Uncle Silas J. Sheridan Le Fanu (good books to read for beginners .TXT) 📖

“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.

Lady Knollys smiled.

“Tell me, like a darling cousin, the whole story as well as you can recollect it. Who was Mr. Charke?”

“Mr. Charke, my dear, was a gentleman on the turf⁠—that is the phrase, I think⁠—one of those London men, without birth or breeding, who merely in right of their vices and their money are admitted to associate with young dandies who like hounds and horses, and all that sort of thing. That set knew him very well, but of course no one else. He was at the Matlock races, and your uncle asked him to Bartram-Haugh; and the creature, Jew or Gentile, whatever he was, fancied there was more honour than, perhaps, there really was in a visit to Bartram-Haugh.”

“For the kind of person you describe, it was, I think, a rather unusual honour to be invited to stay in the house of a man of Uncle Ruthyn’s birth.”

“Well, so it was perhaps; for though they knew him very well on the course, and would ask him to their tavern dinners, they would not, of course, admit him to the houses where ladies were. But Silas’s wife was not much regarded at Bartram-Haugh. Indeed, she was very little seen, for she was every evening tipsy in her bedroom, poor woman!”

“How miserable!” I exclaimed.

“I don’t think it troubled Silas very much, for she drank gin, they said, poor thing, and the expense was not much; and, on the whole, I really think he was glad she drank, for it kept her out of his way, and was likely to kill her. At this time your poor father, who was thoroughly disgusted at his marriage, had stopped the supplies, you know, and Silas was very poor, and as hungry as a hawk, and they said he pounced upon this rich London gamester, intending to win his money. I am telling you now all that was said afterwards. The races lasted I forget how many days, and Mr. Charke stayed at Bartram-Haugh all this time and for some days after. It was thought that poor Austin would pay all Silas’s gambling debts, and so this wretched Mr. Charke made heavy wagers with him on the races, and they played very deep, besides, at Bartram. He and Silas used to sit up at night at cards. All these particulars, as I told you, came out afterwards, for there was an inquest, you know, and then Silas published what he called his ‘statement,’ and there was a great deal of most distressing correspondence in the newspapers.”

“And why did Mr. Charke kill himself?” I asked.

“Well, I will tell you first what all are agreed about. The second night after the races, your uncle and Mr. Charke sat up till between two and three o’clock in the morning, quite by themselves, in the parlour. Mr. Charke’s servant was at the Stag’s Head Inn at Feltram, and therefore could throw no light upon what occurred at night at Bartram-Haugh; but he was there at six o’clock in the morning, and very early at his master’s door by his direction. He had locked it, as was his habit, upon the inside, and the key