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

“Wat fool you were! so disobedient and obstinate; if you ‘ad done wat I say, then we should av been quaite safe; those persons they were tipsy, and there is nothing so dangerous as to quarrel with tipsy persons; I would ‘av brought you quaite safe — the lady she seem so nice and quaite, and we should ‘av been safe with her — there would ‘av been nothing absolutely; but instead you would scream and pooshe, and so they grow quite wild, and all the impertinence an violence follow of course; and that a poor Bill — all his beating and danger to his life it is cause entairely by you.”

And she spoke with more real virulence than that kind of upbraiding generally exhibits.

“The beast!” exclaimed Mrs. Rusk, when she, I, and Mary Quince were in my room together, “with all her crying and praying, I’d like to know as much as she does, maybe, about them rascals. There never was such like about the place, long as I remember it, till she came to Knowl, old witch! with them unmerciful big bones of hers, and her great bald head, grinning here, and crying there, and her nose everywhere. The old French hypocrite!”

Mary Quince threw in an observation, and I believe Mrs. Rusk rejoined, but I heard neither. For whether the housekeeper spoke with reflection or not, what she said affected me strangely. Through the smallest aperture, for a moment, I had had a peep into Pandemonium. Were not peculiarities of Madame’s demeanour and advice during the adventure partly accounted for by the suggestion? Could the proposed excursion to Church Scarsdale have had any purpose of the same sort? What was proposed? How was Madame interested in it? Were such immeasurable treason and hypocrisy possible? I could not explain nor quite believe in the shapeless suspicion that with these light and bitter words of the old housekeeper had stolen so horribly into my mind.

After Mrs. Rusk was gone I awoke from my dismal abstraction with something like a moan and a shudder, with a dreadful sense of danger.

“Oh! Mary Quince,” I cried, “do you think she really knew?”

“Who, Miss Maud?”

“Do you think Madame knew of those dreadful people? Oh, no — say you don’t — you don’t believe it — tell me she did not. I’m distracted, Mary Quince, I’m frightened out of my life.”

“There now, Miss Maud, dear — there now, don’t take on so — why should she? — no such a thing. Mrs. Rusk, law bless you, she’s no more meaning in what she says than the child unborn.”

But I was really frightened. I was in a horrible state of uncertainty as to Madame de la Rougierre’s complicity with the party who had beset us at the warren, and afterwards so murderously bear out poor gamekeeper. How was I ever to get rid of that horrible woman? How long was she to enjoy her continual opportunities of affrighting and injuring me?

“She hates me — she hates me, Mary Quince; and she will never stop until she has done me some dreadful injury. Oh! will no one relieve me — will no one take her away? Oh, papa, papa, papa! you will be sorry when it is too late.”

I was crying and wringing my hands, and turning from side to side, at my wits’ ends, and honest Mary Quince in vain endeavoured to quite and comfort me.

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THE FRIGHTFUL warnings of Lady Knollys haunted me too. Was there no escape from the dreadful companion whom fate had assigned me? I made up my mind again and again to speak to my father and urge her removal. In other things he indulged me; here, however, he met me drily and sternly, and it was plain that he fancied I was under my cousin Monica’s influence, and also that he had secret reasons for persisting in an opposite course. Just then I had a gay, odd letter from Lady Knollys, from some country house in Shropshire. Not a word about Captain Oakley. My eye skimmed its pages in search of that charmed name. With a peevish feeling I tossed the sheet upon the table. Inwardly I thought how ill-natured and unwomanly it was.

After a time, however, I read it, and found the letter very good-natured. She had received a note from papa. He had “had the impudence to forgive her for his impertinence.” But for my sake she meant, notwithstanding this aggravation, really to pardon him; and whenever she had a disengaged week, to accept his invitation to Knowl, from whence she was resolved to whisk me off to London, where, though I was too young to be presented at Court and come out, I might yet — besides having the best masters and a good excuse for getting rid of Medusa — see a great deal that would amuse and surprise me.

“Great news, I suppose, from Lady Knollys?” said Madame, who always knew who in the house received letters by the post, and by an intuition from whom they came.

“Two letters — you and your papa. She is quite well, I hope?”

“Quite well, thank you, Madame.”

Some fishing questions, dropped from time to time, fared no better. And as usual, when she was foiled even in a trifle, she became sullen and indignant.

That night, when my father and I were alone, he suddenly closed the book he had been reading, and said —

“I heard from Monica Knollys to-day. I always liked poor Monnie; and though she’s no witch, and very wrong-headed at times, yet now and then she does say a thing that’s worth weighing. Did she every talk to you of a time, Maud, when you are to be your own mistress?”

“No,” I answered, a little puzzled, and looking straight in his rugged, kindly face.

“Well, I thought she might — she’s a rattle, you know — always was a rattle, and that sort of people say whatever comes uppermost. But that’s a subject for me, and more than once, Maud, it has puzzled me.”

He sighed.

“Come with me to the study, little Maud.”

So, he carrying a candle, we crossed the lobby, and marched together through the passage, which at night always seemed a little awesome, darkly wainscoted, uncheered by the cross-light from the hall, which was lost at the turn, leading us away from the frequented parts of the house to that misshapen and lonely room about which the traditions of the nursery and the servants’ hall had had so many fearful stories to recount.

I think my father had intended making some disclosure to me on reaching this room. If so, he changed his mind, or at least postponed his intention.

He had paused before the cabinet, respecting the key of which he had given me so strict a charge, and I think he was going to explain himself more fully than he had done. But he went on, instead, to the table where his desk, always jealously locked, was placed, and having lighted the candles which stood by it, he glanced at me, and said —

“You must wait a little, Maud; I shall have something to say to you. Take this candle and amuse yourself with a book meanwhile.”

I was accustomed to obey in silence. I chose a volume of engravings, and ensconced myself in a favourite nook in which I had often passed a half-hour similarly. This was a deep recess by the fireplace, fenced on the other side by a great old escritoir. Into this I drew a stool, and, with candle and book, I placed myself snugly in the narrow chamber. Every now and then I raised my eyes and saw my father either writing or ruminating, as it seemed to me, very anxiously at his desk.

Time wore on — a longer time than he had intended, and still he continued absorbed at his desk. Gradually I grew sleepy, and as I nodded, the book and room faded away, and pleasant little dreams began to gather round me, and so I went off into a deep slumber.

It must have lasted long, for when I wakened my candle had burnt out; my father, having quite forgotten me, was gone, and the room was dark and deserted. I felt cold and a little stiff, and for some seconds did not know where I was.