Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 230
We had a good deal to think of, and talked incessantly. There were bursts and interruptions of grief, and my kind cousin’s consolations. I have often since been so lectured for giving way to grief, that I wonder at the patience exercised by her during this irksome visit. Then there was some reading of that book whose claims are always felt in the terrible days of affliction. After that we had a walk in the yew garden, that quaint little cloistered quadrangle — the most solemn, sad, and antiquated of gardens.
‘And now, my dear, I must really leave you for two or three hours. I have ever so many letters to write, and my people must think I’m dead by this time.’
So till tea-time I had poor Mary Quince, with her gushes of simple prattle and her long fits of vacant silence, for my companion. And such a one, who can con over by rote the old friendly gossip about the dead, talk about their ways, and looks, and likings, without much psychologic refinement, but with a simple admiration and liking that never measured them critically, but always with faith and love, is in general about as comfortable a companion as one can find for the common moods of grief.
It is not easy to recall in calm and happy hours the sensations of an acute sorrow that is past. Nothing, by the merciful ordinance of God, is more difficult to remember than pain. One or two great agonies of that time I do remember, and they remain to testify of the rest, and convince me, though I can see it no more, how terrible all that period was.
Next day was the funeral, that appalling necessity; smuggled away in whispers, by black familiars, unresisting, the beloved one leaves home, without a farewell, to darken those doors no more; henceforward to lie outside, far away, and forsaken, through the drowsy heats of summer, through days of snow and nights of tempest, without light or warmth, without a voice near. Oh, Death, king of terrors! The body quakes and the spirit faints before thee. It is vain, with hands clasped over our eyes, to scream our reclamation; the horrible image will not be excluded. We have just the word spoken eighteen hundred years ago, and our trembling faith. And through the broken vault the gleam of the Star of Bethlehem.
I was glad in a sort of agony when it was over. So long as it remained to be done, something of the catastrophe was still suspended. Now it was all over.
The house so strangely empty. No owner — no master! I with my strange momentary liberty, bereft of that irreplaceable love, never quite prized until it is lost. Most people have experienced the dismay that underlies sorrow under such circumstances.
The apartment of the poor outcast from life is now dismantled. Beds and curtains taken down, and furniture displaced; carpets removed, windows open and doors locked; the bedroom and anteroom were henceforward, for many a day, uninhabited. Every shocking change smote my heart like a reproach.
I saw that day that Cousin Monica had been crying for the first time, I think, since her arrival at Knowl; and I loved her more for it, and felt consoled. My tears have often been arrested by the sight of another person weeping, and I never could explain why. But I believe that many persons experience the same odd reaction.
The funeral was conducted, in obedience to his brief but peremptory direction, very privately and with little expense. But of course there was an attendance, and the tenants of the Knowl estate also followed the hearse to the mausoleum, as it is called, in the park, where he was laid beside my dear mother. And so the repulsive ceremonial of that dreadful day was over. The grief remained, but there was rest from the fatigue of agitation, and a comparative calm supervened.
It was now the stormy equinoctial weather that sounds the wild dirge of autumn, and marches the winter in. I love, and always did, that grand undefinable music, threatening and bewailing, with its strange soul of liberty and desolation.
By this night’s mail, as we sat listening to the storm, in the drawingroom at Knowl, there reached me a large letter with a great black seal, and a wonderfully deep-black border, like a widow’s crape. I did not recognise the handwriting; but on opening the funereal missive, it proved to be from my uncle Silas, and was thus expressed: —
‘MY DEAREST NIECE, — This letter will reach you, probably, on the day which consigns the mortal remains of my beloved brother, Austin, your dear father, to the earth. Sad ceremony, from taking my mournful part in which I am excluded by years, distance, and broken health. It will, I trust, at this season of desolation, be not unwelcome to remember that a substitute, imperfect — unworthy — but most affectionately zealous, for the honoured parent whom you have just lost, has been appointed, in me, your uncle, by his will. I am aware that you were present during the reading of it, but I think it will be for our mutual satisfaction that our new and more affectionate relations should be forthwith entered upon. My conscience and your safety, and I trust convenience, will thereby be consulted. You will, my dear niece, remain at Knowl, until a few simple arrangements shall have been completed for your reception at this place. I will then settle the details of your little journey to us, which shall be performed as comfortably and easily as possible. I humbly pray that this affliction may be sanctified to us all, and that in our new duties we may be supported, comforted, and directed. I need not remind you that I now stand to you in loco parentis, which means in the relation of father, and you will not forget that you are to remain at Knowl until you hear further from me.
‘I remain, my dear niece, your most affectionate uncle and guardian,
SILAS RUTHYN.’
‘P.S. — Pray present my respects to Lady Knollys, who, I understand, is sojourning at Knowl. I would observe that a lady who cherishes, I have reason to fear, unfriendly feelings against your uncle, is not the most desirable companion for his ward. But upon the express condition that I am not made the subject of your discussions — a distinction which could not conduce to your forming a just and respectful estimate of me — I do not interpose my authority to bring your intercourse to an immediate close.’
As I read this postscript, my cheek tingled as if I had received a box on the ear. Uncle Silas was as yet a stranger. The menace of authority was new and sudden, and I felt with a pang of mortification the full force of the position in which my dear father’s will had placed me.
I was silent, and handed the letter to my cousin, who read it with a kind of smile until she came, as I supposed, to the postscript, when her countenance, on which my eyes were fixed, changed, and with flushed cheeks she knocked the hand that held the letter on the table before her, and exclaimed —
‘Did I ever hear! Well, if this isn’t impertinence! What an old man that is!’
There was a pause, during which Lady Knollys held her head high with a frown, and sniffed a little.
‘I did not intend to talk about him, but now I will. I’ll talk away just whatever I like; and I’ll stay here just as long as you let me, Maud, and you need not be one atom afraid of him. Our intercourse to an “immediate close,” indeed! I only wish he were here. He should hear something!’
And Cousin Monica drank off her entire cup of tea at one draught, and then she said, more in her own way —
‘I’m better!’ and drew a long breath, and then she laughed a little in a waggish defiance. ‘I wish we had him here, Maud, and would not we give him a bit of our minds! And this before the poor will is so much as proved!’
‘I am almost glad he wrote that postscript; for although I don’t think he has any authority in that matter while I am under my own roof,’ I said, extemporising a legal opinion, ‘and, therefore, shan’t obey him, it has somehow opened my eyes to my real situation.’
I sighed, I believe, very desolately, for Lady Knollys came over and kissed me very gently and affectionately.
‘It really seems, Maud, as if he had a supernatural sense, and heard things through the air over fifty miles of heath and hill. You remember how, just as he was probably writing that very postscript yesterday, I was urging you to come and stay with me, and planning to move Dr. Bryerly in our favour. And so I will, Maud, and to me you shall come — my guest, mind — I should be so delighted; and really if Silas is under a cloud, it has been his own doing, and I don’t see that it is your business to fight his battle. He can’t live very long. The suspicion, whatever it is dies with him, and what could poor dear Austin prove by his will but what everybody knew quite well before — his own strong belief in Silas’s innocence? What an awful storm! The room trembles. Don’t you like the sound? What they used to call ‘wolving’ in the old organ at Dorminster!’
CHAPTER XXVI
THE STORY OF UNCLE SILAS
And so it was like the yelling of phantom hounds and hunters, and the thunder of their coursers in the air — a furious, grand and supernatural music, which in my fancy made a suitable accompaniment to the discussion of that enigmatical person — martyr — angel — demon — Uncle Silas — with whom my fate was now so strangely linked, and whom I had begun to fear.
‘The storm blows from that point,’ I said, indicating it with my hand and eye, although the window shutters and curtains were closed. ‘I saw all the trees bend that way this evening. That way stands the great lonely wood, where my darling father and mother lie. Oh, how dreadful on nights like this, to think of them — a vault! — damp, and dark, and solitary — under the storm.’
Cousin Monica looked wistfully in the same direction, and with a short sigh she said —
‘We think too much of the poor remains, and too little of the spirit which lives for ever. I am sure they are happy.’ And she sighed again. ‘I wish I dare hope as confidently for myself. Yes, Maud, it is sad. We are such materialists, we can’t help feeling so. We forget how well it is for us that our present bodies are not to last always. They are constructed for a time and place of trouble — plainly mere temporary machines that wear out, constantly exhibiting failure and decay, and with such tremendous capacity for pain. The body lies alone, and so it ought, for it is plainly its good Creator’s will; it is only the tabernacle, not the person, who is clothed upon after death, Saint Paul says, “with a house which is from heaven.” So Maud, darling, although the thought will trouble us again and again, there is nothing in it; and the poor mortal body is only the cold ruin of a habitation which they have forsaken before we do. So this great wind, you say, is blowing toward us from the wood there. If so, Maud, it is blowing from Bartram-Haugh, too, over the trees and chimneys of that old place, and the mysterious old man, who is quite right in thinking I don’t like him; and I can fancy him an old enchanter in his castle, waving his familiar spirits on the wind to fetch and carry tidings of our occupations here.’
I lifted my head and listened to the storm, dying away in the distance sometimes — sometimes swelling and pealing around and above us — and through the dark and solitude my thoughts sped away to Bartram-Haugh and Uncle Silas.
‘This letter,’ I said at last, ‘makes me feel differently. I think he is a stern old man — is he?’
‘It is twenty years, now, since I saw him,’ answered Lady Knollys. ‘I did not choose to visit at his house.’
‘Was that before the dreadful occurrence at Bartram-Haugh?’
‘Yes — before, dear. He was not a reformed rake, but only a ruined one then. Austin was very good to him. Mr. Danvers says it is quite unaccountable how Silas can have made away with the immense sums he got from his brother from time to time without benefiting himself in the least. But, my dear, he played; and trying to help a man who plays, and is unlucky — and some men are, I believe, habitually unlucky — is like trying to fill a vessel that has no bottom. I think, by-the-by, my hopeful nephew, Charles Oakley, plays. Then Silas went most unjustifiably into all manner of speculations, and your poor father had to pay everything. He lost something quite astounding in that bank that ruined so many country gentlemen — poor Sir Harry Shackleton, in Yorkshire, had to sell half his estate. But your kind father went on helping him, up to his marriage — I mean in that extravagant way which was really totally useless.’
‘Has my aunt been long dead?’
‘Twelve or fifteen years — more, indeed — she died before your poor mamma. She was very unhappy, and I am sure would have given her right hand she had never married Silas.’
‘Did you like her?’
‘No, dear; she was a coarse, vulgar woman.’
‘Coarse and vulgar, and Uncle Silas’s wife!’ I echoed in extreme surprise, for Uncle Silas was a man of fashion — a beau in his day — and might have married women of good birth and fortune, I had no doubt, and so I expressed myself.
‘Yes, dear; so he might, and poor dear Austin was very anxious he should, and would have helped him with a handsome settlement, I dare say, but he chose to marry the daughter of a Denbigh innkeeper.’
‘How utterly incredible!’ I exclaimed.
‘Not the least incredible, dear — a kind of thing not at all so uncommon as you fancy.’
‘What! — a gentleman of fashion and refinement marry a person— ‘
‘A barmaid! — just so,’ said Lady Knollys. ‘I think I could count half a dozen men of fashion who, to my knowledge, have ruined themselves just in a similar way.’
‘Well, at all events, it must be allowed that in this he proved himself altogether unworldly.’
‘Not a bit unworldly, but very vicious,’ replied Cousin Monica, with a careless little laugh. ‘She was very beautiful, curiously beautiful, for a person in her station. She was very like that Lady Hamilton who was Nelson’s sorceress — elegantly beautiful, but perfectly low and stupid. I believe, to do him justice, he only intended to ruin her; but she was cunning enough to insist upon marriage. Men who have never in all their lives denied themselves the indulgence of a single fancy, cost what it may, will not be baulked even by that condition if the penchant be only violent enough.’
I did not half understand this piece of worldly psychology, at which Lady Knollys seemed to laugh.
‘Poor Silas, certainly he struggled honestly against the consequences, for he tried after the honeymoon to prove the marriage bad. But the Welsh parson and the innkeeper papa were too strong for him, and the young lady was able to hold her struggling swain fast in that respectable noose — and a pretty prize he proved!’
‘And she died, poor thing, broken-hearted, I heard.’
‘She died, at all events, about ten years after her marriage; but I really can’t say about her heart. She certainly had enough ill-usage, I believe, to kill her; but I don’t know that she had feeling enough to die of it, if it had not been that she drank: I am told that Welsh women often do. There was jealousy, of course, and brutal quarrelling, and all sorts of horrid stories. I visited at Bartram-Haugh for a year or two, though no one else would. But when that sort of thing began, of course I gave it up; it was out of the question. I don’t think poor Austin ever knew how bad it was. And then came that odious business about wretched Mr. Charke. You know he — he committed suicide at Bartram.’
‘I never heard about that,’ I said; and we both paused, and she looked sternly at the fire, and the storm roared and ha-ha-ed till the old house shook again.
‘But Uncle Silas could not help that,’ I said at last.
‘No, he could not help it,’ she acquiesced unpleasantly.
‘And Uncle Silas was’ — I paused in a sort of fear.
‘He was suspected by some people of having killed him’ — she completed the sentence.
There was another long pause here, during which the storm outside bellowed and hooted like an angry mob roaring at the windows for a victim. An intolerable and sickening sensation overpowered me.
‘But you did not suspect him, Cousin Knollys?’ I said, trembling very much.
‘No,’ she answered very sharply. ‘I told you so before. Of course I did not.’
There was another silence.
‘I wish, Cousin Monica,’ I said, drawing close to her, ‘you had not said that about Uncle Silas being like a wizard, and sending his spirits on the wind to listen. But I’m very glad you never suspected him.’ I insinuated my cold hand into hers, and looked into her face I know not with what expression. She looked down into mine with a hard, haughty stare, I thought.
‘Of course I never suspected him; and never ask me that question again, Maud Ruthyn.’
Was it family pride, or what was it, that gleamed so fiercely from her eyes as she said this? I was frightened — I was wounded — I burst into tears.
‘What is my darling crying for? I did not mean to be cross. Was I cross?’ said this momentary phantom of a grim Lady Knollys, in an instant translated again into kind, pleasant Cousin Monica, with her arms about my neck.
‘No, no, indeed — only I thought I had vexed you; and, I believe, thinking of Uncle Silas makes me nervous, and I can’t help thinking of him nearly always.’
‘Nor can I, although we might both easily find something better to think of. Suppose we try?’ said Lady Knollys.
‘But, first, I must know a little more about that Mr. Charke, and what circumstances enabled Uncle Silas’s enemies to found on his death that wicked slander, which has done no one any good, and caused some persons so much misery. There is Uncle Silas, I may say, ruined by it; and we all know how it darkened the life of my dear father.’
‘People will talk, my dear. Your uncle Silas had injured himself before that in the opinion of the people of his county. He was a black sheep, in fact. Very bad stories were told and believed of him. His marriage certainly was a disadvantage, you know, and the miserable scenes that went on in his disreputable house — all that predisposed people to believe ill of him.’
‘How long is it since it happened?’
‘Oh, a long time; I think before you were born,’ answered she.
‘And the injustice still lives — they have not forgotten it yet?’ said I, for such a period appeared to me long enough to have consigned anything in its nature perishable to oblivion.
