you see?” said Milly, scarcely less terrified.
“Oh, I can’t; I can’t; I can’t, Milly. Never ask me. It is haunted. The room is haunted horribly.”
“Was it Clarke?” whispered Milly, looking over her shoulder, all aghast.
“No, no — don’t ask me; a fiend in a worse shape.” I was relieved at last by a long fit of weeping; and all night good Mary Quince sat by me, and Milly slept by my side. Starting and screaming, and drugged with sal-volatile, I got through that night of supernatural terror, and saw the blessed light of heaven again.
Doctor Jolks, when he came to see my uncle in the morning, visited me also. He pronounced me very hysterical, made minute enquiries respecting my hours and diet, asked what I had had for dinner yesterday. There was something a little comforting in his cool and confident pooh-poohing of the ghost theory. The result was, a regimen which excluded tea, and imposed chocolate and porter, earlier hours, and I forget all beside; and he undertook to promise that, if I would but observe his directions, I should never see a ghost again.
Chapter 50.
Milly’s Farewell
A FEW DAYS’ time say me much better. Doctor Jolks was so contemptuously sturdy and positive on the point, that I began to have comfortable doubts about the reality of my ghost; and having still a horror indescribable of the illusion, if such it were, the room in which it appeared, and everything concerning it, I would neither speak, nor, so far as I could, think of it.
So, though Bartram–Haugh was gloomy as well as beautiful, and some of its associations awful, and the solitude that reigned there sometimes almost terrible, yet early hours, bracing exercise, and the fine air that predominates that region, soon restored my nerves to a healthier tone.
But it seemed to me that Bartram–Haugh was to be to me a vale of tears; or rather, in my sad pilgrimage, that valley of the shadow of death through which poor Christian fared alone and in the dark.
One day Milly ran into the parlour, pale, with wet cheeks, and, without saying a word, threw her arms about my neck, and burst into a paroxysm of weeping.
“What is it, Milly — what’s the matter, dear — what is it?” I cried aghast, but returning her close embrace heartily.
“Oh! Maud — Maud darling, he’s going to send me away.”
“Away, dear! where away? And leave me alone in this dreadful solitude, where he knows I shall die of fear and grief without you? Oh! no — no, it must be a mistake.”
“I’m going to France, Maud — I’m going away. Mrs. Jolks is going to London, day ar’ter to-morrow, and I’m to go wi’ her; and an old French lady, he says, from the school will meet me there, and bring me the rest o’ the way.”
“Oh — ho — ho — ho — ho — o — o — o!” cried poor Milly, hugging me closer still, with her head buried in my shoulder, and swaying me about like a wrestler, in her agony.
“I never wor away from home afore, except that little bit wi’ you over there at Elverston; and you wor wi’ me then, Maud; an’ I love ye — better than Bartram — better than a’; an’ I think I’ll die, Maud, if they take me away.”
I was just as wild in my woe as poor Milly; and it was not until we had wept together for a full hour — sometimes standing — sometimes walking up and down the room — sometimes sitting and getting up in turns to fall on one another’s necks — that Milly, plucking her handkerchief from her pocket, drew a note from it at the same time, which, as it fell upon the floor, she at once recollected to be one from Uncle Silas to me.
It was to this effect:—
“I wish to apprise my dear niece and ward of my plans. Milly proceeds to an admirable French school, as a pensionnaire, and leaves this on Thursday next. If after three months’ trial she finds it in any way objectionable, she returns to us. If, on the contrary, she finds it in all respects the charming residence it has been presented to me, you, on the expiration of that period, join her there, until the temporary complication of my affairs shall have been so far adjusted as to enable me to receive you once more at Bartram. Hoping for happier days, and wishing to assure you that three months is the extreme limit of your separation from my poor Milly, I have written this, feeling alas! unequal to seeing you at present.
“Bartram, Tuesday.
“P.S. — I can have no objection to your apprising Monica Knollys of these arrangements. You will understand, of course, not a copy of this letter, but its substance.”
Over this document, scanning it as lawyers do a new Act of Parliament, we took comfort. After all, it was limited; a separation not to exceed three months, possibly much shorter. On the whole, too, I pleased myself with thinking Uncle Silas’’ note, though peremptory, was kind.
Our paroxysms subsided into sadness; a close correspondence was arranged. Something of the bustle and excitement of change intervened. If it turned out to be, in truth, a “charming residence,” how very delightful our meeting in France, with the interest of foreign scenery, ways, and faces, would be!
So Thursday arrived — a new gush of sorrow — a new brightening up — and, amid regrets and anticipations, we parted at the gate at the farther end of the Windmill Wood. Then, of course, were more good-byes, more embraces, and tearful smiles. Good Mrs. Jolks, who met us there, was in a huge fuss; I believe it was her first visit to the metropolis, and she was in proportion heated and important, and terrified about the train, so we had not many last words.
I watched poor Milly, whose head was stretched from the window, her hand waving many adieux, until the curve of the road, and the clump of old ash-trees, thick with ivy, hid Milly, carriage and all, from view. My eyes filled again with tears. I turned towards Bartram. At my side stood honest Mary Quince.
“Don’t take on so, Miss; ‘twon’t be no time passing; three months is nothing at all,” she said, smiling kindly.
I smiled through my tears and kissed the good creature, and so side by side we re-entered the gate.
The lithe young man in fustian, whom I had seen talking with Beauty on the morning of our first encounter with that youthful Amazon, was awaiting our re-entrance with the key in his hand. He stood half behind the open wicket. One lean brown cheek, one shy eye, and his sharp upturned nose, I saw as we passed. He was treating me to a stealthy scrutiny, and seemed to shun my glance, for he shut the door quickly, and busied himself locking it, and then began stubbing up some thistles which grew close by, with the toe of this thick shoe, his back to us all the time.
It struck me that I recognized his features, and I asked Mary Quince.
“Have you seen that young man before, Quince?”
“He brings up game for your uncle, sometimes, Miss, and lends a hand in the garden, I believe.”
“Do you know his name, Mary?”
“They call him Tom. I don’t know what more, Miss.”
“Tom,” I called; “please, Tom, come here for a moment.”
Tom turned about, and approached slowly. He was more civil than the Bartram people usually were, for he plucked off his shapeless cap of rabbit-skin with a clownish respect.
“Tom, what is your other name — Tom what, my good man?” I asked.
“Tom Brice, ma’am.”
“Haven’t I seen you before, Tom Brice?” I pursued, for my curiosity was excited, and with it much graver feelings; for there certainly was a resemblance in Tom’s features to those of the postilion who had looked so hard at me as I passed the carriage in the warren at Knowl, on the evening of the outrage which had scared that quiet place.
“‘Appen