Uncle Silas, J. Sheridan Le Fanu [10 ebook reader .txt] 📗

my beloved niece, that you requite my candour. Oh, here is the gentleman. Sit down, dear.”

Doctor Bryerly was advancing, as it seemed, to shake hands with Uncle Silas, who, however, rose with a severe and haughty air, not the least overacted, and made him a slow, ceremonious bow. I wondered how the homely Doctor could confront so tranquilly that astounding statue of hauteur.

A faint and weary smile, rather sad than comtemptuous, was the only sign he showed of feeling his repulse.

“How do you do, Miss?” he said, extending his hand, and greeting me after his ungallant fashion, as if it were an afterthought.

“I think I may as well take a chair, sir,” said Doctor Bryerly, sitting down serenely, near the table, and crossing his ungainly legs.

My uncle bowed.

“You understand the nature of the business, sir. Do you wish Miss Ruthyn to remain?” asked Doctor Bryerly.

“I sent for her, sir,” replied my uncle, in a very gentle and sarcastic tone, a smile on his thin lips, and his strangely-contorted eyebrows raised for a moment contemptuously. “This gentleman, my dear Maud, thinks proper to insinuate that I am robbing you. It surprises me a little, and, no doubt, you⁠—I’ve nothing to conceal, and wished you to be present while he favours me more particularly with his views. I’m right, I think, in describing it as robbery, sir?”

“Why,” said Doctor Bryerly thoughtfully, for he was treating the matter as one of right, and not of feeling, “it would be, certainly, taking that which does not belong to you, and converting it to your own use; but, at the worst, it would more resemble thieving, I think, than robbery.”

I saw Uncle Silas’s lip, eyelid, and thin cheek quiver and shrink, as if with a thrill of tic-douloureux, as Doctor Bryerly spoke this unconsciously insulting answer. My uncle had, however, the self-command which is learned at the gaming-table. He shrugged, with a chilly, sarcastic, little laugh, and a glance at me.

“Your note says waste, I think, sir?”

“Yes, waste⁠—the felling and sale of timber in the Windmill Wood, the selling of oak bark and burning of charcoal, as I’m informed,” said Bryerly, as sadly and quietly as a man might relate a piece of intelligence from the newspaper.

“Detectives? or private spies of your own⁠—or, perhaps, my servants, bribed with my poor brother’s money? A very high-minded procedure.”

“Nothing of the kind, sir.”

My uncle sneered.

“I mean, sir, there has been no undue canvass for evidence, and the question is simply one of right; and it is our duty to see that this inexperienced young lady is not defrauded.”

“By her own uncle?”

“By anyone,” said Doctor Bryerly, with a natural impenetrability that excited my admiration.

“Of course you come armed with an opinion?” said my smiling uncle, insinuatingly.

“The case is before Mr. Serjeant Grinders. These bigwigs don’t return their cases sometimes so quickly as we could wish.”

“Then you have no opinion?” smiled my uncle.

“My solicitor is quite clear upon it; and it seems to me there can be no question raised, but for form’s sake.”

“Yes, for form’s sake you take one, and in the meantime, upon a nice question of law, the surmises of a thickheaded attorney and of an ingenious apoth⁠—I beg pardon, physician⁠—are sufficient warrant for telling my niece and ward, in my presence, that I am defrauding her!”

My uncle leaned back in his chair, and smiled with a contemptuous patience over Doctor Bryerly’s head, as he spoke.

“I don’t know whether I used that expression, sir, but I am speaking merely in a technical sense. I mean to say, that, whether by mistake or otherwise, you are exercising a power which you don’t lawfully possess, and that the effect of that is to impoverish the estate, and, by so much as it benefits you, to wrong this young lady.”

“I’m a technical defrauder, I see, and your manner conveys the rest. I thank my God, sir, I am a very different man from what I once was.” Uncle Silas was speaking in a low tone, and with extraordinary deliberation. “I remember when I should have certainly knocked you down, sir, or tried it, at least, for a great deal less.”

“But seriously, sir, what do you propose?” asked Doctor Bryerly, sternly and a little flushed, for I think the old man was stirred within him; and though he did not raise his voice, his manner was excited.

“I propose to defend my rights, sir,” murmured Uncle Silas, very grim. “I’m not without an opinion, though you are.”

“You seem to think, sir, that I have a pleasure in annoying you; you are quite wrong. I hate annoying anyone⁠—constitutionally⁠—I hate it; but don’t you see, sir, the position I’m placed in? I wish I could please everyone, and do my duty.”

Uncle Silas bowed and smiled.

“I’ve brought with me the Scotch steward from Tolkingden, your estate, Miss, and if you let us we will visit the spot and make a note of what we observe, that is, assuming that you admit waste, and merely question our law.”

“If you please, sir, you and your Scotchman shall do no such thing; and, bearing in mind that I neither deny nor admit anything, you will please further never more to present yourself, under any pretext whatsoever, either in this house or on the grounds of Bartram-Haugh, during my lifetime.”

Uncle Silas rose up with the same glassy smile and scowl, in token that the interview was ended.

“Goodbye, sir,” said Doctor Bryerly, with a sad and thoughtful air, and hesitating for a moment, he said to me, “Do you think, Miss, you could afford me a word in the hall?”

“Not a word, sir,” snarled Uncle Silas, with a white flash from his eyes.

There was a pause.

“Sit where you are, Maud.”

Another pause.

“If you have anything to say to my ward, sir, you will please to say it here.”

Doctor Bryerly’s dark and homely face was turned on me with an expression of unspeakable compassion.

“I was going to say, that if you think of any way in which I can be of