“The Mother-superior would never consent to keep me.”
“Then leave here at once,” Ralph suggested.
“How?”
He pointed to the door in the wall of the next terrace and waved towards the forest.
“Go? Run away from the convent as though I were guilty?” she cried in protesting accents. “No. It would cause these poor women, who love me as a daughter too much sorrow. Never will I do that!”
Feebly she sank down on a stone bench under the opposite parapet. Ralph crossed the terrace to her and said gravely:
“I have made a bad mistake in letting myself be distracted from the task I have set myself of protecting you. I ought to have remained as distrustful as I was at the beginning and advised you, urged you rather, to go away from here. From the very first I was sure [[141]]that it was necessary. But the pleasure of being here, of seeing you every day—no, no: don’t run away. I’m not going to say anything that will upset you; I’m not going to tell you how I feel towards you, or the reasons which make me treat you as I do. But all the same you must quite understand that I am devoted to you as a man is devoted to a woman whom—who is so much to him—and it is necessary that my devotion should give you absolute confidence in me and that you should be ready to obey me blindly. It is the one condition of safety for you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said, wholly dominated.
“Then listen. These are my instructions—my orders—yes: my orders. Welcome your step-father peaceably. Don’t quarrel with him. Don’t even talk to him—not a word. It’s the best way of avoiding mistakes. Go with him. Return to Paris. On the very evening of your arrival get out of the house on some pretext or other. A gray-haired old lady will be waiting for you in a car, twenty yards from your door. I will drive both of you away into the country to a hiding-place in which no one will find you. And I will go away at once, I give you my word, and stay away from you till you tell me to come back. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” she said and bowed her head.