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

At the study-door I knocked, and forthwith entered. My father was sitting near the window, his open book before him, Madame standing at the other side of the table, her cunning eyes bathed in tears, and her pocket-handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Her eyes glittered stealthily on me for an instant: she was sobbing⁠—désolée, in fact⁠—that grim grenadier lady, and her attitude was exquisitely dejected and timid. But she was, notwithstanding, reading closely and craftily my father’s face. He was not looking at her, but rather upward toward the ceiling, reflectively leaning on his hand, with an expression, not angry, but rather surly and annoyed.

“I ought to have heard of this before, Madame,” my father was saying as I came in; “not that it would have made any difference⁠—not the least; mind that. But it was the kind of thing that I ought to have heard, and the omission was not strictly right.”

Madame, in a shrill and lamentable key, opened her voluble reply, but was arrested by a nod from my father, who asked me if I wanted anything.

“Only⁠—only that I was waiting in the schoolroom for Madame, and did not know where she was.”

“Well, she is here, you see, and will join you upstairs in a few minutes.”

So back I went again, huffed, angry, and curious, and sat back in my chair with a clouded countenance, thinking very little about lessons.

When Madame entered, I did not lift my head or eyes.

“Good cheaile! reading,” said she, as she approached briskly and reassured.

“No,” I answered tartly; “not good, nor a child either; I’m not reading, I’ve been thinking.”

“Très-bien!” she said, with an insufferable smile, “thinking is very good also; but you look unhappy⁠—very, poor cheaile. Take care you are not grow jealous for poor Madame talking sometime to your papa; you must not, little fool. It is only for a your good, my dear Maud, and I had no objection you should stay.”

“You! Madame!” I said loftily. I was very angry, and showed it through my dignity, to Madame’s evident satisfaction.

“No⁠—it was your papa, Mr. Ruthyn, who weesh to speak alone; for me I do not care; there was something I weesh to tell him. I don’t care who know, but Mr. Ruthyn he is deeferent.”

I made no remark.

“Come, leetle Maud, you are not to be so cross; it will be much better you and I to be good friends together. Why should a we quarrel?⁠—wat nonsense! Do you imagine I would anywhere undertake a the education of a young person unless I could speak with her parent?⁠—wat folly! I would like to be your friend, however, my poor Maud, if you would allow⁠—you and I together⁠—wat you say?”

“People grow to be friends by liking, Madame, and liking comes of itself, not by bargain; I like everyone who is kind to me.”

“And so I. You are like me in so many things, my dear Maud! Are you quaite well today? I think you look fateague; so I feel, too, vary tire. I think we weel put off the lessons to tomorrow. Eh? and we will come to play la grace in the garden.”

Madame was plainly in a high state of exultation. Her audience had evidently been satisfactory, and, like other people, when things went well, her soul lighted up into a sulphureous good-humour, not very genuine nor pleasant, but still it was better than other moods.

I was glad when our calisthenics were ended, and Madame had returned to her apartment, so that I had a pleasant little walk with Cousin Monica.

We women are persevering when once our curiosity is roused, but she gaily foiled mine, and, I think, had a mischievous pleasure in doing so. As we were going in to dress for dinner, however, she said, quite gravely⁠—

“I 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 my 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 if you can breathe. I feel as if the evil