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 rested on the table.
“You saw the luggage corded and addressed, as it stands ready for removal in the hall?” he asked.
I had. Milly and I had read the cards which dangled from the trunk-handles and gun-case. The address was —“Mr. Dudley R. Ruthyn, Paris, vid Dover.”
“I am old — agitated — on the eve of a decision on which much depends. Pray relieve my suspense. Is my son to leave Bartram to-day in sorrow, or to remain in joy? Pray answer quickly.”
I stammered I know not what. I was incoherent — wild, perhaps; but somehow I expressed my meaning — my unalterable decision. I thought his lips grew whiter and his eyes shone brighter as I spoke.
When I had quite made an end, he heaved a great sigh, and turning his eyes slowly to the right and the left, like a man in a helpless distrations, he whispered —
“God’s will be done.”
I thought he was upon the point of fainting — a clay tint darkened the white of his face; and, seeming to forget my presence, he sat down, looking with a despairing scowl on his ashy old hand, as it lay upon the table.
I stood gazing at him, feeling almost as if I had murdered the old man — he still gazing askance, with an imbecile scowl, upon his hand.
“Shall I go, sir?” I at length found courage to whisper.
“Go?” he said, looking up suddenly; and it seemed to me as if a stream of cold sheet-lightning had crossed and enveloped me for a moment.
“Go? — oh! — a — yes — yes, Maud — go. I must see poor Dudley before his departure,” he added, as it were, in soliloquy.
Trembling lest he should revoke his permission to depart, I glided quickly and noiselessly from the room.
Old Wyat was prowling outside, with a cloth in her hand, pretending to dust the carved doorcase. She frowned a stare of enquiry over her shrunken arm on me, as I passed. Milly, who had been on the watch, ran and met me. We heard my uncle’s voice, as I shut the door, calling Dudley. He had been waiting, probably, in the adjoining room. I hurried into my chamber, with Milly at my side, and there my agitation found relief in tears, as that of girlhood naturally does.
A little while after we saw from the window Dudley, looking, I thought, very pale, get into a vehicle, on the top of which his luggage lay, and drive away from Bartram.
I began to take comfort. His departure was an inexpressible relief. His final departure! a distant journey!
We had tea in Milly’s