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.
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.
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.
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.
“I don’t believe it!” she answered. “You are daft, woman, to think of such a thing!”
“It’s true, missus, as I stand here!” Ann declared.
“To Kendal gaol? To-night!”
“That very thing! And her” — with angry fervour— “scarce more than a child, as you may say!”
“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!”
“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!”
Mrs. Gilson’s form swelled until it was a wonder the whalebone stood. But in those days things were of good British make.
“A chaise?” she said.
“Yes.”
“There’s no chaise,” the landlady answered firmly, “goes from here on that errand!”
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.
“They’ll only send to the Salutation,” she said despondently.
“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!”
But Ann, great as was her belief in her mistress, shook her head.
“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!”
CHAPTER VI
THE INQUIRY
“Who is there?”
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.
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.
Meanwhile she got no answer. And “Who is there?” she repeated wearily.
The reply came muffled through the door.
“You are wanted downstairs, lady.”
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.
Ann stood in the passage.
“They want you downstairs, miss,” she said.
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.
“I did not know that you were waiting,” Henrietta said, faintly surprised. “I know my way down.”
“I was to come with you, miss.”
“Where are they, then?”
“They are where you were this morning,” the woman answered. “This way, if you please.”
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 impercepti
ble 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.
“Come in, miss,” she said gruffly, as Henrietta complied. “Here’s some gentlemen want to ask you a question or two.”
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.
“There must be some mistake,” she murmured. “I have come into the — —”
“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.”
The colour rose to her cheeks.
“To ask me?” she repeated, with a slight ring of hauteur in her voice.
“Just so,” Bishop answered. “It will be all right, I am sure. But attend to this gentleman, if you please, and answer his questions.”
He indicated with his finger the one seated before him.
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.
“I do not understand,” she said, with ill-suppressed indignation, “why I am here. Are you sure that there is no mistake?”
He found his voice then.
“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.”
“Sir!”
The girl’s eyes opened wide. Her face was scarlet.
He leaned forward.
“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.”
“But by what right,” Henrietta cried, striving to command both her rage and her fear— “by what right — —”
“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.”
“The law?” she stammered. And she looked round terrified. “Why? Why? What have I done?” she cried pathetically.
For a moment all was dark before her.
He laughed slyly.
“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.”
“I can stand!” she cried.
“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.”
The magistrate nodded.
“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?”
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.
He fancied that she had not heard, or did not understand.
“Your name, young woman,” he repeated, “and your last place of abode? Speak up! And don’t be afraid.”
But she did not answer.
He frowned.
“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.”
“What is the charge against me?” She spoke slowly, and her face was now set and stubborn. “Of what am I accused?”
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.
“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 — —”
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.
“Very well,” he said. “Tell her!”
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:
“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 — —”
“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?”
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.
Murder! No wonder tha
t 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.
“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!”
“Very good advice,” said the magistrate, smiling indulgently. “But — —”
“But you must not interfere!” snapped the clerk — who kept the books of the Salutation in Ambleside and not of the Low Wood Inn.
“Haven’t you sense to see the girl is fainting?” the landlady replied wrathfully.
“Oh, well — —”
“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.
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.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 474