It was more than two years after that I heard what had befallen at Bartram
after my flight. Old Wyat, who went early to Uncle Silas's room, to her
surprise--for he had told her that he was that night to accompany his son,
who had to meet the mailtrain to Derby at five o'clock in the morning--saw
her old master lying on the sofa, much in his usual position.
'There was nout much strange about him,' old Wyat said, 'but that his
scent-bottle was spilt on its side over on the table, and he dead.'
She thought he was not quite cold when she found him, and she sent the old
butler for Doctor Jolks, who said he died of too much 'loddlum.'
Of my wretched uncle's religion what am I to say? Was it utter hypocrisy,
or had it at any time a vein of sincerity in it? I cannot say. I don't
believe that he had any heart left for religion, which is the highest form
of affection, to take hold of. Perhaps he was a sceptic with misgivings
about the future, but past the time for finding anything reliable in it.
The devil approached the citadel of his heart by stealth, with many zigzags
and parallels. The idea of marrying me to his son by fair means, then by
foul, and, when that wicked chance was gone, then the design of seizing all
by murder, supervened.
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