“Why am I disturbed, pray?”
“Miss Maud a Ruthyn, she weel explain,” replied Madame, with a great courtesy, like a boat going down in a ground swell.
“Will you explain, my dear?” he asked, in his coldest and most sarcastic tone.
I was agitated, and I am sure my statement was confused. I succeeded, however, in saying what I wanted.
“Why, Madame, this is a grave charge! Do you admit it, pray?”
Madame, with the coolest possible effrontery, denied it all; with the most solemn assertions, and with streaming eyes and clasped hands, conjured me melodramatically to withdraw that intolerable story, and to do her justice. I stared at her for a while astounded, and turning suddenly to my uncle, as vehemently asserted the truth of every syllable I had related.
“You hear, my dear child, you hear her deny everything; what am I to think? You must excuse the bewilderment of my old head. Madame de la — that lady has arrived excellently recommended by the superioress of the place where dear Milly awaits you, and such persons are particular. It strikes me, my dear niece, that you must have made a mistake.”
I protested here. But he went on without seeming to hear the parenthesis —
“I know, my dear Maud, that you are quite incapable of wilfully deceiving anyone; but you are liable to be deceived like other young people. You were, no doubt, very nervous, and but half awake when you fancied you saw the occurrence you describe; and Madame de — de ——”
“De la Rougierre,” I supplied.
“Yes, thank you — Madame de la Rougierre, who has arrived with excellent testimonials, strenuously denies the whole thing. Here is a conflict, my dear — in my mind a presumption of mistake. I confess I should prefer that theory to a peremptory assumption of guilt.”
I felt incredulous and amazed; it seemed as if a dream were being enacted before me. A transaction of the most serious import, which I had witnessed with my own eyes, and described with unexceptionable minuteness and consistency, is discredited by that strange and suspicious old man with an imbecile coolness. It was quite in vain my reiterating my statement, backing it with the most earnest assertions. I was beating the air. It did not seem to reach his mind. It was all received with a simper of feeble incredulity.
He patted and smoothed my head — he laughed gently, and shook his while I insisted; and Madame protested her purity in now tranquil floods of innocent tears, and murmured mild and melancholy prayers for my enlightenment and reformation. I felt as if I should loose my reason.
“There now, dear Maud, we have heard enough; it is, I do believe, a delusion. Madame de la Rougierre will be your companion, at the utmost, for three or four weeks. Do exercise a little of your self-command and good sense — you know how I am tortured. Do not, I entreat, add to my perplexities. You may make yourself very happy with Madame if you will, I have no doubt.”
“I propose to Mademoiselle,” said Madame, drying her eyes with a gentle alacrity, “to profit of my visit for her education. But she does not seem to weesh wat I think is so useful.”
“She threatened me with some horrid French vulgarism — de faire baiser le babouin à moi, whatever that means; and I know she hates me,” I replied, impetuously.
“Doucement — doucement,” said my uncle, with a smile at once amused and compassionate. “Doucement! ma chère.”
With great hands and cunning eyes uplifted, Madame tearfully — for her tears came on short notice — again protested her absolute innocence. She had never in all her life so much as heard one so villain phrase.
“You see, my dear, you have misheard; young people never attend. You will do well to take advantage of Madame’s short residence to get up your French a little, and the more you are with her the better.”
“I understand then, Mr. Ruthyn, you weesh I should resume my instructions?” asked Madame.
“Certainly; and converse all you can in French with Mademoiselle Maud. You will be glad, my dear, that I’ve insisted on it,” he said, turning to me, “when you have reached France, where you will find they speak nothing else. And now, dear Maud — no, not a word more — you must leave me. Farewell, Madame!”
And he waved us out a little impatiently; and I, without one look toward Madame de la Rougierre, stunned and incensed, walked into my room and shut the door.
Chapter 55.
The Foot of Hercules
I STOOD at the window — still the same leaden sky and feathery sleet before me — trying to estimate the magnitude of the discovery I had just made. Gradually a kind of despair seized me, and I threw myself passionately on my bed, weeping aloud.
Good Mary Quince was, of course, beside me in a moment, with her pale, concerned face.
“Oh, Mary, Mary, she’s come — that dreadful woman, Madame de la Rougierre, has come to be my governess again; and Uncle Silas won’t hear or believe anything about her. It is vain talking; he is prepossessed. Was ever so unfortunate a creature as I? Who could have fancied or feared such a thing? Oh, Mary, Mary, what am I to do? what is to become of me? Am I never to shake off that vindictive, terrible woman?”
Mary said all she could to console me. I was making too much of her. What was she, after all, more than a governess? — she could not hurt me. I was not a child no longer — she could not bully me now; and my uncle, though he might be deceived for a while, would not be long finding her out.
Thus and soforth did good Mary Quince declaim, and at last she did impress me a little, and I began to think that I had, perhaps, been making too much of Madame’s visit. But still imagination, that instrument and mirror of prophecy, showed her formidable image always on its surface, with a terrible moving background of shadows.
In a few minutes there was a knock at my door, and Madame herself entered. She was in walking costume. There had been a brief clearing of the weather, and she proposed our making a promenade together.
On seeing Mary Quince she broke into a rapture of compliment and greeting, and took what Mr. Richardson would have called her passive hand, and pressed it with wonderful tenderness.
Honest Mary suffered all this somewhat reluctantly, never smiling, and, on the contrary, looking rather ruefully at her feet.
“Weel you make a some tea? When I come back, dear Mary Quince, I ‘av so much to tell you and dear Miss Maud of all my adventures while I ‘av been away; it will make a you laugh ever so much. I was — what you theenk? — near, ever so near to be married!” And upon this she broke into a screeching laugh, and shook Mary Quince merrily by the shoulder.
I sullenly declined going out, or rising; and when she had gone away, I told Mary that I should confine myself to my room while Madame stayed.
But self-denying ordinances self-imposed are not always long observed by youth. Madame de la Rougierre laid herself out to be agreeable; she had no end of stories — more than half, no doubt, pure fictions — to tell, but all, in that triste place, amusing. Mary Quince began to entertain a better opinion of her. She actually helped to make beds, and tried to be in every way of use, and seemed to have quite turned over a new leaf; and so gradually she moved me, first to listen, and at last to talk.
On the whole, these terms were better than a perpetual skirmish; but, notwithstanding all her gossip and friendliness, I continued to have a profound distrust and even terror of her.
She seemed curious about the Bartram–Haugh family, and all their ways, and listened darkly when I spoke. I told her, bit by bit, the whole story of Dudley,