J. S. Le Fanu, Uncle Silas (1864) - Chaps. XLI-XLV

Chapter XLI: My Cousin Dudley
Greatly to my satisfaction, this engaging person did not appear again that day. But next day Milly 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 o’ the room, and glad I was to go; and so they had it out between them.’
 Milly could throw no light whatsoever upon the adventures at Church Scarsdale and Knowl; and I was left still in doubt, which sometimes oscillated one way and sometimes another. But, on the whole, I could not shake off the misgivings which constantly recurred and pointed very obstinately to Dudley as the hero of those odious scenes.
 Oddly enough, though, I now felt far less confident upon the point than I did at first sight. I had begun to distrust my memory, and to suspect my fancy; but of this there could be no question, that between the person so unpleasantly linked in my remembrance with those scenes, and Dudley Ruthyn, a striking, though possibly only a general resemblance did exist.
 Milly was certainly right as to the gist of Uncle Silas’s injunction, for we saw more of Dudley henceforward.
 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 airs 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 Ruthyn’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 mauvaise honte and impudence, a clumsiness, a slyness, 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 Milly and I were at luncheon, jumped up, with a ‘right-about face’ performed in the air, sitting on the sideboard, whence grinning slyly and kicking his heels, he leered at us.
 ‘Will you have something, Dudley?’ asked Milly.
 ‘No, lass; but I’ll look at ye, 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.
 ‘Curate’s up wi’ the Governor,’ he said, with a grin. ‘I wanted a word wi’ him; but I s’pose I’ll hardly git in this hour or more; they’re a praying and disputing, and a Bible-chopping, as usual. Ha, ha! But ‘Twon’t hold much longer, old Wyat says, now that Uncle Austin’s dead; there’s nout to be made o’ praying and that work no longer, and it don’t pay of itself.’
 ‘O fie! For shame, you sinner!’ laughed Milly. ‘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 slyness at me, biting the edge of his wide-awake, which he held over his breast.
 Dudley Ruthyn probably thought there was a manly and desperate sort of fascination in the impiety he professed.
 ‘I wonder, Milly,’ said I, ‘at your laughing. How can you laugh?’
 ‘You’d have me cry, would ye?’ answered Milly.
 ‘I certainly would not have you laugh,’ I replied.
 ‘I know I wish some one ‘ud cry 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 Milly 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 parsons be slow coaches - awful slow. I’ll have a good bit to wait, I s’pose. I should be three miles away and more by this time - drat it!’ He was eyeing the legging of the foot which he held up while he spoke, as if calculating how far away that limb should have carried him by this time. ‘Why can’t folk do their Bible and prayers o’ Sundays, and get it off their stomachs? I say, Milly lass, will ye see if Governor be done wi’ the Curate? Do. I’m a losing the whole day along o’ him.’
 Milly 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 is a hard case, Miss, a lad o’ spirit should be kept so tight. I haven’t a shilling but what comes through his fingers; an’ drat the tizzy he’ll gi’ me till he knows the reason why.’
 ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘my uncle thinks you should earn some for yourself.’
 ‘I’d like to know how a fella’s to earn money now-a-days. You wouldn’t have a gentleman to keep a shop, I fancy. But I’ll ha’ a fistful jist now, and no thanks to he. Them executors, you know, owes me a deal o’ 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.
 ‘An’ I tell ye, Maud, when I git the tin, I know who I’ll buy a farin’ for. I do, lass.’
 The odious creature drawled this with a sidelong leer, which, I suppose, he fancied quite irresistible.
 I am one of those unfortunate persons who always blushed 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 Ruthyn laughed softly, with an insufferable suavity.
 ‘And there’s some’at, lass, I must have in return. Honour thy father, you know; you would not ha’ me disobey the Governor? No, you wouldn’t - would ye?’
 I darted at him a look which I hoped would have quelled his impertinence; but I blushed most provokingly - more violently than ever.
 ‘I’d back them eyes again’ the county, I would,’ he exclaimed, with a condescending enthusiasm. ‘You’re awful pretty, you are, Maud. I don’t know what came over me t’other night when Governor told me to buss ye; but dang it, ye shan’t deny me now, and I’ll have a kiss, lass, in spite o’ thy blushes.’
 He jumped from his elevated seat on the sideboard, and came swaggering toward me, with an odious grin, and his arms extended. I started to my feet, absolutely transported with fury.
 ‘Drat me, if she baint a-going to fight me!’ he chuckled humorously.
 ‘Come, Maud, you would not be ill-natured, sure? Arter 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 Milly.
 ‘There’s how it is wi’ all they cattle! You never knows your own mind - ye don’t,’ he said, surlily. ‘You make such a row about a bit o’ play. Drop it, will you? There’s no one a-harming you - is there? I’m not, for sartain.’
 And, with an angry chuckle, he turned on his heel, and left the room.
 I think I was perfectly right to resist, with all the vehemence of which I was capable, this attempt to assume an intimacy which, notwithstanding my uncle’s opinion to the contrary, seemed to me like an outrage.
 Milly found me alone - not frightened, but very angry. I had quite made up my mind to complain to my uncle, but the Curate was still with him; and, by the time he had gone, I was cooler. My awe of my uncle had returned. I fancied that he would treat the whole affair as a mere playful piece of gallantry. So, with the comfortable conviction that he had had a lesson, and would think twice before repeating his impertinence, I resolved, with Milly’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, Milly thought, would be very soon.
 My uncle had his Bible and his consolations; but it cannot have been pleasant to this old roué, converted though he was - this refined man of fashion - to see his son grow up an outcast, and a Tony Lumpkin; for whatever he may have thought of his natural gifts, he must have known how mere a boor he was.
 I try to recall my then impressions of my uncle’s character. Grizzly 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 hock 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 intervals, suddenly gleam some dismal thought of religion. I never could quite satisfy myself whether they were affectations or genuine, like intermittent thrills of pain.
 The light of his large eyes was very peculiar. I can liken it to nothing but the sheen of intense moonlight on burnished metal. But that cannot express it. It glared white and suddenly - almost fatuous. I thought of Moore’s lines whenever I looked on it: -
 Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live.
 I never saw in any other eye the least glimmer of the same baleful effulgence. His fits, too - his hoverings between life and death - between intellect and insanity - a dubious, marsh-fire existence, horrible to look 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 in sight of his coffin.
 Oh! Uncle Silas, tremendous figure in the past, burning always in memory in the same awful lights; the fixed white face of scorn and anguish! It seems as if the Woman of Endor had led me to that chamber and showed me a spectre.
 Dudley had not left Bartram-Haugh when a little note reached me from Lady Knollys. It said -

 ‘DEAREST MAUD, - I have written by this post to Silas, beseeching a loan of you and my Cousin Milly. I see no reason your uncle can possibly have for refusing me; and, therefore, I count confidently on seeing you both at Elverston to-morrow, to stay for at least a week. I have hardly a creature to meet you. I have been disappointed in several visitors; but another time we shall have a gayer house. Tell Milly - with my love - that I will not forgive her if she fails to accompany you.
 ‘Believe me ever your affectionate cousin,
 ‘MONICA KNOLLYS.’

 Milly and I were both afraid that Uncle Silas would refuse his consent, although we could not divine any sound reason for his doing so, and there were many in favour of his improving the opportunity of allowing poor Milly 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.

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Chapter XLII: Elverston and its People
 So Milly and I drove through the gabled high street of Feltram next day. We saw my gracious cousin smoking with a man like a groom, at the door of the ‘Plume of Feathers.’ I drew myself back as we passed, and Milly popped her head out of the window.
 ‘I’m blessed,’ said she, laughing, ‘if he hadn’t his thumb to his nose, and winding up his little finger, the way he does with old Wyat - L’Amour, ye know; and you may be sure he said something funny, for Jim Jolliter was laughin’, with his pipe in his hand.’
 ‘I wish I had not seen him, Milly. I feel as if it were an ill omen. He always looks so cross; and I dare say he wished us some ill,’ I said.
 ‘No, no, you don’t know Dudley: if he were angry, he’d say nothing that’s funny; no, he’s not vexed, only shamming vexed.’
 The scenery through which we passed was very pretty. The road brought us through a narrow and wooded glen. Such studies of ivied rocks and twisted roots! A little stream tinkled lonely through the hollow. Poor Milly! In her odd way she made herself companionable. I have sometimes fancied an enjoyment of natural scenery not so much a faculty as an acquirement. It is so exquisite in the instructed, so strangely absent in uneducated humanity. But certainly with Milly it was inborn and hearty; and so she could enter into my raptures, and requite them.
 Then over one of those beautiful Derbyshire moors we drove, and so into a wide wooded hollow, where was our first view of Cousin Monica’s pretty gabled house, beautified with that indescribable air of shelter and comfort which belongs to an old English residence, with old timber grouped round it, and something in its aspect of the quaint old times and bygone merrymakings, saying sadly, but genially, ‘Come in: I bid you welcome. For two hundred years, or more, have I been the home of this beloved old family, whose generations I have seen in the cradle and in the coffin, and whose mirth and sorrows and hospitalities I remember. All their friends, like you, were welcome; and you, like them, will here enjoy the warm illusions that cheat the sad conditions of mortality; and like them you will go your way, and others succeed you, till at last I, too, shall yield to the general law of decay, and disappear.’
 By this time poor Milly had grown very nervous; a state which she described in such very odd phraseology as threw me, in spite of myself - for I affected an impressive gravity in lecturing her upon her language - into a hearty fit of laughter.
 I must mention, however, that in certain important points Milly was very essentially reformed. Her dress, though not very fashionable, was no longer absurd. And I had drilled her into speaking and laughing quietly; and for the rest I trusted to the indulgence which is always, I think, more honestly and easily obtained from well-bred than from under-bred people.
 Cousin Monica was out when we arrived; but we found that she had arranged a double-bedded room for me and Milly, greatly to our content; and good Mary Quince was placed in the dressing-room beside us.
 We had only just commenced our toilet when our hostess entered, as usual in high spirits, welcomed and kissed us both again and again. She was, indeed, in extraordinary delight, for she had anticipated some stratagem or evasion to prevent our visit; and in her usual way she spoke her mind as frankly about Uncle Silas to poor Milly as she used to do of my dear father to me.
 ‘I did not think he would let you come without a battle; and you know if he chose to be obstinate it would not have been easy to get you out of the enchanted ground, for so it seems to be with that awful old wizard in the midst of it. I mean, Silas, your papa, my dear. Honestly, is not he very like Michael Scott?’
 ‘I never saw him,’ answered poor Milly. ‘At least, that I’m aware of,’ she added, perceiving us smile. ‘But I do think he’s a thought like old Michael Dobbs, that sells the ferrets, maybe you mean him?’
 ‘Why, you told me, Maud, that you and Milly were reading Walter Scott’s poems. Well, no matter. Michael Scott, my dear, was a dead wizard, with ever so much silvery hair, lying in his grave for ever so many years, with just life enough to scowl when they took his book; and you’ll find him in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, exactly like your papa, my dear. And my people tell me that your brother Dudley has been seen drinking and smoking about Feltram this week. How long does he remain at home? Not very long, eh? And, Maud, dear, he has not been making love to you? Well, I see; of course he has. And apropos of love-making, I hope that impudent creature, Charles Oakley, has not been teasing you with notes or verses.’
 ‘Indeed but he has though,’ interposed Miss Milly; a good deal to my chagrin, for I saw no particular reason for placing his verses in Cousin Monica’s hands. So I confessed the two little copies of verses, with the qualification, however, that I did not know from whom they came.
 ‘Well now, dear Maud, have not I told you fifty times over to have nothing to say to him? I’ve found out, my dear, he plays, and he is very much in debt. I’ve made a vow to pay no more for him. I’ve been such a fool, you have no notion; and I’m speaking, you know, against myself; it would be such a relief if he were to find a wife to support him; and he has been, I’m told, very sweet upon a rich old maid - a button-maker’s sister, in Manchester.’
 This arrow was well shot.
 ‘But don’t be frightened: you are richer as well as younger; and, no doubt, will have your chance first, my dear; and in the meantime, I dare say, those verses, like Falstaff’s billet-doux, you know, are doing double duty.’
 I laughed, but the button-maker was a secret trouble to me; and I would have given I know not what that Captain Oakley were one of the company, that I might treat him with the refined contempt which his deserts and my dignity demanded.
 Cousin Monica busied herself about Milly’s toilet, and was a very useful lady’s maid, chatting in her own way all the time; and, at last, tapping Milly under the chin with her finger, she said, very complacently -
 ‘I think I have succeeded, Miss Milly; look in the glass. She really is a very pretty creature.’
 And Milly blushed, and looked with a shy gratification, which made her still prettier, on the mirror.
 Milly indeed was very pretty. She looked much taller now that her dresses were made of the usual length. A little plump she was, beautifully fair, with such azure eyes, and rich hair.
 ‘The more you laugh the better, Milly, for you’ve got very pretty teeth - very pretty; and if you were my daughter, or if your father would become president of a college of magicians, and give you up to me, I venture to say I would place you very well; and even as it is we must try, my dear.’
 So down to the drawing-room we went; and Cousin Monica entered, leading us both by the hands.
 By this time the curtains were closed, and the drawing-room dependent on the pleasant glow of the fire, and the slight provisional illumination usual before dinner.
 ‘Here are my two cousins,’ began Lady Knollys: ‘this is Miss Ruthyn, of Knowl, whom I take the liberty of calling Maud; and this is Miss Millicent Ruthyn, Silas’s daughter, you know, whom I venture to call Milly; and they are very pretty, as you will see, when we get a little more light, and they know it very well themselves.’
 And as she spoke, a frank-eyed, gentle, prettyish lady, not so tall as I, but with a very kind face, rose up from a book of prints, and, smiling, took our hands.
 She was by no means young, as I then counted youth - past thirty, I suppose - and with an air that was very quiet, and friendly, and engaging. She had never been a mere fashionable woman plainly; but she had the ease and polish of the best society, and seemed to take a kindly interest both in Milly and me; and Cousin Monica called her Mary, and sometimes Polly. That was all I knew of her for the present.
 So very pleasantly the time passed by till the dressing-bell rang, and we ran away to our room.
 ‘Did I say anything very bad?’ asked poor Milly, standing exactly before me, so soon as our door was shut.
 ‘Nothing, Milly; you are doing admirably.’
 ‘And I do look a great fool, don’t I?’ she demanded.
 ‘You look extremely pretty, Milly; and not a bit like a fool.’
 ‘I watch everything. I think I’ll learn it at last; but it comes a little troublesome at first; and they do talk different from what I used - you were quite right there.’
 When we returned to the drawing-room, we found the party already assembled, and chatting, evidently with spirit.
 The village doctor, whose name I forget, a small man, grey, with shrewd grey eyes, sharp and mulberry nose, whose conflagration extended to his rugged cheeks, and touched his chin and forehead, was conversing, no doubt agreeably, with Mary, as Cousin Monica called her guest.
 Over my shoulder, Milly whispered -
 ‘Mr. Carysbroke.’
 And Milly was quite right: that gentleman chatting with Lady Knollys, his elbow resting on the chimney-piece, was, indeed, our acquaintance of the Windmill Wood. He instantly recognised us, and met us with his pleased and intelligent smile.
 ‘I was just trying to describe to Lady Knollys the charming scenery of the Windmill Wood, among which I was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance, Miss Ruthyn. Even in this beautiful county I know of nothing prettier.’
 Then he sketched it, as it were, with a few light but glowing words.
 ‘What a sweet scene!’ said Cousin Monica: ‘only think of her never bringing me through it. She reserves it, I fancy, for her romantic adventures; and you, I know, are very benevolent, Ilbury, and all that kind of thing; but I am not quite certain that you would have walked along that narrow parapet, over a river, to visit a sick old woman, if you had not happened to see two very pretty demoiselles on the other side.’
 ‘What an ill-natured speech! I must either forfeit my character for disinterested benevolence, so justly admired, or disavow a motive that does such infinite credit to my taste,’ exclaimed Mr. Carysbroke. ‘I think a charitable person would have said that a philanthropist, in prosecuting his virtuous, but perilous vocation, was unexpectedly rewarded by a vision of angels.’
 ‘And with these angels loitered away the time which ought to have been devoted to good Mother Hubbard, in her fit of lumbago, and returned without having set eyes on that afflicted Christian, to amaze his worthy sister with poetic babblings about wood-nymphs and such pagan impieties,’ rejoined Lady Knollys.
 ‘Well, be just,’ he replied, laughing; ‘did not I go next day and see the patient?’
 ‘Yes; next day you went by the same route - in quest of the dryads, I am afraid - and were rewarded by the spectacle of Mother Hubbard.’
 ‘Will nobody help a humane man in difficulties?’ Mr. Carysbroke appealed.
 ‘I do believe,’ said the lady whom as yet I knew only as Mary, ‘that every word that Monica says is perfectly true.’
 ‘And if it be so, am I not all the more in need of help? Truth is simply the most dangerous kind of defamation, and I really think I’m most cruelly persecuted.’
 At this moment dinner was announced, and a meek and dapper little clergyman, with smooth pink cheeks, and tresses parted down the middle, whom I had not seen before, emerged from shadow.
 This little man was assigned to Milly, Mr. Carysbroke to me, and I know not how the remaining ladies divided the doctor between them.
 That dinner, the first at Elverston, I remember as a very pleasant repast. Everyone talked - it was impossible that conversation should flag where Lady Knollys was; and Mr. Carysbroke was very agreeable and amusing. At the other side of the table, the little pink curate, I was happy to see, was prattling away, with a modest fluency, in an under-tone to Milly, who was following my instructions most conscientiously, and speaking in so low a key that I could hardly hear at the opposite side one word she was saying.
 That night Cousin Monica paid us a visit, as we sat chatting by the fire in our room; and I told her -
 ‘I have just been telling Milly what an impression she has made. The pretty little clergyman - il en est épris - he has evidently quite lost his heart to her. I dare say he’ll preach next Sunday on some of King Solomon’s wise sayings about the irresistible strength of women.’
 ‘Yes,’ said Lady Knollys,’ or maybe on the sensible text, Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour, and so forth. At all events, I may say, Milly, whoso findeth a husband such as he, findeth a tolerably good thing. He is an exemplary little creature, second son of Sir Harry Biddlepen, with a little independent income of his own, beside his church revenues of ninety pounds a year; and I don’t think a more harmless and docile little husband could be found anywhere; and I think, Miss Maud, you seemed a good deal interested, too.’
 I laughed and blushed, I suppose; and Cousin Monica, skipping after her wont to quite another matter, said in her odd frank way -
 ‘And how has Silas been? - not cross, I hope, or very odd. There was a rumour that your brother, Dudley, had gone a soldiering to India, Milly, or somewhere; but that was all a story, for he has turned up, just as usual. And what does he mean to do with himself? He has got some money now - your poor father’s will, Maud. Surely he doesn’t mean to go on lounging and smoking away his life among poachers, and prize-fighters, and worse people. He ought to go to Australia, like Thomas Swain, who, they say, is making a fortune - a great fortune - and coming home again. That’s what your brother Dudley should do, if he has either sense or spirit; but I suppose he won’t - too long abandoned to idleness and low company - and he’ll not have a shilling left in a year or two. Does he know, I wonder, that his father has served a notice or something on Dr. Bryerly, telling him to pay sixteen hundred pounds of poor Austin’s legacy to him, and saying that he has paid debts of the young man, and holds his acknowledgments to that amount? He won’t have a guinea in a year if he stays here. I’d give fifty pounds he was in Van Diemen’s Land - not that I care for the cub, Milly, any more than you do; but I really don’t see any honest business he has in England.’
 Milly gaped in a total puzzle as Lady Knollys rattled on.
 ‘You know, Milly, you must not be talking about this when you go home to Bartram, because Silas would prevent your coming to me any more if he thought I spoke so freely; but I can’t help it: so you must promise to be more discreet than I. And I am told that all kinds of claims are about to be pressed against him, now that he is thought to have got some money; and he has been cutting down oak and selling the bark, Doctor Bryerly has been told, in that Windmill Wood; and he has kilns there for burning charcoal, and got a man from Lancashire who understands it - Hawk, or something like that.’
 ‘Ay, Hawkes - Dickon Hawkes; that’s Pegtop, you know, Maud,’ said Milly.
 ‘Well, I dare say; but a man of very bad character, Dr. Bryerly says; and he has written to Mr. Danvers about it - for that is what they call waste, cutting down and selling the timber, and the oakbark, and burning the willows, and other trees that are turned into charcoal. It is all waste, and Dr. Bryerly is about to put a stop to it.’
 ‘Has he got your carriage for you, Maud, and your horses?’ asked Cousin Monica, suddenly.
 ‘They have not come yet, but in a few weeks, Dudley says, positively - ‘
 Cousin Monica laughed a little and shook her head.
 ‘Yes, Maud, the carriage and horses will always be coming in a few weeks, till the time is over; and meanwhile the old travelling chariot and post-horses will do very well;’ and she laughed a little again.
 ‘That’s why the stile’s pulled away at the paling, I suppose; and Beauty - Meg Hawkes, that is - is put there to stop us going through; for I often spied the smoke beyond the windmill,’ observed Milly.
 Cousin Monica listened with interest, and nodded silently.
 I was very much shocked. It seemed to me quite incredible. I think Lady Knollys read my amazement and my exalted estimate of the heinousness of the procedure in my face, for she said -
 ‘You know we can’t quite condemn Silas till we have heard what he has to say. He may have done it in ignorance; or, it is just possible, he may have the right.’
 ‘Quite true. He may have the right to cut down trees at Bartram-Haugh. At all events, I am sure he thinks he has,’ I echoed.
 The fact was, that I would not avow to myself a suspicion of Uncle Silas. Any falsehood there opened an abyss beneath my feet into which I dared not look.
 ‘And now, dear girls, good-night. You must be tired. We breakfast at a quarter past nine - not too early for you, I know.’
 And so saying, she kissed us, smiling, and was gone.
 I was so unpleasantly occupied, for some time after her departure, with the knaveries said to be practised among the dense cover of the Windmill Wood, that I did not immediately recollect that we had omitted to ask her any particulars about her guests.
 ‘Who can Mary be?’ asked Milly.
 ‘Cousin Monica says she’s engaged to be married, and I think I heard the Doctor call her Lady Mary, and I intended asking her ever so much about her; but what she told us about cutting down the trees, and all that, quite put it out of my head. We shall have time enough to-morrow, however, to ask questions. I like her very much, I know.’
 ‘And I think,’ said Milly, ‘it is to Mr. Carysbroke she’s to be married.’
 ‘Do you?’ said I, remembering that he had sat beside her for more than a quarter of an hour after tea in very close and low-toned conversation; ‘and have you any particular reason?’ I asked.
 ‘Well, I heard her once or twice call him dear, and she called him his Christian name, just like Lady Knollys did - Ilbury, I think - and I saw him gi’ her a sly kiss as she was going up-stairs.’
 I laughed.
 ‘Well, Milly,’ I said, ‘I remarked something myself, I thought, like confidential relations; but if you really saw them kiss on the staircase, the question is pretty well settled.’
 ‘Ay, lass.’
 ‘You’re not to say lass.’
 ‘Well, Maud, then. I did see them with the corner of my eye, and my back turned, when they did not think I could spy anything, as plain as I see you now.’
 I laughed again; but I felt an odd pang - something of mortification - something of regret; but I smiled very gaily, as I stood before the glass, un-making my toilet preparatory to bed.
 ‘Maud - Maud - fickle Maud! - What, Captain Oakley already superseded! and Mr. Carysbroke - oh! humiliation - engaged.’ So I smiled on, very much vexed; and being afraid lest I had listened with too apparent an interest to this impostor, I sang a verse of a gay little chanson, and tried to think of Captain Oakley, who somehow had become rather silly.

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Chapter XLIII: News at Bartram Gate
 Milly and I, thanks to our early Bartram hours, were first down next morning; and so soon as Cousin Monica appeared we attacked her.
 ‘So Lady Mary is the fiancée of Mr. Carysbroke,’ said I, very cleverly; ‘and I think it was very wicked of you to try and involve me in a flirtation with him yesterday.’
 ‘And who told you that, pray?’ asked Lady Knollys, with a pleasant little laugh.
 ‘Milly and I discovered it, simple as we stand here,’ I answered.
 ‘But you did not flirt with Mr. Carysbroke, Maud, did you?’ she asked.
 ‘No, certainly not; but that was not your doing, wicked woman, but my discretion. And now that we know your secret, you must tell us all about her, and all about him; and in the first place, what is her name - Lady Mary what?’ I demanded.
 ‘Who would have thought you so cunning? Two country misses - two little nuns from the cloisters of Bartram! Well, I suppose I must answer. It is vain trying to hide anything from you; but how on earth did you find it out?’
 ‘We’ll tell you that presently, but you shall first tell us who she is,’ I persisted.
 ‘Well, that I will, of course, without compulsion. She is Lady Mary Carysbroke,’ said Lady Knollys.
 ‘A relation of Mr. Carysbroke’s,’ I asserted.
 ‘Yes, a relation; but who told you he was Mr. Carysbroke?’ asked Cousin Monica.
 ‘Milly told me, when we saw him in the Windmill Wood.’
 ‘And who told you, Milly?’
 ‘It was L’Amour,’ answered Milly, with her blue eyes very wide open.
 ‘What does the child mean? L’Amour! You don’t mean love?’ exclaimed Lady Knollys, puzzled in her turn.
 ‘I mean old Wyat; she told me and the Governor.’
 ‘You’re not to say that,’ I interposed.
 ‘You mean your father?’ suggested Lady Knollys.
 ‘Well, yes; father told her, and so I knew him.’
 ‘What could he mean?’ exclaimed Lady Knollys, laughing, as it were, in soliloquy; ‘and I did not mention his name, I recollect now. He recognised you, and you him, when you came into the room yesterday; and now you must tell me how you discovered that he and Lady Mary were to be married.’
 So Milly restated her evidence, and Lady Knollys laughed unaccountably heartily; and she said -
 ‘They will be so confounded! but they deserve it; and, remember, I did not say so.’
 ‘Oh! we acquit you.’
 ‘All I say is, such a deceitful, dangerous pair of girls - all things considered - I never heard of before,’ exclaimed Lady Knollys. ‘There’s no such thing as conspiring in your presence.’
 ‘Good morning. I hope you slept well.’ She was addressing the lady and gentleman who were just entering the room from the conservatory. ‘You’ll hardly sleep so well to-night, when you have learned what eyes are upon you. Here are two very pretty detectives who have found out your secret, and entirely by your imprudence and their own cleverness have discovered that you are a pair of betrothed lovers, about to ratify your vows at the hymeneal altar. I assure you I did not tell of you; you betrayed yourselves. If you will talk in that confidential way on sofas, and call one another stealthily by your Christian names, and actually kiss at the foot of the stairs, while a clever detective is scaling them, apparently with her back toward you, you must only take the consequences, and be known prematurely as the hero and heroine of the forthcoming paragraph in the Morning Post.’
 Milly and I were horribly confounded, but Cousin Monica was resolved to place us all upon the least formal terms possible, and I believe she had set about it in the right way.
 ‘And now, girls, I am going to make a counter-discovery, which, I fear, a little conflicts with yours. This Mr. Carysbroke is Lord Ilbury, brother of this Lady Mary; and it is all my fault for not having done my honours better; but you see what clever match-making little creatures they are.’
 ‘You can’t think how flattered I am at being made the subject of a theory, even a mistaken one, by Miss Ruthyn.’
 And so, after our modest fit was over, Milly and I were very merry, like the rest, and we all grew a great deal more intimate that morning.
 I think altogether those were the pleasantest and happiest days of my life: gay, intelligent, and kindly society at home; charming excursions - sometimes riding - sometimes by carriage - to distant points of beauty in the county. Evenings varied with music, reading, and spirited conversation. Now and then a visitor for a day or two, and constantly some neighbour from the town, or its dependencies, dropt in. Of these I but remember tall old Miss Wintletop, most entertaining of rustic old maids, with her nice lace and thick satin, and her small, kindly round face - pretty, I dare say, in other days, and now frosty, but kindly - who told us such delightful old stories of the county in her father’s and grandfather’s time; who knew the lineage of every family in it, and could recount all its duels and elopements; give us illustrative snatches from old election squibs, and lines from epitaphs, and tell exactly where all the old-world highway robberies had been committed: how it fared with the chief delinquents after the assizes; and, above all, where, and of what sort, the goblins and elves of the county had made themselves seen, from the phantom post-boy, who every third night crossed Windale Moor, by the old coach-road, to the fat old ghost, in mulberry velvet, who showed his great face, crutch, and ruffles, by moonlight, at the bow window of the old court-house that was taken down in 1803.
 You cannot imagine what agreeable evenings we passed in this society, or how rapidly my good Cousin Milly improved in it. I remember well the intense suspense in which she and I awaited the answer from Bartram-Haugh to kind Cousin Monica’s application for an extension of our leave of absence.
 It came, and with it a note from Uncle Silas, which was curious, and, therefore, is printed here: -
 ‘MY DEAR LADY KNOLLYS, - To your kind letter I say yes (that is, for another week, not a fortnight), with all my heart. I am glad to hear that my starlings chatter so pleasantly; at all events the refrain is not that of Sterne’s. They can get out; and do get out; and shall get out as much as they please. I am no gaoler, and shut up nobody but myself. I have always thought that young people have too little liberty. My principle has been to make little free men and women of them from the first. In morals, altogether - in intellect, more than we allow - self-education is that which abides; and it only begins where constraint ends. Such is my theory. My practice is consistent. Let them remain for a week longer, as you say. The horses shall be at Elverston on Tuesday, the 7th. I shall be more than usually sad and solitary till their return; so pray, I selfishly entreat, do not extend their absence. You will smile, remembering how little my health will allow me to see of them, even when at home; but as Chaulieu so prettily says - I stupidly forget the words, but the sentiment is this - although concealed by a sylvan wall of leaves, impenetrable - (he is pursuing his favourite nymphs through the alleys and intricacies of a rustic labyrinth) - yet, your songs, your prattle, and your laughter, faint and far away, inspire my fancy; and, through my ears, I see your unseen smiles, your blushes, your floating tresses, and your ivory feet; and so, though sad, am happy; though alone, in company; - and such is my case.

 ‘One only request, and I have done. Pray remind them of a promise made to me. The Book of Life - the fountain of life - it must be drunk of, night and morning, or their spiritual life expires.
 ‘And now, Heaven bless and keep you, my dear cousin; and with all assurances of affection to my beloved niece and my child, believe me ever yours affectionately.
                                                                                               ‘SILAS RUTHYN.’

 Said Cousin Monica, with a waggish smile -
 ‘And so, girls, you have Chaulieu and the evangelists; the French rhymester in his alley, and Silas in the valley of the shadow of death; perfect liberty, and a peremptory order to return in a week; - all illustrating one another. Poor Silas! old as he is, I don’t think his religion fits him.’
  I really rather liked his letter. I was struggling hard to think well of him, and Cousin Monica knew it; and I really think if I had not been by, she would often have been less severe on him.
 As we were all sitting pleasantly about the breakfast table a day or two after, the sun shining on the pleasant wintry landscape, Cousin Monica suddenly exclaimed -
 ‘I quite forgot to tell you that Charles Oakley has written to say he is coming on Wednesday. I really don’t want him. Poor Charlie! I wonder how they manage those doctors’ certificates. I know nothing ails him, and he’d be much better with his regiment.’
 Wednesday! - how odd. Exactly the day after my departure. I tried to look perfectly unconcerned. Lady Knollys had addressed herself more to Lady Mary and Milly than to me, and nobody in particular was looking at me. Notwithstanding, with my usual perversity, I felt myself blushing with a brilliancy that may have been very becoming, but which was so intolerably provoking that I would have risen and left the room but that matters would have been so infinitely worse. I could have boxed my odious ears. I could almost have jumped from the window.
 I felt that Lord Ilbury saw it. I saw Lady Mary’s eyes for a moment resting gravely on my tell-tale - my lying cheeks - for I really had begun to think much less celestially of Captain Oakley. I was angry with Cousin Monica, who, knowing my blushing infirmity, had mentioned her nephew so suddenly while I was strapped by etiquette in my chair, with my face to the window, and two pair of most disconcerting eyes, at least, opposite. I was angry with myself - generally angry - refused more tea rather dryly, and was laconic to Lord Ilbury, all which, of course, was very cross and foolish; and afterwards, from my bed-room window, I saw Cousin Monica and Lady Mary among the flowers, under the drawing-room window, talking, as I instinctively knew, of that little incident. I was standing at the glass.
 ‘My odious, stupid, perjured face’ I whispered, furiously, at the same time stamping on the floor, and giving myself quite a smart slap on the cheek. ‘I can’t go down - I’m ready to cry - I’ve a mind to return to Bartram to-day; I am always blushing; and I wish that impudent Captain Oakley was at the bottom of the sea.’
 I was, perhaps, thinking more of Lord Ilbury than I was aware; and I am sure if Captain Oakley had arrived that day, I should have treated him with most unjustifiable rudeness.
 Notwithstanding this unfortunate blush, the remainder of our visit passed very happily for me. No one who has not experienced it can have an idea how intimate a small party, such as ours, will grow in a short time in a country house.
 Of course, a young lady of a well-regulated mind cannot possibly care a pin about any one of the opposite sex until she is well assured that he is beginning, at least, to like her better than all the world beside; but I could not deny to myself that I was rather anxious to know more about Lord Ilbury than I actually did know.
 There was a ‘Peerage,’ in its bright scarlet and gold uniform, corpulent and tempting, upon the little marble table in the drawing-room. I had many opportunities of consulting it, but I never could find courage to do so.
 For an inexperienced person it would have been a matter of several minutes, and during those minutes what awful risk of surprise and detection. One day, all being quiet, I did venture, and actually, with a beating heart, got so far as to find out the letter ‘Il,’ when I heard a step outside the door, which opened a little bit, and I heard Lady Knollys, luckily arrested at the entrance, talk some sentences outside, her hand still upon the door-handle. I shut the book, as Mrs. Bluebeard might the door of the chamber of horrors at the sound of her husband’s step, and skipped to a remote part of the room, where Cousin Knollys found me in a mysterious state of agitation.
 On any other subject I would have questioned Cousin Monica unhesitatingly; upon this, somehow, I was dumb. I distrusted myself, and dreaded my odious habit of blushing, and knew that I should look so horribly guilty, and become so agitated and odd, that she would have reasonably concluded that I had quite lost my heart to him.
 After the lesson I had received, and my narrow escape of detection in the very act, you may be sure I never trusted myself in the vicinity of that fat and cruel ‘Peerage,’ which possessed the secret, but would not disclose without compromising me.
 In this state of tantalizing darkness and conjecture I should have departed, had not Cousin Monica quite spontaneously relieved me.
 The night before our departure she sat with us in our room, chatting a little farewell gossip.
 ‘And what do you think of Ilbury?’ she asked.
 ‘I think him clever and accomplished, and amusing; but he sometimes appears to me very melancholy - that is, for a few minutes together - and then, I fancy, with an effort, re-engages in our conversation.’
 ‘Yes, poor Ilbury! He lost his brother only about five months since, and is only beginning to recover his spirits a little. They were very much attached, and people thought that he would have succeeded to the title, had he lived, because Ilbury is difficile - or a philosopher - or a Saint Kevin; and, in fact, has begun to be treated as a premature old bachelor.’
 ‘What a charming person his sister, Lady Mary, is. She has made me promise to write to her,’ I said, I suppose - such hypocrites are we - to prove to Cousin Knollys that I did not care particularly to hear anything more about him.
 ‘Yes, and so devoted to him. He came down here, and took The Grange, for change of scene and solitude - of all things the worst for a man in grief - a morbid whim, as he is beginning to find out; for he is very glad to stay here, and confesses that he is much better since he came. His letters are still addressed to him as Mr. Carysbroke; for he fancied if his rank were known, that the county people would have been calling upon him, and so he would have found himself soon involved in a tiresome round of dinners, and must have gone somewhere else. You saw him, Milly, at Bartram, before Maud came?’
 Yes, she had, when he called there to see her father.
 ‘He thought, as he had accepted the trusteeship, that he could hardly, residing so near, omit to visit Silas. He was very much struck and interested by him, and he has a better opinion of him - you are not angry, Milly - than some ill-natured people I could name; and he says that the cutting down of the trees will turn out to have been a mere slip. But these slips don’t occur with clever men in other things; and some persons have a way of always making them in their own favour. And, to talk of other things, I suspect that you and Milly will probably see Ilbury at Bartram; for I think he likes you very much.’
  You; did she mean both, or only me?
 So our pleasant visit was over. Milly’s good little curate had been much thrown in her way by our deep and dangerous cousin Monica. He was most laudably steady; and his flirtation advanced upon the field of theology, where, happily, Milly’s little reading had been concentrated. A mild and earnest interest in poor, pretty Milly’s orthodoxy was the leading feature of his case; and I was highly amused at her references to me, when we had retired at night, upon the points which she had disputed with him, and her anxious reports of their low-toned conferences, carried on upon a sequestered ottoman, where he patted and stroked his crossed leg, as he smiled tenderly and shook his head at her questionable doctrine. Milly’s reverence for her instructor, and his admiration, grew daily; and he was known among us as Milly’s confessor.
 He took luncheon with us on the day of our departure, and with an adroit privacy, which in a layman would have been sly, presented her, in right of his holy calling, with a little book, the binding of which was mediaeval and costly, and whose letter-press dealt in a way which he commended, with some points on which she was not satisfactory; and she found on the fly-leaf this little inscription: - ‘Presented to Miss Millicent Ruthyn by an earnest well-wisher, 1st December 1844.’ A text, very neatly penned, followed this; and the ‘presentation’ was made unctiously indeed, but with a blush, as well as the accustomed smile, and with eyes that were lowered.
 The early crimson sun of December had gone down behind the hills before we took our seats in the carriage.
 Lord Ilbury leaned with his elbow on the carriage window, looking in, and he said to me -
 ‘I really don’t know what we shall do, Miss Ruthyn; we shall all feel so lonely. For myself, I think I shall run away to Grange.’
 This appeared to me as nearly perfect eloquence as human lips could utter.
 His hand still rested on the window, and the Rev. Sprigge Biddlepen was standing with a saddened smirk on the door steps, when the whip smacked, the horses scrambled into motion, and away we rolled down the avenue, leaving behind us the pleasantest house and hostess in the world, and trotting fleetly into darkness towards Bartram-Haugh.
 We were both rather silent. Milly had her book in her lap, and I saw her every now and then try to read her ‘earnest well-wisher’s’ little inscription, but there was not light to read by.
 When we reached the great gate of Bartram-Haugh it was dark. Old Crowl, who kept the gate, I heard enjoining the postilion to make no avoidable noise at the hall-door, for the odd but startling reason that he believed my uncle ‘would be dead by this time.’
 Very much shocked and frightened, we stopped the carriage, and questioned the tremulous old porter.
 Uncle Silas, it seemed, had been ‘silly-ish’ all yesterday, and ‘could not be woke this morning,’ and ‘the doctor had been here twice, being now in the house.’
 ‘Is he better?’ I asked, tremblingly.
 ‘Not as I’m aweer on, Miss; he lay at God’s mercy two hours agone; ‘appen he’s in heaven be this time.’
 ‘Drive on - drive fast,’ I said to the driver. ‘Don’t be frightened, Milly; please Heaven we shall find all going well.’
 After some delay, during which my heart sank, and I quite gave up Uncle Silas, the aged little servant-man opened the door, and trotted shakily down the steps to the carriage side.
 Uncle Silas had been at death’s door for hours; the question of life had trembled in the scale; but now the doctor said ‘he might do.’
 ‘Where was the doctor?’
 ‘In master’s room; he blooded him three hours agone.’
 I don’t think that Milly was so frightened as I. My heart beat, and I was trembling so that I could hardly get upstairs.