Heres my addressHans Emmanuel Bryerly, M.D., 17 King Street, Covent Garden, Londondont lose it, mind, and he tore the leaf out of his notebook. Heres my fly at the door, and you mustyou must (he was looking at his watch)mind you must think of it seriously; and so, you see, dont let anyone see that. Youll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best way will be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know; and dont put my nameyoull remember thatonly the rest of the address; and burn this. Quince is with you? Yes, I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say. Well, dont let her go; its a bad sign if they wish it. Dont consent, mind; but just tip me a hint and youll have me down. And any letters you get from Lady Knollys, you know, for shes very plainspoken, youd better burn them offhand. And Ive stayed too long, though; mind what I say, scratch it with a pin, and burn that, and not a word to a mortal about it. Goodbye; oh, I was taking away your book. And so, in a fuss, with a slight shake of the hand, getting up his umbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room; and in a minute more, I heard the sound of his vehicle as it drove away. I looked after it with a sigh; the uneasy sensations which I had experienced respecting my sojourn at BartramHaugh were reawakened. My ugly, vulgar, true friend was disappearing beyond those gigantic lime trees which hid Bartram from the eyes of the outer world. The fly, with the doctors valise on top, vanished, and I sighed an anxious sigh. The shadow of the overarching trees contracted, and I felt helpless and forsaken; and glancing down the torn leaf, Doctor Bryerlys address met my eye, between my fingers. I slipt it into my breast, and ran upstairs stealthily, trembling lest the old woman should summon me again, at the head of the stairs, into Uncle Silass room, where under his gaze, I fancied, I should be sure to betray myself. But I glided unseen and safely by, entered my room, and shut my door. So listening and working, I, with my scissors point, scratched the address where Doctor Bryerly had advised. Then, in positive terror, lest someone should even knock during the operation, I, with a match, consumed to ashes the telltale bit of paper. Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensations of having a secret to keep. I fancy the pain of this solitary liability was disproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally very open and very nervous. I was always on the point of betraying it apropos des bottesalways reproaching myself for my duplicity; and in constant terror when honest Mary Quince approached the press, or goodnatured Milly made her occasional survey of the wonders of my wardrobe. I would have given anything to go and point to the tiny inscription, and sayThis is Doctor Bryerlys address in London. I scratched it with my scissors point, taking every precaution lest anyoneyou, my good friends, includedshould surprise me. I have ever since kept this secret to myself, and trembled whenever your frank kind faces looked into the press. Thereyou at last know all about it. Can you ever forgive my deceit? But I could not make up my mind to reveal it; nor yet to erase the inscription, which was my alternative thought. Indeed I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived, in my ordinary mood. High excitement or passion only can inspire me with decision. Under the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave. Someone left here last night, I think, Miss, said Mary Quince, with a mysterious nod, one morning.  Twas two oclock, and I was bad with the toothache, and went down to get a pinch o red pepperleaving the candle alight here lest you should awake. When I was coming upas I was crossing the lobby, at the far end of the long gallerywhat should I hear, but a horse snorting, and some people atalking, short and quiet like. So I looks out o the window; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay, and a fellah apullin a box up o top; and out comes a walise and a bag; and I think it was old Wyat, pleasem, that Miss Milly calls LAmour, that stood in the doorway atalking to the driver. And who got into the chaise, Mary? I asked. Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was bad, and me so awful cold; I gave it up at last, and came back to bed, for I could not say how much longer they might wait. And youll find, Miss, twill be kep a secret, like the shay as you sawd, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways, and secrets; and old Wyatshe does tell stories, dont she?and she as ought to be partickler, seein her time be short now, and she so old. It is awful, an old un like that telling such crams as she do. Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both agreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whose arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the chaise had drawn up at the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house; and, no doubt, driven away by the back road. Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was very provoking, however, that Mary Quince had not had resolution to wait for the appearance of the traveller. We all agreed, however, that we were to observe a strict silence, and that even to WyatLAmour I had better continue to call herMary Quince was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however, that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly adhered to this selfdenying resolve. But cheerful wintry suns and frosty skies, long nights, and brilliant starlight, with good homely fires in our snuggerygossipings, stories, short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always beautiful scenery of BartramHaugh, and, above all, the unbroken tenor of our life, which had fallen into a serene routine, foreign to the idea of danger or misadventure, gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which my interview with Doctor Bryerly had so powerfully resuscitated. My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to her countryhouse; and an active diplomacy, through the postoffice, was negotiating the reopening of friendly relations between the courts of Elverston and of Bartram. At length, one fine day, Cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, with her cloak and bonnet on, and her colour fresh from the shrewd air of the Derbyshire hills, stood suddenly before me in our sittingroom. Our meeting was that of two schoolcompanions long separated. Cousin Monica was always a girl in my eyes. What a hug it was; what a shower of kisses and ejaculations, enquiries and caresses! At last I pressed her down into a chair, and, laughing, she said You have no idea what selfdenial I have exercised to bring this visit about. I, who detest writing, have actually written five letters to Silas; and I dont think I said a single impertinent thing in one of them! What a wonderful little old thing your butler is! I did not know what to make of him on the steps. Is he a struldbrug, or a fairy, or only a ghost? Where on earth did your uncle pick him up? Im sure he came in on All Hallows Een, to answer an incantationnot your future husband, I hopeand hell vanish some night into gray smoke, and whisk sadly up the chimney. Hes the most venerable little thing I ever beheld in my life. I leaned back in the carriage and thought I should absolutely die of laughing. Hes gone up to prepare your uncle for my visit; and I really am very glad, for Im sure I shall look as young as Hebe after him. But who is this? Who are you, my dear? This was addressed to poor Milly, who stood at the corner of the chimneypiece, staring with her round eyes and plump cheeks in fear and wonder upon the strange lady. How stupid of me, I exclaimed. Milly, dear, this is your cousin, Lady Knollys. And so you are Millicent. Well, dear, I am very glad to see you. And Cousin Monica was on her feet again in an instant, with Millys hand very cordially in hers; and she gave her a kiss upon each cheek, and patted her head. Milly, I must mention, was a much more presentable figure than when I first encountered her. Her dresses were at least a quarter of a yard longer. Though very rustic, therefore, she was not so barbarously grotesque, by any means. IV Cousin Monica and Uncle Silas Meet Cousin Monica, with her hands upon Millys shoulders, looked amusedly and kindly in her face. And, said she, we must be very good friendsyou funny creature, you and I. Im allowed to be the most saucy old woman in Derbyshirequite incorrigibly privileged; and nobody is ever affronted with me, so I say the most shocking things constantly. Im a bit that way, myself; and I think, said poor Milly, making an effort, and growing very red; she quite lost her head at that point, and was incompetent to finish the sentiment she had prefaced. You think? Now, take my advice, and never wait to think my dear; talk first, and think afterwards, that is my way; though, indeed, I cant say I ever think at all. It is a very cowardly habit. Our coldblooded cousin Maud, there, thinks sometimes; but it is always such a failure that I forgive her. I wonder when your little preAdamite butler will return. He speaks the language of the Picts and Ancient Britons, I dare say, and your father requires a little time to translate him. And, Milly dear, I am very hungry, so I wont wait for your butler, who would give me, I suppose, one of the cakes baked by King Alfred, and some Danish beer in a skull; but Ill ask you for a little of that nice bread and butter. With which accordingly Lady Knollys was quickly supplied; but it did not at all impede her utterance. Do you think, girls, you could be ready to come away with me, if Silas gives leave, in an hour or two? I should so like to take you both home with me to Elverston. How delightful! you darling, cried I, embracing and kissing her; for my part, I should be ready in five minutes; what do you say, Milly? Poor Millys wardrobe, I am afraid, was more portable than handsome; and she looked horribly affrighted, and whispered in my ear My best petticoat is away at the laundress; say in a week, Maud. What does she say? asked Lady Knollys. She fears she cant be ready, I answered, dejectedly. Theres a deal of my slops in the wash, blurted out poor Milly, staring straight at Lady Knollys. In the name of wonder, what does my cousin mean? asked Lady Knollys. Her things have not come home yet from the laundress, I replied; and at this moment our wondrous old butler entered to announce to Lady Knollys that his master was ready to receive her, whenever she was disposed to favour him; and also to make polite apologies for his being compelled, by his state of health, to give her the trouble of ascending to his room. So Cousin Monica was at the door in a moment, over her shoulder calling to us, Come, girls. Please, not yet, my ladyyou alone; and he requests the young ladies will be in the way, as he will send for them presently. I began to admire poor Giblets as the wreck of a tolerably respectable servant. Very good; perhaps it is better we should kiss and be friends in private first, said Cousin Knollys, laughing; and away she went under the guidance of the mummy. I had an account of this ttette afterwards from Lady Knollys. When I saw him, my dear, she said, I could hardly believe my eyes; such white hairsuch a white facesuch mad eyessuch a deathlike smile. When I saw him last, his hair was dark; he dressed himself like a modern Englishman; and he really preserved a likeness to the fulllength portrait at Knowl, that you fell in love with, you know; but, angels and ministers of grace! such a spectre! I asked myself, is it necromancy, or is it delirium tremens that has reduced him to this? And said he, with that odious smile, that made me fancy myself half insane  You see a change, Monica. What a sweet, gentle, insufferable voice he has! Somebody once told me about the tone of a glass flute that made some people hysterical to listen to, and I was thinking of it all the time. There was always a peculiar quality in his voice.  I do see a change, Silas, I said at last; and, no doubt, so do you in mea great change.  There has been time enough to work a greater than I observe in you since you last honoured me with a visit, said he. I think he was at his old sarcasms, and meant that I was the same impertinent minx he remembered long ago, uncorrected by time; and so I am, and he must not expect compliments from old Monica Knollys.  It is a long time, Silas; but that, you know, is not my fault, said I.  Not your fault, my dearyour instinct. We are all imitative creatures the great people ostracised me, and the small ones followed. We are very like turkeys, we have so much good sense and so much generosity. Fortune, in a freak, wounded my head, and the whole brood were upon me, pecking and gobbling, gobbling and pecking, and you among them, dear Monica. It wasnt your fault, only your instinct, so I quite forgive you; but no wonder the peckers wear better than the pecked. You are robust; and I, what I am.  Now, Silas, I have not come here to quarrel. If we quarrel now, mind, we can never make it upwe are too old, so let us forget all we can, and try to forgive something; and if we can do neither, at all events let there be truce between us while I am here.  My personal wrongs I can quite forgive, and I do, Heaven knows, from my heart; but there are things which ought not to be forgiven. My children have been ruined by it. I may, by the mercy of Providence, be yet set right in the world, and so soon as that time comes, I will remember, and I will act; but my childrenyou will see that wretched girl, my daughtereducation, society, all would come too latemy children have been ruined by it.  I have not done it; but I know what you mean, I said. You menace litigation whenever you have the means; but you forget that Austin placed you under promise, when he gave you the use of this house and place, never to disturb my title to Elverston. So there is my answer, if you mean that.  I mean what I mean, he replied, with his old smile.  You mean then, said I, that for the pleasure of vexing me with litigation, you are willing to forfeit your tenure of this house and place.  Suppose I did mean precisely that, why should I forfeit anything? My beloved brother, by his will, has given me a right to the use of BartramHaugh for my life, and attached no absurd condition of the kind you fancy to his gift. Silas was in one of his vicious old moods, and liked to menace me. His vindictiveness got the better of his craft; but he knows as well as I do that he never could succeed in disturbing the title of my poor dear Harry Knollys; and I was not at all alarmed by his threats; and I told him so, as coolly as I speak to you now.  Well, Monica, he said, I have weighed you in the balance, and you are not found wanting. For a moment the old man possessed me the thought of my children, of past unkindness, and present affliction and disgrace, exasperated me, and I was mad. It was but for a momentthe galvanic spasm of a corpse. Never was breast more dead than mine to the passions and ambitions of the world. They are not for white locks like these, nor for a man who, for a week in every month, lies in the gate of death. Will you shake hands? HereI do strike a truce; and I do forget and forgive everything. I dont know what he meant by this scene. I have no idea whether he was acting, or lost his head, or, in fact, why or how it occurred; but I am glad, darling, that, unlike myself, I was calm, and that a quarrel has not been forced upon me. When our turn came and we were summoned to the presence, Uncle Silas was quite as usual; but Cousin Monicas heightened colour, and the flash of her eyes, showed plainly that something exciting and angry had occurred. Uncle Silas commented in his own vein upon the effect of Bartram air and liberty, all he had to offer; and called on me to say how I liked them. And then he called Milly to him, kissed her tenderly, smiled sadly upon her, and turning to Cousin Monica, said This is my daughter Millyoh! she has been presented to you downstairs, has she? You have, no doubt, been interested by her. As I told her cousin Maud, though I am not yet quite a Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, she is a very finished Miss Hoyden. Are not you, my poor Milly? You owe your distinction, my dear, to that line of circumvallation which has, ever since your birth, intercepted all civilisation on its way to Bartram. You are much obliged, Milly, to everybody who, whether naturally or unnaturally, turned a sod in that invisible, but impenetrable, work. For your accomplishmentsrather singular than fashionableyou are indebted, in part, to your cousin, Lady Knollys. Is not she, Monica? Thank her, Milly. This is your truce, Silas, said Lady Knollys, with a quiet sharpness. I think, Silas Ruthyn, you want to provoke me to speak in a way before these young creatures which we should all regret. So my badinage excites your temper, Monnie. Think how you would feel, then, if I had found you by the highway side, mangled by robbers, and set my foot upon your throat, and spat in your face. Butstop this. Why have I said this? simply to emphasize my forgiveness. See, girls, Lady Knollys and I, cousins long estranged, forget and forgive the past, and join hands over its buried injuries. Well, be it so; only let us have done with ironies and covert taunts. And with these words their hands were joined; and Uncle Silas, after he had released hers, patted and fondled it with his, laughing icily and very low all the time. I wish so much, dear Monica, he said, when this piece of silent byplay was over, that I could ask you to stay tonight; but absolutely I have not a bed to offer, and even if I had, I fear my suit would hardly prevail. Then came Lady Knollys invitation for Milly and me. He was very much obliged; he smiled over it a great deal, meditating. I thought he was puzzled; and amid his smiles, his wild eyes scanned Cousin Monicas frank face once or twice suspiciously. There was a difficultyan undefined difficultyabout letting us go that day; but on a future onesoonvery soonhe would be most happy. Well, there was an end of that little project, for today at least; and Cousin Monica was too wellbred to urge it beyond a certain point. Milly, my dear, will you put on your hat and show me the grounds about the house? May she, Silas? I should like to renew my acquaintance. Youll see them sadly neglected, Monnie. A poor mans pleasure grounds must rely on Nature, and trust to her for effects. Where there is fine timber, however, and abundance of slope, and rock, and hollow, we sometimes gain in picturesqueness what we lose by neglect in luxury. Then, as Cousin Monica said she would cross the grounds by a path, and meet her carriage at a point to which we would accompany her, and so make her way home, she took leave of Uncle Silas; a ceremony whereatwithout, I thought, much zeal at either sidea kiss took place. Now, girls! said Cousin Knollys, when we were fairly in motion over the grass, what do you saywill he let you comeyes or no? I cant say, but I think, dear,this to Millyhe ought to let you see a little more of the world than appears among the glens and bushes of Bartram. Very pretty they are, like yourself; but very wild, and very little seen. Where is your brother, Milly; is not he older than you? I dont know where; and he is older by six years and a bit. Byandby, when Milly was gesticulating to frighten some herons by the rivers brink into the air, Cousin Monica said confidentially to me He has run away, Im toldI wish I could believe itand enlisted in a regiment going to India, perhaps the best thing for him. Did you see him here before his judicious selfbanishment? No. Well, I suppose you have had no loss. Doctor Bryerly says from all he can learn he is a very bad young man. And now tell me, dear, is Silas kind to you? Yes, always gentle, just as you saw him today; but we dont see a great deal of himvery little, in fact. And how do you like your life and the people? she asked. My life, very well; and the people, pretty well. Theres an old women we dont like, old Wyat, she is cross and mysterious and tells untruths; but I dont think she is dishonestso Mary Quince saysand that, you know, is a point; and there is a family, father and daughter, called Hawkes, who live in the Windmill Wood, who are perfect savages, though my uncle says they dont mean it; but they are very disagreeable, rude people; and except them we see very little of the servants or other people. But there has been a mysterious visit; someone came late at night, and remained for some days, though Milly and I never saw them, and Mary Quince saw a chaise at the sidedoor at two oclock at night. Cousin Monica was so highly interested at this that she arrested her walk and stood facing me, with her hand on my arm, questioning and listening, and lost, as it seemed, in dismal conjecture. It is not pleasant, you know, I said. No, it is not pleasant, said Lady Knollys, very gloomily. And just then Milly joined us, shouting to us to look at the herons flying; so Cousin Monica did, and smiled and nodded in thanks to Milly, and was again silent and thoughtful as we walked on. You are to come to me, mind, both of you girls, she said, abruptly; you shall. Ill manage it. When silence returned, and Milly ran away once more to try whether the old gray trout was visible in the still water under the bridge, Cousin Monica said to me in a low tone, looking hard at me Youve not seen anything to frighten you, Maud? Dont look so alarmed, dear, she added with a little laugh, which was not very merry, however. I dont mean frighten in any awful sensein fact, I did not mean frighten at all. I meantI cant exactly express itanything to vex, or make you uncomfortable; have you? No, I cant say I have, except that room in which Mr. Charke was found dead. Oh! you saw that, did you?I should like to see it so much. Your bedroom is not near it? Oh, no; on the floor beneath, and looking to the front. And Doctor Bryerly talked a little to me, and there seemed to be something on his mind more than he chose to tell me; so that for some time after I saw him I really was, as you say, frightened; but, except that, I really have had no cause. And what was in your mind when you asked me? Well, you know, Maud, you are afraid of ghosts, banditti, and everything; and I wished to know whether you were uncomfortable, and what your particular bogle was just nowthat, I assure you, was all; and I know, she continued, suddenly changing her light tone and manner for one of pointed entreaty, what Doctor Bryerly said; and I implore of you, Maud, to think of it seriously; and when you come to me, you shall do so with the intention of remaining at Elverston. Now, Cousin Monica, is this fair? You and Doctor Bryerly both talk in the same awful way to me; and I assure you, you dont know how nervous I am sometimes, and yet you wont, either of you, say what you mean. Now, Monica, dear cousin, wont you tell me? You see, dear, it is so lonely; its a strange place, and he so odd. I dont like the place, and I dont like him. Ive tried, but I cant, and I think I never shall. He may be a verywhat was it that good little silly curate at Knowl used to call him?a very advanced Christianthat is it, and I hope he is; but if he is only what he used to be, his utter seclusion from society removes the only check, except personal fearand he never had much of thatupon a very bad man. And you must know, my dear Maud, what a prize you are, and what an immense trust it is. Suddenly Cousin Monica stopped short, and looked at me as if she had gone too far. But, you know, Silas may be very good now, although he was wild and selfish in his young days. Indeed I dont know what to make of him; but I am sure when you have thought it over, you will agree with me and Doctor Bryerly, that you must not stay here. It was vain trying to induce my cousin to be more explicit. I hope to see you at Elverston in a very few days. I will shame Silas into letting you come. I dont like his reluctance. But dont you think he must know that Milly would require some little outfit before her visit? Well, I cant say. I hope that is all; but be it what it may, Ill make him let you come, and immediately, too. After she had gone, I experienced a repetition of those undefined doubts which had tortured me for some time after my conversation with Dr. Bryerly. I had truly said, however, I was well enough contented with my mode of life here, for I had been trained at Knowl to a solitude very nearly as profound. V In Which I Make Another Cousins Acquaintance My correspondence about this time was not very extensive. About once a fortnight a letter from honest Mrs. Rusk conveyed to me how the dogs and ponies were, in queer English, oddly spelt; some village gossip, a critique upon Doctor Clays or the Curates last sermon, and some severities generally upon the Dissenters doings, with loves to Mary Quince, and all good wishes to me. Sometimes a welcome letter from cheerful Cousin Monica; and now, to vary the series, a copy of complimentary verses, without a signature, very adoringvery like Byron, I then fancied, and now, I must confess, rather vapid. Could I doubt from whom they came? I had received, about a month after my arrival, a copy of verses in the same hand, in a plaintive ballad style, of the soldierly sort, in which the writer said, that as living his sole object was to please me, so dying I should be his latest thought; and some more poetic impieties, asking only in return that when the storm of battle had swept over, I should shed a tear on seeing the oak lie, where it fell. Of course, about this lugubrious pun, there could be no misconception. The Captain was unmistakably indicated; and I was so moved that I could no longer retain my secret; but walking with Milly that day, confided the little romance to that unsophisticated listener, under the chestnut trees. The lines were so amorously dejected, and yet so heroically redolent of blood and gunpowder, that Milly and I agreed that the writer must be on the verge of a sanguinary campaign. It was not easy to get at Uncle Silass Times or Morning Post, which we fancied would explain these horrible allusions; but Milly bethought her of a sergeant in the militia, resident in Feltram, who knew the destination and quarters of every regiment in the service; and circuitously, from this authority, we learned, to my infinite relief, that Captain Oakleys regiment had still two years to sojourn in England. I was summoned one evening by old LAmour, to my uncles room. I remember his appearance that evening so well, as he lay back in his chair; the pillow; the white glare of his strange eye; his feeble, painful smile. Youll excuse my not rising, dear Maud, I am so miserably ill this evening. I expressed my respectful condolence. Yes; I am to be pitied; but pity is of no use, dear, he murmured, peevishly. I sent for you to make you acquainted with your cousin, my son. Where are you Dudley? A figure seated in a low lounging chair, at the other side of the fire, and which till then I had not observed, at these words rose up a little slowly, like a man stiff after a days hunting; and I beheld with a shock that held my breath, and fixed my eyes upon him in a stare, the young man whom I had encountered at Church Scarsdale, on the day of my unpleasant excursion there with Madame, and who, to the best of my belief, was also one of that ruffianly party who had so unspeakably terrified me in the warren at Knowl. I suppose I looked very much affrighted. If I had been looking at a ghost I could not have felt much more scared and incredulous. When I was able to turn my eyes upon my uncle he was not looking at me; but with a glimmer of that smile with which a father looks on a son whose youth and comeliness he admires, his white face was turned towards the young man, in whom I beheld nothing but the image of odious and dreadful associations. Come, sir, said my uncle, we must not be too modest. Heres your cousin Maudwhat do you say? How are ye, Miss? he said, with a sheepish grin. Miss! Come, come. Miss us, no Misses, said my uncle; she is Maud, and you Dudley, or I mistake; or we shall have you calling Milly, madame. Shell not refuse you her hand, I venture to think. Come, young gentleman, speak for yourself. How are ye, Maud? he said, doing his best, and drawing near, he extended his hand. Youre welcome to BartramHaugh, Miss. Kiss your cousin, sir. Wheres your gallantry? On my honour, I disown you, exclaimed my uncle, with more energy than he had shown before. With a clumsy effort, and a grin that was both sheepish and impudent, he grasped my hand and advanced his face. The imminent salute gave me strength to spring back a step or two, and he hesitated. My uncle laughed peevishly. Well, well, that will do, I suppose. In my time firstcousins did not meet like strangers; but perhaps we were wrong; we are learning modesty from the Americans, and old English ways are too gross for us. I haveIve seen him beforethat is; and at this point I stopped. My uncle turned his strange glare, in a sort of scowl of enquiry, upon me. Oh!hey! why this is news. You never told me. Where have you meteh, Dudley? Never saw her in my days, so far as Im aweer on, said the young man. No! Well, then, Maud, will you enlighten us? said Uncle Silas, coldly. I did see that young gentleman before, I faltered. Meaning me, maam? he asked, coolly. Yescertainly you. I did, uncle, answered I. And where was it, my dear? Not at Knowl, I fancy. Poor dear Austin did not trouble me or mine much with his hospitalities. This was not a pleasant tone to take in speaking of his dead brother and benefactor; but at the moment I was too much engaged upon the one point to observe it. I metI could not say my cousinI met him, uncleyour sonthat young gentlemanI saw him, I should say, at Church Scarsdale, and afterwards with some other persons in the warren at Knowl. It was the night our gamekeeper was beaten. Well, Dudley, what do you say to that? asked Uncle Silas. I never was at them places, so help me. I dont know where they be; and I never set eyes on the young lady before, as I hope to be saved, in all my days, said he, with a countenance so unchanged and an air so confident that I began to think I must be the dupe of one of those strange resemblances which have been known to lead to positive identification in the witnessbox, afterwards proved to be utterly mistaken. You look soso uncomfortable, Maud, at the idea of having seen him before, that I hardly wonder at the vehemence of his denial. There was plainly something disagreeable; but you see as respects him it is a total mistake. My boy was always a truthtelling fellowyou may rely implicitly on what he says. You were not at those places? I wish I may began the ingenuous youth, with increased vehemence. There, therethat will do; your honour and word as a gentlemanand that you are, though a poor onewill quite satisfy your cousin Maud. Am I right, my dear? I do assure you, as a gentleman, I never knew him to say the thing that was not. So Mr. Dudley Ruthyn began, not to curse, but to swear, in the prescribed form, that he had never seen me before, or the places I had named, since I was weaned, by Thats enoughnow shake hands, if you wont kiss, like cousins, interrupted my uncle. And very uncomfortably I did lend him my hand to shake. Youll want some supper, Dudley, so Maud and I will excuse your going. Good night, my dear boy, and he smiled and waved him from the room. Thats as fine a young fellow, I think, as any English father can boast for his sontrue, brave, and kind, and quite an Apollo.


Did you observe how finely proportioned he is, and what exquisite features the fellow has? Hes rustic and rough, as you see; but a year or two in the militiaIve a promise of a commission for himhes too old for the linewill form and polish him. He wants nothing but manner; and I protest when he has had a little drilling of that kind, I do believe hell be as pretty a fellow as youd find in England. I listened with amazement. I could discover nothing but what was disagreeable in the horrid bumpkin, and thought such an instance of the blindness of parental partiality was hardly credible. I looked down, dreading another direct appeal to my judgment; and Uncle Silas, I suppose, referred those downcast looks to maiden modesty, for he forbore to task mine by any new interrogatory. Dudley Ruthyns cool and resolute denial of ever having seen me or the places I had named, and the inflexible serenity of his countenance while doing so, did very much shake my confidence in my own identification of him. I could not be quite certain that the person I had seen at Church Scarsdale was the very same whom I afterwards saw at Knowl. And now, in this particular instance, after the lapse of a still longer period, could I be perfectly certain that my memory, deceived by some accidental points of resemblance, had not duped me, and wronged my cousin, Dudley Ruthyn? I suppose my uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiesence in his splendid estimate of his cub, and was nettled at my silence. After a short interval he said Ive seen something of the world in my day, and I can say without a misgiving of partiality, that Dudley is the material of a perfect English gentleman. I am not blind, of coursethe training must be supplied; a year or two of good models, active selfcriticism, and good society. I simply say that the material is there. Here was another interval of silence. And now tell me, child, what these recollections of ChurchChurchwhat? Church Scarsdale, I replied. Yes, thank youChurch Scarsdale and Knowlare? So I related my stories as well as I could. Well, dear Maud, the adventure of Church Scarsdale is hardly so terrific as I expected, said Uncle Silas with a cold little laugh; and I dont see, if he had really been the hero of it, why he should shrink from avowing it. I know I should not. And I really cant say that your picnic party in the grounds of Knowl has frightened me much more. A lady waiting in the carriage, and two or three tipsy young men. Her presence seems to me a guarantee that no mischief was meant; but champagne is the soul of frolic, and a row with the gamekeepers a natural consequence. It happened to me onceforty years ago, when I was a wild young buckone of the worst rows I ever was in. And Uncle Silas poured some eaudecologne over the corner of his handkerchief, and touched his temples with it. If my boy had been there, I do assure youand I know himhe would say so at once. I fancy he would rather boast of it. I never knew him utter an untruth. When you know him a little youll say so. With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted, and languidly poured some of his favourite eaudecologne over the palms of his hands, nodded a farewell, and, in a whisper, wished me good night. Dudleys come, whispered Milly, taking me under the arm as I entered the lobby. But I dont care he never gives me nout; and he gets money from Governor, as much as he likes, and I never a sixpence. Its a shame! So there was no great love between the only son and only daughter of the younger line of the Ruthyns. I was curious to learn all that Milly could tell me of this new inmate of BartramHaugh; and Milly was communicative without having a great deal to relate, and what I heard from her tended to confirm my own disagreeable impressions about him. She was afraid of him. He was a woundy ugly customer in a wax, she could tell me. He was the only one she ever knowed as had pluck to jaw the Governor. But he was afeard on the Governor, too. His visits to BartramHaugh, I heard, were desultory; and this, to my relief, would probably not outlast a week or a fortnight. He was such a fashionable cove; he was always agadding about, mostly to Liverpool and Birmingham, and sometimes to Lunnun, itself. He was keeping company one time with Beauty, Governor thought, and he was awfully afraid hed a married her; but that was all bosh and nonsense; and Beauty would have none of his chaff and wheedling, for she liked Tom Brice; and Milly thought that Dudley never cared a crack of a whip for her. He used to go to the Windmill to have a smoke with Pegtop; and he was a member of the Feltram Club, that met at the Plume o Feathers. He was a rare good shot, she heard; and he was before the justices for poaching, but they could make nothing of it. And the Governor said it was all through spite of himfor they hate us for being better blood than they. And all but the squires and those upstart folk loves Dudley, he is so handsome and gaythough he be a bit cross at home. And, Governor says, hell be a Parliament man yet, spite o them all. Next morning, when our breakfast was nearly ended, Dudley tapped at the window with the end of his clay pipea churchwarden Milly called itjust such a long curved pipe as Joe Willet is made to hold between his lips in those charming illustrations of Barnaby Rudgewhich we all know so welland lifting his wideawake with a burlesque salutation, which, I suppose, would have charmed the Plume of Feathers, he dropped, kicked and caught his wideawake, with an agility and gravity, as he replaced it, so inexpressibly humorous, that Milly went off in a loud fit of laughter, with the ejaculation Did you ever? It was odd how repulsively my confidence in my original identification always revived on unexpectedly seeing Dudley after an interval. I could perceive that this piece of comic byplay was meant to make a suitable impression on me. I received it, however, with a killing gravity; and after a word or two to Milly, he lounged away, having first broken his pipe, bit by bit, into pieces, which he balanced in turn on his nose and on his chin, from which features he jerked them into his mouth, with a precision which, along with his excellent pantomime of eating them, highly excited Millys mirth and admiration. VI 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 Silass 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 selfcomplacency 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 Ruthyns 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 rightabout 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 Ill look at ye, and maybe drink a drop for company. And with these words, he took a sportsmans flask from his pocket; and helping himself to a large glass and a decanter, he compounded a glass of strong brandyandwater, as he talked, and refreshed himself with it from time to time. Curates up wi the Governor, he said, with a grin. I wanted a word wi him; but I spose Ill hardly git in this hour or more; theyre a praying and disputing, and a Biblechopping, as usual. Ha, ha! But twont hold much longer, old Wyat says, now that Uncle Austins dead; theres nout to be made o praying and that work no longer, and it dont pay of itself. O fie! For shame, you sinner! laughed Milly. He wasnt in a church these five years, he says, and then only to meet a young lady. Now, isnt he a sinner, Maudisnt he? Dudley, grinning, looked with a languishing slyness at me, biting the edge of his wideawake, 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? Youd have me cry, would ye? answered Milly. I certainly would not have you laugh, I replied. I know I wish someone 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 Scotts 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 coachesawful slow. Ill have a good bit to wait, I spose. I should be three miles away and more by this timedrat 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 cant 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. Im 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 sideglance. I say, it is a hard case, Miss, a lad o spirit should be kept so tight. I havent a shilling but what comes through his fingers; an drat the tizzy hell gi me till he knows the reason why. Perhaps, I said, my uncle thinks you should earn some for yourself. Id like to know how a fellas to earn money nowadays. You wouldnt have a gentleman to keep a shop, I fancy. But Ill 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 theyre cursed slow about paying, I know. I made no remark upon this elegant allusion to the executors of my dear fathers will. An I tell ye, Maud, when I git the tin, I know who Ill 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 theres someat, lass, I must have in return. Honour thy father, you know; you would not ha me disobey the Governor? No, you wouldntwould ye? I darted at him a look which I hoped would have quelled his impertinence; but I blushed most provokinglymore violently than ever. Id back them eyes again the county, I would, he exclaimed, with a condescending enthusiasm. Youre awful pretty, you are, Maud. I dont know what came over me tother night when Governor told me to buss ye; but dang it, ye shant deny me now, and Ill 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 agoing to fight me! he chuckled humorously. Come, Maud, you would not be illnatured, sure? Arter all, its only our duty. Governor bid us kiss, didnt he? Dontdont, sir. Stand back, or Ill call the servants. And as it was I began to scream for Milly. Theres how it is wi all they cattle! You never knows your own mindye dont, he said, surlily. You make such a row about a bit o play. Drop it, will you? Theres no one aharming youis there? Im 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 uncles opinion to the contrary, seemed to me like an outrage. Milly found me alonenot 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 Millys 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 rou, converted though he wasthis refined man of fashionto 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 uncles character. Grizzly and chaotic the image risessilver 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 particularI 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 suddenlyalmost fatuous. I thought of Moores 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, toohis hoverings between life and deathbetween intellect and insanitya dubious, marshfire 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 BartramHaugh when a little note reached me from Lady Knollys. It said Dearest MaudI 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 tomorrow, to stay for at least a week. I have hardly a creature to meet you. I have been disappointed in several visitors; but another time we shall have a gayer house. Tell Millywith my lovethat 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 oclock my uncle sent for us, and, to our great delight, announced his consent, and wished us a very happy excursion. VII 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. Im blessed, said she, laughing, if he hadnt his thumb to his nose, and winding up his little finger, the way he does with old WyatLAmour, 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 dont know Dudley if he were angry, hed say nothing thats funny; no, hes 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 Monicas 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 myselffor I affected an impressive gravity in lecturing her upon her languageinto 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 wellbred than from underbred people. Cousin Monica was out when we arrived; but we found that she had arranged a doublebedded room for me and Milly, greatly to our content; and good Mary Quince was placed in the dressingroom 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 Im aware of, she added, perceiving us smile. But I do think hes 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 Scotts 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 youll 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 lovemaking, 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 Monicas 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? Ive found out, my dear, he plays, and he is very much in debt. Ive made a vow to pay no more for him. Ive been such a fool, you have no notion; and Im 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, Im told, very sweet upon a rich old maida buttonmakers sister, in Manchester. This arrow was well shot. But dont 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 Falstaffs billetdoux, you know, are doing double duty. I laughed, but the buttonmaker 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 Millys toilet, and was a very useful ladys 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 youve got very pretty teethvery 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 drawingroom we went; and Cousin Monica entered, leading us both by the hands. By this time the curtains were closed, and the drawingroom 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, Silass 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 frankeyed, 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 youthpast thirty, I supposeand 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 dressingbell 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, dont I? she demanded. You look extremely pretty, Milly; and not a bit like a fool. I watch everything. I think Ill learn it at last; but it comes a little troublesome at first; and they do talk different from what I usedyou were quite right there. When we returned to the drawingroom, 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 chimneypiece, 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 illnatured 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 woodnymphs 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 routein quest of the dryads, I am afraidand 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 Im 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 talkedit 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 undertone 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 clergymanil en est prishe has evidently quite lost his heart to her. I dare say hell preach next Sunday on some of King Solomons 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 dont 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 nowyour poor fathers will, Maud. Surely he doesnt mean to go on lounging and smoking away his life among poachers, and prizefighters, and worse people. He ought to go to Australia, like Thomas Swain, who, they say, is making a fortunea great fortuneand coming home again. Thats what your brother Dudley should do, if he has either sense or spirit; but I suppose he wonttoo long abandoned to idleness and low companyand hell 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 Austins legacy to him, and saying that he has paid debts of the young man, and holds his acknowledgments to that amount? He wont have a guinea in a year if he stays here. Id give fifty pounds he was in Van Diemens Landnot that I care for the cub, Milly, any more than you do; but I really dont 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 cant 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 itHawk, or something like that. Ay, HawkesDickon Hawkes; thats 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 itfor 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 posthorses will do very well; and she laughed a little again. Thats why the stiles pulled away at the paling, I suppose; and BeautyMeg Hawkes, that isis 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 cant 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 BartramHaugh. 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 ninenot 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 shes 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 Milly, it is to Mr. Carysbroke shes 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 lowtoned 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 didIlbury, I thinkand I saw him gi her a sly kiss as she was going upstairs. 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. Youre 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 pangsomething of mortificationsomething of regret; but I smiled very gaily, as I stood before the glass, unmaking my toilet preparatory to bed. MaudMaudfickle Maud!What, Captain Oakley already superseded! and Mr. Carysbrokeoh! humiliationengaged. 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. VIII 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 fiance 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 nameLady Mary what? I demanded. Who would have thought you so cunning? Two country missestwo 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? Well 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. Carysbrokes, 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 LAmour, answered Milly, with her blue eyes very wide open. What does the child mean? LAmour! You dont mean love? exclaimed Lady Knollys, puzzled in her turn. I mean old Wyat; she told me and the Governor. Youre 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 girlsall things consideredI never heard of before, exclaimed Lady Knollys. Theres 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. Youll 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 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 counterdiscovery, 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 matchmaking little creatures they are. You cant 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 excursionssometimes ridingsometimes by carriageto 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 facepretty, I dare say, in other days, and now frosty, but kindlywho told us such delightful old stories of the county in her fathers and grandfathers 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 oldworld 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 postboy, who every third night crossed Windale Moor, by the old coachroad, 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 Milly improved in it. I remember well the intense suspense in which she and I awaited the answer from BartramHaugh to kind Cousin Monicas 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 KnollysTo 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 Sternes. 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, altogetherin intellect, more than we allowselfeducation 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 saysI stupidly forget the words, but the sentiment is thisalthough 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 Lifethe fountain of lifeit 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 dont 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 dont want him. Poor Charlie! I wonder how they manage those doctors certificates. I know nothing ails him, and hed 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 Marys eyes for a moment resting gravely on my telltalemy lying cheeksfor 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 myselfgenerally angryrefused more tea rather dryly, and was laconic to Lord Ilbury, 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 drawingroom 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 cant go downIm ready to cryIve 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 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 wellregulated 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 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 drawingroom. 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 doorhandle. I shut the book, as Mrs. Bluebeard might the door of the chamber of horrors at the sound of her husbands 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 melancholythat is, for a few minutes togetherand then, I fancy, with an effort, reengages 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 difficileor a philosopheror 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 supposesuch hypocrites are weto 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 solitudeof all things the worst for a man in griefa 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 himyou are not angry, Millythan some illnatured 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 dont 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. Millys 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, Millys little reading had been concentrated. A mild and earnest interest in poor, pretty Millys 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 lowtoned 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. Millys reverence for her instructor, and his admiration, grew daily; and he was known among us as Millys 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 letterpress dealt in a way which he commended, with some points on which she was not satisfactory; and she found on the flyleaf this little inscriptionPresented to Miss Millicent Ruthyn by an earnest wellwisher, 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 dont 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 BartramHaugh. 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 wellwishers little inscription, but there was not light to read by. When we reached the great gate of BartramHaugh it was dark. Old Crowl, who kept the gate, I heard enjoining the postilion to make no avoidable noise at the halldoor, 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 sillyish 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 Im aweer on, Miss; he lay at Gods mercy two hours agone; appen hes in heaven be this time. Drive ondrive fast, I said to the driver. Dont 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 servantman opened the door, and trotted shakily down the steps to the carriage side. Uncle Silas had been at deaths 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 masters room; he blooded him three hours agone. I dont think that Milly was so frightened as I. My heart beat, and I was trembling so that I could hardly get upstairs. IX 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 Wyat most of the day, and was there when doctor blooded him, an he spoke at last; but he must be awful weak, he took a deal o blood from his arm, Miss; I held the basin. And hes betterdecidedly better? I asked. Well, hes better, doctor says; he talked some, and doctor says if he goes off asleep again, and begins asnoring like he did before, were to loose the bandage, and let him bleed till he comes to his self again; which, it seems to me and Wyat, is the same thing amost as saying hes to be killed offhand, for I dont believe he has a drop to spare, as youll say likewise, Miss, if youll 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. Milly must have felt her fathers 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 saidthinking of nothing but the one idea We must see himcome, Milly. I entered his sittingroom; a common dip candle hanging like the tower of Pisa all to one side, with a dim, long wick, in a greasy candlestick, profaned the table of the fastidious invalid. The light was 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 Wyat, a white, highcauled ghost, was pottering in her slippers in the shadow at the far side of the bed. The doctor, a stout little bald man, with a paunch and a big bunch of seals, stood with his back to the fireplace, which corresponded with that in the next room, eyeing his patient through the curtains of the bed with a listless sort of importance. The head of the large fourposter 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 Doctor Jolks, in a murmured diapason. He bowed me back again into my uncles study, and the light of old Wyats dreadful candle. Doctor Jolks was suave and pompous. I longed for a fussy practitioner who would have got over the ground in half the time. Coma, madam; coma. Miss Ruthyn, your uncle, I may tell you, has been in a very critical state; highly so. Coma of the most obstinate type. He would have sunkhe 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 constitutiona marvellous constitutionprodigious nervous fibre; the greatest pity in the world he wont give himself fair play. His habits, you know, are quite, I may say, destructive. We do our bestwe do all we can, but if the patient wont cooperate it cant possibly end satisfactorily. And Jolks accompanied this with an awful shrug. Is there anything? Do you think change of air? What an awful complaint it is, I exclaimed. He smiled, mysteriously looking down, and shook his head undertakerlike. Why, we can hardly call it a complaint, Miss Ruthyn. I look upon it he has been poisonedhe 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 laudanum, he takes it in water, and, most dangerous of all, he takes it solid, in lozenges. Ive known people take it moderately. Ive known people take it to excess, but they all were particular as to measure, and that is exactly the point Ive tried to impress upon him. The habit, of course, you understand is formed, theres no uprooting that; but he wont measurehe goes by the eye and by sensation, which I need not tell you, Miss Ruthyn, 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, in considerable quantities, without fatal consequences, but still a poison; and to exhibit a poison so, is, I need scarcely tell you, to trifle with death. He has been so threatened, and for a time he changes his haphazard mode of dealing with it, and then returns; he may escapeof course, that is possiblebut he may any day overdo the thing. I dont think the present crisis will result seriously. I am very glad, independently of the honour of making your acquaintance, Miss Ruthyn, that you and your cousin have returned; for, however zealous, I fear the servants are deficient in intelligence; and as in the event of a recurrence of the symptomswhich, however, is not probableI 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 Milly or I would remain in the room with the patient until his return at two or three oclock in the morning; a reappearance of the coma might be very bad indeed. Of course Milly and I did as we were directed. We sat 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. Had he attempted to poison himself? If he believed his position to be as desperate as Lady Knollys 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 hours interval, a sign of life would comea moan from that tall sheeted figure in the beda moan and a pattering of the lips. Was it prayerwhat was it? who could guess what thoughts were passing behind that whitefillited forehead? I had peeped at him a white cloth steeped in vinegar and water was folded round his head; his great eyes were closed, so were his marble lips; his figure straight, thin, and long, dressed in a white dressinggown, looked like a corpse laid out in the bed; his gaunt bandaged arm lay outside the sheet that covered his body. With this awful image of death we kept our vigil, until poor Milly grew so sleepy that old Wyat proposed that she should take her place and watch with me. Little as I liked the crone with the highcauled cap, she would, at all events, keep awake, which Milly could not. And so at one oclock this new arrangement began. Mr. Dudley Ruthyn is not at home? I whispered to old Wyat. He went away wi himself yesternight, to Cloperton, Miss, to see the wrestling; it was to come off this morning. Was he sent for? Not he. And why not? He would na leave the sport for this, Im thinking, and the old woman grinned uglily. When is he to return? When he wants money.