CHAPTER XXXIII
THE SMUGGLERS' OVEN
Henrietta crouched beside the lamp, lulling the child from time totime with a murmured word. She held the boy, whom she had come tosave, tight in her arms; and the thought that she held him was blissto her, though poisoned bliss. Whatever happened he would learn thatshe had reached the child. He would know--even if the worst came--whatshe had done for him. But the worst must not come. Were she once inthe open under the stars, how quickly could she flee down the roadwith this light burden in her arms--down the road until she saw thestar-sprinkled lake spread below her! In twenty minutes, were sheoutside, she might be safe. In twenty minutes, only twenty minutes,she might place the child in his arms, she might read the joy in hiseyes, and hear words--ah, so unlike those which she had heard fromhim!
There were only two doors between herself and freedom. Her heart beatat the thought. In twenty minutes how different it might be withher--in twenty minutes, were she at liberty!
She must wait until the child was sound asleep. Then when she couldlay him down she would examine the place. The purity of the air provedthat there was either a secret inlet for the purpose of ventilation,or that the door which shut off their prison from the well-head fittedill and loosely. In the latter case it was possible that her strengthmight avail to force the door and make escape possible. They might nothave given her credit for the vigour which she felt that she had it inher to show if the opportunity offered itself.
In the meantime she scrutinised, as she sat, every foot of the walls,without discovering anything to encourage hope or point to a secondexit. The light of the dim lamp revealed only smooth courses ofbricks, so near her eyes, so low upon her head, so bewildering intheir regularity and number, that they appalled her the more thelonger 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.
Alas! it presented to the eye only solid wood, overlapping theaperture which it covered, and revealing in consequence neither hingesnor fastening. She set her shoulder against it, and thrust with allher might. But it neither bent nor moved, and in despair she left it,and stooping low worked her way round the walls. Her closest scrutinyrevealed nothing; not a slit as wide as her slenderest finger, not apeg, nor a boss, nor anything that promised exit. She returned to thedoor, and made another and more desperate attempt to burst it. But herstrength was unequal to the task, and to avoid a return of the oldpanic, which threatened to overcome her, she dropped down beside thechild, and took him again in her arms, feeling that in the appealwhich the boy's helplessness made to her she had her best shieldagainst such terrors.
The next moment, with a flicker or two, the light went out. She was incomplete darkness.
She fought with herself and with the impulse to shriek; and sheconquered. She drew a deep breath as she sat, and with the unconsciouschild in her arms, stared motionless before her.
"They will come back," she murmured steadfastly; "they will come back!They will come back! And in the meantime I must be brave for thechild's sake. I have only to wait! And they will come back!"
Nevertheless, it was hard to wait. It was hard not to let her thoughtsrun on the things which might prevent their return. They might be putto flight, they might be discovered and killed, they might be takenand refuse to say where she was. And then? Then?
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 elapsedsince they left her. She could not guess what the hour was, but shejudged that it was something after midnight now, and that half of thedark hours were gone. Even so, she had long to wait before she couldexpect to be visited. She must have patience, therefore. Above all,she must not think of the mountain of earth above her, of the twothick doors that shut her off from the living world, of the vault thatalmost touched her head as she sat. For when she did the air seemed tofail her, and the grip of frenzied terror came near to raising her toher feet. Once on her feet and in that terror's grasp, she knew thatshe would rave and shriek, and beat on the walls--and go mad!
But she would not think of these things. She would sit quite still andhold the child more tightly to her, and be sensible. And be sensible!Above all, be sensible!
She thought of many things as she sat holding herself as it were; ofher old home and her old life, the home and the life that seemed sofar away, though no more than a few weeks divided her from them. Butmore particularly she thought of her folly and of the events of thelast month; and of the child and of the child's father, and--with ashudder--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 beenunder her eyes.
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 hadmisjudged her as largely. That he might know her better was her maindesire now; and that he might know it, whatever the issue, she had aninspiration. She took from her neck the gold clasp which had arousedold Hinkson's greed, and she fastened it securely inside the child'sdress. If the child were rescued, the presence of the brooch wouldprove that she had succeeded in her quest, and been with the boy.
After that she dozed off, and presently, strange to say, she slept.Fortunately, the child also was worn out; and the two slept as soundlyin the grim silence of the buried vault, with the load of earth abovethem and the water trickling from the well-hole beside them, as in thesoftest bed. They slept long, yet when Henrietta at last awoke it washappily to immediate consciousness of the position and of the need ofcoolness. The boy had been first to rouse himself and was crying for alight, and for something to quench his thirst. A little milk remainedin the can, and with infinite precaution she groped for the vessel andfound it. The milk was sour, but the boy lapped it eagerly, andHenrietta wetted her own lips, for she, too, was parched with thirst.She could have drunk ten times as much with pleasure, but she deniedherself, and set the rest in a safe place. She did not know how longshe had slept, and the fear that they might be left to meet a dreadfuldeath would lift its head, hard as she strove to trample on it.
She gave the child a few spoonfuls of porridge and encouraged him tocrawl about in the darkness. But after some restless, querulousmoanings he slept again, and Henrietta was left to her thoughts, whichcontinually grew more uneasy. She was hungry; and that seemed to provethat the morning was come and gone. If this were so were they toremain there all day? And if all day, all night? And all next day? Andif so, if they were not discovered by next day, why not--forever?
Again she had to struggle against the hysterical terror that grippedand choked her. And resist it without action she could not. Sherose, and in the dark felt her way to the hatchway by which she hadentered. Again she passed her fingers down the smooth edges where itmet the brickwork. She sought something, some bolt, some peg, somehinge--anything that, if it did not lead to freedom, might hold herthoughts and give her occupation. But there was nothing! And when shehad set her ear against the thick wood, still there was nothing. Sheturned from it, and went slowly and doggedly round the prison on herknees, feeling the brickwork here and there, and in very dearth ofhope, 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 wasfutile, hopeless. And then the child awoke, and she had to take him upand soothe him and give him the last of the milk and the porridge. Heseemed a little stronger and better. But she--she was growingfrightened--horribly frightened. She must have been hours in thatplace; and she was very near to that breakdown, which she had kept atbay so long.
For she had no more food. And, worse, with the sound of water almostin her ears, with the knowledge that it ran no more than a few feetfrom her in a clear and limpid stream, she had nothing more with whichshe could quench t
he boy's thirst or her own. And she had no light.That frantic struggle to free herself, that strength of despair whichmight, however improbably, have availed her, were and must be futilefor her, fettered and maimed by a darkness that could be felt. Shedrew the child nearer and hugged him to her. He was her talisman, herall, the tie that bound her to sanity, the being outside herself forwhom she was bound to think and plan and be cool.
She succeeded--for the moment. But as she sat, dozing a little atintervals, with the child pressed closely to her, she fell from timeto time into fits of trembling. And she prayed for light--only forlight! And then again for some sound, some change in the cold, deadstillness that made her seem like a thing apart, aloof, removed fromother things. And she was very thirsty. She knew that presently thechild would grow thirsty again. And she would have nothing to givehim.
The thought was torture, and she seemed to have borne it an agealready; supported by the fear of rousing the boy and hastening themoment she dreaded. She would have broken down, she must have brokendown, but for one thought; that, long as the hours seemed to her, andfar distant as the moment of her entrance appeared, she might be agreat way out in her reckoning of time. She might not have been shutup there so very long. The wretches who had put her there might nothave fled. They might not have abandoned her. If she knew all shemight be rid in an instant of her fears. All the time she might betorturing herself for nothing.
She clung passionately to that thought and to the child. But theprolonged uncertainty, the suspense, the waiting, tried her to theutmost of her endurance. Her ears ached with the pain of listening;her senses hungered for the sound of the footstep on which alldepended. Would that sound never come? Once or twice she fancied thatshe heard it; and mocked by hope she stilled the very beating of herheart, that she might hear more keenly. But nothing followed, nothing.Nothing happened, and her heart sickened.
"Presently," she thought, "I shall begin to see things. I shall growweak and fancy things. The horror of being buried alive will masterme, and I shall shriek and shout and go mad. But that shall not beuntil the child's trouble is over--God helping me!"
And then, dazzling her with its brightness, a sudden thought flashedthrough her brain. Fool! Fool! She had succumbed in despair when a crymight release her! She had laid herself down to die, when she had butto 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'scoarse gallantries if she screamed? And to what purpose, if she wereburied so deep that her complaints could not be heard?
The thought lifted a weight from her. It revived her hopes, almost herconfidence. Immediately a current of vigour and courage coursedthrough her veins. But she did not shout at once. The child wasasleep; she would await his awakening, and in the meantime she wouldlisten diligently. For if she could be heard by those who approachedthe place, it was possible that she could hear them.
She had barely conceived the thought, when the thing for which she hadwaited so long happened. The silence was broken. A sound struck herear. A grating noise followed. Then a shaft of light, so faint thatonly eyes long used to utter darkness could detect it, darted in andlay across the brickwork of the vault. In a twinkling she was on herknees and scrambling with the child in her arms towards the hatch. Shehad reached it and was touching it, when the bolts that held up thedoor slid clear, and with a sharp report the hatch fell. A burst oflight poured in and blinded her. But what was sight to her? She, whohad borne up against fear so bravely had now only one thought, onlyone idea in her mind--to escape from the vault. She tumbled outrecklessly, fell against something, and only through the support of anunseen hand kept on her feet as she alighted in the well-head.
A man whom her haste had pushed aside, slapped her on the shoulder.
"Lord, you're in a hurry!" he said. "You've had enough of bed foronce!"
"So would you," came the answer--in Bess's voice--"if you'd hadtwenty-four hours of it, my lad. All the same, she'll have to goback."
Trembling and dazed, Henrietta peered from one to the other. Mistressof herself two minutes before, she was now on the verge of hysteria,and controlled herself with an effort.
"Oh!" she cried. "Oh! thank God you've come! Thank God you've come! Ithought you had left me."
She was thankful--oh, she was thankful; though these were no rescuers,but the two who had consigned her to that horrible place. Bess raisedthe lanthorn so that its light fell on the girl's haggard, twitchingface.
"We could not come before," she said, with something like pity in hertone. "That's all."
"All!" Henrietta gasped. "All! Oh, I thought you had left me! Ithought you had left me!"
Bess considered her, and there was beyond doubt something likesoftening in the girl's dark face. But her tone remained ironical.
"You didn't," she said, "much fancy your bedroom, I guess?"
Henrietta's teeth chattered.
"Oh, God forgive you!" she cried. "I thought you had left me! Ithought you'd left me!"
"It was your own folks' fault," Bess retorted. "They've never hadtheir eyes off the blessed house, one or another of them, from dawn todark! We could not come. But now here's food, and plenty!" raising thelight. "How's the child?"
"Bad! Bad!" Henrietta muttered.
She was coming to her senses. She was beginning to understand theposition; to comprehend that no rescuers were here, no search partyhad found her; and that--and that--had not one of them dropped a wordabout her going back? Going back meant going back to that--place! Witha sudden gesture she thrust the food from her.
"Ain't you going to eat?" Bess asked, staring. "I thought you'd befamished."
"Not here! Not here!" she answered violently.
"Oh, nonsense!" the other rejoined. "Don't be a fool! You're clemmed,I'll be bound. Eat while you can."
But, "Not here! Not here!" Henrietta replied. And she thrust the foodaway.
The man interposed.
"Stow it!" he said, in a threatening tone. "You eat while you can andwhere you can!"
But she was desperate.
"I'll not eat here!" she cried. "I'll not eat here! And I'll not goback!" her voice rising. "I will die before I will go back. Do youhear?" with the fierceness of a wild creature at bay. "I do not carewhat you do! And the child is dying. Another night--but I'll notsuffer it! And if you lay a finger on me"--repelling Bess, who hadmade a feint of seizing her--"I will scream until I am heard! Ay, Iwill!" she repeated, her eyes sparkling. "But take me to the house andI will go quietly! I will go quietly!"
It was plain that she was almost beside herself, and that fear of theplace in which she had passed so many hours had driven out all otherfear. The two, who had not left her alone so long without misgiving,looked at one another and hesitated. They might overpower her. But theplace was so closely watched that a single shriek might be heard; thenthey would be taken red-handed. Nor did Bess at least wish to useforce. The position, and her views, were changed. All day curious eyeshad been fixed on the house, and inquisitive people had started upwhere they were least expected. Bess's folly in bringing this hornets'nest about their ears had shaken her influence with the men; and theday had been one long exchange of savage recriminations. She owned toherself that she had done a foolish thing; that she had let her spitecarry her too far. And in secret she was beginning to think how shecould clear herself.
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 _sine quanon_, conciliate the girl whom she had wronged. Unluckily she now sawthat she could not conciliate her without taking her to the house. Andshe could not with safety take her to the house. The men wereirritated by the peril which she had brought upon them; they wereferocious and out of hand; and terribly suspicious to boot. Theyblamed her, Bess, for all: they had threatened her. And if she was notsafe among them, she was quite sure that Henrietta would not be safe.
There was an alternative. She might let the girl go there and then.And s
he would have done this, but she could not do it without Giles'sconsent; and she dared not propose it to him. He was wanted for otheroffences, and the safe return of Henrietta and the child would notclear him. He had looked on the child, and now looked on the girl, aspawns in his game, a _quid pro quo_ with which--if he were taken whilethey remained in his friends' hands--he might buy his pardon. Bess,therefore, dared not propose to free Henrietta: and what was she to doif the girl was so foolish as to refuse to go back to the place whereshe was safe?
"Look here," she said at last. "You're safer here than in the house,if you will only take my word for it."
But there is no arguing with fear.
"I will not!" Henrietta persisted, with passion. "I will not! Take meout of this! Take me out! The child will die here, and I shall gomad!--mad!"
"You're pretty mad now," the man retorted. But that said, he metBess's eyes and nodded reluctantly. "Well," he said, "it's her ownlookout. But I think she'll repent it."
"Will you go quiet?" Bess asked.
"Yes, yes!"
"And you'll not cry out? Nor try to break away?"
"I will not! I will not indeed!"
"You swear it?"
"I do."
"And by G--d," the man interposed bluntly, "she'd better keep to it."
"Very well," Bess said. "You have it your own way. But I tell youtruly, I put you in here for the best. And perhaps you'll know itbefore you're an hour older. However, all's said, and it's your owndoing."
"Why don't you let me go?" Henrietta panted. "Let me go, and let metake the child!"
"Stow it!" the man cried, cutting her short. "It's likely, whenwe're as like as not to pay dear for taking you. Do you shut yourtalking-trap!"
"She'll be quiet," Bess said, more gently. "So douse the glim, lad.And do you give me the child," to Henrietta.
But she cried, "No! No!" and held it more closely to her.
"Very good! Then take my hand--you don't know the way. And not awhisper, mind! Slip the bolt, Giles! And, mum, all!"
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