like the young gentleman did, they say, in Deadman’s Hollow. But the fellows that cut their throats, they must be awful game lads, I’m thinkin’, for it’s a long slice, you know.”
“Don’t, don’t, Milly dear. Suppose we come away,” I said, for the evening was deepening rapidly into night.
“Hey and bury-me-wick, but here’s the blood; don’t you see a big black cloud all spread over the floor hereabout, don’t ye see?” Milly was stooping over the spot, and tracing the outline of this, perhaps, imaginary mapping, in the air with her finger.
“No, Milly, you could not see it; the floor is too dark, and it’s all in shadow. It must be fancy; and perhaps, after all, this is not the room.”
“Well — I think, I’m sure it is. Stand — just look.”
“We’ll come in the morning, and if you are right we can see it better then. Come away,” I said, growing frightened.
And just as we stood up to depart, the white high-cauled cap and large sallow features of old L’Amour peeped in at the door.
“Lawk! what brings you here?” cried Milly, nearly as much startled as I at the intrusion.
“What brings you here, miss?” whistled L’Amour through her gums.
“We’re looking where Clarke cut his throat,” replied Milly.
“Clarke the devil!” said the old woman, with an odd mixture of scorn and fury. “‘Tisn’t his room; and come ye out of it, please. Master won’t like when he hears how you keep pulling Miss Maud from one room to another, all through the house, up and down.”
She was gabbling sternly enough, but drooped a low courtesy as I passed her, and with a peaked and nodding stare round the room, the old woman clapped the door sharply, and locked it.
“And who has been a talking about Clarke — a pack o’ lies, I warrant. I s’pose you want to frighten Miss Maud here” (another crippled courtesy) “wi’ ghosts and like nonsense.”
“You’re out there: ’twas she told me; and much about it. Ghosts, indeed! I don’t vally them, not I; if I did, I know who’d frighten me,” and Milly laughed.
The old woman stuffed the key in her pocket, and her wrinkled mouth pouted and receded with a grim uneasiness.
“A harmless brat, and kind she is; but wild — wild — she will be wild.”
So whispered L’Amour in my ear, during the silence that followed, nodding shakily toward Milly over the banister, and she courtesied again as we departed, and shuffled off toward Uncle Silas’s room.
“The Governor is queerish this evening,” said Milly, when we were seated at our tea. “You never saw him queerish, did you?”
“You must say what you mean, more plainly, Milly. You don’t mean ill, I hope?”
“Well! I don’t know what it is; but he does grow very queer sometimes — you’d think he was dead a’most, maybe two or three days and nights together. He sits all the time like an old woman in a swound. Well, well, it is awful!”
“Is he insensible when in that state?” I asked, a good deal alarmed.
“I don’t know; but it never signifies anything. It won’t kill him, I do believe; but old L’Amour knows all about it. I hardly ever go into the room when he’s so, only when I’m sent for; and he sometimes wakes up and takes a fancy to call for this one or that. One day he sent for Pegtop all the way to the mill; and when he came, he only stared at him for a minute or two, and ordered him out o’ the room. He’s like a child a’most, when he’s in one o’ them dazes.”
I always knew when Uncle Silas was “queerish,” by the injunctions of old L’Amour, whistled and spluttered over the banister as we came up-stairs, to mind how we made a noise passing master’s door; and by the sound of mysterious to-ings and fro-ings about his room.
I saw very little of him. He sometimes took a whim to have us breakfast with him, which lasted perhaps for a week; and then the order of our living would relapse into its old routine.
I must not forget two kind letters from Lady Knollys, who was detained away, and delighted to hear that I enjoyed my quiet life; and promised to apply, in person, to Uncle Silas, for permission to visit me.
She was to be for the Christmas at Elverston, and that was only six miles away from Bartram–Haugh, so I had the excitement of a pleasant look forward.
She also said that she would include poor Milly in her invitation; and a vision of Captain Oakley rose before me, with his handsome gaze turned in wonder on poor Milly, for whom I had begun to feel myself responsible.
Chapter 36.
An Arrival at Dead of Night
I HAVE sometimes been asked why I wear an odd little turquois ring — which to the uninstructed eye appears quite valueless and altogether an unworthy companion of those jewels which flash insultingly beside it. It is a little keepsake, of which I became possessed about this time.
“Come, lass, what name shall I give you?” cried Milly, one morning, bursting into my room in a state of alarming hilarity.
“My own, Milly.”
“No, but you must have a nickname, like every one else.”
“Don’t mind it, Milly.”
“Yes, but I will. Shall I call you Mrs. Bustle?”
“You shall do no such thing.”
“But you must have a name.”
“I refuse a name.”
“But I’ll give you one, lass.”
“And I won’t have it.”
“But you can’t help me christening you.”
“I can decline answering.”
“But I’ll make you,” said Milly, growing very red.
Perhaps there was something provoking in my tone, for I certainly was very much disgusted at Milly’s relapse into barbarism.
“You can’t,” I retorted quietly.
“See if I don’t, and I’ll give ye one twice as ugly.”
I smiled, I fear, disdainfully.
“And I think you’re a minx, and a slut, and a fool,” she broke out, flushing scarlet.
I smiled in the same unchristian way.
“And I’d give ye a smack o’ the cheek as soon as look at you.”
And she gave her dress a great slap, and drew near me, in her wrath. I really thought she was about tendering the ordeal of single combat.
I made her, however, a paralysing courtesy, and, with immense dignity, sailed out of the room, and into Uncle Silas’s study, where it happened we were to breakfast that morning, and for several subsequent ones.
During the meal we maintained the most dignified reserve; and I don’t think either so much as looked at the other.
We had no walk together that day.
I was sitting in the evening, quite alone, when Milly entered the room. Her eyes were red, and she looked very sullen.
“I want your hand, cousin,” she said, at the same time taking it by the wrist, and administering with it a sudden slap on her plump cheek, which made the room ring, and my fingers tingle; and before I had recovered from my surprise, she had vanished.
I called after her, but no answer; I pursued, but she