Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 222
‘You must bridle your tongue, mind, and govern your conduct, and command even your features. It is hard to practise reserve; but you must — you must be secret and vigilant. Try and be in appearance just as usual; don’t quarrel; tell her nothing, if you do happen to know anything, of your father’s business; be always on your guard when with her, and keep your eye upon her everywhere. Observe everything, disclose nothing — do you see?’
‘Yes,’ again I whispered.
‘You have good, honest servants about you, and, thank God, they don’t like her. But you must not repeat to them one word I am now saying to you. Servants are fond of dropping hints, and letting things ooze out in that way, and in their quarrels with her would compromise you — you understand me?’
‘I do,’ I sighed, with a wild stare.
‘And — and, Maud, don’t let her meddle with your food.’
Cousin Monica gave me a pale little nod, and looked away.
I could only stare at her; and under my breath I uttered an ejaculation of terror.
‘Don’t be so frightened; you must not be foolish; I only wish you to be upon your guard. I have my suspicions, but I may be quite wrong; your father thinks I am a fool; perhaps I am — perhaps not; maybe he may come to think as I do. But you must not speak to him on the subject; he’s an odd man, and never did and never will act wisely, when his passions and prejudices are engaged.’
‘Has she ever committed any great crime?’ I asked, feeling as if I were on the point of fainting.
‘No, dear Maud, I never said anything of the kind; don’t be so frightened: I only said I have formed, from something I know, an ill opinion of her; and an unprincipled person, under temptation, is capable of a great deal. But no matter how wicked she may be, you may defy her, simply by assuming her to be so, and acting with caution; she is cunning and selfish, and she’ll do nothing desperate. But I would give her no opportunity.’
‘Oh, dear! Oh, Cousin Monica, don’t leave me.’
‘My dear, I can’t stay; your papa and I — we’ve had a quarrel. I know I’m right, and he’s wrong, and he’ll come to see it soon, if he’s left to himself, and then all will be right. But just now he misunderstands me, and we’ve not been civil to one another. I could not think of staying, and he would not allow you to come away with me for a short visit, which I wished. It won’t last, though; and I do assure you, my dear Maud, I am quite happy about you now that you are quite on your guard. Just act respecting that person as if she were capable of any treachery, without showing distrust or dislike in your manner, and nothing will remain in her power; and write to me whenever you wish to hear from me, and if I can be of any real use, I don’t care, I’ll come: so there’s a wise little woman; do as I’ve said, and depend upon it everything will go well, and I’ll contrive before long to get that nasty creature away.’
Except a kiss and a few hurried words in the morning when she was leaving, and a pencilled farewell for papa, there was nothing more from Cousin Monica for some time.
Knowl was dark again — darker than ever. My father, gentle always to me, was now — perhaps it was contrast with his fitful return to something like the world’s ways, during Lady Knollys’ stay — more silent, sad, and isolated than before. Of Madame de la Rougierre I had nothing at first particular to remark. Only, reader, if you happen to be a rather nervous and very young girl, I ask you to conceive my fears and imaginings, and the kind of misery which I was suffering. Its intensity I cannot now even myself recall. But it overshadowed me perpetually — a care, an alarm. It lay down with me at night and got up with me in the morning, tinting and disturbing my dreams, and making my daily life terrible. I wonder now that I lived through the ordeal. The torment was secret and incessant, and kept my mind in unintermitting activity.
Externally things went on at Knowl for some weeks in the usual routine. Madame was, so far as her unpleasant ways were concerned, less tormenting than before, and constantly reminded me of ‘our leetle vow of friendship, you remember, dearest Maud!’ and she would stand beside me, and looked from the window with her bony arm round my waist, and my reluctant hand drawn round in hers; and thus she would smile, and talk affectionately and even playfully; for at times she would grow quite girlish, and smile with her great carious teeth, and begin to quiz and babble about the young ‘faylows,’ and tell bragging tales of her lovers, all of which were dreadful to me.
She was perpetually recurring, too, to the charming walk we had had together to Church Scarsdale, and proposing a repetition of that delightful excursion, which, you may be sure, I evaded, having by no means so agreeable a recollection of our visit.
One day, as I was dressing to go out for a walk, in came good Mrs. Rusk, the housekeeper, to my room.
‘Miss Maud, dear, is not that too far for you? It is a long walk to Church Scarsdale, and you are not looking very well.’
‘To Church Scarsdale?’ I repeated; ‘I’m not going to Church Scarsdale; who said I was going to Church Scarsdale? There is nothing I should so much dislike.’
‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed she. ‘Why, there’s old Madame’s been downstairs with me for fruit and sandwiches, telling me you were longing to go to Church Scarsdale — — ‘
‘It’s quite untrue,’ I interrupted. ‘She knows I hate it.’
‘She does?’ said Mrs. Rusk, quietly; ‘and you did not tell her nothing about the basket? Well — if there isn’t a story! Now what may she be after — what is it — what is she driving at?’
‘I can’t tell, but I won’t go.’
‘No, of course, dear, you won’t go. But you may be sure there’s some scheme in her old head. Tom Fowkes says she’s bin two or three times to drink tea at Farmer Gray’s — now, could it be she’s thinking to marry him?’ And Mrs. Rusk sat down and laughed heartily, ending with a crow of derision.
‘To think of a young fellow like that, and his wife, poor thing, not dead a year — maybe she’s got money?’
‘I don’t know — I don’t care — perhaps, Mrs. Rusk, you mistook Madame. I will go down; I am going out.’
Madame had a basket in her hand. She held it quietly by her capacious skirt, at the far side, and made no allusion to the preparation, neither to the direction in which she proposed walking, and prattling artlessly and affectionately she marched by my side.
Thus we reached the stile at the sheepwalk, and then I paused.
‘Now, Madame, have not we gone far enough in this direction? — suppose we visit the pigeon-house in the park?’
‘Wat folly! my dear a Maud — you cannot walk so far.’
‘Well, towards home, then.’
‘And wy not a this way? We ave not walk enough, and Mr. Ruthyn he will not be pleased if you do not take proper exercise. Let us walk on by the path, and stop when you like.’
‘Where do you wish to go, Madame?’
‘Nowhere particular — come along; don’t be fool, Maud.’
‘This leads to Church Scarsdale.’
‘A yes indeed! wat sweet place! bote we need not a walk all the way to there.’
‘I’d rather not walk outside the grounds to-day, Madame.’
‘Come, Maud, you shall not be fool — wat you mean, Mademoiselle?’ said the stalworth lady, growing yellow and greenish with an angry mottling, and accosting me very gruffly.
‘I don’t care to cross the stile, thank you, Madame. I shall remain at this side.’
‘You shall do wat I tell you!’ exclaimed she.
‘Let go my arm, Madame, you hurt me,’ I cried.
She had griped my arm very firmly in her great bony hand, and seemed preparing to drag me over by main force.
‘Let me go,’ I repeated shrilly, for the pain increased.
‘La!’ she cried with a smile of rage and a laugh, letting me go and shoving me backward at the same time, so that I had a rather dangerous tumble.
I stood up, a good deal hurt, and very angry, notwithstanding my fear of her.
‘I’ll ask papa if I am to be so illused.’
‘Wat av I done?’ cried Madame, laughing grimly from her hollow jaws; I did all I could to help you over— ‘ow could I prevent you to pull back and tumble if you would do so? That is the way wen you petites Mademoiselles are naughty and hurt yourself they always try to make blame other people. Tell a wat you like — you think I care?’
‘Very well, Madame.’
‘Are a you coming?’
‘No.’
She looked steadily in my face and very wickedly. I gazed at her as with dazzled eyes — I suppose as the feathered prey do at the owl that glares on them by night. I neither moved back nor forward, but stared at her quite helplessly.
‘You are nice pupil — charming young person! So polite, so obedient, so amiable! I will walk towards Church Scarsdale,’ she continued, suddenly breaking through the conventionalism of her irony, and accosting me in savage accents. ‘You weel stay behind if you dare. I tell you to accompany — do you hear?’
More than ever resolved against following her, I remained where I was, watching her as she marched fiercely away, swinging her basket as though in imagination knocking my head off with it.
She soon cooled, however, and looking over her shoulder, and seeing me still at the other side of the stile, she paused, and beckoned me grimly to follow her. Seeing me resolutely maintain my position, she faced about, tossed her head, like an angry beast, and seemed uncertain for a while what course to take with me.
She stamped and beckoned furiously again. I stood firm. I was very much frightened, and could not tell to what violence she might resort in her exasperation. She walked towards me with an inflamed countenance, and a slight angry wagging of the head; my heart fluttered, and I awaited the crisis in extreme trepidation. She came close, the stile only separating us, and stopped short, glaring and grinning at me like a French grenadier who has crossed bayonets, but hesitates to close.
CHAPTER XVI
DOCTOR BRYERLY LOOKS IN
What had I done to excite this ungovernable fury? We had often before had such small differences, and she had contented herself with being sarcastic, teasing, and impertinent.
‘So, for future you are gouvernante and I the cheaile for you to command — is not so? — and you must direct where we shall walk. Très-bien! we shall see; Monsieur Ruthyn he shall know everything. For me I do not care — not at all — I shall be rather pleased, on the contrary. Let him decide. If I shall be responsible for the conduct and the health of Mademoiselle his daughter, it must be that I shall have authority to direct her wat she must do — it must be that she or I shall obey. I ask only witch shall command for the future — voilà tout!’
I was frightened, but resolute — I dare say I looked sullen and uncomfortable. At all events, she seemed to think she might possibly succeed by wheedling; so she tried coaxing and cajoling, and patted my cheek, and predicted that I would be ‘a good cheaile,’ and not ‘vex poor Madame,’ but do for the future ‘wat she tell a me.’
She smiled her wide wet grin, smoothed my hand, and patted my cheek, and would in the excess of her conciliatory paroxysm have kissed me; but I withdrew, and she commented only with a little laugh, and a ‘Foolish little thing! but you will be quite amiable just now.’
‘Why, Madame,’ I asked, suddenly raising my head and looking her straight in the face, ‘do you wish me to walk to Church Scarsdale so particularly to-day?’
She answered my steady look with a contracted gaze and an unpleasant frown.
‘Wy do I? — I do not understand a you; there is no particular day — wat folly! Wy I like Church Scarsdale? Well, it is such pretty place. There is all! Wat leetle fool! I suppose you think I want to keel a you and bury you in the churchyard?’
And she laughed, and it would not have been a bad laugh for a ghoul.
‘Come, my dearest Maud, you are not a such fool to say, if you tell me me go thees a way, I weel go that; and if you say, go that a way, I weel go thees — you are rasonable leetle girl — come along — alons donc — we shall av soche agreeable walk — weel a you?’
But I was immovable. It was neither obstinacy nor caprice, but a profound fear that governed me. I was then afraid — yes, afraid. Afraid of what? Well, of going with Madame de la Rougierre to Church Scarsdale that day. That was all. And I believe that instinct was true.
She turned a bitter glance toward Church Scarsdale, and bit her lip. She saw that she must give it up. A shadow hung upon her drab features. A little scowl — a little sneer — wide lips compressed with a false smile, and a leaden shadow mottling all. Such was the countenance of the lady who only a minute or two before had been smiling and murmuring over the stile so amiably with her idiomatic ‘blarney,’ as the Irish call that kind of blandishment.
There was no mistaking the malignant disappointment that hooked and warped her features — my heart sank — a tremendous fear overpowered me. Had she intended poisoning me? What was in that basket? I looked in her dreadful face. I felt for a minute quite frantic. A feeling of rage with my father, with my Cousin Monica, for abandoning me to this dreadful rogue, took possession of me, and I cried, helplessly wringing my hands —
‘Oh! it is a shame — it is a shame — it is a shame!’
The countenance of the gouvernante relaxed. I think she in turn was frightened at my extreme agitation. It might have worked unfavourably with my father.
‘Come, Maud, it is time you should try to control your temper. You shall not walk to Church Scarsdale if you do not like — I only invite. There! It is quite as you please, where we shall walk then? Here to the peegeon-house? I think you say. Tout bien! Remember I concede you everything. Let us go.’
We went, therefore, towards the pigeon-house, through the forest trees; I not speaking as the children in the wood did with their sinister conductor, but utterly silent and scared; she silent also, meditating, and sometimes with a sharp side-glance gauging my progress towards equanimity. Her own was rapid; for Madame was a philosopher, and speedily accommodated herself to circumstances. We had not walked a quarter of an hour when every trace of gloom had left her face, which had assumed its customary brightness, and she began to sing with a spiteful hilarity as we walked forward, and indeed seemed to be approaching one of her waggish, frolicsome moods. But her fun in these moods was solitary. The joke, whatever it was, remained in her own keeping. When we approached the ruined brick tower — in old times a pigeon-house — she grew quite frisky, and twirled her basket in the air, and capered to her own singing.
Under the shadow of the broken wall, and its ivy, she sat down with a frolicsome plump, and opened her basket, inviting me to partake, which I declined. I must do her justice, however, upon the suspicion of poison, which she quite disposed of by gobbling up, to her own share, everything which the basket contained.
The reader is not to suppose that Madame’s cheerful demeanour indicated that I was forgiven. Nothing of the kind. One syllable more, on our walk home, she addressed not to me. And when we reached the terrace, she said —
‘You will please, Maud, remain for two — three minutes in the Dutch garden, while I speak with Mr. Ruthyn in the study.’
This was spoken with a high head and an insufferable smile; and I more haughtily, but quite gravely, turned without disputing, and descended the steps to the quaint little garden she had indicated.
I was surprised and very glad to see my father there. I ran to him, and began, ‘Oh! papa!’ and then stopped short, adding only, ‘may I speak to you now?’
He smiled kindly and gravely on me.
‘Well, Maud, say your say.’
‘Oh, sir, it is only this: I entreat that our walks, mine and Madame’s may be confined to the grounds.’
‘And why?’
‘I — I’m afraid to go with her.’
‘Afraid!’ he repeated, looking hard at me. ‘Have you lately had a letter from Lady Knollys?’
‘No, papa, not for two months or more.’
There was a pause.
‘And why afraid, Maud?’
‘She brought me one day to Church Scarsdale; you know what a solitary place it is, sir; and she frightened me so that I was afraid to go with her into the churchyard. But she went and left me alone at the other side of the stream, and an impudent man passing by stopped and spoke to me, and seemed inclined to laugh at me, and altogether frightened me very much, and he did not go till Madame happened to return.’
‘What kind of man — young or old?’
‘A young man; he looked like a farmer’s son, but very impudent, and stood there talking to me whether I would or not; and Madame did not care at all, and laughed at me for being frightened; and, indeed, I am very uncomfortable with her.’
He gave me another shrewd look, and then looked down cloudily and thought.
‘You say you are uncomfortable and frightened. How is this — what causes these feelings?’
‘I don’t know, sir; she likes frightening me; I am afraid of her — we are all afraid of her, I think. The servants, I mean, as well as I.’
My father nodded his head contemptuously, twice or thrice, and muttered, ‘A pack of fools!’
‘And she was so very angry to-day with me, because I would not walk again with her to Church Scarsdale. I am very much afraid of her. I— ‘ and quite unpremeditatedly I burst into tears.
‘There, there, little Maud, you must not cry. She is here only for your good. If you are afraid — even foolishly afraid — it is enough. Be it as you say; your walks are henceforward confined to the grounds; I’ll tell her so.’
I thanked him through my tears very earnestly.
‘But, Maud, beware of prejudice; women are unjust and violent in their judgments. Your family has suffered in some of its members by such injustice. It behoves us to be careful not to practise it.’
That evening in the drawingroom my father said, in his usual abrupt way —
‘About my departure, Maud: I’ve had a letter from London this morning, and I think I shall be called away sooner than I at first supposed, and for a little time we must manage apart from one another. Do not be alarmed. You shall not be in Madame de la Rougierre’s charge, but under the care of a relation; but even so, little Maud will miss her old father, I think.’
