Uncle Silas - J. Sheridan Le Fanu (best novels to read for students .TXT) 📗

as loud as she can if she sees any fellah a-comin’ this way, an’ rin ye back to me;” and she impatiently beckoned me away on her errand.

When I returned, having made this dispositions, I perceived how pale the girl was.

“Are you ill, Meg?” I asked.

“Never ye mind. Well enough. Listen, Miss; I must tell it all in a crack, an’ if she calls, rin awa’ to her, and le’ me to myself, for if fayther or t’other ’un wor to kotch me here, I think they’d kill me a’most. Hish!”

She paused a second, looking askance, in the direction where she fancied Mary Quince was. Then she resumed in a whisper⁠—

“Now, lass, mind ye, ye’ll keep what I say to yourself. You’re not to tell that ’un nor any other for your life, mind, a word o’ what I’m goin’ to tell ye.”

“I’ll not say a word. Go on.”

“Did ye see Dudley?”

“I think I saw him getting up the ladder.”

“In the mill? Ha! that’s him. He never went beyond Todcaster. He stayed in Feltram after.”

It was my turn to look pale now. My worst conjecture was established.

XXI I Conspire

“That’s a bad ’un, he is⁠—oh, Miss, Miss Maud! It’s nout that’s good as keeps him an’ fayther⁠—(mind, lass, ye promised you would not tell no one)⁠—as keeps them two a-talkin’ and a-smokin’ secret-like together in the mill. An’ fayther don’t know I found him out. They don’t let me into the town, but Brice tells me, and he knows it’s Dudley; and it’s nout that’s good, but summat very bad. An’ I reckon, Miss, it’s all about you. Be ye frightened, Miss Maud?”

I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied.

“Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven’s sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is here?”

“Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o’clock to nigh one o’ Tuesday night, an’ went in and come out like thieves, ’feard ye’d see ’em.”

“And how does Brice know anything bad?” I asked, with a strange freezing sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again⁠—I am sure deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.

“Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin’ and lookin’ awful black, and says he to fayther, ‘ ’Tisn’t in my line nohow, an’ I can’t;’ and says fayther to he, ‘No one likes they soart o’ things, but how can ye help it? The old boy’s behind ye wi’ his pitchfork, and ye canna stop.’ An’ wi’ that he bethought him o’ Brice, and says he, ‘What be ye a-doin’ there? Get ye down wi’ the nags to blacksmith, do ye.’ An’ oop gits Dudley, pullin’ his hat ower his brows, an’ says he, ‘I wish I was in the Seamew. I’m good for nout wi’ this thing a-hangin’ ower me.’ An’ that’s all as Brice heard. An’ he’s afeard o’ fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could lick him to pot if he crossed him, and he and fayther ’ud think nout o’ havin’ him afore the justices for poachin’, and swearin’ him into gaol.”

“But why does he think it’s about me?”

“Hish!” said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. “I can’t say⁠—we’re in danger, lass. I don’t know why⁠—but he does, an’ so do I, an’, for that matter, so do ye.”

“Meg, I’ll leave Bartram.”

“Ye can’t.”

“Can’t. What do you mean, girl?”

“They won’t let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They’ve dogs⁠—they’ve bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye can’t git oot, mind; put that oot o’ your head.

“I tell ye what ye’ll do. Write a bit o’ a note to the lady yonder at Elverston; an’ though Brice be a wild fellah, and ’appen not ower good sometimes, he likes me, an’ I’ll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin’ at mill tomorrow. Coom ye here about one o’clock⁠—that’s if ye see the mill-sails a-turnin’⁠—and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old lass wi’ ye. There’s an old French ’un, though, that talks wi’ Dudley. Mind ye, that ’un knows nout o’ the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe’er he be wi’ others, and I think he won’t split. Now, lass, I must go. God help ye; God bless ye; an’, for the world’s wealth, don’t ye let one o’ them see ye’ve got ought in your head, not even that ’un.”

Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me, with a wild gesture of silence, and a shake of her head.

I can’t at all account for the state in which I was. There are resources both of energy and endurance in human nature which we never suspect until the tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified with a totally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness of the transformation, I stood, spoke, and acted⁠—a wonder, almost a terror, to myself.

I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I heard her ugly gabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour’s shopping, as I might hear, and see, and talk, and smile, in a dream.

But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were alone, I locked the door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sort of imploring despair. I was afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The least indiscretion would be failure, and failure destruction.

I answered her perplexed solicitudes by telling her that I was not very well⁠—that I was uneasy; but I did not fail to extract from her a promise that she would not hint to mortal, either my suspicions about Dudley, or our rencontre with Meg Hawkes.

I remember how, when, after we had got, late at night, into bed, I sat up, shivering with horror, in mine, while honest Mary’s tranquil breathing told how soundly she slept. I got up, and looked from the window,