_I HEAR FROM UNCLE SILAS_
Without saying a word, Cousin Monica accompanied me to the school-room, and
on entering she shut the door, not with a spirited clang, but quietly and
determinedly.
'Well, dear,' she said, with the same pale, excited countenance, 'that
certainly is a sensible and charitable arrangement. I could not have
believed it possible, had I not heard it with my ears.'
'About my going to Bartram-Haugh?'
'Yes, exactly so, under Silas Ruthyn's guardianship, to spend
two--_three_--of the most important years of your education and your life
under that roof. Is _that_, my dear, what was in your mind when you were so
alarmed about what you were to be called upon to do, or undergo?'
'No, no, indeed. I had no notion what it might be. I was afraid of
something serious,' I answered.
'And, my dear Maud, did not your poor father speak to you as if it _was_
something serious?' said she. 'And so it _is_, I can tell you, something
serious, and _very_ serious; and I think it ought to be prevented, and I
certainly _will_ prevent it if I possibly can.'
I was puzzled utterly by the intensity of Lady Knollys' protest. I looked
at her, expecting an explanation of her meaning; but she was silent,
looking steadfastly on the jewels on her right-hand fingers, with which she
was drumming a staccato march on the table, very pale, with gleaming eyes,
evidently thinking deeply. I began to think she _had_ a prejudice against
my uncle Silas.
'He is not very rich,' I commenced.
'Who?' said Lady Knollys.
'Uncle Silas,' I replied.
'No, certainly; he's in debt,' she answered. 'But then, how very highly
Doctor Clay spoke of him!' I pursued.
'Don't talk of Doctor Clay. I do think that man is the greatest goose I
ever heard talk. I have no patience with such men,' she replied.
I tried to remember what particular nonsense Doctor Clay had uttered, and I
could recollect nothing, unless his eulogy upon my uncle were to be classed
with that sort of declamation.
'Danvers is a very proper man and a good accountant, I dare say; but he
is either a very deep person, or a fool--_I_ believe a fool. As for your
attorney, I suppose he knows his business, and also his interest, and I
have no doubt he will consult it. I begin to think the best man among them,
the shrewdest and the most reliable, is that vulgar visionary in the black
wig. I saw him look at you, Maud, and I liked his face, though it is
abominably ugly and vulgar, and cunning, too; but I think he's a just man,
and I dare say with right feelings--I'm _sure_ he has.'
I was quite at a loss to divine the gist of my cousin's criticism.
'I'll have some talk with Dr. Bryerly; I feel convinced he takes my view,
and we must really think what had best be done.'
'Is there anything in the will, Cousin Monica, that does not appear?' I
asked, for I was growing very uneasy. 'I wish you would tell me. What view
do you mean?'
'No view in particular; the view that a desolate old park, and the house of
a _neglected_ old man, who is very poor, and has been desperately foolish,
is not the right place for you, particularly at your years. It is quite
shocking, and I _will_ speak to Doctor Bryerly. May I ring the bell, dear?'
'Certainly;' and I rang it.
'When does he leave Knowl?'
I could not tell. Mrs. Rusk, however, was sent for, and she could tell
us that he had announced his intention of taking the night train from
Drackleton, and was to leave Knowl for that station at half-past six
o'clock.
'May Rusk give or send him a message from me, dear?' asked Lady Knollys.
Of course she might.
'Then please let him know that I request he will be so good as to allow me
a very few minutes, just to say a word before he goes.'
'You kind cousin!' I said, placing my two hands on her shoulders, and
looking earnestly in her face; 'you are anxious about me, more than you
say. Won't you tell me why? I am much more unhappy, really, in ignorance,
than if I understood the cause.'
'Well, dear, haven't I told you? The two or three years of your life which
are to form you are destined to be passed in utter loneliness, and, I am
sure, neglect. You can't estimate the disadvantage of such an arrangement.
It is full of disadvantages. How it could have entered the head of poor
Austin--although I should not say that, for I am sure I do understand
it,--but how he could for any purpose have directed such a measure is quite
inconceivable. I never heard of anything so foolish and abominable, and I
will prevent it if I can.'
At that moment Mrs. Rusk announced that Doctor Bryerly would see Lady
Knollys at any time she pleased before his departure.
'It shall be this moment, then,' said the energetic lady, and up she stood,
and made that hasty general adjustment before the glass, which, no matter
under what circumstances, and before what sort of creature one's appearance
is to be made, is a duty that every woman owes to herself. And I heard her
a moment after, at the stair-head, directing Branston to let Dr. Bryerly
know that she awaited him in the drawing-room.
And now she was gone, and I began to wonder and speculate. Why should
my cousin Monica make all this fuss about, after all, a very natural
arrangement? My uncle, whatever he might have been, was now a good man--a
religious man--perhaps a little severe; and with this thought a dark streak
fell across my sky.
A cruel disciplinarian! had I not read of such characters?--lock and
key, bread and water, and solitude! To sit locked up all night in a dark
out-of-the-way room, in a great, ghosty, old-fashioned house, with no one
nearer than the other wing. What years of horror in one such night! Would
not this explain my poor father's hesitation, and my cousin Monica's
apparently disproportioned opposition? When an idea of terror presents
itself to a young person's mind, it transfixes and fills the vision,
without respect of probabilities or reason.
My uncle was now a terrible old martinet, with long Bible lessons,
lectures, pages of catechism, sermons to be conned by rote, and an awful
catalogue of punishments for idleness, and what would seem to him impiety.
I was going, then, to a frightful isolated reformatory, where for the first
time in my life I should be subjected to a rigorous and perhaps barbarous
discipline.
All this was an exhalation of fancy, but it quite overcame me. I threw
myself, in my solitude, on the floor, upon my knees, and prayed for
deliverance--prayed that Cousin Monica might prevail with Doctor Bryerly,
and both on my behalf with the Lord Chancellor, or the High Sheriff, or
whoever else my proper deliverer might be; and when my cousin returned, she
found me quite in an agony.
'Why, you little fool! what fancy has taken possession of you now?' she
cried.
And when my new terror came to light, she actually laughed a little to
reassure me, and she said--
'My dear child, your uncle Silas will never put you through your duty to
your neighbour; all the time you are under his roof you'll have idleness
and liberty enough, and too much, I fear. It is neglect, my dear, not
discipline, that I'm afraid of.'
'I think, dear Cousin Monica, you are afraid of something more than
neglect,' I said, relieved, however.
'I _am_ afraid of more than neglect,' she replied promptly; 'but I hope my
fears may turn out illusory, and that possibly they may be avoided. And
now, for a few hours at least, let us think of something else. I rather
like that Doctor Bryerly. I could not get him to say what I wanted. I don't
think he's Scotch, but he is very cautious, and I am sure, though he would
not say so, that he thinks of the matter exactly as I do. He says that
those fine people, who are named as his co-trustees, won't take any
trouble, and will leave everything to him, and I am sure he is right. So
we must not quarrel with him, Maud, nor call him hard names, although
he certainly is intolerably vulgar and ugly, and at times very nearly
impertinent--I suppose without knowing, or indeed very much caring.'
We had a good deal to think of, and talked incessantly. There were bursts
and interruptions of grief, and my kind cousin's consolations. I have
often since been so lectured for giving way to grief, that I wonder at the
patience exercised by her during this irksome visit. Then there was some
reading of that book whose claims are always felt in the terrible days of
affliction. After that we had a walk in the yew garden, that quaint little
cloistered quadrangle--the most solemn, sad, and antiquated of gardens.
'And now, my dear, I must really leave you for two or three hours. I have
ever so many letters to write, and my people must think I'm dead by this
time.'
So till tea-time I had poor Mary Quince, with her gushes of simple prattle
and her long fits of vacant silence, for my companion. And such a one, who
can con over by rote the old friendly gossip about the dead, talk about
their ways, and looks, and likings, without much psychologic refinement,
but with a simple admiration and liking that never measured them
critically, but always with faith and love, is in general about as
comfortable a companion as one can find for the common moods of grief.
It is not easy to recall in calm and happy hours the sensations of an acute
sorrow that is past. Nothing, by the merciful ordinance of God, is more
difficult to remember than pain. One or two great agonies of that time I do
remember, and they remain to testify of the rest, and convince me, though I
can see it no more, how terrible all that period was.
Next day was the funeral, that appalling necessity; smuggled away in
whispers, by black familiars, unresisting, the beloved one leaves home,
without a farewell, to darken those doors no more; henceforward to lie
outside, far away, and forsaken, through the drowsy heats of summer,
through days of snow and nights of tempest, without light or warmth,
without a voice near. Oh, Death, king of terrors! The body quakes and the
spirit faints before thee. It is vain, with hands clasped over our eyes, to
scream our reclamation; the horrible image will not be excluded. We have
just the word spoken eighteen hundred years ago, and our trembling faith.
And through the broken vault the gleam of the Star of Bethlehem.
I was glad in a sort of agony when it was over. So long as it remained to
be done, something of the catastrophe was still suspended. Now it was all
over.
The house so strangely empty. No owner--no master! I with my strange
momentary liberty, bereft of that irreplaceable love, never quite prized
until it is lost. Most people have experienced the dismay that underlies
sorrow under such circumstances.
The apartment of the poor outcast from life is now dismantled. Beds and
curtains taken down, and furniture displaced; carpets removed, windows open
and doors locked; the bedroom and anteroom were henceforward, for many a
day, uninhabited. Every shocking change smote my heart like a reproach.
I saw that day that Cousin Monica had been crying for the first time, I
think, since her arrival at Knowl; and I loved her more for it, and felt
consoled. My tears have often been arrested by the sight of another person
weeping, and I never could explain why. But I believe that many persons
experience the same odd reaction.
The funeral was conducted, in obedience to his brief but peremptory
direction, very privately and with little expense. But of course there was
an attendance, and the tenants of the Knowl estate also followed the hearse
to the mausoleum, as it is called, in the park, where he was laid beside my
dear mother. And so the repulsive ceremonial of that dreadful day was over.
The grief remained, but there was rest from the fatigue of agitation, and a
comparative calm supervened.
It was now the stormy equinoctial weather that sounds the wild dirge of
autumn, and marches the winter in. I love, and always did, that grand
undefinable music, threatening and bewailing, with its strange soul of
liberty and desolation.
By this night's mail, as we sat listening to the storm, in the drawing-room
at Knowl, there reached me a large letter with a great black seal, and a
wonderfully deep-black border, like a widow's crape. I did not recognise
the handwriting; but on opening the funereal missive, it proved to be from
my uncle Silas, and was thus expressed:--
'MY DEAREST NIECE,--This letter will reach you, probably, on the day which
consigns the mortal remains of my beloved brother, Austin, your dear
father, to the earth. Sad ceremony, from taking my mournful part in which
I am excluded by years, distance, and broken health. It will, I trust, at
this season of desolation, be not unwelcome to remember that a substitute,
imperfect--unworthy--but most affectionately zealous, for the honoured
parent whom you have just lost, has been appointed, in me, your uncle, by
his will. I am aware that you were present during the reading of it, but
I think it will be for our mutual satisfaction that our new and more
affectionate relations should be forthwith entered upon. My conscience and
your safety, and I trust convenience, will thereby be consulted. You will,
my dear niece, remain at Knowl, until a few simple arrangements shall have
been completed for your reception at this place. I will then settle
the details of your little journey to us, which shall be performed as
comfortably and easily as possible. I humbly pray that this affliction may
be sanctified to us all, and that in our new duties we may be supported,
comforted, and directed. I need not remind you that I now stand to you _in
loco parentis_, which means in the relation of father, and you will not
forget that you are to remain at Knowl until you hear further from me.
'I remain, my dear niece, your most affectionate uncle and guardian,
SILAS RUTHYN.'
'P.S.--Pray present my respects to Lady Knollys, who, I understand, is
sojourning at Knowl. I would observe that a lady who cherishes, I have
reason to fear, unfriendly feelings against your uncle, is not the most
desirable companion for his ward. But upon the express condition that I am
not made the subject of your discussions--a distinction which could not
conduce to your forming a just and respectful estimate of me--I do not
interpose my authority to bring your intercourse to an immediate close.'
As I read this postscript, my cheek tingled as if I had received a box on
the ear. Uncle Silas was as yet a stranger. The menace of authority was new
and sudden, and I felt with a pang of mortification the full force of the
position in which my dear father's will had placed me.
I was silent, and handed the letter to my cousin, who read it with a
kind of smile until she came, as I supposed, to the postscript, when her
countenance, on which my eyes were fixed, changed, and with flushed cheeks
she knocked the hand that held the letter on the table before her, and
exclaimed--
'Did I ever hear! Well, if this isn't impertinence! _What_ an old man that
is!'
There was a pause, during which Lady Knollys held her head high with a
frown, and sniffed a little.
'I did not intend to talk about him, but now I _will_. I'll talk away just
whatever I like; and I'll stay here just as long as you let me, Maud, and
you need not be one atom afraid of him. Our intercourse to an "immediate
close," indeed! I only wish he were here. He should hear something!'
And Cousin Monica drank off her entire cup of tea at one draught, and then
she said, more in her own way--
'I'm better!' and drew a long breath, and then she laughed a little in a
waggish defiance. 'I wish we had him here, Maud, and _would_ not we give
him a bit of our minds! And this before the poor will is so much as
proved!'
'I am almost glad he wrote that postscript; for although I don't think he
has any authority in that matter while I am under my own roof,' I said,
extemporising a legal opinion, 'and, therefore, shan't obey him, it has
somehow opened my eyes to my real situation.'
I sighed, I believe, very desolately, for Lady Knollys came over and kissed
me very gently and affectionately.
'It really seems, Maud, as if he had a supernatural sense, and heard things
through the air over fifty miles of heath and hill. You remember how, just
as he was probably writing that very postscript yesterday, I was urging you
to come and stay with me, and planning to move Dr. Bryerly in our favour.
And so I will, Maud, and to me you _shall_ come--my guest, mind--I should
be so delighted; and really if Silas is under a cloud, it has been his own
doing, and I don't see that it is your business to fight his battle. He
can't live very long. The suspicion, whatever it is dies with him, and what
could poor dear Austin prove by his will but what everybody knew quite well
before--his own strong belief in Silas's innocence? What an awful storm!
The room trembles. Don't you like the sound? What they used to call
'wolving' in the old organ at Dorminster!'