_CHURCH SCARSDALE_
I think all the females of our household, except Mrs. Rusk, who was at open
feud with her and had only room for the fiercer emotions, were more or less
afraid of this inauspicious foreigner.
Mrs. Rusk would say in her confidences in my room--
'Where does she come from?--is she a French or a Swiss one, or is she a
Canada woman? I remember one of _them_ when I was a girl, and a nice limb
_she_ was, too! And who did she live with? Where was her last family? Not
one of us knows nothing about her, no more than a child; except, of course,
the Master--I do suppose he made enquiry. She's always at hugger-mugger
with Anne Wixted. I'll pack that _one_ about her business, if she doesn't
mind. Tattling and whispering eternally. It's not about her own business
she's a-talking. Madame de la Rougepot, I call her. She _does_ know how to
paint up to the ninety-nines--she does, the old cat. I beg your pardon,
Miss, but _that_ she is--a devil, and no mistake. I found her out first by
her thieving the Master's gin, that the doctor ordered him, and filling the
decanter up with water--the old villain; but she'll be found out yet, she
will; and all the maids is afraid on her. She's not right, they think--a
witch or a ghost--I should not wonder. Catherine Jones found her in her bed
asleep in the morning after she sulked with you, you know, Miss, with all
her clothes on, what-ever was the meaning; and I think she has frightened
_you,_ Miss and has you as nervous as anythink--I do,' and so forth.
It was true. I _was_ nervous, and growing rather more so; and I think this
cynical woman perceived and intended it, and was pleased. I was always
afraid of her concealing herself in my room, and emerging at night to scare
me. She began sometimes to mingle in my dreams, too--always awfully; and
this nourished, of course, the kind of ambiguous fear in which, in waking
hours, I held her.
I dreamed one night that she led me, all the time whispering something so
very fast that I could not understand her, into the library, holding
a candle in her other hand above her head. We walked on tiptoe, like
criminals at the dead of night, and stopped before that old oak cabinet
which my father had indicated in so odd a way to me. I felt that we were
about some contraband practice. There was a key in the door, which I
experienced a guilty horror at turning, she whispering in the same
unintelligible way, all the time, at my ear. I _did_ turn it; the door
opened quite softly, and within stood my father, his face white and
malignant, and glaring close in mine. He cried in a terrible voice,
'Death!' Out went Madame's candle, and at the same moment, with a scream,
I waked in the dark--still fancying myself in the library; and for an hour
after I continued in a hysterical state.
Every little incident about Madame furnished a topic of eager discussion
among the maids. More or less covertly, they nearly all hated and feared
her. They fancied that she was making good her footing with 'the Master;'
and that she would then oust Mrs. Rusk--perhaps usurp her place--and so
make a clean sweep of them all. I fancy the honest little housekeeper did
not discourage that suspicion.
About this time I recollect a pedlar--an odd, gipsified-looking man--called
in at Knowl. I and Catherine Jones were in the court when he came, and set
down his pack on the low balustrade beside the door.
All sorts of commodities he had--ribbons, cottons, silks, stockings,
lace, and even some bad jewellry; and just as he began his display--an
interesting matter in a quiet country house--Madame came upon the ground.
He grinned a recognition, and hoped 'Madamasel' was well, and 'did not look
to see _her_ here.'
'Madamasel' thanked him. 'Yes, vary well,' and looked for the first time
decidedly 'put out.'
'Wat a pretty things!' she said. 'Catherine, run and tell Mrs. Rusk. She
wants scissars, and lace too--I heard her say.'
So Catherine, with a lingering look, departed; and Madame said--
'Will you, dear cheaile, be so kind to bring here my purse, I forgot on the
table in my room; also, I advise you, bring _your_.'
Catherine returned with Mrs. Rusk. Here was a man who could tell them
something of the old Frenchwoman, at last! Slyly they dawdled over his
wares, until Madame had made her market and departed with me. But when the
coveted opportunity came, the pedlar was quite impenetrable. 'He forgot
everything; he did not believe as he ever saw the lady before. He called a
Frenchwoman, all the world over, Madamasel--that wor the name on 'em all.
He never seed her in partiklar afore, as he could bring to mind. He liked
to see 'em always, 'cause they makes the young uns buy.'
This reserve and oblivion were very provoking, and neither Mrs. Rusk nor
Catherine Jones spent sixpence with him;--he was a stupid fellow, or worse.
Of course Madame had tampered with him. But truth, like murder, will out
some day. Tom Williams, the groom, had seen her, when alone with him, and
pretending to look at his stock, with her face almost buried in his silks
and Welsh linseys, talking as fast as she could all the time, and slipping
_money_, he did suppose, under a piece of stuff in his box.
In the mean time, I and Madame were walking over the wide, peaty
sheep-walks that lie between Knowl and Church Scarsdale. Since our visit to
the mausoleum in the wood, she had not worried me so much as before. She
had been, indeed, more than usually thoughtful, very little talkative, and
troubled me hardly at all about French and other accomplishments. A walk
was a part of our daily routine. I now carried a tiny basket in my hand,
with a few sandwiches, which were to furnish our luncheon when we reached
the pretty scene, about two miles away, whither we were tending.
We had started a little too late; Madame grew unwontedly fatigued and sat
down to rest on a stile before we had got half-way; and there she intoned,
with a dismal nasal cadence, a quaint old Bretagne ballad, about a lady
with a pig's head:--
'This lady was neither pig nor maid,
And so she was not of human mould;
Not of the living nor the dead.
Her left hand and foot were warm to touch;
Her right as cold as a corpse's flesh!
And she would sing like a funeral bell, with a ding-dong tune.
The pigs were afraid, and viewed her aloof;
And women feared her and stood afar.
She could do without sleep for a year and a day;
She could sleep like a corpse, for a month and more.
No one knew how this lady fed--
On acorns or on flesh.
Some say that she's one of the swine-possessed,
That swam over the sea of Gennesaret.
A mongrel body and demon soul.
Some say she's the wife of the Wandering Jew,
And broke the law for the sake of pork;
And a swinish face for a token doth bear,
That her shame is now, and her punishment coming.'
And so it went on, in a gingling rigmarole. The more anxious I seemed to go
on our way, the more likely was she to loiter. I therefore showed no signs
of impatience, and I saw her consult her watch in the course of her ugly
minstrelsy, and slyly glance, as if expecting something, in the direction
of our destination.
When she had sung to her heart's content, up rose Madame, and began to walk
onward silently. I saw her glance once or twice, as before, toward the
village of Trillsworth, which lay in front, a little to our left, and
the smoke of which hung in a film over the brow of the hill. I think she
observed me, for she enquired--
'Wat is that a smoke there?'
'That is Trillsworth, Madame; there is a railway station there.'
'Oh, le chemin de fer, so near! I did not think. Where it goes?'
I told her, and silence returned.
Church Scarsdale is a very pretty and odd scene. The slightly undulating
sheep-walk dips suddenly into a wide glen, in the lap of which, by a
bright, winding rill, rise from the sward the ruins of a small abbey, with
a few solemn trees scattered round. The crows' nests hung untenanted in the
trees; the birds were foraging far away from their roosts. The very cattle
had forsaken the place. It was solitude itself.
Madame drew a long breath and smiled.
'Come down, come down, cheaile--come down to the churchyard.'
As we descended the slope which shut out the surrounding world, and the
scene grew more sad and lonely, Madame's spirits seemed to rise.
'See 'ow many grave-stones--one, _two_ hundred. Don't you love the dead,
cheaile? I will teach you to love them. You shall see me die here to-day,
for half an hour, and be among them. That is what I love.'
We were by this time at the little brook's side, and the low churchyard
wall with a stile, reached by a couple of stepping-stones, across the
stream, immediately at the other side.
'Come, now!' cried Madame, raising her face, as if to sniff the air; 'we
are close to them. You will like them soon as I. You shall see five of
them. Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira! Come cross quickily! I am Madame la
Morgue--Mrs. Deadhouse! I will present you my friends, Monsieur Cadavre and
Monsieur Squelette. Come, come, leetle mortal, let us play. Ouaah!' And
she uttered a horrid yell from her enormous mouth, and pushing her wig and
bonnet back, so as to show her great, bald head. She was laughing, and
really looked quite mad.
'No, Madame, I will not go with you,' I said, disengaging my hand with a
violent effort, receding two or three steps.
'Not enter the churchyard! Ma foi--wat mauvais goût! But see, we are
already in shade. The sun he is setting soon--where well you remain,
cheaile? I will not stay long.'
'I'll stay here,' I said, a little angrily--for I _was_ angry as well as
nervous; and through my fear was that indignation at her extravagances
which mimicked lunacy so unpleasantly, and were, I knew, designed to
frighten me.
Over the stepping-stones, pulling up her dress, she skipped with her long,
lank legs, like a witch joining a Walpurgis. Over the stile she strode, and
I saw her head wagging, and heard her sing some of her ill-omened rhymes,
as she capered solemnly, with many a grin and courtesy, among the graves
and headstones, towards the ruin.