Would Mr Blakeford want me to go to the magistrates and say what was not true?
In imagination, I saw his threatening dark face before me, and his thin lips just parting to display his white teeth in that doglike smile of his, and I shuddered, as I felt how I feared him. It would be horrible to be threatened till I promised to say what he wished, and to lie to the magistrates with Mr Wooster’s threatening face watching me the while.
But he would not ask me to tell a lie, I thought, and I could not run away. Mary would never forgive me, and Hetty would think that I really did cause her father to be so beaten. No: I felt I could not go, and that somehow I must get away from the house, go straight to Mr Rowle’s lodgings, and give him back the money, which I had received upon such a false pretence.
It was all over. I felt the idea of freeing myself from my wretched slavery was one that could never be carried out, and I must wait patiently and bear my miserable lot.
Crack!
I leaped up as if I had been shot, to see Mr Blakeford, in dressing-gown and slippers, his hair cut short, and looking very pale, standing in the office, the ruler in his hand, with which he had just struck the table and made me start.
“Asleep?” he said sharply.
“No, sir,” I said, trembling as I looked at him over the partition. “No, sir, I was not asleep.”
“It’s a lie, sir, you were asleep. Come here.”
I descended from the stool, and opening the partition door, went slowly into his part of the office, and stood by the table, his dark eyes seeming to pierce me through and through.