She drew a deep breath.
"Now," she said bravely, though she was conscious that the perspiration had broken out on her brow, "tell me at once where he is?"
But the old miser, though his will had yielded to hers, did not answer. He seemed to be shaken by his defeat, and to be at once feeble and furious. Glaring askance at her, he tottered to the settle on the hearth and sat down on it, breathing heavily.
"Curse her! Curse her! Curse her!" he gibbered low, but audibly. And he licked his lips and gnashed his toothless gums at her in impotent rage. "Curse her! Curse her!" The firelight, now rising, now falling, showed him sitting there, mopping and mowing, like some unclean Eastern idol; or, again, masked his revolting ugliness.
The girl thought him horrible, thought it all horrible. She felt for an instant as if she were going to faint. But she had gained the victory, she had mastered him, and she would make one last attempt to attain her object.
"You wicked old man," she said, "you would have hurt me! You wicked monster! But I am stronger, much stronger than you, and I do not fear you. Now I am going unless you tell me at once."
He ceased to gibber to her. He beckoned to her to approach him. But she shook her head. He no longer had the stool, but he might have some weapon hidden under the seat of the settle. She distrusted him.
"No," she said, "I am not coming near you. You are a villainous old man, and I don"t trust you."
"Have you no--no money?" he whimpered. "Nothing to give old Hinkson?
Poor old Hinkson?" with a feeble movement of his fingers on his knees, as if he drew bed-clothes about him.
"Where is Walterson?" she repeated. "Tell me at once."
"How do I know?" he whined. "I don"t know."
"He was here. You do know. Tell me."
He averted his eyes and held out a palsied hand.
"Give!" he answered. "Give!"
But she was relentless.
"Tell me," she rejoined, "or I go, and you get nothing." She was in earnest now, for she began to despair of drawing anything from him, and she saw nothing for it but to go and return another time. "Do you hear?" she continued. "If you do not speak for me, I--I shall go to those who will know how to make you speak."
It was an idle threat; and one which she had no intention of executing. But the rage into which it flung him--no rage is so fierce as that which is mingled with fear--fairly appalled her. "Eh? Eh?" he cried, his voice rising to an inarticulate scream. "Eh? You will, will you?" And he rose to his feet and clawed the air as if, were she within reach, he would have torn her to pieces. "You devil, you witch, you besom! Go!" he cried. "I"ll sort you! I"ll sort you! I"ll fetch one as shall--as shall dumb you!"
There was something so demoniacal in the old dotard"s pa.s.sion, in its very futility, in its very violence, that the girl shrank like Frankenstein before the monster she had aroused. She turned to save herself, for, weak as he was, he seemed to be about to fling himself upon her; and she had no stomach for the contact. But as she turned--with a backward glance at him, and an arm stretched toward the door to make sure of the latch--a shadow cast by a figure pa.s.sing before the lattice flitted across the floor between them, and a hand rested on the latch.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE DARK MAID
The substance followed the shadow so quickly that Henrietta had not time to consider her position before the latch rose. The door opened, and a girl entered hurriedly. The surprise was common to both, for the newcomer had closed the door behind her before she discerned Henrietta, and then her action was eloquent. She turned the key in the lock, and stood frowning, with her back to the door, and one shoulder advanced as if to defend herself. The other hand remained on the fastening.
"You here?" she muttered.
"Yes," Henrietta replied, returning her look, and speaking with a touch of pride. For the feeling of dislike was instinctive; if Bess"s insolent smile had not stamped itself on her memory--on that first morning at the Low Wood, which seemed so very, very long ago--Henrietta had still known that she was in the presence of an enemy. "Are you--his daughter?" she continued.
"Yes," Bess answered. She did not move from the door, and she maintained her att.i.tude, as if the surprise that had arrested her still kept her hand on the key. "Yes," she repeated, "I am. You don"t"--with a glance from one to the other--"like him, I see!"
"That is no matter," Henrietta answered with dignity. "I am not here for him, nor to see him; I wish to see----"
"Your lover?"
Henrietta winced, and her face turned scarlet. And now there was no question of the hostility between them. Bess"s dark, smiling face was insolence itself.
"What? Wasn"t he that?" the gipsy girl continued. "If he was not"--with a coa.r.s.e look--"what do you want with him?"
Silenced for the moment by the other"s taunt, Henrietta now found her voice.
"I wish to see him," she said. "That is enough for you."
"Oh, is it?" Bess replied. She had taken her hand from the key and moved a pace or two into the room, so as to confront her rival at close quarters. "That"s my affair! I fancy you will have to tell me a good deal more before you do see him."
"Why?"
"Oh, why?" mimicking her rudely. "Why? Because----"
"What are you to him?"
"What you were!" Bess answered.
Henrietta"s face flamed anew. But the insult no longer found her unprepared. She saw that she was in the presence of a woman dangerous and reckless; and one who considered her a rival. On the hearth crouched and gibbered that fearful old man. The door was locked--the action had not been lost on her; and no living being, no one outside that door, knew that she was here.
"You are insolent!" was all she answered.
"But it is true!" Bess said. "Or, if it is not true----"
"It is not true!" with a glance of scorn. She knew even in her innocence that this girl had been more to him.
"Then why do you ask for him?" with derision. "What do you want with him? What right have you to ask for him?"
"I wish to see him," Henrietta answered. She would not, if she could avoid it, let her fears appear. After all, it was daylight, and she was strong and young; a match, she thought, for the other if the old man had not been there. "I wish to see him, that is all, and that is enough," she repeated, firmly.
Bess did not answer at once. Indeed, at this point there came over her a change, as if either the other"s courage impressed her, or cooler thoughts suggested a different course of action. Her eyes still brooded malevolently on the other"s face, as if she would gladly have spoiled her beauty, and her sharp, white teeth gleamed. But to Henrietta"s last words she did not answer. She seemed to be wavering, to be uncertain. And at last,
"Do you mean him fair?" she asked. "That is the question."
"I mean no harm to him."
"Upon your honour?"
"Upon my honour."
"I"d tear you limb from limb if you did!" Bess cried in the old tone of violence. And the look which accompanied the words matched them.
But the next moment, "If I could believe you," she said more quietly, "it would be well and good. But----"