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.”
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.
“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 — —”
“You?”
“ —— I shall do, be sure!”
He was beginning to feel his feet, and he spoke earnestly. He spoke, to do him justice, with feeling.
“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.”
“Of what?”
The tone of the two words shook Mr. Sutton unpleasantly. He reddened. But with an effort,
“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.”
There were no tears in her eyes now. She seemed to tower above him in her indignation.
“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!”
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.
He stood an instant, brooding, with his eyes on the road.
“A common man would give up,” he muttered. “But I shall not! I am no common man. I shall not give up.”
CHAPTER XII
THE OLD LOVE
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.
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.
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.
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 rôle. 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.
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.
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.
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.
But for this she had been a
ble 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The face was Stewart’s! Walterson’s!
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?
The face was Stewart’s
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.
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.
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 that, passed her understanding now! Ay, and filled her with a trembling disgust of herself.
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!
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.
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.
“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.”
“It is nothing,” she made shift to murmur. She turned her face aside. And she tried to go by him.
He let her go through the gate, but he kept at her side and scrutinised her face with side-long glances. He coughed.
“I am afraid you have heard bad news, miss?” he said.
“No!”
“Oh, perhaps — seen some one who has startled you?”
“I have told you it is nothing,” she answered curtly. “Be good enough to leave me.”
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 —
“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.”
She stopped.
“I have nothing to do with your business!” she cried.
He made a wry face, and spread out his hands in appeal.
“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 fo
r 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?”
“You are impudent!” Henrietta said, with a fine colour in her cheeks. “Be good enough to let me pass.”
“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!”
“Let me pass!” she answered breathlessly.
He was so warm upon the scent he terrified her.
But he did not give way.
“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!”
“Be silent!” she cried.
“Much he cared what became of you! While Captain Clyne, if you were to consult his wishes, miss, I’m sure he’d say — —”
“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!”
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.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 480