I was still trembling with the terror that my meeting with Richard
Foster had aroused. A painful shuddering agitated me, and my heart
fluttered with an excess of fear which I could not conquer. I could
still feel his grasp upon my arm, where the skin was black with the
mark; and there was before my eyes the sight of his haggard and enraged
face, as he struggled to get free from the policeman. When he was sober
would he recollect all that had taken place, and go to make inquiries
after me at Ridley's agency-office? Dr. John Senior had said he had
followed me from there. I scarcely believed he would. Yet there was a
chance of it, a deadly chance to me. If so, the sooner I could fly from
London and England the better.
I felt safer when the cabman set me down at the house where I lodged,
and I ran up-stairs to my little room. I kindled the fire, which had
gone out during my absence, and set my little tin tea-kettle upon the
first clear flame which burned up amid the coal. Then I sat down on my
box before it, thinking.
Yes; I must leave London. I must take this situation, the only one open
to me, in a school in France. I should at least be assured of a home for
twelve months; and, as the clerk had said, I should perfect myself in
French and gain a referee. I should be earning a character, in fact. At
present I had none, and so was poorer than the poorest servant-maid. No
character, no name, no money; who could be poorer than the daughter of
the wealthy colonist, who had owned thousands of acres in Adelaide? I
almost laughed and cried hysterically at the thought of my father's vain
care and provision for my future.
But the sooner I fled from London again the better, now that I knew my
husband was somewhere in it and might be upon my track. I unfolded the
paper on which was written the name of the lady to whom I was to apply.
Mrs. Wilkinson. 19 Bellringer Street. I ran down to the sitting-room, to
ask my landlady where it was, and told her, in my new hopefulness, that
I had heard of a situation in France. Bellringer Street was less than a
mile away, she said. I could be there before seven o'clock, not too late
perhaps for Mrs. Wilkinson to give me an interview.
A thick yellow fog had come in with nightfall--a fog that could almost
be tasted and smelt--but it did not deter me from my object. I inquired
my way of every policeman I met, and at length entered the street. The
fog hid the houses from my view, but I could see that some of the lower
windows were filled with articles for sale, as if they were shops
struggling into existence. It was not a fashionable street, and Mrs.
Wilkinson could not be a very aristocratic person.
No. 19 was not difficult to find, and I pulled the bell-handle with a
gentle and quiet pull, befitting my errand. I repeated this several
times without being admitted, when it struck me that the wire might be
broken. Upon that I knocked as loudly as I could upon the panels of the
broad old door; a handsome, heavy door, such as are to be found in the
old streets of London, from which the tide of fashion has ebbed away. A
slight, thin child in rusty mourning opened it, with the chain across,
and asked who I was in a timid voice.
"Does Mrs. Wilkinson live here?" I asked.
"Yes," said the child.
"Who is there?" I heard a voice calling shrilly from within; not an
English voice, I felt sure, for each word was uttered distinctly and
slowly.
"I am come about a school in France," I said to the child.
"Oh! I'll let you in," she answered, eagerly; "she will see you about
that, I'm sure. I'm to go with you, if you go."
She let down the chain, and opened the door. There was a dim light
burning in the hall, which looked shabby and poverty-stricken. There was
no carpet upon the broad staircase, and nothing but worn-out oil-cloth
on the floor. I had only time to take in a vague general impression,
before the little girl conducted me to a room on the ground-floor. That
too was uncarpeted and barely furnished; but the light was low, and I
could see nothing distinctly, except the face of the child looking
wistfully at me with shy curiosity.
"I'm to go if you go," she said again; "and, oh! I do so hope you will
agree to go."
"I think I shall," I answered.
"I daren't be sure," she replied, nodding her head with an air of
sagacity; "there have been four or five governesses here, and none of
them would go. You'd have to take me with you; and, oh! it is such a
lovely, beautiful place. See! here is a picture of it."
She ran eagerly to a side-table, on which lay a book or two, one of
which she opened, and reached out a photograph, which had been laid
there for security. When she brought it to me, she stood leaning lightly
against me as we both looked at the same picture. It was a clear,
sharply-defined photograph, with shadows so dark yet distinct as to show
the clearness of the atmosphere in which it had been taken. At the left
hand stood a handsome house, with windows covered with lace curtains,
and provided with outer Venetian shutters. In the centre stood a large
square garden, with fountains, and arbors, and statues, in the French
style of gardening, evidently well kept; and behind this stood a long
building of two stories, and a steep roof with dormer windows, every
casement of which was provided, like the house in the front, with rich
lace curtains and Venetian shutters. The whole place was clearly in good
order and good taste, and looked like a very pleasant home. It would
probably be my home for a time, and I scrutinized it the more closely.
Which of those sunny casements would be mine? What nook in that garden
would become my favorite? If I could only get there undetected, how
secure and happy I might be!
Above the photograph was written in ornamental characters, "Pensionnat
de Demoiselles, à Noireau, Calvados." Underneath it were the words,
"Fondé par M. Emile Perrier, avocat, et par son épouse." Though I knew
very little of French, I could make out the meaning of these sentences.
Monsieur Perrier was an _avocat_. Tardif had happened to speak to me
about the notaries in Guernsey, who appeared to me to be of the same
rank as our solicitors, while the _avocats_ were on a par with our
barristers. A barrister founding a boarding-school for young ladies
might be somewhat opposed to English customs, but it was clear that he
must be a man of education and position; a gentleman, in fact.
"Isn't it a lovely place?" asked the child beside me, with a deep sigh
of longing.
"Yes," I said; "I should like to go."
I had had time to make all these observations before the owner of the
foreign voice, which I had heard at the door, came in. At the first
glance I knew her to be a Frenchwoman, with the peculiar yellow tone in
her skin which seems inevitable in middle-aged Frenchwomen. Her black
eyes were steady and cold, and her general expression one of
watchfulness. She had wrapped tightly about her a China crape shawl,
which had once been white, but had now the same yellow tint as her
complexion. The light was low, but she turned it a little higher, and
scrutinized me with a keen and steady gaze.
"I have not the honor of knowing you," she said politely.
"I come from Ridley's agency-office," I answered, "about a situation as
English teacher in a school in France."
"Be seated, miss," she said, pointing me to a stiff, high-backed chair,
whither the little girl followed me, stroking with her hand the soft
seal-skin jacket I was wearing.
"It is a great chance," she continued; "my friend Madame Perrier is very
good, very amiable for her teachers. She is like a sister for them. The
terms are very high, very high for France; but there is absolutely every
comfort. The arrangements are precisely like England. She has lived in
England for two years, and knows what English young ladies look for; and
the house is positively English. I suppose you could introduce a few
English pupils."
"No," I answered, "I am afraid I could not. I am sure I could not."
"That of course must be considered in the premium," she continued; "if
you could have introduced, say, six pupils, the premium would be low. I
do not think my friend would take one penny less than twenty pounds for
the first year, and ten for the second."
The tears started to my eyes. I had felt so sure of going if I would pay
ten pounds, that I was quite unprepared for this disappointment. There
was still my diamond ring left; but how to dispose of it, for any thing
like its value, I did not know. It was in my purse now, with all my
small store of money, which I dared not leave behind me in my lodgings.
"What were you prepared to give?" asked Mrs. Wilkinson, while I
hesitated.
"The clerk at Ridley's office told me the premium would be ten pounds,"
I answered;
"I do not see how I can give more."
"Well," she said, after musing a little, while I watched her face
anxiously, "it is time this child went. She has been here a month,
waiting for somebody to take her down to Noireau. I will agree with you,
and will explain it to Madame Perrier. How soon could you go?"
"I should like to go to-morrow," I replied, feeling that the sooner I
quitted London the better. Mrs. Wilkinson's steady eyes fastened upon me
again with sharp curiosity.
"Have you references, miss?" she asked.
"No," I faltered, my hope sinking again before this old difficulty.
"It will be necessary then," she said, "for you to give the money to me,
and I will forward it to Madame Perrier. Pardon, miss, but you perceive
I could not send a teacher to them unless I knew that she could pay the
money down. There is my commission to receive the money for my friend."
She gave me a paper written in French, of which I could read enough to
see that it was a sort of official warrant to receive accounts for
Monsieur Perrier, _avocat_, and his wife. I did not waver any longer.
The prospect seemed too promising for me to lose it by any irresolution.
I drew out my purse, and laid down two out of the three five-pound notes
left me. She gave me a formal receipt in the names of Emile and Louise
Perrier, and her sober face wore an expression of satisfaction.
"There! it is done," she said, wiping her pen carefully. "You will take
lessons, any lessons you please, from the professors who attend the
school. It is a grand chance, miss, a grand chance. Let us say you go
the day after to-morrow; the child will be quite ready. She is going for
four years to that splendid place, a place for ladies of the highest
degree."
At that moment an imperious knock sounded upon the outer door, and the
little girl ran to answer it, leaving the door of our room open. A voice
which I knew well, a voice which made my heart stand still and my veins
curdle, spoke in sharp loud tones in the hall.
"Is Mr. Foster come home yet?" were the words the terrible voice
uttered, quite close to me it seemed; so close that I shrank back
shivering as if every syllable struck a separate blow. All my senses
were awake: I could hear every sound in the hall, each step that came
nearer and nearer. Was she about to enter the room where I was sitting?
She stood still for half a minute as if uncertain what to do.
"He is up stairs," said the child's voice. "He told me he was ill when I
opened the door for him."
"Where is Mrs. Wilkinson?" she asked.
"She is here," said the child, "but there's a lady with her."
Then the woman's footsteps went on up the staircase. I listened to them
climbing up one step after another, my brain throbbing with each sound,
and I heard a door opened and closed. Mrs. Wilkinson had gone to the
door, and looked out into the hall, as if expecting some other questions
to be asked. She had not seen my panic of despair. I must get away
before I lost the use of my senses, for I felt giddy and faint.
"I will send the child to you in a cab on Wednesday," she said, as I
stood up and made my way toward the hall; "you have not told me your
address."
I paused for a moment. Dared I tell her my address? Yet my money was
paid, and if I did not I should lose both it and the refuge I had bought
with it. Besides, I should awaken suspicion and inquiry by silence. It
was a fearful risk to run; yet it seemed safer than a precipitous
retreat. I gave her my address, and saw her write it down on a slip of
paper.
As I returned to my lodgings I grew calmer and more hopeful. It was not
likely that my husband would see the address, or even hear that any one
like me had been at the house. I did not suppose he would know the name
of Martineau as my mother's maiden name. As far as I recollected, I had
never spoken of her to him. Moreover he was not a man to make himself at
all pleasant and familiar with persons whom he looked upon as inferiors.
It was highly improbable that he would enter into any conversation with
his landlady. If that woman did so, all she would learn would be that a
young lady, whose name was Martineau, had taken a situation as English
teacher in a French school. What could there be in that to make her
think of me?
I tried to soothe and reassure myself with these reasonings, but I could
not be quiet or at peace. I watched all through the next day, listening
to every sound in the house below; but no new terror assailed me. The
second night I was tranquil enough to sleep.