Uncle Silas (Horror Classic). Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

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СКАЧАТЬ of the voluptuous lip — only a suspicion, yet enough to indicate the profligate man, and savouring of death unto death.

      But I was young, and had not yet the direful knowledge of good and evil that comes with years; and he was so very handsome, and talked in a way that was so new to me, and was so much more charming than the well-bred converse of the humdrum county families with whom I had occasionally sojourned for a week at a time.

      It came out incidentally that his leave of absence was to expire the day after to-morrow. A Lilliputian pang of disappointment followed this announcement. Already I was sorry to lose him. So soon we begin to make a property of what pleases us.

      I was shy, but not awkward. I was flattered by the attention of this amusing, perhaps rather fascinating, young man of the world; and he plainly addressed himself with diligence to amuse and please me. I dare say there was more effort than I fancied in bringing his talk down to my humble level, and interesting me and making me laugh about people whom I had never heard of before, than I then suspected.

      Cousin Knollys meanwhile was talking to papa. It was just the conversation that suited a man so silent as habit had made him, for her frolic fluency left him little to supply. It was totally impossible, indeed, even in our taciturn household, that conversation should ever flag while she was among us.

      Cousin Knollys and I went into the drawing-room together, leaving the gentlemen — rather ill-assorted, I fear — to entertain one another for a time.

      “Come here, my dear, and sit near me,” said Lady Knollys, dropping into an easy chair with an energetic little plump, “and tell me how you and your papa get on. I can remember him quite a cheerful man once, and rather amusing — yes, indeed — and now you see what a bore he is — all by shutting himself up and nursing his whims and fancies. Are those your drawings, dear?”

      “Yes, very bad, I’m afraid; but there are a few, better, I think in the portfolio in the cabinet in the hall.”

      “They are by no means bad, my dear; and you play, of course?”

      “Yes — that is, a little — pretty well, I hope.”

      “I dare say. I must hear you by-and-by. And how does your papa amuse you? You look bewildered, dear. Well, I dare say, amusement is not a frequent word in this house. But you must not turn into a nun, or worse, into a puritan. What is he? A Fifth–Monarchy-man, or something — I forget; tell me the name, my dear.”

      “Papa is a Swedenborgian, I believe.”

      “Yes, yes — I forgot the horrid name — a Swedenborgian, that is it. I don’t know exactly what they think, but everyone knows they are a sort of pagans, my dear. He’s not making one of you, dear — is he?”

      “I go to church every Sunday.”

      “Well, that’s a mercy; Swedenborgian is such an ugly name, and besides, they are all likely to be damned, my dear, and that’s a serious consideration. I really wish poor Austin had hit on something else; I’d much rather have no religion, and enjoy life while I’m in it, than choose one to worry me here and bedevil me hereafter. But some people, my dear, have a taste for being miserable, and provide, like poor Austin, for its gratification in the next world as well as here. Ha, ha, ha! how grave the little woman looks! Don’t you think me very wicked? You know you do; and very likely you are right. Who makes your dresses, my dear? You are such a figure of fun!”

      “Mrs. Rusk, I think, ordered this dress. I and Mary Quince planned it. I thought it very nice. We all like it very well.”

      There wa something, I dare say, very whimsical about it, probably very absurd, judged at least by the canons of fashion, and old Cousin Monica Knollys, in whose eye the London fashions were always fresh, was palpably struck by it as if it had been some enormity against anatomy, for she certainly laughed very heartily; indeed there were tears on her cheeks when she had done, and I am sure my aspect of wonder and dignity, as her hilarity proceeded, helped to revive her merriment again and again as it was subsiding.

      “There, you mustn’t be vexed with old Cousin Monica,” she cried, jumping up, and giving me a little hug, and bestowing a hearty kiss on my forehead, and a jolly little slap on my cheek. “Always remember your cousin Monica is an outspoken, wicked old fool, who likes you, and never be offended by her nonsense. A council of three — you all sat upon it — Mrs. Rusk, you said, and Mary Quince, and your wise self, the weird sisters; and Austin stepped in, as Macbeth, and said, ‘What is’t ye do?’ you all made answer together, ‘A something or other without a name!’ Now, seriously, my dear, it is quite unpardonable in Austin — your papa, I mean — to hand you over to be robed and bedizened according to the whimsies of these wild old women — aren’t they old? If they know better, it’s positively fiendish. I’ll blow them up — I will indeed, my dear. You know you’re an heiress, and ought not to appear like a jack-pudding.”

      “Papa intends sending me to London with Madame and Mary Quince, and going with me himself, if Doctor Bryerly says he may make the journey, and then I am to have dresses and everything.”

      “Well, that is better. And who is Doctor Bryerly — is your papa ill?”

      “Ill; oh no; he always seems just the same. You don’t think him ill — looking ill, I mean?” I asked eagerly and frightened.

      “No, my dear, he looks very well for his time of life; but why is Doctor What’s-his-name here? Is he a physician, or a divine, or a horse-doctor? and why is his leave asked?”

      “I— I really don’t understand.”

      “Is he a what d’ye call ’em — a Swedenborgian?”

      “I believe so.”

      “Oh, I see; ha, ha, ha! And so poor Austin must ask leave to go up to town. Well, go he shall, whether his doctor likes it or not, for it would not do to send you there in charge of your Frenchwoman, my dear. What’s her name?”

      “Madame de la Rougierre.”

      Chapter 10.

       Lady Knollys Removes a Coverlet

       Table of Contents

      LADY KNOLLYS pursued her enquiries.

      “And why does not Madame make your dresses, my dear? I wager a guinea the woman’s a milliner. Did not she engage to make your dresses?”

      “I— I really don’t know; I rather think not. She is my governess — a finishing governess, Mrs. Rusk says.”

      “Finishing fiddle! Hoity-toity! and my lady’s too grand to cut out your dresses and help to sew them? And what does she do? I venture to say she’s fit to teach nothing but devilment — not that she has taught you much, my dear — yet at least. I’ll see her, my dear; where is she? Come, let us visit Madame. I should so like to talk to her a little.”

      “But she is ill,” I answered, and all this time I was ready to cry for vexation, thinking of my dress, which must be very absurd to elicit so much unaffected laughter from my experienced relative, and I was only longing to get away and hide myself before that handsome Captain returned.

      “Ill! is she? what’s the matter?”

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