"Well, really, it is not easy to define, and, perhaps, it is not quite charitable; but I know I hate her, and I know, you little hypocrite, you hate her as much as I;" and we both laughed a little.
"But you must tell me all you know of her history."
"Her history?" echoed she. "I really know next to nothing about it; only that I used to see her sometimes about the place that Georgina mentions, and there were some unpleasant things said about her; but you know they may be all lies. The worst I _know_ of her is her treatment of you, and her robbing the desk"--(Cousin Monica always called it her _robbery_)--"and I think that"s enough to hang her. Suppose we go out for a walk?"
So together we went, and I resumed about Madame; but no more could I extract--perhaps there was not much more to hear.
CHAPTER x.x.x
_ON THE ROAD_
All at Knowl was indicative of the break-up that was so near at hand.
Doctor Bryerly arrived according to promise. He was in a whirl of business all the time. He and Mr. Danvers conferred about the management of the estate. It was agreed that the grounds and gardens should be let, but not the house, of which Mrs. Rusk was to take the care. The gamekeeper remained in office, and some out-door servants. But the rest were to go, except Mary Quince, who was to accompany me to Bartram-Haugh as my maid.
"Don"t part with Quince," said Lady Knollys, peremptorily "they"ll want you, but _don"t_."
She kept harping on this point, and recurred to it half a dozen times every day.
"They"ll say, you know, that she is not fit for a lady"s maid, as she certainly is _not_, if it in the least signified in such a wilderness as Bartram-Haugh; but she is attached, trustworthy, and honest; and those are qualities valuable everywhere, especially in a solitude. Don"t allow them to get you a wicked young French milliner in her stead."
Sometimes she said things that jarred unpleasantly on my nerves, and left an undefined sense of danger. Such as:--
"I know she"s true to you, and a good creature; but is she shrewd enough?"
Or, with an anxious look:--
"I hope Mary Quince is not easily frightened."
Or, suddenly:--
"Can Mary Quince write, in case you were ill?"
Or,
"Can she take a message exactly?"
Or,
"Is she a person of any enterprise and resource, and cool in an emergency?"
Now, these questions did not come all in a string, as I write them down here, but at long intervals, and were followed quickly by ordinary talk; but they generally escaped from my companion after silence and gloomy thought; and though I could extract nothing more defined than these questions, yet they seemed to me to point at some possible danger contemplated in my good cousin"s dismal ruminations.
Another topic that occupied my cousin"s mind a good deal was obviously the larceny of my pearl cross. She made a note of the description furnished by the recollection, respectively, of Mary Quince, Mrs. Rusk, and myself. I had fancied her little vision of the police was no more than the result of a momentary impulse; but really, to judge by her methodical examinations of us, I should have fancied that she had taken it up in downright earnest.
Having learned that my departure from Knowl was to be so very soon, she resolved not to leave me before the day of my journey to Bartram-Haugh; and as day after day pa.s.sed by, and the hour of our leave-taking approached, she became more and more kind and affectionate. A feverish and sorrowful interval it was to me.
Of Doctor Bryerly, though staying in the house, we saw almost nothing, except for an hour or so at tea-time. He breakfasted very early, and dined solitarily, and at uncertain hours, as business permitted.
The second evening of his visit, Cousin Monica took occasion to introduce the subject of his visit to Bartram-Haugh.
"You saw him, of course?" said Lady Knollys.
"Yes, he saw me; he was not well. On hearing who I was, he asked me to go to his room, where he sat in a silk dressing-gown and slippers."
"About business princ.i.p.ally," said Cousin Monica, laconically.
"That was despatched in very few words; for he was quite resolved, and placed his refusal upon grounds which it was difficult to dispute. But difficult or no, mind you, he intimated that he would hear nothing more on the subject--so that was closed."
"Well; and what is his religion now?" inquired she, irreverently.
"We had some interesting conversation on the subject. He leans much to what we call the doctrine of correspondents. He is read rather deeply in the writings of Swedenborg, and seemed anxious to discuss some points with one who professes to be his follower. To say truth, I did not expect to find him either so well read or so deeply interested in the subject."
"Was he angry when it was proposed that he should vacate the guardianship?"
"Not at all. Contrariwise, he said he had at first been so minded himself.
His years, his habits, and something of the unfitness of the situation, the remoteness of Bartram-Haugh from good teachers, and all that, had struck him, and nearly determined him against accepting the office. But then came the views which I stated in my letter, and they governed him; and nothing could shake them, he said, or induce him to re-open the question in his own mind."
All the time Doctor Bryerly was relating his conference with the head of the family at Bartram-Haugh my cousin commented on the narrative with a variety of little "pishes" and sneers, which I thought showed more of vexation than contempt.
I was glad to hear all that Doctor Bryerly related. It gave me a kind of confidence; and I experienced a momentary reaction. After all, could Bartram-Haugh be more lonely than I had found Knowl? Was I not sure of the society of my Cousin Millicent, who was about my own age? Was it not quite possible that my sojourn in Derbyshire might turn out a happy though very quiet remembrance through all my after-life? Why should it not? What time or place would be happy if we gave ourselves over to dismal imaginations?
So the summons reached me from Uncle Silas. The hours at Knowl were numbered.
The evening before I departed I visited the full-length portrait of Uncle Silas, and studied it for the last time carefully, with deep interest, for many minutes; but with results vaguer than ever.
With a brother so generous and so wealthy, always ready to help him forward; with his talents; with his lithe and gorgeous beauty, the shadow of which hung on that canvas--what might he not have accomplished? whom might he not have captivated? And yet where and what was he? A poor and shunned old man, occupying a lonely house and place that did not belong to him, married to degradation, with a few years of suspected and solitary life before him, and then swift oblivion his best portion.
I gazed on the picture, to fix it well and vividly in my remembrance. I might still trace some of its outlines and tints in its living original, whom I was next day to see for the first time in my life.
So the morning came--my last for many a day at Knowl--a day of partings, a day of novelty and regrets. The travelling carriage and post horses were at the door. Cousin Monica"s carriage had just carried her away to the railway. We had embraced with tears; and her kind face was still before me, and her words of comfort and promise in my ears. The early sharpness of morning was still in the air; the frosty dew still glistened on the window-panes. We had made a hasty breakfast, my share of which was a single cup of tea. The aspect of the house how strange! Uncarpeted, uninhabited, doors for the most part locked, all the servants but Mrs. Rusk and Branston departed. The drawing-room door stood open, and a charwoman was washing the bare floor. I was looking my last--for who could say how long?--on the old house, and lingered. The luggage was all up. I made Mary Quince get in first, for every delay was precious; and now the moment was come. I hugged and kissed Mrs. Rusk in the hall.
"G.o.d bless you, Miss Maud, darling. You must not fret; mind, the time won"t be long going over--_no_ time at all; and you"ll be bringing back a fine young gentleman--who knows? as great as the Duke of Wellington, for your husband; and I"ll take the best of care of everything, and the birds and the dogs, till you come back; and I"ll go and see you and Mary, if you"ll allow, in Derbyshire;" and so forth.
I got into the carriage, and bid Branston, who shut the door, good-bye, and kissed hands to Mrs. Rusk, who was smiling and drying her eyes and courtesying on the hall-door steps. The dogs, who had started gleefully with the carriage, were called back by Branston, and driven home, wondering and wistful, looking back with ears oddly c.o.c.ked and tails dejected. My heart thanked them for their kindness, and I felt like a stranger, and very desolate.
It was a bright, clear morning. It had been settled that it was not worth the trouble changing from the carriage to the railway for sake of five-and-twenty miles, and so the entire journey of sixty miles was to be made by the post road--the pleasantest travelling, if the mind were free.
The grander and more distant features of the landscape we may see well enough from the window of the railway-carriage; but it is the foreground that interests and instructs us, like a pleasant gossiping history; and _that_ we had, in old days, from the post-chaise window. It was more than travelling picquet. Something of all conditions of life--luxury and misery--high spirits and low;--all sorts of costume, livery, rags, millinery; faces buxom, faces wrinkled, faces kind, faces wicked;--no end of interest and suggestion, pa.s.sing in a procession silent and vivid, and all in their proper scenery. The golden corn-sheafs--the old dark-alleyed orchards, and the high streets of antique towns. There were few dreams brighter, few books so pleasant.
We drove by the dark wood--it always looked dark to me--where the "mausoleum" stands--where my dear parents both lay now. I gazed on its sombre ma.s.ses not with a softened feeling, but a peculiar sense of pain, and was glad when it was quite past.
All the morning I had not shed a tear. Good Mary Quince cried at leaving Knowl; Lady Knollys" eyes were not dry as she kissed and blessed me, and promised an early visit; and the dark, lean, energetic face of the housekeeper was quivering, and her cheeks wet, as I drove away. But I, whose grief was sorest, never shed a tear. I only looked about from one familiar object to another, pale, excited, not quite apprehending my departure, and wondering at my own composure.
But when we reached the old bridge, with the tall osiers standing by the b.u.t.tress, and looked back at poor Knowl--the places we love and are leaving look so fairy-like and so sad in the clear distance, and this is the finest view of the gabled old house, with its slanting meadow-lands and n.o.ble timber reposing in solemn groups--I gazed at the receding vision, and the tears came at last, and I wept in silence long after the fair picture was hidden from view by the intervening uplands.