“It won’t do, Madame; I must have that false key. I give you the opportunity of surrendering it quietly here and now.”
“But who dares to say I possess such thing?” demanded Madame, who, having rallied from her momentary paralysis, was now fierce and voluble as I had often seen her before.
“You know, Madame, that you can rely on what I say, and I tell you that you were seen last night visiting this room, and with a key in your possession, opening this desk, and reading my letters and papers contained in it. Unless you forthwith give me that key, and any other false keys in your possession — in which case I shall rest content with dismissing you summarily — I will take a different course. I know I am a magistrate; — and I shall have you, your boxes, and places up-stairs, searched forthwith, and I will prosecute you criminally. The thing is clear; you aggravate by denying; you must give me that key, if you please, instantly, otherwise I ring this bell, and you shall see I mean what I say.”
There was a little pause. He rose and extended his hand towards the bell-rope. Madame glided round the table, extended her hand to arrest his.
“I will do everything, Monsieur Ruthyn — whatever you wish.”
And with these words Madame de la Rougierre broke down altogether. She sobbed, she wept, she gabbled piteously, all manner of incomprehensible roulades of lamentation and entreaty; coyly, penitently, in a most interesting agitation, she produced the very key from her breast, with a string tied to it. My father was little moved by this piteous tempest. He coolly took the key and tried it in the desk, which it locked and unlocked quite freely, though the wards were complicated. He shook his head and looked her in the face.
“Pray, who made this key? It is a new one, and made expressly to pick this lock.”
But Madame was not going to tell any more than she had expressly bargained for; so she only fell once more into her old paroxysm of sorrow, self-reproach, extenuation, and entreaty.
“Well,” said my father, “I promised that on surrendering the key you should go. It is enough. I keep my word. You shall have an hour and a half to prepare in. You must then be ready to depart. I will send your money to you by Mrs. Rusk; and if you look for another situation, you had better not refer to me. Now be so good as to leave me.”
Madame seemed to be in a strange perplexity. She bridled up, dried her eyes fiercely, and dropped a great courtesy, and then sailed away towards the door. Before reaching it she stopped on the way, turning half round, with a peaked, pallid glance at my father, and she big her lip viciously as she eyed him. At the door the same repulsive pantomime was repeated, as she stood for a moment with her hand upon the handle. But she changed her bearing again with a sniff, and with a look of scorn, almost heightened to a sneer, she made another very low courtesy and a disdainful toss of her head, and so disappeared, shutting the door rather sharply behind her.
Chapter 19.
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 heave; 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 always be 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
