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

up some thistles which grew close by, with the toe of his thick shoe, his back to us all the time.

It struck me that I recognised his features, and I asked Mary Quince.

“Have you seen that young man before, Quince?”

“He brings up game for your uncle, sometimes, Miss, and lends a hand in the garden, I believe.”

“Do you know his name, Mary?”

“They call him Tom, I don’t know what more, Miss.”

“Tom,” I called; “please, Tom, come here for a moment.”

Tom turned about, and approached slowly. He was more civil than the Bartram people usually were, for he plucked off his shapeless cap of rabbit-skin with a clownish respect.

“Tom, what is your other name⁠—Tom what, my good man?” I asked.

“Tom Brice, ma’am.”

“Haven’t I seen you before, Tom Brice?” I pursued, for my curiosity was excited, and with it much graver feelings; for there certainly was a resemblance in Tom’s features to those of the postilion who had looked so hard at me as I passed the carriage in the warren at Knowl, on the evening of the outrage which had scared that quiet place.

“ ’Appen you may have, ma’am,” he answered, quite coolly, looking down the buttons of his gaiters.

“Are you a good whip⁠—do you drive well?”

“I’ll drive a plough wi’ most lads hereabout,” answered Tom.

“Have you ever been to Knowl, Tom?”

Tom gaped very innocently.

“Anan,” he said.

“Here, Tom, is half-a-crown.”

He took it readily enough.

“That be very good,” said Tom, with a nod, having glanced sharply at the coin.

I can’t say whether he applied that term to the coin, or to his luck, or to my generous self.

“Now, Tom, you’ll tell me, have you ever been to Knowl?”

“Maught a’ bin, ma’am, but I don’t mind no sich place⁠—no.”

As Tom spoke this with great deliberation, like a man who loves truth, putting a strain upon his memory for its sake, he spun the silver coin two or three times into the air and caught it, staring at it the while, with all his might.

“Now, Tom, recollect yourself, and tell me the truth, and I’ll be a friend to you. Did you ride postilion to a carriage having a lady in it, and, I think, several gentlemen, which came to the grounds of Knowl, when the party had their luncheon on the grass, and there was a⁠—a quarrel with the gamekeepers? Try, Tom, to recollect; you shall, upon my honour, have no trouble about it, and I’ll try to serve you.”

Tom was silent, while with a vacant gape he watched the spin of his half-crown twice, and then catching it with a smack in his hand, which he thrust into his pocket, he said, still looking in the same direction⁠—

“I never rid postilion in my days, ma’am. I know nout o’ sich a place, though ’appen I maught a’ bin there; Knowl, ye ca’t. I was ne’er out o’ Derbyshire but thrice to Warwick fair wi’ horses be rail, an’ twice to York.”

“You’re certain, Tom?”

“Sartin sure, ma’am.”

And Tom made another loutish salute, and cut the conference short by turning off the path and beginning to hollo after some trespassing cattle.

I had not felt anything like so nearly sure in this essay at identification as I had in that of Dudley. Even of Dudley’s identity with the Church Scarsdale man, I had daily grown less confident; and, indeed, had it been proposed to bring it to the test of a wager, I do not think I should, in the language of sporting gentlemen, have cared to “back” my original opinion. There was, however, a sufficient uncertainty to make me uncomfortable; and there was another uncertainty to enhance the unpleasant sense of ambiguity.

On our way back we passed the bleaching trunks and limbs of several ranks of barkless oaks lying side by side, some squared by the hatchet, perhaps sold, for there were large letters and Roman numerals traced upon them in red chalk. I sighed as I passed them by, not because it was wrongfully done, for I really rather leaned to the belief that Uncle Silas was well advised in point of law. But, alas! here lay low the grand old family decorations of Bartram-Haugh, not to be replaced for centuries to come, under whose spreading boughs the Ruthyns of three hundred years ago had hawked and hunted!

On the trunk of one of these I sat down to rest, Mary Quince meanwhile pattering about in unmeaning explorations. While thus listlessly seated, the girl Meg Hawkes, walked by, carrying a basket.

“Hish!” she said quickly, as she passed, without altering a pace or raising her eyes; “don’t ye speak nor look⁠—fayther spies us; I’ll tell ye next turn.”

“Next turn”⁠—when was that? Well, she might be returning; and as she could not then say more than she had said, in merely passing without a pause, I concluded to wait for a short time and see what would come of it.

After a short time I looked about me a little, and I saw Dickon Hawkes⁠—Pegtop, as poor Milly used to call him⁠—with an axe in his hand, prowling luridly among the timber.

Observing that I saw him, he touched his hat sulkily, and by-and-by passed me, muttering to himself. He plainly could not understand what business I could have in that particular part of the Windmill Wood, and let me see it in his countenance.

His daughter did pass me again; but this time he was near, and she was silent. Her next transit occurred as he was questioning Mary Quince at some little distance; and as she passed precisely in the same way, she said⁠—

“Don’t you be alone wi’ Master Dudley nowhere for the world’s worth.”

The injunction was so startling that I was on the point of questioning the girl. But I recollected myself, and waited in the hope that in her future transits she might be more explicit. But one word more she did not utter, and the jealous eye of old Pegtop was so constantly upon us that I refrained.

There was vagueness and suggestion