been kind?”
“You have never been anything but kind,” I exclaimed.
“That I’ve been self-denying when you made me a generous offer?” he continued. “That I now act to spare you pain? You may tell her, not as a message from me, but as a fact, that I am seriously thinking of vacating my guardianship — that I feel I have done her an injustice, and that, so soon as my mind is a little less tortured, I shall endeavour to effect a reconciliation with her, and would wish ultimately to transfer the care of your person and education to her. You may say I have no longer an interest even in vindicating my name. My son has wrecked himself by a marriage. I forgot to tell you he stopped at Feltram, and this morning wrote to pray a parting interview. If I grant it, it shall be the last. I shall never see him or correspond with him more.”
The old man seemed much overcome, and held his handkerchief to his eyes.
“He and his wife are, I understand, about to emigrate; the sooner the better,” he resumed, bitterly. “Deeply, Maud, I regret having tolerated his suit to you, even for a moment. Had I thought it over, as I did the whole case last night, nothing could have induced me to permit it. But I have lived for so long like a monk in his cell, my wants and observation limited to the narrow compass of this chamber, that my knowledge of the world has died out with my youth and my hopes: and I did not, as I ought to have done, consider many objections. Therefore, dear Maud, on this one subject, I entreat, be silent; its discussion can effect nothing now. I was wrong, and frankly ask you to forget my mistake.”
I had been on the point of writing to Lady Knollys on this odious subject, when, happily, it was set at rest by the disclosure of yesterday; and being so, I could have no difficulty in acceding to my uncle’s request. He was conceding so much that I could not withhold so trifling a concession in return.
“I hope Monica will continue to be kind to poor Milly after I am gone.”
Here there were a few seconds of meditation.
“Maud, you will not, I think, refuse to convey the substance of what I have just said in a letter to Lady Knollys, and perhaps you would have no objection to let me see it when it is written. It will prevent the possibility of its containing any misconception of what I have just spoken: and, Maud, you won’t forget to say whether I have been kind. It would be a satisfaction to me to know that Monica was assured that I never either teased or bullied my young ward.”
With these words he dismissed me; and forthwith I completed such a letter as would quite embody what he had said; and in my own glowing terms, being in high good-humour with Uncle Silas, recorded my estimate of his gentleness and good-nature; and when I submitted it to him, he expressed his admiration of what he was pleased to call my cleverness in so exactly conveying what he wished, and his gratitude for the handsome terms in which I had spoken of my old guardian.
Chapter 53.
An Odd Proposal
AS I AND Mary Quince returned from our walk that day, and had entered the hall, I was surprised most disagreeably by Dudley’s emerging from the vestibule at the foot of the great staircase. He was, I suppose, in his travelling costume — a rather soiled white surtout, a great coloured muffler in folds about his throat, his “chimney-pot” on, and his fur cap sticking out from his pocket. He had just descended, I suppose, from my uncle’s room. On seeing me he stepped back, and stood with his shoulders to the wall, like a mummy in a museum.
I pretended to have a few words to say to Mary before leaving the hall, in the hope that, as he seemed to wish to escape me, he would take the opportunity of getting quickly off the scene.
But he had changed his mind, it would seem, in the interval; for when I glanced in that direction again he had moved toward us, and stood in the hall with his hat in his hand. I must do him the justice to say he looked horribly dismal, sulky, and frightened.
“Ye’ll gi’e me a word, Miss — only a thing I ought to say — for your good; by — — mind, it’s for your good, Miss.”
Dudley stood a little way off, viewing me, with his hat in both hands and a “glooming” countenance.
I detested the idea of either hearing or speaking to him; but I had no resolution to refuse, and only saying “I can’t imagine what you can wish to speak to me about,” I approached him. “Wait there at the banister, Quince.”
There was a fragrance of alcohol about the flushed face and gaudy muffler of this odious cousin, which heightened the effect of his horribly dismal features. He was speaking, besides, a little thickly; but his manner was dejected, and he was treating me with an elaborate and discomfited respect which reassured me.
“I’m a bit up a tree, Miss,” he said shuffling his feet on the oak floor. “I behaved a d ——— fool; but I baint one o’ they sort. I’m a fellah as ‘ill fight his man, an’ stan’ up to ‘m fair, don’t ye see? An I baint one o’ they sort — no, dang it, I baint.”
Dudley delivered his puzzling harangue with a good deal of undertoned vehemence, and was strangely agitated. He, too, had got an unpleasant way of avoiding my eye, and glancing along the floor from corner to corner as he spoke, which gave him a very hang-dog air.
He was twisting his fingers in his great sandy whisker, and pulling it roughly enough to drag his cheek about by that savage purchase; and with his other hand he was crushing and rubbing his hat against his knee.
“The old boy above there be half crazed, I think; he don’t mean half as he says thof, not he. But I’m in a bad fix anyhow — a regular sell it’s been, and I can’t get a tizzy out of him. So, ye see, I’m up a tree, Miss; and he sich a one, he’ll make it a wuss mull if I let him. He’s as sharp wi’ me as one o’ them lawyer chaps, dang ’em, and he’s a lot of I O’s and rubbitch o’ mine; and Bryerly writes to me he can’t gi’e me my legacy, ‘cause h’es got a notice from Archer and Sleigh a warnin’ him not to gi’e me as much as a bob; for I signed it away to governor, he says — which I believe’s a lie. I may a’ signed some writing —‘appen I did — when I was a bit cut one night. But that’s no way to catch a gentleman, and ‘twon’t stand. There’s justice to be had, and ‘twon’t stand, I say; and I’m not in ‘is hands that way. Thof I may be a bit up the spout, too, I don’t deny; only I baint a-goin’ the whole hog all at once. I’m none o’ they sort. He’ll find I baint.”
Here Mary Quince coughed demurely from the foot of the stair, to remind me that the conversation was protracted.
“I don’t very well understand,” I said gravely; “and I am now going upstairs.”
“Don’t jest a minute, Miss; it’s only a word, ye see. We’ll be goin’ t’ Australia, Sary Mangles, an’ me, aboard the Seamew, on the 5th. I’m for Liverpool to-night, and she’ll meet me there, an’— an’, please God Almighty, ye’ll never see me more; an’ I’d rather gi’e ye a lift, Maud, before I go: an’ I tell ye what, if ye’ll just gi’e me your written promise ye’ll gi’e me that twenty thousand ye were offering to gi’e the Governor, I’ll take ye cleverly out o’ Bartram, and put ye wi’ your cousin Knollys, or anywhere ye like best.”
“Take me from Bartram — for twenty thousand pounds! Take me away from my guardian! You seem to forget, sir,” my indignation rising as I spoke, “that I can visit my cousin, Lady Knollys, whenever I please.”
“Well, that is as it may be,” he said, with a sulky deliberation, scraping about a little bit of paper that lay on the floor with the toe of his boot.
“It is as it may be, and that is as I say, sir; and considering how you have treated me — your mean, treacherous, and infamous suit, and your cruel treason to your poor wife, I am amazed at your effrontery.”
I turned to leave him, being, in truth, in one of my passions.
“Don’t