 CHAPTER XXXVI. An Arrival at the Dead of Night. I have sometimes been asked why I wear an odd little turquoise ring, to which the uninstructed eye appears quite valueless, and altogether an unworthy companion of those jewels which flash insultingly beside it. It is a little keepsake of which I became possessed about this time. Come, lass, what name shall I give you? cried Millie one morning, bursting into my room in a state of alarming hilarity. My own, Millie? No, but you must have a nickname like everyone else. Don't mind it, Millie. 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 Millie, growing very red. Perhaps there was something provoking in my tone, for I certainly was very much disgusted at Millie's relapse into barbarism. You can't, I retorted quietly. See if I don't, and I'll give you 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 you a smack on the cheek as soon as look at you! And she gave her dress a great slap and drew near me in her wrath. I really thought she was about tendering the ordeal of single combat. I made her, however, a paralyzing curtsy, and with immense dignity, sailed out of the room and into Uncle Silas's study, where it happened we were to breakfast that morning and for several subsequent ones. During the meal we maintained the most dignified reserve, and I don't think either so much as looked at the other. We had no walk together that day. I was sitting in the evening, quite alone, when Millie entered the room, her eyes were red, and she looked very sullen. I want your hand, cousin! she said, at the same time taking it by the wrist, and administering with it a sudden slap on her plump cheek, which made the room ring, and my fingers tingle, and before I had recovered from my surprise she had vanished. I called after her but no answer. I pursued but she was running too, and I quite lost her at the cross-galleries. I did not see her at tea, nor before going to bed. But after I had fallen asleep I was awakened by Millie in a flood of tears. Cousin, Maude, will ye forgive me? You'll never like me again, will ye? No, I knew ye won't. I'm such a brute. I hate it. It's a shame. And here's a Banbury cake for you. I sent to the town for it, and some taffy. Won't you eat it? And here's a little ring. Tisn't it as pretty as your own rings? And you'll wear it, maybe, for my sake? Poor Millie's sake. Before I was so bad-tee, if ye forgive me, and I'll look at breakfast, and if it's on your finger I'll know your friends with me again, and if ye don't, I won't trouble you no more. And I think I'll just drown myself out of the way, and you'll never see wicked Millie no more. And without waiting a moment, leaving me only half awake, and with the sensations of dreaming, she scampered from the room, in her bare feet with a petticoat about her shoulders. She had left her candle by my bed, and her little offerings on the coverlet by me. If I had stood in Adam less in terror of goblins than I did, I should have followed her, but I was afraid. I stood in my bare feet at my bedside and kissed the poor little ring, and put it on my finger, where it has remained ever since and always shall. And when I lay down, longing for morning, the image of her pale, imploring, penitential face was before me for hours, and I repented bitterly of my cool, provoking ways, and thought myself, I daresay, justly, a thousand times more to blame than Millie. 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, was formidable, and we, sitting at a table disproportionately large, under the cold, strange gaze of my guardian, talked only what was inevitable, and that in low tones. For whenever Millie, for a moment, raised her voice, Uncle Silas would wince, place his thin white fingers quickly over his ear, and look as if a pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug and smile piteously into vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, was not in the talking vein himself, and that was not often, you may suppose there was very little spoken in his presence. When Millie, across the table, saw the ring upon my finger, she, drawing her breath, said, Oh! and with round eyes and mouth, she looked so delighted, and she made a little motion as if she was going on the point of jumping up, and then her poor face quivered, and she bit her lip, and, staring imploringly at me, her eyes filled fast with tears which rolled down 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 that small matters can stir the affection so profoundly at a time of life when great troubles seldom approach us. When, at length, the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of the wrestling ring as poor Millie 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 a devil, and I'll never call you a name but Maud, my darling Maud. You must, Millie, Mrs. Bustle, I'll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like, you must. I was blubbering like Millie, and hugging my best, and indeed I wonder how we kept our feet. So Millie 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 Hough. I was frightened at the frequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject. I did not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Millie's way of talking about them. But one day while in one of his queerish states, he called for me, and I saw him, and was unspeakably scared. In a white wrapper he lay coiled in a great easy chair. I should have thought him dead had I not been accompanied by old Lamour, who knew every gradation and symptom of these strange affections. She winked and nodded to me, with a ghastly significance, and whispered, Don't make no noisemish, till he talks, he'll come too for a bit and on. Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like that of an epileptic arrest in one of his contortions. There was a frown and a smirk like that of idiocy, and a strip of white eyeball was disclosed. Suddenly, with a kind of chilly shutter, he opened his eyes wide, and screwed his lips together, and blinked and stared on me with a fatuized uncertainty that gradually broke into a feeble smile. Uh, the girl, lost his child. Well, dear, I'm hardly able. I'll speak tomorrow, next day. It is to—neuralgia—or something—torture. Tell her. So, huddling himself together, he lay against his great chair, and with the same inexpressible helplessness in his attitude, and gradually his face resumed its dreadful cast. Come away, Mish. He's changed his mind. He'll not be fit to talk to you no ways all day, maybe, said the old woman, again in a whisper. So forth we stole from the room, I unspeakably shocked. In fact, he looked as if he were dying, and so, in my agitation, I told the crone who, forgetting the ceremony with which he usually treated me, chuckled out derisively. A dying is he? Well, he be like St. Paul. He's been a dying daily this many a day. I looked at her with a chill of horror. She did not care, I suppose, what sort of feelings she might excite, for she went on mumbling sarcastically to 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? Shall we send for a doctor? I whispered. La blessie. The doctor knows all about it, Mish. The old woman's face had a gleam of that derision which is so shocking in the features of feebleness 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 terrible attacks. There's no fear of him. There isn't no fit at all. He's not to worse it. Just silly a bit now and again. It's been the same a dozen years or more, and the doctor knows all about it," answered the old woman sturdily. And you'll find he'll be as mad as a bedlam if you 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 laudlem, said Mary. To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures. I have often spoke to medical men about them since, but never could learn that excessive use of opium could altogether account for them. It was, I believe, certain, however, that he did use that drug in startling quantities. It was, indeed, sometimes a topic of complaint with him, that his neurologia imposed this sad necessity upon him. The image of Uncle Silas as I had seen him that day troubled and frightened my imagination as I lay in my bed. I had slept very well since my arrival at Bartram. So much of the day was passed in the open air and in active exercise that this was but natural. But that night I was nervous and wakeful, and it was passed two o'clock when I fancied I heard the sound of horses and carriage-wheels on the avenue. Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to get up and peep from the window. My heart beat fast as I saw the post-shaz approach the courtyard. A front window was let down, and the postillian pulled up for a few seconds. In consequence of some directions received by him I fancied he resumed his route at a walk, and so drew up at the hall-door on the steps of which a figure awaited his arrival. I think it was old L'Amour, but I could not be quite certain. There was a lantern on the top of the balustrade, close by the door. The shea's lamps were lighted for the night was rather dark. A bag and valise as well as I could see were pulled from the interior by the post-boy, and a box from the top of the vehicle, and these were carried into the hall. I was obliged to keep my cheek against the window-pane to command a view of the point of deparcation, and my breath upon the glass, which dimmed it again almost as fast as I wiped it away, helped to obscure my vision. But I saw a tall figure in a cloak get down and swiftly enter the house, but whether male or female I could not discern. My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My uncle was worse, was in fact dying, and this was the physician too late summoned to his bedside. I listened for the ascent of the doctor and his entrance at my uncle's door, 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 but without result. I returned to the window, but the carriage and horses had disappeared. I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince and take counsel with her, and persuade her to undertake a reconnaissance. The fact is, I was persuaded that my uncle was in extremity, and I was quite wild to know the doctor's opinion. But, after all, it would be cruel to summon the good soul from her refreshing 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 Millie. How was Uncle Silas, I equally inquired. Old Namor 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 never said a word it to me, answered she. I'm asking only, said I. I don't know whether he came or no, she replied. But what makes you take that in your head? A shade arrived here between two and three o'clock last night. Hey, and who told you? Millie seemed all on a sudden highly interested. I saw it, Millie, and someone, I fancied the doctor, came from it into the house. Fudge, lass, who'd sin for the doctor? T'wasn't he, I tell you. What was he like? said Millie. I could only see clearly that he, or she, was tall and were a cloak, I replied. Then T'wasn't him nor T'other I was thinking on, neither, and I'll be hanged, but I think it will be Cormoran, cried Millie, with a thoughtful wrap with her knuckle on the table. Precisely at this juncture a tapping came to the door. Come in, said I. And old LaMoure entered the room with a curtsy. I came to tell Miss Quinch her breakfast's ready, said the old lady. Who came in the shade, LaMoure? demanded Millie. What shade spluttered the bell-dom, tartly? The shade that came last night, past two o'clock, said Millie. That's a lie, and a damn lie, cried the bell-dom. There weren't no shades at the door since Miss Maud there came from Noll. I stared at the audacious old menial who could utter such language. Yes, there was a chase, and Cormoran, as I think, become in it, said Millie, who seemed accustomed to LaMoure's daring address. And there's another damn lie as big as T'other, said the crone, her haggard 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 chase at the door. Your untruth signifies very little, but your impertinence here I will not permit. Should it be repeated I will assuredly complain to my uncle. The old woman flushed more fiercely as I spoke, and fixed her bleary glare on me, with the compression of her mouth that amounted to a wicked grimace. She resisted her angry impulse, however, and only chuckled a little spitefully, saying, No offence, Mish, it be a way we has in Darbyshurow speak in our minds. No offence, Mish, we're meant, and none took as I hoped. And she made me another curtsy. And I forgot to tell you, Mish, Millie, the master wants you this minute. So Millie, in mute haste, withdrew, followed closely by LaMoure. END OF CHAPTER XXXVII Dr. Briarley emerges. When Millie joined me at breakfast, her eyes were red and swollen. She was still sniffing with that little sobbing hiccup which betrays, even were there no other signs, recent violent weeping. She sat down quite silent. Is he worse, Millie? I inquired anxiously. No, nothing's wrong with him. He's right well, said Millie fiercely. What's the matter, then, Millie, dear? The poisonous old witch, to us just to tell the governor how I'd said to us Cormoran that came by the poshé last night. And who is Cormoran? I inquired. Aye, there it is. I'd like to tell, and you want to hear, and I just dare it, for he'll send me off right to a French school. Hang it, hang them all if I do. And why should Uncle Silas care? said I, a good deal surprised. There a tellin' lies. Who, said I? No more, that's who. So soon as she made her complaint of me, the governor asked her, sharp enough, did anyone come last night, or a poshé, and she was ready to swear there was no one. Are ye quite sure, mind, you really did siat, or happen to us all a dream? It was no dream, Millie. So sure as you were there, I saw exactly what I told you, I replied. Governor won't believe it anyhow, and he's right mad with me, and he threatens me he'll have me off to France. I wished was under the sea. I hate France, I do, like the devil. Don't you? There always a threatening me with France, if I dare say a word more about the poshé or, or anyone. I really was curious about Cormoran, but Cormoran was not to be defined to me by Millie. Nor did she, in reality, no more than I, respecting the arrival of the night before. One day I was surprised to see Dr. Briarley on the stairs. I was standing in a dark gallery as he walked across the floor of the lobby to my uncle's door, 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 down and found Millie awaiting me in the hall. So Dr. Briarley is here, I said. That's a thin fellow with the sharp look and the shiny black coat that went up just now, asked Millie. Yes, he's gone into your papa's room, said I. Appent was he came to other night. He may be staying here, though we see him 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 Dr. Briarley's figure which I had seen. So without any new light gathered from this apparition we went on our way and made our little sketch of the ruined bridge. We found the gate locked as before, and, as Millie could not persuade me to climb it, we got round the pailing by the river's bank. While at our drawing we saw the swarthy face, sooty locks, and old weather-stained red coat of zamiel, who was glowering malignly at us from among the chunks of the forest trees, and standing motionless as a monumental figure in the side aisle of a cathedral. When we looked again, he was gone. Although it was a fine mild day for the wintery season, we yet, cloaked as we were, could not pursue so still an occupation as sketching for more than ten or fifteen minutes. As we returned, impassionate clump of trees, we heard a sudden outbreak of voices, angry and expostulatory, and saw, under the trees, the savage old zamiel strike his daughter, with his stick, two great blows, one of which was across the head. Beauty ran only a short distance away, while the swerved old wood demons stumped lustily after her, cursing and brandishing his cudgel. My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could not speak, but in 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, her eyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering to suppress a burst of weeping. Two little rivulets of blood were trickling over her temple. I say, Father, 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 he growled another curse, and started afresh to reach her, whirling his stick in 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 river tonight when he's asleep. I'd serve you the same, and out came an oath. You'd have her lick, your father, would ye? Look out! And he wagged his head with a scowl at Millie, and a flourish of his cudgel. Be quiet, Millie, I whispered, for Millie was preparing for battle, and I again addressed him with the assurance that, on reaching home, I would tell my uncle how he had treated the poor girl. Dis you, she may think for it, a wheedling o' her to open that gate. He snarled. That's a lie! We went round by the brook, cried Millie. I did not think proper to discuss the matter with him, and looking very angry, and, I thought, a little put out. He jerked and swayed himself out of sight. I merely repeated my promise of informing my uncle as he went, to which, over his shoulder, he brawled, Silas won't mind ye that! snapping his horny finger and thumb. The girl remained where she had stood, wiping the blood off roughly with the 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 about you. But she was not crying. She raised her head, and looked at us a little ascance, with a sullen contempt, I thought. And you must have these apples, won't you? We had brought in our basket two or three of those splendid apples for which Bartram was famous. I hesitated to go near her. These hawkeezes, beauty and pegtop, were such savages. So I rolled the apples gently along the ground to her feet. She continued to look dodgedly at us, with the same expression, and kicked away the apples sullenly that approached her feet. Then, wiping her temple and forehead in her apron, without a word, she turned and walked slowly away. Poor thing! I'm afraid she'd lead a hard life. What a strange repulsive people they are! When we reached home, at the head of the great staircase, old Lamor was awaiting me. And with a curtsy, and very respectfully, she informed me that the master would be happy to see me. Could it be about my evidence as to the arrival of the mysterious Shays that he summoned me to this interview? Gentiles were his ways. There was something undefinable about Uncle Silas which inspired fear. And I should have liked a few things less than meeting his gaze in the character of a culprit. 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 I had 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 could recollect, in precisely the same, rather handsome, though negligent garb, in which I had first seen him. Dr. Briarly, what a market and vulgar contrast, and yet, somehow, how reassuring, sat at the table near him and was tying up papers. His eyes watched me, I thought, with an anxious scrutiny as I approached, and I think it was not until I had saluted him that he recollected, suddenly, that he had not seen me before at Bartram, and stood up and greeted me in his usual abrupt and somewhat familiar way. It was vulgar and not cordial, and yet it was honest and indefinably kind. Up rose my uncle, that strangely venerable pale portrait, in his loose rim-brant black velvet. How gentle, how benignant, how unearthly, and inscrutable. I do not say how she is. Those lilies and roses, Dr. Briarly, speak their own beautiful praises of the air of Bartram. I almost regret that her carriage 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 in winter, and the fragrance of a field which the Lord hath blessed. Country air, Miss Rithon, is a right good kitchen to country fare. I like to see young women eat heartily. You have had some pounds of beef and mutton since I saw you last, said Dr. Briarly. And this sly speech made, he scrutinized my countenance in silence rather embarrassingly. My system, Dr. Briarly, as a disciple of Escalapius you will approve, health first, accomplishments afterwards. The continent is the best field for elegant instruction, and we must see the world a little by and by, Maude. And to me, if my health is spared, there would be an unspeakable, though a melancholy charm, in the scenes where so many happy, though so many wayward and foolish, young days were passed. And I think I should return to these picturesque solitudes with, perhaps, an increased relish. You remember old Sholiu's sweet lines. I can't say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated these silven fastnesses, but the tumult of the world, thank heaven, never. There was a sly skepticism, I thought, Dr. Briarly's sharp face, and hardly waiting for the impressive never, he said, I forgot to ask, who is your banker? Oh, Bartlett and Hall Lombard Street, answered Uncle Silas, dryly and shortly. Dr. Briarly 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 a moment, as if to ascertain whether I felt the spirit of Dr. Briarly's almost interruption. And, nearly at the same moment, stuffing his papers into his capacious coat pockets, Dr. Briarly rose and took his leave. When he was gone, I but thought me that now was a good opportunity of making my complaint of dick and hawkese. Uncle Silas, having risen, I hesitated and began, Uncle, may I mention an occurrence which I witnessed? Certainly, child, he answered, fixing his eyes sharply on me. I really think he fancied that the conversation was about to turn upon the Phantom Shays. So I described the scene which had shocked million me an hour 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 we would look upon in a serious light. I founded a bad plan interfering in strictly domestic misunderstandings, and should rather not. But he struck her violently on the head, Uncle, with a heavy cudgel, and she was bleeding very fast. Ah, said my Uncle Dr. Briarly. And only that million I had deterred him by saying that we would certainly tell you he would have struck her again, and I really think that if he goes on treating 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 think absolutely nothing of a broken head, answered Uncle Silas in the same way. 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, he said. I was disappointed. I had fancied that Uncle Silas's gentle nature would have recoiled from such an outrage with horror and indignation. Instead here he was, the apologist of that savage ruffian dicken hawkese. And he is always so rude and impertinent to million me, I continued. Oh, impertinent to you, that's another matter I must see to that. Nothing more, my dear child. Well, there was nothing more. He's a useful servant hawkese, and though his looks are not prepossessing and his ways in language rough, yet he is a very kind father and a most honest man. A thoroughly moral man, though severe, a very rough diamond though, and has no idea of the refinements of polite society, I venture to say he honestly believes that he has been always, unexceptionably polite to you, so we must make allowances. And Uncle Silas smoothed my hair with his thin aged hand, and kissed my forehead. Yes, we must make allowances, we must be kind. What says the book? Judge not that ye be not judged, your dear father acted upon that maxim, so noble and so awful, and I strive to do so. Alas, dear Austin, long go interval, far behind, and you are removed. My example and my help. You are gone to your rest, and I remain beneath my burden, still marching on by bleak and alpine paths under the awful night. And repeating these lines of chignet with upturned eyes, and one hand lifted up, and an indescribable expression of grief and fatigue, he sank stiffly into his chair, and remained mute with eyes closed for some time. Then applying his scented handkerchief to them hastily, and looking very kindly at me, he said, Anything more, dear child. Nothing, Uncle, thank you, very much. Only about that man hockey's. I dare say that he does not mean to be so uncivil as he is, but I am really afraid of 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 that nothing is to be allowed to fex my beloved niece and ward during her stay at Bartram, nothing that her old kinsman Silas Rithin can remedy. So with a tender smile and a charge to shut the door perfectly but without clapping it, he dismissed me. Dr. Briarley had not slept at Bartram, but at the little inn in Feltrum, and he was going direct to London as afterwards I learned. Your ugly doctor's gone away in a fly, said Millie as we met on the stairs, she running up, I down. On reaching the little apartment which was our sitting-room, however, I found that she was mistaken. For Dr. Briarley, with his hat and a great pair of woolen gloves on, and an old Oxford grace or two that showed his length-length to advantage, buttoned all the way up to his chin, had set down his black leather bag on the table, and was reading at the window a little volume which I had borrowed from my uncle's library. It was a Swedenborg's account of the other worlds, heaven and hell. He closed it on his finger as I entered, and without recollecting to remove his 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. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Of Uncle Silas This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Uncle Silas By J. Sheridan Le Fenu Chapter 38 A Midnight Departure I'm going this minute. I— I want to know— Another glance at the door. 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 Millie 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. No teachers of that kind—of any kind—are there. No, my uncle thinks it better I should lay in a store of health, he says. I know. And the carriage and horses have not come. How soon are they expected? I really can't say, and I assure you I don't much care. I think running about—great fun. You walk to church? Yes. Uncle Silas' carriage wants a new wheel, he told me. I, but a young woman of your rank, you know, it is not usual she should be without the use of a carriage. Have you a horse to ride? I shook my head. Your uncle, you know, has a very liberal allowance for your maintenance and education. I remembered something about it in the wheel, and Mary Quince was constantly grumbling that he did not spend a pound a week on our board. I entered nothing but looked down—another glance at the door from Dr. Briarley'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 drink tea or talk to you? Do you see much of him? He is a miserable invalid. His hours and regimen are peculiar. Indeed, I wish very much he would consider his case. He is, I believe, often insensible for a long time, and his mind is in a strange feeble state sometimes. I daresay, worn out in his young days. And I saw that preparation of opium in his bottle. He takes too much. Why do you think so, Dr. Briarley? It's made on water. The spirit interferes with the use of it beyond a certain limit. You have no idea what those fellows can swallow. Read the opium-eater. I knew two cases in which the quantity exceeded the Quince's. Aha! It's new to you. And he laughed quietly at my simplicity. And what do you think his complaint is? I asked. Poo! I haven't a notion. But, probably one way or another, he has been all 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 price for their sins. And so he's kind and affectionate, but hands you over to your cousin and the servants. Are his people civil and obliging? Well, I can't say much for them. There is a man named Hockeys and his daughter, who are very rude, and even abusive sometimes, and say they have orders from my uncle to shut us out from a portion of the grounds. But I don't believe that, for Uncle Silas never alluded to it when I was making my complaint of them to-day. From what part of the grounds is that? asked Dr. Briarley sharply. I described the situation as well as I could. Can we see it from this? he asked, heaping from the window. Oh, no! Dr. Briarley made a note in his pocket-book here, and I said, but I am really quite sure it was the story of Dickens. He is such a surly, disciplined man. And what sort is that old servant who came in and out of his room? Oh, that is Lamour, I answered rather indirectly, and forgetting that I was using Millie's nicknames. And is she civil? he asked. No, she certainly was not. A most disagreeable old woman with a vein of wickedness. I thought I had heard her swearing. They don't seem to be a very engaging lot, said Dr. Briarley. But where there's one there will be more. See here, I was just reading a passage, and he opened the little volume at the place where his finger marked it, and read for me a few sentences, the purport of which I well remember, although, of course, the words have escaped me. It was in that awful portion of the book which assumes to describe the condition of the condemned, and it said that, independently of the physical causes in that state operating to enforce community of habitation, and in isolation from superior spirits, there exist sympathies, aptitudes, and necessities, which would, of themselves, induce that depraved gregariousness 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, the butler, who went about like a little automaton of dry bones poking here and there and whispering and smiling to himself as he laid the cloth, and seeming otherwise quite unconscious of an external world. This room has not got up like Mr. Rithon's. Is he talk of furnishings, and making things a little smart? No, well, I must say I think he might. Here there was a little silence, and Dr. Briarley, with his accustomed, simultaneous glance at the door, said in low cautious tones, very distinctly, Have you been thinking at all over that matter again? I mean about getting your 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 very unreasonable indeed. And I think you would consult your interest, Mr. Rithon, 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 at all expected, and I am very fond of my cousin Millie. 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. Hmm. Aren't you very lonely? he inquired. We see no visitors here, but that, you know, I was prepared for. Dr. Briarley read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently and peevishly, and tapped the soul lightly on the ground. Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You'd be pleasanter somewhere else, with Lady Knollis, for instance, eh? Well, there certainly. But I am very well here. Really, the time passes very pleasantly, and my uncle is so kind. I have only to mention anything that annoys me, and he will see that it is remedied. He is always impressing that on me. Yes, it is not a fit place for you, said Dr. Briarley. Of course, about your uncle, he resumed, observing my surprised look. It is all right. But he's quite helpless, you know. At all events, think about it. Here's my address. Hans Emanuel Briarley, M.D., 17 King Street, Covent Garden, London. Don't lose it, mind. And he tore the leaf out of his notebook. Here's my fly at the door, and you must, you must, he was looking at his watch, mind you must, think of it seriously. And so, you see, don't let anyone see that. You'll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best way will be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know, and don't put my name, you'll remember that. Only the rest of the address. And burn 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. Just tip me a hint, and you'll have me down. And any letters you get from Lady Nollis, you know, for she's very plain spoken, you'd better burn 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 immortal 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 his umbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room, and in a minute more I heard the sound of his vehicle as it drove away. I looked after it with a sigh. The uneasy sensations which I had experienced respecting my sojourn at Bartram Hof were reawakened. My ugly, vulgar, true friend was disappearing beyond those gigantic lime trees which hid Bartram from the eyes of the outer world. The fly, with the doctor's valise on top, vanished, and I sighed an anxious sigh. The shadow of the overarching trees contracted, and I felt helpless and forsaken. And glancing down the torn leaf, Dr. Briarley's address met my eye between my fingers. I slipped it into my breast, and ran upstairs stealthily, trembling, lest the old woman should summon me again, at the head of the stairs, into Uncle Silas's room, where, under his gaze, I fancied, I should be sure to betray myself. But I glided unseen and safely by, entering my room, and shut my door. So listening and working eye with my scissor's point, scratched the address where Dr. Briarley had advised. Then, in positive terror, lest someone should even knock, during the operation I, with a match, consume to ashes the tale-tale bit of paper. Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensation of having a secret to keep. I fancied the pain of this solitary liability was disproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally very open and very nervous. I was always on the point of betraying it, apropos debaute, always reproaching myself for my duplicity, and in constant terror when Honest Mary Quince approached the press, or Good-Natured Millie made her occasional survey of the wonders of my wardrobe. I would have given anything to go and point to the tiny inscription and say, This is Dr. Briarley's address in London. I scratched it with my scissor-point. Taking every precaution lest anyone, you, my good friends included, should surprise me. I have ever since kept a secret to myself, and trembled whenever your frank kind face has looked into the press. There, you at last know all about it. Can you ever forgive my deceit? But I could not make up my mind to reveal it, nor yet to erase the inscription, which was my alternative thought. Indeed, I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived, in my ordinary mood. High excitement or passion only can inspire me with decision. Under the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave. Someone left here last night, I think, Miss, said Mary Quince, with a mysterious nod one morning. To us, two o'clock, and I was bad with the toothache, and went down to get a pinch of red pepper, leaving the candle alight here lest you should awake. When I was coming up, as I was crossing the lobby at the far end of the long gallery, what should I hear but a horse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet like? So I looked out of the window, and there surely I did see two horses yoke to the shea, and a fella pulling a box up a top, and out comes a wulese and a bag, and I think it was all Wyatt, please, them, that Miss Millie calls the Moor, that stood in the doorway a-talking to the driver. And who got into the chase, Mary? I asked. Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could, but the pain was bad, and me so awful-kelled. I gave it up at last, and came back to bed, for I could not say how much longer they might wait. And you'll find, Miss, to be kept a secret, like the shea as you saw, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways. And secrets, and old Wyatt, she does tell stories, don't she? And she is ought to be particular, see in her time, be short now, and she so old. It is awful, and old unlike that, telling such crams as she do. Millie was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both agreed, however, that the departure was probably of that person, whose arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the shea's had drawn up at the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house, and, no doubt, driven away by the back road. Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was very provoking, however, that Mary Quinn's had not had the resolution to wait for the appearance of the traveller. We all agreed, however, that we were to observe a strict silence, and that even to Wyatt, the more I had better continue to call her, Mary Quinn's was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however, that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly adhered to this self-denying resolve. But cheerful wintery suns and frosty skies, long nights and brilliant starlights, with good homely fires in our snugory, gossiping stories, short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always beautiful scenery of Bartram Hof, and above all, the unbroken tenor of our life, which had fallen into a serene routine, foreign to the idea of danger or misadventure, gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which my interview with Dr. Briarley had so powerfully resuscitated. My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to her country house, and an active diplomacy through the post office was negotiating the reopening of friendly relations between the courts of Elverston and of Bartram. At length one fine day, cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly with her cloak and bonnet on, and her color fresh from the shrewd air of the Derbyshire Hills, stood suddenly before me in our sitting room. Our meeting was that of two school companions long separated. Cousin Monica was always a girl in my eyes. What a hug it was, what a shower of kisses and ejaculations, inquiries and caresses. At last I pressed her down into a chair, and laughing she said, You have no idea what self-denial I have exercised to bring this visit about. 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 a wonderful little old thing your butler is. I did not know what to make of him on the steps. Is he a strewd broog, or a fairy, or only a ghost? Where on earth did your uncle pick him up? I'm sure he came in on all Hallows' Eve to answer an incantation, not your future husband, I hope, and he'll vanish some night into gray smoke and whisk sadly up the chimney. He's the most venerable little thing I ever beheld in my life. I leaned back in the carriage and thought I should absolutely die of laughing. He's gone up to prepare your uncle for my visit, and I really am very glad, for I am sure I shall look as young as he be after him. But who is this? Who are you, my dear? This was addressed to poor Millie, who stood in the corner of the chimney-piece, staring with her round eyes and plump cheeks and fear and wonder upon this strange lady. How stupid of me, I exclaimed. Millie, dear, this is your cousin, Lady Naulis. And so you are Millicent. Well, dear, I am very glad to see you. And cousin Monica was on her feet again in an instant, with Millie's hand very cordially in hers, and she gave her a kiss upon each cheek and patted her head. Millie, I must mention, was a much more presentable figure than when I had first encountered her. Her dresses were at least a quarter of a yard longer. Though very rustic, therefore, she was not so barbarously grotesque by any means. END OF CHAPTER XXXVIII. CHAPTER XXXIX. Cousin Monica and Uncle Silas meet. Cousin Monica, with her hands upon Millie's shoulders, looked amusedly and kindly in her face. And, said she, we must be very good friends, you funny creature, you and I. I am allowed to be the most saucy old woman in Derbyshire, quite incorrigibly privileged, and nobody is ever affronted with me, so I say the most shocking things constantly. I'm a bit that way myself, and I think, said poor Millie, making an effort and growing very red. She quite lost her head at that point and was incompetent to finish the sentiment she had prefaced. You think? Now take my advice and never wait to think, my dear. Talk first and think afterwards. That is my way, though indeed I can't say I ever think at all. It is a very cowardly habit. Our cold-blooded cousin Maude there thinks sometimes, but it is always such a failure that I forgive her. I wonder when your little pre-atomite butler will return. He speaks the language of the picks and the ancient Britons, I dare say, and your father requires a little time to translate him. And, Millie dear, I am very hungry, so I won't wait for your butler, who would give me, I suppose, one of the cakes baked by King Alfred and some Danish beer and a skull, but I'll ask you for a little of that nice bread and butter, with which, accordingly, Lady Naulis was quickly supplied, but it did not at all impede her utterance. Do you think, girls, you could be ready to come away with me, if Silas gives leave, in an hour or two? I should so like to take both of you home with me to Elverston. How delightful, you darling! cried I, embracing and kissing her. For my part, I should be ready in five minutes. What do you say, Millie? Poor Millie's wardrobe, I am afraid, was more portable than handsome, and she looked horribly affrighted and whispered in my ear, My best petticoat is away at the laundress, say, in a week, Maude. What does she say, asked Lady Naulis? She fears she can't be ready, I answered dejectedly. There's a deal of my slops in the wash, blurted out poor Millie, staring straight at Lady Naulis. In the name of wonder, what does my cousin mean, asked Lady Naulis? Her things have not come home yet from the laundress, I replied, and at this moment our wondrous old butler entered to announce to Lady Naulis that his master was ready to receive her, whenever she was disposed to favour him, and also to make polite apologies for his being compelled, by his 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 to us, Come, girls! Please, not yet, my lady, you alone, and he requests the young ladies will be in the way, as he will sin for them presently. I began to admire poor giblets as the wreck of a tolerably respectable servant. Very good, perhaps it is better we should kiss and be friends in private first, said cousin Naulis, laughing, and away she went under the guidance of the mummy. I had an account of this day to day afterwards from Lady Naulis. When I saw him, my dear, she said, I could hardly believe my eyes, such white hair, such white face, such mad eyes, such a death-like smile. When I saw him last his hair was dark, he dressed himself like a modern Englishman, and he really preserved a likeness to the full-length portrait at Naul, that you fell in love with, you know. But angels and ministers of grace, such a specter! I asked myself, is it necromancy, or is it delirium trimmings that has reduced him to this? And said he, with that odious smile that made me fancy myself half insane. You see a change, Monica! What a sweet, gentle, insufferable voice he has! Somebody once told me about the tone of a glass flute that made some people hysterical to listen to, and I was thinking of it all the time. There was always a particular quality to his voice. I do see a change, Silas, I said at last, and no doubt so do you and me, a great change. There has been time enough to work a greater than I observe in you since you last honored me with a visit, said he. I think he was at his old sarcasms, and meant that I was the same impertinent minx he remembered long ago, uncorrected by time, and so I am, and he must not expect compliments from old Monica Naulis. It is a long time, Silas, but that, you know, is not my fault, said I. Not your fault, my dear, your instincts! We are all imitative creatures, the great people ostracized me, and the small ones followed. We are all very like turkeys, we have so much good sense and so much generosity, fortune and a freak wounded my head, and the whole brood were upon me, pecking and gobbling, gobbling and pecking, and you among them, dear Monica, it wasn't your fault only your instinct, so I quite forgive you, but no wonder the peckers 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, we can never make it up. We are too old, so let us forget all we can, and try to forgive something, and if we can do neither, at all events, let there be a truce between us while I am here. My personal wrongs I can quite forgive, and I do have a nose from my heart, but there are things which ought not to be forgiven. My children have been ruined by it. I may, by the mercy of Providence, be yet set right in the world, and so soon as that time comes I will remember and I will act. But my children, you will see that wretched girl, my daughter, education society, all would come too late. My children have been ruined by it. I have not done it, but I know what you mean, I said. You, menace litigation, whenever you have the means, but you forgot that Austin placed you under promise when he gave you the use of this house in place never to 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 with litigation, you are willing to forfeit your tenure of this house in place. 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 of barchamhof for my life, and attached no absurd condition of the kind you fancy to his gift. Silas was in one of his vicious old moods, and liked to menace me. His vindictiveness got the better of his craft, but he knows, as well as I do, that he never could succeed in disturbing the title of my poor dear Harry Nullis. And I was not at all alarmed by his threats, and I told him so as coolly as I speak to you now. Well, Monica, he said, I have weighed you in the balance, and you were not found wanting. For a moment the old man possessed me. The thought of my children of past unkindness and present afflictions and disgrace exasperated me, and I was mad. It was but for a moment the galvanic spasm of a corpse. Never was Bressmore dead than mine to the passions and ambitions of the world. They are not for white locks like these, nor for a man who, for a week and every month, lies in the gate of death. Will you shake 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 was acting or lost his head or, in fact, why or how it occurred. But I am glad, darling, that, unlike myself, I was calm, and that a quarrel has not been forced upon me. When our turn came and we were summoned to the presence, Uncle Silas was quite as usual, but Cousin Monica's heightened color and the flash of her eyes showed plainly that something exciting and angry had occurred. Uncle Silas commented in his own vein upon the effect of Bartram air and liberty, all he had to offer, and called on me to say how I like them. And then he called Millie to him, kissed her tenderly, smiled sadly upon her, and, turning to Cousin Monica, said, This is my daughter Millie. Oh, she has been presented to you downstairs, has she? You have, no doubt, been interested by her. As I told her Cousin Maude, though I am not yet quite, Sir Toonbelly clumsy, she is a very finished Miss Hoidon. Are you not, my poor Millie? You owe your distinction, my dear, to that line of circulation which has, ever since your birth, intercepted all civilization on its way to Bartram. You are much obliged, Millie, to everybody who, whether naturally or unnaturally, turned a sod in that invisible but impenetrable work. For your accomplishments, rather singular than fashionable, you are indebted, in part, to your cousin Lady Naulis. Is not she, Monica? Thank her, Millie. This is your truce, Silas, said Lady Naulis, with a quiet sharpness. I think, Silas Ruthen, you want to provoke me to speak in a way before these young creatures which we should all regret. So, my bodnage excites your temper, Moni. Think how you would feel, then, if I had found you by the highway side, mangled by robbers, and set my foot upon your throat and spat in your face. But, stop this. Why have I said this? Simply to emphasize my forgiveness. See, girls, Lady Naulis and I, cousins long estranged, forget and forgive the past, and join hands over its buried injuries. Well, be it so, only let us have done with these ironies and covert taunts. And with these words, their hands were joined, and Uncle Silas, after he had released hers, padded and fondled it with his, laughing icily and very low all the time. I wish so much, dear Monica. He said when this piece of silent bi-play was over, that I could ask you to stay to-night, but absolutely I have not a bed to offer, and even if I had, I fear my suit would hardly prevail. Then came Lady Naulis's invitation for million me. He was very much obliged. He smiled over at a great deal, meditating. I thought he was puzzled, and amid his smiles, his wild eyes scanned Cousin Monica's frank face once or twice suspiciously. There was a difficulty, an undefined difficulty, about letting us go that day, 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, and Cousin 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 the house? May she, Silas, I should like to renew my acquaintance. You'll see them sadly neglected, Manny. A poor man's pleasure grounds must rely on nature, and trust to her for effects. Where there is fine timber, however, and abundance of slope and rock and hollow, we sometimes gain in picturesqueness what we lose by neglect in luxury. Then, as Cousin Monica said she would cross the grounds by a path and meet her carriage at a point to which we would accompany her, and so make her way home. She took leave of Uncle Silas. A ceremony we're at, without, I thought, much zeal at either side. A kiss took place. Now, girls, said Cousin Nullis, when we were fairly in motion over the grass. What do you say? Will he let you come, yes or no? I can't say, but I think, dear, this to Milly, he ought to let you see a little more of the world than appears among the glens and bushes of Bartram. Very pretty they are, like yourself, but very wild and very little seen. Where is your brother, 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 the river'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 a regiment going to India, perhaps the best thing for him. Did you see him here before his judicious self-banishment? No. Well, I suppose you've had no loss. Dr. Briarley says, from all he can learn, he is a very bad young man. Now, tell me, dear, is Silas kind to you? Yes, always gentle, just as you saw him today. But we don't see a great deal 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 woman we don't like, old Wyatt. She is cross and mysterious and tells untruths. But I don't think she is dishonest, so Mary Quint says. And that, you know, is a point. And there is a family, father and daughter, called Hakis, who live in the windmill wood, who are perfect savages, though my uncle says they don't mean it. But they are very disagreeable rude people, and except them we see very little of the servants or other people. But there has been a mysterious visit. Someone came late at night, and remained for some days, though million I never saw them, and Mary Quint saw a chaise at the side door at two o'clock at night. Cousin Monica was so highly interested at this, that she arrested her walk and 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 Nullis, very gloomily. And just then Millie joined us, shouting to us to look at the herons flying. So Cousin Monica did and smiled and nodded in thanks to Millie, and was again silent and thoughtful as we walked on. You are to come to me, mind, both of you girls, she said abruptly, you shall all manage it. When silence returned, and Millie ran away once more to try whether the old gray trout was visible in the still water under the bridge, Cousin Monica said to me in a low tone, looking hard at me. You have not seen anything to frighten you, Maude. Don't look so alarmed, dear. She added with a little laugh, which was not very merry, however. I don't mean frighten in any awful sense. In fact, I did not mean frighten at all. I meant, I can't exactly express it. Anything to vex or make you uncomfortable, have you? No, I can't say that I have, except that room in which Mr. Charke was found dead. Oh, you saw that, did you? I should like to see it so much. Your bedroom is not near it. Oh, no, on the floor beneath and looking to the front. And Dr. Briarley talked a little to me, and there seemed to be something on his mind more than he chose to tell me, so that for some time after I saw him I really was, 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, Maude, you are afraid of ghosts, bandit-y, and everything. I wish to know whether you were uncomfortable, and what your particular boggle was just now. That, I assure you, was all. And I know, she continued, suddenly changing her light tone and manner for one of pointed entreaty, what Dr. Briarley said, and I implore of you, Maude, to think of it seriously. And when you come to me, you shall do so with the intention of remaining at Elverston. Now, cousin Monica, is this fair? You and Dr. Briarley both talk in the same awful way to me, and I assure you you don't know how nervous I am sometimes, 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's so odd. I don't like the place, and I don't like him. I've tried, but I can't, and I think I never shall. He may be a very— what was it, that little good, silly curate etnoil 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 seclusion from society removes the only check, except personal fear, and he never had much of that, upon a very bad man. And you must know, my dear Maude, what a prize you are, and what an immense trust it is. Suddenly cousin Monica stopped short, and looked at me as if she had gone too far. But you know, Silas may be very good now, although he was wild and selfish in his young days. Indeed, I don't know what to make of him, but I am sure, when you have thought it over, you will agree with me and Dr. Briarley, 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 Silas into letting you come. I don't like his reluctance. But don't you think he must know that Millie would require some little outfit 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, I experienced a repetition of those undefined doubts which had tortured me for some time after my conversation with Dr. Briarley. I had truly said, however, I was well enough contented with my mode of life here, for I had been trained at Nall to a solitude very nearly as profound. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 of Uncle Silas This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Uncle Silas by J. Sheridan Le Fenu. Chapter 40 In which I make another cousin's acquaintance. My correspondence about this time was not very extensive. About once a fortnight a letter from Honest Mrs. Rusk conveyed to me how the dogs and ponies were, in queer English, oddly spelt. Some village gossip, a critique upon Dr. Clay's, or the curate's last sermon, and some severities generally upon the dissenter's doings, with loves to Mary Quince and all good wishes to me. Sometimes a welcome letter from cheerful cousin Monica, and now, to vary the series, a copy of complementary verses, without a signature, very adoring, very like Byron, I then fancied, and now, I must confess, rather vapid. Could I doubt from whom they came? I had received, about a month after my arrival, a copy of verses in the same hand, in a plaintive ballad style, of the soldierly sort, in which the writer said, that, as living his sole object was to please me, so dying I should be his latest thought. And some more poetic impieties, asking only in return that when the storm of battle had swept over, I should shed a tear, on seeing the oak lie where it fell. Of course, about this lugubrious pun, there could be no misconception. The captain was unmistakably indicated, and I was so moved that I could no longer retain my secret, but walking with Millie that day, confided the little romance to that unsophisticated listener under the chestnut trees. The lines were so amorously dejected, and yet so heroically redolent, of blood and gunpowder, that Millie and I agreed that the writer must be on the verge of a sanguinary campaign. It was not easy to get at Uncle Silas' times or morning post, which we fancied would explain these horrible illusions. But Millie bethought her of a sergeant in the militia, resident in Feltrum, who knew the destination and quarters of every regiment in the service. And circuitously, from this authority, we learned, to my infinite relief, that Captain Oakley's regiment had still two years to sojourn in England. I was summoned one evening by old Lamour to my uncle's room. I remember his appearance that evening so well as he lay back in his chair, the pillow, the white glare of his strange eye, his feeble, painful smile. You'll excuse me, my not rising, dear Maude. I am so miserably ill this evening. I expressed my respectful condolence. Yes, I am to be pitied, but pity is of no use, dear, he murmured peevishly. I send 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, and which 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 held my breath, and fixed my eyes upon him in a stare, the young man whom I had encountered at Church Scarsdale, on the day of my unpleasant excursion there with Madame, and who, to the best of my belief, was also one of that ruffianly party who had so unspeakably terrified me in the Warren at Noll. I suppose I looked very much affrighted. If I had been looking at a ghost, I could 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, but with a glimmer of that smile with which a father looks on a son whose youth and 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 cousin, Maud. What do you say? How are ye, miss? he said with a sheepish grin. Miss. Come, come. Miss us. No, miss is, said my uncle. She is Maud, and you Dudley, or I mistake, or we shall have you calling Milly madame. She shall 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 extended his hand. You're welcome to Bartram Hof, miss. Kiss your cousin, sir. Where's your gallantry? On my honor I disown you, exclaimed my uncle, with more energy than he had shown before. With a clumsy effort and a grin that was both sheepish and impudent, he grasped my hand and advanced his face. The imminent salute gave me strength to spring back at step or two, and he hesitated. My uncle laughed peevishly. Well, well, that will do, I suppose. In my time first cousins did not meet like strangers, but perhaps we were wrong. We are learning modesty from the Americans, 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 and a sort of scowl of inquiry 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 aware 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 Noel, I fancy. Poor dear Austin did not trouble me or mine much with his hospitalities. This was not a pleasant tone to take in speaking of his dead brother and benefactor. But at the moment I was too much engaged upon the one point to observe it. I met—I could not say my cousin. I met him, uncle, your son, that young gentleman. I saw him, I should say, at Church Skarsdale and afterwards with some other person in the Warren at Noel. It was the night our gamekeeper was beaten. Well, Dudley, what do you say to that? asked Uncle Silas. I never was at those places, so help me. I don't know where they be, and I never set eyes on the young lady before as I hoped to be saved in all my days, said he, with a countenance so unchanged and an air so confident that I began to think, I must be the dupe of one of those strange resemblances which have been known to lead to positive identifications in the witness-box, afterwards proved to be utterly mistaken. You look so—so uncomfortable, Maude, at the idea of having seen him before that I hardly wonder at the vehemence of his denial. There was plainly something disagreeable, but you see, as respects him, it is a total mistake. My boy was always a truth-telling fellow. You may rely implicitly on what he says. You were not at those places? I wish I may—began the ingenuous youth with increased vehemence. Bear there, that will do. Your honour and word as a gentleman, and that you are, though a poor one, will quite satisfy your cousin Maude, am I right, my dear? I do assure you, as a gentleman, I never knew him to say the thing that was not. So Mr. Dudley Ruthen began not to curse, but to swear in the prescribed form that he had never seen me before, or the places I had named, since I was 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 Maude 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 boast for his son. True, brave, kind, and quite an Apollo, did you observe how 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 have a promise of a commission for him. He's too old for the line. We'll form and polish him. He wants nothing but manner, and I protest when he has had a little drilling of that kind. I do believe he'll be as pretty a fellow as you'd find in England. I listened with amazement. I could discover nothing but what was disagreeable in the horrid bumpkin, and thought such an instance of the blindness of parental partiality was hardly credible. I looked down, dreading another direct appeal to my judgment, and Uncle Silas, I suppose, referred those downcast looks to maiden modesty, for he forbore to task mine by any new interrogatory. Dudley Ruthen's cool and resolute denial of ever having seen me, or the places I had named, and the inflexible serenity of his countenance while doing so, did very much shake my confidence in my own identification of him. I could not be quite certain that the person I had seen at Church Scarsdale was the very same person whom I afterward saw at Noel. And now, in this particular instance, after the lapse of a still longer period, could I be perfectly certain that my memory, deceived by some accidental points of resemblance, had not duped me and wronged my cousin Dudley Ruthen? I suppose my Uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiescence in his splendid estimate of his cub, and was netled by my silence. After a short interval he said, I have seen something of the world in my day, and I can say without a misgiving of partiality, that Dudley is the material of a perfect English gentleman. I am not blind, of course, the training must be supplied, a year or two of good models, active self-criticism and good society. I simply say that the material is there. Here was another interval of silence. And now, tell me, child, what these recollections of Church—Church—what? Church Scarsdale, I replied, yes, thank you, Church Scarsdale and Noel are. So I related my stories as well as I could. Well, dear Maude, the adventure of Church Scarsdale is hardly so terrific as I expected, said Uncle Silas, with a cold little laugh. And I don't see, if he had really been the hero of it, why he should shrink from avowing it. I know I should not, and I really can't say that your picnic party in the grounds of Noel has frightened me much more. A lady waiting in the carriage, and two or three tipsy young men. Her presence seems to me a guarantee that no mischief was meant. But Champagne is the soul of Frolick, and a row with the game's keeper, a natural consequence. It happened to me once, forty years ago, when I was a wild young buck. One of the worst rows I ever was in. And Uncle Silas poured some odour cologne over the corner of his handkerchief and touched his temples with it. If my boy had been there, I do assure you and I know him. He would say so at once. I fancy he would rather boast of it. I never knew him to utter an untruth. When you know him a little you'll say so. With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted, and languidly poured some of his favorite odour cologne over the palms of his hands. Noted a farewell and, in a whisper, wished me good night. Dundleys come, whispered Millie, taking me under the arm as I entered the lobby. But I don't care. He never gives me not, and he gets money from Governor 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 the younger line of the Rithins. I was curious to learn all that Millie could tell me of this new inmate of Bartram Hof, and Millie was communicative without having a great deal to relate, and what I heard from her tended to confirm my own disagreeable impressions about him. She was afraid of him. He was a woundy, ugly customer in a whack, she could tell me. He was the only one she ever knowed as had plucked to jaw the Governor, but he was afeared on the Governor too. His visits to Bartram Hof, I heard, were dulcetory, and this, to my relief, would probably not outlast week or a fortnight. He was such a fashionable cove. He was always a gadding about, mostly to Liverpool or Birmingham, and sometimes to London itself. He was keeping company one time with Beauty, Governor thought, and he was awfully afraid he'd amary her. But that was all Bosch and Nonsense, and Beauty would have none of his chaff and wheedling, for she liked Tom Brice. And Millie thought that Dudley never cared a crack of a whip for her. He used to go to the windmill to have a smoke with pegtop, and he was a member of the Feltrum Club that met at the Plume of Feathers. He was a rare good shot, she heard, and he was before the Justices for poaching, but they couldn't make nothing of it. And the Governor said it was all through spite of him, for they hate us for being better blood than they. And, all but the Squires and those upstart folks loves Dudley, he is so handsome and gay, though he is a bit cross at home. And, Governor says he'll be a Parliament man yet, spite of them all. This morning when our breakfast was nearly ended, Dudley tapped at the window with the end of his clay pipe, a churchward in Millie called it, just such a long curved pipe as Joe Willett is made to hold between his lips in those charming illustrations of Barnaby Rudge, which we all know so well, and lifting his wide awake with a burlesque salutation which, I suppose, would have charmed the Plume of Feathers. He dropped, kicked, and caught his wide awake, with an agility and gravity as he replaced it, so inexpressibly humorous, that Millie went off in a loud fit of laughter with the ejaculation. Did you ever? It was odd how repulsively my confidence in my original identification always revived on unexpectedly seeing Dudley after an interval. I could perceive that this piece of comic bi-play was meant to make a suitable impression on me. I received it, however, with a killing gravity, and after a word or two to Millie, he lounged away, having first broken his pipe bit by bit into pieces, which he balanced in turn on his nose and on his chin, from which features he jerked them into his mouth with a precision which, along with his excellent pantomime of eating them, highly excited Millie's mirth and admiration. My cousin Dudley. Greatly to my satisfaction, this engaging person did not appear again that day, but next day Millie told me that my uncle had taken him to task for the neglect with which he was treating us. He did pitch into him, sharp and short and not a word from him, only sulky-like, and I, so frightened, I durst not look up almost. They said a lot I could not make head or tails of, and Governor ordered me out of the room, and glad I was to go, and so they headed out between them. Millie could throw no light whatsoever upon the adventures at Church Skarsdale and Knoll, and I was left still in doubt, which sometimes oscillated one way and sometimes another. But, on the whole, I could not shake off the misgivings which constantly recurred and pointed very obstinately to Dudley as the hero of those odious scenes. Oddly enough, though, I now felt far less confident upon the point than I did at first sight. I had begun to distrust my memory and to suspect my fancy, but of this there could be no question that between the person so unpleasantly linked in my remembrances with those scenes, and Dudley rithin, a striking though possibly only a general resemblance, did exist. Millie was certainly right as to the gist of Uncle Silas's injunction, for we saw more of Dudley hence-forward. He was shy, he was impudent, he was awkward, he was conceited, altogether a most intolerable bumpkin. Though he sometimes flushed and stammered, and never for a moment was at his ease in my presence, yet to my inexpressible disgust, there was a self-complacency in his manner, and a kind of triumph in his leer, which very plainly told me how satisfied he was as to the nature 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 heirs of indifference and repulsion to cover their real feelings. I never looked at or spoke to him when I could avoid either, and then it was as briefly as I could. To do him justice, however, he seemed to have no liking for our society, and certainly never seemed altogether comfortable in it. I find it hard to write quite impartially even of Dudley Rithon's personal appearance, but with an effort I confess that his features were good, and his figure not amiss, though a little fattish. He had light whiskers, light hair, and a pink complexion and very good blue eyes. So far my uncle was right if he had been perfectly gentleman-like, he might really have passed for a handsome man in the judgment of some critics. But there was that odious mixture of mauvaisant and impudence, a clumsiness, a slinness, and a consciousness in his bearing and countenance not distinctly borish, but low, which turned his good looks into an ugliness more intolerable than that of feature, and a corresponding vulgarity pervading his dress, his demeanor, and his very walk, marred whatever good points his figure possessed. If you take all this into account, with the ominous and startling misgivings constantly recurring, you will understand the mixed feelings of anger and disgust with which I received the admiration he favored me with. Gradually he grew less constrained in my presence, and certainly his manners were not improved by his growing ease and confidence. He came in while Millie and I were at luncheon, jumped up, with a right about face, performed in the air, sitting on the sideboard, wince, grinning slyly and kicking his heels, he leered at us. "'Will you have something, Dudley?' asked Millie. "'No, lass, but I'll look at you, and maybe drink a drop for company.' And with these words he took a sportsman's flask from his pocket, and helping himself to a large glass and a decanter, he compounded a glass of strong brandy and water as he talked, and refreshed himself with it from time to time. "'Girates up with the governor,' he said with a grin. "'I wanted a word with him, but I suppose I'll hardly get in this hour or more. "'There are prayin' and disputin' and a Bible-choppin' as usual. "'Haha, but won't hold much longer,' old Wyatt says, now that Uncle Austin's dead. There's not to be made a prayin' in that work no longer, and it don't pay of itself. "'Oh, Phi, for shame you sinner,' laughed Millie. "'He wasn't in a church these five years,' he says, and then only to meet a young lady. "'Now isn't he a sinner, Maude, isn't he?' Dudley, grinning, looked with a languishing slideness at me, biting the edge of his wide awake, which he held over his breast. Dudley Rithin probably thought there was a manly and desperate sort of fascination in the impiety he professed. "'I wonder, Millie,' said I, at your laughing. How can you laugh?' "'You'd have me cry, would ye?' answered Millie. "'I certainly would not have you laugh,' I replied. "'I know I wish someone would cry for me, and I know who,' said Dudley, and what he meant for a very engaging way, and he looked at me as if he thought I must feel, flattered, by his caring to have my tears. Instead of crying, however, I leaned back in my chair and began quietly to turn over the pages of Walter Scott's poems, which I and Millie were then reading in the evenings. The tone in which this odious young man spoke of his father, his coarse mention of mine, and his low boasting of his irreligion, disgusted me more than ever with him. "'They parson's be slow coaches, awful slow, I'll have a good bit away, I suppose. I should be three miles away and more by this time. Drat it!' He was eyeing the legging of the foot which he held up while he spoke, as if calculating how far away that limb should have carried him by this time. Why can't folk do their Bible and prayers a Sunday and get it off their stomachs? I say, Millie Lass, will you see if the Governor be done with the curate? Do, I'm losing the whole day along with him.' Millie jumped up, accustomed to obey her brother, and as she passed me, whispered, with a wink, money, and away she went. Millie whistled a tune and swung his foot like a pendulum, as he followed her with his side glance. I say, it is a hard case, miss, a lad of spirit should be kept so tight. I haven't a shilling but what comes through his fingers, and Drat the tizzy he'll give 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 fellow's to earn money nowadays. You wouldn't have a gentleman to keep a shop, I fancy. But I'll have a fistful just now, and no thanks to he. Them executors, you know, owes me a deal of money. Very honest chaps, of course, but they're cursed slow about pay, and I know. I made no remark upon this elegant allusion to the executors of my dear father's will. When I tell you, mod, when I get the tin, I know who I'll buy a faran for, I do lass. The odious creature drawled this with a side-long leer, which, I suppose, he fancied quite irresistible. I am one of those unfortunate persons who always blushes when I most wished to look indifferent. And now, to my inexpressible chagrin, with its accustomed perversity, I felt the blush mount to my cheeks, and glow even on my forehead. I saw that he perceived this most disconcerting indication of a sentiment, the very idea of which was so detestable, that, equally enraged with myself and with him, I did not know how to exhibit my contempt and indignation. Mistaking the cause of my discomposure, Mr. Dudley Rithon laughed softly, with an insufferable suavity. And there, some at last, I must have in return, honor thy father, you know. You would not have me disobey the governor. No, you wouldn't, would ye? 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 a condescending enthusiasm. You're awful pretty, you are, Maud. I don't know what came over me till the night when Governor told me to bust ye, but dang it ye shan't deny me now, and I'll have a kiss last in spite of thy blushes. He jumped from his elevated seat on the sideboard, and came swaggering toward me, with an odious grin and his arms extended. I started to my feet absolutely transported with fury. Dread me if she banked a gun to fight me, he chuckled humorously. Come, Maud, you would not be ill-natured, sure. At her all it's only our duty. Governor bit us kissed, 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 Millie. There's how it is with all the cattle. You never know your own mind ye don't, he said surly. You make such a row about a bit of play. Drop it, will you? There's no one a-harming you, is there? I'm not, for certain. 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 I was capable. This attempt to assume an intimacy which, notwithstanding my uncle's opinion to the contrary, seemed to me like an outrage. He found me alone, not frightened, but very angry. I had quite made up my 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. I fancied that he would treat the whole affair as a mere playful piece of gallantry. So with the comfortable conviction that he had had a lesson and would think twice before repeating his impertinence, I resolved, with Millie's approbation, to leave the matters as they were. Dudley, greatly to my comfort, was huffed with me, and hardly appeared, and was silky and silent when he did. I lived then in the pleasant anticipation of his departure which Millie thought would be very soon. My uncle had his Bible and his consolations, but it cannot have been pleasant to this old row, converted though he was. This refined man of fashion, to see his son grow up an outcast and a Tony lumpkin, for whatever he may have thought of his natural gifts he must have known how mere a bore he was. I try to recall my then impressions of my uncle's character. Grizzly and chaotic the images rise. Silverhead, feet of clay. I as yet knew little of him. I began to perceive that he was what Mary Quince used to call dreadful particular. I suppose a little selfish and impatient. He used to get cases of turtle from Liverpool. He drank claret and hawk for his health, and ate woodcock and other light and salutary dainties for the same reason, and was petulant and vicious about the cooking of these, and the flavor and clearness 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 satisfy myself whether they were affectations or genuine, like intermittent thrills of pain. The light of his large eyes was very peculiar. I can liken it to nothing but the sheen of intense moonlight on burnished metal. But that cannot express it, it glared white and suddenly almost fatuous. I thought of Moore'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 baleful effulgence. His fits, too, his hoverings between life and death, between intellect and insanity. A dubious marsh fire existence, horrible to look upon. I was puzzled even to comprehend his feelings towards 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 if the image of death was always before him, yet he took a terrible interest in life while seemingly dozing away the dregs of his days in sight of his coffin. Oh, Uncle Silas, tremendous figure in the past, burning always in memory in the same awful lights. The fixed white face of scorn and anguish. It seemed as if the woman of indoor had led me to that chamber and showed me a specter. Dudley had not left Bartram Hof when a little note reached me from Lady Nollis. It said, Dearest Maude, I have written by this post to Silas, beseeching a loan of you and my cousin Millie. I see no reason your uncle can possibly have for refusing me, and therefore I count confidently on seeing you both at Elverston to-morrow, to stay for at least a week. I have hardly a creature to meet you. I have been disappointed in several visitors, but another time we shall have a gayer house. Tell Millie, with my love, that I will not forgive her if she fails to accompany you. Believe me, ever your affectionate cousin, Monica Nollis. Millie 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 there were many in favor of his improving the opportunity of allowing poor Millie to 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. End of chapter 41