Uncle Silas J. Sheridan Le Fanu (good books to read for beginners .TXT) đ
- Author: J. Sheridan Le Fanu
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I knew him too well, of course, to interpose a word.
âThey are easily frightenedâ âay, they are. Iâd better do it another way.â
And pausing, he looked in my face as he might upon a picture.
âThey areâ âyesâ âI had better do it another wayâ âanother way; yesâ âand sheâll not suspectâ âsheâll not suppose.â
Then he looked steadfastly upon the key, and from it to me, suddenly lifting it up, and said abruptly, âSee, child,â and, after a second or two, âRemember this key.â
It was oddly shaped, and unlike others.
âYes, sir.â I always called him âsir.â
âIt opens that,â and he tapped it sharply on the door of the cabinet. âIn the daytime it is always here,â at which word he dropped it into his pocket again. âYou see?â âand at night under my pillowâ âyou hear me?â
âYes, sir.â
âYou wonât forget this cabinetâ âoakâ ânext the doorâ âon your leftâ âyou wonât forget?â
âNo, sir.â
âPity sheâs a girl, and so youngâ âay, a girl, and so youngâ âno senseâ âgiddy. You say, youâll remember?â
âYes, sir.â
âIt behoves you.â
He turned round and looked full upon me, like a man who has taken a sudden resolution; and I think for a moment he had made up his mind to tell me a great deal more. But if so, he changed it again; and after another pause, he said slowly and sternlyâ ââYou will tell nobody what I have said, under pain of my displeasure.â
âOh! no, sir!â
âGood child!â
âExcept,â he resumed, âunder one contingency; that is, in case I should be absent, and Dr. Bryerlyâ âyou recollect the thin gentleman, in spectacles and a black wig, who spent three days here last monthâ âshould come and enquire for the key, you understand, in my absence.â
âYes, sir.â
So he kissed me on the forehead, and saidâ â
âLet us return.â
Which, accordingly, we did, in silence; the storm outside, like a dirge on a great organ, accompanying our flitting.
II Uncle SilasWhen we reached the drawing-room, I resumed my chair, and my father his slow and regular walk to and fro, in the great room. Perhaps it was the uproar of the wind that disturbed the ordinary tenor of his thoughts; but, whatever was the cause, certainly he was unusually talkative that night.
After an interval of nearly half an hour, he drew near again, and sat down in a high-backed armchair, beside the fire, and nearly opposite to me, and looked at me steadfastly for some time, as was his wont, before speaking; and said heâ â
âThis wonât doâ âyou must have a governess.â
In cases of this kind I merely set down my book or work, as it might be, and adjusted myself to listen without speaking.
âYour French is pretty well, and your Italian; but you have no German. Your music may be pretty goodâ âIâm no judgeâ âbut your drawing might be betterâ âyesâ âyes. I believe there are accomplished ladiesâ âfinishing governesses, they call themâ âwho undertake more than any one teacher would have professed in my time, and do very well. She can prepare you, and next winter, then, you shall visit France and Italy, where you may be accomplished as highly as you please.â
âThank you, sir.â
âYou shall. It is nearly six months since Miss Ellerton left youâ âtoo long without a teacher.â
Then followed an interval.
âDr. Bryerly will ask you about that key, and what it opens; you show all that to him, and no one else.â
âBut,â I said, for I had a great terror of disobeying him in ever so minute a matter, âyou will then be absent, sirâ âhow am I to find the key?â
He smiled on me suddenlyâ âa bright but wintry smileâ âit seldom came, and was very transitory, and kindly though mysterious.
âTrue, child; Iâm glad you are so wise; that, you will find, I have provided for, and you shall know exactly where to look. You have remarked how solitarily I live. You fancy, perhaps, I have not got a friend, and you are nearly rightâ ânearly, but not altogether. I have a very sure friendâ âoneâ âa friend whom I once misunderstood, but now appreciate.â
I wondered silently whether it could be Uncle Silas.
âHeâll make me a call, some day soon; Iâm not quite sure when. I wonât tell you his nameâ âyouâll hear that soon enough, and I donât want it talked of; and I must make a little journey with him. Youâll not be afraid of being left alone for a time?â
âAnd have you promised, sir?â I answered, with another question, my curiosity and anxiety overcoming my awe. He took my questioning very good-humouredly.
âWellâ âpromise?â âno, child; but Iâm under condition; heâs not to be denied. I must make the excursion with him the moment he calls. I have no choice; but, on the whole, I rather like itâ âremember, I say, I rather like it.â
And he smiled again, with the same meaning, that was at once stern and sad. The exact purport of these sentences remained fixed in my mind, so that even at this distance of time I am quite sure of them.
A person quite unacquainted with my fatherâs habitually abrupt and odd way of talking, would have fancied that he was possibly a little disordered in his mind. But no such suspicion for a moment troubled me. I was quite sure that he spoke of a real person who was coming, and that his journey was something momentous; and when the visitor of whom he spoke did come, and he departed with him upon that mysterious excursion, I perfectly understood his language and his reasons for saying so much and yet so little.
You are not to suppose that all my hours were passed in the sort of conference and isolation of which I have just given you a specimen; and singular and even awful as were sometimes my tĂȘte-a-tĂȘtes with my father, I had grown so accustomed to his strange ways, and had so unbounded a confidence in his affection, that they never depressed or
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