On the contrary, her wide mouth was drawn down at the corners ruefully, as before, and she gazed on my face with a scowl from her abysmal eyes.
I used to think the flare of that irony which lighted her face so often immeasurably worse than any other expression she could assume; but this lack-lustre stare and dismal collapse of feature was more wicked still.
“Suppose I should bring you to Lady Knollys, and place you in her charge, what would a you do then for poor Madame?” said this dark spectre.
I was inwardly startled at these words. I looked into her unsearchable face, but could draw thence nothing but fear. Had she made the same overture only two days since, I think I would have offered her half my fortune. But circumstances were altered. I was no longer in the panic of despair. The lesson I had received from Tom Brice was fresh in my mind, and my profound distrust of her was uppermost. I saw before me only a tempter and betrayer, and said —
“Do you mean to imply, Madame, that my guardian is not to be trusted, and that I ought to make my escape from him, and that you are really willing to aid me in doing so?”
This, you see, was turning the tables upon her. I looked her steadily in the face as I spoke. She returned by gaze with a strange stare and a gape, which haunted me long after; and it seemed as we sat in utter silence that each was rather horribly fascinated by the other’s gaze.
At last she shut her mouth sternly, and eyed me with a more determined and meaning scowl, and then said in a low tone —
“I believe, Maud, that you are a cunning and wicked little thing.”
“Wisdom is not cunning, Madame; nor is it wicked to ask your meaning in explicit language,” I replied.
“And so, you clever cheaile, we two sit here, playing at a game of chess, over this little table, to decide which shall destroy the other — is it not so?”
“I will not allow you to destroy me,” I retorted, with a sudden flash.
Madame stood up, and rubbed her mouth with her open hand. She looked to me like some evil being seen in a dream. I was frightened.
“You are going to hurt me!” I ejaculated, scarce knowing what I said.
“If I were, you deserve it. You are very malicious, ma chêre: or, it may be, only very stupid.”
A knock came to the door.
“Come in,” I cried, with a glad sense of relief.
A maid entered.
“A letter, please, ‘m,” she said, handing it to me.
“For me,” snarled Madame, snatching it.
I had seen my uncle’s hand, and the Feltram post-mark.
Madame broke the seal, and read. It seemed but a word, for she turned it about after the first momentary glance, and examined the interior of the envelope, and then returned to the line she had already read.
She folded the letter again, drawing her nails in a sharp pinch along the creases, as she stared in a blank, hesitating way at me.
“You are stupid little ingrate. I am employ by Monsieur Ruthyn, and of course I am faithful to my employer. I do not want to talk to you. There, you may read that.”
She jerked the letter before me on the table. It contained but these words:—
Bartram–Haugh: “30th January, 1845.
“MY DEAR MADAME,
“Be so good as to take the half-past eight o’clock train to Dover to-night. Beds are prepared. — Yours very truly,
SILAS RUTHYN.”
I cannot say what it was in this short advice that struck me with fear. Was it the thick line beneath the word “Dover,” that was so uncalled for, and gave me a faint but terrible sense of something preconcerted?
I said to Madame —
“Why is ‘Dover’ underlined?”
“I do not know, little fool, no more than you. How can I tell what is passing in your oncle’s head when he make that a mark?”
“Has it not a meaning, Madame?”
“How can you talk like that?” she answered, more in her old way. “You are either mocking of me, or you are becoming truly a fool!”
She rang the bell, called for our bill, saw our hostess; while I made a few hasty preparations in my room.
“You need not look after the trunks — they will follow us all right. Let us go, cheaile — we ‘av half an hour only to reach the train.”
No one ever fussed like Madame when occasion offered. There was a cab at the door, into which she hurried me. I assumed that she would give all needful directions, and leaned back, very weary and sleepy already, though it was so early, listening to her farewell screamed from the cab-step, and seeing her black cloak flitting and flapping this way and that, like the wings of a raven disturbed over its preay.
In she got, and away we drove through a glare of lamps, and shop-windows, still open; gas everywhere, and cabs, busses, and carriages, still thundering through the streets. I was too tired and too depressed to look at those things. Madame, on the contrary, had her head out of the window till we reached the station.
“Where are the rest of the boxes?” I asked, as Madame placed me in charge of her box and my bag in the office of the terminus.
“They will follow with Boots in another cab, and will come safe with us in this train. Mind those two, we weel bring in the carriage with us.”
So into a carriage we got; in came Madame’s box and my bag; Madame stood at the door, and, I think, frightened away intending passengers, by her size and shrillness.
At last the bell rang her into her place, the door clapt, the whistle sounded, and we were off.
Chapter 61.
Our Bed-Chamber
I HAD PASSED a miserable night, and, indeed, for many nights had not had my due proportion of sleep. Still I sometimes fancy that I may have swallowed something in my tea that helped to make me so irresistibly drowsy. It was a very dark night — no moon, and the stars soon hid by the gathering clouds. Madame sat silent, and ruminating in her place, with her rugs about her. I, in my corner similarly enveloped, tried to keep awake. Madame plainly thought I was asleep already, for she stole a leather flask from her pocket, and applied it to her lips, causing an aroma of brandy.
But it was vain struggling against the influence that was stealing over me, and I was soon in a profound and dreamless slumber.
Madame awoke me at last, in a huge fuss. She got out all our things and hurried them away to a close carriage which was awaiting us. It was still dark and starless. We got along the platform, I half asleep, the porter carrying our rugs, by the glare of a pair of gas-jets in the wall, and out by a small door at the end.
I remember that Madame, contrary to her wont, gave the man some money. By the puzzling light of the carriage-lamps we got in and took our seats.
“Go on,” screamed Madame, and drew up the window with a great chuck; and we were enclosed in darkness and silence, the most favourable conditions for thought.
My sleep had not restored me as it might; I felt feverish, fatigued, and still very drowsy, though unable to sleep as I had done.
I dozed by fits and starts, and lay awake, or half-awake, sometimes, not thinking but in a way imagining what kind of a place Dover would be; but too tired and listless to ask Madame any questions, and merely seeing the hedges, grey in the lamplight, glide backward into darkness, as I leaned back.
We turned off the