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

“If you want to say aught, I’ll hear ye. Ye may jaw me all ye like, and I’ll stan’ it.”

“Oh, I may speak? Thank you,” sneered Uncle Silas, glancing slowly round at me, and breaking into a cold laugh.

“Ay, I don’t mind cheek, not I; but you must not go for to do that, ye know. Gammon. I won’t stand a blow⁠—I won’t fro’ no one.”

“Well, sir, availing myself of your permission to speak, I may remark, without offence to the young lady, that I don’t happen to recollect the name Mangles among the old families of England. I presume you have chosen her chiefly for her virtues and her graces.”

Mrs. Sarah Matilda, not apprehending this compliment quite as Uncle Silas meant it, dropped a courtesy, notwithstanding her agitation, and, wiping her eyes, said, with a blubbered smile⁠—

“You’re very kind, sure.”

“I hope, for both your sakes, she has got a little money. I don’t see how you are to live else. You’re too lazy for a gamekeeper; and I don’t think you could keep a pothouse, you are so addicted to drinking and quarrelling. The only thing I am quite clear upon is, that you and your wife must find some other abode than this. You shall depart this evening: and now, Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Ruthyn, you may quit this room, if you please.”

Uncle Silas had risen, and made them one of his old courtly bows, smiling a deathlike sneer, and pointing to the door with his trembling fingers.

“Come, will ye?” said Dudley, grinding his teeth. “You’re pretty well done here.”

Not half understanding the situation, but looking woefully bewildered, she dropped a farewell courtesy at the door.

“Will ye cut?” barked Dudley, in a tone that made her jump; and suddenly, without looking about, he strode after her from the room.

“Maud, how shall I recover this? The vulgar villain⁠—the fool! What an abyss were we approaching! and for me the last hope gone⁠—and for me utter, utter, irretrievable ruin.”

He was passing his fingers tremulously back and forward along the top of the mantelpiece, like a man in search of something, and continued so, looking along it, feebly and vacantly, although there was nothing there.

“I wish, uncle⁠—you do not know how much I wish⁠—I could be of any use to you. Maybe I can?”

He turned, and looked at me sharply.

“Maybe you can,” he echoed slowly. “Yes, maybe you can,” he repeated more briskly. “Let us⁠—let us see⁠—let us think⁠—that d⁠⸺ fellow!⁠—my head!”

“You’re not well, uncle?”

“Oh! yes, very well. We’ll talk in the evening⁠—I’ll send for you.”

I found Wyat in the next room, and told her to hasten, as I thought he was ill. I hope it was not very selfish, but such had grown to be my horror of seeing him in one of his strange seizures, that I hastened from the room precipitately⁠—partly to escape the risk of being asked to remain.

The walls of Bartram House are thick, and the recess at the doorway deep. As I closed my uncle’s door, I heard Dudley’s voice on the stairs. I did not wish to be seen by him or by his “lady,” as his poor wife called herself, who was engaged in vehement dialogue with him as I emerged, and not caring either to re-enter my uncle’s room, I remained quietly ensconced within the heavy door-case, in which position I overheard Dudley say with a savage snarl⁠—

“You’ll jest go back the way ye came. I’m not goin’ wi’ ye, if that’s what ye be drivin’ at⁠—dang your impitins!”

“Oh! Dudley, dear, what have I done⁠—what have I done⁠—ye hate me so?”

“What a’ ye done? Ye vicious little beast, ye! You’ve got us turned out an’ disinherited wi’ yer d⁠⸺⁠d bosh, that’s all; don’t ye think it’s enough?”

I could only hear her sobs and shrill tones in reply, for they were descending the stairs; and Mary Quince reported to me, in a horrified sort of way, that she saw him bundle her into the fly at the door, like a truss of hay into a hayloft. And he stood with his head in at the window, scolding her, till it drove away.

“I knew he wor jawing her, poor thing! By the way he kep’ waggin’ his head⁠—an’ he had his fist inside, a shakin’ in her face I’m sure he looked wicked enough for anything; an’ she a crying like a babby, an’ lookin’ back, an’ wavin’ her wet hankicher to him⁠—poor thing!⁠—and she so young! ’Tis a pity. Dear me! I often think, Miss, ’tis well for me I never was married. And see how we all would like to get husbands for all that, though so few is happy together. ’Tis a queer world, and them that’s single is maybe the best off after all.”

I went down that evening to the sitting-room which had been assigned to Milly and me, in search of a book⁠—my good Mary Quince always attending me. The door was a little open, and I was startled by the light of a candle proceeding from the fireside, together with a considerable aroma of tobacco and brandy.

On my little worktable, which he had drawn beside the hearth, lay Dudley’s pipe, his brandy-flask, and an empty tumbler; and he was sitting with one foot on the fender, his elbow on his knee, and his head resting in his hand, weeping. His back being a little toward the door, he did not perceive us; and we saw him rub his knuckles in his eyes, and heard the sounds of his selfish lamentation.

Mary and I stole away quietly, leaving him in possession, wondering when he was to leave the house, according to the sentence which I had heard pronounced upon him.

I was delighted to see old Giblets quietly strapping his luggage in the hall, and heard from him in a whisper that he was to leave that evening by rail⁠—he did not know whither.

About half an hour afterwards, Mary