“I don’t know why I went to that room,” I said, quite frightened; “or why I went to that press; how it happened that these papers, which we never saw there before, were the first things to strike my eye to-day.”
“What do you mean, dear?” said Lady Knollys.
“I mean this — I think I was brought there, and that there is poor papa’s appeal to me, as plain as if his hand came and wrote it upon the wall.” I nearly screamed the conclusion of this wild confession.
“You are nervous, my darling; your bad nights have worn you out. Let us go out; the air will do you good; and I do assure you that you will very soon see that we are quite right, and rejoice conscientiously that you have acted as you did.”
But I was not to be satisfied, although my first vehemence was quieted. In my prayers that night my conscience upbraided me. When I lay down in bed my nervousness returned fourfold. Everybody at all nervously excitable has suffered some time or another by the appearance of ghastly features presenting themselves in every variety of contortion, one after another, the moment the eyes are closed. This night my dear father’s face trouble me — sometimes white and sharp as ivory, sometimes strangely transparent like glass, sometimes all hanging in cadaverous folds, always with the same unnatural expression of diabolical fury.
From this dreadful vision I could only escape by sitting up and staring at the light. At length, worn out, I dropped asleep, and in a dream I distinctly heard papa’s voice say sharply outside the bed-curtain:—“Maud, we shall be late at Bartram–Haugh.”
And I awoke in a horror, the wall, as it seemed, still ringing with the summons, and the speaker, I fancied, standing at the other side of the curtain.
A miserable night I passed. In the morning, looking myself like a ghost, I stood in my night-dress by Lady Knollys’ bed.
“I have had my warning,” I said. “Oh, Cousin Monica, papa has been with me, and ordered me to Bartram–Haugh; and go I will.”
She stared in my face uncomfortably, and then tried to laugh the matter off; but I know she was troubled at the strange state to which agitation and suspense had reduced me.
“You’re taking too much for granted, Maud,” said she; “Silas Ruthyn, most likely, will refuse his consent, and insist on your going to Bartram–Haugh.”
“Heaven grant!” I exclaimed; “but if he doesn’t, it is all the same to me, go I will. He may turn me out, but I’ll go, and try to expiate the breach of faith that I fear is so horribly wicked.”
We had several hours still to wait for the arrival of the post. For both of us the delay was a suspense; for me an almost agonising one. At length, at an unlooked-for moment, Branston did enter the room with the post-bag. There was a large letter, with the Feltram post-mark, addressed to Lady Knollys — it was Doctor Bryerly’s despatch; we read it together. It was dated on the day before, and its purport was thus:—
“RESPECTED MADAM — I this day saw Mr. Silas Ruthyn at Bartram–Haugh, and he peremptorily refuses, on any terms, to vacate the guardianship, or to consent to Miss Ruthyn’s residing anywhere but under his own immediate care. As he bases his refusal, first upon a conscientious difficulty, declaring that he has no right, through fear of personal contingencies, to abdicate an office imposed in so solemn a way, and so naturally devolving on him as only brother to the deceased; and secondly upon the effect such withdrawal, at the instance of the acting trustee, would have upon his own character, amounting to a public self-condemnation; and as he refused to discuss these positions with me, I could make no way whatsoever with him. Finding, therefore, that his mind was quite made up, after a short time I took my leave. He mentioned that preparations for his niece’s reception are being completed, and that he will send for her in a few days; so that I think it will be advisable that I should go down to Knowl, to assist Miss Ruthyn with any advice she may require before her departure, to discharge servants, get inventories made, and provide for the care of the place and grounds during her minority.
“I am, respected Madam, yours truly,
HANS E. BRYERLY.”
I can’t describe to you how chapfallen and angry my cousin looked. She sniffed once or twice, and then said, rather bitterly, in a subdued tone:—
“Well, now; I hope you are pleased.”
“No, no, no; you know I’m not — grieved to the heart, my only friend, my dear Cousin Monica; but my conscience is at rest; you don’t know what a sacrifice it is; I am a most unhappy creature. I feel an indescribable foreboding. I am frightened; but you won’t forsake me, Cousin Monica.”
“No, darling, never,” she said, sadly.
“And you’ll come and see me, won’t you, as often as you can?”
“Yes, dear; that is if Silas allows me; and I’m sure he will,” she added hastily, seeing, I suppose, my terror in my face. “All I can do, you may be sure I will, and perhaps he will allow you to come to me, now and then, for a short visit. You know I am only six miles away — little more than half an hour’s drive, and though I hate Bartram, and detest Silas — Yes, I detest Silas,” she repeated in reply to my surprised gaze —“I will call at Bartram — that is, I say, if he allows me; for, you know, I haven’t been there for a quarter of a century; and though I never understood Silas, I fancy he forgives no sins, whether of omission or commission.”
I wondered what old grudge could make my cousin judge Uncle Silas always so hardly — I could not suppose it was justice. I had seen my hero indeed lately so disrespectfully handled before my eyes, that he had, as idols will, lost something of his sacredness. But as an article of faith, I still cultivated my trust in his divinity, and dismissed every intruding doubt with an exorcism, as a suggestion of the evil one. But I wronged Lady Knollys in suspecting her of pique, or malice, or anything more than that tendency to take strong views which some persons attribute to my sex.
So, then, the little project of Cousin Monica’s guardianship, which, had it been poor papa’s wish, would have made me so very happy, was quite knocked on the head, to revive no more. I comforted myself, however, with her promise to re-open communications with Bartram–Haugh, and we grew resigned.
I remember, next morning, as we sat at a very late breakfast, Lady Knollys, reading a letter, suddenly made an exclamation and a little laugh, and read on with increased interest for a few minutes, and then, with another little laugh, she looked up, placing her hand, with the open letter in it, beside her tea-cup.
“You’ll not guess whom I’ve been reading about,” said she, with her head the least thing on one side, and an arch smile.
I felt myself blushing — cheeks, forehead, even down to the tips of my fingers. I anticipated the name I was to hear. She looked very much amused. Was it possible that Captain Oakley was married?
“I really have not the least idea,” I replied, with that kind of overdone carelessness which betrays us.
“No, I see quite plainly you have not; but you can’t think how prettily you blush,” answered she, very much diverted.
“I really don’t care,” I replied, with some little dignity, and blushing deeper and deeper.
“Will you make a guess?” she asked.
“I can’t guess.”
“Well, shall I tell you?”
“Just as you please.”
“Well, I will — that is, I’ll read a page of my letter, which tells it all. Do you know Georgina Fanshawe?” she asked.
“Lady Georgina? No.”
“Well, no matter; she’s in Paris now, and this letter is from her, and she says — let me see the place