"Maud!" called my Grandmother.
"Yes'm," replied a voice with amazing quickness. She had been listening. But she spoke from upstairs. "Yes'm, did you call me, m'm?"
At this moment the front door of the house was unmistakably opened and then closed again. Some one had gone out.
My Grandmother, an odd little figure in her nightcap and gown, looked very grave. "Get to bed, Maud," she called, "and you too, child."
After pondering a certain terrible suspicion in my mind for a few minutes, I fell asleep.
Next morning I shirked seeing Maud. I felt shamefaced for what I had said to her in the night and far more for the thing I had hardly dared to think. I got downstairs later than usual. The dining-room was dark, the blinds had not been drawn. I went into the kitchen; there were no signs of life, the fire had not been lit. I rushed upstairs to her bedroom and burst in without knocking; she was not there, the drawers of the bedroom chest were pulled out and emptied, her box had gone. She had run away.
Months later, I saw a well-dressed young woman in the street. The face was familiar. She was wheeling a baby's perambulator. She looked the other way.
Nothing was said to Aunt Jael, who theorized on Maud's mysterious departure, and declared that my Grandmother's cruel treatment had forced her to flee for her life. She cursed at Maud for an ingrate, though still fitfully maintaining that she was well worth five pounds, not to mention a new suit of clothes.
Maud's departure marked the beginning of a still more miserable period at Bear Lawn. We were unable for some time to get another servant, and though Sister Briggs came in twice a week to help, there was more than enough work for Grandmother and me, especially as it was term-time. I had to get up at half past five, light the kitchen fire, sweep the rooms, and help Grandmother with the breakfast. I had to cook, sew, dust, do my homework, and dance continual attendance on Aunt Jael. I was wretched, but too hard driven to mope overmuch. Grandmother and I worked early and late, earning nothing but abuse from Aunt Jael, who now ceased to do any work whatever, even to help with the cooking or to carve at table. Her temper became more ungovernable, her abuse more outrageous. All her life she had had a certain dignity—harsh, unlovely, but still dignity—an august presence, a majesty in evil. There was little trace of majesty or dignity in the nagging old shrew she was becoming now. If you get into a pet because the sprouts are undercooked, hurl the vegetable-dish on the floor, tread the sprouts into the carpet, cry "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" ("Brussels to Brussels" would have been apter), wave the spoon with rage, and gurgle like a stuck pig, you may be many many things, but dignified, no. This was an almost daily experience.
In the middle of this period came her eightieth birthday. There was no jubilee.