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 uet, 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 Queence,” 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, through 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.
Chapter 60.
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 year; 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 stair 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 hart 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