Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  I stood too much in awe of my uncle to fail in presenting myself punctually at the close of the half-hour. I entered his sitting-room under the shadow of sour old Wyat’s high-cauled cap; she closed the door behind me, and the conference commenced.

  Madame de la Rougierre sat there, dressed and draped for a journey, and with a thick black lace veil on. My uncle rose, gaunt and venerable, and with a harsh and severe countenance. He did not offer his hand; he made me a kind of bow, more of repulsion than of respect. He remained in a standing position, supporting his crooked frame by his hand, which he leaned on a despatch-box; he glared on me steadily with his wild phosphoric eyes, from under the dark brows I have described to you, now corrugated in lines indescribably stern.

  ‘You shall join my daughter at the Pension, in France; Madame de la Rougierre shall accompany you,’ said my uncle, delivering his directions with the stern monotony and the measured pauses of a person dictating an important despatch to a secretary.’ Old Mrs. Quince shall follow with me, or, if alone, in a week. You shall pass tonight in London; tomorrow night you proceed thence to Dover, and cross by the mail-packet. You shall now sit down and write a letter to your cousin Monica Knollys, which I will first read and then despatch. Tomorrow you shall write a note to Lady Knollys, from London, telling her how you have got over so much of your journey, and that you cannot write from Dover, as you must instantly start by the packet on reaching it; and that until my affairs are a little settled, you cannot write to her from France, as it is of high importance to my safety that no clue should exist as to our address. Intelligence, however, shall reach her through my attorneys, Archer and Sleigh, and I trust we shall soon return. You will, please, submit that latter note to Madame de la Rougierre, who has my directions to see that it contains no libels upon my character. Now, sit down.’

  So, with those unpleasant words tingling in my ears, I obeyed.

  ‘Write,’ said he, when I was duly placed. ‘You shall convey the substance of what I say in your own language. The immiment danger this morning announced of an execution — rememher the word,’ and he spelled it for me— ‘being put into this house either this afternoon or tomorrow, compels me to anticipate my plans, and despatch you for France this day. That you are starting with an attendant.’ Here an uneasy movement from Madame, whose dignity was perhaps excited. ‘An attendant,’ he repeated, with a discordant emphasis; ‘and you can, if you please — but I don’t solicit that justice — say that you have been as kindly treated here as my unfortunate circumstances would permit. That is all. You have just fifteen minutes to write. Begin.’

  I wrote accordingly. My hysterical state had made me far less combative than I might have proved some months since, for there was much that was insulting as well as formidable in his manner. I completed my letter, however, to his satisfaction in the prescribed time; and he said, as he laid it and its envelope on the table —

  ‘Please to remember that this lady is not your attendant only, but that she has authority to direct every detail respecting your journey, and will make all the necessary payments on the way. You will please, then, implicitly to comply with her directions. The carriage awaits you at the hall-door.’

  Having thus spoken, with another grim bow, and ‘I wish you a safe and pleasant journey,’ he receded a step or two, and I, with an undefinable kind of melancholy, though also with a sense of relief, withdrew.

  My letter, I afterwards found, reached Lady Knollys, accompanied by one from Uncle Silas, who said— ‘Dear Maud apprises me that she has written to tell you something of our movements. A sudden crisis in my miserable affairs compels a break-up as sudden here. Maud joins my daughter at the Pension, in France. I purposely omit the address, because I mean to reside in its vicinity until this storm shall have blown over; and as the consequences of some of my unhappy entanglements might pursue me even there, I must only for the present spare you the pain and trouble of keeping a secret. I am sure that for some little time you will excuse the girl’s silence; in the meantime you shall hear of them, and perhaps circuitously, from me. Our dear Maud started this morning en route for her destination, very sorry, as am I, that she could not enjoy first a flying visit to Elverston, but in high spirits, notwithstanding, at the new life and sights before her.’

  At the door my beloved old friend, Mary Quince, awaited me.

  ‘Am I going with you, Miss Maud?’

  I burst into tears and clasped her in my arms.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Mary, very sorrowfully; ‘and I never was from you yet, Miss, since you wasn’t the length of my arm.’

  And kind old Mary began to cry with me.

  ‘Bote you are coming in a few days, Mary Quince,’ expostulated Madame. ‘I wonder you are soche fool. What is two, three days? Bah! nonsense, girl.’

  Another farewell to poor Mary Quince, quite bewildered at the suddenness of her bereavement. A serious and tremulous bow from our little old butler on the steps. Madame bawling through the open window to the driver to make good speed, and remember that we had but nineteen minutes to reach the station. Away we went. Old Crowle’s iron grille rolled back before us. I looked on the receding landscape, the giant trees — the palatial, time-stained mansion. A strange conflict of feelings, sweet and bitter, rose and mingled in the reverie. Had I been too hard and suspicious with the inhabitants of that old house of my family? Was my uncle justly indignant? Was I ever again to know such pleasant rambles as some of those I had enjoyed with dear Millicent through the wild and beautiful woodlands I was leaving behind me? And there, with my latest glimpse of the front of Bartram-Haugh, I beheld dear old Mary Quince gazing after us. Again my tears flowed. I waved my handkerchief from the window; and now the park-wall hid all from view, and at a great pace, throught the steep wooded glen, with the rocky and precipitous character of a ravine, we glided; and when the road next emerged, Bartram-Haugh was a misty mass of forest and chimneys, slope and hollow, and we within a few minutes of the station.

  CHAPTER LX

  THE JOURNEY

  Waiting for the train, as we stood upon the platform, I looked back again toward the wooded uplands of Bartram; and far behind, the fine range of mountains, azure and soft in the distance, beyond which lay beloved old Knowl, and my lost father and mother, and the scenes of my childhood, never embittered except by the sibyl who sat beside me.

  Under happier circumstances I should have been, at my then early age, quite wild with pleasurable excitement on entering London for the first time. But black Care sat by me, with her pale hand in mine: a voice of fear and warning, whose words I could not catch, was always in my ear. We drove through London, amid the glare of lamps, toward the West-end, and for a little while the sense of novelty and curiosity overcame my despondency, and I peeped eagerly from the window; while Madame, who was in high goodhumour, spite of the fatigues of our long railway flight, screeched scraps of topographic information in my ear; for London was a picture-book in which she was well read.

  ‘That is Euston Square, my dear — Russell Square. Here is Oxford Street — Haymarket. See, there is the Opera House — Hair Majesty’s Theatre. See all the carriages waiting;’ and so on, till we reached at length a little narrow street, which she told me was off Piccadilly, where we drew up before a private house, as it seemed to me — a family hotel — and I was glad to be at rest for the night.

  Fatigued with the peculiar fatigue of railway travelling, dusty, a little chilly, with eyes aching and wearied, I ascended the stairs silently, our garrulous and bustling landlady leading the way, and telling her oft-told story of the house, its noble owner in old time, and how those fine drawingrooms were taken every year during the Session by the Bishop of Rochet-on-Copeley, and at last into our double-bedded room.

  I would fain have been alone, but I was too tired and dejected to care very much for anything.

  At tea, Madame expanded in spirit, like a giant refreshed, and chattered and sang; and at last, seeing that I was nodding, advised my going to bed, while
she ran across the street to see ‘her dear old friend, Mademoiselle St. Eloi, who was sure to be up, and would be offended if she failed to make her ever so short a call.’

  I cared little what she said, and was glad to be rid of her even for a short time, and was soon fast asleep.

  I saw her, I know not how much later, poking about the room, like a figure in a dream, and taking off her things.

  She had her breakfast in bed next morning, and I was, to my comfort, left to take mine in solitary possession of our sitting-room; where I began to wonder how little annoyance I had as yet suffered from her company, and began to speculate upon the chances of my making the journey with tolerable comfort.

  Our hostess gave me five minutes of her valuable time. Her talk ran chiefly upon nuns and convents, and her old acquaintance with Madame; and it seemed to me that she had at one time driven a kind of trade, no doubt profitable enough, in escorting young ladies to establishments on the Continent; and although I did not then quite understand the tone in which she spoke to me, I often thought afterwards that Madame had represented me as a young person destined for the holy vocation of the veil.

  When she was gone, I sat listlessly looking out of the window, and saw some chance equipages drive by, and now and then a fashionable pedestrian; and wondered if this quiet thoroughfare could really be one of the arteries so near the heart of the tumultuous capital.

  I think my nervous vitality must have burnt very low just then, for I felt perfectly indifferent about all the novelty and world of wonders beyond, and should have hated to leave the dull tranquillity of my window for an excursion through the splendours of the unseen streets and palaces that surrounded me.

  It was one o’clock before Madame joined me; and finding me in this dull mood, she did not press me to accompany her in her drive, no doubt well pleased to be rid of me.

  After tea that evening, as we sat alone in our room, she entertained me with some very odd conversation — at the time unintelligible — but which acquired a tolerably distinct meaning from the events that followed.

  Two or three times that day Madame appeared to me on the point of saying something of grave import, as she scanned me with her bleak wicked stare.

  It was a peculiarity of hers, that whenever she was pressed upon by an anxiety that really troubled her, her countenance did not look sad or solicitous, as other people’s would, but simply wicked. Her great gaunt mouth was compressed and drawn down firmly at the corners, and her eyes glared with a dismal scowl.

  At last she said suddenly —

  ‘Are you ever grateful, Maud?’

  ‘I hope so, Madame,’ I answered.

  ‘And how do you show your gratitude? For instance, would a you do great deal for a person who would run risque for your sake?’

  It struck me all at once that she was sounding me about poor Meg Hawkes, whose fidelity, notwithstanding the treason or cowardice of her lover, Tom Brice, I never doubted; and I grew at once wary and reserved.

  ‘I know of no opportunity, thank Heaven, for any such service, Madame. How can anyone serve me at present, by themselves incurring danger? What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you like, for example, to go to that French Pension? Would you not like better some other arrangement?’

  ‘Of course there are other arrangements I should like better; but I see no use in talking of them; they are not to be,’ I answered.

  ‘What other arrangements do you mean, my dear cheaile?’ enquired Madame. ‘You mean, I suppose, you would like better to go to Lady Knollys?’

  ‘My uncle does not choose it at present; and except with his consent nothing can be done!’

  ‘He weel never consent, dear cheaile.’

  ‘But he has consented — not immediately indeed, but in a short time, when his affairs are settled.’

  ‘Lanternes! They will never be settle,’ said Madame.

  ‘At all events, for the present I am to go to France. Milly seems very happy, and I dare say I shall like it too. I am very glad to leave Bartram-Haugh, at all events.’

  ‘But your uncle weel bring you back there,’ said Madame, drily.

  ‘It is doubtful whether he will ever return to Bartram himself,’ I said.

  ‘Ah!’ said Madame, with a long-drawn nasal intonation, ‘you theenk I hate you. You are quaite wrong, my dear Maud. I am, on the contrary, very much interested for you — I am, I assure you, dear a cheaile.’

  And she laid her great hand, with joints misshapen by old chilblains, upon the back of mine. I looked up in her face. She was not smiling. On the contrary, her wide mouth was drawn down at the corners ruefully, as before, and she gazed on my face with a scowl from her abysmal eyes.

  I used to think the flare of that irony which lighted her face so often immeasurably worse than any other expression she could assume; but this lacklustre stare and dismal collapse of feature was more wicked still.

  ‘Suppose I should bring you to Lady Knollys, and place you in her charge, what would a you do then for poor Madame?’ said this dark spectre.

  I was inwardly startled at these words. I looked into her unsearchable face, but could draw thence nothing but fear. Had she made the same overture only two days since, I think I would have offered her half my fortune. But circumstances were altered. I was no longer in the panic of despair. The lesson I had received from Tom Brice was fresh in my mind, and my profound distrust of her was uppermost. I saw before me only a tempter and betrayer, and said —

  ‘Do you mean to imply, Madame, that my guardian is not to be trusted, and that I ought to make my escape from him, and that you are really willing to aid me in doing so?’

  This, you see, was turning the tables upon her. I looked her steadily in the face as I spoke. She returned my gaze with a strange stare and a gape, which haunted me long after; and it seemed as we sat in utter silence that each was rather horribly fascinated by the other’s gaze.

  At last she shut her mouth sternly, and eyes me with a more determined and meaning scowl, and then said in a low tone —

  ‘I believe, Maud, that you are a cunning and wicked little thing.’

  ‘Wisdom is not cunning, Madame; nor is it wicked to ask your meaning in explicit language,’ I replied.

  ‘And so, you clever cheaile, we two sit here, playing at a game of chess, over this little table, to decide which shall destroy the other — is it not so?’

  ‘I will not allow you to destroy me,’ I retorted, with a sudden flash.

  Madame stood up, and rubbed her mouth with her open hand. She looked to me like some evil being seen in a dream. I was frightened.

  ‘You are going to hurt me!’ I ejaculated, scarce knowing what I said.

  ‘If I were, you deserve it. You are very malicious, ma chère: or, it may be, only very stupid.’

  A knock came to the door.

  ‘Come in,’ I cried, with a glad sense of relief.

  A maid entered.

  ‘A letter, please, ‘m,’ she said, handing it to me.

  ‘For me,’ snarled Madame, snatching it.

  I had seen my uncle’s hand, and the Feltram postmark.

  Madame broke the seal, and read. It seemed but a word, for she turned it about after the first momentary glance, and examined the interior of the envelope, and then returned to the line she had already read.

  She folded the letter again, drawing her nails in a sharp pinch along the creases, as she stared in a blank, hesitating way at me.

  ‘You are stupid little ingrate, I am employ by Monsieur Ruthyn, and of course I am faithful to my employer. I do not want to talk to you. There, you may read that.’

  She jerked the letter before me on the table. It contained but these words: —

  Bartram-Haugh:

  ‘30th January, 1845.

  ‘MY DEAR MADAME,

  ‘Be so good as to take the halfpast eight o’clock train to Dover tonight. Beds are prepared. — Yours very truly,

  SILAS RUTHYN.’

  I cannot say wha
t it was in this short advice that struck me with fear. Was it the thick line beneath the word ‘Dover,’ that was so uncalled for, and gave me a faint but terrible sense of something preconcerted?

  I said to Madame —

  ‘Why is “Dover” underlined?’

  ‘I do not know, little fool, no more than you. How can I tell what is passing in your oncle’s head when he make that a mark?’

  ‘Has it not a meaning, Madame?’

  ‘How can you talk like that?’ she answered, more in her old way. ‘You are either mocking of me, or you are becoming truly a fool!’

  She rang the bell, called for our bill, saw our hostess; while I made a few hasty prepartions in my room.

  ‘You need not look after the trunks — they will follow us all right. Let us go, cheaile — we ‘av half an hour only to reach the train.’

  No one ever fussed like Madame when occasion offered. There was a cab at the door, into which she hurried me. I assumed that she would give all needful directions, and leaned back, very weary and sleepy already, though it was so early, listening to her farewell screamed from the cab-step, and seeing her black cloak flitting and flapping this way and that, like the wings of a raven disturbed over its prey.

  In she got, and away we drove through a glare of lamps, and shop-windows, still open; gas everywhere, and cabs, busses, and carriages, still thundering through the streets. I was too tired and too depressed to look at those things. Madame, on the contrary, had her head out of the window till we reached the station.