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 may she be after — what is it — what is she driving at?”
“I can’t tell, but I won’t go.”
“No, of course, dear, you won’t go. But you may be sure there’s some scheme in her old head. Tom Fowkes says she’s bin two or three times to drink tea at Farmer Gray’s — now, could be she’s thinking to marry him?” And Mrs. Rusk sat down and laughed heartily, ending with a crow of derision.
“To think of a young fellow like that, and his wife, poor thing, not dead a year — maybe she’s got money?”
“I don’t know — I don’t care — perhaps, Mrs. Rusk, you mistook Madame. I will go down; I am going out.”
Madame had a basket in her hand. She held it quietly by her capacious skirt, at the far side, and made no allusion to the preparation, neither to the direction in which she proposed walking, and prattling artlessly and affectionately she marched by my side.
Thus we reached the stile at the sheep-walk, and then I paused.
“Now, Madame, have not we gone far enough in this direction? — suppose we visit the pigeon-house in the park?”
“Wat folly! my dear a Maud — you cannot walk so far.”
“Well, towards home, then.”
“And wy not a this way? We ave not walk enough, and Mr. Ruthyn he will not be pleased if you do not take proper exercise. Let us walk on by the path, and stop when you like.”
“Where do you wish to go, Madame?”
“Nowhere particular — come along; don’t be fool, Maud.”
“This leads to Church Scarsdale.”
“A yes indeed! wat sweet place! bote we need not a walk all the way to there.”
“I’d rather not walk outside the grounds to-day, Madame.”
“Come, Maud, you shall not be fool — wat you mean, Mademoiselle?” said the stalworth lady, growing yellow and greenish with an angry mottling, and accosting me very gruffly.
“I don’t care to cross the stile, thank you, Madame. I shall remain at this side.”
“You shall do wat I tell you!” exclaimed she.
“Let go my arm, Madame, you hurt me,” I cried.
She had gripped my arm very firmly in her great bony hand, and seemed preparing to drag me over by main force.
“Let me go,” I repeated shrilly, for the pain increased.
“La!” she cried with a smile of rage and a laugh, letting me go and shoving me backward at the same time, so that I had a rather dangerous tumble.
