The Greatest Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (65+ Novels & Short Stories in One Edition). Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

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СКАЧАТЬ would wince, place his thin white fingers quickly over his ear, and look as if a pain had pierced his brain, and then shrug and smile piteously into vacancy. When Uncle Silas, therefore, was not in the talking vein himself — and that was not often — you may suppose there was very little spoken in his presence.

      When Milly, across the table, saw the ring upon my finger, she, drawing in her breath, said, “Oh!” and, with round eyes and mouth, she looked so delighted; and she made a little motion, as if she was on the point of jumping up; and then her poor face quivered, and she bit her lip; and staring imploringly at me, her eyes filled fast with tears, which rolled down her round penitential cheeks.

      I am sure I felt more penitent than she. I know I was crying and smiling, and longing to kiss her. I suppose we were very absurd; but it is well that small matters can stir the affections so profoundly at a time of life when great troubles seldom approach us.

      When at length the opportunity did come, never was such a hug out of the wrestling ring as poor Milly bestowed on me, swaying me this way and that, and burying her face in my dress, and blubbering —

      “I was so lonely before you came, and you so good to me, and I such a devil; and I’ll never call you a name, but Maud — my darling Maud.”

      “You must, Milly — Mrs. Bustle. I’ll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like. You must.” I was blubbering like Milly, and hugging my best; and, indeed, I wonder how we kept our feet.

      So Milly and I were better friends than ever.

      Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights, and long fireside gossipings at Bartram–Haugh. I was frightened at the frequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject. I did not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Milly’s way of talking about them.

      But one day, while in one of his “queerish” states, he called for me, and I saw him, and was unspeakably scared.

      In a white wrapper, he lay coiled in a great easy chair. I should have though him dead, had I not been accompanied by old L’Amour, who knew every gradation and symptom of these strange affections.

      She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, and whispered —

      “Don’t make no noise, miss, till he talks; he’ll come to for a bit, anon.”

      Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like that of an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions.

      There was a frown and a smirk like that of idiocy, and a strip of white eyeball was also disclosed.

      Suddenly, with a kind of chilly shudder, he opened his eyes wide, and screwed his lips together, and blinked and stared on me with a fatuised uncertainty, that gradually broke into a feeble smile.

      “Ah! the girl — Austin’s child. Well, dear, I’m hardly able — I’ll speak to-morrow — next day — it is tic — neuralgia, or something — torture — tell her.”

      So, huddling himself together, he lay again in his great chair, with the same inexpressible helplessness in his attitude, and gradually his face resumed its dreadful cast.

      “Come away, miss; he’s changed his mind; he’ll not be fit to talk to you noways all day, maybe,” said the old woman, again in a whisper.

      So forth we stole from the room, I unspeakably shocked. In fact, he looked as if he were dying, and so, in my agitation, I told the crone, who, forgetting the ceremony with which she usually treated me, chuckled out derisively,

      “A-dying is he? Well, he be like Saint Paul — he’s bin a-dying daily this many a day.”

      I looked at her with a chill of horror. She did not care, I suppose, what sort of feelings she might excite, for she went on mumbling sarcastically to herself. I had paused, and overcame my reluctance to speak to her again, for I was really very much frightened.

      “Do you think he is in danger? Shall we send for a doctor?” I whispered.

      “Law bless ye, the doctor knows all about it, miss.” The old woman’s face had a gleam of that derision which is so shocking in the features of feebleness and age.

      “But it is a fit, it is paralytic, or something horrible — it can’t be safe to leave him to chance or nature to get through these terrible attacks.”

      “There’s no fear of him, ‘tisn’t no fits at all, he’s nout the worse o’t. Jest silly a bit now and again. It’s been the same a dozen year and more; and the doctor knows all about it,” answered the old woman sturdily. “And ye’ll find he’ll be as mad as bedlam if ye make any stir about it.”

      That night I talked the matter over with Mary Quince.

      “They’re very dark, miss; but I think he takes a deal too much laudlum,” said Mary.

      To this hour I cannot say what was the nature of those periodical seizures. I have often spoken to medical men about them, since, but never could learn that excessive use of opium could altogether account for them. It was, I believe, certain, however, that he did use that drug in startling quantities. It was, indeed, sometimes a topic of complaint with him that his neuralgia imposed this sad necessity upon him.

      The image of Uncle Silas, as I had seen him that day, troubled and affrighted my imagination, as I lay in my bed; I had slept very well since my arrival at Bartram. So much of the day was passed in the open air, and in active exercise, that this was but natural. But that night I was nervous and wakeful, and it was past two o’clock when I fancied I heard the sound of horses and carriage-wheels on the avenue.

      Mary Quince was close by, and therefore I was not afraid to get up and peep from the window. My heart beat fast as I saw a post-chaise approach the court-yard. A front window was let down, and the postilion pulled up for a few seconds.

      In consequence of some directions received by him, I fancied he resumed his route at a walk, and so drew up at the hall-door, on the steps of which a figure awaited his arrival. I think it was old L’Amour, but I could not be quite certain. There was a lantern on the top of the balustrade, close by the door. The chaise-lamps were lighted, for the night was rather dark.

      A bag and valise, as well as I could see, were pulled from the interior by the post-boy, and a box from the top of the vehicle, and these were carried into the hall.

      I was obliged to keep my cheek against the window-pane to command a view of the point of debarkation, and my breath upon the glass, which dimmed it again almost as fast as I wiped it away, helped to obscure my vision. But I saw a tall figure, in a cloak, get down and swiftly enter the house, but whether male or female I could not discern.

      My heart beat fast. I jumped at once to a conclusion. My uncle was worse — was, in fact, dying; and this was the physician, too late summoned to his bedside.

      I listened for the ascent of the doctor, and his entrance at my uncle’s door, which, in the stillness of the night, I thought I might easily hear, but no sound reached me. I listened so for fully five minutes, but without result. I returned to the window, but the carriage and horses had disappeared.

      I was strongly tempted to wake Mary Quince, and take counsel with her, and persuade her to undertake a reconnaissance. The fact is, I was persuaded that my uncle was in extremity, and I was quite wild to know the doctor’s opinion. But, after all, it СКАЧАТЬ