 CHAPTER 53 An odd proposal. As I and Mary Quince returned from our walk that day and had entered the hall, I was surprised most disagreeable by Dudley's emerging from the vestibule at the foot of the great staircase. He was, I suppose, in his traveling costume—a rather soiled white sur-two, a great colored muffler enfolds about his throat, his chimney-pot on, and his fur cap sticking out from his pocket. He had just ascended, I suppose, from my uncle's room. On seeing me he stepped back and stood with his shoulders to the wall, like a mummy in a museum. I pretended to have a few words to say to Mary before leaving the hall, in hope that, as he seemed to wish to escape me, he would take the opportunity of getting quickly off the scene. But he had changed his mind, it would seem, in the interval. For when I glanced in that direction again, he had moved towards us and stood in the hall with his hat in his hand. I must do him the justice to say he looked horribly dismal, sulky, and frightened. You'll give me a word, miss, only a thing I ought to say, for you're good. By God, mind it's for your good, miss! Dudley stood a little way off, viewing me with his hat in both hands and a gloomy countenance. I detested the idea of either hearing or speaking to him, but I had no resolution to refuse and only saying, I can't imagine what you can wish to speak to me about. I approached him. Wait there at the banister, quince! There was a fragrance of alcohol about the flushed face and gaudy muffler of this odious cousin which heightened the effect of his horribly dismal features. He was speaking besides a little thickly. But his manner was dejected, and he was treating me with an elaborate and discomforted respect, which reassured me. I'm a bit up a tree, miss, he said, shuffling his feet on the oak floor. I behaved a damn fool, but I ain't one of they sort, but I'm a fellow as he'll fight his man and stand up to him fair, don't you see, and bait one of they at sort. No, dang it, I banked! Gently delivered his puzzling harangue with a good deal of undertone vehemence, and was strangely agitated. He too had got an unpleasant way of avoiding my eye, and glancing along the floor from corner to corner as he spoke, which gave him a very hang-dog air. He was twisting his fingers in his great sandy whisker, and pulling it roughly enough to drag his cheek about by that savage purchase, and with his 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 of the he says though, not he. But I'm in a bad fix, anyhow. A regular salad's been, and I can't get a tizzy out of him. So, you see, I'm up in a tree, miss. And he's such a one, he'll make it a wuss-mull if I let him. He's as sharp with me as one of them lawyer-chaps dang him. And he's a lot of I.O.'s and rubbish of mine. And Briarly writes to me he can't give me my legacy, because he's got a notice from Archer and Slay, a warning him not to give me as much as a bob. For I signed it away to Governor, he says, which I believe's a lie. I may have signed some right, nap, and I did, when I was a bit cut one night. But there's no way to catch a gentleman. Which won't stand, there's justice to be had, and won't stand, I say. And I'm not in his hands that way. Though if I may be a bit up the spout, too, I don't deny. Only I baint to go in the whole hog all at once. I'm none of they sort, he'll find I baint. Here Mary Quinn's coughed to Murley from the foot of the stair, to remind me that the conversation was protracted. I don't very well understand, I said gravely. And I am now going upstairs. Don't just a minute miss, it's only a word you see. We'll be going to Australia, sirry mangles, and me aboard the Seamew on the 5th. I'm for Liverpool tonight, and she'll meet me there, and please cut, almighty you'll never see me more. And I'd rather give you a lift, Maude, before I go. And I'll tell you what, if you'll just give me your written promise that you'll give me that 20,000 you were offering to give to Governor, I'll take you cleverly out to Bartram, and put you with your cousin Nala, sir, anywhere you like's best. Take me away from Bartram, for 20,000 pounds. Take me away from my guardian, you seem to forget, sir, my indignation rising as I spoke, that I can visit my cousin Lady Nala's whenever I please. Well, that is, as it may be, he said, with a silky deliberation, scraping about 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 you have treated me, your mean treacherous and infamous suit, and your cruel treason to your poor wife, I am amazed at your effrontery. I turn to leave him, being in truth, in one of my passions. Don't ye be flying out? he said, peremptorily, and catching me roughly by the wrist. I'd bane to go into Vexi. What a mouth ye be, as can't see your way. Can't ye speak with common sense like a woman, dang it, for once, and not keep brawlin' like a brat? Can't ye see what I'm saying? I'll take ye out of all this, and put ye with your cousin, or worse-oever you list, if ye'll give me what I say. He was, for the first time, looking me in the face, but with contracted eyes and accountants very much agitated. Money, said I, with a prompt disdain. I, money, twenty thousand pounds, there, on or off? he replied with an unpleasant sort of effort. You asked 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 should have done, perhaps not quite that, all at once at least. Let something handsome 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 cousin Monica 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 nature and outraged my self-importance. You won't give 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 a piece of tobacco in his jaw. Certainly not, sir, I replied. Take it, then, he replied, still looking down, very black and discontented. I joined Mary Quince, extremely angry. As I passed under the carved oak arch of the vestibule, I saw his figure in the deepening twilight. The picture remains in its murky halo fixed in memory, standing where he last spoke in the center 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 wage or two. That is, black and desperate. I did not utter a syllable on the way up. When I reached my room, I began to reconsider the interview more at my leisure. I was, such were my ruminations, to have agreed at once to his preposterous offer, and to have been driven, while he smirked and grimaced behind my back at his acquaintances, through feltrum in his dog-cart to Elverston, and then to the just indignation of my uncle, to have been delivered up to Lady Nollis's guardianship, and to have handed my driver, as I alighted, the handsome fare of twenty thousand pounds. It required the impudence of Tony Lumpkin, without either his fun or his shrewdness, 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 Quince, I added. No, no tea just now. And I resumed my ruminations, which soon led me to this train of thought. Stupid and insulting as Dudley's proposition was, yet it involved a great treason against my uncle. Should I be weak enough to be silent, may he not, wishing to forestall me, misrepresent all that has passed, so as to throw the blame altogether upon me. This idea seized upon me with a force which I could not withstand. And on the impulse of the moment I obtained admission to my uncle, and related exactly what had passed. When I had finished my narrative, which he listened to without once raising his eyes, my uncle cleared his throat once or twice as if to speak. He was smiling, I thought with an effort, and with elevated brows. When I concluded, he hummed one of those sliding notes, which a less refined man might have expressed by a whistle of surprise 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 to be in search of something, opening and shutting two or three drawers, and turning over some books and papers. And at length, taking up some loose sheets of manuscript, he appeared to have found what he was looking for, and began to read them carelessly, with his back towards me, and with another 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 oslars. He has always seemed to me something of a centaur. That is, a centaur composed not of man and horse, but of an ape and an ass. And upon this jibe he laughed, not coldly and sarcastically, as was his won't, but I thought, fleuridly. And, continuing to look into his papers, he said his back still towards me as he read, and he did not favor you with an exposition of his meaning, which, except in so far as it estimated his desserts at the modest sum you have named, appears to me to oracular to be interpreted without a kindred inspiration. And again he laughed. He was growing more like himself. As to your visiting your cousin, Lady Naunless, the stupid rogue had only five minutes before, heard me express my wish that you should do so before leaving this. I am quite resolved, you shall. That is, unless, dear Maude, 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 letter will naturally bring it about, and, I trust, open the way to a permanent residence with her. The more I think it over, the more I am convinced, dear niece, that as things are likely to turn out, my roof would be no desirable shelter for you. And that, under all circumstances, hers would. Such were my motives, Maude, in opening. Through your letter, a door of reconciliation between us, I felt that I ought to have kissed his hand, that he had indicated precisely the future that I most desired, and yet there was within me a vague feeling akin to suspicion, akin to dismay which chilled and overcast my soul. But, Maude, he said, I am disquieted to think of that stupid jack-in-apes presuming to make you such an offer. A credible situation, truly, arriving in the dark at Elverston, under the solitary escort of that wild young man, with whom you would have fled from my guardianship. And, Maude, I tremble as I ask myself the question, would he have conducted you to Elverston at all? When you have lived in the world as long as I, you will appreciate its wickedness more justly. Here there was a little pause. I know, my dear, that were he convinced of his legal marriage with that young woman. He resumed, perceiving how startled I looked. Such an idea, of course, would not have entered his head. But he does not believe any such thing. Contrary to fact and logic, he does honestly think that his hand is still at his disposal. And I certainly do suspect that he would have employed that excursion in endeavoring to persuade you to think as he does. Be that how it may, however. It is satisfactory to me to know that you shall never more be troubled by one word from that ill-regulated young man. I made him my adieu, such as they were, this evening. And never more shall he enter the walls of Bartram off while we two live. Uncle Silas replaced the papers which had ostensibly interested him so much, and returned. There was a vein which was visible near the angle of his lofty temple. And in moments of agitation stood out against the surrounding pallor in a knotted blue cord. And as he came back smiling a scans, I saw the sign of inward tumult. We can, however, avoid to despise the follies and navaries of this world, Maud, as long as we act, as we have hitherto done, with perfect confidence in each other. Heaven bless you, dear Maud. Your report troubled me, I believe, more than it need. Troubled me a good deal. But reflection assures me it is nothing. He is gone. In a few days' time he will be on the sea. I will issue my orders to-morrow morning, and he will never more, during his brief stay in England, gain admission to Bartram off. Good night, my dear niece. I thank you. And so I returned to Mary Quince, on the whole happier than I had left her, but still with the confused and jarring vision I could not interpret perpetually rising before me. And as, from time to time, shapeless anxieties agitated me, relieving them by appeals to him, who alone is wise and strong. Next day brought me a good-natured gossiping letter from Dear Millie, written in compulsory French, which was, in some places, very difficult to interpret. She gave me a very pleasant account of the place, and her opinion of the girls who were inmates, and mentioned some of the nuns with high commendation. The language plainly cramped poor Millie's genius. But, although there was by no means so much fun as an honest English letter would have brought me, there could be no mistake about her liking the place, and she expressed her honest longing to see me in the most affectionate terms. This letter came enclosed in one to my uncle, from the proper authority in the convent. And as there was neither a dress within nor postmark without, I was as much in the dark as ever as two poor Millie's whereabouts. Penciled across the envelope of this letter, in my uncle's hand, were the words, 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 Millie in my uncle's hands, he told me the reason of his reserves on the subject. I thought it best, dear Maude, not to plague you with a secret, and Millie's present address is one. It will, in a few weeks, become the rallying point of our diverse routes, when you shall meet her, and I join you both. Nobody, until a 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 of keeping a secret on which so much may depend. This being reasonable, even considerate, I acquiesced. In that interval there reached me such a charming gay and affectionate letter, a very long letter, too. Though the rider was scarcely seven miles away, from dear cousin Monica, full of pleasant gossip, and rose-colored and golden castles in the air, and the kindest interest in poor Millie, and the warmest affection for me. One other incident varied that interval, if possible, more pleasantly than those. It was the announcement, in a Liverpool paper, of the departure of the CMU bound for Melbourne, and among the passengers were reported deadly rithin, Esquire, of Bartram H., and Mrs. D. Rithin. And now I began to breathe freely. I plainly saw the end of my probation approaching, a short excursion to France, a happy meeting with Millie, and then a delightful residence with cousin Monica, for the remainder of my nonage. You will say that my spirits and my serenity were quite restored. Not quite. How marvelously lie our anxieties in filmy layers one over the other. Take away that which is laying on the upper surface for so long, the care of cares the only one, as it seemed to you, between your soul and the radiance of heaven. And straight you find a new stratum there. As physical science tells us no fluid is without its skin, so does it seem with this fine medium of the soul, and these successive films of care that form upon its surface, unmear contact with the upper air and light. What was my new trouble? A very fantastic one, you will say, the illusion of a self-tormentor. It was the face of Uncle Silas, which haunted me. Notwithstanding the old pale smile, there was a shrinking grimness, and the always averted look. Sometimes I fancied his mind was disordered. I could not account for the eerie lights and shadows that flickered on his face, except so. There was a look of shame and fear of me, amazing as that seems, in the sheen of his peeked smile. I thought, perhaps he blames himself for having tolerated Dudley's suit, for having urged it on the grounds of personal distress, for having altogether lowered, though under sore temptation, both himself and his office, and he thinks that he has forfeited my respect. Such was my analysis, but in the kuduya of that white face that dazzled me in the darkness, and haunted my daily reveries with a faded light, there was an intangible character of the insidious and the terrible. End of Chapter 53 Chapter 54 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 54 In search of Mr. Charks Skeleton On the whole, however, I was unspeakably relieved. Dudley Rithon, Esquire, and Mrs. D. Rithon, were now skimming the blue waves on the wings of the seamew, and every morning widening the distance between us, which was to go on increasing until it measured a point on the antipodes. The Liverpool paper containing this golden line was carefully preserved in my room. And like the gentleman who, when much tried by the shrewish heiress whom he had married, used to retire to his closet and read over his marriage settlement, I used, when blue devils haunted me, to unfold my newspaper and read the paragraph concerning the seamew. The day I now speak of was the dismal one of sleety snow. My own room seemed to me cheeryer than the lonely parlor, where I could not have had good merry quints so decorously. A good fire, that kind and trusty face, the peep I had just indulged in at my favorite paragraph, and the certainty of soon seeing my dear cousin Monica, and afterwards affectionate milley, raised my spirits. So, said I, as old Wyatt, you say, is laid up with rheumatism, and can't turn up to scold me. I think I'll run upstairs and make an exploration, to find poor Mr. Charke's skeleton in a closet. Oh, la, Miss Maud, how can you say such things? exclaimed good old Quince, lifting up her honest gray head and round eyes from her knitting. I had grown so familiar with the frightful tradition of Mr. Charke and his suicide, that I could now afford to frighten old Quince with him. I am quite serious. I am going to have a ramble upstairs and downstairs, like goosey goosey gander, and if I do light upon his chamber, it is all the more interesting. I feel so like Adelaide, in the romance of the forest, the book I was reading to you last night, when she commenced her delightful 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 I shall lose heart and return very soon. And with a shawl about me, cowl fashion over my head, I stole upstairs. I shall not recount with the particularity of the conscientious heroine of Mrs. Anne Radcliffe all the suites of apartments, corridors, and lobbies, which I threaded in my ramble. It will be enough to mention that I lighted upon a door at the end of a long gallery, which I think ran parallel with the front of the house. It interested me because it had the error of having been very long undisturbed. There were two rusty bolts, which did not evidently belong to its original securities, and had been, though very long ago, somewhat clumsily super-added. Dusty and rusty they were, but I had no difficulty 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 Mary Quince's assistance. It struck me, however, that possibly it was not locked. So I pulled the door, and it opened quite easily. I did not find myself in a strangely furnished suite of apartments, but at the entrance of a gallery, which diverged at right angles from that through which I had just 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 I could retrace my steps with accuracy in case of a panic, and I had serious thoughts of returning. The idea of Mr. Charke was growing unpleasantly sharp and menacing, and as I looked down the long space before me, losing itself among ambiguous shadows, lulled in a sinister silence, and as it were inviting my entrance like 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 a side door and entered a large room, where were, in a corner, some rusty and cobwebbed bird cages, but nothing more. It was a wainscotted room, but a white mildew stained the panels. I looked from the window. It commanded that dismal, weed-choked quadrangle into which I had once looked from another window. I opened a door at its farther end, and entered another chamber, not quite so large, but equally dismal, with the same prison-like lookout, not very easily discerned through the grimy panes, and the sleet that was falling thickly outside. The door, through which I had entered, made a 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, which was 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 a melancholy frowned 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 de la Rogère was before me. I could see nothing else. The drowsy traveller, who opens his sheets to slip into bed, and sees a scorpion coiled between them, may have experienced a shock the same in kind, but immeasurably less in degree. She sat in a clumsy old armchair, with an ancient shawl about her, and her bare feet, in a delft tub. She looked a thought more withered. Her wig shoved back to disclose her bald, wrinkled forehead, and enhanced the ugly effect of her exaggerated features and the gaunt hollows of her face. With a 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 and grim, as of an evil spirit detected. The meeting, at least then and there, was as complete a surprise for her as for me. She could not tell how I might take it, but she quickly rallied, burst into a loud screeching laugh, and, with her old, wall-purgesque, gaiety, danced some fantastic steps in her bare wet feet, tracking the floor with water, and holding out with finger and thumb and dainty caricature her slamikin old skirt, while she sang some of her nasal patois with an abominable hilarity and emphasis. With a gasp I, too, recovered from the fascination of the surprise. I could not speak, though, for some seconds, and madame was first. Ah, dear mad, what surprise! Are we not overjoyed, dearest, and cannot speak? I am full of joy, quite charmed, ravi of seeing you. So argue of me, your face betray. Ah, yes, ah, dear little baboon. Here is poor madame once more. Who could have imagined? I thought you were in France, madame. I said, with a dismal effort. And so I was, dear mad, I have just alive. Your uncle Silas, he wrote to the superiors for gubernante to accompany a young lady, that is you, mad, on her journey, and she sent me, and so, mashear, here is poor madame arrived to charge herself of that affair. How soon do we leave for France, madame? I asked. I do not know. But the old woman, what is her name? Wyatt, I suggested. Ah, we, Wyatt, she says two, three weeks. And who conduct you to poor madame's apartment, my dear mud? She inquired insinuatingly. No one, I answered promptly. I reached it quite accidentally, and I can't imagine why you should conceal yourself. Something like indignation kindled in my mind as I began to wonder at the Sly's strategy, which had been practiced upon me. I have not concealed myself, madmoselle, retorted the governess. I have act precisely as I have been ordered. Your uncle, Mr. Silas, within, he is afraid, Wyatt says, to be interrupted by his creditors, and everything must be done very quietly. I have been commanded to avoid methofoie, you know, and I must obey my employer. Voila, too. And for how long have you been residing here? I persisted, in the same resentful vein. About a week. It is such a sad place. I am so glad to see you, Maud. I have been so isolated, you dear little fool. You are not glad, madame. You don't love me. You never did. I exclaimed with sudden vehemence. Yes, I am very glad. You know not, cher petitnieze. Now I have desire to educate you a little more. Let us understand one another. You think I do not love you, madmoselle, because you have mentioned to your poor papa that little directly more indelibly. I have repented very often that so great in discretion of my life. I thought to find some letters of Dr. Biley. I think that man was trying to get your property, my dear Maud. And if I had found something I would tell you all about. But it was very great sorties, and you were very right to denounce me too, monsieur. Je n'ai pas hanté à qu'on est contre vous. Non, non, non, not at all. On the contrary, I shall be your guardian tutelaire. What you call guardian angel. Ah yes, that is it. You think I speak par direction? Not at all. No, my dear child. I do not speak par mockery. Unless perhaps the very least agree in the wealth. And with these words, madame laughed unpleasantly, showing the black caverns at the side of her mouth, and with the cold, steady malignity in her gaze. Yes, I said. I know what you mean, madame. You hate me. Oh, what great ugly word. I am shocked. Vot me fait hanté. Poor madame, she never hate anyone. She loves all her friends, and her enemies she leaves to heaven. While I am, as you see, more gay, more joyous than ever, they have not been happy. No, they have not been fortunate, these others. When I return, I find always some of my enemy. They have died, and some they have put themselves into embarrassment, or there has arrived to them some 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 madame, it is very natural you should think I hate you. When I was with Mr. Austin Nathan at Noor, you know you did not like me, never. But in consequence of our intimacy, I confide you that which I have of most dear in the world, my reputation. It is always so. The pupil can calumniate without being discovered. The gubernante, have I not been always kind to you, Maud? Which have I used of violence or of sweetness the most? I am like other persons, jalous d'aimer reputation. And it was difficult to suffer with patience the banished meat which was invoked by you, because chiefly for your good, and for your indiscretion to which I was excited by motives the most pure and laudable. It was you who spied so cleverly, eh? And denounced me to Mosulithion. N'las, what bad-weldities! I do not mean to speak at all about that occurrence, madame, I will not discuss it. I daresay what you tell me of the cause of your engagement here is true, and I suppose we must travel, as you say, in company. But you must know that the less we see of each other while in this house, the better. I am not so sure of that, my sweet little bet. Your education has been neglected, or rather entirely abandoned. Since you have arrived at this place, I am told, you must not be a bestial. We must do you and I, as we are ordered, Mr. Silas Ruthon he will tell us. All this time, madame was pulling on her stockings, getting her boots on, and otherwise proceeding with her doddy toilet. I do not know why I stood there talking to her. We often act very differently from what we would have done upon reflection. I had involved myself in a dialogue, as wiser generals than I have entangled themselves in a general action when they meant only in a fair of outposts. I had grown a little angry, and would not betray the least symptom of fear, although I felt the sensation profoundly. My beloved father thought you so unfit to companion for me, that he dismissed you at an hour's notice. And I am very sure that my uncle will think as he did. You are not a fit companion for me, and had my uncle known what had passed he would never have admitted you to this house. Never! Elas, kill this class, and you really think so, my dear mod? exclaimed madame, adjusting her wig before her glass, in the corner of which I could only see half of her sly, grinning face, as she ogled herself in it. I do, and so do you, madame. I replied, growing more frightened. It may be, we shall see. But not everyone is so cool as you, my cher petite Calomniatrice. You shan't call me those names, I said in an angry trimmer. What name, dear Cheyenne? Calomniatrice. That is an insult. Why, my most foolish little mod. We may say rogue and a thousand other little words in play, which we do not say seriously. You are not playing. You never play. You are angry, and you hate me, I exclaimed vehemently. Oh, fie. What shame. Do you not perceive, dearest child, how much education you still need? You are proud, little demoiselle. You must become, on the contrary, quite humble. I will make you to kiss the monkey. You are too proud, my dear Cheyenne. I am not such a fool as I was at null, I said. You shall not terrify me here. 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. Ah, do, madame. You are going to see Mosulithin? Very good. I made her no answer, but more agitated than I cared to show her. I left the room. I hurried along the twilight passage, and turned into the long gallery that opened from it at right angles. I had not gone half a dozen stops on my return, when I heard a heavy tread and a rustling behind me. I am letting my dear. I will accompany you, said the smirking phantom, hurrying after me. Very well, was my reply, and threading our way, with a few hesitations and mistakes, we reached and descended the stairs, and in a minute more stood 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 himself for a few seconds, and, treating madame to a stare of disgust, he asked, peevishly, Why am I disturbed, pray? Miss Modlithin, she will explain, replied madame, with a great curtsy, like a boat going down in a groundswell. Will you explain, my dear? he asked in his coldest and most sarcastic tone. 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, and with the most solemn inseverations, and with streaming eyes and clasped hands, conjured me melodramatically to withdraw that intolerable story, and to do her justice. I stared at her for a while astounded, and turning suddenly to my uncle, as vehemently asserted the truth of every syllable as 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 Delam, that lady has arrived excellently recommended by the superioris of the place where Dear Millie awaits you. And such persons are particular. It strikes me, my dear niece, that you have made a mistake. I protested here. But he went on, without seeming to hear the parenthesis. I know, my dear Maude, that you are quite incapable of willfully deceiving anyone. But you are liable to be deceived like other young people. You were, no doubt, very nervous, and but half awake when you fancied you saw the occurrence you described. And Madame de… de… de la Rogerre, I supplied. Yes, thank you. Madame de la Rogerre, who has arrived with excellent testimonials, strenuously denies the whole thing. Here is a conflict, my dear. In my mind, a presumption of mistake. I confess I should prefer that theory to a peremptory assumption of guilt. I felt incredulous and amazed. It seemed as if a dream were being enacted before me. A transaction of the most serious import, which I had witnessed with my own eyes and described with unexceptionable minuteness and consistency, is discredited by that strange and suspicious old man with an imbecile coolness. It was quite in vain by reiterating my statement, backing it with the most earnest asseverations. I was beating the air. It did not seem to reach his mind. It was all received with a semper of feeble incredulity. He patted and smoothed my head. He laughed gently and shook his while I insisted. And Madame protested her purity and now tranquil floods of innocent tears. And murmured mild and melancholy prayers for my enlightenment and reformation. I felt as if I should lose my reason. There now, dear Maude, we have heard enough. It is, I do believe, a delusion. Madame de la Roger will be your companion at the utmost for three or four weeks. Do exercise a little of your self-command and good sense. You know how I am tortured. Do not, I entreat. Add to my perplexities. You may make yourself very happy with, Madame, if you will. I have no doubt. I propose to mademoiselle, said Madame, drying her eyes with a gentle alacrity, to profit of my visit for her education. But she does not seem to wish what I think is so useful. She threatened me with some kind of horrid French vulgarism. De faire baiser les bebrants en moi, whatever that means, and I know she hates me. I replied impetuously. Doucement, doucement, said my uncle, with a smile at once amused and compassionate. Doucement, Michel. With great hands and cunning eyes uplifted, Madame tearfully, for her tears came on short notice. Again protested her absolute innocence. She had never in all her life so much as heard one so villain-phrase. You see, my dear, you have misheard. Young people never attend. You will do well to take advantage of Madame's short residence, to get up your French a little. And the more you are with her, the better. I understand, Zin, Mr. Luthin. You wish I should lassoom my insultions? Asked Madame. Certainly. And converse all you can in French with Mlle. Maud. You will 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 towards Madame de La Rogère, stunned and incensed, walked into my room and shut the door. End of Chapter 54 Chapter 55 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 55 The Foot of Hercules I stood at the window, still the same leaden sky and feathery sleet before me, trying to estimate the magnitude of the discovery I had just made. Gradually a kind of despair seized me, and I threw myself passionately on my 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 Rogère, has come to be my governess again, and Uncle Silas won't hear or believe anything about her. It is vain talking. He is prepossessed, was ever so unfortunate 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 to shake off that vindictive, terrible woman? Mary said all she could do was console me. I was making too much of her. What was she, after all, more than a governess? She could not hurt me. I was not a child no longer. She could not bully me now. And my uncle, though he might be deceived for a while, would not be long finding her out. Thus and so forth did Good Mary Quince to claim, and at last she did impress me a little, and I began to think that I had, perhaps, been making too much of Madame's visit. But still imagination, that instrument and mirror of prophecy, showed her formidable image always on its surface, with a terrible moving background of shadows. In a few minutes there was a knock at my door, and Madame herself entered. She was walking in 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, and pressed it with wonderful tenderness. Honest Mary suffered all this somewhat reluctantly, never smiling, and, on the contrary, looking rather ruefully at her feet. Will you make us some tea? When I come back, dear Mary Quince, I have so much to tell you, and, dear Miss Maud, of all my adventures while I have been away, it will make you a laugh ever so much. I was, what you think, near, ever so near to be married. And upon this she broke into a screeching laugh, and shook Mary Quince merrily by the shoulder. I solemnly declined going out, or rising, and when she had gone away I told Mary that I should confine myself to my room while Madame stayed. But self-denying ordinances, self-imposed, are not always long observed by youth. Madame de la Roger laid herself out to be agreeable. She had no end of stories, more than half, no doubt, pure fictions, to tell, but all in that trist place amusing. Mary Quince began to entertain a better opinion of her. She actually helped to make beds, and tried to be in every way of use, and seemed to have quite turned over a new leaf. And so gradually 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 a profound distrust, and even terror, of her. She seemed curious about the Bartram Hof family, and all their ways, and listened darkly when I spoke. I told her bit by bit the whole story of Dudley, and she used, whenever there was news of Simu, to read the paragraph for my benefit. And in poor Millie's battered little atlas, she used to trace the ship's course with a pencil, writing in, from point to point, the date at which the vessel was spoken at sea. She seemed amused at the irrepressible satisfaction with which I received these minutes of his progress. And she used to calculate the distance. On such a day he was two hundred and sixty miles, on such another five hundred, and the last point was more than eight hundred. Good, better, best. Best of all would be those, while he would so soon plumb nail on his head twelve thousandth miles away. And at the conceit she would fall into screams of laughter. Laugh as she might, however, there was substantial comfort in thinking of the boundless stretch of blue wave that rolled between me and that villainous cousin. I was now on very odd terms with Madame. She had not relapsed into her favorite vein of oracular sarcasm and menace. She had, on the contrary, affected her good-humored and genial vein. But I was not to be deceived by this. I carried in my heart that deep-seated fear of her, which her unpleasant good-humor and gaiety never disturbed for a moment. I was very glad, therefore, when she went to Toddcaster by rail, to make some purchases for the journey which we were daily expecting to commence. And happy in the opportunity of a walk. Good old Mary Quince and I set forth for a little ramble. As I wished to make some purchases in Feltrum, I set out, with Mary Quince for 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 to turn, Mary tried it. At the same moment, old Crowell came out of the somber lodge by its side, swallowing down a mouthful of his dinner and haste. No one, I believed, liked the long suspicious face of the old man, seldom shorn or washed, and furrowed with great grimy perpendicular wrinkles. Learing fiercely at Mary, not pretending to see me, he wiped his mouth hurriedly with the back of his hand and growled, Drop it! Open it, please, Mr. Crowell, said Mary, renouncing the task. Crowell wiped his mouth as before looking inauspicious. Shuffling to the spot and muttering to himself, he first satisfied himself that the lock was 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 want many a thing we can't get, he growled, stepping into his habitation. 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 there. You won't allow me and my maid to pass the gate, I said. Tis'n't me, ma'am, he said. But I can't break orders, and no one goes out without the master allows. And without awaiting further parlay, he entered, shutting his hatch behind him. So Mary and I stood, looking very foolish at one another. This was the first restraint I had experienced since Millie and I had been refused a passage through the windmill pailing. The rule, however, on which Crowell insisted, I felt confident could not have been intended to apply to me. A word to Uncle Silas would set all right. And in the meantime I proposed to Mary that we should take a walk, my favorite ramble, into the windmill wood. I looked toward Dickon's farmstead as we passed, thinking that beauty might have been there. I did see the girl, who was plainly watching us. She stood in the doorway of the cottage, withdrawn into the shade, and, I fancied, anxious to escape observation. When we had passed on a little, I was confirmed in that belief by seeing her run down the footpath, which led from the rear of the farmyard in the direction contrary to that in which we were moving. So, I thought, for Meg falls from me. Mary Quince and I rambled on through the wood, till we reached the windmill itself. And seeing its low arched door open, we entered the chiaroscuro of its circular basement. As we did so, I heard a rush in the creek of a plank, and, looking up, I saw just a foot, no more, disappearing through the trapped door. In the case of one we love or fear intensely, what feats of comparative anatomy will not the mind unconsciously perform? Constructing the whole living animal from the turn of an elbow, the curl of a whisker, a segment of a hand, how instantaneous and unerring is the instinct. Oh, Mary, what have I seen? I whispered, recovering from the fascination that held my gaze fast, to the topmost rounds of the latter, that disappeared in the darkness above the open door in the loft. Come, Mary, come away! At the same instant appeared the swarthy, swollen face of dickenhawkeys in the shadow of the aperture, having but one serviceable leg, his descent was slow and awkward. And having got his head to the level of the loft, he stopped to touch his hat to me, and to hasp and lock the trapped door. When this was done, the man again touched his hat and looked steadily and searchingly at me for a second or so, while he got the key into his pocket. These fellas store their flower too long here, ma'am. There's a deal of trouble to look and utter it. I'll talk with Silas and settle that. By this time he had got upon the worn-tiled floor, and touching his hat again, he said, I'm a gun to lock the door, ma'am. And so with a start, and again whispering, Come away, Mary, come away! With my arm fast in hers, we made a swift departure. I feel very faint, Mary, I said. Come quickly, there's nobody following us. No, Miss, dear, that man with the wooden leg is putting a padlock on the door. 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 in his pocket, and standing there a-looking 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, hurrying forward. What did you see, Miss? repeated Mary. Mr. Dudley! I whispered with a terrified emphasis, not daring to turn my head as I spoke. Lock! Miss! remonstrated honest quints, with a protracted intonation of wonder and incredulity, which plainly implied a suspicion that I was dreaming. Yes, Mary, when we went into that dreadful room, that dark round place, I saw his foot on the ladder. His foot, Mary, I can't be mistaken. I won't be questioned. You'll find I'm right. He's here. He never went in that ship at all. A fraud has been practiced on me. It is infamous. It is terrible. I'm frightened out of my life. For heaven's sake, look back again and tell me what you see. Nothing, Miss? answered Mary, in contagious whispers. But that wooden leg-chap standing hard by the door. And no one with him. No one, Miss? We got without pursuit through the gate in the pailing. I drew breath so soon 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, and I was still instinctively certain that it was no other than Dudley, concealment was plainly his object. I need not, then, be at all uneasy, lest he should pursue us. As we walked slowly and in silence along the grassy footpath, I heard a voice calling my name from behind. Mary quints had not heard it at all, but I was quite certain. It was repeated twice, or thrice, and, looking in considerable doubt and trepidation under the hanging bows, 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 with hand uplifted toward her ear, she watched us while, as it seemed, listening for more distant sounds. Beauty beckoned eagerly to me, advancing with looks of great fear and anxiety, two or three short steps toward me. She banked to come, said beauty under her breath, so soon as I had nearly reached her, pointing without raising her hand at Mary quints. Tell her to sit on the ash-tree stump down yonder, and call ye as loud as she can if she sees any fellow come in this way. And Riny back to me, and she impatiently beckoned me away on her errand. When I returned, having made this dispositions, I perceived how pale the girl was. Are you ill, Meg? I asked. Never ye mind. Well enough, listen, miss, I must tell it all in a crack, and if she calls, rent away to her and leave me to myself, for a failure to other one were to catch me here, I think they'd kill me almost. Hish! She paused a second, looking to scance, in the direction where she fancied Mary quints was. Then she resumed in a whisper, Now, lass, mind ye, ye'll keep what I say to yourself. You're not to tell thaton, nor any other, for your life, mind, a word of what I'm going to tell ye. 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 Toddcaster. He stayed in Feltrum after. It was my turn to look pale now. My worst conjecture was established. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Uncle Silas by J. Sheridan LeFennu. Chapter 56. I Conspire. That's a badon, he is. Oh, miss, miss, mod, it's not that good that keeps him in father, mind-glass'd, he promised ye would not tell no one, as keeps him to a talking and a smoke and secret like together in the mill, and father don't know I found him out. They don't let me into the town, but Bryce tells me, and he knows it's Dudley, and it's not that's good, but some it very bad, and I reckon, miss, it's all about you. Be frightened, miss mod. I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied. Not much, Meg. Go on, for heaven's sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is here? Well, miss, they were with him, Bryce told me, from eleven o'clock to nine one a Thursday night, and went in and come out like thieves feared ye'd see him. And how does Bryce know anything bad, I asked, with a strange freezing sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again. I am sure deadly pale, but speaking very collectively. Bryce said, miss, he saw Dudley a cryin' and look an awful black, and he says to father, Tissant in my lie know how, and I can't, and says father to he, no one likes they sort of things, but how can he help it? The old boy behind you with his pitchfork, and he can't a stop, and with that he bethought him o' Bryce, and says he, what be ye a doin' there? Get ye down with the nags to blacksmith, do ye? And up gets Dudley, pullin' his hat over his brows, and says he, I wish I was in the seamew. I'm good for not with this thing hangin' over me, and that's all as Bryce heard, and he's a fear to father and Dudley awful. Dudley could lick him to pot if he crossed him, and he and father would think not of havin' him a for the justice for poachin' and shwarein' him into jail. But why does he think it's about me? said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. I can't say, we're in danger lass, I don't know why, but he does, and so do I, and for that matter so do ye. Meg, I'll leave Bartram. He can't. Can't. What do you mean, girl? They won't let ye out. They've dogs, they've bloodhounds, Bryce says. You can't get out, mind. Put that out of your head. I'll tell you what you'll do. Write a bit of note to the lady yonder at Elverston, and though Bryce be a wild fella, and happen not o'er good sometimes, he likes me, and I'll make him take it. Father will be grindin' at mill tomorrow, come ye here about one o'clock. That's if ye see the mill sales a turnin', and me and Bryce will meet ye here. Bring that old lass with ye. There's an old Frenchman, though, that talks with Dudley. Mind ye, that one knows not about the matter. Bryce be a kind lad to me, whatsoever he be with others, and I think he won't split. Now lass, I must go. God help ye, God bless ye, and for the world's wealth, don't ye let one of them see you've got ought in your head, not even thatin'. Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me with a wild gesture of silence, and a shake of her head. I can't at all account for the state in which I was. There are resources both of energy and endurance in human nature, which we never suspect until the tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified with a totally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness of the 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 ugly gavel, 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 locked the door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sort of imploring despair. I was afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The least indiscretion would be a failure and failure destruction. I answered her perplexed solicitudes, by telling her that I was not very well, that I was uneasy, but I did not fail to extract from her a promise, that she would not hint to mortal either my suspicions about Dudley or our rancantre with Meg Huckees. 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 told how soundly she slept. I got up and looked from the window, expecting to see some of those wolfish dogs, which they had brought into the place prowling about the courtyard. Sometimes I prayed, and felt tranquilized, and fancied that I was perhaps to have a short interval of sleep. But the serenity was delusive. And all the time my nerves were strung hysterically. Sometimes I felt quite wild, and on the point of screaming. At length that dreadful night passed away. Morning came, and a less morbid, though hardly a less terrible, state of mind. Madame paid me an early visit. A thought struck me. I knew that she loved shopping, and I said, quite carelessly, You're yesterday's shopping tempts me, madame, and I must get a few things before we leave for France. Suppose we go into Feltrum today and make my purchases, you and I. She looked from the corner of her cunning eye in my face without answering. I did not blench, and she said, Very good, I would be very happy. And again she looked oddly at me. What hour might deal, Maude? One o'clock? I think that we'll be very well, eh? I assented, and she grew silent. I wonder whether I did look as careless as I tried. I do not know. Through the whole of this awful period I was, I think, supernatural. And I even now look back with wonder upon my strange self-command. Madame, I hoped, had heard nothing of the order which prohibited my exit from the place. She would herself conduct me to Feltrum, and secure, by accompanying me, my free egress. Once in Feltrum I would assert my freedom, and manage to reach my dear cousin Nullis. Back to Bartram no power should convey me. My heart swelled and fluttered in the awful suspense of that hour. Oh, Bartram Hoff, how came you by those lofty walls? Which of my ancestors had begirt me with an impassable barrier in this horrible strait? Suddenly I remembered my letter to Lady Nullis. If I were disappointed in effecting my escape through Feltrum, all would depend on it. Having locked my door as I wrote as follows. O my beloved cousin, as you hope for comfort in your hour of fear, aid me now. Dudley has returned, and is secreted somewhere about the grounds. It is a fraud. They all pretended to me that he has gone away in the seamew, and he, or they, had his name published as one of the passengers. Madame De La Roger has appeared. She is here, and my uncle insists on making her my close companion. I am at my wit's end. I cannot escape. The walls are a prison, and I believe the eyes of my jailers are always upon me. Dogs are kept for pursuit. Yes, dogs, and the gates are locked against my escape. God help me. I don't know where to look, or whom to trust. I fear my uncle more than all. I think I could bear this better if I knew what their plans are, even the worst. If ever you loved or pity me, dear cousin, I conjure you, help me in this extremity. Take me away from this. Oh, darling, for God's sake, take me away. Your distracted and terrified cousin, Maude Bartram Hof. I sealed this letter jealously, as if the inanimate missive would burst at sermons, and proclaim my desperate appeal through all the chambers and passages of silent Bartram. Old Quintz, greatly to cousin Monica's amusement, persisted in furnishing me with those capacious pockets which belonged to a former generation. I was glad of this old-world eccentricity, now, and placed my guilty letter that, amidst all my hypocrisies, spoke out with terrible frankness, deep in this receptacle, and having hid away the pen and ink, my accomplices, I opened the door and resumed my careless looks, awaiting Madame's return. I was to demand to Mr. Lyssen the permission to go to Feltrum, and I think he will allow he want to speak to you. With Madame I entered my uncle's room. He was reclining on a sofa, his back towards us, and his long white hair as fine as spun glass hung over the back of the couch. I was going to ask you, dear Maude, to execute two or three little commissions for me in Feltrum. 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 Feltrum will be full of doubtful characters and tipsy persons, so we must wait till tomorrow. And Madame says very kindly that she will, as she does not so much mind, make any little purchases today which cannot conveniently wait. Madame assented with a courtesy to Uncle Silas, and a great hollow smile to me. By this time Uncle Silas had raised himself from his reclining posture, and was sitting gaunt and white upon the sofa. News of my prodigal today, he said, with a peevish smile, drawing the newspaper towards him. The vessel has been spoken again. How many miles away, do you suppose? He's spoken a plaintive key, looking at me with hungry eyes, and a horrible smiling countenance. How far, do you suppose, Dudley is today? And he laid the palm of his hand on the paragraph as he spoke. Yes. For a moment I fancied this was a theatric preparation to give point to the disclosure of Dudley's real whereabouts. It was a very long way. Yes, he repeated. So, stammering a little in pale, I performed the required hypocrisy, after which my Uncle read aloud for my benefit the line or two in which were recorded the event, and the latitude and longitude of the vessel at the time, of which Madame made a note in her memory, for the purpose of making her usual tracing in poor Millie's atlas. I cannot say how it really was, but I fancied that Uncle Silas was, all the time, reading my countenance with a grim and practiced scrutiny. But nothing came of it, and we were dismissed. Madame loved shopping, even for its own sake, but shopping with opportunities of peculation still more. She had her luncheon and was dressed for the excursion. She did precisely what I now most desired. She proposed to take charge of my commissions and my money, and thus entrusted, left me at liberty to keep trist at the chestnut hollow. So soon as I had seen Madame fairly off I hurried Mary Quince, and got my things on quickly. We left the house by the side entrance, which I knew my Uncle's window did not command. Glad was I to feel a slight breeze, enough to make the mill sales revolve. And as we got further into the grounds, and obtained a distant view of the picturesque old windmill, I felt inexpressibly relieved on seeing that it was actually working. We were now in the chestnut hollow, and I sent Mary Quince to her old point of observation, which commanded a view of the path in the direction of the windmill wood, with her former order to call, I found it, as loudly as she could, in case she should see any one approaching. I stopped at the point of our yesterday's meeting. I peered under the branches, and my heart beat fast as I saw Meg Hakees awaiting me. End of Chapter 56 Chapter 57 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 57 The Letter Come away lass, whispered beauty, very pale. He's here, Tom Bryce. And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underwood. And we reached Tom. The slender youth, groom or poacher he might answer for either, with his short coat and gaitered legs, was sitting on a low horizontal bow, with his shoulders against the trunk. Don't you mind, sit ye still, lad, said Meg, observing that he was preparing to rise, and had entangled his hat in the boughs. Sit ye still and hark to the lady. He'll take it, Miss Mod, if he can. We'll nigh ye, lad. Yes, I'll take it, he replied, holding out his hand. Tom Bryce, you won't deceive me. No, sure, said Tom, and Meg nearly in the same breath. You are an honest English lad, Tom. You would not betray me, I was speaking imploringly. No, sure, repeated Tom. There was something a little unsatisfactory in the countenance of this light-haired youth, with the sharpish, upturned nose. Throughout our interview he said next to nothing, and smiled lazily to himself, like a man listening to a child's solemn nonsense, and leading it on, with an amused irony, from one wise sally to another. Thus it seemed to me that this young clown, without in the least intending to 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 or none. Now, Tom Bryce, a great deal depends on this. That's true for her, Tom Bryce, said Meg, who now and then confirmed my severations. I'll give you a pound now, Tom, and I placed the coin and the letter together in his hand, and you were to give this letter to Lady Nullis at Elverston. You know Elverston, don't you? He does, Miss. Don't ye, lad? Yes. Well, do so, Tom, and I'll be good to you so long as I live. Do ye hear that, lad? Yes, said Tom. It's very good. You'll take the letter, Tom, I said, in much greater trepidation to his answer than I showed. Yes, I'll take the letter, said he, rising, and turning it about in his fingers under his eye, like a curiosity. Tom Bryce, I said, if you can't be true to me, say so, but don't take the letter except to give it to Lady Nullis at Elverston. If you won't promise that, let me have the note back. Keep the pound, but tell me that you won't mention my having asked you to carry a letter to Elverston to anyone. For the first time, Tom looked perfectly serious. He twiddled the corner of my letter between his finger and thumb, and wore very much the countenance of a poacher about to be committed. I don't want to chousy, Miss, but I must take care of myself, you see. The letters goes all through Silas' fingers to the post, and he'd know damn well this weren't among them. They do say he opens them and reads them before they go, and that's his diversion. I don't know, but I do believe that's how it be, and if this one turned up, they'd all know it went behind, and I'd be spotted for it. But you know who I am, Tom, and I'd save you, I said eagerly. He'd want saving yourself, I'm thinking, if that felute, said Tom cynically. I don't say no, I'll not take it. Only this. I won't run my 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 best thing. 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 Bryce looked amused again, swung his head a little on one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the roots of the tree beside him, as if he were striving to keep himself from an uncivil fit of laughter. I'll do what a wise lad may, miss. But ye don't know, they lads. They ain't that easy come over. And I won't get knocked on the head, nor sent to jail appen, for no good to thee nor me. There's Meg there, she knows well enough I cannot manage that. So I won't try it, miss, by no chance. No offense, miss, but I'd rather not. And I'd just try what I can make of this. That's all I can do for ye. Tom Bryce, with these words, stood up and looked uneasily in the direction of the windmill wood. Mind ye, miss, come what will. You'll not tell me. While ye go now, Tom, inquired Meg uneasily. Never ye mind, lass? answered he, breaking his way through the thicket and soon disappearing. Yes, that'll be it. He'll get into the sheepwalk behind the mound. They're all down yonder. Get ye back, miss, to the house. Be the side door, mind ye, don't go round the corner. And I'll just sit a while among the bushes and wait a good time for a start. And good-bye, miss. And don't she show like as if there was ought out of the common on your mind? Hish! There was a distant halloween. That befather, she whispered, with a very blank countenance, and listened with her sun-burnt hand to her ear. "'Tis it me, only Davy,' he'll be calling, she said, with a great sigh, and a joyless smile. Now get ye away in God's name. So running lightly along the path, under the cover of this thick wood, I recalled Mary Quince, and together we hastened back to the house, and entered as directed by the side door, which did not expose us to be seen from the windmill wood. And like two criminals we stole up by the back stairs, and so through the side gallery to my room. And there sat down to collect my wits, and try to estimate the exact effect of what had just occurred. Madame had not yet returned. That was well. She always visited my room first, and everything was precisely as I had left it, a certain sign that her praying 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 Naulis, a gleam of sunlight from the free and happy outer world, entered with it. The moment Madame left me to myself, I opened it, and read as follows. I am so happy, my dearest Maude, in the immediate prospect of seeing you. I have had a really kind letter from poor Silas, poor, I say, for I really compassionate his situation, about which he has been, I do believe, quite frank. At least Ilbury says so. And somehow he happens to know. I have had quite 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 most unmixed happiness. I mean the care of you, my dear girl. I only fear lest my two eager acceptance of the trust should excite that vein of opposition, which is in most human beings, and induce him to think over his offer less favorably again. He says I must come to Bartram and stay a night, and promises to lodge me comfortably, about which last I honestly do not care a pen, 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 for early flight, if he would avoid the risk of losing his personal liberty. It is a sad thing that he should have so irretrievably ruined himself. That poor Austen's liberality seems to have positively precipitated his extremity. His great anxiety is that I should see you before you leave for your short stay in France. He thinks you must leave before a fortnight. I am thinking of asking you to come over here. I know you would be just as well as at Elverston as in France. But perhaps, as he seems disposed to do what 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 by crossing him even in a trifle. He says I must fix an early date 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 Maude, to think that there is no use in trying to control events and that things often turn out best and most exactly to our wishes by being left quite to themselves. I think it was Talleyrand who praised the talent of waiting so much. In high spirits, and with my head brimful of plans, I remain, dearest Maude, ever your affectionate cousin, Monica. Here was an inescapable puzzle. A faint radiance of hope, however, began to overspread a landscape only a few minutes before darkened by total eclipse. But construct what theory I might. All were inconsistent with many well-established and awful incongruities, and their wrecks lay strone over the troubled waters of the gulf into which I gazed. Why was Madame here? Why was Dudley concealed about the place? Why was I a prisoner within the walls? What were those dangers which Meghaki seemed to think so great and so imminent as to induce her to risk her lover's safety for my deliverance? All of these menacing facts stood grouped together against the dark certainty that never were men more deeply interested in making away with one human being, then were Uncle Silas and Dudley in removing me. Sometimes, to these dreadful evidences, I abandoned my soul. Sometimes, reading cousin Monica's sunny letter, the sky would clear, and my terrors melt away like nightmares in the morning. I never repented, however, that I had sent my letter by Tom Bryce. Escape from Bartram Hoff was my hourly longing. 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 if possible, even on their own terms. She was in one of her boisterous and hilarious moods, and there was a perfume of brandy. She narrated some compliments paid her that morning in Feltrum by that good creature, Mrs. Litheways, the silk-mercer, and what Ansemfeller was her new foreman. She intended plainly that I should quiz her, and how he follow her with his eyes wherever she went. I thought perhaps he fancied she might pocket some of his lace or gloves. And all the time her great wicked eyes were rolling and glancing according to her ideas of fascination, and her bony face grinning and flaming with the strong drink in which she delighted. She sang toadaline chanson, and being, as was her wound under such exhilarating influences, in a vaporing mood. She vowed that I should have my carriage and horses immediately. I will try what I can do with your Uncle Silas, and we are very good old friends, Mr. Lithe and I. She said with a leer which I did not understand, and which yet frightened me. I never could quite understand why these Jezebel's like to insinuate the dreadful truth against themselves. But they do. Is it the spirit of feminine triumph over feminine shame, and making them vaunt their fall as an evidence of bygone fascination and existing power? Need we wonder? Have not women preferred hatred to indifference, and the reputation of witchcraft with all its penalties to absolute insignificance? Thus, as they enjoyed the fear inspired among simple neighbors by their imagined traffic with the father of ills, did Madame, I think, relish with a cynical vanglory the suspicion of her satanic superiority? Next morning Uncle Silas sent for me. He was seated at his table, and spoke his 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? 1100 miles, I thought it was. Oh, yes, so it was. And then there was an abstracted pause. I have been writing to Lord Ilbury, your trustee, he resumed. I ventured to say, my dear Maude, for having thoughts of a different arrangement for you, more suitable under my distressing circumstances. I do not wish to vacate, without some expression of your estimate of my treatment of you while under 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, and liberty. 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 Maude? Again I acquiesced. All this time he was fumbling among the papers in his coat pocket. That is satisfactory. So I expected you to say, he murmured. I expected no less. On a sudden a frightful change spread across his face. He rose like a specter with a white scowl. Then how do you account for that? He shrieked in a voice of thunder. And smiting my open letter to Lady Nauless 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 frogo of slander which you bribed my servant to place in the hands of my kinswoman, Lady Nauless. And so on and on it went, eye-gazing into darkness, until the voice itself became 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, and dress. I did not in the least know where I was. I thought my father was ill and spoke to him. Uncle Silas was standing near the window, looking unspeakably 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 was sufficiently recovered I was conveyed into my own room. End of Chapter 57, Chapter 58 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 LeFennu Chapter 58 Lady Nullis' 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. My recollection 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 a share. I could not remember how, in the conference. I was too exhausted and stupid to clear up this horrible muddle and merely lay with my face toward the wall, motionless and silent, except for a great sigh every now and then. Good Mary Quince was in the room. There was some comfort in that, but I felt quite worn out and had rather she did not speak to me, and indeed for a time I felt absolutely indifferent as to whether I lived or died. Cousin Monica this morning, at Pleasant Elverston, all unconscious of my sad plight, proposed to Lady Mary Carriesbrook and Lord Ilbury, her guests, to drive over to church at Feltrum, and then pay us a visit at Bartram Hof, to which they readily agreed. Accordingly, at about two o'clock, this pleasant party of three arrived at Bartram. They walked, having left the carriage to follow when the horses were fed, and Madame d'Ela Roger, who was in my uncle's room, when little giblets arrived to say that the party were in the parlor, whispered for a little with my uncle, who then said, Miss Maud Rithon has gone out to drive, but I shall be happy to see Lady Nullis here, if she will do me the favor to come upstairs and see me for a 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 the collar, and whispering earnestly in his ear, bling her ladyship up by the backstiles, mind the backstiles. And at the next moment, Madame entered my room, with long tiptoe steps, and looking, Mary Quince said, as if she were going to be hanged. On entering she looked sharply round, and being satisfied of Mary Quince's presence. She turned the key in the door, and made some affectionate inquiries about me in a whisper, and then she stole to the window and peeped out, standing back some way, after which she came to my bedside, murmured some tender sentences, drew the curtain a little, and making some little fidgety adjustments about the room. Among the rest she took the key from the lock, quietly, and put it in her pocket. This was so odd a procedure that Honest Mary Quince rose stoutly from her chair, pointing to the lock, with her frank little blue eyes fixed on Madame, and whispered, won't you put the key in the lock, please? Oh, certainly, Melly Queen's, but it is better it should be locked, for I think her uncle is coming to see her, and I am sure she would be very much frightened, for he is very much displeased, don't you see? And we can tell him she is not well enough, or asleep, and so he will 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 frightened or 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 elsewhere during that period, Lady Nullis afterwards gave me the following account. We were very much disappointed, but of course I was glad to see Silas, and your little hobgoblin butler led me upstairs to his room a different way, I think. From that I came before, but I don't know the house of Bartram well enough to speak positively. I only know that I was conducted quite across his bedroom, which I had not seen on my former visit, and so into his sitting-room where I found him. He seemed very glad to see me, came forward smiling, I dislike his smile always. With both hands out, and shook mine with more warmth than I ever remembered in his greeting before, and said, My dear, dear Monica, how very good of you, the very person I longed to see. I have been miserably ill, the sad consequence of still more miserable anxiety. Sit down, pray, for a moment. And he paid me some nice little French compliment in verse. And where is Maude, I said? I think Maude is by this time about half way to Elverston, said the old gentleman. 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, I cried. My poor Maude will be sadly disappointed, but you will console her by a visit. 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, I said. And I want to thank you, Silas. For what? Said he, for wishing to place Maude in my care. I am very much obliged to you. I did not suggest it, I must say, Monica, with the least intention of obliging 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 you shan't refuse my thanks. I am happy at all events, Monica, in having won your good will. We learn at last that in the affections only are our capacities for happiness. And how true it is, St. Paul's preference of love, the principle that abideth. The affections, dear Monica, are eternal, and being so celestial, divine, and consequently happy, deriving happiness and bestowing it. I was always impatient of his or anybody else's metaphysics. But I controlled 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 Marion Ilbury will be leaving me on Tuesday morning. I can come to you in the afternoon if you think Tuesday is a good day. Thank you, dear Monica. I shall be, I trust, enlightened by that day as to my enemy's plans. It is a humiliating confession, Monica, but I am past feeling that. It is quite possible that an execution may be sent into this house tomorrow, and an end of all my schemes. It is not likely, however, hardly possible. Before three weeks, my attorney tells me, I shall hear from him tomorrow morning, and then I shall ask you to name a very early day. If we are to have an unmolested fortnight certain, you shall hear and name your own day. Then he asked me who had accompanied me and lamented ever so much his not being able to go down to receive them, and he offered luncheon with a sort of raven's wood smile and a shrug, and I declined telling him that we had but a few minutes and that my companions were walking in the grounds near the house. I asked whether Maude was likely to return soon. Certainly not before five o'clock. He thought we should probably meet her on our way back to Elverston, but could not be certain, as she might have changed her plans. So then came, no more remaining to be said, a very affectionate parting. I believe all about his legal dangers was strictly true, how he could unless that horrid woman had deceived him, with so serene accountants tell me all those gross untruths about Maude 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 by saying, Who's carriage? What carriage, dear? inquired Quince, whose ears were not so sharp as mine. Madame peeped from the window. Teased a physician, Dr. York's, he has come to see your uncle, my dear. But I hear a female voice, I said, sitting up. No, my dear, that is only the doctor, said Madame. He has come to your uncle. I tell you, he is getting out of his carriage. And she effected to watch the doctor's descent. The carriage is driving away, I cried. Yes, he is driving away, she echoed. But I had sprung from my bed, and was looking over her shoulder before she perceived me. It is Lady Nullis, 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, Mies. Go back, screamed Madame, exerting her superior strength to force me back. But I saw deliverance and escape gliding away from my reach, and strung to unnatural force by desperation, I pushed past her, and beat the window wildly with my hand, 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. A window pane was broken, and I was shrieking to stop the carriage. The French woman looked black and haggard as a fury, as if she could have murdered me. Nothing daunted frantic, I screamed in my despair, seeing the carriage drive swiftly away, seeing cousin Monica's bonnet, as she sat chatting with her vis-a-vis. Oh, oh, oh! I shrieked in vain and prolonged agony, as Madame, exerting her strength and matching her fury against my despair, forced me back in spite of my wild struggles, and pushed me sitting on the bed, where she held 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 Maryquince, its horror, its wonder, as she stood 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 will let her go. What old fool are you, Maryquince? She is mad, I think. She has lost her 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 you stop the carriage? sneered Madame. Calle the coachman and the pastilian. Where is the footman? Bah! Ella la servo mal temblée. 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 my eyes, my face against the glass. Oh cruel, cruel, wicked woman! Why have you done this? What was it to you? Why do you persecute me? What good can you gain by my ruin? Ruin. Pah, blue mache, you talk too fast. Did not you see it, Maryquince? It was the doctor's carriage, and Mrs. York's, and that impudent fellow young York's, staring up to the window. And madmoselle, she come in such shocking disabye. To show herself knocking at the window. Could be very nice thing, Maryquince, don't you think? I was sitting now on the bedside, crying in mere despair. I did not care to dispute or to resist. Oh, why had my rescue come so near, only to prove that it could not reach me? So I went on crying, with a clasping of my hands, and turning up of my eyes, in incoherent prayer. I was not thinking of madame, or of Maryquince, or of any other person, only babbling my anguish and despair hopelessly in the ear of heaven. I did not think there was such fool. What enfoncante, my dear child, what can you mean by such strange language and conduct? What foreshadow you wish to display yourself in the window, in such horrible disabye, to the people in the doctor's couch? It was cousin Nullis! Cousin Nullis! Oh, cousin Nullis! You're gone! You're gone! You're gone! And if it was Lady Nullis' couch, there was certainly a coachman and a footman, and whoever has the coach there was a young gentleman in it. If it was Lady Nullis' carriage, it would have been worse than the doctel. It is no matter. It is all over. Oh, cousin Monica, you poor Maud! Where is 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 a letter of bad news from the attorney in London. Oh, I said, in a tone which I am sure, implied the absolute indifference of dejection. But, my dear Maud, if it be so, we shall go at once, you and me, to join Miss Millicent in France. Labelle France, you will like so much. We shall be so gay. You cannot imagine there are such nice girls there. They all love me so much. You will be delighted. How soon do we go? I asked. I do not know. But I was to bring in a case of odour cologne that came this evening, and he laid down a letter to say, The blow has descended, madame. My niece must hold herself in readiness. I said, for what, monsieur? Twice, but he did not answer. I am sure it is un procé, they have ruined him. Eh, bien, my dear, I suppose we shall leave this place immediately. I am sorry, Joyce, it appears to me un cimetière. Yes, I should like to leave it. I said, sitting up with a great sigh and sunken eyes. It seemed to me that I had quite lost all sense of resentment towards madame. A debility of feeling had supervened. The fatigue, I suppose, and prostration of the passions. I will make excuse to go into his room again, said madame. And I will endeavour to learn something more from him. And I will come back again to you in often hour. She departed, but in half an hour did not return. I had a dull longing to leave Bartram Hough. For me, since the departure of poor Millie, it had grown like the haunt of evil spirits. And to escape on any terms from it was 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 if madame, who I feared, was probably towing and froing in and out of Uncle Silas's room. Mary returned to tell me that she had seen Old Wyatt, who told her that she thought madame had gone to her bed half an hour before. End of chapter 58