J. S. Le Fanu, Uncle Silas (1864) - Chaps. XXXVI-XL

Chapter XXXVI: An Arrival at Dead of Night
I have sometimes been asked why I wear an odd little turquois 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 every one else.’
 ‘Don’t mind it, Milly.’
 ‘Yes, but I will. Shall I call you Mrs. Bustle?’
 ‘You shall do no such thing.’
 ‘But you must have a name.’
 ‘I refuse a name.’
 ‘But I’ll give you one, lass.’
 ‘And I won’t have it.’
 ‘But you can’t help me christening you.’
 ‘I can decline answering.’
 ‘But I’ll make you,’ said Milly, growing very red.
 Perhaps there was something provoking in my tone, for I certainly was very much disgusted at Milly’s relapse into barbarism.
 ‘You can’t,’ I retorted quietly.
 ‘See if I don’t, and I’ll give ye one twice as ugly.’
 I smiled, I fear, disdainfully.
 ‘And I think you’re a minx, and a slut, and a fool,’ she broke out, flushing scarlet.
 I smiled in the same unchristian way.
 ‘And I’d give ye a smack o’ the cheek as soon as look at you.’
 And she gave her dress a great slap, and drew near me, in her wrath. I really thought she was about tendering the ordeal of single combat.
 I made her, however, a paralysing courtesy, and, with immense dignity, sailed out of the room, and into Uncle Silas’s study, where it happened we were to breakfast that morning, and for several subsequent ones.
 During the meal we maintained the most dignified reserve; and I don’t think either so much as looked at the other.
 We had no walk together that day.
 I was sitting in the evening, quite alone, when Milly entered the room. Her eyes were red, and she looked very sullen.
 ‘I want your hand, cousin,’ she said, at the same time taking it by the wrist, and administering with it a sudden slap on her plump cheek, which made the room ring, and my fingers tingle; and before I had recovered from my surprise, she had vanished.
 I called after her, but no answer; I pursued, but she was running too; and I quite lost her at the cross galleries.
 I did not see her at tea, nor before going to bed; but after I had fallen asleep I was awakened by Milly, in floods of tears.
 ‘Cousin Maud, will ye forgi’ me - you’ll never like me again, will ye? No - I know ye won’t - I’m such a brute - I hate it - it’s a shame. And here’s a Banbury cake for you - I sent to the town for it, and some taffy - won’t ye eat it? and here’s a little ring - ‘tisn’t as pretty as your own rings; and ye’ll wear it, maybe, for my sake - poor Milly’s sake, before I was so bad to ye - if ye forgi’ me; and I’ll look at breakfast, and if it’s on your finger I’ll know you’re friends wi’ me again; and if ye don’t, I won’t trouble you no more; and I think I’ll just drown myself out o’ the way, and you’ll never see wicked Milly 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 Milly.
 I searched in vain for her before breakfast. At that meal, however, we met, but in the presence of Uncle Silas, who, though silent and apathetic, was formidable; and we, sitting at a table disproportionably large, under the cold, strange gaze of my guardian, talked only what was inevitable, and that in low tones; for whenever Milly for a moment raised her voice, Uncle Silas would wince, place his thin white fingers quickly over his ear, and look as if a pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug and smile piteously into vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, was not in the talking vein himself - and that was not often - you may suppose there was very little spoken in his presence.
 When Milly, 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 affections so profoundly at a time of life when great troubles seldom approach us.
 When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of the wrestling ring as poor Milly bestowed on me, swaying me this way and that, and burying her face in my dress, and blubbering -
 ‘I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and I such a devil; and I’ll never call you a name, but Maud - my darling Maud.’
 ‘You must, Milly - Mrs. Bustle. I’ll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like. You must.’ I was blubbering like Milly, and hugging my best; and, indeed, I wonder how we kept our feet.
 So Milly and I were better friends than ever.
 Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights, and long fireside gossipings at Bartram-Haugh. I was frightened at 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 Milly’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 L’Amour, 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 to for a bit, anon.’
 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 idiotcy, 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 blinked and stared on me with a fatuised uncertainty, that gradually broke into a feeble smile.
 ‘Ah! the girl - Austin’s child. Well, dear, I’m hardly able - I’ll speak to-morrow - 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 noways all day, maybe,’ said the old woman, again in a whisper.
 So forth we stole from the room, I unspeakably shocked. In fact, he looked as if he were dying, and so, in my agitation, I told the crone, who, forgetting the ceremony with which she usually treated me, chuckled out derisively,
 ‘A-dying is he? Well, he be like Saint Paul - he’s bin a-dying daily this many a day.’
 I looked at her with a chill of horror. She did not care, I suppose, what sort of feelings she might excite, for she went on mumbling sarcastically to herself. I had paused, and overcame my reluctance to speak to her again, for I was really very much frightened. ‘Do you think he is in danger? Shall we send for a doctor?’ I whispered.
 ‘Law bless ye, 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, ‘tisn’t no fits at all, he’s nout the worse o’t. Jest silly a bit now and again. It’s been the same a dozen year and more; and the doctor knows all about it,’ answered the old woman sturdily. ‘And ye’ll find he’ll be as mad as bedlam if ye make any stir about it.’
 That night I talked the matter over with Mary Quince.
 ‘They’re very dark, miss; but I think he takes a deal too much laudlum,’ said Mary.
 To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures. I have often spoken to medical men about them, since, but never could learn that excessive use of opium could altogether account for them. It was, I believe, certain, however, that he did use that drug in startling quantities. It was, indeed, sometimes a topic of complaint with him that his 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 Bartram. So much of the day was passed in the open air, and in active exercise, that this was but natural. But that night I was nervous and wakeful, and it was past two o’clock when I fancied I heard the sound of horses and carriage-wheels on the avenue.
 Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to get up and peep from the window. My heart beat fast as I saw a post-chaise approach the court-yard. A front window was let down, and the postilion 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 debarkation, 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 reconnoissance. 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 Milly.
 ‘How is Uncle Silas?’ I eagerly enquired.
 ‘Old L’Amour says he’s queerish still; but he’s not so dull as yesterday,’ answered she.
 ‘Was not the doctor sent for?’ I asked.
 ‘Was he? Well, that’s odd; and she said never a word o’t to me,’ 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 chaise arrived here between two and three o’clock last night.’
 ‘Hey! and who told you?’ Milly seemed all on a sudden highly interested.
 ‘I saw it, Milly; and some one, I fancy the doctor, came from it into the house.’
 ‘Fudge, lass! who’d send for the doctor? ‘Twasn’t he, I tell you. What was he like?’ said Milly.
 ‘I could only see clearly that he, or she, was tall, and wore a cloak,’ I replied.
 ‘Then ‘twasn’t him nor t’other I was thinking on, neither; and I’ll be hanged but I think it will be Cormoran,’ cried Milly, with a thoughtful rap with her knuckle on the table.
 Precisely at this juncture a tapping came to the door.
 ‘Come in,’ said I.
 And old L’Amour entered the room, with a courtesy.
 ‘I came to tell Miss Quince her breakfast’s ready,’ said the old lady.
 ‘Who came in the chaise, L’Amour?’ demanded Milly.
 ‘What chaise?’ spluttered the beldame tartly.
 ‘The chaise that came last night, past two o’clock,’ said Milly.
 ‘That’s a lie, and a damn lie!’ cried the beldame. ‘There worn’t no chaise at the door since Miss Maud there come from Knowl.’
 I stared at the audacious old menial who could utter such language.
 ‘Yes, there was a chaise, and Cormoran, as I think, be come in it,’ said Milly, who seemed accustomed to L’Amour’s daring address.
 ‘And there’s another damn lie, as big as the t’other,’ said the crone, her haggard and withered face flushing orange all over.
 ‘I beg you will not use such language in my room,’ I replied, very angrily. ‘I saw the chaise at the door; your untruth signifies very little, but your impertinence here I will not permit. Should it be repeated, I will assuredly complain to my uncle.’
 The old woman flushed more fiercely as I spoke, and fixed her 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 has in Derbyshire o’ speaking our minds. No offence, miss, were meant, and none took, as I hopes,’ and she made me another courtesy. ‘And I forgot to tell you, Miss Milly, the master wants you this minute.’
 So Milly, in mute haste, withdrew, followed closely by L’Amour.

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Chapter XXXVII: Doctor Bryerly Emerges
 When Milly joined me at breakfast, her eyes were red and swollen. She was still sniffing with that little sobbing hiccough, which betrays, even were there no other signs, recent violent weeping. She sat down quite silent.
 ‘Is he worse, Milly?’ I enquired, anxiously.
 ‘No, nothing’s wrong wi’ him; he’s right well,’ said Milly, fiercely.
 ‘What’s the matter then, Milly dear?’
 ‘The poisonous old witch! ‘Twas just to tell the Gov’nor how I’d said ‘twas Cormoran that came by the po’shay last night.’
 ‘And who is Cormoran?’ I enquired.
 ‘Ay, there it is; I’d like to tell, and you want to hear - and I just daren’t, for he’ll send me off right to a French school - hang it - hang them all! - if I do.’
 ‘And why should Uncle Silas care?’ said I, a good deal surprised.
 ‘They’re a-tellin’ lies.’
 ‘Who?’ said I.
 ‘L’Amour - that’s who. So soon as she made her complaint of me, the Gov’nor asked her, sharp enough, did anyone come last night, or a po’shay; and she was ready to swear there was no one. Are ye quite sure, Maud, you really did see aught, or ‘appen ‘twas all a dream?’
 ‘It was no dream, Milly; so sure as you are there, I saw exactly what I told you,’ I replied.
 ‘Gov’nor won’t believe it anyhow; and he’s right mad wi’ me; and he threatens me he’ll have me off to France; I wish ‘twas under the sea. I hate France - I do - like the devil. Don’t you? They’re always a-threatening me wi’ France, if I dare say a word more about the po’shay, or - or anyone.’
 I really was curious about Cormoran; but Cormoran was not to be defined to me by Milly; nor did she, in reality, know more than I respecting the arrival of the night before.
 One day I was surprised to see Doctor Bryerly 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 Milly awaiting me in the hall.
 ‘So Doctor Bryerly is here,’ I said.
 ‘That’s the thin fellow, wi’ the sharp look, and the shiny black coat, that went up just now?’ asked Milly.
 ‘Yes, he’s gone into your papa’s room,’ said I.
 ‘’appen ‘twas he come ‘tother night. He may be staying here, though we 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 Doctor Bryerly’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 Milly could not persuade me to climb it, we got round the paling by the river’s bank.
 While at our drawing, we saw the swarthy face, sooty locks, and old weather-stained red coat of Zamiel, who was glowering malignly at us from among the 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 wintry 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, in passing a clump of trees, we heard a sudden outbreak of voices, angry and expostulatory; and saw, under the trees, the savage old Zamiel strike his daughter with his stick two great blows, one of which was across the head. ‘Beauty’ ran only a short distance away, while the swart old wood-demon stumped lustily after her, cursing and brandishing his cudgel.
 My blood boiled. I was so shocked that for a moment I could not speak; but in a moment more I screamed -
 ‘You brute! How dare you strike the poor girl?’
 She had only run a few steps, and turned about confronting him and us, her eyes gleaming fire, her features pale and quivering to suppress a burst of weeping. Two little rivulets of blood were trickling over her temple.
 ‘I say, fayther, look at that,’ she said, with a strange tremulous smile, lifting her hand, which was smeared with blood.
 Perhaps he was ashamed, and the more enraged on that account, for 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 her fayther, would ye? Look out!’
 And he wagged his head with a scowl at Milly, and a flourish of his cudgel.
 ‘Be quiet, Milly,’ I whispered, for Milly was preparing for battle; and I again addressed him with the assurance that, on reaching home, I would tell my uncle how he had treated the poor girl.
 ‘’Tis you she may thank for’t, a wheedling o’ her to open that gate,’ he snarled.
 ‘That’s a lie; we went round by the brook,’ cried Milly.
 I did not think proper to discuss the matter with him; and looking 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 ye that;’ snapping his horny finger and thumb.
 The girl remained where she had stood, wiping the blood off roughly with the palm of her hand, and looking at it before she rubbed it on her apron. ‘My poor girl,’ I said, ‘you must not cry. I’ll speak to my uncle about you.’
 But she was not crying. She raised her head, and looked at us a little askance, 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 Hawkeses, 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 L’Amour was awaiting me; and with a courtesy, 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 chaise that he summoned me to this interview? Gentle as were his ways, there was something undefinable 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.
 Doctor Bryerly - what a marked and vulgar contrast, and yet, somehow, how reassuring! - sat at the table near him, and was tying up papers. His eyes watched me, I thought, with an anxious scrutiny as I approached; and I think it was not until I had saluted him that he recollected suddenly that he had not seen me before at Bartram, and stood up and greeted me in his usual abrupt and somewhat familiar way. It was vulgar and not cordial, and yet it was honest and indefinably kind. Up rose my uncle, that strangely venerable, pale portrait, in his loose Rembrandt black velvet. How gentle, how benignant, how unearthly, and inscrutable!
 ‘I need not say how she is. Those lilies and roses, Doctor Bryerly, speak their own beautiful praises of the air of Bartram. I almost regret that her carriage will be home so soon. I only hope it may not abridge her rambles. It positively does me good to look at her. It is the glow of flowers in winter, and the fragrance of a field which the Lord hath blessed.’
 ‘Country air, Miss Ruthyn, 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. Bryerly.
 And this sly speech made, he scrutinised my countenance in silence rather embarrassingly.
 ‘My system, Doctor Bryerly, as a disciple of Aesculapius 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, Maud; and to me, if my health be spared, there would be an unspeakable though a melancholy charm in the scenes where so many happy, though so many wayward and foolish, young days were passed; and I think I should return to these picturesque solitudes with, perhaps, an increased relish. You remember old Chaulieu’s sweet lines -
 Désert, aimable solitude, Séjour du calme et de la paix, Asile où n’entrèrent jamais Le tumulte et l’inquiétude.
 I can’t say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated these sylvan fastnesses; but the tumults of the world, thank Heaven! - never.’
 There was a sly scepticism, I thought, in Doctor Bryerly’s sharp face; and hardly waiting for the impressive ‘never,’ he said -
 ‘I forgot to ask, who is your banker?’
 ‘Oh! Bartlet and Hall, Lombard Street,’ answered Uncle Silas, dryly and shortly.
 Dr. Bryerly made a note of it, with an expression of face which seemed, with a sly resolution, to say, ‘You shan’t come the anchorite over me.’
 I saw Uncle Silas’s wild and piercing eye rest suspiciously on me for a moment, as if to ascertain whether I felt the spirit of Doctor Bryerly’s almost interruption; and, nearly at the same moment, stuffing his papers into his capacious coat pockets, Doctor Bryerly rose and took his leave.
 When he was gone, I bethought me that now was a good opportunity of making my complaint of Dickon Hawkes. Uncle Silas having risen, I hesitated, and began,
 ‘Uncle, may I mention an occurrence - which I witnessed?’
 ‘Certainly, child,’ he answered, fixing his eye sharply on me. I really think he fancied that the conversation was about to turn upon the phantom chaise.
 So I described the scene which had shocked Milly and me, an hour or so ago, in the Windmill Wood.
 ‘You see, my dear child, they are rough persons; their ideas are not ours; their young people must be chastised, and in a way and to a degree that we would look upon in a serious light. I’ve 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, dryly.
 ‘And only that Milly and 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 Hawkes.
 ‘And he is always so rude and impertinent to Milly and to me,’ I continued. ‘Oh! impertinent to you - that’s another matter. I must see to that. Nothing more, my dear child?’
 ‘Well, there was nothing more.’
 ‘He’s a useful servant, Hawkes; and though his looks are not prepossessing, and his ways and language rough, yet he is a very kind father, and a most honest man - a thoroughly moral man, though severe - a very rough diamond though, and has no idea of the refinements of polite society. I venture to say he honestly believes that he has been always unexceptionably polite to you, so we must make allowances.’
 And Uncle Silas smoothed my hair with his thin aged hand, and kissed my forehead.
 ‘Yes, we must make allowances; we must be kind. What says the Book? - Judge not, that ye be not judged. Your dear father acted upon that maxim - so noble and so awful - and I strive to do so. Alas! dear Austin, longo intervalle, 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.
 O nuit, nuit douloureuse! O toi, tardive aurore! Viens-tu? vas-tu venir? es-tu bien loin encore?
 And repeating these lines of Chenier, with upturned eyes, and one 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, Hawkes; 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 Ruthyn, can remedy.’
 So with a tender smile, and a charge to shut the door ‘perfectly, but without clapping it,’ he dismissed me. Doctor Bryerly had not slept at Bartram, but at the little inn in Feltram, and he was going direct to London, as I afterwards learned.
 ‘Your ugly doctor’s gone away in a fly,’ said Milly, 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 Doctor Bryerly, with his hat and a great pair of woollen gloves on, and an old Oxford grey surtout 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 worlds, Heaven and Hell.
 He closed it on his finger as I entered, and without recollecting to remove his hat, he made a step or two towards me with his splay, creaking boots. With a quick glance at the door, he said -
 ‘Glad to see you alone for a minute - very glad.’
 But his countenance, on the contrary, looked very anxious.

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Chapter XXXVIII: A Midnight Departure
 ‘I’m going this minute - I - I want to know’ - another glance at the door - ‘are you really quite comfortable here?’
 ‘Quite,’ I answered promptly.
 ‘You have only your cousin’s company?’ he continued, glancing at the table, which was laid for two.
 ‘Yes; but Milly and I are very happy together.’
 ‘That’s very nice; but I think there are no teachers, you see - painters, and singers, and that sort of thing that is usual with young ladies. 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’s carriage wants a new wheel, he told me.’
 ‘Ay, 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 Doctor Bryerly’s sharp black eyes.
 ‘Is he kind to you?’
 ‘Very kind - most gentle and affectionate.’
 ‘Why doesn’t he keep company with you? Does he ever dine with you, or 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, Doctor Bryerly?’
 ‘It’s made on water: the spirit interferes with the use of it beyond a certain limit. You have no idea what those fellows can swallow. Read the Opium Eater. I knew two cases in which the quantity exceeded De Quincy’s. Aha! it’s new to you?’ and he laughed quietly at my simplicity.
 ‘And what do you think his complaint is?’ I asked.
 ‘Pooh! I haven’t a notion; but, probably, one way or another, he has 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 Hawkes, and his daughter, who are very rude, and even abusive sometimes, and say they have orders from my uncle to shut us out from a portion of the grounds; but I don’t believe that, for Uncle Silas never alluded to it when I was making my complaint of them to-day.’
 ‘From what part of the grounds is that?’ asked Doctor Bryerly, sharply.
 I described the situation as well as I could.
 ‘Can we see it from this?’ he asked, peeping from the window.
 ‘Oh, no.’
 Doctor Bryerly made a note in his pocket-book here, and I said -
 ‘But I am really quite sure it was a story of Dickon’s, he is such a surly, disobliging man.’
 ‘And what sort is that old servant that came in and out of his room?’
 ‘Oh, that is old L’Amour,’ I answered, rather indirectly, and forgetting that I was using Milly’s nickname.
 ‘And is she civil?’ he asked.
 No, she certainly was not; a most disagreeable old woman, with a vein of wickedness. I thought I had heard her swearing.
 ‘They don’t seem to be a very engaging lot,’ said Doctor Bryerly;’ but where there’s one, there will be more. See here, I was just reading a passage,’ and he opened the little volume at the place where his finger marked it, and read for me a few sentences, the purport of which I well remember, although, of course, the words have escaped me.
 It was in that awful portion of the book which assumes to describe the condition of the condemned; and it said that, independently of the physical causes in that state operating to enforce community of habitation, and 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. Ruthyn’s: 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 Doctor Bryerly, with his accustomed simultaneous glance at the door, said in low, cautious tones, very distinctly -
 ‘Have you been thinking at all over that matter again, I mean about getting your uncle to forego his guardianship? I would not mind his first refusal. You could make it worth his while, unless he - that is - unless he’s very unreasonable indeed; and I think you would consult your interest, Miss Ruthyn, 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 Milly.’
 ‘How long have you been here exactly?’
 I told him. It was some two or three months.
 ‘Have you seen your other cousin yet - the young gentleman?’
 ‘No.’
 ‘H’m! Aren’t you very lonely?’ he enquired.
 ‘We see no visitors here; but that, you know, I was prepared for.’
 Doctor Bryerly read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently and peevishly, and tapped the sole lightly on the ground.
 ‘Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You’d be pleasanter somewhere else - with Lady Knollys, 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 Doctor Bryerly. ‘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 Emmanuel Bryerly, M.D., 17 King Street, Covent Garden, London - don’t lose it, mind,’ and he tore the leaf out of his note-book.
 ‘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 Knollys, 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 a mortal about it. Good-bye; oh, I was taking away your book.’
 And so, in a fuss, with a slight shake of the hand, getting up 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-Haugh were re-awakened.
 My ugly, vulgar, true friend was disappearing beyond those gigantic lime trees which hid Bartram from the eyes of the outer world. The fly, with the doctor’s valise on top, vanished, and I sighed an anxious sigh. The shadow of the over-arching trees contracted, and I felt helpless and forsaken; and glancing down the torn leaf, Doctor Bryerly’s address met my eye, between my fingers.
 I slipt it into my breast, and ran up-stairs 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 Doctor Bryerly had advised. Then, in positive terror, lest some one should even knock during the operation, I, with a match, consumed to ashes the tell-tale bit of paper.
 Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensations of having a secret to keep. I fancy the pain of this solitary liability was disproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally very open and very nervous. I was always on the point of betraying it apropos des bottes - always reproaching myself for my duplicity; and in constant terror when honest Mary Quince approached the press, or good-natured Milly 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 Doctor Bryerly’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.
 ‘Some one left here last night, I think, Miss,’ said Mary Quince, with a mysterious nod, one morning. ‘’Twas two o’clock, and I was bad with the toothache, and went down to get a pinch o’ red pepper - leaving the candle a-light here lest you should awake. When I was coming up - as I was crossing the lobby, at the far end of the long gallery - what should I hear, but a horse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet like. So I looks out o’ the window; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay, and a fellah a-pullin’ a box up o’ top; and out comes a walise and a bag; and I think it was old Wyat, please’m, that Miss Milly calls L’Amour, that stood in the doorway a-talking to the driver.’
 ‘And who got into the chaise, Mary?’ I asked.
 ‘Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was bad, and me 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,’Twill be kep’ a secret, like the shay as you saw’d, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways, and secrets; and old Wyat - she does tell stories, don’t she? - and she as ought to be partickler, seein’ her time be short now, and she so old. It is awful, an old un like that telling such crams as she do.’
 Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both agreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whose arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the chaise 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 Wyat - L’Amour 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 - gossipings, stories, short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always beautiful scenery of Bartram-Haugh, 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 Doctor Bryerly 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 re-opening of friendly relations between the courts of Elverston and of Bartram.
 At length, one fine day, Cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, with her cloak and bonnet on, and her 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, enquiries and caresses! At last I pressed her down into a chair, and, laughing, she said -
 ‘You have no idea what self-denial I have exercised to bring this visit about. I, who detest writing, have actually written five letters to Silas; and I don’t think I said a single impertinent thing in one of them! What a wonderful little old thing your butler is! I did not know what to make of him on the steps. Is he a struldbrug, 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 E’en, to answer an incantation - not your future husband, I hope - and he’ll vanish some night into gray smoke, and whisk sadly up the chimney. He’s the most venerable little thing I ever beheld in my life. I leaned back in the carriage and thought I should absolutely die of laughing. He’s gone up to prepare your uncle for my visit; and I really am very glad, for I’m sure I shall look as young as Hebe after him. But who is this? Who are you, my dear?’
 This was addressed to poor Milly, 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. ‘Milly, dear, this is your cousin, Lady Knollys.’
 ‘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 Milly’s hand very cordially in hers; and she gave her a kiss upon each cheek, and patted her head.
 Milly, 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.

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Chapter XXXIX: Cousin Monica and Uncle Silas Meet
 Cousin Monica, with her hands upon Milly’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 poor Milly, 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 Maud, 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 dare say, and your father requires a little time to translate him. And, Milly 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 Knollys 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, Milly?’
 Poor Milly’s wardrobe, I am afraid, was more portable than handsome; and she looked horribly affrighted, and whispered in my ear -
 ‘My best petticoat is away at the laundress; say in a week, Maud.’
 ‘What does she say?’ asked Lady Knollys.
 ‘She fears she can’t be ready,’ I answered, dejectedly.
 ‘There’s a deal of my slops in the wash,’ blurted out poor Milly, staring straight at Lady Knollys.
 ‘In the name of wonder, what does my cousin mean?’ asked Lady Knollys.
 ‘Her things have not come home yet from the laundress,’ I replied; and at this moment our wondrous old butler entered to announce to Lady Knollys that his master was ready to receive her, whenever she was disposed to favour him; and also to make polite apologies for his being compelled, by his state of health, to give her the trouble of ascending to his room.
 So Cousin Monica was at the door in a moment, over her shoulder calling to us, ‘Come, girls.’
 ‘Please, not yet, my lady - you alone; and he requests the young ladies will be in the way, as he will send for them presently.’
 I began to admire poor ‘Giblets’ as the wreck of a tolerably respectable servant.
 ‘Very good; perhaps it is better we should kiss and be friends in private first,’ said Cousin Knollys, laughing; and away she went under the guidance of the mummy.
 I had an account of this tête-à-tête afterwards from Lady Knollys.
 ‘When I saw him, my dear,’ she said, ‘I could hardly believe my eyes; such white hair - such a white face - such mad eyes - such a death-like smile. When I saw him last, his hair was dark; he dressed himself like a modern Englishman; and he really preserved a likeness to the full-length portrait at Knowl, that you fell in love with, you know; but, angels and ministers of grace! such a spectre! I asked 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.
 ‘What a sweet, gentle, insufferable voice he has! Somebody once told me about the tone of a glass flute that made some people hysterical to listen to, and I was thinking of it all the time. There was always a 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 sarcasms, and meant that I was the same impertinent minx he remembered long ago, uncorrected by time; and so I am, and he must not expect compliments from old Monica Knollys.
 ‘It is a long time, Silas; but that, you know, is not my fault, said I.
 ‘Not your fault, my dear - your instinct. We are all imitative creatures: the great people ostracised me, and the small ones followed. We are 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, 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 truce 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 menace 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-Haugh 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 Knollys; 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 passions 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 to 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 Bartram air and liberty, all he had to offer; and called on me to say how I liked them. And then he called Milly to him, kissed her tenderly, smiled sadly upon her, and turning to Cousin Monica, said -
 ‘This is my daughter Milly - oh! she has been presented to you down-stairs, has she? You have, no doubt, been interested by her. As I told her cousin Maud, though I am not yet quite a Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, she is a very finished Miss Hoyden. Are not you, my poor Milly? You owe your distinction, my dear, to that line of circumvallation which has, ever since your birth, intercepted all civilisation on its way to Bartram. You are much obliged, Milly, to everybody who, whether naturally or un-naturally, turned a sod in that invisible, but impenetrable, work. For your accomplishments - rather singular than fashionable - you are indebted, in part, to your cousin, Lady Knollys. Is not she, Monica? Thank her, Milly.’
 ‘This is your truce, Silas,’ said Lady Knollys, with a quiet sharpness. ‘I think, Silas Ruthyn, you want to provoke me to speak in a way before these young creatures which we should all regret.’
 ‘So my badinage excites your temper, Monnie. Think how you would feel, then, if I had found you by the highway side, mangled by robbers, and set my foot upon your throat, and spat in your face. But - stop this. Why have I said this? simply to emphasize my forgiveness. See, girls, Lady Knollys and I, cousins long estranged, forget and forgive the past, and join hands over its buried injuries.’
 ‘Well, be it so; only let us have done with 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 by-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 Knollys’ invitation for Milly 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.
 ‘Milly, my dear, will you put on your hat and show me the grounds about the house? May she, Silas? I should like to renew my acquaintance.’
 ‘You’ll see them sadly neglected, Monnie. A poor man’s pleasure grounds must rely on Nature, and trust to her for effects. Where there is fine timber, however, and abundance of slope, and rock, and hollow, we sometimes gain in picturesqueness what we lose by neglect in luxury.’
 Then, as Cousin Monica said she would cross the grounds by a path, and meet her carriage at a point to which we would accompany her, and so make her way home, she took leave of Uncle Silas; a ceremony whereat - without, I thought, much zeal at either side - a kiss took place.
 ‘Now, girls!’ said Cousin Knollys, when we were fairly in motion over the grass, ‘what do you say - will he let you come - yes or no? I can’t say, but I think, dear,’ - this to Milly - ‘ he ought to let you see a little more of the world than appears among the glens and bushes of Bartram. Very pretty they are, like yourself; but very wild, and very little seen. Where is your brother, Milly; is not he older than you?’
 ‘I don’t know where; and he is older by six years and a bit.’
 By-and-by, when Milly was gesticulating to frighten some herons by the river’s brink into the air, Cousin Monica said confidentially to me -
 ‘He has run away, I’m told - I wish I could believe it - and enlisted in a regiment going to India, perhaps the best thing for him. Did you see him here before his judicious self-banishment?’
 ‘No.’
 ‘Well, I suppose you have had no loss. Doctor Bryerly 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 to-day; 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 women we don’t like, old Wyat, she is cross and mysterious and tells untruths; but I don’t think she is dishonest - so Mary Quince says - and that, you know, is a point; and there is a family, father and daughter, called Hawkes, 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; some one came late at night, and remained for some days, though Milly and I never saw them, and Mary Quince saw a chaise at 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 Knollys, very gloomily.
 And just then Milly joined us, shouting to us to look at the herons flying; so Cousin Monica did, and smiled and nodded in thanks to Milly, and 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 Milly 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, Maud? 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 Doctor Bryerly talked a little to me, and there seemed to be something on his mind more than he chose to tell me; so that for some time after I saw him I really was, as you say, frightened; but, except that, I really have had no cause. And what was in your mind when you asked me?’
 ‘Well, you know, Maud, you are afraid of ghosts, banditti, and everything; and I wished to know whether you were uncomfortable, and what your particular bogle was just now - that, I assure you, was all; and I know,’ she continued, suddenly changing her light tone and manner for one of pointed entreaty, ‘what Doctor Bryerly said; and I implore of you, Maud, to think of it seriously; and when you come to me, you shall do so with the intention of remaining at Elverston.’
 ‘Now, Cousin Monica, is this fair? You and Doctor Bryerly 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 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 at Knowl used to call him? - a very advanced Christian - that is it, and I hope he is; but if he is only what he used to be, his utter 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 Maud, what a prize you are, and what an immense trust it is.’
 Suddenly Cousin Monica stopped short, and looked at me as if she had gone too far.
 ‘But, you know, Silas may be very good now, although he was wild and selfish in his young days. Indeed I don’t know what to make of him; but I am sure when you have thought it over, you will agree with me and Doctor Bryerly, that you must not stay here.’
 It was vain trying to induce my cousin to be more explicit.
 ‘I hope to see you at Elverston in a very few days. I will shame Silas into letting you come. I don’t like his reluctance.’
 ‘But don’t you think he must know that Milly 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. Bryerly. I had truly said, however, I was well enough contented with my mode of life here, for I had been trained at Knowl to a solitude very nearly as profound.

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Chapter XL: 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 Doctor Clay’s or the Curate’s last sermon, and some severities generally upon the Dissenters’ doings, with loves to Mary Quince, and all good wishes to me. Sometimes a welcome letter from cheerful Cousin Monica; and now, to vary the series, a copy of complimentary verses, without a signature, very adoring - very like Byron, I then fancied, and now, I must confess, rather vapid. Could I doubt from whom they came?
 I had received, about a month after my arrival, a copy of verses in the same hand, in a plaintive ballad style, of the soldierly sort, in which the writer said, that as living his sole object was to please me, so dying I should be his latest thought; and some more poetic impieties, asking only in return that when the storm of battle had swept over, I should ‘shed a tear’ on seeing ‘the oak lie, where it fell.’ Of course, about this lugubrious pun, there could be no misconception. The Captain was unmistakably indicated; and I was so moved that I could no longer retain my secret; but walking with Milly that day, confided the little romance to that unsophisticated listener, under the chestnut trees. The lines were so amorously dejected, and yet so heroically redolent of blood and gunpowder, that Milly 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 allusions; but Milly bethought her of a sergeant in the militia, resident in Feltram, 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 L’Amour, to my uncle’s room. I remember his appearance that evening so well, as he lay back in his chair; the pillow; the white glare of his strange eye; his feeble, painful smile.
 ‘You’ll excuse my not rising, dear Maud, I am so miserably ill this evening.’
 I expressed my respectful condolence.
 ‘Yes; I am to be pitied; but pity is of no use, dear,’ he murmured, peevishly. ‘I 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, at these words rose up a little slowly, like a man stiff after a day’s hunting; and I beheld with a shock that held my breath, and fixed my eyes upon him in a stare, the young man whom I had encountered at Church Scarsdale, on the day of my unpleasant excursion there with Madame, and who, to the best of my belief, was also one of that ruffianly party who had so unspeakably terrified me in the warren at Knowl.
 I suppose I looked very much affrighted. If I had been looking at a ghost I could not have felt much more scared and incredulous.
 When I was able to turn my eyes upon my uncle he was not looking at me; but with a glimmer of that smile with which a father looks on a son whose youth and comeliness he admires, his white face was turned towards the young man, in whom I beheld nothing but the image of odious and dreadful associations.
 ‘Come, sir,’ said my uncle, we must not be too modest. Here’s your cousin Maud - what do you say?’
 ‘How are ye, Miss?’ he said, with a sheepish grin.
 ‘Miss! Come, come. Miss us, no Misses,’ said my uncle; ‘she is Maud, and you Dudley, or I mistake; or we shall have you calling Milly, madame. She’ll not refuse you her hand, I venture to think. Come, young gentleman, speak for yourself.’
 ‘How are ye, Maud?’ he said, doing his best, and drawing near, he extended his hand.’ You’re welcome to Bartram-Haugh, Miss.’
 ‘Kiss your cousin, sir. Where’s your gallantry? On 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 peevishly.
 ‘Well, well, that will do, I suppose. In my time first-cousins did not meet like strangers; but perhaps we were wrong; we are learning modesty from the Americans, and old English ways are too gross for us.’
 ‘I have - I’ve seen him before - that is;’ and at this point I stopped.
 My uncle turned his strange glare, in a sort of scowl of enquiry, upon me.
 ‘Oh! - hey! why this is news. You never told me. Where have you met - eh, Dudley?’
 ‘Never saw her in my days, so far as I’m aweer on,’ said the young man.
 ‘No! Well, then, Maud, will you enlighten us?’ said Uncle Silas, coldly.
 ‘I did see that young gentleman before,’ I faltered.
 ‘Meaning me, ma’am?’ he asked, coolly.
 ‘Yes - certainly you. I did, uncle,’ answered I.
 ‘And where was it, my dear? Not at Knowl, I fancy. Poor dear Austin did 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 Scarsdale, and afterwards with some other persons in the warren at Knowl. 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 hope 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, Maud, at the idea of having seen him before, that I hardly wonder at the vehemence of his denial. There was plainly something disagreeable; but you see as respects him it is a total mistake. My boy was always a truth-telling fellow - you may rely implicitly on what he says. You were not at those places?’
 ‘I wish I may - - ,’ began the ingenuous youth, with increased vehemence.
 ‘There, there - that will do; your honour and word as a gentleman - and that you are, though a poor one - will quite satisfy your cousin Maud. 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 Ruthyn began, not to curse, but to swear, in the prescribed form, that he had never seen me before, or the places I had named, ‘since I was weaned, by - - ‘
 ‘That’s enough - now shake hands, if you won’t kiss, like cousins,’ interrupted my uncle.
 And very uncomfortably I did lend him my hand to shake.
 ‘You’ll want some supper, Dudley, so Maud and I will excuse your going. Good-night, my dear boy,’ and he smiled and waved him from the room.
 ‘That’s as fine a young fellow, I think, as any English father can 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’s rustic and rough, as you see; but a year or two in the militia - I’ve a promise of a commission for him - he’s too old for the line - will form and polish him. He wants nothing but manner; and I protest when he has had a little drilling of that kind, I do believe he’ll be as pretty a fellow as you’d find in England.’
 I listened with amazement. I could discover nothing but what was disagreeable in the horrid bumpkin, and thought such an instance of the blindness of parental partiality was hardly credible.
 I looked down, dreading another direct appeal to my judgment; and Uncle Silas, I suppose, referred those downcast looks to maiden modesty, for he forbore to task mine by any new interrogatory.
 Dudley Ruthyn’s cool and resolute denial of ever having seen me or the places I had named, and the inflexible serenity of his countenance while doing so, did very much shake my confidence in my own identification of him. I could not be quite certain that the person I had seen at Church Scarsdale was the very same whom I afterwards saw at Knowl. 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 Ruthyn?
 I suppose my uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiesence in his splendid estimate of his cub, and was nettled 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 of partiality, that Dudley is the material of a perfect English gentleman. I am not blind, of course - the training must be supplied; a year or two of good models, active self-criticism, and good society. I simply say that the material is there.’
 Here was another interval of silence.
 ‘And now tell me, child, what these recollections of Church - Church - what?’
 ‘Church Scarsdale,’ I replied.
 ‘Yes, thank you - Church Scarsdale and Knowl - are?’
 So I related my stories as well as I could.
 ‘Well, dear Maud, the adventure of Church Scarsdale is hardly so terrific as I expected,’ said Uncle Silas with a cold little laugh; ‘and I don’t see, if he had really been the hero of it, why he should shrink from avowing it. I know I should not. And I really can’t say that your pic-nic party in the grounds of Knowl 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 gamekeepers a natural consequence. It happened to me once - forty years ago, when I was a wild young buck - one of the worst rows I ever was in.’
 And Uncle Silas poured some eau-de-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 an untruth. When you know him a little you’ll say so.’
 With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted, and languidly poured some of his favourite eau-de-cologne over the palms of his hands, nodded a farewell, and, in a whisper, wished me good-night.
 ‘Dudley’s come,’ whispered Milly, taking me under the arm as I entered the lobby. ‘But I don’t care: he never gives me nout; and he gets money from Governor, as much as he likes, and I never a sixpence. It’s a shame!’
 So there was no great love between the only son and only daughter of the younger line of the Ruthyns.
 I was curious to learn all that Milly could tell me of this new inmate of Bartram-Haugh; and Milly 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 pluck to jaw the Governor.’ But he was ‘afeard on the Governor, too.’
 His visits to Bartram-Haugh, I heard, were desultory; and this, to my relief, would probably not outlast a week or a fortnight. ‘He was such a fashionable cove:’ he was always ‘a gadding about, mostly to Liverpool and Birmingham, and sometimes to Lunnun, itself.’ He was ‘keeping company one time with Beauty, Governor thought, and he was awfully afraid he’d a married her; but that was all bosh and nonsense; and Beauty would have none of his chaff and wheedling, for she liked Tom Brice;’ and Milly 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 Feltram Club, that met at the ‘Plume o’ 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 Dudley, he is so handsome and gay - though he be a bit cross at home.’ And, ‘Governor says, he’ll be a Parliament man yet, spite o’ them all.’
 Next morning, when our breakfast was nearly ended, Dudley tapped at the window with the end of his clay pipe - a ‘churchwarden’ Milly called it - just such a long curved pipe as Joe Willet is made to hold between his lips in those charming illustrations of ‘Barnaby Rudge’ - which we all know so well - and lifting his ‘wide-awake’ with a burlesque salutation, which, I suppose, would have charmed the ‘Plume of Feathers,’ he dropped, kicked and caught his ‘wide-awake,’ with an agility and gravity, as he replaced it, so inexpressibly humorous, that Milly 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 by-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 Milly, 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 Milly’s mirth and admiration.