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 fac
e, 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.
CHAPTER XX
AUSTIN RUTHYN SETS OUT ON HIS JOURNEY
The Rev. William Fairfield, Doctor Clay’s somewhat bald curate, a mild, thin man, with a high and thin nose, who was preparing me for confirmation, came next day; and when our catechetical conference was ended, and before lunch was announced, my father sent for him to the study, where he remained until the bell rang out its summons.
‘We have had some interesting — I may say very interesting — conversation, your papa and I, Miss Ruthyn,’ said my reverend vis-à-vis, so soon as nature was refreshed, smiling and shining, as he leaned back in his chair, his hand upon the table, and his finger curled gently upon the stem of his wine-glass. ‘It never was your privilege, I believe, to see your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, of Bartram-Haugh?’
‘No — never; he leads so retired — so very retired a life.’
‘Oh, no, — of course, no; but I was going to remark a likeness — I mean, of course, a family likeness — only that sort of thing — you understand — between him and the profile of Lady Margaret in the drawingroom — is not it Lady Margaret? — which you were so good as to show me on Wednesday last. There certainly is a likeness. I think you would agree with me, if you had the pleasure of seeing your uncle.’
‘You know him, then? I have never seen him.’
‘Oh dear, yes — I am happy to say, I know him very well. I have that privilege. I was for three years curate of Feltram, and I had the honour of being a pretty constant visitor at Bartram-Haugh during that, I may say, protracted period; and I think it really never has been my privilege and happiness, I may say, to enjoy the acquaintance and society of so very experienced a Christian, as my admirable friend, I may call him, Mr. Ruthyn, of Bartram-Haugh. I look upon him, I do assure you, quite in the light of a saint; not, of course, in the Popish sense, but in the very highest, you will understand me, which our Church allows, — a man built up in faith — full of faith — faith and grace — altogether exemplary; and I often ventured to regret, Miss Ruthyn, that Providence in its mysterious dispensations should have placed him so far apart from his brother, your respected father. His influence and opportunities would, no doubt, we may venture to hope, at least have been blessed; and, perhaps, we — my valued rector and I — might possibly have seen more of him at church, than, I deeply regret, we have done.’ He shook his head a little, as he smiled with a sad complacency on me through his blue steel spectacles, and then sipped a little meditative sherry.
‘And you saw a good deal of my uncle?’
‘Well, a good deal, Miss Ruthyn — I may say a good deal — principally at his own house. His health is wretched — miserable health — a sadly afflicted man he has been, as, no doubt, you are aware. But afflictions, my dear Miss Ruthyn, as you remember Doctor Clay so well remarked on Sunday last, though birds of ill omen, yet spiritually resemble the ravens who supplied the prophet; and when they visit the faithful, come charged with nourishment for the soul.
‘He is a good deal embarrassed pecuniarily, I should say,’ continued the curate, who was rather a good man than a very well-bred one. ‘He found a difficulty — in fact it was not in his power — to subscribe generally to our little funds, and — and objects, and I used to say to him, and I really felt it, that it was more gratifying, such were his feeling and his power of expression, to be refused by him than assisted by others.’
‘Did papa wish you to speak to me about my uncle?’ I enquired, as a sudden thought struck me; and then I felt half ashamed of my question.
He looked surprised.
‘No, Miss Ruthyn, certainly not. Oh dear, no. It was merely a conv
ersation between Mr. Ruthyn and me. He never suggested my opening that, or indeed any other point in my interview with you, Miss Ruthyn — not the least.’
‘I was not aware before that Uncle Silas was so religious.’
He smiled tranquilly, not quite up to the ceiling, but gently upward, and shook his head in pity for my previous ignorance, as he lowered his eyes —
‘I don’t say that there may not be some little matters in a few points of doctrine which we could, perhaps, wish otherwise. But these, you know, are speculative, and in all essentials he is Church — not in the perverted modern sense; far from it — unexceptionably Church, strictly so. Would there were more among us of the same mind that is in him! Ay, Miss Ruthyn, even in the highest places of the Church herself.’
The Rev. William Fairfield, while fighting against the Dissenters with his right hand, was, with his left, hotly engaged with the Tractarians. A good man I am sure he was, and I dare say sound in doctrine, though naturally, I think, not very wise. This conversation with him gave me new ideas about my uncle Silas. It quite agreed with what my father had said. These principles and his increasing years would necessarily quiet the turbulence of his resistance to injustice, and teach him to acquiesce in his fate.
You would have fancied that one so young as I, born to wealth so vast, and living a life of such entire seclusion, would have been exempt from care. But you have seen how troubled my life was with fear and anxiety during the residence of Madame de la Rougierre, and now there rested upon my mind a vague and awful anticipation of the trial which my father had announced, without defining it.
An ‘ordeal’ he called it, requiring not only zeal but nerve, which might possibly, were my courage to fail, become frightful, and even intolerable. What, and of what nature, could it be? Not designed to vindicate the fair fame of the meek and submissive old man — who, it seemed, had ceased to care for his bygone wrongs, and was looking to futurity — but the reputation of our ancient family.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 225
