_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.
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 was in the lock, which turned out afterwards a very important point.
On knocking he found that he could not awaken his master, because, as it
appeared when the door was forced open, his master was lying dead at his
bedside, not in a pool, but a perfect pond of blood, as they described it,
with his throat cut.'
'How horrible!' cried I.
'So it was. Your uncle Silas was called up, and greatly shocked of course,
and he did what I believe was best. He had everything left as nearly as
possible in the exact state in which it had been found, and he sent his
own servant forthwith for the coroner, and, being himself a justice of
the peace, he took the depositions of Mr. Charke's servant while all the
incidents were still fresh in his memory.'
'Could anything be more straightforward, more right and wise?' I said.
'Oh, nothing of course,' answered Lady Knollys, I thought a little drily.