THE SCREAM - 60 Horror Tales in One Edition. Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

— is she very wicked? I am so afraid of her!”

      “How should I know, dear Maud? But I do remember her face, and I don’t very much like her, and you may depend on it. I will speak to your father in the morning about her, and don’t, darling, ask me any more about her, for I really have not very much to tell that you would care to hear, and the fact is I won’t say any more about her — there!”

      And Cousin Monica laughed, and gave me a little slap on the cheek, and then a kiss.

      “Well, just tell me this ——”

      “Well, I won’t tell you this, nor anything — not a word, curious little woman. The fact is, I have little to tell, and I mean to speak to your father, and he, I am sure, will do what is right; so don’t ask me any more, and let us talk of something pleasanter.”

      There was something indescribably winning, it seemed to me, in Cousin Monica. Old as she was, she seemed to me so girlish, compared with those slow, unexceptionable young ladies whom I had met in my few visits at the county houses. By this time my shyness was quite gone, and I was on the most intimate terms with her.

      “You know a great deal about her, Cousin Monica, but you won’t tell me.”

      “Nothing I should like better, if I were at liberty, little rogue; but you know, after all, I don’t really say whether I do know anything about her or not, or what sort of knowledge it is. But tell me what you mean by ghosty, and all about it.”

      So I recounted my experiences, to which, so far from laughing at me, she listened with very special gravity.

      “Does she write and receive many letters?”

      I had seen her write letters, and supposed, though I could only recollect one or two, that she received in proportion.

      “Are you Mary Quince?” asked my lady cousin.

      Mary was arranging the window-curtains, and turned, dropping a courtesy affirmatively toward her.

      “You wait on my little cousin, Miss Ruthyn, don’t you?”

      “Yes, ‘m,” said Mary, in her genteelest way.

      “Does anyone sleep in her room?”

      “Yes, ‘m, I— please, my lady.”

      “And no one else?”

      “No, ‘m — please, my lady.”

      “Not even the governess, sometimes?”

      “No, please, my lady.”

      “Never, you are quite sure, my dear?” said Lady Knollys, transferring the question to me.

      “Oh, no, never,” I answered.

      Cousin Monica mused gravely, I fancied even anxiously, into the grate; then stirred her tea and sipped it, still looking into the same point of our cheery fire.

      “I like your face, Mary Quince; I’m sure you are a good creature,” she said, suddenly turning toward her with a pleasant countenance. “I’m very glad you have got her, dear. I wonder whether Austin has gone to his bed yet!”

      “I think not. I am certain he is either in the library or in his private room — papa often reads or prays alone at night, and — and he does not like to be interrupted.”

      “No, no; of course not — it will do very well in the morning.”

      Lady Knollys was thinking deeply, as it seemed to me.

      “And so you are afraid of goblins, my dear,” she said at last, with a faded sort of smile turning toward me; “well, if I were, I now what I should do — so son as I, and good Mary Quince here, had got into my bed-chamber for the night, I should stir the fire into a good blaze, and bolt the door — do you see, Mary Quince? — bolt the door and keep a candle lighted all night. You’ll be very attentive to her, Mary Quince, for I— I don’t think she is very strong, and she must not grow nervous: so get to bed early, and don’t leave her alone — do you see? — and — and remember to bolt the door, Mary Quince, and I shall be sending a little Christmas-box to my cousin, and I shan’t forget you. Good-night.”

      And with a pleasant courtesy Mary fluttered out of the room.

      Chapter 12.

      A Curious Conversation

       Table of Contents

      WE EACH had another cup of tea, and were silent for awhile.

      “We must not talk of ghosts now. You are a superstitious little woman, you know, and you shan’t be frightened.”

      And now Cousin Monica grew silent again, and looking briskly around the room, like a lady in search of a subject, her eye rested on a small oval portrait, graceful, brightly tinted, in the French style, representing a pretty little boy, with rich golden hair, large soft eyes, delicate features, and a shy, peculiar expression.

      “It is odd; I think I remember that pretty little sketch, very long ago. I think I was then myself a child, but that is a much older style of dress, and of wearing the hair, too, than I ever saw. I am just forty-nine now. Oh dear, yes; that is a good while before I was born. What a strange, pretty little boy! a mysterious little fellow. Is he quite sincere, I wonder? What rich golden hair! It is very clever — a French artist, I dare say — and who is that little boy?”

      “I never heard. Some one a hundred years ago, I dare say. But there is a picture down-stairs I am so anxious to ask you about!”

      “Oh!” murmured Lady Knollys, still gazing dreamily on the crayon.

      “It is the full-length picture of Uncle Silas — I want to ask you about him.”

      At mention of his name, my cousin gave me a look so sudden and odd as to amount to a start.

      “Your uncle Silas, dear? It is very odd, I was just thinking of him;” and she laughed a little.

      “Wondering whether that little boy could be he.”

      And up jumped active Cousin Monica, with a candle in her hand, upon a chair, and scrutinize the border of the sketch for a name or a date.

      “Maybe on the back!” said she.

      And so she unhung it, and there, true enough, not on the back of the drawing, but of the frame, which was just as good, in pen-and-ink round Italian letters, hardly distinguishable now from the discoloured wood, we traced —

       “Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, Ætate vii. 15 May, 1779.”

      “It is very odd I should not have been told or remembered who it was. I think if I had ever been told I should have remembered it. I do recollect this picture, though. I am nearly certain. What a singular child’s face!”

      And my cousin leaned over it with a candle on each side, and her hand shading her eyes, as if seeking by aid of these fair and half-formed lineaments to read an enigma.

      The childish features defied her, I suppose; their secret was unfathomable, for after a good while she raised her head, still looking at the portrait, and sighed.

      “A very singular face,” she said, softly, as a person might who was looking into a coffin. “Had not we better replace it?”

      So the pretty oval, containing the fair golden hair and large eyes, the pale, unfathomable sphinx, remounted to its nail, and the funeste and beautiful child seemed to smile down oracularly on our conjectures.

      “So is the face in the large portrait — very singular — more, I think, than that — handsomer too. This is a sickly child, I think; but he full-length is so manly, though so slender, and so handsome too. I always think him a hero and a mystery, and they won’t tell me about him, and I can only dream and wonder.”

      “He has made