“I believe it,” he said slowly. “We have wronged one another. Let it stand at that.”
“You believe, you do believe now,” she said, “that I had no hand in stealing him?”
“I do.”
“And knew naught of it,” she insisted earnestly, “before or after?”
“I do.”
“I would have cut off my hand first!” she said.
“I believe it,” he answered sorrowfully.
Then they were both silent. And she wondered at herself. Why did she not hate him? Why did she not pour out on him the vials of her indignation? He had treated her badly, always badly. The wrong which she had done him in the first place, he had avenged by a gross insult to her womanhood. Then not satisfied with that, he had been quick to believe the worst of her. He had been violent to her, he had bullied her: and when he found that she was not to be wrung to compliance with his orders, he had degraded her to a public prison as if she had been the worst of her sex — instead of his kith and kin. Even now when his eyes were open to his injustice, even now when he acknowledged that he owed amends, he came to her with a few poor words, meagre, scanty words, a miserable “I am sorry, you are free.” And that was all. That was all!
And yet her rage drooped cold, her spirit seemed dead. The scathing reproaches, the fierce truths which had bubbled to her lips as she lay feverish on her prison-bed, the hot tears which had scalded her eyes, now that she might give them vent, now that he might be wounded by them and made to see his miserableness — were not! She stood mute and pale, wondering at the change, wondering at her mildness. And when he said meekly, “The chaise is ready, will you make your preparations?” she went to do his bidding as if she had done nothing but obey him all her life.
CHAPTER XXVI
A RECONCILIATION
When she had filled her band-box, and with a tearful laugh looked her last on the cell, she emerged from the yard. She found Captain Clyne awaiting her with his hand on the key of the prison gate. He saw her look doubtfully at the closed lodge-door; and he misread the look.
“I thought,” he said, “that you would wish to be spared seeing more of them. I have,” with a faint smile, “authority to open.”
“Oh!” she answered, wrinkling her pretty brow in perplexity. “But I must see them, please. They have not been unkind to me, and I should not like to go without thanking them.”
And before he could remonstrate, she had pushed open the lodge door and gone within.
“Now, Mrs. Weighton,” he heard her cry, “you’ll give me a character, won’t you? I’ve behaved well now, haven’t I?”
“Yes, miss, I’ll say that,” the woman answered stolidly.
“I haven’t scratched nor screamed, and I’ve done as I’ve been bid? And you’ve had no use for the pump water?”
“I wish you hadn’t swept out the yard,” grudgingly; “’twas no order of mine, you’ll remember. And don’t you go and say that I’ve treated you ill!”
“I’ll not! Indeed, I’ll not!” Henrietta cried in a different tone. “I’ll say you treated me very well. And that is for your little girl to make up for her disappointment. She’ll be sorry I’m not going to be transported,” with a hint of laughter in her voice. “And, Mrs. Weighton, I’m going to ask you something.”
“Well, miss? If it is to oblige you?”
“Then, will you,” in a tone touched by feeling, “if you have some day another like me, will you be as good to her? And remember that she may not have done anything wrong after all? Will you promise me?”
“I will, miss,” Mrs. Weighton answered — very graciously for her. “But there, it isn’t all has your sense! They takes and runs their heads against a brick wall! Either they scratches and screams, or they sulks and starves. And then we’ve to manage them, and we get the blame. I see you looked white and shivering when you come in, and I thought we’d have trouble with you. But there, you kept yourself in hand, and showed your sense — it’s breeding does it — and you’ve naught to complain of in consequence. Wishing you well and kindly, miss!”
“I shall come to you for a character!” Henrietta replied with a laugh.
And she came out quickly and joined Captain Clyne, who, waiting with his hand on the lock, had heard all. He saw that though she laughed there was a tear in her eye; and the mingling of gaiety and sensibility in her conduct and her words was not lost upon him. She seemed to be bent on putting him in the wrong; on proving to him that she was not the silly-pated child he had deemed her! Even the praise of this jailor’s wife, a coarse, cross-grained woman, sounded reproachfully in his ears. She was a better judge, it seemed, than he.
He put Henrietta into the chaise — the brisk, cold air of the winter morning was welcome to her; and they set off. Gnawed as he was by unhappy thoughts, wretchedly anxious as he was, he was silent for a time. He knew what he wanted, but he was ashamed to clutch at that advantage for the sake of which Sutton had resigned to him the mission. And for a long time he sat mute and brooding in his corner, the bright reflection of the snow adding pallor to his face. Yet he had eyes for her: he watched her without knowing it. And at the third milestone from Kendal, a little beyond Barnside, he saw her shiver.
“I am afraid you are cold?” he said, and wondering at the rôle he played, he drew the wraps closer about her — with care, however, that his fingers should not touch her.
“No,” she answered frankly. “I am not cold. But I remember passing that mile-stone. I was almost sick with fright when I passed it. So that it was all I could do not to try to get out and escape.”
This was a revelation to him; and not a pleasant one. He winced.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I am very sorry.”
“Oh, I felt better when I was once in the prison,” she answered lightly. “And with Mrs. Weighton. Before that I was afraid that there might be only men.”
He suffered, in the hearing, something of the humiliation which she had undergone; was she not of his blood and his class — and a woman? But he could only say again that he was sorry. He was sorry.
A little later he forgot her in his own trouble: in thoughts of his child, thoughts which tortured him unceasingly, and became more active as his return to the Low Wood suggested the possibility of news. At one moment he saw the lad stretched on a pallet, ill and neglected, with no eye to pity, no hand to soothe; at another he pictured him in some dark hiding-place with fear for his sole companion. Or again he saw him beaten and ill-treated, shrieking for the father who had been always to him as heaven, omniscient and omnipotent — but shrieking in vain. And then the thought that to one so weak and young a little added hardship, another day of fear, an insignificant delay, might prove fatal — it was this thought that wrung the heart most powerfully, and went far towards maddening the man.
As he sat watching the snow-covered fell slide by the chaise window, he was unconscious how clearly his misery was stamped on his features; or how pitiful was the hunger that lurked in the hollows under his eyes. But when the pace slackened, and the carriage began to crawl up the long hill beyond Broadgate, a faint sound caught his ear, and he remembered where he was, and turned. He saw that she was crying.
The same words came to his lips.
“I am sorry. I am very sorry,” he said. “But it is over now.”
“It’s not that,” she sobbed. “I am sorry for you! And for him! The poor boy! The poor boy! Last night — no, it was the night before — I thought that he called to me. I thought that he was there in the room with me!”
“Don’t!” he faltered. “I cannot bear it! Don’t!”
But she did not heed.
“Yes,” she repeated. “And ever since, ever since I’ve been thinking of him! I’ve wondered, I’ve wondered if I did right!”
He was silent, striving to regain control of himself. But at last,
“Eight in saying nothing?” he asked.
His voice shook a little, and he kept his eyes averted.
“
Yes. I didn’t know” — a little wildly— “I didn’t know what to do. And then you threatened me, and I — it seemed unreasonable. For I wanted to help you, I did, I did indeed. But I dared not, I dared not give him up! I could not have his blood on my hands after — you know.”
“But you no longer — care for him?”
“I loathe him!” she answered with a shudder. “But you see how it is. He trusted me, and I — how can I betray him? How can I? How can I?”
It was his business to prove to her that she could, that she ought, that she must; he was here to press her to it, to persuade her, to cajole her to it, if necessary. He had come for that. But the words it behoved him to use stuck in his throat. And the chaise rolled on, and rolled on. And still, but with the sweat standing on his brow, he sat silent, looking out on the barren landscape, as the stone fences slid quickly by, or open moorland took their place. In ten minutes they would be at the Low Wood. Already through her window she could see the long stretch of sparkling water, and the wooded isles, and the distant smoke of Ambleside.
Their silence was a tragedy. She could save him by a word, and she could not say the word. She dared not say it. And he — the pleas he should have used died on his lips. It behoved him to cast himself on her mercy; he was here for that purpose. It behoved him to work on her feelings, to plead with her, to weep, to pray. And he did not, he could not. And the minutes passed; the wheels rolled and rolled. Soon they would be at the end of their journey. He was like a famishing man who sees a meal within reach, but cannot touch it; or like one oppressed by a terrible nightmare, who knows that he has but to say a word, and he is freed from the incubus — yet his tongue refuses its office. And now the carriage, having climbed the rise, began to roll more quickly down the hill. In a very few minutes they would be at the end of their journey.
Suddenly— “What can we do?” she cried, piteously. “What can we do? Can we do nothing? Nothing?”
And neither of the two thought the union of interests strange; any more than in their absorption they noted the strangeness of this drive in company — over some of the very road which she had traversed when she eloped with another to avoid a marriage with him.
He shook his head in dumb misery. Three days of suspense, and as many sleepless nights, the wear and tear of many journeys, had told upon him. He had had but little rest, and that induced by sheer exhaustion. He had taken his meals standing, he had passed many hours of each day in the saddle. He could no longer command the full resources of his mind, and though he still held despair at arm’s length, though he still by force of habit commanded himself, and was stern and reticent, despondency gained ground upon him. It was she who almost at the last moment suggested a plan that if not obvious, was simple, and to the purpose.
“Listen,” she said. “Listen, sir! Why should not I do this? Go myself to — to him, to Walterson?”
“You?” he answered, with undisguised repugnance.
“Yes, I! I! Why not?” she asked. “And learn if he has the child, or knows where it is. Then if he be innocent of this last wickedness, as I believe him to be innocent, we shall learn the fact without harming him; always supposing that I go to him, undetected. And I can do that — with your help! That must be your care.”
He pondered.
“But if,” he said slowly, “you do this and he have the child? What then? Have you thought of the consequences to yourself? If he be privy to a crime which none but desperate men could commit, what of you? He will be capable of harming you. Or if he scruple, there will be others, the men who took my child, who will stick at nothing to keep their necks out of the noose, and to remove a witness who else might hang them.”
“I am not afraid,” she said firmly.
“God bless you!” he said. “God bless you! But I am.”
“What?” she cried, and she turned to him, honestly astonished. “You? You dissuade me when it is your child that is in peril?”
“Be silent!” he said harshly. “Be silent! For your own sake, if not for mine! Why do you tempt me? Why do you torture me? Do you think, Henrietta, that I have not enough to tempt me without your help? No, no,” more quietly, “I have done you wrong already! I know not how I can make amends. But at least I will not add to the wrong.”
“I only ask you to leave me to myself,” she said hardily. “The rest I will do, if I am not watched.”
“The rest!” he said with a groan. “But what a rest it is! Why should these men spare you if you go to them? They did not spare my boy!”
“They took the boy,” she answered, “to punish you. They will not have the same motive for harming me. I mean — they will not harm me with the idea of hurting you.”
“Ay, but — —”
“They will know that it will not affect you.”
He did not deny the statement, but for some time he drummed on the window with his fingers.
“That may be,” he said at length. “Yet I’ll not do it! And I’ll not let you do it. Instead, do you tell me where the man is and I will go to him myself. And I will tell no tales.”
“You will keep his secret?”
“I will.”
“But I will not do that!” she answered. And she laughed gaily in the reaction of her spirits. She knew in some subtle way that she was reinstated; that he would never think very badly of her again. And the knowledge that he trusted her was joy; she scarcely knew why. But, “I shall not do that!” she repeated. “Have you thought what will be the consequence to you if he be guilty? They will be three to one, and they will murder you.”
“And you think that I can let you run the risk?”
“There will be no risk for me. I am different.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I wish” — despairingly— “I wish to God I could believe it!”
“Then do believe it,” she said.
“I cannot! I cannot!”
“You have his letter,” she replied. And she was going to say more, she was going to prove that she could undertake the matter with safety, when the chaise began to slacken speed, and she cut her reasoning short. “You will let me do it?” she said, laying her hand on his sleeve.
“No, no!”
“You have only to draw them off.”
“I shall not!” he cried, almost savagely. “I shall not! Do you think I am a villain? Do you think I care nothing what happens — —”
The jerk caused by the chaise coming to a stand before the inn cut his words short. Clyne thrust out his head.
“Any news?” he asked eagerly. “Has anything been heard?”
Mr. Sutton, who had been on the watch for their arrival, came forward to the chaise door. He answered Clyne, but his eyes, looking beyond his patron, sought Henrietta’s in modest deprecation; much as the dog which is not assured of its reception seeks, yet deprecates its master’s glance.
“No,” he said, “none. I am sorry for it. Nadin has not yet returned, nor Bishop, though we are expecting both.”
“Where’s Bishop?”
“He has gone with a party to Lady Holm. There’s an idea that the isles were not thoroughly searched in the first place. But he should be back immediately.”
A slight hardening of the lines of the mouth was Clyne’s only answer. He helped Henrietta to alight, and was turning with her to enter the house, when he remembered himself. He laid his hand on the chaplain’s arm.
“This is the gentleman,” he said, “whom you have to thank for your release, Henrietta.”
“I am sure,” she said, “that I am greatly obliged to him.” But her tone was cold.
“He did everything,” Clyne said. “He left no stone unturned. Let me do him the justice of saying that we two must share the blame of what has happened, while the whole credit is his.”
“I am very much obliged to him,” she said again. And she bowed.
And that was all. That, and a look which told him that she resented his interference, that she hated to be beholden to him, that she held him l
inked for ever with her humiliation. He, and he alone, had stood by her two days before, when all had been against her, and Captain Clyne had been as flint to her. He, and he alone, had wrought out her deliverance and reinstated her. And her thanks were a haughty movement of the head, two sentences as cold as the wintry day, a smile as hard as the icicles that still depended in the shade of the eaves. And when she had spoken, she walked to the door without another glance — and every step was on the poor man’s heart.
Mrs. Gilson had come down two steps to meet her. She had seen all.
“Well, you’re soon back, miss?” she said. “Some have the luck all one way.”
“That cannot be said of me!” Henrietta retorted, smiling.
But her colour was high. She remembered how she had descended those steps.
“No?” Mrs. Gilson responded. “When you bring the bad on yourself and the good is just a gift?”
“A gift?”
“Ay! And one for which you’re not over grateful!” with all her wonted grimness. “But that’s the way of the world! Grind as you will, miss, it’s the lower mill-stone suffers, and the upper that cries out! Still — —”
Mr. Sutton heard no more; for Henrietta had passed with the landlady into the house; and he turned himself about with a full heart and walked away. He had done so much for her! He had risked his livelihood, his patron, his position, to save her! He had paced this strand with every fibre in him tingling with pity for her! Ay, and when all others had put her out of their thoughts! And for return, she went laughing into the house and paid no heed to him — to the poor parson.
True, he had expected little. But he had expected more than this. He had not hoped for much; or it is possible that he had not resigned the opportunity of bringing her back. But he had hoped for more than this — for the tearful thanks of a pair of bright eyes, for the clasp of a grateful hand, for a word or two that might remain in his memory always.
And bitterness welled up in his heart, and at the first gate, at which he could stand unseen, he let his face fall on his hands. He cursed the barriers of caste, the cold pride of these aristocrats, even his own pallid insignificance — since he had as hungry a heart as panted in the breast of the handsomest dandy. He could not hate her; she was young and thoughtless, and in spite of himself his heart made excuses for her. But he hated the world, and the system, and the miserable conventions that shackled him; ay, hated them as bitterly for the time as the dark-faced gipsy girl whose eyes he found upon him, when at last a step caused him to look up.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 494