Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 216
She would sit, too, sometimes for an hour together, looking into the fire or out of the window, plainly seeing nothing, and with an odd, fixed look of something like triumph — very nearly a smile — on her cunning face.
She was by no means a pleasant gouvernante for a nervous girl of my years. Sometimes she had accesses of a sort of hilarity which frightened me still more than her graver moods, and I will describe these by-and-by.
CHAPTER V
SIGHTS AND NOISES
There is not an old house in England of which the servants and young people who live in it do not cherish some traditions of the ghostly. Knowl has its shadows, noises, and marvellous records. Rachel Ruthyn, the beauty of Queen Anne’s time, who died of grief for the handsome Colonel Norbrooke, who was killed in the Low Countries, walks the house by night, in crisp and sounding silks. She is not seen, only heard. The tapping of her high-heeled shoes, the sweep and rustle of her brocades, her sighs as she pauses in the galleries, near the bedroom doors; and sometimes, on stormy nights, her sobs.
There is, beside, the ‘linkman’, a lank, dark-faced, blackhaired man, in a sable suit, with a link or torch in his hand. It usually only smoulders, with a deep red glow, as he visits his beat. The library is one of the rooms he sees to. Unlike ‘Lady Rachel,’ as the maids called her, he is seen only, never heard. His steps fall noiseless as shadows on floor and carpet. The lurid glow of his smouldering torch imperfectly lights his figure and face, and, except when much perturbed, his link never blazes. On those occasions, however, as he goes his rounds, he ever and anon whirls it around his head, and it bursts into a dismal flame. This is a fearful omen, and always portends some direful crisis or calamity. It occurs, only once or twice in a century.
I don’t know whether Madame had heard anything of these phenomena; but she did report which very much frightened me and Mary Quince. She asked us who walked in the gallery on which her bedroom opened, making a rustling with her dress, and going down the stairs, and breathing long breaths here and there. Twice, she said, she had stood at her door in the dark, listening to these sounds, and once she called to know who it was. There was no answer, but the person plainly turned back, and hurried towards her with an unnatural speed, which made her jump within her door and shut it.
When first such tales are told, they excite the nerves of the young and the ignorant intensely. But the special effect, I have found, soon wears out The tale simply takes it’s place with the rest. It was with Madame’s narrative.
About a week after its relation, I had my experience of a similar sort. Mary Quince went downstairs for a night-light, leaving me in bed, a candle burning in the room, and being tired. I fell asleep before her return. When I awoke the candle had been extinguished. But I heard a step softly approaching. I jumped up — quite forgetting the ghost, and thinking only of Mary Quince — and opened the door, expecting to see the light of her candle. Instead, all was dark, and near me I heard the fall of a bare foot on the oak floor. It was as if some one had stumbled. I said, ‘Mary,’ but no answer came, only a rustling of clothes and a breathing at the other side of the gallery, which passed off towards the upper staircase. I turned into my room, freezing with horror, and clapt my door. The noise wakened Mary Quince, who had returned and gone to her bed half an hour before.
About a fortnight after this, Mary Quince, a very veracious spinster, reported to me, that having got up to fix the window, which was rattling, at about four o’clock in the morning, she saw a light shining from the library window. She could swear to its being a strong light, streaming through the chinks of the shutter, and moving. No doubt the link was waved about his head by the angry ‘linkman.’
These strange occurrences helped, I think, just then to make me nervous, and prepared the way for the odd sort of ascendency which, through my sense of the mysterious and supernatural, that repulsive Frenchwoman was gradually, and it seemed without effort, establishing over me.
Some dark points of her character speedily emerged from the prismatic mist with which she had enveloped it.
Mrs. Rusk’s observation about the agreeability of newcomers I found to be true; for as Madame began to lose that character, her goodhumour abated very perceptibly, and she began to show gleams of another sort of temper, that was lurid and dangerous.
Notwithstanding this, she was in the habit of always having her Bible open by her, and was austerely attentive at morning and evening services, and asked my father, with great humility, to lend her some translations of Swedenborg’s books, which she laid much to heart.
When we went out for our walk, if the weather were bad we generally made our promenade up and down the broad terrace in front of the windows. Sullen and malign at times she used to look, and as suddenly she would pat me on the shoulder caressingly, and smile with a grotesque benignity, asking tenderly, ‘Are you fatigue, ma chère?’ or ‘Are you cold-a, dear Maud?’
At first these abrupt transitions puzzled me, sometimes half frightened me, savouring, I fancied, of insanity. The key, however, was accidentally supplied, and I found that these accesses of demonstrative affection were sure to supervene whenever my father’s face was visible through the library windows.
I did not know well what to make of this woman, whom I feared with a vein of superstitious dread. I hated being alone with her after dusk in the schoolroom. She would sometimes sit for half an hour at a time, with her wide mouth drawn down at the corners, and a scowl, looking into the fire. If she saw me looking at her, she would change all this on the instant, affect a sort of languor, and lean her head upon her hand, and ultimately have recourse to her Bible. But I fancied she did not read, but pursued her own dark ruminations, for I observed that the open book might often lie for half an hour or more under her eyes and yet the leaf never turned.
I should have been glad to be assured that she prayed when on her knees, or read when that book was before her; I should have felt that she was more canny and human. As it was, those external pieties made a suspicion of a hollow contrast with realities that helped to scare me; yet it was but a suspicion — I could not be certain.
Our rector and the curate, with whom she was very gracious, and anxious about my collects and catechism, had an exalted opinion of her. In public places her affection for me was always demonstrative.
In like manner she contrived conferences with my father. She was always making excuses to consult him about my reading, and to confide in him her sufferings, as I learned, from my contumacy and temper. The fact is, I was altogether quiet and submissive. But I think she had a wish to reduce me to a state of the most abject bondage. She had designs of domination and subversion regarding the entire household, I now believe, worthy of the evil spirit I sometimes fancied her.
My father beckoned me into the study one day, and said he —
‘You ought not to give poor Madame so much pain. She is one of the few persons who take an interest in you; why should she have so often to complain of your ill-temper and disobedience? — why should she be compelled to ask my permission to punish you? Don’t be afraid, I won’t concede that. But in so kind a person it argues much. Affection I can’t command — respect and obedience I may — and I insist on your rendering both to Madame.’
‘But sir,’ I said, roused into courage by the gross injustice of the charge, ‘I have always done exactly as she bid me, and never said one disrespectful word to Madame.’
‘I don’t think, child, you are the best judge of that. Go, and amend.’ And with a displeased look he pointed to the door. My heart swelled with the sense of wrong, and as I reached the door I turned to say another word, but I could not, and only burst into tears.
‘There — don’t cry, little Maud — only let us do better for the future. There — there — there has been enough.’
And he kissed my forehead, and gently put me out and closed the door.
In the schoolroom I took courage, and with some warmth upbraided Madame.
‘Wat wicked cheaile!’ moaned Madame, demurely. ‘Read aloud those three — yes, those three chapters of the Bible, my dear Maud.’
There was no special fitness in those particular chapters, and when they were ended she said in a sad tone —
‘Now, dear, you must commit to memory this pretty priaire for umility of art.’
It was a long one, and in a state of profound irritation I got through the task.
Mrs. Rusk hated her. She said she stole wine and brandy whenever the opportunity offered — that she was always asking her for such stimulants and pretending pains in her stomach. Here, perhaps, there was exaggeration; but I knew it was true that I had been at different times despatched on that errand and pretext for brandy to Mrs. Rusk, who at last came to her bedside with pills and a mustard blister only, and was hated irrevocably ever after.
I felt all this was done to torture me. But a day is a long time to a child, and they forgive quickly. It was always with a sense of danger that I heard Madame say she must go and see Monsieur Ruthyn in the library, and I think a jealousy of her growing influence was an ingredient in the detestation in which honest Mrs. Rusk held her.
CHAPTER VI
A WALK IN THE WOOD
Two little pieces of by-play in which I detected her confirmed my unpleasant suspicion. From the corner of the gallery I one day saw her, when she thought I was out and all quiet, with her ear at the keyhole of papa’s study, as we used to call the sitting-room next his bedroom. Her eyes were turned in the direction of the stairs, from which only she apprehended surprise. Her great mouth was open, and her eyes absolutely goggled with eagerness. She was devouring all that was passing there. I drew back into the shadow with a kind of disgust and horror. She was transformed into a great gaping reptile. I felt that I could have thrown something at her; but a kind of fear made me recede again toward my room. Indignation, however, quickly returned, and I came back, treading briskly as I did so. When I reached the angle of the gallery again. Madame, I suppose, had heard me, for she was halfway down the stairs.
‘Ah, my dear Cheaile, I am so glad to find you, and you are dress to come out. We shall have so pleasant walk.’
At that moment the door of my father’s study opened, and Mrs. Rusk, with her dark energetic face very much flushed, stepped out in high excitement.
‘The Master says you may have the brandy-bottle, Madame and I’m glad to be rid of it — I am.’
Madame courtesied with a great smirk, that was full of intangible hate and insult.
‘Better your own brandy, if drink you must!’ exclaimed Mrs. Rusk. ‘You may come to the store-room now, or the butler can take it.’
And off whisked Mrs. Rusk for the back staircase.
There had been no common skirmish on this occasion, but a pitched battle.
Madame had made a sort of pet of Anne Wixted, an underchambermaid, and attached her to her interest economically by persuading me to make her presents of some old dresses and other things. Anne was such an angel!
But Mrs. Rusk, whose eyes were about her, detected Anne, with a brandy-bottle under her apron, stealing upstairs. Anne, in a panic, declared the truth. Madame had commissioned her to buy it in the town, and convey it to her bedroom. Upon this, Mrs. Rusk impounded the flask; and, with Anne beside her, rather precipitately appeared before ‘the Master.’ He heard and summoned Madame. Madame was cool, frank, and fluent. The brandy was purely medicinal. She produced a document in the form of a note. Doctor Somebody presented his compliments to Madame de la Rougierre, and ordered her a table-spoonful of brandy and some drops of laudanum whenever the pain of stomach returned. The flask would last a whole year, perhaps two. She claimed her medicine.
Man’s estimate of woman is higher than woman’s own. Perhaps in their relations to men they are generally more trustworthy — perhaps woman’s is the juster, and the other an appointed illusion. I don’t know; but so it is ordained.
Mrs. Rusk was recalled, and I saw, as you are aware, Madame’s procedure during the interview.
It was a great battle — a great victory. Madame was in high spirits. The air was sweet — the landscape charming — I, so good — everything so beautiful! Where should we go? this way?
I had made a resolution to speak as little as possible to Madame, I was so incensed at the treachery I had witnessed; but such resolutions do not last long with very young people, and by the time we had reached the skirts of the wood we were talking pretty much as usual.
‘I don’t wish to go into the wood, Madame.
‘And for what?’
‘Poor mamma is buried there.’
‘Is there the vault?’ demanded Madame eagerly.
I assented.
‘My faith, curious reason; you say because poor mamma is buried there you will not approach! Why, cheaile, what would good Monsieur Ruthyn say if he heard such thing? You are surely not so unkain’, and I am with you. Allons. Let us come — even a little part of the way.’
And so I yielded, though still reluctant.
There was a grass-grown road, which we easily reached, leading to the sombre building, and we soon arrived before it.
Madame de la Rougierre seemed rather curious. She sat down on the little bank opposite, in her most languid pose — her head leaned upon the tips of her fingers.
‘How very sad — how solemn!’ murmured Madame. ‘What noble tomb! How triste, my dear cheaile, your visit ‘ere must it be, remembering a so sweet maman. There is new inscription — is it not new?’ And so, indeed, it seemed.
‘I am fatigue — maybe you will read it aloud to me slowly and solemnly, my dearest Maud?’
As I approached, I happened to look, I can’t tell why, suddenly, over my shoulder; I was startled, for Madame was grimacing after me with a vile derisive distortion. She pretended to be seized with a fit of coughing. But it would not do: she saw that I had detected her, and she laughed aloud.
‘Come here, dear cheaile. I was just reflecting how foolish is all this thing — the tomb — the epitaph. I think I would ‘av none — no, no epitaph. We regard them first for the oracle of the dead, and find them after only the folly of the living. So I despise. Do you think your house of Knowl down there is what you call haunt, my dear?’
‘Why?’ said I, flushing and growing pale again. I felt quite afraid of Madame, and confounded at the suddenness of all this.
‘Because Anne Wixted she says there is ghost. How dark is this place! and so many of the Ruthyn family they are buried here — is not so? How high and thick are the trees all round! and nobody comes near.’
And Madame rolled her eyes awfully, as if she expected to see something unearthly, and, indeed, looked very like it herself.
‘Come away, Madame,’ I said, growing frightened, and feeling that if I were once, by any accident, to give way to the panic that was gathering round me, I should instantaneously lose all control of myself. ‘Oh, come away! do, Madame — I’m frightened.’
‘No, on the contrary, sit here by me. It is very odd, you will think, ma chêre — un goût bizarre, vraiment! — but I love very much to be near to the dead people — in solitary place like this. I am not afraid of the dead people, nor of the ghosts. ‘Av you ever see a ghost, my dear?’
‘Do, Madame, pray speak of something else.’
‘Wat little fool! But no, you are not afraid. I ‘av seen the ghosts myself. I saw one, for example, last night, shape like a monkey, sitting in the corner, with his arms round his knees; very wicked, old, old man his face was like, and white eyes so large.’
‘Come away, Madame! you are trying to frighten me,’ I said, in the childish anger which accompanies fear. Madame laughed an ugly laugh, and said —
‘Eh bien! little fool! — I will not tell the rest if you are really frightened; let us change to something else.’
‘Yes, yes! oh, do — pray do.’
‘Wat good man is your father!’
‘Very — the kindest darling. I don’t know why it is, Madame, I am so afraid of him, and never could tell him how much I love him.’
This confidential talking with Madame, strange to say, implied no confidence; it resulted from fear — it was deprecatory. I treated her as if she had human sympathies, in the hope that they might be generated somehow.
‘Was there not a doctor from London with him a few months ago? Dr. Bryerly, I think they call him.’
‘Yes, a Doctor Bryerly, who remained a few days. Shall we begin to walk towards home, Madame? Do, pray.’
‘Immediately, cheaile; and does your father suffer much?’
‘No — I think not.’
‘And what then is his disease?’
‘Disease! he has no disease. Have you heard anything about his health, Madame?’ I said, anxiously.
‘Oh no, ma foi — I have heard nothing; but if the doctor came, it was not because he was quite well.’
‘But that doctor is a doctor in theology, I fancy. I know he is a Swedenborgian; and papa is so well, he could not have come as a physician.’
‘I am very glad, ma chère, to hear; but still you know your father is old man to have so young cheaile as you. Oh, yes — he is old man, and so uncertain life is. ‘As he made his will, my dear? Every man so rich as he, especially so old, aught to ‘av made his will.’
‘There is no need of haste, Madame; it is quite time enough when his health begins to fail.’
‘But has he really compose no will?’
‘I really don’t know, Madame.’
‘Ah, little rogue! you will not tell — but you are not such fool as you feign yourself. No, no; you know everything. Come, tell me all about — it is for your advantage, you know. What is in his will, and when he wrote?’
