Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “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.”

  Nadin shrugged his shoulders and struck his boot with his whip.

  “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!”

  Mrs. Gilson also thought so, but she was not sure.

  “See here, miss,” she said, “you know Captain Clyne’s son?”

  Henrietta’s colour rose at the name.

  “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?”

  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.

  “Well,” she muttered indistinctly, “what of him? What has he to do with this?”

  “He is missing. He has been stolen.”

  “Stolen?”

  Her tone was one of sharp surprise.

  “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?”

  “Ay, that’s it,” the other answered, nodding. “You’ve got it pat.”

  “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.”

  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.

  “Oh!” she cried, “the wretches!” And her voice rang bravely. “But — but why are you here? Why do you not follow them?”

  Nadin’s eyes met Bishop’s. He raised his eyebrows.

  “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.”

  “I can tell you where they are?” she repeated.

  “Yes, miss. We believe that you can — if you choose. And you must choose.”

  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.

  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.

  “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 — —”

  “Have you got it from her?”

  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.

  “No, not yet,” Nadin answered curtly, “but — —”

  “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.”

  “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.”

  But two words had caught her ear.

  “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?”

  “No, no,” Bishop murmured hurriedly, and cast a warning look at his colleague. “No, no, not knowingly.”

  “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.”

  “You will take it,” she cried, “that I — I helped to steal the child?”

  “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.

  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!

  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.

  And regarding them with a pale set face,

  “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.”

  “Proof?” Nadin barked.

  “Yes,” she said. “If you can satisfy me that he was privy to this — I will tell you all I know.”

  Nadin exploded.

  “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?”

  “He was not there,” she cried.

  “But — —”

  “And I was there,” she continued, “yet I know nothing. I am innocent.”

  “Umph! I don’t know!” Nadin growled.

  “But I do,” she replied. “If your proof comes only to that—”

  “But the men who took the child are old mates of his!”

  “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.”

  “Come, miss,” Bishop said, staying with difficulty Nadin’s furious answer. “Come, miss, think! Think again. Think of the child!”

  “Oh, sink the child,” the Manchester officer struck in. He had seldom been so handled. “Think of yourself!”

  “You will send me to prison?” she said.

  “By heaven we will!” he answered. And Mr. Hornyold nodded.

  “It must be so, then,” she replied with dignity. “I shall not speak. I have no right to speak.”

  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?”

  “I couldn’t ha’ handled her worse!” the landlady replied.

  “You think yourself a Solomon!” he sneered.

  “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!”

  “Well, as I live by bread I’ll have her in the Stone Jug!” he retorted. “And then we’ll see!”

  “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!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  AT THE FARM

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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!

  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 th
e sparks in clouds up the chimney, the cloaked man addressed him.

  “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.”

  Walterson, with a pallid face and shrinking eyes, looked at the man with the bundle.

  “What is it?” he muttered hoarsely. “I don’t understand.”

  “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.”

  “Not I, girl!” the tall man answered. “Not I!”

  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.

  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.

  “What is it?” he asked in uncertain accents.

  “The worth of a man’s neck, may be,” one of the two men grunted.

  “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.”

  “The kid?”