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 form 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 an 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 feminine 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.