CHAPTER XV
THE ANSWER
When Henrietta had read this letter twice, shivering and drawing inher breath as often as she came to the passionate cry for mercy thatbroke its current, she sat gazing at the paper. And her face wasrigid. Had he made appeal to her affection, to the past, to that whichhad been between them, still more had he assumed that the spell wasunbroken and her heart was his, her pride had revolted and revoltedpassionately. She had spurned the letter and the writer. And perhaps,when it was too late, she had repented.
But that cry, wrung, it seemed, from the man's heart in his owndespite, pierced her heart. How could she refuse, if his life hung onher act, if by lifting her finger, she could save him without risk toherself? The thought of him was repugnant to her, shamed her, filledher with contempt of herself. But she had loved him once, or hadfancied 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.
"And oh! for God's sake spare me!"
She read the words again and again, and shuddered. If she refused, andafterwards when it was too late, when nothing could be done, sherepented? If when judgment had passed upon him, and the day was comeand the hour and the minute--and in her brain, though she were onehundred miles away, St. Sepulchre's bell tolled--if she repented thenhow would she bear it?
She would not be able to bear it.
And then other considerations not less powerful, and all pointing inthe same direction, arose in her mind. If she did this thing, whateverit was, the man would escape. He would vanish from the country andfrom her knowledge and ken. There would be an end of him, and therelief would be great. Freed from the shameful incubus of his presenceshe would breathe again. She might make a new start then, she mightframe some plan for her life. She was too young to suppose that shecould ever be happy after this, or that she would live to smile atthese troubles. But at least she would not be harassed by continualfears, she would not be kept in a panic by the thought of that whichevery hour might bring forth. She would be spared the public trial,the ordeal of the witness-box, the shame of open confession. Shouldshe do, then, that which he wished? Ay, a thousand times, ay. Herheart cried, ay, her mind was made up. And rising, she walked the roomin excitement. Her pulse beat high, her head was hot, she was in afever to begin, to be doing, to come to an end of the thing and besafe.
But the thing? Her heart sank a little when she turned to that, andconned the note again and marked the hour. Ten? The evenings were longand dark, and the house was abed by ten. How was she to pass out? Norwas that all. What of her position when she had passed out? She shrankfrom the thought of going alone to meet she knew not who in thedarkness by the lonely edge of the water. There would be no helpwithin call at that hour; nor any, if she disappeared, to say whichway she had gone or how she had met her fate. If aught happened to hershe would vanish and leave no trace. And they would think perhaps thatshe had fled to him!
The prospect was terrifying. And nine girls out of ten, though ofordinary courage, would have shrunk hack. But Henrietta had aspirit--too high a spirit or she had not been here!--and she fanciedthat if ever it behoved her to run a risk, it behove her to run onenow. And that not for the man's sake only, but for her own. She roseabove her momentary alarm, therefore, and she asked herself what shehad to fear. True, when she had met him that morning she had imaginedin the gloom of the kitchen that she read murder in his eyes. But foran instant only; now she laughed at the notion. Safe in her chambershe found it absurd: the bizarre creation of her fancy or hertimidity, aided by some shadow cast athwart his face. And for thematter of that, why should he harm her? Her presence at thetrysting-place would be his surety that she had no mind to betray him;but that on the contrary she was willing to help him.
"I will go, I must go," she thought. "I must go."
Yet vague alarms troubled her; and she hesitated. If there had been nomenace in his eyes that morning--the eyes that had so often lookedinto hers and languished on her with a lover's fondness--why had shefled so precipitately? And why had her knees shaken under her? Pshaw,she had been taken by surprise. It was repugnance rather than fearwhich she had felt. And because she had been foolish once, andimagined 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 withone of her fingers!
And still, prudence whispered her, asking why he fixed so late anhour. Why had he not fixed five or six, if it were only out of respectfor her? At five it was already dark, yet the world was awake andastir, respectable folk were abroad, and help was within call. Shewould 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 andawake that made an early hour impossible. If she went at five or atsix she would be followed, her movements would be watched, hercompanion would be noted. The very air would be full of eavesdroppers.She knew that, for the fact irritated her hourly and daily. Anddoubtless he too, hedged about by fears and suspicions, knew it.
The lateness of the hour was natural, therefore. Still, it renderedher task more difficult. She dared not interfere with the heavy barsthat secured the two doors which looked on the lake. She would beheard, even if the task were not beyond her strength. And to gain theback entrance she must thread a labyrinth of passages guarded bywakeful dogs and sleeping servants; for servants in those days slepton the stairs or in any odd place. She would be detected before shehad undone a single bolt.
Then what was she to do? Her bedroom was on the second floor, and exitby the window was not possible. On which, some, surveying thesituation, would have sat still, and thought themselves justified. ButHenrietta was of firmer stuff; and for such where there is a willthere is a way. Mr. Rogers's room, of which she had still the use, wason the first floor of the south wing and somewhat remote from the mainpart of the house. Outside the door was a sash window which gave lightto the passage; and owing to the rise of the hill on every side of thehouse save the front, the sill of this window was not more than sixfeet above the garden. She could drop from it with safety. Return wasless easy, but with the help of a chair, which she could lower beforeshe descended, she might manage to climb in again. The feat seemedeasy and she did not feel afraid. Whether she would feel afraid whenthe time came was another matter.
In the meantime she had to wait, and sleeping ill that night, she hadmany uneasy dreams, and waking before daybreak thought herself into afever. All the dreadful things that might befall her rose before herin the liveliest shapes; and long before the house awoke--there is nofear like five-o'clock-in-the-morning fear--she had given up thenotion. But when the dull November day peered in at the bedroomwindow, and she had risen, she was herself again. She chid herself forthe childish terrors in which she had indulged, and lest she shouldgive way to them again she determined to take a decisive step. Longbefore noon she slipped out of the house and turned towards Ambleside.
Unfortunately it was a wet morning, and she feared that her promenadein such weather must excite suspicion. Eyes, she was sure, were on herbefore she had gone a dozen paces. To throw watchers off the scent andto prove herself careless of espial she would not look back; but whenshe reached the first corner she picked up a stone, and threw it at animaginary object on the edge of the lake. She stood an instant withher wet-weather hood drawn about her face as if to mark the effect ofher shot. Then she picked up another stone and poised it, but did notthrow it. Instead, she walked on with the stone in her hand. Allwithout looking back.
She came to the second gate on the Ambleside road. It was out of sightof the inn, and it seemed an easy and an innocent thing to lay thestone on the head of the pillar--gate-posts in that country are ofstone--and to go on her way. But she heard a footstep behind her andpanic seized her. She felt that nothing in the world would be sosuspicious, so damning as
such an act. She hesitated, and was lost.She walked on slowly with the stone in her hand, and the fine rainbeating in her face.
Her follower, a country clown, passed her. She loitered until he wasout of sight; then she turned and retraced her steps. A half-minute'swalking brought her again to the gate. There was no one in sight andin a fever lest at the last some one should take her in the act sheset the stone on the top of the post, and passed on.
Half-way back to the inn she stopped. What if the stone had not keptits place? She had merely thrust out her hand as she passed, anddeposited the stone without looking. Now she was sure that her ear hadcaught the faint sound which the stone made in striking the soddenturf. She turned and walked back.
When she reached the gate she was thankful that she had had thatthought. 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 andreplace the signal. Then she walked back to the inn, inclined to laughat the proportions to which her simple task had attained in her mind.
She would have laughed after another fashion had she known that hermovements from beginning to end had been watched by Mr. Sutton. Thechaplain, ashamed yet pursuing, had sneaked after her when she leftthe inn, hoping that if she went far he might find in some lonelyplace, where she could not escape, an opportunity of pleading hiscause. He fancied that the lapse of three days, and his patient,mournful conduct, might have softened her; to say nothing of theprobable effect on a young girl of such a life as she was leading--ofits solitude, its dullness, its weariness.
On seeing her turn, however, he had had no mind to be detected, and hehad slipped into the wood. From his retreat he had seen her depositthe stone: he had seen also her guilty face--it was he, indeed, whohad removed the stone. He had done so, expecting to find a note underit, and he was all but surprised in the act. When she placed thesecond, he was within three paces of her, crouching with a burningface behind the wall. The thought of her contempt if she discoveredhim so appalled him that, cold as it was, he sweated with shame; norwas it until she had gone some distance that he dared to lift his eyesabove the wall. Then he saw that she had put another stone on thegate-post.
He took it in his hand and compared it with the one which he stillheld. They were as common stones as any that lay in the road. Andthere was no letter. The conclusion was clear. The stone was a signal.Nor could he doubt for whom it was intended. The London officer wasright. Walterson was in the neighbourhood and she was in communicationwith him. The girl's infatuation still ruled her.
That hardened him a little in his course of action. But he was not atease, and when some one coughed--slightly but with meaning--while hegazed at the stone, he jumped a yard. He stood, with all the blood inhis body flown to his face. The cough had come from the wood behindhim; and ten paces from him, peeping over the bush, was Mr. Bishop.
The runner chuckled. "Very well done, reverend sir," he said. "Verywell done. You've the makings of a very tidy officer about you. Icould not have done it much neater myself. But now, suppose you leavethe coast clear, or maybe you'll be scaring the other party."
Mr. Sutton, with his face the colour of beetroot--for he was heartilyashamed of the part he had been playing--began to stammer anexplanation.
"I saw the young lady, and didn't--I couldn't understand----"
"What the lay was," Mr. Bishop answered, grinning at the other'sdiscomfiture. "Just so. Same with me. But suppose in the meantime,reverend sir," with unction, "you leave the ground clear for the otherparty? We can talk as well elsewhere as here, and without queering thepitch."
The chaplain swallowed his vexation as well as he could andcomplied--but stiffly. The two made their way back in silence to thegap in the wall by which the chaplain had entered. There, having firstascertained that the road was clear, they stepped out. By that timeMr. Sutton was feeling better. After all, he had been right to followthe girl. Left to herself, and a slave to the villain who hadfascinated her, she might suffer worse things than a friendlyespionage. He determined to take the bull by the horns. "What do youmake of it?" he asked, still blushing.
"Queer lay," Bishop answered drily.
"You understand it, then?"
"Middling well. Gipsy patter that." He pointed to the stone.
"You think the young lady is communicating--"
"With another party? I do. Leastways I know it. And the party----"
"Is Walterson?"
"Just so," the runner answered. "Why not? Young ladies are but women,after all, reverend sir, and much like other women, only sometimesmore so. I began, I confess, by being of your way of thinking. Thelady is so precious snowy and so precious stiff you would not believeice would melt in her mouth. But when I came to think it all over, andremembered 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 tillCaptain Clyne turned up I was altogether at a loss--and how she madelight of what Walterson had done, when it was first told her, and alot 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 sheliked the man well enough to go off with him--why should she cut himadrift? When she had, so to speak, paid the price for him, yourreverence? How does that strike you?"
"But Captain Clyne," Sutton answered slowly, "who knew her well, andknows her well----"
"I know."
"He does not share your opinion. He is under the belief," the chaplaincontinued, "that her eyes are open. And that she hates the verythought of the man, and of the mistake she made. His view is that sheis only anxious to behave herself."
Bishop winked. "Ay, but Captain Clyne," he said, "is in love with her,you see."
Mr. Sutton stared. The colour rose slowly to his cheeks.
"I don't think so," he said. "In fact, I may say I know that it is notso. He has long given up the remotest idea of the--of the match thatwas projected."
"May be, may be," the runner answered lightly. "I don't say that thatis not so. But it is just when a man has given up all thought of athing that he thinks of it the most, Mr. Sutton. Anyway, there is thestone, and there is the post, and I'll ask you plain for whom it ismeant, if it is not meant for Walterson?"
Mr. Sutton nodded. But his thoughts were still engaged with CaptainClyne's feelings. The more he considered the point the more inclinedhe was to think that the runner was right. Clyne's insistence on thegirl's innocence, the extreme bitterness that had once or twice brokenthrough his reticence, and an unusual restlessness of manner when hehad made the remarkable proposal that Mr. Sutton should take hisplace, all pointed that way. And this being so, it was strange how thesuspicion sharpened the chaplain's keenness to win the prize. If shehad still so great a value in the eyes of his patron, how enviablewould 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 hecompassed his end by a little man[oe]uvring, by stooping a little, byspying 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 hedesired her. She was so desirable, so very desirable, he might beforgiven somewhat if he stooped to conquer: seeing that if he failedthis dangerous man held her in his power.
So when Bishop asked for the second time, "Will you help me to keep aneye on her? You can do it more easily than I can," he was ready withhis answer, though he blushed a little.
"I will stay here and note who passes," he replied. "Yes, I will dothat."
"You can do it with less risk of notice than I can," the officeranswered. "And I must get back and keep her in view. It is justpossible that this is a ruse, and that the man we want is the otherway."
"I will remain," said Mr. Sutton curtly. And he stayed. But he was sotaken up with this new view of his patron's feelings that though BessHinkson rowed along the shore before his eyes, and looked hard at him,he never saw her.
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