And suffering prompts to desperate remedies. We must not be too hard on a rough but romantic young fool, who talks according to his folly and his pain.”
Chapter 49.
An Apparition
“BUT, AFTER ALL,” he suddenly resumed, as if a new thought had struck him, “is it quite such folly after all? It really strikes me, dear Maud, that the subject may be worth a second thought. No, no, you won’t refuse to hear me,” he said, observing me on the point of protesting. “I am, of course, assuming that you are fancy free. I am assuming, too, that you don’t care twopence about Dudley, and even that you fancy you dislike him. You know in that pleasant play, poor Sheridan — delightful fellow! — all our fine spirits are dead — he makes Mrs. Malaprop say there is nothing like beginning with a little aversion. Now, though in matrimony, of course, that is only a joke, yet in love, believe me, it is no such thing. His own marriage with Miss Ogle, I know, was a case in point. She expressed a positive horror of him at their first acquaintance; and yet, I believe, she would, a few months later, have died rather than not have married him.”
I was again about to speak, but with a smile he beckoned me into silence.
“There are two or three points you must bear in mind. One of the happiest privileges of your fortune is that you may, without imprudence, marry simply for love. There are few men in England who could offer you an estate comparable with that you already possess; or, in fact, appreciably increase the splendour of your fortune. If, therefore, he were in all other respects eligible, I can’t see that his poverty would be an objection to weigh for one moment. He is quite a rough diamond. He has been, like many young men of the highest rank, too much given up to athletic sports — to that society which constitutes the aristocracy of the ring and the turf, and all that kind of thing. You see, I am putting all the worst points first. But I have known so many young men in my day, after a madcap career of a few years among prizefighters, wrestlers, and jockeys — learning their slang and affecting their manners — take up and cultivate the graces and the decencies. There was poor dear Newgate, many degrees lower in that kind of a frolic, who, when he grew tired of it, became one of the most elegant and accomplished men in the House of Peers. Poor Newgate, he’s gone, too! I could reckon up fifty of my early friends who all began like Dudley, and all turned out, more or less, like Newgate.”
At this moment came a knock at the door, and Dudley put in his head most inopportunely for the vision of his future graces and accomplishments.
“My good fellow,” said his father, with a sharp sort of playfulness, “I happen to be talking about my son, and should rather not be overheard; you will, therefore, choose another time for your visit.”
Dudley hesitated gruffly at the door, but another look from his father dismissed him.
“And now, my dear, you are to remember that Dudley has fine qualities — the most affectionate son in his rough way that ever father was blessed with; most admirable qualities — indomitable courage, and a high sense of honour; and lastly, that he has the Ruthyn blood — the purest blood, I maintain it, in England.”
My uncle, as he said this, drew himself up a little, unconsciously, his thin hand laid lightly over his heart with a little patting motion, and his countenance looked so strangely dignified and melancholy, that in admiring contemplation of it I lost some sentences which followed next.
“Therefore, dear, naturally anxious that my boy should not be dismissed from home — as he must be, should you persevere in rejecting his suit — I beg that you will reserve your decision to this day fortnight, when I will with much pleasure hear what you may have to say on the subject. But till then, observe me, not a word.”
That evening he and Dudley were closeted for a long time. I suspect that he lectured him on the psychology of ladies; for a bouquet was laid beside my plate every morning at breakfast, which it must have been troublesome to get, for the conservatory at Bartram was a desert. In a few days more an anonymous green parrot arrived, in a gilt cage, with a little note in a clerk’s hand, addressed to “Miss Ruthyn (of Knowl), Bartram–Haugh,” &c. It contained only ‘Directions for caring green parrot,” at the close of which, underlined, the words appeared —“The bird’s name is Maud.”
The bouquets I invariably left on the table-cloth, where I found them — the bird I insisted on Milly’s keeping as her property. During the intervening fortnight Dudley never appeared, as he used sometimes to do before, at luncheon, nor looked in at the window as we were at breakfast. He contented himself with one day placing himself in my way in the hall in his shooting accoutrements, and, with a clumsy, shuffling kind of respect, and hat in hand, he said —
“I think, Miss, I must a spoke uncivil t’other day. I was so awful put about, and didn’t know no more nor a child what I was saying; and I wanted to tell ye I’m sorry for it, and I beg your pardon — very humble, I do.”
I did not know what to say. I therefore said nothing, but made a grave inclination, and passed on.
Two or three times Milly and I saw him at a little distance in our walks. He never attempted to join us. Once only he passed so near that some recognition was inevitable, and he stopped and in silence lifted his hat with an awkward respect. But although he did not approach us, he was ostentatious with a kind of telegraphic civility in the distance. He opened gates, he whistled his dogs to “heel,” he drove away cattle, and then himself withdrew. I really think he watched us occasionally to render these services, for in this distant way we encountered him decidedly oftener than we used to do before his flattering proposal of marriage.
You may be sure that we discussed, Milly and I, that occurrence pretty constantly in all sorts of moods. Limited as had been her experience of human society, she very clearly saw now how far below its presentable level was her hopeful brother.
The fortnight sped swiftly, as time always does when something we dislike and shrink from awaits us at its close. I never saw Uncle Silas during that period. It may seem odd to those who merely read the report of our last interview, in which his manner had been more playful and his talk more trifling than in any other, that from it I had carried away a profounder sense of fear and insecurity than from any other. It was with a foreboding of evil and an awful dejection that on a very dark day, in Milly’s room, I awaited the summons which I was sure would reach me from my punctual guardian.
As I looked from the window upon the slanting rain and leaden sky, and thought of the hated interview that awaited me, I pressed my hand to my troubled heart, and murmured, “O that I had wings like a dove; then would I flee away, and be at rest.”
Just then the prattle of the parrot struck my hear. I looked round on the wire cage, and remembered the words, “The bird’s name is Maud.”
“Poor bird!” I said. “I dare say, Milly, it longs to get out. If it were a native of this country, would not you like to open the window, and then the door of that cruel cage, and let the poor thing fly away?”
“Master wants Miss Maud,” said Wyat’s disagreeable tones, at the half-open door.
I followed in silence, with the pressure of a near alarm at my heart, like a person going to an operation.
When I entered the room, my heart beat so fast that I could hardly speak. The tall form of Uncle Silas rose before me, and I made him a faltering reverence.
He darted from under his brows a wild, fierce glance at old Wyat, and pointed to the door imperiously with his skeleton finger. The door shut, and we were alone.
“A chair?” he said, pointing to a seat.
“Thank you, uncle, I prefer standing,” I faltered.
He also stood — his white head bowed forward, the phosphoric glaze of his strange eyes shone upon me from under his brows — his finger-nails just