‘Mother, I want you to come with me to the school,’ said Mab. She had
lost no time in carrying out Mrs. Brown’s previsions, though she was
quite unaware of them.
‘Me--to go with you to the school? You know I have never had anything to
do with the school. There are plenty of ladies to look after the
school.’
‘Yes, I know what you always say, mother: and I never asked you before.
You will never have anything to do with the parish; but this is not the
parish, it is me. Mrs. Brown is a very queer woman. She has them all in
the most excellent order; but--I want you to see with your own eyes and
tell me what you think.’
‘I have a very important letter to write, Mab.’
‘You are always writing important letters now, mother. What is it about?
You never tell me anything now. I used to know all about your letters,
and lately you never tell me anything. You are always conspiring with
Uncle James. You never trust anything to me!’
‘Poor Uncle James! How much perplexity and trouble I have brought
him--and everybody connected with me.’
‘You--mother!’
Mab stood and stared at her with wide-open eyes.
‘No,’ said Lady William, with a blush and a laugh. ‘You do well to
stare, Mab. I suppose that is one of the conventional things that people
say when they are in trouble. No, I have not brought perplexity upon any
one, or trouble, for a great number of years; but it is true that I have
begun again now----’
‘What is it, mother?’ Mab came to the back of her mother’s chair, put
her arms round Lady William’s neck, and rubbed her downy girlish cheek
against the other, which was paler, but not less soft. Then Mab made a
guess at the trouble in the only form that occurred to her. ‘Have we
been spending too much money? Have we got into debt? Has anything
happened about--Uncle Reginald----’
‘Poor Reginald!’ cried Lady William. ‘That is what it is to be the
prodigal of the family--everything is laid upon him. No, it is quite
another matter. It is--why shouldn’t I tell her? It is your father’s
brother, who has died and left a great deal of money. And there are
things to arrange. If I can settle everything, as I wish--you will be a
rich girl. But it is all uncertain, and it has stirred up so much that
was gone and past.’
‘Then it is about money,’ said Mab in a relieved tone. ‘And perhaps we
may be rich! Well, that is nothing to trouble about, mother. I should
like it, on the contrary. Come out, and leave the letter till to-morrow.
Come anyhow--whether you come to the school or not----’
‘What a little pertinacity you are! But, Mab, there is another side to
the question. If it is not settled that you are to be rich--an heiress,
as people call it--we shall, perhaps, be very poor, poorer than you can
imagine: with nothing--less than nothing!’ cried Lady William, thinking
with a pang of the good name and honour--the loss of which Mab never
could understand.
‘Well!’ said Mab, with another rub of her cheek upon her mother’s,
‘that’s nothing so very dreadful either. Most people are poor--far, far
more people than are rich. We shall be no worse than our neighbours. I
daresay we shall be able to do something for our living. We are not
useless people, mother, you and me. And now come out, come out, mother
dear! You will write your letter much better after you have had a walk.
The fresh air puts things into your head, the right things to say----’
‘Ah, Mab,’ cried Lady William, ‘if you only knew how willing I am to be
tempted, how much rather I would put it off--for ever if I could----’
‘Well, mother, putting it off till the afternoon is not putting it off
for ever,’ said sensible Mab.
And when Lady William went to get her hat, Mab, who had always a hundred
things to do within as well as outside the house, in the course of her
moving about as she put things straight upon the table, saw her mother’s
letter upon the blotting-book, which Lady William had left open. Mab had
no idea that she did anything wrong in looking at it. She had had no
hesitation in all her life before, about anything that was her mother’s,
and why now? It began, ‘Gentlemen,’ which was a queer mode of address,
Mab thought, and this was how it went on:
‘I had already heard of Lord John Pakenham’s death, and expected your
letter accordingly. I have no certificates to send you, as it never
occurred to me to provide myself with anything of the kind, and
circumstances, as I hear from my brother, have occurred to make it
somewhat difficult to obtain them but you will perhaps know better how
to act in the matter than I do. I was married on the 13th May, in St.
Alban’s Proprietary Chapel, Stone Street, Marylebone, by the Rev. Mr.
Gepps, who is since dead. And I am informed by my brother that the
Chapel was burnt down some years ago. It seems an unfortunate
concatenation of accidents, but I don’t doubt that you will know how to
proceed in the matter. There is no witness of the marriage still
alive--except----’
Here the writing broke off, and Mab stopped short with a curious
sensation as if she had been pulled up suddenly. It startled her a
little; she could scarcely tell why. What did people mean, inquiring
into matters so long past? Her mother’s marriage! Why, everybody knew
all about her mother’s marriage. ‘Am not I a proof of it? Mab said to
herself. ‘I hope they don’t mean to suggest that I am not my mother’s
child!’ It disturbed her a little, though she could not have told why.
Poor mother! she never liked talking about her marriage. Why should she
be troubled? Mab had long ago made up her mind that it could not have
been a happy marriage, though natural piety (which was strong in her)
prevented her from blaming her father. They did not understand each
other, she supposed. Many married people failed in that: strange to
think how anybody could fail to understand mother, who was so very easy
to get on with, not jealous or touchy, or any of those things! And that
anybody should worry her about her marriage after all this time when she
had been a widow for such years and years! Mab could not bear that her
mother should be worried in this or any other way.
‘Mother,’ she said, when they set out, ‘I want to say something to you.
I read your letter, you know, in the writing-book----’
‘You read my letter, Mab?’
‘Well, you never said I mustn’t; I never thought you could be writing
anything you did not want me to see.’
‘And you are quite right, my dear,’ said Lady William seriously; but all
the same, she asked herself with a shudder, ‘How far she had gone, what
she had said?’
‘And, mother, if they are raking up everything, all those things you
prefer not to talk of, that you have never even told me--because of this
money that might or should come to me--mother, I don’t want their money.
Let them keep it to themselves. I will not have you worried or get that
look over the eyes for anything of the kind. I ought to have a say in
it, if it is for me.’
‘My love, it is very sweet of you to say that--and quite what I might
have expected from my Mab; but unfortunately they, if you mean the
lawyers, won’t keep it to themselves, nor can they keep it from you,
if---- The family would keep it willingly, I have no doubt, but then it
is not in their hands.’
‘If--what, mother?’
To think--among all her mother had said--that this little
straightforward, practical mind should have seized on the one little
word which she had not meant to say! Lady William was pale, besides
having, as Mab remarked, a look over her eyes. ‘If--I can settle it all
as I wish,’ she replied.
Mab gave a dissatisfied look, but said no more on the subject. Lady
William’s tone admitted of no more questioning, and the little girl knew
when to stop. She took her advantage, however, in another direction, and
seizing her mother’s arm as they reached the village street, said: ‘Now,
mother, come with me to the school.’
Lady William laughed, and consented. A laugh, an escape from present
anxiety, a run with a little coaxing, not-to-be-denied girl through the
morning air and sunshine--how pleasant these things are! She had been a
little vexed about the letter, and had checked Mab’s inquiries in a
manner which does not at all show in print, but which was very
effectual, and now she could not fail to make up for all this by giving
in to Mab. When they reached the schoolroom, however, it did not present
the same aspect of quiet without and occupation within which it
generally did. There was a little crowd round the door, in the midst of
which were some of the elder girls talking volubly. And at the moment
when Lady William and her daughter appeared upon the scene, Mr. Osborne
was visible coming towards them on one side and Leo Swinford on the
other. What was the matter? Mab, whom everybody knew, pushed into the
midst of the agitated group.
‘Oh, Miss, teacher’s gone,’ the girls cried, hurrying round as to a new
listener.
‘Gone! Mrs. Brown!’ cried Mab, with almost a shriek of dismay: and then
the story was told by half-a-dozen eager voices at once. Mrs. Brown had
returned last evening in a grand carriage--the carriage from the
Hall--to the wonder and awe of the nearest neighbours who were witnesses
of the event; but whether she went away again late that night or by the
first train in the morning no one knew. What was certain was that when
the children came to school in the morning the schoolroom (oh, joy!) was
locked up, and no trace to be found of Mrs. Brown. Later, when the
schoolmaster decided upon the strong step of breaking open the doors, it
was found that Mrs. Brown’s trunks were fastened, her house stripped of
all its embellishments, and no sign of her left anywhere. The boxes were
addressed to a railway station in London to be left till called for.
There was no letter, no statement of any excuse. She was gone, that was
all that could be said.
This, of course, was by no means all that was said as the schoolgirls
chattered and the women compared notes. A number of them had perceived
as something was up. Some had seen from the first as she wasn’t the kind
of woman for our school, and it wouldn’t answer long; though several
acknowledged as it must be allowed she pushed the girls on.
‘There’s my Lizzie,’ said an admiring mother, ‘passed all the standards
and done with schooling, and she but twelve; and the help it is to have
her at home!’
‘But teacher was allays fond of me, mother,’ said Lizzie, ‘and pushed me
on.’
Then a great many had burst in to declare that teacher was very fond of
them individually, and had pushed them all on. A little Babel of talk
arose at the schoolroom door, which was only partially stayed when Mr.
Osborne arrived, to whom the whole story had to be told over again. And
then Mr. Swinford came up breathless, who received the news with more
excitement than any one.
‘Gone!’ he cried, ‘gone!’ as if he could not believe his ears. ‘Have
they searched the house?’ he inquired anxiously.
‘Well, sir, what’s the good o’ searching the house? She can’t be hiding
upstairs,’ the women said.
Leo was not satisfied with this, however, but ran into the
schoolmistress’s house with a very white and anxious face, making his
way upstairs to her bedroom and into the little kitchen and every
corner. He came down again and took Lady William by the arm, leading her
aside. He did not even observe the scrutiny of Mab, who, full of
curiosity which she herself did not understand, watched and followed
them.
‘Did you see her?’ he asked anxiously.
‘See her?’ cried Lady William--‘the schoolmistress? Mrs. Brown?’
‘Then you had not found out,’ he said, ‘that she was Artémise?’
And then Mab thought that her mother would have fainted. She threw up
her arms and cried: ‘Artémise!’ almost with a shriek. ‘And she has been
here at my door--here--and I never knew!’
‘Mr. Leo,’ said Mab, ‘mother has been worried until she is almost ill.
She has had business and all sorts of things to worry her. Why did you
tell her this, whatever it means, to make her worse?’ She had drawn Lady
William into a chair and stood behind her, supporting her head upon her
own breast, with her arms over her mother’s shoulders like the wings of
some homely angel half-fledged and not in full heavenly state.
‘Somebody must go after her,’ Lady William cried hurriedly. ‘She must
not, she must not escape. Here! do you mean to say _here_, at my very
door? And I had been told to go and see her, and Mab, my wise Mab, had
made me come at last. Oh, child, why was it not yesterday--why was it
not----? And Leo, to think you should never have told me. The woman that
can make all right, that can save Mab’s fortune, and my---- Leo, Leo,
why didn’t you tell me? Oh, Mab, why did you not make me come before
to-day?’
‘I only made the discovery last night,’ he said, while she sat wringing
her hands, ‘and that she should fly like this never came into my mind. I
was on my way to tell you, to bring you here.’
‘Mab did that. Mab, though she knows nothing, understands. And who is to
follow that woman and secure her now? Some one must go at once, before
the scent is cold, before--before----’
‘Dear lady, I am ready to go--wherever you please to send me. I am here
only for your service. I will go to where the address is and wait, wait
till she comes. It is easy. I will never forgive myself for letting her
go last night.’
Lady William had been slowly coming to herself, the giddiness going out
of her head, and the dimness from her eyes. When she recovered her
composure, she saw that a little crowd had gathered round her--some of
the women from outside, one of whom held a glass of water, while another
had rolled forward Mrs. Brown’s sofa and was entreating her ladyship to
lie down; while behind stood two tall figures looking on, Mr. Osborne
and Jim. The curate had on that mask of disapproval which he was too
apt to show to any weakness. Why Lady William should get up a little
faint because this schoolmistress, of whom he himself had never
approved, had gone, he found it impossible to divine. A faint! As if it
were anything to her--the schoolmistress! of whom she had never taken
any notice. It was like the folly of women, making a fuss upon every
possible occasion. Mr. Osborne did not pause to consider that Lady
William was not the woman to faint in order to make a fuss, or even to
remember that she had not fainted at all. Such considerations interfere
sadly with the solid foundations of tradition. Jim stood beside his
friend with a very different expression upon his face. It was anxious,
full of sympathy, and of something more than sympathy, eager to
interfere, to speak; but nobody took any notice of Jim.
‘Mother, do you think you could walk home now?’ said Mab in her ear.
‘Please, please, mother, come away if you can.’
‘I ought to go after her, Mab.’
‘Dear lady, I will go,’ cried Leo. ‘Surely you can trust me?’
‘Oh, mother,’ cried Mab, more and more impatient, ‘come home now, come
home.’
Mab could scarcely tell why it was that she was so anxious for her
mother to come away. Other people were arriving from moment to moment.
Miss Grey, on one of her parochial rounds, startled by the commotion and
the sight of so many children about during school hours: and General
FitzStephen, who, seeing that something had happened (always such a
godsend in a village), had walked over to inquire into it. Mab could not
bear that her mother’s agitation should be seen by so many curious pairs
of eyes. And by Mr. Osborne above all, looking disapproval over the
heads of the little crowd.
‘There is no train,’ she said, ‘till the afternoon; and if the things
are not sent off, how can she come to claim them? And you could not hang
about a railway station waiting. Oh, mother, come home.’
‘Mab,’ said Jim, making his way to her, ‘I’ll do anything. You can send
me anywhere. And let me take Aunt Emily home.’
Lady William rose from among the attendants, recalled to herself by
these offers of aid.
‘Mab has always the most sense of all of us,’ she said with a smile. Of
course nobody can go when there is no train. Thanks; but I don’t think I
need your arm, Jim. No, no; I am not ill at all. I was only much
startled to find that Mrs. Brown, who has just gone away so hastily, was
an old friend whom I had many reasons for wishing to see: and I never
knew she was here.’
‘Do you know,’ cried Miss Grey, ‘I always thought her face was familiar
to me; but I could not put a name to it. Who was she? I ought to have
known her, too.’
‘And she has gone away--without any notice!’ said the General. ‘I never
heard of such a thing. The schoolmistress! And what is to be done to
fill her place?’
Lady William, under cover of this discussion, which was immediately
taken up by the curate and Miss Grey, left the house, which had never
before, perhaps, been so invaded by the crowd. The released children
were in full _émeute_ outside--those who had not already been secured by
their mothers--filling the village street with commotion, and sorely
trying the patience of the boys on the other side, who heard but could
not understand those sounds of jubilee. To think that there were no
means of checking the riot, and that half of the children in the parish
had thus an unexpected holiday, was grievous to the soul of Mr. Osborne,
who formed a sort of committee instantly in the abandoned house over
Mrs. Brown’s boxes. Miss Grey called to Mab that she would come in the
afternoon and tell them how things were arranged, as they went away.
That little lay-curate could not imagine, sympathetic as she was, that
there could be any question so interesting as this.
And, indeed, nothing had happened in Watcham for years that had been so
exciting. The schoolmistress! without a word of warning, without a
thought, apparently, of the embarrassment or trouble it would cause to
the parish, without any consideration even of her own interest--for how
could she ever obtain another situation, having left her charge like
this? People came out to their doors to ask, as Lady William passed,
could it be true? and groups stood discussing the strange event all
along the street. The schoolmistress! that functionary of all others in
an English parish is the least apt to be revolutionary. What could this
portent mean?