Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu - THE SCREAM - 60 Horror Tales in One Edition

“It is very odd!” she said; “how people can be such fools!” Here there came a little pause. “And what sort of person is she — do you like her?”

“Very well — that is, pretty well. You won’t tell? — but she rather frightens me. I’m sure she does not intend it, but somehow, I am very much afraid of her.”

“She does not beat you?” said Cousin Monica, with an incipient frenzy in her face that made me love her.

“Oh no!”

“Not ill use you in any way?”

“No.”

“Upon your honour and word, Maud?”

“No, upon my honour.”

“You know I won’t tell her anything you say to me; and I only want to know, that I may put an end to it, my poor little cousin.”

“Thank you, Cousin Monica, very much; but really and truly she does not ill-use me.”

“Nor threaten you, child?”

“Well, no — no, she does not threaten.”

“And how the plague does she frighten you, child?”

“Well, I really — I’m half ashamed to tell you — you’ll laugh at me — and I don’t know that she wishes to frighten me. But there is something, is not there, ghosty, you know, about her?”

“Ghosty — is there? well, I’m sure I don’t know, but I suspect there’s something devilish — I mean, she seems roguish — does not she? And I really think she has had neither cold nor pain, but has just been shamming sickness, to keep out of my way.”

I perceived plainly enough that Cousin Monica’s damnatory epithet referred to some retrospective knowledge, which she was not going to disclose to me.

“You knew Madame before,” I said. “Who is she?”

“She assures me she is Madame de la Rougierre, and, I suppose, in French phrase so she calls herself,” answered Lady Knollys, with a laugh, but uncomfortably, I thought.

“Oh, dear Cousin Monica, do tell me — is he — is she very wicked? I am so afraid of her!”

“How should I know, dear Maud? But I do remember her face, and I don’t very much like her, and you may depend on it. I will speak to your father in the morning about her, and don’t, darling, ask me any more about her, for I really have not very much to tell that you would care to hear, and the fact is I won’t say any more about her — there!”

And Cousin Monica laughed, and gave me a little slap on the cheek, and then a kiss.

“Well, just tell me this ——”

“Well, I won’t tell you this, nor anything — not a word, curious little woman. The fact is, I have little to tell, and I mean to speak to your father, and he, I am sure, will do what is right; so don’t ask me any more, and let us talk of something pleasanter.”

There was something indescribably winning, it seemed to me, in Cousin Monica. Old as she was, she seemed to me so girlish, compared with those slow, unexceptionable young ladies whom I had met in my few visits at the county houses. By this time my shyness was quite gone, and I was on the most intimate terms with her.

“You know a great deal about her, Cousin Monica, but you won’t tell me.”

“Nothing I should like better, if I were at liberty, little rogue; but you know, after all, I don’t really say whether I do know anything about her or not, or what sort of knowledge it is. But tell me what you mean by ghosty, and all about it.”

So I recounted my experiences, to which, so far from laughing at me, she listened with very special gravity.

“Does she write and receive many letters?”

I had seen her write letters, and supposed, though I could only recollect one or two, that she received in proportion.

“Are you Mary Quince?” asked my lady cousin.

Mary was arranging the window-curtains, and turned, dropping a courtesy affirmatively toward her.

“You wait on my little cousin, Miss Ruthyn, don’t you?”

“Yes, ‘m,” said Mary, in her genteelest way.

“Does anyone sleep in her room?”

“Yes, ‘m, I— please, my lady.”

“And no one else?”

“No, ‘m — please, my lady.”

“Not even the governess, sometimes?”

“No, please, my lady.”

“Never, you are quite sure, my dear?” said Lady Knollys, transferring the question to me.

“Oh, no, never,” I answered.

Cousin Monica mused gravely, I fancied even anxiously, into the grate; then stirred her tea and sipped it, still looking into the same point of our cheery fire.

“I like your face, Mary Quince; I’m sure you are a good creature,” she said, suddenly turning toward her with a pleasant countenance. “I’m very glad you have got her, dear. I wonder whether Austin has gone to his bed yet!”

“I think not. I am certain he is either in the library or in his private room — papa often reads or prays alone at night, and — and he does not like to be interrupted.”

“No, no; of course not — it will do very well in the morning.”

Lady Knollys was thinking deeply, as it seemed to me.

“And so you are afraid of goblins, my dear,” she said at last, with a faded sort of smile turning toward me; “well, if I were, I now what I should do — so son as I, and good Mary Quince here, had got into my bed-chamber for the night, I should stir the fire into a good blaze, and bolt the door — do you see, Mary Quince? — bolt the door and keep a candle lighted all night. You’ll be very attentive to her, Mary Quince, for I— I don’t think she is very strong, and she must not grow nervous: so get to bed early, and don’t leave her alone — do you see? — and — and remember to bolt the door, Mary Quince, and I shall be sending a little Christmas-box to my cousin, and I shan’t forget you. Good-night.”

And with a pleasant courtesy Mary fluttered out of the room.

Table of Contents

WE EACH had another cup of tea, and were silent for awhile.

“We must not talk of ghosts now. You are a superstitious little woman, you know, and you shan’t be frightened.”

And now Cousin Monica grew silent again, and looking briskly around the room, like a lady in search of a subject, her eye rested on a small oval portrait, graceful, brightly tinted, in the French style, representing a pretty little boy, with rich golden hair, large soft eyes, delicate features, and a shy, peculiar expression.

“It is odd; I think I remember that pretty little sketch, very long ago. I think I was then myself a child, but that is a much older style of dress, and of wearing the hair, too, than I ever saw. I am just forty-nine now. Oh dear, yes; that is a good while before I was born. What a strange, pretty little boy! a mysterious little fellow. Is he quite sincere, I wonder? What rich golden hair! It is very clever — a French artist, I dare say — and who is that little boy?”

“I never heard. Some one a hundred years ago, I dare say. But there is a picture down-stairs I am so anxious to ask you about!”

“Oh!” murmured Lady Knollys, still gazing dreamily on the crayon.

“It is the full-length picture of Uncle Silas — I want to ask you about him.”

At mention of his name, my cousin gave me a look so sudden and odd as to amount to a start.

“Your uncle Silas, dear? It is very odd, I was just thinking of him;” and she laughed a little.

“Wondering whether that little boy could be he.”

And up jumped active Cousin Monica, with a candle in her hand, upon a chair, and scrutinize the border of the sketch for a name or a date.

“Maybe on the back!” said she.

And so she unhung it, and there, true enough, not on the back of the drawing, but of the frame, which was just as good, in pen-and-ink round Italian letters, hardly distinguishable now from the discoloured wood, we traced —

“Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, Ætate vii. 15 May, 1779.”