Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  Even now, hours after the awakening, and when any moment might end his suspense, any turn in the road bring him face to face with the issue — good or bad, joy or sorrow — he dared not think of the child. He dared not let his mind run on its fear or its suffering, its terrors in the villains’ hands, or the hardships which its helplessness might bring upon it. To do so were to try his self-control too far. And so he thought the more of the men, the more of vengeance, the more of the hour which would see him face to face with them, and see them face to face with punishment. He rejoiced to think that abduction was one of the two hundred crimes which were punishable with death: and he swore that if he devoted his life to the capture of these wretches they should be taken. And when taken, when they had been dealt with by judge and jury, they should be hanged without benefit of clergy. There should be no talk of respite. His services to the party had earned so much as that — even in these days when radicals were listened to over much, and fanatics like Wolseley and Burdett flung their wealth into the wrong scale.

  At Bowness there was no news except a word from Nadin bidding him ride on. And without alighting he pressed on, sternly silent, but with eyes that tirelessly searched the bleak, bare fells for some movement, some hint of flight or chase. He topped the hill beyond Bowness, and drew rein an instant to scan the islets set here and there on the sullen water. Then, after marking carefully the three or four boats which were afloat, he trotted down through Calgarth woods. And on turning the corner that revealed the long gabled house at the Low Wood landing he had a gleam of hope. Here at last was something, some stir, some adequate movement. In the road were a number of men, twenty or thirty, on foot or horseback. A few were standing, others were moving to and fro. Half of them carried Brown Besses, blunderbusses, or old horse-pistols, and three or four were girt with ancient swords lugged for the purpose from bacon-rack or oak chest. The horses of the men matched as ill as their arms, being of all heights and all degrees of shagginess, and some riders had one spur, and some none. But the troop meant business, it was clear, and Anthony Clyne’s heart went out to them in gratitude. Hitherto he had ridden through a country-side heedless or ignorant of his loss, and of what was afoot; and the tardy intelligence, the slow answer, had tried him sorely. Here at last was an end of that. As the honest dalesmen, gathered before the inn, hauled their hard-mouthed beasts to the edge of the road to make way for him, and doffed their hats in silent sympathy, he thanked them with his eyes.

  In spite of his empty sleeve he was off his horse in a moment.

  “Have they learned anything?” he asked, his voice harsh with suppressed emotion.

  The nearest man began to explain in the slow northern fashion. “No, not as yet, your honour. But we shall, no doubt, i’ good time. We know that they landed here in a boat.”

  “Ay, your honour, have no fear!” cried a second. “We’ll get him back!”

  And then Nadin came out.

  “This way, if you please, Squire,” he said, touching his arm and leading him aside. “We are just starting to scour the hills, but — — “he broke off and did not say any more until he had drawn Clyne out of earshot.

  Then, “It’s certain that they landed here,” he said, turning and facing him. “We know that, Squire. And I fancy that they are not far away. The holt is somewhere near, for it is here we lost the other fox. I’m pretty sure that if we search the hills for a few hours we’ll light on them. But that’s the long way. And damme!” vehemently, “there’s a short way if we are men and not mice.”

  Clyne’s eyes gleamed.

  “A short way?” he muttered. In spite of Nadin’s zeal the Manchester officer’s manner had more than once disgusted his patron. It had far from that effect now. The man might swear and welcome, be familiar, he what he pleased, if he would also act! If he would recover the child from the cruel hands that held it! His very bluntness and burliness and sufficiency gave hope. “A short way?” Clyne repeated.

  Nadin struck his great fist into the other palm.

  “Ay, a short way!” he answered. “There’s a witness here can tell us all we want if she will but speak. I am just from her. A woman who knows and can set us on the track if she chooses! And we’ll have but to ride to covert and take the fox.”

  Clyne laid his hand on the other’s arm.

  “Do you mean,” he asked huskily, struggling to keep hope within bounds, “that there is some one here — who knows where they are?”

  “I do!” Nadin answered with an oath. “And knows where the child is. But she’ll not speak.”

  “Not speak?”

  “No, she’ll not tell. It’s the young lady you were here about before, Squire, to be frank with you.”

  “Miss Damer?” in a tone of astonishment.

  “Ay, Squire, she!” Nadin replied. “She! And the young madam knows, d —— n her! It’s all one business, you may take it from me! It’s all one gang! She was at the place where they landed after dark last night.”

  “Impossible!” Clyne cried. “Impossible! I cannot believe you.”

  “Ay, but she was. She let herself down from a window when the house had gone to bed that she might get there. Ay, Squire, you may look, but she did. She did not meet them; she was too soon or too late, we don’t know which. But she was there, as sure as I am here! And I suspect — though Bishop, who is a bit of a softy, like most of those London men, doesn’t agree — that she was in the thing from the beginning, Squire! And planned it, may be, but you’d be the best judge of that. Any way, we are agreed that she knows now. That is clear as daylight!”

  “Knows, and will not tell?” Clyne cried. Such conduct seemed too monstrous, too wicked to the man who had strained every nerve to reach his child, who had ridden in terror for hours, trembling at the passage of every minute, grudging the loss of every second. “Knows, and will not tell!” he repeated. “Impossible!”

  “It’s not impossible, Squire,” Nadin answered. “We’re clear on it. We’re all clear on it.”

  “That she knows where the child is?” incredulously. “Where they are keeping it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And will not say?”

  Nadin grinned.

  “Not for us,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “She may for you. But she is stubborn as a mule. I can’t say worse than that. Stubborn as a mule, Squire!”

  Clyne raised his hand to hide the twitching nostril, the quivering lip that betrayed his agitation. But the hand shook. He could not yet believe that she was privy to this wickedness. But — but if she only knew it now and kept her knowledge to herself — she was, he dared not think what she was. A gust of passion took him at the thought, and whitened his face to the very lips. He had to turn away that the coarse-grained, underbred man beside him might not see too much. And a few seconds went by before he could command his voice sufficiently to ask Nadin what evidence he had of this — this monstrous charge. “How do you know — I want to be clear — how do you know,” he asked, sternly meeting his eyes, “that she left the house last night to meet them? That she was there to meet them? Have you evidence?” He could not believe that a woman of his class, of his race, would do this thing.

  “Evidence?” Nadin answered coolly. “Plenty!” And he told the story of the foot-prints, and of Mr. Sutton’s experiences in the night; and added that one of the child’s woollen mits had been found between the bottom-boards of a boat beached at that spot — a boat which bore signs of recent use. “If you are not satisfied and would like to see his reverence,” he continued, “and question him before you see her — shall I send him to you?”

  “Ay, send him,” Clyne said with an effort. He had been incredulous, but the evidence seemed overwhelming. Yet he struggled, he tried to disbelieve. Not because his thoughts still held any tenderness for the girl, or he retained any remnant of the troublesome feeling that had haunted him; for the shock of the child’s abduction had driven such small emotions from his mind. But with the country rising about him, amid
this gathering of men upon whom he had no claim, but who asked nothing better than to be brought face to face with the authors of the outrage — with these proofs of public sympathy before his eyes it seemed impossible that a woman, a girl, should wantonly set herself on the other side, and shield the criminals. It seemed impossible. But then, when the first news of her elopement with an unknown stranger had reached him, he had thought that impossible! Yet it had turned out to be true, and less than the fact; since the man was not only beneath her, but a radical and a villain!

  “But I will see Sutton,” he muttered, striving to hold his rage in check. “I will see Sutton. Perhaps he may be able to explain. Perhaps he may be able to put another face on the matter.”

  The chaplain would fain have done so; more out of a generous pity for the unfortunate girl than out of any lingering hope of ingratiating himself with her. But he did not know what to say, except that though she had gone to the rendezvous she had not seen nor met any one. He laid stress on that, for he had nothing else to plead. But he had to allow that her purpose had been to meet some one; and at the weak attempt to excuse her Clyne’s rage broke forth.

  “She is shameless!” he cried. “Shameless! Can you say after this that she has given up all dealings with her lover? Though she passed her word and knows him for a married man?”

  The chaplain shook his head.

  “I cannot,” he said sorrowfully. “I cannot say that. But — —”

  “She gave her word! Tome. To others.”

  “I allow it. But — —”

  “But what? What?” with hardly restrained rage. “Will you still, sir, take her side against the innocent? Against the child, whom she has conspired to entrap, to carry off, perhaps to murder?”

  “Oh, no, no!” Mr. Sutton cried in unfeigned horror. “That I do not believe! I do not believe that for an instant! I allow, I admit,” he continued eagerly, “that she has been weak, and that she has madly, foolishly permitted this wretch to retain a hold over her.”

  “At any rate,” Clyne retorted, his rage at a white heat, “she has lied to me!”

  “I admit it.”

  “And to others!”

  The chaplain could only hold out his hands in deprecation.

  “You will admit that she has continued to communicate with a man she should loathe? A man whom, if she were a modest girl, she would loathe? That she has stolen to midnight interviews with him, leaving this house as a thief leaves it? That she has cast all modesty from her?”

  “Do not, do not be too hard on her!” Sutton cried, his face flushing hotly. “Captain Clyne, I beg — I beg you to be merciful.”

  “It is she who is hard on herself! But have no fear,” Clyne continued, in a voice cold as the winter fells and as pitiless. “I shall give her fifteen minutes to come to her senses and behave herself — not as a decent woman, I no longer ask that, but as a woman, any woman, the lowest, would behave herself, to save a child’s life. And if she behaves herself — well. And if not, sir, it is not I who will punish her, but the law!”

  “She will speak,” the chaplain said. “I think she will speak — for you.”

  He was deeply and honestly concerned for the girl: and full of pity for her, though he did not understand her.

  “But — suppose I saw her first?” he suggested. “Just for a few minutes? I could explain.”

  “Nothing that I cannot,” Captain Clyne answered grimly. “And for a few minutes! Do you not consider,” with a look of suspicion, “that there has been delay enough already? And too much! Fifteen minutes,” with a recurrence of the bitter laugh, “she shall have, and not one minute more, if she were my sister!”

  Mr. Sutton’s face turned red again.

  “Remember, sir,” he said bravely, “that she was going to be your wife.”

  “I do remember it!” Clyne retorted with a withering glance. “And thank God for His mercy.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  COUSIN MEETS COUSIN

  Nadin and the others had not left her more than ten minutes when Henrietta heard his voice under the window. She was still flushed and heated, sore with the things which they had said to her, bruised and battered by their vulgarity and bluster. Indignation still burned in her; and astonishment that they could not see the case as she saw it. The argument in her own mind was clear. They must prove that Walterson had committed this new crime, they must prove that if she betrayed the man she would save the child — and she would speak. Or she would speak if they would undertake to release the man were he not guilty. But short of that, no. She would not turn informer against him, whom she had chosen in her folly — except to save life. What could be more clear, what more fair, what more logical? And was it not monstrous to ask anything beyond this?

  She had wrought herself in truth to an almost hysterical stubbornness on the point. The romantic bent that had led her to the verge of ruin still inclined her feelings. Yet when she heard the father’s step approaching along the passage, she trembled. She gazed in terror at the door. The prospect of the father’s tears, the father’s supplication, shook her. She had to say to herself, “I must not tell, I must not! I must not!” as if the repetition of the words would strengthen her under the torture of his appeal. And when he entered, in the fear of what he might say she was before him. She did not look at him, or heed what message his face conveyed — or she had been frozen into silence. But in a panic she rushed on the subject.

  “I am sorry, oh, I am so sorry!” she cried, tears in her voice. “I would do it, if I could, I would indeed. But I cannot,” distressfully, “I must not! And I beg you to spare me your reproaches.”

  “I have none to make to you,” he said.

  It was his tone, rather than his words, which cut her like a whip.

  “None!” she cried. “Ah, but you blame me? I am sure you do.”

  “I do not blame you,” he replied in the same cold tone. “My business here has nothing to do with reproaches or with blame. I give you fifteen minutes to tell me what you know, and all you know, of the man Walterson’s whereabouts. That told, I have no more to say to you.”

  She looked at him as one thunderstruck.

  “And if I do not do that,” she murmured, “within fifteen minutes? If I do not tell you?”

  “You will go to Appleby gaol,” he said, in the same passionless tone. “To herd with your like, with such women as may be there.” He laid his watch on the table, beside his whip and glove; and he looked not at her, but at it.

  “And you? You will send me?” she answered.

  “I?” he replied slowly. “No, I shall merely undo what I did before. My coming last time saved you from the fate which your taste for low company had earned. This time I stand aside and the result will be the same as if I had never come. There is, let me remind you, a minute gone.”

  She looked at him, her face colourless, but her eyes undaunted. But the look was wasted, for he looked only at his watch.

  “You are come, then,” she said, her voice shaking a little, “not to reproach me, but to insult me! To outrage me!”

  “I have no thought of you,” he answered.

  The words, the tone, lashed her in the face. Her nostrils quivered.

  “You think only of your child!” she cried.

  “That is all,” he answered. And then in the same passionless tone, “Do not waste time.”

  “Do not — —”

  “Do not waste time!” he repeated. “That is all I have to say to you.”

  She stood as one stunned; dazed by his treatment of her; shaken to the soul by his relentless, pitiless tone, by his thinly veiled hatred.

  He who had before been cold, precise and just was become inhuman, implacable, a stone. Presently, “Three minutes are gone,” he said.

  “And if I tell you?” she answered in a voice which, though low, vibrated with resentment and indignation, “if I tell you what you wish to know, what then?”

  “I shall save the child — I trust. Certainly I shall
save him from further suffering.”

  “And what of me?”

  “You will escape for this time.”

  Her breast heaved with the passion she restrained. Her foot tapped the floor. Her fingers drummed on the table. Such treatment was not fit treatment for a dog, much less for a woman, a gentlewoman! And his injustice! How dared he! How dared he! What had she done to deserve it? Nothing! No, nothing to deserve this.

  Meanwhile he seemed to have eyes only for his watch, laid open on the table before him. But he noted the signs, and he fancied that she was about to break down, that she was yielding, that in a moment she would fall to weeping, perhaps would fall on her knees — and tell him all. A faint surprise, therefore, pierced his pitiless composure when, after the lapse of a long minute, she spoke in a tone that was comparatively calm and decided.

  “You have forgotten,” she said slowly, “that I am of your blood! That I was to be your wife!”

  “It was you who forgot that!” he replied.

  She had her riposte ready.

  “And wisely!” she answered, “and wisely! How wisely you have proved to me to-day — you,” — with scorn equal to his own— “who are willing to sacrifice me, a helpless woman, on the mere chance of saving your child! Who are willing to send me, a woman of your blood, to prison and to shame, to herd — you have said it yourself — with such vile women as prisons hold! And that on the mere chance of saving your son! For shame, Captain Clyne, for shame!”