“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 passion, 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 passing 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 attitude, 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?”