But for the most part Uncle Silas seemed to forget us and his book, and all that surrounded him, lying back in the corner of his sofa, his chin upon his breast, and such a fearful shade and carving on his features as made me prefer looking in any direction but his.
At length we heard the tread of Dudley’s thick boots on the oak boards, and faint and muffled the sound of his voice as he cross-examined old Wyat before entering the chamber of audience.
I think he suspected quite another visitor, and had no expectation of seeing the particular young lady, who rose from her chair as he entered, in an opportune flood of tears, crying —
“Oh, Dudley, Dudley! — oh, Dudley, could you? Oh, Dudley, your own poor Sal! You could not — you would not — your lawful wife!”
This and a good deal more, with cheeks that streamed like a window-pane in a thunder-shower, spoke Sarah Matilda with all her oratory, working his arm, which she clung to, up and down all the time, like the handle of a pump. But Dudley was, manifestly, confounded and dumbfoundered. He stood for a long time gaping at his father, and stole just one sheepish glance at me; then again at his father, who remained just in the attitude I have described, and with the same forbidding and dreary intensity in his strange face.
Like a quarrelsome man worried in his sleep by a noise, Dudley suddenly woke up, as it were, with a start, in a half-suppressed exasperation, and shook her off with a jerk and a muttered curse, as she whisked involuntarily into a chair, with more violence than could have been pleasant.
“Judging by your looks and demeanour, sir, I can almost anticipate your answers,” said my uncle, addressing him suddenly. “Will you be kind enough — pray, madame (parenthetically to our visitor), command yourself for a few moments. Is this young person the daughter of a Mr. Mangles, and is her name Sarah Matilda?”
“I dessay,” answered Dudley, hurriedly.
“Is she your wife?”
“Is she my wife?” repeated Dudley, ill at ease.
“Yes, sir; it is a plain question.”
All this time Sarah Matilda was perpetually breaking into talk, and with difficulty silenced by my uncle.
“Well, ‘appen she says I am — does she?” replied Dudley.
“Is she your wife, sir?”
“Mayhap she so considers it, after a fashion, he replied, with an impudent swagger, seating himself as he did so.
“What do you think, sir?” persisted Uncle Silas.
“I don’t think nout about it,” replied Dudley, surlily.
“Is that account true?” said my uncle, handing him the paper.
“They wishes us to believe so, at any rate.”
“Answer directly, sir. We have our thoughts upon it. If it be true, it is capable of every proof. For expedition’s sake I ask you. There is no use prevaricating.”
“Who wants to deny it? It is true — there!”
“There! I knew he would,” screamed the young woman, hysterically, with a laugh of strange joy.
“Shut up, will ye?” growled Dudley, savagely.
“Oh, Dudley, Dudley, darling! what have I done?”
“Bin and ruined me, jest — that’s all.”
“Oh! no, no, no, Dudley. Ye know I wouldn’t. I could not — could not hurt ye, Dudley. No, no, no!”
He grinned at her, and, with a sharp side-nod, said —
“Wait a bit.”
“Oh, Dudley, don’t be vexed, dear. I did not mean it. I would not hurt ye for all the world. Never!”
“Well, never mind. You and yours tricked me finely; and now you’ve got me — that’s all.”
My uncle laughed a very odd laugh.
“I knew it, of course; and upon my word, madame, you and he make a very pretty couple,” sneered Uncle Silas.
Dudley made no answer, looking, however, very savage.
And with this poor young wife, so recently wedded, the low villain had actually solicited me to marry him!
I am quite certain that my uncle was as entirely ignorant as I of Dudley’s connection, and had, therefore, no participation in this appalling wickedness.
“And I have to congratulate you, my good fellow, on having secured the affections of a very suitable and vulgar young woman.”
“I baint the first o’ the family as a’ done the same,” retorted Dudley.
At this taunt the old man’s fury for a moment overpowered him. In an instant he was on his feet, quivering from head to foot. I never saw such a countenance — like on of those demon-grotesques we see in the Gothic side-aisles and groinings — a dreadful grimace, monkey-like and insane — and his thin hand caught up his ebony stick, and shook it paralytically in the air.
“If ye touch me wi’ that, I’ll smash ye, by ——!” shouted Dudley, furious, raising his hands and hitching his shoulder, just as I had seen him when he fought Captain Oakley.
For a moment this picture was suspended before me, and I screamed, I know not what, in my terror. But the old man, the veteran of many a scene of excitement, where men disguise their ferocity in calm tones, and varnish their fury with smiles, had not quite lost his self-command. He turned toward me and said —
“Does he know what he’s saying?”
And with an icy laugh of contempt, his high, thin forehead still flushed, he sat down trembling.
“If you want to say aught, I’ll hear ye. Ye may jaw me all ye like, and I’ll stan’ it.”
“Oh, may I speak? Thank you,” sneered Uncle Silas, glancing slowly round at me, and breaking into a cold laugh.
“Ay, I don’t mind cheek, not I; but you must not go for to do that, ye know. Gammon. I won’t stand a blow — I won’t fro no one.”
“Well, sir, availing myself of your permission to speak, I may remark, without offence to the young lady, that I don’t happen to recollect the name Mangles among the old families of England. I presume you have chosen her chiefly for her virtues and her graces.”
Mrs. Sarah Matilda, not apprehending this compliment quite as Uncle Silas meant it, dropped a courtesy, notwithstanding her agitation, and, wiping her eyes, said, with a blubbered smile —
“You’re very kind, sure.”
“I hope, for both your sakes, she has got a little money. I don’t see how you are to live else. You’re too lazy for a game-keeper; and I don’t think you could keep a pot-house, you are so addicted to drinking and quarrelling. The only thing I am quite clear upon is, that you and your wife must find some other abode than this. You shall depart this evening: and now, Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Ruthyn, you may quit this room, if you please.”
Uncle Silas had risen, and made them one of his old courtly bows, smiling a death-like sneer, and pointing to the door with his trembling fingers.
“Come, will ye?” said Dudley, grinding his teeth. “You’re pretty well done here.”
Not half understanding the situation, but looking woefully bewildered, she dropped a farewell courtesy at the door.
“Will ye cut?” barked Dudley, in a tone that made her jump; and suddenly, without looking about, he strode after her from the room.
“Maud, how shall I recover this? The vulgar villain — the fool! What an abyss were we approaching! and for me the last hope gone — and for me utter, utter, irretrievable