all this partly shaping and partly shaped by my fancy, and leading my closing eyes and drowsy senses off into dream-land. So I nodded and dozed, and sank into a deep slumber, from which I was roused by the voice of my cousin Monica. On opening my eyes, I saw nothing but Lady Knollys’ face looking steadfastly into mine, and expanding into a good-natured laugh as she watched the vacant and lack-lustre stare with which I returned her gaze.
“Come, dear Maud, it is late; you ought to have been in your bed an hour ago.”
Up I stood, and so soon as I had begun to hear and see aright, it struck me that Cousin Monica was more grave and subdued than I had seen her.
“Come, let us light our candles and go together.”
Holding hands, we ascended, I sleepy, she silent; and not a word was spoken until we reached my room. Mary Quince was in waiting, and tea made.
“Tell her to come back in a few minutes; I wish to say a word to you,” said Lady Knollys.
The maid accordingly withdrew.
Lady Knollys’ eyes followed her till she closed the door behind her.
“I’m going in the morning.”
“So soon!”
“Yes, dear; I could not stay; in fact, I should have gone to-night, but it was too late, and I leave instead in the morning.”
“I am so sorry — so very sorry,” I exclaimed, I honest disappointment, and the walls seemed to darken round me, and the monotony of the old routine loomed more terrible in prospect.
“So am I, dear Maud.”
“But can’t you stay a little longer; won’t you?”
“No, Maud; I’m vexed with Austin — very much vexed with your father; in short, I can’t conceive anything so entirely preposterous, and dangerous, and insane as his conduct, now that his eyes are quite opened, and I must say a word to you before I go, and it is just this:— you must cease to be a mere child, you must try and be a woman, Maud: don’t be frightened or foolish, but hear me out. That woman — what does she call herself — Rougierre? I have reason to believe is — in fact, from circumstances, must be your enemy; you will find her very deep, daring, and unscrupulous, I venture to say, and you can’t be too much on your guard. Do you quite understand me, Maud?”
“I do,” said I, with a gasp, and my eyes fixed on her with a terrified interest, as if on a warning ghost.
“You must bridle your tongue, mind, and govern your conduct, and command even your features. It is hard to practise reserve; but you must — you must be secret and vigilant. Try and be in appearance just as usual; don’t quarrel; tell her nothing, if you do happen to know anything, of your father’s business; be always on your guard when with her, and keep your eye upon her everywhere. Observe everything, disclose nothing — do you see?”
“Yes,” again I whispered.
“You have good, honest servants about you, and, thank God, they don’t like her. But you must not repeat to them one word I am now saying to you. Servants are fond of dropping hints, and letting things ooze out in that way, and in their quarrels with her would compromise you — you understand me?”
“I do,” I sighed, with a wild stare.
“And — and, Maud, don’t let her meddle with your food.”
Cousin Monica gave me a pale little nod, and looked away.
I could only stare at her; and under my breath I uttered an ejaculation of terror.
“Don’t be frightened; you must not be foolish; I only wish you to be upon your guard. I have my suspicions, but I may be quite wrong; your father thinks I am a fool; perhaps I am — perhaps not; maybe he may come to think as I do. But you must not speak to him on the subject; he’s an odd man, and never did and never will act wisely, when his passions and prejudices are engaged.”
“Has she every committed any great crime?” I asked, feeling as if I were on the point of fainting.
“No, dear Maud, I never said anything of the kind; don’t be so frightened: I only said I have formed, from something I know, an ill opinion of her; and an unprincipled person, under temptation, is capable of a great deal. But no matter how wicked she may be, you may defy her, simply by assuming her to be so, and acting with caution; she is cunning and selfish, and she’ll do nothing desperate. But I would give her no opportunity.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, Cousin Monica, don’t leave me.”
“My dear, I can’t stay; your papa and I— we’ve had a quarrel. I know I’m right, and he’s wrong, and he’ll come to see it soon, if he’s left to himself, and then all will be right. But just now he misunderstands me, and we’ve not been civil to one another. I could not think of staying, and he would not allow you to come away with me for a short visit, which I wished. It won’t last, though; and I do assure you, my dear Maud, I am quite happy about you now that you are quite on your guard. Just act respecting that person as if she were capable of any treachery, without showing distrust or dislike in your manner, and nothing will remain in her power; and write to me whenever you wish to hear from me, and if I can be of any real use, I don’t care, I’ll come: so there’s a wise little woman; do as I’ve said, and depend upon it everything will go well, and I’ll contrive before long to get that nasty creature away.”
Except a kiss and a few hurried words in the morning when she was leaving, and a pencilled farewell for papa, thee was nothing more from Cousin Monica for some time.
Knowl was dark again — darker than ever. My father, gentle always to me, was now — perhaps it was contrast with his fitful return to something like the world’s ways, during Lady Knollys’ stay — more silent, sad, and isolated than before. Of Madame de la Rougierre I had nothing at first particular to remark. Only, reader, if you happen to be a rather nervous and very young girl, I ask you to conceive my fears and imaginings, and the kind of misery which I was suffering. Its intensity I cannot now even myself recall. But it overshadowed me perpetually — a care, an alarm. It lay down with me at night and got up with me in the morning, tinting and disturbing my dreams, and making my daily life terrible. I wonder now that I lived through the ordeal. The torment was secret and incessant, and kept my mind in unintermitting activity.
Externally things went on at Knowl for some weeks in the usual routine. Madame was, so far as her unpleasant ways were concerned, less tormenting than before, and constantly reminded me of “our leetle vow of friendship, you remember, dearest Maud!” and she would stand beside me, and looked from the window with her bony arm round my waist, and my reluctant hand drawn round in hers; and thus she would smile, and talk affectionately and even playfully; for at times she would grow quite girlish, and smile with her great carious teeth, and begin to quiz and babble about the young “faylows,” and tell bragging tales of her loves, all of which were dreadful to me.
She was perpetually recurring, too, to the charming walk we had had together to Church Scarsdale, and proposing a repetition of that delightful excursion, which, you may be sure, I evaded, having by no means so agreeable a recollection of our visit.
One day, as I was dressing to go out for a walk, in came good Mrs. Rusk, the housekeeper, to my room.
“Miss Maud, dear, is not that too far for you? It is a long walk to Church Scarsdale, and you are not looking very well.”
“To Church Scarsdale?” I repeated; “I’m not going to Church Scarsdale; who said I was going to Church Scarsdale? There is nothing I should so much dislike.”
“Well, I never!” exclaimed she. “Why, there’s old Madame’s been down-stairs with me for fruit and sandwiches, telling me you were longing to go to Church Scarsdale ——”
“It’s quite untrue,” I interrupted. “She knows I hate it.”
“She does?” said Mrs. Rusk, quietly; “and you did not tell her nothing about the basket? Well — if there isn’t a story! Now what