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

afraid of goblins, my dear,” she said at last, with a faded sort of smile, turning toward me; “well, if I were, I know what I should do⁠—so soon as I, and good Mary Quince here, had got into my bedchamber for the night, I should stir the fire into a good blaze, and bolt the door⁠—do you see, Mary Quince?⁠—bolt the door and keep a candle lighted all night. You’ll be very attentive to her, Mary Quince, for I⁠—I don’t think she is very strong, and she must not grow nervous: so get to bed early, and don’t leave her alone⁠—do you see?⁠—and⁠—and remember to bolt the door, Mary Quince, and I shall be sending a little Christmas-box to my cousin, and I shan’t forget you. Good night.”

And with a pleasant courtesy Mary fluttered out of the room.

XII A Curious Conversation

We each had another cup of tea, and were silent for awhile.

“We must not talk of ghosts now. You are a superstitious little woman, you know, and you shan’t be frightened.”

And now Cousin Monica grew silent again, and looking briskly around the room, like a lady in search of a subject, her eye rested on a small oval portrait, graceful, brightly tinted, in the French style, representing a pretty little boy, with rich golden hair, large soft eyes, delicate features, and a shy, peculiar expression.

“It is odd; I think I remember that pretty little sketch, very long ago. I think I was then myself a child, but that is a much older style of dress, and of wearing the hair, too, than I ever saw. I am just forty-nine now. Oh dear, yes; that is a good while before I was born. What a strange, pretty little boy! a mysterious little fellow. Is he quite sincere, I wonder? What rich golden hair! It is very clever⁠—a French artist, I dare say⁠—and who is that little boy?”

“I never heard. Someone a hundred years ago, I dare say. But there is a picture downstairs I am so anxious to ask you about!”

“Oh!” murmured Lady Knollys, still gazing dreamily on the crayon.

“It is the full-length picture of Uncle Silas⁠—I want to ask you about him.”

At mention of his name, my cousin gave me a look so sudden and odd as to amount almost to a start.

“Your uncle Silas, dear? It is very odd, I was just thinking of him;” and she laughed a little.

“Wondering whether that little boy could be he.”

And up jumped active Cousin Monica, with a candle in her hand, upon a chair, and scrutinised the border of the sketch for a name or a date.

“Maybe on the back?” said she.

And so she unhung it, and there, true enough, not on the back of the drawing, but of the frame, which was just as good, in pen-and-ink round Italian letters, hardly distinguishable now from the discoloured wood, we traced⁠—

“Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, Ætate viii. 15 May, 1779.”

“It is very odd I should not have been told or remembered who it was. I think if I had ever been told I should have remembered it. I do recollect this picture, though, I am nearly certain. What a singular child’s face!”

And my cousin leaned over it with a candle on each side, and her hand shading her eyes, as if seeking by aid of these fair and half-formed lineaments to read an enigma.

The childish features defied her, I suppose; their secret was unfathomable, for after a good while she raised her head, still looking at the portrait, and sighed.

“A very singular face,” she said, softly, as a person might who was looking into a coffin. “Had not we better replace it?”

So the pretty oval, containing the fair golden hair and large eyes, the pale, unfathomable sphinx, remounted to its nail, and the funeste and beautiful child seemed to smile down oracularly on our conjectures.

“So is the face in the large portrait⁠—very singular⁠—more, I think, than that⁠—handsomer too. This is a sickly child, I think; but the full-length is so manly, though so slender, and so handsome too. I always think him a hero and a mystery, and they won’t tell me about him, and I can only dream and wonder.”

“He has made more people than you dream and wonder, my dear Maud. I don’t know what to make of him. He is a sort of idol, you know, of your father’s, and yet I don’t think he helps him much. His abilities were singular; so has been his misfortune; for the rest, my dear, he is neither a hero nor a wonder. So far as I know, there are very few sublime men going about the world.”

“You really must tell me all you know about him, Cousin Monica. Now don’t refuse.”

“But why should you care to hear? There is really nothing pleasant to tell.”

“That is just the reason I wish it. If it were at all pleasant, it would be quite commonplace. I like to hear of adventures, dangers, and misfortunes; and above all, I love a mystery. You know, papa will never tell me, and I dare not ask him; not that he is ever unkind, but, somehow, I am afraid; and neither Mrs. Rusk nor Mary Quince will tell me anything, although I suspect they know a good deal.”

“I don’t see any good in telling you, dear, nor, to say the truth, any great harm either.”

“No⁠—now that’s quite true⁠—no harm. There can’t be, for I must know it all some day, you know, and better now, and from you, than perhaps from a stranger, and in a less favourable way.”

“Upon my word, it is a wise little woman; and really, that’s not such bad sense after all.”

So we poured out another cup of tea each, and sipped it very comfortably by the fire, while Lady Knollys talked on, and her animated face helped the strange story.

“It is not very much, after all. Your uncle Silas, you know, is living?”

“Oh yes, in Derbyshire.”

“So I