_COUSIN MONICA AND UNCLE SILAS MEET_
Cousin Monica, with her hands upon Milly's shoulders, looked amusedly and
kindly in her face. 'And,' said she, 'we must be very good friends--you
funny creature, you and I. I'm allowed to be the most saucy old woman in
Derbyshire--quite incorrigibly privileged; and nobody is ever affronted
with me, so I say the most shocking things constantly.'
'I'm 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 can't say
I ever think at all. It is a very cowardly habit. Our cold-blooded cousin
Maud, there, thinks sometimes; but it is always such a failure that I
forgive her. I wonder when your little pre-Adamite 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 won't 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
I'll 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 Milly's 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 can't be ready,' I answered, dejectedly.
'There's 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 lady--you 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 _tête-à-tête_ afterwards from Lady Knollys.
'When I saw him, my dear,' she said, 'I could hardly believe my eyes; such
white hair--such a white face--such mad eyes--such a death-like 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 full-length 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
me--a 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 dear--your 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 wasn't
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 up--we 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 children--you will see that wretched girl, my
daughter--education, society, all would come too late--my 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
Bartram-Haugh 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 moment--the 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? _Here_--I _do_ strike a truce; and I _do_ forget and forgive
_everything_."
'I don't 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 Monica's 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 Milly--oh! she has been presented to you down-stairs,
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 _un_-naturally, turned a sod
in that invisible, but impenetrable, work. For your accomplishments--rather
singular than fashionable--you 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. But--stop 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 by-play
was over, 'that I could ask you to stay to-night; 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 Monica's frank
face once or twice suspiciously.
There was a difficulty--an _undefined_ difficulty--about letting us go that
day; but on a future one--soon--_very_ soon--he would be most happy.
Well, there was an end of that little project, for to-day at least; and
Cousin Monica was too well-bred 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.'
'You'll see them sadly neglected, Monnie. A poor man's 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 whereat--without, I
thought, much zeal at either side--a kiss took place.
'Now, girls!' said Cousin Knollys, when we were fairly in motion over the
grass, 'what do you say--will he let you come--yes or no? I can't say, but
I think, dear,'--this to Milly--'he 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 don't know where; and he is older by six years and a bit.'
By-and-by, when Milly was gesticulating to frighten some herons by the
river's brink into the air, Cousin Monica said confidentially to me--
'He has run away, I'm told--I wish I could believe it--and enlisted in a
regiment going to India, perhaps the best thing for him. Did you see him
here before his judicious self-banishment?'
'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 to-day; but we don't see a great
deal of him--very little, in fact.'
'And how do you like your life and the people?' she asked.
'My life, very well; and the people, _pretty_ well. There's an old women we
don't like, old Wyat, she is cross and mysterious and tells untruths; but I
don't think she is dishonest--so Mary Quince says--and 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
don't 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; some one came late at night, and remained for some days,
though Milly and I never saw them, and Mary Quince saw a chaise at the
side-door at two o'clock 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_. I'll 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--
'You've not seen anything to frighten you, Maud? Don't look so alarmed,
dear,' she added with a little laugh, which was not very merry, however. 'I
don't mean frighten in any awful sense--in fact, I did not mean frighten
at all. I meant--I can't exactly express it--anything to vex, or make you
uncomfortable; have you?'
'No, I can't 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
_every_thing; and I wished to know whether you were uncomfortable, and what
your particular bogle was just now--that, 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 don't know how nervous I am
sometimes, and yet you won't, either of you, say what you mean. Now,
Monica, dear cousin, won't you tell me?'
'You see, dear, it is so lonely; it's a strange place, and he so odd. I
don't like the place, and I don't like him. I've tried, but I can't, and I
think I never shall. He may be a very--what was it that good little silly
curate at Knowl used to call him?--a very advanced Christian--that 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 fear--and he never had
much of that--upon 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 don't 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 don't like his reluctance.'
'But don't you think he must know that Milly would require some little
outfit before her visit?'
'Well, I can't say. I hope that is all; but be it what it may, I'll
_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.