Jilted! Or, My Uncle's Scheme, Volume 2

by William Clark Russell

“Come, come, you were very wrong,” said her father, turning his head aside to conceal a grin. “I can only promise you Charlie’s forgiveness on one condition—that you will never be guilty of such folly again.”

Once more I encountered her eyes fixed upon me, haughtily and angrily; and, anxious to conciliate her, I entreated my uncle to change the subject, assuring him that so far from being offended, I was only too pleased that Theresa should treat me sans ceremonie.

This handsome speech produced no impression on her whatever. She continued staring at me for some moments, in a way that appeared to me almost indelicate; then sneered, tossed her head, and asked me “to hand her that book near my elbow on the table.” I obeyed her, and noticed that her father watched her with curiosity and surprise. She kept the book open in her lap, I believe, as an excuse not to talk; for, several times, whilst her father and I conversed, I caught her watching me, though she always took care to avert her eyes and curl her lip when I glanced at her. I thought her a perfect Tartar, and wondered at my uncle Tom’s extraordinary want of penetration, in supposing that I could ever be brought to couple myself with such a woman.

She never opened her lips until the Irish man-servant, whose name I afterwards learnt was O’Twist, announced dinner. I thought it odd that my cousin made no change in her dress for the table, but supposed that her love of ease and freedom had long ago triumphed over all fiddling restraints of etiquette.

I rose and offered her my arm; but as I approached, she swept her dress away from me, and exclaimed in a low tone, “When I want a crutch, I’ll buy one. I have still the use of both my legs, thank God!”

I will leave you to imagine my feelings. “She may have a handsome person,” thought I, “but I’ll be hanged if she hasn’t the soul of a kangaroo!”

My uncle, who was near the door when she made her overwhelming remark, and therefore could not have heard it, led the way to the dining-room. I caught him looking behind as if rather surprised that I hadn’t his daughter on my arm; but this, after a moment’s reflection, I concluded to be a mere fancy.

She took a seat opposite me, and whilst her father said grace, smiled over her shoulder at O’Twist, whose eyes were on me. I had very little doubt that she was not in her right senses, and marvelled at the blindness of her father in attributing virtues to her which seemed so entirely absent from her nature, that I could not conceive how he had imagined their existence. He made as good a host as Tom; but though the dinner was first-rate, the wines superior to any my uncle Tom had, I never in all my life felt so miserable nor enjoyed my food less. That confounded O’Twist, who stood behind his master’s chair, scarcely ever removed his eyes from my face. I tried once to stare him out, but the longer I looked the more intent became his gaze. The discomfort his groggy eyes caused me I cannot describe. What, I kept thinking, what is there about me to provoke such insolence? Am I in a madhouse? Have I mistaken my way, and found a welcome in an asylum for lunatics?

My uncle talked incessantly. The more agitated and dispirited I became, the more he plied me with his recollections, with stories of his doings in his young days, of actors and authors, of noble lords and needy parasites. Whether it was that he was spoiled in my esteem by the outrageous behaviour of his daughter and servant, or that I regarded him as heading a conspiracy against my peace of mind, I did not find half so much to like in him as I had at Grove End. He, it is true, could not see O’Twist’s behaviour, as the rude creature stood behind his chair; and queer as his daughter’s manners were, I could not reasonably expect him to chide her before me. But these considerations gave me no encouragement. Now and then he would stay his monologue to ask Theresa for a date or a name, and she answered him readily enough; but to my questions and remarks she seldom vouchsafed a longer answer than yes or no.

Shortly after the dessert was placed upon the table she left the room, and to my great relief was followed by O’Twist. Vexed as I was, my politeness would not suffer me to make any comments on her behaviour. Had her father questioned me I should have been candid enough; but throughout our after-dinner chat he never mentioned her name, but confined his remarks entirely to books and pictures, or told stories, over which I should have roared as heartily as he, perhaps, had I been in a better temper.