Tearing the envelope open Mr Emmett read what was on a half-sheet of paper which was within; then he crumpled it up, and swore.
"Confound him! What's the hurry? Why won't the morning do? Tell him I'm coming down to him."
The waiter went. Mr Emmett looked again at Dorothy, still sitting as if she were glued to the back of her chair; replacing the ring in its leather case, he made as if to return it to his waistcoat pocket; then, suddenly changing his mind, he called out: "Come here!" She did not move; but clung tighter to her seat. He laughed, as if amused by her obvious fear of him. "You little idiot! Of what are you afraid? There'll come a time when you'll not need any calling; and you'll come uninvited, and perhaps when I don't want you. I know you women; you're like badly trained dogs. When you're whistled to heel you'll not come; but when you're not whistled you keep messing about a man till he feels like giving you a dose of prussic acid. Very well, don't come; I'll come to you." He went to her, at the other end of the table. "Give me your hand!" He took it, her left; she offering no resistance, but looking up at him with a great terror in her eyes. On the third finger he slipped the ring. "There!--that's in token that you're mine; you're as much my property now as if we'd been together to church; and don't you forget it. There's a fool downstairs who wants to see me; and, as he is a fool, he shall; but I'm not going to let him keep me; I shall probably be back inside ten minutes, and mind I find you here when I do come back. None of your games--going to bed, or any of that rot; if you do I'll fetch you down again. There are all sorts of things I want to talk to you about, before you think of bed; I want you to show that you can be nice to me; and that you can treat me as a girl ought to treat the man who's going to be her husband--especially a husband who's going to give her the best time a girl ever did have. So you understand?--I'm to find you here when I return." He moved a step or two away; then halted. "I ought to have a kiss--a man ought to have a kiss from his girl, when he gives her the ring; but that sort of thing won't spoil with keeping--there'll be interest to collect--I'll take a couple when I come back."
He went. She sat staring at the door through which he had passed, his last horrid threat ringing in her ears. He would take a couple when he came back; and she was to stay there till he came to take them, with that dreadful ring scarring the flesh on her finger. She felt sure that it was being scarred; it certainly burned. Yet she did not dare to take it off; although he was gone she was still afraid of him. A curious paralysis seemed to have attacked her limbs. She remained motionless for some seconds after he had left her, her hand stretched out, staring at his ring. When she moved it was with an effort; when she gained her feet she had to hold on to the back of the chair, to aid her to stand.
What was she to do? She tried to think; as she had tried so often of late; her brain, like her muscles, played her false; clear thought was beyond her. One thing she realised--that she must not be there when he came back; in spite--because--of what he had said. Yet how was she to avoid being there? He had told her that if she went to bed he would fetch her back again; and she believed him. Once, at a hotel in France, he had made a great clatter at her room door; and was only prevented by practically the entire staff of the establishment from breaking it down. Somehow she felt that that night nothing would keep him from having her out of her room again, if she disobeyed his command, and fled to it. But, if she did not, what was she to do, where was she to go, so that she might not be there when he came back? Again and again, in France, had she meditated flight; only the conviction that the result would be fiasco had restrained her. Was she more likely to succeed, here, in England? Even through her mental haze a feeling was borne in upon her that in that direction lay her only hope. If she could only put a descent distance between herself and him she might escape him altogether. The point was, could she? An idea occurred to her--the railway. The first time in her life, so far as she remembered, she had, that day, been in a train. She had, of course, read about trains; she had even seen them; the probability was that she had been brought in one to the convent. But, in those days, she was a toddling child; she had certainly not been in one since. Mr Emmett had brought her in one from London. Then why should she not go alone in one, if not back to London, then at least to some place, a long way off, where she would be beyond his reach.
No sooner had the notion occurred to her than she started to put it into practice; and was already moving towards the door when a second reflection held her back. Mr Emmett had bought a ticket, with money. She was not so ignorant as not to be aware that railways were not public highways; that one could not travel in a train without a ticket; which had to be paid for, in advance with cash. She had seen Mr Emmett pay for two tickets--one for her, and one for himself. They would not let her get into a train without a ticket; how was she to pay for it? She was confronted, as before, in the midst of her wild desire to flee, by her eternal lack of pence--that insuperable barrier. She had had no regular pocket-money at the convent like the other girls; their parents either sent them cash direct, or made arrangements with the Sisters. Occasionally, on saints' days, she was given a sou to put into the box; but, as a rule, she was without even that humble coin. Never having known what it was to have money she did not miss it; there were no temptations to spend; her modest wants were supplied. It was only when she set out through the world with her guardian that it began to dawn upon her what an important part money played in the affairs of men, and women. She had no idea how much cash would be required to purchase a ticket; she took it for granted that the more she paid the farther the ticket would take her; the mischief was that she had no money at all--not even a paltry sou.
How was she to get money? From where? She looked about her. Dessert was still upon the table; there were knives and forks; other articles which were possibly of silver; but they were not coin of the realm; though she had a vague idea that they might be turned into it. How the transformation might be effected was a problem which was beyond her altogether. She had sense enough to know that it would be no use proffering a handful of silver ware in exchange for a ticket.
In that moment of her desperation, if she had only known where money was to be had, she would have made free with it, if the thing were possible, even without the owner's sanction, oblivious of any consequences which her action might entail; being persuaded that no worse fate could befall her than that that man should find her still in the room when he came back. Spurred by this conviction she was about to rush forth and seek for money, she knew not where nor how; already her fingers were near the handle, when she heard footsteps approaching on the other side. He was coming back. In the frenzy of her terror it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming. She glanced behind her, as a mouse might do which is caught in a trap, and knows that its doom is approaching. There was a recessed window on one side of the room. She had watched the waiter draw the heavy curtains across the recess as he lit the lights. She went flying towards it; gained it; had just slipped behind the curtain as the door of the room was opened.