“Every girl, when she’s vexed, wishes herself dead. But she does not mean it. I never had a thought of suicide all the time I was at home — never, at any time. I am foolish and violent sometimes; but I am not wicked. Mercy Creswell, do you care about me?”
“La! miss, I like ye well, miss, and always did.”
“Do people listen at the doors, here?” she said, lowering her voice.
“Not they, miss; they have no time — too busy — they don’t care, not a jackstraw, what you’re talking about, and if anything goes wrong there’s the bell at hand. That will bring hands enough in no time.”
“For how long have you been here?” asked Maud.
“It will be five years next November, miss.”
“Then you can’t be mistaken about anything here,” mused Maud. “You must know all their rules —— I wonder, Mercy, whether you care for me?”
“Yes, surely, miss,” she answered.
Maud was silent again, looking at Mercy thoughtfully.
“You were very young, Mercy, and I only a child, when we were together in Roydon nursery; but — I’m afraid — you have no affection for me.”
“Why will ye say that, Miss Maud; don’t you know I always liked ye well? Affection! well, miss, I think ‘twould be less than kind in me if I hadn’t.”
Maud looked again thoughtfully at Mercy Creswell, and then on the ground, and then raising her eyes, she said:
“Do they often inflict that dreadful punishment that I witnessed yesterday?”
“The bath, ma’am? La! You wouldn’t call that a punishment. There’s nothing Doctor Antomarchi is more paticlar about than that — not one of us here dar’ call it a punishment.”
“Well, half-drowning, or whole-drowning, as it may turn out, is that often inflicted in this place?”
“Well, Mr. Damian would not allow it, perhaps, twice in a year; when he’s at home, and then only ten or twelve minutes, and no white mixture. But Doctor Antomarchi, he’d be harder on them — he’s a man that won’t stand no nonsense from no one.” Mercy nodded with a dark significance at Maud as she said this. “He won’t spare neither high nor low. He may do as he pleases. La! no one ever minds what a patient says. The doctor has only to smile and shake his head, and whisper a word in the ear of father, or mother, or brother, or whoever comes to see that the patient is comfortable, and all his grumbling and complaints, they’re just took for so much dreams, and nothings, and no one never believed but the doctor.”
“It is very bad — it is horrible,” and poor Maud shuddered.
There was another silence, and then Maud asked:
“Has Lady Mardykes sold her place? Is this Carsbrook?”
“La! no, miss; this is Glarewoods, Mr. Damian’s asylum. It is like Carsbrook in a way, and it’s not like it. They are both black and white houses. But Carsbrook is a beautiful house; not so big as this great barracks, but you never saw a prettier. There’s nothing in this to look at, without they fits up two or three rooms special like these was done for you. It is a bare-looking place, and furnished very plain; but Carsbrook is beautiful all through. It is too grand almost. You’d say ’tis a pity to walk on the carpets, or sit on the chairs.”
“But — but it was described to me exactly like this. The croquet-ground, and everything.”
“Yes, it has a croquet-ground, with a hedge round it; but it is shaped different; round at the corners; and it lies to t’other side of the house.”
“And the flower-garden round it,” says Maud, still a little bewildered.
“Ay, the flower-knots; yes, they was laid out by the same man as settled them that’s at Carsbrook. But as for all the rest, if you was to see the two places, you would not think there was two things about ‘em alike; no more there ain’t.”
“Glarewoods — I think I have heard it mentioned — and Mr. Damian’s name — — “
“He’s a hard man in some things, miss. But ‘twould be well if all was like him,” she added, with a dark little nod.
She had already told Maud of his absence, and the uncertainty respecting the time of his return.
A time of great mental agony, however measured by clock or calendar, is a time of great duration. The moment when her terrific discovery broke upon her, seemed now a long way off. The period of violent agitation was over; and a gloomy, calculating listlessness had come instead. Almost without effort of her own, everything, in turn, that promised a chance of liberation, revolved in her mind, hovered there a little, and gave place to some new hope, or thought, call it which you will.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
A DISAPPOINTMENT.
There was another silence now, and Maud got up, and walked slowly about the room. At the piano, which she had not touched for two days, she lingered for a little, and now with one hand she softly struck a chord or two, as she went on thinking.
“I certainly saw Lady Mardykes here. There could be no deception, at least, about that. Does she know that I am here?”
“No, miss; I’m sure she don’t.”
“Why do you suppose that?”
“Well, miss, ye won’t say a word if I tells you — if you do, it might be the worse for me.”
“Certainly, not a word,” promised Maud, whose curiosity was excited.
“Well, miss, Doctor Antomarchi told me you wasn’t to get into the croquet-ground, nor out of your own room, yesterday morning, till after Lady Mardykes was gone, and he told me the minute to keep ye to, and I did; and something more, and so I did; but after all, ye was as near meeting — la! but ye was — as ever two was, in the gallery!”
“Perhaps she knew, but did not herself wish to see me?” ruminated Maud.
“‘No, not a bit, she’s not that way, no, she’s very goodnatured. She came all the way from Carsbrook the morning after you came, and yesterday, only to see about that poor young man, Mr. Vivian Mardykes, her husband’s nephew. ’Twas him, on his way here, as overtook us near Torvey’s Cross. ’Twas a very sad thing. He went mad after a fall from his horse out a-hunting; and he was promised in marriage to a young lady near Oxford; and he thinks, poor fella, he’s a capting in the army! La, but it is funny, poor lad! And he hates the name of Mardykes and won’t call himself nothing but Vivian, Capting Vivian! and Lady Mardykes took it to heart, awful. He got well again, very near, for awhile, and he took bad after, and had to come back, as you saw. And, to-day, they say, he’s very bad — some inflammation that may kill him — and goodness knows ‘twould be a mercy he was took.”
“Whose funeral was that I saw from my window the first night I slept here?”
“That was Lord Corrington’s second son; I believe he drank, poor man; he grew paralytic; a’ deal on ‘em goes off that way.”
“It was you,” said Maud, suddenly, after another pause, “who took away my penknives and scissors.”
“Well, it was, miss,” said Mercy, brazening it out with sullen resolution. “I must do as I am ordered; and I will, and there’s the whole story out.”
“How could you tell me all the untruths you did, about that and other things?”
“La, miss! if you was in my place you’d do the same. We must humour patients, or we could not get on, no time.”
“Patients! And you really think me mad?”
“I’m not fit to judge, miss; ’tis for wiser heads than me.’’
A longer silence than before ensued; Maud was thinking, as she leaned her head lightly on her hand.
It was a horrible thought that even her companion had no faith in her sanity; horrible too, that her own word went for nothing. How can she prove that she is not mad? Prove a negative! A dreadful excitement streams up to her brain, gush after gush. The small vigilant eyes of Mercy Creswell watched her with a restless, sidelong scrutiny.
“Fetch me a glass of water,” said Maud, and sipped some. “Give me the eau-de-cologne,” she said, and bathed her temples and forehead.
For a good while there was silence, and Mercy Creswell stood, as before, e
yeing her young mistress.
Maud sighed and looked at her, and seemed on the point of saying something that lay near her heart, but changed her mind.
“Will Lady Mardykes be here again soon?” she asked, instead.
“I told Mr. Darkdale to ask, on account of you, miss, for I did not want to get into trouble unawares; and he told me she might not come for another month, or more, for the doctor promised to write to her, telling how Mr. Vivian Mardykes is getting along.”
Maud looked down again, and sighed. There was another silence. Then, she raised her eyes, and looked for a time earnestly at her humble companion; and once more she asked her oft-repeated question:
“Mercy, do you really care about me?”
“Why, miss, you knows I do. ‘Twould be a queer thing if I didn’t, sure. I always liked you, Miss Maud; I always did, indeed.”
“If you care for me ever so little,” said Maud, suddenly standing before her, with her hand on her shoulder, and looking hard in her face, with dark eyes, now dilated and stern, with the earnestness of horror, “you will help me, Mercy, to escape from this place.”
“Escape, miss!” exclaimed Mercy, after she had gaped at her for some seconds, in consternation. “La bless you, miss, all the wit in fifty heads would not manage that. They’re wide awake, and lots of hands and eyes everywhere; and good locks, and safe windows, and high walls, and bell-wires, in a many a place, miss, ye would not suppose, that would ring, almost, if a fly walked over them. There’s no chance of getting out that way; and anyhow, I could not have act or part in it, and I won’t, Miss Maud; and you mustn’t never talk that way in my hearing, miss, for I’m bound to report it, and won’t run no risks for nonsense. Ye must not be offended, miss, for I knows a sight better than you do, all about it.”
“If you won’t aid me in that, at least you will manage to have a letter put in the post for me. I must write to Mr. Coke, my attorney; and to my cousin, Miss Medwyn. I ask for nothing but inquiry. There can be no honest reason for refusing that.”
“I’m sorry, miss, to refuse you,” said the maid, doggedly; “but the rule is that all letters is subject to inspection— ‘subject to inspection’ is the words in the order-book, and no letter from a patient to be conveyed to the postoffice, ‘conveyed to the postoffice,’ mind, ‘or by a messenger’ — I’m telling ye the very words of the order— ‘except by the permission of the principal, or his rapperrasentative’ — I’m telling you the very words, miss— ‘in the one case, by the postbag of the consulting-room,’ and he has the only key of it in the house, ‘and in the other, by the messenger of the consulting-room for the day.’ Them’s the identical words, I could say them in my sleep.”
“Then you won’t — oh, my God! — you won’t; and I have none to help me!”
“I won’t do that, miss; no, I won’t.”
There was a long interval of silence, during which Maud walked distractedly about the room. At last she turned and said gently:
“Well, Mercy, you may, at least, do this — you may write yourself to my cousin, Miss Medwyn, and tell her I am here, and that I implore of her to come and see me without delay.”
“No, miss, I can’t do that.”
“Not for me, in this extremity? It isn’t much. Oh! think — think — take pity on me — you could not be so cruel.”
“I won’t do it for no one, miss. You don’t know this ‘ouse, miss, like I does. It’s no use a-pressing of me. I won’t, miss; and what’s more, I couldn’t, if I would. And don’t say no more about it, or I must report it to the doctor.”
Mercy delivered this speech with a flushed face, and many a wag of her head, looking straight at the wall, and not at Maud.
“I’ll tell you what, miss, if you be as you say,” resumed Mercy, after an interval, “and has nothing to signify wrong with you — you’ll not be long here. Only you must draw it mild — I mean ye must ‘ave patience, and do hevrything accordin’ to the rules. Look at that poor foolish Mrs. Fish, jest puttin’ herself in a tantarem with that creature Ap-Jenkins; it’s jest like puttin’ a light to one o’ them fireworks; once they takes fire, away they goes, and none to hold ‘em till they has the fun out; and now she’s out o’ this side, beyond the cross-door, among the dangerous ‘uns, and much stricter looked after; you’ll not see her in the croquet-ground very like for a year to come again.”
Not for a year! How frightful that Mercy should assume that she was still to be an inmate of Glarewoods at the end of a year!
Maud had made up her mind not to quarrel with Mercy, and here it required a little effort to avoid it.
It was dismaying to meet this rebuff, where she had begun to hope for sympathy and active aid. What sordid brutality it was!
But already Maud Vernon had grown more tolerant. In this strange seclusion she had learned more of human nature, and had her sense of superiority more humbled, in two or three days, than in all her life before.
“Service is no inheritance, miss, as I’ve often heard say, and if I don’t look to myself, who will? You know, miss, ‘twould never do to get the sack from here, and not know where to turn to. But if ye’ll jest have patience, and don’t get into no rows, nor refuse your meals, nor your walking and driving, or whatever’s ordered for you, nor never sulk, noways, about nothing, you’ll not be long till something turns up. Why should the doctor want to keep you here, miss, a day longer than is fit? There’s never a room empty in this house; and one customer’s money is as good as another’s; so don’t you think or imagine, if you’re not a case for Glarewoods, you’ll be here any time to speak of, and when you’re on the convalescent list you’ll have more liberty, and ye’ll be allowed to write to your friends. Only don’t ye mar all by nonsense. If you’re ever so well in your wits, you’ll drive yourself out of them, so sure as ye take to moping, and sulking, and roaring, and raving. ’Tis best to be quiet, and orderly, and cheerful, and happy, and that’s my advice to you, miss; be always pleasant, while you stays at Glarewoods.”
CHAPTER LXXIV.
A FRIEND’S FACE. — A MENACE.
It was only about three days after this that Maud, having gone down for her accustomed walk in the croquet-ground, had a rather agitating adventure.
On the ground floor the passages are a little complicated; and Maud, whose thoughts were, as often happened now, far away, missed the turn which would have led her direct to the terrace-door, and entered the passage that terminates in one of the doors of Doctor Antomarchi’s oval-room of audience.
The passage is pretty long, and the door into Antomarchi’s room is at the further end of it.
That door was now open. Doctor Antomarchi was standing at the table, speaking to a lady who had been listening in a chair at the opposite side, and was now rising as it seemed to take her leave. The figure and profile of that lady she distinctly saw. Wild with excitement, she recognised the features, and raising her arms with a shrill scream, cried, “Lady Mardykes!” and rushed toward the door.
What fatality seemed always to blast her hopes of liberation!
As she ran forward she saw Lady Mardykes move a step towards a different door, which happened also to be open at the side of the room, in the evident belief that the voice proceeded from that direction; and at the same moment the picture was hidden. Before Maud could reach it the door shut. Against its thick panelling she rushed; she beat it with her hands, she cried wildly again and again: “It is I, Maud Vernon; hear me, take me, save me, Lady Mardykes, for God’s sake don’t go!”
It was vain; there was no answer, not a sound from within. They had left the room; and Maud ran round the passage to reach the terrace-walk.
But the terrace-door, instead of standing open, as usual at this time of day, had been shut, and without a key she could not open it; she screamed for help; but her piercing appeals rang down the empty corridor, and produced no sign in return.
Half-frantic, she ran round toward the great hall, and had it and the hall-door been unguarded she would have r
ushed from it in pursuit of her friend, and perhaps have even effected a momentary escape.
But that door was always safely kept. It was protected by a second door, which prevented access to the hall without the aid of the footman’s key, who, of course, exercised due caution in using it.
An oval piece of plate-glass enables one to see the hall from inside that door, and availing herself of this, Maud saw Lady Mardykes get into her carriage, take her leave of Antomarchi, and drive rapidly away.
Beating her hands together, with a long cry of agony, Maud witnessed the disappearance of her friend, her last hope, and then she turned, and with her hands over her eyes, cast herself down on the stairs, sobbing as if her heart would burst. She would have liked to die then and there. Why should she live on in that hideous captivity? No other chance would ever come; Mr. Vivian Mardykes was to be removed, that day, to other quarters, and the occasional visits of Lady Mardykes to Glarewoods would totally cease.
The first paroxysm over, Maud dejectedly returned to her room, and without speaking to Mercy Creswell, threw herself on her bed, and wept with her face buried in the pillows.
In a little time a knock came at the dressing-room door. Mercy Creswell, perplexed, and even a little dismayed, went to answer it, and found Mr. Darkdale waiting in the gallery outside. He there made her one of his brief, quiet communications, and departed.
Uncomfortably ruminating, Mercy Creswell returned, and sat down near the bed.
By this time Maud’s tears had ceased to flow, and she was lying without motion. Mercy Creswell thought that she had fallen asleep. But it was not so; for hearing a faint sound, she half opened her eyes, and saw Mercy Creswell making a sign to some one at the door.
Turning her eyes in the same direction, she saw two of the sturdy housemaids standing there.
On seeing her looking that way, probably at another sign from Mercy Creswell, they receded a step or two into the dressing-room.
In the apathy of her dejection, Maud did not care to ask why they were there. She turned again and lay still, still sobbing at intervals, although she was no longer weeping.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 608