The Greatest Supernatural Tales of Sheridan Le Fanu (70+ Titles in One Edition). M. R. James

      “Do you think he is in danger? Shall we send for a doctor?” I whispered.

      “Law bless ye, the doctor knows all about it, miss.” The old woman’s face had a gleam of that derision which is so shocking in the features of feebleness and age.

      “But it is a fit, it is paralytic, or something horrible — it can’t be safe to leave him to chance or nature to get through these terrible attacks.”

      “There’s no fear of him, ‘tisn’t no fits at all, he’s nout the worse o’t. Jest silly a bit now and again. It’s been the same a dozen year and more; and the doctor knows all about it,” answered the old woman sturdily. “And ye’ll find he’ll be as mad as bedlam if ye make any stir about it.”

      That night I talked the matter over with Mary Quince.

      “They’re very dark, miss; but I think he takes a deal too much laudlum,” said Mary.

      To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures. I have often spoken to medical men about them, since, but never could learn that excessive use of opium could altogether account for them. It was, I believe, certain, however, that he did use that drug in startling quantities. It was, indeed, sometimes a topic of complaint with him that his neuralgia imposed this sad necessity upon him.

      The image of Uncle Silas, as I had seen him that day, troubled and affrighted my imagination, as I lay in my bed; I had slept very well since my arrival at Bartram. So much of the day was passed in the open air, and in active exercise, that this was but natural. But that night I was nervous and wakeful, and it was past two o’clock when I fancied I heard the sound of horses and carriage-wheels on the avenue.

      Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to get up and peep from the window. My heart beat fast as I saw a post-chaise approach the court-yard. A front window was let down, and the postilion pulled up for a few seconds.

      In consequence of some directions received by him, I fancied he resumed his route at a walk, and so drew up at the hall-door, on the steps of which a figure awaited his arrival. I think it was old L’Amour, but I could not be quite certain. There was a lantern on the top of the balustrade, close by the door. The chaise-lamps were lighted, for the night was rather dark.

      A bag and valise, as well as I could see, were pulled from the interior by the post-boy, and a box from the top of the vehicle, and these were carried into the hall.

      I was obliged to keep my cheek against the window-pane to command a view of the point of debarkation, and my breath upon the glass, which dimmed it again almost as fast as I wiped it away, helped to obscure my vision. But I saw a tall figure, in a cloak, get down and swiftly enter the house, but whether male or female I could not discern.

      My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My uncle was worse — was, in fact, dying; and this was the physician, too late summoned to his bedside.

      I listened for the ascent of the doctor, and his entrance at my uncle’s door, which, in the stillness of the night, I thought I might easily hear, but no sound reached me. I listened so for fully five minutes, but without result. I returned to the window, but the carriage and horses had disappeared.

      I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince, and take counsel with her, and persuade her to undertake a reconnaissance. The fact is, I was persuaded that my uncle was in extremity, and I was quite wild to know the doctor’s opinion. But, after all, it would be cruel to summon the good soul from her refreshing nap. So, as I began to feel very cold, I returned to my bed, where I continued to listen and conjecture until I fell asleep.

      In the morning, as was usual, before I was dressed, in came Milly.

      “How is Uncle Silas?” I eagerly enquired.

      “Old L’Amour says he’s queerish still; but he’s not so dull as yesterday,” answered she.

      “Was not the doctor sent for?” I asked.

      “Was he? Well, that’s odd; and she said never a word o’t to me,” answered she.

      “I’m asking only,” said I.

      “I don’t know whether he came or no,” she replied; “but what makes you take that in your head?”

      “A chaise arrived here between two and three o’clock last night.”

      “Hey! and who told you?” Milly seemed all on a sudden highly interested.

      “I saw it, Milly; and some one, I fancy the doctor, came from it into the house.”

      “Fudge, lass! who’d send for the doctor? ‘Twasn’t he, I tell you. What was he like?” said Milly.

      “I could only see clearly that he, or she, was tall, and wore a cloak,” I replied.

      “Then ‘twasn’t him nor t’other I was thinking on, neither; and I’ll be hanged but I think it will be Cormoran,” cried Milly, with a thoughtful rap with her knuckle on the table.

      Precisely at this juncture a tapping came to the door.

      “Come in,” said I.

      And old L’Amour entered the room, with a courtesy.

      “I came to tell Miss Quince her breakfast’s ready,” said the old lady.

      “Who came in the chase, L’Amour?” demanded Milly.

      “What chaise?” spluttered the beldame tartly.

      “The chaise that came last night, past two o’clock,” said Milly.

      “That’s a lie, and a damn lie!” cried the beldame. “There worn’t no chaise at the door since Miss Maud there came from Knowl.”

      I stared at the audacious old menial who could utter such language.

      “Yes, there was a chaise, and Cormoran, as I think, be come in it,” said Milly, who seemed accustomed to L’Amour’s daring address.

      “And there’s another damn lie, as big as t’other,” said the crone, her haggard and withered face flushing orange all over.

      “I beg you will not use such language in my room,” I replied, very angrily. “I saw the chaise at the door; your untruth signifies very little, but your impertinence here I will not permit. Should it be repeated, I will assuredly complain to my uncle.”

      The old woman flushed more fiercely as I spoke, and fixed her bleared glare on me, with a compression of her mouth that amounted to a wicked grimace. She resisted her angry impulse, however, and only chuckled a little spitefully, saying,

      “No offence, miss; it be a way we has in Derbyshire o’ speaking our minds. No offence, miss, were meant, and none took, as I hopes,” and she made me another courtesy.

      “And I forget to tell you, Miss Milly, the master wants you this minute.”

      So Milly, in mute haste, withdrew, followed closely by L’Amour.

      Chapter 37.

      Doctor Bryerly Emerges

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      WHEN MILLY joined me at breakfast, her eyes were red and swollen. She was still sniffing with that little sobbing hiccough, which betrays, even were there no other signs, recent violent weeping. She sat down quite silent.

      “Is he worse, Milly?” I enquired, anxiously.

      “No, nothing’s wrong wi’ him; he’s right well,” said Milly, fiercely.

      “What’s the matter then, Milly dear?”

      “The poisonous old witch! ’Twas just to tell the Gov’nor how I’d said ’twas Cormoran that came by the po’shay last night.”

      “And