soon do we go?” I asked.
“I do not know. Bote I was to bring in a case of eau de cologne that came this evening, and he laid down a letter and say:—‘The blow has descended, Madame! My niece must hold herself in readiness.’ I said, ‘For what, Monsieur?’ twice; bote he did not answer. I am sure it is un procés. They ‘av ruin him. Eh bien, my dear. I suppose we shall leave this triste place immediately. I am so rejoice. It appears to me un cimitière!”
“Yes, I should like to leave it,” I said, sitting up, with a great sigh and sunken eyes. It seemed to me that I had quite lost all sense of resentment towards Madame. A debility of feeling had supervened — the fatigue, I suppose, and prostration of the passions.
“I weel make excuse to go into his room again,” said Madame; “and I weel endeavor to learn something more from him, and I weel come back again to you in half an hour.”
She departed. But in half an hour did not return. I had a dull longing to leave Bartram–Haugh. For me, since the departure of poor Milly, it had grown like the haunt of evil spirits, and to escape on any terms from it was a blessing unspeakable.
Another half-hour passed, and another, and I grew insufferably feverish. I sent Mary Quince to the lobby to try and see Madame, who, I feared, was probably to-ing and fro-ing in and out of Uncle Silas’s room.
Mary returned to tell me that she had seen old Wyat, who told her that she thought Madame had gone to her bed half an hour before.
Chapter 59.
A Sudden Departure
“MARY,” said I, “I am miserably anxious to hear what Madame may have to tell; she knows the state I am in, and she would not like so much trouble as to look in my door to say a word. Did you hear what she told me?”
“No, Miss Maud,” she answered, rising and drawing near.
“She thinks we are going to France immediately, and to leave this place perhaps for ever.”
“Heaven be praised for that, if it be so, Miss!” said Mary, with more energy than was common with her, “for there is no luck about it, and I don’t expect to see you ever well or happy in it.”
“You must take your candle, Mary, and make out her room, upstairs; I found it accidentally myself one evening.”
“But Wyat won’t let us upstairs.”
“Don’t mind her, Mary; I tell you to go. You must try. I can’t sleep till we hear.”
“What direction is her room in, Miss?” asked Mary.
“Somewhere in that direction, Mary,” I answered, pointing. “I cannot describe the turns; but I think you will find it if you go along the great passage to your left, on getting to the top of the stairs, till you come to the cross-galleries, and then turn to your left; and when you have passed four or perhaps five doors, you must be very near it, and I am sure she will hear if you call.”
“But will she tell me — she is such a rum un, Miss?” suggested Mary.
Tell her exactly what I have said to you, and when she learns that you already know as much as I do, she may — unless, indeed, she wishes to torture me. If she won’t, perhaps at least you can persuade her to come to me for a moment. Try, dear Mary; we can but fail.”
“Will you be very lonely, Miss, while I am away?” asked Mary, uneasily, as she lighted her candle.
“I can’t help it, Mary. Go. I think if I heard we were going, I could almost get up and dance and sing. I can’t bear this dreadful uncertainty any longer.”
“If old Wyat is outside, I’ll come back and wait here a bit, till she’s out o’ the way,” said Mary; “and, anyhow, I’ll make all the haste I can. The drops and the sal-volatile is here, Miss, by your hand.”
And with an anxious look at me, she made her exit, softly, and did not immediately return, by which I concluded that she had found the way clear, and had gained the upper story without interruption.
This little anxiety ended, its subsidence was followed by a sense of loneliness, and with it, of vague insecurity, which increased at last to such a pitch, that I wondered at my own madness in sending my companion away; and at last my terrors so grew, that I drew back into the farthest corner of the bed, with my shoulders to the wall, and my bed-clothes huddled about me, with only a point open to peep at.
At last the door opened gently.
“Who’s there?” I cried, in extremity of horror, expecting I knew not whom.
“Me, Miss,” whispered Mary Quince, to my unutterable relief; and with her candle flared, and a wild and pallid face, Mary Quince glided into the room, locking the door as she entered.
I do not know how it was, but I found myself holding Mary fast with both my hands as we stood side by side on the floor.
“Mary, you are terrified; for God’s sake, what is the matter?” I cried.
“No, Miss,” said Mary, faintly, “not much.”
“I see it in your face. What is it?”
“Let me sit down, Miss. I’ll tell you what I saw; only I’m just a little bit queerish.”
Mary sat down by my bed.
“Get in, Miss; you’ll take cold. Get into bed, and I’ll tell you. It is not much.”
I did get into bed, and gazing on Mary’s frightened face, I felt a corresponding horror.
“For mercy’s sake, Mary, say what it is?”
So again assuring me, “it was not much,” she gave me in a somewhat diffuse and tangled narrative the following facts:—
On closing my door, she raised her candle above her head and surveyed the lobby, and seeing no one there she ascended the stairs swiftly. She passed along the great gallery to the left, and paused a moment at a cross gallery, and then recollected my directions clearly, and followed the passage to the right.
There are doors at each side, and she had forgotten to ask me at which Madame’s was. She opened several. In one room she was frightened by a bat, which had very nearly put her candle out. She went on a little, paused, and began to lose heart in the dismal solitude, when on a sudden, a few doors farther on, she thought she heard Madame’s voice.
She said that she knocked at the door, but receiving no answer, and hearing Madame still talking within, she opened it.
There was a candle on the chimneypiece, and another in a stable lantern near the window. Madame was conversing volubly on the hearth, with her face toward the window, the entire frame of which had been taken from its place: Dickon Hawkes, the Zamiel of the wooden leg, was supporting it with one hand, as it leaned imperfectly against the angle of the recess. There was a third figure standing, buttoned up in a surtout, with a bundle of tools under his arm, like a glazier, and, with a silent thrill of fear, she distinctly recognised the features as those of Dudley Ruthyn.
“’Twas him, Miss, so sure as I sit here! Well, like that, they were as mute as mice; three pairs of eyes were on me. I don’t know what made me so study like, but som’at told me I should not make as though I knew any but Madame; and so I made a courtesy, as well as I could, and I said, ‘Might I speak a word wi’ ye, please, on the lobby?’
“Mr. Dudley was making belief be this time to look out the window, wi’ his back to me, and I kept looking straight on Madame, and she said, ‘They’re mendin’ my broken glass, Mary,’ walking between them and me, and coming close up to me very quick; and so she marched me backward out o’ the door, prating all the time.
“When we were on the lobby, she took my candle from my hand, shutting