Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  In other circumstances he would not ten seconds later have known what words he had read. But at the moment he had the incident of the gate-post in his head — and Henrietta; and he apprehended as in a flash that this might be the summons which had called her forth the previous night — to her great damage. He conceived that after answering it by setting the signal on the gate-post she might have come to this place, and before going into the house might have torn up the letter and scattered the pieces abroad. If so the secret lay at his feet; and if he stooped and took it up, he might help her.

  He hung in doubt a few seconds. For he was grown strangely scrupulous. But he reflected that he could destroy the evidence if it bore against her — he would destroy it! And he gave way. Furtively, but with an eager hand, he collected the scraps of paper. There were about a score, the size of dice, and discoloured by moisture, strewn here and there round the seat. Behind, among the prickly shoots and brown roots of a gorse-bush were as many more, as if she had dropped a handful there. Another dozen he tracked down, one here, one there, in spots to which the wind had carried them. It was unlikely that he had got all, even then. But though he searched as narrowly as he dared — even going on his knees beside the bush — he could find no more. Doubtless the wind had taken toll; and at length, carrying what he had found hidden in his hand, he went into the house and sought refuge in his bedroom.

  Eagerly, though he had little hope of finding the result to his mind, he began to arrange the morsels. He found the task less hard than he had anticipated. Guided by the straight edges of the paper, he contrived in eight or nine minutes to piece the letter together; to such an extent, at any rate, as enabled him to gather its drift. About a fifth of the words were missing; and among these missing words were the opening phrase, the last two words, and about a score in the body of the note. But the gist of the message was clear, its tone and feeling survived; and they not only negatived the notion that Henrietta was in league with Walterson, but presented in all its strength the appeal which his prayer must needs have made to the heart of a romantic girl.

  “... ed you ill, but men are not as women and I was tempted ... I do not ask ... forgive ... I ask you to save me. I am in your hands. If you ... the heart to leave me to a ... lent death, all is said. If you have mercy meet my ... ger at ten to-mor ... ning ... Troutbeck lane comes down to the lake. As I hope to live you run no risk and can suffer no harm. If you are merci ... spare me ... put a ... stone, before noon to-morrow, on the post of the ... gate....”

  Strange to say, Mr. Sutton’s first feeling, when he had assured himself of the truth, was an excessive, furious indignation against his patron. He forgot, in his pity for the girl, the provocation which Captain Clyne had suffered. He forgot the child’s peril and the pressure which this had laid on the father’s feelings. He forgot the light in which the girl’s stubborn silence had placed her in the eyes of one who believed that she could save by a word that which he held more precious than his life. The chaplain was a narrow, and in secret a conceited man; he had been guilty of some things that ill became his cloth. But he had under his cloth a heart that once roused was capable of generous passion. And as he stalked up and down the room in a frenzy of love and pity and indignation, he longed for the moment which should see him face to face with Captain Clyne. The letter once shown, he did not conceive that there would be the least difficulty in freeing the girl; and he yearned for the return of the search parties. It was past four already; in the valley it was growing dusk. Yet if Clyne returned soon the girl might be released before night. She might be spared the humiliation, it might well be the misery, of a night in prison.

  His room looked to the back of the inn; and here where all the afternoon had been plucking of ducks and fowls, and slicing of flitches — for some of the searchers would need to be fed — lights were beginning to shine and a cheerful stir and a warm promise of comfort to prevail. From the kitchen, where the jacks were turning, firelight streamed across the yard, and pattens clicked, and dogs occasionally yelped; and now and again Mrs. Gilson’s voice clacked strenuously. In the heat of his feelings Mr. Sutton compared this outlook with the cold quarters that held his Henrietta; and tears rose anew as he pictured the dank prison yard and the bare stone rooms, and the squalor and the company. After that he could not sit still. He could not wait. He must be acting. He must tell his discovery to some one, no matter to whom. He arranged the letter between the pages of a book and, having arranged it, took the book under his arm and ran downstairs. At the door of her snuggery he came upon Mrs. Gilson, who had just had words with Modest Ann. She eyed him sourly.

  “I want to show you something!” he said impetuously, forgetting his fear of her. “I have discovered something, ma’am! A thing of the utmost importance.”

  She grunted.

  “If it has to do with the child,” she said grudgingly, “I’ll hear it, and thank you.”

  “It has naught to do with the child,” he answered bluntly. “It has to do with Miss Damer.”

  “Then I’ll have naught to do with it!” the landlady retorted with equal bluntness, pursing up her lips and speaking as drily as a file. “I’ve washed my hands of her.”

  “But listen to me!” he replied. “Listen to me, Mrs. Gilson! Here’s a young lady — —”

  “That’s behaved bad from the beginning — bad!” the landlady answered, cutting him short. “As bad as woman could! A woman, indeed, would have had some heart, and not have left an innocent child in the hands of a parcel of murderous villains! No, no, my gentleman, you’ll not persuade me. An egg is good or bad, as you find it, and ’tis no good saying that the yolk is good when the white is tainted?”

  “But see here, ma’am” — he was bursting with indignation— “you are entirely wrong! Entirely wrong!”

  “Then your reverence had best speak to Captain Clyne, for it’s not my business!” Mrs. Gilson retorted crushingly. “I’m no scholar and don’t meddle with writings.” And she turned her broad back upon him and the book which he proffered her.

  Mr. Sutton stood a moment in anger equal to his discomfiture. Then he went back slowly to his pacing in the road. After all the woman could do nothing, she was nothing. And the search parties would be returning soon. For night was falling. The last pale daylight was dying on the high fells towards Patterdale; the outlines of the low lands about the lake were fading into the blur of night. Here and there a tiny rushlight shone out, high up, and marked a hill-farm. Possibly the searchers had found the child. In that case, Mr. Sutton’s heart, which should have leapt at the thought, only mildly rejoiced; and that, rather on account of the favourable turn the discovery might give to Henrietta’s affairs, than for his patron’s sake. Not that he was not sorry for the child, and sorry for the father; he tried, indeed, to feel more sorry. But he was not a man of warm feelings, and his sensibilities were selfish. He could not be expected to blossom out in a moment in more directions than one. It was something if he had learned in the few days he had spent by the lake to think of any other than himself.

  Had he been more anxious, had it been not he, but the father, who paced there in suspense, dwelling on what a moment might bring forth, he had been keener to notice things. He had traced, down the shoulder of Wansfell, the slow march of a dancing light that marked the descent of one of the parties. He had heard afar off the voices of the men, who announced from Calgarth that Mrs. Watson’s servants had searched the woods as far as Elleray, but without success — these, indeed, were the first to come in. Hard on them arrived a band, under Mr. Curwen’s bailiff, which had made the tour of the islands — Belle Isle, Lady Holm, Thompson’s Holm, and the rest — with the same result; and almost at the same moment rode in, with jaded horses, the troop of yeomen who had undertaken to traverse the broken country at the head of the lake, between the Brathay and the Rotha. Two parties, the Troutbeck contingent with which was Captain Clyne, and the riders who had chosen Stock Ghyll valley and the Kirkstone, were still out at seven; and as the
others had met with no success, their return was eagerly awaited. For the road between the inn and the lake was astir with life. Ostlers’ lanthorns twinkled hither and thither, and the place was like a fair. A crowd of men, muffled in homespun plaids, blocked the doorway, and gabbling over their ale, stared now in one direction, now in the other; while the more highly favoured flocked into the snuggery and coffee-room and there discussed the chances in stentorian tones. The chaplain, with his feelings engaged elsewhere, wondered at the fury of some, and the heat of all; and was shocked by their oaths and threats of vengeance.

  Clyne and his party came in about half-past seven; and as it chanced that the Stock Ghyll troop arrived at the same minute, the whole house turned out to meet the two, and learn their news. Alas, the downcast faces of the riders told it sufficiently; and every head was uncovered as Clyne, with stern and moody eyes, rode to the door and dismounted. He turned to the throng of faces, and the lanthorn-light falling on his features showed them pale and disturbed.

  “My friends,” he said, “I thank you. I shall not forget this day. I shall never forget this day. I — —” and then, though he was a practised speaker, he could not say more or go on. He made a gesture, at once pathetic and dignified, with his single arm, and turning from them went slowly up the stairs with his chin on his breast.

  ... every head was uncovered as Clyne ... rode to the door

  The farmers were Tories to a man. Even Brougham’s silver tongue had failed (in the election of the year before) to turn them against the Lowthers. They were of the class from whom the yeomanry were drawn, and they had scant sympathy with the radical weavers of Rochdale and Bury, Bolton and Manchester. Had they caught the villains at this moment, they had made short work of them. They watched the slight figure with its empty sleeve as it passed into the house, and their looks of compassion were exceeded only by their curses loud and deep. And pitiful indeed was the tale which those, who were forced to leave, carried home to their wives and daughters on the fells.

  The chaplain, hovering on the edge of the chattering groups, could not come at once at his patron, who had no sooner reached the head of the stairs than he was beset by Nadin and others with reports and arrangements. But as soon as Clyne had gone wearily to his room to take some food before starting afresh — for it was determined to continue the search as soon as the moon rose — the chaplain went to him with his book under his arm.

  He found Clyne seated before the fire, with his chin on his hand and his attitude one of the deepest despondency. He had borne up with difficulty under the public gaze; he gave way, martinet as he was, the moment he was alone. The reflection that the child might have been within reach of his voice, yet beyond his help, that it might be crying to him even now, and crying in vain, that each hour which exposed it to hardship endangered its life — such thoughts harrowed the father’s feelings almost beyond endurance. Sutton suspected from his attitude that he was praying; and for a moment the chaplain, touched and affected, was in two minds about disturbing him. But he, too, had his harassing thoughts. His heart, too, burned with pity. And to turn back now was to abandon hope — grown forlorn already — of freeing Henrietta that evening. He went forward therefore with boldness. He laid his book on the table, and finding himself unheeded, cleared his throat.

  “I have something here,” he said — and his voice despite himself was needlessly stiff and distant— “which I think it my duty, Captain Clyne, to show you without delay.”

  Clyne turned slowly and rose as he turned.

  “To show me?” he muttered.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it? You have not” — raising his eyes with a sudden intake of breath— “discovered anything? A clue?”

  “I have discovered something,” the chaplain answered slowly. “It is a clue of a kind.”

  A rush of blood darkened Clyne’s face. He held out a shaking hand.

  “To where the lad is?” he ejaculated, taking a step forward. “To where they have taken him? If it be so, God bless you, Sutton! God bless you! God bless you! I’ll never — —”

  The clergyman cut him short. He was shocked by the other’s intense excitement and frightened by the swelling of his features. He stayed him by a gesture.

  “Nay, nay,” he cried. “I did not mean, sir, to awaken false hopes. Pray pardon me. Pray pardon me. It is a clue, but to Miss Damer’s conduct this morning! To her conduct throughout. To her reasons for silence. Which were not, I am now able to show you, connected with any feeling of hostility to you, Captain Clyne, but rather imposed upon her — —”

  But Clyne’s face had settled into a mask of stone. Only he knew what the disappointment was! And at that word, “I care not what they were!” he said in a voice incredibly harsh, “or how imposed! If that be all — if that is all you are here to tell me — —”

  “But if it be all, it is all to her!” Sutton retorted, stung in his turn. “And most urgent, sir.”

  “As to her?”

  “As to her. It places her conduct in an entirely different light, Captain Clyne, and one which it is your duty to recognise.”

  “Have I not said,” Clyne answered with bitter vehemence, “that I wish to hear naught of her conduct? Do you know, sir, in what light I regard her?”

  “I hope in none that — that — —”

  “As a murderess,” Clyne answered in the same tone of restrained fury. “She has conspired against a child! A boy who never harmed her, and now never could have harmed her! She is not worthy of the name of woman! I thank God that He has helped me to keep her out of my mind as I rode to-day. And you — you must needs bring her up again! Know that I loathe and detest her, sir, and pray that I may never see her, never hear her name again!”

  Mr. Sutton raised his hands in horror.

  “You are unjust!” he cried. “Indeed, indeed, you are unjust!”

  “What is that to you? And who are you to talk to me? Is it your child who is missing? Your child who is being tortured, perhaps out of life? Who, a cripple, is being dragged at these men’s heels? You? You? What have you to do with this?”

  The tone was crushing. But the chaplain, too, had his stubborn side, and resentment flamed within him as he thought of the girl and her lot. “Do I understand then,” he said — he was very pale— “that you refuse to hear what I have by chance discovered — in Miss Damer’s favour?”

  “I do.”

  “That you will not, Captain Clyne, even look at this letter — this letter which I have found and which exonerates her?”

  “Never!” Clyne replied harshly. “Never! And, now you know my mind, go, sir, and do not return to this subject! This is no time for trifling, nor am I in the mood.”

  But the chaplain held his ground, though he was very nervous. And a resolution, great and heroic, took shape within him, growing in a moment to full size — he knew not how. He raised his meagre figure to its full height, and his pale peaky face assumed a dignity which the pulpit had never known. “I, too, am in no mood for trifling, Captain Clyne,” he said. “But I do not hold this matter trifling. On the contrary, I wish you to understand that I think it so important that I consider it my duty to press it upon you by every means in my power!”

  Clyne looked at him wrathfully, astonished at his presumption. “The girl has turned your head,” he said.

  The chaplain waived the words aside. “And therefore,” he continued, “if you decline, Captain Clyne, to read this letter, or to consider the evidence it contains — —”

  “That I do absolutely! Absolutely!”

  “I beg to resign my office,” Mr. Sutton responded, trembling violently. “I will no longer — I will no longer serve one, however much I respect him, or whatever my obligations to him, who refuses to do justice to his own kith and kin, who refuses to stand between a helpless girl and wrong! Vile wrong!” And he made a gesture with his hands as if he laid something on the table.

  If his object was to gain possession of Captain Clyne’s attention he
succeeded. Clyne looked at him with as much surprise as anger.

  “She has certainly turned your head,” he said in a lower tone, “if you are not playing a sorry jest, that is. What is it to you, man, if I follow my own judgment? What is Miss Damer to you?”

  “You offered her to me,” with a trembling approach to sarcasm, “for my wife. She is so much to me.”

  “But I understood that she would not take you,” Clyne retorted; and now he spoke wearily. The surprise of the other’s defiance was beginning to wear off. “But, there, perhaps I was mistaken, and then your anxiety for her interests is explained.”

  “Explain it as you please,” Mr. Sutton answered with fire, “if you will read this letter and weigh it.”

  “I will not,” Clyne returned, his anger rising anew. “Once for all, I will not!”

  “Then I resign the chaplaincy I hold, sir.”

  “Resign and be d —— d!” the naval captain answered. The day had cruelly tried his temper.

  “Your words to me,” Mr. Sutton retorted furiously, “and your conduct to her are of a piece!” And white with passion, his limbs trembling with excitement, he strode to the door. He halted on the threshold, bowed low, and went out.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  IN KENDAL GAOL

  Bishop, in his corner of the chaise, made his burly person as small as he could. He tried his best to hide his brown tops and square-toed boots. In her corner Henrietta sat upright, staring rigidly before her. For just one moment, as she passed from the house to the carriage, under a score of staring eyes, a scarlet flush had risen to her very hair, and she had shrunk back. But the colour had faded as quickly as it had risen; she had restrained herself, and taken her seat. And now the screes of Bow Fell, flecked with snow, were not more cold and hard than her face as she gazed at the postilion’s moving back and saw it not. She knew that she was down now without hope of rising; that, the prison doors once closed on her, their shadow would rest on her always. And her heart was numbed by despair. The burning sense of injustice, of unfairness, which sears and hardens the human heart more quickly and more completely than any other emotion, would awaken presently. But for the time she sat stunned and hopeless; dazed and confounded by the astonishing thing which had happened to her. To be sent to prison! To be sent to herd — she remembered his very words — with such vile creatures as prisons hold! To be at the beck and call of such a man as this who sat beside her. To have to obey; and to belong no longer to herself, but to others! As she thought of all this, and of the ordeal before her, fraught with humiliations yet unknown, a hunted look grew in her eyes, and for a few minutes she glanced wildly first out of this window, then out of that. To prison! She was going to prison!