CHAPTER 42 ALVERSTON AND ITS PEOPLE So Millie and I drove through the gabled high street to Feltrum next day. We saw my gracious cousin smoking with the man like a groom at the door of the plume of feathers. I drew myself back as we passed, and Millie popped her head out of the window. "'I'm blessed,' she said, laughing, if he had his thumb up to his nose and winding up his little finger the way he does with old Wyatt, the more you know. And you may be sure he said something funny, for Jim Jolliter was laughing with his pipe in his hand. I wish I had not seen him, Millie. 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 sham and vexed.' The scenery through which we passed was very pretty. The road brought us through a narrow wooden glen. Such studies of ivied rocks and twisted roots. A little stream tinkled lonely through the hollow. Poor Millie. In her odd way she made herself companionable. I have sometimes fancied an enjoyment of natural scenery, not so much as faculty as acquirement. It is so exquisite in the instructed, so strangely absent in uneducated humanity. But certainly with Millie it was inborn and hardy. And so she could enter into my raptures and requite them. Then over one of those beautiful Darbyshire 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. Both old timber grouped round it, and something in its aspect of the quaint old times and bygone merry-makings, 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 Millie 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 Millie 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 more easily obtained from wellbred than from underbred people. Cousin Monica was out when we arrived, but we found that she had arranged a double bedded room for me and Millie, greatly to our content, and Good Mary Quince was placed in the dressing room beside us. We had only just commenced our toilette 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 Millie, 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 Millie, at least that I'm aware of, she added, perceiving a smile. But I do think he's a thought like old Michael Dobbs that tells the ferrets, maybe you mean him. Why, you told me, Maude, that you and Millie 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 Feltrum this week. How long does he remain at home? Not very long, eh? And Maude, 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 Millie, 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 qualifications, however, that I did not know from whom they came. Well, now, dear Maude, have not I told you fifty times over to have nothing to say to him. I found out, my dear, he plays, and is very much in debt. I made a vow to pay no more for him.  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 Maude, a button-maker, sister, and 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 Bill ado, 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 dessert and my dignity demanded. Cousin Monica busied herself about Millie's toilette, and was a very useful lady's maid, chatting in her own way all the time, and at last, tapping Millie under the chin with her finger, she said very complacently, I think I have succeeded, Miss Millie. Look in the glass. She really is a very pretty creature. And Millie blushed, and looked with a shy gratification which made her prettier still on the mirror. Millie 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 as your eyes and rich hair. The more you laugh, the better, Millie, 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 Nollis. This is Miss Rithon of Knoll, whom I take the liberty of calling Maude. And this is Miss Millicent Rithon, Silas's daughter, you know, whom I venture to call Millie, 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, prettiest 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 in both Millie 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 Millie, standing exactly before me so soon as their door was shut. Nothing, Millie, you are doing admirably. And I do look a great fool, don't I? she demanded.  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 gray with shrewd gray eyes, sharp and mulberry nose, whose conflagrations 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 Millie whispered, Mr. Carriesbrook. And Millie was quite right. That gentleman chatting with Lady Naulis, his elbow resting on the chimney-piece, was indeed our acquaintance of the Windmill Wood. He instantly recognized us and met us with his pleased and intelligent smile. I was just trying to describe to Lady Naulis the charming scenery of the Windmill Wood, among which I was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance, Miss Rithon. Even in this beautiful county, I know of nothing prettier. Then he sketched it, as it were, with a few light but glowing words.  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, ill-bury, 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. Carey's brook. 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 babelings about woodnips and such pagan impiates, rejoined Lady Nullis. Well, be just, he replied, laughing. Did not I go the 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. Carey's brook 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 most cruelly prosecuted. 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 Millie, Mr. Carey's brook, to me, and I know not how the remaining ladies divided the doctor between them. And dinner, the first at Elverston, I remember as a very pleasant repast. Everyone talked, it was impossible that conversation should flag where Lady Nullis was, and Mr. Carey's brook 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 undertone to Millie, 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 Millie what an impression she has made. The pretty little clergyman, Elinester Prey, he has evidently quite lost his heart to her. I daresay he'll preach next Sunday on some of King Solomon's wise sayings about the irresistible strength of women. Yes, said Lady Nullis. Or maybe on the sensible text, who so findeth a wife, findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor, and so forth? At all events, I may say Millie, who so findeth a husband such as he, findeth a tolerably good thing?  And I don't think a more harmless and docile little husband could be found anywhere. And I think, Miss Maud, you seem a good deal interested, too. I laughed and blushed, I suppose. And Cousin Monica, skipping after her won't 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 has gone a soldiering to India, Millie, or somewhere.  And what does he mean to do with himself? Has he got some money now, your poor father's will, Maud? Surely he doesn't mean to go on lounging and smoking his life away 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. Briarley, telling him to pay sixteen hundred pounds of poor Austen's legacy to him, and saying that he has paid debts of the young man and holds his acknowledgements to that amount. He won't have a guinea in a year if he stays. I'll give fifty pounds he was in Van Demon's land. Not that I care for the cub, Millie, any more than you do, but I really don't see any honest business he has in England. Millie gaped in total puzzlement as Lady Nullis rattled on. You know, Millie, 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, Dr. Brierly has been told, in that windmill wood. And he has kilns there for burning charcoal, and got a man from Lancashire who understands it. Hock? Something like that. I, Hockese, dicken Hockese, that's pegtop, you know, mod, said Millie. Well, I daresay, but a man of very bad character, Dr. Brierly, 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 oak bark, and burning the willows and the other trees that are turned into charcoal. It's all a waste, and Dr. Brierly is about to put a stop to it. Has he got your carriage for you, mod, and your horses? asked Cousin Monica suddenly. They have not come yet, but in a few weeks, Dudley says positively.  Yes, mod, the carriages and horses will always be coming in a few weeks, till the time is over, and meanwhile the old traveling chariot and post-horses will do very well. And she laughed a little again. That's why the styles pulled away at the paleing, I suppose, and beauty, Meg Hockese, that is, is put there to stop us going through, for I often spied the smoke beyond the windmill, observed Millie. Cousin Monica listened with interest and nodded silently. I was very much shocked. It seemed to me quite incredible. I think Lady Nullis 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 Hof. 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, dears, 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 thin navaries said to be practiced 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 marry be? asked Millie. Even 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 tomorrow, however, to ask questions. I like her very much, I know. And I think, said Millie, it is to Mr. Carriesbrook she is 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. While I heard her once or twice call him dear, and she called him his Christian name, just like Lady Nollis did. Illbury, I think, and I saw him gyrus-like kiss as she was going upstairs. I laughed. Well, Millie, 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. I, lass, you're not to say lass. Well, mod, 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, unmaking my toilet preparatory to bed. Mod, mod, fickle, mod, what, Captain Oakley already superseded, and Mr. Carriesbrook, oh, humiliation, engaged! So I smiled on very much vexed.  End of Chapter 42, Chapter 43, of Uncle Silas. Uncle Silas by J. Sheridan LeFennu, Chapter 43, News at Bartram Gate. Millie 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. Carriesbrook, said I, very cleverly, and I think it was very wicked of you to try and involve me in a flirtation with him yesterday.  Millie and I discovered it, simple as we stand here, I answered. But you did not flirt with Mr. Carriesbrook, ma, 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 cloister of Bartram. Well, I suppose I must answer. It is in vain trying to hide anything from you. But how on earth did you find 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 Carriesbrook, said Lady Nollis. A relation of Mr. Carriesbrook's, I asserted. Yes, a relation. But who told you he was Mr. Carriesbrook, asked Cousin Monica. Millie told me, when we saw him in the windmill wood.  It was LaMaur, answered Millie, with her blue eyes very wide open. What does the child mean? LaMaur, you don't mean love, exclaimed Lady Nollis, puzzled in her turn. I mean old Wyatt, she told me, and the governor. You're not to say that, I interposed. You mean your father, suggested Lady Nollis. Well, yes, father told her, and so I knew him. What could he mean, exclaimed Lady Nollis, laughing as it were in Soliloquy? And I did not mention his name, I recollect now. He recognized 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 Millie restated her evidence, and Lady Nollis 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 and dangerous pair of girls, all things considered, I never heard of before, exclaimed Lady Nollis. There's no such thing as conspiring in your presence. Good morning, I hope you slept well. She was addressing the lady and gentlemen who were just entering the room from the conservatory. You'll hardly sleep so well tonight 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 Hymenil altar.  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 said 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. Carey's brook is Lord Ilbury, brother of this Lady Mary, and it is all my fault for not having done my honors better, but you will see what clever matchmaking 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 Rithon. 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 writing, 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 neighbor from the town or its dependencies, dropped in. Of these I but remember tall old Mrs. Winteltop, most entertaining of rustical 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 country 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, gave us illustrative snatches from old election squibs, and lines from epitaphs, until 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 courthouse that was taken down in 1803. You cannot imagine what agreeable evenings we passed in this society, or how rapidly my good cousin Millie improved in it. I remember well the intense suspense in which she and I awaited the answer, from Bartram Hoff, 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 Nullis, 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 sterns. They can get out and do get out, and shall get out as much as they please.  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 as 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 seventh. 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 shall you so prettily says—I stupidly forget the words, but the sentiment is this—although concealed by a silven wall of leaves impenetrable. He is pursuing his favorite nymphs through the alley and intricacies of a rustic labyrinth. Yet your songs, your prattle, and your laughter, faint and far away, inspire my fancy.  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.  Believe me ever yours affectionately, Silas Rithon, said cousin Monica with a waggish smile. And so, girls, you have shall you 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 wintery 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 doctor's 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 Nollis had addressed herself more to Lady Mary and Millie 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 also 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 Illbury 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 pairs of most disconcerting eyes at least opposite. I was angry with myself, generally angry, refused more tea rather dryly, and was laconic to Lord Illbury, all which, of course, was very cross and foolish. And afterwards, from my bedroom 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 today. 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 Illbury than I was aware, and I am sure if Captain Oakley had arrived that day, I should have treated him with most unjustifiable rudeness. Not with standing 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 anyone 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 Illbury 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 I-L, when I heard a step outside the door, which opened a little bit, and I heard Lady Nullis, 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 Nullis 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 Nullis 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 worse 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. Carey's brook, 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, Millie, at Bartram, before Maude came? Yes, she had, when he were called there to see his 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, Millie. Then 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 favor. And, to talk of other things, I suspect that you and Millie will probably see Illbury at Bartram, for I think he likes you very much. You? Did she mean both or only me? So our pleasant visit was over. Millie'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, Millie's little reading had been concentrated. A mild and earnest interest in poor, pretty Millie'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 padded and stroked his crossed leg as he smiled tenderly and shook his head at her questionable doctrine. Millie's reverence for her instructor and his admiration grew daily, and he was known among us as Millie'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 medieval 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 this little inscription, presented to Miss Millicent Rithen by an earnest well-wisher. 1st December, 1844. A text, very neatly pinned, followed this, and the presentation was made unctuously 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 Illbury leaned with his elbow on the carriage window, looking in and he said to me, I don't really know what we shall do, Miss Rithen. 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 reverent spriggy bittle-pin was standing with the sad and smirk on the doorstep, 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 freely into the darkness towards Bartram Hof. We were both rather silent. Millie had her book in her lap, and I saw her every now and then, try to read her earnest well-wishers, little inscription, but there was not light to read by. When we reached the great gate of Bartram Hof, it was dark. Old Crowell, who kept the gate, I heard in joining the postillion, to make no avoidable noise at the hall door, for the odd but startling reason that he believed my uncle, quote, 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 am aware on, miss. He lay at God's mercy two hours gone. Appanese and heaven be this time. Drive on, drive fast! I said to the driver. Don't be frightened, Millie. 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 the master's room. He bled at him three hours gone. I don't think that Millie was so frightened as I. My heart beat, and I was trembling so that I could hardly get upstairs. CHAPTER 44 A friend arises. At the top of the great staircase I was glad to see the friendly face of Mary Quince, who stood, candle in hand, greeting us with many little courtesies, and a very haggard and pallid smile. Very welcome, miss. Hoping you are very well. All well, and you are well, Mary, and oh, tell us quickly how is uncle Silas. We thought he was gone, miss, this morning, but doing fairly now, doctor says in a trance-like. I was helping old Wyatt most of the day, and was there when doctor bled at him, and he spoke at last, but he must be awful weak. He took a deal of blood from his arm, miss. I held the basin. And he's better, decidedly better, I asked. Well, he's better, doctor says. He talks some, and doctor says if he goes off asleep again, and begins a snoring like he did before, were to lose the bandage, and let him bleed till he comes to his self again, which, it seems to me and Wyatt, is the same thing almost as saying he's to be killed off hand, for I don't believe he has a drop to spare, as you'll say likewise, miss, if you'll please look in the basin. This was not an invitation with which I cared to comply. I thought I was going to faint. I sat on the stairs and sipped a little water, and quince sprinkled a little in my face, and my strength returned. Millie must have felt her father's danger more than I, for she was affectionate, and loved him from habit and relation, although he was not kind to her. But I was more nervous and more impetuous, and my feelings both stimulated and overpowered me more easily. The moment I was able to stand, I said, thinking of nothing but the one idea. We must see him. Come, Millie. I entered his sitting room, a common dip candle hanging like a tower of pizza all to one side, with a dim long wick and a greasy candlestick, perfaying the table of the fastidious invalid. The light was a little better than darkness, and I crossed the room swiftly, still transfixed by the one idea of seeing my uncle. His bedroom door beside the fireplace stood partly open, and I looked in. Old Wyatt, a white high-called ghost, was pottering in her slippers in the shadow at the far side of the bed.  I, in his patient, threw the curtains of the bed with a listless sort of importance. The head of the large foreposter rested against the opposite wall. Its foot was presented toward the fireplace, but the curtains at the side, which alone I could see from my position, were closed. The little doctor knew me, and thinking me, I suppose, a person of consequence, removed his hands from behind him, suffering the skirts of his coat to fall forward, and with great celerity and gravity made me a low but important bow. Then choosing more particularly to make my acquaintance, he further advanced, and with another reverence he introduced himself as Dr. Jokes in a murmured diapason. He bowed me back again into my uncle's study in the light of Old Wyatt's Dreadful Candle. Dr. Jokes was suave and pompous. I longed for a fussy practitioner who would have got over the ground in half the time. Coma, Madam Coma. Ms. Rith and your uncle, I may tell you, has been in a very critical state, highly so. Coma of the most obstinate type. He would have sunk. He must have gone, in fact, had I not resorted to a very extreme remedy, and bled him freely, which happily told precisely as we could have wished. A wonderful constitution, a marvelous constitution, prodigious, nervous fiber, the greatest pity in the world he won't give himself fair play. His habits, you know, are quite, I may say, destructive. We do our best, we do all we can, but if the patient won't cooperate, it can't possibly end satisfactorily. And Jokes accompanied this with an awful shrug. Is there anything? Do you think change of error? What an awful complaint it is, I exclaimed. He smiled, mysteriously looking down, and shook his head undertaker-like. Why, we can hardly call it a complaint, Ms. Rithon. I look upon it as he has been poisoned. He has had, you understand me, he pursued, observing my startled look. An overdose of opium. You know, he takes opium habitually. He takes it in ladenum. He takes it in water. And most dangerous of all, he takes it solid in lozenges. I've known people take it moderately. I've known people take it to excess. But they all were particular as to measure. And that is exactly the point I've tried to impress upon him. The habit, of course, you understand, is formed. There's no uprooting that. But he won't measure. He goes by the eye and by sensation, which, I need not tell you, Ms. Rithon, is going by chance. And opium, as no doubt you are aware, is strictly a poison. A poison no doubt which habit will enable you to partake of, I may say, inconsiderable quantities without fatal consequences, but still a poison.  He has been so threatened, and for a time he changes his haphazard mode of dealing with it, and then returns. He may escape, of course, that is possible, but he may any day overdo the thing. I don't think the present crisis will result seriously. I am very glad independently of the honor of making your acquaintance, Ms. Rithon, that you and your cousin have returned. For, however zealous, I fear that the servants are deficient in intelligence. And as in the event of the recurrence of the symptoms, which, however is not probable, I would beg to inform you of their nature, and how exactly best to deal with them. So upon these points he delivered us a pompous little lecture, and begged that either Millie or I would remain in the room with the patient until his return at two or three o'clock in the morning. A reappearance of the coma might be very bad indeed. Of course, Millie and I did as we were directed. We sent by the fire, scarcely daring to whisper. Uncle Silas, about whom a new and dreadful suspicion began to haunt me, lay still and motionless, as if he were actually dead. And he attempted to poison himself. If he believed his position to be as desperate as Lady Nullis had described it, was this, after all, improbable? There were strange wild theories I had been told mixed up in his religion. Sometimes, at an hour's interval, a sign of life would come. Amon from that tall sheeted figure in the bed. Amon in a pattering of the lips. Was it a prayer? What was it? Who could guess what thoughts were passing behind that white, filleted forehead? I had peeped at him.  His great eyes were closed. So were his marble lips. His figure straight, thin, and long, dressed in a white dressing gown, looked like a corpse laid out in the bed.  With this awful image of death, we kept our vigil, until poor Millie grew so sleepy that Old Wyatt proposed that she should take her place and watch with me. Little as I liked the crone with the high-called cap, she would at all events keep awake, which Millie could not. And so, at one o'clock, this new arrangement began, Mr. Dudley Rithon is not at home. I whispered to Old Wyatt. He went away with himself yesterday night to Cloperton, Miss, to see the wrestling. It was to come off this morning. Was he sent for? Not he. And why not? It would not leave the sport for this, I'm thinking. And the old woman grinned uglyly. When is he to return? When he wants money. And so we grew silent. And again I thought of suicide and of the unhappy old man who just then whispered a sentence or two to himself with a sigh. For the next hour he had been quite silent. And Old Wyatt informed me that she must go down for candles. Ours were already burnt down to the sockets. There's a candle in the next room, I suggested, hating the idea of being left alone with the patient. Oop, Miss, I dare not set a candle but wax in his presence, whispered the old woman scornfully. I think if we were to stir the fire and put on a little more coal we should have a great deal of light. You'll have the candles, said Dame Wyatt, doggedly. And she tottered from the chamber, muttering to herself. And I heard her take her candles from the next room and depart, shutting the outer door after her. Here I was then, alone. But for this unearthly companion whom I feared inexpressibly at two o'clock in the vast old house of Bartram, I stirred the fire. It was low and would not blaze. I stood up and, with my hand on the mantelpiece, endeavored to think of cheerful things. But it was a struggle against wind and tide, vain. And so I drifted away into haunted regions. Uncle Silas was perfectly still. I would not suffer myself to think of the number of dark rooms and passages which now separated me from the other living tenets of the house. I awaited with a false composure, the return of old Wyatt. Over the mantelpiece was a looking glass. At another time this might have helped to entertain my solitary moments. But now I did not like to venture a peep. A small thick Bible lay on the chimney piece and leaning its back against the mirror, I began to read in it, with a mind as attentively directed as I could. While so engaged in turning over the leaves, I lighted upon two or three odd-looking papers which had been folded into it. One was a broad printed thing, with names and dates written into blank spaces, and was about the size of a quarter of yard of very broad ribbon. The others were mere scraps, with Dudley Rithon pinned in my cousin's vulgar round hand on the foot. While I folded and replaced these, I really don't know what caused me to fancy that something was moving behind me, as I stood with my back toward the bed, and do not recollect any sound whatever. But instinctively I glanced into the mirror, and my eyes were instantly fixed by what I saw. The figure of Uncle Silas rose up and dressed in a long white morning gown, slid over the end of the bed, and with two or three swift noiseless steps, stood behind me, with a deathlike scowl and a simper.  With his long thin hand he snatched the Bible, and whispered over my head, the serpent beguiled her, and she did eat. And after a momentary pause he glided to the farless window, and appeared to look out upon the midnight prospect. It was cold, but he did not seem to feel it. With the same inflexible scowl and smile he continued to look out for several minutes. And then with a great sigh he sat down on the side of his bed, his face immovably turned towards me with the same painful look. It seemed to me an hour before old Wyatt came back, and never was lover made happier at the side of his mistress than I to behold that withered crone. You may be sure I did not prolong my watch. There was now plainly no risk of my uncle's relapsing into lethargy. I had long hysterical fits of weeping when I got into my room, with honest Mary Quince by my side. Whenever I closed my eyes the face of Uncle Silas was before me as I had seen it reflected in the glass. The sorceries of Bartram were enveloping me once more. Next morning the doctor said he was quite out of danger, but very weak. Millie and I saw him, and again in our afternoon walk we saw the doctor marching under the trees in the direction of the windmill wood. Going down to see that poor girl there, he said, when he had made his salutation, prodding with his loveled stick in the direction. Hock, or Hockies, I think. Beauty sick, Maude, exclaimed Millie. Hockies, she is upon my dispensary list. Yes, said the doctor, looking into his little notebook. Hockies, and what is her complaint? Rheumatic fever. Not infectious. Not in the least. No more as we say misrhythm than a broken leg. And he laughed obligingly. So soon as the doctor had departed, Millie and I agreed to follow to Hockies' cottage and inquire more particularly how she was. To say truth I am afraid it was rather for the sake of giving our walk a purpose and a point of termination than for any very charitable interest we might have felt in the patient. Over the inequalities of the upland slope, clumped with trees, we reached the gabled cottage with its neglected little farmyard. A rheumatic old woman was the only attendant and, having turned her ear in an attitude of attention, which induced us in gradually exalted keys to inquire how Meg was, she informed us in very loud tones that she had long lost her hearing and was perfectly deaf, and added considerably, When the man comes in, appen he tell ye what ye want. Through the door of a small room at the further end of that in which we were, we could see a portion of the narrow apartment of the patient and hear her moans in the doctor's voice. We'll see him, Millie, when he comes out. Let us wait here. So we stood upon the doorstone awaiting him. The sounds of suffering had moved my compassion and interested us for the sick girl. Blast if here isn't peg-top! said Millie. And the weather stained red coat, the swarthy forbidding face in the sooty locks of old hockeye's, loomed in sight as he stumped, steadying himself with his stick over the uneven pavement of the yard. He touched his hat roughly to me, but did not seem half to like our being where we were, for he looked surly and scratched his head under his wide awake. Your daughter is very ill, I'm afraid, said I. I shall be cost to me a handful like her mother did, said peg-top. I hope her room is comfortable, poor thing. I, that it is, shall be comfortable enough, I warrant. More nor I. It be all Meg and not a Dickon. When did her illness commence? I asked. Day to Mer-War shod. Saturday. I talked a bit with the workahs, folks, but they won't get naught. Dang'em. And how be I to-doont? It be always hard bread with Silas, and a deal harder now that she'd taken them pains. I won't stand in much longer, gammon. If she keeps on this way, I'll just cut. See how the workahs fell ill like that? The doctor gives his services for nothing, I said. And does nothing bless him. No more nor that old deaf gammon there cost me three tizzies a week, and ain't worth a hot-port. No more nor Meg there, till all makin'. That's makin' all she can of them pains. They all be a foolin' of me and thinks I don't know it. Hey, we'll see. All this time he was cutting a bit of tobacco into shreds on the window-stone. And with these words, having by this time stuffed his pipe with tobacco, he poked the deaf lady who was pattering about with her back toward him, rather viciously with the point of his stick, and signed for a light. And he raised his pipe an inch or two with his thumbs on the bowl. Maybe I can be of some use, I said, thinking. Maybe, he rejoined. By this time he received from the old deaf Abigail a flaming roll of brown paper, and touching his hat to me, he withdrew lighting his pipe and sending up little white puffs, like the salute of a departing ship. Though he did not care to hear how his daughter was, and had only come here to light his pipe, just then the doctor emerged. We have been waiting to hear how your poor patient is today, I said. Very ill indeed, and utterly neglected, I fear. If she were equal to it, but she's not, I think she ought to be removed to the hospital immediately.  Could you recommend a nurse who would stay here till she gets better? I will pay her with pleasure, and anything you think might be good for the poor girl. So this was settled on the spot. Dr. Jokes was kind, like most men of his calling, and undertook to send the nurse from Feltrum with a few comforts for the patient. And he called Dickens to the yard gate, and I suppose told him of the arrangement. And Millie and I went to the poor girl's door and asked, May we come in? There was no answer. So with the conventional construction of silence, we entered. Her looks showed how ill she was. We adjusted her bed clothes, and darkened the room, and did what we could for her, noting beside what her comfort chiefly required. She did not answer any questions. She did not thank us.  The girl was very ill, and we went every day to see her. Sometimes she would answer our questions, sometimes not. Thoughtful, observant, surly she seemed, and as people liked to be thanked, I sometimes wondered that we continued to throw our bread upon these ungrateful waters. Millie was especially impatient under this treatment, and protested against it, and finally refused to accompany me into poor beauty's bedroom. I think, my good Meg, said I one day as I stood by her bed. She was now recovering with the sure reassent of youth. That you ought to thank Miss Millie. I'll not thank her, said beauty doggedly. Very well, Meg. I only thought I'd ask you, for I think you ought. As I spoke, she very gently took just the tip of my finger, which hung close to her coverlet and her fingers, and drew it beneath, and before I was aware, burying her head in the clothes, she suddenly clasped my hand in both hers to her lips, and kissed it passionately, again and again sobbing. I felt her tears. I tried to withdraw my hand, but she held it with an angry pull, continuing to weep and kiss it. Do you wish to say anything, my poor Meg? I asked. Not Miss, she sobbed gently, and she continued to kiss my hand and weep. But suddenly she said, I won't thank Millie for it to you, it ain't her. She hadn't the thought. No, no, it's you, Miss. I cried hearty in the dark last night, thinking of the apples, and the way I knocked them away with the purr of my foot. The day Father wrapped me over the head with the stick, it was kind to you and very bad of me. I wish you'd beat me, Miss. You're better to me than Father or Mother. Better to me than that. And I wish I could die for you, Miss, for I'm not fit to look at you. I was surprised. I began to cry. I could have hugged poor Meg. I did not know her history. I have never learned it since. She used to talk with the most utter self-abasement before me. It was no religious feeling, it was a kind of expression of her love and worship of me. All the more strange that she was naturally very proud. There was nothing she would not have borne from me except the slightest suspicion of her entire devotion, or that she could in the most trifling way wrong or deceive me. I am not young now. I have had my sorrows, and with them all that wealth, virtually unlimited, can command. And through the retrospect, a few bright and pure lights quiver along my life's dark stream. Dark, but for them. And these are shed, not by the splendor of a splendid fortune, but by two or three of the simplest and kindest remembrances, such as the poorest and homeliest life may count up, and besides which, in the quiet hours of memory, all artificial triumphs pale and disappear. For they are never quenched by time or distance, being founded on the affections, and so far, heavenly. We had, about this time, a pleasant and quite unexpected visit from Lord Ilbury. He had come to pay his respects, understanding that my Uncle Silas was sufficiently recovered to see visitors. And I think I'll run upstairs first, and see him, if he admits me, and then I'll have ever so long a message from my sister, Mary, for you and Miss Millicent. But I had better dispose of my business first, don't you think so? And I shall return in a few minutes. And as he spoke, our tremulous old butler returned to say that Uncle Silas would be happy to see him. So he departed. And you can't think how pleasant our homely sitting room looked, with his coat and stick in it, guarantees of his return. Do you think, Millie, he is going to speak about the timber? You know, that Cazinolis spoke of. I do hope not. So do I, said Millie. I wish he'd stay a bit longer with us first, for if he does, Father will sure to turn him out of doors, and we'll see no more of him. Exactly, my dear Millie. And he's so pleasant and good-natured. And he likes you awful well, he does. I'm sure he likes us both equally, Millie. He talked a great deal to you at Elverston, and he used to ask you so often to sing those two pretty Lancashire ballads, I said. But you know when you were at your controversies and religious exercises in the window, with that pillar of the church, the reverend sprigs Biddlepin, get away with your nonsense, Maud. How could I help answering when he dodged me up and down my testament in catechism?  And whatever you say, the Lord likes you uncommon, and well you know it, ye hussy. I know no such thing, and you don't think it, you hussy. And I really don't care who likes me, or who doesn't, except my relations, and I make the Lord a present to you, if you'll have him. In this strain we were talking when he re-entered the room, a little sooner than we had expected to see him. Millie, who you are to recollect, was only in the process of Reformation, and still retained something of the Derbyshire Dairymaid, gave me a little clandestine pinch on the arm, just as he made his appearance. I just refused a present from her, said, odious, Millie, in answer to his inquiring look. Because I knew she could not spare it. The effect of all this was that I blushed one of my overpowering blushes. People told me they became me very much. I hope so. Before the misfortune was frequent, and I think nature owed me that compensation. It places you both in a most becoming light, said Lord Ilbury, quite innocently. I really don't know which to most admire, the generosity of the offer, or of the refusal. Well, it was kind, if you but knew. I most tempted to tell him, said Millie. I checked her with a really angry look and said, Perhaps you have not observed it, but I really think, for a sensible person, my cousin Millie here talks more nonsense than any twenty girls. A twenty girl power. That's an immense compliment. I have the greatest respect for nonsense. I owe it so much. And I really think, if nonsense were banished, the earth would grow insupportable. Thank you, Lord Ilbury, said Millie, who had grown quite easy in his company during our long visit to Delverston.  And what will you say then? I really don't know. But just now I want to ask Lord Ilbury how he thinks my uncle looks. Neither I nor Millie have seen him since his illness. Very much weaker, I think. But he may be gaining strength. Still, as my business was not quite pleasant, I thought it better to postpone it. And if you think it would be right, I'll write to Dr. Briarley and ask him to postpone the discussion for a little time. I at once assented and thanked him. Indeed, if I had had my way, the subject should never have been mentioned. I felt so hard-hearted and rapacious. But Lord Ilbury explained that the trustees were constrained by the provision of the will, and that I really had no power to release them. And I hope that Uncle Silas also understood all this. And now, said he, we've returned to Grange, my sister and I, and it is nearer than Elverston so that we are really neighbors. And Mary wants Lady Nullis to fix a time she owes us a visit, you know, and you really must come at the same time. It will be so very pleasant, the same party exactly, meeting in a new scene. And we have not half explored our new neighborhood. And I've got down all those Spanish engravings I told you of, and the Venetian missiles and all the rest. I think I remember very accurately the things you were most interested by.  And I forgot to mention, you know you complain that you were ill supplied with books, so Mary thought you would allow her to share her supply. They are the new books, you know. And when you have read yours, you and she can exchange. What girl was ever quite frank about her likings? I don't think I was more of a cheat than others, but I never could tell of myself. It is quite true that this duplicity and reserve seldom deceives. Our hypocrisies are forced upon some of our sex by the acuteness and vigilance of all in this field of inquiry. But if we are sly, we are also link- side, capital detectives, most ingenious in fitting together the bits and dovetails of a cumulative case. And in those affairs of love and liking have a terrible exploratory instinct, and so, for the most part, when detected we are found out not only to be in love, but to be rogues moreover. Lady Mary was very kind, but had Lady Mary of her own mere motion taken all this trouble, was there no more energetic influence at the bottom of all that welcome chest of books, which arrived only half an hour later. The circulating library of those days was not the epidemic and ubiquitous influence to which it has grown, and there were many places where it could not find you out. All together that evening at Bartram had acquired a particular beauty, a bright and mellow glow in which even its gate posts and wheel-barrows were interesting, and the next day came a little cloud. Dudley appeared. You may be sure he wants money, said Millie. He and father had words this morning. He took a chair at our luncheon, found fault with everything in his own laconic dialect, ate a good deal not withstanding, and was sulky and with Millie snappish. To me on the contrary, when Millie went into the hall he was mild and whimpering and disposed to be confidential. There's the governor says he hasn't a bob. Dang if I know how an old feller in his bedroom muddles away money at that rate. I don't suppose he thinks I can get along without him, and he knows them trustees won't give me a tizzy till they get what they call an opinion. Damn! Briarly says he doubts it must all go under settlement. They'll settle me nicely if they do. And governor knows all about it and won't give me a dang brass farlin, and me with bills to pay and lawyers dang him, writing letters. He knows some of that himself, does governor, and he might have some consideration a bit for his own flesh and blood, I say, but he never does not for none but himself. I'll sell his books and his jewels next fit he takes. That's how I'll fit him. This amiable young man, glowering, with his elbows on the table and his fingers in his great whiskers, followed his homily, where clergymen appended the blessing, with a muttered variety of very different matter.  I thought the appeal was going to shape itself into an application for money, but it did not. I never know to real beauty, first chop, of course, I mean. That wasn't kind along of it. And I'm a fella as can't get along without sympathy. That's why I say it. And isn't it hard lines. Now, say it's hard lines, ain't it, mod? I did not know exactly what hard lines meant, but I said, I suppose it is very disagreeable. And with this concession, not caring to hear any more in the same vein, I rose intending to take my departure. No, that's just it. I knew you'd say it, mod.  I like yawful I do. There's not a handsome or lass in Liverpool, nor London itself, nowhere. He had seized my hand and, trying to place his arm about my waist, assayed that salute which I had so narrowly escaped on my first introduction. Don't, sir, I exclaimed in high indignation, escaping at the same moment from his grasp. No offense, lass, no harm, mod. You must not be so shy.  No more nor I'd knock my head off. I wouldn't. I did not wait to hear the rest of his tender protestations, but without showing how nervous I was, I glided out of the room quietly, making an orderly retreat. The more meritorious as I heard him call after me persuasively, come back, mod. What are you afraid on, lass? Come back, I say. Do now. There's a good winch. As Millie and I were taking our walk that day in the direction of the windmill wood to which, in consequence, perhaps of some secret order, we now had free access. We saw beauty for the first time since her illness, in the little yard throwing grains to the poultry. How do you find yourself today, Meg? I am very glad to see you able to be about again, but I hope it is not too soon. We were standing at the barred gate of the little enclosure, and quite close to Meg, who, however, did not choose to raise her head but, continuing to shower her grain and potato skins among her hens and chickens, said, in a low tone, Father Bainton Sight, look just round a bit and say if you see him. But Dickens' dusky red costume was nowhere visible. So Meg looked up, pale and thin, and, with her old grave, observant eyes, she said quietly, Tissant that I'm not glad to see ye, but if Father was to spy me talking friendly with ye, now that I'm hearty, and you have a no more call to me, he'd be always a watchin' and thinkin' I was tellin' a tales, an appen he'd want me to worry ye for money, Miss Mod, and Tissant here he'd spend it, but in the feltrum potuses he would, and we want for nothin' that's good for us, but that's how twid be, and he'd always be a jawn and a lichen of eye, so don't mind me, Miss Mod, and happen I might do ye good turn some day. A few days after this little interview with Meg, as Millie and I were walking briskly, for it was a clear frosty day, along the pleasant slopes of the sheepwalk, we were overtaken by Dudley Rithon. It was not a pleasant surprise. There was this mitigation, however, we were on foot and he driving in a dog cart along the track leading to the moor, with his dogs and gun. He brought his horse for a moment to a walk, and with a careless nod to me, removing his short pipe from his mouth, he said, Governor's calling for ye, Millie, and he told me to send you slick home to him if I saw you, and I think he'll give you some money, but you better take him while he's in a humor-lass, or may have you'll go along without. And with those words, apparently intent on his game, he nodded again, and pipe in mouth, drove at a quick trot over the slope of the hill, and disappeared. So I agreed to await Millie's return while she ran home and rejoined me where I was, away she ran in high spirits, and I wandered listlessly about in search of some convenient spot to sit down upon, for I was a little tired. She had not been gone five minutes when I heard a step approaching, and looked around, saw the dog cart close by, the horse browsing on the short grass, and Dudley Rithon within a few paces of me. You see, Maude, I've been thinking why you're so vexed with me, and I thought I'd just come back and ask ye what I may have done to angry ye so. There's no sin in that, I think. Is there? I'm not angry. I did not say so. I hope that's enough, I said, startled, and not withstanding my speech. Very angry, for I felt instinctively that Millie's dispatch homeward was a mere trick, and I, the dupe of this coarse stratagem. Well, then, if ye paint angry so much the better, Maude. I only want to know why you're a fear of me. I never struck a man foul, much less hurt a girl in my days. Besides, Maude, I like see too well to herch ye. Dang it, lass, you're my cousin, ye know, and cousin's is always together and lovin', and none says against it. I've nothing to explain. There is nothing to explain. I've been quite friendly, I said, hurriedly. Friendly? Well, if there, baint a cram. And how can ye think at friendly, Maude, when ye won't amost shake hands with me?  Why do ye like aggravating a poor devil? Now, baint ye an ill-natured little puss, Maude, and I liken ye so well. You're the prettiest lass in Derbyshire. There's nothing I wouldn't do for ye. And he backed his declaration with an oath. Be so good, then, as to re-enter your dog-cart and drive away. I replied, very much incensed. Now, there it is again. Ye can't speak me civil. Another fellow'd fly out and maybe kiss ye for spite, but I baint that sort. I'm all for coaxing and kindness, and ye won't let me. What be you drivin' at, Maude? I think I've said very plainly, sir, that I wish to be alone. You've nothing to say, except utter nonsense. And I've heard quite enough. Once for all, I beg, sir, that ye will be so good as to leave me. Well, now, look here, Maude. I'll do anything you like. Burn me if I don't. If ye'll only just be kind to me like cousins should. What did I ever do to vex you? If you think I like any less better than you, some fellow at Elverston's been talkin' maybe. It's not but lies and nonsense. Not but there's lots of winches like me well enough, though I be a plain lad and speaks my mind straight out. I can't see that you are so frank, sir, as you describe. You have just played a shabby trick to bring about this absurd and most disagreeable interview. And suppose I did send that fool milli out of the way to talk a bit with you? Where's the harm? Dang it, last. You mustn't be too hard. Didn't I say I'd do whatever you wished? And you won't, said I. You mean to get along out of this? Well, now I will. There. No use, of course, askin' you to kiss and be friends before I go as cousins should. Well, don't be riled, lass. I'm not askin' it, only mind.  And happen I'll find you in better humor another time. Goodbye, mod. I'll make you like me at last. And with these words to my comfort, he addressed himself to his horse and pipe, and was soon honestly on his way to the moor. End of Chapter 45 Chapter 46 of Uncle Silas. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Uncle Silas by J. Sheridan Lafannue. Chapter 46 The Rivals All the time that Dudley chose to persecute me with his odious society, I continued to walk at a brisk pace towards home, so that I had nearly reached the house when Millie met me with a note which had arrived for me by the post in her hand. Here, Millie, are more verses. He is a very persevering poet whoever he is. So I broke the seal. But this time it was prose, and the first words were, Captain Oakley! I confess to an odd sensation as these remarkable words met my eye. It might possibly be a proposal. I did not wait to speculate, however, but read these sentences traced in the identical handwriting which had copied the lines with which I had been twice favored. Captain Oakley presents his compliments to Miss Rithyn, and trusts she will excuse his venturing to ask whether, during his short stay in Feltrum, he might be permitted to pay his respects at Bartram Hof. He has been making a short visit to his aunt, and could not find himself so near without at least attempting to renew an acquaintance which he has never ceased to cherish in memory. If Miss Rithyn would be so very good as to favor him with ever so short reply to the question he ventures most respectfully to ask, her decision would reach him at the Hall Hotel Feltrum. Well, he's around about, fella, anyhow. Couldn't he come up and see you if he wanted to? They poeters, they do love writing long yarns, don't they? And with this reflection, Millie took the note and read it through again. It's jolly polite, anyhow, isn't it, mod? said Millie, who had conned it over and accepted it as a model composition. I must have been, I think, naturally a rather shrewd girl. Considering how very little I had seen of the world, nothing, in fact, I often wonder now at the sage conclusions at which I arrived. Were I to answer this handsome and cunning fool, according to his folly, in what position should I find myself? No doubt my reply would induce a rejoinder, and that compel another note from me, and that invite yet another from him. And however his might improve and warmth, they were sure not to abate. Was it his impertinent plan, with the show of respect and ceremony, to drag me into a clandestine correspondence, an experienced girl as I was, I was fired at the idea of becoming his dupe, and fancying, perhaps, that there was more in merely answering his note than it would have amounted to. I said, that kind of thing may answer very well with button makers, but ladies don't like it. What would your papa think if he found that I had been writing to him, and seeing him without his permission? If he wanted to see me, he could have. I really did not know exactly what he could have done. He could have timed his visit to Lady Nollis differently. At all events, he has no right to place me in an embarrassing situation, and I am certain Cousin Nollis would say so, and I think his note, both shabby and impertinent. Decision was not, with me, an intellectual process. When quite cool I was the most undecided of mortals, but once my feelings were excited I was prompt and bold, I'll give the note to Uncle Silas, I said, quickening my pace toward home. He'll know what to do. But Millie, who, I fancy, had no objection to the little romance, which the young officer proposed, told me that she could not see her father, that he was ill, and not speaking to anyone. And aren't she making a plaguey row about nothing? I lay againny if ye had never said eyes on Lord Ilbury, you'd have told him to come, and see, and welcome.  You never knew me do anything deceitful. Lord Ilbury has no more to do with it, you know, very well than the man in the moon. I was altogether very indignant. I did not speak another word to Millie. The proportions of the house are so great that it is a much longer walk than you would suppose from the hall door to Uncle Silas' room. But I did not cool all that way, and it was not till I had just reached the lobby and saw the sour jealous face and high call of old Wyatt, and felt the influence of that neighborhood that I paused to reconsider. I had fancied there was a cool consciousness of success behind all the deferential phraseology of Captain Oakley, which meddled me extremely. No, there could be no doubt. I tapped softly at the door. What is it now, miss? Snarled the quarrelous old woman with her shriveled fingers on the door handle. Can I see my uncle for a moment? He's tired, and not a word from him all day long. Not ill, though. Awful bad in the night, said the old crone, with a sudden savage glare in my face as if I had brought it about. Oh, I am very sorry I had not heard a word of it. No one does, but oh, Wyatt, there's Millie there never asked neither. Is that a child? Weakness? Or what? One of them fits. It'll slide away in one of them some day, and no one but oh, Wyatt to know nor ask a word about it. That's how it will be. Will you please hand him this note, if he is well enough to look at it, and say I am at the door? She took it with a peevish nod and a grunt, closing the door in my face, and in a few minutes returned. Come in with me, said Day Wyatt, and I appeared. Uncle Silas, who, after his nightly horror or vision, lay extended on a sofa with his faded yellow silk dressing gown about him, his long white hair hanging toward the ground, and that wild, feeble smile lighting his face, a glimmer I feared to look upon, his long thin arms lay by his sides with hands and fingers that stirred not, except when now and then, with a feeble motion, he wet his temples and forehead with odour cologne from a glass saucer placed beside him. Excellent girl, dutiful ward and niece, murmured the Oracle, Evan reward you, your frank dealing is your own safety and my peace. Sit you down and say, who is this Captain Oakley? When you made his acquaintance, what his age, fortune and expectations, and who the ant he mentions? Upon all these points I satisfied him as fully as I was able. Wyatt, the white drops, he called in a thin stern tone. I'll write a line presently. I can't see visitors and, of course, you can't receive young captains before you've come out. Farewell, God bless you, dear. Wyatt was dropping the white restorative into a wine glass and the room was redolent of ether. I was glad to escape. The figures and the whole measlesyn were unearthly. Well, Millie, I said, as I met her in the hall, your papa is going to write to him. I sometimes wonder whether Millie was right and how I should have acted a few months earlier. The next day, whom should we meet in the windmill wood, but Captain Oakley? The spot where this interesting recontour occurred was near that ruinous bridge on my sketch of which I had received so many compliments. It was so great to surprise that I had not time to recollect my indignation and, having received him very affably, I found it impossible during our brief interview to recover my lost altitude. After our greetings were over and some compliments neatly made, he said, I had such a curious note from Mr. Silas Rithon. I am sure he thinks me a very impertinent fellow, for it was really anything but inviting, extremely rude, in fact. But I could not quite see that because he does not want me to invade his bedroom, an incursion I never dreamed of. I was not to present myself to you who had already honored me with your acquaintance. With the sanction of those who were most interested in your welfare and who were just as well qualified as he, I fancy, to say who were qualified for such an honor. My uncle, Mr. Silas Rithon, you are aware, is my guardian and this is my cousin, his daughter. This was an opportunity of becoming a little lofty and I improved it. He raised his hat and bowed to Millie.  Mr. Rithon, of course, has a perfect right to, in fact, I was not the least aware that I had the honor of so nearer relations and what exquisite scenery you have. I think this country round Feltrum particularly fine and this Bartram Hof is, I venture to say, about the very most beautiful spot in this beautiful region. I do assure you I am tempted beyond measure to make Feltrum and the Hall Hotel my headquarters for at least a week. I only regret the foliage but your trees show wonderfully even in winter. So many of them have got that ivy about them. They say it spoils trees but it certainly beautifies them. I have just ten days leave unexpired. I wish I could induce you to advise me how to apply them. What shall I do, Mr. Rithon? I am the worst person in the world to make plans even for myself. I find it so troublesome. What do you say? Suppose you try Wales or Scotland and climb up some of those fine mountains that look so well in winter. I should much prefer Feltrum. I so wish you would recommend it. What is this pretty plant? We call that Maud's Myrtle. She planted it and it's very pretty when it's in full blow, said Millie. Our visit to Elverston had been of immense use to us both. Oh, planted by you, he said, very softly, with a momentary corresponding glance. May I, ever so little, just a leaf? And without waiting for permission, he held a sprig of it next to his waistcoat. Yes, it goes very prettily with those buttons. They are very pretty buttons, are they not, Millie? A present, a souvenir, I dare say.  But my countenance was so bewitchingly simple that I suppose his suspicions were elade. Now, it was very odd of me, I confess, to talk in this way and to receive all those tender illusions from a gentleman about whom I had spoken and felt so sharply only the evening before. But Bartram was abominably lonely. A civilized person was a valuable way for stray in that region of the picturesque and the brutal. And to my lady reader, especially because she will probably be hardest upon me, I put it, can you not recollect any such folly in your own past life? Can you not, in as many minutes, call to mind at least six similar inconsistencies of your own practicing? For my part, I really can't see the advantage of being the weaker sex if we are always to be as strong as our masculine neighbors. There was indeed no revival of the little sentiment which I had once experienced. When these things once expire, I do believe they are as hard to revive as our dead laptops, guinea pigs, and parrots. And it was my perfect coolness which enabled me to chat, I flatter myself, so agreeably with the refined captain who plainly thought me his captive and was probably now and then thinking what was to be done to utilize that little bit of Bartram or to beautify some other when he should see fit to become its master as we rambled over these wild but beautiful grounds. It was just about then that Millie nudged me rather vehemently and whispered, Look there! I followed with mine the direction of her eyes and saw my odious cousin Dudley and a flagrant pair of cross-barred pegtops and what Millie before her reformation used to call other slops of corresponding atrocity approaching our refined little party with great strides. I really think that Millie was very nearly ashamed of him. I certainly was. I had no apprehension however of the scene which was imminent. The charming captain mistook him probably for some rustic servant of the place for he continued his agreeable remarks up to the very moment when Dudley whose face was pale with anger and whose rapid advance had not served to cool him without recollecting to salute either Millie or me accosted our elegant companion as follows. By your leave master, Bainchee summat in the wrong box here don't you think? He had planted himself directly in his front and looked unmistakably menacing. May I speak to him? Will you excuse me? said the captain blandly.  You're to deal with me, though, Bainchee in the wrong box now. I'm not conscious, sir, of being in a box at all, replied the captain with severe disdain. It strikes me you are disposed to get up a row.  I mean to turn you out of this the way he came. If ye make it a row so much the wuss for you, for I'll lick ye to fits. Tell him not to fight, whispered Millie. He'll have no chance with Dudley. I saw Dickon Hawkees grinning over the pailing on which he leaned. Mr. Hawkees, I said, drawing Millie toward me with that unpromising mediator, pray prevent unpleasantness and go between them and get licked o' both sides. Rather not, miss, thank ye, grinned Dickon tranquilly. Who are you, sir? Demanded our romantic acquaintance with military sternness.   Come down here to look for a wife and Before Dudley could finish his sentence, Captain Oakley, then whose face no regimentals could possibly have been more scarlet, at that moment struck with his switch at Dudley's handsome features. I don't know how it was done by some devilish cantrip slight.  How do you like the taste of that? Roared Dickon from his post of observation. In an instant Captain Oakley was on his feet again, hapless, looking quite frantic and striking out at Dudley, who was ducking and dipping quite coolly, and again the same horrid sound, only this time it was double like a quick postman's knock. And Captain Oakley was on the grass again. Tap this smeller by, thundered Dickon with a roar of laughter. Come away, Millie. I'm growing ill, said I. Drop it, Dudley.  But the devoted captain, whose nose and mouth and shirt front formed now but one great patch of blood and who was bleeding beside over one eye, dashed at him again. I turned away. I felt quite faint and on the point of crying with mere horror. Amor away at his knocker, bellowed Dickon, and a frenzy of delight. He'll break it now if he ain't already, cried Millie, alluding as I afterward understood, to Captain Grecian's nose. Bravo, little one! The captain was considerably the taller. Another smack, and I suppose Captain Oakley fell once more. Hurrah! The dinner service again by God! Roared Dickon. Stick to that! Over the same ground, subsoil, I say. He ain't out enough yet. In a perfect trimmer of disgust, I was making as quick a retreat as I could, and as I did, I heard Captain Oakley shriek coarsely.  I can't box you!  Hooted Dudley.  A yell of hooting laughter from Dudley and Dickon followed the celly. Give my love to the Colonel, and think of me when you look in the glass, won't you? And so you're going out of all! Well, follow what's left of your nose. You forgot some of your ivories, didn't you, on the grass? These, and many similar jibes, followed the mangle Captain in his retreat. End of Chapter 46