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

sneak, Pegtop, there, going up the path to the mill. He makes belief now he does not see us; but he does, though, only he’s afraid we’ll tell the Governor, and he thinks Governor won’t give him his way with you. I hate that Pegtop: he stopped me o’ riding the cows a year ago, he did.”

I thought Pegtop might have done worse. Indeed it was plain that a total reformation was needed here; and I was glad to find that poor Milly seemed herself conscious of it; and that her resolution to become more like other people of her station was not a mere spasm of mortification and jealousy, but a genuine and very zealous resolve.

I had not half seen this old house of Bartram-Haugh yet. At first, indeed, I had but an imperfect idea of its extent. There was a range of rooms along one side of the great gallery, with closed window-shutters, and the doors generally locked. Old L’Amour grew cross when we went into them, although we could see nothing; and Milly was afraid to open the windows⁠—not that any Bluebeard revelations were apprehended, but simply because she knew that Uncle Silas’s order was that things should be left undisturbed; and this boisterous spirit stood in awe of him to a degree which his gentle manners and apparent quietude rendered quite surprising.

There were in this house, what certainly did not exist at Knowl, and what I have never observed, thought they may possibly be found in other old houses⁠—I mean, here and there, very high hatches, which we could only peep over by jumping in the air. They crossed the long corridors and great galleries; and several of them were turned across and locked, so as to intercept the passage, and interrupt our explorations.

Milly, however, knew a queer little, very steep and dark back stair, which reached the upper floor; so she and I mounted, and made a long ramble through rooms much lower and ruder in finish than the lordly chambers we had left below. These commanded various views of the beautiful though neglected grounds; but on crossing a gallery we entered suddenly a chamber, which looked into a small and dismal quadrangle, formed by the inner walls of this great house, and of course designed only by the architect to afford the needful light and air to portions of the structure.

I rubbed the windowpane with my handkerchief and looked out. The surrounding roof was steep and high. The walls looked soiled and dark. The windows lined with dust and dirt, and the window-stones were in places tufted with moss, and grass, and groundsel. An arched doorway had opened from the house into this darkened square, but it was soiled and dusty; and the damp weeds that overgrew the quadrangle drooped undisturbed against it. It was plain that human footsteps tracked it little, and I gazed into that blind and sinister area with a strange thrill and sinking.

“This is the second floor⁠—there is the enclosed courtyard”⁠—I, as it were, soliloquised.

“What are you afraid of, Maud? you look as ye’d seen a ghost,” exclaimed Milly, who came to the window and peeped over my shoulder.

“It reminded me suddenly, Milly, of that frightful business.”

“What business, Maud?⁠—what a plague are ye thinking on?” demanded Milly, rather amused.

“It was in one of these rooms⁠—maybe this⁠—yes, it certainly was this⁠—for see, the panelling has been pulled off the wall⁠—that Mr. Charke killed himself.”

I was staring ruefully round the dim chamber, in whose corners the shadows of night were already gathering.

“Charke!⁠—what about him?⁠—who’s Charke?” asked Milly.

“Why, you must have heard of him,” said I.

“Not as I’m aware on,” answered she. “And he killed himself, did he, hanged himself, eh, or blowed his brains out?”

“He cut his throat in one of these rooms⁠—this one, I’m sure⁠—for your papa had the wainscoting stripped from the wall to ascertain whether there was any second door through which a murderer could have come; and you see these walls are stripped, and bear the marks of the woodwork that has been removed,” I answered.

“Well, that was awful! I don’t know how they have pluck to cut their throats; if I was doing it, I’d like best to put a pistol to my head and fire, like the young gentleman did, they say, in Deadman’s Hollow. But the fellows that cut their throats, they must be awful game lads, I’m thinkin’, for it’s a long slice, you know.”

“Don’t, don’t, Milly dear. Suppose we come away,” I said, for the evening was deepening rapidly into night.

“Hey and bury-me-wick, but here’s the blood; don’t you see a big black cloud all spread over the floor hereabout, don’t ye see?” Milly was stooping over the spot, and tracing the outline of this, perhaps, imaginary mapping, in the air with her finger.

“No, Milly, you could not see it: the floor is too dark, and it’s all in shadow. It must be fancy; and perhaps, after all, this is not the room.”

“Well⁠—I think, I’m sure it is. Stand⁠—just look.”

“We’ll come in the morning, and if you are right we can see it better then. Come away,” I said, growing frightened.

And just as we stood up to depart, the white high-cauled cap and large sallow features of old L’Amour peeped in at the door.

“Lawk! what brings you here?” cried Milly, nearly as much startled as I at the intrusion.

“What brings you here, miss?” whistled L’Amour through her gums.

“We’re looking where Charke cut his throat,” replied Milly.

“Charke the devil!” said the old woman, with an odd mixture of scorn and fury. “ ’Tisn’t his room; and come ye out of it, please. Master won’t like when he hears how you keep pulling Miss Maud from one room to another, all through the house, up and down.”

She was gabbling sternly enough, but dropped a low courtesy as I passed her, and with a peaked and nodding stare round the room, the old woman clapped the door sharply, and locked it.

“And who has been a talking about Charke⁠—a