Uncle Silas by J. Sheridan Le Fanu (ebook voice reader TXT) 📕

mare wor shod⁠—Saturday. I talked a bit wi’ the workus folk, but they won’t gi’e nout⁠—dang ’em⁠—an’ how be I to do’t? It be all’ays hard bread wi’ Silas, an’ a deal harder now she’ ta’en them pains. I won’t stan’ it much longer. Gammon! If she keeps on that way I’ll just cut. See how the workus fellahs ’ill like that!”

“The Doctor gives his services for nothing,” I said.

“An’ does nothin’, bless him! ha, ha. No more nor that old deaf gammon there that costs me three tizzies a week, and haint worth a h’porth⁠—no more nor Meg there, that’s making all she can o’ them pains. They be all a foolin’ o’ me, an’ thinks I don’t know ’t. Hey? We’ll see.”

All this time he was cutting a bit of tobacco into shreds on the window-stone.

“A workin’ man be same as a hoss; if he baint cared, he can’t work⁠—’tisn’t in him:” and with these words, having by this time stuffed his pipe with tobacco, he poked the deaf lady, who was pattering about with her back toward him, rather viciously with the point of his stick, and signed for a light.

“It baint in him, you can’t get it out o’ ’im, no more nor ye’ll draw smoke out o’ this,” and he raised his pipe an inch or two, with his thumb on the bowl, “without backy and fire. ’Tisn’t in it.”

“Maybe I can be of some use?” I said, thinking.

“Maybe,” he rejoined.

By this time he received from the old deaf abigail a flaming roll of brown paper, and, touching his hat to me, he withdrew, lighting his pipe and sending up little white puffs, like the salute of a departing ship.

So he did not care to hear how his daughter was, and had only come here to light his pipe!

Just then the Doctor emerged.

“We have been waiting to hear how your poor patient is today?” I said.

“Very ill, indeed, and utterly neglected, I fear. If she were equal to it⁠—but she’s not⁠—I think she ought to be removed to the hospital immediately.”

“That poor old woman is quite deaf, and the man is so surly and selfish! Could you recommend a nurse who would stay here till she’s better? I will pay her with pleasure, and anything you think might be good for the poor girl.”

So this was settled on the spot. Doctor Jolks was kind, like most men of his calling, and undertook to send the nurse from Feltram with a few comforts for the patient; and he called Dickon to the yard-gate, and I suppose told him of the arrangement; and Milly and I went to the poor girl’s door and asked, “May we come in?”

There was no answer. So, with the conventional construction of silence, we entered. Her looks showed how ill she was. We adjusted her bedclothes, and darkened the room, and did what we could for her⁠—noting, beside, what her comfort chiefly required. She did not answer any questions. She did not thank us. I should almost have fancied that she had not perceived our presence, had I not observed her dark, sunken eyes once or twice turned up towards my face, with a dismal look of wonder and enquiry.

The girl was very ill, and we went every day to see her. Sometimes she would answer our questions⁠—sometimes not. Thoughtful, observant, surly, she seemed; and as people like to be thanked, I sometimes wonder that we continued to throw our bread upon these ungrateful waters. Milly was specially impatient under this treatment, and protested against it, and finally refused to accompany me into poor Beauty’s bedroom.

“I think, my good Meg,” said I one day, as I stood by her bed⁠—she was now recovering with the sure reascent of youth⁠—“that you ought to thank Miss Milly.”

“I’ll not thank her,” said Beauty, doggedly.

“Very well, Meg; I only thought I’d ask you, for I think you ought.”

As I spoke, she very gently took just the tip of my finger, which hung close to her coverlet, in her fingers, and drew it beneath, and before I was aware, burying her head in the clothes, she suddenly clasped my hand in both hers to her lips, and kissed it passionately, again and again, sobbing. I felt her tears.

I tried to withdraw my hand, but she held it with an angry pull, continuing to weep and kiss it.

“Do you wish to say anything, my poor Meg?” I asked.

“Nout, Miss,” she sobbed gently; and she continued to kiss my hand and weep. But suddenly she said, “I won’t thank Milly, for it’s a’ you; it baint her, she hadn’t the thought⁠—no, no, it’s a’ you, Miss. I cried hearty in the dark last night, thinkin’ o’ the apples, and the way I knocked them awa’ wi’ a pur o’ my foot, the day father rapped me ower the head wi’ his stick; it was kind o’ you and very bad o’ me. I wish you’d beat me, Miss; ye’re better to me than father or mother⁠—better to me than a’; an’ I wish I could die for you, Miss, for I’m not fit to look at you.”

I was surprised. I began to cry. I could have hugged poor Meg.

I did not know her history. I have never learned it since. She used to talk with the most utter self-abasement before me. It was no religious feeling⁠—it was a kind of expression of her love and worship of me⁠—all the more strange that she was naturally very proud. There was nothing she would not have borne from me except the slightest suspicion of her entire devotion, or that she could in the most trifling way wrong or deceive me.

I am not young now. I have had my sorrows, and with them all that wealth, virtually unlimited, can command; and through the retrospect a few bright and pure lights quiver along my life’s dark stream⁠—dark, but for them; and these are shed, not by the splendour of a splendid fortune,