_LADY KNOLLYS' CARRIAGE_
Next morning--it was Sunday--I lay on my bed in my dressing-gown, dull,
apathetic, with all my limbs sore, and, as I thought, rheumatic,
and feeling so ill that I did not care to speak or lift my head. My
recollection of what had passed in Uncle Silas's room was utterly confused,
and it seemed to me as if my poor father had been there and taken a
share--I could not remember how--in the conference.
I was too exhausted and stupid to clear up this horrible muddle, and merely
lay with my face toward the wall, motionless and silent, except for a great
sigh every now and then.
Good Mary Quince was in the room--there was some comfort in that; but I
felt quite worn out, and had rather she did not speak to me; and indeed for
the time I felt absolutely indifferent as to whether I lived or died.
Cousin Monica this morning, at pleasant Elverston, all-unconscious of my
sad plight, proposed to Lady Mary Carysbroke and Lord Ilbury, her
guests, to drive over to church at Feltram, and then pay us a visit at
Bartram-Haugh, to which they readily agreed.
Accordingly, at about two o'clock, this pleasant party of three arrived at
Bartram. They walked, having left the carriage to follow when the horses
were fed; and Madame de la Rougierre, who was in my uncle's room when
little Giblets arrived to say that the party were in the parlour, whispered
for a little with my uncle, who then said--
'Miss Maud Ruthyn has gone out to drive, but I shall be happy to see Lady
Knollys here, if she will do me the favour to come upstairs and see me for
a few moments; and you can mention that I am very far from well.'
Madame followed him out upon the lobby, and added, holding him by the
collar, and whispering earnestly in his ear--
'Bring hair ladysheep up by the backstairs--mind, the _back_stairs.'
And the next moment Madame entered my room, with long tiptoe steps, and
looking, Mary Quince said, as if she were going to be hanged.
On entering she looked sharply round, and being satisfied of Mary Quince's
presence, she turned the key in the door, and made some affectionate
enquiries about me in a whisper; and then she stole to the window and
peeped out, standing back some way; after which she came to my bedside,
murmured some tender sentences, drew the curtain a little, and making some
little fidgety adjustments about the room; among the rest she took the key
from the lock, quietly, and put it into her pocket.
This was so odd a procedure that honest Mary Quince rose stoutly from her
chair, pointing to the lock, with her frank little blue eyes fixed on
Madame, and she whispered--'Won't you put the key in the lock, please?'
'Oh, certainly, Mary Queence; but it is better it shall be locked, for I
think her uncle he is coming to see her, and I am sure she would be very
much frightened, for he is very much displease, don't you see? and we can
tell him she is not well enough, or asleep, and so he weel go away again,
without any trouble.'
I heard nothing of this, which was conducted in close whispers; and Mary,
although she did not give Madame credit for caring whether I was frightened
or not, and suspected her motives in everything, acquiesced grudgingly,
fearing lest her alleged reason might possibly be the true one.
So Madame hovered about the door, uneasily; and of what went on elsewhere
during that period Lady Knollys afterwards gave me the following account:--
'We were very much disappointed; but of course I was glad to see Silas, and
your little hobgoblin butler led me upstairs to his room a different way, I
think, from that I came before; but I don't know the house of Bartram well
enough to speak positively. I only know that I was conducted quite across
his bedroom, which I had not seen on my former visit, and so into his
sitting-room, where I found him.
'He seemed very glad to see me, came forward smiling--I disliked his smile
always--with both hands out, and shook mine with more warmth than I ever
remembered in his greeting before, and said--
'"My dear, _dear_ Monica, how _very_ good of you--the very person I longed
to see! I have been miserably ill, the sad consequence of still more
miserable anxiety. Sit down, pray, for a moment."
'And he paid me some nice little French compliment in verse.
'"And where is Maud?" said I.
'"I think Maud is by this time about halfway to Elverston," said the old
gentleman. "I persuaded her to take a drive, and advised a call there,
which seemed to please her, so I conjecture she obeyed."
'"How _very_ provoking!" cried I.
'"My poor Maud will be sadly disappointed, but you will console her by a
visit--you have promised to come, and I shall try to make you comfortable.
I shall be happier, Monica, with this proof of our perfect reconciliation.
You won't deny me?"
'"Certainly not. I am only too glad to come," said I; "and I want to thank
you, Silas."
'"For what?" said he.
'"For wishing to place Maud in my care. I am very much obliged to you."
'"I did not suggest it, I must say, Monica, with the least intention of
obliging _you_," said Silas.
'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 good-will; 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 to-morrow, 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 to-morrow 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.