Mary, is it gone — is it gone? Is there nothing there?” cried I, rushing to the window; and turning to Madame, after a vain straining of my eyes, my face against the glass —
“Oh, cruel, cruel, wicked woman! why have you done this? What was it to you? Why do you persecute me? What good can you gain by my ruin?”
“Rueen! Par bleu! ma chère, you talk too fast. Did not a you see it, Mary Queence? It was the doctor’s carriage, and Mrs. Jolks, and that eempudent faylow, young Jolks, staring up to the window, and Mademoiselle she come in soche shocking déshabille to show herself knocking at the window. ‘Twould be very nice thing, Mary Queence, don’t you think?”
I was sitting now on the bedside, crying in mere despair. I did not care to dispute or to resist. Oh! why had rescue come so near, only to prove that it could not reach me? So I went on crying, with a clasping of my hands and turning up of my eyes, in incoherent prayer. I was not thinking of Madame, or of Mary Quince, or any other person, only babbling my anguish and despair helplessly in the ear of heaven.
“I did not think there was soche fool. Wat enfant gaté! My dear cheaile, wat a can you mean by soche strange language and conduct? Wat for should a you weesh to display yourself in the window in soche ‘orrible déshabille to the people in the doctor’s coach?”
“It was Cousin Knollys — Cousin Knollys. Oh, Cousin Knollys! You’re gone — you’re gone — you’re gone!”
“And if it was Lady Knollys’ coach, there was certainly a coachman and a footman; and whoever has the coach there was young gentlemen in it. If it was Lady Knollys’ carriage it would ‘av been worse than the doctor.”
“It is no matter — it is all over. Oh, Cousin Monica, your poor Maud — where is she to turn? Is there no help?”
That evening Madame visited me again, in one of her sedate and moral moods. She found me dejected and passive, as she had left me.
“I think, Maud, there is news; but I am not certain.”
I raised my head and looked at her wistfully.
“I think there is a letter of bad news from the attorney in London.”
“Oh!” I said, in a tone which I am sure implied the absolute indifference of dejection.
“But, my dear Maud, if ‘t be so, we shall go at once, you and me, to join Meess Millicent in France. La belle France! You weel like so moche! We shall be so gay. You cannot imagine there are such naice girl there. They all love a me so moche, you will be delight.”
“How 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?”