J. S. Le Fanu, Uncle Silas (1864) - Chaps. LVI

Chapter LVI: I Conspire
‘That’s a bad un, he is - oh, Miss, Miss Maud! It’s nout that’s good as keeps him an’ fayther - (mind, lass, ye promised you would not tell no one) - as keeps them two a-talkin’ and a-smokin’ secret-like together in the mill. An’ fayther don’t know I found him out. They don’t let me into the town, but Brice tells me, and he knows it’s Dudley; and it’s nout that’s good, but summat very bad. An’ I reckon, Miss, it’s all about you. Be ye frightened, Miss Maud?’
 I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied.
 ‘Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven’s sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is here?’
 ‘Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o’clock to nigh one o’ Tuesday night, an’ went in and come out like thieves, ‘feard ye’d see ‘em.’
 ‘And how does Brice know anything bad?’ I asked, with a strange freezing sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again - I am sure deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.
 ‘Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin’ and lookin’ awful black, and says he to fayther, ’Tisn’t in my line nohow, an’ I can’t; and says fayther to he, No one likes they soart o’ things, but how can ye help it? The old boy’s behind ye wi’ his pitchfork, and ye canna stop. An’ wi’ that he bethought him o’ Brice, and says he, What be ye a-doin’ there? Get ye down wi’ the nags to blacksmith, do ye. An’ oop gits Dudley, pullin’ his hat ower his brows, an’ says he, I wish I was in the Seamew. I’m good for nout wi’ this thing a-hangin’ ower me. An’ that’s all as Brice heard. An’ he’s afeard o’ fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could lick him to pot if he crossed him, and he and fayther ‘ud think nout o’ havin’ him afore the justices for poachin’, and swearin’ him into gaol.’
 ‘But why does he think it’s about me?’
 ‘Hish!’ said Meg, who fancied she heard a sound, but all was quiet. ‘I can’t say - we’re in danger, lass. I don’t know why - but he does, an’ so do I, an’, for that matter, so do ye.’
 ‘Meg, I’ll leave Bartram.’
 ‘Ye can’t.’
 ‘Can’t. What do you mean, girl?’
 ‘They won’t let ye oot. The gates is all locked. They’ve dogs - they’ve bloodhounds, Brice says. Ye can’t git oot, mind; put that oot o’ your head.
 ‘I tell ye what ye’ll do. Write a bit o’ a note to the lady yonder at Elverston; an’ though Brice be a wild fellah, and ‘appen not ower good sometimes, he likes me, an’ I’ll make him take it. Fayther will be grindin’ at mill to-morrow. Coom ye here about one o’clock - that’s if ye see the mill-sails a-turnin’ - and me and Brice will meet ye here. Bring that old lass wi’ ye. There’s an old French un, though, that talks wi’ Dudley. Mind ye, that un knows nout o’ the matter. Brice be a kind lad to me, whatsoe’er he be wi’ others, and I think he won’t split. Now, lass, I must go. God help ye; God bless ye; an’, for the world’s wealth, don’t ye let one o’ them see ye’ve got ought in your head, not even that un.’
 Before I could say another word, the girl had glided from me, with a wild gesture of silence, and a shake of her head.
 I can’t at all account for the state in which I was. There are resources both of energy and endurance in human nature which we never suspect until the tremendous voice of necessity summons them into play. Petrified with a totally new horror, but with something of the coldness and impassiveness of the transformation, I stood, spoke, and acted - a wonder, almost a terror, to myself.
 I met Madame on my return as if nothing had happened. I heard her ugly gabble, and looked at the fruits of her hour’s shopping, as I might hear, and see, and talk, and smile, in a dream.
 But the night was dreadful. When Mary Quince and I were alone, I locked the door. I continued walking up and down the room, with my hands clasped, looking at the inexorable floor, the walls, the ceiling, with a sort of imploring despair. I was afraid to tell my dear old Mary. The least indiscretion would be failure, and failure destruction.
 I answered her perplexed solicitudes by telling her that I was not very well - that I was uneasy; but I did not fail to extract from her a promise that she would not hint to mortal, either my suspicions about Dudley, or our rencontre with Meg Hawkes.
 I remember how, when, after we had got, late at night, into bed, I sat up, shivering with horror, in mine, while honest Mary’s tranquil breathing told how soundly she slept. I got up, and looked from the window, expecting to see some of those wolfish dogs which they had brought to the place prowling about the court-yard. Sometimes I prayed, and felt tranquillised, and fancied that I was perhaps to have a short interval of sleep. But the serenity was delusive, and all the time my nerves were strung hysterically. Sometimes I felt quite wild, and on the point of screaming. At length that dreadful night passed away. Morning came, and a less morbid, though hardly a less terrible state of mind. Madame paid me an early visit. A thought struck me. I knew that she loved shopping, and I said, quite carelessly -
 ‘Your yesterday’s shopping tempts me, Madame, and I must get a few things before we leave for France. Suppose we go into Feltram to-day, and make my purchases, you and I?’
 She looked from the corner of her cunning eye in my face without answering. I did not blench, and she said -
 ‘Vary good. I would be vary ‘appy,’ and again she looked oddly at me.
 ‘Wat hour, my dear Maud? One o’clock? I think that weel de very well, eh?’
 I assented, and she grew silent.
 I wonder whether I did look as careless as I tried. I do not know. Through the whole of this awful period I was, I think, supernatural; and I even now look back with wonder upon my strange self-command.
 Madame, I hoped, had heard nothing of the order which prohibited my exit from the place. She would herself conduct me to Feltram, and secure, by accompanying me, my free egress.
 Once in Feltram, I would assert my freedom, and manage to reach my dear cousin Knollys. Back to Bartram no power should convey me. My heart swelled and fluttered in the awful suspense of that hour.
 Oh, Bartram-Haugh! how came you by those lofty walls? Which of my ancestors had begirt me with an impassable barrier in this horrible strait?
 Suddenly I remembered my letter to Lady Knollys. If I were disappointed in effecting my escape through Feltram, all would depend upon it.
 Having locked my door, I wrote as follows: -
 ‘Oh, my beloved cousin, as you hope for comfort in your hour of fear, aid me now. Dudley has returned, and is secreted somewhere about the grounds. It is a fraud. They all pretend to me that he is gone away in the Seamew; and he or they had his name published as one of the passengers. Madame de la Rougierre has appeared! She is here, and my uncle insists on making her my close companion. I am at my wits’ ends. I cannot escape - the walls are a prison; and I believe the eyes of my gaolers are always upon me. Dogs are kept for pursuit - yes, dogs! and the gates are locked against my escape. God help me! I don’t know where to look, or whom to trust. I fear my uncle more than all. I think I could bear this better if I knew what their plans are, even the worst. If ever you loved or pitied me, dear cousin, I conjure you, help me in this extremity. Take me away from this. Oh, darling, for God’s sake take me away!
 ‘Your distracted and terrified cousin,
 MAUD’
 ‘Bartram-Haugh.’
 I sealed this letter jealously, as if the inanimate missive would burst its cerements, and proclaim my desperate appeal through all the chambers and passages of silent Bartram.
 Old Quince, greatly to cousin Monica’s amusement, persisted in furnishing me with those capacious pockets which belonged to a former generation. I was glad of this old-world eccentricity now, and placed my guilty letter, that, amidst all my hypocrisies, spoke out with terrible frankness, deep in this receptacle, and having hid away the pen and ink, my accomplices, I opened the door, and resumed my careless looks, awaiting Madame’s return.
 ‘I was to demand to Mr. Ruthyn the permission to go to Feltram, and I think he will allow. He want to speak to you.’
 With Madame I entered my uncle’s room. He was reclining on a sofa, his back towards us, and his long white hair, as fine as spun glass, hung over the back of the couch.
 ‘I was going to ask you, dear Maud, to execute two or three little commissions for me in Feltram.’
 My dreadful letter felt lighter in my pocket, and my heart beat violently.
 ‘But I have just recollected that this is a market-day, and Feltram will be full of doubtful characters and tipsy persons, so we must wait till to-morrow; and Madame says, very kindly, that she will, as she does not so much mind, make any little purchases to-day which cannot conveniently wait.’
 Madame assented with a courtesy to Uncle Silas, and a great hollow smile to me.
 By this time Uncle Silas had raised himself from his reclining posture, and was sitting, gaunt and white, upon the sofa.
 ‘News of my prodigal to-day,’ he said, with a peevish smile, drawing the newspaper towards him. ‘The vessel has been spoken again. How many miles away, do you suppose?’
 He spoke in a plaintive key, looking at me, with hungry eyes, and a horribly smiling countenance.
 ‘How far do you suppose Dudley is to-day?’ and he laid the palm of his hand on the paragraph as he spoke. Guess!’
 For a moment I fancied this was a theatric preparation to give point to the disclosure of Dudley’s real whereabouts.
 ‘It was a very long way. Guess!’ he repeated.
 So, stammering a little and pale, I performed the required hypocrisy, after which my uncle read aloud for my benefit the line or two in which were recorded the event, and the latitude and longitude of the vessel at the time, of which Madame made a note in her memory, for the purpose of making her usual tracing in poor Milly’s Atlas.
 I cannot say how it really was, but I fancied that Uncle Silas was all the time reading my countenance, with a grim and practised scrutiny; but nothing came of it, and we were dismissed.
 Madame loved shopping, even for its own sake, but shopping with opportunities of peculation still more. She she had had her luncheon, and was dressed for the excursion, she did precisely what I now most desired - she proposed to take charge of my commissions and my money; and thus entrusted, left me at liberty to keep tryst at the Chestnut Hollow.
 So soon as I had seen Madame fairly off, I hurried Mary Quince, and got my things on quickly. We left the house by the side entrance, which I knew my uncle’s windows did not command. Glad was I to feel a slight breeze, enough to make the mill-sails revolve; and as we got further into the grounds, and obtained a distant view of the picturesque old windmill, I felt inexpressibly relieved on seeing that it was actually working.
 We were now in the Chestnut Hollow, and I sent Mary Quince to her old point of observation, which commanded a view of the path in the direction of the Windmill Wood, with her former order to call ‘I’ve found it,’ as loudly as she could, in case she should see anyone approaching.
 I stopped at the point of our yesterday’s meeting. I peered under the branches, and my heart beat fast as I saw Meg Hawkes awaiting me.

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Chapter LVII: The Letter
 ‘Come away, lass,’ whispered Beauty, very pale; ‘he’s here - Tom Brice.’
 And she led the way, shoving aside the leafless underwood, and we reached Tom. The slender youth, groom or poacher - he might answer for either - with his short coat and gaitered legs, was sitting on a low horizontal bough, with his shoulder against the trunk.
 ‘Don’t ye mind; sit ye still, lad,’ said Meg, observing that he was preparing to rise, and had entangled his hat in the boughs. ‘Sit ye still, and hark to the lady. He’ll take it, Miss Maud, if he can; wi’ na ye, lad?’
 ‘E’es, I’ll take it,’ he replied, holding out his hand.
 ‘Tom Brice, you won’t deceive me?’
 ‘Noa, sure,’ said Tom and Meg nearly in the same breath.
 ‘You are an honest English lad, Tom - you would not betray me?’ I was speaking imploringly.
 ‘Noa, sure,’ repeated Tom.
 There was something a little unsatisfactory in the countenance of this light-haired youth, with the sharpish up-turned nose. Throughout our interview he said next to nothing, and smiled lazily to himself, like a man listening to a child’s solemn nonsense, and leading it on, with an amused irony, from one wise sally to another.
 Thus it seemed to me that this young clown, without in the least intending to be offensive, was listening to me with a profound and lazy mockery.
 I could not choose, however; and, such as he was, I must employ him or none.
 ‘Now, Tom Brice, a great deal depends on this.’
 ‘That’s true for her, Tom Brice,’ said Meg, who now and then confirmed my asseverations.
 ‘I’ll give you a pound now, Tom,’ and I placed the coin and the letter together in his hand. ‘And you are to give this letter to Lady Knollys, at Elverston; you know Elverston, don’t you?’
 ‘He does, Miss. Don’t ye, lad?’
 ‘E’es.’
 ‘Well, do so, Tom, and I’ll be good to you so long as I live.’
 ‘D’ye hear, lad?’
 ‘E’es,’ said Tom; ‘it’s very good.’
 ‘You’ll take the letter, Tom? ‘I said, in much greater trepidation as to his answer than I showed.
 ‘E’es, I’ll take the letter,’ said he, rising, and turning it about in his fingers under his eye, like a curiosity.
 ‘Tom Brice,’ I said, ‘If you can’t be true to me, say so; but don’t take the letter except to give it to Lady Knollys, at Elverston. If you won’t promise that, let me have the note back. Keep the pound; but tell me that you won’t mention my having asked you to carry a letter to Elverston to anyone.’
 For the first time Tom looked perfectly serious. He twiddled the corner of my letter between his finger and thumb, and wore very much the countenance of a poacher about to be committed.
 ‘I don’t want to chouce ye, Miss; but I must take care o’ myself, ye see. The letters goes all through Silas’s fingers to the post, and he’d know damn well this worn’t among ‘em. They do say he opens ‘em, and reads ‘em before they go; an’ that’s his diversion. I don’t know; but I do believe that’s how it be; an’ if this one turned up, they’d all know it went be hand, and I’d be spotted for’t.’
 ‘But you know who I am, Tom, and I’d save you,’ said I, eagerly.
 ‘Ye’d want savin’ yerself, I’m thinkin’, if that feel oot,’ said Tom, cynically. ‘I don’t say, though, I’ll not take it - only this - I won’t run my head again a wall for no one.’
 ‘Tom,’ I said, with a sudden inspiration, ‘give me back the letter, and take me out of Bartram; take me to Elverston; it will be the best thing - for you, Tom, I mean - it will indeed - that ever befell you.’
 With this clown I was pleading, as for my life; my hand was on his sleeve. I was gazing imploringly in his face.
 But it would not do; Tom Brice looked amused again, swung his head a little on one side, grinning sheepishly over his shoulder on the roots of the trees beside him, as if he were striving to keep himself from an uncivil fit of laughter.
 ‘I’ll do what a wise lad may, Miss; but ye don’t know they lads; they bain’t that easy come over; and I won’t get knocked on the head, nor sent to gaol ‘appen, for no good to thee nor me. There’s Meg there, she knows well enough I could na’ manage that; so I won’t try it, Miss, by no chance; no offence, Miss; but I’d rayther not, an’ I’ll just try what I can make o’this; that’s all I can do for ye.’
 Tom Brice, with these words, stood up, and looked uneasily in the direction of the Windmill Wood.
 ‘Mind ye, Miss, coom what will, ye’ll not tell o’ me?’
 ‘Whar ‘ill ye go now, Tom?’ inquired Meg, uneasily.
 ‘Never ye mind, lass,’ answered he, breaking his way through the thicket, and soon disappearing.
 ‘E’es that ‘ill be it - he’ll git into the sheepwalk behind the mound. They’re all down yonder; git ye back, Miss, to the hoose - be the side-door; mind ye, don’t go round the corner; and I’ll jest sit awhile among the bushes, and wait a good time for a start. And good-bye, Miss; and don’t ye show like as if there was aught out o’ common on your mind. Hish!’
 There was a distant hallooing.
 ‘That be fayther!’ she whispered, with a very blank countenance, and listened with her sunburnt hand to her ear.
 ‘Tisn’t me, only Davy he’ll be callin’,’ she said, with a great sigh, and a joyless smile. ‘Now git ye away i’ God’s name.’
 So running lightly along the path, under cover of this thick wood, I recalled Mary Quince, and together we hastened back again to the house, and entered, as directed, by the side-door, which did not expose us to be seen from the Windmill Wood, and, like two criminals, we stole up by the backstairs, and so through the side-gallery to my room; and there sat down to collect my wits, and try to estimate the exact effect of what had just occurred.
 Madame had not returned. That was well; she always visited my room first, and everything was precisely as I had left it - a certain sign that her prying eyes and busy fingers had not been at work during my absence.
 When she did appear, strange to say, it was to bring me unexpected comfort. She had in her hand a letter from my dear Lady Knollys - a gleam of sunlight from the free and happy outer world entered with it. The moment Madame left me to myself, I opened it and read as follows: -
 ‘I am so happy, my dearest Maud, in the immediate prospect of seeing you. I have had a really kind letter from poor Silas - poor I say, for I really compassionate his situation, about which he has been, I do believe, quite frank - at least Ilbury says so, and somehow he happens to know. I have had quite an affecting, changed letter. I will tell you all when I see you. He wants me ultimately to undertake that which would afford me the most unmixed happiness - I mean the care of you, my dear girl. I only fear lest my too eager acceptance of the trust should excite that vein of opposition which is in most human beings, and induce him to think over his offer less favourably again. He says I must come to Bartram, and stay a night, and promises to lodge me comfortably; about which last I honestly do not care a pin, when the chance of a comfortable evening’s gossip with you is in view. Silas explains his sad situation, and must hold himself in readiness for early flight, if he would avoid the risk of losing his personal liberty. It is a sad thing that he should have so irretrievably ruined himself, that poor Austin’s liberality seems to have positively precipitated his extremity. His great anxiety is that I should see you before you leave for your short stay in France. He thinks you must leave before a fortnight. I am thinking of asking you to come over here; I know you would be just as well at Elverston as in France; but perhaps, as he seems disposed to do what we all wish, it may be safer to let him set about it in his own way. The truth is, I have so set my heart upon it that I fear to risk it by crossing him even in a trifle. He says I must fix an early day next week, and talks as if he meant to urge me to make a longer visit than he defined. I shall be only too happy. I begin, my dear Maud, to think that there is no use in trying to control events, and that things often turn out best, and most exactly to our wishes, by being left quite to themselves. I think it was Talleyrand who praised the talent of waiting so much. In high spirits, and with my head brimful of plans, I remain, dearest Maud, ever your affectionate cousin,
 MONICA.’
 Here was an inexplicable puzzle! A faint radiance of hope, however, began to overspread a landscape only a few minutes before darkened by total eclipse; but construct what theory I might, all were inconsistent with many well-established and awful incongruities, and their wrecks lay strown over the troubled waters of the gulf into which I gazed.
 Why was Madame here? Why was Dudley concealed about the place? Why was I a prisoner within the walls? What were those dangers which Meg Hawkes seemed to think so great and so imminent as to induce her to risk her lover’s safety for my deliverance? All these menacing facts stood grouped together against the dark certainty that never were men more deeply interested in making away with one human being, than were Uncle Silas and Dudley in removing me.
 Sometimes to these dreadful evidences I abandoned my soul. Sometimes, reading Cousin Monica’s sunny letter, the sky would clear, and my terrors melt away like nightmares in the morning. I never repented, however, that I had sent my letter by Tom Brice. Escape from Bartram-Haugh was my hourly longing.
 That evening Madame invited herself to tea with me. I did not object. It was better just then to be on friendly relations with everybody, if possible, even on their own terms. She was in one of her boisterous and hilarious moods, and there was a perfume of brandy.
 She narrated some compliments paid her that morning in Feltram by that ‘good crayature’ Mrs. Litheways, the silk-mercer, and what ‘’ansom faylow’ was her new foreman - (she intended plainly that I should ‘queez’ her) - and how ‘he follow’ her with his eyes wherever she went. I thought, perhaps, he fancied she might pocket some of his lace or gloves. And all the time her great wicked eyes were rolling and glancing according to her ideas of fascination, and her bony face grinning and flaming with the ‘strong drink’ in which she delighted. She sang twaddling chansons, and being, as was her wont under such exhilarating influences, in a vapouring mood, she vowed that I should have my carriage and horses immediately.
 ‘I weel try what I can do weeth your Uncle Silas. We are very good old friends, Mr. Ruthyn and I,’ she said with a leer which I did not understand, and which yet frightened me.
 I never could quite understand why these Jezebels like to insinuate the dreadful truth against themselves; but they do. Is it the spirit of feminine triumph overcoming feminine shame, and making them vaunt their fall as an evidence of bygone fascination and existing power? Need we wonder? Have not women preferred hatred to indifference, and the reputation of witchcraft, with all its penalties, to absolute insignificance? Thus, as they enjoyed the fear inspired among simple neighbours by their imagined traffic with the father of ill, did Madame, I think, relish with a cynical vainglory the suspicion of her satanic superiority.
 Next morning Uncle Silas sent for me. He was seated at his table, and spoke his little French greeting, smiling as usual, pointing to a chair opposite.
 ‘How far, I forget,’ he said, carelessly laying his newspaper on the table, ‘did you yesterday guess Dudley to be?’
 ‘Eleven hundred miles I thought it was.’
 ‘Oh yes, so it was;’ and then there was an abstracted pause. ‘I have been writing to Lord Ilbury, your trustee,’ he resumed. I ventured to say, my dear Maud - (for having thoughts of a different arrangement for you, more suitable under my distressing circumstances, I do not wish to vacate without some expression of your estimate of my treatment of you while under my roof) - I ventured to say that you thought me kind, considerate, indulgent, - may I say so?’
 I assented. What could I say?
 ‘I said you had enjoyed our poor way of living here - our rough ways and liberty. Was I right?’
 Again I assented.
 ‘And, in fact, that you had nothing to object against your poor old uncle, except indeed his poverty, which you forgave. I think I said truth. Did I, dear Maud?’
 Again I acquiesced.
 All this time he was fumbling among the papers in his coatpocket.
 ‘That is satisfactory. So I expected you to say,’ he murmured. ‘I expected no less.’
 On a sudden a frightful change spread across his face. He rose like a spectre with a white scowl.
 ‘Then how do you account for that?’ he shrieked in a voice of thunder, and smiting my open letter to Lady Knollys, face upward, upon the table.
 I stared at my uncle, unable to speak, until I seemed to lose sight of him; but his voice, like a bell, still yelled in my ears.
 ‘There! young hypocrite and liar! explain that farrago of slander which you bribed my servant to place in the hands of my kinswoman, Lady Knollys.’
 And so on and on it went, I gazing into darkness, until the voice itself became indistinct, grew into a buzz, and hummed away into silence.
 I think I must have had a fit.
 When I came to myself I was drenched with water, my hair, face, neck, and dress. I did not in the least know where I was. I thought my father was ill, and spoke to him. Uncle Silas was standing near the window, looking unspeakably grim. Madame was seated beside me, and an open bottle of ether, one of Uncle Silas’s restoratives, on the table before me.
 ‘Who’s that - who’s ill - is anyone dead?’ I cried.
 At last I was relieved by long paroxysms of weeping. When I was sufficiently recovered, I was conveyed into my own room.

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Chapter LVIII: Lady Knolly’s Carriage
 Next morning - it was Sunday - I lay on my bed in my dressing-gown, dull, apathetic, with all my limbs sore, and, as I thought, rheumatic, and feeling so ill that I did not care to speak or lift my head. My recollection of what had passed in Uncle Silas’s room was utterly confused, and it seemed to me as if my poor father had been there and taken a share - I could not remember how - in the conference.
 I was too exhausted and stupid to clear up this horrible muddle, and merely lay with my face toward the wall, motionless and silent, except for a great sigh every now and then.
 Good Mary Quince was in the room - there was some comfort in that; but I felt quite worn out, and had rather she did not speak to me; and indeed for the time I felt absolutely indifferent as to whether I lived or died.
 Cousin Monica this morning, at pleasant Elverston, all-unconscious of my sad plight, proposed to Lady Mary Carysbroke and Lord Ilbury, her guests, to drive over to church at Feltram, and then pay us a visit at Bartram-Haugh, to which they readily agreed.
 Accordingly, at about two o’clock, this pleasant party of three arrived at Bartram. They walked, having left the carriage to follow when the horses were fed; and Madame de la Rougierre, who was in my uncle’s room when little Giblets arrived to say that the party were in the parlour, whispered for a little with my uncle, who then said -
 ‘Miss Maud Ruthyn has gone out to drive, but I shall be happy to see Lady Knollys here, if she will do me the favour to come upstairs and see me for a few moments; and you can mention that I am very far from well.’
 Madame followed him out upon the lobby, and added, holding him by the collar, and whispering earnestly in his ear -
 ‘Bring hair ladysheep up by the backstairs - mind, the backstairs.’
 And the next moment Madame entered my room, with long tiptoe steps, and looking, Mary Quince said, as if she were going to be hanged.
 On entering she looked sharply round, and being satisfied of Mary Quince’s presence, she turned the key in the door, and made some affectionate enquiries about me in a whisper; and then she stole to the window and peeped out, standing back some way; after which she came to my bedside, murmured some tender sentences, drew the curtain a little, and making some little fidgety adjustments about the room; among the rest she took the key from the lock, quietly, and put it into her pocket.
 This was so odd a procedure that honest Mary Quince rose stoutly from her chair, pointing to the lock, with her frank little blue eyes fixed on Madame, and she whispered - ‘Won’t you put the key in the lock, please?’
 ‘Oh, certainly, Mary Queence; but it is better it shall be locked, for I think her uncle he is coming to see her, and I am sure she would be very much frightened, for he is very much displease, don’t you see? and we can tell him she is not well enough, or asleep, and so he weel go away again, without any trouble.’
 I heard nothing of this, which was conducted in close whispers; and Mary, although she did not give Madame credit for caring whether I was frightened or not, and suspected her motives in everything, acquiesced grudgingly, fearing lest her alleged reason might possibly be the true one.
 So Madame hovered about the door, uneasily; and of what went on elsewhere during that period Lady Knollys afterwards gave me the following account: -
 ‘We were very much disappointed; but of course I was glad to see Silas, and your little hobgoblin butler led me upstairs to his room a different way, I think, from that I came before; but I don’t know the house of Bartram well enough to speak positively. I only know that I was conducted quite across his bedroom, which I had not seen on my former visit, and so into his sitting-room, where I found him.
 ‘He seemed very glad to see me, came forward smiling - I disliked his smile always - with both hands out, and shook mine with more warmth than I ever remembered in his greeting before, and said -
 ‘My dear, dear Monica, how very good of you - the very person I longed to see! I have been miserably ill, the sad consequence of still more miserable anxiety. Sit down, pray, for a moment.
 ‘And he paid me some nice little French compliment in verse.
 ‘And where is Maud? said I.
 ‘I think Maud is by this time about halfway to Elverston, said the old gentleman. I persuaded her to take a drive, and advised a call there, which seemed to please her, so I conjecture she obeyed.
 ‘How very provoking! cried I.
 ‘My poor Maud will be sadly disappointed, but you will console her by a visit - you have promised to come, and I shall try to make you comfortable. I shall be happier, Monica, with this proof of our perfect reconciliation. You won’t deny me?
 ‘Certainly not. I am only too glad to come, said I; and I want to thank you, Silas.
 ‘For what? said he.
 ‘For wishing to place Maud in my care. I am very much obliged to you.
 ‘I did not suggest it, I must say, Monica, with the least intention of obliging you, said Silas.
 ‘I thought he was going to break into one of his ungracious moods.
 ‘But I am obliged to you - very much obliged to you, Silas; and you sha’n’t refuse my thanks.
 ‘I am happy, at all events, Monica, in having won your good-will; we learn at last that in the affections only are our capacities for happiness; and how true is St. Paul’s preference of love - the principle that abideth! The affections, dear Monica, are eternal; and being so, celestial, divine, and consequently happy, deriving happiness, and bestowing it.
 ‘I was always impatient of his or anybody else’s metaphysics; but I controlled myself, and only said, with my customary impudence -
 ‘Well, dear Silas, and when do you wish me to come?
 ‘The earlier the better, said he.
 ‘Lady Mary and Ilbury will be leaving me on Tuesday morning. I can come to you in the afternoon, if you think Tuesday a good day.
 ‘Thank you, dear Monica. I shall be, I trust, enlightened by that day as to my enemies’ plans. It is a humiliating confession, Monica, but I am past feeling that. It is quite possible that an execution may be sent into this house to-morrow, and an end of all my schemes. It is not likely, however - hardly possible - before three weeks, my attorney tells me. I shall hear from him to-morrow morning, and then I shall ask you to name a very early day. If we are to have an unmolested fortnight certain, you shall hear, and name your own day.
 ‘Then he asked me who had accompanied me, and lamented ever so much his not being able to go down to receive them; and he offered luncheon, with a sort of Ravenswood smile, and a shrug, and I declined, telling him that we had but a few minutes, and that my companions were walking in the grounds near the house.
 ‘I asked whether Maud was likely to return soon?
 ‘Certainly not before five o’clock. He thought we should probably meet her on our way back to Elverston; but could not be certain, as she might have changed her plans.
 ‘So then came - no more remaining to be said - a very affectionate parting. I believe all about his legal dangers was strictly true. How he could, unless that horrid woman had deceived him, with so serene a countenance tell me all those gross untruths about Maud, I can only admire.’
 In the meantime, as I lay in my bed, Madame, gliding hither and thither, whispering sometimes, listening at others, I suddenly startled them both by saying -
 ‘Whose carriage?’
 ‘What carriage, dear?’ inquired Quince, whose ears were not so sharp as mine.
 Madame peeped from the window.
 ‘’Tis the physician, Doctor Jolks. He is come to see your uncle, my dear,’ said Madame.
 ‘But I hear a female voice,’ I said, sitting up.
 ‘No, my dear; there is only the doctor,’ said Madame. ‘He is come to your uncle. I tell you he is getting out of his carriage,’ and she affected to watch the doctor’s descent.
 ‘The carriage is driving away!’ I cried.
 ‘Yes, it is draiving away,’ she echoed.
 But I had sprung from my bed, and was looking over her shoulder, before she perceived me.
 ‘It is Lady Knollys!’ I screamed, seizing the window-frame to force it up, and, vainly struggling to open it, I cried -
 ‘I’m here, Cousin Monica. For God’s sake, Cousin Monica - Cousin Monica!’
 ‘You are mad, Meess - go back,’ screamed Madame, exerting her superior strength to force me back.
 But I saw deliverance and escape gliding away from my reach, and, strung to unnatural force by desperation, I pushed past her, and beat the window wildly with my hands, screaming -
 ‘Save me - save me! Here, here, Monica, here! Cousin, cousin, oh! save me!’
 Madame had seized my wrists, and a wild struggle was going on. A window-pane was broken, and I was shrieking to stop the carriage. The Frenchwoman looked black and haggard as a fury, as if she could have murdered me.
 Nothing daunted - frantic - I screamed in my despair, seeing the carriage drive swiftly away - seeing Cousin Monica’s bonnet, as she sat chatting with her vis-à-vis.
 ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ I shrieked, in vain and prolonged agony, as Madame, exerting her strength and matching her fury against my despair, forced me back in spite of my wild struggles, and pushed me sitting on the bed, where she held me fast, glaring in my face, and chuckling and panting over me.
 I think I felt something of the despair of a lost spirit.
 I remember the face of poor Mary Quince - its horror, its wonder - as she stood gaping into my face, over Madame’s shoulder, and crying -
 ‘What is it, Miss Maud? What is it, dear?’ And turning fiercely on Madame, and striving to force her grasp from my wrists, ‘Are you hurting the child? Let her go - let her go.’
 ‘I weel let her go. Wat old fool are you, Mary Queence! She is mad, I think. She ‘as lost hair head.’
 ‘Oh, Mary, cry from the window. Stop the carriage!’ I cried.
 Mary looked out, but there was by this time, of course, nothing in sight.
 ‘Why don’t a you stop the carriage?’ sneered Madame. ‘Call a the coachman and the postilion. W’ere is the footman? Bah! elle a le cerveau mal timbré.’
 ‘Oh, Mary, 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 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 procès. 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 cimetière!’
 ‘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.

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Chapter LIX: 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 at 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 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 the 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 at 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 the door behind her, and she held the light a bit behind her ear; so ’twas full on my face, as she looked sharp into it; and, after a bit, she said again, in her queer lingo - there was two panes broke in her room, and men sent for to mend it.
 ‘I was awful frightened when I saw Mr. Dudley, for I could not believe any such thing before, and I don’t know how I could look her in the face as I did and not show it. I was as smooth and cool as yonder chimneypiece, and she has an awful evil eye to stan’ against; but I never flinched, and I think she’s puzzled, for as cunning as she is, whether I believe all she said, or knowed ’twas a pack o’ stories. So I told her your message, and she said she had not heard another word since; but she did believe we had not many more days here, and would tell you if she heard to-night, when she brought his soup to your uncle, in half an hour’s time.’
 I asked her, as soon as I could speak, whether she was perfectly certain as to the fact that the man in the surtout was Dudley, and she made answer -
 ‘I’d swear to him on that Bible, Miss.’
 So far from any longer wishing Madame’s return that night, I trembled at the idea of it. Who could tell who might enter the room with her when the door opened to admit her?
 Dudley, so soon as he recovered the surprise, had turned about, evidently anxious to prevent recognition; Dickon Hawkes stood glowering at her. Both might have hope of escaping recognition in the imperfect light, for the candle on the chimneypiece was flaring in the air, and the light from the lantern fell in spots, and was confusing.
 What could that ruffian, Hawkes, be doing in the house? Why was Dudley there? Could a more ominous combination be imagined? I puzzled my distracted head over all Mary Quince’s details, but could make nothing of their occupation. I know of nothing so terrifying as this kind of perpetual puzzling over ominous problems.
 You may imagine how the long hours of that night passed, and how my heart beat at every fancied sound outside my door.
 But morning came, and with its light some reassurance. Early, Madame de la Rougierre made her appearance; she searched my eyes darkly and shrewdly, but made no allusion to Mary Quince’s visit. Perhaps she expected some question from me, and, hearing none, thought it as well to leave the subject at rest.
 She had merely come in to say that she had heard nothing since, but was now going to make my uncle’s chocolate; and that so soon as her interview was ended she would see me again, and let me hear anything she should have gleaned.
 In a little while a knock came to my door, and Mary Quince was ordered by old Wyat into my uncle’s room. She returned flushed, in a huge fuss, to say that I was to be up and dressed for a journey in half an hour, and to go straight, when dressed, to my uncle’s room.
 It was good news; at the same time it was a shock. I was glad. I was stunned. I jumped out of bed, and set about my toilet with an energy quite new to me. Good Mary Quince was busily packing my boxes, and consulting as to what I should take with me, and what not.
 Was Mary Quince to accompany me? He had not said a word on that point; and I feared from his silence she was to remain. There was comfort, however, in this - that the separation would not be for long; I felt confident of that; and I was about to join Milly, whom I loved better than I could have believed before our separation; but whatsoever the conditions might be, it was an indescribable relief to have done with Bartram-Haugh, and leave behind me its sinister lines of circumvallation, its haunted recesses, and the awful spectres that had lately appeared within its walls.
 I stood too much in awe of my uncle to fail in presenting myself punctually at the close of the half-hour. I entered his sitting-room under the shadow of sour old Wyat’s high-cauled cap; she closed the door behind me, and the conference commenced.
 Madame de la Rougierre sat there, dressed and draped for a journey, and with a thick black lace veil on. My uncle rose, gaunt and venerable, and with a harsh and severe countenance. He did not offer his hand; he made me a kind of bow, more of repulsion than of respect. He remained in a standing position, supporting his crooked frame by his hand, which he leaned on a despatch-box; he glared on me steadily with his wild phosphoric eyes, from under the dark brows I have described to you, now corrugated in lines indescribably stern.
 ‘You shall join my daughter at the Pension, in France; Madame de la Rougierre shall accompany you,’ said my uncle, delivering his directions with the stern monotony and the measured pauses of a person dictating an important despatch to a secretary.’ Old Mrs. Quince shall follow with me, or, if alone, in a week. You shall pass to-night in London; to-morrow night you proceed thence to Dover, and cross by the mail-packet. You shall now sit down and write a letter to your cousin Monica Knollys, which I will first read and then despatch. Tomorrow you shall write a note to Lady Knollys, from London, telling her how you have got over so much of your journey, and that you cannot write from Dover, as you must instantly start by the packet on reaching it; and that until my affairs are a little settled, you cannot write to her from France, as it is of high importance to my safety that no clue should exist as to our address. Intelligence, however, shall reach her through my attorneys, Archer and Sleigh, and I trust we shall soon return. You will, please, submit that latter note to Madame de la Rougierre, who has my directions to see that it contains no libels upon my character. Now, sit down.’
 So, with those unpleasant words tingling in my ears, I obeyed.
 ’Write,’ said he, when I was duly placed. ‘You shall convey the substance of what I say in your own language. The immiment danger this morning announced of an execution - rememher the word,’ and he spelled it for me - ‘being put into this house either this afternoon or to-morrow, compels me to anticipate my plans, and despatch you for France this day. That you are starting with an attendant.’ Here an uneasy movement from Madame, whose dignity was perhaps excited. ‘An attendant,’ he repeated, with a discordant emphasis; ‘and you can, if you please - but I don’t solicit that justice - say that you have been as kindly treated here as my unfortunate circumstances would permit. That is all. You have just fifteen minutes to write. Begin.’
 I wrote accordingly. My hysterical state had made me far less combative than I might have proved some months since, for there was much that was insulting as well as formidable in his manner. I completed my letter, however, to his satisfaction in the prescribed time; and he said, as he laid it and its envelope on the table -
 ‘Please to remember that this lady is not your attendant only, but that she has authority to direct every detail respecting your journey, and will make all the necessary payments on the way. You will please, then, implicitly to comply with her directions. The carriage awaits you at the hall-door.’
 Having thus spoken, with another grim bow, and ‘I wish you a safe and pleasant journey,’ he receded a step or two, and I, with an undefinable kind of melancholy, though also with a sense of relief, withdrew.
 My letter, I afterwards found, reached Lady Knollys, accompanied by one from Uncle Silas, who said - ‘Dear Maud apprises me that she has written to tell you something of our movements. A sudden crisis in my miserable affairs compels a break-up as sudden here. Maud joins my daughter at the Pension, in France. I purposely omit the address, because I mean to reside in its vicinity until this storm shall have blown over; and as the consequences of some of my unhappy entanglements might pursue me even there, I must only for the present spare you the pain and trouble of keeping a secret. I am sure that for some little time you will excuse the girl’s silence; in the meantime you shall hear of them, and perhaps circuitously, from me. Our dear Maud started this morning en route for her destination, very sorry, as am I, that she could not enjoy first a flying visit to Elverston, but in high spirits, notwithstanding, at the new life and sights before her.’
 At the door my beloved old friend, Mary Quince, awaited me.
 ‘Am I going with you, Miss Maud?’
 I burst into tears and clasped her in my arms.
 ‘I’m not,’ said Mary, very sorrowfully; ‘and I never was from you yet, Miss, since you wasn’t the length of my arm.’
 And kind old Mary began to cry with me.
 ‘Bote you are coming in a few days, Mary Quince,’ expostulated Madame. ‘I wonder you are soche fool. What is two, three days? Bah! nonsense, girl.’
 Another farewell to poor Mary Quince, quite bewildered at the suddenness of her bereavement. A serious and tremulous bow from our little old butler on the steps. Madame bawling through the open window to the driver to make good speed, and remember that we had but nineteen minutes to reach the station. Away we went. Old Crowle’s iron grille rolled back before us. I looked on the receding landscape, the giant trees - the palatial, time-stained mansion. A strange conflict of feelings, sweet and bitter, rose and mingled in the reverie. Had I been too hard and suspicious with the inhabitants of that old house of my family? Was my uncle justly indignant? Was I ever again to know such pleasant rambles as some of those I had enjoyed with dear Millicent through the wild and beautiful woodlands I was leaving behind me? And there, with my latest glimpse of the front of Bartram-Haugh, I beheld dear old Mary Quince gazing after us. Again my tears flowed. I waved my handkerchief from the window; and now the park-wall hid all from view, and at a great pace, throught the steep wooded glen, with the rocky and precipitous character of a ravine, we glided; and when the road next emerged, Bartram-Haugh was a misty mass of forest and chimneys, slope and hollow, and we within a few minutes of the station.

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Chapter LX: The Journey
 Waiting for the train, as we stood upon the platform, I looked back again toward the wooded uplands of Bartram; and far behind, the fine range of mountains, azure and soft in the distance, beyond which lay beloved old Knowl, and my lost father and mother, and the scenes of my childhood, never embittered except by the sibyl who sat beside me.
 Under happier circumstances I should have been, at my then early age, quite wild with pleasurable excitement on entering London for the first time. But black Care sat by me, with her pale hand in mine: a voice of fear and warning, whose words I could not catch, was always in my ear. We drove through London, amid the glare of lamps, toward the West-end, and for a little while the sense of novelty and curiosity overcame my despondency, and I peeped eagerly from the window; while Madame, who was in high good-humour, spite of the fatigues of our long railway flight, screeched scraps of topographic information in my ear; for London was a picture-book in which she was well read.
 ‘That is Euston Square, my dear - Russell Square. Here is Oxford Street - Haymarket. See, there is the Opera House - Hair Majesty’s Theatre. See all the carriages waiting;’ and so on, till we reached at length a little narrow street, which she told me was off Piccadilly, where we drew up before a private house, as it seemed to me - a family hotel - and I was glad to be at rest for the night.
 Fatigued with the peculiar fatigue of railway travelling, dusty, a little chilly, with eyes aching and wearied, I ascended the stairs silently, our garrulous and bustling landlady leading the way, and telling her oft-told story of the house, its noble owner in old time, and how those fine drawing-rooms were taken every year during the Session by the Bishop of Rochet-on-Copeley, and at last into our double-bedded room.
 I would fain have been alone, but I was too tired and dejected to care very much for anything.
 At tea, Madame expanded in spirit, like a giant refreshed, and chattered and sang; and at last, seeing that I was nodding, advised my going to bed, while she ran across the street to see ‘her dear old friend, Mademoiselle St. Eloi, who was sure to be up, and would be offended if she failed to make her ever so short a call.’
 I cared little what she said, and was glad to be rid of her even for a short time, and was soon fast asleep.
 I saw her, I know not how much later, poking about the room, like a figure in a dream, and taking off her things.
 She had her breakfast in bed next morning, and I was, to my comfort, left to take mine in solitary possession of our sitting-room; where I began to wonder how little annoyance I had as yet suffered from her company, and began to speculate upon the chances of my making the journey with tolerable comfort.
 Our hostess gave me five minutes of her valuable time. Her talk ran chiefly upon nuns and convents, and her old acquaintance with Madame; and it seemed to me that she had at one time driven a kind of trade, no doubt profitable enough, in escorting young ladies to establishments on the Continent; and although I did not then quite understand the tone in which she spoke to me, I often thought afterwards that Madame had represented me as a young person destined for the holy vocation of the veil.
 When she was gone, I sat listlessly looking out of the window, and saw some chance equipages drive by, and now and then a fashionable pedestrian; and wondered if this quiet thoroughfare could really be one of the arteries so near the heart of the tumultuous capital.
 I think my nervous vitality must have burnt very low just then, for I felt perfectly indifferent about all the novelty and world of wonders beyond, and should have hated to leave the dull tranquillity of my window for an excursion through the splendours of the unseen streets and palaces that surrounded me.
 It was one o’clock before Madame joined me; and finding me in this dull mood, she did not press me to accompany her in her drive, no doubt well pleased to be rid of me.
 After tea that evening, as we sat alone in our room, she entertained me with some very odd conversation - at the time unintelligible - but which acquired a tolerably distinct meaning from the events that followed.
 Two or three times that day Madame appeared to me on the point of saying something of grave import, as she scanned me with her bleak wicked stare.
 It was a peculiarity of hers, that whenever she was pressed upon by an anxiety that really troubled her, her countenance did not look sad or solicitous, as other people’s would, but simply wicked. Her great gaunt mouth was compressed and drawn down firmly at the corners, and her eyes glared with a dismal scowl.
 At last she said suddenly -
 ‘Are you ever grateful, Maud?’
 ‘I hope so, Madame,’ I answered.
 ‘And how do you show your gratitude? For instance, would a you do great deal for a person who would run risque for your sake?’
 It struck me all at once that she was sounding me about poor Meg Hawkes, whose fidelity, notwithstanding the treason or cowardice of her lover, Tom Brice, I never doubted; and I grew at once wary and reserved.
 ‘I know of no opportunity, thank Heaven, for any such service, Madame. How can anyone serve me at present, by themselves incurring danger? What do you mean?’
 ‘Do you like, for example, to go to that French Pension? Would you not like better some other arrangement?’
 ‘Of course there are other arrangements I should like better; but I see no use in talking of them; they are not to be,’ I answered.
 ‘What other arrangements do you mean, my dear cheaile?’ enquired Madame. ‘You mean, I suppose, you would like better to go to Lady Knollys?’
 ‘My uncle does not choose it at present; and except with his consent nothing can be done!’
 ‘He weel never consent, dear cheaile.’
 ‘But he has consented - not immediately indeed, but in a short time, when his affairs are settled.’
 ‘Lanternes! They will never be settle,’ said Madame.
 ‘At all events, for the present I am to go to France. Milly seems very happy, and I dare say I shall like it too. I am very