by Cousin Monica’s tyranny.
So soon as he had left the room, Lady Knollys, not minding me, said briskly to papa, “Never let that young man into your house again. I found him making speeches, this morning, to little Maud here; and he really has not two pence in the world — it is an amazing impudence — and you know such absurd things do happen.”
“Come, Maud, what compliments did he pay you?” asked my father.
I was vexed, and therefore spoke courageously. “His compliments were not to me; they were all to the house,” I said, drily.
“Quite as it should be — the house, of course; it is that he’s in love with,” said Cousin Knollys.
“’Twas on a widow’s jointure land, The archer, Cupid, took his stand.”
“Hey! I don’t quite understand,” said my father, slily.
“Tut! Austin; you forget Charlie is my nephew.”
“So I did,” said my father.
“Therefore the literal widow in this case can have no interest in view but one, and that is yours and Maud’s. I wish him well, but he shan’t put my little cousin and her expectations into his empty pocket — not a bit of it. And there’s another reason, Austin, why you should marry — you have no eye for these things, whereas a clever woman would see at a glance and prevent mischief.”
“So she would,” acquiesced my father, in his gloomy, amused way. “Maud, you must try to be a clever woman.”
“So she will in her time, but that is not come yet; and I tell you, Austin Ruthyn, if you won’t look about and marry somebody, somebody may possibly marry you.”
“You were always an oracle, Monica; but here I am lost in total perplexity,” said my father.
“Yes; sharks sailing round you, with keen eyes and larger throats; and you have come to the age precisely when men are swallowed up alive like Jonah.”
“Thank you for the parallel, but you know that was not a happy union, even for the fish, and there was a separation in a few days; not that I mean to trust to that; but there’s no one to throw me into the jaws of the monster, and I’ve no notion of jumping there; and the fact is, Monica, there’s no monster at all.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“But I’m quite sure,” said my father, a little drily. “You forget how old I am, and how long I’ve lived alone — I and little Maud;” and he smiled and smoothed my hair, and, I thought, sighed.
“No one is ever too old to do a foolish thing,” began Lady Knollys.
“Nor to say a foolish thing, Monica. This has gone on too long. Don’t you see that little Maud here is silly enough to be frightened at your fun.”
So I was, but I could not divine how he guessed it.
“And well or ill, wisely or madly, I’ll never marry; so put that out of your head.”
This was addressed rather to me, I think, than to Lady Knollys, who smiled a little waggishly on me, and said —
“To be sure, Maud; maybe you are right; a stepdame is a risk, and I ought to have asked you first what you thought of it; and upon my honor,” she continued merrily but kindly, observing that my eyes, I know not exactly from what feeling, filled with tears, “I’ll never again advise your papa to marry, unless you first tell me you wish it.”
This was a great deal from Lady Knollys, who had a taste for advising her friends and managing their affairs.
“I’ve a great respect for instinct. I believe, Austin, it is truer than reason, and yours and Maud’s are both against me, though I know I have reason on my side.
My father’s brief wintry smile answered, and Cousin Monica kissed me, and said —
“I’ve been so long my own mistress that I sometimes forget there are such things as fear and jealousy; and are you going to your governess, Maud?”
Chapter 14.
Angry Words
I WAS GOING to my governess, as Lady Knollys said; and so I went. The undefinable sense of danger that smote me whenever I beheld that woman had deepened since last night’s occurrence, and was taken out of the region of instinct or prepossession by the strange though slight indications of recognition and abhorrence which I had witnessed in Lady Knollys on that occasion.
The tone in which Cousin Monica had asked, “are you going to your governess?” and the curious, grave, and anxious look that accompanied the question, disturbed me; and there was something odd and cold in the tone as if a remembrance had suddenly chilled her. The accent remained in my ear, and the sharp brooding look was fixed before me as I glided up the broad dark stairs to Madame de la Rougierre’s chamber.
She had not come down to the school-room, as the scene of my studies was called. She had decided on having a relapse, and accordingly had not made her appearance down-stairs that morning. The gallery leading to her room was dark and lonely, and I grew more nervous as I approached; I paused at the door, making up my mind to knock.
But the door opened suddenly, and, like a magic-lantern figure, presented with a snap, appeared close before my eyes the great muffled face, with the forbidding smirk, of Madame de la Rougierre.
“Wat you mean, my dear cheaile?” she inquired with a malevolent shrewdness in her eyes, and her hollow smile all the time disconcerting me more even than the suddenness of her appearance; “wat for you approach so softly? I do not sleep, you see, but you feared, perhaps, to have the misfortune of wakening me, and so you came — is it not so? — to leesten, and look in very gently; you want to know how I was. Vous êtes bien aimable d’avoir pensé à moi. Bah!” she cried, suddenly bursting through her irony. “Wy could not Lady Knollys come herself and leesten to the keyhole to make her report? Fi donc! wat is there to conceal? Nothing. Enter, if you please. Every one they are welcome!” and she flung the door wide, turned her back upon me, and, with an ejaculation which I did not understand, strode into the room.
“I did not come with any intention, Madame, to pry or to intrude — you don’t think so — you can’t think so — you can’t possibly mean to insinuate anything so insulting!”
I was very angry, and my tremors had all vanished now.
“No, not for you, dear cheaile; I was thinking to milady Knollys, who, without cause, is my enemy. Every one has enemy; you will learn all that so soon as you are little older, and without cause she is mine. Come, Maud, speak a the truth — was it not miladi Knollys who sent you here doucement, doucement, so quaite to my door — is it not so, little rogue?”
Madame had confronted me again, and we were now standing in the middle of her floor.
I indignantly repelled the charge, and searching me for a moment with her oddly-shaped, cunning eyes, she said —
“That is good cheaile, you speak a so direct — I like that, and am glad to hear; but, my dear Maud, that woman ——”
“Lady Knollys is papa’s cousin,” I interposed a little gravely.
“She does hate a me so, you av no idea. She as tried to injure me several times, and would employ the most innocent person, unconsciously you know, my dear, to assist her malice.”
Here Madame wept a little. I had already discovered that she could shed tears whenever she pleased. Ii have heard of such persons, but I never met another before or since.
Madame was unusually frank — no one ever knew better when to be candid. At present I suppose she concluded that Lady Knollys would certainly relate whatever she knew concerning her before she left Knowl; and so Madame’s reserves