youngerbrother--my uncle Silas--which he felt bitterly. 

He was now walking up and down this spacious old room, which, extendinground an angle at the far end, was very dark in that quarter. It was hiswont to walk up and down thus, without speaking--an exercise which used toremind me of Chateaubriand's father in the great chamber of the Châteaude Combourg. At the far end he nearly disappeared in the gloom, and thenreturning emerged for a few minutes, like a portrait with a background ofshadow, and then again in silence faded nearly out of view. 

This monotony and silence would have been terrifying to a person lessaccustomed to it than I. As it was, it had its effect. I have known myfather a whole day without once speaking to me. Though I loved him verymuch, I was also much in awe of him. 

While my father paced the floor, my thoughts were employed about the eventsof a month before. So few things happened at Knowl out of the accustomedroutine, that a very trifling occurrence was enough to set people wonderingand conjecturing in that serene household. My father lived in remarkableseclusion; except for a ride, he hardly ever left the grounds of Knowl; andI don't think it happened twice in the year that a visitor sojourned amongus. 

There was not even that mild religious bustle which sometimes besets thewealthy and moral recluse. My father had left the Church of England forsome odd sect, I forget its name, and ultimately became, I was told, aSwedenborgian. But he did not care to trouble me upon the subject. So theold carriage brought my governess, when I had one, the old housekeeper, Mrs. Rusk, and myself to the parish church every Sunday. And my father, inthe view of the honest rector who shook his head over him--'a cloud withoutwater, carried about of winds, and a wandering star to whom is reserved theblackness of darkness'--corresponded with the 'minister' of his church, andwas provokingly contented with his own fertility and illumination; andMrs. Rusk, who was a sound and bitter churchwoman, said he fancied he sawvisions and talked with angels like the rest of that 'rubbitch. '

I don't know that she had any better foundation than analogy and conjecturefor charging my father with supernatural pretensions; and in all pointswhen her orthodoxy was not concerned, she loved her master and was a loyalhousekeeper. 

I found her one morning superintending preparations for the reception ofa visitor, in the hunting-room it was called, from the pieces of tapestrythat covered its walls, representing scenes _à la Wouvermans_, of falconry, and the chase, dogs, hawks, ladies, gallants, and pages. In the midst ofwhom Mrs. Rusk, in black silk, was rummaging drawers, counting linen, andissuing orders. 

'Who is coming, Mrs. Rusk?'

Well, she only knew his name. It was a Mr. Bryerly. My papa expected him todinner, and to stay for some days. 

'I guess he's one of those creatures, dear, for I mentioned his name justto Dr. Clay (the rector), and he says there _is_ a Doctor Bryerly, a greatconjurer among the Swedenborg sect--and that's him, I do suppose. '

In my hazy notions of these sectaries there was mingled a suspicion ofnecromancy, and a weird freemasonry, that inspired something of awe andantipathy. 

Mr. Bryerly arrived time enough to dress at his leisure, before dinner. Heentered the drawing-room--a tall, lean man, all in ungainly black, with awhite choker, with either a black wig, or black hair dressed in imitationof one, a pair of spectacles, and a dark, sharp, short visage, rubbing hislarge hands together, and with a short brisk nod to me, whom he plainlyregarded merely as a child, he sat down before the fire, crossed his legs, and took up a magazine. 

This treatment was mortifying, and I remember very well the resentment ofwhich _he_ was quite unconscious. 

His stay was not very long; not one of us divined the object of his visit, and he did not prepossess us favourably. He seemed restless, as men of busyhabits do in country houses, and took walks, and a drive, and read in thelibrary, and wrote half a dozen letters. 

His bed-room and dressing-room were at the side of the gallery, directlyopposite to my father's, which had a sort of ante-room _en suite_, in whichwere some of his theological books. 

The day after Mr. Bryerly's arrival, I was about to see whether my father'swater caraffe and glass had been duly laid on the table in this ante-room, and in doubt whether he was there, I knocked at the door. 

I suppose they were too intent on other matters to hear, but receiving noanswer, I entered the room. My father was sitting in his chair, with hiscoat and waistcoat off, Mr. Bryerly kneeling on a stool beside him, ratherfacing him, his black scratch wig leaning close to my father's grizzledhair. There was a large tome of their divinity lore, I suppose, open onthe table close by. The lank black figure of Mr. Bryerly stood up, and heconcealed something quickly in the breast of his coat. 

My father stood up also, looking paler, I think, than I ever saw him tillthen, and he pointed grimly to the door, and said, 'Go. '

Mr. Bryerly pushed me gently back with his hands to my shoulders, andsmiled down from his dark features with an expression quite unintelligibleto me. 

I had recovered myself in a second, and withdrew without a word. The lastthing I saw at the door was the tall, slim figure in black, and the dark, significant smile following me: and then the door was shut and locked, andthe two Swedenborgians were left to their mysteries. 

I remember so well the kind of shock and disgust I felt in the certaintythat I had surprised them at some, perhaps, debasing incantation--asuspicion of this Mr. Bryerly, of the ill-fitting black coat, and whitechoker--and a sort of fear came upon me, and I fancied he was assertingsome kind of mastery over my father, which very much alarmed me. 

I fancied all sorts of dangers in the enigmatical smile of the lankhigh-priest. The image of my father, as I had seen him, it might be, confessing to this man in black, who was I knew not what, haunted me withthe disagreeable uncertainties of a mind very uninstructed as to the limitsof the marvellous. 

I mentioned it to no one. But I was immensely relieved when the sinistervisitor took his departure the morning after, and it was upon thisoccurrence that my mind was now employed. 

Some one said that Dr. Johnson resembled a ghost, who must be spoken tobefore it will speak. But my father, in whatever else he may have resembleda ghost, did not in that particular; for no one but I in his household--andI very seldom--dared to address him until first addressed by him. I had nonotion how singular this was until I began to go out a little among friendsand relations, and found no such rule in force anywhere else. 

As I leaned back in my chair thinking, this phantasm of my father came, andturned, and vanished with a solemn regularity. It was a peculiar figure, strongly made, thick-set, with a face large, and very stern; he wore aloose, black velvet coat and waistcoat. It was, however, the figure of anelderly rather than an old man--though he was then past seventy--but firm, and with no sign of feebleness. 

I remember the start with which, not suspecting that he was close by me, Ilifted my eyes, and saw that large, rugged countenance looking fixedly onme, from less than a yard away. 

After I saw him, he continued to regard me for a second or two; and then, taking one of the heavy candlesticks in his gnarled hand, he beckoned me tofollow him; which, in silence and wondering, I accordingly did. 

He led me across the hall, where there were lights burning, and into alobby by the foot of the back stairs, and so into his library. 

It is a long, narrow room, with two tall, slim windows at the far end, nowdraped in dark curtains. Dusky it was with but one candle; and he pausednear the door, at the left-hand side of which stood, in those days, anold-fashioned press or cabinet of carved oak. In front of this he stopped. 

He had odd, absent ways, and talked more to himself, I believe, than to allthe rest of the world put together. 

'She won't understand, ' he whispered, looking at me enquiringly. 'No, shewon't. _Will_ she?'

Then there was a pause, during which he brought forth from his breastpocket a small bunch of some half-dozen keys, on one of which he lookedfrowningly, every now and then balancing it a little before his eyes, between his finger and thumb, as he deliberated. 

I knew him too well, of course, to interpose a word. 

'They are easily frightened--ay, they are. I'd better do it another way. '

And pausing, he looked in my face as he might upon a picture. 

'They _are_--yes--I had better do it another way--another way; yes--andshe'll not suspect--she'll not suppose. '

Then he looked steadfastly upon the key, and from it to me, suddenlylifting it up, and said abruptly, 'See, child, ' and, after a second or two, '_Remember_ this key. '

It was oddly shaped, and unlike others. 

'Yes, sir. ' I always called him 'sir. '

'It opens that, ' and he tapped it sharply on the door of the cabinet. 'Inthe daytime it is always here, ' at which word he dropped it into his pocketagain. 'You see?--and at night under my pillow--you hear me?'

'Yes, sir. '

'You won't forget this cabinet--oak--next the door--on your left--you won'tforget?'

'No, sir. '

'Pity she's a girl, and so young--ay, a girl, and so young--nosense--giddy. You say, you'll _remember_?'

'Yes, sir. '

'It behoves you. '

He turned round and looked full upon me, like a man who has taken a suddenresolution; and I think for a moment he had made up his mind to tell me agreat deal more. But if so, he changed it again; and after another pause, he said slowly and sternly--'You will tell nobody what I have said, underpain of my displeasure. '

'Oh! no, sir!'

'Good child!'

'_Except_, ' he resumed, 'under one contingency; that is, in case I shouldbe absent, and Dr. Bryerly--you recollect the thin gentleman, in spectaclesand a black wig, who spent three days here last month--should come andenquire for the key, you understand, in my absence. '

'Yes, sir. '

So he kissed me on the forehead, and said--

'Let us return. '

Which, accordingly, we did, in silence; the storm outside, like a dirge ona great organ, accompanying our flitting. 

CHAPTER II

_UNCLE SILAS_

When we reached the drawing-room, I resumed my chair, and my father hisslow and regular walk to and fro, in the great room. Perhaps it was theuproar of the wind that disturbed the ordinary tenor of his thoughts; but, whatever was the cause, certainly he was unusually talkative that night. 

After an interval of nearly half an hour, he drew near again, and sat downin a high-backed arm-chair, beside the fire, and nearly opposite to me, andlooked at me steadfastly for some time, as was his wont, before speaking;and said he--

'This won't do--you must have a governess. '

In cases of this kind I merely set down my book or work, as it might be, and adjusted myself to listen without speaking. 

'Your French is pretty well, and your Italian; but you have no German. Your music may be pretty good--I'm no judge--but your drawing might bebetter--yes--yes. I believe there are accomplished ladies--finishinggovernesses, they call them--who undertake more than any one teacher wouldhave professed in my time, and do very well. She can prepare you, andnext winter, then, you shall visit France and Italy, where you may beaccomplished as highly as you please. '

'Thank you, sir. '

'You shall. It is nearly six months since Miss Ellerton left you--too longwithout a teacher. '

Then followed an interval. 

'Dr. Bryerly will ask you about that key, and what it opens; you show allthat to _him_, and no one else. '

'But, ' I said, for I had a great terror of disobeying him in ever so minutea matter, 'you will then be absent, sir--how am I to find the key?'

He smiled on me suddenly--a bright but wintry smile--it seldom came, andwas very transitory, and kindly though mysterious. 

'True, child; I'm glad you are so wise; _that_, you will find, I haveprovided for, and you shall know exactly where to look. You have remarkedhow solitarily I live. You fancy, perhaps, I have not got a friend, andyou are nearly right--_nearly_, but not altogether. I have a very surefriend--_one_--a friend whom I once misunderstood, but now appreciate. '

I wondered silently whether it could be Uncle Silas. 

'He'll make me a call, some day soon; I'm not quite sure when. I won't tellyou his name--you'll hear that soon enough, and I don't want it talked of;and I must make a little journey with him. You'll not be afraid of beingleft alone for a time?'

'And have you promised, sir?' I answered, with another question, mycuriosity and anxiety overcoming my awe. He took my questioning verygood-humouredly. 

'Well--_promise_?--no, child; but I'm under condition; he's not to bedenied. I must make the excursion with him the moment he calls. I have nochoice; but, on the whole, I rather like it--remember, I say, I rather_like_ it. '

And he smiled again, with the same meaning, that was at once stern and sad. The exact purport of these sentences remained fixed in my mind, so thateven at this distance of time I am quite sure of them. 

A person quite unacquainted with my father's habitually abrupt and odd wayof talking, would have fancied that he was possibly a little disordered inhis mind. But no such suspicion for a moment troubled me. I was quite surethat he spoke of a real person who was coming, and that his journey wassomething momentous; and when the visitor of whom he spoke did come, and hedeparted with him upon that mysterious excursion, I perfectly understoodhis language and his reasons for saying so much and yet so little. 

You are not to suppose that all my hours were passed in the sort ofconference and isolation of which I have just given you a specimen; andsingular and even awful as were sometimes my _tête-a-têtes_ with my father, I had grown so accustomed to his strange ways, and had so unbounded aconfidence in his affection, that they never depressed or agitated me inthe manner you might have supposed. I had a great deal of quite a differentsort of chat with good old Mrs. Rusk, and very pleasant talks with MaryQuince, my somewhat ancient maid; and besides all this, I had now and thena visit of a week or so at the house of some one of our country neighbours, and occasionally a visitor--but this, I must own, very rarely--at Knowl. 

There had come now a little pause in my father's revelations, and my fancywandered away upon a flight of discovery. Who, I again thought, could thisintending visitor be, who was to come, armed with the prerogative to makemy stay-at-home father forthwith leave his household goods--his books andhis child--to whom he clung, and set forth on an unknown knight-errantry?Who but Uncle Silas, I thought--that mysterious relative whom I hadnever seen--who was, it had in old times been very darkly hinted to me, unspeakably unfortunate or unspeakably vicious--whom I had seldom heard myfather mention, and then in a hurried way, and with a pained, thoughtfullook. Once only he had said anything from which I could gather my father'sopinion of him, and then it was so slight and enigmatical that I might havefilled in the character very nearly as I pleased. 

It happened thus. One day Mrs. Rusk was in the oak-room, I being then aboutfourteen. She was removing a stain from a tapestry chair, and I watched theprocess with a childish interest. She sat down to rest herself--she hadbeen stooping over her work--and threw her head back, for her neck wasweary, and in this position she fixed her eyes on a portrait that hungbefore her. 

It was a full-length, and represented a singularly handsome young man, dark, slender, elegant, in a costume then quite obsolete, though I believeit was seen at the beginning of this century--white leather pantaloons andtop-boots, a buff waistcoat, and a chocolate-coloured coat, and the hairlong and brushed back. 

There was a remarkable elegance and a delicacy in the features, but also acharacter of resolution and ability that quite took the portrait out of thecategory of mere fops or fine men. When people looked at it for the firsttime, I have so often heard the exclamation--'What a wonderfully handsomeman!' and then, 'What a clever face!' An Italian greyhound stood by him, and some slender columns and a rich drapery in the background. But thoughthe accessories were of the luxurious sort, and the beauty, as I have said, refined, there was a masculine force in that slender oval face, and a firein the large, shadowy eyes, which were very peculiar, and quite redeemed itfrom the suspicion of effeminacy. 

'Is not that Uncle Silas?' said I. 

'Yes, dear, ' answered Mrs. Rusk, looking, with her resolute little face, quietly on the portrait. 

'He must be a very handsome man, Mrs. Rusk. Don't you think so?' Icontinued. 

'He _was_, my dear--yes; but it is forty years since that was painted--thedate is there in the corner, in the shadow that comes from his foot, andforty years, I can tell you, makes a change in most of us;' and Mrs. Rusklaughed, in cynical good-humour. 

There was a little pause, both still looking on the handsome man intop-boots, and I said--

'And why, Mrs. Rusk, is papa always so sad about Uncle Silas?'

'What's that, child?' said my father's voice, very near. I looked round, with a start, and flushed and faltered, receding a step from him. 

'No harm, dear. You have said nothing wrong, ' he said gently, observingmy alarm. 'You said I was always sad, I think, about Uncle Silas. Well, I don't know how you gather that; but if I were, I will now tell you, itwould not be unnatural. Your uncle is a man of great talents, great faults, and great wrongs. His talents have not availed him; his faults are long agorepented of; and his wrongs I believe he feels less than I do, but they aredeep. Did she say any more, madam?' he demanded abruptly of Mrs. Rusk. 

'Nothing, sir, ' with a stiff little courtesy, answered Mrs. Rusk, who stoodin awe of him. 

'And there is no need, child, ' he continued, addressing himself to me, 'that you should think more of him at present. Clear your head of UncleSilas. One day, perhaps, you will know him--yes, very well--and understandhow villains have injured him. 

Then my father retired, and at the door he said--

'Mrs. Rusk, a word, if you please, ' beckoning to that lady, who trottedafter him to the library. 

I think he then laid some injunction upon the housekeeper, which wastransmitted by her to Mary Quince, for from that time forth I could neverlead either to talk with me about Uncle Silas. They let me talk on, butwere reserved and silent themselves, and seemed embarrassed, and Mrs. Rusksometimes pettish and angry, when I pressed for information. 

Thus curiosity was piqued; and round the slender portrait in the leatherpantaloons and top-boots gathered many-coloured circles of mystery, and thehandsome features seemed to smile down upon my baffled curiosity with aprovoking significance. 

Why is it that this form of ambition--curiosity--which entered into thetemptation of our first parent, is so specially hard to resist? Knowledgeis power--and power of one sort or another is the secret lust of humansouls; and here is, beside the sense of exploration, the undefinableinterest of a story, and above all, something forbidden, to stimulate thecontumacious appetite. 

CHAPTER III

_A NEW FACE_

I think it was about a fortnight after that conversation in which my fatherhad expressed his opinion, and given me the mysterious charge about theold oak cabinet in his library, as already detailed, that I was one nightsitting at the great drawing-room window, lost in the melancholy reveriesof night, and in admiration of the moonlighted scene. I was the onlyoccupant of the room; and the lights near the fire, at its farther end, hardly reached to the window at which I sat. 

The shorn grass sloped gently downward from the windows till it met thebroad level on which stood, in clumps, or solitarily scattered, some of thenoblest timber in England. Hoar in the moonbeams stood those gracefultrees casting their moveless shadows upon the grass, and in the backgroundcrowning the undulations of the distance, in masses, were piled those woodsamong which lay the solitary tomb where the remains of my beloved motherrested. 

The air was still. The silvery vapour hung serenely on the far horizon, and the frosty stars blinked brightly. Everyone knows the effect of such ascene on a mind already saddened. Fancies and regrets float mistily inthe dream, and the scene affects us with a strange mixture of memory andanticipation, like some sweet old air heard in the distance. As my eyesrested on those, to me, funereal but glorious woods, which formed thebackground of the picture, my thoughts recurred to my father's mysteriousintimations and the image of the approaching visitor; and the thought ofthe unknown journey saddened me. 

In all that concerned his religion, from very early association, there wasto me something of the unearthly and spectral. 

When my dear mamma died I was not nine years old; and I remember, two daysbefore the funeral, there came to Knowl, where she died, a thin little man, with large black eyes, and a very grave, dark face. 

He was shut up a good deal with my dear father, who was in deep affliction;and Mrs. Rusk used to say, 'It is rather odd to see him praying with thatlittle scarecrow from London, and good Mr. Clay ready at call, in thevillage; much good that little black whipper-snapper will do him!'

With that little black man, on the day after the funeral, I was sent out, for some reason, for a walk; my governess was ill, I know, and there wasconfusion in the house, and I dare say the maids made as much of a holidayas they could. 

I remember feeling a sort of awe of this little dark man; but I was notafraid of him, for he was gentle, though sad--and seemed kind. He led meinto the garden--the Dutch garden, we used to call it--with a balustrade, and statues at the farther front, laid out in a carpet-pattern ofbrilliantly-coloured flowers. We came down the broad flight of Caen stonesteps into this, and we walked in silence to the balustrade. The base wastoo high at the spot where we reached it for me to see over; but holding myhand, he said, 'Look through that, my child. Well, you can't; but _I_ cansee beyond it--shall I tell you what? I see ever so much. I see a cottagewith a steep roof, that looks like gold in the sunlight; there are talltrees throwing soft shadows round it, and flowering shrubs, I can't saywhat, only the colours are beautiful, growing by the walls and windows, andtwo little children are playing among the stems of the trees, and we are onour way there, and in a few minutes shall be under those trees ourselves, and talking to those little children. Yet now to me it is but a picture inmy brain, and to you but a story told by me, which you believe. Come, dear;let us be going. '

So we descended the steps at the right, and side by side walked along thegrass lane between tall trim walls of evergreens. The way was in deepshadow, for the sun was near the horizon; but suddenly we turned to theleft, and there we stood in rich sunlight, among the many objects he haddescribed. 

'Is this your house, my little men?' he asked of the children--prettylittle rosy boys--who assented; and he leaned with his open hand againstthe stem of one of the trees, and with a grave smile he nodded down to me, saying--

'You see now, and hear, and _feel_ for yourself that both the vision andthe story were quite true; but come on, my dear, we have further to go. '

And relapsing into silence we had a long ramble through the wood, the sameon which I was now looking in the distance. Every now and then he made mesit down to rest, and he in a musing solemn sort of way would relate somelittle story, reflecting, even to my childish mind, a strange suspicionof a spiritual meaning, but different from what honest Mrs. Rusk usedto expound to me from the Parables, and, somehow, startling in its veryvagueness. 

Thus entertained, though a little awfully, I accompanied the darkmysterious little 'whipper-snapper' through the woodland glades. We came, to me quite unexpectedly, in the deep sylvan shadows, upon the grey, pillared temple, four-fronted, with a slanting pedestal of lichen-stainedsteps, the lonely sepulchre in which I had the morning before seen poormamma laid. At the sight the fountains of my grief reopened, and I criedbitterly, repeating, 'Oh! mamma, mamma, little mamma!' and so went onweeping and calling wildly on the deaf and the silent. There was a stonebench some ten steps away from the tomb. 

'Sit down beside me, my child, ' said the grave man with the black eyes, very kindly and gently. 'Now, what do you see there?' he asked, pointinghorizontally with his stick towards the centre of the opposite structure. 

'Oh, _that_--that place where poor mamma is?'

'Yes, a stone wall with pillars, too high for either you or me to see over. But----'

Here he mentioned a name which I think must have been Swedenborg, from whatI afterwards learnt of his tenets and revelations; I only know that itsounded to me like the name of a magician in a fairy tale; I fancied helived in the wood which surrounded us, and I began to grow frightened as heproceeded. 

'But Swedenborg sees beyond it, over, and _through_ it, and has told me allthat concerns us to know. He says your mamma is not there. '

'She is taken away!' I cried, starting up, and with streaming eyes, gazingon the building which, though I stamped my feet in my distraction, I wasafraid to approach. 'Oh, _is_ mamma taken away? Where is she? Where havethey brought her to?'

I was uttering unconsciously very nearly the question with which Mary, in the grey of that wondrous morning on which she stood by the emptysepulchre, accosted the figure standing near. 

'Your mamma is alive but too far away to see or hear us. Swedenborg, standing here, can see and hear her, and tells me all he sees, just as Itold you in the garden about the little boys and the cottage, and the treesand flowers which you could not see. You believed in when _I_ told you. SoI can tell you now as I did then; and as we are both, I hope, walking on tothe same place just as we did to the trees and cottage. You will surely seewith your own eyes how true the description is which I give you. '

I was very frightened, for I feared that when he had done his narrative wewere to walk on through the wood into that place of wonders and of shadowswhere the dead were visible. 

He leaned his elbow on his knee, and his forehead on his hand, whichshaded his downcast eyes. In that attitude he described to me a beautifullandscape, radiant with a wondrous light, in which, rejoicing, my mothermoved along an airy path, ascending among mountains of fantastic height, and peaks, melting in celestial colouring into the air, and peopled withhuman beings translated into the same image, beauty, and splendour. Andwhen he had ended his relation, he rose, took my hand, and smiling gentlydown on my pale, wondering face, he said the same words he had spokenbefore--

'Come, dear, let us go. '

'Oh! no, no, _no_--not now, ' I said, resisting, and very much frightened. 

'Home, I mean, dear. We cannot walk to the place I have described. We canonly reach it through the gate of death, to which we are all tending, youngand old, with sure steps. '

'And where is the gate of death?' I asked in a sort of whisper, as wewalked together, holding his hand, and looking stealthily. He smiled sadlyand said--

'When, sooner or later, the time comes, as Hagar's eyes were opened in thewilderness, and she beheld the fountain of water, so shall each of us seethe door open before us, and enter in and be refreshed. '

For a long time following this walk I was very nervous; more so for theawful manner in which Mrs. Rusk received my statement--with stern lips andupturned hands and eyes, and an angry expostulation: 'I do wonder atyou, Mary Quince, letting the child walk into the wood with that limb ofdarkness. It is a mercy he did not show her the devil, or frighten her outof her senses, in that lonely place!'

Of these Swedenborgians, indeed, I know no more than I might learn fromgood Mrs. Rusk's very inaccurate talk. Two or three of them crossed in thecourse of my early life, like magic-lantern figures, the disk of my verycircumscribed observation. All outside was and is darkness. I once tried toread one of their books upon the future state--heaven and hell; but I grewafter a day or two so nervous that I laid it aside. It is enough for meto know that their founder either saw or fancied he saw amazing visions, which, so far from superseding, confirmed and interpreted the language ofthe Bible; and as dear papa accepted their ideas, I am happy in thinkingthat they did not conflict with the supreme authority of holy writ. 

Leaning on my hand, I was now looking upon that solemn wood, white andshadowy in the moonlight, where, for a long time after that ramble with thevisionary, I fancied the gate of death, hidden only by a strange glamour, and the dazzling land of ghosts, were situate; and I suppose these earlierassociations gave to my reverie about my father's coming visitor a wilderand a sadder tinge. 

CHAPTER IV

_MADAME DE LA ROUGIERRE_

On a sudden, on the grass before me, stood an odd figure--a very tall womanin grey draperies, nearly white under the moon, courtesying extraordinarilylow, and rather fantastically. 

I stared in something like a horror upon the large and rather hollowfeatures which I did not know, smiling very unpleasantly on me; and themoment it was plain that I saw her, the grey woman began gobblingand cackling shrilly--I could not distinctly hear _what_ through thewindow--and gesticulating oddly with her long hands and arms. 

As she drew near the window, I flew to the fireplace, and rang the bellfrantically, and seeing her still there, and fearing that she might breakinto the room, I flew out of the door, very much frightened, and metBranston the butler in the lobby. 

'There's a woman at the window!' I gasped; 'turn her away, please. '

If I had said a man, I suppose fat Branston would have summoned and sentforward a detachment of footmen. As it was, he bowed gravely, with a--

'Yes, 'm--shall, 'm. '

And with an air of authority approached the window. 

I don't think that he was pleasantly impressed himself by the first sightof our visitor, for he stopped short some steps of the window, and demandedrather sternly--

'What ye doin' there, woman?'

To this summons, her answer, which occupied a little time, was inaudible tome. But Branston replied--

'I wasn't aware, ma'am; I heerd nothin'; if you'll go round _that_ way, you'll see the hall-door steps, and I'll speak to the master, and do as heshall order. '

The figure said something and pointed. 

'Yes, that's it, and ye can't miss the door. '

And Mr. Branston returned slowly down the long room, and halted without-turned pumps and a grave inclination before me, and the faintest amountof interrogation in the announcement--

'Please, 'm, she says she's the governess. '

'The governess! _What_ governess?'

Branston was too well-bred to smile, and he said thoughtfully--

'P'raps, 'm, I'd best ask the master?'

To which I assented, and away strode the flat pumps of the butler to thelibrary. 

I stood breathless in the hall. Every girl at my age knows how much isinvolved in such an advent. I also heard Mrs. Rusk, in a minute or twomore, emerge I suppose from the study. She walked quickly, and mutteredsharply to herself--an evil trick, in which she indulged when much 'putabout. ' I should have been glad of a word with her; but I fancied she wasvexed, and would not have talked satisfactorily. She did not, however, comemy way; merely crossing the hall with her quick, energetic step. 

Was it really the arrival of a governess? Was that apparition which hadimpressed me so unpleasantly to take the command of me--to sit alone withme, and haunt me perpetually with her sinister looks and shrilly gabble?

I was just making up my mind to go to Mary Quince, and learn somethingdefinite, when I heard my father's step approaching from the library: soI quietly re-entered the drawingroom, but with an anxious and throbbingheart. 

When he came in, as usual, he patted me on the head gently, with a kind ofsmile, and then began his silent walk up and down the room. I was yearningto question him on the point that just then engrossed me so disagreeably;but the awe in which I stood of him forbade. 

After a time he stopped at the window, the curtain of which I had drawn, and the shutter partly opened, and he looked out, perhaps with associationsof his own, on the scene I had been contemplating. 

It was not for nearly an hour after, that my father suddenly, after hiswont, in a few words, apprised me of the arrival of Madame de la Rougierreto be my governess, highly recommended and perfectly qualified. My heartsank with a sure presage of ill. I already disliked, distrusted, and fearedher. 

I had more than an apprehension of her temper and fear of possibly abusedauthority. The large-featured, smirking phantom, saluting me so oddly inthe moonlight, retained ever after its peculiar and unpleasant hold upon mynerves. 

'Well, Miss Maud, dear, I hope you'll like your new governess--for it'smore than _I_ do, just at present at least, ' said Mrs. Rusk, sharply--shewas awaiting me in my room. 'I hate them French-women; they're not natural, I think. I gave her her supper in my room. She eats like a wolf, she does, the great raw-boned hannimal. I wish you saw her in bed as I did. I put hernext the clock-room--she'll hear the hours betimes, I'm thinking. You neversaw such a sight. The great long nose and hollow cheeks of her, and oogh!such a mouth! I felt a'most like little Red Riding-Hood--I did, Miss. '

Here honest Mary Quince, who enjoyed Mrs. Rusk's satire, a weapon in whichshe was not herself strong, laughed outright. 

'Turn down the bed, Mary. She's very agreeable--she is, just now--allnew-comers is; but she did not get many compliments from me, Miss--no, I rayther think not. I wonder why honest English girls won't answer thegentry for governesses, instead of them gaping, scheming, wicked furriners?Lord forgi' me, I think they're all alike. '

Next morning I made acquaintance with Madame de la Rougierre. She was tall, masculine, a little ghastly perhaps, and draped in purple silk, with alace cap, and great bands of black hair, too thick and black, perhaps, tocorrespond quite naturally with her bleached and sallow skin, her hollowjaws, and the fine but grim wrinkles traced about her brows and eyelids. She smiled, she nodded, and then for a good while she scanned me in silencewith a steady cunning eye, and a stern smile. 

'And how is she named--what is Mademoiselle's name?' said the tallstranger. 

'_Maud_, Madame. '

'Maud!--what pretty name! Eh bien! I am very sure my dear Maud she willbe very good little girl--is not so?--and I am sure I shall love you varymoche. And what 'av you been learning, Maud, my dear cheaile--music, French, German, eh?'

'Yes, a little; and I had just begun the use of the globes when mygoverness went away. '

I nodded towards the globes, which stood near her, as I said this. 

'Oh! yes--the globes;' and she spun one of them with her great hand. 'Jevous expliquerai tout cela à fond. '

Madame de la Rougierre, I found, was always quite ready to explaineverything 'à fond;' but somehow her 'explications, ' as she termed them, were not very intelligible, and when pressed her temper woke up; so that Ipreferred, after a while, accepting the expositions just as they came. 

Madame was on an unusually large scale, a circumstance which made some ofher traits more startling, and altogether rendered her, in her strange way, more awful in the eyes of a nervous _child, _ I may say, such as I was. Sheused to look at me for a long time sometimes, with the peculiar smileI have mentioned, and a great finger upon her lip, like the Eleusinianpriestess on the vase. 

She would sit, too, sometimes for an hour together, looking into the fireor out of the window, plainly seeing nothing, and with an odd, fixed lookof something like triumph--very nearly a smile--on her cunning face. 

She was by no means a pleasant _gouvernante_ for a nervous girl of myyears. Sometimes she had accesses of a sort of hilarity which frightened mestill more than her graver moods, and I will describe these by-and-by. 

CHAPTER V

_SIGHTS AND NOISES_

There is not an old house in England of which the servants and young peoplewho live in it do not cherish some traditions of the ghostly. Knowl has itsshadows, noises, and marvellous records. Rachel Ruthyn, the beauty of QueenAnne's time, who died of grief for the handsome Colonel Norbrooke, whowas killed in the Low Countries, walks the house by night, in crisp andsounding silks. She is not seen, only heard. The tapping of her high-heeledshoes, the sweep and rustle of her brocades, her sighs as she pauses in thegalleries, near the bed-room doors; and sometimes, on stormy nights, hersobs. 

There is, beside, the 'link-man', a lank, dark-faced, black-haired man, ina sable suit, with a link or torch in his hand. It usually only smoulders, with a deep red glow, as he visits his beat. The library is one of therooms he sees to. Unlike 'Lady Rachel, ' as the maids called her, he is seenonly, never heard. His steps fall noiseless as shadows on floor and carpet. The lurid glow of his smouldering torch imperfectly lights his figure andface, and, except when much perturbed, his link never blazes. On thoseoccasions, however, as he goes his rounds, he ever and anon whirls itaround his head, and it bursts into a dismal flame. This is a fearful omen, and always portends some direful crisis or calamity. It occurs, only onceor twice in a century. 

I don't know whether Madame had heard anything of these phenomena; but shedid report which very much frightened me and Mary Quince. She asked us whowalked in the gallery on which her bed-room opened, making a rustling withher dress, and going down the stairs, and breathing long breaths here andthere. Twice, she said, she had stood at her door in the dark, listening tothese sounds, and once she called to know who it was. There was no answer, but the person plainly turned back, and hurried towards her with anunnatural speed, which made her jump within her door and shut it. 

When first such tales are told, they excite the nerves of the young and theignorant intensely. But the special effect, I have found, soon wears outThe tale simply takes it's place with the rest. It was with Madame'snarrative. 

About a week after its relation, I had my experience of a similar sort. Mary Quince went down-stairs for a night-light, leaving me in bed, a candleburning in the room, and being tired. I fell asleep before her return. When I awoke the candle had been extinguished. But I heard a step softlyapproaching. I jumped up--quite forgetting the ghost, and thinking only ofMary Quince--and opened the door, expecting to see the light of her candle. Instead, all was dark, and near me I heard the fall of a bare foot on theoak floor. It was as if some one had stumbled. I said, 'Mary, ' but noanswer came, only a rustling of clothes and a breathing at the other sideof the gallery, which passed off towards the upper staircase. I turned intomy room, freezing with horror, and clapt my door. The noise wakened MaryQuince, who had returned and gone to her bed half an hour before. 

About a fortnight after this, Mary Quince, a very veracious spinster, reported to me, that having got up to fix the window, which was rattling, at about four o'clock in the morning, she saw a light shining from thelibrary window. She could swear to its being a strong light, streamingthrough the chinks of the shutter, and moving. No doubt the link was wavedabout his head by the angry 'link-man. '

These strange occurrences helped, I think, just then to make me nervous, and prepared the way for the odd sort of ascendency which, through mysense of the mysterious and super-natural, that repulsive Frenchwoman wasgradually, and it seemed without effort, establishing over me. 

Some dark points of her character speedily emerged from the prismatic mistwith which she had enveloped it. 

Mrs. Rusk's observation about the agreeability of new-comers I found to betrue; for as Madame began to lose that character, her good-humour abatedvery perceptibly, and she began to show gleams of another sort of temper, that was lurid and dangerous. 

Notwithstanding this, she was in the habit of always having her Bible openby her, and was austerely attentive at morning and evening services, andasked my father, with great humility, to lend her some translations ofSwedenborg's books, which she laid much to heart. 

When we went out for our walk, if the weather were bad we generally madeour promenade up and down the broad terrace in front of the windows. Sullenand malign at times she used to look, and as suddenly she would pat me onthe shoulder caressingly, and smile with a grotesque benignity, askingtenderly, 'Are you fatigue, ma chère?' or 'Are you cold-a, dear Maud?'

At first these abrupt transitions puzzled me, sometimes half frightenedme, savouring, I fancied, of insanity. The key, however, was accidentallysupplied, and I found that these accesses of demonstrative affection weresure to supervene whenever my father's face was visible through the librarywindows. 

I did not know well what to make of this woman, whom I feared with a veinof superstitious dread. I hated being alone with her after dusk in theschool-room. She would sometimes sit for half an hour at a time, with herwide mouth drawn down at the corners, and a scowl, looking into the fire. If she saw me looking at her, she would change all this on the instant, affect a sort of languor, and lean her head upon her hand, and ultimatelyhave recourse to her Bible. But I fancied she did not read, but pursued herown dark ruminations, for I observed that the open book might often lie forhalf an hour or more under her eyes and yet the leaf never turned. 

I should have been glad to be assured that she prayed when on her knees, orread when that book was before her; I should have felt that she was morecanny and human. As it was, those external pieties made a suspicion of ahollow contrast with realities that helped to scare me; yet it was but asuspicion--I could not be certain. 

Our rector and the curate, with whom she was very gracious, and anxiousabout my collects and catechism, had an exalted opinion of her. In publicplaces her affection for me was always demonstrative. 

In like manner she contrived conferences with my father. She was alwaysmaking excuses to consult him about my reading, and to confide in him hersufferings, as I learned, from my contumacy and temper. The fact is, I wasaltogether quiet and submissive. But I think she had a wish to reduce meto a state of the most abject bondage. She had designs of domination andsubversion regarding the entire household, I now believe, worthy of theevil spirit I sometimes fancied her. 

My father beckoned me into the study one day, and said he--

'You ought not to give poor Madame so much pain. She is one of the fewpersons who take an interest in you; why should she have so often tocomplain of your ill-temper and disobedience?--why should she be compelledto ask my permission to punish you? Don't be afraid, I won't concede that. But in so kind a person it argues much. Affection I can't command--respectand obedience I may--and I insist on your rendering _both_ to Madame. '

'But sir, ' I said, roused into courage by the gross injustice of thecharge, 'I have always done exactly as she bid me, and never said onedisrespectful word to Madame. '

'I don't think, child, _you_ are the best judge of that. Go, and _amend_. 'And with a displeased look he pointed to the door. My heart swelled withthe sense of wrong, and as I reached the door I turned to say another word, but I could not, and only burst into tears. 

'There--don't cry, little Maud--only let us do better for the future. There--there--there has been enough. '

And he kissed my forehead, and gently put me out and closed the door. 

In the school-room I took courage, and with some warmth upbraided Madame. 

'Wat wicked cheaile!' moaned Madame, demurely. 'Read aloud thosethree--yes, _those_ three chapters of the Bible, my dear Maud. '

There was no special fitness in those particular chapters, and when theywere ended she said in a sad tone--

'Now, dear, you must commit to memory this pretty priaire for umility ofart. '

It was a long one, and in a state of profound irritation I got through thetask. 

Mrs. Rusk hated her. She said she stole wine and brandy whenever theopportunity offered--that she was always asking her for such stimulants andpretending pains in her stomach. Here, perhaps, there was exaggeration; butI knew it was true that I had been at different times despatched on thaterrand and pretext for brandy to Mrs. Rusk, who at last came to her bedsidewith pills and a mustard blister only, and was hated irrevocably everafter. 

I felt all this was done to torture me. But a day is a long time to achild, and they forgive quickly. It was always with a sense of danger thatI heard Madame say she must go and see Monsieur Ruthyn in the library, and I think a jealousy of her growing influence was an ingredient in thedetestation in which honest Mrs. Rusk held her. 

CHAPTER VI

_A WALK IN THE WOOD_

Two little pieces of by-play in which I detected her confirmed myunpleasant suspicion. From the corner of the gallery I one day saw her, when she thought I was out and all quiet, with her ear at the keyhole ofpapa's study, as we used to call the sitting-room next his bed-room. Hereyes were turned in the direction of the stairs, from which only sheapprehended surprise. Her great mouth was open, and her eyes absolutelygoggled with eagerness. She was devouring all that was passing there. I drew back into the shadow with a kind of disgust and horror. She wastransformed into a great gaping reptile. I felt that I could have thrownsomething at her; but a kind of fear made me recede again toward my room. Indignation, however, quickly returned, and I came back, treading brisklyas I did so. When I reached the angle of the gallery again. Madame, Isuppose, had heard me, for she was half-way down the stairs. 

'Ah, my dear Cheaile, I am so glad to find you, and you are dress to comeout. We shall have so pleasant walk. '

At that moment the door of my father's study opened, and Mrs. Rusk, withher dark energetic face very much flushed, stepped out in high excitement. 

'The Master says you may have the brandy-bottle, Madame and I'm glad to berid of it--_I_ am. '

Madame courtesied with a great smirk, that was full of intangible hate andinsult. 

'Better your own brandy, if drink you must!' exclaimed Mrs. Rusk. 'You maycome to the store-room now, or the butler can take it. '

And off whisked Mrs. Rusk for the back staircase. 

There had been no common skirmish on this occasion, but a pitched battle. 

Madame had made a sort of pet of Anne Wixted, an underchambermaid, andattached her to her interest economically by persuading me to make herpresents of some old dresses and other things. Anne was such an angel!

But Mrs. Rusk, whose eyes were about her, detected Anne, with abrandy-bottle under her apron, stealing up-stairs. Anne, in a panic, declared the truth. Madame had commissioned her to buy it in the town, andconvey it to her bed-room. Upon this, Mrs. Rusk impounded the flask; and, with Anne beside her, rather precipitately appeared before 'the Master. ' Heheard and summoned Madame. Madame was cool, frank, and fluent. The brandywas purely medicinal. She produced a document in the form of a note. DoctorSomebody presented his compliments to Madame de la Rougierre, and orderedher a table-spoonful of brandy and some drops of laudanum whenever the painof stomach returned. The flask would last a whole year, perhaps two. Sheclaimed her medicine. 

Man's estimate of woman is higher than woman's own. Perhaps in theirrelations to men they are generally more trustworthy--perhaps woman's isthe juster, and the other an appointed illusion. I don't know; but so it isordained. 

Mrs. Rusk was recalled, and I saw, as you are aware, Madame's procedureduring the interview. 

It was a great battle--a great victory. Madame was in high spirits. The airwas sweet--the landscape charming--I, so good--everything so beautiful!Where should we go? _this_ way?

I had made a resolution to speak as little as possible to Madame, I was soincensed at the treachery I had witnessed; but such resolutions do not lastlong with very young people, and by the time we had reached the skirts ofthe wood we were talking pretty much as usual. 

'I don't wish to go into the wood, Madame. 

'And for what?'

'Poor mamma is buried there. '

'Is _there_ the vault?' demanded Madame eagerly. 

I assented. 

'My faith, curious reason; you say because poor mamma is buried there youwill not approach! Why, cheaile, what would good Monsieur Ruthyn say ifhe heard such thing? You are surely not so unkain', and I am with you. _Allons_. Let us come--even a little part of the way. '

And so I yielded, though still reluctant. 

There was a grass-grown road, which we easily reached, leading to thesombre building, and we soon arrived before it. 

Madame de la Rougierre seemed rather curious. She sat down on the littlebank opposite, in her most languid pose--her head leaned upon the tips ofher fingers. 

'How very sad--how solemn!' murmured Madame. 'What noble tomb! How triste, my dear cheaile, your visit 'ere must it be, remembering a so sweet maman. There is new inscription--is it not new?' And so, indeed, it seemed. 

'I am fatigue--maybe you will read it aloud to me slowly and solemnly, mydearest Maud?'

As I approached, I happened to look, I can't tell why, suddenly, over myshoulder; I was startled, for Madame was grimacing after me with a vilederisive distortion. She pretended to be seized with a fit of coughing. Butit would not do: she saw that I had detected her, and she laughed aloud. 

'Come here, dear cheaile. I was just reflecting how foolish is all thisthing--the tomb--the epitaph. I think I would 'av none--no, no epitaph. Weregard them first for the oracle of the dead, and find them after only thefolly of the living. So I despise. Do you think your house of Knowl downthere is what you call haunt, my dear?'

'Why?' said I, flushing and growing pale again. I felt quite afraid ofMadame, and confounded at the suddenness of all this. 

'Because Anne Wixted she says there is ghost. How dark is this place! andso many of the Ruthyn family they are buried here--is not so? How high andthick are the trees all round! and nobody comes near. '

And Madame rolled her eyes awfully, as if she expected to see somethingunearthly, and, indeed, looked very like it herself. 

'Come away, Madame, ' I said, growing frightened, and feeling that if I wereonce, by any accident, to give way to the panic that was gathering roundme, I should instantaneously lose all control of myself. 'Oh, come away!do, Madame--I'm frightened. '

'No, on the contrary, sit here by me. It is very odd, you will think, machêre--un goût bizarre, vraiment!--but I love very much to be near to thedead people--in solitary place like this. I am not afraid of the deadpeople, nor of the ghosts. 'Av you ever see a ghost, my dear?'

'Do, Madame, _pray_ speak of something else. '

'Wat little fool! But no, you are not afraid. I 'av seen the ghosts myself. I saw one, for example, last night, shape like a monkey, sitting in thecorner, with his arms round his knees; very wicked, old, old man his facewas like, and white eyes so large. '

'Come away, Madame! you are trying to frighten me, ' I said, in the childishanger which accompanies fear. Madame laughed an ugly laugh, and said--

'Eh bien! little fool!--I will not tell the rest if you are reallyfrightened; let us change to something else. '

'Yes, yes! oh, do--pray do. '

'Wat good man is your father!'

'Very--the kindest darling. I don't know why it is, Madame, I am so afraidof him, and never could tell him how much I love him. '

This confidential talking with Madame, strange to say, implied noconfidence; it resulted from fear--it was deprecatory. I treated her as ifshe had human sympathies, in the hope that they might be generated somehow. 

'Was there not a doctor from London with him a few months ago? Dr. Bryerly, I think they call him. '

'Yes, a Doctor Bryerly, who remained a few days. Shall we begin to walktowards home, Madame? Do, pray. '

'Immediately, cheaile; and does your father suffer much?'

'No--I think not. '

'And what then is his disease?'

'Disease! he has _no_ disease. Have you heard anything about his health, Madame?' I said, anxiously. 

'Oh no, ma foi--I have heard nothing; but if the doctor came, it was notbecause he was quite well. '

'But that doctor is a doctor in theology, I fancy. I know he is aSwedenborgian; and papa is so well, he _could_ not have come as aphysician. '

'I am very glad, ma chère, to hear; but still you know your father isold man to have so young cheaile as you. Oh, yes--he is old man, and souncertain life is. 'As he made his will, my dear? Every man so rich as he, especially so old, aught to 'av made his will. '

'There is no need of haste, Madame; it is quite time enough when his healthbegins to fail. '

'But has he really compose no will?'

'I really don't know, Madame. '

'Ah, little rogue! you will not tell--but you are not such fool as youfeign yourself. No, no; you know everything. Come, tell me all about--it isfor your advantage, you know. What is in his will, and when he wrote?'

'But, Madame, I really know nothing of it. I can't say whether there is awill or not. Let us talk of something else. '

'But, cheaile, it will not kill Monsieur Ruthyn to make his will; he willnot come to lie here a day sooner by cause of that; but if he make no will, you may lose a great deal of the property. Would not that be pity?'

'I really don't know anything of his will. If papa has made one, he hasnever spoken of it to me. I know he loves me--that is enough. '

'Ah! you are not such little goose--you do know everything, of course. Cometell me, little obstinate, otherwise I will break your little finger. Tellme everything. '

'I know nothing of papa's will. You don't know, Madame, how you hurt me. Let us speak of something else. '

'You do know, and you must tell, petite dure-tête, or I will break a yourlittle finger. '

With which words she seized that joint, and laughing spitefully, shetwisted it suddenly back. I screamed while she continued to laugh. 

'Will you tell?'

'Yes, yes! let me go, ' I shrieked. 

She did not release it immediately however, but continued her torture anddiscordant laughter. At last she finally released my finger. 

'So she is going to be good cheaile, and tell everything to heraffectionate gouvernante. What do you cry for, little fool?'

'You've hurt me very much--you have broken my finger, ' I sobbed. 

'Rub it and blow it and give it a kiss, little fool! What cross girl! Iwill never play with you again--never. Let us go home. '

Madame was silent and morose all the way home. She would not answer myquestions, and affected to be very lofty and offended. 

This did not last very long, however, and she soon resumed her wonted ways. And she returned to the question of the will, but not so directly, and withmore art. 

Why should this dreadful woman's thoughts be running so continually upon myfather's will? How could it concern her?

CHAPTER VII

_CHURCH SCARSDALE_

I think all the females of our household, except Mrs. Rusk, who was at openfeud with her and had only room for the fiercer emotions, were more or lessafraid of this inauspicious foreigner. 

Mrs. Rusk would say in her confidences in my room--

'Where does she come from?--is she a French or a Swiss one, or is she aCanada woman? I remember one of _them_ when I was a girl, and a nice limb_she_ was, too! And who did she live with? Where was her last family? Notone of us knows nothing about her, no more than a child; except, of course, the Master--I do suppose he made enquiry. She's always at hugger-muggerwith Anne Wixted. I'll pack that _one_ about her business, if she doesn'tmind. Tattling and whispering eternally. It's not about her own businessshe's a-talking. Madame de la Rougepot, I call her. She _does_ know how topaint up to the ninety-nines--she does, the old cat. I beg your pardon, Miss, but _that_ she is--a devil, and no mistake. I found her out first byher thieving the Master's gin, that the doctor ordered him, and filling thedecanter up with water--the old villain; but she'll be found out yet, shewill; and all the maids is afraid on her. She's not right, they think--awitch or a ghost--I should not wonder. Catherine Jones found her in her bedasleep in the morning after she sulked with you, you know, Miss, with allher clothes on, what-ever was the meaning; and I think she has frightened_you, _ Miss and has you as nervous as anythink--I do, ' and so forth. 

It was true. I _was_ nervous, and growing rather more so; and I think thiscynical woman perceived and intended it, and was pleased. I was alwaysafraid of her concealing herself in my room, and emerging at night to scareme. She began sometimes to mingle in my dreams, too--always awfully; andthis nourished, of course, the kind of ambiguous fear in which, in wakinghours, I held her. 

I dreamed one night that she led me, all the time whispering something sovery fast that I could not understand her, into the library, holdinga candle in her other hand above her head. We walked on tiptoe, likecriminals at the dead of night, and stopped before that old oak cabinetwhich my father had indicated in so odd a way to me. I felt that we wereabout some contraband practice. There was a key in the door, which Iexperienced a guilty horror at turning, she whispering in the sameunintelligible way, all the time, at my ear. I _did_ turn it; the dooropened quite softly, and within stood my father, his face white andmalignant, and glaring close in mine. He cried in a terrible voice, 'Death!' Out went Madame's candle, and at the same moment, with a scream, I waked in the dark--still fancying myself in the library; and for an hourafter I continued in a hysterical state. 

Every little incident about Madame furnished a topic of eager discussionamong the maids. More or less covertly, they nearly all hated and fearedher. They fancied that she was making good her footing with 'the Master;'and that she would then oust Mrs. Rusk--perhaps usurp her place--and somake a clean sweep of them all. I fancy the honest little housekeeper didnot discourage that suspicion. 

About this time I recollect a pedlar--an odd, gipsified-looking man--calledin at Knowl. I and Catherine Jones were in the court when he came, and setdown his pack on the low balustrade beside the door. 

All sorts of commodities he had--ribbons, cottons, silks, stockings, lace, and even some bad jewellry; and just as he began his display--aninteresting matter in a quiet country house--Madame came upon the ground. He grinned a recognition, and hoped 'Madamasel' was well, and 'did not lookto see _her_ here. '

'Madamasel' thanked him. 'Yes, vary well, ' and looked for the first timedecidedly 'put out. '

'Wat a pretty things!' she said. 'Catherine, run and tell Mrs. Rusk. Shewants scissars, and lace too--I heard her say. '

So Catherine, with a lingering look, departed; and Madame said--

'Will you, dear cheaile, be so kind to bring here my purse, I forgot on thetable in my room; also, I advise you, bring _your_. '

Catherine returned with Mrs. Rusk. Here was a man who could tell themsomething of the old Frenchwoman, at last! Slyly they dawdled over hiswares, until Madame had made her market and departed with me. But when thecoveted opportunity came, the pedlar was quite impenetrable. 'He forgoteverything; he did not believe as he ever saw the lady before. He called aFrenchwoman, all the world over, Madamasel--that wor the name on 'em all. He never seed her in partiklar afore, as he could bring to mind. He likedto see 'em always, 'cause they makes the young uns buy. '

This reserve and oblivion were very provoking, and neither Mrs. Rusk norCatherine Jones spent sixpence with him;--he was a stupid fellow, or worse. 

Of course Madame had tampered with him. But truth, like murder, will outsome day. Tom Williams, the groom, had seen her, when alone with him, andpretending to look at his stock, with her face almost buried in his silksand Welsh linseys, talking as fast as she could all the time, and slipping_money_, he did suppose, under a piece of stuff in his box. 

In the mean time, I and Madame were walking over the wide, peatysheep-walks that lie between Knowl and Church Scarsdale. Since our visit tothe mausoleum in the wood, she had not worried me so much as before. Shehad been, indeed, more than usually thoughtful, very little talkative, andtroubled me hardly at all about French and other accomplishments. A walkwas a part of our daily routine. I now carried a tiny basket in my hand, with a few sandwiches, which were to furnish our luncheon when we reachedthe pretty scene, about two miles away, whither we were tending. 

We had started a little too late; Madame grew unwontedly fatigued and satdown to rest on a stile before we had got half-way; and there she intoned, with a dismal nasal cadence, a quaint old Bretagne ballad, about a ladywith a pig's head:--

 'This lady was neither pig nor maid, And so she was not of human mould; Not of the living nor the dead. Her left hand and foot were warm to touch; Her right as cold as a corpse's flesh! And she would sing like a funeral bell, with a ding-dong tune. The pigs were afraid, and viewed her aloof; And women feared her and stood afar. She could do without sleep for a year and a day; She could sleep like a corpse, for a month and more. No one knew how this lady fed-- On acorns or on flesh. Some say that she's one of the swine-possessed, That swam over the sea of Gennesaret. A mongrel body and demon soul. Some say she's the wife of the Wandering Jew, And broke the law for the sake of pork; And a swinish face for a token doth bear, That her shame is now, and her punishment coming. '

And so it went on, in a gingling rigmarole. The more anxious I seemed to goon our way, the more likely was she to loiter. I therefore showed no signsof impatience, and I saw her consult her watch in the course of her uglyminstrelsy, and slyly glance, as if expecting something, in the directionof our destination. 

When she had sung to her heart's content, up rose Madame, and began to walkonward silently. I saw her glance once or twice, as before, toward thevillage of Trillsworth, which lay in front, a little to our left, andthe smoke of which hung in a film over the brow of the hill. I think sheobserved me, for she enquired--

'Wat is that a smoke there?'

'That is Trillsworth, Madame; there is a railway station there. '

'Oh, le chemin de fer, so near! I did not think. Where it goes?'

I told her, and silence returned. 

Church Scarsdale is a very pretty and odd scene. The slightly undulatingsheep-walk dips suddenly into a wide glen, in the lap of which, by abright, winding rill, rise from the sward the ruins of a small abbey, witha few solemn trees scattered round. The crows' nests hung untenanted in thetrees; the birds were foraging far away from their roosts. The very cattlehad forsaken the place. It was solitude itself. 

Madame drew a long breath and smiled. 

'Come down, come down, cheaile--come down to the churchyard. '

As we descended the slope which shut out the surrounding world, and thescene grew more sad and lonely. Madame's spirits seemed to rise. 

'See 'ow many grave-stones--one, _two_ hundred. Don't you love the dead, cheaile? I will teach you to love them. You shall see me die here to-day, for half an hour, and be among them. That is what I love. '

We were by this time at the little brook's side, and the low churchyardwall with a stile, reached by a couple of stepping-stones, across thestream, immediately at the other side. 

'Come, now!' cried Madame, raising her face, as if to sniff the air; 'weare close to them. You will like them soon as I. You shall see five ofthem. Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira! Come cross quickily! I am Madame laMorgue--Mrs. Deadhouse! I will present you my friends, Monsieur Cadavre andMonsieur Squelette. Come, come, leetle mortal, let us play. Ouaah!' Andshe uttered a horrid yell from her enormous mouth, and pushing her wig andbonnet back, so as to show her great, bald head. She was laughing, andreally looked quite mad. 

'No, Madame, I will not go with you, ' I said, disengaging my hand with aviolent effort, receding two or three steps. 

'Not enter the churchyard! Ma foi--wat mauvais goût! But see, we arealready in shade. The sun he is setting soon--where well you remain, cheaile? I will not stay long. '

'I'll stay here, ' I said, a little angrily--for I _was_ angry as well asnervous; and through my fear was that indignation at her extravaganceswhich mimicked lunacy so unpleasantly, and were, I knew, designed tofrighten me. 

Over the stepping-stones, pulling up her dress, she skipped with her long, lank legs, like a witch joining a Walpurgis. Over the stile she strode, andI saw her head wagging, and heard her sing some of her ill-omened rhymes, as she capered solemnly, with many a grin and courtesy, among the gravesand headstones, towards the ruin. 

CHAPTER VIII

_THE SMOKER_

Three years later I learned--in a way she probably little expected, andthen did not much care about--what really occurred there. I learned evenphrases and looks--for the story was related by one who had heard ittold--and therefore I venture to narrate what at the moment I neither sawnor suspected. While I sat, flushed and nervous, upon a flat stone by thebank of the little stream, Madame looked over her shoulder, and perceivingthat I was out of sight, she abated her pace, and turned sharply towardsthe ruin which lay at her left. It was her first visit, and she was merelyexploring; but now, with a perfectly shrewd and businesslike air, turningthe corner of the building, she saw, seated upon the edge of a grave-stone, a rather fat and flashily-equipped young man, with large, light whiskers, ajerry hat, green cutaway coat with gilt buttons, and waistcoat and trousersrather striking than elegant in pattern. He was smoking a short pipe, andmade a nod to Madame, without either removing it from his lips or rising, but with his brown and rather good-looking face turned up, he eyed her withsomething of the impudent and sulky expression that was habitual to it. 

'Ha, Deedle, you are there! an' look so well. I am here, too, quite _a_lon;but my friend, she wait outside the churchyard, by-side the leetle river, for she must not think I know you--so I am come _a_lon. '

'You're a quarter late, and I lost a fight by you, old girl, this morning, 'said the gay man, and spat on the ground; 'and I wish you would not call meDiddle. I'll call you Granny if you do. '

'Eh bien! _Dud, _ then. She is vary nice--wat you like. Slim waist, witeteeth, vary nice eyes--dark--wat you say is best--and nice leetle foot andankle. '

Madame smiled leeringly. 

Dud smoked on. 

'Go on, ' said Dud, with a nod of command. 

'I am teach her to sing and play--she has such sweet voice!

There was another interval here. 

'Well, that isn't much good. I hate women's screechin' about fairies andflowers. Hang her! there's a scarecrow as sings at Curl's Divan. Such acaterwauling upon a stage! I'd like to put my two barrels into her. '

By this time Dud's pipe was out, and he could afford to converse. 

'You shall see her and decide. You will walk down the river, and pass herby. '

'That's as may be; howsoever, it would not do, nohow, to buy a pig in apoke, you know. And s'pose I shouldn't like her, arter all?'

Madame sneered, with a patois ejaculation of derision. 

'Vary good! Then some one else will not be so 'ard to please--as you willsoon find. '

'Some one's bin a-lookin' arter her, you mean?' said the young man, with ashrewd uneasy glance on the cunning face of the French lady. 

'I mean precisely--that which I mean, ' replied the lady, with a teazingpause at the break I have marked. 

'Come, old 'un, none of your d---- old chaff, if you want me to stayhere listening to you. Speak out, can't you? There's any chap as has bina-lookin' arter her--is there?'

'Eh bien! I suppose some. '

'Well, you _suppose, _ and _I_ suppose--we may _all_ suppose, I guess; butthat does not make a thing be, as wasn't before; and you tell me as howthe lass is kep' private up there, and will be till you're done educatingher--a precious good 'un that is!' And he laughed a little lazily, withthe ivory handle of his cane on his lip, and eyeing Madame with indolentderision. 

Madame laughed, but looked rather dangerous. 

'I'm only chaffin', you know, old girl. _You_'ve bin chaffin'--w'yshouldn't _I_? But I don't see why she can't wait a bit; and what's all thed----d hurry for? _I_'m in no hurry. I don't want a wife on my back for awhile. There's no fellow marries till he's took his bit o' fun, and seenlife--is there! And why should I be driving with her to fairs, or tochurch, or to meeting, by jingo!--for they say she's a Quaker--with a babbyon each knee, only to please them as will be dead and rotten when _I_'monly beginning?'

'Ah, you are such charming fellow; always the same--always sensible. SoI and my friend we will walk home again, and you go see Maggie Hawkes. Good-a-by, Dud--good-a-by. '

'Quiet, you fool!--can't ye?' said the young gentleman, with the sort ofgrin that made his face vicious when a horse vexed him. 'Who ever said Iwouldn't go look at the girl? Why, you know that's just what I come herefor--don't you? Only when I think a bit, and a notion comes across me, whyshouldn't I speak out? I'm not one o' them shilly-shallies. If I like thegirl, I'll not be mug in and mug out about it. Only mind ye, I'll judge formyself. Is that her a-coming?'

'No; it was a distant sound. '

Madame peeped round the corner. No one was approaching. 

'Well, you go round that a-way, and you only look at her, you know, for sheis such fool--so nairvous. '

'Oh, is that the way with her?' said Dud, knocking out the ashes of hispipe on a tombstone, and replacing the Turkish utensil in his pocket. 'Well, then, old lass, good-bye, ' and he shook her hand. 'And, do ye see, don't ye come up till I pass, for I'm no hand at play-acting; an' if youcalled me "sir, " or was coming it dignified and distant, you know, I'd besure to laugh, a'most, and let all out. So good-bye, d'ye see, and if youwant me again be sharp to time, mind. 

From habit he looked about for his dogs, but he had not brought one. He hadcome unostentatiously by rail, travelling in a third-class carriage, forthe advantage of Jack Briderly's company, and getting a world of usefulwrinkles about the steeplechase that was coming off next week. 

So he strode away, cutting off the heads of the nettles with his cane as hewent; and Madame walked forth into the open space among the graves, where Imight have seen her, had I stood up, looking with the absorbed gaze of anartist on the ruin. 

In a little while, along the path, I heard the clank of a step, and thegentleman in the green cutaway coat, sucking his cane, and eyeing mewith an offensive familiar sort of stare the while, passed me by, ratherhesitating as he did so. I was glad when he turned the corner in the littlehollow close by, and disappeared. I stood up at once, and was reassuredby a sight of Madame, not very many yards away, looking at the ruin, andapparently restored to her right mind. The last beams of the sun were bythis time touching the uplands, and I was longing to recommence our walkhome. I was hesitating about calling to Madame, because that lady had acertain spirit of opposition within her, and to disclose a small wishof any sort was generally, if it lay in her power, to prevent itsaccomplishment. 

At this moment the gentleman in the green coat returned, approaching mewith a slow sort of swagger. 

'I say, Miss, I dropped a glove close by here. May you have seen it?'

'No, sir, ' I said, drawing back a little, and looking, I dare say, bothfrightened and offended. 

'I do think I must 'a dropped it close by your foot, Miss. '

'No, sir, ' I repeated. 

'No offence, Miss, but you're sure you didn't hide it?'

I was beginning to grow seriously uncomfortable. 

'Don't be frightened, Miss; it's only a bit o' chaff. I'm not going tosearch. '

I called aloud, 'Madame, Madame!' and he whistled through his fingers, andshouted, 'Madame, Madame, ' and added, 'She's as deaf as a tombstone, orshe'll hear that. Gi'e her my compliments, and say I said you're a beauty, Miss;' and with a laugh and a leer he strode off. 

Altogether this had not been a very pleasant excursion. Madame gobbled upour sandwiches, commending them every now and then to me. But I had beentoo much excited to have any appetite left, and very tired I was when wereached home. 

'So, there is lady coming to-morrow?' said Madame, who knew everything. 'Wat is her name? I forget. '

'Lady Knollys, ' I answered. 

'Lady Knollys--wat odd name! She is very young--is she not?'

'Past fifty, I think. '

'Hélas! She's vary old, then. Is she rich?'

'I don't know. She has a place in Derbyshire. '

'Derbyshire--that is one of your English counties, is it not?'

'Oh yes, Madame, ' I answered, laughing. 'I have said it to you twice sinceyou came;' and I gabbled through the chief towns and rivers as cataloguedin my geography. 

'Bah! to be sure--of course, cheaile. And is she your relation?'

'Papa's first cousin. '

'Won't you present-a me, pray?--I would so like!'

Madame had fallen into the English way of liking people with titles, asperhaps foreigners would if titles implied the sort of power they dogenerally with us. 

'Certainly, Madame. '

'You will not forget?'

'Oh no. '

Madame reminded me twice, in the course of the evening, of my promise. She was very eager on this point. But it is a world of disappointment, influenza, and rheumatics; and next morning Madame was prostrate in herbed, and careless of all things but flannel and James's powder. 

Madame was _désolée_; but she could not raise her head. She only murmured aquestion. 

'For 'ow long time, dear, will Lady Knollys remain?'

'A very few days, I believe. '

'Hélas! 'ow onlucky! maybe to-morrow I shall be better Ouah! my ear. Thelaudanum, dear cheaile!'

And so our conversation for that time ended, and Madame buried her head inher old red cashmere shawl. 

CHAPTER IX

_MONICA KNOLLYS_

Punctually Lady Knollys arrived. She was accompanied by her nephew, CaptainOakley. 

They arrived a little before dinner; just in time to get to their rooms anddress. But Mary Quince enlivened my toilet with eloquent descriptions ofthe youthful Captain whom she had met in the gallery, on his way to hisroom, with the servant, and told me how he stopped to let her pass, and how'he smiled so 'ansom. '

I was very young then, you know, and more childish even than my years; butthis talk of Mary Quince's interested me, I must confess, considerably. Iwas painting all sort of portraits of this heroic soldier, while affecting, I am afraid, a hypocritical indifference to her narration, and I know I wasvery nervous and painstaking about my toilet that evening. When I went downto the drawing-room, Lady Knollys was there, talking volubly to my fatheras I entered--a woman not really old, but such as very young people fancyaged--energetic, bright, saucy, dressed handsomely in purple satin, with agood deal of lace, and a rich point--I know not how to call it--not a cap, a sort of head-dress--light and simple, but grand withal, over her greyish, silken hair. 

Rather tall, by no means stout, on the whole a good firm figure, withsomething kindly in her look. She got up, quite like a young person, andcoming quickly to meet me with a smile--

'My young cousin!' she cried, and kissed me on both cheeks. 'You know whoI am? Your cousin Monica--Monica Knollys--and very glad, dear, to see you, though she has not set eyes on you since you were no longer than thatpaper-knife. Now come here to the lamp, for I must look at you. Who is shelike? Let me see. Like your poor mother, I think, my dear; but you've theAylmer nose--yes--not a bad nose either, and, come I very good eyes, uponmy life--yes, certainly something of her poor mother--not a bit like you, Austin. '

My father gave her a look as near a smile as I had seen there for a longtime, shrewd, cynical, but kindly too, and said he--

'So much the better, Monica, eh?'

'It was not for me to say--but you know, Austin, you always were an uglycreature. How shocked and indignant the little girl looks! You must not bevexed, you loyal little woman, with Cousin Monica for telling the truth. Papa was and will be ugly all his days. Come, Austin, dear, tell her--isnot it so?'

'What! depose against myself! That's not English law, Monica. '

'Well, maybe not; but if the child won't believe her own eyes, how is sheto believe me? She has long, pretty hands--you have--and very nice feettoo. How old is she?'

'How old, child?' said my father to me, transferring the question. 

She recurred again to my eyes. 

'That is the true grey--large, deep, soft--very peculiar. Yes, dear, verypretty--long lashes, and such bright tints! You'll be in the Book ofBeauty, my dear, when you come out, and have all the poet people writingverses to the tip of your nose--and a very pretty little nose it is!'

I must mention here how striking was the change in my father's spirit whiletalking and listening to his odd and voluble old Cousin Monica. Reflectedfrom bygone associations, there had come a glimmer of something, notgaiety, indeed, but like an appreciation of gaiety. The gloom andinflexibility were gone, and there was an evident encouragement andenjoyment of the incessant sallies of his bustling visitor. 

How morbid must have been the tendencies of his habitual solitude, I think, appeared from the evident thawing and brightening that accompanied eventhis transient gleam of human society. I was not a companion--more childishthan most girls of my age, and trained in all his whimsical ways, never tointerrupt a silence, or force his thoughts by unexpected question or remarkout of their monotonous or painful channel. 

I was as much surprised at the good-humour with which he submitted tohis cousin's saucy talk; and, indeed, just then those black-panelled andpictured walls, and that quaint, misshapen room, seemed to have exchangedtheir stern and awful character for something wonderfully pleasanter to me, notwithstanding the unpleasantness of the personal criticism to which theplain-spoken lady chose to subject me. 

Just at that moment Captain Oakley joined us. He was my first actual visionof that awful and distant world of fashion, of whose splendours I hadalready read something in the three-volumed gospel of the circulatinglibrary. 

Handsome, elegant, with features almost feminine, and soft, wavy, blackhair, whiskers and moustache, he was altogether such a knight as I hadnever beheld, or even fancied, at Knowl--a hero of another species, andfrom the region of the demigods. I did not then perceive that coldness ofthe eye, and cruel curl of the voluptuous lip--only a suspicion, yet enoughto indicate the profligate man, and savouring of death unto death. 

But I was young, and had not yet the direful knowledge of good and evilthat comes with years; and he was so very handsome, and talked in a waythat was so new to me, and was so much more charming than the well-bredconverse of the humdrum county families with whom I had occasionallysojourned for a week at a time. 

It came out incidentally that his leave of absence was to expire theday after to-morrow. A Lilliputian pang of disappointment followed thisannouncement. Already I was sorry to lose him. So soon we begin to make aproperty of what pleases us. 

I was shy, but not awkward. I was flattered by the attention of thisamusing, perhaps rather fascinating, young man of the world; and he plainlyaddressed himself with diligence to amuse and please me. I dare say therewas more effort than I fancied in bringing his talk down to my humblelevel, and interesting me and making me laugh about people whom I had neverheard of before, than I then suspected. 

Cousin Knollys meanwhile was talking to papa. It was just the conversationthat suited a man so silent as habit had made him, for her frolic fluencyleft him little to supply. It was totally impossible, indeed, even in ourtaciturn household, that conversation should ever flag while she was amongus. 

Cousin Knollys and I went into the drawing-room together, leaving thegentlemen--rather ill-assorted, I fear--to entertain one another for atime. 

'Come here, my dear, and sit near me, ' said Lady Knollys, dropping into aneasy chair with an energetic little plump, 'and tell me how you and yourpapa get on. I can remember him quite a cheerful man once, and ratheramusing--yes, indeed--and now you see what a bore he is--all by shuttinghimself up and nursing his whims and fancies. Are those your drawings, dear?'

'Yes, very bad, I'm afraid; but there are a few, _better_, I think in theportfolio in the cabinet in the hall. '

'They are by _no_ means bad, my dear; and you play, of course?'

'Yes--that is, a little--pretty well, I hope. '

'I dare say. I must hear you by-and-by. And how does your papa amuse you?You look bewildered, dear. Well, I dare say, amusement is not a frequentword in this house. But you must not turn into a nun, or worse, into apuritan. What is he? A Fifth-Monarchy-man, or something--I forget; tell methe name, my dear. '

'Papa is a Swedenborgian, I believe. '

'Yes, yes--I forgot the horrid name--a Swedenborgian, that is it. I don'tknow exactly what they think, but everyone knows they are a sort of pagans, my dear. He's not making one of _you_, dear--is he?'

'I go to church every Sunday. '

'Well, that's a mercy; Swedenborgian is such an ugly name, and besides, they are all likely to be damned, my dear, and that's a seriousconsideration. I really wish poor Austin had hit on something else; I'dmuch rather have no religion, and enjoy life while I'm in it, than chooseone to worry me here and bedevil me hereafter. But some people, my dear, have a taste for being miserable, and provide, like poor Austin, for itsgratification in the next world as well as here. Ha, ha, ha! how grave thelittle woman looks! Don't you think me very wicked? You know you do; andvery likely you are right. Who makes your dresses, my dear? You _are_ sucha figure of fun!'

'Mrs. Rusk, I think, ordered _this_ dress. I and Mary Quince planned it. Ithought it very nice. We all like it very well. '

There was something, I dare say, very whimsical about it, probably veryabsurd, judged at least by the canons of fashion, and old Cousin MonicaKnollys, in whose eye the London fashions were always fresh, was palpablystruck by it as if it had been some enormity against anatomy, for shecertainly laughed very heartily; indeed, there were tears on her cheekswhen she had done, and I am sure my aspect of wonder and dignity, as herhilarity proceeded, helped to revive her merriment again and again as itwas subsiding. 

'There, you mustn't be vexed with old Cousin Monica, ' she cried, jumpingup, and giving me a little hug, and bestowing a hearty kiss on my forehead, and a jolly little slap on my cheek. 'Always remember your cousin Monica isan outspoken, wicked old fool, who likes you, and never be offended by hernonsense. A council of three--you all sat upon it--Mrs. Rusk, you said, andMary Quince, and your wise self, the weird sisters; and Austin stepped in, as Macbeth, and said, 'What is't ye do?' you all made answer together, 'Asomething or other without a name!' Now, seriously, my dear, it is quiteunpardonable in Austin--your papa, I mean--to hand you over to be robed andbedizened according to the whimsies of these wild old women--aren't theyold? If they know better, it's positively _fiendish. _ I'll blow him up--Iwill indeed, my dear. You know you're an heiress, and ought not to appearlike a jack-pudding. '

'Papa intends sending me to London with Madame and Mary Quince, and goingwith me himself, if Doctor Bryerly says he may make the journey, and then Iam to have dresses and everything. '

'Well, that is better. And who is Doctor Bryerly--is your papa ill?'

'Ill; oh no; he always seems just the same. You don't think himill-_looking_ ill, I mean?' I asked eagerly and frightened. 

'No, my dear, he looks very well for his time of life; but why is DoctorWhat's-his-name here? Is he a physician, or a divine, or a horse-doctor?and why is his leave asked?'

'I--I really don't understand. '

'Is he a what d'ye call'em--a Swedenborgian?'

'I believe so. '

'Oh, I see; ha, ha, ha! And so poor Austin must ask leave to go up to town. Well, go he shall, whether his doctor likes it or not, for it would not doto send you there in charge of your Frenchwoman, my dear. What's her name?'

'Madame de la Rougierre. '

CHAPTER X

_LADY KNOLLYS REMOVES A COVERLET_

Lady Knollys pursued her enquiries. 

'And why does not Madame make your dresses, my dear? I wager a guinea thewoman's a milliner. Did not she engage to make your dresses?'

'I--I really don't know; I rather think not. She is my governess--afinishing governess, Mrs. Rusk says. '

'Finishing fiddle! Hoity-toity! and my lady's too grand to cut out yourdresses and help to sew them? And what _does_ she do? I venture to sayshe's fit to teach nothing but devilment--not that she has taught _you_much, my dear--_yet_ at least. I'll see her, my dear; where is she? Come, let us visit Madame. I should so like to talk to her a little. '

'But she is ill, ' I answered, and all this time I was ready to cry forvexation, thinking of my dress, which must be very absurd to elicit so muchunaffected laughter from my experienced relative, and I was only longing toget away and hide myself before that handsome Captain returned. 

'Ill! is she? what's the matter?'

'A cold--feverish and rheumatic, she says. '

'Oh, a cold; is she up, or in bed?'

'In her room, but not in bed. '

'I should so like to see her, my dear. It is not mere curiosity, I assureyou. In fact, curiosity has nothing on earth to do with it. A governess maybe a very useful or a very useless person; but she may also be about themost pernicious inmate imaginable. She may teach you a bad accent, andworse manners, and heaven knows what beside. Send the housekeeper, my dear, to tell her that I am going to see her. '

'I had better go myself, perhaps, ' I said, fearing a collision between Mrs. Rusk and the bitter Frenchwoman. 

'Very well, dear. '

And away I ran, not sorry somehow to escape before Captain Oakley returned. 

As I went along the passage, I was thinking whether my dress could beso very ridiculous as my old cousin thought it, and trying in vain torecollect any evidence of a similar contemptuous estimate on the part ofthat beautiful and garrulous dandy. I could not--quite the reverse, indeed. Still I was uncomfortable and feverish--girls of my then age will easilyconceive how miserable, under similar circumstances, such a misgiving wouldmake them. 

It was a long way to Madame's room. I met Mrs. Rusk bustling along thepassage with a housemaid. 

'How is Madame?' I asked. 

'Quite well, I believe, ' answered the housekeeper, drily. 'Nothing thematter that _I_ know of. She eat enough for two to-day. I wish _I_ couldsit in my room doing nothing. '

Madame was sitting, or rather reclining, in a low arm-chair, when I enteredthe room, close to the fire, as was her wont, her feet extended near to thebars, and a little coffee equipage beside her. She stuffed a book hastilybetween her dress and the chair, and received me in a state of langourwhich, had it not been for Mrs. Rusk's comfortable assurances, would havefrightened me. 

'I hope you are better, Madame, ' I said, approaching. 

'Better than I deserve, my dear cheaile, sufficiently well. The peopleare all so good, trying me with every little thing, like a bird; here iscafé--Mrs. Rusk-a, poor woman, I try to swallow a little to please her. '

'And your cold, is it better?'

She shook her head languidly, her elbow resting on the chair, and threefinger-tips supporting her forehead, and then she made a little sigh, looking down from the corners of her eyes, in an interesting dejection. 

'Je sens des lassitudes in all the members--but I am quaite 'appy, andthough I suffer I am console and oblige des bontés, ma chère, que vousavez tous pour moi;' and with these words she turned a languid glance ofgratitude on me which dropped on the ground. 

'Lady Knollys wishes very much to see you, only for a few minutes, if youcould admit her. '

'Vous savez les malades see _never_ visitors, ' she replied with a startledsort of tartness, and a momentary energy. 'Besides, I cannot converse; jesens de temps en temps des douleurs de tête--of head, and of the ear, theright ear, it is parfois agony absolutely, and now it is here. '

And she winced and moaned, with her eyes closed and her hand pressed to theorgan affected. 

Simple as I was, I felt instinctively that Madame was shamming. She wasover-acting; her transitions were too violent, and beside she forgot thatI knew how well she could speak English, and must perceive that she washeightening the interest of her helplessness by that pretty tessellationof foreign idiom. I there-fore said with a kind of courage which sometimeshelped me suddenly--

'Oh, Madame, don't you really think you might, without much inconvenience, see Lady Knollys for a very few minutes?'

'Cruel cheaile! you know I have a pain of the ear which makes me 'orriblysuffer at this moment, and you demand me whether I will not conversewith strangers. I did not think you would be so unkain, Maud; but it isimpossible, you must see--quite impossible. I never, you _know_, refuse totake trouble when I am able--never--_never_. '

And Madame shed some tears, which always came at call, and with her handpressed to her ear, said very faintly, 'Be so good to tell your friend how you see me, and how I suffer, and leaveme, Maud, for I wish to lie down for a little, since the pain will notallow me to remain longer. '

So with a few words of comfort which could not well be refused, but I daresay betraying my suspicion that more was made of her sufferings than needbe, I returned to the drawing-room. 

'Captain Oakley has been here, my dear, and fancying, I suppose, that youhad left us for the evening, has gone to the billiard-room, I think, ' saidLady Knollys, as I entered. 

That, then, accounted for the rumble and smack of balls which I had heardas I passed the door. 

'I have been telling Maud how detestably she is got up. '

'Very thoughtful of you, Monica!' said my father. 

'Yes, and really, Austin, it is quite clear you ought to marry; you wantsome one to take this girl out, and look after her, and who's to do it?She's a dowdy--don't you see? Such a dust! And it _is_ really such a pity;for she's a very pretty creature, and a clever woman could make her quitecharming. '

My father took Cousin Monica's sallies with the most wonderful good-humour. She had always, I fancy, been a privileged person, and my father, whom weall feared, received her jolly attacks, as I fancy the grim Front-de-Boeufsof old accepted the humours and personalities of their jesters. 

'Am I to accept this as an overture?' said my father to his voluble cousin. 

'Yes, you may, but not for myself, Austin--I'm not worthy. Do you rememberlittle Kitty Weadon that I wanted you to marry eight-and-twenty years ago, or more, with a hundred and twenty thousand pounds? Well, you know, shehas got ever so much now, and she is really a most amiable old thing, andthough _you_ would not have her then, she has had her second husband since, I can tell you. '

'I'm glad I was not the first, ' said my father. 

'Well, they really say her wealth is absolutely immense. Her last husband, the Russian merchant, left her everything. She has not a human relation, and she is in the best set. '

'You were always a match-maker, Monica, ' said my father, stopping, andputting his hand kindly on hers. 'But it won't do. No, no, Monica; we musttake care of little Maud some other way. '

I was relieved. We women have all an instinctive dread of second marriages, and think that no widower is quite above or below that danger; and Iremember, whenever my father, which indeed was but seldom, made a visit totown or anywhere else, it was a saying of Mrs. Rusk--

'I shan't wonder, neither need you, my dear, if he brings home a young wifewith him. '

So my father, with a kind look at her, and a very tender one on me, wentsilently to the library, as he often did about that hour. 

I could not help resenting my Cousin Knollys' officious recommendation ofmatrimony. Nothing I dreaded more than a step-mother. Good Mrs. Ruskand Mary Quince, in their several ways, used to enhance, by occasionalanecdotes and frequent reflections, the terrors of such an intrusion. Isuppose they did not wish a revolution and all its consequences at Knowl, and thought it no harm to excite my vigilance. 

But it was impossible long to be vexed with Cousin Monica. 

'You know, my dear, your father is an oddity, ' she said. 'I don't mindhim--I never did. You must not. Cracky, my dear, cracky--decidedly cracky!'

And she tapped the corner of her forehead, with a look so sly and comical, that I think I should have laughed, if the sentiment had not been soawfully irreverent. 

'Well, dear, how is our friend the milliner?'

'Madame is suffering so much from pain in her ear, that she says it wouldbe quite impossible to have the honour--'

'Honour--fiddle! I want to see what the woman's like. Pain in her ear, yousay? Poor thing! Well, dear, I think I can cure that in five minutes. Ihave it myself, now and then. Come to my room, and we'll get the bottles. 

So she lighted her candle in the lobby, and with a light and agile stepshe scaled the stairs, I following; and having found the remedies, weapproached Madame's room together. 

I think, while we were still at the end of the gallery, Madame heard anddivined our approach, for her door suddenly shut, and there was a fumblingat the handle. But the bolt was out of order. 

Lady Knollys tapped at the door, saying--'we'll come in, please, and seeyou. I've some remedies, which I'm sure will do you good. '

There was no answer; so she opened the door, and we both entered. Madamehad rolled herself in the blue coverlet, and was lying on the bed, with herface buried in the pillow, and enveloped in the covering. 

'Perhaps she's asleep?' said Lady Knollys, getting round to the side of thebed, and stooping over her. 

Madame lay still as a mouse. Cousin Monica set down her two little vialson the table, and, stooping again over the bed, began very gently withher fingers to lift the coverlet that covered her face. Madame uttereda slumbering moan, and turned more upon her face, clasping the coverletfaster about her. 

'Madame, it is Maud and Lady Knollys. We have come to relieve your ear. Pray let me see it. She can't be asleep, she's holding the clothes so fast. Do, pray, allow me to see it. '

CHAPTER XI

_LADY KNOLLYS SEES THE FEATURES_

Perhaps, if Madame had murmured, 'It is quite well--pray permit me tosleep, ' she would have escaped an awkwardness. But having adopted the rôleof the exhausted slumberer, she could not consistently speak at the moment;neither would it do by main force, to hold the coverlet about her face, andso her presence of mind forsook her. Cousin Monica drew it back and hardlybeheld the profile of the sufferer, when her good-humoured face was linedand shadowed with a dark curiosity and a surprise by no means pleasant. Shestood erect beside the bed, with her mouth firmly shut and drawn down atthe corners, in a sort of recoil and perturbation, looking down upon thepatient. 

'So that's Madame de la Rougierre?' at length exclaimed Lady Knollys, witha very stately disdain. I think I never saw anyone look more shocked. 

Madame sat up, very flushed. No wonder, for she had been wrapped so closein the coverlet. She did not look quite at Lady Knollys, but straightbefore her, rather downward, and very luridly. 

I was very much frightened and amazed, and felt on the point of burstinginto tears. 

'So, Mademoiselle, you have married, it seems, since I had last the honourof seeing you? I did not recognise Mademoiselle under her new name. '

'Yes--I _am_ married, Lady Knollys; I thought everyone who knew me hadheard of that. Very respectably married, for a person of my rank. I shallnot need long the life of a governess. There is no harm, I hope?'

'I hope not, ' said Lady Knollys, drily, a little pale, and still lookingwith a dark sort of wonder upon the flushed face and forehead of thegoverness, who was looking downward, straight before her, very sulkily anddisconcerted. 

'I suppose you have explained everything satisfactorily to Mr. Ruthyn, inwhose house I find you?' said Cousin Monica. 

'Yes, certainly, everything he requires--in effect there is _nothing_ toexplain. I am ready to answer to any question. Let _him_ demand me. '

'Very good, Mademoiselle. '

'_Madame_, if you please. '

'I forgot--_Madame_--yes, I shall apprise him of everything. '

Madame turned upon her a peaked and malign look, smiling askance with astealthy scorn. 

'For myself, I have nothing to conceal. I have always done my duty. Whatfine scene about nothing absolutely--what charming remedies for a sickperson! Ma foi! how much oblige I am for these so amiable attentions!'

'So far as I can see, Mademoiselle--Madame, I mean--you don't stand verymuch in need of remedies. Your ear and head don't seem to trouble you justnow. I fancy these pains may now be dismissed. '

Lady Knollys was now speaking French. 

'Mi ladi has diverted my attention for a moment, but that does not preventthat I suffer frightfully. I am, of course, only poor governess, and suchpeople perhaps ought not to have pain--at least to show when they suffer. It is permitted us to die, but not to be sick. '

'Come, Maud, my dear, let us leave the invalid to her repose and to nature. I don't think she needs my chloroform and opium at present. '

'Mi ladi is herself a physic which chases many things, and powerfullyaffects the ear. I would wish to sleep, notwithstanding, and can but gainthat in silence, if it pleases mi ladi. '

'Come, my dear, ' said Lady Knollys, without again glancing at the scowling, smiling, swarthy face in the bed; 'let us leave your instructress to her_concforto_. '

'The room smells all over of brandy, my dear--does she drink?' said LadyKnollys, as she closed the door, a little sharply. 

I am sure I looked as much amazed as I felt, at an imputation which thenseemed to me so entirely incredible. 

'Good little simpleton!' said Cousin Monica, smiling in my face, andbestowing a little kiss on my cheek; 'such a thing as a tipsy lady hasnever been dreamt of in your philosophy. Well, we live and learn. Let ushave our tea in my room--the gentlemen, I dare say, have retired. '

I assented, of course, and we had tea very cosily by her bedroom fire. 

'How long have you had that woman?' she asked suddenly, after, for her, avery long rumination. 

'She came in the beginning of February--nearly ten months ago--is not it?'

'And who sent her?'

'I really don't know; papa tells me so little--he arranged it all himself, I think. '

Cousin Monica made a sound of acquiescence--her lips closed and a nod, frowning hard at the bars. 

'It _is_ very odd!' she said; 'how people _can_ be such fools!' Here therecame a little pause. 'And what sort of person is she--do you like her?'

'Very well--that is, _pretty_ well. You won't tell?--but she ratherfrightens me. I'm sure she does not intend it, but somehow I am very muchafraid of her. '

'She does not beat you?' said Cousin Monica, with an incipient frenzy inher face that made me love her. 

'Oh no!'

'Nor ill-use you in any way?'

'No. '

'Upon your honour and word, Maud?'

'No, upon my honour. '

'You know I won't tell her anything you say to me; and I only want to know, that I may put an end to it, my poor little cousin. '

'Thank you, Cousin Monica very much; but really and truly she does notill-use me. '

'Nor threaten you, child?'

'Well, _no_--no, she does not threaten. '

'And how the plague _does_ she frighten you, child?'

'Well, I really--I'm half ashamed to tell you--you'll laugh at me--and Idon't know that she wishes to frighten me. But there is something, is notthere, ghosty, you know, about her?'

'_Ghosty_--is there? well, I'm sure I don't know, but I suspect there'ssomething devilish--I mean, she seems roguish--does not she? And I reallythink she has had neither cold nor pain, but has just been shammingsickness, to keep out of my way. '

I perceived plainly enough that Cousin Monica's damnatory epithet referredto some retrospective knowledge, which she was not going to disclose to me. 

'You knew Madame before, ' I said. 'Who is she?'

'She assures me she is Madame de la Rougierre, and, I suppose, in Frenchphrase she so calls herself, ' answered Lady Knollys, with a laugh, butuncomfortably, I thought. 

'Oh, dear Cousin Monica, do tell me--is she--is she very wicked? I am soafraid of her!'

'How should I know, dear Maud? But I do remember her face, and I don't verymuch like her, and you may depend on it. I will speak to your father in themorning about her, and don't, darling, ask me any more about her, for Ireally have not very much to tell that you would care to hear, and the factis I _won't_ say any more about her--there!'

And Cousin Monica laughed, and gave me a little slap on the cheek, and thena kiss. 

'Well, just tell me this----'

'Well, I _won't_ tell you this, nor anything--not a word, curious littlewoman. The fact is, I have little to tell, and I mean to speak to yourfather, and he, I am sure, will do what is right; so don't ask me any more, and let us talk of something pleasanter. '

There was something indescribably winning, it seemed to me, in CousinMonica. Old as she was, she seemed to me so girlish, compared with thoseslow, unexceptionable young ladies whom I had met in my few visits at thecounty houses. By this time my shyness was quite gone, and I was on themost intimate terms with her. 

'You know a great deal about her, Cousin Monica, but you won't tell me. '

'Nothing I should like better, if I were at liberty, little rogue; but youknow, after all, I don't really say whether I _do_ know anything abouther or not, or what sort of knowledge it is. But tell me what you mean byghosty, and all about it. '

So I recounted my experiences, to which, so far from laughing at me, shelistened with very special gravity. 

'Does she write and receive many letters?'

I had seen her write letters, and supposed, though I could only recollectone or two, that she received in proportion. 

'Are _you_ Mary Quince?' asked my lady cousin. 

Mary was arranging the window-curtains, and turned, dropping a courtesyaffirmatively toward her. 

'You wait on my little cousin, Miss Ruthyn, don't you?'

'Yes, 'm, ' said Mary, in her genteelest way. 

'Does anyone sleep in her room?'

'Yes, 'm, _I_--please, my lady. '

'And no one else?'

'No, 'm--please, my lady. '

'Not even the _governess_, sometimes?

'No, please, my lady. '

'Never, you are quite sure, my dear?' said Lady Knollys, transferring thequestion to me. 

'Oh, no, never, ' I answered. 

Cousin Monica mused gravely, I fancied even anxiously, into the grate; thenstirred her tea and sipped it, still looking into the same point of ourcheery fire. 

'I like your face, Mary Quince; I'm sure you are a good creature, ' shesaid, suddenly turning toward her with a pleasant countenance. 'I'm veryglad you have got her, dear. I wonder whether Austin has gone to his bedyet!'

'I think not. I am certain he is either in the library or in his privateroom--papa often reads or prays alone at night, and--and he does not liketo be interrupted. '

'No, no; of course not--it will do very well in the morning. '

Lady Knollys was thinking deeply, as it seemed to me. 

'And so you are afraid of goblins, my dear, ' she said at last, with a fadedsort of smile, turning toward me; 'well, if _I_ were, I know what _I_should do--so soon as I, and good Mary Quince here, had got into mybed-chamber for the night, I should stir the fire into a good blaze, andbolt the door--do you see, Mary Quince?--bolt the door and keep a candlelighted all night. You'll be very attentive to her, Mary Quince, for I--Idon't think she is very strong, and she must not grow nervous: so get tobed early, and don't leave her alone--do you see?--and--and remember tobolt the door, Mary Quince, and I shall be sending a little Christmas-boxto my cousin, and I shan't forget you. Good-night. '

And with a pleasant courtesy Mary fluttered out of the room. 

CHAPTER XII

_A CURIOUS CONVERSATION_

We each had another cup of tea, and were silent for awhile. 

'We must not talk of ghosts now. You are a superstitious little woman, youknow, and you shan't be frightened. '

And now Cousin Monica grew silent again, and looking briskly around theroom, like a lady in search of a subject, her eye rested on a small ovalportrait, graceful, brightly tinted, in the French style, representinga pretty little boy, with rich golden hair, large soft eyes, delicatefeatures, and a shy, peculiar expression. 

'It is odd; I think I remember that pretty little sketch, very long ago. Ithink I was then myself a child, but that is a much older style of dress, and of wearing the hair, too, than I ever saw. I am just forty-nine now. Ohdear, yes; that is a good while before I was _born_. What a strange, prettylittle boy! a mysterious little fellow. Is he quite sincere, I wonder? Whatrich golden hair! It is very clever--a French artist, I dare say--and who_is_ that little boy?'

'I never heard. Some one a hundred years ago, I dare say. But there is apicture down-stairs I am so anxious to ask you about!'

'Oh!' murmured Lady Knollys, still gazing dreamily on the crayon. 

'It is the full-length picture of Uncle Silas--I want to ask you abouthim. '

At mention of his name, my cousin gave me a look so sudden and odd as toamount almost to a start. 

'Your uncle Silas, dear? It is very odd, I was just thinking of him;' andshe laughed a little. 

'Wondering whether that little boy could be he. '

And up jumped active Cousin Monica, with a candle in her hand, upon achair, and scrutinised the border of the sketch for a name or a date. 

'Maybe on the back?' said she. 

And so she unhung it, and there, true enough, not on the back of thedrawing, but of the frame, which was just as good, in pen-and-ink roundItalian letters, hardly distinguishable now from the discoloured wood, wetraced--

'_Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, AEtate_ viii. 15 _May_, 1779. '

'It is very odd I should not have been told or remembered who it was. I think if I had _ever_ been told I _should_ have remembered it. I dorecollect this picture, though, I am nearly certain. What a singularchild's face!'

And my cousin leaned over it with a candle on each side, and her handshading her eyes, as if seeking by aid of these fair and half-formedlineaments to read an enigma. 

The childish features defied her, I suppose; their secret was unfathomable, for after a good while she raised her head, still looking at the portrait, and sighed. 

'A very singular face, ' she said, softly, as a person might who was lookinginto a coffin. 'Had not we better replace it?'

So the pretty oval, containing the fair golden hair and large eyes, thepale, unfathomable sphinx, remounted to its nail, and the _funeste_ andbeautiful child seemed to smile down oracularly on our conjectures. 

'So is the face in the large portrait--_very_ singular--more, I think, thanthat--handsomer too. This is a sickly child, I think; but the full-lengthis so manly, though so slender, and so handsome too. I always think him ahero and a mystery, and they won't tell me about him, and I can only dreamand wonder. '

'He has made more people than you dream and wonder, my dear Maud. I don'tknow what to make of him. He is a sort of idol, you know, of your father's, and yet I don't think he helps him much. His abilities were singular; sohas been his misfortune; for the rest, my dear, he is neither a hero nor awonder. So far as I know, there are very few sublime men going about theworld. '

'You really must tell me all you know about him, Cousin Monica. Now don'trefuse. '

'But why should you care to hear? There is really nothing pleasant totell. '

'That is just the reason I wish it. If it were at all pleasant, it would bequite commonplace. I like to hear of adventures, dangers, and misfortunes;and above all, I love a mystery. You know, papa will never tell me, and Idare not ask him; not that he is ever unkind, but, somehow, I am afraid;and neither Mrs. Rusk nor Mary Quince will tell me anything, although Isuspect they know a good deal. '

'I don't see any good in telling you, dear, nor, to say the truth, anygreat harm either. '

'No--now that's _quite_ true--no harm. There _can't_ be, for I _must_ knowit all some day, you know, and better now, and from _you_, than perhapsfrom a stranger, and in a less favourable way. '

'Upon my word, it is a wise little woman; and really, that's not such badsense after all. '

So we poured out another cup of tea each, and sipped it very comfortably bythe fire, while Lady Knollys talked on, and her animated face helped thestrange story. 

'It is not very much, after all. Your uncle Silas, you know, is living?'

'Oh yes, in Derbyshire. '

'So I see you do know something of him, sly girl! but no matter. You knowhow very rich your father is; but Silas was the younger brother, and hadlittle more than a thousand a year. If he had not played, and did not careto marry, it would have been quite enough--ever so much more than youngersons of dukes often have; but he was--well, a _mauvais sujet_--you knowwhat that is. I don't want to say any ill of him--more than I reallyknow--but he was fond of his pleasures, I suppose, like other young men, and he played, and was always losing, and your father for a long time paidgreat sums for him. I believe he was really a most expensive and viciousyoung man; and I fancy he does not deny that now, for they say he wouldchange the past if he could. 

I was looking at the pensive little boy in the oval frame--aged eightyears--who was, a few springs later, 'a most expensive and vicious youngman, ' and was now a suffering and outcast old one, and wondering from whata small seed the hemlock or the wallflower grows, and how microscopic arethe beginnings of the kingdom of God or of the mystery of iniquity in ahuman being's heart. 

'Austin--your papa--was very kind to him--_very_; but then, you know, he's an oddity, dear--he _is_ an oddity, though no one may have told youbefore--and he never forgave him for his marriage. Your father, I suppose, knew more about the lady than I did--I was young then--but there werevarious reports, none of them pleasant, and she was not visited, and forsome time there was a complete estrangement between your father and youruncle Silas; and it was made up, rather oddly, on the very occasion whichsome people said ought to have totally separated them. Did you ever hearanything--anything _very_ remarkable--about your uncle?'

'No, never, they would not tell me, though I am sure they know. Pray goon. '

'Well, Maud, as I have begun, I'll complete the story, though perhaps itmight have been better untold. It was something rather shocking--indeed, _very_ shocking; in fact, they insisted on suspecting him of havingcommitted a murder. '

I stared at my cousin for some time, and then at the little boy, sorefined, so beautiful, so _funeste_, in the oval frame. 

'Yes, dear, ' said she, her eyes following mine; 'who'd have supposed hecould ever have--have fallen under so horrible a suspicion?'

'The wretches! Of course, Uncle Silas--of course, he's innocent?' I said atlast. 

'Of course, my dear, ' said Cousin Monica, with an odd look; 'but you knowthere are some things as bad almost to be suspected of as to have done, andthe country gentlemen chose to suspect him. They did not like him, yousee. His politics vexed them; and he resented their treatment of hiswife--though I really think, poor Silas, he did not care a pin abouther--and he annoyed them whenever he could. Your papa, you know, is veryproud of his family--_he_ never had the slightest suspicion of your uncle. '

'Oh no!' I cried vehemently. 

'That's right, Maud Ruthyn, ' said Cousin Monica, with a sad little smileand a nod. 'And your papa was, you may suppose, very angry. '

'Of course he was, ' I exclaimed. 

'You have no idea, my dear, _how_ angry. He directed his attorney toprosecute, by wholesale, all who had said a word affecting your uncle'scharacter. But the lawyers were against it, and then your uncle tried tofight his way through it, but the men would not meet him. He was quiteslurred. Your father went up and saw the Minister. He wanted to have him aDeputy-Lieutenant, or something, in his county. Your papa, you know, had avery great influence with the Government. Beside his county influence, hehad two boroughs then. But the Minister was afraid, the feeling was so verystrong. They offered him something in the Colonies, but your father wouldnot hear of it--that would have been a banishment, you know. They wouldhave given your father a peerage to make it up, but he would not acceptit, and broke with the party. Except in that way--which, you know, wasconnected with the reputation of the family--I don't think, considering hisgreat wealth, he has done very much for Silas. To say truth, however, hewas very liberal before his marriage. Old Mrs. Aylmer says he made a vow_then_ that Silas should never have more than five hundred a year, which hestill allows him, I believe, and he permits him to live in the place. Butthey say it is in a very wild, neglected state. '

'You live in the same county--have you seen it lately, Cousin Monica?'

'No, not very lately, ' said Cousin Monica, and began to hum an airabstractedly. 

CHAPTER XIII

_BEFORE AND AFTER BREAKFAST_

Next morning early I visited my favourite full-length portrait in thechocolate coat and top-boots. Scanty as had been my cousin Monica's notesupon this dark and eccentric biography, they were everything to me. A soulhad entered that enchanted form. Truth had passed by with her torch, and asad light shone for a moment on that enigmatic face. 

There stood the _roué_--the duellist--and, with all his faults, the herotoo! In that dark large eye lurked the profound and fiery enthusiasm of hisill-starred passion. In the thin but exquisite lip I read the courage ofthe paladin, who would have 'fought his way, ' though single-handed, againstall the magnates of his county, and by ordeal of battle have purged thehonour of the Ruthyns. There in that delicate half-sarcastic tracery of thenostril I detected the intellectual defiance which had politically isolatedSilas Ruthyn and opposed him to the landed oligarchy of his county, whoseretaliation had been a hideous slander. There, too, and on his brows andlip, I traced the patience of a cold disdain. I could now see him as hewas--the prodigal, the hero, and the martyr. I stood gazing on him with agirlish interest and admiration. There was indignation, there was pity, there was hope. Some day it might come to pass that I, girl as I was, mightcontribute by word or deed towards the vindication of that long-suffering, gallant, and romantic prodigal. It was a flicker of the Joan of Arcinspiration, common, I fancy, to many girls. I little then imagined howprofoundly and strangely involved my uncle's fate would one day become withmine. 

I was interrupted by Captain Oakley's voice at the window. He was leaningon the window-sill, and looking in with a smile--the window being open, themorning sunny, and his cap lifted in his hand. 

'Good-morning, Miss Ruthyn. What a charming old place! quite the settingfor a romance; such timber, and this really _beautiful_ house. I _do_ solike these white and black houses--wonderful old things. By-the-by, youtreated us very badly last night--you did, indeed; upon my word, now, itreally was too bad--running away, and drinking tea with Lady Knollys--soshe says. I really--I should not like to tell you how very savage I felt, particularly considering how very short my time is. '

I was a shy, but not a giggling country miss. I knew I was an heiress; Iknew I was somebody. I was not the least bit in the world conceited, butI think this knowledge helped to give me a certain sense of security andself-possession, which might have been mistaken for dignity or simplicity. I am sure I looked at him with a fearless enquiry, for he answered mythoughts. 

'I do really assure you, Miss Ruthyn, I am quite serious; you have no ideahow very much we have missed you. '

There was a little pause, and, like a fool, I lowered my eyes, and blushed. 

'I--I was thinking of leaving today; I am so unfortunate--my leave is justout--it is so unlucky; but I don't quite know whether my aunt Knollys willallow me to go. '

'_I_?--certainly, my dear Charlie, _I_ don't want you at all, ' exclaimed avoice--Lady Knollys's--briskly, from an open window close by; 'what couldput that in your head, dear?'

And in went my cousin's head, and the window shut down. 

'She is _such_ an oddity, poor dear Aunt Knollys, ' murmured the youngman, ever so little put out, and he laughed. 'I never know quite what shewishes, or how to please her; but she's _so_ good-natured; and when shegoes to town for the season--she does not always, you know--her house isreally very gay--you can't think----'

Here again he was interrupted, for the door opened, and Lady Knollysentered. 'And you know, Charles, ' she continued, 'it would not do to forgetyour visit to Snodhurst; you wrote, you know, and you have only to-nightand to-morrow. You are thinking of nothing but that moor; I heard youtalking to the gamekeeper; I know he is--is not he, Maud, the brown manwith great whiskers, and leggings? I'm very sorry, you know, but I reallymust spoil your shooting, for they do expect you at Snodhurst, Charlie; anddo not you think this window a little too much for Miss Ruthyn? Maud, mydear, the air is very sharp; shut it down, Charles, and you'd better tellthem to get a fly for you from the town after luncheon. Come, dear, ' shesaid to me. 'Was not that the breakfast bell? Why does not your papa get agong?--it is so hard to know one bell from another. '

I saw that Captain Oakley lingered for a last look, but I did not give it, and went out smiling with Cousin Knollys, and wondering why old ladies areso uniformly disagreeable. 

In the lobby she said, with an odd, goodnatured look--

'Don't allow any of his love-making, my dear. Charles Oakley has not aguinea, and an heiress would be very convenient. Of course he has his eyesabout him. Charles is not by any means foolish; and I should not be at allsorry to see him well married, for I don't think he will do much goodany other way; but there are degrees, and his ideas are sometimes veryimpertinent. '

I was an admiring reader of the _Albums_, the _Souvenirs_, the _Keepsakes_, and all that flood of Christmas-present lore which yearly irrigatedEngland, with pretty covers and engravings; and floods of eleganttwaddle--the milk, not destitute of water, on which the babes of literaturewere then fed. On this, my genius throve. I had a little album, enrichedwith many gems of original thought and observation, which I jotted down insuitable language. Lately, turning over these faded leaves of rhymeand prose, I lighted, under this day's date, upon the following sagereflection, with my name appended:--

'Is there not in the female heart an ineradicable jealousy, which, if itsways the passions of the young, rules also the _advice_ of the _aged_? Dothey not grudge to youth the sentiments (though Heaven knows how _shadowed_with sorrow) which they can _no longer inspire_, perhaps even _experience_;and does not youth, in turn, sigh over the envy which has _power toblight_?

MAUD AYLMER RUTHYN. '

'He has not been making love to me, ' I said rather tartly, 'and he does notseem to me at all impertinent, and I really don't care the least whether hegoes or stays. '

Cousin Monica looked in my face with her old waggish smile, and laughed. 

'You'll understand those London dandies better some day, dear Maud; theyare very well, but they like money--not to keep, of course--but still theylike it and know its value. '

At breakfast my father told Captain Oakley where he might have shooting, orif he preferred going to Dilsford, only half an hour's ride, he might havehis choice of hunters, and find the dogs there that morning. 

The Captain smiled archly at me, and looked at his aunt. There was asuspense. I hope I did not show how much I was interested--but it would notdo. Cousin Monica was inexorable. 

'Hunting, hawking, fishing, fiddle-de-dee! You know, Charlie, my dear, itis quite out of the question. He is going to Snodhurst this afternoon, andwithout quite a rudeness, in which I should be involved too, he reallycan't--you know you can't, Charles! and--and he _must_ go and keep hisengagement. '

So papa acquiesced with a polite regret, and hoped another time. 

'Oh, leave all that to me. When you want him, only write me a note, andI'll send him or bring him if you let me. I always know where to findhim--don't I, Charlie?--and we shall be only too happy. '

Aunt Monica's influence with her nephew was special, for she 'tipped' himhandsomely every now and then, and he had formed for himself agreeableexpectations, besides, respecting her will. I felt rather angry at hissubmitting to this sort of tutelage, knowing nothing of its motive; I wasalso disgusted by Cousin Monica's tyranny. 

So soon as he had left the room, Lady Knollys, not minding me, said brisklyto papa, 'Never let that young man into your house again. I found himmaking speeches, this morning, to little Maud here; and he really has nottwo pence in the world--it is amazing impudence--and you know such absurdthings do happen. '

'Come, Maud, what compliments did he pay you?' asked my father. 

I was vexed, and therefore spoke courageously. 'His compliments were not tome; they were all to the house, ' I said, drily. 

'Quite as it should be--the house, of course; it is that he's in lovewith, ' said Cousin Knollys. 

 ''Twas on a widow's jointure land, The archer, Cupid, took his stand. '

'Hey! I don't quite understand, ' said my father, slily. 

'Tut! Austin; you forget Charlie is my nephew. '

'So I did, ' said my father. 

'Therefore the literal widow in this case _can_ have no interest in viewbut one, and that is yours and Maud's. I wish him well, but he shan't putmy little cousin and her expectations into his empty pocket--_not_ a bit ofit. And _there's_ another reason, Austin, why you should marry--you have noeye for these things, whereas a clever _woman_ would see at a glance andprevent mischief. '

'So she would, ' acquiesced my father, in his gloomy, amused way. 'Maud, youmust try to be a clever woman. '

'So she will in her time, but that is not come yet; and I tell you, AustinRuthyn, if you won't look about and marry somebody, somebody may possiblymarry you. '

'You were always an oracle, Monica; but _here_ I am lost in totalperplexity, ' said my father. 

'Yes; sharks sailing round you, with keen eyes and large throats; and youhave come to the age precisely when men _are_ swallowed up alive likeJonah. '

'Thank you for the parallel, but you know that was not a happy union, evenfor the fish, and there was a separation in a few days; not that I mean totrust to that; but there's no one to throw me into the jaws of the monster, and I've no notion of jumping there; and the fact is, Monica, there's nomonster at all. '

'I'm not so sure. '

'But I'm quite sure, ' said my father, a little drily. 'You forget how oldI am, and how long I've lived alone--I and little Maud;' and he smiled andsmoothed my hair, and, I thought, sighed. 

'No one is ever too old to do a foolish thing, ' began Lady Knollys. 

'Nor to say a foolish thing, Monica. This has gone on too long. Don't yousee that little Maud here is silly enough to be frightened at your fun. '

So I was, but I could not divine how he guessed it. 

'And well or ill, wisely or madly, I'll _never_ marry; so put that out ofyour head. '

This was addressed rather to me, I think, than to Lady Knollys, who smileda little waggishly on me, and said--

'To be sure, Maud; maybe you are right; a stepdame is a risk, and I oughtto have asked you first what you thought of it; and upon my honour, ' shecontinued merrily but kindly, observing that my eyes, I know not exactlyfrom what feeling, filled with tears, 'I'll never again advise your papa tomarry, unless you first tell me you wish it. '

This was a great deal from Lady Knollys, who had a taste for advising herfriends and managing their affairs. 

'I've a great respect for instinct. I believe, Austin, it is truer thanreason, and yours and Maud's are both against me, though I know I havereason on my side. '

My father's brief wintry smile answered, and Cousin Monica kissed me, andsaid--

'I've been so long my own mistress that I sometimes forget there are suchthings as fear and jealousy; and are you going to your governess, Maud?'

CHAPTER XIV

_ANGRY WORDS_

I was going to my governess, as Lady Knollys said; and so I went. Theundefinable sense of danger that smote me whenever I beheld that woman haddeepened since last night's occurrence, and was taken out of the regionof instinct or prepossession by the strange though slight indications ofrecognition and abhorrence which I had witnessed in Lady Knollys on thatoccasion. 

The tone in which Cousin Monica had asked, 'are you going to yourgoverness?' and the curious, grave, and anxious look that accompanied thequestion, disturbed me; and there was something odd and cold in the tone asif a remembrance had suddenly chilled her. The accent remained in my ear, and the sharp brooding look was fixed before me as I glided up the broaddark stairs to Madame de la Rougierre's chamber. 

She had not come down to the school-room, as the scene of my studies wascalled. She had decided on having a relapse, and accordingly had not madeher appearance down-stairs that morning. The gallery leading to her roomwas dark and lonely, and I grew more nervous as I approached; I paused atthe door, making up my mind to knock. 

But the door opened suddenly, and, like a magic-lantern figure, presentedwith a snap, appeared close before my eyes the great muffled face, with theforbidding smirk, of Madame de la Rougierre. 

'Wat you mean, my dear cheaile?' she inquired with a malevolent shrewdnessin her eyes, and her hollow smile all the time disconcerting me more eventhan the suddenness of her appearance; 'wat for you approach so softly? Ido not sleep, you see, but you feared, perhaps, to have the misfortune ofwakening me, and so you came--is it not so?--to leesten, and looke in verygentily; you want to know how I was. Vous êtes bien aimable d'avoir penséà moi. Bah!' she cried, suddenly bursting through her irony. 'Wy could notLady Knollys come herself and leesten to the keyhole to make her report?Fi donc! wat is there to conceal? Nothing. Enter, if you please. Every onethey are welcome!' and she flung the door wide, turned her back upon me, and, with an ejaculation which I did not understand, strode into the room. 

'I did not come with any intention, Madame, to pry or to intrude--youdon't think so--you _can't_ think so--you can't possibly mean to insinuateanything so insulting!'

I was very angry, and my tremors had all vanished now. 

'No, not for _you_, dear cheaile; I was thinking to miladi Knollys, who, without cause, is my enemy. Every one has enemy; you will learn all that sosoon as you are little older, and without cause she is mine. Come, Maud, speak a the truth--was it not miladi Knollys who sent you here doucement, doucement, so quaite to my door--is it not so, little rogue?'

Madame had confronted me again, and we were now standing in the middle ofher floor. 

I indignantly repelled the charge, and searching me for a moment with heroddly-shaped, cunning eyes, she said--

'That is good cheaile, you speak a so direct--I like that, and am glad tohear; but, my dear Maud, that woman----'

'Lady Knollys is papa's cousin, ' I interposed a little gravely. 

'She does hate a me so, you av no idea. She as tryed to injure me severaltimes, and would employ the most innocent person, unconsciously you know, my dear, to assist her malice. '

Here Madame wept a little. I had already discovered that she could shedtears whenever she pleased. I have heard of such persons, but I never metanother before or since. 

Madame was unusually frank--no one ever knew better when to be candid. Atpresent I suppose she concluded that Lady Knollys would certainly relatewhatever she knew concerning her before she left Knowl; and so Madame'sreserves, whatever they might be, were dissolving, and she growingchildlike and confiding. 

'Et comment va monsieur votre père aujourd'hui?'

'Very well, ' I thanked her. 

'And how long miladi Knollys her visit is likely to be?'

'I could not say exactly, but for some days. '

'Eh bien, my dear cheaile, I find myself better this morning, and we mustreturn to our lessons. Je veux m'habiller, ma chère Maud; you will wait mein the school-room. '

By this time Madame, who, though lazy, could make an effort, and wascapable of getting into a sudden hurry, had placed herself before herdressing-table, and was ogling her discoloured and bony countenance in theglass. 

'Wat horror! I am so pale. Quel ennui! wat bore! Ow weak av I grow in twothree days!'

And she practised some plaintive, invalid glances into the mirror. But on asudden there came a little sharp inquisitive frown as she looked over theframe of the glass, upon the terrace beneath. It was only a glance, and shesat down languidly in her arm-chair to prepare, I suppose, for the fatiguesof the toilet. 

My curiosity was sufficiently aroused to induce me to ask--

'But why, Madame, do you fancy that Lady Knollys dislikes you?'

''Tis not fancy, my dear Maud. Ah ha, no! Mais c'est toute unehistoire--too tedious to tell now--some time maybe--and you will learn whenyou are little older, the most violent hatreds often they are the mostwithout cause. But, my dear cheaile, the hours they are running from us, and I must dress. Vite, vite! so you run away to the school-room, and Iwill come after. '

Madame had her dressing-case and her mysteries, and palpably stood in needof repairs; so away I went to my studies. The room which we called theschool-room was partly beneath the floor of Madame's bed-chamber, andcommanded the same view; so, remembering my governess's peering glance fromher windows, I looked out, and saw Cousin Monica making a brisk promenadeup and down the terrace-walk. Well, that was quite enough to account forit. I had grown very curious, and I resolved when our lessons were over tojoin her and make another attempt to discover the mystery. 

As I sat over my books, I fancied I heard a movement outside the door. Isuspected that Madame was listening. I waited for a time, expecting to seethe door open, but she did not come; so I opened it suddenly myself, butMadame was not on the threshold nor on the lobby. I heard a rustling, however, and on the staircase over the banister I saw the folds of her silkdress as she descended. 

She is going, I thought, to seek an interview with Lady Knollys. Sheintends to propitiate that dangerous lady; so I amused some eight or tenminutes in watching Cousin Monica's quick march and right-about face uponthe parade-ground of the terrace. But no one joined her. 

'She is certainly talking to papa, ' was my next and more probableconjecture. Having the profoundest distrust of Madame, I was naturallyextremely jealous of the confidential interviews in which deceit and malicemight make their representations plausibly and without answer. 

'Yes, I'll run down and see--see _papa_; she shan't tell lies behind myback, horrid woman!'

At the study-door I knocked, and forthwith entered. My father was sittingnear the window, his open book before him, Madame standing at theother side of the table, her cunning eyes bathed in tears, and herpocket-handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Her eyes glittered stealthily onme for an instant: she was sobbing--_désolée_, in fact--that grim grenadierlady, and her attitude was exquisitely dejected and timid. But she was, notwithstanding, reading closely and craftily my father's face. He was notlooking at her, but rather upward toward the ceiling, reflectively leaningon his hand, with an expression, not angry, but rather surly and annoyed. 

'I ought to have heard of this before, Madame, ' my father was saying as Icame in; 'not that it would have made any difference--not the least; mindthat. But it was the kind of thing that I ought to have heard, and theomission was not strictly right. '

Madame, in a shrill and lamentable key, opened her voluble reply, but wasarrested by a nod from my father, who asked me if I wanted anything. 

'Only--only that I was waiting in the school-room for Madame, and did notknow where she was. '

'Well, she is here, you see, and will join you up-stairs in a few minutes. '

So back I went again, huffed, angry, and curious, and sat back in my chairwith a clouded countenance, thinking very little about lessons. 

When Madame entered, I did not lift my head or eyes. 

'Good cheaile! reading, ' said she, as she approached briskly and reassured. 

'No, ' I answered tartly; 'not good, nor a child either; I'm not reading, I've been thinking. '

'Très-bien!' she said, with an insufferable smile, 'thinking is very goodalso; but you look unhappy--very, poor cheaile. Take care you are not growjealous for poor Madame talking sometime to your papa; you must not, littlefool. It is only for a your good, my dear Maud, and I had no objection youshould stay. '

'_You_! Madame!' I said loftily. I was very angry, and showed it through mydignity, to Madame's evident satisfaction. 

'No--it was your papa, Mr. Ruthyn, who weesh to speak alone; for me I donot care; there was something I weesh to tell him. I don't care who know, but Mr. Ruthyn he is deeferent. '

I made no remark. 

'Come, leetle Maud, you are not to be so cross; it will be much better youand I to be good friends together. Why should a we quarrel?--wat nonsense!Do you imagine I would anywhere undertake a the education of a young personunless I could speak with her parent?--wat folly! I would like to be yourfriend, however, my poor Maud, if you would allow--you and I together--watyou say?'

'People grow to be friends by liking, Madame, and liking comes of itself, not by bargain; I like every one who is kind to me. '

'And so I. You are like me in so many things, my dear Maud! Are you quaitewell to-day? I think you look fateague; so I feel, too, vary tire. I thinkwe weel put off the lessons to to-morrow. Eh? and we will come to play lagrace in the garden. '

Madame was plainly in a high state of exultation. Her audience hadevidently been satisfactory, and, like other people, when things went well, her soul lighted up into a sulphureous good-humour, not very genuine norpleasant, but still it was better than other moods. 

I was glad when our calisthenics were ended, and Madame had returned to herapartment, so that I had a pleasant little walk with Cousin Monica. 

We women are persevering when once our curiosity is roused, but she gailyfoiled mine, and, I think, had a mischievous pleasure in doing so. As wewere going in to dress for dinner, however, she said, quite gravely--

'I am sorry, Maud, I allowed you to see that I have any unpleasantimpressions about that governess lady. I shall be at liberty some day toexplain all about it, and, indeed, it will be enough to tell your father, whom I have not been able to find all day; but really we are, perhaps, making too much of the matter, and I cannot say that I know anythingagainst Madame that is conclusive, or--or, indeed, at all; but that thereare reasons, and--you must not ask any more--no, you must not. '

That evening, while I was playing the overture to Cenerentola, for theentertainment of my cousin, there arose from the tea-table, where she andmy father were sitting, a spirited and rather angry harangue from LadyKnollys' lips; I turned my eyes from the music towards the speakers; theoverture swooned away with a little hesitating babble into silence, and Ilistened. 

Their conversation had begun under cover of the music which I was making, and now they were too much engrossed to perceive its discontinuance. Thefirst sentence I heard seized my attention; my father had closed the bookhe was reading, upon his finger, and was leaning back in his chair, as heused to do when at all angry; his face was a little flushed, and I knew thefierce and glassy stare which expressed pride, surprise, and wrath. 

'Yes, Lady Knollys, there's an animus; I know the spirit you speak in--itdoes you no honour, ' said my father. 

'And I know the spirit _you_ speak in, the spirit of _madness_, ' retortedCousin Monica, just as much in earnest. 'I can't conceive how you _can_ beso _demented_, Austin. What has perverted you? are you _blind_?'

'_You_ are, Monica; your own unnatural prejudice--_unnatural_ prejudice, blinds you. What is it all?--_nothing_. Were I to act as you say, I shouldbe a _coward_ and a traitor. I see, I _do_ see, all that's real. I'm noQuixote, to draw my sword on illusions. '

'There should be no halting here. How _can_ you--do you ever _think_? Iwonder if you can breathe. I feel as if the evil one were in the house. '

A stern, momentary frown was my father's only answer, as he looked fixedlyat her. 

'People need not nail up horseshoes and mark their door-stones with charmsto keep the evil spirit out, ' ran on Lady Knollys, who looked pale andangry, in her way, 'but you open your door in the dark and invoke unknowndanger. How can you look at that child that's--she's _not_ playing, ' saidKnollys, abruptly stopping. 

My father rose, muttering to himself, and cast a lurid glance at me, as hewent in high displeasure to the door. Cousin Monica, now flushed a little, glanced also silently at me, biting the tip of her slender gold cross, anddoubtful how much I had heard. 

My father opened the door suddenly, which he had just closed, and lookingin, said, in a calmer tone--

'Perhaps, Monica, you would come for a moment to the study; I'm sure youhave none but kindly feelings towards me and little Maud, there; andI thank you for your good-will; but you must see other things morereasonably, and I think you will. '

Cousin Monica got up silently and followed him, only throwing up her eyesand hands as she did so, and I was left alone, wondering and curious morethan ever. 

CHAPTER XV

_A WARNING_

I sat still, listening and wondering, and wondering and listening; butI ought to have known that no sound could reach me where I was from myfather's study. Five minutes passed and they did not return. Ten, fifteen. I drew near the fire and made myself comfortable in a great arm-chair, looking on the embers, but not seeing all the scenery and _dramatispersonae_ of my past life or future fortunes, in their shifting glow, as people in romances usually do; but fanciful castles and caverns inblood-red and golden glare, suggestive of dreamy fairy-land, salamanders, sunsets, and palaces of fire-kings, and all this partly shaping and partlyshaped by my fancy, and leading my closing eyes and drowsy senses off intodream-land. So I nodded and dozed, and sank into a deep slumber, from whichI was roused by the voice of my cousin Monica. On opening my eyes, I sawnothing but Lady Knollys' face looking steadily into mine, and expandinginto a good-natured laugh as she watched the vacant and lack-lustre starewith which I returned her gaze. 

'Come, dear Maud, it is late; you ought to have been in your bed an hourago. '

Up I stood, and so soon as I had begun to hear and see aright, it struck methat Cousin Monica was more grave and subdued than I had seen her. 

'Come, let us light our candles and go together. '

Holding hands, we ascended, I sleepy, she silent; and not a word was spokenuntil we reached my room. Mary Quince was in waiting, and tea made. 

'Tell her to come back in a few minutes; I wish to say a word to you, ' saidLady Knollys. 

The maid accordingly withdrew. 

Lady Knollys' eyes followed her till she closed the door behind her. 

'I'm going in the morning. '

'So soon!'

'Yes, dear; I could not stay; in fact, I should have gone tonight, but itwas too late, and I leave instead in the morning. '

'I am so sorry--so _very_ sorry, ' I exclaimed, in honest disappointment, and the walls seemed to darken round me, and the monotony of the oldroutine loomed more terrible in prospect. 

'So am I, dear Maud. '

'But can't you stay a little longer; _won't_ you?'

'No, Maud; I'm vexed with Austin--very much vexed with your father; inshort, I can't conceive anything so entirely preposterous, and dangerous, and insane as his conduct, now that his eyes are quite opened, and I mustsay a word to you before I go, and it is just this:--you must cease to be amere child, you must try and be a woman, Maud: now don't be frightenedor foolish, but hear me out. That woman--what does she callherself--Rougierre? I have reason to believe is--in fact, fromcircumstances, _must_ be your enemy; you will find her very deep, daring, and unscrupulous, I venture to say, and you can't be too much on yourguard. Do you quite understand me, Maud?'

'I do, ' said I, with a gasp, and my eyes fixed on her with a terrifiedinterest, as if on a warning ghost. 

'You must bridle your tongue, mind, and govern your conduct, and commandeven your features. It is hard to practise reserve; but you must--you mustbe secret and vigilant. Try and be in appearance just as usual; don'tquarrel; tell her nothing, if you do happen to know anything, of yourfather's business; be always on your guard when with her, and keep your eyeupon her everywhere. Observe everything, disclose nothing--do you see?'

'Yes, ' again I whispered. 

'You have good, honest servants about you, and, thank God, they don't likeher. But you must not repeat to them one word I am now saying to you. Servants are fond of dropping hints, and letting things ooze out in thatway, and in their quarrels with her would compromise you--you understandme?'

'I do, ' I sighed, with a wild stare. 

'And--and, Maud, don't let her meddle with your food. '

Cousin Monica gave me a pale little nod, and looked away. 

I could only stare at her; and under my breath I uttered an ejaculation ofterror. 

'Don't be so frightened; you must not be foolish; I only wish you to beupon your guard. I have my suspicions, but I may be quite wrong; yourfather thinks I am a fool; perhaps I am--perhaps not; maybe he may come tothink as I do. But you must not speak to him on the subject; he's anodd man, and never did and never will act wisely, when his passions andprejudices are engaged. '

'Has she ever committed any great crime?' I asked, feeling as if I were onthe point of fainting. 

'No, dear Maud, I never said anything of the kind; don't be so frightened:I only said I have formed, from something I know, an ill opinion of her;and an unprincipled person, under temptation, is capable of a great deal. But no matter how wicked she may be, you may defy her, simply by assumingher to be so, and acting with caution; she is cunning and selfish, andshe'll do nothing desperate. But I would give her no opportunity. '

'Oh, dear! Oh, Cousin Monica, don't leave me. '

'My dear, I _can't_ stay; your papa and I--we've had a quarrel. I knowI'm right, and he's wrong, and he'll come to see it soon, if he's left tohimself, and then all will be right. But just now he misunderstands me, andwe've not been civil to one another. I could not think of staying, and hewould not allow you to come away with me for a short visit, which I wished. It won't last, though; and I do assure you, my dear Maud, I am quite happyabout you now that you are quite on your guard. Just act respecting thatperson as if she were capable of any treachery, without showing distrust ordislike in your manner, and nothing will remain in her power; and write tome whenever you wish to hear from me, and if I can be of any real use, Idon't care, I'll come: so there's a wise little woman; do as I've said, anddepend upon it everything will go well, and I'll contrive before long toget that nasty creature away. '

Except a kiss and a few hurried words in the morning when she was leaving, and a pencilled farewell for papa, there was nothing more from CousinMonica for some time. 

Knowl was dark again--darker than ever. My father, gentle always to me, wasnow--perhaps it was contrast with his fitful return to something like theworld's ways, during Lady Knollys' stay--more silent, sad, and isolatedthan before. Of Madame de la Rougierre I had nothing at first particular toremark. Only, reader, if you happen to be a rather nervous and very younggirl, I ask you to conceive my fears and imaginings, and the kind of miserywhich I was suffering. Its intensity I cannot now even myself recall. Butit overshadowed me perpetually--a care, an alarm. It lay down with me atnight and got up with me in the morning, tinting and disturbing my dreams, and making my daily life terrible. I wonder now that I lived throughthe ordeal. The torment was secret and incessant, and kept my mind inunintermitting activity. 

Externally things went on at Knowl for some weeks in the usual routine. Madame was, so far as her unpleasant ways were concerned, less tormentingthan before, and constantly reminded me of 'our leetle vow of friendship, you remember, dearest Maud!' and she would stand beside me, and looked fromthe window with her bony arm round my waist, and my reluctant hand drawnround in hers; and thus she would smile, and talk affectionately and evenplayfully; for at times she would grow quite girlish, and smile withher great carious teeth, and begin to quiz and babble about the young'faylows, ' and tell bragging tales of her lovers, all of which weredreadful to me. 

She was perpetually recurring, too, to the charming walk we had hadtogether to Church Scarsdale, and proposing a repetition of that delightfulexcursion, which, you may be sure, I evaded, having by no means soagreeable a recollection of our visit. 

One day, as I was dressing to go out for a walk, in came good Mrs. Rusk, the housekeeper, to my room. 

'Miss Maud, dear, is not that too far for you? It is a long walk to ChurchScarsdale, and you are not looking very well. '

'To Church Scarsdale?' I repeated; 'I'm not going to Church Scarsdale; whosaid I was going to Church Scarsdale? There is nothing I should so muchdislike. '

'Well, I never!' exclaimed she. 'Why, there's old Madame's been down-stairswith me for fruit and sandwiches, telling me you were longing to go toChurch Scarsdale----'

'It's quite untrue, ' I interrupted. 'She knows I hate it. '

'She does?' said Mrs. Rusk, quietly; 'and you did not tell her nothingabout the basket? Well--if there isn't a story! Now what may she beafter--what is it--what _is_ she driving at?'

'I can't tell, but I won't go. '

'No, of course, dear, you won't go. But you may be sure there's some schemein her old head. Tom Fowkes says she's bin two or three times to drink teaat Farmer Gray's--now, could it be she's thinking to marry him?' And Mrs. Rusk sat down and laughed heartily, ending with a crow of derision. 

'To think of a young fellow like that, and his wife, poor thing, not dead ayear--maybe she's got money?'

'I don't know--I don't care--perhaps, Mrs. Rusk, you mistook Madame. I willgo down; I am going out. '

Madame had a basket in her hand. She held it quietly by her capaciousskirt, at the far side, and made no allusion to the preparation, neither tothe direction in which she proposed walking, and prattling artlessly andaffectionately she marched by my side. 

Thus we reached the stile at the sheep-walk, and then I paused. 

'Now, Madame, have not we gone far enough in this direction?--suppose wevisit the pigeon-house in the park?'

'Wat folly! my dear a Maud--you cannot walk so far. '

'Well, towards home, then. '

'And wy not a this way? We ave not walk enough, and Mr. Ruthyn he will notbe pleased if you do not take proper exercise. Let us walk on by the path, and stop when you like. '

'Where do you wish to go, Madame?'

'Nowhere particular--come along; don't be fool, Maud. '

'This leads to Church Scarsdale. '

'A yes indeed! wat sweet place! bote we need not a walk all the way tothere. '

'I'd rather not walk outside the grounds to-day, Madame. '

'Come, Maud, you shall not be fool--wat you mean, Mademoiselle?' said thestalworth lady, growing yellow and greenish with an angry mottling, andaccosting me very gruffly. 

'I don't care to cross the stile, thank you, Madame. I shall remain at thisside. '

'You shall do wat I tell you!' exclaimed she. 

'Let go my arm, Madame, you hurt me, ' I cried. 

She had griped my arm very firmly in her great bony hand, and seemedpreparing to drag me over by main force. 

'Let me go, ' I repeated shrilly, for the pain increased. 

'La!' she cried with a smile of rage and a laugh, letting me go and shovingme backward at the same time, so that I had a rather dangerous tumble. 

I stood up, a good deal hurt, and very angry, notwithstanding my fear ofher. 

'I'll ask papa if I am to be so ill-used. '

'Wat av I done?' cried Madame, laughing grimly from her hollow jaws; I didall I could to help you over--'ow could I prevent you to pull back andtumble if you would do so? That is the way wen you petites Mademoisellesare naughty and hurt yourself they always try to make blame other people. Tell a wat you like--you think I care?'

'Very well, Madame. '

'Are a you coming?'

'No. '

She looked steadily in my face and very wickedly. I gazed at her as withdazzled eyes--I suppose as the feathered prey do at the owl that glares onthem by night. I neither moved back nor forward, but stared at her quitehelplessly. 

'You are nice pupil--charming young person! So polite, so obedient, soamiable! I will walk towards Church Scarsdale, ' she continued, suddenlybreaking through the conventionalism of her irony, and accosting mein savage accents. 'You weel stay behind if you dare. I tell you toaccompany--do you hear?'

More than ever resolved against following her, I remained where I was, watching her as she marched fiercely away, swinging her basket as though inimagination knocking my head off with it. 

She soon cooled, however, and looking over her shoulder, and seeing mestill at the other side of the stile, she paused, and beckoned me grimlyto follow her. Seeing me resolutely maintain my position, she faced about, tossed her head, like an angry beast, and seemed uncertain for a while whatcourse to take with me. 

She stamped and beckoned furiously again. I stood firm. I was very muchfrightened, and could not tell to what violence she might resort in herexasperation. She walked towards me with an inflamed countenance, and aslight angry wagging of the head; my heart fluttered, and I awaited thecrisis in extreme trepidation. She came close, the stile only separatingus, and stopped short, glaring and grinning at me like a French grenadierwho has crossed bayonets, but hesitates to close. 

CHAPTER XVI

_DOCTOR BRYERLY LOOKS IN_

What had I done to excite this ungovernable fury? We had often before hadsuch small differences, and she had contented herself with being sarcastic, teasing, and impertinent. 

'So, for future you are gouvernante and I the cheaile for you tocommand--is not so?--and you must direct where we shall walk. Très-bien!we shall see; Monsieur Ruthyn he shall know everything. For me I do notcare--not at all--I shall be rather pleased, on the contrary. Let himdecide. If I shall be responsible for the conduct and the health ofMademoiselle his daughter, it must be that I shall have authority to directher wat she must do--it must be that she or I shall obey. I ask only witchshall command for the future--voilà tout!'

I was frightened, but resolute--I dare say I looked sullen anduncomfortable. At all events, she seemed to think she might possiblysucceed by wheedling; so she tried coaxing and cajoling, and patted mycheek, and predicted that I would be 'a good cheaile, ' and not 'vex poorMadame, ' but do for the future 'wat she tell a me. '

She smiled her wide wet grin, smoothed my hand, and patted my cheek, andwould in the excess of her conciliatory paroxysm have kissed me; but Iwithdrew, and she commented only with a little laugh, and a 'Foolish littlething! but you will be quite amiable just now. '

'Why, Madame, ' I asked, suddenly raising my head and looking her straightin the face, 'do you wish me to walk to Church Scarsdale so particularlyto-day?'

She answered my steady look with a contracted gaze and an unpleasant frown. 

'Wy do I?--I do not understand a you; there is _no_ particular day--watfolly! Wy I like Church Scarsdale? Well, it is such pretty place. There isall! Wat leetle fool! I suppose you think I want to keel a you and bury youin the churchyard?'

And she laughed, and it would not have been a bad laugh for a ghoul. 

'Come, my dearest Maud, you are not a such fool to say, if _you_ tell me mego thees a way, I weel go that; and if you say, go that a way, I weel gothees--you are rasonable leetle girl--come along--_alons donc_--we shall avsoche agreeable walk--weel a you?'

But I was immovable. It was neither obstinacy nor caprice, but a profoundfear that governed me. I was then afraid--yes, _afraid_. Afraid of _what_?Well, of going with Madame de la Rougierre to Church Scarsdale that day. That was all. And I believe that instinct was true. 

She turned a bitter glance toward Church Scarsdale, and bit her lip. Shesaw that she must give it up. A shadow hung upon her drab features. Alittle scowl--a little sneer--wide lips compressed with a false smile, anda leaden shadow mottling all. Such was the countenance of the lady who onlya minute or two before had been smiling and murmuring over the stile soamiably with her idiomatic 'blarney, ' as the Irish call that kind ofblandishment. 

There was no mistaking the malignant disappointment that hooked and warpedher features--my heart sank--a tremendous fear overpowered me. Had sheintended poisoning me? What was in that basket? I looked in her dreadfulface. I felt for a minute quite frantic. A feeling of rage with my father, with my Cousin Monica, for abandoning me to this dreadful rogue, tookpossession of me, and I cried, helplessly wringing my hands--

'Oh! it is a shame--it is a shame--it is a shame!'

The countenance of the gouvernante relaxed. I think she in turn wasfrightened at my extreme agitation. It might have worked unfavourably withmy father. 

'Come, Maud, it is time you should try to control your temper. You shallnot walk to Church Scarsdale if you do not like--I only invite. _There_!It is quite as you please, where we shall walk then? Here to thepeegeon-house? I think you say. Tout bien! Remember I concede youeverything. Let us go. '

We went, therefore, towards the pigeon-house, through the forest trees; Inot speaking as the children in the wood did with their sinister conductor, but utterly silent and scared; she silent also, meditating, and sometimeswith a sharp side-glance gauging my progress towards equanimity. Her ownwas rapid; for Madame was a philosopher, and speedily accommodated herselfto circumstances. We had not walked a quarter of an hour when every traceof gloom had left her face, which had assumed its customary brightness, andshe began to sing with a spiteful hilarity as we walked forward, and indeedseemed to be approaching one of her waggish, frolicsome moods. But her funin these moods was solitary. The joke, whatever it was, remained in herown keeping. When we approached the ruined brick tower--in old times apigeon-house--she grew quite frisky, and twirled her basket in the air, andcapered to her own singing. 

Under the shadow of the broken wall, and its ivy, she sat down with afrolicsome _plump_, and opened her basket, inviting me to partake, whichI declined. I must do her justice, however, upon the suspicion of poison, which she quite disposed of by gobbling up, to her own share, everythingwhich the basket contained. 

The reader is not to suppose that Madame's cheerful demeanour indicatedthat I was forgiven. Nothing of the kind. One syllable more, on our walkhome, she addressed not to me. And when we reached the terrace, she said--

'You will please, Maud, remain for two--three minutes in the Dutch garden, while I speak with Mr. Ruthyn in the study. '

This was spoken with a high head and an insufferable smile; and I morehaughtily, but quite gravely, turned without disputing, and descended thesteps to the quaint little garden she had indicated. 

I was surprised and very glad to see my father there. I ran to him, andbegan, 'Oh! papa!' and then stopped short, adding only, 'may I speak to younow?'

He smiled kindly and gravely on me. 

'Well, Maud, say your say. '

'Oh, sir, it is only this: I entreat that our walks, mine and Madame's maybe confined to the grounds. '

'And why?'

'I--I'm afraid to go with her. '

'_Afraid!_' he repeated, looking hard at me. 'Have you lately had a letterfrom Lady Knollys?'

'No, papa, not for two months or more. '

There was a pause. 

'And why _afraid_, Maud?'

'She brought me one day to Church Scarsdale; you know what a solitary placeit is, sir; and she frightened me so that I was afraid to go with her intothe churchyard. But she went and left me alone at the other side of thestream, and an impudent man passing by stopped and spoke to me, and seemedinclined to laugh at me, and altogether frightened me very much, and he didnot go till Madame happened to return. '

'What kind of man--young or old?'

'A young man; he looked like a farmer's son, but very impudent, and stoodthere talking to me whether I would or not; and Madame did not care atall, and laughed at me for being frightened; and, indeed, I am veryuncomfortable with her. '

He gave me another shrewd look, and then looked down cloudily and thought. 

'You say you are uncomfortable and frightened. How is this--what causesthese feelings?'

'I don't know, sir; she likes frightening me; I am afraid of her--we areall afraid of her, I think. The servants, I mean, as well as I. '

My father nodded his head contemptuously, twice or thrice, and muttered, 'Apack of fools!'

'And she was so very angry to-day with me, because I would not walk againwith her to Church Scarsdale. I am very much afraid of her. I--' and quiteunpremeditatedly I burst into tears. 

'There, there, little Maud, you must not cry. She is here only for yourgood. If you are afraid--even _foolishly_ afraid--it is enough. Be it asyou say; your walks are henceforward confined to the grounds; I'll tell herso. '

I thanked him through my tears very earnestly. 

'But, Maud, beware of prejudice; women are unjust and violent in theirjudgments. Your family has suffered in some of its members by suchinjustice. It behoves us to be careful not to practise it. '

That evening in the drawing-room my father said, in his usual abrupt way--

'About my departure, Maud: I've had a letter from London this morning, andI think I shall be called away sooner than I at first supposed, and for alittle time we must manage apart from one another. Do not be alarmed. Youshall not be in Madame de la Rougierre's charge, but under the care of arelation; but even so, little Maud will miss her old father, I think. '

His tone was very tender, so were his looks; he was looking down on me witha smile, and tears were in his eyes. This softening was new to me. I felt astrange thrill of surprise, delight, and love, and springing up, I threw myarms about his neck and wept in silence. He, I think, shed tears also. 

'You said a visitor was coming; some one, you mean, to go away with. Ah, yes, you love him better than me. '

'No, dear, no; but I _fear_ him; and I am sorry to leave you, little Maud. '

'It won't be very long, ' I pleaded. 

'No, dear, ' he answered with a sigh. 

I was tempted almost to question him more closely on the subject, but heseemed to divine what was in my mind, for he said--

'Let us speak no more of it, but only bear in mind, Maud, what I told youabout the oak cabinet, the key of which is here, ' and he held it up asformerly: 'you remember what you are to do in case Doctor Bryerly shouldcome while I am away?'

'Yes, sir. '

His manner had changed, and I had returned to my accustomed formalities. 

It was only a few days later that Dr. Bryerly actually did arrive at Knowl, quite unexpectedly, except, I suppose, by my father. He was to stay onlyone night. 

He was twice closeted in the little study up-stairs with my father, whoseemed to me, even for him, unusually dejected, and Mrs. Rusk inveighingagainst 'them rubbitch, ' as she always termed the Swedenborgians, told me'they were making him quite shaky-like, and he would not last no time, ifthat lanky, lean ghost of a fellow in black was to keep prowling in and outof his room like a tame cat. '

I lay awake that night, wondering what the mystery might be that connectedmy father and Dr. Bryerly. There was something more than the convictionsof their strange religion could account for. There was something thatprofoundly agitated my father. It may not be reasonable, but so it is. Theperson whose presence, though we know nothing of the cause of that effect, is palpably attended with pain to anyone who is dear to us, grows odious, and I began to detest Doctor Bryerly. 

It was a grey, dark morning, and in a dark pass in the gallery, near thestaircase, I came full upon the ungainly Doctor, in his glossy black suit. 

I think, if my mind had been less anxiously excited on the subject ofhis visit, or if I had not disliked him so much, I should not have foundcourage to accost him as I did. There was something sly, I thought, in hisdark, lean face; and he looked so low, so like a Scotch artisan in hisSunday clothes, that I felt a sudden pang of indignation, at the thoughtthat a great gentleman, like my father, should have suffered under hisinfluence, and I stopped suddenly, instead of passing him by with a meresalutation, as he expected, 'May I ask a question, Doctor Bryerly?'

'Certainly'

'Are you the friend whom my father expects?'

'I don't quite see. '

'The friend, I mean, with whom he is to make an expedition to somedistance, I think, and for some little time?'

'No, ' said the Doctor, with a shake of his head. 

'And who is he?'

'I really have not a notion, Miss. '

'Why, he said that _you knew_, ' I replied. 

The Doctor looked honestly puzzled. 

'Will he stay long away? pray tell me. '

The Doctor looked into my troubled face with inquiring and darkened eyes, like one who half reads another's meaning; and then he said a littlebriskly, but not sharply--

'Well, _I_ don't know, I'm sure, Miss; no, indeed, you must have mistaken;there's nothing that _I_ know. '

There was a little pause, and he added--

'No. He never mentioned any friend to me. ' I fancied that he was madeuncomfortable by my question, and wanted to hide the truth. Perhaps I waspartly right. 

'Oh! Doctor Bryerly, pray, _pray_ who is the friend, and where is hegoing?'

'I do _assure_ you, ' he said, with a strange sort of impatience, 'I don'tknow; it is all nonsense. '

And he turned to go, looking, I think, annoyed and disconcerted. 

A terrific suspicion crossed my brain like lightning. 

'Doctor, one word, ' I said, I believe, quite wildly. 'Do you--do you thinkhis mind is at all affected?'

'Insane?' he said, looking at me with a sudden, sharp inquisitiveness, thatbrightened into a smile. 'Pooh, pooh! Heaven forbid! not a saner man inEngland. '

Then with a little nod he walked on, carrying, as I believed, notwithstanding his disclaimer, the secret with him. In the afternoonDoctor Bryerly went away. 

CHAPTER XVII

_AN ADVENTURE_

For many days after our quarrel, Madame hardly spoke to me. As for lessons, I was not much troubled with them. It was plain, too, that my father hadspoken to her, for she never after that day proposed our extending ourwalks beyond the precincts of Knowl. 

Knowl, however, was a very considerable territory, and it was possiblefor a much better pedestrian than I to tire herself effectually, withoutpassing its limits. So we took occasionally long walks. 

After some weeks of sullenness, during which for days at a time she hardlyspoke to me, and seemed lost in dark and evil abstraction, she once more, and somewhat suddenly, recovered her spirits, and grew quite friendly. Hergaieties and friendliness were not reassuring, and in my mind presagedapproaching mischief and treachery. The days were shortening to the wintryspan. The edge of the red sun had already touched the horizon as Madame andI, overtaken at the warren by his last beams, were hastening homeward. 

A narrow carriage-road traverses this wild region of the park, to which adistant gate gives entrance. On descending into this unfrequented road, Iwas surprised to see a carriage standing there. A thin, sly postilion, with that pert, turned-up nose which the old caricaturist Woodward used toattribute to the gentlemen of Tewkesbury, was leaning on his horses, andlooked hard at me as I passed. A lady who sat within looked out, with anextra-fashionable bonnet on, and also treated us to a stare. Very pink andwhite cheeks she had, very black glossy hair and bright eyes--fat, bold, and rather cross, she looked--and in her bold way she examined us curiouslyas we passed. 

I mistook the situation. It had once happened before that an intendingvisitor at Knowl had entered the place by that park-road, and lost severalhours in a vain search for the house. 

'Ask him, Madame, whether they want to go to the house; I dare say theyhave missed their way, ' whispered I. 

'_Eh bien, _ they will find again. I do not choose to talk to post-boys;_allons_!'

But I asked the man as we passed, 'Do you want to reach the house?'

By this time he was at the horses' heads, buckling the harness. 

'Noa, ' he said in a surly tone, smiling oddly on the winkers, but, recollecting his politeness, he added, 'Noa, thankee, misses, it's whatthey calls a picnic; we'll be takin' the road now. '

He was smiling now on a little buckle with which he was engaged. 

'Come--nonsense!' whispered Madame sharply in my ear, and she whisked me bythe arm, so we crossed the little stile at the other side. 

Our path lay across the warren, which undulates in little hillocks. The sunwas down by this time, blue shadows were stretching round us, colder in thesplendid contrast of the burnished sunset sky. 

Descending over these hillocks we saw three figures a little in advance ofus, not far from the path we were tracing. Two were standing smoking andchatting at intervals: one tall and slim, with a high chimney-pot, worn alittle on one side, and a white great-coat buttoned up to the chin; theother shorter and stouter, with a dark-coloured wrapper. These gentlemenwere facing rather our way as we came over the edge of the eminence, butturned their backs on perceiving our approach. As they did so, I rememberso well each lowered his cigar suddenly with the simultaneousness of adrill. The third figure sustained the picnic character of the group, for hewas repacking a hamper. He stood suddenly erect as we drew near, and a veryill-looking person he was, low-browed, square-chinned, and with a broad, broken nose. He wore gaiters, and was a little bandy, very broad, and hada closely-cropped bullet head, and deep-set little eyes. The moment I sawhim, I beheld the living type of the burglars and bruisers whom I had sooften beheld with a kind of scepticism in _Punch_. He stood over his hamperand scowled sharply at us for a moment; then with the point of his foot hejerked a little fur cap that lay on the ground into his hand, drew it tightover his lowering brows, and called to his companions, just as we passedhim--'Hallo! mister. How's this?'

'All right, ' said the tall person in the white great-coat, who, as heanswered, shook his shorter companion by the arm, I thought angrily. 

This shorter companion turned about. He had a muffler loose about his neckand chin. I thought he seemed shy and irresolute, and the tall man gave hima great jolt with his elbow, which made him stagger, and I fancied a littleangry, for he said, as it seemed, a sulky word or two. 

The gentleman in the white surtout, however, standing direct in our way, raised his hat with a mock salutation, placing his hand on his breast, and forthwith began to advance with an insolent grin and an air of tipsyfrolic. 

'Jist in time, ladies; five minutes more and we'd a bin off. Thankee, Mrs. Mouser, ma'am, for the honour of the meetin', and more particular for thepleasure of making your young lady's acquaintance--niece, ma'am? daughter, ma'am? granddaughter, by Jove, is it? Hallo! there, mild 'n, I say, stoppackin'. ' This was to the ill-favoured person with the broken nose. 'Bringus a couple o' glasses and a bottle o' curaçoa; what are you fear'd on, mydear? this is Lord Lollipop, here, a reg'lar charmer, wouldn't hurt a fly, hey Lolly? Isn't he pretty, Miss? and I'm Sir Simon Sugarstick--so calledafter old Sir Simon, ma'am; and I'm so tall and straight, Miss, andslim--ain't I? and ever so sweet, my honey, when you come to know me, justlike a sugarstick; ain't I, Lolly, boy?'

'I'm Miss Ruthyn, tell them, Madame, ' I said, stamping on the ground, andvery much frightened. 

'Be quaite, Maud. If you are angry, they will hurt us; leave me to speak, 'whispered the gouvernante. 

All this time they were approaching from separate points. I glanced back, and saw the ruffianly-looking man within a yard or two, with his arm raisedand one finger up, telegraphing, as it seemed, to the gentlemen in front. 

'Be quaite, Maud, ' whispered Madame, with an awful adjuration, which I donot care to set down. 'They are teepsy; don't seem 'fraid. '

I _was_ afraid--terrified. The circle had now so narrowed that they mighthave placed their hands on my shoulders. 

'Pray, gentlemen, wat you want? _weel_ a you 'av the goodness to permit usto go on?'

I now observed for the first time, with a kind of shock, that the shorterof the two men, who prevented our advance, was the person who had accostedme so offensively at Church Scarsdale. I pulled Madame by the arm, whispering, 'Let us run. '

'Be quaite, my dear Maud, ' was her only reply. 

'I tell you what, ' said the tall man, who had replaced his high hat morejauntily than before on the side of his head, 'We've caught you now, fairgame, and we'll let you off on conditions. You must not be frightened, Miss. Upon my honour and soul, I mean no mischief; do I, Lollipop? I callhim Lord Lollipop; it's only chaff, though; his name's Smith. Now, Lolly, I vote we let the prisoners go, when we just introduce them to Mrs. Smith;she's sitting in the carriage, and keeps Mr. S. Here in precious goodorder, I promise you. There's easy terms for you, eh, and we'll have aglass o' curaçoa round, and so part friends. Is it a bargain? Come!'

'Yes, Maud, we must go--wat matter?' whispered Madame vehemently. 

'You shan't, ' I said, instinctively terrified. 

'You'll go with Ma'am, young 'un, won't you?' said Mr. Smith, as hiscompanion called him. 

Madame was holding my arm, but I snatched it from her, and would have run;the tall man, however, placed his arms round me and held me fast with anaffectation of playfulness, but his grip was hard enough to hurt me a gooddeal. Being now thoroughly frightened, after an ineffectual struggle, during which I heard Madame say, 'You fool, Maud, weel you come with me?see wat you are doing, ' I began to scream, shriek after shriek, which theman attempted to drown with loud hooting, peals of laughter, forcinghis handkerchief against my mouth, while Madame continued to bawl herexhortations to 'be quaite' in my ear. 

'I'll lift her, I say!' said a gruff voice behind me. 

But at this instant, wild with terror, I distinctly heard other voicesshouting. The men who surrounded me were instantly silent, and all lookedin the direction of the sound, now very near, and I screamed with redoubledenergy. The ruffian behind me thrust his great hand over my mouth. 

'It is the gamekeeper, ' cried Madame. '_Two_ gamekeepers--we aresafe--thank Heaven!' and she began to call on Dykes by name. 

I only remember, feeling myself at liberty--running a few steps--seeingDykes' white furious face--clinging to his arm, with which he was bringinghis gun to a level, and saying, 'Don't fire--they'll murder us if you do. '

Madame, screaming lustily, ran up at the same moment. 

'Run on to the gate and lock it--I'll be wi' ye in a minute, ' cried he tothe other gamekeeper; who started instantly on this mission, for the threeruffians were already in full retreat for the carriage. 

Giddy--wild--fainting--still terror carried me on. 

'Now, Madame Rogers--s'pose you take young Misses on--I must run and len'Bill a hand. '

'No, no; you moste not, ' cried Madame. 'I am fainting myself, and morevillains they may be near to us. '

But at this moment we heard a shot, and, muttering to himself and graspinghis gun, Dykes ran at his utmost speed in the direction of the sound. 

With many exhortations to speed, and ejaculations of alarm, Madame hurriedme on toward the house, which at length we reached without furtheradventure. 

As it happened, my father met us in the hall. He was perfectly transportedwith fury on hearing from Madame what had happened, and set out at once, with some of the servants, in the hope of intercepting the party at thepark-gate. 

Here was a new agitation; for my father did not return for nearly threehours, and I could not conjecture what might be occurring during the periodof his absence. My alarm was greatly increased by the arrival in theinterval of poor Bill, the under-gamekeeper, very much injured. 

Seeing that he was determined to intercept their retreat, the three men hadset upon him, wrested his gun, which exploded in the struggle, from him, and beat him savagely. I mention these particulars, because they convincedeverybody that there was something specially determined and ferocious inthe spirit of the party, and that the fracas was no mere frolic, but theresult of a predetermined plan. 

My father had not succeeded in overtaking them. He traced them to theLugton Station, where they had taken the railway, and no one could tell himin what direction the carriage and posthorses had driven. 

Madame was, or affected to be, very much shattered by what had occurred. Her recollection and mine, when my father questioned us closely, differedvery materially respecting many details of the _personnel_ of thevillanous party. She was obstinate and clear; and although the gamekeepercorroborated my description of them, still my father was puzzled. Perhapshe was not sorry that some hesitation was forced upon him, because althoughat first he would have gone almost any length to detect the persons, onreflection he was pleased that there was not evidence to bring them intoa court of justice, the publicity and annoyance of which would have beeninconceivably distressing to me. 

Madame was in a strange state--tempestuous in temper, talkingincessantly--every now and then in floods of tears, and perpetually onher knees pouring forth torrents of thanksgiving to Heaven for our jointdeliverance from the hands of those villains. Notwithstanding our communityof danger and her thankfulness on my behalf, however, she broke forth intowrath and railing whenever we were alone together. 

'Wat fool you were! so disobedient and obstinate; if you 'ad done wat _I_say, then we should av been quaite safe; those persons they were tipsy, andthere is nothing so dangerous as to quarrel with tipsy persons; I would'av brought you quaite safe--the lady she seem so nice and quaite, and weshould 'av been safe with her--there would 'av been nothing absolutely; butinstead you would scream and pooshe, and so they grow quite wild, and allthe impertinence and violence follow of course; and that a poor Bill--allhis beating and danger to his life it is cause entairely by you. '

And she spoke with more real virulence than that kind of upbraidinggenerally exhibits. 

'The beast!' exclaimed Mrs. Rusk, when she, I, and Mary Quince were in myroom together, 'with all her crying and praying, I'd like to know as muchas she does, maybe, about them rascals. There never was sich like about theplace, long as I remember it, till she came to Knowl, old witch! with themunmerciful big bones of hers, and her great bald head, grinning here, andcrying there, and her nose everywhere. The old French hypocrite!'

Mary Quince threw in an observation, and I believe Mrs. Rusk rejoined, butI heard neither. For whether the housekeeper spoke with reflection or not, what she said affected me strangely. Through the smallest aperture, fora moment, I had had a peep into Pandemonium. Were not peculiarities ofMadame's demeanour and advice during the adventure partly accounted for bythe suggestion? Could the proposed excursion to Church Scarsdale have hadany purpose of the same sort? What was proposed? How was Madame interestedin it? Were such immeasurable treason and hypocrisy possible? I could notexplain nor quite believe in the shapeless suspicion that with these lightand bitter words of the old housekeeper had stolen so horribly into mymind. 

After Mrs. Rusk was gone I awoke from my dismal abstraction with somethinglike a moan and a shudder, with a dreadful sense of danger. 

'Oh! Mary Quince, ' I cried, 'do you think she really knew?'

'_Who_, Miss Maud?'

'Do you think Madame knew of those dreadful people? Oh, no--say youdon't--you don't believe it--tell me she did not. I'm distracted, MaryQuince, I'm frightened out of my life. '

'There now, Miss Maud, dear--there now, don't take on so--why shouldshe?--no sich a thing. Mrs. Rusk, law bless you, she's no more meaning inwhat she says than the child unborn. '

But I was really frightened. I was in a horrible state of uncertainty as toMadame de la Rougierre's complicity with the party who had beset us at thewarren, and afterwards so murderously beat our poor gamekeeper. How wasI ever to get rid of that horrible woman? How long was she to enjoy hercontinual opportunities of affrighting and injuring me?

'She hates me--she hates me, Mary Quince; and she will never stop until shehas done me some dreadful injury. Oh! will no one relieve me--will no onetake her away? Oh, papa, papa, papa! you will be sorry when it is toolate. '

I was crying and wringing my hands, and turning from side to side, at mywits' ends, and honest Mary Quince in vain endevoured to quiet and comfortme. 

CHAPTER XVIII

_A MIDNIGHT VISITOR_

The frightful warnings of Lady Knollys haunted me too. Was there no escapefrom the dreadful companion whom fate had assigned me? I made up my mindagain and again to speak to my father and urge her removal. In other thingshe indulged me; here, however, he met me drily and sternly, and it wasplain that he fancied I was under my cousin Monica's influence, and alsothat he had secret reasons for persisting in an opposite course. Just thenI had a gay, odd letter from Lady Knollys, from some country house inShropshire. Not a word about Captain Oakley. My eye skimmed its pages insearch of that charmed name. With a peevish feeling I tossed the sheet uponthe table. Inwardly I thought how ill-natured and unwomanly it was. 

After a time, however, I read it, and found the letter very good-natured. She had received a note from papa. He had 'had the impudence to forgive_her_ for _his_ impertinence. ' But for my sake she meant, notwithstandingthis aggravation, really to pardon him; and whenever she had a disengagedweek, to accept his invitation to Knowl, from whence she was resolved towhisk me off to London, where, though I was too young to be presented atCourt and come out, I might yet--besides having the best masters and a goodexcuse for getting rid of Medusa--see a great deal that would amuse andsurprise me. 

'Great news, I suppose, from Lady Knollys?' said Madame, who always knewwho in the house received letters by the post, and by an intuition fromwhom they came. 

'Two letters--you and your papa. She is quite well, I hope?'

'Quite well, thank you, Madame. '

Some fishing questions, dropped from time to time, fared no better. Andas usual, when she was foiled even in a trifle, she became sullen andmalignant. 

That night, when my father and I were alone, he suddenly closed the book hehad been reading, and said--

'I heard from Monica Knollys to-day. I always liked poor Monnie; and thoughshe's no witch, and very wrong-headed at times, yet now and then she doessay a thing that's worth weighing. Did she ever talk to you of a time, Maud, when you are to be your own mistress?'

'No, ' I answered, a little puzzled, and looking straight in his rugged, kindly face. 

'Well, I thought she might--she's a rattle, you know--always _was_ arattle, and that sort of people say whatever comes uppermost. But that's asubject for me, and more than once, Maud, it has puzzled me. '

He sighed. 

'Come with me to the study, little Maud. '

So, he carrying a candle, we crossed the lobby, and marched togetherthrough the passage, which at night always seemed a little awesome, darklywainscoted, uncheered by the cross-light from the hall, which was lost atthe turn, leading us away from the frequented parts of the house to thatmisshapen and lonely room about which the traditions of the nursery and theservants' hall had had so many fearful stories to recount. 

I think my father had intended making some disclosure to me on reachingthis room. If so, he changed his mind, or at least postponed his intention. 

He had paused before the cabinet, respecting the key of which he had givenme so strict a charge, and I think he was going to explain himself morefully than he had done. But he went on, instead, to the table where hisdesk, always jealously locked, was placed, and having lighted the candleswhich stood by it, he glanced at me, and said--

'You must wait a little, Maud; I shall have something to say to you. Takethis candle and amuse yourself with a book meanwhile. '

I was accustomed to obey in silence. I chose a volume of engravings, and ensconced myself in a favourite nook in which I had often passed ahalf-hour similarly. This was a deep recess by the fireplace, fenced on theother side by a great old escritoir. Into this I drew a stool, and, withcandle and book, I placed myself snugly in the narrow chamber. Every nowand then I raised my eyes and saw my father either writing or ruminating, as it seemed to me, very anxiously at his desk. 

Time wore on--a longer time than he had intended, and still he continuedabsorbed at his desk. Gradually I grew sleepy, and as I nodded, the bookand room faded away, and pleasant little dreams began to gather round me, and so I went off into a deep slumber. 

It must have lasted long, for when I wakened my candle had burnt out; myfather, having quite forgotten me, was gone, and the room was dark anddeserted. I felt cold and a little stiff, and for some seconds did not knowwhere I was. 

I had been wakened, I suppose, by a sound which I now distinctly heard, tomy great terror, approaching. There was a rustling; there was a breathing. I heard a creaking upon the plank that always creaked when walked upon inthe passage. I held my breath and listened, and coiled myself up in theinnermost recess of my little chamber. 

Sudden and sharp, a light shone in from the nearly-closed study door. Itshone angularly on the ceiling like a letter L reversed. There was a pause. Then some one knocked softly at the door, which after another pause wasslowly pushed open. I expected, I think, to see the dreaded figure ofthe linkman. I was scarcely less frightened to see that of Madame de laRougierre. She was dressed in a sort of grey silk, which she called herChinese silk--precisely as she had been in the daytime. In fact, I do notthink she had undressed. She had no shoes on. Otherwise her toilet wasdeficient in nothing. Her wide mouth was grimly closed, and she stoodscowling into the room with a searching and pallid scrutiny, the candleheld high above her head at the full stretch of her arm. 

Placed as I was in a deep recess, and in a seat hardly raised above thelevel of the floor, I escaped her, although it seemed to me for someseconds, as I gazed on this spectre, that our eyes actually met. 

I sat without breathing or winking, staring upon the formidable image whichwith upstretched arm, and the sharp lights and hard shadows thrown upon hercorrugated features, looked like a sorceress watching for the effect of aspell. 

She was plainly listening intensely. Unconsciously she had drawn her lowerlip altogether between her teeth, and I well remember what a deathlike andidiotic look the contortion gave her. My terror lest she should discover meamounted to positive agony. She rolled her eyes stealthily from corner tocorner of the room, and listened with her neck awry at the door. 

Then to my father's desk she went. To my great relief, her back was towardsme. She stooped over it, with the candle close by; I saw her try a key--itcould be nothing else--and I heard her blow through the wards to clearthem. 

Then, again, she listened at the door, candle in hand, and then with longtiptoe steps came back, and papa's desk in another moment was open, andMadame cautiously turning over the papers it contained. 

Twice or thrice she paused, glided to the door, and listened again intentlywith her head near the ground, and then returned and continued her search, peeping into papers one after another, tolerably methodically, and readingsome quite through. 

While this felonious business was going on, I was freezing with fear lestshe should accidentally look round and her eyes light on me; for I couldnot say what she might not do rather than have her crime discovered. 

Sometimes she would read a paper twice over; sometimes a whisper no louderthan the ticking of a watch, sometimes a brief chuckle under her breath, bespoke the interest with which here and there a letter or a memorandum wasread. 

For about half an hour, I think, this went on; but at the time it seemed tome all but interminable. On a sudden she raised her head and listened for amoment, replaced the papers deftly, closed the desk without noise, exceptfor the tiny click of the lock, extinguished the candle, and rustledstealthily out of the room, leaving in the darkness the malign and hag-likeface on which the candle had just shone still floating filmy in the dark. 

Why did I remain silent and motionless while such an outrage was beingcommitted? If, instead of being a very nervous girl, preoccupied withan undefinable terror of that wicked woman, I had possessed courage andpresence of mind, I dare say I might have given an alarm, and escaped fromthe room without the slightest risk. But so it was; I could no more stirthan the bird who, cowering under its ivy, sees the white owl sailing backand forward under its predatory cruise. 

Not only during her presence, but for more than an hour after, I remainedcowering in my hiding-place, and afraid to stir, lest she might either belurking in the neighborhood, or return and surprise me. 

You will not be astonished, that after a night so passed I was ill andfeverish in the morning. To my horror, Madame de la Rougierre came to visitme at my bedside. Not a trace of guilty consciousness of what had passedduring the night was legible in her face. She had no sign of late watching, and her toilet was exemplary. 

As she sat smiling by me, full of anxious and affectionate enquiry, and smoothed the coverlet with her great felonious hand, I could quitecomprehend the dreadful feeling with which the deceived husband in the'Arabian Nights' met his ghoul wife, after his nocturnal discovery. 

Ill as I was, I got up and found my father in that room which adjoined hisbedchamber. He perceived, I am sure, by my looks, that something unusualhad happened. I shut the door, and came close beside his chair. 

'Oh, papa, I have such a thing to tell you!' I forgot to call him 'Sir. ' 'Asecret; and you won't say who told you? Will you come down to the study?'

He looked hard at me, got up, and kissing my forehead, said--'Don't befrightened, Maud; I venture to say it is a mare's nest; at all events, mychild, we will take care that no danger reaches you; come, child. '

And by the hand he led me to the study. When the door was shut, and we hadreached the far end of the room next the window, I said, but in a low tone, and holding his arm fast--

'Oh, sir, you don't know what a dreadful person we have living withus--Madame de la Rougierre, I mean. Don't let her in if she comes; shewould guess what I am telling you, and one way or another I am sure shewould kill me. '

'Tut, tut, child. You _must_ know that's nonsense, ' he said, looking paleand stern. 

'Oh no, papa. I am horribly frightened, and Lady Knollys thinks so too. '

'Ha! I dare say; one fool makes many. We all know what Monica thinks. '

'But I _saw_ it, papa. She stole your key last night, and opened your desk, and read all your papers. '

'Stole my key!' said my father, staring at me perplexed, but at the sameinstant producing it. 'Stole it! Why here it is!'

'She unlocked your desk; she read your papers for ever so long. Open itnow, and see whether they have not been stirred. '

He looked at me this time in silence, with a puzzled air; but he did unlockthe desk, and lifted the papers curiously and suspiciously. As he did sohe uttered a few of those inarticulate interjections which are made withclosed lips, and not always intelligible; but he made no remark. 

Then he placed me on a chair beside him, and sitting down himself, toldme to recollect myself, and tell him distinctly all I had seen. Thisaccordingly I did, he listening with deep attention. 

'Did she remove any paper?' asked my father, at the same time making alittle search, I suppose, for that which he fancied might have been stolen. 

'No; I did not see her take anything. '

'Well, you are a good girl, Maud. Act discreetly. Say nothing toanyone--not even to your cousin Monica. '

Directions which, coming from another person would have had no greatweight, were spoken by my father with an earnest look and a weight ofemphasis that made them irresistibly impressive, and I went away with theseal of silence upon my lips. 

'Sit down, Maud, _there_. You have not been very happy with Madame de laRougierre. It is time you were relieved. This occurrence decides it. '

He rang the bell. 

'Tell Madame de la Rougierre that I request the honour of seeing her for afew minutes here. '

My father's communications to her were always equally ceremonious. In afew minutes there was a knock at the door, and the same figure, smiling, courtesying, that had scared me on the threshold last night, like thespirit of evil, presented itself. 

My father rose, and Madame having at his request taken a chair opposite, looking, as usual in his presence, all amiability, he proceeded at once tothe point. 

'Madame de la Rougierre, I have to request you that you will give me thekey now in your possession, which unlocks this desk of mine. '

With which termination he tapped his gold pencil-case suddenly on it. 

Madame, who had expected something very different, became instantly sopale, with a dull purplish hue upon her forehead, that, especially when shehad twice essayed with her white lips, in vain, to answer, I expected tosee her fall in a fit. 

She was not looking in his face; her eyes were fixed lower, and her mouthand cheek sucked in, with a strange distortion at one side. 

She stood up suddenly, and staring straight in his face, she succeeded insaying, after twice clearing her throat--

'I cannot comprehend, Monsieur Ruthyn, unless you intend to insult me. '

'It won't do, Madame; I must have that false key. I give you theopportunity of surrendering it quietly here and now. '

'But who dares to say I possess such thing?' demanded Madame, who, havingrallied from her momentary paralysis, was now fierce and voluble as I hadoften seen her before. 

'You know, Madame, that you can rely on what I say, and I tell you that youwere seen last night visiting this room, and with a key in your possession, opening this desk, and reading my letters and papers contained in it. Unless you forthwith give me that key, and any other false keys in yourpossession--in which case I shall rest content with dismissing yousummarily--I will take a different course. You know I am a magistrate;--andI shall have you, your boxes, and places up-stairs, searched forthwith, and I will prosecute you criminally. The thing is clear; you aggravate bydenying; you must give me that key, if you please, instantly, otherwise Iring this bell, and you shall see that I mean what I say. '

There was a little pause. He rose and extended his hand towards thebell-rope. Madame glided round the table, extended her hand to arrest his. 

'I will do everything, Monsieur Ruthyn--whatever you wish. '

And with these words Madame de la Rougierre broke down altogether. Shesobbed, she wept, she gabbled piteously, all manner of incomprehensibleroulades of lamentation and entreaty; coyly, penitently, in a mostinteresting agitation, she produced the very key from her breast, with astring tied to it. My father was little moved by this piteous tempest. Hecoolly took the key and tried it in the desk, which it locked and unlockedquite freely, though the wards were complicated. He shook his head andlooked her in the face. 

'Pray, who made this key? It is a new one, and made expressly to pick thislock. '

But Madame was not going to tell any more than she had expressly bargainedfor; so she only fell once more into her old paroxysm of sorrow, self-reproach, extenuation, and entreaty. 

'Well, ' said my father, ' I promised that on surrendering the key you shouldgo. It is enough. I keep my word. You shall have an hour and a half toprepare in. You must then be ready to depart. I will send your money to youby Mrs. Rusk; and if you look for another situation, you had better notrefer to me. Now be so good as to leave me. '

Madame seemed to be in a strange perplexity. She bridled up, dried her eyesfiercely, and dropped a great courtesy, and then sailed away towards thedoor. Before reaching it she stopped on the way, turning half round, witha peaked, pallid glance at my father, and she bit her lip viciously as sheeyed him. At the door the same repulsive pantomime was repeated, as shestood for a moment with her hand upon the handle. But she changed herbearing again with a sniff, and with a look of scorn, almost heightened toa sneer, she made another very low courtesy and a disdainful toss of herhead, and so disappeared, shutting the door rather sharply behind her. 

CHAPTER XIX

_AU REVOIR_

Mrs. Rusk was fond of assuring me that Madame 'did not like a bone in myskin. ' Instinctively I knew that she bore me no good-will, although Ireally believe it was her wish to make me think quite the reverse. At allevents I had no desire to see Madame again before her departure, especiallyas she had thrown upon me one momentary glance in the study, which seemedto me charged with very peculiar feelings. 

You may be very sure, therefore, that I had no desire for a formalleave-taking at her departure. I took my hat and cloak, therefore, andstole out quietly. 

My ramble was a sequestered one, and well screened, even at this lateseason, with foliage; the pathway devious among the stems of old trees, andits flooring interlaced and groined with their knotted roots. Though nearthe house, it was a sylvan solitude; a little brook ran darkling andglimmering through it, wild strawberries and other woodland plants strewedthe ground, and the sweet notes and flutter of small birds made the shadowof the boughs cheery. 

I had been fully an hour in this picturesque solitude when I heard in thedistance the ring of carriage-wheels, announcing to me that Madame de laRougierre had fairly set out upon her travels. I thanked heaven; I couldhave danced and sung with delight; I heaved a great sigh and looked upthrough the branches to the clear blue sky. 

But things are oddly timed. Just at this moment I heard Madame's voiceclose at my ear, and her large bony hand was laid on my shoulder. We wereinstantly face to face--I recoiling, and for a moment speechless withfright. 

In very early youth we do not appreciate the restraints which act uponmalignity, or know how effectually fear protects us where conscience iswanting. Quite alone, in this solitary spot, detected and overtaken with anawful instinct by my enemy, what might not be about to happen to me at thatmoment?

'Frightened as usual, Maud, ' she said quietly, and eyeing me with asinister smile, 'and with cause you think, no doubt. Wat 'av you done toinjure poor Madame? Well, I think I know, little girl, and have quitediscover the cleverness of my sweet little Maud. Eh--is not so? Petitecarogne--ah, ha, ha!'

I was too much confounded to answer. 

'You see, my dear cheaile, ' she said, shaking her uplifted finger with ahideous archness at me, 'you could not hide what you 'av done from poorMadame. You cannot look so innocent but I can see your pretty littlevillany quite plain--you dear little diablesse. 

'Wat I 'av done I 'av no reproach of myself for it. If I could explain, your papa would say I 'av done right, and you should thank me on yourknees; but I cannot explain yet. '

She was speaking, as it were, in little paragraphs, with a momentary pausebetween each, to allow its meaning to impress itself. 

'If I were to choose to explain, your papa he would implore me to remain. But no--I would not--notwithstanding your so cheerful house, your charmingservants, your papa's amusing society, and your affectionate and sincereheart, my sweet little maraude. 

'I am to go to London first, where I 'av, oh, so good friends! next I willgo abroad for some time; but be sure, my sweetest Maud, wherever I may'appen to be, I will remember you--ah, ha! Yes; _most certainly_, I willremember you. 

'And although I shall not be always near, yet I shall know everythingabout my charming little Maud; you will not know how, but I shall indeed, _everything_. And be sure, my dearest cheaile, I will some time be able togive you the sensible proofs of my gratitude and affection--you understand. 

'The carriage is waiting at the yew-tree stile, and I must go on. You didnot expect to see me--here; I will appear, perhaps, as suddenly anothertime. It is great pleasure to us both--this opportunity to make our adieux. Farewell! my dearest little Maud. I will never cease to think of you, andof some way to recompense the kindness you 'av shown for poor Madame. '

My hand hung by my side, and she took, not it, but my thumb, and shookit, folded in her broad palm, and looking on me as she held it, as ifmeditating mischief. Then suddenly she said--

'You will always remember Madame, I _think_, and I will remind you of mebeside; and for the present farewell, and I hope you may be as 'appy as youdeserve. '

The large sinister face looked on me for a second with its latent sneer, and then, with a sharp nod and a spasmodic shake of my imprisoned thumb, she turned, and holding her dress together, and showing her great bonyankles, she strode rapidly away over the gnarled roots into the perspectiveof the trees, and I did not awake, as it were, until she had quitedisappeared in the distance. 

Events of this kind made no difference with my father; but every other facein Knowl was gladdened by the removal. My energies had returned, my spiritswere come again. The sunlight was happy, the flowers innocent, the songsand flutter of the birds once more gay, and all nature delightful andrejoicing. 

After the first elation of relief, now and then a filmy shadow of Madame dela Rougierre would glide across the sunlight, and the remembrance of hermenace return with an unexpected pang of fear. 

'Well, if _there_ isn't impittens!' cried Mrs. Rusk. 'But never you troubleyour head about it, Miss. Them sort's all alike--you never saw a rogue yetthat was found out and didn't threaten the honest folk as he was leavingbehind with all sorts; there was Martin the gamekeeper, and Jervis thefootman, I mind well how hard they swore all they would not do when theywas a-going, and who ever heard of them since? They always threatens thatway--them sort always does, and none ever the worse--not but she would ifshe could, mind ye, but there it is; she can't do nothing but bite hernails and cuss us--not she--ha, ha, ha!'

So I was comforted. But Madame's evil smile, nevertheless, from time totime, would sail across my vision with a silent menace, and my spiritssank, and a Fate, draped in black, whose face I could not see, took me bythe hand, and led me away, in the spirit, silently, on an awful explorationfrom which I would rouse myself with a start, and Madame was gone for awhile. 

She had, however, judged her little parting well. She contrived to leaveher glamour over me, and in my dreams she troubled me. 

I was, however, indescribably relieved. I wrote in high spirits to CousinMonica; and wondered what plans my father might have formed about me, andwhether we were to stay at home, or go to London, or go abroad. Of thelast--the pleasantest arrangement, in some respects--I had nevertheless anoccult horror. A secret conviction haunted me that were we to go abroad, weshould there meet Madame, which to me was like meeting my evil genius. 

I have said more than once that my father was an odd man; and the readerwill, by this time, have seen that there was much about him not easilyunderstood. I often wonder whether, if he had been franker, I should havefound him less odd than I supposed, or more odd still. Things that moved meprofoundly did not apparently affect him at all. The departure of Madame, under the circumstances which attended it, appeared to my childish mind anevent of the vastest importance. No one was indifferent to the occurrencein the house but its master. He never alluded again to Madame de laRougierre. But whether connected with her exposure and dismissal, I couldnot say, there did appear to be some new care or trouble now at work in myfather's mind. 

'I have been thinking a great deal about you, Maud. I am anxious. I havenot been so troubled for years. Why has not Monica Knollys a little moresense?'

This oracular sentence he spoke, having stopped me in the hall; and thensaying, 'We shall see, ' he left me as abruptly as he appeared. 

Did he apprehend any danger to me from the vindictiveness of Madame?

A day or two afterwards, as I was in the Dutch garden, I saw him on theterrace steps. He beckoned to me, and came to meet me as I approached. 

'You must be very solitary, little Maud; it is not good. I have written toMonica: in a matter of detail she is competent to advise; perhaps she willcome here for a short visit. '

I was very glad to hear this. 

'_You_ are more interested than for my time _I_ can be, in vindicating hischaracter. '

'Whose character, sir?' I ventured to enquire during the pause thatfollowed. 

One trick which my father had acquired from his habits of solitude andsilence was this of assuming that the context of his thoughts was legibleto others, forgetting that they had not been spoken. 

'Whose?--your uncle Silas's. In the course of nature he must survive me. Hewill then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to clearthat name, Maud?'

I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm. 

He turned on me such an approving smile as you might fancy lighting up therugged features of a pale old Rembrandt. 

'I can tell you, Maud; if my life could have done it, it should not havebeen undone--_ubi lapsus, quid feci_. But I had almost made up my mind tochange my plan, and leave all to time--_edax rerum_--to illuminate orto _consume_. But I think little Maud would like to contribute to therestitution of her family name. It may cost you something--are you willingto buy it at a sacrifice? Is there--I don't speak of fortune, that is notinvolved--but is there any other honourable sacrifice you would shrink fromto dispel the disgrace under which our most ancient and honourable namemust otherwise continue to languish?'

'Oh, none--none indeed, sir--I am delighted!'

Again I saw the Rembrandt smile. 

'Well, Maud, I am sure there is _no_ risk; but you are to suppose there is. Are you still willing to accept it?'

Again I assented. 

'You are worthy of your blood, Maud Ruthyn. It will come soon, and it won'tlast long. But you must not let people like Monica Knollys frighten you. '

I was lost in wonder. 

'If you allow them to possess you with their follies, you had better recedein time--they may make the ordeal as terrible as hell itself. You havezeal--have you nerve?' I thought in such a cause I had nerve for anything. 

'Well, Maud, in the course of a few months--and it may be sooner--theremust be a change. I have had a letter from London this morning that assuresme of that. I must then leave you for a time; in my absence be faithful tothe duties that will arise. To whom much is committed, of him will much berequired. You shall promise me not to mention this conversation to MonicaKnollys. If you are a talking girl, and cannot trust yourself, say so, andwe will not ask her to come. Also, don't invite her to talk about youruncle Silas--I have reasons. Do you quite understand my conditions?'

'Yes, sir. '

'Your uncle Silas, ' he said, speaking suddenly in loud and fierce tonesthat sounded from so old a man almost terrible, 'lies under an intolerableslander. I don't correspond with him; I don't sympathise with him; I neverquite did. He has grown religious, and that's well; but there are things inwhich even religion should not bring a man to acquiesce; and from whatI can learn, he, the person primarily affected--the cause, though theinnocent cause--of this great calamity--bears it with an easy apathy whichis mistaken, and liable easily to be mistaken, and such as no Ruthyn, underthe circumstances, ought to exhibit. I told him what he ought to do, andoffered to open my purse for the purpose; but he would not, or _did_ not;indeed, he _never_ took my advice; he followed his own, and a foul anddismal shoal he has drifted on. It is not for his sake--why should I?-thatI have longed and laboured to remove the disgraceful slur under whichhis ill-fortune has thrown us. He troubles himself little about it, Ibelieve--he's meek, meeker than I. He cares less about his children than Iabout you, Maud; he is selfishly sunk in futurity--a feeble visionary. I amnot so. I believe it to be a duty to take care of others beside myself. Thecharacter and influence of an ancient family is a peculiar heritage--sacredbut destructible; and woe to him who either destroys or suffers it toperish!'

This was the longest speech I ever heard my father speak before or after. He abruptly resumed--

'Yes, we will, Maud--you and I--we'll leave one proof on record, which, fairly read, will go far to convince the world. '

He looked round, but we were alone. The garden was nearly always solitary, and few visitors ever approached the house from that side. 

'I have talked too long, I believe; we are children to the last. Leave me, Maud. I think I know you better than I did, and I am pleased with you. Go, child--I'll sit here. '

If he had acquired new ideas of me, so had I of him from that interview. Ihad no idea till then how much passion still burned in that aged frame, norhow full of energy and fire that face, generally so stern and ashen, couldappear. As I left him seated on the rustic chair, by the steps, the tracesof that storm were still discernible on his features. His gathered brows, glowing eyes, and strangely hectic face, and the grim compression of hismouth, still showed the agitation which, somehow, in grey old age, shocksand alarms the young. 

CHAPTER XX

_AUSTIN RUTHYN SETS OUT ON HIS JOURNEY_

The Rev. William Fairfield, Doctor Clay's somewhat bald curate, a mild, thin man, with a high and thin nose, who was preparing me for confirmation, came next day; and when our catechetical conference was ended, and beforelunch was announced, my father sent for him to the study, where he remaineduntil the bell rang out its summons. 

'We have had some interesting--I may say _very_ interesting--conversation, your papa and I, Miss Ruthyn, ' said my reverend _vis-à-vis_, so soon asnature was refreshed, smiling and shining, as he leaned back in his chair, his hand upon the table, and his finger curled gently upon the stem of hiswine-glass. 'It never was your privilege, I believe, to see your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, of Bartram-Haugh?'

'No--never; he leads so retired--so _very_ retired a life. '

'Oh, no, --of course, no; but I was going to remark a likeness--I mean, of course, a _family_ likeness--only _that_ sort of thing--youunderstand--between him and the profile of Lady Margaret in thedrawing-room--is not it Lady Margaret?--which you were so good as to showme on Wednesday last. There certainly _is_ a likeness. I _think_ you wouldagree with me, if you had the pleasure of seeing your uncle. '

'You know him, then? I have never seen him. '

'Oh dear, yes--I am happy to say, I know him very well. I have thatprivilege. I was for three years curate of Feltram, and I had the honour ofbeing a pretty constant visitor at Bartram-Haugh during that, I may say, protracted period; and I think it really never has been my privilege andhappiness, I may say, to enjoy the acquaintance and society of so veryexperienced a Christian, as my admirable friend, I may call him, Mr. Ruthyn, of Bartram-Haugh. I look upon him, I do assure you, quite in thelight of a saint; not, of course, in the Popish sense, but in the veryhighest, you will understand me, which _our_ Church allows, --a man built upin faith--full of faith--faith and grace--altogether exemplary; and Ioften ventured to regret, Miss Ruthyn, that Providence in its mysteriousdispensations should have placed him so far apart from his brother, yourrespected father. His influence and opportunities would, no doubt, we mayventure to hope, at least have been blessed; and, perhaps, we--my valuedrector and I--might possibly have seen more of him at church, than, Ideeply regret, we _have_ done. ' He shook his head a little, as he smiledwith a sad complacency on me through his blue steel spectacles, and thensipped a little meditative sherry. 

'And you saw a good deal of my uncle?'

'Well, a _good_ deal, Miss Ruthyn--I may say a _good_ deal--principally athis own house. His health is wretched--miserable health--a sadly afflictedman he has been, as, no doubt, you are aware. But afflictions, my dear MissRuthyn, as you remember Doctor Clay so well remarked on Sunday last, thoughbirds of ill omen, yet spiritually resemble the ravens who supplied theprophet; and when they visit the faithful, come charged with nourishmentfor the soul. 

'He is a good deal embarrassed pecuniarily, I should say, ' continued thecurate, who was rather a good man than a very well-bred one. 'He found adifficulty--in fact it was not in his power--to subscribe generally to ourlittle funds, and--and objects, and I used to say to him, and I really feltit, that it was more gratifying, such were his feeling and his power ofexpression, to be refused by him than assisted by others. '

'Did papa wish you to speak to me about my uncle?' I enquired, as a suddenthought struck me; and then I felt half ashamed of my question. 

He looked surprised. 

'No, Miss Ruthyn, certainly not. Oh dear, no. It was merely a conversationbetween Mr. Ruthyn and me. He never suggested my opening that, or indeedany other point in my interview with you, Miss Ruthyn--not the least. '

'I was not aware before that Uncle Silas was so religious. '

He smiled tranquilly, not quite up to the ceiling, but gently upward, andshook his head in pity for my previous ignorance, as he lowered his eyes--

'I don't say that there may not be some little matters in a few points ofdoctrine which we could, perhaps, wish otherwise. But these, you know, are speculative, and in all essentials he is Church--not in the pervertedmodern sense; far from it--unexceptionably Church, strictly so. Would therewere more among us of the same mind that is in him! Ay, Miss Ruthyn, evenin the highest places of the Church herself. '

The Rev. William Fairfield, while fighting against the Dissenters with hisright hand, was, with his left, hotly engaged with the Tractarians. A goodman I am sure he was, and I dare say sound in doctrine, though naturally, Ithink, not very wise. This conversation with him gave me new ideas about myuncle Silas. It quite agreed with what my father had said. These principlesand his increasing years would necessarily quiet the turbulence of hisresistance to injustice, and teach him to acquiesce in his fate. 

You would have fancied that one so young as I, born to wealth so vast, andliving a life of such entire seclusion, would have been exempt from care. But you have seen how troubled my life was with fear and anxiety during theresidence of Madame de la Rougierre, and now there rested upon my mind avague and awful anticipation of the trial which my father had announced, without defining it. 

An 'ordeal' he called it, requiring not only zeal but nerve, which mightpossibly, were my courage to fail, become frightful, and even intolerable. What, and of what nature, could it be? Not designed to vindicate the fairfame of the meek and submissive old man--who, it seemed, had ceased to carefor his bygone wrongs, and was looking to futurity--but the reputation ofour ancient family. 

Sometimes I repented my temerity in having undertaken it. I distrusted mycourage. Had I not better retreat, while it was yet time? But there wasshame and even difficulty in the thought. How should I appear before myfather? Was it not important--had I not deliberately undertaken it--and wasI not bound in conscience? Perhaps he had already taken steps in the matterwhich committed _him_. Besides, was I sure that, even were I free again, Iwould not once more devote myself to the trial, be it what it might?You perceive I had more spirit than courage. I think I had the mentalattributes of courage; but then I was but a hysterical girl, and in so farneither more nor less than a coward. 

No wonder I distrusted myself; no wonder also my will stood out againstmy timidity. It was a struggle, then; a proud, wild resolve againstconstitutional cowardice. 

Those who have ever had cast upon them more than their strengthseemed framed to bear--the weak, the aspiring, the adventurous andself-sacrificing in will, and the faltering in nerve--will understand thekind of agony which I sometimes endured. 

But, again, consolation would come, and it seemed to me that I must beexaggerating my risk in the coming crisis; and certain at least, if myfather believed it attended with real peril, he would never have wishedto see me involved in it. But the silence under which I was bound wasterrifying--double so when the danger was so shapeless and undivulged. 

I was soon to understand it all--soon, too, to know all about my father'simpending journey, whither, with what visitor, and why guarded from me withso awful a mystery. 

That day there came a lively and goodnatured letter from Lady Knollys. Shewas to arrive at Knowl in two or three days' time. I thought my fatherwould have been pleased, but he seemed apathetic and dejected. 

'One does not always feel quite equal to Monica. But for you--yes, thankGod. I wish she could only stay, Maud, for a month or two; I may be goingthen, and would be glad--provided she talks about suitable things--veryglad, Maud, to leave her with you for a week or so. '

There was something, I thought, agitating my father secretly that day. Hehad the strange hectic flush I had observed when he grew excited in ourinterview in the garden about Uncle Silas. There was something painful, perhaps even terrible, in the circumstances of the journey he was aboutto make, and from my heart I wished the suspense were over, the annoyancepast, and he returned. 

That night my father bid me good-night early and went upstairs. After Ihad been in bed some little time, I heard his hand-bell ring. This was notusual. Shortly after I heard his man, Ridley, talking with Mrs. Rusk inthe gallery. I could not be mistaken in their voices. I knew not why I wasstartled and excited, and had raised myself to listen on my elbow. But theywere talking quietly, like persons giving or taking an ordinary direction, and not in the haste of an unusual emergency. 

Then I heard the man bid Mrs. Rusk good-night and walk down the galleryto the stairs, so that I concluded he was wanted no more, and all musttherefore be well. So I laid myself down again, though with a throbbing atmy heart, and an ominous feeling of expectation, listening and fancyingfootsteps. 

I was going to sleep when I heard the bell ring again; and, in a fewminutes, Mrs. Rusk's energetic step passed along the gallery; and, listening intently, I heard, or fancied, my father's voice and hers indialogue. All this was very unusual, and again I was, with a beating heart, leaning with my elbow on my pillow. 

Mrs. Rusk came along the gallery in a minute or so after, and stopping atmy door, began to open it gently. I was startled, and challenged my visitorwith--

'Who's there?'

'It's only Rusk, Miss. Dearie me! and are you awake still?'

'Is papa ill?'

'Ill! not a bit ill, thank God. Only there's a little black book as I tookfor your prayer-book, and brought in here; ay, here it is, sure enough, andhe wants it. And then I must go down to the study, and look out this one, "C, 15;" but I can't read the name, noways; and I was afraid to ask himagain; if you be so kind to read it, Miss--I suspeck my eyes is a-going. '

I read the name; and Mrs. Rusk was tolerably expert at finding out books, as she had often been employed in that way before. So she departed. 

I suppose that this particular volume was hard to find, for she must havebeen a long time away, and I had actually fallen into a doze when I wasroused in an instant by a dreadful crash and a piercing scream from Mrs. Rusk. Scream followed scream, wilder and more terror-stricken. I shriekedto Mary Quince, who was sleeping in the room with me:--'Mary, do you hear?what is it? It is something dreadful. '

The crash was so tremendous that the solid flooring even of my roomtrembled under it, and to me it seemed as if some heavy man had burstthrough the top of the window, and shook the whole house with his descent. I found myself standing at my own door, crying, 'Help, help! murder!murder!' and Mary Quince, frightened half out of her wits, by my side. 

I could not think what was going on. It was plainly something mosthorrible, for Mrs. Rusk's screams pealed one after the other unabated, though with a muffled sound, as if the door was shut upon her; and by thistime the bells of my father's room were ringing madly. 

'They are trying to murder him!' I cried, and I ran along the gallery tohis door, followed by Mary Quince, whose white face I shall never forget, though her entreaties only sounded like unmeaning noises in my ears. 

'Here! help, help, help!' I cried, trying to force open the door. 

'Shove it, shove it, for God's sake! he's across it, ' cried Mrs. Rusk'svoice from within; 'drive it in. I can't move him. '

I strained all I could at the door, but ineffectually. We heard stepsapproaching. The men were running to the spot, and shouting as they didso--

'Never mind; hold on a bit; here we are; all right;' and the like. 

We drew back, as they came up. We were in no condition to be seen. Welistened, however, at my open door. 

Then came the straining and bumping at the door. Mrs. Rusk's voice subsidedto a sort of wailing; the men were talking all together, and I suppose thedoor opened, for I heard some of the voices, on a sudden, as if in theroom; and then came a strange lull, and talking in very low tones, and notmuch even of that. 

'What is it, Mary? what _can_ it be?' I ejaculated, not knowing what horrorto suppose. And now, with a counterpane about my shoulders, I called loudlyand imploringly, in my horror, to know what had happened. 

But I heard only the subdued and eager talk of men engaged in someabsorbing task, and the dull sounds of some heavy body being moved. 

Mrs. Rusk came towards us looking half wild, and pale as a spectre, andputting her thin hands to my shoulders, she said--'Now, Miss Maud, darling, you must go back again; 'tisn't no place for you; you'll see all, mydarling, time enough--you will. There now, there, like a dear, do get intoyour room. '

What was that dreadful sound? Who had entered my father's chamber? It wasthe visitor whom we had so long expected, with whom he was to make theunknown journey, leaving me alone. The intruder was Death!

CHAPTER XXI

_ARRIVALS_

My father was dead--as suddenly as if he had been murdered. One of thosefearful aneurisms that lie close to the heart, showing no outward sign ofgiving way in a moment, had been detected a good time since by Dr. Bryerly. My father knew what must happen, and that it could not be long deferred. He feared to tell me that he was soon to die. He hinted it only in theallegory of his journey, and left in that sad enigma some words of trueconsolation that remained with me ever after. Under his rugged ways washidden a wonderful tenderness. I could not believe that he was actuallydead. Most people for a minute or two, in the wild tumult of such a shock, have experienced the same skepticism. I insisted that the doctor should beinstantly sent for from the village. 

'Well, Miss Maud, dear, I _will_ send to please you, but it is all to nouse. If only you saw him yourself you'd know that. Mary Quince, run youdown and tell Thomas, Miss Maud desires he'll go down this minute to thevillage for Dr. Elweys. '

Every minute of the interval seemed to me like an hour. I don't know whatI said, but I fancied that if he were not already dead, he would lose hislife by the delay. I suppose I was speaking very wildly, for Mrs. Rusksaid--

'My dear child, you ought to come in and see him; indeed but you should, Miss Maud. He's quite dead an hour ago. You'd wonder all the blood that'scome from him--you would indeed; it's soaked through the bed already. '

'Oh, don't, don't, _don't_, Mrs. Rusk. '

'Will you come in and see him, just?

'Oh, no, no, no, no!'

'Well, then, my dear, don't of course, if you don't like; there's no need. Would not you like to lie down, Miss Maud? Mary Quince, attend to her. Imust go into the room for a minute or two. '

I was walking up and down the room in distraction. It was a cool night; butI did not feel it. I could only cry:--'Oh, Mary, Mary! what shall I do? Oh, Mary Quince! what shall I do?'

It seemed to me it must be near daylight by the time the Doctor arrived. Ihad dressed myself. I dared not go into the room where my beloved fatherlay. 

I had gone out of my room to the gallery, where I awaited Dr. Elweys, whenI saw him walking briskly after the servant, his coat buttoned up to hischin, his hat in his hand, and his bald head shining. I felt myself growcold as ice, and colder and colder, and with a sudden sten my heart seemedto stand still. 

I heard him ask the maid who stood at the door, in that low, decisive, mysterious tone which doctors cultivate--

'In _here_?'

And then, with a nod, I saw him enter. 

'Would not you like to see the Doctor, Miss Maud?' asked Mary Quince. 

The question roused me a little. 

'Thank you, Mary; yes, I must see him. '

And so, in a few minutes, I did. He was very respectful, very sad, semi-undertakerlike, in air and countenance, but quite explicit. I heardthat my dear father 'had died palpably from the rupture of some greatvessel near the heart. ' The disease had, no doubt, been 'long established, and is in its nature incurable. ' It is 'consolatory in these cases that inthe act of dissolution, which is instantaneous, there can be no suffering. 'These, and a few more remarks, were all he had to offer; and having had hisfee from Mrs. Rusk, he, with a respectful melancholy, vanished. 

I returned to my room, and broke into paroxysms of grief, and after an houror more grew more tranquil. 

From Mrs. Rusk I learned that he had seemed very well--better than usual, indeed--that night, and that on her return from the study with the bookhe required, he was noting down, after his wont, some passages whichillustrated the text on which he was employing himself. He took the book, detaining her in the room, and then mounting on a chair to take downanother book from a shelf, he had fallen, with the dreadful crash I hadheard, dead upon the floor. He fell across the door, which caused thedifficulty in opening it. Mrs. Rusk found she had not strength to force itopen. No wonder she had given way to terror. I think I should have almostlost my reason. 

Everyone knows the reserved aspect and the taciturn mood of the house, oneof whose rooms is tenanted by that mysterious guest. 

I do not know how those awful days, and more awful nights, passed over. Theremembrance is repulsive. I hate to think of them. I was soon draped in theconventional black, with its heavy folds of crape. Lady Knollys came, andwas very kind. She undertook the direction of all those details which wereto me so inexpressibly dreadful. She wrote letters for me beside, and wasreally most kind and useful, and her society supported me indescribably. She was odd, but her eccentricity was leavened with strong common sense;and I have often thought since with admiration and gratitude of the tactwith which she managed my grief. 

There is no dealing with great sorrow as if it were under the control ofour wills. It is a terrible phenomenon, whose laws we must study, and towhose conditions we must submit, if we would mitigate it. Cousin Monicatalked a great deal of my father. This was easy to her, for her earlyrecollections were full of him. 

One of the terrible dislocations of our habits of mind respecting the deadis that our earthly future is robbed of them, and we thrown exclusivelyupon retrospect. From the long look forward they are removed, and everyplan, imagination, and hope henceforth a silent and empty perspective. Butin the past they are all they ever were. Now let me advise all who wouldcomfort people in a new bereavement to talk to them, very freely, all theycan, in this way of the dead. They will engage in it with interest, theywill talk of their own recollections of the dead, and listen to yours, though they become sometimes pleasant, sometimes even laughable. I found itso. It robbed the calamity of something of its supernatural and horribleabruptness; it prevented that monotony of object which is to the mind whatit is to the eye, and prepared the faculty for those mesmeric illusionsthat derange its sense. 

Cousin Monica, I am sure, cheered me wonderfully. I grow to love her moreand more, as I think of all her trouble, care, and kindness. 

I had not forgotten my promise to dear papa about the key, concerning whichhe had evinced so great an anxiety. It was found in the pocket where he haddesired me to remember he always kept it, except when it was placed, whilehe slept, under his pillow. 

'And so, my dear, that wicked woman was actually found picking the lock ofyour poor papa's desk. I _wonder_ he did not punish her--you know that is_burglary_. '

'Well, Lady Knollys, you know she is gone, and so I care no more abouther--that is, I mean, I need not fear her. '

'No, my dear, but you must call me Monica--do you mind--I'm your cousin, and you call me Monica, unless you wish to vex me. No, of course, you neednot be afraid of her. And she's gone. But I'm an old thing, you know, andnot so tender-hearted as you; and I confess I should have been very glad tohear that the wicked old witch had been sent to prison and hard labour--Ishould. And what do you suppose she was looking for--what did she want tosteal? I think I can guess--what do _you_ think?'

'To read the papers; maybe to take bank-notes--I'm not sure, ' I answered. 

'Well, I think most likely she wanted to get at your poor papa's_will_--that's _my_ idea. 

'There is nothing surprising in the supposition, dear, ' she resumed. 'Didnot you read the curious trial at York, the other day? There is nothingso valuable to steal as a will, when a great deal of property is to bedisposed of by it. Why, you would have given her ever so much money to getit back again. Suppose you go down, dear--I'll go with you, and open thecabinet in the study. '

'I don't think I can, for I promised to give the key to Dr. Bryerly, andthe meaning was that _he_ only should open it. '

Cousin Monica uttered an inarticulate 'H'm!' of surprise or disapprobation. 

'Has he been written to?'

'No, I do not know his address. '

'Not know his address! come, that is curious, ' said Knollys, a littletestily. 

I could not--no one now living in the house could furnish even aconjecture. There was even a dispute as to which train he had goneby--north or south--they crossed the station at an interval of fiveminutes. If Dr. Bryerly had been an evil spirit, evoked by a secretincantation, there could not have been more complete darkness as to theimmediate process of his approach. 

'And how long do you mean to wait, my dear? No matter; at all events youmay open the _desk_; you may find papers to direct you--you may find Dr. Bryerly's address--you may find, heaven knows what. '

So down we went--I assenting--and we opened the desk. How dreadful thedesecration seems--all privacy abrogated--the shocking compensation for thesilence of death!

Henceforward all is circumstantial evidence--all conjectural--except the_litera scripta_, and to this evidence every note-book, and every scrap ofpaper and private letter, must contribute--ransacked, bare in the light ofday--what it can. 

At the top of the desk lay two notes sealed, one to Cousin Monica, theother to me. Mine was a gentle and loving little farewell--nothingmore--which opened afresh the fountains of my sorrow, and I cried andsobbed over it bitterly and long. The other was for 'Lady Knollys. ' I didnot see how she received it, for I was already absorbed in mine. But inawhile she came and kissed me in her girlish, goodnatured way. Her eyesused to fill with tears at sight of my paroxysms of grief. Then she wouldbegin, 'I remember it was a saying of his, ' and so she would repeatit--something maybe wise, maybe playful, at all events consolatory--and thecircumstances in which she had heard him say it, and then would follow therecollections suggested by these; and so I was stolen away half by him, andhalf by Cousin Monica, from my despair and lamentation. 

Along with these lay a large envelope, inscribed with the words 'Directionsto be complied with immediately on my death. ' One of which was, 'Let theevent be _forthwith_ published in the _county_ and principal _London_papers. ' This step had been already taken. We found no record of Dr. Bryerly's address. 

We made search everywhere, except in the cabinet, which I would on noaccount permit to be opened except, according to his direction, by Dr. Bryerly's hand. But nowhere was a will, or any document resembling one, tobe found. I had now, therefore, no doubt that his will was placed in thecabinet. 

In the search among my dear father's papers we found two sheafs of letters, neatly tied up and labelled--these were from my uncle Silas. 

My cousin Monica looked down upon these papers with a strange smile; was itsatire--was it that indescribable smile with which a mystery which covers along reach of years is sometimes approached?

These were odd letters. If here and there occurred passages that werequerulous and even abject, there were also long passages of manly andaltogether noble sentiment, and the strangest rodomontade and maunderingsabout religion. Here and there a letter would gradually transform itselfinto a prayer, and end with a doxology and no signature; and some of themexpressed such wild and disordered views respecting religion, as I imaginehe can never have disclosed to good Mr. Fairfield, and which approachedmore nearly to the Swedenborg visions than to anything in the Church ofEngland. 

I read these with a solemn interest, but my cousin Monica was not similarlymoved. She read them with the same smile--faint, serenely contemptuous, I thought--with which she had first looked down upon them. It was thecountenance of a person who amusedly traces the working of a character thatis well understood. 

'Uncle Silas is very religious?' I said, not quite liking Lady Knollys'looks. 

'Very, ' she said, without raising her eyes or abating her old bitter smile, as she glanced over a passage in one of his letters. 

'You don't think he _is_, Cousin Monica?' said I. She raised her head andlooked straight at me. 

'Why do you say that, Maud?'

'Because you smile incredulously, I think, over his letters. '

'Do I?' said she; 'I was not thinking--it was quite an accident. The factis, Maud, your poor papa quite mistook me. I had no prejudice respectinghim--no theory. I never knew what to think about him. I do not thinkSilas a product of nature, but a child of the Sphinx, and I never couldunderstand him--that's all. '

'I always felt so too; but that was because I was left to speculation, andto glean conjectures as I might from his portrait, or anywhere. Except whatyou told me, I never heard more than a few sentences; poor papa did notlike me to ask questions about him, and I think he ordered the servants tobe silent. '

'And much the same injunction this little note lays upon me--not quite, butsomething like it; and I don't know the meaning of it. '

And she looked enquiringly at me. 

'You are not to be _alarmed_ about your uncle Silas, because your beingafraid would unfit you for an _important service_ which you have undertakenfor your family, the nature of which I shall soon understand, and which, although it is quite _passive_, would be made very sad if _illusory fears_were allowed to _steal into your mind_. '

She was looking into the letter in poor papa's handwriting, which she hadfound addressed to her in his desk, and emphasised the words, I suppose, which she quoted from it. 

'Have you any idea, Maud, darling, what this _service_ may be?' sheenquired, with a grave and anxious curiosity in her countenance. 

'None, Cousin Monica; but I have thought long over my undertaking to doit, or submit to it, be it what it may; and I will keep the promise Ivoluntarily made, although I know what a coward I am, and often distrust mycourage. '

'Well, I am not to frighten you. '

'How could you? Why should I be afraid? _Is_ there anything frightful to bedisclosed? Do tell me--you _must_ tell me. '

'No, darling, I did not mean _that_--I don't mean that;--I could, if Iwould; I--I don't know exactly what I meant. But your poor papa knew himbetter than I--in fact, I did not know him at all--that is, ever quiteunderstood him--which your poor papa, I see, had ample opportunities ofdoing. ' And after a little pause, she added--'So you do not know what youare expected to do or to undergo. '

'Oh! Cousin Monica, I know you think he committed that murder, ' I cried, starting up, I don't know why, and I felt that I grew deadly pale. 

'I don't believe any such thing, you little fool; you must not say suchhorrible things, Maud, ' she said, rising also, and looking both pale andangry. 'Shall we go out for a little walk? Come, lock up these papers, dear, and get your things on; and if that Dr. Bryerly does not turn upto-morrow, you must send for the Rector, good Doctor Clay, and let him makesearch for the will--there may be directions about many things, you know;and, my dear Maud, you are to remember that Silas is _my_ cousin as well asyour uncle. Come, dear, put on your hat. '

So we went out together for a little cloistered walk. 

CHAPTER XXII

_SOMEBODY IN THE ROOM WITH THE COFFIN_

When we returned, a 'young' gentleman had arrived. We saw him in theparlour as we passed the window. It was simply a glance, but such a oneas suffices to make a photograph, which we can study afterwards, at ourleisure. I remember him at this moment--a man of six-and-thirty--dressed ina grey travelling suit, not over-well made; light-haired, fat-faced, and clumsy; and he looked both dull and cunning, and not at all like agentleman. 

Branston met us, announced the arrival, and handed me the stranger'scredentials. My cousin and I stopped in the passage to read them. 

'_That's_ your uncle Silas's, ' said Lady Knollys, touching one of the twoletters with the tip of her finger. 

'Shall we have lunch, Miss?'

'Certainly. ' So Branston departed. 

'Read it with me, Cousin Monica, ' I said. And a very curious letter it was. It spoke as follows:--

'How can I thank my beloved niece for remembering her aged and forlornkinsman at such a moment of anguish?'

I had written a note of a few, I dare say, incoherent words by the nextpost after my dear father's death. 

'It is, however, in the hour of bereavement that we most value the tiesthat are broken, and yearn for the sympathy of kindred. '

Here came a little distich of French verse, of which I could only read_ciel_ and _l'amour_. 

'Our quiet household here is clouded with a new sorrow. How inscrutable arethe ways of Providence! I--though a few years younger--how much the moreinfirm--how shattered in energy and in mind--how mere a burden--howentirely _de trop_--am spared to my sad place in a world where I can be nolonger useful, where I have but one business--prayer, but one hope--thetomb; and he--apparently so robust--the centre of so much good--sonecessary to you--so necessary, alas! to me--is taken! He is gone to hisrest--for us, what remains but to bow our heads, and murmur, "His will bedone"? I trace these lines with a trembling hand, while tears dim myold eyes. I did not think that any earthly event could have moved me soprofoundly. From the world I have long stood aloof. I once led a life ofpleasure--alas! of wickedness--as I now do one of austerity; but as I neverwas rich, so my worst enemy will allow I never was avaricious. My sins, Ithank my Maker, have been of a more reducible kind, and have succumbed tothe discipline which Heaven has provided. To earth and its interests, aswell as to its pleasures, I have long been dead. For the few remainingyears of my life I ask but quiet--an exemption from the agitations anddistractions of struggle and care, and I trust to the Giver of all Good formy deliverance--well knowing, at the same time, that whatever befalls will, under His direction, prove best. Happy shall I be, my dearest niece, if inyour most interesting and, in some respects, forlorn situation, I can beof any use to you. My present religious adviser--of whom I ventured to askcounsel on your behalf--states that I ought to send some one to representme at the melancholy ceremony of reading the will which my beloved and nowhappy brother has, no doubt, left behind; and the idea that the experienceand professional knowledge possessed by the gentleman whom I have selectedmay possibly be of use to you, my dearest niece, determines me to placehim at your disposal. He is the junior partner in the firm of Archer andSleigh, who conduct any little business which I may have from time to time;may I entreat your hospitality for him during a brief stay at Knowl? Iwrite, even for a moment, upon these small matters of business withan effort--a painful one, but necessary. Alas! my brother! The cup ofbitterness is now full. Few and evil must the remainder of my old days be. Yet, while they last, I remain always for my beloved niece, that which allher wealth and splendour cannot purchase--a loving and faithful kinsman andfriend, SILAS RUTHYN. '

'Is not it a kind letter?' I said, while tears stood in my eyes. 

'Yes, ' answered Lady Knollys, drily. 

'But don't you think it so, really?'

'Oh! kind, very kind, ' she answered in the same tone, 'and perhaps a littlecunning. '

'Cunning!--how?'

'Well, you know I'm a peevish old Tabby, and of course I scratch now andthen, and see in the dark. I dare say Silas is sorry, but I don't think heis in sackcloth and ashes. He has reason to be sorry and anxious, and I sayI think he is both; and you know he pities you very much, and also himselfa good deal; and he wants money, and you--his beloved niece--have a greatdeal--and altogether it is an affectionate and prudent letter: and he hassent his attorney here to make a note of the will; and you are to give thegentleman his meals and lodging; and Silas, very thoughtfully, invites youto confide your difficulties and troubles to _his_ solicitor. It is verykind, but not imprudent. '

'Oh, Cousin Monica, don't you think at such a moment it is hardly naturalthat he should form such petty schemes, even were he capable at other timesof practising so low? Is it not judging him hardly? and you, you know, solittle acquainted with him. '

'I told you, dear, I'm a cross old thing--and there's an end; and I reallydon't care two pence about him; and of the two I'd much rather he were norelation of ours. '

Now, was not this prejudice? I dare say in part it was. So, too, wasmy vehement predisposition in his favour. I am afraid we women arefactionists; we always take a side, and nature has formed us for advocatesrather than judges; and I think the function, if less dignified, is moreamiable. 

I sat alone at the drawing-room window, at nightfall, awaiting my cousinMonica's entrance. 

Feverish and frightened I felt that night. It was a sympathy, I fancy, withthe weather. The sun had set stormily. Though the air was still, the skylooked wild and storm-swept. The crowding clouds, slanting in the attitudeof flight, reflected their own sacred aspect upon my spirits. My griefdarkened with a wild presaging of danger, and a sense of the supernaturalfell upon me. It was the saddest and most awful evening that had come sincemy beloved father's death. 

All kinds of shapeless fears environed me in silence. For the first time, dire misgivings about the form of faith affrighted me. Who were theseSwedenborgians who had got about him--no one could tell how--and heldhim so fast to the close of his life? Who was this bilious, bewigged, black-eyed Doctor Bryerly, whom none of us quite liked and all a littlefeared; who seemed to rise out of the ground, and came and went, no oneknew whence or whither, exercising, as I imagined, a mysterious authorityover him? Was it all good and true, or a heresy and a witchcraft? Oh, mybeloved father! was it all well with you?

When Lady Knollys entered, she found me in floods of tears, walkingdistractedly up and down the room. She kissed me in silence; she walkedback and forward with me, and did her best to console me. 

'I think, Cousin Monica, I would wish to see him once more. Shall we goup?'

'Unless you really wish it very much, I think, darling, you had better notmind it. It is happier to recollect them as they were; there's a change, you know, darling, and there is seldom any comfort in the sight. '

'But I do wish it _very_ much. Oh! won't you come with me?'

And so I persuaded her, and up we went hand in hand, in the deepeningtwilight; and we halted at the end of the dark gallery, and I called Mrs. Rusk, growing frightened. 

'Tell her to let us in, Cousin Monica, ' I whispered. 

'She wishes to see him, my lady--does she?' enquired Mrs. Rusk, in anunder-tone, and with a mysterious glance at me, as she softly fitted thekey to the lock. 

'Are you quite sure, Maud, dear?'

'Yes, yes. '

But when Mrs. Rusk entered bearing the candle, whose beam mixed dismallywith the expiring twilight, disclosing a great black coffin standing upontrestles, near the foot of which she took her stand, gazing sternly intoit, I lost heart again altogether and drew back. 

'No, Mrs. Rusk, she won't; and I am very glad, dear, ' she added to me. 'Come, Mrs. Rusk, come away. Yes, darling, ' she continued to me, 'it ismuch better for you;' and she hurried me away, and down-stairs again. Butthe awful outlines of that large black coffin remained upon my imaginationwith a new and terrible sense of death. 

I had no more any wish to see him. I felt a horror even of the room, andfor more than an hour after a kind of despair and terror, such as I havenever experienced before or since at the idea of death. 

Cousin Monica had had her bed placed in my room, and Mary Quince's moved tothe dressing-room adjoining it. For the first time the superstitious awethat follows death, but not immediately, visited me. The idea of seeing myfather enter the room, or open the door and look in, haunted me. After LadyKnollys and I were in bed, I could not sleep. The wind sounded mournfullyoutside, and the small sounds, the rattlings, and strainings that respondedfrom within, constantly startled me, and simulated the sounds of steps, ofdoors opening, of knockings, and so forth, rousing me with a palpitatingheart as often as I fell into a doze. 

At length the wind subsided, and these ambiguous noises abated, and I, fatigued, dropped into a quiet sleep. I was awakened by a sound in thegallery--which I could not define. A considerable time had passed, for thewind was now quite lulled. I sat up in my bed a good deal scared, listeningbreathlessly for I knew not what. 

I heard a step moving stealthily along the gallery. I called my cousinMonica softly; and we both heard the door of the room in which my father'sbody lay unlocked, some one furtively enter, and the door shut. 

'What can it be? Good Heavens, Cousin Monica, do you hear it?'

'Yes, dear; and it is two o'clock. '

Everyone at Knowl was in bed at eleven. We knew very well that Mrs. Ruskwas rather nervous, and would not, for worlds, go alone, and at such anhour, to the room. We called Mary Quince. We all three listened, but weheard no other sound. I set these things down here because they made soterrible an impression upon me at the time. 

It ended by our peeping out, all three in a body, upon the gallery. Througheach window in the perspective came its blue sheet of moonshine; but thedoor on which our attention was fixed was in the shade, and we thought wecould discern the glare of a candle through the key-hole. While in whisperswe were debating this point together, the door opened, the dusky light ofa candle emerged, the shadow of a figure crossed it within, and in anothermoment the mysterious Doctor Bryerly--angular, ungainly, in the black clothcoat that fitted little better than a coffin--issued from the chamber, candle in hand; murmuring, I suppose, a prayer--it sounded like afarewell--as much frightened as if I had just seen a sorcerer stealingstepped cautiously upon the gallery floor, shutting and locking the doorupon the dead; and then having listened for a second, the saturnine figure, casting a gigantic and distorted shadow upon the ceiling and side-wall fromthe lowered candle, strode lightly down the long dark passage, away fromus. 

I can only speak for myself, and I can honestly say that I felt as muchfrightened as if I had just seen a sorcerer stealing from his unhallowedbusiness. I think Cousin Monica was also affected in the same way, for sheturned the key on the inside of the door when we entered. I do not thinkone of us believed at the moment that what we had seen was a Doctor Bryerlyof flesh and blood, and yet the first thing we spoke of in the morning wasDoctor Bryerly's arrival. The mind is a different organ by night and byday. 

CHAPTER XXIII

_I TALK WITH DOCTOR BRYERLY_

Doctor Bryerly had, indeed, arrived at half-past twelve o'clock at night. His summons at the hall-door was little heard at our remote side of the oldhouse of Knowl; and when the sleepy, half-dressed servant opened thedoor, the lank Doctor, in glossy black clothing, was standing alone, hisportmanteau on its end upon the steps, and his vehicle disappearing in theshadows of the old trees. 

In he came, sterner and sharper of aspect than usual. 

'I've been expected? I'm Doctor Bryerly. Haven't I? So, let whoever is incharge of the body be called. I must visit it forthwith. '

So the Doctor sat in the back drawing-room, with a solitary candle; andMrs. Rusk was called up, and, grumbling much and very peevish, dressed andwent down, her ill-temper subsiding in a sort of fear as she approached thevisitor. 

'How do you do, Madam? A sad visit this. Is anyone watching in the roomwhere the remains of your late master are laid?'

'No. '

'So much the better; it is a foolish custom. Will you please conduct me tothe room? I must pray where he lies--no longer _he_! And be good enough toshow me my bedroom, and so no one need wait up, and I shall find my way. '

Accompanied by the man who carried his valise, Mrs. Rusk showed him to hisapartment; but he only looked in, and then glanced rapidly about to take'the bearings' of the door. 

'Thank you--yes. Now we'll proceed, here, along here? Let me see. A turn tothe right and another to the left--yes. He has been dead some days. Is heyet in his coffin?'

'Yes, sir; since yesterday afternoon. '

Mrs. Rusk was growing more and more afraid of this lean figure sheathed inshining black cloth, whose eyes glittered with a horrible sort of cunning, and whose long brown fingers groped before him, as if indicating the way byguess. 

'But, of course, the lid's not on; you've not screwed him down, hey?'

'No, sir. '

'That's well. I must look on the face as I pray. He is in his place; I hereon earth. He in the spirit; I in the flesh. The neutral ground lies there. So are carried the vibrations, and so the light of earth and heavenreflected back and forward--apaugasma, a wonderful though helpless engine, the ladder of Jacob, and behold the angels of God ascending and descendingon it. Thanks, I'll take the key. Mysteries to those who _will_ livealtogether in houses of clay, no mystery to such as will use their eyes andread what is revealed. _This_ candle, it is the longer, please; no--no needof a pair, thanks; just this, to hold in my hand. And remember, all dependsupon the willing mind. Why do you look frightened? Where is your faith?Don't you know that spirits are about us at all times? Why should youfear to be near the body? The spirit is everything; the flesh profitethnothing. '

'Yes, sir, ' said Mrs. Rusk, making him a great courtesy in the threshold. 

She was frightened by his eerie talk, which grew, she fancied, more volubleand energetic as they approached the corpse. 

'Remember, then, that when you fancy yourself alone and wrapt in darkness, you stand, in fact, in the centre of a theatre, as wide as the starry floorof heaven, with an audience, whom no man can number, beholding you under aflood of light. Therefore, though your body be in solitude and your mortalsense in darkness, remember to walk as being in the light, surrounded witha cloud of witnesses. Thus walk; and when the hour comes, and you passforth unprisoned from the tabernacle of the flesh, although it still hasits relations and its rights'--and saying this, as he held the solitarycandle aloft in the doorway, he nodded towards the coffin, whose largeblack form was faintly traceable against the shadows beyond--'you willrejoice; and being clothed upon with your house from on high, you will notbe found naked. On the other hand, he that loveth corruption shall haveenough thereof. Think upon these things. Good-night. '

And the Swedenborgian Doctor stepped into the room, taking the candle withhim, and closed the door upon the shadowy still-life there, and on his ownsharp and swarthy visage, leaving Mrs. Rusk in a sort of panic in the darkalone, to find her way to her room the best way she could. 

Early in the morning Mrs. Rusk came to my room to tell me that DoctorBryerly was in the parlour, and begged to know whether I had not a messagefor him. I was already dressed, so, though it was dreadful seeing astranger in my then mood, taking the key of the cabinet in my hand, Ifollowed Mrs. Rusk downstairs. 

Opening the parlour door, she stepped in, and with a little courtesysaid, --

'Please, sir, the young mistress--Miss Ruthyn. '

Draped in black and very pale, tall and slight, 'the young mistress'was; and as I entered I heard a newspaper rustle, and the sound of stepsapproaching to meet me. 

Face to face we met, near the door; and, without speaking, I made him adeep courtesy. 

He took my hand, without the least indication on my part, in his hard leangrasp, and shook it kindly, but familiarly, peering with a stern sort ofcuriosity into my face as he continued to hold it. His ill-fitting, glossyblack cloth, ungainly presence, and sharp, dark, vulpine features had inthem, as I said before, the vulgarity of a Glasgow artisan in his Sabbathsuit. I made an instantaneous motion to withdraw my hand, but he held itfirmly. 

Though there was a grim sort of familiarity, there was also decision, shrewdness, and, above all, kindness, in his dark face--a gleam on thewhole of the masterly and the honest--that along with a certain paleness, betraying, I thought, restrained emotion, indicated sympathy and invitedconfidence. 

'I hope, Miss, you are pretty well?' He pronounced 'pretty' as it is spelt. 'I have come in consequence of a solemn promise exacted more than a yearsince by your deceased father, the late Mr. Austin Ruthyn of Knowl, forwhom I cherished a warm esteem, being knit besides with him in spiritualbonds. It has been a shock to you, Miss?'

'It has, indeed, sir. '

'I've a doctor's degree, I have--Doctor of Medicine, Miss. Like St. Luke, preacher and doctor. I was in business once, but this is better. As onefooting fails, the Lord provides another. The stream of life is black andangry; how so many of us get across without drowning, I often wonder. Thebest way is not to look too far before--just from one stepping-stone toanother; and though you may wet your feet, He won't let you drown--He hasnot allowed me. '

And Doctor Bryerly held up his head, and wagged it resolutely. 

'You are born to this world's wealth; in its way a great blessing, though agreat trial, Miss, and a great trust; but don't suppose you are destinedto exemption from trouble on that account, any more than poor EmmanuelBryerly. As the sparks fly upwards, Miss Ruthyn! Your cushioned carriagemay overturn on the highroad, as I may stumble and fall upon the footpath. There are other troubles than debt and privation. Who can tell howlong health may last, or when an accident may happen the brain; whatmortifications may await you in your own high sphere; what unknown enemiesmay rise up in your path; or what slanders may asperse your name--ha, ha!It is a wonderful equilibrium--a marvellous dispensation--ha, ha!' and helaughed with a shake of his head, I thought a little sarcastically, as ifhe was not sorry my money could not avail to buy immunity from the generalcurse. 

'But what money can't do, _prayer_ can--bear that in mind, Miss Ruthyn. Wecan all pray; and though thorns and snares, and stones of fire lie strewnin our way, we need not fear them. He will give His angels charge over us, and in their hands they will bear us up, for He hears and sees everywhere, and His angels are innumerable. '

He was now speaking gently and solemnly, and paused. But another vein ofthought he had unconsciously opened in my mind, and I said--

'And had my dear papa no other medical adviser?'

He looked at me sharply, and flushed a little under his dark tint. Hismedical skill was, perhaps, the point on which his human vanity vaunteditself, and I dare say there was something very disparaging in my tone. 

'And if he _had_ no other, he might have done worse. I've had many criticalcases in my hands, Miss Ruthyn. I can't charge myself with any miscarriagethrough ignorance. My diagnosis in Mr. Ruthyn's case has been verified bythe result. But I was _not_ alone; Sir Clayton Barrow saw him, and took myview; a note will reach him in London. But this, excuse me, is not to thepresent purpose. The late Mr. Ruthyn told me I was to receive a keyfrom you, which would open a cabinet where he had placed his will--ha!thanks, --in his study. And, I think, as there may be directions aboutthe funeral, it had better be read forthwith. Is there any gentleman--arelative or man of business--near here, whom you would wish sent for?'

'No, none, thank you; I have confidence in you, sir. '

I think I spoke and looked frankly, for he smiled very kindly, though withclosed lips. 

'And you may be sure, Miss Ruthyn, your confidence shall not bedisappointed. ' Here was a long pause. 'But you are very young, and you musthave some one by in your interest, who has some experience in business. Letme see. Is not the Rector, Dr. Clay, at hand? In the town?--very good; andMr. Danvers, who manages the estate, _he_ must come. And get Grimston--yousee I know all the names--Grimston, the attorney; for though he was notemployed about this will, he has been Mr. Ruthyn's solicitor a great manyyears: we must have Grimston; for, as I suppose you know, though it is ashort will, it is a very strange one. I expostulated, but you know he wasvery decided when he took a view. He read it to you, eh?'

'No, sir. '

'Oh, but he told you so much as relates to you and your uncle, Mr. SilasRuthyn, of Bartram-Haugh?'

'No, indeed, sir. '

'Ha! I wish he had. '

And with these words Doctor Bryerly's countenance darkened. 

'Mr. Silas Ruthyn is a religious man?'

'Oh, _very_!' said I. 

'You've seen a good deal of him?'

'No, I never saw him, ' I answered. 

'H'm? Odder and odder! But he's a good man, isn't he?'

'Very good, indeed, sir--a very religious man. '

Doctor Bryerly was watching my countenance as I spoke, with a sharp andanxious eye; and then he looked down, and read the pattern of the carpetlike bad news, for a while, and looking again in my face, askance, hesaid--

'He was very near joining _us_--on the point. He got into correspondencewith Henry Voerst, one of our best men. They call us Swedenborgians, youknow; but I dare say that won't go much further, now. I suppose, MissRuthyn, one o'clock would be a good hour, and I am sure, under thecircumstances, the gentlemen will make a point of attending. '

'Yes, Dr. Bryerly, the notes shall be sent, and my cousin, Lady Knollys, would I am sure attend with me while the will is being read--there would beno objection to her presence?'

'None in the world. I can't be quite sure who are joined with me asexecutors. I'm almost sorry I did not decline; but it is too lateregretting. One thing you must believe Miss Ruthyn: in framing theprovisions of the will I was never consulted--although I expostulatedagainst the only very unusual one it contains when I heard it. I didso strenuously, but in vain. There was one other against which Iprotested--having a right to do so--with better effect. In no other waydoes the will in any respect owe anything to my advice or dissuasion. Youwill please believe this; also that I am your friend. Yes, indeed, it is myduty. '

The latter words he spoke looking down again, as it were in soliloquy; andthanking him, I withdrew. 

When I reached the hall, I regretted that I had not asked him to statedistinctly what arrangements the will made so nearly affecting, as itseemed, my relations with my uncle Silas, and for a moment I thought ofreturning and requesting an explanation. But then, I bethought me, it wasnot very long to wait till one o'clock--so _he_, at least, would think. Iwent up-stairs, therefore, to the 'school-room, ' which we used at presentas a sitting-room, and there I found Cousin Monica awaiting me. 

'Are you quite well, dear?' asked Lady Knollys, as she came to meet andkiss me. 

'Quite well, Cousin Monica. '

'No nonsense, Maud! you're as white as that handkerchief--what's thematter? Are you ill--are you frightened? Yes, you're trembling--you'reterrified, child. '

'I believe I _am_ afraid. There _is_ something in poor papa's will aboutUncle Silas--about _me_. I don't know--Doctor Bryerly says, and he seems souncomfortable and frightened himself, I am sure it is something very bad. Iam _very_ much frightened--I am--I _am_. Oh, Cousin Monica! you won't leaveme?'

So I threw my arms about her neck, clasping her very close, and we kissedone another, I crying like a frightened child--and indeed in experience ofthe world I was no more. 

CHAPTER XXIV

_THE OPENING OF THE WILL_

Perhaps the terror with which I anticipated the hour of one, and thedisclosure of the unknown undertaking to which I had bound myself, wasirrational and morbid. But, honestly, I doubt it; my tendency has alwaysbeen that of many other weak characters, to act impetuously, and afterwardsto reproach myself for consequences which I have, perhaps, in reality, hadlittle or no share in producing. 

It was Doctor Bryerly's countenance and manner in alluding to a particularprovision in my father's will that instinctively awed me. I have seen facesin a nightmare that haunted me with an indescribable horror, and yet Icould not say wherein lay the fascination. And so it was with his--an omen, a menace, lurked in its sallow and dismal glance. 

'You must not be so frightened, darling, ' said Cousin Monica. 'It isfoolish; it _is, really_; they can't cut off your head, you know: theycan't really harm you in any essential way. If it involved a risk of alittle money, you would not mind it; but men are such odd creatures--theymeasure all sacrifices by money. Doctor Bryerly would look just as youdescribe, if you were doomed to lose 500_l_. , and yet it would not killyou. '

A companion like Lady Knollys is reassuring; but I could not take hercomfort altogether to heart, for I felt that she had no great confidence init herself. 

There was a little French clock over the mantelpiece in the school-room, which I consulted nearly every minute. It wanted now but ten minutes ofone. 

'Shall we go down to the drawing-room, dear?' said Cousin Knollys, who wasgrowing restless like me. 

So down-stairs we went, pausing by mutual consent at the great window atthe stair-head, which looks out on the avenue. Mr. Danvers was riding histall, grey horse at a walk, under the wide branches toward the house, andwe waited to see him get off at the door. In his turn he loitered there, for the good Rector's gig, driven by the Curate, was approaching at a smartecclesiastical trot. 

Doctor Clay got down, and shook hands with Mr. Danvers; and after a wordor two, away drove the Curate with that upward glance at the windows fromwhich so few can refrain. 

I watched the Rector and Mr. Danvers loitering on the steps as a patientmight the gathering of surgeons who are to perform some unknown operation. They, too, glanced up at the window as they turned to enter the house, andI drew back. Cousin Monica looked at her watch. 

'Four minutes only. Shall we go to the drawing-room?'

Waiting for a moment to let the gentlemen get by on the way to the study, we, accordingly, went down, and I heard the Rector talk of the dangerousstate of Grindleston bridge, and wondered how he could think of such thingsat a time of sorrow. Everything about those few minutes of suspense remainsfresh in my recollection. I remember how they loitered and came to a haltat the corner of the oak passage leading to the study, and how the Rectorpatted the marble head and smoothed the inflexible tresses of William Pitt, as he listened to Mr. Danvers' details about the presentment; and then, as they went on, I recollect the boisterous nose-blowing that suddenlyresounded from the passage, and which I then referred, and still refer, intuitively to the Rector. 

We had not been five minutes in the drawing-room when Branston entered, tosay that the gentlemen I had mentioned were all assembled in the study. 

'Come, dear, ' said Cousin Monica; and leaning on her arm I reached thestudy door. I entered, followed by her. The gentlemen arrested their talkand stood up, those who were sitting, and the Rector came forward verygravely, and in low tones, and very kindly, greeted me. There was nothingemotional in this salutation, for though my father never quarrelled, yet animmense distance separated him from all his neighbours, and I do not thinkthere lived a human being who knew him at more than perhaps a point or twoof his character. 

Considering how entirely he secluded himself, my father was, as many peopleliving remember, wonderfully popular in his county. He was neighbourlyin everything except in seeing company and mixing in society. He hadmagnificent shooting, of which he was extremely liberal. He kept a pack ofhounds at Dollerton, with which all his side of the county hunted throughthe season. He never refused any claim upon his purse which had theslightest show of reason. He subscribed to every fund, social, charitable, sporting, agricultural, no matter what, provided the honest people ofhis county took an interest in it, and always with a princely hand; andalthough he shut himself up, no one could say that he was inaccessible, for he devoted hours daily to answering letters, and his checque-bookcontributed largely in those replies. He had taken his turn long ago asHigh Sheriff; so there was an end of that claim before his oddity andshyness had quite secluded him. He refused the Lord-Lieutenancy of hiscounty; he declined every post of personal distinction connected with it. He could write an able as well as a genial letter when he pleased; and hisappearances at public meetings, dinners, and so forth were made inthis epistolary fashion, and, when occasion presented, by magnificentcontributions from his purse. 

If my father had been less goodnatured in the sporting relations of hisvast estates, or less magnificent in dealing with his fortune, or even ifhe had failed to exhibit the intellectual force which always characterisedhis letters on public matters, I dare say that his oddities would havecondemned him to ridicule, and possibly to dislike. But every one of theprincipal gentlemen of his county, whose judgment was valuable, has told methat he was a remarkably able man, and that his failure in public lifewas due to his eccentricities, and in no respect to deficiency in thosepeculiar mental qualities which make men feared and useful in Parliament. 

I could not forbear placing on record this testimony to the high mentaland the kindly qualities of my beloved father, who might have passed fora misanthrope or a fool. He was a man of generous nature and powerfulintellect, but given up to the oddities of a shyness which grew withyears and indulgence, and became inflexible with his disappointments andaffliction. 

There was something even in the Rector's kind and ceremonious greetingwhich oddly enough reflected the mixed feelings in which awe was notwithout a place, with which his neighbours had regarded my dear father. 

Having done the honours--I am sure looking woefully pale--I had time toglance quietly at the only figure there with which I was not tolerablyfamiliar. This was the junior partner in the firm of Archer and Sleigh whorepresented my uncle Silas--a fat and pallid man of six-and-thirty, witha sly and evil countenance, and it has always seemed to me, that illdispositions show more repulsively in a pale fat face than in any other. 

Doctor Bryerly, standing near the window, was talking in a low tone to Mr. Grimston, our attorney. 

I heard good Dr. Clay whisper to Mr. Danvers--

'Is not that Doctor Bryerly--the person with the black--the black--it's awig, I think--in the window, talking to Abel Grimston?'

'Yes; that's he. '

'Odd-looking person--one of the Swedenborg people, is not he?' continuedthe Rector. 

'So I am told. '

'Yes, ' said the Rector, quietly; and he crossed one gaitered leg over theother, and, with fingers interlaced, twiddled his thumbs, as he eyedthe monstrous sectary under his orthodox old brows with a sterninquisitiveness. I thought he was meditating theologic battle. 

But Dr. Bryerly and Mr. Grimston, still talking together, began to walkslowly from the window, and the former said in his peculiar grim tones--

'I beg pardon, Miss Ruthyn; perhaps you would be so good as to show uswhich of the cabinets in this room your late lamented father pointed out asthat to which this key belongs. '

I indicated the oak cabinet. 

'Very good, ma'am--very good, ' said Doctor Bryerly, as he fumbled the keyinto the lock. 

Cousin Monica could not forbear murmuring--

'Dear! what a brute!'

The junior partner, with his dumpy hands in his pocket, poked his fat faceover Mr. Grimston's shoulder, and peered into the cabinet as the dooropened. 

The search was not long. A handsome white paper enclosure, neatly tied upin pink tape, and sealed with large red seals, was inscribed in my dearfather's hand:--'Will of Austin R. Ruthyn, of Knowl. ' Then, in smallercharacters, the date, and in the corner a note--'This will was drawn frommy instructions by Gaunt, Hogg, and Hatchett, Solicitors, Great WoburnStreet, London, A. R. R. '

'Let _me_ have a squint at that indorsement, please, gentlemen, ' halfwhispered the unpleasant person who represented my uncle Silas. 

''_Tisn't_ an indorsement. There, look--a memorandum on an envelope, ' saidAbel Grimston, gruffly. 

'Thanks--all right--that will do, ' he responded, himself making apencil-note of it, in a long clasp-book which he drew from his coat-pocket. 

The tape was carefully cut, and the envelope removed without tearing thewriting, and forth came the will, at sight of which my heart swelled andfluttered up to my lips, and then dropped down dead as it seemed into itsplace. 

'Mr. Grimston, you will please to read it, ' said Doctor Bryerly, who tookthe direction of the process. 'I will sit beside you, and as we go alongyou will be good enough to help us to understand technicalities, and giveus a lift where we want it. ' 'It's a short will, ' said Mr. Grimston, turning over the sheets '_very_--considering. Here's a codicil. '

'I did not see that, ' said Doctor Bryerly. 

'Dated only a month ago. '

'Oh!' said Doctor Bryerly, putting on his spectacles. Uncle Silas'sambassador, sitting close behind, had insinuated his face between DoctorBryerly's and the reader's of the will. 

'On behalf of the surviving brother of the testator, ' interposed thedelegate, just as Abel Grimston had cleared his voice to begin, 'I takeleave to apply for a copy of this instrument. It will save a deal oftrouble, if the young lady as represents the testator here has noobjection. '

'You can have as many copies as you like when the will is proved, ' said Mr. Grimston. 

'I know that; but supposing as all's right, where's the objection?'

'Just the objection there always is to acting irregular, ' replied Mr. Grimston. 

'You don't object to act disobliging, it seems. '

'You can do as I told you, ' replied Mr. Grimston. 

'Thank you for nothing, ' murmured Mr. Sleigh. 

And the reading of the will proceeded, while he made elaborate notes of itscontents in his capacious pocket-book. 

'I, Austin Alymer Ruthyn Ruthyn, being, I thank God, of sound mind andperfect recollection, ' &c, &c. ; and then came a bequest of all hisestates real, chattels real, copyrights, leases, chattels, money, rights, interests, reversions, powers, plate, pictures, and estates and possessionswhatsoever, to four persons--Lord Ilbury, Mr. Penrose Creswell of Creswell, Sir William Aylmer, Bart. , and Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, Doctor of Medicine, 'to have and to hold, ' &c. &c. Whereupon my Cousin Monica ejaculated 'Eh?'and Doctor Bryerly interposed--

'Four trustees, ma'am. We take little but trouble--you'll see; go on. '

Then it came out that all this multifarious splendour was bequeathed intrust for me, subject to a bequest of 15, 000_l_. To his only brother, SilasAylmer Ruthyn, and 3, 500_l_. Each to the two children of his said brother;and lest any doubt should arise by reason of his, the testator's deceaseas to the continuance of the arrangement by way of lease under whichhe enjoyed his present habitation and farm, he left him the use of themansion-house and lands of Bartram-Haugh, in the county of Derbyshire, andof the lands of so-and-so and so-and-so, adjoining thereto, in the saidcounty, for the term of his natural life, on payment of a rent of 5_s_. Per annum, and subject to the like conditions as to waste, &c. , as areexpressed in the said lease. 

'By your leave, may I ask is them dispositions all the devises to myclient, which is his only brother, as it seems to me you've seen the willbefore?' enquired Mr. Sleigh. 

'Nothing more, unless there is something in the codicil, ' answered Dr. Bryerly. 

But there was no mention of him in the codicil. 

Mr. Sleigh threw himself back in his chair, and sneered, with the end ofhis pencil between his teeth. I hope his disappointment was altogether forhis client. Mr. Danvers fancied, he afterwards said, that he had probablyexpected legacies which might have involved litigation, or, at all events, law costs, and perhaps a stewardship; but this was very barren; and Mr. Danvers also remarked, that the man was a very low practitioner, andwondered how my uncle Silas could have commissioned such a person torepresent him. 

So far the will contained nothing of which my most partial friend couldhave complained. The codicil, too, devised only legacies to servants, anda sum of 1, 000_l_. , with a few kind words, to Monica, Lady Knollys, anda further sum of 3, 000_l_. To Dr. Bryerly, stating that the legatee hadprevailed upon him to erase from the draft of his will a bequest to him tothat amount, but that, in consideration of all the trouble devolvingupon him as trustee, he made that bequest by his codicil; and with thesearrangements the permanent disposition of his property was completed. 

But that direction to which he and Doctor Bryerly had darkly alluded, wasnow to come, and certainly it was a strange one. It appointed my uncleSilas my sole guardian, with full parental authority over me until I shouldhave reached the age of twenty-one, up to which time I was to reside underhis care at Bartram-Haugh, and it directed the trustees to pay over to himyearly a sum of 2, 000_l_. During the continuance of the guardianship for mysuitable maintenance, education, and expenses. 

You have now a sufficient outline of my father's will. The only thing Ipainfully felt in this arrangement was, the break-up--the dismay thataccompanies the disappearance of home. Otherwise, there was somethingrather pleasurable in the idea. As long as I could remember, I had alwayscherished the same mysterious curiosity about my uncle, and the samelonging to behold him. This was about to be gratified. Then there was mycousin Milicent, about my own age. My life had been so lonely, that Ihad acquired none of those artificial habits that induce the fine-ladynature--a second, and not always a very amiable one. She had lived asolitary life, like me. What rambles and readings we should have together!what confidences and castle-buildings! and then there was a new countryand a fine old place, and the sense of interest and adventure that alwaysaccompanies change in our early youth. 

There were four letters all alike with large, red seals, addressedrespectively to each of the trustees named in the will. There was also oneaddressed to Silas Alymer Ruthyn, Esq. , Bartram-Haugh Manor, &c. &c. , whichMr. Sleigh offered to deliver. But Doctor Bryerly thought the post-officewas the more regular channel. Uncle Silas's representative was questioningDoctor Bryerly in an under-tone. 

I turned my eyes on my cousin Monica--I felt so inexpressiblyrelieved--expecting to see a corresponding expression in her countenance. But I was startled. She looked ghastly and angry. I stared in her face, notknowing what to think. Could the will have personally disappointed her?Such doubts, though we fancy in after-life they belong to maturity andexperience only, do sometimes cross our minds in youth. But the suggestionwronged Lady Knollys, who neither expected nor wanted anything, being rich, childless, generous, and frank. It was the unexpected character ofher countenance that scared me, and for a moment the shock called upcorresponding moral images. 

Lady Knollys, starting up, raised her head, so as to see over Mr. Sleigh'sshoulder, and biting her pale lip, she cleared her voice and demanded--

'Doctor Bryerly, pray, sir, is the reading concluded?'

'Concluded? Quite. Yes, nothing more, ' he answered with a nod, andcontinued his talk with Mr. Danvers and Abel Grimston. 

'And to whom, ' said Lady Knollys, with an effort, 'will the propertybelong, in case--in case my little cousin here should die before she comesof age?'

'Eh? Well--wouldn't it go to the heir-at-law and next of kin?' said DoctorBryerly, turning to Abel Grimston. 

'Ay--to be sure, ' said the attorney, thoughtfully. 

'And who is that?' pursued my cousin. 

'Well, her uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn. He's both heir-at-law and next of kin, 'pursued Abel Grimston. 

'Thank you, ' said Lady Knollys. 

Doctor Clay came forward, bowing very low, in his standing collar andsingle-breasted coat, and graciously folded my hand in his soft wrinkledgrasp--

'Allow me, my dear Miss Ruthyn, while expressing my regret that we are tolose you from among our little flock--though I trust but for a short, a very short time--to say how I rejoice at the particular arrangementindicated by the will we have just heard read. My curate, WilliamFairfield, resided for some years in the same spiritual capacity in theneighbourhood of your, I will say, admirable uncle, with occasionalintercourse with whom he was favoured--may I not say blessed?--a trueChristian Churchman--a Christian gentleman. Can I say more? A most happy, happy choice. ' A very low bow here, with eyes nearly closed, and a shake ofthe head. 'Mrs. Clay will do herself the honour of waiting upon you, to payher respects, before you leave Knowl for your temporary sojourn in anothersphere. '

So, with another deep bow--for I had become a great personage all atonce--he let go my hand cautiously and delicately, as if he were settingdown a curious china tea-cup. And I courtesied low to him, not knowingwhat to say, and then to the assembly generally, who all bowed. And CousinMonica whispered, briskly, 'Come away, ' and took my hand with a very coldand rather damp one, and led me from the room. 

CHAPTER XXV

_I HEAR FROM UNCLE SILAS_

Without saying a word, Cousin Monica accompanied me to the school-room, andon entering she shut the door, not with a spirited clang, but quietly anddeterminedly. 

'Well, dear, ' she said, with the same pale, excited countenance, 'thatcertainly is a sensible and charitable arrangement. I could not havebelieved it possible, had I not heard it with my ears. '

'About my going to Bartram-Haugh?'

'Yes, exactly so, under Silas Ruthyn's guardianship, to spendtwo--_three_--of the most important years of your education and your lifeunder that roof. Is _that_, my dear, what was in your mind when you were soalarmed about what you were to be called upon to do, or undergo?'

'No, no, indeed. I had no notion what it might be. I was afraid ofsomething serious, ' I answered. 

'And, my dear Maud, did not your poor father speak to you as if it _was_something serious?' said she. 'And so it _is_, I can tell you, somethingserious, and _very_ serious; and I think it ought to be prevented, and Icertainly _will_ prevent it if I possibly can. '

I was puzzled utterly by the intensity of Lady Knollys' protest. I lookedat her, expecting an explanation of her meaning; but she was silent, looking steadfastly on the jewels on her right-hand fingers, with which shewas drumming a staccato march on the table, very pale, with gleaming eyes, evidently thinking deeply. I began to think she _had_ a prejudice againstmy uncle Silas. 

'He is not very rich, ' I commenced. 

'Who?' said Lady Knollys. 

'Uncle Silas, ' I replied. 

'No, certainly; he's in debt, ' she answered. 'But then, how very highlyDoctor Clay spoke of him!' I pursued. 

'Don't talk of Doctor Clay. I do think that man is the greatest goose Iever heard talk. I have no patience with such men, ' she replied. 

I tried to remember what particular nonsense Doctor Clay had uttered, and Icould recollect nothing, unless his eulogy upon my uncle were to be classedwith that sort of declamation. 

'Danvers is a very proper man and a good accountant, I dare say; but heis either a very deep person, or a fool--_I_ believe a fool. As for yourattorney, I suppose he knows his business, and also his interest, and Ihave no doubt he will consult it. I begin to think he best man among them, the shrewdest and the most reliable, is that vulgar visionary in the blackwig. I saw him look at you, Maud, and I liked his face, though it isabominably ugly and vulgar, and cunning, too; but I think he's a just man, and I dare say with right feelings--I'm _sure_ he has. '

I was quite at a loss to divine the gist of my cousin's criticism. 

'I'll have some talk with Dr. Bryerly; I feel convinced he takes my view, and we must really think what had best be done. '

'Is there anything in the will, Cousin Monica, that does not appear?' Iasked, for I was growing very uneasy. 'I wish you would tell me. What viewdo you mean?'

'No view in particular; the view that a desolate old park, and the house ofa _neglected_ old man, who is very poor, and has been desperately foolish, is not the right place for you, particularly at your years. It is quiteshocking, and I _will_ speak to Doctor Bryerly. May I ring the bell, dear?'

'Certainly;' and I rang it. 

'When does he leave Knowl?'

I could not tell. Mrs. Rusk, however, was sent for, and she could tellus that he had announced his intention of taking the night train fromDrackleton, and was to leave Knowl for that station at half-past sixo'clock. 

'May Rusk give or send him a message from me, dear?' asked Lady Knollys. 

Of course she might. 

'Then please let him know that I request he will be so good as to allow mea very few minutes, just to say a word before he goes. '

'You kind cousin!' I said, placing my two hands on her shoulders, andlooking earnestly in her face; 'you are anxious about me, more than yousay. Won't you tell me why? I am much more unhappy, really, in ignorance, than if I understood the cause. '

'Well, dear, haven't I told you? The two or three years of your life whichare to form you are destined to be passed in utter loneliness, and, I amsure, neglect. You can't estimate the disadvantage of such an arrangement. It is full of disadvantages. How it could have entered the head of poorAustin--although I should not say that, for I am sure I do understandit, --but how he could for any purpose have directed such a measure is quiteinconceivable. I never heard of anything so foolish and abominable, and Iwill prevent it if I can. '

At that moment Mrs. Rusk announced that Doctor Bryerly would see LadyKnollys at any time she pleased before his departure. 

'It shall be this moment, then, ' said the energetic lady, and up she stood, and made that hasty general adjustment before the glass, which, no matterunder what circumstances, and before what sort of creature one's appearanceis to be made, is a duty that every woman owes to herself. And I heard hera moment after, at the stair-head, directing Branston to let Dr. Bryerlyknow that she awaited him in the drawing-room. 

And now she was gone, and I began to wonder and speculate. Why shouldmy cousin Monica make all this fuss about, after all, a very naturalarrangement? My uncle, whatever he might have been, was now a good man--areligious man--perhaps a little severe; and with this thought a dark streakfell across my sky. 

A cruel disciplinarian! had I not read of such characters?--lock andkey, bread and water, and solitude! To sit locked up all night in a darkout-of-the-way room, in a great, ghosty, old-fashioned house, with no onenearer than the other wing. What years of horror in one such night! Wouldnot this explain my poor father's hesitation, and my cousin Monica'sapparently disproportioned opposition? When an idea of terror presentsitself to a young person's mind, it transfixes and fills the vision, without respect of probabilities or reason. 

My uncle was now a terrible old martinet, with long Bible lessons, lectures, pages of catechism, sermons to be conned by rote, and an awfulcatalogue of punishments for idleness, and what would seem to him impiety. I was going, then, to a frightful isolated reformatory, where for the firsttime in my life I should be subjected to a rigorous and perhaps barbarousdiscipline. 

All this was an exhalation of fancy, but it quite overcame me. I threwmyself, in my solitude, on the floor, upon my knees, and prayed fordeliverance--prayed that Cousin Monica might prevail with Doctor Bryerly, and both on my behalf with the Lord Chancellor, or the High Sheriff, orwhoever else my proper deliverer might be; and when my cousin returned, shefound me quite in an agony. 

'Why, you little fool! what fancy has taken possession of you now?' shecried. 

And when my new terror came to light, she actually laughed a little toreassure me, and she said--

'My dear child, your uncle Silas will never put you through your duty toyour neighbour; all the time you are under his roof you'll have idlenessand liberty enough, and too much, I fear. It is neglect, my dear, notdiscipline, that I'm afraid of. '

'I think, dear Cousin Monica, you are afraid of something more thanneglect, ' I said, relieved, however. 

'I _am_ afraid of more than neglect, ' she replied promptly; 'but I hope myfears may turn out illusory, and that possibly they may be avoided. Andnow, for a few hours at least, let us think of something else. I ratherlike that Doctor Bryerly. I could not get him to say what I wanted. I don'tthink he's Scotch, but he is very cautious, and I am sure, though he wouldnot say so, that he thinks of the matter exactly as I do. He says thatthose fine people, who are named as his co-trustees, won't take anytrouble, and will leave everything to him, and I am sure he is right. Sowe must not quarrel with him, Maud, nor call him hard names, althoughhe certainly is intolerably vulgar and ugly, and at times very nearlyimpertinent--I suppose without knowing, or indeed very much caring. '

We had a good deal to think of, and talked incessantly. There were burstsand interruptions of grief, and my kind cousin's consolations. I haveoften since been so lectured for giving way to grief, that I wonder at thepatience exercised by her during this irksome visit. Then there was somereading of that book whose claims are always felt in the terrible days ofaffliction. After that we had a walk in the yew garden, that quaint littlecloistered quadrangle--the most solemn, sad, and antiquated of gardens. 

'And now, my dear, I must really leave you for two or three hours. I haveever so many letters to write, and my people must think I'm dead by thistime. '

So till tea-time I had poor Mary Quince, with her gushes of simple prattleand her long fits of vacant silence, for my companion. And such a one, whocan con over by rote the old friendly gossip about the dead, talk abouttheir ways, and looks, and likings, without much psychologic refinement, but with a simple admiration and liking that never measured themcritically, but always with faith and love, is in general about ascomfortable a companion as one can find for the common moods of grief. 

It is not easy to recall in calm and happy hours the sensations of an acutesorrow that is past. Nothing, by the merciful ordinance of God, is moredifficult to remember than pain. One or two great agonies of that time I doremember, and they remain to testify of the rest, and convince me, though Ican see it no more, how terrible all that period was. 

Next day was the funeral, that appalling necessity; smuggled away inwhispers, by black familiars, unresisting, the beloved one leaves home, without a farewell, to darken those doors no more; henceforward to lieoutside, far away, and forsaken, through the drowsy heats of summer, through days of snow and nights of tempest, without light or warmth, without a voice near. Oh, Death, king of terrors! The body quakes and thespirit faints before thee. It is vain, with hands clasped over our eyes, toscream our reclamation; the horrible image will not be excluded. We havejust the word spoken eighteen hundred years ago, and our trembling faith. And through the broken vault the gleam of the Star of Bethlehem. 

I was glad in a sort of agony when it was over. So long as it remained tobe done, something of the catastrophe was still suspended. Now it was allover. 

The house so strangely empty. No owner--no master! I with my strangemomentary liberty, bereft of that irreplaceable love, never quite prizeduntil it is lost. Most people have experienced the dismay that underliessorrow under such circumstances. 

The apartment of the poor outcast from life is now dismantled. Beds andcurtains taken down, and furniture displaced; carpets removed, windows openand doors locked; the bedroom and anteroom were henceforward, for many aday, uninhabited. Every shocking change smote my heart like a reproach. 

I saw that day that Cousin Monica had been crying for the first time, Ithink, since her arrival at Knowl; and I loved her more for it, and feltconsoled. My tears have often been arrested by the sight of another personweeping, and I never could explain why. But I believe that many personsexperience the same odd reaction. 

The funeral was conducted, in obedience to his brief but peremptorydirection, very privately and with little expense. But of course there wasan attendance, and the tenants of the Knowl estate also followed the hearseto the mausoleum, as it is called, in the park, where he was laid beside mydear mother. And so the repulsive ceremonial of that dreadful day was over. The grief remained, but there was rest from the fatigue of agitation, and acomparative calm supervened. 

It was now the stormy equinoctial weather that sounds the wild dirge ofautumn, and marches the winter in. I love, and always did, that grandundefinable music, threatening and bewailing, with its strange soul ofliberty and desolation. 

By this night's mail, as we sat listening to the storm, in the drawing-roomat Knowl, there reached me a large letter with a great black seal, and awonderfully deep-black border, like a widow's crape. I did not recognisethe handwriting; but on opening the funereal missive, it proved to be frommy uncle Silas, and was thus expressed:--

'MY DEAREST NIECE, --This letter will reach you, probably, on the day whichconsigns the mortal remains of my beloved brother, Austin, your dearfather, to the earth. Sad ceremony, from taking my mournful part in whichI am excluded by years, distance, and broken health. It will, I trust, atthis season of desolation, be not unwelcome to remember that a substitute, imperfect--unworthy--but most affectionately zealous, for the honouredparent whom you have just lost, has been appointed, in me, your uncle, byhis will. I am aware that you were present during the reading of it, butI think it will be for our mutual satisfaction that our new and moreaffectionate relations should be forthwith entered upon. My conscience andyour safety, and I trust convenience, will thereby be consulted. You will, my dear niece, remain at Knowl, until a few simple arrangements shall havebeen completed for your reception at this place. I will then settlethe details of your little journey to us, which shall be performed ascomfortably and easily as possible. I humbly pray that this affliction maybe sanctified to us all, and that in our new duties we may be supported, comforted, and directed. I need not remind you that I now stand to you _inloco parentis_, which means in the relation of father, and you will notforget that you are to remain at Knowl until you hear further from me. 

'I remain, my dear niece, your most affectionate uncle and guardian, SILAS RUTHYN. '

'P. S. --Pray present my respects to Lady Knollys, who, I understand, issojourning at Knowl. I would observe that a lady who cherishes, I havereason to fear, unfriendly feelings against your uncle, is not the mostdesirable companion for his ward. But upon the express condition that I amnot made the subject of your discussions--a distinction which could notconduce to your forming a just and respectful estimate of me--I do notinterpose my authority to bring your intercourse to an immediate close. '

As I read this postscript, my cheek tingled as if I had received a box onthe ear. Uncle Silas was as yet a stranger. The menace of authority was newand sudden, and I felt with a pang of mortification the full force of theposition in which my dear father's will had placed me. 

I was silent, and handed the letter to my cousin, who read it with akind of smile until she came, as I supposed, to the postscript, when hercountenance, on which my eyes were fixed, changed, and with flushed cheeksshe knocked the hand that held the letter on the table before her, andexclaimed--

'Did I ever hear! Well, if this isn't impertinence! _What_ an old man thatis!'

There was a pause, during which Lady Knollys held her head high with afrown, and sniffed a little. 

'I did not intend to talk about him, but now I _will_. I'll talk away justwhatever I like; and I'll stay here just as long as you let me, Maud, andyou need not be one atom afraid of him. Our intercourse to an "immediateclose, " indeed! I only wish he were here. He should hear something!'

And Cousin Monica drank off her entire cup of tea at one draught, and thenshe said, more in her own way--

'I'm better!' and drew a long breath, and then she laughed a little in awaggish defiance. 'I wish we had him here, Maud, and _would_ not we givehim a bit of our minds! And this before the poor will is so much asproved!'

'I am almost glad he wrote that postscript; for although I don't think hehas any authority in that matter while I am under my own roof, ' I said, extemporising a legal opinion, 'and, therefore, shan't obey him, it hassomehow opened my eyes to my real situation. '

I sighed, I believe, very desolately, for Lady Knollys came over and kissedme very gently and affectionately. 

'It really seems, Maud, as if he had a supernatural sense, and heard thingsthrough the air over fifty miles of heath and hill. You remember how, justas he was probably writing that very postscript yesterday, I was urging youto come and stay with me, and planning to move Dr. Bryerly in our favour. And so I will, Maud, and to me you _shall_ come--my guest, mind--I shouldbe so delighted; and really if Silas is under a cloud, it has been his owndoing, and I don't see that it is your business to fight his battle. Hecan't live very long. The suspicion, whatever it is dies with him, and whatcould poor dear Austin prove by his will but what everybody knew quite wellbefore--his own strong belief in Silas's innocence? What an awful storm!The room trembles. Don't you like the sound? What they used to call'wolving' in the old organ at Dorminster!'

CHAPTER XXVI

_THE STORY OF UNCLE SILAS_

And so it was like the yelling of phantom hounds and hunters, and thethunder of their coursers in the air--a furious, grand and supernaturalmusic, which in my fancy made a suitable accompaniment to the discussion ofthat enigmatical person--martyr--angel--demon--Uncle Silas--with whom myfate was now so strangely linked, and whom I had begun to fear. 

'The storm blows from that point, ' I said, indicating it with my hand andeye, although the window shutters and curtains were closed. 'I saw all thetrees bend that way this evening. That way stands the great lonely wood, where my darling father and mother lie. Oh, how dreadful on nights likethis, to think of them--a vault!--damp, and dark, and solitary--under thestorm. '

Cousin Monica looked wistfully in the same direction, and with a short sighshe said--

'We think too much of the poor remains, and too little of the spirit whichlives for ever. I am sure they are happy. ' And she sighed again. 'I wishI dare hope as confidently for myself. Yes, Maud, it is sad. We are suchmaterialists, we can't help feeling so. We forget how well it is for usthat our present bodies are not to last always. They are constructed for atime and place of trouble--plainly mere temporary machines that wear out, constantly exhibiting failure and decay, and with such tremendous capacityfor pain. The body lies alone, and so it ought, for it is plainly its goodCreator's will; it is only the tabernacle, not the person, who is clothedupon after death, Saint Paul says, "with a house which is from heaven. " SoMaud, darling, although the thought will trouble us again and again, thereis nothing in it; and the poor mortal body is only the cold ruin of ahabitation which _they_ have forsaken before we do. So this great wind, yousay, is blowing toward us from the wood there. If so, Maud, it is blowingfrom Bartram-Haugh, too, over the trees and chimneys of that old place, andthe mysterious old man, who is quite right in thinking I don't like him;and I can fancy him an old enchanter in his castle, waving his familiarspirits on the wind to fetch and carry tidings of our occupations here. '

I lifted my head and listened to the storm, dying away in the distancesometimes--sometimes swelling and pealing around and above us--and throughthe dark and solitude my thoughts sped away to Bartram-Haugh and UncleSilas. 

'This letter, ' I said at last, 'makes me feel differently. I think he is astern old man--is he?'

'It is twenty years, now, since I saw him, ' answered Lady Knollys. 'I didnot choose to visit at his house. '

'Was that before the dreadful occurrence at Bartram-Haugh?'

'Yes--before, dear. He was not a reformed rake, but only a ruined one then. Austin was very good to him. Mr. Danvers says it is quite unaccountable howSilas can have made away with the immense sums he got from his brother fromtime to time without benefiting himself in the least. But, my dear, heplayed; and trying to help a man who plays, and is unlucky--and some menare, I believe, habitually unlucky--is like trying to fill a vessel thathas no bottom. I think, by-the-by, my hopeful nephew, Charles Oakley, plays. Then Silas went most unjustifiably into all manner of speculations, and your poor father had to pay everything. He lost something quiteastounding in that bank that ruined so many country gentlemen--poor SirHarry Shackleton, in Yorkshire, had to sell half his estate. But your kindfather went on helping him, up to his marriage--I mean in that extravagantway which was really totally useless. '

'Has my aunt been long dead?'

'Twelve or fifteen years--more, indeed--she died before your poor mamma. She was very unhappy, and I am sure would have given her right hand she hadnever married Silas. '

'Did you like her?'

'No, dear; she was a coarse, vulgar woman. '

'Coarse and vulgar, and Uncle Silas's wife!' I echoed in extreme surprise, for Uncle Silas was a man of fashion--a beau in his day--and might havemarried women of good birth and fortune, I had no doubt, and so I expressedmyself. 'Yes, dear; so he might, and poor dear Austin was very anxious heshould, and would have helped him with a handsome settlement, I dare say, but he chose to marry the daughter of a Denbigh innkeeper. '

'How utterly incredible!' I exclaimed. 

'Not the least incredible, dear--a kind of thing not at all so uncommon asyou fancy. '

'What!--a gentleman of fashion and refinement marry a person--'

'A barmaid!--just so, ' said Lady Knollys. 'I think I could count half adozen men of fashion who, to my knowledge, have ruined themselves just in asimilar way. '

'Well, at all events, it must be allowed that in this he proved himselfaltogether unworldly. '

'Not a bit unworldly, but very vicious, ' replied Cousin Monica, with acareless little laugh. 'She was very beautiful, curiously beautiful, fora person in her station. She was very like that Lady Hamilton who wasNelson's sorceress--elegantly beautiful, but perfectly low and stupid. I believe, to do him justice, he only intended to ruin her; but she wascunning enough to insist upon marriage. Men who have never in all theirlives denied themselves the indulgence of a single fancy, cost what itmay, will not be baulked even by that condition if the _penchant_ be onlyviolent enough. '

I did not half understand this piece of worldly psychology, at which LadyKnollys seemed to laugh. 

'Poor Silas, certainly he struggled honestly against the consequences, for he tried after the honeymoon to prove the marriage bad. But the Welshparson and the innkeeper papa were too strong for him, and the young ladywas able to hold her struggling swain fast in that respectable noose--and apretty prize he proved!'

'And she died, poor thing, broken-hearted, I heard. '

'She died, at all events, about ten years after her marriage; but I reallycan't say about her heart. She certainly had enough ill-usage, I believe, to kill her; but I don't know that she had feeling enough to die of it, ifit had not been that she drank: I am told that Welsh women often do. Therewas jealousy, of course, and brutal quarrelling, and all sorts of horridstories. I visited at Bartram-Haugh for a year or two, though no one elsewould. But when that sort of thing began, of course I gave it up; it wasout of the question. I don't think poor Austin ever knew how bad it was. And then came that odious business about wretched Mr. Charke. You knowhe--he committed suicide at Bartram. '

'I never heard about that, ' I said; and we both paused, and she lookedsternly at the fire, and the storm roared and ha-ha-ed till the old houseshook again. 

'But Uncle Silas could not help that, ' I said at last. 

'No, he could not help it, ' she acquiesced unpleasantly. 

'And Uncle Silas was'--I paused in a sort of fear. 

'He was suspected by some people of having killed him'--she completed thesentence. 

There was another long pause here, during which the storm outside bellowedand hooted like an angry mob roaring at the windows for a victim. Anintolerable and sickening sensation overpowered me. 

'But _you_ did not suspect him, Cousin Knollys?' I said, trembling verymuch. 

'No, ' she answered very sharply. 'I told you so before. Of course I didnot. '

There was another silence. 

'I wish, Cousin Monica, ' I said, drawing close to her, 'you had not said_that_ about Uncle Silas being like a wizard, and sending his spiritson the wind to listen. But I'm very glad you never suspected him. ' Iinsinuated my cold hand into hers, and looked into her face I know not withwhat expression. She looked down into mine with a hard, haughty stare, Ithought. 

'Of _course_ I never suspected him; and _never_ ask me _that_ questionagain, Maud Ruthyn. '

Was it family pride, or what was it, that gleamed so fiercely from her eyesas she said this? I was frightened--I was wounded--I burst into tears. 

'What is my darling crying for? I did not mean to be cross. _Was_ Icross?' said this momentary phantom of a grim Lady Knollys, in an instanttranslated again into kind, pleasant Cousin Monica, with her arms about myneck. 

'No, no, indeed--only I thought I had vexed you; and, I believe, thinkingof Uncle Silas makes me nervous, and I can't help thinking of him nearlyalways. ' 'Nor can I, although we might both easily find something better tothink of. Suppose we try?' said Lady Knollys. 

'But, first, I must know a little more about that Mr. Charke, and whatcircumstances enabled Uncle Silas's enemies to found on his death thatwicked slander, which has done no one any good, and caused some persons somuch misery. There is Uncle Silas, I may say, ruined by it; and we all knowhow it darkened the life of my dear father. '

'People will talk, my dear. Your uncle Silas had injured himself beforethat in the opinion of the people of his county. He was a black sheep, in fact. Very bad stories were told and believed of him. His marriagecertainly was a disadvantage, you know, and the miserable scenes that wenton in his disreputable house--all that predisposed people to believe ill ofhim. '

'How long is it since it happened?'

'Oh, a long time; I think before you were born, ' answered she. 

'And the injustice still lives--they have not forgotten it yet?' said I, for such a period appeared to me long enough to have consigned anything inits nature perishable to oblivion. 

Lady Knollys smiled. 

'Tell me, like a darling cousin, the whole story as well as you canrecollect it. Who was Mr. Charke?'

'Mr. Charke, my dear, was a gentleman on the turf--that is the phrase, Ithink--one of those London men, without birth or breeding, who merely inright of their vices and their money are admitted to associate with youngdandies who like hounds and horses, and all that sort of thing. That setknew him very well, but of course no one else. He was at the Matlockraces, and your uncle asked him to Bartram-Haugh; and the creature, Jewor Gentile, whatever he was, fancied there was more honour than, perhaps, there really was in a visit to Bartram-Haugh. '

'For the kind of person you describe, it _was_, I think, a rather unusualhonour to be invited to stay in the house of a man of Uncle Ruthyn'sbirth. '

'Well, so it was perhaps; for though they knew him very well on the course, and would ask him to their tavern dinners, they would not, of course, admithim to the houses where ladies were. But Silas's wife was not much regardedat Bartram-Haugh. Indeed, she was very little seen, for she was everyevening tipsy in her bedroom, poor woman!'

'How miserable!' I exclaimed. 

'I don't think it troubled Silas very much, for she drank gin, they said, poor thing, and the expense was not much; and, on the whole, I really thinkhe was glad she drank, for it kept her out of his way, and was likely tokill her. At this time your poor father, who was thoroughly disgusted athis marriage, had stopped the supplies, you know, and Silas was very poor, and as hungry as a hawk, and they said he pounced upon this rich Londongamester, intending to win his money. I am telling you now all that wassaid afterwards. The races lasted I forget how many days, and Mr. Charkestayed at Bartram-Haugh all this time and for some days after. It wasthought that poor Austin would pay all Silas's gambling debts, and so thiswretched Mr. Charke made heavy wagers with him on the races, and theyplayed very deep, besides, at Bartram. He and Silas used to sit up at nightat cards. All these particulars, as I told you, came out afterwards, forthere was an inquest, you know, and then Silas published what he called his"statement, " and there was a great deal of most distressing correspondencein the newspapers. '

'And why did Mr. Charke kill himself?' I asked. 

'Well, I will tell you first what all are agreed about. The second nightafter the races, your uncle and Mr. Charke sat up till between two andthree o'clock in the morning, quite by themselves, in the parlour. Mr. Charke's servant was at the Stag's Head Inn at Feltram, and therefore couldthrow no light upon what occurred at night at Bartram-Haugh; but he wasthere at six o'clock in the morning, and very early at his master's door byhis direction. He had locked it, as was his habit, upon the inside, and thekey was in the lock, which turned out afterwards a very important point. On knocking he found that he could not awaken his master, because, as itappeared when the door was forced open, his master was lying dead at hisbedside, not in a pool, but a perfect pond of blood, as they described it, with his throat cut. '

'How horrible!' cried I. 

'So it was. Your uncle Silas was called up, and greatly shocked of course, and he did what I believe was best. He had everything left as nearly aspossible in the exact state in which it had been found, and he sent hisown servant forthwith for the coroner, and, being himself a justice ofthe peace, he took the depositions of Mr. Charke's servant while all theincidents were still fresh in his memory. '

'Could anything be more straightforward, more right and wise?' I said. 

'Oh, nothing of course, ' answered Lady Knollys, I thought a little drily. 

CHAPTER XXVII

_MORE ABOUT TOM CHARKE'S SUICIDE_

So the inquest was held, and Mr. Manwaring, of Wail Forest, was the onlyjuryman who seemed to entertain the idea during the inquiry that Mr. Charkehad died by any hand but his own. 

'And how _could_ he fancy such a thing?' I exclaimed indignantly. 

'Well, you will see the result was quite enough to justify them in sayingas they did, that he died by his own hand. The window was found fastenedwith a screw on the inside, as it had been when the chambermaid hadarranged it at nine o'-clock; no one could have entered through it. Besides, it was on the third story, and the rooms are lofty, so it stoodat a great height from the ground, and there was no ladder long enoughto reach it. The house is built in the form of a hollow square, and Mr. Charke's room looked into the narrow court-yard within. There is but onedoor leading into this, and it did not show any sign of having been openfor years. The door was locked upon the inside, and the key in the lock, so that nobody could have made an entrance that way either, for it wasimpossible, you see, to unlock the door from the outside. ' 'And how couldthey affect to question anything so clear?' I asked. 

'There did come, nevertheless, a kind of mist over the subject, whichgave those who chose to talk unpleasantly an opportunity of insinuatingsuspicions, though they could not themselves find the clue of the mystery. In the first place, it appeared that he had gone to bed very tipsy, andthat he was heard sing ing and noisy in his room while getting to bed--notthe mood in which men make away with themselves. Then, although his ownrazor was found in that dreadful blood (it is shocking to have to hear allthis) near his right hand, the fingers of his left were cut to the bone. Then the memorandum book in which his bets were noted was nowhere to befound. That, you know, was very odd. His keys were there attached to achain. He wore a great deal of gold and trinkets. I saw him, wretchedman, on the course. They had got off their horses. He and your uncle werewalking on the course. '

'Did he look like a gentleman?' I inquired, as I dare say, other youngladies would. 

'He looked like a Jew, my dear. He had a horrid brown coat with a velvetcape, curling black hair over his collar, and great whiskers, very highshoulders, and he was puffing a cigar straight up into the air. I wasshocked to see Silas in such company. '

'And did his keys discover anything?' I asked. 

'On opening his travelling desk and a small japanned box within it a vastdeal less money was found than was expected--in fact, very little. Youruncle said that he had won some of it the night before at play, andthat Charke complained to him when tipsy of having had severe losses tocounterbalance his gains on the races. Besides, he had been paid but asmall part of those gains. About his book it appeared that there werelittle notes of bets on the backs of letters, and it was said thathe sometimes made no other memorandum of his wagers--but this wasdisputed--and among those notes there was not one referring to Silas. But, then, there was an omission of all allusion to his transactions with twoother well-known gentlemen. So that was not singular. '

'No, certainly; that was quite accounted for, ' said I. 

'And then came the question, ' continued she, 'what motive could Mr. Charkepossibly have had for making away with himself. '

'But is not that very difficult to make out in many cases?' I interposed. 

'It was said that he had some mysterious troubles in London, at which heused to hint. Some people said that he really was in a scrape, but othersthat there was no such thing, and that when he talked so he was onlyjesting. There was no suspicion during the inquest that your uncle Silaswas involved, except those questions of Mr. Manwaring's. '

'What were they?' I asked. 

'I really forget; but they greatly offended your uncle, and there was alittle scene in the room. Mr. Manwaring seemed to think that some one hadsomehow got into the room. Through the door it could not be, nor down thechimney, for they found an iron bar across the flue, near the top in themasonry. The window looked into a court-yard no bigger than a ball-room. They went down and examined it, but, though the ground beneath was moist, they could not discover the slightest trace of a footprint. So far as theycould make out, Mr. Charke had hermetically sealed himself into his room, and then cut his throat with his own razor. '

'Yes, ' said I, 'for it was all secured--that is, the window and thedoor--upon the inside, and no sign of any attempt to get in. '

'Just so; and when the walls were searched, and, as your uncle Silasdirected, the wainscoting removed, some months afterwards, when the scandalgrew loudest, then it was evident that there was no concealed access to theroom. '

'So the answer to all those calumnies was simply that the crime wasimpossible, ' said I. 'How dreadful that such a slander should have requiredan answer at all!'

'It was an unpleasant affair even then, although I cannot say that anyonesupposed Silas guilty; but you know the whole thing was disreputable, thatMr. Charke was a discreditable inmate, the occurrence was horrible, andthere was a glare of publicity which brought into relief the scandals ofBartram-Haugh. But in a little time it became, all on a sudden, a greatdeal worse. '

My cousin paused to recollect exactly. 

'There were very disagreeable whispers among the sporting people in London. This person, Charke, had written two letters, Yes--two. They were publishedabout two months after, by the villain to whom they were written; he wantedto extort money. They were first talked of a great deal among that set intown; but the moment they were published they produced a sensation in thecountry, and a storm of newspaper commentary. The first of these was of nogreat consequence, but the second was very startling, embarrassing, andeven alarming. '

'What was it, Cousin Monica?' I whispered. 

'I can only tell you in a general way, it is so very long since I readit; but both were written in the same kind of slang, and parts as hard tounderstand as a prize fight. I hope you never read those things. '

I satisfied this sudden educational alarm, and Lady Knollys proceeded. 

'I am afraid you hardly hear me, the wind makes such an uproar. Well, listen. The letter said distinctly, that he, Mr. Charke, had made a veryprofitable visit to Bartram-Haugh, and mentioned in exact figures for howmuch he held your uncle Silas's I. O. U. 's, for he could not pay him. I can'tsay what the sum was. I only remember that it was quite frightful. It tookaway my breath when I read it. '

'Uncle Silas had lost it?' I asked. 

'Yes, and owed it; and had given him those papers called I. O. U. 's promisingto pay, which, of course, Mr. Charke had locked up with his money; and theinsinuation was that Silas had made away with him, to get rid of this debt, and that he had also taken a great deal of his money. 

'I just recollect these points which were exactly what made theimpression, ' continued Lady Knollys, after a short pause; 'the letter waswritten in the evening of the last day of the wretched man's life, so thatthere had not been much time for your uncle Silas to win back his money;and he stoutly alleged that he did not owe Mr. Charke a guinea. Itmentioned an enormous sum as being actually owed by Silas; and it cautionedthe man, an agent, to whom he wrote, not to mention the circumstance, asSilas could only pay by getting the money from his wealthy brother, whowould have the management; and he distinctly said that he had kept thematter very close at Silas's request. That, you know, was a very awkwardletter, and all the worse that it was written in brutally high spirits, andnot at all like a man meditating an exit from the world. You can't imaginewhat a sensation the publication of these letters produced. In a momentthe storm was up, and certainly Silas did meet it bravely--yes, with greatcourage and ability. What a pity he did not early enter upon some career ofambition! Well, well, it is idle regretting. He suggested that the letterswere forgeries. He alleged that Charke was in the habit of boasting, andtelling enormous falsehoods about his gambling transactions, especially inhis letters. He reminded the world how often men affect high animal spiritsat the very moment of meditating suicide. He alluded, in a manly andgraceful way, to his family and their character. He took a high andmenacing tone with his adversaries, and he insisted that what they dared toinsinuate against him was physically impossible. '

I asked in what form this vindication appeared. 

'It was a letter, printed as a pamphlet; everybody admired its ability, ingenuity, and force, and it was written with immense rapidity. '

'Was it at all in the style of his letters?' I innocently asked. 

My cousin laughed. 

'Oh, dear, no! Ever since he avowed himself a religious character, he hadwritten nothing but the most vapid and nerveless twaddle. Your poor dearfather used to send his letters to me to read, and I sometimes reallythought that Silas was losing his faculties; but I believe he was onlytrying to write in character. '

'I suppose the general feeling was in his favour?' I said. 

'I don't think it was, anywhere; but in his own county it was certainlyunanimously against him. There is no use in asking why; but so it was, andI think it would have been easier for him with his unaided strength touproot the Peak than to change the convictions of the Derbyshire gentlemen. They were all against him. Of course there were predisposing causes. Youruncle published a very bitter attack upon them, describing himself as thevictim of a political conspiracy: and I recollect he mentioned that fromthe hour of the shocking catastrophe in his house, he had forsworn the turfand all pursuits and amusements connected with it. People sneered, and saidhe might as well go as wait to be kicked out. '

'Were there law-suits about all this?' I asked. 

'Everybody expected that there would, for there were very savage thingsprinted on both sides, and I think, too, that the persons who thought worstof him expected that evidence would yet turn up to convict Silas of thecrime they chose to impute; and so years have glided away, and many of thepeople who remembered the tragedy of Bartram-Haugh, and took the strongestpart in the denunciation, and ostracism that followed, are dead, and no newlight had been thrown upon the occurrence, and your uncle Silas remains anoutcast. At first he was quite wild with rage, and would have fought thewhole county, man by man, if they would have met him. But he had sincechanged his habits and, as he says, his aspirations altogether. '

'He has become religious. '

'The only occupation remaining to him. He owes money; he is poor; he isisolated; and he says, sick and religious. Your poor father, who wasvery decided and inflexible, never helped him beyond the limit he hadprescribed, after Silas's _mésalliance_. He wanted to get him intoParliament, and would have paid his expenses, and made him an allowance;but either Silas had grown lazy, or he understood his position better thanpoor Austin, or he distrusted his powers, or possibly he really is inill-health; but he objected his religious scruples. Your poor papa thoughtself-assertion possible, where an injured man has right to rely upon, buthe had been very long out of the world, and the theory won't do. Nothing isharder than to get a person who has once been effectually slurred, receivedagain. Silas, I think, was right. I don't think it was practicable. 

'Dear child, how late it is!' exclaimed Lady Knollys suddenly, looking atthe Louis Quatorze clock, that crowned the mantelpiece. 

It was near one o'clock. The storm had a little subsided, and I took a lessagitated and more confident view of Uncle Silas than I had at an earlierhour of that evening. 

'And what do you think of him?' I asked. 

Lady Knollys drummed on the table with her finger points as she looked intothe fire. 

'I don't understand metaphysics, my dear, nor witchcraft. I sometimesbelieve in the supernatural, and sometimes I don't. Silas Ruthyn is himselfalone, and I can't define him, because I don't understand him. Perhapsother souls than human are sometimes born into the world, and clothed inflesh. It is not only about that dreadful occurrence, but nearly alwaysthroughout his life; early and late he has puzzled me. I have tried in vainto understand him. But at one time of his life I am sure he was awfullywicked--eccentric indeed in his wickedness--gay, frivolous, secret, anddangerous. At one time I think he could have made poor Austin do almostanything; but his influence vanished with his marriage, never to returnagain. No; I don't understand him. He always bewildered me, like a shiftingface, sometimes smiling, but always sinister, in an unpleasant dream. '

CHAPTER XXVIII

_I AM PERSUADED_

So now at last I had heard the story of Uncle Silas's mysterious disgrace. We sat silent for a while, and I, gazing into vacancy, sent him in achariot of triumph, chapletted, ringed, and robed through the city ofimagination, crying after him, 'Innocent! innocent! martyr and crowned!'All the virtues and honesties, reason and conscience, in myriadshapes--tier above tier of human faces--from the crowded pavement, crowdedwindows, crowded roofs, joined in the jubilant acclamation, and trumpeterstrumpeted, and drums rolled, and great organs and choirs through opencathedral gates, rolled anthems of praise and thanksgiving, and the bellsrang out, and cannons sounded, and the air trembled with the roaringharmony; and Silas Ruthyn, the full-length portrait, stood in the burnishedchariot, with a proud, sad, clouded face, that rejoiced not with therejoicers, and behind him the slave, thin as a ghost, white-faced, andsneering something in his ear: while I and all the city went on crying'Innocent! innocent! martyr and crowned!' And now the reverie was ended;and there were only Lady Knollys' stern, thoughtful face, with the palelight of sarcasm on it, and the storm outside thundering and lamentingdesolately. 

It was very good of Cousin Monica to stay with me so long. It must havebeen unspeakably tiresome. And now she began to talk of business at home, and plainly to prepare for immediate flight, and my heart sank. 

I know that I could not then have defined my feelings and agitations. I amnot sure that I even now could. Any misgiving about Uncle Silas was, in mymind, a questioning the foundations of my faith, and in itself an impiety. And yet I am not sure that some such misgiving, faint, perhaps, andintermittent, may not have been at the bottom of my tribulation. 

I was not very well. Lady Knollys had gone out for a walk. She was noteasily tired, and sometimes made a long excursion. The sun was setting now, when Mary Quince brought me a letter which had just arrived by the post. Myheart throbbed violently. I was afraid to break the broad black seal. Itwas from Uncle Silas. I ran over in my mind all the unpleasant mandateswhich it might contain, to try and prepare myself for a shock. At lastI opened the letter. It directed me to hold myself in readiness for thejourney to Bartram-Haugh. It stated that I might bring two maids with me ifI wished so many, and that his next letter would give me the details of myroute, and the day of my departure for Derbyshire; and he said that I oughtto make arrangements about Knowl during my absence, but that he was hardlythe person properly to be consulted on that matter. Then came a prayer thathe might be enabled to acquit himself of his trust to the full satisfactionof his conscience, and that I might enter upon my new relations in a spiritof prayer. 

I looked round my room, so long familiar, and now so endeared by the ideaof parting and change. The old house--dear, dear Knowl, how could I leaveyou and all your affectionate associations, and kind looks and voices, fora strange land!

With a great sigh I took Uncle Silas's letter, and went down stairs to thedrawing-room. From the lobby window, where I loitered for a few moments, I looked out upon the well-known forest-trees. The sun was down. It wasalready twilight, and the white vapours of coming night were alreadyfilming their thinned and yellow foliage. Everything looked melancholy. How little did those who envied the young inheritrex of a princely fortunesuspect the load that lay at her heart, or, bating the fear of death, howgladly at that moment she would have parted with her life!

Lady Knollys had not yet returned, and it was darkening rapidly; a mass ofblack clouds stood piled in the west, through the chasms of which was stillreflected a pale metallic lustre. 

The drawing-room was already very dark; but some streaks of this cold lightfell upon a black figure, which would otherwise have been unseen, leaningbeside the curtains against the window frame. 

It advanced abruptly, with creaking shoes; it was Doctor Bryerly. 

I was startled and surprised, not knowing how he had got there. I stoodstaring at him in the dusk rather awkwardly, I am afraid. 

'How do you do, Miss Ruthyn?' said he, extending his hand, long, hard, andbrown as a mummy's, and stooping a little so as to approach more nearly, for it was not easy to see in the imperfect light. 'You're surprised, Idare say, to see me here so soon again?'

'I did not know you had arrived. I am glad to see you, Doctor Bryerly. Nothing unpleasant, I hope, has happened?'

'No, nothing unpleasant, Miss. The will has been lodged, and we shall haveprobate in due course; but there has been something on my mind, and I'mcome to ask you two or three questions which you had better answer veryconsiderately. Is Miss Knollys still here?'

'Yes, but she is not returned from her walk. '

'I am glad she is here. I think she takes a sound view, and womenunderstand one another better. As for me, it is plainly my duty to put itbefore you as it strikes me, and to offer all I can do in accomplishing, should you wish it, a different arrangement. You don't know your uncle, yousaid the other day?'

'No, I've never seen him. '

'You understand your late father's intention in making you his ward?'

'I suppose he wished to show his high opinion of my uncle's fitness forsuch a trust. '

'That's quite true; but the nature of the trust in this instance isextraordinary. '

'I don't understand. '

'Why, if you die before you come to the age of twenty-one, the entire ofthe property will go to him--do you see?--and he has the custody of yourperson in the meantime; you are to live in his house, under his care andauthority. You see now, I think, how it is; and I did not like it when yourfather read the will to me, and I said so. Do _you_?'

I hesitated to speak, not sure that I quite comprehended him. 

'And the more I think of it, the less I like it, Miss, ' said DoctorBryerly, in a calm, stern tone. 

'Merciful Heaven! Doctor Bryerly, you can't suppose that I should not beas safe in my uncle's house as in the Lord Chancellor's?' I ejaculated, looking full in his face. 

'But don't you see, Miss, it is not a fair position to put your uncle in, 'replied he, after a little hesitation. 

'But suppose _he_ does not think so. You know, if he does, he may declineit. '

'Well that's true--but he won't. Here is his letter'--and he producedit--'announcing officially that he means to accept the office; but I thinkhe ought to be told it is not _delicate_, under all circumstances. You know, Miss, that your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, was talked aboutunpleasantly once. '

'You mean'--I began. 

'I mean about the death of Mr. Charke, at Bartram-Haugh. '

'Yes, I have heard that, ' I said; he was speaking with a shocking _aplomb_. 

'We assume, of course, _unjustly_; but there are many who think quitedifferently. '

'And possibly, Doctor Bryerly, it was for that very reason that my dearpapa made him my guardian. '

'There can be no doubt of that, Miss; it was to purge him of that scandal. '

'And when he has acquitted himself honourably of that trust, don't youthink such a proof of confidence so honourably fulfilled must go far tosilence his traducers?'

'Why, if all goes well, it may do a little; but a great deal less than youfancy. But take it that you happen to _die_, Miss, during your minority. Weare all mortal, and there are three years and some months to go; how willit be then? Don't you see? Just fancy how people will talk. '

'I think you know that my uncle is a religious man?' said I. 

'Well, Miss, what of that?' he asked again. 

'He is--he has suffered intensely, ' I continued. 'He has long retired fromthe world; he is very religious. Ask our curate, Mr. Fairfield, if youdoubt it. '

'But I am not disputing it, Miss; I'm only supposing what may happen--anaccident, we'll call it small-pox, diphtheria, _that's_ going very much. Three years and three months, you know, is a long time. You proceed toBartram-Haugh, thinking you have much goods laid up for many years; butyour Creator, you know, may say, "Thou fool, this day is thy soul requiredof thee. " You go--and what pray is thought of your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, who walks in for the entire inheritance, and who has long been abused likea pickpocket, or worse, in his own county, I'm told?'

'You are a religious man, Doctor Bryerly, according to your lights?' Isaid. 

The Swedenborgian smiled. 

'Well, knowing that he is so too, and having yourself experienced the powerof religion, do not you think him deserving of every confidence? Don't youthink it well that he should have this opportunity of exhibiting both hisown character and the reliance which my dear papa reposed on it, and thatwe should leave all consequences and contingencies in the hands of Heaven?'

'It appears to have been the will of Heaven hitherto, ' said DoctorBryerly--I could not see with what expression of face, but he was lookingdown, and drawing little diagrams with his stick on the dark carpet, andspoke in a very low tone--'that your uncle should suffer under this illreport. In countervailing the appointment of Providence, we must employ ourreason, with conscientious diligence, as to the means, and if we find thatthey are as likely to do mischief as good, we have no right to expect aspecial interposition to turn our experiment into an ordeal. I think youought to weigh it well--I am sure there are reasons against it. If you makeup your mind that you would rather be placed under the care, say of LadyKnollys, I will endeavour all I can to effect it. '

'That could not be done without his consent, could it?' said I. 

'No, but I don't despair of getting that--on terms, of course, ' remarkedhe. 

'I don't quite understand, ' I said. 

'I mean, for instance, if he were allowed to keep the allowance for yourmaintenance--eh?'

'I mistake my uncle Silas very much, ' I said, 'if that allowance is anyobject whatever to him compared with the moral value of the position. If hewere deprived of that, I am sure he would decline the other. '

'We might try him at all events, ' said Doctor Bryerly, on whose dark sinewyfeatures, even in this imperfect light, I thought I detected a smile. 

'Perhaps, ' said I, 'I appear very foolish in supposing him actuated by anybut sordid motives; but he is my near relation, and I can't help it, sir. '

'That is a very serious thing, Miss Ruthyn, ' he replied. 'You are veryyoung, and cannot see it at present, as you will hereafter. He is veryreligious, you say, and all that, but his house is not a proper place foryou. It is a solitude--its master an outcast, and it has been the repeatedscene of all sorts of scandals, and of one great crime; and Lady Knollysthinks your having been domesticated there will be an injury to you all thedays of your life. '

'So I do, Maud, ' said Lady Knollys, who had just entered the roomunperceived, --'How do you do, Doctor Bryerly?--a serious injury. You haveno idea how entirely that house is condemned and avoided, and the very nameof its inmates tabooed. '

'How monstrous--how cruel!' I exclaimed. 

'Very unpleasant, my dear, but perfectly natural. You are to recollect thatquite independently of the story of Mr. Charke, the house was talked about, and the county people had cut your uncle Silas long before that adventurewas dreamed of; and as to the circumstance of your being placed in hischarge by his brother, who took, from strong family feeling, a totallyone-sided view of the affair from the first, having the slightest effect inrestoring his position in the county, you must quite give that up. Exceptme, if he will allow me, and the clergyman, not a soul in the country willvisit at Bartram-Haugh. They may pity you, and think the whole thing theclimax of folly and cruelty; but they won't visit at Bartram, or knowSilas, or have anything to do with his household. '

'They will see, at all events, what my dear papa's opinion was. '

'They know that already, ' answered she, 'and it has not, and ought not tohave, the slightest weight with them. There are people there who thinkthemselves just as great as the Ruthyns, or greater; and your poor father'sidea of carrying it by a demonstration was simply the dream of a man whohad forgotten the world, and learned to exaggerate himself in his longseclusion. I know he was beginning himself to hesitate; and I think if hehad been spared another year that provision of his will would have beenstruck out. '

Doctor Bryerly nodded, and he said--

'And if he had the power to dictate _now_, would he insist on thatdirection? It is a mistake every way, injurious to you, his child; andshould you happen to die during your sojourn under your uncle's care, itwould woefully defeat the testator's object, and raise such a storm ofsurmise and inquiry as would awaken all England, and send the old scandalon the wing through the world again. '

'Doctor Bryerly will, I have no doubt, arrange it all. In fact, I do notthink it would be very difficult to bring Silas to terms; and if you do notconsent to his trying, Maud, mark my words, you will live to repent it. '

Here were two persons viewing the question from totally different points;both perfectly disinterested; both in their different ways, I believe, shrewd and even wise; and both honourable, urging me against it, and in away that undefinably alarmed my imagination, as well as moved my reason. Ilooked from one to the other--there was a silence. By this time the candleshad come, and we could see one another. 

'I only wait your decision, Miss Ruthyn, ' said the trustee, 'to seeyour uncle. If his advantage was the chief object contemplated in thisarrangement, he will be the best judge whether his interest is really bestconsulted by it or no; and I think he will clearly see that it is _not_ so, and will answer accordingly. '

'I cannot answer now--you must allow me to think it over--I will do mybest. I am very much obliged, my dear Cousin Monica, you are so very good, and you too, Doctor Bryerly. '

Doctor Bryerly by this time was looking into his pocket-book, and did notacknowledge my thanks even by a nod. 

'I must be in London the day after to-morrow. Bartram-Haugh is nearly sixtymiles from here, and only twenty of that by rail, I find. Forty miles ofposting over those Derbyshire mountains is slow work; but if you say _try_, I'll see him to-morrow morning. '

'You must say try--you _must_, my dear Maud. '

'But how can I decide in a moment? Oh, dear Cousin Monica, I am sodistracted!'

'But _you_ need not decide at all; the decision rests with _him_. Come; heis more competent than you. You _must_ say yes. '

Again I looked from her to Doctor Bryerly, and from him to her again. Ithrew my arms about her neck, and hugging her closely to me, I cried--

'Oh, Cousin Monica, dear Cousin Monica, advise me. I am a wretchedcreature. You must advise me. '

I did not know till now how irresolute a character was mine. 

I knew somehow by the tone of her voice that she was smiling as sheanswered--

'Why, dear, I have advised you; I _do_ advise you;' and then she added, impetuously, 'I entreat and implore, if you really think I love you, thatyou will _follow_ my advice. It is your duty to leave your uncle Silas, whom you believe to be more competent than you are, to decide, after fullconference with Doctor Bryerly, who knows more of your poor father's viewsand intentions in making that appointment than either you or I. '

'Shall I say, yes?' I cried, drawing her close, and kissing herhelplessly. ' Oh, tell me--tell me to say, yes. '

'Yes, of course, _yes_. She agrees, Doctor Bryerly, to your kind proposal. '

'I am to understand so?' he asked. 

'Very well--yes, Doctor Bryerly, ' I replied. 

'You have resolved wisely and well, ' said he, briskly, like a man who hasgot a care off his mind. 

'I forgot to say, Doctor Bryerly--it was very rude--that you must stay hereto-night. '

'He _can't_, my dear, ' interposed Lady Knolly's; 'it is a long way. '

'He will dine. Won't you, Doctor Bryerly?'

'No; he can't. You know you can't, sir, ' said my cousin, peremptorily. 'Youmust not worry him, my dear, with civilities he can't accept. He'll bid usgood-bye this moment. Good-bye, Doctor Bryerly. You'll write immediately;don't wait till you reach town. Bid him good-bye, Maud. I'll say a word toyou in the hall. '

And thus she literally hurried him out of the room, leaving me in a stateof amazement and confusion, not able to review my decision--unsatisfied, but still unable to recall it. 

I stood where they had left me, looking after them, I suppose, like a fool. 

Lady Knollys returned in a few minutes. If I had been a little cooler I wasshrewd enough to perceive that she had sent poor Doctor Bryerly away uponhis travels, to find board and lodging half-way to Bartram, to removehim forthwith from my presence, and thus to make my decision--if mine itwas--irrevocable. 

'I applaud you, my dear, ' said Cousin Knollys, in her turn embracing meheartily. 'You are a sensible little darling, and have done exactly whatyou ought to have done. '

'I hope I have, ' I faltered. 

'Hope? fiddle! stuff! the thing's as plain as a pikestaff. '

And in came Branston to say that dinner was served. 

CHAPTER XXIX

_HOW THE AMBASSADOR FARED_

Lady Knollys, I could plainly see, when we got into the brighter lights atthe dinner table, was herself a good deal excited; she was relievedand glad, and was garrulous during our meal, and told me all her earlyrecollections of dear papa. Most of them I had heard before; but they couldnot be told too often. 

Notwithstanding my mind sometimes wandered, _often_ indeed, to theconference so unexpected, so suddenly decisive, possibly so momentous; andwith a dismayed uncertainly, the question--had I done right?--was alwaysbefore me. 

I dare say my cousin understood my character better, perhaps, after all myhonest self-study, then I do even now. Irresolute, suddenly reversing myown decisions, impetuous in action as she knew me, she feared, I am sure, a revocation of my commission to Doctor Bryerly, and thought of thecountermand I might send galloping after him. 

So, kind creature, she laboured to occupy my thoughts, and when one themewas exhausted found another, and had always her parry prepared as often asI directed a reflection or an enquiry to the re-opening of the questionwhich she had taken so much pains to close. 

That night I was troubled. I was already upbraiding myself. I could notsleep, and at last sat up in bed, and cried. I lamented my weakness inhaving assented to Doctor Bryerly's and my cousin's advice. Was I notdeparting from my engagement to my dear papa? Was I not consenting thatmy Uncle Silas should be induced to second my breach of faith by acorresponding perfidy?

Lady Knollys had done wisely in despatching Doctor Bryerly so promptly;for, most assuredly, had he been at Knowl next morning when I came down Ishould have recalled my commission. 

That day in the study I found four papers which increased my perturbation. They were in dear papa's handwriting, and had an indorsement in thesewords--'Copy of my letter addressed to ----, one of the trustees named inmy will. ' Here, then, were the contents of those four sealed letters whichhad excited mine and Lady Knollys' curiosity on the agitating day on whichthe will was read. 

It contained these words:--

'I name my oppressed and unhappy brother, Silas Ruthyn, residing at myhouse of Bartram-Haugh, as guardian of the person of my beloved child, toconvince the world if possible, and failing that, to satisfy at least allfuture generations of our family, that his brother, who knew him best, had implicit confidence in him, and that he deserved it. A cowardly andpreposterous slander, originating in political malice, and which never havebeen whispered had he not been poor and imprudent, is best silenced by thisordeal of purification. All I possess goes to him if my child dies underage; and the custody of her person I commit meanwhile to him alone, knowingthat she is as safe in his as she could have been under my own care. I relyupon your remembrance of our early friendship to make this known whereveran opportunity occurs, and also to say what your sense of justice maywarrant. '

The other letters were in the same spirit. My heart sank like lead as Iread them. I quaked with fear. What had I done? My father's wise and noblevindication of our dishonoured name I had presumed to frustrate. I had, like a coward, receded from my easy share in the task; and, mercifulHeaven, I had broken my faith with the dead!

With these letters in my hand, white with fear, I flew like a shadow to thedrawing-room where Cousin Monica was, and told her to read them. I saw byher countenance how much alarmed she was by my looks, but she said nothing, only read the letters hurriedly, and then exclaimed--

'Is this all, my dear child? I really fancied you had found a second will, and had lost everything. Why, my dearest Maud, we knew all this before. We quite understood poor dear Austin's motive. Why are you so easilydisturbed?'

'Oh, Cousin Monica, I think he was right; it all seems quite reasonablenow; and I--oh, what a crime!--it must be stopped. '

'My dear Maud, listen to reason. Doctor Bryerly has seen your uncle atBartram at least two hours ago. You _can't_ stop it, and why on earthshould you if you could? Don't you think your uncle should be consulted?'said she. 

'But he has _decided_. I have his letter speaking of it as settled; andDoctor Bryerly--oh, Cousin Monica, he's gone _to tempt him_. '

'Nonsense, girl! Doctor Bryerly is a good and just man, I do believe, andhas, beside, no imaginable motive to pervert either his conscience or hisjudgment. He's not gone to tempt him--stuff!--but to unfold the facts andinvite his consideration; and I say, considering how thoughtlessly suchduties are often undertaken, and how long Silas has been living in lazysolitude, shut out from the world, and unused to discuss anything, I dothink it only conscientious and honourable that he should have a fair anddistinct view of the matter in all its bearings submitted to him before heindolently incurs what may prove the worst danger he was ever involved in. '

So Lady Knollys argued, with feminine energy, and I must confess, with agood deal of the repetition which I have sometimes observed in logicians ofmy own sex, and she puzzled without satisfying me. 

'I don't know why I went to that room, ' I said, quite frightened; 'or why Iwent to that press; how it happened that these papers, which we never sawthere before, were the first things to strike my eye to-day. '

'What do you mean, dear?' said Lady Knollys. 

'I mean this--I think I was _brought_ there, and that _there_ is poorpapa's appeal to me, as plain as if his hand came and wrote it upon thewall. ' I nearly screamed the conclusion of this wild confession. 

'You are nervous, my darling; your bad nights have worn you out. Let us goout; the air will do you good; and I do assure you that you will very soonsee that we are quite right, and rejoice conscientiously that you haveacted as you did. '

But I was not to be satisfied, although my first vehemence was quieted. Inmy prayers that night my conscience upbraided me. When I lay down in bedmy nervousness returned fourfold. Everybody at all nervously excitablehas suffered some time or another by the appearance of ghastly featurespresenting themselves in every variety of contortion, one after another, the moment the eyes are closed. This night my dear father's face troubledme--sometimes white and sharp as ivory, sometimes strangely transparentlike glass, sometimes all hanging in cadaverous folds, always with the sameunnatural expression of diabolical fury. 

From this dreadful vision I could only escape by sitting up and staringat the light. At length, worn out, I dropped asleep, and in a dream Idistinctly heard papa's voice say sharply outside the bed-curtain:--'Maud, we shall be late at Bartram-Haugh. '

And I awoke in a horror, the wall, as it seemed, still ringing with thesummons, and the speaker, I fancied, standing at the other side of thecurtain. 

A miserable night I passed. In the morning, looking myself like a ghost, Istood in my night-dress by Lady Knollys' bed. 

'I have had my warning, ' I said. 'Oh, Cousin Monica, papa has been with me, and ordered me to Bartram-Haugh; and go I will. '

She stared in my face uncomfortably, and then tried to laugh the matteroff; but I know she was troubled at the strange state to which agitationand suspense had reduced me. 

'You're taking too much for granted, Maud, ' said she; 'Silas Ruthyn, most likely, will refuse his consent, and insist on your going toBartram-Haugh. '

'Heaven grant!' I exclaimed; 'but if he doesn't, it is all the same to me, go I will. He may turn me out, but I'll go, and try to expiate the breachof faith that I fear is so horribly wicked. '

We had several hours still to wait for the arrival of the post. For both ofus the delay was a suspense; for me an almost agonising one. At length, at an unlooked-for moment, Branston did enter the room with the post-bag. There was a large letter, with the Feltram post-mark, addressed to LadyKnollys--it was Doctor Bryerly's despatch; we read it together. It wasdated on the day before, and its purport was thus:--

'RESPECTED MADAM, --I this day saw Mr. Silas Ruthyn at Bartram-Haugh, andhe peremptorily refuses, on any terms, to vacate the guardianship, or toconsent to Miss Ruthyn's residing anywhere but under his own immediatecare. As he bases his refusal, first upon a conscientious difficulty, declaring that he has no right, through fear of personal contingencies, toabdicate an office imposed in so solemn a way, and so naturally devolvingon him as only brother to the deceased; and secondly upon the effect such awithdrawal, at the instance of the acting trustee, would have upon his owncharacter, amounting to a public self-condemnation; and as he refused todiscuss these positions with me, I could make no way whatsoever with him. Finding, therefore, that his mind was quite made up, after a short time Itook my leave. He mentioned that preparations for his niece's reception arebeing completed, and that he will send for her in a few days; so that Ithink it will be advisable that I should go down to Knowl, to assist MissRuthyn with any advice she may require before her departure, to dischargeservants, get inventories made, and provide for the care of the place andgrounds during her minority. 

'I am, respected Madam, yours truly, HANS E. BRYERLY. '

I can't describe to you how chapfallen and angry my cousin looked. Shesniffed once or twice, and then said, rather bitterly, in a subdued tone:--

'Well, _now_; I hope you are pleased?'

'No, no, no; you _know_ I'm not--grieved to the heart, my only friend, mydear Cousin Monica; but my conscience is at rest; you don't know what asacrifice it is; I am a most unhappy creature. I feel an indescribableforeboding. I am frightened; but you won't forsake me, Cousin Monica. '

'No, darling, never, ' she said, sadly. 

'And you'll come and see me, won't you, as often as you can?'

'Yes, dear; that is if Silas allows me; and I'm sure he will, ' she addedhastily, seeing, I suppose, my terror in my face. 'All I can do, you may besure I will, and perhaps he will allow you to come to me, now and then, fora short visit. You know I am only six miles away--little more than half anhour's drive, and though I hate Bartram, and detest Silas--Yes, I _detestSilas_, ' she repeated in reply to my surprised gaze--'I _will_ call atBartram--that is, I say, if he allows me; for, you know, I haven't beenthere for a quarter of a century; and though I never understood Silas, Ifancy he forgives no sins, whether of omission or commission. '

I wondered what old grudge could make my cousin judge Uncle Silas alwaysso hardly--I could not suppose it was justice. I had seen my hero indeedlately so disrespectfully handled before my eyes, that he had, as idolswill, lost something of his sacredness. But as an article of faith, I stillcultivated my trust in his divinity, and dismissed every intruding doubtwith an exorcism, as a suggestion of the evil one. But I wronged LadyKnollys in suspecting her of pique, or malice, or anything more than thattendency to take strong views which some persons attribute to my sex. 

So, then, the little project of Cousin Monica's guardianship, which, had itbeen poor papa's wish, would have made me so very happy, was quite knockedon the head, to revive no more. I comforted myself, however, with herpromise to re-open communications with Bartram-Haugh, and we grew resigned. 

I remember, next morning, as we sat at a very late breakfast, Lady Knollys, reading a letter, suddenly made an exclamation and a little laugh, and readon with increased interest for a few minutes, and then, with another littlelaugh, she looked up, placing her hand, with the open letter in it, besideher tea-cup. 

'You'll not guess whom I've been reading about, ' said she, with her headthe least thing on one side, and an arch smile. 

I felt myself blushing--cheeks, forehead, even down to the tips of myfingers. I anticipated the name I was to hear. She looked very much amused. Was it possible that Captain Oakley was married?

'I really have not the least idea, ' I replied, with that kind of overdonecarelessness which betrays us. 

'No, I see quite plainly you have not; but you can't think how prettily youblush, ' answered she, very much diverted. 

'I really don't care, ' I replied, with some little dignity, and blushingdeeper and deeper. 

'Will you make a guess?' she asked. 

'I _can't_ guess. '

'Well, shall I tell you?'

'Just as you please. '

'Well, I will--that is, I'll read a page of my letter, which tells it all. Do you know Georgina Fanshawe?' she asked. 

'Lady Georgina? No. '

'Well, no matter; she's in Paris now, and this letter is from her, andshe says--let me see the place--"Yesterday, what do you think?--quite anapparition!--you shall hear. My brother Craven yesterday insisted on myaccompanying him to Le Bas' shop in that odd little antique street near theGrève; it is a wonderful old curiosity shop. I forget what they call themhere. When we went into this place it was very nearly deserted, and therewere so many curious things to look at all about, that for a minute or twoI did not observe a tall woman, in a grey silk and a black velvet mantle, and quite a nice new Parisian bonnet. You will be _charmed_, by-the-by, with the new shape--it is only out three weeks, and is quite_indescribably_ elegant, _I_ think, at least. They have them, I am sure, bythis time at Molnitz's, so I need say no more. And now that I am on thissubject of dress, I have got your lace; and I think you will be veryungrateful if you are not _charmed_ with it. " Well, I need not read allthat--here is the rest;' and she read--

'"But you'll ask about my mysterious _dame_ in the new bonnet and velvetmantle; she was sitting on a stool at the counter, not buying, butevidently selling a quantity of stones and trinkets which she had in acard-box, and the man was picking them up one by one, and, I suppose, valuing them. I was near enough to see such a darling little pearl cross, with at least half a dozen really good pearls in it, and had begun to covetthem for my set, when the lady glanced over my shoulder, and sheknew me--in fact, we knew one another--and who do you think she was?Well--you'll not guess in a week, and I can't wait so long; so I may aswell tell you at once--she was that horrid old Mademoiselle Blassemare whomyou pointed out to me at Elverston; and I never forgot her face since--norshe, it seems, mine, for she turned away very quickly, and when I next sawher, her veil was down. "'

'Did not you tell me, Maud, that you had lost your pearl cross while thatdreadful Madame de la Rougierre was here?'

'Yes; but--'

'I know; but what has she to do with Mademoiselle de Blassemare, you weregoing to say--they are one and the same person. '

'Oh, I perceive, ' answered I, with that dim sense of danger and dismay withwhich one hears suddenly of an enemy of whom one has lost sight for a time. 

'I'll write and tell Georgie to buy that cross. I wager my life it isyours, ' said Lady Knollys, firmly. 

The servants, indeed, made no secret of their opinion of Madame de laRougierre, and frankly charged her with a long list of larcenies. Even AnneWixted, who had enjoyed her barren favour while the gouvernante was here, hinted privately that she had bartered a missing piece of lace belonging tome with a gipsy pedlar, for French gloves and an Irish poplin. 

'And so surely as I find it is yours, I'll set the police in pursuit. '

'But you must not bring me into court, ' said I, half amused and halfalarmed. 

'No occasion, my dear; Mary Quince and Mrs. Rusk can prove it perfectly. '

'And why do you dislike her so very much?' I asked. 

Cousin Monica leaned back in her chair, and searched the cornice fromcorner to corner with upturned eyes for the reason, and at last laughed alittle, amused at herself. 

'Well, really, it is not easy to define, and, perhaps, it is not quitecharitable; but I know I hate her, and I know, you little hypocrite, youhate her as much as I;' and we both laughed a little. 

'But you must tell me all you know of her history. '

'Her history?' echoed she. 'I really know next to nothing about it; onlythat I used to see her sometimes about the place that Georgina mentions, and there were some unpleasant things said about her; but you know they maybe all lies. The worst I _know_ of her is her treatment of you, and herrobbing the desk'--(Cousin Monica always called it her _robbery_)--'and Ithink that's enough to hang her. Suppose we go out for a walk?'

So together we went, and I resumed about Madame; but no more could Iextract--perhaps there was not much more to hear. 

CHAPTER XXX

_ON THE ROAD_

All at Knowl was indicative of the break-up that was so near at hand. Doctor Bryerly arrived according to promise. He was in a whirl of businessall the time. He and Mr. Danvers conferred about the management of theestate. It was agreed that the grounds and gardens should be let, but notthe house, of which Mrs. Rusk was to take the care. The gamekeeper remainedin office, and some out-door servants. But the rest were to go, except MaryQuince, who was to accompany me to Bartram-Haugh as my maid. 

'Don't part with Quince, ' said Lady Knollys, peremptorily 'they'll wantyou, but _don't_. '

She kept harping on this point, and recurred to it half a dozen times everyday. 

'They'll say, you know, that she is not fit for a lady's maid, as shecertainly is _not_, if it in the least signified in such a wilderness asBartram-Haugh; but she is attached, trustworthy, and honest; and those arequalities valuable everywhere, especially in a solitude. Don't allow themto get you a wicked young French milliner in her stead. '

Sometimes she said things that jarred unpleasantly on my nerves, and leftan undefined sense of danger. Such as:--

'I know she's true to you, and a good creature; but is she shrewd enough?'

Or, with an anxious look:--

'I hope Mary Quince is not easily frightened. '

Or, suddenly:--

'Can Mary Quince write, in case you were ill?'

Or, 'Can she take a message exactly?'

Or, 'Is she a person of any enterprise and resource, and cool in an emergency?'

Now, these questions did not come all in a string, as I write them downhere, but at long intervals, and were followed quickly by ordinary talk;but they generally escaped from my companion after silence and gloomythought; and though I could extract nothing more defined than thesequestions, yet they seemed to me to point at some possible dangercontemplated in my good cousin's dismal ruminations. 

Another topic that occupied my cousin's mind a good deal was obviously thelarceny of my pearl cross. She made a note of the description furnished bythe recollection, respectively, of Mary Quince, Mrs. Rusk, and myself. Ihad fancied her little vision of the police was no more than the result ofa momentary impulse; but really, to judge by her methodical examinations ofus, I should have fancied that she had taken it up in downright earnest. 

Having learned that my departure from Knowl was to be so very soon, sheresolved not to leave me before the day of my journey to Bartram-Haugh; andas day after day passed by, and the hour of our leave-taking approached, she became more and more kind and affectionate. A feverish and sorrowfulinterval it was to me. 

Of Doctor Bryerly, though staying in the house, we saw almost nothing, except for an hour or so at tea-time. He breakfasted very early, and dinedsolitarily, and at uncertain hours, as business permitted. 

The second evening of his visit, Cousin Monica took occasion to introducethe subject of his visit to Bartram-Haugh. 

'You saw him, of course?' said Lady Knollys. 

'Yes, he saw me; he was not well. On hearing who I was, he asked me to goto his room, where he sat in a silk dressing-gown and slippers. '

'About business principally, ' said Cousin Monica, laconically. 

'That was despatched in very few words; for he was quite resolved, andplaced his refusal upon grounds which it was difficult to dispute. Butdifficult or no, mind you, he intimated that he would hear nothing more onthe subject--so that was closed. '

'Well; and what is his religion now?' inquired she, irreverently. 

'We had some interesting conversation on the subject. He leans much to whatwe call the doctrine of correspondents. He is read rather deeply in thewritings of Swedenborg, and seemed anxious to discuss some points with onewho professes to be his follower. To say truth, I did not expect to findhim either so well read or so deeply interested in the subject. '

'Was he angry when it was proposed that he should vacate the guardianship?'

'Not at all. Contrariwise, he said he had at first been so minded himself. His years, his habits, and something of the unfitness of the situation, theremoteness of Bartram-Haugh from good teachers, and all that, had struckhim, and nearly determined him against accepting the office. But then camethe views which I stated in my letter, and they governed him; and nothingcould shake them, he said, or induce him to re-open the question in his ownmind. '

All the time Doctor Bryerly was relating his conference with the head ofthe family at Bartram-Haugh my cousin commented on the narrative with avariety of little 'pishes' and sneers, which I thought showed more ofvexation than contempt. 

I was glad to hear all that Doctor Bryerly related. It gave me a kindof confidence; and I experienced a momentary reaction. After all, couldBartram-Haugh be more lonely than I had found Knowl? Was I not sure of thesociety of my Cousin Millicent, who was about my own age? Was it not quitepossible that my sojourn in Derbyshire might turn out a happy though veryquiet remembrance through all my after-life? Why should it not? What timeor place would be happy if we gave ourselves over to dismal imaginations?

So the summons reached me from Uncle Silas. The hours at Knowl werenumbered. 

The evening before I departed I visited the full-length portrait of UncleSilas, and studied it for the last time carefully, with deep interest, formany minutes; but with results vaguer than ever. 

With a brother so generous and so wealthy, always ready to help himforward; with his talents; with his lithe and gorgeous beauty, the shadowof which hung on that canvas--what might he not have accomplished? whommight he not have captivated? And yet where and what was he? A poor andshunned old man, occupying a lonely house and place that did not belong tohim, married to degradation, with a few years of suspected and solitarylife before him, and then swift oblivion his best portion. 

I gazed on the picture, to fix it well and vividly in my remembrance. Imight still trace some of its outlines and tints in its living original, whom I was next day to see for the first time in my life. 

So the morning came--my last for many a day at Knowl--a day of partings, aday of novelty and regrets. The travelling carriage and post horses wereat the door. Cousin Monica's carriage had just carried her away to therailway. We had embraced with tears; and her kind face was still before me, and her words of comfort and promise in my ears. The early sharpnessof morning was still in the air; the frosty dew still glistened on thewindow-panes. We had made a hasty breakfast, my share of which was a singlecup of tea. The aspect of the house how strange! Uncarpeted, uninhabited, doors for the most part locked, all the servants but Mrs. Rusk and Branstondeparted. The drawing-room door stood open, and a charwoman was washing thebare floor. I was looking my last--for who could say how long?--on the oldhouse, and lingered. The luggage was all up. I made Mary Quince get infirst, for every delay was precious; and now the moment was come. I huggedand kissed Mrs. Rusk in the hall. 

'God bless you, Miss Maud, darling. You must not fret; mind, the time won'tbe long going over--_no_ time at all; and you'll be bringing back a fineyoung gentleman--who knows? as great as the Duke of Wellington, for yourhusband; and I'll take the best of care of everything, and the birds andthe dogs, till you come back; and I'll go and see you and Mary, if you'llallow, in Derbyshire;' and so forth. 

I got into the carriage, and bid Branston, who shut the door, good-bye, and kissed hands to Mrs. Rusk, who was smiling and drying her eyes andcourtesying on the hall-door steps. The dogs, who had started gleefullywith the carriage, were called back by Branston, and driven home, wonderingand wistful, looking back with ears oddly cocked and tails dejected. Myheart thanked them for their kindness, and I felt like a stranger, and verydesolate. 

It was a bright, clear morning. It had been settled that it was notworth the trouble changing from the carriage to the railway for sake offive-and-twenty miles, and so the entire journey of sixty miles was to bemade by the post road--the pleasantest travelling, if the mind were free. The grander and more distant features of the landscape we may see wellenough from the window of the railway-carriage; but it is the foregroundthat interests and instructs us, like a pleasant gossiping history; and_that_ we had, in old days, from the post-chaise window. It was morethan travelling picquet. Something of all conditions of life--luxuryand misery--high spirits and low;--all sorts of costume, livery, rags, millinery; faces buxom, faces wrinkled, faces kind, faces wicked;--no endof interest and suggestion, passing in a procession silent and vivid, andall in their proper scenery. The golden corn-sheafs--the old dark-alleyedorchards, and the high streets of antique towns. There were few dreamsbrighter, few books so pleasant. 

We drove by the dark wood--it always looked dark to me--where the'mausoleum' stands--where my dear parents both lay now. I gazed on itssombre masses not with a softened feeling, but a peculiar sense of pain, and was glad when it was quite past. 

All the morning I had not shed a tear. Good Mary Quince cried at leavingKnowl; Lady Knollys' eyes were not dry as she kissed and blessed me, and promised an early visit; and the dark, lean, energetic face of thehousekeeper was quivering, and her cheeks wet, as I drove away. But I, whose grief was sorest, never shed a tear. I only looked about from onefamiliar object to another, pale, excited, not quite apprehending mydeparture, and wondering at my own composure. 

But when we reached the old bridge, with the tall osiers standing by thebuttress, and looked back at poor Knowl--the places we love and are leavinglook so fairy-like and so sad in the clear distance, and this is the finestview of the gabled old house, with its slanting meadow-lands and nobletimber reposing in solemn groups--I gazed at the receding vision, and thetears came at last, and I wept in silence long after the fair picture washidden from view by the intervening uplands. 

I was relieved, and when we had made our next change of horses, and gotinto a country that was unknown to me, the new scenery and the sense ofprogress worked their accustomed effects on a young traveller who had liveda particularly secluded life, and I began to experience, on the whole, anot unpleasurable excitement. 

Mary Quince and I, with the hopefulness of inexperienced travellers, beganalready to speculate about our proximity to Bartram-Haugh, and were sorelydisappointed when we heard from the nondescript courier--more like aostler than a servant, who sat behind in charge of us and the luggage, andrepresented my guardian's special care--at nearly one o'clock, that we hadstill forty miles to go, a considerable portion of which was across thehigh Derbyshire mountains, before we reached Bartram-Haugh. 

The fact was, we had driven at a pace accommodated rather to theconvenience of the horses than to our impatience; and finding, at thequaint little inn where we now halted, that we must wait for a nail or twoin a loose shoe of one of our relay, we consulted, and being both hungry, agreed to beguile the time with an early dinner, which we enjoyed verysociably in a queer little parlour with a bow window, and commanding, witha litle garden for foreground, a very pretty landscape. 

Good Mary Quince, like myself, had quite dried her tears by this time, andwe were both highly interested, and I a little nervous, too, about ourarrival and reception at Bartram. Some time, of course, was lost in thispleasant little parlour, before we found ourselves once more pursuing ourway. 

The slowest part of our journey was the pull up the long mountain road, ascending zig-zag, as sailors make way against a head-wind, by tacking. Iforget the name of the pretty little group of houses--it did not amountto a village--buried in trees, where we got our _four_ horses and twopostilions, for the work was severe. I can only designate it as the placewhere Mary Quince and I had our tea, very comfortably, and bought somegingerbread, very curious to look upon, but quite uneatable. 

The greater portion of the ascent, when we were fairly upon the mountain, was accomplished at a walk, and at some particularly steep points we had toget out and go on foot. But this to me was quite delightful. I had neverscaled a mountain before, and the ferns and heath, the pure boisterous air, and above all the magnificent view of the rich country we were leavingbehind, now gorgeous and misty in sunset tints, stretching in gentleundulations far beneath us, quite enchanted me. 

We had just reached the summit when the sun went down. The low grounds atthe other side were already lying in cold grey shadow, and I got the manwho sat behind to point out as well as he could the site of Bartram-Haugh. But mist was gathering over all by this time. The filmy disk of the moonwhich was to light us on, so soon as twilight faded into night, hung highin air. I tried to see the sable mass of wood which he described. But itwas vain, and to acquire a clear idea of the place, as of its master, Imust only wait that nearer view which an hour or two more would afford me. 

And now we rapidly descended the mountain side. The scenery was wilderand bolder than I was accustomed to. Our road skirted the edge of a greatheathy moor. The silvery light of the moon began to glimmer, and we passeda gipsy bivouac with fires alight and caldrons hanging over them. It wasthe first I had seen. Two or three low tents; a couple of dark, witheredcrones, veritable witches; a graceful girl standing behind, gazing afterus; and men in odd-shaped hats, with gaudy waistcoats and bright-colouredneck-handkerchiefs and gaitered legs, stood lazily in front. They had alla wild tawdry display of colour; and a group of alders in the rear made abackground of shade for tents, fires, and figures. 

I opened a front window of the chariot, and called to the postboys to stop. The groom from behind came to the window. 

'Are not those gipsies?' I enquired. 

'Yes, please'm, them's gipsies, sure, Miss, ' he answered, glancing withthat odd smile, half contemptuous, half superstitious, with which I havesince often observed the peasants of Derbyshire eyeing those thievish anduncanny neighbours. 

CHAPTER XXXI

_BARTRAM-HAUGH_

In a moment a tall, lithe girl, black-haired, black-eyed, and, as Ithought, inexpressibly handsome, was smiling, with such beautiful rings ofpearly teeth, at the window; and in her peculiar accent, with a suspicionof something foreign in it, proposing with many courtesies to tell the ladyher fortune. 

I had never seen this wild tribe of the human race before--children ofmystery and liberty. Such vagabondism and beauty in the figure before me!I looked at their hovels and thought of the night, and wondered at theirindependence, and felt my inferiority. I could not resist. She held up herslim oriental hand. 

'Yes, I'll hear my fortune, ' I said, returning the sibyl's smileinstinctively. 

'Give me some money, Mary Quince. No, _not_ that, ' I said, rejecting thethrifty sixpence she tendered, for I had heard that the revelations ofthis weird sisterhood were bright in proportion to the kindness of theirclients, and was resolved to approach Bartram with cheerful auguries. 'Thatfive-shilling piece, ' I insisted; and honest Mary reluctantly surrenderedthe coin. 

So the feline beauty took it, with courtesies and 'thankees, ' smilingstill, and hid it away as if she stole it, and looked on my open palm stillsmiling; and told me, to my surprise, that there was _somebody_ I likedvery much, and I was almost afraid she would name Captain Oakley; that hewould grow very rich, and that I should marry him; that I should move aboutfrom place to place a great deal for a good while to come. That I had someenemies, who should be sometimes so near as to be in the same room with me, and yet they should not be able to hurt me. That I should see blood spiltand yet not my own, and finally be very happy and splendid, like theheroine of a fairy tale. 

Did this strange, girlish charlatan see in my face some signs of shrinkingwhen she spoke of enemies, and set me down for a coward whose weaknessmight be profitable? Very likely. At all events she plucked a long brasspin, with a round bead for a head, from some part of her dress, and holdingthe point in her fingers, and exhibiting the treasure before my eyes, shetold me that I must get a charmed pin like that, which her grandmother hadgiven to her, and she ran glibly through a story of all the magic expendedon it, and told me she could not part with it; but its virtue was that youwere to stick it through the blanket, and while it was there neither rat, nor cat, nor snake--and then came two more terms in the catalogue, which Isuppose belonged to the gipsy dialect, and which she explained to mean, aswell as I could understand, the first a malevolent spirit, and the second'a cove to cut your throat, ' could approach or hurt you. 

A charm like that, she gave me to understand, I must by hook or by crookobtain. She had not a second. None of her people in the camp over therepossessed one. I am ashamed to confess that I actually paid her a pound forthis brass pin! The purchase was partly an indication of my temperament, which could never let an opportunity pass away irrevocably without astruggle, and always apprehended 'Some day or other I'll reproach myselffor having neglected it!' and partly a record of the trepidations of thatperiod of my life. At all events I had her pin, and she my pound, and Iventure to say I was the gladder of the two. 

She stood on the road-side bank courtseying and smiling, the firstenchantress I had encountered, and I watched the receding picture, with itspatches of firelight, its dusky groups and donkey carts, white as skeletonsin the moonlight, as we drove rapidly away. 

They, I suppose, had a wild sneer and a merry laugh over my purchase, asthey sat and ate their supper of stolen poultry, about their fire, and wereduly proud of belonging to the superior race. 

Mary Quince, shocked at my prodigality, hinted a remonstrance. 

'It went to my heart, Miss, it did. They're such a lot, young and old, allalike thieves and vagabonds, and many a poor body wanting. '

'Tut, Mary, never mind. Everyone has her fortune told some time in herlife, and you can't have a good one without paying. I think, Mary, we mustbe near Bartram now. '

The road now traversed the side of a steep hill, parallel to which, along the opposite side of a winding river, rose the dark steeps of acorresponding upland, covered with forest that looked awful and dim in thedeep shadow, while the moonlight rippled fitfully upon the stream beneath. 

'It seems to be a beautiful country, ' I said to Mary Quince, who wasmunching a sandwich in the corner, and thus appealed to, adjusted herbonnet, and made an inspection from _her_ window, which, however, commandednothing but the heathy slope of the hill whose side we were traversing. 

'Well, Miss, I suppose it is; but there's a deal o' mountains--is notthere?'

And so saying, honest Mary leaned back again, and went on with hersandwich. 

We were now descending at a great pace. I knew we were coming near. I stoodup as well as I could in the carriage, to see over the postilions' heads. I was eager, but frightened too; agitated as the crisis of the arrival andmeeting approached. At last, a long stretch of comparatively levelcountry below us, with masses of wood as well as I could see irregularlyoverspreading it, became visible as the narrow valley through which we werespeeding made a sudden bend. 

Down we drove, and now I did perceive a change. A great grass-grownpark-wall, overtopped with mighty trees; but still on and on we came at acanter that seemed almost a gallop. The old grey park-wall flanking us atone side, and a pretty pastoral hedgerow of ash-trees, irregularly on theother. 

At last the postilions began to draw bridle, and at a slight angle, themoon shining full upon them, we wheeled into a wide semicircle formed bythe receding park-walls, and halted before a great fantastic iron gate, anda pair of tall fluted piers, of white stone, all grass-grown and ivy-bound, with great cornices, surmounted with shields and supporters, the Ruthynbearings washed by the rains of Derbyshire for many a generation ofRuthyns, almost smooth by this time, and looking bleached and phantasmal, like giant sentinels, with each a hand clasped in his comrade's, to barour passage to the enchanted castle--the florid tracery of the iron gateshowing like the draperies of white robes hanging from their extended armsto the earth. 

Our courier got down and shoved the great gate open, and we entered, between sombre files of magnificent forest trees, one of those very broadstraight avenues whose width measures the front of the house. This was allbuilt of white stone, resembling that of Caen, which parts of Derbyshireproduce in such abundance. 

So this was Bartram, and here was Uncle Silas. I was almost breathless asI approached. The bright moon shining full on the white front of the oldhouse revealed not only its highly decorated style, its fluted pillars anddoorway, rich and florid carving, and balustraded summit, but also itsstained and moss-grown front. Two giant trees, overthrown at last by therecent storm, lay with their upturned roots, and their yellow foliage stillflickering on the sprays that were to bloom no more, where they had fallen, at the right side of the court-yard, which, like the avenue, was studdedwith tufted weeds and grass. 

All this gave to the aspect of Bartram a forlorn character of desertion anddecay, contrasting almost awfully with the grandeur of its proportions andrichness of its architecture. 

There was a ruddy glow from a broad window in the second row, and I thoughtI saw some one peep from it and disappear; at the same moment there was afurious barking of dogs, some of whom ran scampering into the court-yardfrom a half-closed side door; and amid their uproar, the bawling of the manin the back seat, who jumped down to drive them off, and the crack ofthe postilions' whips, who struck at them, we drew up before the lordlydoor-steps of this melancholy mansion. 

Just as our attendant had his hand on the knocker the door opened, and wesaw, by a not very brilliant candle-light, three figures--a shabby littleold man, thin, and very much stooped, with a white cravat, and looking asif his black clothes were too large, and made for some one else, stood withhis hand upon the door; a young, plump, but very pretty female figure, inunusually short petticoats, with fattish legs, and nice ankles, in boots, stood in the centre; and a dowdy maid, like an old charwoman, behind her. 

The household paraded for welcome was not certainly very brilliant. Amidthe riot the trunks were deliberately put down by our attendant, who keptshouting to the old man at the door, and to the dogs in turn; and the oldman was talking and pointing stiffly and tremulously, but I could not hearwhat he said. 

'Was it possible--could that mean-looking old man be Uncle Silas?'

The idea stunned me; but I almost instantly perceived that he was much toosmall, and I was relieved, and even grateful. It was certainly an odd modeof procedure to devote primary attention to the trunks and boxes, leavingthe travellers still shut up in the carriage, of which they were by thistime pretty well tired. I was not sorry for the reprieve, however: beingnervous about first impressions, and willing to defer mine, I sat shylyback, peeping at the candle and moonlight picture before me, myself unseen. 

'Will you tell--yes or no--is my cousin in the coach?' screamed the plumpyoung lady, stamping her stout black boot, in a momentary lull. 

Yes, I was there, sure. 

'And why the puck don't you let her out, you stupe, you?'

'Run down, Giblets, you never do nout without driving, and let Cousin Maudout. You're very welcome to Bartram. ' This greeting was screamed at anamazing pitch, and repeated before I had time to drop the window, and say'thank you. ' 'I'd a let you out myself--there's a good dog, you would na'bite Cousin' (the parenthesis was to a huge mastiff, who thrust himselfbeside her, by this time quite pacified)--'only I daren't go down thesteps, for the governor said I shouldn't. '

The venerable person who went by the name of Giblets had by this timeopened the carriage door, and our courier, or 'boots'--he looked more likethe latter functionary--had lowered the steps, and in greater trepidationthan I experienced when in after-days I was presented to my sovereign, I glided down, to offer myself to the greeting and inspection of theplain-spoken young lady who stood at the top of the steps to receive me. 

She welcomed me with a hug and a hearty buss, as she called thatsalutation, on each cheek, and pulled me into the hall, and was evidentlyglad to see me. 

'And you're tired a bit, I warrant; and who's the old 'un, who?' she askedeagerly, in a stage whisper, which made my ear numb for five minutes after. 'Oh, oh, the maid! and a precious old 'un--ha, ha, ha! But lawk! how grandshe is, with her black silk, cloak and crape, and I only in twilled cotton, and rotten old Coburg for Sundays. Odds! it's a shame; but you'll be tired, you will. It's a smartish pull, they do say, from Knowl. I know a spell ofit, only so far as the "Cat and Fiddle, " near the Lunnon-road. Come up, will you? Would you like to come in first and talk a bit wi' the governor?Father, you know, he's a bit silly, he is, this while. ' I found thatthe phrase meant only _bodily_ infirmity. 'He took a pain o' Friday, newralgie--something or other he calls it--rheumatics it is when it takesold "Giblets" there; and he's sitting in his own room; or maybe you'd likebetter to come to your bedroom first, for it is dirty work travelling, theydo say. '

Yes; I preferred the preliminary adjustment. Mary Quince was standingbehind me; and as my voluble kinswoman talked on, we had each ample timeand opportunity to observe the personnel of the other; and she made noscruple of letting me perceive that she was improving it, for she stared mefull in the face, taking in evidently feature after feature; and she feltthe material of my mantle pretty carefully between her finger and thumb, and manually examined my chain and trinkets, and picked up my hand as shemight a glove, to con over my rings. 

I can't say, of course, exactly what impression I may have produced on her. But in my cousin Milly I saw a girl who looked younger than her years, plump, but with a slender waist, with light hair, lighter than mine, andvery blue eyes, rather round; on the whole very good-looking. She had anodd swaggering walk, a toss of her head, and a saucy and imperious, butrather good-natured and honest countenance. She talked rather loud, with agood ringing voice, and a boisterous laugh when it came. 

If _I_ was behind the fashion, what would Cousin Monica have thought ofher? She was arrayed, as she had stated, in black twilled cotton expressiveof her affliction; but it was made almost as short in the skirt as that ofthe prints of the Bavarian broom girls. She had white cotton stockings, and a pair of black leather boots, with leather buttons, and, for a lady, prodigiously thick soles, which reminded me of the navvy boots I had sooften admired in _Punch_. I must add that the hands with which she assistedher scrutiny of my dress, though pretty, were very much sunburnt indeed. 

'And what's _her_ name?' she demanded, nodding to Mary Quince, who wasgazing on her awfully, with round eyes, as an inland spinster might upon awhale beheld for the first time. 

Mary courtesied, and I answered. 

'Mary Quince, ' she repeated. 'You're welcome, Quince. What shall I callher? I've a name for all o' them. Old Giles there, is Giblets. He did notlike it first, but he answers quick enough now; and Old Lucy Wyat there, 'nodding toward the old woman, 'is Lucia de l'Amour. ' A slightly erroneousreading of Lammermoor, for my cousin sometimes made mistakes, and was notmuch versed in the Italian opera. 'You know it's a play, and I call herL'Amour for shortness;' and she laughed hilariously, and I could notforbear joining; and, winking at me, she called aloud, 'L'Amour. '

To which the crone, with a high-cauled cap, resembling Mother Hubbard, responded with a courtesy and 'Yes, 'm. '

'Are all the trunks and boxes took up?'

They were. 

'Well, we'll come now; and what shall I call you, Quince? Let me see. '

'According to your pleasure, Miss, ' answered Mary, with dignity, and a drycourtesy. 

'Why, you're as hoarse as a frog, Quince. We'll call you Quinzy for thepresent. That'll do. Come along, Quinzy. '

So my Cousin Milly took me under the arm, and pulled me forward; but as weascended, she let me go, leaning back to make inspection of my attire froma new point of view. 

'Hallo, cousin, ' she cried, giving my dress a smack with her open hand. 'What a plague do you want of all that bustle; you'll leave it behind, lass, the first bush you jump over. '

I was a good deal astounded. I was also very near laughing, for there wasa sort of importance in her plump countenance, and an indescribablegrotesqueness in the fashion of her garments, which heightened theoutlandishness of her talk, in a way which I cannot at all describe. 

What palatial wide stairs those were which we ascended, with theirprodigious carved banisters of oak, and each huge pillar on thelanding-place crowned with a shield and carved heraldic supporters; floridoak panelling covered the walls. But of the house I could form no estimate, for Uncle Silas's housekeeping did not provide light for hall and passages, and we were dependent on the glimmer of a single candle; but there would bequite enough of this kind of exploration in the daylight. 

So along dark oak flooring we advanced to my room, and I had now anopportunity of admiring, at my leisure, the lordly proportions of thebuilding. Two great windows, with dark and tarnished curtains, rose half ashigh again as the windows of Knowl; and yet Knowl, in its own style, is afine house. The door-frames, like the window-frames, were richly carved;the fireplace was in the same massive style, and the mantelpiece projectedwith a mass of very rich carving. On the whole I was surprised. I had neverslept in so noble a room before. 

The furniture, I must confess, was by no means on a par with thearchitectural pretensions of the apartment. A French bed, a piece of carpetabout three yards square, a small table, two chairs, a toilet table--nowardrobe--no chest of drawers. The furniture painted white, and of thelight and diminutive kind, was particularly ill adapted to the scale andstyle of the apartment, one end only of which it occupied, and that butsparsely, leaving the rest of the chamber in the nakedness of a statelydesolation. My cousin Milly ran away to report progress to 'the Governor, 'as she termed Uncle Silas. 

'Well, Miss Maud, I never did expect to see the like o' that!' exclaimedhonest Mary Quince, 'Did you ever see such a young lady? She's no more likeone o' the family than I am. Law bless us! and what's she dressed like?Well, well, well!' And Mary, with a rueful shake of her head, clicked hertongue pathetically to the back of her teeth, while I could not forbearlaughing. 

'And such a scrap o' furniture! Well, well, well!' and the same ticking ofthe tongue followed. 

But, in a few minutes, back came Cousin Milly, and, with a barbaroussort of curiosity, assisted in unpacking my trunks, and stowing away thetreasures, on which she ventured a variety of admiring criticisms, in thepresses which, like cupboards, filled recesses in the walls, with great oakdoors, the keys of which were in them. 

As I was making my hurried toilet, she entertained me now and then withmore strictly personal criticisms. 

'Your hair's a shade darker than mine--it's none the better o' thatthough--is it? Mine's said to be the right shade. I don't know--what do yousay?'

I conceded the point with a good grace. 

'I wish my hands was as white though--you do lick me there; but it's allgloves, and I never could abide 'em. I think I'll try though--they _are_very white, sure. '

'I wonder which is the prettiest, you or me? _I_ don't know, _I_'msure--which do _you_ think?'

I laughed outright at this challenge, and she blushed a little, and for thefirst time seemed for a moment a little shy. 

'Well, you _are_ a half an inch longer than me, I think--don't you?'

I was fully an inch taller, so I had no difficulty in making the proposedadmission. 

'Well, you do look handsome! doesn't she, Quinzy, lass? but your frockcomes down almost to your heels--it does. '

And she glanced from mine to hers, and made a little kick up with the heelof the navvy boot to assist her in measuring the comparative distance. 

'Maybe mine's a thought too short?' she suggested. 'Who's there? Oh! it'syou, is it?' she cried as Mother Hubbard appeared at the door. 'Come in, L'Amour--don't you know, lass, you're always welcome?'

She had come to let us know that Uncle Silas would be happy to see mewhenever I was ready; and that my cousin Millicent would conduct me to theroom where he awaited me. 

In an instant all the comic sensations awakened by my singular cousin'seccentricities vanished, and I was thrilled with awe. I was about to seein the flesh--faded, broken, aged, but still identical--that being who hadbeen the vision and the problem of so many years of my short life. 

CHAPTER XXXII

_UNCLE SILAS_

I thought my odd cousin was also impressed with a kind of awe, thoughdifferent in degree from mine, for a shade overcast her face, and she wassilent as we walked side by side along the gallery, accompanied by thecrone who carried the candle which lighted us to the door of that apartmentwhich I may call Uncle Silas's presence chamber. 

Milly whispered to me as we approached--

'Mind how you make a noise; the governor's as sharp as a weasel, andnothing vexes him like that. '

She was herself toppling along on tiptoe. We paused at a door near the headof the great staircase, and L'Amour knocked timidly with her rheumaticknuckles. 

A voice, clear and penetrating, from within summoned us to enter. The oldwoman opened the door, and the next moment I was in the presence of UncleSilas. 

At the far end of a handsome wainscoted room, near the hearth in which alow fire was burning, beside a small table on which stood four waxlights, in tall silver candlesticks, sat a singular-looking old man. 

The dark wainscoting behind him, and the vastness of the room, in theremoter parts of which the light which fell strongly upon his face andfigure expended itself with hardly any effect, exhibited him with theforcible and strange relief of a finely painted Dutch portrait. For sometime I saw nothing but him. 

A face like marble, with a fearful monumental look, and, for an old man, singularly vivid strange eyes, the singularity of which rather grew upon meas I looked; for his eyebrows were still black, though his hair descendedfrom his temples in long locks of the purest silver and fine as silk, nearly to his shoulders. 

He rose, tall and slight, a little stooped, all in black, with an ampleblack velvet tunic, which was rather a gown than a coat, with loosesleeves, showing his snowy shirt some way up the arm, and a pair of wristbuttons, then quite out of fashion, which glimmered aristocratically withdiamonds. 

I know I can't convey in words an idea of this apparition, drawn as itseemed in black and white, venerable, bloodless, fiery-eyed, with itssingular look of power, and an expression so bewildering--was it derision, or anguish, or cruelty, or patience?

The wild eyes of this strange old man were fixed upon me as he rose; anhabitual contraction, which in certain lights took the character of ascowl, did not relax as he advanced toward me with his thin-lipped smile. He said something in his clear, gentle, but cold voice, the import ofwhich I was too much agitated to catch, and he took both my hands in his, welcomed me with a courtly grace which belonged to another age, and led meaffectionately, with many inquiries which I only half comprehended, to achair near his own. 

'I need not introduce my daughter; she has saved me that mortification. You'll find her, I believe, good-natured and affectionate; _au reste_, Ifear a very rustic Miranda, and fitted rather for the society of Calibanthan of a sick old Prospero. Is it not so, Millicent?'

The old man paused sarcastically for an answer, with his eyes fixedseverely on my odd cousin, who blushed and looked uneasily to me for ahint. 

'I don't know who they be--neither one nor t'other. '

'Very good, my dear, ' he replied, with a little mocking bow. 'You see, mydear Maud, what a Shakespearean you have got for a cousin. It's plain, however, she has made acquaintance with some of our dramatists: she hasstudied the rôle of _Miss Hoyden_ so perfectly. '

It was not a reasonable peculiarity of my uncle that he resented, with agood deal of playful acrimony, my poor cousin's want of education, forwhich, if he were not to blame, certainly neither was she. 

'You see her, poor thing, a result of all the combined disadvantages ofwant of refined education, refined companionship, and, I fear, naturally, of refined tastes; but a sojourn at a good French conventual school willdo wonders, and I hope to manage by-and-by. In the meantime we jest at ourmisfortunes, and love one another, I hope, cordially. '

He extended his thin, white hand with a chilly smile towards Milly, whobounced up, and took it with a frightened look; and he repeated, holdingher hand rather slightly I thought, 'Yes, I hope, very cordially, ' and thenturning again to me, he put it over the arm of his chair, and let it go, asa man might drop something he did not want from a carriage window. 

Having made this apology for poor Milly, who was plainly bewildered, hepassed on, to her and my relief, to other topics, every now and thenexpressing his fears that I was fatigued, and his anxiety that I shouldpartake of some supper or tea; but these solicitudes somehow seemed toescape his remembrance almost as soon as uttered; and he maintained theconversation, which soon degenerated into a close, and to me a painfulexamination, respecting my dear father's illness and its symptoms, uponwhich I could give no information, and his habits, upon which I could. 

Perhaps he fancied that there might be some family predisposition to theorganic disease of which his brother died, and that his questions weredirected rather to the prolonging of his own life than to the betterunderstanding of my dear father's death. 

How little was there left to this old man to make life desirable, and yethow keenly, I afterwards found, he clung to it. Have we not all of us seenthose to whom life was not only _undesirable_, but positively painful--amere series of bodily torments, yet hold to it with a desperate andpitiable tenacity--old children or young, it is all the same. 

See how a sleepy child will put off the inevitable departure for bed. Thelittle creature's eyes blink and stare, and it needs constant jogging toprevent his nodding off into the slumber which nature craves. His waking isa pain; he is quite worn out, and peevish, and stupid, and yet he imploresa respite, and deprecates repose, and vows he is not sleepy, even to themoment when his mother takes him in her arms, and carries him, in a sweetslumber, to the nursery. So it is with us old children of earth and thegreat sleep of death, and nature our kind mother. Just so reluctantly wepart with consciousness, the picture is, even to the last, so interesting;the bird in the hand, though sick and moulting, so inestimably better thanall the brilliant tenants of the bush. We sit up, yawning, and blinking, and stupid, the whole scene swimming before us, and the stories and musichumming off into the sound of distant winds and waters. It is not time yet;we are not fatigued; we are good for another hour still, and so protestingagainst bed, we falter and drop into the dreamless sleep which natureassigns to fatigue and satiety. 

He then spoke a little eulogy of his brother, very polished, and, indeed, in a kind of way, eloquent. He possessed in a high degree thataccomplishment, too little cultivated, I think, by the present generation, of expressing himself with perfect precision and fluency. There was, too, a good deal of slight illustrative quotation, and a sprinkling of Frenchflowers, over his conversation, which gave to it a character at onceelegant and artificial. It was all easy, light, and pointed, and beingquite new to me, had a wonderful fascination. 

He then told me that Bartram was the temple of liberty, that the health ofa whole life was founded in a few years of youth, air, and exercise, andthat accomplishments, at least, if not education, should wait upon health. Therefore, while at Bartram, I should dispose of my time quite as Ipleased, and the more I plundered the garden and gipsied in the woodlands, the better. 

Then he told me what a miserable invalid he was, and how the doctorsinterfered with his frugal tastes. A glass of beer and a mutton chop--hisideal of a dinner--he dared not touch. They made him drink light wines, which he detested, and live upon those artificial abominations all likingfor which vanishes with youth. 

There stood on a side-table, in its silver coaster, a long-necked Rhenishbottle, and beside it a thin pink glass, and he quivered his fingers in apeevish way toward them. 

But unless he found himself better very soon, he would take his case intohis own hands, and try the dietary to which nature pointed. 

He waved his fingers toward his bookcases, and told me his books werealtogether at my service during my stay; but this promise ended, I mustconfess, disappointingly. At last, remarking that I must be fatigued, herose, and kissed me with a solemn tenderness, placed his hand upon what Inow perceived to be a large Bible, with two broad silk markers, red andgold, folded in it--the one, I might conjecture, indicating the place inthe Old, the other in the New Testament. It stood on the small table thatsupported the waxlights, with a handsome cut bottle of eau-de-cologne, hisgold and jewelled pencil-case, and his chased repeater, chain, and seals, beside it. There certainly were no indications of poverty in Uncle Silas'sroom; and he said impressively--

'Remember that book; in it your father placed his trust, in it he found hisreward, in it lives my only hope; consult it, my beloved niece, day andnight, as the oracle of life. '

Then he laid his thin hand on my head, and blessed me, and then kissed myforehead. 

'No--a!' exclaimed Cousin Milly's lusty voice. I had quite forgotten herpresence, and looked at her with a little start. She was seated on a veryhigh old-fashioned chair; she had palpably been asleep; her round eyes wereblinking and staring glassily at us; and her white legs and navvy bootswere dangling in the air. 

'Have you anything to remark about Noah?' enquired her father, with apolite inclination and an ironical interest. 

'No--a, ' she repeated in the same blunt accents; 'I didn't snore; did I?No--a. '

The old man smiled and shrugged a little at me--it was the smile ofdisgust. 

'Good night, my dear Maud;' and turning to her, he said, with a peculiargentle sharpness, 'Had not you better wake, my dear, and try whether yourcousin would like some supper?'

So he accompanied us to the door, outside which we found L'Amour's candleawaiting us. 

'I'm awful afraid of the Governor, I am. Did I snore that time?'

'No, dear; at least, I did not hear it, ' I said, unable to repress a smile. 

'Well, if I didn't, I was awful near it, ' she said, reflectively. 

We found poor Mary Quince dozing over the fire; but we soon had tea andother good things, of which Milly partook with a wonderful appetite. 

'I _was_ in a qualm about it, ' said Milly, who by this time was quiteherself again. 'When he spies me a-napping, maybe he don't fetch me a prodwith his pencil-case over the head. Odd! girl, it _is_ sore. '

When I contrasted the refined and fluent old gentleman whom I had justleft, with this amazing specimen of young ladyhood, I grew sceptical almostas to the possibility of her being his child. 

I was to learn, however, how little she had, I won't say of his society, but even of his presence--that she had no domestic companion of the leastpretensions to education--that she ran wild about the place--never, exceptin church, so much as saw a person of that rank to which she was born--andthat the little she knew of reading and writing had been picked up, indesultory half-hours, from a person who did not care a pin about hermanners or decorum, and perhaps rather enjoyed her grotesqueness--and thatno one who was willing to take the least trouble about her was competentto make her a particle more refined than I saw her--the wonder ceased. Wedon't know how little is heritable, and how much simply training, until weencounter some-such spectacle as that of my poor cousin Milly. 

When I lay down in my bed and reviewed the day, it seemed like a month ofwonders. Uncle Silas was always before me; the voice so silvery for an oldman--so preternaturally soft; the manners so sweet, so gentle; the aspect, smiling, suffering, spectral. It was no longer a shadow; I had now seenhim in the flesh. But, after all, was he more than a shadow to me? When Iclosed my eyes I saw him before me still, in necromantic black, ashy with apallor on which I looked with fear and pain, a face so dazzlingly pale, and those hollow, fiery, awful eyes! It sometimes seemed as if the curtainopened, and I had seen a ghost. 

I had seen him; but he was still an enigma and a marvel. The living facedid not expound the past, any more than the portrait portended the future. He was still a mystery and a vision; and thinking of these things I fellasleep. 

Mary Quince, who slept in the dressing-room, the door of which was closeto my bed, and lay open to secure me against ghosts, called me up; and themoment I knew where I was I jumped up, and peeped eagerly from the window. It commanded the avenue and court-yard; but we were many windows removedfrom that over the hall-door, and immediately beneath ours lay the twogiant lime trees, prostrate and uprooted, which I had observed as we droveup the night before. 

I saw more clearly in the bright light of morning the signs of neglect andalmost of dilapidation which had struck me as I approached. The court-yardwas tufted over with grass, seldom from year to year crushed by thecarriage-wheels, or trodden by the feet of visitors. This melancholyverdure thickened where the area was more remote from the centre; and underthe windows, and skirting the walls to the left, was reinforced by a thickgrove of nettles. The avenue was all grass-grown, except in the verycentre, where a narrow track still showed the roadway The handsome carvedbalustrade of the court-yard was discoloured with lichens, and in twoplaces gapped and broken; and the air of decay was heightened by the fallentrees, among whose sprays and yellow leaves the small birds were hopping. 

Before my toilet was completed, in marched my cousin Milly. We were tobreakfast alone that morning, 'and so much the better, ' she told me. Sometimes the Governor ordered her to breakfast with him, and 'never leftoff chaffing her' till his newspaper came, and 'sometimes he said suchthings he made her cry, ' and then he only 'boshed her more, ' and packed heraway to her room; but she was by chalks nicer than him, talk as he might. '_Was_ not she nicer? was not she? was not she?' Upon this point she was sostrong and urgent that I was obliged to reply by a protest against awardingthe palm of elegance between parent and child, and declaring I liked hervery much, which I attested by a kiss. 

'I know right well which of us you do think's the nicest, and no mistake, only you're afraid of him; and he had no business boshing me last nightbefore you. I knew he was at it, though I couldn't twig him altogether; butwasn't he a sneak, now, wasn't he?'

This was a still more awkward question; so I kissed her again, and said shemust never ask me to say of my uncle in his absence anything I could notsay to his face. 

At which speech she stared at me for a while, and then treated me to one ofher hearty laughs, after which she seemed happier, and gradually grew intobetter humour with her father. 

'Sometimes, when the curate calls, he has me up--for he's as religious assix, he is--and they read Bible and prays, ho--don't they? You'll havethat, lass, like me, to go through; and maybe I don't hate it; oh, no!'

We breakfasted in a small room, almost a closet, off the great parlour, which was evidently quite disused. Nothing could be homelier than ourequipage, or more shabby than the furniture of the little apartment. Still, somehow, I liked it. It was a total change; but one likes 'roughing it' alittle at first. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

_THE WINDMILL WOOD_

I had not time to explore this noble old house as my curiosity prompted;for Milly was in such a fuss to set out for the 'blackberry dell' that Isaw little more than just so much as I necessarily traversed in making myway to and from my room. 

The actual decay of the house had been prevented by my dear father; andthe roof, windows, masonry, and carpentry had all been kept in repair. But short of indications of actual ruin, there are many manifestations ofpoverty and neglect which impress with a feeling of desolation. It wasplain that not nearly a tithe of this great house was inhabited; longcorridors and galleries stretched away in dust and silence, and werecrossed by others, whose dark arches inspired me in the distance with anawful sort of sadness. It was plainly one of those great structures inwhich you might easily lose yourself, and with a pleasing terror itreminded me of that delightful old abbey in Mrs. Radcliffe's romance, amongwhose silent staircases, dim passages, and long suites of lordly, butforsaken chambers, begirt without by the sombre forest, the family of LaMote secured a gloomy asylum. 

My cousin Milly and I, however, were bent upon an open-air ramble, andtraversing several passages, she conducted me to a door which led us outupon a terrace overgrown with weeds, and by a broad flight of steps wedescended to the level of the grounds beneath. Then on, over the shortgrass, under the noble trees, we walked; Milly in high good-humour, and talking away volubly, in her short garment, navvy boots, and aweather-beaten hat. She carried a stick in her gloveless hand. Herconversation was quite new to me, and resembled very much what I would havefancied the holiday recollections of a schoolboy; and the language in whichit was sustained was sometimes so outlandish, that I was forced to laughoutright--a demonstration which she plainly did not like. 

Her talk was about the great jumps she had made--how she snow-balled thechaps' in winter--how she could slide twice the length of her stick beyond'Briddles, the cow-boy. '

With this and similar conversation she entertained me. 

The grounds were delightfully wild and neglected. But we had now passedinto a vast park beautifully varied with hollows and uplands, and suchglorious old timber massed and scattered over its slopes and levels. Amongthese, we got at last into a picturesque dingle; the grey rocks peeped fromamong the ferns and wild flowers, and the steps of soft sward along itssides were dark in the shadows of silver-stemmed birch, and russet thorn, and oak, under which, in the vaporous night, the Erl-king and his daughtermight glide on their aërial horses. 

In the lap of this pleasant dell were the finest blackberry bushes, Ithink, I ever saw, bearing fruit quite fabulous; and plucking these, andchatting, we rambled on very pleasantly. 

I had first thought of Milly's absurdities, to which, in description, Icannot do justice, simply because so many details have, by distanceof time, escaped my recollection. But her ways and her talk were soindescribably grotesque that she made me again and again quiver withsuppressed laughter. 

But there was a pitiable and even a melancholy meaning underlying theburlesque. 

This creature, with no more education than a dairy-maid, I graduallydiscovered had fine natural aptitudes for accomplishment--a very sweetvoice, and wonderfully delicate ear, and a talent for drawing which quitethrew mine into the shade. It was really astonishing. 

Poor Milly, in all her life, had never read three books, and hated tothink of them. One, over which she was wont to yawn and sigh, and starefatiguedly for an hour every Sunday, by command of the Governor, was astout volume of sermons of the earlier school of George III. , and a driercollection you can't fancy. I don't think she read anything else. But shehad, notwithstanding, ten times the cleverness of half the circulatinglibrary misses one meets with. Besides all this, I had a long sojournbefore me at Bartram-Haugh, and I had learned from Milly, as I had heardbefore, what a perennial solitude it was, with a ludicrous fear of learningMilly's preposterous dialect, and turning at last into something like her. So I resolved to do all I could for her--teach her whatever I knew, if shewould allow me--and gradually, if possible, effect some civilising changesin her language, and, as they term it in boarding-schools, her demeanour. 

But I must pursue at present our first day's ramble in what was calledBartram Chase. People can't go on eating blackberries always; so after awhile we resumed our walk along this pretty dell, which gradually expandedinto a wooded valley--level beneath and enclosed by irregular uplands, receding, as it were, in mimic bays and harbours at some points, andrunning out at others into broken promontories, ending in clumps of foresttrees. 

Just where the glen which we had been traversing expanded into this broad, but wooded valley, it was traversed by a high and close paling, which, although it looked decayed, was still very strong. 

In this there was a wooden gate, rudely but strongly constructed, and atthe side we were approaching stood a girl, who was leaning against thepost, with one arm resting on the top of the gate. 

This girl was neither tall nor short--taller than she looked at a distance;she had not a slight waist; sooty black was her hair, with a broadforehead, perpendicular but low; she had a pair of very fine, dark, lustrous eyes, and no other good feature--unless I may so call her teeth, which were very white and even. Her face was rather short, and swarthy asa gipsy's; observant and sullen too; and she did not move, only eyed usnegligently from under her dark lashes as we drew near. Altogether a notunpicturesque figure, with a dusky, red petticoat of drugget, and tatteredjacket of bottle-green stuff, with short sleeves, which showed her brownarms from the elbow. 

'That's Pegtop's daughter, ' said Milly. 

'Who is Pegtop?' I asked. 

'He's the miller--see, yonder it is, ' and she pointed to a very prettyfeature in the landscape, a windmill, crowning the summit of a hillockwhich rose suddenly above the level of the treetops, like an island in thecentre of the valley. 

'The mill not going to-day, Beauty?' bawled Milly. 

'No--a, Beauty; it baint, ' replied the girl, loweringly, and withoutstirring. 

'And what's gone with the stile?' demanded Milly, aghast. 'It's tore awayfrom the paling!'

'Well, so it be, ' replied the wood nymph in the red petticoat, showing herfine teeth with a lazy grin. 

'Who's a bin and done all that?' demanded Milly. 

'Not you nor me, lass, ' said the girl. 

''Twas old Pegtop, your father, did it, ' cried Milly, in rising wrath. 

''Appen it wor, ' she replied. 

'And the gate locked. '

'That's it--the gate locked, ' she repeated, sulkily, with a defiantside-glance at Milly. 

'And where's Pegtop?'

'At t'other side, somewhere; how should I know where he be?' she replied. 

'Who's got the key?'

'Here it be, lass, ' she answered, striking her hand on her pocket. 'And howdurst you stay us here? Unlock it, huzzy, this minute!' cried Milly, with astamp. 

Her answer was a sullen smile. 

'Open the gate this instant!' bawled Milly. 

'Well, I _won't. _'

I expected that Milly would have flown into a frenzy at this directdefiance, but she looked instead puzzled and curious--the girl's unexpectedaudacity bewildered her. 

'Why, you fool, I could get over the paling as soon as look at you, but Iwon't. What's come over you? Open the gate, I say, or I'll make you. '

'Do let her alone, dear, ' I entreated, fearing a mutual assault. 'She hasbeen ordered, may be, not to open it. Is it so, my good girl?'

'Well, thou'rt not the biggest fool o' the two, ' she observed, commendatively, 'thou'st hit it, lass. '

'And who ordered you?' exclaimed Milly. 

'Fayther. '

'Old Pegtop. Well, _that's_ summat to laugh at, it is--our servanta-shutting us out of our own grounds. '

'No servant o' yourn!'

'Come, lass, what do you mean?'

'He be old Silas's miller, and what's that to thee?'

With these words the girl made a spring on the hasp of the padlock, andthen got easily over the gate. 

'Can't you do that, cousin?' whispered Milly to me, with an impatientnudge. 'I _wish_ you'd try. '

'No, dear--come away, Milly, ' and I began to withdraw. 

'Lookee, lass, 'twill be an ill day's work for thee when I tell theGovernor, ' said Milly, addressing the girl, who stood on a log of timber atthe other side, regarding us with a sullen composure. 

'We'll be over in spite o' you, ' cried Milly. 

'You lie!' answered she. 

'And why not, huzzy?' demanded my cousin, who was less incensed at theaffront than I expected. All this time I was urging Milly in vain to comeaway. 

'Yon lass is no wild cat, like thee--that's why, ' said the sturdy portress. 

'If I cross, I'll give you a knock, ' said Milly. 

'And I'll gi' thee another, ' she answered, with a vicious wag of the head. 

'Come, Milly, _I'll_ go if _you_ don't, ' I said. 

'But we must not be beat, ' whispered she, vehemently, catching my arm; 'andye _shall_ get over, and _see_ what I will gi' her!'

'I'll _not_ get over. '

'Then I'll break the door, for ye _shall_ come through, ' exclaimed Milly, kicking the stout paling with her ponderous boot. 

'Purr it, purr it, purr it!' cried the lass in the red petticoat with agrin. 

'Do you know who this lady is?' cried Milly, suddenly. 

'She is a prettier lass than thou, ' answered Beauty. 

'She's _my_ cousin Maud--Miss Ruthyn of Knowl--and she's a deal richer thanthe Queen; and the Governor's taking care of her; and he'll make old Pegtopbring you to reason. '

The girl eyed me with a sulky listlessness, a little inquisitively, Ithought. 

'See if he don't, ' threatened Milly. 

'You positively _must_ come, ' I said, drawing her away with me. 

'Well, shall we come in?' cried Milly, trying a last summons. 

'You'll not come in that much, ' she answered, surlily, measuring aninfinitesimal distance on her finger with her thumb, which she pinchedagainst it, the gesture ending with a snap of defiance, and a smile thatshowed her fine teeth. 

'I've a mind to shy a stone at you, ' shouted Milly. 

'Faire away; I'll shy wi' ye as long as ye like, lass; take heed o'yerself;' and Beauty picked up a round stone as large as a cricket ball. 

With difficulty I got Milly away without an exchange of missiles, and muchdisgusted at my want of zeal and agility. 

'Well, come along, cousin, I know an easy way by the river, when it's low, 'answered Milly. 'She's a brute--is not she?'

As we receded, we saw the girl slowly wending her way towards the oldthatched cottage, which showed its gable from the side of a little ruggedeminence embowered in spreading trees, and dangling and twirling from itsstring on the end of her finger the key for which a battle had so nearlybeen fought. 

The stream was low enough to make our flank movement round the end ofthe paling next it quite easy, and so we pursued our way, and Milly'sequanimity returned, and our ramble grew very pleasant again. 

Our path lay by the river bank, and as we proceeded, the dwarf timber wassucceeded by grander trees, which crowded closer and taller, and, at last, the scenery deepened into solemn forest, and a sudden sweep in the riverrevealed the beautiful ruin of a steep old bridge, with the fragments of agate-house on the farther side. 

'Oh, Milly darling!' I exclaimed, 'what a beautiful drawing this wouldmake! I should so like to make a sketch of it. '

'So it would. _Make_ a picture--_do_!--here's a stone that's pure and flatto sit upon, and you look very tired. Do make it, and I'll sit by you. '

'Yes, Milly, I _am_ tired, a little, and I _will_ sit down; but we mustwait for another day to make the picture, for we have neither pencilnor paper. But it is much too pretty to be lost; so let us come againto-morrow. '

'To-morrow be hanged! you'll do it to-day, bury-me-wick, but you _shall_;I'm wearying to see you make a picture, and I'll fetch your conundrums outo' your drawer, for do't you shall. '

CHAPTER XXXIV

_ZAMIEL_

It was all vain my remonstrating. She vowed that by crossing thestepping-stones close by she could, by a short cut, reach the house, andreturn with my pencils and block-book in a quarter of an hour. Away then, with many a jump and fling, scampered Milly's queer white stockings andnavvy boots across the irregular and precarious stepping-stones, over whichI dared not follow her; so I was fain to return to the stone so 'pureand flat, ' on which I sat, enjoying the grand sylvan solitude, the darkbackground and the grey bridge mid-way, so tall and slim, across whoseruins a sunbeam glimmered, and the gigantic forest trees that slumberedround, opening here and there in dusky vistas, and breaking in front intodetached and solemn groups. It was the setting of a dream of romance. 

It would have been the very spot in which to read a volume of Germanfolk-lore, and the darkening colonnades and silent nooks of the forestseemed already haunted with the voices and shadows of those charming elvesand goblins. 

As I sat here enjoying the solitude and my fancies among the low branchesof the wood, at my right I heard a crashing, and saw a squat broad figurein a stained and tattered military coat, and loose short trousers, one limbof which flapped about a wooden leg. He was forcing himself through. Hisface was rugged and wrinkled, and tanned to the tint of old oak; his eyesblack, beadlike, and fierce, and a shock of sooty hair escaped from underhis battered wide-awake nearly to his shoulders. This forbidding-lookingperson came stumping and jerking along toward me, whisking his stick nowand then viciously in the air, and giving his fell of hair a short shake, like a wild bull preparing to attack. 

I stood up involuntarily with a sense of fear and surprise, almost fancyingI saw in that wooden-legged old soldier, the forest demon who haunted DerFreischütz. 

So he approached shouting--

'Hollo! you--how came you here? Dost 'eer?'

And he drew near panting, and sometimes tugging angrily in his haste at hiswooden leg, which sunk now and then deeper than was convenient in the sod. This exertion helped to anger him, and when he halted before me, his darkface smirched with smoke and dust, and the nostrils of his flat droopingnose expanded and quivered as he panted, like the gills of a fish; anangrier or uglier face it would not be easy to fancy. 

'Ye'll all come when ye like, will ye? and do nout but what pleasesyourselves, won't you? And who'rt thou? Dost 'eer--who _are_ ye, I say; andwhat the deil seek ye in the woods here? Come, bestir thee!'

If his wide mouth and great tobacco-stained teeth, his scowl, and louddiscordant tones were intimidating, they were also extremely irritating. The moment my spirit was roused, my courage came. 

'I am Miss Ruthyn of Knowl, and Mr. Silas Ruthyn, your master, is myuncle. '

'Hoo!' he exclaimed more gently, 'an' if Silas be thy uncle thou'lt be cometo live wi' him, and thou'rt she as come overnight--eh?'

I made no answer, but I believe I looked both angrily and disdainfully. 

'And what make ye alone here? and how was I to know't, an' Milly not wi'ye, nor no one? But Maud or no Maud, I wouldn't let the Dooke hisself setfoot inside the palin' without Silas said let him. And you may tell Silasthem's the words o' Dickon Hawkes, and I'll stick to'm--and what's moreI'll tell him _myself_--I will; I'll tell him there be no use o' mystriving and straining hee, day an' night and night and day, watchin' againpoachers, and thieves, and gipsies, and they robbing lads, if rules won'tbe kep, and folk do jist as they pleases. Dang it, lass, thou'rt in luck Ididn't heave a brick at thee when I saw thee first. '

'I'll complain of you to my uncle, ' I replied. 

'So do, and and 'appen thou'lt find thyself in the wrong box, lass; thoucanst na' say I set the dogs arter thee, nor cau'd thee so much as a wryname, nor heave a stone at thee--did I? Well? and where's the complaintthen?'

I simply answered, rather fiercely, 'Be good enough to leave me. '

'Well, I make no objections, mind. I'm takin' thy word--thou'rt MaudRuthyn--'appen thou be'st and 'appen thou baint. I'm not aweer on't, but Itakes thy word, and all I want to know's just this, did Meg open the gateto thee?'

I made him no answer, and to my great relief I saw Milly striding andskipping across the unequal stepping-stones. 

'Hallo, Pegtop! what are you after now?' she cried, as she drew near. 

'This man has been extremely impertinent. You know him, Milly?' I said. 

'Why that's Pegtop Dickon. Dirty old Hawkes that never was washed. I tellyou, lad, ye'll see what the Governor thinks o't--a-ha! He'll talk to you. '

'I done or said nout--not but I _should_, and there's the fack--she can'tdeny't; she hadn't a hard word from I; and I don't care the top o' thatthistle what no one says--not I. But I tell thee, Milly, I stopped _some_o' thy pranks, and I'll stop more. Ye'll be shying no more stones at thecattle. '

'Tell your tales, and welcome, cried Milly. 'I wish I was here when youjawed cousin. If Winny was here she'd catch you by the timber toe and putyou on your back. '

'Ay, she'll be a good un yet if she takes arter thee, ' retorted the old manwith a fierce sneer. 

'Drop it, and get away wi' ye, ' cried she, 'or maybe I'd call Winny tosmash your timber leg for you. '

'A-ha! there's more on't. She's a sweet un. Isn't she?' he repliedsardonically. 

'You did not like it last Easter, when Winny broke it with a kick. '

''Twas a kick o' a horse, ' he growled with a glance at me. 

''Twas no such thing--'twas Winny did it--and he laid on his back for aweek while carpenter made him a new one. ' And Milly laughed hilariously. 

'I'll fool no more wi' ye, losing my time; I won't; but mind ye, I'll speakwi' Silas. ' And going away he put his hand to his crumpled wide-awake, andsaid to me with a surly difference--

'Good evening, Miss Ruthyn--good evening, ma'am--and ye'll please remember, I did not mean nout to vex thee. '

And so he swaggered away, jerking and waddling over the sward, and was soonlost in the wood. 

'It's well he's a little bit frightened--I never saw him so angry, I think;he is awful mad. '

'Perhaps he really is not aware how very rude he is, ' I suggested. 

'I hate him. We were twice as pleasant with poor Tom Driver--he nevermeddled with any one, and was always in liquor; Old Gin was the name hewent by. But this brute--I do hate him--he comes from Wigan, I think, andhe's always spoiling sport--and he whops Meg--that's Beauty, you know, andI don't think she'd be half as bad only for him. Listen to him whistlin'. '

'I did hear whistling at some distance among the trees. '

'I declare if he isn't callin' the dogs! Climb up here, I tell ye, ' and weclimbed up the slanting trunk of a great walnut tree, and strained our eyesin the direction from which we expected the onset of Pegtop's vicious pack. 

But it was a false alarm. 

'Well, I don't think he _would_ do that, after all--_hardly_; but he is abrute, sure!'

'And that dark girl who would not let us through, is his daughter, is she?'

'Yes, that's Meg--Beauty, I christened her, when I called him Beast; but Icall him Pegtop now, and she's Beauty still, and that's the way o't. '

'Come, sit down now, an' make your picture, ' she resumed so soon as we haddismounted from our position of security. 

'I'm afraid I'm hardly in the vein. I don't think I could draw a straightline. My hand trembles. '

'I wish you could, Maud, ' said Milly, with a look so wistful andentreating, that considering the excursion she had made for the pencils, Icould not bear to disappoint her. 

'Well, Milly, we must only try; and if we fail we can't help it. Sit youdown beside me and I'll tell you why I begin with one part and not another, and you'll see how I make trees and the river, and--yes, _that_ pencil, it is hard and answers for the fine light lines; but we must begin at thebeginning, and learn to copy drawings before we attempt real views likethis. And if you wish it, Milly, I'm resolved to teach you everything Iknow, which, after all, is not a great deal, and we shall have such funmaking sketches of the same landscapes, and then comparing. '

And so on, Milly, quite delighted, and longing to begin her course ofinstruction, sat down beside me in a rapture, and hugged and kissed me soheartily that we were very near rolling together off the stone on which wewere seated. Her boisterous delight and good-nature helped to restore me, and both laughing heartily together, I commenced my task. 

'Dear me! who's that?' I exclaimed suddenly, as looking up from myblock-book I saw the figure of a slight man in the careless morning-dressof a gentleman, crossing the ruinous bridge in our direction, withconsiderable caution, upon the precarious footing of the battlement, whichalone offered an unbroken passage. 

This was a day of apparitions! Milly recognised him instantly. Thegentleman was Mr. Carysbroke. He had taken The Grange only for a year. Helived quite to himself, and was very good to the poor, and was the onlygentleman, for ever so long, who had visited at Bartram, and oddly enoughnowhere else. But he wanted leave to cross through the grounds, and havingobtained it, had repeated his visit, partly induced, no doubt, by thefact that Bartram boasted no hospitalities, and that there was no risk ofmeeting the county folk there. 

With a stout walking-stick in his hand, and a short shooting-coat, and awide-awake hat in much better trim than Zamiel's, he emerged from the copsethat covered the bridge, walking at a quick but easy pace. 

'He'll be goin' to see old Snoddles, I guess, ' said Milly, looking a littlefrightened and curious; for Milly, I need not say, was a bumpkin, and stoodin awe of this gentleman's good-breeding, though she was as brave as alion, and would have fought the Philistines at any odds, with the jawboneof an ass. 

''Appen he won't see us, ' whispered Milly, hopefully. 

But he did, and raising his hat, with a cheerful smile, that showed verywhite teeth, he paused. 

'Charming day, Miss Ruthyn. '

I raised my head suddenly as he spoke, from habit appropriating theaddress; it was so marked that he raised his hat respectfully to me, andthen continued to Milly--

'Mr. Ruthyn, I hope, quite well? but I need hardly ask, you seem so happy. Will you kindly tell him, that I expect the book I mentioned in a day ortwo, and when it comes I'll either send or bring it to him immediately?'

Milly and I were standing, by this time, but she only stared at him, tongue-tied, her cheeks rather flushed, and her eyes very round, and tofacilitate the dialogue, as I suppose, he said again--

'He's quite well, I hope?'

Still no response from Milly, and I, provoked, though myself a little shy, made answer--

'My uncle, Mr. Ruthyn, is very well, thank you, ' and I felt that I blushedas I spoke. 

'Ah, pray excuse me, may I take a great liberty? you are Miss Ruthyn, of Knowl? Will you think me very impertinent--I'm afraid you will--if Iventure to introduce myself? My name is Carysbroke, and I had the honour ofknowing poor Mr. Ruthyn when I was quite a little boy, and he has shown akindness for me since, and I hope you will pardon the liberty I fear I'vetaken. I think my friend, Lady Knollys, too, is a relation of yours; what acharming person she is!'

'Oh, is not she? such a darling!' I said, and then blushed at my outspokenaffection. 

But he smiled kindly, as if he liked me for it; and he said--

'You know whatever I think, I dare not quite say that; but frankly I canquite understand it. She preserves her youth so wonderfully, and her funand her good-nature are so entirely girlish. What a sweet view you haveselected, ' he continued, changing all at once. 'I've stood just atthis point so often to look back at that exquisite old bridge. Do youobserve--you're an artist, I see--something very peculiar in that tint ofthe grey, with those odd cross stains of faded red and yellow?'

'I do, indeed; I was just remarking the peculiar beauty of thecolouring--was not I, Milly?'

Milly stared at me, and uttered an alarmed 'Yes, ' and looked as if she hadbeen caught in a robbery. 

'Yes, and you have so very peculiar a background, ' he resumed. 'It wasbetter before the storm though; but it is very good still. '

Then a little pause, and 'Do you know this country at all?' rathersuddenly. 

'No, not in the least--that is, I've only had the drive to this place; butwhat I did see interested me very much. '

'You will be charmed with it when you know it better--the very place for anartist. I'm a wretched scribbler myself, and I carry this little book inmy pocket, ' and he laughed deprecatingly while he drew forth a thinfishing-book, as it looked. 'They are mere memoranda, you see. I walk somuch and come unexpectedly on such pretty nooks and studies, I just tryto make a note of them, but it is really more writing than sketching; mysister says it is a cipher which nobody but myself understands. However, I'll try and explain just two--because you really ought to go and see theplaces. Oh, no; not that, ' he laughed, as accidentally the page blew over, 'that's the Cat and Fiddle, a curious little pot-house, where they gave mesome very good ale one day. '

Milly at this exhibited some uneasy tokens of being about to speak, but notknowing what might be coming, I hastened to observe on the spirited littlesketches to which he meant to draw my attention. 

'I want to show you only the places within easy reach--a short ride ordrive. '

So he proceeded to turn over two or three, in addition to the two he hadat first proposed, and then another; then a little sketch just tinted, andreally quite a charming little gem, of Cousin Monica's pretty gabled oldhouse; and every subject had its little criticism, or its narrative, oradventure. 

As he was about returning this little sketch-book to his pocket, stillchatting to me, he suddenly recollected poor Milly, who was looking ratherlowering; but she brightened a good deal as he presented it to her, with alittle speech which she palpably misunderstood, for she made one of her oddcourtesies, and was about, I thought, to put it into her large pocket, andaccept it as a present. 

'Look at the drawings, Milly, and then return it, ' I whispered. 

At his request I allowed him to look at my unfinished sketch of the bridge, and while he was measuring distances and proportions with his eye, Millywhispered rather angrily to me. 

'And why should I?'

'Because he wants it back, and only meant to lend it to you, ' whispered I. 

'_Lend_ it to me--and after you! Bury-me-wick if I look at a leaf of it, 'she retorted in high dudgeon. 'Take it, lass; give it him yourself--I'llnot, ' and she popped it into my hand, and made a sulky step back. 

'My cousin is very much obliged, ' I said, returning the book, and smilingfor her, and he took it smiling also and said--

'I think if I had known how very well you draw, Miss Ruthyn, I should havehesitated about showing you my poor scrawls. But these are not my best, youknow; Lady Knollys will tell you that I can really do better--a great dealbetter, I think. '

And then with more apologies for what he called his impertinence, he tookhis leave, and I felt altogether very much pleased and flattered. 

He could not be more than twenty-nine or thirty, I thought, and he wasdecidedly handsome--that is, his eyes and teeth, and clear brown complexionwere--and there was something distinguished and graceful in his figureand gesture; and altogether there was the indescribable attraction ofintelligence; and I fancied--though this, of course, was a secret--thatfrom the moment he spoke to us he felt an interest in me. I am not going tobe vain. It was a _grave_ interest, but still an interest, for I could seehim studying my features while I was turning over his sketches, and hethought I saw nothing else. It was flattering, too, his anxiety thatI should think well of his drawing, and referring me to Lady Knollys. Carysbroke--had I ever heard my dear father mention that name? I could notrecollect it. But then he was habitually so silent, that his not doing soargued nothing. 

CHAPTER XXXV

_WE VISIT A ROOM IN THE SECOND STOREY_

Mr. Carysbroke amused my fancy sufficiently to prevent my observing Milly'ssilence, till we had begun our return homeward. 

'The Grange must be a pretty house, if that little sketch be true; is itfar from this?'

''Twill be two mile. '

'Are you vexed, Milly?' I asked, for both her tone and looks were angry. 

'Yes, I am vexed; and why not lass?'

'What has happened?'

'Well, now, that is rich! Why, look at that fellow, Carysbroke: he took nomore notice to me than a dog, and kep' talking to you all the time of hispictures, and his walks, and his people. Why, a pig's better manners thanthat. '

'But, Milly dear, you forget, he tried to talk to you, and you would notanswer him, ' I expostulated. 

'And is not that just what I say--I can't talk like other folk--ladies, Imean. Every one laughs at me; an' I'm dressed like a show, I am. It's ashame! I saw Polly Shives--what a lady she is, my eyes!--laughing at me inchurch last Sunday. I was minded to give her a bit of my mind. An' I knowI'm queer. It's a shame, it is. Why should _I_ be so rum? it is a shame! Idon't want to be so, nor it isn't my fault. '

And poor Milly broke into a flood of tears, and stamped on the ground, andburied her face in her short frock, which she whisked up to her eyes; andan odder figure of grief I never beheld. 

'And I could not make head or tail of what he was saying, ' cried poor Millythrough her buff cotton, with a stamp; 'and you twigged every word o't. An'why am I so? It's a shame--a shame! Oh, ho, ho! it's a shame!'

'But, my dear Milly, we were talking of _drawing_, and you have not learnedyet, but you shall--I'll teach you; and then you'll understand all aboutit. '

'An' every one laughs at me--even you; though you try, Maud, you can scarcekeep from laughing sometimes. I don't blame you, for I know I'm queer; butI can't help it; and it's a shame. '

'Well, my dear Milly, listen to me: if you allow me, I assure you, I'llteach you all the music and drawing I know. You have lived very muchalone; and, as you say, ladies have a way of speaking of their own that isdifferent from the talk of other people. '

'Yes, that they have, an' gentlemen too--like the Governor, and thatCarysbroke; and a precious lingo it is--dang it--why, the devil himselfcould not understand it; an' I'm like a fool among you. I could 'most drownmyself. It's a shame! It is--you know it is. --It's a shame!'

'But I'll teach you that lingo too, if you wish it, Milly; and you shallknow everything that I know; and I'll manage to have your dresses bettermade. '

By this time she was looking very ruefully, but attentively, in my face, her round eyes and nose swelled, and her cheeks all wet. 

'I think if they were a little longer--yours is longer, you know;' and thesentence was interrupted by a sob. 

'Now, Milly, you must not be crying; if you choose you may be just as thesame as any other lady--and you shall; and you will be very much admired, Ican tell you, if only you will take the trouble to quite unlearn all yourodd words and ways, and dress yourself like other people; and I will takecare of that if you let me; and I think you are very clever, Milly; and Iknow you are very pretty. '

Poor Milly's blubbered face expanded into a smile in spite of herself; butshe shook her head, looking down. 

'Noa, noa, Maud, I fear 'twon't be. ' And indeed it seemed I had proposed tomyself a labour of Hercules. 

But Milly was really a clever creature, could see quickly, and when herungainly dialect was mastered, describe very pleasantly; and if only shewould endure the restraint and possessed the industry requisite, I did notdespair, and was resolved at least to do my part. 

Poor Milly! she was really very grateful, and entered into the project ofher education with great zeal, and with a strange mixture of humility andinsubordination. 

Milly was in favour of again attacking 'Beauty's' position on her return, and forcing a passage from this side; but I insisted on following the routeby which we had arrived, and so we got round the paling by the river, andwere treated to a provoking grin of defiance by 'Beauty, ' who was talkingacross the gate to a slim young man, arrayed in fustian, and with anodd-looking cap of rabbit-skin on his head, which, on seeing us, he pulledsheepishly to the side of his face next to us, as he lounged, with his armunder his chin, on the top bar of the gate. 

After our encounter of to-day, indeed, it was Miss 'Beauty's' wont toexhibit a kind of jeering disdain in her countenance whenever we passed. 

I think Milly would have engaged her again, had I not reminded her of herundertaking, and exerted my new authority. 

'Look at that sneak, Pegtop, there, going up the path to the mill. He makesbelief now he does not see us; but he does, though, only he's afraid we'lltell the Governor, and he thinks Governor won't give him his way with you. I hate that Pegtop: he stopped me o' riding the cows a year ago, he did. '

I thought Pegtop might have done worse. Indeed it was plain that a totalreformation was needed here; and I was glad to find that poor Milly seemedherself conscious of it; and that her resolution to become more like otherpeople of her station was not a mere spasm of mortification and jealousy, but a genuine and very zealous resolve. 

I had not half seen this old house of Bartram-Haugh yet. At first, indeed, I had but an imperfect idea of its extent. There was a range of rooms alongone side of the great gallery, with closed window-shutters, and the doorsgenerally locked. Old L'Amour grew cross when we went into them, althoughwe could see nothing; and Milly was afraid to open the windows--not thatany Bluebeard revelations were apprehended, but simply because she knewthat Uncle Silas's order was that things should be left undisturbed; andthis boisterous spirit stood in awe of him to a degree which his gentlemanners and apparent quietude rendered quite surprising. 

There were in this house, what certainly did not exist at Knowl, and whatI have never observed, thought they may possibly be found in other oldhouses--I mean, here and there, very high hatches, which we could onlypeep over by jumping in the air. They crossed the long corridors and greatgalleries; and several of them were turned across and locked, so as tointercept the passage, and interrupt our explorations. 

Milly, however, knew a queer little, very steep and dark back stair, whichreached the upper floor; so she and I mounted, and made a long ramblethrough rooms much lower and ruder in finish than the lordly chambers wehad left below. These commanded various views of the beautiful thoughneglected grounds; but on crossing a gallery we entered suddenly a chamber, which looked into a small and dismal quadrangle, formed by the inner wallsof this great house, and of course designed only by the architect to affordthe needful light and air to portions of the structure. 

I rubbed the window-pane with my handkerchief and looked out. Thesurrounding roof was steep and high. The walls looked soiled and dark. Thewindows lined with dust and dirt, and the window-stones were in placestufted with moss, and grass, and groundsel. An arched doorway had openedfrom the house into this darkened square, but it was soiled and dusty; andthe damp weeds that overgrew the quadrangle drooped undisturbed against it. It was plain that human footsteps tracked it little, and I gazed into thatblind and sinister area with a strange thrill and sinking. 

'This is the second floor--there is the enclosed court-yard'--I, as itwere, soliloquised. 

'What are you afraid of, Maud? you look as ye'd seen a ghost, ' exclaimedMilly, who came to the window and peeped over my shoulder. 

'It reminded me suddenly, Milly, of that frightful business. '

'What business, Maud?--what a plague are ye thinking on?' demanded Milly, rather amused. 

'It was in one of these rooms--maybe this--yes, it certainly _was_this--for see, the panelling has been pulled off the wall--that Mr. Charkekilled himself. '

I was staring ruefully round the dim chamber, in whose corners the shadowsof night were already gathering. 

'Charke!--what about him?--who's Charke?' asked Milly. 

'Why, you must have heard of him, ' said I. 

'Not as I'm aware on, ' answered she. 'And he killed himself, did he, hangedhimself, eh, or blowed his brains out?'

'He cut his throat in one of these rooms--_this_ one, I'm sure--for yourpapa had the wainscoting stripped from the wall to ascertain whether therewas any second door through which a murderer could have come; and you seethese walls are stripped, and bear the marks of the woodwork that has beenremoved, ' I answered. 

'Well, that _was_ awful! I don't know how they have pluck to cut theirthroats; if I was doing it, I'd like best to put a pistol to my head andfire, like the young gentleman did, they say, in Deadman's Hollow. But thefellows that cut their throats, they must be awful game lads, I'm thinkin', for it's a long slice, you know. '

'Don't, don't, Milly dear. Suppose we come away, ' I said, for the eveningwas deepening rapidly into night. 

'Hey and bury-me-wick, but here's the blood; don't you see a big blackcloud all spread over the floor hereabout, don't ye see?' Milly wasstooping over the spot, and tracing the outline of this, perhaps, imaginarymapping, in the air with her finger. 

'No, Milly, you could not see it: the floor is too dark, and it's all inshadow. It must be fancy; and perhaps, after all, this is not the room. '

'Well--I think, I'm _sure_ it _is_. Stand--just look. '

'We'll come in the morning, and if you are right we can see it better then. Come away, ' I said, growing frightened. 

And just as we stood up to depart, the white high-cauled cap and largesallow features of old L'Amour peeped in at the door. 

'Lawk! what brings you here?' cried Milly, nearly as much startled as I atthe intrusion. 

'What brings _you_ here, miss?' whistled L'Amour through her gums. 

'We're looking where Charke cut his throat, ' replied Milly. 

'Charke the devil!' said the old woman, with an odd mixture of scorn andfury. ''Tisn't his room; and come ye out of it, please. Master won't likewhen he hears how you keep pulling Miss Maud from one room to another, allthrough the house, up and down. '

She was gabbling sternly enough, but dropped a low courtesy as I passedher, and with a peaked and nodding stare round the room, the old womanclapped the door sharply, and locked it. 

'And who has been a talking about Charke--a pack o lies, I warrant. Is'pose you want to frighten Miss Maud here' (another crippled courtesy)'wi' ghosts and like nonsense. '

'You're out there: 'twas she told me; and much about it. Ghosts, indeed!I don't vally them, not I; if I did, I know who'd frighten me, ' and Millylaughed. 

The old woman stuffed the key in her pocket, and her wrinkled mouth poutedand receded with a grim uneasiness. 

'A harmless brat, and kind she is; but wild--wild--she will be wild. '

So whispered L'Amour in my ear, during the silence that followed, noddingshakily toward Milly over the banister, and she courtesied again as wedeparted, and shuffled off toward Uncle Silas's room. 

The Governor is queerish this evening, ' said Milly, when we were seated atour tea. 'You never saw him queerish, did you?'

'You must say what you mean, more plainly, Milly. You don't mean ill, Ihope?'

'Well! I don't know what it is; but he does grow very queersometimes--you'd think he was dead a'most, maybe two or three days andnights together. He sits all the time like an old woman in a swound. Well, well, it is awful!'

'Is he insensible when in that state?' I asked, a good deal alarmed. 

'I don't know; but it never signifies anything. It won't kill him, I dobelieve; but old L'Amour knows all about it. I hardly ever go into the roomwhen he's so, only when I'm sent for; and he sometimes wakes up and takes afancy to call for this one or that. One day he sent for Pegtop all the wayto the mill; and when he came, he only stared at him for a minute or two, and ordered him out o' the room. He's like a child a'most, when he's in oneo' them dazes. '

I always knew when Uncle Silas was 'queerish, ' by the injunctions of oldL'Amour, whistled and spluttered over the banister as we came up-stairs, to mind how we made a noise passing master's door; and by the sound ofmysterious to-ings and fro-ings about his room. 

I saw very little of him. He sometimes took a whim to have us breakfastwith him, which lasted perhaps for a week; and then the order of our livingwould relapse into its old routine. 

I must not forget two kind letters from Lady Knollys, who was detainedaway, and delighted to hear that I enjoyed my quiet life; and promised toapply, in person, to Uncle Silas, for permission to visit me. 

She was to be for the Christmas at Elverston, and that was only six milesaway from Bartram-Haugh, so I had the excitement of a pleasant lookforward. 

She also said that she would include poor Milly in her invitation; and avision of Captain Oakley rose before me, with his handsome gaze turned inwonder on poor Milly, for whom I had begun to feel myself responsible. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

_AN ARRIVAL AT DEAD OF NIGHT_

I have sometimes been asked why I wear an odd little turquois ring--whichto the uninstructed eye appears quite valueless and altogether an unworthycompanion of those jewels which flash insultingly beside it. It is a littlekeepsake, of which I became possessed about this time. 

'Come, lass, what name shall I give you?' cried Milly, one morning, bursting into my room in a state of alarming hilarity. 

'My own, Milly. '

'No, but you must have a nickname, like every one else. '

'Don't mind it, Milly. '

'Yes, but I will. Shall I call you Mrs. Bustle?'

'You shall do no such thing. '

'But you must have a name. '

'I refuse a name. '

'But I'll give you one, lass. '

'And _I_ won't have it. '

'But you can't help me christening you. '

'I can decline answering. '

'But I'll make you, ' said Milly, growing very red. 

Perhaps there was something provoking in my tone, for I certainly was verymuch disgusted at Milly's relapse into barbarism. 

'You can't, ' I retorted quietly. 

'See if I don't, and I'll give ye one twice as ugly. '

I smiled, I fear, disdainfully. 

'And I think you're a minx, and a slut, and a fool, ' she broke out, flushing scarlet. 

I smiled in the same unchristian way. 

'And I'd give ye a smack o' the cheek as soon as look at you. '

And she gave her dress a great slap, and drew near me, in her wrath. Ireally thought she was about tendering the ordeal of single combat. 

I made her, however, a paralysing courtesy, and, with immense dignity, sailed out of the room, and into Uncle Silas's study, where it happened wewere to breakfast that morning, and for several subsequent ones. 

During the meal we maintained the most dignified reserve; and I don't thinkeither so much as looked at the other. 

We had no walk together that day. 

I was sitting in the evening, quite alone, when Milly entered the room. Hereyes were red, and she looked very sullen. 

'I want your hand, cousin, ' she said, at the same time taking it by thewrist, and administering with it a sudden slap on her plump cheek, whichmade the room ring, and my fingers tingle; and before I had recovered frommy surprise, she had vanished. 

I called after her, but no answer; I pursued, but she was running too; andI quite lost her at the cross galleries. 

I did not see her at tea, nor before going to bed; but after I had fallenasleep I was awakened by Milly, in floods of tears. 

'Cousin Maud, will ye forgi' me--you'll never like me again, will ye? No--Iknow ye won't--I'm such a brute--I hate it--it's a shame. And here's aBanbury cake for you--I sent to the town for it, and some taffy--won't yeeat it? and here's a little ring--'tisn't as pretty as your own rings; andye'll wear it, maybe, for my sake--poor Milly's sake, before I was so badto ye--if ye forgi' me; and I'll look at breakfast, and if it's on yourfinger I'll know you're friends wi' me again; and if ye don't, I won'ttrouble you no more; and I think I'll just drown myself out o' the way, andyou'll never see wicked Milly no more. '

And without waiting a moment, leaving me only half awake, and with thesensations of dreaming, she scampered from the room, in her bare feet, witha petticoat about her shoulders. 

She had left her candle by my bed, and her little offerings on the coverletby me. If I had stood an atom less in terror of goblins than I did, Ishould have followed her, but I was afraid. I stood in my bare feet at mybedside, and kissed the poor little ring and put it on my finger, where ithas remained ever since and always shall. And when I lay down, longing formorning, the image of her pale, imploring, penitential face was before mefor hours; and I repented bitterly of my cool provoking ways, and thoughtmyself, I dare say justly, a thousand times more to blame than Milly. 

I searched in vain for her before breakfast. At that meal, however, we met, but in the presence of Uncle Silas, who, though silent and apathetic, wasformidable; and we, sitting at a table disproportionably large, under thecold, strange gaze of my guardian, talked only what was inevitable, andthat in low tones; for whenever Milly for a moment raised her voice, UncleSilas would wince, place his thin white fingers quickly over his ear, andlook as if a pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug and smile piteouslyinto vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, was not in the talking veinhimself--and that was not often--you may suppose there was very littlespoken in his presence. 

When Milly, across the table, saw the ring upon my finger, she, drawingin her breath, said, 'Oh!' and, with round eyes and mouth, she looked sodelighted; and she made a little motion, as if she was on the point ofjumping up; and then her poor face quivered, and she bit her lip; andstaring imploringly at me, her eyes filled fast with tears, which rolleddown her round penitential cheeks. 

I am sure I felt more penitent than she. I know I was crying and smiling, and longing to kiss her. I suppose we were very absurd; but it is well thatsmall matters can stir the affections so profoundly at a time of life whengreat troubles seldom approach us. 

When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of thewrestling ring as poor Milly bestowed on me, swaying me this way and that, and burying her face in my dress, and blubbering--

'I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and I such adevil; and I'll never call you a name, but Maud--my darling Maud. '

'You must, Milly--Mrs. Bustle. I'll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like. You must. ' I was blubbering like Milly, and hugging my best; and, indeed, Iwonder how we kept our feet. 

So Milly and I were better friends than ever. 

Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights, and long fireside gossipings at Bartram-Haugh. I was frightened at thefrequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject. Idid not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Milly's way oftalking about them. 

But one day, while in one of his 'queerish' states, he called for me, and Isaw him, and was unspeakably scared. 

In a white wrapper, he lay coiled in a great easy chair. I should havethought him dead, had I not been accompanied by old L'Amour, who knew everygradation and symptom of these strange affections. 

She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, and whispered--

'Don't make no noise, miss, till he talks; he'll come to for a bit, anon. '

Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like thatof an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions. 

There was a frown and smirk like that of idiotcy, and a strip of whiteeyeball was also disclosed. 

Suddenly, with a kind of chilly shudder, he opened his eyes wide, andscrewed his lips together, and blinked and stared on me with a fatuiseduncertainty, that gradually broke into a feeble smile. 

'Ah! the girl--Austin's child. Well, dear, I'm hardly able--I'll speakto-morrow--next day--it is tic--neuralgia, or something--_torture_--tellher. '

So, huddling himself together, he lay again in his great chair, with thesame inexpressible helplessness in his attitude, and gradually his faceresumed its dreadful cast. 

'Come away, miss: he's changed his mind; he'll not be fit to talk to younoways all day, maybe, ' said the old woman, again in a whisper. 

So forth we stole from the room, I unspeakably shocked. In fact, he lookedas if he were dying, and so, in my agitation, I told the crone, who, forgetting the ceremony with which she usually treated me, chuckled outderisively, 'A-dying is he? Well, he be like Saint Paul--he's bin a-dying daily thismany a day. '

I looked at her with a chill of horror. She did not care, I suppose, whatsort of feelings she might excite, for she went on mumbling sarcasticallyto herself. I had paused, and overcame my reluctance to speak to her again, for I was really very much frightened. 'Do you think he is in danger? Shallwe send for a doctor?' I whispered. 

'Law bless ye, the doctor knows all about it, miss. ' The old woman's facehad a gleam of that derision which is so shocking in the features offeebleness and age. 

'But it is a _fit_, it is paralytic, or something horrible--it can't be_safe_ to leave him to chance or nature to get through these terribleattacks. '

'There's no fear of him, 'tisn't no fits at all, he's nout the worse o't. Jest silly a bit now and again. It's been the same a dozen year and more;and the doctor knows all about it, ' answered the old woman sturdily. 'Andye'll find he'll be as mad as bedlam if ye make any stir about it. '

That night I talked the matter over with Mary Quince. 

'They're very dark, miss; but I think he takes a deal too much laudlum, 'said Mary. 

To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures. I have often spoken to medical men about them, since, but never could learnthat excessive use of opium could altogether account for them. It was, I believe, certain, however, that he did use that drug in startlingquantities. It was, indeed, sometimes a topic of complaint with him thathis neuralgia imposed this sad necessity upon him. 

The image of Uncle Silas, as I had seen him that day, troubled andaffrighted my imagination, as I lay in my bed; I had slept very well sincemy arrival at Bartram. So much of the day was passed in the open air, andin active exercise, that this was but natural. But that night I was nervousand wakeful, and it was past two o'clock when I fancied I heard the soundof horses and carriage-wheels on the avenue. 

Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to get up and peepfrom the window. My heart beat fast as I saw a post-chaise approach thecourt-yard. A front window was let down, and the postilion pulled up for afew seconds. 

In consequence of some directions received by him, I fancied he resumed hisroute at a walk, and so drew up at the hall-door, on the steps of which afigure awaited his arrival. I think it was old L'Amour, but I could not bequite certain. There was a lantern on the top of the balustrade, close bythe door. The chaise-lamps were lighted, for the night was rather dark. Abag and valise, as well as I could see, were pulled from the interior bythe post-boy, and a box from the top of the vehicle, and these were carriedinto the hall. 

I was obliged to keep my cheek against the window-pane to command a viewof the point of debarkation, and my breath upon the glass, which dimmed itagain almost as fast as I wiped it away, helped to obscure my vision. ButI saw a tall figure, in a cloak, get down and swiftly enter the house, butwhether male or female I could not discern. 

My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My uncle wasworse--was, in fact, dying; and this was the physician, too late summonedto his bedside. 

I listened for the ascent of the doctor, and his entrance at my uncle'sdoor, which, in the stillness of the night, I thought I might easily hear, but no sound reached me. I listened so for fully five minutes, butwithout result. I returned to the window, but the carriage and horses haddisappeared. 

I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince, and take counsel with her, andpersuade her to undertake a reconnoissance. The fact is, I was persuadedthat my uncle was in extremity, and I was quite wild to know the doctor'sopinion. But, after all, it would be cruel to summon the good soul from herrefreshing nap. So, as I began to feel very cold, I returned to my bed, where I continued to listen and conjecture until I fell asleep. 

In the morning, as was usual, before I was dressed, in came Milly. 

'How is Uncle Silas?' I eagerly enquired. 

'Old L'Amour says he's queerish still; but he's not so dull as yesterday, 'answered she. 

'Was not the doctor sent for?' I asked. 

'Was he? Well, that's odd; and she said never a word o't to me, ' answeredshe. 

'I'm asking only, ' said I. 

'I don't know whether he came or no, ' she replied; 'but what makes you takethat in your head?'

'A chaise arrived here between two and three o'clock last night. '

'Hey! and who told you?' Milly seemed all on a sudden highly interested. 

'I saw it, Milly; and some one, I fancy the doctor, came from it into thehouse. '

'Fudge, lass! who'd send for the doctor? 'Twasn't he, I tell you. What washe like?' said Milly. 

'I could only see clearly that he, or _she_, was tall, and wore a cloak, ' Ireplied. 

'Then 'twasn't him nor t'other I was thinking on, neither; and I'll behanged but I think it will be Cormoran, ' cried Milly, with a thoughtful rapwith her knuckle on the table. 

Precisely at this juncture a tapping came to the door. 

'Come in, ' said I. 

And old L'Amour entered the room, with a courtesy. 

'I came to tell Miss Quince her breakfast's ready, ' said the old lady. 

'Who came in the chaise, L'Amour?' demanded Milly. 

'What chaise?' spluttered the beldame tartly. 

'The chaise that came last night, past two o'clock, ' said Milly. 

'That's a lie, and a damn lie!' cried the beldame. 'There worn't no chaiseat the door since Miss Maud there come from Knowl. '

I stared at the audacious old menial who could utter such language. 

'Yes, there was a chaise, and Cormoran, as I think, be come in it, ' saidMilly, who seemed accustomed to L'Amour's daring address. 

'And there's another damn lie, as big as the t'other, ' said the crone, herhaggard and withered face flushing orange all over. 

'I beg you will not use such language in my room, ' I replied, very angrily. 'I saw the chaise at the door; your untruth signifies very little, butyour impertinence here I will not permit. Should it be repeated, I willassuredly complain to my uncle. '

The old woman flushed more fiercely as I spoke, and fixed her bleared glareon me, with a compression of her mouth that amounted to a wicked grimace. She resisted her angry impulse, however, and only chuckled a littlespitefully, saying, 'No offence, miss: it be a way we has in Derbyshire o' speaking our minds. No offence, miss, were meant, and none took, as I hopes, ' and she made meanother courtesy. 'And I forgot to tell you, Miss Milly, the master wantsyou this minute. '

So Milly, in mute haste, withdrew, followed closely by L'Amour. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

_DOCTOR BRYERLY EMERGES_

When Milly joined me at breakfast, her eyes were red and swollen. She wasstill sniffing with that little sobbing hiccough, which betrays, even werethere no other signs, recent violent weeping. She sat down quite silent. 

'Is he worse, Milly?' I enquired, anxiously. 

'No, nothing's wrong wi' him; he's right well, ' said Milly, fiercely. 

'What's the matter then, Milly dear?'

'The poisonous old witch! 'Twas just to tell the Gov'nor how I'd said 'twasCormoran that came by the po'shay last night. '

'And who is Cormoran?' I enquired. 

'Ay, there it is; I'd like to tell, and you want to hear--and I justdaren't, for he'll send me off right to a French school--hang it--hang themall!--if I do. '

'And why should Uncle Silas care?' said I, a good deal surprised. 

'They're a-tellin' lies. '

'Who?' said I. 

'L'Amour--that's who. So soon as she made her complaint of me, the Gov'norasked her, sharp enough, did anyone come last night, or a po'shay; and shewas ready to swear there was no one. Are ye quite sure, Maud, you reallydid see aught, or 'appen 'twas all a dream?'

'It was no dream, Milly; so sure as you are there, I saw exactly what Itold you, ' I replied. 

'Gov'nor won't believe it anyhow; and he's right mad wi' me; and hethreatens me he'll have me off to France; I wish 'twas under the sea. Ihate France--I do--like the devil. Don't you? They're always a-threateningme wi' France, if I dare say a word more about the po'shay, or--or anyone. '

I really was curious about Cormoran; but Cormoran was not to be definedto me by Milly; nor did she, in reality, know more than I respecting thearrival of the night before. 

One day I was surprised to see Doctor Bryerly on the stairs. I was standingin a dark gallery as he walked across the floor of the lobby to my uncle'sdoor, his hat on, and some papers in his hand. 

He did not see me; and when he had entered Uncle Silas's door, I went downand found Milly awaiting me in the hall. 

'So Doctor Bryerly is here, ' I said. 

'That's the thin fellow, wi' the sharp look, and the shiny black coat, thatwent up just now?' asked Milly. 

'Yes, he's gone into your papa's room, ' said I. 

''Appen 'twas he come 'tother night. He may be staying here, though we seehim seldom, for it's a barrack of a house--it is. '

The same thought had struck me for a moment, but was dismissed immediately. It certainly was _not_ Doctor Bryerly's figure which I had seen. 

So, without any new light gathered from this apparition, we went on ourway, and made our little sketch of the ruined bridge. We found the gatelocked as before; and, as Milly could not persuade me to climb it, we gotround the paling by the river's bank. 

While at our drawing, we saw the swarthy face, sooty locks, and oldweather-stained red coat of Zamiel, who was glowering malignly at usfrom among the trunks of the forest trees, and standing motionless as amonumental figure in the side aisle of a cathedral. When we looked again hewas gone. 

Although it was a fine mild day for the wintry season, we yet, cloaked aswe were, could not pursue so still an occupation as sketching for more thanten or fifteen minutes. As we returned, in passing a clump of trees, weheard a sudden outbreak of voices, angry and expostulatory; and saw, underthe trees, the savage old Zamiel strike his daughter with his stick twogreat blows, one of which was across the head. 'Beauty' ran only a shortdistance away, while the swart old wood-demon stumped lustily after her, cursing and brandishing his cudgel. 

My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could not speak; butin a moment more I screamed--

'You brute! How dare you strike the poor girl?'

She had only run a few steps, and turned about confronting him and us, hereyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering to suppress a burst ofweeping. Two little rivulets of blood were trickling over her temple. 

'I say, fayther, look at that, ' she said, with a strange tremulous smile, lifting her hand, which was smeared with blood. 

Perhaps he was ashamed, and the more enraged on that account, for hegrowled another curse, and started afresh to reach her, whirling his stickin the air. Our voices, however, arrested him. 

'My uncle shall hear of your brutality. The poor girl!'

'Strike him, Meg, if he does it again; and pitch his leg into the riverto-night, when he's asleep. '

'I'd serve _you_ the same;' and out came an oath. 'You'd have her lick herfayther, would ye? Look out!'

And he wagged his head with a scowl at Milly, and a flourish of his cudgel. 

'Be quiet, Milly, ' I whispered, for Milly was preparing for battle; and Iagain addressed him with the assurance that, on reaching home, I would tellmy uncle how he had treated the poor girl. 

''Tis you she may thank for't, a wheedling o' her to open that gate, ' hesnarled. 

'That's a lie; we went round by the brook, ' cried Milly. 

I did not think proper to discuss the matter with him; and looking veryangry, and, I thought, a little put out, he jerked and swayed himself outof sight. I merely repeated my promise of informing my uncle as he went, towhich, over his shoulder, he bawled--

'Silas won't mind ye _that_;' snapping his horny finger and thumb. 

The girl remained where she had stood, wiping the blood off roughly withthe palm of her hand, and looking at it before she rubbed it on her apron. 'My poor girl, ' I said, 'you must not cry. I'll speak to my uncle aboutyou. '

But she was not crying. She raised her head, and looked at us a littleaskance, with a sullen contempt, I thought. 

'And you must have these apples--won't you?' We had brought in our baskettwo or three of those splendid apples for which Bartram was famous. 

I hesitated to go near her, these Hawkeses, Beauty and Pegtop, were suchsavages. So I rolled the apples gently along the ground to her feet. 

She continued to look doggedly at us with the same expression, and kickedaway the apples sullenly that approached her feet. Then, wiping her templeand forehead in her apron, without a word, she turned and walked slowlyaway. 

'Poor thing! I'm afraid she leads a hard life. What strange, repulsivepeople they are!'

When we reached home, at the head of the great staircase old L'Amour wasawaiting me; and with a courtesy, and very respectfully, she informed methat the Master would be happy to see me. 

Could it be about my evidence as to the arrival of the mysterious chaisethat he summoned me to this interview? Gentle as were his ways, there wassomething undefinable about Uncle Silas which inspired fear; and I shouldhave liked few things less than meeting his gaze in the character of aculprit. 

There was an uncertainty, too, as to the state in which I might find him, and a positive horror of beholding him again in the condition in which Ihad last seen him. 

I entered the room, then, in some trepidation, but was instantly relieved. Uncle Silas was in the same health apparently, and, as nearly as I couldrecollect it, in precisely the same rather handsome though negligent garbin which I had first seen him. 

Doctor Bryerly--what a marked and vulgar contrast, and yet, somehow, howreassuring!--sat at the table near him, and was tying up papers. His eyeswatched me, I thought, with an anxious scrutiny as I approached; and Ithink it was not until I had saluted him that he recollected suddenly thathe had not seen me before at Bartram, and stood up and greeted me in hisusual abrupt and somewhat familiar way. It was vulgar and not cordial, andyet it was honest and indefinably kind. Up rose my uncle, that strangelyvenerable, pale portrait, in his loose Rembrandt black velvet. How gentle, how benignant, how unearthly, and inscrutable!

'I need not say how she is. Those lilies and roses, Doctor Bryerly, speaktheir own beautiful praises of the air of Bartram. I almost regret that hercarriage will be home so soon. I only hope it may not abridge her rambles. It positively does me good to look at her. It is the glow of flowers inwinter, and the fragrance of a field which the Lord hath blessed. '

'Country air, Miss Ruthyn, is a right good kitchen to country fare. I liketo see young women eat heartily. You have had some pounds of beef andmutton since I saw you last, ' said Dr. Bryerly. 

And this sly speech made, he scrutinised my countenance in silence ratherembarrassingly. 

'My system, Doctor Bryerly, as a disciple of Aesculapius you willapprove--health first, accomplishment afterwards. The Continent is thebest field for elegant instruction, and we must see the world a little, by-and-by, Maud; and to me, if my health be spared, there would be anunspeakable though a melancholy charm in the scenes where so many happy, though so many wayward and foolish, young days were passed; and I think Ishould return to these picturesque solitudes with, perhaps, an increasedrelish. You remember old Chaulieu's sweet lines--

 Désert, aimable solitude, Séjour du calme et de la paix, Asile où n'entrèrent jamais Le tumulte et l'inquiétude. 

I can't say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated these sylvanfastnesses; but the tumults of the world, thank Heaven!--never. '

There was a sly scepticism, I thought, in Doctor Bryerly's sharp face; andhardly waiting for the impressive 'never, ' he said--

'I forgot to ask, who is your banker?'

'Oh! Bartlet and Hall, Lombard Street, ' answered Uncle Silas, dryly andshortly. 

Dr. Bryerly made a note of it, with an expression of face which seemed, with a sly resolution, to say, 'You shan't come the anchorite over me. '

I saw Uncle Silas's wild and piercing eye rest suspiciously on me for amoment, as if to ascertain whether I felt the spirit of Doctor Bryerly'salmost interruption; and, nearly at the same moment, stuffing his papersinto his capacious coat pockets, Doctor Bryerly rose and took his leave. 

When he was gone, I bethought me that now was a good opportunity of makingmy complaint of Dickon Hawkes. Uncle Silas having risen, I hesitated, andbegan, 'Uncle, may I mention an occurrence--which I witnessed?'

'Certainly, child, ' he answered, fixing his eye sharply on me. I reallythink he fancied that the conversation was about to turn upon the phantomchaise. 

So I described the scene which had shocked Milly and me, an hour or so ago, in the Windmill Wood. 

'You see, my dear child, they are rough persons; their ideas are not ours;their young people must be chastised, and in a way and to a degree that wewould look upon in a serious light. I've found it a bad plan interfering instrictly domestic misunderstandings, and should rather not. '

'But he struck her violently on the head, uncle, with a heavy cudgel, andshe was bleeding very fast. '

'Ah?' said my uncle, dryly. 

'And only that Milly and I deterred him by saying that we would certainlytell you, he would have struck her again; and I really think if he goes ontreating her with so much violence and cruelty he may injure her seriously, or perhaps kill her. '

'Why, you romantic little child, people in that rank of life thinkabsolutely nothing of a broken head, ' answered Uncle Silas, in the sameway. 

'But is it not horrible brutality, uncle?'

'To be sure it is brutality; but then you must remember they are brutes, and it suits them, ' said he. 

I was disappointed. I had fancied that Uncle Silas's gentle nature wouldhave recoiled from such an outrage with horror and indignation; andinstead, here he was, the apologist of that savage ruffian, Dickon Hawkes. 

'And he is always so rude and impertinent to Milly and to me, ' I continued. 'Oh! impertinent to you--that's another matter. I must see to that. Nothingmore, my dear child?'

'Well, there _was_ nothing more. '

'He's a useful servant, Hawkes; and though his looks are not prepossessing, and his ways and language rough, yet he is a very kind father, and a mosthonest man--a thoroughly moral man, though severe--a very rough diamondthough, and has no idea of the refinements of polite society. I venture tosay he honestly believes that he has been always unexceptionably polite toyou, so we must make allowances. '

And Uncle Silas smoothed my hair with his thin aged hand, and kissed myforehead. 

'Yes, we must make allowances; we must be kind. What says the Book?--"Judgenot, that ye be not judged. " Your dear father acted upon that maxim--sonoble and so awful--and I strive to do so. Alas! dear Austin, _longointervalle_, far behind! and you are removed--my example and my help; youare gone to your rest, and I remain beneath my burden, still marching on bybleak and alpine paths, under the awful night. 

 O nuit, nuit douloureuse! O toi, tardive aurore! Viens-tu? vas-tu venir? es-tu bien loin encore?

And repeating these lines of Chenier, with upturned eyes, and one handlifted, and an indescribable expression of grief and fatigue, he sankstiffly into his chair, and remained mute, with eyes closed for some time. Then applying his scented handkerchief to them hastily, and looking verykindly at me, he said--

'Anything more, dear child?'

'Nothing, uncle, thank you, very much, only about that man, Hawkes; I daresay that he does not mean to be so uncivil as he is, but I am really afraidof him, and he makes our walks in that direction quite unpleasant. '

'I understand quite, my dear. I will see to it; and you must remember thatnothing is to be allowed to vex my beloved niece and ward during her stayat Bartram--nothing that her old kinsman, Silas Ruthyn, can remedy. '

So with a tender smile, and a charge to shut the door 'perfectly, butwithout clapping it, ' he dismissed me. Doctor Bryerly had not slept atBartram, but at the little inn in Feltram, and he was going direct toLondon, as I afterwards learned. 

'Your ugly doctor's gone away in a fly, ' said Milly, as we met on thestairs, she running up, I down. 

On reaching the little apartment which was our sitting-room, however, Ifound that she was mistaken; for Doctor Bryerly, with his hat and a greatpair of woollen gloves on, and an old Oxford grey surtout that showed hislank length to advantage, buttoned all the way up to his chin, had set downhis black leather bag on the table, and was reading at the window a littlevolume which I had borrowed from my uncle's library. 

It was Swedenborg's account of the other worlds, Heaven and Hell. 

He closed it on his finger as I entered, and without recollecting to removehis hat, he made a step or two towards me with his splay, creaking boots. With a quick glance at the door, he said--

'Glad to see you alone for a minute--very glad. '

But his countenance, on the contrary, looked very anxious. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

_A MIDNIGHT DEPARTURE_

'I'm going this minute--I--I want to know'--another glance at thedoor--'are you really quite comfortable here?'

'Quite, ' I answered promptly. 

'You have only your cousin's company?' he continued, glancing at the table, which was laid for two. 

'Yes; but Milly and I are very happy together. '

'That's very nice; but I think there are no teachers, you see--painters, and singers, and that sort of thing that is usual with young ladies. Noteachers of that kind--of _any_ kind--are there?' 'No; my uncle thinks itbetter I should lay in a store of health, he says. '

'I know; and the carriage and horses have not come; how soon are theyexpected?'

'I really can't say, and I assure you I don't much care. I think runningabout great fun. '

'You walk to church?'

'Yes; Uncle Silas's carriage wants a new wheel, he told me. '

'Ay, but a young woman of your rank, you know, it is not usual she shouldbe without the use of a carriage. Have you horses to ride?'

I shook my head. 

'Your uncle, you know, has a very liberal allowance for your maintenanceand education. '

I remembered something in the will about it, and Mary Quince was constantlygrumbling that 'he did not spend a pound a week on our board. '

I answered nothing, but looked down. 

Another glance at the door from Doctor Bryerly's sharp black eyes. 

'Is he kind to you?'

'Very kind--most gentle and affectionate. '

'Why doesn't he keep company with you? Does he ever dine with you, or drinktea, or talk to you? Do you see much of him?'

'He is a miserable invalid--his hours and regimen are peculiar. IndeedI wish very much you would consider his case; he is, I believe, ofteninsensible for a long time, and his mind in a strange feeble statesometimes. '

'I dare say--worn out in his young days; and I saw that preparation ofopium in his bottle--he takes too much. '

'Why do you think so, Doctor Bryerly?'

'It's made on water: the spirit interferes with the use of it beyond acertain limit. You have no idea what those fellows can swallow. Read the"Opium Eater. " I knew two cases in which the quantity exceeded De Quincy's. Aha! it's new to you?' and he laughed quietly at my simplicity. 

'And what do you think his complaint is?' I asked. 

'Pooh! I haven't a notion; but, probably, one way or another, he has beenall his days working on his nerves and his brain. These men of pleasure, who have no other pursuit, use themselves up mostly, and pay a smart pricefor their sins. And so he's kind and affectionate, but hands you over toyour cousin and the servants. Are his people civil and obliging?'

'Well, I can't say much for them; there is a man named Hawkes, and hisdaughter, who are very rude, and even abusive sometimes, and say they haveorders from my uncle to shut us out from a portion of the grounds; but Idon't believe that, for Uncle Silas never alluded to it when I was makingmy complaint of them to-day. '

'From what part of the grounds is that?' asked Doctor Bryerly, sharply. 

I described the situation as well as I could. 

'Can we see it from this?' he asked, peeping from the window. 

'Oh, no. '

Doctor Bryerly made a note in his pocket-book here, and I said--

'But I am really quite sure it was a story of Dickon's, he is such a surly, disobliging man. '

'And what sort is that old servant that came in and out of his room?'

'Oh, that is old L'Amour, ' I answered, rather indirectly, and forgettingthat I was using Milly's nickname. 

'And is _she_ civil?' he asked. 

No, she certainly was not; a most disagreeable old woman, with a vein ofwickedness. I thought I had heard her swearing. 

'They don't seem to be a very engaging lot, ' said Doctor Bryerly;' butwhere there's one, there will be more. See here, I was just reading apassage, ' and he opened the little volume at the place where his fingermarked it, and read for me a few sentences, the purport of which I wellremember, although, of course, the words have escaped me. 

It was in that awful portion of the book which assumes to describe thecondition of the condemned; and it said that, independently of the physicalcauses in that state operating to enforce community of habitation, and anisolation from superior spirits, there exist sympathies, aptitudes, and necessities which would, of themselves, induce that depravedgregariousness, and isolation too. 'And what of the rest of the servants, are they better?' he resumed. 

We saw little or nothing of the others, except of old 'Giblets, ' thebutler, who went about like a little automaton of dry bones, poking hereand there, and whispering and smiling to himself as he laid the cloth; andseeming otherwise quite unconscious of an external world. 

'This room is not got up like Mr. Ruthyn's: does he talk of furnishings andmaking things a little smart? No! Well, I must say, I think he might. '

Here there was a little silence, and Doctor Bryerly, with his accustomedsimultaneous glance at the door, said in low, cautious tones, verydistinctly--

'Have you been thinking at all over that matter again, I mean about gettingyour uncle to forego his guardianship? I would not mind his first refusal. You could make it worth his while, unless he--that is--unless he's veryunreasonable indeed; and I think you would consult your interest, MissRuthyn, by doing so and, if possible, getting out of this place. '

'But I have not thought of it at all; I am much happier here than I had atall expected, and I am very fond of my cousin Milly. '

'How long have you been here exactly?'

I told him. It was some two or three months. 

'Have you seen your other cousin yet--the young gentleman?'

'No. '

'H'm! Aren't you very lonely?' he enquired. 

'We see no visitors here; but that, you know, I was prepared for. '

Doctor Bryerly read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently and peevishly, and tapped the sole lightly on the ground. 

'Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You'd be pleasantersomewhere else--with Lady Knollys, for instance, eh?'

'Well, _there_ certainly. But I am very well here: really the time passesvery pleasantly; and my uncle is so kind. I have only to mention anythingthat annoys me, and he will see that it is remedied: he is alwaysimpressing that on me. '

'Yes, it is not a fit place for you, ' said Doctor Bryerly. 'Of course, about your uncle, ' he resumed, observing my surprised look, 'it is allright: but he's quite helpless, you know. At all events, _think_ about it. Here's my address--Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, M. D. , 17 King Street, CoventGarden, London--don't lose it, mind, ' and he tore the leaf out of hisnote-book. 

'Here's my fly at the door, and you must--you must' (he was looking at hiswatch)--'mind you _must_ think of it seriously; and so, you see, don't letanyone see that. You'll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best waywill be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know; anddon't put my name--you'll remember that--only the rest of the address; andburn this. Quince is with you?'

'Yes, ' I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say. 

'Well, don't let her go; it's a bad sign if they wish it. Don't consent, mind; but just tip me a hint and you'll have me down. And any letters youget from Lady Knollys, you know, for she's very plain-spoken, you'd betterburn them off-hand. And I've stayed too long, though; mind what I say, scratch it with a pin, and burn that, and not a word to a mortal about it. Good-bye; oh, I was taking away your book. '

And so, in a fuss, with a slight shake of the hand, getting up hisumbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room; and in a minutemore, I heard the sound of his vehicle as it drove away. 

I looked after it with a sigh; the uneasy sensations which I hadexperienced respecting my sojourn at Bartram-Haugh were re-awakened. 

My ugly, vulgar, true friend was disappearing beyond those gigantic limetrees which hid Bartram from the eyes of the outer world. The fly, with thedoctor's valise on top, vanished, and I sighed an anxious sigh. The shadowof the over-arching trees contracted, and I felt helpless and forsaken; andglancing down the torn leaf, Doctor Bryerly's address met my eye, betweenmy fingers. 

I slipt it into my breast, and ran up-stairs stealthily, trembling lest theold woman should summon me again, at the head of the stairs, into UncleSilas's room, where under his gaze, I fancied, I should be sure to betraymyself. 

But I glided unseen and safely by, entered my room, and shut my door. Solistening and working, I, with my scissors' point, scratched the addresswhere Doctor Bryerly had advised. Then, in positive terror, lest some oneshould even knock during the operation, I, with a match, consumed to ashesthe tell-tale bit of paper. 

Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensations ofhaving a secret to keep. I fancy the pain of this solitary liability wasdisproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally very open andvery nervous. I was always on the point of betraying it _apropos desbottes_--always reproaching myself for my duplicity; and in constant terrorwhen honest Mary Quince approached the press, or good-natured Milly madeher occasional survey of the wonders of my wardrobe. I would have givenanything to go and point to the tiny inscription, and say:--'This is DoctorBryerly's address in London. I scratched it with my scissors' point, takingevery precaution lest anyone--you, my good friends, included--shouldsurprise me. I have ever since kept this secret to myself, and trembledwhenever your frank kind faces looked into the press. There--you at lastknow all about it. Can you ever forgive my deceit?'

But I could not make up my mind to reveal it; nor yet to erase theinscription, which was my alternative thought. Indeed I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived, in my ordinary mood. High excitement orpassion only can inspire me with decision. Under the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave. 

'Some one left here last night, I think, Miss, ' said Mary Quince, with amysterious nod, one morning. ''Twas two o'clock, and I was bad with thetoothache, and went down to get a pinch o' red pepper--leaving the candlea-light here lest you should awake. When I was coming up--as I was crossingthe lobby, at the far end of the long gallery--what should I hear, but ahorse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet like. So I looksout o' the window; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay, and a fellah a-pullin' a box up o' top; and out comes a walise and a bag;and I think it was old Wyat, please'm, that Miss Milly calls L'Amour, thatstood in the doorway a-talking to the driver. '

'And who got into the chaise, Mary?' I asked. 

'Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was bad, and me soawful cold; I gave it up at last, and came back to bed, for I could not sayhow much longer they might wait. And you'll find, Miss, 'twill be kep' asecret, like the shay as you saw'd, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways, and secrets; and old Wyat--she does tell stories, don't she?--and she asought to be partickler, seein' her time be short now, and she so old. It isawful, an old un like that telling such crams as she do. '

Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We bothagreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whosearrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the chaise had drawn upat the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house; and, nodoubt, driven away by the back road. 

Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was very provoking, however, that Mary Quince had not had resolution to wait for the appearanceof the traveller. We all agreed, however, that we were to observe a strictsilence, and that even to Wyat--L'Amour I had better continue to callher--Mary Quince was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however, that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly adhered tothis self-denying resolve. 

But cheerful wintry suns and frosty skies, long nights, and brilliantstarlight, with good homely fires in our snuggery--gossipings, stories, short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always beautifulscenery of Bartram-Haugh, and, above all, the unbroken tenor of our life, which had fallen into a serene routine, foreign to the idea of dangeror misadventure, gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which myinterview with Doctor Bryerly had so powerfully resuscitated. 

My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to hercountry-house; and an active diplomacy, through the post-office, wasnegotiating the re-opening of friendly relations between the courts ofElverston and of Bartram. 

At length, one fine day, Cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, with her cloakand bonnet on, and her colour fresh from the shrewd air of the Derbyshirehills, stood suddenly before me in our sitting-room. Our meeting was thatof two school-companions long separated. Cousin Monica was always a girl inmy eyes. 

What a hug it was; what a shower of kisses and ejaculations, enquiriesand caresses! At last I pressed her down into a chair, and, laughing, shesaid--

'You have no idea what self-denial I have exercised to bring this visitabout. I, who detest writing, have actually written five letters to Silas;and I don't think I said a single impertinent thing in one of them! What awonderful little old thing your butler is! I did not know what to make ofhim on the steps. Is he a struldbrug, or a fairy, or only a ghost? Where onearth did your uncle pick him up? I'm sure he came in on All Hallows E'en, to answer an incantation--not your future husband, I hope--and he'll vanishsome night into gray smoke, and whisk sadly up the chimney. He's the mostvenerable little thing I ever beheld in my life. I leaned back in thecarriage and thought I should absolutely die of laughing. He's gone up toprepare your uncle for my visit; and I really am very glad, for I'm sure Ishall look as young as Hebe after _him_. But who is this? Who are you, mydear?'

This was addressed to poor Milly, who stood at the corner of thechimney-piece, staring with her round eyes and plump cheeks in fear andwonder upon the strange lady. 

'How stupid of me, ' I exclaimed. 'Milly, dear, this is your cousin, LadyKnollys. '

'And so _you_ are Millicent. Well, dear, I am very glad to see you. ' AndCousin Monica was on her feet again in an instant, with Milly's hand verycordially in hers; and she gave her a kiss upon each cheek, and patted herhead. 

Milly, I must mention, was a much more presentable figure than when I firstencountered her. Her dresses were at least a quarter of a yard longer. Though very rustic, therefore, she was not so barbarously grotesque, by anymeans. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

_COUSIN MONICA AND UNCLE SILAS MEET_

Cousin Monica, with her hands upon Milly's shoulders, looked amusedly andkindly in her face. 'And, ' said she, 'we must be very good friends--youfunny creature, you and I. I'm allowed to be the most saucy old woman inDerbyshire--quite incorrigibly privileged; and nobody is ever affrontedwith me, so I say the most shocking things constantly. '

'I'm a bit that way, myself; and I think, ' said poor Milly, making aneffort, and growing very red; she quite lost her head at that point, andwas incompetent to finish the sentiment she had prefaced. 

'You think? Now, take my advice, and never wait to think my dear; talkfirst, and think afterwards, that is my way; though, indeed, I can't sayI ever think at all. It is a very cowardly habit. Our cold-blooded cousinMaud, there, thinks sometimes; but it is always such a failure that Iforgive her. I wonder when your little pre-Adamite butler will return. Hespeaks the language of the Picts and Ancient Britons, I dare say, and yourfather requires a little time to translate him. And, Milly dear, I am veryhungry, so I won't wait for your butler, who would give me, I suppose, oneof the cakes baked by King Alfred, and some Danish beer in a skull; butI'll ask you for a little of that nice bread and butter. '

With which accordingly Lady Knollys was quickly supplied; but it did not atall impede her utterance. 

'Do you think, girls, you could be ready to come away with me, if Silasgives leave, in an hour or two? I should so like to take you both home withme to Elverston. '

'How delightful! you darling, ' cried I, embracing and kissing her; 'for mypart, I should be ready in five minutes; what do you say, Milly?'

Poor Milly's wardrobe, I am afraid, was more portable than handsome; andshe looked horribly affrighted, and whispered in my ear--

'My best petticoat is away at the laundress; say in a week, Maud. '

'What does she say?' asked Lady Knollys. 

'She fears she can't be ready, ' I answered, dejectedly. 

'There's a deal of my slops in the wash, ' blurted out poor Milly, staringstraight at Lady Knollys. 

'In the name of wonder, what does my cousin mean?' asked Lady Knollys. 

'Her things have not come home yet from the laundress, ' I replied; and atthis moment our wondrous old butler entered to announce to Lady Knollysthat his master was ready to receive her, whenever she was disposed tofavour him; and also to make polite apologies for his being compelled, byhis state of health, to give her the trouble of ascending to his room. 

So Cousin Monica was at the door in a moment, over her shoulder calling tous, 'Come, girls. '

'Please, not yet, my lady--you alone; and he requests the young ladies willbe in the way, as he will send for them presently. '

I began to admire poor 'Giblets' as the wreck of a tolerably respectableservant. 

'Very good; perhaps it is better we should kiss and be friends in privatefirst, ' said Cousin Knollys, laughing; and away she went under the guidanceof the mummy. 

I had an account of this _tête-à-tête_ afterwards from Lady Knollys. 

'When I saw him, my dear, ' she said, 'I could hardly believe my eyes; suchwhite hair--such a white face--such mad eyes--such a death-like smile. When I saw him last, his hair was dark; he dressed himself like a modernEnglishman; and he really preserved a likeness to the full-length portraitat Knowl, that you fell in love with, you know; but, angels and ministersof grace! such a spectre! I asked myself, is it necromancy, or is itdelirium tremens that has reduced him to this? And said he, with thatodious smile, that made me fancy myself half insane--

'"You see a change, Monica. "

'What a sweet, gentle, insufferable voice he has! Somebody once told meabout the tone of a glass flute that made some people hysterical to listento, and I was thinking of it all the time. There was always a peculiarquality in his voice. 

'"I do see a change, Silas, " I said at last; "and, no doubt, so do you inme--a great change. "

'"There has been time enough to work a greater than I observe in you sinceyou last honoured me with a visit, " said he. 

'I think he was at his old sarcasms, and meant that I was the sameimpertinent minx he remembered long ago, uncorrected by time; and so I am, and he must not expect compliments from old Monica Knollys. 

'"It is a long time, Silas; but that, you know, is not my fault, " said I. 

'"Not your fault, my dear--your instinct. We are all imitative creatures:the great people ostracised me, and the small ones followed. We are verylike turkeys, we have so much good sense and so much generosity. Fortune, in a freak, wounded my head, and the whole brood were upon me, pecking andgobbling, gobbling and pecking, and you among them, dear Monica. It wasn'tyour fault, only your instinct, so I quite forgive you; but no wonder thepeckers wear better than the pecked. You are robust; and I, what I am. "

'"Now, Silas, I have not come here to quarrel. If we quarrel now, mind, wecan never make it up--we are too old, so let us forget all we can, and tryto forgive something; and if we can do neither, at all events let there betruce between us while I am here. "

'"My personal wrongs I can quite forgive, and I do, Heaven knows, from myheart; but there are things which ought not to be forgiven. My childrenhave been ruined by it. I may, by the mercy of Providence, be yet set rightin the world, and so soon as that time comes, I will remember, and Iwill act; but my children--you will see that wretched girl, mydaughter--education, society, all would come too late--my children havebeen ruined by it. "

'"I have not done it; but I know what you mean, " I said. "You menacelitigation whenever you have the means; but you forget that Austin placedyou under promise, when he gave you the use of this house and place, neverto disturb my title to Elverston. So there is my answer, if you mean that. "

'"I mean what I mean, " he replied, with his old smile. 

'"You mean then, " said I, "that for the pleasure of vexing me withlitigation, you are willing to forfeit your tenure of this house andplace. "

'"Suppose I _did_ mean precisely that, why should I forfeit anything?My beloved brother, by his will, has given me a right to the use ofBartram-Haugh for my life, and attached no absurd condition of the kind youfancy to his gift. "

'Silas was in one of his vicious old moods, and liked to menace me. Hisvindictiveness got the better of his craft; but he knows as well as I dothat he never could succeed in disturbing the title of my poor dear HarryKnollys; and I was not at all alarmed by his threats; and I told him so, ascoolly as I speak to you now. 

'"Well, Monica, " he said, "I have weighed you in the balance, and you arenot found wanting. For a moment the old man possessed me: the thought ofmy children, of past unkindness, and present affliction and disgrace, exasperated me, and I was mad. It was but for a moment--the galvanic spasmof a corpse. Never was breast more dead than mine to the passions andambitions of the world. They are not for white locks like these, nor fora man who, for a week in every month, lies in the gate of death. Will youshake hands? _Here_--I _do_ strike a truce; and I _do_ forget and forgive_everything_. "

'I don't know what he meant by this scene. I have no idea whether he wasacting, or lost his head, or, in fact, why or how it occurred; but I amglad, darling, that, unlike myself, I was calm, and that a quarrel has notbeen forced upon me. '

When our turn came and we were summoned to the presence, Uncle Silas wasquite as usual; but Cousin Monica's heightened colour, and the flash of hereyes, showed plainly that something exciting and angry had occurred. 

Uncle Silas commented in his own vein upon the effect of Bartram air andliberty, all he had to offer; and called on me to say how I liked them. Andthen he called Milly to him, kissed her tenderly, smiled sadly upon her, and turning to Cousin Monica, said--

'This is my daughter Milly--oh! she has been presented to you down-stairs, has she? You have, no doubt, been interested by her. As I told her cousinMaud, though I am not yet quite a Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, she is a veryfinished Miss Hoyden. Are not you, my poor Milly? You owe your distinction, my dear, to that line of circumvallation which has, ever since your birth, intercepted all civilisation on its way to Bartram. You are much obliged, Milly, to everybody who, whether naturally or _un_-naturally, turned a sodin that invisible, but impenetrable, work. For your accomplishments--rathersingular than fashionable--you are indebted, in part, to your cousin, LadyKnollys. Is not she, Monica? _Thank_ her, Milly. '

'This is your _truce_, Silas, ' said Lady Knollys, with a quiet sharpness. 'I think, Silas Ruthyn, you want to provoke me to speak in a way beforethese young creatures which we should all regret. '

'So my badinage excites your temper, Monnie. Think how you _would_ feel, then, if I had found you by the highway side, mangled by robbers, and setmy foot upon your throat, and spat in your face. But--stop this. Why have Isaid this? simply to emphasize my forgiveness. See, girls, Lady Knollys andI, cousins long estranged, forget and forgive the past, and join hands overits buried injuries. '

'Well, _be_ it so; only let us have done with ironies and covert taunts. '

And with these words their hands were joined; and Uncle Silas, after he hadreleased hers, patted and fondled it with his, laughing icily and very lowall the time. 

'I wish so much, dear Monica, ' he said, when this piece of silent by-playwas over, 'that I could ask you to stay to-night; but absolutely I have nota bed to offer, and even if I had, I fear my suit would hardly prevail. '

Then came Lady Knollys' invitation for Milly and me. He was very muchobliged; he smiled over it a great deal, meditating. I thought he waspuzzled; and amid his smiles, his wild eyes scanned Cousin Monica's frankface once or twice suspiciously. 

There was a difficulty--an _undefined_ difficulty--about letting us go thatday; but on a future one--soon--_very_ soon--he would be most happy. 

Well, there was an end of that little project, for to-day at least; andCousin Monica was too well-bred to urge it beyond a certain point. 

'Milly, my dear, will you put on your hat and show me the grounds about thehouse? May she, Silas? I should like to renew my acquaintance. '

'You'll see them sadly neglected, Monnie. A poor man's pleasure groundsmust rely on Nature, and trust to her for effects. Where there is finetimber, however, and abundance of slope, and rock, and hollow, we sometimesgain in picturesqueness what we lose by neglect in luxury. '

Then, as Cousin Monica said she would cross the grounds by a path, and meether carriage at a point to which we would accompany her, and so make herway home, she took leave of Uncle Silas; a ceremony whereat--without, Ithought, much zeal at either side--a kiss took place. 

'Now, girls!' said Cousin Knollys, when we were fairly in motion over thegrass, 'what do you say--will he let you come--yes or no? I can't say, butI think, dear, '--this to Milly--' he ought to let you see a little more ofthe world than appears among the glens and bushes of Bartram. Very prettythey are, like yourself; but very wild, and very little seen. Where is yourbrother, Milly; is not he older than you?'

'I don't know where; and he is older by six years and a bit. '

By-and-by, when Milly was gesticulating to frighten some herons by theriver's brink into the air, Cousin Monica said confidentially to me--

'He has run away, I'm told--I wish I could believe it--and enlisted in aregiment going to India, perhaps the best thing for him. Did you see himhere before his judicious self-banishment?'

'No. '

'Well, I suppose you have had no loss. Doctor Bryerly says from all he canlearn he is a very bad young man. And now tell me, dear, _is_ Silas kind toyou?'

'Yes, always gentle, just as you saw him to-day; but we don't see a greatdeal of him--very little, in fact. '

'And how do you like your life and the people?' she asked. 

'My life, very well; and the people, _pretty_ well. There's an old women wedon't like, old Wyat, she is cross and mysterious and tells untruths; but Idon't think she is dishonest--so Mary Quince says--and that, you know, is apoint; and there is a family, father and daughter, called Hawkes, who livein the Windmill Wood, who are perfect savages, though my uncle says theydon't mean it; but they are very disagreeable, rude people; and except themwe see very little of the servants or other people. But there has been amysterious visit; some one came late at night, and remained for some days, though Milly and I never saw them, and Mary Quince saw a chaise at theside-door at two o'clock at night. '

Cousin Monica was so highly interested at this that she arrested her walkand stood facing me, with her hand on my arm, questioning and listening, and lost, as it seemed, in dismal conjecture. 

'It is not pleasant, you know, ' I said. 

'No, it is not pleasant, ' said Lady Knollys, very gloomily. 

And just then Milly joined us, shouting to us to look at the herons flying;so Cousin Monica did, and smiled and nodded in thanks to Milly, and wasagain silent and thoughtful as we walked on. 

'You are to come to me, mind, both of you girls, ' she said, abruptly;' you_shall_. I'll manage it. '

When silence returned, and Milly ran away once more to try whether the oldgray trout was visible in the still water under the bridge, Cousin Monicasaid to me in a low tone, looking hard at me--

'You've not seen anything to frighten you, Maud? Don't look so alarmed, dear, ' she added with a little laugh, which was not very merry, however. 'Idon't mean frighten in any awful sense--in fact, I did not mean frightenat all. I meant--I can't exactly express it--anything to vex, or make youuncomfortable; have you?'

'No, I can't say I have, except that room in which Mr. Charke was founddead. '

'Oh! you saw that, did you?--I should like to see it so much. Your bedroomis not near it?'

'Oh, no; on the floor beneath, and looking to the front. And Doctor Bryerlytalked a little to me, and there seemed to be something on his mind morethan he chose to tell me; so that for some time after I saw him I reallywas, as you say, frightened; but, except that, I really have had no cause. And what was in your mind when you asked me?'

'Well, you know, Maud, you are afraid of ghosts, banditti, and_every_thing; and I wished to know whether you were uncomfortable, and whatyour particular bogle was just now--that, I assure you, was all; and Iknow, ' she continued, suddenly changing her light tone and manner for oneof pointed entreaty, 'what Doctor Bryerly said; and I _implore_ of you, Maud, to think of it seriously; and when you come to me, you shall do sowith the intention of remaining at Elverston. '

'Now, Cousin Monica, is this fair? You and Doctor Bryerly both talk in thesame awful way to me; and I assure you, you don't know how nervous I amsometimes, and yet you won't, either of you, say what you mean. Now, Monica, dear cousin, won't you tell me?'

'You see, dear, it is so lonely; it's a strange place, and he so odd. Idon't like the place, and I don't like him. I've tried, but I can't, and Ithink I never shall. He may be a very--what was it that good little sillycurate at Knowl used to call him?--a very advanced Christian--that is it, and I hope he is; but if he is only what he used to be, his utter seclusionfrom society removes the only check, except personal fear--and he never hadmuch of that--upon a very bad man. And you must know, my dear Maud, what aprize you are, and what an immense trust it is. '

Suddenly Cousin Monica stopped short, and looked at me as if she had gonetoo far. 

'But, you know, Silas may be very good _now_, although he was wild andselfish in his young days. Indeed I don't know what to make of him; but Iam sure when you have thought it over, you will agree with me and DoctorBryerly, that you must not stay here. '

It was vain trying to induce my cousin to be more explicit. 

'I hope to see you at Elverston in a very few days. I will _shame_ Silasinto letting you come. I don't like his reluctance. '

'But don't you think he must know that Milly would require some littleoutfit before her visit?'

'Well, I can't say. I hope that is all; but be it what it may, I'll_make_ him let you come, and _immediately_, too. ' After she had gone, Iexperienced a repetition of those undefined doubts which had tortured mefor some time after my conversation with Dr. Bryerly. I had truly said, however, I was well enough contented with my mode of life here, for I hadbeen trained at Knowl to a solitude very nearly as profound. 

CHAPTER XL

_IN WHICH I MAKE ANOTHER COUSIN'S ACQUAINTANCE_

My correspondence about this time was not very extensive. About once afortnight a letter from honest Mrs. Rusk conveyed to me how the dogs andponies were, in queer English, oddly spelt; some village gossip, a critiqueupon Doctor Clay's or the Curate's last sermon, and some severitiesgenerally upon the Dissenters' doings, with loves to Mary Quince, and allgood wishes to me. Sometimes a welcome letter from cheerful Cousin Monica;and now, to vary the series, a copy of complimentary verses, without asignature, very adoring--very like Byron, I then fancied, and now, I mustconfess, rather vapid. Could I doubt from whom they came?

I had received, about a month after my arrival, a copy of verses in thesame hand, in a plaintive ballad style, of the soldierly sort, in which thewriter said, that as living his sole object was to please me, so dying Ishould be his latest thought; and some more poetic impieties, asking onlyin return that when the storm of battle had swept over, I should 'sheda tear' on seeing 'the _oak lie_, where it fell. ' Of course, aboutthis lugubrious pun, there could be no misconception. The Captain wasunmistakably indicated; and I was so moved that I could no longer retainmy secret; but walking with Milly that day, confided the little romance tothat unsophisticated listener, under the chestnut trees. The lines were soamorously dejected, and yet so heroically redolent of blood and gunpowder, that Milly and I agreed that the writer must be on the verge of asanguinary campaign. 

It was not easy to get at Uncle Silas's 'Times' or 'Morning Post, ' which wefancied would explain these horrible allusions; but Milly bethought her ofa sergeant in the militia, resident in Feltram, who knew the destinationand quarters of every regiment in the service; and circuitously, fromthis authority, we learned, to my infinite relief, that Captain Oakley'sregiment had still two years to sojourn in England. 

I was summoned one evening by old L'Amour, to my uncle's room. I rememberhis appearance that evening so well, as he lay back in his chair; thepillow; the white glare of his strange eye; his feeble, painful smile. 

'You'll excuse my not rising, dear Maud, I am so miserably ill thisevening. '

I expressed my respectful condolence. 

'Yes; I _am_ to be pitied; but pity is of no use, dear, ' he murmured, peevishly. 'I sent for you to make you acquainted with your cousin, my son. Where are you Dudley?'

A figure seated in a low lounging chair, at the other side of the fire, andwhich till then I had not observed, at these words rose up a little slowly, like a man stiff after a day's hunting; and I beheld with a shock that heldmy breath, and fixed my eyes upon him in a stare, the young man whom I hadencountered at Church Scarsdale, on the day of my unpleasant excursionthere with Madame, and who, to the best of my belief, was also one of thatruffianly party who had so unspeakably terrified me in the warren at Knowl. 

I suppose I looked very much affrighted. If I had been looking at a ghost Icould not have felt much more scared and incredulous. 

When I was able to turn my eyes upon my uncle he was not looking at me; butwith a glimmer of that smile with which a father looks on a son whose youthand comeliness he admires, his white face was turned towards the young man, in whom I beheld nothing but the image of odious and dreadful associations. 

'Come, sir, ' said my uncle, we must not be too modest. Here's your cousinMaud--what do you say?'

'How are ye, Miss?' he said, with a sheepish grin. 

'Miss! Come, come. Miss us, no Misses, ' said my uncle; 'she is Maud, andyou Dudley, or I mistake; or we shall have you calling Milly, madame. She'll not refuse you her hand, I venture to think. Come, young gentleman, speak for yourself. '

'How are ye, Maud?' he said, doing his best, and drawing near, he extendedhis hand. ' You're welcome to Bartram-Haugh, Miss. '

'Kiss your cousin, sir. Where's your gallantry? On my honour, I disownyou, ' exclaimed my uncle, with more energy than he had shown before. 

With a clumsy effort, and a grin that was both sheepish and impudent, hegrasped my hand and advanced his face. The imminent salute gave me strengthto spring back a step or two, and he hesitated. 

My uncle laughed peevishly. 

'Well, well, that will do, I suppose. In my time first-cousins did not meetlike strangers; but perhaps we were wrong; we are learning modesty from theAmericans, and old English ways are too gross for us. '

'I have--I've seen him before--that is;' and at this point I stopped. 

My uncle turned his strange glare, in a sort of scowl of enquiry, upon me. 

'Oh!--hey! why this is news. You never told me. Where have you met--eh, Dudley?'

'Never saw her in my days, so far as I'm aweer on, ' said the young man. 

'No! Well, then, Maud, will _you_ enlighten us?' said Uncle Silas, coldly. 

'I _did_ see that young gentleman before, ' I faltered. 

'Meaning _me_, ma'am?' he asked, coolly. 

'Yes--certainly _you_. I _did_, uncle, ' answered I. 

'And where was it, my dear? Not at Knowl, I fancy. Poor dear Austin did nottrouble me or mine much with his hospitalities. '

This was not a pleasant tone to take in speaking of his dead brother andbenefactor; but at the moment I was too much engaged upon the one point toobserve it. 

'I met'--I could not say my cousin--'I met him, uncle--your son--that younggentleman--I _saw_ him, I should say, at Church Scarsdale, and afterwardswith some other persons in the warren at Knowl. It was the night ourgamekeeper was beaten. '

'Well, Dudley, what do you say to that?' asked Uncle Silas. 

'I never _was_ at them places, so help me. I don't know where they be; andI never set eyes on the young lady before, as I hope to be saved, in allmy days, ' said he, with a countenance so unchanged and an air so confidentthat I began to think I must be the dupe of one of those strangeresemblances which have been known to lead to positive identification inthe witness-box, afterwards proved to be utterly mistaken. 

'You look so--so _uncomfortable_, Maud, at the idea of having seen himbefore, that I hardly wonder at the vehemence of his denial. There wasplainly something disagreeable; but you see as respects him it is a totalmistake. My boy was always a truth-telling fellow--you may rely implicitlyon what he says. You were _not_ at those places?'

'I wish I may----, ' began the ingenuous youth, with increased vehemence. 

'There, there--that will do; your honour and word as a gentleman--and_that_ you are, though a poor one--will quite satisfy your cousin Maud. AmI right, my dear? I do assure you, as a gentleman, I never knew him to saythe thing that was not. '

So Mr. Dudley Ruthyn began, not to curse, but to swear, in the prescribedform, that he had never seen me before, or the places I had named, 'since Iwas weaned, by----'

'That's enough--now shake hands, if you won't kiss, like cousins, 'interrupted my uncle. 

And very uncomfortably I did lend him my hand to shake. 

'You'll want some supper, Dudley, so Maud and I will excuse your going. Good-night, my dear boy, ' and he smiled and waved him from the room. 

'That's as fine a young fellow, I think, as any English father can boastfor his son--true, brave, and kind, and quite an Apollo. Did you observehow finely proportioned he is, and what exquisite features the fellow has?He's rustic and rough, as you see; but a year or two in the militia--I've apromise of a commission for him--he's too old for the line--will form andpolish him. He wants nothing but manner; and I protest when he has had alittle drilling of that kind, I do believe he'll be as pretty a fellow asyou'd find in England. '

I listened with amazement. I could discover nothing but what wasdisagreeable in the horrid bumpkin, and thought such an instance of theblindness of parental partiality was hardly credible. 

I looked down, dreading another direct appeal to my judgment; and UncleSilas, I suppose, referred those downcast looks to maiden modesty, for heforbore to task mine by any new interrogatory. 

Dudley Ruthyn's cool and resolute denial of ever having seen me or theplaces I had named, and the inflexible serenity of his countenance whiledoing so, did very much shake my confidence in my own identification ofhim. I could not be _quite_ certain that the person I had seen at ChurchScarsdale was the very same whom I afterwards saw at Knowl. And now, inthis particular instance, after the lapse of a still longer period, could Ibe perfectly certain that my memory, deceived by some accidental points ofresemblance, had not duped me, and wronged my cousin, Dudley Ruthyn?

I suppose my uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiesence in hissplendid estimate of his cub, and was nettled at my silence. After a shortinterval he said--

'I've seen something of the world in my day, and I can say without amisgiving of partiality, that Dudley is the material of a perfect Englishgentleman. I am not blind, of course--the training must be supplied; a yearor two of good models, active self-criticism, and good society. I simplysay that the _material_ is there. '

Here was another interval of silence. 

'And now tell me, child, what these recollections ofChurch--Church--_what_?'

'Church Scarsdale, ' I replied. 

'Yes, thank you--Church Scarsdale and Knowl--are?'

So I related my stories as well as I could. 

'Well, dear Maud, the adventure of Church Scarsdale is hardly so terrificas I expected, ' said Uncle Silas with a cold little laugh; 'and I don'tsee, if he had really been the hero of it, why he should shrink fromavowing it. I know I should not. And I really can't say that your pic-nicparty in the grounds of Knowl has frightened me much more. A lady waitingin the carriage, and two or three tipsy young men. Her presence seems tome a guarantee that no mischief was meant; but champagne is the soul offrolic, and a row with the gamekeepers a natural consequence. It happenedto me once--forty years ago, when I was a wild young buck--one of the worstrows I ever was in. '

And Uncle Silas poured some eau-de-cologne over the corner of hishandkerchief, and touched his temples with it. 

'If my boy had been there, I do assure you--and I know him--he would say soat once. I fancy he would rather _boast_ of it. I never knew him utter anuntruth. When you know him a little you'll say so. '

With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted, and languidly pouredsome of his favourite eau-de-cologne over the palms of his hands, nodded afarewell, and, in a whisper, wished me good-night. 

'Dudley's come, ' whispered Milly, taking me under the arm as I entered thelobby. 'But I don't care: he never gives me nout; and he gets money fromGovernor, as much as he likes, and I never a sixpence. It's a shame!'

So there was no great love between the only son and only daughter of theyounger line of the Ruthyns. 

I was curious to learn all that Milly could tell me of this new inmate ofBartram-Haugh; and Milly was communicative without having a great deal torelate, and what I heard from her tended to confirm my own disagreeableimpressions about him. She was afraid of him. He was a 'woundy uglycustomer in a wax, she could tell me. ' He was the only one 'she ever knowedas had pluck to jaw the Governor. ' But he was 'afeard on the Governor, too. '

His visits to Bartram-Haugh, I heard, were desultory; and this, to myrelief, would probably not outlast a week or a fortnight. 'He _was_ such afashionable cove:' he was always 'a gadding about, mostly to Liverpool andBirmingham, and sometimes to Lunnun, itself. ' He was 'keeping companyone time with Beauty, Governor thought, and he was awfully afraid he'd amarried her; but that was all bosh and nonsense; and Beauty would have noneof his chaff and wheedling, for she liked Tom Brice;' and Milly thoughtthat Dudley never 'cared a crack of a whip for her. ' He used to go to theWindmill to have 'a smoke with Pegtop;' and he was a member of the FeltramClub, that met at the 'Plume o' Feathers. ' He was 'a rare good shot, ' sheheard; and 'he was before the justices for poaching, but they could makenothing of it. ' And the Governor said 'it was all through spite of him--forthey hate us for being better blood than they. ' And 'all but the squiresand those upstart folk loves Dudley, he is so handsome and gay--though hebe a bit cross at home. ' And, 'Governor says, he'll be a Parliament manyet, spite o' them all. '

Next morning, when our breakfast was nearly ended, Dudley tapped at thewindow with the end of his clay pipe--a 'churchwarden' Milly calledit--just such a long curved pipe as Joe Willet is made to hold between hislips in those charming illustrations of 'Barnaby Rudge'--which we all knowso well--and lifting his 'wide-awake' with a burlesque salutation, which, Isuppose, would have charmed the 'Plume of Feathers, ' he dropped, kicked andcaught his 'wide-awake, ' with an agility and gravity, as he replaced it, soinexpressibly humorous, that Milly went off in a loud fit of laughter, withthe ejaculation--

'Did you ever?'

It was odd how repulsively my confidence in my original identificationalways revived on unexpectedly seeing Dudley after an interval. 

I could perceive that this piece of comic by-play was meant to make asuitable impression on me. I received it, however, with a killing gravity;and after a word or two to Milly, he lounged away, having first broken hispipe, bit by bit, into pieces, which he balanced in turn on his nose andon his chin, from which features he jerked them into his mouth, with aprecision which, along with his excellent pantomime of eating them, highlyexcited Milly's mirth and admiration. 

CHAPTER XLI

_MY COUSIN DUDLEY_

Greatly to my satisfaction, this engaging person did not appear again thatday. But next day Milly told me that my uncle had taken him to task for theneglect with which he was treating us. 

'He did pitch into him, sharp and short, and not a word from him, onlysulky like; and I so frightened, I durst not look up almost; and they saida lot I could not make head or tail of; and Governor ordered me out o' theroom, and glad I was to go; and so they had it out between them. '

Milly could throw no light whatsoever upon the adventures at ChurchScarsdale and Knowl; and I was left still in doubt, which sometimesoscillated one way and sometimes another. But, on the whole, I couldnot shake off the misgivings which constantly recurred and pointed veryobstinately to Dudley as the hero of those odious scenes. 

Oddly enough, though, I now felt far less confident upon the point than Idid at first sight. I had begun to distrust my memory, and to suspect myfancy; but of this there could be no question, that between the person sounpleasantly linked in my remembrance with those scenes, and Dudley Ruthyn, a striking, though possibly only a general resemblance did exist. 

Milly was certainly right as to the gist of Uncle Silas's injunction, forwe saw more of Dudley henceforward. 

He was shy; he was impudent; he was awkward; he was conceited;--altogethera most intolerable bumpkin. Though he sometimes flushed and stammered, andnever for a moment was at his ease in my presence, yet, to my inexpressibledisgust, there was a self-complacency in his manner, and a kind of triumphin his leer, which very plainly told me how satisfied he was as to thenature of the impression he was making upon me. 

I would have given worlds to tell him how odious I thought him. Probably, however, he would not have believed me. Perhaps he fancied that 'ladies'affected airs of indifference and repulsion to cover their real feelings. Inever looked at or spoke to him when I could avoid either, and then it wasas briefly as I could. To do him justice, however, he seemed to have noliking for our society, and certainly never seemed altogether comfortablein it. 

I find it hard to write quite impartially even of Dudley Ruthyn's personalappearance; but, with an effort, I confess that his features were good, andhis figure not amiss, though a little fattish. He had light whiskers, lighthair, and a pink complexion, and very good blue eyes. So far my uncle wasright; and if he had been perfectly gentlemanlike, he really might havepassed for a handsome man in the judgment of some critics. 

But there was that odious mixture of _mauvaise honte_ and impudence, aclumsiness, a slyness, and a consciousness in his bearing and countenance, not distinctly boorish, but _low_, which turned his good looks into anugliness more intolerable than that of feature; and a correspondingvulgarity pervading his dress, his demeanour, and his very walk, marredwhatever good points his figure possessed. If you take all this intoaccount, with the ominous and startling misgivings constantly recurring, you will understand the mixed feelings of anger and disgust with which Ireceived the admiration he favoured me with. 

Gradually he grew less constrained in my presence, and certainly hismanners were not improved by his growing ease and confidence. 

He came in while Milly and I were at luncheon, jumped up, with a'right-about face' performed in the air, sitting on the sideboard, whencegrinning slyly and kicking his heels, he leered at us. 

'Will you have something, Dudley?' asked Milly. 

'No, lass; but I'll look at ye, and maybe drink a drop for company. '

And with these words, he took a sportsman's flask from his pocket; andhelping himself to a large glass and a decanter, he compounded a glass ofstrong brandy-and-water, as he talked, and refreshed himself with it fromtime to time. 

'Curate's up wi' the Governor, ' he said, with a grin. 'I wanted a word wi'him; but I s'pose I'll hardly git in this hour or more; they're a prayingand disputing, and a Bible-chopping, as usual. Ha, ha! But 'twon't holdmuch longer, old Wyat says, now that Uncle Austin's dead; there's nout tobe made o' praying and that work no longer, and it don't pay of itself. '

'O fie! For shame, you sinner!' laughed Milly. 'He wasn't in a church thesefive years, he says, and then only to meet a young lady. Now, isn't he asinner, Maud--isn't he?'

Dudley, grinning, looked with a languishing slyness at me, biting the edgeof his wide-awake, which he held over his breast. 

Dudley Ruthyn probably thought there was a manly and desperate sort offascination in the impiety he professed. 

'I wonder, Milly, ' said I, 'at your laughing. How _can_ you laugh?'

'You'd have me cry, would ye?' answered Milly. 

'I certainly would not have you laugh, ' I replied. 

'I know I wish _some_ one 'ud cry for me, and I know who, ' said Dudley, inwhat he meant for a very engaging way, and he looked at me as if he thoughtI must feel flattered by his caring to have my tears. 

Instead of crying, however, I leaned back in my chair, and began quietly toturn over the pages of Walter Scott's poems, which I and Milly were thenreading in the evenings. 

The tone in which this odious young man spoke of his father, his coarsemention of mine, and his low boasting of his irreligion, disgusted me morethan ever with him. 

'They parsons be slow coaches--awful slow. I'll have a good bit to wait, Is'pose. I should be three miles away and more by this time--drat it!' Hewas eyeing the legging of the foot which he held up while he spoke, as ifcalculating how far away that limb should have carried him by this time. 'Why can't folk do their Bible and prayers o' Sundays, and get it offtheir stomachs? I say, Milly lass, will ye see if Governor be done wi' theCurate? Do. I'm a losing the whole day along o' him. '

Milly jumped up, accustomed to obey her brother, and as she passed me, whispered, with a wink--

'_Money_. '

And away she went. Dudley whistled a tune, and swung his foot like apendulum, as he followed her with his side-glance. 

'I say, it is a hard case, Miss, a lad o' spirit should be kept so tight. Ihaven't a shilling but what comes through his fingers; an' drat the tizzyhe'll gi' me till he knows the reason why. '

'Perhaps, ' I said, 'my uncle thinks you should earn some for yourself. '

'I'd like to know how a fella's to earn money now-a-days. You wouldn't havea gentleman to keep a shop, I fancy. But I'll ha' a fistful jist now, andno thanks to he. Them executors, you know, owes me a deal o' money. Veryhonest chaps, of course; but they're cursed slow about paying, I know. '

I made no remark upon this elegant allusion to the executors of my dearfather's will. 

'An' I tell ye, Maud, when I git the tin, I know who I'll buy a farin' for. I do, lass. '

The odious creature drawled this with a sidelong leer, which, I suppose, hefancied quite irresistible. 

I am one of those unfortunate persons who always blushed when I mostwished to look indifferent; and now, to my inexpressible chagrin, with itsaccustomed perversity, I felt the blush mount to my cheeks, and glow evenon my forehead. 

I saw that he perceived this most disconcerting indication of a sentimentthe very idea of which was so detestable, that, equally enraged with myselfand with him, I did not know how to exhibit my contempt and indignation. 

Mistaking the cause of my discomposure, Mr. Dudley Ruthyn laughed softly, with an insufferable suavity. 

'And there's some'at, lass, I must have in return. Honour thy father, youknow; you would not ha' me disobey the Governor? No, you wouldn't--wouldye?'

I darted at him a look which I hoped would have quelled his impertinence;but I blushed most provokingly--more violently than ever. 

'I'd back them eyes again' the county, I would, ' he exclaimed, with acondescending enthusiasm. 'You're awful pretty, you are, Maud. I don't knowwhat came over me t'other night when Governor told me to buss ye; but dangit, ye shan't deny me now, and I'll have a kiss, lass, in spite o' thyblushes. '

He jumped from his elevated seat on the sideboard, and came swaggeringtoward me, with an odious grin, and his arms extended. I started to myfeet, absolutely transported with fury. 

'Drat me, if she baint a-going to fight me!' he chuckled humorously. 

'Come, Maud, you would not be ill-natured, sure? Arter all, it's only ourduty. Governor bid us kiss, didn't he?'

'Don't--_don't_, sir. Stand back, or I'll call the servants. '

And as it was I began to scream for Milly. 

'There's how it is wi' all they cattle! You never knows your own mind--yedon't, ' he said, surlily. 'You make such a row about a bit o' play. Dropit, will you? There's no one a-harming you--is there? _I_'m not, forsartain. '

And, with an angry chuckle, he turned on his heel, and left the room. 

I think I was perfectly right to resist, with all the vehemence of which Iwas capable, this attempt to assume an intimacy which, notwithstanding myuncle's opinion to the contrary, seemed to me like an outrage. 

Milly found me alone--not frightened, but very angry. I had quite made upmy mind to complain to my uncle, but the Curate was still with him; and, by the time he had gone, I was cooler. My awe of my uncle had returned. Ifancied that he would treat the whole affair as a mere playful piece ofgallantry. So, with the comfortable conviction that he had had a lesson, and would think twice before repeating his impertinence, I resolved, withMilly's approbation, to leave matters as they were. 

Dudley, greatly to my comfort, was huffed with me, and hardly appeared, andwas sulky and silent when he did. I lived then in the pleasant anticipationof his departure, which, Milly thought, would be very soon. 

My uncle had his Bible and his consolations; but it cannot have beenpleasant to this old _roué_, converted though he was--this refined manof fashion--to see his son grow up an outcast, and a Tony Lumpkin; forwhatever he may have thought of his natural gifts, he must have known howmere a boor he was. 

I try to recall my then impressions of my uncle's character. Grizzly andchaotic the image rises--silver head, feet of clay. I as yet knew little ofhim. 

I began to perceive that he was what Mary Quince used to call 'dreadfulparticular'--I suppose a little selfish and impatient. He used to get casesof turtle from Liverpool. He drank claret and hock for his health, and atewoodcock and other light and salutary dainties for the same reason; andwas petulant and vicious about the cooking of these, and the flavour andclearness of his coffee. 

His conversation was easy, polished, and, with a sentimental glazing, cold;but across this artificial talk, with its French rhymes, racy phrases, and fluent eloquence, like a streak of angry light, would, at intervals, suddenly gleam some dismal thought of religion. I never could quite satisfymyself whether they were affectations or genuine, like intermittent thrillsof pain. 

The light of his large eyes was very peculiar. I can liken it to nothingbut the sheen of intense moonlight on burnished metal. But that cannotexpress it. It glared white and suddenly--almost fatuous. I thought ofMoore's lines whenever I looked on it:--

 Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live. 

I never saw in any other eye the least glimmer of the same balefuleffulgence. His fits, too--his hoverings between life and death--betweenintellect and insanity--a dubious, marsh-fire existence, horrible to lookon!

I was puzzled even to comprehend his feelings toward his children. Sometimes it seemed to me that he was ready to lay down his soul for them;at others, he looked and spoke almost as if he hated them. He talked as ifthe image of death was always before him, yet he took a terrible interestin life, while seemingly dozing away the dregs of his days in sight of hiscoffin. 

Oh! Uncle Silas, tremendous figure in the past, burning always in memory inthe same awful lights; the fixed white face of scorn and anguish! Itseems as if the Woman of Endor had led me to that chamber and showed me aspectre. 

Dudley had not left Bartram-Haugh when a little note reached me from LadyKnollys. It said--

'DEAREST MAUD, --I have written by this post to Silas, beseeching a loan ofyou and my Cousin Milly. I see no reason your uncle can possibly have forrefusing me; and, therefore, I count confidently on seeing you both atElverston to-morrow, to stay for at least a week. I have hardly a creatureto meet you. I have been disappointed in several visitors; but another timewe shall have a gayer house. Tell Milly--with my love--that I will notforgive her if she fails to accompany you. 

'Believe me ever your affectionate cousin, 'MONICA KNOLLYS. '

Milly and I were both afraid that Uncle Silas would refuse his consent, although we could not divine any sound reason for his doing so, and therewere many in favour of his improving the opportunity of allowing poor Millyto see some persons of her own sex above the rank of menials. 

At about twelve o'clock my uncle sent for us, and, to our great delight, announced his consent, and wished us a very happy excursion. 

CHAPTER XLII

_ELVERSTON AND ITS PEOPLE_

So Milly and I drove through the gabled high street of Feltram next day. Wesaw my gracious cousin smoking with a man like a groom, at the door of the'Plume of Feathers. ' I drew myself back as we passed, and Milly popped herhead out of the window. 

'I'm blessed, ' said she, laughing, 'if he hadn't his thumb to his nose, andwinding up his little finger, the way he does with old Wyat--L'Amour, yeknow; and you may be sure he said something funny, for Jim Jolliter waslaughin', with his pipe in his hand. '

'I wish I had not seen him, Milly. I feel as if it were an ill omen. Healways looks so cross; and I dare say he wished us some ill, ' I said. 

'No, no, you don't know Dudley: if he were angry, he'd say nothing that'sfunny; no, he's not vexed, only shamming vexed. '

The scenery through which we passed was very pretty. The road brought usthrough a narrow and wooded glen. Such studies of ivied rocks and twistedroots! A little stream tinkled lonely through the hollow. Poor Milly! Inher odd way she made herself companionable. I have sometimes fancied anenjoyment of natural scenery not so much a faculty as an acquirement. It isso exquisite in the instructed, so strangely absent in uneducated humanity. But certainly with Milly it was inborn and hearty; and so she could enterinto my raptures, and requite them. 

Then over one of those beautiful Derbyshire moors we drove, and so intoa wide wooded hollow, where was our first view of Cousin Monica's prettygabled house, beautified with that indescribable air of shelter and comfortwhich belongs to an old English residence, with old timber grouped roundit, and something in its aspect of the quaint old times and bygonemerrymakings, saying sadly, but genially, 'Come in: I bid you welcome. For two hundred years, or more, have I been the home of this beloved oldfamily, whose generations I have seen in the cradle and in the coffin, andwhose mirth and sorrows and hospitalities I remember. All their friends, like you, were welcome; and you, like them, will here enjoy the warmillusions that cheat the sad conditions of mortality; and like them youwill go your way, and others succeed you, till at last I, too, shall yieldto the general law of decay, and disappear. '

By this time poor Milly had grown very nervous; a state which she describedin such very odd phraseology as threw me, in spite of myself--for Iaffected an impressive gravity in lecturing her upon her language--into ahearty fit of laughter. 

I must mention, however, that in certain important points Milly was veryessentially reformed. Her dress, though not very fashionable, was no longerabsurd. And I had drilled her into speaking and laughing quietly; andfor the rest I trusted to the indulgence which is always, I think, morehonestly and easily obtained from well-bred than from under-bred people. 

Cousin Monica was out when we arrived; but we found that she had arranged adouble-bedded room for me and Milly, greatly to our content; and good MaryQuince was placed in the dressing-room beside us. 

We had only just commenced our toilet when our hostess entered, as usual inhigh spirits, welcomed and kissed us both again and again. She was, indeed, in extraordinary delight, for she had anticipated some stratagem or evasionto prevent our visit; and in her usual way she spoke her mind as franklyabout Uncle Silas to poor Milly as she used to do of my dear father to me. 

'I did not think he would let you come without a battle; and you know ifhe chose to be obstinate it would not have been easy to get you out of theenchanted ground, for so it seems to be with that awful old wizard in themidst of it. I mean, Silas, your papa, my dear. Honestly, is not he verylike Michael Scott?'

'I never saw him, ' answered poor Milly. 'At least, that I'm aware of, ' sheadded, perceiving us smile. 'But I do think he's a thought like old MichaelDobbs, that sells the ferrets, maybe you mean him?'

'Why, you told me, Maud, that you and Milly were reading Walter Scott'spoems. Well, no matter. Michael Scott, my dear, was a dead wizard, withever so much silvery hair, lying in his grave for ever so many years, withjust life enough to scowl when they took his book; and you'll find him inthe "Lay of the Last Minstrel, " exactly like your papa, my dear. And mypeople tell me that your brother Dudley has been seen drinking and smokingabout Feltram this week. How long does he remain at home? Not very long, eh? And, Maud, dear, he has not been making love to you? Well, I see; ofcourse he has. And _apropos_ of love-making, I hope that impudent creature, Charles Oakley, has not been teasing you with notes or verses. '

'Indeed but he has though, ' interposed Miss Milly; a good deal to mychagrin, for I saw no particular reason for placing his verses in CousinMonica's hands. So I confessed the two little copies of verses, with thequalification, however, that I did not know from whom they came. 

'Well now, dear Maud, have not I told you fifty times over to have nothingto say to him? I've found out, my dear, he plays, and he is very much indebt. I've made a vow to pay no more for him. I've been such a fool, youhave no notion; and I'm speaking, you know, against myself; it would besuch a relief if he were to find a wife to support him; and he has been, I'm told, very sweet upon a rich old maid--a button-maker's sister, inManchester. '

This arrow was well shot. 

'But don't be frightened: you are richer as well as younger; and, no doubt, will have your chance first, my dear; and in the meantime, I dare say, those verses, like Falstaff's _billet-doux, _ you know, are doing doubleduty. '

I laughed, but the button-maker was a secret trouble to me; and I wouldhave given I know not what that Captain Oakley were one of the company, that I might treat him with the refined contempt which his deserts and mydignity demanded. 

Cousin Monica busied herself about Milly's toilet, and was a very usefullady's maid, chatting in her own way all the time; and, at last, tappingMilly under the chin with her finger, she said, very complacently--

'I think I have succeeded, Miss Milly; look in the glass. She really is avery pretty creature. '

And Milly blushed, and looked with a shy gratification, which made herstill prettier, on the mirror. 

Milly indeed was very pretty. She looked much taller now that her dresseswere made of the usual length. A little plump she was, beautifully fair, with such azure eyes, and rich hair. 

'The more you laugh the better, Milly, for you've got very prettyteeth--very pretty; and if you were my daughter, or if your father wouldbecome president of a college of magicians, and give you up to me, Iventure to say I would place you very well; and even as it is we must try, my dear. '

So down to the drawing-room we went; and Cousin Monica entered, leading usboth by the hands. 

By this time the curtains were closed, and the drawing-room dependent onthe pleasant glow of the fire, and the slight provisional illuminationusual before dinner. 

'Here are my two cousins, ' began Lady Knollys: 'this is Miss Ruthyn, ofKnowl, whom I take the liberty of calling Maud; and this is Miss MillicentRuthyn, Silas's daughter, you know, whom I venture to call Milly; and theyare very pretty, as you will see, when we get a little more light, and theyknow it very well themselves. '

And as she spoke, a frank-eyed, gentle, prettyish lady, not so tall as I, but with a very kind face, rose up from a book of prints, and, smiling, took our hands. 

She was by no means young, as I then counted youth--past thirty, Isuppose--and with an air that was very quiet, and friendly, and engaging. She had never been a mere fashionable woman plainly; but she had the easeand polish of the best society, and seemed to take a kindly interest bothin Milly and me; and Cousin Monica called her Mary, and sometimes Polly. That was all I knew of her for the present. 

So very pleasantly the time passed by till the dressing-bell rang, and weran away to our room. 

'Did I say anything very bad?' asked poor Milly, standing exactly beforeme, so soon as our door was shut. 

'Nothing, Milly; you are doing admirably. '

'And I do look a great fool, don't I?' she demanded. 

'You look extremely pretty, Milly; and not a bit like a fool. '

'I watch everything. I think I'll learn it at last; but it comes a littletroublesome at first; and they do talk different from what I used--you werequite right there. '

When we returned to the drawing-room, we found the party already assembled, and chatting, evidently with spirit. 

The village doctor, whose name I forget, a small man, grey, with shrewdgrey eyes, sharp and mulberry nose, whose conflagration extended to hisrugged cheeks, and touched his chin and forehead, was conversing, no doubtagreeably, with Mary, as Cousin Monica called her guest. 

Over my shoulder, Milly whispered--

'Mr. Carysbroke. '

And Milly was quite right: that gentleman chatting with Lady Knollys, hiselbow resting on the chimney-piece, was, indeed, our acquaintance of theWindmill Wood. He instantly recognised us, and met us with his pleased andintelligent smile. 

'I was just trying to describe to Lady Knollys the charming scenery of theWindmill Wood, among which I was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance, Miss Ruthyn. Even in this beautiful county I know of nothing prettier. '

Then he sketched it, as it were, with a few light but glowing words. 

'What a sweet scene!' said Cousin Monica: 'only think of her never bringingme through it. She reserves it, I fancy, for her romantic adventures; andyou, I know, are very benevolent, Ilbury, and all that kind of thing; but Iam not quite certain that you would have walked along that narrow parapet, over a river, to visit a sick old woman, if you had not happened to see twovery pretty demoiselles on the other side. '

'What an ill-natured speech! I must either forfeit my character fordisinterested benevolence, so justly admired, or disavow a motive that doessuch infinite credit to my taste, ' exclaimed Mr. Carysbroke. 'I think acharitable person would have said that a philanthropist, in prosecuting hisvirtuous, but perilous vocation, was unexpectedly _rewarded_ by a vision ofangels. '

'And with these angels loitered away the time which ought to have beendevoted to good Mother Hubbard, in her fit of lumbago, and returned withouthaving set eyes on that afflicted Christian, to amaze his worthy sisterwith poetic babblings about wood-nymphs and such pagan impieties, ' rejoinedLady Knollys. 

'Well, be just, ' he replied, laughing; 'did not I go next day and see thepatient?'

'Yes; next day you went by the same route--in quest of the dryads, I amafraid--and were rewarded by the spectacle of Mother Hubbard. '

'Will nobody help a humane man in difficulties?' Mr. Carysbroke appealed. 

'I do believe, ' said the lady whom as yet I knew only as Mary, 'that everyword that Monica says is perfectly true. '

'And if it be so, am I not all the more in need of help? Truth is simplythe most dangerous kind of defamation, and I really think I'm most cruellypersecuted. '

At this moment dinner was announced, and a meek and dapper littleclergyman, with smooth pink cheeks, and tresses parted down the middle, whom I had not seen before, emerged from shadow. 

This little man was assigned to Milly, Mr. Carysbroke to me, and I know nothow the remaining ladies divided the doctor between them. 

That dinner, the first at Elverston, I remember as a very pleasant repast. Everyone talked--it was impossible that conversation should flag where LadyKnollys was; and Mr. Carysbroke was very agreeable and amusing. At theother side of the table, the little pink curate, I was happy to see, wasprattling away, with a modest fluency, in an under-tone to Milly, who wasfollowing my instructions most conscientiously, and speaking in so low akey that I could hardly hear at the opposite side one word she was saying. 

That night Cousin Monica paid us a visit, as we sat chatting by the fire inour room; and I told her--

'I have just been telling Milly what an impression she has made. The prettylittle clergyman--_il en est épris_--he has evidently quite lost his heartto her. I dare say he'll preach next Sunday on some of King Solomon's wisesayings about the irresistible strength of women. '

'Yes, ' said Lady Knollys, ' or maybe on the sensible text, "Whoso findetha wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour, " and so forth. At allevents, I may say, Milly, whoso findeth a husband such as he, findeth atolerably good thing. He is an exemplary little creature, second son of SirHarry Biddlepen, with a little independent income of his own, beside hischurch revenues of ninety pounds a year; and I don't think a more harmlessand docile little husband could be found anywhere; and I think, Miss Maud, _you_ seemed a good deal interested, too. '

I laughed and blushed, I suppose; and Cousin Monica, skipping after herwont to quite another matter, said in her odd frank way--

'And how has Silas been?--not cross, I hope, or very odd. There was arumour that your brother, Dudley, had gone a soldiering to India, Milly, orsomewhere; but that was all a story, for he has turned up, just as usual. And what does he mean to do with himself? He has got some money now--yourpoor father's will, Maud. Surely he doesn't mean to go on lounging andsmoking away his life among poachers, and prize-fighters, and worse people. He ought to go to Australia, like Thomas Swain, who, they say, is making afortune--a great fortune--and coming home again. That's what your brotherDudley should do, if he has either sense or spirit; but I suppose hewon't--too long abandoned to idleness and low company--and he'll not have ashilling left in a year or two. Does he know, I wonder, that his father hasserved a notice or something on Dr. Bryerly, telling him to pay sixteenhundred pounds of poor Austin's legacy to _him_, and saying that he haspaid debts of the young man, and holds his acknowledgments to that amount?He won't have a guinea in a year if he stays here. I'd give fifty pounds hewas in Van Diemen's Land--not that I care for the cub, Milly, any more thanyou do; but I really don't see any honest business he has in England. '

Milly gaped in a total puzzle as Lady Knollys rattled on. 

'You know, Milly, you must not be talking about this when you go home toBartram, because Silas would prevent your coming to me any more if hethought I spoke so freely; but I can't help it: so you must promise to bemore discreet than I. And I am told that all kinds of claims are about tobe pressed against him, now that he is thought to have got some money; andhe has been cutting down oak and selling the bark, Doctor Bryerly has beentold, in that Windmill Wood; and he has kilns there for burning charcoal, and got a man from Lancashire who understands it--Hawk, or something likethat. '

'Ay, Hawkes--Dickon Hawkes; that's Pegtop, you know, Maud, ' said Milly. 

'Well, I dare say; but a man of very bad character, Dr. Bryerly says; andhe has written to Mr. Danvers about it--for that is what they call waste, cutting down and selling the timber, and the oakbark, and burning thewillows, and other trees that are turned into charcoal. It is all _waste_, and Dr. Bryerly is about to put a stop to it. '

'Has he got your carriage for you, Maud, and your horses?' asked CousinMonica, suddenly. 

'They have not come yet, but in a few weeks, Dudley says, positively--'

Cousin Monica laughed a little and shook her head. 

'Yes, Maud, the carriage and horses will always be coming in a few weeks, till the time is over; and meanwhile the old travelling chariot andpost-horses will do very well;' and she laughed a little again. 

'That's why the stile's pulled away at the paling, I suppose; andBeauty--Meg Hawkes, that is--is put there to stop us going through; for Ioften spied the smoke beyond the windmill, ' observed Milly. 

Cousin Monica listened with interest, and nodded silently. 

I was very much shocked. It seemed to me quite incredible. I think LadyKnollys read my amazement and my exalted estimate of the heinousness of theprocedure in my face, for she said--

'You know we can't quite condemn Silas till we have heard what he has tosay. He may have done it in ignorance; or, it is just possible, he may havethe right. '

'Quite true. He may have the right to cut down trees at Bartram-Haugh. Atall events, I am sure he thinks he has, ' I echoed. 

The fact was, that I would not avow to myself a suspicion of Uncle Silas. Any falsehood there opened an abyss beneath my feet into which I dared notlook. 

'And now, dear girls, good-night. You must be tired. We breakfast at aquarter past nine--not too early for you, I know. '

And so saying, she kissed us, smiling, and was gone. 

I was so unpleasantly occupied, for some time after her departure, with theknaveries said to be practised among the dense cover of the Windmill Wood, that I did not immediately recollect that we had omitted to ask her anyparticulars about her guests. 

'Who can Mary be?' asked Milly. 

'Cousin Monica says she's engaged to be married, and I think I heard theDoctor call her _Lady_ Mary, and I intended asking her ever so much abouther; but what she told us about cutting down the trees, and all that, quiteput it out of my head. We shall have time enough to-morrow, however, to askquestions. I like her very much, I know. '

'And I think, ' said Milly, 'it is to Mr. Carysbroke she's to be married. '

'Do you?' said I, remembering that he had sat beside her for more than aquarter of an hour after tea in very close and low-toned conversation; 'andhave you any particular reason?' I asked. 

'Well, I heard her once or twice call him "dear, " and she called him hisChristian name, just like Lady Knollys did--Ilbury, I think--and I saw himgi' her a sly kiss as she was going up-stairs. '

I laughed. 

'Well, Milly, ' I said, 'I remarked something myself, I thought, likeconfidential relations; but if you really saw them kiss on the staircase, the question is pretty well settled. '

'Ay, lass. '

'You're not to say _lass_. '

'Well, _Maud, then_. I did see them with the corner of my eye, and my backturned, when they did not think I could spy anything, as plain as I see younow. '

I laughed again; but I felt an odd pang--something ofmortification--something of regret; but I smiled very gaily, as I stoodbefore the glass, un-making my toilet preparatory to bed. 

'Maud--Maud--fickle Maud!--What, Captain Oakley already superseded! and Mr. Carysbroke--oh! humiliation--engaged. ' So I smiled on, very much vexed;and being afraid lest I had listened with too apparent an interest to thisimpostor, I sang a verse of a gay little chanson, and tried to think ofCaptain Oakley, who somehow had become rather silly. 

CHAPTER XLIII

_NEWS AT BARTRAM GATE_

Milly and I, thanks to our early Bartram hours, were first down nextmorning; and so soon as Cousin Monica appeared we attacked her. 

'So Lady Mary is the _fiancée_ of Mr. Carysbroke, ' said I, very cleverly;'and I think it was very wicked of you to try and involve me in aflirtation with him yesterday. '

'And who told you that, pray?' asked Lady Knollys, with a pleasant littlelaugh. 

'Milly and I discovered it, simple as we stand here, ' I answered. 

'But you did not flirt with Mr. Carysbroke, Maud, did you?' she asked. 

'No, certainly not; but that was not your doing, wicked woman, but mydiscretion. And now that we know your secret, you must tell us all abouther, and all about him; and in the first place, what is her name--Lady Marywhat?' I demanded. 

'Who would have thought you so cunning? Two country misses--two little nunsfrom the cloisters of Bartram! Well, I suppose I must answer. It is vaintrying to hide anything from you; but how on earth did you find it out?'

'We'll tell you that presently, but you shall first tell us who she is, ' Ipersisted. 

'Well, that I will, of course, without compulsion. She is Lady MaryCarysbroke, ' said Lady Knollys. 

'A relation of Mr. Carysbroke's, ' I asserted. 

'Yes, a relation; but who told you he was Mr. Carysbroke?' asked CousinMonica. 

'Milly told me, when we saw him in the Windmill Wood. '

'And who told you, Milly?'

'It was L'Amour, ' answered Milly, with her blue eyes very wide open. 

'What does the child mean? L'Amour! You don't mean _love_?' exclaimed LadyKnollys, puzzled in her turn. 

'I mean old Wyat; _she_ told me and the Governor. '

'You're _not_ to say that, ' I interposed. 

'You mean your father?' suggested Lady Knollys. 

'Well, yes; father told her, and so I knew him. '

'What could he mean?' exclaimed Lady Knollys, laughing, as it were, insoliloquy; 'and I did not mention his name, I recollect now. He recognisedyou, and you him, when you came into the room yesterday; and now you musttell me how you discovered that he and Lady Mary were to be married. '

So Milly restated her evidence, and Lady Knollys laughed unaccountablyheartily; and she said--

'They _will_ be _so_ confounded! but they deserve it; and, remember, _I_did not say so. '

'Oh! we acquit you. '

'All I say is, such a deceitful, dangerous pair of girls--all thingsconsidered--I never heard of before, ' exclaimed Lady Knollys. 'There's nosuch thing as conspiring in your presence. '

'Good morning. I hope you slept well. ' She was addressing the lady andgentleman who were just entering the room from the conservatory. 'You'llhardly sleep so well to-night, when you have learned what eyes are uponyou. Here are two very pretty detectives who have found out your secret, and entirely by your imprudence and their own cleverness have discoveredthat you are a pair of betrothed lovers, about to ratify your vows atthe hymeneal altar. I assure you I did not tell of you; you betrayedyourselves. If you will talk in that confidential way on sofas, and callone another stealthily by your Christian names, and actually kiss at thefoot of the stairs, while a clever detective is scaling them, apparentlywith her back toward you, you must only take the consequences, and be knownprematurely as the hero and heroine of the forthcoming paragraph in the"Morning Post. "'

Milly and I were horribly confounded, but Cousin Monica was resolved toplace us all upon the least formal terms possible, and I believe she hadset about it in the right way. 

'And now, girls, I am going to make a counter-discovery, which, I fear, alittle conflicts with yours. This Mr. Carysbroke is Lord Ilbury, brotherof this Lady Mary; and it is all my fault for not having done my honoursbetter; but you see what clever match-making little creatures they are. '

'You can't think how flattered I am at being made the subject of a theory, even a mistaken one, by Miss Ruthyn. '

And so, after our modest fit was over, Milly and I were very merry, likethe rest, and we all grew a great deal more intimate that morning. 

I think altogether those were the pleasantest and happiest days of mylife: gay, intelligent, and kindly society at home; charmingexcursions--sometimes riding--sometimes by carriage--to distant points ofbeauty in the county. Evenings varied with music, reading, and spiritedconversation. Now and then a visitor for a day or two, and constantly someneighbour from the town, or its dependencies, dropt in. Of these I butremember tall old Miss Wintletop, most entertaining of rustic oldmaids, with her nice lace and thick satin, and her small, kindly roundface--pretty, I dare say, in other days, and now frosty, but kindly--whotold us such delightful old stories of the county in her father's andgrandfather's time; who knew the lineage of every family in it, and couldrecount all its duels and elopements; give us illustrative snatches fromold election squibs, and lines from epitaphs, and tell exactly where allthe old-world highway robberies had been committed: how it fared with thechief delinquents after the assizes; and, above all, where, and of whatsort, the goblins and elves of the county had made themselves seen, fromthe phantom post-boy, who every third night crossed Windale Moor, by theold coach-road, to the fat old ghost, in mulberry velvet, who showed hisgreat face, crutch, and ruffles, by moonlight, at the bow window of the oldcourt-house that was taken down in 1803. 

You cannot imagine what agreeable evenings we passed in this society, or how rapidly my good Cousin Milly improved in it. I remember well theintense suspense in which she and I awaited the answer from Bartram-Haughto kind Cousin Monica's application for an extension of our leave ofabsence. 

It came, and with it a note from Uncle Silas, which was curious, and, therefore, is printed here:--

'MY DEAR LADY KNOLLYS, --To your kind letter I say yes (that is, for anotherweek, not a fortnight), with all my heart. I am glad to hear that mystarlings chatter so pleasantly; at all events the refrain is not that ofSterne's. They can get out; and do get out; and shall get out as much asthey please. I am no gaoler, and shut up nobody but myself. I have alwaysthought that young people have too little liberty. My principle has beento make little free men and women of them from the first. In morals, altogether--in intellect, more than we allow--_self_-education is thatwhich abides; and _it_ only begins where constraint ends. Such is mytheory. My practice is consistent. Let them remain for a week longer, asyou say. The horses shall be at Elverston on Tuesday, the 7th. I shall bemore than usually sad and solitary till their return; so pray, I selfishlyentreat, do not extend their absence. You will smile, remembering howlittle my health will allow me to see of them, even when at home; but asChaulieu so prettily says--I stupidly forget the words, but the sentimentis this--"although concealed by a sylvan wall of leaves, impenetrable--(heis pursuing his favourite nymphs through the alleys and intricacies of arustic labyrinth)--yet, your songs, your prattle, and your laughter, faintand far away, inspire my fancy; and, through my ears, I see your unseensmiles, your blushes, your floating tresses, and your ivory feet; and so, though sad, am happy; though alone, in company;"--and such is my case. 

'One only request, and I have done. Pray remind them of a promise made tome. The Book of Life--the fountain of life--it must be drunk of, night andmorning, or their spiritual life expires. 

'And now, Heaven bless and keep you, my dear cousin; and with allassurances of affection to my beloved niece and my child, believe me everyours affectionately. 

'SILAS RUTHYN. '

Said Cousin Monica, with a waggish smile--

'And so, girls, you have Chaulieu and the evangelists; the French rhymesterin his alley, and Silas in the valley of the shadow of death; perfectliberty, and a peremptory order to return in a week;--all illustrating oneanother. Poor Silas! old as he is, I don't think his religion fits him. '

_I_ really rather liked his letter. I was struggling hard to think well ofhim, and Cousin Monica knew it; and I really think if I had not been by, she would often have been less severe on him. 

As we were all sitting pleasantly about the breakfast table a day or twoafter, the sun shining on the pleasant wintry landscape, Cousin Monicasuddenly exclaimed--

'I quite forgot to tell you that Charles Oakley has written to say he iscoming on Wednesday. I really don't want him. Poor Charlie! I wonder howthey manage those doctors' certificates. I know nothing ails him, and he'dbe much better with his regiment. '

Wednesday!--how odd. Exactly the day after my departure. I tried to lookperfectly unconcerned. Lady Knollys had addressed herself more to LadyMary and Milly than to me, and nobody in particular was looking at me. Notwithstanding, with my usual perversity, I felt myself blushing with abrilliancy that may have been very becoming, but which was so intolerablyprovoking that I would have risen and left the room but that matters wouldhave been so infinitely worse. I could have boxed my odious ears. I couldalmost have jumped from the window. 

I felt that Lord Ilbury saw it. I saw Lady Mary's eyes for a moment restinggravely on my tell-tale--my lying cheeks--for I really had begun to thinkmuch less celestially of Captain Oakley. I was angry with Cousin Monica, who, knowing my blushing infirmity, had mentioned her nephew so suddenlywhile I was strapped by etiquette in my chair, with my face to the window, and two pair of most disconcerting eyes, at least, opposite. I was angrywith myself--generally angry--refused more tea rather dryly, and waslaconic to Lord Ilbury, all which, of course, was very cross and foolish;and afterwards, from my bed-room window, I saw Cousin Monica and LadyMary among the flowers, under the drawing-room window, talking, as Iinstinctively knew, of that little incident. I was standing at the glass. 

'My odious, stupid, _perjured_ face' I whispered, furiously, at the sametime stamping on the floor, and giving myself quite a smart slap on thecheek. 'I _can't_ go down--I'm ready to cry--I've a mind to return toBartram to-day; I am _always_ blushing; and I wish that impudent CaptainOakley was at the bottom of the sea. '

I was, perhaps, thinking more of Lord Ilbury than I was aware; and I amsure if Captain Oakley had arrived that day, I should have treated him withmost unjustifiable rudeness. 

Notwithstanding this unfortunate blush, the remainder of our visit passedvery happily for me. No one who has not experienced it can have an ideahow intimate a small party, such as ours, will grow in a short time in acountry house. 

Of course, a young lady of a well-regulated mind cannot possibly care apin about any one of the opposite sex until she is well assured that he isbeginning, at least, to like her better than all the world beside; but Icould not deny to myself that I was rather anxious to know more about LordIlbury than I actually did know. 

There was a 'Peerage, ' in its bright scarlet and gold uniform, corpulentand tempting, upon the little marble table in the drawing-room. I had manyopportunities of consulting it, but I never could find courage to do so. 

For an inexperienced person it would have been a matter of several minutes, and during those minutes what awful risk of surprise and detection. Oneday, all being quiet, I did venture, and actually, with a beating heart, got so far as to find out the letter 'Il, ' when I heard a step outside thedoor, which opened a little bit, and I heard Lady Knollys, luckily arrestedat the entrance, talk some sentences outside, her hand still upon thedoor-handle. I shut the book, as Mrs. Bluebeard might the door of thechamber of horrors at the sound of her husband's step, and skipped to aremote part of the room, where Cousin Knollys found me in a mysteriousstate of agitation. 

On any other subject I would have questioned Cousin Monica unhesitatingly;upon this, somehow, I was dumb. I distrusted myself, and dreaded my odioushabit of blushing, and knew that I should look so horribly guilty, andbecome so agitated and odd, that she would have reasonably concluded that Ihad quite lost my heart to him. 

After the lesson I had received, and my narrow escape of detection in thevery act, you may be sure I never trusted myself in the vicinity of thatfat and cruel 'Peerage, ' which possessed the secret, but would not disclosewithout compromising me. 

In this state of tantalizing darkness and conjecture I should havedeparted, had not Cousin Monica quite spontaneously relieved me. 

The night before our departure she sat with us in our room, chatting alittle farewell gossip. 

'And what do you think of Ilbury?' she asked. 

'I think him clever and accomplished, and amusing; but he sometimes appearsto me very melancholy--that is, for a few minutes together--and then, Ifancy, with an effort, re-engages in our conversation. '

'Yes, poor Ilbury! He lost his brother only about five months since, andis only beginning to recover his spirits a little. They were very muchattached, and people thought that he would have succeeded to the title, had he lived, because Ilbury is _difficile_--or a philosopher--or a _SaintKevin_; and, in fact, has begun to be treated as a premature old bachelor. '

'What a charming person his sister, Lady Mary, is. She has made me promiseto write to her, ' I said, I suppose--such hypocrites are we--to prove toCousin Knollys that I did not care particularly to hear anything more abouthim. 

'Yes, and so devoted to him. He came down here, and took The Grange, forchange of scene and solitude--of all things the worst for a man in grief--amorbid whim, as he is beginning to find out; for he is very glad to stayhere, and confesses that he is much better since he came. His letters arestill addressed to him as Mr. Carysbroke; for he fancied if his rank wereknown, that the county people would have been calling upon him, and so hewould have found himself soon involved in a tiresome round of dinners, andmust have gone somewhere else. You saw him, Milly, at Bartram, before Maudcame?'

Yes, she had, when he called there to see her father. 

'He thought, as he had accepted the trusteeship, that he could hardly, residing so near, omit to visit Silas. He was very much struck andinterested by him, and he has a better opinion of him--you are not angry, Milly--than some ill-natured people I could name; and he says that thecutting down of the trees will turn out to have been a mere slip. But theseslips don't occur with clever men in other things; and some persons havea way of always making them in their own favour. And, to talk of otherthings, I suspect that you and Milly will probably see Ilbury at Bartram;for I think he likes you very much. '

_You_; did she mean _both_, or only me?

So our pleasant visit was over. Milly's good little curate had been muchthrown in her way by our deep and dangerous cousin Monica. He was mostlaudably steady; and his flirtation advanced upon the field of theology, where, happily, Milly's little reading had been concentrated. A mild andearnest interest in poor, pretty Milly's orthodoxy was the leading featureof his case; and I was highly amused at her references to me, when we hadretired at night, upon the points which she had disputed with him, andher anxious reports of their low-toned conferences, carried on upon asequestered ottoman, where he patted and stroked his crossed leg, as hesmiled tenderly and shook his head at her questionable doctrine. Milly'sreverence for her instructor, and his admiration, grew daily; and he wasknown among us as Milly's confessor. 

He took luncheon with us on the day of our departure, and with an adroitprivacy, which in a layman would have been sly, presented her, in right ofhis holy calling, with a little book, the binding of which was mediaevaland costly, and whose letter-press dealt in a way which he commended, with some points on which she was not satisfactory; and she found on thefly-leaf this little inscription:--'Presented to Miss Millicent Ruthyn byan earnest well-wisher, 1st December 1844. ' A text, very neatly penned, followed this; and the 'presentation' was made unctiously indeed, but witha blush, as well as the accustomed smile, and with eyes that were lowered. 

The early crimson sun of December had gone down behind the hills before wetook our seats in the carriage. 

Lord Ilbury leaned with his elbow on the carriage window, looking in, andhe said to me--

'I really don't know what we shall do, Miss Ruthyn; we shall all feel solonely. For myself, I think I shall run away to Grange. '

This appeared to me as nearly perfect eloquence as human lips could utter. 

His hand still rested on the window, and the Rev. Sprigge Biddlepen wasstanding with a saddened smirk on the door steps, when the whip smacked, the horses scrambled into motion, and away we rolled down the avenue, leaving behind us the pleasantest house and hostess in the world, andtrotting fleetly into darkness towards Bartram-Haugh. 

We were both rather silent. Milly had her book in her lap, and I sawher every now and then try to read her 'earnest well-wisher's' littleinscription, but there was not light to read by. 

When we reached the great gate of Bartram-Haugh it was dark. Old Crowl, whokept the gate, I heard enjoining the postilion to make no avoidable noiseat the hall-door, for the odd but startling reason that he believed myuncle 'would be dead by this time. '

Very much shocked and frightened, we stopped the carriage, and questionedthe tremulous old porter. 

Uncle Silas, it seemed, had been 'silly-ish' all yesterday, and 'could notbe woke this morning, ' and 'the doctor had been here twice, being now inthe house. '

'Is he better?' I asked, tremblingly. 

'Not as I'm aweer on, Miss; he lay at God's mercy two hours agone; 'appenhe's in heaven be this time. '

'Drive on--drive fast, ' I said to the driver. 'Don't be frightened, Milly;please Heaven we shall find all going well. '

After some delay, during which my heart sank, and I quite gave up UncleSilas, the aged little servant-man opened the door, and trotted shakilydown the steps to the carriage side. 

Uncle Silas had been at death's door for hours; the question of life hadtrembled in the scale; but now the doctor said 'he might do. '

'Where was the doctor?'

'In master's room; he blooded him three hours agone. '

I don't think that Milly was so frightened as I. My heart beat, and I wastrembling so that I could hardly get upstairs. 

CHAPTER XLIV

_A FRIEND ARISES_

At the top of the great staircase I was glad to see the friendly faceof Mary Quince, who stood, candle in hand, greeting us with many littlecourtesies, and a very haggard and pallid smile. 

'Very welcome, Miss, hoping you are very well. '

'All well, and you are well, Mary? and oh! tell us quickly how is UncleSilas?'

'We thought he was gone, Miss, this morning, but doing fairly now; doctorsays in a trance like. I was helping old Wyat most of the day, and wasthere when doctor blooded him, an' he spoke at last; but he must be awfulweak, he took a deal o' blood from his arm, Miss; I held the basin. '

'And he's better--decidedly better?' I asked. 

'Well, he's better, doctor says; he talked some, and doctor says if he goesoff asleep again, and begins a-snoring like he did before, we're to loosethe bandage, and let him bleed till he comes to his self again; which, itseems to me and Wyat, is the same thing a'most as saying he's to be killedoff-hand, for I don't believe he has a drop to spare, as you'll saylikewise, Miss, if you'll please look in the basin. '

This was not an invitation with which I cared to comply. I thought I wasgoing to faint. I sat on the stairs and sipped a little water, and Quincesprinkled a little in my face, and my strength returned. 

Milly must have felt her father's danger more than I, for she wasaffectionate, and loved him from habit and relation, although he was notkind to her. But I was more nervous and more impetuous, and my feelingsboth stimulated and overpowered me more easily. The moment I was able tostand I said--thinking of nothing but the one idea--

'We must see him--_come_, Milly. '

I entered his sitting-room; a common 'dip' candle hanging like the towerof Pisa all to one side, with a dim, long wick, in a greasy candlestick, profaned the table of the fastidious invalid. The light was little betterthan darkness, and I crossed the room swiftly, still transfixed by the oneidea of seeing my uncle. 

His bed-room door beside the fireplace stood partly open, and I looked in. 

Old Wyat, a white, high-cauled ghost, was pottering in her slippers in theshadow at the far side of the bed. The doctor, a stout little bald man, with a paunch and a big bunch of seals, stood with his back to thefireplace, which corresponded with that in the next room, eyeing hispatient through the curtains of the bed with a listless sort of importance. 

The head of the large four-poster rested against the opposite wall. Itsfoot was presented toward the fireplace; but the curtains at the side, which alone I could see from my position, were closed. 

The little doctor knew me, and thinking me, I suppose, a person ofconsequence, removed his hands from behind him, suffering the skirts of hiscoat to fall forward, and with great celerity and gravity made me a low butimportant bow; then choosing more particularly to make my acquaintancehe further advanced, and with another reverence he introduced himselfas Doctor Jolks, in a murmured diapason. He bowed me back again into myuncle's study, and the light of old Wyat's dreadful candle. 

Doctor Jolks was suave and pompous. I longed for a fussy practitioner whowould have got over the ground in half the time. 

Coma, madam; coma. Miss Ruthyn, your uncle, I may tell you, has been in avery critical state; highly so. Coma of the most obstinate type. He wouldhave sunk--he must have gone, in fact, had I not resorted to a very extremeremedy, and bled him freely, which happily told precisely as we could havewished. A wonderful constitution--a marvellous constitution--prodigiousnervous fibre; the greatest pity in the world he won't give himself fairplay. His habits, you know, are quite, I may say, destructive. We doour best--we do all we can, but if the patient won't cooperate it can'tpossibly end satisfactorily. '

And Jolks accompanied this with an awful shrug. 'Is there _anything_? Doyou think change of air? What an awful complaint it is, ' I exclaimed. 

He smiled, mysteriously looking down, and shook his head undertaker-like. 

'Why, we can hardly call it a _complaint_, Miss Ruthyn. I look upon it hehas been poisoned--he has had, you understand me, ' he pursued, observing mystartled look, 'an overdose of opium; you know he takes opium habitually;he takes it in laudanum, he takes it in water, and, most dangerous of all, he takes it solid, in lozenges. I've known people take it moderately. I've known people take it to excess, _but_ they all were particular as to_measure, _ and _that_ is exactly the point I've tried to impress upon him. The habit, of course, you understand is formed, there's no uprooting that;but he won't _measure_--he goes by the eye and by sensation, which I neednot tell you, Miss Ruthyn, is going by _chance;_ and opium, as no doubtyou are aware, is strictly a poison; a poison, no doubt, which habit willenable you to partake of, I may say, in considerable quantities, withoutfatal consequences, but still a poison; and to exhibit a poison _so_, is, I need scarcely tell you, to trifle with death. He has been so threatened, and for a time he changes his haphazard mode of dealing with it, and thenreturns; he may escape--of course, that is possible--but he may any dayoverdo the thing. I don't think the present crisis will result seriously. Iam very glad, independently of the honour of making your acquaintance, MissRuthyn, that you and your cousin have returned; for, however zealous, Ifear the servants are deficient in intelligence; and as in the event of arecurrence of the symptoms--which, however, is not probable--I would beg toinform you of their nature, and how exactly best to deal with them. '

So upon these points he delivered us a pompous little lecture, and beggedthat either Milly or I would remain in the room with the patient until hisreturn at two or three o'clock in the morning; a reappearance of the coma'might be very bad indeed. '

Of course Milly and I did as we were directed. We sat by the fire, scarcelydaring to whisper. Uncle Silas, about whom a new and dreadful suspicionbegan to haunt me, lay still and motionless as if he were actually dead. 

'Had he attempted to poison himself?'

If he believed his position to be as desperate as Lady Knollys haddescribed it, was this, after all, improbable? There were strange wildtheories, I had been told, mixed up in his religion. 

Sometimes, at an hour's interval, a sign of life would come--a moan fromthat tall sheeted figure in the bed--a moan and a pattering of the lips. Was it prayer--_what_ was it? who could guess what thoughts were passingbehind that white-fillited forehead?

I had peeped at him: a white cloth steeped in vinegar and water was foldedround his head; his great eyes were closed, so were his marble lips; hisfigure straight, thin, and long, dressed in a white dressing-gown, lookedlike a corpse 'laid out' in the bed; his gaunt bandaged arm lay outside thesheet that covered his body. 

With this awful image of death we kept our vigil, until poor Milly grew sosleepy that old Wyat proposed that she should take her place and watch withme. 

Little as I liked the crone with the high-cauled cap, she would, at allevents, keep awake, which Milly could not. And so at one o'clock this newarrangement began. 

'Mr. Dudley Ruthyn is not at home?' I whispered to old Wyat. 

'He went away wi' himself yesternight, to Cloperton, Miss, to see thewrestling; it was to come off this morning. '

'Was he sent for?'

'Not he. '

'And why not?'

'He would na' leave the sport for this, I'm thinking, ' and the old womangrinned uglily. 

'When is he to return?'

'When he wants money. '

So we grew silent, and again I thought of suicide, and of the unhappy oldman, who just then whispered a sentence or two to himself with a sigh. 

For the next hour he had been quite silent, and old Wyat informed me thatshe must go down for candles. Ours were already burnt down to the sockets. 

'There's a candle in the next room, ' I suggested, hating the idea of beingleft alone with the patient. 

'Hoot! Miss. I _dare_ na' set a candle but wax in his presence, ' whisperedthe old woman, scornfully. 

'I think if we were to stir the fire, and put on a little more coal, weshould have a great deal of light. '

'He'll ha' the candles, ' said Dame Wyat, doggedly; and she tottered fromthe chamber, muttering to herself; and I heard her take her candle from thenext room and depart, shutting the outer door after her. 

Here was I then alone, but for this unearthly companion, whom I fearedinexpressibly, at two o'clock, in the vast old house of Bartram. 

I stirred the fire. It was low, and would not blaze. I stood up, and, withmy hand on the mantelpiece, endeavoured to think of cheerful things. Butit was a struggle against wind and tide--vain; and so I drifted away intohaunted regions. 

Uncle Silas was perfectly still. I would not suffer myself to think of thenumber of dark rooms and passages which now separated me from the otherliving tenants of the house. I awaited with a false composure the return ofold Wyat. 

Over the mantelpiece was a looking-glass. At another time this might havehelped to entertain my solitary moments, but now I did not like to venturea peep. A small thick Bible lay on the chimneypiece, and leaning its backagainst the mirror, I began to read in it with a mind as attentivelydirected as I could. While so engaged in turning over the leaves, I lightedupon two or three odd-looking papers, which had been folded into it. Onewas a broad printed thing, with names and dates written into blank spaces, and was about the size of a quarter of a yard of very broad ribbon. Theothers were mere scraps, with 'Dudley Ruthyn' penned in my cousin's vulgarround-hand at the foot. While I folded and replaced these, I really don'tknow what caused me to fancy that something was moving behind me, as Istood with my back toward the bed. I do not recollect any sound whatever;but instinctively I glanced into the mirror, and my eyes were instantlyfixed by what I saw. 

The figure of Uncle Silas rose up, and dressed in a long white morninggown, slid over the end of the bed, and with two or three swiftnoiseless steps, stood behind me, with a death-like scowl and a simper. Preternaturally tall and thin, he stood for a moment almost touching me, with the white bandage pinned across his forehead, his bandaged arm stifflyby his side, and diving over my shoulder, with his long thin hand hesnatched the Bible, and whispered over my head--'The serpent beguiled herand she did eat;' and after a momentary pause, he glided to the farthestwindow, and appeared to look out upon the midnight prospect. 

It was cold, but he did not seem to feel it. With the same inflexible scowland smile, he continued to look out for several minutes, and then with agreat sigh, he sat down on the side of his bed, his face immovably turnedtowards me, with the same painful look. 

It seemed to me an hour before old Wyat came back; and never was lover madehappier at sight of his mistress than I to behold that withered crone. 

You may be sure I did not prolong my watch. There was now plainly no riskof my uncle's relapsing into lethargy. I had a long hysterical fit ofweeping when I got into my room, with honest Mary Quince by my side. 

Whenever I closed my eyes, the face of Uncle Silas was before me, as I hadseen it reflected in the glass. The sorceries of Bartram were enveloping meonce more. 

Next morning the doctor said he was quite out of danger, but very weak. Milly and I saw him; and again in our afternoon walk we saw the doctormarching under the trees in the direction of the Windmill Wood. 

'Going down to see that poor girl there?' he said, when he had made hissalutation, prodding with his levelled stick in the direction. 'Hawke, orHawkes, I think. '

'Beauty's sick, Maud, ' exclaimed Milly. 

'_Hawkes_. She's upon my dispensary list. Yes, ' said the doctor, lookinginto his little note-book--'Hawkes. '

'And what is her complaint?'

'Rheumatic fever. '

'Not infectious?'

'Not the least--no more, as we say, Miss Ruthyn, than a broken leg, ' and helaughed obligingly. 

So soon as the doctor had departed, Milly and I agreed to follow to Hawkes'cottage and enquire more particularly how she was. To say truth, I amafraid it was rather for the sake of giving our walk a purpose and a pointof termination, than for any very charitable interest we might have felt inthe patient. 

Over the inequalities of the upland slope, clumped with trees, we reachedthe gabled cottage, with its neglected little farm-yard. A rheumatic oldwoman was the only attendant; and, having turned her ear in an attitude ofattention, which induced us in gradually exalted keys to enquire how Megwas, she informed us in very loud tones that she had long lost her hearingand was perfectly deaf. And added considerately--

'When the man comes in, 'appen he'll tell ye what ye want. '

Through the door of a small room at the further end of that in which wewere, we could see a portion of the narrow apartment of the patient, andhear her moans and the doctor's voice. 

'We'll see him, Milly, when he comes out. Let us wait here. '

So we stood upon the door-stone awaiting him. The sounds of suffering hadmoved my compassion and interested us for the sick girl. 

'Blest if here isn't Pegtop, ' said Milly. 

And the weather-stained red coat, the swarthy forbidding face and sootylocks of old Hawkes loomed in sight, as he stumped, steadying himself withhis stick, over the uneven pavement of the yard. He touched his hat grufflyto me, but did not seem half to like our being where we were, for he lookedsurlily, and scratched his head under his wide-awake. 

'Your daughter is very ill, I'm afraid, ' said I. 

'Ay--she'll be costin' me a handful, like her mother did, ' said Pegtop. 

'I hope her room is comfortable, poor thing. '

'Ay, that's it; she be comfortable enough, I warrant--more nor I. It be allMeg, and nout o' Dickon. '

'When did her illness commence?' I asked. 

'Day the mare wor shod--_Saturday_. I talked a bit wi' the workus folk, butthey won't gi'e nout--dang 'em--an' how be _I_ to do't? It be all'ays hardbread wi' Silas, an' a deal harder now she' ta'en them pains. I won't stan'it much longer. Gammon! If she keeps on that way I'll just cut. See how theworkus fellahs 'ill like _that_!'

'The Doctor gives his services for nothing, ' I said. 

'An' _does_ nothin', bless him! ha, ha. No more nor that old deaf gammonthere that costs me three tizzies a week, and haint worth a h'porth--nomore nor Meg there, that's making all she can o' them pains. They be all afoolin' o' me, an' thinks I don't know't. Hey? _we_'ll see. '

All this time he was cutting a bit of tobacco into shreds on thewindow-stone. 

'A workin' man be same as a hoss; if he baint cared, he can't work--'tisn'tin him:' and with these words, having by this time stuffed his pipe withtobacco, he poked the deaf lady, who was pattering about with her backtoward him, rather viciously with the point of his stick, and signed for alight. 

'It baint in him, you can't get it out o' 'im, no more nor ye'll draw smokeout o' this, ' and he raised his pipe an inch or two, with his thumb on thebowl, 'without backy and fire. 'Tisn't in it. '

'Maybe I can be of some use?' I said, thinking. 

'Maybe, ' he rejoined. 

By this time he received from the old deaf abigail a flaming roll of brownpaper, and, touching his hat to me, he withdrew, lighting his pipe andsending up little white puffs, like the salute of a departing ship. 

So he did not care to hear how his daughter was, and had only come here tolight his pipe!

Just then the Doctor emerged. 

'We have been waiting to hear how your poor patient is to-day?' I said. 

'Very ill, indeed, and utterly neglected, I fear. If she were equalto it--but she's not--I think she ought to be removed to the hospitalimmediately. '

'That poor old woman is quite deaf, and the man is so surly and selfish!Could you recommend a nurse who would stay here till she's better? I willpay her with pleasure, and anything you think might be good for the poorgirl. '

So this was settled on the spot. Doctor Jolks was kind, like most menof his calling, and undertook to send the nurse from Feltram with a fewcomforts for the patient; and he called Dickon to the yard-gate, and Isuppose told him of the arrangement; and Milly and I went to the poorgirl's door and asked, 'May we come in?'

There was no answer. So, with the conventional construction of silence, weentered. Her looks showed how ill she was. We adjusted her bed-clothes, anddarkened the room, and did what we could for her--noting, beside, what hercomfort chiefly required. She did not answer any questions. She did notthank us. I should almost have fancied that she had not perceived ourpresence, had I not observed her dark, sunken eyes once or twice turned uptowards my face, with a dismal look of wonder and enquiry. 

The girl was very ill, and we went every day to see her. Sometimes shewould answer our questions--sometimes not. Thoughtful, observant, surly, she seemed; and as people like to be thanked, I sometimes wonder thatwe continued to throw our bread upon these ungrateful waters. Milly wasspecially impatient under this treatment, and protested against it, andfinally refused to accompany me into poor Beauty's bed-room. 

'I think, my good Meg, ' said I one day, as I stood by her bed--she was nowrecovering with the sure reascent of youth--'that you ought to thank MissMilly. '

'I'll _not_ thank her, ' said Beauty, doggedly. 

'Very well, Meg; I only thought I'd ask you, for I think you ought. '

As I spoke, she very gently took just the tip of my finger, which hungclose to her coverlet, in her fingers, and drew it beneath, and before Iwas aware, burying her head in the clothes, she suddenly clasped my handin both hers to her lips, and kissed it passionately, again and again, sobbing. I felt her tears. 

I tried to withdraw my hand, but she held it with an angry pull, continuingto weep and kiss it. 

'Do you wish to say anything, my poor Meg?' I asked. 

'Nout, Miss, ' she sobbed gently; and she continued to kiss my hand andweep. But suddenly she said, 'I won't thank Milly, for it's a' _you_; itbaint her, she hadn't the thought--no, no, it's a' you, Miss. I criedhearty in the dark last night, thinkin' o' the apples, and the way Iknocked them awa' wi' a pur o' my foot, the day father rapped me ower thehead wi' his stick; it was kind o' you and very bad o' me. I wish you'dbeat me, Miss; ye're better to me than father or mother--better to me thana'; an' I wish I could die for you, Miss, for I'm not fit to look at you. '

I was surprised. I began to cry. I could have hugged poor Meg. 

I did not know her history. I have never learned it since. She used totalk with the most utter self-abasement before me. It was no religiousfeeling--it was a kind of expression of her love and worship of me--all themore strange that she was naturally very proud. There was nothing shewould not have borne from me except the slightest suspicion of her entiredevotion, or that she could in the most trifling way wrong or deceive me. 

I am not young now. I have had my sorrows, and with them all that wealth, virtually unlimited, can command; and through the retrospect a few brightand pure lights quiver along my life's dark stream--dark, but for them; andthese are shed, not by the splendour of a splendid fortune, but by two orthree of the simplest and kindest remembrances, such as the poorest andhomeliest life may count up, and beside which, in the quiet hours ofmemory, all artificial triumphs pale, and disappear, for they are neverquenched by time or distance, being founded on the affections, and so farheavenly. 

CHAPTER XLV

_A CHAPTER-FULL OF LOVERS_

We had about this time a pleasant and quite unexpected visit from LordIlbury. He had come to pay his respects, understanding that my uncle Silaswas sufficiently recovered to see visitors. 'And I think I'll run up-stairsfirst, and see him, if he admits me, and then I have ever so long a messagefrom my sister, Mary, for you and Miss Millicent; but I had better disposeof my business first--don't you think so?--and I shall return in a fewminutes. '

And as he spoke our tremulous old butler returned to say that Uncle Silaswould be happy to see him. So he departed; and you can't think how pleasantour homely sitting-room looked with his coat and stick in it--guarantees ofhis return. 

'Do you think, Milly, he is going to speak about the timber, you know, thatCousin Knollys spoke of? I do hope not. '

'So do I, ' said Milly. 'I wish he'd stayed a bit longer with us first, forif he does, father will sure to turn him out of doors, and we'll see nomore of him. '

'Exactly, my dear Milly; and he's so pleasant and good-natured. '

'And he likes you awful well, he does. '

'I'm sure he likes us both equally, Milly; he talked a great deal to you atElverston, and used to ask you so often to sing those two pretty Lancashireballads, ' I said; 'but you know when you were at your controversies andreligious exercises in the window, with that pillar of the church, the Rev. Spriggs Biddlepen--'

'Get awa' wi' your nonsense, Maud; how could I help answering when hedodged me up and down my Testament and catechism?--an I 'most hate him, Itell you, and Cousin Knollys, you're such fools, I do. And whatever yousay, the lord likes you uncommon, and well you know it, ye hussy. '

'I know no such thing; and you don't think it, _you_ hussy, and I reallydon't care who likes me or who doesn't, except my relations; and I make thelord a present to you, if you'll have him. '

In this strain were we talking when he re-entered the room, a little soonerthan we had expected to see him. 

Milly, who, you are to recollect, was only in process of reformation, andstill retained something of the Derbyshire dairymaid, gave me a littleclandestine pinch on the arm just as he made his appearance. 

'I just refused a present from her, ' said odious Milly, in answer to hisenquiring look, 'because I knew she could not spare it. '

The effect of all this was that I blushed one of my overpowering blushes. People told me they became me very much; I hope so, for the misfortune wasfrequent; and I think nature owed me that compensation. 

'It places you both in a most becoming light, ' said Lord Ilbury, quiteinnocently. 'I really don't know which most to admire--the generosity ofthe offer or of the refusal. '

'Well, it _was_ kind, if you but knew. I'm 'most tempted to tell him, ' saidMilly. 

I checked her with a really angry look, and said, 'Perhaps you have notobserved it; but I really think, for a sensible person, my cousin Millyhere talks more nonsense than any twenty other girls. '

'A twenty-girl power! That's an immense compliment. I've the greatestrespect for nonsense, I owe it so much; and I really think if nonsense werebanished, the earth would grow insupportable. '

'Thank you, Lord Ilbury, ' said Milly, who had grown quite easy in hiscompany during our long visit at Elverston; 'and I tell you, Miss Maud, ifyou grow saucy, I'll accept your present, and what will you say then?'

'I really don't know; but just now I want to ask Lord Ilbury how he thinksmy uncle looks; neither I nor Milly have seen him since his illness. '

'Very much weaker, I think; but he may be gaining strength. Still, as mybusiness was not quite pleasant, I thought it better to postpone it, andif you think it would be right, I'll write to Doctor Bryerly to ask him topostpone the discussion for a little time. '

I at once assented, and thanked him; indeed, if I had had my way, thesubject should never have been mentioned, I felt so hardhearted andrapacious; but Lord Ilbury explained that the trustees were constrained bythe provisions of the will, and that I really had no power to release them;and I hoped that Uncle Silas also understood all this. 

'And now, ' said he, 'we've returned to Grange, my sister and I, and it isnearer than Elverston, so that we are really neighbours; and Mary wantsLady Knollys to fix a time she owes us a visit, you know--and you reallymust come at the same time; it will be so very pleasant, the same partyexactly meeting in a new scene; and we have not half explored ourneighbourhood; and I've got down all those Spanish engravings I told youof, and the Venetian missals, and all the rest. I think I remember veryaccurately the things you were most interested by, and they're all there;and really you must promise, you and Miss Millicent Ruthyn. And I forgot tomention--you know you complained that you were ill supplied with books, so Mary thought you would allow her to share her supply--they are the newbooks, you know--and when you have read yours, you and she can exchange. '

What girl was ever quite frank about her likings? I don't think I was moreof a cheat than others; but I never could tell of myself. It is quite truethat this duplicity and reserve seldom deceives. Our hypocrisies are forcedupon some of our sex by the acuteness and vigilance of all in this field ofenquiry; but if we are sly, we are also lynx-eyed, capital detectives, mostingenious in fitting together the bits and dovetails of a cumulative case;and in those affairs of love and liking, have a terrible exploratoryinstinct, and so, for the most part, when detected we are found out notonly to be in love, but to be rogues moreover. 

Lady Mary was very kind; but had Lady Mary of her own mere motion taken allthis trouble? Was there no more energetic influence at the bottom ofthat welcome chest of books, which arrived only half an hour later? Thecirculating library of those days was not the epidemic and ubiquitousinfluence to which it has grown; and there were many places where it couldnot find you out. 

Altogether that evening Bartram had acquired a peculiar beauty--a brightand mellow glow, in which even its gate-posts and wheelbarrow wereinteresting, and next day came a little cloud--Dudley appeared. 

'You may be sure he wants money, ' said Milly. 'He and father had words thismorning. '

He took a chair at our luncheon, found fault with everything in his ownlaconic dialect, ate a good deal notwithstanding, and was sulky, and withMilly snappish. To me, on the contrary, when Milly went into the hall, hewas mild and whimpering, and disposed to be confidential. 

'There's the Governor says he hasn't a bob! Danged if I know how an oldfellah in his bed-room muddles away money at that rate. I don't suppose hethinks I can git along without tin, and he knows them trustees won't gi'eme a tizzy till they get what they calls an opinion--dang 'em! Bryerly sayshe doubts it must all go under settlement. They'll settle me nicely ifthey do; and Governor knows all about it, and won't gi'e me a danged brassfarthin', an' me wi' bills to pay, an' lawyers--dang 'em--writingletters. He knows summat o' that hisself, does Governor; and he might ha'consideration a bit for his own flesh and blood, _I_ say. But he never doesnout for none but hisself. I'll sell his books and his jewels next fit hetakes--that's how I'll fit him. '

This amiable young man, glowering, with his elbows on the table and hisfingers in his great whiskers, followed his homily, where clergymen appendthe blessing, with a muttered variety of very different matter. 

'Now, Maud, ' said he, pathetically, leaning back suddenly in his chair, with all his conscious beauty and misfortunes in his face, 'is not it hardlines?'

I thought the appeal was going to shape itself into an application formoney; but it did not. 

'I never know'd a reel beauty--first-chop, of course, I mean--thatwasn't kind along of it, and I'm a fellah as can't git along withoutsympathy--that's why I say it--an' isn't it hard lines? Now, _say_ it'shard lines--_haint_ it, Maud?'

I did not know exactly what hard lines meant, but I said--

'I suppose it is very disagreeable. '

And with this concession, not caring to hear any more in the same vein, Irose, intending to take my departure. 

'No, that's jest it. I knew ye'd say it, Maud. Ye're a kind lass--yebe--'tis in yer pretty face. I like ye awful, I do--there's not a handsomerlass in Liverpool nor Lunnon itself--_no_ where. '

He had seized my hand, and trying to place his arm about my waist, essayedthat salute which I had so narrowly escaped on my first introduction. 

'_Don't_, sir, ' I exclaimed in high indignation, escaping at the samemoment from his grasp. 

'No offence, lass; no harm, Maud; you must not be so shy--we're cousins, you know--an' I wouldn't hurt ye, Maud, no more nor I'd knock my head off. I wouldn't. '

I did not wait to hear the rest of his tender protestations, but, withoutshowing how nervous I was, I glided out of the room quietly, makingan orderly retreat, the more meritorious as I heard him call after mepersuasively--'Come back, Maud. What are ye afeard on, lass? Come back, Isay--do now; there's a good wench. '

As Milly and I were taking our walk that day, in the direction of theWindmill Wood, to which, in consequence perhaps of some secret order, wehad now free access, we saw Beauty, for the first time since her illness, in the little yard, throwing grain to the poultry. 

'How do you find yourself to-day, Meg? I am _very_ glad to see you able tobe about again; but I hope it is not too soon. '

We were standing at the barred gate of the little enclosure, and quiteclose to Meg, who, however, did not choose to raise her head, but, continuing to shower her grain and potato-skins among her hens andchickens, said in a low tone--

'Father baint in sight? Look jist round a bit and say if ye see him. '

But Dickon's dusky red costume was nowhere visible. 

So Meg looked up, pale and thin, and with her old grave, observant eyes, and she said quietly--

''Tisn't that I'm not glad to see ye; but if father was to spy me talkingfriendly wi' ye, now that I'm hearty, and you havin' no more call to me, he'd be all'ays a watching and thinkin' I was tellin' o' tales, and 'appenhe'd want me to worrit ye for money, Miss Maud; an' 'tisn't here he'd spendit, but in the Feltram pottusses, he would, and we want for nothin' that'sgood for us. But that's how 'twould be, an' he'd all'ays be a jawing and alickin' of I; so don't mind me, Miss Maud, and 'appen I might do ye a goodturn some day. '

A few days after this little interview with Meg, as Milly and I werewalking briskly--for it was a clear frosty day--along the pleasant slopesof the sheep-walk, we were overtaken by Dudley Ruthyn. It was not apleasant surprise. There was this mitigation, however: we were on foot, andhe driving in a dog-cart along the track leading to the moor, with his dogsand gun. He brought his horse for a moment to a walk, and with a carelessnod to me, removing his short pipe from his mouth, he said--

'Governor's callin' for ye, Milly; and he told me to send you slick home tohim if I saw you, and I think he'll gi'e ye some money; but ye better takehim while he's in the humour, lass, or mayhap ye'll go long without. '

And with those words, apparently intent on his game, he nodded again, and, pipe in mouth, drove at a quick trot over the slope of the hill, anddisappeared. 

So I agreed to await Milly's return while she ran home, and rejoined mewhere I was. Away she ran, in high spirits, and I wandered listlessly aboutin search of some convenient spot to sit down upon, for I was a littletired. 

She had not been gone five minutes, when I heard a step approaching, andlooking round, saw the dog-cart close by, the horse browsing on the shortgrass, and Dudley Ruthyn within a few paces of me. 

'Ye see, Maud, I've bin thinkin' why you're so vexed wi' me, an' I thoughtI'd jest come back an' ask ye what I may a' done to anger ye so; there's nosin in that, I think--is there?'

'I'm not angry. I did not say so. I hope that's enough, ' I said, startled;and, notwithstanding my speech, _very_ angry, for I felt instinctively thatMilly's despatch homeward was a mere trick, and I the dupe of this coarsestratagem. 

'Well then, if ye baint angry, so much the better, Maud. I only want toknow why you're afeard o' me. I never struck a man foul, much less hurt agirl, in my days; besides, Maud, I likes ye too well to hurt ye. Dang it, lass, you're my cousin, ye know, and cousins is all'ays together and lovin'like, an' none says again' it. '

'I've nothing to explain--there _is_ nothing to explain. I've been quitefriendly, ' I said, hurriedly. 

'_Friendly!_ Well, if there baint a cram! How can ye think it friendly, Maud, when ye won't a'most shake hands wi' me? It's enough to make a fellahsware, or cry a'most. Why d'ye like aggravatin' a poor devil? Now baintye an ill-natured little puss, Maud, an' I likin' ye so well? You're theprettiest lass in Derbyshire; there's nothin' I wouldn't do for ye. '

And he backed his declaration with an oath. 

'Be so good, then, as to re-enter your dog-cart and drive away, ' I replied, very much incensed. 

'Now, there it is again! Ye can't speak me civil. Another fellah'd fly out, an' maybe kiss ye for spite; but I baint that sort, I'm all for coaxin' andkindness, an' ye won't let me. What _be_ you drivin' at, Maud?'

'I think I've said very plainly, sir, that I wish to be alone. You've_nothing_ to say, except utter nonsense, and I've heard quite enough. Oncefor all, I beg, sir, that you will be so good as to leave me. '

'Well, now, look here, Maud; I'll do anything you like--burn me if Idon't--if you'll only jest be kind to me, like cousins should. What didI ever do to vex you? If you think I like any lass better than you--somefellah at Elverston's bin talkin', maybe--it's nout but lies an' nonsense. Not but there's lots o' wenches likes me well enough, though I be a plainlad, and speaks my mind straight out. '

'I can't see that you are so frank, sir, as you describe; you have justplayed a shabby trick to bring about this absurd and most disagreeableinterview. '

'And supposin' I did send that fool, Milly, out o' the way, to talk a bitwi' you here, where's the harm? Dang it, lass, ye mustn't be too hard. Didn't I say I'd do whatever ye wished?'

'And you _won't_, ' said I. 

'Ye mean to get along out o' this? Well, now, I _will_. There! No use, ofcourse, askin' you to kiss and be friends, before I go, as cousins should. Well, don't be riled, lass, I'm not askin' it; only mind, I do like youawful, and 'appen I'll find ye in better humour another time. Good-bye, Maud; I'll make ye like me at last. '

And with these words, to my comfort, he addressed himself to his horse andpipe, and was soon honestly on his way to the moor. 

CHAPTER XLVI

_THE RIVALS_

All the time that Dudley chose to persecute me with his odious society, Icontinued to walk at a brisk pace toward home, so that I had nearly reachedthe house when Milly met me, with a note which had arrived for me by thepost, in her hand. 

'Here, Milly, are more verses. He is a very persevering poet, whoever heis. ' So I broke the seal; but this time it was prose. And the first wordswere 'Captain Oakley!'

I confess to an odd sensation as these remarkable words met my eye. Itmight possibly be a proposal. I did not wait to speculate, however, butread these sentences traced in the identical handwriting which had copiedthe lines with which I had been twice favoured. 

'Captain Oakley presents his compliments to Miss Ruthyn, and trusts shewill excuse his venturing to ask whether, during his short stay in Feltram, he might be permitted to pay his respects at Bartram-Haugh. He has beenmaking a short visit to his aunt, and could not find himself so nearwithout at least attempting to renew an acquaintance which he has neverceased to cherish in memory. If Miss Ruthyn would be so very good as tofavour him with ever so short a reply to the question he ventures mostrespectfully to ask, her decision would reach him at the Hall Hotel, Feltram. '

'Well, he's a roundabout fellah, anyhow. Couldn't he come up and see you ifhe wanted to? They poeters, they do love writing long yarns--don't they?'And with this reflection, Milly took the note and read it through again. 

'It's jolly polite anyhow, isn't it Maud?' said Milly, who had conned itover, and accepted it as a model composition. 

I must have been, I think, naturally a rather shrewd girl; and consideringhow very little I had seen of the world--nothing in fact--I often wondernow at the sage conclusions at which I arrived. 

Were I to answer this handsome and cunning fool according to his folly, in what position should I find myself? No doubt my reply would inducea rejoinder, and that compel another note from me, and that invite yetanother from him; and however his might improve in warmth, they were surenot to abate. Was it his impertinent plan, with this show of respect andceremony, to drag me into a clandestine correspondence? Inexperienced girlas I was, I fired at the idea of becoming his dupe, and fancying, perhaps, that there was more in merely answering his note than it would haveamounted to, I said--

'That kind of thing may answer very well with button-makers, but ladiesdon't like it. What would your papa think of it if he found that I had beenwriting to him, and seeing him without his permission? If he wanted tosee me he could have'--(I really did not know exactly what he could havedone)--'he could have timed his visit to Lady Knollys differently; at allevents, he has no right to place me in an embarrassing situation, and I amcertain Cousin Knollys would say so; and I think his note both shabby andimpertinent. '

Decision was not with me an intellectual process. When quite cool I was themost undecided of mortals, but once my feelings were excited I was promptand bold. 

'I'll give the note to Uncle Silas, ' I said, quickening my pace towardhome; 'he'll know what to do. '

But Milly, who, I fancy, had no objection to the little romance which theyoung officer proposed, told me that she could not see her father, that hewas ill, and not speaking to anyone. 

'And arn't ye making a plaguy row about nothin'? I lay a guinea if ye hadnever set eyes on Lord Ilbury you'd a told him to come, and see ye, an'welcome. '

'Don't talk like a fool, Milly. You never knew me do anything deceitful. Lord Ilbury has no more to do with it, you know very well, than the man inthe moon. '

I was altogether very indignant. I did not speak another word to Milly. Theproportions of the house are so great, that it is a much longer walk thanyou would suppose from the hall-door to Uncle Silas's room. But I did notcool all that way; and it was not till I had just reached the lobby, and saw the sour, jealous face, and high caul of old Wyat, and felt theinfluence of that neighbourhood, that I paused to reconsider. I fanciedthere was a cool consciousness of success behind all the deferentialphraseology of Captain Oakley, which nettled me extremely. No; there couldbe no doubt. I tapped softly at the door. 

'What is it _now_, Miss?' snarled the querulous old woman, with hershrivelled fingers on the door-handle. 

'Can I see my uncle for a moment?'

'He's tired, and not a word from him all day long. '

'Not ill, though?'

'Awful bad in the night, ' said the old crone, with a sudden savage glare inmy face, as if _I_ had brought it about. 

'Oh! I'm very sorry. I had not heard a word of it. '

'No one does but old Wyat. There's Milly there never asks neither--his ownchild!'

'Weakness, or what?'

'One o' them fits. He'll slide awa' in one o' them some day, and no one butold Wyat to know nor ask word about it; that's how 'twill be. '

'Will you please hand him this note, if he is well enough to look at it, and say I am at the door?'

She took it with a peevish nod and a grunt, closing the door in my face, and in a few minutes returned--

'Come in wi' ye, ' said Dame Wyat, and I appeared. 

Uncle Silas, who, after his nightly horror or vision, lay extended on asofa, with his faded yellow silk dressing-gown about him, his long whitehair hanging toward the ground, and that wild and feeble smile lighting hisface--a glimmer I feared to look upon--his long thin arms lay by his sides, with hands and fingers that stirred not, except when now and then, with afeeble motion, he wet his temples and forehead with eau de Cologne from aglass saucer placed beside him. 

'Excellent girl! dutiful ward and niece!' murmured the oracle; 'heavenreward you--your frank dealing is your own safety and my peace. Sit youdown, and say who is this Captain Oakley, when you made his acquaintance, what his age, fortune, and expectations, and who the aunt he mentions. '

Upon all these points I satisfied him as fully as I was able. 

'Wyat--the white drops, ' he called, in a thin, stern tone. 'I'll write aline presently. I can't see visitors, and, of course, you can't receiveyoung captains before you've come out. Farewell! God bless you, dear. '

Wyat was dropping the 'white' restorative into a wine-glass and the roomwas redolent of ether. I was glad to escape. The figures and whole _mise enscène_ were unearthly. 

'Well, Milly, ' I said, as I met her in the hall, 'your papa is going towrite to him. '

I sometimes wonder whether Milly was right, and how I should have acted afew months earlier. 

Next day whom should we meet in the Windmill Wood but Captain Oakley. Thespot where this interesting _rencontre_ occurred was near that ruinousbridge on my sketch of which I had received so many compliments. It wasso great a surprise that I had not time to recollect my indignation, and, having received him very affably, I found it impossible, during our briefinterview, to recover my lost altitude. 

After our greetings were over, and some compliments neatly made, he said--

'I had such a curious note from Mr. Silas Ruthyn. I am sure he thinks me avery impertinent fellow, for it was really anything but inviting--extremelyrude, in fact. But I could not quite see that because he does not wantme to invade his bed-room--an incursion I never dreamed of--I was not topresent myself to you, who had already honoured me with your acquaintance, with the sanction of those who were most interested in your welfare, andwho were just as well qualified as he, I fancy, to say who were qualifiedfor such an honour. '

'My uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, you are aware, is my guardian; and this is mycousin, his daughter. '

This was an opportunity of becoming a little lofty, and I improved it. Heraised his hat and bowed to Milly. 

'I'm afraid I've been very rude and stupid. Mr. Ruthyn, of course, has aperfect right to--to--in fact, I was not the least aware that I had thehonour of so near a relation's--a--a--and what exquisite scenery youhave! I think this country round Feltram particularly fine; and thisBartram-Haugh is, I venture to say, about the very most beautiful spot inthis beautiful region. I do assure you I am tempted beyond measure to makeFeltram and the Hall Hotel my head-quarters for at least a week. I onlyregret the foliage; but your trees show wonderfully, even in winter, somany of them have got that ivy about them. They say it spoils trees, but itcertainly beautifies them. I have just ten days' leave unexpired; I wishI could induce you to advise me how to apply them. What shall I do, MissRuthyn?'

'I am the worst person in the world to make plans, even for myself, I findit so troublesome. What do you say? Suppose you try Wales or Scotland, andclimb up some of those fine mountains that look so well in winter?'

'I should much prefer Feltram. I so wish you would recommend _it_. What isthis pretty plant?'

'We call that Maud's myrtle. She planted it, and it's very pretty when it'sfull in blow, ' said Milly. 

Our visit to Elverston had been of immense use to us both. 

'Oh! planted by _you?_' he said, very softly, with a momentarycorresponding glance. 'May I--ever so little--just a leaf?'

And without waiting for permission, he held a sprig of it next hiswaistcoat. 

'Yes, it goes very prettily with those buttons. They are _very_ prettybuttons; are not they, Milly? A present, a souvenir, I dare say?'

This was a terrible hit at the button-maker, and I thought he looked alittle oddly at me, but my countenance was so 'bewitchingly simple' that Isuppose his suspicions were allayed. 

Now, it was very odd of me, I must confess, to talk in this way, and toreceive all those tender allusions from a gentleman about whom I had spokenand felt so sharply only the evening before. But Bartram was abominablylonely. A civilised person was a valuable waif or stray in that region ofthe picturesque and the brutal; and to my lady reader especially, becauseshe will probably be hardest upon me, I put it--can you not recollect anysuch folly in your own past life? Can you not in as many minutes call tomind at least six similar inconsistencies of your own practising? For mypart, I really can't see the advantage of being the weaker sex if we arealways to be as strong as our masculine neighbours. 

There was, indeed, no revival of the little sentiment which I had onceexperienced. When these things once expire, I do believe they are as hardto revive as our dead lap-dogs, guinea-pigs, and parrots. It was my perfectcoolness which enabled me to chat, I flatter myself, so agreeably with therefined Captain, who plainly thought me his captive, and was probablynow and then thinking what was to be done to utilise that little bit ofBartram, or to beautify some other, when he should see fit to become itsmaster, as we rambled over these wild but beautiful grounds. 

It was just about then that Milly nudged me rather vehemently, andwhispered 'Look there!'

I followed with mine the direction of her eyes, and saw my odious cousin, Dudley, in a flagrant pair of cross-barred peg-tops, and what Milly beforeher reformation used to call other 'slops' of corresponding atrocity, approaching our refined little party with great strides. I really thinkthat Milly was very nearly ashamed of him. I certainly was. I had noapprehension, however, of the scene which was imminent. 

The charming Captain mistook him probably for some rustic servant of theplace, for he continued his agreeable remarks up to the very moment whenDudley, whose face was pale with anger, and whose rapid advance had notserved to cool him, without recollecting to salute either Milly or me, accosted our elegant companion as follows:--

'By your leave, master, baint you summat in the wrong box here, don't youthink?'

He had planted himself directly in his front, and looked unmistakablymenacing. 

'May I speak to him? Will you excuse me?' said the Captain blandly. 

'Ow--ay, they'll excuse ye ready enough, I dessay; you're to deal wi' methough. Baint ye in the wrong box now?'

'I'm not conscious, sir, of being in a box at all, ' replied the Captain, with severe disdain. 'It strikes me you are disposed to get up a row. Letus, if you please, get a little apart from the ladies if that is yourpurpose. '

'I mean to turn you out o' this the way ye came. If you make a row, so muchthe wuss for you, for I'll lick ye to fits. '

'Tell him not to fight, ' whispered Milly; 'he'll a no chance wi' Dudley. '

I saw Dickon Hawkes grinning over the paling on which he leaned. 

'Mr. Hawkes, ' I said, drawing Milly with me toward that unpromisingmediator, 'pray prevent unpleasantness and go between them. '

'An' git licked o' both sides? Rather not, Miss, thank ye, ' grinned Dickon, tranquilly. 

'Who are you, sir?' demanded our romantic acquaintance, with militarysternness. 

'I'll tell you who you are--you're Oakley, as stops at the Hall, thatGovernor wrote, over-night, not to dare show your nose inside the grounds. You're a half-starved cappen, come down here to look for a wife, and----'

Before Dudley could finish his sentence, Captain Oakley, than whose face noregimentals could possibly have been more scarlet, at that moment, struckwith his switch at Dudley's handsome features. 

I don't know how it was done--by some 'devilish cantrip slight. ' A smackwas heard, and the Captain lay on his back on the ground, with his mouthfull of blood. 

'How do ye like the taste o' that?' roared Dickon, from his post ofobservation. 

In an instant Captain Oakley was on his feet again, hatless, looking quitefrantic, and striking out at Dudley, who was ducking and dipping quitecoolly, and again the same horrid sound, only this time it was double, likea quick postman's knock, and Captain Oakley was on the grass again. 

'Tapped his smeller, by--!' thundered Dickon, with a roar of laughter. 

'Come away, Milly--I'm growing ill, ' said I. 

'Drop it, Dudley, I tell ye; you'll kill him, ' screamed Milly. 

But the devoted Captain, whose nose, and mouth, and shirt-front formed nowbut one great patch of blood, and who was bleeding beside over one eye, dashed at him again. 

I turned away. I felt quite faint, and on the point of crying, with merehorror. 

'Hammer away at his knocker, ' bellowed Dickon, in a frenzy of delight. 

'He'll break it now, if it ain't already, ' cried Milly, alluding, as Iafterwards understood, to the Captain's Grecian nose. 

'Brayvo, little un!' The Captain was considerably the taller. 

Another smack, and, I suppose, Captain Oakley fell once more. 

'Hooray! the dinner-service again, by ----, ' roared Dickon. 'Stick to that. Over the same ground--subsoil, I say. He han't enough yet. '

In a perfect tremor of disgust, I was making as quick a retreat as I could, and as I did, I heard Captain Oakley shriek hoarsely--

'You're a d---- prizefighter; I can't box you. '

'I told ye I'd lick ye to fits, ' hooted Dudley. 

'But you're the son of a gentleman, and by ---- you shall fight me _as_ agentleman. '

A yell of hooting laughter from Dudley and Dickon followed this sally. 

'Gi'e my love to the Colonel, and think o' me when ye look in theglass--won't ye? An' so you're goin' arter all; well, follow what's left o'yer nose. Ye forgot some o' yer ivories, didn't ye, on th' grass?'

These and many similar jibes followed the mangled Captain in his retreat. 

CHAPTER XLVII

_DOCTOR BRYERLY REAPPEARS_

No one who has not experienced it can imagine the nervous disgust andhorror which such a spectacle as we had been forced in part to witnessleaves upon the mind of a young person of my peculiar temperament. 

It affected ever after my involuntary estimate of the principal actors init. An exhibition of such thorough inferiority, accompanied by such a shockto the feminine sense of elegance, is not forgotten by any woman. CaptainOakley had been severely beaten by a smaller man. It was pitiable, but alsoundignified; and Milly's anxieties about his teeth and nose, though in acertain sense horrible, had also a painful suspicion of the absurd. 

People say, on the other hand, that superior prowess, even in suchbarbarous contests, inspires in our sex an interest akin to admiration. Ican positively say in my case it was quite the reverse. Dudley Ruthyn stoodlower than ever in my estimation; for though I feared him more, it was byreason of these brutal and cold-blooded associations. 

After this I lived in constant apprehension of being summoned to my uncle'sroom, and being called on for an explanation of my meeting with CaptainOakley, which, notwithstanding my perfect innocence, looked suspicious, butno such inquisition resulted. Perhaps he did not suspect me; or, perhaps, he thought, not in his haste, all women are liars, and did not care to hearwhat I might say. I rather lean to the latter interpretation. 

The exchequer just now, I suppose, by some means, was replenished, for nextmorning Dudley set off upon one of his fashionable excursions, as poorMilly thought them, to Wolverhampton. And the same day Dr. Bryerly arrived. 

Milly and I, from my room window, saw him step from his vehicle to thecourt-yard. 

A lean man, with sandy hair and whiskers, was in the chaise with him. Dr. Bryerly descended in the unchangeable black suit that always looked new andnever fitted him. 

The Doctor looked careworn, and older, I thought, by several years, thanwhen I last saw him. He was not shown up to my uncle's room; on thecontrary, Milly, who was more actively curious than I, ascertained that ourtremulous butler informed him that my uncle was not sufficiently well foran interview. Whereupon Dr. Bryerly had pencilled a note, the reply towhich was a message from Uncle Silas, saying that he would be happy to seehim in five minutes. 

As Milly and I were conjecturing what it might mean, and before the fiveminutes had expired, Mary Quince entered. 

'Wyat bid me tell you, Miss, your uncle wants you _this minute_. '

When I entered his room, Uncle Silas was seated at the table, with his deskbefore him. He looked up. Could anything be more dignified, suffering, andvenerable?

'I sent for you, dear, ' he said very gently, extending his thin, whitehand, and taking mine, which he held affectionately while he spoke, 'because I desire to have no secrets, and wish you thoroughly to know allthat concerns your own interests while subject to my guardianship; and I amhappy to think, my beloved niece, that you requite my candour. Oh, here isthe gentleman. Sit down, dear. '

Doctor Bryerly was advancing, as it seemed, to shake hands with UncleSilas, who, however, rose with a severe and haughty air, not the leastover-acted, and made him a slow, ceremonious bow. I wondered how the homelyDoctor could confront so tranquilly that astounding statue of hauteur. 

A faint and weary smile, rather sad than comtemptuous, was the only sign heshowed of feeling his repulse. 

'How do _you_ do, Miss?' he said, extending his hand, and greeting me afterhis ungallant fashion, as if it were an afterthought. 

'I think I may as well take a chair, sir, ' said Doctor Bryerly, sittingdown serenely, near the table, and crossing his ungainly legs. 

My uncle bowed. 

'You understand the nature of the business, sir. Do you wish Miss Ruthyn toremain?' asked Doctor Bryerly. 

'I _sent_ for her, sir, ' replied my uncle, in a very gentle and sarcastictone, a smile on his thin lips, and his strangely-contorted eyebrows raisedfor a moment contemptuously. 'This gentleman, my dear Maud, thinks properto insinuate that I am robbing you. It surprises me a little, and, nodoubt, you--I've nothing to conceal, and wished you to be present whilehe favours me more particularly with his views. I'm right, I think, indescribing it as _robbery_, sir?'

'Why, ' said Doctor Bryerly thoughtfully, for he was treating the matteras one of right, and not of feeling, 'it would be, certainly, taking thatwhich does not belong to you, and converting it to your own use; but, atthe worst, it would more resemble _thieving_, I think, than robbery. '

I saw Uncle Silas's lip, eyelid, and thin cheek quiver and shrink, as ifwith a thrill of tic-douloureux, as Doctor Bryerly spoke this unconsciouslyinsulting answer. My uncle had, however, the self-command which is learnedat the gaming-table. He shrugged, with a chilly, sarcastic, little laugh, and a glance at me. 

'Your note says _waste_, I think, sir?'

'Yes, waste--the felling and sale of timber in the Windmill Wood, theselling of oak bark and burning of charcoal, as I'm informed, ' saidBryerly, as sadly and quietly as a man might relate a piece of intelligencefrom the newspaper. 

'Detectives? or private spies of your own--or, perhaps, my servants, bribedwith my poor brother's money? A very high-minded procedure. '

'Nothing of the kind, sir. '

My uncle sneered. 

'I mean, sir, there has been no undue canvass for evidence, and thequestion is simply one of right; and it is our duty to see that thisinexperienced young lady is not defrauded. '

'By her own uncle?'

'By anyone, ' said Doctor Bryerly, with a natural impenetrability thatexcited my admiration. 

'Of course you come armed with an opinion?' said my smiling uncle, insinuatingly. 

'The case is before Mr. Serjeant Grinders. These bigwigs don't return theircases sometimes so quickly as we could wish. '

'Then you have _no_ opinion?' smiled my uncle. 

'My solicitor is quite clear upon it; and it seems to me there can be noquestion raised, but for form's sake. '

'Yes, for form's sake you take one, and in the meantime, upon a nicequestion of law, the surmises of a thick-headed attorney and of aningenious apoth--I beg pardon, physician--are sufficient warrant fortelling my niece and ward, in my presence, that I am defrauding her!'

My uncle leaned back in his chair, and smiled with a contemptuous patienceover Doctor Bryerly's head, as he spoke. 

'I don't know whether I used that expression, sir, but I am speaking merelyin a technical sense. I mean to say, that, whether by mistake or otherwise, you are exercising a power which you don't lawfully possess, and that theeffect of that is to impoverish the estate, and, by so much as it benefitsyou, to wrong this young lady. '

'I'm a technical defrauder, I see, and your manner conveys the rest. Ithank my God, sir, I am a _very_ different man from what I once was. ' UncleSilas was speaking in a low tone, and with extraordinary deliberation. 'Iremember when I should have certainly knocked you down, sir, or _tried_ it, at least, for a great deal less. '

'But seriously, sir, what _do_ you propose?' asked Doctor Bryerly, sternlyand a little flushed, for I think the old man was stirred within him; andthough he did not raise his voice, his manner was excited. 

'I propose to defend my rights, sir, ' murmured Uncle Silas, very grim. 'I'mnot without an opinion, though you are. '

You seem to think, sir, that I have a pleasure in annoying you; you arequite wrong. I hate annoying anyone--constitutionally--I _hate_ it; butdon't you see, sir, the position I'm placed in? I wish I could pleaseeveryone, and do my duty. '

Uncle Silas bowed and smiled. 

'I've brought with me the Scotch steward from Tolkingden, _your_ estate, Miss, and if you let us we will visit the spot and make a note of what weobserve, that is, assuming that you admit waste, and merely question ourlaw. '

'If you please, sir, you and your Scotchman shall do _no such thing_; and, bearing in mind that I neither deny nor admit anything, you will pleasefurther never more to present yourself, under any pretext whatsoever, either in this house or on the grounds of Bartram-Haugh, during mylifetime. '

Uncle Silas rose up with the same glassy smile and scowl, in token that theinterview was ended. 

'Good-bye, sir, ' said Doctor Bryerly, with a sad and thoughtful air, andhesitating for a moment, he said to me, 'Do you think, Miss, you couldafford me a word in the hall?'

'Not a word, sir, ' snarled Uncle Silas, with a white flash from his eyes. 

There was a pause. 

'Sit where you are, Maud. '

Another pause. 

'If you have anything to say to my ward, sir, you will please to say it_here_. '

Doctor Bryerly's dark and homely face was turned on me with an expressionof unspeakable compassion. 

'I was going to say, that if you think of any way in which I can be of theleast service, Miss, I'm ready to act, that's all; mind, _any_ way. '

He hesitated, looking at me with the same expression as if he had somethingmore to say; but he only repeated--

'That's all, Miss. '

'Won't you shake hands, Doctor Bryerly, before you go?' I said, eagerlyapproaching him. 

Without a smile, with the same sad anxiety in his face, with his mind, asit seemed to me, on something else, and irresolute whether to speak it orbe silent, he took my fingers in a very cold hand, and holding it so, andslowly shaking it, his grave and troubled glance unconsciously rested onUncle Silas's face, while in a sad tone and absent way he said--

'Good-bye, Miss. '

From before that sad gaze my uncle averted his strange eyes quickly, andlooked, oddly, to the window. 

In a moment more Doctor Bryerly let my hand go with a sigh, and with anabrupt little nod to me, he left the room; and I heard that dismallest ofsounds, the retreating footsteps of a true friend, _lost_. 

'Lead us not into temptation; if we pray so, we must not mock the eternalMajesty of Heaven by walking into temptation of our own accord. '

This oracular sentence was not uttered by my uncle until Doctor Bryerly hadbeen gone at least five minutes. 

'I've forbid him my house, Maud--first, because his perfectly unconsciousinsolence tries my patience nearly beyond endurance; and again, because Ihave heard unfavourable reports of him. On the question of right which hedisputes, I am perfectly informed. I am your tenant, my dear niece; whenI am gone you will learn how _scrupulous_ I have been; you will see how, under the pressure of the most agonising pecuniary difficulties, theterrific penalty of a misspent youth, I have been careful never by a hair'sbreadth to transgress the strict line of my legal privileges; alike, asyour tenant, Maud, and as your guardian; how, amid frightful agitations, I have kept myself, by the miraculous strength and grace vouchsafedme--_pure_. 

'The world, ' he resumed after a short pause, 'has no faith in any man'sconversion; it never forgets what he was, it never believes him anythingbetter, it is an inexorable and stupid judge. What I was I will describe inblacker terms, and with more heartfelt detestation, than my traducers--areckless prodigal, a godless profligate. Such I was; what I am, I am. IfI had no hope beyond this world, of all men most miserable; but with thathope, a sinner saved. '

Then he waxed eloquent and mystical. I think his Swedenborgian studies hadcrossed his notions of religion with strange lights. I never could followhim quite in these excursions into the region of symbolism. I onlyrecollect that he talked of the deluge and the waters of Mara, and said, 'Iam washed--I am sprinkled, ' and then, pausing, bathed his thin temples andforehead with eau de Cologne; a process which was, perhaps, suggested byhis imagery of sprinkling and so forth. 

Thus refreshed, he sighed and smiled, and passed to the subject of DoctorBryerly. 

'Of Doctor Bryerly, I know that he is sly, that he loves money, was bornpoor, and makes nothing by his profession. But he possesses many thousandpounds, under my poor brother's will, of _your money_; and he has glidedwith, of course a modest "nolo episcopari, " into the acting trusteeship, with all its multitudinous opportunities, of your immense property. Thatis not doing so badly for a visionary Swedenborgian. Such a man _must_prosper. But if he expected to make money of me, he is disappointed. Money, however, he will make of his trusteeship, as you will see. It is adangerous resolution. But if he will seek the life of Dives, the worst Iwish him is to find the death of Lazarus. But whether, like Lazarus, he beborne of angels into Abraham's bosom, or, like the rich man, only diesand is buried, and _the rest_, neither living nor dying do I desire hiscompany. '

Uncle Silas here seemed suddenly overtaken by exhaustion. He leaned backwith a ghastly look, and his lean features glistened with the dew offaintness. I screamed for Wyat. But he soon recovered sufficiently to smilehis odd smile, and with it and his frown, nodded and waved me away. 

CHAPTER XLVIII

_QUESTION AND ANSWER_

My uncle, after all, was not ill that day, after the strange fashion of hismalady, be it what it might. Old Wyat repeated in her sour laconic way thatthere was 'nothing to speak of amiss with him. ' But there remained withme a sense of pain and fear. Doctor Bryerly, notwithstanding my uncle'ssarcastic reflections, remained, in my estimation, a true and wise friend. I had all my life been accustomed to rely upon others, and here, haunted bymany unavowed and ill-defined alarms and doubts, the disappearance of anactive and able friend caused my heart to sink. 

Still there remained my dear Cousin Monica, and my pleasant and trustedfriend, Lord Ilbury; and in less than a week arrived an invitation fromLady Mary to the Grange, for me and Milly, to meet Lady Knollys. Itwas accompanied, she told me, by a note from Lord Ilbury to my uncle, supporting her request; and in the afternoon I received a message to attendmy uncle in his room. 

'An invitation from Lady Mary Carysbroke for you and Milly to meet MonicaKnollys; have you received it?' asked my uncle, so soon as I was seated. Answered in the affirmative, he continued--

'Now, Maud Ruthyn, I expect the truth from you; I have been frank, so shallyou. Have you ever heard me spoken ill of by Lady Knollys?'

I was quite taken aback. 

I felt my cheeks flushing. I was returning his fierce cold gaze with astupid stare, and remained dumb. 

'Yes, Maud, you _have_. '

I looked down in silence. 

'I _know_ it; but it is right you should answer; have you or have you not?'

I had to clear my voice twice or thrice. There was a kind of spasm in mythroat. 

'I am trying to recollect, ' I said at last. 

'_Do_ recollect, ' he replied imperiously. 

There was a little interval of silence. I would have given the world to be, on any conditions, anywhere else in the world. 

'Surely, Maud, you don't wish to deceive your guardian? Come, the questionis a plain one, and I know the truth already. I ask you again--have youever heard me spoken ill of by Lady Knollys?'

'Lady Knollys, ' I said, half articulately, ' speaks very freely, and oftenhalf in jest; but, ' I continued, observing something menacing in his face, 'I have heard her express disapprobation of some things you have done. '

'Come, Maud, ' he continued, in a stern, though still a low key, 'did shenot insinuate that charge--then, I suppose, in a state of incubation, the other day presented here full-fledged, with beak and claws, by thatscheming apothecary--the statement that I was defrauding you by cuttingdown timber upon the grounds?'

'She certainly did mention the circumstance; but she also argued that itmight have been through ignorance of the extent of your rights. '

'Come, come, Maud, you must not prevaricate, girl. I _will_ have it. Doesshe not habitually speak disparagingly of me, in your presence, and _to_you? _Answer_. '

I hung my head. 

'Yes or no?'

'Well, perhaps so--yes, ' I faltered, and burst into tears. 

'There, don't cry; it may well shock you. Did she not, to your knowledge, say the same things in presence of my child Millicent? I know it, Irepeat--there is no use in hesitating; and I command you to answer. '

Sobbing, I told the truth. 

'Now sit still, while I write my reply. '

He wrote, with the scowl and smile so painful to witness, as he looked downupon the paper, and then he placed the note before me--

'Read that, my dear. '

It began--

'MY DEAR LADY KNOLLYS. --You have favoured me with a note, adding yourrequest to that of Lord Ilbury, that I should permit my ward and mydaughter to avail themselves of Lady Mary's invitation. Being perfectlycognisant of the ill-feeling you have always and unaccountably cherishedtoward me, and also of the terms in which you have had the delicacy and theconscience to speak of me before and to my child and my ward, I can onlyexpress my amazement at the modesty of your request, while peremptorilyrefusing it. And I shall conscientiously adopt effectual measures toprevent your ever again having an opportunity of endeavouring to destroy myinfluence and authority over my ward and my child, by direct or insinuatedslander. 

'Your defamed and injured kinsman, SILAS RUTHYN. '

I was stunned; yet what could I plead against the blow that was to isolateme? I wept aloud, with my hands clasped, looking on the marble face of theold man. 

Without seeming to hear, he folded and sealed his note, and then proceededto answer Lord Ilbury. 

When that note was written, he placed it likewise before me, and I read italso through. It simply referred him to Lady Knollys 'for an explanationof the unhappy circumstances which compelled him to decline an invitationwhich it would have made his niece and his daughter so happy to accept. '

'You see, my dear Maud, how frank I am with you, ' he said, waving the opennote, which I had just read, slightly before he folded it. 'I think I mayask you to reciprocate my candour. '

Dismissed from this interview, I ran to Milly, who burst into tears fromsheer disappointment, so we wept and wailed together. But in my grief Ithink there was more reason. 

I sat down to the dismal task of writing to my dear Lady Knollys. Iimplored her to make her peace with my uncle. I told her how frank he hadbeen with me, and how he had shown me his sad reply to her letter. I toldher of the interview to which he had himself invited me with Dr. Bryerly;how little disturbed he was by the accusation--no sign of guilt; quite thecontrary, perfect confidence. I implored of her to think the best, andremembering my isolation, to accomplish a reconciliation with Uncle Silas. 'Only think, ' I wrote, 'I only nineteen, and two years of solitude beforeme. What a separation!' No broken merchant ever signed the schedule of hisbankruptcy with a heavier heart than did I this letter. 

The griefs of youth are like the wounds of the gods--there is an ichorwhich heals the scars from which it flows: and thus Milly and I consoledourselves, and next day enjoyed our ramble, our talk and readings, with awonderful resignation to the inevitable. 

Milly and I stood in the relation of _Lord Duberly_ to _Doctor Pangloss_. Iwas to mend her 'cackleology, ' and the occupation amused us both. I thinkat the bottom of our submission to destiny lurked a hope that Uncle Silas, the inexorable, would relent, or that Cousin Monica, that siren, would winand melt him to her purpose. 

Whatever comfort, however, I derived from the absence of Dudley was not tobe of very long duration; for one morning, as I was amusing myself alone, with a piece of worsted work, thinking, and just at that moment notunpleasantly, of many things, my cousin Dudley entered the room. 

'Back again, like a bad halfpenny, ye see. And how a' ye bin ever since, lass? Purely, I warrant, be your looks. I'm jolly glad to see ye, I am; nocattle going like ye, Maud. '

'I think I must ask you to let go my hand, as I can't continue my work, ' Isaid, very stiffly, hoping to chill his enthusiasm a little. 

'Anything to pleasure ye, Maud, 'tain't in my heart to refuse ye nout. Ia'bin to Wolverhampton, lass--jolly row there--and run over to Leamington;a'most broke my neck, faith, wi' a borrowed horse arter the dogs; ye wouldna care, Maud, if I broke my neck, would ye? Well, 'appen, jest a little, 'he good-naturedly supplied, as I was silent. 

'Little over a week since I left here, by George; and to me it's half thealmanac like; can ye guess the reason, Maud?'

'Have you seen your sister, Milly, or your father, since your return?' Iasked coldly. 

'_They'll_ keep, Maud, never mind 'em; it be you I want to see--it be youI wor thinkin' on a' the time. I tell ye, lass, I'm all'ays a thinkin' onye. '

'I think you ought to go and see your father; you have been away, you say, some time. I don't think it is respectful, ' I said, a little sharply. 

'If ye bid me go I'd a'most go, but I could na quite; there's nout on earthI would na do for you, Maud, excep' leaving you. '

'And that, ' I said, with a petulant flush, 'is the only thing on earth Iwould ask you to do. '

'Blessed if you baint a blushin', Maud, ' he drawled, with an odious grin. 

His stupidity was proof against everything. 

'It is _too_ bad!' I muttered, with an indignant little pat of my foot andmimic stamp. 

'Well, you lasses be queer cattle; ye're angry wi' me now, cos ye thinkI got into mischief--ye do, Maud; ye know't, ye buxsom little fool, downthere at Wolverhampton; and jest for that ye're ready to turn me off againthe minute I come back; 'tisn't fair. '

'I don't _understand_ you, sir; and I _beg_ that you'll leave me. '

'Now, didn't I tell ye about leavin' ye, Maud? 'tis the only thing I can'tcompass for yer sake. I'm jest a child in yere hands, I am, ye know. I canlick a big fellah to pot as limp as a rag, by George!'--(his oaths were notreally so mild)--'ye see summat o' that t'other day. Well, don't be vexed, Maud; 'twas all along o' you; ye know, I wor a bit jealous, 'appen; butanyhow I can do it; and look at me here, jest a child, I say, in yerhands. '

'I wish you'd go away. Have you nothing to do, and no one to see? Why_can't_ you leave me alone, sir?'

''Cos I can't, Maud, that's jest why; and I wonder, Maud, how can you be soill-natured, when you see me like this; how can ye?'

'I wish Milly would come, ' said I peevishly, looking toward the door. 

'Well, I'll tell you how it is, Maud. I may as well have it out. I likeyou better than any lass that ever I saw, a deal; you're nicer by chalks;there's none like ye--there isn't; and I wish you'd have me. I ha'n't muchtin--father's run through a deal, he's pretty well up a tree, ye know; butthough I baint so rich as some folk, I'm a better man, 'appen; and if ye'dtake a tidy lad, that likes ye awful, and 'id die for your sake, why herehe is. '

'What can you mean, sir?' I exclaimed, rising in indignant bewilderment. 

'I mean, Maud, if ye'll marry me, you'll never ha' cause to complain; I'llnever let ye want for nout, nor gi'e ye a wry word. '

'Actually a proposal!' I ejaculated, like a person speaking in a dream. 

I stood with my hand on the back of a chair, staring at Dudley; andlooking, I dare say, as stupefied as I felt. 

'There's a good lass, ye would na deny me, ' said the odious creature, with one knee on the seat of the chair behind which I was standing, andattempting to place his arm lovingly round my neck. 

This effectually roused me, and starting back, I stamped upon the groundwith actual fury. 

'What has there ever been, sir, in my conduct, words, or looks, towarrant this unparalleled audacity? But that you are as stupid as you areimpertinent, brutal, and ugly, you must, long ago, sir, have seen how Idislike you. How dare you, sir? Don't presume to obstruct me; I'm going tomy uncle. '

I had never spoken so violently to mortal before. 

He in turn looked a little confounded; and I passed his extended butmotionless arm with a quick and angry step. 

He followed me a pace or two, however, before I reached the door, lookinghorridly angry, but stopped, and only swore after me some of those 'wrywords' which I was never to have heard. I was myself, however, too muchincensed, and moving at too rapid a pace, to catch their import; and I hadknocked at my uncle's door before I began to collect my thoughts. 

'Come in, ' replied my uncle's voice, clear, thin, and peevish. 

I entered and confronted him. 

'Your son, sir, has insulted me. '

He looked at me with a cold curiosity steadly for a few seconds, as I stoodpanting before him with flaming cheeks. 

'Insulted you?' repeated he. 'Egad, you surprise me!'

The ejaculation savoured of 'the old man, ' to borrow his scriptural phrase, more than anything I had heard from him before. 

'_How?_' he continued; 'how has Dudley _insulted_ you, my dear child? Come, you're excited; sit down; take time, and tell me all about it. I did notknow that Dudley was here. '

'I--he--it _is_ an insult. He knew very well--he _must_ know I dislike him;and he presumed to make a proposal of marriage to me. '

'O--o--oh!' exclaimed my uncle, with a prolonged intonation which plainlysaid, Is that the mighty matter?

He looked at me as he leaned back with the same steady curiosity, this timesmiling, which somehow frightened me, and his countenance looked to mewicked, like the face of a witch, with a guilt I could not understand. 

'And that is the amount of your complaint. He made you a formal proposal ofmarriage!'

'Yes; he proposed for me. '

As I cooled, I began to feel just a very little disconcerted, and asuspicion was troubling me that possibly an indifferent person might thinkthat, having no more to complain of, my language was perhaps a littleexaggerated, and my demeanour a little too tempestuous. 

My uncle, I dare say, saw some symptoms of this misgiving, for, smilingstill, he said--

'My dear Maud, however just, you appear to me a little cruel; you don'tseem to remember how much you are yourself to blame; you have one faithfulfriend at least, whom I advise your consulting--I mean your looking-glass. The foolish fellow is young, quite ignorant in the world's ways. He is inlove--desperately enamoured. 

 Aimer c'est craindre, et craindre c'est souffrir. 

And suffering prompts to desperate remedies. We must not be too hard on arough but romantic young fool, who talks according to his folly and hispain. '

CHAPTER XLIX

_AN APPARITION_

'But, after all, ' he suddenly resumed, as if a new thought had struck him, 'is it quite such folly, after all? It really strikes me, dear Maud, thatthe subject may be worth a second thought. No, no, you won't refuse to hearme, ' he said, observing me on the point of protesting. 'I am, of course, assuming that you are fancy free. I am assuming, too, that you don't caretwopence about Dudley, and even that you fancy you dislike him. You know inthat pleasant play, poor Sheridan--delightful fellow!--all our fine spiritsare dead--he makes Mrs. Malaprop say there is nothing like beginning with alittle aversion. Now, though in matrimony, of course, that is only a joke, yet in love, believe me, it is no such thing. His own marriage with MissOgle, I _know_, was a case in point. She expressed a positive horror of himat their first acquaintance; and yet, I believe, she would, a few monthslater, have died rather than not have married him. '

I was again about to speak, but with a smile he beckoned me into silence. 

'There are two or three points you must bear in mind. One of the happiestprivileges of your fortune is that you may, without imprudence, marrysimply for love. There are few men in England who could offer you an estatecomparable with that you already possess; or, in fact, appreciably increasethe splendour of your fortune. If, therefore, he were in all other respectseligible, I can't see that his poverty would be an objection to weigh forone moment. He is quite a rough diamond. He has been, like many young menof the highest rank, too much given up to athletic sports--to that societywhich constitutes the aristocracy of the ring and the turf, and all thatkind of thing. You see, I am putting all the worst points first. But I haveknown so many young men in my day, after a madcap career of a few yearsamong prizefighters, wrestlers, and jockeys--learning their slang andaffecting their manners--take up and cultivate the graces and thedecencies. There was poor dear Newgate, many degrees lower in that kind offrolic, who, when he grew tired of it, became one of the most elegant andaccomplished men in the House of Peers. Poor Newgate, he's gone, too! Icould reckon up fifty of my early friends who all began like Dudley, andall turned out, more or less, like Newgate. '

At this moment came a knock at the door, and Dudley put in his head mostinopportunely for the vision of his future graces and accomplishments. 

'My good fellow, ' said his father, with a sharp sort of playfulness, 'Ihappen to be talking about my son, and should rather not be overheard; youwill, therefore, choose another time for your visit. '

Dudley hesitated gruffly at the door, but another look from his fatherdismissed him. 

'And now, my dear, you are to remember that Dudley has fine qualities--themost affectionate son in his rough way that ever father was blessed with;most admirable qualities--indomitable courage, and a high sense of honour;and lastly, that he has the Ruthyn blood--the purest blood, I maintain it, in England. '

My uncle, as he said this, drew himself up a little, unconsciously, histhin hand laid lightly over his heart with a little patting motion, and hiscountenance looked so strangely dignified and melancholy, that in admiringcontemplation of it I lost some sentences which followed next. 

'Therefore, dear, naturally anxious that my boy should not be dismissedfrom home--as he must be, should you persevere in rejecting his suit--I begthat you will reserve your decision to this day fortnight, when I will withmuch pleasure hear what you may have to say on the subject. But till then, observe me, not a word. '

That evening he and Dudley were closeted for a long time. I suspect that helectured him on the psychology of ladies; for a bouquet was laid beside myplate every morning at breakfast, which it must have been troublesome toget, for the conservatory at Bartram was a desert. In a few days more ananonymous green parrot arrived, in a gilt cage, with a little note in aclerk's hand, addressed to 'Miss Ruthyn (of Knowl), Bartram-Haugh, ' &c. Itcontained only 'Directions for caring green parrot, ' at the close of which, _underlined_, the words appeared--'The bird's name is Maud. '

The bouquets I invariably left on the table-cloth, where I found them--thebird I insisted on Milly's keeping as her property. During the interveningfortnight Dudley never appeared, as he used sometimes to do before, atluncheon, nor looked in at the window as we were at breakfast. He contentedhimself with one day placing himself in my way in the hall in his shootingaccoutrements, and, with a clumsy, shuffling kind of respect, and hat inhand, he said--

'I think, Miss, I must a spoke uncivil t'other day. I was so awful putabout, and didn't know no more nor a child what I was saying; and I wantedto tell ye I'm sorry for it, and I beg your pardon--very humble, I do. '

I did not know what to say. I therefore said nothing, but made a graveinclination, and passed on. 

Two or three times Milly and I saw him at a little distance in our walks. He never attempted to join us. Once only he passed so near that somerecognition was inevitable, and he stopped and in silence lifted his hatwith an awkward respect. But although he did not approach us, he wasostentatious with a kind of telegraphic civility in the distance. He openedgates, he whistled his dogs to 'heel, ' he drove away cattle, and thenhimself withdrew. I really think he watched us occasionally to render theseservices, for in this distant way we encountered him decidedly oftener thanwe used to do before his flattering proposal of marriage. 

You may be sure that we discussed, Milly and I, that occurrence prettyconstantly in all sorts of moods. Limited as had been her experience ofhuman society, she very clearly saw _now_ how far below its presentablelevel was her hopeful brother. 

The fortnight sped swiftly, as time always does when something we dislikeand shrink from awaits us at its close. I never saw Uncle Silas during thatperiod. It may seem odd to those who merely read the report of our lastinterview, in which his manner had been more playful and his talk moretrifling than in any other, that from it I had carried away a profoundersense of fear and insecurity than from any other. It was with a forebodingof evil and an awful dejection that on a very dark day, in Milly's room, I awaited the summons which I was sure would reach me from my punctualguardian. 

As I looked from the window upon the slanting rain and leaden sky, andthought of the hated interview that awaited me, I pressed my hand to mytroubled heart, and murmured, 'O that I had wings like a dove! then would Iflee away, and be at rest. '

Just then the prattle of the parrot struck my ear. I looked round on thewire cage, and remembered the words, 'The bird's name is Maud. '

'Poor bird!' I said. 'I dare say, Milly, it longs to get out. If it were anative of this country, would not you like to open the window, and then thedoor of that cruel cage, and let the poor thing fly away?'

'Master wants Miss Maud, ' said Wyat's disagreeable tones, at the half-opendoor. 

I followed in silence, with the pressure of a near alarm at my heart, likea person going to an operation. 

When I entered the room, my heart beat so fast that I could hardly speak. The tall form of Uncle Silas rose before me, and I made him a falteringreverence. 

He darted from under his brows a wild, fierce glance at old Wyat, andpointed to the door imperiously with his skeleton finger. The door shut, and we were alone. 

'A chair?' he said, pointing to a seat. 

'Thank you, uncle, I prefer standing, ' I faltered. 

He also stood--his white head bowed forward, the phosphoric glare of hisstrange eyes shone upon me from under his brows--his finger-nails justrested on the table. 

'You saw the luggage corded and addressed, as it stands ready for removalin the hall?' he asked. 

I had. Milly and I had read the cards which dangled from the trunk-handlesand gun-case. The address was--'Mr. Dudley R. Ruthyn, Paris, _viâ_ Dover. '

'I am old--agitated--on the eve of a decision on which much depends. Prayrelieve my suspense. Is my son to leave Bartram to-day in sorrow, or toremain in joy? Pray answer quickly. '

I stammered I know not what. I was incoherent--wild, perhaps; but somehowI expressed my meaning--my unalterable decision. I thought his lips grewwhiter and his eyes shone brighter as I spoke. 

When I had quite made an end, he heaved a great sigh, and turning his eyesslowly to the right and the left, like a man in a helpless distraction, hewhispered--

'God's will be done. '

I thought he was upon the point of fainting--a clay tint darkened the whiteof his face; and, seeming to forget my presence, he sat down, looking witha despairing scowl on his ashy old hand, as it lay upon the table. 

I stood gazing at him, feeling almost as if I had murdered the old man--hestill gazing askance, with an imbecile scowl, upon his hand. 

'Shall I go, sir?' I at length found courage to whisper. 

'_Go?_' he said, looking up suddenly; and it seemed to me as if a stream ofcold sheet-lightning had crossed and enveloped me for a moment. 

'Go?--oh!--a--yes--_yes_, Maud--go. I must see poor Dudley before hisdeparture, ' he added, as it were, in soliloquy. 

Trembling lest he should revoke his permission to depart, I glided quicklyand noiselessly from the room. 

Old Wyat was prowling outside, with a cloth in her hand, pretending to dustthe carved door-case. She frowned a stare of enquiry over her shrunken armon me, as I passed. Milly, who had been on the watch, ran and met me. Weheard my uncle's voice, as I shut the door, calling Dudley. He had beenwaiting, probably, in the adjoining room. I hurried into my chamber, withMilly at my side, and there my agitation found relief in tears, as that ofgirlhood naturally does. 

A little while after we saw from the window Dudley, looking, I thought, very pale, get into a vehicle, on the top of which his luggage lay, anddrive away from Bartram. 

I began to take comfort. His departure was an inexpressible relief. Hisfinal departure! a distant journey!

We had tea in Milly's room that night. Firelight and candles are inspiring. In that red glow I always felt and feel more safe, as well as morecomfortable, than in the daylight--quite irrationally, for we know thenight is the appointed day of such as love the darkness better than light, and evil walks thereby. But so it is. Perhaps the very consciousness ofexternal danger enhances the enjoyment of the well-lighted interior, justas the storm does that roars and hurtles over the roof. 

While Milly and I were talking, very cosily, a knock came to the room-door, and, without waiting for an invitation to enter, old Wyat came in, andglowering at us, with her brown claw upon the door-handle, she said toMilly--

'Ye must leave your funnin', Miss Milly, and take your turn in yourfather's room. '

'Is he ill?' I asked. 

She answered, addressing not me, but Milly--

'A wrought two hours in a fit arter Master Dudley went. 'Twill be the deatho' him, I'm thinkin', poor old fellah. I wor sorry myself when I saw MasterDudley a going off in the moist to-day, poor fellah. There's trouble enoughin the family without a' that; but 'twon't be a family long, I'm thinkin'. Nout but trouble, nout but trouble, since late changes came. '

Judging by the sour glance she threw on me as she said this, I concludedthat I represented those 'late changes' to which all the sorrows of thehouse were referred. 

I felt unhappy under the ill-will even of this odious old woman, being oneof those unhappily constructed mortals who cannot be indifferent whenthey reasonably ought, and always yearn after kindness, even that of theworthless. 

'I must go. I wish you'd come wi' me, Maud, I'm so afraid all alone, ' saidMilly, imploringly. 

'Certainly, Milly, ' I answered, not liking it, you may be sure; 'you shan'tsit there alone. '

So together we went, old Wyat cautioning us for our lives to make no noise. 

We passed through the old man's sitting-room, where that day had occurredhis brief but momentous interview with me, and his parting with his onlyson, and entered the bed-room at the farther end. 

A low fire burned in the grate. The room was in a sort of twilight. Adim lamp near the foot of the bed at the farther side was the only lightburning there. Old Wyat whispered an injunction not to speak above ourbreaths, nor to leave the fireside unless the sick man called or showedsigns of weariness. These were the directions of the doctor, who had beenthere. 

So Milly and I sat ourselves down near the hearth, and old Wyat left us toour resources. We could hear the patient breathe; but he was quite still. In whispers we talked; but our conversation flagged. I was, after my wont, upbraiding myself for the suffering I had inflicted. After about half anhour's desultory whispering, and intervals, growing longer and longer, ofsilence, it was plain that Milly was falling asleep. 

She strove against it, and I tried hard to keep her talking; but it wouldnot do--sleep overcame her; and I was the only person in that ghastly roomin a state of perfect consciousness. 

There were associations connected with my last vigil there to make mysituation very nervous and disagreeable. Had I not had so much to occupy mymind of a distinctly practical kind--Dudley's audacious suit, my uncle'squestionable toleration of it, and my own conduct throughout that mostdisagreeable period of my existence, --I should have felt my presentsituation a great deal more. 

As it was, I thought of my real troubles, and something of Cousin Knollys, and, I confess, a good deal of Lord Ilbury. When looking towards the door, I thought I saw a human face, about the most terrible my fancy could havecalled up, looking fixedly into the room. It was only a 'three-quarter, 'and not the whole figure--the door hid that in a great measure, and Ifancied I saw, too, a portion of the fingers. The face gazed toward thebed, and in the imperfect light looked like a livid mask, with chalky eyes. 

I had so often been startled by similar apparitions formed by accidentallights and shadows disguising homely objects, that I stooped forward, expecting, though tremulously, to see this tremendous one in like mannerdissolve itself into its harmless elements; and now, to my unspeakableterror, I became perfectly certain that I saw the countenance of Madame dela Rougierre. 

With a cry, I started back, and shook Milly furiously from her trance. 

'Look! look!' I cried. But the apparition or illusion was gone. 

I clung so fast to Milly's arm, cowering behind her, that she could notrise. 

'Milly! Milly! Milly! Milly!' I went on crying, like one struck withidiotcy, and unable to say anything else. 

In a panic, Milly, who had seen nothing, and could conjecture nothing ofthe cause of my terror, jumped up, and clinging to one another, we huddledtogether into the corner of the room, I still crying wildly, 'Milly! Milly!_Milly_!' and nothing else. 

'What is it--where is it--what do you see?' cried Milly, clinging to me asI did to her. 

'It will come again; it will come; oh, heaven!'

'What--what is it, Maud?'

'The face! the face!' I cried. 'Oh, Milly! Milly! Milly!'

We heard a step softly approaching the open door, and, in a horrible _sauvequi peut_, we rushed and stumbled together toward the light by UncleSilas's bed. But old Wyat's voice and figure reassured us. 

'Milly, ' I said, so soon as, pale and very faint, I reached my apartment, 'no power on earth shall ever tempt me to enter that room again afterdark. '

'Why, Maud dear, what, in Heaven's name, did you see?' said Milly, scarcelyless terrified. 

'Oh, I can't; I can't; I can't, Milly. Never ask me. It is haunted. Theroom is haunted _horribly_. '

'Was it Charke?' whispered Milly, looking over her shoulder, all aghast. 

'No, no--don't ask me; a fiend in a worse shape. ' I was relieved at last bya long fit of weeping; and all night good Mary Quince sat by me, and Millyslept by my side. Starting and screaming, and drugged with sal-volatile, Igot through that night of supernatural terror, and saw the blessed light ofheaven again. 

Doctor Jolks, when he came to see my uncle in the morning, visited me also. He pronounced me very hysterical, made minute enquiries respecting my hoursand diet, asked what I had had for dinner yesterday. There was somethinga little comforting in his cool and confident pooh-poohing of the ghosttheory. The result was, a regimen which excluded tea, and imposed chocolateand porter, earlier hours, and I forget all beside; and he undertook topromise that, if I would but observe his directions, I should never see aghost again. 

CHAPTER L

_MILLY'S FAREWELL_

A few days' time saw me much better. Doctor Jolks was so contemptuouslysturdy and positive on the point, that I began to have comfortable doubtsabout the reality of my ghost; and having still a horror indescribableof the illusion, if such it were, the room in which it appeared, andeverything concerning it, I would neither speak, nor, so far as I could, think of it. 

So, though Bartram-Haugh was gloomy as well as beautiful, and some of itsassociations awful, and the solitude that reigned there sometimes almostterrible, yet early hours, bracing exercise, and the fine air thatpredominates that region, soon restored my nerves to a healthier tone. 

But it seemed to me that Bartram-Haugh was to be to me a vale of tears; orrather, in my sad pilgrimage, that valley of the shadow of death throughwhich poor Christian fared alone and in the dark. 

One day Milly ran into the parlour, pale, with wet cheeks, and, withoutsaying a word, threw her arms about my neck, and burst into a paroxysm ofweeping. 

'What is it, Milly--what's the matter, dear--what is it?' I cried aghast, but returning her close embrace heartily. 

'Oh! Maud--Maud darling, he's going to send me away. '

'Away, dear! _where_ away? And leave me alone in this dreadful solitude, where he knows I shall die of fear and grief without you? Oh! no--no, it_must_ be a mistake. '

'I'm going to France, Maud--I'm going away. Mrs. Jolks is going to London, day ar'ter to-morrow, and I'm to go wi' her; and an old French lady, hesays, from the school will meet me there, and bring me the rest o' theway. '

'Oh--ho--ho--ho--ho--o--o--o!' cried poor Milly, hugging me closer still, with her head buried in my shoulder, and swaying me about like a wrestler, in her agony. 

'I never wor away from home afore, except that little bit wi' you overthere at Elverston; and you wor wi' me then, Maud; an' I love ye--betterthan Bartram--better than a'; an' I think I'll die, Maud, if they take meaway. '

I was just as wild in my woe as poor Milly; and it was not until we hadwept together for a full hour--sometimes standing--sometimes walking up anddown the room--sometimes sitting and getting up in turns to fall on oneanother's necks, --that Milly, plucking her handkerchief from her pocket, drew a note from it at the same time, which, as it fell upon the floor, sheat once recollected to be one from Uncle Silas to me. 

It was to this effect:--

'I wish to apprise my dear niece and ward of my plans. Milly proceeds toan admirable French school, as a pensionnaire, and leaves this on Thursdaynext. If after three months' trial she finds it in any way objectionable, she returns to us. If, on the contrary, she finds it in all respects thecharming residence it has been presented to me, you, on the expiration ofthat period, join her there, until the temporary complication of my affairsshall have been so far adjusted as to enable me to receive you once moreat Bartram. Hoping for happier days, and wishing to assure you that threemonths is the extreme limit of your separation from my poor Milly, I havewritten this, feeling alas! unequal to seeing you at present. 'Bartram, Tuesday. 

'P. S. --I can have no objection to your apprising Monica Knollys of thesearrangements. You will understand, of course, not a copy of this letter, but its substance. '

Over this document, scanning it as lawyers do a new Act of Parliament, wetook comfort. After all, it was limited; a separation not to exceed threemonths, possibly much shorter. On the whole, too, I pleased myself withthinking Uncle Silas's note, though peremptory, was kind. 

Our paroxysms subsided into sadness; a close correspondence was arranged. Something of the bustle and excitement of change supervened. If it turnedout to be, in truth, a 'charming residence, ' how very delightful ourmeeting in France, with the interest of foreign scenery, ways, and faces, would be!

So Thursday arrived--a new gush of sorrow--a new brightening up--and, amidregrets and anticipations, we parted at the gate at the farther end of theWindmill Wood. Then, of course, were more good-byes, more embraces, andtearful smiles. Good Mrs. Jolks, who met us there, was in a huge fuss; Ibelieve it was her first visit to the metropolis, and she was in proportionheated and important, and terrified about the train, so we had not manylast words. 

I watched poor Milly, whose head was stretched from the window, her handwaving many adieux, until the curve of the road, and the clump of oldash-trees, thick with ivy, hid Milly, carriage and all, from view. My eyesfilled again with tears. I turned towards Bartram. At my side stood honestMary Quince. 

'Don't take on so, Miss; 'twon't be no time passing; three months isnothing at all, ' she said, smiling kindly. 

I smiled through my tears and kissed the good creature, and so side by sidewe re-entered the gate. 

The lithe young man in fustian, whom I had seen talking with Beauty on themorning of our first encounter with that youthful Amazon, was awaiting ourre-entrance with the key in his hand. He stood half behind the open wicket. One lean brown cheek, one shy eye, and his sharp up-turned nose, I saw aswe passed. He was treating me to a stealthy scrutiny, and seemed to shun myglance, for he shut the door quickly, and busied himself locking it, andthen began stubbing up some thistles which grew close by, with the toe ofhis thick shoe, his back to us all the time. 

It struck me that I recognised his features, and I asked Mary Quince. 

'Have you seen that young man before, Quince?'

'He brings up game for your uncle, sometimes, Miss, and lends a hand in thegarden, I believe. '

'Do you know his name, Mary?'

'They call him Tom, I don't know what more, Miss. '

'Tom, ' I called; 'please, Tom, come here for a moment. '

Tom turned about, and approached slowly. He was more civil than the Bartrampeople usually were, for he plucked off his shapeless cap of rabbit-skinwith a clownish respect. 

'Tom, what is your other name, --Tom _what_, my good man?' I asked. 

'Tom Brice, ma'am. '

'Haven't I seen you before, Tom Brice?' I pursued, for my curiosity wasexcited, and with it much graver feelings; for there certainly _was_ aresemblance in Tom's features to those of the postilion who had looked sohard at me as I passed the carriage in the warren at Knowl, on the eveningof the outrage which had scared that quiet place. 

''Appen you may have, ma'am, ' he answered, quite coolly, looking down thebuttons of his gaiters. 

'Are you a good whip--do you drive well?'

'I'll drive a plough wi' most lads hereabout, ' answered Tom. 

'Have you ever been to Knowl, Tom?'

Tom gaped very innocently. 

'Anan, ' he said. 

'Here, Tom, is half-a-crown. '

He took it readily enough. 

'That be very good, ' said Tom, with a nod, having glanced sharply at thecoin. 

I can't say whether he applied that term to the coin, or to his luck, or tomy generous self. 

'Now, Tom, you'll tell me, have you ever been to Knowl?'

'Maught a' bin, ma'am, but I don't mind no sich place--no. '

As Tom spoke this with great deliberation, like a man who loves truth, putting a strain upon his memory for its sake, he spun the silver coin twoor three times into the air and caught it, staring at it the while, withall his might. 

'Now, Tom, recollect yourself, and tell me the truth, and I'll be a friendto you. Did you ride postilion to a carriage having a lady in it, and, Ithink, several gentlemen, which came to the grounds of Knowl, when theparty had their luncheon on the grass, and there was a--a quarrel with thegamekeepers? Try, Tom, to recollect; you shall, upon my honour, have notrouble about it, and I'll try to serve you. '

Tom was silent, while with a vacant gape he watched the spin of hishalf-crown twice, and then catching it with a smack in his hand, which hethrust into his pocket, he said, still looking in the same direction--

'I never rid postilion in my days, ma'am. I know nout o' sich a place, though 'appen I maught a' bin there; Knowl, ye ca't. I was ne'er out o'Derbyshire but thrice to Warwick fair wi' horses be rail, an' twice toYork. '

'You're certain, Tom?'

'Sartin sure, ma'am. '

And Tom made another loutish salute, and cut the conference short byturning off the path and beginning to hollo after some trespassing cattle. 

I had not felt anything like so nearly sure in this essay at identificationas I had in that of Dudley. Even of Dudley's identity with the ChurchScarsdale man, I had daily grown less confident; and, indeed, had it beenproposed to bring it to the test of a wager, I do not think I should, in the language of sporting gentlemen, have cared to 'back' my originalopinion. There was, however, a sufficient uncertainty to make meuncomfortable; and there was another uncertainty to enhance the unpleasantsense of ambiguity. 

On our way back we passed the bleaching trunks and limbs of several ranksof barkless oaks lying side by side, some squared by the hatchet, perhapssold, for there were large letters and Roman numerals traced upon them inred chalk. I sighed as I passed them by, not because it was wrongfullydone, for I really rather leaned to the belief that Uncle Silas was welladvised in point of law. But, alas! here lay low the grand old familydecorations of Bartram-Haugh, not to be replaced for centuries to come, under whose spreading boughs the Ruthyns of three hundred years ago hadhawked and hunted!

On the trunk of one of these I sat down to rest, Mary Quince meanwhilepattering about in unmeaning explorations. While thus listlessly seated, the girl Meg Hawkes, walked by, carrying a basket. 

'Hish!' she said quickly, as she passed, without altering a pace or raisingher eyes; 'don't ye speak nor look--fayther spies us; I'll tell ye nextturn. '

'Next turn'--when was that? Well, she might be returning; and as she couldnot then say more than she had said, in merely passing without a pause, Iconcluded to wait for a short time and see what would come of it. 

After a short time I looked about me a little, and I saw DickonHawkes--Pegtop, as poor Milly used to call him--with an axe in his hand, prowling luridly among the timber. 

Observing that I saw him, he touched his hat sulkily, and by-and-by passedme, muttering to himself. He plainly could not understand what business Icould have in that particular part of the Windmill Wood, and let me see itin his countenance. 

His daughter did pass me again; but this time he was near, and she wassilent. Her next transit occurred as he was questioning Mary Quince at somelittle distance; and as she passed precisely in the same way, she said--

'Don't you be alone wi' Master Dudley nowhere for the world's worth. '

The injunction was so startling that I was on the point of questioning thegirl. But I recollected myself, and waited in the hope that in her futuretransits she might be more explicit. But one word more she did not utter, and the jealous eye of old Pegtop was so constantly upon us that Irefrained. 

There was vagueness and suggestion enough in the oracle to supply work formany an hour of anxious conjecture, and many a horrible vigil by night. WasI never to know peace at Bartram-Haugh?

Ten days of poor Milly's absence, and of my solitude, had already passed, when my uncle sent for me to his room. 

When old Wyat stood at the door, mumbling and snarling her message, myheart died within me. 

It was late--just that hour when dejected people feel their anxietiesmost--when the cold grey of twilight has deepened to its darkest shade, andbefore the cheerful candles are lighted, and the safe quiet of the nightsets in. 

When I entered my uncle's sitting-room--though his window-shutters wereopen and the wan streaks of sunset visible through them, like narrow lakesin the chasms of the dark western clouds--a pair of candles were burning;one stood upon the table by his desk, the other on the chimneypiece, beforewhich his tall, thin figure stooped. His hand leaned on the mantelpiece, and the light from the candle just above his bowed head touched his silveryhair. He was looking, as it seemed, into the subsiding embers of the fire, and was a very statue of forsaken dejection and decay. 

'Uncle!' I ventured to say, having stood for some time unperceived near histable. 

'Ah, yes, Maud, my dear child--my _dear_ child. '

He turned, and with the candle in his hand, smiling his silvery smile ofsuffering on me. He walked more feebly and stiffly, I thought, than I hadever seen him move before. 

'Sit down, Maud--pray sit there. '

I took the chair he indicated. 

'In my misery and my solitude, Maud, I have invoked you like a spirit, andyou appear. '

With his two hands leaning on the table, he looked across at me, in astooping attitude; he had not seated himself. I continued silent until itshould be his pleasure to question or address me. 

At last he said, raising himself and looking upward, with a wildadoration--his finger-tips elevated and glimmering in the faint mixedlight--

'No, I thank my Creator, I am not quite forsaken. '

Another silence, during which he looked steadfastly at me, and muttered, asif thinking aloud--

'My guardian angel!--my guardian angel! Maud, _you_ have a heart. ' Headdressed me suddenly--'Listen, for a few moments, to the appeal of an oldand broken-hearted man--your guardian--your uncle--your _suppliant_. I hadresolved never to speak to you more on this subject. But I was wrong. Itwas pride that inspired me--mere pride. '

I felt myself growing pale and flushed by turns during the pause thatfollowed. 

'I'm very miserable--very nearly desperate. What remains for me--whatremains? Fortune has done her worst--thrown in the dust, her wheels rolledover me; and the servile world, who follow her chariot like a mob, stampupon the mangled wretch. All this had passed over me, and left me scarredand bloodless in this solitude. It was not my fault, Maud--I say it was nofault of mine; I have no remorse, though more regrets than I can count, and all scored with fire. As people passed by Bartram, and looked upon itsneglected grounds and smokeless chimneys, they thought my plight, I daresay, about the worst a proud man could be reduced to. They could notimagine one half its misery. But this old hectic--this old epileptic--thisold spectre of wrongs, calamities, and follies, had still one hope--mymanly though untutored son--the last male scion of the Ruthyns. Maud, haveI lost him? His fate--my fate--I may say _Milly's fate_;--we all await yoursentence. He loves you, as none but the very young can love, and that onceonly in a life. He loves you desperately--a most affectionate nature--aRuthyn, the best blood in England--the last man of the race; and I--if Ilose him I lose all; and you will see me in my coffin, Maud, before manymonths. I stand before you in the attitude of a suppliant--shall I kneel?'

His eyes were fixed on me with the light of despair, his knotted handsclasped, his whole figure bowed toward me. I was inexpressibly shocked andpained. 

'Oh, uncle! uncle!' I cried, and from very excitement I burst into tears. 

I saw that his eyes were fixed on me with a dismal scrutiny. I think hedivined the nature of my agitation; but he determined, notwithstanding, topress me while my helpless agitation continued. 

'You see my suspense--you see my miserable and frightful suspense. You arekind, Maud; you love your father's memory; your pity your father's brother;you would not say no, and place a pistol at his head?'

'Oh! I must--I must--I _must_ say no. Oh! spare me, uncle, for Heaven'ssake. Don't question me--don't press me. I could not--I _could_ not do whatyou ask. '

'I yield, Maud--I yield, my dear. I will _not_ press you; you shall havetime, your _own_ time, to think. I will accept no answer now--no, _none_, Maud. '

He said this, raising his thin hand to silence me. 

'There, Maud, enough. I have spoken, as I always do to you, frankly, perhaps too frankly; but agony and despair will speak out, and plead, evenwith the most obdurate and cruel. '

With these words Uncle Silas entered his bed-chamber, and shut the door, not violently, but with a resolute hand, and I thought I heard a cry. 

I hastened to my own room. I threw myself on my knees, and thanked Heavenfor the firmness vouchsafed me; I could not believe it to have been my own. 

I was more miserable in consequence of this renewed suit on behalf ofmy odious cousin than I can describe. My uncle had taken such a line ofimportunity that it became a sort of agony to resist. I thought of thepossibility of my hearing of his having made away with himself, and wasevery morning relieved when I heard that he was still as usual. I haveoften wondered since at my own firmness. In that dreadful interview with myuncle I had felt, in the whirl and horror of my mind, on the very pointof submitting, just as nervous people are said to throw themselves overprecipices through sheer dread of falling. 

CHAPTER LI

_SARAH MATILDA COMES TO LIGHT_

Some time after this interview, one day as I sat, sad enough, in my room, looking listlessly from the window, with good Mary Quince, whom, whetherin the house or in my melancholy rambles, I always had by my side, Iwas startled by the sound of a loud and shrill female voice, in violenthysterical action, gabbling with great rapidity, sobbing, and very nearlyscreaming in a sort of fury. 

I started up, staring at the door. 

'Lord bless us!' cried honest Mary Quince, with round eyes and mouth agape, staring in the same direction. 

'Mary--Mary, what can it be?'

'Are they beating some one down yonder? I don't know where it comes from, 'gasped Quince. 

'I will--I will--I'll see her. It's her I want. Oo--hoo--hoo--hoo--oo--o--Miss Maud Ruthyn of Knowl. Miss Ruthyn of Knowl. Hoo--hoo--hoo--hoo--oo!'

'What on earth can it be?' I exclaimed, in great bewilderment and terror. 

It was now plainly very near indeed, and I heard the voice of our mild andshaky butler evidently remonstrating with the distressed damsel. 

'I'll see her, ' she continued, pouring a torrent of vile abuse upon me, which stung me with a sudden sense of anger. What had I done to be afraidof anyone? How dared anyone in my uncle's house--in _my_ house--mix my nameup with her detestable scurrilities?

'For Heaven's sake, Miss, don't ye go out, ' cried poor Quince; 'it's somedrunken creature. '

But I was very angry, and, like a fool as I was, I threw open the door, exclaiming in a loud and haughty key--

'Here is Miss Ruthyn of Knowl. Who wants to see her?'

A pink and white young lady, with black tresses, violent, weeping, shrill, voluble, was flouncing up the last stair, and shook her dress out on thelobby; and poor old Giblets, as Milly used to call him, was following inher wake, with many small remonstrances and entreaties, perfectly unheeded. 

The moment I looked at this person, it struck me that she was the identicallady whom I had seen in the carriage at Knowl Warren. The next moment I wasin doubt; the next, still more so. She was decidedly thinner, and dressedby no means in such lady-like taste. Perhaps she was hardly like her atall. I began to distrust all these resemblances, and to fancy, with ashudder, that they originated, perhaps, only in my own sick brain. 

On seeing me, this young lady--as it seemed to me, a good deal of thebarmaid or lady's-maid species--dried her eyes fiercely, and, with aflaming countenance, called upon me peremptorily to produce her 'lawfulhusband. ' Her loud, insolent, outrageous attack had the effect of enhancingmy indignation, and I quite forget what I said to her, but I well rememberthat her manner became a good deal more decent. She was plainly under theimpression that I wanted to appropriate her husband, or, at least, that hewanted to marry me; and she ran on at such a pace, and her harangue was sopassionate, incoherent, and unintelligible, that I thought her out of hermind: she was far from it, however. I think if she had allowed me evena second for reflection, I should have hit upon her meaning. As it was, nothing could exceed my perplexity, until, plucking a soiled newspaper fromher pocket, she indicated a particular paragraph, already sufficientlyemphasised by double lines of red ink at its sides. It was a Lancashirepaper, of about six weeks since, and very much worn and soiled for its age. I remember in particular a circular stain from the bottom of a vessel, either of coffee or brown stout. The paragraph was as follows, recording anevent a year or more anterior to the date of the paper:--

'MARRIAGE. --On Tuesday, August 7, 18--, at Leatherwig Church, by the Rev. Arthur Hughes, Dudley R. Ruthyn, Esq. , only son and heir of Silas Ruthyn, Esq. , of Bartram-Haugh, Derbyshire, to Sarah Matilda, second daughter ofJohn Mangles, Esq. , of Wiggan, in this county. '

At first I read nothing but amazement in this announcement, but in anothermoment I felt how completely I was relieved; and showing, I believe, myintense satisfaction in my countenance--for the young lady eyed me withconsiderable surprise and curiosity--I said--

'This is extremely important. You must see Mr. Silas Ruthyn this moment. Iam certain he knows nothing of it. I will conduct you to him. '

'No more he does--I know that myself, ' she replied, following me with aself-asserting swagger, and a great rustling of cheap silk. 

As we entered, Uncle Silas looked up from his sofa, and closed his _Revuedes Deux Mondes_. 

'What is all this?' he enquired, drily. 

'This lady has brought with her a newspaper containing an extraordinarystatement which affects our family, ' I answered. 

Uncle Silas raised himself, and looked with a hard, narrow scrutiny at theunknown young lady. 

'A libel, I suppose, in the paper?' he said, extending his hand for it. 

'No, uncle--no; only a marriage, ' I answered. 

'Not Monica?' he said, as he took it. 'Pah, it smells all over of tobaccoand beer, ' he added, throwing a little eau de Cologne over it. 

He raised it with a mixture of curiosity and disgust, saying again 'pah, 'as he did so. 

He read the paragraph, and as he did his face changed from white, all over, to lead colour. He raised his eyes, and looked steadily for some seconds atthe young lady, who seemed a little awed by his strange presence. 

'And you are, I suppose, the young lady, Sarah Matilda _née_ Mangles, mentioned in this little paragraph?' he said, in a tone you would havecalled a sneer, were it not that it trembled. 

Sarah Matilda assented. 

'My son is, I dare say, within reach. It so happens that I wrote to arresthis journey, and summon him here, some days since--some days since--somedays since, ' he repeated slowly, like a person whose mind has wandered faraway from the theme on which he is speaking. 

He had rung his bell, and old Wyat, always hovering about his rooms, entered. 

'I want my son, immediately. If not in the house, send Harry to thestables; if not there, let him be followed, instantly. Brice is an activefellow, and will know where to find him. If he is in Feltram, or at adistance, let Brice take a horse, and Master Dudley can ride it back. Hemust be here without the loss of one moment. '

There intervened nearly a quarter of an hour, during which whenever herecollected her, Uncle Silas treated the young lady with a hyper-refinedand ceremonious politeness, which appeared to make her uneasy, and even alittle shy, and certainly prevented a renewal of those lamentations andinvectives which he had heard faintly from the stair-head. 

But for the most part Uncle Silas seemed to forget us and his book, and allthat surrounded him, lying back in the corner of his sofa, his chin uponhis breast, and such a fearful shade and carving on his features as made meprefer looking in any direction but his. 

At length we heard the tread of Dudley's thick boots on the oak boards, and faint and muffled the sound of his voice as he cross-examined old Wyatbefore entering the chamber of audience. 

I think he suspected quite another visitor, and had no expectation ofseeing the particular young lady, who rose from her chair as he entered, inan opportune flood of tears, crying--

'Oh, Dudley, Dudley!--oh, Dudley, could you? Oh, Dudley, your own poor Sal!You could not--you would not--your lawful wife!'

This and a good deal more, with cheeks that streamed like a window-pane ina thunder-shower, spoke Sarah Matilda with all her oratory, working hisarm, which she clung to, up and down all the time, like the handle of apump. But Dudley was, manifestly, confounded and dumbfoundered. He stoodfor a long time gaping at his father, and stole just one sheepish glanceat me; and, with red face and forehead, looked down at his boots, and thenagain at his father, who remained just in the attitude I have described, and with the same forbidding and dreary intensity in his strange face. 

Like a quarrelsome man worried in his sleep by a noise, Dudley suddenlywoke up, as it were, with a start, in a half-suppressed exasperation, and shook her off with a jerk and a muttered curse, as she whiskedinvoluntarily into a chair, with more violence than could have beenpleasant. 

'Judging by your looks and demeanour, sir, I can almost anticipate youranswers, ' said my uncle, addressing him suddenly. 'Will you be goodenough--pray, madame (parenthetically to our visitor), command yourself fora few moments. Is this young person the daughter of a Mr. Mangles, and isher name Sarah Matilda?'

'I dessay, ' answered Dudley, hurriedly. 

'Is she your wife?'

'Is she my wife?' repeated Dudley, ill at ease. 

'Yes, sir; it is a plain question. '

All this time Sarah Matilda was perpetually breaking into talk, and withdifficulty silenced by my uncle. 

'Well, 'appen she says I am--does she?' replied Dudley. 

'Is she your wife, sir?'

'Mayhap she so considers it, after a fashion, ' he replied, with an impudentswagger, seating himself as he did so. 

'What do _you_ think, sir?' persisted Uncle Silas. 

'I don't think nout about it, ' replied Dudley, surlily. 

'Is that account true?' said my uncle, handing him the paper. 

'They wishes us to believe so, at any rate. '

'Answer directly, sir. We have our thoughts upon it. If it be true, it iscapable of _every_ proof. For expedition's sake I ask you. There is no usein prevaricating. '

'Who wants to deny it? It _is_ true--there!'

'_There!_ I knew he would, ' screamed the young woman, hysterically, with alaugh of strange joy. 

'Shut up, will ye?' growled Dudley, savagely. 

'Oh, Dudley, Dudley, darling! what have I done?'

'Bin and ruined me, jest--that's all. '

'Oh! no, no, no, Dudley. Ye know I wouldn't. I could not--_could_ not hurtye, Dudley. No, no, no!'

He grinned at her, and, with a sharp side-nod, said--

'Wait a bit. '

'Oh, Dudley, don't be vexed, dear. I did not mean it. I would not hurt yefor all the world. Never. '

'Well, never mind. You and yours tricked me finely; and now you've gotme--that's all. '

My uncle laughed a very odd laugh. 

'I knew it, of course; and upon my word, madame, you and he make a verypretty couple, ' sneered Uncle Silas. 

Dudley made no answer, looking, however, very savage. 

And with this poor young wife, so recently wedded, the low villain hadactually solicited me to marry him!

I am quite certain that my uncle was as entirely ignorant as I of Dudley'sconnection, and had, therefore, no participation in this appallingwickedness. 

'And I have to congratulate you, my good fellow, on having secured theaffections of a very suitable and vulgar young woman. '

'I baint the first o' the family as a' done the same, ' retorted Dudley. 

At this taunt the old man's fury for a moment overpowered him. In aninstant he was on his feet, quivering from head to foot. I never saw sucha countenance--like one of those demon-grotesques we see in the Gothicside-aisles and groinings--a dreadful grimace, monkey-like and insane--andhis thin hand caught up his ebony stick, and shook it paralytically in theair. 

'If ye touch me wi' that, I'll smash ye, by ----!' shouted Dudley, furious, raising his hands and hitching his shoulder, just as I had seen him when hefought Captain Oakley. 

For a moment this picture was suspended before me, and I screamed, I knownot what, in my terror. But the old man, the veteran of many a scene ofexcitement, where men disguise their ferocity in calm tones, and varnishtheir fury with smiles, had not quite lost his self-command. He turnedtoward me and said--

'Does he know what he's saying?'

And with an icy laugh of contempt, his high, thin forehead still flushed, he sat down trembling. 

'If you want to say aught, I'll hear ye. Ye may jaw me all ye like, andI'll stan' it. '

'Oh, I may speak? Thank you, ' sneered Uncle Silas, glancing slowly round atme, and breaking into a cold laugh. 

'Ay, I don't mind cheek, not I; but you must not go for to do that, yeknow. Gammon. I won't stand a blow--I won't fro _no_ one. 

'Well, sir, availing myself of your permission to speak, I may remark, without offence to the young lady, that I don't happen to recollect thename Mangles among the old families of England. I presume you have chosenher chiefly for her virtues and her graces. '

Mrs. Sarah Matilda, not apprehending this compliment quite as Uncle Silasmeant it, dropped a courtesy, notwithstanding her agitation, and, wipingher eyes, said, with a blubbered smile--

'You're very kind, sure. '

'I hope, for both your sakes, she has got a little money. I don't see howyou are to live else. You're too lazy for a game-keeper; and I don'tthink you could keep a pot-house, you are so addicted to drinking andquarrelling. The only thing I am quite clear upon is, that you and yourwife must find some other abode than this. You shall depart this evening:and now, Mr. And Mrs. Dudley Ruthyn, you may quit this room, if youplease. '

Uncle Silas had risen, and made them one of his old courtly bows, smiling adeath-like sneer, and pointing to the door with his trembling fingers. 

'Come, will ye?' said Dudley, grinding his teeth. 'You're pretty well donehere. '

Not half understanding the situation, but looking woefully bewildered, shedropped a farewell courtesy at the door. 

'Will ye _cut_?' barked Dudley, in a tone that made her jump; and suddenly, without looking about, he strode after her from the room. 

'Maud, how shall I recover this? The vulgar _villain_--the _fool_! What anabyss were we approaching! and for me the last hope gone--and for me utter, utter, irretrievable ruin. '

He was passing his fingers tremulously back and forward along the top ofthe mantelpiece, like a man in search of something, and continued so, looking along it, feebly and vacantly, although there was nothing there. 

'I wish, uncle--you do not know how much I wish--I could be of any use toyou. Maybe I can?'

He turned, and looked at me sharply. 

'Maybe you can, ' he echoed slowly. 'Yes, maybe you can, ' he repeated morebriskly. ' Let us--let us see--let us think--that d---- fellow!--my head!'

'You're not well, uncle?'

'Oh! yes, very well. We'll talk in the evening--I'll send for you. '

I found Wyat in the next room, and told her to hasten, as I thought he wasill. I hope it was not very selfish, but such had grown to be my horror ofseeing him in one of his strange seizures, that I hastened from the roomprecipitately--partly to escape the risk of being asked to remain. 

The walls of Bartram House are thick, and the recess at the doorway deep. As I closed my uncle's door, I heard Dudley's voice on the stairs. I didnot wish to be seen by him or by his 'lady', as his poor wife calledherself, who was engaged in vehement dialogue with him as I emerged, andnot caring either to re-enter my uncle's room, I remained quietly ensconcedwithin the heavy door-case, in which position I overheard Dudley say with asavage snarl--

'You'll jest go back the way ye came. I'm not goin' wi' ye, if that's whatye be drivin' at--dang your impitins!'

'Oh! Dudley, dear, what have I done--what _have_ I done--ye hate me so?'

'What a' ye done? Ye vicious little beast, ye! You've got us turned out an'disinherited wi' yer d----d bosh, that's all; don't ye think it's enough?'

I could only hear her sobs and shrill tones in reply, for they weredescending the stairs; and Mary Quince reported to me, in a horrified sortof way, that she saw him bundle her into the fly at the door, like a trussof hay into a hay-loft. And he stood with his head in at the window, scolding her, till it drove away. 

'I knew he wor jawing her, poor thing! By the way he kep' waggin' hishead--an' he had his fist inside, a shakin' in her face I'm sure he lookedwicked enough for anything; an' she a crying like a babby, an' lookin'back, an' wavin' her wet hankicher to him--poor thing!--and she so young!'Tis a pity. Dear me! I often think, Miss, 'tis well for me I never wasmarried. And see how we all would like to get husbands for all that, thoughso few is happy together. 'Tis a queer world, and them that's single ismaybe the best off after all. '

CHAPTER LII

_THE PICTURE OF A WOLF_

I went down that evening to the sitting-room which had been assigned toMilly and me, in search of a book--my good Mary Quince always attending me. The door was a little open, and I was startled by the light of a candleproceeding from the fireside, together with a considerable aroma of tobaccoand brandy. 

On my little work-table, which he had drawn beside the hearth, lay Dudley'spipe, his brandy-flask, and an empty tumbler; and he was sitting with onefoot on the fender, his elbow on his knee, and his head resting in hishand, weeping. His back being a little toward the door, he did not perceiveus; and we saw him rub his knuckles in his eyes, and heard the sounds ofhis selfish lamentation. 

Mary and I stole away quietly, leaving him in possession, wondering whenhe was to leave the house, according to the sentence which I had heardpronounced upon him. 

I was delighted to see old 'Giblets' quietly strapping his luggage in thehall, and heard from him in a whisper that he was to leave that evening byrail--he did not know whither. 

About half an hour afterwards, Mary Quince, going out to reconnoitre, heardfrom old Wyat in the lobby that he had just started to meet the train. 

Blessed be heaven for that deliverance! An evil spirit had been cast out, and the house looked lighter and happier. It was not until I sat down inthe quiet of my room that the scenes and images of that agitating day beganto move before my memory in orderly procession, and for the first timeI appreciated, with a stunning sense of horror and a perfect rapture ofthanksgiving, the value of my escape and the immensity of the danger whichhad threatened me. It may have been miserable weakness--I think it was. ButI was young, nervous, and afflicted with a troublesome sort of conscience, which occasionally went mad, and insisted, in small things as well asgreat, upon sacrifices which my reason now assures me were absurd. OfDudley I had a perfect horror; and yet had that system of solicitation, that dreadful and direct appeal to my compassion, that placing of my feeblegirlhood in the seat of the arbiter of my aged uncle's hope or despair, been long persisted in, my resistance might have been worn out--who cantell?--and I self-sacrificed! Just as criminals in Germany are teased, andwatched, and cross-examined, year after year, incessantly, into a sort ofmadness; and worn out with the suspense, the iteration, the self-restraint, and insupportable fatigue, they at last cut all short, accuse themselves, and go infinitely relieved to the scaffold--you may guess, then, for me, nervous, self-diffident, and alone, how intense was the comfort of knowingthat Dudley was actually married, and the harrowing importunity which hadjust commenced for ever silenced. 

That night I saw my uncle. I pitied him, though I feared him. I was longingto tell him how anxious I was to help him, if only he could point out theway. It was in substance what I had already said, but now strongly urged. He brightened; he sat up perpendicularly in his chair with a countenance, not weak or fatuous now, but resolute and searching, and which contractedinto dark thought or calculation as I talked. 

I dare say I spoke confusedly enough. I was always nervous in his presence;there was, I fancy, something mesmeric in the odd sort of influence which, without effort, he exercised over my imagination. 

Sometimes this grew into a dismal panic, and Uncle Silas--polished, mild--seemed unaccountably horrible to me. Then it was no longer anaccidental fascination of electro-biology. It was something more. Hisnature was incomprehensible by me. He was without the nobleness, withoutthe freshness, without the softness, without the frivolities of such humannature as I had experienced, either within myself or in other persons. Iinstinctively felt that appeals to sympathies or feelings could nomore affect him than a marble monument. He seemed to accommodate hisconversation to the moral structure of others, just as spirits are said toassume the shape of mortals. There were the sensualities of the gourmet forhis body, and there ended his human nature, as it seemed to me. Throughthat semi-transparent structure I thought I could now and then discern thelight or the glare of his inner life. But I understood it not. 

He never scoffed at what was good or noble--his hardest critic could notnail him to one such sentence; and yet, it seemed somehow to me that hisunknown nature was a systematic blasphemy against it all. If fiend he was, he was yet something higher than the garrulous, and withal feeble, demon ofGoethe. He assumed the limbs and features of our mortal nature. He shroudedhis own, and was a profoundly reticent Mephistopheles. Gentle he had beento me--kindly he had nearly always spoken; but it seemed like the mild talkof one of those goblins of the desert, whom Asiatic superstition tells of, who appear in friendly shapes to stragglers from the caravan, beckon tothem from afar, call them by their names, and lead them where they arefound no more. Was, then, all his kindness but a phosphoric radiancecovering something colder and more awful than the grave?

'It is very noble of you, Maud--it is angelic; your sympathy with a ruinedand despairing old man. But I fear you will recoil. I tell you frankly thatless than twenty thousand pounds will not extricate me from the quag ofruin in which I am entangled--lost!'

'Recoil! Far from it. I'll do it. There must be some way. '

'Enough, my fair young protectress--celestial enthusiast, enough. Thoughyou do not, yet I recoil. I could not bring myself to accept thissacrifice. What signifies, even to me, my extrication? I lie a mangledwretch, with fifty mortal wounds on my crown; what avails the healing ofone wound, when there are so many beyond all cure? Better to let me perishwhere I fall; and reserve your money for the worthier objects whom, perhaps, hereafter may avail to save. '

'But I _will_ do this. I must. I cannot see you suffer with the power in myhands unemployed to help you, ' I exclaimed. 

'Enough, dear Maud; the will is here--enough: there is balm in yourcompassion and good-will. Leave me, ministering angel; for the present Icannot. If you _will_, we can talk of it again. Good-night. '

And so we parted. 

The attorney from Feltram, I afterwards heard, was with him nearly all thatnight, trying in vain to devise by their joint ingenuity any means by whichI might tie myself up. But there were none. I could not bind myself. 

I was myself full of the hope of helping him. What was this sum to me, great as it seemed? Truly nothing. I could have spared it, and never feltthe loss. 

I took up a large quarto with coloured prints, one of the few books I hadbrought with me from dear old Knowl. Too much excited to hope for sleep inbed, I opened it, and turned over the leaves, my mind still full of UncleSilas and the sum I hoped to help him with. 

Unaccountably one of those coloured engravings arrested my attention. It represented the solemn solitude of a lofty forest; a girl, in Swisscostume, was flying in terror, and as she fled flinging a piece of meatbehind her which she had taken from a little market-basket hanging upon herarm. Through the glade a pack of wolves were pursuing her. 

The narrative told, that on her return homeward with her marketing, she hadbeen chased by wolves, and barely escaped by flying at her utmost speed, from time to time retarding, as she did so, the pursuit, by throwing, pieceby piece, the contents of her basket, in her wake, to be devoured andfought for by the famished beasts of prey. 

This print had seized my imagination. I looked with a curious interest onthe print: something in the disposition of the trees, their great height, and rude boughs, interlacing, and the awful shadow beneath, reminded me ofa portion of the Windmill Wood where Milly and I had often rambled. Then Ilooked at the figure of the poor girl, flying for her life, and glancingterrified over her shoulder. Then I gazed on the gaping, murderous pack, and the hoary brute that led the van; and then I leaned back in my chair, and I thought--perhaps some latent association suggested what seemed athing so unlikely--of a fine print in my portfolio from Vandyke's noblepicture of Belisarius. Idly I traced with my pencil, as I leaned back, onan envelope that lay upon the table, this little inscription. It was merefiddling; and, absurd as it looked, there was nothing but an honest meaningin it:--'20, 000_l_. Date Obolum Belisario!' My dear father had translatedthe little Latin inscription for me, and I had written it down as a sortof exercise of memory; and also, perhaps, as expressive of that sort ofcompassion which my uncle's fall and miserable fate excited invariably inme. So I threw this queer little memorandum upon the open leaf of the book, and again the flight, the pursuit, and the bait to stay it, engaged my eye. And I heard a voice near the hearthstone, as I thought, say, in a sternwhisper, 'Fly the fangs of Belisarius!'

'What's that?' said I, turning sharply to Mary Quince. 

Mary rose from her work at the fireside, staring at me with that odd sortof frown that accompanies fear and curiosity. 

'You spoke? Did you speak?' I said, catching her by the arm, very muchfrightened myself. 

'No, Miss; no, dear!' answered she, plainly thinking that I was a littlewrong in my head. 

There could be no doubt it was a trick of the imagination, and yet to thishour I could recognise that clear stern voice among a thousand, were it tospeak again. 

Jaded after a night of broken sleep and much agitation, I was summoned nextmorning to my uncle's room. 

He received me _oddly_, I thought. His manner had changed, and made anuncomfortable impression upon me. He was gentle, kind, smiling, submissive, as usual; but it seemed to me that he experienced henceforth toward me thesame half-superstitous repulsion which I had always felt from him. Dream, or voice, or vision--which had done it? There seemed to be an unconsciousantipathy and fear. When he thought I was not looking, his eyes weresometimes grimly fixed for a moment upon me. When I looked at him, his eyeswere upon the book before him; and when he spoke, a person not heeding whathe uttered would have fancied that he was reading aloud from it. 

There was nothing tangible but this shrinking from the encounter of oureyes. I said he was kind as usual. He was even more so. But there was thisnew sign of our silently repellant natures. Dislike it could not be. Heknew I longed to serve him. Was it shame? Was there not a shade of horrorin it?

'I have not slept, ' said he. 'For me the night has passed in thought, andthe fruit of it is this--I _cannot_, Maud, accept your noble offer. '

'I am _very_ sorry, ' exclaimed I, in all honesty. 

'I know it, my dear niece, and appreciate your goodness; but there aremany reasons--none of them, I trust, ignoble--and which together renderit impossible. No. It would be misunderstood--my honour shall not beimpugned. '

'But, sir, that could not be; you have never proposed it. It would be all, from first to last, _my_ doing. '

'True, dear Maud, but I know, alas! more of this evil and slanderous worldthan your happy inexperience can do. Who will receive our testimony?None--no, not one. The difficulty--the insuperable moral difficulty isthis--that I should expose myself to the plausible imputation of havingworked upon you, unduly, for this end; and more, that I could not holdmyself quite free from blame. It is your voluntary goodness, Maud. But youare young, inexperienced; and it is, I hold it, my duty to stand betweenyou and any dealing with your property at so unripe an age. Some people maycall this Quixotic. In my mind it is an imperious mandate of conscience;and I peremptorily refuse to disobey it, although within three weeks anexecution will be in this house!'

I did not quite know what an execution meant; but from two harrowingnovels, with whose distresses I was familiar, I knew that it indicated somedireful process of legal torture and spoliation. 

'Oh, uncle I--oh, sir!--you cannot allow this to happen. What will peoplesay of me? And--and there is poor Milly--and _everything_! Think what itwill be. '

'It cannot be helped--_you_ cannot help it, Maud. Listen to me. There willbe an execution here, I cannot say exactly how soon, but, I think, in alittle more than a fortnight. I must provide for your comfort. You mustleave. I have arranged that you shall join Milly, for the present, inFrance, till I have time to look about me. You had better, I think, writeto your cousin, Lady Knollys. She, with all her oddities, has a heart. Canyou say, Maud, that I have been kind?'

'You have never been anything but kind, ' I exclaimed. 

'That I've been self-denying when you made me a generous offer?' hecontinued. 'That I now act to spare you pain? You may tell her, not as amessage from me, but as a fact, that I am seriously thinking of vacating myguardianship--that I feel I have done her an injustice, and that, sosoon as my mind is a little less tortured, I shall endeavour to effect areconciliation with her, and would wish ultimately to transfer the careof your person and education to _her_. You may say I have no longer aninterest even in vindicating my name. My son has wrecked himself by amarriage. I forgot to tell you he stopped at Feltram, and this morningwrote to pray a parting interview. If I grant it, it shall be the last. Ishall never see him or correspond with him more. '

The old man seemed much overcome, and held his hankerchief to his eyes. 

'He and his wife are, I understand, about to emigrate; the sooner thebetter, ' he resumed, bitterly. 'Deeply, Maud, I regret having tolerated hissuit to you, even for a moment. Had I thought it over, as I did the wholecase last night, nothing could have induced me to permit it. But I havelived for so long like a monk in his cell, my wants and observation limitedto the narrow compass of this chamber, that my knowledge of the world hasdied out with my youth and my hopes: and I did not, as I ought to havedone, consider many objections. Therefore, dear Maud, on this one subject, I entreat, be silent; its discussion can effect nothing now. I was wrong, and frankly ask you to forget my mistake. '

I had been on the point of writing to Lady Knollys on this odious subject, when, happily, it was set at rest by the disclosure of yesterday; and beingso, I could have no difficulty in acceding to my uncle's request. He wasconceding so much that I could not withhold so trifling a concession inreturn. 

'I hope Monica will continue to be kind to poor Milly after I am gone. '

Here there were a few seconds of meditation. 

'Maud, you will not, I think, refuse to convey the substance of what Ihave just said in a letter to Lady Knollys, and perhaps you would haveno objection to let me see it when it is written. It will prevent thepossibility of its containing any misconception of what I have just spoken:and, Maud, you won't forget to say whether I have been kind. It would bea satisfaction to me to know that Monica was assured that I never eitherteased or bullied my young ward. '

With these words he dismissed me; and forthwith I completed such a letteras would quite embody what he had said; and in my own glowing terms, being in high good-humour with Uncle Silas, recorded my estimate of hisgentleness and good-nature; and when I submitted it to him, he expressedhis admiration of what he was pleased to call my cleverness in so exactlyconveying what he wished, and his gratitude for the handsome terms in whichI had spoken of my old guardian. 

CHAPTER LIII

_AN ODD PROPOSAL_

As I and Mary Quince returned from our walk that day, and had entered thehall, I was surprised most disagreeably by Dudley's emerging from thevestibule at the foot of the great staircase. He was, I suppose, in histravelling costume--a rather soiled white surtout, a great coloured mufflerin folds about his throat, his 'chimney-pot' on, and his fur cap stickingout from his pocket. He had just descended, I suppose, from my uncle'sroom. On seeing me he stepped back, and stood with his shoulders to thewall, like a mummy in a museum. 

I pretended to have a few words to say to Mary before leaving the hall, in the hope that, as he seemed to wish to escape me, he would take theopportunity of getting quickly off the scene. 

But he had changed his mind, it would seem, in the interval; for when Iglanced in that direction again he had moved toward us, and stood in thehall with his hat in his hand. I must do him the justice to say he lookedhorribly dismal, sulky, and frightened. 

'Ye'll gi'e me a word, Miss--only a thing I ought to say--for your good; by----, mind, it's for _your_ good, Miss. '

Dudley stood a little way off, viewing me, with his hat in both hands and a'glooming' countenance. 

I detested the idea of either hearing or speaking to him; but I had noresolution to refuse, and only saying 'I can't imagine what you can wish tospeak to me about, ' I approached him. 'Wait there at the banister, Quince. '

There was a fragrance of alcohol about the flushed face and gaudy mufflerof this odious cousin, which heightened the effect of his horribly dismalfeatures. He was speaking, besides, a little thickly; but his manner wasdejected, and he was treating me with an elaborate and discomfited respectwhich reassured me. 

'I'm a bit up a tree, Miss, ' he said shuffling his feet on the oak floor. 'I behaved a d---- fool; but I baint one o' they sort. I'm a fellah as 'illfight his man, an' stan' up to 'm fair, don't ye see? An' _baint_ one o'they sort--no, _dang_ it, I baint. '

Dudley delivered his puzzling harangue with a good deal of undertonedvehemence, and was strangely agitated. He, too, had got an unpleasant wayof avoiding my eye, and glancing along the floor from corner to corner ashe spoke, which gave him a very hang-dog air. 

He was twisting his fingers in his great sandy whisker, and pulling itroughly enough to drag his cheek about by that savage purchase; and withhis other hand he was crushing and rubbing his hat against his knee. 

'The old boy above there be half crazed, I think; he don't mean half as hesays thof, not he. But I'm in a bad fix anyhow--a regular sell it's been, and I can't get a tizzy out of him. So, ye see, I'm up a tree, Miss; and hesich a one, he'll make it a wuss mull if I let him. He's as sharp wi' me asone o' them lawyer chaps, dang 'em, and he's a lot of I O's and rubbitch o'mine; and Bryerly writes to me he can't gi'e me my legacy, 'cause he's gota notice from Archer and Sleigh a warnin' him not to gi'e me as much as abob; for I signed it away to governor, he says--which I believe's a lie. Imay a' signed some writing--'appen I did--when I was a bit cut one night. But that's no way to catch a gentleman, and 'twon't stand. There's justiceto be had, and 'twon't _stand_, I say; and I'm not in 'is hands that way. Thof I may be a bit up the spout, too, I don't deny; only I baint agoin'the whole hog all at once. I'm none o' they sort. He'll find I baint. '

Here Mary Quince coughed demurely from the foot of the stair, to remind methat the conversation was protracted. 

'I don't very well understand, ' I said gravely; 'and I am now goingupstairs. '

'Don't jest a minute, Miss; it's only a word, ye see. We'll be goin' t'Australia, Sary Mangles, an' me, aboard the _Seamew_, on the 5th. I'mfor Liverpool to-night, and she'll meet me there, an'--an', please GodAlmighty, ye'll never see me more; an I'd rather gi'e ye a lift, Maud, before I go: an' I tell ye what, if ye'll just gi'e me your written promiseye'll gi'e me that twenty thousand ye were offering to gi'e the Governor, I'll take ye cleverly out o' Bartram, and put ye wi' your cousin Knollys, or anywhere ye like best. '

'Take me from Bartram--for twenty thousand pounds! Take me away from myguardian! You seem to forget, sir, ' my indignation rising as I spoke, 'thatI can visit my cousin, Lady Knollys, whenever I please. '

'Well, that is as it may be, ' he said, with a sulky deliberation, scrapingabout a little bit of paper that lay on the floor with the toe of his boot. 

'It _is_ as it may be, and that is as I say, sir; and considering how youhave treated me--your mean, treacherous, and infamous suit, and your crueltreason to your poor wife, I am amazed at your effrontery. '

I turned to leave him, being, in truth, in one of my passions. 

'Don't ye be a flying' out, ' he said peremptorily, and catching me roughlyby the wrist, ' I baint a-going to vex ye. What a mouth you be, as can't seeyour way! Can't ye speak wi' common sense, like a woman--dang it--for once, and not keep brawling like a brat--can't ye see what I'm saying? I'll takeye out o' all this, and put ye wi' your cousin, or wheresoever you list, ifye'll gi'e me what I say. '

He was, for the first time, looking me in the face, but with contractedeyes, and a countenance very much agitated. 

'Money?' said I, with a prompt disdain. 

'Ay, money--twenty thousand pounds--_there_. On or off?' he replied, withan unpleasant sort of effort. 

'You ask my promise for twenty thousand pounds, and you shan't have it. '

My cheeks were flaming, and I stamped on the ground as I spoke. 

If he had known how to appeal to my better feelings, I am sure I shouldhave done, perhaps not quite that, all at once at least, but somethinghandsome, to assist him. But this application was so shabby and insolent!What could he take me for? That I should suppose his placing me with CousinMonica constituted her my guardian? Why, he must fancy me the merest baby. There was a kind of stupid cunning in this that disgusted my good-natureand outraged my self-importance. 

'You won't gi'e me that, then?' he said, looking down again, with a frown, and working his mouth and cheeks about as I could fancy a man rolling apiece of tobacco in his jaw. 

'Certainly _not_, sir, ' I replied. 

'_Take_ it, then, ' he replied, still looking down, very black anddiscontented. 

I joined Mary Quince, extremely angry. As I passed under the carved oakarch of the vestibule, I saw his figure in the deepening twilight. Thepicture remains in its murky halo fixed in memory. Standing where he lastspoke in the centre of the hall, not looking after me, but downward, and, as well as I could see, with the countenance of a man who has lost a game, and a ruinous wager too--that is black and desperate. I did not utter asyllable on the way up. When I reached my room, I began to reconsider theinterview more at my leisure. I was, such were my ruminations, to haveagreed at once to his preposterous offer, and to have been driven, while hesmirked and grimaced behind my back at his acquaintances, through Feltramin his dog-cart to Elverston; and then, to the just indignation of myuncle, to have been delivered up to Lady Knolly's guardianship, and tohave handed my driver, as I alighted, the handsome fare of 20. 000_l_. Itrequired the impudence of Tony Lumpkin, without either his fun or hisshrewdness, to have conceived such a prodigious practical joke. 

'Maybe you'd like a little tea, Miss?' insinuated Mary Quince. 

'What impertinence!' I exclaimed, with one of my angry stamps on the floor. 'Not you, dear old Quince, ' I added. 'No--no tea just now. '

And I resumed my ruminations, which soon led me to this train ofthought--'Stupid and insulting as Dudley's proposition was, it yet involveda great treason against my uncle. Should I be weak enough to be silent, mayhe not, wishing to forestall me, misrepresent all that has passed, so as tothrow the blame altogether upon me?'

This idea seized upon me with a force which I could not withstand; and onthe impulse of the moment I obtained admission to my uncle, and relatedexactly what had passed. When I had finished my narrative, which helistened to without once raising his eyes, my uncle cleared his throat onceor twice, as if to speak. He was smiling--I thought with an effort, andwith elevated brows. When I concluded, he hummed one of those slidingnotes, which a less refined man might have expressed by a whistle ofsurprise and contempt, and again he essayed to speak, but continued silent. The fact is, he seemed to me very much disconcerted. He rose from his seat, and shuffled about the room in his slippers, I believe affecting only tobe in search of something, opening and shutting two or three drawers, andturning over some books and papers; and at length, taking up some loosesheets of manuscript, he appeared to have found what he was looking for, and began to read them carelessly, with his back towards me, and withanother effort to clear his voice, he said at last--

'And pray, what could the fool mean by all that?'

'I think he must have taken me for an idiot, sir, ' I answered. 

'Not unlikely. He has lived in a stable, among horses and ostlers; he hasalways seemed to me something like a centaur--that is a centaur composednot of man and horse, but of an ape and an ass. '

And upon this jibe he laughed, not coldly and sarcastically, as was hiswont, but, I thought, flurriedly. And, continuing to look into his papers, he said, his back still toward me as he read--

'And he did not favour you with an exposition of his meaning, which, exceptin so far as it estimated his deserts at the modest sum you havenamed, appears to me too oracular to be interpreted without a kindredinspiration?'

And again he laughed. He was growing more like himself. 

'As to your visiting your cousin, Lady Knollys, the stupid rogue had onlyfive minutes before heard me express my wish that you should do so beforeleaving this. I am quite resolved you shall--that is, unless, dear Maud, you should yourself object; but, of course, we must wait for an invitation, which, I conjecture, will not be long in coming. In fact, your letterwill naturally bring it about, and, I trust, open the way to a permanentresidence with her. The more I think it over, the more am I convinced, dearniece, that as things are likely to turn out, my roof would be no desirableshelter for you; and that, under all circumstances, hers would. Such weremy motives, Maud, in opening, through your letter, a door of reconciliationbetween us. '

I felt that I ought to have kissed his hand--that he had indicatedprecisely the future that I most desired; and yet there was within me avague feeling, akin to suspicion--akin to dismay which chilled and overcastmy soul. 

'But, Maud, ' he said, 'I am disquieted to think of that stupid jackanapespresuming to make you such an offer! A creditable situation truly--arrivingin the dark at Elverston, under the solitary escort of that wild young man, with whom you would have fled from my guardianship; and, Maud, I tremble asI ask myself the question, would he have conducted you to Elverston at all?When you have lived as long in the world as I, you will appreciate itswickedness more justly. ' Here there was a little pause. 

'I know, my dear, that were he convinced of his legal marriage with thatyoung woman, ' he resumed, perceiving how startled I looked, 'such an idea, of course, would not have entered his head; but he does not believe anysuch thing. Contrary to fact and logic, he does honestly think that hishand is still at his disposal; and I certainly do suspect that he wouldhave employed that excursion in endeavouring to persuade you to think as hedoes. Be that how it may, however, it is satisfactory to me to know thatyou shall never more be troubled by one word from that ill-regulated youngman. I made him my adieux, such as they were, this evening; and never moreshall he enter the walls of Bartram-Haugh while we two live. '

Uncle Silas replaced the papers which had ostensibly interested him somuch, and returned. There was a vein which was visible near the angleof his lofty temple, and in moments of agitation stood out against thesurrounding pallor in a knotted blue cord; and as he came back smilingaskance, I saw this sign of inward tumult. 

'We can, however, afford to despise the follies and knaveries of the world, Maud, as long as we act, as we have hitherto done, with perfect confidencein each other. Heaven bless you, dear Maud! Your report troubled me, Ibelieve, more than it need--troubled me a good deal; but reflection assuresme it is nothing. He is gone. In a few days' time he will be on the sea. Iwill issue my orders to-morrow morning, and he will never more, during hisbrief stay in England, gain admission to Bartram-Haugh. Good-night, my goodniece; I thank you. '

And so I returned to Mary Quince, on the whole happier than I had lefther, but still with the confused and jarring vision I could not interpretperpetually rising before me; and as, from time to time, shapelessanxieties agitated me, relieving them by appeals to Him who alone is wiseand strong. 

Next day brought me a goodnatured gossiping letter from dear Milly, written in compulsory French, which was, in some places, very difficultto interpret. She gave me a very pleasant account of the place, and heropinion of the girls who were inmates, and mentioned some of the nuns withhigh commendation. The language plainly cramped poor Milly's genius; butalthough there was by no means so much fun as an honest English letterwould have brought me, there could be no mistake about her liking theplace, and she expressed her honest longing to see me in the mostaffectionate terms. 

This letter came enclosed in one to my uncle, from the proper authorityin the convent; and as there was neither address within, nor post-markwithout, I was as much in the dark as ever as to poor Milly's whereabouts. 

Pencilled across the envelope of this letter, in my uncle's hand, were thewords, 'Let me have your answer when sealed, and I will transmit it. --S. R. '

When, accordingly, some days later, I did place my letter to Milly in myuncle's hands, he told me the reason of his reserves on the subject. 

'I thought it best, dear Maud, not to plague you with a secret, and Milly'spresent address is one. It will in a few weeks become the rallying-point ofour diverse routes, when you shall meet her, and I join you both. Nobody, until the storm shall have blown over, must know where I am to be found, except my lawyer; and I think you would prefer ignorance to the trouble ofkeeping a secret on which so much may depend. '

This being reasonable, and even considerate, I acquiesced. 

In that interval there reached me such a charming, gay, and affectionateletter--a very _long_ letter, too--though the writer was scarcely sevenmiles away, from dear Cousin Monica, full of pleasant gossip, androse-coloured and golden castles in the air, and the kindest interest inpoor Milly, and the warmest affection for me. 

One other incident varied that interval, if possible more pleasantly thanthose. It was the announcement, in a Liverpool paper, of the departure ofthe _Seamew_, bound for Melbourne; and among the passengers were reported'Dudley Ruthyn, Esquire, of Bartram-H. , and Mrs. D. Ruthyn. '

And now I began to breathe freely, I plainly saw the end of my probationapproaching: a short excursion to France, a happy meeting with Milly, andthen a delightful residence with Cousin Monica for the remainder of mynonage. 

You will say then that my spirits and my serenity were quite restored. Notquite. How marvellously lie our anxieties, in filmy layers, one over theother! Take away that which has lain on the upper surface for so long--thecare of cares--the only one, as it seemed to you, between your soul and theradiance of Heaven--and straight you find a new stratum there. As physicalscience tells us no fluid is without its skin, so does it seem with thisfine medium of the soul, and these successive films of care that form uponits surface on mere contact with the upper air and light. 

What was my new trouble? A very fantastic one, you will say--the illusionof a self-tormentor. It was the face of Uncle Silas which haunted me. Notwithstanding the old pale smile, there was a shrinking grimness, and thealways-averted look. 

Sometimes I fancied his mind was disordered. I could not account for theeerie lights and shadows that flickered on his face, except so. There wasa look of shame and fear of me, amazing as that seems, in the sheen of hispeaked smile. 

I thought, 'Perhaps he blames himself for having tolerated Dudley'ssuit--for having urged it on grounds of personal distress--for havingaltogether lowered, though under sore temptation, both himself and hisoffice; and he thinks that he has forfeited my respect. '

Such was my analysis; but in the _coup-d'oeil_ of that white face thatdazzled me in darkness, and haunted my daily reveries with a faded light, there was an intangible character of the insidious and the terrible. 

CHAPTER LIV

_IN SEARCH OF MR. CHARKE'S SKELETON_

On the whole, however, I was unspeakably relieved. Dudley Ruthyn, Esq. , and Mrs. D. Ruthyn, were now skimming the blue waves on the wings of the_Seamew_, and every morning widened the distance between us, which was togo on increasing until it measured a point on the antipodes. The Liverpoolpaper containing this golden line was carefully preserved in my room; andlike the gentleman who, when much tried by the shrewish heiress whom hehad married, used to retire to his closet and read over his marriagesettlement, I used, when blue devils haunted me, to unfold my newspaper andread the paragraph concerning the _Seamew_. 

The day I now speak of was a dismal one of sleety snow. My own room seemedto me cheerier than the lonely parlour, where I could not have had goodMary Quince so decorously. 

A good fire, that kind and trusty face, the peep I had just indulged in atmy favourite paragraph, and the certainty of soon seeing my dear cousinMonica, and afterwards affectionate Milly, raised my spirits. 

'So, ' said I, 'as old Wyat, you say, is laid up with rheumatism, and can'tturn up to scold me, I think I'll run up stairs and make an exploration, and find poor Mr. Charke's skeleton in a closet. '

'Oh, law, Miss Maud, how can you say such things!' exclaimed good oldQuince, lifting up her honest grey head and round eyes from her knitting. 

I had grown so familiar with the frightful tradition of Mr. Charke and hissuicide, that I could now afford to frighten old Quince with him. 

'I am quite serious. I am going to have a ramble up-stairs and down-stairs, like goosey-goosey-gander; and if I do light upon his chamber, it is allthe more interesting. I feel so like Adelaide, in the "Romance of theForest, " the book I was reading to you last night, when she commenced herdelightful rambles through the interminable ruined abbey in the forest. '

'Shall I go with you, Miss?'

'No, Quince; stay there; keep a good fire, and make some tea. I suspect Ishall lose heart and return very soon;' and with a shawl about me, cowlfashion, over my head, I stole up-stairs. 

I shall not recount with the particularity of the conscientious heroine ofMrs. Ann Radcliffe, all the suites of apartments, corridors, and lobbies, which I threaded in my ramble. It will be enough to mention that I lightedupon a door at the end of a long gallery, which, I think, ran parallel withthe front of the house; it interested me because it had the air of havingbeen very long undisturbed. There were two rusty bolts, which did notevidently belong to its original securities, and had been, though very longago, somewhat clumsily superadded. Dusty and rusty they were, but I had nodifficulty in drawing them back. There was a rusty key, I remember it well, with a crooked handle in the lock; I tried to turn it, but could not. My curiosity was piqued. I was thinking of going back and getting MaryQuince's assistance. It struck me, however, that possibly it was notlocked, so I pulled the door and it opened quite easily. I did not findmyself in a strangely-furnished suite of apartments, but at the entranceof a gallery, which diverged at right angles from that through which I hadjust passed; it was very imperfectly lighted, and ended in total darkness. 

I began to think how far I had already come, and to consider whether Icould retrace my steps with accuracy in case of a panic, and I had seriousthoughts of returning. 

The idea of Mr. Charke was growing unpleasantly sharp and menacing; andas I looked down the long space before me, losing itself among ambiguousshadows, lulled in a sinister silence, and as it were inviting my entrancelike a trap, I was very near yielding to the cowardly impulse. 

But I took heart of grace and determined to see a little more. I opened aside-door, and entered a large room, where were, in a corner, some rustyand cobwebbed bird-cages, but nothing more. It was a wainscoted room, buta white mildew stained the panels. I looked from the window: it commandedthat dismal, weed-choked quadrangle into which I had once looked fromanother window. I opened a door at its farther end, and entered anotherchamber, not quite so large, but equally dismal, with the same prison-likelook-out, not very easily discerned through the grimy panes and the sleetthat was falling thickly outside. The door through which I had entered madea little accidental creak, and, with my heart at my lips, I gazed at it, expecting to see Charke, or the skeleton of which I had talked so lightly, stalk in at the half-open aperture. But I had an odd sort of courage whichwas always fighting against my cowardly nerves, and I walked to the door, and looking up and down the dismal passage, was reassured. 

Well, one room more--just that whose deep-set door fronted me, with amelancholy frown, at the opposite end of the chamber. So to it I glided, shoved it open, advancing one step, and the great bony figure of Madame dela Rougierre was before me. 

I could see nothing else. 

The drowsy traveller who opens his sheets to slip into bed, and sees ascorpion coiled between them, may have experienced a shock the same inkind, but immeasurably less in degree. 

She sat in a clumsy old arm-chair, with an ancient shawl about her, andher bare feet in a delft tub. She looked a thought more withered. Her wigshoved back disclosed her bald wrinkled forehead, and enhanced the uglyeffect of her exaggerated features and the gaunt hollows of her face. Witha sense of incredulity and terror I gazed, freezing, at this evil phantom, who returned my stare for a few seconds with a shrinking scowl, dismal andgrim, as of an evil spirit detected. 

The meeting, at least then and there, was as complete a surprise for her asfor me. She could not tell how I might take it; but she quickly rallied, burst into a loud screeching laugh, and, with her old Walpurgis gaiety, danced some fantastic steps in her bare wet feet, tracking the floor withwater, and holding out with finger and thumb, in dainty caricature, herslammakin old skirt, while she sang some of her nasal patois with anabominable hilarity and emphasis. 

With a gasp, I too recovered from the fascination of the surprise. I couldnot speak though for some seconds, and Madame was first. 

'Ah, dear Maud, what surprise! Are we not overjoy, dearest, and cannotspeak? I am full of joy--quite charmed--_ravie_--of seeing you. So are youof me, your face betray. Ah! yes, thou dear little baboon! here is poorMadame once more! Who could have imagine?'

'I thought you were in France, Madame, ' I said, with a dismal effort. 

'And so I was, dear Maud; I 'av just arrive. Your uncle Silas he wrote tothe superioress for gouvernante to accompany a young lady--that is you, Maud--on her journey, and she send me; and so, ma chère, here is poorMadame arrive to charge herself of that affair. '

'How soon do we leave for France, Madame?' I asked. 

'I do not know, but the old women--wat is her name?'

'Wyat, ' I suggested. 

'Oh! oui, Waiatt;--she says two, three week. And who conduct you to poorMadame's apartment, my dear Maud?' She inquired insinuatingly. 

'No one, I answered promptly: 'I reached it quite accidentally, and Ican't imagine why you should conceal yourself. ' Something like indignationkindled in my mind as I began to wonder at the sly strategy which had beenpractised upon me. 

'I 'av not conceal myself, Mademoiselle, ' retorted the governness. 'I 'avact precisally as I 'av been ordered. Your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, he isafraid, Waiatt says, to be interrupted by his creditors, and everythingmust be done very quaitly. I have been commanded to avoid _me faire voir_, you know, and I must obey my employer--voilà tout!'

'And for how long have you been residing here?' I persisted, in the sameresentful vein. 

''Bout a week. It is soche triste place! I am so glad to see you, Maud!I've been so isolée, you dear leetle fool!'

'You are _not_ glad, Madame; you don't love me--you never did, ' I exclaimedwith sudden vehemence. 

'Yes, I am _very_ glad; you know not, chère petite _niaise_, how I 'avdesire to educate you a leetle more. Let us understand one another. Youthink I do not love you, Mademoiselle, because you have mentioned to yourpoor papa that little _dérèglement_ in his library. I have repent veryoften that so great indiscretion of my life. I thought to find some lettersof Dr. Braierly. I think that man was trying to get your property, my dearMaud, and if I had found something I would tell you all about. But it wasvery great _sottise_, and you were very right to denounce me to Monsieur. Je n'ai point de rancune contre vous. No, no, none at all. On the contrary, I shall be your _gardienne tutelaire_--wat you call?--guardian angel--ah, yes, that is it. You think I speak _par dérision_; not at all. No, my dearcheaile, I do not speak _par moquerie_, unless perhaps the very leastdegree in the world. '

And with these words Madame laughed unpleasantly, showing the black cavernsat the side of her mouth, and with a cold, steady malignity in her gaze. 

'Yes, ' I said; 'I know what you mean, Madame--you _hate_ me. '

'Oh! wat great ogly word! I am shock! _vous me faites honte_. Poor Madame, she never hate any one; she loves all her friends, and her enemies sheleaves to Heaven; while I am, as you see, more gay, more _joyeuse_ thanever, they have not been 'appy--no, they have not been fortunate theseothers. Wen I return, I find always some of my enemy they 'av die, and somethey have put themselves into embarrassment, or there has arrived to themsome misfortune;' and Madame shrugged and laughed a little scornfully. 

A kind of horror chilled my rising anger, and I was silent. 

'You see, my dear Maud, it is very natural you should think I hate you. When I was with Mr. Austin Ruthyn, at Knowl, you know you did not like ame--never. But in consequence of our intimacy I confide you that which I'av of most dear in the world, my reputation. It is always so. The pupilcan _calomniate_, without been discover, the gouvernante. 'Av I not beenalways kind to you, Maud? Which 'av I use of violence or of sweetness themost? I am, like other persons, _jalouse de ma réputation_; and it wasdifficult to suffer with patience the banishment which was invoked by you, because chiefly for your good, and for an indiscretion to which I wasexcited by motives the most pure and laudable. It was you who spied socleverly--eh! and denounce me to Monsieur Ruthyn? Helas! wat bad world itis!'

'I do not mean to speak at all about that occurrence, Madame; I will notdiscuss it. I dare say what you tell me of the cause of your engagementhere is true, and I suppose we must travel, as you say, in company; butyou must know that the less we see of each other while in this house thebetter. '

'I am not so sure of that, my sweet little _béte_; your education has beenneglected, or rather entirely abandoned, since you 'av arrive at thisplace, I am told. You must not be a _bestiole_. We must do, you and I, aswe are ordered. Mr. Silas Ruthyn he will tell us. '

All this time Madame was pulling on her stockings, getting her boots on, and otherwise proceeding with her dowdy toilet. I do not know why I stoodthere talking to her. We often act very differently from what we wouldhave done upon reflection. I had involved myself in a dialogue, as wisergenerals than I have entangled themselves in a general action when theymeant only an affair of outposts. I had grown a little angry, and wouldnot betray the least symptom of fear, although I felt that sensationprofoundly. 

'My beloved father thought you so unfit a companion for me that hedismissed you at an hour's notice, and I am very sure that my uncle willthink as he did; you are _not_ a fit companion for me, and had myuncle known what had passed he would never have admitted you to thishouse--never!'

'Helas! _Quelle disgrace_! And you really think so, my dear Maud, 'exclaimed Madame, adjusting her wig before her glass, in the corner ofwhich I could see half of her sly, grinning face, as she ogled herself init. 

'I do, and so do you, Madame, ' I replied, growing more frightened. 

'It may be--we shall see; but everyone is not so cruel as you, _ma chèrepetite calomniatrice_. '

'You shan't call me those names, ' I said, in an angry tremor. 

'What name, dearest cheaile?'

'_Calomniatrice_--that is an insult. '

'Why, my most foolish little Maud, we may say rogue, and a thousand otherlittle words in play which we do not say seriously. 

'You are not playing--you never play--you are angry, and you hate me, ' Iexclaimed, vehemently. 

'Oh, fie!--wat shame! Do you not perceive, dearest cheaile, how mucheducation you still need? You are proud, little demoiselle; you mustbecome, on the contrary, quaite humble. Je ferai baiser le babouin àvous--ha, ha, ha! I weel make a you to kees the monkey. You are too proud, my dear cheaile. '

'I am not such a fool as I was at Knowl, ' I said; 'you shall not terrify mehere. I will tell my uncle the whole truth, ' I said. 

'Well, it may be that is the best, ' she replied, with provoking coolness. 

'You think I don't mean it?'

'Of course you _do_, ' she replied. 

'And we shall see what my uncle thinks of it. '

'We shall see, my dear, ' she replied, with an air of mock contrition. 

'Adieu, Madame!'

'You are going to Monsieur Ruthyn?--very good!'

I made her no answer, but more agitated than I cared to show her, I leftthe room. I hurried along the twilight passage, and turned into the longgallery that opened from it at right angles. I had not gone half-a-dozensteps on my return when I heard a heavy tread and a rustling behind me. 

'I am ready, my dear; I weel accompany you, ' said the smirking phantom, hurrying after me. 

'Very well, ' was my reply; and threading our way, with a few hesitationsand mistakes, we reached and descended the stairs, and in a minute morestood at my uncle's door. 

My uncle looked hard and strangely at us as we entered. He looked, indeed, as if his temper was violently excited, and glared and muttered to himselffor a few seconds; and treating Madame to a stare of disgust, he askedpeevishly--

'Why am I disturbed, pray?'

'Miss Maud a Ruthyn, she weel explain, ' replied Madame, with a greatcourtesy, like a boat going down in a ground swell. 

'_Will_ you explain, my dear?' he asked, in his coldest and most sarcastictone. 

I was agitated, and I am sure my statement was confused. I succeeded, however, in saying what I wanted. 

'Why, Madame, this is a grave charge! Do you admit it, pray?'

Madame, with the coolest possible effrontery, denied it all; with the mostsolemn asseverations, and with streaming eyes and clasped hands, conjuredme melodramatically to withdraw that intolerable story, and to do herjustice. I stared at her for a while astounded, and turning suddenly to myuncle, as vehemently asserted the truth of every syllable I had related. 

'You hear, my dear child, you hear her deny everything; what am I to think?You must excuse the bewilderment of my old head. Madame de la--that ladyhas arrived excellently recommended by the superioress of the place wheredear Milly awaits you, and such persons are particular. It strikes me, mydear niece, that you must have made a mistake. '

I protested here. But he went on without seeming to hear the parenthesis--

'I know, my dear Maud, that you are quite incapable of wilfully deceivinganyone; but you are liable to be deceived like other young people. Youwere, no doubt, very nervous, and but half awake when you fancied you sawthe occurrence you describe; and Madame de--de--'

'De la Rougierre, ' I supplied. 

'Yes, thank you--Madame de la Rougierre, who has arrived with excellenttestimonials, strenuously denies the whole thing. Here is a conflict, mydear--in my mind a presumption of mistake. I confess I should prefer thattheory to a peremptory assumption of guilt. '

I felt incredulous and amazed; it seemed as if a dream were being enactedbefore me. A transaction of the most serious import, which I had witnessedwith my own eyes, and described with unexceptionable minuteness andconsistency, is discredited by that strange and suspicious old man withan imbecile coolness. It was quite in vain my reiterating my statement, backing it with the most earnest asseverations. I was beating the air. Itdid not seem to reach his mind. It was all received with a simper of feebleincredulity. 

He patted and smoothed my head--he laughed gently, and shook his whileI insisted; and Madame protested her purity in now tranquil floodsof innocent tears, and murmured mild and melancholy prayers for myenlightenment and reformation. I felt as if I should lose my reason. 

'There now, dear Maud, we have heard enough; it is, I do believe, adelusion. Madame de la Rougierre will be your companion, at the utmost, forthree or four weeks. Do exercise a little of your self-command andgood sense--you know how I am tortured. Do not, I entreat, add to myperplexities. You may make yourself very happy with Madame if you will, Ihave no doubt. '

'I propose to Mademoiselle, ' said Madame, drying her eyes with a gentlealacrity, 'to profit of my visit for her education. But she does not seemto weesh wat I think is so useful. '

'She threatened me with some horrid French vulgarism--_de faire baiser lebabouin à moi_, whatever that means; and I know she hates me, ' I replied, impetuously. 

'Doucement--doucement!' said my uncle, with a smile at once amused andcompassionate. 'Doucement! ma chère. '

With great hands and cunning eyes uplifted, Madame tearfully--for her tearscame on short notice--again protested her absolute innocence. She had neverin all her life so much as heard one so villain phrase. 

'You see, my dear, you have misheard; young people never attend. You willdo well to take advantage of Madame's short residence to get up your Frencha little, and the more you are with her the better. '

'I understand then, Mr. Ruthyn, you weesh I should resume my instructions?'asked Madame. 

'Certainly; and converse all you can in French with Mademoiselle Maud. Youwill be glad, my dear, that I've insisted on it, ' he said, turning to me, 'when you have reached France, where you will find they speak nothing else. And now, dear Maud--no, not a word more--you must leave me. Farewell, Madame!'

And he waved us out a little impatiently; and I, without one look towardMadame de la Rougierre, stunned and incensed, walked into my room and shutthe door. 

CHAPTER LV

_THE FOOT OF HERCULES_

I stood at the window--still the same leaden sky and feathery sleet beforeme--trying to estimate the magnitude of the discovery I had just made. Gradually a kind of despair seized me, and I threw myself passionately onmy bed, weeping aloud. 

Good Mary Quince was, of course, beside me in a moment, with her pale, concerned face. 

'Oh, Mary, Mary, she's come--that dreadful woman, Madame de la Rougierre, has come to be my governess again; and Uncle Silas won't hear or believeanything about her. It is vain talking; he is prepossessed. Was ever sounfortunate a creature as I? Who could have fancied or feared such a thing?Oh, Mary, Mary, what am I to do? what is to become of me? Am I never toshake off that vindictive, terrible woman?'

Mary said all she could to console me. I was making too much of her. Whatwas she, after all, more than a governess?--she could not hurt me. I wasnot a child no longer--she could not bully me now; and my uncle, though hemight be deceived for a while, would not be long finding her out. 

Thus and soforth did good Mary Quince declaim, and at last she did impressme a little, and I began to think that I had, perhaps, been making too muchof Madame's visit. But still imagination, that instrument and mirrorof prophecy, showed her formidable image always on its surface, with aterrible moving background of shadows. 

In a few minutes there was a knock at my door, and Madame herself entered. She was in walking costume. There had been a brief clearing of the weather, and she proposed our making a promenade together. 

On seeing Mary Quince she broke into a rapture of compliment and greeting, and took what Mr. Richardson would have called her passive hand, andpressed it with wonderful tenderness. 

Honest Mary suffered all this somewhat reluctantly, never smiling, and, onthe contrary, looking rather ruefully at her feet. 

'Weel you make a some tea? When I come back, dear Mary Quince, I 'av somuch to tell you and dear Miss Maud of all my adventures while I 'av beenaway; it will make a you laugh ever so much. I was--what you theenk?--near, ever so near to be married!' And upon this she broke into a screechinglaugh, and shook Mary Quince merrily by the shoulder. 

I sullenly declined going out, or rising; and when she had gone away, Itold Mary that I should confine myself to my room while Madame stayed. 

But self-denying ordinances self-imposed are not always long observed byyouth. Madame de la Rougierre laid herself out to be agreeable; she had noend of stories--more than half, no doubt, pure fictions--to tell, but all, in that triste place, amusing. Mary Quince began to entertain a betteropinion of her. She actually helped to make beds, and tried to be inevery way of use, and seemed to have quite turned over a new leaf; and sogradually she moved me, first to listen, and at last to talk. 

On the whole, these terms were better than a perpetual skirmish; but, notwithstanding all her gossip and friendliness, I continued to have aprofound distrust and even terror of her. 

She seemed curious about the Bartram-Haugh family, and all their ways, andlistened darkly when I spoke. I told her, bit by bit, the whole story ofDudley, and she used, whenever there was news of the Seamew, to read theparagraph for my benefit; and in poor Milly's battered little Atlas sheused to trace the ship's course with a pencil, writing in, from point topoint, the date at which the vessel was 'spoken' at sea. She seemed amusedat the irrepressible satisfaction with which I received these minutes ofhis progress; and she used to calculate the distance;--on such a day he wastwo hundred and sixty miles, on such another five hundred; the last pointwas more than eight hundred--good, better, best--best of all would be those'deleecious antipode, w'ere he would so soon promener on his head twelvethousand mile away;' and at the conceit she would fall into screams oflaughter. 

Laugh as she might, however, there was substantial comfort in thinkingof the boundless stretch of blue wave that rolled between me and thatvillainous cousin. 

I was now on very odd terms with Madame. She had not relapsed into herfavourite vein of oracular sarcasm and menace; she had, on the contrary, affected her good-humoured and genial vein. But I was not to be deceivedby this. I carried in my heart that deep-seated fear of her which herunpleasant good-humour and gaiety never disturbed for a moment. I was veryglad, therefore, when she went to Todcaster by rail, to make some purchasesfor the journey which we were daily expecting to commence; and happy in theopportunity of a walk, good old Mary Quince and I set forth for a littleramble. 

As I wished to make some purchases in Feltram, I set out, with Mary Quincefor my companion. On reaching the great gate we found it locked. The key, however, was in it, and as it required more than the strength of my hand toturn, Mary tried it. At the same moment old Crowle came out of the sombrelodge by its side, swallowing down a mouthful of his dinner in haste. Noone, I believe, liked the long suspicious face of the old man, seldom shornor washed, and furrowed with great, grimy perpendicular wrinkles. Leeringfiercely at Mary, not pretending to see me, he wiped his mouth hurriedlywith the back of his hand, and growled--

'Drop it. '

'Open it, please, Mr. Crowle, ' said Mary, renouncing the task. 

Crowle wiped his mouth as before, looking inauspicious; shuffling to thespot, and muttering to himself, he first satisfied himself that the lockwas fast, and then lodged the key in his coat-pocket, and still muttering, retraced his steps. 

'We want the gate open, please, ' said Mary. 

No answer. 

'Miss Maud wants to go into the town, ' she insisted. 

'We wants many a thing we can't get, ' he growled, stepping into hishabitation. 

'Please open the gate, ' I said, advancing. 

He half turned on his threshold, and made a dumb show of touching his hat, although he had none on. 

'Can't, ma'am; without an order from master, no one goes out here. '

'You won't allow me and my maid to pass the gate?' I said. 

''Tisn't _me_, ma'am, ' said he; 'but I can't break orders, and no one goesout without the master allows. '

And without awaiting further parley, he entered, shutting his hatch behindhim. 

So Mary and I stood, looking very foolish at one another. This was thefirst restraint I had experienced since Milly and I had been refused apassage through the Windmill paling. The rule, however, on which Crowleinsisted I felt confident could not have been intended to apply to me. Aword to Uncle Silas would set all right; and in the meantime I proposed toMary that we should take a walk--my favourite ramble--into the WindmillWood. 

I looked toward Dickon's farmstead as we passed, thinking that Beauty mighthave been there. I did see the girl, who was plainly watching us. She stoodin the doorway of the cottage, withdrawn into the shade, and, I fancied, anxious to escape observation. When we had passed on a little, I wasconfirmed in that belief by seeing her run down the footpath which led fromthe rear of the farm-yard in the direction contrary to that in which wewere moving. 

'So, ' I thought, 'poor Meg falls from me!'

Mary Quince and I rambled on through the wood, till we reached the windmillitself, and seeing its low arched door open, we entered the chiaro-oscuroof its circular basement. As we did so I heard a rush and the creak of aplank, and looking up, I saw just a foot--no more--disappearing through thetrap-door. 

In the case of one we love or fear intensely, what feats of comparativeanatomy will not the mind unconsciously perform? Constructing the wholeliving animal from the turn of an elbow, the curl of a whisker, a segmentof a hand. How instantaneous and unerring is the instinct!

'Oh, Mary, what have I seen!' I whispered, recovering from the fascinationthat held my gaze fast to the topmost rounds of the ladder, thatdisappeared in the darkness above the open door in the loft. 'Come, Mary--come away. '

At the same instant appeared the swarthy, sullen face of Dickon Hawkes inthe shadow of the aperture. Having but one serviceable leg, his descentwas slow and awkward, and having got his head to the level of the loft hestopped to touch his hat to me, and to hasp and lock the trap-door. 

When this was done, the man again touched his hat, and looked steadily andsearchingly at me for a second or so, while he got the key into his pocket. 

'These fellahs stores their flour too long 'ere, ma'am. There's a deal o'trouble a-looking arter it. I'll talk wi' Silas, and settle that. '

By this time he had got upon the worn-tiled floor, and touching his hatagain, he said--

'I'm a-goin' to lock the door, ma'am!'

So with a start, and again whispering--

'Come, Mary--come away'--

With my arm fast in hers, we made a swift departure. 

'I feel very faint, Mary, ' said I. 'Come quickly. There's nobody followingus?'

'No, Miss, dear. That man with the wooden leg is putting a padlock on thedoor. '

'Come _very_ fast, ' I said; and when we had got a little farther, I said, 'Look again, and see whether anyone is following. '

'No one, Miss, ' answered Mary, plainly surprised. 'He's putting the key inhis pocket, and standin' there a-lookin' after us. '

'Oh, Mary, did not you see it?'

'What, Miss?' asked Mary, almost stopping. 

'Come on, Mary. Don't pause. They will observe us, ' I whispered, hurryingher forward. 

'What did you see, Miss?' repeated Mary. 

'_Mr. Dudley_, ' I whispered, with a terrified emphasis, not daring to turnmy head as I spoke. 

'Lawk, Miss!' remonstrated honest Quince, with a protracted intonationof wonder and incredulity, which plainly implied a suspicion that I wasdreaming. 

'Yes, Mary. When we went into that dreadful room--that dark, round place--Isaw his foot on the ladder. _His_ foot, Mary I can't be mistaken. _I won'tbe questioned_. You'll _find_ I'm right. He's _here_. He never went inthat ship at all. A fraud has been practised on me--it is infamous--itis terrible. I'm frightened out of my life. For heaven's sake, look backagain, and tell me what you see. '

'_Nothing_, Miss, ' answered Mary, in contagious whispers, 'but thatwooden-legged chap, standin' hard by the door. '

'And no one with him?'

'No one, Miss. '

We got without pursuit through the gate in the paling. I drew breath sosoon as we had reached the cover of the thicket near the chestnut hollow, and I began to reflect that whoever the owner of the foot might be--andI was still instinctively certain that it was no other thanDudley--concealment was plainly his object. I need not, then, be at alluneasy lest he should pursue us. 

As we walked slowly and in silence along the grassy footpath, I heard avoice calling my name from behind. Mary Quince had not heard it at all, butI was quite certain. 

It was repeated twice or thrice, and, looking in considerable doubt andtrepidation under the hanging boughs, I saw Beauty, not ten yards away, standing among the underwood. 

I remember how white the eyes and teeth of the swarthy girl looked, as withhand uplifted toward her ear, she watched us while, as it seemed, listeningfor more distant sounds. 

Beauty beckoned eagerly to me, advancing, with looks of great fear andanxiety, two or three short steps toward me. 

'_She_ baint to come, ' said Beauty, under her breath, so soon as I hadnearly reached her, pointing without raising her hand at Mary Quince. 

'Tell her to sit on the ash-tree stump down yonder, and call ye as loud asshe can if she sees any fellah a-comin' this way, an' rin ye back to me;'and she impatiently beckoned me away on her errand. 

When I returned, having made this dispositions, I perceived how pale thegirl was. 

'Are you ill, Meg?' I asked. 

'Never ye mind. Well enough. Listen, Miss; I must tell it all in a crack, an' if she calls, rin awa' to her, and le' me to myself, for if fayther ort'other un wor to kotch me here, I think they'd kill me a'most. Hish!'

She paused a second, looking askance, in the direction where she fanciedMary Quince was. Then she resumed in a whisper--

'Now, lass, mind ye, ye'll keep what I say to yourself. You're not to tellthat un nor any other for your life, mind, a word o' what I'm goin' to tellye. '

'I'll not say a word. Go on. '

'Did ye see Dudley?'

'I think I saw him getting up the ladder. '

'In the mill? Ha! that's him. He never went beyond Todcaster. He staid inFeltram after. '

It was my turn to look pale now. My worst conjecture was established. 

CHAPTER LVI

_I CONSPIRE_

'That's a bad un, he is--oh, Miss, Miss Maud! It's nout that's good askeeps him an' fayther--(mind, lass, ye promised you would not tell noone)--as keeps them two a-talkin' and a-smokin' secret-like together in themill. An' fayther don't know I found him out. They don't let me into thetown, but Brice tells me, and he knows it's Dudley; and it's nout that'sgood, but summat very bad. An' I reckon, Miss, it's all about you. Be yefrightened, Miss Maud?'

I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied. 

'Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven's sake. Does Uncle Silas know he ishere?'

'Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o'clock to nighone o' Tuesday night, an' went in and come out like thieves, 'feard ye'dsee 'em. '

'And how does Brice know anything bad?' I asked, with a strange freezingsensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again--I am suredeadly pale, but speaking very collectedly. 

'Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin' and lookin' awful black, and sayshe to fayther, "'Tisn't in my line nohow, an' I can't;" and says faytherto he, "No one likes they soart o' things, but how can ye help it? The oldboy's behind ye wi' his pitchfork, and ye canna stop. " An' wi' that hebethought him o' Brice, and says he, "What be ye a-doin' there? Get ye downwi' the nags to blacksmith, do ye. " An' oop gits Dudley, pullin' his hatower his brows, an' says he, "I wish I was in the _Seamew_. I'm good fornout wi' this thing a-hangin' ower me. " An' that's all as Brice heard. An'he's afeard o' fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could lick him to pot ifhe crossed him, and he and fayther 'ud think nout o' havin' him afore thejustices for poachin', and swearin' him into gaol. '

'But why does he think it's about _me_?'

'Hish!' said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. 'Ican't say--we're in danger, lass. I don't know why--but _he_ does, an' sodo I, an', for that matter, so do _ye_. '

'Meg, I'll leave Bartram. '

'Ye can't. '

'Can't. What do you mean, girl?'

'They won't let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They've dogs--they'vebloodhounds, Brice says. Ye _can't_ git oot, mind; put that oot o' yourhead. 

'I tell ye what ye'll do. Write a bit o' a note to the lady yonder atElverston; an' though Brice be a wild fellah, and 'appen not ower goodsometimes, he likes me, an' I'll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin'at mill to-morrow. Coom ye here about one o'clock--that's if ye see themill-sails a-turnin'--and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that oldlass wi' ye. There's an old French un, though, that talks wi' Dudley. Mindye, that un knows nout o' the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe'erhe be wi' others, and I think he won't split. Now, lass, I must go. Godhelp ye; God bless ye; an', for the world's wealth, don't ye let one o'them see ye've got ought in your head, not even that un. '

Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me, with a wildgesture of silence, and a shake of her head. 

I can't at all account for the state in which I was. There are resourcesboth of energy and endurance in human nature which we never suspect untilthe tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified with atotally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness ofthe transformation, I stood, spoke, and acted--a wonder, almost a terror, to myself. 

I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I heard her uglygabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour's shopping, as I might hear, and see, and talk, and smile, in a dream. 

But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were alone, I lockedthe door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sortof imploring despair. I was afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The leastindiscretion would be failure, and failure destruction. 

I answered her perplexed solicitudes by telling her that I was not verywell--that I was uneasy; but I did not fail to extract from her a promisethat she would not hint to mortal, either my suspicions about Dudley, orour rencontre with Meg Hawkes. 

I remember how, when, after we had got, late at night, into bed, I sat up, shivering with horror, in mine, while honest Mary's tranquil breathing toldhow soundly she slept. I got up, and looked from the window, expecting tosee some of those wolfish dogs which they had brought to the place prowlingabout the court-yard. Sometimes I prayed, and felt tranquillised, andfancied that I was perhaps to have a short interval of sleep. But theserenity was delusive, and all the time my nerves were strung hysterically. Sometimes I felt quite wild, and on the point of screaming. At length thatdreadful night passed away. Morning came, and a less morbid, though hardlya less terrible state of mind. Madame paid me an early visit. A thoughtstruck me. I knew that she loved shopping, and I said, quite carelessly--

'Your yesterday's shopping tempts me, Madame, and I must get a few thingsbefore we leave for France. Suppose we go into Feltram to-day, and make mypurchases, you and I?'

She looked from the corner of her cunning eye in my face without answering. I did not blench, and she said--

'Vary good. I would be vary 'appy, ' and again she looked oddly at me. 

'Wat hour, my dear Maud? One o'clock? I think that weel de very well, eh?'

I assented, and she grew silent. 

I wonder whether I did look as careless as I tried. I do not know. Throughthe whole of this awful period I was, I think, supernatural; and I even nowlook back with wonder upon my strange self-command. 

Madame, I hoped, had heard nothing of the order which prohibited my exitfrom the place. She would herself conduct me to Feltram, and secure, byaccompanying me, my free egress. 

Once in Feltram, I would assert my freedom, and manage to reach my dearcousin Knollys. Back to Bartram no power should convey me. My heart swelledand fluttered in the awful suspense of that hour. 

Oh, Bartram-Haugh! how came you by those lofty walls? Which of my ancestorshad begirt me with an impassable barrier in this horrible strait?

Suddenly I remembered my letter to Lady Knollys. If I were disappointed ineffecting my escape through Feltram, all would depend upon it. 

Having locked my door, I wrote as follows:--

'Oh, my beloved cousin, as you hope for comfort in _your_ hour of fear, aidme now. Dudley has returned, and is secreted somewhere about the grounds. It is a _fraud_. They all pretend to me that he is gone away in the_Seamew_; and he or they had his name published as one of the passengers. Madame de la Rougierre has appeared! She is here, and my uncle insists onmaking her my close companion. I am at my wits' ends. I cannot escape--thewalls are a prison; and I believe the eyes of my gaolers are always uponme. Dogs are kept for pursuit--yes, _dogs_! and the gates are lockedagainst my escape. God help me! I don't know where to look, or whom totrust. I fear my uncle more than all. I think I could bear this better if Iknew what their plans are, even the worst. If ever you loved or pitied me, dear cousin, I conjure you, help me in this extremity. Take me away fromthis. Oh, darling, for God's sake take me away!

'Your distracted and terrified cousin, MAUD'

'Bartram-Haugh. '

I sealed this letter jealously, as if the inanimate missive would burst itscerements, and proclaim my desperate appeal through all the chambers andpassages of silent Bartram. 

Old Quince, greatly to cousin Monica's amusement, persisted in furnishingme with those capacious pockets which belonged to a former generation. Iwas glad of this old-world eccentricity now, and placed my guilty letter, that, amidst all my hypocrisies, spoke out with terrible frankness, deepin this receptacle, and having hid away the pen and ink, my accomplices, Iopened the door, and resumed my careless looks, awaiting Madame's return. 

'I was to demand to Mr. Ruthyn the permission to go to Feltram, and I thinkhe will allow. He want to speak to you. '

With Madame I entered my uncle's room. He was reclining on a sofa, his backtowards us, and his long white hair, as fine as spun glass, hung over theback of the couch. 

'I was going to ask you, dear Maud, to execute two or three littlecommissions for me in Feltram. '

My dreadful letter felt lighter in my pocket, and my heart beat violently. 

'But I have just recollected that this is a market-day, and Feltram willbe full of doubtful characters and tipsy persons, so we must wait tillto-morrow; and Madame says, very kindly, that she will, as she does notso much mind, make any little purchases to-day which cannot convenientlywait. '

Madame assented with a courtesy to Uncle Silas, and a great hollow smile tome. 

By this time Uncle Silas had raised himself from his reclining posture, andwas sitting, gaunt and white, upon the sofa. 

'News of my prodigal to-day, ' he said, with a peevish smile, drawing thenewspaper towards him. 'The vessel has been spoken again. How many milesaway, do you suppose?'

He spoke in a plaintive key, looking at me, with hungry eyes, and ahorribly smiling countenance. 

'How far do you suppose Dudley is to-day?' and he laid the palm of his handon the paragraph as he spoke. _Guess_!'

For a moment I fancied this was a theatric preparation to give point to thedisclosure of Dudley's real whereabouts. 

'It was a very long way. Guess!' he repeated. 

So, stammering a little and pale, I performed the required hypocrisy, afterwhich my uncle read aloud for my benefit the line or two in which wererecorded the event, and the latitude and longitude of the vessel at thetime, of which Madame made a note in her memory, for the purpose of makingher usual tracing in poor Milly's Atlas. 

I cannot say how it really was, but I fancied that Uncle Silas was allthe time reading my countenance, with a grim and practised scrutiny; butnothing came of it, and we were dismissed. 

Madame loved shopping, even for its own sake, but shopping withopportunities of peculation still more. She she had had her luncheon, and was dressed for the excursion, she did precisely what I now mostdesired--she proposed to take charge of my commissions and my money; andthus entrusted, left me at liberty to keep tryst at the Chestnut Hollow. 

So soon as I had seen Madame fairly off, I hurried Mary Quince, and got mythings on quickly. We left the house by the side entrance, which I knew myuncle's windows did not command. Glad was I to feel a slight breeze, enoughto make the mill-sails revolve; and as we got further into the grounds, and obtained a distant view of the picturesque old windmill, I feltinexpressibly relieved on seeing that it was actually working. 

We were now in the Chestnut Hollow, and I sent Mary Quince to her old pointof observation, which commanded a view of the path in the direction of theWindmill Wood, with her former order to call 'I've found it, ' as loudly asshe could, in case she should see anyone approaching. 

I stopped at the point of our yesterday's meeting. I peered under thebranches, and my heart beat fast as I saw Meg Hawkes awaiting me. 

CHAPTER LVII

_THE LETTER_

'Come away, lass, ' whispered Beauty, very pale; 'he's here--Tom Brice. '

And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underwood, and we reachedTom. The slender youth, groom or poacher--he might answer for either--withhis short coat and gaitered legs, was sitting on a low horizontal bough, with his shoulder against the trunk. 

'_Don't_ ye mind; sit ye still, lad, ' said Meg, observing that he waspreparing to rise, and had entangled his hat in the boughs. 'Sit ye still, and hark to the lady. He'll take it, Miss Maud, if he can; wi' na ye, lad?'

'E'es, I'll take it, ' he replied, holding out his hand. 

'Tom Brice, you won't deceive me?'

'Noa, sure, ' said Tom and Meg nearly in the same breath. 

'You are an honest English lad, Tom--you would not betray me?' I wasspeaking imploringly. 

'Noa, sure, ' repeated Tom. 

There was something a little unsatisfactory in the countenance of thislight-haired youth, with the sharpish up-turned nose. Throughout ourinterview he said next to nothing, and smiled lazily to himself, like a manlistening to a child's solemn nonsense, and leading it on, with an amusedirony, from one wise sally to another. 

Thus it seemed to me that this young clown, without in the least intendingto be offensive, was listening to me with a profound and lazy mockery. 

I could not choose, however; and, such as he was, I must employ him ornone. 

'Now, Tom Brice, a great deal depends on this. '

'That's true for her, Tom Brice, ' said Meg, who now and then confirmed myasseverations. 

'I'll give you a pound _now_, Tom, ' and I placed the coin and the lettertogether in his hand. 'And you are to give this letter to Lady Knollys, atElverston; you know Elverston, don't you?'

'He does, Miss. Don't ye, lad?'

'E'es. '

'Well, do so, Tom, and I'll be good to you so long as I live. '

'D'ye hear, lad?'

'E'es, ' said Tom; 'it's very good. '

'You'll take the letter, Tom? 'I said, in much greater trepidation as tohis answer than I showed. 

'E'es, I'll take the letter, ' said he, rising, and turning it about in hisfingers under his eye, like a curiosity. 

'Tom Brice, ' I said, 'If you can't be true to me, say so; but don't takethe letter except to give it to Lady Knollys, at Elverston. If you won'tpromise that, let me have the note back. Keep the pound; but tell me thatyou won't mention my having asked you to carry a letter to Elverston toanyone. '

For the first time Tom looked perfectly serious. He twiddled the corner ofmy letter between his finger and thumb, and wore very much the countenanceof a poacher about to be committed. 

'I don't want to chouce ye, Miss; but I must take care o' myself, ye see. The letters goes all through Silas's fingers to the post, and he'd knowdamn well this worn't among 'em. They do say he opens 'em, and reads 'embefore they go; an' that's his diversion. I don't know; but I do believethat's how it be; an' if this one turned up, they'd all know it went behand, and I'd be spotted for't. '

'But you know who I am, Tom, and I'd save you, ' said I, eagerly. 

'Ye'd want savin' yerself, I'm thinkin', if that feel oot, ' said Tom, cynically. 'I don't say, though, I'll not take it--only this--I won't runmy head again a wall for no one. '

'Tom, ' I said, with a sudden inspiration, 'give me back the letter, and take me out of Bartram; take me to Elverston; it will be the bestthing--for _you_, Tom, I mean--it will indeed--that ever befell you. '

With this clown I was pleading, as for my life; my hand was on his sleeve. I was gazing imploringly in his face. 

But it would not do; Tom Brice looked amused again, swung his head a littleon one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the roots of thetrees beside him, as if he were striving to keep himself from an uncivilfit of laughter. 

'I'll do what a wise lad may, Miss; but ye don't know they lads; theybain't that easy come over; and I won't get knocked on the head, nor sentto gaol 'appen, for no good to thee nor me. There's Meg there, she knowswell enough I could na' manage that; so I won't try it, Miss, by no chance;no offence, Miss; but I'd rayther not, an' I'll just try what I can makeo'this; that's all I can do for ye. '

Tom Brice, with these words, stood up, and looked uneasily in the directionof the Windmill Wood. 

'Mind ye, Miss, coom what will, ye'll not tell o' me?'

'Whar 'ill ye go now, Tom?' inquired Meg, uneasily. 

'Never ye mind, lass, ' answered he, breaking his way through the thicket, and soon disappearing. 

'E'es that 'ill be it--he'll git into the sheepwalk behind the mound. They're all down yonder; git ye back, Miss, to the hoose--be the side-door;mind ye, don't go round the corner; and I'll jest sit awhile among thebushes, and wait a good time for a start. And good-bye, Miss; and don't yeshow like as if there was aught out o' common on your mind. Hish!'

There was a distant hallooing. 

'That be fayther!' she whispered, with a very blank countenance, andlistened with her sunburnt hand to her ear. 

'Tisn't me, only Davy he'll be callin', ' she said, with a great sigh, and ajoyless smile. 'Now git ye away i' God's name. '

So running lightly along the path, under cover of this thick wood, Irecalled Mary Quince, and together we hastened back again to the house, andentered, as directed, by the side-door, which did not expose us to beseen from the Windmill Wood, and, like two criminals, we stole up by thebackstairs, and so through the side-gallery to my room; and there sat downto collect my wits, and try to estimate the exact effect of what had justoccurred. 

Madame had not returned. That was well; she always visited my room first, and everything was precisely as I had left it--a certain sign that herprying eyes and busy fingers had not been at work during my absence. 

When she did appear, strange to say, it was to bring me unexpected comfort. She had in her hand a letter from my dear Lady Knollys--a gleam of sunlightfrom the free and happy outer world entered with it. The moment Madame leftme to myself, I opened it and read as follows:--

'I am so happy, my dearest Maud, in the immediate prospect of seeing you. Ihave had a really kind letter from poor Silas--_poor_ I say, for I reallycompassionate his situation, about which he has been, I do believe, quitefrank--at least Ilbury says so, and somehow he happens to know. I have hadquite an affecting, changed letter. I will tell you all when I see you. He wants me ultimately to undertake that which would afford me the mostunmixed happiness--I mean the care of you, my dear girl. I only fear lestmy too eager acceptance of the trust should excite that vein of oppositionwhich is in most human beings, and induce him to think over his offer lessfavourably again. He says I must come to Bartram, and stay a night, andpromises to lodge me comfortably; about which last I honestly do not care apin, when the chance of a comfortable evening's gossip with you is in view. Silas explains his sad situation, and must hold himself in readiness forearly flight, if he would avoid the risk of losing his personal liberty. Itis a sad thing that he should have so irretrievably ruined himself, that poor Austin's liberality seems to have positively precipitated hisextremity. His great anxiety is that I should see you before you leave foryour short stay in France. He thinks you must leave before a fortnight. Iam thinking of asking you to come over here; I know you would be just aswell at Elverston as in France; but perhaps, as he seems disposed to dowhat we all wish, it may be safer to let him set about it in his own way. The truth is, I have so set my heart upon it that I fear to risk it bycrossing him even in a trifle. He says I must fix an early day next week, and talks as if he meant to urge me to make a longer visit than he defined. I shall be only too happy. I begin, my dear Maud, to think that there is nouse in trying to control events, and that things often turn out best, andmost exactly to our wishes, by being left quite to themselves. I thinkit was Talleyrand who praised the talent of _waiting_ so much. In highspirits, and with my head brimful of plans, I remain, dearest Maud, everyour affectionate cousin, MONICA. '

Here was an inexplicable puzzle! A faint radiance of hope, however, beganto overspread a landscape only a few minutes before darkened by totaleclipse; but construct what theory I might, all were inconsistent with manywell-established and awful incongruities, and their wrecks lay strown overthe troubled waters of the gulf into which I gazed. 

Why was Madame here? Why was Dudley concealed about the place? Why was I aprisoner within the walls? What were those dangers which Meg Hawkes seemedto think so great and so imminent as to induce her to risk her lover'ssafety for my deliverance? All these menacing facts stood grouped togetheragainst the dark certainty that never were men more deeply interested inmaking away with one human being, than were Uncle Silas and Dudley inremoving me. 

Sometimes to these dreadful evidences I abandoned my soul. Sometimes, reading Cousin Monica's sunny letter, the sky would clear, and my terrorsmelt away like nightmares in the morning. I never repented, however, thatI had sent my letter by Tom Brice. Escape from Bartram-Haugh was my hourlylonging. 

That evening Madame invited herself to tea with me. I did not object. It was better just then to be on friendly relations with everybody, ifpossible, even on their own terms. She was in one of her boisterous andhilarious moods, and there was a perfume of brandy. 

She narrated some compliments paid her that morning in Feltram by that'good crayature' Mrs. Litheways, the silk-mercer, and what ''ansom faylow'was her new foreman--(she intended plainly that I should 'queez' her)--andhow 'he follow' her with his eyes wherever she went. I thought, perhaps, hefancied she might pocket some of his lace or gloves. And all the time hergreat wicked eyes were rolling and glancing according to her ideas offascination, and her bony face grinning and flaming with the 'strong drink'in which she delighted. She sang twaddling chansons, and being, as was herwont under such exhilarating influences, in a vapouring mood, she vowedthat I should have my carriage and horses immediately. 

'I weel try what I can do weeth your Uncle Silas. We are very goodold friends, Mr. Ruthyn and I, ' she said with a leer which I did notunderstand, and which yet frightened me. 

I never could quite understand why these Jezebels like to insinuate thedreadful truth against themselves; but they do. Is it the spirit offeminine triumph overcoming feminine shame, and making them vaunt theirfall as an evidence of bygone fascination and existing power? Need wewonder? Have not women preferred hatred to indifference, and the reputationof witchcraft, with all its penalties, to absolute insignificance? Thus, asthey enjoyed the fear inspired among simple neighbours by their imaginedtraffic with the father of ill, did Madame, I think, relish with a cynicalvainglory the suspicion of her satanic superiority. 

Next morning Uncle Silas sent for me. He was seated at his table, and spokehis little French greeting, smiling as usual, pointing to a chair opposite. 

'How far, I forget, ' he said, carelessly laying his newspaper on the table, 'did you yesterday guess Dudley to be?'

'Eleven hundred miles I thought it was. '

'Oh yes, so it was;' and then there was an abstracted pause. 'I have beenwriting to Lord Ilbury, your trustee, ' he resumed. I ventured to say, mydear Maud--(for having thoughts of a different arrangement for you, moresuitable under my distressing circumstances, I do not wish to vacatewithout some expression of your estimate of my treatment of you whileunder my roof)--I ventured to say that you thought me kind, considerate, indulgent, --may I say so?'

I assented. What could I say?

'I said you had enjoyed our poor way of living here--our rough ways andliberty. Was I right?'

Again I assented. 

'And, in fact, that you had nothing to object against your poor old uncle, except indeed his poverty, which you forgave. I think I said truth. Did I, dear Maud?'

Again I acquiesced. 

All this time he was fumbling among the papers in his coatpocket. 

'That is satisfactory. So I expected you to say, ' he murmured. 'I expectedno less. '

On a sudden a frightful change spread across his face. He rose like aspectre with a white scowl. 

'Then how do you account for that?' he shrieked in a voice of thunder, andsmiting my open letter to Lady Knollys, face upward, upon the table. 

I stared at my uncle, unable to speak, until I seemed to lose sight of him;but his voice, like a bell, still yelled in my ears. 

'There! young hypocrite and liar! explain that farrago of slander which youbribed my servant to place in the hands of my kinswoman, Lady Knollys. '

And so on and on it went, I gazing into darkness, until the voice itselfbecame indistinct, grew into a buzz, and hummed away into silence. 

I think I must have had a fit. 

When I came to myself I was drenched with water, my hair, face, neck, anddress. I did not in the least know where I was. I thought my father wasill, and spoke to him. Uncle Silas was standing near the window, lookingunspeakably grim. Madame was seated beside me, and an open bottle of ether, one of Uncle Silas's restoratives, on the table before me. 

'Who's that--who's ill--is anyone dead?' I cried. 

At last I was relieved by long paroxysms of weeping. When I wassufficiently recovered, I was conveyed into my own room. 

CHAPTER LVIII

_LADY KNOLLYS' CARRIAGE_

Next morning--it was Sunday--I lay on my bed in my dressing-gown, dull, apathetic, with all my limbs sore, and, as I thought, rheumatic, and feeling so ill that I did not care to speak or lift my head. Myrecollection of what had passed in Uncle Silas's room was utterly confused, and it seemed to me as if my poor father had been there and taken ashare--I could not remember how--in the conference. 

I was too exhausted and stupid to clear up this horrible muddle, and merelylay with my face toward the wall, motionless and silent, except for a greatsigh every now and then. 

Good Mary Quince was in the room--there was some comfort in that; but Ifelt quite worn out, and had rather she did not speak to me; and indeed forthe time I felt absolutely indifferent as to whether I lived or died. 

Cousin Monica this morning, at pleasant Elverston, all-unconscious of mysad plight, proposed to Lady Mary Carysbroke and Lord Ilbury, herguests, to drive over to church at Feltram, and then pay us a visit atBartram-Haugh, to which they readily agreed. 

Accordingly, at about two o'clock, this pleasant party of three arrived atBartram. They walked, having left the carriage to follow when the horseswere fed; and Madame de la Rougierre, who was in my uncle's room whenlittle Giblets arrived to say that the party were in the parlour, whisperedfor a little with my uncle, who then said--

'Miss Maud Ruthyn has gone out to drive, but I shall be happy to see LadyKnollys here, if she will do me the favour to come upstairs and see me fora few moments; and you can mention that I am very far from well. '

Madame followed him out upon the lobby, and added, holding him by thecollar, and whispering earnestly in his ear--

'Bring hair ladysheep up by the backstairs--mind, the _back_stairs. '

And the next moment Madame entered my room, with long tiptoe steps, andlooking, Mary Quince said, as if she were going to be hanged. 

On entering she looked sharply round, and being satisfied of Mary Quince'spresence, she turned the key in the door, and made some affectionateenquiries about me in a whisper; and then she stole to the window andpeeped out, standing back some way; after which she came to my bedside, murmured some tender sentences, drew the curtain a little, and making somelittle fidgety adjustments about the room; among the rest she took the keyfrom the lock, quietly, and put it into her pocket. 

This was so odd a procedure that honest Mary Quince rose stoutly from herchair, pointing to the lock, with her frank little blue eyes fixed onMadame, and she whispered--'Won't you put the key in the lock, please?'

'Oh, certainly, Mary Queence; but it is better it shall be locked, for Ithink her uncle he is coming to see her, and I am sure she would be verymuch frightened, for he is very much displease, don't you see? and we cantell him she is not well enough, or asleep, and so he weel go away again, without any trouble. '

I heard nothing of this, which was conducted in close whispers; and Mary, although she did not give Madame credit for caring whether I was frightenedor not, and suspected her motives in everything, acquiesced grudgingly, fearing lest her alleged reason might possibly be the true one. 

So Madame hovered about the door, uneasily; and of what went on elsewhereduring that period Lady Knollys afterwards gave me the following account:--

'We were very much disappointed; but of course I was glad to see Silas, andyour little hobgoblin butler led me upstairs to his room a different way, Ithink, from that I came before; but I don't know the house of Bartram wellenough to speak positively. I only know that I was conducted quite acrosshis bedroom, which I had not seen on my former visit, and so into hissitting-room, where I found him. 

'He seemed very glad to see me, came forward smiling--I disliked his smilealways--with both hands out, and shook mine with more warmth than I everremembered in his greeting before, and said--

'"My dear, _dear_ Monica, how _very_ good of you--the very person I longedto see! I have been miserably ill, the sad consequence of still moremiserable anxiety. Sit down, pray, for a moment. "

'And he paid me some nice little French compliment in verse. 

'"And where is Maud?" said I. 

'"I think Maud is by this time about halfway to Elverston, " said the oldgentleman. "I persuaded her to take a drive, and advised a call there, which seemed to please her, so I conjecture she obeyed. "

'"How _very_ provoking!" cried I. 

'"My poor Maud will be sadly disappointed, but you will console her by avisit--you have promised to come, and I shall try to make you comfortable. I shall be happier, Monica, with this proof of our perfect reconciliation. You won't deny me?"

'"Certainly not. I am only too glad to come, " said I; "and I want to thankyou, Silas. "

'"For what?" said he. 

'"For wishing to place Maud in my care. I am very much obliged to you. "

'"I did not suggest it, I must say, Monica, with the least intention ofobliging _you_, " said Silas. 

'I thought he was going to break into one of his ungracious moods. 

'"But I _am_ obliged to you--very much obliged to you, Silas; and yousha'n't refuse my thanks. "

'"I am happy, at all events, Monica, in having won your good-will; we learnat last that in the affections only are our capacities for happiness; andhow true is St. Paul's preference of love--the principle that abideth! Theaffections, dear Monica, are eternal; and being so, celestial, divine, andconsequently happy, deriving happiness, and bestowing it. "

'I was always impatient of his or anybody else's metaphysics; but Icontrolled myself, and only said, with my customary impudence--

'"Well, dear Silas, and when do you wish me to come?"

'"The earlier the better, " said he. 

'"Lady Mary and Ilbury will be leaving me on Tuesday morning. I can come toyou in the afternoon, if you think Tuesday a good day. "

'"Thank you, dear Monica. I shall be, I trust, enlightened by that day asto my enemies' plans. It is a humiliating confession, Monica, but I am pastfeeling that. It is quite possible that an execution may be sent intothis house to-morrow, and an end of all my schemes. It is not likely, however--hardly possible--before three weeks, my attorney tells me. I shallhear from him to-morrow morning, and then I shall ask you to name a veryearly day. If we are to have an unmolested fortnight certain, you shallhear, and name your own day. "

'Then he asked me who had accompanied me, and lamented ever so much his notbeing able to go down to receive them; and he offered luncheon, with a sortof Ravenswood smile, and a shrug, and I declined, telling him that we hadbut a few minutes, and that my companions were walking in the grounds nearthe house. 

'I asked whether Maud was likely to return soon?

'"Certainly not before five o'clock. " He thought we should probably meether on our way back to Elverston; but could not be certain, as she mighthave changed her plans. 

'So then came--no more remaining to be said--a very affectionate parting. Ibelieve all about his legal dangers was strictly true. How he could, unlessthat horrid woman had deceived him, with so serene a countenance tell meall those gross untruths about Maud, I can only admire. '

In the meantime, as I lay in my bed, Madame, gliding hither and thither, whispering sometimes, listening at others, I suddenly startled them both bysaying--

'Whose carriage?'

'What carriage, dear?' inquired Quince, whose ears were not so sharp asmine. 

Madame peeped from the window. 

''Tis the physician, Doctor Jolks. He is come to see your uncle, my dear, 'said Madame. 

'But I hear a female voice, ' I said, sitting up. 

'No, my dear; there is only the doctor, ' said Madame. 'He is come to youruncle. I tell you he is getting out of his carriage, ' and she affected towatch the doctor's descent. 

'The carriage is driving away!' I cried. 

'Yes, it is draiving away, ' she echoed. 

But I had sprung from my bed, and was looking over her shoulder, before sheperceived me. 

'It is Lady Knollys!' I screamed, seizing the window-frame to force it up, and, vainly struggling to open it, I cried--

'I'm here, Cousin Monica. For God's sake, Cousin Monica--Cousin Monica!'

'You are mad, Meess--go back, ' screamed Madame, exerting her superiorstrength to force me back. 

But I saw deliverance and escape gliding away from my reach, and, strungto unnatural force by desperation, I pushed past her, and beat the windowwildly with my hands, screaming--

'Save me--save me! Here, here, Monica, here! Cousin, cousin, oh! save me!'

Madame had seized my wrists, and a wild struggle was going on. Awindow-pane was broken, and I was shrieking to stop the carriage. TheFrenchwoman looked black and haggard as a fury, as if she could havemurdered me. 

Nothing daunted--frantic--I screamed in my despair, seeing the carriagedrive swiftly away--seeing Cousin Monica's bonnet, as she sat chatting withher _vis-à-vis_. 

'Oh, oh, oh!' I shrieked, in vain and prolonged agony, as Madame, exertingher strength and matching her fury against my despair, forced me back inspite of my wild struggles, and pushed me sitting on the bed, where sheheld me fast, glaring in my face, and chuckling and panting over me. 

I think I felt something of the despair of a lost spirit. 

I remember the face of poor Mary Quince--its horror, its wonder--as shestood gaping into my face, over Madame's shoulder, and crying--

'What is it, Miss Maud? What is it, dear?' And turning fiercely on Madame, and striving to force her grasp from my wrists, 'Are you hurting the child?Let her go--let her go. '

'I _weel_ let her go. Wat old fool are you, Mary Queence! She is mad, Ithink. She 'as lost hair head. '

'Oh, Mary, cry from the window. Stop the carriage!' I cried. 

Mary looked out, but there was by this time, of course, nothing in sight. 

'Why don't a you stop the carriage?' sneered Madame. 'Call a the coachmanand the postilion. W'ere is the footman? Bah! _elle a le cerveau maltimbré_. '

'Oh, Mary, Mary, is it gone--is it gone? Is there nothing there?' cried I, rushing to the window; and turning to Madame, after a vain straining of myeyes, my face against the glass--

'Oh, cruel, cruel, wicked woman! why have you done this? What was it toyou? Why do you persecute me? What good _can_ you gain by my ruin?'

'Rueen! Par bleu! ma chère, you talk too fast. Did not a you see it, MaryQueence? It was the doctor's carriage, and Mrs. Jolks, and that eempudentfaylow, young Jolks, staring up to the window, and Mademoiselle she come insoche shocking déshabille to show herself knocking at the window. 'Twouldbe very nice thing, Mary Queence, don't you think?'

I was sitting now on the bedside, crying in mere despair. I did not care todispute or to resist. Oh! why had rescue come so near, only to prove thatit could not reach me? So I went on crying, with a clasping of my hands andturning up of my eyes, in incoherent prayer. I was not thinking of Madame, or of Mary Quince, or any other person, only babbling my anguish anddespair helplessly in the ear of heaven. 

'I did not think there was soche fool. Wat _enfant gaté_! My dear cheaile, wat a can you _mean_ by soche strange language and conduct? Wat for shoulda you weesh to display yourself in the window in soche 'orrible déshabilleto the people in the doctor's coach?'

'It was _Cousin Knollys_--Cousin Knollys. Oh, Cousin Knollys! You'regone--you're gone--you're _gone_!'

'And if it was Lady Knollys' coach, there was certainly a coachman and afootman; and whoever has the coach there was young gentlemen in it. If itwas Lady Knollys' carriage it would 'av been _worse_ than the doctor. '

'It is no matter--it is all over. Oh, Cousin Monica, your poor Maud--whereis she to turn? Is there no help?'

That evening Madame visited me again, in one of her sedate and moral moods. She found me dejected and passive, as she had left me. 

'I think, Maud, there is news; but I am not certain. '

I raised my head and looked at her wistfully. 

'I think there is letter of _bad_ news from the attorney in London. '

'Oh!' I said, in a tone which I am sure implied the absolute indifferenceof dejection. 

'But, my dear Maud, if't be so, we shall go at once, you and me, to joinMeess Millicent in France. La belle France! You weel like so moche! Weshall be so gay. You cannot imagine there are such naice girl there. Theyall love a me so moche, you will be delight. '

'How soon do we go?' I asked. 

'I do not know. Bote I was to bring in a case of eau de cologne that camethis evening, and he laid down a letter and say:--"The blow has descended, Madame! My niece must hold herself in readiness. " I said, "For what, Monsieur?" _twice_; bote he did not answer. I am sure it is _un procès_. They 'av ruin him. Eh bien, my dear. I suppose we shall leave this tristeplace immediately. I am so rejoice. It appears to me _un cimetière_!'

'Yes, I should like to leave it, ' I said, sitting up, with a great sigh andsunken eyes. It seemed to me that I had quite lost all sense of resentmenttowards Madame. A debility of feeling had supervened--the fatigue, Isuppose, and prostration of the passions. 

'I weel make excuse to go into his room again, ' said Madame; 'and I weelendeavor to learn something more from him, and I weel come back again toyou in half an hour. '

She departed. But in half an hour did not return. I had a dull longing toleave Bartram-Haugh. For me, since the departure of poor Milly, it hadgrown like the haunt of evil spirits, and to escape on any terms from itwas a blessing unspeakable. 

Another half-hour passed, and another, and I grew insufferably feverish. I sent Mary Quince to the lobby to try and see Madame, who, I feared, wasprobably to-ing and fro-ing in and out of Uncle Silas's room. 

Mary returned to tell me that she had seen old Wyat, who told her that shethought Madame had gone to her bed half an hour before. 

CHAPTER LIX

_A SUDDEN DEPARTURE_

'Mary, ' said I, 'I am miserably anxious to hear what Madame may have totell; she knows the state I am in, and she would not like so much troubleas to look in at my door to say a word. Did you hear what she told me?'

'No, Miss Maud, ' she answered, rising and drawing near. 

'She thinks we are going to France immediately, and to leave this placeperhaps for ever. '

'Heaven be praised for that, if it be so, Miss!' said Mary, with moreenergy than was common with her, 'for there is no luck about it, and Idon't expect to see you ever well or happy in it. '

'You must take your candle, Mary, and make out her room, upstairs; I foundit accidentally myself one evening. '

'But Wyat won't let us upstairs. '

'Don't mind her, Mary; I tell you to go. You must try. I can't sleep tillwe hear. '

'What direction is her room in, Miss?' asked Mary. 

'Somewhere in _that_ direction, Mary, ' I answered, pointing. 'I cannotdescribe the turns; but I think you will find it if you go along the greatpassage to your left, on getting to the top of the stairs, till you come tothe cross-galleries, and then turn to your left; and when you have passedfour or perhaps five doors, you must be very near it, and I am sure shewill hear if you call. '

'But will she tell me--she _is_ such a rum un, Miss?' suggested Mary. 

'Tell her exactly what I have said to you, and when she learns that youalready know as much as I do, she may--unless, indeed, she wishes totorture me. If she won't, perhaps at least you can persuade her to come tome for a moment. Try, dear Mary; we can but fail. '

'Will you be very lonely, Miss, while I am away?' asked Mary, uneasily, asshe lighted her candle. 

'I can't help it, Mary. Go. I think if I heard we were going, I couldalmost get up and dance and sing. I can't bear this dreadful uncertaintyany longer. '

'If old Wyat is outside, I'll come back and wait here a bit, till she's outo' the way, ' said Mary; 'and, anyhow, I'll make all the haste I can. Thedrops and the sal-volatile is here, Miss, by your hand. '

And with an anxious look at me, she made her exit, softly, and did notimmediately return, by which I concluded that she had found the way clear, and had gained the upper story without interruption. 

This little anxiety ended, its subsidence was followed by a sense ofloneliness, and with it, of vague insecurity, which increased at last tosuch a pitch, that I wondered at my own madness in sending my companionaway; and at last my terrors so grew, that I drew back into the farthestcorner of the bed, with my shoulders to the wall, and my bed-clotheshuddled about me, with only a point open to peep at. 

At last the door opened gently. 

'Who's there?' I cried, in extremity of horror, expecting I knew not whom. 

'Me, Miss, ' whispered Mary Quince, to my unutterable relief; and with hercandle flared, and a wild and pallid face, Mary Quince glided into theroom, locking the door as she entered. 

I do not know how it was, but I found myself holding Mary fast with both myhands as we stood side by side on the floor. 

'Mary, you are terrified; for God's sake, what is the matter?' I cried. 

'No, Miss, ' said Mary, faintly, 'not much. '

'I see it in your face. What is it?'

'Let me sit down, Miss. I'll tell you what I saw; only I'm just a bitqueerish. '

Mary sat down by my bed. 

'Get in, Miss; you'll take cold. Get into bed, and I'll tell you. It is notmuch. '

I did get into bed, and gazing on Mary's frightened face, I felt acorresponding horror. 

'For mercy's sake, Mary, say what it is?'

So again assuring me 'it was not much, ' she gave me in a somewhat diffuseand tangled narrative the following facts:--

On closing my door, she raised her candle above her head and surveyed thelobby, and seeing no one there she ascended the stairs swiftly. She passedalong the great gallery to the left, and paused a moment at the crossgallery, and then recollected my directions clearly, and followed thepassage to the right. 

There are doors at each side, and she had forgotten to ask me at whichMadame's was. She opened several. In one room she was frightened by a bat, which had very nearly put her candle out. She went on a little, paused, andbegan to lose heart in the dismal solitude, when on a sudden, a few doorsfarther on, she thought she heard Madame's voice. 

She said that she knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, and hearingMadame still talking within, she opened it. 

There was a candle on the chimneypiece, and another in a stable lanternnear the window. Madame was conversing volubly on the hearth, with her facetoward the window, the entire frame of which had been taken from its place:Dickon Hawkes, the Zamiel of the wooden leg, was supporting it with onehand, as it leaned imperfectly against the angle of the recess. There wasa third figure standing, buttoned up in a surtout, with a bundle of toolsunder his arm, like a glazier, and, with a silent thrill of fear, shedistinctly recognised the features as those of Dudley Ruthyn. 

''Twas him, Miss, so sure as I sit here! Well, like that, they were as muteas mice; three pairs of eyes were on me. I don't know what made me so studylike, but som'at told me I should not make as though I knew any but Madame;and so I made a courtesy, as well as I could, and I said, "Might I speak aword wi' ye, please, on the lobby?"

'Mr. Dudley was making belief be this time to look out at window, wi' hisback to me, and I kept looking straight on Madame, and she said, "They'remendin' my broken glass, Mary, " walking between them and me, and comingclose up to me very quick; and so she marched me backward out o' the door, prating all the time. 

'When we were on the lobby, she took my candle from my hand, shutting thedoor behind her, and she held the light a bit behind her ear; so'twas fullon my face, as she looked sharp into it; and, after a bit, she said again, in her queer lingo--there was two panes broke in her room, and men sent forto mend it. 

'I was awful frightened when I saw Mr. Dudley, for I could not believe anysuch thing before, and I don't know how I could look her in the face as Idid and not show it. I was as smooth and cool as yonder chimneypiece, andshe has an awful evil eye to stan' against; but I never flinched, and Ithink she's puzzled, for as cunning as she is, whether I believe all shesaid, or knowed 'twas a pack o' stories. So I told her your message, andshe said she had not heard another word since; but she did believe we hadnot many more days here, and would tell you if she heard to-night, when shebrought his soup to your uncle, in half an hour's time. '

I asked her, as soon as I could speak, whether she was perfectly certain asto the fact that the man in the surtout was Dudley, and she made answer--

'I'd swear to him on that Bible, Miss. '

So far from any longer wishing Madame's return that night, I trembled atthe idea of it. Who could tell who might enter the room with her when thedoor opened to admit her?

Dudley, so soon as he recovered the surprise, had turned about, evidentlyanxious to prevent recognition; Dickon Hawkes stood glowering at her. Bothmight have hope of escaping recognition in the imperfect light, for thecandle on the chimneypiece was flaring in the air, and the light from thelantern fell in spots, and was confusing. 

What could that ruffian, Hawkes, be doing in the house? Why was Dudleythere? Could a more ominous combination be imagined? I puzzled mydistracted head over all Mary Quince's details, but could make nothing oftheir occupation. I know of nothing so terrifying as this kind of perpetualpuzzling over ominous problems. 

You may imagine how the long hours of that night passed, and how my heartbeat at every fancied sound outside my door. 

But morning came, and with its light some reassurance. Early, Madame de laRougierre made her appearance; she searched my eyes darkly and shrewdly, but made no allusion to Mary Quince's visit. Perhaps she expected somequestion from me, and, hearing none, thought it as well to leave thesubject at rest. 

She had merely come in to say that she had heard nothing since, but was nowgoing to make my uncle's chocolate; and that so soon as her interview wasended she would see me again, and let me hear anything she should havegleaned. 

In a little while a knock came to my door, and Mary Quince was ordered byold Wyat into my uncle's room. She returned flushed, in a huge fuss, to saythat I was to be up and dressed for a journey in half an hour, and to gostraight, when dressed, to my uncle's room. 

It was good news; at the same time it was a shock. I was glad. I wasstunned. I jumped out of bed, and set about my toilet with an energy quitenew to me. Good Mary Quince was busily packing my boxes, and consulting asto what I should take with me, and what not. 

Was Mary Quince to accompany me? He had not said a word on that point; andI feared from his silence she was to remain. There was comfort, however, inthis--that the separation would not be for long; I felt confident of that;and I was about to join Milly, whom I loved better than I could havebelieved before our separation; but whatsoever the conditions might be, it was an indescribable relief to have done with Bartram-Haugh, and leavebehind me its sinister lines of circumvallation, its haunted recesses, andthe awful spectres that had lately appeared within its walls. 

I stood too much in awe of my uncle to fail in presenting myself punctuallyat the close of the half-hour. I entered his sitting-room under the shadowof sour old Wyat's high-cauled cap; she closed the door behind me, and theconference commenced. 

Madame de la Rougierre sat there, dressed and draped for a journey, andwith a thick black lace veil on. My uncle rose, gaunt and venerable, andwith a harsh and severe countenance. He did not offer his hand; he made mea kind of bow, more of repulsion than of respect. He remained in a standingposition, supporting his crooked frame by his hand, which he leaned on adespatch-box; he glared on me steadily with his wild phosphoric eyes, fromunder the dark brows I have described to you, now corrugated in linesindescribably stern. 

'You shall join my daughter at the Pension, in France; Madame de laRougierre shall accompany you, ' said my uncle, delivering his directionswith the stern monotony and the measured pauses of a person dictating animportant despatch to a secretary. ' Old Mrs. Quince shall follow with me, or, if alone, in a week. You shall pass to-night in London; to-morrow nightyou proceed thence to Dover, and cross by the mail-packet. You shall nowsit down and write a letter to your cousin Monica Knollys, which I willfirst read and then despatch. Tomorrow you shall write a note to LadyKnollys, from _London_, telling her how you have got over so much of yourjourney, and that you cannot write from Dover, as you must instantly startby the packet on reaching it; and that until my affairs are a littlesettled, you cannot write to her from France, as it is of high importanceto my safety that no clue should exist as to our address. Intelligence, however, shall reach her through my attorneys, Archer and Sleigh, and Itrust we shall soon return. You will, please, submit that latter note toMadame de la Rougierre, who has my directions to see that it contains no_libels_ upon my character. Now, sit down. '

So, with those unpleasant words tingling in my ears, I obeyed. 

'_Write_, ' said he, when I was duly placed. 'You shall convey the substanceof what I say in your own language. The immiment danger this morningannounced of an execution--rememher the word, ' and he spelled it forme--'being put into this house either this afternoon or to-morrow, compelsme to anticipate my plans, and despatch you for France this day. That youare starting with an attendant. ' Here an uneasy movement from Madame, whose dignity was perhaps excited. 'An _attendant_, ' he repeated, with adiscordant emphasis; 'and you can, if you please--but I don't _solicit_that justice--say that you have been as kindly treated here as myunfortunate circumstances would permit. That is all. You have just fifteenminutes to write. Begin. '

I wrote accordingly. My hysterical state had made me far less combativethan I might have proved some months since, for there was much that wasinsulting as well as formidable in his manner. I completed my letter, however, to his satisfaction in the prescribed time; and he said, as helaid it and its envelope on the table--

'Please to remember that this lady is not your attendant only, but that shehas authority to direct every detail respecting your journey, and will makeall the necessary payments on the way. You will please, then, implicitly tocomply with her directions. The carriage awaits you at the hall-door. '

Having thus spoken, with another grim bow, and 'I wish you a safe andpleasant journey, ' he receded a step or two, and I, with an undefinablekind of melancholy, though also with a sense of relief, withdrew. 

My letter, I afterwards found, reached Lady Knollys, accompanied by onefrom Uncle Silas, who said--'Dear Maud apprises me that she has writtento tell you something of our movements. A sudden crisis in my miserableaffairs compels a break-up as sudden here. Maud joins my daughter at thePension, in France. I purposely omit the address, because I mean toreside in its vicinity until this storm shall have blown over; and as theconsequences of some of my unhappy entanglements might pursue me eventhere, I must only for the present spare you the pain and trouble ofkeeping a secret. I am sure that for some little time you will excusethe girl's silence; in the meantime you shall hear of them, and perhapscircuitously, from me. Our dear Maud started this morning _en route_ forher destination, very sorry, as am I, that she could not enjoy first aflying visit to Elverston, but in high spirits, notwithstanding, at the newlife and sights before her. '

At the door my beloved old friend, Mary Quince, awaited me. 

'Am I going with you, Miss Maud?'

I burst into tears and clasped her in my arms. 

'I'm not, ' said Mary, very sorrowfully; 'and I never was from you yet, Miss, since you wasn't the length of my arm. '

And kind old Mary began to cry with me. 

'Bote you are coming in a few days, Mary Quince, ' expostulated Madame. 'Iwonder you are soche fool. What is two, three days? Bah! nonsense, girl. '

Another farewell to poor Mary Quince, quite bewildered at the suddenness ofher bereavement. A serious and tremulous bow from our little old butler onthe steps. Madame bawling through the open window to the driver to makegood speed, and remember that we had but nineteen minutes to reach thestation. Away we went. Old Crowle's iron _grille_ rolled back before us. I looked on the receding landscape, the giant trees--the palatial, time-stained mansion. A strange conflict of feelings, sweet and bitter, rose and mingled in the reverie. Had I been too hard and suspicious withthe inhabitants of that old house of my family? Was my uncle _justly_indignant? Was I ever again to know such pleasant rambles as some of thoseI had enjoyed with dear Millicent through the wild and beautiful woodlandsI was leaving behind me? And there, with my latest glimpse of the frontof Bartram-Haugh, I beheld dear old Mary Quince gazing after us. Againmy tears flowed. I waved my handkerchief from the window; and now thepark-wall hid all from view, and at a great pace, throught the steep woodedglen, with the rocky and precipitous character of a ravine, we glided; andwhen the road next emerged, Bartram-Haugh was a misty mass of forest andchimneys, slope and hollow, and we within a few minutes of the station. 

CHAPTER LX

_THE JOURNEY_

Waiting for the train, as we stood upon the platform, I looked back againtoward the wooded uplands of Bartram; and far behind, the fine range ofmountains, azure and soft in the distance, beyond which lay beloved oldKnowl, and my lost father and mother, and the scenes of my childhood, neverembittered except by the sibyl who sat beside me. 

Under happier circumstances I should have been, at my then early age, quitewild with pleasurable excitement on entering London for the first time. But black Care sat by me, with her pale hand in mine: a voice of fear andwarning, whose words I could not catch, was always in my ear. We drovethrough London, amid the glare of lamps, toward the West-end, and for alittle while the sense of novelty and curiosity overcame my despondency, and I peeped eagerly from the window; while Madame, who was in highgood-humour, spite of the fatigues of our long railway flight, screechedscraps of topographic information in my ear; for London was a picture-bookin which she was well read. 

'That is Euston Square, my dear--Russell Square. Here is OxfordStreet--Haymarket. See, there is the Opera House--Hair Majesty's Theatre. See all the carriages waiting;' and so on, till we reached at length alittle narrow street, which she told me was off Piccadilly, where we drewup before a private house, as it seemed to me--a family hotel--and I wasglad to be at rest for the night. 

Fatigued with the peculiar fatigue of railway travelling, dusty, a littlechilly, with eyes aching and wearied, I ascended the stairs silently, ourgarrulous and bustling landlady leading the way, and telling her oft-toldstory of the house, its noble owner in old time, and how those finedrawing-rooms were taken every year during the Session by the Bishop ofRochet-on-Copeley, and at last into our double-bedded room. 

I would fain have been alone, but I was too tired and dejected to care verymuch for anything. 

At tea, Madame expanded in spirit, like a giant refreshed, and chatteredand sang; and at last, seeing that I was nodding, advised my going to bed, while she ran across the street to see 'her dear old friend, MademoiselleSt. Eloi, who was sure to be up, and would be offended if she failed tomake her ever so short a call. '

I cared little what she said, and was glad to be rid of her even for ashort time, and was soon fast asleep. 

I saw her, I know not how much later, poking about the room, like a figurein a dream, and taking off her things. 

She had her breakfast in bed next morning, and I was, to my comfort, leftto take mine in solitary possession of our sitting-room; where I began towonder how little annoyance I had as yet suffered from her company, andbegan to speculate upon the chances of my making the journey with tolerablecomfort. 

Our hostess gave me five minutes of her valuable time. Her talk ran chieflyupon nuns and convents, and her old acquaintance with Madame; and it seemedto me that she had at one time driven a kind of trade, no doubt profitableenough, in escorting young ladies to establishments on the Continent; andalthough I did not then quite understand the tone in which she spoke to me, I often thought afterwards that Madame had represented me as a young persondestined for the holy vocation of the veil. 

When she was gone, I sat listlessly looking out of the window, and saw somechance equipages drive by, and now and then a fashionable pedestrian; andwondered if this quiet thoroughfare could really be one of the arteries sonear the heart of the tumultuous capital. 

I think my nervous vitality must have burnt very low just then, for I feltperfectly indifferent about all the novelty and world of wonders beyond, and should have hated to leave the dull tranquillity of my window for anexcursion through the splendours of the unseen streets and palaces thatsurrounded me. 

It was one o'clock before Madame joined me; and finding me in this dullmood, she did not press me to accompany her in her drive, no doubt wellpleased to be rid of me. 

After tea that evening, as we sat alone in our room, she entertained mewith some very odd conversation--at the time unintelligible--but whichacquired a tolerably distinct meaning from the events that followed. 

Two or three times that day Madame appeared to me on the point of sayingsomething of grave import, as she scanned me with her bleak wicked stare. 

It was a peculiarity of hers, that whenever she was pressed upon by ananxiety that really troubled her, her countenance did not look sad orsolicitous, as other people's would, but simply wicked. Her great gauntmouth was compressed and drawn down firmly at the corners, and her eyesglared with a dismal scowl. 

At last she said suddenly--

'Are you ever grateful, Maud?'

'I hope so, Madame, ' I answered. 

'And how do you show your gratitude? For instance, would a you do greatdeal for a person who would run _risque_ for your sake?'

It struck me all at once that she was sounding me about poor Meg Hawkes, whose fidelity, notwithstanding the treason or cowardice of her lover, TomBrice, I never doubted; and I grew at once wary and reserved. 

'I know of no opportunity, thank Heaven, for any such service, Madame. Howcan anyone serve me at present, by themselves incurring danger? What do youmean?'

'Do you like, for example, to go to that French Pension? Would you not likebetter some other arrangement?'

'Of course there are other arrangements I should like better; but I see nouse in talking of them; they are not to be, ' I answered. 

'What other arrangements do you mean, my dear cheaile?' enquired Madame. 'You mean, I suppose, you would like better to go to Lady Knollys?'

'My uncle does not choose it at present; and except with his consentnothing can be done!'

'He weel never consent, dear cheaile. '

'But he _has_ consented--not immediately indeed, but in a short time, whenhis affairs are settled. '

'_Lanternes_! They will never be settle, ' said Madame. 

'At all events, for the present I am to go to France. Milly seems veryhappy, and I dare say I shall like it too. I am very glad to leaveBartram-Haugh, at all events. '

'But your uncle weel bring you back there, ' said Madame, drily. 

'It is doubtful whether he will ever return to Bartram himself, ' I said. 

'Ah!' said Madame, with a long-drawn nasal intonation, 'you theenk I hateyou. You are quaite wrong, my dear Maud. I am, on the contrary, very muchinterested for you--I am, I assure you, dear a cheaile. '

And she laid her great hand, with joints misshapen by old chilblains, uponthe back of mine. I looked up in her face. She was not smiling. On thecontrary, her wide mouth was drawn down at the corners ruefully, as before, and she gazed on my face with a scowl from her abysmal eyes. 

I used to think the flare of that irony which lighted her face so oftenimmeasurably worse than any other expression she could assume; but thislack-lustre stare and dismal collapse of feature was more wicked still. 

'Suppose I should bring you to Lady Knollys, and place you in her charge, what would a you do then for poor Madame?' said this dark spectre. 

I was inwardly startled at these words. I looked into her unsearchableface, but could draw thence nothing but fear. Had she made the sameoverture only two days since, I think I would have offered her half myfortune. But circumstances were altered. I was no longer in the panic ofdespair. The lesson I had received from Tom Brice was fresh in my mind, andmy profound distrust of her was uppermost. I saw before me only a tempterand betrayer, and said--

'Do you mean to imply, Madame, that my guardian is not to be trusted, andthat I ought to make my escape from him, and that you are really willing toaid me in doing so?'

This, you see, was turning the tables upon her. I looked her steadily inthe face as I spoke. She returned my gaze with a strange stare and a gape, which haunted me long after; and it seemed as we sat in utter silence thateach was rather horribly fascinated by the other's gaze. 

At last she shut her mouth sternly, and eyes me with a more determined andmeaning scowl, and then said in a low tone--

'I believe, Maud, that you are a cunning and wicked little thing. '

'Wisdom is not cunning, Madame; nor is it wicked to ask your meaning inexplicit language, ' I replied. 

'And so, you clever cheaile, we two sit here, playing at a game of chess, over this little table, to decide which shall destroy the other--is it notso?'

'I will not allow you to destroy me, ' I retorted, with a sudden flash. 

Madame stood up, and rubbed her mouth with her open hand. She looked to melike some evil being seen in a dream. I was frightened. 

'You are going to hurt me!' I ejaculated, scarce knowing what I said. 

'If I were, you deserve it. You are very _malicious_, ma chère: or, it maybe, only very stupid. '

A knock came to the door. 

'Come in, ' I cried, with a glad sense of relief. 

A maid entered. 

'A letter, please, 'm, ' she said, handing it to me. 

'For _me_, ' snarled Madame, snatching it. 

I had seen my uncle's hand, and the Feltram post-mark. 

Madame broke the seal, and read. It seemed but a word, for she turned itabout after the first momentary glance, and examined the interior of theenvelope, and then returned to the line she had already read. 

She folded the letter again, drawing her nails in a sharp pinch along thecreases, as she stared in a blank, hesitating way at me. 

'You are stupid little ingrate, I am employ by Monsieur Ruthyn, and ofcourse I am faithful to my employer. I do not want to talk to you. _There_, you may read that. '

She jerked the letter before me on the table. It contained but thesewords:--

Bartram-Haugh:

'_30th January, 1845_. 

'MY DEAR MADAME, 'Be so good as to take the half-past eight o'clock train to _Dover_to-night. Beds are prepared. --Yours very truly, SILAS RUTHYN. '

I cannot say what it was in this short advice that struck me with fear. Wasit the thick line beneath the word 'Dover, ' that was so uncalled for, andgave me a faint but terrible sense of something preconcerted?

I said to Madame--

'Why is "Dover" underlined?'

'I do not know, little fool, no more than you. How can I tell what ispassing in your oncle's head when he make that a mark?'

'Has it not a meaning, Madame?'

'How can you talk like that?' she answered, more in her old way. 'You areeither mocking of me, or you are becoming truly a fool!'

She rang the bell, called for our bill, saw our hostess; while I made a fewhasty prepartions in my room. 

'You need not look after the trunks--they will follow us all right. Let usgo, cheaile--we 'av half an hour only to reach the train. '

No one ever fussed like Madame when occasion offered. There was a cab atthe door, into which she hurried me. I assumed that she would give allneedful directions, and leaned back, very weary and sleepy already, thoughit was so early, listening to her farewell screamed from the cab-step, andseeing her black cloak flitting and flapping this way and that, like thewings of a raven disturbed over its prey. 

In she got, and away we drove through a glare of lamps, and shop-windows, still open; gas everywhere, and cabs, busses, and carriages, stillthundering through the streets. I was too tired and too depressed to lookat those things. Madame, on the contrary, had her head out of the windowtill we reached the station. 

'Where are the rest of the boxes?' I asked, as Madame placed me in chargeof her box and my bag in the office of the terminus. 

'They will follow with Boots in another cab, and will come safe with us inthis train. Mind those two, we weel bring in the carriage with us. '

So into a carriage we got; in came Madame's box and my bag; Madame stood atthe door, and, I think, frightened away intending passengers, by her sizeand shrillness. 

At last the bell rang her into her place, the door clapt, the whistlesounded, and we were off. 

CHAPTER LXI

_OUR BED-CHAMBER_

I had passed a miserable night, and, indeed, for many nights had not had mydue proportion of sleep. Still I sometimes fancy that I may have swallowedsomething in my tea that helped to make me so irresistibly drowsy. It was avery dark night--no moon, and the stars soon hid by the gathering clouds. Madame sat silent, and ruminating in her place, with her rugs about her. I, in my corner similarly enveloped, tried to keep awake. Madame plainlythought I was asleep already, for she stole a leather flask from herpocket, and applied it to her lips, causing an aroma of brandy. 

But it was vain struggling against the influence that was stealing over me, and I was soon in a profound and dreamless slumber. 

Madame awoke me at last, in a huge fuss. She had got out all our things andhurried them away to a close carriage which was awaiting us. It was stilldark and starless. We got along the platform, I half asleep, the portercarrying our rugs, by the glare of a pair of gas-jets in the wall, and outby a small door at the end. 

I remember that Madame, contrary to her wont, gave the man some money. Bythe puzzling light of the carriage-lamps we got in and took our seats. 

'Go on, ' screamed Madame, and drew up the window with a great chuck; and wewere enclosed in darkness and silence, the most favourable conditions forthought. 

My sleep had not restored me as it might; I felt feverish, fatigued, andstill very drowsy, though unable to sleep as I had done. 

I dozed by fits and starts, and lay awake, or half-awake, sometimes, notthinking but in a way imagining what kind of a place Dover would be; buttoo tired and listless to ask Madame any questions, and merely seeing thehedges, grey in the lamplight, glide backward into darkness, as I leanedback. 

We turned off the main road, at right angles, and drew up. 

'Get down and poosh it, it is open, ' screamed Madame from the window. 

A gate, I suppose, was thus passed; for when we resumed our brisk trot, Madame bawled across the carriage--

'We are now in the 'otel grounds. '

And so all again was darkness and silence, and I fell into another doze, from which, on waking, I found that we had come to a standstill, and Madamewas standing on the low step of an open door, paying the driver. She, herself, pulled her box and the bag in. I was too tired to care what hadbecome of the rest of our luggage. 

I descended, glancing to the right and left, but there was nothing visiblebut a patch of light from the lamps on a paved ground and on the wall. 

We stepped into the hall or vestibule, and Madame shut the door, and Ithought I heard the key turn in it. We were in total darkness. 

'Where are the lights, Madame--where are the people?' I asked, more awakethan I had been. 

''Tis pass three o'clock, cheaile, bote there is always light here. ' Shewas groping at the side; and in a moment more lighted a lucifer match, andso a bedroom candle. 

We were in a flagged lobby, under an archway at the right, and at the leftof which opened long flagged passages, lost in darkness; a winding stair, barely wide enough to admit Madame, dragging her box, led upward under adoorway, in a corner at the right. 

'Come, dear cheaile, take your bag; don't mind the rugs, they are safeenough. '

'But where are we to go? There is no one!' I said, looking round in wonder. It certainly was a strange reception at an hotel. 

'Never mind, my dear cheaile. They know me here, and I have always the sameroom ready when I write for it. Follow me quaitely. '

So she mounted, carrying the candle. The stair was steep, and the marchlong. We halted at the second landing, and entered a gaunt, grimy passage. All the way up we had not heard a single sound of life, nor seen a humanbeing, nor so much as passed a gaslight. 

'Viola! here 'tis, my dear old room. Enter, dearest Maud. '

And so I did. The room was large and lofty, but shabby and dismal. Therewas a tall four-post bed, with its foot beside the window, hung withdark-green curtains, of some plush or velvet texture, that looked likea dusty pall. The remaining furniture was scant and old, and a ravelledsquare of threadbare carpet covered a patch of floor at the bedside. Theroom was grim and large, and had a cold, vault-like atmosphere, as iflong uninhabited; but there were cinders in the grate and under it. Theimperfect light of our mutton-fat candle made all this look still morecomfortless. 

Madame placed the candle on the chimneypiece, locked the door, and put thekey in her pocket. 

'I always do so in '_otel_' said she, with a wink at me. 

And, then with a long 'ha!' expressive of fatigue and relief, she threwherself into a chair. 

'So 'ere we are at last!' said she; 'I'm glad. _There's_ your bed, Maud. _Mine_ is in the dressing-room. '

She took the candle, and I went in with her. A shabby press bed, achair, and table were all its furniture; it was rather a closet than adressing-room, and had no door except that through which we had entered. Sowe returned, and very tired, wondering, I sat down on the side of my bedand yawned. 

'I hope they will call us in time for the packet, ' I said. 

'Oh yes, they never fail, ' she answered, looking steadfastly on her box, which she was diligently uncording. 

Uninviting as was my bed, I was longing to lie down in it; and having madethose ablutions which our journey rendered necessary, I at length laydown, having first religiously stuck my talismanic pin, with the head ofsealing-wax, into the bolster. 

Nothing escaped the restless eye of Madame. 

'Wat is that, dear cheaile?' she enquired, drawing near and scrutinisingthe head of the gipsy charm, which showed like a little ladybird newlylighted on the sheet. 

'Nothing--a charm--folly. Pray, Madame, allow me to go to sleep. '

So, with another look and a little twiddle between her finger and thumb, she seemed satisfied; but, unhappily for me, she did not seem at allsleepy. She busied herself in unpacking and displaying over the back of thechair a whole series of London purchases--silk dresses, a shawl, a sort oflace demi-coiffure then in vogue, and a variety of other articles. 

The vainest and most slammakin of women--the merest slut at home, a milliner's lay figure out of doors--she had one square foot oflooking-glass upon the chimneypiece, and therein tried effects, andconjured up grotesque simpers upon her sinister and weary face. 

I knew that the sure way to prolong this worry was to express my uneasinessunder it, so I bore it as quietly as I could; and at last fell fast asleepwith the gaunt image of Madame, with a festoon of grey silk with a cerisestripe, pinched up in her finger and thumb, and smiling over her shoulderacross it into the little shaving-glass that stood on the chimney. 

I awoke suddenly in the morning, and sat up in my bed, having for a momentforgotten all about our travelling. A moment more, however, brought allback again. 

'Are we in time, Madame?'

'For the packet?' she enquired, with one of her charming smiles, andcutting a caper on the floor. 'To be sure; you don't suppose they wouldforget. We have two hours yet to wait. '

'Can we see the sea from the window?'

'No, dearest cheaile; you will see't time enough. 

'I'd like to get up, ' I said. 

'Time enough, my dear Maud; you are fatigued; are you sure you feel quitewell?'

'Well enough to get up; I should be better, I think, out of bed. '

'There is no hurry, you know; you need not even go by the next packet. Youruncle, he tell me, I may use my discretion. '

'Is there any water?'

'They will bring some. '

'Please, Madame, ring the bell. '

She pulled it with alacrity. I afterwards learnt that it did not ring. 

'What has become of my gipsy pin?' I demanded, with an unaccountablesinking of the heart. 

'Oh! the little pin with the red top? maybe it 'as fall on the ground; weweel find when you get up. '

I suspected that she had taken it merely to spite me. It would have beenquite the thing she would have liked. I cannot describe to you how the lossof this little 'charm' depressed and excited me. I searched the bed; Iturned over all the bed-clothes; I searched in and outside; at last I gaveup. 

'How odious!' I cried; 'somebody has stolen it merely to vex me. '

And, like a fool as I was, I threw myself on my face on the bed and wept, partly in anger, partly in dismay. 

After a time, however, this blew over. I had a hope of recovering it. If Madame had stolen it, it would turn up yet. But in the meantime itsdisappearance troubled me like an omen. 

'I am afraid, my dear cheaile, you are not very well. It is really very oddyou should make such fuss about a pin! Nobody would believe! Do you nottheenk it would be a good plan to take a your breakfast in your bed?

She continued to urge this point for some time. At last, however, havingby this time quite recovered my self-command, and resolved to preserveostensibly fair terms with Madame, who could contribute so essentially tomake me wretched during the rest of my journey, and possibly to prejudiceme very seriously on my arrival, I said quietly--

'Well, Madame, I know it is very silly; but I had kept that foolish littlepin so long and so carefully, that I had grown quite fond of it; but Isuppose it is lost, and I must content myself, though I cannot laugh as youdo. So I will get up now, and dress. '

'I think you will do well to get all the repose you can, ' answered Madame;'but as you please, ' she added, observing that I was getting up. 

So soon as I had got some of my things on, I said--

'Is there a pretty view from the window?'

'No, ' said Madame. 

I looked out and saw a dreary quadrangle of cut stone, in one side of whichmy window was placed. As I looked a dream rose up before me. 

'This hotel, ' I said, in a puzzled way. '_Is_ it a hotel? Why this is justlike--it _is_ the inner court of Bartram-Haugh!'

Madame clapped her large hands together, made a fantastic _chassé_ on thefloor, burst into a great nasal laugh like the scream of a parrot, and thensaid--

'Well, dearest Maud, is not clever trick?'

I was so utterly confounded that I could only stare about me in stupidsilence, a spectacle which renewed Madame's peals of laughter. 

'We are at Bartram-Haugh!' I repeated, in utter consternation. 'How wasthis done?'

I had no reply but shrieks of laughter, and one of those Walpurgis dancesin which she excelled. 

'It is a mistake--is it? _What_ is it?'

'All a mistake, of course. Bartram-Haugh, it is so like Dover, as allphilosophers know. '

I sat down in total silence, looking out into the deep and dark enclosure, and trying to comprehend the reality and the meaning of all this. 

'Well, Madame, I suppose you will be able to satisfy my uncle of yourfidelity and intelligence. But to me it seems that his money has beenill-spent, and his directions anything but well observed. '

'Ah, ha! Never mind; I think he will forgive me, ' laughed Madame. 

Her tone frightened me. I began to think, with a vague but overpoweringsense of danger, that she had acted under the Machiavellian directions ofher superior. 

'You have brought me back, then, by my uncle's orders?'

'Did I say so?'

'No; but what you have said can have no other meaning, though I can'tbelieve it. And why have I been brought here? What is the object of allthis duplicity and trick. I _will_ know. It is not possible that my uncle, a gentleman and a kinsman, can be privy to so disreputable a manouvre. '

'First you will eat your breakfast, dear Maud; next you can tell your storyto your uncle, Monsieur Ruthyn; and then you shall hear what he thinks ofmy so terrible misconduct. What nonsense, cheaile! Can you not think howmany things may 'appen to change a your uncle's plans? Is he not in dangerto be arrest? Bah! You are cheaile still; you cannot have intelligence morethan a cheaile. Dress yourself, and I will order breakfast. '

I could not comprehend the strategy which had been practised on me. Why hadI been so shamelessly deceived? If it were decided that I should remainhere, for what imaginable reason had I been sent so far on my journey toFrance? Why had I been conveyed back with such mystery? Why was I removedto this uncomfortable and desolate room, on the same floor with theapartment in which Charke had met his death, and with no window commandingthe front of the house, and no view but the deep and weed-choked court, that looked like a deserted churchyard in a city?

'I suppose I may go to my own room?' I said. 

'Not to-day, my dear cheaile, for it was all disarrange when we go 'way;'twill be ready again in two three days. '

'Where is Mary Quince?' I asked. 

'Mary Quince!--she has follow us to France, ' said Madame, making what inIreland they call a bull. 

'They are not sure where they will go or what will do for day or two more. I will go and get breakfast. Adieu for a moment. '

Madame was out of the door as she said this, and I thought I heard the keyturn in the lock. 

CHAPTER LXII

_A WELL-KNOWN FACE LOOKS IN_

You who have never experienced it can have no idea how angry and frightenedyou become under the sinister insult of being locked into a room, as ontrying the door I found I was. 

The key was in the lock; I could see it through the hole. I called afterMadame, I shook at the solid oak-door, beat upon it with my hands, kickedit--but all to no purpose. 

I rushed into the next room, forgetting--if indeed I had observed it, thatthere was no door from it upon the gallery. I turned round in an angry anddismayed perplexity, and, like prisoners in romances, examined the windows. 

I was shocked and affrighted on discovering in reality what theyoccasionally find--a series of iron bars crossing the window! They werefirmly secured in the oak woodwork of the window-frame, and each windowwas, besides, so compactly screwed down that it could not open. Thisbedroom was converted into a prison. A momentary hope flashed onme--perhaps all the windows were secured alike! But it was no such thing:these gaol-like precautions were confined to the windows to which I hadaccess. 

For a few minutes I felt quite distracted; but I bethought me that I mustnow, if ever, control my terrors and exert whatever faculties I possessed. 

I stood upon a chair and examined the oak-work. I thought I detected marksof new chiselling here and there. The screws, too, looked new; and theyand the scars on the woodwork were freshly smeared over with some colouredstuff by way of disguise. 

While I was making these observations, I heard the key stealthily stirred. I suspect that Madame wished to surprise me. Her approaching step, indeed, was seldom audible; she had the soft tread of the feline tribe. 

I was standing in the centre of the room confronting her when she entered. 

'Why did you lock the door, Madame?' I demanded. 

She slipped in suddenly with an insidious smirk, and locked the doorhastily. 

'Hish!' whispered Madame, raising her broad palm; and then screwing in hercheeks, she made an ogle over her shoulder in the direction of the passage. 

'Hish! be quiate, cheaile, weel you, and I weel tale you everythingpresently. '

She paused, with her ear laid to the door. 

'Now I can speak, ma chère; I weel tale a you there is bailiff in thehouse, two, three, four soche impertinent fallows! They have another as badas themselve to make a leest of the furniture: we most keep them out ofthese rooms, dear Maud. '

'You left the key in the door on the outside, ' I retorted; 'that was not tokeep them out, but me in, Madame. '

'_Deed_ I leave the key in the door?' ejaculated Madame, with both handsraised, and such a genuine look of consternation as for a moment shook me. 

It was the nature of this woman's deceptions that they often puzzled thoughthey seldom convinced me. 

'I re-ally think, Maud, all those so frequent changes and excite-ments theyweel overturn my poor head. '

'And the windows are secured with iron bars--what are they for?' Iwhispered sternly, pointing with my finger at these grim securities. 

'That is for more a than forty years, when Sir Phileep Aylmer was to residehere, and had this room for his children's nursery, and was afraid theyshould fall out. '

'But if you look you will find these bars have been put here very recently:the screws and marks are quite new. '

'_Eendeed!_' ejaculated Madame, with prolonged emphasis, in precisely thesame consternation. 'Why, my dear, they told a me down stair what I havetell a you, when I ask the reason! Late a me see. '

And Madame mounted on a chair, and made her scrutiny with much curiosity, but could not agree with me as to the very recent date of the carpentry. 

There is nothing, I think, so exasperating as that sort of falsehood whichaffects not to see what is quite palpable. 

'Do you mean to say, Madame, that you really think those chisellings andscrews are forty years old?'

'How can I tell, cheaile? What does signify whether it is forty or onlyfourteen years? Bah! we av other theeng to theenk about. Those villain men!I am glad to see bar and bolt, and lock and key, at least, to our room, tokeep soche faylows out!'

At that moment a knock came to the door, and Madame's nasal 'in moment'answered promptly, and she opened the door, stealthily popping out herhead. 

'Oh, that is all right; go you long, no ting more, go way. '

'Who's there?' I cried. 

'Hold a your tongue, ' said Madame imperiously to the visitor, whose voice Ifancied I recognised--'_go_ way. '

Out slipped Madame again, locking the door; but this time she returnedimmediately, bearing a tray with breakfast. 

I think she fancied that I would perhaps attempt to break away and escape;but I had no such thought at that moment. She hastily set down the tray onthe floor at the threshold, locking the door as before. 

My share of breakfast was a little tea; but Madame's digestion was seldomdisturbed by her sympathies, and she ate voraciously. During this processthere was a silence unusual in her company; but when her meal was ended sheproposed a reconnaissance, professing much uncertainty as to whether myUncle had been arrested or not. 

'And in case the poor old gentleman be poot in what you call stone jug, where are _we_ to go my dear Maud--to Knowl or to Elverston? You mustdirect. '

And so she disappeared, turning the key in the door as before. It was anold custom of hers, locking herself in her room, and leaving the key in thelock; and the habit prevailed, for she left it there again. 

With a heavy heart I completed my simple toilet, wondering all the whilehow much of Madame's story might be false and how much, if any, true. ThenI looked out upon the dingy courtyard below, in its deep damp shadow, andthought, 'How could an assassin have scaled that height in safety, andentered so noiselessly as not to awaken the slumbering gamester?' Thenthere were the iron bars across my window. What a fool had I been to objectto that security!

I was labouring hard to reassure myself, and keep all ghastly suspicions atarm's length. But I wished that my room had been to the front of the house, with some view less dismal. 

Lost in these ruminations of fear, as I stood at the window I was startledby the sound of a sharp tread on the lobby, and by the key turning in thelock of my door. 

In a panic I sprang back into the corner, and stood with my eyes fixedupon the door. It opened a little, and the black head of Meg Hawkes wasintroduced. 

'Oh, Meg!' I cried; 'thank God!'

'I guessed'twas you, Miss Maud. I am feared, Miss. '

The miller's daughter was pale, and her eyes, I thought, were red andswollen. 

'Oh, Meg! for God's sake, what is it all?'

'I darn't come in. The old un's gone down, and locked the cross-door, andleft me to watch. They think I care nout about ye, no more nor themselves. I donna know all, but summat more nor her. They tell her nout, she's sogi'n to drink; they say she's not safe, an' awful quarrelsome. I hear adeal when fayther and Master Dudley be a-talkin' in the mill. They think, comin' in an' out, I don't mind; but I put one think an' t'other together. An' don't ye eat nor drink nout here, Miss; hide away this; it's blackenough, but wholesome anyhow!' and she slipt a piece of a coarse loaf fromunder her apron. '_Hide_ it mind. Drink nout but the water in the jugthere--it's clean spring. '

'Oh, Meg! Oh, Meg! I know what you mean, ' said I, faintly. 

'Ay, Miss, I'm feared they'll try it; they'll try to make away wi' yesomehow. I'm goin' to your friends arter dark; I darn't try it no sooner. I'll git awa to Ellerston, to your lady-cousin, and I'll bring 'em back wi'me in a rin; so keep a good hairt, lass. Meg Hawkes will stan' to ye. Yewere better to me than fayther and mother, and a';' and she clasped meround the waist, and buried her head in my dress; 'an I'll gie my life forye, darling, and if they hurt ye I'll kill myself. '

She recovered her sterner mood quickly--

'Not a word, lass, ' she said, in her old tone. 'Don't ye try to gitaway--they'll _kill_ ye--ye _can't_ do't. Leave a' to me. It won't be, whatever it is, till two or three o'clock in the morning. I'll ha'e them a'here long afore; so keep a brave heart--there's a darling. '

I suppose she heard, or fancied she heard, a step approaching, for shesaid--

'Hish!'

Her pale wild face vanished, the door shut quickly and softly, and the keyturned again in the lock. 

Meg, in her rude way, had spoken softly--almost under her breath; but noprophecy shrieked by the Pythoness ever thundered so madly in the ears ofthe hearer. I dare say that Meg fancied I was marvellously little moved byher words. I felt my gaze grow intense, and my flesh and bones literallyfreeze. She did not know that every word she spoke seemed to burst like ablaze in my brain. She had delivered her frightful warning, and toldher story coarsely and bluntly, which, in effect, means distinctly andconcisely; and, I dare say, the announcement so made, like a quick boldincision in surgery, was more tolerable than the slow imperfect mangling, which falters and recedes and equivocates with torture. Madame was longaway. I sat down at the window, and tried to appreciate my dreadfulsituation. I was stupid--the imagery was all frightful; but I beheld it aswe sometimes see horrors--heads cut off and houses burnt--in a dream, andwithout the corresponding emotions. It did not seem as if all this werereally happening to me. I remember sitting at the window, and looking andblinking at the opposite side of the building, like a person unable butstriving to see an object distinctly, and every minute pressing my hand tothe side of my head and saying--

'Oh, it won't be--it won't be--Oh no!--never!--it could not be!' And inthis stunned state Madame found me on her return. 

But the valley of the shadow of death has its varieties of dread. The'horror of great darkness' is disturbed by voices and illumed by sights. There are periods of incapacity and collapse, followed by paroxysmsof active terror. Thus in my journey during those long hours I foundit--agonies subsiding into lethargies, and these breaking again intofrenzy. I sometimes wonder how I carried my reason safely through theordeal. 

Madame locked the door, and amused herself with her own business, withoutminding me, humming little nasal snatches of French airs, as she smirked onher silken purchases displayed in the daylight. Suddenly it struck me thatit was very dark, considering how early it was. I looked at my watch;it seemed to me a great effort of concentration to understand it. Fouro'clock, it said. Four o'clock! It would be dark at five--_night_ in onehour!

'Madame, what o'clock is it? Is it evening?' I cried with my hand to myforehead, like a person puzzled. 

'Two three minutes past four. It had five minutes to four when I cameupstairs, ' answered she, without interrupting her examination of a piece ofdarned lace which she was holding close to her eyes at the window. 

'Oh, Madame! _Madame!_ I'm frightened, ' cried I, with a wild and piteousvoice, grasping her arm, and looking up, as shipwrecked people may theirlast to heaven, into her inexorable eyes. Madame looked frightened too, Ithought, as she stared into my face. At last she said, rather angrily, andshaking her arm loose--

'What you mean, cheaile?'

'Oh save me, Madame!--oh save me!--oh save me, Madame!' I pleaded, with thewild monotony of perfect terror, grasping and clinging to her dress, andlooking up, with an agonised face, into the eyes of that shadowy Atropos. 

'Save a you, indeed! Save! What _niaiserie_!'

'Oh, Madame! Oh, _dear_ Madame! for God's sake, only get me away--get mefrom this, and I'll do everything you ask me all my life--I will--_indeed_, Madame, I will! Oh save me! save me! _save_ me!'

I was clinging to Madame as to my guardian angel in my agony. 

'And who told you, cheaile, you are in any danger?' demanded Madame, looking down on me with a black and witchlike stare. 

'I am, Madame--I am--in great danger! Oh, Madame, think of me--take pity onme! I have none to help me--there is no one but God and you!'

Madame all this time viewed me with the same dismal stare, like a sorceressreading futurity in my face. 

'Well, maybe you are--how can I tell? Maybe your uncle is mad--maybe youare mad. You have been my enemy always--why should I care?'

Again I burst into wild entreaty, and, clasping her fast, poured forth mysupplications with the bitterness of death. 

'I have no confidence in you, little Maud; you are little rogue--petitetraîtresse! Reflect, if you can, how you 'av always treat Madame. You 'avattempt to ruin me--you conspire with the bad domestics at Knowl to destroyme--and you expect me here to take a your part! You would never listen tome--you 'ad no mercy for me--you join to hunt me away from your house likewolf. Well, what you expect to find me now? _Bah_!'

This terrific 'Bah!' with a long nasal yell of scorn, rang in my ears likea clap of thunder. 

'I say you are mad, petite insolente, to suppose I should care for you morethan the poor hare it will care for the hound--more than the bird who hasescape will love the oiseleur. I do not care--I ought not care. It is yourturn to suffer. Lie down on your bed there, and suffer quaitely. '

CHAPTER LXIII

_SPICED CLARET_

I did not lie down; but I despaired. I walked round and round the room, wringing my hands in utter distraction. I threw myself at the bedside on myknees. I could not pray; I could only shiver and moan, with hands clasped, and eyes of horror turned up to heaven. I think Madame was, in hermalignant way, perplexed. That some evil was intended me I am sure she waspersuaded; but I dare say Meg Hawkes had said rightly in telling me thatshe was not fully in their secrets. 

The first paroxysm of despair subsided into another state. All at once mymind was filled with the idea of Meg Hawkes, her enterprise, and my chancesof escape. There is one point at which the road to Elverston makes a shortascent: there is a sudden curve there, two great ash-trees, with a roadsidestile between, at the right side, covered with ivy. Driving back andforward, I did not recollect having particularly remarked this point inthe highway; but now it was before me, in the thin light of the thinnestsegment of moon, and the figure of Meg Hawkes, her back toward me, alwaysascending towards Elverston. It was constantly the same picture--the samemotion without progress--the same dreadful suspense and impatience. 

I was now sitting on the side of the bed, looking wistfully across theroom. When I did not see Meg Hawkes, I beheld Madame darkly eyeing firstone then another point of the chamber, evidently puzzling over someproblem, and in one of her most savage moods--sometimes muttering toherself, sometimes protruding, and sometimes screwing up her great mouth. 

She went into her own room, where she remained, I think, nearly tenminutes, and on her return there was that in the flash of her eyes, theglow of her face, and the peculiar fragrance that surrounded her, thatshowed she had been partaking of her favourite restorative. 

I had not moved since she left my room. 

She paused about the middle of the floor, and looked at me with what I canonly describe as her wild-beast stare. 

'You are a very secrete family, you Ruthyns--you are so coning. I hate theconing people. By my faith, I weel see Mr. Silas Ruthyn, and ask wat hemean. I heard him tell old Wyat that Mr. Dudley is gone away to-night. Heshall tell me everything, or else I weel make echec et mat aussi vrai queje vis. '

Madame's words had hardly ceased, when I was again watching Meg Hawkes onthe steep road, mounting, but never reaching, the top of the acclivity, onthe way to Elverston, and mentally praying that she might be broughtsafely there. Vain prayer of an agonised heart! Meg's journey was alreadyfrustrated: she was not to reach Elverston in time. 

Madame revisited her apartment, and returned, not, I think, improved intemper. She walked about the room, hustling the scanty furniture hither andthither as she encountered it. She kicked her empty box out of her way, with a horrid crash, and a curse in French. She strode and swaggered roundthe room, muttering all the way, and turning the corners of her course witha furious whisk. At last, out of the door she went. I think she fancied shehad not been sufficiently taken into confidence as to what was intended forme. 

It was now growing late, and yet no succour! I was seized, I remember, witha dreadful icy shivering. 

I was listening for signals of deliverance. At ever distant sound, halfstifled with a palpitation, these sounds piercing my ear with a horribleand exaggerated distinctness--'Oh Meg!--Oh cousin Monica!--Oh come! OhHeaven, have mercy!--Lord, have mercy!' I thought I heard a roaring andjangle of voices. Perhaps it came from Uncle Silas's room. It might be thetipsy violence of Madame. It might--merciful Heaven!--be the arrival offriends. I started to my feet; I listened, quivering with attention. Wasit in my brain?--was it real? I was at the door, and it seemed to open ofitself. Madame had forgotten to lock it; she was losing her head a littleby this time. The key stood in the gallery door beyond; it too, was open. I fled wildly. There was a subsiding sound of voices in my uncle's room. I was, I know not how, on the lobby at the great stair-head outside myuncle's apartment. My hand was on the banisters, my foot on the first step, when below me and against the faint light that glimmered through the greatwindow on the landing I saw a bulky human form ascending, and a voice said'Hush!' I staggered back, and at that instant fancied, with a thrill ofconviction, I heard Lady Knollys's voice in Uncle Silas' room. 

I don't know how I entered the room; I was there like a ghost. I wasfrightened at my own state. 

Lady Knollys was not there--no one but Madame and my guardian. 

I can never forget the look that Uncle Silas fixed on me as he cowered, seemingly as appalled as I. 

I think I must have looked like a phantom newly risen from the grave. 

'What's that?--where do you come from?' whispered he. 

'Death! death!' was my whispered answer, as I froze with terror where Istood. 

'What does she mean?--what does all this mean?' said Uncle Silas, recovering wonderfully, and turning with a withering sneer on Madame. 'Doyou think it right to disobey my plain directions, and let her run aboutthe house at this hour?'

'Death! death! Oh, pray to God for you and me!' I whispered in the samedreadful tones. 

My uncle stared strangely at me again; and after several horrible seconds, in which he seemed to have recovered himself, he said, sternly and coolly--

'You give too much place to your imagination, niece. Your spirits are in anodd state--you ought to have advice. '

'Oh, uncle, pity me! Oh, uncle, you are good! you're kind; you're kindwhen you think. You could not--you could not--could not! Oh, think of yourbrother that was always so good to you! He sees me here. He sees us both. Oh, save me, uncle--save me!--and I'll give up everything to you. I'll prayto God to bless you--I'll never forget your goodness and mercy. But don'tkeep me in doubt. If I'm to go, oh, for God's sake, shoot me now!'

'You were always odd, niece; I begin to fear you are insane, ' he replied, in the same stern icy tone. 

'Oh, uncle--oh!--am I? Am I _mad_?'

'I hope not; but you'll conduct yourself like a sane person if you wish toenjoy the privileges of one. '

Then, with his finger pointing at me, he turned to Madame, and said, in atone of suppressed ferocity--

'What's the meaning of this?--why is she here?'

Madame was gabbling volubly, but to me it was only a shrilly noise. Mywhole soul was concentrated in my uncle, the arbiter of my life, beforewhom I stood in the wildest agony of supplication. 

That night was dreadful. The people I saw dizzily, made of smoke or shiningvapour, smiling or frowning, I could have passed my hand through them. Theywere evil spirits. 

'There's no ill intended you; by ---- there's none, ' said my uncle, forthe first time violently agitated. 'Madame told you why we've changed yourroom. You told her about the bailiffs, did not you? 'with a stamp of furyhe demanded of Madame, whose nasal roullades of talk were running on like aaccompaniment all the time. She had told me indeed only a few hours since, and now it sounded to me like the echo of something heard a month ago ormore. 

'You can't go about the house, d--n it, with bailiffs in occupation. Therenow--there's the whole thing. Get to your room, Maud, and don't vex me. There's a good girl. '

He was trying to smile as he spoke these last words, and, with quaveringsoft tones, to quiet me; but the old scowl was there, the smile wascorpse-like and contorted, and the softness of his tones was more dreadfulthan another man's ferocity. 

'There, Madame, she'll go quite gently, and you can call if you want help. Don't let it happen again. '

'Come, Maud, ' said Madame, encircling but not hurting my arm with her grip;'let us go, my friend. '

I did go, you will wonder, as well you may--as you may wonder at thedocility with which strong men walk through the press-room to the drop, and thank the people of the prison for their civility when they bid themgood-bye, and facilitate the fixing of the rope and adjusting of the cap. Have you never wondered that they don't make a last battle for life withthe unscrupulous energy of terror, instead of surrendering it so gently incold blood, on a silent calculation, the arithmetic of despair?

I went upstairs with Madame like a somnambulist. I rather quickened mystep as I drew near my room. I went in, and stood a phantom at the window, looking into the dark quadrange. A thin glimmering crescent hung in thefrosty sky, and all heaven was strewn with stars. Over the steep roof atthe other side spread on the dark azure of the night this glorious blazonryof the unfathomable Creator. To me a dreadful scroll--inexorable eyes--thecloud of cruel witnesses looking down in freezing brightness on my prayersand agonies. 

I turned about and sat down, leaning my head upon my arms. Then suddenly Isat up, as for the first time the picture of Uncle Silas's litteredroom, and the travelling bags and black boxes plied on the floor by histable--the desk, hat-case, umbrella, coats, rugs, and mufflers, all readyfor a journey--reached my brain and suggested thought. The _mise enscène_ had remained in every detail fixed upon my retina; and how Iwondered--'When is he going--how soon? Is he going to carry me away andplace me in a madhouse?'

'Am I--am I mad?' I began to think. 'Is this all a dream, or is it real?'

I remembered how a thin polite gentleman, with a tall grizzled head and ablack velvet waistcoat, came into the carriage on our journey, and said afew words to me; how Madame whispered him something, and he murmured 'Oh!'very gently, with raised eyebrows, and a glance at me, and thenceforwardspoke no more to me, only to Madame, and at the next station carried hishat and other travelling chattels into another carriage. Had she told him Iwas mad?

These horrid bars! Madame always with me! The direful hints that dropt frommy uncle! My own terrific sensations!--All these evidences revolved in mybrain, and presented themselves in turn like writings on a wheel of fire. 

There came a knock to the door--

Oh, Meg! Was it she? No; old Wyat whispered Madame something about herroom. 

So Madame re-entered, with a little silver tray and flagon in her hands, and a glass. Nothing came from Uncle Silas in ungentlemanlike fashion. 

'Drink, Maud, ' said Madame, raising the cover, and evidently enjoying thefragrant steam. 

I could not. I might have done so had I been able to swallow anything--forI was too distracted to think of Meg's warning. 

Madame suddenly recollected her mistake of that evening, and tried thedoor; but it was duly locked. She took the key from her pocket and placedit in her breast. 

'You weel 'av these rooms to yourself, ma chère. I shall sleep downstairsto-night. '

She poured out some of the hot claret into the glass abstractedly, anddrank it off. 

''Tis very good--I drank without theenk. Bote 'tis very good. Why don't youdrink some?'

'I could not', I repeated. And Madame boldly helped herself. 

'Vary polite, certally, to Madame was it to send nothing at all for _hair_'(so she pronounced 'her'); 'bote is all same thing. ' And so she ran on inher tipsy vein, which was loud and sarcastic, with a fierce laugh now andthen. 

Afterwards I heard that they were afraid of Madame, who was given to crosspurposes, and violent in her cups. She had been noisy and quarrelsomedownstairs. She was under the delusion that I was to be conveyed away thatnight to a remote and safe place, and she was to be handsomely compensatedfor services and evidence to be afterwards given. She was not to betrusted, however, with the truth. That was to be known but to three peopleon earth. 

I never knew, but I believe that the spiced claret which Madame drank wasdrugged. She was a person who could, I have been told. Drink a great dealwithout exhibiting any change from it but an inflamed colour and furioustemper. I can only state for certain what I saw, and that was, that shortlyafter she had finished the claret she laid down upon my bed, and, I nowknow, fell asleep. I then thought she was _feigning_ sleep only, and thatshe was really watching me. 

About an hour after this I suddenly heard a little _clink_ in theyard beneath. I peeped out, but saw nothing. The sound was repeated, however--sometimes more frequently, sometimes at long intervals. At last, in the deep shadow next the farther wall, I thought I could discover afigure, sometimes erect, sometimes stooping and bowing toward the earth. Icould see this figure only in the rudest outline mingling with the dark. 

Like a thunderbolt it smote my brain. 'They are making my grave!'

After the first dreadful stun I grew quite wild, and ran up and down theroom wringing my hands and gasping prayers to heaven. Then a calm stoleover me--such a dreadful calm as I could fancy glide over one who floatedin a boat under the shadow of the 'Traitor's Gate, ' leaving life and hopeand trouble behind. 

Shortly after there came a very low tap at my door; then another, like atiny post-knock. I could never understand why it was I made no answer. HadI done so, and thus shown that I was awake, it might have sealed my fate. I was standing in the middle of the floor staring at the door, which Iexpected to see open, and admit I knew not what troop of spectres. 

CHAPTER LXIV

_THE HOUR OF DEATH_

It was a very still night and frosty. My candle had long burnt out. Therewas still a faint moonlight, which fell in a square of yellow on the floornear the window, leaving the rest of the room in what to an eye lessaccustomed than mine had become to that faint light would have been totaldarkness. Now, I am sure, I heard a soft whispering outside my door. I knewthat I was in a state of siege! The crisis was come, and strange to say, I felt myself grow all at once resolute and self-possessed. It was not asubsidence, however, of the dreadful excitement, but a sudden screwing-upof my nerves to a pitch such as I cannot describe. 

I suppose the people outside moved with great caution; and the perfectsolidity of the floor, which had not anywhere a creaking board in it, favoured their noiseless movements. It was well for me that there werein the house three persons whom it was part of their plan to mystifyrespecting my fate. This alone compelled the extreme caution of theirproceedings. They suspected that I had placed furniture against the door, and were afraid to force it, lest a crash, a scream, perhaps a long andshrilly struggle, might follow. 

I remained for a space which I cannot pretend to estimate in the sameposture, afraid to stir--afraid to move my eye from the door. 

A very peculiar grating sound above my head startled me from mywatch--something of the character of sawing, only more crunching, and witha faint continued rumble in it--utterly inexplicable. It sounded over thatportion of the roof which was farthest from the door, toward which I nowglided; and as I took my stand under cover of the projecting angle of aclumsy old press that stood close by it, I perceived the room a littledarkened, and I saw a man descend and take his stand upon the window-stone. He let go a rope, which, however, was still fast round his body, andemployed both his hands, with apparently some exertion, about something atthe side of the window, which in a moment more, in one mass, bars and all, swung noiselessly open, admitting the frosty night-air; and the man, whomI now distinctly saw to be Dudley Ruthyn, kneeled on the sill, and stept, after a moment's listening, into the room. His foot made no sound upon thefloor; his head was bare, and he wore his usual short shooting-jacket. 

I cowered to the ground in my post of observation. He stood, as itseemed to me irresolutely for a moment, and then drew from his pocket aninstrument which I distinctly saw against the faint moonlight. Imagine ahammer, one end of which had been beaten out into a longish tapering spike, with a handle something longer than usual. He drew stealthily to thewindow, and seemed to examine this hurriedly, and tested its strength witha twist or two of his hand. And then he adjusted it very carefully in hisgrasp, and made two or three little experimental picks with it in the air. 

I remained perfectly still, with a terrible composure, crouched in myhiding-place, my teeth clenched, and prepared to struggle like a tigressfor my life when discovered. I thought his next measure would be to light amatch. I saw a lantern, I fancied, on the window-sill. But this was not hisplan. He stole, in a groping way, which seemed strange to me, who coulddistinguish objects in this light, to the side of my bed, the exactposition of which he evidently knew; he stooped over it. Madame wasbreathing in the deep respiration of heavy sleep. Suddenly but softly helaid, as it seemed to me, his left hand over her face, and nearly at thesame instant there came a scrunching blow; an unnatural shriek, beginningsmall and swelling for two or three seconds into a yell such as areimagined in haunted houses, accompanied by a convulsive sound, as of themotion of running, and the arms drumming on the bed; and then anotherblow--and with a horrid gasp he recoiled a step or two, and stood perfectlystill. I heard a horrible tremor quivering through the joints and curtainsof the bedstead--the convulsions of the murdered woman. It was a dreadfulsound, like the shaking of a tree and rustling of leaves. Then once morehe steps to the side of the bed, and I heard another of those horridblows--and silence--and another--and more silence--and the diabolicalsurgery was ended. For a few seconds, I think, I was on the point offainting; but a gentle stir outside the door, close to my ear, startled me, and proved that there had been a watcher posted outside. There was a littletapping at the door. 

'Who's that?' whispered Dudley, hoarsely. 

'A friend, ' answered a sweet voice. 

And a key was introduced, the door quickly unlocked, and Uncle Silasentered. I saw that frail, tall, white figure, the venerable silver locksthat resembled those upon the honoured head of John Wesley, and his thinwhite hand, the back of which hung so close to my face that I feared tobreathe. I could see his fingers twitching nervously. The smell of perfumesand of ether entered the room with him. 

Dudley was trembling now like a man in an ague-fit. 

'Look what you made me do!' he said, maniacally. 

'Steady, sir!' said the old man, close beside me. 

'Yes, you damned old murderer! I've a mind to do for you. '

'There, Dudley, like a dear boy, don't give way; it's done. Right or wrong, we can't help it. You must be quiet, ' said the old man, with a sterngentleness. 

Dudley groaned. 

'Whoever advised it, you're a gainer, Dudley, ' said Uncle Silas. 

Then there was a pause. 

'I hope that was not heard, ' said Uncle Silas. 

Dudley walked to the window and stood there. 

'Come, Dudley, you and Hawkes must use expedition. You know you must getthat out of the way. '

'I've done too much. I won't do nout; I'll not touch it. I wish my hand wasoff first; I wish I was a soger. Do as ye like, you an' Hawkes. I won't gonigh it; damn ye both--and _that_!' and he hurled the hammer with all hisforce upon the floor. 

'Come, come, be reasonable, Dudley, dear boy. There's nothing to fear butyour own folly. You won't make a noise?'

'Oh, oh, my God!' said Dudley, hoarsely, and wiped his forehead with hisopen hand. 

'There now, you'll be all well in a minute, ' continued the old man. 

'You said 'twouldn't hurt her. If I'd a known she'd a screeched like thatI'd never a done it. 'Twas a damn lie. You're the damndest villain onearth. '

'Come, Dudley!' said the old man under his breath, but very sternly, 'makeup your mind. If you don't choose to go on, it can't be helped; only it'sa pity you began. For _you_ it is a good deal--it does not much matter for_me_. '

'Ay, for _you_!' echoed Dudley, through his set teeth. 'The old talk!'

'Well, sir, ' snarled the old man, in the same low tones, 'you should havethought of all this before. It's only taking leave of the world a year ortwo sooner, but a year or two's something. I'll leave you to do as youplease. '

'Stop, will you? Stop here. I know it's a fixt thing now. If a fella doesa thing he's damned for, you might let him talk a bit anyhow. I don't caremuch if I was shot. '

'There now--_there_--just stick to that, and don't run off again. There's abox and a bag here; we must change the direction, and take them away. Thebox has some jewels. Can you see them? I wish we had a light. '

'No, I'd rayther not; I can see well enough. I wish we were out o' this. _Here's_ the box. '

'Pull it to the window, ' said the old man, to my inexpressible reliefadvancing at last a few steps. 

Coolness was given me in that dreadful moment, and I knew that all dependedon my being prompt and resolute. I stood up swiftly. I often thought if Ihad happened to wear silk instead of the cachmere I had on that night, itsrustle would have betrayed me. 

I distinctly saw the tall stooping figure of my uncle, and the outline ofhis venerable tresses, as he stood between me and the dull light of thewindow, like a shape cut in card. 

He was saying 'just to _there_, ' and pointing with his long arm at thatcontracting patch of moonlight which lay squared upon the floor. The doorwas about a quarter open, and just as Dudley began to drag Madame's heavybox, with my jewel-case in it, across the floor from her room, inhaling agreat breath--with a mental prayer for help--I glided on tiptoe from theroom and found myself on the gallery floor. 

I turned to my right, simply by chance, and followed a long gallery in thedark, not running--I was too fearful of making the least noise--but walkingwith the tiptoe-swiftness of terror. At the termination of this was across-gallery, one end of which--that to my left--terminated in a greatwindow, through which the dusky night-view was visible. With the instinctof terror I chose the darker, and turned again to my right; hurryingthrough this long and nearly dark passage, I was terrified by a light, about thirty feet before me, emerging from the ceiling. In spotted patchesthis light fell through the door and sides of a stable lantern, and showedme a ladder, down which, from an open skylight I suppose for the coolnight-air floated in my face, came Dickon Hawkes notwithstanding hismaimed condition, with so much celerity as to leave me hardly a moment forconsideration. 

He sat on the last round of the ladder, and tightened the strap of hiswooden leg. 

At my left was a door-case open, but no door. I entered; it was a shortpassage about six feet long, leading perhaps to a backstair, but the doorat the end was locked. 

I was forced to stand in this recess, then, which afforded no shelter, while Pegtop stumped by with his lantern in his hand. I fancy he had someidea of listening to his master unperceived, for he stopped close to myhiding-place, blew out the candle, and pinched the long snuff with hishorny finger and thumb. 

Having listened for a few seconds, he stumped stealthily along the gallerywhich I had just traversed, and turned the corner in the direction of thechamber where the crime had just been committed, and the discovery wasimpending. I could see him against the broad window which in the daytimelighted this long passage, and the moment he had passed the corner Iresumed my flight. 

I descended a stair corresponding with that backstair, as I am told, upwhich Madame had led me only the night before. I tried the outer door. Tomy wild surprise it was open. In a moment I was upon the step, in the freeair, and as instantaneously was seized by the arm in the gripe of a man. 

It was Tom Brice, who had already betrayed me, and who was now, in surtoutand hat, waiting to drive the carriage with the guilty father and son fromthe scene of their abhorred outrage. 

CHAPTER LXV

_IN THE OAK PARLOUR_

So it was vain: I was trapped, and all was over. 

I stood before him on the step, the white moon shining on my face. I wastrembling so that I wonder I could stand, my helpless hands raised towardshim, and I looked up in his face. A long shuddering moan--'Oh--oh--oh!' wasall I uttered. 

The man, still holding my arm, looked, I thought frightened, into my whitedumb face. 

Suddenly he said, in a wild, fierce whisper--

'Never say another word' (I had not uttered one). 'They shan't hurt ye, Miss; git ye in; I don't care a damn!'

It was an uncouth speech. To me it was the voice of an angel. With a burstof gratitude that sounded in my own ears like a laugh, I thanked God forthose blessed words. 

In a moment more he had placed me in the carriage, and almost instantly wewere in motion--very cautiously while crossing the court, until he had gotthe wheels upon the grass, and then at a rapid pace, improving his speed asthe distance increased. He drove along the side of the back-approach to thehouse, keeping on the grass; so that our progress, though swaying like thatof a ship in a swell, was very nearly as noiseless. 

The gate had been left unlocked--he swung it open, and remounted the box. And we were now beyond the spell of Bartram-Haugh, thundering--Heaven bepraised!--along the Queen's highway, right in the route to Elverston. Itwas literally a gallop. Through the chariot windows I saw Tom stand as hedrove, and every now and then throw an awful glance over his shoulder. Werewe pursued? Never was agony of prayer like mine, as with clasped hands andwild stare I gazed through the windows on the road, whose trees and hedgesand gabled cottages were chasing one another backward at so giddy a speed. 

We were now ascending that identical steep, with the giant ash-trees at theright and the stile between, which my vision of Meg Hawkes had presentedall that night, when my excited eye detected a running figure within thehedge. I saw the head of some one crossing the stile in pursuit, and Iheard Brice's name shrieked. 

'Drive on--on--on!' I screamed. 

But Brice pulled up. I was on my knees on the floor of the carriage, withclasped hands, expecting capture, when the door opened, and Meg Hawkes, pale as death, her cloak drawn over her black tresses, looked in. 

'Oh!--ho!--ho!--thank God!' she screamed. 'Shake hands, lass. Tom, yer agood un! He's a good lad, Tom. '

'Come in, Meg--you must sit by me, ' I said, recovering all at once. 

Meg made no demur. 'Take my hand, ' I said offering mine to her disengagedone. 

'I can't, Miss--my arm's broke. '

And so it was, poor thing! She had been espied and overtaken in her errandof mercy for me, and her ruffian father had felled her with his cudgel, andthen locked her into the cottage, whence, however, she had contrived toescape, and was now flying to Elverston, having tried in vain to get ahearing in Feltram, whose people had been for hours in bed. 

The door being shut upon Meg, the steaming horses were instantly at agallop again. 

Tom was still watching as before, with many an anxious glance to rearward, for pursuit. Again he pulled up, and came to the window. 

'Oh, what is it?' cried I. 

''Bout that letter, Miss; I couldn't help. 'Twas Dickon, he found it in mypocket. That's a'. '

'Oh yes!--no matter--thank you--thank Heaven! Are we near Elverston?'

''Twill be a mile, Miss: and please'm to mind I had no finger in't. '

'Thanks--thank you--you're very good--I shall _always_ thank you, Tom, aslong as I live!'

At length we entered Elverston. I think I was half wild. I don't know how Igot into the hall. I was in the oak-parlour, I believe, when I saw cousinMonica. I was standing, my arms extended. I could not speak; but I ran witha loud long scream into her arms. I forget a great deal after that. 

CONCLUSION

Oh, my beloved cousin Monica! Thank Heaven, you are living still, andyounger, I think, than I in all things but in years. 

And Milly, my dear companion, she is now the happy wife of that good littleclergyman, Sprigge Biddlepen. It has been in my power to be of use to them, and he shall have the next presentation to Dawling. 

Meg Hawkes, proud and wayward, and the most affectionate creature on earth, was married to Tom Brice a few months after these events; and, as bothwished to emigrate, I furnished them with the capital, and I am told theyare likely to be rich. I hear from my kind Meg often, and she seems veryhappy. 

My dear old friends, Mary Quince and Mrs. Rusk, are, alas! growing old, butliving with me, and very happy. And after long solicitation, I persuadedDoctor Bryerly, the best and truest of ministers, with my dearest friend'sconcurrence, to undertake the management of the Derbyshire estates. In thisI have been most fortunate. He is the very person for such a charge--sopunctual, so laborious, so kind, and so shrewd. 

In compliance with medical advice, cousin Monica hurried me away to theContinent, where she would never permit me to allude to the terrific sceneswhich remain branded so awfully on my brain. It needed no constraint. It isa sort of agony to me even now to think of them. 

The plan was craftily devised. Neither old Wyat nor Giles, the butler, hada suspicion that I had returned to Bartram. Had I been put to death, thesecret of my fate would have been deposited in the keeping of four personsonly--the two Ruthyns, Hawkes, and ultimately Madame. My dear cousin Monicahad been artfully led to believe in my departure for France, and preparedfor my silence. Suspicion might not have been excited for a year after mydeath, and then would never, in all probability, have pointed to Bartram asthe scene of the crime. The weeds would have grown over me, and I shouldhave lain in that deep grave where the corpse of Madame de la Rougierre wasunearthed in the darksome quadrangle of Bartram-Haugh. 

It was more than two years after that I heard what had befallen at Bartramafter my flight. Old Wyat, who went early to Uncle Silas's room, to hersurprise--for he had told her that he was that night to accompany his son, who had to meet the mailtrain to Derby at five o'clock in the morning--sawher old master lying on the sofa, much in his usual position. 

'There was nout much strange about him, ' old Wyat said, 'but that hisscent-bottle was spilt on its side over on the table, and he dead. '

She thought he was not quite cold when she found him, and she sent the oldbutler for Doctor Jolks, who said he died of too much 'loddlum. '

Of my wretched uncle's religion what am I to say? Was it utter hypocrisy, or had it at any time a vein of sincerity in it? I cannot say. I don'tbelieve that he had any heart left for religion, which is the highest formof affection, to take hold of. Perhaps he was a sceptic with misgivingsabout the future, but past the time for finding anything reliable in it. The devil approached the citadel of his heart by stealth, with many zigzagsand parallels. The idea of marrying me to his son by fair means, then byfoul, and, when that wicked chance was gone, then the design of seizing allby murder, supervened. I dare say that Uncle Silas thought for a while thathe was a righteous man. He wished to have heaven and to escape hell, ifthere were such places. But there were other things whose existence wasnot speculative, of which some he coveted, and some he dreaded more, andtemptation came. 'Now if any man build upon this foundation, gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, stubble, every man's work shall be mademanifest; for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed byfire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is. ' Therecomes with old age a time when the heart is no longer fusible or malleable, and must retain the form in which it has cooled down. 'He that is unjust, let him be unjust still; he which is filthy, let him be filthy still. '

Dudley had disappeared; but in one of her letters, Meg, writing from herAustralian farm, says: 'There's a fella in toon as calls hisself Colbroke, wi' a good hoose o' wood, 15 foot length, and as by 'bout as silling o' thepearler o' Bartram--only lots o' rats, they do say, my lady--a bying andsellin' of goold back and forred wi' the diggin foke and the marchants. Hischick and mouth be wry wi' scar o' burns or vitterel, an' no wiskers, blessyou; but my Tom ee toll him he knowed him for Master Doodley. I ant seedhim; but he sade ad shute Tom soon is look at 'im, an' denide it, wi'mouthful o' curses and oaf. Tom baint right shure; if I seed un wons i'd nofor sartin; but 'appen, 'twil best be let be. ' This was all. 

Old Hawkes stood his ground, relying on the profound cunning with whichtheir actual proceedings had been concealed, even from the suspicions ofthe two inmates of the house, and on the mystery that habitually shroudedBartram-Haugh and all its belongings from the eyes of the outer world. 

Strangely enough, he fancied that I had made my escape long before the roomwas entered; and, even if he were arrested, there was no evidence, he wascertain, to connect _him_ with the murder, all knowledge of which he wouldstoutly deny. 

There was an inquest on the body of my uncle, and Dr. Jolks was the chiefwitness. They found that his death was caused by 'an excessive dose oflaudanum, accidentally administered by himself. '

It was not until nearly a year after the dreadful occurrences at Bartramthat Dickon Hawkes was arrested on a very awful charge, and placed in gaol. It was an old crime, committed in Lancashire, that had found him out. After his conviction, as a last chance, he tried a disclosure of all thecircumstances of the unsuspected death of the Frenchwoman. Her body wasdiscovered buried where he indicated, in the inner court of Bartram-Haugh, and, after due legal enquiry, was interred in the churchyard of Feltram. 

Thus I escaped the horrors of the witness-box, or the far worse torture ofa dreadful secret. 

Doctor Bryerly, shortly after Lady Knollys had described to him the mannerin which Dudley entered my room, visited the house of Bartram-Haugh, andminutely examined the windows of the room in which Mr. Charke had slept onthe night of his murder. One of these he found provided with powerful steelhinges, very craftily sunk and concealed in the timber of the window-frame, which was secured by an iron pin outside, and swung open on its removal. This was the room in which they had placed me, and this the contrivanceby means of which the room had been entered. The problem of Mr. Charke'smurder was solved. 

 * * * * *

I have penned it. I sit for a moment breathless. My hands are cold anddamp. I rise with a great sigh, and look out on the sweet green landscapeand pastoral hills, and see the flowers and birds and the waving boughs ofglorious trees--all images of liberty and safety; and as the tremendousnightmare of my youth melts into air, I lift my eyes in boundless gratitudeto the God of all comfort, whose mighty hand and outstretched arm deliveredme. When I lower my eyes and unclasp my hands, my cheeks are wet withtears. A tiny voice is calling me 'Mamma!' and a beloved smiling face, withhis dear father's silken brown tresses, peeps in. 

'Yes, darling, our walk. Come away!'

I am Lady Ilbury, happy in the affection of a beloved and nobleheartedhusband. The shy useless girl you have known is now a mother--trying to bea good one; and this, the last pledge, has lived. 

I am not going to tell of sorrows--how brief has been my pride of earlymaternity, or how beloved were those whom the Lord gave and the Lord hastaken away. But sometimes as, smiling on my little boy, the tears gatherin my eyes, and he wonders, I can see, why they come, I am thinking--andtrembling while I smile--to think, how strong is love, how frail is life;and rejoicing while I tremble that, in the deathless love of those whomourn, the Lord of Life, who never gave a pang in vain, conveys the sweetand ennobling promise of a compensation by eternal reunion. So, throughmy sorrows, I have heard a voice from heaven say, 'Write, from henceforeblessed are the dead that die in the Lord!'

This world is a parable--the habitation of symbols--the phantoms ofspiritual things immortal shown in material shape. May the blessedsecond-sight be mine--to recognise under these beautiful forms of earth theANGELS who wear them; for I am sure we may walk with them if we will, andhear them speak!