_AU REVOIR_
Mrs. Rusk was fond of assuring me that Madame 'did not like a bone in my
skin.' Instinctively I knew that she bore me no good-will, although I
really believe it was her wish to make me think quite the reverse. At all
events I had no desire to see Madame again before her departure, especially
as she had thrown upon me one momentary glance in the study, which seemed
to me charged with very peculiar feelings.
You may be very sure, therefore, that I had no desire for a formal
leave-taking at her departure. I took my hat and cloak, therefore, and
stole out quietly.
My ramble was a sequestered one, and well screened, even at this late
season, with foliage; the pathway devious among the stems of old trees, and
its flooring interlaced and groined with their knotted roots. Though near
the house, it was a sylvan solitude; a little brook ran darkling and
glimmering through it, wild strawberries and other woodland plants strewed
the ground, and the sweet notes and flutter of small birds made the shadow
of the boughs cheery.
I had been fully an hour in this picturesque solitude when I heard in the
distance the ring of carriage-wheels, announcing to me that Madame de la
Rougierre had fairly set out upon her travels. I thanked heaven; I could
have danced and sung with delight; I heaved a great sigh and looked up
through the branches to the clear blue sky.
But things are oddly timed. Just at this moment I heard Madame's voice
close at my ear, and her large bony hand was laid on my shoulder. We were
instantly face to face--I recoiling, and for a moment speechless with
fright.
In very early youth we do not appreciate the restraints which act upon
malignity, or know how effectually fear protects us where conscience is
wanting. Quite alone, in this solitary spot, detected and overtaken with an
awful instinct by my enemy, what might not be about to happen to me at that
moment?
'Frightened as usual, Maud,' she said quietly, and eyeing me with a
sinister smile, 'and with cause you think, no doubt. Wat 'av you done to
injure poor Madame? Well, I think I know, little girl, and have quite
discover the cleverness of my sweet little Maud. Eh--is not so? Petite
carogne--ah, ha, ha!'
I was too much confounded to answer.
'You see, my dear cheaile,' she said, shaking her uplifted finger with a
hideous archness at me, 'you could not hide what you 'av done from poor
Madame. You cannot look so innocent but I can see your pretty little
villany quite plain--you dear little diablesse.
'Wat I 'av done I 'av no reproach of myself for it. If I could explain,
your papa would say I 'av done right, and you should thank me on your
knees; but I cannot explain yet.'
She was speaking, as it were, in little paragraphs, with a momentary pause
between each, to allow its meaning to impress itself.
'If I were to choose to explain, your papa he would implore me to remain.
But no--I would not--notwithstanding your so cheerful house, your charming
servants, your papa's amusing society, and your affectionate and sincere
heart, my sweet little maraude.
'I am to go to London first, where I 'av, oh, so good friends! next I will
go abroad for some time; but be sure, my sweetest Maud, wherever I may
'appen to be, I will remember you--ah, ha! Yes; _most certainly_, I will
remember you.
'And although I shall not be always near, yet I shall know everything
about my charming little Maud; you will not know how, but I shall indeed,
_everything_. And be sure, my dearest cheaile, I will some time be able to
give you the sensible proofs of my gratitude and affection--you understand.
'The carriage is waiting at the yew-tree stile, and I must go on. You did
not expect to see me--here; I will appear, perhaps, as suddenly another
time. It is great pleasure to us both--this opportunity to make our adieux.
Farewell! my dearest little Maud. I will never cease to think of you, and
of some way to recompense the kindness you 'av shown for poor Madame.'
My hand hung by my side, and she took, not it, but my thumb, and shook
it, folded in her broad palm, and looking on me as she held it, as if
meditating mischief. Then suddenly she said--
'You will always remember Madame, I _think_, and I will remind you of me
beside; and for the present farewell, and I hope you may be as 'appy as you
deserve.'
The large sinister face looked on me for a second with its latent sneer,
and then, with a sharp nod and a spasmodic shake of my imprisoned thumb,
she turned, and holding her dress together, and showing her great bony
ankles, she strode rapidly away over the gnarled roots into the perspective
of the trees, and I did not awake, as it were, until she had quite
disappeared in the distance.
Events of this kind made no difference with my father; but every other face
in Knowl was gladdened by the removal. My energies had returned, my spirits
were come again. The sunlight was happy, the flowers innocent, the songs
and flutter of the birds once more gay, and all nature delightful and
rejoicing.
After the first elation of relief, now and then a filmy shadow of Madame de
la Rougierre would glide across the sunlight, and the remembrance of her
menace return with an unexpected pang of fear.
'Well, if _there_ isn't impittens!' cried Mrs. Rusk. 'But never you trouble
your head about it, Miss. Them sort's all alike--you never saw a rogue yet
that was found out and didn't threaten the honest folk as he was leaving
behind with all sorts; there was Martin the gamekeeper, and Jervis the
footman, I mind well how hard they swore all they would not do when they
was a-going, and who ever heard of them since? They always threatens that
way--them sort always does, and none ever the worse--not but she would if
she could, mind ye, but there it is; she can't do nothing but bite her
nails and cuss us--not she--ha, ha, ha!'
So I was comforted. But Madame's evil smile, nevertheless, from time to
time, would sail across my vision with a silent menace, and my spirits
sank, and a Fate, draped in black, whose face I could not see, took me by
the hand, and led me away, in the spirit, silently, on an awful exploration
from which I would rouse myself with a start, and Madame was gone for a
while.
She had, however, judged her little parting well. She contrived to leave
her glamour over me, and in my dreams she troubled me.
I was, however, indescribably relieved. I wrote in high spirits to Cousin
Monica; and wondered what plans my father might have formed about me, and
whether we were to stay at home, or go to London, or go abroad. Of the
last--the pleasantest arrangement, in some respects--I had nevertheless an
occult horror. A secret conviction haunted me that were we to go abroad, we
should there meet Madame, which to me was like meeting my evil genius.
I have said more than once that my father was an odd man; and the reader
will, by this time, have seen that there was much about him not easily
understood. I often wonder whether, if he had been franker, I should have
found him less odd than I supposed, or more odd still. Things that moved me
profoundly did not apparently affect him at all. The departure of Madame,
under the circumstances which attended it, appeared to my childish mind an
event of the vastest importance. No one was indifferent to the occurrence
in the house but its master. He never alluded again to Madame de la
Rougierre. But whether connected with her exposure and dismissal, I could
not say, there did appear to be some new care or trouble now at work in my
father's mind.
'I have been thinking a great deal about you, Maud. I am anxious. I have
not been so troubled for years. Why has not Monica Knollys a little more
sense?'
This oracular sentence he spoke, having stopped me in the hall; and then
saying, 'We shall see,' he left me as abruptly as he appeared.
Did he apprehend any danger to me from the vindictiveness of Madame?
A day or two afterwards, as I was in the Dutch garden, I saw him on the
terrace steps. He beckoned to me, and came to meet me as I approached.
'You must be very solitary, little Maud; it is not good. I have written to
Monica: in a matter of detail she is competent to advise; perhaps she will
come here for a short visit.'
I was very glad to hear this.
'_You_ are more interested than for my time _I_ can be, in vindicating his
character.'
'Whose character, sir?' I ventured to enquire during the pause that
followed.
One trick which my father had acquired from his habits of solitude and
silence was this of assuming that the context of his thoughts was legible
to others, forgetting that they had not been spoken.
'Whose?--your uncle Silas's. In the course of nature he must survive me. He
will then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to clear
that name, Maud?'
I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm.
He turned on me such an approving smile as you might fancy lighting up the
rugged features of a pale old Rembrandt.
'I can tell you, Maud; if my life could have done it, it should not have
been undone--_ubi lapsus, quid feci_. But I had almost made up my mind to
change my plan, and leave all to time--_edax rerum_--to illuminate or
to _consume_. But I think little Maud would like to contribute to the
restitution of her family name. It may cost you something--are you willing
to buy it at a sacrifice? Is there--I don't speak of fortune, that is not
involved--but is there any other honourable sacrifice you would shrink from
to dispel the disgrace under which our most ancient and honourable name
must otherwise continue to languish?'
'Oh, none--none indeed, sir--I am delighted!'
Again I saw the Rembrandt smile.
'Well, Maud, I am sure there is _no_ risk; but you are to suppose there is.
Are you still willing to accept it?'
Again I assented.
'You are worthy of your blood, Maud Ruthyn. It will come soon, and it won't
last long. But you must not let people like Monica Knollys frighten you.'
I was lost in wonder.
'If you allow them to possess you with their follies, you had better recede
in time--they may make the ordeal as terrible as hell itself. You have
zeal--have you nerve?' I thought in such a cause I had nerve for anything.
'Well, Maud, in the course of a few months--and it may be sooner--there
must be a change. I have had a letter from London this morning that assures
me of that. I must then leave you for a time; in my absence be faithful to
the duties that will arise. To whom much is committed, of him will much be
required. You shall promise me not to mention this conversation to Monica
Knollys. If you are a talking girl, and cannot trust yourself, say so, and
we will not ask her to come. Also, don't invite her to talk about your
uncle Silas--I have reasons. Do you quite understand my conditions?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Your uncle Silas,' he said, speaking suddenly in loud and fierce tones
that sounded from so old a man almost terrible, 'lies under an intolerable
slander. I don't correspond with him; I don't sympathise with him; I never
quite did. He has grown religious, and that's well; but there are things in
which even religion should not bring a man to acquiesce; and from what
I can learn, he, the person primarily affected--the cause, though the
innocent cause--of this great calamity--bears it with an easy apathy which
is mistaken, and liable easily to be mistaken, and such as no Ruthyn, under
the circumstances, ought to exhibit. I told him what he ought to do, and
offered to open my purse for the purpose; but he would not, or _did_ not;
indeed, he _never_ took my advice; he followed his own, and a foul and
dismal shoal he has drifted on. It is not for his sake--why should I?-that
I have longed and laboured to remove the disgraceful slur under which
his ill-fortune has thrown us. He troubles himself little about it, I
believe--he's meek, meeker than I. He cares less about his children than I
about you, Maud; he is selfishly sunk in futurity--a feeble visionary. I am
not so. I believe it to be a duty to take care of others beside myself. The
character and influence of an ancient family is a peculiar heritage--sacred
but destructible; and woe to him who either destroys or suffers it to
perish!'
This was the longest speech I ever heard my father speak before or after.
He abruptly resumed--
'Yes, we will, Maud--you and I--we'll leave one proof on record, which,
fairly read, will go far to convince the world.'
He looked round, but we were alone. The garden was nearly always solitary,
and few visitors ever approached the house from that side.
'I have talked too long, I believe; we are children to the last. Leave me,
Maud. I think I know you better than I did, and I am pleased with you. Go,
child--I'll sit here.'
If he had acquired new ideas of me, so had I of him from that interview. I
had no idea till then how much passion still burned in that aged frame, nor
how full of energy and fire that face, generally so stern and ashen, could
appear. As I left him seated on the rustic chair, by the steps, the traces
of that storm were still discernible on his features. His gathered brows,
glowing eyes, and strangely hectic face, and the grim compression of his
mouth, still showed the agitation which, somehow, in grey old age, shocks
and alarms the young.