diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:11:58 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:11:58 -0700 |
| commit | e3229d12ccb91c9228c5a6d88a127fc1dac674dd (patch) | |
| tree | 9f33cbcd4860418c759d4efbc7fa82ce0dbb09e0 /39138-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '39138-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/39138-h.htm | 20433 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/images/p134.png | bin | 0 -> 215695 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/images/p195.png | bin | 0 -> 235570 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/images/p252.png | bin | 0 -> 226108 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/images/p367.png | bin | 0 -> 220056 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/images/p424.png | bin | 0 -> 251931 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/images/p5.png | bin | 0 -> 355359 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/images/p69.png | bin | 0 -> 234804 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39138-h/images/p79.png | bin | 0 -> 230280 bytes |
9 files changed, 20433 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/39138-h/39138-h.htm b/39138-h/39138-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..665d321 --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/39138-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20433 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg Book of Starvecrow Farm, by Stanley J. Weyman</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align:right; margin-right:20%;} + +p.continue {text-indent: 0in; margin-top:9pt;} + +.poem2 { + margin-top: 24pt; margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; text-align: left; + margin-bottom: 24pt; font-size:90%} + +.t0 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:0em; margin-right:0px;} +.t1 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:1em; margin-right:0px;} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5 {text-align: center;} + +span.sc {font-variant: small-caps; font-size:110%;} +span.sc2 {font-variant: small-caps; font-size:90%;} + +hr.W10 {width:10%; color:black; margin-top:0pt; margin-bottom:0pt} + +p.hang1 {margin-left:3em; text-indent:-3em;} + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +p.caption {font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Starvecrow Farm, by Stanley J. Weyman</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Starvecrow Farm</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Stanley J. Weyman</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 14, 2012 [eBook #39138]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 15, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Bowen</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STARVECROW FARM ***</div> + +<h2>STARVECROW FARM</h2> + +<h3><span class="sc">By</span> STANLEY J. WEYMAN.</h3> + +<hr class="W10" /> + +<div style="margin-left:20%"> +<p class="hang1"> +THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF. A Romance. With Frontispiece and Vignette. Crown 8vo, +cloth, $1.25. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE. A Romance. With four Illustrations. Crown 8vo, +$1.25. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE. Being the Memoirs of Gaston de Bonne, Sieur de Marsac. +With Frontispiece and Vignette. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +UNDER THE RED ROBE. With twelve full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, +$1.25. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +MY LADY ROTHA. A Romance of the Thirty Years’ War. With eight +Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, $1.25. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +FROM THE MEMOIRS OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE. With thirty-six Illustrations. Crown +8vo, cloth, $1.25. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +THE MAN IN BLACK. With twelve Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.00. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +SHREWSBURY. A Romance. With twenty-four Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.50. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +THE RED COCKADE. A Novel. With 48 Illustrations by R. Caton Woodville. Crown +8vo, $1.50. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +THE CASTLE INN. A Novel. With six full-page Illustrations by Walter Appleton +Clark. Crown 8vo, $1.50. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +SOPHIA. A Romance. With twelve full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.50. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +COUNT HANNIBAL. A Romance of the Court of France. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, +$1.50. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +IN KINGS’ BYWAYS. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, $1.50. +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +THE ABBESS OF VLAYE. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, $1.50. +</p> +</div> + +<hr class="W10" /> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="sc">New York: Longmans, Green, and Co</span>. +</p> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h1>STARVECROW<br/> +FARM</h1> + +<h5>BY</h5> + +<h2>STANLEY J. WEYMAN</h2> + +<h5><i>Author of “A Gentleman of France” “The Abbess of +Vlaye,”<br/> +“Count Hannibal,” “The Castle Inn,” “The Red<br/> +Cockade,” “Under the Red Robe,” etc., etc</i>.</h5> + +<h4><i>ILLUSTRATED</i></h4> + +<h3>LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.<br/> +<span class="sc2"> + +91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK<br/> +LONDON AND BOMBAY<br/> +1905</span></h3> + +<h5>Copyright, 1904, by</h5> <h4>STANLEY J. WEYMAN</h4> + +<hr class="W10" /> + +<h5><i>All rights reserved</i></h5> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. <span class="sc">Across the Quicksands.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. <span class="sc">A Red Waistcoat.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. <span class="sc">A Wedding Morning.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. <span class="sc">Two to One.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. <span class="sc">A Jezebel.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. <span class="sc">The Inquiry.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. <span class="sc">Captain Anthony Clyne.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. <span class="sc">Starvecrow Farm.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. <span class="sc">Punishment.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. <span class="sc">Henrietta in Naxos.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. <span class="sc">Captain Clyne’s Plan.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. <span class="sc">The Old Love.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. <span class="sc">A Jealous Woman.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. <span class="sc">The Letter.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. <span class="sc">The Answer.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. <span class="sc">A Night Adventure.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. <span class="sc">The Edge of the Storm.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. <span class="sc">Mr. Joseph Nadin.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. <span class="sc">At the Farm.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. <span class="sc">Proof Positive.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. <span class="sc">Cousin Meets Cousin.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. <span class="sc">Mr. Sutton’s New Rôle.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. <span class="sc">In Kendal Gaol.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. <span class="sc">The Rôle Continued.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. <span class="sc">Prison Experiences.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. <span class="sc">A Reconciliation.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. <span class="sc">Bishop Caught Napping.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. <span class="sc">The Golden Ship.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. <span class="sc">The Dark Maid.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. <span class="sc">Bess’s Triumph.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. <span class="sc">A Strange Bedroom.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. <span class="sc">The Search.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. <span class="sc">The Smugglers’ Oven.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. <span class="sc">In Tyson’s Kitchen.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. <span class="sc">Through The Wood.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. <span class="sc">Two of a Race.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +<p class="hang1"> +<a href="#p5"><span class="sc">They paid off the Guide under the walls of the +old Priory Church at Cartmel.</span></a> +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +<a href="#p69"><span class="sc">“I give you a last chance,” he +said.</span></a> +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +<a href="#p79"><span class="sc">He neither cared nor saw who it was whom he had +jostled.</span></a> +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +<a href="#p134"><span class="sc">The face was Stewart’s!</span></a> +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +<a href="#p195"><span class="sc">... he touched his brow with his whip +handle.</span></a> +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +<a href="#p252"><span class="sc">... every head was uncovered as Clyne . . . +rode to the door.</span></a> +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +<a href="#p367"><span class="sc">In ten minutes the road twinkled with +lights.</span></a> +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +<a href="#p424"><span class="sc">She was leaning against the side of the +window.</span></a> +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>STARVECROW FARM</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I<br/> +ACROSS THE QUICKSANDS</h2> + +<p> +A head appeared at either window of the postchaise. Henrietta looked forward. +Her lover looked back. +</p> + +<p> +The postchaise had nearly cleared the sands. Behind it the low line of +Lancashire coast was fading from sight. Before it the long green hill of +Cartmel had risen so high and drawn so near as to hide the Furness fells. On +the left, seaward, a waste of sullen shallows and quaking sands still stretched +to infinity—a thing to shudder at. But the savage head of Warton Crag, +that for a full hour had guarded the travellers’ right, had given place +to the gentler outlines of Armside Knot. The dreaded Lancashire Channels had +been passed in safety, and the mounted guide, whose task it was to lead +wayfarers over these syrtes, and who enjoyed as guerdon the life-rent of a snug +farm under Cark, no longer eyed the west with anxiety, but plashed in stolid +silence towards his evening meal. +</p> + +<p> +And all was well. But the margin of safety had not been large—the +postboys’ boots still dripped, and the floor of the carriage was damp. +Seaward the pale line of the tide, which would presently sweep in one foaming +wave across the flat, and in an instant cover it half a foot deep, was fretting +abreast the point. Ten minutes later had been too late; and the face of +Henrietta’s lover, whom a few hours and a Scotch minister were to make +her husband, betrayed his knowledge of the fact. He looked backward and +westward over the dreary flat; and fascinated, seized, possessed by the scene, +he shuddered—perhaps at his own thoughts. He would fain have bidden the +postboys hasten, but he was ashamed to give the order before her. Halfway +across he had set down the uneasiness he could not hide to the fear of pursuit, +to the fear of separation. But he could no longer do this; for it was plain to +a child that neither horse nor man would cross Cartmel sands until the tide +that was beginning to run had ebbed again. +</p> + +<p> +And Henrietta looked forward. The dull grey line of coast, quickly passing into +the invisible, on which she turned her back, stood for her past; the sun-kissed +peaks and blue distances of Furness, which her fancy still mirrored, though the +Cartmel shore now hid them, stood for the future. To those heights, beautified +by haze and distance, her heart went out, finding in them the true image of the +coming life, the true foretype of those joys, tender and mysterious, to which +she was hastening. The past, which she was abandoning, she knew: a cold home in +the house of an unfeeling sister-in-law and a brother who when he was not +hunting was tipsy—that, and the prospect of an unlovely marriage with a +man who—horror!—had had one wife already, stood for the past. The +future she did not know; but hope painted it from her brightest palette, and +the girl’s eyes filled, her lips quivered, her heart strained towards the +sympathy and love that were henceforth to be hers—towards the happiness +which she had set out to seek, and that now for certain could not escape her. +As the postchaise lumbered heavily up the rough-paved groyne that led from the +sands she shook from head to foot. At last her feet were set upon the land +beautiful. And save for the compact which her self-respect had imposed upon her +companion, she must have given way, she must have opened all her heart, thrown +herself upon his breast and wept tears of tender anticipation. +</p> + +<p> +She controlled herself. As it happened, they drew in their heads at the same +time, and his eyes—they were handsome eyes—met hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“We are safe now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Safe from pursuit. But I am not safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“From your cruelty.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice was velvet; and he sought to take her hand. +</p> + +<p> +But she withheld it. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” she said, though her look was tender. “Remember +our compact. You are quite sure that they will pursue us along the great +road?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, as far as Kendal. There they will learn that we are not before +them—that we have somewhere turned aside. And they will turn back.” +</p> + +<p> +“But suppose that they drive on to Carlisle—where we rejoin the +north road.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will not,” he replied confidently. He had regained the +plausible air which he had lost while the terror of the sands was upon him. +“And if you fear that,” he continued, “there is the other +plan, and I think the better one. To-morrow at noon the packet leaves +Whitehaven for Scotland, The wind is fair, and by six in the afternoon we may +be ashore, and an hour later you will be mine!” And again he sought to +draw her into his arms. +</p> + +<p> +But she repelled him. +</p> + +<p> +“In either case,” she said, her brow slightly puckered, “we +must halt to-night at the inn of which you spoke.” +</p> + +<p> +“The inn on Windermere—yes. And we can decide there, sweet, whether +we go by land or sea; whether we will rejoin the north road at Carlisle or +cross from Whitehaven to”—he hesitated an instant—“to +Dumfries.” +</p> + +<p> +She was romantic to the pitch of a day which valued sensibility more highly +than sense, and which had begun to read the poetry of Byron without ceasing to +read the <i>Mysteries of Udolpho</i>; and she was courageous to the point of +folly. Even now laughter gleamed under her long lashes, and the bubblings of +irresponsible youth were never very far from her lips. Still, with much folly, +with vast recklessness and an infinitude of ignorance, she was yet no +fool—though a hundred times a day she said foolish things. In the present +circumstances respect for herself rather than distrust of her lover taught her +that she stood on slippery ways and instilled a measure of sobriety. +</p> + +<p> +“At the inn,” she said, “you will put me in charge of the +landlady.” And looking through the window, she carolled a verse of a song +as irrelevant as snow in summer. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” he paused. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a landlady, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“You will do what I say to-day,” she replied firmly—and now +the fine curves of her lips were pressed together, and she hummed no +more—“if you wish me to obey you to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest, you know——” +</p> + +<p> +But she cut him short. “Please to say that it shall be so,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +He swore that he would obey her then and always. And bursting again into song +as the carriage climbed the hill, she flung from her the mood that had for a +moment possessed her, and was a child again. She made gay faces at him, each +more tantalising than the other; gave him look for look, each more tender than +the other; and with the tips of her dainty fingers blew him kisses in exchange +for his. Her helmet-shaped bonnet, with its huge plume of feathers, lay in her +lap. The heavy coils of her fair, almost flaxen, hair were given to view, and +under the fire of his flatteries the delicacy of colouring—for pallor it +could scarcely be called—which so often accompanies very light hair, and +was the sole defect of her beauty, gave place to blushes that fired his blood. +</p> + +<p> +But he knew something of her spirit. He knew that she had it in her to turn +back even now. He knew that he might cajole, but could never browbeat her. And +he restrained himself the more easily, as, in spite of the passion and +eloquence—some called it vapouring—which made him a hero where +thousands listened, he gave her credit for the stronger nature. He held her +childishness, her frivolity, her <i>naïveté</i>, in contempt. Yet he could not +shake off his fear of what she might do—when she knew. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="p5"></a> +<img src="images/p5.png" width="377" height="582" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="sc">They paid off the Guide under the walls of the old Priory +Church at Cartmel</span></p> +</div> + +<p> +They paid off the guide under the walls of the old priory church at Cartmel, +with the children of the village crowding about the doors of the chaise; then +with a fresh team they started up the valley that leads to the foot of +Windermere lake. But now the November day was beginning to draw in. The fell on +their right took gloomier shape; on their left a brook sopped its way through +low marsh-covered fields; and here and there the leafless limbs of trees +pointed to the grey. And first one and then the other, with the shrill cries of +moor-birds in their ears, and the fading landscape before their eyes, fell +silent. Then, had they been as other lovers, had she stood more safely, or he +been single-hearted, he had taken her in his arms and held her close, and +comforted her, and the dusk within had been but the frame and set-off to their +love. +</p> + +<p> +But as it was he feared to make overtures, and they sat each in a corner until, +in sheer dread of the effect which reflection might have on her, he asked her +if she feared pursuit; adding, “Depend upon it, darling, you need not; +Sir Charles will not give a thought to this road.” +</p> + +<p> +She drummed thoughtfully with her fingers on the pane. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not afraid of my brother,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Then of whom?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of Anthony,” she answered, and corrected herself +hurriedly—“of Captain Clyne, I mean. He will think of this +road.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he will not have had the news before noon,” Stewart answered. +“It is eighteen miles from your brother’s to the Old Hall. And +besides, I thought that he did not love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“He does not,” she rejoined, “but he loves himself. He loves +his pride. And this will hit both—hard! I am not quite sure,” she +continued very slowly and thoughtfully, “that I am not a little sorry for +him. He made so certain, you see. He thought all arranged. A week to-day was +the day fixed, and—yes,” impetuously, “I am sorry for him, +though I hated him yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +Stewart was silent a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I hate him to-day,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes sparkled. +</p> + +<p> +“I hate all his kind,” he said. “They are hard as stones, +stiff as oaks, cruel as—as their own laws! A man is no man to them, +unless he is of”—he paused almost imperceptibly—“our +class! A law is no law to them unless they administer it! They see men die of +starvation at their gates, but all is right, all is just, all is for the best, +as long as they govern!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you know him,” she said, somewhat stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I know him!” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I know him!” he repeated, the faint note of protest in her +voice serving to excite him. “He was at Manchester. There were a hundred +thousand men out of work—starving, seeing their wives starve, seeing +their children starve. And they came to Manchester and met. And he was there, +and he was one of those who signed the order for the soldiers to ride them +down—men, women, and children, without arms, and packed so closely that +they could not flee!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said pertly, “you would not have us all murdered +in our beds?” +</p> + +<p> +He opened his mouth, and he shut it again. He knew that he had been a fool. He +knew that he had gone near to betraying himself. She was nineteen, and +thoughtless; she had been bred in the class he hated; she had never heard any +political doctrines save those which that class, the governing class, held; and +though twice or thrice he had essayed faintly to imbue her with his notions of +liberty and equality and fraternity, and had pictured her with the red cap of +freedom perched on her flaxen head, the only liberty in which he had been able +to interest her had been her own! +</p> + +<p> +By-and-by, in different conditions, she might be more amenable, should he then +think it worth while to convert her. For the present his eloquence was stayed +in midstream. Yet he could not be altogether silent, for he was a man to whom +words were very dear. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said in a lower tone, “there is something in that, +sweet. But I know worse of him than that. You may think it right to transport a +man for seven years for poaching a hare——” +</p> + +<p> +“They should not poach,” she said lightly, “and they would +not be transported!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you will think differently of flogging a man to death!” +</p> + +<p> +Her face flushed. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe it!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“On his ship in Plymouth Harbour they will tell you differently.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe it!” she replied, with passion. And then, +“How horrid you are!” she continued. “And it is nearly dark! +Why do you talk of such things? You are jealous of him—that is what you +are!” +</p> + +<p> +He saw the wisdom of sliding back into their old relations, and he seized the +opportunity her words offered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he murmured, “I am jealous of him. And why not? I am +jealous of the wind that caresses your cheek, of the carpet that feels your +tread, of the star that peeps in at your window! I am jealous of all who come +near you, or speak to you, or look at you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you really?”—in a tone of childish delight. “As +jealous as that?” +</p> + +<p> +He swore it with many phrases. +</p> + +<p> +“And you will be so always?” she sighed softly, leaning towards +him. “Always—Alan?” +</p> + +<p> +“To eternity!” he answered. And emboldened by her melting mood, he +would have taken her hand, and perhaps more than her hand, but at that moment +the lights of the inn at Newby Bridge flashed on them suddenly, the roar of the +water as it rushed over the weirs surprised their ears, the postboys cracked +their whips, and the carriage bounded and rattled over the steep pitch of the +narrow bridge. A second or two later it came to a stand before the inn amid a +crowd of helpers and stable lads, whose lanthorns dazzled the travellers’ +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +They stayed only to change horses, then were away again. But the halt sufficed +to cool his courage; and as they pounded on monotonously through the night, the +darkness and the dim distances of river and lake—for they were +approaching the shores of Windermere—produced their natural effect on +Henrietta’s feelings. She had been travelling since early morning cooped +and cramped within the narrow chaise; she had spent the previous night in a +fever of suspense and restlessness. Now, though slowly, the gloom, the dark +outlines of the woods, and that sense of loneliness which seizes upon all who +are flung for the first time among strange surroundings, began to tell upon the +spirits even of nineteen. She did not admit the fact to herself—she would +have died before she confessed it to another; but disillusion had begun its +subtle task. +</p> + +<p> +Here were all the things for which she had panted—the dear, delightful +things of which she had dreamed: the whirl of the postchaise through the night, +the crack of the whips, the cries of the postboys, the lighted inns, the +dripping woods, the fear of pursuit, the presence of her lover! And already +they were growing flat. Already the savour was escaping from them. There were +tears in her heart, tears very near her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He could have taken her hand then, and more than her hand. For suddenly she +recognised, with a feeling nearer terror than her flighty nature had ever +experienced before, her complete dependence on him. Henceforth love, comfort, +kindness, companionship—all must come from him. She had flung from her +every stay but his, every hand but his. He was become her all, her world. And +could she trust him? Not only with her honour—she never dreamed of +doubting that—but could she trust him afterwards? To be kind to her, to +be good to her, to be generous to her? Thoughtless, inexperienced, giddy as she +was, Henrietta trembled. A pitiful sob rose in her throat. It needed but +little, very little, and she had cast herself in abandonment on her +lover’s breast and there wept out her fears and her doubts. +</p> + +<p> +But he had also his anxieties, and he let the moment pass by him unmarked. He +had reasons, other and more urgent than those he had given her, for taking this +road and for staying the night in a place whence Whitehaven and Carlisle were +equally accessible; and those reasons had seemed good enough in the day when +the fear of pursuit had swayed him. They seemed less pertinent now. He began to +wish that he had taken another road, pursued another course. And he was deep in +a brown study, in which love had no part, when an exclamation, at once of +surprise and admiration, recalled him to the present. +</p> + +<p> +They had topped a bare shoulder and come suddenly in sight of Lake Windermere. +The moon had not long risen above the hills on their right, the water lay on +their left; below them stretched a long pale mirror, whose borrowed light, +passing over the dark woods which framed it, faintly lit and explored the +stupendous fells and mountains that rose beyond. To Stewart it was no +unfamiliar or noteworthy sight; and his eyes, after a passing glance of +approval, turned to the road below them and marked with secret anxiety the spot +where two or three lights indicated their halting-place. +</p> + +<p> +But to Henrietta the sight, as unexpected as it was beautiful, appealed in a +manner never to be forgotten. She held her breath, and slowly her eyes filled. +Half subdued by fatigue and darkness, half awake to the dangers and +possibilities of her situation, she was in the mood most fit to be moved by the +tender melancholy of the scene. She was feeling a craving for +something—for something to comfort her, for something to reassure her, +for something on which to lean in the absence of all the common things of life: +and there broke on her the mystic beauty of this moonlit lake, and it melted +her. Her heart, hitherto untouched, awoke. The compact which she had made with +her lover stood for naught. The tears running down her face, she turned to him, +she held out her hands to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Kiss me!” she murmured. “And say—say you will be good +to me! I have only you now!—only you!—only you!” +</p> + +<p> +He caught her in his arms and kissed her rapturously; and the embrace was +ardent enough to send the scarlet surging to her temples, to set her heart +throbbing. But the chaise was in the very act of drawing up at the door of the +inn; and it may be doubted if he tasted the full sweetness of the occasion. A +face looked in at the carriage window, on the side farther from the lake +appeared a bowing landlord, a voice inquired, “Horses on?” The +postchaise stopped. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II<br/> +A RED WAISTCOAT</h2> + +<p> +Cheerful lights shining from the open doorway and the red-curtained windows of +the inn, illumined the road immediately before it; and if these and the change +in all the surroundings did not at once dispel the loneliness at +Henrietta’s heart, at least they drove the tears from her eyes and the +blushes from her cheeks. The cold moonlight, the unchanging face of nature, had +sobered and frightened her; the warmth of fire and candle, the sound of voices, +and the low, homely front of the house, with its two projecting gables, +reassured her. The forlorn child who had flung herself into her lover’s +arms not forty seconds before was not to be recognised in the girl who alighted +slowly and with gay self-possession, took in the scene at a glance, and won the +hearts of ostler and stableboy by her ease and her fresh young beauty. She was +bare-headed, and her high-dressed hair, a little disordered by the journey, +gleamed in the lanthorn-light. Her eyes were like stars. The landlord of the +inn—known for twenty miles round as “Long Tom +Gilson”—saw at a glance that the missus’s tongue would run on +her. He wished that he might not be credited with his hundred-and-thirty-first +conquest! +</p> + +<p> +The thought, however, did not stand between him and his duty. “Sharp, +Sam,” he cried briskly. “Fire in Mr. Rogers’s room.” +Then to his guests: “Late? No, sir, not at all. This way, ma’am. +All will be ready in a twinkling.” +</p> + +<p> +But Henrietta stood smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she answered pleasantly, her clear young voice +slightly raised. “But I wished to be placed in the landlady’s +charge. Is she here?” +</p> + +<p> +Gilson turned toward the doorway, which his wife’s portly form fitted +pretty tightly. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, missus,” he cried, “the young lady wants you.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Gilson was a woman who was not wont to be hurried and before she +reached the side of the carriage Stewart interposed; more roughly and more +hurriedly than seemed discreet in the circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go in, and settle that afterwards,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he retorted. And he grasped the girl’s arm tightly. +His voice was low, but insistent. “Let us go in.” +</p> + +<p> +But the girl only vouchsafed him a look, half wondering, half indignant. She +turned to the landlady. +</p> + +<p> +“I am tired, and need no supper,” she said. “Will you take me +into a room, if you please, where I can rest at once, as we go on early +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” the landlady answered. She was a burly, red-faced, +heavy-browed woman. “But you have come some way, ma’am. Will you +not take supper with the gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +He interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“At least let us go in!” he repeated pettishly. And there was an +agitation in his tone and manner not easy to explain, except on the supposition +that in some way she had thwarted him. “We do not want to spend the night +on the road, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not reply. But none the less, as she followed Mrs. Gilson to the door, +was she wondering what ailed him. She was unsuspicious by nature, and she would +not entertain the thought that he wished her to act otherwise than she was +acting. What was it then? Save for a burly man in a red waistcoat who stood in +a lighted doorway farther along the front of the inn, and seemed to be watching +their movements with lazy interest, there were only the people of the inn +present. And the red-waistcoated man could hardly be in pursuit of them, for, +for certain, he was a stranger. Then what was it? +</p> + +<p> +She might have turned and asked her lover; but she was offended and she would +not stoop. And before she thought better of it—or worse—she had +crossed the threshold. A warmer air, an odour of spices and lemons and old rum, +met her. On the left of the low-browed passage a half-open door offered a +glimpse of shining glass and ruddy firelight; there was Mrs. Gilson’s +snuggery, sometimes called the coach office. On the right a room with a long +table spoke of coaching meals and a groaning board. From beyond these, from the +penetralia of kitchen and pantry, came faint indications of plenty and the +spit. +</p> + +<p> +A chambermaid was waiting at the foot of the narrow staircase to go before them +with lights; but the landlady took the candles herself, and dismissed the woman +with a single turn of the eye. A habit of obedience to Mrs. Gilson was the one +habit of the inn, the one common ground on which all, from Tom Gilson to the +smallest strapper in the stable, came together. +</p> + +<p> +The landlady went ponderously up before her guest and opened the door of a +dimity-hung chamber. It was small and simple, but of the cleanest. Hid in it +were rosemary and lavender; and the leafless branches of a rose-tree whipped +the diamond panes of the low, broad window. Mrs. Gilson lighted the two wax +candles—“waxes” in those days formed part of every bill but +the bagman’s. Then she turned and looked at the girl with deliberate +disapproval. +</p> + +<p> +“You will take nothing, ma’am, to eat?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you,” Henrietta answered. And then, resenting the +woman’s look, “I may as well tell you,” she continued, +holding her head high, “that we have eloped, and are going to be married +to-morrow. That is why I wished to be put in your charge.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlady, with her great face frowning, continued to look at the girl, and +for a moment did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +At length, “You’ve run away,” she said, “from your +friends?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta nodded loftily. +</p> + +<p> +“From a distance, I take it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” Mrs. Gilson rejoined, her face continuing to express +growing disapproval, “there’s a stock of fools near and far. And if +I did my duty, young lady, there’d be one who would likely be thankful +all her life.” She took the snuffers and slowly and carefully snuffed the +two candles. “If I did my duty, I’d lock you up and keep you safe +till your friends came for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are insolent,” the girl cried, flaming up. +</p> + +<p> +“That depends,” Mrs. Gilson retorted, with the utmost coolness. +“Fine feathers make fine birds. You may be my lady, or my lady’s +maid. Men are such fools—all’s of the best that’s red and +white. But I’m not so easy.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta raised her chin a little higher. +</p> + +<p> +“Be good enough to leave the room!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +But the stout woman held her ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Not before I’ve said what I have to say,” she answered. +“It is one thing, and one thing only, hinders me doing what I ought to +do, and what if you were my girl I’d wish another to do. And that +is—your friends may not want you back. And then, to be married tomorrow +is like enough the best you can do for yourself! And the sooner the +better!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta’s face turned scarlet, and she stamped on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a wicked, insolent woman!” she said. “You do not +know your place, nor mine. How dare you say such things to me? How dare you? +Did you hear me bid you leave the room?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hoity-toity!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, at once!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” Mrs. Gilson replied ponderously—“very +good! But you may find worse friends than me. And maybe one of them is +downstairs now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You hateful woman!” the girl cried; and had a glimpse of the +landlady’s red, frowning face as the woman turned for a last look in the +doorway. Then the door closed, and she was left alone—alone with her +thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +Her face burned, her neck tingled. She was very, very angry, and a little +frightened. This was a scene in her elopement which anticipation had not +pictured. It humiliated her—and scared her. To-morrow, no doubt, all +would be well; all would be cheerfulness, tenderness, sunshine; all would be on +the right basis. But in the meantime the sense of forlornness which had +attacked her in the chaise returned on her as her anger cooled, and with +renewed strength. Her world, the world of her whole life up to daybreak of this +day, was gone forever. In its place she had only this bare room with its +small-paned casement and its dimity hangings and its clean scent. Of course +<i>he</i> was below, and he was the world to her, and would make up a +hundredfold what she had resigned for him. But he was below, he was absent; and +meantime her ear and her heart ached for a tender word, a kind voice, a look of +love. At least, she thought, he might have come under her window, and whistled +the air that had been the dear signal for their meetings. Or he might have +stood a while and chatted with her, and shown her that he was not offended. The +severest prude, even that dreadful woman who had insulted her, could not object +to that! +</p> + +<p> +But he did not come. Of course he was supping—what things men were! And +then, out of sheer loneliness, her eyes filled, and her thoughts of him grew +tender and more humble. She dwelt on him no longer as her conquest, her +admirer, the prize of her bow and spear, subject to her lightest whim and her +most foolish caprice; but as her all, the one to whom she must cling and on +whom she must depend. She thought of him as for a brief while she had thought +of him in the chaise. And she wondered with a chill of fear if she would be +left after marriage as she was left now. She had heard of such things, but in +the pride of her beauty, and his subjection, she had not thought that they +could happen to her. Now—— But instead of dwelling on a possibility +which frightened her, she vowed to be very good to him—good and tender +and loyal, and a true wife. They were resolutions that a trifling temptation, +an hour’s neglect or a cross word, might have overcome. But they were +honest, they were sincere, they were made in the soberest moment that her young +life had ever known; and they marked a step in development, a point in that +progress from girlhood to womanhood which so few hours might see complete. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mrs. Gilson had returned to her snuggery, wearing a face that, had +the lemons and other comforts about her included cream, must have turned it +sour. That snuggery, it may be, still exists in the older part of the Low Wood +Inn. In that event it should have a value. For to it Mr. Samuel Rogers, the +rich London banker, would sometimes condescend from his apartments in the south +gable; and with him Mr. Kirkpatrick Sharp, a particular gentleman who sniffed a +little at the rum; or Sir James Mackintosh, who, rumour had it, enjoyed some +reputation in London as a writer. At times, too, Mr. Southey, Poet Laureate +elsewhere, but here Squire of Greta Hall, would stop on his way to visit his +neighbour at Storrs—no such shorthorns in the world as Mr. Bolton’s +at Storrs; and not seldom he brought with him a London gentleman, Mr. Brougham, +whose vanity in opposing the Lowther interest at the late election had almost +petrified Mrs. Gilson. Mr. Brougham called himself a Whig, but Mrs. Gilson held +him little better than a Radical—a kind of cattle seldom seen in those +days outside the dock of an assize court. Or sometimes the visitor was that +queer, half-moithered Mr. Wordsworth at Rydal; or Mr. Wilson of Elleray with +his great voice and his homespun jacket. He had a sort of name too; but if he +did anything better than he fished, the head ostler was a Dutchman! +</p> + +<p> +The visits of these great people, however—not that Mrs. Gilson blenched +before them, she blenched before nobody short of Lord Lonsdale—had place +in the summer. To-night the landlady’s sanctum, instead of its complement +of favourite guests gathered to stare at Mr. Southey’s last order for +“Horses on!” boasted but a single tenant. Even he sat where the +landlady did not at once see him; and it was not until she had cast a log on +the dogs with a violence which betrayed her feelings that he announced his +presence by a cough. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s the sign of a good house,” he said with approval. +“Never unprepared!—never unprepared! Come late, come +early—coach, chaise, or gig—it is all one to a good house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a pleasure to sit by”—he waved his pipe with +unction—“and to see a thing done properly!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, it’s a pleasure to many to sit by,” the landlady +answered with withering sarcasm. “It’s an easy way of making a +living—especially if you are waiting for what doesn’t come. Put a +red waistcoat on old Sam the postboy, and he’d sit by and see as well as +another!” +</p> + +<p> +The man in the red waistcoat chuckled. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad they don’t take you into council at Bow Street, +ma’am!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“They might do worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“They might do better,” he rejoined. “They might take you +into the force! I warrant”—with a look of respectful +admiration—“if they did there’s little would escape you. Now +that young lady?” He indicated the upper regions with his pipe. +“Postboys say she came from Lancaster. But from where before that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wherever she’s from, she did not tell me!” Mrs. Gilson +snapped. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is more, if she had, I shouldn’t tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come, come, ma’am!” Mr. Bishop was mildly shocked. +“Oh, come, ma’am! That is not like you. Think of the King and his +royal prerogative!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fiddlesticks!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop looked quite staggered. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean it,” he said—“you don’t +indeed. You would not have the Radicals and Jacobins ramping over the country, +shooting honest men in their shops and burning and ravaging, and—and +generally playing the devil?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you think it is you that stops them?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’am, no,” with a modest smile. “I don’t +stop them. I leave that to the yeomanry—old England’s bulwark and +their country’s pride! But when the yeomanry ’ve done their part, I +take them, and the law passes upon them. And when they have been hung or +transported and an example made, then you sleep comfortably in your beds. That +is what I do. And I think I may say that next to Mr. Nadin of Manchester, who +is the greatest man in our line out of London, I have done as much in that way +as another.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson sniffed contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, “if you have never done more than +you’ve done since you’ve been here, it’s a wonder the +roof’s on! Though what you expected to do, except keep a whole skin, +passes me! There’s the <i>Chronicle</i> in today, and such talks of riots +at Glasgow and Paisley, and such meetings here and alarms there, it is a wonder +to me”—with sarcasm—“they can do without you! To judge +by what I hear, Lancashire way is just a kettle of troubles and boiling over, +and bread that price everybody is wanting to take the old King’s crown +off his head.” +</p> + +<p> +“And his head off his body, ma’am!” Mr. Bishop added +solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“So that it’s little good you and your yeomanry seem to have done +at Manchester, except get yourselves abused!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ma’am, the King’s crown is on his head,” Mr. Bishop +retorted, “and his head is on his body!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well? Not that his head is much good to him, poor mad gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +“And King Louis, ma’am, years ago—what of him? The King of +France, ma’am? Crown gone, head gone—all gone! And why? Because +there was not a good blow struck in time, ma’am! Because, poor, foolish +foreigner, he had no yeomanry and no Bow Street, ma’am! But the +Government, the British Government, is wiser. They are brave men—brave +noblemen, I should say,” Mr. Bishop amended with +respect,—“but with treason and misprision of treason stalking the +land, with the lower orders, that should behave themselves lowly and reverently +to all their betters, turned to ramping, roaring Jacobins seeking whom they may +devour, and whose machine they may break, my lords would not sleep in their +beds—no, not they, brave men as they are—if it were not for the +yeomanry and the runners.” He had to pause for breath. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson coughed dryly. +</p> + +<p> +“Leather’s a fine thing,” she said, “if you believe the +cobbler.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” Mr. Bishop answered, nodding his head confidently, +“it’s so far true you’d do ill without it.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Gilson was equal to the situation. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, underfoot,” she said. “But everything in its place. My +man, he be mad upon tod-hunting; but I never knew him go to Manchester +’Change to seek one.” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” Mr. Bishop held his pipe at arm’s length, and smiled at +it mysteriously. “Yet I’ve seen one there,” he continued, +“or in such another place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Common Garden, London.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was in a box, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was, ma’am,” Mr. Bishop replied, with smiling emphasis. +“It was in a box—‘safe bind, safe find,’ ma’am. +That’s the motto of my line, and that was it precisely! More by token +it’s not outside the bounds of possibility you may see”—he +glanced towards the door as he knocked his pipe against his +top-boot—“one of my tods in a box before morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson shot out her underlip and looked at him darkly. She never stooped +to express surprise; but she was surprised. There was no mistaking the ring of +triumph in the runner’s tone; yet of all the unlikely things within the +landlady’s range none seemed more unlikely than that he should flush his +game there. She had asked herself more than once why he was there; and why no +coach stopped, no chaise changed horses, no rider passed or bagman halted, +without running the gauntlet of his eye. For in that country of lake and +mountain were neither riots nor meetings; and though Lancashire lay near, the +echoes of strife sounded but weakly and fitfully across Cartmel Sands. Mills +might be burning in Cheadle and Preston, men might be drilling in Bolland and +Whitewell, sedition might be preaching in Manchester, all England might be in a +flame with dear bread and no work, Corbett’s Twopenny Register and Orator +Hunt’s declamations—but neither the glare nor the noise had much +effect on Windermere. Mr. Bishop’s presence there seemed superfluous +therefore; seemed—— But before she could come to the end of her +logic, her staid waiting-maid appeared, demanding four pennyworth of old Geneva +for the gentleman in Mr. Rogers’s room; and when she was serving, Mrs. +Gilson took refuge in incredulity. +</p> + +<p> +“A man must talk if he can’t do,” she said—“if +he’s to live.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop smiled, and patted his buckskin breeches with confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll believe ma’am,” he said, “when you see +him walk into the coach with the handcuffs on his wrists.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, I shall!” +</p> + +<p> +The innuendo in the landlady’s tone was so plain that her husband, who +had entered while she was rinsing the noggin in which she had measured the gin, +chuckled audibly. She turned an awful stare on him, and he collapsed. The Bow +Street runner was less amenable to discipline. +</p> + +<p> +“You sent the lad, Tom?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The landlord nodded, with an apprehensive eye on his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“He should be back”—Mr. Bishop consulted a huge silver +watch—“by eleven.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where has he gone?” Mrs. Gilson asked, with an ominous face. +</p> + +<p> +She seldom interfered in stable matters; but if she chose, it was understood +that no department was outside her survey. +</p> + +<p> +“Only to Kendal with a message for me,” Bishop answered. +</p> + +<p> +“At this time of the night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ma’am”—Mr. Bishop rose and tapped his red waistcoat +with meaning, almost with dignity—“the King has need of him. The +King—God bless and restore him to health—will pay, and handsomely. +For the why and the wherefore he has gone, his majesty’s gracious +prerogative is to say nothing”—with a smile. “That is the +rule in Bow Street, and for this time we’ll make it the rule under Bow +Fell, if you please. Moreover, what he took I wrote, ma’am, and as he +cannot read and I sent it to one who will give it to another, his majesty will +enjoy his prerogative as he should!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a spark in Mrs. Gilson’s eye. Fortunately the runner saw it, +and before she could retort he slipped out, leaving the storm to break about +her husband’s head. Some who had known Mr. Gilson in old days wondered +how he bore his life, and why he did not hang himself—Mrs. Gilson’s +tongue was so famous. And more said he had reason to hang himself. Only a few, +and they the wisest, noted that he who had once been Long Tom Gilson grew fat +and rosy; and these quoted a proverb about the wind and the shorn lamb. +One—it was Bishop himself, but he had known them no more than three +weeks—said nothing when the question was raised, but tapped his nose and +winked, and looked at Long Tom as if he did not pity him overmuch. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III<br/> +A WEDDING MORNING</h2> + +<p> +In one particular at least the Bow Street runner was right. The Government +which ruled England in that year, 1819, was made up of brave men; whether they +were wise men or great men, or far-seeing men, is another question. The peace +which followed Waterloo had been welcomed with enthusiasm. Men supposed that it +would put an end to the enormous taxation and the strain which the nation had +borne so gallantly during twenty years of war. The goddess of prosperity, with +her wings of silver and her feathers of gold, was to bless a people which had +long known only paper money. In a twinkling every trade was to flourish, every +class to be more comfortable, every man to have work and wage, plenty and no +taxes. +</p> + +<p> +Instead, there ensued a period of want and misery almost without a parallel. +During the war the country had been self-supporting, wheat had risen, land +suitable and unsuitable had been enclosed and tilled. Bread had been dear but +work had been plentiful. Now, at the prospect of open ports, wheat fell, land +was left derelict, farmers were ruined, labourers in thousands went on the +rates. Nor among the whirling looms of Lancashire or the furnaces of +Staffordshire were things better. Government orders ceased with the war, while +the exhausted Continent was too poor to buy. Here also thousands were cast out +of work. +</p> + +<p> +The cause of the country’s misfortunes might be this or that. Whatever it +was, the working classes suffered greater hardships than at any time during the +war; and finding no anxiety to sympathise in a Parliament which represented +their betters, began to form—ominous sign—clubs, and clubs within +clubs, and to seek redress by unlawful means. An open rising broke out in the +Fen country, and there was fighting at Littleport and Ely. There were riots at +Spa Fields in London, where murder was committed; and there were riots again, +which almost amounted to a rebellion, in Derbyshire. At Stock-port and in +Birmingham immense mob meetings took place. In the northern counties the sky +was reddened night after night by incendiary fires. In the Midlands looms were +broken and furnaces extinguished. In Lancashire and Yorkshire the air was +sullen with strikes and secret plottings, and spies, and cold and famine. +</p> + +<p> +In the year 1819 things came to a kind of head. There was a meeting at +Manchester in August. It was such a meeting as had never been seen in England. +There were sixty thousand at it, there were eighty thousand, there were ninety +thousand—some said one, some said the other. It was so large, at any +rate, that it was difficult to say that it was not dangerous; and beyond doubt +many there would have snatched at the least chance of rapine. Be that as it +may, the magistrates, in the face of so great a concourse, lost their heads. +They ordered a small force of yeomanry to disperse the gathering. The yeomanry +became entangled—a second charge was needful: the multitude fled every +way. In ten minutes the ground was clear; but six lives were lost and seventy +persons were injured. +</p> + +<p> +At once all England was cleft into parties—that which upheld the charge, +and that which condemned it. Feelings which had been confined to the lower +orders spread to the upper; and while from this date the section which was to +pass the Reform Bill took new shape, underground more desperate enterprises +were breeding. Undismayed the people met at Paisley and at Glasgow, and at each +place there were collisions with the soldiery. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop had grounds, therefore, for his opinion of the Government of which +he shared the favour with the yeomanry—their country’s bulwark and +its pride. But it is a far cry to Windermere, and no offset from the storm +which was convulsing Lancashire stirred the face of the lake when Henrietta +opened her window next morning and looked out on the day which was to change +all for her. The air was still, the water grey and smooth, no gleam of sun +showed. Yet the general aspect was mild; and would have been cheerful, if the +more distant prospect which for the first time broke upon Henrietta’s +eyes had not raised it and her thoughts to the sublime. Beyond the water, above +the green slopes and wooded knobs which fringed the lake, rose, ridge behind +ridge, a wall of mountains. It stretched from the Peak of Coniston on the left, +by the long snow-flecked screes of Bow Fell, to the icy points of the Langdales +on the right—a new world, remote, clear, beautiful, and still: so still, +so remote, that it seemed to preach a sermon—to calm the hurry of her +morning thoughts, and the tumult of youth within her. She stood awhile in awe. +But her hair was about her shoulders, she was only half-dressed; and by-and-by, +when her first surprise waned, she bethought herself that <i>he</i> might be +below, and she drew back from the window with a blush. What more likely, what +more loverlike, than that he should be below? Waiting—on this morning +which was to crown his hopes—for the first sight of her face, the first +opening of her lattice, the gleam of her white arm on the sill? Had it been +summer, and had the rose-tree which framed the window been in bloom, what joy +to drop with trembling fingers a bud to him, and to know that he would treasure +it all his life—her last maiden gift! And he? Surely he would have sent +her an armful to await her rising, that as she dressed she might plunge her +face into their perfume, and silently plighting her troth to him, renew the +pure resolves which she had made in the night hours! +</p> + +<p> +But when she peeped out shyly, telling herself that she was foolish to blush, +and that the time for blushing was past, she failed to discover him. There was +a girl—handsome after a dark fashion—seated on a low wall on the +farther side of the road; and a group of four or five men were standing in +front of the inn door, talking in excited tones. Conceivably he might be one of +the men, for she could hear them better than she could see them—the door +being a good deal to one side. But when she had cautiously opened her window +and put out her head—her hair by this time being dressed—he was not +among them. +</p> + +<p> +She was drawing in her head, uncertain whether to pout or not, when her eyes +met those of the young woman on the wall; and the latter smiled. Possibly she +had noted the direction of Henrietta’s glance, and drawn her inference. +At any rate, her smile was so marked and so malicious that Henrietta felt her +cheek grow hot, and lost no time in drawing back and closing the window. +</p> + +<p> +“What a horrid girl!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +Still, after the first flush of annoyance, she would have thought no more of +it—would indeed have laughed at herself for her fancy—if Mrs. +Gilson’s strident voice had not at that moment brought the girl to her +feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Bess! Bess Hinkson!” the landlady cried, apparently from the +doorway. “Hast come with the milk? Then come right in and let me have it? +What are you gaping at there, you gaby? What has’t to do with thee? I do +think”—with venom—“the world is full of fools!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl with a sullen air took up a milk-pail that stood beside her; she wore +the short linsey petticoat of the rustic of that day, and a homespun bodice. +Her hair, brilliantly black, and as thick as a horse’s mane, was covered +only by a handkerchief knotted under her chin. +</p> + +<p> +“Bess Hinkson? What a horrid name!” Henrietta muttered as she +watched her cross the road. She did not dream that she would ever see the girl +again: the more as the men’s voices—she was nearly ready to +descend—fixed her attention next. She caught a word, then listened. +</p> + +<p> +“The devil’s in it if he’s not gone Whitehaven way!” +one said. “That’s how he’s gone! Through Carlisle, say you? +Not he!” +</p> + +<p> +“But without a horse? He’d no horse.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what if he’d not?” the first speaker retorted, with the +impatience of superior intellect. “It’s Tuesday, the day of the Man +packet-boat, and he’d be away in her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the packet don’t leave Whitehaven till noon,” a third +struck in. “And they’ll be there and nab him before that. +S’help me, he has not gone Whitehaven way!” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe he’d take a boat?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’d lack the time”—with scorn. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s took a boat here,” another maintained. +“That’s what he has done. He’s took a boat here and gone down +in the dark to Newby Bridge.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s not a boat gone!” another speaker retorted in +triumph. “What do you say to that?” +</p> + +<p> +So far Henrietta’s ear followed the argument; but her mind lagged at the +point where the matter touched her. +</p> + +<p> +“The Man packet-boat?” she thought, as she tied the last ribbon at +her neck and looked sideways at her appearance in the squat, filmy mirror. +“That must be the boat to the Isle of Man. It leaves Whitehaven the same +day as the Scotch boat, then. Perhaps there is but one, and it goes on to the +Isle of Man. And I shall go by it. And then—and then——” +</p> + +<p> +A knock at the door severed the thread, and drove the unwonted languor from her +eyes. She cast a last look at her reflection in the glass, and turned herself +about that she might review her back-hair. Then she swept the table with her +eye, and began to stuff this and that into her bandbox. The knock was repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“I am coming,” she cried. She cast one very last look round the +room, and, certain that she had left nothing, took up her bonnet and a shawl +which she had used for a wrap over her riding-dress. She crossed the room +towards the door. As she raised her hand to the latch, a smile lurked in the +dimples of her cheeks. There was a gleam of fun in her eyes; the lighter side +of her was uppermost again. +</p> + +<p> +It was not her lover, however, who stood waiting outside, but Modest +Ann—she went commonly by that name—the waiting-maid of the inn, who +was said to mould herself on her mistress and to be only a trifle less +formidable when roused. The two were something alike, for the maid was buxom +and florid; and fame told of battles between them whence no ordinary woman, no +ordinary tongue, no mortal save Mrs. Gilson, could have issued victorious. Fame +had it also that Modest Ann remained after her defeat only by reason of an +attachment, held by most to be hopeless, to the head ostler. And for certain, +severe as she was, she permitted some liberty of speech on the subject. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta, however, did not know that here was another slave of love; and her +face fell. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Stewart waiting?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, miss,” the woman answered, civilly enough, but staring as if +she could never see enough of her. “But Mrs. Gilson will be glad if +you’ll speak to her.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta raised her eyebrows. It was on the tip of her tongue to answer, +“Then let her come to me!” But she remembered that these people did +not know who she was—knew indeed nothing of her. And she answered +instead: “I will come. Where is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“This way, miss. I’ll show you the way.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta wondered, as the woman conducted her along several low-ceiled +passages, and up and down odd stairs, and past windows which disclosed the hill +rising immediately at the back of the house, what the landlady wanted. +</p> + +<p> +“She is an odious woman!” she thought, with impatience. “How +horrid she was to me last night! If ever there was a bully, she is one! And +this creature looks not much better!” +</p> + +<p> +Modest Ann, turning her head at the moment, belied the ill opinion by pointing +out a step in a dark corner. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a stair here, miss,” she said. “Take care.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” Henrietta answered in her clear, girlish voice. +“Is Mr. Stewart with Mrs.—— What’s her name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Gilson? No, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +And pausing, the woman opened a door, and made way for Henrietta to enter. +</p> + +<p> +At that instant—and strange to say, not before—a dreadful suspicion +leapt up in the girl’s brain. What if her brother had followed her, and +was there? Or worse still, Captain Clyne? What if she were summoned to be +confronted with them and to be taken home in shameful durance, after the +fashion of a naughty child that had behaved badly and was in disgrace? The fire +sprang to her eyes, her cheeks burnt. It was too late to retreat; but her +pretty head went up in the air, and her look as she entered spoke flat +rebellion. She swept the room with a glance of flame. +</p> + +<p> +However, there was no one to be burned up: no brother, no slighted, abandoned +suitor. In the room, a good-sized, pleasant room, looking on the lake, were +only Mrs. Gilson, who stood beside the table, which was laid for breakfast, and +a strange man. The man was gazing from the window, but he turned abruptly, +disclosing a red waistcoat, as her eye fell on him. She looked from one to the +other in great surprise, in growing surprise. What did the man there? +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Mr. Stewart?” she asked, her frigid tone expressing her +feelings. “Is he not here?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson seemed about to answer, but the man forestalled her. +</p> + +<p> +“No, miss,” he said, “he is not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +She asked the question with undisguised sharpness. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop nodded like a man well pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the point, miss,” he answered—“precisely. +Where is he?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV<br/> +TWO TO ONE</h2> + +<p> +Henrietta, high-spirited and thoughtless, was more prone to anger than to fear, +to resentment than to patience. But all find something formidable in the +unknown; and the presence of this man who spoke with so much aplomb, and +referred to her lover as if he had some concern in him, was enough to inspire +her with fear and set her on her guard. Nevertheless, she could not quite check +the first impulse to resentment; the man’s very presence was a liberty, +and her tone when she spoke betrayed her sense of this. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt,” she said, “that Mr. Stewart can be found +if you wish to see him.” She turned to Mrs. Gilson. “Be good +enough,” she said, “to send some one in search of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done that already,” the man Bishop answered. +</p> + +<p> +The landlady, who did not move, seemed tongue-tied. But she did not take her +eyes off the girl. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta frowned. She threw her bonnet and shawl on a side-table. +</p> + +<p> +“Be good enough to send again, then,” she said, turning and +speaking in the indifferent tone of one who was wont to have her orders obeyed. +“He is probably within call. The chaise is ordered for ten.” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop advanced a step and tapped the palm of one hand with the fingers of the +other. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the point, miss!” he said impressively. +“You’ve hit it. The chaise is ordered for ten. It is nine now, +within a minute—and the gentleman cannot be found.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cannot be found?” she echoed, in astonishment at his familiarity. +“Cannot be found?” She turned imperiously to Mrs. Gilson. +“What does this person mean?” she said. And her tone was brave. But +the colour came and went in her cheeks, and the first flutter of alarm darkened +her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The landlady found her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“He means,” she said bluntly, “that he did not sleep in his +bed last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Stewart?” +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman who came with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but,” Henrietta cried, “you must be jesting?” She +would not, she could not, give way to the doubt that assailed her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no jest,” Bishop answered gravely, and with something like +pity in his voice. For the girl looked very fair and very young, and wore her +dignity prettily. “It is no jest, miss, believe me. But perhaps we could +read the riddle—we should know more, at any rate—if you were to +tell us from what part you came yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +But she had her wits about her, and she was not going to tell them that! No, +no! Moreover, on the instant she had a thought—that this was no jest, but +a trick, a cruel, cowardly trick, to draw from her the knowledge which they +wanted, and which she must not give! Beyond doubt that was it; she snatched +thankfully at the notion. This odious woman, taking advantage of +Stewart’s momentary absence, had called in the man, and thought to bully +her, a young girl in a strange place, out of the information which she had +wished to get the night before. +</p> + +<p> +The impertinents! But she would be a match for them. +</p> + +<p> +“That is my affair,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“And will remain so!” she continued warmly. “For the rest, I +am inclined to think that this is a trap of some sort! If so, you may be sure +that Mr. Stewart will know how to resent it, and any impertinence offered to +me. You”—she turned suddenly upon Mrs. Gilson—“you +ought to be ashamed of yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson nodded oracularly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am ashamed of somebody,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The girl thought that she was gaining the advantage. +</p> + +<p> +“Then at once,” she said, “let Mr. Stewart know that I am +waiting for him. Do you hear, madam?” she stamped the floor with her +foot, and looked the pretty fury to the life. “And see that this person +leaves the room. Good-morning, sir. You will hear from Mr. Stewart what I think +of your intrusion.” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop opened his mouth to reply. But he caught Mrs. Gilson’s eye; and by +a look, such a look as appalled even the Bow Street runner’s stout heart, +she indicated the door. After a second of hesitation he passed out meekly. +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone, “Very good, miss,” the landlady said in the tone +of one who restrained her temper with difficulty—“very good. But if +you’re to be ready you’d best eat your breakfast—if, that is, +it is good enough for you!” she added. And with a very grim face she +swept from the room and left Henrietta in possession of the field. +</p> + +<p> +The girl sprang to the window and looked up and down the road. She had the same +view of the mild autumn morning, of the grey lake and distant range of hills +which had calmed her thoughts an hour earlier. But the beauty of the scene +availed nothing now. She was flushed with vexation—impatient, resentful. +Where was he? He was not in sight. Then where could he be? And why did he leave +her? Did he think that he need no longer press his suit, that the need for +<i>pettis soins</i> and attentions was over? Oh, but she would show him! And in +a moment all the feelings of the petted, spoiled girl were up in arms. +</p> + +<p> +“They are horrid!” she cried, angry tears in her eyes. +“It’s an outrage—a perfect outrage! And he is no better. How +dare he leave me, this morning of all mornings?” +</p> + +<p> +On which there might have stolen into her mind—so monstrous did his +neglect seem—a doubt, a suspicion; the doubt and the suspicion which she +repelled a few minutes earlier. But, as she turned, her eyes fell on the +breakfast-table; and vexation was not proof against a healthy appetite. +</p> + +<p> +“I will show him,” she thought resentfully, “that I am not so +dependent on him as he thinks. I shall not wait—I shall take my +breakfast. That odious woman was right for once.” +</p> + +<p> +And she sat down in the seat placed for her. But as quickly she was up again, +and at the oval glass over the mantel—where Samuel Rogers had often +viewed his cadaverous face—to inspect herself and be sure that she was +looking her best, so that <i>his</i> despair, when he came and found her cold +and distant, would be the deeper. Soon satisfied, she returned, smiling +dangerously, to her seat; and this time she fell-to upon the eggs and +girdle-cakes, and the home-cured ham, and the tea at ten shillings a pound. The +room had a window to the lake and a second window which looked to the south and +was not far from the first. Though low-ceiled, it was of a fair size, with a +sunk cupboard, with glazed upper doors, on each side of the fireplace, and +cushioned seats in the window-places. In a recess near the door—the room +was full of corners—were book-shelves; and on the other side of the door +stood a tall clock with a very pale face. The furniture was covered with some +warm red stuff, well worn; and an air of that snug comfort which was valued by +Englishmen of the day pervaded all, and went well with the scent of the China +tea. +</p> + +<p> +But neither tea nor comfort, nor the cheerful blaze on the hearth, could long +hold Henrietta’s thoughts; nor resentment repress her anxiety. Presently +she began to listen after every mouthful: her fork was as often suspended as at +work. Her pretty face grew troubled and her brow more deeply puckered, until +her wandering eye fell on the clock, and she saw that the slowly jerking hand +was on the verge of the half-hour. +</p> + +<p> +Then she sprang up, honestly frightened. She flew to the window that looked on +the lake and peered out anxiously; thence to the side window, but she got no +glimpse of him. She came back distracted to the table and stood pressing her +hands to her eyes. What if they were right, and he had not slept in his bed? +What if something had happened to him? But that was impossible! Impossible! +Things did not happen on such mornings as this! On wedding mornings! Yet if +that were the case, and they had sent for her that they might break it to +her—and then their hearts, even that woman’s heart, had failed +them? What—what then? +</p> + +<p> +She was trying to repel the thought when she fancied that she heard a sound at +the door, and with a gasp of relief she looked up. If he had entered at that +moment, she would have flung herself into his arms and forgiven all and +forgotten all. But he did not enter, and her heart sank again, and lower. She +went slowly to the door and listened, and found that the sound which she had +heard was caused by the whispering of persons outside. +</p> + +<p> +She summoned her pride to her aid then. She opened the door to its full extent +and walked back to the table, and turning, waited haughtily for them to enter. +But to speak, to command her voice, was harder, and it was all she could do to +murmur, +</p> + +<p> +“Something has happened to him”—her lip fluttered +ominously—“and you have come to tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing that I know of,” Bishop answered cheerfully. He and the +landlady had walked in and closed the door behind them. “Nothing at +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” She could hardly believe him. +</p> + +<p> +“Not the least thing in life, miss,” he repeated. “He’s +alive and well for what I know—alive and well!” +</p> + +<p> +She sat down on a chair that stood beside her, and the colour flowed back to +her cheeks. She laughed weakly. +</p> + +<p> +“I was afraid that something had happened,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Mr. Bishop answered, more seriously, “it’s not +that. It’s not that, miss. But all the same it’s trouble. Now if +you were to tell me,” he continued, leaning forward persuasively, +“where you come from, I need have hardly a word with you. I can see +you’re a lady; your friends will come; and, s’help me, in six +months you’ll have your matie again, and not know it happened! +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not tell you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The officer shook his head, surprised by her firmness. +</p> + +<p> +“Come now, miss—be advised,” he urged. “Be reasonable. +Just think for once that others may know better than you, and save me the +trouble—that’s a good young lady.” +</p> + +<p> +But the wheedling appeal, the familiar tone, grated on her. Her fingers, +tapping on the table, betrayed impatience as well as alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand you,” she said, with some return of her former +distance. “If nothing has happened to Mr. Stewart, I do not understand +what you can have to say to me, nor why you are here.” +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, miss,” he said, “if you must have it, you must. +I’m bound to say you are not a young lady to take a hint.” +</p> + +<p> +That frightened her. +</p> + +<p> +“If nothing has happened to him——” she murmured, and +looked from one to the other; from Mr. Bishop’s smug face to the +landlady’s stolid visage. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not what has happened to him,” the runner answered +bluntly. “It is what is likely to happen to him.” +</p> + +<p> +He drew from his pocket as he spoke a large leather case, unstrapped it, and +put the strap, which would have handily spliced a cart-trace of these days, +between his teeth. Then he carefully selected from the mass of papers which the +case contained a single letter. It was written, as the letters of that day were +written, on three sides of a square sheet of coarsish paper. The fourth side +served for envelope—that is, it bore the address and seal. But Bishop was +careful to fold the letter in such a way that these and the greater part of the +writing were hidden. He proffered the paper, so arranged, to Henrietta. +</p> + +<p> +“D’you know the handwriting,” he asked, “of that +letter, miss?” +</p> + +<p> +She had watched his actions with fascinated eyes, and could not think, could +not imagine, whither they tended. She was really frightened now. But her mettle +was high; she had the nerves of youth, and she hid her dismay. The hand with +which she took the letter was steady as a rock, the manner with which she +looked at it composed; but no sooner had her eyes fallen on the writing than +she uttered an exclamation, and the colour rose to her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“How did you get this?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“No, miss, no,” the runner answered. “One at a time. The +question is, Do you know the fist? The handwriting, I mean. But I see you +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is Mr. Stewart’s,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +He glanced at Mrs. Gilson as if to bespeak her attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” he said. “It is Mr. Stewart’s. And I warrant +you have others like it, and could prove the fact if it were needed. +No—don’t read it, miss, if you please,” he continued. +“You can tell me without that whether the gentleman has any friends in +these parts.” +</p> + +<p> +“None.” +</p> + +<p> +“That you know of?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never heard of any,” she answered. Her astonishment was so great +that she did not now think of refusing to answer. And besides, here was his +handwriting. And why did he not come? The clock was on the point of striking; +at this hour, at this minute, they should have been leaving the door of the +inn. +</p> + +<p> +“No, miss,” Bishop answered, exchanging a look with the landlady. +“Just so, you’ve never heard of any. Then one more question, if you +please. You are going north, to Scotland, to be married to-day? Now which way, +I wonder?” +</p> + +<p> +She frowned at him in silence. She began to see his drift. +</p> + +<p> +“By Keswick and Carlisle?” he continued, watching her face. +“Or by Kendal and Penrith? Or by Cockermouth and Whitehaven? But no. +There’s only the Isle of Man packet out of Whitehaven.” +</p> + +<p> +“It goes on to Dumfries,” she said. The words escaped her in spite +of herself. +</p> + +<p> +He smiled as he shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said; “it’d be a very long way round if it +did. But Mr. Stewart told you that, did he? I see he did. Well, you’ve +had an escape, miss. That’s all I can say.” +</p> + +<p> +The colour rose to her very brow, but her eyes met his boldly. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” she said. “What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” he repeated. “If you knew, miss, who the man +was—your Mr. Stewart—you’d know how—and what you have +escaped!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who he was?” she muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, who he was!” he retorted. “I can tell you this at least, +young lady,” he added bluntly, “he’s the man that’s +very badly wanted—uncommonly badly wanted!”—with a +grin—“in more places than one, but nowhere more than where he came +from.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wanted?” she said, the colour fading in her cheek. “For +what? What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“For what?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I asked.” +</p> + +<p> +His face was a picture of importance and solemnity. He looked at the landlady +as much as to say, “See how I will prostrate her!” But nothing +indicated his sense of the avowal he was going to make so much as the fact that +instead of raising his voice he lowered it. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall have the answer, miss, though I thought to spare you,” +he said. “He’s wanted for being an uncommon desperate villain, I am +sorry to say. For treason, and misprision of treason, and conspiracy. Ay, but +that’s the man you’ve come away with,” shaking his head +solemnly. “He’s wanted for bloody conspiracy—ay, it is so +indeed—equal to any Guy Fawkes, against my lord the King, his crown and +dignity! Seven indictments—and not mere counts, miss—have been +found against him, and those who were with him, and him the worst! And when +he’s taken, as he’s sure to be taken by-and-by, he’ll +suffer!” And Mr. Bishop nodded portentously. +</p> + +<p> +Her face was quite white now. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Stewart?” she gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“You call him Stewart,” the runner replied coolly. “I call +him Walterson—Walterson the younger. But he has passed by a capful of +names. Anyway, he’s wanted for the business in Spa Fields in ’16, +and half a dozen things besides!” +</p> + +<p> +The colour returned to Henrietta’s cheeks with a rush. Her fine eyes +glowed, her lips parted. +</p> + +<p> +“A conspirator!” she murmured. “A conspirator!” She +fondled the word as if it had been “love” or “kisses.” +“I suppose, then,” she continued, with a sidelong look at Bishop, +“if he were taken he would lose his life?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sure as eggs!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta drew a deep breath; and with the same sidelong look: +</p> + +<p> +“He would be beheaded—in the Tower?” +</p> + +<p> +The runner laughed with much enjoyment. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord save your innocent heart, miss,” he said—“no! He +would just hang outside Newgate.” +</p> + +<p> +She shuddered violently at that. The glow of eye and cheek faded, and tears +rose instead. She walked to a window, and with her back to them dabbed her eyes +with her handkerchief. Then she turned. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” Bishop cried. He stared, nonplussed. “Is that +all?” he said. “Would you have more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither more nor less,” she answered—between tears and +smiles, if his astonished eyes did not deceive him. “For now I +know—I know why he left me, why he is not here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good lord!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you thought, sir,” she continued, drawing herself up and +speaking with indignation, “that because he was in danger, because he was +proscribed, because a price was set on his head, I should desert him, and +betray him, and sell his secrets to you—I, his wife—you were indeed +mistaken!” +</p> + +<p> +“But damme!” Mr. Bishop cried in amazement almost too great for +words, “you are not his wife!” +</p> + +<p> +“In the sight of Heaven,” she answered firmly, “I am!” +She was shaking with excitement. “In the sight of Heaven I am!” she +repeated solemnly. And so real was the feeling that she forgot for the moment +the situation in which her lover’s flight had left her. She forgot +herself, forgot all but the danger that menaced him, and the resolution that +never, never, never should it part her from him. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop would fain have answered fittingly, and to that end sought words. +But he found none strong enough. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am dashed!” was all he could find to say. “I +<i>am</i> dashed!” Then—the thing was too much for one—he +sought support in Mrs. Gilson’s eye. “There, ma’am,” he +said vehemently, extending one hand, “I ask you! You are a woman of +sense! I ask you! Did you ever? Did you ever, out of London or in +London?” +</p> + +<p> +The landlady’s answer was as downright as it was unwelcome. +</p> + +<p> +“I never see such a fool!” she said, “if that’s what +you mean. And you”—with scorn—“to call yourself a Bow +Street man! Bow Street? Bah!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop opened his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“A parish constable’s a Solomon to you!” she continued, +before he could speak. +</p> + +<p> +His face was purple, his surprise ludicrous. +</p> + +<p> +“To me?” he ejaculated incredulously. “S’help me, +ma’am, you are mad, or I am! What have I done?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not what you’ve done!” Mrs. Gilson answered +grimly. “It’s what you’ve left undone! Oh, you gaby!” +she continued, with unction. “You poor creature! You bag of +goose-feathers! D’you know no more of women than that? Why, I’ve +kept my mouth shut the last ten blessed minutes for nothing else but to see +what a fool you’d make of yourself! And for certain it was not for +nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta tapped the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps when you’ve done,” she said, with tragic dignity, +“you will both be good enough to leave the room. I desire to be +alone.” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes were like stars. In her voice was an odd mixture of elation and alarm. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson turned on the instant and engaged her. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk nonsense!” she said. “Desire to be alone +indeed! You deserve to be alone, miss, with bread and water, and the lock on +the door! Oh, you may stare! But do you do now what he should have made you do +a half-hour ago! And then you’ll feel a little less like a play actress! +Alone indeed! Read that letter and tell me then what you think of +yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta’s eyes sparkled with anger, but she fought hard for her +dignity. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not used to impertinence,” she said. “You forget +yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Read,” Mrs. Gilson retorted, “and say what you like then. +You’ll have little stomach for saying anything,” she added in an +undertone, “or I’m a Dutchman!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta saw nothing for it but to read under protest, and she did so with a +smile of contempt. In the circumstances it seemed the easier course. But alas! +as she read, her pretty, angry face changed. She had that extreme delicacy of +complexion which betrays the least ebb and flow of feeling: and in turn +perplexity, wonder, resentment, all were painted there, and vividly. She looked +up. +</p> + +<p> +“To whom was this written?” she asked, her voice unsteady. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson was pitiless. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at the beginning!” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +The girl turned back mechanically, and read that which she had read before. But +then with surprise; now with dread. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is—Sally?” she muttered. +</p> + +<p> +Despite herself, her voice seemed to fail her on the word. And she dared not +meet their eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s Sally?” Mrs. Gilson repeated briskly. “Why, his +wife, to be sure! Who should she be?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V<br/> +A JEZEBEL</h2> + +<p> +There was a loud drumming in Henrietta’s ears, and a dimness before her +eyes. In the midst of this a voice, which she would not have known for her own, +cried loudly and clearly, “No!” And again, more violently, +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is ‘Yes’!” the landlady answered coolly. +“Why not? D’you think”—with rough +contempt—“he’s the first man that’s lied to a woman? or +you’re the first woman that’s believed a rascal? She’s his +wife right enough, my girl”—comfortably. “Don’t he ask +after his children? If you’ll turn to the bottom of the second page +you’ll see for yourself! Oh, quite the family man, he is!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s hand shook like ash-leaves in a light breeze; the paper +rustled in her grasp. But she had regained command of herself—she came of +a stiff, proud stock, and the very brusqueness of the landlady helped her; and +she read word after word and line after line of the letter. She passed from the +bottom of the second sheet to the head of the third, and so to the end. But so +slowly, so laboriously that it was plain that her mind was busy reading between +the lines—was busy comparing, sifting, remembering. +</p> + +<p> +To Bishop’s credit be it said, he kept his eyes off the girl. But at last +he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d that letter from his wife’s hand,” he said. +“They are married right enough—in Hounslow Church, miss. She lives +there, two doors from the ‘George’ posting-house, where folks +change horses between London and Windsor. She was a waiting-maid in the +coffee-room, and ’twas a rise for her. But she’s not seen him for +three years—reason, he’s been in hiding—nor had a penny from +him. Now she’s got it he’s taken up with some woman hereabouts, and +she put me on the scent. He’s a fine gift of the gab, but for all that +his father’s naught but a little apothecary, and as smooth a rogue and as +big a Radical, one as the other! I wish to goodness,” the runner +continued, suddenly reminded of his loss, “I’d took him last night +when he came in! But——” +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll do!” Mrs. Gilson said, cutting him short, as if he +were a tap she had turned on for her own purposes. “You can go +now!” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you hear me, man? Go!” the landlady thundered. And a glance of +her eye was sufficient to bring the runner to heel like a scolded hound. +“Go, and shut the door after you,” she continued, with sharpness. +“I’ll have no eavesdropping in my house, prerogative or no +prerogative!” +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone she showed a single spark of mercy. She went to the fire and +proceeded to mend it noisily, as if it were the one thing in the world to be +attended to. She put on wood, and swept the hearth, and made a to-do with it. +True, the respite was short; a minute or two at most. But when the landlady had +done, and turned her attention to the girl, Henrietta had moved to the window, +so that only her back was visible. Even then, for quite a long minute Mrs. +Gilson stood, with arms akimbo and pursed lips, reading the lines of the +girl’s figure and considering her, as if even her rugged bosom knew pity. +And in the end it was Henrietta who spoke—humbly, alas! now, and in a +voice almost inaudible. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you leave me, please?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I will,” Mrs. Gilson answered gruffly. “But on one +understanding, miss—and I’ll have it plain. It must be all over. If +you are satisfied he is a rascal—he has four children—well and +good. But I’ll have no goings on with such in my house, and no making two +bites of a cherry! Here’s a bit of paper I’ll put on the +table.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am satisfied,” Henrietta whispered. +</p> + +<p> +Under the woman’s blunt words she shook as under blows. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Gilson seemed to pay little heed to her feelings. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, very good!” she answered. “But I’ll leave +the paper all the same. It’s but a bit of a handbill that fool of a +runner brought with him, but ’twill show you what kind of a poor thing +your Joe was. Just a spouter, that got drunk on his own words and shot a poor +inoffensive gentleman in a shop! Shame on him for a little dirty murder, if +ever there was one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, please go! please go!” Henrietta wailed. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. But there’s the paper. And do you begin to +think”—removing with housewifely hand a half-eaten dish of eggs +from the table, and deftly poising on the same arm a large ham—“do +you begin to think like a grown, sensible woman what you’d best do. The +shortest folly’s soonest over! That’s my opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +And with that she opened the door, and, heavily laden, made her way downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +The girl turned and stood looking at the room, and her face was wofully +changed. It was white and pinched, and full of strained wonder, as if she asked +herself if she were indeed herself, and if it could really be to her that this +thing had happened. She looked older by years, she looked almost plain. But in +her eyes was a latent fierceness. An observer might have guessed that her pride +suffered more sharply than her heart. Possibly she had never loved the man with +half the fervour with which she now hated him. +</p> + +<p> +And that was true, though the change was sudden; ay, and though Henrietta did +not know it, nor would have admitted it. She suffered notwithstanding, and +horribly. For, besides pride, there were other things that lay wounded and +bleeding: her happy-go-lucky nature that had trusted lightly, and would be slow +to trust again; her girlish hopes and dreams; and the foolish fancy that had +passed for love, and in a single day, an hour, a minute, might have become +love. And one other thing—the bloom of her innocence. For though she had +escaped, she had come too near the fire not to fear it henceforth, and bear +with her the smell of singeing. +</p> + +<p> +As she thought of that, of her peril and her narrow escape, and reflected how +near she had come to utter shipwreck, her face lost its piteous look, and grew +harder, and sharper, and sterner; so that the wealth of bright hair, that was +her glory, crowned it only too brilliantly, only too youthfully. She saw how he +had fooled her to the top of her bent; how he had played on her romantic tastes +and her silly desire for secrecy. A low-born creature, an agitator, hiding from +the consequences of a cowardly crime, he had happened upon her in his twilight +walks, desired her—for an amusement, turned her head with inflated +phrases, dazzled her inexperience with hints of the world and his greatness in +it. And she—she had thought herself wiser than all about her, as she had +thought him preferable to the legitimate lover assigned to her by her family. +And she had brought herself to this! This was the end! +</p> + +<p> +Or no, not the end. The game, for what it was worth, was over. But the +candle-money remained to be paid. Goldsmith’s stanzas had still their +vogue; mothers quoted them to their daughters. Henrietta knew that when lovely +woman stoops to folly, even to folly of a lighter dye—when she learns, +though not too late, that men betray, there is a penalty to be paid. The world +is censorious, was censorious then, and apt to draw from very small evidence a +very dark inference. Henrietta’s face, flaming suddenly from brow to +neck, proved her vivid remembrance of this. Had she not called +herself—the words burned her—“his wife in the sight of +Heaven”? And now she must go back—if they would receive +her—go back and face those whom she had left so lightly, face the lover +whom she had flouted and betrayed, meet the smirks of the men and the sneers of +the women, and the thoughts of both! Go back to blush before the servants, and +hear from the lips of that grim prude, her sister-in-law, many things, both +true and untrue! +</p> + +<p> +The loss of the tender future, of the rosy anticipations in which she had lived +for weeks as in a fairy palace—she could bear this! And the rough +awakening from the maiden dream which she had taken for love—she must +bear that too, though it left her world cold as the sheet of grey water before +her, and repellent as the bald, rugged screes that frowned above it. She would +bear the heartsickness, the loneliness, the pain that treachery inflicts on +innocence; but the shame of the home-coming—if they would receive her, +which she doubted—the coarse taunts and stinging innuendoes, the nods, +the shrugs, the winks—these she could not face. Anything, anything were +better, if anything she could find—deserted, flung aside, homeless as she +was. +</p> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mrs. Gilson, descending with a sour face, had come upon a couple of +maids listening at the foot of the stairs. She had made sharp work of them, +sending them packing with fleas in their ears. But they proved to be only the +<i>avant-couriers</i> of scandal. Below were the Troutbeck apothecary and a +dozen gossips, whom the news had brought over the hill; and hangers-on without +number. All, however, had no better fate with Mrs. Gilson; not the parish +constable of Bowness, whose staff went for little, nor even Mr. Bishop, that +great man out of doors, at whose slightest nod ostlers ran and helpers bowed; +he smiled superior, indeed, but he had the wisdom to withdraw. In two minutes, +in truth, there remained of the buzzing crowd only the old curate of Troutbeck +supping small beer with a toast in it. And he, it was said, knew better than +any the length of the landlady’s foot. +</p> + +<p> +But this was merely to move the centre of ferment to the inn-yard. Here the +news that the house had sheltered a man for whose capture the Government +offered six hundred guineas, bred wild excitement. He had vanished, it was +true, like a child of the mist. But he might be found again. Meantime the +rustics gaped on the runner with saucer eyes, or flew hither and thither at his +beck. And Radicals being at a discount in the Lowther country, and six hundred +guineas a sum for which old Hinkson the miser would have bartered his soul, +some spat on their hands and swore what they would do if they met the devil; +while others, who were not apt at thinking, retired into corners and with +knitted brows and hands plunged into breeches pockets conjured up a map of the +world about Windermere. +</p> + +<p> +It should be borne in mind that at this time police were unknown—outside +London. There were parish constables; but where these were not cobblers, which +was strangely often the case, they were men past work, appointed to save the +rates. If a man’s pocket were picked, therefore, or his stack fired, his +daughter abducted, or his mare stolen, he had only himself and his friends to +look to. He must follow the offender, confront him, seize him, carry him to the +gaol. He must do all himself. Naturally, if he were a timid man or unpopular, +the rogue went free; and sometimes went free again and again until he became +the terror of the country-side. A fact which enables us to understand the +terrors of lonely houses in those days, and explains the repugnance to life in +solitary places which is traditional in some parts of England. +</p> + +<p> +On the other hand, where the crime was known and outrageous, it became every +man’s business. It was every man’s duty to join the hue and cry: if +he did not take part in it he was a bad neighbour. Mr. Bishop, therefore, did +not lack helpers. On the first discovery of Walterson’s flight, which the +officer had made a little after daybreak, he had sent horsemen to Whitehaven, +Keswick, and Kendal, and a boat to Newby Bridge. The nearer shore and the woods +on the point below the bishop’s house—some called it Landoff +House—were well beaten, and the alarm was given in Bowness on the one +hand and in Ambleside on the other. The general voice had it that the man had +got away early in the night to Whitehaven. But some stated that a pedlar had +met him, on foot and alone, crossing the Kirkstone Pass at daybreak; and +others, that he had been viewed skulking under a haystack near Troutbeck +Bridge. That a beautiful girl, his companion, had been seized, and was under +lock and key in the house, was whispered by some, but denied by more. +Nevertheless, the report won its way, so that there were few moments when the +chatterers who buzzed about the runner had not an eye on the upper windows and +a voice ready to proclaim their discoveries. +</p> + +<p> +Even those who believed the story, however, were far from having a true picture +of poor Henrietta. With some she passed for a London Jezebel; locked up, it was +whispered, with a bottle of gin to keep her quiet until the chaise was ready to +take her to gaol. Others pictured her as the frenzied leader of one of the +women’s clubs which had lately sprung up in Lancashire, and of which the +principal aim, according to the Tories, was to copy the French fish-fags and +march one day to Windsor to drag the old king, blind and mad as he was, to the +scaffold. Others spoke of a casual light-o’-love picked up at Lancaster, +but a rare piece of goods for looks; which seemed a pity, and one of those +tragedies of the law that were beginning to prick men’s +consciences—since there was little doubt that the baggage, poor lass, +would hang with her tempter. +</p> + +<p> +A word or two of these whisperings reached Mrs. Gilson’s ears. But she +only sniffed her contempt, or, showing herself for a moment at the door, +chilled by the coldness of her eye the general enthusiasm. Then, woe betide the +servant whom she chanced to espy among the idlers. If a man, he was glad to +hide himself in the stable; if a woman, she was very likely to go back to her +work with a smarting cheek. Even the Troutbeck apothecary, a roistering blade +who was making a day of it, kept a wary eye on the door, and, if he could, +slipped round the corner when she appeared. +</p> + +<p> +But Juno herself had her moments of failure, and no mortals are exempt from +them. About four in the afternoon Mrs. Gilson got a shock. Modest Ann, her face +redder than usual, came to her and whispered in her ear. In five seconds the +landlady’s face was also redder than usual, and her frown was something +to see. She rose. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe it!” she answered. “You are daft, +woman, to think of such a thing!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s true, missus, as I stand here!” Ann declared. +</p> + +<p> +“To Kendal gaol? To-night!” +</p> + +<p> +“That very thing! And her”—with angry +fervour—“scarce more than a child, as you may say!” +</p> + +<p> +“Old enough to make a fool of herself!” Mrs. Gilson retorted +spitefully. “But I don’t believe it!” she added. +“You’ve heard amiss, my girl!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll see,” the woman answered. “’Twill +be soon settled. The justice is crossing the road now, and that Bishop with +him; and that little wizened chap of a clerk that makes up the Salutation +books. And the man that keeps the gaol at Appleby: they’ve been waiting +for him—he’s to take her. And there’s a chaise ordered to be +ready if it’s wanted. It’s true, as I stand here!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson’s form swelled until it was a wonder the whalebone stood. But +in those days things were of good British make. +</p> + +<p> +“A chaise?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no chaise,” the landlady answered firmly, +“goes from here on that errand!” +</p> + +<p> +Modest Ann knew that when her mistress spoke in that tone the thing was as good +as done. But the waiting-maid, whose heart, for all her temper, was softer than +her features, at which Jim the ostler was supposed to boggle, was not greatly +comforted. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll only send to the Salutation,” she said despondently. +</p> + +<p> +“Let them send!” the landlady replied. And taking off her apron, +she prepared to face the enemy. “They’ll talk to me before they +do!” +</p> + +<p> +But Ann, great as was her belief in her mistress, shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“What can you do against the law?” she muttered. “I wish that +Bishop may never eat another morsel of hot victuals as long as he lives! Gravy +with the joint? Never while I am serving!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI<br/> +THE INQUIRY</h2> + +<p> +“Who is there?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta lifted her tear-stained face from the pillow and awaited the answer. +Three hours earlier, her head aching, her heart full, uncertain what to do or +what would follow, she had fled from the commotion below, and, locking herself +in her bedroom, had lain down with her misery. It was something to find in the +apathy of prostration a brief respite; it was something to close her eyes and +lie quite still. For a while she might keep her door locked, might nurse her +wretchedness, might evade rude looks and curious questions, might postpone +decision. +</p> + +<p> +For the pride that had sustained her in the morning had failed, as the day wore +on. Solitude and the lack of food—she had refused to eat at +midday—had worn down her spirit. At last tears had come, and +plentifully—and repentance. She did not say that the fault was her own, +but she knew it, she admitted it. The man had behaved to her wickedly, +treacherously, horribly; but she had brought it on herself. He had laid the +snare in vain had she not stooped to deceit—had she not consented to +mislead her friends, to meet him secretly, to listen to him with as little heed +of propriety as if she had been Sue at the forge, or Bess in the still-room. +Her own vanity, her own folly, had brought her to the very verge of ruin; and +with shame she owned that there was more in the old saws with which her +sister-in-law had deafened her than her inexperience had imagined. But the +discovery came late. She was smirched. And what—what was she to do? Where +could she go to avoid the full penalty—the taunts, the shame, the +disgrace that awaited her in the old home?—even if the old home were +still open to her. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile she got no answer. And “Who is there?” she repeated +wearily. +</p> + +<p> +The reply came muffled through the door. +</p> + +<p> +“You are wanted downstairs, lady.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose languidly. Perhaps the time was come. Perhaps her brother was here, +had followed, traced, and found her. For the moment she was all but +indifferent. To-morrow she would suffer, and sorely; but to-day she had fallen +too low. She went slowly to the door and opened it. +</p> + +<p> +Ann stood in the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“They want you downstairs, miss,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The girl saw that the woman looked queerly at her, but she was prepared for +such looks. Unconsciously she had steeled herself to bear them. “Very +well,” she returned, and did not ask who wanted her. But she went back to +her table, dabbed her eyes with cold water, and smoothed her hair and her +neck-ribbon—she had pride enough for that. Then she went to the door. The +woman was still outside, still staring. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that you were waiting,” Henrietta said, faintly +surprised. “I know my way down.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was to come with you, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are they, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are where you were this morning,” the woman answered. +“This way, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta followed listlessly, and fancied in the sullenness of her apathy that +she was proof against aught that could happen. But when she had descended the +stairs and neared the door of Mr. Rogers’s room—which was in a +dusky passage—she found herself, to her astonishment, brushing past a row +of people, who flattened themselves against the wall to let her pass. Their +eyes and their hard breathing—perhaps because she was amongst them before +she saw them—impressed her so disagreeably that her heart fluttered, and +she paused. For an imperceptible instant she was on the point of turning and +going back. But, fortunately, at that moment the door opened wide, Ann stood +aside, and Mrs. Gilson showed herself. She beckoned to the girl to enter. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, miss,” she said gruffly, as Henrietta complied. +“Here’s some gentlemen want to ask you a question or two.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta saw two persons with their faces turned towards her seated behind a +table, which bore ink and paper and one or two calf-bound books. Behind these +were three or four other persons standing; and beside the door close to her +were as many more, also on their feet. But nowhere could she see the dreaded +face of her brother, or, indeed, any face that she knew. And after advancing +firmly enough into the room, she stopped, and, turning, looked uncertainly at +Mrs. Gilson. +</p> + +<p> +“There must be some mistake,” she murmured. “I have come into +the——” +</p> + +<p> +“Wrong room, miss?”—the speaker was Bishop, who was one of +the three or four who stood behind the two at the table. “No, +there’s no mistake, miss,” he continued, with exaggerated +cheerfulness. “It’s just a formality. Only just a formality. These +gentlemen wish to ask you one or two questions.” +</p> + +<p> +The colour rose to her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“To ask me?” she repeated, with a slight ring of hauteur in her +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” Bishop answered. “It will be all right, I am sure. +But attend to this gentleman, if you please, and answer his questions.” +</p> + +<p> +He indicated with his finger the one seated before him. +</p> + +<p> +The girl, half angry, half frightened, lowered her eyes and met those of the +person at the table. Apparently her aspect had checked the exordium he had +prepared; for instead of addressing her in the tones which were wont to fill +the justice-room at Ambleside, Mr. Hornyold, rector and magistrate, sat back in +his chair, and stared at her in silence. It was evident that his astonishment +was great. He was a portly man, and tall, about forty years old, and, after his +fashion, handsome. He had well-formed features and a mobile smile; but his face +was masterful—overmasterful, some thought; and his eyes were hard, when a +sly look did not soften, without much improving, their expression. The girl +before him was young, adorably fresh, above all, beautiful; and the smile of +the man peeped from under the mask of the justice. He stared at her, and she at +him, and perhaps of the two he was the more taken aback. At any rate, it was +Henrietta who broke the silence. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand,” she said, with ill-suppressed indignation, +“why I am here. Are you sure that there is no mistake?” +</p> + +<p> +He found his voice then. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite sure,” he said drily. And he laid down the pen with which he +had been toying while he stared at her. He sat a little more erect in his +chair. “There is no mistake,” he continued, “though for your +sake, young woman, I wish I could think there was. I wish I could think there +was,” he repeated in a more indulgent tone, “since you seem, at any +rate, a more respectable person than I expected to see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s eyes opened wide. Her face was scarlet. +</p> + +<p> +He leaned forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my girl,” he said—and his familiar tone struck her, as +it were, in the face,—never had such a tone been used to her before! +“Let us have no nonsense. You will not improve your case that way. Let me +tell you, we are accustomed to all sorts here. You must speak when you are told +to speak, and be silent when you are bid, and in the meantime listen to me! +Listen to me, I say!” staying by an imperious nod the angry remonstrance +that was on her lips. “And remember where you are, if you wish to be well +treated. If you are sensible and tell the truth, some other course will be +found than that which, it is to be feared, must end this business.” +</p> + +<p> +“But by what right,” Henrietta cried, striving to command both her +rage and her fear—“by what right——” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I about to question you?”—with a smirk of humour and a +glance at the audience. “By the right of the law, young woman, which I +would have you know is of some account here, however it may stand in +Lancashire.” +</p> + +<p> +“The law?” she stammered. And she looked round terrified. +“Why? Why? What have I done?” she cried pathetically. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment all was dark before her. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed slyly. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s to be seen,” he said. “No hanging +matter,” he continued humorously, “I hope. And as it’s good +law that everybody’s innocent—that’s so, Mr. Dobbie, is it +not?”—he addressed the clerk—“until he’s found to +be guilty, let somebody set the young woman a chair.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can stand!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, you sit down!” muttered a gruff voice in her ear. And a +hand—it was Mrs. Gilson’s—pressed her down in the chair. +“And you answer straight out,” the woman continued coolly, in +defiance of the scandalised look which Mr. Dobbie, the clerk, cast upon her, +“and there’s not one of ’em can do you any harm.” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true,” he said tolerantly, “always supposing +that you’ve done no wrong, my girl—no wrong beyond getting into bad +company, as I trust will turn out to be the case. Now, Mr. Dobbie, take down +her answers. What’s your name, my girl, first?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta looked at him steadily; she was trying to place herself in these new +conditions. Something like composure was coming back to her flushed and +frightened face. She reflected; and having reflected, she was silent. +</p> + +<p> +He fancied that she had not heard, or did not understand. +</p> + +<p> +“Your name, young woman,” he repeated, “and your last place +of abode? Speak up! And don’t be afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +But she did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +He frowned. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come,” he said. “Did you hear me? Where is your home, +and what do you call yourself? You are not the man’s wife, I know. We +know as much as that, you see, so you may as well be frank.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the charge against me?” She spoke slowly, and her face was +now set and stubborn. “Of what am I accused?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hornyold’s face turned a brick red. He did not rule three parishes +through three curates, reserving to himself only the disciplinary powers he was +now exercising, to be thwarted by a run-the-country girl; who, in spite of her +looks, was, ten to one, no better than the imprudent wenches the overseers were +continually bringing before him. He knew at least the company she kept. He +raised his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not here to answer your questions!” he said, bending his +brows. “But you mine! You mine!” he repeated, rapping the table +sharply. “Do you hear? Now, you will at once tell me——” +</p> + +<p> +He broke off. The clerk had touched his sleeve and was whispering in his ear. +He frowned impatiently, but listened. And after a moment he shrugged his +shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he said. “Tell her!” +</p> + +<p> +The clerk, a shabby man with a scratch wig and a little glass ink-bottle at his +buttonhole, raised his eyes, and looking at her over his glasses, spoke: +</p> + +<p> +“You are not yet charged,” he said; “but if you cannot give a +satisfactory account of yourself you will be charged with receiving, +harbouring, and assisting one William Walterson the younger, otherwise Stewart, +otherwise Malins, against whom indictments for various felonies and treason +felonies have been found. And with aiding and abetting the escape of the said +William Walterson, in whose company you have been found. And with being +accessory after the fact to various felonies——” +</p> + +<p> +“To murder!” said Mr. Hornyold, cutting him short emphatically. +“To murder! amongst other things. That is the charge, if you must know +it. So now”—he rapped the table sharply—“answer at +once, and the truth. What is your name? And where was your last place of +abode?” +</p> + +<p> +But Henrietta, if she were willing to answer, could not. At the sound of that +dreadful word “murder!”—they hanged lightly, so lightly in +those days!—the colour had fled from her face. The darkness that had +confused her a while before hid all. She kept her seat, she even retained her +erect posture; but the hands which she raised before her as if to ward off +something groped idly in the air. +</p> + +<p> +Murder! No wonder that she lost consciousness for a moment, or that Hornyold, +secretly relishing her beauty, thought that he had found the weapon that would +soon bring her to her knees! or that the little audience by the door, listening +awestruck, held their breath. The wonder was that only one of them judged from +the girl’s gesture that she was fainting. Only one acted. Mrs. Gilson +stepped forward and shook her roughly by the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Words break no bones!” the landlady said without +ceremony—and not without an angry look at the clerk, who raised his pen +as if he would interpose. “Don’t you make a fool of yourself. But +do you tell them what they want to know. And your friends will settle with +them. Murder, indeed! Pack of boddles!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good advice,” said the magistrate, smiling indulgently. +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must not interfere!” snapped the clerk—who kept the +books of the Salutation in Ambleside and not of the Low Wood Inn. +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you sense to see the girl is fainting?” the landlady +replied wrathfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well——” +</p> + +<p> +“I am better now,” Henrietta said bravely. And she drew a deep +breath. A little colour—induced perhaps by Hornyold’s unsparing +gaze—was coming back to her cheeks. “Would you—can I have a +glass of water?” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson was bustling to the door to give the order when it opened, and Mr. +Bishop, who had gone to it a moment before, took in a glass of wine, and, +secretly pleased that he had anticipated the need, handed it to her. Mrs. +Gilson took it with a grunt of distrust, and made the girl swallow it; while +the magistrate waited and watched, and thought that he had never seen a young +woman who was so handsome, pale or red, fainting or fierce. And so fresh! so +admirably, astonishingly fresh for the companion of such a man. A good many +thoughts of various kinds flitted through his mind as he watched her, marking +now the luxuriance of her fair hair, now the white chin, small but firm, and +now the faint, faint freckles that, like clots in cream, only added to the +delicacy of her complexion. He waited without impatience until the girl had +drunk the wine, and when he spoke it was in a tone approaching the paternal. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, my dear,” he said, “you are going to be a good girl and +sensible, I am sure. We don’t want to send you to prison to herd with +people with whom, to judge from your appearance, you have not been wont to mix. +And therefore we give you this opportunity—there’s no need we +should, you know—of telling us who you are, and whence you come, and what +you know; that if it appears that you have fallen into this man’s company +in ignorance, and not knowing what manner of man he was, we may prevent this +charge appearing, and instead of committing you to Appleby, place you here or +elsewhere under bond to appear. Which, in a case so serious as this, is not a +course we could adopt were you not so very young, and,” with a humorous +look at the group by the door, “so very good-looking! So now be a good +girl and don’t be afraid, but tell me at once who you are, and where you +joined this man.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I do not,” Henrietta said, looking at him with clear eyes, +“must I go to prison?” +</p> + +<p> +“Appleby gaol,” said the clerk, glancing over his glasses. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you must send me there,” she replied, a little faintly. +“For I cannot tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be a fool!” growled Mrs. Gilson in her ear. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell you,” Henrietta repeated more firmly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hornyold stared. He was growing angry, for he was not accustomed to be set +at naught. After their fashion they all stared. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, my dear,” the runner remonstrated smoothly. “If +you don’t tell us, we shall think there’s more behind.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“And that being so, it’s only a matter of time to learn what it +is,” the runner continued cunningly. “Tell us now and save time, +because we are sure to get to know. Young women as pretty as you are not hard +to trace.” +</p> + +<p> +But she shook her head. And the face Bishop called pretty was stubborn. The +group by the door, marking for future gossip every particular of her +appearance, the stuff of her riding-habit, the fineness of her linen, the set +of her head, made certain that she was no common trollope. They wondered what +would happen to her, and hoped, the more tender-hearted, that there would be no +scene, and no hysterics to end it. +</p> + +<p> +The clerk raised his pen in the air. “Understand,” he said, +“you will be remanded to Appleby gaol—it’s no very +comfortable place, I can tell you—and later, you will be brought up again +and committed, I’ve very little doubt, to take your trial on these +charges. If the principal offender be taken, as he is likely to be taken before +the day is out, you’ll be tried with him. But it is not necessary. Now do +you understand?” he continued, speaking slowly. “And are you still +determined to give no evidence—showing how you came to be with this +man?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta’s eyes were full of trouble. She shivered. +</p> + +<p> +“Where shall I be tried?” she muttered in an unsteady voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Appleby,” the clerk said curtly. “Or in His Majesty’s +Bench at Westminster! Now think, before it is too late.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is too late,” she answered in a low tone, “I cannot help +it now.” +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate leant forward. What a fool the girl was! If she went to Appleby +he would see no more of her, save for an hour or two when she was brought up +again before being committed. Whereas, if she spoke and they made her a +witness, she might be lodged somewhere in the neighbourhood under surveillance. +And she was so handsome and so young—the little fool!—he would not +be sorry to see more of her. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="p69"></a> +<img src="images/p69.png" width="339" height="540" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="sc">“I give you a last chance,” he said.</span></p> +</div> + +<p> +“I give you a last chance,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +The magistrate shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Then make the committal out!” he said. “There’s enough +to justify it.” It was some satisfaction to think that locked up with +half a dozen sluts at Appleby she would soon be sorry for herself. “Make +it out!” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +If the hysterics did not come now he was very much mistaken if they did not +come later, when the gaol doors were shut on her. She was evidently of +respectable condition; a curate’s daughter, perhaps, figged out by the +man who had deceived her, or a lady’s lady, spoiled by her mistress, and +taught ideas above her station. On such, the gaol, with its company and its +hardships, fell severely. It would soon, he fancied, bring her to her senses. +</p> + +<p> +The clerk dipped his pen in the ink, and after casting a last glance at the +girl to see if she would still yield, began to write. She watched him with +fascinated eyes, watched him in a kind of stupor. The thought throbbed loudly +and more loudly in her head, “What will become of me? What will become of +me?” Meanwhile the silence was broken only by the squeaking of the pen +and a single angry “Lord’s sakes!” which fell from the +landlady. The others awaited the end with whatever of pity, or interest, or +greedy excitement came natural to them. They were within, and others were +without; and they had a delicious sense of privilege. They would have much to +tell: For one does not every day see a pretty girl, young, and tenderly +nurtured, as this girl seemed to be, and a lady to the eye, committed to the +common gaol on a charge of murder—murder, and treason felony, was it, +they called it? Treason felony! That meant hanging, drawing, and quartering. +Lord’s sakes, indeed; poor thing, how would she bear it? And though it is +likely that some among them—Mrs. Gilson for one—didn’t think +it would come to this, there was a frown on the landlady’s brow that +would have done honour to the Lord Chancellor Eldon himself. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII<br/> +CAPTAIN ANTHONY CLYNE</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop of Bow Street alone watched the clerk’s pen with a look of +doubt. He had his own views about the girl. But he did not interfere, and his +discontent with the posture of affairs was only made clear when a knock came at +the door. Then he was at the door, and had raised the latch before those who +were nearest could open. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got him?” he asked eagerly. And he thrust his head into +the passage. +</p> + +<p> +Even Henrietta turned to catch the answer, her lips parting. Her breath seemed +to stop. The clerk held his pen. The magistrate by a gesture exacted silence. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” the runner cried in chagrin. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” The voice sounded something peremptory. “Certainly not. +But I want to see—ahem!—yes, Mr. Hornyold. At once!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta, at the first word of the answer, had turned again. She had turned so +far that she now had her back full to the door, and her face to the farthest +corner. But it was not the same Henrietta, nor the same face. She sat rigid, +stiff, turned to stone; she was scarlet from hair to neck-ribbon. Her very eyes +burned, her shoulders burned. And her eyes were wild with insupportable shame. +To be found thus! To be found thus, and by him! Better, far better the gaol, +and all it meant! +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the magistrate, after a brief demur and a little whispering and the +appearance of a paper with a name on it, rose. He went out. A moment later his +clerk was summoned, and he went out. Bishop had gone out first of all. Those +who were left and who had nothing better to do than to stare at the +girl’s back, whispered together, or bade one another listen and hear what +was afoot outside. Presently these were joined by one or two of the boldest in +the passage, who muttered hurriedly what they knew, or sought information, or +stared with double power at the girl’s back. But Henrietta sat +motionless, with the same hot blush on her cheeks and the same misery in her +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Mrs. Gilson was summoned, and she went out. The others, freed from +the constraint of her presence, talked a little louder and a little more +freely. And wonder grew. The two village constables, who remained and who felt +themselves responsible, looked important, and one cried “Silence” a +time or two, as if the court were sitting. The other explained the law, of +which he knew as much as a Swedish turnip, on the subject of treason felony. +But mixing it up with the <i>Habeas Corpus</i> which was then suspended, he was +tripped up by a neighbour before he could reach the minutiæ of the punishment. +Which otherwise must have had much interest for the prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +At length the door opened, the other constable cried, “Silence! Silence +in the court!” And there entered—the landlady. +</p> + +<p> +The surprise of the little knot of people at the back of the room was great but +short-lived. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson turned about and surveyed them with her arms akimbo and her lower +lip thrust out. “You can all just go!” she said. “And the +sooner the better! And if ever I catch you”—to the more successful +of the constables, on whose feet her eye had that moment +alighted—“up my stairs with those dirty clogs, Peter Harrison, +I’ll clout you! Now, off you go! Do you think I keep carpets for loons +like you?” +</p> + +<p> +“But—the prisoner?” gasped Peter, clutching at his +fast-departing glory. “The prisoner, missus?” +</p> + +<p> +“The goose!” the landlady retorted with indescribable scorn. +“Go you down and see what the other ganders think of it. And leave me to +mind my business! I’ll see to the prisoner.” And she saw them all +out and closed the door. +</p> + +<p> +When the room was clear she tapped Henrietta on the shoulder. +“There’s no gaol for you,” she said bluntly. “Though it +is not yourself you’ve got to thank for it. They’ve put you in my +charge and you’re to stay here, and I’m to answer for you. So +you’ll just say straight out if you’ll stay, or if you’ll +run.” +</p> + +<p> +Had the girl burst into tears the landlady had found it reasonable. Instead, +“Where is he?” Henrietta whispered. She did not even turn her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you hear,” Mrs. Gilson retorted, “that he had +not been taken?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean—I mean——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Mrs. Gilson exclaimed, a little enlightened. “You mean +the gentleman that was here, and spoke for you? Yes, you are right, it’s +him you’ve to thank. Well, he’s gone to Whitehaven, but he’ll +see you tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“In the meantime,” Mrs. Gilson continued, “you’ll give +me your word you’ll not run. Gilson is bound for you in fifty pounds to +show you when you’re wanted. And as fifty pounds is fifty pounds, and a +mint of money, I’d as soon turn the key on you as not. Girls that run +once, run easy,” the landlady added severely. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not run away,” Henrietta said meekly—more meekly +perhaps than she had ever spoken in her life. “And—and I am much +obliged to you, and thankful to you,” in a very small voice. “Will +you please to let me go to my room, and you can lock me in?” +</p> + +<p> +She had risen from her seat, and though she did not turn to the landlady, she +stole, shamed and askance, a look at her. Her lip trembled, her head hung. And +Mrs. Gilson, on her side, seemed for a moment on the verge of some unwonted +demonstration; she stood awkward and large, and perhaps from sheer clumsiness +avoided even while she appeared to invite the other’s look. But nothing +happened until the two passed out, Henrietta first, like a prisoner, and Mrs. +Gilson stiffly following. +</p> + +<p> +Then there were half a dozen persons waiting to stare in the passage, and the +way Mrs. Gilson’s tongue fell loose was a warning. In two seconds, only +one held her ground: the same dark girl with the gipsy-like features whose +mocking smile had annoyed Henrietta as she dressed that morning. Ah, me! what +ages ago that morning seemed! +</p> + +<p> +To judge from Mrs. Gilson’s indignation, this girl was the last who +should have stood. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you black-look me!” the landlady cried. “But +pack! D’you hear, impudence, pack! Or not one drop of milk do I take from +your old skinflint of a father! And he’ll drub you finely, if he’s +not too old and silly—till you smile on the other side of your face! +I’d like to know what’s taken you to-day to push yourself among +your betters!” +</p> + +<p> +“No harm,” the girl muttered. She had retreated, scowling, half-way +down the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“And no good, either!” the landlady retorted. “Get you gone, +or I’ll make your ears ring after another fashion!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta heard no more. She had shrunk from the uproar and fled quickly to her +room. With a bursting heart and a new humility she drew the key from the wards +of the lock and set it on the outside, hoping—though the hope was +slender—to avoid further words with the landlady. The hope came nearer +fulfilment, however, than she expected; for Mrs. Gilson, after panting +upstairs, only cried through the door that she would send her up supper, and +then went down again—perhaps with a view to catching Bess Hinkson in a +fresh trespass. +</p> + +<p> +Bess was gone, however. But adventures are for the brave, and not ten minutes +passed before the landlady was at issue with a fresh adversary. She found the +coach-office full, so full that it overflowed into the hall. Modest Ann, called +this way and that, had need of four hands to meet the demands made upon her; so +furious were the calls for the lemons and rum and Old Geneva, the grateful +perfume of which greeted Mrs. Gilson as she descended. Alas, something else +greeted her: and that was a voice, never a favourite with her, but now raised +in accents particularly distasteful. Tyson, the Troutbeck apothecary—a +flashy, hard-faced young man in pepper-and-salt, and Bedford cords—had +seized the command and the ear of the company in the coach-office, and was +roasting Long Tom Gilson upon his own hearth. +</p> + +<p> +“Not know who she is?” he was saying in the bullying tone which +made him hated of the pauper class. “You don’t ask me to believe +that, Tom? Come! Come!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s what I say,” Gilson answered. +</p> + +<p> +He sat opposite the other, his hands on his knees, his face red and sulky. He +did not like to be baited. +</p> + +<p> +“And you go bail for her?” Tyson cried. “You have gone bail +for her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“And don’t know her name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—no.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor sat back in his chair, his glass in his hand, and looked round for +approbation. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “what do you think of that for a +dalesman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it wasn’t long-headed, Tom,” said one unwillingly. +“Not to call long-headed, so to speak,” with north-country caution. +“I’d not go bail myself, not for nobody I’d not know.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” several agreed. “No, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“But what, Tom, what?” the doctor asked, waiting in his positive +fashion for the other to plunge deeper into the mire. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Clyne, that I do know,” Gilson continued, “it was he +said ‘Do it!’ And he said something to the Rector, I don’t +doubt, for he was agreeable.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he did not go bail for her?” the apothecary suggested +maliciously. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Tom answered, breathing hard. “But for reason she was +not there, but here. Anyway,” he continued, somewhat anxious to shift the +subject, “he said it and I done it, and I’d do it again for Captain +Clyne. I tell you he’s not a man as it’s easy to say +‘No’ to, Mr. Tyson. As these Radicals i’ Lancashire ha’ +found out, ’od rot ’em! He’s that active among ’em, +he’s never a letter, I’m told, but has a coffin drawn on it, and +yeomanry in his house down beyond both day and night, I hear!” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard,” said one, “in Cartmel market, he was to be married +next week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said the doctor jocosely, “but not to the young lady as +Tom is bail for! I tell you, Tom, he’s been making a fool of you just to +keep this bit of evidence against the Radicals in his hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not send her to Appleby gaol, then?” Tom retorted, with a fair +show of sense. +</p> + +<p> +“Because he knows you’ll cosset her here, and he thinks to loose +her tongue that way! They can gaol her after, if this don’t +answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, while you run the risk! If it’s not that, what’s he +doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should he not be here?” Gilson asked slowly. +“Hasn’t he the old house in Furness, not two miles from Newby +Bridge! And his mother a Furness woman. I do hear that the boy’s to be +brought there for safety till the shires are quieter. And maybe it’s that +brings Captain Anthony here.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what has that to do with the young woman you’re going bail +for?” the doctor retorted. “Go bail, Tom, for a wench you +don’t know, and that’ll jump the moon one of these fine nights! I +tell you, man, I never heard the like! Never! Go bail for a girl you +don’t know!” +</p> + +<p> +“And I tell you,” cried a voice that made the glasses ring, +“I have heard the like! And I’ll give you the man, my lad!” +And Mrs. Gilson, putting aside the two who blocked the doorway, confronted the +offending Tyson with a look comparable only to that of Dr. Keats of Eaton when +he rolled up his sleeves. “I’ll give you the name, my lad!” +she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” the doctor answered, though he was manifestly taken aback, +“you must confess, Mrs. Gilson——” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I’ll confess nothing!” the landlady retorted. +“What need, when you’re the man? Not give bail for a woman you +don’t know? Much you knew of Madge Peters when you made her your wife! +And wasn’t that going bail for her? Ay, and bail that you’ll find +it hard to get out of, my man, though you may wish to! For the matter of that, +it’s small blame to her, whatever comes of it!” Mrs. Gilson +continued, setting her arms akimbo. “If all I hear of your goings-on is +true! What do you think she’s doing, ill and sick at home, while +you’re hanging about old Hinkson’s? Ay, you may look black, but +tell me what Bess Hinkson’s doing about my place all this day? I never +saw her here twice in a day in all my life before, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” Tyson cried violently. To hear a thing which he +thought no one suspected brought up thus before a roomful of men! He looked +black as thunder at his accuser. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean no harm of your wife,” the terrible landlady answered; +something—perhaps this roasting of her husband on his own +hearth—had roused her beyond the ordinary. “None, my gentleman, and +I know none. But if you want no harm said of her, show yourself a bit less at +Hinkson’s. And a bit less in my house. And a bit more in your own! And +the harm will be less likely to happen!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll never cross your doorstep again!” Tyson roared. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="p79"></a> +<img src="images/p79.png" width="340" height="503" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="sc">He neither cared nor saw who it was whom he had jostled</span></p> +</div> + +<p> +And stumbling to his feet he cast off one or two who in their well meaning +would have stayed him. He made for the door. But he was not to escape without +further collision. On the threshold he ran plump against a person who was +entering, cursed the newcomer heartily, and without a look pushed violently by +him and was gone. +</p> + +<p> +He neither cared nor saw who it was whom he had jostled. But the company saw, +and some rose to their feet in consternation, while others, carried their hands +to their heads. There was an involuntary movement of respect which the new +comer acknowledged by touching his hat. He had the air of one who knew how to +behave to his inferiors; but the air, also, of one who never forgot that they +were his inferiors. +</p> + +<p> +“Your friend seems in a hurry,” he said. His face was not a face +that easily betrayed emotion, but he looked tired. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg your honour’s pardon, I am sure,” Gilson answered. +“Something’s put him out, and he did not see you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson muttered that a pig could have seen. But her words were lost in the +respectful murmur which made the company sharers in the landlord’s +apology. +</p> + +<p> +Not that for the most part they knew the strange gentleman. But there is a +habit of authority which once gained becomes a part of the man. And Anthony +Clyne had this. He retained wherever he went some shadow of the quarter-deck +manner. He had served under Nelson, and under Exmouth; but he had resisted, as +a glance at his neat, trim figure proved, that coarsening influence which +spoiled for Pall Mall too many of the sea-dogs of the great war. Like his +famous leader, he had left an arm in the cockpit; and the empty sleeve which he +wore pinned to the lappel of his coat added, if possible, to the dignity of the +upright carriage and the lean, shaven face. The death of his elder brother had +given him the family place, a seat in the House, a chair at White’s, and +an income handsome for his day. And he looked all this and more; so that such a +company as now eyed him with respect judged him a very perfect gentleman, if a +little distant. +</p> + +<p> +But from Clyne Old Hall, where he lived, he could see on the horizon the smoke +of toiling cities; and in those cities there were hundreds who hated his cold +proud face, and thousands who cursed his name. Not that he was a bad man or a +tyrant, or himself ground the faces of the poor. But discipline was his +watchword, and reform his bugbear. To palter with reform, to listen to a word +about the rights of the masses, was to his mind to parley with anarchy. That +governors and governed could be the same appeared to his mind as absurd as that +His Majesty’s ships could be commanded from the forecastle. All for the +people and nothing by the people was his political maxim, and one amply +meeting, as he believed, all eventualities. Lately he had had it carved on a +mantel-piece, and the prattle of his only child, as the club-footed boy spelled +it out syllable by syllable, was music to his ears. +</p> + +<p> +Whoever wavered, therefore, whoever gave to the violence of those times, he +stood firm. And he made others stand. It was his honest belief that a little +timely severity—in other words, a whiff of grape-shot—would have +nipped the French Revolution in the bud; and while he owned that the lower +orders were suffering and times were bad, that bread was dear and work wanting, +he was for quelling the least disorder with the utmost rigour of the law. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the man who accepted with a curt nod Tom Gilson’s apology. Then +“Have you a room ready?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“The fire is still burning in Mr. Rogers’s room,” Mrs. Gilson +answered, smoothing at once her apron and her brow. “And it’ll not +be used again to-night. But I thought that you had gone on, sir, to +Whitehaven.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go on to-morrow,” he answered, frowning slightly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll show your honour the way,” Tom Gilson said. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” he answered. “And dinner, ma’am, as soon +as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, sir.” And “This way, your honour.” And +taking two candles Gilson went out before Captain Clyne, and with greater +ceremony than would be used in these days, lighted him along the passage and up +the stairs to Mr. Rogers’s room in the south wing. +</p> + +<p> +The fire had sunk somewhat low, but the room which had witnessed so many +emotions in the last twenty-four hours made no sign. The table had been +cleared. The glass fronts of the cupboards shone dully; only a chair or two +stood here or there out of place. That was all. But had Henrietta, when she +descended to breakfast that morning, foreseen who would fill her chair before +night, who would dine at her table and brood with stern unseeing eyes on the +black-framed prints, for whom the pale-faced clock would tick off depressing +seconds, what—what would she have thought? And how would she have faced +her future? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br/> +STARVECROW FARM</h2> + +<p> +The company at Mrs. Gilson’s, impressed by the appearance of a gentleman +of Captain Clyne’s position, scarce gave a second thought to the +doctor’s retreat. But to Tyson, striding homewards through the mud and +darkness, the insult he had suffered and the feeble part he had played filled +the world. For him the inn-parlour still cackled at his expense. He saw himself +the butt of the evening, the butt of many evenings. He was a vain, +ill-conditioned man, who among choice spirits would have boasted of his +philandering. But not the less he hated to be brought to book before those whom +he deemed his inferiors. He could not deny that the landlady had trounced him, +and black bile whelmed all his better feelings as he climbed the steep track +behind the inn. “D——d shrew!” he growled, +“D——d shrew!” and breathing hard, as much in rage as +with exertion, he stood an instant to look back and shake his fist before he +plunged into the darkness of the wooded dell through which the path ascended. +</p> + +<p> +Two or three faint lights marked the position of the inn a couple of fields +below him. Beyond it the pale surface of the lake reflected a dim radiance, +bestowed on it through some rift in the clouds invisible from where he stood. A +far-away dog barked, a curlew screamed on the hill above him, the steady fall +of a pair of oars in the rowlocks rose from the lake. The immensity of the +night closed all in; and on the thoughtful might have laid a burden of +melancholy. +</p> + +<p> +But Tyson thought of his wrongs, not of the night, and with a curse he turned +and plunged into the wood, following a path impossible for a stranger. As it +was he stumbled over roots, the saplings whipped him smartly, a low bough +struck off his hat, and when he came to the stream which whirled through the +bottom of the dingle he had much ado to find the plank bridge. But at length he +emerged from the wood, gained the road, and mounted the steep shoulder that +divided the Low Wood hamlet from the vale of Troutbeck. +</p> + +<p> +Where his road topped the ridge the gaunt outline of a tall, narrow building +rose in the gloom. It resembled a sentry-box commanding either valley. It was +set back some twenty paces from the road with half a dozen ragged fir trees +intervening; and on its lower side—but the night hid them—some mean +farm-buildings clung to the steep. With the wind soughing among the firs and +rustling through the scanty grass, the place on that bleak shoulder seemed +lonely even at night. But in the day its ugliness and barrenness were a +proverb. They called it “Starvecrow Farm.” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, Tyson paused at the gate, and with an irresolute oath looked over +it. +</p> + +<p> +“Cursed shrew!” he said, for the third time. “What business +is it of hers if I choose to amuse myself?” +</p> + +<p> +And with his heart hardened, he flung the gate wide, and entered. He had not +gone two paces before he leapt back, startled by the fierce snarl of a dog, +that, unseen, flung itself to the end of its chain. Disappointed in its spring, +it began to bay. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor’s fright was only momentary. +</p> + +<p> +“What, Turk!” he cried. “What are you doing here? What the +blazes are you doing here? Down, you brute, down!” +</p> + +<p> +The dog knew his voice, ceased to bark, and began to whimper. Tyson entered, +and assured that the watchdog knew him, kicked it brutally from his path. Then +he groped his way between the trees, stumbled down three broken steps at the +corner of the house, and passing round the building reached the door which was +on the further side from the road. He tried it, but it was fastened. He knocked +on it. +</p> + +<p> +A slip-shod foot dragged across a stone floor. A high cracked voice asked, +“Who’s there?” +</p> + +<p> +“I! Tyson!” the doctor answered impatiently. “Who should it +be at this hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is’t you, doctor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s wi’ ye?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one, you old fool! Who should there be?” +</p> + +<p> +A key creaked in the lock, and the great bar was withdrawn; but slowly, as it +seemed to the apothecary, and reluctantly. He entered and the door was barred +behind him. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Bess?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The bent creeping figure that had admitted him replied that she was +“somewheres about, somewheres about.” After which, strangely clad +in a kind of bedgown and nightcap, it trailed back to the settle beside the +turf and wood fire, which furnished both light and warmth. The fire, indeed, +was the one generous thing the room contained. All else was sordid and pinched +and mean. The once-whitened walls were stained, the rafters were smoked in a +dozen places, the long dresser—for the room was large, though +low—was cracked and ill-furnished, a brick supported one leg of the +table. Even in the deep hearth-place, where was such comfort as the place could +boast, a couple of logs served for stools and a frowsy blanket gave a squalid +look to the settle. +</p> + +<p> +Tyson stood on the hearth with his back to the fire, and eyed the room with a +scowl of disgust. The old man, bent double over a stick which he was notching, +breathed loudly and laboriously. +</p> + +<p> +“What folly is this about the dog?” Tyson asked contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +The old man looked up, cunning in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask her,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +The miser bending over his task seemed to be taken with a fit of silent +laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the still sow sups the brose,” he said. “And +I’m still! I’m still.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing?” Tyson growled. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing much! Nothing much! You’ve not,” looking up with +greed in his eyes, “an old letter-back to spare?” +</p> + +<p> +Tyson seldom came to the house unfurnished with one. He had long known that +Hinkson belonged to the class of misers who, if they can get a thing for +nothing, are as well pleased with a scrap of paper, a length of string, or a +mouldy crust, as with a crown-piece. The poor land about the house, which with +difficulty supported three or four cows, on the produce of which the Hinksons +lived, might have been made profitable at the cost of some labour and a little +money. But labour and money were withheld. And Tyson often doubted if the +miser’s store were as large as rumour had it, or even if there were a +store at all. +</p> + +<p> +“Not that,” he would add, “large or small, some one +won’t cut his throat for it one day!” +</p> + +<p> +He produced the old letter, and after showing it, held it behind him. +</p> + +<p> +“What of the dog now?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Na, na, I’ll not speak for that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you won’t have it!” +</p> + +<p> +But the old fellow only cackled superior. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s—what’s—a pound-note a week? Is’t +four pound a month?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” the doctor answered. “It is. That’s money, my +lad!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” +</p> + +<p> +The old man hugged himself, and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s money! And four pound a month,” he consulted the +stick he was notching, “is forty-eight pound a year?” +</p> + +<p> +“And four to it,” Tyson answered. “Who’s paying you +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Na, na!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what’s it to do with the dog?” +</p> + +<p> +Hinkson looked knavish but frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“Hist!” he said. “Here’s Bess. I’d use to wallop +her, but now——” +</p> + +<p> +“She wallops you,” the visitor muttered. “That’s the +ticket, I expect.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl entered by the mean staircase door and nodded to him coolly. +</p> + +<p> +“I supposed it was you,” she said slightingly. +</p> + +<p> +And for the hundredth or two-hundredth time he felt with rage that he was in +the presence of a stronger nature than his own. He could treat the old man, +whose greed had survived his other passions, and almost his faculties, pretty +much as he pleased. But though he had sauntered through the gate a score of +times with the intention of treating Bess as he had treated more than one +village girl who pleased him, he had never re-crossed the threshold without a +sense not only of defeat, but of inferiority. He came to strut, he remained to +kneel. +</p> + +<p> +He fought against that feeling now, calling his temper to his aid. +</p> + +<p> +“What folly is this about the dog?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Father thinks,” she replied demurely, “that if thieves come +it can be heard better at the gate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Heard? I should think it could be heard in Bowness!” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your father——” +</p> + +<p> +“Father!” sharply, “go to bed!” And then to the +visitor, “Give him a ha’penny,” she muttered. “He +won’t go without!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t care——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t care either—which of you goes!” she retorted. +“But one of you goes.” +</p> + +<p> +Sullenly he produced a copper and put it in the old man’s quivering +hand—not for the first time by several. Hinkson gripped it, and closing +his hand upon it as if he feared it would be taken from him, he hobbled away, +and disappeared behind the dingy hangings of the box-bed. +</p> + +<p> +“And now what’s the mystery?” Tyson asked, seating himself on +one of the stools. +</p> + +<p> +“There is none,” she answered, standing before him where the +firelight fell on her dark face and gipsy beauty. “Call it a whim if you +like. Perhaps I don’t want my lads to come in till I’ve raddled my +cheeks! Or perhaps”—flippantly—“Oh, any +‘perhaps’ you like!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know no lad you have but me,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know one,” she answered, seating herself on the +settle, and bending forward with her elbows on her knees and her face between +her hands. It was a common pose with her. “When I’ve a lad I want a +man!” she continued—“a man!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you call me a man?” he answered, his eyes taking their +fill of her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Of a sort.” she rejoined disdainfully. “Of a sort. Good +enough for here. But I shan’t live all my life here! D’you ever +think what a God-forsaken corner this is, Tyson? Why, man, we are like mice in +a dark cupboard, and know as much of the world!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the world to us?” he asked. Her words and her ways +were often a little beyond him. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it!” she answered, in a tone of contemptuous +raillery. “What’s the world to us? We are here and not there. We +must curtsey to parson and bob to curate, and mind our manners with the +overseers! We must be proud if Madam inquires after our conduct, but we must +not fancy that we are the same flesh and blood as she is! Ah, when I meet +her,” with sudden passion, “and she looks at me to see if I am +clean, I—do you know what I think of? Do you know what I dream of? Do you +know what I hope”—she snapped her strong white teeth +together—“ay, hope to see?” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“What they saw twenty years ago in France—her white neck under the +knife! That was what happened to her and her like there, I am told, and I wish +it could happen here! And I’d knit, as girls knitted there, and counted +the heads that fell into the baskets! When that time comes Madam won’t +look to see if I am clean!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her uncomfortably. He did not understand her. +</p> + +<p> +“How the devil do you come to know these things?” he exclaimed. It +was not the first time she had opened to him in this strain—not the first +by several. And the sharp edge was gone from his astonishment. But she was not +the less a riddle to him and a perplexity—a Sphinx, at once alluring and +terrifying. “Who told you of them? What makes you think of them?” +he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you never think of them?” she retorted, leaning forward and +fixing her eyes on his. “Do you never wonder why all the good things are +for a few, and for the rest—a crust? Why the rector dines at the +squire’s table and you dine in the steward’s room? Why the parson +gives you a finger and thinks he stoops, and his ladies treat you as if you +were dirt—only the apothecary? Why you are in one class and they in +another till the end of time?” +</p> + +<p> +“D——n them!” he muttered, his face a dull red. She knew +how to touch him on the raw. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you never think of those things?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, taking her up sullenly, “if I do?” +</p> + +<p> +She rocked herself back on the settle and looked across at him out of +half-closed eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Then—if you do think,” she answered slowly, “it is to +be seen if you are a man.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, a man! A man! For if you think of these things, if you stand face to +face with them, and do nothing, you are no man! And no lad for me!” +lightly. “You are well matched as it is then. Just a match and no more +for your white-faced, helpless dumpling of a wife!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is all very well,” he muttered, “to talk!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but presently we shall do as well as talk! Out in the world they are +doing now! They are beginning to do. But here—what do you know in this +cupboard? No more than the mice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fine talk!” he retorted, stung by her contempt. “But you +talk without knowing. There have been parsons and squires from the beginning, +and there will be parsons and squires to the end. You may talk until you are +black in the face, Bess, but you won’t alter that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, talk!” she retorted drily. “You may talk. But if you +do—as they did in France twenty years gone. Where are their squires and +parsons now? The end came quick enough there, when it came.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know much about that,” he growled. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how the devil do you?” he answered, in some irritation, but +more wonder. “How do you?” And he looked round the bare, sordid +kitchen. The fire, shooting warm tongues up the black cavernous chimney, made +the one spot of comfort that was visible. +</p> + +<p> +“Never you mind!” she answered, with a mysterious and tantalising +smile. “I do. And by-and-by, if we’ve the spirit of a mouse, things +will happen here! Down yonder—I see it all—there are thousands and +tens of thousands starving. And stacks burning. And mobs marching, and men +drilling, and more things happening than you dream of! And all that means that +by-and-by I shall be knitting while Madam and Miss and that proud-faced, +slim-necked chit at the inn, who faced us all down to-day——” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” he struck in, in fresh surprise, “what has she done to +you now?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my business, never you mind! Only, by-and-by, they will all +smile on the wrong side of their face!” +</p> + +<p> +He stared morosely into the fire. And she watched him, her long lashes veiling +a sly and impish amusement. If he dreamed that she loved him, if he fancied her +a victim of his bow and spear, he strangely, most strangely, misread her. And a +sudden turn, a single quick glance should have informed him. For as the flames +by turns lit her face and left it to darkness, they wrought it to many +expressions; but never to kindness. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s many I’d like to see brought down a piece,” he +muttered at last. “Many, many. And I’m as fond of my share of good +things as most. But it’s all talk, there’s nought to be done! Nor +ever will be! There have been parsons and squires from the beginning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you do it,” she asked softly, “if there were anything +to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Try me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt it. And that’s why you are no lad for me.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose to his feet in a temper at that. He turned his back on the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the use of getting on this every time!” he cried. And +he took up his hat. “I’m weary of it. I’m off. I don’t +know that I shall come back again. What’s the use?” with a +side-long glance at her dark, handsome face and curving figure which the +firelight threw into prominence. +</p> + +<p> +“If there were anything to do,” she asked, as if he had never +spoken, never answered the question, “would you do it?” And she +smiled at him, her head thrown back, her red lips parted, her eyes tempting. +</p> + +<p> +“You know I would if——” He paused. +</p> + +<p> +“There were some one to be won by it?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded, his eyes kindling. +</p> + +<p> +“Well——” +</p> + +<p> +No more. For as she spoke the word, and he bent forward, something heavy fell +on the floor overhead; and she sat up straight. Her eyes, grown suddenly hard +and small—perhaps with fright—held Tyson’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” he cried, frowning suspiciously. +“There’s nobody upstairs?” +</p> + +<p> +“Father’s in bed,” she said. She held up a finger for +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“And there’s nobody else in the house?” +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Who should there be?” she said. “It’s the cat, I +suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better let me see,” he rejoined. And he took a step +towards the staircase door. +</p> + +<p> +“No need,” she answered listlessly, after listening anew. +“I’m not afraid. The cat is not here; it must have been the cat. +I’ll go up when you are gone, and see.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not safe,” he grumbled, still inclined to go. +“You two alone here, and the old man said to be as rich as a lord!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, said to be,” she answered, smiling “As you said you were +going ten minutes ago, and you are not gone yet. But——” she +rose with a yawn, partly real and partly forced, “you must go now, my +lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why?” he answered. “When we were just beginning to +understand one another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she answered pertly. “Because father wants to sleep. +Because your wife will scratch my eyes out if you don’t. Because I am not +going to say another word to-night—whatever I may say to-morrow. And +because—it’s my will, my lad. That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +He muttered his discontent, swinging his hat in his hand, and making eyes at +her. But she kept him at arm’s length, and after a moment’s +argument she drove him to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“All the same,” he said, when he stood outside, “you had +better let me look upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +But she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say you’d like it!” she said; and she shut the door +in his face and he heard the great bar that secured it shot into its socket in +the thickness of the wall. In a temper not much better than that in which he +had left the inn, he groped his way round the house, and up the three steps at +the corner of the building. He swore at the dog that it might know who came, +and so he passed into the road. Once he looked back at the house, but all was +dark. The windows looked the other way. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX<br/> +PUNISHMENT</h2> + +<p> +Anthony Clyne came to a stand before her, and lifted his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” he said, without letting his eyes meet +hers—he was stiffness itself, but perhaps he too had his +emotions—“that you preferred to see me here rather than +indoors?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Henrietta answered. And the girl thanked heaven that though +the beating of her heart had nearly choked her a moment before, her tone was as +hard and uncompromising as his. He could not guess, he never should guess, what +strain she put on nerve and will that she might not quail before him; nor how +often, with her quivering face hidden in the pillow, she had told herself, +before rising, that it was for once only, once only, and that then she need +never see again the man she had wronged. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” he continued slowly, “whether you have +anything to say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” she answered. They were standing on the Ambleside road, +a short furlong from the inn. Leafless trees climbed the hill-side above them; +and a rough slope, unfenced and strewn with boulders and dying bracken, ran +down from their feet to the lake. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” he rejoined, with a scarcely perceptible hardening of the +mouth, “I had best say as briefly as possible what I am come to +say.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please,” she said. Hitherto she had faced him regally. Now +she averted her eyes ever so slightly, and placed herself so that she looked +across the water that gleamed pale under the morning mist. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, even with her eyes turned from him, he did not find it easy to say what he +must say. And for a few seconds he was silent. At last “I do not wish to +upbraid you,” he began in a voice somewhat lower in tone. “You have +done a very foolish and a very wicked, wicked thing, and one which cannot be +undone in the eyes of the world. That is for all to see. You have left your +home and your friends and your family under circumstances——” +</p> + +<p> +She turned her full face to him suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Have they,” she said, “empowered you to speak to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“They do not wish to see me themselves?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor perhaps—wish me to return to them?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded as she looked away again; in sheer defiance, he supposed. He did not +guess that she did it to mask the irrepressible shiver which the news caused +her. +</p> + +<p> +He thought her, on the contrary, utterly unrepentant, and it hardened him to +speak more austerely, to give his feelings freer vent. +</p> + +<p> +“Had you done this thing with a gentleman,” he said, “there +had been, however heartless and foolish the act, some hope that the matter +might be set straight. And some excuse for yourself; since a man of our class +might have dazzled you by the possession of qualities which the person you +chose could not have. But an elopement with a needy adventurer, without +breeding, parts, or honesty—a criminal, and wedded +already——” +</p> + +<p> +“If he were not wedded already,” she said, “I had been with +him now!” +</p> + +<p> +His face grew a shade more severe, but otherwise he did not heed the taunt. +</p> + +<p> +“Such an—an act,” he said, “unfits you in your +brother’s eyes to return to his home.” He paused an instant. +“Or to the family you have disgraced. I am bound—I have no option, +to tell you this.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say it as from them?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do. I have said indeed less than they bade me say. And not more, I +believe on my honour, than the occasion requires. A young gentlewoman,” +he continued bitterly, “brought up in the country with every care, +sheltered from every temptation, with friends, with home, with every comfort +and luxury, and about to be married to a gentleman in her own rank in life, +meets secretly, clandestinely, shamefully a man, the lowest of the low, on a +par in refinement with her own servants, but less worthy! She deceives with him +her friends, her family, her relatives! If”—with some +emotion—“I have overstated one of these things, God forgive +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray go on!” she said, with her face averted. And thinking that +she was utterly hardened, utterly without heart, thinking that her outward calm +spelled callousness, and that she felt nothing, he did continue. +</p> + +<p> +“Can she,” he said, “who has been so deceitful herself, +complain if the man deceives her? She has chosen a worthless creature before +her family and her friends? Is she not richly served if he treats her after his +own nature and her example? If, after stooping to the lawless level of such a +poor thing, she finds herself involved in his penalties, and her name a scandal +and a shame to her family!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” she asked. But not a quiver of the voice, not a +tremour of the shoulders, betrayed what she was feeling, what she suffered, how +fiercely the brand was burning into her soul. +</p> + +<p> +“That is all they bade me say,” he replied in a calmer and more +gentle tone. “And that they would make arrangements—such +arrangements as may be possible for your future. But they would not take you +back.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now—what on your own account?” she asked, almost +flippantly. “Something, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said, answering her slowly, and with a steady look of +condemnation. For in all honesty the girl’s attitude shocked and +astonished him. “I have something to say on my own account. Something. +But it is difficult to say it.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned to him and raised her eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“Really!” she said. “You seem to speak so easily.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not remark how white, even against the pale shimmer of the lake, was the +face that mocked him; and her heartlessness seemed dreadful to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish,” he said, “to say only one thing on my own +account.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is only one thing you must not say,” she retorted, turning +on him without warning and speaking with concentrated passion. “I have +been, it may be, as foolish as you say. I am only nineteen. I may have been, I +don’t know about that, very wicked—as wicked as you say. And what I +have done in my folly and in my—you call it wickedness—may be a +disgrace to my family. But I have done nothing, nothing, sir,”—she +raised her head proudly—“to disgrace myself personally. Do you +believe that?” +</p> + +<p> +And then he did notice how white she was. +</p> + +<p> +“If you tell me that, I do believe it,” he said gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“You must believe it,” she rejoined with sudden vehemence. +“Or you wrong me more cruelly than I have wronged you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do believe it,” he said, conquered for the time by a new +emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Then now I will hear you,” she answered, her tone sinking again. +“I will hear what you wish to say. Not that it will bend me. I have +injured you. I own it, and am sorry for it on your account. On my own I am +unhappy, but I had been more unhappy had I married you. You have been frank, +let me be frank,” she continued, her eyes alight, her tone almost +imperious. “You sought not a wife, but a mother for your child! A woman, +a little better bred than a nurse, to whom you could entrust the one being, the +only being, you love, with less chance of its contamination,” she laughed +icily, “by the lower orders! If you had any other motive in choosing me +it was that I was your second cousin, of your own respectable family, and you +did not derogate. But you forgot that I was young and a woman, as you were a +man. You said no word of love to me, you begged for no favour; when you entered +a room, you sought my eye no more than another’s, you had no more +softness for me than for another! If you courted me at all it was before +others, and if you talked to me at all it was from the height of wise dullness, +and about things I did not understand and things I hated! Until,” she +continued viciously, “at last I hated you! What could be more natural? +What did you expect?” +</p> + +<p> +A little colour had stolen into his face under the lash of her reproaches. He +tried to seem indifferent, but he could not. His tone was forced and +constrained when he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You have strange ideas,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And you have but two!” she riposted. “Politics and your boy! +I cared,” with concentrated bitterness, “for neither!” +</p> + +<p> +That stung him to anger and retort. +</p> + +<p> +“I can imagine it,” he said. “Your likings appear to be on a +different plane.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are at least not confined to fifty families!” she rejoined. +“I do not think myself divine,” she continued with feverish irony, +“and all below me clay! I do not think because I and all about me are +dull and stupid that all the world is dull and stupid, talking eternally +about”—and she deliberately mocked his tone—“‘the +licence of the press!’ and ‘the imminence of anarchy!’ To +talk,” with supreme scorn, “of the licence of the press and the +imminence of anarchy to a girl of nineteen! It was at least to make the way +very smooth for another!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her in silence, frowning. Her frankness was an outrage on his +dignity—and he, of all men, loved his dignity. But it surprised him at +least as much as it shocked him. He remembered the girl sometimes silly, +sometimes demure, to whom he had cast the handkerchief; and he had not been +more astonished if a sheep had stood up and barked at him. He was here, +prepared to meet a frightened, weeping, shamefaced child, imploring pardon, +imploring mediation; and he found this! He was here to upbraid, and she scolded +him. She marked with unerring eye the joints in his armour, and with her +venomous woman’s tongue she planted darts that he knew would +rankle—rankle long after she was gone and he was alone. And a faint +glimpse of the truth broke on him. Was it possible that he had misread the +girl; whom he had deemed characterless, when she was not shy? Was it possible +that he had under-valued her and slighted her? Was it possible that, while he +had been judging her and talking down to her, she had been judging him and +laughing in her sleeve? +</p> + +<p> +The thought was not pleasant to a proud nature. And there was another thing he +had to weigh. If she were so different in fact from the conception he had +formed of her, the course which had occurred to him as the best, and which he +was going to propose for her, might not be the best. +</p> + +<p> +But he put that from him. A name for firmness at times compels a man to +obstinacy. It was so now. He set his jaw more stiffly, and— +</p> + +<p> +“Will you hear me now?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“If there is anything more to be said,” she replied. She spoke +wearily over her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I think there is,” he rejoined stubbornly, “one thing. It +will not keep you long. It refers to your future. There is a course which I +think may be taken and may be advantageous to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If,” she cried impetuously, “it is to take me back to +those——” +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary,” he replied. He was not unwilling to wound one +who had shown herself so unexpectedly capable of offence. “That is quite +past,” he continued. “There is no longer any question of that. And +even the course I suggest is not without its disadvantages. It may not, at +first sight, be more acceptable to you than returning to your home. But I trust +you have learnt a lesson, and will now be guided.” After saying which he +coughed and hesitated, and at length, after twice pulling up his cravat, +“I think,” he said—“the matter is somewhat +delicate—that I had better write what I have in my mind.” +</p> + +<p> +Under the dead weight of depression which had succeeded to passion, curiosity +stirred faintly in her. But— +</p> + +<p> +“As you please,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“The more,” he continued stiffly, “as in the immediate +present there is nothing to be done. And therefore there is no haste. Until +this”—he made a wry face, the thing was so hateful to +him—“this inquiry is at an end, and you are free to leave, nothing +but preliminaries can be dealt with; those settled, however, I think there +should be no delay. But you shall hear from me within the week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well.” And after a slight pause, “That is all?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is all, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +Yet he did not go. And she continued to stand with her shoulder turned towards +him. He was a man of strong prejudices, and the habit of command had rendered +him in some degree callous. But he was neither unkind by nature, nor, in spite +of the story Walterson had told of him, inhuman in practice. To leave a young +girl thus, to leave her without a word of leave-taking or regret, seemed even +to him, now it came to the point, barbarous. The road stretched lonely on +either side of them, the woods were brown and sad and almost leafless, the lake +below them mirrored the unchanging grey above, or lost itself in dreary mist. +And he remembered her in surroundings so different! He remembered how she had +been reared, by whom encircled, amid what plenitude! And though he did not +guess that the slender figure standing thus mute and forlorn would haunt him by +night and by day for weeks to come, and harry and torment him with dumb +reproaches—he still had not the heart to go without one gentler word. +</p> + +<p> +And so “No, there is one thing,” he said, his voice shaking very +slightly, “I would like to add—I would like you to know. It is that +after next week I shall be at Rysby in Cartmel—Rysby Hall—for about +a month. It is not more than two miles from the foot of the lake, and if you +are still here and need advice——” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“——or help, I would like you to know that I am there.” +</p> + +<p> +“That I may apply to you?” she said without turning her head. +</p> + +<p> +He could not tell whether at last there were tears in her voice, or whether she +were merely drawing him on to flout him. +</p> + +<p> +“I meant that,” he said coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +Certainly there was a queer sound in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +He paused awkwardly. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing more, I think?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he returned. “Then you will hear from me upon +the matter I mentioned—in a day or two. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +He went then—awkwardly, slowly. He felt himself, in spite of his +arguments, in spite of his anger, in spite of the wrong which she had done him, +and the disgrace which she brought on his name,—he felt himself something +of a cur. She was little more than a child, little more than a child; and he +had not understood her! Even now he had no notion how often that plea would +ring in his ears, and harass him and keep him wakeful. And Henrietta? She had +told herself before the interview that with it the worst would be over. But as +she heard his firm tread pass slowly away, down the road, and grow fainter and +fainter, the pride that had supported her under his eyes sank low. A sense of +her loneliness, so cruel that it wrung her heart, so cruel that she could have +run after him and begged him to punish her, to punish her as he pleased, if he +would not leave her deserted, gripped her throat and brought salt tears to her +eyes. The excitement was over, the flatness remained; the failure, and the grey +skies and leaden water and dying bracken. And she was alone; alone for always. +She had defied him, she had defied them all, she had told him that whatever +happened she would not go back, she would not be taken back. But she knew now +that she had lied. And she crossed the road, her step unsteady, and stumbled +blindly up the woodland path above the road, until she came to a place where +she knew that she was hidden. There she flung herself down on her face and +cried passionately, stifling her sobs in the green damp moss. She had done +wrong. She had done cruel wrong to him. But she was only nineteen, and she was +being punished! She was being punished! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X<br/> +HENRIETTA IN NAXOS</h2> + +<p> +Youth feels, let the adult say what he pleases, more deeply than middle age. It +suffers and enjoys with a poignancy unknown in later life. But in revenge it is +cast down more lightly, and uplifted with less reason. The mature have seen so +many sunny mornings grow to tearful noons, so many days of stress close in +peace, that their moods are not to the same degree at the mercy of passing +accidents. It is with the young, on the other hand, as with the tender shoots; +they raise their heads to meet the April sun, as naturally they droop in the +harsh east wind. And Henrietta had been more than girl, certainly more than +nineteen, if she had not owned the influence of the scene and the morning that +lapped her about when she next set foot beyond the threshold of the inn. +</p> + +<p> +She had spent in the meantime three days at which memory shuddered. Alone in +her room, shrinking from every eye, turning her back on the woman who waited on +her, she had found her pride insufficient to support her. Solitude is a medium +which exaggerates all objects, and the longer Henrietta brooded over her past +folly and her present disgrace, the more intolerable these grew to the vision. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately, if Modest Ann’s heart bled for her, Mrs. Gilson viewed her +misfortunes with a saner and less sensitive eye. She saw that if the girl were +left longer to herself her health would fail. Already, she remarked, the child +looked two years older—looked a woman. So on the fourth morning Mrs. +Gilson burst in on her, found her moping at the window with her eyes on the +lake, and forthwith, after her fashion, she treated her to a piece of her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“See here, young miss,” she said bluntly, “I’ll have +nobody ill in my house! Much more making themselves ill! In three days +Bishop’s to be back, and they’ll want you, like enough. And a pale, +peaking face won’t help you, but rather the other way with men, such +fools as they be! You get your gear and go out.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta said meekly that she would do so. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a basket I want to send to Tyson’s,” the +landlady went on. “She’s ailing. It’s a flea’s load, +but I suppose,” sticking her arms akimbo and looking straight at the +girl, “you’re too much of a lady to carry it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take it very willingly,” Henrietta said. And she rose +with a spark of something approaching interest in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve nobody else,” said cunning Mrs. Gilson. +“And I don’t suppose you’ll run from me, ’twixt here +and there. And she’s a poor thing. She’s going to have a babby, and +couldn’t be more lonely if she was in Patterdale.” And she +described the way, adding that if Henrietta kept the road no one would meddle +with her at that hour of the morning. +</p> + +<p> +The girl found her head-covering, and, submitting with a good grace to the +basket, she set forth. As she emerged from the inn—for three days she had +not been out—she cast a half-shamed, half-defiant look this way and that. +But only Modest Ann was watching her from a window; and if ever St. Martin +procured for the faithful a summer day, <i>intempestive</i> as the chroniclers +have it, this was that day. A warm sun glowed in the brown hollows of the wood, +and turned the dying fern to flame, and spread the sheen of velvet over green +hill-side and grey crag. A mild west wind enlivened the surface of the lake +with the sparkle of innumerable wavelets, and all that had for days been lead +seemed turned to silver. The air was brisk and clear; in a heaven of their own, +very far off, the great peaks glittered and shone. The higher Henrietta climbed +above the inn-roofs, and the cares that centred there, the lighter, in spite of +herself—how could it be otherwise with that scene of beauty stretched +before her?—rose her heart. +</p> + +<p> +Half a dozen times as she mounted the hill she paused to view the scene through +the tender mist of her own unhappiness. But every time she stood, the rare +fleck of cloud gliding across the blue, or the dancing ripple of the water +below, appealed to her, and caused her thoughts to wander; and youth and hope +spoke more loudly. She was young. Surely at her age an error was not +irreparable. Surely things would take a turn. For even now she was less +unhappy, less ashamed. +</p> + +<p> +When she came to the summit of the shoulder, the bare gauntness of +Hinkson’s farm, which resisted even the beauty of sunshine, caused her a +momentary chill. The dog raved at her from the wind-swept litter of the yard. +The blind gable-end scowled through the firs. Behind lay the squalid +out-buildings, roofless and empty. She hurried by—not without a backward +glance. She crossed the ridge, and almost immediately saw in a cup of the hills +below her—so directly below her that roofs and yards and pig-styes lay +mapped out under her eye—another farm. On three sides the smooth +hill-turf sloped steeply to the walls. On the fourth, where a stream, which had +its source beside the farm, found vent, a wood choked the descending gorge and +hid the vale and the lake below. +</p> + +<p> +Deep-seated in its green bowl, the house was as lonely in position as the house +on the shoulder, but after a warmer and more sheltered fashion. Conceivably +peace and plenty, comfort and happiness might nestle in it. Yet the nearer +Henrietta descended to it, leaving the world of space and view, the more a +sense of stillness and isolation and almost of danger, pressed upon her. No +sound of farm life, no cheery clank of horse-gear, no human voice broke the +silence of the hills. Only a few hens scratched in the fold-yard. +</p> + +<p> +She struck on the half-open door, and a pair of pattens clanked across the +kitchen flags. A clownish, dull-faced woman with drugget petticoats showed +herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve come to see Mrs. Tyson,” Henrietta said. +“She’s in the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can I see her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then——” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s on the settle.” As she spoke the woman stood aside, +but continued to stare as if her curiosity grudged the loss of a moment. +</p> + +<p> +The kitchen, or house place—in those days the rough work of a farmhouse +was done in the scullery—was spacious and clean, though sparsely and +massively furnished. The flag floor was outlined in white squares, and the +space about the fire was made more private by a tall settle which flanked the +chimney corner and averted the draught. These appearances foretold a red-armed +bustling house-wife. But they were belied by the pale plump face framed in +untidy hair, which half in fright and half in bewilderment peered at her over +the arm of the settle. It was a face that had been pretty after a feeble +fashion no more than twelve months back: now it bore the mark of strain and +trouble. And when it was not peevish it was frightened. Certainly it was no +longer pretty. +</p> + +<p> +The owner of the face got slowly to her feet “Is it me you want?” +she said, her tone spiritless. +</p> + +<p> +“If you are Mrs. Tyson,” Henrietta answered gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have brought you some things Mrs. Gilson of the inn wished to send +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am obliged to you,” with stiff shyness. +</p> + +<p> +“And if you do not mind,” Henrietta continued frankly, “I +will rest a little. If I do not trouble you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m mostly alone,” the young woman answered, slowly and +apathetically. And she bade the servant set a chair for the visitor. That done, +she despatched the woman with the basket to the larder. +</p> + +<p> +Then “I’m mostly alone,” she repeated. And this time her +voice quivered, and her eyes met the other woman’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” Henrietta said, smiling, “you have your +husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s often away,” wearily. “He’s often away; by +day and night. He’s a doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your servant? You have her?” +</p> + +<p> +“She goes home, nights. And then——” with a spasm of the +querulous face that had been pretty no more than a year before, “the +hours are long when you are alone. You don’t know,” timidly +reaching out a hand as if she would touch Henrietta’s frock—but +withdrawing it quickly, “what it is to be alone, miss, all night in such +a house as this.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, and no one should be!” Henrietta answered. +</p> + +<p> +She glanced round the great silent kitchen and tried to fancy what the house +would be like of nights; when darkness settled down on the hollow in the hills, +and the wood cut it off from the world below; and when, whatever threatened, +whatever came, whatever face of terror peered through the dark-paned window, +whatever sound, weird or startling, rent the silence of the distant rooms, this +helpless woman must face it alone! +</p> + +<p> +She shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“But you are not alone all night?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but——” in a whisper, “often until after +midnight, miss. And once—all night.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta restrained the words that rose to her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well,” she said, “you’ll have your baby +by-and-by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, if it lives,” the other woman answered moodily—“if +it lives. And,” she continued in a whisper, with her scared eyes on +Henrietta’s face, and her hand on her wrist, “if I live, +miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but you must not think of that!” the girl protested +cheerfully. “Of course you will live.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve mostly nought to do but think,” Tyson’s wife +answered. “And I think queer things—I think queer things. +Sometimes”—tightening her hold on Henrietta’s arm to stay her +shocked remonstrance—“that he does not wish me to live. He’s +at the house on the shoulder—Hinkson’s, the one you +passed—most nights. There’s a girl there. And yesterday he said if +I was lonely she should come and bide here while I laid up, and she’d be +company for me. But”—in a wavering tone that was almost a +wail—“I’m afraid!—I’m afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Afraid?” Henrietta repeated, trembling a little in sympathy, and +drawing a little nearer the other. “Of what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of her!” the woman muttered, averting her eyes that she might +watch the door. “Of Bess. She’s gypsy blood, and it’s blood +that sticks at nothing. And she’d be glad I was gone. She’d have +him then. I know! She made a sign at me one day when my back was turned, but I +saw it. And it was not for good. Besides——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but indeed,” Henrietta protested, “indeed, you must not +think of these things. You are not well, and you have fancies.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Tyson shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d have fancies,” in a gloomy tone, “if you lived +in this house.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is only because you are so much alone in it,” the girl +protested. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s not all,” with a shudder. The woman leant forward and +spoke low with her eyes glued to the door. “That’s not all. You +don’t know, nobody knows. Nobody knows—that’s alive! But +once, after I came to live here, when I complained that he was out so much and +was not treating me well, he took and showed me—he took and showed +me——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” Henrietta spoke as lightly as she could. “What did he +show you?” For the woman had broken off, and with her eyes closed seemed +to be on the point of fainting. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—nothing,” Mrs. Tyson said, recovering herself with a +sudden gasp. “And here’s the basket, miss. Meg lives down below. +Shall she carry the basket to Mrs. Gilson’s? It is not fitting a young +lady like you should carry it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no; I will take it,” Henrietta answered, with as careless an +air as she could muster. +</p> + +<p> +And after a moment’s awkward hesitation, under the eyes of the dull +serving-maid, she rose. She would gladly have stayed and heard more; for her +pity and curiosity were alike vividly roused. But it was plain that for the +present she could neither act upon the one nor assuage the other. She read a +plea for silence in the eyes of the weak, frightened woman; and having said +that probably Mrs. Gilson would be sending her that way again before long, she +took her leave. +</p> + +<p> +Wondering much. For the low-ceiled kitchen, with its shadowy chimney-corner and +its low-browed windows, had another look for her now; and the stillness of the +house another meaning. All might be the fancy of a nervous, brooding woman. And +yet there was something. And, something or nothing, there were unhappiness and +fear and cruelty in this quiet work. As she climbed the track that led again to +the lip of the basin, and to sunshine and brisk air and freedom, she had less +pity for herself, she thought less of herself. She might have lain at the mercy +of a careless, faithless husband, who played on her fears and mocked her +appeals. She, when in her early unbroken days she complained, might have been +taken and scared by—heaven knew what! +</p> + +<p> +She was still thinking with indignation of the woman’s plight when she +gained the road. A hundred paces brought her to Hinkson’s. And there, +standing under the firs at the corner of the house, and looking over her +shoulder as if she had turned, in the act of entering, to see who passed, was +the dark girl; the same whose insolent smile had annoyed her on the morning of +her arrival, before she knew what was in store for her. +</p> + +<p> +Their eyes met. Again Henrietta’s face, to her intense vexation, flamed. +Then the dog sprang up and raved at her, and she passed on down the road. But +she was troubled. She was vexed with herself for losing countenance, and still +more angry with the girl whose mocking smile had so strange a power to wound +her. +</p> + +<p> +“That must be the creature we have been discussing,” she thought. +“Odd that I should meet her, and still more odd that I should have seen +her before! I don’t wonder that the woman fears her! But why does she +look at me, of all people, after that fashion?” +</p> + +<p> +She told herself that it was her fancy, and trying to forget the matter, she +tripped on down the road. Presently, before her cheeks or her temper were quite +cool, she saw that she was going to meet some one—a man who was slowly +mounting the hill on horseback. A moment later she made out that the rider who +was approaching was Mr. Hornyold, and her face grew hot again. The meeting was +humiliating. She wished herself anywhere else. But at the worst she could bow +coldly and pass by. +</p> + +<p> +She reckoned without the justice, who was wont to say that when he wore a +cassock he was a parson, and when he wore his top-boots he was a gentleman. He +recognised her with a subdued “View halloa!” and pulled up as she +drew near. He slid from his saddle—with an agility his bulk did not +promise—and barred the way. +</p> + +<p> +With a grin and an over-gallant salute, “Dear, dear, dear,” he +said. “Isn’t this out of bounds, young lady? Outside the rules of +the bench, eh? What’d Mother Gilson be saying if she saw you here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been on an errand for her,” Henrietta replied, in her +coldest tone. +</p> + +<p> +But she had to stop. The road was narrow, and he had, as by accident, put his +horse across it. +</p> + +<p> +“An errand?” he said, smiling more broadly, “as far as this? +She is very trusting! More trusting than I should be with a young lady of your +appearance, who twist all the men round your finger.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta’s eyes sparkled. +</p> + +<p> +“I am returning to her,” she said, “and I am late. Please to +let me pass.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure I will,” he said. But instead of moving aside he drew a +pace nearer; so that between himself, the horse, and the bank, she was hemmed +in. “To be sure, young lady!” he continued. “But that is not +quite the tone to take with the powers that be! We are gentle as sucking +doves—to pretty young women—while we are pleased; and ready to +stretch a point, as we did the other day, for our friend Clyne, who was so +deuced mysterious about the matter. But we must have our <i>quid pro quo</i>, +eh? Come, a kiss! Just one. There are only the birds to see and the hedges to +tell, and I’ll warrant”—the leer more plain in his +eyes—“you are not always so particular.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta was not frightened, but she was angry and savage. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know who I am?” she cried, for the moment forgetting +herself in her passion. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he answered, before she could say more. “That is just +what I don’t know, my girl. I have taken you on trust and you are pretty +enough! But I know Clyne, and he is interested in you. And his taste is good +enough for me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me pass!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He tried to seize her, but she evaded his grasp, slipped fearlessly behind the +horse’s heels and stood free. Hornyold wheeled about, and with an oath: +</p> + +<p> +“You sly baggage!” he cried. “You are not going to escape so +easily! You——” +</p> + +<p> +There he stopped. Not twenty yards from him and less than that distance beyond +her, was a stranger. The sight was so little to be expected in that solitary +place, he had been so sure that they were alone and the girl at the mercy of +his rudeness, that he broke off, staring. The stranger came slowly on, and when +almost abreast of Henrietta raised his hat and paused, dividing his regards +between the scowling magistrate and the indignant girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning,” he said, addressing her. “If I am not +inopportune, I have a letter for you from Captain Clyne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then be good enough,” she answered, “first to take me out of +the company of this person.” And she turned her shoulder on the justice, +and taking the stranger with her—almost in his own despite—she +sailed off; and, a very picture of outraged dignity, swept down the road. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hornyold glared after her, his bridle on his arm. And his face was red with +fury. Seldom had he been so served. +</p> + +<p> +“A parson, by heaven!” he said. “A regular Methody, too, by +his niminy-piminy get-up! Who is he, I wonder, and what in the name of mischief +brought him here just at that moment? Ten to one she was looking to meet him, +and that was why she played the prude, the little cat! To be sure. But +I’ll be even with her—in Appleby gaol or out! As for him, +I’ve never set eyes on him. And I’ve a good notion to have him +taken up and lodged in the lock-up. Any way, I’ll set the runners on him. +Not much spirit in him by the look of him! But she’s a spit-fire!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hornyold had been so long accustomed to consider the girls of the village +fair sport, that he was considerably put out. True, Henrietta was not a village +girl. She was something more, and a mystery; nor least a mystery in her +relations with Captain Clyne, a man whom the justice admitted to be more +important than himself. But she was in trouble, she was under a cloud, she was +smirched with suspicion; she was certainly no better than she should be. And +not experience only, but all the coarser instincts of the man forbade him to +believe in such a woman’s “No.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI<br/> +CAPTAIN CLYNE’S PLAN</h2> + +<p> +For a full hundred yards Henrietta walked on with her head in the air, too +angry to accost or even to look at her companion; who, on his part, tripped +meekly beside her. Then a sense of the absurdity of the position—of his +position rather than her own, for she had whirled him off whether he would or +no—overcame her. And she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Was ever anything so ridiculous?” she cried. And she looked at him +askance and something ashamed. The quick movement which had enabled her to +escape had loosened the thick mass of her fair hair, and this, with her flushed +cheeks and kindled eyes, showed her so handsome that it was well the impetuous +justice was no longer with her. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger was apparently less impressionable. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad,” he said primly, “that my coming was so +opportune.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I was not afraid of him,” Henrietta answered, tossing her +head. +</p> + +<p> +“No?” he rejoined. “Indeed. Still, I am glad that I came so +opportunely.” +</p> + +<p> +He was a neat, trim man in black, of a pale complexion, and with the small +features and the sharp nose that indicate at once timidity and obstinacy; the +nose that in the case of the late Right Honourable William Pitt, whom he was +proud to resemble, meant something more. But for a pair of bright eyes he had +been wholly mean, and wholly insignificant; and Henrietta saw nothing in him +either formidable or attractive. She had a notion that she had seen him +somewhere; but it was a vague notion, and how he came to be here or +commissioned to her she could no more conjecture than if he had risen from the +ground. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a stranger here?” she said at last, after more than one +side-long glance. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I descended from the coach an hour ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“And came in search of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely,” he replied. “Being empowered to do so,” he +continued, with a slight but formal bow, “by Captain Anthony Clyne, to +whom I have the honour—my name is Sutton—of being related in the +capacity of chaplain.” +</p> + +<p> +She coloured more violently with shame than before with anger: and all her +troubles came back to her. Probably this man knew all; knew what she had done +and what had happened to her. It was cruel—oh, it was cruel to send him! +For a moment she could not collect her thoughts or master her voice. But at +last, +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said confusedly. “I see. A lovely view from here, +is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to be sure,” he replied, with the same precision with which +he had spoken before. “I ought to have noticed it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you bring me a letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was Captain Clyne’s wish that I——” he +hesitated, and was plainly embarrassed—“that I should, in fact, +offer my company for a day or two. While you are under the care of the good +woman at the inn.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned her face towards him, and regarded him with a mixture of surprise +and distaste. Then, +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” she said coldly. “In what capacity, if you +please?” +</p> + +<p> +But the words said, she felt her cheeks grow hot. They thought so ill of her, +she had so misbehaved herself, that a duenna was not enough; a clergyman must +be sent to lecture her. By-and-by he would talk goody-goody to her, such as +they talked to Lucy in <i>The Fairchild Family!</i> Save that she was grown up +and Lucy was not! +</p> + +<p> +“But it does not matter,” she continued hurriedly, and before he +could answer, “I am obliged to you, but Mrs. Gilson is quite able to take +care of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet I came very opportunely—just now,” he said. “I +am glad I came so opportunely.” +</p> + +<p> +Reminded of the insolence to which her loneliness had exposed her, Henrietta +felt her cheek grow hot again. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “I did not need you! But I thought you said +you brought a letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a letter. But I beg leave—to postpone its delivery for a +day or two.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” in astonishment. “If it is for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“By Captain Clyne’s directions,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +She stopped short and faced him, rebellion in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why,” she said proudly, “seek me out now if this letter +is not to be delivered at once?” +</p> + +<p> +“That, too, is by his order,” Mr. Sutton explained in the same +tone. “And pardon me for saying,” he continued, with a meaning +cough, “that I have seen enough to be assured of Captain Clyne’s +forethought. Apart from which, in Lancashire, at any rate, the times are so +troubled, the roads so unsafe, the common people so outrageous, that for a +young lady to walk out alone is not safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“He should have sent a servant, then!” she answered sharply. +</p> + +<p> +A faint colour rose to the chaplain’s cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“He thought me more trustworthy, perhaps,” he said meekly. +“And it is possible he was under the impression that my company might be +more acceptable.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I may be plain,” she answered tartly, “I am in no mood +for a stranger’s company.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet,” he said, with a gleam of appeal in his eyes, “I +would fain hope to make myself acceptable.” +</p> + +<p> +She gave him no direct answer; only, +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot understand, I really cannot understand,” she said, +“of what he was thinking. You had better give me the letter now, sir. I +may find something in that which may explain.” +</p> + +<p> +But he only cast down his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid,” he said, “that I must not disobey the +directions which Captain Clyne laid upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” she retorted; “that is as you please. +Only—our paths separate here. The road we are on will take you to the +inn—you cannot miss it. My path lies this way.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a stiff little bow she laid her hand on the gate which gave entrance +to the field-path; the same path that led down through the coppice to the back +of the Low Wood inn. She passed through. +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated an instant, then he also turned in at the gate. And as she halted, +eyeing him in displeasure— +</p> + +<p> +“I really cannot let you stray from the high-road alone,” he said. +“You will pardon me, I am sure, if I seem intrusive. But it is not safe. +I have seen enough,” with a smirk, “to know that—that beauty +unattended goes in danger amid these lovely”—he waved his hand in +kindly patronage of the lake—“these lovely, but wild +surroundings.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean,” she answered, with a dangerous light in her eyes, +“that you will force your company on me, sir? Whether I will or +no?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not force, no! No! No! But I must, I can only do as I am ordered. I +should not presume of myself,” he continued, with a touch of real +humility—“even to offer my company. I should not look so high. I +should think such an honour above me. But I was led to +believe——” +</p> + +<p> +“By Captain Clyne?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that—that, in fact, you were willing to make what amends you +could for the injury done to him. And that, if only for that reason, I might +expect a more favourable reception at your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why, sir?—why?” she cried, cut to the quick. To suffer +this man, this stranger, to talk to her of making amends!” What good will +it do to Captain Clyne if I receive you ever so favourably?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her humbly, with appeal in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would deign to wait,” he said, and he wiped his forehead, +“I think I could make that more clear to you afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +But very naturally his persistence offended her. That word amends, too, stuck +in her throat. Her pride, made restive by her encounter with Hornyold, was up +in arms. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not wait a moment,” she said. “Not a moment! +Understand, sir, that if you accompany me against my will, my first act on +reaching the inn will be to complain to the landlady, and seek her +protection.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely not against Captain Clyne’s +pleni—plenipotentiary?” he murmured abjectly. “Surely +not!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know what a pleni-plenipotentiary is,” she retorted. +“But if you follow me, you follow at your peril!” +</p> + +<p> +And she turned her back on him, and plunged downwards through the wood. She did +not deign to look behind; but her ears told her that he was not following. For +the rest, all the beauty of the wood, shot through with golden lights, all the +cool loveliness of the dell, with its emerald mosses and flash of jewelled +wings, were lost upon her now, so sore was she and so profoundly humiliated. +Twice in one morning she had been insulted. Twice in one hour had a man shown +her that he held her fair game. Were they right, then, who preached that +outside the sanctum of home no girl was safe? Or was it her story, her conduct, +her disgrace, known to all for miles round, that robbed her of the right to +respect? +</p> + +<p> +Either way she was unhappy, frightened, nay, shocked; and she longed to be +within doors, where she need not restrain herself. Too proud to confide in Mrs. +Gilson, she longed none the less for some one to whom she could unburden +herself. Was she to go through the world exposed to such scenes? Must she be +daily and hourly on her guard against rude insult, or more odious gallantries? +And if these things befell her in this quiet spot, what must she expect in the +world, deserted as she was by all those who would once have protected her? +</p> + +<p> +She looked to gain her room without further unpleasantness; for the path she +followed led her to the back door, and she could enter that way. But she was +not to be so fortunate. In the yard, awaiting her with his hat in his hand and +the flush of haste on his pallid face, was Mr. Sutton. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Henrietta! she ground her small teeth together in her rage, and her face +was scarlet. But her mind was made up. If Mr. Sutton counted on her being worse +than her word she would show him his mistake. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall send for the landlady,” she said; and beckoning to a +stable-help who was crossing the yard with a bucket, “Fetch Mrs. +Gilson,” she said. “Tell her——” +</p> + +<p> +“One moment!” Mr. Sutton interposed with meek firmness. “I am +going to give you the letter. It will explain all, and I hope justify my +conduct, which I cannot believe to have been offensive.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is a matter of opinion,” Henrietta said loftily. She held out +her hand. “The letter, sir, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“One favour, I beg,” he said, with a gesture that deprecated her +impatience. He waved the groom out of hearing. “This is not a fit place +for you or”—with a return of dignity—“for the business +on which I am here. Do me the favour of seeing me within or of walking a few +yards with me. There is a seat by the lake, if you will not admit me to your +apartments.” +</p> + +<p> +She frowned at him. But she saw the wisdom of concluding the matter, and she +led the way into the road and turned to the right. Immediately, however, she +remembered that the Ambleside road would lead her to the spot where Captain +Clyne had taken leave of her, and she turned and walked the other way until she +came to the place where the Troutbeck lane diverged. There she stood. +</p> + +<p> +“The letter, if you please,” she said. She spoke with the +contemptuous hardness which youth, seldom considerate of others’ +feelings, is prone to display. +</p> + +<p> +He held it an instant in his hand as if he could not bear to part with it. But +at last, with a dismal look and an abject sentence or two, he gave it up. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg you, I implore you,” he muttered as she took it, “to +announce no hasty decision. To believe that I am something more and better than +you think me now. And that ill as I have set myself before you, I would fain +labour to show myself more—more worthy!” +</p> + +<p> +The words were so strange, his manner was so puzzling, that they pierced the +armour of her dislike. She paused, staring at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Worthy!” she exclaimed. “Worthy of what?” +</p> + +<p> +“The letter——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the letter will tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a haughty air she broke the seal. As she read she turned herself from +him, so that he saw little more of her face than her firmly moulded chin. But +when she had carried her eyes some way down the sheet he noticed that her hands +began to shake. +</p> + +<p> +“Henrietta,” so Captain Clyne began,—“for to add any +term of endearment were either too little or too much—I have thought long +and painfully, as becomes one who expected to be by this time your husband, on +the situation in which you have placed yourself by an escapade, the +consequences of which, whatever action be taken, must be permanently +detrimental. Of these, as they touch myself, I say nothing, the object of these +lines being to indicate a way by which I trust your honour and character may be +redeemed. The bearer, whom I know for a man of merit and respectability, saw +you by chance on the occasion of your visit to my house, and, as I learned by a +word indiscreetly dropped, admired you. He has been admitted to the secret of +your adventure, and is willing, without more and upon my representation of the +facts of the case, to make you his wife and to give you the shelter of his +name. After long thought I can devise no better course, whereby, innocent of +aught but folly, as I believe you to be, the honour of the family can be +preserved. Still, I would not suggest or advise the step were I not sure that +Mr. Sutton, though beneath us by extraction, is a person of parts and worth in +whose hands your future will be safe, while his material prosperity shall be my +care. I have advised him to take such opportunities as offer of commending +himself to you before delivering this note. Gladly would I counsel you to take +the advice of your brother and his wife were I not aware how bitter is their +resentment and how complete their estrangement. I, on the other hand, whose +right to advise you may question—— But it were idle to say more +than that I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. Nor will your interests ever +be indifferent to +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:55%"> +“Your kinsman, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“<span class="sc">Anthony Clyne</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton noted the growing tremour of the hands which held the paper—he +could hear it rustle. And his face, usually so pallid, flushed. Into the +greyness of a life that had been happier if the chaplain had possessed less of +those parts for which Captain Clyne commended him, had burst this vision of a +bride, young, beautiful, and brilliant; a daughter of that world which thought +him honoured by the temporary possession of a single finger, or the gift of a +careless nod. Who could blame him if he succumbed? Aladdin, on the point of +marriage with the daughter of the Sultan, bent to no greater temptation; nor +any barber or calendar of them all, when on the verge of a like match. He had +seen Henrietta once only, he had viewed her then as a thing of grace and +refinement meet only for his master. At the prospect of possessing her, such +scruples as rose in his mind faded quickly. He told himself that he would be +foolish indeed if he did not carry the matter through with a bold face; or if +for fear of a few hard words, or a pouting beauty, he yielded up the +opportunity of a life. +</p> + +<p> +On the hill he had proved himself equal to the call. Not so now. He had +pictured the girl taking the news in many ways, in scorn, in anger, with +shallow coquetry, or in dull resignation. But he had never anticipated the way +in which she did take it. When she had read the letter to the end she turned +her back on him and bent her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried; and broke into weeping—not passionate nor +bitter, he was prepared for that—but the soft and helpless weeping of a +broken thing. +</p> + +<p> +That they, that Anthony Clyne, above all, should do this to her! That he should +think of her as a chattel to be handed from one to another, a girl so light +that all men were the same to her, if they were men! That they, that he should +hold her so cheap, deem her so smirched by what had passed, misread her so +vilely as to think that she had fallen to this! That with indifference she +would give herself to any man, no matter to whom, if she could that way keep +her name and hold up her head! +</p> + +<p> +It hurt her horribly. Nay, for the time it broke her down. The mid-day coach +swept by to the inn door, and the parson, standing beside her, ashamed of +himself and conscious of the passengers’ curious glances, wished himself +anywhere else. But she was wounded too sorely to care who saw or who heard; and +she wept openly though quietly until the first sharpness of the pain was +blunted. Then he thought, as her sobbing grew less vehement, that his time was +come, that he might yet be heard. And he murmured that he was grieved, he was +sorely grieved. +</p> + +<p> +“So am I!” she said, dabbing her eyes with her wet handkerchief. +She sobbed out the words so humbly, so weakly, that he was encouraged. +</p> + +<p> +“Then may I—may I return presently?” he murmured, with a +nervous cough. “You must stand in need of advice? And—and by some +one near you? When you are more composed perhaps? Yes. Not that there is any +hurry,” he added quickly, frightened by a movement of her shoulders. +“Not at all. I’ll not say another word now! By-and-by, by-and-by, +dear young lady, you will be more composed. To-morrow, if you prefer it, or +even the next day. I shall wait, and I shall be here.” +</p> + +<p> +She gave her eyes a last dab and turned. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not blame you,” she said, her voice broken by a sob. +“You did not know me. But you must go back—you must go back to him +at once and tell him that I—that he has punished me as sharply as he +could wish.” She dabbed her face again. “I do not know what I shall +think of him presently, but I—— Oh, oh!” with a fresh burst +of tears, “that he should do this to me!—that he should do +this!” +</p> + +<p> +He did not know her, as she said; and, small blame to him, he misread her. +Because she neither stormed nor sneered, but only wept in this heart-broken +fashion, like a child cowed by a beating, he fancied that the task before him +was not above his powers. He thought her plastic, a creature easily moulded; +and that already she was bending herself to the fate proposed for her. And in +soothing tones, for he was genuinely sorry for her, “There, there, my +dear young lady,” he said, “I know it is something hard. It is +hard. But in a little while, a very little while, I trust, it will seem less +hard. And there is time before us. Time to become acquainted, time to gain +knowledge of one another. Plenty of time! There is no hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +She lowered her handkerchief from her eyes and looked at him, over it, as if, +without understanding, she thanked him for his sympathy. With her tear-washed +eyelashes and rumpled hair and neck-ribbon she looked more childish, she seemed +to him less formidable. He took heart of grace to go on. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Clyne shall be told what you feel about it,” he said, +thinking to soothe and humour her. “He shall be told all in good time. +And everything I can say and anything I can do to lighten the burden and meet +your wishes——” +</p> + +<p> +“You?” +</p> + +<p> +“——I shall do, be sure!” +</p> + +<p> +He was beginning to feel his feet, and he spoke earnestly. He spoke, to do him +justice, with feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“Your happiness,” he said, “will be the one, at any rate the +first, and main object of my life. As time goes on I hope and believe that you +will find a recompense in the service and devotion of a life, although a humble +life; and always I will be patient. I will wait, my dear young lady, in good +hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what?” +</p> + +<p> +The tone of the two words shook Mr. Sutton unpleasantly. He reddened. But with +an effort, +</p> + +<p> +“In what hope?” he answered, embarrassed by the sudden rigidity of +her face. “In the hope,” with a feeble smile, “that in no +long time—I am presumptuous, I know—you will see some merit in me, +my dear young lady. And will assent to my wishes, my humble, ardent wishes, and +those of my too-generous patron.” +</p> + +<p> +There were no tears in her eyes now. She seemed to tower above him in her +indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“Your wishes, you miserable little man?” she cried, with a look +which pierced his vanity to the quick. “They are nothing to me! Go back +to your master!” +</p> + +<p> +And before he could rally his forces or speak, she was gone from him into the +house. He heard a snigger behind the hedge, but by the time he had climbed the +bank—with a crimson face—there was no one to be seen. +</p> + +<p> +He stood an instant, brooding, with his eyes on the road. +</p> + +<p> +“A common man would give up,” he muttered. “But I shall not! +I am no common man. I shall not give up.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII<br/> +THE OLD LOVE</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton was a vain man and sensitive, and though he clung to hope, +Henrietta’s words hurt him to the quick. The name of Chaplain was growing +obsolete at this time; it was beginning to import unpleasant things. With this +chaplain in particular his dependence on a patron was a sore point; for with +some capacity, he lacked, and knew that he lacked, that strength of mind which +enables a man to hold his own, be his position what it may. For an hour, +writhing under the reflection that even the yokels about him were aware of his +discomfiture, he was cast down to the very ground. He was inclined to withdraw +his hand and let the dazzling vision pass. +</p> + +<p> +Then he rallied his forces. He bethought him how abnormal was the chance, how +celestial the dream, how sweet the rapture of possessing the charms that now +flouted him. And he took heart of grace. He raised his head, he enlisted in the +cause all the doggedness of his nature. He recalled stories, inaccurately +remembered, of Swift and Voltaire and Rousseau, all dependants who had loved, +and all men of no greater capacity, it was possible, than himself. What slights +had they not encountered, what scornful looks, and biting gibes! But they had +persisted, having less in their favour than he had; and he would persist. And +he would triumph as they had triumphed. What matter a trifling loss of +countenance as he passed by the coach-office, or a burning sensation down the +spine when those whom he had left tittered behind him? He laughed best who +laughed last. +</p> + +<p> +For such a chance would never, could never fall to him again. The Caliph of +Bagdad was dead, and princesses wedded no longer with calendars. Was he to toss +away the one ticket which the lottery of life had dropped in his lap? Surely +not. And for scruples—he felt them no longer. The girl’s stinging +words, her scornful taunt, had silenced the small voice that on his way hither +had pleaded for her; urging him to spare her loneliness, to take no advantage +of her defenceless position. Bah! If that were all, she could defend herself +well. +</p> + +<p> +So Henrietta, when she came downstairs, a little paler and a little prouder, +and with the devil, that is in all proud women, a little nearer to urging her +on something, no matter what, that might close a humiliating scene, was not +long in discovering a humble black presence that by turns followed and evaded +her. Mr. Sutton did not venture to address her directly. To put himself forward +was not his <i>rôle</i>. But he sought to commend himself by self-effacement; +or at the most by such meek services as opening the door for her without +lifting his eyes above the hem of her skirt, or placing a thing within reach +before she learned her need of it. Nevertheless, whenever she left her room she +caught sight of him; and the consciousness that he was watching her, that his +eyes were on her back, that if her gown caught in a nail of the floor he would +be at hand to release it, wore on her nerves. She tried to disregard him, she +tried to be indifferent to him. But there he always was, pale, obstinate, +cringing, and waiting. And so great is the power of persistence, that she began +to fear him. +</p> + +<p> +Between his insidious court and the dread of Mr. Hornyold’s gallantries +she was uncomfortable as well as wretchedly unhappy. The position shamed her. +She felt that it was her own conduct which she had to thank for their pursuit; +and for Anthony Clyne’s more cruel insult, which she swore she would +never forgive. She knew that in the old life, within the fence where she had +been reared, no one had ever dared to take a liberty with her or dreamed of +venturing on a freedom. Now it was so different. So different! And she was so +lonely! She stood fair game for all. Presently even the village louts would +nudge one another when she passed, or follow her in the hope of they knew not +what. +</p> + +<p> +Already, indeed, if she passed the threshold she had a third follower; whose +motives were scarcely less offensive than the motives of the other two. Mr. +Bishop had been away for nearly a week scouring the roads between Cockermouth +and Whitehaven, and Maryport and Carlisle. He had drawn, as he hoped, a net +round the quarry—if it had not already escaped. In particular, he had +made sure that trusty men—and by trusty men Mr. Bishop meant men who +would not refuse to share the reward with their superiors—watched the +most likely places. These arrangements had taken his brown tops and sturdy +figure far afield: so that scarce a pot-house in all that country was now +ignorant of the face of John Bishop of Bow Street, scarce a saddle-horse was +unversed in his weight. Finally he had returned to the centre of his +spider’s web, and rather than be idle he was giving himself up to +stealthy observation of Henrietta. +</p> + +<p> +For he had one point in common with Mr. Sutton. While the Low Wood folk +exhausted themselves in surmises and believed in a day a dozen stories of the +girl who had dropped so strangely among them, the runner knew who she was. +Perforce he had been taken into confidence. But thereupon his experience of the +criminal kind led him astray. He remembered how stubbornly she had refused to +give her name, to give information, to give anything; and he suspected that she +knew where Walterson lay hid. He thought it more than likely that she was still +in relations with him. A girl of her breeding, the runner argued, does not give +up all for a romantic stranger unless she loves him: and once in love, such an +one sticks at nothing. So he too haunted her footsteps, vanished when she came, +and appeared when she retreated; and all with an air of respect which maddened +the victim and puzzled the onlookers. +</p> + +<p> +But for this she had been able to spend these days of loneliness and +incertitude in wandering among the hills. She was young enough to feel +confinement irksome, and she yearned for the open and the unexplored. She +fancied that she would find relief in plunging into the depths of woods where, +on a still day, the leaves floated singly down to mingle with the dying ferns. +She thought that in long roaming, with loosened hair and wind-swept cheeks, +over Wansfell Pike, or to the upper world of the Kirkstone or the Hog-back +beyond Troutbeck, she might forget, in the wilds of nature, her own small woes +and private griefs. At least on the sheep-trodden heights there would be no one +to reproach her, no one to fling scorn at her. +</p> + +<p> +And two mornings later she felt that she must go; she must escape from the eyes +that everywhere beset her. She marked down Mr. Bishop in the road before the +house, and, safe from him, she slipped out at the back, and, almost running, +climbed the path that led to the hills. She passed through the wood and emerged +on the shoulder; and drew a deep breath, rejoicing in her freedom. One glance +at the lake spread out below her—and something still and sullen under a +grey sky—and she passed on. She had a crust in her pocket, and she would +remain abroad all day—for it was mild. With the evening she would return +footsore and utterly weary. And she would sleep. +</p> + +<p> +She was within a few yards of the gate of Hinkson’s farm when she saw +coming towards her the last man whom she wished to meet—Mr. Hornyold. He +was walking beside his nag, with the rein on his arm and his eyes on the road. +His hands were plunged far into the fobs of his breeches, and he was studying +something so deeply that he did not perceive her. +</p> + +<p> +The memory of their last meeting—on that very spot—was unpleasantly +fresh in Henrietta’s mind, and the impulse to escape was strong. +Hinkson’s gate was within reach of her arm, the dog was asleep in the +kennel; in a twinkling she was within and making for the house. Any pretence +would do, she thought. She might ask for a cup of water, drink it, and return +to the road. By that time he would have gone on his way. +</p> + +<p> +She knew that the moment she had passed the corner of the house she was safe +from observation. And seeing the front so grim, so slatternly, so uninviting, +she paused. Why go on? Why knock? After giving Hornyold time to pass she might +slip back to the road without challenging notice. +</p> + +<p> +She would have done this, if her eyes, as she hesitated, had not met those of a +grimy, frowsy scarecrow who seemed to be playing hide-and-seek with her from +the shelter of the decaying bushes that stood for a garden. She saw herself +discovered, and not liking the creature’s looks, she returned to her +first plan. She knocked on the half-open door, and receiving no answer, pushed +it open and stepped in—as she had stepped into cottages in her own +village scores of times. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant the aspect of the interior gave her pause; so bare, with the +northern bareness, so squalid with the wretchedness of poverty, was the great +dark kitchen. Then, telling herself that it was only the sudden transition from +the open air and the wide view that gave a sinister look to the place, she +rapped on the table. +</p> + +<p> +Some one moved overhead, crossed the floor slowly, and began to descend the +stairs. The door at the foot of the staircase was ajar, and Henrietta waited +with her eyes fixed on it. She wondered if the step belonged to the girl whose +bold look had so displeased her; or to a man—the tread seemed too heavy +for a woman. Then the door was pushed open a few inches only, a foot at most. +And out of the grey gloom of the stairway a face looked at her, and eyes met +her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The face was Stewart’s! Walterson’s! +</p> + +<p> +She did not cry out. She stood petrified, silent, staring. And after a +whispered oath wrung from him by astonishment, he was mute. He stood, peering +at her through the half-open door; the dangerous instinct which bade him spring +upon her and secure her curbed for the moment by his ignorance of the +conditions. She might have others with her. There might be men within hearing. +How came she there? And above all, what cursed folly had led him to show +himself? What madness had drawn him forth before he knew who it was, before he +had made certain that it was Bess’s summons? +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="p134"></a> +<img src="images/p134.png" width="337" height="514" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="sc">The face was Stewart’s</span></p> +</div> + +<p> +It was she who broke the spell. She turned, and with no uncertainty or backward +glance she went out slowly and softly, like a blind person, passed round the +house, and gained the road. Hornyold had gone by and was out of sight; but she +did not give a thought to him. +</p> + +<p> +The shock was great. She was white to the lips. By instinct she turned +homewards—wandering abroad on open hills was far from her thoughts now. +But even so, when she had gone a little way she had to stand and steady herself +by a gate-post—her knees trembled so violently under her. For by +intuition she knew that she had escaped a great danger. The wretched creature +cowering in the gloom of the stairway had not moved hand or foot after his eyes +met hers; but something in those eyes, a gleam wild and murderous, recurred to +her memory. And she shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the first effects of the shock abated and left her free to think. She +knew then that a grievous thing had happened, and a thing which must add much +to the weight of unhappiness she had thought intolerable an hour before. To +begin, the near presence of the man revolted her. The last shred of the romance +in which she had garbed him, the last hue of glamour, were gone; and in the +creature whom she had espied cowering on the stairs, with the danger-signal +lurking in his eyes, she saw her old lover as others would see him. How she +could have been so blind as to invest such a man with virtue, how she could +have been so foolish as to fancy she loved <i>that</i>, passed her +understanding now! Ay, and filled her with a trembling disgust of herself. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, that was the beginning. Beyond that she foresaw trouble and +embarrassment without end. If he were taken, he would be tried, and she would +be called to the witness box, and the story of her infatuation would be told. +Nay, she would have to tell it herself in face of a smiling crowd; and her +folly would be in all the journals. True, she had had this in prospect from the +beginning, and, thinking of it, had suffered in the dark hours. But his capture +had then been vague and doubtful and the full misery of her exposure had not +struck her as it struck her now, with the picture of that man on the stairs +fresh in her mind. To have disgraced herself for that!—for that! +</p> + +<p> +She was thinking of this and was still much agitated when she came to the spot +where the path through the wood diverged from the road. There with his hand on +the wicket-gate, unseen until she was close upon him, stood Mr. Bishop. +</p> + +<p> +He raised his hat and stepped aside, as if the meeting took him by surprise, as +if he had not been watching her face through a screen of briars for the last +thirty seconds. But that due paid to politeness, the runner’s sharp eyes +remained glued to her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, miss,” he said, in apparent innocence, “nothing has +happened, I hope! You don’t look yourself! I hope,” respectfully, +“that nobody has been rude to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing,” she made shift to murmur. She turned her face +aside. And she tried to go by him. +</p> + +<p> +He let her go through the gate, but he kept at her side and scrutinised her +face with side-long glances. He coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you have heard bad news, miss?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, perhaps—seen some one who has startled you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you it is nothing,” she answered curtly. “Be +good enough to leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +But he merely paused an instant in obedience to the gesture of her hand, then +he resumed his place beside her. In the tone of one who had made up his mind to +be frank— +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, miss,” he said, “it is better to come to an +understanding here, where there is nobody to listen. If it is not that somebody +has been rude to you, I’m clear that you have heard news, or you have +seen somebody. And it is my business to know the one or the other.” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to do with your business!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He made a wry face, and spread out his hands in appeal. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you be frank?” he replied. “Come, miss? What is +the use of fencing with me? Be frank! I want to make things easy for all. Lord, +miss, you are not the sort, and we two know it, that suffers in these things. +You’ll come out all right if you’ll be frank. It’s that +I’m working towards; to put an end to it, and the sooner the better. You +can’t—a wife and four children, miss, and a radical to +boot—you can’t think much of him! So why not help instead of +hindering?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are impudent!” Henrietta said, with a fine colour in her +cheeks. “Be good enough to let me pass.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I knew where he was”—with his eyes on her +face—“I could make all easy. All done, and nothing said, my lady; +just ‘from communications received,’ no names given, not a word of +what has happened up here! Lord bless you, what do they care in +London—and it is in London he’ll be tried—what happens +here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me pass!” she answered breathlessly. +</p> + +<p> +He was so warm upon the scent he terrified her. +</p> + +<p> +But he did not give way. +</p> + +<p> +“Think, miss,” he said more gravely. “Think! A wife and six +children! Or was it four? Much he cared for any but himself! I’m sure +I’m shocked when I think of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Much he cared what became of you! While Captain Clyne, if you were to +consult his wishes, miss, I’m sure he’d say——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not care what he would say!” she retorted passionately, stung +at last beyond reticence or endurance. “I never wish to hear Captain +Clyne’s name again: I hate him; do you hear? I hate him! Let me +pass!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, whether he would or no, she broke from him. She hurried, panting, and +with burning cheeks, down the steep path; the briars clutching unheeded at her +skirts, and stones rolling under her feet. He followed at her heels, admiring +her spirit; he even tried to engage her again, begging her to stop and hear +him. But she only pushed on the faster, and presently he thought it better to +desist, and he let her go. +</p> + +<p> +He stood and wiped his brow, looking after her. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, what a spirit she has!” he muttered. “A fine swelling +figure, too, and a sway with her head that makes you feel small! And feet that +nimble! But all the same, I’m glad she’s not Mrs. Bishop! Take my +word for it, she’ll be another Mother Gilson—some day.” +</p> + +<p> +While Henrietta hurried on at her best pace, resentment giving way to fear and +doubt and a hundred perplexities. Betray the man she could not, though he +deserved nothing at her hands. She was no informer, nor would become one. The +very idea was repulsive to her. And she had woven about this man the fine +tissue of a girl’s first fancy; she had looked to be his, she had let him +kiss her. After that, vile as he was, vilely as he had meant by her, it did not +lie with her to betray him to death. +</p> + +<p> +But his presence near her was hateful to her, was frightful, was almost +intolerable. Not a day, not an hour, but she must expect to hear of his +capture, and know it for the first of a series of ordeals, painful and +humiliating. She would be confronted with him, she would be asked if she knew +him, she would be asked this and that; and she would have to speak, would have +to confess—to those clandestine meetings, to that kiss—while he +listened, while all listened. The tale that was known as yet to few would be +published abroad. Her folly would be in every mouth, in every journal. The wife +and the four children, and she, the silly, silly fool whom this mean thing had +captivated, taking her as easily as any doe in her brother’s +park—the world would ring with them! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br/> +A JEALOUS WOMAN</h2> + +<p> +Meanwhile the man whom she had left in the gloom of the staircase waited. The +sound of the girl’s tread died away and silence followed. But she might +be taking the news, she might be gone back to those who had sent her. He knew +that at any moment the party charged with his arrest might appear, and that in +a few seconds all would be over. And the suspense was intolerable. After +enduring it a while he pushed the door open, and he crept across the floor of +the living-room. He brought his haggard face near the casement and peeped +cautiously through a lower corner. He saw nothing to the purpose. Nothing moved +without, except the old man, whose rags fluttered an instant among the bushes +and vanished again. Probably he was dragging up some treasured scrap and hiding +it anew with as little sane purpose and as much instinct as the dog that buries +a bone. +</p> + +<p> +The man with the price on his head stole back to the foot of the stairs, +reassured for the moment; but with his heart still fluttering, his cheeks still +bloodless. He had had a great fright. He could not yet tell what would come of +it. But he knew that in the form of the girl whom he had tricked and sought to +ruin he had seen the gallows very near. +</p> + +<p> +He had not quite regained the staircase when the sound of a foot approaching +the door drove him to shelter in a panic. Bess Hinkson had to call twice before +he dared to descend or to run the risk of a second mistake. +</p> + +<p> +The moment she saw his face she knew that something was wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she asked quickly. “What is the matter, +lad?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen some one,” he answered. “Some one who knew +me!” He tried to smile, but the smile was a spasm; and suddenly his teeth +clicked together. “Knew me by G—d!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Bishop?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but—some one.” +</p> + +<p> +Her face cleared. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s took you?” she said. “There is no one else here +who knows you.” +</p> + +<p> +“The girl.” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him. “The girl?” she repeated—and the +master-note in her voice was no longer fear, but suspicion. “The girl! +How came she here? And how,” with sudden ferocity, “came she to see +you, my lad?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard her below and thought that it was you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how came she here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” he answered sullenly, “unless she was +sent.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t believe you,” Bess answered coarsely. And the +jealousy of her gipsy blood sparkled in her dark eyes. “She was not sent! +But maybe she was sent for! Maybe she was sent for!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was there I could send for her?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I!” he answered. He shrugged his shoulders in disgust at her +folly. To him, in his selfish fear, it seemed incredible folly. +</p> + +<p> +“But you talked with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” Bess repeated with a furious look, “you did! You +talked with her! I know you did!” +</p> + +<p> +“Have your own way, then,” he answered despairingly, “though +may heaven strike me dead if there was a word! But she’ll he talking +soon—and they’ll be here. And she”—with a quavering, +passionate rise in his voice—“she’ll hang me!” +</p> + +<p> +“She’d best not!” the girl replied, with a gleam of sharp +teeth. “I hate her as it is. I hate her now! I’d like to kill her! +But then——” +</p> + +<p> +“Then?” he retorted, his anger rising as hers sank. “What is +the use of <i>then?</i> It’s now is the point! Curse You! while you are +talking about hating her, and what you’ll do, I’ll be taken! +They’ll be here and I’ll hang!” +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, steady, lad,” she said. The fear had flown from his face +to hers. “Perhaps she’ll not tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? Why’ll she not tell?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not reply that love might close the girl’s mouth. But she knew +that it was possible. Instead: +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe she’ll not,” she repeated. “If she did not come +on purpose—and then they’d be here by now—it will take her +half an hour to go back to the inn, and she’ll have to find Bishop, and +he’ll have to get a few together. We’ve an hour good, and if it +were night, you might be clear of this and safe at Tyson’s in ten +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But now?” he cried, with a gesture of wrathful impatience. +“It’s daylight, and maybe the house is watched. What am I to do +now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” she said. And it was noticeable that she was +cool, while he was excited to the verge of tears, and was not a mile from +hysterics. “It was for this I’ve been fooling Tyson—to get a +safe hiding-place. But if you could get there, I doubt if he is quite ripe. +I’d like to commit him a bit more before we trust him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why play the fool with him?” he answered savagely. +</p> + +<p> +“Because a day or two more and his hiding-hole may be the saving of +you,” she retorted. “Sho!” shrugging her shoulders in her +turn, “the game is not played to an end yet! She’ll not tell! She +is proud as horses, and if she gives you up she’ll have to swear against +you. And she’ll not stomach that, the little pink and white fool. +She’ll keep mum, my lad!” +</p> + +<p> +The hand with which he wiped the beads of sweat from his brow shook. +</p> + +<p> +“But it she does tell?” he muttered. “If she does +tell?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer as she might have answered. She did not remind him of those +stories of hair-breadth escapes and of coolness in the shadow of the gallows, +which, as much as his plausible enthusiasm, had won her wild heart. She did not +hint that his present carriage was hardly at one with them. For when women +love, their eyes are slow to open, and this man had revealed to Bess a new +world—a world of rarest possibilities, a world in which she and her like +were to have justice, if not vengeance—a world in which the mighty were +to fall from their seats, and the poor to be no more flouted by squires’ +wives and parsons’ daughters! If she did not still think him all golden, +if the feet and even the legs of clay were beginning to be visible, there was +glamour about him still. The splendid plans, the world-embracing schemes with +which he had dazzled her, had shrunk indeed into a hole-and-corner effort to +save his own skin. But his life was as dear to her as to himself; and +doubtless, by-and-by, when this troublesome crisis was past, the vista would +widen. She was content. She was glad to put full knowledge from her, glad of +any pretext to divert her own mind and his. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, I had forgotten!” she cried, after a gloomy pause, +“I’ve a letter! There was one at last!” She searched in her +clothes for it. +</p> + +<p> +“A letter?” he cried, and stretched out a shaking hand. “Good +lord, girl, why did you not say so before? This may change all. Thistlewood may +know a way to get me off. Once in Lancashire, in the crowd, let me have a +hiding-place and I’m safe! And Thistlewood—he is no cur! He sticks +at nothing! He is a good man! I was sure he would do something if I could get a +word to him! Lord, I shall cheat them yet!” He was jubilant. +</p> + +<p> +He ripped the letter open. His eyes raced along the lines. The girl, who could +scarcely read, watched him with admiration, yet with a sinking heart. The +letter might save him, but it would take him from her. +</p> + +<p> +Something between a groan and an oath broke from him. He struck the paper with +his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“The fool!” he cried. “The fools! They are coming +here!” +</p> + +<p> +“They?” she answered, staring in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Thistlewood, Lunt—oh!” with a violent +execration—“God knows who! Instead of getting me off they are +bringing the hunt on me! Lancashire is too hot for them, so they are coming +here to ruin me. And I’m to send a boat for them to-morrow night to Newby +Bridge. But, I’ll not! I’ll not!” passionately. “You +shall not go!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl looked at him dubiously. +</p> + +<p> +“After all,” she said presently, “if Thistlewood is what you +say he is——” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a selfish fool! Thinking only of himself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, if he and the rest are men—it’ll not be one man, nor +two, nor five will take you—with them to help you!” +</p> + +<p> +But the thought gave him no comfort. +</p> + +<p> +“Much good that will do!” he answered. And passionately flinging +down the paper, “I’ll not have them! They must fend for +themselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do they say why they are coming?” she asked after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t I tell you?” he replied querulously, “because +it’s too hot for them there! One of the justices, Clyne, if you must +know——” +</p> + +<p> +“Clyne!” she ejaculated in astonishment. “Clyne again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” +</p> + +<p> +“The man—you took the girl from?” she asked in a queer voice. +</p> + +<p> +“The same. He’s the deuce down there. He’ll get his house +burnt over his head one of these nights! He has sworn an information against +them, and they swear they’ll have their revenge. But in the meantime they +must needs come here and blow the gaff on me. Fine revenge!” with scorn. +</p> + +<p> +“And they want you to send a boat for them to Newby Bridge?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, curse them! I told them I had a boat I could take quietly, and come +down the lake in the dark. And they say the boat can just as well fetch +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it can be done,” she said coolly, “if the wind across +the lake holds. I can steal a boat as I planned for you, and nobody will be the +wiser. There’s no moon, and the nights are dark; and who’s to trace +them from Newby Bridge? After all, it’s not from them the danger will +come, but from the girl.” +</p> + +<p> +He groaned. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were sure she wouldn’t tell,” he sneered. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she has not told yet, or they had been here,” Bess answered. +“But she may speak—by-and-by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Curse her!” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is why I am not so sorry your folks are coming,” she +continued, with a queer look at him. “If they’ll help us, +we’ll stop her mouth. And she’ll not speak now, nor +by-and-by.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked up, startled. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t mean—no!” he cried sharply, +“I’ll not have it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless her pretty, white fingers!” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll not have her hurt!” he repeated, with vehemence. +“I’ve done her harm enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so much harm as you would have done her, if you’d had your +way!” she replied. And her face grew hard. “But now she’s to +be sacred, is she? Her ladyship’s pretty, white fingers are not to be +pinched—if you swing for it! Very well! It’s your neck will be +pulled, not mine.” +</p> + +<p> +He fidgeted on his stool, but he did not answer. His eyes roved round the bare +miserable room, with its low ceiling, its deep shadows, and its squalor. At +last: +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” he asked querulously. “Why can’t +you speak plain?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought I had spoken plain enough,” she replied. “But if +she’s not to be touched, there’s an end of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What would you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“What I said—shut her mouth.” +</p> + +<p> +He shuddered and his face, already sallow from long confinement, grew greyer. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “I’ll not do it.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed in scorn of him. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mean that,” she said. “I would get her into +our hands, hold her fast, stow her somewhere where she’ll not speak! +Maybe in Tyson’s hiding-hole. She’ll catch a cold, but what of +that? ’Twill be no worse for her than for you, if you’ve to go +there. And the men may be a bit rough with her,” Bess continued, with a +malignant smile, while her eyes scrutinized his face, “I’ll not +forbid them, for I don’t love her, and I’d like well to see her +brought down a bit! But we’ll not squeeze her pretty throat, if that is +what you had in your mind.” +</p> + +<p> +He shivered. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t trust you!” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed as if he paid her a compliment. +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldn’t you, lad?” she said. “Well, perhaps not. +I’d not be sorry to spoil her beauty. But the men—men are such +fools—’ll be rather for kissing than killing!” +</p> + +<p> +“All the same, I don’t like it,” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll like hanging less!” she retorted. +</p> + +<p> +He felt, he knew that he played a sorry part. But it was not he who had brought +Henrietta to the house, it was fate. It was not his fault that she had seen +him; it was his misfortune. Could he be expected to surrender his life to spare +her a little fright, a trifling inconvenience, an inconsiderable risk? Why +should he? Would she do it for him? On the contrary, he recalled the look of +horror which she had bent on him; she who had so lately laid her head on his +shoulder, had listened to his blandishments, had thought him perfect. He was +vain, and that hardened him. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see how you’ll do it,” he said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave that to me,” Bess answered. “Or rather, do what I tell +you—and the bird will come to the whistle, my lad!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’ll you do?” +</p> + +<p> +She told him, and when she had told him she put before him pen and ink and +paper; the pen and ink and paper which had been obtained that he might write to +Thistlewood. But when it came to details and he knew what he was to write and +what lure to throw out, he flung the pen from him. He told her angrily that he +would not do it. After all, Henrietta had believed in him, had trusted him, had +given up all for him. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll not do it,” he repeated. “I’ll not do it! +You want to do the girl a mischief!” +</p> + +<p> +She flared up at that. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’ll hang!” she cried brutally, hurling the words at +him. “And, thank God, it will be she will hang you! Why, you fool,” +she continued vehemently, “you were for doing her a worse turn, just to +please yourself! And not a scruple!” +</p> + +<p> +“No matter,” he answered, thrusting his hands in his pockets and +looking sullenly before him. “I’ll not do it!” +</p> + +<p> +Her face was dark with anger, and cruel. What is more cruel than jealousy? +</p> + +<p> +“And that is your last word?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He scowled at the table, aware in his heart that he would yield. For he +knew—and he resented the knowledge—that he and Bess were changing +places; that the upper hand which knowledge and experience and a fluent tongue +had given him was passing to her for whom Nature intended it. The weak will was +yielding, the strong will was asserting itself. And she knew it also; and in +her jealousy she was no longer for humouring him. Brusquely she pushed together +the pen and ink and paper. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” she said. “If that is your last word, be it so; +I’ve done!” +</p> + +<p> +But “Wait!” he protested feebly. “You are so hasty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait?” she retorted. “What for? What is the use? Are you +going to do it?” +</p> + +<p> +He fidgeted on his stool. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so,” he muttered at last. “Curse you, you +won’t listen to what a man says.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are going to do it?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why not say so at once?” she answered. “There, my +lad,” she continued, thrusting the writing things before him, +“short and sweet, as nobody knows better how to do it than yourself! Half +a dozen lines will do the trick as well as twenty.” +</p> + +<p> +To his credit be it said, he threw down the pen more than once, sickened by the +task which she set him. But she chid, she cajoled, she coaxed him; and grimly +added the pains she was at to the account of her rival. In the end, after a +debate upon time and place, in which he was all for +procrastination—feeling as if in some way that salved his +conscience—the letter was written and placed in her hands. +</p> + +<p> +Then “What sort is this Thistlewood?” she asked. “A +gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t know, one way or the other,” he answered, with +ill-humour. +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe not,” she replied; “but would you call him one?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s been an officer, and he’s been to America, and +he’s been to France. I don’t suppose,” looking round him with +currish scorn, “that he’s ever been in such a hole as this!” +</p> + +<p> +“But he’s in hiding. Is he married?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +She frowned as if the news were unwelcome. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she muttered. And then, “What of the others?” +</p> + +<p> +“Giles and Lunt——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s not much they’d stick at,” he replied. +“They are low brutes; but they are useful. We’ve to do with all +sorts in this business.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! Didn’t you tell me the other day, there was no one so mean, if +we succeed, he may not rise to the top? nor any one so great he may not fall to +the bottom?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I like about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s true, anyway; Henriot”—he was on a +favourite topic and thought to reinstate himself by long +words—“Henriot, who was but a poor pike-keeper, came to be general +of the National Guard and Master of Paris. Tallien, the son of a footman, ruled +a province. Ney—you’ve heard of Ney?—who began as a cooper, +was shot as a Marshal with a score of orders on his breast and as much thought +of as a king! That’s what happens if we succeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“And some came down?” she said, smacking her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty.” +</p> + +<p> +“And women too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” she said slowly, “I wish I had been there.” +</p> + +<p> +Not then, but later, when the letter had passed into her hands, he fancied that +he saw the drift of her questions. And he had qualms, for he was not wholly +bad. He was not cruel, and the thought of Henrietta’s fate if she fell +into the snare terrified him. True, Thistlewood, dark and saturnine, a man +capable of heroism as well as of crime, was something of a gentleman. He might +decline to go far. He might elect to take the girl’s part. But Giles and +Lunt were men of a low type, coarse and brutish, apt for any villainy; men who, +drawn from the slums of Spitalfields, had tried many things before they took up +with conspiracy, or dubbed themselves patriots. To such, the life of a spy was +no more than the life of a dog: and the girl’s sex, in place of +protecting her, might the more expose her to their ruthlessness. If she fell +into their hands, and Bess, with her infernal jealousy and her furious hatred +of the class above her, egged them on, swearing that if Henrietta had not +already informed, she might inform—he shuddered to think of the issue. He +shuddered to think of what they might be capable. He remembered the things that +had been done by such men in France: things remembered then, forgotten now. And +he shuddered anew, knowing himself to be a poor weak thing, of no account +against odds. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br/> +THE LETTER</h2> + +<p> +We left Mr. Bishop standing in the middle of the woodland track and following +Henrietta with his eyes. He had suspected the girl before; his suspicions were +now grown to certainties. Her agitation, her alarm on meeting him, her refusal +to parley, her anxiety to be gone, all—and his keen eyes had missed no +item of her disorder—all pointed to one thing, to her knowledge of her +lover’s hiding-place. Doubtless she had been to visit him. Probably she +had just left him. +</p> + +<p> +“But she’s game, she’s very game,” the runner muttered +sagely. “It’s breed does it.” And plucking a scrap of green +stuff from a briar he chewed it thoughtfully, with his eyes on the spot where +he had lost the last wave of her skirt. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he faced about. “Now where is he?” he asked himself. He +scanned the path by which she had descended, the briars, the thorns, the +under-growth. “There’s hiding here,” he thought; “but +the nights are cold, and it’d kill him in the open. And she’d been +on the hill. In a shepherd’s hut? Possibly; and it’s a pity I was +not after her sooner. But we searched the huts. Then there’s Troutbeck? +And the farms? But how’d he know any one here? Still, I’ll walk up +and look about me. Strikes me we’ve been looking wide and he’s +under our noses—many a hare escapes the hounds that way.” +</p> + +<p> +He retraced his steps to the road, and strolled up the hill. His air was +careless, but his eye took note of everything; and when he came to the gate of +Starvecrow Farm he stood and looked over it. The bare and gloomy aspect of the +house and the wide view it commanded impressed him. “I don’t wonder +they keep a dog,” he thought. “A lonely place as ever I saw. Sort +of house the pedlar’s murdered in! Regular Red Barn! But that black-eyed +wench the doctor is gallivanting after comes from here. And if all’s true +he’s in and out night and day. So the other is not like to be +here.” +</p> + +<p> +Still, when he had walked a few yards farther he halted. He took another look +over the fence. He noted the few sombre pines that masked the gaunt gable-end, +and from them his eye travelled to the ragged garden. A while he gazed +placidly, the bit of green stuff in his mouth. Then he stiffened, pointing like +a game dog. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his hand went to the pocket in his +skirts, where he carried the “barker” without which he never +stirred. +</p> + +<p> +On the other side of the breast-high wall, not six paces from him, a man was +crouching low, trying to hide behind a bush. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop had a stout heart. He had taken many a man in the midst of his +cronies in the dark courts about St. Giles’s; and with six hundred +guineas in view it was not a small danger that would turn him. Yet he was +alone, and his heart beat a little quicker as he proceeded, with his eyes glued +to the bush, to climb the wall. The man he was going to take had the rope about +his neck—he would reck little of taking another life. And he might have +backers. Possibly, too, there was something in the silence of this +hill-side—so different from the crowded alleys in which he commonly +worked—that intimidated the officer. +</p> + +<p> +Yet he did not flinch. He was of the true bull-dog breed. He, no more than my +Lord Liverpool and my Lord Castlereagh, was to be scared by uncertain dangers, +or by the fear of those over whom he was set. He advanced slowly, and was not +more than four yards from the bush, he was even poising himself to leap on his +quarry, when the man who was hiding rose to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +Bishop swore. And some one behind him chuckled. He turned as if he had been +pricked. And his face was red. +</p> + +<p> +“Going to take old Hinkson?” laughed Tyson, who had come up unseen, +and been watching his movements. +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted a word with him,” the runner muttered. He tried to speak +as if he were not embarrassed. +</p> + +<p> +“So I see,” Tyson answered, and pointing with his finger to the +pistol, he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop, with his face a fine port-wine colour, lowered the weapon out of +sight. Then he laughed, but feebly. +</p> + +<p> +“Has he any sense?” he asked, looking with disgust at the frowsy +old creature, who mopping and mowing at him was holding out a crooked claw. +</p> + +<p> +“Sense enough to beg for a penny,” Tyson answered. +</p> + +<p> +“He knows enough for that?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’d sell his soul for a shilling.” +</p> + +<p> +The runner hooked out a half-penny—a good fat copper coin, to the +starveling bronze of these days as Daniel Lambert to a dandy. He put it in the +old scarecrow’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s for trespass,” he said, and turning his back on him +he recrossed the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll stop his mouth,” Tyson grinned. “But what are +you going to give me to stop mine?” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop laughed on the wrong side of his face. +</p> + +<p> +“A bone and a jorum whenever you’ll come and take it,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Done with you,” the doctor replied. “Some day, when that old +beldame, mother Gilson, is out, I’ll claim it. But if you think,” +he continued, “that your man is this side of the hill you are mistaken, +Mr. Bishop. I’m up and down this road day and night, and he’d be +very clever if he kept out of my sight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay?” +</p> + +<p> +“You may take my word for that. I’ll lay you a dozen wherever he +is, he’s not this side.” +</p> + +<p> +The runner nodded. At this moment he was a little out of conceit with himself, +and he thought that the other might be right. Besides, he might spend a week +going from farm to farm, and shed to shed and be no wiser at the end of it. +Yet, the girl knew, he was convinced; and after all, that was his way to it. +She knew, and he’d to her again and have it out of her one way or +another. And if she would not speak, he would shadow her; he would follow her +hour by hour and minute by minute. Sooner or later she would be sure to try to +see her man, and he would nab them both. There were no two ways about it. There +was only one way. An old hand should have known better than to go wasting time +in random searchings. +</p> + +<p> +He returned to the inn, more fixed than ever in his notion. With an impassive +face he told Mrs. Gilson that he must see the young lady. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s come in, I suppose?” he added. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, she’s come in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll please to tell her I must see her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy <i>must</i> will be your master,” Mrs. Gilson replied, +with her usual point. “But I’ll tell her.” And she went +upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta was seated at the window with her back to the door. She did not turn. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s the Bow-Street man,” Mrs. Gilson said, without +ceremony. “Wants to know if he can see you. Shall I tell him yes, or no, +young lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, if you please,” Henrietta answered, with a shiver. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson went down. +</p> + +<p> +“She says ‘No, on no account,’” she announced, +“unless you’ve got a warrant. Her room’s her room, she says, +and she’ll none of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hoity-toity!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what she said,” Mrs. Gilson repeated without a blush. +“And for my part I don’t see why she’s to be persecuted. What +with you and that sneaking parson, who’s for ever at her skirts, and +another that shall be nameless——” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so!” said Bishop, nodding. +</p> + +<p> +But whereas he meant Walterson, the good woman meant Mr. Hornyold. +</p> + +<p> +“——her life’s not her own!” the landlady ended. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she’s to be brought up next Thursday,” the runner +replied in dudgeon. “And she’ll have to see me then.” And he +took a seat near the foot of the stairs, more firmly determined than ever that +the girl should not give him the slip again a second time. “He’s +here,” he thought. “He’s not a mile from me, I’ll stake +my soul on it! And before Thursday it’s odds she’ll need to see +him, and I’ll nab them!” And he began to think out various ways of +giving her something which she would wish to communicate. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Henrietta, seated at her window in the south gable, gazed dolefully +out; on the grey expanse of water, which she was beginning to hate, on the +lofty serrated ridge, which must ever recall humiliating memories, on the +snow-clad peaks that symbolised the loneliness of her life. She would not weep, +but her lip quivered. And oh, she thought, it was a cruel punishment for that +which she had done. In the present she was utterly alone: in the future it +would be no better. And yet if that were all, if loneliness were all, she could +bear it. She could make up her mind to it. But if not today, to-morrow, and if +not to-morrow, the day after, the man would be taken. And then she would have +to stand forth and tell her shameful tale, and all the world, her world, would +learn with derision what a fool she had been, for what a creature she had been +ready to give up all, what dross that was which she had taken for gold! And +that which had been romantic would be ridiculous. +</p> + +<p> +Beside this aching dread the insult which Captain Clyne had put upon her lost +some of its sting. Yet it smarted at times and rankled, driving her into +passing rages. She had wronged him, yet, strange to say, she hated to think +that she had lost his esteem. And perhaps for this reason, perhaps because he +had shown himself less inhuman at the outset than her family, his treatment +hurt her to a point she had not anticipated, nor could understand. +</p> + +<p> +The one drop of comfort in her cup sprang from a source as unlikely as the rock +which Moses struck. It came from the flinty bosom of Mrs. Gilson. Not that the +landlady was outwardly kind; but she was brusquely and gruffly inattentive, +trusting the girl and leaving her to herself. And in secret Henrietta +appreciated this. She began to feel a dependence on the woman whom she had once +dubbed an odious and a hateful thing. She read kindness between the lines of +her harsh visage, and solicitude in the eye that scorned to notice her. She +ceased to tremble when the voice which flung panic through the Low Wood came +girding up the stairs. And though no word of acknowledgement passed her lips, +she was conscious that in other and smoother hands she might have fared worse. +</p> + +<p> +The open sympathy of Modest Ann was less welcome. It was even a terrible plague +at times. For the waiting-maid never came into the girl’s presence +without full eyes and a sigh, never looked at her save as the kind-hearted look +at lambs that are faring to the butcher, never left her without a gesture that +challenged Heaven’s pity. Ann, indeed, saw in the young lady the martyr +of love. She viewed her as a sharer in her own misfortunes; and though she was +forty and the girl nineteen, she found in her echoes of her own heart-throbs. +There was humour in this, and, for some, a touch of the pathetic; but not for +Henrietta, who had a strong sense of the ridiculous and no liking for pity. In +her ordinary spirits she would have either laughed at the woman or rated her. +Depressed as she was, she bore with her none too well. +</p> + +<p> +Yet Ann was honestly devoted to her heroine, and continually dreamed of some +romantic service—such as the waiting-maid in a chap-book performs for her +mistress. Given the occasion, she would have risen to it, and would have cut +off her hand before she betrayed the girl’s secrets. But her buxom form +and square, stolid face did not commend her; they were at odds with romance. +And Henrietta did not more than suffer her, until the afternoon of this day, +when it seemed to the girl that she could suffer her no longer. +</p> + +<p> +For Ann, coming in with wood for the fire, lingered behind her in a way to try +a saint. Her sighs filled the air, they were like a furnace; until Henrietta +turned her head and asked impatiently if she wanted something. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, miss, nothing,” the woman answered. But she gave the lie +to her words by laying her finger on her lip and winking. At the same time she +sought for something in an under-pocket. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta rose to her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing!” she repeated. “Then what do +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, miss,” Ann rejoined loudly. “I’m to make up +the fire.” But she still sought and still made eyes, and at last, with an +exaggeration of mystery, found what she wanted. She slipped a letter into +Henrietta’s hand. “Not a word, miss,” she breathed, with a +face of rapturous enjoyment. “Take it, miss! Lor’!” she +continued in the same tone of subdued enthusiasm, “I’d die for you, +let alone do this! Even missus should not wring it from me with wild +horses!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Who gave it you?” she whispered. “I don’t +wish”—she drew back—“I don’t wish to receive +anything unless I know who sends it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You read it,” Ann answered in an ecstasy of benevolence. +“It’s all right, trust me for that! Bless your heart, it comes from +the right place. As you will see when you open it!” And with absurd +precaution she tip-toed to the fire-place, took up her wood-basket, banged a +log on the dogs, and went out. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta waited with the letter hidden in her hand until the door closed. Then +she looked at the paper and grew pale, and was on the verge of tears. Alas! she +knew the handwriting. She knew, whether there was a right place or not, that +this came from the wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I open it?” she asked herself. “Shall I open +it?” +</p> + +<p> +A fortnight before she had opened it without a thought of prudence, without a +glance at the consequences. But a fortnight, and such a fortnight, had taught +her much. And to-day she paused. She eyed the coarse paper askance—with +repugnance, with loathing. True, it could no longer harm her. She had seen the +man as he was, stripped of his disguises. She had read in his face his +meanness, his falseness, his cowardice. And henceforth his charms and +cajoleries, his sweet words and lying looks were not for her. But she had to +think what might be in this letter, and what might come of it, and what she +should do. She might burn it unread—and perhaps that were the safer +course. Or she might hand it to the Bow Street runner, or she might open it and +read it. +</p> + +<p> +Which should she do? +</p> + +<p> +One course she rejected without much thought. To hand the letter to Bishop +might be to betray the man to Bishop. And she had made up her mind not to +betray the man. +</p> + +<p> +Should she burn it? +</p> + +<p> +Her reason whispered that that was the right, that that was the wise course. +But then she would never know what was in the letter; and she was a woman and +curious. And reason, quickly veering, suggested that to burn it was to incur +unknown risks and contingencies. It might be equivalent to giving the man up. +It might—in a word, it opened a world of possibilities. +</p> + +<p> +And after all she could still burn the letter when she had read it. She would +know then what she was doing. And what danger could she incur, seeing that she +was proof against the man’s lying tongue, and shuddered at the thought of +contact with him? +</p> + +<p> +She made up her mind. And roughly, hating the task after a fashion, she tore +the letter open. With hot cheeks—it could not be otherwise, since the +writing was his, and brought back such memories—she read the contents. +There was no opening—she was glad of that—and no signature. Thus it +ran:— +</p> + +<p> +“I have treated you ill, but men are not as women, and I was tempted, God +knows. I do not ask you to forgive me, but I ask you to save me. I am in your +hands. If you have the heart to leave me to a violent death, all is said. If +you have mercy, meet my messenger at ten to-morrow evening, where the Troutbeck +lane comes down to the lake. As I hope to live you run no risk and can suffer +no harm. If you are merciful—and oh, for God’s sake spare +me—put a stone before noon to-morrow on the post of the second gate +towards Ambleside.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV<br/> +THE ANSWER</h2> + +<p> +When Henrietta had read this letter twice, shivering and drawing in her breath +as often as she came to the passionate cry for mercy that broke its current, +she sat gazing at the paper. And her face was rigid. Had he made appeal to her +affection, to the past, to that which had been between them, still more had he +assumed that the spell was unbroken and her heart was his, her pride had +revolted and revolted passionately. She had spurned the letter and the writer. +And perhaps, when it was too late, she had repented. +</p> + +<p> +But that cry, wrung, it seemed, from the man’s heart in his own despite, +pierced her heart. How could she refuse, if his life hung on her act, if by +lifting her finger, she could save him without risk to herself? The thought of +him was repugnant to her, shamed her, filled her with contempt of herself. But +she had loved him once, or had fancied in her folly that she loved him; and he +asked for his life. He, a man, lay at the mercy of a woman, a girl; how could +she refuse? If her heart were obdurate, her sex spoke for him. +</p> + +<p> +“And oh! for God’s sake spare me!” +</p> + +<p> +She read the words again and again, and shuddered. If she refused, and +afterwards when it was too late, when nothing could be done, she repented? If +when judgment had passed upon him, and the day was come and the hour and the +minute—and in her brain, though she were one hundred miles away, St. +Sepulchre’s bell tolled—if she repented then how would she bear it? +</p> + +<p> +She would not be able to bear it. +</p> + +<p> +And then other considerations not less powerful, and all pointing in the same +direction, arose in her mind. If she did this thing, whatever it was, the man +would escape. He would vanish from the country and from her knowledge and ken. +There would be an end of him, and the relief would be great. Freed from the +shameful incubus of his presence she would breathe again. She might make a new +start then, she might frame some plan for her life. She was too young to +suppose that she could ever be happy after this, or that she would live to +smile at these troubles. But at least she would not be harassed by continual +fears, she would not be kept in a panic by the thought of that which every hour +might bring forth. She would be spared the public trial, the ordeal of the +witness-box, the shame of open confession. Should she do, then, that which he +wished? Ay, a thousand times, ay. Her heart cried, ay, her mind was made up. +And rising, she walked the room in excitement. Her pulse beat high, her head +was hot, she was in a fever to begin, to be doing, to come to an end of the +thing and be safe. +</p> + +<p> +But the thing? Her heart sank a little when she turned to that, and conned the +note again and marked the hour. Ten? The evenings were long and dark, and the +house was abed by ten. How was she to pass out? Nor was that all. What of her +position when she had passed out? She shrank from the thought of going alone to +meet she knew not who in the darkness by the lonely edge of the water. There +would be no help within call at that hour; nor any, if she disappeared, to say +which way she had gone or how she had met her fate. If aught happened to her +she would vanish and leave no trace. And they would think perhaps that she had +fled to him! +</p> + +<p> +The prospect was terrifying. And nine girls out of ten, though of ordinary +courage, would have shrunk hack. But Henrietta had a spirit—too high a +spirit or she had not been here!—and she fancied that if ever it behoved +her to run a risk, it behove her to run one now. And that not for the +man’s sake only, but for her own. She rose above her momentary alarm, +therefore, and she asked herself what she had to fear. True, when she had met +him that morning she had imagined in the gloom of the kitchen that she read +murder in his eyes. But for an instant only; now she laughed at the notion. +Safe in her chamber she found it absurd: the bizarre creation of her fancy or +her timidity, aided by some shadow cast athwart his face. And for the matter of +that, why should he harm her? Her presence at the trysting-place would be his +surety that she had no mind to betray him; but that on the contrary she was +willing to help him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go, I must go,” she thought. “I must go.” +</p> + +<p> +Yet vague alarms troubled her; and she hesitated. If there had been no menace +in his eyes that morning—the eyes that had so often looked into hers and +languished on her with a lover’s fondness—why had she fled so +precipitately? And why had her knees shaken under her? Pshaw, she had been +taken by surprise. It was repugnance rather than fear which she had felt. And +because she had been foolish once, and imagined things, because she was afraid, +like a child, of the dark, because she shrank from meeting a stranger after +nightfall, surely, surely she was not going to let a man perish whom she could +save with one of her fingers! +</p> + +<p> +And still, prudence whispered her, asking why he fixed so late an hour. Why had +he not fixed five or six, if it were only out of respect for her? At five it +was already dark, yet the world was awake and astir, respectable folk were +abroad, and help was within call. She would have met him without hesitation at +five or at six. But there, how stupid she was! It was the very fact that the +world was astir and awake that made an early hour impossible. If she went at +five or at six she would be followed, her movements would be watched, her +companion would be noted. The very air would be full of eavesdroppers. She knew +that, for the fact irritated her hourly and daily. And doubtless he too, hedged +about by fears and suspicions, knew it. +</p> + +<p> +The lateness of the hour was natural, therefore. Still, it rendered her task +more difficult. She dared not interfere with the heavy bars that secured the +two doors which looked on the lake. She would be heard, even if the task were +not beyond her strength. And to gain the back entrance she must thread a +labyrinth of passages guarded by wakeful dogs and sleeping servants; for +servants in those days slept on the stairs or in any odd place. She would be +detected before she had undone a single bolt. +</p> + +<p> +Then what was she to do? Her bedroom was on the second floor, and exit by the +window was not possible. On which, some, surveying the situation, would have +sat still, and thought themselves justified. But Henrietta was of firmer stuff; +and for such where there is a will there is a way. Mr. Rogers’s room, of +which she had still the use, was on the first floor of the south wing and +somewhat remote from the main part of the house. Outside the door was a sash +window which gave light to the passage; and owing to the rise of the hill on +every side of the house save the front, the sill of this window was not more +than six feet above the garden. She could drop from it with safety. Return was +less easy, but with the help of a chair, which she could lower before she +descended, she might manage to climb in again. The feat seemed easy and she did +not feel afraid. Whether she would feel afraid when the time came was another +matter. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime she had to wait, and sleeping ill that night, she had many +uneasy dreams, and waking before daybreak thought herself into a fever. All the +dreadful things that might befall her rose before her in the liveliest shapes; +and long before the house awoke—there is no fear like +five-o’clock-in-the-morning fear—she had given up the notion. But +when the dull November day peered in at the bedroom window, and she had risen, +she was herself again. She chid herself for the childish terrors in which she +had indulged, and lest she should give way to them again she determined to take +a decisive step. Long before noon she slipped out of the house and turned +towards Ambleside. +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately it was a wet morning, and she feared that her promenade in such +weather must excite suspicion. Eyes, she was sure, were on her before she had +gone a dozen paces. To throw watchers off the scent and to prove herself +careless of espial she would not look back; but when she reached the first +corner she picked up a stone, and threw it at an imaginary object on the edge +of the lake. She stood an instant with her wet-weather hood drawn about her +face as if to mark the effect of her shot. Then she picked up another stone and +poised it, but did not throw it. Instead, she walked on with the stone in her +hand. All without looking back. +</p> + +<p> +She came to the second gate on the Ambleside road. It was out of sight of the +inn, and it seemed an easy and an innocent thing to lay the stone on the head +of the pillar—gate-posts in that country are of stone—and to go on +her way. But she heard a footstep behind her and panic seized her. She felt +that nothing in the world would be so suspicious, so damning as such an act. +She hesitated, and was lost. She walked on slowly with the stone in her hand, +and the fine rain beating in her face. +</p> + +<p> +Her follower, a country clown, passed her. She loitered until he was out of +sight; then she turned and retraced her steps. A half-minute’s walking +brought her again to the gate. There was no one in sight and in a fever lest at +the last some one should take her in the act she set the stone on the top of +the post, and passed on. +</p> + +<p> +Half-way back to the inn she stopped. What if the stone had not kept its place? +She had merely thrust out her hand as she passed, and deposited the stone +without looking. Now she was sure that her ear had caught the faint sound which +the stone made in striking the sodden turf. She turned and walked back. +</p> + +<p> +When she reached the gate she was thankful that she had had that thought. The +stone had fallen. Fortunately there was no one in sight, and it was easy to +pick up the first stone that came to hand and replace the signal. Then she +walked back to the inn, inclined to laugh at the proportions to which her +simple task had attained in her mind. +</p> + +<p> +She would have laughed after another fashion had she known that her movements +from beginning to end had been watched by Mr. Sutton. The chaplain, ashamed yet +pursuing, had sneaked after her when she left the inn, hoping that if she went +far he might find in some lonely place, where she could not escape, an +opportunity of pleading his cause. He fancied that the lapse of three days, and +his patient, mournful conduct, might have softened her; to say nothing of the +probable effect on a young girl of such a life as she was leading—of its +solitude, its dullness, its weariness. +</p> + +<p> +On seeing her turn, however, he had had no mind to be detected, and he had +slipped into the wood. From his retreat he had seen her deposit the stone: he +had seen also her guilty face—it was he, indeed, who had removed the +stone. He had done so, expecting to find a note under it, and he was all but +surprised in the act. When she placed the second, he was within three paces of +her, crouching with a burning face behind the wall. The thought of her contempt +if she discovered him so appalled him that, cold as it was, he sweated with +shame; nor was it until she had gone some distance that he dared to lift his +eyes above the wall. Then he saw that she had put another stone on the +gate-post. +</p> + +<p> +He took it in his hand and compared it with the one which he still held. They +were as common stones as any that lay in the road. And there was no letter. The +conclusion was clear. The stone was a signal. Nor could he doubt for whom it +was intended. The London officer was right. Walterson was in the neighbourhood +and she was in communication with him. The girl’s infatuation still ruled +her. +</p> + +<p> +That hardened him a little in his course of action. But he was not at ease, and +when some one coughed—slightly but with meaning—while he gazed at +the stone, he jumped a yard. He stood, with all the blood in his body flown to +his face. The cough had come from the wood behind him; and ten paces from him, +peeping over the bush, was Mr. Bishop. +</p> + +<p> +The runner chuckled. “Very well done, reverend sir,” he said. +“Very well done. You’ve the makings of a very tidy officer about +you. I could not have done it much neater myself. But now, suppose you leave +the coast clear, or maybe you’ll be scaring the other party.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton, with his face the colour of beetroot—for he was heartily +ashamed of the part he had been playing—began to stammer an explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw the young lady, and didn’t—I couldn’t +understand——” +</p> + +<p> +“What the lay was,” Mr. Bishop answered, grinning at the +other’s discomfiture. “Just so. Same with me. But suppose in the +meantime, reverend sir,” with unction, “you leave the ground clear +for the other party? We can talk as well elsewhere as here, and without +queering the pitch.” +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain swallowed his vexation as well as he could and complied—but +stiffly. The two made their way back in silence to the gap in the wall by which +the chaplain had entered. There, having first ascertained that the road was +clear, they stepped out. By that time Mr. Sutton was feeling better. After all, +he had been right to follow the girl. Left to herself, and a slave to the +villain who had fascinated her, she might suffer worse things than a friendly +espionage. He determined to take the bull by the horns. “What do you make +of it?” he asked, still blushing. +</p> + +<p> +“Queer lay,” Bishop answered drily. +</p> + +<p> +“You understand it, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Middling well. Gipsy patter that.” He pointed to the stone. +</p> + +<p> +“You think the young lady is communicating—” +</p> + +<p> +“With another party? I do. Leastways I know it. And the +party——” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Walterson?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” the runner answered. “Why not? Young ladies are +but women, after all, reverend sir, and much like other women, only sometimes +more so. I began, I confess, by being of your way of thinking. The lady is so +precious snowy and so precious stiff you would not believe ice would melt in +her mouth. But when I came to think it all over, and remembered how she stood +by it at first, and would not give her name, nor any clue by which we could +trace where she came from—so that till Captain Clyne turned up I was +altogether at a loss—and how she made light of what Walterson had done, +when it was first told her, and a lot of little things like that, I began to +see how the land lay, innocent as she looks. And after all, come to think of +it, if she liked the man well enough to go off with him—why should she +cut him adrift? When she had, so to speak, paid the price for him, your +reverence? How does that strike you?” +</p> + +<p> +“But Captain Clyne,” Sutton answered slowly, “who knew her +well, and knows her well——” +</p> + +<p> +“I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“He does not share your opinion. He is under the belief,” the +chaplain continued, “that her eyes are open. And that she hates the very +thought of the man, and of the mistake she made. His view is that she is only +anxious to behave herself.” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop winked. “Ay, but Captain Clyne,” he said, “is in love +with her, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton stared. The colour rose slowly to his cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think so,” he said. “In fact, I may say I know +that it is not so. He has long given up the remotest idea of the—of the +match that was projected.” +</p> + +<p> +“May be, may be,” the runner answered lightly. “I don’t +say that that is not so. But it is just when a man has given up all thought of +a thing that he thinks of it the most, Mr. Sutton. Anyway, there is the stone, +and there is the post, and I’ll ask you plain for whom it is meant, if it +is not meant for Walterson?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton nodded. But his thoughts were still engaged with Captain +Clyne’s feelings. The more he considered the point the more inclined he +was to think that the runner was right. Clyne’s insistence on the +girl’s innocence, the extreme bitterness that had once or twice broken +through his reticence, and an unusual restlessness of manner when he had made +the remarkable proposal that Mr. Sutton should take his place, all pointed that +way. And this being so, it was strange how the suspicion sharpened the +chaplain’s keenness to win the prize. If she had still so great a value +in the eyes of his patron, how enviable would he be if by hook or crook he +could gain her! How very enviable! And was it not for her own good that he +should gain her; even if he compassed his end by a little manœuvring, by +stooping a little, by spying a little? Ay, even, it might be, by frightening +her a little. In love, as in war, all was fair, and if he did not love her he +desired her. She was so desirable, so very desirable, he might be forgiven +somewhat if he stooped to conquer: seeing that if he failed this dangerous man +held her in his power. +</p> + +<p> +So when Bishop asked for the second time, “Will you help me to keep an +eye on her? You can do it more easily than I can,” he was ready with his +answer, though he blushed a little. +</p> + +<p> +“I will stay here and note who passes,” he replied. “Yes, I +will do that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can do it with less risk of notice than I can,” the officer +answered. “And I must get back and keep her in view. It is just possible +that this is a ruse, and that the man we want is the other way.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will remain,” said Mr. Sutton curtly. And he stayed. But he was +so taken up with this new view of his patron’s feelings that though Bess +Hinkson rowed along the shore before his eyes, and looked hard at him, he never +saw her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br/> +A NIGHT ADVENTURE</h2> + +<p> +Henrietta sat and listened to the various sounds which told of a household on +its way to bed; and she held her courage with both hands. Slip-shod feet moved +along the passages, sleepy voices bade good-night, distant doors closed +sharply. And still, when she thought all had retired, the clatter of pot or pan +in the far-off offices proclaimed a belated worker. And she had to wait and +listen and count the pulsations of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +The two wax candles, snuff them as she might, cast but a dull and melancholy +light. The clock ticked in the silence of the room with appalling clearness. +Her own movements, when she crept to the door to listen, scared her by their +stealthiness. It seemed to her that the least of the sounds she made must +proclaim her vigil. One moment she trembled lest the late burning of her light +arouse suspicion; the next lest the cloak which she had brought in and cast +across a chair should have put some one on the alert. Or she tormented herself +with the fancy that the snow with which the evening sky had been heavy would +fall before she started and betray her footsteps. +</p> + +<p> +Of one thing she tried not to think. She would not dwell on what might happen +at the meeting-place. She felt that if she let her thoughts run on that, she +would turn coward, she would not go. And one thing at a time, she told herself. +There lay her cloak, the window was not three paces from her, the chair which +she meant to use stood by the door. In three minutes she could be outside, in +half an hour she might be back. But in the meantime, the room was lonesome and +creepy, the creak of a board made her start, the fall of the wood-ash stopped +her breath. Like many engaged in secret deeds she made her own mystery and +trembled at it. +</p> + +<p> +At length all seemed abed. +</p> + +<p> +She extinguished one of the candles and took up her cloak. As she put it on +before the pale mirror she saw that her white face and high-piled hair showed +by the light of the remaining candle like the face of a ghost; and she +shivered. But that was the last tribute to weakness. Her nature, bold to +recklessness, asserted itself now the moment for action was come. She set the +candle on the floor and shaded it so that its light might not be seen. Then, +taking the chair in her hands she stepped into the dark passage, and closed the +door behind her. The close, heavy smell of the house assailed her as she +listened; but all was still, and she raised the sash of the window. She passed +the chair through the aperture and leaning far out that it might not strike the +wall lowered it gently. She felt it touch the ground and settle on its legs. +Then she climbed over the sill and let herself down until her feet rested on +the chair. She made certain that she could draw herself in again, then she +sprang lightly to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +The chair cracked as her weight left it, and for a moment she crouched +motionless against the wall. But she had little to fear. Snow had not yet +fallen, but it was in the air and the night was as dark as pitch. She could not +see a yard and when she moved, she had not gone two steps from the wall before +it vanished, and all that remained to her was some notion of its position. +Above, below, around was a darkness that could be felt. Still, she found the +garden-gate with a little difficulty, and she passed into the road, and turned +to the left. She knew that if she walked in that direction she must come to the +place—a furlong away—where the Troutbeck lane ran up from the +lake-side. +</p> + +<p> +But the blackness was such that lake and hill were all one, and she had to go +warily, now feeling for the bank on her left, now for the ditch on her right. +Not a star showed, and only in one place a patch of lighter sky broke the +darkness and enabled her to discern the shapes of the trees as she passed under +them. It was a night when any deed might be done, any mischief executed beside +that lonely water; and no eye see it. But she tried not to think of this. She +tried not to think of the tracts of lonely hill that stretched their long arms +on her left, or of the deep, black water that lurked on her right. And she had +compassed more than a hundred yards when a faint sound, as of following feet, +caught her ear. +</p> + +<p> +She halted, and shook the hood back from her ears. She listened. She fancied +that she heard the pattering cease, and she peered into the darkness, striving +to embody the thing that followed. But she could see nothing, she could now +hear nothing. She had her handkerchief in her hand, and as she stood, peering +and listening, she wiped the wind-borne moisture from her face. +</p> + +<p> +Still she heard nothing, and she turned and set off again. But her thoughts +were with her follower, and she had not taken three steps before she ran +against the bank, and hardly saved herself from a fall. +</p> + +<p> +She felt that with a little more she would lose her head, and, astray in the +boundless night, not know which direction to take. She must pull herself +together. She must go on. And she went on. But twice she had the sickening +assurance that something was moving at her heels. Nor, but for the thought +which by-and-by occurred to her, that her follower might be the person she came +to meet, could she have kept to her purpose. +</p> + +<p> +She came at length, trembling and clutching her hood about her, to the foot of +the lane. She knew the place by the colder, moister air that swept her face, as +well as by the lapping of the water on the strand. For the road ran very near +the lake at this point. It was a mooring-place for two or three boats, +belonging for the most part to Troutbeck; and she could hear a loose oar in one +of the unseen craft roll over with a hollow sound. But no one moved in the +darkness, or spoke, or came to her; and with parted lips, striving to control +herself, she halted, leaning with one hand against the angle of the bank. +Then—she could not be mistaken—she heard her follower halt. +</p> + +<p> +Thirty seconds—it seemed an age—she was silent, and forced herself +to listen, straining her ears. Then she could control herself no longer. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you?” she whispered, her voice strained and uncertain, +“I am here.” +</p> + +<p> +No one answered. And when she had waited awhile glaring into the night where +she had last heard the footsteps she shuddered violently. For a space she could +not speak, she leant against the bank. +</p> + +<p> +Then, “Is it you?” she whispered desperately, turning her face this +way and that. “Speak if it is! Speak! For God’s sake, speak to +me!” +</p> + +<p> +No one answered, but out of the gloom came the low creep of the wind among the +reeds, and the melancholy lapping of the water on the stones. Once more the oar +in the boat rolled over with a hollow coffin-like echo. And from a distance +another sound, the flap and beat of a sail as the rudder was put over, came off +the surface of the lake. But she did not heed this. It was with the darkness +about her, it was with the skulking thing a pace or two from her, it was with +the arms stretched out to clutch her, it was with the fear that was beginning +to stifle her as the thick night stifled her, that she was concerned. +</p> + +<p> +Once more, striving fiercely to combat her fear, to steady her voice, she +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“If you do not answer,” she cried unsteadily, “I shall go +back! You hear? I shall go back!” +</p> + +<p> +Still no answer. And on that, because a frightened woman is capable of +anything, and especially of the thing which is the least to be expected, she +flung herself forward with her hands outstretched and tried to grapple with the +thing that terrified her. She caught nothing: all that she felt was a warm +breath on her cheek. She recoiled then as quickly as she had advanced. +Unfortunately her skirt brushed something as she fell back and the contact, +slight as it was, drew a low shriek from her. She leant panting against the +bank, crouching like a thing at bay. The beating of her heart seemed to choke +her, the gloom to stretch out arms about her. The touch of a moth on her cheek +would have drawn a shriek. And on the lake—but near the shore now, a +bowshot from where she crouched, the sail of the unseen boat flapped against +the mast and began to descend. The light of a shaded lanthorn beamed for an +instant on the dark surface of the water, then vanished. +</p> + +<p> +She did not see the lanthorn, she did not see the boat, for she was glaring in +the other direction, the direction in which she had heard the footsteps. All +her senses were concentrated on the thing close to her. But some reflection of +the light, glancing off the water, did reveal a thing—a dim uncertain +something—man or woman, dead or alive, standing close to her, beside her: +and with a shriek she sprang from the thing, whatever it was, gave way to blind +panic, and fled. For some thirty yards she kept the road. Then she struck the +bank and fell, violently bruising herself. But she felt nothing. In a moment +she was on her feet again and running on, running on blindly, madly. She +fancied feet behind her, and a hand stretched out to seize her hair; and in +terror, that terror which she had kept at bay so long and so bravely, she ran +on at random, until she found herself, she knew not how, clinging with both +hands to the wicket-gate of the garden. A faint light in one of the windows of +the inn had directed her to it. +</p> + +<p> +She stood then, still trembling in every limb, but drawing courage from the +neighbourhood of living things. And as well as her laboured breathing would let +her, she listened. But presently she caught the stealthy trip-trip of feet +along the road, and in a quick return of terror she opened the gate and slipped +into the garden. She had the presence of mind to close the gate after and +without noise. But that done, woman’s nerves could bear no more. Her +knees were shaking under her, as she groped her way to her window, and felt for +the chair which she had left beneath it. +</p> + +<p> +The chair was gone. Impossible! She could not have found the right window; that +was it. She felt with her hands along the wall, felt farther. But there was no +chair—anywhere. She had made no mistake. Some one had removed the chair. +</p> + +<p> +Strange to say, the moment she was sure of that, the fear which had driven her +in headlong panic from the water-side left her. She thought no more of her +stealthy attendant. Her one care now was to get in—to get in and still to +keep secret the fact that she had been out! She had trembled like a leaf a few +moments before, in fear of the shapeless thing that crouched beside her in the +night. Now, with no more than the garden-fence between her and it, she feared +it no more than a feather. She regained her ordinary plane, and foresaw all the +suspicion, all the inconvenience, to which her position, if she could not +re-enter, must subject her. And the smaller, the immediate fear expelled the +greater and more remote. +</p> + +<p> +She leant against the wall and tried to think. Who had, who could have removed +the chair? She could not guess. And thinking only increased her eagerness, her +anxiety to enter and be safe. She must get in somehow, even at a little risk. +</p> + +<p> +She tried to take hold of the sill above her, and so to raise herself to the +window by sheer strength. But she could not grasp the sill, though she could +touch it. Still, if she had something in place of the chair, if she had +something a foot high on which to raise herself she could succeed. But what? +And how was she to find anything in the dark? She peered round, compelling +herself to think. Surely she might find something. With a single foot of height +she was saved. Without that foot of height she must rouse the house; and that +meant disgrace and contumely, and degrading suspicion. Her cheeks burned at the +prospect. For no story, no explanation would account satisfactorily for her +absence from the house at such an hour. +</p> + +<p> +She was about to grope her way round the house to the yard at the +back—where with luck she might find a chicken coop or a stable +bucket—when five paces from her the latch of the wicket clicked sharply. +By instinct she flattened herself against the wall; but she had scarcely time +to feel the sudden leap of her heart before a mild voice spoke out of the +gloom. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I have taken your chair,” it murmured, +“pray forgive me. I am Mr. Sutton, and I—I am very sorry!” +</p> + +<p> +“You followed me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I——” +</p> + +<p> +“You followed me!” Her voice rang imperative with anger. “You +followed me! You have been spying on me! You!” +</p> + +<p> +“No! No!” he muttered. “I meant only——” +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you! How dare you!” she cried in low fierce tones. +“You have been spying on me, sir! And you removed the chair +that—that I might not enter without your help.” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent a moment, standing, though she could not see him, with his chin +on his breast. Then: +</p> + +<p> +“I confess,” he said in a low tone. “I confess it was so. I +spied on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And followed me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he admitted it, his hands extended in unseen deprecation, +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she cried. “Why, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because——” +</p> + +<p> +“But I do not want to know,” she retorted, cutting him short as she +remembered the time, and place, “I want to know nothing, to hear nothing +from you! The chair, sir! The chair, if you do not wish to add further outrage +to your unmanly conduct. Set me the chair and go!” +</p> + +<p> +“But hear at least,” he pleaded, “why I followed you, Miss +Damer. Why——” +</p> + +<p> +She stamped her foot on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“The chair!” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +He was most anxious to tell her that though other motives had led him to spy on +her and watch her window, he had followed her out of a pure desire to protect +her. But her insistence overrode him, silenced him. He set the chair under the +passage window and murmured submissively that it was there. +</p> + +<p> +That was enough for her. She felt for it, found it, and without thought of him +or word to him, she climbed nimbly in. That done she stooped and drew the chair +up, and closed the window down upon him and secured it. Next, feeling for the +door of Mr. Rogers’s room she got rid of the chair, and seized her hidden +candle and crept out and up the stairs. Apparently all the house, save the man +who had detected her, slept. But she did not dare to pause or prove the fact. +She had had her lesson and a severe one; and she did not breathe freely until +the door of her chamber was locked behind her, and she knew herself once more +within the bounds of the usual and the proper. +</p> + +<p> +Then for a brief while, as she tore off her damp clothes, her thoughts ran +stormily on Mr. Sutton: nor did she dream, or he, from what things he had saved +her. The man was a wretch, a spy, a sneak trying to worm himself into her +confidence. She would box his ears if he threatened her or referred to the +matter again. And if he told others—she did not know what she would not +do! For the rest, she had let herself be scared by a nothing, by a step, by a +sound; and she despised herself for her cowardice. But—she had that +consolation—she had played her part, she had gone to the rendezvous, she +had not failed. The fault lay with him who should have met her there, and who +had not met her. +</p> + +<p> +And so, shivering and chilled—for bedroom fires were not yet, and she was +worn out with fright and exposure—she hid herself under the heavy +patchwork quilt and sought comfort in the sleep of exhaustion. It was not long +in coming, for she suspected no more than she knew. Like the purblind insect +that creeps upon the crowded pavement and is missed by a hundred feet, she +discerned neither the dangers which she had so narrowly escaped, nor those into +which her late action was fated to hurry her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br/> +THE EDGE OF THE STORM</h2> + +<p> +It was daylight when she awoke; but it had not been daylight long. Yet some one +was knocking; and knocking loudly at the door of her bedroom. She rose on her +elbow, and looking at the half-curtained window decided that it was eight +o’clock, perhaps a little later. But not so much later that they need +raise the house in waking her. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she cried petulantly. “That will do! That will +do! I am awake.” And she laid her head on the pillow again, and closing +her eyes, sighed deeply. The events of the night were coming back to +her—and with them her troubles. +</p> + +<p> +But, “Please to open the door, miss!” came the answer in gruff +accents. “I want to speak to you, by your leave.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta sat up, her hair straggling from under the nightcap that framed her +pretty features. The voice that demanded entrance was Mrs. Gilson’s: and +even over Henrietta that voice had power. She parleyed no longer. She threw a +wrap about her, and hastily opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she asked. “Mrs. Gilson, is it you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Be good enough,” the landlady answered, “to let me come in a +minute, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +Her peremptory tone astonished Henrietta, who said neither Yes nor No, but +stood staring. The landlady with little ceremony took leave for granted. She +entered, went by the girl to the window, and dragging the curtains aside, let +in the full light. The adventures of the night had left Henrietta pale. But at +this her colour rose. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“You know best,” Mrs. Gilson answered with more than her usual +curtness. “Deal of dirt and little profit, I’m afraid, like Brough +March fair! It’s not enough to be a fool once, it seems! Though I’d +have thought you’d paid pretty smartly for it. Smart enough to know +better now, my lass!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what you mean,” Henrietta faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t?” Mrs. Gilson rejoined, and with her arms set +akimbo she stared severely at the girl, who, in her night-clothes with her +cloak thrown about her and her colour coming and going, looked both guilty and +frightened. “I fancy your face knows, if you don’t. Where were you +last night? Ay, after dark last night, madam? Where were you, I say?” +</p> + +<p> +“After dark?” Henrietta stammered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, after dark!” the landlady retorted. “That’s +English, isn’t it? But never mind. Least said is soonest mended. Where +are your shoes?” +</p> + +<p> +“My shoes?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson lost patience, or appeared to lose it. +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I said,” she replied. “You give them to me, and +then I’ll tell you why I want them. Ah!” catching sight of them and +bending her stout form to lift them from the floor. “Now, if you want to +know what is the matter, though I think you know as well as the miller knows +who beats the meal sack—you come with me! There is no one on this +landing. Come you, as you are, to the window at the other end. ‘And +you’ll know fast enough, and why they want your shoes.” +</p> + +<p> +“They?” Henrietta murmured, hanging back and growing more alarmed. +It was a pity that there was no man there to see how pretty she looked in her +disorder. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, they!” the landlady answered. And a keen ear might have +detected sorrow as well as displeasure in her tone. “There’s many +will be poking their noses into your affairs now you’ll find—when +it’s too late to prevent them. But do you come, young woman!” She +led the way along the landing to a window which looked down on the side-garden. +After a brief hesitation Henrietta followed, her face grown sullen. Alas! when +she reached the window it needed but a look to enlighten her. +</p> + +<p> +One of the things, which she had feared the previous day, had come to pass! A +little snow had fallen while she was absent from the house; so very little that +she had not noticed it. But it had lain, and on its white surface was published +this morning in damning characters the story of her flittings to and fro. And +worse, early as it was, the story had readers! Leaning on the garden wicket +were two or three men discussing the appearances, and pointing and arguing; and +forty or fifty yards along the road towards Bowness, a man, bent double, was +tracing the prints of her feet, as if he followed a scent. +</p> + +<p> +It was for that, then, that they wanted her shoes. She understood, and her +first impulse was to indignation. It was an outrage! An insult! +</p> + +<p> +“What is it to them?” she cried. “How dare they!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson looked keenly at her under her vast bushy eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid,” she said, “that you’ll find +they’ll dare a mort more than that before they’ve done, my girl. +And what they want to know they’ll learn. These,” coolly lifting +the shoes to sight, “are to help them.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should they—what is it to them if I——” +she stopped, unwilling to commit herself. +</p> + +<p> +“You listen to me a minute,” the landlady said. “You’ve +brought your pigs to a poor market, that’s plain: and there is but one +thing can help you now, and that is a clean breast. Now you make up your mind +to it! There’s nought else can help you, I say again, and that I tell +you! It’s no child’s play, this! The truth, the whole truth, and +nothing but the truth, as they say at the assizes, is the only thing for you, +if you don’t want to be sorry for it all the rest of your life.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke so seriously that Henrietta when she answered took a lower tone; +though she still protested. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it to any one,” she asked, “if I was out of the +house last night?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s little to me,” Mrs. Gilson answered drily. “But +it will be much to you if you don’t tell the truth. Your own conscience, +my girl, should speak loud enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“My conscience is clear!” Henrietta cried. But her tone, a little +too heroic, fitted ill with her appearance. +</p> + +<p> +At any rate Mrs. Gilson, who did not like heroics, thought so. “Then the +best thing you can do,” she replied tartly, “is to go and dress +yourself! A clear conscience! Umph! Give me clean hands! And if I were you +I’d be quite sure about that conscience before I came down to answer +questions.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not come down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then they’ll come up,” the landlady retorted. “And +’twon’t be more pleasant. You’d best think twice about +that.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta was thinking. Behind the sullen, pretty face she was thinking that if +she made a clean breast of it, she must betray the man. She must say where she +had seen him, and why she had gone to meet him. And that was the thing which +she had resolved not to do—the thing which she was still determined not +to do. There is a spice of obstinacy in all women: an inclination to abide by a +line once taken, or an opinion once formed. And Henrietta, who was naturally +head-strong, and who had run some risk the previous night and gone to some +trouble that the man might escape, was not going to give him up to-day. They +had found her out, they had driven her to bay. But nothing which they could do +would wound her half as much as that public ordeal, that confrontation with the +man, that exhibition of his unworthiness and her folly, which must follow his +capture. For the man himself, she was so far from loving him, that she loathed +him, she was ashamed of him. But she was not going to betray him. She was not +going to turn informer—a name more hateful then, when blood-money was +common, than now! She who had been kissed by him was not going to have his +blood on her hands! +</p> + +<p> +Such were her thoughts; to which Mrs. Gilson had no clue. But the landlady read +recalcitrancy in the girl’s face, and knowing some things which Henrietta +did not know, and being at no time one to brook opposition, she took the girl +the wrong way. If she had appealed to her better feelings, if she had used that +influence with her which rough but real kindness had won, it is possible that +she might have brought Henrietta to reason. But the sight of that sullen, +pretty face provoked the landlady. She had proof of gross indiscretion, she +suspected worse things, she thought the girl unworthy. And she spoke more +harshly to her than she had ever spoken before. +</p> + +<p> +“If you were my girl,” she said grimly, “I’d know what +to do with you! I’d shake the humours out of you, if I had to shake you +from now till next week! Ay, I would! And you’d pretty soon come to your +senses and find your tongue, I warrant! Didn’t you pretend to me and +maintain to me a week ago and more that you’d done with the scamp?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done with him!” Henrietta cried, red and angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, as the foot has done with the shoe—till next time!” Mrs. +Gilson retorted, drawing her simile from the articles in her hand. “For +shame. For shame, young woman!” severely. “When it was trusting to +that I kept you here and kept you out of gaol!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta had not thought of that side of the case; and the reminder, finding a +joint in her armour, stung her. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know to whom you are talking!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I know that I am talking to a fool!” the landlady retorted. +“But there,” she continued irefully, “you may talk to a fool +till you are dead and ’twill still be a fool! So it’s only one bit +of advice I’ll give you. You dress and come down or you’ll be +dragged down! And I suppose, though you are not too proud to trapse the roads +to meet your Joe—ay,” raising her voice as Henrietta turned in a +rage, and fled, “you may slam the door, you little vixen, for a vixen you +are! But you’ve heard some of my opinion of you, and you’ll hear +more! I’m not sure that you’re not a thorough bad ’un!” +Mrs. Gilson continued, lowering her voice again and speaking to +herself—though her words were still audible. “That I’m not! +But any way there’ll be one here by-and-by you’ll have to listen +to! And he’ll make your ears burn, my lady, or I’m mistaken!” +</p> + +<p> +It was bad enough to hear through the ill-fitting door such words as these. It +was worse to know that plainer words might be used downstairs in the hearing of +man and maid. But Henrietta had the sense to know that her position would be +made worse by avoiding the issue, and pride enough to urge her to face it. She +hastened to dress herself, though her fingers shook with indignation as well as +with cold. +</p> + +<p> +It was only when she was nearly ready to descend that she noticed how large was +the crowd collected before the inn. She could hardly believe that her +escapade—much as it might interest the police officer—was the cause +of this. And a chill of apprehension, a thrill of anticipation of she knew not +what, kept her for a moment standing before the window. She had done, she told +herself, no harm. She had no real reason to fear. And yet she was beginning to +fear. Anger was beginning to give place to dismay. For it was clear that +something out of the common had happened; besides the group in the road, three +or four persons were inspecting the boats drawn up on the foreshore. And on the +lake was a stir unusual at this season. Half a mile from the shore a boat under +sail was approaching the landing-place from the direction of Wray Woods. It was +running fast before the bitter lash of the November wind that here and there +flecked the grey and melancholy expanse with breakers. And round the point from +the direction of Ambleside a second boat was reaching, with the wind on her +quarter. She fancied that the men in these boats made signs to those on the +shore; and that the excitement grew with their report. While she gazed two or +three of the people in the road walked down to the water. And with a puckered +brow, and a face a shade paler than usual, she hesitated; wishing that she knew +what had happened and was sure that the stir had not to do with her. +</p> + +<p> +She would have preferred to wait upstairs until the boats arrived. But she +remembered Mrs. Gilson’s warning. Moreover, she was beginning to +comprehend—as men do, and women seldom do—that there is a force +which it is futile to resist—that of the law. Sooner or later she must go +down. So taking her courage in both hands she opened her door, and striving to +maintain a dignified air she descended the stairs, and made her way past the +passage window to Mr. Rogers’s room. +</p> + +<p> +It was empty, and first appearances were reassuring. Her breakfast was laid and +waiting, the fire was cheerful, the room tended to encouragement. But the +murmur of excited voices still rose from the highway below, and kept her +uneasy: and when she went to the side-window to view the scene of last +night’s evasion, she stamped her foot with vexation. For where the tracks +of feet were clearest they had been covered with old boxes to protect them from +the frosty sunshine which the day promised; and the precaution smacked so +strongly of the law and its methods that it had an ill look. Not Robinson +Crusoe on his desert island had made a more ridiculous fuss about a foot-print +or two! +</p> + +<p> +She was still knitting her brows over the device when there came a knock at the +door. She turned and confronted Bishop. The man’s manner as he entered +was respectful enough, but he had not waited for leave to come in. And she had +a sickening feeling that he was taking possession of her, that he would not +leave her again, that from this time she was not her own. The gravity of the +bluff red face did not lessen this feeling. And though she would fain have +asked him his business and challenged his intrusion she could not find a word. +</p> + +<p> +“I take it, you’d as soon see me alone, miss,” he said. And +he closed the door behind him, and stood with his hat in his hand. +“You’d best go on with your breakfast, for you look a bit +peaky—you’re a bit shaken, I expect, by what has happened. But +don’t you be afraid,” with something like a wink, +“there’s no harm will happen to you if you are sensible. Meanwhile +I’ll talk to you, by your leave, while you eat. It will save time, and +time’s much. I suppose,” he continued, as she forced herself to +take her seat and pour out her tea, “there’s no need to tell you, +miss, what has happened?” +</p> + +<p> +She would have given much to prevent her hand shaking, and something to be able +to look him in the face. She did succeed in maintaining outward composure; for +agitation is more clearly felt than perceived. But she could not force the +colour to her cheeks, nor compel her tongue to utterance. And he let her +swallow some tea before he repeated his question. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose there is no need, miss, to tell you what has happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know”—she murmured—“to what you refer. +You must speak more plainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a serious matter,” he said. He appeared to be looking +into his hat, but he was really watching her over its edge, “A serious +matter, miss, and I hope you’ll take it as it should be taken. For if it +goes beyond a point the Lord only can stop it. So if you know, miss, and have +no need to be told, it’s best for you to be frank. We know a good +deal.” +</p> + +<p> +The warm tea had given her command of herself. +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean,” she said, “that I was out last night, I +was.” +</p> + +<p> +“We know that, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have my shoes,” with a little shrug of contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss, and your footprints!” he answered. “The point on +which we want information—and the sooner we have it the better—is, +where did you leave him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did I leave—whom?” sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“The person you met.” +</p> + +<p> +“I met no one.” +</p> + +<p> +The runner shook his head gently. And his face grew longer. +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake, miss,” he said earnestly, “don’t +fence with me. Don’t take that line! Believe me, if you do you’ll +be sorry. Time’s the thing. Tell us now and it may avail. Tell us +to-morrow and it may be of no use. The harm may be done.” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him. “But I met no one,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“There are the footprints, coming and going,” he answered with +severity. “It is no use to deny them.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man’s—with mine?” +</p> + +<p> +“For certain.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with a startled expression. But gradually her face cleared, +she smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” she said. “Just so. You have the man’s tracks +coming and going? And mine?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“But are not his tracks as well as mine more faint as they go from the +house? More clear as they come back to the house? Because snow was falling +while I was out as well as before I started. So that he as well as I went from +the house and returned to the house!” +</p> + +<p> +He frowned. “I noticed that,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” with a faint ring of amusement in her tone, “you had +better search the house for him.” +</p> + +<p> +The difficulty had occurred to Mr. Bishop before he entered. But it did not +fall in with his theory, and like many modern discoverers he had set it on one +side as a detail which events would explain. Put to him crudely it vexed him. +</p> + +<p> +“See here, miss, you’re playing with us,” he said. “And +it won’t do. Tell us frankly——” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you frankly,” she answered, cutting him short with +spirit, “whose tracks they are. They are Mr. Sutton’s. Now you +know. And Mr. Sutton is the only person I saw last night. Now you know that +too. And perhaps you will leave me.” She rose as she finished. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Sutton was with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have said so. You have my shoes. Get his. What I say is easily tested +and easily proved.” +</p> + +<p> +She had the pleasure of a little triumph. The runner looked taken aback and +ashamed of himself. But after the first flush of astonishment he did not waste +a minute. He turned, opened the door, and disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta listened to his departing steps, then with a sigh of relief she +returned to her breakfast. Her spirits rose. She felt that she had exaggerated +her troubles; that she had allowed herself to be alarmed without cause. The +landlady’s rudeness, rather than any real perplexity or peril, had +imposed on her. Another time she would not be so lightly frightened. For, after +all, she had done nothing of which even Mr. Sutton, if he told the truth, could +make much. They might suspect that she had stolen out to meet Walterson; but as +she had not met him, they could prove nothing. They might conclude from it, +that he was in the neighbourhood; but as Bishop already held that belief, +things were left where they were before. Except, to be sure, that for some +reason she had lost the landlady’s favour. +</p> + +<p> +The girl had arrived at this comfortable stage in her reasoning when the +shuffling of feet along the passage informed her that Bishop was returning. Nor +Bishop only. He brought with him others, it was clear, and among them one heavy +man in boots—she caught the harsh ring of a spur. Who were they? Why were +they coming? Involuntarily she rose to her feet, and waited with a quickened +heart for their appearance. +</p> + +<p> +The sounds that reached her were not encouraging. One of the men stumbled, and +growled an oath; and one laughed a vulgar common laugh as at some jest in +doubtful taste. Then the door opened wide, and with little ceremony they +followed one another into the room, one, two, three. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="p195"></a> +<img src="images/p195.png" width="331" height="535" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="sc">... he touched his brow with his whip handle</span></p> +</div> + +<p> +Bishop first, with his bluff, square face. Then a stranger, a tall bulky man, +heavy-visaged and bull-dog jawed, with harsh, over-bearing eyes. He wore an +open horseman’s coat, and under it a broad leather belt with pistols; and +he touched his brow with his whip-handle in a half familiar, half insolent way. +After him came the pale, peaky face of Mr. Sutton, who looked chap-fallen and +ashamed of himself. +</p> + +<p> +The moment all had entered, +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Chaplain, close the door,” said the stranger in a broad +Lancashire accent, and with an air of authority. “Now, Bishop, suppose +you tell the young lady—damme, what’s that?” turning sharply, +“Who is it?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br/> +MR. JOSEPH NADIN</h2> + +<p> +The words were addressed to Mr. Sutton, who did not seem able to shut the door. +But the answer came from the other side of the door. +</p> + +<p> +“By your leave,”—the voice, a little breathless, was Mrs. +Gilson’s—“I’m coming in too.” And she came in at +that, and brusquely. “I think you are over many men for one woman,” +she continued, setting her cap straight, and otherwise not a whit discomposed +by the men’s attitude. “You’ll want me before you are done, +you’ll see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Want you?” the strange man answered with sarcasm. “Then when +we want you we’ll send for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No you’ll not, Joe Nadin,” she retorted, coolly, as she +closed the door behind her. “For I’ll be here. What you will be +wanting,” with a toss of her double chin, “will be wit. But +that’s not to be had for the sending.” +</p> + +<p> +Nadin—he was the deputy-constable of Manchester, and the most famous +police officer of that day, a man as warmly commended by the Tory party as he +was fiercely hated by the Radicals—would have given an angry answer. But +Bishop was before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Let her be,” he said—with friendly deference. “We may +want her, as she says. And the young lady is waiting. Now, miss,” he +continued, addressing Henrietta, who stood at the table trying to hide the +perturbation which these preliminaries caused her, “I’ve brought +Mr. Sutton to tell us in your presence what he knows. I doubt it won’t go +far. So that when we have heard him we shall want a good deal from you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, from you, young lady,” the Manchester man struck in, taking +the word out of the other’s mouth. “It will be your turn then. And +what we want we must have, or——” +</p> + +<p> +“Or what?” she asked, with an air of dignity that sat strangely on +one so young. They did not guess how her heart was beating! +</p> + +<p> +“Or ’twill be Appleby gaol!” he answered. “That’s +the long and the short of it. There’s an end of shilly-shallying! +You’ve to make your choice, and time’s precious. But the reverend +gentleman has first say. Speak up, Mr. Chaplain! You followed this young lady +last night about ten o’clock? Very good. Now what did you see and +hear?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton looked miserably downcast. But he was on the horns of a dilemma, and +while he knew that by speaking he forfeited all chance of Henrietta’s +favour, he knew that he must speak: that he had no choice. Obstinate as he +could be upon occasion, in the grasp of such a man as Nadin he succumbed. He +owned that not the circumstances only but the man were too strong for him. Yet +he made one effort to stand on his own legs. “I think Miss Damer would +prefer to tell the tale herself,” he said, with a spark of dignity. +“In that case I have nothing to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know what you mean,” Henrietta answered, her lip curling. +And she looked at him as she would have looked at Judas. +</p> + +<p> +“Still,” he murmured, with a side-glance at Nadin, “if you +would be advised by me——” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to say,” she said curtly. +</p> + +<p> +“Mind you, I’ve told her nothing.” Mrs. Gilson said, +intervening in time to prevent an outburst on Nadin’s part. “I was +bid to get her shoes, and I got her shoes. I held my tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then she knows nothing!” the chaplain exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, she knows enough,” Nadin struck in, his harsh, dogmatic nature +getting the better of him. “If she did not know we should not come to +her. We know our business. Now, where’s the man hiding? For there the boy +will be. Where did you leave him, my lass?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton, whom circumstances had forced into a part so distasteful, saw a +chance of helping the girl; and even of reinstating himself in some degree in +her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I can answer that,” he said. “She did not meet him. The +young lady went to the bottom of Troutbeck Lane, where, I understand, the boat +came to land. But there was no one there to meet her. And she came back without +seeing any one. I can vouch for that. And that,” the chaplain continued, +throwing out his chest, and speaking with dignity, “is all that Miss +Damer did, and I can speak to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Nadin exploded. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t tell me that she went to the place for nothing, man!” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you only what happened,” the chaplain answered, sticking to +his point. “She saw no one, and spoke to no one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hang me if I don’t think you are in with her!” Nadin replied +in an insulting tone. And then turning to Henrietta, “Now then, out with +it! Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +But Henrietta, battered by the man’s coarse voice and manner, still held +her ground. +</p> + +<p> +“If I knew I should not tell you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’ll go to Appleby gaol!” +</p> + +<p> +“And still I shall not tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Understand! Understand!” Nadin replied. “I’ve a +warrant here granted in Lancashire and backed here and in order! A warrant to +take him. You can see it if you like. Don’t say I took advantage of you. +I’m rough, but I’m square,” he continued, his broad dialect +such that a Southerner would not have understood him. “The lads know me, +and you’ll know me before we’ve done!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it won’t be for your wisdom!” Mrs. Gilson muttered. And +then more loudly, “Why don’t you tell her what’s been done? +Happen she knows, and happen she doesn’t. If she does ’tis all one. +If she doesn’t you’re talking to deaf ears.” +</p> + +<p> +Nadin shrugged his shoulders and struck his boot with his whip. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “an old lass with a long tongue will have +her way i’ Lancashire or where it be! Tell her yourself. But she knows, I +warrant!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson also thought so, but she was not sure. +</p> + +<p> +“See here, miss,” she said, “you know Captain Clyne’s +son?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta’s colour rose at the name. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you do,” the landlady continued, “for if +all’s true you are some sort of connection. Then you know, Miss, that +he’s the apple of his father’s eye, and the more for being a +lameter?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta could not hear Anthony Clyne’s name without agitation; without +vague apprehensions and a sense of coming evil. Why did they bring in the name? +And what were they going to tell her about the boy—of whom in the old +days she had been contemptuously jealous? She felt her face burn under the gaze +of all those eyes fixed on it. And her own eyes sank. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she muttered indistinctly, “what of him? What has he +to do with this?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is missing. He has been stolen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stolen?” +</p> + +<p> +Her tone was one of sharp surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“He was carried off last night by two men,” Bishop struck in. +“His nurse was returning to the house near Newby Bridge—hard on +nightfall, when she met two men on the road. They asked the name of the place, +heard what it was, and asked who the child was. She told them, and they went +one way and she another, but before she reached home they overtook her, seized +her and bound her, and disappeared with the boy. It was dusk and she might have +lain in the ditch and died. But the servants in the house went out when she did +not return and found her.” He looked at Nadin. “That’s so, +isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that’s it,” the other answered, nodding. +“You’ve got it pat.” +</p> + +<p> +“When she could speak, the alarm was given, they raised the country, the +men were traced to Newby Bridge. There we know a boat met them and took them +off. And the point, miss, is not so much where they landed, for that we +know—’twas at the bottom of Troutbeck Lane!—as where they are +now.” +</p> + +<p> +She had turned pale and red and pale again, while she listened. Astonishment +had given place to horror, and resentment to pity. In women, even the youngest, +there is a secret tenderness for children; and the thought of this child, cast +lame and helpless into the hands of strangers, and exposed, in place of the +care to which he had been accustomed all his life, to brutality and hardships, +pierced the crust of jealousy and melted the woman’s heart. Her eyes +filled with tears, and through the tears indignation burned. For a moment even +the insult which Anthony Clyne had put upon her was forgotten. She thought only +of the father’s misery, his suspense, his grief. She yearned to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried, “the wretches!” And her voice rang +bravely. “But—but why are you here? Why do you not follow +them?” +</p> + +<p> +Nadin’s eyes met Bishop’s. He raised his eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“Because, miss,” he said, “we think there’s a shorter +way to them. Because we think you can tell us where they are if you +choose.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell you where they are?” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss. We believe that you can—if you choose. And you +<i>must</i> choose.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl stared. Then slowly she comprehended. She grasped the fact that they +addressed the question to her, that they believed that she was at one with the +men who had done this. And a change as characteristic of her nature as it was +unexpected by those who watched her, swept over her face. Her features +quivered, and, even as when Anthony Clyne’s proposal wounded her pride to +the quick, she turned from them, and bowing her head on her hands broke into +weeping. +</p> + +<p> +They were all taken aback. They had looked some for one thing, some for +another; some for rage and scorn, some for sullen denial. No one had foreseen +this breakdown. Nor was it welcome. Nadin found himself checked on the +threshold of success, and swore under his breath. Bishop, who had broken a +lance with her before, and was more or less tender-hearted, looked vexed. Mr. +Sutton showed open distress—her weeping hurt him, and at every quiver of +her slight, girlish figure he winced. While Mrs. Gilson frowned; perhaps at the +clumsiness and witlessness of men-folk. But she did not interfere, and the +chaplain dared not interfere: and Nadin was left to deal with the girl as he +pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“There, miss,” he said, speaking a little less harshly, +“tears mend no bones. And there’s one thing clear in this and not +to be denied—the men who have taken the lad are friends of your friend. +And not a doubt he’s in it. We’ve traced them to a place not three +hundred yards from here. They’ve vanished where he vanished, and +there’s no need of magic to tell that the same hole hides all. I was on +the track of the men with a warrant—for they are d——d +Radicals as ever were!—when they slipped off and played this pretty trick +by the way. Whether they have kidnapped the lad out of revenge, or for a +hostage, I’m in the dark. But put-up job or not, you are not the young +lady to back up such doings. I see that with half an eye,” he added +cunningly, “and therefore——” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got it from her?” +</p> + +<p> +Nadin turned with a frown—the interruption came from Mr. Hornyold. The +justice had just entered, and stood booted, spurred, and pompous on the +threshold. He carried his heavy riding-whip, and was in all points ready for +the road. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not yet,” Nadin answered curtly, +“but——” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better; let me try her, then,” the magistrate +rejoined, all fussiness and importance. “There’s no time to be +lost. We’re getting together. I’ve a dozen mounted men in the yard, +and they are coming in from Rydal side. We shall have two score in an hour. +We’ll have the hills scoured before nightfall, and long before Captain +Clyne is here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so, squire,” Nadin replied drily. “But if the young +lady will tell us where the scoundrel lies we’ll be spared the trouble. +Now, miss,” he continued, forgetting, under the impetus of +Hornyold’s manner, the more diplomatic line he had been following, +“we’ve a d——d clear case against you, and that’s +flat. We can trace you to where they landed last night, and we know that you +were there within a few minutes of the time; for we’ve their footsteps +from the boat to the wood above the road, and your footsteps from the boat to +the inn. There is as much evidence of aiding and abetting as would transport a +dozen men! So do you be wise, and tell us straight off what we want.” +</p> + +<p> +But two words had caught her ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Aiding and abetting?” she muttered. And she turned her eyes, still +bright with tears, upon him. Her flushed face and ruffled hair gave her a +strangely childish appearance. “Aiding and abetting? Do you mean that you +think that I—that I had anything to do with taking the child?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” Bishop murmured hurriedly, and cast a warning look at his +colleague. “No, no, not knowingly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but that depends,” Nadin persisted obstinately. His fibre was +coarser, and his perceptions were less acute. It was his habit to gain his ends +by fear, and he was unwilling to lose the hold he had over her. “That +depends,” he repeated doggedly. “If you speak and tell us all you +know, of course not. But if you do not speak, we shall take it against +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will take it,” she cried, “that I—I helped to +steal the child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so, if you don’t speak,” Nadin repeated, disregarding +his fellow’s signals. Firmness, he was sure, was all that was needed. +Just firmness. +</p> + +<p> +She was silent in great agitation. They suspected her! Oh, it was wicked, it +was vile of them! She would not have touched a hair of the child’s head. +And they suspected Walterson; but it might be as falsely, it must be as +falsely. Yet if she gave him up, even if he were innocent he would suffer. He +would suffer on other charges, and she would have his blood on her hands though +she had so often, so often, resolved that she would not be driven to that! +</p> + +<p> +They asked too much of her. They asked her to betray the man to death on the +chance—and she did not believe in the chance—that it would restore +the child to its father. She shuddered as she thought of the child, as she +thought of Anthony Clyne’s grief; she would willingly have done much to +help the one and the other. But they asked too much. If it were anything short +of the man’s life that they asked, she would be guided, she would do as +they bade her. But this step was irrevocable: and she was asked to take it on a +chance. Possibly they did not themselves believe in the chance. Possibly they +made the charge for their own purposes, their aim to get the man into their +power, the blood-money into their purse. She shuddered at that and found the +dilemma cruel. But she had no doubt which course she must follow. No longer did +any thought of herself or of the annoyances of his arrest weigh with her: +thought of the child had outweighed all that. But she would not without proof, +without clear proof, have the man’s blood on her hands. +</p> + +<p> +And regarding them with a pale set face, +</p> + +<p> +“If you have proof,” she said, “that +he—Walterson—” she pronounced the name with an +effort—“was concerned in carrying off the child, I will +speak.” +</p> + +<p> +“Proof?” Nadin barked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. “If you can satisfy me that he was privy to +this—I will tell you all I know.” +</p> + +<p> +Nadin exploded. +</p> + +<p> +“Proof?” he cried with violence. “Why, by G—d, was he +not at the place where we know the men landed? And didn’t you expect to +meet him there? And at the very hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was not there,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“And I was there,” she continued, “yet I know nothing. I am +innocent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph! I don’t know!” Nadin growled. +</p> + +<p> +“But I do,” she replied. “If your proof comes only to +that—” +</p> + +<p> +“But the men who took the child are old mates of his!” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” she returned. “You did not see them. They +may not be the men you wished to arrest. But,” scornfully, “I see +what kind of proof you have, and I shall not tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, miss,” Bishop said, staying with difficulty Nadin’s +furious answer. “Come, miss, think! Think again. Think of the +child!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sink the child,” the Manchester officer struck in. He had +seldom been so handled. “Think of yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +“You will send me to prison?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“By heaven we will!” he answered. And Mr. Hornyold nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be so, then,” she replied with dignity. “I shall not +speak. I have no right to speak.” +</p> + +<p> +They all cried out on her, Bishop and Mr. Sutton appealing to her, Nadin +growling oaths, Mr. Hornyold threatening that he would make out the warrant +that minute. Only the landlady, with her apron rolled round her arms, stood +grim and silent; a looker-on whose taciturnity presently irritated Nadin beyond +bearing. “I suppose you think,” he said, turning to her, +“that you could have handled her better?” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t ha’ handled her worse!” the landlady +replied. +</p> + +<p> +“You think yourself a Solomon!” he sneered. +</p> + +<p> +“A girl of ten’s a Solomon to you!” the landlady retorted +keenly. “It canna be for this, it surely canna be for this, Joe Nadin, +that they pay you money at Manchester, and that ’tis said you go in risk +of your life! Why, that Bishop, London chap as he is, is a greybeard beside +you. He does know that Bluster is a good dog but Softly is better!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as I live by bread I’ll have her in the Stone Jug!” he +retorted. “And then we’ll see!” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s another will see before you!” Mrs. Gilson answered +drily. “And it strikes me he’s not far off. If you’d left her +alone for just an hour and seen what his honour Captain Clyne could do with +her, you’d have shown your sense!” shrugging her shoulders. +“Now, I fear you’ve spoiled his market, my lad!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br/> +AT THE FARM</h2> + +<p> +It was night, and the fire, the one generous thing in the house-place at +Starvecrow Farm, blazed fitfully; casting its light now on Walterson’s +brooding face as he stooped over the heat, now on the huddled shrunken form +that filled the farther side of the hearth. As the flames rose and fell, the +shadows of the two men danced whimsically behind them. At one moment they +sprang up, darkening the whole smoke-grimed ceiling and seeming to menace the +persons who gave them birth, at another they sank into mere +hop-o’-my-thumbs, lurking in ambush behind the furniture. There was no +other light in the room; it was rarely the old skinflint suffered another. And +to-night the shutters were closed and barred that even the reflection of the +blaze might not be seen without and breed suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +The younger man’s face, when the firelight rested on it, betrayed not +only his present anxiety, but the deep lines of past fear and brooding. He was +no longer spruce and neat and close-shaven; he was no longer the dandy who had +turned a feather-head—for there was little in this place to encourage +cleanliness. Confinement and suspense had sharpened his features; his eyes were +harder and brighter than of old, and the shallow tenderness which had fooled +Henrietta no longer floated on their depths. A nervous impatience, a peevish +irritability showed in his every movement; whether he raised his hand to +silence the old man’s crooning, or fell again to biting his nails in +moody depression. It was bad enough to be confined in this squalid hole with an +imbecile driveller, and to spend long hours without other company. It was worse +to know that beyond its threshold the noose dangled, and the peril which he had +so long and so cleverly evaded yawned for him. +</p> + +<p> +To do Walterson justice, it was not entirely for his own safety that he was +concerned as he sat over the fire and listened—starting at the squeak of +a mouse and finding in every sough of the wind the step of a friend or foe. He +was a heartless man. He would not have scrupled to ruin the innocent girl who +trusted him: nay, in thought and intention he had ruined her as he had ruined +others. But he could not face without a shudder what might be happening at this +moment by the waterside. He could not picture without shame what, if the girl +escaped there, would happen here; when they dragged her through the doorway, +bound and gagged and at the mercy of the jealous vixen who dominated him. +Secretly he was base enough to hope that what they did they would do in the +darkness, and not terrify him with the sight of it. For if they brought her +here, if they confronted him with her, how loathly a figure he must cut even in +his own eyes! How poor and dastardly a thing he must seem in the eyes of the +woman whose will he did and to whose vengeance he consented. +</p> + +<p> +The sweat rose on his brow as he pondered this; as he looked with terrified +eyes at the door and fancied that the scene was already playing, that he saw +her dragged into that vile place, that he met her look. Passionately he +wished—as we all wish in like but smaller cases—that he had never +seen either of the women, that he had never played the fool, or that if he must +play the fool he had chosen some other direction in which to escape with +Henrietta. But wishing was useless. Wishing would not remove him into safety or +comfort, would not relieve him from the consequences of his misdeeds, would not +convert the skulking imbecile who faced him into decent company. And even while +he indulged his regret, he heard the tread of men outside, and he stood up. A +moment later the signal, three knocks on the shutter, informed him that the +crisis which he had been expecting and dreading, was come—was come! +</p> + +<p> +Delay would not help him; the old man, mowing and chattering, was already on +his feet. He went to the door and with a hang-dog face opened it. The long bar +which ran all its length into the wall was scarcely clear, when a woman, +swaddled to her eyes in a thick drugget shawl, pushed in. It was Bess. After +her came a tall man cloaked and booted, followed by two others of lower stature +and meaner appearance. The last who entered bore something in his arms, a pack, +a bundle—Walterson, shuddering, could not see which. For as Bess with the +same show of haste with which she had entered, began to secure the door against +the cold blast, that blew the sparks in clouds up the chimney, the cloaked man +addressed him. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re Walterson? Ah, to be sure, we’ve met—once, I +think. Well,” he spoke in a harsh, peremptory +tone—“you’ll be good enough to note,” he turned and +pointed to the other men, “that I have naught to do with this! I’ve +neither hand nor part in it! And I’ll ask you to remember that.” +</p> + +<p> +Walterson, with a pallid face and shrinking eyes, looked at the man with the +bundle. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he muttered hoarsely. “I don’t +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, stow this!” Bess cried, turning brusquely from the door which +she had secured. “The gentleman is very grand and mighty,” +shrugging her shoulders, “but the thing is done now. And I’ll +warrant if good comes of it he’ll not be too proud to take his +share.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not <i>I</i>, girl!” the tall man answered. “Not I!” +</p> + +<p> +He took off as he spoke his cloak and hat, and showed a tall, angular figure +borne with military stiffness. His face was sallow and long, and his mouth +wide; but the plainness or ugliness of his features was redeemed by their +power, and by the light of enthusiasm which was never long absent from his +sombre eyes. A kind of aloofness in speech and manner showed that he was in the +habit of living among inferiors. And not only the men who came with him, but +Walterson himself seemed in his presence of a meaner mould and smaller sort. +</p> + +<p> +His two companions were stout, short-built men of a coarse type. But Walterson +after a single glance, paid no heed to them. His eyes, his thoughts, his +attention were all on the bundle. Yet, it was not possible, it could not be +what he dreaded. It was too small, too small! And yet he shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he asked in uncertain accents. +</p> + +<p> +“The worth of a man’s neck, may be,” one of the two men +grunted. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, curse your may-be’s!” the other who carried the child +struck in. “It’s a smart bit of justice, master, with no may-be +about it! And came in our way just when we were ready for it. Let’s look +at the kid.” +</p> + +<p> +“The kid?” +</p> + +<p> +Walterson repeated the words, and opened his mouth dumb-founded. He looked at +Thistlewood. +</p> + +<p> +The tall man, who was warming his back at the fire, shrugged his square +shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve naught to do with it!” he said. “Ask them!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know what a kid is?” Giles, one of the two others, +retorted, with a glance of contempt. “A kinchin! a yelper! It’s +Squire Clyne’s, if you must know. He’ll learn now what it is to see +your children trodden under foot and your women-kind slashed and cut with +sabres! He’s ground the faces of the poor long enough! D——n +him, he’s as bad as Castlereagh, the devil! But, hallo!” breaking +off. “If I don’t think, mate, you’ve squeezed his throat a +bit too tight!” +</p> + +<p> +He had unwound the wrappings and disclosed the still and inanimate form of a +boy about six years old, but small for his age. The thin bloodless hands were +clenched, the head hung back, the eyes were half-closed; and the tiny face +showed so deathly white—among those tanned faces and in that grimy +place—that it was not wonderful that the man fancied for a moment that +the child was dead. +</p> + +<p> +But, “Not I!” the one who had carried it answered contemptuously. +“It’s swooned, like enough. And I’d to stop it shrieking, +hadn’t I? Let the lass look to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Bess took it but reluctantly—with an ill grace and no look of tenderness +or pity. She was of those women who love no children but their own, and +sometimes do not love their own. While she sprinkled water on the poor little +face and rubbed the small hands, Walterson found his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What folly—what cursed folly is this?” he cried, his words +vibrating with rage. “What have we to do with the child or your +vengeance, or this d——d folly—that you should bring the hunt +upon us? We were snug here.” +</p> + +<p> +“And ain’t we snug now?” Lunt, the man who had carried the +child, asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Snug? We’ll be snug behind bars in twenty-four hours!” +Walterson rejoined, his voice rising almost to a scream, “if that child +is Squire Clyne’s child!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he’s that right enough, master,” Giles, the other man, +struck in. A kind of ferocious irony was natural to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’ll have the whole country on us before noon +to-morrow!” Walterson retorted. “I tell you he’ll follow you +and track you and find you, if he follows you to hell’s gate! I know the +man.” +</p> + +<p> +“So do I,” said Thistlewood coolly. “And I say the +same.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet,” Giles retorted impudently, “you’ve got a neck as +well as another.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can leave my neck out of the question,” Thistlewood replied. +“And me!” And he turned his back on them contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ve got a neck,” Giles answered, addressing +Walterson, who was almost hysterical with rage. “And I suppose you have +some care for it, if he has none!” with a gesture of the thumb in +Thistlewood’s direction. “You’d as soon as not, keep your +neck unstretched, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sooner,” Bess said, flinging a glance of contempt at her lover. +“Here, let me teach him,” she continued bluntly; the child had +begun to murmur in a low, painful note. “They came on the kid by chance +and snatched it, and we’ve put ten miles of water between the place and +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“And snow on the ground!” Walterson retorted, pointing to the thin +powder that still lay white in the folds of her shawl. +</p> + +<p> +“We came up through the wood,” she answered. “Trust us for +that! But that’s not the point. The point is, that your pink-and-white +fancy-girl never came. She’d more sense than I thought she had. But you +were willing to snatch her, my lad. And why is the risk greater with the +child?” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s less,” the girl continued, before he could put his +objection into words. “It’s less, I tell you, for the child’s +more easily tucked away. I’ve a place we can put it, where they’ll +not find it if they search for a twelvemonth!” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll soon search here,” he said sullenly. +“There’s not a house they’ll not search if they trace the +boat. Nor a bothy on the hills.” +</p> + +<p> +“May be,” she answered confidently. “But when they search +you’ll not be here, nor the kid. Nor in a bothy!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you are going to trust Tyson——” +</p> + +<p> +“You leave that to me,” she replied, bending her brows. +</p> + +<p> +But he was not to be silenced. +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll sell you!” he cried. “He’ll sell you! +He’ll give you fair words and you think you can fool him. But when he +comes to know there’s a reward out, and what he’ll suffer if he is +found hiding us, and when he knows that all the country is up—and for +this child they’d hang us on the nearest tree—he’ll give us +up and you too. Though you do think you have bewitched him. And so I tell all +here!” he added passionately. +</p> + +<p> +With a dark look, “Stow it, my lad,” she said, as he paused for +want of breath. “And leave Tyson to me.” +</p> + +<p> +But the men who had listened to the debate looked something startled. They +glanced at one another, and at last Thistlewood spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this Tyson,” he asked, “the man at whose house you said +we should be better than here, my girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s him,” Bess answered curtly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it seems to me that you ought to tell us a bit more. I don’t +want to be sold.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am of that way of thinking myself, captain,” Lunt growled. +“If the man has no finger between the jamb and the door, you can’t +be sure that he won’t shut it. No, curse me, you can’t! +There’s other Olivers besides him who has sold a round dozen of us to +Government. I’ll slit the throat of the first police spy that comes in my +way!” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you trust me!” the girl flung at him, her eyes scornful. +To her they all, all seemed cowards. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but you are a woman,” Giles answered. “And though +I’m not saying there’s no Polly Peachums, I’ve not come +across them. Treat a maid fair and she’ll treat you fair, that’s +the common way of it. She’ll not stretch you, for anything short of +another wench. But a man! He’s here and there and nowhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just where this man is,” she answered curtly. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nowhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s cut his lucky. He’s gone to Carlisle to see his brother +and keep his skin safe—for a week. He’s like a good many more I +know,” with a glance which embraced every man in the room: “willing +to eat but afraid to bite.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he has left his house?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who’s in it?” +</p> + +<p> +“His wife, no one else. And she’s bedridden with a babby, seven +days old.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! And no woman with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“There was,” Bess answered, “but there isn’t. I +quarrelled with the serving-lass this afternoon, and at sunset to-day she was +to go. If she comes back to-morrow I’ll send her packing with a flea in +her ear!” +</p> + +<p> +“But who——” +</p> + +<p> +“Gave me leave to send her?” defiantly. “He did.” +</p> + +<p> +Thistlewood smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“And the wife?” he asked. “What’ll she say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Say? She’d not say boh to a goose if it hissed at her!” Bess +answered contemptuously. “She’s a pale, fat caterpillar, afraid of +her own shadow! She’ll whine a bit, for she don’t love +me—thinks I’ll poison her some fine day for the sake of her man. +But she’s upstairs and there’s no one, but nor ben, to hear her +whine; and at daybreak I’ll be there, tending her. Isn’t it the +natural thing,” and she smiled darkly, “with this the nearest +house?” +</p> + +<p> +“Curse me, but you’re a clever lass!” Giles cried. And even +Thistlewood seemed to feel no pity for the poor woman, left helpless with her +babe. “I don’t know,” the ruffian continued, “that +I’m not almost afraid of you myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think that house will not be searched?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should it be searched?” Bess answered. “Tyson’s +well known. And if they do search it,” she continued confidently, +“there’s a place—it’s not of the brightest, but +it’ll do, and you must lie there days—that they’ll not find +if they search till Doomsday!” +</p> + +<p> +Walterson alone eyed her gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +“And what is the child in this?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“The kid, my lad? Why, everything. You fine gentlemen can’t stay +here for ever, and when you go north or south or east or west, the kid’ll +stay here until you’re safe. And if you don’t come safe, he’s +a card you’ll be glad to have the use of to clear your necks, my +lads!” +</p> + +<p> +Thistlewood turned on his heel again. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll none of it,” he said, dark and haughty. +“It’s no gentleman’s game, this!” +</p> + +<p> +“Gentleman be hanged!” cried Giles, and Lunt echoed him. “Do +you call”—with temper—“what you were for this morning a +gentleman’s game? Do you call killing a dozen unarmed men round a +dinner-table a gentleman’s game?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s our lives against theirs!” Thistlewood answered with a +sombre glance. “And the odds with them, and a rope if we fail! Wrong +breeds wrong,” he continued, his voice rising—as if already he +spoke in his defence. “Did they wait until we were armed before they rode +us down at Manchester? or at Paisley? or at Glasgow? No! And, I say, they must +be removed, no matter how. They must be removed! They are the head and front of +offence, the head and front of this damnable system under which no man +that’s worth ten pounds does wrong, and no poor man does right! From King +to tradesman they stand together. But kill a dozen at the top, and you stop the +machine! You terrify the traders that find the money! You bring over to our +side all that is timid and fearful and fond of ease—and that’s nine +parts of the country! For myself,” extending his arms in a gesture of +menace, “I’d as soon cut the throats of Castlereagh and Liverpool +and Harrowby as I’d cut the throats of so many calves! And sooner, by +G—d! Sooner! But for messing with children I’ll none of it! +I’ve said my say.” And he turned again to the fire. +</p> + +<p> +The girl, as he stirred the logs with his boot-heel, eyed him strangely; and in +her heart she approved not his arguments, but his courage. Here was what she +had sighed for—a man! Here was what she thought that she had found in +Walterson—a man! And Walterson himself approved in his heart; and envied +the strong man who dared to speak out where he with his life at stake dared +not. The thing <i>was</i> cruel, <i>was</i> dastardly. But then—it might +save his neck! For the others, they were too low, too brutish to be much moved +by Thistlewood’s words. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but we’ve got necks as well as you!” Giles muttered. +“And if we risk ’em to please you, we’ll save ’em the +way we please!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, “Look at the kid!” Lunt muttered. “He’s hearing +too much, and picking it up. Stow it for now!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl turned to the child which she had laid on the bed. Thistlewood had +knocked the fire together, and the blaze, passing by him, fell upon the +wide-open eyes that from the bed regarded the scene with a look of silent +terror, a look that seemed uncanny to more than one. Had the boy wept or +screamed, or cried for help, had it given way to childish panic and tried to +flee, they had thought nothing of it. They had twitched it back, hushed it by +blow or threat, and cursed it for a nuisance. But this passive terror, this +self-restraint at so tender an age, struck the men as unnatural, and taken with +its small elfish features awoke qualms in the more superstitious. +</p> + +<p> +“Curse the child!” said one, staring at it. “I think +it’s bewitched!” +</p> + +<p> +“See if it will eat,” said another. “Bewitched children never +eat.” +</p> + +<p> +Some bread was fetched and milk put to it—though Bess set nothing by such +notions—and, “You eat that, do you hear!” the girl said. +“Or we’ll give you to that old man there,” pointing with an +undutiful finger to the squalid figure of the old miser. “And he’ll +take you to his bogey-hole!” +</p> + +<p> +The child shook pitifully, and the fear in its eyes deepened as it regarded the +loathsome old man. With a sigh that seemed to rend the little heart, it took +the iron spoon, and strove to swallow. The spoon tinkled violently against the +bowl. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll manage him,” Bess said with a look of triumph. +“You will see, I’ll have him so in two days that he’ll not +dare to say who he is, if they do find him! You leave him to me, and I’ll +sort the little imp!” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the child knew that he had fallen among his father’s enemies. +Perhaps he knew only that in a second his world was overset and he cast on the +mercy of the ogres he saw about him. As he looked fearfully round the gloomy, +fire-lit room with its lights and black shadows, a single large tear rolled +from each eye and fell into the coarse earthen-ware bowl. And for an instant he +seemed about to choke. Then he went on eating. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX<br/> +PROOF POSITIVE</h2> + +<p> +Anthony Clyne had made no moan, but, both in his pride and his better feelings, +he had suffered more than the world thought through Henrietta’s +elopement. He was not in love with the girl whom he had chosen for his second +wife and the mother of his motherless child. But no man likes to be jilted. No +man, even the man least in love, can bear with indifference or without +mortification the slur which the woman’s desertion casts on him. At best +there are invitations to be cancelled, and servants to be informed, and plans +to be altered; the condolences of some and the smiles of others are to be +faced. And many troubles and much bitterness. The very boy, the apple of his +eye and the core of his heart, had to be told—something. +</p> + +<p> +And Anthony Clyne was proud. No man in Lancashire set more by his birth and +station, or had a stronger sense of his personal dignity; so that in doing all +these things he suffered. He suffered much. Nor did it end with that. His own +world knew him, and took care not to provoke him by a tactless word or an +inquisitive question. But the operatives in his neighbourhood, who hated him +and feared him, and thanked God for aught that hurt him, gibed him openly. +Taunts and jests were flung after him in the streets of Manchester; and men +whose sweethearts had been flung down or roughly used on the day of Peterloo +inquired after his sweetheart as he passed before the mills. +</p> + +<p> +But he made no sign. And no one dreamed that the suffering went farther than +the man’s pride, or touched his heart. Yet it did. Not that he loved the +girl; but because she was of his race, and because her own branch of the family +cast her off, and because the man with whom she had fled could do nothing to +protect her from the consequences of her folly. For these reasons—and a +little because of a secret nobility in his own character—he suffered +vicariously; he felt himself responsible for her. And the responsibility seemed +more heavy after he had seen her; after he had borne away from Windermere the +picture of the girl left pale and proud and lonely by the lake side. +</p> + +<p> +For her figure haunted him. It rose before him in the most troublesome fashion +and at the most improper times; at sessions when he sat among his peers, or at +his dinner-table in the middle of a tirade against the radicals and Cobbett. It +touched him in the least expected and most tender points; awaking the strongest +doubts of himself, and his conduct, and his wisdom that he had ever +entertained. It barbed the dart of “It might have been” with the +rankling suspicion that he had himself to thank for failure. And where at first +he had said in his haste that she deserved two dozen, he now remembered her +defence, and added gloomily, “Or I! Or I!” The thought of her +fate—as of a thing for which he was responsible—thrust itself upon +him in season and out of season. He could not put her out of his mind, he could +not refrain from dwelling on her. And thinking in this way he grew every day +less content with the scheme of life which he had framed for her in his first +contempt for her. The notion of her union with Mr. Sutton, good, worthy man as +he deemed the chaplain, now jarred on him unpleasantly. And more and more the +scheme showed itself in another light than that in which he had first viewed +it. +</p> + +<p> +Such was his state of mind, unsettled if not unhappy, and harassed if not +remorseful, when a second thunderclap burst above his head, and in a moment +destroyed even the memory of these minor troubles. He loved his child with the +love of the proud and lonely man who loves more jealously where others pity, +and clings more closely where others look askance. A fig for their pity! he +cried in his heart. He would so rear his child, he would so cherish him, he +would so foster his mind, that in spite of bodily defect this latest of the +Clynes should be also the greatest. And while he foresaw this future in the +child and loved him for the hope, he loved him immeasurably more for his +weakness, his helplessness, his frailty in the present. All that was strong in +the man of firm will and stiff prejudice went out to the child in a passionate +yearning to protect it; to shield it from unfriendly looks, even from pity; to +cover it from the storms of the world and of life. +</p> + +<p> +Personally a brave man Clyne feared nothing for himself. The hatred in which he +was held by a certain class came to his ears from time to time in threatening +murmurs, but though those who knew best were loudest in warning, he paid no +heed. He continued to do what he held to be his duty. Yet if anything had had +power to turn him from his path it had been fear on his son’s account; it +had been the very, very small share which the boy must take in his peril. And +so, at the first hint he had removed the child from the zone of trouble, and +sent him to a place which he fancied safe; a place which the boy loved, and in +the quiet of which health as well as safety might be gained. If the name of +Clyne was hated where spindles whirled and shuttles flew, and men lived their +lives under a pall of black smoke, it was loved in Cartmel by farmer and +shepherd alike; and not less by the rude charcoal-burners who plied their craft +in the depths of the woods about Staveley and Broughton in Furness. +</p> + +<p> +On that side he thought himself secure. And so the blow fell with all the force +of the unexpected. The summons of the panic-stricken servants found him in his +bed; and it was a man who hardly contained himself, who hardly contained his +fury and his threats, who without breaking his fast rode north. It was a +hard-faced, stern man who crossed the sands at Cartmel at great risk—but +he had known them all his life—and won at Carter’s Green the first +spark of comfort and hope which he had had since rising. Nadin was before him. +Nadin was in pursuit,—Nadin, by whom all that was Tory in Lancashire +swore. Surely an accident so opportune, a stroke of mercy and providence so +unlikely—for the odds against the officer’s presence were +immense—could not be unmeant, could not be for nothing! It seemed, it +must be of good augury! But when Clyne reached his house in Cartmel, and the +terrified nurse who knew the depth of his love for the boy grovelled before +him, the household had no added hope to give him, no news or clue. And he could +but go forward. His horse was spent, but they brought him a tenant’s +colt, and after eating a few mouthfuls he pressed on up the lake side towards +Bowness, attended by a handful of farmers’ sons who had not followed on +the first alarm. +</p> + +<p> +Even now, hours after the awakening, and when any moment might end his +suspense, any turn in the road bring him face to face with the issue—good +or bad, joy or sorrow—he dared not think of the child. He dared not let +his mind run on its fear or its suffering, its terrors in the villains’ +hands, or the hardships which its helplessness might bring upon it. To do so +were to try his self-control too far. And so he thought the more of the men, +the more of vengeance, the more of the hour which would see him face to face +with them, and see them face to face with punishment. He rejoiced to think that +abduction was one of the two hundred crimes which were punishable with death: +and he swore that if he devoted his life to the capture of these wretches they +should be taken. And when taken, when they had been dealt with by judge and +jury, they should be hanged without benefit of clergy. There should be no talk +of respite. His services to the party had earned so much as that—even in +these days when radicals were listened to over much, and fanatics like Wolseley +and Burdett flung their wealth into the wrong scale. +</p> + +<p> +At Bowness there was no news except a word from Nadin bidding him ride on. And +without alighting he pressed on, sternly silent, but with eyes that tirelessly +searched the bleak, bare fells for some movement, some hint of flight or chase. +He topped the hill beyond Bowness, and drew rein an instant to scan the islets +set here and there on the sullen water. Then, after marking carefully the three +or four boats which were afloat, he trotted down through Calgarth woods. And on +turning the corner that revealed the long gabled house at the Low Wood landing +he had a gleam of hope. Here at last was something, some stir, some adequate +movement. In the road were a number of men, twenty or thirty, on foot or +horseback. A few were standing, others were moving to and fro. Half of them +carried Brown Besses, blunderbusses, or old horse-pistols, and three or four +were girt with ancient swords lugged for the purpose from bacon-rack or oak +chest. The horses of the men matched as ill as their arms, being of all heights +and all degrees of shagginess, and some riders had one spur, and some none. But +the troop meant business, it was clear, and Anthony Clyne’s heart went +out to them in gratitude. Hitherto he had ridden through a country-side +heedless or ignorant of his loss, and of what was afoot; and the tardy +intelligence, the slow answer, had tried him sorely. Here at last was an end of +that. As the honest dalesmen, gathered before the inn, hauled their +hard-mouthed beasts to the edge of the road to make way for him, and doffed +their hats in silent sympathy, he thanked them with his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of his empty sleeve he was off his horse in a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Have they learned anything?” he asked, his voice harsh with +suppressed emotion. +</p> + +<p> +The nearest man began to explain in the slow northern fashion. “No, not +as yet, your honour. But we shall, no doubt, i’ good time. We know that +they landed here in a boat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, your honour, have no fear!” cried a second. “We’ll +get him back!” +</p> + +<p> +And then Nadin came out. +</p> + +<p> +“This way, if you please, Squire,” he said, touching his arm and +leading him aside. “We are just starting to scour the hills, +but—— “he broke off and did not say any more until he had +drawn Clyne out of earshot. +</p> + +<p> +Then, “It’s certain that they landed here,” he said, turning +and facing him. “We know that, Squire. And I fancy that they are not far +away. The holt is somewhere near, for it is here we lost the other fox. +I’m pretty sure that if we search the hills for a few hours we’ll +light on them. But that’s the long way. And damme!” vehemently, +“there’s a short way if we are men and not mice.” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne’s eyes gleamed. +</p> + +<p> +“A short way?” he muttered. In spite of Nadin’s zeal the +Manchester officer’s manner had more than once disgusted his patron. It +had far from that effect now. The man might swear and welcome, be familiar, he +what he pleased, if he would also act! If he would recover the child from the +cruel hands that held it! His very bluntness and burliness and sufficiency gave +hope. “A short way?” Clyne repeated. +</p> + +<p> +Nadin struck his great fist into the other palm. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, a short way!” he answered. “There’s a witness here +can tell us all we want if she will but speak. I am just from her. A woman who +knows and can set us on the track if she chooses! And we’ll have but to +ride to covert and take the fox.” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne laid his hand on the other’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean,” he asked huskily, struggling to keep hope within +bounds, “that there is some one here—who knows where they +are?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do!” Nadin answered with an oath. “And knows where the +child is. But she’ll not speak.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not speak?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, she’ll not tell. It’s the young lady you were here about +before, Squire, to be frank with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Damer?” in a tone of astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, Squire, she!” Nadin replied. “She! And the young madam +knows, d——n her! It’s all one business, you may take it from +me! It’s all one gang! She was at the place where they landed after dark +last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” Clyne cried. “Impossible! I cannot believe +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but she was. She let herself down from a window when the house had +gone to bed that she might get there. Ay, Squire, you may look, but she did. +She did not meet them; she was too soon or too late, we don’t know which. +But she was there, as sure as I am here! And I suspect—though Bishop, who +is a bit of a softy, like most of those London men, doesn’t +agree—that she was in the thing from the beginning, Squire! And planned +it, may be, but you’d be the best judge of that. Any way, we are agreed +that she knows now. That is clear as daylight!” +</p> + +<p> +“Knows, and will not tell?” Clyne cried. Such conduct seemed too +monstrous, too wicked to the man who had strained every nerve to reach his +child, who had ridden in terror for hours, trembling at the passage of every +minute, grudging the loss of every second. “Knows, and will not +tell!” he repeated. “Impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not impossible, Squire,” Nadin answered. +“We’re clear on it. We’re all clear on it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That she knows where the child is?” incredulously. “Where +they are keeping it?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And will not say?” +</p> + +<p> +Nadin grinned. +</p> + +<p> +“Not for us,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “She may for +you. But she is stubborn as a mule. I can’t say worse than that. Stubborn +as a mule, Squire!” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne raised his hand to hide the twitching nostril, the quivering lip that +betrayed his agitation. But the hand shook. He could not yet believe that she +was privy to this wickedness. But—but if she only knew it now and kept +her knowledge to herself—she was, he dared not think what she was. A gust +of passion took him at the thought, and whitened his face to the very lips. He +had to turn away that the coarse-grained, underbred man beside him might not +see too much. And a few seconds went by before he could command his voice +sufficiently to ask Nadin what evidence he had of this—this monstrous +charge. “How do you know—I want to be clear—how do you +know,” he asked, sternly meeting his eyes, “that she left the house +last night to meet them? That she was there to meet them? Have you +evidence?” He could not believe that a woman of his class, of his race, +would do this thing. +</p> + +<p> +“Evidence?” Nadin answered coolly. “Plenty!” And he +told the story of the foot-prints, and of Mr. Sutton’s experiences in the +night; and added that one of the child’s woollen mits had been found +between the bottom-boards of a boat beached at that spot—a boat which +bore signs of recent use. “If you are not satisfied and would like to see +his reverence,” he continued, “and question him before you see +her—shall I send him to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, send him,” Clyne said with an effort. He had been incredulous, +but the evidence seemed overwhelming. Yet he struggled, he tried to disbelieve. +Not because his thoughts still held any tenderness for the girl, or he retained +any remnant of the troublesome feeling that had haunted him; for the shock of +the child’s abduction had driven such small emotions from his mind. But +with the country rising about him, amid this gathering of men upon whom he had +no claim, but who asked nothing better than to be brought face to face with the +authors of the outrage—with these proofs of public sympathy before his +eyes it seemed impossible that a woman, a girl, should wantonly set herself on +the other side, and shield the criminals. It seemed impossible. But then, when +the first news of her elopement with an unknown stranger had reached him, he +had thought that impossible! Yet it had turned out to be true, and less than +the fact; since the man was not only beneath her, but a radical and a villain! +</p> + +<p> +“But I will see Sutton,” he muttered, striving to hold his rage in +check. “I will see Sutton. Perhaps he may be able to explain. Perhaps he +may be able to put another face on the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain would fain have done so; more out of a generous pity for the +unfortunate girl than out of any lingering hope of ingratiating himself with +her. But he did not know what to say, except that though she had gone to the +rendezvous she had not seen nor met any one. He laid stress on that, for he had +nothing else to plead. But he had to allow that her purpose had been to meet +some one; and at the weak attempt to excuse her Clyne’s rage broke forth. +</p> + +<p> +“She is shameless!” he cried. “Shameless! Can you say after +this that she has given up all dealings with her lover? Though she passed her +word and knows him for a married man?” +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot,” he said sorrowfully. “I cannot say that. +But——” +</p> + +<p> +“She gave her word! Tome. To others.” +</p> + +<p> +“I allow it. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But what? What?” with hardly restrained rage. “Will you +still, sir, take her side against the innocent? Against the child, whom she has +conspired to entrap, to carry off, perhaps to murder?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, no!” Mr. Sutton cried in unfeigned horror. “That I +do not believe! I do not believe that for an instant! I allow, I admit,” +he continued eagerly, “that she has been weak, and that she has madly, +foolishly permitted this wretch to retain a hold over her.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” Clyne retorted, his rage at a white heat, “she +has lied to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I admit it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And to others!” +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain could only hold out his hands in deprecation. +</p> + +<p> +“You will admit that she has continued to communicate with a man she +should loathe? A man whom, if she were a modest girl, she would loathe? That +she has stolen to midnight interviews with him, leaving this house as a thief +leaves it? That she has cast all modesty from her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not, do not be too hard on her!” Sutton cried, his face +flushing hotly. “Captain Clyne, I beg—I beg you to be +merciful.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is she who is hard on herself! But have no fear,” Clyne +continued, in a voice cold as the winter fells and as pitiless. “I shall +give her fifteen minutes to come to her senses and behave herself—not as +a decent woman, I no longer ask that, but as a woman, any woman, the lowest, +would behave herself, to save a child’s life. And if she behaves +herself—well. And if not, sir, it is not I who will punish her, but the +law!” +</p> + +<p> +“She will speak,” the chaplain said. “I think she will +speak—for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He was deeply and honestly concerned for the girl: and full of pity for her, +though he did not understand her. +</p> + +<p> +“But—suppose I saw her first?” he suggested. “Just for +a few minutes? I could explain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing that I cannot,” Captain Clyne answered grimly. “And +for a few minutes! Do you not consider,” with a look of suspicion, +“that there has been delay enough already? And too much! Fifteen +minutes,” with a recurrence of the bitter laugh, “she shall have, +and not one minute more, if she were my sister!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton’s face turned red again. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember, sir,” he said bravely, “that she was going to be +your wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do remember it!” Clyne retorted with a withering glance. +“And thank God for His mercy.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br/> +COUSIN MEETS COUSIN</h2> + +<p> +Nadin and the others had not left her more than ten minutes when Henrietta +heard his voice under the window. She was still flushed and heated, sore with +the things which they had said to her, bruised and battered by their vulgarity +and bluster. Indignation still burned in her; and astonishment that they could +not see the case as she saw it. The argument in her own mind was clear. They +must prove that Walterson had committed this new crime, they must prove that if +she betrayed the man she would save the child—and she would speak. Or she +would speak if they would undertake to release the man were he not guilty. But +short of that, no. She would not turn informer against him, whom she had chosen +in her folly—except to save life. What could be more clear, what more +fair, what more logical? And was it not monstrous to ask anything beyond this? +</p> + +<p> +She had wrought herself in truth to an almost hysterical stubbornness on the +point. The romantic bent that had led her to the verge of ruin still inclined +her feelings. Yet when she heard the father’s step approaching along the +passage, she trembled. She gazed in terror at the door. The prospect of the +father’s tears, the father’s supplication, shook her. She had to +say to herself, “I must not tell, I must not! I must not!” as if +the repetition of the words would strengthen her under the torture of his +appeal. And when he entered, in the fear of what he might say she was before +him. She did not look at him, or heed what message his face conveyed—or +she had been frozen into silence. But in a panic she rushed on the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, oh, I am so sorry!” she cried, tears in her voice. +“I would do it, if I could, I would indeed. But I cannot,” +distressfully, “I must not! And I beg you to spare me your +reproaches.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have none to make to you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +It was his tone, rather than his words, which cut her like a whip. +</p> + +<p> +“None!” she cried. “Ah, but you blame me? I am sure you +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not blame you,” he replied in the same cold tone. “My +business here has nothing to do with reproaches or with blame. I give you +fifteen minutes to tell me what you know, and all you know, of the man +Walterson’s whereabouts. That told, I have no more to say to you.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him as one thunderstruck. +</p> + +<p> +“And if I do not do that,” she murmured, “within fifteen +minutes? If I do not tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will go to Appleby gaol,” he said, in the same passionless +tone. “To herd with your like, with such women as may be there.” He +laid his watch on the table, beside his whip and glove; and he looked not at +her, but at it. +</p> + +<p> +“And you? You will send me?” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I?” he replied slowly. “No, I shall merely undo what I did +before. My coming last time saved you from the fate which your taste for low +company had earned. This time I stand aside and the result will be the same as +if I had never come. There is, let me remind you, a minute gone.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him, her face colourless, but her eyes undaunted. But the look +was wasted, for he looked only at his watch. +</p> + +<p> +“You are come, then,” she said, her voice shaking a little, +“not to reproach me, but to insult me! To outrage me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no thought of you,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +The words, the tone, lashed her in the face. Her nostrils quivered. +</p> + +<p> +“You think only of your child!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“That is all,” he answered. And then in the same passionless tone, +“Do not waste time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not——” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not waste time!” he repeated. “That is all I have to say +to you.” +</p> + +<p> +She stood as one stunned; dazed by his treatment of her; shaken to the soul by +his relentless, pitiless tone, by his thinly veiled hatred. +</p> + +<p> +He who had before been cold, precise and just was become inhuman, implacable, a +stone. Presently, “Three minutes are gone,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And if I tell you?” she answered in a voice which, though low, +vibrated with resentment and indignation, “if I tell you what you wish to +know, what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall save the child—I trust. Certainly I shall save him from +further suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will escape for this time.” +</p> + +<p> +Her breast heaved with the passion she restrained. Her foot tapped the floor. +Her fingers drummed on the table. Such treatment was not fit treatment for a +dog, much less for a woman, a gentlewoman! And his injustice! How dared he! How +dared he! What had she done to deserve it? Nothing! No, nothing to deserve +this. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile he seemed to have eyes only for his watch, laid open on the table +before him. But he noted the signs, and he fancied that she was about to break +down, that she was yielding, that in a moment she would fall to weeping, +perhaps would fall on her knees—and tell him all. A faint surprise, +therefore, pierced his pitiless composure when, after the lapse of a long +minute, she spoke in a tone that was comparatively calm and decided. +</p> + +<p> +“You have forgotten,” she said slowly, “that I am of your +blood! That I was to be your wife!” +</p> + +<p> +“It was you who forgot that!” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +She had her riposte ready. +</p> + +<p> +“And wisely!” she answered, “and wisely! How wisely you have +proved to me to-day—you,”—with scorn equal to his +own—“who are willing to sacrifice me, a helpless woman, on the mere +chance of saving your child! Who are willing to send me, a woman of your blood, +to prison and to shame, to herd—you have said it yourself—with such +vile women as prisons hold! And that on the mere chance of saving your son! For +shame, Captain Clyne, for shame!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are wasting time,” he answered. “You have eight +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are determined that I shall go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Or speak.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you not hear,” she asked slowly, “what I have to say on +my side? What reason I have for not speaking? What excuse? What extenuation of +my conduct?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he replied. “Your reasons for speaking or not speaking, +your conduct or misconduct, are nothing to me. I am thinking of my +child.” +</p> + +<p> +“And not at all of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet listen,” she said, with something approaching menace in her +tone, “for you will think of me! You will think of me—presently! +When it is too late, Captain Clyne, you will remember that I stood before you, +that I was alone and helpless, and you would not hear my reasons nor my +excuses. You will remember that I was a girl, abandoned by all, left alone +among strangers and spies, without friend or adviser.” +</p> + +<p> +“I,” he said, coldly interrupting her, “was willing to advise +you. But you took your own path. You know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” she retorted with sudden passion, “that you were +willing to insult me! That you were willing to set me, because I had committed +an act of folly, as low as the lowest! So low that all men were the same to me! +So low that I might be handed like a carter’s daughter who had misbehaved +herself, to the first man who was willing to cover her disgrace. That! that was +your way of helping me and advising me!” +</p> + +<p> +“In two minutes,” he said in measured accents, “the time will +be up!” +</p> + +<p> +He appeared to be quite unmoved by her reproaches. His manner was as cold, as +repellant, as harsh as ever. But he was not so entirely untouched by her appeal +as he wished her to think. For the time, indeed, his heart was numbed by +anxiety, his breast was rendered insensible by the grip of suspense. But the +barbed arrows of her reproaches stuck and remained. And presently the wounds +would smart and rankle, troubling his conscience, if not his heart. It is +possible that he had already a suspicion of this. If so, it only deepened his +rage and his hostility. +</p> + +<p> +With the same pitiless composure, he repeated: +</p> + +<p> +“In two minutes. There is still time, but no more than time.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have told me that you do not wish to hear my reasons?” +</p> + +<p> +“For silence? I do not.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will not turn you,” her voice shook under the maddening sense +of his injustice, “whatever they are?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered, “they will not. And having said that I +have said all that I propose to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“You condemn me unheard?” +</p> + +<p> +“I condemn you? No, the law will condemn you, if you are +condemned.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I, too,” she answered, with a beating heart—for +indignation almost choked her—“have said all that I propose to say. +All!” +</p> + +<p> +“Think! Think, girl!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +She was silent. +</p> + +<p> +He closed his watch with a sharp, clicking sound, and put it in his fob. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not speak?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +Then passion, long restrained, long kept under, swept him away. He took a +stride forward, and before she guessed what he would be at, he had seized her +wrist, gripping it cruelly. +</p> + +<p> +“But you shall!—you shall!” he cried. His face full of +passion was close to hers, he pressed her a pace backwards. “You vixen! +Speak now!” he cried. “Speak!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak or I will force it from you. Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will never speak!” she panted, struggling with him, and trying +to snatch her arm from him. “I will never speak! You coward! Let me +go!” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak or I will break your wrist,” he hissed. +</p> + +<p> +He was hurting her horribly. +</p> + +<p> +But, “Never! Never! Never!” She shrieked the word at him, her face +white with rage and pain, her eyes blazing. “Never, you coward. You +coward! Let me go!” +</p> + +<p> +He let her go then—too late remembering himself. He stepped back. +Breathing hard, she leant against the table, and nursed her bruised wrist in +the other hand. Her face, an instant before white, now flamed with anger. +Never, never since she was a little child had she been so treated, so handled! +Every fibre in her was in revolt. But she did not speak. She only, rocking +herself slightly to and fro, scathed him with her eyes. The coward! The coward! +</p> + +<p> +And he was as yet too angry—though he had remembered himself and released +her—to feel much shame for what he had done. He was too wrapt in the boy +and his object to think soberly of anything else. He went, his hand shaking a +little, his face disordered by the outbreak, to the bell and rang it. As he +turned again, +</p> + +<p> +“Your ruin be on your own head!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +And he looked at her, hating her, hating her rebellious bearing. +</p> + +<p> +He saw in her, with her glowing cheeks and eyes bright with fury, the murderess +of his boy. What else, since, if it was not her plan, she covered it? Since, if +it was not her deed, she would not stay it? She must be one of those feminine +monsters, those Brinvilliers, blonde and innocent to the eye, whom passion +degraded to the lowest! Whom a cursed infatuation made suddenly most base, +driving them to excesses and crimes. +</p> + +<p> +While she, her breast boiling with indignation, her heart bursting with the +sense of bodily outrage, of bodily pain, forgot the anguish he was suffering. +She forgot the provocation that had exasperated him to madness, that had driven +him to violence. She saw in him a cowardly bully, a man cruel, without shame or +feeling. She fully believed now that he had flogged a seaman to death. Why not, +since he had so treated her? Why not, since it was clear that there was no +torture to which he would not resort, if he dared, to wring from her the secret +he desired? +</p> + +<p> +And a torrent of words, a flood of scathing reproaches and fierce home-truths, +rose to her lips. But she repressed them. To complain was to add to her +humiliation, to augment her shame. To protest was to stoop lower. And strung to +the highest pitch of animosity they remained confronting one another in +silence, until the door opened and Justice Hornyold entered, followed by his +clerk. After these Nadin, Bishop, Mr. Sutton, and two or three more trooped in +until the room was half full of people. +</p> + +<p> +It was clear that they had had their orders below, and knew what to expect; for +all looked grave, and some nervous. Even Hornyold betrayed by his air, half +sheepish and half pompous, that he was not quite comfortable. +</p> + +<p> +“The young lady has not spoken?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Clyne answered, breathing quickly. He could not in a moment +return to his ordinary self. “She refuses to speak.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have laid before her reasons?” +</p> + +<p> +He averted his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I have said all I can,” he muttered sullenly. “I have +assured myself that she is privy to this matter, and I withdraw the informal +undertaking which I gave a fortnight ago that she should be forthcoming if +wanted. Unless, therefore, you are satisfied with the landlord’s +bail—but that is for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hornyold shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“With this new charge advanced?” he said. “No, I am afraid +not. Certainly not. But perhaps,” looking at her, “the young lady +will still change her mind. To change the mind”—with a feeble +grin—“is a lady’s privilege.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not tell you anything,” Henrietta said with a catch in her +breath. She hid her smarting, tingling wrist behind her. She might have +complained; but not for the world would she have let them know what he had done +to her, what she had suffered. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton, who was standing in the background, stepped forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Damer,” he said earnestly, “I beg you, I implore you to +think.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have thought,” she answered with stubborn anger. “And if I +could help him,” she pointed to Clyne, “if I could help him by +lifting my finger——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear, dear!” the chaplain cried, appalled by her vehemence. +“Don’t say that! Don’t say that!” +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I say, then?” she answered—still she remembered +herself. “I have told you that I know nothing of the abduction of his +child. That is all I have to say.” +</p> + +<p> +Hornyold shook his sleek head again. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that won’t do,” he said. +“What”—consulting Nadin with his eye—“what do the +officers say?” +</p> + +<p> +Nadin laughed curtly. +</p> + +<p> +“Not by no means, it won’t do!” he said. “What she says +is slap up against the evidence, sir, and evidence strong enough to hang a man. +The truth is, your reverence, the young lady has had every chance, and all said +and done we are losing time. And time is more than money! The sooner she is +under lock and key the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“You apply that she be committed?” Hornyold asked slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“I do, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +The Justice looked at Bishop. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you join in the application?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The officer nodded, but with evident reluctance. +</p> + +<p> +The clerk, who had taken his seat at the corner of the table and laid some +papers before him, dipped his pen in the inkhorn, which he carried at his +button-hole. He prepared to write. “On the charge of being +accessory?” he said in a low voice. “Before or after, Mr. +Nadin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Both,” said Nadin. +</p> + +<p> +“After,” said Bishop. +</p> + +<p> +The clerk looked from one to the other, and then began to write; but slowly, +and as if he wished to leave as long as possible a <i>locus penitentiæ</i>. It +was a feeling shared by all except Captain Clyne. Even the Manchester man, +hardened as he was by a rude life in the roughest of towns, had had jobs more +to his taste—and wished it done; while the feeling of the greater part +was one of pity. The girl was so young, her breeding and refinement were so +manifest, her courage so high, she confronted them so bravely, that they were +sensible of something cruel in their attitude to her; gathered as they were +many to one—and that one a woman with no one of her sex beside her. They +recoiled from the idea of using force to her. And now it was really come to the +point of imprisoning her, those who had a notion what a prison was disliked it +most; fearing not only that she might resist removal and cause a heart-rending +scene, but still more that she had unknown sufferings before her. +</p> + +<p> +For the prisons of that day were not the prisons of to-day. There was no +separation of one class of offenders from another. There were no separate +cells, there were rarely even separate beds. Girls awaiting trial were liable +to be locked up with the worst women-felons. Nay, the very warders were often +old offenders, who had earned their places by favour. In small country prisons, +conditions were better, but air, light, space, and cleanliness were woefully +lacking. Something might be done, no doubt, to soften the lot of a prisoner of +Henrietta’s class; but indulgence depended on the whim of the +jailor—who at Appleby was a blacksmith!—and could be withdrawn as +easily as it was granted. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the clerk looked up over his glasses. “The full name,” he +said, “if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Henrietta Mary Damer.” It was Clyne who spoke. +</p> + +<p> +The clerk added the name, and rising from his seat offered the pen to the +magistrate. But Hornyold hesitated. He looked flurried, and something startled. +</p> + +<p> +“But should not——” he murmured, “ought we not to +communicate with her brother—with—Sir Charles? He must be her +guardian!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Charles,” Clyne answered, “has repudiated all +responsibility. It would be useless to apply to him. I have seen him. And the +matter is a criminal matter.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl said nothing, but her colour faded suddenly. And in the eyes of one or +two she seemed a more pitiful figure, standing alone and mute, than before. But +for the awe in which they held Clyne, and their knowledge of his reason for +severity, the chaplain and Long Tom Gilson, who was one of those by the door, +would have intervened. As it was, Hornyold stooped to the table and signed the +form—or was signing it when the clerk spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“One moment, your reverence,” he said in a low voice. “The +debtors’ quarters at Appleby, where they’d be sure to put the young +lady, are as good as under water at this time of the year. Kendal’s +nearer, she’d be better there. And you’ve power to say which it +shall be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Kendal, then,” Hornyold assented. The name was altered and he +signed the committal. +</p> + +<p> +As he rose from the table, constraint fell on one and all. They wondered +nervously what was to come next; and it was left to Nadin to put an end to the +scene. “Landlord!” he said, turning to the door, “a chaise +for Kendal in ten minutes. And send your servant to go with the young lady to +her room, and get together what she’ll want. You’d best take her, +Bishop.” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop assented in a low tone, and Gilson went out to give the order. Hornyold +said something to Clyne and they talked together in low tones and with averted +faces. Then, still talking, they moved to the door and went out without looking +towards her. The clerk gathered up his papers, handed one to Bishop, and +fastened the others together with a piece of red tape. That done, he, too, rose +and followed the magistrate, making her an awkward bow as he passed. Mr. Sutton +alone remained, and, pale and excited, fidgeted to and fro; he could not bear +to stay, and he could not bear to leave the girl alone with the officers. +Possibly—but to do him justice this went for little—he might by +staying commend himself to her, he might wipe out the awkward impression made +by the night’s adventure. But Clyne put in his head and called him in a +peremptory tone; and he had to go with a feeble apologetic glance at her. She +was left standing by the table, alone with the officers. +</p> + +<p> +For an instant she looked wildly at the door. Then, “May I go to my room +now?” she asked in a low tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Not alone,” Nadin answered—but civilly, for him. “In a +moment the woman will be here, and you can go with her. It’s not quite +regular, but we’ll stretch a point. But you must not be long, miss! +You’ll have no need,” with a faint grin, “of many frocks, or +furbelows, where you’re going.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII<br/> +MR. SUTTON’S NEW RÔLE</h2> + +<p> +When the chaise which carried the prisoner to Kendal had left the inn, and the +search parties had gone their way under leaders who knew the country, and the +long tail of the last shaggy pony had whisked itself out of sight, a dullness +exceeding that of November settled down on the inn by the lake. The road in +front ran, a dull, unbroken ribbon, along the water-side; and alone and +melancholy the chaplain walked up and down, up and down, the last man left. +Occasionally Mrs. Gilson appeared at the door and looked this way and that; but +her eye was sombre and her manner did not invite approach or confidence. +Occasionally, too, Modest Ann’s face was pressed against the window of +the coffee-room, where she was setting out the long table against evening; but +she was disguised in tears and temper, and before Mr. Sutton could identify the +phenomenon, or grasp its meaning, she was gone. The frosty promise of the +morning had vanished, and in its place leaden clouds dulled sky and lake, and +hung heavy and black on the scarred forehead of Bow Fell. Mr. Sutton looked +above and below, and this way and that, and, too restless to go in, found no +comfort without. He wished that he had gone with the searchers, though he knew +not a step of the country. He wished that he had said more for the girl, and +stood up for her more firmly, though to do so had been to quarrel with his +patron. Above all, he wished that he had never seen her, never given way to the +temptation to aspire to her, never started in pursuit of her—last of all, +that he had never stooped to spy on her. He was ill content with himself and +his work; ill content with the world, his patron, everybody, everything. No man +was ever worse content. +</p> + +<p> +For Nemesis in an unexpected form was overtaking, nay even as he walked the +road, had overtaken the chaplain. He had come to marry, he remained to love; he +had come to enjoy, he remained to suffer. He had come, dazzled by the +girl’s rank and fortune, that rank and that fortune which he had thought +so much above himself, and to which her beauty added so piquant and delicate a +charm. And, lo, it was neither her rank, nor her fortune, nor her beauty that, +as he walked, beat at his heart and would be heard, would have entrance; but +the girl’s lonely plight and her disgrace and her trouble. On a sudden, +as he went helplessly and aimlessly and unhappily up and down the road, he +recognised the truth; he knew what was the matter with him. His eyes filled, +his feelings overcame him—and no man was ever more surprised. He had to +walk a little way down the road before, out of ken of the horse, he dared to +wipe the tears from his cheeks. Nor even then could he refrain from one or two +foolish, unmanly gasps. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not think that I was—such a fool!” he muttered. +“Such a fool! I didn’t think it!” +</p> + +<p> +When he regained command of himself he found that his feet had borne him to the +gate-pillar where so much had happened the previous day. To the very place +where he had surprised Henrietta as she arranged her signal, and where she had +so nearly surprised him in the act of watching her! In his new-born repentance, +in his newborn honesty he hated the place; he hated it only less than he hated +the conduct of which it reminded him. And partly out of sentiment, partly out +of some unowned notion of doing penance, he turned and slowly retraced her +course to the inn, treading as far as possible where she had trodden. When he +reached the door he did not go in, but, unwilling to face any one, he went on +as far as a seat on the foreshore, where he had seen her sit. And the sentiment +of her presence still forming the attraction, he wondered if she had paused +there on that morning, or if she had gone indoors at once. +</p> + +<p> +He was so unhappy that he did not feel the cold. The thought of her warmed him, +and he sat for a minute or two, with his eyes on the gloomy face of the lake +that, towards the farther shore, frowned more darkly under the shadow of the +woods. He wished that he understood her conduct better, that he had the clue to +it. He wished that he understood her refusal to speak. But right or wrong, she +was in trouble and he loved her. Ay, right or wrong! For good or ill! Still he +sighed, for all was very dark. And presently he went to rise. +</p> + +<p> +His eyes in the act fell on a few scraps of paper which lay at his feet and +showed the whiter for the general gloom. Letters were not so common then as +now. It was much if one person in five could write. The postage on a note sent +from the south of England to the north was a shilling; the pages were crossed +and recrossed, were often read and cherished long. Paper, therefore, did not +lie abroad, as it lies abroad now; and Mr. Sutton—hardly knowing what he +did—bent his eyes on the scraps. He was long-sighted, and on one morsel a +little larger than its neighbours, he read the word “gate.” +</p> + +<p> +In other circumstances he would not ten seconds later have known what words he +had read. But at the moment he had the incident of the gate-post in his +head—and Henrietta; and he apprehended as in a flash that this might be +the summons which had called her forth the previous night—to her great +damage. He conceived that after answering it by setting the signal on the +gate-post she might have come to this place, and before going into the house +might have torn up the letter and scattered the pieces abroad. If so the secret +lay at his feet; and if he stooped and took it up, he might help her. +</p> + +<p> +He hung in doubt a few seconds. For he was grown strangely scrupulous. But he +reflected that he could destroy the evidence if it bore against her—he +would destroy it! And he gave way. Furtively, but with an eager hand, he +collected the scraps of paper. There were about a score, the size of dice, and +discoloured by moisture, strewn here and there round the seat. Behind, among +the prickly shoots and brown roots of a gorse-bush were as many more, as if she +had dropped a handful there. Another dozen he tracked down, one here, one +there, in spots to which the wind had carried them. It was unlikely that he had +got all, even then. But though he searched as narrowly as he dared—even +going on his knees beside the bush—he could find no more. Doubtless the +wind had taken toll; and at length, carrying what he had found hidden in his +hand, he went into the house and sought refuge in his bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +Eagerly, though he had little hope of finding the result to his mind, he began +to arrange the morsels. He found the task less hard than he had anticipated. +Guided by the straight edges of the paper, he contrived in eight or nine +minutes to piece the letter together; to such an extent, at any rate, as +enabled him to gather its drift. About a fifth of the words were missing; and +among these missing words were the opening phrase, the last two words, and +about a score in the body of the note. But the gist of the message was clear, +its tone and feeling survived; and they not only negatived the notion that +Henrietta was in league with Walterson, but presented in all its strength the +appeal which his prayer must needs have made to the heart of a romantic girl. +</p> + +<p> +“... ed you ill, but men are not as women and I was tempted ... I do not +ask ... forgive ... I ask you to save me. I am in your hands. If you ... the +heart to leave me to a ... lent death, all is said. If you have mercy meet my +... ger at ten to-mor ... ning ... Troutbeck lane comes down to the lake. As I +hope to live you run no risk and can suffer no harm. If you are merci ... spare +me ... put a ... stone, before noon to-morrow, on the post of the ... +gate....” +</p> + +<p> +Strange to say, Mr. Sutton’s first feeling, when he had assured himself +of the truth, was an excessive, furious indignation against his patron. He +forgot, in his pity for the girl, the provocation which Captain Clyne had +suffered. He forgot the child’s peril and the pressure which this had +laid on the father’s feelings. He forgot the light in which the +girl’s stubborn silence had placed her in the eyes of one who believed +that she could save by a word that which he held more precious than his life. +The chaplain was a narrow, and in secret a conceited man; he had been guilty of +some things that ill became his cloth. But he had under his cloth a heart that +once roused was capable of generous passion. And as he stalked up and down the +room in a frenzy of love and pity and indignation, he longed for the moment +which should see him face to face with Captain Clyne. The letter once shown, he +did not conceive that there would be the least difficulty in freeing the girl; +and he yearned for the return of the search parties. It was past four already; +in the valley it was growing dusk. Yet if Clyne returned soon the girl might be +released before night. She might be spared the humiliation, it might well be +the misery, of a night in prison. +</p> + +<p> +His room looked to the back of the inn; and here where all the afternoon had +been plucking of ducks and fowls, and slicing of flitches—for some of the +searchers would need to be fed—lights were beginning to shine and a +cheerful stir and a warm promise of comfort to prevail. From the kitchen, where +the jacks were turning, firelight streamed across the yard, and pattens +clicked, and dogs occasionally yelped; and now and again Mrs. Gilson’s +voice clacked strenuously. In the heat of his feelings Mr. Sutton compared this +outlook with the cold quarters that held his Henrietta; and tears rose anew as +he pictured the dank prison yard and the bare stone rooms, and the squalor and +the company. After that he could not sit still. He could not wait. He must be +acting. He must tell his discovery to some one, no matter to whom. He arranged +the letter between the pages of a book and, having arranged it, took the book +under his arm and ran downstairs. At the door of her snuggery he came upon Mrs. +Gilson, who had just had words with Modest Ann. She eyed him sourly. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to show you something!” he said impetuously, forgetting his +fear of her. “I have discovered something, ma’am! A thing of the +utmost importance.” +</p> + +<p> +She grunted. +</p> + +<p> +“If it has to do with the child,” she said grudgingly, +“I’ll hear it, and thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It has naught to do with the child,” he answered bluntly. +“It has to do with Miss Damer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll have naught to do with it!” the landlady retorted +with equal bluntness, pursing up her lips and speaking as drily as a file. +“I’ve washed my hands of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But listen to me!” he replied. “Listen to me, Mrs. Gilson! +Here’s a young lady——” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s behaved bad from the beginning—bad!” the +landlady answered, cutting him short. “As bad as woman could! A woman, +indeed, would have had some heart, and not have left an innocent child in the +hands of a parcel of murderous villains! No, no, my gentleman, you’ll not +persuade me. An egg is good or bad, as you find it, and ’tis no good +saying that the yolk is good when the white is tainted?” +</p> + +<p> +“But see here, ma’am”—he was bursting with +indignation—“you are entirely wrong! Entirely wrong!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then your reverence had best speak to Captain Clyne, for it’s not +my business!” Mrs. Gilson retorted crushingly. “I’m no +scholar and don’t meddle with writings.” And she turned her broad +back upon him and the book which he proffered her. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton stood a moment in anger equal to his discomfiture. Then he went back +slowly to his pacing in the road. After all the woman could do nothing, she was +nothing. And the search parties would be returning soon. For night was falling. +The last pale daylight was dying on the high fells towards Patterdale; the +outlines of the low lands about the lake were fading into the blur of night. +Here and there a tiny rushlight shone out, high up, and marked a hill-farm. +Possibly the searchers had found the child. In that case, Mr. Sutton’s +heart, which should have leapt at the thought, only mildly rejoiced; and that, +rather on account of the favourable turn the discovery might give to +Henrietta’s affairs, than for his patron’s sake. Not that he was +not sorry for the child, and sorry for the father; he tried, indeed, to feel +more sorry. But he was not a man of warm feelings, and his sensibilities were +selfish. He could not be expected to blossom out in a moment in more directions +than one. It was something if he had learned in the few days he had spent by +the lake to think of any other than himself. +</p> + +<p> +Had he been more anxious, had it been not he, but the father, who paced there +in suspense, dwelling on what a moment might bring forth, he had been keener to +notice things. He had traced, down the shoulder of Wansfell, the slow march of +a dancing light that marked the descent of one of the parties. He had heard +afar off the voices of the men, who announced from Calgarth that Mrs. +Watson’s servants had searched the woods as far as Elleray, but without +success—these, indeed, were the first to come in. Hard on them arrived a +band, under Mr. Curwen’s bailiff, which had made the tour of the +islands—Belle Isle, Lady Holm, Thompson’s Holm, and the +rest—with the same result; and almost at the same moment rode in, with +jaded horses, the troop of yeomen who had undertaken to traverse the broken +country at the head of the lake, between the Brathay and the Rotha. Two +parties, the Troutbeck contingent with which was Captain Clyne, and the riders +who had chosen Stock Ghyll valley and the Kirkstone, were still out at seven; +and as the others had met with no success, their return was eagerly awaited. +For the road between the inn and the lake was astir with life. Ostlers’ +lanthorns twinkled hither and thither, and the place was like a fair. A crowd +of men, muffled in homespun plaids, blocked the doorway, and gabbling over +their ale, stared now in one direction, now in the other; while the more highly +favoured flocked into the snuggery and coffee-room and there discussed the +chances in stentorian tones. The chaplain, with his feelings engaged elsewhere, +wondered at the fury of some, and the heat of all; and was shocked by their +oaths and threats of vengeance. +</p> + +<p> +Clyne and his party came in about half-past seven; and as it chanced that the +Stock Ghyll troop arrived at the same minute, the whole house turned out to +meet the two, and learn their news. Alas, the downcast faces of the riders told +it sufficiently; and every head was uncovered as Clyne, with stern and moody +eyes, rode to the door and dismounted. He turned to the throng of faces, and +the lanthorn-light falling on his features showed them pale and disturbed. +</p> + +<p> +“My friends,” he said, “I thank you. I shall not forget this +day. I shall never forget this day. I——” and then, though he +was a practised speaker, he could not say more or go on. He made a gesture, at +once pathetic and dignified, with his single arm, and turning from them went +slowly up the stairs with his chin on his breast. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="p252"></a> +<img src="images/p252.png" width="342" height="525" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="sc">... every head was uncovered as Clyne ... rode to the +door</span></p> +</div> + +<p> +The farmers were Tories to a man. Even Brougham’s silver tongue had +failed (in the election of the year before) to turn them against the Lowthers. +They were of the class from whom the yeomanry were drawn, and they had scant +sympathy with the radical weavers of Rochdale and Bury, Bolton and Manchester. +Had they caught the villains at this moment, they had made short work of them. +They watched the slight figure with its empty sleeve as it passed into the +house, and their looks of compassion were exceeded only by their curses loud +and deep. And pitiful indeed was the tale which those, who were forced to +leave, carried home to their wives and daughters on the fells. +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain, hovering on the edge of the chattering groups, could not come at +once at his patron, who had no sooner reached the head of the stairs than he +was beset by Nadin and others with reports and arrangements. But as soon as +Clyne had gone wearily to his room to take some food before starting +afresh—for it was determined to continue the search as soon as the moon +rose—the chaplain went to him with his book under his arm. +</p> + +<p> +He found Clyne seated before the fire, with his chin on his hand and his +attitude one of the deepest despondency. He had borne up with difficulty under +the public gaze; he gave way, martinet as he was, the moment he was alone. The +reflection that the child might have been within reach of his voice, yet beyond +his help, that it might be crying to him even now, and crying in vain, that +each hour which exposed it to hardship endangered its life—such thoughts +harrowed the father’s feelings almost beyond endurance. Sutton suspected +from his attitude that he was praying; and for a moment the chaplain, touched +and affected, was in two minds about disturbing him. But he, too, had his +harassing thoughts. His heart, too, burned with pity. And to turn back now was +to abandon hope—grown forlorn already—of freeing Henrietta that +evening. He went forward therefore with boldness. He laid his book on the +table, and finding himself unheeded, cleared his throat. +</p> + +<p> +“I have something here,” he said—and his voice despite +himself was needlessly stiff and distant—“which I think it my duty, +Captain Clyne, to show you without delay.” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne turned slowly and rose as he turned. +</p> + +<p> +“To show me?” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? You have not”—raising his eyes with a sudden +intake of breath—“discovered anything? A clue?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have discovered something,” the chaplain answered slowly. +“It is a clue of a kind.” +</p> + +<p> +A rush of blood darkened Clyne’s face. He held out a shaking hand. +</p> + +<p> +“To where the lad is?” he ejaculated, taking a step forward. +“To where they have taken him? If it be so, God bless you, Sutton! God +bless you! God bless you! I’ll never——” +</p> + +<p> +The clergyman cut him short. He was shocked by the other’s intense +excitement and frightened by the swelling of his features. He stayed him by a +gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” he cried. “I did not mean, sir, to awaken false +hopes. Pray pardon me. Pray pardon me. It is a clue, but to Miss Damer’s +conduct this morning! To her conduct throughout. To her reasons for silence. +Which were not, I am now able to show you, connected with any feeling of +hostility to you, Captain Clyne, but rather imposed upon +her——” +</p> + +<p> +But Clyne’s face had settled into a mask of stone. Only he knew what the +disappointment was! And at that word, “I care not what they were!” +he said in a voice incredibly harsh, “or how imposed! If that be +all—if that is all you are here to tell me——” +</p> + +<p> +“But if it be all, it is all to her!” Sutton retorted, stung in his +turn. “And most urgent, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“As to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“As to her. It places her conduct in an entirely different light, Captain +Clyne, and one which it is your duty to recognise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I not said,” Clyne answered with bitter vehemence, +“that I wish to hear naught of her conduct? Do you know, sir, in what +light I regard her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope in none that—that——” +</p> + +<p> +“As a murderess,” Clyne answered in the same tone of restrained +fury. “She has conspired against a child! A boy who never harmed her, and +now never could have harmed her! She is not worthy of the name of woman! I +thank God that He has helped me to keep her out of my mind as I rode to-day. +And you—you must needs bring her up again! Know that I loathe and detest +her, sir, and pray that I may never see her, never hear her name again!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton raised his hands in horror. +</p> + +<p> +“You are unjust!” he cried. “Indeed, indeed, you are +unjust!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that to you? And who are you to talk to me? Is it your child who +is missing? Your child who is being tortured, perhaps out of life? Who, a +cripple, is being dragged at these men’s heels? You? You? What have you +to do with this?” +</p> + +<p> +The tone was crushing. But the chaplain, too, had his stubborn side, and +resentment flamed within him as he thought of the girl and her lot. “Do I +understand then,” he said—he was very pale—“that you +refuse to hear what I have by chance discovered—in Miss Damer’s +favour?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“That you will not, Captain Clyne, even look at this letter—this +letter which I have found and which exonerates her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” Clyne replied harshly. “Never! And, now you know my +mind, go, sir, and do not return to this subject! This is no time for trifling, +nor am I in the mood.” +</p> + +<p> +But the chaplain held his ground, though he was very nervous. And a resolution, +great and heroic, took shape within him, growing in a moment to full +size—he knew not how. He raised his meagre figure to its full height, and +his pale peaky face assumed a dignity which the pulpit had never known. +“I, too, am in no mood for trifling, Captain Clyne,” he said. +“But I do not hold this matter trifling. On the contrary, I wish you to +understand that I think it so important that I consider it my duty to press it +upon you by every means in my power!” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne looked at him wrathfully, astonished at his presumption. “The girl +has turned your head,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain waived the words aside. “And therefore,” he continued, +“if you decline, Captain Clyne, to read this letter, or to consider the +evidence it contains——” +</p> + +<p> +“That I do absolutely! Absolutely!” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg to resign my office,” Mr. Sutton responded, trembling +violently. “I will no longer—I will no longer serve one, however +much I respect him, or whatever my obligations to him, who refuses to do +justice to his own kith and kin, who refuses to stand between a helpless girl +and wrong! Vile wrong!” And he made a gesture with his hands as if he +laid something on the table. +</p> + +<p> +If his object was to gain possession of Captain Clyne’s attention he +succeeded. Clyne looked at him with as much surprise as anger. +</p> + +<p> +“She has certainly turned your head,” he said in a lower tone, +“if you are not playing a sorry jest, that is. What is it to you, man, if +I follow my own judgment? What is Miss Damer to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You offered her to me,” with a trembling approach to sarcasm, +“for my wife. She is so much to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I understood that she would not take you,” Clyne retorted; and +now he spoke wearily. The surprise of the other’s defiance was beginning +to wear off. “But, there, perhaps I was mistaken, and then your anxiety +for her interests is explained.” +</p> + +<p> +“Explain it as you please,” Mr. Sutton answered with fire, +“if you will read this letter and weigh it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not,” Clyne returned, his anger rising anew. “Once +for all, I will not!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I resign the chaplaincy I hold, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Resign and be d——d!” the naval captain answered. The +day had cruelly tried his temper. +</p> + +<p> +“Your words to me,” Mr. Sutton retorted furiously, “and your +conduct to her are of a piece!” And white with passion, his limbs +trembling with excitement, he strode to the door. He halted on the threshold, +bowed low, and went out. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br/> +IN KENDAL GAOL</h2> + +<p> +Bishop, in his corner of the chaise, made his burly person as small as he +could. He tried his best to hide his brown tops and square-toed boots. In her +corner Henrietta sat upright, staring rigidly before her. For just one moment, +as she passed from the house to the carriage, under a score of staring eyes, a +scarlet flush had risen to her very hair, and she had shrunk back. But the +colour had faded as quickly as it had risen; she had restrained herself, and +taken her seat. And now the screes of Bow Fell, flecked with snow, were not +more cold and hard than her face as she gazed at the postilion’s moving +back and saw it not. She knew that she was down now without hope of rising; +that, the prison doors once closed on her, their shadow would rest on her +always. And her heart was numbed by despair. The burning sense of injustice, of +unfairness, which sears and hardens the human heart more quickly and more +completely than any other emotion, would awaken presently. But for the time she +sat stunned and hopeless; dazed and confounded by the astonishing thing which +had happened to her. To be sent to prison! To be sent to herd—she +remembered his very words—with such vile creatures as prisons hold! To be +at the beck and call of such a man as this who sat beside her. To have to obey; +and to belong no longer to herself, but to others! As she thought of all this, +and of the ordeal before her, fraught with humiliations yet unknown, a hunted +look grew in her eyes, and for a few minutes she glanced wildly first out of +this window, then out of that. To prison! She was going to prison! +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately her native courage came to her aid in her extremity. And Bishop, +who was not blind to her emotion, spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you be over-frightened, miss,” he said soothingly. +“There’s naught to be scared about. I’ll speak to them, and +they’ll treat you well. Not that a gaol is a comfortable place,” he +continued, remembering his duty to his employer; “and if you could see +your way to speaking—even now, miss—I’d take it on me to turn +the horses.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to say,” she answered, with a shudder and an +effort—for her throat was dry. But the mere act of speaking broke the +spell and relieved her of some of her fears. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the little boy I’m thinking of,” Bishop continued +in a tone of apology. “Captain Clyne thinks the world of him. The world +of him! But, lord, miss!” abruptly changing his tone, as his eyes +alighted on her wrist, “what have you done to your arm?” +</p> + +<p> +She hid her wrist quickly, and with her face averted said that it was nothing, +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Bishop shook his head sagely. +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt you bruised it getting out of the window,” he said. +“Well, well, miss; live and learn. Another time you’ll be wiser, I +hope; and not do such things.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer, and the chaise passing by Plumgarth began to descend into +the wide stony valley. Below them the white-washed walls and slated roofs and +mills of Kendal could be seen clustering about the Castle Bow and the old grey +ruin that rises above the Ken river. On either hand bleak hills, seamed with +grey walls, made up a landscape that rose without beauty to a lowering sky. +There were few trees, no hedges; and somewhere the cracked bell of a drugget +factory or a dye-works was clanging out a monotonous summons. To +Henrietta’s eye—fresh from the lake-side verdure—and still +more to her heart, the northern landscape struck cold and cheerless. It had +given her but a sorry welcome had she been on her way to seek the hospitality +of the inn. How much poorer was its welcome when she had no prospect before her +but the scant comfort and unknown hardships of a gaol! +</p> + +<p> +The chaise did not enter the town, but a furlong short of it turned aside and +made for a group of windowless buildings, which crowned a small eminence a +bow-shot from the houses. As the horses drew the chaise up the ascent to a +heavy stone doorway, Henrietta had time to see that the entrance was mean, if +strong, and the place as unpretending as it was dull. Nevertheless, her heart +beat almost to suffocation, as she stepped out at a word from Bishop, who had +alighted at once and knocked at the iron-studded door. With small delay a +grating was opened, a pale face, marked by high, hollow temples, looked out; +and some three or four sentences were exchanged. Then the door was unlocked and +thrown open. Bishop signed to her to enter first and she did so—after an +imperceptible pause. She found herself in a small well-like yard, with the door +and window of the prison-lodge on her left and dead walls on the other sides. +</p> + +<p> +Two children were playing on the steps of the lodge, and some linen, dubiously +drying in the cold winter air, hung on a line stretched from the window to a +holdfast in the opposite wall. Unfortunately, the yard had been recently +washed, and still ran with water; so that these homely uses, and even the bench +and pump which stood in a corner, failed to impart much cheerfulness to its +aspect. Had Henrietta’s heart been capable of sinking lower it had +certainly done so. +</p> + +<p> +The children stared open-mouthed at her: but not with half as much astonishment +as the man in shirt sleeves who had admitted her. “Eh, sir, but +you’ve brought the cage a fine bird,” he said at last. “Your +servant, miss. Well, well, well!” with surprise. And he scratched his +head and grinned openly. “Debtors’ side, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Remand,” Bishop answered with a wink and a meaning shake of the +head. “Here’s the warrant. All’s right.” And then to +Henrietta—“If you’ll sit down on that bench, miss, I’ll +fix things up for you.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl, her face a little paler than usual, sat down as she was bidden, and +looked about her. This was not her notion of a prison; for here were neither +gyves nor dungeons, but just a slatternly, damp yard—as like as could be +to some small backyard in the out-offices of her brother’s house. +Nevertheless, the gyves might be waiting for her out of sight; and with or +without them, the place was horribly depressing that winter afternoon. The sky +was grey above, the walls were grey, the pavement grey. She was almost glad +when Bishop and the man in shirt-sleeves emerged from the lodge followed by a +tall, hard-featured woman in a dirty mob-cap. The woman’s arms were bare +to the elbow, and she carried a jingling bunch of keys. She eyed Henrietta with +dull dislike. +</p> + +<p> +“That is settled, then,” Bishop said, a little overdoing the +cheerfulness at which he aimed. “Mother Weighton will see to you, and +’twill be all right. There are four on the debtors’ side, and +you’ll be best in the women-felons’, she thinks, since it’s +empty, and you’ll have it all to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta heaved a deep sigh of relief. “I shall be alone, then?” +she said. “Oh, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, you’ll be alone,” the woman answered, staring at her. +“Very much alone! But I’m not sure you’ll thank me, +by-and-by. You madams are pretty loud for company, I’ve always found, +when you’ve had your own a bit.” Then, “You don’t mind +being locked up in a yard by yourself?” she continued, with a close look +at the girl’s face and long grey riding-dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, I shall be grateful to you,” Henrietta said eagerly, +“if you will let me be alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, we’ll see how you like it,” the woman retorted. +“Here, Ben,” to her husband, “I suppose she is too much of a +fine lady to carry her band-box—yet awhile. Do you bring it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” Bishop said, “the young lady will be grateful +for any kindness, Mrs. Weighton. I will wait till you’ve lodged her +comfortably. God bless my soul,” he continued, screwing up his features, +as he affected to look about him, “I don’t know that one’s +not as well in as out!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s no writs nor burglars!” the jailor answered +with a grin. “And the young folks, male nor female, don’t get into +trouble through staying out o’ nights. Now, then, missis,” to his +wife, “no need to be all day over it.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman unlocked a low door in the wall opposite the lodge, but at the inner +end of the yard; and she signed to Henrietta to enter before her. The girl did +so, and found herself in a flagged yard about thirty feet square. On her right +were four mean-looking doors having above each a grated aperture. Henrietta +eyed these and her heart sank. They were only too like the dungeons she had +foreseen! But the jailor’s wife turned to the opposite side of the yard +where were two doors with small glazed windows over them. The two sides that +remained consisted of high walls, surmounted by iron spikes. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll put you in a day-room as they’re all empty,” the +woman grumbled. She meant not ill, but she had the unfortunate knack of making +all her concessions with a bad grace. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon she unlocked one of the doors, and disclosed a small whitewashed +room, cold, but passably clean. A rough bench and table occupied the middle of +the floor, and in a corner stood a clumsy spinning-wheel. The floor was of +stone, but there was a makeshift fireplace, dulled by rust and dirt. +</p> + +<p> +“Get in a bedstead, Ben,” she continued. “I suppose,” +looking abruptly at Henrietta, “you are not used to chaff, young +woman?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl stared. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand, I am afraid,” she faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“You are used to feathers, I dare say?” with a sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, for a bed?” +</p> + +<p> +“What else?” impatiently. “Good lord, haven’t you your +senses? You can have your choice. It’s eight-pence for chaff, and a +shilling for feathers.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t mind paying while I’ve money,” Henrietta said +humbly. “If you’ll please to charge me what is right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s cheap enough, lord knows; for since the changes +there’s no garnish this side. And for the third of the earnings +that’s left to us, I’d not give fippence a week for all!” +</p> + +<p> +The man had dragged in, while she talked, a kind of wooden trough for the bed, +and set it in a corner. He had then departed for firing, and returned with a +shovelful of burning coals, for the room was as cold as the grave. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a pump in the yard,” the woman said, “and a +can and basin, but you must serve yourself. And there’s a pitcher for +drinking. And you can have from the cook-shop what you like to order in. +You’ll have to keep your place clean; but as long as you behave yourself, +we’ll treat you according. Only let us have no scratching and +screaming!” she continued. “Tempers don’t pay here, +I’ll warn you. And for swoonings we just turn the tap on! So do you take +notice.” And with a satisfied look round, “For the rest, +there’s many a young woman that’s not gone wrong that’s not +so comfortable as you, my girl. And I’d have you know it.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta coloured painfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall do very well,” she said meekly. “But I’ve not +done anything wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay,” the woman answered unconcernedly, “they all say +that! That’s of course. But I can’t stay talking here. What’d +you like for your supper? A pint of stout, and a plate of a-la-mode? Or a +chop?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta reduced the order to tea and a white loaf and butter—if it +could be got—and asked meekly if she might have something to read. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Kendal Chronicle</i> was promised. “You’ll have your meal at +five,” Mother Weighton continued. “And your light must be out at +eight, and you’ll have to ’tend service in chapel on Sunday. By +rule your door should be locked at five; but as you’re alone, and the +lock’s on the yard, I’ll say naught about that. You can have the +run of the yard as a favour and till another comes in.” +</p> + +<p> +Then with a final look round she went out, her pattens clinked across the +court, and Henrietta heard the key turned in the outer door. +</p> + +<p> +She stood a moment pressing her hands to her eyes, and trying to control +herself. At length she uncovered her eyes, and she looked again round the +whitewashed cell. Yes, it was real. The flagged floor, the bench, the table, +the odd-looking bed in its wooden trough—all were real, hard, bare. And +the solitude and the dreary silence, and the light that was beginning to fade! +The place was far from her crude notion of a prison; but in its cold, naked +severity it was as far outside her previous experience. She was in prison, and +this was her cell, that was her prison-yard. And she was alone, quite, quite +alone. +</p> + +<p> +A sob rose in her throat, and then she laughed a little hysterically, as she +remembered their way with those who fainted. And sitting limply down, she +warmed herself at the fire, and dried two or three tears. She looked about her +again, eyed again the whitewashed walls, and listened. The silence was +complete; it almost frightened her. And her door had no fastening on the +inside. That fact moved her in the end to rise, and go out and explore the +yard, that she might make sure before the light failed that no one was locked +in with her, that no one lurked behind the closed cell doors. +</p> + +<p> +The task was not long. She tried the five doors, and found them all locked; she +knocked softly on them, and got no answer. The pump, the iron basin, a well +scrubbed bench, a couple of besoms, and a bucket, she had soon reviewed all +that the yard held. There was a trap or Judas-hole in the outer door, and +another, which troubled her, in the door of her cell. But on the whole the +survey left her reassured and more at ease; the place, though cold, bare, and +silent, was her own. And when her tea and a dip-candle appeared at five she was +able to show the jailor’s wife a cheerful face. +</p> + +<p> +The woman had heard more of her story by this time, and eyed her with greater +interest, and less rudely. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll not be afraid to be alone?” she said. +“You’ve no need to be. You’re safe enough here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not afraid,” Henrietta answered meekly. +“But—couldn’t I have a fastening on my door, please?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the inside? Lord, no! But I can lock you in if you like,” with +a grin. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no! I did not mean that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then you must just push the table against the door. It’s +against rules,” with a wink, “but I shan’t be here to +see.” And pulling her woollen shawl more closely about her, she continued +to stare at the girl. Presently, “Lord’s sakes!” she said, +“it’s a queer world! I suppose you never was in a jail before? +Never saw the inside of one, perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s something political, I’m told,” snuffing the +candle with her fingers, and resuming her inquisitive stare. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“With a man in it, of course! Drat the men! They do a plaguey deal of +mischief! Many’s the decent lass that’s been transported because of +them!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta’s smile faded suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope it’s not as bad as that,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know,” scrutinising the girl’s face. +“It’s for you to say. The officer that brought you—quite the +gentleman too—told us it was something to do with a murder. But you know +best.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hope not too! For if it be, it’ll be mighty unpleasant for +you. It’s not three years since a lad I knew myself was sent across seas +for just being out at night with a rabbit-net. So it’s easy done and soon +over! And too late crying when the milk’s spilt.” And once more +snuffing the candle and telling Henrietta to leave her door open until she had +crossed the yard, she took herself off. Once more, but now with a sick qualm, +the girl heard the key turned on her. +</p> + +<p> +“Transportation!” She did not know precisely what it meant; but she +knew that it meant something very dreadful. “Transportation! Oh, it is +impossible!” she murmured, “impossible! I have done nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +Yet the word frightened her, the shadow of the thing haunted her. These locks +and bars, this solitude, this cold routine, was it possible that once in their +clutch the victim slid on, helpless and numbed—to something worse? +To-day, deaf to her protests, they had sent her here—sent her by a force +which seemed outside themselves. And no one had intervened in her favour. No +one had stepped forward to save her or speak for her. Would the same thing +befall her again? Would they try her in the same impersonal fashion—as if +she were a thing, a chattel,—and find her guilty, condemn her, and hand +her over to brutal officials, and—she rose from her bench, shuddering, +unable to bear the prospect. She had begun the descent, must she sink to the +bottom? Was it inevitable? Could she no longer help herself? Sick, shivering +with sudden fear she walked the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is impossible!” she cried, battling against her terror, and +trying to reassure herself. “It is impossible!” And for the time +she succeeded by a great effort in throwing off the nightmare. +</p> + +<p> +No one came near her again that evening. And quite early the dip burned low, +and worn out and tired she went to bed, only partially undressing herself. The +bedding, though rough and horribly coarse, was clean, and, little as she +expected it, she fell asleep quickly in the strange stillness of the prison. +</p> + +<p> +She slept until an hour or two before dawn. Then she awoke and sat up with a +child’s cry in her ears. The impression was so real, so vivid that the +bare walls of the cell seemed to ring with the plaintive voice. Quaking and +perspiring she listened. She was sure that it was no dream; the voice had been +too real, too clear; and she wondered in a panic what it could be. It was only +slowly that she remembered where she was and recognised that no child’s +cry could reach her there. Nor was it until after a long interval that she lay +down again. +</p> + +<p> +Even then she was not alone. The image of a little child, lonely, friendless, +and terrified, stayed with her, crouched by her pillow, sat weeping in the dark +corners of the cell, haunted her. She tried to shake off the delusion, but the +attempt was in vain. Conscience, that in the dark hours before the dawn +subjects all to his sceptre, began to torment her. Had she acted rightly? Ought +she to have put the child first and her romantic notions second? And if any ill +happened to it—and it was a delicate, puny thing—would it lie at +her door? +</p> + +<p> +Remorse began to rack her. She wondered that she had not thought more of the +child, been wrung with pity for it, sympathised more deeply with its fears and +its misery. What, beside its plight, was hers? What, beside its terrors, were +her fears? Thus tormenting herself she lay for some time, and was glad when the +light stole in and she could rise, cold as it was, and set her bed and her cell +in order. By the time this was done, and she had paced for half an hour up and +down to warm herself, a girl of eight, the jailor’s child, came with a +shovel of embers and helped her to light the fire—staring much at her the +while. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother said I could help you make your bed,” she began. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta, with a smile said that she had made it already. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother thought you’d be too fine to make it,” still staring. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see I am not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad of that,” the child answered candidly. “For mother +said you’d have to come to it and to worse, if you were transported, +miss.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta winced afresh, and looked at the imp less kindly. +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m not going to be transported,” she said positively. +“You’re talking nonsense.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s never been any one transported from here.” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” with relief. “Then why should I be?” +</p> + +<p> +“But there was a man hanged three years ago. It was for stealing a lamb. +They didn’t let me see it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And very right, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“But mother’s promised”—with triumph—“that +if you’re transported I shall see it!” After which there was +silence while the child stared. At last, “Are you ready for your +breakfast now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said poor Henrietta. “But I am not very +hungry—you can tell your mother.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br/> +THE RÔLE CONTINUED</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton slept as ill on the night of his resignation as he had ever slept in +his life. And many times as he tossed and turned on his bed he repented at +leisure the step which he had taken in haste. Acting upon no previous +determination, he had sacrificed in the heat of temper his whole professional +future. He had staked his all; and he had done no good even to the cause he had +at heart. The act would not bear thinking upon; certainly it would not bear the +cold light of early reflection. And many, many times as he sighed upon his +uneasy pillow did he wish, as so many have wished before and since, that he +could put back the clock. Had he left the room five minutes earlier, had he +held his tongue, however ungraciously, had he thought before he spoke, he had +done as much for Henrietta and he had done no harm to himself. And he had been +as free as he was now, to seek his end by other means. +</p> + +<p> +For he had naught to do now but seek that end. He had not Mr. Pitt’s nose +in vain: he was nothing if he was not stubborn. And while Henrietta might +easily have had a more discreet, she could hardly have had a more persevering, +friend. Amid the wreck of his own fortunes, with his professional future laid +in ruins about him, he clung steadfastly to the notion of righting her, and +found in that and in the letter in his book, his only stay. At as early an hour +as he considered decent, he would apply to Mr. Hornyold, lay the evidence +before the Justice, and press for the girl’s release. +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately, he lay so long revolving the matter that at daybreak he fell +asleep. The house was busy and no one gave a thought to him, and ten had struck +before he came down and shamefacedly asked for his breakfast. Mrs. Gilson put +it before him, but with a word of girding at his laziness; which the good woman +could not stomach, when half the countryside were on foot searching for the +boy, and when the unhappy father, after a night in the saddle, had left in a +postchaise to follow up a clue at Keswick. Blameworthy or not, Mr. Sutton found +the delay fatal. When he called on Mr. Hornyold, the Justice was not at home. +He had left the house and would not return until the following day. +</p> + +<p> +Sutton might have anticipated this check, but he had not; and he walked back to +the inn, plunged to the very lips in despondency. The activity of the people +about him, their eagerness in the search, their enthusiasm, all reflected on +him and sank him in his own esteem. Yet if he would, he could not share in +these things or in these feelings. He stood outside them; his sympathies were +fixed, obstinately fixed, elsewhere. And, alas, in the only direction in which +he desired to proceed, and in which he discerned a possible issue, he was +brought to a full stop. +</p> + +<p> +He was in the mood to feel small troubles sorely, and as he neared the inn he +saw that Mrs. Gilson was standing at the door. It vexed him, for he felt that +he cut a poor figure in the landlady’s eyes. He knew that he seemed to +her a sorry thing, slinking idly about the house, while others wrought and did. +He feared her sharp tongue and vulgar tropes, and he made up his mind to pass +by the house as if he did not see her. He was in the act of doing this, +awkwardly and consciously, with his eyes averted—when she called to him. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’re looking for Squire Clyne,” she said, in very much +the tone he expected, “he’s gone these three hours past and some to +that!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was not,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she answered with sarcasm, “I suppose you are looking +for the boy. You will not find him, I’m afraid, on the King’s +highroad!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was not looking for him,” he answered churlishly. +</p> + +<p> +“More shame to you!” Mrs. Gilson cried, with a spark in her eye. +“More shame to you! For you should be!” +</p> + +<p> +He flamed up at that, after the passionate manner of such men when roused. He +stopped and faced her, trembling a little. +</p> + +<p> +“And to whom is it a shame,” he cried, “that wicked, foul +injustice is done? To whom is it a shame that the innocent are sent to herd +with the guilty? To whom is it a shame—woman!—that when there is +good, clear evidence put before their eyes, it is not read? Nor used? The +boy?” vehemently, “the boy? Is he the only one to be considered, +and sought and saved? Is his case worse than hers? I too say shame!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson stared. “Lord save the man!” she cried, as much +astonished as if a sheep had turned on her, “with his shames and his +whoms! He’s as full of words as a Wensleydale of mites! I don’t +know what you are in the pulpit, your reverence, but on foot and in the road, +Mr. Brougham was naught to you!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’d not the reason,” the chaplain answered bitterly. And +brought down by her remark—for his passion was of the shortest—he +turned, and was moving away, morose and despondent, when the landlady called +after him a second time, but in a more friendly tone. Perhaps curiosity, +perhaps some new perception of the man moved her. +</p> + +<p> +“See here, your reverence,” she said. “If you’ve a mind +to show me this fine evidence of yours, I’m not for saying I’ll not +read it. Lord knows it’s ill work going about like a hen with an egg she +can’t lay. So if you’ve a mind to get it off your mind, I’ll +send for my glasses, and be done with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you?” he replied, his face flushing with the hope of making a +convert. “Will you? Then there, ma’am, there it is! It’s the +letter that villain sent to her to draw her to meet him that night. If you +can’t see from that what terms they were on, and that she had no choice +but to meet him, I—but read it! Read it!” +</p> + +<p> +She called for her glasses and having placed them on her nose, set the nose at +such an angle that she could look down it at the page. This was Mrs. +Gilson’s habit when about to read. But when all was arranged her face +fell. “Oh dear!” she said, “it’s all bits and scraps, +like a broken curd! Lord save the man, I can’t read this. I canna make +top nor tail of it! Here, let me take it inside. Truth is, I’m no scholar +in the open air.” +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain, trembling with eagerness, set straight three or four bits of +paper which he had deranged in opening the book. Then, not trusting it out of +his own hands, he bore the book reverently into the landlady’s snuggery, +and set it on the table. Mrs. Gilson rearranged her nose and glasses, and after +gazing helplessly for a few moments at the broken screed, caught some thread of +sense, clung to it desperately, and presently began to murmur disjointed +sentences in the tone of one who thought aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Um—um—um—um!” +</p> + +<p> +Had the chaplain been told a fortnight before that he would wait with bated +breath for an old woman’s opinion of a document, he would have laughed at +the notion. But so it was; and when a ray of comprehension broke the frowning +perplexity of Mrs. Gilson’s face, and she muttered, “Lord ha’ +mercy! The villain!” still more when an April cloud of mingled anger and +pity softened her massive features—the chaplain’s relief was itself +a picture. +</p> + +<p> +“A plague on the rascal!” the good woman cried. “He’s +put it so as to melt a stone, let alone a silly child like that! I don’t +know that if he’d put it so to me, when I was a lass, I’d have told +on him. I don’t think I would!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s plain that she’d no understanding with him!” Mr. +Sutton cried eagerly. “You can see that, ma’am!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think I can. The villain!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s quite clear that she had broken with him!” +</p> + +<p> +“It does look so, poor lamb!” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor lamb indeed!” Mr. Sutton replied with feeling. “Poor +lamb indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet you’ll remember,” Mrs. Gilson answered—she was +nothing if not level-headed—“he’d the lad to think of! +He’d his boy to think of! I am sure my heart bled for him when he went +out this morning. I doubt he’d not slept a wink, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think she slept either?” the chaplain asked, something +bitterly; and his eyes glowed in his pale face. “Do you consider how +young she is and gently bred, ma’am? And where they’ve sent her, +and to what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph!” the landlady replied, and she rubbed her ponderous cheek +with the bowl of a punch-ladle, and looked, frowning, at the letter. The +operation, it was plain, clarified her thoughts; and Mr. Sutton’s +instinct told him to be mute. For a long minute the distant clatter of Modest +Ann’s tongue, and the clink of pattens in the yard, were the only sounds +that broke the lemon-laden silence of the room. Perhaps it was the glint of the +fire on the rows of polished glass, perhaps the sight of her own well-cushioned +chair, perhaps only a memory of Henrietta’s fair young face and piled-up +hair that wrought upon the landlady. But whatever the cause she groaned. And +then, “He ought to see this!” she said. “He surely ought! And +dang me, he shall, if he leaves the house to-night! After all, two wrongs +don’t make a right. He’s to Keswick this morning, but an hour after +noon he’ll be back to learn if there’s news. It’s only here +he can get news, and if he has not found the lad he’ll be back! And +I’ll put it on his plate——” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you!” cried Mr. Sutton. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but I’m not saying he’ll do anything,” the +landlady answered tartly. “If all’s true the young madam has not +behaved so well that she’ll be the worse for smarting a bit!” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll be much obliged to you,” said the chaplain humbly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, she’ll not!” Mrs. Gilson retorted. “Nor to you, +don’t you think it! She’s a Tartar or I’m mistaken. +You’ll be obliged, you mean!” And she looked at the parson over her +glasses as if she were appraising him in a new character. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been to Mr. Hornyold,” he said, “but he was out +and will not be back until to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, he’s more in his boots than on his knees most days,” the +landlady answered. “But what I’ve said, I’ll do, that’s +flat. And here’s the coach, so it’s twelve noon.” +</p> + +<p> +She tugged at the cord of the yard bell, and its loud jangle in a twinkling +roused the house to activity and the stables to frenzy. The fresh team were led +jingling and prancing out of the yard, the ostlers running beside them. Modest +Ann and her underling hastened to show themselves on the steps of the inn, and +Mrs. Gilson herself passed into the passage ready to welcome any visitor of +consequence. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bishop and two Lancashire officers who had been pushing the quest in the +Furness district descended from the outside of the coach. But they brought no +news; and Sutton, as soon as he learned this, did not linger with them. The +landlady’s offer could not have any immediate result, since Clyne was not +expected to return before two; and the chaplain, to kill time, went out at the +back, and climbed the hill. He walked until he was tired, and then he turned, +and at two made his way back to the inn, only to learn that Clyne had not yet +arrived. None the less, the short day already showed signs of drawing in. There +was snow in the sky. It hung heavy above Langdale Pikes and over the long +ragged screes of Bow Fell. White cushions of cloud were piled one on the other +to the northward, and earth and sky were alike depressing. Weary and +despondent, Sutton wandered into the house, and sitting down before the first +fire he found, he fell fast asleep. +</p> + +<p> +He awoke with a confused murmur of voices in his ears. The room was dark save +for the firelight; and for a few seconds he fancied that he was still alone. +The men whose talk he heard were in another part of the house, and soothed by +their babble and barely conscious where he was, he was sinking away again when +a harsh word and a touch on his sleeve awoke him. He sprang up, startled and +surprised, and saw that Captain Clyne, his face fitfully revealed by the flame, +was standing on the other side of the hearth. He was in his riding boots and +was splashed to the waist. +</p> + +<p> +His face was paler than usual, and his pose told of fatigue. +</p> + +<p> +“Awake, man, awake!” he repeated. “Didn’t you hear +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I—I was dozing,” the chaplain faltered, as he put back +his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” Clyne answered drily. “I wish I could sleep. Well, +listen now. I have been back an hour, and I have read this.” He laid his +hand on an object on the table, and Sutton with joy saw that the object was the +book which he had left with Mrs. Gilson. “I am sorry,” Clyne +continued in a constrained tone, “that I did not read it last evening. I +was wrong. But—God help me, I think I am almost mad! Anyway I have read +it now, and I credit it, and I think that—she has been harshly treated. +And I am here to tell you,” a little more distinctly, “that you can +arrange the matter to your satisfaction, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Sutton stared. “Do you mean,” he said, “that I may arrange +for her release?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have settled that,” Clyne answered. “Mr. Hornyold is not +at home, but I have seen Mr. Le Fleming, and have given bail for her appearance +when required; and here is Le Fleming’s order for her release. I have +ordered a postchaise to be ready and it will be at the door in ten +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But then—all is done?” the chaplain said. +</p> + +<p> +“Except fetching her back,” Clyne answered. “She must come +here. There is nowhere else for her to go. But I leave that to you, since her +release is due to you. I have done her an injustice, and done you one too. But +God knows,” he continued bitterly, “not without provocation. Nor +willingly, nor knowingly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure of that,” the chaplain answered meekly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Of course,” Clyne continued, awkwardly, “I shall not +consider what you said to me as said at all. On the contrary, I am obliged to +you for doing your duty, Mr. Sutton, whatever the motive.” +</p> + +<p> +“The motive——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not say,” stiffly, “that the motive was an improper +one. Not at all. I cannot blame you for following up my own plan.” +</p> + +<p> +“I followed my feelings,” Mr. Sutton replied, with a fresh stirring +of resentment. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. And therefore it seems to me that as she owes her release to +your exertions, it is right that you should be the one to communicate the fact +to her, and the one to bring her away.” +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain saw that his patron, persuaded that there was more between them +than he had supposed, fell back on the old plan; that he was willing to give +him the opportunity of pushing his suit. And the blood rushed to his face. If +she could be brought—if she could be brought to look favourably on him! +Ah, then indeed he was a happy man, and the dark night of despondency would be +followed by a morn of joy. But with the quickness of light his thoughts passed +over the various occasions—they were very few—on which he had +addressed her. And—and an odd thing happened. It happened, perhaps, +because with the chaplain the matter was no longer a question of ambition, but +of love. “You have no news?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“None. And Nadin,” with bitterness, “seems to be at the end +of his resources.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Captain Clyne,” Sutton replied impulsively, “there is +but one way! There is but one thing to be done. It is not I, but you, who must +bring Miss Damer back. She may still speak, but not for me!” +</p> + +<p> +“And certainly not for me!” Clyne answered, his face flushing at +the recollection of his violence. +</p> + +<p> +“For you rather than for any one!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” the chaplain rejoined firmly. “I do not know how I +know it,” he continued with dignity, “but I know it. For one thing, +I am not blind. Miss Damer has never given me a word or a look of +encouragement. If she thanks me,” he spoke with something like a tear in +his eye, “it will be much—the kind of thanks you, Captain Clyne, +give the servant that lacquers your boots, or the dog that fetches your stick. +But you—with you it will be different.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has no reason to thank me,” Clyne declared. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet she will.” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will!” Sutton answered fervently—he was determined to +carry out his impulsive act of unselfishness. “And, thank you or not +thank you, she may speak. She will speak, when released, if ever! She is one +who will do nothing under compulsion, nothing under durance. But she will do +much—for love.” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne looked with astonishment at the chaplain. He, like Mrs. Gilson, was +appraising him afresh, was finding something new in him, something unexpected. +“How do you know?” he asked, his cheeks reddening. +</p> + +<p> +There were for certain tears in Mr. Sutton’s eyes now. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know how I know,” he said, “but I do. I know! +Go and fetch her; and I think, I think she will speak.” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne thought otherwise, and had good reason to think otherwise; a reason which +he was ashamed to tell his chaplain. But in the face of his own view he was +impressed by Sutton’s belief. The suggestion was at least a straw to +which he could cling. Failing other means—and the ardour of his +assistants in the search was beginning to flag—why should he not try +this? Why should he not, threats failing, throw himself at the girl’s +feet, abase himself, humble himself, try at least if he could not win by prayer +and humility what she had refused to force. +</p> + +<p> +It was a plan little to the man’s taste; grievous to his pride. But for +his son’s sake, for the innocent boy’s sake, he was willing to do +even this. Moreover, with all his coldness, he had sufficient nobility to feel +that he owed the girl the fullest amends in his power. He had laid hands on +her. He had treated her—no matter what the provocation—cruelly, +improperly, in a manner degrading to her and disgraceful to himself. His face +flushed as he recalled the scene and his violence. Now it was hers to triumph, +hers to blame: nor his to withhold the opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go,” he said, after a brief perturbed silence. “I am +obliged to you for your advice. You think that there is a chance she will +speak?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do,” Sutton answered manfully. “I do.” And he said +more to the same purpose. +</p> + +<p> +But later, when the hot fit ebbed, he wondered at himself. What had come over +him? Why had he, who had so little while his patron had so much, given up his +ewe lamb, his one chance? Reason answered, because he had no chance and it was +wise to make a virtue of necessity. But he knew that, a day or two before, he +would have snapped his fingers at reason, he would have clung to his forlorn +hope, he would have made for his own advantage by the nearest road. What then +had changed him? What had caused him to set the girl’s happiness before +his own, and whispered to him that there was only one way by which, smirched +and discredited as she was, she whom he loved could reach her happiness? He did +not answer the question, perhaps he did not know the answer. But wandering in +the darkness by the lake-side, with the first snowflakes falling on his +shoulders, he cried again and again, “God bless her! God bless +her!” with tears running down his pale, insignificant face. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV<br/> +PRISON EXPERIENCES</h2> + +<p> +When Henrietta rose on the second morning of her imprisonment, and opened her +door and looked out, she met with an unpleasant surprise. Snow had fallen in +the night, and lay almost an inch deep in the yard. The sheet of dazzling white +cast the dingy spiked wall and the mean cell-doors into grey relief. But it was +not this contrast, nor the memory of childish winters with their +pleasures—though that memory took her by the throat and promised to choke +her—that filled her with immediate dismay. It was the difficulty of +performing the prison duties, of going beyond her door, and refilling her +water-pitcher at the pump. To cross the yard in sandaled shoes—such as +she and the girls of that day wore—was to spoil her shoes and wet her +feet. Yet she could not live without water; the more as she had an instinctive +fear of losing, under the pressure of hardship, those refinements in which she +had been bred. At length she was about to venture out at no matter what cost, +when the door of the yard opened, and the jailor’s wife came stumbling +through the snow on a pair of pattens. She carried a second pair in her hand, +and she seemed to be in anything but a pleasant humour. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a mess!” she said, throwing down the pattens and +looking about her with disgust. “By rights, you should set to work to +clear this away, before it’s running all of a thaw into your room. But I +dare say it will wait till midday—it don’t get much sun +here—and my good man will come and do it. Anyways, there are some +pattens, so that you can get about—there’s as good as you have gone +on pattens before now! Ay, and mopped the floor in them! And by-and-by my girl +will bring you some fire ’gainst you’re ready for your +breakfast.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m ready whenever the breakfast is ready,” Henrietta +answered, as cheerfully as she could. She was shivering with cold. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, ah, well, my lass!” the woman answered snappishly, +“there’s worse troubles in the world than waiting for your +breakfast. For the Lord’s sake, don’t you get complaining.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wasn’t complaining, indeed!” Henrietta said. +</p> + +<p> +“Think of the doing we’ve had this night!” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard,” the girl answered. And an involuntary shudder escaped +her. “It was dreadful! dreadful!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d ha’ thought so,” ungraciously, “if you had +had to deal with the lad yourself! Never was such a Jack o’ Bedlam! I +wonder all our heads aren’t broke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he often like that?” Henrietta asked. +</p> + +<p> +For she had lain awake many hours of the night, trembling and trying to close +her ears against the ravings of a madman; who was confined in the next yard, +and who had suffered an access of mania during the night. The prisons of that +day served also for madhouses. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but once in the month or so,” the jailor’s wife +answered. “And often enough, drat him! Doctor says he’ll go off in +one of these Bedlam fits, and the sooner the better, I say! But I’m +wasting my time and catching my death, gossipping with you! Anyway, don’t +you complain, young woman,” severely. “There’s worse off than +you!” And she clattered abruptly away, and Henrietta was left to patten +her road to the pump and back, and afterwards to finish her toilette in what +shivering comfort she might. +</p> + +<p> +For a prisoner, she might not have much of which to complain. But though that +was not the day of bedroom fires, or rubber water-bottles, and luxury stopped +at the warming-pan, or the heated brick, there are degrees of misery, and this +degree was new to her. +</p> + +<p> +However, the woman was better than her word, for in a short time her child +appeared, painfully bearing at arm’s length a shovelful of live embers. +And the fire put a new face on things. Breakfast sent in from outside followed, +and was drawn out to the utmost for the sake of the employment which it +afforded. For time hung heavy on the girl’s hands. She had long exhausted +the <i>Kendal Chronicle</i>; and a volume of “Sermons for Persons under +Sentence of Death”—the property of the gaol—she had +steadfastly refused. Other reading there was none, and she was rather gratified +than troubled when she espied a thin trickle of water stealing under the door. +The snow in the yard was melting; and it was soon made plain to her that if she +did not wish to be flooded she must act for herself. +</p> + +<p> +The task was not very congenial to a girl gently bred, and who had all her life +associated such work with Doll and a mop. But on her first entrance into the +gaol she had resolved to do, as the lesser of two evils, whatever she should be +told to do. And the thing might have been worse, for there was no one to see +her at work. She kilted up her skirt and donned the pattens, put on her hood, +and taking a broom from the corner of the yard began to sweep vigorously, first +removing the snow from the flags before her door, and then, as the space she +had cleared grew wider, gathering the snow into a heap at the lower end of the +yard. +</p> + +<p> +She was soon warm and in the full enjoyment of action. But in no long time, as +was natural, she tired, and paused to rest and look about her, supporting +herself by the broom-handle. A robin alighted on a spike on the top of the +wall, and flirting its tail, eyed her in a friendly way, with its head on one +side. Then it flew away—it could fly away! And at the thought, +</p> + +<p> +“What,” she wondered, “would come of it all? What would be +the end for her? And had they found the boy?” +</p> + +<p> +Already it seemed to her that she had lain a week, a month in the gaol. The +people outside must have forgotten her. Would she be forgotten? Would they +leave her there? +</p> + +<p> +But she would not give way to such thoughts, and she set to work again with new +energy. Swish! swish! Her hands were growing sore, but she had nearly finished +the task. She looked complacently at the wide space she had cleared, and +stooped to pin up one side of her gown which had slipped down. Then, swish! +swish! with renewed vigour, unconscious that the noise of her sweeping drowned +the grating of the key in the lock. So that she was not aware until a voice +struck her ear, that she was no longer alone. +</p> + +<p> +Then she wheeled about so sharply that, unused to pattens, she stumbled and all +but fell. The accident added to her vexation. Her face turned red as a beet. +For inside the door of the yard, contemplating her with a smile at once +familiar and unpleasant, stood Mr. Hornyold. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, dear,” he said, as she glowered at him resentfully, ashamed +at once of her short skirts and the task that compelled them. “They +shouldn’t have put you to this! Though I’m sure a prettier sight +you’d go far to see! But your hands are infinitely too white and soft, my +dear—much too white and pretty to be spoiled by broom-handles! I must +speak to Mother Weighton about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps if you would kindly go out a moment,” she said with +spirit, “it were better. I could then put myself in order.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for the world!” Mr. Hornyold retorted, with something between +a leer and a wink. “You’re very well as you are!” with a look +at her ankles. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, I’m sure, +but the contrary. I’m told that Lady Jersey at Almack’s shows more, +and with a hundred to see! So you need not mind. And you could not look nicer +if you’d done it on purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +With a jerk she disengaged her shoes from the pattens, dropped the broom, and +made for the door of her room, with such dignity as her kilted skirt left her. +But before she reached it: +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, my lady,” said Mr. Hornyold in a tone no longer wheedling, +but harsh and peremptory, “you’re forgetting! You are in gaol, and +you’ll be pleased to stop when you’re told, and do as you’re +told! Don’t you be in such a hurry, my dear. I am here to learn if you +have any complaints.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only of your presence!” she cried, her face burning. “If you +have come here only to insult me, I have heard enough.” +</p> + +<p> +And having gained her cell in spite of him, she tried to slam the door in his +face. +</p> + +<p> +But he had had time to approach, and he set the handle of his whip between door +and jamb, and stopped her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not come for that, I tell you, you pretty spitfire,” he +said; “I’ve come to hear if you have any complaints of your +treatment here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come,” he rejoined, checking her with a grin, “you +must not answer the Visiting Justice in that tone. Say, ‘I have none, +sir, I thank you kindly,’—that’s the proper form, my dear. +You’ll know better another time. Or”—smiling more broadly as +he read the angry refusal in her eyes—“we shall have to put you to +beat hemp. And that were a pity. Those pretty hands would soon lose their +softness, and those dainty wrists that are not much bigger than my thumbs would +be sadly spoiled. But we won’t do that,” indulgently. “We are +never hard on pretty girls as long as they behave themselves.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked round wildly, but there was no escape. She could retreat no farther. +The man filled the doorway; the room lay open to his insolent eyes, and he did +not spare to look. +</p> + +<p> +“Neat as a pin!” he said complacently. “Just as it should be. +A place for everything, and everything in its place. I’ve nothing but +praise for it. I never thought that it would ever be my lot to commend Miss +Damer for the neatness of her chamber! But—good Lord!” with +surprise, “what’s the matter with your wrist, my girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” she said, the angry scarlet of her cheek turning a shade +deeper. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing? Oh, but there is!” he returned peremptorily. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing!” she repeated fiercely. “Nothing! It’s +nothing that matters!” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, how she hated the man! How she loathed his red, insolent grin! Would he +never leave her? Was she to be exposed, day by day, and hour by hour, to this +horror? +</p> + +<p> +He eyed her shrewdly. +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t been turning stubborn?” he said, “have +you? And they’ve had to handle you already? And bring you to your senses? +And so they have set you to brooming? But Bishop,” with a frown, +“gave me no notion of that. He said you came like a lamb.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not that!” she cried. “It’s nothing.” +It was not only that she was ashamed of the mark on her arm, and shrank from +showing it. But his leering, insolent face terrified her. Though he was not +tipsy, he had spent the small hours at a club; and the old port still hummed in +his brain. “It’s not that,” she repeated firmly, and more +quietly, hoping to get rid of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” he answered, “let me look at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, nonsense!” he replied, pressing his advantage, and entering +the cell. “Nonsense, girl, let me look at it.” He stepped nearer, +and peremptorily held out his hand. He could touch her. She could feel his hot +breath on her cheek. “There’s no room here for airs and +tempers,” he continued. “How, if I don’t see it, am I to know +that they have not been ill-treating you? Show me your wrist, girl.” +</p> + +<p> +But she recoiled from him into the farthest corner, holding her arms behind +her. Her face was a picture of passionate defiance. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t touch me!” she cried. “Don’t come near +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve no right to touch me. They have not hurt my wrist. I tell +you it is nothing. And if you lay a finger on me I will scream!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” he said coolly, “they’ll put you in a strait +waistcoat, my lass, like the madman next door. That’s all! You’re +mighty particular, but you forget where you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“You forget that I am a gentlewoman!” she cried. She could not +retreat farther, but she looked at him as if she could have killed him. +“Stand back, sir, I say!” she continued fiercely. “If you do +not——” +</p> + +<p> +“What will you do?” he asked. He enjoyed the situation, but he was +not sure how far it would be prudent to push it. If he could contrive to +surprise her wrist it would be odd if he could not snatch a kiss; and it was +his experience—in his parish—that once fairly kissed, young women +came off the high horse, and proved amenable. “What’ll you +do,” he continued facetiously, “you silly little prude?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do?” she panted. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, Miss Dainty Damer, what’ll you do?” with a feigned +movement as if to seize her. “You’re not on the highway now, you +know! Nor free on bail! Nor is there a parson here!” +</p> + +<p> +There he stopped—a faint, faint sound had fallen on his ear. He looked +behind him, and stepped back as if a string drew him. And his face changed +marvellously. In the doorway stood, hat in hand, the last person in the world +he wished to see there—Captain Clyne. +</p> + +<p> +Clyne did not utter a syllable, but he beckoned to the other to come out to +him. And, with a chap-fallen look and a brick-red face, Hornyold complied, and +went out. Clyne closed the door on the girl—that she might not hear. And +the two men alone in the yard confronted one another, Clyne’s face was +dark. +</p> + +<p> +“I overheard your last words, Mr. Hornyold,” he said in a voice low +but stern. “And you are mistaken. There is a parson here—who has +forgotten that he is a gentleman. It is well for him, very well, that having +forgotten that fact he remains a parson.” +</p> + +<p> +Hornyold tried to bluster, tried to face the other down and save the situation. +“I don’t understand you!” he said. “What does this +mean?” He was the taller man and the bigger, but Clyne’s air of +contemptuous mastery made him appear the smaller. “I don’t +understand you,” he repeated. “The young lady—I merely came +to visit her.” +</p> + +<p> +“The less,” Clyne retorted, cutting him short, “said about +her the better! I understand perfectly, sir,” with severity, “if +you do not! Perfectly. And I desire you to understand that it is your cloth +only that protects you from the punishment you deserve!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s easy said!” Hornyold answered with a poor attempt at +defiance. “Easy! What! Are we to have all this fuss about a chit +that——” +</p> + +<p> +“Silence, sir!” And Clyne’s voice rang so loud that the other +not only obeyed but stepped back, as if he feared a blow. “Silence, sir! +I know you well enough, and your past, to know that you cannot afford a +scandal. And you know me! I advise you, therefore, when you have passed that +door”—he pointed to the door leading to the prison lodge, “to +keep a still tongue, and to treat this lady’s name with respect. If not +for the sake of your own character, for the sake, at any rate, of your +ill-earned stipends.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fine words!” Hornyold muttered, with a sneer of bravado. +</p> + +<p> +“I will make them good,” Clyne answered. And the look and the tone +were such that the other, high as he wished to carry it, thought discretion the +better part. He turned, still sneering, on his heel, and cutting the air with +his whip made his way with what dignity he might to the door. He hesitated an +instant and then disappeared, raging inwardly. +</p> + +<p> +The moment he was gone Clyne’s face relaxed. He passed his hand over his +brow as if to recall his thoughts, and he sighed deeply. Then turning he went +slowly to Henrietta’s door and tapped on it. The girl opened. “May +I speak to you?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer, but she stepped out. She had recovered her +self-control—quickly and completely, as women do; and her face told +nothing. Whatever she thought of his intervention and of the manner in which he +had routed Hornyold, she made no sign. She waited for him to speak. Yet she was +aware not only of his downcast carriage, but of the change which sleepless +nights and days of unutterable suspense had wrought in his face. His features +were thinner and sharper, his temples more hollow: and there was a listening, +hungry look in his eyes which did not quit them even when he dealt with other +things than his loss. +</p> + +<p> +“I have brought an order for your release,” he said without an +attempt at preface. “I have given bail for your appearance when needed. +You are free to go. You have not to thank me, however, but Mr. Sutton, who +discovered the letter that was written to you——” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupted him by an exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“The letter,” he continued mechanically, “that was written to +you making an appointment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” she cried. “I destroyed it.” +</p> + +<p> +“He put it together again,” he answered in the same tone. +“I—we are all indebted to him. Deeply indebted to him! I +don’t know that there is anything more to be said,” he continued +dully, “except that I have come to take you back. I was coming last +evening, but the snow prevented me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is all—you have to say?” +</p> + +<p> +He raised his eyes to hers with so much sadness in their depths, with such +utter dejection in his looks, that in spite of all her efforts to keep it +alive, her anger drooped. “Except that I am sorry,” he said. +“I am sorry. We have treated you—badly amongst us.” +</p> + +<p> +“You!” she said vindictively. +</p> + +<p> +“I, if you like. Yes, I. It is true.” +</p> + +<p> +She called up the remembrance of the severity with which he had judged her and +the violence of which her wrist still wore the traces. She pictured the +disgrace of the prison and her fears, the nights of apprehension and the days +of loneliness, ay, and the insolence of the wretch who had just left +her—she owed all to him! All! And yet she could not keep her anger hot. +She tried. She tried to show him something of what she felt. “You!” +she repeated. “And now you think,” bitterly, “that I shall +bear to go back to the place from which you sent me? Sent me in open +disgrace—in that man’s charge—with no woman with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“God help me!” he said. “I know not what to think or do! I +thought that if I took you back myself, that would perhaps be best for +all.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent a moment, and then, “I have been very, very +unhappy,” she said in a different tone. And even while she said it she +wondered why she complained to him, instead of accusing him, and blaming him. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe it,” he said slowly. “We have wronged one another. +Let it stand at that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You believe, you do believe now,” she said, “that I had no +hand in stealing him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“And knew naught of it,” she insisted earnestly, “before or +after?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would have cut off my hand first!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe it,” he answered sorrowfully. +</p> + +<p> +Then they were both silent. And she wondered at herself. Why did she not hate +him? Why did she not pour out on him the vials of her indignation? He had +treated her badly, always badly. The wrong which she had done him in the first +place, he had avenged by a gross insult to her womanhood. Then not satisfied +with that, he had been quick to believe the worst of her. He had been violent +to her, he had bullied her: and when he found that she was not to be wrung to +compliance with his orders, he had degraded her to a public prison as if she +had been the worst of her sex—instead of his kith and kin. Even now when +his eyes were open to his injustice, even now when he acknowledged that he owed +amends, he came to her with a few poor words, meagre, scanty words, a miserable +“I am sorry, you are free.” And that was all. That was all! +</p> + +<p> +And yet her rage drooped cold, her spirit seemed dead. The scathing reproaches, +the fierce truths which had bubbled to her lips as she lay feverish on her +prison-bed, the hot tears which had scalded her eyes, now that she might give +them vent, now that he might be wounded by them and made to see his +miserableness—were not! She stood mute and pale, wondering at the change, +wondering at her mildness. And when he said meekly, “The chaise is ready, +will you make your preparations?” she went to do his bidding as if she +had done nothing but obey him all her life. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI<br/> +A RECONCILIATION</h2> + +<p> +When she had filled her band-box, and with a tearful laugh looked her last on +the cell, she emerged from the yard. She found Captain Clyne awaiting her with +his hand on the key of the prison gate. He saw her look doubtfully at the +closed lodge-door; and he misread the look. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought,” he said, “that you would wish to be spared +seeing more of them. I have,” with a faint smile, “authority to +open.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she answered, wrinkling her pretty brow in perplexity. +“But I must see them, please. They have not been unkind to me, and I +should not like to go without thanking them.” +</p> + +<p> +And before he could remonstrate, she had pushed open the lodge door and gone +within. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mrs. Weighton,” he heard her cry, “you’ll give me +a character, won’t you? I’ve behaved well now, haven’t +I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss, I’ll say that,” the woman answered stolidly. +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t scratched nor screamed, and I’ve done as +I’ve been bid? And you’ve had no use for the pump water?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you hadn’t swept out the yard,” grudgingly; +“’twas no order of mine, you’ll remember. And don’t you +go and say that I’ve treated you ill!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll not! Indeed, I’ll not!” Henrietta cried in a +different tone. “I’ll say you treated me very well. And that is for +your little girl to make up for her disappointment. She’ll be sorry +I’m not going to be transported,” with a hint of laughter in her +voice. “And, Mrs. Weighton, I’m going to ask you something.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, miss? If it is to oblige you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, will you,” in a tone touched by feeling, “if you have +some day another like me, will you be as good to her? And remember that she may +not have done anything wrong after all? Will you promise me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, miss,” Mrs. Weighton answered—very graciously for +her. “But there, it isn’t all has your sense! They takes and runs +their heads against a brick wall! Either they scratches and screams, or they +sulks and starves. And then we’ve to manage them, and we get the blame. I +see you looked white and shivering when you come in, and I thought we’d +have trouble with you. But there, you kept yourself in hand, and showed your +sense—it’s breeding does it—and you’ve naught to +complain of in consequence. Wishing you well and kindly, miss!” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>shall</i> come to you for a character!” Henrietta replied +with a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +And she came out quickly and joined Captain Clyne, who, waiting with his hand +on the lock, had heard all. He saw that though she laughed there was a tear in +her eye; and the mingling of gaiety and sensibility in her conduct and her +words was not lost upon him. She seemed to be bent on putting him in the wrong; +on proving to him that she was not the silly-pated child he had deemed her! +Even the praise of this jailor’s wife, a coarse, cross-grained woman, +sounded reproachfully in his ears. She was a better judge, it seemed, than he. +</p> + +<p> +He put Henrietta into the chaise—the brisk, cold air of the winter +morning was welcome to her; and they set off. Gnawed as he was by unhappy +thoughts, wretchedly anxious as he was, he was silent for a time. He knew what +he wanted, but he was ashamed to clutch at that advantage for the sake of which +Sutton had resigned to him the mission. And for a long time he sat mute and +brooding in his corner, the bright reflection of the snow adding pallor to his +face. Yet he had eyes for her: he watched her without knowing it. And at the +third milestone from Kendal, a little beyond Barnside, he saw her shiver. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you are cold?” he said, and wondering at the rôle he +played, he drew the wraps closer about her—with care, however, that his +fingers should not touch her. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered frankly. “I am not cold. But I remember +passing that mile-stone. I was almost sick with fright when I passed it. So +that it was all I could do not to try to get out and escape.” +</p> + +<p> +This was a revelation to him; and not a pleasant one. He winced. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” he said. “I am very sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I felt better when I was once in the prison,” she answered +lightly. “And with Mrs. Weighton. Before that I was afraid that there +might be only men.” +</p> + +<p> +He suffered, in the hearing, something of the humiliation which she had +undergone; was she not of his blood and his class—and a woman? But he +could only say again that he was sorry. He was sorry. +</p> + +<p> +A little later he forgot her in his own trouble: in thoughts of his child, +thoughts which tortured him unceasingly, and became more active as his return +to the Low Wood suggested the possibility of news. At one moment he saw the lad +stretched on a pallet, ill and neglected, with no eye to pity, no hand to +soothe; at another he pictured him in some dark hiding-place with fear for his +sole companion. Or again he saw him beaten and ill-treated, shrieking for the +father who had been always to him as heaven, omniscient and +omnipotent—but shrieking in vain. And then the thought that to one so +weak and young a little added hardship, another day of fear, an insignificant +delay, might prove fatal—it was this thought that wrung the heart most +powerfully, and went far towards maddening the man. +</p> + +<p> +As he sat watching the snow-covered fell slide by the chaise window, he was +unconscious how clearly his misery was stamped on his features; or how pitiful +was the hunger that lurked in the hollows under his eyes. But when the pace +slackened, and the carriage began to crawl up the long hill beyond Broadgate, a +faint sound caught his ear, and he remembered where he was, and turned. He saw +that she was crying. +</p> + +<p> +The same words came to his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry. I am very sorry,” he said. “But it is over +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not that,” she sobbed. “I am sorry for you! And +for him! The poor boy! The poor boy! Last night—no, it was the night +before—-I thought that he called to me. I thought that he was there in +the room with me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t!” he faltered. “I cannot bear it! +Don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +But she did not heed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she repeated. “And ever since, ever since I’ve +been thinking of him! I’ve wondered, I’ve wondered if I did +right!” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent, striving to regain control of himself. But at last, +</p> + +<p> +“Eight in saying nothing?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +His voice shook a little, and he kept his eyes averted. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I didn’t know”—a little wildly—“I +didn’t know what to do. And then you threatened me, and I—it seemed +unreasonable. For I wanted to help you, I did, I did indeed. But I dared not, I +dared not give him up! I could not have his blood on my hands after—you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you no longer—care for him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I loathe him!” she answered with a shudder. “But you see how +it is. He trusted me, and I—how can I betray him? How can I? How can +I?” +</p> + +<p> +It was his business to prove to her that she could, that she ought, that she +must; he was here to press her to it, to persuade her, to cajole her to it, if +necessary. He had come for that. But the words it behoved him to use stuck in +his throat. And the chaise rolled on, and rolled on. And still, but with the +sweat standing on his brow, he sat silent, looking out on the barren landscape, +as the stone fences slid quickly by, or open moorland took their place. In ten +minutes they would be at the Low Wood. Already through her window she could see +the long stretch of sparkling water, and the wooded isles, and the distant +smoke of Ambleside. +</p> + +<p> +Their silence was a tragedy. She could save him by a word, and she could not +say the word. She dared not say it. And he—the pleas he should have used +died on his lips. It behoved him to cast himself on her mercy; he was here for +that purpose. It behoved him to work on her feelings, to plead with her, to +weep, to pray. And he did not, he could not. And the minutes passed; the wheels +rolled and rolled. Soon they would be at the end of their journey. He was like +a famishing man who sees a meal within reach, but cannot touch it; or like one +oppressed by a terrible nightmare, who knows that he has but to say a word, and +he is freed from the incubus—yet his tongue refuses its office. And now +the carriage, having climbed the rise, began to roll more quickly down the +hill. In a very few minutes they would be at the end of their journey. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly—“What can we do?” she cried, piteously. “What +can we do? Can we do nothing? Nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +And neither of the two thought the union of interests strange; any more than in +their absorption they noted the strangeness of this drive in company—over +some of the very road which she had traversed when she eloped with another to +avoid a marriage with him. +</p> + +<p> +He shook his head in dumb misery. Three days of suspense, and as many sleepless +nights, the wear and tear of many journeys, had told upon him. He had had but +little rest, and that induced by sheer exhaustion. He had taken his meals +standing, he had passed many hours of each day in the saddle. He could no +longer command the full resources of his mind, and though he still held despair +at arm’s length, though he still by force of habit commanded himself, and +was stern and reticent, despondency gained ground upon him. It was she who +almost at the last moment suggested a plan that if not obvious, was simple, and +to the purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” she said. “Listen, sir! Why should not I do this? +Go myself to—to him, to Walterson?” +</p> + +<p> +“You?” he answered, with undisguised repugnance. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I! I! Why not?” she asked. “And learn if he has the +child, or knows where it is. Then if he be innocent of this last wickedness, as +I believe him to be innocent, we shall learn the fact without harming him; +always supposing that I go to him, undetected. And I can do that—with +your help! That must be your care.” +</p> + +<p> +He pondered. +</p> + +<p> +“But if,” he said slowly, “you do this and he have the child? +What then? Have you thought of the consequences to yourself? If he be privy to +a crime which none but desperate men could commit, what of you? He will be +capable of harming you. Or if he scruple, there will be others, the men who +took my child, who will stick at nothing to keep their necks out of the noose, +and to remove a witness who else might hang them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not afraid,” she said firmly. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you!” he said. “God bless you! But I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” she cried, and she turned to him, honestly astonished. +“You? You dissuade me when it is your child that is in peril?” +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent!” he said harshly. “Be silent! For your own sake, +if not for mine! Why do you tempt me? Why do you torture me? Do you think, +Henrietta, that I have not enough to tempt me without your help? No, no,” +more quietly, “I have done you wrong already! I know not how I can make +amends. But at least I will not add to the wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“I only ask you to leave me to myself,” she said hardily. +“The rest I will do, if I am not watched.” +</p> + +<p> +“The rest!” he said with a groan. “But what a rest it is! Why +should these men spare you if you go to them? They did not spare my boy!” +</p> + +<p> +“They took the boy,” she answered, “to punish you. They will +not have the same motive for harming me. I mean—they will not harm me +with the idea of hurting you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“They will know that it will not affect you.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not deny the statement, but for some time he drummed on the window with +his fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“That may be,” he said at length. “Yet I’ll not do it! +And I’ll not let you do it. Instead, do you tell me where the man is and +I will go to him myself. And I will tell no tales.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will keep his secret?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I will not do that!” she answered. And she laughed gaily in +the reaction of her spirits. She knew in some subtle way that she was +reinstated; that he would never think very badly of her again. And the +knowledge that he trusted her was joy; she scarcely knew why. But, “I +shall not do that!” she repeated. “Have you thought what will be +the consequence to you if he be guilty? They will be three to one, and they +will murder you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think that I can let you run the risk?” +</p> + +<p> +“There will be no risk for me. I am different.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I +wish”—despairingly—“I wish to God I could believe +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then do believe it,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot! I cannot!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have his letter,” she replied. And she was going to say more, +she was going to prove that she could undertake the matter with safety, when +the chaise began to slacken speed, and she cut her reasoning short. “You +will let me do it?” she said, laying her hand on his sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have only to draw them off.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not!” he cried, almost savagely. “I shall not! Do +you think I am a villain? Do you think I care nothing what +happens——” +</p> + +<p> +The jerk caused by the chaise coming to a stand before the inn cut his words +short. Clyne thrust out his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Any news?” he asked eagerly. “Has anything been +heard?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton, who had been on the watch for their arrival, came forward to the +chaise door. He answered Clyne, but his eyes, looking beyond his patron, sought +Henrietta’s in modest deprecation; much as the dog which is not assured +of its reception seeks, yet deprecates its master’s glance. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “none. I am sorry for it. Nadin has not yet +returned, nor Bishop, though we are expecting both.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Bishop?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has gone with a party to Lady Holm. There’s an idea that the +isles were not thoroughly searched in the first place. But he should be back +immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +A slight hardening of the lines of the mouth was Clyne’s only answer. He +helped Henrietta to alight, and was turning with her to enter the house, when +he remembered himself. He laid his hand on the chaplain’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the gentleman,” he said, “whom you have to thank for +your release, Henrietta.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure,” she said, “that I am greatly obliged to +him.” But her tone was cold. +</p> + +<p> +“He did everything,” Clyne said. “He left no stone unturned. +Let me do him the justice of saying that we two must share the blame of what +has happened, while the whole credit is his.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very much obliged to him,” she said again. And she bowed. +</p> + +<p> +And that was all. That, and a look which told him that she resented his +interference, that she hated to be beholden to him, that she held him linked +for ever with her humiliation. He, and he alone, had stood by her two days +before, when all had been against her, and Captain Clyne had been as flint to +her. He, and he alone, had wrought out her deliverance and reinstated her. And +her thanks were a haughty movement of the head, two sentences as cold as the +wintry day, a smile as hard as the icicles that still depended in the shade of +the eaves. And when she had spoken, she walked to the door without another +glance—and every step was on the poor man’s heart. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson had come down two steps to meet her. She had seen all. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’re soon back, miss?” she said. “Some have +the luck all one way.” +</p> + +<p> +“That cannot be said of me!” Henrietta retorted, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +But her colour was high. She remembered how she had descended those steps. +</p> + +<p> +“No?” Mrs. Gilson responded. “When you bring the bad on +yourself and the good is just a gift?” +</p> + +<p> +“A gift?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! And one for which you’re not over grateful!” with all +her wonted grimness. “But that’s the way of the world! Grind as you +will, miss, it’s the lower mill-stone suffers, and the upper that cries +out! Still——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton heard no more; for Henrietta had passed with the landlady into the +house; and he turned himself about with a full heart and walked away. He had +done so much for her! He had risked his livelihood, his patron, his position, +to save her! He had paced this strand with every fibre in him tingling with +pity for her! Ay, and when all others had put her out of their thoughts! And +for return, she went laughing into the house and paid no heed to him—to +the poor parson. +</p> + +<p> +True, he had expected little. But he had expected more than this. He had not +hoped for much; or it is possible that he had not resigned the opportunity of +bringing her back. But he had hoped for more than this—for the tearful +thanks of a pair of bright eyes, for the clasp of a grateful hand, for a word +or two that might remain in his memory always. +</p> + +<p> +And bitterness welled up in his heart, and at the first gate, at which he could +stand unseen, he let his face fall on his hands. He cursed the barriers of +caste, the cold pride of these aristocrats, even his own pallid +insignificance—since he had as hungry a heart as panted in the breast of +the handsomest dandy. He could not hate her; she was young and thoughtless, and +in spite of himself his heart made excuses for her. But he hated the world, and +the system, and the miserable conventions that shackled him; ay, hated them as +bitterly for the time as the dark-faced gipsy girl whose eyes he found upon +him, when at last a step caused him to look up. +</p> + +<p> +She grinned at him slyly, and he gave back the look with resentment. He had met +her once or twice in the lanes and about the inn, and marked her for a rustic +beauty of a savage type. Now he waited frowning for her to pass. But she only +smiled more insolently, and lifting her voice, sang: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt">“But still she replied, sir, +</p> + +<p class="t1">I pray let me be! +</p> + +<p class="t0">If ever I love a man, +</p> + +<p class="t1">The master for me!” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +A dull flush overspread his face. “Go your way!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, I’ll go!” Bess replied. “And so will she!” +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0">In pin, out trout!<br/> +Three’s a meal and one’s nought! +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +“One’s nought! One’s nought!” she continued to carol. +</p> + +<p> +And laughing ironically, she went up the road—not without looking back +once or twice to enjoy a surprise which was only exceeded by the +chaplain’s wrath. What did the girl know? And what was it to her? A +common gipsy drab such as she, how did she come to guess these things? And +where the joint lay at which to aim the keen shafts of her wit? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII<br/> +BISHOP CAUGHT NAPPING</h2> + +<p> +“I will not do it! I will not do it!” Those had been Clyne’s +last words on the subject; uttered and repeated with a heat which proved that, +in coming to this decision, he fought against his own heart as much as against +her arguments. “I will not do it! But do you,” with something of +his former violence, “tell me where he is! Tell me at once, and I will go +and question him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I,” she had answered with spirit, “will not tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +At that he had looked at her with the old sternness, but her eyes had no longer +fallen before his. And then he had been called away to follow one of the hasty +clues, the wild-goose scents which were reported from hour to hour—by +pedlars coming in from the dales, or by hazy parish constables who took every +stranger for a rogue. Twice he had turned in his saddle, twice reined in his +horse, before he passed out of sight; and she had known that he wrestled with +himself, that he was near, very near, to giving way, and sacrificing her upon +the altar of his child. But he had gone on, and not returned. And though it had +grieved her to see how drawn and haggard was his face, how near to failing the +wiry strength of his frame, she had rejoiced on her own account. He might say +what he liked, forbid as he chose, it would go hard with her if she could not +find the opportunity she needed, if she, who had suffered all along and in the +esteem of all, did not make use of the means of clearing herself that remained +to her. +</p> + +<p> +Courage at least should not be wanting; and she would be cunning, too. Already +she dreamed of a happy return with the child; and her cheeks grew warm and her +eyes soft as she conjured up the scene, and imagined herself leading the boy to +his father and receiving his thanks. Then he would confess—more fully +than he had yet confessed—how he had wronged her, how far from her +thoughts had been harm to the boy. And she—ah, but she must first do her +part. She must first do that which she had to do. +</p> + +<p> +So she went craftily about her task, counting up those whom she had to fear and +ticking them off. Before Clyne had left the house a mile behind him she had +learned where Nadin was, and a second officer whom she suspected of watching +her movements. They were abroad and she had naught to fear from them. There +remained Mr. Sutton and Bishop. For the former, “Horrid man!” she +thought in her ingratitude, “I suppose he will look to be thanked every +time I see him!” And she was confirmed in this, when she marked him down. +He was walking to and fro before the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go out at the back!” she concluded. +</p> + +<p> +But there still remained the bluff but civil Bishop. She had little doubt that +he was the Cerberus left to guard her. And no doubt at all when she learned +from Modest Ann that he was taking his early dinner in the coffee-room with the +door wide open. +</p> + +<p> +“Waiting to see if I go out,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, miss,” Ann answered, “I shouldn’t wonder if he +was!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta looked at her very kindly. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think,” she asked slowly, “that you could +somehow get rid of him, Ann?” +</p> + +<p> +The woman looked as much troubled as one of her hard features could look. +</p> + +<p> +“No, miss, I don’t think I could,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You are afraid?” gently. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not afraid of him,” with some asperity. “Bless the +man, no! I’m not afraid of no man nowhere! But I am afraid of the +missus?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! And you don’t think that you could tell him that I wish to see +him upstairs? And then when he comes up and finds the room empty—that I +shall be down from my bedroom in five minutes?” +</p> + +<p> +“It wouldn’t be true.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” softly. “Perhaps not.” +</p> + +<p> +Modest Ann looked dreadfully perplexed. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll get me into trouble, miss,” she said. “I know +you will.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll get you out again,” the fair tempter retorted. +“I will indeed, Ann.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if you get into trouble yourself, miss? What then?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta turned with the air of a martyr to the window and looked out. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you liked me a little,” she murmured presently, and +dried a tear that was not there. “I thought you would do a small thing +for me.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman took her hand and kissed it softly. +</p> + +<p> +“I will, miss, drat me if I don’t!” she said. +“I’ll do what you wish, come what may of it! So there.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta turned to her, her face in a glow. “You dear, kind +thing!” she cried, “I’ll never forget it. You are the only +one who is not against me.” +</p> + +<p> +Ann shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I’ll not be the one to repent it!” she muttered, with +a last spark of doubt. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, indeed you won’t! But +now”—naively—“shall I lock him in or not?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the room?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, miss? Why, miss, he’d rouse the house!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if we tied up the bell-pull first!” she suggested. +</p> + +<p> +But Modest Ann was aghast at the thought. “Lord, miss, he’d only +have to open the window and shout! And there’s the parson walking up and +down the road, and the fat’d be in the fire in two twos!” +</p> + +<p> +“So it would,” Henrietta admitted reluctantly. “I see. So you +must just entice him here, and say I’ll be down from my bedroom in three +minutes. And I hope he’ll be patient. As for you, you’ll know no +more than that I asked you to fetch him, and said I should be with him at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they can’t touch me for that,” Modest Ann said; and +she agreed, but with hesitation. “I don’t think he’ll be so +simple,” she said. “That’s a fact. He’ll not come +up.” +</p> + +<p> +But he did. He walked straight into the trap, and Henrietta, who was waiting in +ambush in the dark passage while he passed, sped downstairs, and would have +escaped by the back door without meeting a soul, if Mrs. Gilson had not by bad +luck been crossing the yard. The landlady caught sight of the girl, and raising +her voice cried to her to stop. For an instant Henrietta hesitated. Then she +thought it prudent to comply. She returned slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, miss, this won’t do!” the landlady said tartly. +“You’re not going off like that all of a hurry! You bide a bit and +consider who’s bail for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not you!” Henrietta retorted mutinously. And as this was true, for +the Gilsons’ bail had been discharged, the first hit was hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, so you’re saucy now, miss!” the landlady retorted. +“Brag’s the dog, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s so, it seems! Any way, you’ll please to tell me, young +lady, where you are going in such a hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +But Henrietta was at bay. She knew that if she were delayed even two minutes +her chance was gone; for Bishop would be on her heels. So, “That’s +my business!” she answered. And determined to escape, even by force, she +turned about, light as a roe, tossed her head defiantly, and was off through +the gate in a twinkling. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gilson was left gaping. She was not of a figure to take up the chase, for +like many good housewives of her time, she seldom left her own premises except +to go to church. But she was none the less certain that Henrietta ought to be +followed. “There’s a fine trollop!” she cried. “It +won’t be long before she runs her head into harm! Where’s that +blockhead, Bishop?” And she bundled away to the coffee-room to tell him +that the girl was gone. +</p> + +<p> +She arrived scant of breath—and he was not there. The coffee-room was +empty, and the landlady, knowing that he had stayed in the house on purpose to +keep an eye on Henrietta’s movements, swept out again, fuming. In the +passage she caught sight of Modest Ann and called her. “Where’s +that man, Bishop?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Ann stared as if she had never heard the name. +</p> + +<p> +“Bishop?” she repeated stolidly. +</p> + +<p> +“What else did I say?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s with the young lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s nothing of the kind!” Mrs. Gilson retorted, her temper +rising. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he went to her,” Ann returned. “He +went——” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Gilson did not stay to hear. She had caught sight of Mr. Sutton +walking past the open door, and aware that a second now was worth a minute by +and by, she hurried out to him. “Your reverence! Here!” she cried. +And when he turned surprised by the address, “The young lady’s +gone!” she continued. “Slipped out at the back, and she’ll be +God knows where in two minutes! Do you follow, sir, and keep her in sight or +there’s no knowing what may happen!” And she pointed through the +house to indicate the nearest way. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton’s face turned a dull red. But he did not move, nor make any +show of acting on the suggestion. Instead, “Miss Damer has gone +out?” he said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure!” the landlady cried, in a fume at the delay. +“And if she is not followed at once——” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the officer?” he asked, interrupting her. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven knows, or I should not come to you!” Mrs. Gilson retorted. +“Do you go after her before she’s beyond catching!” +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Sutton shook his head with an obstinate look. “No,” he +said. “It’s not my business, ma’am. I’d like to oblige +you after your kindness yesterday, but I’ve made up my mind not to +interfere with the young lady. I followed her once,” he continued, in a +lower tone and with a conscious air—“and I’ve repented +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll repent it a deal more if you don’t follow her +now!” the landlady retorted. She was in a towering passion by this time. +“You’ll repent it finely if anything happens to her. That you will, +my man! Don’t you know that Captain Clyne left word that she wasn’t +to be let go out alone? Then go, man, after her, before it is too late. And +don’t be a sawny!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not,” he answered firmly. +</p> + +<p> +She saw then that he was not to be moved; and with a half-smothered word, not +of the politest, she turned short about to find Bishop; though she was well +aware that so much time had been wasted that the thing was now desperate. Again +she asked Ann, who had been listening to the colloquy, where Bishop was. +</p> + +<p> +“He went up to the young lady,” Ann answered. +</p> + +<p> +“He did not, I tell you. For she is not up but out!” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he has followed her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you’re a liar!” Mrs. Gilson cried. And advancing on +Ann with a threatening gesture, “If you don’t tell me where he is, +I’ll shake you, woman! Do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +Ann hesitated; when who should appear at the foot of the stairs but Bishop +himself, looking foolish. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the young lady?” he asked. “Where’s your +wits?” Mrs. Gilson retorted. “She’s out by the back-door this +five minutes. If you want to catch her you’d best be quick!” And as +with a face of consternation he hurried through the house, “She +didn’t turn Ambleside way!” she called after him. +“That’s all I know!” +</p> + +<p> +This was something, but it left, as Bishop knew, two roads open. For, besides +the field-path which led up the hill and through the wood, and so over the +shoulder to Troutbeck, a farm lane turned short to the right behind the +out-buildings, and ran into the lower road towards Calgarth and Bowness. Which +had the girl taken? Bishop paused in doubt, and gazed either way. She was not +to be seen on the slope leading up to the wood; but then, she was not to be +seen on the other path. Still, he espied something there which gave him hope. +On the hillside the snow had melted, but here and there on the north side of a +wall, or in a sheltered spot, it lay; and a little way along the farm-road was +such a patch extending across its width. Bishop hastened to the place, and a +glance told him that the girl had not gone that way. With rising hopes he set +off up the hill. +</p> + +<p> +He was stout and short-winded, more at home in Cornhill than on real hills, and +he did not expect to gain upon her. But he felt sure that he should find her +track: and its direction where the fells were so sparsely peopled must tell him +much. He remembered that it was at the upper end of the wood that he had +surprised her on the occasion when her agitation had led him to question her. +He resolved to make as quickly as possible for that point. +</p> + +<p> +True enough, where the path entered the wood he came upon her footsteps +imprinted in the snow; and he pushed on, through the covert to the upper end. +Here, just within the wicket which opened on the road, lay some drifted snow; +and as much to recover his breath, as because he thought it needful, he stopped +to note the direction of her footprints. Alas, the snow bore no trace of feet! +No one, it was clear, had passed through the gate that day. +</p> + +<p> +This was a check, and he turned his back on the road, and mopped his forehead +with a handkerchief which he took from his hat. He gazed, nonplussed, into the +recesses of the wood through which he had passed. The undergrowth, which was of +oak—with here and there a clump of hollies—still carried a screen +of brown leaves, doomed to fall with the spring, but sufficient in the present +to mask a fugitive. Moreover, in the damp bottom, where the bridge spanned the +rivulet, a company might have lain hidden; and above him, where the wood +climbed the shoulder, there were knolls and dells, and unprobed depths of +yellow bracken, that defied the eye. Between him and this background the brown +trunks stood at intervals, shot with the gold of the declining sun, or backed +by a cold patch of snow: and the scene had been beautiful, in its russet livery +of autumn blended with winter, if he had had eyes for it, or for aught but the +lurking figure he hoped to detect. +</p> + +<p> +That figure, however, he could not see. And again he stooped, and inspected the +snow beside the gate. No, she had not passed, that was certain; and baffled, +and in a most unhappy mood, he raised himself and listened. Above him a +squirrel, scared by his approach, was angrily clawing a branch; a robin, drawn +by the presence of a man, alighted near him, and hopped nearer. But no rustle +of flying skirts, no sound of snapping twigs or falling stones came to him. +And, a city man by training, and much at a loss here, he mopped his brow and +swore. Every second was precious, and he was losing minutes. He was losing +minutes, and learning nothing! +</p> + +<p> +Was she hiding in the wood pending his departure? Or had she doubled back the +way she had come, and so escaped, laughing and contemptuous? Or had she passed +out by some gate unknown to him? Or climbed the fence? Or was she even now +meeting her man in some hiding-place among the hollies, or in some fern-clad +retreat out of sight and hearing? +</p> + +<p> +Bishop could not tell. He was wholly at a loss. For a few seconds he +entertained the wild notion of beating, the wood for her; but he had not taken +a dozen steps before he set it aside, and went back to the gate. Henrietta on +the occasion when her bearing had confirmed his suspicions had descended the +road to the wood. He would go up the road. And even as he thought of this, and +laid his hand on the gate to open it, he heard a footstep coming heavily down +the road. +</p> + +<p> +He went to meet the man; a tall, grinning rustic, who bore a sheep on his +shoulders with its fore and hind feet in either hand, so that it looked like a +gigantic ruff. At a sign from the officer he stopped, but did not lower his +burden. +</p> + +<p> +“Meet anybody as you came down the road, my lad?” Bishop asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Noa,” the man drawled. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you come from? Troutbeck?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t met a young lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“Noa! Met no soul, master!” the man answered, in the accent not +only of Westmoreland, but of truth. +</p> + +<p> +“Not even a pretty girl?” +</p> + +<p> +The man grinned more widely. +</p> + +<p> +“Noa, not nobody,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +And he went on down the road, but twice looked back, turning sheep and all, to +see what the stranger would be at. +</p> + +<p> +Bishop stood for a few moments pondering the question, and then he followed the +man. +</p> + +<p> +“If she is not up the road,” he argued, “it is ten to one +that she started up the hill to throw us off the scent. And she’s slipped +down herself towards Calgarth. It’s that way, too, she went to meet him +at night.” +</p> + +<p> +And gradually quickening his steps as the case seemed clearer and his hopes +grew stronger he was soon out of sight. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII<br/> +THE GOLDEN SHIP</h2> + +<p> +Two minutes after Bishop had passed from sight, Henrietta rose from a dip in +the fern; in which she had lain all the time, as snugly hidden, though within +eyeshot of him, as a hare in its form. She cast a wary glance round. Then she +hastened to the gate, but did not pass through it. She knew too much. She chose +a weak place in the fence, scaled it with care, and sprang lightly into the +road. She glanced up and down, but no one was in sight, and pleased with her +cleverness, she set off at a quick pace up the hill. +</p> + +<p> +The sun lacked an hour of setting. She might count on two hours of daylight, +and her spirits rose. As the emerald green of the lower hills shone the +brighter for the patches of snow, harbingers of winter, which flecked them, so +her spirits rose the higher for troubles overpast or to come. She felt no fear, +no despondency, none of the tremours with which she had entered on her night +adventure. A gaiety of which she did not ask herself the cause, a heart as +light as her feet and as blithe as the black-bird’s note, carried her on. +She who had awakened that morning in a prison could have sung and caroled as +she walked. The beauty of the hills about her, of the lake below her, blue +here, there black, filled her with happiness. +</p> + +<p> +And the cause? She did not seek for the cause. Certainly she did not find it. +It was enough for the moment that she had been prisoned and was free; and that +in an hour, or two hours at most, she would return with the child or with news. +And then, the sweet vengeance of laying it in its father’s arms! She whom +he had insulted, whom he had mishandled, whom he had treated so +remorselessly—it would be from her hand that he would receive his +treasure, the child whom he had told her that she hated. He would have some +cause then to talk of making amends! And need to go about and about before he +found a way to be quits with her! +</p> + +<p> +She did not analyse beyond that point the feeling of gaiety and joyous +anticipation which possessed her. She would put him in the wrong. She would +heap coals of fire on his head. That sufficed. If there welled up within her +heart another thought, if since morning she had a feeling and a hope that +thrilled her and lent to all the world this smiling guise, she was conscious of +the effect, unconscious of the cause. The wrist which Clyne had twisted was +still black and blue and tender to the touch. She blushed lest any eye fall on +it, or any guess how he had treated her. But—she blushed also, when she +was alone, and her own eyes dwelt on it. And dwell on it sometimes they would; +for, strange to say, the feeling of shame, if it was shame, was not unpleasant. +</p> + +<p> +She met no one. She reached the gate of Starvecrow Farm, unseen as she +believed. But heedful of the old saying, that fields have eyes and woods have +ears, she looked carefully round her before she laid her hand on the gate. +Then, in a twinkling, she was round the house like a lapwing and tapping at the +door. +</p> + +<p> +To her first summons she got no answer. And effacing herself as much as +possible, she cast a wary eye over the place. The garden was as ragged and +desolate, the house as bald and forbidding, the firs about it as gloomy, as +when she had last seen them. But the view over sloping field and green meadow, +wooded knoll and shining lake, made up for all. And her only feeling as she +tapped again and more loudly was one of impatience. Even the memory of the +squalid old man whom she had once seen there did not avail to alarm her in her +buoyant mood. +</p> + +<p> +This was well, perhaps. For when she knocked a third time, in alarm lest the +person she sought should be gone, and her golden ship with him, it was that +very old man who opened the door. And, not unnaturally, it seemed to Henrietta +that with its opening a shadow fell across the landscape and blurred the +sunshine of the day. The ape-like creature who gaped at her, the cavern-like +room behind him, the breath of the close air that came from him, inspired +disgust, if not alarm, and checked the girl in the full current of content. +</p> + +<p> +He did not speak. But he moved his toothless gums unpleasantly, and danced up +and down in an odd fashion from his knees, without moving his feet. Meanwhile +his reddened eyes thrust near to hers gleamed with suspicion. On her side +Henrietta was taken aback by his appearance, and for some moments she stared at +him in consternation. What could she expect from such a creature? +</p> + +<p> +At length, “I wish to see Walterson,” she said; in a low +tone—there might be listeners in the house. “Do you understand? Do +you understand?” she repeated more loudly. +</p> + +<p> +He set his head, which was bald in patches, on one side; as if to indicate that +he was deaf. And with his eyes on hers, he dropped his lower jaw and waited for +her to repeat what she had said. +</p> + +<p> +She saw nothing else for it, and she crushed down her repugnance. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me come in,” she said. “Do you hear? I want to talk to +you. Let me come in.” +</p> + +<p> +To remain where she was, talking secrets to a deaf man, was to invite +discovery. +</p> + +<p> +He understood her this time, and grudgingly he opened the door a little wider. +He stood aside and Henrietta entered. In the act she cast a backward look over +her shoulder, and caught through the doorway a last prospect of the hills and +the mid-lake and the green islets off Bowness—set like jewels on its +gleaming breast—all clear-cut in the brisk winter air. She felt the +beauty of the scene, but she did not guess what things were to happen to her +before she looked again upon its fellow. +</p> + +<p> +Not that when the door was shut upon her, the room in which she found herself +did not something appal her. The fire had been allowed to sink low, and the +squalor and the chill, vapid air of the place wrapped her about. But she was +naturally fearless, and she cheered herself with the thought that she was +stronger than the grinning old man who stood before her. She was sure that if +he resorted to violence she could master him. Still, she was in haste. She was +anxious to do what she had to do, and escape. +</p> + +<p> +And: “I must see Walterson!” she told him loudly, looking down on +him, and instinctively keeping her skirts clear of the unswept floor. “He +was here, I know, some days ago,” she continued sharply. +“Don’t say you don’t understand, because you do! But fetch +him, or tell me where he is. Do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +The old man moved his jaw to and fro. He grinned senilely. +</p> + +<p> +“He was here, eh?” he drawled. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he was here,” Henrietta returned, taking a tone of authority +with him. “And I must see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is to do no harm to him,” she explained. “Tell him Miss +Damer is here. Miss Damer, do you hear? He will see me, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay?” he said again in the same half-vacant tone. “Ay?” +</p> + +<p> +But he did not go beyond that; nor did he make any movement to comply. And she +was beginning to think him wholly imbecile when his eyes left hers and fixed +themselves on the front of her riding-coat. Then, after a moment’s +silence, during which she patted the floor with her foot in fierce impatience, +he raised his claw-like hand and stretched it slowly towards her throat. +</p> + +<p> +She stepped back, but as much in anger as in fear. Was the man imbecile, or +very wicked? +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” she asked sharply. “Don’t you +understand what I have said to you?” +</p> + +<p> +For the moment he seemed to be disconcerted by her movement. He stood in the +same place, slowly blinking his weak eyes at her. Then he turned and moved in a +slip-shod fashion to the hearth and threw on two or three morsels of +touch-wood, causing the fire to leap up and shoot a flickering light into the +darker corners of the room. The gleam discovered his dingy bed and dingier +curtains, and the shadowy entrance to the staircase in which Henrietta had once +seen Walterson. And it showed Henrietta herself, and awakened a spark in her +angry eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The old man, still stooping, looked round at her, his chin on his shoulder. And +slowly, with an odd crab-like movement, he edged his way back to her. She +watched his approach with a growing fear of the gloomy house and the silence +and the dark staircase. She began to think he was imbecile, or worse, and that +nothing could be got from him. And she was in two minds about +retreating—so powerfully do silence and mystery tell on the +nerves—when he paused in his advance, and, raising his lean, twitching +hand, pointed to her neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Give it me,” he whimpered. “Give it me—and I’ll +see, maybe, where he is.” +</p> + +<p> +She frowned. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” she asked. “What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“The gold!” he croaked. “The gold! At your neck, lass! That +sparkles! Give it me!” opening and shutting his lean fingers. “And +I’ll—I’ll see what I can do.” +</p> + +<p> +She carried her fingers to the neck of her gown and touched the tiny gold medal +struck to celebrate the birth of the Princess Charlotte, which she wore as a +clasp at her throat. And relieved to find that he meant no worse, she smiled. +The scarecrow before her was less of an “innocent” than she had +judged him. It was so much the better for her purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot give you this,” she said. “But I’ll give you +its value, if you will bring me to Walterson.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, give it me,” he whimpered, grimacing at her and making +feeble clutches in the air. “Give it me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot, I say,” she repeated. “It was my mother’s, +and I cannot part with it. But if,” she continued patiently, “you +will do what I ask I will give you its value, old man, another day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give now!” he retorted. “Give now!” And leering with +childish cunning, “Trust the day and greet the morrow! Groats in pouch +ne’er yet brought sorrow! Na, na, Hinkson, old Hinkson trusts nobody. +Give it me now, lass! And I—I know what I know.” And in a cracked +and quavering voice, swaying himself to the measure, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt">“It is an old saying +</p> + +<p class="t1">That few words are best, +</p> + +<p class="t0">And he that says little +</p> + +<p class="t1">Shall live most at rest. +</p> + +<p class="t0">And I by my gossips +</p> + +<p class="t1">Do find it right so, +</p> + +<p class="t0">Therefore I’ll spare speech, +</p> + +<p class="t1">But—I know what I know. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +I know what I know!” he repeated, blinking with doting astuteness, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt">“Therefore I’ll spare +speech,<br/> +But—I know what I know!” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Henrietta stared. She would have given him the money, any money in her power. +But imprudently prudent, she had brought none with her. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t give it you now,” she said. “But I will give +it you to-morrow if you will do what I ask. Otherwise I shall go and you will +get nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not reply, but he began to mumble with his jaws and dance himself up and +down from his knees, as at her first entrance; with his monstrous head on one +side and his red-lidded eyes peering at her. In the open, in the sunshine, she +would not have feared him; she would have thought him only grotesque in his +anger. But shut up in this hideous den with him, in this atmosphere of dimly +perceived danger, she felt her flesh creep. What if he struck her +treacherously, or took her by surprise? She had read of houses where the floors +sank under doomed strangers, or the testers of beds came down on them in their +sleep. He was capable, she was sure, of anything; even of murdering her for the +sake of the two or three guineas’ worth of gold which she wore at her +neck. Yet she held her ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear?” she said with spirit. “If you do not tell me, +I shall go. And you will get nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded cunningly. +</p> + +<p> +“Bide a bit!” he said in a different tone. “Sit ye down, +lass, sit ye down! Bide a bit, and I’ll see.” +</p> + +<p> +He slippered his way across the floor to get a stool for her. But when he had +lifted the stool from the floor in his shaking hands, she marked with a quick +leap of the heart that he had put himself between her and the door, and that, +with the possession of the stool, his looks were altered. The heavy block +wavered in his grasp and he seemed to pant and stagger under its weight. But +there was an ugly light in his eyes as he sidled nearer and nearer to her; a +light that meant murder. She was sure that he was going to leap upon her. And +she remembered that no one, no one knew where she was, no one had seen her +enter the house. She had only her own strength to look to, only her own courage +and coolness, if she would escape this creature. +</p> + +<p> +“Put down that stool!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Put down that stool!” she repeated, firmly. And she kept her eyes +on him, resisting the fatal temptation to glance at door or window. “Do +you hear me? Put down that stool!” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated, but her glance never wavered. And slowly and unwillingly he +obeyed. Shaking as with the palsy, and with his mouth fallen open—so that +he looked more imbecile and less human than ever—he relinquished the +stool. +</p> + +<p> +She drew a deep breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” she said bravely, though she was conscious that the +perspiration had broken out on her brow, “tell me at once where he +is?” +</p> + +<p> +But the old miser, though his will had yielded to hers, did not answer. He +seemed to be shaken by his defeat, and to be at once feeble and furious. +Glaring askance at her, he tottered to the settle on the hearth and sat down on +it, breathing heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“Curse her! Curse her! Curse her!” he gibbered low, but audibly. +And he licked his lips and gnashed his toothless gums at her in impotent rage. +“Curse her! Curse her!” The firelight, now rising, now falling, +showed him sitting there, mopping and mowing, like some unclean Eastern idol; +or, again, masked his revolting ugliness. +</p> + +<p> +The girl thought him horrible, thought it all horrible. She felt for an instant +as if she were going to faint. But she had gained the victory, she had mastered +him, and she would make one last attempt to attain her object. +</p> + +<p> +“You wicked old man,” she said, “you would have hurt me! You +wicked monster! But I am stronger, much stronger than you, and I do not fear +you. Now I am going unless you tell me at once.” +</p> + +<p> +He ceased to gibber to her. He beckoned to her to approach him. But she shook +her head. He no longer had the stool, but he might have some weapon hidden +under the seat of the settle. She distrusted him. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, “I am not coming near you. You are a +villainous old man, and I don’t trust you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no—no money?” he whimpered. “Nothing to give +old Hinkson? Poor old Hinkson?” with a feeble movement of his fingers on +his knees, as if he drew bed-clothes about him. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Walterson?” she repeated. “Tell me at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do I know?” he whined. “I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was here. You do know. Tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +He averted his eyes and held out a palsied hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Give!” he answered. “Give!” +</p> + +<p> +But she was relentless. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX<br/> +THE DARK MAID</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You here?” she muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“That is no matter,” Henrietta answered with dignity. “I am +not here for him, nor to see him; I wish to see——” +</p> + +<p> +“Your lover?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta winced, and her face turned scarlet. And now there was no question of +the hostility between them. Bess’s dark, smiling face was insolence +itself. +</p> + +<p> +“What? Wasn’t he that?” the gipsy girl continued. “If +he was not”—with a coarse look—“what do you want with +him?” +</p> + +<p> +Silenced for the moment by the other’s taunt, Henrietta now found her +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to see him,” she said. “That is enough for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, is it?” Bess replied. She had taken her hand from the key and +moved a pace or two into the room, so as to confront her rival at close +quarters. “That’s my affair! I fancy you will have to tell me a +good deal more before you do see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, why?” mimicking her rudely. “Why? +Because——” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“What you were!” Bess answered. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta’s face flamed anew. But the insult no longer found her +unprepared. She saw that she was in the presence of a woman dangerous and +reckless; and one who considered her a rival. On the hearth crouched and +gibbered that fearful old man. The door was locked—the action had not +been lost on her; and no living being, no one outside that door, knew that she +was here. +</p> + +<p> +“You are insolent!” was all she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“But it is true!” Bess said. “Or, if it is not +true——” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not true!” with a glance of scorn. She knew even in her +innocence that this girl had been more to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why do you ask for him?” with derision. “What do you +want with him? What right have you to ask for him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to see him,” Henrietta answered. She would not, if she +could avoid it, let her fears appear. After all, it was daylight, and she was +strong and young; a match, she thought, for the other if the old man had not +been there. “I wish to see him, that is all, and that is enough,” +she repeated, firmly. +</p> + +<p> +Bess did not answer at once. Indeed, at this point there came over her a +change, as if either the other’s courage impressed her, or cooler +thoughts suggested a different course of action. Her eyes still brooded +malevolently on the other’s face, as if she would gladly have spoiled her +beauty, and her sharp, white teeth gleamed. But to Henrietta’s last words +she did not answer. She seemed to be wavering, to be uncertain. And at last, +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean him fair?” she asked. “That is the +question.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean no harm to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon your honour?” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my honour.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d tear you limb from limb if you did!” Bess cried in the +old tone of violence. And the look which accompanied the words matched them. +But the next moment, “If I could believe you,” she said more +quietly, “it would be well and good. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“You may believe me. Why should I do him harm?” +</p> + +<p> +Bess bit her nails in doubt; and for the first time since her entrance she +turned her eyes from her rival. Perhaps for this reason Henrietta’s +courage rose. She told herself that she had been foolish to feel fear a few +minutes before: that she had allowed herself to be scared by a few rude words, +such as women of this class used on the least provocation. And the temptation +to drop the matter if she could escape uninjured gave way to a brave +determination to do all that was possible. She resolved to be firm, yet +prudent; and to persevere. And when the dialogue was resumed the tone on each +side was more moderate. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” Bess said, with a grudging air, “perhaps you may not +wish to do him harm. I don’t know, my lass. But you may do it, all the +same.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you think he is here you are mistaken.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta had already come to this conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Still,” she said, “I can go to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see how you are to go to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go anywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” with contempt. “And so will a many more at your +heels.” +</p> + +<p> +“No one saw me come here,” Henrietta said. +</p> + +<p> +“No. But it will be odd if no one sees you leave here. I met Bishop as I +came, and another with him, hot-foot after you, both, and raising the country +as fast as they could.” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta frowned. She gazed through the window. Then she looked again at Bess. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he far from here?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s telling, and I’m not going to tell. Far or near, I +don’t see how you are to go to him, unless——” She broke +off, paused a moment, and then, as if she put away a thought that had occurred +to her, “No,” she said with decision, “I see no way. There is +no way.” +</p> + +<p> +To Henrietta, the girl, the situation, the surroundings, and not least her own +rôle, were odious. Merely to negotiate with such an one as this was a +humiliation; but to endure her open scorn, to feel her cheeks burn under the +fire of her taunts, was hateful. Yet failure in the enterprise from which she +had let herself expect so much was still worse—still worse; and the +prospect of it overcame her pride. She could not accept the defeat of all her +hopes and expectations. She could not. +</p> + +<p> +“You said ‘unless,’” she retorted. +</p> + +<p> +Bess laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but it’s an ‘unless,’” she answered +contemptuously, “that you are not the one to fill up.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“What I say,” Bess answered impudently. And vaulting sideways on +the table, she sat swinging her feet, and eyeing the other with a triumphant +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Unless what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Unless you like to stay here until it is dark,—ay, dark, my pretty +peacock; and that won’t be for an hour or more. Then you may go to him +safely. Not before! But you fine ladies,” with a look that took in +Henrietta, from her high-piled hair and flushed face to the hem of her skirt, +“are afraid of your shadows, I’m told.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not afraid of my shadow,” Henrietta answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re afraid of the dark, or why didn’t you come when he +asked you? And when you could have helped him? Why did you not come then and +say what you chose to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did come,” Henrietta answered coldly. “It was he who +failed to meet me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a nice flim-flam!” Bess rejoined, with incredulity. +“You’re not one to venture yourself out after moonrise, I’ll +be bound. And so I told him! But any way,” sliding to her feet, and +speaking with decision, “he’s not here, and you can’t see +him! And to tell the truth, I’d as lief have your room as your company, +that being so.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned to the door as if to open it. But Henrietta did not move. She was +deep in thought. The sneering words, the dark handsome face, filled her with +distrust; and with something like loathing of herself when she reflected that +the man she sought had been this girl’s lover. But they also aroused her +spirit. They spurred her to the step which the other dared her to take. Was she +to show herself as a timid thing, as poor a creature as this gipsy girl deemed +her? She had come hither with her heart set upon a prize; was she to relinquish +that prize because its pursuit demanded an ordinary amount of +courage—such courage as this village girl possessed and made naught of? +</p> + +<p> +And yet—and yet she hesitated. She was not afraid of the girl; she was +not afraid—she told herself—of the man who had once professed to be +her lover: but there might be others, and it would be dark. If the boy were +there, there would be others. And she was not sure that she was—not +afraid. For the old man by the fireside, with his squalid clothes and his +horrible greediness, made her flesh creep. She hesitated, until Bess, with a +sneer, bade her to go if she was going. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d as soon see your back,” she continued, “and +ha’ done with it. I know your sort! All fine feathers and as much spunk +as a mouse!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta made up her mind. She sat down on the nearest stool. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall remain,” she said, “and go with you to see +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not you! So what’s the use of talking?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go,” Henrietta replied firmly. “It will be dark in +an hour. I will remain and go with you.” +</p> + +<p> +Bess shrugged her shoulders and answered nothing. But had Henrietta caught +sight of her smile, she had certainly changed her mind. +</p> + +<p> +Even without that, and unwarned, the girl found, as they sat there in silence, +and the minutes passed and the light faded, much ground for hesitation. The +words which Clyne had used when he forbade her to risk herself, the terms in +which he had described the desperate plight of the men whom she must beard, the +fears that had assailed her when she had gone after dark to meet a peril less +serious—all these things recurred to her memory, and scared her. By +pressing her lips together she maintained a show of unconcern; but only because +the dusk hid her loss of colour. She repented—gravely; but she had not +the courage to draw back. She shrank from meeting—as she must meet, if +she rose to go—the other’s smile of triumph; she shrank from the +sense of humiliation under which she would smart after she had escaped. She had +cast the die and must dare. She must see the enterprise through. And she sat +on. But she was sure that she could hardly suffer anything worse than she +suffered during those minutes, while her fate still lay in her hands, while the +power to withdraw was still hers, and indecision plucked at her. The man who +fights with his back to the wall suffers less than when, before he drew his +blade, imagination dealt him a score of deaths. +</p> + +<p> +The old man continued to grumble over the fire; and seldom, but sometimes, he +laid his chin on his shoulder and looked back at her. Bess, on the contrary, +gazed at her as the cat at the mouse; but with her back to the light and her +own face in shadow, so that whatever thoughts or passions clouded her dark +eyes, they passed unseen. Presently, as the light failed, Bess’s head +became no more than a dark knob breaking the lower line of dusty panes; while +through the upper a patch of pale green sky, promising frost, held +Henrietta’s eyes and raised a still but solemn voice amid the tumult of +her thoughts. That morsel of sky was the only clean, pure thing within sight, +and it faded quickly, and became first grey and then a blur of darkness. By +that time the room, with its close, fetid odours and its hints at gruesome +secrets, had sunk into the blackness of night. +</p> + +<p> +The fire gave out a dull glow, but it went no farther than the hearth. Yet +presently it was the cause of an illusion, if illusion it was, which gave +Henrietta a shock. Turning her eyes from the window—it seemed to her that +longer waiting would break her down—she saw the outline of the old +miser’s figure, but erect and much closer to her than before—and, +unless she was mistaken, with hands outstretched as if to clutch her neck. She +uttered a low cry, and rose, and stepped back. On the instant he vanished. But +whether he sank down, or retreated, or had never stirred, she could not be +sure; while her cry found an echo in Bess’s mischievous laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha! ha! You’re not quite so bold!” Bess cried, with +enjoyment, “as you were an hour ago, I reckon!” +</p> + +<p> +The jeer gave a fillip to Henrietta’s pride. +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready,” she said, though her voice shook a little. +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” coldly; “I shall go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think he was going to twist your pretty neck?” Bess +rejoined. “Was that it? But come,” in a more sober tone, +“we’ll go. Good-night, old man!” And moving to the door with +the ease of one who knew every foot of the room, she unlocked it. A breath of +fresh, cold air, blowing on her cheek, informed Henrietta that the door was +open. She groped her way to it. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wait here,” Bess whispered, “while I see if the coast +is clear. You’ll hear an owl hoot; then come.” +</p> + +<p> +But Henrietta was not going to be left with that old man. She crept outside the +door and, holding it behind her, waited. The night was dark as well as cold, +for the moon would not rise for some hours; and Henrietta wondered, as she drew +her hood about her neck, how they were to go anywhere. Presently the owl hooted +low, and she released the door, and groped her way round the house and between +the fir trunks to the gate. A hand, rough but small, clutched her wrist and +turned her about; a voice whispered, “Come!” and the two, Bess +acting as guide, set off in silence along the road in the direction of +Troutbeck. +</p> + +<p> +“How far is it?” Henrietta muttered, when they had gone a distance, +that in the night seemed a good half mile. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s telling,” Bess answered. “’Tain’t +far. Turn here! Right! right!” pushing her. “Now wait while +I——” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing?” +</p> + +<p> +Bess did not explain that she was opening a gate. Instead, she impelled the +other forward and squeezed her arm to impress on her the need of silence. +Henrietta felt that the ground over which they were passing was at once softer +and more uneven, and she guessed that they had left the road. A moment later +the air met her cheek more coldly, and the gloom seemed less opaque. She +conjectured that she stood on the brow of a hill—or a precipice—and +involuntarily she recoiled. But Bess dragged her on, down a slope so steep +that, although the girl trod with caution, she was scarcely able to keep her +feet. +</p> + +<p> +Feeling her still hang hack, the gipsy girl plucked at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurry!” she whispered. “Hurry, can’t you? We are +nearly there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, there!” +</p> + +<p> +But the cold and the darkness and the other’s hostile tone had shaken +Henrietta’s nerves. She jerked herself free. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” she repeated firmly. “Where are we going? I shall +not go farther unless you tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let be! Let be!” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me this minute!” +</p> + +<p> +“To Tyson the doctor’s, if you must know,” Bess replied +grudgingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +She knew now. She stood half way down the smooth side of the hollow in which +Tyson’s farm nestled. She remembered the large kitchen, with the shining +oaken table and the woman with the pale plump face who had crouched on the +settle and gone in fear of nights. And though the place still stood a trifle +uncanny in her memory, and the uncomfortable impression which the woman’s +complaints had made on her, had not quite passed from her, the knowledge +relieved her. +</p> + +<p> +She knew at least where she was, and that the place lay barely a furlong from +the road. She might count, too, on the aid of the doctor’s wife, who was +jealous of this very girl. And after all, in comparison with the miser’s +wretched abode, Tyson’s house, though lonely, seemed an everyday +dwelling, and safe. +</p> + +<p> +The news reassured her. When Bess, in a tone of scorn that thinly masked +disappointment, flung at her the words, “Then you are not coming?” +she was ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am coming,” she said. And she yielded herself again to +Bess’s guidance. In less than a minute they were at the bottom of the +hollow. They skirted the fold-yard and the long, silent buildings that bulked +somewhat blacker than the night. They turned a corner, and a dog not far from +them stirred its chain and growled. But Bess stilled it by a word, and the two +halted in the gloom, where a thin line of light escaped beneath a door, +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX<br/> +BESS’S TRIUMPH</h2> + +<p> +Bess knocked twice, and, stooping to the keyhole, repeated the owl’s +hoot. Presently a bar was drawn back, and after a brief interval, which those +within appeared to devote to listening, the key was turned, and the door was +opened far enough to admit one person at a time. The two slid in, Bess pushing +Henrietta before her. +</p> + +<p> +The moment she had passed the threshold Henrietta stood, dazzled by the light +and bewildered by what she saw. Nor was it her eyes only that were unpleasantly +affected. A voice, loud and blustering, hailed her appearance with a curse, +fired from the heart of a cloud of tobacco smoke. And the air was heavy with +the reek of spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“By G—d!” the voice which had affrighted her repeated. +“Who’s this? Are you mad, girl?” And the speaker sprang to +his feet. He was one of two thickset, unshaven men who were engaged in playing +cards on a corner of the table. His comrade kept his place, but stared, a jug +half lifted to his lips; while a third man, the only other present, a +loose-limbed, good-looking gipsy lad, who had opened the door, grinned at the +unexpected vision—as if his stake in the matter was less, and his +interest in feminine charms greater. But nowhere, though the kitchen was +wastefully lighted, and her frightened eyes flew to every part of it, was the +man to be seen whom she came to meet. +</p> + +<p> +She turned quickly upon Bess, as if she thought she might still escape. But the +door was already closed behind them, the key turned. And before she could +speak: +</p> + +<p> +“Have done a minute!” Bess muttered, pushing her aside. “And +let me deal with them.” Then, advancing into the room—but not +before she had seen the great bar drawn across the locked +door—“Shut your trap!” she cried to the man who had spoken. +“And listen!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s this?” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it, I say?” the man cried, even more violently. “And +what the blazes have you brought her here for?” And he poured out a +string of oaths that drove the blood from Henrietta’s cheeks. “Who +is it? Who is it?” he continued. “D’you think, you vixen, +that because my neck is in a noose, I want some one to pull the rope +tight?” +</p> + +<p> +“What a fool you are to talk before her!” Bess answered, with quiet +scorn. “If any one pulls the hemp it’s you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord help you, I’ll do more than talk!” the man rejoined. +And he snatched up a heavy pistol that lay on the table beside the cards. +“Quick, will you? Speak! Who is it, and why do you bring her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll speak quick enough, but not here!” Bess answered, +contemptuously. “If you must jaw, come into the dairy! Come, don’t +think that I’m afraid of you!” And she turned to Henrietta, who, +stricken dumb by the scene, recognised too late the trap into which she had +fallen. “Do you stay here,” she said, “unless you want his +hand on you. Sit there!” pointing abruptly to the settle, “and keep +mum until I come back.” +</p> + +<p> +But Henrietta’s terror at the prospect of being abandoned by the girl, +though that girl had betrayed her, was such that she seized Bess by the sleeve +and held her back. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t leave me!” she said. And again, with a shadow of the +old imperiousness, “You are not to leave me! Do you hear? I will come +with you. I——” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll do what you’re bid!” Bess answered. “Go +and sit down!” And the savage glint in her eyes put a new fear into +Henrietta. +</p> + +<p> +She went to the settle, her limbs unsteady under her, her eyes glancing round +for a chance of escape. Where was the woman of the house? Where was Tyson? +Chiefest of all, where was Walterson? She saw no sign of any of them. And +terrified to the heart, she sat shivering where the other had ordered her to +sit. +</p> + +<p> +Bess opened a side door which led to the dairy, a cold, flagged room, lower by +a couple of steps than the kitchen. She took up a candle, one of five or six +which were flaring on the table, and she beckoned to the two men to follow her. +When they had done so, the one who had taken up the pistol still muttering and +casting suspicious glances over his shoulder, she slammed to the door. But, +either by accident, or with a view to intimidate her prisoner, she let it leap +ajar again; so that much of the talk which followed reached Henrietta’s +ears. It soon banished from the unhappy girl’s cheeks the blood which the +gipsy lad’s stare of admiration had brought to them. +</p> + +<p> +Lunt’s first word was an oath. “You know well enough,” he +cried, “that we want no praters here! Why have you brought this fool here +to peach on us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, why?” Lunt repeated. “In two days more we had all got +clear, and nothing better managed!” +</p> + +<p> +“And thanks to whom?” the girl retorted with energy. “Who has +hidden you? Who has kept you? Who has done all for you? But there it is! Now my +lad’s gone, and Thistlewood’s gone, you think all’s yours! +And as much of yourselves as masterless dogs!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stow it!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’ll not!” she retorted. “Whose house is +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my lass, not yours!” Giles, the less violent of the two, +answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor yours either! And, any way, it’s due to me that you are in it, +and not outside, with irons on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But cannot you see, lass,” Giles answered, in a more moderate +tone, “that you’ve upset all by bringing the wench here? +You’ll hear the morrow, or the morrow of that, that your lad’s got +clear to Leith, and Thistlewood with him! And then we go our way, and yon gipsy +will carry off the brat in his long pack, and drop him the devil cares +where—and nobody’ll be the wiser, and his father’ll have a +lesson that will do him good! But, now you’ve let the girl in, +what’ll you do with her when we get clear? You cannot stow her in the +long pack, and the moment you let her go her tongue will clack!” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know it will clack?” Bess asked, in a tone that froze +the listening girl’s blood. “How do you know it will clack?” +she repeated. “The lake’s deep enough to hold both.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what’s the game, lass?” Giles asked. “Show a glim. +Let’s see it. If you are so fond of us,” in a tone of unpleasant +meaning, “that you’ve brought her—just to amuse us in our +leisure, say it out! Though even then I’m not for saying that the game is +worth the candle, my lass! Since coves in our very particular case has to be +careful, and the prettiest bit of red and white may hang a man as quick as her +mother! But I don’t think you had that in your mind, Bess.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“And that being so, and hemp so cheap, out with it! Show a glim, and +you’ll not find us nasty.” +</p> + +<p> +“The thing’s pretty plain, isn’t it?” Bess answered, +coolly. “You’ve had your fun. Why shouldn’t I have mine? +You’d a grudge, and you’ve paid it. Why am I not to pay +mine?” +</p> + +<p> +“What has the wench done to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that to you?” viciously. “Stolen my lad, if you +like. Any Away, it’s my business. If I choose to treat her as you have +treated the brat, what is it to you? If I’ve a mind to give her a taste +of the smugglers’ oven, what’s that to you? Or if I choose to spoil +her looks, or break her pride—she’s one of those that teach us to +behave ourselves lowly and reverently to all our betters—and if I choose +to give her a lesson, is it any business but mine? She’s crossed me! +She’s a peacock! And if I choose to have some fun with her and hold her +nose to the grindstone, what’s that to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“But afterwards?” Giles persisted. “Afterwards, my lass? What +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” Bess +answered. “For the matter of that, if my old dad once gets his fingers +round her throat she’ll not squeak! You may swear to that.” +</p> + +<p> +They dropped their voices then, or they moved farther from the door. So that +the remainder of the debate escaped Henrietta, though she strained her ears to +the utmost. +</p> + +<p> +She had heard enough, however; enough to know where she stood, and to feel the +cold grip of despair close upon her. Fortunately she had had such preparation +as the scene and the change in Bess’s demeanor afforded; and while her +heart thumped to choke her, and she could not restrain the glances that like a +hunted hare she cast about her, she neither fainted nor raised an outcry. The +gipsy lad, who lolled beside the door and never took his bold eyes from her, +detected the sudden stillness of her pose and her changed aspect. But, though +his gaze dwelt as freely as he pleased on her, on the turn of her pale cheek, +and the curve of her figure, he was deceived into thinking that she did not +catch the drift that was so clear to him. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s frightened!” he thought, smacking his lips. +“She’s frightened! But she’d be more frightened if she heard +what they are saying. A devil, Bess is, a devil if there ever was one!” +And he wondered whether, if he told the girl, she would cling to him, and pray +to him, and kneel to him—to save her! He would like that, for she was a +pretty prey; and the prettier in his eyes, because she was not dark-skinned and +black-eyed, like his own women, but a thing of creamy fairness. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta heard all, however, and understood. And for a few moments she was +near to swooning. Then the very peril in which she found herself steadied her, +and gave her power to think. Was there any quarter to which she could look for +help—outside or in? Outside the house, alas, none; for she had taken +care, fatal care, to blind her trail, and to leave no trace by which her +friends could find her! And inside, the hope was as slight. Walterson, to whose +pity she might have appealed—with success, if all chivalry were not dead +in him—was gone, it seemed. There remained only—a feeble straw +indeed to which to cling—the woman of the house; the white-faced woman +who had gone in fear, and thought this very girl Bess had designs on her life! +</p> + +<p> +But was the woman here? She had been very near her time, yet no cry, no whimper +bore witness to the presence of child life in the house. And the room in its +wild and wasteful disorder gave the lie to the presence of any housewife, +however careless. The flagged floor, long uncleaned and unwhitened, was strewn +with broken pipe-stems, half-burned pipe-lights, gnawed bones and dirty +platters. The bright oaken table, the pride of generations of thrifty wives, +was a litter of dog’s-eared cards and over-set bottles, broken loaves, +and pewter dishes. One of the oat-cake springs hung loose, tearing the ceiling; +in one corner a bacon chest gaped open and empty. In another corner a pile of +dubious bedding lay as its occupant had left it. The chimney corner was +cumbered with logs of wood. Greasy frying-pans and half-cleaned pots lay +everywhere; and on the whole, and on a medley of tattered things too repulsive +to mention, a show of candles, that would have scared the least frugal dame, +cast a useless glare. +</p> + +<p> +In a word, everything within sight proved that the house was at the mercy of +the gang who surrounded her. And if that were so? If no help were possible? For +an instant panic gripped her. The room swam round, and she had to grasp the +settle with her hands to maintain her composure. What was she to do? What could +she do, thus trapped? What? What? +</p> + +<p> +She must think—for her own sake, for the child’s sake, who, it was +clear, was also in their power. But it was hard, very hard, to think with that +man’s eyes gloating on her; and when with every second the door of the +dairy, where they were conferring, might open, and—she knew not what +horror might befall her. And—and then again there was the child! +</p> + +<p> +For she spared it a thought of pity, grudgingly taken from her own need. And +then the door opened. And Bess, carrying the light above her head, came up the +steps, followed by the two men. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll let her down soft!” she said, as she appeared. +“We’ll make her drudge first and smart afterwards! And she’ll +come to it the quicker.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Bess,” one of the men answered with a grin, “but +you’ll not spoil her pretty fingers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, won’t we?” Bess answered. And turning to Henrietta, and +throwing off the mask, “Now, peacock!” she said, “I’ve +got you here and you can’t escape. I am going to put your nose to the +grindstone. I’m going to see if you are of the same stuff as other +people! Can you cook?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta did not know what to answer; nor whether she dared assert herself. +She tried to frame the words, “Where is Walterson? Where is Walterson? If +he is not here, let me go!” But she knew that they would not let her go. +And, unable to speak, she stood dumb before them. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, we’ll see if you can,” Bess said, scoffingly. +“I see you know what’s what, and where you are. Come, slice that +bacon! And fry it! There’s the knife, and there’s the flitch, and +let’s have none of your airs, or—you’ll have the knife across +your knuckles. Do you hear, cat? Do you understand? You’ll do as you are +bid here. We’ll see how you like to be undermost.” +</p> + +<p> +The men laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the way, Bess,” one said. “Break her in, and +she’ll soon come to it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyways, she’ll not take my lad again!” Bess said, as +Henrietta, bending her head, took the knife with a shaking hand. +“We’ll give her something to do, and she’ll sleep the sounder +for it when she goes to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said Giles, with a smile. “Hope she’ll like her +room!” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll lump it’ or like it!” said Bess. +“She’s one of them that grinds our faces. We’ll see how she +likes to be ground!” +</p> + +<p> +Involuntarily Henrietta, stooping with a white face to her work, shuddered. But +she had no choice. To beg for mercy, it was clear, was useless; to resist was +to precipitate matters, while every postponement of the crisis offered a chance +of rescue. As long as insult was confined to words she must put up with +it—how foolish, how foolish she had been to come! She must +smile—though it were awry—and play the sullen or the cheerful, as +promised best. The door was locked on her. She had no friends within reach. +Help there was none. She was wholly at the mercy of these wretches, and her +only hope was that, if she did their bidding, she might awaken a spark of pity +in the breast of one or other of them. +</p> + +<p> +Still, she did not quite lose her presence of mind. As she bent over her task, +and with shaking fingers hacked at the tough rind of the bacon, the while Bess +rained on her a shower of gibes and the men grinned at the joke, her senses +were on the alert. Once she fancied a movement and a smothered cry in the room +above; and she had work to keep her eyes lowered when Bess immediately went +out. She might have thought more of the matter; but left alone with the three +men she had her terrors. She dared not let her mind or her eyes wander. To go +on with the task, and give the men not so much as a look, seemed the only +course. +</p> + +<p> +For the present the three limited their coarse gallantries to words. Nay, when +the gipsy lad would have crept nearer to her, the others bade him have done; +adding, that kissing the cook-maid never cleaned a dish. +</p> + +<p> +Then Bess came back and forced her to hold the pan on the fire, though the heat +scorched her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve to do it! See how you like it!” the girl cried, +standing over her vindictively. “And see you don’t drop it, my +lass, or I’ll lay the pan to your cheek. You’re proud of your pink +and white”—thrusting her almost into the fire—“see how +it will stand a bit of cook-maid’s work!” +</p> + +<p> +Pride helped Henrietta to restrain the rising sob, the complaint. And luckily +it needed but another minute to complete the cooking. Bess and the three men +sat down to the table, and Bess’s first humour was to make her wait on +them. But a moment later she changed her mind, forced the girl to sit down, +and, will she, nill she, Henrietta had to swallow, though every morsel seemed +to choke her, the portion set for her. +</p> + +<p> +“Down with it!” Bess cried, spitefully. “What’s good +enough for us is good enough for you! And when supper’s done I’ll +see you to your bedroom. You’re a mile too dainty, like all your sort! +Ah, you’d like to kill me this minute, wouldn’t you? That’s +what I like! I’ve often thought I should like to have one of you +peacocks—who look at me as if I were dirt—and put my foot upon her +face! And now I’ve got you—who stole my lad! And you’ll see +what I’ll do to you!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI<br/> +A STRANGE BEDROOM</h2> + +<p> +The men followed Bess’s lead, and as they supped never ceased to make +Henrietta the butt of odious jests and more odious gallantries; until, now +pale, now red, the girl was eager to welcome any issue from a position so +hateful. Once, stung beyond reason, she sprang up and would have fled from +them, with burning ears. But Bess seized her by the shoulders and thrust her +back violently into her seat; and, sobered by the force used to her, and +terrified lest the men should lay hands on her, she resigned herself. +</p> + +<p> +Strangely, the one of the four who said nothing, was the one whom she feared +the most. The gipsy lad did not speak. But his eyes never left her, and +something in their insolent freedom caused her more misery than the +others’ coarsest jests. He marked her blushes and pallor, and her one +uncontrollable revolt; and like the bird that flutters under the spell of the +serpent that hopes to devour it, she was conscious of this watching. She was +conscious of it to such an extent, that when Bess cried, “Now it’s +time you had your bedroom candlestick, peacock!” she did not hear, but +sat on as one deaf and blind; as the hare sits fascinated by the snake’s +eye. +</p> + +<p> +The gipsy smiled. He understood. But Bess did not, and she tugged the +girl’s hair with sufficient roughness to break the spell. +</p> + +<p> +“Up!” she cried. “Up when I speak! Don’t dream +you’re a fine lady any longer! Wait till I get your bed +candlestick—eh, lads?—and you’ll be wiser to-morrow, and +tamer, too. See, my lass, that’s for you!” And she held up a small +dark-lanthorn, and opening it, kindled the wick from one of the candles. +“Now come! And do you—no, not you!” to the gipsy, who had +stepped forward—“you!” to Giles, “come with me and see +her safely into her bedroom!” +</p> + +<p> +Lunt growled a word or two. +</p> + +<p> +“Stow it!” Bess answered, as she darkened the lanthorn. +“It’s to be as I say. Here, give me your wrist, girl.” +</p> + +<p> +But at that, fear gripped Henrietta. She hung back with a white face. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do with me?” she cried. “What are +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“In two minutes you’ll see!” Bess retorted. And with a quick +movement she grasped the girl’s arm. “And be as wise as I am. Lay +hold of her other arm,” she continued to Giles. “It’s no use +to struggle, my lady!—and if she cries out down her at once. You hear, do +you?” she continued, addressing Henrietta, who with terror found herself +as helpless as a doe in the hound’s fangs. “Then mum, and +it’ll be the better for you. Here, do you take the lanthorn,” she +went on, handing it to Giles, “and I’ll carry the victuals. You can +hold her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll break her wrist if she budges,” the man replied. +“But, after all, isn’t she as well here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, she’s not!” Bess answered, with decision. “Do +you”—to Lunt—“open the yard door for us, and stand by +till we come in again. No, not you,” to the gipsy, who had again stepped +forward. “You’re too ready, my lad, and I don’t trust +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately for Henrietta, the sight of the plate of food relieved her of her +worst fears. She was not to be done to death, but in all probability to be +consigned to the hiding place which held the boy. And though the prospect was +not cheerful, and Bess’s manner was cruel and menacing, Henrietta felt +that if this were the worst she could face it. She could bear even what the +child bore, and by sharing its hardships she might do something to comfort it. +Always, too, there was the chance of escape; and from the place, be it +out-house or stable, in which they held the boy confined, escape must be more +feasible than from the house, with its bolts and bars. +</p> + +<p> +She had time to make these calculations between the kitchen and the yard door; +through which they half-led, half-pushed her into the night. With all a +woman’s natural timidity on finding herself held and helpless in the +dark, she had to put restraint upon herself not to try to break loose, not to +scream. But she conquered herself and let them lead her, unresisting and as one +blindfold, where they pleased. +</p> + +<p> +It was clear that they knew the place well. For, though the darkness in the +depths of this bowl in the hills was absolute, they did not unmask the +lanthorn; but moved confidently for a distance of some fifty yards. The dog, +kenneled near, had given tongue as they left the house. But once only. And when +they paused, all was so still in the frosty mist that wrapped them about and +clutched the throat, that Henrietta’s ear caught the trickle of water +near at hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are we?” she muttered. “Where are we?” She hung +back in sudden, uncontrollable alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“Mum, fool!” Bess hissed in her ear. “Be still, or it will be +the worse with you. Have you,” she continued, in the same low tone, +“undone the door, lad?” +</p> + +<p> +For answer a wooden door groaned on its hinges. +</p> + +<p> +“Right!” Bess murmured. “Bend your head, girl!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta obeyed, and pushed forward by an unseen hand, she advanced three +paces, and felt a warmer air salute her cheek. The door groaned again; she +heard a wooden bolt thrust home. Bess let her hand go and unmasked the +lanthorn. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta shivered. She was in a covered well-head, whence the water, after +filling a sunken caldron, about which the moss hung in dark, snaky wreaths, +escaped under the wooden door. Some yeoman of bygone days had come to the help +of nature, and after enlarging a natural cavity had enclosed it, to protect the +water from pollution. The place was so small that it no more than held the +three who stood in it, nor all of them dry-shod. And Henrietta’s heart +sank indeed before the possibility of being left to pass the night in this dank +cave. +</p> + +<p> +Bess’s next movement freed her from this fear. The girl turned the light +on the rough wall, and seizing an innocent-looking wooden peg, which projected +from it, pushed the implement upwards. A piece of the wall, of the shape and +size of a large oven door, fell downwards and outwards, as the tail of a cart +falls. It revealed a second cavity of which the floor stood a couple of feet +higher than the ground on which they were. It was very like a spacious +bread-oven, though something higher and longer; apparently it had been made in +the likeness of one. +</p> + +<p> +But Henrietta did not think of this, or of its shape or its purpose. For the +same light, a dim, smoky lamp burning at the far end of the place, which +revealed its general aspect, disclosed a bundle of straw and a forlorn little +form. +</p> + +<p> +She gasped. For that any human creature, much more a child, should be confined +in such a place, buried in the bowels of the earth, seemed so monstrous, so +shocking, that she could not believe it! +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried, forgetting for the moment her own position and her +own fate, forgetting everything in her horror and pity. “You have not +left the child here! And alone! For shame! For shame!” she continued, +turning on them in the heat of her indignation and fearing them no more than a +hunter fears a harmless snake—which excites disgust, but not terror. +“What do you think will happen to you?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment, strange to say, her indignation cowed them. For a moment they saw +the thing as she saw it; they were daunted. Then Bess sneered: +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t like the place?” +</p> + +<p> +“For that child?” +</p> + +<p> +“For yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +She was burning with indignation, and for answer she climbed into the place, +and went on her hands and knees to the child’s side. She bent over it, +and listened to its breathing. +</p> + +<p> +“Is’t asleep?” Bess asked. There was a ring of anxiety in her +tone. And when Henrietta did not answer, “It’s not dead?” she +muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Dead? No,” Henrietta replied, with a shudder. “But +it’s—it’s——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“It breathes, but—but——” She drew its head on to +her shoulder and peered more closely into the small white face. “It +breathes, but—but what is the matter with it? What have you done to +it?”—glancing at them suspiciously. For the boy, after returning +her look with lack-lustre eyes, had averted his face from the light and from +hers. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s had a dose,” Bess answered roughly—she had had +her moment of alarm. “In an hour or two it will awake. Then you can feed +it. Here’s the porridge. And there’s milk. It was fresh this +morning and must be fresh enough now. Hang the brat, I’m sure it has been +trouble enough. Now you can nurse it, my lass, and I wish you joy of it, and a +gay good-night! And before morning you’ll know what it costs to rob Bess +Hinkson of her lad!” +</p> + +<p> +“But the child will die!” Henrietta cried, rising to her +feet—she could stand in the place, but not quite erect. “Stay! +Stay! At least take——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Take the child in! And warm and feed it! Oh, I beg you take it!” +Henrietta pleaded. “It will die here! It is cold now! I believe it is +dying now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dying, your grand-dam!” the girl retorted, scornfully. “But +if we take it, will you stay?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will!” Henrietta answered. “I will!” +</p> + +<p> +“So you will! And the child, too!” Bess retorted. And she +slammed-to the door. But again, while Henrietta, appalled by her position, +still stared at the place, the shutter fell, and Bess thrust in her dark, +handsome face. “See here!” she said. “If you begin to scream +and shout, it will be the worse for you, and do you remember that! I shall not +come, but I shall send Saul. He’s took a fancy to you, and will find a +way of silencing you, I’ll bet!” with an unpleasant smile. +“So now you know! And if you want his company you’ll shout!” +</p> + +<p> +She slammed the shutter to again with that, and Henrietta heard the bolt fall +into its place. +</p> + +<p> +The girl stood for a moment, staring and benumbed. But presently her eyes, +which at first travelled wildly round, grew more sober. They fell on her tiny +fellow-prisoner, and, resting on that white, unconscious cheek, on those baby +hands clenched in some bygone paroxysm, they filled slowly with tears. +</p> + +<p> +“I will think of the child! I will think of the child!” she +murmured. And, crouching down, she hugged it to her with a sensation of relief, +almost of happiness. “I thank God I came! I thank God I am here to +protect it!” +</p> + +<p> +And resolutely averting her eyes from the low roof and oven-like walls, that, +when she dwelt too long on them, seemed, like the famous dungeon of Poe, to +contract about her and choke her, she devoted herself to the child; and as she +grew scared by its prolonged torpor, she strove to rouse it. At first her +efforts were vain. But she persisted in them. For the vision which she had had +in the cell at Kendal—of the child holding out pleading hands to +her—rose to her memory. She was certain that at that moment the child had +been crying for aid. And surely not for nothing, not without purpose, had the +cry come to her ears who now by so strange a fate was brought to the +boy’s side. +</p> + +<p> +At intervals she felt almost happy in this assurance; as she pressed the child +to her, and watched by the dim, yellow light its slow recovery from the drug. +Her present danger, her present straits, her position in this underground +place, which would have sent some mad, were forgotten. And the past and the +future filled her thoughts; and Anthony Clyne. Phrases of condemnation and +contempt which <i>he</i> had used to her recurred, as she nursed his child; and +she rejoiced to think that he must unsay them! The bruises which he had +inflicted still discoloured her wrist, and moved strange feelings in her, when +her eyes fell upon them. But he would repent of his violence soon! Very soon, +very soon, and how completely! The thought was sweet to her! +</p> + +<p> +She was in peril, and a week before she had been free as air. But then she had +been without any prospect of reinstatement, any hope of regaining the +world’s respect, any chance of wiping out the consequences of her mad and +foolish act. Now, if she lived, and escaped from this strait, he at least must +thank her, he at least must respect her. And she was sure, yes, she dared to +tell herself, blushing, that if he respected her, he would know how to make the +world also respect her. +</p> + +<p> +But then again she trembled. For there was a darker side. She was in the power +of these wretches; and the worst—the thought paled her cheek—might +happen! She held the child more closely to her, and rocked it to and fro in +earnest prayer. The worst! Yes, the worst might happen. But then again she fell +back on the reflection that <i>he</i> was searching for them, and if any could +find them he would. He was searching for them, she was sure, as strenuously, +and perhaps with more vengeful purpose than when he had sought the child alone! +By this time, doubtless, she was missed, and he had raised the country, flung +wide the alarm, set a score moving, fired the dalesmen from Bowness to +Ambleside. Yes, for certain they were searching for her. And they must know, +careful as she had been to hide her trail, that she could not have travelled +far; and the scope of the search, therefore, would be narrow, and the scrutiny +close. They could hardly fail, she thought, to visit the farm in the hollow; +its sequestered and lonely position must invite inquiry. And if they entered, a +single glance at the disordered kitchen would inform the searchers that +something was amiss. +</p> + +<p> +So far Henrietta’s thoughts, as she clasped the boy to her and strove to +warm him to life against her own body, ran in a current chequered but more or +less hopeful. But again the supposition would force itself upon her—the +men were desperate, and the woman was moved by a strange hatred of her. What if +they fled, and left no sign? What if they escaped, and left no word of her? The +thought was torture! She could not endure it. She put the child down, and +rising to her knees, she covered her eyes with her hands. To be buried here +underground! To die of hunger and thirst in this bricked vault, as far from +hope and help, from the voices and eyes of men and the blessed light of the +sun, as if they had laid her alive in her coffin! +</p> + +<p> +Oh, it was horrible! She could not bear it; she could not bear to think of it. +She sprang, forgetting herself, to her feet, and the blow which the roof dealt +her, though her thick hair saved her from injury, intensified the feeling. She +was buried! Yes, she was buried alive! The roof seemed to be sinking upon her. +These brick walls so cunningly arched, and narrowing a t either end, as the +ends of a coffin narrow, were the walls of her tomb! Those faint lines of +mortar which seclusion from the elements had preserved in their freshness, +presently she would attack them with her nails in the frenzy of her despair. +She glared about her. The weight, the mass of the hill above, seemed to press +upon her. The air seemed to fail her. Was there no way, no way of escape from +this living tomb—this grave under the tons and tons and tons of rock and +earth? +</p> + +<p> +And then the child—perhaps she had put him from her roughly, and the +movement had roused him—whimpered. And she shook herself free—thank +God—free from the hideous dream that had obsessed her. She remembered +that the men were not yet fled, nor was she abandoned. She was leaping, thank +Heaven, far above the facts. In a passion of relief she knelt beside the child, +and rained kisses on him, and swore to him, as he panted with terror in her +arms, that he need not fear, that he was safe now, and she was beside him to +take care of him! And that all would be well if he would not cry. All would be +well. For she bethought herself that the child must not know how things stood. +Fear and suffering he might know if the worst came; but not the fear, not the +mental torture which she had known for a few moments, and which in so short a +time had driven her almost beside herself. +</p> + +<p> +The boy’s faculties were still benumbed by the hardships which he had +undergone; perhaps a little by the narcotic he had taken. And though he had +seen Henrietta at least a dozen times in the old life, he could not remember +her. Nevertheless she contrived to satisfy him that she was a friend, that she +meant him well, that she would protect him. And little by little, in spite of +the surroundings which drew the child’s eyes again and again in terror to +the dimly-lit vaulting, on which the shadow of the girl’s figure bulked +large, his alarm subsided. His heart beat less painfully, and his eyes lost in +a degree the strained and pitiful look which had become habitual. But his +little limbs still started if the light flickered, or the oil sputtered; and it +was long before, partly by gentle suasion, partly by caresses, she succeeded in +inducing the child—nauseated as he was by the drug—to take food. +That done, though she still believed him to be in a critical state, and +dreadfully weak, she was better satisfied. And soon, soothed by her firm +embrace and confident words, her charge fell into a troubled sleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII<br/> +THE SEARCH</h2> + +<p> +To return to Bishop. Thrown off the trail in the wood, he pushed along the road +as far as Windermere village. There, however, he could hear nothing. No one of +Henrietta’s figure and appearance had been seen there. And in the worst +of humours, with the world as well as with himself, he put about and returned +to the inn. If the girl had come back during his absence, it was bad enough; he +had had his trouble for nothing, and might have spared his shoe-leather. Hang +such pretty frailties for him! But if, on the other hand, she had not come +back, the case was worse. He had been left to watch her, and the blame would +fall on him. Nadin would say more than he had said already about London +officers and their uselessness. And if anything happened to her! Bishop wiped +his brow as he thought of that, and of his next meeting with Captain Clyne. It +was to be hoped, be devoutly hoped, that nothing had happened to the jade. +</p> + +<p> +It wanted half an hour of sunset, when he arrived, fagged and fuming, at the +inn; and if his worst fears were not realised, he soon had ground to dread that +they might be. Miss Damer had not returned. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve no truck with them rubbishy radicals,” Mrs. Gilson +added impersonally, scratching her nose with the handle of a spoon—a sign +that she was ill at ease. “But they’re right enough in one thing, +and that is, that there’s a lot of useless folk paid by the +country—that’d never get paid by any one else! And for brains, give +me a calf’s head!” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop evaded the conflict with what dignity he might. +</p> + +<p> +“The Captain’s not come in?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he’s come in,” the landlady answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” sullenly, “the sooner I see him the better, +then!” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t see him now,” Mrs. Gilson replied, with a glance +at the clock. “He’s sleeping.” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop stared. +</p> + +<p> +“Sleeping?” he cried. “And the young lady not come +back?” +</p> + +<p> +“He don’t know that she has so much as gone out,” Mrs. Gilson +answered with the utmost coolness. “And what’s more, I’m not +going to tell him. He came in looking not fit to cross a room, my man, let +alone cross a horse! And when I went to take him a dish of tea I found him +asleep in his chair. And you may take it from me, if he’s not left to +have out his sleep, now it’s come, he’ll be no more use to you, six +hours from this, than a corpse!” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, ma’am,” Bishop objected, “the Captain +won’t be best pleased——” +</p> + +<p> +“Please a flatiron!” Mrs. Gilson retorted. “Best +served’s best pleased, my lad, and that you’ll learn some +day.” And then suddenly taking the offensive, “For the matter of +that, what do you want with him?” she continued. “Ain’t you +grown men? If Joe Nadin and you and half a dozen redbreasts can’t find +one silly girl in an open countryside, don’t talk to me of your gangs! +And your felonies! And the fine things you do in London!” +</p> + +<p> +“But in London——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, London Bridge was made for fools to go under!” Mrs. Gilson +answered, with meaning. “It don’t stand for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop tapped his top-boot gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +“She may come in any minute,” he said. “There’s +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“She may, or she mayn’t,” Mrs. Gilson answered, with another +look at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s not been gone more than an hour and a half.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor the mouse my cat caught this afternoon,” the landlady +retorted. “But you’ll not find it easily, my lad, nor know it when +you find it.” +</p> + +<p> +He had no reply to make to that, but he carried his eye again to the clock. He +was very uncomfortable—very uncomfortable. And yet he hardly knew what to +do or where to look. In the meantime the girl’s disappearance was +becoming known, and caused, indoors and out, a thrill of excitement. Another +abduction, another disappearance! And at their doors, on their thresholds, +under their noses! Some heard the report with indignation, and two in the house +heard it with remorse; many with pity. But in the breasts of most the feeling +was not wholly painful. The new mystery revived and doubled the old; and blew +to a white heat the embers of interest which were beginning to grow cold. In +the teeth of the nipping air—and sunset is often the coldest hour of the +twenty-four—groups gathered in the yard and before the house. And while a +man here and there winked at his neighbour and hinted that the young madam had +slunk back to the lover from whom she had been parted, the common view was that +mischief was afoot and something strong should be done. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile uncertainty—and in a small degree the absence of Captain Clyne +and Nadin—paralysed action. At five, Bishop sent out three or four of his +dependants; one to watch the boat-landing, one to keep an eye on the entrance +to Troutbeck village, and others to bid the constables at Ambleside and Bowness +be on the watch. But as long as the young lady’s return seemed +possible—and some still thought the whole a storm in a tea-cup—men +not unnaturally shrank from taking the lead. Nor until the man who took all the +blame to himself interposed, was any real step taken. +</p> + +<p> +It was nearly six when Bishop, talking with his friends in the passage, found +himself confronted by the chaplain. Mr. Sutton was in a state of great and +evident agitation. There were red spots on his cheek-bones, his pinched +features were bedewed with perspiration, his eyes were bright. And he who +usually shunned encounter with coarser wits, now singled out the officer in the +midst of his fellows. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to do nothing,” he cried, “except +drink?” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop stared. +</p> + +<p> +“See here, Mr. Sutton,” he said, slowly and with dignity, +“you must not forget——” +</p> + +<p> +“Except drink?” the chaplain repeated, without compromise. And +taking Bishop’s glass, which stood half-filled on the window-seat beside +him, he flung its contents through the doorway. “Do your duty, +sir!” he continued firmly. “Do your duty! You were here to see that +the lady did not leave the house alone. And you permitted her to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what part,” Bishop answered, with a sneer, “did your +reverence play, if you please?” He was a sober man for those times, and +the taunt was not a fair one. +</p> + +<p> +“A poor part,” the chaplain answered. “A mean one! But +now—I ask only to act. Say what I shall do, and if it be only by my +example I may effect something.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, you may!” Bishop returned. “And I’ll find your +reverence work fast enough. Do you go and tell Captain Clyne the lady’s +gone. It’s a task I’ve no stomach for myself,” with a grin; +“and your reverence is the very man for it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sutton winced. +</p> + +<p> +“I will do even that,” he said, “if you will no longer lose +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she may return any minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“She will not!” Mr. Sutton retorted, with anger. “She will +not! God forgive us for letting her go! If I failed in my duty, sir, do you do +yours! Do you do yours!” +</p> + +<p> +And such power does enthusiasm give a man, that he who these many days had +seemed to the inn a poor, timid creature, slinking in and out as privately as +possible, now shamed all and kindled all. +</p> + +<p> +“By jingo, I will, your reverence!” Bishop cried, catching the +flame. “I will!” he repeated heartily. And he turned about and +began to give orders with energy. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately Nadin arrived at that moment; and with his burly form and broad +Lancashire accent, he seemed to bring with him the vigour of ten. In three +minutes he apprehended the facts, pooh-poohed the notion that the girl would +return, and with a good round oath “dommed them Jacobins,” to give +his accent for once, “for the graidliest roogs and the roofest devils +i’ all Lancashire—and that’s saying mooch! But we mun +ha’ them hanged now,” he continued, striding to and fro in his +long, rough horseman’s coat. “We mun ha’ them hanged! +We’ll larn them!” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="p367"></a> +<img src="images/p367.png" width="339" height="540" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="sc">In ten minutes the road twinkled with lights ...</span></p> +</div> + +<p> +He formed parties and assigned roads and brought all into order. The first +necessity was to visit every house within a mile of the inn on the Windermere +side; and this was taken in hand at once. In ten minutes the road twinkled with +lights, and the frosty ground rang under the tread of ironshod boots. It was +ascertained that no boat had crossed the lake that afternoon; and this so far +narrowed the area to be searched, that the men were in a high state of +excitement, and those who carried firearms looked closely to their priming. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a pity it’s neet!” said Nadin. “But we mun +ha’ them, we mun ha’ them, afoor long!” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Mr. Sutton had braced himself to the task which he had undertaken. +Challenged by Bishop, he had been anxious to go at once to Clyne’s room +and tell him; that the Captain might go with the searchers if he pleased. But +he had not mounted three steps before Mrs. Gilson was at his heels, bidding +him, in her most peremptory manner, to “let his honour be for another +hour. What can he do?” she urged. “He’s but one more, and now +the lads are roused, they’ll do all he can do! Let him be, let him be, +man,” she continued. “Or if you must, watch him till he wakes, and +then tell him.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be worse then,” the chaplain said. +</p> + +<p> +“But he’ll be better!” she retorted. “Do you be bidden +by me. The man wasn’t fit to carry his meat to his mouth when he went +upstairs. But let him be until he has had his sleep out and he’ll be +another man.” +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Sutton let himself be bidden. But he was right. Every minute which +passed made the task before him more difficult. When at last Captain Clyne +awoke, a few minutes after eight o’clock, and startled, brought his +scattered senses to a focus, he saw sitting opposite him a man who hid his face +in his hands, and shivered. +</p> + +<p> +Clyne rose. +</p> + +<p> +“Man, man!” he said. “What is it? Have you bad news?” +</p> + +<p> +But the chaplain could not speak. He could only shake his head. +</p> + +<p> +“They have not—not found——” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne could not finish the sentence. He turned away, and with a trembling hand +snuffed a candle—that his face might be hidden. +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” he said. “No!” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is—it’s bad news?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. She’s—she’s gone! She’s disappeared!” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne dropped the snuffers on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone?” he muttered. “Who? Miss Damer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. She left the house this afternoon, and has not returned. It was my +fault! My fault!” poor Mr. Sutton continued, in a tone of the deepest +abasement. And with his face hidden he bowed himself to and fro like a man in +pain. “They asked me to follow her, and I would not! I would +not—out of pride!” +</p> + +<p> +“And she has not returned?” Clyne asked, in an odd tone. +</p> + +<p> +“She has not returned—God forgive me!” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne stared at the flame of the nearest candle. But he saw, not the flame, but +Henrietta; as he had seen her the morning he turned his back on her, and left +her standing alone on the road above the lake. Her slender figure under the +falling autumn leaves rose before him; and he knew that he would never forgive +himself. By some twist of the mind her fate seemed the direct outcome of that +moment, of that desertion, of that cruel, that heartless abandonment. The +after-events, save so far as they proved her more sinned against than sinning, +vanished. He had been her sole dependence, her one protector, the only being to +whom she could turn. And he had abandoned her heartlessly; and this—this +unknown and dreadful fate—was the result. Her face rose before him, now +smiling and defiant, now pale and drawn; and the piled-up glory of her hair. +And he remembered—too late, alas, too late—that she had been of his +blood and his kin; and that he had first neglected her, and later when his +mistake bred its natural result in her act of folly, he had deserted and +punished her. +</p> + +<p> +Remorse is the very shirt of Nessus. It is of all mental pains the worst. It +seizes upon the whole mind; it shuts out every prospect. It cries into the ear +with every slow tick of the clock, the truth that that which had once been so +easy can never be done now! That reparation, that kind word, that act of care, +of thoughtfulness, of pardon—never, never now! And once so easy! So easy! +</p> + +<p> +For he knew now that he had loved the girl; and that he had thrown away that +which might have been the happiness of his life. He knew now that only pride +had blinded him, giving the name of pity to that which was love—or so +near to love that it was impossible to say where one ended and the other began. +He thought of her courage and her pride; and then of the womanliness that, +responding to the first touch of gentleness on his side, had wept for his +child. And how he had wronged her from the first days of slighting courtship! +how he had misunderstood her, and then mistrusted and maligned her—he, +the only one to whom she could turn for help, or whom she could trust in a land +of strangers—until it had come to this! It had come to this. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, his poor girl! His poor girl! +</p> + +<p> +A groan, bitter and irrepressible, broke from him. The man stood stripped of +the trappings of prejudice; he saw himself as he was, and the girl as she was, +a creature of youth and spirit and impulse. And he was ashamed to the depths of +his soul. +</p> + +<p> +At last, “What time did she go out?” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain roused himself with a shiver and told him. +</p> + +<p> +“Then she has been missing five hours?” There was a sudden +hardening in his tone. “You have done something, I suppose? Tell me, man, +that you have done something!” +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain told him what was being done. And the mere statement gave comfort. +Hearing that Mrs. Gilson had been the last to speak to her, Clyne said he would +see the landlady. And the two went out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +In the passage a figure rose before them and fled with a kind of bleating cry. +It was Modest Ann, who had been sitting in the dark with her apron over her +head. She was gone before they were sure who it was. And they thought nothing +of the incident, if they noticed it. +</p> + +<p> +Downstairs they found no news and no comfort; but much coming and going. For +presently the first party returned from its quest, and finding that nothing had +been discovered, set forth again in a new direction. And by-and-by another +returned, and standing ate something, and went out again, reinforced by Clyne +himself. And so began a night of which the memory endured in the inn for a +generation. Few slept, and those in chairs, ready to start up at the first +alarm. The tap ran free for all; and in the coffee-room the table was set and +set again. The Sunday’s joints—for the next day was +Sunday—were cooked and cold, and half-eaten before the morning broke; and +before breakfast the larder of the Salutation at Ambleside was laid under +contribution. At intervals, those who dozed were aware of Nadin’s tall, +bulky presence as he entered shaking the rime from his long horseman’s +coat and calling for brandy; or of Bishop, who went and came all night, but in +a frame of mind so humble and downcast that men scarcely knew him. And now and +again a fresh band of searchers tramped in one behind the other, passed the +news by a single shake of the head, and crowding to the table ate and drank +before they turned to again—to visit a more distant, and yet a more +distant part. +</p> + +<p> +Even from the mind of the father, the boy’s loss seemed partly effaced by +this later calamity. The mystery was so much the deeper: the riddle the more +perplexing. The girl had gone out on foot in the full light of a clear +afternoon; and within a few hundred yards of the place to which they had traced +the boy, she had vanished as if she had never been. Clyne knew from her own +lips that Walterson was somewhere within reach. But this did not help much, +since no one could hit on the place. And various were the suggestions, and many +and strange the solutions proposed. Every poacher and every ne’er-do-well +was visited and examined, every house was canvassed, every man who had ever +said aught that could be held to savour of radical doctrine, was considered. As +the search spread to a wider and yet wider area, the alarm went with it, and +new helpers arrived, men on horseback and men on foot. And all through the long +winter’s night the house hummed; and the lights of the inn shone on the +water as brightly and persistently as the stars that in the solemn firmament +wheeled and marched. +</p> + +<p> +But lamps and stars were alike extinguished, and the late dawn was filtering +through the casements on jaded faces and pale looks, when the first gleam of +encouragement showed itself. Clyne had been out for some hours, and on his +return had paused at the door of the snuggery to swallow the cup of hot coffee, +which the landlady pressed upon him. Nadin was still out, but Bishop was there +and the chaplain, and two or three yeomen and peasants. In all hearts hope had +by this time given way to dejection; and dejection was fast yielding to +despair. The party stood, here and there, for the most part silent, or dropped +now and again a despondent word. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Modest Ann appeared among them, with her head shrouded in her apron. +And, “I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” the woman +cried hysterically. “I must speak!” +</p> + +<p> +A thrill of amazement ran through the group. They straightened themselves. +</p> + +<p> +“If you know anything, speak by all means!” Clyne said, for +surprise tied Mrs. Gilson’s tongue. “Do you know where the lady +is?” +</p> + +<p> +“No! no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she tell you anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing! nothing!” the woman answered, sobbing wildly, and still +holding the apron drawn tightly over her face. “Missus, don’t kill +me! She told me naught! Naught! But——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—what? What?” +</p> + +<p> +“There was a letter I gave her some time ago—before—oh, +dear!—before the rumpus was, and she was sent to Kendall! And I’m +thinking,” sob, sob, “you’d maybe know something from the +person who gave it me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it,” said Bishop coolly. “You’re a +sensible woman. Who was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“That girl—of Hinkson’s,” she sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +“Bess Hinkson!” Mrs. Gilson ejaculated. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, sure! Oh, dear! oh, dear! Bess said that she had it from a man on +the road.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that may be so, or it may not,” Bishop answered, with quiet +dryness. He was in his element again. And then in a lower tone, +“We’re on it now,” he muttered, “or I am mistaken. +I’ve seen the young lady near Hinkson’s once or twice. And it was +near there I lost her. The house has been visited, of course; it was one of the +first visited. But we’d no suspicion then, and now we have. Which makes a +difference.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Straight, sir, without the loss of a minute!” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne’s eyes sparkled. And tired as they were, the men answered to the +call. Ten minutes before, they had crawled in, the picture of fatigue. Now, as +they crossed the pastures above the inn, and plunged into the little wood in +which Henrietta had baffled Bishop, they clutched their cudgels with as much +energy as if the chase were but opening. It mattered not that some wore the +high-collared coats of the day, and two waistcoats under them, and had watches +in their fobs; and that others tramped in smock frocks drawn over their fustian +shorts. The same indignation armed all, great and small, rich and poor; and in +a wonderfully short space of time they were at the gate of Starvecrow Farm. +</p> + +<p> +The house that, viewed at its best, had a bald and melancholy aspect, wore a +villainous look now—perched up there in bare, lowering ugliness, with its +blind gable squinting through the ragged fir-trees. +</p> + +<p> +Bishop left a man in the road, and sent two to the rear of the crazy, ruinous +outbuildings which clung to the slope. With Clyne and the other three he passed +round the corner of the house, stepped to the door and knocked. The sun’s +first rays were striking the higher hills, westward of the lake, as the party, +with stern faces, awaited the answer. But the lake, with its holms, and the +valley and all the lower spurs, lay grey and still and dreary in the grip of +cold. The note of melancholy went to the heart of one as he looked, and filled +it with remorse. +</p> + +<p> +“Too late,” it seemed to say, “too late!” +</p> + +<p> +For a time no one came. And Bishop knocked again, and more imperiously; first +sending a man to the lower end of the ragged garden to be on the look-out. He +knocked a third time. At last a shuffling of feet was heard approaching the +door, and a moment later old Hinkson opened it. He looked, as he stood blinking +in the daylight, more frowsy and unkempt and to be avoided than usual. +But—they noted with disappointment that the door was neither locked nor +bolted; so that had they thought of it they might have entered at will! +</p> + +<p> +“What is’t?” he drawled, peering at them. “Why did you +na’ come in?” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop pushed in without a word. The others followed. A glance sufficed to +discover all that the kitchen contained; and Bishop, deaf to the old +man’s remonstrances, led the way straight up the dark, close staircase. +But though they explored without ceremony all the rooms above, and knocked, and +called, and sounded, and listened, they stumbled down again, baffled. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s your daughter?” Bishop asked sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“She was here ten minutes agone,” the old man answered. Perhaps +because the day was young he showed rather more sense than usual. But his eyes +were full of spite. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, was she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where’s she now?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s gone to t’ doctor’s. She be nursing there. +They’ve no lass.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nursing! Who’s she nursing?” incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +The old man grinned at the ignorance of the question. +</p> + +<p> +“The wumman and the babby,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“At Tyson’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“The house in the hollow?” +</p> + +<p> +“That be it.” +</p> + +<p> +While they were talking thus, others had searched the crazy outhouses, but to +no better purpose. And presently they all assembled in the road outside the +gate. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s your dog, old lad?” asked one of the dalesmen. +</p> + +<p> +The miser had shuffled after them, holding out his hand and begging of them. +</p> + +<p> +“At the doctor’s,” he answered. “Her be fearsome and +begged it. Ye’ll give an old man something?” he added, whining. +“Ye’ll give something?” +</p> + +<p> +“Off! Off you go, my lad!” Bishop cried. “We’ve done +with you. If you’re not a rascal ’tis hard on you, for you look +one!” And when the old skinflint had crawled back under the fir-trees, +“Worst is, sir,” he continued, with a grave face, “it’s +all true. Tyson’s away in the north—with a brother or something of +that kind—so I hear. And his missus had a baby this ten days gone or +more. He’s a rough tyke, but he’s above this sort of thing, I take +it. Still, we’ll go and question the girl. We may get something from +her.” +</p> + +<p> +And they trooped off along the road in twos and threes, and turning the corner +saw Tyson’s house, below them—so far below them that it had, as +always, the look of a toy house on a toy meadow at the bottom of a green bowl. +Below the house the little rivulet that rose beside it bisected the meadow, +until at the end of the open it lost itself in the narrow wooded gorge, through +which it sprang in unseen waterfalls to join the lake below. +</p> + +<p> +They descended the slope to the house; sharp-eyed but saying little. A trifle +to one side of the door, under a window, a dog was kenneled. It leapt out +barking; but seeing so many persons it slunk in again and lay growling.. A +moment and the door was opened and Bess showed herself. She looked astonished, +but not in any way frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, masters!” she said. “What is it? Are you come after the +young lady again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” Bishop answered. “We are. We want to know where you got +the letter you gave Ann at the inn—to give to her?” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps Bess looked for the question and was prepared. At any rate, she +betrayed no sign of confusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, “I can tell you what he was like that gave +it me.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man gave it you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and a shilling. And,” smiling broadly, “he’d have +given me something else if I’d let him.” +</p> + +<p> +“A kiss, I bet!” said Bishop. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, it was. But I said that’d be another shilling.” +</p> + +<p> +Clyne groaned. +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake,” he said, “come to the point. +Time’s everything.” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you see him, my girl?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“By the gate of the coppice as I was bringing the milk,” she +answered frankly. “‘I’m her Joe,’ he said. ‘And +if you’ll hand her this and keep mum, here’s a shilling for +you.’ And——” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said Bishop. “And what was he like?” +</p> + +<p> +With much cunning she described Walterson, and Bishop acknowledged the +likeness. “It’s our man!” he said, slapping his boot with his +loaded whip. “And now, my dear, which way did he go?” +</p> + +<p> +But she explained that she had met him by the gate—he was a +stranger—and she had left him in the same place. +</p> + +<p> +“And you can’t say which way he went?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered. “Nor yet which way he came. I looked back +to see, to tell the truth,” frankly. “But he had not moved, and he +did not move until I was out of sight. And I never saw him again. The boy had +not been stolen then,” she continued, “and I thought little of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You should have told,” Bishop answered, eyeing her severely. +“Another time, my lass, you’ll get into trouble.” And then +suddenly, “Here, can we come in?” +</p> + +<p> +She threw the door wide with a movement that disarmed suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure,” she said. “And welcome, so as you don’t +make a noise to waken the mistress.” +</p> + +<p> +But when they stood in the kitchen it wore an aspect so neat and orderly that +they were ashamed of their suspicions. The fire burned cheerfully on the wide +hearth, and a wooden tray set roughly, but cleanly, stood on the corner of the +long, polished table. The door of the shady dairy stood open, and afforded a +glimpse of the great leaden milk-pans, and the row of shining pails. +</p> + +<p> +“The mistress is just overhead,” she said. “So you’ll +not make much noise, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll make none,” said Bishop. “We’ve learned +what we want.” And he turned to go out. +</p> + +<p> +All had not entered. Those who had, nodded, turned with gloomy faces, and +followed him out. The dog, lurking at the back of its kennel, was still +growling. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d be afeared to sleep here without him,” Bess volunteered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s better ’n two men.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay?” +</p> + +<p> +They looked at the dog, and some one bade her good-day. And one by one the +little troop turned and trailed despondently from the house, Clyne with his +chin sunk on his breast, Bishop in a brown study, the other men staring blankly +before them. Half-way up the ascent to the road Clyne stopped and looked back. +His face was troubled. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought——” he began. And then he stopped and +listened, frowning. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” He looked up. “You didn’t hear +anything?” +</p> + +<p> +Bishop and the men said that they had not heard anything. They listened. They +all listened. And all said that they heard nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“It was fancy, I suppose,” Clyne muttered, passing his hand over +his eyes. And he shook his head as if to shake off some painful impression. +</p> + +<p> +But before he reached the road he paused once again and listened. And his face +was haggard and lined with trouble. +</p> + +<p> +It occurred to no one that Bess had been too civil. To no one. For shrewd Mrs. +Gilson was not with them. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII<br/> +THE SMUGGLERS’ OVEN</h2> + +<p> +Henrietta crouched beside the lamp, lulling the child from time to time with a +murmured word. She held the boy, whom she had come to save, tight in her arms; +and the thought that she held him was bliss to her, though poisoned bliss. +Whatever happened he would learn that she had reached the child. He would +know—even if the worst came—what she had done for him. But the +worst must not come. Were she once in the open under the stars, how quickly +could she flee down the road with this light burden in her arms—down the +road until she saw the star-sprinkled lake spread below her! In twenty minutes, +were she outside, she might be safe. In twenty minutes, only twenty minutes, +she might place the child in his arms, she might read the joy in his eyes, and +hear words—ah, so unlike those which she had heard from him! +</p> + +<p> +There were only two doors between herself and freedom. Her heart beat at the +thought. In twenty minutes how different it might be with her—in twenty +minutes, were she at liberty! +</p> + +<p> +She must wait until the child was sound asleep. Then when she could lay him +down she would examine the place. The purity of the air proved that there was +either a secret inlet for the purpose of ventilation, or that the door which +shut off their prison from the well-head fitted ill and loosely. In the latter +case it was possible that her strength might avail to force the door and make +escape possible. They might not have given her credit for the vigour which she +felt that she had it in her to show if the opportunity offered itself. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime she scrutinised, as she sat, every foot of the walls, without +discovering anything to encourage hope or point to a second exit. The light of +the dim lamp revealed only smooth courses of bricks, so near her eyes, so low +upon her head, so bewildering in their regularity and number, that they +appalled her the more the longer she gazed on them. It was to seek relief that +she rose at last, and laying the sleeping child aside, went to the door and +examined it. +</p> + +<p> +Alas! it presented to the eye only solid wood, overlapping the aperture which +it covered, and revealing in consequence neither hinges nor fastening. She set +her shoulder against it, and thrust with all her might. But it neither bent nor +moved, and in despair she left it, and stooping low worked her way round the +walls. Her closest scrutiny revealed nothing; not a slit as wide as her +slenderest finger, not a peg, nor a boss, nor anything that promised exit. She +returned to the door, and made another and more desperate attempt to burst it. +But her strength was unequal to the task, and to avoid a return of the old +panic, which threatened to overcome her, she dropped down beside the child, and +took him again in her arms, feeling that in the appeal which the boy’s +helplessness made to her she had her best shield against such terrors. +</p> + +<p> +The next moment, with a flicker or two, the light went out. She was in complete +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +She fought with herself and with the impulse to shriek; and she conquered. She +drew a deep breath as she sat, and with the unconscious child in her arms, +stared motionless before her. +</p> + +<p> +“They will come back,” she murmured steadfastly; “they will +come back! They will come back! And in the meantime I must be brave for the +child’s sake. I have only to wait! And they will come back!” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, it was hard to wait. It was hard not to let her thoughts run on +the things which might prevent their return. They might be put to flight, they +might be discovered and killed, they might be taken and refuse to say where she +was. And then? Then? +</p> + +<p> +But for the child’s sake she must not, she would not, think of that. She +must dwell, instead, on the shortness of the time that had elapsed since they +left her. She could not guess what the hour was, but she judged that it was +something after midnight now, and that half of the dark hours were gone. Even +so, she had long to wait before she could expect to be visited. She must have +patience, therefore. Above all, she must not think of the mountain of earth +above her, of the two thick doors that shut her off from the living world, of +the vault that almost touched her head as she sat. For when she did the air +seemed to fail her, and the grip of frenzied terror came near to raising her to +her feet. Once on her feet and in that terror’s grasp, she knew that she +would rave and shriek, and beat on the walls—and go mad! +</p> + +<p> +But she would not think of these things. She would sit quite still and hold the +child more tightly to her, and be sensible. And be sensible! Above all, be +sensible! +</p> + +<p> +She thought of many things as she sat holding herself as it were; of her old +home and her old life, the home and the life that seemed so far away, though no +more than a few weeks divided her from them. But more particularly she thought +of her folly and of the events of the last month; and of the child and of the +child’s father, and—with a shudder—of Walterson. How silly, +how unutterably silly, she had been! And what stuff, what fustian she had +mistaken for heroism; while, through all, the quiet restraint of the true +master of men had been under her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Not that all the fault had been hers. She was sure of that even now. Captain +Clyne had known her as little as she had known him, and had misjudged her as +largely. That he might know her better was her main desire now; and that he +might know it, whatever the issue, she had an inspiration. She took from her +neck the gold clasp which had aroused old Hinkson’s greed, and she +fastened it securely inside the child’s dress. If the child were rescued, +the presence of the brooch would prove that she had succeeded in her quest, and +been with the boy. +</p> + +<p> +After that she dozed off, and presently, strange to say, she slept. +Fortunately, the child also was worn out; and the two slept as soundly in the +grim silence of the buried vault, with the load of earth above them and the +water trickling from the well-hole beside them, as in the softest bed. They +slept long, yet when Henrietta at last awoke it was happily to immediate +consciousness of the position and of the need of coolness. The boy had been +first to rouse himself and was crying for a light, and for something to quench +his thirst. A little milk remained in the can, and with infinite precaution she +groped for the vessel and found it. The milk was sour, but the boy lapped it +eagerly, and Henrietta wetted her own lips, for she, too, was parched with +thirst. She could have drunk ten times as much with pleasure, but she denied +herself, and set the rest in a safe place. She did not know how long she had +slept, and the fear that they might be left to meet a dreadful death would lift +its head, hard as she strove to trample on it. +</p> + +<p> +She gave the child a few spoonfuls of porridge and encouraged him to crawl +about in the darkness. But after some restless, querulous moanings he slept +again, and Henrietta was left to her thoughts, which continually grew more +uneasy. She was hungry; and that seemed to prove that the morning was come and +gone. If this were so were they to remain there all day? And if all day, all +night? And all next day? And if so, if they were not discovered by next day, +why not—forever? +</p> + +<p> +Again she had to struggle against the hysterical terror that gripped and choked +her. And resist it without action she could not. She rose, and in the dark felt +her way to the hatchway by which she had entered. Again she passed her fingers +down the smooth edges where it met the brickwork. She sought something, some +bolt, some peg, some hinge—anything that, if it did not lead to freedom, +might hold her thoughts and give her occupation. But there was nothing! And +when she had set her ear against the thick wood, still there was nothing. She +turned from it, and went slowly and doggedly round the prison on her knees, +feeling the brickwork here and there, and in very dearth of hope, searching +with her fingers for that which had baffled her eyes. Round, and round again; +with just a pause to listen and a stifled sob. But in vain. All, as she might +have known, was toil in vain. All was futile, hopeless. And then the child +awoke, and she had to take him up and soothe him and give him the last of the +milk and the porridge. He seemed a little stronger and better. But +she—she was growing frightened—horribly frightened. She must have +been hours in that place; and she was very near to that breakdown, which she +had kept at bay so long. +</p> + +<p> +For she had no more food. And, worse, with the sound of water almost in her +ears, with the knowledge that it ran no more than a few feet from her in a +clear and limpid stream, she had nothing more with which she could quench the +boy’s thirst or her own. And she had no light. That frantic struggle to +free herself, that strength of despair which might, however improbably, have +availed her, were and must be futile for her, fettered and maimed by a darkness +that could be felt. She drew the child nearer and hugged him to her. He was her +talisman, her all, the tie that bound her to sanity, the being outside herself +for whom she was bound to think and plan and be cool. +</p> + +<p> +She succeeded—for the moment. But as she sat, dozing a little at +intervals, with the child pressed closely to her, she fell from time to time +into fits of trembling. And she prayed for light—only for light! And then +again for some sound, some change in the cold, dead stillness that made her +seem like a thing apart, aloof, removed from other things. And she was very +thirsty. She knew that presently the child would grow thirsty again. And she +would have nothing to give him. +</p> + +<p> +The thought was torture, and she seemed to have borne it an age already; +supported by the fear of rousing the boy and hastening the moment she dreaded. +She would have broken down, she must have broken down, but for one thought; +that, long as the hours seemed to her, and far distant as the moment of her +entrance appeared, she might be a great way out in her reckoning of time. She +might not have been shut up there so very long. The wretches who had put her +there might not have fled. They might not have abandoned her. If she knew all +she might be rid in an instant of her fears. All the time she might be +torturing herself for nothing. +</p> + +<p> +She clung passionately to that thought and to the child. But the prolonged +uncertainty, the suspense, the waiting, tried her to the utmost of her +endurance. Her ears ached with the pain of listening; her senses hungered for +the sound of the footstep on which all depended. Would that sound never come? +Once or twice she fancied that she heard it; and mocked by hope she stilled the +very beating of her heart, that she might hear more keenly. But nothing +followed, nothing. Nothing happened, and her heart sickened. +</p> + +<p> +“Presently,” she thought, “I shall begin to see things. I +shall grow weak and fancy things. The horror of being buried alive will master +me, and I shall shriek and shout and go mad. But that shall not be until the +child’s trouble is over—God helping me!” +</p> + +<p> +And then, dazzling her with its brightness, a sudden thought flashed through +her brain. Fool! Fool! She had succumbed in despair when a cry might release +her! She had laid herself down to die, when she had but to lift up her voice, +and the odds were that she would be heard. Ay, and be freed! For had not the +girl threatened her with the man’s coarse gallantries if she screamed? +And to what purpose, if she were buried so deep that her complaints could not +be heard? +</p> + +<p> +The thought lifted a weight from her. It revived her hopes, almost her +confidence. Immediately a current of vigour and courage coursed through her +veins. But she did not shout at once. The child was asleep; she would await his +awakening, and in the meantime she would listen diligently. For if she could be +heard by those who approached the place, it was possible that she could hear +them. +</p> + +<p> +She had barely conceived the thought, when the thing for which she had waited +so long happened. The silence was broken. A sound struck her ear. A grating +noise followed. Then a shaft of light, so faint that only eyes long used to +utter darkness could detect it, darted in and lay across the brickwork of the +vault. In a twinkling she was on her knees and scrambling with the child in her +arms towards the hatch. She had reached it and was touching it, when the bolts +that held up the door slid clear, and with a sharp report the hatch fell. A +burst of light poured in and blinded her. But what was sight to her? She, who +had borne up against fear so bravely had now only one thought, only one idea in +her mind—to escape from the vault. She tumbled out recklessly, fell +against something, and only through the support of an unseen hand kept on her +feet as she alighted in the well-head. +</p> + +<p> +A man whom her haste had pushed aside, slapped her on the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, you’re in a hurry!” he said. “You’ve had +enough of bed for once!” +</p> + +<p> +“So would you,” came the answer—in Bess’s +voice—“if you’d had twenty-four hours of it, my lad. All the +same, she’ll have to go back.” +</p> + +<p> +Trembling and dazed, Henrietta peered from one to the other. Mistress of +herself two minutes before, she was now on the verge of hysteria, and +controlled herself with an effort. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried. “Oh! thank God you’ve come! Thank God +you’ve come! I thought you had left me.” +</p> + +<p> +She was thankful—oh, she was thankful; though these were no rescuers, but +the two who had consigned her to that horrible place. Bess raised the lanthorn +so that its light fell on the girl’s haggard, twitching face. +</p> + +<p> +“We could not come before,” she said, with something like pity in +her tone. “That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“All!” Henrietta gasped. “All! Oh, I thought you had left me! +I thought you had left me!” +</p> + +<p> +Bess considered her, and there was beyond doubt something like softening in the +girl’s dark face. But her tone remained ironical. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t,” she said, “much fancy your bedroom, I +guess?” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta’s teeth chattered. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, God forgive you!” she cried. “I thought you had left me! +I thought you’d left me!” +</p> + +<p> +“It was your own folks’ fault,” Bess retorted. +“They’ve never had their eyes off the blessed house, one or another +of them, from dawn to dark! We could not come. But now here’s food, and +plenty!” raising the light. “How’s the child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bad! Bad!” Henrietta muttered. +</p> + +<p> +She was coming to her senses. She was beginning to understand the position; to +comprehend that no rescuers were here, no search party had found her; and +that—and that—had not one of them dropped a word about her going +back? Going back meant going back to that—place! With a sudden gesture +she thrust the food from her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t you going to eat?” Bess asked, staring. “I +thought you’d be famished.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not here! Not here!” she answered violently. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nonsense!” the other rejoined. “Don’t be a fool! +You’re clemmed, I’ll be bound. Eat while you can.” +</p> + +<p> +But, “Not here! Not here!” Henrietta replied. And she thrust the +food away. +</p> + +<p> +The man interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“Stow it!” he said, in a threatening tone. “You eat while you +can and where you can!” +</p> + +<p> +But she was desperate. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll not eat here!” she cried. “I’ll not eat +here! And I’ll not go back!” her voice rising. “I will die +before I will go back. Do you hear?” with the fierceness of a wild +creature at bay. “I do not care what you do! And the child is dying. +Another night—but I’ll not suffer it! And if you lay a finger on +me”—repelling Bess, who had made a feint of seizing +her—“I will scream until I am heard! Ay, I will!” she +repeated, her eyes sparkling. “But take me to the house and I will go +quietly! I will go quietly!” +</p> + +<p> +It was plain that she was almost beside herself, and that fear of the place in +which she had passed so many hours had driven out all other fear. The two, who +had not left her alone so long without misgiving, looked at one another and +hesitated. They might overpower her. But the place was so closely watched that +a single shriek might be heard; then they would be taken red-handed. Nor did +Bess at least wish to use force. The position, and her views, were changed. All +day curious eyes had been fixed on the house, and inquisitive people had +started up where they were least expected. Bess’s folly in bringing this +hornets’ nest about their ears had shaken her influence with the men; and +the day had been one long exchange of savage recriminations. She owned to +herself that she had done a foolish thing; that she had let her spite carry her +too far. And in secret she was beginning to think how she could clear herself. +</p> + +<p> +She did not despair of this; for she was crafty and of a good courage. She did +not even think it would be hard; but she must, as a <i>sine quâ non</i>, +conciliate the girl whom she had wronged. Unluckily she now saw that she could +not conciliate her without taking her to the house. And she could not with +safety take her to the house. The men were irritated by the peril which she had +brought upon them; they were ferocious and out of hand; and terribly suspicious +to boot. They blamed her, Bess, for all: they had threatened her. And if she +was not safe among them, she was quite sure that Henrietta would not be safe. +</p> + +<p> +There was an alternative. She might let the girl go there and then. And she +would have done this, but she could not do it without Giles’s consent; +and she dared not propose it to him. He was wanted for other offences, and the +safe return of Henrietta and the child would not clear him. He had looked on +the child, and now looked on the girl, as pawns in his game, a <i>quid pro +quo</i> with which—if he were taken while they remained in his +friends’ hands—he might buy his pardon. Bess, therefore, dared not +propose to free Henrietta: and what was she to do if the girl was so foolish as +to refuse to go back to the place where she was safe? +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” she said at last. “You’re safer here than +in the house, if you will only take my word for it.” +</p> + +<p> +But there is no arguing with fear. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not!” Henrietta persisted, with passion. “I will not! +Take me out of this! Take me out! The child will die here, and I shall go +mad!—mad!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re pretty mad now,” the man retorted. But that said, he +met Bess’s eyes and nodded reluctantly. “Well,” he said, +“it’s her own lookout. But I think she’ll repent it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you go quiet?” Bess asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll not cry out? Nor try to break away?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not! I will not indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“You swear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“And by G—d,” the man interposed bluntly, “she’d +better keep to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” Bess said. “You have it your own way. But I tell +you truly, I put you in here for the best. And perhaps you’ll know it +before you’re an hour older. However, all’s said, and it’s +your own doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you let me go?” Henrietta panted. “Let me +go, and let me take the child!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stow it!” the man cried, cutting her short. “It’s +likely, when we’re as like as not to pay dear for taking you. Do you shut +your talking-trap!” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll be quiet,” Bess said, more gently. “So douse +the glim, lad. And do you give me the child,” to Henrietta. +</p> + +<p> +But she cried, “No! No!” and held it more closely to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good! Then take my hand—you don’t know the way. And not +a whisper, mind! Slip the bolt, Giles! And, mum, all!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV<br/> +IN TYSON’S KITCHEN</h2> + +<p> +The distance to the house was short. Before Henrietta had done more than taste +the bliss of the open night, had done more than lift her eyes in thankfulness +to the dark profundity above her, she was under the eaves. A stealthy tap was +answered by the turning of a key, a door was quickly and silently opened, and +she was pushed forward. Bess muttered a word or two—to a person +unseen—and gripping her arm, thrust her along a passage. A second door +gave way as mysteriously, and Henrietta found herself dazzled and blinking on +the threshold of the kitchen which she had left twenty-four hours before. It +was lighted, but not with the wastefulness and extravagance of the previous +evening. Nor did it display those signs of disorder and riot which had +yesterday opened her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +She was sinking under the weight of the child, which she had hugged to her that +it might not cry, and she went straight to the settle and laid the boy on it. +He opened his eyes and looked vacantly before him; but, apparently, he was too +far gone in weakness, or in too much fear, to cry. While Henrietta, relieved of +the weight, and perhaps of a portion of her fears, sank on the settle beside +him, leant her face on her arms and burst into passionate weeping. +</p> + +<p> +It was perhaps the best thing in her power. For the men had followed her into +the kitchen; and Lunt, with brutal oaths, was asking why she was there and what +new folly was this. Bess turned on him—she well knew how to meet such +attacks; and with scornful tongue she bade him wait, calling him thick-head, +and adding that he’d learn by-and-by, if he could learn anything. Then, +while Giles, ill-content himself, gave some kind of account of the thing, she +began—as if it were a trifle—to lay the supper. And almost by force +she got Henrietta to the table. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s food you want!” she said bluntly. “Don’t +play the silly! Who’s hurt you? Who’s going to hurt you? Here, take +a sip of this, and you’ll feel better. Never heed him,” with a +contemptuous glance at Lunt. “He’s most times a grumbler.” +</p> + +<p> +For the moment Henrietta was quite broken, and the pressure which the other +exerted was salutary. She did what she was bidden, swallowing a mouthful of the +Scotch cordial Bess forced on her, and eating and drinking mechanically. +Meanwhile the three men had brought their heads together, and sat discussing +the position with unconcealed grudging and mistrust. +</p> + +<p> +At length: +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve grown cursed kind of a sudden!” Lunt swore, scowling +at the two women. The child, in the presence of the men, sat paralysed with +terror. “What’s this blamed fuss about?” +</p> + +<p> +“What fuss?” Bess shot at him over her shoulder. And going to the +child she bent over it with a bowl of bread and milk. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you lay ’em up in lavender?” the man +sneered. “See here, she was a peacock yesterday and you’d grind her +pretty face under your heel! To-day—— What does it mean? I want to +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you don’t want ’em to die?” the girl +returned, in the same tone of contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“What do I care whether they die?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’d be much use to us, dead!” she retorted. +</p> + +<p> +Giles nodded assent. +</p> + +<p> +“The girl’s right there,” he said in a low tone. “Best +leave it to her. She’s a cunning one and no mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, cunning enough!” Lunt answered. “But whose game is she +playing? Hers or ours?” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t know you had one!” Bess flung at him. And then in an +undertone, “Dolt!” she muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all one, man, it’s all one!” Giles said. On the +whole he was for peace. “Best have supper, and talk it over after.” +</p> + +<p> +“And let the first that comes in through the door find her?” Lunt +cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s to come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t they come here this morning? And last night? And if +she’d been here, or the child— +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but they weren’t!” Bess answered brusquely. “And +that’s the reason the coves won’t come again. For the matter of +that,” turning fiercely on them, “who was it cleaned up after you, +you dirty dogs, and put this place straight? Without which they’d have +known as much the moment they put their noses in—as if the girl had been +sitting on the settle there. Who was it thought of that, and did it? And hid +you safe upstairs?” +</p> + +<p> +“You did, Bess—you did!” the gipsy answered, speaking for the +first time. “And a gay, clever wench you are!” He looked defiantly +at Lunt. “You’re a game cove,” he said, “but +you’re not fly!” +</p> + +<p> +Lunt for answer fired half a dozen oaths at him. But Giles interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re all in one boat,” he said. “And food’s +plenty. Let’s stop jawing and to it!” +</p> + +<p> +Two of the men seemed to think the advice good. And they began to eat, still +debating. The third, Saul, continued to listen to his companions, but his sly +eyes never left Henrietta, who sat a little farther down the table on the +opposite side. She was not for some time aware of his looks, or of their +meaning. But Bess, who knew his nature—he was her cousin—and who +saw only what she had feared to see, frowned as she marked the direction of his +glances. In the act of sitting down she paused, leant over the table, and with +a quick movement swept off the Hollands bottle. +</p> + +<p> +But the gipsy, with a grin, touched Lunt’s elbow. And the ruffian seeing +what she was doing, fell into a fresh fury and bade her put the bottle back +again. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not,” she said. “You’ve ale, and plenty. Do +you want to be drunk if the girl’s folks come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Curse you!” he retorted. “Didn’t you say a minute ago +that they wouldn’t come?” +</p> + +<p> +Giles sided with him—for the first time. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that’s blowing hot and cold!” he said. “Put the +gin back, lass, and no two words about it.” +</p> + +<p> +She stood darkly hesitating, as if she meant to refuse. But Lunt had risen, and +it was clear that he would take no refusal that was not backed by force. She +replaced the Dutch bottle sullenly; and Giles drew it towards him and with a +free hand laced his ale. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s naught like dog’s nose,” he said, “to +comfort a man! The lass forgets that it’s wintry weather and I’ve +been out in it!” +</p> + +<p> +“A dram’s a dram, winter or summer!” Lunt growled. And he +followed the example. +</p> + +<p> +But Bess knew that she had lost the one ally on whom she had counted. She could +manage Giles sober. But drink was the man’s weakness; and when he was +drunk he was as brutal as his comrade; and more dangerous. +</p> + +<p> +She had satisfied her grudge against Henrietta. And she was aware now, only too +well aware, that she had let it carry her too far. She had nothing to gain by +further violence; she had everything to lose by it. For if the girl were +ill-treated, there would be no mercy for any of the party, if taken; while +escape, in the face of the extraordinary measures which Clyne was taking and of +the hostility of the countryside, was doubtful at the best. As she thought of +these things and ate her supper with a sombre face, she wished with all her +heart that she had never seen the girl, and never, to satisfy a silly spite, +decoyed her. Her one aim now was to get her out of the men’s sight, and +to shut her up where she might be safe till morning. It was a pity, it was a +thousand pities, that Henrietta had not stayed in the smugglers’ oven! +And Bess wondered if she could even now persuade her to return to it. But a +glance at Henrietta’s haggard face, on which the last twenty-four hours +had imprinted a stamp it would take many times twenty-four hours to efface, +warned her that advice—short of the last extremity—would be +useless. It remained to remove the girl to the only place where she might, with +luck, lie safe and unmolested. +</p> + +<p> +In this Henrietta might aid her—had she her wits about her. But Henrietta +did not seem to be awake to the peril. The insolence of the gipsy’s +glances, which had yesterday brought the blood to her cheeks, passed unnoted, +so complete was her collapse. Doubtless strength would return, nay, was even +now returning; and presently wit would return. For her nerves were young, and +would quickly recover their tone. But for the moment, she was almost comatose. +Having eaten and drunk, she sat heavily, with her elbow on the table, her head +resting on her hand. The sleeve had fallen back from her wrist, and the gipsy +lad’s eyes rested long and freely on the white roundness of her arm. Her +fair complexion seduced him as no dark beauty had power to seduce. He eyed her +as the tiger eyes the fawn before it springs from covert. Bess, who read his +looks as if they had been an open book, and who saw that Giles, her one +dependence, was growing more sullen and dangerous with every draught, could +have struck Henrietta for her fatuous stolidity. +</p> + +<p> +One thing was clear. The longer she put off the move, the more dangerous the +men were like to be. Bess never lacked resolution, and she was quick to take +her part. As soon as she had eaten and drunk her fill, she rose and tapped +Henrietta on the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re best away,” she said coolly. “Will you carry the +brat upstairs, or shall I?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment she thought that she had carried her point. For no one spoke or +objected. But when Henrietta rose and turned to the settle to take up the boy, +the gipsy muttered something in Lunt’s ear. The ruffian glared across at +the girls, and struck the haft of his knife with violence on the board. +</p> + +<p> +“Upstairs?” he roared. “No, my girl, you don’t! We keep +together! We keep together! S’help me, if I don’t think you mean to +peach!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be a fool,” she answered. And she furtively touched +Henrietta’s arm, as a sign to her to be ready. Then to the gipsy lad, in +a tone full of meaning, “The gentry mort,” she said, in +thieves’ patter, “is not worth the nubbing-cheat. I’m fly, +and I’ll not have it. Stow it, my lad, and don’t be a flat!” +</p> + +<p> +“And let you peach on us?” he answered, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +Lunt struck the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop your lingo!” he said. “Here, you!” to Giles. +“Are you going to let these two sell us? The lass is on to peaching, +that’s my belief!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll—soon stop that,” Giles replied, with a hiccough. +“Here, I’ll—I’ll take one, and you—you +t’other! And we’ll fine well stop their peaching, pretty +dears!” He staggered to his feet as he spoke, his face inflamed with +drink. “Peach, will they?” he muttered, swaying a little, and +scowling at them over the dull, unsnuffed candles. “We’ll stop +that, and—and ha’ some fun, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“S’help us if we don’t!” cried Lunt, also rising to his +feet. “Let’s live to-day, if we die to-morrow! You take one and +I’ll take the other!” +</p> + +<p> +The gipsy lad grinned. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s the flat now?” he chuckled. He alone remained seated, +with his arms on the table. “You’ve raised your pipe too soon, my +lass!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stow this folly!” Bess answered, keeping a bold face. +“We’re going upstairs,” she continued. “Do +you”—to Henrietta—“bring the child.” +</p> + +<p> +But, “Curse me if you are!” Giles answered. Drink had made him the +more dangerous of the two. He lurched forward as he spoke, and placed himself +between the girls and the foot of the open staircase that led to the upper +floor. “We’re one apiece for you and one over! And you’re +going to stay, my girls, and amuse us!” +</p> + +<p> +And he opened his arms, with a tipsy laugh. +</p> + +<p> +If Henrietta had been slow to see the danger, she saw it now. And the shock was +the greater. The men’s flushed faces and vinous eyes, still more the dark +face of the smiling gipsy who had raised the tempest for his own ends, filled +her with fear. She clutched the child to her, but as much by instinct as from +calculation; and she cast a desperate look round her—only to see that +retreat was cut off. The girls were hemmed in on the hearth between the fire +and the long table, and it was hard to say which of the men she most dreaded. +She had gone through much already and she cowered, white to the lips, behind +her companion, who, for her part, looked greater confidence than she felt. But +whatever Bess’s fears, she rallied bravely to the occasion, being no +stranger to such scenes. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, temporising, “we’ll sit down a bit if +you’ll mind your manners. But we’ll sit here, my lads, and +together.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, one apiece,” Giles hiccoughed, before she had finished +speaking. “One apiece! You come and sit by me—’twon’t +be the first time, my beauty! And—and t’other one by him!” +</p> + +<p> +Bess stamped her foot in a rage. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” she cried, “I will not! You’ll just stay on your +own side! And we on ours!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll just do as I say!” the man answered, with tipsy +obstinacy. “You’ll just do—as I say!” +</p> + +<p> +And he lurched forward, thinking to take her by surprise and seize her. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta screamed, and recoiled to the farthest corner of the chimney nook. +Bess stood her ground, but with a dark face thrust her hand into her +bosom—probably for a knife. She never drew it, however. Before Giles +could touch her, or Lunt, who was coasting about the long table to come at +Henrietta, had compassed half the distance—there was a knock at the door. +</p> + +<p> +It was a small thing, but it was enough. It checked the men as effectually as +if it had been the knell of doom. They hung arrested, eye questioning eye; or, +in turn, tip-toeing to gain their weapons, they cast looks of menace at the +women. And they listened with murder in their eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“If you breathe a word,” Giles hissed, “I’ll throttle +you!” +</p> + +<p> +And he raised his hand for silence. The knock was repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Some one must go,” the gipsy lad muttered. +</p> + +<p> +His face was sallow with fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Go?” Bess answered, in a low tone, but one of fierce passion. +“Who’s to go but me? See now where you’d be without +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you see here,” Lunt made answer, and he drew a pistol from +his pocket, and cocked it, “one word more than’s needful, and +I’ll blow your brains out, my lass. If I go, you go first! So mark me, +and speak ’em fair!” +</p> + +<p> +And with a gesture he pointed to the dairy, and beckoned to the other men to +retire thither. +</p> + +<p> +He seemed to be about to command Henrietta to go with them. But he saw that in +sheer terror she would disobey him, or he thought her sufficiently hidden where +she was. For when he had seen the other men out he followed them, and holding +the door of the dairy half open showed Bess the pistol. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” he said, “and by G—d, remember. For I’ll +keep my word.” +</p> + +<p> +Bess had already, with a hasty hand, removed some of the plates and mugs from +the table. She made sure that Henrietta was all but invisible behind the +settle. Then she went to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s there?” she cried aloud. +</p> + +<p> +No one answered, but the knock was repeated. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta raised her white face above the level of the settle. She listened, +and hope, terrified as she was, rose in her heart. Who was likely to visit this +lonely house at so late an hour? Was it not almost certain that her friends +were there? And that another minute would see her safe in their hands? +</p> + +<p> +Giles’s dark face peering from the doorway of the dairy answered that +question. The muzzle of his weapon now covered her, now Bess. Sick at heart, +almost fainting, she sank again behind the settle and prayed. While Bess with a +noisy hand thrust back the great bar, and opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +There was no inrush of feet, and Bess looked out. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, who is it?” she asked of the darkness. “You’re +late enough, whoever you are.” +</p> + +<p> +The entering draught blew the flames of the candles awry. Then a woman’s +voice was heard: +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve come to ask how the missus is,” it said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you have, have you? And a fine time this!” Bess scolded, with +wonderful glibness. “She’s neither better nor worse. So there! I +hope you think it’s worth your trouble!” +</p> + +<p> +“And the baby? I heard it was dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you heard a lie!” +</p> + +<p> +The visitor, who was no other than Mrs. Tyson’s old servant, the stolid +woman who had once admitted Henrietta to the house, seemed at a loss what to +say next. After an awkward pause: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, “well, I am glad. I was not sure you +hadn’t left her. And if she can’t get out of her +bed——” +</p> + +<p> +“You thought there’d be pickings about!” Bess cried, in her +most insolent tone. “Well, there ain’t, my girl! And don’t +you come up again scaring us after dark, or you’ll hear a bit more of my +mind!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not easy scared!” the woman retorted contemptuously. +“Don’t tell me! It takes more than the dark to frighten you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway, nine o’clock is my hour for getting scared,” Bess +returned. “And as it’s after that, and you’ve a dark walk +back—— D’you come through the wood?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’d best go back that way!” Bess replied. +</p> + +<p> +And she shut the door in the woman’s face, and flung the bar over with a +resounding bang. +</p> + +<p> +And quickly, before the men, heaving sighs of relief, had had time to emerge +from their retreat, she was across the floor, and had dragged Henrietta to her +feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Up the stairs!” she whispered. “The door on the left! Knock! +Knock! I’ll keep them back.” +</p> + +<p> +Taken by surprise as she was, Henrietta’s courage rose. She bounded to +the open stairs, and was half-way up before the men took in the position and +understood that she was escaping them. They rushed forward then, falling over +one another in their eagerness to seize her. But they were too late, Bess was +before them. She sprang on to the widest of the lower steps where the staircase +turned in the corner of the room, and flashing her knife in their eyes, she +swore that she would blind the first man who ascended. They knew her, and for +the moment fell back daunted and dismayed; for Giles had put up his pistol. He +bethought himself, indeed, of pulling it out, when he found parley useless; but +it was then too late. By that time Bess’s ear told her that Henrietta was +safe in Mrs. Tyson’s room, with the bolt shot behind her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV<br/> +THROUGH THE WOOD</h2> + +<p> +Behind the closed door the two haggard-faced women looked at one another. Mrs. +Tyson had not left her bed for many days. But she had heard the knocking at the +outer door and the answering growl of the dog chained under her window; and +hoping, yet scarcely daring to expect, that the nightmare was over and her +husband or her friends were at hand, she had dragged herself from the bed and +opened the door as soon as the knocking sounded in turn at that. +</p> + +<p> +For days, indeed, one strand, and one only, had held the feeble, frightened +woman to life; and that strand was the babe that lay beside her. The sheep will +fight for its lamb, the wren for its fledglings. And Mrs. Tyson, if she had not +fought, had for the babe’s sake borne and endured; and surrounded by the +ruffians who had the house at their mercy, she had survived terrors that in +other circumstances would have driven her mad. +</p> + +<p> +True, Bess had not ill-treated her. On the contrary, she had been almost kind +to her. And lonely and ill, dependent on her for everything, the woman had lost +much of her dread of the girl; though now and again, in sheer wantonness, Bess +would play with her fears. Certain that the weak-willed creature would not dare +to tell what she knew, Bess had boasted to her of Henrietta’s presence +and her danger and her plight. When Henrietta, therefore, the moment the door +was unfastened, flung herself into the room, and with frantic fingers helped to +secure the door behind her, Mrs. Tyson was astonished indeed; but less +astonished than alarmed. She was alarmed in truth, almost to swooning, and +showed a face as white as paper. +</p> + +<p> +Luckily, Henrietta had resumed the wit and courage of which stupor had deprived +her for a time. She had no longer Bess at her elbow to bid her do this or that. +But she had Bess’s example and her own spirit. There was an instant of +stricken silence, during which she and the woman looked fearfully into one +another’s faces by the light of the poor dip that burned beside the +gloomy tester. Then Henrietta took her part. She laid down the child, to which +she had clung instinctively; and with a strength which surprised herself, she +dragged a chest, that stood but a foot on one side of the opening, across the +door. It would not withstand the men long, but it would check them. She looked +doubtfully at the bed, but mistrusted her power to move it. And before she +could do more, a sound reached them from an unexpected quarter, and struck at +the root of her plans. For it came from the window; and so unexpectedly, that +it flung them into one another’s arms. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Tyson screamed loudly. They clung to one another. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? What is it?” Henrietta cried. +</p> + +<p> +Then she saw a spectral face pressed against the dark casement. A hand tapped +repeatedly on a pane. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta put Mrs. Tyson from her and approached the window. She discovered +that the face was a woman’s face, and with fumbling fingers she slid +aside the catch that secured the window. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell the missus not to be scared,” whispered an anxious voice. +“Tell her it’s me! I got up the pear tree to see her, and I saw +you. I knew that Bess was lying, and I thought I’d—I thought +I’d just get up and see for myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” Henrietta cried, clinging to the sill in a passion of +relief as she recognised the stolid-faced servant. “You know me?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re the young lady that’s missing?” the woman +answered, taking a securer hold of the window-frame, and bringing her head into +the room. “I know you. I was thinking if I dared scare the missus, when I +see you tumble in—I nigh tumbled down with surprise! I’ll go +hot-foot and take the news, miss!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I shall come!” +</p> + +<p> +“You let me go and fetch ’em! I’ll bet, miss, I’ll be +welcome. And do you bide quiet and safe. Now we know where you are, +they’ll not harm you.” +</p> + +<p> +But Henrietta had heard a footstep on the stairs, and she was not going to bide +quiet. She had no belief in her safety. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said resolutely. “I am coming. Can you take the +child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you must, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“I must! I must!” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, you are frightened!” the woman muttered, looking at her +face. And then, catching the infection, “Is’t as bad as +that?” she said. “Ay, give me the child, then. And for the +Lord’s sake, be quick, miss. This pear is as good as a ladder, and the +dog knows me as well as its own folk!” +</p> + +<p> +“The child! The child!” Henrietta repeated. Again her ear had +caught the sound of shuffling feet, and of whispering on the stairs. She +carried the child, which seemed paralysed by fear, to the sill, and delivered +it into the other’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +The sill of the window was barely ten feet from the ground, and an old pear +tree, spread-eagled against the wall, formed a natural ladder. The dog, which +had been chained under the window to guard against egress, knew the woman and +did no more than stand below and wag its tail. In two minutes Henrietta was +safe on the ground, had taken the child from the other’s arms, and was +ready for flight. +</p> + +<p> +But the servant would not leave until she had made sure that her mistress had +strength to close the window. That done, she turned to Henrietta. +</p> + +<p> +“Now come!” she said. “And don’t spare yourself, miss, +for if they catch us after this they’ll for certain cut our +throats!” +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta had no need of the spur, and at their best pace the two fled down the +paddock, the servant-wench holding Henrietta by the elbow and impelling her. +The moon had risen, and Mrs. Tyson, poor, terrified, trembling woman, watching +them from the window, could follow them down the pale meadow, and even discern +the dark line of the rivulet, along the bank of which they passed, and here and +there a patch of higher herbage, or a solitary boulder left in the middle of +the turf for a scratching-post. Perhaps she made, in leaning forward, some +noise which irritated the dog; or perhaps the moonlight annoyed it. At any +rate, it began to bay. +</p> + +<p> +By that time, however, Henrietta and her companion had gained the shadow of the +trees at the upper end of the wooded gorge through which the stream escaped. +They stood there a brief while to take breath, and the woman offered to carry +the child. But Henrietta, though she felt that her strength was uncertain, +though she experienced an odd giddiness, was unwilling to resign her charge. +And after a pause they started to descend the winding path which followed the +stream, and often crossed and re-crossed it. +</p> + +<p> +They stumbled along as fast as they could. But this was not very fast. For not +only was it dark in the covert, but the track was beset with projecting roots, +and overhead branches hung low and scraped their faces. More than once startled +by a rabbit, or the gurgle of the falling water, they stopped to listen, +fancying that they were pursued. Still they went fast enough to feel ultimate +safety certain; and Henrietta, as she held an end of the other’s +petticoat between her fingers and followed patiently, bade herself bear up a +little longer and it would be over. It would soon be over, and she—she +would put his child in his arms. It would soon be over, and she would be able +to sink down upon her bed and rest. For she was very weary—and odd. Very, +unaccountably weary. When she stumbled or her foot found the descent longer +than she expected, she staggered and swayed on her feet. +</p> + +<p> +But, “We shall soon be safe! We shall soon be safe!” she told +herself. “And the child!” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile they had passed the darkest part of the little ravine. They had +passed the place where the waterfalls made the descent most arduous. They could +even see below them a piece of the road lying white in the moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +On a sudden Henrietta stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“You must take the child,” she faltered, in a tone that startled +her companion. “I can’t carry—it any farther.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll take it. You should have given it me before!” the woman +scolded. “That’s better. Quiet, my lad. I’ll not hurt +you!” For the child, silent hitherto, had begun to whimper. “Now, +miss,” she continued sharply, “bear up! It’s but a little way +farther.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think—I can,” Henrietta said. The crisis over, +she felt her strength ebbing away in the strangest fashion. She swayed, and had +to cling to a tree for support. “You must go on—without me,” +she stammered. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll not go on without you,” the woman answered. She was +loath to leave the girl helpless in the wood, where it was possible that she +might still come to harm. “You come down to the road, miss. Pluck up! +Pluck up! It’s but a step!” +</p> + +<p> +And partly by words, partly by means of a vigorous arm, the good creature got +the girl to the bottom of the wood, and by a last effort, half lifted, half +dragged her over the stile which closed the gap in the wall. But once in the +road, Henrietta seemed scarcely conscious where she was. She tottered, and the +moment the woman took her hands from her, she sank down against the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave me! Leave me!” she muttered, with a last exertion of sense. +“And take the child! I’m—giddy. Only giddy! I shall be better +in a minute.” Then, “I think—I think I am fainting.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are,” the woman answered drily. She stooped over her. +“Poor thing!” she said. “There’s no knowing what has +happened to her! But she’ll freeze as she is!” +</p> + +<p> +And whipping off her thick drugget shawl—they made such shawls in +Kendal—she wrapped it about the girl, snatched up the child, and set off +running and walking along the road. The Low Wood Inn lay not more than four +furlongs away, and she counted on returning in twenty minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, in twenty minutes!” she muttered, and then, saving her breath, +she kept on steadily along the moonlit road, soothing the child with a word +when it was necessary. In a very brief time she was out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +For a while all was still as death. Then favoured by the recumbent position, +Henrietta began to recover; and presently, but not until some minutes had +elapsed, she came to herself. +</p> + +<p> +She sighed deeply, and gazing upward at the dark sky, with its twinkling stars, +she wondered how she came to be in such a strange place; but without any desire +to rise, or any wish to solve the riddle. A second sigh as deep as the first +lifted the oppression from her breast; and with returning strength she wondered +what was the long dark line that bounded her vision. Was it, could it be, the +head-board of her bed? Or the tester? +</p> + +<p> +It was, in fact, the wall that bounded the wood, but she was not able to take +that in. And though the nipping air, blowing freely on her face, was doing its +best to refresh her, and she was beginning to grope in her memory for the past, +it needed a sound, a voice, to restore to her, not her powers, but her +consciousness. The event soon happened. Two men drew near, talking in low +fierce tones. At first, lying there as in a dream, she heard without +understanding; and then, still powerless under the spell, she heard and +understood. +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t you,” Lunt’s voice growled hoarsely, +“loose the dog, as I told you? We’d have had her by now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and have had the country about our ears, too,” Giles answered +angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“And shan’t we have it about our ears when that vixen has told her +tale?” the other cried. “I swear my neck aches now!” +</p> + +<p> +“She couldn’t carry the brat far, nor fast.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but—what’s that?” There was alarm in Lunt’s +tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Only the lad following us,” Giles answered. “He’s +brought the lanthorn.” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the three separated then: perhaps not. She could not rise to see. She +was paralysed. She lay as in a nightmare, and was conscious only of the yellow +gleam of the lanthorn as it quartered the ground this way and that, and came +nearer and nearer. At last the man who carried it was close to her; on the +other side of the wall. He raised the lanthorn above his head, and looked over +the wall. By evil chance, the light focussed itself upon her. +</p> + +<p> +She knew that she was discovered. And her terror was the greater because she +knew that the man who held the lanthorn was the gipsy—whom she feared the +most of all. But she was not capable of motion or of resistance; and though he +held the light steadily on her, and for a few seconds she saw in the side-glow +his dark features gleaming down at her, she lay fascinated. She waited for him +to proclaim his discovery. +</p> + +<p> +He shut off the light abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“So—ho! back!” he cried. “She’s not this way! +Maybe she’s in the bushes above!” +</p> + +<p> +“This way?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, burn you, why don’t you bring the light, instead of +talking?” Lunt retorted. And from the sound he appeared to be kicking the +nearer bushes, and probing them with a stick. +</p> + +<p> +The gipsy answered impudently, and the three, blaming one another, moved off up +the wood. +</p> + +<p> +“You should have brought the dog,” one cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, curse the dog!” was the answer. “I tell you she +can’t be far off! She can’t have come as low as this.” The +light was thrown hither and thither. “She’s somewhere among the +bushes. We’ll hap on her by-and-by.” +</p> + +<p> +“And s’help me when we do,” Lunt answered, +“I’ll——” +</p> + +<p> +And then, mercifully, the voices grew indistinct. The flicker of the lanthorn +was lost among the trees. With wonder and stupefaction Henrietta found herself +alone, found herself faint, gasping, scarcely sensible—but safe! Safe! +</p> + +<p> +She could not understand the why or the wherefore of her escape, and she had +not energy to try to fathom it. She lay a few seconds to rest and clear her +head, and then she thought that she would try to rise. She was on her knees, +and was supporting herself with one hand against the cold, rough surface of the +wall, when every fibre in her cried suddenly, Alarm! Alarm! He was coming back. +Yes, he was coming back, leaping and running, bursting his way through the +undergrowth. And she understood. He had led the others away and he was coming +back—alone! +</p> + +<p> +She fell back feeling deadly faint. Then she tried to rise, but she could not, +and she screamed. She screamed hoarsely once and again, and, oh, joy! even as +the gipsy clambered over the stile, sprang into the road and came to seize her, +and all her being arose in revolt against him, a voice answered her, feet came +racing up the road, a man appeared, she was no longer alone. +</p> + +<p> +It was the chaplain, panting and horrified. He had been the first to be alarmed +by the woman’s tale, and running out of the house unarmed and hatless he +had come in time, in the nick of time! Across her lifeless body, for at last +she had swooned quite away, the gipsy and he looked at one another by the light +of the moon. And without warning, without a word said, the gipsy came at him +like a wildcat, a knife in his hand. Sutton saw the gleam of the weapon, and +the gleam of the man’s savage eyes, but he held his ground gallantly. +With a yell for help he let the man close with him, and, more by luck than +skill, he parried the blow which the other had dealt him with the knife. But +the gipsy, finding his arm clutched and held, struck his enemy with his left +fist a heavy blow between the eyes. The poor chaplain fell stunned and +breathless. +</p> + +<p> +The gipsy stood over him an instant to see if he would rise. But he did not +move; and the man turned to the girl, who lay insensible beside the wall. He +stooped to raise her, with the intention of putting her over the wall. But in +the act he heard a shout, and he lifted his head to listen, supposing that his +comrades had got wind of the skirmish. +</p> + +<p> +It was not his comrades; for despairing of retaking the girl, they had hurried +back to the house to attend to their own safety. He stooped again; but this +time he heard the patter of footsteps coming up the road, and a man came in +sight in the moonlight. With every passion roused, and determined, since he had +risked so much, that he would not be balked, the gipsy lifted the girl none the +less, and had raised her almost to the level of the top of the wall, when the +man shouted anew. Perforce the ruffian let the girl down again, and with a +snarl of rage turned and faced the newcomer with his knife. +</p> + +<p> +But Clyne—for it was he—had not come unarmed. For many days he had +not gone so much as a step unarmed. And the stranger’s attitude as he let +the girl fall, and the gleam of his knife, were enough. The man rushed at him, +as he had rushed at the chaplain, with the ferocity of a wild beast. But Clyne +met him with a burst of flame and shot, and then with a second shot; and the +gipsy whirled round with a muffled cry and fell—at first it seemed +backwards. But when he reached the ground he lay limp and doubled up with his +face to his knees, and one arm under him. +</p> + +<p> +Clyne, with the smoking pistol in his hand, bent over him, ready, if he moved, +to beat out his brains. But there was no need of that third blow, which he +would have given with hearty good-will. And he turned to the girl. Something, +perhaps the pistol-shot, had brought her to herself. She had raised herself +against the wall, and holding it, was looking wildly about her; not at the dead +man, nor at the chaplain, who stirred and groaned. But at Clyne. And when he +approached her she threw herself on his breast and clung to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t let me go! Oh, don’t let me go!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He tried to soothe her, he tried to pacify her; keeping himself between her and +the prostrate man. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t,” he said. “I won’t. You are quite safe. +You are quite safe.” +</p> + +<p> +He had fired with a hand as steady as a rock, but his voice shook now. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t let me go!” she repeated hysterically. “Oh, +don’t let me go!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are safe! you are safe!” he assured her, holding her more +closely, and yet more closely to him. +</p> + +<p> +And when Bishop and Long Tom Gilson, and three or four others, came up at a +run, breathing fire and slaughter, he was still supporting her; and she was +crying to him, in a voice that went to the men’s hearts, “Not to +let her go! Not to let her go!” +</p> + +<p> +Alas, too, that was the sight which met the poor chaplain’s swimming gaze +when he came to himself, and, groaning, felt the bump between his +eyes—the bump which he had got in her defence. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI<br/> +TWO OF A RACE</h2> + +<p> +It was Thursday, and three days had passed since the Sunday, the day of many +happenings, which had cleared up the mystery and restored Henrietta to Mrs. +Gilson’s care. The frost still held, the air was brisk and clear. The +Langdale Pikes lifted themselves sharp and glittering from the line of grey +screes that run southward to Wetherlamb and the Coniston Mountain. A light air +blew down the lake, ruffling the open water, and bedecking the leafless woods +on Wray Point with a fringe of white breakers. The morning was a perfect winter +morning, the sky of that cloudless, but not over-deep blue, which portends a +long and steady frost. Horses’ hoofs rang loud on the road; and rooks +gathered where they had passed. Men who stopped to talk hit their palms +together or swung their arms. The larger and wiser birds had started betimes +for salt water and the mussel preserves on the Cartmel Sands. +</p> + +<p> +The inquest on the gipsy had been held, but something perfunctorily, after the +fashion of the day. Captain Clyne and the chaplain had told their stories, and +after a few words from the coroner, a verdict of justifiable homicide had been +heartily given, and the jury had resolved itself into a “free and +easy” in the tap-room; while the coroner had delivered himself of much +wisdom, and laid down much law in Mrs. Gilson’s snuggery. +</p> + +<p> +Henrietta had not been made to appear; for carried upstairs, in a state as like +death as life, on Sunday evening, she had kept her room until this morning. She +would fain have kept it longer, but there were reasons against that. And now, +with the timidity which a retreat from every-day life breeds—and perhaps +with some flutterings of the heart on another account—she was pausing +before her looking-glass, and trying to gather courage to descend and face the +world. +</p> + +<p> +She was still pale; and when she met her own eyes in the mirror, a quivering +smile, a something verging on the piteous in her face, told of nerves which +time had not yet steadied. Possibly, her reluctance to go down, though the hour +was late, and Mrs. Gilson would scold, had a like origin. None the less, she +presently conquered it, opened her door and descended; as she had done on that +morning of her arrival, a few weeks back, and yet—oh, such a long time +back! +</p> + +<p> +Now, as then, when she had threaded the dark passages and come to the door of +Mr. Rogers’s room, she paused faint-hearted, and, with her hand raised to +the latch, listened. She heard no sound, and she opened the door and went in. +The table was laid for one. +</p> + +<p> +She heaved a sigh of relief, and—cut it short midway. For Captain Clyne +came forward from one of the windows at which he had been standing. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad that you are better,” he said stiffly, and in a +constrained tone, “and able to come down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, thank you,” she answered, striving to speak heartily, and +repressing with difficulty that proneness of the lip to quiver. “I think +I am quite well now. Quite well! I am sure, after this long time, I should +be.” +</p> + +<p> +And she turned away and affected to warm her hands at the fire. +</p> + +<p> +He did not look directly at her—he avoided doing so. But he could see the +reflection of her face in the oval-framed mirror, as she stood upright again. +He saw that she had lost for the time the creamy warmth of complexion that was +one of her chief beauties. She was pale and thin, and looked ill. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been very severely shaken,” he said. “No doubt you +feel it still!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered, “a little. I think I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you had better be alone?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not know what to say to that. Perhaps she did not know what she wished. +Her lip quivered. This was very unlike what she had expected and what she had +dreaded. But it was worse. He seemed to be waiting for her answer—that he +might go. What could she say? +</p> + +<p> +“Just as you like,” she murmured at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but I wish to do what you like!” he replied, with a little +more warmth; but still awkwardly and with constraint. +</p> + +<p> +“So do I,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall stay then,” he answered. And he lifted a small dish from +the hearth and carried it to the table. “I had Mrs. Gilson’s orders +to keep this hot for you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“It was very kind of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid,” more lightly, “that it was fear of Mrs. Gilson +weighed on me as much as anything.” +</p> + +<p> +He returned to the hearth when he had seen her seated. And she began her +breakfast with her eyes on the table. With the first draught of coffee a +feeling of warmth and courage ran through her; and he, standing with his elbow +on the mantel-piece and his eyes on the mirror, saw the change in her. +</p> + +<p> +“The boy is better,” he said suddenly. “I think he will do +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so. But he will need great care. He will not be able to leave +his bed for a day or two. We found your brooch pinned inside his +clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned sharply and for the first time looked directly at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, we knew why you put it there. It was good of you. But +why—don’t you ask after him, Henrietta?” in a different tone. +</p> + +<p> +She felt the colour rise to her cheeks—and she wished it anywhere else. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him this morning,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he replied in surprise. And he turned to the mirror again. +“I see.” +</p> + +<p> +She began to wish that he would leave her, for his silence made her horribly +nervous. And she dared not start a subject herself, because she could not trust +her voice. The hands of the white-faced clock jerked slowly on, marking the +seconds, and accentuating the silence. She grew so nervous at last that she +could not lift her eyes from her plate, and she ate though she was scarcely +able to swallow, because she dared not leave off. +</p> + +<p> +It did not occur to her that Anthony Clyne was as ill at ease as she was; and +oppressed, moreover, to a much greater degree by the memory of certain scenes +which had taken place in that room. Her nervousness was in part the reflection +of his constraint. And his constraint arose from two feelings widely different. +</p> + +<p> +The long silence was becoming painful to both, when he forced himself to break +it. +</p> + +<p> +“I am so very, very deeply beholden to you,” he said, in a +constrained tone, “that—that I must ask you, Henrietta, to listen +to me for a few minutes—even if it be unpleasant to you.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed awkwardly. +</p> + +<p> +“If it is only,” she answered, “because you are beholden to +me—that—that you feel it necessary to thank me at length, please +don’t. You will only overwhelm me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not for that reason only,” he said. And he knew that he +spoke, much against his will, with dreadful solemnity. “No. Naturally we +must have much to say to one another. I, in particular, who owe to +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Please let that be,” she protested. +</p> + +<p> +“But I cannot. I cannot!” he repeated. “You have done me so +great a service, at a risk so great, and under circumstances +so—so——” +</p> + +<p> +“So remarkable,” she cried, with something of her old girlish +manner, “that you cannot find words in which to describe them! Then +please don’t.” And then, more seriously: “I did not do what I +did to be thanked.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why?” he asked quickly. “Why did you do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think,” she protested, “that I did it to be +thanked?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but—why did you do it, Henrietta?” he asked +persistently. “Such a risk, such men, such circumstances, might have +deterred any woman. Nay, almost any man.” +</p> + +<p> +She toyed with her teaspoon; there had come a faint flush of colour into her +cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it was—I think it was just to reinstate myself,” she +murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“You gave me to understand,” she explained, “that you thought +ill of me. And I wished you to think well of me; or better of me, I should say, +for I did not expect you to think quite well of me after—you know!” +in some confusion. +</p> + +<p> +“You wished to be reinstated?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” he said slowly, “how much you mean by +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean what I say,” she answered, looking at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but do you mean that you—wish to be reinstated +altogether?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not remove her eyes from his face, but she blushed to the roots of her +hair. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not sure that I understand,” she said with a slight air of +offence. +</p> + +<p> +“No?” he said. “And perhaps I did not quite mean that. What I +did mean, and do mean, what I am hoping, what I am looking forward to, +Henrietta——” and there he broke off. +</p> + +<p> +He seemed to find it necessary to begin again: +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I had better explain,” he said more soberly. “You +told me that morning by the lake some home-truths, you remember? You showed me +that what had happened was not all your fault; was perhaps not at all your +fault. And you showed me this with so much energy and power, that I went away +with the first clear impression of you I had had in my life. Yes, with the +feeling that I had never known you until then.” He dropped his eyes, and +looked thoughtfully at something on the table. “And one of the things I +remember best, and which I shall always remember, was your saying that I had +never paid any court to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was true,” she said, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +And she too did not look at him, but kept her eyes bent on the spoon with which +she toyed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Well, if you will let the old state of things be so far reinstated +as to—let me begin to pay my court to you now, I am not confident, I am +very far from confident, that I can please you. I am rather old, for one +thing”—with a rueful laugh—“to make love gracefully, +and rather stiff and—political. But owing to the trouble I have brought +upon you in the past——” +</p> + +<p> +“I never said but that we both brought it!” Henrietta objected +suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, whoever brought it——” +</p> + +<p> +“We both brought it!” she repeated obstinately. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. I mean only that the trouble——” +</p> + +<p> +“Makes it unlikely that I shall find another husband?” she said. +“Pray be frank with me! That,” rising and going to the window, and +then turning to confront him, “is what you mean, is it not? That is +exactly what you mean, I am sure?” +</p> + +<p> +“Something of that kind, perhaps,” he admitted. +</p> + +<p> +“But you forget Mr. Sutton!” she said—and paused. She took +one step forward, and her eyes shone. “You forget Mr. Sutton, Captain +Clyne. The gentleman to whom you handed me over! To whom you gave so clear a +certainty that I was for the first comer who was willing. He is willing, quite +willing!” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“And it cannot be said that he did not behave gallantly on Sunday night! +I am told——” +</p> + +<p> +“He behaved admirably.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he is willing!” she flung the word at him—“quite +willing to marry me—disgraced as I am! As you have always, always hinted +I am! And not out of pity, Captain Clyne. Let us be frank with one another. You +were very frank with me once—more than frank.” She held out her +wrist, which was still faintly discoloured. “When a man does that to a +woman,” she said, “she either loves him, sir, or hates him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said slowly—very slowly. “I see. Your mind is +made up, then——” +</p> + +<p> +“That I will not accept your kind offer to—pay your court to +me?” she answered, with derision. “Certainly. I have no mind to be +wooed by you!” Again she held out her wrist. “You know the stale +proverb: ‘He that will not when he may, when he will he shall have +nay!’” And she made him a little bow, her eyes sparkling, her +cheeks bright. +</p> + +<p> +He turned his back on her, and stood for a moment looking from the window which +was the nearer to the fire—the one looking over the lake. The words of +her proverb—stale enough in truth—ran very sorrowfully in his ears. +“He that will not when he may! He that will not when he may!” No, +he might have known that she was not one to forget. He might have known that +the words he had said, and the things that he had done, would rankle. And that +she who had not hesitated to elope—to punish him for his neglect of +her—would not hesitate to punish him for worse than neglect. He stood a +long minute watching the tiny waves burst into white lines at the foot of Hayes +Woods. No, she could not forget—nor forgive. But she could act, she had +acted, as if she had done both. She had saved his child. She had risked her +life for it. And if she had done that with this resentment, this feeling in her +heart, if she had done it, moved only by the desire to show him that he had +misjudged her—in a sense it was the nobler act, and one like—ay, he +owned it sorrowfully—like herself! At any rate, it did not become him to +cast a word of reproach at her. She had saved his child. +</p> + +<p> +He turned at length, and looked at her. He saw that her figure had lost its +elation, and her cheeks their colour. She was leaning against the side of the +window, and looked tired and ill, and almost as she had looked when she came +into the room. His heart melted. +</p> + +<p> +“I would like you to know one thing,” he said, “before I go. +Your triumph is greater, Henrietta, than you think, and your revenge more +complete. It is no question of pity with me, but of love.” He paused, and +laughed awry. “The worse for me, you will say, and the better for you. +<i>Vae victis!</i> Still, even if you hate me——” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not say that I hated you!” +</p> + +<p> +“You said——” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not! I did not!” she repeated, with a queer little laugh. +And she sat down on the window seat, and turned quickly with a pettish +movement, so that he could only see the side of her face. “I said nothing +of the kind.” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“I said something very different!” +</p> + +<p> +“You said——” +</p> + +<p> +“I said that when a man pinches a girl’s wrist black and blue, and +swears at her—yes, Captain Clyne,” firmly, “you swore at me, +and called me——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t!” he said. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="p424"></a> +<img src="images/p424.png" width="339" height="557" alt="[Illustration: ]" /> +<p class="caption"><span class="sc">She was leaning against the side of the window ...</span></p> +</div> + +<p> +“I only said,” she continued breathlessly, “that when a man +does that, the woman either loves him or hates him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Henrietta!” +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Clyne!” +</p> + +<p> +After a long pause, “I think I understand you,” he said slowly, +“but if you—if there were any feeling, the least feeling of that +kind on your part, you would not have forbidden me to—to think of seeking +you for my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t!” she answered. “I told you that you should +not pay your court to me. And you shall not! You cannot,” half laughing +and half crying, “woo what’s won, can you? If you still think it is +worth the winning! Only,” stopping him by a gesture as he came towards +her, “you are not to give me over to Mr. Sutton again, whatever I do! You +must promise me that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite sure, sir? However I behave? And even if I run away from +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite sure!” +</p> + +<p> +And a few minutes later, “Poor Sutton!” he said. “We must try +to make it up to him.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a good thing you did not set out to woo me,” she answered. +“For you would not have shone at it. Make it up to him indeed! Make it up +to him! What a thing, sir, to say to—me!” +</p> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +It was not made up to Mr. Sutton; though the best living that could be procured +by an exchange with the Bishop of Durham—and there were fat livings in +Durham in those days, and small blame if a man held two of them—was found +for the chaplain. He married, too, a lady of the decayed house of Conyers of +Sockburn, beside which the Damers and the Clynes were upstairs. And so both in +his fortune and his wife’s family he did as well—almost—as he +had hoped to do. But though he accepted his patron’s gift, he came seldom +to Clyne Old Hall; and some held him ungrateful. Moreover, a little later, when +to be a radical was not counted quite so dreadful a thing, he turned radical in +all but the white hat. And Clyne was disappointed, but not surprised. +Henrietta, however, understood. Though children running about her knees had +tamed her wildness and caged her pride, she was still a woman, and the memory +of a past conquest was not ungrateful. She had no desire to see the pale +replica of Mr. Pitt, but she sometimes thought of him, and always kindly and +with gratitude. +</p> + +<p> +There was a third lover, of whom she never thought without unhappiness. +</p> + +<p> +“You will never tell the children? You will never tell the +children?” was her prayer to her husband when Walterson was in question. +</p> + +<p> +And though he answered with gravity, “Not unless you do it again, my +dear,” the sting of remembrance did not cease to rankle. +</p> + +<p> +Walterson was traced to Leith—and thence to Holland. There the trail was +lost, and it is believed that he did not live to return to England. Whether he +did return or not—and Bow Street, and Mr. Bishop in particular, kept +watch for him long—he never re-entered Henrietta’s life. As the +memory of the French Revolution faded from men’s minds, the struggle for +reform fell into more reputable and less violent hands. Silly and turbulent men +of the type of him who had turned the girl’s young head no longer +counted; or, rising to the top at moments of public excitement, vanished as +quickly, and no man knew whither. +</p> + +<p> +Giles and Lunt were not taken on that Sunday night. They escaped, it was +supposed, to Scotland, by way of Patterdale and the Moors. Less fortunate, +however, than Walterson, they returned to London and fell in again with +Thistlewood. They yielded to the fascination of that remarkable and unhappy +man, took part in his schemes, and were taken with him in the loft over the +stable in Cato Street, when the attempt to murder the cabinet at Lord +Harrowby’s house in Grosvenor Square miscarried. He and they got a fair +trial, but little pity. And it is not to be supposed that upon the scaffold in +the Old Bailey, they thought much of the lonely house in the hollow at +Troutbeck, or of the helpless woman whom they had terrorised. To their credit, +be it said, they died more worthily than they had lived; and with them came to +a close the movement which sought to reach reform by the road of violence, and +to that end held no instruments too cheap or vile. +</p> + +<p> +Tyson came out of the adventure a wiser and perhaps a better man. For on his +return from the north he found it hard to free himself from the charge of +complicity in the acts of those who had used his house; nor did he succeed +until he had lain some weeks in Appleby gaol. He would fain have avenged +himself on Bess, but for reasons to be stated, he could not enjoy this +satisfaction. And his neighbours sent him to Coventry. Had he been a strong man +he might have defied them and public opinion. But he was only a braggart, and +that which must have embittered many, tamed him. He turned to his wife for +comfort, sought his home more than before, and gradually settled down into a +tolerable citizen and a high Tory. +</p> + +<p> +Bess saved herself by her own wit and courage. The Monday’s light saw her +dragged to Kendal prison, where they were not so gentle with her as they had +been with Henrietta. Her story went with her, and, “They say you stole a +child,” the little girl murmured, standing at her knee and staring at +her, “and ’ll be hanged at the March fair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I,” said Bess. “It’s almost a pity, too, +ain’t it? There’d be a fine crowd to see!” +</p> + +<p> +The child’s eyes sparkled. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. “There’d be a crowd, too.” +</p> + +<p> +But Bess played a fine stroke. She sent for her rival on the Friday, and +Henrietta, twenty-four hours betrothed, and very far from unhappy, took that +road once more, and went to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I saved you,” said Bess, with coolness. “Yes, I did. +Don’t deny it! Now do you save me.” +</p> + +<p> +And Henrietta moved heaven and earth and Anthony Clyne to save her. She +succeeded. Bess went abroad—to join Walterson, it was rumoured. If so, +she returned without him, for on the old miser’s death she appeared on +Windermere, sold Starvecrow Farm and all its belongings, and removed to the +south, but to what part is not known, nor are any particulars of her later +fortunes within reach. Some said that she played a part in the great riots at +Bristol twelve years later, but the evidence is inconclusive, and dark women +possessing a strain of gipsy blood are not uncommon. +</p> + +<p> +Nor are women with a sharp tongue and a warm heart. Yet when Mrs. Gilson died +in the year of those very riots, and at a good age, there was a gathering to +bury her in Troutbeck graveyard as great as if she had been a Lowther. The +procession, horse and foot, was a mile long. And when those who knew her least +wondered whence all these moist eyes and this flocking to do honour to a woman +who had been quick of temper and rough of tongue—ay, were it to Squire +Bolton of Storrs, or the rich Mr. Rogers himself—there was one who came a +great distance to the burying who could have solved the riddle. +</p> + +<p> +It was Henrietta. +</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STARVECROW FARM ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + +</body> + +</html> + diff --git a/39138-h/images/p134.png b/39138-h/images/p134.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e26d6e --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/images/p134.png diff --git a/39138-h/images/p195.png b/39138-h/images/p195.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..17789b6 --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/images/p195.png diff --git a/39138-h/images/p252.png b/39138-h/images/p252.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e4a0654 --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/images/p252.png diff --git a/39138-h/images/p367.png b/39138-h/images/p367.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..347d4a6 --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/images/p367.png diff --git a/39138-h/images/p424.png b/39138-h/images/p424.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..539f79d --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/images/p424.png diff --git a/39138-h/images/p5.png b/39138-h/images/p5.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..60fe938 --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/images/p5.png diff --git a/39138-h/images/p69.png b/39138-h/images/p69.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..de4377e --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/images/p69.png diff --git a/39138-h/images/p79.png b/39138-h/images/p79.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..343cdce --- /dev/null +++ b/39138-h/images/p79.png |
