Corpus of Electronic Texts Edition
Uncle Silas: a Tale of Bartram-Haugh (Author: Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu)

chapter 65

In the Oak Parlour

So it was vain: I was trapped, and all was over.

I stood before him on the step, the white moon shining on my face. I was trembling so that I wonder I could stand, my helpless


hands raised towards him, and I looked up in his face. A long shuddering moan —‘Oh—oh—oh!’ was all I uttered.

The man, still holding my arm, looked, I thought frightened, into my white dumb face.

Suddenly he said, in a wild, fierce whisper:

‘Never say another word’ (I had not uttered one). ‘They shan't hurt ye, Miss; git ye in; I don't care a damn!’

It was an uncouth speech. To me it was the voice of an angel. With a wild burst of gratitude that sounded in my own ears like a laugh, I thanked God for those blessed words.

In a moment more he had placed me in the carriage, and almost instantly we were in motion—very cautiously while crossing the court, until he had got the wheels upon the grass, and then at a rapid pace, improving his speed as the distance increased. He drove along the side of the back approach to the house, keeping on the grass; so that our progress, though swaying like that of a ship in a swell, was very nearly as noiseless.

The gate had been left unlocked—he swung it open, and remounted the box. And we were now beyond the spell of Bartram-Haugh, thundering—Heaven be praised!—along the Queen's highway, right in the route to Elverston. It was literally a gallop. Through the chariot windows I saw Tom stand as he drove, and every now and then throw an awful glance over his shoulder. Were we pursued? Never was agony of prayer like mine, as with clasped hands and wild stare I gazed through the windows on the road, whose trees and hedges and gabled cottages were chasing one another backward at so giddy a speed.

We were now ascending that identical steep, with the giant ash-trees at the right and the stile between, which my vision of Meg Hawkes had presented all that night, when my excited eye detected a running figure within the hedge. I saw the head of someone crossing the stile in pursuit, and I heard Brice's name shrieked.

‘Drive on—on—on!’ I screamed.

But Brice pulled up. I was on my knees on the floor of the carriage, with clasped hands, expecting capture, when the door opened, and Meg Hawkes, pale as death, her cloak drawn over her black tresses, looked in.


‘Oh!—ho!—ho!—thank God!’ she screamed. ‘Shake hands, lass. Tom, yer a good un! He's a good lad, Tom.’

‘Come in, Meg—you must sit by me,’ I said, recovering all at once.

Meg made no demur. ‘Take my hand,’ I said offering mine to her disengaged one.

‘I can't, Miss—my arm's broke.’

And so it was, poor thing! She had been espied and overtaken in her errand of mercy for me, and her ruffian father had felled her with his cudgel, and then locked her into the cottage, whence, however, she had contrived to escape, and was now flying to Elverston, having tried in vain to get a hearing in Feltram, whose people had been for hours in bed.

The door being shut upon Meg, the steaming horses were instantly at a gallop again.

Tom was still watching as before, with many an anxious glance to rearward, for pursuit. Again he pulled up, and came to the window.

‘Oh, what is it?’ cried I.

‘'Bout that letter, Miss; I couldn't help. 'Twas Dickon, he found it in my pocket. That's a'.’

‘Oh yes!—no matter—thank you—thank Heaven! Are we near Elverston?’

‘'Twill be a mile, Miss: and please'm to mind I had no finger in't.’

‘Thanks—thank you—you're very good—I shall always thank you, Tom, as long as I live!’

At length we entered Elverston. I think I was half wild. I don't know how I got into the hall. I was in the oak parlour, I believe, when I saw cousin Monica. I was standing, my arms extended. I could not speak; but I ran with a loud long scream into her arms. I forget a great deal after that.