His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run after Miss de
Barral's governess, was to speak to her in reference to that very errand
possessing the utmost possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged his
shoulders at the nervousness of her eyes and hands, at the half-strangled
whisper "I had to go out. I could hardly contain myself." That was her
affair. He was, with a young man's squeamishness, rather sick of her
ferocity. He did not understand it. Men do not accumulate hate against
each other in tiny amounts, treasuring every pinch carefully till it
grows at last into a monstrous and explosive hoard. He had run out after
her to remind her of the balance at the bank. What about lifting that
money without wasting any more time? She had promised him to leave
nothing behind.
An account opened in her name for the expenses of the establishment in
Brighton, had been fed by de Barral with deferential lavishness. The
governess crossed the wide hall into a little room at the side where she
sat down to write the cheque, which he hastened out to go and cash as if
it were stolen or a forgery. As observed by the Fynes, his uneasy
appearance on leaving the house arose from the fact that his first
trouble having been caused by a cheque of doubtful authenticity, the
possession of a document of the sort made him unreasonably uncomfortable
till this one was safely cashed. And after all, you know it was stealing
of an indirect sort; for the money was de Barral's money if the account
was in the name of the accomplished lady. At any rate the cheque was
cashed. On getting hold of the notes and gold he recovered his jaunty
bearing, it being well known that with certain natures the presence of
money (even stolen) in the pocket, acts as a tonic, or at least as a
stimulant. He cocked his hat a little on one side as though he had had a
drink or two--which indeed he might have had in reality, to celebrate the
occasion.
The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall, disregarding
the side-glances of the butler as he went in and out of the dining-room
clearing away the breakfast things. It was she, herself, who had opened
the door so promptly. "It's all right," he said touching his
breast-pocket; and she did not dare, the miserable wretch without
illusions, she did not dare ask him to hand it over. They looked at each
other in silence. He nodded significantly: "Where is she now?" and she
whispered "Gone into the drawing-room. Want to see her again?" with an
archly black look which he acknowledged by a muttered, surly: "I am
damned if I do. Well, as you want to bolt like this, why don't we go
now?"