am sorry, Maud, I allowed you to see that I have any unpleasant impressions about that governess lady. I shall be at liberty some day to explain all about it, and, indeed, it will be enough to tell your father, whom I have not been able to find all day; but really we are, perhaps, making too much of the matter, and I cannot say that I know anything against Madame that is conclusive, or — or, indeed, at all;’ but that there are reasons, and — you must not ask any more — no, you must not.”
That evening, while I was playing the overture to Cenerentola, for the entertainment of my cousin, there arose from the tea-table, where she and my father were sitting, a spirited and rather angry harangue from Lady Knollys’ lips; I turned me eyes from the music towards the speakers; the overture swooned away with a little hesitating babble into silence, and I listened.
Their conversation had begun under cover of the music which I was making, and now they were too much engrossed to perceive its discontinuance. The first sentence I heard seized my attention; my father had closed the book he was reading, upon his finger, and was leaning back in his chair, as he used to do when at all angry; his face was a little flushed, and I knew the fierce and glassy stare which expressed pride, surprise, and wrath.
“Yes, Lady Knollys, there’s an animus; I know the spirit you speak in — it does you no honour,” said my father.
“And I know the spirit you speak in, the spirit of madness,” retorted Cousin Monica, just as much in earnest. “I can’t conceive how you can be so demented, Austin. What has perverted you? are you blind?”
“You are, Monica; your own unnatural prejudice — unnatural prejudice, blinds you. What is it all? — nothing. Were I to act as you say, I should be a coward and a traitor. I see, I do see, all that’s real. I’m no Quixote, to draw my sword on illusions.”
“There should be no halting here. How can you — do you ever think? I wonder you can breathe. I feel as if the evil one were in the house.”
A stern, momentary frown was my father’s only answer, as he looked fixedly at her.
“People need not nail up horseshoes and mark their door-stones with charms to keep the evil spirit out,” ran on Lady Knollys, who looked as pale and angry, in her way, “but you open your door in the dark and invoke unknown danger. How can you look at that child that’s — she’s not playing,” said Knollys, abruptly stopping.
My father rose, muttering to himself, and cast a lurid glance at me, as he went in high displeasure to the door. Cousin Monica, now flushed a little, glanced also silently at me, biting the tip of her slender gold cross, and doubtful how much I had heard.
My father opened the door suddenly, which he had just closed, and looking in, said, in a calmer tone —
“Perhaps, Monica, you would come for a moment to the study; I ‘m sure you have none but kindly feelings towards me and little Maud, there; and I thank you for your good-will; but you must see other things more reasonably, and I think you will.”
Cousin Monica got up silently and followed him, only throwing up her eyes and hands as she did so, and I was left alone, wondering and curious more than ever.
Chapter 15.
A Warning
I SAT STILL, listening and wondering, and wondering and listening; but I ought to have known that no sound could reach me where I was from my father’s study. Five minutes passed and they did not return. Ten, fifteen. I drew near the fire and made myself comfortable in a great arm-chair, looking on the embers, but not seeing all the scenery and dramatis personæ of my poor life or future fortunes, in their shifting glow, as people in romances usually do; but fanciful castles and caverns in blood-red and golden glare, suggestive of dreamy fairy-land, salamanders, sunsets, and palaces of fire-kings, and 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
