_AN ARRIVAL AT DEAD OF NIGHT_
I have sometimes been asked why I wear an odd little turquois ring--which
to the uninstructed eye appears quite valueless and altogether an unworthy
companion of those jewels which flash insultingly beside it. It is a little
keepsake, of which I became possessed about this time.
'Come, lass, what name shall I give you?' cried Milly, one morning,
bursting into my room in a state of alarming hilarity.
'My own, Milly.'
'No, but you must have a nickname, like every one else.'
'Don't mind it, Milly.'
'Yes, but I will. Shall I call you Mrs. Bustle?'
'You shall do no such thing.'
'But you must have a name.'
'I refuse a name.'
'But I'll give you one, lass.'
'And _I_ won't have it.'
'But you can't help me christening you.'
'I can decline answering.'
'But I'll make you,' said Milly, growing very red.
Perhaps there was something provoking in my tone, for I certainly was very
much disgusted at Milly's relapse into barbarism.
'You can't,' I retorted quietly.
'See if I don't, and I'll give ye one twice as ugly.'
I smiled, I fear, disdainfully.
'And I think you're a minx, and a slut, and a fool,' she broke out,
flushing scarlet.
I smiled in the same unchristian way.
'And I'd give ye a smack o' the cheek as soon as look at you.'
And she gave her dress a great slap, and drew near me, in her wrath. I
really thought she was about tendering the ordeal of single combat.
I made her, however, a paralysing courtesy, and, with immense dignity,
sailed out of the room, and into Uncle Silas's study, where it happened we
were to breakfast that morning, and for several subsequent ones.
During the meal we maintained the most dignified reserve; and I don't think
either so much as looked at the other.
We had no walk together that day.
I was sitting in the evening, quite alone, when Milly entered the room. Her
eyes were red, and she looked very sullen.
'I want your hand, cousin,' she said, at the same time taking it by the
wrist, and administering with it a sudden slap on her plump cheek, which
made the room ring, and my fingers tingle; and before I had recovered from
my surprise, she had vanished.
I called after her, but no answer; I pursued, but she was running too; and
I quite lost her at the cross galleries.
I did not see her at tea, nor before going to bed; but after I had fallen
asleep I was awakened by Milly, in floods of tears.
'Cousin Maud, will ye forgi' me--you'll never like me again, will ye? No--I
know ye won't--I'm such a brute--I hate it--it's a shame. And here's a
Banbury cake for you--I sent to the town for it, and some taffy--won't ye
eat it? and here's a little ring--'tisn't as pretty as your own rings; and
ye'll wear it, maybe, for my sake--poor Milly's sake, before I was so bad
to ye--if ye forgi' me; and I'll look at breakfast, and if it's on your
finger I'll know you're friends wi' me again; and if ye don't, I won't
trouble you no more; and I think I'll just drown myself out o' the way, and
you'll never see wicked Milly no more.'
And without waiting a moment, leaving me only half awake, and with the
sensations of dreaming, she scampered from the room, in her bare feet, with
a petticoat about her shoulders.
She had left her candle by my bed, and her little offerings on the coverlet
by me. If I had stood an atom less in terror of goblins than I did, I
should have followed her, but I was afraid. I stood in my bare feet at my
bedside, and kissed the poor little ring and put it on my finger, where it
has remained ever since and always shall. And when I lay down, longing for
morning, the image of her pale, imploring, penitential face was before me
for hours; and I repented bitterly of my cool provoking ways, and thought
myself, I dare say justly, a thousand times more to blame than Milly.
I searched in vain for her before breakfast. At that meal, however, we met,
but in the presence of Uncle Silas, who, though silent and apathetic, was
formidable; and we, sitting at a table disproportionably large, under the
cold, strange gaze of my guardian, talked only what was inevitable, and
that in low tones; for whenever Milly for a moment raised her voice, Uncle
Silas would wince, place his thin white fingers quickly over his ear, and
look as if a pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug and smile piteously
into vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, was not in the talking vein
himself--and that was not often--you may suppose there was very little
spoken in his presence.
When Milly, across the table, saw the ring upon my finger, she, drawing
in her breath, said, 'Oh!' and, with round eyes and mouth, she looked so
delighted; and she made a little motion, as if she was on the point of
jumping up; and then her poor face quivered, and she bit her lip; and
staring imploringly at me, her eyes filled fast with tears, which rolled
down her round penitential cheeks.
I am sure I felt more penitent than she. I know I was crying and smiling,
and longing to kiss her. I suppose we were very absurd; but it is well that
small matters can stir the affections so profoundly at a time of life when
great troubles seldom approach us.
When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of the
wrestling ring as poor Milly bestowed on me, swaying me this way and that,
and burying her face in my dress, and blubbering--
'I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and I such a
devil; and I'll never call you a name, but Maud--my darling Maud.'
'You must, Milly--Mrs. Bustle. I'll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like.
You must.' I was blubbering like Milly, and hugging my best; and, indeed, I
wonder how we kept our feet.
So Milly and I were better friends than ever.
Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights,
and long fireside gossipings at Bartram-Haugh. I was frightened at the
frequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject. I
did not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Milly's way of
talking about them.
But one day, while in one of his 'queerish' states, he called for me, and I
saw him, and was unspeakably scared.
In a white wrapper, he lay coiled in a great easy chair. I should have
thought him dead, had I not been accompanied by old L'Amour, who knew every
gradation and symptom of these strange affections.
She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, and whispered--
'Don't make no noise, miss, till he talks; he'll come to for a bit, anon.'
Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like that
of an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions.
There was a frown and smirk like that of idiotcy, and a strip of white
eyeball was also disclosed.
Suddenly, with a kind of chilly shudder, he opened his eyes wide, and
screwed his lips together, and blinked and stared on me with a fatuised
uncertainty, that gradually broke into a feeble smile.
'Ah! the girl--Austin's child. Well, dear, I'm hardly able--I'll speak
to-morrow--next day--it is tic--neuralgia, or something--_torture_--tell
her.'
So, huddling himself together, he lay again in his great chair, with the
same inexpressible helplessness in his attitude, and gradually his face
resumed its dreadful cast.
'Come away, miss: he's changed his mind; he'll not be fit to talk to you
noways all day, maybe,' said the old woman, again in a whisper.
So forth we stole from the room, I unspeakably shocked. In fact, he looked
as if he were dying, and so, in my agitation, I told the crone, who,
forgetting the ceremony with which she usually treated me, chuckled out
derisively,
'A-dying is he? Well, he be like Saint Paul--he's bin a-dying daily this
many a day.'
I looked at her with a chill of horror. She did not care, I suppose, what
sort of feelings she might excite, for she went on mumbling sarcastically
to herself. I had paused, and overcame my reluctance to speak to her again,
for I was really very much frightened. 'Do you think he is in danger? Shall
we send for a doctor?' I whispered.
'Law bless ye, the doctor knows all about it, miss.' The old woman's face
had a gleam of that derision which is so shocking in the features of
feebleness and age.
'But it is a _fit_, it is paralytic, or something horrible--it can't be
_safe_ to leave him to chance or nature to get through these terrible
attacks.'
'There's no fear of him, 'tisn't no fits at all, he's nout the worse o't.
Jest silly a bit now and again. It's been the same a dozen year and more;
and the doctor knows all about it,' answered the old woman sturdily. 'And
ye'll find he'll be as mad as bedlam if ye make any stir about it.'
That night I talked the matter over with Mary Quince.
'They're very dark, miss; but I think he takes a deal too much laudlum,'
said Mary.
To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures.
I have often spoken to medical men about them, since, but never could learn
that excessive use of opium could altogether account for them. It was,
I believe, certain, however, that he did use that drug in startling
quantities. It was, indeed, sometimes a topic of complaint with him that
his neuralgia imposed this sad necessity upon him.
The image of Uncle Silas, as I had seen him that day, troubled and
affrighted my imagination, as I lay in my bed; I had slept very well since
my arrival at Bartram. So much of the day was passed in the open air, and
in active exercise, that this was but natural. But that night I was nervous
and wakeful, and it was past two o'clock when I fancied I heard the sound
of horses and carriage-wheels on the avenue.
Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to get up and peep
from the window. My heart beat fast as I saw a post-chaise approach the
court-yard. A front window was let down, and the postilion pulled up for a
few seconds.
In consequence of some directions received by him, I fancied he resumed his
route at a walk, and so drew up at the hall-door, on the steps of which a
figure awaited his arrival. I think it was old L'Amour, but I could not be
quite certain. There was a lantern on the top of the balustrade, close by
the door. The chaise-lamps were lighted, for the night was rather dark. A
bag and valise, as well as I could see, were pulled from the interior by
the post-boy, and a box from the top of the vehicle, and these were carried
into the hall.
I was obliged to keep my cheek against the window-pane to command a view
of the point of debarkation, and my breath upon the glass, which dimmed it
again almost as fast as I wiped it away, helped to obscure my vision. But
I saw a tall figure, in a cloak, get down and swiftly enter the house, but
whether male or female I could not discern.
My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My uncle was
worse--was, in fact, dying; and this was the physician, too late summoned
to his bedside.
I listened for the ascent of the doctor, and his entrance at my uncle's
door, which, in the stillness of the night, I thought I might easily hear,
but no sound reached me. I listened so for fully five minutes, but
without result. I returned to the window, but the carriage and horses had
disappeared.
I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince, and take counsel with her, and
persuade her to undertake a reconnoissance. The fact is, I was persuaded
that my uncle was in extremity, and I was quite wild to know the doctor's
opinion. But, after all, it would be cruel to summon the good soul from her
refreshing nap. So, as I began to feel very cold, I returned to my bed,
where I continued to listen and conjecture until I fell asleep.
In the morning, as was usual, before I was dressed, in came Milly.
'How is Uncle Silas?' I eagerly enquired.
'Old L'Amour says he's queerish still; but he's not so dull as yesterday,'
answered she.
'Was not the doctor sent for?' I asked.
'Was he? Well, that's odd; and she said never a word o't to me,' answered
she.
'I'm asking only,' said I.
'I don't know whether he came or no,' she replied; 'but what makes you take
that in your head?'
'A chaise arrived here between two and three o'clock last night.'
'Hey! and who told you?' Milly seemed all on a sudden highly interested.
'I saw it, Milly; and some one, I fancy the doctor, came from it into the
house.'
'Fudge, lass! who'd send for the doctor? 'Twasn't he, I tell you. What was
he like?' said Milly.
'I could only see clearly that he, or _she_, was tall, and wore a cloak,' I
replied.
'Then 'twasn't him nor t'other I was thinking on, neither; and I'll be
hanged but I think it will be Cormoran,' cried Milly, with a thoughtful rap
with her knuckle on the table.
Precisely at this juncture a tapping came to the door.
'Come in,' said I.
And old L'Amour entered the room, with a courtesy.
'I came to tell Miss Quince her breakfast's ready,' said the old lady.
'Who came in the chaise, L'Amour?' demanded Milly.
'What chaise?' spluttered the beldame tartly.
'The chaise that came last night, past two o'clock,' said Milly.
'That's a lie, and a damn lie!' cried the beldame. 'There worn't no chaise
at the door since Miss Maud there come from Knowl.'
I stared at the audacious old menial who could utter such language.
'Yes, there was a chaise, and Cormoran, as I think, be come in it,' said
Milly, who seemed accustomed to L'Amour's daring address.
'And there's another damn lie, as big as the t'other,' said the crone, her
haggard and withered face flushing orange all over.
'I beg you will not use such language in my room,' I replied, very angrily.
'I saw the chaise at the door; your untruth signifies very little, but
your impertinence here I will not permit. Should it be repeated, I will
assuredly complain to my uncle.'
The old woman flushed more fiercely as I spoke, and fixed her bleared glare
on me, with a compression of her mouth that amounted to a wicked grimace.
She resisted her angry impulse, however, and only chuckled a little
spitefully, saying,
'No offence, miss: it be a way we has in Derbyshire o' speaking our minds.
No offence, miss, were meant, and none took, as I hopes,' and she made me
another courtesy. 'And I forgot to tell you, Miss Milly, the master wants
you this minute.'
So Milly, in mute haste, withdrew, followed closely by L'Amour.