 Chapter Fifty-Four of Uncle Silas by Joseph Sheridan LaFannou, in search of Mr. Chuck Skeleton. On the whole, however, I was unspeakably relieved. Douglas Ruffin Esquire and Mrs. D. Ruffin were now skimming the blue waves on the wings of the sea-mew, and every morning widened 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 clotted, and read over his marriage-segment, I used, when blue devils haunted me, to unfold my newspaper and to read the paragraph concerning the sea-mew. The day I now speak of was a dismal one of sleety snow. My own room seemed to me cheerier than the lonely parlour, where I could not have had good Mary Quint so decorously. A good fire, that kind and trusty face, the peep I had just indulged in at my favourite paragraph, and the certainty of soon seeing my dear cousin Monica, and afterwards affection at Millie, 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, and find poor Mr. Chart's skeleton in a closet. Oh, law, Miss Maude, how can you say such things, exclaimed good old Quint's, lifting up her honest grey head and round eyes from her knitting. I have grown so familiar with the frightful tradition of Mr. Chart and his suicide, that I could now afford to frighten old Quint's with him. I'm quite serious, I'm 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 ramble through the interminable, ruined abbey in the forest. Shall I go with you, Miss? No Quint's, 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, cow-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 air of having been 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 peaked. 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. Chark 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 cobbed-webbed 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 chark, or the skeleton of which I had talked so lightly, stalking 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 frown at the opposite end of the chamber. So to it I glided, shoved it open, advancing one step, and the great bony figure of Madame de la Rougière 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 for same in kind, but immeasurably less in degree. She sat in a clumsy old arm-chair, with an ancient shawl about her, and her bare feet in a dulled tub. She looked a-thought more withered, her wig shoved back disclosed her bold, 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, of 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 rallowed, burst into a loud, screeching laugh, and, with her old, well-purgisqueity, danced some fantastic steps in her bare, wet feet, tracking the floor with water, and holding out with finger and thumb, in dainty caricature, her slammerkin 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 them for some seconds, and madame was first. Now, dear lord, what surprise! Are we not overjoyed, dearest, and cannot speak? I am full of joy, quite charmed, ravie, I've seen you. So you are of me, your faith betray. Ah, yes, thou dear little baboon, here is poor madame once more. Who could have imagined? I thought you were in France, madame. I served with a dismal effort. And so I was, dear lord, I have just arrived. Your uncle Silasie wrote to the superior est for Gouverneur to accompany a young lady. That is you, lord, on her journey, and she sent me. And so, my cher, here is poor madame arrived to charge herself of that affair. How soon do we leave for France, madame? I asked. Well, I do not know, but the old women, what is her name? Wyatt? I suggested. Oh, we Wyatt! She says two, three week, and who conduct you to poor madame's apartment, my dear lord? 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 strategy which had been practised upon me. I have not concealed myself, mademoiselle, retorted the governess. I have act precisely as I have been ordered. Your uncle, Mr. Sylas Lothin, is afraid, Wyatt says, to be interrupted by his creditors, and everything must be done very quietly. I have been commanded to avoid m'femme foie, you know, and I must obey my employer, but I like to. And for how long have you been residing here? I persisted in the same resentful vein, but to week it is such chaste place. I am so glad to see you, Maud. I've been so isolé, 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, Chef Petitniers, how I have desired to educate you a little more. It has understand one another. You think I do not love you, mademoiselle, because you have mentioned to your proper part that little dereglement in his library. I have repented very often that so great indiscretion of my life. I thought to find some letters of Dr. Brailey. 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 satees. And you were very right to denounce me to Monsieur. Je n'ai point de rancume contre vous. No, no, none at all. On the contrary, I shall be your guardian de terre, what you call guardian angel. Ah yes, that is it. You think I speak par dérégion. Not at all. No, my dear Chey. I do not speak par moquerie, unless perhaps the very least de guillie in the world. And with these words, madame laughed unpleasantly, showing the black caverns at the side of her mouth, and with a cold, steady malignity in her gaze. Yes, I said, I know what you mean, madame. You hate me. Oh, what great ugly word I am, choc. Vous me faites honte. But, madame, she never ate anyone. She loves all her friends, and her enemies she lives to heaven. Well, I am, as you see, moquerie, mojoyeuse, and ever. They have not been happy. No, they have not been fortunate, these herders. When I return, I find always some of my enemy, their death, die, 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 Maude, it is very natural you should think I ate you, when I was with Mr. Austin Ratheneth, no, 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 gallomniat, without being discovered, the guvernant. Have I not been always kind to you, Maude? Which have I use of violence or of sweetness the most? I am like other persons, j'ai l'ause de ma reputation. And it was difficult to suffer with patience, the banishment which was invoked by you, because chiefly, for your good, and for an indiscretion to which I was excited by motives the most pure and laudable. It was you who spied so cleverly, n'ai, and announced me to Mr. Rathen, illa. What bad word it is. I do not mean to speak at all about that occurrence, madame. I will not discuss it. I dare say 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 Rathen, he will tell us. All this time madame was pulling on her stockings, getting her boots on, and otherwise proceeding with her dowdy toilet. I do not know why I 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 why the generals and I have entangled themselves in a general action when they made only an affair of ab posts. I had grown a little angry and would not betray the least symptom of fear, although I felt that sensation profoundly. My beloved father thought you so unfit a 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! Ye la, Keldi's class, and you really think so, my dear Maude? exclaimed madame, adjusting her wig before her glass, in the corner of which I could 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 everyone is not so cruel as you, my cher petite Calomniatrice. You shan't call me those names, I said, in an angry tremor. What name, dearest child? Calomniatrice, that is an insult. Why, my most foolish little Maude, 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, exclaimed vehemently. Oh, fire, what shame! Do you not perceive, dearest child, how much education you still need? You are proud, little de moi, as then. You must become, on the contrary, quite humble. Je ferai bese la boire à vous. I will make you to kiss the monkey. You are too proud, my dear child. I am not such a fool as I was at Nol, 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. Adieu, madame. You are going to M. Rathi? 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 steps on my return, when I heard a heavy tread and a rustling behind me. I am ready, my dear. I will accompany you, said the smoking 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 my dam to a stare of disgust he asked peevishly, Why am I disturbed, pray? Miss Mordorathine, she will explain, replied my dam, 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, my dam, this is a grave charge. Do you admit it, pray? Madame, with the coolest possible effrontery, denied it all. With the most solemn a-severations, and with streaming eyes and clasped tans, 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 I had related. You hear, my dear child, you hear her deny everything. What am I to think? You must excuse the bewilderment of my old head. Madame de la, that lady has arrived excellently recommended by the superior rest of the place where dear Milly awaits you, and such persons are particular. It strikes me, my dear niece, that you must have made a mistake. I protested here, but he went on without seeming to hear the parenthesis. I know, my dear Maud, that you are quite incapable of 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 describe, and Madame de de de de la Rougière, I supplied. Yes, thank you, Madame de la Rougière, 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 my reiterating my statement, backing it with the most earnest assoverations. I was beaten, yeah. It did not seem to reach his mind. It was all received with a simper of feeble incredulity. He patted and smoothed my head, he laughed gently, and shook his while I insisted, and Madame protested her purity in 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 Rougière 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 in cheat, add to my perplexities. You may make yourself very happy with, Madame, if you will. I have no doubt. I propose Saint-Mamoiselle, 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 horrid French vulgarism. De faire bêler la babouin amma, whatever that means, and I know she hates me, I replied impetuously. Doucement, doucement, said my uncle, with a smile at once amuse and compassionate. Doucement, ma chair. 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, then, Mr. Ruffin. You wish I should resume my instructions? asked Madame. Certainly, and convert all you can in French with Mamoiselle Maud. You'll 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 toward Madame de La Rougière, stunned and incensed, walked into my room and shut the door. End of Chapter 54 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 Rougière, has come to be my governess again, and Uncle Silas won't hear or believe anything about her. It is vain talking. He is pre-possessed, 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 to 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 declaim, 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 in walking costume, there had been a brief clearing of the weather, and she proposed our making a promenade together. On seeing Mary Quince she broke into a rapture of compliment and greeting, and took what Mr. Richardson would have called her passive hand, and pressed it with wonderful tenderness. On his marriage suffered all this somewhat reluctantly, never smiling, and, on the contrary, looking rather ruefully at her feet. Will you make 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 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 suddenly declined going out, all 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-impose, are not always long observed by youth. Pam de La Rougière 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 cheesed 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 Howe 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 the sea-mew, to read the paragraph for my benefit. And in poor Milly'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. The last point was more than eight hundred, good, better, best. Best of all would be those deletious antipody where he would so soon promenade, on his head twelve thousand mile 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 favourite vein of arachylus sarcasm and menace. She had, on the contrary, affected her good-humoured 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-humour and gaiety never disturbed for a moment. I was very glad, therefore, when she went to togcaster, 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 quints and eyes set forth for a little ramble. As I wished to make some purchases in Feltrum, I set out with Mary quints 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 Kroll came out from the somber lodge by its side, swallowing down a mouthful of his dinner in haste. No one, I believe, liked the long, suspicious face of the old man, while them shorn awwashed 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. Kroll, said Mary, renouncing the task. Kroll 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 we traced 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 things 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 here. You won't allow me and my mage to pass the gate, I said. Doesn't me, ma'am, said he, but I can't break orders and no one goes out without the Master allows. And without awaiting further parley 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, paling. 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 favourite ramble, into the windmill wood. I looked forward to 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, poor mech 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 charo oscuro of its circular basement. As we did so, I heard a rush and the creak of a plank, and looking up, I saw just a foot, no more, disappearing through the trap 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 on the topmost rounds of the ladder, that disappeared in the darkness above the open door in the loft. Come, Mary, come away! At the same instant appeared the swarthy, solemn face of dicken hawks, 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 half-bunlock the trap door. When this was done, the man again touched his hat and looked steadily and searchingly at me, for a second or two, while he got the key into his pocket. These fellow stores their flower too long here, ma'am, there's a deal of trouble looking after 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, and we're going to lock the door, ma'am. So with a start and a game whispering, Come, Mary, come away! With my arm fasting hers, we made a swift departure. I feel very faint, Mary, said I, come quickly, there's nobody following us. No, Miss, dear, that man with a 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 a key in his pocket and standing there, looking after us. Oh, Mary, did you not see it? What, Miss, asked Mary, almost stopping. Come on, Mary, don't pause, they will observe us. I whispered, hurrying her 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. Look, 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 practised 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 legged 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. Very quince 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 boughs, I saw beauty, not ten yards away, standing among the underwood. I remember how white the eyes and teeth of the swarthy girl looked. As 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 may come, said beauty, under her breath, as soon as I had nearly reached her, pointing without raising her hand at Mary quince. Tell her to sit on the ash tree stump down yonder, and call ye as loud as she can, if she sees any fellow coming this way, and wring ye back to me. And she impatiently beckoned me away on her errand. When I returned, having made this disposition, I perceived how pale the girl was. Are you ill, Meg? I asked, never in mind, well enough, listen, miss, I must tell it all in a crack, and if she calls, ring away to her, and let me to myself, for if further or to the other one were to catch me here, I think they'd kill me almost, tish. She paused a second, looking at scants in the direction where she fancied Mary quince was. Then she resumed in a whisper, Now, lest mind ye, ye keep what I say to yourself, ye're not to tell that and nor any other for ye life, mind, a word of what I'm going to tell ye. I won't say a word, come on. Did ye see Dudley? I think I saw him getting up the ladder. In the mill, ha, that's in. He never went beyond topcaster, he stayed in Feltrum after. It was my turn to look pale now. My worst conjecture was established. End of Chapter 55 Chapter 56 of Uncle Silas by Joseph Sheridan LaFannou. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 56 I conspire. That's a bad, and he is, oh, miss, miss Maud. It's not that's good as keeping my no fiver. Mind lest ye promise ye would not tell no one, as keeps him to a talking and a smoking secret like together in the mill. And fiver 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 are very bad, and I reckon, miss, it's all about you. He frightened, miss Maud. I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied. Not much, Meg, go on, for heaven's sake, does Uncle Silas know he's here? Well, miss, they were with him, Bryce told me, from eleven o'clock to nine one o'tuesday 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'm sure, deadly pale, but speaking very collectively. Bryce says, miss, he saw Dudley a cryin' and lookin' awful black, and so he says to fiver, didn't in my line know I, and I can't, and says father to me, no one likes that sort of thing, but how can ye help it? The old boy's behind you with his pitchfork, and ye can't stop. And with that he bethought him a Bryce, and says he, what be ye doin' here? Get ye down with the nights to blacksmith do ye? And up gets Dudley, pullin' his hat over his brows, and says he, I wish I was in the seam you, I'm good for not with this thing a-hangin' on me. And that's all as Bryce heard, and he's a feared it, father, and Dudley awful, Dudley could lick him to pot if he crossed him, and ye and father think not of havin' him and for the justices, the poachin' and swearin' him into jail. But why does he think it's about me? Hush, 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, poachin'. You can't. Can't? What do you mean, girl? We won't let you out, the gates is all locked. They've dogs, they've bloodhands, Bryce says. You can't get out, mind. Put that over your head. I'll tell you what you do, write a bit of a note to that lady Yondra at Elverston, and though Bryce be a wild feller, he can happen not all good sometimes. He likes me, and I'll make him take it. Feather will be grinding a mill tomorrow. Come ye here about one o'clock, that's if ye see the mill sales are turnin', and me and Bryce will meet you here. Bring that old lass with ye. There's an old Frenchman, though, that talks with Dudley. Mind ye, thatton knows now to the matter. Bryce be a kind lad to me, or to every bead with others, and I think ye won't split. Now, lass, I must go. God help ye, God bless ye. And for the world's wealth, don't let one em see ye got out in your head, not even thatton. Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me with a wild gesture of silence and a shape 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 gabble 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 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 wrong contra with Mac Hawks. 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 me how soundly she slept. I got up and looked from the window, expecting to see some of those wolfish dogs, which they had brought to the place, prowling about the courtyard. Sometimes I prayed and felt tranquilised, 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 strong 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, your 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'll be very happy. And again she looked oddly at me. What hour, my dear Morg, one o'clock? I think that will do 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 managed to reach my dear cousin Nollis. Back to Bartram, no power should convey me. My heart swelled and fluttered in the awful suspense of that hour. Oh, Bartram, how? 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 Nollis. If I were disappointed in effecting my escape through Feltrum, all would depend upon it. Having locked my door, I wrote as follows. Oh, my beloved cousin, as you hope for comfort in your hour of fear, aid me now. Dudley has returned and is secreted somewhere about the grounds. It is a fraud. They all pretend to me that he has gone away in the sea-mew and he or they had his name published as one of the passengers. Madame de la Rougière 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 my 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 were, even the worst. If ever you loved or pitied me, dear cousin, I conjure you, help me in this extremity. Take me away from this, so, darling, for God's sake, take me away. You're distracted and terrified, cousin. Maud. Bartram Howe. I sealed this letter jealously as if the inanimate missing would burst its sermons and proclaim my desperate appeal through all the chambers and passages of silent Bartram. Old Quince, 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. Ruffin 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 Maud, 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've just recollected that this is 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 curtsy 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 spoke in a plaintive key looking at me with hungry eyes and a horribly 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 Milly'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 practised scrutiny, but nothing came of it and we were dismissed. Madame loved shopping even for its own sake, but shopping with opportunities of speculation still more. She had 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 of the chestnut hollow. As 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 windows 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 anyone 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 Hawks awaiting me. End of Chapter 56 Chapter 57 of Uncle Silas by Joseph Sheridan LaFannou. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 57 The Letter Come away lass! whispered beauty, very pale. He's here, Tom Brice! And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underworld, and we reached Tom. The slender youth grew more poacher, he might answer for either, with his short coat and gaited legs, with sitting on a low horizontal bow, with his shoulder against the trunk. Don't you mind? Said she still lad, said Meg, observing that he was preparing to rise and had entangled his hat in the bow's. Said she still and heart to the lady. He'll take it, Miss Maud, if he can. We'll nail you lad. Yes, I'll take it, he replied, holding out his hand. Tom Brice, 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 a 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 him 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 Brice, a great deal depends on this. That's true for her, Tom Brice, said Meg, who now and then confirmed my asservations. I'll give you a pound now, Tom, and I placed the coin and the letter together in his hand, and you are to give this letter to Lady Nollis at Elverston. You know Elverston, don't you? He does miss, don't you, lad? Yes? Well, do so, Tom, and I'll be good to you so long as I live. Do you hear, lad? Yes, said Tom, and it's very good. You'll take the letter, Tom, I said, in much greater trepidation as 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 Brice, I said, if you can't be true to me, say so, but don't take the letter accepted to give it to Lady Nollis 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 chastise you, Miss, but I must take care of myself, you see. The letter goes all through Silas' fingers to the post, and he'd know damn well this one 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, said I, eagerly. You'd want saving yourself, I'm thinking, if that fell out, said Tom cynically. I don't say, though, I'll not take it, only this. I won't run my head against the wall for no one. Tom, I said with a sudden inspiration, give me back the letter and take me out of Bartran. 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 Brice looked amused again, swung his head a little on one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the roots of the trees beside him as if he was striving to keep himself from an uncivil fit of laughter. I'll do what a wise lad may miss, but you don't know their lads. They're faint not easy come over, and I won't get knocked on the head, nor sent to jail at them for no good to thee nor me. There's Meg there, she knows well enough I couldn't have managed that, so I won't try it, Miss, by no chance. No offence, Miss, but I'd rather not, and I'll just try what I can make of this. That's all I can do for you. Tom Brice, with these words, stood up and looked uneasily in the direction of the windmill wood. Mind, James, come what will, you're not telling me. Where will you go now, Tom, inquired Meg uneasily? And if you mind, lass, answered he, breaking his way through the thicket, and soon disappearing. Is that it, albeit? You'll get into the sheep-port behind the mound. They're all down yonder, gitchy back, Miss, to the us. Be the side-door, Mainjee, don't go round the corner, and I'll just sit awhile among the bushes and wait a good time for a start. And goodbye, Miss, and don't you show, like as if there was ought to out a common on your mind. Hish! There was a distant tally. That be further, she whispered, with the very blank countenance, and listened with her sun-burned hand to her ear. Tis'n't me, only Davy you'll be calling, she said, with a great sigh, and a joyless smile. Now get ye away, God's name. So, running likely along the path under cover of this thick wood, I recalled Mary Quintz and together we hastened back again 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. Madam had not returned, that was well. She always visited my room first, and everything was precisely as I had left it. A certain sign that her prying eyes and busy fingers had not been at work due 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 Nollis. A gleam of sunlight from the free and happy outer world entered with it. The moment my dam 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, but I really compassionate in 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 favourably 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 pin, when the chance of a comfortable evening is 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 Austin'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. I think you must leave before a fortnight. I am thinking of asking you to come over here. I know you would be just as well 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 day next week and talks as if he meant to urge me to make a longer visit than he defined. I shall be only too happy. I begin, my dear Maud, to think that there is 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 Talleyrend who praised the talent of waiting so much. In high spirits and with my head brimful of plans I remain, dearer Maud, ever your affectionate cousin, Monica. Here was an inexplicable 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 strung 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 wards? What were those dangers which made corks seemed to think so great and so imminent as to induce her to risk her lover's safety for my deliverance? All these menacing facts stood grouped together against the dark certainty that never were men more deeply interested in making away with one human being, than 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 were clear and my terrors melt away like nightmares in the morning. I never repented, however, that I had sent my letter by Tom Brice. Escape from Bartram Howe 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 to that morning in Feltian by that good Clayature, Mrs. Littleways, the silk-mercer, and what Anne, some phalo, was her new foreman. She intended plainly that I should quiz her and how you 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 twaddling chanson and being, as was her want under such exhilarating influences, in a vapour and mood, she vowed that I should have my carriage and horses immediately. I will try what I can do with your uncle Silas. We are very good old friends, Mr. Raffine 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 overcoming feminine shame, and making them bought 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 neighbours by their imagined traffic, with the father of ill, did madame, I think, relish with his cynical vain glory, 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. Yes, so it was. And then there was an abstracted pause. I had been writing to Lord Ulbury, or trustee, he resumed. I ventured to say, my dear Maud, 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 Maud? 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 spectre 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 Nollis, 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 farago of slander which you bribed my servant to place in the hands of my kinswoman, Lady Nollis. And so on and on it went, I 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 proxisms of weeping. When I was sufficiently recovered, I was conveyed into my own room. End of Chapter 57 Chapter 58 of Uncle Silas by Joseph Sheridan Lathano. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 58 Lady Nollis's carriage Next morning, it was Sunday, I lay on my bed in my dressing-gam, 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 the time I felt absolutely indifferent as to whether I lived or died. Casa 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 Howe, 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 de la Rougière, who was in my uncle's room, when little giblets arrived, to say that the party were in the parlour, whispered for a little with my uncle, who then said, Miss Maud Ruthin has gone out to drive, but I shall be happy to see Lady Nullis here, if she will do me the favour to come upstairs and see me for a few moments. You can mention that I am far from well. Madame followed him out upon the lobby, and added, holding him by the collar and whispering earnestly in his ear, Bring her, ladies, sheep up by the back stairs, mine the back stairs. And 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 Nuna 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 into her pocket. This was so odd a procedure that Onnith Mary Quince rose stoutly from her chair, pointing to the lock with her frank little blue eyes fixed on my dam, and she whispered, Would you put the key in the lock, please? Oh, certainly, Mary Quince! But it is better it shall be locked, for I think her uncle he 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 Nollis 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, and he slighted 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 long 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 Maud, said I? I think Maud is by this time about half-way to Elverston, said the old gentleman. I persuaded her to take a drive and advise a call there, which seemed to please her, so I conjecture she obeyed. How very provoking, cried I. My poor Maud will be sadly disappointed, but you will console her by 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, said I, and I wanted to thank you, Silas. For what, said he, for wishing to place Maud in my care, I am very much obliged to you. I did not suggest it, I must say, Monica, with the least intention 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 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? Yeah, yeah, the better, said he. Lady Mary and Dilbury will be leaving me on Tuesday morning. I can come to you in the afternoon, if you think Tuesday a good day. Thank you, dear Monica, and 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 unrelested fortnight certain, you shall hear, and name your own day. Then he asked me, who had accompanied me and lamented ever so much, he's not being able to go down to receive them, and he offered luncheon with a sort of ravenswood 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 Ward 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 party. 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 growths and truths about Maud I could 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. It is the physician. Dr. Jobs, he's come to see your uncle, my dear, said Madame. But I hear a female voice, I said, sitting up. No, my dear, there is only the doctor, said Madame. He has come to your uncle. I tell you, he is getting out of his carriage. And she effected to watch the doctor's dissent. The carriage is driving away, I cried. Yes, it 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 Nulles, I screamed, seizing the window frame to force it up, and vainly struggling to open it, I cried. I'm here, cousin Monika, for God's sake, cousin Monika, cousin Monika. 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 hands, screaming, save me, save me, here, here, Monika, 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 Frenchwoman 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 Monika's bonnet, as she sat chatting with her vis-à-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 Mary Quince, 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 trial? Let her go! Let her go! I really let her go. What old fool are you, Mary Quince? She is mad, I think. She has lost her head. Oh, Mary cried from the window, stopped 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? Snid, Madame, call as a coachman and the postelian. Where is the footman? El a la servo maltambre. 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? Par bler, my cher, you talk too fast. Did you not see it, Mary Quince? It was the doctor's carriage, and Mrs Jokes and that impudent fellow, young Jokes, staring up to the window. And ma'am was there, she came in such shock in this abbey to show herself knocking at the window. Could be very nice seeing Mary Quince, 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 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 ma'am, or of Mary Quince, or any other person, only babbling my anguish and despair helplessly in the ear of heaven. I did not think there was such fool, but on volgate, my dear child, what can you mean by such strange language and conduct? What far should you wish to despair yourself in a window in such horrible this abbey to the people in a doctor's coach? It was cousin Nollis. Cousin Nollis. Oh cousin Nollis, you're gone. You're gone. You're gone. And if it was Lady Nollis's coach, there is certainly a coachman and a footman, and whoever had the coach, there was young gentlemen in it. If it was Lady Nollis's carriage, it would have been worse than the doctor. It is no matter it is all over. Oh cousin Monica, you're poor maude. Where is she to turn? Is there no help? That evening my dam visited me again, in one of her sedate and moral moods. She found me dejected and passive, as she had left me. I think maude, there is news, but I am not certain. I raised my head and looked at her wistfully. I think there was 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 maude, if to be so, we shall go at once, you and me, to join me, me sent in France. La belle France, you will like so much. We shall be so gay, you cannot imagine there are such nayscale there. They all love me so much, you will be delight. As soon do we go, I asked. I do not know. But I was to bring in a case of odor cologne that came this evening, and he laid down a letter and said, 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 process. They have ruined him, ne bien, my dear. I suppose we shall leave this threesome place immediately. I am so rejoice. It appears to me and 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 half an hour. She departed, but in half an hour did not return. I had a dull longing to leave Bartram Howe. 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 Quintz to the lobby to try and see my dam, who, I feared, was probably towing and throwing 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 Chapter 59 of Uncle Silas by Joseph Sheridan Lafannou This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 59 A Sudden Departure Mary, said I, I am miserably anxious to hear what my dam may have to tell. She knows the stay-time in, and she would not like so much trouble as to look in at my door to say a word. Did you hear what she told me? No, Miss Maude, she answered, rising and drawing near. She thinks we are going to France immediately, and to leave this place perhaps forever. Heaven be praised for that, if it be so, Miss, said Mary, with more energy than was common with her, for there is no luck about it, and I don't expect to see you ever well or happy in it. You must take your candle, Mary, and make out her room upstairs. I found it accidentally myself one evening. But Wyatt won't let us upstairs. Don't mind her, Mary, I tell you to go. You must try. I can't sleep till we hear. What direction is her room in, Miss? asked Mary. Somewhere in that direction, Mary, I answered, pointing. I cannot describe the turns, but I think you will find it if you go along the great passage to your left on getting to the top of the stairs till you come to the cross-galleries, and then turn to your left, and when you have passed four or perhaps five doors, you must be very near it, and I am sure she will hear if you call. But will she tell me she is such a Roman, Miss? suggested Mary. Tell her exactly what I have said to you, and when she learns that you already know as much as I do, she may, unless indeed she wishes to torture me. If she won't, perhaps at least you can persuade her to come to me for a moment. Try, dear Mary, we can but fail. Will you be very lonely, Miss, while I am away? asked Mary uneasily as she lighted her candle. I can't help it, Mary. Go! I think if I heard we were going, I could almost get up and dance and sing. I can't bear this dreadful uncertainty any longer. If old Wyatt is outside, I'll come back and wait here a bit till she's out of the way, said Mary, and anyhow I'll make all the haste I can. The drops and the salvoletil is here, Miss, by your hand. And with an anxious look at me she made her exit softly, and did not immediately return, by which I concluded that she had found the way clear, and had gained the upper story without interruption. This little anxiety ended, its subsidence was followed by a sense of loneliness, and with it a vague insecurity which increased, at last, to such a pitch that I wandered at my own madness in sending my companion away, and at last my terrors so grew that I drew back into the farthest corner of the bed, with my shoulders to the wall and my bedclothes huddled about me, with only a point open to peep at. At last the door opened gently. Who's there? I cried in extremity of horror, expecting I knew not whom. Me, Miss, whispered Mary Quince, to my unutterable relief, and with her candle flared and a wild and pallid face, Mary Quince glided into the room, locking the door as she entered. I do not know how it was, but I found myself holding Mary fast, with both my hands, as we stood side by side on the floor. Mary, you are terrified! For God's sake, what is the matter? I cried. No, Miss, said Mary, faintly. Not much. I see it in your face. What is it? Let me sit down, Miss. I'll tell you what I saw. Only I'm just a bit queerish. Mary sat down by my bed. Get in, Miss. You'll take cold. Get into bed, and I'll tell you. It is not March. I did get into bed, and gazing on Mary's frightened face, I felt a corresponding horror. For mercy's sake, Mary, say what it is. So again, assuring me it was not March, she gave me in a somewhat diffuse and tangled narrative the following facts. On closing my door she raised her candle above her head, and surveyed the lobby, and seeing no one there she ascended the stairs swiftly. She passed along the Great Gallery to the left and paused a moment at the Cross Gallery, and then recollected my directions clearly, and followed the passage to the right. There are doors at each side, and she had forgotten to ask me at which madame's was. She opened several. In one room she was frightened by a bat, which had very nearly put her candle out. She went on a little pause, and began to lose heart in the dismal solitude. When on a sudden, a few doors farther on, she thought she heard madame's voice. She said that she knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, and hearing madame still talking within. She opened it. There was a candle on the chimney-piece, and another in a stable lantern near the window. Madame was conversing voluably on the hearth, with her face toward the window, the entire frame of which had been taken from its place. Dickon Hawkes, the zameel of the wooden leg, was supporting it with one hand, as it leaned imperfectly against the angle of the recess. There was a third figure standing, buttoned up in a sertu, with a bundle of tools under his arm, like a glazier, and with a silent thrill of fear, she distinctly recognised the features of those of Dudley Ruffin. Twas hid, miss, so sure as I sit here. Well, like that they were as mute as mice, three pairs of eyes were on me. I don't know what made me so studdy-like, but some had told me I should not make as though I knew any but madame, and so I made a curtsy, as well as I could, and said, might I speak a word with you, please, on the lobby? Mr. Dudley was making belief by this time, to look out a window, with his back to me, and I kept looking straight on madame, and she said, themending my broken glass-mary, walking between them and me, and coming closer up to me very quick, and so she marched me backward out of the door, preting all the time. When we were on the lobby she took my candle from my hand, chatting the door behind her, and she held the light a bit behind her ear, so it was full on my face as she looked sharp into it, and after a bit she said again in her queer lingo, There was two paints broke in her room, and men sent for to mend it. I was awful frightened when I saw Mr. Dudley, for I could not believe any such thing before, and I don't know how I could look her in the face as I did, and not show it. I was as smooth and cool as yonder chimney-piece, and she has an awful evil eye to stand against, but I never flinched, and I think she's puzzled, for as cunning as she is, whether I believe or she said, or know, twisapaka stories. So I told her your message, and she said she had not heard another word since, but she did believe we had not many more days here, and would tell you if she heard to-night, when she brought his soup to your uncle in half an hour's time. I asked her, as soon as I could speak, whether she was perfectly certain as to the fact that the man in the sur-tu was Dudley, and she made answer, I'd swear to him on that Bible-miss. So far from any longer wishing my dams return that night, I trembled at the idea of it. Who could tell who might enter the room with her when the door opened to admit her? Dudley, so soon as he recovered the surprise, had turned about, evidently anxious to prevent recognition. Dickon Hawke stood glouring at her. Both might have hope of escaping recognition in the imperfect light, for the candle on the chimney-piece was flaring in the air, and the light from the lantern fell in spots and was confusing. What could that ruffian Hawke's be doing in the house, why was Dudley there? Could a more ominous combination be imagined? I puzzled my distracted head over all Mary Quincy's details, but could make nothing of their occupation. I know of nothing so terrifying as this kind of perpetual puzzling over ominous problems. You may imagine how the long hours of that night passed and how my heart beat at every fancy sound outside my door. But morning came, and with its light some reassurance. Early Madame de la Rougière made her appearance. She searched my eyes darkly and shrewdly, but made no allusion to Mary Quincy's visit. Perhaps she expected some question from me, and, hearing none, thought it as well to leave the subject at rest. She had merely come in to say that she had heard nothing since, but was now going to make my uncle's chocolate, and that so soon as her interview was ended she would see me again, and let me hear anything she should have deemed. In a little while a knock came to my door, and Mary Quincy was ordered by Old Wyatt into my uncle's room. She returned flushed in a huge fuss to say that I was to be up and dressed for a journey in half an hour, and to go straight when dressed to my uncle's room. It was good news. At the same time it was a shock. I was glad. I was stunned. I jumped out of bed and set about my toilet with an energy quite new to me. Good Mary Quincy was busily packing my boxes, and consulting as to what I should take with me and what not. Was Mary Quincy to accompany me? He had not said a word on that point, and I feared from his silence she was to remain. There was comfort, however, in this, that the separation would not be for long. I felt confident of that, and I was about to join Millie, whom I loved better than I could have believed before I separation. But whatsoever the conditions might be, it was an indescribable relief to have done with Bartram Howe, and leave behind me its sinister line of circumvillation, its haunted recesses, and the awful spectres that had lately appeared within its walls. I stood too much in awe of my uncle to fail in presenting myself punctually at the close of the half-hour. I entered his sitting-room under the shadow of sour old Wyatt's high-called cap. She closed the door behind me, and the conference commenced. Madame de la Rougière was there, dressed and draped for a journey, and with a thick black lace veil on. My uncle rose gaunt and venerable, and with a harsh and severe countenance. He did not offer his hand. He made me a kind of bow, more of repulsion than of respect. He remained in a standing position, supporting his crooked frame by his hand, which he leaned on a dispatch box. He glared on me steadily with his wild, phosphoric eyes, from under the dark brows I have described to you, now corrugated in lines indescribably stern. You shall join my daughter at the pension, in France. Madame de la Rougière shall accompany you, said my uncle, delivering his directions with the stern monotony, and the measured pauses of a person dictating, an important dispatch to a secretary. Old Mrs. Quince shall follow with me, or, if alone, in a week. You shall pass tonight in London. Tomorrow night you shall proceed thence to Dover, and cross by the mail packet. You shall now sit down and write a letter to your cousin Monica Nollis, which I will first read and then dispatch. Tomorrow you shall write a note to Lady Nollis from London, telling her how you have got over so much of your journey, and that you cannot write from Dover, as you must instantly start by the packet on reaching it. And that until my affairs are a little settled, you cannot write to her from France, as it is of high importance to my safety, that no clue should exist as to our address. Intelligence, however, shall reach her through my attorneys, archer and sleigh, and I trust we shall soon return. You will, please, submit that latter note to Madame de la Rougière, who has my directions to see that it contains no reliable upon my character. Now, sit down. So, with those unpleasant words tingling in my ears, I obeyed. Right, said he, when I was duly placed, you shall convey the substance of what I say in your own language. The imminent danger this morning announced of an execution. Remember the word, and he spelled it for me. Being put into this house, either this afternoon or tomorrow, compels me to anticipate my plans and dispatch you for France this day. That you are starting with an attendant, here, an uneasy movement from Madame, whose dignity was perhaps excited. An attendant, he repeated, with a discordant emphasis, and you can, if you please, but I don't solicit that justice, say that you have been as kindly treated here as my unfortunate circumstances would permit. That is all, you have just fifteen minutes to write. Begin. I wrote accordingly. My hysterical state had made me far less combative than I might have proved some months since, for there was much that was insulting, as well as formidable in his manner. I completed my letter, however, to his satisfaction in the prescribed time, and he said, as he laid it and its envelope on the table, please to remember that this lady is not your attendant only, but that she has authority to direct every detail respecting your journey, and will make all the necessary payments on the way. You will please, then, implicitly to comply with her directions. The carriage awaits you at the hall door. Having thus spoken with another grim bow, and, I wish you a safe and pleasant journey, he receded a step or two and I with an undefinable kind of melancholy, though also with a sense of relief, with true. My letter, I afterwards found, reached Lady Nullis, accompanied by one from Uncle Silas, who said, Dear Lord, apprises me that she has written to tell you something of our movements. A sudden crisis in my miserable affairs compels a break-up a sudden here. Maud joins my daughter at the Pont-Sion in France. I purposely admit the address, because I mean to reside in its vicinity until this storm shall have blown over, and as the consequences of some of my unhappy entanglements might pursue me even there, I must only for the present spare you the pain and trouble of keeping a secret. I am sure that for some little time you will excuse the girl silent, in the meantime you shall hear of them, and perhaps circuitously from me. Our dear Maud started this morning en route for her destination, very sorry, as am I, that she could not enjoy first a flying visit to Elverston. But in high spirits, notwithstanding, at the new life and sights before her, at the door my beloved old friend Mary Quincer waited me. Am I going with you, Miss Maud? I burst into tears and clasped her in my arms. I'm not, said Mary, very sorrowfully, and I never was from you yet, Miss, since you wasn't the length of my arm. And kind old Mary began to cry with me. But you are coming in a few days, Mary Quince, expostulated madame. I wonder you are such fool. What is two three days? Bah, nonsense girl! Another farewell to poor Mary Quince, quite bewildered at the suddenness of her bereavement, a serious and tremulous bow from our little old butler on the steps, madame bawling through the open window to the driver to make good speed, and remember that we had but nineteen minutes to reach the station. Away we went. Old crowd's iron grill rolled back before us. I looked on the receding landscape, the giant trees, the palatial, time-stained mansion, a strange conflict of feelings, sweet and bitter, rose and mingled in the reverie. Had I been too hard and suspicious with the inhabitants of that old house of my family? Was my uncle justly indignant? Was I ever again to know such pleasant rambles as some of those I had enjoyed with dear Millicent through the wild and beautiful woodlands? I was leaving behind me. And there, with my latest glimpse of the front of Bartram Howe, I beheld dear old Mary Quince gazing after us. Again my tears flowed. I waved my handkerchief from the window, and now the park wall hid all from view, and at a great pace through the steep-wooded glen with the rocky and precipitous character of a ravine. We glided. And when the road next emerged, Bartram Howe was a misty mass of forests and chimneys, slope and hollow, and we within a few minutes of the station. End of Chapter 59