“This is less breeding than calculation, young gentleman. I read such natures as yours as easily as a printed book.”
“I ask nothing better, Madam; my only fear would be that you should mistake me, and imagine that any deference to my father's views would make me forget my mother's rights.”
“So then,” cried she, with a mocking laugh, “you have got your courage up so far,—you dare me! Be advised, however, and do not court such an unequal contest. I have but to choose in which of a score of ways I could crush you,—do you mark me? crush you! You will not always be as lucky as you were this morning in the riding-school.”
“Great heaven!” cried I, “was this, then, of your devising?”
“You begin to have a glimpse of whom you have to deal with? Go back to your room and reflect on that knowledge, and if it end in persuading you to quit this place at once, and never return to it, it will be a wise resolve.”
I was too much occupied with the terrible fact that she had already conspired against my life to heed her words of counsel, and I stood there stunned and confused.
In the look of scorn and hate she threw on me, she seemed to exult over my forlorn and bewildered condition.
“I scarcely think there is any need to prolong this interview,” said she, at last, with an easy smile; “each of us is by this time aware of the kindly sentiments of the other; is it not so?”
“I am going, Madam,” I stammered out; “good-bye.”
She made a slight movement, as I thought, towards me; but it was in reality the prelude to a deep courtesy, while in her sweetest of accents she whispered, “Au revoir, Monsieur Digby, au revoir.” I bowed deeply and withdrew.