CHAPTER XXVI
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 th
