Milly and I stood in the relation of Lord Duberly to Doctor Pengloss. I was to mend her “cackleology,” and the occupation amused us both. I think at the bottom of our submission to destiny lurked a hope that Uncle Silas, the inexorable, would relent, or that Cousin Monica, that siren, would win and melt him to her purpose.
Whatever comfort, however, I derived from the absence of Dudley was not to be of very long duration; for one morning as I was amusing myself alone, with a piece of worsted work, thinking, and just at that moment not unpleasantly, of many things, my cousin Dudley entered the room.
“Back again, like a bad halfpenny, ye see. And how a’ ye bin ever since, lass? Purely, I warrant, be your looks. I’m jolly glad to see ye, I am; no cattle going like ye, Maud.”
“I think I must ask you to let go of my hand, as I can’t continue my work,” I said, very stiffly, hoping to chill his enthusiasm a little.
“Anything to pleasure ye, Maud, ‘tain’t in my heart to refuse ye nout. I a’bin to Wolverhampton, lass — jolly row there — and run over to Leamington; a’most broke my neck, faith, wi’ a borrowed horse arter the dogs; ye would no care, Maud, if I broke my neck, would ye? Well, ‘appen, jest a llittle,” he good-naturedly supplied, as I was silent.
“Little over a week since I left here, by George; and to me it’s half the almanac like; can ye guess the reason, Maud?”
“Have you seen your sister, Milly, or your father, since your return?” I asked coldly.
“They’ll keep, Maud, never mind ’em; it be you I want to see — it be you I wor thinkin’ on a’ the time. I tell ye, lass, I’m all’ays a thinkin’ on ye.”
“I think you ought to go and see your father; you have been away, you say, some time. I don’t think it is respectful,” I said, a little sharply.
“If ye bid me go I’d a’most go, but I could na quite; thee’s nout on earth I would na do for you, Maud, excep’ leaving you.”
“And that,” I said, with a petulant finish, “is the only thing on earth I would ask you to do.”
“Blessed if you baint a blushin’, Maud,” he drawled, with an odious grin.
His stupidity was proof against anything.
“It is too bad!” I muttered, with an indignant little pat of my foot and mimic stamp.
“Well, you lasses be queer cattle; ye’re angry wi’ me now, cos ye think I got into mischief — ye do, Maud; ye know’t, ye buxsom little fool, down there at Wolverhampton; and jest for that ye’re ready to turn me off again the minute I come back; ‘tisn’t fair.”
“I don’t understand you, sir; and I beg that you’ll leave me.”
“Now, didn’t I tell ye about leavin’ ye, Maud? ’tis the only think I can’t compass for yer sake. I’m jest a child in yere hands, I am, ye know. I can lick a big fellah to pot as limp as a rag, by George!”—(his oaths were not really so mild)—“ye see summat o’ that t’other day. Well, don’t be vexed, Maud; ’twas all along o’ you; ye know, I wor a big jealous, ‘appen; but anyhow I can do it; and look at me here, jest a child, I say, in yer hands.”
“I wish you’d go away. Have you nothing to do, and no one to see? Why can’t you leave me alone, sir?”
“‘Cos I can’t, Maud, that’s jest why; and I wonder, Maud, how can you be so ill-natured, when you see me like this; how can ye?”
“I wish Milly would come,” said I peevishly, looking toward the door.
“Well, I’ll tell you how it is, Maud, I may as well have it out. I like you better than any lass that ever I saw, a deal; you’re nicer by chalks; there’s none like ye — there isn’t; and I wish you’d have me. I ha’n’t much tin — father’s run through a deal, he’s pretty well up a tree, ye know; but though I baint so rich as some folk, I’m a better man, ‘appen; and if ye’d take a tidy lad, that likes ye awful, and ‘id die for your sake, why here he is.”
“What can you mean, sir?” I exclaimed, rising in indignant bewilderment.
“I mean, Maud, if ye’ll marry me, you’ll never ha’ cause to complain; I’ll never let ye want for nout, nor gi’e ye a wry word.”
“Actually a proposal!” I ejaculated, like a person speaking in a dream.
I stood with my hand on the back of a chair, staring at Dudley; and looking, I dare say, as stupefied as I felt.
“There’s a good lass, ye would na deny me,” said the odious creature, with one knee on the seat of the chair behind which I was standing, and attempting to place his arm lovingly round my neck.
This effectually roused me, and starting back, I stamped upon the ground with actual fury.
“What has there ever been, sir, in my conduct, words, or looks, to warrant this unparalleled audacity? But that you are as stupid as you are impertinent, brutal, and ugly, you must,, long ago, sir, have seen how I dislike you. How dare you, sir? Don’t presume to obstruct me; I’m going to my uncle.”
I had never spoken so violently to mortal before.
He in turn looked a little confounded; and I passed his extended but motionless arm with a quick and angry step.
He followed me a pace or two, however, before I reached the door, looking horridly angry, but stopped, and only swore after me some of those “wry words” which I was never to have heard. I was myself, however, too much incensed, and moving at too rapid a pace, to catch their import; and I had knocked at my uncle’s door before I began to collect my thoughts.
“Come in,” replied my uncle’s voice, clear, thin, and peevish.
I entered and confronted him.
“Your son, sir, has insulted me.”
He looked at me with a cold curiosity steadily for a few seconds, as I stood panting before him with flaming cheeks.
“Insulted you?” repeated he. “Egad, you surprise me!”
The ejaculation savoured of “the old man,” to borrow his scriptural phrase, more than anything I had heard form him before.
“How?” he continued; “how has Dudley insulted you, my dear child? Come, you’re excited; sit down; take time, and tell me all about it. I did not know that Dudley was here.”
“I— he — it is an insult. He knew very well — he must know I dislike him; and he presumed to make a proposal of marriage to me.”
“O— o — oh!” exclaimed my uncle, with a prolonged intonation which plainly said, Is that the mighty matter?
He looked at me as he leaned back with the same steady curiosity, this time smiling, which somehow frightened me, and his countenance looked to me wicked, like the face of a witch, with a guilt I could not understand.
“And that is the amount of your complaint. He made you a formal proposal of marriage!”
“Yes; he proposed for me.”
As I cooled, I began to feel just a very little disconcerted, and a suspicion was troubling me that possibly an indifferent person might think that, having no more to complain of, my language was perhaps a little exaggerated, and my demeanour a little too tempestuous.
My uncle, I dare say, saw some symptoms of this misgiving, for, smiling still, he said —
“My dear Maud, however just, you appear to me a little cruel; you don’t seem to remember how much you are yourself to blame; you have one faithful friend at least, whom I advise your consulting — I mean your looking-glass.