Scary Stories

Uncle Abraham's Romance - E Nesbit

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Duration:: 11m
Broadcast on:: 10 Jul 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

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For call 303-974-9444 to speak to a rent estate advisor today. The tanning salon in Loveland reminds parents that, unfortunately, abduction and missing children are growing problems. Predators are using the internet to target children for online and offline contact. Monitor your children's online activity and open the lines of communication today. You'll protect your children for many, tomorrow's. A message from the tanning salon in Loveland, dropped by on West 1st Street, or visit online at thetanningsalonloveland.com. They're asking you to form a network of eyes to help bring our missing children home. Uncle Abraham's Romance by E. Nesbit No, my dear, my uncle Abraham answered me. No, nothing romantic ever happened to me unless, but no, that wasn't romantic either. I was, to me, I 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 painter's art had been powerless to disguise. A woman with large eyes at 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's that 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?" "Who, you're, you're romance," Uncle Abraham looked hard at me. "Yes," he said at last, "very, very like." I sat down on the floor by him. "Would you tell me about her?" "There's nothing to tell," he said. I think it was fancy, mostly, and folly, but it's the realest thing in my life, my dear. A long 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 moving 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 was 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 everyone'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 crescent moon 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 glow-worms 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. In 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 without killing 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 hearts 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 eucharies 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, likened, weather-worn stone, and its inscription was just "Sousana King's North," obbed 1723. "I shall be here," I said. "I mean it," she said, very seriously and slowly. "It 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 kinsfolk 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 a 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?" I asked, and hardly knew my own voice. Years and years ago, the names 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." When it comes to renting out your property, the uncertainty of finding reliable tenants can feel like a real guessing game, responsible renter or perpetual party animal. Enter renter's warehouse, the pros who turn the uncertainty of finding great tenants into peace of mind. Renter's warehouse offers top-notch leasing and tenant placement services, ensuring you get trustworthy renter's without the hassles and headaches. With no upfront fees, renter's warehouse works for you, not the other way around. From marketing and showing your property, to screening tenants and preparing the lease, their team of experts handles it all so you can sit back and watch the rent roll in. 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