‘I thought he was going to break into one of his ungracious moods.
‘“But I am obliged to you — very much obliged to you, Silas; and you sha’n’t refuse my thanks.”
‘“I am happy, at all events, Monica, in having won your goodwill; we learn at last that in the affections only are our capacities for happiness; and how true is St. Paul’s preference of love — the principle that abideth! The affections, dear Monica, are eternal; and being so, celestial, divine, and consequently happy, deriving happiness, and bestowing it.”
‘I was always impatient of his or anybody else’s metaphysics; but I controlled myself, and only said, with my customary impudence —
‘“Well, dear Silas, and when do you wish me to come?”
‘“The earlier the better,” said he.
‘“Lady Mary and Ilbury will be leaving me on Tuesday morning. I can come to you in the afternoon, if you think Tuesday a good day.”
‘“Thank you, dear Monica. I shall be, I trust, enlightened by that day as to my enemies’ plans. It is a humiliating confession, Monica, but I am past feeling that. It is quite possible that an execution may be sent into this house tomorrow, and an end of all my schemes. It is not likely, however — hardly possible — before three weeks, my attorney tells me. I shall hear from him tomorrow morning, and then I shall ask you to name a very early day. If we are to have an unmolested fortnight certain, you shall hear, and name your own day.”
‘Then he asked me who had accompanied me, and lamented ever so much his not being able to go down to receive them; and he offered luncheon, with a sort of Ravenswood smile, and a shrug, and I declined, telling him that we had but a few minutes, and that my companions were walking in the grounds near the house.
‘I asked whether Maud was likely to return soon?
‘“Certainly not before five o’clock.” He thought we should probably meet her on our way back to Elverston; but could not be certain, as she might have changed her plans.
‘So then came — no more remaining to be said — a very affectionate parting. I believe all about his legal dangers was strictly true. How he could, unless that horrid woman had deceived him, with so serene a countenance tell me all those gross untruths about Maud, I can only admire.’
In the meantime, as I lay in my bed, Madame, gliding hither and thither, whispering sometimes, listening at others, I suddenly startled them both by saying —
‘Whose carriage?’
‘What carriage, dear?’ inquired Quince, whose ears were not so sharp as mine.
Madame peeped from the window.
‘’Tis the physician, Doctor Jolks. He is come to see your uncle, my dear,’ said Madame.
‘But I hear a female voice,’ I said, sitting up.
‘No, my dear; there is only the doctor,’ said Madame. ‘He is come to your uncle. I tell you he is getting out of his carriage,’ and she affected to watch the doctor’s descent.
‘The carriage is driving away!’ I cried.
‘Yes, it is draiving away,’ she echoed.
But I had sprung from my bed, and was looking over her shoulder, before she perceived me.
‘It is Lady Knollys!’ I screamed, seizing the window-frame to force it up, and, vainly struggling to open it, I cried —
‘I’m here, Cousin Monica. For God’s sake, Cousin Monica — Cousin Monica!’
‘You are mad, Meess — go back,’ screamed Madame, exerting her superior strength to force me back.
But I saw deliverance and escape gliding away from my reach, and, strung to unnatural force by desperation, I pushed past her, and beat the window wildly with my hands, screaming —
‘Save me — save me! Here, here, Monica, here! Cousin, cousin, oh! save me!’
Madame had seized my wrists, and a wild struggle was going on. A window-pane was broken, and I was shrieking to stop the carriage. The Frenchwoman looked black and haggard as a fury, as if she could have murdered me.
Nothing daunted — frantic — I screamed in my despair, seeing the carriage drive swiftly away — seeing Cousin Monica’s bonnet, as she sat chatting with her vis-à-vis.
‘Oh, oh, oh!’ I shrieked, in vain and prolonged agony, as Madame, exerting her strength and matching her fury against my despair, forced me back in spite of my wild struggles, and pushed me sitting on the bed, where she held me fast, glaring in my face, and chuckling and panting over me.
I think I felt something of the despair of a lost spirit.
I remember the face of poor Mary Quince — its horror, its wonder — as she stood gaping into my face, over Madame’s shoulder, and crying —
‘What is it, Miss Maud? What is it, dear?’ And turning fiercely on Madame, and striving to force her grasp from my wrists, ‘Are you hurting the child? Let her go — let her go.’
‘I weel let her go. Wat old fool are you, Mary Queence! She is mad, I think. She ‘as lost hair head.’
‘Oh, Mary, cry from the window. Stop the carriage!’ I cried.
Mary looked out, but there was by this time, of course, nothing in sight.
‘Why don’t a you stop the carriage?’ sneered Madame. ‘Call a the coachman and the postilion. W’ere is the footman? Bah! elle a le cerveau mal timbré.’
‘Oh, Mary, Mary, is it gone — is it gone? Is there nothing there?’ cried I, rushing to the window; and turning to Madame, after a vain straining of my eyes, my face against the glass —
‘Oh, cruel, cruel, wicked woman! why have you done this? What was it to you? Why do you persecute me? What good can you gain by my ruin?’
‘Rueen! Par bleu! ma chère, you talk too fast. Did not a you see it, Mary Queence? It was the doctor’s carriage, and Mrs. Jolks, and that eempudent faylow, young Jolks, staring up to the window, and Mademoiselle she come in soche shocking déshabille to show herself knocking at the window. ‘Twould be very nice thing, Mary Queence, don’t you think?’
I was sitting now on the bedside, crying in mere despair. I did not care to dispute or to resist. Oh! why had rescue come so near, only to prove that it could not reach me? So I went on crying, with a clasping of my hands and turning up of my eyes, in incoherent prayer. I was not thinking of Madame, or of Mary Quince, or any other person, only babbling my anguish and despair helplessly in the ear of heaven.
‘I did not think there was soche fool. Wat enfant gaté! My dear cheaile, wat a can you mean by soche strange language and conduct? Wat for should a you weesh to display yourself in the window in soche ‘orrible déshabille to the people in the doctor’s coach?’
‘It was Cousin Knollys — Cousin Knollys. Oh, Cousin Knollys! You’re gone — you’re gone — you’re gone!’
‘And if it was Lady Knollys’ coach, there was certainly a coachman and a footman; and whoever has the coach there was young gentlemen in it. If it was Lady Knollys’ carriage it would ‘av been worse than the doctor.’
‘It is no matter — it is all over. Oh, Cousin Monica, your poor Maud — where is she to turn? Is there no help?’
That evening Madame visited me again, in one of her sedate and moral moods. She found me dejected and passive, as she had left me.
‘I think, Maud, there is news; but I am not certain.’
I raised my head and looked at her wistfully.
‘I think there is letter of bad news from the attorney in London.’
‘Oh!’ I said, in a tone which I am sure implied the absolute indifference of dejection.
‘But, my dear Maud, if’t be so, we shall go at once, you and me, to join Meess Millicent in France. La belle France! You weel like so moche! We shall be so gay. You cannot imagine there are such naice girl there. They all love a me so moche, you will be delight.’
‘How soon do we go?’ I asked.
‘I do not know. Bote I was to bring in a case of eau de cologne that came this evening, and he laid down a letter and say:— “The blow has descended, Madame! My niece must hold herself in readiness.” I said, “For what, Monsieur?” twice; bote he did not
answer. I am sure it is un procès. They ‘av ruin him. Eh bien, my dear. I suppose we shall leave this triste place immediately. I am so rejoice. It appears to me un cimetière!’
‘Yes, I should like to leave it,’ I said, sitting up, with a great sigh and sunken eyes. It seemed to me that I had quite lost all sense of resentment towards Madame. A debility of feeling had supervened — the fatigue, I suppose, and prostration of the passions.
‘I weel make excuse to go into his room again,’ said Madame; ‘and I weel endeavor to learn something more from him, and I weel come back again to you in half an hour.’
She departed. But in half an hour did not return. I had a dull longing to leave Bartram-Haugh. For me, since the departure of poor Milly, it had grown like the haunt of evil spirits, and to escape on any terms from it was a blessing unspeakable.
Another half-hour passed, and another, and I grew insufferably feverish. I sent Mary Quince to the lobby to try and see Madame, who, I feared, was probably to-ing and fro-ing in and out of Uncle Silas’s room.
Mary returned to tell me that she had seen old Wyat, who told her that she thought Madame had gone to her bed half an hour before.
CHAPTER LIX
A SUDDEN DEPARTURE
‘Mary,’ said I, ‘I am miserably anxious to hear what Madame may have to tell; she knows the state I am in, and she would not like so much trouble as to look in at my door to say a word. Did you hear what she told me?’
‘No, Miss Maud,’ she answered, rising and drawing near.
‘She thinks we are going to France immediately, and to leave this place perhaps for ever.’
‘Heaven be praised for that, if it be so, Miss!’ said Mary, with more energy than was common with her, ‘for there is no luck about it, and I don’t expect to see you ever well or happy in it.’
‘You must take your candle, Mary, and make out her room, upstairs; I found it accidentally myself one evening.’
‘But Wyat won’t let us upstairs.’
‘Don’t mind her, Mary; I tell you to go. You must try. I can’t sleep till we hear.’
‘What direction is her room in, Miss?’ asked Mary.
‘Somewhere in that direction, Mary,’ I answered, pointing. ‘I cannot describe the turns; but I think you will find it if you go along the great passage to your left, on getting to the top of the stairs, till you come to the cross-galleries, and then turn to your left; and when you have passed four or perhaps five doors, you must be very near it, and I am sure she will hear if you call.’
‘But will she tell me — she is such a rum un, Miss?’ suggested Mary.
‘Tell her exactly what I have said to you, and when she learns that you already know as much as I do, she may — unless, indeed, she wishes to torture me. If she won’t, perhaps at least you can persuade her to come to me for a moment. Try, dear Mary; we can but fail.’
‘Will you be very lonely, Miss, while I am away?’ asked Mary, uneasily, as she lighted her candle.
‘I can’t help it, Mary. Go. I think if I heard we were going, I could almost get up and dance and sing. I can’t bear this dreadful uncertainty any longer.’
‘If old Wyat is outside, I’ll come back and wait here a bit, till she’s out o’ the way,’ said Mary; ‘and, anyhow, I’ll make all the haste I can. The drops and the sal-volatile is here, Miss, by your hand.’
And with an anxious look at me, she made her exit, softly, and did not immediately return, by which I concluded that she had found the way clear, and had gained the upper story without interruption.
This little anxiety ended, its subsidence was followed by a sense of loneliness, and with it, of vague insecurity, which increased at last to such a pitch, that I wondered at my own madness in sending my companion away; and at last my terrors so grew, that I drew back into the farthest corner of the bed, with my shoulders to the wall, and my bedclothes huddled about me, with only a point open to peep at.
At last the door opened gently.
‘Who’s there?’ I cried, in extremity of horror, expecting I knew not whom.
‘Me, Miss,’ whispered Mary Quince, to my unutterable relief; and with her candle flared, and a wild and pallid face, Mary Quince glided into the room, locking the door as she entered.
I do not know how it was, but I found myself holding Mary fast with both my hands as we stood side by side on the floor.
‘Mary, you are terrified; for God’s sake, what is the matter?’ I cried.
‘No, Miss,’ said Mary, faintly, ‘not much.’
‘I see it in your face. What is it?’
‘Let me sit down, Miss. I’ll tell you what I saw; only I’m just a bit queerish.’
Mary sat down by my bed.
‘Get in, Miss; you’ll take cold. Get into bed, and I’ll tell you. It is not much.’
I did get into bed, and gazing on Mary’s frightened face, I felt a corresponding horror.
‘For mercy’s sake, Mary, say what it is?’
So again assuring me ‘it was not much,’ she gave me in a somewhat diffuse and tangled narrative the following facts: —
On closing my door, she raised her candle above her head and surveyed the lobby, and seeing no one there she ascended the stairs swiftly. She passed along the great gallery to the left, and paused a moment at the cross gallery, and then recollected my directions clearly, and followed the passage to the right.
There are doors at each side, and she had forgotten to ask me at which Madame’s was. She opened several. In one room she was frightened by a bat, which had very nearly put her candle out. She went on a little, paused, and began to lose heart in the dismal solitude, when on a sudden, a few doors farther on, she thought she heard Madame’s voice.
She said that she knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, and hearing Madame still talking within, she opened it.
There was a candle on the chimneypiece, and another in a stable lantern near the window. Madame was conversing volubly on the hearth, with her face toward the window, the entire frame of which had been taken from its place: Dickon Hawkes, the Zamiel of the wooden leg, was supporting it with one hand, as it leaned imperfectly against the angle of the recess. There was a third figure standing, buttoned up in a surtout, with a bundle of tools under his arm, like a glazier, and, with a silent thrill of fear, she distinctly recognised the features as those of Dudley Ruthyn.
‘’Twas him, Miss, so sure as I sit here! Well, like that, they were as mute as mice; three pairs of eyes were on me. I don’t know what made me so study like, but som’at told me I should not make as though I knew any but Madame; and so I made a courtesy, as well as I could, and I said, “Might I speak a word wi’ ye, please, on the lobby?”
‘Mr. Dudley was making belief be this time to look out at window, wi’ his back to me, and I kept looking straight on Madame, and she said, “They’re mendin’ my broken glass, Mary,” walking between them and me, and coming close up to me very quick; and so she marched me backward out o’ the door, prating all the time.
‘When we were on the lobby, she took my candle from my hand, shutting the door behind her, and she held the light a bit behind her ear; so’twas full on my face, as she looked sharp into it; and, after a bit, she said again, in her queer lingo — there was two panes broke in her room, and men sent for to mend it.
‘I was awful frightened when I saw Mr. Dudley, for I could not believe any such thing before, and I don’t know how I could look her in the face as I did and not show it. I was as smooth and cool as yonder chimneypiece, and she has an awful evil eye to stan’ against; but I never flinched, and I think she’s puzzled, for as cunning as she is, whether I believe all she said, or knowed ’twas a pack o’ stories. So I told her your message, and she said she had not heard another word since; but she did believe we had not many more days here, and would tell you if she heard tonight, when she brought his soup to your uncle, in half an hour’s time.’
I asked her, as soon as I could speak, whether she was perfectly certain as to th
e fact that the man in the surtout was Dudley, and she made answer —
‘I’d swear to him on that Bible, Miss.’
So far from any longer wishing Madame’s return that night, I trembled at the idea of it. Who could tell who might enter the room with her when the door opened to admit her?
Dudley, so soon as he recovered the surprise, had turned about, evidently anxious to prevent recognition; Dickon Hawkes stood glowering at her. Both might have hope of escaping recognition in the imperfect light, for the candle on the chimneypiece was flaring in the air, and the light from the lantern fell in spots, and was confusing.
What could that ruffian, Hawkes, be doing in the house? Why was Dudley there? Could a more ominous combination be imagined? I puzzled my distracted head over all Mary Quince’s details, but could make nothing of their occupation. I know of nothing so terrifying as this kind of perpetual puzzling over ominous problems.
You may imagine how the long hours of that night passed, and how my heart beat at every fancied sound outside my door.
But morning came, and with its light some reassurance. Early, Madame de la Rougierre made her appearance; she searched my eyes darkly and shrewdly, but made no allusion to Mary Quince’s visit. Perhaps she expected some question from me, and, hearing none, thought it as well to leave the subject at rest.
She had merely come in to say that she had heard nothing since, but was now going to make my uncle’s chocolate; and that so soon as her interview was ended she would see me again, and let me hear anything she should have gleaned.
In a little while a knock came to my door, and Mary Quince was ordered by old Wyat into my uncle’s room. She returned flushed, in a huge fuss, to say that I was to be up and dressed for a journey in half an hour, and to go straight, when dressed, to my uncle’s room.
It was good news; at the same time it was a shock. I was glad. I was stunned. I jumped out of bed, and set about my toilet with an energy quite new to me. Good Mary Quince was busily packing my boxes, and consulting as to what I should take with me, and what not.
Was Mary Quince to accompany me? He had not said a word on that point; and I feared from his silence she was to remain. There was comfort, however, in this — that the separation would not be for long; I felt confident of that; and I was about to join Milly, whom I loved better than I could have believed before our separation; but whatsoever the conditions might be, it was an indescribable relief to have done with Bartram-Haugh, and leave behind me its sinister lines of circumvallation, its haunted recesses, and the awful spectres that had lately appeared within its walls.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 258
