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 was pattering about with her back toward him, rather viciously with the point of his stick, and signed for a light.
“It baint in him, you can’t get it out o’ ’im, no more nor y’ell draw smoke out o’ this,” and he raised his pipe an inch or two, with his thumb on the bowl, “without ‘backy and fire. ‘Tisn’t in it.”
“Maybe I can be of some use?” I said, thinking.
“Maybe,” he rejoined.
By this time he received from the old deaf abigail a flaming roll of brown paper, and, touching his hat to me, he withdrew, lighting his pipe and sending up little white puffs, like the salute of a departing ship.
So he did not care to hear how his daughter was, and had only come here to light his pipe!
Just then the doctor emerged.
“We have been waiting to hear how your poor patient is to-day?” I said.
“Very ill, indeed, and utterly neglected, I fear. If she were equal to it — but she’s not — I think she ought to be removed to the hospital immediately.”
“That poor old woman is quite deaf, and the man is so surly and selfish! Could you recommend a nurse who would stay here till she’s better? I will pay her with pleasure, and anything you think might be good for the poor girl.”
So this was settled on the spot. Doctor Jolks was kind, like most men of his calling, and undertook to send the nurse from Feltram with a few comforts for the patient; and he called Dickon to the yard-gate, and I suppose told him of the arrangement; and Milly and I went to the poor girl’s door and asked, “May we come in?”
There was no answer. So, with the conventional construction of silence, we entered. Her looks showed how ill she was. We adjusted her bed-clothes, and darkened the room, and did what we could for her — noting, beside, what her comfort chiefly required. She did not answer any questions. She did not thank us. I should almost have fancied that she had not perceived our presence, had I not observed her dark, sunken eyes once or twice turned up towards my face, with a dismal look of wonder and enquiry.
The girl was very ill, and we went every day to see her. Sometimes she would answer our questions — sometimes not. Thoughtful, observant, surly, she seemed; and as people like to be thanked, I sometimes wonder that we continued to throw our bread upon these ungrateful waters. Milly was specially impatient under this treatment, and protested against it, and finally refused to accompany me into poor Beauty’s bed-room.
“I think, my good Meg,” said I one day, as I stood by her bed — she was now recovering with