“When is he to return?”
“When he wants money.”
So we grew silent, and again I thought of suicide, and of the unhappy old man, who just then whispered a sentence or two to himself with a sigh.
For the next hour he had been quite silent, and old Wyat informed me that she must go down for candles. Ours were already burnt down to the sockets.
“There’s a candle in the next room,” I suggested, hating the idea of being left alone with the patient.
“Hoot! Miss. I dare na’ set a candle but wax in his presence,” whispered the old woman, scornfully.
“I think if we were to stir up the fire, and put on a little more coal, we should have a great deal of light.”
“He’ll ha’ the candles,” said Dame Wyat, doggedly; and she tottered from the chamber, muttering to herself; and I heard her take the candle from the next room and depart, shutting the outer door after her.
Here was I then alone, but for this unearthly companion, whom I feared inexpressibly, at two o’clock, in the vast old house of Bartram.
I stirred the fire. It was low, and would not blaze. I stood up, and, with my hand on the mantelpiece, endeavoured to think of cheerful things. But it was a struggle against wind and tide — vain; and so I drifted away into haunted regions.
Uncle Silas was perfectly still. I would not suffer myself to think of the number of dark rooms and passages which now separated me from the other living tenants of the house. I awaited with a false composure the return of old Wyat.
Over the mantelpiece was a looking-glass. At another time this might have helped to entertain my solitary moments, but now I did not like to venture a peep. A small thick Bible lay on the chimneypiece, and leaning its back against the mirror, I began to read in it with a mind as attentively directed as I could. While so engaged in turning over the leaves, I lighted upon two or three odd-looking papers, which had been folded into it. One was a broad printed thing, with names and dates written into blank spaces, and was about the size of a quarter of a yard of very broad ribbon. The others were mere scraps, with “Dudley Ruthyn” penned in my cousin’s vulgar round-hand at the foot. While I folded and replaced these, I really don’t know what caused me to fancy that something was moving behind me, as I stood with my back toward the bed. I do not recollect any sound whatever; but instinctively I glanced into the mirror, and my eyes were instantly fixed by what I saw.
The figure of Uncle Silas rose up, and dressed in a long white morning gown, slid over the end of the bed, and with two or three swift noiseless steps, stood behind me, with a death-like scowl and a simper. Preternaturally tall and thin, he stood for a moment almost touching me, with the white bandage pinned across his forehead, his bandaged arm stiffly by his side, and diving over my shoulder, with his long thin hand he snatched the Bible, and whispered over my head —“The serpent beguiled her and she did eat;” and after a momentary pause, he glided to the farthest window, and appeared to look out upon the midnight prospect.
It was cold, but he did not seem to feel it. With the same inflexible scowl and smile, he continued to look out for several minutes, and then with a great sigh, he sat down on the side of his bed, his face immovably turned towards me, with the same painful look.
It seemed to me an hour before old Wyat came back; and never was lover made happier at sight of his mistress than I to behold that withered crone.
You may be sure I did not prolong my watch. There was now plainly no risk of my uncle’s relapsing into lethargy. I had a long hysterical fit of weeping when I got into my room, with honest Mary Quince by my side.
Whenever I closed my eyes, the face of Uncle Silas was before me, as I had seen it reflected in the glass. The sorceries of Bartram were enveloping me once more.
Next morning the doctor said he was quite out of danger, but very weak. Milly and I saw him; and again in our afternoon walk we saw the doctor marching under the trees in the direction of the Windmill Wood.
“Going down to see that poor girl there?” he said, when he had made his salutation, prodding with his levelled stick in the direction. “Hawke, or Hawkes, I think.”
“Beauty’s sick, Maud,” exclaimed Milly.
“Hawkes. She’s upon my dispensary list. Yes,” said the doctor, looking into his little note-book —“Hawkes.”
“And what is her complaint?”
“Rheumatic fever.”
“Not infectious?”
“Not the least — no more, as we say, Miss Ruthyn, than a broken leg,” and he laughed obligingly.
So soon as the doctor had departed, Milly and I agreed to follow to Hawkes’ cottage and enquire more particularly how she was. To say truth, I am afraid it was rather for the sake of giving our walk a purpose and a point of termination, than for any very charitable interest we might have felt in the patient.
Over the inequalities of the upland slope, clumped with trees, we reached the gabled cottage, with its neglected little farm-yard. A rheumatic old woman was the only attendant; and, having turned her ear in an attitude of attention, which induced us in gradually exalted keys to enquire how Meg was, she informed us in very loud tones that she had long lost her hearing and was perfectly deaf. And added considerately —
“When the man comes in, ‘appen he’ll tell ye what ye want.”
Through the door of a small room at the further end of that in which we were, we could see a portion of the narrow apartment of the patient, and hear the moans and the doctor’s voice.
“We’ll see him, Milly, when he comes out. Let us wait here.”
So we stood upon the door-stone awaiting him. The sounds of suffering had moved my compassion and interested us for the sick girl.
“Blest if here isn’t Pegtop,” said Milly.
And the weather-stained red coat, the swarthy forbidding face and sooty locks of old Hawkes loomed in sight, as he stumped, steadying himself with his stick, over the uneven pavement of the yard. He touched his hat gruffly to me, but did not seem half to like our being where we were, for he looked surlily, and scratched his head under his wide-awake.
“Your daughter is very ill, I’m afraid,” said I.
“Ay — she’ll be costin’ me a handful, like her mother did,” said Pegtop.
“I hope her room is comfortable, poor thing.”
“Ay, that’s it; she be comfortable enough, I warrant — more nor I. It be all Meg, and nout o’ Dickon.”
“When did her illness commence?” I asked.
“Day the mare wor shod — Saturday. I talked a bit wi’ the workus folk, but they won’t gi’e nout — dang ’em — an’ how be I to do’t? It be all’ays hard bread wi’ Silas, an’ a deal harder now she’ ta’en them pains. I won’t stan’ it much longer. Gammon! If she keeps on that way I’ll just cut. See how the workus fellahs ‘ill like that!”
“The Doctor gives his services for nothing,” I said.
“An’ does nothin’, bless him! ha, ha. No more nor that old deaf gammon there that costs me three tizzies a week, and haint worth a h’porth — no more nor Meg there, that’s making all she can o’ them pains. They be all a foolin’ o’ me, an’ thinks I don’t know’t. Hey? we’ll see.”
All this time he was cutting a bit of tobacco into shreds on the window-stone.
“A workin’ man be same as a hoss; if he baint cared, he can’t work —‘tisn’t in him:” and with these words, having by this time stuffed his pipe with tobacco, he poked the deaf lady, who