this little note lays upon me — not quite, but something like it; and I don’t know the meaning of it.”
And she looked enquiringly at me.
“You are not to be alarmed about your uncle Silas, because your being afraid would unfit you for an important service which you have undertaken for you family, the nature of which I shall soon understand, and which, although it is quite passive, would be made very said if illusory fears were allowed to steal into your mind.”
She was looking into the letter in poor papa’s handwriting, which she had found addressed to her in his desk, and emphasised the words, I suppose, which she quoted from it.
“Have you any idea, Maud, darling, what this service may be?” she enquired, with a grave and anxious curiosity in her countenance.
“None, Cousin Monica; but I have thought long over my undertaking to do it, or submit to it, be it what it may; and I will keep the promise I voluntarily made, although I know what a coward I am, and often distrust my courage.”
“Well, I am not to frighten you.”
“How could you? Why should I be afraid? Is there anything frightful to be disclosed? Do tell me — you must tell me.”
“No, darling, I did not mean that — I don’t mean that; — I could, if I would; I— I don’t know exactly what I meant. But your poor papa knew him better than I— in fact, I did not know him at all — that is, ever quite understood him — which your poor papa, I see, had ample opportunities of doing.” And after a little pause, she added —“So you do not know what you are expected to do or to undergo.”
“Oh! Cousin Monica, I know you think he committed that murder,” I cried, starting up, I don’t know why, and I felt that I grew deadly pale.
“I don’t believe any such thing, you little fool; you must not say such horrible things, Maud,” she said, rising also, and looking both pale and angry. “Shall we go out for a little walk? Come, lock up these papers, dear, and get your things on; and if that Dr. Bryerly does not turn up to-morrow, you must send for the Rector, good Doctor Clay, and let him make search for the will — there may be directions about many things, you know; and, my dear Maud, you are to remember that Silas is my cousin as well as your uncle. Come, dear, put on your hat.”
So we went out together for a little cloistered walk.
Chapter 22.
Somebody in the Room with the Coffin
WHEN WE RETURNED, a “young” gentleman had arrived. We saw him in the parlour as we passed the window. It was simply a glance, but such a one as suffices to make a photograph, which we can study afterwards, at our leisure. I remember him at this moiment — a man of six-and-thirty — dressed in a grey travelling suit, not over-well made; light-haired, fat-faced, and clumsy; and he looked both dull and cunning, and not at all like a gentleman.
Branston met us, announced the arrival, and handed me the stranger’s credentials. My cousin and I stopped in the passage to read them.
“That’s your uncle Silas’s,” said Lady Knollys, touching one of the two letters with the tip of her finger.
“Shall we have lunch, Miss?”
“Certainly.” So Branston bowed.
“Read it with me, Cousin Monica,” I said. And a very curious letter it was. It spoke as follows:—
“How can I thank my beloved niece for remembering her aged and forlorn kinsman at such a moment of anguish?”
I had written a note of a few, I dare say, incoherent words by the next post after my dear father’s death.
“It is, however, in the hour of bereavement that we most value the ties that are broken, and yearn for the sympathy of kindred.”
Here came a little distich of French verse, of which I could only read ciel and l’amour.
“Our quiet household here is clouded with a new sorrow. How inscrutable are the ways of Providence! I— though a few years younger — how much the more infirm — how shattered in energy and in mind — how a mere burden — how entirely de trop — am spared to my said place in a world where I can be no longer useful, where I have but one business — prayer, but one hope — the tomb; and he — apparently so robust — the centre of so much good — so necessary to you — so necessary alas! to me — is taken! He is gone to his rest — for us, what remains but to bow our heads, and murmur, ‘His will be done’? I trace these lines with a trembling hand, while tears dim my old eyes. I did not think that any earthly event could have moved me so profoundly. From the world I have long stood aloof. I once led a life of pleasure — alas! of wickedness — as I now do one of austerity; but as I never was rich, so my worst enemy will allow I never was avaricious. My sins, I thank my Maker, have been of a more reducible kind, and have succumbed to the discipline which Heaven has provided. To earth and its interests, as well as to its pleasures, I have long been dead. For the few remaining years of my life I ask but quiet — an exemption from the agitations and distractions of struggle and care, and I trust to the Giver of all Good for my deliverance — well knowing, at the same time, that whatever befalls will, under His direction, prove best. Happy shall I be, my dearest niece, if in your most interesting and, in some respects, forlorn situation, I can be of any use to you. My present religious adviser — of whom I ventured to ask counsel on your behalf — states that I ought to send some one to represent me at the melancholy ceremony of reading the will which my beloved and now happy brother has, no doubt, left behind; and the idea that the experience and professional knowledge possessed by the gentleman whom I have selected may possibly be of use to you, my dearest niece, determines me to place him at your disposal. He is the junior partner in the firm of Archer and Sleigh, who conduct any little business which I may have from time to time; may I entreat your hospitality for him during a brief stay at Knowl? I write, even for a moment, upon these small matters of business with an effort — a painful one, but necessary. Alas! my brother! The cup of bitterness is now full. Few and evil must the remainder of my old days be. Yet, while they last, I remain always for my beloved niece, that which all her wealth and splendour cannot purchase — a loving and faithful kinsman and friend,
SILAS RUTHYN
“Is it not a kind letter?” I said, while tears stood in my eyes.
“Yes,” answered Lady Knollys, drily.
“But don’t you think it so, really?”
“Oh! kind, very kind,” she answered in the same tone, “and perhaps a little cunning.”
“Cunning! — how?”
“Well, you know I’m a peevish old Tabby, and of course I scratch now and then, and see in the dark. I dare say Silas is sorry, but I don’t think he is in sackcloth and ashes. He has reason to be sorry and anxious, and I say I think he is both; and you know he pities you very much, and also himself a good deal; and he wants money, and you — his beloved niece — have a great deal — and altogether it is an affectionate and prudent letter; and he has sent his attorney here to make a note of the will; and you are to give the gentleman his meals and lodging; and Silas, very thoughtfully, invites you to confide your difficulties and troubles to his solicitor. It is very kind, but not imprudent.”
“Oh, Cousin Monica, don’t you think at such a moment it is hardly natural that he should form such petty schemes, even were he capable at other times of practising so low? Is it not judging him hardly? and you, you know, so little acquainted with him.”
“I told you, dear, I’m a cross old thing — and there’s an end; and I really don’t care two pence about him; and of the two I’d much rather he were no relation of ours.”
Now, was not this prejudice? I dare say in part it was. So, too, was my vehement predisposition in