I followed in silence, with the pressure of a near alarm at my heart, like
a person going to an operation.
When I entered the room, my heart beat so fast that I could hardly speak.
The tall form of Uncle Silas rose before me, and I made him a faltering
reverence.
He darted from under his brows a wild, fierce glance at old Wyat, and
pointed to the door imperiously with his skeleton finger. The door shut,
and we were alone.
'A chair?' he said, pointing to a seat.
'Thank you, uncle, I prefer standing,' I faltered.
He also stood--his white head bowed forward, the phosphoric glare of his
strange eyes shone upon me from under his brows--his finger-nails just
rested on the table.
'You saw the luggage corded and addressed, as it stands ready for removal
in the hall?' he asked.
I had. Milly and I had read the cards which dangled from the trunk-handles
and gun-case. The address was--'Mr. Dudley R. Ruthyn, Paris, _via_ Dover.'
'I am old--agitated--on the eve of a decision on which much depends. Pray
relieve my suspense. Is my son to leave Bartram to-day in sorrow, or to
remain in joy? Pray answer quickly.
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