Uncle Silas, J. Sheridan Le Fanu [10 ebook reader .txt] 📗

“You must say try⁠—you must, my dear Maud.”

“But how can I decide in a moment? Oh, dear Cousin Monica, I am so distracted!”

“But you need not decide at all; the decision rests with him. Come; he is more competent than you. You must say yes.”

Again I looked from her to Doctor Bryerly, and from him to her again. I threw my arms about her neck, and hugging her closely to me, I cried⁠—

“Oh, Cousin Monica, dear Cousin Monica, advise me. I am a wretched creature. You must advise me.”

I did not know till now how irresolute a character was mine.

I knew somehow by the tone of her voice that she was smiling as she answered⁠—

“Why, dear, I have advised you; I do advise you;” and then she added, impetuously, “I entreat and implore, if you really think I love you, that you will follow my advice. It is your duty to leave your uncle Silas, whom you believe to be more competent than you are, to decide, after full conference with Doctor Bryerly, who knows more of your poor father’s views and intentions in making that appointment than either you or I.”

“Shall I say, yes?” I cried, drawing her close, and kissing her helplessly. “Oh, tell me⁠—tell me to say, yes.”

“Yes, of course, yes. She agrees, Doctor Bryerly, to your kind proposal.”

“I am to understand so?” he asked.

“Very well⁠—yes, Doctor Bryerly,” I replied.

“You have resolved wisely and well,” said he, briskly, like a man who has got a care off his mind.

“I forgot to say, Doctor Bryerly⁠—it was very rude⁠—that you must stay here tonight.”

“He can’t, my dear,” interposed Lady Knollys; “it is a long way.”

“He will dine. Won’t you, Doctor Bryerly?”

“No; he can’t. You know you can’t, sir,” said my cousin, peremptorily. “You must not worry him, my dear, with civilities he can’t accept. He’ll bid us goodbye this moment. Goodbye, Doctor Bryerly. You’ll write immediately; don’t wait till you reach town. Bid him goodbye, Maud. I’ll say a word to you in the hall.”

And thus she literally hurried him out of the room, leaving me in a state of amazement and confusion, not able to review my decision⁠—unsatisfied, but still unable to recall it.

I stood where they had left me, looking after them, I suppose, like a fool.

Lady Knollys returned in a few minutes. If I had been a little cooler I was shrewd enough to perceive that she had sent poor Doctor Bryerly away upon his travels, to find board and lodging halfway to Bartram, to remove him forthwith from my presence, and thus to make my decision⁠—if mine it was⁠—irrevocable.

“I applaud you, my dear,” said Cousin Knollys, in her turn embracing me heartily. “You are a sensible little darling, and have done exactly what you ought to have done.”

“I hope I have,” I faltered.

“Hope? fiddle! stuff! the thing’s as plain as a pikestaff.”

And in came Branston to say that dinner was served.

Lady Knollys, I could plainly see, when we got into the brighter lights at the dinner table, was herself a good deal excited; she was relieved and glad, and was garrulous during our meal, and told me all her early recollections of dear papa. Most of them I had heard before; but they could not be told too often.

Notwithstanding my mind sometimes wandered, often indeed, to the conference so unexpected, so suddenly decisive, possibly so momentous; and with a dismayed uncertainly, the question⁠—had I done right?⁠—was always before me.

I dare say my cousin understood my character better, perhaps, after all my honest self-study, then I do even now. Irresolute, suddenly reversing my own decisions, impetuous in action as she knew me, she feared, I am sure, a revocation of my commission to Doctor Bryerly, and thought of the countermand I might send galloping after him.

So, kind creature, she laboured to occupy my thoughts, and when one theme was exhausted found another, and had always her parry prepared as often as I directed a reflection or an enquiry to the reopening of the question which she had taken so much pains to close.

That night I was troubled. I was already upbraiding myself. I could not sleep, and at last sat up in bed, and cried. I lamented my weakness in having assented to Doctor Bryerly’s and my cousin’s advice. Was I not departing from my engagement to my dear papa? Was I not consenting that my Uncle Silas should be induced to second my breach of faith by a corresponding perfidy?

Lady Knollys had done wisely in despatching Doctor Bryerly so promptly; for, most assuredly, had he been at Knowl next morning when I came down I should have recalled my commission.

That day in the study I found four papers which increased my perturbation. They were in dear papa’s handwriting, and had an endorsement in these words⁠—“Copy of my letter addressed to ⸻, one of the trustees named in my will.” Here, then, were the contents of those four sealed letters which had excited mine and Lady Knollys’ curiosity on the agitating day on which the will was read.

It contained these words:⁠—

“I name my oppressed and unhappy brother, Silas Ruthyn, residing at my house of Bartram-Haugh, as guardian of the person of my beloved child, to convince the world if possible, and failing that, to satisfy at least all future generations of our family, that his brother, who knew him best, had implicit confidence in him, and that he deserved it. A cowardly and preposterous slander, originating in political malice, and which never have been whispered had he not been poor and imprudent, is best silenced by this ordeal of purification. All I possess goes to him if my child dies under age; and the custody of her person I commit meanwhile to him alone, knowing that she is as safe in his as she could have been under my own care. I rely upon your remembrance of our early