Uncle Abraham's Romance - E Nesbit

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Uncle Abraham's romance, by E. Nezbit.

No idea, my uncle Abraham answered me, no, nothing romantic ever happened to me, unless,

but no, that wasn't romantic either.

I was, to me, by being eighteen, romance was the world, my uncle Abraham was old and lame,

I followed the gaze of his faded eyes, and my own rested on a miniature that hung at his

elbow chair's right hand, a portrait of a woman whose loveliness even the miniature

painters art had been powerless to disguise, a woman with large eyes that shone and face

of that alluring oval which one hardly sees nowadays.

I rose to look at it, I had looked at it a hundred times, often enough in my baby days

I had asked, who sat uncle, and always the answer was the same, a lady who died long

ago, my dear.

As I looked again at the picture, I asked, was she like this?

Oh, your romance, Uncle Abraham looked hard at me, yes, he said at last, very, very like.

I sat down on the floor by him.

What'd you tell me about her?

There's nothing to tell, he said.

I think it was fancy mostly, and folly, but it's the realist thing in my life, my dear,

along pause.

I kept silent.

You should always give people time, especially old people.

I remember, he said, in the dreamy tone, always promising so well to the ear that loves

a story.

I remember when I was a young man, I was very lonely indeed, I never had a sweetheart,

I was always lame, my dear, from quite a boy, and the girls used to laugh at me.

Silence again, presently he went on, and so I got into the way of moony off by myself

in lonely places, and one of my favorite walks was up through our churchyard, which was

set on a hill in the middle of the marsh country.

I liked that, because I never met anyone there.

It's all over years ago.

I was a silly lad, but I couldn't bear of a summer evening to hear a rustle and a whisper

from the other side of the hedge, or maybe a kiss as I went by.

Well, I used to go and sit all by myself in the churchyard, which was always sweet with

the time, and quite light, on account of its being so high, long after the marshes were

dark.

I used to watch the bats flitting about in the red light, and wonder why God didn't

make every button's legs straight and strong, and wicked follies like that.

But by the time the light was gone, I had always worked it off, so to speak, and could

go home quietly, and save my prayers without bitterness.

Well, one hot night in August, when I had watched the sunset fade, and the chrysanthemum

grow golden, I was just stepping over the low stone wall of the churchyard, when I heard

a rustle behind me.

I turned around, expecting it to be a rabbit or a bird.

It was a woman.

He looked at the portrait, so did I.

Yes, he said.

That was her very face.

I was a bit scared, and said something—I don't know what.

She laughed and said, did I think she was a ghost, and I answered back, and I stayed

talking to her over the churchyard wall, till it was quite dark, and the glowworms were

out in the wet grass all along the way home.

Next night I saw her again, and the next, and the next.

Always at twilight time, and if I passed any lovers leaning on the styles in the marshes,

it was nothing to me now.

When my uncle paused, it was very long ago, he said, shyly, and I'm an old man, but

I know what youth means, and happiness, though I was always lame, and the girls used to

laugh at me.

I don't know how long it went on, you don't measure time in dreams.

But at last your grandfather said I looked as if I had one foot in the grave, and he would

be sending me to stay with our kin in Bath, and to take the waters.

I had to go.

I could not tell my father why I would rather die than go.

What was her name, uncle, I asked?

She never would tell me her name, and why should she?

I had names enough in my heart to call her by.

Marriage?

My dear, even then, I knew marriage was not for me, but I met her, night after night,

always in our churchyard, where the youth trees were, and the old crooked gravestones,

so thick in the grass.

It was there we always met, and always parted.

The last time was the night before I went away.

She was very sad, and dearer than life itself, and she said,

If you come back before the new moon, I shall meet you here just as usual.

But if the new moon shines on this grave, and you are not here, you will never see me

again any more.

She laid her hand on the tomb against which we had been leaning.

It was an old, lichened, weather-worn stone, and its inscription was just Susanna King's

North, ob 1723.

I shall be here, I said.

I mean it, she said, very seriously and slowly.

This is no fancy.

You will be here when the new moon shines.

I promised, and after a while we parted.

I had been with my kids' folk in Bath for nearly a month.

I was to go home on the next day, when, turning over a case in the parlour, I came upon

that miniature.

I could not speak for a minute.

At last I said, was dry tongue, and part, beating to the tune of heaven and hell, who

is this?

That, said my aunt, oh, she was betrothed to one of our family years ago, but she died

before the wedding.

They say she was a bit of a witch, a handsome one, wasn't she?

I looked again at the face, the lips, the eyes of my dear lovely love, whom I was to meet

tomorrow night when the new moon shone, on that tomb in our churchyard.

Did you say she was dead, Ios, and hardly knew my own voice?

Years and years ago her name was on the back, and the date.

I took the portrait out of its case.

I remember just the colour of its faded, red velvet bed, and red on the back, Susanna

King's North, ob 1723.

That was in 1823.

My uncle stopped short.

What happened, I asked breathlessly?

I believe I had a fit, my uncle answered slowly.

At any rate I was very ill, and you missed the new moon on the grave.

I missed the new moon on the grave, and you never saw her again.

I never saw her again.

But uncle, do you really believe, can the dead, or she, did you?

My uncle took his pipe and filled it.

It's a long time ago, he said, a many, many years.

Old men's tales, my dear, old men's tales, don't you take any notice of them?

He lighted the pipe, and puffed silently a moment or two before he said.

But I know what youth means, and love, and happiness, though I was always lame, and

the girls used to laugh at me.

And of Uncle Abraham's romance, by E. Nesbitt.