Starvecrow Farm

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XII

  THE OLD LOVE

  Mr. Sutton was a vain man and sensitive, and though he clung to hope,Henrietta's words hurt him to the quick. The name of Chaplain wasgrowing obsolete at this time; it was beginning to import unpleasantthings. With this chaplain in particular his dependence on a patronwas a sore point; for with some capacity, he lacked, and knew that helacked, that strength of mind which enables a man to hold his own, behis position what it may. For an hour, writhing under the reflectionthat even the yokels about him were aware of his discomfiture, he wascast down to the very ground. He was inclined to withdraw his hand andlet the dazzling vision pass.

  Then he rallied his forces. He bethought him how abnormal was thechance, how celestial the dream, how sweet the rapture of possessingthe charms that now flouted him. And he took heart of grace. He raisedhis head, he enlisted in the cause all the doggedness of his nature.He recalled stories, inaccurately remembered, of Swift and Voltaireand Rousseau, all dependants who had loved, and all men of no greatercapacity, it was possible, than himself. What slights had they notencountered, what scornful looks, and biting gibes! But they hadpersisted, having less in their favour than he had; and he wouldpersist. And he would triumph as they had triumphed. What matter atrifling loss of countenance as he passed by the coach-office, or aburning sensation down the spine when those whom he had left titteredbehind him? He laughed best who laughed last.

  For such a chance would never, could never fall to him again. TheCaliph of Bagdad was dead, and princesses wedded no longer withcalendars. Was he to toss away the one ticket which the lottery oflife had dropped in his lap? Surely not. And for scruples--he feltthem no longer. The girl's stinging words, her scornful taunt, hadsilenced the small voice that on his way hither had pleaded for her;urging him to spare her loneliness, to take no advantage of herdefenceless position. Bah! If that were all, she could defend herselfwell.

  So Henrietta, when she came downstairs, a little paler and a littleprouder, and with the devil, that is in all proud women, a littlenearer to urging her on something, no matter what, that might close ahumiliating scene, was not long in discovering a humble black presencethat by turns followed and evaded her. Mr. Sutton did not venture toaddress her directly. To put himself forward was not his _role_. Buthe sought to commend himself by self-effacement; or at the most bysuch meek services as opening the door for her without lifting hiseyes above the hem of her skirt, or placing a thing within reachbefore she learned her need of it. Nevertheless, whenever she left herroom she caught sight of him; and the consciousness that he waswatching her, that his eyes were on her back, that if her gown caughtin a nail of the floor he would be at hand to release it, wore on hernerves. She tried to disregard him, she tried to be indifferent tohim. But there he always was, pale, obstinate, cringing, and waiting.And so great is the power of persistence, that she began to fear him.

  Between his insidious court and the dread of Mr. Hornyold'sgallantries she was uncomfortable as well as wretchedly unhappy. Theposition shamed her. She felt that it was her own conduct which shehad to thank for their pursuit; and for Anthony Clyne's more cruelinsult, which she swore she would never forgive. She knew that in theold life, within the fence where she had been reared, no one had everdared to take a liberty with her or dreamed of venturing on a freedom.Now it was so different. So different! And she was so lonely! Shestood fair game for all. Presently even the village louts would nudgeone another when she passed, or follow her in the hope of they knewnot what.

  Already, indeed, if she passed the threshold she had a third follower;whose motives were scarcely less offensive than the motives of theother two. Mr. Bishop had been away for nearly a week scouring theroads between Cockermouth and Whitehaven, and Maryport and Carlisle.He had drawn, as he hoped, a net round the quarry--if it had notalready escaped. In particular, he had made sure that trusty men--andby trusty men Mr. Bishop meant men who would not refuse to share thereward with their superiors--watched the most likely places. Thesearrangements had taken his brown tops and sturdy figure far afield: sothat scarce a pot-house in all that country was now ignorant of theface of John Bishop of Bow Street, scarce a saddle-horse was unversedin his weight. Finally he had returned to the centre of his spider'sweb, and rather than be idle he was giving himself up to stealthyobservation of Henrietta.

  For he had one point in common with Mr. Sutton. While the Low Woodfolk exhausted themselves in surmises and believed in a day a dozenstories of the girl who had dropped so strangely among them, therunner knew who she was. Perforce he had been taken into confidence.But thereupon his experience of the criminal kind led him astray. Heremembered how stubbornly she had refused to give her name, to giveinformation, to give anything; and he suspected that she knew whereWalterson lay hid. He thought it more than likely that she was stillin relations with him. A girl of her breeding, the runner argued, doesnot give up all for a romantic stranger unless she loves him: and oncein love, such an one sticks at nothing. So he too haunted herfootsteps, vanished when she came, and appeared when she retreated;and all with an air of respect which maddened the victim and puzzledthe onlookers.

  But for this she had been able to spend these days of loneliness andincertitude in wandering among the hills. She was young enough to feelconfinement irksome, and she yearned for the open and the unexplored.She fancied that she would find relief in plunging into the depths ofwoods where, on a still day, the leaves floated singly down to minglewith the dying ferns. She thought that in long roaming, with loosenedhair and wind-swept cheeks, over Wansfell Pike, or to the upper worldof the Kirkstone or the Hog-back beyond Troutbeck, she might forget,in the wilds of nature, her own small woes and private griefs. Atleast on the sheep-trodden heights there would be no one to reproachher, no one to fling scorn at her.

  And two mornings later she felt that she must go; she must escape fromthe eyes that everywhere beset her. She marked down Mr. Bishop in theroad before the house, and, safe from him, she slipped out at theback, and, almost running, climbed the path that led to the hills. Shepassed through the wood and emerged on the shoulder; and drew a deepbreath, rejoicing in her freedom. One glance at the lake spread outbelow her--and something still and sullen under a grey sky--and shepassed on. She had a crust in her pocket, and she would remain abroadall day--for it was mild. With the evening she would return footsoreand utterly weary. And she would sleep.

  She was within a few yards of the gate of Hinkson's farm when she sawcoming towards her the last man whom she wished to meet--Mr. Hornyold.He was walking beside his nag, with the rein on his arm and his eyeson the road. His hands were plunged far into the fobs of his breeches,and he was studying something so deeply that he did not perceive her.

  The memory of their last meeting--on that very spot--was unpleasantlyfresh in Henrietta's mind, and the impulse to escape was strong.Hinkson's gate was within reach of her arm, the dog was asleep in thekennel; in a twinkling she was within and making for the house. Anypretence would do, she thought. She might ask for a cup of water,drink it, and return to the road. By that time he would have gone onhis way.

  She knew that the moment she had passed the corner of the house shewas safe from observation. And seeing the front so grim, soslatternly, so uninviting, she paused. Why go on? Why knock? Aftergiving Hornyold time to pass she might slip back to the road withoutchallenging notice.

  She would have done this, if her eyes, as she hesitated, had notmet those of a grimy, frowsy scarecrow who seemed to be playinghide-and-seek with her from the shelter of the decaying bushes thatstood for a garden. She saw herself discovered, and not liking thecreature's looks, she returned to her first plan. She knocked on thehalf-open door, and receiving no answer, pushed it open and steppedin--as she had stepped into cottages in her own village scores oftimes.

  For an instant the aspect of the interior gave her pause; so bare,with the northern bareness, so squalid with the wretchedness ofpoverty, was the great dark kitchen
. Then, telling herself that it wasonly the sudden transition from the open air and the wide view thatgave a sinister look to the place, she rapped on the table.

  Some one moved overhead, crossed the floor slowly, and began todescend the stairs. The door at the foot of the staircase was ajar,and Henrietta waited with her eyes fixed on it. She wondered if thestep belonged to the girl whose bold look had so displeased her; or toa man--the tread seemed too heavy for a woman. Then the door waspushed open a few inches only, a foot at most. And out of the greygloom of the stairway a face looked at her, and eyes met her eyes.

  The face was Stewart's! Walterson's!

  She did not cry out. She stood petrified, silent, staring. And after awhispered oath wrung from him by astonishment, he was mute. He stood,peering at her through the half-open door; the dangerous instinctwhich bade him spring upon her and secure her curbed for the moment byhis ignorance of the conditions. She might have others with her. Theremight be men within hearing. How came she there? And above all, whatcursed folly had led him to show himself? What madness had drawn himforth before he knew who it was, before he had made certain that itwas Bess's summons?

  The face was Stewart's]

  It was she who broke the spell. She turned, and with no uncertainty orbackward glance she went out slowly and softly, like a blind person,passed round the house, and gained the road. Hornyold had gone by andwas out of sight; but she did not give a thought to him.

  The shock was great. She was white to the lips. By instinct she turnedhomewards--wandering abroad on open hills was far from her thoughtsnow. But even so, when she had gone a little way she had to stand andsteady herself by a gate-post--her knees trembled so violently underher. For by intuition she knew that she had escaped a great danger.The wretched creature cowering in the gloom of the stairway had notmoved hand or foot after his eyes met hers; but something in thoseeyes, a gleam wild and murderous, recurred to her memory. And sheshuddered.

  Presently the first effects of the shock abated and left her free tothink. She knew then that a grievous thing had happened, and a thingwhich must add much to the weight of unhappiness she had thoughtintolerable an hour before. To begin, the near presence of the manrevolted her. The last shred of the romance in which she had garbedhim, the last hue of glamour, were gone; and in the creature whom shehad espied cowering on the stairs, with the danger-signal lurking inhis eyes, she saw her old lover as others would see him. How she couldhave been so blind as to invest such a man with virtue, how she couldhave been so foolish as to fancy she loved _that_, passed herunderstanding now! Ay, and filled her with a trembling disgust ofherself.

  Meantime, that was the beginning. Beyond that she foresaw trouble andembarrassment without end. If he were taken, he would be tried, andshe would be called to the witness box, and the story of herinfatuation would be told. Nay, she would have to tell it herself inface of a smiling crowd; and her folly would be in all the journals.True, she had had this in prospect from the beginning, and, thinkingof it, had suffered in the dark hours. But his capture had then beenvague and doubtful and the full misery of her exposure had not struckher as it struck her now, with the picture of that man on the stairsfresh in her mind. To have disgraced herself for that!--for that!

  She was thinking of this and was still much agitated when she came tothe spot where the path through the wood diverged from the road. Therewith his hand on the wicket-gate, unseen until she was close upon him,stood Mr. Bishop.

  He raised his hat and stepped aside, as if the meeting took him bysurprise, as if he had not been watching her face through a screen ofbriars for the last thirty seconds. But that due paid to politeness,the runner's sharp eyes remained glued to her face.

  "Dear me, miss," he said, in apparent innocence, "nothing hashappened, I hope! You don't look yourself! I hope," respectfully,"that nobody has been rude to you."

  "It is nothing," she made shift to murmur. She turned her face aside.And she tried to go by him.

  He let her go through the gate, but he kept at her side andscrutinised her face with side-long glances. He coughed.

  "I am afraid you have heard bad news, miss?" he said.

  "No!"

  "Oh, perhaps--seen some one who has startled you?"

  "I have told you it is nothing," she answered curtly. "Be good enoughto leave me."

  But he merely paused an instant in obedience to the gesture of herhand, then he resumed his place beside her. In the tone of one who hadmade up his mind to be frank--

  "Look here, miss," he said, "it is better to come to an understandinghere, where there is nobody to listen. If it is not that somebody hasbeen rude to you, I'm clear that you have heard news, or you have seensomebody. And it is my business to know the one or the other."

  She stopped.

  "I have nothing to do with your business!" she cried.

  He made a wry face, and spread out his hands in appeal.

  "Won't you be frank?" he replied. "Come, miss? What is the use offencing with me? Be frank! I want to make things easy for all. Lord,miss, you are not the sort, and we two know it, that suffers in thesethings. You'll come out all right if you'll be frank. It's that I'mworking towards; to put an end to it, and the sooner the better. Youcan't--a wife and four children, miss, and a radical to boot--youcan't think much of him! So why not help instead of hindering?"

  "You are impudent!" Henrietta said, with a fine colour in her cheeks."Be good enough to let me pass."

  "If I knew where he was"--with his eyes on her face--"I could make alleasy. All done, and nothing said, my lady; just 'from communicationsreceived,' no names given, not a word of what has happened up here!Lord bless you, what do they care in London--and it is in London he'llbe tried--what happens here!"

  "Let me pass!" she answered breathlessly.

  He was so warm upon the scent he terrified her.

  But he did not give way.

  "Think, miss," he said more gravely. "Think! A wife and six children!Or was it four? Much he cared for any but himself! I'm sure I'mshocked when I think of it!"

  "Be silent!" she cried.

  "Much he cared what became of you! While Captain Clyne, if you were toconsult his wishes, miss, I'm sure he'd say----"

  "I do not care what he would say!" she retorted passionately, stung atlast beyond reticence or endurance. "I never wish to hear CaptainClyne's name again: I hate him; do you hear? I hate him! Let me pass!"

  Then, whether he would or no, she broke from him. She hurried,panting, and with burning cheeks, down the steep path; the briarsclutching unheeded at her skirts, and stones rolling under her feet.He followed at her heels, admiring her spirit; he even tried to engageher again, begging her to stop and hear him. But she only pushed onthe faster, and presently he thought it better to desist, and he lether go.

  He stood and wiped his brow, looking after her.

  "Lord, what a spirit she has!" he muttered. "A fine swelling figure,too, and a sway with her head that makes you feel small! And feet thatnimble! But all the same, I'm glad she's not Mrs. Bishop! Take my wordfor it, she'll be another Mother Gilson--some day."

  While Henrietta hurried on at her best pace, resentment giving way tofear and doubt and a hundred perplexities. Betray the man she couldnot, though he deserved nothing at her hands. She was no informer, norwould become one. The very idea was repulsive to her. And she hadwoven about this man the fine tissue of a girl's first fancy; she hadlooked to be his, she had let him kiss her. After that, vile as hewas, vilely as he had meant by her, it did not lie with her to betrayhim to death.

  But his presence near her was hateful to her, was frightful, wasalmost intolerable. Not a day, not an hour, but she must expect tohear of his capture, and know it for the first of a series of ordeals,painful and humiliating. She would be confronted with him, she wouldbe asked if she knew him, she would be asked this and that; and shewould have to speak, would have to confess--to those clandestinemeetings, to that kiss--while he listened, while all listened. Thetale that was known as yet to few
would be published abroad. Her follywould be in every mouth, in every journal. The wife and the fourchildren, and she, the silly, silly fool whom this mean thing hadcaptivated, taking her as easily as any doe in her brother's park--theworld would ring with them!