Starvecrow Farm

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XIII

  A JEALOUS WOMAN

  Meanwhile the man whom she had left in the gloom of the staircasewaited. The sound of the girl's tread died away and silence followed.But she might be taking the news, she might be gone back to those whohad sent her. He knew that at any moment the party charged with hisarrest might appear, and that in a few seconds all would be over. Andthe suspense was intolerable. After enduring it a while he pushed thedoor open, and he crept across the floor of the living-room. Hebrought his haggard face near the casement and peeped cautiouslythrough a lower corner. He saw nothing to the purpose. Nothing movedwithout, except the old man, whose rags fluttered an instant among thebushes and vanished again. Probably he was dragging up some treasuredscrap and hiding it anew with as little sane purpose and as muchinstinct as the dog that buries a bone.

  The man with the price on his head stole back to the foot of thestairs, reassured for the moment; but with his heart still fluttering,his cheeks still bloodless. He had had a great fright. He could notyet tell what would come of it. But he knew that in the form of thegirl whom he had tricked and sought to ruin he had seen the gallowsvery near.

  He had not quite regained the staircase when the sound of a footapproaching the door drove him to shelter in a panic. Bess Hinkson hadto call twice before he dared to descend or to run the risk of asecond mistake.

  The moment she saw his face she knew that something was wrong.

  "What is it?" she asked quickly. "What is the matter, lad?"

  "I've seen some one," he answered. "Some one who knew me!" He tried tosmile, but the smile was a spasm; and suddenly his teeth clickedtogether. "Knew me by G--d!" he said.

  "Bishop?"

  "No, but--some one."

  Her face cleared.

  "What's took you?" she said. "There is no one else here who knowsyou."

  "The girl."

  She stared at him. "The girl?" she repeated--and the master-note inher voice was no longer fear, but suspicion. "The girl! How came shehere? And how," with sudden ferocity, "came she to see you, my lad?"

  "I heard her below and thought that it was you."

  "But how came she here?"

  "I don't know," he answered sullenly, "unless she was sent."

  "I don't believe you," Bess answered coarsely. And the jealousy of hergipsy blood sparkled in her dark eyes. "She was not sent! But maybeshe was sent for! Maybe she was sent for!"

  "Who was there I could send for her?" he said.

  "I don't know."

  "Nor I!" he answered. He shrugged his shoulders in disgust at herfolly. To him, in his selfish fear, it seemed incredible folly.

  "But you talked with her?"

  "Not a word."

  "I say," Bess repeated with a furious look, "you did! You talked withher! I know you did!"

  "Have your own way, then," he answered despairingly, "though mayheaven strike me dead if there was a word! But she'll he talkingsoon--and they'll be here. And she"--with a quavering, passionate risein his voice--"she'll hang me!"

  "She'd best not!" the girl replied, with a gleam of sharp teeth. "Ihate her as it is. I hate her now! I'd like to kill her! But then----"

  "Then?" he retorted, his anger rising as hers sank. "What is the useof _then?_ It's now is the point! Curse You! while you are talkingabout hating her, and what you'll do, I'll be taken! They'll be hereand I'll hang!"

  "Steady, steady, lad," she said. The fear had flown from his face tohers. "Perhaps she'll not tell."

  "Why not? Why'll she not tell?"

  She did not reply that love might close the girl's mouth. But she knewthat it was possible. Instead:

  "Maybe she'll not," she repeated. "If she did not come on purpose--andthen they'd be here by now--it will take her half an hour to go backto the inn, and she'll have to find Bishop, and he'll have to get afew together. We've an hour good, and if it were night, you might beclear of this and safe at Tyson's in ten minutes."

  "But now?" he cried, with a gesture of wrathful impatience. "It'sdaylight, and maybe the house is watched. What am I to do now?"

  "I don't know," she said. And it was noticeable that she was cool,while he was excited to the verge of tears, and was not a mile fromhysterics. "It was for this I've been fooling Tyson--to get a safehiding-place. But if you could get there, I doubt if he is quite ripe.I'd like to commit him a bit more before we trust him."

  "Then why play the fool with him?" he answered savagely.

  "Because a day or two more and his hiding-hole may be the saving ofyou," she retorted. "Sho!" shrugging her shoulders in her turn, "thegame is not played to an end yet! She'll not tell! She is proud ashorses, and if she gives you up she'll have to swear against you. Andshe'll not stomach that, the little pink and white fool. She'll keepmum, my lad!"

  The hand with which he wiped the beads of sweat from his brow shook.

  "But it she does tell?" he muttered. "If she does tell?"

  She did not answer as she might have answered. She did not remind himof those stories of hair-breadth escapes and of coolness in the shadowof the gallows, which, as much as his plausible enthusiasm, had wonher wild heart. She did not hint that his present carriage was hardlyat one with them. For when women love, their eyes are slow to open,and this man had revealed to Bess a new world--a world of rarestpossibilities, a world in which she and her like were to have justice,if not vengeance--a world in which the mighty were to fall from theirseats, and the poor to be no more flouted by squires' wives andparsons' daughters! If she did not still think him all golden, if thefeet and even the legs of clay were beginning to be visible, there wasglamour about him still. The splendid plans, the world-embracingschemes with which he had dazzled her, had shrunk indeed into ahole-and-corner effort to save his own skin. But his life was as dearto her as to himself; and doubtless, by-and-by, when this troublesomecrisis was past, the vista would widen. She was content. She was gladto put full knowledge from her, glad of any pretext to divert her ownmind and his.

  "Lord, I had forgotten!" she cried, after a gloomy pause, "I've aletter! There was one at last!" She searched in her clothes for it.

  "A letter?" he cried, and stretched out a shaking hand. "Good lord,girl, why did you not say so before? This may change all. Thistlewoodmay know a way to get me off. Once in Lancashire, in the crowd, let mehave a hiding-place and I'm safe! And Thistlewood--he is no cur! Hesticks at nothing! He is a good man! I was sure he would do somethingif I could get a word to him! Lord, I shall cheat them yet!" He wasjubilant.

  He ripped the letter open. His eyes raced along the lines. The girl,who could scarcely read, watched him with admiration, yet with asinking heart. The letter might save him, but it would take him fromher.

  Something between a groan and an oath broke from him. He struck thepaper with his hand.

  "The fool!" he cried. "The fools! They are coming here!"

  "They?" she answered, staring in astonishment.

  "Thistlewood, Lunt--oh!" with a violent execration--"God knows who!Instead of getting me off they are bringing the hunt on me! Lancashireis too hot for them, so they are coming here to ruin me. And I'm tosend a boat for them to-morrow night to Newby Bridge. But, I'll not!I'll not!" passionately. "You shall not go!"

  The girl looked at him dubiously.

  "After all," she said presently, "if Thistlewood is what you say heis----"

  "He's a selfish fool! Thinking only of himself!"

  "Still, if he and the rest are men--it'll not be one man, nor two, norfive will take you--with them to help you!"

  But the thought gave him no comfort.

  "Much good that will do!" he answered. And passionately flinging downthe paper, "I'll not have them! They must fend for themselves."

  "Do they say why they are coming?" she asked after a pause.

  "Didn't I tell you?" he replied querulously, "because it's too hot forthem there! One of the justices, Clyne, if you must know----"

  "Clyne!" she eja
culated in astonishment. "Clyne again?"

  "Ay!"

  "The man--you took the girl from?" she asked in a queer voice.

  "The same. He's the deuce down there. He'll get his house burnt overhis head one of these nights! He has sworn an information againstthem, and they swear they'll have their revenge. But in the meantimethey must needs come here and blow the gaff on me. Fine revenge!" withscorn.

  "And they want you to send a boat for them to Newby Bridge?"

  "Ay, curse them! I told them I had a boat I could take quietly, andcome down the lake in the dark. And they say the boat can just as wellfetch them."

  "To-morrow night?"

  "Ay."

  "Well, it can be done," she said coolly, "if the wind across the lakeholds. I can steal a boat as I planned for you, and nobody will be thewiser. There's no moon, and the nights are dark; and who's to tracethem from Newby Bridge? After all, it's not from them the danger willcome, but from the girl."

  He groaned.

  "I thought you were sure she wouldn't tell," he sneered.

  "Well, she has not told yet, or they had been here," Bess answered."But she may speak--by-and-by."

  "Curse her!"

  "And that is why I am not so sorry your folks are coming," shecontinued, with a queer look at him. "If they'll help us, we'll stopher mouth. And she'll not speak now, nor by-and-by."

  He looked up, startled.

  "You don't mean--no!" he cried sharply, "I'll not have it."

  "Bless her pretty, white fingers!" she murmured.

  "I'll not have her hurt!" he repeated, with vehemence. "I've done herharm enough."

  "Not so much harm as you would have done her, if you'd had your way!"she replied. And her face grew hard. "But now she's to be sacred, isshe? Her ladyship's pretty, white fingers are not to be pinched--ifyou swing for it! Very well! It's your neck will be pulled, not mine."

  He fidgeted on his stool, but he did not answer. His eyes roved roundthe bare miserable room, with its low ceiling, its deep shadows, andits squalor. At last:

  "What do you mean?" he asked querulously. "Why can't you speak plain?"

  "I thought I had spoken plain enough," she replied. "But if she's notto be touched, there's an end of it."

  "What would you do?"

  "What I said--shut her mouth."

  He shuddered and his face, already sallow from long confinement, grewgreyer.

  "No," he said, "I'll not do it."

  She laughed in scorn of him.

  "I don't mean that," she said. "I would get her into our hands, holdher fast, stow her somewhere where she'll not speak! Maybe in Tyson'shiding-hole. She'll catch a cold, but what of that? 'Twill be no worsefor her than for you, if you've to go there. And the men may be a bitrough with her," Bess continued, with a malignant smile, while hereyes scrutinized his face, "I'll not forbid them, for I don't loveher, and I'd like well to see her brought down a bit! But we'll notsqueeze her pretty throat, if that is what you had in your mind."

  He shivered.

  "I wouldn't trust you!" he muttered.

  She laughed as if he paid her a compliment.

  "Wouldn't you, lad?" she said. "Well, perhaps not. I'd not be sorry tospoil her beauty. But the men--men are such fools--'ll be rather forkissing than killing!"

  "All the same, I don't like it," he muttered.

  "You'll like hanging less!" she retorted.

  He felt, he knew that he played a sorry part. But it was not he whohad brought Henrietta to the house, it was fate. It was not his faultthat she had seen him; it was his misfortune. Could he be expected tosurrender his life to spare her a little fright, a triflinginconvenience, an inconsiderable risk? Why should he? Would she do itfor him? On the contrary, he recalled the look of horror which she hadbent on him; she who had so lately laid her head on his shoulder, hadlistened to his blandishments, had thought him perfect. He was vain,and that hardened him.

  "I don't see how you'll do it," he said slowly.

  "Leave that to me," Bess answered. "Or rather, do what I tell you--andthe bird will come to the whistle, my lad!"

  "What'll you do?"

  She told him, and when she had told him she put before him pen and inkand paper; the pen and ink and paper which had been obtained that hemight write to Thistlewood. But when it came to details and he knewwhat he was to write and what lure to throw out, he flung the pen fromhim. He told her angrily that he would not do it. After all, Henriettahad believed in him, had trusted him, had given up all for him.

  "I'll not do it," he repeated. "I'll not do it! You want to do thegirl a mischief!"

  She flared up at that.

  "Then you'll hang!" she cried brutally, hurling the words at him."And, thank God, it will be she will hang you! Why, you fool," shecontinued vehemently, "you were for doing her a worse turn, just toplease yourself! And not a scruple!"

  "No matter," he answered, thrusting his hands in his pockets andlooking sullenly before him. "I'll not do it!"

  Her face was dark with anger, and cruel. What is more cruel thanjealousy?

  "And that is your last word?" she cried.

  He scowled at the table, aware in his heart that he would yield. Forhe knew--and he resented the knowledge--that he and Bess were changingplaces; that the upper hand which knowledge and experience and afluent tongue had given him was passing to her for whom Natureintended it. The weak will was yielding, the strong will was assertingitself. And she knew it also; and in her jealousy she was no longerfor humouring him. Brusquely she pushed together the pen and ink andpaper.

  "Very good," she said. "If that is your last word, be it so; I'vedone!"

  But "Wait!" he protested feebly. "You are so hasty."

  "Wait?" she retorted. "What for? What is the use? Are you going to doit?"

  He fidgeted on his stool.

  "I suppose so," he muttered at last. "Curse you, you won't listen towhat a man says."

  "You are going to do it?"

  He nodded.

  "Then why not say so at once?" she answered. "There, my lad," shecontinued, thrusting the writing things before him, "short and sweet,as nobody knows better how to do it than yourself! Half a dozen lineswill do the trick as well as twenty."

  To his credit be it said, he threw down the pen more than once,sickened by the task which she set him. But she chid, she cajoled, shecoaxed him; and grimly added the pains she was at to the account ofher rival. In the end, after a debate upon time and place, in which hewas all for procrastination--feeling as if in some way that salved hisconscience--the letter was written and placed in her hands.

  Then "What sort is this Thistlewood?" she asked. "A gentleman?"

  "You wouldn't know, one way or the other," he answered, withill-humour.

  "Maybe not," she replied; "but would you call him one?"

  "He's been an officer, and he's been to America, and he's been toFrance. I don't suppose," looking round him with currish scorn, "thathe's ever been in such a hole as this!"

  "But he's in hiding. Is he married?"

  "Yes."

  She frowned as if the news were unwelcome.

  "Ah!" she muttered. And then, "What of the others?"

  "Giles and Lunt----"

  "Ay."

  "There's not much they'd stick at," he replied. "They are low brutes;but they are useful. We've to do with all sorts in this business."

  "And why not?"

  "Why not?"

  "Ay! Didn't you tell me the other day, there was no one so mean, if wesucceed, he may not rise to the top? nor any one so great he may notfall to the bottom?"

  "Well?"

  "That's what I like about it."

  "Well, it's true, anyway; Henriot"--he was on a favourite topic andthought to reinstate himself by long words--"Henriot, who was but apoor pike-keeper, came to be general of the National Guard and Masterof Paris. Tallien, the son of a footman, ruled a province. Ney--you'veheard of Ney?--who began as a cooper, was shot as a Marshal with ascore of orders on his breast and as much th
ought of as a king! That'swhat happens if we succeed."

  "And some came down?" she said, smacking her lips.

  "Plenty."

  "And women too?"

  "Yes."

  "Ah," she said slowly, "I wish I had been there."

  Not then, but later, when the letter had passed into her hands, hefancied that he saw the drift of her questions. And he had qualms, forhe was not wholly bad. He was not cruel, and the thought ofHenrietta's fate if she fell into the snare terrified him. True,Thistlewood, dark and saturnine, a man capable of heroism as well asof crime, was something of a gentleman. He might decline to go far. Hemight elect to take the girl's part. But Giles and Lunt were men of alow type, coarse and brutish, apt for any villainy; men who, drawnfrom the slums of Spitalfields, had tried many things before they tookup with conspiracy, or dubbed themselves patriots. To such, the lifeof a spy was no more than the life of a dog: and the girl's sex, inplace of protecting her, might the more expose her to theirruthlessness. If she fell into their hands, and Bess, with herinfernal jealousy and her furious hatred of the class above her, eggedthem on, swearing that if Henrietta had not already informed, shemight inform--he shuddered to think of the issue. He shuddered tothink of what they might be capable. He remembered the things that hadbeen done by such men in France: things remembered then, forgottennow. And he shuddered anew, knowing himself to be a poor weak thing,of no account against odds.