“Is’t asleep?” Bess asked. There was a ring of anxiety in her tone. And when Henrietta did not answer, “It’s not dead?” she muttered.
“Dead? No,” Henrietta replied, with a shudder. “But it’s — it’s — —”
“What?”
“It breathes, but — but — —” She drew its head on to her shoulder and peered more closely into the small white face. “It breathes, but — but what is the matter with it? What have you done to it?” — glancing at them suspiciously. For the boy, after returning her look with lack-lustre eyes, had averted his face from the light and from hers.
“It’s had a dose,” Bess answered roughly — she had had her moment of alarm. “In an hour or two it will awake. Then you can feed it. Here’s the porridge. And there’s milk. It was fresh this morning and must be fresh enough now. Hang the brat, I’m sure it has been trouble enough. Now you can nurse it, my lass, and I wish you joy of it, and a gay good-night! And before morning you’ll know what it costs to rob Bess Hinkson of her lad!”
“But the child will die!” Henrietta cried, rising to her feet — she could stand in the place, but not quite erect. “Stay! Stay! At least take — —”
“What?”
“Take the child in! And warm and feed it! Oh, I beg you take it!” Henrietta pleaded. “It will die here! It is cold now! I believe it is dying now!”
“Dying, your grand-dam!” the girl retorted, scornfully. “But if we take it, will you stay?”
“I will!” Henrietta answered. “I will!”
“So you will! And the child, too!” Bess retorted. And she slammed-to the door. But again, while Henrietta, appalled by her position, still stared at the place, the shutter fell, and Bess thrust in her dark, handsome face. “See here!” she said. “If you begin to scream and shout, it will be the worse for you, and do you remember that! I shall not come, but I shall send Saul. He’s took a fancy to you, and will find a way of silencing you, I’ll bet!” with an unpleasant smile. “So now you know! And if you want his company you’ll shout!”
She slammed the shutter to again with that, and Henrietta heard the bolt fall into its place.
The girl stood for a moment, staring and benumbed. But presently her eyes, which at first travelled wildly round, grew more sober. They fell on her tiny fellow-prisoner, and, resting on that white, unconscious cheek, on those baby hands clenched in some bygone paroxysm, they filled slowly with tears.
“I will think of the child! I will think of the child!” she murmured. And, crouching down, she hugged it to her with a sensation of relief, almost of happiness. “I thank God I came! I thank God I am here to protect it!”
And resolutely averting her eyes from the low roof and oven-like walls, that, when she dwelt too long on them, seemed, like the famous dungeon of Poe, to contract about her and choke her, she devoted herself to the child; and as she grew scared by its prolonged torpor, she strove to rouse it. At first her efforts were vain. But she persisted in them. For the vision which she had had in the cell at Kendal — of the child holding out pleading hands to her — rose to her memory. She was certain that at that moment the child had been crying for aid. And surely not for nothing, not without purpose, had the cry come to her ears who now by so strange a fate was brought to the boy’s side.
At intervals she felt almost happy in this assurance; as she pressed the child to her, and watched by the dim, yellow light its slow recovery from the drug. Her present danger, her present straits, her position in this underground place, which would have sent some mad, were forgotten. And the past and the future filled her thoughts; and Anthony Clyne. Phrases of condemnation and contempt which he had used to her recurred, as she nursed his child; and she rejoiced to think that he must unsay them! The bruises which he had inflicted still discoloured her wrist, and moved strange feelings in her, when her eyes fell upon them. But he would repent of his violence soon! Very soon, very soon, and how completely! The thought was sweet to her!
She was in peril, and a week before she had been free as air. But then she had been without any prospect of reinstatement, any hope of regaining the world’s respect, any chance of wiping out the consequences of her mad and foolish act. Now, if she lived, and escaped from this strait, he at least must thank her, he at least must respect her. And she was sure, yes, she dared to tell herself, blushing, that if he respected her, he would know how to make the world also respect her.
But then again she trembled. For there was a darker side. She was in the power of these wretches; and the worst — the thought paled her cheek — might happen! She held the child more closely to her, and rocked it to and fro in earnest prayer. The worst! Yes, the worst might happen. But then again she fell back on the reflection that he was searching for them, and if any could find them he would. He was searching for them, she was sure, as strenuously, and perhaps with more vengeful purpose than when he had sought the child alone! By this time, doubtless, she was missed, and he had raised the country, flung wide the alarm, set a score moving, fired the dalesmen from Bowness to Ambleside. Yes, for certain they were searching for her. And they must know, careful as she had been to hide her trail, that she could not have travelled far; and the scope of the search, therefore, would be narrow, and the scrutiny close. They could hardly fail, she thought, to visit the farm in the hollow; its sequestered and lonely position must invite inquiry. And if they entered, a single glance at the disordered kitchen would inform the searchers that something was amiss.
So far Henrietta’s thoughts, as she clasped the boy to her and strove to warm him to life against her own body, ran in a current chequered but more or less hopeful. But again the supposition would force itself upon her — the men were desperate, and the woman was moved by a strange hatred of her. What if they fled, and left no sign? What if they escaped, and left no word of her? The thought was torture! She could not endure it. She put the child down, and rising to her knees, she covered her eyes with her hands. To be buried here underground! To die of hunger and thirst in this bricked vault, as far from hope and help, from the voices and eyes of men and the blessed light of the sun, as if they had laid her alive in her coffin!
Oh, it was horrible! She could not bear it; she could not bear to think of it. She sprang, forgetting herself, to her feet, and the blow which the roof dealt her, though her thick hair saved her from injury, intensified the feeling. She was buried! Yes, she was buried alive! The roof seemed to be sinking upon her. These brick walls so cunningly arched, and narrowing a t either end, as the ends of a coffin narrow, were the walls of her tomb! Those faint lines of mortar which seclusion from the elements had preserved in their freshness, presently she would attack them with her nails in the frenzy of her despair. She glared about her. The weight, the mass of the hill above, seemed to press upon her. The air seemed to fail her. Was there no way, no way of escape from this living tomb — this grave under the tons and tons and tons of rock and earth?
And then the child — perhaps she had put him from her roughly, and the movement had roused him — whimpered. And she shook herself free — thank God — free from the hideous dream that had obsessed her. She remembered that the men were not yet fled, nor was she abandoned. She was leaping, thank Heaven, far above the facts. In a passion of relief she knelt beside the child, and rained kisses on him, and swore to him, as he panted with terror in her arms, that he need not fear, that he was safe now, and she was beside him to take care of him! And that all would be well if he would not cry. All would be well. For she bethought herself that the child must not know how things stood. Fear and suffering he might know if the worst came; but not the fear, not the mental torture which she had known for a few moments, and which in so short a time had driven her almost beside herself.
The boy’s faculties were still benumbed by the hardships which he had undergone; perhaps a little by the narcotic he had taken. And though he had seen Henrietta at least a dozen times in the old life, he could not remember her. Nevertheless she contrived to satisfy him tha
t she was a friend, that she meant him well, that she would protect him. And little by little, in spite of the surroundings which drew the child’s eyes again and again in terror to the dimly-lit vaulting, on which the shadow of the girl’s figure bulked large, his alarm subsided. His heart beat less painfully, and his eyes lost in a degree the strained and pitiful look which had become habitual. But his little limbs still started if the light flickered, or the oil sputtered; and it was long before, partly by gentle suasion, partly by caresses, she succeeded in inducing the child — nauseated as he was by the drug — to take food. That done, though she still believed him to be in a critical state, and dreadfully weak, she was better satisfied. And soon, soothed by her firm embrace and confident words, her charge fell into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE SEARCH
To return to Bishop. Thrown off the trail in the wood, he pushed along the road as far as Windermere village. There, however, he could hear nothing. No one of Henrietta’s figure and appearance had been seen there. And in the worst of humours, with the world as well as with himself, he put about and returned to the inn. If the girl had come back during his absence, it was bad enough; he had had his trouble for nothing, and might have spared his shoe-leather. Hang such pretty frailties for him! But if, on the other hand, she had not come back, the case was worse. He had been left to watch her, and the blame would fall on him. Nadin would say more than he had said already about London officers and their uselessness. And if anything happened to her! Bishop wiped his brow as he thought of that, and of his next meeting with Captain Clyne. It was to be hoped, be devoutly hoped, that nothing had happened to the jade.
It wanted half an hour of sunset, when he arrived, fagged and fuming, at the inn; and if his worst fears were not realised, he soon had ground to dread that they might be. Miss Damer had not returned.
“I’ve no truck with them rubbishy radicals,” Mrs. Gilson added impersonally, scratching her nose with the handle of a spoon — a sign that she was ill at ease. “But they’re right enough in one thing, and that is, that there’s a lot of useless folk paid by the country — that’d never get paid by any one else! And for brains, give me a calf’s head!”
Bishop evaded the conflict with what dignity he might.
“The Captain’s not come in?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s come in,” the landlady answered.
“Well,” sullenly, “the sooner I see him the better, then!”
“You can’t see him now,” Mrs. Gilson replied, with a glance at the clock. “He’s sleeping.”
Bishop stared.
“Sleeping?” he cried. “And the young lady not come back?”
“He don’t know that she has so much as gone out,” Mrs. Gilson answered with the utmost coolness. “And what’s more, I’m not going to tell him. He came in looking not fit to cross a room, my man, let alone cross a horse! And when I went to take him a dish of tea I found him asleep in his chair. And you may take it from me, if he’s not left to have out his sleep, now it’s come, he’ll be no more use to you, six hours from this, than a corpse!”
“Still, ma’am,” Bishop objected, “the Captain won’t be best pleased — —”
“Please a flatiron!” Mrs. Gilson retorted. “Best served’s best pleased, my lad, and that you’ll learn some day.” And then suddenly taking the offensive, “For the matter of that, what do you want with him?” she continued. “Ain’t you grown men? If Joe Nadin and you and half a dozen redbreasts can’t find one silly girl in an open countryside, don’t talk to me of your gangs! And your felonies! And the fine things you do in London!”
“But in London — —”
“Ay, London Bridge was made for fools to go under!” Mrs. Gilson answered, with meaning. “It don’t stand for nothing.”
Bishop tapped his top-boot gloomily.
“She may come in any minute,” he said. “There’s that.”
“She may, or she mayn’t,” Mrs. Gilson answered, with another look at the clock.
“She’s not been gone more than an hour and a half.”
“Nor the mouse my cat caught this afternoon,” the landlady retorted. “But you’ll not find it easily, my lad, nor know it when you find it.”
He had no reply to make to that, but he carried his eye again to the clock. He was very uncomfortable — very uncomfortable. And yet he hardly knew what to do or where to look. In the meantime the girl’s disappearance was becoming known, and caused, indoors and out, a thrill of excitement. Another abduction, another disappearance! And at their doors, on their thresholds, under their noses! Some heard the report with indignation, and two in the house heard it with remorse; many with pity. But in the breasts of most the feeling was not wholly painful. The new mystery revived and doubled the old; and blew to a white heat the embers of interest which were beginning to grow cold. In the teeth of the nipping air — and sunset is often the coldest hour of the twenty-four — groups gathered in the yard and before the house. And while a man here and there winked at his neighbour and hinted that the young madam had slunk back to the lover from whom she had been parted, the common view was that mischief was afoot and something strong should be done.
Meanwhile uncertainty — and in a small degree the absence of Captain Clyne and Nadin — paralysed action. At five, Bishop sent out three or four of his dependants; one to watch the boat-landing, one to keep an eye on the entrance to Troutbeck village, and others to bid the constables at Ambleside and Bowness be on the watch. But as long as the young lady’s return seemed possible — and some still thought the whole a storm in a tea-cup — men not unnaturally shrank from taking the lead. Nor until the man who took all the blame to himself interposed, was any real step taken.
It was nearly six when Bishop, talking with his friends in the passage, found himself confronted by the chaplain. Mr. Sutton was in a state of great and evident agitation. There were red spots on his cheek-bones, his pinched features were bedewed with perspiration, his eyes were bright. And he who usually shunned encounter with coarser wits, now singled out the officer in the midst of his fellows.
“Are you going to do nothing,” he cried, “except drink?”
Bishop stared.
“See here, Mr. Sutton,” he said, slowly and with dignity, “you must not forget — —”
“Except drink?” the chaplain repeated, without compromise. And taking Bishop’s glass, which stood half-filled on the window-seat beside him, he flung its contents through the doorway. “Do your duty, sir!” he continued firmly. “Do your duty! You were here to see that the lady did not leave the house alone. And you permitted her to go.”
“And what part,” Bishop answered, with a sneer, “did your reverence play, if you please?” He was a sober man for those times, and the taunt was not a fair one.
“A poor part,” the chaplain answered. “A mean one! But now — I ask only to act. Say what I shall do, and if it be only by my example I may effect something.”
“Ay, you may!” Bishop returned. “And I’ll find your reverence work fast enough. Do you go and tell Captain Clyne the lady’s gone. It’s a task I’ve no stomach for myself,” with a grin; “and your reverence is the very man for it.”
Mr. Sutton winced.
“I will do even that,” he said, “if you will no longer lose time.”
“But she may return any minute.”
“She will not!” Mr. Sutton retorted, with anger. “She will not! God forgive us for letting her go! If I failed in my duty, sir, do you do yours! Do you do yours!”
And such power does enthusiasm give a man, that he who these many days had seemed to the inn a poor, timid creature, slinking in and out as privately as possible, now shamed all and kindled all.
“By jingo, I will, your reverence!” Bishop cried, catching the flame. “I will!” he repeated heartily. And he turned about and began to give orders with energy.
Fortunately Nadin arrived at that moment; and with his burly form and broad Lancashire accent
, he seemed to bring with him the vigour of ten. In three minutes he apprehended the facts, pooh-poohed the notion that the girl would return, and with a good round oath “dommed them Jacobins,” to give his accent for once, “for the graidliest roogs and the roofest devils i’ all Lancashire — and that’s saying mooch! But we mun ha’ them hanged now,” he continued, striding to and fro in his long, rough horseman’s coat. “We mun ha’ them hanged! We’ll larn them!”
In ten minutes the road twinkled with lights ...
He formed parties and assigned roads and brought all into order. The first necessity was to visit every house within a mile of the inn on the Windermere side; and this was taken in hand at once. In ten minutes the road twinkled with lights, and the frosty ground rang under the tread of ironshod boots. It was ascertained that no boat had crossed the lake that afternoon; and this so far narrowed the area to be searched, that the men were in a high state of excitement, and those who carried firearms looked closely to their priming.
“’Tis a pity it’s neet!” said Nadin. “But we mun ha’ them, we mun ha’ them, afoor long!”
Meanwhile, Mr. Sutton had braced himself to the task which he had undertaken. Challenged by Bishop, he had been anxious to go at once to Clyne’s room and tell him; that the Captain might go with the searchers if he pleased. But he had not mounted three steps before Mrs. Gilson was at his heels, bidding him, in her most peremptory manner, to “let his honour be for another hour. What can he do?” she urged. “He’s but one more, and now the lads are roused, they’ll do all he can do! Let him be, let him be, man,” she continued. “Or if you must, watch him till he wakes, and then tell him.”
“It will be worse then,” the chaplain said.
“But he’ll be better!” she retorted. “Do you be bidden by me. The man wasn’t fit to carry his meat to his mouth when he went upstairs. But let him be until he has had his sleep out and he’ll be another man.”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 499