"Don't ye be a-flyin' out," he said peremptorily. "Take it or leave
it--on or off! Can't ye speak wi' common sense for once? I'll take ye
out o' all this, if you'll gi'e me what I say."
He looked black when I refused again. I judged it best to tell my uncle
of his offer. He was startled, but made what excuse he could, smiling
askance, a pale, peaked smile that haunted me. And then, once more,
entering an unfrequented room, I came upon the great bony figure of
Madame de la Rougierre. She was to be my companion for a week or two, I
was told, and shortly after her coming I found my walks curtailed. I
wrote again to my Cousin Knollys, imploring her to take me away. This
letter my uncle intercepted, and when she came in reply to my former
letter, I had but the sight of her carriage driving swiftly away.
The morning after I was informed madame was to take me to join Milly in
France. As Uncle Silas had directed, I wrote to Cousin Monica from
London. I know madame asked me what I would do for her if she took me to
Lady Knollys. I was inwardly startled, but refused, seeing before me
only a tempter and betrayer; and together we ended our journey, driving
from the station through the dark and starless night to find ourselves
at last in Mr. Charke's room at Bartram-Haugh.
There were bailiffs in the house, I was told. I was locked in. I
entreated madame wildly, piteously, to save me; but she mocked me in my
agony. I escaped for a brief moment, and sought my uncle. I can never
forget the look he fixed on me.
"What is the meaning of this? Why is she here?" he asked, in a stern,
icy tone. "You were always odd, niece. I begin to believe you are
insane. There's no evil intended you, by--, there is none! Go to your
room, and don't vex me, there's a good girl!"
I went upstairs with madame, like a somnambulist. She was to leave me to
sleep alone that night. I had lost the talismanic pin I always stuck in
the bolster of my bed. Uncle Silas sent up spiced claret in a little
silver flagon. Madame abstractedly drank it off, and threw herself on my
bed. I believed she was feigning sleep only, and really watching me; but
now I think the claret was drugged.
About an hour afterwards I heard them digging in the courtyard. Like a
thunder-bolt it smote my brain. "They are making my grave!"
After the first dreadful stun, I grew wild, running up and down wringing
my hands, and gasping prayers to heaven. Then a dreadful calm stole over
me.
_IV.--The Open Door_
It was a very still night. A peculiar sound startled me and I saw a man
descend by a rope, and take his stand on the windowsill. In a moment
more, window, bars and all, swung noiselessly open, and Dudley Ruthyn
stepped into the room.
He stole, in a groping way, to the bed, and stooped over it. Nearly at
the same moment there came a scrunching blow; an unnatural shriek,
accompanied by a convulsive sound, as of the motion of running, and the
arms drumming on the bed, and then another blow--and silence. The
diabolical surgery was over. There came a little tapping at the door.
"Who's that?" whispered Dudley hoarsely.
"A friend," answered a sweet voice, and Uncle Silas entered.
Coolness was given me in that dreadful moment. I knew that all depended
on my being prompt and resolute. With a mental prayer for help, I glided
from the room and descended the stairs. I tried the outer door. To my
wild surprise it was open. In a moment I was in the free air--and as
instantaneously was seized by Tom Brice, Meg's sweetheart, who was
waiting to drive the guilty father and son away.
"They shan't hurt ye, miss. Get ye in; I don't care a d----!" he said in
a wild, fierce whisper. To me it was the voice of an angel. He drove
over the grass so that our passage was noiseless; then, on reaching the
highway, at a gallop. At length we entered Elverston. I think I was half
wild. I could not speak, but ran, with a loud, long scream, into Cousin
Monica's arms. I forget a great deal after that.
* * * * *
It was not till two years afterwards that I learnt that Uncle Silas was
found next morning dead of an overdose of laudanum, and that Dudley had
disappeared.
Milly married her good little clergyman. I am Lady Ilbury now, happy in
the affection of a beloved and noble-hearted husband. A tiny voice is
calling "Mamma;" the shy, useless girl you have known is now a mother,
thinking, and trembling while she smiles, how strong is love, how frail
is life.
* * * * *