client. Mr. Danvers fancied, he afterwards said, that he had probably expected legacies which might have involved litigation, or, at all events, law costs, and perhaps a stewardship; but this was very barren; and Mr. Danvers also remarked, that the man was a very low practitioner, and wondered how my uncle Silas could have commissioned such a person to represent him.
So far the will contained nothing of which my most partial friend could have complained. The codicil, too, devised only legacies to servants, and a sum of 1,000l., with a few kind words, to Monica, Lady Knollys, and a further sum of 3,000l. to Dr. Bryerly, stating that the legatee had prevailed upon him to erase from the draft of his will a bequest to him to that amount, but that, in consideration of all the trouble devolving upon him as trustee, he made that bequest by his codicil; and with these arrangements the permanent disposition of his property was completed.
But that direction to which he and Doctor Bryerly had darkly alluded, was now to come, and certainly it was a strange one. It appointed my uncle Silas my sole guardian, with full parental authority over me until I should have reached the age of twenty-one, up to which time I was to reside under his care at Bartram–Haugh, and it directed the trustees to pay over to him yearly a sum of 2,000l. during the continuance of the guardianship for my suitable maintenance, education, and expenses.
You have now a sufficient outline of my father’s will. The only thing I painfully felt in this arrangement was, the break-up — the dismay that accompanies the disappearance of home. Otherwise, there was something rather pleasurable in the idea. As long as I could remember, I had always cherished the same mysterious curiosity about my uncle, and the same longing to behold him. This was about to be gratified. Then there was my cousin Millicent, about my own age. My life had been so lonely, that I had acquired none of those artificial habits that induce the fine-lady nature — a second, and not always a very amiable one. She had lived a solitary life, like me. What rambles and readings we should have together! what confidences and castle-buildings! and then there was a new country and a fine old place, and the sense of interest and adventure that always accompanies change in our early youth.
There were four letters all alike with large, red seals, addressed respectively to each of the trustees named in the will. There was also one addressed to Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, Esq., Bartram–Haugh Manor, &c. &c., which Mr. Sleigh offered to deliver. But Doctor Bryerly thought the post-office was the more regular channel. Uncle Silas’s representative was questioning Doctor Bryerly in an under-tone.
I turned my eyes on my cousin Monica — I felt so inexpressibly relieved — expecting to see a corresponding expression in her countenance. But I was startled. She looked ghastly and angry. I stared in her face, not knowing what to think. Could the will have personally disappointed her? Such doubts, though we fancy in after-life they belong to maturity and experience only, do sometimes cross our minds in youth. But the suggestion wronged Lady Knollys, who neither expected nor wanted anything, being rich, childless, generous, and frank. It was the unexpected character of her countenance that scared me, and for a moment the shock called up corresponding moral images.
Lady Knollys, starting up, raised her head, so as to see over Mr. Sleigh’s shoulder, and biting her pale lip, she cleared her voice, and demanded —
“Doctor Bryerly, pray, sir, is the reading concluded?”
“Concluded? Quite. Yes, nothing more,” he answered with a nod, and continued his talk with Mr. Danvers and Abel Grimston.
“And to whom,” said Lady Knollys, with an effort, “will the property belong, in case — in case my little cousin here should die before she comes of age?”
“Eh? Well — wouldn’t it go to the heir-at-law and next of kin?” said Doctor Bryerly, turning to Abel Grimston.
“Ay — to be sure,” said the attorney, thoughtfully.
“And who is that?” pursued my cousin.
“Well, her uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn. He’s both heir-at-law and next of kin,” pursued Abel Grimston.
“Thank you,” said Lady Knollys.
Doctor Clay came forward, bowing very low, in his standing collar and single-breasted coat, and graciously folded my hand in his soft wrinkled grasp —
“Allow me, my dear Miss Ruthyn, while expressing my regret that we are to lose you from among our little flock — though I trust but for a short, a very short time — to say how I rejoice at the particular arrangement indicated by the will we have just heard read. My curate, William Fairfield, resided for some years in the same spiritual capacity in the neighbourhood of your, I will say, admirable uncle, with occasional intercourse with whom he was favoured — may I not say blessed? — a true Christian Churchman — a Christian gentleman. Can I say more? A most happy, happy choice.” A very low bow here, with eyes nearly closed, and a shake of the head. “Mrs. Clay will do herself the honour of waiting upon you, to pay her respects, before you leave Knowl for your temporary sojourn in another sphere.”
So, with another deep bow — for I had become a great personage all at once — he let go my hand cautiously and delicately, as if he were setting down a curious china tea-cup. And I courtesied low to him, not knowing what to say, and then to the assembly generally, who all bowed. And Cousin Monica whispered, briskly, “Come away,” and took my hand with a very cold and rather damp one, and led me from the room.
Chapter 25.
I Hear from Uncle Silas
WITHOUT SAYING a word, Cousin Monica accompanied me to the school-room, and on entering she shut the door, not with a spirited clang, but quietly and determinedly.
“Well, dear,” she said, with the same pale, excited countenance, “that certainly is a sensible and charitable arrangement. I could not have believed it possible, had I not heard it with my ears.”
“About my going to Bartram–Haugh?”
“Yes, exactly so, under Silas Ruthyn’s guardianship, to spend two — three — of the most important years of your education and your life under that roof. Is that, my dear, what was in your mind when you were so alarmed about what you were to be called upon to do, or undergo?”
“No, no, indeed. I had no notion what it might be. I was afraid of something serious,” I answered.
“And, my dear Maud, did not your poor father speak to you as if it was something serious?” said she. “And so it is, I can tell you, something serious, and very serious; and I think it ought to be prevented, and I certainly will prevent it if I possibly can.”
I was puzzled utterly by the intensity of Lady Knollys’ protest. I looked at her, expecting an explanation of her meaning; but she was silent, looking steadfastly on the jewels on her right-hand fingers, with which she was drumming a staccato march on the table, very pale, with gleaming eyes, evidently thinking deeply. I began to think she had a prejudice against my uncle Silas.
“He is not very rich,” I commenced.
“Who?” said Lady Knollys.
“Uncle Silas,” I replied.
“No, certainly; he’s in debt,” she answered.
“But then, how very highly Doctor Clay spoke of
