 Chapter 36 An Arrival at Dead of Night I have sometimes been asked why I wear an odd little turquoise ring, which, to the uninstructed eye, appears quite valueless and altogether an unworthy companion of those jewels which flash insultingly beside it. It is a little keepsake of which I became possessed about this time. Come, lass, what name shall I give you, cried Milly, one morning, bursting into my room in a state of alarming hilarity? My own, Milly! No, but you must have a nickname like everyone else. Don't mind it, Milly. Yes, but I will. Shall I call you Mrs. Bustle? You shall do no such thing. But you must have a name. I refuse a name. But I'll give you one, lass, and I won't have it. But you can't help me christening you. I can decline answering. But I'll make you, said Milly, growing very red. Perhaps there was something provoking in my tone, for I certainly was very much disgusted at Milly's relapse into barbarism. You can't, I retorted quietly. See if I don't, and I'll give you one twice as ugly. I smiled, I feared, disdainfully. And I think you're a mince, and a slut, and a fool, she broke out, flushing scarlet. I smiled in the same unchristian way. And I'll give you a smack of a cheek as soon as look at you. And she gave her dress a great slap, and drew near me in her wrath. I really thought she was about tendering the ordeal of single combat. I made her, however, a paralyzing curtsy, and, with immense dignity, sailed out of the room, and into Uncle Silas's study, where it happened we were to breakfast that morning, and for several subsequent ones. During the meal we maintained the most dignified reserve, and I don't think either so much has looked at the other. We had no walk together that day. I was sitting in the evening, quite alone, where Millie entered the room. Her eyes were red, and she looked very sullen. I want your hand, cousin," she said, at the same time taking it by the wrist, and administering with it a sudden slap on her plunk cheek, which made the room ring and my fingers tingle, and before I had recovered from my surprise she had vanished. I called after her, but no answer. I pursued, but she was running, too, and I quite lost her at the cross-galleries. I did not see her at tea, nor before going to bed, but after I had fallen asleep I was awakened by Millie in floods of tears. "'Cousin Maud, will you forgive me? You'll never like me again, will you? No, I know you won't. I'm such a brute. I hate it. It's a shame. But here's a bambry-cake for you. I sent to the town for a tantrum taffy, when she eats it. And here's a little ring. It isn't as pretty as your own rings, and you'll wear it, maybe, for my sake. Poor Millie's sake, before I was so bad to you. If you forgive me, and I'll look at breakfast, and if it's on your finger I'll know your friends with me again, and if you don't, I won't trouble you no more, and I think I'll just drown myself out of the way, and you'll never see Wicked Millie no more. And without waiting a moment, leaving me only half awake, and with the sensations of dreaming, she scampered from the room in her bare feet, with a petticoat about her shoulders. She had left her candle by my bed, and her little offerings on the coverlet by me. If I had stood an atom less in terror of goblins than I did, I should have followed her, but I was afraid. I stood in my bare feet at my bedside, and kissed the poor little ring, and put it on my finger, where it has remained ever since, and always shall. And when I lay down, longing for morning, the image of her pale, imploring, penitential face was before me for hours, and I repented bitterly of my cool, provoking ways, and thought myself, I dare say justly, a thousand times more to blame than Millie. I searched in vain for her before breakfast, at that meal, however, we met, but in the presence of Uncle Silas, who, though silent and apathetic, was formidable, and we, sitting at a table disproportionately large, under the cold, strange gaze of my guardian, talked only what was inevitable, and that in low tones, for whenever Millie, for a moment raised her voice, Uncle Silas would wince, place his thin, white fingers quickly over his ear, and look as if her pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug and smile piteously into vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, was not in the talking vein himself, and that was not often, you may suppose, there was very little spoken in his presence. When Millie, across the table, saw the ring upon my finger, she, drawing in her breath, said, Oh! and with round eyes and mouth, she looked so delighted, and she made a little motion, as if she was on the point of jumping up, and then her poor face quivered, and she bit her lip, and staring imploringly at me, her eyes filled fast with tears, which rolled down her round, penitential cheeks. I am sure I felt more penitent than she. I know I was crying, and smiling, and longing to kiss her. I suppose we were very absurd, but it is well that small matters can stir the affection so profoundly at a time of life when great trouble seldom approach us. When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of the wrestling-ring as poor Millie bestowed on me, swaying me this way and that, and burying her face in my dress and blubbering. I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and I such a devil, and I'll never call you a name but Maude, my darling Maude. You must, Millie, Mrs. Bustle, I'll be Mrs. Bustle or anything you like. You must! I was blubbering like Millie and hugging my best, and indeed I wonder how we kept our feet. So Millie and I were better friends than ever. Meanwhile the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights, and long fireside gossipings at the bathroom howl. I was frightened at the frequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject. I did not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Millie's way of talking about them. But one day, while in one of his queerish states he called for me, and I saw him, and was unspeakably scared. In a white wrapper he lay coiled in a great easy-chair. I should have thought him dead had I not been accompanied by Old Lamour, who knew every gradation and symptom of these strange affections. She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, and whispered, Don't make no noise, miss, till he talks, he'll come too for a bit and on. Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like that of an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions. There was a frown and smirk like that of idiocy, and a strip of white eyeball was also disclosed. Suddenly with a kind of chilly shudder he opened his eyes wide and screwed his lips together, and blink and stared on me with a faturised uncertainty that gradually broke into a feeble smile. Ah, the girl, Austin's child. Well, dear, I'm hardly able. Speak tomorrow, next day. It is tic, neuralgia or something. Torture, tell her. So, huddling himself together, he lay again in his great chair with the same inexpressible helplessness in his attitude, and gradually his face resumed its dreadful cast. Come away, miss, he's changed his mind. He'll not be fit to talk to you no ways all day, maybe, said the old woman, again in a whisper. So forth we stole from the room, eye unspeakably shocked. In fact, he looked as if he were dying, and so in my agitation I told the crone, who, forgetting the ceremony with which she usually treated me, chuckled out derisively. A dying, is he? Well, he'd be like St. Paul, he's been a dying daily this many a day. I looked at her with a chill of horror. She did not care, I suppose, what sort of feelings she might excite, for she went on mumbling sarcastically to herself. I had paused and overcame my reluctance to speak to her again, but I was really very much frightened. Do you think he is in danger? Shall we send for a doctor? I whispered. Lord bless she, the doctor knows all about it, miss. The old woman's face had a gleam of that derision, which is so shocking in the features of feebleness and age. But it is a fit, it is paralytic, or something horrible. It can't be safe to leave him to chance or nature to get through these terrible attacks. There's no fear of him, it isn't no fits at all, he's not the worst at. Just silly a bit now and again, he's been the same a dozen year or more, and the doctor knows all about it, answered the old woman sturdily, and you'll find he'll be as mad as bedlam if you make any stir about it. That night I talked the matter over with Mary Quince. They're very dark, miss, but I think he takes a deal too much, Lordland, said Mary. To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures. I have often spoken to medical men about them, since, but never could learn that excessive use of opium could altogether account for them. It was, I believe, certain, however, that he did use that jug in startling quantities. It was indeed, sometimes, a topic of complaint with him, that his neuralgia imposed this sad necessity upon him. The image of Uncle Silas, as I had seen him that day, troubled and affrighted my imagination, as I lay in my bed. I had slept very well since my arrival at Barchan, so much of the day was passed in the open air, and in active exercise, that this was but natural. But that night I was nervous and waitful, and it was past two o'clock when I fancied I heard the sound of horses in carriage-wheels on the avenue. Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to get up and peep from the window. My heart beat fast as I saw a post-chaise approach the court-chart. The front window was let down, and the postillium pulled up for a few seconds. In consequence of some directions received by him, I fancied he resumed his route at a walk, and so drew up at the hall-door, on the steps of which a figure awaited his arrival. I think it was old L'Amour, but I could not be quite certain. There was a lantern on the top of the balustrade close by the door. The chaise-lamps were lighted, for the night was rather dark. A bag and valise, as well as I could see, were pulled from the interior by the post-boy, and a box from the top of the vehicle, and these were carried into the hall. I was obliged to keep my cheek against the window-pane to command a view of the point of debarcation, and my breath upon the glass, which dimmed it again almost as fast as I wiped it away, helped to obscure my vision. But I saw a tall figure in a cloak get down, and swiftly enter the house, but whether male or female I could not discern. My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My uncle was worse, was, in fact, dying, and this was the physician, too late summoned to his bedside. I listened for the ascent of the doctor and his entrance at my uncle's door, which, in the stillness of the night, I thought I might easily hear, but no sound reached me. I listened so for fully five minutes, but without result. I returned to the window, but the carriage and horses had disappeared. I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince and take counsel with her, and persuade her to undertake a reconnaissance. The fact is, I was persuaded that my uncle was in extremity, and I was quite wild to know the doctor's opinion. But, after all, it would be cruel to summon the good soul from her refreshing nap. So, as I began to feel very cold, I returned to my bed, where I continued to listen and conjecture until I fell asleep. In the morning, as was usual, before I was dressed, in came Millie. How is uncle Silas, I eagerly inquired. Old Lamour says he's queerish still, but he's not so dull as yesterday, answered she. Was not the doctor sent for, I asked. Was he? Well, that's odd. And she never said a word of it to me, answered she. I'm asking only, said I. I don't know whether he came or no, she replied. But what makes you take that in your head? A shade's arrived here between two and three o'clock last night. Hey, and who told you? Millie seemed all on a sudden highly interested. I saw it, Millie, and someone, I fancy the doctor, came from it into the house. Fudge Lath, who'd sent for the doctor? Wasn't he, I tell you? What was he like? said Millie. I could only see clearly that he, or she, was tall and wore a cloak, I replied. Then it wasn't him, nor Tother I was thinking on neither, and I'll be hanged, but I think it will be Cormoran, cried Millie, with a thoughtful wrap with her knuckle on the table. Precisely at this juncture a tapping came to the door. Come in, said I. And old Lamour entered the room with a curtsy. I came to tell Miss Quince her breakfast's ready, said the old lady. Who came in the shade's, Lamour? demanded Millie. What shade's? spluttered the bell-dame, tartly. The shade that came last night, past two o'clock, said Millie. That's a lie, and a damned lie, cried the bell-dame. There won't no shade's at the door, since Miss Maud there come from no. I stared at the audacious old menial, who could utter such language. Yes, there was a shade's, and Cormoran, as I think, be coming in it, said Millie, who seemed accustomed to Lamour's daring address. And there's another damned lie, as big as Tother, said the crone, her haggard and withered face flushing orange all over. I beg you will not use such language in my room, I replied very angrily. I saw the shade's at the door. Your untruth signifies very little, but your impertinence here I will not permit. Should it be repeated, I will assuredly complain to my uncle. The woman flushed more fiercely as I spoke, and fixed her bleared glare on me, with a compression of her mouth that amounted to a wicked grimace. She resisted her angry impulse, however, and only chuckled a little spitefully, saying, No offence, Miss, it be a way we have in Derbyshire as speaking our minds. No offence, Miss, were meant to none took as I hoped, and she made me another curtsy. And I forgot to tell you, Miss Millie, the master wants you this minute. So Millie, in mute haste, withdrew, followed closely by Lamour. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 of Uncle Silas by Joseph Sheridan Lafannou This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 37 Dr. Briley emerges When Millie joined me at breakfast her eyes were red and swollen. She was still sniffing with that little sobbing hiccup, which betrays, even were there no other signs, recent violent weeping. She sat down quite silent. Is he worse, Millie? I inquired anxiously. No, nothing's wrong with him. He's right well, said Millie fiercely. What's the matter then, Millie dear? The poisonous old witch, it was just to tell the governor how I'd said it was Cormoran that came by the poche last night. And who is Cormoran? I inquired. Aye, there it is, I'd like to tell and you want to hear, and I just dent, for he'll send me off right to a French school. Hang it, hang them all if I do. And why should Uncle Silas care? said I, a good deal, surprise. There are tellin' lies. Who? said I. Lamour, that's who. So soon as she made her complaint of me, the governor asked her sharp enough, did anyone come last night, or a poche. And she was ready to swear there was no one. Are you quite sure, Maud, you really did see ought, or happened to us all a dream? It was no dream, Millie, so sure as you were there, I saw exactly what I told you, I replied. Governor won't believe it anyhow, and he's right mad with me, and he threatens me he'll have me off to France. I wished was under the sea. I hate France, I do, like the devil, don't you? They're always a-threatening me with France, if I dare say a word more about the poche, or, or anyone. I really was curious about Cormoran, but Cormoran was not to be defined to me by Millie, nor did she in reality know more than I respecting the arrival of the night before. One day I was surprised to see Dr. Briley on the stairs. I was standing in a dark gallery as he walked across the floor of the lobby to my uncle's door, his hat on, and some papers in his hand. He did not see me, and when he had entered Uncle Silas's door, I went down and found Millie awaiting me in the hall. So Dr. Briley is here, I said. That's the Finfeller with the sharp look and the shiny black coat that went up just now, asked Millie. Yes, he's gone into your papage room, said I. Appent was he come to the night, he may be staying here, though we see him seldom, for it's a barrack of a house it is. The same thought had struck me for a moment, but was dismissed immediately. It certainly was not Dr. Briley's figure which I had seen. So without any new light gathered from this apparition, we went on our way and made our little sketch of the ruined bridge. We found the gate locked as before, and as Millie could not persuade me to climb it, we got round the pailing by the river's bank. While at our drawing we saw the swarthy face, sooty locks and old weather-stained red coat of zameel, who was glaring malignly at us from among the trunks of the forest trees, and standing motionless as a monumental figure in the side aisle of a cathedral. When we looked again, he was gone. Although it was a fine mild day for the wintery season, we yet, cloaked as we were, could not pursue so still an occupation as sketching, for more than ten or fifteen minutes. As we returned, imparting a clump of trees, we heard a sudden outbreak of voices, angry and ex-bostultery, and saw under the trees the savage old zameel strike his daughter with his stick, two great blows, one of which was across the head. Beauty ran only a short distance away, while the swat old wood-demon stumped lustily after her, cursing and brandishing his cudgel. My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could not speak, but in a moment more I screamed, You brute! How dare you strike the poor girl! She had only run a few steps, and turned about, confronting him and us, her eyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering, to suppress a burst of weeping. Two little rivulets of blood were trickling over the temple. I say, Fay, the look at that, she said with a strange tremulous smile, lifting her hand which was smeared with blood. Perhaps he was ashamed and the more enraged on that account, but he growled another curse and started afresh to reach her, whirling his stick in the air. Our voices, however, arrested him. My uncle shall hear of your brutality, the poor girl. Strike him, Meg, if he does it again, and pitch his leg into the river to-night when he's asleep. I'd serve you the same, and out came an oath. You'd have her lick a feather, would you? Look out! And he wagged his head with a scowl at Millie, and a flourish of his cudgel. Be quiet, Millie, I whispered, for Millie was preparing for battle, and I again addressed him with the assurance that, on reaching home, I would tell my uncle how he had treated the poor girl. Disus she may thank for it, a weedling her herd to open that gate, he snarled. That's a lie, we went round by the brook, cried Millie. I did not think proper to discuss the matter with him, and looking very angry, and I thought a little put out, he jerked and swayed himself out of sight. I merely repeated my promise of informing my uncle, as he went, to which, over his shoulder, he bawled, Silas won't mind you that, snapping his horny finger and thumb. The girl remained where she had stood, wiping the blood off roughly with the palm of her hand, and looking at it before she rubbed it on her apron. My poor girl, I said, you must not cry, I'll speak to my uncle about you. But she was not crying, she raised her head, and looked at us a little as scants, with a sullen contempt, I thought. And you must have these apples, won't you? We had brought in our basket two or three of those splendid apples, for which Bartram was famous. I hesitated to go near her. These hawks's beauty and pegtop were such savages. So I rolled the apples gently along the ground to her feet. She continued to look doggedly at us with the same expression, and kicked away the apples sullenly that approached her feet. Then, wiping her temple and forehead in her apron without a word, she turned and walked slowly away. Poor thing, I'm afraid she leads a hard life. What strange, repulsive people they are! When we reached home at the head of the great staircase, Old Lamour was awaiting me, and with a curtsy and very respectfully, she informed me that the master would be happy to see me. Could it be about my evidence as to the arrival of the mysterious shades that he summoned me to this interview? Gentle as were his ways, there was something unbefinable about Uncle Silas, which inspired fear, and I should have liked few things less than meeting his gaze in the character of a culprit. There was an uncertainty too as to the state in which I might find him, and a positive horror of beholding him again in the condition in which I had last seen him. I entered the room then, in some trepidation, but was instantly relieved. Uncle Silas was in the same health apparently, and, as nearly as I could recollect it, in precisely the same rather handsome though negligent garb in which I had first seen him. Dr. Bryally, what a marked and vulgar contrast, and yet somehow, how reassuring, sat at the table near him, and was typing up papers. His eyes watched me, I thought, with an anxious scrutiny as I approached, and I think it was not until I had saluted him that he recollected suddenly that he had not seen me before at Barcham, and stood up and greeted me in his usual abrupt and somewhat familiar way. It was vulgar and not cordial, and yet it was honest and indefinably kind. Up rose my uncle, that strangely venerable pale portrait in his loose, rembrandt black velvet, how gentle, how benignant, how unearthly, and inscrutable. I need not say how she is. Those lilies and roses, Dr. Bryally, speak their own beautiful praises of the air of Barcham, how much regret that her carriage will be home so soon. I only hope it may not abridge her rambles. It positively does me good to look at her. It is the glow of flowers in winter, and the fragrance of a field which the Lord hath blessed. Country air, Miss Ruffin, is a right good kitchen to country fare. I like to see young women eat heartily. You have had some pounds of beef and mutton since I saw you last, said Dr. Bryally. And this sly speech made. He scrutinised my countenance in silence rather embarrassingly. My system, Dr. Bryally, as a disciple of Isculapius, you will approve. Health first, accomplishment afterwards. The continent is the best field for elegant instruction, and we must see the world a little by and by more. And to me, if my health be spared, there will be an unspeakable, though a melancholy charm in the seams where so many happy, though so many wayward and foolish young days were passed. And I think I should return to these picturesque solitudes with, perhaps, an increased relish. You remember old Sholia's sweet lines. Désert, émeub solitude, séjour du calme et de la paix. Asile, une entraire jamais, le tumourte et l'inquiétude. I can't say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated these silver falsenesses, but the tumourts of the world, thank heaven, never. There was a sly scepticism, I thought, in Dr. Bryally's sharp face, and hardly waiting for the impressive, never, he said, I forgot to ask, who is your banker? No, Bartlett and Hall, Lombard Street, answered Uncle Silas, dryly and shortly. Dr. Bryally made a note of it, with an expression of face, which seemed with a sly resolution, to say, You shan't come the anchorite over me. I saw Uncle Silas's wild and piercing eye rest suspiciously on me for a moment, as if to ascertain whether I felt the spirit of Dr. Bryally's almost interruption. And, nearly at the same moment, stuffing his papers into his capacious coat pockets, Dr. Bryally rose and took his leave. When he was gone, I bethought me that now was a good opportunity of making my complaint of Dickon Hawks. Uncle Silas, having ridden, I hesitated and began. Uncle, may I mention an occurrence which I witnessed? Certainly, child, he answered, fixing his eyes sharply on me. I really think he fancied that the conversation was about to turn upon the Phantom Shays. So I described the scene which had shocked million me an hour or so ago, in the windmill wood. You see, my dear child, they are rough persons. Their ideas are not ours. Their young people must be chastised, and in a way, and to a degree, that we would look upon in a serious light. I found it a bad plan interfering in strictly domestic misunderstandings, and should rather not. But he struck her violently on the head, uncle, with a heavy cudgel, and she was bleeding very fast. Ah! said my uncle, jolly. And only that million I deterred him by saying that we would certainly tell you, he would have struck her again. And I really think if he goes on treating her with so much violence and cruelty, he may injure her seriously, or perhaps kill her. Why you romantic little child, people in that rank of life think absolutely nothing of a broken head. Answered uncle Silas in the same way. But is it not horrible brutality, uncle? To be sure it is brutality, but then you must remember they are brutes, and it suits them, said he. I was disappointed. I had fancied that uncle Silas's gentle nature would have recoiled from such an outrage, with horror and indignation. And instead, here he was, the apologist of that savage ruffian, Dickon Hawks. And he is always so rude and impertinent to million to me, I continued. Oh, impertinent to you! That's another matter. I must see to that. Nothing more, my dear child? Well, there was nothing more. He's a useful servant, Hawks, and though his looks are not pre-possessing, and his ways and language rough, yet he is a very kind father, and a most honest man, a thoroughly moral man, though severe, a very rough diamond, though, and has no idea of the refinements of polite society. I ventured to say he honestly believes that he has been always unexceptionally polite to you, so we must make allowances. And Uncle Silas smoothed my hair with his thin, aged hand, and kissed my forehead. Yes, we must make allowances. We must be kind. What says the book? Judge not, that ye be not judged. Your dear father acted upon that maxim, so noble and so awful, and I strive to do so. Alas, dear Austin, long go into valet, far behind, and you are removed, my example and my help. You are gone to your rest, and I remain beneath my burden, still marching on by bleak and alpine paths under the awful night. Oh, Nui, Nui, Dolores, oh, toi taf divo, oh, bien tu, va tu venir, et tu bien loin, encore? And repeating these lines of chenille, with upturned eyes and one hand lifted, and an indescribable expression of grief and fatigue, he sank stiffly into his chair, and remained mute with eyes closed for some time. Then, applying his scented handkerchief to them hastily, and looking very kindly at me, he said, anything more, dear child? Nothing, Uncle, thank you very much, only about that man, Hawks. I dare say that he does not mean to be so uncivil as he is, but I am really afraid of him, and he makes our walks in that direction quite unpleasant. I understand quite, my dear, I will see to it, and you must remember that nothing is to be allowed to vex my beloved niece and ward during her stay at Bartram. Nothing that her old kinsman, Silas Ruthin, can remedy. So with a tender smile and a charge to shut the door, perfectly but without clapping it, he dismissed me. Dr. Briley had not slept at Bartram, but at the little inn in Feltrum, and he was going direct to London, as I afterwards learned. Your ugly doctor's gone away in a fly, said Millie, as we met on the stairs, she running up, I down. On reaching the little apartment, which was our sitting-room, however, I found that she was mistaken, for Dr. Briley with his hat and a great pair of woolen gloves on, and an old Oxford grey surtoot, that showed his lank length to advantage, buttoned all the way up to his chin, had set down his black leather bag on the table, and was reading at the window a little volume, which I had borrowed from my uncle's library. It was Swedenborg's account of the other world's heaven and hell. He closed it on his finger as I entered, and without recollecting to remove his hat, he made a step or two towards me, with his splay-queaking boots. With a quick glance at the door, he said, glad to see you alone for a minute, very glad. But his countenance, on the contrary, looked very anxious. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 of Uncle Silas by Joseph Sheridan Lafannou This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 38 A Midnight Departure I'm going this minute. I want to know. Another glance at the door. Are you really quite comfortable here? Quite, I answered promptly. You have only your cousin's company? He continued glancing at the table, which was laid for two. Yes, but Millie and I are very happy together. That's very nice, but I think there are no teachers you see, painters and singers and that sort of thing, that is usual with young ladies. No teachers of that kind, of any kind, are there? No, my uncle thinks it better. I should lay in a store of health, he says. I know, and the carriage and horses have not come. How soon are they expected? I really can't say, and I assure you I don't much care. I think running about great fun. You walk to church? Yes, Uncle Silas' carriage wants a new wheel, he told me. Ah, but a young woman of your rank, you know, it is not usual she should be without the use of a carriage. Have you horses to ride? I shook my head. Your uncle, you know, has a very liberal allowance for your maintenance and education. I remembered something in the will about it, and Mary Quince was constantly grumbling that he did not spend a pound a week on our board. I answered nothing but looked down. Another glance at the door from Dr. Briley's sharp black eyes. Is he kind to you? Very kind, most gentle and affectionate. Why doesn't he keep company with you? Does he ever dine with you, or drink tea, or talk to you? Do you see much of him? He is a miserable invalid. His hours and regimen are peculiar. Indeed, I wish very much you would consider his case. He is, I believe, often insensible for a long time, and his mind in a strange feeble state sometimes. I dare say, worn out in his young days. And I saw that preparation of opium in his bottle. He takes too much. Why do you think so, Dr. Briley? It's made on water. The spirit interferes with the use of it beyond a certain limit. You have no idea what those fellows can swallow. Read the opiometer. I knew two cases in which the quantity exceeded the quinces. Ah-ha, it's new to you. And he laughed quietly at my simplicity. And what do you think his complaint is, I ask? I haven't a notion, but probably one way or another. He has been all his days working on his nerves and his brain. These men of pleasure, who have no other pursuit, use themselves up mostly, and pay a smart price for their sins. And so he's kind and affectionate, but hands you over to your cousin and the servants. Are his people civil and obliging? Well, I can't say much for them. There is a man named Hawks and his daughter who are very rude, and even abusive sometimes, and say they have orders from my uncle to shut us out from a portion of the grounds. But I don't believe that, for Uncle Silas never alluded to it when I was making my complaint of them today. From what part of the grounds is that? asked Dr. Bryally sharply. I described the situation as well as I could. Can we see it from this? he asked, peeping from the window. Oh, no! Dr. Bryally made a note in his pocketbook here, and I said, but I'm really quite sure it was a story of Dickens. He is such a surly, disablaging man. And what sort is that old servant that came in and out of his room? Oh, that is old Lamour, I answered rather indirectly, and forgetting that I was using Millie's nickname. And is she civil? he asked. No, she certainly was not. A most disagreeable old woman with a vein of wickedness. I thought I had heard her swearing. They don't seem to be a very engaging lot, said Dr. Bryally. But where there's one, there will be more. See here! I was just reading a passage. And he opened a little volume. At the place where his finger marked, and read for me a few sentences, the purpose of which I will remember, although of course the words have escaped me. It was in that awful portion of the book which assumes to describe the condition of the condemned, and it said that independently of the physical causes in that state, operating to enforce community of habitation, and an isolation from superior spirits, there exist sympathies, aptitudes and necessities which would, of themselves, induce that depraved gregariousness and isolation too. And what of the rest of the servants are they better? he resumed. We saw little or nothing of the others, except of old giblets, the butler, who went about like a little automaton of dry bones, poking here and there, and whispering and smiling to himself as he laid the cloth, and seeming otherwise quite unconscious of an external world. This room is not got up like Mr. Ruffins. Does he talk of furnishings and making things a little smart? No, well I must say, I think he might. Here there was a little silence, and Dr. Briley, with his accustomed simultaneous glance at the door, said in low, cautious tones, very distinctly, Have you been thinking at all over that matter again? I mean about getting your uncle to forego his guardianship. I would not mind his first refusal. You could make it worth his while, unless he—that is, unless he's very unreasonable indeed, and I think you would consult your interests, Ms. Ruffin, by doing so, and if possible, getting out of this place. But I have not thought of it at all. I am much happier here than I had at all expected, and I am very fond of my cousin Millie. How long have you been here exactly? I told him it was some two or three months. Have you seen your other cousin yet, the young gentleman? No. Hmm, aren't you very lonely? he inquired. We see no visitors here, but that, you know, I was prepared for. Dr. Briley read the wrinkles on his splay-boot, intently and peevishly, and tapped the soul lightly to the ground. Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You'd be pleasanter somewhere else, with Lady Nollis, for instance, eh? Well, there certainly, but I am very well here. Really the time passes very pleasantly, and my uncle is so kind. I have only to mention anything that annoys me, and he will see that it is remedied. He is always impressing that on me. Yes, it is not a fit place for you, said Dr. Briley. Of course about your uncle, he resumed, observing my surprised look. It is all right, but he's quite helpless, you know. At all events, think about it. Here's my address. Hans Emanuel Briley, MD, 17 King Street, Covent Garden, London. Don't lose it, mind. And he tore the leaf out of his notebook. Here's my fly at the door, and you must, you must. He was looking at his watch. Mind you must think of it seriously. And so you see, don't let anyone see that. You'll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best way will be just to scratch it on the door of your press inside, you know. And don't put my name. You'll remember that. Only the rest of the address, and burn this. Quince is with you? Yes, I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say. Well, don't let her go. It's a bad sign if they wish it. Don't consent, mind. But just tip me a hint, and you'll have me down. And any letters you get from Lady Nullis, you know. For she's very plain spoken. You'd better burn them off-hand. And I've stayed too long, though. Mind what I say. Scratch it with a pin, and burn that, and not a word to immortal about it. Goodbye. Oh, I was taking away your book. And so, in a fuss with a slight shake of the hand, getting up his umbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room, and in a minute more I heard the sound of his vehicle as it drove away. I looked after it with a sigh, the uneasy sensations which I had experienced respecting my sojourn at Bartram Howe were reawakened. My ugly, vulgar, true friend was disappearing beyond those gigantic lime trees, which hid Bartram from the eyes of the outer world. The fly, with the doctor's release on top, vanished, and I sighed an anxious sigh. The shadow of the overarching trees contracted, and I felt helpless and forsaken, and glancing down the torn leaf, Dr. Briley's address met my eye between my fingers. I slipped it into my breast and ran upstairs, stealthily, trembling lest the old woman should summon me again, at the head of the stairs into Uncle Silas's room, where under his gaze I fancied I should be sure to betray myself. But I glided unseen and safely by, entered my room and shut my door. So listening and working, I, with my scissors-point, scratched the address where Dr. Briley had advised. Then, in positive terror, lest someone should even knock during the operation, I, with a match, consumed to ashes the telltale bit of paper. Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensations of having a secret to keep. I fancied the pain of this solitary liability was disproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally very open and very nervous. I was always on the point of betraying it apropo de bot, always reproaching myself for my duplicity, and in constant terror when honest Mary Quintz approached the press, or good-natured Millie made her occasional survey of the wonders of my wardrobe. I would have given anything to go and point to the tiny inscription and say, This is Dr. Briley's address in London. I scratched it with my scissors-point, taking every precaution lest anyone, you, my good friends included, should surprise me. I have ever since kept this secret to myself and trembled whenever your frank kind faces looked into the press. There, you at last know all about it. Can you ever forgive my deceit? But I could not make up my mind to reveal it, nor yet to erase the inscription, which was my alternative thought. Indeed, I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived in my ordinary mood. High excitement or passion only can inspire me with decision. Under the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave. Someone left here last night, I think, Miss, said Mary Quintz with a mysterious nod one morning, Twas two o'clock and I was bagged with the toothache and went down to get a pinch of red pepper, leaving the candle a light here lest you should wait. When I was coming up as I was crossing the lobby at the far end of the long gallery, what should I hear but a horse snorting and some people are talking, short and quiet like, so I looked out of the window, and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shea, and a fella are pulling a box up a top, and out comes a release, and a bag, and I think it was a Wyatt, please, that Miss Millie calls l'amour, that stood in the doorway talking to the driver. And who got into the shea's, Mary? I asked. Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could, but the pain was bad, and give me so awful cold, I gave it up at last and came back to bed, for I could not say how much longer they might wait, and you'll find, Miss, will be kept a secret, like the shea's you sawed Miss last week. I hate them dark ways and secrets, and old Wyatt, she does tell stories, don't she? And she is ought to be particular, seeing her time be short now, and she so old. It is awful, and old and like that telling such crams as she do. Millie was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both agreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whose arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the shea's had drawn up at the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house, and no doubt driven away by the back road. Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was very provoking, however, that Mary Quince had not had resolution to wait for the appearance of the traveller. We all agreed, however, that we were to observe a strict silence, and that even to Wyatt, Lamour, I had better continue to call her, Mary Quince was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however, that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly adhered to this self-denying resolve. But cheerful wintry suns and frosty skies, long nights and brilliant starlight, with good homely fires in our snuggery, gossiping stories, short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always-beautiful scenery of Bartram Howe, and above all the unbroken tenor of our life, which had fallen into a serene routine, foreign to the idea of danger or misadventure, gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which my interview with Dr. Briley had so powerfully resuscitated. My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to her country-house, and an active diplomacy, through the post-office, was negotiating the reopening of friendly relations between the courts of Elverston and of Bartram. At length one fine day cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, with her cloak and bonneton and her colour fresh from the shrewd air of the Derbyshire Hills, stood suddenly before me in our sitting-room. Our meeting was that of two school-companions, long separated. Cousin Monica was always a girl in my eyes. What a hug it was! What a shower of kisses and ejaculations, inquiries and caresses! At last I pressed her down into a chair and laughing, she said. You have no idea what self-denial I have exercised to bring this visit about. I, who detest writing, have actually written five letters to Silas, and I don't think I said a single impertinent thing in one of them. What a wonderful little old thing your backler is! I did not know what to make of him on the steps. Is he a Strollsbrook or a fairy or only a ghost? Where on earth did your uncle pick him up? I'm sure he came in on all Hallows'een, to answer an incantation. Not your future husband, I hope, and he'll vanish some night into grey smoke and whisk sadly up the chimney. He's the most venerable little thing I ever beheld in my life. I leaned back in the carriage and thought I should absolutely die of laughing. He's gone up to prepare your uncle for my visit, and I really am very glad, but I'm sure I shall look as young as he be after him. But who is this? Who are you, my dear? This was addressed to Paul Millie, who stood at the corner of the chimney-piece, staring with her round eyes and plump cheeks, in fear and wonder upon the strange lady. How stupid of me, I exclaimed. Millie, dear, this is your cousin, Lady Nullis. And so you are Millicent. Well, dear, I am very glad to see you. And cousin Monica was on her feet again in an instant, with Millie's hand very cordially in hers, and she gave her a kiss upon each cheek and patted her head. Millie, I must mention, was a much more presentable figure than when I first encountered her. Her dresses were at least a quarter of a yard longer. Though very rustic, therefore she was not so barbarously grotesque by any means. Cousin Monica, with her hands upon Millie's shoulders, looked amusedly and kindly in her face. And, said she, we must be very good friends, you funny creature, you and I. I'm allowed to be the most saucy old woman in Derbyshire, quite incorrigibly privileged, and nobody is ever affronted with me, so I say the most shocking things constantly. I'm a bit that way myself, and I think, said Paul Millie, making an effort and growing very red. She quite lost her head at that point and was incompetent to finish the sentiment she had prefaced. You think? Now take my advice and never wait to think, my dear. Talk first and think afterwards. That is my way. Though indeed I can't say I ever think at all. It is a very cowardly habit. Our cold-blooded cousin Maude there thinks sometimes, but it is always such a failure that I forgive her. I wonder when your little pre-adamite butler will return. He speaks the language of the Picts and ancient Britons, I daresay, and your father requires a little time to translate him. And, Millie dear, I am very hungry, so I won't wait for your butler, who would give me, I suppose, one of the cakes baked by King Alfred, and some Danish beer in a skull, but I'll ask you for a little of that nice bread and butter. With which, accordingly, Lady Nullis was quickly supplied, but it did not at all impede her utterance. Do you think, girls, you could be ready to come away with me if Silas gives leave in an hour or two? I should so like to take you both home with me to Elverston. How delightful! You darling! cried I, embracing and kissing her. For my part I should be ready in five minutes. What do you say, Millie? Poor Millie's wardrobe, I am afraid, was more portable than handsome, and she looked horribly affrighted and whispered in my ear. My best petticoat is away at the laundry, saying a weak moored. What does she say? asked Lady Nullis. She fears she can't be ready, I answered dejectedly. There's a deal of my slops in the wash, blurted out poor Millie, staring straight at Lady Nullis. In the name of wonder, what does my cousin mean? asked Lady Nullis. Her things have not come home yet from the laundress, I replied, and at this moment our wondrous old butler entered to announce to Lady Nullis that his master was ready to receive her, whenever she was disposed to favour him, and also to make polite apologies for his being compelled by his state of health to give her the trouble of ascending to his room. So cousin Monica was at the door in a moment, over her shoulder, calling to us, Come, girls! Please not, chet, my lady, you alone, and he requests the young ladies will be in the way, as he will send for them presently. I began to admire poor Giblis as the wreck of a tolerably respectable servant. Very good. Perhaps it is better we should kiss and be friends in private first, said Lady Nullis, laughing, and away she went under the guidance of the mummy. I had an account of this tet-a-tet afterwards from Lady Nullis. When I saw him, my dear, she said, I could hardly believe my eyes, such white hair, such a white face, such mad eyes, and a death-like smile. When I saw him last, his hair was dark, he dressed himself like a modern Englishman, and he really preserved a likeness to the full-length portrait at Gnoll that you fell in love with, you know. But angels are ministers of grace, such a spectre, I ask myself, is it necromancy, or is it delirium tremens that has reduced him to this, and said he with that odious smile that made me fancy myself half insane. You see, a change, Monica, not a sweet, gentle, insufferable voice he has. Somebody once told me about the tone of a glass flute that made some people hysterical to listen to, and I was thinking of it all the time. There was always a peculiar quality in his voice. I do see a change, Silas, I said at last, and no doubt so do you in me, a great change. There has been time enough to work a greater than I observe in you since you last honoured me with a visit, said he. I think he was at his old sarcasm and meant that I was the same impertinent minx he remembered long ago, uncorrected by time, and so I am, and he must not expect compliments from old Monica Knowles. It is a long time, Silas, but that you know is not my fault, said I. Not your fault, my dear, your instinct. We are all imitative creatures, the great people ostracise me, and the small ones followed. We are very like turkeys, we have so much good sense and so much generosity. Fortune in a freak wounded my head, and the whole brood were upon me pecking and gobbling and pecking. And you among them, dear Monica, it wasn't your fault, only your instinct, so I quite forgive you. But no wonder the peckers wear better than the pecked. You are robust, and I what I am. Now, Silas, I have not come here to quarrel. If we quarrel now, mind, we can never make it up. We are too old, so let us forget all we can, and try to forgive something. And if we can do neither, at all events, let there be truths between us while I am here. My personal wrongs I can quite forgive and I do. Heaven knows from my heart. But there are things which ought not to be forgiven. My children have been ruined by it. I may, by the mercy of Providence, be yet set right in the world, and so soon as that time comes I will remember, and I will act. But my children, you will see that wretched girl, my daughter, education, society, all would come too late. My children have been ruined by it. I have not done it, but I know what you mean, I said. You men's litigation whenever you have the means, but you forget that Austin placed you under promise when he gave you the use of this house and place, never to disturb my title to Elverston. So there is my answer, if you mean that. I mean what I mean, he replied, with his old smile. You mean, then, said I, that for the pleasure of vexing me with litigation you are willing to forfeit your tenure of this house and place. Suppose I did mean precisely that. Why should I forfeit anything? My beloved brother, by his will, has given me a right to the use of Bartram Howe for my life, and attached no absurd condition of the kind you fancy to his gift. Silas was in one of his vicious old moods and liked to menace me, his vindictiveness got the better of his craft, but he knows as well as I do, that he never could succeed in disturbing the title of my poor, dear Harry Nollis, and I was not at all alarmed by his threats, and I told him so, as coolly as I speak to you now. Well, Monica, he said, I have weighed you in the balance and you are not found wanting. For a moment the old man possessed me. The thought of my children, of past unkindness and present affliction and disgrace, exasperated me, and I was mad. It was but for a moment the galvanic spasm of a corpse never was breast more dead than mine to the passion and ambitions of the world. They are not for white locks like these. Nor for a man who, for a week in every month, lies in the gate of death. Will you shake hands? Here, I do strike a truce, and I do forget and forgive everything. I don't know what he meant by this scene. I have no idea whether he was acting or lost his head, or, in fact, why or how it occurred. But I am glad, darling, that unlike myself I was calm, and that a quarrel has not been forced upon me. When our turn came and we were summoned into the presence, Uncle Silas was quite as usual, but cousin Monica's heightened colour and the flash of her eyes showed plainly that something exciting and angry had occurred. Uncle Silas commented in his own vein upon the effect of bathroom air and liberty, all he had to offer, and called on me to say how I liked them. And then he called Millie to him, kissed her tenderly, smiled sadly upon her, and, turning to cousin Monica, said, This is my daughter Millie. Oh, she has been presented to you downstairs, has she. You have no doubt been interested by her. As I told her cousin Maude, though I am not yet quite as her tongue-belly clumsy, she is a very finished Miss Hoidon. Are you not, my poor Millie? You owe your distinction, my dear, to that line of circumvalation which has, ever since your birth, intercepted all civilisation on its way to bathroom. You are much obliged, Millie, to everybody who, whether naturally or unnaturally, turned a sod in that invisible but impenetrable work. For your accomplishments, rather singular than fashionable, you are indebted in part to your cousin Lady Nollis. Is not she, Monica? Thank her, Millie. This is your truth, Silas, said Lady Nollis, with a quiet sharpness. I think, Silas Ruffin, you want to provoke me to speak in a way before these young creatures, which we should all regret. So my bad, inagic sight shall temper money. Think how you would feel, then, if I had found you by the highwayside, mangled by robbers and set my foot upon your throat and spat in your face. But stop this, why have I said this, simply to emphasise my forgiveness. See, girls, Lady Nollis and I, cousins, long is strange, forget and forgive the past, and join hands over its buried injuries. Well, be it so, only let us have done with ironies and covert taunts. And with these words their hands were joined, and Uncle Silas, after he had released hers, patted and fondled it with his, laughing icily and very low all the time. I wish so much, dear Monica, he said, when this piece of silent bi-play was over, that I could ask you to stay to-night, but absolutely I have not a bed to offer, and even if I had, I fear my suit would hardly prevail. Then came Lady Nollis's invitation for Millie and me. He was very much obliged, he smiled over it a great deal, meditating. I thought he was puzzled, and amid his smiles his wild eyes scanned cousin Monica's frank face, once or twice suspiciously. There was a difficulty, an undefined difficulty, about letting us go that day, but on a future one, soon, very soon, he would be most happy. Well, there was an end of that little project, for to-day at least, and cousin Monica was too well-bred to urge it beyond a certain point. Millie, my dear, will you put on your hat and show me the grounds about the house? May she, Silas, I should like to renew my acquaintance. You'll see them sadly neglected, Monnie. A poor man's pleasure grounds must rely on nature, and trust to her for effects. Where there is fine timber, however, the abundance of slope, and rock, and hollow, we sometimes gain in picturesqueness what we lose by neglecting luxury. Then as cousin Monica said she would cross the grounds by a path, and meet her carriage at a point to which we would accompany her, and so make her way home, she took leave of Uncle Silas. A ceremony where at, without I thought much deal on either side, a kiss took place. Now, girl, said cousin Nollis, when we were fairly in motion over the grass, what do you say? Will he let you come? Yes or no? I can't say, but I think, dear, this to Millie, he ought to let you see a little more of the world than appears among the glens and bushes of Bartram. Very pretty they are, like yourself, but very wild and very little seen. Where is your brother, Millie? Is he not older than you? I don't know where, and he is older by six years and a bit. By and by, where Millie was gesticulating to frighten some herons by the river's brink into the air, cousin Monica said confidentially to me, He has run away, I'm told. I wish I could believe it, and enlisted in a regiment going to India, perhaps the best thing for him. Did you see him here before his judicious self-banishment? No. Well, I suppose you have had no loss. Dr. Briley says from all he can learn, he is a very bad young man. And now, tell me, dear, is Silas kind to you? Yes, always gentle, just as you saw him today, but we don't see a great deal of him, very little in fact. And how do you like your life and the people, she asked? My life very well, and the people pretty well. There's an old woman I don't like, old Wyatt, she is cross and mysterious and tells untruths, but I don't think she is dishonest, so Mary Quint says, and that, you know, is a point, and there is a family, father and daughter, called Hawks, who live in the Windmill Wood, who are perfect savages, though my uncle says they don't mean it, but they are very disagreeable rude people. And except them, we see very little of the servants or other people, but there has been a mysterious visit, someone came late at night and remained for some days, though me and I never saw them, and Mary Quint saw her shades at the side door at two o'clock at night. Cousin Monica was so highly interested at this that she arrested her walk and stood facing me, with her hand on my arm, questioning and listening, and lost, as it seemed, in dismal conjecture. It is not pleasant, you know, I said. No, it is not pleasant, said Lady Nollis, very gloomily, and just then Millie joined us, shouting to us to look at the herons flying, so Cousin Monica did, and smiled, and nodded in thanks to Millie, and was again silent and thoughtful as we walked on. You are to come to me, mind both of you girls, she said abruptly. You shall I'll manage it. When silence returned, and Millie ran away once more to try whether the old gray trout was visible in the still water under the bridge, Cousin Monica said to me in a low tone, looking hard at me. You've not seen anything to frighten you, Maude. Don't look so alarmed, dear, she added, with a little laugh, which was not very merry, however. I don't mean frighten in any awful sense. In fact, I did not mean frighten at all. I meant—I can't exactly express it—anything to vex or make you uncomfortable, have you? No, I can't say I have, except that room in which Mr. Charke was found dead. Oh, you saw that, did you? I should like to see it so much. Your bedroom is not near it. Oh, no, on the floor beneath, and looking to the front, and Dr. Riley talked a little to me, and there seemed to be something on his mind more than he chose to tell me, so that for some time after I saw him, I really was, as you say, frightened. But except that, I really have no cause. And what was in your mind when you asked me? Well, you know, Maude, you are afraid of ghosts, banditi, and everything, and I wish to know whether you were uncomfortable, and what your particular bogey was just now. That, I assure you, was all, and I know, she continued, suddenly changing her light tone, and manner, for one appointed in treaty, what Dr. Riley said, and I implore of you, Maude, to think of it seriously, and when you come to me, you shall do so with the intention of remaining at Elverson. Now, cousin Monica, is this fair? You and Dr. Riley both talk in the same awful way to me, and I assure you, you don't know how nervous I am sometimes, and yet you won't, either of you, say what you mean. Now, Monica, dear cousin, won't you tell me? You see, dear, it is so lonely. It's a strange place, and he's so odd. I don't like the place, and I don't like him. I've tried, but I can't, and I think I never shall. He may be a very, what was it, that good little silly curate knoll used to call him? A very advanced Christian, that is it, and I hope he is, but if he is only what he used to be, his utter seclusion from society removes the only check, except personal fear, and he never had much of that, upon a very bad man, and you must know, my dear Maude, what a prize you are, and what an immense trust it is. Suddenly, cousin Monica stopped short and looked at me as if she had gone too far. But, you know, Silith may be very good now, although he was wild and selfish in his young days. Indeed, I don't know what to make of him, but I am sure when you have thought it over, you will agree with me and Dr. Briley, that you must not stay here. It was vain trying to induce my cousin to be more explicit. I hope to see you at Elveston in a very few days. I will shame Silith into letting you come. I don't like his reluctance. But don't you think he must know that Millie would require some little outfit before her visit? Well, I can't say. I hope that is all. But be it what it may, I'll make him let you come, and immediately too. After she had gone, I experienced a repetition of those undefined doubts which had tortured me for some time after my conversation with Dr. Briley. I had truly said, however, I was well enough contented with my mode of life here, for I had been trained at nold to a solitude very nearly as profound. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 In which I make another cousin's acquaintance. My correspondence about this time was not very extensive. About once a fortnight a letter from honest Mrs. Rusk conveyed to me how the dogs and ponies were, in queer English, oddly spelt. Some village gossip, a critique upon Dr. Clay's or the curate's last sermon, and some severities generally upon the dissenter's doings, with loves to Mary Quintz and all good wishes to me. Sometimes a welcome letter from cheerful cousin Monica, and now, to vary the series, a copy of complementary verses, without a signature, very adoring, very like Lord Byron. I then fancied, and now I must confess, rather vapid. Could I doubt from whom they came? I had received about a month after my arrival, a copy of verses in the same hand, in a plaintive ballad style, of the soldierly sort, in which the writer said that as living his sole object was to please me. So dying I should be his latest thought, and some more poetic impieties, asking only in return that when the storm of battle had swept over, I should shed a tear on seeing that the oak lie where it fell. Of course, about this lugubrious pun, there could be no misconception. The captain was unmistakably indicated, and I was so moved that I could no longer retain my secret. But walking with Millie that day, confided the little romance to that unsophisticated listener under the chestnut trees. The lines were so amorously dejected, and yet so heroically resilient of blood and gunpowder, that Millie and I agreed that the writer must be on the verge of a sanguinary campaign. It was not easy to get at Uncle Silas's times or morning post, which we fancied would explain these horrible illusions. But Millie bethought her of a sergeant in the militia, resident in Feltrum, who knew the destination and quarters of every regiment in the service, and circuitously, from this authority we learned, to my infinite relief, that Captain Oakley's regiment had still two years to sojourn in England. I was summoned one evening by Old Lamour to my uncle's room. I remember his appearance at evening so well, as he lay back in his chair, the pillow, the white glare in his strange eye, his feeble, painful smile. You'll excuse my not rising, dear Maude. I'm so miserably ill this evening. I express my respectful condolence. Yes, I am to be pitted, but pity is of no use, dear, he murmured, peevishly. I sent for you to make you acquainted with your cousin, my son. Where are you, Dudley? A figure seated in a low lounging chair at the other side of the fire, and which till then I had not observed, that these words rose up a little slowly, like a man stiff after a day's hunting, and I beheld with a shock that held my breath, and fixed my eyes upon him in a stair, the young man whom I had encountered at Church Scarsdale, on the day of my unpleasant excursion there, with madame, and who, to the best of my belief, was also one of that ruffianly party who had so unspeakably terrified me in the warren at Gnoll. I suppose I looked very much affrighted, if I had been looking at a ghost I could not have felt much more scared and incredulous. When I was able to turn my eyes upon my uncle he was not looking at me, but with a glimmer of that smile, with which a father looks on a son whose youth and comeliness he admires, his white face was turned towards the young man, in whom I beheld nothing but the image of odious and dreadful associations. Come, sir, said my uncle, we must not be too modest. Here's your cousin Maud. What do you say? How are you, miss? he said, with a sheepish grin. Miss? Come, come, miss us, no misses, said my uncle. She is Maud, a new Dudley, or I mistake, or we shall have you calling Millie madame. She'll not refuse you her hand, I venture to think. Come, young gentleman, speak for yourself. How are you, Maud? he said, doing his best, and drawing near he extended his hand. You're welcome to Bartram, how, miss? Kiss your cousins. Where's your gallantry? My honour, I disown you," exclaimed my uncle with more energy than he had shown before. With a clumsy effort and a grin that was both sheepish and impudent, he grasped my hand and advanced his face. The imminent salute gave me strength to spring back a step or two, and he hesitated. My uncle laughed, previously. Well, well, that will do, I suppose. In my time first cousins did not meet like strangers, but perhaps we were wrong. We are learning modestly from the Americans, and old English ways are too gross for us. I have—I've seen him before, that is, and at this point I stopped. My uncle turned his strange glare in a sort of scowl of inquiry upon me. Oh, hey, why, this is news you never told me. Where have you met, say, Dudley? Never saw her in my day, so far as I'm aware on," said the young man. No. Mother Maud, you will enlighten us," said Uncle Silas coldly. I did see that young gentleman before, I faulted. Meaning me, ma, he asked coolly. Yes, certainly you. I did, Uncle, answered I. And where was this, my dear? Not at all, I fancy. Poor dear Austin did not trouble me or mine much with his hospitalities. This was not a pleasant tone to take in speaking of his dead brother and benefactor, but at the moment I was too much engaged upon the one point to observe it. I met—I could not say my cousin—I met him, Uncle, your son, that young gentleman. I saw him, I should say, at Church Skarsdale, and afterwards with some other persons in the Warren at Knoll. It was the night our gamekeeper was beaten. Well, Dudley, what do you say to that? asked Uncle Silas. I never was at them places, so help me. I don't know where they be, and I never set eyes on the young lady before as I hoped to be saved in all my days. Said he, with a countenance so unchanged, and an air so confident, that I began to think I must be the dupe of one of those strange resemblances, which have been known to lead to positive identification in the witness-box, afterwards proved to be utterly mistaken. You look so—so uncomfortable, Maude, at the idea of having seen him before, that I hardly wonder at the vehemence of his denial. There was plainly something disagreeable, but you see, as respect him, it is a total mistake. My boy, there's always a truth-telling fellow. You may rely implicitly on what he says. You are not at those places. I wish I may—began the ingenuous youth with increased vehemence. There, there, that will do. Your honour and word is a gentleman, and that you are, though a poor one, will quite satisfy your cousin Maude. Am I right, my dear? I do assure you, as a gentleman, I never knew him to say the thing that was not. So Mr. Dudley-Ruthin began, not to curse, but to swear, in the prescribed form, that he had never seen me before, or the places I had named, since I was weaned by— That's enough, now, shake hands, if you won't kiss, like cousins, interrupted my uncle. And, very uncomfortably, I did lent him my hand to shake. You want some supper, Dudley, so Maude and I will excuse your going. Good night, my dear boy. And he smiled and waved him from the room. That's a fine young fellow, I think, as any English father can boast for his son. True, brave and kind and quite an Apollo, did you observe how finely proportioned he is, and what exquisite features the fellow has? He is rustic and rough, as you see, but a year or two in the militia. I have a promise of a commission for him. He's too old for the line. We'll form and polish him. He wants nothing but manner, and I protest when he has had a little drilling of that kind. I do believe he'll be as pretty a fellow as you'd find in England. I listened with amazement. I could discover nothing but what was disagreeable in the horrid bumpkin, and thought such an instance of the blindness of parental partiality was hardly credible. I looked down, dreading another direct appeal to my judgment, and Uncle Silas, I suppose, referred those downcast looks to maiden modesty. For he forebore to arse mine by any new interrogatory. Dudley ruffings cool and resolute denial of ever having seen me, or the places I had named, and the inflexible serenity of his countenance, while doing so, did very much shake my confidence in my own identification of him. I could not be quite certain that the person I had seen at Church Scarsdale was the very same whom I afterwards sought at Knoll. And now, in this particular instance, after the lapse of a still longer period, could I be perfectly certain that my memory, deceived by some accidental points of resemblance, had not duped me, and wronged my cousin, Dudley Ruffin? I suppose my uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiescence in his splendid estimate of his cub, and was netdled at my silence. After a short interval, he said, I've seen something of the world in my day, and I can say without a misgiving a partiality that Dudley is the material of a perfect English gentleman. I am not blind, of course. The training must be supplied. A year or two of good models, active self-criticism, and good society. I simply say that the material is there. Here was another interval of silence, and now tell me, child, what these recollections of Church, Church, what? Church, Scarsdale, I reply. Yes, thank you. Church, Scarsdale, and Knoll are. So I related my stories as well as I could. Well, dear Maude, the adventure of Church, Scarsdale is hardly so terrific as I expected, said Uncle Silas with a cold little laugh, and I don't see, if he had really been a hero of it, why he should shrink from avowing it. I know I should not, and I really can't say that your picnic party in the grounds of Knoll has frightened me much more, a lady waiting in the carriage and two or three tipsy young men. Her presence seems to me a guarantee that no mischief was meant, but champagne is the soul of frolic, and a row with the game-keepers a natural consequence. It happened to me once, forty years ago, when I was a wild young buck, one of the worst rowls I ever was in. And Uncle Silas poured some odour cologne over the corner of his handkerchief and touched his temples with it. If my boy had been there, I do assure you, and I know him, he would say so at once. I fancy he would rather boast of it. I never knew him utter and untruth, when you know him a little, you'll say so. With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted and languidly poured some of his favourite odour cologne over the palms of his hands, nodded a farewell, and in a whisper wished me good-night. Dudley's come, whispered Millie, taking me under the arm as I entered the lobby, but I don't care, he never gives me nought, and he gets money from Governor as much as he likes, and I never a-sixpence, he says shame. So there was no great love between the only son and only daughter of the younger line of the Ruffins. I was curious to learn all that Millie could tell me of this new inmate of Bartram Howe, and Millie was communicative without having a great deal to relate, and what I heard from her tended to confirm my own disagreeable impressions about him. She was afraid of him. He was a woundy, ugly customer in a wax, she could tell me. He was the only one she ever knowed as had plucked to jaw the Governor, but he was a feared of the Governor too. His visits to Bartram Howe I heard were desultory, and this to my relief were probably not outlast a week or a fortnight. He was such a fashionable cove, he was always a-getting about, mostly to Liverpool and Birmingham, and sometimes to London itself. He was keeping company one time with beauty, Governor thought, and he was awfully afraid he'd demaried her. But that was all bosh and nonsense, and beauty would have none of his chaff and weedling, for she liked Tom Brice, and Millie thought that Dudley never cared a crack of a whip for her. He used to go to the windmill to have a smoke with pegtop, and he was a member of the Feltrum Club, that met at the Plume of Feathers. He was a rare good shot, she heard, and he was before the Justices for poaching, but they could make nothing of it, and the Governor said it was all through spite of him, for they hate us for being better blood than they, and all but the Squires and those upstart folk-loves, dovetly, and he is so handsome and gay, though he is a bit cross at home, and Governor says he'll be a Parliament man yet, spite of them all. Next morning, when our breakfast was nearly ended, Dudley tapped at the window with the end of his clay pipe. A church warden, Millie called it, just such a long curved pipe, as Joe Willet is made to hold between his lips in those charming illustrations of Barnaby Raj, which we all know so well, and lifting his wide awake with a burlithic salutation, which I suppose would have charmed the Plume of Feathers, he dropped, kicked, and caught his wide awake, with an agility and gravity, as he replaced it, so expressively humorous that Millie went off in a loud fit of laughter, with the ejaculation, did you ever? It was odd how repulsively my confidence in my original identification always revived on unexpectedly seeing Dudley after an interval. I could perceive that this piece of comic bi-play was meant to make a suitable impression on me. I received it, however, with a killing gravity, and after a word or two to Millie, he lounged away, having first broken his pipe, bit by bit, into pieces, which he balanced in turn on his nose and on his chin, from which features he jerked them into his mouth, with a precision which, along with his excellent pantomime of eating them, highly excited Millie's mirth and admiration. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 of Uncle Silas by Joseph Sheridan Lafannou This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 41 My cousin Dudley Greatly to my satisfaction, this engaging person did not appear again that day, but next day Millie told me that my uncle had taken him to task for the neglect with which he was treating us. He did pitch into him sharp and short, and not a word from him, only sulky-like, and I so frightened, I durst not look up almost, and they said a lot I could not make head or tail of, and Governor ordered me out of the room and glad I was to go, and so they had it out between them. Millie could throw no light whatsoever upon the adventures at Church Skarsdale and Knoll, and I was left still in doubt, which sometimes oscillated one way and sometimes another, but on the whole I could not shake off the misgivings which constantly recurred, and pointed very obstinately to Dudley as the hero of those odious scenes. Oddly enough, though, I now felt far less confident upon the point than I did at first. I had begun to distrust my memory, and to suspect my fancy, but of this there could be no question that between the persons so unpleasantly linked in my remembrance with those scenes, and Dudley roughing, as striking though possibly only a general resemblance did exist. Millie was certainly right as to the gist of Uncle Silas's injunction, for we saw more of Dudley hence forward. He was shy, he was impudent, he was awkward, he was conceited, altogether a most intolerable bumpkin. Though he sometimes flushed and stammered and never for a moment was at his ease in my presence, yet to my inexpressible disgust there was a self-complacency in his manner, and a kind of triumph in his leer, which very plainly told me how satisfied he was, as to the nature of the impression he was making upon me. I would have given worlds to tell him how odious I thought him. Probably, however, he would not have believed me. Perhaps he fancied that ladies affected heirs of indifference and repulsion to cover their real feelings. I never looked at or spoke to him when I could avoid either, and then it was as briefly as I could. To do him justice, however, he seemed to have no liking for our society, and certainly never seemed altogether comfortable in it. I find it hard to write quite impartially even of Dudley roughing's personal appearance, but with an effort I confess that his features were good, and his figure not amiss, though a little fattish. He had light whiskers, light hair, and a pink complexion, and very good blue eyes. So far my uncle was right, and if he had been perfectly gentlemanlike, he really might have passed for a handsome man in the judgment of some critics. But there was that odious mixture of morvés-ant and impudence. A clumsiness, a slinness, and a consciousness in his bearing and countenance, not distinctly boorish, but low, which turned his good looks into an ugliness more intolerable than that of feature, and a corresponding vulgarity pervading his dress, his demeanour, and his very walk, marred whatever good points his figure possessed. If you take all this into account, with the ominous and startling misgivings constantly recurring, you will understand the mixed feelings of anger and disgust with which I received the admiration he favoured me with. Gradually he grew less constrained in my presence, and certainly his manners were not improved by his growing ease and confidence. He came in while Millie and I were at luncheon, jumped up, with a right about face performed in the air, sitting on the sideboard, when, screening slylyly and kicking his heels, he leered at us. Will you have something, Dudley? asked Millie. No, lath, but I'll look at you, and maybe drink a drop for company. And with these words he took a sportsman's flask from his pocket, and, helping himself to a large glass and a decanter, he compounded a glass of strong brandy and water as he talked, and refreshed himself with it from time to time. Cure us up with a governor, he said, with a grin. I wanted a word with him, but I suppose I'll hardly get in this hour or more. There are praying and disputing, and a bible chopping as usual, but won't hold much longer, or why it says, now that Uncle Austin's dead, there's now to be made a praying, and that work no longer. And it don't pay of itself. Oh, five, for shame you sinner, laughed Millie. He wasn't in a church these five years, he says, and then only to meet a young lady. Now isn't he a sinner, Maud, isn't he? Dudley grinning looked with a languishing slowness at me, biting the edge of his wide awake, which he held over his breast. Dudley roughing probably thought there was a manly and desperate sort of fascination in the impiety he professed. I wonder, Millie, said I, at your laughing, how can you laugh? You'd have me cry, would ye? answered Millie. I certainly would not have you laugh, I replied, and oh, I wish someone had cried for me, and I know who, said Dudley, in what he meant for a very engaging way, and he looked at me as if he thought I must feel flattered by his caring to have my tears. Instead of crying, however, I leaned back in my chair and began quietly to turn over the pages of Walter Scott's poems, which I and Millie were then reading in the evenings. The tone in which this odious young man spoke of his father, his coarse mention of mine, and his low boasting of his irreligion, disgusted me more than ever with him. They pass and be slow coaches, awful slow. I'll have a good bit to wait, I suppose. I should be three miles away, and more by this time, drat it. He was eyeing the legging of his foot, which he held up while he spoke, as if calculating how far away that limb should have carried him by this time. I can't folk do their Bible and prayers on Sunday and get it off their stomachs. I say, Millie laughs, will ye see if Governor be done with the curate? Do I'm a losing the whole day along with him? Millie jumped up, accustomed to obey her brother, and as she passed me, whispered with a wink, money! And away she went. Dudley whistled a tune and swung his foot like a pendulum, as he followed her with his side-glance. I say it's a hard case, miss, a ladder spirit should be kept so tight. I haven't a shilling but what comes through his fingers, and drat the tizzy he'll give me till he knows the reason why. Perhaps, I said, my uncle thinks you should earn some for yourself. I'd like to know how I fell as to earn money nowadays. You wouldn't have a gentleman to keep a shop, I fancy. But I'll have a fistful just now, and no thanks to he. Them executors, you know, owes me a deal of money, very honest chaps, of course, but they're cursed slow about paying, I know. I made no remark upon this elegant allusion to the executors of my dear father's will. And I tell you, Maude, when I get the tin, I know who I'll buy a fairing for, I do lass. The odious creature drawled this with a side-long leer, which I suppose he fancied quite irresistible. I am one of those unfortunate persons who always blushes when I most wished to look indifferent, and now to my inexpressible chagrin, with its accustomed perversity I felt the blush mount to my cheeks, and glow even on my forehead. I saw that he perceived this most disconcerting indication of a sentiment the very idea of which was so detestable, that equally enraged with myself and with him, I did not know how to exhibit my contempt and indignation. Mistaking the cause of my discomposure, Mr. Dudley Ruffin laughed softly with an insufferable suavity. And there's some at last, and must have him return. Honour thy father, you know, you would not have me disobey the governor. No, you wouldn't, would you? I darted at him a look which I hoped would have quelled his impertinence, but I'd blushed most provokingly, more violently than ever. I'd back them eyes again, a county I would, he exclaimed, with a condescending enthusiasm. You're awful pretty, you are, Maude. I don't know what came over me to the night when Governor told me to bust you, but, dang it, you shan't deny me now, and I'll have a kiss last in spite of thy blushes. He jumped from his elevated seat on the sideboard and came swaggering towards me, with an odious grin, and his arms extended. I started to my feet absolutely transported with fury. Jacked me if she'd been to go and to fight me, he chuckled humorously. Come, Maude, you would not be so ill-natured, sure? After all, it's only our duty, Governor bid us kiss, didn't he? Don't, don't, sir, stand back or I'll call the servants. And as it was, I began to scream for Millie. There's how it is with all thy cattle. You never knows your own mind, you don't, he said so lily. You make such a row about a bit of play. Drop it, will you? There's no one a harm in you, is there? I'm not for certain. And with an angry chuckle he turned on his heel and left the room. I think I was perfectly right to resist, with all the vehemence of which I was capable, this attempt to resume an intimacy which, notwithstanding my uncle's opinion to the contrary, seemed to me like an outrage. Millie found me alone, not frightened but very angry. I had made up my mind to complain to my uncle, but the curate was still with him, and by the time he had gone I was cooler. My awe of my uncle had returned. I fancied that I would treat the whole affair as a mere playful piece of gallantry. So, with the comfortable conviction that he had had a lesson, and would think twice before repeating his impertinence, I resolved with Millie's approbation to leave matters as they were. Dudley, greatly to my comfort, was huffed with me, and hardly appeared and was sulky and silent when he did. I lived then in the pleasant anticipation of his departure, which Millie thought would be very soon. My uncle had his Bible and his consolations, but it cannot have been pleasant to this old roue converted though he was, this refined man of fashion, to see his son grow up an outcast, and a Tony lumpkin. For whatever he may have thought of his natural gifts, he must have known how mere oboe he was. I tried to recall my then impressions of my uncle's character, grisly and chaotic the image rises, silver head, feet of clay. I as yet knew little of him. I began to perceive that he was what Mary Quince used to call, dreadful particular. I suppose a little selfish and impatient. He used to get cases of turtle from Liverpool. He drank claret and hawk for his health, and ate woodcock and other light and salutary dainties for the same reason, and was petulant and vicious about the cooking of these, and the flavour and clearness of his coffee. His conversation was easy, polished, and with a sentimental glazing, cold. But across this artificial talk with its French rhymes, racy phrases, and fluent eloquence, like a streak of angry light would, at interval, suddenly gleam some dismal thought of religion. I never could quite satisfy myself whether they were affectations or genuine, like intermittent thrills of pain. The light of his large eyes was very peculiar. I can liken it to nothing but the sheen of intense moonlight on burnished metal, but that cannot express it. It glared white and suddenly almost fatuous. I thought of Moore's lines whenever I looked on it. Oh ye dead, oh ye dead, whom we know by the light you give, from your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live. I never saw in any other eye the least glimmer of the same baleful effulgence. He fits, too, his hoverings between life and death, between intellect and insanity, a dubious, marsh fire existence horrible to look on. I was puzzled even to comprehend his feelings toward his children. Sometimes it seemed to me that he was ready to lay down his soul for them. At others he looked and spoke almost as if he hated them. He talked as if the image of death was always before him, yet he took a terrible interest in life, while seemingly dozing away the dregs of his days inside of his coffin. Oh, Uncle Silas, tremendous figure in the past, burning always in memory in the same awful lights. The fixed white face of scorn and anguish, it seemed as if the woman of Endor has led me to that chamber and showed me a spectre. Dudley had not left Bartram Howe when a little note reached me from Lady Nollis. It said, Dear Asmode, I have written by this post to Silas, beseeching a loan of you and my cousin Millie. I see no reason your uncle can possibly have for refusing me, and therefore I count confidently on seeing you both at Elverston tomorrow, to stay for at least a week. I have hardly a creature to meet you. I have been disappointed in several visitors, but another time we shall have a gayer house. Tell Millie, with my love, that I will not forgive her if she fails to accompany you. Believe me, ever your affectionate cousin, Monica Nollis. Millie and I were both afraid that Uncle Silas would refuse his consent, although we could not define any sound reason for his doing so, and there were many in favour of his improving the opportunity of allowing poor Millie to see some persons of her own sex above the rank of menials. At about twelve o'clock my uncle sent for us, and to our great delight announced his consent, and wished us a very happy excursion.