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

again’ the county, I would,” he exclaimed, with a condescending enthusiasm. “You’re awful pretty, you are, Maud. I don’t know what came over me t’other night when Governor told me to buss ye; but dang it, ye shan’t deny me now, and I’ll have a kiss, lass, in spite o’ thy blushes.”

He jumped from his elevated seat on the sideboard, and came swaggering toward me, with an odious grin, and his arms extended. I started to my feet, absolutely transported with fury.

“Drat me, if she baint a-going to fight me!” he chuckled humorously.

“Come, Maud, you would not be ill-natured, sure? Arter all, it’s only our duty. Governor bid us kiss, didn’t he?”

“Don’t⁠—don’t, sir. Stand back, or I’ll call the servants.”

And as it was I began to scream for Milly.

“There’s how it is wi’ all they cattle! You never knows your own mind⁠—ye don’t,” he said, surlily. “You make such a row about a bit o’ play. Drop it, will you? There’s no one a-harming you⁠—is there? I’m not, for sartain.”

And, with an angry chuckle, he turned on his heel, and left the room.

I think I was perfectly right to resist, with all the vehemence of which I was capable, this attempt to assume an intimacy which, notwithstanding my uncle’s opinion to the contrary, seemed to me like an outrage.

Milly found me alone⁠—not frightened, but very angry. I had quite made up my mind to complain to my uncle, but the Curate was still with him; and, by the time he had gone, I was cooler. My awe of my uncle had returned. I fancied that he would treat the whole affair as a mere playful piece of gallantry. So, with the comfortable conviction that he had had a lesson, and would think twice before repeating his impertinence, I resolved, with Milly’s approbation, to leave matters as they were.

Dudley, greatly to my comfort, was huffed with me, and hardly appeared, and was sulky and silent when he did. I lived then in the pleasant anticipation of his departure, which, Milly thought, would be very soon.

My uncle had his Bible and his consolations; but it cannot have been pleasant to this old roué, converted though he was⁠—this refined man of fashion⁠—to see his son grow up an outcast, and a Tony Lumpkin; for whatever he may have thought of his natural gifts, he must have known how mere a boor he was.

I try to recall my then impressions of my uncle’s character. Grizzly and chaotic the image rises⁠—silver head, feet of clay. I as yet knew little of him.

I began to perceive that he was what Mary Quince used to call “dreadful particular”⁠—I suppose a little selfish and impatient. He used to get cases of turtle from Liverpool. He drank claret and hock for his health, and ate woodcock and other light and salutary dainties for the same reason; and was petulant and vicious about the cooking of these, and the flavour and clearness of his coffee.

His conversation was easy, polished, and, with a sentimental glazing, cold; but across this artificial talk, with its French rhymes, racy phrases, and fluent eloquence, like a streak of angry light, would, at intervals, suddenly gleam some dismal thought of religion. I never could quite satisfy myself whether they were affectations or genuine, like intermittent thrills of pain.

The light of his large eyes was very peculiar. I can liken it to nothing but the sheen of intense moonlight on burnished metal. But that cannot express it. It glared white and suddenly⁠—almost fatuous. I thought of Moore’s lines whenever I looked on it:⁠—

“Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live.”

I never saw in any other eye the least glimmer of the same baleful effulgence. His fits, too⁠—his hoverings between life and death⁠—between intellect and insanity⁠—a dubious, marsh-fire existence, horrible to look on!

I was puzzled even to comprehend his feelings toward his children. Sometimes it seemed to me that he was ready to lay down his soul for them; at others, he looked and spoke almost as if he hated them. He talked as if the image of death was always before him, yet he took a terrible interest in life, while seemingly dozing away the dregs of his days in sight of his coffin.

Oh! Uncle Silas, tremendous figure in the past, burning always in memory in the same awful lights; the fixed white face of scorn and anguish! It seems as if the Woman of Endor had led me to that chamber and showed me a spectre.

Dudley had not left Bartram-Haugh when a little note reached me from Lady Knollys. It said⁠—

“Dearest Maud⁠—I have written by this post to Silas, beseeching a loan of you and my Cousin Milly. I see no reason your uncle can possibly have for refusing me; and, therefore, I count confidently on seeing you both at Elverston tomorrow, to stay for at least a week. I have hardly a creature to meet you. I have been disappointed in several visitors; but another time we shall have a gayer house. Tell Milly⁠—with my love⁠—that I will not forgive her if she fails to accompany you.

“Believe me ever your affectionate cousin,

“Monica Knollys.”

Milly and I were both afraid that Uncle Silas would refuse his consent, although we could not divine any sound reason for his doing so, and there were many in favour of his improving the opportunity of allowing poor Milly to see some persons of her own sex above the rank of menials.

At about twelve o’clock my uncle sent for us, and, to our great delight, announced his consent, and wished us a very happy excursion.

VII Elverston and Its People

So Milly and I drove through the gabled high street of Feltram next day. We saw my gracious cousin smoking with a man like a groom, at the door of the Plume of Feathers. I