This wretched Mr. Charke had won heavy wagers at the races from Uncle Silas, and at night they had played very deep at cards.  Next morning his servant could not enter his room; it was locked on the inside, the window was fastened by a screw, and the chimney was barred with iron.  It seemed that he had hermetically sealed himself in, and then killed himself.  But he had been in boisterous spirits.  Also, though his own razor was found near his right hand, the fingers of his left hand were cut to the bone.  Then the memorandum-book in which his bets were noted was nowhere to be found.  Besides, he had written two letters to a friend, saying how profitable he had found his visit to Bartram-Haugh, and that he held Uncle Silas’s I O U’s for a frightful sum; and although my uncle stoutly alleged he did not owe him a guinea, there had scarcely been time in one evening for him to win back so much money.  In a moment the storm was up, and although my uncle met it bravely, he failed to overcome it, and became a social outcast, in spite of all my father’s efforts.

And now I was to rehabilitate him before the world, and accordingly all preparations were made for my departure from Knowl; and at last the morning came—­a day of partings, a day of novelty, and regrets.

I remember we passed a gypsy bivouac on our journey, with fires alight, on the edge of a great, heathy moor.  I had my fortune told, and I am ashamed to confess I paid the gypsy a pound for a brass pin with a round bead for a head—­a charmed pin, which would keep away rat, and cat, and snake, a malevolent spirit, or “a cove to cut my throat,” from hurting me.  The purchase was partly an indication of the trepidations of that period Of my life.  At all events, I had her pin and she my pound, and I venture to say I was the gladder of the two.

It was moonlight when we reached Bartram-Haugh.  It had a forlorn character of desertion and decay, contrasting almost awfully with the grandeur of its proportions and richness of its architecture.  A shabby little old man, a young plump, but very pretty female figure in unusually short petticoats, and a dowdy old charwoman, all stood in the door among a riot of dogs.  I sat shyly back, peeping at the picture before me.

“Will you tell me—­yes or no—­is my cousin in the coach?” screamed the young lady.  She received me with a hug and a hearty “buss,” as she called that salutation, and was evidently glad to see me.  Then, after leading me to my bed-room to make a hurried toilet, she conducted me to a handsome wainscotted room, where my Uncle Silas awaited me.

A singular looking old man—­a face like marble, with a fearful monumental look—­an apparition, drawn, as it seemed, in black and white, venerable, bloodless, fiery-eyed, with its strange look of power and an expression so bewildering.  Was it derision, or anguish, or cruelty, or patience?