THE SCREAM - 60 Horror Tales in One Edition. Joseph Sheridan Le FanuЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter 56.

      I Conspire

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      “THAT’S A BAD un, he us — oh, Miss, Miss Maud! It’s nout that’s good as keeps him an’ fayther —(mind, lass, ye promised you would not tell no one)— as keeps them two a-talkin’ and a’smokin’ secret-like together in the mill. An’ fayther don’t know I found him out. They don’t let me into the town, but Brice tells me, and he knows it’s Dudley; and it’s nout that’s good, but summat very bad. An’ I reckon, Miss, it’s all about you. Be ye frightened, Miss Maud?”

      I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied.

      “Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven’s sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is here?”

      “Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o’clock to nigh one o’ Tuesday ngiht, an’ went in and come out like thieves, ‘feard ye’d see ’em.”

      “And how does Brice know anything bad?” I asked, with a strange freezing sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again — I am sure deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.

      “Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin’ and lookin’ awful black, and says he to fayther, ‘Tisn’t in my line nohow, an’ I can’t;’ and says fayther to he, ‘No one likes they soart o’ things, but how can ye help it? The old boy’s behind ye wi’ his pitchfork, and ye canna stop.’ An’ wi’ tha the bethought him o’ Brice, and says he, ‘What be ye a-doin’ there? Get ye down wi’ the nags to blacksmith, do ye.’ An’ oop gits Dudley, pullin’ his had ower his brows, an’ says he, ‘I wish I was in the Seamew. I’m good for nout wi’ this thing a-hangin’ ower me.’ An’ that’s all as Brice heard. An’ he’s afeard o’ fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could like him to pot if he crossed him, and he and fayther ‘ud think nout o’ havin’ him afore the justices for poachin’, and swearin’ him into gaol.”

      “But why does he think it’s about me?”

      “Hish!” said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. “I can’t say — we’re in danger, lass. I don’t know why — but he does, an’ so do I, an’, for that matter, so do ye.”

      “Meg, I’ll leave Bartram.”

      “Ye can’t.”

      “Can’t. What do you mean, girl?”

      “They won’t let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They’ve dogs — they’ve bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye can’t git oot, mind; put that oot o’ your head.

      “I tell ye what ye’ll do. Write a bit o’ a note to the lady yonder at Elverston; an’ though Brice be a wild fellah, and ‘appen not ower good sometimes, he likes me, an’ I’ll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin’ at mill to-morrow. Coom ye here about one o’clock — that’s if ye see the mill-sails a-turnin’— and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old lass wi’ ye. There’s an old French un, though, that talks wi’ Dudley. Mind ye, that un knows nout o’ the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe’er he be wi’ others, and I think he won’t split. Now, lass, I must go. God help ye; God bless ye; an’, for the world’s wealth, don’t ye let one o’ them see ye’ve got ought in your head, not even that un.”

      Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me, with a wild gesture of silence, and a shake of her head.

      I can’t at all account for the state in which I was. There are resources both of energy and endurance in human nature which we never suspect until the tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified with a totally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness of the transformation, I stood, spoke, and acted — a wonder, almost a terror, to myself.

      I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I heard her ugly gabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour’s shopping, as I might hear, and see, and talk, and smile, in a dream.

      But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were alone, I locked the door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sort of imploring despair. I was afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The least indiscretion would be failure, and failure destruction.

      I answered her perplexed solicitudes by telling her that I was not very well — that I was uneasy; but I did not fail to extract from her a promise that she would not hint to mortal, either my suspicions about Dudley, or our rencontre with Meg Hawkes.

      I remember how, when, after we had got, late at night, into bed, I sat up, shivering with horror, in mine, while honest Mary’s tranquil breathing told how soundly she slept. I got up, and looked from the window, expecting to see some of those wolfish dogs which they had brought to the place prowling about the court-yard. Sometimes I prayed, and felt tranquillised, and fancied that I was perhaps to have a short interval of sleep. But the serenity was delusive, and all the time my nerves were strung hysterically. Sometimes I felt quite wild, and on the point of screaming. AT length that dreadful night passed away. Morning came, and a less morbid, though hardly a less terrible state of mind. Madame paid me an early visit. A thought struck me. I knew that she loved shopping, and I said, quite carelessly —

      “Your yesterday’s shopping tempts me, Madame, and I must get a few things before we leave for France. Suppose we go into Feltram to-day, and make my purchases, you and I?”

      She looked from the corner of her cunning eye in my face without answering. I did not blench, and she said —

      “Vary good. I would be vary ‘appy,” and again she looked oddly at me.

      “Wat hour, my dear Maud? One o’clock? I think that weel do very well, eh?”

      I assented, and she grew silent.

      I wonder whether I did look as careless as I tried. I do not know. Through the whole of this awful period I was, I think, supernatural; and I even now look back with wonder upon my strange self-command.

      Madame, I hoped, had heard nothing of the order which prohibited my exit from the place. She would herself conduct me to Feltram, and secure, by accompanying me, my free egress.

      Once in Feltram, I would assert my freedom, and manage to reach my dear cousin Knollys. Back to Bartram no power should convey me. My heart swelled and fluttered in the awful suspense of that hour.

      Oh, Bartram–Haugh! how came you by those lofty walls? Which of my ancestors had begirt me with an impassable barrier in this horrible strait?

      Suddenly I remembered my letter to Lady Knollys. If I were disappointed in effecting my escape through Feltram, all would depend upon it.

      Having locked my door, I wrote as follows:—

      “Oh, my beloved cousin, as you hope for comfort in your hour of fear, aid me now. Dudley has returned, and is secreted somewhere about the grounds. It is a fraud. They all pretend to me that he is gone away in the Seamew; and he or they had his name published as one of the passengers. Madame de la Rougierre has appeared! She is here, and my uncle