Uncle Silas, J. Sheridan Le Fanu [10 ebook reader .txt] 📗

produced a document in the form of a note. Doctor Somebody presented his compliments to Madame de la Rougierre, and ordered her a tablespoonful of brandy and some drops of laudanum whenever the pain of stomach returned. The flask would last a whole year, perhaps two. She claimed her medicine.

Man’s estimate of woman is higher than woman’s own. Perhaps in their relations to men they are generally more trustworthy⁠—perhaps woman’s is the juster, and the other an appointed illusion. I don’t know; but so it is ordained.

Mrs. Rusk was recalled, and I saw, as you are aware, Madame’s procedure during the interview.

It was a great battle⁠—a great victory. Madame was in high spirits. The air was sweet⁠—the landscape charming⁠—I, so good⁠—everything so beautiful! Where should we go? this way?

I had made a resolution to speak as little as possible to Madame, I was so incensed at the treachery I had witnessed; but such resolutions do not last long with very young people, and by the time we had reached the skirts of the wood we were talking pretty much as usual.

“I don’t wish to go into the wood, Madame.”

“And for what?”

“Poor mamma is buried there.”

“Is there the vault?” demanded Madame eagerly.

I assented.

“My faith, curious reason; you say because poor mamma is buried there you will not approach! Why, cheaile, what would good Monsieur Ruthyn say if he heard such thing? You are surely not so unkain’, and I am with you. Allons. Let us come⁠—even a little part of the way.”

And so I yielded, though still reluctant.

There was a grass-grown road, which we easily reached, leading to the sombre building, and we soon arrived before it.

Madame de la Rougierre seemed rather curious. She sat down on the little bank opposite, in her most languid pose⁠—her head leaned upon the tips of her fingers.

“How very sad⁠—how solemn!” murmured Madame. “What noble tomb! How triste, my dear cheaile, your visit ’ere must it be, remembering a so sweet maman. There is new inscription⁠—is it not new?” And so, indeed, it seemed.

“I am fatigue⁠—maybe you will read it aloud to me slowly and solemnly, my dearest Maud?”

As I approached, I happened to look, I can’t tell why, suddenly, over my shoulder; I was startled, for Madame was grimacing after me with a vile derisive distortion. She pretended to be seized with a fit of coughing. But it would not do: she saw that I had detected her, and she laughed aloud.

“Come here, dear cheaile. I was just reflecting how foolish is all this thing⁠—the tomb⁠—the epitaph. I think I would ’av none⁠—no, no epitaph. We regard them first for the oracle of the dead, and find them after only the folly of the living. So I despise. Do you think your house of Knowl down there is what you call haunt, my dear?”

“Why?” said I, flushing and growing pale again. I felt quite afraid of Madame, and confounded at the suddenness of all this.

“Because Anne Wixted she says there is ghost. How dark is this place! and so many of the Ruthyn family they are buried here⁠—is not so? How high and thick are the trees all round! and nobody comes near.”

And Madame rolled her eyes awfully, as if she expected to see something unearthly, and, indeed, looked very like it herself.

“Come away, Madame,” I said, growing frightened, and feeling that if I were once, by any accident, to give way to the panic that was gathering round me, I should instantaneously lose all control of myself. “Oh, come away! do, Madame⁠—I’m frightened.”

“No, on the contrary, sit here by me. It is very odd, you will think, ma chêre⁠—un goût bizarre, vraiment!⁠—but I love very much to be near to the dead people⁠—in solitary place like this. I am not afraid of the dead people, nor of the ghosts. ’Av you ever see a ghost, my dear?”

“Do, Madame, pray speak of something else.”

“Wat little fool! But no, you are not afraid. I ’av seen the ghosts myself. I saw one, for example, last night, shape like a monkey, sitting in the corner, with his arms round his knees; very wicked, old, old man his face was like, and white eyes so large.”

“Come away, Madame! you are trying to frighten me,” I said, in the childish anger which accompanies fear. Madame laughed an ugly laugh, and said⁠—

“Eh, bien! little fool!⁠—I will not tell the rest if you are really frightened; let us change to something else.”

“Yes, yes! oh, do⁠—pray do.”

“Wat good man is your father!”

“Very⁠—the kindest darling. I don’t know why it is, Madame, I am so afraid of him, and never could tell him how much I love him.”

This confidential talking with Madame, strange to say, implied no confidence; it resulted from fear⁠—it was deprecatory. I treated her as if she had human sympathies, in the hope that they might be generated somehow.

“Was there not a doctor from London with him a few months ago? Dr. Bryerly, I think they call him.”

“Yes, a Doctor Bryerly, who remained a few days. Shall we begin to walk towards home, Madame? Do, pray.”

“Immediately, cheaile; and does your father suffer much?”

“No⁠—I think not.”

“And what then is his disease?”

“Disease! he has no disease. Have you heard anything about his health, Madame?” I said, anxiously.

“Oh no, ma foi⁠—I have heard nothing; but if the doctor came, it was not because he was quite well.”

“But that doctor is a doctor in theology, I fancy. I know he is a Swedenborgian; and papa is so well he could not have come as a physician.”

“I am very glad, ma chère, to hear; but still you know your father is old man to have so young cheaile as you. Oh, yes⁠—he is old man, and so uncertain life is. ’As he made his will, my dear? Every man so rich as he, especially so old, aught to ’av made his will.”

“There is no need of haste, Madame; it is quite