Uncle Silas J. Sheridan Le Fanu (good books to read for beginners .TXT) đ
- Author: J. Sheridan Le Fanu
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âBut has he really compose no will?â
âI really donât know, Madame.â
âAh, little rogue! you will not tellâ âbut you are not such fool as you feign yourself. No, no; you know everything. Come, tell me all aboutâ âit is for your advantage, you know. What is in his will, and when he wrote?â
âBut, Madame, I really know nothing of it. I canât say whether there is a will or not. Let us talk of something else.â
âBut, cheaile, it will not kill Monsieur Ruthyn to make his will; he will not come to lie here a day sooner by cause of that; but if he make no will, you may lose a great deal of the property. Would not that be pity?â
âI really donât know anything of his will. If papa has made one, he has never spoken of it to me. I know he loves meâ âthat is enough.â
âAh! you are not such little gooseâ âyou do know everything, of course. Come tell me, little obstinate, otherwise I will break your little finger. Tell me everything.â
âI know nothing of papaâs will. You donât know, Madame, how you hurt me. Let us speak of something else.â
âYou do know, and you must tell, petite dure-tĂȘte, or I will break a your little finger.â
With which words she seized that joint, and laughing spitefully, she twisted it suddenly back. I screamed while she continued to laugh.
âWill you tell?â
âYes, yes! let me go,â I shrieked.
She did not release it immediately however, but continued her torture and discordant laughter. At last she finally released my finger.
âSo she is going to be good cheaile, and tell everything to her affectionate gouvernante. What do you cry for, little fool?â
âYouâve hurt me very muchâ âyou have broken my finger,â I sobbed.
âRub it and blow it and give it a kiss, little fool! What cross girl! I will never play with you againâ ânever. Let us go home.â
Madame was silent and morose all the way home. She would not answer my questions, and affected to be very lofty and offended.
This did not last very long, however, and she soon resumed her wonted ways. And she returned to the question of the will, but not so directly, and with more art.
Why should this dreadful womanâs thoughts be running so continually upon my fatherâs will? How could it concern her?
VII Church ScarsdaleI think all the females of our household, except Mrs. Rusk, who was at open feud with her and had only room for the fiercer emotions, were more or less afraid of this inauspicious foreigner.
Mrs. Rusk would say in her confidences in my roomâ â
âWhere does she come from?â âis she a French or a Swiss one, or is she a Canada woman? I remember one of them when I was a girl, and a nice limb she was, too! And who did she live with? Where was her last family? Not one of us knows nothing about her, no more than a child; except, of course, the Masterâ âI do suppose he made enquiry. Sheâs always at hugger-mugger with Anne Wixted. Iâll pack that one about her business, if she doesnât mind. Tattling and whispering eternally. Itâs not about her own business sheâs a-talking. Madame de la Rougepot, I call her. She does know how to paint up to the ninety-ninesâ âshe does, the old cat. I beg your pardon, Miss, but that she isâ âa devil, and no mistake. I found her out first by her thieving the Masterâs gin, that the doctor ordered him, and filling the decanter up with waterâ âthe old villain; but sheâll be found out yet, she will; and all the maids is afraid on her. Sheâs not right, they thinkâ âa witch or a ghostâ âI should not wonder. Catherine Jones found her in her bed asleep in the morning after she sulked with you, you know, Miss, with all her clothes on, whatever was the meaning; and I think she has frightened you, Miss and has you as nervous as anythinkâ âI do,â and so forth.
It was true. I was nervous, and growing rather more so; and I think this cynical woman perceived and intended it, and was pleased. I was always afraid of her concealing herself in my room, and emerging at night to scare me. She began sometimes to mingle in my dreams, tooâ âalways awfully; and this nourished, of course, the kind of ambiguous fear in which, in waking hours, I held her.
I dreamed one night that she led me, all the time whispering something so very fast that I could not understand her, into the library, holding a candle in her other hand above her head. We walked on tiptoe, like criminals at the dead of night, and stopped before that old oak cabinet which my father had indicated in so odd a way to me. I felt that we were about some contraband practice. There was a key in the door, which I experienced a guilty horror at turning, she whispering in the same unintelligible way, all the time, at my ear. I did turn it; the door opened quite softly, and within stood my father, his face white and malignant, and glaring close in mine. He cried in a terrible voice, âDeath!â Out went Madameâs candle, and at the same moment, with a scream, I waked in the darkâ âstill fancying myself in the library; and for an hour after I continued in a hysterical state.
Every little incident about Madame furnished a topic of eager discussion among the maids. More or less covertly, they nearly all hated and feared her. They fancied that she was making good her footing with âthe Master;â and that she would then oust Mrs. Ruskâ âperhaps usurp her placeâ âand so make a clean sweep of them all. I fancy the honest little housekeeper did not discourage that suspicion.
About this time I recollect a pedlarâ âan odd, gipsified-looking manâ âcalled in at Knowl. I and Catherine Jones were in the court when he came, and set down his pack
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