Uncle Silas - J. Sheridan Le Fanu (best novels to read for students .TXT) 📗

had no prejudice respecting him⁠—no theory. I never knew what to think about him. I do not think Silas a product of nature, but a child of the Sphinx, and I never could understand him⁠—that’s all.”

“I always felt so too; but that was because I was left to speculation, and to glean conjectures as I might from his portrait, or anywhere. Except what you told me, I never heard more than a few sentences; poor papa did not like me to ask questions about him, and I think he ordered the servants to be silent.”

“And much the same injunction this little note lays upon me⁠—not quite, but something like it; and I don’t know the meaning of it.”

And she looked enquiringly at me.

“You are not to be alarmed about your uncle Silas, because your being afraid would unfit you for an important service which you have undertaken for your family, the nature of which I shall soon understand, and which, although it is quite passive, would be made very sad if illusory fears were allowed to steal into your mind.”

She was looking into the letter in poor papa’s handwriting, which she had found addressed to her in his desk, and emphasised the words, I suppose, which she quoted from it.

“Have you any idea, Maud, darling, what this service may be?” she enquired, with a grave and anxious curiosity in her countenance.

“None, Cousin Monica; but I have thought long over my undertaking to do it, or submit to it, be it what it may; and I will keep the promise I voluntarily made, although I know what a coward I am, and often distrust my courage.”

“Well, I am not to frighten you.”

“How could you? Why should I be afraid? Is there anything frightful to be disclosed? Do tell me⁠—you must tell me.”

“No, darling, I did not mean that⁠—I don’t mean that;⁠—I could, if I would; I⁠—I don’t know exactly what I meant. But your poor papa knew him better than I⁠—in fact, I did not know him at all⁠—that is, ever quite understood him⁠—which your poor papa, I see, had ample opportunities of doing.” And after a little pause, she added⁠—“So you do not know what you are expected to do or to undergo.”

“Oh! Cousin Monica, I know you think he committed that murder,” I cried, starting up, I don’t know why, and I felt that I grew deadly pale.

“I don’t believe any such thing, you little fool; you must not say such horrible things, Maud,” she said, rising also, and looking both pale and angry. “Shall we go out for a little walk? Come, lock up these papers, dear, and get your things on; and if that Dr. Bryerly does not turn up tomorrow, you must send for the Rector, good Doctor Clay, and let him make search for the will⁠—there may be directions about many things, you know; and, my dear Maud, you are to remember that Silas is my cousin as well as your uncle. Come, dear, put on your hat.”

So we went out together for a little cloistered walk.

XXII Somebody in the Room with the Coffin

When we returned, a “young” gentleman had arrived. We saw him in the parlour as we passed the window. It was simply a glance, but such a one as suffices to make a photograph, which we can study afterwards, at our leisure. I remember him at this moment⁠—a man of six-and-thirty⁠—dressed in a grey travelling suit, not over-well made; light-haired, fat-faced, and clumsy; and he looked both dull and cunning, and not at all like a gentleman.

Branston met us, announced the arrival, and handed me the stranger’s credentials. My cousin and I stopped in the passage to read them.

“That’s your uncle Silas’s,” said Lady Knollys, touching one of the two letters with the tip of her finger.

“Shall we have lunch, Miss?”

“Certainly.” So Branston departed.

“Read it with me, Cousin Monica,” I said. And a very curious letter it was. It spoke as follows:⁠—

“How can I thank my beloved niece for remembering her aged and forlorn kinsman at such a moment of anguish?”

I had written a note of a few, I dare say, incoherent words by the next post after my dear father’s death.

“It is, however, in the hour of bereavement that we most value the ties that are broken, and yearn for the sympathy of kindred.”

Here came a little distich of French verse, of which I could only read ciel and l’amour.

“Our quiet household here is clouded with a new sorrow. How inscrutable are the ways of Providence! I⁠—though a few years younger⁠—how much the more infirm⁠—how shattered in energy and in mind⁠—how mere a burden⁠—how entirely de trop⁠—am spared to my sad place in a world where I can be no longer useful, where I have but one business⁠—prayer, but one hope⁠—the tomb; and he⁠—apparently so robust⁠—the centre of so much good⁠—so necessary to you⁠—so necessary, alas! to me⁠—is taken! He is gone to his rest⁠—for us, what remains but to bow our heads, and murmur, ‘His will be done?’ I trace these lines with a trembling hand, while tears dim my old eyes. I did not think that any earthly event could have moved me so profoundly. From the world I have long stood aloof. I once led a life of pleasure⁠—alas! of wickedness⁠—as I now do one of austerity; but as I never was rich, so my worst enemy will allow I never was avaricious. My sins, I thank my Maker, have been of a more reducible kind, and have succumbed to the discipline which Heaven has provided. To earth and its interests, as well as to its pleasures, I have long been dead. For the few remaining years of my life I ask but quiet⁠—an exemption from the agitations and distractions of struggle and care, and I trust to the Giver of all Good for my deliverance⁠—well knowing, at the same time, that whatever befalls will, under His direction,