The Greatest Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (65+ Novels & Short Stories in One Edition). Joseph Sheridan Le FanuЧитать онлайн книгу.
— that is, the window and the door — upon the inside, and no sign of any attempt to get in.”
“Just so; and when the walls were searched, and, as your uncle Silas directed, the wainscoting removed, some moths afterwards, when the scandal grew loudest, then it was evident that there was no concealed access to the room.”
“So the answer to all those calumnies was simply that the crime was impossible,” said I. “How dreadful that such a slander should have required an answer at all!”
“It was an unpleasant affair even then, although I cannot say that anyone supposed Silas guilty; but you know the whole thing was disreputable, that Mr. Clarke was a discreditable inmate, the occurrence was horrible, and there was a glare of publicity which brought into relief the scandals of Bartram–Haugh. But in a little time it became, all on a sudden, a great deal worse.”
My cousin paused to recollect exactly.
“There were very disagreeable whispers among the sporting people in London. This person, Clarke, had written two letters. Yes — two. They were published about two months after, by the villain to whom they were written; he wanted to extort money. They were first talked of a great deal among that set in town; but the moment they were published they produced a sensation in the country, and a storm of newspaper commentary. The first of these was of no great consequence, but the second was very startling, embarrassing, and even alarming.”
“What was it, Cousin Monica?” I whispered.
“I can only tell you in a general way, it is so very long since I read it; but both were written in the same kind of slang, and parts as hard to understand as a prize fight. I hope you never read those things.”
I satisfied this sudden educational alarm, and Lady Knollys proceeded.
“I am afraid you hardly hear me, the wind makes such an uproar. Well, listen. The letter said distinctly, that he, Mr. Clarke, had made a very profitable visit to Bartram–Haugh, and mentioned in exact figures for how much he held your uncle Silas’s I.O.U.‘s, for he could not pay him. I can’t say what the sum was. I only remember that it was quite frightful. It took away my breath when I read it.”
“Uncle Silas had lost it?” I asked.
“Yes, and owed it; and had given him those papers called I.O.U.‘s promising to pay, which, of course, Mr. Clarke had locked up with his money; and the insinuation was that Silas had made away with him, to get rid of this debt, and that he had also taken a great deal of his money.
“I just recollect these points which were exactly what made the impression,” continued Lady Knollys, after a short pause; “the letter was written in the evening of the last day of the wretched man’s life, so that there had not been much time for your uncle Silas to win back his money; and he stoutly alleged that he did not owe Mr. Clarke a guinea. It mentioned an enormous sum as being actually owed by Silas; and it cautioned the man, an agent, to whom he wrote, not to mention the circumstance, as Silas could only pay by getting the money from his wealthy brother, who would have the management; and he distinctly said that he had kept the matter very close at Silas’s request. That, you know, was a very awkward letter, and all the worse that it was written in brutally high spirits, and not at all like a man meditating an exit from the world. You can’t imagine what a sensation the publication of these letters produced. In a moment the storm was up, and certainly Silas did meet it bravely — yes, with great courage and ability. What a pity he did not early enter upon some career of ambition! Well, well, it is idle regretting. He suggested that the letters were forgeries. He alleged that Clarke was in the habit of boasting, and telling enormous falsehoods about his gambling transactions, especially in his letters. He reminded the world how often men affect high animal spirits at the very moment of meditating suicide. He alluded, in a manly and graceful way, to his family and their character. He took a high and menacing tone with his adversaries, and he insisted that what they dared to insinuate against him was physically impossible.”
I asked in what form this vindication appeared.
“It was a letter, printed as a pamphlet; everybody admired its ability, ingenuity, and force, and it was written with immense rapidity.”
“Was it at all in the style of his letters?” I innocently asked.
My cousin laughed.
“Oh, dear, no! Every since he avowed himself a religious character, he had written nothing but the most vapid and nerveless twaddle. Your poor dear father used to send his letters to me to read, and I sometimes really thought that Silas was losing his faculties; but I believe he was only trying to write in character.”
“I suppose the general feeling was in his favour?” I said.
“I don’t think it was, anywhere; but in his own county it was certainly unanimously against him. There is no use in asking why; but so it was, and I think I would have been easier for him with his unaided strength to uproot the Peak than to change the convictions of the Derbyshire gentlemen. They were all against him. Of course there were predisposing causes. Your uncle published a very bitter attack upon them, describing himself as the victim of a political conspiracy: and I recollect he mentioned that from the hour of the shocking catastrophe in his house, he had forsworn the turf and all pursuits and amusements connected with it. People sneered, and said he might as well go as wait to be kicked out.”
“Were there law-suits about all this?” I asked.
“Everybody expected that there would, for there were very savage things printed on both sides, and I think, too, that the persons who thought worst of him expected that evidence would yet turn up to convict Silas of the crime they chose to impute; and so years have glided away, and many of the people who remembered the tragedy of Bartram–Haugh, and took the strongest part in the denunciation, and ostracism that followed, are dead, and no new light had been thrown upon the occurrence, and your uncle Silas remains an outcast. At first he was quite wild with rage, and would have fought the whole county, man by man, if they would have met him. But he had since changed his habits and, as he says, his aspirations altogether.”
“He has become religious.”
“The only occupation remaining to him. He owes money; he is poor; he is isolated; and he says, sick and religious. Your poor father, who was very decided and inflexible, never helped him beyond the limit he had prescribed, after Silas’s mésalliance. He wanted to get him into Parliament, and would have paid his expenses, and made him an allowance; but either Silas had grown lazy, or he understood his position better than poor Austin, or he distrusted his powers, or possibly he really is in ill-health; but he objected his religious scruples. Your poor papa thought self-assertion possible, where an injured man has right to rely upon, but he had been very long out of the world, and the theory won’t do. Nothing is harder than to get a person who has once been effectually slurred, received again. Silas, I think, was right. I don’t think it was practicable.
“Dear child, how late it is!” exclaimed Lady Knollys suddenly, looking at the Louis Quatorze clock, that crowned the mantel-piece.
It was near one o’clock. The storm had a little subsided, and I took a less agitated and more confident view of Uncle Silas than I had at an earlier hour of that evening.
“And what do you think of him?” I asked.
Lady Knollys drummed on the table with her finger points as she looked into the fire.
“I don’t understand metaphysics, my dear, nor witchcraft. I sometimes believe in the supernatural, and sometimes I don’t. Silas Ruthyn is himself alone, and I can’t define him, because I don’t understand him. Perhaps other souls than human are sometimes born into the world, and clothed in flesh. It is not only about that dreadful occurrence, but nearly always throughout his life; early and late he has puzzled me. I have tried in vain to understand him. But at one time of his life I am sure he was awfully wicked — eccentric indeed in his wickedness — gay, frivolous, secret, and dangerous. At one time I think he could have made poor Austin do almost anything; but his influence vanished with his marriage, never to return again. No; I don’t understand him. He always bewildered me,